I’m in Denver. It is colder than fuck. Yes, anything below 65 is now colder than fuck for me, but it’s about 30 degrees colder than that, which is absolutely unbearable. And today I was in a meeting, and I looked out the window, and it was pure white from there to the horizon, blowing snow in a full white-out. Luckily, none of it stuck, but I had visions of burning my rental car to stay alive, and making an extra layer of improvised winter gear out of the floor mats, which I think is a chapter in the Air Force pilot survival manual, right after the one that teaches you what snakes you can eat.

So yeah, Denver. I am here for the week for work, and I am now a consultant-type for my last job. My plane touched down at DEN at about midnight (extra hour of time shift) and then I had to dick around with luggage and Hertz and drive about 45 minutes, then check in, then blah blah and pretty soon it was about 2

and I had a 9 meeting. So I was asleep all day, my stomach in knots from heavy doses of caffeine, answering the “so how do you like California / I hear it’s overrun with Marxists, perverts, and those who have not heard the word of our savior jesus christ” question a few dozen times. It wasn’t that bad, but when I am running on even one minute of sleep under eight hours, even “where can we put your free money” is an annoying question to me.

So, here’s the weirdness. I was just here, and I got to do all of my “leaving forever” prep several times, and then had to come back for our furniture, so being here is more like getting back to town after a long vacation. It’s not like I’m pulling into Bloomington and seeing that all of my old favorite hangouts have been bulldozed and turned into Eddie Bauer stores. It’s all still here. What’s weird is that I am “living” at a Hilton that is just down the road (and I mean literally ON the same road) as the office. So “work” is now “work” and “home” to me. It means I don’t have to drive 45 minutes to and from downtown each day, but in some ways, that drive was therapeutic, and it was nice to have two different corners that did not mingle with each other. So that’s weird.

Being back at work isn’t that weird, because my whole department moved floors after I left, and I’m in a completely different area, in a sterile and different cube. The guy I sat next to got fired, and now the people on either side of me are new hires. And all of that doesn’t matter, because I’m in meetings and meeting rooms all week. It is odd to be back in the building, though. And almost nobody knew I’d be in this week; a lot of people not in my group didn’t even know I was still working for the company. So I got a lot of double-takes today.

I sat around after work dicking around with a Subversion problem and half-watching the Yankees-Jesus Rays game on cable, when I got fed up and left to go find a restaurant and get fed up. And then, I suddenly realized, “shit, I can listen to the game on the radio!” I clicked over to 850 KOA and got the last inning. The Rockies lost their last five games, and I’ve been less and less enthused about catching those games I already shelled out cash for. But thanks to a Matt Holliday 2-run homer, a 1-2-3 8th, and a double play and quick out in the 9th, the tides turned, and the streak was ended.

For whatever reason, I got on I-25 and started driving north into Denver as the game wrapped up. I can’t even begin to explain how happy it made me to listen to Jeff Kingery and Jack Corrigan call the end of the game, after spending 2007 tuned in for the games. I even listened to most of the games I attended last year, thanks to my little AM/FM radio and headphones. To hear all the little nuances of their commentary, all of the bumper tracks and station IDs and ads, it brought out the spirit of the game as much as shitty ballpark hot dogs and plastic chairs that are two inches too small for your butt. I even listened to all of the ads (“If you’re going to buy a diamond, think Trice”; the Colorado beef association ads they play between every damn inning) and it made me think of every game I heard while I was home on the computer working, or driving to an appointment in the afternoon, or waiting for Sarah to get home from work during a 6

that was an hour early so they could beam it back east.

By the time I got to Coors Field, the crowd was dissipated (or maybe they were in hypothermia) and I parked on the street right by our old apartment. I don’t know why, but I had to look at the old place. I know I just finished moving us out about ten minutes ago, but I get overly nostalgic about this shit. I also wanted to see if the lights were on and a bunch of NCAA Final Four bullshit was hanging out the windows. (This is frat party central.) Nobody was moved in, although the bedroom window was open a crack. That doesn’t matter, except it added this one tiny human component. Did I open the window? And it was the window right by the cat beds; every morning, once I was ambulatory, I’d open that windowshade so they would have their wash of sunlight for their morning naps. It’s strange how such a little thing could make me think of so much.

Sarah called me around then, and I did a quick lap around the block, looking at the sports bars where we used to eat (but not on game nights), and the huge condo that’s going up on the other corner of 22nd and Market, and finally, the ballpark. The cops were pulling down the barricades on Blake Street, and only a few stragglers were there, so there wasn’t much residue from the night’s victory. But everything was still lit up, the signs and park lights and all of the new 2007 NL Champion flair they’ve added to streetlights and signposts. It had me excited about coming back tomorrow for the second game of the series. (What doesn’t have me excited is the fact that I will be wearing eight layers of clothes and will still need to have toes amputated by the time the evening is up.)

So overall, a weird time at a mile up. It’s reminded me that I like 75 degrees every day; I like humidity (I am drinking gallons of water per second); and in the year I lived here, I developed no strong ties to any people, places, or activities, other than a certain National League West expansion franchise. When I pulled into town, other than the game and my work obligations, I could not think of a single person I needed to call, place I needed to see, or restaurant where I needed to eat. That makes me think we made the right choice.

I need to sleep. I need to work four more days. Then I need to fly home, dump my entire suitcase into the washing machine, and repack it so I can turn around and go to Milwaukee. And I’m guessing it won’t be 75 and sunny there, but they do have cheese.

I forgot to mention that I got a basket of a bunch of glass bottles of soda for easter. There were a couple I have not tried before, one being Dublin Dr. Pepper. It isn’t from Ireland - the Dublin Dr. Pepper bottler is a plant down in Texas that’s the oldest running bottler of the drink, and they still churn out the stuff with cane sugar, in glass bottles. It’s pretty good stuff, and the bottles are very cute, but at 24-8oz bottles for $16 when you buy direct (and marked up even more when you buy singles), I’d rather buy 2-liters locally. The nostalgia aspect is cool, though. If I ever got trapped in that corner of Texas, I’d love to see the bottling plant, right after I hunted down the remains of the Waco compound.

Another one I tried for the first time was Moxie. Moxie is an old New England tradition, and goes back further than Coke does. It started as one of those “nerve tonic” drinks, and you can tell. Moxie tastes like straight up carbonated shit. Seriously, it’s very similar to the Beverly aperetif made by Coke in Italy; it has an aftertaste similar to a solvent you’d use to bring out the shine in your wood flooring. I don’t know how people can drink Moxie and actually enjoy it, but I also can’t understand how people can enjoy 90% of French cuisine, so I guess it’s an acquired taste. At least I know what the deal is with Moxie, so the next time that Food Network show comes on about it, I won’t feel curious.

I am really enjoying having a DVR, by the way. It’s very nice being able to pause TV, rewind to see something I’ve missed, and skip commercials. I watched part of a baseball game, and it was nice being able to skip around to figure out what the fuck Vin Scully is talking about. I still occasionally forget that I can skip commercials, though. And I really don’t have enough shows recorded yet. I should start getting some games on there, but I already have no free time.

Speaking of which, I have a million errands today, and tomorrow I have to get Sarah’s car registered. Then on Sunday, I fly to Denver for a week. And the next week, it’s off to Milwaukee. Lots to do, and I’m running late for something now, so I better finish lunch.

Back in the fall of 1992, I broke my left elbow in a stupid bike accident. Basically, I was slowing down for a pedestrian on that ramp to the parking lot at Ballantine Hall, and I slowed down too much and fell over, landing on my elbow. I ended up with a compression fracture on my radius, a stupid sling that later torqued out my neck worse than the broken arm, and a bottle of codeine cough syrup. I also had this horrible despondence from the thought that I actually broke part of my original equipment, which is hard to explain but is very deep-seated when it happens to you.

Ancient history, right? Well, no. For some reason, that elbow has always been on-and-off weird. Sometimes it gets a little stiff and reminds me it was once broken. And for whatever reason, last week, it got really stiff, to the point where I couldn’t move it anymore, and I was in way too much pain. Finally on Friday, I couldn’t deal with it anymore, and I went to the hosiptal. By hospital, I mean “hospital”, aka the LAX urgent care clinic, which is as much a hospital as IUSB is a university. Within three hours, a doctor spent two seconds listening to my explanation of the pain, I got three x-rays, and he ruled out a few basics, like that I rebroke the arm, or that the arm was stolen by aliens and replaced with a corned beef sandwich. Other than that, there was no diagnosis, so here’s a sling, here’s a big bottle of Vicodin, here’s your bill.

I spent all weekend looped out on the big V. Honestly, it’s only good the first couple of times you take it. It does kill the pain, but now a single tablet doesn’t have me babbling conspiracy theories about secret Nazi bases in the south pole. I can now move my arm significantly more, and I went all day yesterday without painkillers. So it’s getting better, but the whole thing, plus all of my other medical maladies makes me wonder if I have ALS or MS or something else.

Speaking of Lou Gehrig, baseball season has started. I am in two fantasy leagues, and have done absolutely zero in both of them. One I forgot to show up for the draft, and I was first in the draft, and it auto-picked based on ESPN’s ratings, so I got A-Rod in the first round. No time to mess with that for now, though. I do have some games coming up though:

• 5/24 Dodgers v. Cardinals @ Dodger Stadium
• 4/26 Dodgers v. Rockies @ Dodger Stadium
• 5/20 Cardinals v. Padres @ Petco Field
• 4/8 Rockies v. Braves @ Coors Field

First, I am not suddenly a Cardinals fan; that’s because my friend Julie is a huge St. Louis fan, and I’m tagging along for two of those outings. I have to admit that I know almost nothing about the Cards except for Ankiel and Pujols, and that other big beer company has their name on their stadium. But it’s baseball, and it will be fun. And I would normally have almost no reason to go to San Diego and see a game, so I can check another stadium off of my list.

And yes, the Rockies game is at Coors Field! I am going back to Denver next week to work for my last company, and aside from money, one reason I took the gig was that I’d be able to catch a game at my old digs. It will be weird, driving up to the ballpark district, paying to park across from my old apartment, getting a shitty bratwurst at the Sandlot brewery. (Actually, the first one of the season is always great. The second one is good. The 47th is shit.) It will be nice to wear my Tulo jersey without having to worry about Dodger fans throwing batteries at my head. Too bad I might have to wear it under a parka.

My car now has California plates, which looks odd to me. It was a huge feat to get them, and it took two trips to the DMV. I had to get the car (a 2008 with 5000 miles) smog-tested, and then I got in a huge battle about having to pay California sales tax on a car I bought in Colorado as a Colorado resident. I finally found the right paperwork to shut them up, and got plated up for $240 plus the $60 smog check. Now I need to do the same for Sarah’s car.

I was almost getting in a groove as far as domestic engineering duties, until the arm broke. It’s hard to cook one-handed. Anyway, I am a cooking idiot, so I will ask the readers, what’s your favorite recipe? Something that’s not all Rachel Ray and involves two hours of cutting and shaving. My favorite concoction is my own version of the famous Simms chili: very easy, very good. I need to find more crap like that.

Another week is done, and all of our stuff arrived in mostly one piece. After a few more days (or months) of rearranging, it will be business as usual here. Which brings me to thoughts about what I like, what is good, and what’s odd about this place. Rather than try to write some prose, I will start with a big bulleted list.

• • I am in awe anytime I drive past something and realize it was in movie XYZ or some recent TV show. I had this to the point of overload in NYC, especially with all of the Law and Order shows, but I think moving to Denver knocked that out of my head, and now it’s all amazing to me again.
    • I’m always reminded of Bukowski. There are old dive bars that still have their signs from the 60s, the styleized cursive words in neon, dull after 40 years of dirt and smog, and I always wonder if that was a bar where he hung out. This is further confused by the fact that a lot of brand new bars and restaurants have similar signs that were made to conform with the whole Swingers retro craze.
    • (As an aside, I want to make a google map of all Bukowski stuff. I have heard there is a bus trip that makes this route, so maybe I better get off my ass.)
    • I forget if I mentioned Fry’s, the electronics store. There’s one down in Manhattan beach, and I think I’ve been maybe once or twice. I don’t know how I missed out on this all of my geek life (probably because I didn’t live in California) but that place is off the hook in a very major way. Basically you start with a Best Buy or Circuit City, but instead of, say, only three types of computer keyboard in stock, they have an entire aisle, like three dozen types. And they aren’t all from one manufacturer, they hit all of the bases, and even have the el cheapo Taiwan junk you can only get in mail order. It’s the same way in every section. Like in Best Buy, if you need a USB cable, they have the Belkin 3-foot or the Belkin 9-foot, end of story. At Fry’s, they have 863 different USB cables, half of them things you’ve never heard of before. And the place even has resistors and oscilloscopes and soldering irons and computer parts at the level the big boxes would not. The customer service can be a little surly, and the ambience is Costco meets a room in the MIT computer science freshman dorm. But yeah, very dangerous to the wallet.
    • I’ve spent very little time in what most people would think of when they envision LA, because Playa Del Rey is isolated. With the ocean to the west, LAX to the south, the LMU campus west, and the Marina Del Rey channel and Ballona wetlands to the north, there’s a pretty decent buffer zone on all sides.
    • That buffer also includes smog, which seems to be broken up by the ocean. And the temps are about five degrees cooler here, which is weird, because I put forecasts for both here and LA in my dashboard.
    • When I drive to/from anything north, I have to drive on Culver (which just got repaved last weekend) and through the Ballona wetlands. It’s strange to be in LA and be driving down a road in which nothing but swamps are on either side of you. It sort of reminds me of the farming in the middle of Oahu, if you drive the back roads to the North Shore. And at night, you hear very loudly the sound of frogs out in the swamp.
    • (Yesterday I determined that the best song to listen to while driving there is Lynard Skynard’s “Swamp Music”.
    • I still hear and see the jets from LAX southeast of us. The jets aren’t that loud, and the sound is almost soothing. I am sure when I go on vacation and I’m not near an airport, I won’t be able to sleep.
    • We were driving around, and south of LAX (at Imperial and Main) is this little observation park, where you can see jets taking off and landing. There was a small group of dudes with gigantic camera lenses the size of tallboy beer cans taking pictures. I guess before 9/11, you could park and go inside the terminal to a roof-top restaurant and see the jets close up, but that ended quickly.
    • There are a ton of old cars on the road here. I always thought the draconian emissions laws kept cars older than a decade or two from geting plates. But with no salt and no rust, cars last forever here. There are fuckloads of old classic Beetles still rolling here, with perfect sheet metal. And at least once a trip, I see some completely cherry car from the 50s or 60s, like an ancient Packard or a topless GTO with three twos. And I’ve seen many classic Camaros, the early 70s models that are my favorite. For a fan of old cars, it’s a phenomenal place to be.
    • The best food in LA tends to be in strip malls. I don’t know if that’s because all of southern California is a strip mall, or if just one of those backward things, like that the best doctors don’t take insurance, or the best clubs in NYC don’t have signs outside. We went to this soul food restaurant, which was like next to a TCBY or Vons or Rite Aid or something, and it had been there forever. They had the signed photos on the wall, and I’m looking and there’s a picture of Martin Luther King Jr. - personally signed to the owner. Their fried chicken was also like the best I’ve ever had. I need to forget about that place if I want to make it to 40, though.
    • Hughes Aircraft had a huge facility just up the road in what’s now called Playa Vista. They built the Spruce Goose there, then disassembled it into chunks and trucked it to Long Beach for its maiden flight.
    • Prices of almost everything here is back to about what I was used to in New York, with a few odd exceptions. For some reason, the McDonald’s closest to me is very cheap. My usual (#2, no pickles, coke) cost $5.95 in Denver, and now it’s $4.84. Other cheaper things: car washes, housecleaning, lawn care and landscaping, and anything related to fresh fruits and vegetables. (See a pattern?)

And I am now in bachelor mode, as Sarah goes to Atlanta to visit Mitsubishi. This will largely consist of playing the now-connected PS3 and trying to write this game I am working on. So I better get to work on that.

First off, some announcements:

John Sheppard has posted a second video for his book Tales of the Peacetime Army. It’s on YouTube here. If you didn’t catch the first video, I think it’s linked on there. And if you didn’t catch the book, get off your ass and check it out..

Santi: The Lives of Modern Saints is out. This is a collection of stories and CD with stories by me, John, Erin O’Brien, Grant Bailie, Timothy Gager, and a ton of other people. It is the best looking/best designed book you will read all year. So go check that out on Amazon, too..

I have been spending all of my time writing a game in Ruby on Rails, partly because it would be fun to play, but mostly so I can get a good project under my belt. At some point in the future, I will be looking for players, so drop me a line if you’re interested. It’s a turn-based strategy game, somewhat like Risk, but with nukes. Fun for the whole family.

I am still typing in a house with no furniture, which will change tomorrow apparently. The view from my new desk isn’t as scenic as my floor-to-ceiling windows in Denver, but it the start of March and 79 degrees out, so I’ll deal.

I’m finding it’s not as easy as it once was to eat and type in here at the same time, so I will get back to my Trader Joe salad now.