For the past few years baseball fans have been forced to wonder whether some of their favorite players have been using performance enhancing substances. It's become something of a guessing game, trying to figure out which popular major-leaguers owe their success to illicit substances.
Barry Bonds' pursuit of Hank Aaron's all-time home run record has been tainted by suspicion he used steroids. Bonds, of course, denies doing anything inappropriate other than being kind of a pain in the rear end.
I, for one, believe Bonds. There are plenty of logical explanations for the change in his appearance over the years. I attribute his freakishly enlarged head, for example, to a little-known but relatively easy plastic surgery procedure commonly referred to as "the Charlie Brown." Everyone knows Charles' Schultz's adorable cartoon characters inspire some pretty loyal fans.
Fans of professional cycling have been playing a similar game for more than a decade now. Until last year, though, when American Floyd Landis had his Tour de France win challenged on the basis of a test that showed elevated levels of testosterone, very few Americans got in on the action. It's hard to blame them. Identifying cyclists who use performance enhancing drugs is way too easy.
Here's how it works. Find the rosters of the teams competing in this month's Tour de France. Point at a rider. That's pretty much it.
Maybe that's cynical. It's possible there are some of those tiny, emaciated-to-the-point-of-being-translucent men who haul themselves over thousands of miles of mountainous terrain without the benefit of blood doping or steroids or testosterone patches on their naughty parts. It's just getting harder and harder to believe that.
Just this week, pre-race favorite Alexandre Vinokourov, who required more than 60 stitches after a crash early in the race and has since been more erratic than Britney Spears in Vegas, tested positive for receiving an illegal blood transfusion. Surprise race leader Michael Rasmussen has aroused suspicion by failing to appear for drug tests and neglecting to tell Danish cycling officials where they could find him if they wanted to spring a test on him. There have been allegations he asked a friend to carry a shoebox filled with synthetic blood for him. Less commonly reported are suggestions he has replaced his entire skeleton with a lighter one made mostly of styrofoam and baling wire.
The cycling world seems to be nearly equally divided among riders who vehemently deny they would ever do anything illegal, riders who are defending themselves from positive tests and/or mounting suspicions and former riders who pop up to say, "Hey, you guys remember when I won all those races a few years ago? Yeah, I was filled with pigs' blood and horse uppers. But I really feel bad about it now."
It's a shame, really, because cycling can be a lot of fun to watch. I spent much of my morning last Sunday watching these skeletal men push themselves to their limit to ride up mountains nearly as big as Barry Bonds' ego. I, meanwhile, lounged on the couch and ate Cinnabons. It was awesome.
Fortunately, the riders are only part of the appeal. Races like the Tour de France are a spectacle unlike anything else in sports. Oakland Raiders fans get a lot of attention for showing up eight times a year dressed in black leather and spikes but there's one cycling fan who has become famous for showing up at just about every stage of the month-long Tour de France dressed as a devil and running alongside the riders. There are thousands of these fans, and for the most part there is nothing between them and the riders. As cyclists peak mountains they ride through a sea of screaming spectators who only clear the road for them at the last second. Fans pour water on riders or pat them on their spandex-covered rear ends. They run alongside wearing giant antlers or chicken costumes or, in one particularly disturbing instance, only a thong. In fairness, that's probably a good way to get riders to go faster.
Now that I think about it, as long as the fans stay off steroids, we should be OK.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
Career counseling
I didn't grow up wanting to be a newspaper editor. I didn't study journalism in college. I never worked on a school newspaper in high school or college. I got into this business, I used to say, because I enjoy writing and because I was looking for a job where I didn't have to wear a tie to work.
Taking that kind of path into newspapers makes me wonder once in a while if I made the right choice. If I'm on the right career path.
Mostly I wonder after we've written something someone disagrees with and people call and yell at me.
Whatever the cause, though, it's nice in those moments of uncertainty to know there are jobs out there for which I am even less well suited than I am for this one.
Those kinds of reminders don't come with any kind of regularity, and when I come across them it is often in the course of doing my job.
Several years ago, for example, the publicity crew from the Red Barron pizza company was in the area and invited me to go for a ride with a member of their biplane stunt-flying team. I accepted, expecting to have a chance to take some great aerial photos of the Farmington area. I never got the photos, but the experience taught me I would never have made it as a World War I-era fighter pilot. It's not that I'm afraid to fly. I just think it would have been hard to dogfight and throw up all over myself at the same time.
At any rate, it was one potential career path off the list.
Around the same time, I explored the possibility of becoming a professional bicycle racer by sending letters to the heads of the United States Cycling Federation and the United States Olympic Committee. I asked them if I could ride for the USA in the Athens Olympics. I even promised to bring my own bike, one of those old fashioned deals with the big wheel in the front. In the spirit of the Athens games I offered to ride in a toga.
No deal. All I got for my effort was a hat and a couple of pins. On the bright side, I can use those to convince people I actually did ride in Athens. In a way, that's even better. I get all the glory without having to do any of the actual work. It's as close as I'll ever get to knowing what life is like for Paris Hilton.
I haven't officially ruled out the possibility of becoming a world famous male model, but so far responses from potential agents have not been promising. I assume this is because the bike-shorts-and-toga look I've used in my promotional photos is simply too far ahead of its time.
The latest item on my this-career-is-not-for-you checklist is actually a return to the world of antiquated air combat. Over the weekend three World War II-era bombers visited Holman Field in St. Paul. Because my grandfather flew one of the models on display during the war several members of my family went to visit. My grandfather came dressed in his old flight suit, which earned him free admission. I'm not sure if it was a matter of respecting a veteran or of humoring a guy who was actually willing to walk around in public wearing a World War II flight suit.
Whatever the case, I had an opportunity to make my way through two of the three planes on display. And the planes, while presumably a good size by World War II standards, clearly were not built with ideas of accommodating someone who stands somewhere in the area of six foot six. Ceilings were low. Walkways were roughly the width of Twizzlers. Making my way from one end of a plane to the other required acts of contortion that would tax a contortionist (another career path off the list!). Were I required to move around one of those planes in any kind of hurry there is a very good chance I would either fall out a window or wedge myself so securely into a crawlspace I would still be there today.
I'm not too disappointed, though. I'm not sure I'd want to be a World War II-era bomber crewmember anyway. I'm not even sure what you'd have to major in to get into something like that.
Taking that kind of path into newspapers makes me wonder once in a while if I made the right choice. If I'm on the right career path.
Mostly I wonder after we've written something someone disagrees with and people call and yell at me.
Whatever the cause, though, it's nice in those moments of uncertainty to know there are jobs out there for which I am even less well suited than I am for this one.
Those kinds of reminders don't come with any kind of regularity, and when I come across them it is often in the course of doing my job.
Several years ago, for example, the publicity crew from the Red Barron pizza company was in the area and invited me to go for a ride with a member of their biplane stunt-flying team. I accepted, expecting to have a chance to take some great aerial photos of the Farmington area. I never got the photos, but the experience taught me I would never have made it as a World War I-era fighter pilot. It's not that I'm afraid to fly. I just think it would have been hard to dogfight and throw up all over myself at the same time.
At any rate, it was one potential career path off the list.
Around the same time, I explored the possibility of becoming a professional bicycle racer by sending letters to the heads of the United States Cycling Federation and the United States Olympic Committee. I asked them if I could ride for the USA in the Athens Olympics. I even promised to bring my own bike, one of those old fashioned deals with the big wheel in the front. In the spirit of the Athens games I offered to ride in a toga.
No deal. All I got for my effort was a hat and a couple of pins. On the bright side, I can use those to convince people I actually did ride in Athens. In a way, that's even better. I get all the glory without having to do any of the actual work. It's as close as I'll ever get to knowing what life is like for Paris Hilton.
I haven't officially ruled out the possibility of becoming a world famous male model, but so far responses from potential agents have not been promising. I assume this is because the bike-shorts-and-toga look I've used in my promotional photos is simply too far ahead of its time.
The latest item on my this-career-is-not-for-you checklist is actually a return to the world of antiquated air combat. Over the weekend three World War II-era bombers visited Holman Field in St. Paul. Because my grandfather flew one of the models on display during the war several members of my family went to visit. My grandfather came dressed in his old flight suit, which earned him free admission. I'm not sure if it was a matter of respecting a veteran or of humoring a guy who was actually willing to walk around in public wearing a World War II flight suit.
Whatever the case, I had an opportunity to make my way through two of the three planes on display. And the planes, while presumably a good size by World War II standards, clearly were not built with ideas of accommodating someone who stands somewhere in the area of six foot six. Ceilings were low. Walkways were roughly the width of Twizzlers. Making my way from one end of a plane to the other required acts of contortion that would tax a contortionist (another career path off the list!). Were I required to move around one of those planes in any kind of hurry there is a very good chance I would either fall out a window or wedge myself so securely into a crawlspace I would still be there today.
I'm not too disappointed, though. I'm not sure I'd want to be a World War II-era bomber crewmember anyway. I'm not even sure what you'd have to major in to get into something like that.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Lessons learned
You can learn a lot when you take a few days to do something as simple as drive halfway across the country. For example, you can learn there is a whole lot of space between the Twin Cities and the West Coast, and not a lot of stuff to put on it.
Much of that empty space is contained in North Dakota and Montana, two states that exist primarily as a place for the United States to keep prairieland it has no use for now but feels it might need later. Crossing Montana alone takes long enough that a good typist has time to conceive, write and edit a novel, three short stories and a typical Michael Bay movie.
I learned that while the average Montana city has fewer residents than a good-sized high school each city seems to have enough casinos to serve all of Las Vegas and then some. There are casinos on every corner, although each is roughly the size of a convenience store and offers little more exciting than keno and video poker. They have names that make them sound like they belong in the Old West (Lucky Lil's) or in James Bond movies (Casino Royale) and lighted signs on their walls that tempt would-be gamblers with payouts as big as $800. As jackpots go, Montana casinos rank somewhere between a good day at the track and a decent meat raffle.
Thanks to a billboard along the highway near Helena — it featured a photo of a child pointing a firearm at me and the message along the lines of, "If he doesn't trust God, does he trust you?" — I learned that if I do not teach my children about God they are likely to shoot me in the face. It's the most terrified by a roadside display since I was driving through Mississippi on the way home from my first year of college and saw three handmade crosses along the road along with a sign that read, "Prepare to meet thy God!"
I learned that in Miles City, Mont. — population 9,000 people and 700 casinos — it is possible to buy a home for $15,000. I also learned I have no actual interest in living in Miles City, Mont. Despite what the city's web site touts as its famous annual bucking horse sale. Although I know where I'm going next time I need a horse with a bad attitude.
I learned that sneaking stuff into Canada is probably a whole lot easier than sneaking anything back. The border guard who checked our IDs as we crossed the border going north couldn't have seemed less interested in the questions she was asking. I suspect I could have told her I had a trunk full of nerve gas and she would have shrugged it off and waved me through.
Coming back into the U.S. was a different story. By the time I got over the border headed south I was half convinced I was up to something.
I learned that Vancouver, B.C. is a nuclear weapons free zone. There was a sign that said so. That might actually explain the lax attitude of the border guard, now that I think about it. There's no need to search anyone for weapons when the city has an ordinance to take care of things.
I learned that life would be a lot easier if Canada would stop using that silly metric system. I can't tell you how much trouble I almost got in after we crossed the border and the speed limits went up to 120. Stupid kilometers. And can you imagine what a letdown it was when I realized gas prices were by the liter rather than by the gallon?
You could hear my cries of frustration for meters.
I learned it's good to have a responsive insurance agent. While I was vacationing in Whistler, B.C., I learned someone had thrown a large rock through the rear window of my car, which was parked in front of my home nearly 2,000 miles away (roughly 70,000 kilometers, I think). It was frustrating to be so far away, but one call to my insurance agent got everything taken care of except the vacuuming up of the broken glass.
Much of that empty space is contained in North Dakota and Montana, two states that exist primarily as a place for the United States to keep prairieland it has no use for now but feels it might need later. Crossing Montana alone takes long enough that a good typist has time to conceive, write and edit a novel, three short stories and a typical Michael Bay movie.
I learned that while the average Montana city has fewer residents than a good-sized high school each city seems to have enough casinos to serve all of Las Vegas and then some. There are casinos on every corner, although each is roughly the size of a convenience store and offers little more exciting than keno and video poker. They have names that make them sound like they belong in the Old West (Lucky Lil's) or in James Bond movies (Casino Royale) and lighted signs on their walls that tempt would-be gamblers with payouts as big as $800. As jackpots go, Montana casinos rank somewhere between a good day at the track and a decent meat raffle.
Thanks to a billboard along the highway near Helena — it featured a photo of a child pointing a firearm at me and the message along the lines of, "If he doesn't trust God, does he trust you?" — I learned that if I do not teach my children about God they are likely to shoot me in the face. It's the most terrified by a roadside display since I was driving through Mississippi on the way home from my first year of college and saw three handmade crosses along the road along with a sign that read, "Prepare to meet thy God!"
I learned that in Miles City, Mont. — population 9,000 people and 700 casinos — it is possible to buy a home for $15,000. I also learned I have no actual interest in living in Miles City, Mont. Despite what the city's web site touts as its famous annual bucking horse sale. Although I know where I'm going next time I need a horse with a bad attitude.
I learned that sneaking stuff into Canada is probably a whole lot easier than sneaking anything back. The border guard who checked our IDs as we crossed the border going north couldn't have seemed less interested in the questions she was asking. I suspect I could have told her I had a trunk full of nerve gas and she would have shrugged it off and waved me through.
Coming back into the U.S. was a different story. By the time I got over the border headed south I was half convinced I was up to something.
I learned that Vancouver, B.C. is a nuclear weapons free zone. There was a sign that said so. That might actually explain the lax attitude of the border guard, now that I think about it. There's no need to search anyone for weapons when the city has an ordinance to take care of things.
I learned that life would be a lot easier if Canada would stop using that silly metric system. I can't tell you how much trouble I almost got in after we crossed the border and the speed limits went up to 120. Stupid kilometers. And can you imagine what a letdown it was when I realized gas prices were by the liter rather than by the gallon?
You could hear my cries of frustration for meters.
I learned it's good to have a responsive insurance agent. While I was vacationing in Whistler, B.C., I learned someone had thrown a large rock through the rear window of my car, which was parked in front of my home nearly 2,000 miles away (roughly 70,000 kilometers, I think). It was frustrating to be so far away, but one call to my insurance agent got everything taken care of except the vacuuming up of the broken glass.
Monday, July 09, 2007
And no leaving your blinker on!
Last week the Vatican's office for migrants and immigrant people issued what has become widely known as the Ten Commandments for drivers, a kind of Biblical appendix designed to make the world's roads safer and happier for everyone who uses them. Among other things, the decree issues warnings against drinking and driving and advises drivers to help others in the case of accidents.
According to the Vatican's web page, the June 19 announcement also covered pastoral ministry for the liberation of street women, the pastoral care of street children and the pastoral care of the homeless. That's right. Street children, prostitutes and road rage. The office for migrants and immigrant people has a lot on its plate.
At the top of the list for drivers is a Commandment that should look familiar to anyone with a working knowledge of either the Bible or old Charlton Heston movies: "You Shall Not Kill." The double-dipping seems unnecessary — and I can only assume bumped a much-needed prohibition against fuzzy dice and "Calvin peeing" stickers out of the top 10 — but apparently, the Vatican wanted to make sure everyone realized God doesn't look any more favorably on vehicular homicide than He does on other forms of murder.
Second on the list is, "The road shall be for you a means of communion between people and not of mortal harm." Honestly, this seems a little redundant after the first Commandment. I suspect the Vatican was padding its list here. To be fair, The Nine Commandments doesn't have quite the same ring to it.
My personal favorite Commandment, though, is number five, which reads, "Cars shall not be for you an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin." Apparently even God thinks Hummers are stupid.
I can only hope this Commandment also covers vanity license plates. At least the ones like the "5-7HEMI" plate — a reference, so far as I could tell, to the size of the driver's ... engine — that I saw Sunday on the back of a Jeep. I'm not sure if I was more annoyed that the plate was so boastful, that it was boastful about something so stupid or that the driver was going so slowly in front of me. I was seriously in danger of abandoning the courtesy, uprightness and prudence that Commandment three claims will help me "deal with unforeseen events."
Even more remarkable than the list itself, though, is the way it was delivered to the public. There were no stone tablets. Nobody had to climb Mount Sinai. The Vatican Information Service just issued a press release and news organizations spread the word around the world. Imagine how much hassle Moses could have avoided if he could have posted "Dude, God says not to look at your neighbor's wife that way" on his blog.
Some might think reading the Catholic church's new rules online lacks some of the drama of the old way of doing things, but I think this opens up a lot of doors for getting God's message out.
I'm looking forward to the day I can get the word of God sent to my phone as a text message. Cell phone etiquette seems like a natural first topic. You know, things like, "You shall trn off yr phone in movee thtrs." Or, "OMG! Dnt covet yr nghbrs ringtone! LOL!!!!"
Amen.
According to the Vatican's web page, the June 19 announcement also covered pastoral ministry for the liberation of street women, the pastoral care of street children and the pastoral care of the homeless. That's right. Street children, prostitutes and road rage. The office for migrants and immigrant people has a lot on its plate.
At the top of the list for drivers is a Commandment that should look familiar to anyone with a working knowledge of either the Bible or old Charlton Heston movies: "You Shall Not Kill." The double-dipping seems unnecessary — and I can only assume bumped a much-needed prohibition against fuzzy dice and "Calvin peeing" stickers out of the top 10 — but apparently, the Vatican wanted to make sure everyone realized God doesn't look any more favorably on vehicular homicide than He does on other forms of murder.
Second on the list is, "The road shall be for you a means of communion between people and not of mortal harm." Honestly, this seems a little redundant after the first Commandment. I suspect the Vatican was padding its list here. To be fair, The Nine Commandments doesn't have quite the same ring to it.
My personal favorite Commandment, though, is number five, which reads, "Cars shall not be for you an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin." Apparently even God thinks Hummers are stupid.
I can only hope this Commandment also covers vanity license plates. At least the ones like the "5-7HEMI" plate — a reference, so far as I could tell, to the size of the driver's ... engine — that I saw Sunday on the back of a Jeep. I'm not sure if I was more annoyed that the plate was so boastful, that it was boastful about something so stupid or that the driver was going so slowly in front of me. I was seriously in danger of abandoning the courtesy, uprightness and prudence that Commandment three claims will help me "deal with unforeseen events."
Even more remarkable than the list itself, though, is the way it was delivered to the public. There were no stone tablets. Nobody had to climb Mount Sinai. The Vatican Information Service just issued a press release and news organizations spread the word around the world. Imagine how much hassle Moses could have avoided if he could have posted "Dude, God says not to look at your neighbor's wife that way" on his blog.
Some might think reading the Catholic church's new rules online lacks some of the drama of the old way of doing things, but I think this opens up a lot of doors for getting God's message out.
I'm looking forward to the day I can get the word of God sent to my phone as a text message. Cell phone etiquette seems like a natural first topic. You know, things like, "You shall trn off yr phone in movee thtrs." Or, "OMG! Dnt covet yr nghbrs ringtone! LOL!!!!"
Amen.
The messy reality of weight loss
People are willing to put themselves through a lot in the name of losing weight. They'll exercise until they're sweaty and red in the face. They'll try fad diets of all kinds — No bread! Cabbage soup! All pimiento! — as long as someone was persuasive enough to convince a publisher to put out a book about it. They'll even give up having full control of their toilet habits.
I'm basing this last claim on the introduction of something called alli, an over-the-counter diet drug recently given a big thumbs up by the federal Food and Drug Administration. Need proof that it works? That "a" in its name used to be an upper case letter.
According to the drug's web site (www.myalli.com, which, strangely, doesn't come up anywhere on the first page of a Google search), alli works by preventing your body from absorbing about a quarter of the fat you eat. That's the good news. The bad news, also according to the web site, is that using alli has a tendency to hinder a person's ability to control his or her bowels. Among the side effects listed: loose stools and "more frequent stools that may be hard to control" and gas with "oily spotting"
Oily spotting? So, I'll lose weight but my undershorts could end up looking like the paper towel you blot the bacon with?
Clearly this drug works. I'm losing weight just reading about it.
The drug's web site is full of useful instructions. For example: "You may not usually get gassy, but it's a possibility when you take alli. The bathroom is really the best place to go when that happens."
In other words, get somewhere nobody can see, hear or smell you, and fast.
The site also warns: "Until you have a sense of any treatment effects, it's probably a smart idea to wear dark pants, and bring a change of clothes with you to work."
I don't know about you, but when a drug makers make suggestions about wardrobe I start to get nervous.
Also, eww!
On the bright side, alli sounds perfect for anyone interested in reliving those diaper-wearing days of their childhood.
According to Fox News the FDA has dismissed claims from a group called the Public Citizens' Health Research Group that alli causes colon cancer. Honestly, though, I'm starting to feel like cancer is alli's most pleasant possible side effect.
The alli diet isn't just about popping pills and soiling yourself, though. Like any good diet these days there's a book that goes with it. According to promotional material, the book — called The alli Diet Plan — is a "doctor-designed plan to make the most of this blockbuster product's extraordinary potential." Presumably it includes helpful advice like, "Eat less fat and there's less chance you'll mess yourself when you least expect it." Or maybe, "Sure, dark pants are a good idea. But might I also recommend rubber shorts? They're hot and they bunch but they're totally worth it!"
Reports from users of the drug seem mixed. The web site Medical News Today shared a sampling of e-mails from its readers. Some were positive: "It is the only thing that has worked for my very obese patients who did not want surgery" or "If you stick to a low fat diet it works really well." Some were more neutral: "It cannot replace exercise and a good diet."
And others? Well, they were ... um ... discouraging? Unsettling? Queasifying? I don't know. You pick the adjective: "The drug forced me to avoid fatty foods if I wanted to keep my underwear clean. I lost a lot of weight." Or, "I had to give up as my underwear was soiled all the time."
The bottom line? alli might be great for the size of that bottom, not so much for the clothing you use to cover it.
I'm basing this last claim on the introduction of something called alli, an over-the-counter diet drug recently given a big thumbs up by the federal Food and Drug Administration. Need proof that it works? That "a" in its name used to be an upper case letter.
According to the drug's web site (www.myalli.com, which, strangely, doesn't come up anywhere on the first page of a Google search), alli works by preventing your body from absorbing about a quarter of the fat you eat. That's the good news. The bad news, also according to the web site, is that using alli has a tendency to hinder a person's ability to control his or her bowels. Among the side effects listed: loose stools and "more frequent stools that may be hard to control" and gas with "oily spotting"
Oily spotting? So, I'll lose weight but my undershorts could end up looking like the paper towel you blot the bacon with?
Clearly this drug works. I'm losing weight just reading about it.
The drug's web site is full of useful instructions. For example: "You may not usually get gassy, but it's a possibility when you take alli. The bathroom is really the best place to go when that happens."
In other words, get somewhere nobody can see, hear or smell you, and fast.
The site also warns: "Until you have a sense of any treatment effects, it's probably a smart idea to wear dark pants, and bring a change of clothes with you to work."
I don't know about you, but when a drug makers make suggestions about wardrobe I start to get nervous.
Also, eww!
On the bright side, alli sounds perfect for anyone interested in reliving those diaper-wearing days of their childhood.
According to Fox News the FDA has dismissed claims from a group called the Public Citizens' Health Research Group that alli causes colon cancer. Honestly, though, I'm starting to feel like cancer is alli's most pleasant possible side effect.
The alli diet isn't just about popping pills and soiling yourself, though. Like any good diet these days there's a book that goes with it. According to promotional material, the book — called The alli Diet Plan — is a "doctor-designed plan to make the most of this blockbuster product's extraordinary potential." Presumably it includes helpful advice like, "Eat less fat and there's less chance you'll mess yourself when you least expect it." Or maybe, "Sure, dark pants are a good idea. But might I also recommend rubber shorts? They're hot and they bunch but they're totally worth it!"
Reports from users of the drug seem mixed. The web site Medical News Today shared a sampling of e-mails from its readers. Some were positive: "It is the only thing that has worked for my very obese patients who did not want surgery" or "If you stick to a low fat diet it works really well." Some were more neutral: "It cannot replace exercise and a good diet."
And others? Well, they were ... um ... discouraging? Unsettling? Queasifying? I don't know. You pick the adjective: "The drug forced me to avoid fatty foods if I wanted to keep my underwear clean. I lost a lot of weight." Or, "I had to give up as my underwear was soiled all the time."
The bottom line? alli might be great for the size of that bottom, not so much for the clothing you use to cover it.
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