My First Jim

Never mind that I am 31 years old: I had my first Slim Jim today. I had often seen the commercials (I prefer the ones featuring Randy Savage to those with the Jim Carrey-ish mascot) and had of course seen them on every convenience store counter. I admit that part of the reason I had never tried one is out of embarrassment; they seemed like such a disgusting, sleazy food. After trying one, I can say they no longer only seem that way.

What a horrible, vile, greasy snack! The taste of death. While the ingredients are clearly listed, the method of manufacture is not, but I expect it involves slow-drying kielbasa in the sun at high humidity. I cannot imagine a more frightening flavor short of those concocted on Fear Factor.

At the same time, I can't wait for my next Slim Jim. The texture was unique, the flavor complex, and the sound strangely pleasing. I plan to work my way up to the larger version (I don't know that I need training, but it seems prudent). I even have plans to make a mini hot dog bun so I can put a Slim Jim inside, although I'm not sure what I will gain from doing that. Well, as someone new to this field, that's all of my ideas: if you have any Slim Jim recipes, please share.

Dive In

After Cary forced a fortunate turnover just as the opposing team was poised to score, we were in perfect position to counterattack. The man I was marking hadn't turned around quickly enough to catch up with me so I crossed the half line unguarded and called for Cary to send me the disc. Cary saw me and he saw Suzy, who was even further up the field and was being guarded by my wife. Another member of our team was coming up the other side of the field from me.

Cary tossed the disc which went high and then curved away from me and toward Suzy. I ran strong toward it, then noticed Suzy was vying for it too, so I pulled off. Just then Suzy pulled off too, apparently deciding it was beyond her reach.

So I did what had to be done: Kicking myself into a quick sprint I closed the gap as best as I could, sprinting slightly to the side of Suzy, and then leaped and dove for the disc. I was fully extended and caught the disc with only the tips of two fingers and the thumb of my right hand. The landing was exquisite--at least a few feet of slide without even a hint of tumble--and was even better with my wife watching just a few yards away. Quickly rising to my feet, I saw my other teammate in the end zone for a short pass and the score.

Never mind that it was just one play, that was The Zone, Perfection, Lion's Share, Special Feature, Something to Write Home About.

So my question to you is, What makes you feel "spot on"?

Google this

Little known fact: there are actually FIVE Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Yes, War gets a lot of publicity, and Pestilence has a neat name, but the most dangerous horsemen is one most people don't seem to fear at all: it is Google.

Yes, I despise Google. I am disgusted by what is has done to me. I used to have a memory--you know, that thing you use when you want to remember a fact or detail. In high school, I must have memorized thousands of dates, names, bone processes, proteins, equations, events, numbers, etc. When I covered the same topics in college, it was easy because I readily remembered the information I had learned years before. My memory was like a giant filing cabinet--thousands of documents all right there were I left them.

But now--no more! Google comes along and suddenly my memory is useless. I'm sure the files are still there, but it's as if with Google around to do the searching, my brain outsourced the search function and laid off all my cerebral file searchers. Here's a scenario:

Some Guy: I wonder how ants mate....
Me thinking: Hey, I know this.... To brain: Yo, what's the answer?
My Brain: Ask someone else; I'm too busy thinking about Survivor.

So I go ahead and Google it and then relate the answer. And then everyone (Some Guy in this case) says, "Oh, you are soooo smart. You know everything." And for a moment a think, "Yeah, I am amazing."

But, of course, I know it's all a lie. And Google knows it's a lie, too. And everytime I turn on the computer Google is sitting there with that look on it's face saying "I'm the master!"

I've tried other search programs, but they're useless! Jeeves makes you ask a question and then answers something else, MSN thinks the only reason anyone uses the Internet is to buy something, and Yahoo!...well, Yahoo! returns nothing but dating, crazy fan, and 'those' sites for every search.

Sometimes I get angry and try to take back my life. I fight the urge to Google. "I can do this," I say to myself. "Just get the brain going again." But all the time I see Google over there laughing at me. "Go ahead," it cackles. "While you're over there trying to start a rusted engine I'll be working on yet another way to dominate your life."

I resist, I struggle, then I admit defeat and enter my query. Google quickly--you could even say kindly--displays the answer as though we hadn't fought at all. Sheepishly, I scold myself, "You called Google all sorts of bad names and then it goes and helps you out. What a forgiving program it is and what an ingrate are you."

Then I see Google rubbing my face in it: "Results 1 - 10 of about 1,280,000 for blah blah blah." What a jerk. It's like it's saying, "You couldn't come up with a single answer and I came up with over a million. 'Higher life form', hmfph!" I am belittled. And that's the best case scenario, when I don't misspell my search terms. When I do, Google snidely asks, "Did you mean: blah blah" as though it really thinks I meant to write "Nwe York" instead of "New York". To top it off, Google rubs salt in my wounded ego by showing just how fast it is: ".08 seconds," it proudly displays--but I'm sure what it's really saying is "Beat that, pinhead!"

Semi-Pro Cycling

I'm just starting my fourth year as a semi-pro cyclist. On average I race twice a day. Today was typical: my chief competition had a 65 sec lead at the start of the race, which I overcame at the half-mark to bring home yet another victory.

It's a short track I ride, about 1.5 miles, between my house and work, then the evening race from work to my house, where my wife is waiting at the finish line. Unfortunately, she doesn't seem to understand the scale of my achievement. "Did the guy even know you were racing?" I decline to answer; ignore the skepticism and maintain focus.

That's right: it's about focus. So let my competition try to copy that tactic. Mr Chinese Guy with the oversized backpack could use more focus. He was all over the place today! And Mr. Forty-Something with the huge calves--riding against traffick is going to cost you every time. And while I'm naming names, Mr Fancy Dual-Suspension, it's the rider, not the machine. You know what I mean.

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