eateggs

Hrm. So, I’m thinking that I should run a marathon at the end of the summer. I mean, why not? It would be a great reason to get out and run around Bozeman … get in better shape … see some sun, etc. Only trouble is, I’m having a hard time figuring out what I want to register for … (that’s the hard part. The running will be easy, I’m sure!*)

(* – uh, yeah. That’s a joke, actually.)

So. I’m running the “Windows Vista Upgrade Advisor” on Kimbree’s computer … because Vista is just so awesome that it won’t install on her computer. Or, maybe it will install, but requires someone smarter than me. But, I mean, there aren’t many options. And I’ve tried just about every single one. And yes, I’ve stripped the motherboard. Disabled every onboard device. And … for some reason, it just fails, about halfway through it’s process, and reverts back to Windows XP. I try to automatically download updated setup files, but it tells me “windows setup was unable to download update files at this time”, which bodes well for the success of this attempted installation. So far, my level of “impressed” with Vista is about … zero.

Leopard, on the other hand … now THAT’S exciting. Or, not… not so exciting for those of us that don’t own Macs, I suppose. A new desktop! That I won’t be able to use! A new Finder! More powerful, easier to use! Doesn’t run on Dell! Spaces! Not on Windows! Core Animation! PC’s don’t skip or play, why would they need animation?

Hrm. Maybe if my “finding stuff on the street and then selling it” gig pays off (more about that later…), I can buy a Mac some day. Just a Mac Mini would be fine…

Well, I suppose it’s time to go mow the lawn. I’m going to set a precedent of responsibility, in terms of mowing the lawn on time (rather than just ignoring it until it’s so tall and jungle-like that someone else in the house just does it for me … like the last guy in charge of the lawn…), that hopefully will be followed by future lawn-mowers of the H.Q. (a.k.a. seven-sixteen, a.k.a. home, and also sometimes mistakenly referred to as (s.m.r.t.a.) ‘the quad’).

It’s a beautiful day in Bozeman.

On Monday and Tuesday, I enacted my hair-brained idea to hike the “trail” along the Bridger Ridge line. The trail runs some 19.7 miles of exceptionally rugged terrain. Even without a few wrong turns, it would have been a challenging hike. With the help of a closed road, however, and a few wrong turns, I managed to add another five miles or so to my trek.

Frankly, it’s the most strenuous thing I’ve ever done. I took the wrong trail after Ross Pass, and ended up going down about 2000 feet, rather than up 1000 feet back to the ridge line. So then I hiked, basically, straight up the side of the mountain back to the ridge line. I don’t exaggerate much when I say basically straight up– I have an amazing video clip of me kicking a tree down the mountain… and I tipped over a huge flat rock, and heard it bounding down the slope for a full 45 seconds– I kid you not. If I had actually SEEN anyone in the 24 hours proceeding the rock incident, I probably would have been pretty worried, actually– it’s velocity was pretty amazing.

To tell the story of my hike, I’d begin with snow and a scree field, I’d interlude with exhaustion, melting snow for water, I’d climax with a thunderstorm– rain, wind, fog and thunder– and conclude hitchhiking my way back up Bridger Canyon to my car.

Actually, in that vein, I learned that, unlike me, not everyone always stops for hitchhikers … even honest looking ones… Hmm. I called Kimbree, anyway, and she was gracious enough to come pick me and take me to my car– just in time, too!– it rained for two days solid from about 15 minutes after she picked me up! The mountains that I had just crossed were–and are–covered in snow, and I was grateful that I slept in my own bed, last night.

What’s exciting, though, is that I finally summited Sacajawea and Baldy peaks– I’ve attempted both, previously, but unsuccessfully. There was no unsuccess, this time…

I’ve uploaded a few photos from the hike, which can be found here:
Bridger Ridge Hike Photos

Every August, there’s a trail-run along the ridge line trail that I, basically, hiked. Details are available here.

This morning, Andrew walks into the kitchen and says:

“I knocked a roll of toilet paper into the toilet. …

But don’t worry. I pulled it out. It’s drying, now. …”

And sure enough. Later, when I went to the bathroom, there it was, on the back of the toilet… half soggy, half dry…

Time for some introspection…

I become increasing quality obsessed. Quality of food. Quality of music. Quality of film, of literature. Of conversation. Quality of manufacture– the windows, they’re new, but rather low quality… quality of my manufacture. Quality of the things I think and speak and write. Quality of action and intent. Quality of the beer that I drink, of the coffee. Of the weight and heft of the glass I drink from. Is it the appropriate type of glass for that drink? Pilsner for a microbrew. Regret the absence of stemware for the wine– wine of decent quality– as I can afford, of course– not aged 30 years, but at least with full-bodied taste.

And I don’t quite know why. But I crave quality, and I’m upset by my own inability to create quality…

I’ve mentioned this before: my own version of hell. The fact that I was born with the full faculties to identify quality, with a discerning intellect and taste. With the ability to pick out intentionally-crafted from cheap manufacture. And yet, I’m utterly incapable of joining in that process of quality manufacture. Utterly incapable of producing quality of my own. My piano playing (or worse– my guitar) is without rhythm, without inspiration, without style. My writing is without poetry, or insight. Everything I set my hands to is half-assed, left incomplete, short of fulfillment. The glass hangs off my desk by 3/8ths of an inch, because I’m too lazy or incapable of cutting off that extra glass.

I hesitate to begin work on my piano, because I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t want to half-ass it. I don’t want to just sand it down and put on a new coat of varnish. I don’t want to replace the missing board with a 2×4 and call it good– to disregard the missing wheels and use a book instead. But I’m afraid that’s what I’ll do. It’ll be functional, but not something I can be proud of. Part of it is that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never done wood-work before, and I don’t have a mentor– someone who has, who knows what to do. Part of it is that I’m just a half-ass-er. I look at my capabilities, most people’s expectations, and the work required to obtain each. Then I take the lesser road. The easier road. The road that just slightly exceeds people’s exceptions, while falling far short of my potential. My potential for greatness. My potential to surround myself with quality, quality of my own crafting, from my own hand.

I do it over and over again. I get A’s and B’s in my classes– because I’m capable of A’s, but my parents are going to be pleased with B’s. So I slightly exceed the bare minimum. And then I’m exceptional. But I’m not.

Last night, I turned on the light on my front porch, on our way out to Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End. I don’t know why that moment, more than any other, was particularly poignant–the simple act of turning on a porch light–but I think that’s when it fully hit me: I have a home of my own, not. I’m responsible for little things like turning on and off porch lights. Not parents, not RAs, not anyone else … Me.

So… yeah. Having my own place is exciting and new. Mostly, it’s good. I’ve been ready for this, for a while.

The last few days, I’ve really been off the map, so to speak… as I get settled in. Things are still a mess, but the house is starting to seem a little like a house. I’ve cooked a few meals (with some frustration … I need more pots!!), watched a movie, played some games, drank some beer. The novelty hasn’t worn off yet, but it’s starting to feel like home. Things are a terrible mess.

This morning, Andrew and I went garage-sale-ing, searching for some essentials like a lawnmower, mixing bowls, broom & dustpan, etc. We didn’t actually find anything we were looking for, but at the last place we stopped Andrew found a love-seat that he decided we should have – not a bad deal, at $15. But then there was the question of how to get it home. Andrew solved that right quick: we’d put the cushions in the car, and he’d carry it home on his head. … Home, like 2 miles away.

After a few blocks of carrying it on his head, with me driving along side, I persuaded him to just put it on the car… and we drove back to the house. And vacuumed it. And asked Andrew to wash the cushions, when he gets a chance. And propped up one side with a calculus book … most useful the book’s ever been.

Anyhow. It’s good to have a house. And a home.