Size Does Matter

Size does matter.

When it comes to Alaska, everyone knows that everything is bigger.  Everything except for the cramped Economy class seat that I'm sitting in on my flight to Anchorage.  Nothing but a flimsy armrest is keeping the kind lady seated next to me from oozing into my personal man-space.

However, Juneau that this is the last time I'll be cramped on this trip.  Only a Homer doesn't Nome that Alaska is the biggest state in the US, and I'll have plenty of room to roam.  Kenai tell you how excited I am to get there?  My Haines are all in a wad, and I can't Barrow the suspense.  If you don't think Alaska is unbelievable, you are in Denali.  I'm looking forward to the State Fair, where you can do everything from admire enormous pumpkins to watch professionals give a bear a body piercing or give a Yakutat.  I might have to Wrangell for a place to Sitka at a few events, and hopefully I don't end up near anyone who smells like open Seward.  I should probably stop at a store and Ketchikan of Axe Body Spray to take with me, just in case.  I don't mean to beat a Deadhorse, but I Kiana can't wait to arrive.

Thus far, this is quite possibly the corniest blog entry I've ever written.

Somebody, please pry this laptop from my hands.

I seem to have digressed from what matters:  Size.  Length, width, girth:  Alaska has it all.  One would assume that significant shrinkage would occur due to the cold, but Alaska has managed to retain its original size.

I once saw a t-shirt with the outline of Alaska encompassing the outline of Texas, with the caption "Ain't Texas Cute?"

Did you know that the land area of the city limits and borough of Juneau, Alaska's capital, are larger than Rhode Island and Delaware combined?  And that Juneau is only Alaska's third-largest city by area?

You could fit over five Oregons neatly inside Alaska's boundaries.  

Sorry, Texas.  You got pwned.

I'm actually more excited for our three days off in Alaska than I am for our two Alaska State Fair shows, our radio appearance, and our Anchorage concert.  Glaciers, mountains, fjords, and, of course, America's #1 threat, bears!

I'm also pretty excited to share with you the fact that Russell, my bandmate in Crown Point, a grown man of sound mind in his 20s, literally just learned about four hours ago that the plural of "moose" was, in fact, not "meese".  True story.

And now, to pressing public health issues:  How is it possible that cigarette smoking is banned on domestic flights, while it's perfectly legal to open and consume noxious containers of garlic-ridden potato salad, of questionable freshness, at will?  C'mon lady, I'm dying here.

Through a break in the clouds, I can see massive Mt. Fairweather.  Our kind flight attendant has just informed us that "it's that magic hour where we get to put away our electronic devices."  What are we, twelve?  "Jonny, have we cleaned our room?"  "Mom, if this is a team effort, you certainly haven't done your part."  And magic hour?  Does my laptop disappear when I put it in the case?  What am I going to see?  Rabbits?  Unicorns?  A bag of mystery cocaine miraculously appear in Paris Hilton's purse?

Alaska, here I come.  Something tells me that amidst your unbelievably massive natural beauty, I'll be reminded of how small we really are, yet how much our lives really matter.

Blog Nectar

Once upon a time, the blog nectar was flowing. I wrote every week, or at least a couple times a month; my management was exploring publishing options for my writing, and all was right in the world.

Once upon a time, a Jon Davidson blog entry was something you could count on regularly, like the Old Faithful geyser, Lindsey Lohan getting a DUI, cocaine being found in Lindsey Lohan's car, Lindsey Lohan going to rehab, Lindsey Lohan going to the hospital, et al..

What happened?

Now, blogs seemingly come as infrequently as Lindsey Lohan appearing in a movie, or Lindsey Lohan making a good decision of any kind.

Why am I picking on Ms. Lohan? I don't know. This is old news. Forgive me for not having the time to keep up on the latest brainless she-tabloid fodder.

Well, for those of you who haven't yet switched over to Facebook (only to find out that in a lot of ways [insert Farmville-esque game here] it's just as annoying as MySpace) and followed my status updates, here's a little of what's been going on.

But first, I'd like to thank Ms. White, my junior high English teacher, for cementing in my brain the rules regarding using brackets inside parentheses, as well as creepily and almost daily telling me that I should wear pleated khakis because she was sure I looked so good in them. For the record, it is mathematically impossible to look good in pleated khakis. Then again, Ms. White didn't teach math.

Insert Family Guy digressive vignette here.

As you probably know, I'm in a new band called Crown Point. Last month, we toured to Illinois and back, playing at Cornerstone Festival and breaking down eight times along the way. Over the last couple weeks, we've been recording our debut album in Vancouver, BC with Jeff Johnson, a producer with an affinity for zipper masks (don't ask) who has worked with the likes of Nickelback, Jet Black Stare, Adelita's Way, and Divide The Day. Nickelback's drummer, Daniel Adair, even played drums on one song on the album, much to the chagrin of rock purists and the joy of everyone else who is smiling everywhere.

Did you know that in Pocatello, Idaho, the self-proclaimed Smile Capital of the US, you can be issued a ticket for frowning in public? Look it up. It seems like a vicious cycle to me: you're issued a ticket, causing you to frown even more. At this point, you're issued another ticket, and so on. Hey, who am I to judge the means by which a city creates revenue? Unless it's child prostitution, of course. At that point, I could probably feel good about judging.

I commuted back and forth to Canada so as to not cancel any shows. If Chester's Chicken can feature a smiling cowboy chicken in its logo, who is undoubtedly a) thrilled about the fact that he's about to be cruelly slaughtered and eaten and b) a diehard country music fan, I can call it a commute, okay?

After a couple of weekend tours to eastern Idaho, we're headed to Alaska next week for two shows at the Alaska State Fair. We'll be sharing the bill with Shinedown and Collective Soul, and getting a couple days off to visit Denali and consume an entire hippo-sized gourd.

I'll then be in Portland for two days before flying to the Philippines to produce an album for Cara Flores, an alt/pop/soul artist from Guam.

Then, after another two days in Portland, Crown Point and I are embarking on a 7-week nationwide tour, opening for Tyrone Wells and Andrew Belle. If you haven't checked out Tyrone and Andrew, do yourself a favor, get cozy in your limited-edition Weezer Snuggie, and listen to their music. Tyrone, the former lead singer of Skypark, is signed to Universal Republic and is best known for a couple of Top-20 hits, including "More." If his music doesn't make you think about what really matters, then you most likely don't understand English, which makes the fact that you're managing to read this dramatically undermine your credibility. Andrew has had songs in shows such as Grey's Anatomy and won some VMA Awards.

Chances are, we're playing in your city. Dallas, Austin, Oklahoma City, Houston, Birmingham, Nashville, DC, New York, Philly, Chicago, Indy, St. Louis, Boston, Minneapolis, Milwaukee, Denver, Salt Lake, Boise, Spokane, San Luis Obispo, Portland, LA, Sacramento, San Francisco, Seattle, Wichita. To name a few. I reckon I would love to shoot the breeze with all y'all at a show (sorry, Chester and I have obviously been spending too much time together).

I'm really excited about this tour, mainly because I get to see 35 Tyrone Wells shows for free, but also because Mr. Wells is a class act with a calling, we're playing some great venues, and we'll have a chance to meet a lot of amazing individuals and hit a bunch of cities whose radio stations will be spinning singles off of our new album.

I'll be back home in Portland around November 20. Hopefully, my cat will still remember her daddy.

I can't wait to keep you posted on the tour, and to hopefully see you at a show.

If I don't get the chance to write another blog entry for awhile, you'll know what happened to the blog nectar.

Tired

I have something I need to say.

As I type, the profound words of a hit song are running through my head, guiding the content of this blog post.

"Say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to say."

Thanks for that, John. At least you probably never forget the words to that one when playing live.

According to my count, he utters the word 'say' exactly 75 times in this song. By all means, waste a few minutes of your life figuring out if I'm right or wrong.

Unlike Mr. Mayer, what I need to say contains at least some subtle variance between clauses.

So what, you ask, do I really need to say?

No, I'm not a homosexual. Sorry, Andrew.

No, I don't have any STDs, or a secret drug problem. I do take Propecia, but never more than the recommended dose. Who knows what would even happen if I did. Tongue hair, anyone?

No, I'm not a closet Republican, I'm not lactose intolerant, I don't know where Waldo is, and no, I'm not pregnant, as far as I know.

Without further ado, here it is: I'm tired.

I'm not talking about sleep. I actually got a pretty restful six and a half hours of sleep last night, and faithfully imbibed my daily regimen of four cups of mediocre black coffee this morning.

No, it's something more than being physically exhausted.

Don't get me wrong: I've been busy. The Friday before last, I released my new solo CD with my band Crown Point at the Doug Fir in Portland. We sold out the show. The night before, my other band Silversafe played with Powerman 5000 to a sold-out Hawthorne Theater. Earlier last week, I made an appearance on
Portland's KGW Channel 8, an in-store appearance at a world-renowned record store, and a live appearance on Portland's biggest rock station, KUFO.

I'm also leaving on tour with Crown Point to Illinois in a couple weeks. 17 dates, two festivals, 10 states. We parted ways with our bassist this last week, so we've been busy getting a replacement up to speed, as well as firming up radio and TV spots, accommodations, and other details for the tour. Not to mention
answering a multitude of fan emails, practicing, and sending out posters to various street teams around the country.

So, needless to say, I haven't been sleeping enough. Mom, if you're reading this, save yourself the trouble of calling. I already know what you're going to say.

It's more than a need for REM, though. It's a need for peace. I feel like my soul is being worn thin.

When I first started playing music, it was something beautiful. Something meaningful, spiritual, cathartic.

While in college, I switched majors six times, and finally settled on Communications, which my guidance counselor assured me would get me a degree in the shortest amount of time. After trying a little of everything (scholastically speaking), I realized that music was the only thing that made me happy, that made me feel fulfilled.

Ever since then, I've been pursuing a dream of being a professional musician. My career started as a part-time drummer in a crappy garage band. I then sang and played guitar and bass for a couple of well-intentioned grunge bands before moving on to an acoustic pop band.  I then became the singer and screamer in a metal band. Next, I went solo, then joined an acoustic duo, then formed a pop/rock band.

I've been on twelve lengthy tours, had a tour van break down five times, played in almost every US state and 5 countries, and had two songs on hundreds of FM stations. I've met some amazing people, fans and musicians alike, played with some pretty big names, and sold more records than I ever thought I would. And
I don't regret any of it so far.

Somewhere, though, in all of this, the simple joy of playing music has all but disappeared. Gone the way of Ray Allen's shot in this year's NBA Finals.

It's a business, folks. I am an entrepreneur in one of the world's most cutthroat industries. To ignore the business aspect of a music career is to kiss your aspirations goodbye. No tongue, please.

I haven't written a blog post in awhile. Nor have I written any songs lately. I feel like my proverbial well has run dry. Worse, I'm in an industry where wells are frowned upon, shunned; where everyone is forced to hook up to city water to survive. The same blandly reliable city water that everyone else on your street is
drinking. No wells. No waterfalls. No flash floods. Just a faucet and a knob.

I can't remember the last time that I actually had the chance to sit down somewhere beautiful and play my guitar. And sing. To myself, to God, to whatever varmints might be listening.

I want to rediscover the spark, the passion, the purpose of playing music. Why am I doing it? Why do I spend seventy hours a week on something that doesn't satisfy? Should I be pouring my energies into something else? Or taking a different approach to the music business? Or take some time off? Or keep my
schedule jam-packed in the hopes that things will work themselves out? Time and life are not renewable resources.

I love my bands. I love my fans and friends. I love my manager, my attorney, and especially my PR coordinator. I love being on stage. I love traveling. I love meeting new people every day. I love Russell Stafford. (There, I said it.)  Don't get me wrong: there's still plenty that I love about what I do. I simply never wanted it to turn into just another job, albeit one with killer benefits.

This blog post doesn't have a tidy ending. Nor will it make you laugh, unless you're a jerkface. I'm not digging for encouraging messages in return. It's not often easy for me to be vulnerable and admit that I don't have a finger on the pulse of happiness and fulfillment all the time. So, I'm actually writing this for my
own sake. If you're still reading, thanks. Goodnight.

Ricky Martin And A Partridge In A Pear Tree

Ricky Martin made headlines this week when he formally announced that he is gay.

In other news, the Pope has finally come out and revealed that he is Catholic, and Ron Jeremy is expected to declare that he is of above average endowment later this week.

It's about time, Ricky. You had us all fooled. Or perhaps there is something we don't know about Rebecca De Alba's anatomy.

How is this news? It's as if Yahoo had decided to run an expose on the fact that the Chicago Cubs do, in fact, suck.

I will admit:  I still took the time to read the story. On two different websites.

It's mind-boggling to think of how much time I spend on menial activities, like reading said quasi-news stories, or folding my underwear, or attempting to get the ends of a trash bag open so I can line a trash can with it. I estimate that I spend at least 30 profanity-laden seconds per trash-bag change, which happens probably twice a week. That's a minute a week, wasted. Gone. 52 minutes a year. If I live to be 85, I will have spent 73.6 hours, or just over three full days of my life, wrestling with my plastic demons.

I wish I could just get all three of those days out of the way at once. Maybe. That IS a lot of sack to deal with in a short period of time. Perhaps Ricky Martin would be willing to help out.

I slept in today. Got to bed at 1:30, and woke up at 9:45. I honestly cannot recall the last time I had a chance to do that. I can't comprehend the fact that the average American watches six hours of TV a day. Six hours? Since canceling my cable last year, I haven't even watched a total of six hours of TV in 2010. It seems silly to live through imaginary people's lives when you could be living your own.

And don't even get me started on these MySpace and Facebook games. From the comfort of your own profile, you can start a food fight. You can join the mafia. You can buy your friends as pets. You can get poked, groped and fondled. You can even get pooped on. Look it up.

I really don't get it. Is there really nothing better you could be doing with your life? Even Solitaire requires some sort of mental function. Sadly, this inanity is indicative of society at large, and not just of some lunatic fringe. What could possibly be so important that it would keep the typical American from hitting the gym, writing their grandparents, getting an education, being a contributing family member, and pursuing a lasting and rewarding career? SuperPets, that's what. One hundred years ago, kids worked on the farm. Now, they work on Farmville.

In the thirty minutes that I've spent writing this blog, I've gotten invitations to join RockYou Pets, Vegas, StreetRep, Image Lovecheck, SuperHug, Vampires, and MafiaWorld. That's on MySpace alone. On Facebook, during this past half hour, I've gotten a request to join a world war, and have been gifted a zebra, which I am supposed to send back. Let me spell it out for you: If anybody sends me a zebra, or any other large, multicolored ungulate, I'm keeping it. No ifs, ands, or bison, okapi? You'd be lucky if I even returned a wallaby.  Most likely, it would be AWOLaby.

While no one would accuse me of being unopinionated on the matter, I'm not saying free time is a bad thing. A total lack of it is enough to drive anyone crazy.

This month has left me teetering dangerously on the brink.

Saturday, I finally got back from a three-week tour to SXSW with my new band, Crown Point. 6,000 miles. 17 shows. Eight states One trailer destroyed. One ring swallowed by an obsessed fan in Colorado Springs. One crack den posing as a live music venue. One unfortunate and ill-advised attempt to pee into the wind on the side of the interstate. Three flights. One spring snowstorm in Cheyenne that shut down I-80.

Two crazy nights in Austin. One Houston show shut down by the fire marshal for being over capacity. One show canceled. Two shows with me on drums. Two 22-hour drives. One Dallas snowstorm. Ten days of checking Weather.com to find that it was 20 degrees warmer in Portland than in Texas where we were. One great merch girl from Boise who worked her butt off and had a snore that could have been construed as sound copyright infringement by Husqvarna Chainsaws. One great manager from Spokane who worked his butt off and snored louder than our merch girl. Six sets of earplugs. 25 sleeping pills (not at one time). 35 energy drinks. 10 shots of espresso. 50 bananas. Three band members slapped by banana peels.

One security guard in Gallup, NM, with a chip on her shoulder. Hundreds of amazing fans and friends in cities everywhere. One fan masquerading as Sammy Hagar. One cab ride home at sunrise in Austin. Two nights sleeping at five-star hotels. Two nights sleeping in a no-star van. Three pairs of guitar strings.

Two live Web streams of our shows. One crazy band from Philadelphia that played car keys, threatened to perform operations on fans, and punched each other. One amazing band from Chicago with killer vox and a hot violin player. One open blues jam band. Two hilarious radio DJs in Cheyenne that not only had us on the air but came to that night's show. One run-in with pretentious employees at Jimmy John's. Two men painted silver on soapboxes.

One flat tire a mile from the KKK capital of America. One pack of wild dogs. Two backwoods mechanics. Three bottles of hot sauce consumed. Two in-store appearances. Eight straight nights of being awake after 5 AM. Seventeen death threats directed at my Verizon mobile broadband card. One nice surprise in Boise. Six bottles of homemade 80 proof Kahlua. Three bottles of cayenne pepper powder for my throat. Six 9V batteries for my wireless mic. Six hours a day spent working on my computer. One camera dropped and broken as a result of an impromptu, vaguely homoerotic gymnastics performance with our publicist in Austin. And a partridge in a pear tree.

Yeah, it was a crazy tour. But if I had an extra thumb, I'd probably give it three thumbs up.

I firmly believe that there is no such thing as luck, whether you're a musician, an entrepreneur, a plumber, a gigolo. The harder you work to put yourself in the right place, the more likely you are to experience what outsiders might categorize as good luck.

There is also no such thing as time wasted. With every minute of your life, you make a decision. You decide how to spend it. We are all getting older, together; the hourglass of time is a relentless foe. It's an endless march of sand, as Thrice puts it. How we spend our time determines who we are becoming.

If your time is spent on yourself, you will end up a selfish person. If your time is spent giving, you will end up a loving individual. If your time is spent rooting for the Detroit Lions, you will probably wish you were dead.

A fan in Idaho came up to me after a show last month and told me that the lyrics of my song "Perfect Cliche" had given her the strength to forgive her dad and to reconcile their relationship. It's easy for me, and arguably for most songwriters and authors, to get lost in self-importance and to think that the words we write are changing lives and touching people. It's rare to actually, tangibly, see that take place.

It's no easy road, spending time on things that matter. Why not put off for tomorrow what we should be doing today? In the words of "Perfect Cliche": "Difficult to try and quell the insurrection of time against the soul. And now you're left with the regret of all that's left undone and unsaid, but who collects on emotional debts anyway? Maybe today, and maybe tomorrow; maybe before your time is taken away. Maybe today you'll break what you've borrowed, or maybe you'll mend it with a perfect cliche."

Time is precious. Spend it wisely.

Haiti: Have It Your Way.

There are three types of people.

Don't believe anything you've read before. Ever. This is how it breaks down.

First, there are people who don't give a rat's ass. Or any other part of the rat, for that matter. They're especially selfish with rat spleens, which, to be fair, are delicious with a little barbecue sauce.

Self-absorbed, self-sufficient. This group tells Haiti that building their capital city on a faultline was arguably the dumbest decision in history (with the possible exception of giving Flavor Flav his own reality show). They also say things like "God hates French" and have bumper stickers that read "Obama: Not MY president." Reality check: if you live in America, Obama IS your president. Whether you're a Republican or a Democrat, whether you think he's a god or the Antichrist, whether you think beef stroganoff is a food or a herd of masturbating cattle, we don't get to pick who our president is after they've been elected.

Your only options are to deal with it or to pull a Peter Griffin and secede. Or go hunting with Dick Cheney and hope for the worst.

Second, there's a large group of people that sends a check to the Red Cross. Members of this group have three books of "First Class Forever" stamps in their gloveboxes. Their hearts are bigger than their work boots. Actually, they probably don't own a pair. Sorry, ladies, but Gucci Pratos don't count. This group might look for the easiest way to help, but who says easy can't be effective? (Just ask a hooker.) Case in point: U.S. cellphone users have already donated almost $10 million to the American Red Cross via text message in the Haiti earthquake aftermath.

Kids, if you're ever caught texting in class, you now have a killer excuse.

Third, there is a small group of people who are the hands and feet of relief efforts. It's crazy to me to think of being 'on call' for the Red Cross or a similar organization, ready to drop everything at a moment's notice to place oneself in harm's way. Why? Because somebody, somewhere, is suffering.

In case you're wondering, I belong to Grupo Numero Dos.

Yes, I studied Spanish in college. Want to learn a cool phrase? Try this: "Jon Davidson es asombroso. Compre su nuevo álbum." Teach it to all your friends!

Growing up, I thought 'manual labor' was the work involved in changing gears in a stick shift. Since the Haiti earthquake, I, along with Russell Stafford (who I play most of my acoustic shows with), have donated all the proceeds from ticket, album, and merch sales at my shows to the American Red Cross. I'm happy to say we've raised several thousand dollars, but that's just a drop in a Carnie Wilson-sized bucket.

What is an injured, starving Haitian going to do with a dollar bill? Stores are closed, damaged, looted. Dollar bills are low in nutrients, and you can't live off of the blow they invariably contain for all that long.

I would love to be in group 3.

Maybe someday, I keep telling myself. Maybe when the next uber-disaster rolls around. Right now, I have too much on my proverbial plate, and bigger, more accomodating proverbial plates are hard to come by.

I think of the fact that I don't have any formal training in medicine or disaster response, and that my tetanus shot is as out of date as Beyonce's dress at this year's Grammys. I tell myself that I would just be 'in the way'.

I weigh 170 man-pounds. Who or what exactly would I be getting in the way of?

In the case of Haiti, all the money in Halliburton's Cayman Islands account wouldn't make a difference if there was nobody available to administer supplies, to pass out food, to keep order, to give medical care.

Membership in group 3 is coveted, revered. It's more NBA All-Star, less Pro Bowl. It seems to be the most tangible, hands-on way to bring help to the helpless. However, just as there can be no group 2 without a group 3, there can be no group 3 without a group 2. You group 2-timers know who you are. Have you texted "HAITI" to your cellphone provider? Have you rounded off to the nearest dollar at the supermarket? If so, I commend you. If I were wearing a hat, I would tip it. If I were wearing a dress, there's a small chance I'd even curtsey if you asked nicely.

When you're giving, the way that you give becomes almost irrelevant. Don't feel like you're doing less with a cellphone than someone else is doing with a stethoscope and a bag of blood. We may have taken the easy road, but our job is important, too.

The media uproar that arose about cruise ships docking just miles from the Port-au-Prince devastation was completely unwarranted. First of all, the island clearly needs money, and not in the hands of its corrupt government. Tourism provides this. Second, I'd bet my appendix on the fact that most, if not all, of the members of the media that blew this story out of proportion aren't spending their entire day doing something for Haiti.

Really? You boxed up your leftover Triple Bypass..I mean, Triple Big Mac..and airmailed it? You wiped with Red Cross toilet paper? You're skipping the Super Bowl to donate blood? You flew down, snatched up ten Haitian kids, and tried to bring them back?

OK, not funny. And also illegal.

WWJK? Who would Jesus kidnap?

According to a Jan. 27 news report, the Haitian earthquake caused an estimated 250,000 fatalities, and disease, starvation and a lack of medical care will push the death toll even higher.

This means that over 84 times as many people died in Haiti than did in 9/11. Imagine 84 9/11 attacks merged into one cataclysm and you'll get a picture of the suffering and loss that has taken place.

84.

250,000. Most in mass graves.

9/11 was a terrible tragedy, to be sure, and I don't make this comparison to turn it into some inopportune yet minor contretemps. Obviously it wasn't a natural disaster but rather an event caused by humanity, which places it in a different category altogether. However, I'm just trying to enumerate what's taken place in Haiti in a tangible way.

Just because this tragedy is slowly fading from our collective consciousness doesn't mean that all the problems have been solved, needs have been met, or even that all the bodies have been found.

It's been heartwarming to see the generosity of fans at our Red Cross benefit shows who have given and given to help people they've never met. America as a nation has definitely made mistakes, from foreign policy to internal affairs. But let's not overlook the incredible magnanimity of its citizens.


I encourage you to get involved in the way that is best for you. Go to Haiti and help if you can. Or, go donate blood. Or money. Or clothes and goods. Text "HAITI".

The important thing is that you do something. People are counting on you.

This Year: Ten Or Oh-Ten?

Happy New Year. Or something.

Isn't New Year's kind of ridiculous? First of all, there are way too many different calendars in use, each with their own New Year's date. There's the Gregorian calendar, the Chinese or Xia calendar, the Swimsuit calendar..

Who was this Gregorian guy, anyway? And why should he dictate the one night that most Americans decide to get wasted?

Actually, that's pretty much every night. What country besides the USA celebrates other countries' independence days simply as another excuse to drink?

Did you know that Cinco de Mayo (which is not even Mexico's official independence day) is only officially celebrated in one Mexican state?

Did you know that Mexico has states?

Back to Gregory: apparently, he was a pope. He was the eighth pope named Gregory. In those days, all you had to do if you wanted your son to become Pope was to name him Gregory. Oh yeah, and make sure he was white, and lived in Rome. And looked good in a mitre.

Letting him die of the Black Plague would probably diminish his chances of ascending to the papacy, as well, so keeping your son in good health was a must.

I digress.

Anyway, Gregory XIII introduced his namesake calendar in 1582 by way of papal bull. This holy cow spread the word regarding the new calendar, goring and trampling those who dared not to adopt it.
Regardless of what Wikipedia says, a papal bull is not another word for a decree. It's a very angry animal that will literally rip your heathen face off.

Gregory's calendar replaced that of Julius Caesar. Rather than feel disenfranchised, Julius quickly realized that his future was in the orange fruit smoothie business, and the rest is history.

With Gregorian New Years come New Year's Resolutions. They suck. What makes otherwise sane individuals think that they'll somehow be imbued with all the self-control that they couldn't muster the year before? I wonder how long the average New Year's resolution lasts. Probably not even as long as Kevin
Federline's career.

Why do we as humans lack self-discipline? I speak for myself here: I'm brimming with good intentions, yet my actions and choices consistently fall short of the mark that my heart and mind have set. A famous author once said: "For what I want to do I do not do."

New Year's seems to be just another quick-fix solution, another South Beach Diet, another HydroxyCut. In reality, it's just another day: according to the Julian calendar, January 1 is actually December 21, so clearly the day itself has no exceeding importance. As P.O.D. put it, "Every day is a new day..so I learn from
my mistakes."

That's the key, I think: not trying to flip a switch. We can't become totally different people overnight; change and growth take time. If we continuously learn from our shortcomings and learn to love just a little bit better, we'll accomplish in time what a thousand different well-intentioned New Year's Resolutions never could.

One last question of utmost importance has been weighing on my mind.

Should we refer to this year as 'Ten' or 'Oh-Ten'?

Obviously, last year was 'Oh-Nine.' So it would seem logical that we would continue to use the last two digits of the year to refer to the year shorthandedly.

'Ten,' though, just doesn't flow. It seems more appropriate when used in reference to my pant size in women's jeans. Don't judge me.

However, although 'Oh-Ten' is still technically equitable, it just doesn't make sense. Nobody says 'Oh-Oh-Nine'. Unless they stutter.

If Gandhi were alive right now, my first, and arguably only, important question to him would be: "How did you abbreviate 1910?" I'm sure that he would non-violently resist the use of any inferior abbreviations.

I guess we'll never know.

Mountain Biking The Amish Way

I just finished an epic mountain bike ride.

Five clear Portland December days in a row are about as rare as an old British guy with all his teeth. Like, actually still in his mouth. I knew I had to take advantage of the dry singletrack for perhaps the last time in '09.
As a result of the clear skies, though, it's been ridiculously cold the last week or so. As I write, the temperature outside is 37 degrees Fahrenheit. All of my fans in South Dakota and Saskatchewan are laughing as they read this.

However, once you factor in the wind chill, and the east wind blowing in from the Columbia Gorge, and Oregon's extremely high barometric Berscheid factor...

OK, I'm just a wuss. There's no such thing as the Berscheid factor. Yet.

In any case, I knew it was best to bundle up before heading out to face such bleak conditions. I glanced at myself in the mirror before walking out the door.

Brown North Face fleece. Black snowboarding gloves. The svelte fuzzy grey beanie-under-red-bike-helmet combo.

Khaki shorts. White tube socks. Blue thermal underwear. Long johns, if you please.

Anytime I can write 'long' and 'john' in the same phrase, I will.

I was a walking (well, riding) fashion faux pas. For a guy who refuses to brush his teeth with a toothbrush that doesn't match his shirt, this outfit was the Titanic on a collision course with the iceberg of Goodwill. I was tempted to ride there and literally donate everything I was wearing. However, naked bike rides aren't even that much fun during the summer, and we all know what cold weather does to the male anatomy. No more long john.

However, as pneumonia also isn't on my bucket list, I wasn't too concerned with how I looked as I rode the trails of Powell Butte. It was a great ride, by the way. I only saw one other foolhardy biker on the trail, and he looked even more ridiculous than I did. So, of course, I laughed at him.

I will gladly sacrifice style anyday for the sake of something I love. So will most people, I think. Did those businessmen I was watching the Oregon-Oregon State game with last night really, firmly believe that those Beavers neckties were the perfect match for their light blue Oxford shirts?

Actually, sadly, they probably did.

As I was pedaling down 174th St. to get to the trailhead, I passed an Amish man in a horse and buggy. Well, more of a pony and buggy. This would've been a commonplace sight in Indiana where I grew up, but I'm pretty sure this guy was a long way from home. Still, he waved and smiled as I blew past him on my Trek 8700 carbon-fiber 27-speed mountain bike.

I could take him head-to-head anyday.

All you strapping young Amish lads can take that as a direct challenge. Ponies only, though, please.

Do you know the reason why Amish men shave their mustaches? Contrary to popular belief, it's not because they are enamored with Abraham Lincoln. On the contrary, it's because the mustache is, in their minds, an emblem of war and the military, involvement in which they are morally opposed to. Personally, I think that beards without mustaches look pretty weird. They look even weirder if the wearer also has a unibrow, but that's a whole different story.

At least the Amish can compensate for their emasculating lack of a flavor saver with those uber-pimp top hats.

And by knowing that tourism brings in a cool $30,000 annually, per capita, to many Amish towns.

The Amish have actually had a long history of sacrifice for the sake of what they love and believe. The Amish people originated in 16th century Switzerland out of the Anabaptist movement. Anabaptists believed that everyone should be able to choose what they believe for themselves. Although they had all been baptized as infants, they practiced rebaptism as adults, once the individual was old enough to make his or her own decisions. For this, they were oppressed and sometimes killed, yet they clung to their beliefs.

While I certainly don't champion all of Amish ideology, they must be doing something right. Their simple, hardworking lifestyle, free from most of the pressures and strictures of modern American society, attracts many new converts every year, and their numbers continue to grow across North America.

Due in large part, I trust, to those uber-pimp top hats.

This really could be the first blog ever written that encompasses both mountain biking and Amish. I'm not sure how I got here. I guess, though, that it all comes full circle: the Amish can and do indeed ride bikes. They've even developed a line of uber-pimp top hat bike helmets.

I have no idea if this is true.

I do, however, think it would be fun to be Amish for a day. Hopefully not on a day where a lot of manual labor was getting done. My management contract contains a strict anti-barn-building clause.

It's crazy to me how much of society views the Amish culture in a negative light. People have taken to pelting Amish carriages with rocks. This ended tragically in the case of one six-month-old North Carolina Amish girl who was struck in the head by a rock and died from her injuries. Another Canadian Amish woman also required thousands of dollars of reconstructive surgery after being hit in the face by a beer bottle from a passing car.

Just because we as a society view another culture or group as weird doesn't give us the right to trample on their rights. Amish people are among the most peaceful, most family-oriented, most hardworking people in existence. And they certainly aren't the backwards, ignorant individuals that Hollywood and TV often portray them as. They don't view all technology as evil, but simply look at each new technological advance in an objective light to see if it will bring their families and community together, or drag them further apart.

I'm not sure how I ended up on this pro-Amish soapbox. I honestly can't say that I even know any Amish people. However, I admire their commitment to what they believe, and admire their sense of community and harmony. I admire the fact that they've willingly sacrificed many of the so-called 'comforts' that we enjoy in order to preserve the things that are most important to them.

Would I want to be Amish? No way. Is there something to be learned from their way of life? Most definitely.

Would even a polite young Amish girl laugh at what I'm still wearing as I write this? By all means.