Random Rant About Technology:

Is it just me, or have self-swiping credit card machines made shopping the most awkward social situation ever?

Let me explain. You go to the grocery store and select your items. When you finish shopping, a worker rings up your purchases and, if you’re like most people that rarely carry cash, you swipe your card through that little black computer, tilted at a comfortable angle for your convenience.

But this invention isn’t convenient at all. It’s incredibly awkward because instead of greeting the person who rang me up, I’m getting ordered around by this demanding swiping gizmo and pressing all these dumb confirmation buttons. I have a mental fight with the machine almost every time I use it, which goes something like this:

"Why do you want me to enter my zip code? Do I want cash back? Maybe I could use a $20. Nah. I’ll just blow it on beer. Opps, I accidentally pushed ‘I want cash back.’ Can I hit cancel? Cool. What? I have to swipe my card again? I just put it away. Oh for the love of…"

Out of the corner of my eye I watch the register worker and they do one of the following things: stare straight ahead like a zombie, like they are so bored they are half dead. Or, they look back and forth between you and the cash register very quickly like there’s some invisible animal prancing through the air. Sometimes they stare militantly at the receipt feeder or sometimes they stare at you like you’re the biggest jackass that has ever walked into their life. Either way, it’s AWKWARD. Might I add that jobs that were once referred to as “Customer Service” should be changed to their more accurate title of: “Computer Babysitter.”

The worst moment is when my card doesn’t swipe. I start to sweat and I apologize for my lame existence and all the people in line behind me sigh and roll their eyes and think I’m such a moron and the worker has to swipe my card for me because obviously I lack the necessary motor skills to run a card smoothly through a slot. Then I get yelled at and apparently there is a ‘correct swiping approach,’ where I have to swipe it at the correct speed or execute just the right card angle during the swiping process for it to work. Cripes. It’s definitely a mood buster.

Finally, I’m never sure if I should instigate a conversation with the worker and I rarely do because all I would ask is, “How are you?” and the answer would inevitably be, “I’m so bored I want to die.” They don’t ask me anything either, because all they would say is “What are you up to?” and obviously I am currently shopping in their store. They might ask, “How are you?” but all I would say is “Fine,” which would ultimately force me to ask them the same question, which, as I aforementioned, would be a mistake.

I know, I know, I’m thinking way too much into this. It’s just a random rant for the day. And, one more reason technology keeps our eyes off of each other, and plugged into little computer devices.

Hiking South Sister Summit, June 30th, 2009

South Sister, a mountain outside of Bend, Oregon, is the third highest peak in the state and supposedly a non-technical climb. I’ve heard mixed reviews about this climb, ranging from “strenuous” to “fun for the whole family.” I headed out with Adam, Val and Graham to experience it for myself.

South Sister Trail Conditions:

This trail is a 13 mile hike, with gains of approximately 6,000 feet in elevation.
We were surprised to encounter about ten feet of snow on most of the trail and swarms of mosquitoes. It was a little cruel there had to be snow and mosquitoes (usually it’s one or the other, in my experience). There is a rough trail carved out all the way to the top of the summit and it’s well marked.
The summit is approximately 10,400 feet and I would recommend bringing crampons, poles or walking sticks to help with footing, bug spray, and garbage bags to use to glissade down.
We probably went a little early in the season—which made the snow and ice an added challenge to the climb. I would recommend climbing later in July or early August to avoid the snow.

The hike itself:

We camped out at the base of the trail, at Devil’s Lake Campground the night before. This is a first come, first serve campsite and requires a five dollar permit. The sites are fairly private, but lots of mosquitoes. We started the climb at about 6:30 am and the morning was cold—just barely above freezing. As soon as the sun came up, however, we were shedding layers and by the end of the day we stripped down to shorts and t-shirts.

We used crampons for the first three miles due to icy snow that covered about 80% of the trail. Once we got above tree line, most of the snow disappeared, leaving a dusty, lava rock trail roughly carved out to the top of the summit. At about 9,000 feet we reached the top of the “false summit,” to meet a bright green body of water, called “Tear Drop Lake.” This is when the trail becomes more painful than fun. We brought our dog, and he pooped out at Tear Drop Lake, so Adam stayed behind with him and Val was feeling the altitude, so I continued on to the summit by myself.

The last 1,000 feet of the climb is not for the “whole family,” as I had read. I wouldn’t suggest trying it unless you’re somewhat trained in altitude climbing, you have a healthy heart and your knees can take a beating. About 500 feet or so from the summit, I think I started to hallucinate because I remember laughing quite a bit (at nothing in particular). I also remember, about 100 feet or so from the top, I stopped to rest and a butterfly flew down and sat beside me. I think we had a conversation where it encouraged me to keep going and I’m pretty sure it winked at me. Do butterflies blink? Probably not.

At the top, there are gorgeous views of Middle and North Sister, Mount Bachelor, and views all the way to Mount Shasta in Northern California. The black ash, rolling hills of this volcanic mountain are gorgeous—definitely makes the summit worthwhile.

I would say the most challenging part of this climb is the length—a thirteen mile hike is a good workout any day, then add climbing 6,000 feet into higher altitudes and picking your way through icy slopes and it becomes an experience that I wouldn’t consider fun. More of an accomplishment.

Here are some pictures from the trip:



Three giddy hikers at 6:30 am, at the base of the trail, clueless of the challenges that await:




Our first resting point:





Mount Bachelor in the distance:





Other shots along the way:

Tear Drop Lake with the summit in the background:

Nearing the summit now...




The top of the summit...snow!!






View of Mount Bachelor and if you look close, you can see the small green water of Tear Drop Lake.

Middle and North Sister

Glissading down--probably the highlight of the trip.

I GOT A BOOK OFFER!!

Good great grand grantastic news:

I received an offer last week from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt for my young adult novel, AWAKEN. This is truly a dream come true and I couldn’t be happier about having interest from such a prestigious publishing house and brilliant editorial staff.

I have not yet signed a contract since we are still negotiating a few details, but I hope to sign this week. I will keep you posted on what happens next!!

Money Comes to Talk

Here’s a random piece of fiction, where I turn money into a character and he stops by for a little chat:


MONEY COMES TO TALK


I hear the doorbell ring and I run downstairs. When I open the door I expect to see a UPS delivery or maybe Jackie, a sweet and persistent girl who’s eager to get me a free copy of the Book of Mormon.

Instead, I swing the door open and glare at the man standing in front of me, a man I hate more than spiders and centipedes and clowns and small spaces combined.

Money.

He’s standing there in faded jeans and a Lakers t-shirt, smiling like I should be happy to see him. I rest my hands on my hips and study his appearance with a frown. I hate that he always dresses down. He’s Money. Shouldn’t he wear a tailored suit with a dollar sign tie clip and carry a leather briefcase in his hand? Shouldn’t he at least dress business casual, you know, slacks and a polo shirt? He looks more like a beach bum, with prickly stubble on his face and sandy blond hair sticking up in three different directions like someone recently cut it using a machete. His eyes are a deep, clear green. The color of money. I glance out at the driveway and there’s his car, a red Ferrari F70, parked like an obedient princess.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he says with a cocky grin because I don’t have a choice. He owns my house, technically. I back away from the door frame and he breezes past me, down the hall and disappears into the kitchen. I slam the door closed and stomp after him.

“What are you doing here, Money?”

“We need to talk,” he says. His voice is scratchy and deep and tough like nails.

He routes around in my fridge and helps himself to a beer. It’s a coffee porter I was saving.

“Hey, I just bought that!”

“You can afford more,” he says and chuckles to himself. “Barely.”

“You’re an asshole,” I say. I want to point out the majority of the world would agree with me. But my resentment only seems to amuse him. Schmuck.

He sits down and puts his dirty, brown tennis shoes on the kitchen table. He lights a cigarette. A thin ribbon of smoke curls around him while he studies me.

“I sense a love-hate thing happening between us,” he says.

I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes. “I do love to hate you.”

“Have you found a job yet?” he asks.

I rake my fingers through my hair and sigh. I pull a chair back and sit down.

“I’m trying to be a writer, Money.”

“That’s a silly dream. Have you seen the statistics? Do you know how unlikely it is that you’ll ever support yourself as a writer? You need a real job, kid. I don’t grow on trees.”

But you’re made of trees, I want to point out.

“Listen Money, you need to understand a few things. First, despite what you think and what the news preaches, you are not the center of the universe. Second, stop trying to intimidate people. You’re just a material thing,” I say. I jab my finger in the air to get my point across. “You don’t control the world. You don’t make earth sustainable. You don’t make people happy—you make people miserable. So miserable they get divorced or die of heart attacks or kill themselves. You can’t provide love—you take it away half the time. You can’t make the sunrise, you can’t make it rain. Even you have limits.”

He tells me that isn’t exactly true. “I can provide love,” he points out. “I save the hearts of many lonely, rich old men by finding them beautiful, nurturing young wives.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he keeps going.

“I can decide whether a tree should grow or be chopped down. I decide which mountains will be drilled into and which will be preserved. I can fund studies to research how to artificially create sunlight. I can build giant greenhouses so plants thrive. I can run irrigation systems so rain is available at the flip of a switch.”

He smiles and his teeth are yellow and his eyes are demeaning and I glower back at him.

“So what’s really your problem with me?” he asks.

“I don’t want to be a slave to you. I don’t want my life’s worth revolving around YOU. I don’t want other people to judge me based on my relationship with you. I don’t want happiness to be an equation that relates to you.”

He leans over the table and locks his eyes on mine.

“I think the two of us should try and be friends,” he says.

“I don’t want to be your friend,” I mumble.

He shrugs and tells me we can’t live without each other. So, we might as well learn to get along. He kicks off his shoes and tells me to heat up that frozen pizza.

Should I Join?

Oregon has recently invited me to become a member of my local Albino Association. First, I'd just like to thank Abe Muehler for offering me this prestigious invitation. I'm ecstatic that the melatonin in my skin has finally dropped to such a dangerously low level, I am almost translucent. I owe this pastey complexion to living in the Pacific Northwest, where it has been raining for months on end.

I'm not sure if I want to join the Albino Association. I hear all they do is meet in dark rooms and talk about white things, like milk and cotton and soy non-dairy creamer. I'm not sure I'm into that. Maybe I'll just fly to Arizona in a few weeks and get a tan.

I Just Pawned Gold to buy Gold

Yes, that’s right. Money is tighter than ever (I know, I’m the only person in the country on a budget right now) but I need music like I need food for nourishment. So, in order to afford Ryan Adams’ album Gold (which is fantastic, as good as his album Heartbreaker), I pawned this old gold ring of mine. Apparently 10K gold is what jeweler’s like to kindly refer to as “low percent gold,” but I bet what they’re really thinking is, “Oh, he must not have liked you enough to buy you something really nice.” Anyway, I only got $15 for this ring, but it gave me enough money to buy Gold.

Happy day. Happy story. Go Wisconsin.

Becky Bust Yo Butt Boatwright

As many of you know, I will be driving down to Los Angeles next week to support Becky Boatwright, an everyday champion, pursue her ultimate dream: COMPETING ON THE TV SHOW, WIPEOUT.

Here is a small glimpse into the trials and tribulations Becky has endured while training for this epic challenge.