Petey Beans a 'Hoo!

"Virginia Tech is playing at UVA, which has a first down with three minutes left in the half. A UVA fan sets off firecrackers, and Virginia Tech -- thinking it's the end of the half -- runs off the field. Three plays later, UVA punts." Excerpted from "Wahoo Jokes," courtesy VA Tech alum.

Nothing like in-state rivalries, huh??!! I guess the VA Tech alums aren't feeling too Whoopee today either, after their underachieving season opener yesterday vs. East Carolina. That they had to lithen to Lou Holthz thpeak about hith thun's thunning upthet all day on E-ETH-PN must only add to the trauma. If they are not the most underachieving college football team always ranked in the pre-season Top 25, then I'm a Pitt fan. Oh, wait....

The ---yawn---results from Heinz Field yesterday reminded me about just how many college football programs have tried to go out there and get their Pete Carroll. I know, I know -- Pitt upset West Virginia in a late-season big game last year that helped turn the BCS standings upside down. But, just because Dave Wannstedt coached in the NFL does not mean he is Petey. Nobody is Petey. Just, nobody.

It's now well-known that Petey takes the Trojies a long way from home for season openers or early season games on a regular basis. He doesn't schedule Division 1-AA teams - ever. Since all the debates about the pre-season rankings will work themselves out in real games in the next few weeks, we don't need to argue about who had the bigger win yesterday: #1 Georgia vs. GA Southern (AT Georgia); tOSU vs. Youngstown State (AT tOSU); or USC vs. Virginia (AT Virginia). The most important thing is that SC didn't injure a prospective Heisman Trophy winner in the process.

That actually happened about three weeks ago. We could not have known then what we seem to think now -- that Mark Sanchez playing with a fatty knee brace over a still-recovering patella subluxation would torch a Division 1 team from a BCS conference for almost 400 yards. And drop a 49-yard bomb directly into the hands of a sprinting Ronald Johnson who had left the safety behind about 40 yards earlier. This we have not seen for a very long time. It's nice to have it back. Just imagine what this guy might do if he wasn't playing on a gimpy leg?

Not so fast, my friends. While I don't wish to denigrate the very polite and sportsmanlike Cavaliers in any way, it must be said that USC will clearly face a lot more pressure on the line in two weeks against tOSU. It's important to play all the games before we declare that he should be the fourth Heisman winner at USC in the last seven years. Sanchez *probably* won't have time in that game to cook steak AND boil rice in the backfield before checking off to the fourth receiver. Among other things. But, his performance definitely beat the alternative of seeing him go to the locker room and return in a boot. Sorry, Beanie. I really hope you are 110% on September 13 at the Coliseum. Because, if your team loses, I don't want to hear for the next year about how they would have won if only Beanie had been well.

Apart from Sanchez, the biggest question was the new O-line. Asked and answered yesterday. They were almost flawless, in fact. No false starts, only one procedure call, and only one hold on a run play that was subsequently recovered on the next few plays with ease. I don't know how they will stack vs. tOSU. I don't do the player-by-player analysis -- that's for rabid football bloggers, not me. But, they certainly are fit, well-coached (I see you, Coach GPR!), and a finely-tuned unit after one game. After all of last year's injury on O, it would be great to see that bunch stay together all year.

The defense doesn't need any kudos from me -- they have every college football sports mouthpiece in the land reading verbatim from the media guide and this week's presser. About how all starting 11 are headed to the first round of the NFL draft -- seven of them next spring. Blah, blah, blah. I most assuredly cannot add much to that.

One of the most comical aspects of the commentary during the game was the "keys to the game" mentioned for Virginia. The second key was about hoping that the heat and humidity of the playing conditions would "wear down" their opponent. Excuse me. This is the same program that went into Auburn for their first game of the 2003 season with a new quarterback who, unlike Sanchez, had never even started a game. His first pass went for a touchdown, and the final result was a 23-0 win down there in the SEC.

Y'all can't tell me that the worst heat and humidity in Virginia will ever be as bad as the heat and humidity in early September anyplace in the SEC. Besides, the strength and conditioning team is cut from the same cloth as the medical team that rehabbed Sanchez back from his injury. The same injury that the always erudite Desmond Howard suggested pre-game probably should have been remedied by season-ending surgery. Doh.

So, I guess that fairly characterizes the helplessness that Virginia felt before taking the field. They scheduled a tough program because their coach wanted them to learn from it and get better. Since the final result represents their worst home loss since 1984, I hope he didn't inadvertently drop-kick their self-esteem back into the Stone Age. I'm sure they are REALLY looking forward to the back half of the home-and-home in two years in Los Angeles.

A 45-point win on the road. No season-ending injuries that we know about. A real leader at QB who has waited since 2005 to be called the strongest arm at SC since Carson Palmer and the hardest working player that Petey has ever seen in the program. A bye week before the biggest regular season game of the year with national implications. The strong possibility of a win against that team at home. The certainty that a win in that game will move the team up the rankings. Me likey. Thanks, Petey!! Fight ON!!!!

Folks, This Will Be a Dandy!!

"deense wins championships look at at miami when they were on top. If ucla will rise they need balance on bolth sides. Not to mention a recruting master ike dw. If walker leaves ucl will suffer. I don't know of a coach like walker that has tuned a defense around in no time." Actual post by Proud UCLA graduate, known as "PassitionNLove," reproduced exactly as written on the BRO football forum (BruinReportOnline.com)

"sometimes, the attack ad just writes itself...." Cable news broadcaster upon learning about Obama campaign's use of Britney Spears set designer for Invesco Field acceptance speech

I'm still watching the first Saturday of college football in the 2008 season, and I'm at that point where I can only flip between Bama-Clemson (because it's the ABC primetime game) and Cal-Michigan State on ESPN Game Plan, Channel 423 (because SC will play Cal eventually at the Coliseum). The other reason to do this is to see (and hear) Kirk Herbstreit and appreciate his boffo tie selection for today. Of course, I must endure Brent Musburger to accomplish this, but I have decided that it's worth it. Too bad the Cal game wasn't big enough for Brent's services this week, because he always says the nicest things about the Berkeley Tree Sitters outside Memorial Stadium. Thanks, Pardner!!

Before I started this little blog thing, I traded e-mails and Facebook messages with fellow college fans around the country -- and, not just those people who also cheer for my team. But, I'm transferring all thoughts, ideas, and observations to this site going forward. Just so you know - it's for the sake of the economy.

Incidentally, since Meredith is working at Chick-fil-A today, 3 to 9 p.m., I've really enjoyed all the Chick commercials -- especially the one where the cows turn on the lights in the (almost) deserted office building to form the words "Eat Mor Chikin." Indeed. Mark and I did our part in the second quarter of the SC game, thanks to Meredith's employee discount. It was also Free Brownie Day. An SC win 3,000 miles from home and a free brownie, all in the same day -- doesn't get much better than that!

I won't wait until the bRUINS take on Tennessee at home to post my thoughts about USC/Virginia. I had been torn between the idea of a streaming blog during the game and a post-game comment post. I decided on the post-game variety, but need some time to digest what I just saw. Cuz, I saw a lot....

I checked into WeAreSC.com to take the temperature of the faithful, and was delighted to see that someone has connected a Flying Pig to a Frozen Hell as the means by which UCLA will obtain the Los Angeles football monopoly discussed last time. My only comment on the photo device is that the Flying Pig is too small.

It must be noted that, in pursuit of said monopoly, about 65,000 tickets had been sold by yesterday to the big UCLA shebangie at the Rose Bowl. Which can hold about 100,000 peeps. So, they must be saving up their enthusiasm for a non-holiday weekend. About 65,000 people is the same number who remain on any cloudless January 1 day after USC dismantles whichever Big 10 opponent the higher-ups have assigned them. For a frame of reference, please refer to the 2008 demolition of Illinois in the second half.

See ya later, Gators; and Tigers, Wahoos, Huskers, Bears, Bulldogs et al. Oh my.

"Yes, Virginia -- There IS There, there....."

"Ya lose cool points when you take a broken jaw." LL Cool J on "ESPN First Take," 8/27/08.

Living outside the competitive cauldron of college football known as Los Angeles can really put a Trojan at a disadvantage. You really do miss all the great stuff that happens. You can't just show up on Howard Jones field for the open SC football practices. You don't have time to search out all the area newspaper articles and columns online for gossip snippets. You don't get to hear the latest on the 11 o'clock news.

I rely mostly on a couple of well-honed Google Alerts to keep me up-to-date, along with two blogs that were installed by The Man himself to keep the faithful in the loop. Without USCRipsIt.com, the blog from Pete's website, I probably wouldn't know anything.

But, once in a while, something happens that is just too juicy for the national media to avoid. And, my husband has a couple of daily check-in websites that are different from mine; so, we divide and conquer. I was pointing out a column from the Orange County Register last night that had found its way to msnbc.com -- about how the new head coach at UCLA had evolved quickly through camp from his formerly optimistic "bucket of hope" to doomsday-type words like "challenge" and "adversity."

He said he could top that. Sure enough. Thanks to him, I didn't power down the laptop last night before seeing the EPSN Blog Network post for the Pac-10 that spread the rest of the good news about UCLA football this season.

That would be the brilliant piece of creative work posted above, an ad that will now find new life in a variety of forms and functions. A gift that just keeps on giving. In the age of farking and photoshopping, it will probably not only live, but thrive on t-shirts at the USC bookstore for decades. Maybe longer.

Not surprisingly, most of the responses to the blog had been posted by SC fans. A few Washington Husky fans weighed in with such descriptors as "slick" and "sleeze," now common adjectives in front of Mr. Rick's name. My favorite was reply #26, which read something like "didn't they forget to put "there" at the end??"

While I was sleeping, a new post went up on the EPSN blog dated today with the comment "What is Neuheisel pointing at??" followed by the link to this updated piece of artwork:



THAT'S truth in advertising.

Another poster had suggested that Pete's head should be photoshopped onto the top of the Monopoly Man for a shirt. Yeah, I would buy that one. Don't know about copyright issues, but whoever owns the rights to the Monopoly Man would probably make a lot more money this year from the licensing fee on units sold at the SC Bookstore (and USC Trojans Bookstore Online) than from trying to sell board games to the video generation.

Sanchez has been cleared by the doctor to play and will likely start against Virginia on Saturday. We don't really know what we have on offense because, so far, all we have is visions of the defense sending a few people to the hospital. And, yeah, we know from last season that ya got to play the game. All the games.

We probably have every game circled this year already. But, now, December 6 has REALLY big, red circles on it. Along with smiley faces, arrows, and exclamation points.

Bring it, bRUINS. Bring it Over There.

The Sound of Silence

I still can't get enough of the Hugh McCutcheon story. People who are actually paid money to write about him have told the story better than me.

Before I move on, I wanted to save this column from the Hartford Courant:



"McCutcheon Separates Deepest Of Emotions"
Jeff Jacobs
August 25, 2008
BEIJING


— He called it compartmentalizing. What it was, of course, was a desperate attempt to separate heartbreak and joy.





Hugh McCutcheon has known these past two weeks that if he allowed two profound emotions to brush too hard against each other, his heart was liable to explode. He has known that if the two collided with too much force, he would be no good to anyone.





So the U.S. volleyball coach separated pain from joy, joy from pain, disconnected, ignored, buried — call it what you will — anything to do his job each day, anything to keep his sanity and serve his team's drive for Olympic glory.





And that's when it all hit him with a thunderclap Sunday inside Capital Gymnasium. Clayton Stanley's spike tailed too sharply on Giba, and the helpless star of the favored Brazilian team could do little more than push the ball out of bounds.

It was over. The Americans won the tense final set, won their first gold medal in two decades, and as his giddy players leaped into the air, McCutcheon turned into the hugs of his trusted assistants. He wanted to thank them for their support through a senseless tragedy that had left his wife's father dead and his wife's mother badly injured. McCutcheon walked toward Bernardo Rezende and shook hands with Brazil's coach.





"The gold medal," Rezende said, "is in good hands."





Yet McCutcheon first needed those hands to clutch his head. You could see his body begin to tremble. He was trying to bury his face with his hands, but he could no longer bury his heart. McCutcheon is not one for great displays of emotion, never was, but he could not stop the tears. He needed a few seconds alone to make sure the great firewall between joy and heartbreak could stand a little longer. He headed for the privacy of a small corridor.





"It has been a very emotionally demanding couple of weeks," McCutcheon said. "That cognition kind of sunk in. The filters came down. I needed to collect myself for a few moments."





A few moments became five minutes. McCutcheon dialed his wife. Elisabeth, known as Wiz, had competed at the 2004 Olympics for the U.S. women's team. Her parents, Todd and Barbara Bachman, loved volleyball. They followed the men's and women's programs everywhere. The Bachmans, captain Tom Hoff said, were always around, bringing the players food and gifts. They were in Beijing one day after the Opening Ceremonies, sightseeing at the Bell Tower, when a knife-wielding madman killed Todd and forced Barbara into eight hours of surgery before jumping to his death. A random act of violence can be no less tragic than a terrorist's act.





"Who knows why this guy did what he did?" McCutcheon said. "He had no motive. If I spent my time being angry, it's not going to help me deal with it, help me support my wife and my family. If we sit around being angry at something that's already happened, I just think it's a waste of a lot of emotion."





We struggle to describe the meaning of sportsmanship and humanity. We take a bunch of high-minded hoo-hah and call it Olympic spirit. Look, there is no way to make sense of senseless violence. Yet a man who reacts to that violence by refusing to allow anger to consume him surely is part of an integral equation of what is good and dignified about mankind.





Wiz, who had returned to Minnesota to help care for her mom, had sent the U.S. team an e-mail before the game. She wanted to let the guys know she was pulling for them. She wanted to let them know her whole family was proud of what they had achieved.





And now she was on the other end of the phone, screaming to her husband, "You won! You won the gold medal!" She was ecstatic. Yet what came next were the most poignant and powerful words of all.





Nothing. Silence. It was the great passion of the unspoken moment.





"We just smiled into the phone," McCutcheon said.





When the smile was finished, the New Zealand-born McCutcheon, 38, returned to the arena. He hugged Lloy Ball first. He pumped a fist in the air. The hugs continued up and down the lineup.





Hoff called the 20-25, 25-22, 25-21, 25-23 gold medal victory a culmination of a vision McCutcheon shared with the team four years ago. Rich Lambourne said McCutcheon poured his heart and soul into this. He is a great coach, Gabe Gardner said, a father figure to all the players. They agreed it was great that McCutcheon, who had missed three games coping with the tragedy, was able to return.





"This is extremely emotional for all of us," Reid Priddy said. "We have invested our lives in this. These are bittersweet times."





A few hours later, on the other side of town, the Closing Ceremonies brought an end to this XXIX Olympiad. China will look at the final score and say, Home team 51 gold medals, USA 36. Opponents of the Chinese government will say the Olympic movement and the world's media did too little to hold this totalitarian nation accountable for its lousy record on human rights. Lovers of sports and accountants on Madison Avenue will be satisfied that Michael Phelps, Usain Bolt and the Redeem Team plied their wares.





What mattered to Hugh McCutcheon was he was going home. As the flame was being extinguished, he already was on a flight back to Minnesota. There he will comfort his wife and her mom. There he will bury Todd Bachman on Friday.





"On one hand I mourn the loss of my father-in-law greatly and my heart aches for my wife and my family," McCutcheon said. "On the other hand I am extremely happy for my team and USA Volleyball. Those are the two emotions. They're conflicted, obviously.





"But I cannot change what has happened. I can only embrace what has occurred and deal with it. This is the best of times and the worst of times."

Gold Mettle

"This team represents what's good about team sports - the sum of our hearts is much greater than the individual aspects of this team....A bunch of guys playing selflessly - a lot of unity and a lot of strength. ... I don't know if that is of any interest to America, but that's what they're missing." Hugh McCutcheon, Head Coach - Team USA Men's Volleyball after advancing to the Gold Medal match vs. #1 Brazil.

It's now been about 42 hours since I pumped my fists silently into the air, whispered "yes," and shed a few tears for a group of men and women I do not know.

The rest of the house was sleeping, and the next order of business was deciding whether to try to stay awake for the live (in every time zone) broadcast of U.S. basketball in their final game against Spain for the Olympic gold medal. We had heard about this team for four years, ad nauseum; and, they had their own redundant and tiresome name -- The Redeem Team.

But, first things first. I had just "watched" the gold medal match between the USA and Brazil. It wasn't the replay of the women's soccer gold medal match against Brazil. That had already been checked off my list on Thursday morning, an exhausting but fantastic 120 minutes of heart, team work, and resilience. I did not know when I had seen such a hard-fought tournament win.

Until now. I had not seen it, but I had refreshed the page of the NBC Olympics website repeatedly - impatiently - urgently, especially in that fourth and final set. This gold medal match was U.S. Mens volleyball against the number one-ranked team from Brazil. Brazil was supposed to win, just like they had against the U.S. Womens volleyball team the day before.

Since I witnessed this newly indescribable display of heart, team work, and resilience, I have been unable to find the words to characterize my feelings about it. That was, until I found the quote from the head coach. He could have said many things, but chose instead to point out that one of the greatest unscripted tales of bravery at the 2008 Beijing Olympics was being told by his men. More tales of bravery were being written by his women as well -- thousands of miles away.

Nobody reading this post wants to recount the horrific story about how his wife, a former member of the U.S. Women's Volleyball team, watched a random assailant stab her father to death at a Beijing tourist site; then, almost kill her mother while she tried to help him. A mere 12 hours after her husband had marched with his team in the U.S. delegation at the incredible Opening Ceremonies.

I don't know if the last day of NBC programming had been planned this way all along. But, I could hardly wait to see the replay of this match and the medal ceremony. It was set to be the last competition shown after two weeks worth of events and months of build-up about everything but volleyball.

I had never heard of Hugh McCutcheon before August 9. I will never forget him now. He was hired four years ago to take the U.S. Mens team from their fourth place finish in Athens to the gold medal in Beijing. A native of New Zealand, he brought a mission of team collaboration and mental toughness.

In a country where teams are valued primarily for their win-loss column, I wonder if anyone would have cared about this program if they had not been able to get to the medal round, much less take home the gold. The roster was mostly a group of men who had "failed" before at the Olympics. Most of them were well over 30 years of age, and 2008 was their last chance.

But, they played for their country and their coach. I hope that no athlete in the world says that in the future with quite the same meaning.

Simply to play at all in the tournament under these circumstances should have been valued for its bravery. At the end of it all - Phelps, gymnastics, Bolt, U.S. womens soccer and every other incredible report - watching these men take away the gold medal will be the story of the Beijing Games for me.

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,400786,00.html

Like, You Know.... I Mean, Totally!

"Over and over - over and over - Just say it like you mean it - Just say it like you mean it." Matchbook Romance

I mean, like I am SO totally relieved to see that "I mean" really appears in the Urban Dictionary. You know -- I mean, without that explanation, like - well, I mean -- whatEVerrrrr.

I generally consider myself to be a fairly hip mom of two girls -- ages 21 and 16 today. The extent of our arguments about grammar and language over recent years has centered on the overuse of "like" in conversation. The long-standing Valley Girl equivalent of taking an "um" or two to collect one's thoughts. I wasn't really too concerned about a lot of other lazy language slipping into their daily jargon. You know?

In the media age, Olympic athletes find a microphone shoved down their throat before they've even had a moment to towel off. Or, worse -- when their never-beaten, highly-favored Gold Medal sure-thing team just choked and was mysteriously handed a Silver on the podium -- it's a wonder they can rub two brain cells together to speak anyway. But, I'm thinking that should not be sufficient excuse to start EVERY answer to EVERY question with the pithy "I mean." I mean, it's just ridonkulous.

This hefty opener does not discriminate on the basis of age, race, sex, nationality, or time of day. I heard it all last week on NBC, MSNBC, USA, ESPN, and ESPN2. I'm sure I missed a veritable plethora of "I mean" just while I was sleeping. This week seems much worse. But, I'll be able to sleep peacefully tonight, with the full confidence of an Urban Dictionary listing that defines it as "meaningless."

Word.

If I'm not, like, the only, like, language freak or whatever, then, I mean, see for yourself:

1. I mean

Meaningless American use of the English language. Often reflective of a complete lack of content in what they are saying - people of average intellect, articulation and education will simply pause and think about what they are saying. Probably due to American television with programs such as “Clueless”, “Legally Blonde” and “the OC”, which depict successful people as not requiring any form of intelligence or decent command of the English language. In real life, these people look stupid, act stupid, and everyone thinks they are stupid. Typically, they fail intelligence tests.
“He was like…I mean…like….like…I mean…totally….like…totally…couldn’t even speak american properly…like…I mean…” “I mean…like…one day…like…I will be the most successful…like…lawyer or teacher…like…I mean….just like in that movie…like…I better buy some pink clothes...i mean”

Listen to You, I Will....

"You can attract more bees with honey than vinegar." Somebody's Mom

At one time, I think I was a cat person; even though, growing up, we probably had as many dogs as cats. The cats weren't thoroughbred anything, just regular cats. The last cat we had while I was still at home was a very beautiful long-haired calico. Her name was "Samantha." She was normal issue from the "Cat Aloof CATaLOG," but she seemed -- almost -- like a "sweet" cat. You know, the type that would make you think that you actually had any influence at all on what she did. But, she knew she was in complete control. And, she liked watching you believe that you were more significant to her than a dust bunny.

When my sister's second daughter was born about two decades later and they named her "Samantha," my first words really were "....they named her after the cat!" Of course, I had momentarily forgotten that the best man at their wedding - his best friend - was named Sam. My only lasting memory of Sam is of watching him faint right into the candles in the middle of the ceremony. From my Matron of Honor position, there was nothing to do but witness his fall to the floor. So many challenges on that day had already been overcome, it was almost not surprising.

I suppose I got my due on namesakes when we came to Colorado. We have a border collie named "DeeDee." She has more friends on Dogbook than I have on Facebook, and her name came with her from the SPCA. It has been said that, when I was a little girl in Cincinnati, Ohio, I was nicknamed "DeeDee" because that's what came out of my mouth when I tried to say "Cindy." I've been "Cynthia" since I declared it to be so at age 18. But, the fact remains that our dog is accidentally named after me.



Shortly after arriving here, I coined the phrase ".....when you cross the Colorado state line, they issue you your dog." It's not that far from the truth. This state is truly dog-crazy. That's true for most of the rest of the country as well. But the intensely bright 300 days of sunshine every year, coupled with a disproportionate display of jaw-dropping nature items per capita in Colorado, just bring out the dog in ya.



We put off getting our requisite dog until we moved into the new house and had the backyard landscaping installed. We scheduled most of it to be done while we were in Hawaii for the U.S. Youth Soccer Far West Regionals in the summer of 2003. After that, Mark and Meredith checked out the rescue candidates. Mark has a penchant for picking out the most intelligent dog he can find. He really likes smart dogs. I really like smart dogs, too except for the part where they need constant entertainment. Or, they'll eat the outdoor furniture. Not making that up -- I have the teeth marks on an expensive set of Smith & Hawkin teak pieces from "puppy" dude in northern California to prove it. He also managed to do about $2,000 in damage to the back yard there. How he found $2,000 worth of opportunity to inflict on that postage stamp-sized patch of green remains a mystery to me. I think it had something to do with digging up drainage pipe and confusing it with a food group.



So, when "Yoda Cat" showed up on the web yesterday with the four ears, I thought about whether the ears on a cat -- any cat -- were actually used for hearing. That is, do cats listen? Regardless of the number of ears on their heads?



I mean, really. Was their complete refusal in the past to do what I said due to the inability to hear with those little ears -- any or all of them -- or were they just ignoring me? Can you conduct hearing tests on cats? Would it change anything if you could?



I have never contemplated this question with respect to dogs. Even if they don't hear me or pretend they are not listening, they almost inadvertently move those ears in a moment of self-betrayal. They almost can't not listen. Or, at least pretend to be listening. Add their charming tilt of the head at the precisely correct moment, and, well, we just give them the benefit of the doubt.



But, I don't believe I've ever given a cat the benefit of the doubt. I'm not sure. I haven't lived in a household with a cat since I married a man that almost breaks out in hives at the mere mention of cat. It's no put-up job. During one of our periodic college break-up moments, I was thrilled to learn that he was subjected to the cats of a would-be new girlfriend at our church. I thought his all-over body rash was exactly what he deserved. A rebound girl with cats just made him miss me more. More importantly, she clearly did not match his girlfriend requirements, which I had already defined. (1) Dark hair - check. (2) Blue eyes -- No. (3) At least six feet tall. NOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

My Yoda Cat sighting on the internet last night coincided with my return home at 9:30 from a four-hour Architectural Review Committee meeting at the Highlands Ranch Community Association. I raised my hand for this position. After last night's Board vote, the group is finally back to five filled seats, after many months of gaps. All but one of us is new to the group in the last four weeks. A recent trio of architects resigned in a wordy snit after the Highlands Ranch Board of Directors overturned their denial of a home expansion request. Long story short, they were "serving" on this Committee for all the wrong reasons. Their egos finally caught up with their motives, so they picked up their toys and went elsewhere.



Last night was the first time since I was appointed that all of our scheduled 15-minute appointments showed up for a hearing. It's not surprising that a waiting list exists during planting season for these spots. But, it is a mystery why only one -- or none -- of the four appointments generally shows. Last night was different. Everyone was there, even a man without an appointment who wanted to be "in the room" when his application came up for review, in case we had questions. That was a smart man. His request for solar panel installation flew through like a Greased Pig because he was there to clarify a matter that promised to block approval otherwise.



The first of our four appointments was a man in a baseball cap. The two ears sticking out under the cap closely resembled Yoda Cat's bottom two ears, only bigger. He didn't seem to understand the nature of his opportunity to present his issue. I listened and listened. I could not determine what problem we were trying to solve. It became increasingly difficult to listen and comprehend when his presentation consisted of attacking the Highlands Ranch staff personnel in the room and pointing at each of the Committee members and making assertions about their state of mind based upon the "vibe" he was feeling from them. He didn't know my name, my background, or why I was in the room. But, he was 100% certain that I was "unfriendly" Etc. Etc. Etc. I don't even remember a time when I have been called "unfriendly."



Ultimately, long after he had left the room with a parting declaration that "you're all a bunch of Nazis," we voted 3-2 to approve his exception request. My vote FOR him was the tie-breaker. Not that he would care or appreciate it. There's a part of me that wonders if he will even take "yes" for an answer, since it came from a bunch of 'petty bureaucrats.' But, I assure you that he didn't win the vote because of his vast persuasion skills. He asked a lot of questions and refused to listen to the answers. He asked a lot of questions that I think -- in retrospect -- he only intended as rhetorical. That is, not considering the possibility that a real answer would be forthcoming. An answer that he might really need to ponder. An answer that would change his own opinion about his own request. He just wanted what he wanted.



The Committee needed about an hour of debate and consideration by five adults and two advisors to work through the matter of a two-foot encroachment of concrete in one of the newest neighborhoods. Unfortunately, the developer's plans for that particular plat set five-foot side yard setbacks. It we break the rule for him, we risk setting future precedent that is harmful to the vast majority of well-mannered, reasonable neighbors. But, we also want him to install his landscaping for the greater good of his neighborhood and the community at large. And, it must be said that our feelings won't be hurt if we never see him again.



I sincerely hope that this man does not conduct his other personal or professional business in a similar manner. More ear devices wouldn't help him much. Like cats, it's what's going on between the ears that could make the difference. For at least 15 minutes last night, I think Samantha would have been more responsive.

Death of Another Salesman

"....And they say you don't tug on Superman's cape; You don't spit into the wind; You don't pull the mask off an 'ole Lone Ranger, And you don't mess around with Jim...." Jim Croce, 1972

Mark and I went to a funeral on Thursday morning. He has a weekly early-morning business networking group in Arvada, and all the other members are women in their mid to late '50's. One of them just lost her husband after he battled lymphoma for two years. His final weeks were excruciating. They had been married for 38 years. He didn't have any life insurance.

We thought we were late for the funeral after battling I-25 traffic long after the commute would have explained it. But, we actually arrived in the middle of the Rosary. Well, I think it was the middle. We're not Catholic, but I've been to enough Catholic funerals to know that wasn't the funeral. Yet.

So, it was good to be early. But, it was concerning that the funeral was starting later, because Mark's other weekly business networking meeting is at Noon on Thursdays. That meant we had to leave by 11:30 to get back through Denver traffic. We had no choice. He had been asked to speak that day about his agency. He was going to talk about life insurance. The script had now been written for him...."I just came from a funeral. A colleague of mine has lost her husband, and he left her with no life insurance." I told him we would just have to stand up and go at the appointed time, even if the funeral had not ended. Of course, he could think of many reasons not to do that.

I met Mark's colleague for the first time on Thursday, and I never knew her husband, Danny. Neither did Mark. I was trying to get a sense of who he had been during the eulogy, given by one of his sales partners. But, the man had decided to rely upon what he thought was his natural gift for gab and only prepared a few bullet points about Danny on an index card. He had difficulty holding onto it. After he picked it off the floor for the third time and concluded his rambling thoughts, my mind drifted to another salesman. A man I really knew. The person who gave me the greatest gift anyone in my business life has ever given me.

I attended his funeral, too, in 1999. He had succumbed to a characteristically brief battle with pancreatic cancer. Another Catholic service, in Pleasanton, California. His oldest daughter, headed to Law School, gave a brave and compassionate eulogy. His name was Jim.

He had been asked to leave the company just a few months before his death. I had watched his disgrace, knowing fully that it had come by his own hand. He was from some sort of old school, where the lines between humor and decency were blurred and harassment laws had not yet been invented. Witnessing his horror and self-loathing at ultimately realizing what he had done, when he had meant something so innocently far-removed, was almost as difficult as watching his physical suffering from the unrelenting disease.

Although we can never know conclusively, it seemed at the time that this disease was always scheduled to visit Jim by his own hand as well. When he hired me to run marketing, he gave over an enormous executive office to me with a balcony. It had been known previously as the "Smoking Balcony." Jim was a chain smoker. Even though this balcony was completely open to the outside air and furnished with large and highly-scented potted rosemary plants, I don't believe the lingering tobacco aroma dissipated until I had been there about a year.

Jim was an even more dedicated drinker. He ate lots of saturated fat, didn't get enough sleep, and didn't understand why I didn't approve of his penchant to hold spontaneous tactical meetings at a local Walnut Creek bar in the middle of the afternoon. And, why I wouldn't participate.

But, he was the walking embodiment of what it meant to be a salesman. He said he needed me because he didn't know anything about brand marketing and all that goes with it. Regardless, his instincts about it were uniquely fine-tuned. It seemed to me that what he really needed was another Champion for his thoughts, a separate voice with the national brand credentials to point to him and call him right.

He was right. That particular business continues to thrive and grow a decade later in a tiny part of the western United States that I refused to move to when someone decided to exit California as executive office space. No one in my eight-member group would move there either. But, the importance of that division to the corporation today is complete witness to the veracity of the strategy. The one where Jim stood firmly at the center. All the people who have earned a penny from that business unit in the past ten years fully owe their success to Jim.

I had worked for him only a few months. My group was still in start-up stage in a division that was still on life-support. That's why we were all there. The night before, I had returned home from the grocery store to find my husband deep in thought after a conversation with his mother. Another salesman had entered the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio -- an incredible place of life-saving miracles. Just as true, many people went there as a place of last resort. But, this salesman, my father-in-law, had been there many times and had beaten the odds with cancer for 16 years. Even though he had lost a lung to cancer (unlike Jim, he never smoked a day in his life), some of his family members and friends never gave this new development a second thought. They just assumed he would beat it -- again.

He had driven himself to Cleveland Clinic this time. Mark heard something different in his mother's voice this time. He wondered what he should do. I heard myself say to him, "you need to stand up right now and go." Shannon was nine years old, it was March, and she was in school. Meredith was about to turn four in a few days, and I worked full time for Jim. But, I trusted Mark's instincts and told him he should take Shannon with him. She was a Gifted & Talented student who would catch up a few days of missed work....

Overnight, we had heard more discouraging news from Cleveland. Mark left early that morning with Shannon for Cleveland, and I went to the office. It seemed like he had been in Cleveland ten minutes -- maybe -- and he was on the phone to me again. He said "this is it." He was sure of it. Fear and dread coursed through my bloodstream. What were we going to do??? I couldn't take off work for a funeral -- not right now. Maybe it wouldn't happen.....

Another hour went by. Another phone call from Mark. "You need to come quickly, and bring Meredith." After I hung up and felt my knees buckle, I was observed by Jim to be just sitting. Slumped, at Jim's former desk, in his former, enormous office. I motioned him in, and he saw my pale face and blank expression. Of course, there was no way to not tell him. I thought he would express his sympathy, and I would get back to work somehow. But, I discovered I didn't know the real Jim very well.

He said, "...you need to stand up right now and go. Go take care of your family."

Naturally, I protested that there was no way I could do that. No way I would leave my beloved group members to fend for themselves. He reminded me that they were there because they were more than capable of covering everything for me. I reminded him about the important, upcoming Division meeting. I was expecting to be indispensible for it. He told me again that I needed to take care of my family. He said I would never regret it. The salesman made it clear that there would be no messin' around with Jim on this one.

I stood up from my desk and left the office. I went to United Airlines in Walnut Creek and bought tickets for me and Meredith on the next flight to Cleveland from Oakland -- the redeye that would stop in Detroit. I sat up all night on two planes, watching a little girl try to sleep. She had been named after my father-in-law's oldest brother. He had died of a brain tumor at 50, which happened to be Jim's age on that night.

I left voicemail messages for Jim every day of the 17 days I was away. He only replied twice -- the first time was to the first one. He said that he didn't need to know anything about it and would see me when I got back. When I got back, so much time had passed. In the business sense. The position of a pregnant group member was now covered by my dear friend from Del Monte, who had been set up as consultant during her absence. I had missed the baby shower. Meredith was now four years old. We had had a little party for her in Papa D.'s room the night before he really began to slip into the final days. Meredith and I had been in Cleveland for just a few hours. It was the last time Papa D. was really Papa D.

I had spent the last week of my father-in-law's life in the Cleveland Clinic. Meredith had been diagnosed during that time with the croup. She and I had been almost lost in a plane crash when our connecting flight from Kansas City to Wichita was involved in a torrential rain storm. We seemed inches from the ground, when I felt the small craft being pulled back into the heavens to safety. By the same Hand that took Meredith's grandpa from his coma into the light early the next morning. Our family of four had been reunited in Papa D.'s house. I was there with Mark after that final phone call, to wake up Shannon together and tell her that Papa D. was gone.

Two time zones behind us, Jim wasn't even awake yet. But, I left him the voicemail message anyway. I had been gone a week already. Now, we had a funeral to plan. His second response came to this message. "Take care of your family."

Last summer, Mark got a surprise message from Cathy -- a woman in that same time zone. She told Mark that her husband -- one of his best friends from northern California and fellow Trojan alum -- was at the end of an incredibly shocking cancer battle. It was going to take him, and it might be a matter of hours. He hadn't wanted anyone to know. But, she had to tell Mark now. I heard the words again, coming out of my mouth.

"You need to stand up right now and go." Meredith stood up and went with him.

A Little Money Goes a Long Way

"Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted." Albert Einstein

It's Thursday in Highlands Ranch, Colorado. That means that our complimentary issue of Highlands Ranch Herald sits in the driveway until someone returns home to collect it. Always wrapped in a brightly-color plastic bag to protect it from the non-existent moisture that might appear anyway if we just hope hard enough.


Today's color was a rich green -- coincidentally, the color of money. Fitting, as it turned out....


The issue price of $.75 per copy may be hiding somewhere in our quarterly homeowner's association dues. But, we're not likely to ever find it. We never read it until Mark started a new business. Now, we at least scan it before throwing it into the charcoal-starter bin that will someday help produce succulent chicken filets or burgers on the grill.


I have only saved something from this weekly paper one time since we moved to the Ranch six years ago. Sometime in April, 2005, they finally found space for the picture of the five athletes at ThunderRidge High School who had signed National Letters of Intent in the library on February 2. There, in living black-and-white, sat our smiling daughter in her USC hoodie next to a hulking football player headed to Colorado State. He behaved like he had already received a few blows to the head, as he exhibited his complete lack of knowledge about most things, including anything related to women's soccer. He had been taunting her for weeks that she could only be getting money from USC because she was a legacy student. Trust me, her selection into USC's #1-ranked recruiting class of 2005 for NCAA Division I women's soccer had absolutely nothing to do with our USC diplomas. We don't exactly have a building named after us there....


Anyway, I was intrigued to see that the paper managed to squeeze a few inches on page 8A for Alexander Artemev, the most famous Sasha in print and broadcast media. At least, for this week. "Highlands Ranch gymnast helps the U.S. earn a bronze medal in Beijing" read the upper right Sports feature bullet under the front page masthead. They probably had to drop the latest news about Little League as they were headed to press, to make room for him. Somebody's mother is waiting somewhere in 80126 or 80129 with a pair of scissors, for a photo that will not run now until next week, at the least.


Minsk, Belarus-born Sasha hit the feature line-up on our local NBC-affiliate recap "The Olympic Zone" (catchy, huh?!) as soon as he was named second alternate to the team. He and his father drive all the way from Highlands Ranch to Wheat Ridge for him to train at 5280 Gymnastics. (CATCHY, huh?!) You just can't go wrong around here if you throw the "5280" into your company name. Even if you're really living at 6100.


Sasha arrived at the National Indoor Stadium two days before competition began, after Morgan Hamm pulled out because of his ankle injury. His father, Vladimir, raised him and trained him his entire life. Vladimir was Russia's all-around gymnastics world champion in 1984. His own Olympic dreams were shattered by the political posturing that resulted in Russia's boycott of the Los Angeles games. With this short notice, he could not make arrangements to travel to China to watch his boy transform to Money Player with the world as witness.


If you've been watching anything besides Phelps, you already know that "Sasha" -- the Russian "diminutive" form of Alexander -- whirled around the pommel horse like a human propeller in the last exercise for Team USA on Monday night's prime-time programming. He yielded a much-needed 15.350 score to move them into bronze-medal position. Don't ask me about the score. After trying to clean up their mess from Athens, FIG (Federation Internationale de Gymnastique) has given us different point scales for each apparatus. So, one man's 15.350 on the horse could be as significant as another guy's 16.50 on the vault. I just don't know.


But, Artemev was clearly anything but diminutive in that moment. He was getting bigger by the day anyway, having done much the same during team qualifying on no sleep and no notice. Of that accomplishment, he said, ".....I was kind of nervous about not having podium training, but I figured I've been doing these routines for a long time. What do I have to lose now, right? Just go big."


Just go Big. Go Big, or don't go at all. Go Big or go home. Be Big about it. Really Big Show.


To my mind, the Big Man in Beijing during the team final was really David Durante. He was the third team alternate. He was passed over for Artemev, because of Sasha's potential to help a team that was otherwise quite weak on pommel horse. If you saw the competition, you saw that for yourself. On the whole, the first two Americans on horse just about gave away the night.


Durante was staying with Sasha at Beijing Normal University before Morgan pulled out, in what must have felt like an isolation zone for team alternates with little-to-no hope of competing in this Olympics.


I will never forget the NBC shots of David in the stands, dressed in his "civilian" clothes. He had to stay prepared just like everyone else - do the training, eat the food, keep the regimen -- in case he got the call. He didn't get the call, but he was shown sobbing for joy like a baby after Sasha nailed his routine. He dutifully appeared with the team on The Today Show during their next broadcast, sitting modestly in the back row, on the end farthest from the hosts.


He was the Big Man without a bronze medal draped around his neck.


Now, THAT's money.

Canary in the Mine Shaft

Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies." Colloquial

A part of me had already sworn off end-to-end Olympics viewing this month. We have work to do. A sales-driven business isn't helped by a lot of television distractions, and I've just reallocated one hour per week to the new season of Mad Men as it is. College football will be here soon (YES!!), so I almost feel like I need to stay off the tube now to justify the weekly Saturday gorgings later. Sort of like starving yourself for a day in advance of an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Of course, as I write this, the Damages Season One Marathon is airing on FX. I've already seen those episodes from last year three or four times each, but I like it for background noise better than beach volleyball in Beijing.

I have steared clear of religion and politics in this blog so far, and I don't intend to really break from that now. But, I am challenged to know what to do with last night's overdose of mesmerizing pagentry, that I tried to watch dispassionately from the comfort of my capitalist family room.

My first observation is that, in the age of Internet and 24-hour cable news and sports programming, it is now -- officially -- pure insanity for a network to presume they can package the Opening Ceremonies for prime-time viewing and justify it as a good business decision. From the moment the event began 14 hours ahead of me in Denver, the jaw-dropping information and brilliant photos began appearing on my browser front page. By the time 6:30 p.m. Mountain Daylight Time rolled around, Meredith and I had nearly been whipped to a frenzy in anticipation.

I had studied the Yahoo "Five Things You Gotta See" post. So, when the audio suddenly dropped out as the Chinese flag was raised and their national anthem began, you would have thought that someone had slapped me directly across the face. I was livid. The loss of audio was almost surpassed by the black screen on our local NBC affiliate's HD channel, forcing us to go to the "regular" channel to even see what was happening.

Every other channel and non-NBC HD setting had both audio and video. So, it was clearly all the fault of NBC. I was quick to blame the NBC New York feed and rapidly advanced to global warming. Even though I don't generally refer to global warming except to make a joke. One of Meredith's friends thought that the United States government must be censoring our viewership. I would have been more outraged at this high school senior's profound lack of understanding about all things sports programming-related had I not still been fuming about missing any part of this extravaganza.

A clear thinker would have discerned that electrical storm activity in the metro area, and it's companion torrential rain that closed a portion of I-25, might be responsible for this intrusion of silence. Of course, in Highlands Ranch, we got not a drop to drink. So, this invisible villain went unidentified for what felt like a millenium. After about five minutes, we got a 1970's-era Chyron label that read "Technical Difficulties."

Ya think??

Several more minutes later, the explanation about the problems being all local in nature and -- by implication -- nothing to do with politics, finally appeared. We got the HD signal somewhere during the Athletes Procession - we don't know when, because we didn't bother to keep checking it.

I'm sure that a bunch of journalists and media pundits around the globe will dissect and resection the motives and meanings of this Opening Ceremonies for a very long time. But, I frankly do not care. I quickly realized that, for me, the only way to think about what I saw and heard was to simply appreciate it for the accomplishment. Commentators rapidly lost touch with unique superlatives. The one I keep repeating is "staggering."

I know - and have participated in -- the banter about political philosophy, environment issues, human rights violations, and all the rest. But, no one knows what will happen on Earth in the years to come. And, I am certain that some of the kindest, most intelligent and most formidable hard workers I have ever encountered in my life have been from China. Living in California for a total of 29 years of that life -- in both of the two major metropolitan centers of the state -- it has been my privilege to know and work with these extraordinary humans. I didn't need to be reminded that the population of China represents one-fifth of humanity on Earth. But, I probably did need to understand and consider how much these Games mean to all of those people.

I acknowledge, but don't care about, all the money, extraordinary architectural achievements and blatant or inadvertent messages in yesterday's show. I don't care what kind of "statement" detractors may interpret and take away from the event. I don't care about the medals race.

What I do care about, and will remember for a very long time, is the emotion I felt when Yao Ming -- literally and figuratively larger-than-life -- escorted tiny Lin Hao, the earthquake survivor, around the stadium oval. When the little boy was quoted of his heroism among his classmates in the rescue that it was "his job." That he was their leader, their hall monitor. That it was his responsibility to do it. When I heard that 20 of his 30 classmates died. When I thought about the parents living under the one-child rule who lost that one child in that one moment.

When Yao held him high so he could see the Olympic flag being raised. When they oohed and aahed amid their diminishing age gap, while Li Ning made his eye-popping "run" around the Bird's Nest beautiful, symbolic scroll with the flame. When Yao said that he had waited his entire life for this moment. When he added that he had almost cried at this sight.

When I cried enough for him, too.

Highlights of the Beijing Olympics Opening Ceremony:

http://www.nbcolympics.com/video/share.html?videoid=0808_HD_OCB_HL_EN197

Indelible image of Yao Ming & Lin Hao during The Lighting of the Beijing Olympic Cauldron:

http://www.nbcolympics.com/video/share.html?videoid=0808_HD_OCB_HL_L1621

Who Moved My Cheese?

"Gentlemen, it is better to have died a small boy than to fumble this football." John Heisman

I was going to title this post "Pack it in," but -- just guessing -- that phrase might have already been overworked and underpaid for the past few weeks by small daily papers across Wisconsin. I know that ESPN is just about hyperventilating at this moment (3:09 p.m. Mountain Daylight Time), as Chris Mortensen reports that Brett Favre could be meeting with Tampa Bay any minute now.

Whatever.

I didn't have anything against the Packers until the turn of the century. That would be the 21st century. And, it wasn't even their fault. I remember it like it was yesterday....

Between 1995 and 1999, I worked for Potlatch Corporation. My marketing duties for the Consumer Products Division took me to "metropolitan" Green Bay for visits to paper converting machine engravers. I don't know how engravers came to settle on the northernmost edge of the United States. It probably has something to do with water. Really, really cold water. But, sure enough -- they are clustered there. And, representatives from every big paper company in the country have been there to talk about engraving over the years and eat at one of the 10,000 sports bars in the town limits. By the way, engravers make enormous steel rolls for paper converting machines. Those machines transform the really big "parent" rolls of paper into the people-sized rolls you use in your house. The engraving puts the pattern that (we) paper people call "emboss" on paper towels and bath tissue. The lead time for a new engraving is about 100 years, and it costs about $100 million. Well, not quite; but -- really -- even though we put men on the moon about fitty years ago, it takes almost as much time to get a new engraving and almost as much money.

I WAS NOT surprised to land in Green Bay for the first time and witness all manner of orange foam-constructed anything-you-can-think-of for sale in the airport gift shops. I coulda had little cheese earrings. I coulda had a cheese bra. I coulda been a contender. But, I resisted the urge.

I WAS surprised to find that my hotel was directly across the street from the airport. I had rented a car, but the tribe-operated casino/hotel appeared to be "The" place to stay in GB. I imagine that has not changed. I WAS surprised to learn that the drive from the casino to my business appointment "down town" was about half the width of Wisconsin. I had thought that a town of about 95,000 people wouldn't involve great distances for anything. The following evening, I went the other half of the width of Wisconsin for some obscure restaurant that wasn't even in Green Bay. Someone in our group had to check off the 97th heavy ale tour of his year in that exact spot. The food was awful. The enormous, bright orange cheese wheel on the salad bar, that appeared to be made of the same substance as the little earrings in the airport, didn't do much for me either. But, apparently, the chocolate brown ale that smelled like fresh-baked wheat bread was the bomb.

The NFL season was over. It was really early March, but it looked like really late February. The streets were lined with about seven feet of snow. All the little white-frame houses on the sidestreets had either bright yellow or forest green shutters. Or, both. Some had bright yellow concrete floors for front porches. Streamers and flags sagged from every lightpost. Actually, from anything vertical that was also stationery. And, the Kohl's parking lot was full of rigs festooned with Packers flags. People honked all over town at each other, like they had just won the Super Bowl or something.

Well, they had. Won the Super Bowl. After we concluded our business, we all decided we would go over to Lambeau to see the trophy. In some sort of out-of-body experience, I spent almost $100 for Packers paraphernalia to take back to my husband and daughters. Which made no sense then and makes less sense now. We lived in the San Francisco East Bay at the time. So, the only place they could really use any of the stuff was in the privacy of their own home. It was just too dangerous elsewhere.

I reserved a soft, warm spot in my heart for Green Bay, the Green Bay Packers, and Green Bay people. I learned how to spell "Farve." I mean, "Favre." I thought he could pretty much make the Pig fly.

Suddenly, I found myself working with a tightly-knit group of expatriot Green Bay Packers fans, who had tranferred out to San Ramon, California from a famous consumer packaged-goods company. From Wisconsin, but not from Green Bay. They had come to "save" the one I had been hired to help "save." I'll spare the sordid details. Suffice to say, it became the Ex-Del Montes vs. the Green Bay Packers Ex-Pats, and it didn't end until I cleaned out my office.

These particular Cheeseheads possessed many insufferable characteristics. It took about a year; but, eventually, I couldn't help but confuse their individual insufferabilities with Packer Time. And inflatable Cheese Cushions.

I know that the good people of Green Bay and Wisconson as a whole would be as shocked and dismayed as me about their terrible behavior, if they knew what I knew. So, while I'm sorry that the former are enduring this current onslaught of embarrassing publicity about the Packers, I'm not sorry for the latter. The only time I think about them at all is when I hear something on ESPN about the Packers or Brett Farve, er Favre. So, that's been a lot of thinking lately.

Too much thinking. It's some thought I would just as soon forget. But, ooh, here it comes again. Packers news conference coming up any second now......

Sculpted Sleeper

"One stray step from the habitual path leads irresistably into a new direction." Franz Grillparzer, 19th Century Austrian playwright

We were driving from Wichita, Kansas to El Toro, California in the summer of 1970. We always took car trip vacations back then. I was 14, had a new boyfriend (my future husband), and was headed to southern California for the first time in my life. I couldn't know then what importance the entire southern California region would someday have to my own life, as well as to the lives of my own nuclear family thereafter.

The route was I-70 for much of the way, right through Denver, Colorado. I wasn't really paying much attention to it, since that stretch of I-70 basically felt like a commercial strip of name-brand manufacturers, distribution centers for major retailers, and steam-spewing plants making who-knows-what. It's not much different today.

The car began to climb. It was a very steep grade, and the slight tug of the engine as it adjusted to the incline brought me out of my adolescent trance. I looked up in time to suddenly catch the intense sunlight bouncing off some sort of shiny object perched on the side of the mountain to my left. In a flash, I remembered reading something in a magazine about an astounding architectural wonder that had been built just outside Denver -- in Golden, or some place like that. It was supposed to be a home. It looked like a spaceship had landed in Colorado, smashing into the side of the crest, apparently having missed Roswell, New Mexico by more than a few hundred miles.....

That vision was the beginning of my ongoing life-fascination with the Sculptered House, aka "Sleeper House." I anticipated seeing it again on the return trip to Kansas for a long time, realizing that it would then be on MY side of the car. It was, indeed, the perfect setting for Woody Allen's zany comedy in 1973. At that point, I had been relocated to Pasadena, California -- with all the "rights and privileges" that go with that.

I have been waiting for the August edition of Colorado Homes & Lifestyles magazine for the month since I read online that they were publishing a feature on Sleeper House. I have an entire file folder of article clippings and internet info about it. Never get enough of it. As of last night at 9 p.m., the new issue was still not on the newstands anywhere. I don't know why. I couldn't wait any longer and went to the website to see what they published. The pictures above were arranged online into "then" and "now" order. In this note, the first view in the sequence is the "then" shot (dominated by bright, primary colors), and the second view in the sequence is the "now" shot (dominated by neutrals). I'm partial to the original bright colors and more authentic, space-age type of feeling.

When I moved to Denver to work for a homebuilder, I could not have imagined how much fun it would be to work with architects and land developers. I worked with a man who met Deaton and had been invited to tour the property. I never got to do that, but just talking to him about it was exciting for me. More than a few times, when I've been in Golden or Arvada for other reasons, I've veered the car to I-70 westbound for the few miles up the slope to see it yet again. From an excruciatingly untouchable distance. When we're traveling that way with the girls to ski areas, I never fail to point it out to them. It's an "old" thing that still looks like the newest thing I've ever seen.

The online article from the magazine:

"The Sculptured House is an icon with a Cinderella story. Architect Charles Deaton was intrigued by the idea of living inside a sculpture when he designed the home—the only private residence he ever attempted. Deaton disliked the proliferation of cookie-cutter homes and chose instead to find inspiration in the shapes he saw in nature. “People aren’t angular,” he famously said. “So why should they live in rectangles?”

"Construction began in 1963, and by the time the exterior was finished in 1966, Deaton had run out of cash. The home stood vacant for nearly 35 years. (When Woody Allen filmed part of his 1973 sci-fi comedy Sleeper there, he had to shoot interior scenes elsewhere because the Sculptured House’s interiors weren’t complete.) The home sat in disrepair for decades.

"Fast forward to 1999, when Colorado venture capitalist John Huggins bought the Sculptured House and had it finished, complete with a 5,000-square-foot addition Deaton had designed. Huggins worked with Deaton’s daughter Charlee, an interior designer, and her husband, Nicholas Antonopoulos, an architect who had worked with the elder Deaton before his death in 1996. (Colorado Homes & Lifestyles published the story of the remodel in our October 2001 issue.)

"What we learned then—and still know to be true—is Deaton’s design inspires us to look forward, to imagine what comes next in the constant evolution of design. There’s something about the home’s sculptural artistry that challenges us to imagine what’s possible.

"So nearly seven years after our original story ran, we checked in with the current owner, who invited designers from AERA Studios to reveal how they would update the interiors. Builders from Rosewater Construction joined them to refresh—and in some cases, repair—this captivating space."