Dear Presidential Candidate,
I thought you were different. I thought we had something special.
Remember a few months ago, when you promised you would take care of me? You said that you'd keep me safe, and that we'd build a life together. You said that you would find jobs for all of my friends, and take care of me when we're old. You said you'd fight for my honor whenever it was threatened. Do you remember that?
Of course I knew that there had been others, but you told me that I was the real one you wanted, and that all of those others were just diversions.
Well, the game is over now, buster; I saw you on TV with Indiana. That two bit hussy has been throwing herself at every political candidate for the past decade. You were standing there, saying all those sweet words about the economy, homeland security, and terrorist hunting that you always whispered to me before flying off on your private jet to take care of "business".
I should have known, all those supposed "business trips" were really pleasure excursions to cavort with your skanky "swing states". Well I've got some news for you buddy, not all of us want to be one of your "swinger state" call girls, cheering our lungs out when you arrive to sweep us off our feet, and then pining away every day that your gone.
I mean, whatever happened to monogamy? Am I so old fashioned to want that?
I saw your television ad yesterday, saying that I'm the one that really matters to you this November, and that you really can't go on without me. Is that what you were thinking while you were roasting buckeyes next to a romantic fire with Ohio? I didn't think so.
And don't think I'll be sitting here by myself in misery... oh no, Mr. Presidential Candidate, you may not give me my due attention now, but in four years, when the next one comes on in to lavish their attention on me, we'll see how you feel.
Every time I think that you're starting to value me for who I am, I here you talking about the value of my delegates behind my back. Do you think that's how I want to be treated?
No, Mr. Presidential Candidate, I deserve better... I deserve much better, and we'll see how you feel once I get it. Have fun when your "swing states" throw themselves at the next candidate to walk by, and you're left counting hanging chads.
Good bye, and good riddance,
Wisconsin
Friday, February 1, 2008
Oh Canada!; Or, How to Get Your Hike On in the Rockies (Pt. 3)
Oh, Canada! (Pt. 3): "Banff or Bust!"
Well, after the hiking escapade at Lake Louise, we made our way back to our home base in the town of Canmore.
Built in the 1950s by "Canadian Canning Company Products", or the "CCCP", Canmore was factory town constructed in conjunction with another nearby town, Canless, in an effort to get the company's canning production to stabilize at the level of Canmoderately, which was ideal to the organization's cost coefficient.
Okay, so the town was really built to provide lodging to people who are fond of drinking and hiking, which are sometimes combined into a charming mix. In fact, the friendly, hip front desk clerk at the hotel gave me the lowdown on the very best drunken' hiking trails, and also informed me that, thanks to the elevation, everybody in Canmore is a cheap drunk, and the cost of drunkenness only drops as your hike farther up. Or, maybe he said that the cost of drunkenness is "dropping" from higher up.... hmmm.
Since I'm fond of having my sense of balance intact while wondering around rocky peaks, I didn't try drunken' hiking during my stay, but can imagine that many of these outings lead to stories about dancing on rocky, granite outcroppings rather than tables. So, it must make for some good tales about nights out with the friends.
The next day, we headed over to the town of Banff, which coincidentally, is Ffnab backwards.... no, I don't know what that means either, but it is fascinating none the less.
So, we went a little ways through Banff and set our sights on the top of Sulphar Mountain, which, from the name, I assumed would be filled with bubbling mud pots and steaming geysers, all leading to a fragrance of rotten eggs combined with brisk alpine air at the peak. In fact, this scent will be released as "Sulphur Mountain: The Fragrance" in time for Christmas this year.
Up we went, back and forth along the twisting switchbacks. After about two hours of hiking, with the grade of the switchbacks increasing perpetually, Andrew and I were sure that we must be near the top. However, every time we thought this, we rounded a corner and find ourselves in front of a slightly steeper switchback, until we finally reached one that was so steep that the local mountain goat herd had posted a warning sign on it.
Finally, Andrew and I lurched onto the top to find.... the biggest deck part I've ever seen. Yes, I guess I forgot to mention that there is a gondola that ferries people and supplies up to the summit of Sulphur Mountain. As a result, there are several restaurants, a well stocked gift shop, and an appliance store. So, dripping with sweat, we spent the next few minutes looking in shock at the array of slushy flavors available, while fresh faced tourists wondered what jungle we had walked in from.
We spent the next couple of days around Banff, a quaint little drinking village with a hiking problem (they actually sell shirts that say this). It is a cool little resort town that is a bit like the Canadian version of Vale (from what I hear).
Banff is also home to the glamorous Banff Springs Hotel, a place where men in top hats sit around drinking vintage wine, discussing the latest jump in railroad stocks. Or at least, they used to; although I found many a glamorous person on my self guided tour of this hotel, I didn't run into one captain of industry. Oh captain my captain! Where have you gone?!
After a couple of days, we started making our way north to Jasper, stopping along the way at the Colombia Ice Field, where we rode up the glacier on a bus whose oil has clearly been laced with performance enhancing substances. Imagine a city bus crossed with a monster truck... yeah, that's pretty much what it looked like. In the middle of the ice bound wonderland, one thought kept crossing my mind; the Colombia Ice Field is the worlds biggest snow cone waiting to be made. Now, don't say I never give you investment tips.
After Jasper, since one can only take so much striking, breathtaking natural beauty before it becomes nauseating (insert sarcasm here), we decided to cleanse ourselves of this transcendentally purifying experience by visiting the West Edmonton Mall.
The West Edmonton Mall is big, so big that it will probably apply for diplomatic autonomy one of these days. Apparently, it is the biggest mall in the world, boasting 800 shops, an amusement park, and a water park. The strange thing is, unlike the Mall of America, it seems to have been put together piece by piece over the years. Rather than being one giant unified space, there are nooks and crannies all over the place that seem to have been built at different times.
In fact, Andrew and I discovered the oldest part of the mall by going underneath the parking ramp, where we found a neolithic cave selling rock-hewn wheels; clearly, the first shop at West Edmonton Mall.
Anyway, the mall is a fascinating example of what happens when culture, history, and commercialism collide. There's a life size replica of the Santa Maria, and also a roller coaster; a mini-golf course, and also a chapel.
Well, that about wraps up the Canadian trip. If you ever have the impetus to get your hike on in the Canadian Rockies, I highly recommend it. Canada is a friendly land of many wonders!
Next up, tales of wandering around England and France.
Take care!
Peter
Well, after the hiking escapade at Lake Louise, we made our way back to our home base in the town of Canmore.
Built in the 1950s by "Canadian Canning Company Products", or the "CCCP", Canmore was factory town constructed in conjunction with another nearby town, Canless, in an effort to get the company's canning production to stabilize at the level of Canmoderately, which was ideal to the organization's cost coefficient.
Okay, so the town was really built to provide lodging to people who are fond of drinking and hiking, which are sometimes combined into a charming mix. In fact, the friendly, hip front desk clerk at the hotel gave me the lowdown on the very best drunken' hiking trails, and also informed me that, thanks to the elevation, everybody in Canmore is a cheap drunk, and the cost of drunkenness only drops as your hike farther up. Or, maybe he said that the cost of drunkenness is "dropping" from higher up.... hmmm.
Since I'm fond of having my sense of balance intact while wondering around rocky peaks, I didn't try drunken' hiking during my stay, but can imagine that many of these outings lead to stories about dancing on rocky, granite outcroppings rather than tables. So, it must make for some good tales about nights out with the friends.
The next day, we headed over to the town of Banff, which coincidentally, is Ffnab backwards.... no, I don't know what that means either, but it is fascinating none the less.
So, we went a little ways through Banff and set our sights on the top of Sulphar Mountain, which, from the name, I assumed would be filled with bubbling mud pots and steaming geysers, all leading to a fragrance of rotten eggs combined with brisk alpine air at the peak. In fact, this scent will be released as "Sulphur Mountain: The Fragrance" in time for Christmas this year.
Up we went, back and forth along the twisting switchbacks. After about two hours of hiking, with the grade of the switchbacks increasing perpetually, Andrew and I were sure that we must be near the top. However, every time we thought this, we rounded a corner and find ourselves in front of a slightly steeper switchback, until we finally reached one that was so steep that the local mountain goat herd had posted a warning sign on it.
Finally, Andrew and I lurched onto the top to find.... the biggest deck part I've ever seen. Yes, I guess I forgot to mention that there is a gondola that ferries people and supplies up to the summit of Sulphur Mountain. As a result, there are several restaurants, a well stocked gift shop, and an appliance store. So, dripping with sweat, we spent the next few minutes looking in shock at the array of slushy flavors available, while fresh faced tourists wondered what jungle we had walked in from.
We spent the next couple of days around Banff, a quaint little drinking village with a hiking problem (they actually sell shirts that say this). It is a cool little resort town that is a bit like the Canadian version of Vale (from what I hear).
Banff is also home to the glamorous Banff Springs Hotel, a place where men in top hats sit around drinking vintage wine, discussing the latest jump in railroad stocks. Or at least, they used to; although I found many a glamorous person on my self guided tour of this hotel, I didn't run into one captain of industry. Oh captain my captain! Where have you gone?!
After a couple of days, we started making our way north to Jasper, stopping along the way at the Colombia Ice Field, where we rode up the glacier on a bus whose oil has clearly been laced with performance enhancing substances. Imagine a city bus crossed with a monster truck... yeah, that's pretty much what it looked like. In the middle of the ice bound wonderland, one thought kept crossing my mind; the Colombia Ice Field is the worlds biggest snow cone waiting to be made. Now, don't say I never give you investment tips.
After Jasper, since one can only take so much striking, breathtaking natural beauty before it becomes nauseating (insert sarcasm here), we decided to cleanse ourselves of this transcendentally purifying experience by visiting the West Edmonton Mall.
The West Edmonton Mall is big, so big that it will probably apply for diplomatic autonomy one of these days. Apparently, it is the biggest mall in the world, boasting 800 shops, an amusement park, and a water park. The strange thing is, unlike the Mall of America, it seems to have been put together piece by piece over the years. Rather than being one giant unified space, there are nooks and crannies all over the place that seem to have been built at different times.
In fact, Andrew and I discovered the oldest part of the mall by going underneath the parking ramp, where we found a neolithic cave selling rock-hewn wheels; clearly, the first shop at West Edmonton Mall.
Anyway, the mall is a fascinating example of what happens when culture, history, and commercialism collide. There's a life size replica of the Santa Maria, and also a roller coaster; a mini-golf course, and also a chapel.
Well, that about wraps up the Canadian trip. If you ever have the impetus to get your hike on in the Canadian Rockies, I highly recommend it. Canada is a friendly land of many wonders!
Next up, tales of wandering around England and France.
Take care!
Peter
Oh Canada!; Or, How to Get Your Hike On in the Rockies (Pt. 3)
Oh, Canada! (Pt. 3): "Banff or Bust!"
Well, after the hiking escapade at Lake Louise, we made our way back to our home base in the town of Canmore.
Built in the 1950s by "Canadian Canning Company Products", or the "CCCP", Canmore was factory town constructed in conjunction with another nearby town, Canless, in an effort to get the company's canning production to stabilize at the level of Canmoderately, which was ideal to the organization's cost coefficient.
Okay, so the town was really built to provide lodging to people who are fond of drinking and hiking, which are sometimes combined into a charming mix. In fact, the friendly, hip front desk clerk at the hotel gave me the lowdown on the very best drunken' hiking trails, and also informed me that, thanks to the elevation, everybody in Canmore is a cheap drunk, and the cost of drunkenness only drops as your hike farther up. Or, maybe he said that the cost of drunkenness is "dropping" from higher up.... hmmm.
Since I'm fond of having my sense of balance intact while wondering around rocky peaks, I didn't try drunken' hiking during my stay, but can imagine that many of these outings lead to stories about dancing on rocky, granite outcroppings rather than tables. So, it must make for some good tales about nights out with the friends.
The next day, we headed over to the town of Banff, which coincidentally, is Ffnab backwards.... no, I don't know what that means either, but it is fascinating none the less.
So, we went a little ways through Banff and set our sights on the top of Sulphar Mountain, which, from the name, I assumed would be filled with bubbling mud pots and steaming geysers, all leading to a fragrance of rotten eggs combined with brisk alpine air at the peak. In fact, this scent will be released as "Sulphur Mountain: The Fragrance" in time for Christmas this year.
Up we went, back and forth along the twisting switchbacks. After about two hours of hiking, with the grade of the switchbacks increasing perpetually, Andrew and I were sure that we must be near the top. However, every time we thought this, we rounded a corner and find ourselves in front of a slightly steeper switchback, until we finally reached one that was so steep that the local mountain goat herd had posted a warning sign on it.
Finally, Andrew and I lurched onto the top to find.... the biggest deck part I've ever seen. Yes, I guess I forgot to mention that there is a gondola that ferries people and supplies up to the summit of Sulphur Mountain. As a result, there are several restaurants, a well stocked gift shop, and an appliance store. So, dripping with sweat, we spent the next few minutes looking in shock at the array of slushy flavors available, while fresh faced tourists wondered what jungle we had walked in from.
We spent the next couple of days around Banff, a quaint little drinking village with a hiking problem (they actually sell shirts that say this). It is a cool little resort town that is a bit like the Canadian version of Vale (from what I hear).
Banff is also home to the glamorous Banff Springs Hotel, a place where men in top hats sit around drinking vintage wine, discussing the latest jump in railroad stocks. Or at least, they used to; although I found many a glamorous person on my self guided tour of this hotel, I didn't run into one captain of industry. Oh captain my captain! Where have you gone?!
After a couple of days, we started making our way north to Jasper, stopping along the way at the Colombia Ice Field, where we rode up the glacier on a bus whose oil has clearly been laced with performance enhancing substances. Imagine a city bus crossed with a monster truck... yeah, that's pretty much what it looked like. In the middle of the ice bound wonderland, one thought kept crossing my mind; the Colombia Ice Field is the worlds biggest snow cone waiting to be made. Now, don't say I never give you investment tips.
After Jasper, since one can only take so much striking, breathtaking natural beauty before it becomes nauseating (insert sarcasm here), we decided to cleanse ourselves of this transcendentally purifying experience by visiting the West Edmonton Mall.
The West Edmonton Mall is big, so big that it will probably apply for diplomatic autonomy one of these days. Apparently, it is the biggest mall in the world, boasting 800 shops, an amusement park, and a water park. The strange thing is, unlike the Mall of America, it seems to have been put together piece by piece over the years. Rather than being one giant unified space, there are nooks and crannies all over the place that seem to have been built at different times.
In fact, Andrew and I discovered the oldest part of the mall by going underneath the parking ramp, where we found a neolithic cave selling rock-hewn wheels; clearly, the first shop at West Edmonton Mall.
Anyway, the mall is a fascinating example of what happens when culture, history, and commercialism collide. There's a life size replica of the Santa Maria, and also a roller coaster; a mini-golf course, and also a chapel.
Well, that about wraps up the Canadian trip. If you ever have the impetus to get your hike on in the Canadian Rockies, I highly recommend it. Canada is a friendly land of many wonders!
Next up, tales of wandering around England and France.
Take care!
Peter
Well, after the hiking escapade at Lake Louise, we made our way back to our home base in the town of Canmore.
Built in the 1950s by "Canadian Canning Company Products", or the "CCCP", Canmore was factory town constructed in conjunction with another nearby town, Canless, in an effort to get the company's canning production to stabilize at the level of Canmoderately, which was ideal to the organization's cost coefficient.
Okay, so the town was really built to provide lodging to people who are fond of drinking and hiking, which are sometimes combined into a charming mix. In fact, the friendly, hip front desk clerk at the hotel gave me the lowdown on the very best drunken' hiking trails, and also informed me that, thanks to the elevation, everybody in Canmore is a cheap drunk, and the cost of drunkenness only drops as your hike farther up. Or, maybe he said that the cost of drunkenness is "dropping" from higher up.... hmmm.
Since I'm fond of having my sense of balance intact while wondering around rocky peaks, I didn't try drunken' hiking during my stay, but can imagine that many of these outings lead to stories about dancing on rocky, granite outcroppings rather than tables. So, it must make for some good tales about nights out with the friends.
The next day, we headed over to the town of Banff, which coincidentally, is Ffnab backwards.... no, I don't know what that means either, but it is fascinating none the less.
So, we went a little ways through Banff and set our sights on the top of Sulphar Mountain, which, from the name, I assumed would be filled with bubbling mud pots and steaming geysers, all leading to a fragrance of rotten eggs combined with brisk alpine air at the peak. In fact, this scent will be released as "Sulphur Mountain: The Fragrance" in time for Christmas this year.
Up we went, back and forth along the twisting switchbacks. After about two hours of hiking, with the grade of the switchbacks increasing perpetually, Andrew and I were sure that we must be near the top. However, every time we thought this, we rounded a corner and find ourselves in front of a slightly steeper switchback, until we finally reached one that was so steep that the local mountain goat herd had posted a warning sign on it.
Finally, Andrew and I lurched onto the top to find.... the biggest deck part I've ever seen. Yes, I guess I forgot to mention that there is a gondola that ferries people and supplies up to the summit of Sulphur Mountain. As a result, there are several restaurants, a well stocked gift shop, and an appliance store. So, dripping with sweat, we spent the next few minutes looking in shock at the array of slushy flavors available, while fresh faced tourists wondered what jungle we had walked in from.
We spent the next couple of days around Banff, a quaint little drinking village with a hiking problem (they actually sell shirts that say this). It is a cool little resort town that is a bit like the Canadian version of Vale (from what I hear).
Banff is also home to the glamorous Banff Springs Hotel, a place where men in top hats sit around drinking vintage wine, discussing the latest jump in railroad stocks. Or at least, they used to; although I found many a glamorous person on my self guided tour of this hotel, I didn't run into one captain of industry. Oh captain my captain! Where have you gone?!
After a couple of days, we started making our way north to Jasper, stopping along the way at the Colombia Ice Field, where we rode up the glacier on a bus whose oil has clearly been laced with performance enhancing substances. Imagine a city bus crossed with a monster truck... yeah, that's pretty much what it looked like. In the middle of the ice bound wonderland, one thought kept crossing my mind; the Colombia Ice Field is the worlds biggest snow cone waiting to be made. Now, don't say I never give you investment tips.
After Jasper, since one can only take so much striking, breathtaking natural beauty before it becomes nauseating (insert sarcasm here), we decided to cleanse ourselves of this transcendentally purifying experience by visiting the West Edmonton Mall.
The West Edmonton Mall is big, so big that it will probably apply for diplomatic autonomy one of these days. Apparently, it is the biggest mall in the world, boasting 800 shops, an amusement park, and a water park. The strange thing is, unlike the Mall of America, it seems to have been put together piece by piece over the years. Rather than being one giant unified space, there are nooks and crannies all over the place that seem to have been built at different times.
In fact, Andrew and I discovered the oldest part of the mall by going underneath the parking ramp, where we found a neolithic cave selling rock-hewn wheels; clearly, the first shop at West Edmonton Mall.
Anyway, the mall is a fascinating example of what happens when culture, history, and commercialism collide. There's a life size replica of the Santa Maria, and also a roller coaster; a mini-golf course, and also a chapel.
Well, that about wraps up the Canadian trip. If you ever have the impetus to get your hike on in the Canadian Rockies, I highly recommend it. Canada is a friendly land of many wonders!
Next up, tales of wandering around England and France.
Take care!
Peter
Oh Canada!; Or, How to Get Your Hike On in the Rockies (Pt. 2)
Oh, Canada! Pt. 2 "Lake Kool-Aid!"
Well, after improving my water sliding capabilities in Calgary, we left the plains behind and headed towards Lake Louise.
Lake Louise is a gorgeous glacial lake nestled right into the Rockies, and is composed of sixty percent water, and forty percent blueberry Kool-Aid. Or at least, that is the only explanation that makes any sense to me, because it is blue, and I'm not just talking a little blue, I'm talking as blue as your face that time you were six and bet your sibling that you could hold your breath for ten minutes. Yes, that blue. There's some other rumor circulating that this iridescent blueness is caused by sediment eroded off of glaciers, yadda yadda yadda, but I'm sticking to Kool-Aid.
After sitting with the rest of the tourists on the edge of the lake, murmuring "it's soooo blue!" for about fifteen minutes, we decided to hike to some of the high points surrounding the lake.
My dad and I were the ones that brought backpacks along on the trip, so we pulled supply duty. We were all together for the first five minutes, but then Andrew took off ahead and I followed, lest he end up at ten thousand feet without a drink of water, vultures circling overhead. I wasn't sure what caused this sudden burst of Alpine ambition in him, but found out later that had a vision of a wise old mountain goat telling him that great wonders awaited us if we would continue to climb ever higher. So, off we went.
After a brief stop at a tea house, Andrew decided that we should take a walk around a mountain lake, which somehow escalated into us climbing steep switchbacks up to peak called the Big Beehive.
Perhaps is was the combination of the thin air and the fact that I was carrying the provisions, but about halfway up, I started having hallucinations. Every time Andrew turned around now, he seemed to be wearing knickers and a monocle, pointing a hiking staff at me and calling out "Come on Sherpa! Hurry up with the steamer trunk!", and then mumbling about what glory this ascent would bring to the empire.
However, after a drink of water my clarity was restored.
Upon reaching the top, it was a spectacular view, with China in sight on the western horizon. Okay, so we weren't quite high enough for that, but it really was fantastic view of Lake Louise down below.
In the ample time that hiking allows for contemplation, I have come to a profound realization about life; never ask a kind old Swiss gentleman how far it is to the top of the mountain, if you want an answer that is, in any way shape or form, applicable to us. Words to live by.
You see, when that gentleman was young, the Alps were his playpen; as an infant, he was probably not nursed by his mother, but was rather suckled by mountain goats. Although this old Swiss gentleman may have "hiked" when he was our age, he has, by now, transcended the need to touch his feet to the ground and "hike" like the rest of us, preferring instead to levitate himself slightly above the trail as he makes his way skyward, leaving all the Americans suffering from corollaries in his dust.
And don't think that you're safe if the kind old gentleman looks 120 years old, because the older he is, the more in touch with the Tao of Alpinisme he has become. So, just remember, next time you ask him how much time it is to the top, multiply the answer by four and proceed.
To be continued...
P.S. If you're wondering why I'm not talking about England and France yet, Don't worry, tales of the Eurotrip are coming soon.
Your friend,
Peter
Well, after improving my water sliding capabilities in Calgary, we left the plains behind and headed towards Lake Louise.
Lake Louise is a gorgeous glacial lake nestled right into the Rockies, and is composed of sixty percent water, and forty percent blueberry Kool-Aid. Or at least, that is the only explanation that makes any sense to me, because it is blue, and I'm not just talking a little blue, I'm talking as blue as your face that time you were six and bet your sibling that you could hold your breath for ten minutes. Yes, that blue. There's some other rumor circulating that this iridescent blueness is caused by sediment eroded off of glaciers, yadda yadda yadda, but I'm sticking to Kool-Aid.
After sitting with the rest of the tourists on the edge of the lake, murmuring "it's soooo blue!" for about fifteen minutes, we decided to hike to some of the high points surrounding the lake.
My dad and I were the ones that brought backpacks along on the trip, so we pulled supply duty. We were all together for the first five minutes, but then Andrew took off ahead and I followed, lest he end up at ten thousand feet without a drink of water, vultures circling overhead. I wasn't sure what caused this sudden burst of Alpine ambition in him, but found out later that had a vision of a wise old mountain goat telling him that great wonders awaited us if we would continue to climb ever higher. So, off we went.
After a brief stop at a tea house, Andrew decided that we should take a walk around a mountain lake, which somehow escalated into us climbing steep switchbacks up to peak called the Big Beehive.
Perhaps is was the combination of the thin air and the fact that I was carrying the provisions, but about halfway up, I started having hallucinations. Every time Andrew turned around now, he seemed to be wearing knickers and a monocle, pointing a hiking staff at me and calling out "Come on Sherpa! Hurry up with the steamer trunk!", and then mumbling about what glory this ascent would bring to the empire.
However, after a drink of water my clarity was restored.
Upon reaching the top, it was a spectacular view, with China in sight on the western horizon. Okay, so we weren't quite high enough for that, but it really was fantastic view of Lake Louise down below.
In the ample time that hiking allows for contemplation, I have come to a profound realization about life; never ask a kind old Swiss gentleman how far it is to the top of the mountain, if you want an answer that is, in any way shape or form, applicable to us. Words to live by.
You see, when that gentleman was young, the Alps were his playpen; as an infant, he was probably not nursed by his mother, but was rather suckled by mountain goats. Although this old Swiss gentleman may have "hiked" when he was our age, he has, by now, transcended the need to touch his feet to the ground and "hike" like the rest of us, preferring instead to levitate himself slightly above the trail as he makes his way skyward, leaving all the Americans suffering from corollaries in his dust.
And don't think that you're safe if the kind old gentleman looks 120 years old, because the older he is, the more in touch with the Tao of Alpinisme he has become. So, just remember, next time you ask him how much time it is to the top, multiply the answer by four and proceed.
To be continued...
P.S. If you're wondering why I'm not talking about England and France yet, Don't worry, tales of the Eurotrip are coming soon.
Your friend,
Peter
Oh, Canada!: or, How to Get Your Hike On In the Rockies
Greetings, friends!
Well, about a week and a half ago I passed through border control and once again entered into the People's Republic of Madison, having sufficiently slaked my wanderlust... for the moment at least. Yes, it's unfortunate that they don't sell protection against that sort of lust, isn't it? That's a fortune waiting to be made.
Now, we haved arrived at the moment where I bombard you with self-indulgent jibber jabber about things that you may, or may not, care to read about; think of it as the horrible slide shows your aunt always invited you too, where you would sit, stuck to her plastic covered, flower patterned couch, wondering how you would ever get to the finish of the endless parade of slides showing her dog on the beach; except this time, you have the advantage of being able to hit delete at will if you so choose (smile).
I would have commeneced these ramblings a bit sooner, but putting together my tutoring schedule for this fall amounted to trying to make a cute little ordered process out of chaos theory. I'm relieved to say it's well in hand, now.
Anyway, early September, the Groth family began to prepare for an expedition to the greatly uncharted Northwestern territory known as Alberta (okay, so, every inch of it is charted by Starbucks already, but they've also charted out Mars for future expansion, so that doesn't count.)
We flew up to Minneapolis, and then jumped aboard a plane that was too big to be called a puddle jumper, but too small to be called an airliner, and sailed on up to Calgary.
On the way up, we received free airport lunch vouchers from a flight attendant who seemed to be contually impresssed with how tall I am. Now, I have no idea why my height gets me free food anywhere expect in grandma's kitchen, because one would think that people would see me and say "Boy, somebody needs to stop feeding that guy." So, go figure.
Interestingly, despite its proximity to the massive Canadian rockies, Calgary and it's surrounding area is surprisingly flat, and reminded me a bit of North Dakota. After losing myself in reverie for a few moments over how much the area reminded me of the that sweet land of my birth, I went on to discover Calgary to be a tremendously pleasant city, and that the similarity between Calgary and my native Fargo (yes, that's a seperate story) end in the midst of the city's shining skyscrapers. North Dakota has a skyscraper, but it's in the middle of a giant plain and serves the purpose of insuring the clear reception of "Praire Home Companion" to radios for miles around.
The first night brought us to a hotel on the outskirts of Calgary, across from the 1988 Olympic park. Coincidentally, the hotel also had a big old waterslide in the pool area, which the Olympic ambience eminating from across the road inspired me to hurl myself down with abandon.
I was lowering my times fairly well the first few trips down the slippery chute, and effectivley avoiding the decapitation of young Canadians wading near the slide's exit into the pool, but still rapidly reached a plateau where I was losing several hundreths of a second through the turns (a lifetime in boblsedder time).
However, I was spirited once again when I had the good fortune to meet some Olympic hopefuls in the jacuzzi who just happened to be training for skeleton and bobsled. Yes folks, skeleton is that sport that was brought back at the last winter Olympics, since strapping yourself, feet first, to a sled the size of my ice skates and hurling yourself down an icy chute at 80mph (a la, the luge) is not thrilling enough anymore; so, skeleton takes all the thrills and spills of luge and does it head first.
These girls kindly gave me a wealth of good tips on how to pick up speed going through turn #2, and the bobsled guy showed me the finer points of using the cross bar above the slide entrance to my advantage during the lift off.
What then ensued was a first rate water luge tournament, with competitors being judged on speed, splash size, and of course, the all-important style factor. Good times.
To be continued...
Take care!
Peter
Well, about a week and a half ago I passed through border control and once again entered into the People's Republic of Madison, having sufficiently slaked my wanderlust... for the moment at least. Yes, it's unfortunate that they don't sell protection against that sort of lust, isn't it? That's a fortune waiting to be made.
Now, we haved arrived at the moment where I bombard you with self-indulgent jibber jabber about things that you may, or may not, care to read about; think of it as the horrible slide shows your aunt always invited you too, where you would sit, stuck to her plastic covered, flower patterned couch, wondering how you would ever get to the finish of the endless parade of slides showing her dog on the beach; except this time, you have the advantage of being able to hit delete at will if you so choose (smile).
I would have commeneced these ramblings a bit sooner, but putting together my tutoring schedule for this fall amounted to trying to make a cute little ordered process out of chaos theory. I'm relieved to say it's well in hand, now.
Anyway, early September, the Groth family began to prepare for an expedition to the greatly uncharted Northwestern territory known as Alberta (okay, so, every inch of it is charted by Starbucks already, but they've also charted out Mars for future expansion, so that doesn't count.)
We flew up to Minneapolis, and then jumped aboard a plane that was too big to be called a puddle jumper, but too small to be called an airliner, and sailed on up to Calgary.
On the way up, we received free airport lunch vouchers from a flight attendant who seemed to be contually impresssed with how tall I am. Now, I have no idea why my height gets me free food anywhere expect in grandma's kitchen, because one would think that people would see me and say "Boy, somebody needs to stop feeding that guy." So, go figure.
Interestingly, despite its proximity to the massive Canadian rockies, Calgary and it's surrounding area is surprisingly flat, and reminded me a bit of North Dakota. After losing myself in reverie for a few moments over how much the area reminded me of the that sweet land of my birth, I went on to discover Calgary to be a tremendously pleasant city, and that the similarity between Calgary and my native Fargo (yes, that's a seperate story) end in the midst of the city's shining skyscrapers. North Dakota has a skyscraper, but it's in the middle of a giant plain and serves the purpose of insuring the clear reception of "Praire Home Companion" to radios for miles around.
The first night brought us to a hotel on the outskirts of Calgary, across from the 1988 Olympic park. Coincidentally, the hotel also had a big old waterslide in the pool area, which the Olympic ambience eminating from across the road inspired me to hurl myself down with abandon.
I was lowering my times fairly well the first few trips down the slippery chute, and effectivley avoiding the decapitation of young Canadians wading near the slide's exit into the pool, but still rapidly reached a plateau where I was losing several hundreths of a second through the turns (a lifetime in boblsedder time).
However, I was spirited once again when I had the good fortune to meet some Olympic hopefuls in the jacuzzi who just happened to be training for skeleton and bobsled. Yes folks, skeleton is that sport that was brought back at the last winter Olympics, since strapping yourself, feet first, to a sled the size of my ice skates and hurling yourself down an icy chute at 80mph (a la, the luge) is not thrilling enough anymore; so, skeleton takes all the thrills and spills of luge and does it head first.
These girls kindly gave me a wealth of good tips on how to pick up speed going through turn #2, and the bobsled guy showed me the finer points of using the cross bar above the slide entrance to my advantage during the lift off.
What then ensued was a first rate water luge tournament, with competitors being judged on speed, splash size, and of course, the all-important style factor. Good times.
To be continued...
Take care!
Peter
Shaving the Meat Wheel
Hi Everyone!
Well, I meant to say "hello" a bit more often on this trip, but unfortuately, a lack of computer acess, and French keyboards have stymied my e-mail a bit recently. However, entirely random snippets of stories shall follow once I return to the U.S. later this week.
For this brief message, I would like to address the issue of the meat wheel.
Yes, my friends, the meat wheel; that wheel that twirls around with the meat on it at kebab and gyro shops.
Well, three years ago, when we were young and trying to pronounce words like "Rouen" without expelling random vital organs from our bodies accidentally, Nick remarked what a great song title "Shaving the Meat Wheel" would be for metal. I reflected on this and agreed wholeheartedly (as many of us do, with Nick's effervescent ideas), and I came up with a verse.
However, the song remained there, with just one verse, until I was sitting in front of that same Kebab shop last week and was visited by the Corne d'Or muse. This one's for Nick, and I hope it lives up to the brilliant title he suggested.
(Verse 1)
What am I here, a slab of beef?
You devour me, and pick me from your teeth
Then string me up when you find a new deal
And shave me piece by piece
From the meat wheel, the meat wheel, you shave me from the meat wheel
(Verse 2)
Round and round I always go
Will it stop? Nobody knows
You brandish still your heart of steel
And shave me piece by piece from the meat wheel, the meat wheel, you shave me from the meat wheel
(Bridge)
Oh hey, oh my my
You hang me up there in plain sight
Shave me once or shave me twice
Shaving meat's your favorite vice
Verse 3
You know one day I think you'll find
This piece of meat's your piece of mind
And that your heart no longer feels
Because you shaved it piece by piece, from the meat wheel, the meat wheel, you shaved it from the meat wheel
(Gothic Chorus Enters)
THE MEAT WHEEL
THE MEAT WHEEL
YOU'VE BEEN SHAVING THE MEAT WHEEL!
(Pipe organ enters)
THE MEAT WHEEL!
THE MEAT WHEEL!
YOU'VE BEEN SHAVING THE MEAT WHEEL!
(Cannon fire commences)
THE MEAT WHEEL!
THE MEAT WHEEL!
HOW LONG WILL YOU SHAVE THE MEAT WHEEL!
(Repeat, ad infinitum)
Yours randomly,
Peter
Well, I meant to say "hello" a bit more often on this trip, but unfortuately, a lack of computer acess, and French keyboards have stymied my e-mail a bit recently. However, entirely random snippets of stories shall follow once I return to the U.S. later this week.
For this brief message, I would like to address the issue of the meat wheel.
Yes, my friends, the meat wheel; that wheel that twirls around with the meat on it at kebab and gyro shops.
Well, three years ago, when we were young and trying to pronounce words like "Rouen" without expelling random vital organs from our bodies accidentally, Nick remarked what a great song title "Shaving the Meat Wheel" would be for metal. I reflected on this and agreed wholeheartedly (as many of us do, with Nick's effervescent ideas), and I came up with a verse.
However, the song remained there, with just one verse, until I was sitting in front of that same Kebab shop last week and was visited by the Corne d'Or muse. This one's for Nick, and I hope it lives up to the brilliant title he suggested.
(Verse 1)
What am I here, a slab of beef?
You devour me, and pick me from your teeth
Then string me up when you find a new deal
And shave me piece by piece
From the meat wheel, the meat wheel, you shave me from the meat wheel
(Verse 2)
Round and round I always go
Will it stop? Nobody knows
You brandish still your heart of steel
And shave me piece by piece from the meat wheel, the meat wheel, you shave me from the meat wheel
(Bridge)
Oh hey, oh my my
You hang me up there in plain sight
Shave me once or shave me twice
Shaving meat's your favorite vice
Verse 3
You know one day I think you'll find
This piece of meat's your piece of mind
And that your heart no longer feels
Because you shaved it piece by piece, from the meat wheel, the meat wheel, you shaved it from the meat wheel
(Gothic Chorus Enters)
THE MEAT WHEEL
THE MEAT WHEEL
YOU'VE BEEN SHAVING THE MEAT WHEEL!
(Pipe organ enters)
THE MEAT WHEEL!
THE MEAT WHEEL!
YOU'VE BEEN SHAVING THE MEAT WHEEL!
(Cannon fire commences)
THE MEAT WHEEL!
THE MEAT WHEEL!
HOW LONG WILL YOU SHAVE THE MEAT WHEEL!
(Repeat, ad infinitum)
Yours randomly,
Peter
Mind The Gap
Hey everybody,
Errr....sorry about that missfire that you all just received before this; Pistol Pete has an itchy trigger finger.
Well, I'm in London.... at least, that's where they told me I was upon exiting the plane; and due to a nice three hour nap to alleviate my jet lag, I think I'm actually starting to believe it now.
At the moment, I'm sitting in a Subway/Ben & Jerry's/Internet Cafe, overseen by the Napoleanic era hero himself, Lord Horatio Nelson (yes, I'm right by Trafalgar Square). Anyway, how do we not yet have these wonders of corporate conglomeration in Madison? I mean, we have Long John Silver's and A & W under the same roof, but that's about it.
I was all intent on getting myself arrested here, but then I heard that they don't lock criminals up in the Tower of London anymore (so much for my plan to get free admission). Next, somebody's probably going to tell me that they don't stick decpitated heads on spikes at Tower Bridge anymore either! Sheesh!
As far as future plans go; in the wee hours of tomorrow morning, I plan on finding Kevin Spacey in Hyde Park. Yes, apparently he jogs there at three in the morning, according to all the buzz about that mugging incident a few months ago. Now, just imagine how happy he'll be when I confront him, only demanding an autograph!
Take care!
Peter
Errr....sorry about that missfire that you all just received before this; Pistol Pete has an itchy trigger finger.
Well, I'm in London.... at least, that's where they told me I was upon exiting the plane; and due to a nice three hour nap to alleviate my jet lag, I think I'm actually starting to believe it now.
At the moment, I'm sitting in a Subway/Ben & Jerry's/Internet Cafe, overseen by the Napoleanic era hero himself, Lord Horatio Nelson (yes, I'm right by Trafalgar Square). Anyway, how do we not yet have these wonders of corporate conglomeration in Madison? I mean, we have Long John Silver's and A & W under the same roof, but that's about it.
I was all intent on getting myself arrested here, but then I heard that they don't lock criminals up in the Tower of London anymore (so much for my plan to get free admission). Next, somebody's probably going to tell me that they don't stick decpitated heads on spikes at Tower Bridge anymore either! Sheesh!
As far as future plans go; in the wee hours of tomorrow morning, I plan on finding Kevin Spacey in Hyde Park. Yes, apparently he jogs there at three in the morning, according to all the buzz about that mugging incident a few months ago. Now, just imagine how happy he'll be when I confront him, only demanding an autograph!
Take care!
Peter
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