The True Story of a Camping Disaster and the Tummy Trumpets

One time I was camping with coworkers near Kelly Lake in North Park, CO when we became so drunk that we ate all of our supplies and got lost. I’ve complained about thirst before, but never felt it so much as when we were forced to drink the river water that would eventually give me giardia. (I did have a glass bottle of Seagrams mixed with 7up but it exploded in my pants. True story.) It was late on the second day that we finally discovered a county road. We were able to get some signal with our walkie talkies and radio to base that we needed some assistance. At the time I was working with the Colorado State Parks and the managerial staff was becoming increasingly concerned as to our whereabouts. This would turn out to be a good thing as it lessened their anger once they found us. Several things happened as a result of this trip. And there was one thing that did not. The thing that didn’t happen was the trail to Kelly Lake was not cleared of debris. Kelly Lake is a body of water in an old volcano that’s home to a type of trout not found anywhere else in the world. It's amazing. It's also long-ass way from anything so the trail doesn’t get a lot of love. When it does not get love, the few people who take the time to trek it get pretty frustrated that the path to their mountain retreat is crappy. It’s significant that that’s the one thing that did not happen because it was the sole reason for the trip. The only tax-funded purpose for the journey was to maintain a trail to mountain magic land.

it's pretty but don't fuck with it. Or drink it. (This is actually one of the Ranger Lakes because we never made it to Kelly Lake.) Wait, that's actually Michigan Reservoir. Thanks TIM!

The things that did happen include one more tax-funded trip to find wherever in the hell we’d camped and left most of our stuff, including an ATV that, whilst drunk, I’d run into tree. The other thing that happened had longer, more personal repercussions in that I was a 17-year-old high school grad set to enjoy the most amazing summer ever. One thing that giardia enjoys more than anything, is ensuring you’re not enjoying anything. It’s weird. The little parasite has immaculate timing. You’d be fine—albeit slightly scarred from your intestinal undoing—and gather enough confidence to leave your home. Every step you took was another victory until you’d find yourself at a bar or maybe even on a stroll with some lovely paragon of femininity, when everything would change. Giardia have little trumpets. And they are kind enough to blast frightening noises to warn you and the surrounding environment that shit’s about to get real. I once told a woman that what she’d heard was distant thunder and I hated storms and I needed to leave immediately. It was known throughout our small community that at any moment Jared might burst into your home like the Kool Aid Man and it was best if questions were not asked.

Another thing that happened was Kieth. Keith could be the villain in every movie. He’s that guy that, say, Meg Ryan would marry instead of Tom Hanks and the whole movie would be how Keith was an asshole and she should dump him for Tom Hanks. Anyway, Keith was a fresh forestry management graduate who had not endeared himself to the local kids. And for a long time we (the local kids) had the upper hand. We’d abandon him whenever possible and his complaints fell on the weary ears of superiors that knew Keith was an asshole. But botching the Kelly Lake trip made us targets. And Keith, like giardia, was the Dark Side of good times. He jokingly endorsed our crew for more, longer day trips and made sure to let me know it was because I was “spraying through a screen door at thirty paces.” His words, not mine. He gained advantage all over the place even suggesting that I might not be suitable for camper contact, a job that often meant college girls and being regaled by city folk eager for some kind of country advantage. I was reduced to TnT, Toilets and Trash, a modern-day leper of the West…an outcast in my own town. And he didn’t let anyone forget that either me or the rest of my party would be responsible for explaining the condition of the trail to Kelly Lake.

I would add that Kelly Lake is worth it no matter the condition of the trail. Just don’t drink the water, no matter how pristine it may seem.

Yes and Yes Yes is #YxYY | A quick thing on simplification JARED

In the past, I have had to practically be held down and reminded to keep it simple, stupid. These are the KISSes I get. And they are necessary as when I think about things, when I pour myself into a project, I invariably over think it. Just a little background about myself. I emcee shows and do comedy when I can. And there is this adage amongst my small following that goes like this: "Where is Jared in the living room?" What that implies is that people came to the show based on the Jared they'd seen in more casual circumstances. It is around these professional turns where they are greeted with elaborate thought-out jokes that leave the room silent. You can hear someone stirring their drink and hoping for a building fire.

You'll note in the video above that at about :30 I fall into some premeditated garbage, and then at about 1:05 the Tourette's guy saves me.

It isn't always that bad, but the point is that it could be better. It always could be better. In my mind that means I must concoct some more humor, but to the overwhelming majority of others it means that I must relax and be myself.

This brings me to #YxYY.

Here's the deal with this festival of Yes (yestival?) at the Ace Hotel in Palm Springs: It's not a conference. They call it a nonference and its eclectic mix of startup gurus, futurists and brainy eccentrics in general has garnered it the name "Burning Ted." It's a cross between the wide open desert festivities of Burning Man and the intellectual enlightenment of Ted Talks. All of that might sound complicated, but in fact it's the simplest thing yet. If you can handle it.

It's jarring because most of the events aren't posted until a few days before, many of them created on the fly. Can you handle that? Can you deal not having a schedule? At first, I struggled.

But a most important tenet of #YxYY is that there are no sales or marketing. You're not there to promote your business or sell domain names. You're there to share ideas. Actually, you float around in a pool and talk to people. You get drinks on the patio and meet people from all different places and backgrounds. You get together and carve out little bits of life to highlight and discuss. You go to a special room and play with kittens.

It's true. In one of the most brilliant conference ideas I've seen, the local shelter brought in kittens that needed play time and, ultimately, adopted. Several found new homes.

WHICH IS WHERE I found myself. A new place with no rules. I had a head full of promotional ideas, but this place didn't need or want them. And in a terrible twist, I found that I had no idea how to talk to people at a conference if it wasn't about business. I sat by myself and racked my brain for ideas. I'd drop some small talk and then find myself in a corner. I had nowhere to go. The feral monkeys of my brain tore about my cranial landscape, ripping through old files and shrieking in a panic. I'd often glance at the ground, giving the curious bystanders the resignation they needed to leave.

The problem, it turns out, is that Jared had left the living room. He was in the desert both literally and figuratively; the scorching sun a spotlight on failure. WHICH IS THE PROBLEM. It's not a show. Even shows aren't shows. It's an opportunity to be you. YOU. SWEET MOIST MOSES ON A MOUNTAIN TOP YOU GET TO BE YOU. Even if your 'you' is a person who caves in conversation then, heck, go with it. I once read that to deal with ADD (my wife had suggested I research it) that you can simply tell people you have an attention disorder so they don't think it's them. And, guess what? That's a conversation. That's the beginning of some common thread as everyone struggles to be on their game all the time.

But it's not a game. It's life. And it shouldn't be so difficult. Especially when your by a pool in Palm Springs.

The phone is the tool. THE PHONE IS THE TOOL.

I can’t sleep. I’m lying here and wondering what I’m doing with my life yet spend thirty minutes staring at my phone. How much time of staring at my phone has now accumulated? How much time do we all stare at our phone, blankly scrolling? We’re so bland it’s almost as if the phone is scrolling us; moving our finger like a crank on a boring toy. We're just gazing into a tiny box and hoping for something but not sure what. Really? What is it we’re looking for? The end? Do we all just want it to end. The sun will swallow the earth and we’ll be like, “Thank god..I was wondering how long I was going to have to sit here and stare at this thing.”

So I alternately waste time on the phone and get angry at myself for wasting time on the phone. Luckily, most of my “WTF am I doing?” self interrogations come while I’m actually doing something. I’m working, I’m parenting, I’m a contributing member of society, but during all that I’m wondering what gig I should take or what move I should make. I sit down and scroll. Scrolling on your phone has to be the new heroin. It’s the new cigarette when you’re anxious. It’s the chocolate bar you don’t need while you quietly admonish yourself for eating a chocolate bar you don’t need. Like there’s one you need. I chuckle and think about how to put that into a tweet.

How our phones see the most advanced species on Earth.

What I meant to get to in that last paragraph is that moments are not being fully seized. Carpe Day-um. Like Damn, but the wide-eyed shocked version aghast at just how much time and energy is devoted to running your brain on the same damned treadmill of thoughts. And I should add that 40 is real. Over the hill. Cliche cliche cliche oh goddamn I’ve become a cliche. I’ve been mid-life crisising since I was 20, but I’ve really stepped up my game. And it all comes down to not getting the things done that I need to get done. And when you think about it, we’re just bags of guts propelled through space so there’s no need to get frantic about shit. BUT I DO. Which adds another layer of disappointment.

It’s not all bad. As a matter of fact that’s part of a first-world white guy’s problems. It’s so good that you have to make more of it. You should be doing more with your fortune; your climate-controlled, food-everywhere fortune. it’s the time in our history to turn our collective conscious into an altruistic force for good. JESUS IS HE COMPLAINING ABOUT HAVING IT TOO GOOD?

So, screw the phone and the scrolling and all these naked ladies on the Internet. Reach across the expanse and touch your loved one and be solid about every waking moment, walking movement. Be in control. Dipshits get addicted to dumb things, and as far as habits go, gently stroking a telephonic rectangle is really lame. God, get alcoholic and get into a fight. Turn the bland, chalk taste into something bloody real, but for the sake of all the humanity in a million year history, don’t go down quietly, blankly staring into the LCD liquid of a billion stupid stares. Swallowed souls. Get up and do the shit you want/NEED to do. Because it’s the phone that’s supposed to be the tool IT’S THE PHONE THAT’S SUPPOSED TO BE THE TOOL.

And I could go to sleep now, but it’s time to get up and do something. I’ll let you know how that goes.

And yet Sweden has amazing health care.

Don't go to the ER. There's probably faster care if you take a horse to Mexico. It's most certainly cheaper, which is why I'm writing today.

I simply want to add my tiny voice to a growing chorus of WTF? about the cost of America's medical care. But this isn't a gripe about the nurses, who were outnumbered (and with two shooting victims quite literally outgunned) on that evening, and not even the doctors who, according to my math, visit you ten seconds for every hour you wait. I should also say that I don't expect to be different or be treated differently. This note (and invoice) to Swedish Medical Center is about America's medical expenses and how ridiculous they've become. It's shocking when you experience it; when you're dipped in the reality of a really bad situation. Our health care system is a really bad situation.

I've been to the emergency room a lot. My middle son has gone twice, I've been several times, and I took my beloved mother on many occasions, and every time I forget the lesson: don't go unless you've been shot. And even if you haven't been shot, you may want to once you're there.

Most recently I went because of the classic chest/left arm pains. I'm kind of embarrassed actually because, well, I'm a man, dammit. I was seen by two techs to check my vitals and another who gave me some chest x-rays. Granted, those treatments have value, and I appreciate the care. I've always appreciated nurses and their assistants. I'd love to pay them directly, maybe stuff Benjamins in their scrubs. But after the initial triage that's become a marketing mantra for hospitals advertising short wait times, and before giving up and going home, I spent another five hours bonding with a waiting room of beleaguered patients.

The person I saw the most was their administrative guy who made sure to get my credit card and update my billing information. He was nice. They were all nice, but my time at Swedish does not merit the $7837.20 bill they sent me.

Most of this is covered by insurance. I hope they have a similar plan.

And, yes, I think I found a little guy in my lung. The X-ray tech didn't think it was a thing, but agreed to point out what looks like a tiny human skull in the picture.

Building a Shed

It's 200 dollars to have someone build the shed. That's really not a lot when you consider I've been working on it for about 40 hours. I've spent an entire week of work banging on boards and looking at a mound of parts acting like I'm thinking instead of panicking.

Paco's leadership was key early on.

I like building the shed. It's one of the best things I've done in a while. And, yes, by "best" I mean completely inefficient and exhausting. It seemed like too much of a hassle to get a compressor and a nail gun, so we've had to hammer well over 700 nails. My right hand is tingly and numb. If I look away my thumb may not even be there. I had no idea it would take so many nails.

It's satisfying though. I worked all through the weekend, getting so tired that without even realizing it I fell asleep on the lawn. Sunday night Sarah and I were going to watch a movie and spend some time together. I woke up several hours later with no idea where I was; the wife having given up on my rigor mortis and gone on to bed. If I had to do this for a living I'd die.

BUT I'm so close to being done. So close. The trusses are up (don't do that by yourself, btw) and the roof parts have been assembled. Now I need it to stop raining. Or Seattl-ing. Whatever it is when every day there's some kind of precipitation banging down onto my backyard dreams.

That's hail. Freakin' hail.

And it's not been the typical Rocky Mountain thunder that rolls through and quickly moves on to shower another neighborhood. These things are terrifying Poseidon piss storms that go on for hours. I have tarps--I've never had tarps--but I have tarps and you'll see me in a panic in the rain pulling them over some of my already warped wood. Two nights ago I stared out the window at a lightning deathstorm that engulfed our back yard. Finally, I sprinted into the strobes and wrestled my plastic saviors into place. It took me fifteen minutes but the rain didn't let up. A bolt of lightning would rip open the sky and Sarah would shout from the porch--kind of a quick and safe way to check my vitals. Finally, I secured the tarps and took whatever I could inside, only to have the rain stop.

I'm so close. Last night I ditched a potentially career-elevating dinner to finish my roof. And it rained. So under my temporary tarped ceiling, I did what little chores I could. Which was good, because I can't feel my right hand and I've been falling asleep random places.

Instead, we built this.

I still think back to when I bought the materials for the shed, and the woman telling me that it's only $200 bucks for their top men to come out and assemble it. I run that through my head as I pry bent nails out of wet wood. Shouldn't I be doing something else with my time? Time is the most valuable of all resources. I mean those assembly guys would be done by now. Wearing a robe and smoking a pipe I'd hand them their cash and begin the good life of shed ownership.

No, I'd rather do this myself, I determined after some thought. It's rebuilding the memories of the construction jobs of my youth. My dad builds houses for eff's sake. How do I not know how to build a shed? I guess it never stuck, or I wiped my brain with some hard living in my twenties. Alternately, it could have been that once I left my duties as gopher for my father I thought I'd never want to revisit the construction industry again. Now, however, I love it. It's my backyard version of one of those primal camps where men get in touch with their primal scream. I've seen it online, these dudes with painted faces running around the Adirondacks. They pay to be in kind of a man camp where they can throw off their suburban burden (suburdens?) and streak through the woods. I've got my shed, my wife shouting at me in lightning storms, and three children crawling over piles of wood and nails. That seems throwback enough. And most likely has saved me thousands on a trip to a man camp in the Adirondacks.

Mostly that Earth Day is Every Day

Going to the dentist

I don't want to put the dental industry out of business, but to save time and pain there could be a number you call every six months that tells you to floss. Or they could text a reminder that I should be more gentle when I brush.  (So why do they get an ice pic and go Dahmer on my mouth?)

I'll let you know how it goes.

Earth Day

Yes, every day should be Earth day. Even the dumbest denier wouldn't burn tires in their house, so maybe we should lighten up on the petroleum in our shared abode. Besides, it's time to move on. It's time to invest in industry that builds a bridge to a cleaner future...instead of one that buries men in West Virginia, creates earthquakes in Oklahoma, tethers us to terrorists in the Middle East, has the Pentagon on edge and most certainly leaves our kids with a shittier place than we found it.

Earth Day Kids

When my younger son gets mad he's a little like Jerry Stiller's character from Seinfeld (George Costanza's dad.) He shouts in all-caps crazy to articulate simple things like "I KNOW 3 + 4 IS 7" and "QUIN IS LOOKING AT ME." Quin is the older brother and has played a large role in turning his brother into an occasional mad man.

Here's a recent, real-life example:

Quin: Today is Earth Day.

Otto: Every day is Earth Day.

Quin: No, Otto, today is Earth Day.

Otto: My teacher said that every day is Earth Day.

Quin: No it's Earth Day. One day.

Otto: EVERY DAY IS EARTH DAY!!!

And I think having an angry child shouting that at people would be an effective campaign.

Matinee Fatinee

We saw Paddington Bear today. It was in the cheap theaters, which meant for the two boys and myself we paid only 9 bucks. That's really reasonable mostly because a regular theater is so very not reasonable. What a psychological victory for commerce: you typically pay 40 dollars so anything else seems like a steal. I've rented new movies online for $9.99, and while that makes even the heady days of Blockbuster seem like a miser's dream, I'm comforted that I'm not getting fiscally molested by a teenager at the Cinemark.

Loved Paddington as a kid. Not even sure why, but he seemed so chill and comfortable.

They nailed us on the snacks though. Two packs of Sour Patch Kids, a soda and popcorn = 20.00. It is really weird that we consent to paying that. I mean I've hovered over the buy button for a pair of pants that cost less than that. I've balked at donated fewer dollars to end malaria. END MALARIA. And I give twice that amount for a shot at tooth decay and intestinal regret. No, really, you can buy a mosquito net for less than ten bucks in a preventative measure that has proven to be the most effective way to save children's lives.

"That'll be $19.95, sir."

"Oh, wow, that must come with an erotic massage, but my kids are here so I'll just settle for something that's seven times its actual retail value."

The boys are some of the best movie watchers I've ever known. It all began when Quin was three and we took him to Toy Story III. We were worried that he'd be restless and, ultimately, mess up our movie experience. Two hours later he still sat stoically watching the cutting edge cartoon, while Sarah and I made strange nasal noises crying at the beautiful story that unfolded before us. It was the beginning of a movie Renaissance. After avoiding the theater for years, we were back. Otto learned from his brother and sits, unmoved, while his father has to climb over for dire pee breaks. We're worried Eliot won't be as cool about sitting for two hours, but she could surprise us.

Paddington, though, would make most kids wiggle. Our boys crushed it (can you go to hell for kid hubris?) but kids all over the theater were getting restless. It's not a bad movie; it's just not an animated thrill ride. The family ahead of us actually let their son play games on their phone. I mean if you're kid isn't going to watch the movie, then take off. Get out. Or does that mean if my kids get bored I can break out the yard games? Do NOT spill my twelve-dollar soda, but here's a pogo stick.

Driving Home: Thoughts in the Spring of 15

Marriage Part 1

So I'm listening to this lengthy NPR story about gay rights and gay adoption and all these court cases around the nation and this woman says something to the effect of "this is how lesbians live. Not the crazy lifestyle you'd expect." And it got me thinking about how marriage is marriage no matter who's marrying, so if you really want to sell gay marriage to right wingers terrified of "immoral acts," then convince them that, like with all marriages, there will be a steep drop in sexual activity.

Boom. Gay weddings galore. 

Marriage Part 2

Some nights Sarah and I laugh like crazy. Tonight has been just such a night. I'm trying to think what we were laughing about, but it was good. Ok, like with the wine. Sarah poured me a huge glass to the brim. I was like "whoa, hey" and she replied, "you're going to want a second glass anyway, so you might as well get that while you're here." Laughter ensued. And while it doesn't seem all that funny (and that we're just as boring as NPR lesbians,) it might have had something to do with the soul-freeing fact that we were about to drink a goblet of wine. 

And we've pretty much been laughing ever since.

Our daughter has developed this crazy fake laughter for any occasion when people are laughing.  It's been good for my self esteem.

Marriage Part 3

And I've noticed that when Sarah and I are laughing, that the kids laugh too. They may not even know why, and it very well could be at their dork parents wheezing over one liners, but it's cool to have everyone stoked for what could be no other reason than we're all in the same place. 

I'd better stop before I start shilling Hamburger Helper or some crap. BTW, General Mills I'm totally available.

This shouldn't be so difficult

It's a thing. I don't want it to be a thing, but my sister, who's far more honest than I am, texted me exactly what I was feeling. She shared with me exactly what I was doing to others.

I wanna hold days and weeks and years in a bin and shake them around. I want them to matter less than they do; sanding each moment into a sunlight swirl. I want to make better use of the present and not carry around the past. But that's my satchel--rather my bulging baggage--of days sawed away from my time here. Some of them are heavier than others.

It took me a few years to fully realize what was happening. I'd get irritable and restless. There was a tendency to recoil at others. The wind pissed me off. I was a shoe-in for a big Pharma commercial. A candidate for the spotless mind.

Let me tell you, if I can, about what it is that haunts me most. It's being unable to talk without crying. I sat there on the edge of her bed and kept trying to say something but could not. I wanted a cooler version of me to walk washed through the tears and say "Oh shit, I'm sorry about him. Let me tell you how much you mean to me, to the world." But it was thousand miles of gumdrop sticky and big sniffles. I couldn't get unstuck from the big, dumb swamp of human frailty. So frail.

Turns out I was doing what you're supposed to do: weep like a kid who's just lost his mother. Once, in the Ferncliff General Store in Allenspark, I thought I was walking with my mom when I looked up to see the very visage of horror. A child's nightmare morphed into the gentle smile of a woman who was doing her best not to terrify me. I'm sure she was an attractive human, and I still remember her dark hair, short and tidy around her surprised brown face. But I was holding her hand and she was not my mom. In another day of a kid who spent a lot of time in space, I grabbed the wrong woman. She did her best to calm me and even notified the omnipotent intercom of customer service, but she scared the shit out me. My mom gave up her groceries, ran to me, and carried me into the comfort of a Kodachrome summer so long ago.

Had she ran up to me and I was not at all perturbed by her absence, I imagine she'd wonder what had gone wrong. How could her son be so cold in the face of dramatic maternal trauma? Well, dammit, 28 years later, at the tender age of 54, she would again not be disappointed by her son's reaction to her departure. And now another birthday, and nearly another ten years. Again and again she will not be disappointed.

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Special Easter Edition

The family tradition in my house is trying to figure out why we're celebrating Easter. I'd stop but I worry the neighbors might think we're Jehovah's Witness.

You just keep doing it because the kids get into it. That's how they get you; they suck you in with the kids. Easter used to be a Pagan celebration of spring and reproductivity, not that that would be any less weird with kids. 

A Quick Note from Cancer

It's the sleepless month for me. A month where hope can go anywhere but mostly awry. It's hope without merit, I guess. It's hope without studying, without science and left to flake away in the corrosive winds of reality's crackling dissent. I shouldn't kid anyone. Sleepless month has spread to sleepless year, and from what I know of the human body, it's hard to make sleepless years plural.  

But in April there was this idea that we--or that I--could somehow find a way to make my mom better. The medical community had failed. Maybe it was that the technology wasn't there yet, or maybe it was little bits of incompetence piling up with equal speed of crumbling odds. Things were going fast. The situation hadn't been declining in only the previous few weeks, but in a decade-long tyranny of apathy and optimism.

Optimism, I think, is a bit like luck. They're both only of value with the work necessary to ignite them. Without the work they're just concepts. Feeling good about either but actually imbued with neither. I'm not saying we were always off, and I'm most certain that my mom was always on, but we were left to believe more than could be achieved.

I know there is a lesson: do what you can when you can do it. (That could mean napping. You don't have to kill yourself. Napping is amazing and is hard to come by.) I'm talking about fortifying your luck, your positive attitude and your future night's sleep with a sunrise-to-sunset, hesitation-free, full-forced hunger for life. And that means you'll crawl to bed without anything to wake you up at night. Not even the dead.

Constantine Pitching the Christian Easter to the Romans

Constantine: Sooooo...we're not going to do the orgies this year.

Crowd: Kill him!

Constantine: Wait...wait. We've been doing Easter but it's way too Pagan. It's about sex. It's about fertility. We're Christians now. We don't do that.

Romans: Well what are we going to do on some random mobile Sunday in the Spring?

Constantine: Two words: Zombie Jesus!

(crowd murmurs...unsettled)

Constantine: And....and there will be candy!

(Crowd cheers)

Constantine: And to make it even more exciting...how about a giant bunny creeps into your house at night and hides the candy?

Crowd: ooooooh...

Wrong Constantine, but what the Hell, it's Easter.

Constantine: But here's the thing: You're the bunny. You're actually the bunny. You'll be close to nodding off on a Saturday when you're jarred awake by your wife to hide candy around the house.

Crowd: We don't get it!

Constantine: That's OK, no one really does.

Crowd cheers

Digging Holes: Not Just for Dad Anymore

Parenting Tip: You can till the soil and wear your children out by telling them that there's treasure in the garden.

It's Laura's Birthday

On this March 30 edition of Scraping, I get to wish my sister a happy birthday. She's the kind of talented that ticks you off, taking a job she'd never done before and quickly becoming the premiere cake decorator in Colorado. Here's her Facebook page http://coloradocake.ninja that's about to surpass my fledgling comedy page.

about the holes

Every spring our boys end up digging holes in the garden. This year they're more serious than ever about making a network of tunnels. I think they have the Star Wars rebel base on the ice planet Hoth in mind. (What a terrible way to be known, "The ice planet." "Hey I'm selling my house for cheap!" Where is it? "The Ice Planet." Oh...yah, I'm renting in Scranton but thank you.) These holes are bigger than any previous efforts, even the one that's purportedly going to China and is compromising our home's foundation on the south side of the house. I was actually at work for a few hours and when I came home the boys and Sarah had passed the two-feet-deep mark and had stumbled across some 'treasure' in the form of discarded concrete. I helped pull that out of the ground and we were all high fives and happy until we realized we'd spent most of the day making our home less safe for our toddler. As the third human child, we're totally cool with putting her outside as we would Paco (our first child of any species) but now we've rigged her toddling wobble-scape with craters that would make even an ice planet feel superior.

an exciting gig

So I've been asked to emcee the Go Code Colorado apps challenge, where over 200 coders will compete to improve how government operates. No word on if we can reprogram greed into compassion and lobbyists into renewable energy, but we can be inspired by civic engagement above the call of (jury) duty. (I worked for the government. Talk all the smack you want, but managing you people and your issues is a pain in the ass.)

The kickoff soiree that I'm hosting is on April 8th, is free to the public, and promises to be amazing. Learn more about this premiere event at http://gocode.colorado.gov/

 

Politics: acronymous acrimony

I'm calling Indiana's terrible new law where business owners can use their religion as an excuse to discriminate America's ISIS (Indiana's Stupid, Ill-Conceived Statute.) Whether your Middle Eastern or Midwestern, there seems to be some common tangles amongst the fringe of world's right wing.

The oxford comma

I've been using it more lately. Please don't think me an asshole, an elitist, or a douchebag who would like you to take more pause with my sentences.

This morning's meerkat

It's interesting to see how the Meerkat shows up on YouTube. Any point where the connectivity was too low and goes to 'audio only' it cuts that part of the video. I thought you'd at least get a black screen of some sort. What you missed at the end there was the giant worms in the holes we dug. I know...it's going to be hard to get over.