The Inelegant Universe

"Hey Gert, what's this drawing on a giant piece of paper?"

"Those are the planets. We are learning about them in Early Childhood."

"Cool. I like planets. What are you learning?"

"I don't know. This is a picture of all the planets."

"Which one is this?"

"That one is Mars, because it's red. This blue one is Missouri."

"What's that planet?"

"That's where Uncle Jeff lives."

"Wow. I hope he doesn't invade."

I'm Going Alp d'Huez on Your Ass

I actually said that today. Plus, I did an amazing imitation of Armstrong's "Look" to Ulrich. In slow motion too! Ever gone in slow motion on a bike? It's not easy.

So, Thursday was Thanksgiving. I didn't partake in too much self-abuse. That was smart. And the weather was incredible. So that meant I could ride the bike, right?

Friday morning I put on the leg warmers, the arm warmers and headed out for a ride. By mile 20 I was bare-legged and sweating. In November. Awesome. I put in about 35 miles, came home and relaxed with the family for the rest of the day.

Saturday, it was nice again, so we decided to knock out the leaves. We were done by noon. We were sore and exhausted, but it was well worth it. So we took the kids to see a movie about the love between a mouse and a toilet. Since it was Ardman, we thoroughly enjoyed it.

Sunday, once again, it was beautiful. Not quite as warm as Friday, but warm. So I went for a ride. Just a quick 30, I told my wife. Well, after that thirty I still felt spry. So I called my wife and said, "I think I'll head out over the river again. Should only be about 30 minutes or so." Well, I went out over the river and I still felt great. An hour later, I had hit 50 miles. Sweet, I said. So I decided to pack it in.

There was the mistake. I came home and decided to mow the lawn (well, vacuum up the rest of the leaves) and run the mower out. Then I cleaned the mower. Then I put down winter fertilizer. Then I packed everything away and stowed the 22 bags of yard waste we had accumulated. Then I collapsed.

Yesterday I hurt so bad that I think the only thing that wasn't aching was my hair. Even that was questionable.

So what did I do today? Went for a short recovery ride. 22 miles of relaxing cranking. Seriously, it was relaxing. I might have gone into the red zone with some hill sprinting. And one quick four mile speed-fest (20 mph, for the most part). But, other than that, it was just what the doctor ordered.

Tomorrow, I'm going back out for a hammerfest that will leave blackened chunks of my lungs on the asphalt. That'll be fun too. Because, after that? Well, look at the ten day forecast. Sigh. Back to indoor riding and that weight training I keep telling myself I'm going to do.

Maybe I'll take up knitting. Oh crap, I said that out loud. I need to hide from my wife.

Drool

Wow.

Gert Quote of the Week

Upon seeing a scene in the film "Flushed Away" in which a male mouse falls and lands crotch first on a various things in quick succession:

"Wow, that really hurt his vagina."

Supplement. Upon seeing a commercial involving the Incredible Hulk she asked if he was a good guy or a bad guy. I explained his complicated situation, which she seemed to accept. She responded:

"He sure is one angry guy."

Hankering for a Hunk of Cheese

This is my plan for Thanksgiving.

On Birthdays and Boors

Every year, on a certain date, you get older. It's not something you can stop, so you embrace it and enjoy each coming year as a gift.

Yet, there are also those people who like to make aging jokes, despite the fact that they too are getting older. They make jokes about your hearing, sight problems, senility. They also think these jokes are funny. Unlike aging, this should be something that you can stop. And, yet, you cannot. These boorish morons jabber on and on and on using the same tired jokes for everyone of their friends, every year ad infinitum. You are powerless to stop them despite the fact that the jokes are now so forced and painful that they require Flomax to simply get eundure them.

But, naturally, you're the bad person when you kick them in the crotch until they shut up.

Cool Video

Shows some of the less pleasant cycling moments. I mean, other than having your blood replaced by a virile Spaniard sheep farmer's prior to climbing Mt. Ventoux.



Good video. Even more impressive? This video of some random guy descending Col d'Izoard. I like how he passes the cars. What a bunch of wusses in their motor vehicles.

On Overeating During the Holidays

In times of great stress, many humans turn to food for comfort. For many humans, because of the close proximity of their family members, the holidays are times of great stress. Therefore, that is why we need an enormous roasted animal to place between us and Grandma. The turkey helps us deal with the stress of listening to Grandma explain why you have never lived up to any of her expectations.

And because there's not enough spiked egg nog in the world to make that bitch pleasant, even if you do share DNA.

Bottom of the World, Top of the Playlist

I know I could tell you to go out and buy Tom Waits' new three-disc set next Tuesday, but why would you listen to me when you can listen to a fantastic sci-fi author/electronic rights activist/essayist like Cory Doctorow?

That being said, since I'm not trusted with advance copies, I'll be first in line on Tuesday.

I can't wait to play Tom Waits for the family on Thanksgiving! It's possible that I may get sent to sit in the backyard all by myself because of it. But who cares? 50 songs baby! That will last me.

Of Clowns and Ninjas

It occurred to me that if a group of ninjas came upon a group of clowns there would be no fight because, like the ninjas, the clowns follow a code of honor. However, if the ninjas came across a group of pirates, much blood would be shed.

Also, contrary to popular belief, should a group of pirates come across a group of clowns, they would, in fact, fight because pirates will fight with anyone. It would be an epic battle. However, the clowns would be victorious because they fight dirty.

Why We Need Science

Because this transcends awesome. (Via Boing Boing)

Five Years Old

Save the Cheerleader, Save the World,
originally uploaded by scifitwin.

Happy Birthday to my little girl. Hard to believe it's been five years. It's gone fast. Next thing I know my little shadow will be dating and causing me ulcers.

In the meantime it's stories with funny voices, chocolate milk in shot glasses (a game we call "Hit me up barkeep" . . . maybe that's not healthy . . . it's a cowboy game I played as a kid) and princess parties.

Sigh. I wish I could bottle little Gert and keep her forever. She's one of those kids who has something different deep inside of her. She's funny, vivacious, smart and compassionate. Very compassionate for a little kid.

Sins of My Father

I have visual and audio proof of my young daughter's Tom Waits impression.

Scene:
Mom and dad were getting eyes checked. Gert and Matilda were looking for things to do. Matilda sat playing her Game Boy. Gert had no such device, so she looked to Daddy. Daddy sent her off with his phone cam to take pictures of weird things and he'd guess what they were. That was fun. For a few minutes. But she needed more. She we started making phone cam videos.

"Hey Gert," I said, "sing 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' in your Tom Waits voice."

So she did.

I know what you're thinking. How could we allow a nearly five-year-old to listen to Tom Waits? Well, it's not like I let her listen to "I'm Your Late Evening Prostitute" or "Pasties and a G-String." There are plenty fantastic Tom Waits songs she loves to listen to. Hell, Matilda has a song I don't even have on a soundtrack to a movie. So there.

But mostly she likes to sing like Tom Waits.

Notice Matilda in the background completely oblivious to all the strange things we were doing.

What's Cute?

"Hey Gert, sing a lullaby as Tom Waits."

"Croak Rockabye croak Baby croak In croak The croak Tree croak Top . . ."

"Ha!"

Bonus points for syrup dribbling down her chin.

The Truth About My Novel

Okay, so I am doing National Novel Writing Month with my wife and daughter because it's a fun way for the family to spend time together and not talk. Dinner time now sounds like this:

clackyclackyclackyclackyclackyclackyclackytaptaptapclackyclackyclackyclacky

"What's another word for anemic bastard?"

Worse, there's a strange competition going on in our house now. My wife and I now measure our worth by word count (so kicking her ass, which means I don't have to make dinner until she earns the literary right to take the night off--that means none of my famous balsalmic chicken or stir fry until that day) and my normally sweet eleven-year-old daughter has acquired some sort of arrogance and wit that has turned her into Mrs. Parker and the Vicious circle. I really wish she'd stop asking to spend time at the Algonquin.

I'm learning some things about myself. For example, I'm a supremely lazy writer. My use of grammar is, shall we say, slovenly. It's not that I don't respect the rules of our language. It's that I really don't feel like using them most of the time. Am I capable? Yes. Do I do it? Frequently. Will I ever correct myself? I suppose. Do I care? Not a bit.

So for all you grammar cops out there I have one thing to say: Bite the big one. I'm essentially free writing. When it's time to edit--strike that--IF it's ever time to edit it, then we'll discuss Strunk and White. Okay? Now take your blood pressure medicine and go focus on your own comma splices.

So, you can see my progress here. I'm not posting the little badge on my site because, ultimately, I'm too lazy. You can also read an excerpt there.

Note on the site: It's slow, uses clunky flash and makes my brain hurt. But it looks pretty.

Note on my story: You won't care about it. But you can still read the excerpt. Odds are you'll never see any more of it. For the most part, it's literary masturbation.

But here's the premise of my original idea: Floyd Landis is sitting in an Alpine bar, tossing back a few Amstel Lites with his buddies when, suddenly, his ratio of Testosterone to Epitestosterone goes completely out of whack. His skin turns yellow and he grows to be, something like, 6 feet tall and 200 pounds (Hey, he's a cyclist. For them that's Hulk size.) Then, he goes on a rampage through France searching for something that can only be described as "(s)". No one understands what he's talking about because he's speaking in incomprehensible bursts like, "The 30ng/ml limit is not the threshold for a positive but is the reasonable limit for detection the lab must demonstrate (like the 2ng/mL for [T] or [E])."

Then, just as Floyd is about to eat the Eiffel Tower, a guy in a lab coat comes up and tells him that he accidentally spilled white out all over his lab documents and it turns out that there was nothing wrong with his T/E ratio, but some jerk from the drug testing lab had written a lewd comment about Floyd's wife with similar letters and that this whole thing was a mistake.

"My bad," says the lab dude. Then Floyd shrinks back down to normal size, takes a shot of Jack Daniels and says, "Hey no problem." And he goes on to win every race that ASO sponsors for the next five years. Including the Tour de l'Avenir, which causes a whole new controversy.

I thought this was a good idea. Turns out, I was wrong. There's a website out there that's telling a much better story and, apparently, it's all true. Damn it.

Oh well, back to the sophomoric drivel I'm writing.

The Butler Did It

Somehow, my lovely wife convinced me to participate in National Novel Writing Month. I hemmed. I hawed. Then I complained, refused to start and whined about how I had no workable ideas.

Then I saw an elderly couple cuddling on a park bench during one of my bike rides. Proverbial inspiration struck. So I agreed.

But I didn't stop complaining.

So, yesterday it started. I made myself a playlist of music that fit the mood, and worked all day with the knowledge that if I want to hit the 50,000 word goal by the end of the month I'd have to really crank through and not give up.

By lunch, without a word written, I had quit twice. But, thanks to the playlist, had fallen in love with two Tom Waits songs I had ignored.

The wife came home and told me she'd make dinner while I wrote. So I did. I finished work and sat down. An hour and a half later I was 2500 words into what might actually be a novel.

Go figure.

Enjoy this, though. Odds are you'll never see a word that I've written. Okay, okay. That does seem mean. Here, I'll give you this:

Virginity.

I wrote that word in the novel. Only 47,500 words to go!

Halloween

Before the Fall,
originally uploaded by scifitwin.

We survived, but barely. There's nothing that will motivate a child to exercise and walk for miles than pounds and pounds of candy.

I, being a diabetic, have been in a contact coma for the last few hours. So, I need to ride my bike today to shake off the sugar in the house.