alaskan_sourdough's Xanga

2 Guys In A Gator

Tue, 08 Sep 2009 10:58:07 GMT

The other day I spent quite a few of the daylight hours at a bean and beet research facility. I was there to document the facility's first open house and there were several folks from the community taking the tour. The plot people had more than 200 acres to plant and fertilize, and I was not up for walking to the six stations with my video gear. I didn't care if they were offering donuts as an incentive (and if you know me, that is saying something). Good news! A photographer from where I work showed up and we were graciously given the keys to a Gator. With all of our gear, it was good to have room in the trunk to stow the cameras, bags, tripod, empty coffee cup, and napkin that had previously wrapped itself around a cinnamon donut. The goal of ours was to zip in and around the six research stations, shooting as fast as we could so we could cover everything before lunch. We started out well, hitting the first two research plot stops before you could say, "What are we having for lunch?" I was shooting beautiful bean footage, complete with researchers and farmers, while Ansell Adams Jr. was busy snapping stills. I hustled back to the Gator and as we started to pull away, I smelled an odor that reminded me of something hot. Hmmm.

"This smells like a brand new Gator," I remarked in a nice way.
"I don't think it's all that new. I just realized the smell you smelled was the parking break. I accidentally left it on from the first plot till now," responded the photographer. I giggled. Then I laughed out loud. He laughed too, and then put the pedal to the metal as we sped nuttily along to plot numero tres.

"Fore?"

Mon, 24 Aug 2009 12:52:50 GMT

It was a beautiful Saturday. In fact, it was too lovely a day to spend it inside so I drove 15 miles, plunked down $14, and then was promptly hit in the shin by an errant tee shot. Yes, it hurt. Bad. And it would've been expected had I been standing directly in front of Tiger Woods as he was teeing off at the 15th hole at the Buick Open. But I was in the middle of a putting contest (while using my driver) on the putting green when Henry the Hack unloaded his iron shot from the driving range. I never heard H squared yell "Fore!" I never saw the dimpled projectile as it made its merry way (at 90 mph) on a collision course with my right leg. "Wham!" "Ow." I thought my son Ryan, while goofing around, had thrown the practice ball and drilled me in the leg. I reached down and was ready to give the ball the Nolan Ryan treatment to Ryan when I looked to my left and noticed a sheepish looking 15 year-old glancing our way from the driving range. The culprit and his barely audible "sorry" did not make me or my shin feel any better. The fact that he whistled four or five more shots our way after pegging me didn't sit well with me or my goofy looking and playing putting partners either. We were all walking around the putting green with one hand on the improvised putter and the other hand protecting our nether region. After the last practice ball landed near us, I walked over, picked up the golf ball and calmly chucked it as hard as I could in H-square’s direction. I had no intention on wounding the lad (I've only been compared to Annie Oakley once in my lifetime and that was when I had a costume malfunction during Halloween), but the ball did scream to a sudden stop about five feet in front of Henry. "Here's your ball," I yelled as ever helpful as I could be. Not long after that Henry the Hack and his little sidekick had depleted their allotment of driving range balls and promptly left the scene of the crime. My fellow putters and I let out a collective "phew," and looked forward to a few great holes of golf. The other seven holes were pure torture.

Separated At Birth

Fri, 21 Aug 2009 13:45:54 GMT

How many people out there think they look like someone famous? And I don't mean we're alike because we both went to high school and both wear makeup. But an honest-to-goodness-can't-tell-em-apart? The old saying is that “everyone has a twin somewhere in the world.” And to the person who resembles me, I totally apologize. I was at work the other day (minding my own business) working at a Dairy Expo when a woman walked up to my table and said:
"You look like someone on TV."
Uh-oh.
"Yea?"
"You probably get that a lot."
"Well, no, not really."
"Sure. You look like that guy off 'Cheers.'"
Uh-oh.
"Cheers?"
I could think of five guys off the top of my head that were on the show, and not a one of them looked like me.
"Yea, it's...it's...it's Cliff!"
Oh, boy.
"Cliff?"
"Yea, you look just like him."
People chuckled around the table. I wanted to crawl under the thing, but calmly looked at the woman and said, "at least you didn't say Carla."
A couple of people laughed and a college student interning with my department chimed in, "no, you two don't sound anything alike."

I Smote The Ball

Wed, 19 Aug 2009 11:42:52 GMT

The lad and I took an evening recently and headed to the golf course where he is gainfully employed. Our intention was to each hit a bucket of balls at the driving range in hopes of improving our swing and game. Ryan's swing and game does not necessitate the drastic overhaul that mine does. Actually, one must indeed "have a semblance of a game" before the tinkering can commence. So I suppose the truth of the matter is that my golf game at present does not need improving. I just need to make the twenty-mile trip to Wal-Mart and buy myself one. We unloaded the driving range balls in spectacular fashion: his shots appeared to be propelled out of a cannon, while my shots resembled those spit out of an oscillating sprinkler--spraying to the left, then slowly making their way to the right. The only good news for the evening was that it was getting late, the sun was starting to set, and our tee shots were directed westward ho. I couldn't see where my shots were going or where they ended up. Well, that was true for three-quarters of my drives, chips, and long irons. The other twenty-five cents worth were easily tracked--those were the ones that I topped on impact, causing the round orb to roll a mere ten feet in front of me. Golf is such an emotional game for me: I laughed, I grimaced, I chuckled, I fumed, I chortled, and at long last, I cried. And then came the moment I had been waiting for all wire basket long. I was quickly running out of practice projectiles to hit, and quite frankly, was too tired to run the necessary ten yards in front of my tee to retrieve the "duds." I had two shots left in my sprinkler. I teed 'er up and let the range ball have it. I immediately looked left (I own left-handed clubs) and couldn't find my shot. I glanced right and the Titleist was nowhere to be found. Naturally, I looked at my feet and saw just one practice ball. I quickly looked straight out in front and noticed something with dimples screaming towards the setting sun! I had one place left to look and that was aft where Ryan was acting like a cannoneer. Nope. He was out! I looked again and beamed knowing that I had actually smote the ball!

The Stupid Light Fixture

Tue, 07 Jul 2009 11:26:22 GMT

I have Thomas Edison to thank for my latest frustration. And Tom Bodett and his "we'll leave the light on for ya," Motel 6 commercial is one I don't need to see nor hear anytime soon. How hard can it be to change a light bulb? You can insert your old "change a light bulb" joke here. It seemed simple enough. Light fixture in kitchen goes dark, I climb chair, take down light cover, swap four good bulbs for four of the burned out variety and voila! Waves of wattage! But no, it was not so easy a task to complete because of the kind of fixture that hangs in my kitchen. It is a square box. I looked for a false end panel--nope. I looked for screws on the end to pull out--nope. I looked for my softball bat--nope. The dude (builder?) that put our house together put our next door neighbor's together as well, so I ambled over and asked if he had the same kind of light fixture in the kitchen--nope. I trudged back to my darkened abode, ate supper, then climbed a ladder and yanked on the light--nope. I called it a night (getting too dark to work anyway) and vowed to "Google" my problem in the morning. I found an identical fixture on the Lowe's website, but try as I might, I couldn't turn my monitor to the correct angle to see how the light was hanging on the web. On the drive home I had an inspirational idea--move! I climbed a chair and asked the Mrs. if she would please climb the ladder. I didn't want to pull too hard on the stupid light fixture because:
A. It would come down
B. I would have to replace the ceiling

I wiggled and moved just right and then I wiggled the light, lifted my end, then lifted the end of the fixture and voila! The piece of junk came off without a hitch! After a brief visit to Wal-Mart for four florescent bulbs, we were back in the business of being able see what we were cooking for dinner!

Orientation

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 10:54:45 GMT

Saturday morning. My son and I were joined at the hip learning about a community college he would be attending in the fall. It was scheduled for four hours, yet it felt like twenty. The presentation sure was different than I had when I was a first-year student a few years back. Actually, it was a few decades previous. Actually, it was in the 1900's. The folks running this dog and pony show provided water, lemonade and nutri-grain bars when we walked in the door. I'd have to give them a B- for their "bribe the parents on their way in the door" technique. Toss out the lemonade and serve coffee. Toss out the nutri-grain and add donuts. The future scholars were divided into four groups (Jackson 5, Addams Family, the Incredibles and the Supremes), handed clickers, then competed in a trivia contest. I found myself trying to answer the questions on the board and just like college; I had to guess at the multiple-choice offerings. Unlike college, I fared rather well, and probably won the over 40-age group. A kind lady led us through a power point, two college students acted out a play, a financial aide lady explained how they didn't have more money to give--that we needed to go out immediately and collect pop cans. Before I knew it, we were into the exercise portion of orientation (walking tour) even though I thought for sure I had signed us up for the virtual tour of campus. Up the stairs...down the stairs...tripping over the stairs (Ryan). Each tour group consisted of three rows combined, but ours had a little more than one. We won! We weighed more than any other group! Yea! I had to admit that the orientation session was good, the kind college folks helpful, and the nutri-grain product hit the spot.

#1 Worst Athletic Injury

Wed, 01 Jul 2009 11:09:06 GMT

I love basketball. I enjoy playing it now even if I have to lumber up and down the court. But my love for the game was almost extinguished while I was a junior in high school. And this is the telling of the tale--my worst athletic injury. I played shooting guard my junior year, and loved lining up to shoot the deep bomb (wish they would've had a three point line back then). It was a home game (in Anchorage, AK) and I was feeling good. My shots during warm-ups were going in and I was ready to lead the ACS Lions on to victory. Little did I know that shortly after the game began, I would be in such horrible pain that two teammates would have to help me off the court and into the locker room? One sad thing about this story is that I can't remember who we were playing--the injury has so heavily numbed my conscious that even to this day, I can scarcely recall my name. It was in the second quarter and we were bringing the ball down the court. I started on the right side then deftly maneuvered under the basket and out to the opposite wing. No one had noticed! Not even my teammate who had the ball! I hollered, was hit with a chest pass, and in one motion (it was smooth I must add) I loaded up my gun and fired. The second it left my hand it looked good. No aim was truer. Three seconds after it left my hand it looked short. If it hit the rim it would be a miracle. Let's see: Moses crossed the Red Sea on dry land, the U.S. Hockey team defeated the Soviets, my sister got a date and my shot hit the rim! Miracles do happen. Our basketball coach instilled in us the fundamentals of the game and he instructed us to make sure we followed our shot. I did. When I noticed my shot was short and my shorts were shot I sprung into action and followed my shot. I was looking to reenact the movie "Hoosiers." Unfortunately, one of my opponents was imitating Daniel-san from the flick "Karate Kid." I'm sure you remember the scene to which I'm referring. I took off like a shot (no pun intended) and drew a bead on my errant shot. While I was attempting a basketball move (following my shot), Daniel-san was reaching up for the rebound with both hands extended upward and one leg stretched straight out in front of him? What in the name of Mr. Miyagi was this dude doing? I would soon find out. I was running into the lane as fast as I could and was not paying attention to the Karate Kid. I met up with Daniel-san just as he was perfecting his "crane technique." I ran full speed into his shoe, which was connected to his leg, which he had just extended from his torso with a tremendous amount of power. Who rebounds like that? Only one guy that I can remember, and it is not a fond memory. His leg was stiff and his foot flat out in front of him when I decided to run into him at 90 m.p.h. His foot him me in the...in the..in the double dribbles and I dropped like a rock. I'm sure I screamed something unintelligible ("Mommy!") as I rolled around on the floor like a top. The game stopped (surprise) and the refs smirked their way over to check on me. *Snicker* "Back up boys and give him some room." Room I didn't need. Air and a few spare parts was what I was hoping for. Two teammates chuckled their way over to where I lay in a heap and in their best falsetto asked me how I was doing. I wiped away some tears and noticed quite a few in the crowd were whispering to themselves then giggling. I couldn't believe it! I took one (two actually) for the team and it was all they could do to not giggle themselves silly. The coach checked on me (fatal I was certain) and told my former teammates to grab an arm and drag me to the locker room. I guess I had held up the game long enough. When half time hit, the locker room doors opened, former teammates glanced my way then turned their heads and busted a gut laughing. I unsteadily made my way to the end of the bench and plopped down. I don't think I even made it back into the game. And that is my worst athletic injury.

My Worst Athletic Injury part one

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 10:59:15 GMT

Here it is, the best or worst (depending on your perspective) athletic injury ever inflicted on my body. But before I relate my story of woe, I will let you in on my favorite runner up injury that just happened to occur on a softball field. I would like to say that I busted a rib diving for a screamer. I would like to say that I pulled a hammy while getting caught in a rundown between third and home, yet eventually scoring. There are a lot of things I would like to say that would make me look more athletic. Lying is one option. Church softball is great. More than getting a clutch hit or making a great defensive play, the love I have of playing softball with fellow pew sitters can be found in the camaraderie between us extremely minor leaguers. Ripping and making fun of a teammate immediately after he bobbles a grounder is great fun. One summer we had a college football player on our team. The fullback was short, muscular, and could run like the wind. It reminded me of me before the accident. Anyway, our fullback Brian played rover in the outfield and he was so fast we called him "Wheels." I said, "Well, if he is 'wheels' then I must be 'meals on wheels.'" Ha. Thereafter I was called "meals" by a few of my ruthless, cutthroat teammates. One game the coach put me in the outfield. It was either me or the guy using the walker. Good choice. A guy who had arms the size of my legs crushed the ball. Unfortunately, I must have had a GPS tracker in my sweats because the stupid ball was headed right at me. Or was it? I could've turned around and sprinted toward the fence. I mean, I should've turned and sprinted for the fence. Instead I started slowly backpedaling and in a way, I must have resembled one of the dancers from the Lawrence Welk Show. I looked up in time to notice the ball was moving much faster forward than I was backwards. I threw myself into reverse and quickened the pace. Bad move on my part. While shifting from third to fourth gear I accidentally crossed my left foot over my right. I not only crossed my feet but I happened to hook them together. It looked like someone had tied my shoelaces together while I was watching the batter take his swing. With my feet crossed, I had nowhere to go but down. Fast. "Wham!" My head hit the ground before the ball did and I thought I'd knocked myself out. My head hit the hard outfield grass so hard that it bounced straight up and with that view I could see the slugger circling the bases. At this time, Brian came hustling over, picked up the ball, and gunned it to third. "Slugger" was busy rounding third and heading home when their third base coach saw Brian unload the missile from the outfield. "Get back!" Too late. By the time "Slugger" retraced his steps, the ball had beaten him back to the bag and our third baseman Ed tagged him out. Whoo-hoo! Me? I was still laying there in deep left-center flat on my back with a Flintstone type lump poking out the back of my noggin. "You okay Mr. Ehm?" I looked up and there stood the hero of the game--Brian. "Yea, I'm good." He helped me up and I staggered back to our bench. "Hey, nice wheels Meals." The comments began and never seemed to end. It was cutting, it was brutal, and I loved every minute of it.

Unfortunately, this was not my worst athletic injury. The next one will be.

Basketball Team Camp part four

Mon, 22 Jun 2009 10:46:32 GMT

Saturday. Breakfast at seven. First game at eight. Another round of great basketball by the guys. I thought I recognized one of the referees and by cracky I was right. Bill O'Connor was a guy whose family attended the same church we did back in the day. Now, instead of singing in the pew, Bill would be calling travels, hacks and other violations. I would have to make sure I keep my "Oh my word!" to a minimum. I also chatted with Dave Dow (owner of Dave's BP in Hancock), who once upon a time worked on our vehicles and now was officiating quite a few of our games. My players voted him the best ref at team camp. The folks at Michigan Tech treated us like royalty. They provided huge water jugs full of some of the coldest water I had ever swigged. Men's Basketball Coach Kevin Luke and his staff were awesome. I also saw their trainer Chris Ipson who was a trainer for some of their athletic teams when I shot a lot of their games. We ended Saturday on a strong note by winning every game we played. After dinner, we loaded up both vehicles and headed 11 miles to McLain State Park. McLain puts campers right there on the shores of Lake Superior, and if you're lucky, you will partake in some of the most beautiful sunsets God ever created. This night, all of us took off our shoes and waded in the world's largest inland lake. This night, we all also froze our heinies off--it was that cold. We reloaded the vehicles and were headed to town in search of souvenirs and eats. I found a shirt to buy and we moseyed on over to McDonald's for some late night grub. It was my turn to order and when I asked for a large sweet tea I was told, "We don't carry sweet tea." I was crushed. For the last hour and a half my taste buds were looking forward to hooking up with the drink that makes southerners smile (well, that and moonshine), and instead I would be left with a bitter taste in my mouth (grits, anyone?). The highlight of the feeding frenzy was watching Carl (all 145 pounds) eat five .99-cent burgers, an order of fries, and a Coke.

Basketball Team Camp part three

Thu, 18 Jun 2009 19:27:45 GMT

Friday. Breakfast in the morning was awesome. Phil (other coach) and I ate while the boys were busy sleeping. The meal for me consisted of a waffle I made myself with a waffle iron, coffee, juice and a breakfast muffin. Yum. After a Super 8 breakfast we headed to Michigan Tech and Ryan and I were able to visit a few people I used to work with a mere nine years ago. Our group was able to sneak onto the MTU football field and toss a football. Checked in at the basketball camp (38 teams including junior varsity and varsity), and only one of my players did not have everything filled out properly. My point guard--my son. Seems I forgot to sign on a line, so I scribbled like a doctor and we all headed to the dorm to receive our room assignments. Phil and I stayed on the first floor with the other coaches, while the players occupied floors two through five. Back to the gym, a coaches meeting, a players meeting and then it was game time. The games would consist of two-sixteen minute halves with a running clock. A running clock was good. Twelve games in three days was bad. We lost the first game by seven, then over the course of the next two days, the Clinton County Home school Patriots ran off a string of seven wins in a row. Dinner at the dorm. Watched the Red Wings lose game seven of the Stanley Cup playoffs and then it was off to bed.