Rowing

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I’m not trying to brag or anything but I’ve been around more than a few of the various out-doorsy scenes around this town. The mountain bikers, road biker, rope climbers, boulderers, gym-rats, running people, tri-people, stoner-backpackers, kayakers – the list goes on. The rowing dock people though, are probably the most interesting (from a people perspective), the most diverse for sure. Old, young, fat, skinny, tall, short – take your pick. The old guys that run the dock are what imagine myself being like as an older cyclist – as knowledgeable as they are cranky. A fine example is Sommers. I don’t know if this is the guy’s first or last name, but he seems really cool until you screw something up (which no matter what you do, you will screw something up around this dude) after which his handlebar mustache just exudes dismay-for-the youth-of tomorrow. Once you get ‘the look’ you’re pretty much left with the options of running away, or drowning yourself in the lake in the hope that your death will at least give him hope for the world, as there will now be one less asshat screwing up his day.

Take yesterday. After spending the entire day recovering from Saturday night, I decide to go for a row. As I’m getting setup I glance up to see what looks like half the 15 to 17-year-old population of Austin, in sit-on-top kayaks heading my way. A part of some ill-conceived youth outing. I imagine it was a similar feeling to the Japanese at Guadalcanal, looking out over the pacific and seeing nothing but American ships and slowly contemplating how monumentally screwed they were. Thus, in my haste to get the hell out of dodge, I didn’t push off from the dock hard enough, while simultaneously some freak gale decided to fire down the lake at precisely the wrong moment.

The result was chaos: I got pushed into two other rowing shells, and passel of giggling high school girls who had less of a clue as to what to do than I did. Finally the trip leader for the kayak excursion essentially tugboated me out of the traffic snarl. Quite humiliating. As I’m getting pushed to freedom, there’s Sommers standing on the dock, staring directly at me – the cause of the wretched clusterfuck . He stands there perfectly still for a moment, while his mustache imperceptibly twitches. Then his mouth flattens into an underscore and he shakes his head ever so slightly, walking away, leaving me to pursue option one of the Sommers-scorn-avoidance plan.

Like I said. It’s an interesting scene.

Trails That Don’t Suck

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When you check out theses pictures, cue up the theme to the Magnificent Seven, Chariots of fire, or if you’re a dork like me and bought the soundtrack to Off Road to Athens that would work best. My Pictures | Jeremy’s Pictures.

Starbucks, Again

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There’s a certain coffee shop mythos that not everyone gets. It’s a combination of a small, dusty space, warn-out sofas, roasted-coffee smell and barristas that have a slightly superior, sometimes even mildly pissy attitude. This mythos is something that the folks at starbucks have ceased to comprehend as they became the obese corporate behemoth that they are today. Case in point –

So one day I go in to the same Starbucks where I order the SAME THING at the SAME TIME every day, 365 days a year, and the girl, who knows what I want, asks me what I want.

Me: Large coffee please.
Girl: You mean Venti.
Me: Whatever.
Girl: I’m not making it until you you say it right.
Me.: Are you kidding?
Girl: No, seriously, it’s called a venti. We don’t even have large.
Me. Well, you obviously know what I want.
Girl: Still, I can’t give it to you unless you order it right.
Me: You can’t, or you won’t?
Girl: I can’t. It’s a new policy.
(Read the rest…thanks brian for the link)

Real barrista’s are snotty and cranky, and will definitely cop superior tones while discussing the differences between a REAL macchiato and a stabucks macchiato but for the most part they’re not corporate-brainwashed morons as related in the story above. The sheer insanity and ego, of trying to sinlge-handledly alter the American system of small, medium and large (particularly on New Yorkers who haven’t had their daily dose of caffeine) is mind-blowing.

Maybe we should just start driving on the left side of the road and using the metric system while we’re at it.

Rain

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For those of you that don’t live here, there’s dog park somewhere under all that water. Downstream thousands of lost tennis balls are on a grand new adventure as they are swept out into the Gulf of Mexico. Apparently this if going to keep at it for a while, if you believe the world’s worst newspaper.

So yeah….

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Like I’m going to spend four days mucking about at a design conference and not come back and change up the site design. Going to be upsetting a few other things as well as adding some more content.

Trendsetter

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First there was me. Then there was the California Dairy Board’s genius viral marketing site cowabduction.com. Then today geekloogie brought our attention to this prototype abduction lamp designed by Lasse Klein,which truly excels in it’s awesomeness.

It’s nice to occasionally have proof of your coolness, especially when (as with the internet) you can prove you thought it up before everyone else.

If you can see this

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Then we’ve made the jump to the new server. Hey jiffynet – piss off!

Ok, I lied…

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I got inspired and threw up a new masthead, with a more summer-ish theme. I really am going to leave things alone for a bit here as I undertake the great domestic realignment of 2007.

Out to lunch

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Be back later next week…

TV

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It’s not often that I associate art with television these days. Leave it to public broadcasting to buck that trend.

Tonight I happened across PBS’s America at a Crossroads a series dealing with our current state of affairs in the post 9/11 world. This particular episode focused on the writings of Americans who’ve served in Iraq. The most moving piece (in my mind, they were all gut wrenching) was authored by an officer escorting the body of a fallen marine back to his hometown in Wyoming. (The full text is here)

All along the route (to the cemetery), people had lined the street and were waving small American flags. The flags that were otherwise posted were all at half-staff. For the last quarter mile up the hill, local boy scouts, spaced about twenty feet apart, all in uniform, held large flags. At the foot of the hill, I could look up and back and see how enormous the procession was. I wondered how many people would be at this funeral if it were in, say, Detroit or Los Angeles—probably not as many as were here in little Dubois, Wyoming…

Now, as I watched them carry him the final fifteen yards, I was choking up. I felt that, as long as he was still moving, he was somehow still alive. Then they positioned him over his grave. He had stopped moving.

Now, he was home to stay and I suddenly felt at once sad, relieved, and useless. It had been my honor to take Chance Phelps to his final post. Now he is on the high ground overlooking his town.

There’s many things that you could amend here. Tack on a piece of spin, political hyperbole. As they say, the silence is deafening.