April 2004 Archives

We got thundersnow today. It was awesome.

I've got crampy fingers from signing off 150 pages of documentation this morning. Every time I see a forensic show where they're analyzing somebody's handwriting for forgery or to ID somebody, I always wonder what the investigator would do if he had to deal with my handwriting. Would he pack his bags, grab his pipe and walk out the door like the dog did in those Looney Tunes cartoons? There is one consistent thing when it comes to my handwriting, and that is inconsistency. I was thumbing through all my signatures and thinking, man it looks like 20 different people signed off on this thing. If I'm signing one sheet of paper, or a check or something, I can get into template mode and crank out something that looks a lot like the line on the back of my debit card. But if I've got to sign more than like 5 items, or write a note that's more than a sentence long, it's a crapshoot buddy. I could see the forensic guy checking it out "well, as you can see here, the crossbar on the 't' slants upward which indicates optimism and a desire to move forward, but hmmm, over here, the crossbar misses the 't' entirely and goes through the 'o' instead, making it look like a programmer's zero...which could indicate a subconscious need to be self defeating, but uhhh...over here the 't' is shaped more like a 'w' which means uhhh...are we sure this was written by an adult? or even the same person? waaaaaiiit, this is a joke right? Okay Bob fess up! I stayed late for this?..."

I've been secretly wishing for thumbprint sign-off.

This is part 2. If you haven't read the previous post, it's sort of introductory to this.

Alrighty. So let's say you're in Phoenix and you're headed for the Sierra Ancha wilderness. You head east to Apache Junction. Trust me. I have that part figured out. Now when you get to AJ, you must make a choice. You can head northeast on the Apache Trail Highway, or you can head southeast on Highway 60 through the crusty mining towns of Superior and Globe. The Apache Trail is a beautiful route. So I'm told. As long as you didn't get a late start and it's not pitch black as your 2-car caravan skitters around hairpin switchbacks on dirt roads 800 feet above the gaping canyons below, which you didn't realize were that deep until you get to the bottom where the mysterious black van is parked on the other side of one several one-lane bridges, and you look up at the outline of the cliffs against the starry sky and realize what was in the inky dark to your left the whole way down. It will also take you an hour and a half longer to take that route compared to the other. Not the greatest plan with 4 kids in the back seat.

There were other...regrettables...from that night. But um, it was a dry run. Yeah, that's what it was. Next time, see, we'll have it all figured out. After a couple beers, Amanda was even willing to concede that it's a nice place to camp out...as long as we NEVER. EVER. take that road again.

Noted. Heartily.

So here are some pictures.

My precious cargo...before 4 hours of driving. :-/

Doritos on the rocks.

The discovery that burnt wood can be used to draw on rocks, and shirts and pants and faces.

The initial testing of how ice cold the water really is.

Here we see the tragedy of Giselle taking a spill in the freezy water. At this point, she is crying, screaming, and ranting all at the same time.

And here, we see Aunt Jennifer testing the water to see what all the fuss is about. In the distance, we find Giselle taking a load off while Amanda grabs a towel and dry clothes. Giselle is still ranting and crying--voicing conspiracy theories of whether somebody upstream is putting ice in the water, and how since I was the one who gave them permission to play in the water, this was all pretty much my fault.

The fullness of grief.

But she got better.

These are some of the local creepy crawlies. I've never seen crickets like that before.

A canyon below the Sierra Ancha

Road to the rim

Workman Creek

It's been a whole bunch of years since we went camping. After the kids entered our lives, squalloring around in a tent was one of the last things on our minds. But now that they're 7 and 4 years old, it seemed like it might be time to give it a try. Camping was always pretty fun for me when I was a kid. Know why? Because the Moms & Dads absorbed most of the pain and suffering.

So we got together with Jennifer, Jessica, Atticus and Ophelia. Because as long as you're going to have 2 kids, you might as well have 4. Now, if you're going to go camping, you have to figure out where to go, right? So, lots of trees are one requirement. I've done desert backpacking and camping before, and I'm all for expanding our horizons, but for a first go with the kids, let's play that part a little closer to the comfort zone. Okay, why do I even bother explaining this? Because I always have imaginary arguments in my head with people who react to something I say or do... "You know Perez there are a kerbillion other outdoor environments you could nestle into. You might be surprised how much you'd enjoy camping in the scrub just West of Calexico. The sand dune sandwiches are real character builders, and digging shelters under the dead ocotillos during no-shadow hour is an impressive workout." So I'm just explaining, okay? Oh, and the other requirement (thanks Jessica) was for there to be a stream "for the kids to play in." Hey, sounds good to me. I like that sort of ambiance.

But if you live in Phoenix or Flagstaff, and you hear camping + big trees + stream, what do you think of? Oak Creek Canyon, right? Pfffeh! If I want to bog down with several hundred other obnoxious city escapees on a couple acres of scattered land next to a fecal coliform petri creek, I'll just cruise down to the Salt River bank in South Phoenix and set up tent on the outskirts of a likely transient camp where I don't have to pay any fees and maybe I'll pick up some good panhandling tips.

So I hop on El Interneto and start searching for something that's a little closer than the White Mountains, but a little more robust than the nearby mudswamp shores of Lake Mary. I came up with Workman Creek. It's up in the mountains Northeast of Roosevelt Lake. And you know what? It was beautiful. Getting there was another story. I can't bring myself to write about it now. But I'll do that later with some pictures.

Speaking of pictures...here's one that stunk it up over at DPChallenge for the Wheels challenge.

Traction Redline
(98th place out of 283)

Whose brilliant idea was it to start packaging laser paper in crisp plastic?

A couple days ago, I was waiting for Giselle to get out of school (as opposed to being a half hour late or whatever). And I decided to avoid the long double-line of idling cars and had parked a couple lots down. So I was sitting by the covered porch area waiting, and this kid who appears to be an overly-large 4th grader with a pituitary problem, and who was apparently let out a few minutes early, sidles up and starts telling me...things...

"Sure is windy today...::looks up at the blustery flag::...I'd say about 25 miles an hour...the wolf and the wind are my signs...if you ever see wolf claw marks on a tree, that's my sign. They're like my other side. This is my kid side...but the wolf is my other side. That's the part of me that is my rage...My rage is what makes me strong. People have different things that make them strong. Like being sad makes some people strong. Like when somebody dies, and they get sad, and then that makes them stronger. But my rage is what makes me strong. It's my wolf sign. And that's what I become when I'm angry. I become the wolf....It's easier for me to talk to grownups than it is to other kids...."

I was sitting there with my mouth half open, grunting uh-huh at intervals--as impressed as I was afraid. (My sign is the possum. My fear is what makes me strong.) Then he starts telling a story about his Uncle getting shot, and how he and his Dad chased the shooter down, and how he became his wolf side. He did a quick whippity-whip karate maneuver with sound effects to demonstrate the wolf power. And then got to the part where they caught up with the guy, and beat him down. At that very moment, the kids started flooding out the doors, and with a couple more 'wow's and 'I'll be darned's, I took off to find Giselle and slink off to the car.

I really, totally and completely had no idea what to say to the kid. He was obviously bright, but something had happened to him, and he was teetering on the edge. Some lady had escorted him out when he first came outside...the school counselor maybe? I've been debating with myself whether to call the school and ask if he's getting any help. I probably should. As he gets older, he's going to get picked to pieces by the other kids worse and worse every year...and what if he has access to more than his claws when the wolf emerges to protect him?

I just found out a major cause of some tension in the office lately has centered around the fact that I haven't been keeping up on technical issues with a colleague's computer. I was totally blowing it off. And the steps that this person took to deal with the problems were causing increasing levels of aggravation for others. Heh, even I was getting aggravated with some of the stuff that was happening. But I didn't start making the connection until last week. And even then, I didn't think it was the pulsing heart of the tension motor. Well it was. And now here I am, with that flinch & cringe reflex coursing through my nerves.

Tech support on nebulous, inconsistently repeatable problems is a big tailwind on my road to procrastination. Ended up affecting a lot of people this time. Arg.

I read something today that reminded me of my days working a 2nd job driving for Dominos. I got to thinking about the chicken wings they offered--and how disgusted I was with the process for saucing them. You know, in the commercials, you see wings being tenderly basted under warm lights by a soft brush soaked in thick, rich barbecue sauce. But the harsh reality is a set of 5-gallon buckets named Mild, Medium and Spicy resting beneath flickering fluorescent lights, next to the broom and grill scraper. I could never say exactly when Mild, Medium and Spicy got washed, but that half inch of wibbled sauce pooling in the bottom told no tales. Just dump the wings in, try not to look at what's in the bottom, shake shake shake, and splot them into a foil lined boxette. I prepared an order of wings for delivery once, and the pangs of shame kept me from being in a position to have to do it again. Yuck. I know that's about the most efficient way to coat the victuals, but it just oozed bad vibes.

[escaped segue goes here]

A couple months ago, I scoured the internet and found a manufacturer to create a bunch of custom demo bags for a project here at work. It's the first time I've speced...specced...specked...specqued...spec'ed--funny, I say that word all the time...hmmm. Anyway, first time I've sp***ed and ordered something like that, and they did a great job and all. But a few weeks into the project, the 'local' sales rep calls me up to introduce herself. Heh. Sorry lady. If Id've known, I would've called you first. Well after the usual salesy jibbitty jabber, she gets down to the substance of which commissions are made and asks who she could talk to here that does such-n-such manufacturing process for our company, because her company does this-n-that that could supplement the such-n-such. Well, here I am, your basic crumbling ravine of cross-trained knowledge, and the buck didn't so much stop here, as it fluttered off in the breeze. I've mentioned my nature before, insomuch as I'm a cog, right? Well after a bunch of umming and ahhing, and stammerring around hoping she would let me off the hook, I caved in and said I'd see if I could find out who is "in the know" about this slippery manufacturing process that we may or may not do, and whether they might or might not need her company's services and get back to her.

Well, I guilted and procrastinated about it for a few days, but then I started to get irritated. Why am I worrying about doing her research for her? I might be a doorway into the company. But take a peek inside, and you'll see it's really just the toolshed, and I should have just been up front with her about it. Marshmallow man.

Fast forward a few more weeks to today, and she calls back. Great. I made the snap decision to just be straight with her, and told her I didn't have a contact for her, and in fact I hadn't even researched it at all, because it just wasn't a priority for me, because among other things I just didn't know where to start. It felt kinda good. She didn't seem too happy about it. She still asked for a name though. Pretty much any name at this point. Man I'm glad I'm not a sales rep. So I gave her the number to the switchboard and wished her the best of luck. Click.

Teats on a boar hog, that's me.

Which reminds me. I accidentally caught sight of hog snouts or something in the meat section at Safeway this weekend. ::gurgle:: That put an untidy end to the whole hunger-shopping syndrome.

And in the interest of saying something without really having anything to say, I bring you last night's memorable dream. It was a spider dream. I was being stalked by this huge Banana Spider...the ones with the tufts of fur along their leg joints.

It was missing a couple legs, but it was still wiley and showing up in creepy ways as I stumbled through our junk-filled spare bedroom, and then it was spinning funnel web tunnels in my hair, and pretty much making a nest out of me at every opportunity. Lots of heebie jeebies out of that one. Woke up scratching.

I've been taking the digital camera with me everywhere. So basically, I now have a man-purse. Scary.

I was shooting some train pictures a couple weeks ago, and caught one that fell into a contest theme at DPChallenge. It picked up 29th place out of 385 entries.

I've got another entry in there right now that's tanking hard though.

It's been raining pretty steady since around midnight. Nice.