Dreaming of a White Green Christmas...

It was mid-winter 2009, and I faced a potentially disastrous holiday situation. Just hours away from Christmas Eve and lacking even a single roll of wrapping paper, I found myself staring at a mountain of unwrapped gifts. I asked myself what MacGyver would do in such a situation, and I quickly decided I'd have to improvise. While most people would proceed timidly in the face of the unknown, I forged ahead with a confidence that could only come from a strong track record of improvisational success.

My solution, much like myself, was simple and brilliant: newspaper. Whenever I used wrapping paper in the past, the wastefulness of the whole situation made me sick. Paper companies raze miles and miles of forest, and for what? To cover Christmas gifts for a few days, only to watch the paper get torn up and thrown away by December 26th. The wrapping paper industry must have John Denver and dead environmentalist hippies across the world spinning in their graves. I felt quite proud of my creativity and environmental sensitivity as I admired my pile of newspaper-covered gifts.

When Christmas 2010 rolled around, my choice of wrapping paper was a no-brainer: I would once again turn to the newspaper. No additional cost, no additional waste--clearly a win-win situation. Aside from helping out my old friend Mother Nature, I realized that wrapping my gifts with newspaper had a few other benefits that I hadn't considered in 2009.

First of all, wrapping with newspaper allows the gift-giver to custom-match the paper to the recipient. With standard Christmas-themed paper, your choices are pretty much limited to wintry landscapes, images of Santa or reindeer, or the basic red and green-colored paper. But with newspaper, the options are limitless. Giving a gift to an overweight food fiend? Wrap it with a Krispy Kreme or Old Country Buffet ad. An avid follower of business and politics? Wrap that present with a few pages from the Wall Street Journal. When you're selecting a paper for the convicted felon in your life, pull a page or two from the police report section of your local paper.

And it's not just newspaper's versatility that makes it my preferred method of wrapping--it's so much more informative. What can a person really learn from looking at stack of gifts that were wrapped with traditional Christmas paper? Absolutely nothing. I, on the other hand, learned a great deal during my brief gift-wrapping session. In less than thirty minutes that I spent wrapping with newspapers ranging in age from several weeks to several years old, I picked up countless invaluable nuggets of information, including, but not limited to the following: that Hy-Vee ran a sale on prime rib in late December 2009, that the Dow Jones Industrial Average increased by 19 points on May 24, 2005, and that Harold Barnes of Marshalltown, Iowa died at age 78 on June 25, 2008. Not once in all of my previous years wrapping gifts with "normal" paper did I pick up even a fraction of that kind of useful information.

When I finished wrapping, I decided 2010 was the year I'd attack another lingering gift-giving nuisance: the labels. Those sticky little "To/From" rascals seem every bit as wasteful as wrapping paper. And though I've never purchased any myself, I can only assume they're at least as expensive as wrapping paper. Luckily, I'd stumbled across an equally MacGyver-worthy solution a few months before while paging though the December, 2005 issue of BusinessWeek:

My favorite automobile manufacturer, General Motors, printed a full-page "Red Tag Event" ad, complete with actual To/From tags. The only potential snag in this plan was that each tag included a picture of one of GM's various automobile models. My first thought was that my gift recipients might jump to the conclusion that I'd bought them each a new car, but I realized these labels actually worked in my favor. Since they were General Motors cars on the labels, I felt confident that anyone opening one of my gifts would feel an overwhelming sense of relief when they realized that I hadn't burdened them with a lifetime of expensive and frustrating auto repairs. It didn't matter what newspaper-wrapped crap people pulled out of the box; relief and thankfulness were sure to follow.

With the labels in place, my task was complete. I was particularly proud of my wrapping job on one odd-shaped gift. With this cylindrical package, I immediately gave up on aesthetics and went straight for efficiency and practicality. What could have taken days to wrap ended up taking less than 15 seconds:

I avoided tape entirely and opted for three rubber bands and two full-page sheets of newspaper. My heart swelled with holiday spirit as I pictured Santa and Jesus high-fiving each other at the North Pole. I stood back and admired the final result of my tree-saving handiwork:

Sure, my gifts weren't as colorful as some of the others under the tree, but when they're all mixed together, newspaper doesn't look too bad (dim lighting and a slightly blurry photo don't hurt in this case, either):

For those of you who decide to adopt my wrapping strategy next Christmas, be warned that you will inevitably run into people who accuse you of "ruining the holiday spirit" or something similar. The logical rebuttal, obviously, is to accuse those of destroying the earth, and pile on the guilt as you point out their wasteful use of paper, labels, and bows, ribbons, and all that needless holiday decoration. And if they took the time to decorate their house with holiday lights, accuse them of wasting electricity, too.

Having flirted with perfection during the 2010 holiday season, you might find yourself wondering how I can possibly raise the bar again next year. The answer is simple: a Christmas-themed, gift-concealing curtain. This innovative idea is based on my vision of a world in which gift wrapping disappears entirely, suffering the same fate as the telegraph or childhood fitness and academic achievement in America. The exciting part is that I think we can abolish gift wrapping without losing that tremendous sense of anticipation and surprise that comes from unwrapping presents.

For the sake of environmental friendliness, the gift-concealing curtain will, of course, be fashioned out of durable, reusable organic cotton. Each holiday season, families across the country will set up their gift-concealing curtain and simply deposit their unwrapped gifts behind it, saving countless forests and thousands of hours of unnecessary wrapping. To keep the element of surprise intact, you'll have to find a neutral third-party to keep pets, curious children, and potential thieves from sneaking behind the curtain before Christmas. And, of course, this person can help distribute gifts on Christmas morning. I recommend an easily-bribed homeless person, who will jump at the chance to spend part of the winter indoors.

In the past, smiling parents watched their excited children tear the wrapping paper of their gifts on Christmas morning. In the Christmas of the future, parents can sit back and listen to screams of delight as the homeless man in the corner pulls the kids' Christmas gifts from behind the curtain, one at a time. It's my gift to the world--a sustainable Christmas tradition that saves time, money, the environment, and more than a few homeless people. The only sad part is that Christmas 2011 is so far way...

The Malibu Chronicles: Part II

Less than twenty-four hours after clicking the "Publish" button on my previous blog post, I found myself in another blog-worthy situation, courtesy of the Malibu's shoddy window quality. As I mentioned before, when I took the the Malibu to the shop last weekend, I told the mechanics to manually close the window and not to do any other work. I'd try to make it through the winter without a functioning driver's side window and delay the $200+ repair until springtime. For a mere $20, the window was finally closed. But the situation took an unfortunate twist, and so I now present a follow-up to my previous blog post, a tale of my incredible foresight...and unbridled stupidity.

Before I picked up the car, an important thought crossed my mind: aside from voicing my intense distaste for children and cold weather, rolling down my driver's side window is one of the few things that I've done nearly every single day for the past four years. Every time I return home from work, I pull into the parking lot, roll down window, and wave my key fob in front of the reader to open the garage door. Habits like that don't go away overnight...I was feeling pretty smart when I walked in to pick up my car.

I knew there was a good chance that I'd forget the window didn't work, habit would take over, and I'd press the switch without even thinking. I asked the mechanic if there was any chance that even with the switch supposedly not working, that I'd press it and end up with my window stuck in the "down" position again--at $20 a pop, it could get very expensive to have my window manually closed a few times a week for the rest of the winter.

The mechanic told me the switch shouldn't move the window at all--up or down--but if for some reason the window went down and got stuck again, I could remove the switch panel and jiggle the wires while I pressed "up," and I should be able to get it closed. I was feeling pretty pleased with my brilliant foresight as I drove home. And I even remembered not to use my window when I opened the garage door.

And then Saturday arrived. I pulled into the drive-up window at the bank that morning and sat there with my door open like an idiot, but I was beaming with pride for remembering to keep my hands off the window button again. As I drove home after a few more errands, my driver's side window started fogging over. Without thinking, I pressed the "down" button. The window was open about two inches before I realized my mistake. I pressed the "up" bottom, and my unlucky Malibu streak remained intact--the window didn't move.

When I returned home, I immediately went to work on Plan B. I removed the switch panel, jiggled the wires, and incessantly hit the "up" button. Still, the window remained as motionless as an awe-struck fat person watching a cupcake parade. During my fury of wire jiggling and button pressing, I managed to bump the "down" switch again, which is apparently one of the only remaining parts on the Malibu that still functions flawlessly. By the time I abandoned my efforts to get the window up, the opening had widened to four inches, more than enough for someone to easily reach in and unlock the door.

I gave up and unloaded my valuables from the car--I didn't want anyone stealing my collection of vintage CDs that I burned during the late 90s. Driving around on Saturday afternoon was every bit as cold as I expected. To make matters worse, the cars in front of me were caking my windshield with salty road-spray, and using the wipers while the car was in motion would only douse myself and the interior of the car with windshield washer fluid. And so I navigated my way home, peering through the quarter-sized spot on my windshield that was still clean enough to see though. It was around that time that I decided I should probably go ahead and get the window fixed--when I got home, I reluctantly scheduled an appointment for the Malibu the next day.

When I parked the car in the garage that night, I left the ignition key on the seat inside, hoping someone would reach in, unlock the door, and just drive off with my problem. But with the Malibu's track record and my luck, a potential thief would probably climb in, turn the key, and a red "Theft System" light would start flashing while the engine refused to turn over. Sure enough, the car was still there Sunday morning.

A few hours and $225 later, I was once again the proud owner of a fully functional driver's side power window. I was initially upset with myself for having made such a stupid mistake...I could have delayed this expensive mess for a few months if only I hadn't pressed that button. But on the bright side, I realized that my automotive blunders presented a unique and potentially entertaining money-making opportunity.

Those of you who loyally follow this blog (you both know who you are) will recall that one of my main objectives in writing this is to compete with James's Africa blog. He's in the process of raising $8,000 for a new school in his village. I hereby present an additional twist in our dueling-blog challenge: can James raise $8,000 for a school before I reach $10,000 in Malibu repairs?

I know what you're thinking, and it crossed my mind, too. This can't possibly be a fair challenge--doesn't James have a lot more ground to cover in his fund raising journey than I have in my race to $10,000? After all, I started making repairs on the Malibu long before James could even locate Africa on a globe (which occurred sometime around late 2005, if I remember correctly). But let's face it--he has a whole army of friends and family helping him raise funds, and my side consists only of me and a rapidly aging car.

If you've checked James's blog recently, you'll notice that he has a fund raising thermometer on the right side to track his progress. Lucky for me, the fund raising thermometer can also be re-purposed to track auto repair expenses. With this, I declare the official beginning of the challenge:

To make things more interesting, I'll even present an alternative donation option for those who would prefer to support a more..."local" cause. Generous donors who support my noble effort will allow me to accomplish one of two things: (1) help the Malibu chug past the 100,000 barrier, or (2) help fund the purchase of a Nissan 370Z.

If you're like me, you expect to get something in return when you donate to charity. What do you get if you fork over some money for James's school in Africa? Best case scenario, you'll have some short-lived, warm fuzzy feelings, knowing that you helped some impoverished children who you'll never meet learn how to count to ten. Those who help my cause, on the other hand, will receive much, much more.

If the Malibu hangs on long enough, I'm offering my supporters a chance to ride shotgun as the Malibu goes where no Malibu has gone before--that's right, you can sit right there beside me, watching as the odometer rolls past 99,999 and the Malibu joins the elusive 100,000 mile club. If, on the other hand, the more likely scenario plays out and the Malibu dies before reaching that prestigious milestone, my supporters can ride around the block with me in a new 370Z. Either way, donors are welcome to take all the pictures they want of me and the car.

And so, before you reach for your pocketbook to make a donation this holiday season, I encourage you to do what any responsible person would do and ask yourself, "What's in it for me?" Take a look at these pictures--which seems like a better option?

A ride in this...

or donating money to support this, which you'll never actually see in person anyway.

If for some reason you're still on the fence, a simple look at the facts makes the answer that much more obvious: those children in Africa can learn just fine outdoors--the average low temperature in Burkina Faso is something like 70°. Back here in America, if I find myself without a car and try walking to work, I'll freeze to death before I make it out of the parking lot. This weekend's forecast calls for sixteen inches of snow and a high temperature of 4° on Sunday. Seriously! The button's right here...you know what you should do:

Malibu: Spectacular City, Terrible Car

Here's a question for drivers everywhere: what is the value of a functioning driver's side window? That's a question I now find myself debating as the great Chevy Malibu has left me in yet another predicament.

On Thursday afternoon, I noticed the power window switch was sticking a little, but the window was still functioning, so I didn't worry about it much. That night when I rolled the window down to open the garage door, the window initially wouldn't budge when I tried to roll it back up. I eventually got it closed, but I pulled the car into the garage and immediately made a very poor decision: I decided I'd roll the window down just a crack to see if it was still working. Sure enough, it wasn't.

The Malibu sat overnight with the window open about two inches. I was a little concerned about how Friday was going to play out--the forecast called for a snowstorm, and the car would be sitting outside all day. I pictured myself shoveling a snowdrift out of the front seats at the end of the day. Not to mention that driving down the highway with the window open--even a little--would certainly make for a very uncomfortable drive with temperatures below freezing.

Luckily, when I got into the car yesterday morning, the window budged a little more. It was still open, but the crack had narrowed significantly. I still left a towel on the driver's seat all day just in case, but the automobile gods apparently did me a favor after having mocked me for so many years, and the snow didn't start until after I returned home.

I dropped the Malibu off to have the window checked last night, and it didn't take long for them figure out that the power window switch had gone bad. A mere $20 covered the cost of having the mechanics check it out and return the window to it's full upright and locked position, but fixing the problem would cost over $200.

I decided to hold off on the repair, at least for now--after all, I probably won't be driving with the windows down for another six months when it finally warms up again. But the window has rendered the Malibu virtually useless for numerous situations--driving up at the bank, going through restaurant drive-thrus, sleeping in the car on winter road trips, and even opening the garage door at my apartment. So if you see someone standing outside, shivering near a tan Chevy Malibu at a fast food window or a bank, take a second look, because chances are it'll be me.

I'd like to say that the recent window debacle was one of only a few problems with the Malibu, but that's hardly the case. My stack of invoices from auto repair shops continues to grow, and I recently added up the total--in the past four years, the repair and service bills are pushing $6,300, not including oil changes. Granted, some of those repairs--new tires, realignment, etc.--are to be expected with an aging car, but $6,300 is an awfully high number for a car with less than 95,000 miles on in. Plus, that staggering total doesn't even take into account all of the unfixed problems plaguing the mighty Malibu.

The check engine light spends most of it's time glowing brighter than an expectant mother, the unfortunate side effect of a faulty catalytic converter, which would cost around $900 to repair. The Malibu apparently leaks oil like a defunct BP offshore rig, another problem with a $900 solution. And, of course, there's the recent $200 window issue. All that for a car with a Kelley Blue Book value under $2,000...and that assumes the Malibu is in excellent condition...which it very obviously is not.

Perhaps more frustrating of any of these other problems is the infamous "Theft System" issue, which first reared its ugly head in 2007. When the "Theft System" issue occurs, the engine won't turn over and a red "Theft System" light flashes for exactly ten minutes. The car won't start as long as the light is flashing, and when it stops, I get to try the key again. At that point the car will either start or the "Theft System" light will start blinking for another ten minutes, during which the engine once again will not start. So far, I've experienced several back-to-back Theft System delays, but never back-to-back-to-back delays.

After this happened to me a few times, I took the Malibu in for service, and several hundred dollars later, the mechanics claimed that they had "fixed" the problem. For over a year, I started the car without any Theft System delays, though I always wondered in the back of my mind whether the problem would return. Having Googled "Chevy Malibu Theft System problem," I knew that legions of unhappy Malibu owners had experienced the same symptoms with their cars, and not once had I read a complaint where the owner was able to find a mechanic who could permanently solve the problem.

As I feared, the "Theft System" delay returned in late 2008, then mysteriously went away again for over a year. About ten months ago, Mr. Theft System came back once again, leaving me sitting in my car, stranded for 10 to 20 minutes at a time, at least five or six times a week. I quickly learned two important lessons: (1) If I had something important scheduled and I couldn't afford to show up late, I needed to leave at least 20 minutes earlier than I otherwise would, and (2) time grinds to a virtual stand-still when you're sitting in a car, waiting for that *&#$% blinking light to go off. I always made sure to have some magazines laying around the car to help pass the time. Lucky for me, the Theft System problem returned to its dormant state before winter set in, but it's anyone's guess when it will strike again.

And finally, I reach the point of this pathetic tale: how on earth did the Chevy team who designed this monstrosity finally decide to name it "Malibu?" I've been driving this car for more than seven years and have yet to find a single similarity between one of the most beautiful, wealthy, and exclusive areas in the country and Chevy's sorry excuse for an automobile.


Ironically, if you drive through Malibu, California, there's a good chance that you won't find a single Chevy Malibu within ten miles of the city limits. General Motors should be liable for false advertising. If the design team felt obligated to name the car after an L.A. suburb, it would be far more appropriate if I was driving a Chevy Compton, or at best, a Chevy Van Nuys. Honestly, I really think they should have broadened their geography, because I can't think of a more deserving name than the Chevy East St. Louis.


If only it was possible to dig up an old transcript from the meeting where the geniuses at Chevy got together to brainstorm a name for this monster...I wouldn't be surprised to find a conversation that went something like this:

High school intern: "What do you guys think of this new model?"
Engineer 1: "This is the worst summer intern project ever--we'll be lucky if a single one of these cars makes it to 100,000 miles."
High school intern: "So you're not going to launch it?"
Engineer 1: "I didn't say that. Lucky for you, we don't have any quality standards."
Engineer 2: "What should we call this new model?"
Engineer 1: "Let's call it...the Malibu!"
Engineer 2: "Doesn't that seem a little misleading, what with the poor quality and all the design flaws?"
Engineer 1: "Who cares...with a name like Malibu, we could build this thing out of craft sticks, macaroni, and superglue and people would still buy it."

I find it odd that General Motors decided on such a grossly inaccurate name for this particular model, especially when their previous "Like a Rock" ad campaign for the Chevy brand was remarkably spot-on. When I think about large, awkward, immobile objects that remind me of rocks, the first image that comes to mind is my 1998 Chevy Malibu.


P.S.: You'll never find anything this entertaining on James's Africa blog. The closest thing you'll get to a transportation problem there is a story about an underfed pack mule or a flat tire on his Peace Corps-issued Huffy.

'Accidental' Furniture Theives and the Break Room Bandits

Last weekend when I went downstairs to check the mail, a flyer on the bulletin board above the mailboxes caught my eye, with "Missing" written in large, bold letters across the top. My initial hope was that one of the children in the building had been kidnapped--specifically, the crying baby whose crib apparently sits directly on the opposite side of the wall where I try to sleep.


Unfortunately for me, that wasn't the case. But what the flyer lacked in good news, it made up for with hilarity. Apparently a dresser went missing during a recent move-in. The theft itself wasn't the funny part, though. The best part? The building owner's reluctance to accuse someone of what was obviously an intentional act of theft: "If you have seen a small brown dresser or taken it by mistake..."

It's happened to all of us, right? You're sitting in your living room watching TV when something catches your attention out of the corner of your eye. You turn your head to investigate, and seconds later you find yourself wondering, "Where the *%@# did that coffee table come from?" You don't remember hauling the table into your house, so the only logical explanation is that you "accidentally" saw an unattended piece of furniture, "accidentally" asked a friend to help you move it, and it "accidentally" ended up in your living room.

I wasn't too concerned that I was living among thieves, but I shuddered at the realization that my work life and home life were unexpectedly colliding. I have no idea who stole the dresser, but I'm sure that person must work in an office, and they perfected their "accidental" thievery in the break room. How do I know this? I've witnessed an outbreak of similar crimes at work in recent months.

This past summer, as part of a week-long funding raising event, the organizing committee placed a small, car-shaped bank near the vending machines where people could donate spare change. By 9:30AM on Monday (the first day of the fund raiser!), a mass-email came out that read something like this: "It appears that someone has mistaken the red car bank in the south break room as a give-away. However, the bank was placed there to collect donations for the Diverity Week Fund Raiser. We understand how this accident might have occurred, but we ask that the person who took the bank please return it to the break room as soon as possible." The bank was returned later that day.

Less than two weeks later, the sales department held another event (referred to as T.O.S.S., an acronym for "Throw Out Superfluous Stuff"), encouraging employees to organize their desks, throw out old files, etc. In the middle of the afternoon, the organizers set large baskets of complimentary snacks in the break rooms as a reward for the day's clean-up efforts. Around 3PM, an eerily familiar mass email showed up in my inbox: "Would the person who took the basket from the north break room please return it. The basket was part of the T.O.S.S. event and was not intended to be a give-away." No word on whether the basket ever showed up again.

As strange as these events might seem, I really wasn't surprised--after a few years of work, I've noticed that my co-workers have turned the break rooms into earth-bound black holes. Anything--and I mean anything--that gets set in the break room is gone within seconds. Interestingly, it's the same group of culprits every time...a group relatively small in number but large in both body mass and circumference. Despite sitting nowhere near either of the break rooms on our floor, this group has somehow developed a sixth sense for detecting free food.

It would seem that these people have devised a thoroughly-planned strategy in which they "steak" out all of the conference rooms around lunchtime, hunting for meetings that feature a catered meal. The instant a meeting lets out and the leftovers are set out for the taking, it looks like a stampede of water buffalo. Once inside the break room, the scene that unfolds vaguely resembles an overweight SWAT team storming a crime scene. I'm waiting for the day when National Geographic photographers show up to capture this unique urban phenomenon.


The sad truth: it doesn't matter what gets set on those counters. All that matters is that it's free, and more often than not, it's food. Food safety concerns? Not for these portly scavengers. Mayonnaise sitting out at room temperature for nine hours? Not a problem. And I get the impression that the actual taste of the food is equally unimportant. I'd be willing to bet good money that a bowl of expired dog food sitting in the break room would get eaten, and it probably wouldn't take more than about fifteen minutes.

Normally this odd ritual doesn't concern me--I just try to stay out of the way as I admire nature's savage, twisted beauty from a distance, a scene reminiscent of a pack of hungry wolves tearing apart a carcass at mealtime. But the increasing aggressiveness of these break room bandits has become downright alarming. They've evolved from hoarding leftovers: they're now starting to dabble in blatant intra-refrigerator theft. If anything in the refrigerator appears as if it might be unclaimed leftovers, it's as good as gone. I've fallen victim to one of these attacks myself.

This past summer, I received a boxed lunch at at meeting. I had already eaten, so I set it in the refrigerator to take home that night. I even tried to stay one step ahead of my enemies and strategically placed the box inside a bag in the refrigerator. When I returned at the end of the day to retrieve the lunch, I found an empty bag. My brilliant plan had been foiled, and based on conversations with a few other co-workers, I wasn't the first victim of such a devious scheme.

These outlaws are surprisingly stealthy, which is particularly impressive considering their ample carriage--to my knowledge, not a single member of the gang has been caught in the act. If a witness ever catches one of the culprits red-handed and full-mouthed, I imagine the first excuse will be something like, "I thought it was free to take! I didn't see anyone's name on it!" Keeping that in mind, I now clearly label everything I place in the refrigerator with my name...though given the trend toward more aggressive break room antics, I'm not sure how long that tactic will protect me.

So what should we, the normal-sized, non-frenzied food fans do about this issue? I regret to admit that I don't have the perfect solution to this expanding problem. My only idea thus far is to take advantage of this opportunity for a potentially groundbreaking sociological experiment that will test the moral and gastrointestinal limits of the break room bandits. So far, I've tried unloading way-past-expiration Hamburger Helper samples that had gone ignored and forgotten in my desk drawer at work for more than a year. Once placed in the break room, they were gone within minutes.

In the coming months, I plan to expand this experiment, test my dog food theory, and answer a few other burning questions. Just how far past expiration is too far? Does "too far" even exist for the break room bandits? Would a sign marked "Not Fit For Human Consumption" sitting next to a plate of cupcakes even slow them down? It seems like a fair trade-off: they pillage the refrigerator, and society makes some important discoveries in human psychology.

Amish Rebels and the Original Hybrid Car

Who needs to move to Africa to find an adventure? On a recent day-trip to eastern Minnesota, I encountered plenty of unexpected excitement--no less than two entertaining, unrelated sightings within an hour of each other.

My first encounter was an interesting trailer on a rural highway:


Apparently the Amish have made great strides toward modernization since I last heard anything about them. My limited knowledge of the Amish had me believing that they lived without any modern conveniences--no electricity, no cars, no phones, and so on. Less than one year ago, I even spotted an Amish family riding along the shoulder of a highway in a horse and buggy in eastern Iowa. They're so common in certain areas that the Iowa DOT has installed special signs trying to prevent drivers from turning the buggies into Amish speed-bumps.


Yet somehow I found myself staring at the back of a trailer presumably carrying Amish furniture...a trailer being pulled by a truck, with a phone number and web address prominently displayed all over it. Did I miss something? I quickly came to the conclusion that I must be driving behind one of the greatest rebels in Amish history.

I imagine the driver of that truck is regarded the James Dean of the Amish community, zipping around the countryside in his horseless carriage, shamelessly flaunting his telephone and computer usage. During his childhood, that little rebel must have spent countless hours sitting in the corner, grounded, denied access to his butter churn by his worried parents.

Who knows, the driver probably designed his own website, too. In mainstream American society, "IT Professional" sits somewhere near the bottom of the list of sexiest jobs. But in this case, it wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that Amish women are dropping out of their bonnets at the chance to roll in the hay (probably quite literally) with this wild man. After all, how could Amish ladies not be turned on by his blatant disregard for Amish authority, throwing caution to the wind as he plugs cords into outlets and horselessly transports himself around Minnesota?

Sadly, I never got the chance to meet this crazy Amish bad boy--he turned off the highway, and I regrettably failed to follow him. But my curiosity never faded, and I immediately checked out his website when I returned home that night (click fast, who knows how long before the Amish community tries to sabotage this sinful website). I have some bad news: the Sunrise Amish Store is going out of business. But visiting the website reaffirmed my suspicion about the rock-star lifestyle this guy must lead--his business is open on Sundays, and he accepts online orders...with credit cards! I'm still kicking myself for letting a golden opportunity literally drive away from me.

Fortunately, I couldn't wallow in despair too long, as I stumbled across something equally exciting in a a parking lot just a few miles away. As people focus more and more on sustainable living and protecting the environment, hybrid cars are quickly becoming commonplace on the roads these days. Most people are familiar with the concept of a hybrid car, which combines an internal combustion engine with an electric power source to improve fuel efficiency.

However, even the most knowledgeable experts are unfamiliar with the earliest versions of hybrid vehicles. I was fortune enough to encounter the original hybrid car in that parking lot that afternoon. I'll introduce you to my findings with a simple equation:

+

=

That's right, the original hybrid car didn't combine engine and electricity, it combined engine with animal. Where do you think the term "horsepower" came from? Clearly, some slow-witted car guy grossly misidentified an animal when he coined the term that has become the standard for measuring engine power. The moo-mobile's greatest feature? Never again do you have to worry about rising gas prices--just park this beauty in a grassy meadow and let it graze until the fuel gauge points to "F."

All kidding aside, I've gotta hand it to the driver of this vehicle. While most Geo Metro owners understandably hang their heads in shame while driving their glorified golf carts, this guy took the opposite approach and decided to draw as much attention to himself as he possibly could. And he didn't just take out the can of black spray paint and turn his pathetic car into a giant cow, he went the whole nine yards--you'll notice that the even the steering wheel and seats are sporting cow-print covers.

I really wonder how many auto accessory shops a person has to visit before they can find cow-print accessories to fully convert a car into a steer. I'm guessing the owner found himself in the middle of more than a few Abbott and Costello-esque conversations during his search:

Cow car guy: "I'm looking for some cow seat covers."

Salesman: "You mean leather?
Cow car guy: "No...cow!"
Salesman: "Yeah, leather comes from a cow..."

My only remaining question is this: when the tragic day finally comes and this vehicle reaches the end of it's useful life, does the owner have it stripped for parts or slaughtered?

Putting The 'Hug' In 'Hugo'

A few weeks ago, as I paged though and old issue of BusinessWeek, I came across an article titled "Chavez: Trading Oil for Influence" in the Global Outlook section. I normally skip over these types of international oil and politics articles, but something in the article drew me in...something I couldn't quite put my finger on at first. I started skimming through the article and learned about a developing alliance between Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez and Argentinian president Nestor Kirchner.

I tried to read on, but sure enough, the article was every bit as boring as I'd expected, and I couldn't force myself to continue. I did, however, realize what had caught my attention in the first place--it was the disturbing photo in the middle of the page. I flipped back to the cover of the magazine just to double check that it was, in fact, a copy of BusinessWeek that I was reading. Sure enough, it was. I flipped back to the article and looked at the image again, with it's caption, "On Good Terms." I'll say...



Is it just me, or does it look like Chavez and Kirchner are on the brink of a serious makeout session? If I remember correctly, I saw about six different scenes in Brokeback Mountain that started with the same longing gaze. I'm willing to bet that if I removed the caption and photo-shopped the faces of Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal into the picture, Roger Ebert or even the ghost of Gene Siskel himself couldn't tell if he was looking at a photo from a BusinessWeek article or a screen shot from the movie.

There's certainly nothing wrong with two men hugging, but I think straight guys can learn an important lesson from this unusual image: if you're going to hug another man, deep, intense, emotional eye contact is not necessary. People are going to turn a suspicious eye when they see two men hugging in public, and staring into each other's eyes with what appears to be burning desire will only lead to further judgment.

Well, this ordeal has taught me that there's no point in reading outdated issues of BusinessWeek from late 2005. Thanks to the article, I now have recurring Hugo Chavez nightmares several times a week. I don't know much about international politics, but I feel justified in disputing the article's title. Based on the photo, I'd venture to guess that Chavez was trading more than just oil for influence.

African Observations

Until recently, my contact with James had been limited to a few emails and a handful of pictures since he left for Africa in June. I won't lie--I'm more than a little worried. Strangely enough, my concern has nothing to do with the release that Al Qaeda issued less than a month after his arrival, threatening to kidnap Americans in the part of Burkina Faso where he was living at the time. It was the photos that had me unnerved.

The first James-in-Africa photo I laid eyes on was a shot of James and Julie standing in front of their concrete shack in Karfiguela. At first glance, the photo looks nice enough...palm trees, an ugly but sturdy-looking shelter, and a few bikes.


But after taking a closer look at James, I noticed that he was looking abnormally scrawny. James wasn't exactly built like a linebacker when he left, but he looks especially sickly in this shot. Unsure if I'd just forgotten how small he was when he left, I asked a few others to take a look, and the first response I got was that James looked "30 pounds lighter than when he left." Hmm.

My second, and more alarming, observation was that both bikes are girl's bikes. Given a chance, I'm sure James would come up with some excuse and tell me that the Peace Corps only offers girls bikes, but I have a hard time believing that there are no men's bikes available in a country where bicycles outnumber automobiles by a 10-to-1 ratio. So apparently my brother is riding around a foreign continent on a girl's bike for two years. On it's own, I guess I could overlook that, but the next picture only added to my worries.



In this shot, James appears to be wearing some sort of traditional African pajama outfit that most Americans would probably mistake for a dress. Again, I might be able to forgive this lapse in judgment, but I regret to admit that's not the first time I'd seen James is something so ridiculous. I witnessed this monstrosity first-hand last Christmas:



So my brother is riding around West Africa on a girl's bike, quite possibly wearing a dress. The plot thickens...and my worry increases. And once again, the next photo I stumbled across offered little reason for hope. What could be worse?


That's right, it's a pair of tourists with matching outfits. This is the West African equivalent of the husband-and-wife couples you see standing at the Grand Canyon, wearing matching "I ♥ Grand Canyon" shirts from the local gift shop. I can only hope that the Burkina Fascists look at matching tourist couples with a less judgmental eye than we do here in America. But if National Lampoons European Vacation ever films a sequel in Africa, I have a recommendation for the casting director....

Then, clicking through more photos, I stumbled across this gem:


Going in, James knew the Peace Corps wasn't exactly going to pay top dollar for his efforts. But apparently his financial situation has deteriorated to the point that he's decided his last option is to attempt to launch a modeling career for Oakley's West Africa sunglasses catalog.

Have you ever seen images of Africa in National Geographic or on the Discovery channel? In those pictures and video clips, how many times did you see the poor, hungry Africans wearing sunglasses? Probably not too many...and now you know why. Who wants to look like that skinny foreigner posing barefoot on that rock over there? I guess I can take some comfort in the fact that he's wearing real pants...

The most relieving piece of news I received from James came in the form of a Facebook status update. Once I read this, I felt confident that at least one thing about him wasn't going to change while he's away:

Rather than venture out to the latrine when it was dark and rainy, I may have pooped into a plastic bag....

I can rest easy tonight knowing that some things will always remain the same.

The Ironic Ride on Cy Ride

Let me assure you, the next new and exciting blog post is currently in progress. In the meantime, I'll post a short piece of classic writing to hold everyone over until I finish my current work. This also moves me one step down the path of transferring some of my older writing from Facebook over to this blog. This particular piece goes back four years to my days at Iowa State.

And as for the blogging contest between James and me, it's been no contest so far. You'd think all the time he's spending battling infections and diarrhea would lend itself to copious blogging time. Instead, I continue to pull away while he sits at the starting line...

More new stuff is on the way. Until then, enjoy the old.


One spring morning during my last semester of college, I boarded Cy Ride for my usual trip to campus. The first seat at the front of the bus was open, so I sat down. The driver looked over at me and said, "Did you see what's behind you?" I wondered if it was some kind of joke, so I said, "What?" He pointed and said, "Look behind you."

I turned around, and there was a piece of paper with Rosa Parks' picture on it, and it said "This seat is saved in honor of Rosa Parks." Apparently it was her birthday or the anniversary of her death or something...but I thought, what would Rosa want me to do here? Was I really being asked to honor Rosa Parks by giving up my bus seat? I didn't know her, but I was certain that she wouldn't stand for this. After all, there were no other open seats on the bus, and I had just woken up about 45 minutes ago and didn't feel like standing.

I politely said to the driver, "Sir, in honor of Rosa, I'm going to stay right here." We exchanged words for a few minutes, and he eventually said that I had to get up or I would be removed from the bus. But I knew what Rosa would want me to do, so I held on as tightly as I could to the nearest pole. Eventually, the Ames Police Department showed up and "removed" me from the bus. After two missed classes and a few hours at the Story County jail, I was free to go, feeling confident that I had honored Rosa's memory far better than any piece of paper and empty bus seat ever could have.

Actually....the ending to this story is fictitious, but the beginning is completely true. When asked if I saw what was behind me, I quickly got up and found another seat. Several other people who got on the bus after me did the same thing. I still can't get over the irony of being asked to give up my seat to honor Rosa. To this day, I wonder what the driver would have said if I had told him that I was going to stay where I was...

Happy Hour: The Biggest Lie In Corporate America

I'll have to have someone explain this to me--I've been working full-time for over four years now, and I've reluctantly endured my share of happy hours. Still, I admit that I'm nowhere near solving the mystery: why is it called "Happy Hour?" Both words seem grossly inaccurate...

First of all, in my experience, not once has of one of these "happy" get-togethers actually lasted only a single hour. The typical happy hour gets underway at the end of the workday and doesn't end until well into the evening, often pushing 7 or even 8 o'clock.

Secondly, what is it that makes these gatherings so "happy" anyway? It seems that my coworkers have mistakenly drawn the conclusion that the nine hours a day I spend with them, five days a week, forty-nine weeks a year, just isn't enough. On the surface, the whole happy hour concept seems harmless enough--a group of coworkers get together after work, have some drinks, eat some appetizers, and talk. What's wrong with that, you ask? Let's examine the situation a little more closely...

It's important to note that my opinion is undeniably skewed by one simple fact: I'm not the average person. Most of my coworkers are on the verge of drooling at the mere thought of free alcohol and fried chicken wings. But me? I don't drink, which already places me in a minority, and to top it off, I enjoy healthy eating and regular exercise. Combine those characteristics, and I'm in a minority so small I might as well be an albino, homosexual, black, handicapped, blind, deaf amputee. For a person like me, happy hour is a half-step away from pure torture. After much thought and consideration, I've focused my list of happy hour grievances into four main areas: the food, the drinks, the timing, and the people. Let's dive in:

The Food

When the coworkers order food, there's never a healthy option in sight. It's nothing but potato chips with spinach dip, calamari, and fried just-about-anything-you-can-imagine. Sure, it's nice to indulge in these types of foods from time to time, but happy hour is a dangerous situation. Because everyone is spending the company's money on alcohol, they feel that it would be "too much" to order an actual meal...so we're left with appetizers.

What's wrong with appetizers? Nothing, except that appetizers are just that--appetizers. They aren't even remotely filling; they're nothing more than fat- and calorie-packed culinary teases. And remember, happy hour starts around 5 o'clock, shortly before the time people should be sitting down to eat a normal meal. So there you are, hungry and surrounded only by unhealthy foods that you could eat nonstop until the restaurant closes without ever feeling satisfied.

This leaves you with a short list of undesirable options: (1) Sit there, fighting the hunger pains, and take the dietary high road and avoid the food altogether. Keep in mind, you'll have to spend the whole time coming up with excuses for your coworkers who don't understand why you aren't eating anything. (2) Just eat a little to take the edge off. This might sound like a good idea at first, but this option never works. Best case scenario, you've taken three or four bites, consumed two days worth of calories and fat, and you've only teased your already angry stomach. Because in case you forgot, they're &%$#@* appetizers! And the bad news is that option (2) is a slippery slope to option (3): give in and make a meal out of junk food. Sure, you'll still be hungry, but nevertheless you can try to fill that void with ranch sauce, jumbo shrimp, and nachos. This is the most popular option among your coworkers, which is probably why most of them haven't been using the factory-issued notches on their belts since Jimmy Carter was in office.

The bad news is that even if you decide to eat some food at happy hour, it's not even possible to actually enjoy any of it. Because you're surrounded by coworkers (and maybe even your boss), manners and civility have to be top priority. Have you ever tried eating a chicken wing or nachos with a knife and fork? I've seen people attempt this, and the result is never anything but awkward. The bottom line is this: trying to eat appetizers in a civilized manner completely sucks the fun out of eating what would otherwise be tasty food.

The Drinks

My main complaint with the drink situation is pretty straightforward. As someone who doesn't like alcohol, all of my happy hour experiences have involved sitting with coworkers for several hours, drinking glass after glass of water. I often get the question, "What are you drinking?" People automatically assume that everyone at the table must be drinking alcohol, so when they see me clutching a glass filled with clear liquid, they apparently think I'm drinking straight vodka.

When I tell them it's water, they ask the obvious question, "Why don't you have a beer?" I tell them I don't drink, which inevitably prompts obvious question #2: "Why not?" I explain that I never really started drinking, I know I don't/would not like the taste, and most importantly, I don't see the point in taking up drinking at this stage in life if I've done just fine without it for twenty-five years. Some people understand; some continue the interrogation. Either way, I've sat through so many variations of this conversation in my life that I'm strongly considering putting together some kind of brochure or pamphlet that explains my thoughts, feelings, and philosophies on alcohol and it's role (or lack thereof) in my life.

The Timing

Before I explain my issues with the timing of happy hour, it's important to understand what my typical weekday looks like. I'm usually out of bed a little before 6:30AM so I can get showered and dressed for work, eat breakfast, check my email, and get to the office before 8AM. I spend the day at work, of course, and unless there's something urgent, I leave the office a little before 5PM. I drive back home, change clothes, eat something, and head to the gym around 5:30PM, and spent the next hour and a half or two hours exercising. By the time I get home, shower, and change clothes again, it's approaching 8PM. I try to get to bed around 10:30PM, which makes the next two and a half hours the most prized time of the day.

That little sliver of time between 8PM and 10:30PM is the only space in the day where I'm not getting ready for work, working, exercising, or otherwise mentally or physically engaged in something that requires my attention. As a result, I'm fiercely protective of that tiny little block of time. It's the only opportunity I have to relax and do whatever I want--surf the Internet, watch TV, talk to friends online, or read (though let's face it, I'm probably not going to waste such precious time on something like reading).

By now, it should be fairly clear why happy hour is so frustrating. As I mentioned before, I enjoy fitting exercise into my schedule every day, and I also enjoy having just a little time where I can finally relax at the end of the day. If happy hour starts at 5PM and lasts even two hours, one of those things isn't going to happen. Sure, I could push everything back by two hours and fit in the trifecta of happy hour, exercise, and free time...and simply go to bed after midnight. But I've found that creates havoc the next day.

I'm not saying I need all that sleep to ensure a productive day at the office the next day--after all, it's not uncommon for me to follow up a good night's sleep with an extremely unproductive day at work. However, at the very least I need the energy to pretend to be productive. When I'm too tired to fake it, I risk watching the whole system fall apart right in front of my eyes. I've personally found that the optimal bedtime is 10:30PM if I'm going to meet my minimum energy requirement to play the role of "productive worker" the following day. And that means happy hour forces me to trade one of two things that I like for something that I absolutely despise...

The People

I'd like to preface this section by making it clear that I don't dislike most of my coworkers--I get along with just about all of them, and I've even managed to endure the ones I don't care for quite as much. Still, at the end of the day, I'm ready to get away from them. Am I the only one that finds it disgusting that if you add up the total amount of time spent around other people over the course of a year, the number of hours spent with coworkers would absolutely dwarf the time spent with friends and family? The sad truth is that I only get to spend a fraction of my time around people I actually want to be around...most of the day, I'm around people who just happen to work in the same area at the same company. Again, I don't hate my coworkers, but we just don't have much in common...

What do I have in common with an almost-middle-age mother with two young children at home? You guessed it: absolutely nothing. And it's this lack of common ground that usually leads to painful conversation when happy hour rolls around. My philosophy is this: if you don't have anything interesting to say, don't say anything at all. I've never understood why silence is awkward when we're around people we don't know, yet we can sit quietly with friends without a hint of awkwardness. Shouldn't we feel more ashamed that we don't have anything to say to people we actually know and choose to be around? At any rate, it seems that most of my coworkers operate under the assumption that silence is evil, and they'll try just about anything to fill the silence.

The most common (and least creative) staple is small talk. Coworkers inevitably try to talk about the weather, local sports teams, or current events, but that can only fill so much time. It doesn't help that I refuse to be an active participant in these conversations. I'm far more entertained with the thoughts in my head than with a coworker's recap of yesterday's hot weather and tomorrow's 30% chance of rain. Any attempt on my part to continue such a conversation would be a clear violation of my philosophy.

When they've exhausted the small talk, coworkers usually start sharing stories about what's going on in their lives. Again, they've violated my rule: if you don't have anything interesting to say...but apparently we have drastically different meanings of the word "interesting." As a result, I have to force myself to pretend to care that their kid has a soccer game on Thursday night, or that they're getting new storm windows installed at home, or that they vacationed in North Dakota last summer. Again, I try to avoid active participation in these conversations, occasionally muttering things like, "Really? Uh-huh. I see. Do you?"

You'd think that after wading through the drudgery of home improvement stories and parenthood tales, things could only get better, but that's simply not the case. By this time, the coworkers turn to the one subject that they know we have in common: work. This typically starts anywhere from an hour to ninety minutes into happy hour. Even though this is a a subject where I might actually have something to contribute to the conversation, I'm too angry and dumbfounded to speak. All I can think is, "Is this really happening? Are we really spending our time outside work, sitting with our coworkers, talking about work?" My mind just can't comprehend it...I'm unable to even string together a coherent sentence. After about ten minutes, my brain simply shuts off from the confusion and frustration, leaving me with just enough sense to stumble out to the car and drive myself home when the "happy hour" finally comes to a close. It's no wonder that coworkers have accused me of being a little on the quiet side...

Where Do We Go From Here?

The irony of it all is that happy hours are viewed as some kind of treat or a reward. They normally find their way onto the calendar to celebrate the completion of a project, to welcome a new person to the group, or to say farewell to someone leaving the department. But how can anyone view happy hour as a reward? It seems more like a sick joke...for me, even the most desirable outcome of a happy hour is a pitiful way to spend an evening. After surviving a long day with a bunch of people who I don't choose to be around, I have trouble mustering any enthusiasm for a semi-mandatory invitation to spend a few more hours with the same people while I drink water, avoid appetizers, battle hunger pains, and endure painful conversations about children, the weather, and--of all things--work!

Sitting through a number of these painful events has led me to some important conclusions. Should I ever rise to any kind of managerial position in my career, my first act as leader will be to abolish happy hour. I realize this might upset the masses at first, but I have faith that they'll eventually come around to my way of thinking. If I want to reward someone, I'll offer them the afternoon off, throw a party during work, take them out to lunch, maybe give them a cash bonus or a gift...but whatever I do, my "reward" will not involve anything that requires time away from home. The way I see it, workers already spend way too much time doing things they have to do and not nearly enough time doing things they want to do.

Until the day comes when I finally have that power, I'll just have to continue fighting my lone battle, boycotting one happy hour after another. It's never easy--when the whole department leaves at the same time and heads over to the restaurant, you better have a good, high-quality excuse lined up...otherwise you're thirty minutes away from sipping water and listening to a story about little Billy's T-ball game last Tuesday.

Over the past four years, I've spun some brilliant tales to excuse myself from happy hour: I have to take a friend to the airport...I'm just too busy...I'm not feeling well...I need to take my car to the shop...I think I just pulled my hamstring...I'm allergic to happy hour...I'm helping someone move furniture tonight...I'm volunteering with dumb children...I just found out I have an unusually contagious form of swine flu. At the end of the day (quite literally) it doesn't matter what you say as long as you escape happy hour. So join with me, my friends. Future generations will smile fondly when they hear our names and recall the legend of that group of geniuses who banded together and abolished that ridiculous, painful, outdated tradition they used to call..."Happy Hour."

Please Roll Car Over and Proceed to Highlighted Route

Don't get me wrong, I normally love an ironic situation as much as the next guy. But this? Maybe a little much... On June 6, 2010, Mom, James, and I found ourselves in the second day of James's informal "farewell tour," a brief five-day trip to Arizona and California before he was set to leave for two-plus years serving a Peace Corps sentence in West Africa. The itinerary for this trip vaguely resembled an abbreviated version of a similar trip we took for a few campus visits over New Year's in 2002-2003.

We left Phoenix early that afternoon, driving north on I-17 toward Sedona. One of conversation topics during the drive was the value of exciting/funny/interesting life experiences. Past stories that came up included James's pizza delivery adventure of 2007 and, less recently, his "messy" running incident in 2000 (if you've heard the story, you know what I'm talking about; if you haven't, you may or may not want to ask James about it...). Little did we know, excitement was about to find us. I guess we should have noticed the signs (quite literally) fate was trying to throw our way. This was the exit just a few miles south of our little "incident":


We continued north, James sitting in the passenger seat and Mom behind him in the back seat. As I drove in the left lane, going around 70mph, we heard a loud pop, and I knew immediately that the back left tire had blown out. As soon as it happened, the car veered sharply to the right and started to spin. In a fraction of a second, we were sliding to the north/northeast, facing south, and headed directly for a wall of rock just off the shoulder of the interstate. Unfortunately for me, the driver's side was lined up for a direct impact with the rock, and the image of the rapidly approaching rock is still burned into my retinas. Strangely enough, the thought of death didn't even cross my mind as the car slid toward the wall, though looking back, that wouldn't have been an unreasonable concern. My only thought was sheer hope that I wouldn't end up with any injuries that would require any serious rehabilitation. Before I could really process what was about to happen, we collided with the rocks, the car rolled, and finally came to a stop on the roof.

James asked if everyone was okay, and we were all able to speak, which seemed encouraging. At this point we were hanging upside-down in our seat belts, and James yelled that he saw gas leaking and told me to shut the car off. I glanced toward the back of the car and thought I saw some liquid dripping down, too. It was around this time that the thought of dying in burning car entered my mind for the first time...

I turned the ignition off and reached to unbuckle my seat belt. I was completely alert throughout the accident, yet the only part I can't remember is getting myself unbuckled and falling onto the ceiling of the car (even as I write this, "falling onto the ceiling" still sounds strange). James had his door partially open, and I didn't even bother trying mine. Looking at the car later, it was resting at a slant, and my door was wedged into the ground and wouldn't have moved anyway. As I got myself oriented on my hands and knees on the ceiling of the car, I noticed quite a bit of blood...but I was moving, so I felt pretty good about things.

In a move that some later described as a true George Costanza moment, I managed to somehow make it out of the car first, squeezing past James and through his partially open passenger door in front of him. I guess the threat of an explosion really had me motivated for a quick exit...and for the record, I only got out first because I felt that I was best prepared to help to those still trapped in the car.

I got stuck a little around the waist, but I was out, though I added some cuts on my back as I squeezed through the door. James was right behind me and was out of the car in a few moments. Mom was still in the back seat and her door wouldn't budge. We were still concerned about the possibility of an explosion, so started preparing to kick the glass out of her window. She made it to the front of the car, though, and started pushing through the narrow opening. James dug at the gravel that was keeping the door from opening wider, and I grabbed Mom's hands and pulled her out.

We walked away from the car, mostly just thrilled to be walking away from the car. A few vehicles had pulled over, and a guy in an SUV called 911 and waited with us. I had a lot of blood coming from my knees, elbows, and hands, plus a very slight headache. The hat and sunglasses I'd been wearing were nowhere to be found. James had some cuts on his knees that looked similar to mine, and Mom felt a little dizzy and was covered in my blood.

While I stood there by the interstate, spitting glass and gravel out of my mouth, I was shocked at how quickly everything had happened. In a span of about 15 seconds I had gone from driving down the highway, wondering when I should eat that next piece of leftover pizza in the back seat, to being one of those people, bleeding by the side of the interstate while gawkers slowly drive by. The whole thing was just so unexpected. The pedestrian equivalent would be walking down the sidewalk on a quiet, beautiful day and having the pavement jump up and shove you into a tree trunk at seventy miles per hour...

A patrolman arrived first, asked a few questions, and mentioned that he was surprised that we'd all made it out of the car so quickly (looks like George Costanza was a hero, after all). The ambulance wasn't too far behind, and I mentioned my slight headache to the paramedics. They didn't want to take any chances, of course, so they put me in a neck brace, strapped me to an orange board, and told me to remain motionless as much as I could. James felt fine aside from his cuts and scrapes, so he refused medical treatment and came along for the ambulance ride with me, and Mom followed behind in a second ambulance. Before riding off in the ambulance, James snapped a photo of the car with his cell phone, one of the more memorable shots from the trip:

Unfortunately, Sedona doesn't have a hospital with a trauma center, so instead of receiving a (very expensive) shuttle to our original destination, we turned around and headed south on I-17, over the same ground we'd just driven (...and spun and rolled), back to Phoenix. The paramedic hooked me up to an IV and started cleaning my assorted wounds. My headache didn't last long and was soon replaced with the dull pain from the forty-five minute drive with my head strapped to a board.


All things considered, I was feeling pretty good, and James continued to take pictures inside the ambulance. We talked with the paramedic and joked around a little on the ride back to Phoenix...I asked the paramedic what they do if the ambulance crashes on the way back to the hospital. He didn't seem to find it very funny.

They took us to Deer Valley hospital, and the paramedics moved me onto a cart and wheeled me to a room. James walked to the waiting room (still taking some great photos), and a few of the other paramedics carried our bags into my room. As I parted ways with him I said, "I'll see you during visiting hours."

Two very profound thoughts crossed my mind around this time:
(1) Since I was still wearing the neck brace, the only thing I really got a good look at was the ceiling. I asked myself why hospitals don't spend more time decorating their ceilings. Do patients who narrowly escaped death really want to look at plain, old, white ceiling tiles? I doubt it.
(2) Are you supposed to tip a paramedic if he carries your bags? What's the protocol--is it like a hotel? I couldn't reach my wallet and it was probably covered in blood anyway, so I decided that I'd have to research that one later. I figured I'd keep my comments about their under-decorated ceilings to myself for the time being, too. But some sky-blue accents or something similar would have been appreciated....


I spent the next five hours getting poked, x-rayed, and cleaned up, with long stretches of sitting and watching TV. The cuts on my right knee required stitches, so I got a few numbing shots and the doctor started sewing away. I didn’t bother asking how many I got (I later found out it was two stitches in one spot and four in another)...nor did I bother actually watching much of the actual stitching process. The doctor described my left knee as "ground beef," but somehow that didn't require stitches. That imagery didn't exactly do wonders for my normally generous appetite, either. On the bright side, as I waited around I got to watch most of the second half as the Lakers won game 2 of the NBA Finals...and I'm proud to announce that I’m now up-to-date on my tetanus shots.

The doctors eventually let me get up and walk around, and I visited Mom in another room. She was in better shape than me and somehow didn't have a single cut (all that blood on her clothes was mine), so I started the long, painful process of calling the insurance company and trying to track down a new rental car. When we finally tracked down James again, a nurse was stitching a big cut on his upper shin, but he was otherwise okay. He easily surpassed my six stitches with eleven of his own, plus he'd continued to document his stint in the waiting room, his injuries, and the stitching process with his camera. I wish I could have seen the faces of the other people in the waiting room while he sat there covered in blood...


The bad news was that we couldn’t get a replacement rental car until the next day, so we were stuck in Phoenix without a hotel or any form of transportation. We eventually booked a crappy hotel not too far from the hospital and Mom’s nurse, whose shift ended at 10PM, was incredibly nice and offered to give us a ride to our hotel. We weren't in much of a position to turn her down, so we went took her up on it. On the way, she even made a stop at Wal-Greens so we could get fill our pain medication prescriptions.

Our experience in Wal-Greens was certainly near the top of the list of most entertaining experiences on the trip. Keep in mind, we had just been released from the hospital. I had huge white bandages wrapped around both knees, one on my elbow, and one on my left hand. James had a similar oversize bandage on his right knee and was still wearing his blood-stained clothing. He and I were both limping on our right legs, and all three of us still had our hospital bracelets on. We must have looked like cage-fighting mummies between the blood and the bandages. A cashier asked us if we'd beaten each other up, and our "unique" appearance gave us the power to part seas of customers like something straight out of the bible.

When we finally arrived at our hotel, we took an inventory of our possessions. Somehow my GPS, which had been suction-cupped to the windshield during the accident, still worked perfectly, though it had picked up more than it's share of scratches. The paramedics apparently found the suction cup somewhere in the car and stuck it in one of our bags, but the mounting clip was missing. My camera and laptop both worked perfectly and looked as good as new.

To anyone from Garmin, HP, or Sony who might stumble upon this post: for the right sum, I'm more than willing to promote the durabilty of your products--I think it would make a great commercial. Oakley, I'm slightly less impressed with your product quality: the sunglasses I'd been wearing during the accident, originally lost, ended up in James's bag. The frames were bent badly, though that brought some resolution to the mystery of the strange bruise on my nose...

Before going to bed, I tried to pick as much glass out of my hair and ears as I could. Unable to shower because of the stitches, I ended up battling those tiny glass shards for the better part of the next two days. I slept pretty well that first night, even though my right leg wouldn't bend much, and I was pleased to disover the next morning that the pain had not, as the doctors warned, gotten significantly worse overnight.

The next day began with (and was mostly consumed by) a painfully boring ten hour wait in the breakfast area of our half-star hotel before we finally got a replacement rental car. That evening we drove to the junkyard and got a look at the car as we searched the interior for our last few missing items. At first glance the car didn't look as bad as we'd expected, but the roof was certainly shocking. I still wonder where my head was during the accident and how it was't entirely crushed...



We recovered the last few missing possessions, including that GPS clip that had disconnected from the suction cup. We also snapped some haunting pictures of our blood stains on the ceiling, seats, and doors of the car, but we were thrilled with the overall outcome--after all, we were hiking again, stitches and all, not even two days after the accident.

Before writing this off as a miraculous survival story, though, it's worth noting that not everyone survived that day. Three pieces of thick, delicious pizza perished in the shoulder along northbound I-17 on that hot summer afternoon. Flowers and cards are welcome (and very appropriate), and I appreciate all of your thoughts and prayers for those three deep-dish casualties.


A few people have asked if I was nervous getting in a car or driving after this whole ordeal, and the answer is no. Somehow, I found it surprisingly easy to get back in the car after that. After all, what are the odds that's going to happen twice? I will admit, though, that I'm a little more obsessive about checking my tire pressure these days...