Click On The Cloud

Check out the new feature on DU! I really like label/tag clouds. If you're visiting a blog for the first time, it's cool to click on words that catch your interest. So kick chronological order in the face and click on the keywords floating in the cloud to be transported to old posts. Comments are encouraged. Make it public, email me, or send me a tweet. Thanks for stopping by!
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Praise for Denver B-Cycle

Denver's B-Cycle program is awesome. Simple. Cheap. Efficient. Fun. I just spent a week in a downtown Denver hotel with my family and couldn't resist the funky red bikes I kept seeing in racks around the city. Denver B-Cycle has 500(!) three-speed bicycles parked around the metro area for residents and visitors to ride. With over 300 days of sunshine, Denver is the perfect place for a green bike project like this.

With two kids napping, I finally had an opportunity to sneak out and explore downtown without a stroller. My goal was to see the new Denver Art Museum. The architect is the same guy who designed the first version of the Freedom Tower, which will replace the World Trade Center towers. The multi-faceted facade feels out of place at first, but the edifice's crazy angles actually suit the city's alternative personality.

Anyway, knowing that my me-time was limited, I decided to rent a Denver B-Cycle and see more faster. I'd seen the bike racks all over the place and really wanted to try one. It was so simple!

Members are charged for the time the bike is checked out, similar to a metered cab ride. Non-members just run a credit card, pick a bike, and enjoy cruising the streets for $5/per day. (Update: Courtney from Denver B-Cycle informed me that there are usage fees for rides longer than 30 minutes. Click here for rates.)

The front end was a bit heavy, but I still managed to get over a curb or two. Denver has bike lanes and drivers are respectful, so I didn't have to fight for my right to ride like in most cities.

The three speeds were just enough to keep up with traffic and to get off the line at stoplights. I doubt I could do a wheelie, but my buddy Shark probably could. I think he could pull a wheelie on a recumbent bike if he was challenged to do so. I digress....

So, after seeing the sights I wanted to see, the light rain I had been tolerating picked up and became annoying. A 16th Street Mall security guard politely told me I wasn't allowed to ride in the shuttle lanes, but he didn't know where I could ditch the bike. I rode around for a bit getting wetter and wetter, still having a great time, but finally pulled under an overhang to avoid getting totally soaked. I gave the number printed on the bike a quick call and was given directions to the nearest bike rack by a very helpful human. Turns out I was only a half block away! The rack made a satisfying clicking sound as I pushed the front wheel in and a little light blinked "success." I walked around the corner to my the entrance of my hotel with a smile on my face.

What a great program. Sure, Denver has an excellent climate to support community bikes, but there are plenty of other cities that would benefit from such a service. I saw racks near all the major sightseeing destinations, the convention center, the train station, and at the best spots to grab a beer or a burger.

If you're ever in Denver, rent a red bike and enjoy the city. And if you have any problems, call the customer service number and speak to an actual person! Friendly, too.

UPDATE: http://www.myfoxdc.com/dpp/traffic/vast-bikeshare-network-coming-to-dc-and-arlington-071610
D.C. is replacing their Smart Bike program with Bikeshare. $5 rides! Excellent!

Denver Drummers

As mentioned in a previous post, I appreciate street musicians. Some people just walk by without taking a second to listen to the tunes. Whether it's because they feel like they have to throw a buck in the hat, or because they think the performers are bums, they just duck their heads and pick up their pace. Conversely, I've let trains go by just to hear the crescendo of a steel drum band on a subway platform in NYC. Sometimes I throw them some change, sometimes I don't. On this particular day I didn't throw any coins, but only because the lady on the left didn't get in on the act. The other two guys were rocking, though. Enjoy.

Elmo Has Never Punched Anyone

I was invited to guest blog on DullesMoms.com this week. Stop by to read my story, Elmo Has Never Punched Anyone.

One Blended Ground Squirrel, Please

How do you like your friendly, neighborhood ground squirrels? Fuzzy and cute? Curious and coy? Frisky and fun? How about sprayed all over the back of your house?

Feeling so fresh and so clean-clean from my morning shower, I was ready to tackle whatever the day had in store for me. But then just as I buckled my belt and turned off my electric toothbrush, my wife called up to me, "Honey, I think something is in the air-conditioner outside. I heard a knocking sound and turned it off. It looks like there might be some blood, too."

Oh, there was blood alright. And gooey guts and clumps of fur and sinewy innards sprayed and splattered all over the inside of the air-conditioning unit, up the siding and dangling from the wire grill. The only thing missing was the source of the mysterious knocking sound, which I can only imagine was the poor rodent's skull. I looked for it, albeit tentatively, as I hosed down the whole area, but never found it. I really didn't want to make eye contact with a decapitated ground squirrel, anyway.

Once the remains of the pureed grinny had been washed away, we flipped the air back on and waited for the knocking sound. Thankfully, the skull must have fallen to the floor of the air-conditioner's housing. The unit is over 20 years old and due to be replaced. I'll have to ask the installation guy how many skulls he's found lying beneath the whirring blades of death.

Bangin' Buckets

These guys were jammin' outside Nationals Park on Father's Day. I always enjoy street music.

Life Socks

As first seen in I Am Modern Magazine's Summer 2010 edition.

I saw a baby blue sock with an orange stripe, and a white one with a gray toe. A camouflage sock peeked out from beneath a discarded, outgrown onesie. But where was the bleepin’ match to the sock in my hand? The cliché needle in a haystack would be easier to find than a matching sock in this stack of singles. After rummaging fruitlessly through the pile, I accepted defeat thinking, “Who sees his feet anyway? They’re in his shoes all day.” After all, the clock was ticking and the daily daycare drop-off circus routine waited down the road. Mismatched socks were a minor casualty in the pre-dawn battle to move my two young boys out the door.

The morning began as most do, with my one-year-old’s cries blaring from the monitor on the nightstand. Why I bother to set the alarm clock, I don’t know. I felt my way blindly through the dark hallway to his room, scooped him up from his crib and delivered him to his mother. As she consoled him with coos and whispered hushes, I descended the stairs to the kitchen to retrieve a sippy-cup of soothing milk. Just as I was about to climb back into bed, my three-year-old appeared in the doorway demanding to drink “juicy” in Mommy and Daddy’s bed. Once again I was dispatched to fetch a beverage, and dreams of slipping back under my warm covers were dashed for the day.

Some mornings I handle parenting challenges gracefully. Other days I’m growling like a rabid raccoon and kicking toys across the room in frustration. My patience was tested on this day. I managed to wrap a diaper around my writhing child despite his best attempts to thwart me. My victory was rewarded with the need to repeat the process three minutes later. Hunger had apparently driven my older son mad, as he whined and cried alternately for cereal and milk and Disney’s Phineas and Ferb cartoon. I retrieved the pacifier from behind the diaper table where it had been intentionally tossed. I administered medicines to pouting, pursed lips. I pounced over the couch like a cat and wrestled a hooded sweatshirt over an uncooperative head. I praised the inventor of Velcro as I fastened the straps on size-9 Spiderman shoes. As a final insult, before climbing into the back hatch of the man-van when the automatic doors opened, my son whacked his ride with a stick.

With the boys finally buckled in, I felt like a caricature of a dad from a Sunday comic strip: bloodshot eyes, slumped shoulders and mumbling obscenities. When I later crawled into the office, a gas station coffee in hand, I realized that though my socks were both black, they weren’t an exact match. How fitting.