Not a big favor or anything.  I don’t need a kidney, cash, or even help moving (though I’ll totally buy the beer if that ever comes up in the future…  that damn armoire is a beast).

No, I need your braaaaaaaains.

Last week, I mentioned that my company is launching a little internal campaign to help raise funds for some yet-to-be determined cause.  The execs are kicking down a bit of seed money to the group to get the ball rolling, and we have until the end of November to essentially “do some good” with it.  There’s a little more to it, but that’s pretty much “it” in a nutshell.

And here’s where I need your help.

Being the sucker that I am, I volunteered to be part of the office committee that’ll end up naming the cause and figuring out what to do with our money.  In other words, I’ve got mad influence.  And while we’ve brainstormed several ideas for recipients already, I’d hate to overlook a great cause.

Soooooo…

If you were in this position, what cause would you advocate?  Do you have a soft spot for the homeless?  Would you build a home for a local family?  Should you set up scholarship funds for underprivileged students?

There are only a few guidelines:

1. Obviously, it has to be a legit cause (the Justin’s Debt Reduction Fund was already shot down).
2. Nothing controversial or political, as judged by Common Sense (secret eugenics programs are out).
3. It should have a local focus (in the Portland/Vancouver metro area).  That doesn’t necessarily mean you couldn’t work with a national/worldwide organization (Habitat for Humanity, for instance), but the end recipient should be in the community.

Also, what would you do with the seed money?  The goal is to take the seed money the company is kicking down, get everyone in the office involved, and grow that money to create as substantial contribution as possible.  With that in mind, simply donating all the cash to your given cause isn’t an option.  For instance, you might use the money for advertising an auction in which you sell off donated/purchased items to (hopefully) raise even more green.

So if you have any ideas, Internet, let me know.  I’d be happy to throw them out to the rest of the committee during our planning phases.  Either post them here in the comments, or, if you prefer, drop me an email.

Oh, and expect me to come back looking for your help later, too.  I’m sure at least one of you knows somebody who can help…  someone with fame, fortune, power, influence, etc. who would love nothing more than to make me look good at the office help a good cause.

So there are few groups of people I enjoy belittling more than Portland cyclists.  Think I made that pretty clear in this post back in April.

And yet, here I am, sitting at my desk and looking at a bike helmet.  One that was, a couple of hours ago, protecting my invaluable cranium.

While I was riding a bike.

Yes, folks, as of this morning, I’ve officially become a Portland Cyclist.  Shit sticks.

Frankly, I’m as shocked as you are.  I mean, I’m the laziest fuck I know, more than content to sit on my ass with a beer, an XL All Meat grease-bomb pizza, and a 12 hour Star Trek: Voyager marathon.  Couple that with my previously mentioned fear and loathing of cyclists and, well, let’s just say it’s amazing that I managed to throw my ass on a bike at 6 o’clock in the AM and ride a hair over 10 miles before a lot of people have had their morning coffee.

Oh, yeah.  Ten miles.  I skipped that ride-to-the-train-station-until-I’m-in-shape step I mentioned last week (you remember, the post with Fat Hairy Ass Crack Dude picture?) in favor of the balls-out bike-the-whole-way-in approach.  I made a test run on Saturday morning to scope out the route, then went for it this morning.

And I’ve already knocked 10 minutes off my time.  Of course, that has more to do with the fact that I kept getting lost on the way in on Saturday than any actual improvement…  Funny how different the city looks on a bike versus in a car, or even on foot.  I might know how to walk or drive from Point A to Point B blindfolded and drunk, but trying to figure out how to get around via bike paths and lanes was a little awkward.

Thankfully, though, there some damn fine resources around here that help soften the blow for us bike newbs.  Like this Cycling the Cities map that shows how to get around in both Portland and Vancouver (picked up a hard copy of it from the Vancouver City Hall).  Or this kick ass Bicycle Trip Planner that, if you’re lucky enough to live in Portland, Oregon or Milwaukee, Wisconsin, will help you plot out bike friendly routes via a swell Google Maps mashup.

The commute itself isn’t too bad.  Takes a little less than an hour to get from my garage to the bike rack inside our building, or roughly the same amount of time as my drive/train/walk commute.  Cool thing about that is that I don’t have to get up any earlier to bike in than I normally would.  I just wait to shower once I arrive at the office instead of doing so as soon as I get up.  And, since I’m already wide-awake from the trip in and I’m showering in a public place (the locker room in my building), my showers are shorter than they are at home.  Added saving-water-hippie-environmentalist bonus points.

As for the actual ride, most of it’s pretty leisurely.  Sure, crossing the I-5 bridge is a bit of pain (it’s cold and windy and uphill halfway), but that comes with its own reward:  once you reach the crest of the bridge, you get to fly down the other side.  It’s a little spooky, barreling down a small walkway with freeway traffic and steel I-beams on one side and the Columbia River on the other, but it’s a blast, too.  It’s like heading through the Death Star trench at full throttle (especially when you’re shouting various Star Wars lines to yourself while avoiding certain death).  Just like Beggar’s Canyon back home.

Oh, and there’s a mile-ish stretch heading south on Vancouver Avenue (which is oh-so-intuitively in Portland…) that tends to kill my legs right now.  Just a slight uphill grade, but it lasts long enough that I can definitely feel it by the time things level out.

After that, though, it’s smooth sailing.  Pretty much all downhill on a pleasant, tree-lined street until I get to the Rose Garden.  Weird navigating through there, but once I figure out how to get past that area without zigzagging back-and-forth like I just jumped out of a Benny Hill episode, I’m home free.  And I have the choice of either crossing the Steel Bridge right away and ending the commute with a mile or so along Waterfront Park, or zipping along the Eastside Esplanade and crossing on the Hawthorne Bridge just a block or so from my office.

So, dearest readers, now that I’m a veteran, let me impart a couple bits of wisdom I’ve learned in the last two days:

1. Don’t buy cheap shit.  Seriously.  The first helmet I bought was this Schwinn thing at Target.  Figured that I didn’t want to spend a lot of money up front when I didn’t know how long this would last, so I went to my favorite retail store to pick one up.  Big mistake.

   A clip on the first helmet broke the first day I had it.  Exchanged it for a new one.  Same clip broke on the exchanged helmet the first time I used that one, and the colored candy shell on top popped off by the time I made it to the office.  After I returned that one, I found this Giro bike helmet for only like ten bucks more (granted, on sale) at a sports store.  Much, much better.

   Besides…  you’re biking now.  The shit will pay for itself in no time just with the money you save on gas.  I figure to save about $5 each day between gas and train tickets.

2. Expect Pain.  And not just the unused-muscles-finally-getting-some-lovin’ kind.  Things will hurt.  Like the part where my ass meets the seat?  That taint-meets-butt-cleavage part?  Fucking OUCH.
3. Leave what you can at the office.  These first couple of days kinda suck, since I have to bring in absolutely everything I’m going to need.  Change of clothes, toiletries, shoes, etc.  Weighs you down, makes things a little awkward as you’re locking stuff up, dragging multiple bags around.  I’m going to leave two pairs of worky, dressier shoes (one black, one brown) in the office from now on.  Sure, I’ll look like a dork wearing my gym shoes from the locker room up the elevator, but I can deal with that.  ‘Sides, I’ll be carrying the helmet, so people will know I’m not that kind of retarded.  Just the biking kind.

I also bought one of those neato little bike computers that tell you your speed, distance traveled, etc.  Being a Big Fat Dork and all, I love geeking out on statistics like that.  I’ve created a Google Docs spreadsheet to keep track of it all (see the Bike Log link in the upper-left).  Not that you really care if my fat ass biked, drove, or teleported in, but the log helps motivate me, especially since other people could potentially see when I was lazy.

Oh, and added bonus?  The bike route avoids that crane that has it in for me altogether.  So, as long as I ride the bike, I don’t have to worry about anything like Death By Honey Bucket:

Nothing like walking under floating boxes of shit in the morning.

I’m not really sure what I did, or to whom I should be directing this, but I apologize. From the deepest, darkest, worm-infestedest corner of my soul, I’m sooooo sorry.

Ok, surely things have to get better now, right? I’ve atoned. I’ve admitted fault. Karma can stop pissing on us?

Yesterday morning, Wife called me at work. Pretty unusual (she knows I’m cranky when someone interrupts my naps), so I figured it had to be important.

Turned out, some jackass broke into her car last night. Broke some plastic molding around the window, unlocked it, and made off with about $2.97 in change from the ashtray and a three-buck winning scratch off ticket. I’m sure it was totally worth their time and our frustration.

So I left work and headed home to check things out. We thought they’d made off with one of our garage door openers, too, so we figured we had to take care of that little problem right away (turned out it wasn’t in there to begin with… hurray.)

While I was locking down Casa del Justino, I got a call from the bank. Apparently we missed some line when we were signing the 5.9 million pages of our house refinancing, so the bank decided that they couldn’t process it. We have to go do all the signing shit again now (not just the line we missed, but the entire packet).*

Which means I have to miss more work during this week when I totally need to be here.

Also means that we miss certain cutoffs with our current bank, so we’ll probably end up losing out on several hundred dollars because we’ll have to pay interest on our existing mortgage for this month.

Then after that…

I lost my shiny new digital camera. Was just about in tears when I realized I couldn’t find it and noticed that the backpack pocket I usually keep it in was unzipped. Figured it must have fallen out at some point and was gone for good, less than a week after I bought it.

About the only good thing to happen that day was that it turned out I’d just left it at the office in my rush out the door. So I have my camera again, with only the shit-stained pants I was wearing when I thought I lost it as proof of my stupidity.

Keep in mind, too, that all this was before noon.

Oh, then there was the trip back from the store where, distracted and distraught over the day so far, I cut off a Washington State Patrol car. With no turn signal. And he decided to follow me for the next mile or so, take my  exit, and make me wet myself in front of my daughter.

So, again, I’m sorry. I fucked up. It’s all my fault. Everything.

*Should note that we actually signed all this stuff at one of our bank’s branches, with one of their representatives guiding us through the process.  If there was something we didn’t sign it was either a) not in the packet to begin with, b) something they forgot to mark/highlight for us to sign, or c) something we did sign, but that they lost when they received the packet.

I’m an idiot.

About 14 years ago, I was in the Navy. I graduated from high school a year or so before, didn’t have any job prospects, didn’t have the grades/money to get into a decent school (and, being 89th generation white trash, didn’t know the first thing about that whole admissions process thing, or financial aid). Once Star Trek: The Next Generation went into its winter hiatus, well, what other choice was there?

So I enlisted, thinking I would earn some money for school, see the world, etc. They offered me a signing bonus and, because I can add, let me into the nuclear power program. Being a big fat nerd, the idea of learning all about nuclear reactors and the possibility of getting my Homer on made me all tingly.

One day, during one of my physics classes in Nuclear Power School, I got in a little tiff with the instructor. Can’t remember the exact details, but we managed to piss each other off somehow and, out of frustration, my wee little 19 year old brain determined it would be a good idea to break my pencil over my forehead. He chose… poorly.

After I cracked the pencil on my gigantic melon, I looked down and noticed that the thing was still in one piece. Not even a little crack along the side. A little disappointed, I figured it was a sign that I needed to chill the fuck out, so I decided to get back to taking notes.

Problem.

The lead disappeared. No sign of it anywhere.

Then it hit me, like a pencil to the forehead.

I reached up and touched the spot where pencil and head collided. Sure enough, there was a lump there that wasn’t there before.

“Oh, fuck. I just stabbed myself in the head with a pencil.”

I tried to work the lead out in my seat, but it wouldn’t budge. I raised my hand and tried to get the instructor’s attention to excuse myself, but after our previous encounter, she decided she wouldn’t have any of my shenanigans and ignored me.

Desperate, I told the guy in charge of our class that I was running to the head (that’s fancy Navy talk for “the pisser”). I walked down the hall and parked in front of the mirror, in awe of my own retardation.

I tried everything I could to literally get the lead out. Pushed, pulled, pinched. Squeezed my head like a zit. No luck. The tapered piece of lead was acting like a suction cup inside my skin, holding it in place.

Then things got interesting.

As I was squeezing my head and cursing myself, one of the Chiefs in the school walked in on me.

Me: Hello, Chief.
Him: Good morning. Problem?
Me: Well, um, seems I have a piece of pencil lead stuck in my head.
Him (angry): Pencil le… What the hell happened? Who the hell did this to you?
Me: Yeah, well… Um… I kinda did it myself… The lead broke off and…
Him (concerned): Oh… oh! Now, don’t worry. It’s gonna be ok. Whatever happened, it’s going to be ok. I know it’s stressful and all, but it’s not worth hurting yourself.
Me: Hurting myself? Wait, no! Not like that, it was an accid…
Him: Really, don’t worry. Here, come with me. I’ll take you over to sick call. It’s gonna be ok, ok?

The Chief walked me over to sick call, the Navy equivalent of the nurse’s office, and told the corpsman on duty all about my affliction. The corpsman tried all the scientific procedures I’d already attempted in the head (pushed, squeezed, pulled, etc.), then decided my condition was beyond his abilities. He referred me to the hospital.

So my Chief bodyguard escorted me over to the Navy hospital on the base and, again, told everyone who’d listed about what happened. A nurse walked me to a private room and asked me to wait for a doctor to come and take care of me.

A few minutes later, the doctor came in and gave me a shot of some kind of local anesthetic in the forehead. Clearly, he already spoke with the Chief before coming to see me because he was giving me the “don’t worry, it’s going to be ok” treatment, too.

After the shot, I calmly explained to the doctor what really happened, that I wasn’t some depressed sailor who’d tried to commit suicide by stabbing himself in the head with a pencil, but rather a retarded sailor who’d done so accidentally.

He looked at me for a moment, trying to decide which story to believe.

Then he made his decision.

He left me sitting on the table, waiting for the anesthetic to kick in. Then he found every person available in the hospital and had every single one of them walk into the room to mock the idiot with the lead stuck in his head. Fun, fun, fun times.

After about 15 minutes of oh-my-God-you’re-fucking-stupids and what-the-fuck-kind-of-idiot-stabs-himself-with-a-fucking-pencils, the doctor came back in, warmed up his scalpel, and cut the MIA piece of my writing utensil out of my head. I walked back to class and got to explain to everyone exactly where I’d been for the past hour or so.

And fourteen years later, I still see The Dot every morning.