Dreams of Dreams

Consider this a business proposal.  Or, if you prefer, a pipe dream.  But everyone has a dream, and all of my dreams play like Travel Channel shows.  Honestly, I could have gotten a law degree online by now if travel channel didn’t exist.  I am consumed by everywhere that I am not.  I imagine it’s how Hemingway used to feel.  It’s a combination of restlessness and discontent, and no, I didn’t just compare myself to Hemingway.  That guy was a hack.  Today I spent nearly two hours navigating through a Nat Geo app on my iPad, oogling over photos from other people’s adventures, and wishing the photos were mine.  And that’s when it hit me, what I’ve always wanted to do with my life is see the world, take pictures, and write about it, all on someone else’s dime.

And there’s the rub.  Aside from being lucky enough to work for travel channel or national geographic, there’s not a lot of people who get paid to go on vacation.  So I got to thinking, how do I get other people to pay for this nonsense?  And then I came up with this: 

Test Case

One Week Visit of New Zealand

Airfare    --    $1,648

Lodging -- $180

Food    --    $300

Transport    --    $300

Misc    --    $500

Total    --    $2,928


Now, I have many awesome friends, and if 300 of them were to each give me ten dollars, this trip is bought and paid for.  Now, why would anyone freely give me money you ask?  Excellent question, hermano.  The end result of this whole experiment is a funny, beautiful, and insightful travel memoir, released as an ebook, and automatically free to those who financed it.  What do you think?  Would you pay ten dollars for that?  And just for comparison, it’s two lattes, or 77 Botswanan Pula.  Tell me you don’t have that laying around.  So give me your thoughts.  I’d love to do this, but it takes a rossnation... out.

Eponymous

I'm about to make a crazy analogy; no need to call me on it, I already know.  I hope you're not offended, but there's a great line in The Princess Bride, just as Buttercup is about to off herself in perhaps the most painful and savage suicide in history (seriously, trying to stab yourself in the heart?!), Westley pipes in with this gem: "There's a shortage of perfect breasts in this world.  T'would be a pity to damage yours."  Well spoken, sir.  It may seem odd, but that's how I felt about this last weekend.  Let's just say there's a shortage of perfect weekends, but this one was a Buttercup.

Let's start with this: I am easily satisfied when it comes to time off.  51 weekends a year I do my laundry and sleep until 9 am, and that's enough for me.  Anything beyond that is pure gravy (if gravy is your measuring liquid of choice.)  So the chance to see my beloved Texas Rangers in action, live and and in person, is an entire boat of Mom's world-famous gravy.  Back to back games?  That's an open-faced roast beef.  Me and my brother openly rooting for the Rangers at Safeco Field?  Insert your favorite food.

The brother, his wife, and rossnation... rolled into Safeco Field like a freight train on Saturday.  That is, if a freight train could pull off a Josh Hamilton jersey like the 'nation.  But as we all know, trains don't wear clothes.  And let me be clear, the best place in the world to watch a baseball game is Safeco Field.  End of story.  I understand that Fenway has more history, and Wrigley is the friendly confines, and on and on.  You can make a case for every ballpark (except Tropicana.)  But if you want comfortable weather, a pristine field, a good seat, and a nice selection of ballpark (read unhealthy) food, there is no contest.  Safeco doesn't even smell like forty thousand people.  They retracted the roof just before game time, it was 67 degrees, we had seats halfway up the third base line, and the smell of garlic was hanging in the air like delicious tear gas.  It is, quite simply, perfect.

I don't remember my first baseball game, but I'd like to think it was a lot like this.  I am still in awe of how green the grass is, the sharp contrast it makes with the cleanest dirt on earth, the chalk on the world's largest chalkboard.  Baseball didn't grow up, and neither did I, I just got bigger.  Which is why my heart still paused briefly when Ian Kinsler lifted his bat and took a mighty cut at the third pitch of the game.  The 'nation and the brother stood, almost in slow motion, the only ones in a sea of Mariners fans, and watched as the ball rocketed into the seats in left field, and I raised my glove in joy.  There is triumph, and then there is being alone in that triumph, as Grant and I were in that moment.  It's your first kiss, the birth of a child, the winning lotto number.  It's an elation so pure you could sterilize with it.  And then you get booed, and you do not care.

The Rangers won their tenth game in a row on Saturday, and it was never really in doubt.  Ian hit another home run in the eighth inning, and 30 thousand other souls went home with a brick on their hearts, but not us.  On Sunday Grant and I watched the Rangers win again from the comfort and anonymity of the box seats, easily the best view I've ever had of a baseball game, as long as you don't count my couch, which I don't.  We gorged on garlic fries (if crack was a starch), fish and chips, a 12 dollar hefeweizen, and the knowledge that the Rangers hadn't let us down.  It was a Buttercup of a weekend, and even the 5 hour drive back to Moscow couldn't have made it any less perky.

rossnation... out.

Super Ocho (as the Spaniards would say)

This is perhaps the most misleading business name ever; there is nothing super about this place.  On the one hand, I've stayed in some fairly janky motels in my day.  Like the one in Gardena, California, where I woke up one morning to find the hallway cordoned off because someone had been stabbed the night before.  Or the hotel in Bowling Green, Ohio with the carpet that smelled like... stuff.  And to be fair, my apartment isn't exactly the Four Seasons.  So I've got no beef with the Super 8 in Moscow: it's clean, it's got internet, and, most importantly, a flat surface to sleep on.  But it is not super.  In fact, I'm not even sure it's 8!

So why am I in a motel in the town I live in?  Natural disaster, act of God, the dangers of old buildings?  All of the above.  In a cruel twist of fate, my bedroom ceiling leaks when the upstairs neighbor uses her kitchen sink.  If I was in a romantic comedy, this would be how I met my soulmate.  I'd go upstairs to ask if she was setting up a swimming pool in the kitchen, and you can imagine there would be a lot of slow motion shots of her tossing her hair, and probably some uncomfortable stammering on my part.  Actually, that's kind of what happened, minus anything clever coming out of my mouth.  But honestly, Ryan Reynolds I am not.  (Tweet @rossconation to tell me who you think I am.)  

So the downside of this whole ordeal is I'm staying in a motel for a few days while they rip apart my bedroom to look for the pipe that's leaking, and then a few more days while they put my bedroom back together.  In fairness to my very sweet landlord, the real downside is that it will probably cost a pretty penny.  But, as we all know, landlords are flush with cash.

So what, you're asking, is the upside?  Well, permit me a wry smile as I tell you.  The upside to situation is this:  you cannot imagine the relief I felt when I realized that the ceiling was leaking onto my bed...  and that I had not, as I first thought, wet it.

rossnation... revlieved.  and out.

Defending the Deep

Spring brought something new to rossnation... this year: expectation. And I don't know if I'm comfortable with it. The month of April is the second best month of the year (Febtober being number one, obviously). April brings with it two great things - rossnation...'s birthday (or what I like to call The Birth of a rossNation), and baseball. Now, if baseball was a church, it would be called Our Lady of Perpetual Sadness. If you're a Rangers fan that is. But since my boys in blue and red made their magical run to the World Series last year, they had to change the name to Our Lady of Perpetual Unease. In previous years, I could watch from afar as the Texas Rangers slowly imploded over the next five months. Needless to say, making the playoffs was merely wishful thinking; it was never seriously on the table. But now, the Rangers aren't a sleeper pick, or perennial basement dwellers; they're the favorites to win the division. So I found out some things about rossnation... that I didn't know. The biggest thing is that I care about baseball in general, and the Rangers in particular, to an unhealthy degree. I purchased a subscription to MLB.tv so that I could watch every Rangers game. All one hundred and sixty two glorious afternoon's hen the Rangers take to the diamond, I'll be watching, either at home, at work (but not at the expense of my work) I'll be watching on my iPhone, and everywhere else I'll be watching on my iPad. You don't need to tell me how sad this is, because I know, but also this is who I am now. I HAVE to watch. rossnation... is no longer a Rangers fan; we are Rangers Superfans.

There's good and bad in this new world order; it's like Darth Vader. The bad is the obsession. Obsession is dangerous, and I don't want to become one of those people whose life revolves around a sports team (those guys have difficulty talking to women). The good side is that I have hope. The Rangers are good, and good enough to be considered World Series contenders.

But as I mentioned before, hope is an emotion with which I'm not real familiar. But it's why I have to watch, so that I can find out, every game, whether hope will continue, or be dashed upon the rocks at the bottom of the AL West. I don't want to be down there again; that's where the sadness is, and former steroid users. It is only for the faint of heart.

But rossnation... will not be denied this season. We'll be buying Mitch Moreland jerseys and "Fear the Claw" bumper stickers and box seats for when the Rangers play in Seattle. rossnation... will throw all of our childish and misplaced enthusiasm at the Rangers, and throw all of our hatred and vitriol (and perhaps poop) at the evil Yankee empire.

GO RANGERS!

I'm rossnation..., and I approve this message.

The Redemption of Aaron Rodgers

You made an enemy out of me long ago, Aaron Rodgers.  I remember the day very clearly, because it was actually two days.  In September of 2003, you quarterbacked the Cal Bears to a triple-overtime victory over my beloved USC Trojans.  That’s more than enough to put you squarely in the Book of Ross (I have no idea why that’s capitalized) as an enemy of the state, along with the likes of Tiger Woods, Jim Gray, and the people who sell those ion bracelets.  Thirteen months later, you almost beat them again, and in dramatic fashion, by completing your first 23 passes -- and it scorched my insides to watch.  You were so efficient, so methodical, so precise, so.... - excellent - that day, and I despised you for it.  You don’t get to do that to my team and not incur the wrath.  The battle was begun....

Consider this my surrender, Mr. Rodgers.*  I’m sure that you crave my respect and adoration, so here it is.

I can’t pinpoint a single instance when I stopped hating you.  It must have happened subtly, like how I’ve aged.  But I think I became a fan for the same reason your name was written in the book: excellence.  You completed 23 consecutive passes against USC in November of 2004.  It was like watching Norm Abram build an armoire from scratch, conjuring beauty and functionality out of pure tree.  The state of fervor that I was in at the time didn’t allow me to see it that way; I saw it as an affront to my team, an attack on my vicarious living through USC, even though we won that game.  

Then you went to draft day 2005, to discover your football destiny. You sat and watched as the San Francisco 49ers lay one of the great NFL draft turds in history by selecting Alex Smith with the first pick.  You took that with grace, and sat and waited some more (probably the better part of two hours) until you were chosen by a team that didn’t need you.  I was positively flummoxed when the Packers picked you with their only first round selection, because no quarterback situation has ever been less in doubt than the Packers and Brett Favre.  So why pick a backup quarterback that early in the draft?  It didn’t make sense, but as my therapist once said, it doesn’t make sense to you, but it makes sense to someone.  (Believe it, or don’t, but that double-talk makes incredible sense.)  

So you went to Green Bay, and for three seasons sat and watched as the Great Brett Favre** sucked the love out of the frozen tundra of Lambeau.  But patiently.  Patiently waited for Brett to start self-imploding.  Retrospect tells us Favre was already on the way to being run out of Wisconsin, looking forward to retiring several times and playing both the best and indescribably worst seasons of his life.  And while he was doing that, you were just getting better.

On Sunday you finished it.  You won the Super Bowl with the world’s most beat up team around you.  You were unflappable in the presence of your brick-handed receivers.  You weren’t dazzled by the bright lights of The JJ-Dome, or the bizarre and horrendous halftime show (seriously, the Black-Eyed Peas need to go away; the SB Halftime show is becoming a swan song.)  You were not in the least frightened by the vaunted Steelers defense; in fact, I think you could tell they were too old to catch you.  Overall, your game wasn’t flawless, but it was without major flaw.  It was the epitome of excellence.  

It occurs to me now that I became a fan not because something about you changed, or that you’re more likeable now, or that you renounced your allegiance to Cal.  I’m a fan now because something in me changed: I appreciate excellence like I never have before.  We live in an age were average is good enough for most, including me.  But I can’t watch excellence in action and still believe in mediocre, not anymore.  

So here’s to you, Aaron Rodgers.  You’re my favorite player...

I just wish you were a Cowboy.

rossnation... salutes you.

*Don’t think for a minute I don’t see the funny.

**Denotes extreme sarcasm and hyperbole.

Life as a Bell Curve: Theories that Kinda Make Sense

I don’t know that there’s any reason to try and put the mysteries of life into words.  Finer writers than I have given that a go (Balzac, Hemingway, Clancy, Grisham, etc.), but we’re never really going to do better than “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”  I’m gonna give it a shot anyway, just because that’s how I do.  And also I noticed an intriguing correlation the other day, which I will share herein.

I bought a new bed on Friday, and this is only remarkable to me, but for several reasons.  To begin with, it was time, and we’ll leave it at that.  Beyond that, I’ve never owned a brand-new bed, at least not since it was my responsibility to provide it.  They’ve all been hand-me-downs to some degree, and nothing to write home about (but a column, clearly.)  My new bed?  It deserves a few words, because it is... bizarre.  

I suppose you don’t really get a good look at the mattresses on the showroom floor; as it turns out, they’re just a tad bigger when you get them home.  School lesson for the day: a “tad” is a technical term, used in engineering and creative writing, whose exact value is 10 times.  So picture in your minds eye a monstrosity of a bed that fills up half of my tiny little bachelor bedroom.  And I don’t mean half of the square footage, I’m talking the whole three-dimensional space, cubic feet.

I should also mention that I’ve never owned an actual bed, with a headboard and a footboard, a truly adult piece of furniture.  So the bed and the mattress form a mass about the size of a double wide trailer.  This bed is pushed up against one wall, leaving about two feet on the other wall, just enough to fit my tiny night table and the set of dog stairs that I’m gonna have to put there.  They’ll be for me, not my nonexistent dog, because the bed is also 4 feet tall.  I climb into this bed, quite literally.  And this is the apex of the bell curve -- the 5 or 10 years when someone can have a bed the size of a Datsun.  You certainly can’t have one when you’re young; that’s the kind of parenting that’ll get you in the papers.  And giving an Old person a bed of this magnitude would be cruel.  And hilarious.

There’s much to be said,

From the size of one’s bed.

Whether tiny or skinny or plush.

The short and squat,

Perfect for the tot,

And also for old and flush.

The monstrous berth,

Right for large girth,

But not the feint of heart.

Only young and spry, 

With a gleam in the eye,

Should fork out six hundred bucks for a bed that’s too tall to fall into when they’re exhausted after work or have had too many adult beverages.  That’s just not good business.

So it’s not exactly Ezra Pound, but the spirit of the poet is in the air, hovering over my gigantic bed.  

And I know what you’re all thinking; yes, I do have a very strange apartment.

strangeapartment... out.

The Incredible Importance of Retiring Gracefully

So... I just saw The Social Network.  And... I loved it.  It accomplished the ultimate challenge in storytelling: it created characters so compelling that in the end you’re not sure who’s the good guy.  Actually, I was so turned around at the end that I even felt semi-sympathetic towards the twin douche bags.  But the reason I bring it up has more to do with how it made me think about technology and the direction it’s taking our society.  (Yep, it’s one of those columns, so hang on to your proverbial britches.  And also your actual britches.)

No one is ever going to accuse this guy of being curmudgeonly about technology.  I love gadgets in general, my iPhone in specific, and am thoroughly giddy about some of the things we can do because of technology.  Case in point, my Starbucks card is on my phone now.  They scan my phone at Starbucks; totally bitchin’.  (And let me tell you, wow, do the girls swoon over that.)  But I’m definitely not the guy who’s excited about getting a personal bar-code tattoo, which is where we’re headed if you believe the naysayers, or the neigh-sayers, for that matter.

I’m more in the middle ground, like a Libertarian, or a shortstop.  I’m all for being “old school”, but I am thoroughly convinced there are a few things that we can give up on, and allow them to go quietly into the night/oblivion, hence the Brett Favre reference.  

And the first of these needs to be phone books.  I will say one thing for Hagadon Directories et al: they’re sticking with it.  They are tenacious holding on to this most archaic form of communication, and there is honor in that.  But there can’t possibly be money in it.  I came home to find the 2011 Moscow/Pullman phone book on my doorstep, and a tumble of different emotions overtook me.  The first was annoyance, because I had to bend down and pick it up.  Next came sadness at the thought of how many times this particular phone book would be opened (zero.)  And then finally just a tinge of anger at the thought of what a waste phone books are.  Please raise your figurative interweb hand if you’ve used a phone book in the last month... I’m sure there’s a few of you, but it was probably because you didn’t have internet access at the time, or you were trying to remember your home phone number from, you know, when you had a home phone.  I wonder if the only thing phone books are good for is sitting on if you’re wicked short.  It must be easier to sell skywriting ads than ads in the phone book.  Where is the money in this game?  It’s time to call it quits on the phone book.  The internet has killed this one something fierce, so why not save me the hassle of throwing it away.

There’s too many similarities between the Favre and the Phonebook (great name for an album title).  Imagine how fondly we could remember them if they had just bowed out gracefully.  This is the conversation I picture, using my PLP Matt as the other end of it --

Me:  “Hey, remember phone books?  Those were the bees knees back in the day!”

Matt:  “We used to have a jolly good time flipping through that thing, looking for funny name combinations!”

Me:  “Whatever happened to those?  You used to get a new one every year.”

Matt:  “I don’t know, but we seem to be doing just fine without them.  We don’t need them anymore now that everybody texts.  Although, they did have those ads in them for plumbers and stuff.”

Me:  “That’s right!  I forgot that there were businesses in there.  But if I need a plumber I can just google plumbers.”

Matt:  “I suppose you could, but I judge you for that.”

Me:  “You are very judgemental when it comes to plumbers.:

Matt:  “I feel passionately about the subject!  A man’s got to have a cause to fight for!”

Me:  “I suppose.”

Matt:  “Alright, I’ll call you later.”

Me:  “How will you get my number without a phone book?”

Matt:  “Touche.  But I’m just kidding, I’m not gonna call.”

Me:  “Oh, I’m not gonna miss you.”

See how nostalgic that could be?  And it would be the same with Favre.  The problem with holding on too long, is that inevitably our final memories involve the sad, like Brett Favre throwing sad interceptions and limping off the field like he’s me, or the sad phone book sitting on my doorstep, as if someone said to me, “Here, you throw this away.”  And I did, I put that phone book out of it’s misery, right into the trash can where it belongs.  If I respected it I would perhaps recycle it, but why is it my fault that someone still thinks this is a viable advertising medium?  Don’t judge me; after all, it’s not like I’m googling plumbers...

rossnation... out.

The Incredible Importance of Superpowers

So, it turns out that I’m a superhero.

Look, I’m as shocked as you are.  But before we all get carried away here (you know, expecting me to start fighting crime and responding to bat-signals) allow me to temper your excitement, because I’m not a “traditional” superhero.  They’re probably not going to make a movie about me.  I have no superpowers, per se (except the power of the written word, which doesn’t get the ladies all a-flutter.)  Chances are fair to middlin’ that I will not be on a lunchbox anytime soon.  Which is fine, because I don’t think they make those anymore.  Anyway, I’m more Clark Gable than Clark Kent.  Oh, why kid ourselves, probably more Clark Griswold.  

I guess what I’m saying is that I only have one superhero trait, but every superhero has it.  I have a nemesis.  This is not to be confused with an arch enemy, or the Swedish metal band Arch Enemy.  My nemesis is my worst enemy, my most hated rival.  Evil and perfect in all the ways I’m not; my exact opposite, especially when you consider that my nemesis is not a person.  It’s a utility pole.  (Yeah, a telephone pole, how’s that for a let down!)

Bear with me, unless you already checked out with that last sentence, and I can’t say I blame you.  But good things come to those who wait, or so the Heinz company would have us believe.  (Personally, I think that ad campaign was only necessary because they couldn’t figure out plastic bottles, and that’s just lazy.)  That said, at least ketchup has a worthy adversary.  My nemesis is so... incredibly lame, but this particular piece of dead tree just has it in for me, and I’m not really winning the war.  

I’ll set the stage for you.  On the hill behind our office, there is a street that progress has forgotten, and the utilities for the houses are still hung from an old, decrepit utility pole in one of the backyards.  If this utility pole were a person?  Betty White.  Still hanging in there, but no one really wants to put a ladder up there, ya’ feel me?  So for the sake of simplicity, we’re gonna call this telephone pole Betty.  Betty stands in the backyard of 230 ---- St, at the top of a hill that is actually three tiers, 30 or 40 feet above the street.  Betty is at the junction of two fences, so to climb with gaffs you have to stand on top of the fence and start there.  Carrying a 60 pound extension ladder up the hill is the other method of getting there; also not fun.  In the summer, I imagine it wouldn’t be that difficult or annoying of an assignment.  The problem is, I’ve never had to work on Betty in the summer.

I’ve worked at Time Warner for almost four years, and I’ve only had to access Betty during the winter, only in the dark, and only with snow on the ground.  And not once, every winter.  I’ve had to activate 234 twice, and disconnect it twice.  Two houses over, 242, also gets cable from Betty.  242 is occupied by Moscow’s finest college boys, who I think probably like to zip line on the cable when they’re drunk.  Plus the cable hangs under about 100 feet of tree branches which have a tendency to fall on the cable during the winter storms.  Long story short(er), that cable comes down every winter, and I always seem to get the job of hanging it back up.  Please don’t take this as complaining: I always have help, and I get paid a healthy wage and free cable to do it.  But it’s exhausting, and cold, and annoying to have to do it over and over again.

And I’m starting to resent Betty and her offensive cables.  She may be the most difficult pole in Moscow to get to, and she is conspiring to keep me coming back.  About ten times, so far.  She is trying to break me, like Lex Luther (in this analogy, I’m Superman; pretty sweet what you can do when you’re the one typing.) 

So maybe I’m not a superhero.  Maybe I’m reading too much into this.  But I will tell you this for certain: Superman would make a hell of a cable guy...

cable guy!!! out.

The Incredible Importance of Moral Obligation

According to Wikipedia (and let’s be honest with ourselves, this is where 90 percent of the world’s knowledge is housed) the phrase “moral obligation” is applied to an act that is perceived as part of a person’s belief system... and that’s about it.  Seriously, this is the website that brings us hard-hitting articles about impact wrenches, wenches as they apply to British sitcoms, and “Ridin’ Wild” the 1922 western film directed by Nat Ross and starring Hoot Gibson (aside, I am the only person to “like” this on Facebook.  Go ahead, check, I’m no liar.)  And yet Wikipedia can’t give me three lousy sentences on a simple turn-of-phrase.  

All whining aside, I was looking for information on the subject because it’s a weird combination of words.  And I thought of it when searching for a way to describe my recent dabbling in the world of all-you-can-eat sushi.  I think the theory probably applies to all forms of AYCE (BBQ, pizza, chinese, waffles, et al), which might be one of my favorite and least favorite concepts in the world.  All-you-can-eat is a man’s game.  It’s a battle of wits, for the princess, to the death...

I accept.  As did my father, my brother, and our friend Brian.  We did it without hesitation, or any thought to the prudence of the matter.  Boise being so close to the ocean, and thus famous the world over for its sushi skills, how could we go wrong?  Thus, we drop 25 dollars per for the opportunity to cram our mouths with as much Royal California, unagi, and yellowtail nigiri as we can possibly stomach.  In my younger days, it was a small amount for me; I simply didn’t like to eat raw what-nots, irregardless of the freshness or large amounts of soy and wasabi.  Also, I feel as if we’re sort of thumbing our noses at the guys who discovered fire.

And this is were “moral obligation” comes in.  Because that is how Grant and Brian treated that meal.  They knew that dad and I were weak, and would only eat slightly more than necessary to fill our tummies.  For them, it was then gut-check time (blam, double entendre).  It was their moral obligation to ensure that Yoi Tomo lost money, and the only way to offset the rest of us and the prohibitive cost of the hot tea (no bueno, by the way) was to eat their weight in raw foodstuffs.  Which is tough, because rice expands as we all know.  

It was an epic performance.  Even the server started to get a little bit rattled.  I don’t think she was used to such dedication to overindulgence.  But as I’ve said, it was their moral obligation to get dad’s money’s worth; Jesus wanted it that way.  I lost track of how many rolls we went through, but Grant and Brian must have taken down 15 to 20.  It was dining as moral obligation; far beyond working to eat, it was eating as work, and a sight to behold.  It was this type of dedication that sculpted the great pyramids, built the Oregon Trail, and took us to the moon.  So I’m excited to see what Brian and Grant are able to do when they apply their energy something more constructive than putting a sushi joint out of business.  Or maybe that in itself is a worthy goal: after all, if you open an AYCE restaurant, you’re just asking to be eaten out of house and home.  And I know just the men for the job.

rossnation... out.

The Incredible Importance of Beautiful Words (that aren't mine)

“Pay close attention, and write down everything I say, exactly as I say it.  The first book of Moses, called Genesis.  Chapter one, verse one.  In the Beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.  Verse Two.  And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.  And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.  Verse Three.  And God said, “Let there be light.” And there was light.”

“Dear Lord, thank you for giving me the strength and the conviction to complete the task you entrusted to me.  Thank you for guiding me straight and true through the many obstacles in my path.  And for keeping me resolute when all around seemed lost.  Thank you for your protection and for your many signs along the way.  Thank you for any good that I may have done, I’m so sorry about the bad.  Thank you for the friend I made.  Please watch over her as you’ve watched over me.  Thank you for finally allowing me to rest.  I’m so very tired.  But I go now to my rest, at peace, knowing I have done right with my time on this earth.  I fought the good fight, I finished the race.  I kept the faith.”

rossnation... defines and defies the universe

Who among the faithful is acquainted with the PBS show "NOVA"?  As a youngun' (not to be confused with a young gun) whose only real television choice was PBS, Nova seemed to have all the answers.  That was probably because of the flashy 80's graphics and the fact that it was on at night.  Turns out the best program on PBS was actually Square One TV, with Mathnet and it's incredibly realistic portrayal of the LAPD (they carried calculators in their shoulder holsters.)  Now that I'm older I see these things clearer, and realize that the world needs a new NOVA, and that's where rossnation... comes in.  So to the adoring public, we present the following theories:

• Black Holes -- Traditional science would have you believe that a black hole is an area of mass so dense that nothing can escape from it.  What Stephen Hawking won't tell you, though, is the truth: black holes are formed from enormous amounts of cheese.  I know, it makes so much sense now, right?  Think about how weird cheese is, and it's clear that we didn't invent it; cosmic intervention is the only possible explanation.  But don't get me started on how this cheese is harvested.  Let's just say there's a reason Tillamook can charge 13 dollars for a block of cheddar...*
• Antimatter -- This will blow your minds, both individually and collectively.  (Yes, rossnation... is a hive mind.  You know, like the Borg.)  Antimatter is the opposite of matter, supposedly.  But I find this too simplistic.  I think antimatter is nothing more than energy, and has a single purpose: it is the source of all rossnation... ideas.  I'd write an entire essay on this, but it's about as likely to be published as a children's book written by Michael Vick.
• The Bermuda Triangle -- This is nothing more than a joke that got out of hand.  I surmise that it was probably someone making fun of Bermudian's math skills (which are notoriously suspect, but they're good people), but was warped into the current conspiracy theories as a way to explain why so many people seemed to go to the Caribbean and never come back.  The real reason they were never heard from again is that it's warm there.
• Justin Bieber's Popularity -- Forget it, even I don't have an explanation...
• The Extinction of Dinosaurs -- My head tells me that the dinosaurs were obliterated by the climate change caused by a giant meteorite striking the earth.  If I'm not mistaken, this is also the plot line of The Land Before Time, so I may just be flashing on that movie.  What my heart tells me is slightly less believable: that the dinosaurs were actually hunted out of existence by - wait for it - Winston Churchill.  I can't really figure why he held so much animosity toward the dinosaurs, but I imagine it has something to do with not enough hugs as a child.

So there you have it, there's some definitions.  Have questions of your own that can't be answered with traditional science?  I'll accept submissions, and you can help us defy the universe.

rossnation... out.

*  According to Fish Master Matt Abrahamse, "All dairy products are better when reduced to a singularity."  I concur.  Also, is it a sign of the times that you can buy cheese on amazon.com?

The Incredible Importance of Saying Nice Things

I had a very Mark Twain-esque moment today.  It was one of those moments that is not really that funny, unless you think about it in a certain way.  (My way, that is.)  But no matter how you look at it, at the time it was hysterical, and no one is ever there to share the laugh with.  Let’s just say that Matt or Mike would have pooped on themselves had they been there.

Twain once said, “I can live for two months on a good compliment.”  I can certainly attest to that, and I think you’ll all agree.  A real and true compliment from someone - friend, foe, or complete stranger - is a game changer.  It’s a sad fact that in today’s culture a sincere compliment is a very rare thing, I think because most everybody is so incredibly self-centered.  Because of this, I find that when someone says something nice to me (i.e. “You are extremely handsome and talented.”) the rest of the day is about 5 degrees warmer, so to speak.  A sincere compliment can change someone’s week, and it costs nothing.  And it doesn’t even have to be intentional praise, as I discovered today at the laundromat.

First, a word about my laundromat, Sudzees.  It’s clean.  It’s warm.  It’s close to my house.  It has free wireless internet (so slow as to be unusable, but it’s the thought that counts.)  And it is generally not inundated with large, smelly trailer dwelling folk.  And (very) occasionally there is a lovely lady there, also cleansing her unmentionables.  Sudzees is the Peter Luger’s of laundromat’s.  

So Saturday is laundry day in rossnation..., a tradition that dates back all the way to last year.  Occasionally it has to happen on Sundays, depending on the level of apathy in the water.  But it must be done, as rossnation... lays claim to only 6 work shirts, and would prefer not to be known the world over as “the stinky cable guy.”  Thus, I found myself there today, cleaning my whatnots, when two older women approached me near the change machine with a pointed question: “Do you have a knife?”

The women were trying to open their detergent package, and being old, did not have teeth sharp enough to bite it open as I would probably have done.  Not to worry, though, as I just happened to have a pocket knife gifted to me from my sister and brother in law not one day before.  The timing could not have been more perfect, which leads me to believe that my density has bought me to you.  (Back to the Future reference.)

I know you’re in suspense, so I’ll allay that by telling you that I did open their detergent.  After all, I am a gentleman and a scholar, with many gentlemanly and scholarly things to do.  But it was the few seconds afterward that changed my day for the better, when out of the wind, one of the women said to me, “You didn’t strike us as a knife kind of man.”  Oh, be still my racing heart.

Her comment was so offhand that I almost didn’t catch it, and she clearly didn’t intend it as a compliment, but I couldn’t help but smile.  For some reason, it was very comforting to me to know that I don’t look like a person who carries a knife.  On the other hand, she might have meant, “You look like a person who can’t help.”  I think I’ll take it either way, because if I look useless, perhaps I won’t be bothered with the trivial.  But I opened the detergent, bowed deeply, and walked off into the sunset (and by sunset I mean the dryer section.)

The key here is that it made my day, and a compliment is such an easy thing to give.  And imagine how big a difference it can make if it’s thought out and intentional.  It can change the world, like Eric Clapton, except without the British-ness.  And it’s better that way.

rossnation... out.

The Incredible Importance of Loyalty

The Vandals need us.  They’ve never needed us more.  

We’re beyond the point of being able to call any loss “crushing,” simply because there have been so many losses in the last fifteen years.  But after today’s one-sided defeat against Nevada, I can feel the passion draining from Vandal fan’s souls, and I think we might be at a crossroads.  Now, far be it from me to suggest that I have any pull in the Vandal universe, so forgive me if I overstep my authority.  I am but a lowly alumnus with an opinion: Idaho is a hair away from returning to the dark ages of Vandal football, and if that happens it will be partly our fault - and mine - as fans.

When I say the dark ages, I am referring to my own experience, the dismal years following 1998 when the Vandal football team posted a record of 30-86 (1999-2008).  1999 was a better year than most people may realize, especially when you consider that an 8-5 record is merely above average, and a bowl win is cool, but not earth shaking.  Imagine the best meal you’ve ever eaten at Applebee’s, followed by a cone at Baskin Robbins.  (You’re not gonna write a column about it, is my point.)  But 1999 delivered something that I actually cherish more than wins: a head coach that I’m proud of.

I missed the salad days of Idaho coaches.  John L. Smith, Dennis Erickson (the first time), and Keith Gilbertson helmed Vandal teams of note, but what I got was Chris Tormey (interviewed him once: kinda of a jerk), Tom Cable (terrible coach, keeps getting better jobs somehow), Nick Holt (leaves for a better gig every two years), and Dennis Erickson (the liar).  Then comes along Robb Akey.  I was skeptical to the max, as the kids say.  After all, the man was a coach on one of the worst PacTen teams in history.  But Senor Akey is infectious.  He’s gotten under my skin with his passion and his perfect soundbites.  He makes me want to believe in Vandal football, that there are better days ahead, that mediocrity isn’t everything.  And now that I have that feeling I’m scared of losing him (insert weird comment here.)

But the awful truth is this: I wouldn’t stay if I was him either.  Not with the support that we give him.  I know Moscow’s a small town, but the Kibbie Dome is a small building, and filling it can be done.  (In related news, I’ve heard an inordinate amount of complaints about the way ticketing was handled for next week’s “game” against Boise State, but I don’t think anybody gets to complain if we don’t sell out every game against top 25 teams.)  Why would Coach Akey stay if we don’t show him that he’s wanted?  Yes, that probably includes a significant pay raise, but money is less of a concern than showing up.  Playing for a half-full dome can’t be uplifting.  

On the flip side, how incredible would it be if in 25 years, we were Penn State.  I know that Joe Paterno’s teams have not been dominant recently, but the man has won 400 football games, 24 bowl games, and two national championships.  He has been the head coach at Pennsylvania State University for sixty one years.  He is 84 years old, and still stalks the sidelines of Happy Valley as often as his legs will allow him.  This is loyalty at its finest.  Over the last year I have realized that loyalty (aka, commitment) may be the most important human quality that we possess.  Or not possess, sadly.  And that’s why, speaking only for myself, Joe Paterno is a hero.  He’s a man with a passion for his work, for his employers, for his students and for his supporters, and doesn’t exhibit an ounce of selfishness.  I sense the same aura from Robb Akey, and I want (perhaps naively) to see it even more in a quarter century.  That kind of loyalty from him, and from us as fans and alumni, is what turns a mediocre program into a juggernaut.  It can be done, but it isn’t easy and it doesn’t come cheap, and it won’t happen overnight.  It will happen when we decide that being there for the team is important, every week, for every snap, for every rendition of Go Vandals.  When we tell them they’re important by staying for the last whistle, even though it means getting stuck in traffic leaving the parking lot.  When we do that, Coach will have good reason to think twice when the University of Whatnot comes calling with a bigger program and bigger wallet and a bigger...well, you know.  When, not if, that happens we’ve got to make a stand for our coach, and be able to tell him, without a hint of inconsistency, that we are behind him to the end.

These principles apply to so many more parts of life, but that’s material for a different rant.  The nuts of this column are a call to arms for all Vandal fans, alums, or Moscow indifferants.  Let’s stop acting like football is just a game (even though it is), and treat our Vandals as a student that we’re trying to raise to be the President of the United States.  It takes all of us to make that happen, by showing up, always, even if the game doesn’t matter.  It takes all of us telling Coach Akey that we believe in his talent as a coach, and that we want him here.  It takes all of us yelling ourselves hoarse, even if we’re down by double digits, to tell the players that we believe in their talent and drive, and that win or lose we will be with them next week, and next season, and the season after that.  If we do that, they’ll talk about Idaho football on SportsCenter with the reverence they used to reserve for Notre Dame.  

And in ten years (or so), Idaho will beat Boise State again.  And this is my prayer, that we’ll prove them wrong.  BSU will want to play in the Dome, because they have a worthy opponent there, or they will fear the Dome, because they have a butt-whooping waiting for them inside.  I want to be part of that.

Until next time then.  rossnation... out.

The Incredible Importance of Next Year

    The refrain of Cub’s fans everywhere has always been, “Well, there’s always next season.”  I don’t know what it is about Cub’s fans that makes them so innately optimistic and pessimistic at the same time, but whatever it is I seem to have contracted it, and it is a most displeasing feeling. 
    It’s a phrase that reeks of sadness and resignation.  There’s a comparable phrase outside of the baseball world that has the same feel to it: “Tis’ better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.”  Borrowing from the great George Will, this is nonsense on stilts.  Anyone who has lost knows that ignorance would have been preferable to pain.  And it turns out, this is just as true in baseball.  I once stated that I fell in love with a team that would never be good enough to break my heart.  But then the sky fell in, and the Texas Rangers were just good enough (and just lucky enough) to get to the World Series.  All of a sudden, life isn’t so simple anymore.
    I thought I wanted the Rangers to go to the World Series.  And I knew, from my teeth to my toenails, that they were going to win.  They had won on the road in Tampa.  They’d beaten - nay, torched! - the hated Yankees.  They were as hot as a Texas PWI in August (but less humid.)  The Rangers were unstoppable, and my spirits were indomitable (forgive me if this writing is abominable.)  What could go wrong?
    Here’s what: life does what it wants.  I have no control over it, and thus no control over the happenings of baseball.  And then the Rangers lost the World Series in five games, behind mediocre pitching and truly sad hitting.  It was so one-sided, I am convinced that there was a conspiracy.  Here’s what rossnation... thinks.
    I think you can draw your own conclusion from this factoid: Giants outfielder Jose Guillen has been tied to performance enhancing drugs.  Even though he wasn’t on their postseason roster, this clearly implicates every Giant.  Plus, this is the team that tolerated Barry Bonds for all those years.  You do the algebra...
    Actually, that’s all I’ve got, and now that it’s in print it looks a little bit flimsy.  Ah, never mind.  Let’s face it, the Rangers got worked.  And I think from now I’d be just fine with going back to the old ways.  It was easier when they led the division at the all-star break and then lost 16 in a row because the bullpen had an ERA of 12.6.  When they didn’t make the playoffs, I could move on to other things in September.  It was a simpler time.  But now I’ve tasted the forbidden fruit that is the World Series, and now October won’t matter unless Texas is in the hunt.  And this makes me as bad as the Scott Mahurin’s of the world, with their Red Sox Fever and whatnot. 
    Sighhhhhhhh... I’m already tired.  But, hey, there's always next season!

rossnation... down and out.

What Once Was (Small Group Edition)

Are you listening closely?  I'm only going to say this once.

The stars are aligning, conspiring against me.  And worse yet, they're conspiring against my brother.  Me and He are a lot alike, in the one way that matters: we love the same things.  The Vandals, the Rangers, the Cowboys, and our hatred for Boise State football.  And because of these Four Pillars of rossnation..., this year has the potential for more pain than all previous seasons combined, and I'm not sure if I'm emotionally prepared.
It breaks down thusly.

1. The 2010 Vandals are average to slightly above average, but they're still looking at getting shellacked twice more this season.  Nevada and Boise State both have compelling reasons to put up a 70-spot on us.  Add in the very real possibility that the Idaho/BSU game will never happen again in the majestic yet confining confines of our beloved Kibbie Dome, and you've got a recipe for pain.  
2. The Texas Rangers are not expected to pull out a postseason win against the Yankees, but they are the only reasonable hope I have for magic.  So either they win the pennant, or they lose to the Yankees, which is akin to losing the Cold War for me.  Or am I being over dramatic?
3. The Cowboys have a top 5 defense and a top five offense, and they are 1 and 4 on the season.  In layman's terms, they sucketh.
4. The entire college football landscape seems to be in cahoots, beating up on each other to the point where BSU could potentially be the only unbeaten team left.  If they were to win the national title, this would be the worst thing that could possibly happen, ever.  Like if Red Dawn actually happened, except worse because we wouldn't have Patrick Swayze to defend us.
5. My young friend Jordyn guessed my age at 38 today.  I am not.
6. I had a conference call today with the Rent's small group.  LIKE A BOSS!

All told, there's a lot of things that could go wrong this fall, and the sum of these is a ton of hurt for the Gibson boys.  The only thing that will redeem a year like this will be the immensely successful launch of the rossnation... PWI.  And then we'll be making it rain in the club.

Or whatever.

rossnation... out.

Addendum to What Once Was (Playoff Edition)

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I hate the Yankees.

What Once Was (Playoff Edition)

Last night I got to watch (in HD) the most significant sporting event of my life.  Not the most significant ever -- that would be hubris -- but for a young-at-heart-Texan-by-birth, watching the Texas Rangers win a playoff series in a deciding game was a revelation.  (Side note, the Miracle on Ice is probably the most significant, but I was negative two months old.  Mom didn't have HD in the womb.)
My first memory of any kind probably involves baseball.  But for sure, my first memory of sports involves the Texas Rangers.  Being born in Dallas gave me a birthright of sorts: the "gift" of falling head over cleats in love with a team that would never be good enough to break my heart.  I'll admit to dabbling in Oakland A's fandom in the late 80's, but we were all taken in by Jose Canseco's muscles, and Dennis Eckersley's mustache.  But my whole life I've been enamored of the red and blue, the extreme heat of a game in Arlington, taking my glove to the stadium, and Nolan Ryan (the greatest pitcher in the history of pitchers.)
The Rangers (nee Washington Senators) moved to Texas in 1972, which means 38 years of utter futility.  Before October 12, 2010 the Rangers were the only major league team that hadn't won a postseason series; that makes them the least successful team ever, kind of.  They've been to the playoffs three times in my life, and lost to the Yankees each time.  This is where my hatred for the Yankees originates, but it doesn't stop there.  And for a long time, I actually held the (semi) misguided idea that the Rangers actually lost when I was watching.  They always seemed to find ways to lose, like whoever was fighting Rocky.  At any rate, I've always loved the Rangers, and have always expected the worst.  Tonight was no different; they were in danger of dropping a third straight game to the Rays and effectively ending my baseball season, thus forcing me to place all of my hopes on the Dallas Cowboys.  Not an appetizing proposition.  This is the choice between waffles and cauliflower.  Gross.
But it didn't happen the way it usually does.  They got timely hits.  They ran with abandon.  The Rangers were even the beneficiary of a horrific call by the first base umpire.  But first and foremost, they had a pitcher.  A player they weren't afraid to send out every inning.  Even in the glory days of Nolan Ryan, I never knew if he was going to throw a no-hitter or get shelled for 8 runs in 3 innings.  But for some reason, Cliff Lee makes me feel totally safe.  And that is an uncomfortable feeling for a worrier.
When Elvis Andrus didn't drop a routine popup, thus winning the series, I didn't feel what expected.  I expected to feel a sense of euphoria, a sublime happiness that I would struggle to explain herein.  Instead, what I felt was more akin to ... contentment.  Like being with someone that you love, and not caring if there's something fun to do, or something good on tv.  You're just good.  This is only important because it made me realize what true happiness is: your team winning once every 40 years, an idea for a great invention*, and a nice pen.

rossnation... will try to explain himself later.

*PWI

Return of the Mack (I'm the Mack, btw)

I used to be wicked skinny.  Actually, scrawny might be a more appropriate word.  Consider this: in high school I could do pushups for days, because there was hardly anything to push up.  I have since "grown up."  (Or out, if you will, and I imagine you will, because rossnation... requires it.)

And all this was before I discovered the world's greatest weight loss program.  Please understand, I did not invent this program.  There is nothing new under the sun*, as the saying goes.  But I'm here to tell you that there is no better way to shed 20 ell bees, and it doesn't involve liposuction, treadmills/ellipticals, gym memberships, Dexatrim, or eating disorders.  All you need is 10 weeks in the world's hottest and least forgiving climate, and the will to survive.  In 1998, I had the former, and God gave me the latter.

Please let me clarify a few things for you.  To begin with, the rossnation... weight loss experience (rWLE) is neither easy nor cheap.  It will cost a fortune, actually, but is well worth it.  First, you need a plane ticket; Salt Lake City to Dallas, Dallas to Miami, Miami to Chicago, Chicago to Frankfurt, Frankfurt to Bombay, Bombay to New Delhi, New Delhi to Calcutta.  (This is the preferred route, but it can be adjusted; I've heard tale of flights that don't originate in SLC.)

Next, you need to take this trip in the summer.  The rWLE isn't nearly as effective when it's snowing in Canada.  I got off the plane in India in the dead of night, and it was over 100 degrees.  And as humid as Houston in August (and Mom and Dad wonder why I only visit at Christmas).  I've never experienced something comparable to it, and there's no need for a metaphor.  All I need say is that is was so hot/humid that I would be drenched in sweat immediately after getting out of the shower.  I was probably dry for a total of three hours that summer.  But now, rossnation... chooses not to sweat.

Step three is not a sure thing, but certainly a good bet.  Any guesses?  If you said giardia, you get a cookie.  (You'll have to buy the cookie yourself though; I ate all of my cookies.)  I'll never know exactly how I got my little friend, or my Dark Passenger, as I like to call it.  I was careful not to drink the water, but it turns out that protozoa don't care how cautious we are.  I'm actually pretty sure that protozoa don't have souls, but I'm researching it thoroughly, as I do with everything I write here.  At any rate, giardia makes for one helluva companion.  (We've been together 12 years now, and she keeps getting on me about forgetting anniversaries and writing thank you notes.)  I'm betting that any kind of stomach ailment will do just fine for your own rWLE.  Just as long as you're sick, that is the key.

If you're a huge fan of Indian food, the rWLE is probably not for you.  I wouldn't try to lose weight by living next to an In n' Out Burger.  But seeing how I don't especially care for curry and rice, I wasn't tempted to binge.  In fact, all I could really bring myself to eat was soup (aside, soup isn't really an Indian culinary specialty.)  Though I'm fairly certain that I may have eaten dog while I was there; no proof, but I've not eaten anything like it to this day.

The last step is the easiest.  You walk everywhere.  FYI, you can do this part at home, it's just not nearly as effective.  (Do you like how I just told you that exercise is possible in the US?  I thought so.  I DO WHAT I WANT!)  5 to 10 miles a day will do the trick.  

So, would you like to lose 20 pounds, even if you don't have it to spare?  Combine one part extreme heat with one dash of Mahatma's Revenge, stir in a dollop of undereating and a gallon of exercise daily.  (I think a food analogy is appropriate.)  You too can go from a trim 150 to a sparse 130.  This program is endorsed by Skeletor, and the funny looking kid in the picture.  Anyone else think it's ironic that the Indian street kid is fatter than me?

rossnation... out.

*Or so the Germans would have us believe.

Babs as Inspiration?

In an attempt to goad the ross into writing a new column (or blog, as he called it... not sure what that is), the hoot posted this to my facebook:

Blog please. Do you need a topic? Barbara Striesand.

I don't know about you, but I find no inspiration in this.  (Nor will rossnation... be bullied into writing.  IDOWHATIWANT!)  Barbara Streisand awakens only painful memories in the depths of a tortured soul, the detritus of a misspent youth, forced upon a young the ross by a domineering older sister who loves musicals.  Let's just be clear about this: it's all Amy's fault.  She was the one who made me watch Hello, Dolly hundreds of times.  Sadly, I don't think that's an exaggeration.  In more news, there is actually a comma in the title of that movie, and it's Amy's fault that I know that, too.  And that I know most of the lyrics.  And that I love Walter Mathau.  And that I know that beyond this hick town, Barnaby, there's a slick town, Barnaby.

What else did she force on me?  How many of you know the words to The Sound of Music?  Maybe a fair amount.  How about My Fair Lady?  (Transition joke.)  Guys, who among you has sat through Gone With The Wind?  More than once?  This guy.  I also have two thumbs.  (Backward joke.)  Pillow Talk with Rock Hudson and Doris Day?  Grease.  Dirty Dancing.  Sixteen Candles.  Sigh.....  so much time lost.  Come to think of it, I don't really remember getting to watch anything that I wanted!  And why, when I've pretty much always been bigger than Amy?  When I was born, I was already bigger than her!  That is factual, ask my mom.  rossnation... is a nation of truth.

So this is why I'm not inspired by Barbara Streisand.  She, Julie Andrews, Molly Ringwald, et al, stole my childhood.  And the Mathau is gone.  That might not be Amy's fault...

rossnation... out

"The News from Moscow" or "What Once Was"

This is much better if you read it in Garrison Keilor's voice.  Actually, everything is...

Well, it's been a quiet week in Moscow, Idaho, my home town, out on the edge of the Palouse.  The students are back after what seems like an unseasonably short summer break.  Less than three months ago, they packed up their dorm rooms and apartments and loaded their earthly possessions into uhauls (or the family horse trailer) and took off.  Most of them couldn't hie out of here fast enough, they high fived their friends and hit the gas, headed for the parents' house, summer jobs and laziness, and the promise of a hot sun to bake under.  It reminds me of the summer of 2001, when I had finished my third year of college, and I was closing in on a degree in geography.  This would prove to be folly later on, but at the time I was going to light the world on fire with my map making.  That summer was my internship, 10 dollars an hour working at the Idaho National Engineering and Environmental Laboratory.  It was supposed to be the launching pad to a high paying career in the fast paced world of computer mapping, the real rat race.  Geographers are known the world over for their hard living so you can see the attraction.  

I found that summer that it wasn't the ideal job, in the sense that it required me to wake up at ungodly hours like 6 am, and to input numbers into an Excel spreadsheet for 10 hours at a time, I had been lied to.  It also required that I live in Idaho Falls for three months, a prospect that I seemed OK with at the time, but now I doubt I could stomach.  Not that I have anything against the town, but by this time I had been acclimatized to Moscow, it's a different life.  But I also found that despite a full adult workweek I had plenty of downtime, and so went in search of a second summer job to fill my hours and my pockets.

What I came up with was Yen Ching, Idaho Falls' newest Chinese eatery.  I couldn't even tell you if it's still open, but I can say with certainty that it was about the strangest business I've ever been a part of.  YC was owned by Chinese people.  The cooks were Mexican.  The wait staff were high school age girls, all, of course, with boyfriends serving their Mormon missions.  And I was the 21 year old delivery driver.  It would make a great sitcom, and I think we'd have to call it "Chinese Checkers."  

Monday through Thursday from 7 to 6 I typed numbers into a computer, and Friday through Sunday and some weeknights I delivered Chinese food to the hungry people of Idaho Falls.  This is the kind of thing you do as a student on summer break, and so it's no wonder that they're so excited to get back to Moscow, and that's what they've done this past week.  First came the freshman, new students desperate to get away from their parents and assert their independence but scared to death to be on their own.  Their parents bring them en masse, parking haphazardly all across Moscow, in the middle of the street sometimes, seemingly just to get in my way as I drive around in my unmistakable purple cable van.  A few days later the upperclassmen come back and move into their new apartments, which are just now recovering from the last battle with the student body.  Many of them are first time renters, and for most of them this is the day they realize that they need TV service, and more importantly Internet.  So they call the good people at Time Warner, not realizing that ten thousand people just like them moved into the area within a few days, and therefore not understanding why it would take two or even three weeks for a technician to come and install these services.  And so even though we're ready for it, we know they're coming, we still end up in the same position every year.  Working the dreaded ten hour day, 15 technicians doing nothing but installing Internet and TV for people who may or may not go to class on the second day because of my work.  This is the life that we lead here in Moscow, as the days turn into increasingly cold nights and the students begin to look forward to the next break.  It's been one week of school and they're already looking ahead to Thanksgiving.  And right now I'm everyone's favorite person; in a month I'm just the cable guy.  But hey, it's a living.

That's the news from Moscow, where all the women are too young, all the men are saucy, and all the children are hippies.

rossnation... out.