Flatirons

The Flatirons are rock formations near the already-high town of Boulder, CO. They are neither flat nor iron, but I won't belabor the point. Instead, they chew you up and spit you out, making you feel like you were hit by the flat of an iron, so perhaps they deserve their name after all.

All this to say, I went on a hiking expedition today. I've never seen a natural sandstone arch in my 24 years of existence, and there's a 40-foot beauty in the Flatirons known as the Royal Arch.

I've never been much a fan of topo maps. Distance is what rocks my boat. I saw a distance of 3.5 miles round trip and strapped on my Merrells.

Never mind that you gain 1750 feet of elevation in 1.75 miles. Details like these slay empires.

I also don't recommend doing the barefoot or minimalist thing in the Flatirons. There are lots of rocks, most of them sharp, all of them hostile. If they don't bruise your heel, they'll trip you up and make you crush your head.

All to say, I'm half-convinced that the word for 'serpent' in Genesis 3 actually refers to fist-sized chunks of sandstone. But I'm no scholar.

Moan and groan, I may, but if you ever find yourself in Boulder and have nothing else to do, see this. It is awesome. Of course, if you've already been to Arches National Park in Utah, never-mind. I'll just turn all kinds of green, because that's on my list of must-go-to-places-before-I-die-in-50-years.

But yes, in this glorious world bereft of oneupmanship, I can say with a clear conscience that I've never seen any rock sculpture quite like what I saw today. If you want to talk about 100 foot arches, double arches, and arches with curlicues, I will listen with open ears and a bleeding heart.

(And yes, that picture is totally of the Royal Arch. And no, that is totally not me in the foreground. If I ever look like I'm about to enter a Stargate, shoot me before I do. Nothing good can come of it.)

Until next time,
- Daniel

Sailing

No, it wasn't even remotely close to a three-hour tour. We didn't end up stranded. In fact, the whole trip was rather boring in a lazy, warm, and comfortable way.

And--as it turns out--you don't actually need a storybook ending to spend an enjoyable afternoon on a lake. Not that storybook endings aren't awesome. Everyone I know would give their front incisors to be marooned on a desert island in some remote jurisdiction with periodic hurricanes and copious quantities of coconut crabs.

(If, at this point, all you can think about is the redundancy of the phrase 'front incisors', consider joining the dental profession.)

There's something to be said for being content with life as it is. Not content in the sense of status quo, but content in the sense that you're used to having a picnic in the park without the earth swallowing you whole and being held captive by the Grand Viceroy of the Underworld, GVU for short.

Okay, maybe I do mean status quo. If random encounters with the GVU is the status quo in your life, I'm sorry.

Most storyboard characters take this sort of misadventure more or less calmly, or at least with a certain resignation. I--on the other hand--would probably just scream and die of cardiac arrest.

Usually, by the fifth consecutive kidnapping by orcs, you'll see the lead characters shoot an expression that says "really??". Maybe raise an eyelash or two. That's about it. They're made of sterner stuff than I.

At one point in my life, I set out to understand why we're drawn to stories about people with extraordinarily bad luck. One theory is that these sorts of people are gifted weighted luck dice by the GVU. I was forced to abandon this theory through lack of evidence and spontaneous seismic rumblings.

Eventually, I came to the conclusion that we're just stupidly happy when epically bad stuff happens to strangers we don't know, and doesn't happen to us. This is probably wrong, but until I overcome this seed of iniquity in myself, I'll continue to laugh with self-evident glee every time the Pittsburgh Steelers lose a game.

And... not to pass off the morality of this discovery on genetics, but I suspect there's a self-preservation gene involved as well. Suffice it to say, 88° F weather on a tranquil lake with a slight tailwind? I'll take it.

Until next time,

- Daniel


P.S. Thanks to the Engels for providing the vessel and taking on an unlikely non-paying passenger.

Flashy Flier

You're going to want to buy one of these. Hours and hours of fun, no moving parts, a veritable smorgasbord of fun.

What am I talking about? I'm talking about the Flashy Flier. It's a toy that can travel at speeds of 30 miles-per-hour through the air, meaning loads of blunt-force trauma potential. But it's made of plastic, so it's not lethal. Usually.

This little trinket is so versatile, it will change your life. You can play catch with it, golf with it, or hunt with it. I'm neither jesting nor boasting. 3 in 1 deals don't get any better than this.

This gizmo practically sells itself. There's no need to use SCREAMING CAPS, price it at Nine dollars and Ninety-Nine cents, or wear tweed while making your sales pitch. Every household in America (and possibly the Milky Way galaxy) needs one of these... and maybe two (for when your cat has the same epiphany that you're about to have and steals yours).

How do I know that you need this? I have tEsTiMoNiAlS from v-e-r-y satisfied Customers.

I call my Flashy Flier the whiz-bang from heaven, and sometimes Thor's hammer. Some days, when I'm bored and have nothing else to do, I'll play catch with myself. It's awesome. You throw it up, up, up, and it comes down, down, down, and if you don't catch it, you get a bruise or a black eye or a notched tooth. I can't recommend it enough. I'd give it two thumbs up, but the chronic arthritis in my right hand is making that a little hard right now. 

~ Kari

Look through the bandages and head gauze, and you'll see Bob, a deliriously happy owner of a Flashy Flier. You can hardly keep him away from his spinning contraption. Hours on hours he would spend throwing it up in the air, squinting against the sun as it came down again. So enthralled, is Bob, that we have to keep him strapped to his bed. His rehab ends in 6 months, at which point--I'm sure--he'll be right back at 'em.

~ Scott (on behalf of Bob, who is indisposed at the moment)

Hey, when they say the Flashy Flier is awesome for hunting, they mean it. I'm a crotchety home owner of 83, and own three of these little gadgets. When the neighborhood kids start messing with the pink flamingos on my lawn, I'm out and flinging before you can say knife. No permanent damage, and a better deterrent than bear spray or taser. I've earned the nickname Grouchy Gramps, and mean to keep it.

~ Gerhard

The testimonies speak for themselves, so I won't belabor the point. Get your Flashy Flier today!

On another, unrelated, topic--a good hard game of frisbee keep-away can make you feel as though you've been mauled by a grizzly after getting run over by a lawn mower. Just a word to the wise.

Until next time,
- Daniel

You

I want to know about you.

What makes you laugh?

What makes you cry?

What moves you in ways that nothing else can?

Because, ultimately, very little in life is really about me. Most is actually about you.

So, perhaps I've been a bit deceptive. You only think this blog is about me. It's really not.

It's about you.

Some things that fascinate me would bore you to tears. Some things that tear me up would tear you down. Some things that are perfect in private would be pointless in public.

And alliteration always aligns with the dark side.

So no. I guess this blog isn't really a true reflection of me. The real me is saner than a cracker with a side of cheddar cheese. The real me is more sober than a poodle after a pedicure. The real me is slower than a snail on steroids.

The cool thing about a blog is you can become anything.

A blue streak through a northwest rain forest.

A barefoot indian in suburbia.

A schizophrenic runner high on exercise-induced cannabinoids.

(funny how all those had to do with the faster form of bipedal motion)

In truth, that's part of who I am. But maybe, less so, it's a semi-translucent veil for who I truly am. It's the more humorous side of my being, the time I can be more candid and less sensible. My "superman" transformation, if you will.

Yeah. Tardis... phone booth... you can conjecture on which one I use. I'm not telling.

All of you have troubles. Problems you'd love to be rid of. Things you'd love to forget.

Sometimes. Just sometimes, wouldn't it nice if you could? Forget things? Temporarily?

So, laugh with me. Laugh at me. Laugh on my behalf.

And if, once in a while, I get an itch to be serious, don't be too surprised.

If I were a cassette tape, I'd be 66% laugh track, 32% court jester, and 1% unicorn with a sprinkling of rainbow-colored pixie dust.

But I'm not. I'm actually a Betamax of Gilligan's Island re-runs.

Until next time,
- Daniel