There are so many risk factors to take into account when deciding to have a baby; the need to take medication for a chronic condition adds an unavoidably stressful element to the mix. We went through this, knowing that the medications Cheryl was on added to the risks of birth defects to a non-trivial degree. We wrestled with the issue before having the kids, knowing that we were taking larger chance than normal of bringing children into the world who would have special needs. A very unfeeling genetic advisor with whom we met several years before Kelly came along was particularly harsh in her assessment of our chances of having a normal baby. Cheryl left that meeting in tears, and I with a rock in my stomach, considering the future with fear rather than hope.
Nevertheless, we took the chance, and Cheryl and her doctors chose medications that were the least likely to cause defects. Cheryl loaded up on folic acid to enahance early embrionic development and avoid spina bifida, a common affect of certain anti-seizure medications. Cheryl also went through lots of extra tests during both pregnancies (although no amniocentesis either time), and everything always turned out the way it should. Still, we held our breath all the way through until we could hold the kids in our arms and see for sure that they were healthy and normal. Because Downs Syndrome is another one of the primary birth defects caused by Cheryl's medications, seeing Kelly's red hair gave me a real scare until the APGAR tests came back perfect a few minutes later. Thankfully, both Kelly and Michael arrived in perfect condition, and they have been nothing but a blessing to us ever since.
Over time, Cheryl's old medications have lost their effectiveness. She has been on a slow crossfade to a new medication over the past couple of years. Our lives will probably follow that pattern: use a new drug for ten years or so until her body no longer responds to it, then transition to some new drug that was developed during the course of those years. I am glad that our child-bearing days are over, though, as word has just come down that Cheryl's primary drug now, Lamictal, is showing evidence that it causes birth defects to a significant degree. While nearly every drug carries with it an elevated risk of birth defects, these recent findings appear to be new and more serious than the usual increased risk.
Pregnancy, while usually a joyous time, is stressful enough without the mother knowing that something she must ingest for her own well-being could harm that young life growing inside her. We held our collective breath through both of our pregancies and were blessed with no complications. If we were in the position to have kids now, knowing of these elevated risks, I think the decision to proceed would be much more difficult than it was, and the pregancy itself would be much more scary. I feel bad for other women who must face these questions.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Objects On Your Shelf May Be Smaller Than They Appear
It has been a major peeve of mine over the years that the products we buy, particularly at the grocery store, have become smaller without an attendant reduction in price. It is a relative of the classic drug pusher scenario: you get hooked on the good stuff, then they go on to charge you more for less.
The first experience with this that I recall had to do with Kudo bars, the chocolate covered granola-ish snacks. These things were a revelation when they appeared in the 1980s: candy bars that Mom would put in your lunch! I have no hard evidence to back this up, but my subjective impression has always been that a few years after they were introduced, the size of the bars was reduced. They still packed the same number of bars in the box, but each had gone on a diet.
Ice cream has quite clearly gone on the product decontentization program. Remember half-gallons? The standard, rectangular box of ice cream? The freezer section of your local grocer still holds those, but the trendy brands like Breyers and Dreyers put out their product in little boxes that look like half gallons ... but are not. Like my favorite here:
It comes in the handy size of 1.75 quarts. The silent switch away from the half gallon has apparently been going on for a little while now. The manufacturers are pretty blunt about their motivation. The linked article quotes a spokesman as saying "do you raise the unit price or reduce the unit?" Brilliant! Pay more for less.
It seems someone else is interested in silly marketing techniques as well. This site tracks what it terms "mouseprint," the too-small-to-read fine print found in just about every product advertisement these days. I like the toilet paper package that promises the same number of squares as before, but doesn't mention that each square is smaller than it used to be. Or the "quart" of mayonnaise that is now 30 oz. rather than 32 oz. This post, in particular, describes clearly the phenomenon I'm talking about.
The manufacturers continually claim that these measures are taken to avoid a price increase. Really? Does that mean that no price increases will follow for a while in the future to make up for the reduction in product? Certainly not. The standard upward creep of pricing can continue without pause, not giving a break to the buyer, while the manufacturer can reap the benefit of the big jump in profit margin.
We are all just grocery-buying frogs in the big stew pot, failing to notice how warm it's been getting lately, while clever marketing wizards stand at the controls, turning up the heat ever so gradually while telling us that they are giving us what we really wanted.
What I want is my missing .25 quarts of ice cream.
The first experience with this that I recall had to do with Kudo bars, the chocolate covered granola-ish snacks. These things were a revelation when they appeared in the 1980s: candy bars that Mom would put in your lunch! I have no hard evidence to back this up, but my subjective impression has always been that a few years after they were introduced, the size of the bars was reduced. They still packed the same number of bars in the box, but each had gone on a diet.
Ice cream has quite clearly gone on the product decontentization program. Remember half-gallons? The standard, rectangular box of ice cream? The freezer section of your local grocer still holds those, but the trendy brands like Breyers and Dreyers put out their product in little boxes that look like half gallons ... but are not. Like my favorite here:
It comes in the handy size of 1.75 quarts. The silent switch away from the half gallon has apparently been going on for a little while now. The manufacturers are pretty blunt about their motivation. The linked article quotes a spokesman as saying "do you raise the unit price or reduce the unit?" Brilliant! Pay more for less.
It seems someone else is interested in silly marketing techniques as well. This site tracks what it terms "mouseprint," the too-small-to-read fine print found in just about every product advertisement these days. I like the toilet paper package that promises the same number of squares as before, but doesn't mention that each square is smaller than it used to be. Or the "quart" of mayonnaise that is now 30 oz. rather than 32 oz. This post, in particular, describes clearly the phenomenon I'm talking about.
The manufacturers continually claim that these measures are taken to avoid a price increase. Really? Does that mean that no price increases will follow for a while in the future to make up for the reduction in product? Certainly not. The standard upward creep of pricing can continue without pause, not giving a break to the buyer, while the manufacturer can reap the benefit of the big jump in profit margin.
We are all just grocery-buying frogs in the big stew pot, failing to notice how warm it's been getting lately, while clever marketing wizards stand at the controls, turning up the heat ever so gradually while telling us that they are giving us what we really wanted.
What I want is my missing .25 quarts of ice cream.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Happy 5th Birthday, Michael!
This is one of those years when we lost our sanity and invited everybody Michael knows, or has met, or has seen from across a street somewhere. Thankfully, these days parents can relieve themselves of the burden of organizing clever games to entertain a score of restless pre-kindergartners by ordering a jumphouse. A portable amusement park that we did not have as kids, the state of the art of bounce houses has advanced significantly in the five years since we had one of these kinds of parties for Kelly (after which we vowed never to do it again. Short memories.). Whereas Kelly's bounce house was a basic square, Michael's had a main bounce area, with an interior ladder that led to an exterior slide. Very slick, and amazingly effective at keeping a whole bunch of small children occupied for more than an hour.
(The weird light is due to the large quantity of smoke in the air from our regional fires.)
Then a quick stop for pizza and cake before more bouncing. No untoward reappearances of dinner were reported.
After everyone left (and left Michael's loot), it was family time for opening presents. The force was clearly with Michael this year.
And for a final demonstration at how much the big media companies control us, here is Michael, courtesy of Disney, Warner Bros. and 20th Century Fox:
(The weird light is due to the large quantity of smoke in the air from our regional fires.)
Then a quick stop for pizza and cake before more bouncing. No untoward reappearances of dinner were reported.
After everyone left (and left Michael's loot), it was family time for opening presents. The force was clearly with Michael this year.
And for a final demonstration at how much the big media companies control us, here is Michael, courtesy of Disney, Warner Bros. and 20th Century Fox:
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
An Overdue Memoriam
I believe that most people can identify at least one teacher in their educational experience who had a particularly notable impact on their lives, whether in the academic arena or simply in growing up. I was fortunate to grow up in an area that was famously and rightly proud of the quality of its public education system, although I think the district's successes had as much to do with the importance placed on education by the many highly educated parents that lived there, in what was only beginning to be known as Silicon Valley. We are told that iron sharpens iron; I believe that it was the high standards and motivational level of my classmates, particularly in high school, that shaped much of who I was as a student. Our efforts were matched, however, by many of our teachers, who fed off of our competitiveness and pushed us to achieve great things. For some reason, I managed to avoid several of the duds my sister had.
One teacher has always stood out in my mind as one who gave me confidence in myself that, as a 13 year old, I did not come by easily. Jim Grayson was my seventh grade English and History teacher at Cupertino Junior High School. Our class, if I remember correctly, met for a double-length period in an unusually oversized classroom. Mr. Grayson enjoyed engaging his students in large, creative projects. One of those projects, something that I doubt would be attempted today due to the subject matter, was an essay assignment entitled "Fight After School." (I suppose the assignment was in conjunction with life lessons about how to deal with difficult social issues, although I do not recall that specifically.) Mr. Grayson set up the scenario, which I think involved a bully, and we were to finish the story.
I dutifully produced my story, which was takes a surprisingly violent turn. It makes me wonder just a little about my view of the world at the time. The basic storyline was that the big confrontation with the bully ended prematurely when the scared, pick-on kid accidentally stabs himself with the knife he had hidden in his pocket. I think I was intrigued by how difficult it is to project force when you are not accustomed to doing so.
The amazing development for me was not just that I received an A+. Mr. Grayson also selected my story to be the one that the class would film, for which I worked as an assistant director of sorts. While immensely flattering, I remember nothing about the filming, other than the fact that he used Paul McCartney's "Live and Let Die" as the theme song. It was the first time I had ever heard the tune; I thought it was a pretty weird choice at the time, but I have had a soft spot in my heart for it ever since.
What I will never, ever forget, though, were the words he wrote at the top of my paper in clear red ink: "Someday I will pay to read your writing." To be shown that kind of esteem by an adult was a very new experience at the time, and humbles me to this day. Does any teacher know the full extent of their potential impact when they write something like that? It is life-changing. I had been a successful student writer to that point already, having participated with some success in Brotherhood Essay contests and young writers' fair events, but Mr. Grayson's words solidified something deep within me. That I instantly acquired an unshakeable confidence in my own ability to write was only part of the story; Mr. Grayson also solidified something about my own view of myself. (Of course, the wit in me says Mr. Grayson could have been proven correct if he had just paid my retainer fee, but somehow I don't think that is what he meant.)
Society at large today frets often about the eroding self-confidence of young people. Yet, there is perhaps nothing an adult can do to prepare an youth to be the confident adult we all hope he will be than to express genuine admiration for something that child can do. I refer not to the all-too-common practice now of giving out real or virtual trophies to everyone for just showing up. Kids see through that; they know that when everyone is special, nobody is special (one of the best lines of the excellent movie "The Incredibles"). What everyone craves is for someone they respect to respond positively, genuinely, to something they do. Whether it is solving difficult math problems or setting the table just so, the payoff of the heartfelt approval of an adult can be felt far out of proportion to the effort required of the adult to give it. (Sadly, the same principle applies to mean-spirited cricism.) I was very lucky to have Mr. Grayson give me that kind of boost.
I ran across a box the other day that contains a lot of my old schoolwork, including my "Fight After School" paper. I had not remembered that I still had it in my possession, and was suprised and delighted to see it again. It got me to thinking about Mr. Grayson again, and how much he deserved to hear how much his words, which took him only a few seconds to write, influenced the rest of my life. Unfortunately, it turns out that I'm almost seven years too late. Mr. Grayson passed away after a quick fight with cancer in February 2000. Reading about him in the local paper, I see even more clearly how he could have a lasting impact on a student's life. He was a life-long teacher, he mentored other teachers, and was named Teacher of the Year for the district the year before he died. According to the article linked above, his friends remembered his teaching style: "He told kids they would succeed, and they believed him and performed up to his standards." Quite true.
What I find equally amazing about all of this is that at the time I was his student, he was the age I am now. First, I thought he was a pretty old guy (whoops). Second, would I have the sensitivity, foresight and wisdom to nuture a student the way he nutured me, if I were in his shoes? I would like to think so, but that seems to have been his unique talent.
Sorry I'm so tardy, Mr. Grayson, but thank you.
One teacher has always stood out in my mind as one who gave me confidence in myself that, as a 13 year old, I did not come by easily. Jim Grayson was my seventh grade English and History teacher at Cupertino Junior High School. Our class, if I remember correctly, met for a double-length period in an unusually oversized classroom. Mr. Grayson enjoyed engaging his students in large, creative projects. One of those projects, something that I doubt would be attempted today due to the subject matter, was an essay assignment entitled "Fight After School." (I suppose the assignment was in conjunction with life lessons about how to deal with difficult social issues, although I do not recall that specifically.) Mr. Grayson set up the scenario, which I think involved a bully, and we were to finish the story.
I dutifully produced my story, which was takes a surprisingly violent turn. It makes me wonder just a little about my view of the world at the time. The basic storyline was that the big confrontation with the bully ended prematurely when the scared, pick-on kid accidentally stabs himself with the knife he had hidden in his pocket. I think I was intrigued by how difficult it is to project force when you are not accustomed to doing so.
The amazing development for me was not just that I received an A+. Mr. Grayson also selected my story to be the one that the class would film, for which I worked as an assistant director of sorts. While immensely flattering, I remember nothing about the filming, other than the fact that he used Paul McCartney's "Live and Let Die" as the theme song. It was the first time I had ever heard the tune; I thought it was a pretty weird choice at the time, but I have had a soft spot in my heart for it ever since.
What I will never, ever forget, though, were the words he wrote at the top of my paper in clear red ink: "Someday I will pay to read your writing." To be shown that kind of esteem by an adult was a very new experience at the time, and humbles me to this day. Does any teacher know the full extent of their potential impact when they write something like that? It is life-changing. I had been a successful student writer to that point already, having participated with some success in Brotherhood Essay contests and young writers' fair events, but Mr. Grayson's words solidified something deep within me. That I instantly acquired an unshakeable confidence in my own ability to write was only part of the story; Mr. Grayson also solidified something about my own view of myself. (Of course, the wit in me says Mr. Grayson could have been proven correct if he had just paid my retainer fee, but somehow I don't think that is what he meant.)
Society at large today frets often about the eroding self-confidence of young people. Yet, there is perhaps nothing an adult can do to prepare an youth to be the confident adult we all hope he will be than to express genuine admiration for something that child can do. I refer not to the all-too-common practice now of giving out real or virtual trophies to everyone for just showing up. Kids see through that; they know that when everyone is special, nobody is special (one of the best lines of the excellent movie "The Incredibles"). What everyone craves is for someone they respect to respond positively, genuinely, to something they do. Whether it is solving difficult math problems or setting the table just so, the payoff of the heartfelt approval of an adult can be felt far out of proportion to the effort required of the adult to give it. (Sadly, the same principle applies to mean-spirited cricism.) I was very lucky to have Mr. Grayson give me that kind of boost.
I ran across a box the other day that contains a lot of my old schoolwork, including my "Fight After School" paper. I had not remembered that I still had it in my possession, and was suprised and delighted to see it again. It got me to thinking about Mr. Grayson again, and how much he deserved to hear how much his words, which took him only a few seconds to write, influenced the rest of my life. Unfortunately, it turns out that I'm almost seven years too late. Mr. Grayson passed away after a quick fight with cancer in February 2000. Reading about him in the local paper, I see even more clearly how he could have a lasting impact on a student's life. He was a life-long teacher, he mentored other teachers, and was named Teacher of the Year for the district the year before he died. According to the article linked above, his friends remembered his teaching style: "He told kids they would succeed, and they believed him and performed up to his standards." Quite true.
What I find equally amazing about all of this is that at the time I was his student, he was the age I am now. First, I thought he was a pretty old guy (whoops). Second, would I have the sensitivity, foresight and wisdom to nuture a student the way he nutured me, if I were in his shoes? I would like to think so, but that seems to have been his unique talent.
Sorry I'm so tardy, Mr. Grayson, but thank you.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Yeah, What Have You Done Lately, MIT?
Proving yet again my prescience for choosing the university on America's Riviera as my institution of higher learning, UC Santa Barbara announced today that it and Intel have developed the world's first hybrid silicon laser. I'm not exactly sure what that means, but it says "hybrid" in there, so it must be cool and trendy.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
People Braver Than I, In A Totally Useless Way
Have you ever struggled to understand performance art? Does it usually involve too much self-mutilation and/or debasement for your taste? Did you not quite "get" Andy Kaufman? There is a group of clever hipsters out there who make it okay, even fun, to enjoy bizarre, semi-comedic performance art.
This troupe of loosely affiliated comedians calls itself Improv Everywhere. Their gig is performing benign, amusing acts in the middle of ordinary places, usually by engaging in slightly odd behavior while appearing to be otherwise quite ordinary. The joke comes from how unsuspecting civilians react to them. It will take you some time to read these accounts, but I assure you that you will find at least one of them at least slightly amusing. In one "mission," a guy gets lost on his way back to his seat at a baseball game, much to the eventual concern of most of the upper deck at Yankee Stadium. In another mission, the troupe amusingly invades a Best Buy. In another harmless assault on a big retailer, the troupe infiltrates a Home Depot; don't miss the video clip with the action accelerated. I believe I may have actually heard of these folks last year when they put on a faux rooftop U2 concert.
I have to admit that I love the creativity and generally harmless sense of mischief that these "missions" involve. I also have to admit that there is no way I would be inclined to participate. I'm sure that reveals some deep psychological truth about me, but that's okay. That's why these people exist to do these things, so I don't have to.
This troupe of loosely affiliated comedians calls itself Improv Everywhere. Their gig is performing benign, amusing acts in the middle of ordinary places, usually by engaging in slightly odd behavior while appearing to be otherwise quite ordinary. The joke comes from how unsuspecting civilians react to them. It will take you some time to read these accounts, but I assure you that you will find at least one of them at least slightly amusing. In one "mission," a guy gets lost on his way back to his seat at a baseball game, much to the eventual concern of most of the upper deck at Yankee Stadium. In another mission, the troupe amusingly invades a Best Buy. In another harmless assault on a big retailer, the troupe infiltrates a Home Depot; don't miss the video clip with the action accelerated. I believe I may have actually heard of these folks last year when they put on a faux rooftop U2 concert.
I have to admit that I love the creativity and generally harmless sense of mischief that these "missions" involve. I also have to admit that there is no way I would be inclined to participate. I'm sure that reveals some deep psychological truth about me, but that's okay. That's why these people exist to do these things, so I don't have to.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Where Were You?
September 11 is a hard date. On Sunday, our pastor aptly said that that no matter how we are getting along now, a shadow falls on that day. I was not around for Pearl Harbor, or the Kennedy assassination. Until 9/11, the most profound moment of shared memory for my generation was the Challenger explosion in 1986. I still vividly remember where I was and what I was doing at that time.
9/11 is, of course, more akin to Pearl Harbor in that it is not just tragic, but scary in its implications. Plus, 9/11 took place on the continental soil, in heavily populated areas. Worst of all, thanks to television and the internet, we all had front row seats to the destruction, in vivid color. The information overload softens the edges of my memories, so that there is very little that sticks out other than recalling that I spent hours in front of the TV that first day, and the many days of hitting the "refresh" button on internet browsers to get the very lastest from CNN or MSNBC.
The one clear, specific memory I have, though, is of turning on the Today show at about 7:26 in the morning and the very confusing scene that came up. We couldn't tell immediately whether what we were seeing was in LA or elsewhere. Right about the time we figured out that this was New York, and that it was big, the second tower came down in front of our eyes. That's an image that will not go away. Even all of the video disclosed later, dramatic shots of airplanes inexplicably flying into buildings, cannot compare to my memory of looking at the TV in confusion and disbelief, which was closely followed by the realization that this was going to be a very different kind of day.
I was reminded this morning of the other strong memory I have of those days, something I hadn't seen in a while but which was common five years ago. Today, someone put up an American flag on a pedestrian overpass over the freeway. Simple, unadorned and a little sad.
And beautiful.
9/11 is, of course, more akin to Pearl Harbor in that it is not just tragic, but scary in its implications. Plus, 9/11 took place on the continental soil, in heavily populated areas. Worst of all, thanks to television and the internet, we all had front row seats to the destruction, in vivid color. The information overload softens the edges of my memories, so that there is very little that sticks out other than recalling that I spent hours in front of the TV that first day, and the many days of hitting the "refresh" button on internet browsers to get the very lastest from CNN or MSNBC.
The one clear, specific memory I have, though, is of turning on the Today show at about 7:26 in the morning and the very confusing scene that came up. We couldn't tell immediately whether what we were seeing was in LA or elsewhere. Right about the time we figured out that this was New York, and that it was big, the second tower came down in front of our eyes. That's an image that will not go away. Even all of the video disclosed later, dramatic shots of airplanes inexplicably flying into buildings, cannot compare to my memory of looking at the TV in confusion and disbelief, which was closely followed by the realization that this was going to be a very different kind of day.
I was reminded this morning of the other strong memory I have of those days, something I hadn't seen in a while but which was common five years ago. Today, someone put up an American flag on a pedestrian overpass over the freeway. Simple, unadorned and a little sad.
And beautiful.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
School's In
Kelly, in her year round schedule sort of way, is well into her second month of fourth grade. Michael, having a traditional schedule with a long summer break, headed back to school this week for pre-kindergarten:
He fell right back into step with all of his friends from last year: Isabella, Emily, Natalie ...
Yes, he is already a bit of a lady-killer.
He fell right back into step with all of his friends from last year: Isabella, Emily, Natalie ...
Yes, he is already a bit of a lady-killer.
Soccer Morning in America
AYSO's season started this morning. Our region supports more than 3,000 kids, so the minivans were out in force today. There wasn't a large patch of grass anywhere within a ten mile radius of here that didn't have brightly garbed tykes roaming around in chase of a ball while parents screeched from the sidelines.
Today was the inaguration of our latest family insanity: two kids on soccer teams.
The logistics of game attendance, snack duty and banner toting are dizzying. Today, the two of them had games that started half an hour apart on fields half a mile from each other. Michael's division, Under-5 boys, is comprised of five person teams that play three players at a time, and spend half of the "game" time in practice mode with a master coach on the field. The actual gameplay then follows for a short while, on a tiny field with little goals and no goalies. By all accounts, a fine time was had by all, especially since Michael's best friend was added to the team today.
Kelly is in her second year of the Under 10, so she is now one of the big kids on the team. You may recall that her team went pretty far in the playoffs last year, but that she didn't see much of the field other than her own goal box. This year, she is off to quite a different start. She played center forward the entire game and had a good (if tiring) time doing it. Unfortunately, the other team had the next iteration of Mia Hamm, who scored on our inexperienced defense three times within the first five minutes. Much cringing among the parents.
Then, Kelly scored our first goal of the season on a breakaway, following up her own shot that had bounded away from the keeper. That seemed to inspire everyone. We put in our "star" player for the second quarter, and she scored three more goals, at least one of which off an assist from Kelly. The star for the other team also scored two more, though, and the 5-4 score at halftime held through the second half. The girls started to figure out how to play as a team by the fourth quarter. Our defenders became more tenacious, our goalies became very aggressive, and our forwards started passing the ball instead of swarming to it. We had a great opportunity to tie the game late when one of our wingers sent a ball forward through the defense to an open area off the corner of the penalty box. Kelly outran the defense to it and attacked the goal. Unfortunately, her sharp angle approach to the goal caused her shot to bounce off the far post. She followed up her shot (as dear old Dad had coached her to), but missed on the rebound. As is often the case at the beginning of the season, the girls were all a bit timid, but there is reason to believe that they will do just fine this year. The parents also seem to be a friendly, cohesive group, which makes the year much more fun for us sideline dwellers.
After watching Kelly trudge to the goal quarter after quarter last year, it was thrilling to see her break free into the opposition's zone a dozen times. She is soaking this stuff up and having a great time. That's what it is all about.
Well, that and winning a whole bunch of games.
No! Kidding! Winning is just secondary!
(Kind of...)
Today was the inaguration of our latest family insanity: two kids on soccer teams.
The logistics of game attendance, snack duty and banner toting are dizzying. Today, the two of them had games that started half an hour apart on fields half a mile from each other. Michael's division, Under-5 boys, is comprised of five person teams that play three players at a time, and spend half of the "game" time in practice mode with a master coach on the field. The actual gameplay then follows for a short while, on a tiny field with little goals and no goalies. By all accounts, a fine time was had by all, especially since Michael's best friend was added to the team today.
Kelly is in her second year of the Under 10, so she is now one of the big kids on the team. You may recall that her team went pretty far in the playoffs last year, but that she didn't see much of the field other than her own goal box. This year, she is off to quite a different start. She played center forward the entire game and had a good (if tiring) time doing it. Unfortunately, the other team had the next iteration of Mia Hamm, who scored on our inexperienced defense three times within the first five minutes. Much cringing among the parents.
Then, Kelly scored our first goal of the season on a breakaway, following up her own shot that had bounded away from the keeper. That seemed to inspire everyone. We put in our "star" player for the second quarter, and she scored three more goals, at least one of which off an assist from Kelly. The star for the other team also scored two more, though, and the 5-4 score at halftime held through the second half. The girls started to figure out how to play as a team by the fourth quarter. Our defenders became more tenacious, our goalies became very aggressive, and our forwards started passing the ball instead of swarming to it. We had a great opportunity to tie the game late when one of our wingers sent a ball forward through the defense to an open area off the corner of the penalty box. Kelly outran the defense to it and attacked the goal. Unfortunately, her sharp angle approach to the goal caused her shot to bounce off the far post. She followed up her shot (as dear old Dad had coached her to), but missed on the rebound. As is often the case at the beginning of the season, the girls were all a bit timid, but there is reason to believe that they will do just fine this year. The parents also seem to be a friendly, cohesive group, which makes the year much more fun for us sideline dwellers.
After watching Kelly trudge to the goal quarter after quarter last year, it was thrilling to see her break free into the opposition's zone a dozen times. She is soaking this stuff up and having a great time. That's what it is all about.
Well, that and winning a whole bunch of games.
No! Kidding! Winning is just secondary!
(Kind of...)
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
A Question for the Drivers
When you are approaching an intersection in which another car is waiting to turn left across traffic and you intend to push through a yellow light, should you flash your lights to warn the car waiting to turn? Or does the flash indicate to the turning driver that it is safe for him to commence his turn?
It is a good idea to get these things squared away before trying to use them.
It is a good idea to get these things squared away before trying to use them.
Goodbye, Wake Island
At least for a little while. A Category V typhoon is scheduled to sweep over the remote Pacific island tomorrow, and is expected to submerge the island and destroy anything not made of concrete. There are no permanent residents on the island, and those working there are being evacuted to Hawaii, but this is a sobering reminder that an island in a storm is often not a safe place. We saw during our trip to the Bahamas how low the land is relative to the calm water; a storm surge of any strength can devastate low lying areas. When the entire expanse of the land is a low-lying area, the island simply disappears from the map for a while. It is a very unsettling thought to this life-long continental dweller.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Soccer Update
Michael starts in AYSO's youngest division this year. The teams have five boys each, and play short 3-on-3 games that are more open play time than a real soccer game. It should be very cute and fun.
The uniform for the team is a very sharp blue with a red and white diagonal slash. The boys selected their team name: Team America! Yeah!
We're going to go without a team song this year, in case you were wondering.
The uniform for the team is a very sharp blue with a red and white diagonal slash. The boys selected their team name: Team America! Yeah!
We're going to go without a team song this year, in case you were wondering.
Toad the Wet Sprocket: A Totally Biased Concert Review
I make no apologies for the fact that the sentences to follow contain roughly 89% more subjectivity than federal regulations allow for a certified “Concert Review.” If I wanted to deconstruct artists I hardly knew, trying to be one of the cool kids by throwing in references to obscure musicians without recording contracts while coolly dismissing all music as we know it as mere cogs in the soul-crushing corporate machine that rules our very lives, I could have found a job with LA Weekly.
Instead, this is a fan’s journal.
The bizarrely-named Toad the Wet Sprocket rose to something slightly less than total obscurity in the early 1990’s with earnest, sometime opaque lyrics set to folksy electric guitar pop hooks. A gentler, less substantial cousin of R.E.M., a more melodic relative of Gin Blossoms, Toad put together a nice set of records over the course of about ten years, with a couple of genuine hits, a bunch of nice songs, appearances on a couple of tribute albums, a few soundtrack contributions, and, like most bands that reach the national level, a dedicated cadre of loyal fans.
The band has not put out a studio album since 1997, however, and essentially disbanded in 1998. However, the band members’ subsequent work has not been substantial enough to permit them to distance themselves from their work in Toad. Plus, I suspect that the bonds of boyhood that brought them together at Dos Pueblos High School in Santa Barbara have never been broken, regardless of the vicissitudes of the music business that led them to believe that the right way to proceed was separately. As a result, Toad has reunited several times for small tours or one-off concerts. After missing out on the tours from their days as a recording band, as well as subsequent tours, I made sure that I took the opportunity to see them on the current tour.
They played at the Galaxy Theater in Santa Ana, which used to be the Coachhouse. It is a little dinner theater space set in a non-descript light industrial park. The stage is small, the floor is semi-circular and intimate, and the whole setup is ringed with tables of four or six in four tiers. We arrived promptly in time for the doors to open and were shown to our table in the third tier, after a heart-stopping moment when the host could not find our reservation on the official sheet. We were seated with a young couple from Colorado, both engineers, who had come out to California to see Toad after having seen a number of the lead singer’s solo shows.
This encounter provided me with two distinct points of information; one I anticipated, one I did not. I was curious, first of all, to see what kind of folks would come out to a show like this – a band that was popular with sensitive college kids ten years ago (or so the cynics would say). My guess was just about right: most people were in their 30s and 40s, with relatively few younger than 25. Overall, it was a pretty mellow group. A bouncer, sporting a splint from a performing his official duties at a different show the night before, chuckled as he observed the line of people coming in, sharing that he was sure his night would be much easier than it had been the night before. My second reaction was how unsettled I was at suddenly being in the presence of hundreds of other fans of this band, among whom were undoubtedly dozens who were more fanatical than I am. Wait, aren’t these my guys? They came up in Santa Barbara when I was there! I took classes from the drummer’s dad! Who are all you people, getting in on my gig?
I got over it, somewhere between the limp, overdressed salad and chewy steak.
The concert opened with an energetic singer-songwriter who could draw amazingly big sounds out of his twelve-string guitar. He was amusing, in an often ribald manner, and his songcraft was strong, but he has risen to his level. Songs about her, or she, and how he lusted after her/loved her/still loves her/misses her/is bitter about how she dumped him but still kinda thinks she’s cool, can only take a songwriter so far. He did have a fun little Journey sing-along, though, so we all had a good time.
Toad then came out, and promptly ran into technical difficulties. The body strap for the bass guitar was loose, so Dean valiantly played on while a technician crouched beside him for a couple of songs securing the strap. The band played an interesting mix of songs, including some less-than obvious choices that I was very happy to hear. Interestingly, they played nearly every song several steps lower in pitch than the recorded versions, I suppose to preserve their voices. It had the effect, for me, at least, of rendering the songs somewhat more subdued than might otherwise have been the case. Nevertheless, the band was very tight in their playing, lead singer Glen showed off impressive guitar chops, guitarist Todd displayed a pleasant voice on lead vocals on two songs, Dean just seemed pleased as punch to be there, and drummer Randy was … short. Very short. But he had his wife and son with him onstage during the entire show, which was very sweet, especially considering that it was their anniversary. Glenn and his wife had recently celebrated their thirteenth anniversary, as had Cheryl and I, so the whole event came together in a nice bit of synchronicity.
I loved seeing the concert in the small venue. I will admit to getting a little charge out of seeing the Toad tour bus at the end of the parking lot. I will also admit to being just a bit underwhelmed, even though the concert was very, very good and the band played all of the right songs. I think I had it in my head that I would be within an arm’s reach of the guys, or that the room would be more energetic somehow, or that the guys would invite me backstage for a post-concert chat ... you know, realistic expectations. However, as the days have passed since the show, I find myself appreciating the concert more and more. It was a truly great show that formed the basis for a brief getaway for us. They filmed the next show, so I may even be able to relive it a little when the DVD comes out.
Now I just have to look out for their next reunion tour.
Instead, this is a fan’s journal.
The bizarrely-named Toad the Wet Sprocket rose to something slightly less than total obscurity in the early 1990’s with earnest, sometime opaque lyrics set to folksy electric guitar pop hooks. A gentler, less substantial cousin of R.E.M., a more melodic relative of Gin Blossoms, Toad put together a nice set of records over the course of about ten years, with a couple of genuine hits, a bunch of nice songs, appearances on a couple of tribute albums, a few soundtrack contributions, and, like most bands that reach the national level, a dedicated cadre of loyal fans.
The band has not put out a studio album since 1997, however, and essentially disbanded in 1998. However, the band members’ subsequent work has not been substantial enough to permit them to distance themselves from their work in Toad. Plus, I suspect that the bonds of boyhood that brought them together at Dos Pueblos High School in Santa Barbara have never been broken, regardless of the vicissitudes of the music business that led them to believe that the right way to proceed was separately. As a result, Toad has reunited several times for small tours or one-off concerts. After missing out on the tours from their days as a recording band, as well as subsequent tours, I made sure that I took the opportunity to see them on the current tour.
They played at the Galaxy Theater in Santa Ana, which used to be the Coachhouse. It is a little dinner theater space set in a non-descript light industrial park. The stage is small, the floor is semi-circular and intimate, and the whole setup is ringed with tables of four or six in four tiers. We arrived promptly in time for the doors to open and were shown to our table in the third tier, after a heart-stopping moment when the host could not find our reservation on the official sheet. We were seated with a young couple from Colorado, both engineers, who had come out to California to see Toad after having seen a number of the lead singer’s solo shows.
This encounter provided me with two distinct points of information; one I anticipated, one I did not. I was curious, first of all, to see what kind of folks would come out to a show like this – a band that was popular with sensitive college kids ten years ago (or so the cynics would say). My guess was just about right: most people were in their 30s and 40s, with relatively few younger than 25. Overall, it was a pretty mellow group. A bouncer, sporting a splint from a performing his official duties at a different show the night before, chuckled as he observed the line of people coming in, sharing that he was sure his night would be much easier than it had been the night before. My second reaction was how unsettled I was at suddenly being in the presence of hundreds of other fans of this band, among whom were undoubtedly dozens who were more fanatical than I am. Wait, aren’t these my guys? They came up in Santa Barbara when I was there! I took classes from the drummer’s dad! Who are all you people, getting in on my gig?
I got over it, somewhere between the limp, overdressed salad and chewy steak.
The concert opened with an energetic singer-songwriter who could draw amazingly big sounds out of his twelve-string guitar. He was amusing, in an often ribald manner, and his songcraft was strong, but he has risen to his level. Songs about her, or she, and how he lusted after her/loved her/still loves her/misses her/is bitter about how she dumped him but still kinda thinks she’s cool, can only take a songwriter so far. He did have a fun little Journey sing-along, though, so we all had a good time.
Toad then came out, and promptly ran into technical difficulties. The body strap for the bass guitar was loose, so Dean valiantly played on while a technician crouched beside him for a couple of songs securing the strap. The band played an interesting mix of songs, including some less-than obvious choices that I was very happy to hear. Interestingly, they played nearly every song several steps lower in pitch than the recorded versions, I suppose to preserve their voices. It had the effect, for me, at least, of rendering the songs somewhat more subdued than might otherwise have been the case. Nevertheless, the band was very tight in their playing, lead singer Glen showed off impressive guitar chops, guitarist Todd displayed a pleasant voice on lead vocals on two songs, Dean just seemed pleased as punch to be there, and drummer Randy was … short. Very short. But he had his wife and son with him onstage during the entire show, which was very sweet, especially considering that it was their anniversary. Glenn and his wife had recently celebrated their thirteenth anniversary, as had Cheryl and I, so the whole event came together in a nice bit of synchronicity.
I loved seeing the concert in the small venue. I will admit to getting a little charge out of seeing the Toad tour bus at the end of the parking lot. I will also admit to being just a bit underwhelmed, even though the concert was very, very good and the band played all of the right songs. I think I had it in my head that I would be within an arm’s reach of the guys, or that the room would be more energetic somehow, or that the guys would invite me backstage for a post-concert chat ... you know, realistic expectations. However, as the days have passed since the show, I find myself appreciating the concert more and more. It was a truly great show that formed the basis for a brief getaway for us. They filmed the next show, so I may even be able to relive it a little when the DVD comes out.
Now I just have to look out for their next reunion tour.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Pilot Error
The tragic crash of a commuter jet at a small regional airport in Kentucky yields some curious questions about how such a horrible event could have happened. The airplane attempted to take off from runway 26, which, as has been widely reported, is only 3,500 feet long. Heavily laden jet aircraft require more distance for a takeoff rollout. The airplane should have departed from runway 22, which is approximately 7,000 feet in lenght, more than enough for most commercial airliners (and, incidentally, quite a bit longer than the heavily-used runway 8 at Burbank, which is only 5,800 feet long).
The flight began at approximately 6:10 am in the pre-dawn near-darkness. Yet, it has been reported that the runway had no lights. Surely an experienced commercial pilot would have questioned whether he was in the right place if he were looking down a dark runway. However, the airfield was underdoing rennovations, which may have led to both an error in ground navigation and a mistaken lack of alarm over missing lights. A mistake with tragic consequences, to be sure, but one with many causes.
What is much more vexing for me is how the pilot ever could have begun his takeoff roll on runway 26, knowing he was cleared for runway 22. The lights may have been absent or off and the taxiways may have been improperly routed, but one item in the pilot's view should have unequivocally told him something was wrong: his compass. Runways are identified with a numerical designation that corresponds to compass heading to which the runway points. Thus, runway 22 points to 220 degrees on the compass, or approximately southwest, while runway 26 points to 260 degress, or approximately west. According to FAA information, the orientation of runway 22 is 226 magnetic, 222 true, whereas runway 26 is 265 magnetic, 261 true. A plan view of the airfield shows this convention at work:
I am not a pilot and have never taken classes in order to obtain a pilot's license. I do not know the checkoff procedures undertaken by any pilots, let alone commercial airline pilots. I have no desire to impugn the reputation of the pilot; he has lost his life as a result of whatever errors were made. However, crash investigations take place in the hope that something might be learned that would prevent a similar disaster in the future. In this instance, it seems to me that the basic rules of runway identification should have been enough to alert the pilot that something was seriously amiss. If the airplane was to take off from runway 22, it seems that the compass should have shown a direction somewhere in the neighborhood of southwest. Unfortunately, it appears that in the rush to get the commuters on their way on a confusing airfield, this simple check was overlooked.
There are two words to describe this event, it seems to me. One is "tragic."
The other is "preventable."
The flight began at approximately 6:10 am in the pre-dawn near-darkness. Yet, it has been reported that the runway had no lights. Surely an experienced commercial pilot would have questioned whether he was in the right place if he were looking down a dark runway. However, the airfield was underdoing rennovations, which may have led to both an error in ground navigation and a mistaken lack of alarm over missing lights. A mistake with tragic consequences, to be sure, but one with many causes.
What is much more vexing for me is how the pilot ever could have begun his takeoff roll on runway 26, knowing he was cleared for runway 22. The lights may have been absent or off and the taxiways may have been improperly routed, but one item in the pilot's view should have unequivocally told him something was wrong: his compass. Runways are identified with a numerical designation that corresponds to compass heading to which the runway points. Thus, runway 22 points to 220 degrees on the compass, or approximately southwest, while runway 26 points to 260 degress, or approximately west. According to FAA information, the orientation of runway 22 is 226 magnetic, 222 true, whereas runway 26 is 265 magnetic, 261 true. A plan view of the airfield shows this convention at work:
I am not a pilot and have never taken classes in order to obtain a pilot's license. I do not know the checkoff procedures undertaken by any pilots, let alone commercial airline pilots. I have no desire to impugn the reputation of the pilot; he has lost his life as a result of whatever errors were made. However, crash investigations take place in the hope that something might be learned that would prevent a similar disaster in the future. In this instance, it seems to me that the basic rules of runway identification should have been enough to alert the pilot that something was seriously amiss. If the airplane was to take off from runway 22, it seems that the compass should have shown a direction somewhere in the neighborhood of southwest. Unfortunately, it appears that in the rush to get the commuters on their way on a confusing airfield, this simple check was overlooked.
There are two words to describe this event, it seems to me. One is "tragic."
The other is "preventable."
Friday, August 18, 2006
Joke of the Day
A plumber sat next to a lawyer on a long flight from L.A. to New York. The lawyer leans over to him and asks if he would like to play a fun game. The plumber is tired and just wants to take a nap, so he politely declines and rolls over to the window to catch a few winks.
The lawyer persists, saying that the game is really easy and a lot of fun. He explains how the game works. "I ask you a question, and if you don't know the answer, you pay me, and vice-versa." Again, the plumber politely declines and tries to get some sleep. The lawyer figures that since his opponent is a just a plumber, he will easily win the match, so he makes another offer.
"Okay, how about this, If you don't know the answer you pay me only $5, but if I don't know the answer, I will pay you $500." This catches the plumber's attention and, figuring that there will be no end to this torment unless he plays, he agrees to play the game. The lawyer asks the first question.
"What's the distance from the earth to the moon?" The plumber doesn't say a word, reaches in to his wallet, pulls out a five-dollar bill, and hands it to the lawyer.
Now, it's the plumber's turn. He asks the lawyer, "what goes up a hill with three legs, and comes down with four?"
The lawyer looks at him, puzzled. He takes out his laptop computer and searches all his references. He taps into the Air phone with his modem and searches the Net and even the Library of Congress. Frustrated, he sends E-mails to all his co-workers and friends he knows, all to no avail. After over an hour of searching for the answer he finally gives up.
He wakes the plumber and hands him $500. The plumber politely takes the $500 and turns away to get back to sleep. The lawyer, who cannot imagine what the answer is, and is going nuts trying to figure it out, is more than a little frustrated. He wakes the plumber and asks, "Well, so what goes up a hill with three legs and comes down with four?"
The plumber reaches into his wallet, hands the lawyer $5, and goes back to sleep.
The lawyer persists, saying that the game is really easy and a lot of fun. He explains how the game works. "I ask you a question, and if you don't know the answer, you pay me, and vice-versa." Again, the plumber politely declines and tries to get some sleep. The lawyer figures that since his opponent is a just a plumber, he will easily win the match, so he makes another offer.
"Okay, how about this, If you don't know the answer you pay me only $5, but if I don't know the answer, I will pay you $500." This catches the plumber's attention and, figuring that there will be no end to this torment unless he plays, he agrees to play the game. The lawyer asks the first question.
"What's the distance from the earth to the moon?" The plumber doesn't say a word, reaches in to his wallet, pulls out a five-dollar bill, and hands it to the lawyer.
Now, it's the plumber's turn. He asks the lawyer, "what goes up a hill with three legs, and comes down with four?"
The lawyer looks at him, puzzled. He takes out his laptop computer and searches all his references. He taps into the Air phone with his modem and searches the Net and even the Library of Congress. Frustrated, he sends E-mails to all his co-workers and friends he knows, all to no avail. After over an hour of searching for the answer he finally gives up.
He wakes the plumber and hands him $500. The plumber politely takes the $500 and turns away to get back to sleep. The lawyer, who cannot imagine what the answer is, and is going nuts trying to figure it out, is more than a little frustrated. He wakes the plumber and asks, "Well, so what goes up a hill with three legs and comes down with four?"
The plumber reaches into his wallet, hands the lawyer $5, and goes back to sleep.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Oh, Those Wacky, Forgetful Rocket Scientists!
This ought to give all Americans, and particularly those who voluntarily strap themselves onto gigantic rockets, a warm sense of comfort. NASA has lost the original recordings of the first moon landing, including Neil Armstrong's famous "one small step" speech. It gets better: in all, NASA has lost 700 boxes of historic documentation and recordings from the Appolo lunar missions. NASA's on the case, though. They've been looking for the boxes for, um, a year.
Yep, that's confidence-inspiring, all right. The shuttle's fine, you say? Great! We'll take your word for it, because NASA stands for the best and brightest that this nation has to offer. What could possibly go wrong?
Yep, that's confidence-inspiring, all right. The shuttle's fine, you say? Great! We'll take your word for it, because NASA stands for the best and brightest that this nation has to offer. What could possibly go wrong?
Friday, August 11, 2006
Stargazing
Tonight's the night. The annual Perseid meteor shower will take place over the next couple of days. Unfortunately, the glare of the nearly full moon will wash out some of the meteors, but this is still the best opportunity to see dozens of meteors in an hour. I have fond memories of sitting on a lawn chair at Grandpa and Grandma Evans's farm late at night in August, ooh-ing and ahh-ing as little streaks of light burst all over the sky. Set the alarm for 2 a.m. (I'm too old now to know anyone who would not have already gone to bed), catch a few falling stars, then sleep in -- a perfect schedule.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
I'm a Dreamer
After years of thinking about it, I finally took the plunge today:
Golfing legend Bobby Jones said of the young, dominating Jack Nicklaus, "He plays a game with which I am not familiar." I feel that way about bicycles these days. We are a long, long way from 10-speeds. The Specialized I bought today is, I think, at or very near the bottom of their range of products for "road bikes." It has clips for regular shoes rather than purpose-build cycling shoes. It has midrange componentry. It is not as light as some bikes are these days. The improvement beyond my last experience with bikes, however, is phenomenal. Some cyclists today might be concerned that one derailleur set changes gears slightly faster than others, and weighs 15 grams less. Ha! I'm just amazed that the gears change automatically at the flick of a lever, like the semi-automatic transmissions that have become so trendy in cars lately. This era's cyclists bemoan the extra few grams a titanium frame costs over an equivalent carbon-fiber frame. I'm perfectly happy with the aluminum body (with a c-f front fork), a huge improvement over the steel frames of my cycling days, which are now about 15 years in the past. This bike is freakishly light. It has aerodynamic wheel sections, high pressure tires (you can't get the old, wider kind anymore), and really pretty red paint. I also got a relatively inexpensive trip computer that operates wirelessly. Not only is this bike easily the equal of anything Greg Lemond rode in his day, but there are parts of this package that didn't even exist then. And yet, as I mentioned, I think this was the cheapest bike offered by Specialized, if not the cheapest bike in the entire store (the really excellent Cycle World). Truly, we live in interesting times.
Be sure to check in for my next posts: "Oh My God My Legs Hurt," "Diminished Lung Capacity and You," and "Anybody Want a Slightly Used Road Bike?"
Golfing legend Bobby Jones said of the young, dominating Jack Nicklaus, "He plays a game with which I am not familiar." I feel that way about bicycles these days. We are a long, long way from 10-speeds. The Specialized I bought today is, I think, at or very near the bottom of their range of products for "road bikes." It has clips for regular shoes rather than purpose-build cycling shoes. It has midrange componentry. It is not as light as some bikes are these days. The improvement beyond my last experience with bikes, however, is phenomenal. Some cyclists today might be concerned that one derailleur set changes gears slightly faster than others, and weighs 15 grams less. Ha! I'm just amazed that the gears change automatically at the flick of a lever, like the semi-automatic transmissions that have become so trendy in cars lately. This era's cyclists bemoan the extra few grams a titanium frame costs over an equivalent carbon-fiber frame. I'm perfectly happy with the aluminum body (with a c-f front fork), a huge improvement over the steel frames of my cycling days, which are now about 15 years in the past. This bike is freakishly light. It has aerodynamic wheel sections, high pressure tires (you can't get the old, wider kind anymore), and really pretty red paint. I also got a relatively inexpensive trip computer that operates wirelessly. Not only is this bike easily the equal of anything Greg Lemond rode in his day, but there are parts of this package that didn't even exist then. And yet, as I mentioned, I think this was the cheapest bike offered by Specialized, if not the cheapest bike in the entire store (the really excellent Cycle World). Truly, we live in interesting times.
Be sure to check in for my next posts: "Oh My God My Legs Hurt," "Diminished Lung Capacity and You," and "Anybody Want a Slightly Used Road Bike?"
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Cheater Redux
Notwithstanding all that fascinating stuff I wrote about hormone ratios, alcohol and legal painkillers, it appears that Floyd Landis may actually have doped. According to published reports, further testing of Landis's "A" sample has revealed the presence of synthetic testosterone.
Synthetic testosterone doesn't just appear in one's blood by accident; the reasonable explanations for the positive test are rapidly melting away. The cyclist's own legal team no longer expects a contrary result from the "B" sample, which is due to be tested soon. What an embarrassment.
We've been in the artificial performance enhancement era in sports for a long time now. "Greenies" (amphetamines) have been a staple of baseball clubhouses for decades. American football players are widely known to have used steroids for nearly the entire of the history of the post-merger NFL. A British cyclist died in the Tour de France in 1967 as a result of amphetamine usage. What is different about the current "era," which is about five years old, is that the wink-and-nod acceptance of days gone by has been replaced by increasingly strict testing and punishment. The NFL, probably the worst offender of all and still holds its cards close to the chest, but will suspend players for the use of illegal substances. Baseball has made significant strides under intense public scrutiny. Cycling and the Olympics have taken the hardest line, yet the problem continues.
The designer drugs developed over the last 15 years have turned the battle for the soul of pure sport into a cloak and dagger pursuit worthy of Cold War spy stories. The drug makers continue to put out products that remain a step ahead of the ability of the authorities to detect their products. With the extraordinary money at stake at every level of professional athletics, the incentive to continue to do so will not abate any time soon, either for the drug maker or the athlete who uses the drug to gain that fleeting moment of glory.
Synthetic testosterone doesn't just appear in one's blood by accident; the reasonable explanations for the positive test are rapidly melting away. The cyclist's own legal team no longer expects a contrary result from the "B" sample, which is due to be tested soon. What an embarrassment.
We've been in the artificial performance enhancement era in sports for a long time now. "Greenies" (amphetamines) have been a staple of baseball clubhouses for decades. American football players are widely known to have used steroids for nearly the entire of the history of the post-merger NFL. A British cyclist died in the Tour de France in 1967 as a result of amphetamine usage. What is different about the current "era," which is about five years old, is that the wink-and-nod acceptance of days gone by has been replaced by increasingly strict testing and punishment. The NFL, probably the worst offender of all and still holds its cards close to the chest, but will suspend players for the use of illegal substances. Baseball has made significant strides under intense public scrutiny. Cycling and the Olympics have taken the hardest line, yet the problem continues.
The designer drugs developed over the last 15 years have turned the battle for the soul of pure sport into a cloak and dagger pursuit worthy of Cold War spy stories. The drug makers continue to put out products that remain a step ahead of the ability of the authorities to detect their products. With the extraordinary money at stake at every level of professional athletics, the incentive to continue to do so will not abate any time soon, either for the drug maker or the athlete who uses the drug to gain that fleeting moment of glory.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Feeling Small
If you ever think that driving a few miles to go to the big shopping mall is just too far, get over yourself and ponder this:
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