My "RealAge" is 23.8, based on health, lifestyle, education, etc.
I'm not sure how much research went into this, but check out RealAge.com and beware of attempts to lure you into their spam machine. I haven't received any junk mail from this site, though. They'll send your results within two hours. Registration isn't explained, so just type in your e-mail address and a password.
Anyway, I recommend it if you're generally healthy and happen to be approaching 28...
Monday, April 28, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Headaches and reliefs: the physical edition
I began playing in a softball league in Roseburg last summer with some friends from Winston, and we started the new season on Saturday, playing three games in a kickoff tournament. I've always loved playing baseball, but I don't think I've ever enjoyed it as much as I do with this group--a great mix of characters all linked somehow to the school where I taught last year, Douglas High. Our team name--the Grays--comes from an old Negro League team that was based in Homestead, Pennsylvania. Below are a couple of photos from last summer.
I'm sure I'll write more about the Grays this summer. I'll be in Corvallis taking classes almost continually, but I am going to try to take a trip to Roseburg a few times each month to play with the team and see my friends down there (68 miles south of Eugene). We played well on Saturday, winning 2 of 3 games, and we hit well for the first weekend of the season. Our defense was great, and Timmy and I turned a sexy double play during the second game; Timmy plays shortstop and I play second base. It might be the best middle infield in southern Douglas County class C softball this year. But I don't mean to brag. (Yes I do.)
Unfortunately, despite making it through the entire season last year without any injuries, I took a pretty good hit to the head near the end of our first game. Garret waived me home as I rounded third base. I saw the other team's shortstop with the ball but knew I could beat the throw to the catcher. Well, this was a very good throw--I hear the guy had a great arm and put everything into it. I began my slide under the catcher's arms and felt the ball hit me behind the top of my left ear. I don't really remember what happened in the seconds after that because everything went black, and it felt like the hit was spinning me around. When I opened my eyes I couldn't see out of the right one at all, and, from my back, could only see a little light out of my left eye. I rolled onto my butt and watched the ground spin, thinking only "come on, come on, come on," as I waited for my vision to return. I held my breath and tried not to puke on all the shoes circled around me. I looked up and could make out the umpire with one eye as he asked me if I knew where I was, and I said "yeah, hope I was safe." Nobody laughed! ...or, I didn't hear them. Anyway, a couple of people helped me up (Tyler and the ump?), and walked me into the dugout where I sat spinning and watching the vision return to my right eye; strange that I lost vision in my right eye for so long from a hit to the left side of the head...but, now that I think of it, I think that's consistent with what I learned about the brain in a college psychology class. That was a long time ago. Tyler brought me ice and I sat still, happy that I didn't eat breakfast that morning.
I've heard people say they don't remember what happened when they were knocked out. I lost maybe five seconds of it, but I remember most of this experience, so I assume I was nearly knocked unconscious and probably suffered what could be termed a "mild concussion." My jaw and head hurt all day yesterday, and I've still got a headache today to accompany the large knot on my head. But, fortunately it's nothing serious or worth worrying about. I just thought I'd share this because it's still vivid, an experience most of us aren't familiar with, and an interesting example of how sensitive our brains are.
Photo 1: Me, Tyler, Timmy, Kevin M.
Photo 2: Me, Garret
Photo 3: Kevin G., Dee, Mike B., Chris, Mikey, Tyler, Me, Jon
I'm sure I'll write more about the Grays this summer. I'll be in Corvallis taking classes almost continually, but I am going to try to take a trip to Roseburg a few times each month to play with the team and see my friends down there (68 miles south of Eugene). We played well on Saturday, winning 2 of 3 games, and we hit well for the first weekend of the season. Our defense was great, and Timmy and I turned a sexy double play during the second game; Timmy plays shortstop and I play second base. It might be the best middle infield in southern Douglas County class C softball this year. But I don't mean to brag. (Yes I do.)
Unfortunately, despite making it through the entire season last year without any injuries, I took a pretty good hit to the head near the end of our first game. Garret waived me home as I rounded third base. I saw the other team's shortstop with the ball but knew I could beat the throw to the catcher. Well, this was a very good throw--I hear the guy had a great arm and put everything into it. I began my slide under the catcher's arms and felt the ball hit me behind the top of my left ear. I don't really remember what happened in the seconds after that because everything went black, and it felt like the hit was spinning me around. When I opened my eyes I couldn't see out of the right one at all, and, from my back, could only see a little light out of my left eye. I rolled onto my butt and watched the ground spin, thinking only "come on, come on, come on," as I waited for my vision to return. I held my breath and tried not to puke on all the shoes circled around me. I looked up and could make out the umpire with one eye as he asked me if I knew where I was, and I said "yeah, hope I was safe." Nobody laughed! ...or, I didn't hear them. Anyway, a couple of people helped me up (Tyler and the ump?), and walked me into the dugout where I sat spinning and watching the vision return to my right eye; strange that I lost vision in my right eye for so long from a hit to the left side of the head...but, now that I think of it, I think that's consistent with what I learned about the brain in a college psychology class. That was a long time ago. Tyler brought me ice and I sat still, happy that I didn't eat breakfast that morning.
I've heard people say they don't remember what happened when they were knocked out. I lost maybe five seconds of it, but I remember most of this experience, so I assume I was nearly knocked unconscious and probably suffered what could be termed a "mild concussion." My jaw and head hurt all day yesterday, and I've still got a headache today to accompany the large knot on my head. But, fortunately it's nothing serious or worth worrying about. I just thought I'd share this because it's still vivid, an experience most of us aren't familiar with, and an interesting example of how sensitive our brains are.
Photo 1: Me, Tyler, Timmy, Kevin M.
Photo 2: Me, Garret
Photo 3: Kevin G., Dee, Mike B., Chris, Mikey, Tyler, Me, Jon
Headaches and reliefs: the mechanical edition
You know that motorcycle that left me stranded on HWY 99 a few weeks ago? Well, it's gone. A mechanic in Philomath went through the motor and quickly determined that there were so many problems with the bike that he couldn't fix it until winter, and even then it wouldn't run like it should. Basically, the guy I bought it from had no idea what he was doing with the bike and put a worthless old engine in it. But, he had it working well enough to get it sold.
The mechanic suggested that I should try to return the bike. I had e-mails in which the owner told me it runs well on the interstate and that "it really snorts." Forget snorting, it could hardly breathe--no compression in the carbs, the valves were bad, a brake needed to be rebuilt, and on and on. I sped home from the mechanic's shop and called the old guy I bought it from and insisted that I would file in claims court if he was unwilling to exchange the bike for the cash I gave him for it. It was a pretty nasty discussion, but he finally conceded that giving me the money back would be cheaper and less of a hassle than dealing with me in court. (I would have included an additional $500, at least, for transportation charges, registration, the mechanic, parts, etc.) I think my education in rhetoric proved to be quite practical. And then I went right to the bar.
Fortunately, I found another motorcycle on Craig's List, and we were going to drive right by the guy's house on the way back to Washington with the nonfunctioning bike. It's slightly smaller than the Honda cb750, but it fits me nicely and runs well. The young guy I bought it from rebuilt it a few years ago after it was smashed by the previous owner, and he's done a great job with it mechanically and aesthetically: a custom paint job with Audi paint, and lots of chrome. I assured him I'd be right back for the bike after I exchanged the first bike with the original owner in Washington.
The scene of the exchange was tense. Josh and Robert took the trip with me in a big truck from Enterprise. I backed the truck into the guy's garage and we unloaded the bike with the help of my friends and a big guy who was surely there to make certain I/we didn't try anything shady. I handed Henry (the owner) the title, and he handed me an envelope with cash that I counted quickly. As I stepped to leave, Henry couldn't stop himself from giving me advice: "I suggest you buy a bike from a dealer. There's nothing wrong with this bike. You know, a dealer won't let you test drive a bike out on the highway, either--most people won't. You pull this again and you'll get your ass kicked."
I stared at him for a few long seconds. I wanted to tell him how lucky he was that I didn't take him to court for additional charges. I wanted to tell him what a terrible mechanic he is, and how he threw this bike together haphazardly to make a quick buck and he should be ashamed of himself. I wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that most people, including dealers, will let you get a bike on the road before you buy it. I wanted to tell him that I drove a bike just an hour ago, one well maintained by a good person, and that I was going to turn this money right over to him for a legitimate piece of engineering. I wanted to tell him how much sleep he took from me, and how I struggle to trust people.
Instead, only: "Take care, Henry." And we drove off to pick up the bike below, a 1978 Honda cb550.
The mechanic suggested that I should try to return the bike. I had e-mails in which the owner told me it runs well on the interstate and that "it really snorts." Forget snorting, it could hardly breathe--no compression in the carbs, the valves were bad, a brake needed to be rebuilt, and on and on. I sped home from the mechanic's shop and called the old guy I bought it from and insisted that I would file in claims court if he was unwilling to exchange the bike for the cash I gave him for it. It was a pretty nasty discussion, but he finally conceded that giving me the money back would be cheaper and less of a hassle than dealing with me in court. (I would have included an additional $500, at least, for transportation charges, registration, the mechanic, parts, etc.) I think my education in rhetoric proved to be quite practical. And then I went right to the bar.
Fortunately, I found another motorcycle on Craig's List, and we were going to drive right by the guy's house on the way back to Washington with the nonfunctioning bike. It's slightly smaller than the Honda cb750, but it fits me nicely and runs well. The young guy I bought it from rebuilt it a few years ago after it was smashed by the previous owner, and he's done a great job with it mechanically and aesthetically: a custom paint job with Audi paint, and lots of chrome. I assured him I'd be right back for the bike after I exchanged the first bike with the original owner in Washington.
The scene of the exchange was tense. Josh and Robert took the trip with me in a big truck from Enterprise. I backed the truck into the guy's garage and we unloaded the bike with the help of my friends and a big guy who was surely there to make certain I/we didn't try anything shady. I handed Henry (the owner) the title, and he handed me an envelope with cash that I counted quickly. As I stepped to leave, Henry couldn't stop himself from giving me advice: "I suggest you buy a bike from a dealer. There's nothing wrong with this bike. You know, a dealer won't let you test drive a bike out on the highway, either--most people won't. You pull this again and you'll get your ass kicked."
I stared at him for a few long seconds. I wanted to tell him how lucky he was that I didn't take him to court for additional charges. I wanted to tell him what a terrible mechanic he is, and how he threw this bike together haphazardly to make a quick buck and he should be ashamed of himself. I wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that most people, including dealers, will let you get a bike on the road before you buy it. I wanted to tell him that I drove a bike just an hour ago, one well maintained by a good person, and that I was going to turn this money right over to him for a legitimate piece of engineering. I wanted to tell him how much sleep he took from me, and how I struggle to trust people.
Instead, only: "Take care, Henry." And we drove off to pick up the bike below, a 1978 Honda cb550.
Monday, April 14, 2008
I continue to neglect this blog
A very brief note about the works I'm studying this term:
Hawthorne > Chaucer
Hawthorne > Chaucer
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Minor breakdown(s)
So, today I was stranded on Highway 99 and I missed that 1-credit practicum I mentioned in the last posting. Bad day. Fortunately, the instructor was very nice about it and she'll let me make up the points by doing a short presentation later in the term.
I bought a 1979 Honda cb750 from a retired guy in Washington over spring break, and he didn't want me to take it on the highway because I would have had to drive it on a muddy road to get there. I drove it briefly in his yard and it ran well, and since he has about ten bikes in his garage that have been or will be restored by him, I trusted the ol' guy. My bad. I'm taking it to a mechanic in Philomath next week. May be an ignition problem. May be a carb problem. May be an alternator problem.
Big thanks to Josh for helping me out continually with this bike, and for getting me off the side of the road today. It's a fun, powerful old bike when it runs properly--and it will be running perfectly before summer is here, or I'm giving up on all motorized vehicles and sticking to my feet and bicycle. Oh, and next summer, if I still have the thing, it'll be black with cafe-style handlebars and a different exhaust.
I bought a 1979 Honda cb750 from a retired guy in Washington over spring break, and he didn't want me to take it on the highway because I would have had to drive it on a muddy road to get there. I drove it briefly in his yard and it ran well, and since he has about ten bikes in his garage that have been or will be restored by him, I trusted the ol' guy. My bad. I'm taking it to a mechanic in Philomath next week. May be an ignition problem. May be a carb problem. May be an alternator problem.
Big thanks to Josh for helping me out continually with this bike, and for getting me off the side of the road today. It's a fun, powerful old bike when it runs properly--and it will be running perfectly before summer is here, or I'm giving up on all motorized vehicles and sticking to my feet and bicycle. Oh, and next summer, if I still have the thing, it'll be black with cafe-style handlebars and a different exhaust.
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