Park City, Utah in Winter: Toyota Throws a Snow-Driving Experience and I Live to Tell About It

All ready for a day of snow adventures.

I'm not the kind of guy who looks death in the face and laughs. There was a time when I was more adventurous. You know, when I thought I was bulletproof. Those days are long gone. No more do I long to jump out of a perfectly good airplane simply for the adrenaline rush. The group of fraternity brothers that I join every year or two on a trip somewhere have pretty much decided we will return to Eatons' Ranch in Wyoming this September. This will be my 11^th visit there. I, along with one or two other brothers, announced that we will attend, but won't be climbing aboard a horse this year. As anyone who rides with any regularity will tell you, it's not a matter of if the day will come when your noble steed tosses you to the ground, it's a matter of when that day will be. Having never been thrown, the odds aren't with me. Nope. Not going to do it.

Actually, if I knew the outcome of doing something dangerous was either coming out the other side unmolested or being killed, I would be more inclined to do it. At this point, I'm on the downhill slide of my life. I've lived a rich, fun-filled run. I wouldn't change much of anything. My fear isn't termination, it's being maimed doing something silly. I'm old. I don't mend nearly as quickly and easily as I used to. Not to mention, there are those injuries from which you literally don't walk away. You may still be breathing and your heart still beating, but that's about it. So, I've opted to sit on my cabin's porch, sip some bourbon and read a few chapters of whichever book I happen to have with me as most of my brothers ride off into the Wyoming mountains. Godspeed, boys.

For nearly 15 years I've followed the advice of Sir Richard Branson: Life is more fun when you say, yes, than when you say, no. I still do, to a certain extent. Adhering to those sage words provided the opportunity for having some great times. But, now I usually draw the line at things that just seem a little nuts. “Usually” being the operative word.

In mid February, Toyota invited me to a snow-driving event in Park City, Utah. It served as host of the 2002 Olympic Winter Games, and for good reason: There's always plenty of snow. More of a boondoggle than anything else, this event did provide the attending media the opportunity to pilot its sedans and car-based crossovers armed with all-wheel drive on a rather challenging snow course.

2021 Toyota Avalon AWD.

The stars of the show were the 2020 Toyota Camry AWD and 2021 Toyota Avalon AWD. Camry hasn't offered AWD since 1991, and 2021 will be the first-ever AWD Avalon. As other carmakers are abandoning sedans, Toyota is working to give more folks a reason to buy a sedan. Because of the widespread use of the Toyota New Global Architecture across a variety of models, Toyota was able to swipe the engine, transmission, transfer case, rear differential and some other underpinnings from the AWD RAV4, dropping them into the Camry and Avalon. The result is two surprisingly competent AWD sedans.

Toyota had me driving these AWD machines on the snow course, as well as paved roads on the first day. The second day Toyota offered a number of snow-related activities in which we could participate. I checked the box next to snowmobiling. Somewhere between making my pick and arriving at the Montage Resort in Park City, my name was also added to the list for the bobsled run. Neither of these events seems well suited to someone who has become a bit squeamish about his fragile health in his advancing years. But, nothing ventured nothing gained, right? Er, right.

All dressed up in snowmobiling gear.

Snowmobiling was my morning event. Toyota packed six or seven us into a van and we headed off the resort property to some snowmobiling vendor. There are several in Park City. There we dismounted, signed the usual “don't sue us” form and donned vendor-provided snowsuits, helmets and boots. Then we loaded into one of the vendor's vans for the ride to the trailhead. The vendor blended a young family with two little kids, as well as two older ladies from parts unknown into our merry little band.

Our snowmobiling group taking a break. Where's Waldo?

After a brief tutorial on snowmobile operation by one of the two guides tasked with overseeing our adventure, we chose a machine, climbed aboard and followed nose to tail, single file a mile or two to what the guides called “the meadow.” From the moment we cranked up our machines, one of the small children began wailing, which commenced and terminated with the ignition on the snowmobile on which he was riding being engaged and switched off. The kid's bawling was like a GPS: We always knew where that particular snowmobile was. We stopped at the top of a steep hill and climbed off our machines to get another tutorial on what the next 45 minutes would bring. Basically, we were turned loose.

Although this area is called the meadow, it's composed of some flat land, woods and hills. The biggest hill was the one on which we were standing. It was so steep, you couldn't see the bottom until you were over its crest. Then it was like the big summit at Cedar Point's Top Thrill Dragster roller coaster. So, for roughly 45 minutes we went as fast as we wanted on, what was basically, a closed course. During our initial instruction, we were told that if we lost control and the machine wound up on its side, to keep our feet locked into the footholds and not try to use our legs to keep from going over. I found this to be handy advice as my machine went over after taking a corner a bit too fast.

We had been out for about two hours when we returned to our starting point where we turned in our gear, hopped in a van and headed to the resort.

Around 2:30, nine of us loaded into a van bound for Park City's Olympic Park and the bobsled run. Upon our arrival, we again signed the appropriate paperwork, this time at a computer kiosk. We also had to answer a few health questions. Then for the third time in this process, someone droned on about all the physical ailments that would disqualify us from the ride. Heart issues, back issues, neck issues and on and on and on. I doubt the list would have been any longer had we been there to be shot out of a cannon or to have a heart valve replaced.

We were in the staging building for about 90 minutes as we were signed in, questioned, tutored, helmeted and so forth. Some of the downtime was spent simply strolling around the Olympic exhibits on display. Finally, came the moment to mount up. Because Toyota arranged this event (And, obviously I'm too much of a slacker to research it.), I don't know how many times a day Olympic Park offers this experience. I suspect only two or three times. The course must be groomed and repaired at the start of every day. As with our snowmobiling adventure, we shared this one with a number of civilians unrelated to our group.

Also because Toyota arranged this for us, as well as another wave of media the following day, our group was pushed to the front of the line. Each bobsled group consisted of an experienced pilot and three of us. I was part of the first three of our group that probably numbered 18 or 20 people in total. There was a group finishing up ahead of us and we queued up waiting for the next sled to roll over the finish line. Yes, this is the same bobsled course that hosted the 2002 Olympic competition. For safety's sake, we weren't going to run alongside the sled pushing it and then jumping in; nor were we going to experience the entire course, which would have propelled us to roughly 90 mph. For the public experience, they utilize about half the course.

I can't imagine the practice and athleticism required to push one of these sleds and then jump in. We were packed in this thing, spooning the person in front and behind. When we finally got to the point to situate ourselves in a stationary sled, getting the three of us lined up behind the driver took three or four minutes. There are metal handholds attached to the floor that we grabbed once seated. That's good because there isn't a back on a bobsled. Before actually being seated in this contraption, I had visions of us popping out the back one by one like candies from a Pez dispenser. Once seated, however, it became clear that only the Jaws of Life could sufficiently free one of us to bounce out the rear.

In the back of the truck awaiting the trip to the top of the run.

Getting a bobsled and its crew to the top of the run is an ordeal in itself. With only two sleds in operation, one is always being carted back up the course as the other is racing down it. Once the sled is stopped and unloaded of its shell-shocked passengers at the bottom, two attendants drag it off the track and place it on ski-like runners. They then maneuver it into the back of what looks like a midsize U-haul truck that is also fitted with a bench seat along one wall for the passengers. Once loaded with sled and passengers, the truck is driven to the staging area where the operation is reversed. This, folks, is how they do it at the Olympics, too: Sled and team are transported to the starting point in the back of a truck.

Once situated in the sled, the pilot reminded us how to position ourselves throughout the ride. We were to sit upright with our shoulders hiked up as far as possible, as if frozen in mid shrug. Our helmets, he added, would protect our noggins and the mid-shrug thing our necks. Oh boy...

Cheated death once again.

I have no clue who the first person was who thought racing down a twisty ice track in, what amounts to, a fiberglass canoe was a good idea; they must have had a screw loose. But, of course, what does that say about me? The entire ordeal occupied a mere 48 seconds with a top speed of just under 65 mph. That section of the course contains 10 turns, which means 10 times we were somewhat perpendicular to the floor of the track. It was zero to sheer terror in about five seconds flat. But what a rush. My buddy Javier Mota had a camera attached to the front of our sled. You can watch the video he posted to his YouTube channel here.

At the finish, extricating ourselves from the sled proved a bigger challenge than getting into it. Slowing my heart rate to something close to normal probably required four or five minutes. Simply, it was an almost unbelievable experience. Sir Richard Branson, you magnificent bastard!

Another Encounter with the Friendly TSA: You've Got to Be Kidding

I'm not the kind of guy who responds well to someone who thinks everyone (which includes you and me) they encounter is a moron. I give you the TSA.

I do more than my fair share of traveling. You're welcome. But, I don't travel nearly as much as some of my A-list comrades, who basically live in planes and airports. Most of the carmaker-media events I attend are one or two night affairs. Unfortunately, the one-night events are becoming ever more common. When these take place on the west coast, I often spend more time in airports and on planes than I do at the actual event. I try to avoid these “one nighters” when I can. Put a couple of them back to back in the same week and a weekend doesn't provide enough time to completely recover.

I probably had between 60 and 70 encounters with TSA in 2019. I am pretty well versed in dealing with this agency. Ten-or-so years ago, I ponied up $100 for Global Entry, which includes TSA PreCheck. This streamlines my entry back into the United States after traveling outside its borders. (Something I rarely do anymore.) It also includes expedited PreCheck screening for all domestic flights.

To qualify for Global Entry, I not only had to stroke out a $100 check, I had to fill out an application, be cleared through a background check and spend a day driving to Atlanta where I had a one-on-one interview with a TSA interrogator, was finger printed, and photographed. PreCheck alone costs $85, but I believe involves all the same upfront security screening as Global Entry.

One problem with the PreCheck is, the airlines are allowed to randomly bestow PreCheck on passengers who haven't been through all of the advanced screening. Consequently, everyone in the PreCheck line is still treated with a certain amount of heightened suspicion by TSA personnel. All my efforts and money spent (I have had to renew my Global Entry once since having it for an additional $100.) really only guarantee that I will have PreCheck on every trip. It doesn't mean I'm considered less of a threat. The TSA personnel manning (womening, iting?) the screening lines at the airport have no way to identify people who have been through the Global Entry/PreCheck prescreening process from the airline-awarded random PreCheck passenger. There is absolutely no effort on TSA's part to identify those of us who are registered PreCheck with heightened clearance from those who aren't.

In fact, I'm not even guaranteed PreCheck because TSA will sporadically withhold it. I won't go into that here, but having paid for and survived the prescreening doesn't mean I will get PreCheck 100 percent of the time -- just most of the time.

There are a few major advantages to PreCheck: shorter lines, keeping on your shoes and belt, leaving everything in your carry-on and pretty much keeping everything in your pockets. Right on the TSA website home page it states, “With a 5 year, $85 membership, you can speed through security and don't need to remove your: (sic) shoes, laptops, liquids, belts and light jackets.”

On trips of more than one night, I check a bag. Because I shoot video on most carmaker trips, I have a tripod and some other gear that I pack in a rollerboard with my clothing. That gets checked. I carry on my backpack. Typically it contains a laptop, a kindle, a video camera, a still camera, my cell phone, a gallon plastic bag with batteries and chargers, and other assorted odds and ends. About half the time, a second laptop will be in there, as well. The only item in that backpack that I routinely remove and send through the x-ray separately is the bag of batteries. If left in the backpack, it will get the backpack pulled for a hand search everytime.

My annual Christmas celebration every year includes a journey to my sister's in New Mexico. I drive from Greenville, SC to Atlanta, drop my carmaker test car off at the valet in Park N Fly Plus, shuttle to the airport and pass through security. This year I traveled on the Sunday before Christmas. To minimize the number of miles the ticket cost, I booked a flight that left Atlanta at 2:15 p.m. My average drive time to Atlanta airport is two-and-a-half hours. I left my house at 9:30 for a leisurely drive to Atlanta. I didn't realize it was raining until I loaded my bags into my car. I would have left another 30 minutes earlier had I known. As it was, the drive required nearly three hours that day thanks to a wreck on I-85 about 60 miles outside of Atlanta.

When I entered the security line, I had an hour and forty-five minutes before my flight was scheduled to depart. Plenty of time, right? I have PreCheck. I had removed and left at home several of my usual backpack items for this “pleasure” trip because I didn't need them. I left behind the cameras and bag of batteries. I did have two laptops (I had some work to do.) and my Kindle.

Atlanta has adopted this ludicrous bin system at the security x-ray machine. There are a half dozen stations where passengers must take a bin for every different item they are sending through the x-ray. Once you've taken your place at one of these stations, you grab a bin from down below, place it in the staging area, put you bag or whatever in it and then wait for an opportunity to push it on to the conveyor belt. Once that bin is on is way along the belt, if you have another item, you repeat the process. If you are at one of the stations downstream you might stand and wait five minutes before the stream of bins provides an opening to shove your bin into. Somewhere, someone probably earned a promotion and a bonus for thinking up this better mousetrap; except, it is less efficient and more time consuming than the line moving up one person at a time, filling a bin(s) and putting it on the end of the conveyor. Even though it is clear this system is less efficient than the traditional way practiced at most airports, Atlanta has invested so much money into the new system, we'll be stuck with it for years.

From the time I stepped up to a station at the conveyor on that Sunday, it required almost 35 minutes for me to clear security. Some of that time was eaten up by the wait at my station to insert my bin on to the conveyor. Some of that time was also spent because this was apparently TSA training day. The person operating the x-ray was obviously training. He paused at every bag, staring at the x-ray screen as though he were participating in a “Where's Waldo” tournament. The line was barely moving. Finally my bag moved into the x-ray machine and I cleared the passenger x-ray. I stood on the other end for at least five minutes before my bag exited the x-ray machine and another five minutes before it moved far enough down the conveyor that anyone could get to it. When it got there, it was pulled off the conveyor for hand screening.

As frustrating as it is, bags being pulled for no real reason does happen. The problem here was, the genius watching the x-ray monitor was having one out of every three bags pulled. The bags selected for hand searching were stacked up like cord wood. When a TSA person finally got to my bag, he pulled out one of the laptops, scolding me that according to regulations, if you have two laptops, one of them must be removed.

“Since when?” I asked. Thinking perhaps this was a new regulation and looking for some clarification.

“It's always been that way,” was the response.

“I beg to differ,” I said. “This is far from the first time I've traveled with two laptops and it's never been an issue.”

“That's the way it's always been,” he persisted as he rifled through the rest of my bag with a Delta 2 Million Miles tag waving in his face. This obviously wasn't my first rodeo.

He took my bag and the now-removed laptop back to the x-ray for a second run through. Five minutes later both items exited the x-ray. At which time, my bag was pulled for a hand search again. WTF? I about popped my cork.

I attempted to get the attention of one of TSA bag searchers to get my bag, which had already been hand searched, into the front of the line. No luck. I stood helplessly as four or five bags were searched ahead of mine. When my bag reached the front of the line, the same TSA clown got it again. “I'm not getting this,” I said, “this bag has been searched. You searched it.”

“Well, it's going to get searched again,” he responded.

“I have a flight to catch.”

“So does everyone else here,” Captain Obvious replied.

“Yeah, but their bags haven't been through the x-ray twice and searched once,” I said as calmly as I could at this point.

With that, he pulled out my Kindle. “Only one electronic item can go through the x-ray,” he chided

“You guys are now considering a Kindle the same as a laptop?” I asked, reacting to what was also a new development.

“We always have.” was the only response I received as he handed me the laptop that had gone through by itself the last time. He carried my bag with the remaining laptop, as well as my separated Kindle back to the x-ray and ran them through again. This time everything came out unmolested. Tick-tock. Thirty-five minutes. Wow, this PreCheck thing is quite the deal.

How many of you reading this have been in a PreCheck line and heard a TSA wonk yell, “Everything stays in your bag.” I've probably heard it nearly every time I've flown since PreCheck began. What in the world changed since the last time I flew two weeks earlier? I wondered.

Fast forward to my flight back to Atlanta on December 27. In the PreCheck line in Albuquerque. I get to the conveyor, grab three bins and commence removing the Kindle and one of the laptops from my backpack. “Leave everything in your bag,” the TSA drone instructed.

“Yeah, but I have two laptops and a Kindle in here,” I said.

“Doesn't matter,” he replied. “This is PreCheck and everything stays in your bag.”

“You should tell TSA in Atlanta that,” I answered.

“Everything stays in the bag for PreCheck,” he reiterated, as though I hadn't said anything.

“You should tell TSA in Atlanta that,” I repeated. “They said only one electronic item could remain in the bag. I had to send a laptop and the Kindle through separately.”

“Every airport has its own rules,” he said as I turned and walked through the metal detector.

Every airport has its own rules? What? How does that work? Anyone who travels with any frequency understands the TSA is more about show than substance. I get that, but every airport has its own rules? Why have TSA at all. Why not just have every airport hire a bunch of mall cops? Why even put on a show of having any sort of national standards?

The culprit causing half of the stress involved in flying today is the TSA. The Disney World-like lines, the constant shouting of instructions, the bag hand searches, pat downs and so on. At least they could make some effort at consistency. There is no reason in the world the security procedures in Atlanta shouldn't be exactly the same as in Salt Lake City, San Francisco or Greenville/Spartanburg.

And, of course, making any protest beyond a mild question or two will result in being ushered off into room somewhere, cooling your heels as your flight departs. Is this a great country or what.

Saving Big Bucks: I Did a Little Cord Cutting

I'm not the kind of guy who loves change. In fact, I hate it. And, it's not because I'm old; although, I suspect my embrace of change has weakened in my declining years. I can't tell because I never liked it. I'm a creature of habit. I drink at the same places when in Greenville. I try to park in the same row in the same lot whenever I fly out of the local airport. Saturday nights at home mean Italian food and rented movies. I like to stick to a routine. Does that make me boring? I don't know, but I do know I'm not bored.

During the past 30 days I initiated two big changes in my connectivity. So far, so good.

I have contemplated “cutting the cord,” abandoning my cable TV completely for more than a year. Until the first of this month, the main source of my TV programming was AT&T's Uverse. Available sources for my programming consist of Uverse and Comcast. Because of a copse of tall pine trees on the adjoining lot on my property's southern border, satellite TV has never been an option. I also pay for Netflix and get programming through Amazon Prime.

When I first moved to Greenville, Comcast was my only option. Boasting the worst DVR in the industry, Comcast was a compromise I simply couldn't live with long term. As soon as Uverse became available in my area eight or nine years ago, I dumped Comcast and picked up Uverse. Eventually AT&T provided my cell phone service, my broadband and my TV.

A few months ago I dropped its broadband for Spectrum, thus saving $20 a month and improving my speed by a thousand percent. With AT&T, uploading a 30-minute video to YouTube required seven or eight hours. I can upload the same video through Spectrum in about 45 minutes.

Beginning November 1, I dropped Uverse. The monthly cost without any movie channels was around $120 a month. That works out to $1,440 a year. Hey, I work for a living. Forking out nearly $1,500 a year for TV that I'm only home to watch about 250 days a year simply doesn't work for me anymore. After looking at streaming alternatives, I settled on YouTube TV. My monthly bill with fees is less than $55 a month or less than $660 per year. That's an annual savings of $780 over Uverse.

I am satisfied with the switch to streaming so far. Two downsides are first, I no longer have a guide for upcoming programming. That is not a big deal, I rarely watch TV in real time. The programs I record are on a weekly schedule. The second shortcoming is I can no longer fast forward through the commercials. Because the programs I record are set up to stream, the commercials are limited, but I'd still prefer to fast forward through them. I'm getting used to this change. (Update: YouTube TV recently enhanced its recording capability that allows fast forwarding through commercials on recorded programs. Yea!)

To recap, in switching my broadband and TV services from AT&T to other sources, I'm saving more than $1,000 a year. That's a lot of bourbon.

AT&T is forcing me to haul my DVR, modem, remote and assorted wires to UPS to ship them back. All of this stuff is over eight years old. I suspect they will open the box and then chuck the whole mess into the trash. This is more to punish me for leaving them than it is to somehow refurbish all that junk for someone else's use.

I have to make a trip to UPS anyway. When you reach a certain age, rather than a colonoscopy, the health of your colon can be evaluated by shipping your poop off somewhere to be analyzed. I call it, “poop in a box.” The company sends a box in which you poop. You then take said box to UPS and some poor counter person sends it on its way. In the case of my Uverse junk, UPS boxes it up, labels the box and sends it off free of charge. I will accomplish both these tasks on the same visit. I hope the UPS clerk doesn't make a mistake and switch them. Someone at Uverse will be in for a big surprise.But it would accurately reflect my feelings about them gouging me all these years.

My second big step in the past 30 days was to replace my P.O.S. Samsung Galaxy S7 with a Google Pixel 3A smartphone. I only had my S7 for seven months when I dumped it. I must confess, I made the change for reasons other than not liking the S7. I would have held on to it for at least 12 months. I hate spending hundreds of dollars on something as stupid as a phone. As it is, I never buy a phone new. I buy phones that are at least a generation old and save roughly half on them. But, in the case of the 3A, it was still about $350.

One of my main gripes with the S7 was that almost every day, I would have to access it by typing in my password rather than using my thumb print. I know. Not exactly the last chopper out of Saigon, but annoying nonetheless. Doing a little research, I found this is a common issue with the S7. There is a very involved possible fix, but I never could muster the energy to follow the numerous steps. I don't get it. The damn phone updates itself once or twice a month with things that have no bearing on my usage nor service. Why not do an update and fix a real problem? Nope. At least once a day I'd have to type in my password.

The real reason I switched phones is I wanted a phone better suited to live broadcasting to Facebook and YouTube. My team (Yes, I have a BEER2WHISKEY team.) will be live broadcasting from Barley's Biggest Little Beer Fest in January. After talking to people who do a lot of live broadcasts and researching gear, I decided the simplest path would be to use a smartphone. Always one to take the easiest road, I began looking for a smartphone capable of broadcasting in HD (S7 isn't) that also has a 3.5 jack to plug in an exterior microphone. Of course, it had to have a great camera, as well. The 3A filled the bill.

Thus far I am pleased with the 3A. I have yet to find anything to hate. That's a major thing in itself. If we are Facebook friends, you will probably see more live broadcasts from me between now and the January beer fest as I attempt to get comfortable with the process. I did some live broadcasting from the Whiskey Vault and the Texas Truck Rodeo a couple of weeks ago. Seemed to be fine.

Stay tuned. More to come.

Pittsburgh Steelers: Managing My Expectations

I'm not the kind of guy who always sees a glass as half full. In fact, you wouldn't need look too far among those who know me well to find someone who would laugh out loud at the idea I'm a half-full guy at all. Some of that reaction is based on the character I play. Yes, I do some play acting, even among my friends. Inner Russ, the one people don't see much of, usually hopes for the best, but mentally prepares for the worst. Part of that preparation often surfaces as negative statements. Does that make me fun to be around? Probably not. This is particularly true when the Pittsburgh Steelers are involved.

I have friends who won't watch a Steelers game with me. I can't blame them.

Truth be told, I have calmed down a lot where the Steelers are concerned. Life is too short, especially from where I'm sitting, to get all wound up about something that has absolutely no impact on my world. I still wear my black-and-gold colors on most game days and watch the games when I can. My Sunday watering hole doesn't have Direct TV's Sunday Ticket. I'm not willing to forsake my normal Sunday routine to go sit in a crowded, noisy sports bar to see the game. So, unless the game is carried by my local CBS affiliate, which is indeed rare, I miss at least the first half of most of the Sunday early games.I might wander into a sports bar for the second half.

If they have the second Sunday game, as they do against the 49ers today, I'll miss the game entirely if it's not shown locally. I often only watch the first half of night games because, win or lose, I'm too amped up after a game to sleep. It takes me a couple of hours to wind down enough to fall asleep. If I began that process at 11:00, I don't fall asleep until 1:00 or so. I wake up at the same time no matter what, which means I get four or five hours of sleep, tops. That doesn't work for me.

Much of my growing indifference to the Steelers fate results from their colossal under performance the past three years. If a team doesn't have the personnel or the coaching talent to get it to the Super Bowl, well, as a fan, I can understand that. But a team populated with the veteran talent the Steelers have had in recent seasons to sputter and stall enough to either not make the playoffs or lose in the first round of playoffs, is disheartening. It's also inexcusable.

So, now we find ourselves in the 2019 season. Bell is gone. Brown is gone. Ben is out for the season. Does any of that matter? They were inconsistent as hell with those three guys playing. The Steelers couldn't get to the championship game with those three guys there and healthy. What now that we're in uncharted waters?

The good news for me as a Steelers fan is, I have no expectations. If the Steelers manage a .500 season, I will be surprised. Any win they get will be a gift. Christmas come early. I know very little about Mason Rudolph, Big Ben's backup. I was traveling last Sunday and missed the entire game. He may be the second coming of Big Ben. I don't know. Can Pittsburgh somehow get its running game together? I don't know. Can the defense find a path to holding the opposing offense to fewer points than the Steelers offense puts up? I don't know. But, I'm not counting on any of those things.

I have no expectations. Based on the first two games and the loss of Big Ben, I have envisioned a season where every game will be an up-hill slog. We can't even count on beating the Browns this season.

In other words, I am confident I won't be disappointed this season. Hope for the best and mentally prepare for the worst. Oh, I'm prepared.

Make Your Plans and Listen to God Laugh: A Lost Week

Say, hello, to my little friend.....

I'm not the kind of guy who often shares his ailments and infirmities with others. I'm 68; I have my share, believe me. Outside of my surgeon, six people were aware of it before I went into throat surgery that put me into intensive care for two nights: my friend who has my power of attorney and her husband, the friend who I asked to drive me to the surgery and his wife, and my craft-beer partner Big Jon and our Sunday bartender. The only reason Big Jon and our bartender were aware is because the surgery was scheduled the day after the 2018 Super Bowl. I had to fess up as to why I was sipping water rather than guzzling beer during the game.

I didn't tell anyone else because, well, why would I? Those who did know were under strict orders not to visit me at the hospital. I didn't want anyone taking time out of their day to show up at my bedside with a Mylar balloon, making small talk. Screw that. If this involved a six-week stay to recover, then maybe a visit from someone would be a welcome change of pace. But, I knew this would be a short recovery. Just go about your business and we'll have a drink when I am sprung.

I didn't even tell my New Mexico-based family. It would have made a wreck out of my sister. The entire family would have been crazed for the three-day information blackout extending from the surgery until my release. I didn't want the pressure of trying to keep them or anyone else updated. Get in, get out and that's that. I did finally let the cat out of the bag a couple of days after returning home.

I have all the aches and pains someone my age endures, but I don't talk about it. Who cares? I'm old, right? It happens.

Now that I'm on the other side of it, however, I will share that I was as sick this past week as I have been in years, if not decades. It reared its ugly head late Monday (Labor Day) and persisted throughout the week. Apparently a stomach bug of some sort, it reeked havoc with my digestive tract. It was relentless and fierce.

I won't go into the details beyond saying, my water bill will be significantly higher this month and Charmin dispatched an extra tractor-trailer truck of Ultra Strong to the Greenville region.

Twice during the week I flirted with heading to Urgent Care. I'd never dealt with anything quite like this before and the idea that his might be the symptom of something more sinister nagged at me in a whisper for four days.

I didn't sleep for two of those nights, didn't eat anything beyond a couple of nibbles from a protein bar for three days and didn't have the energy to shower. I had no appetite. A couple of bouts with light headedness inspired me to begin chugging copious amounts of water to battle dehydration. On Wednesday afternoon, I dragged myself to my car, headed to CVS and purchased some Imodium. 

At the checkout the clerk cheerfully asked how my day was going. I pushed the box toward him and said, "You be the judge."

Seven of those tablets over the next 24 hours capped the flow. Friday was the day that had me really considering Urgent Care. The worst was past, but I still felt off. I was still listless and weak. I still had no appetite. Was this symptomatic of something bigger, I asked myself for the 20th time. Again, I chose to skip Urgent Care. Most of the day on Saturday was more of the same, but toward the late afternoon I heard a welcome sound and felt a longed-for rumble: My stomach was growling.

Mac & Cheese sounded good and sufficiently innocuous. I thought I might have a box squirreled away somewhere. Nope. No such luck. I opted instead to heat up some Prego and boil some pasta. I wolfed down half a plate. I spent the rest of the evening watching movies and waiting for dinner to cause a sprint to the bathroom. But, no.

I went to bed hoping for my first good-night's sleep in nearly a week. I awoke this morning with my eyelids crusted shut. I pried them open and glanced at the clock. Trumpets sounded, a flock of doves took flight, bells tolled in celebration and a choir of angels sang, “Halleluliah.” It was 7:30. I had managed to clock nine hours of nearly uninterrupted sleep. Oh happy day!

In the negative column: This was to be a week of work for me. I basically produced no revenue in August. This was my week to get back to work. Nope. All I managed to do was edit this week's and next week's episodes of BEER2WHISKEY. I did this week's segment on Wednesday. It was a segment that should have required about three hours to edit. It required around five hours. I'd edit for 15 or 20 minutes and then lie down for 15 minutes. I also managed to sit upright at my laptop for about three hours on Thursday submitting four or five already-written assignments to a client.

It was also to be six straight days in the gym. Nope. I've been twice since arriving home on Aug 30.

So, that's my story. I feel recovered – just in time for beer-drinking day at Smoke, as well as some football – and back on top of my game. Ain't life grand!

It's Just Bourbon: A New Chapter in the BEER2WHISKEY Saga

I'm not the kind of guy who expects different results from doing the same thing. I may be crazy, but I'm not insane. At least that's what I tell the voices in my head. What I do know for sure is that there are only so many hours in a day. As I mature (translation: grow old), I highly treasure my available productive hours. I treasure all my time, really; but productive hours are those in which I have the energy and motivation to accomplish one task or another.

Historically I've been a slacker at heart. Neutral, and not overdrive, my natural gear. I have always been a procrastinator rather than a doer. My over-worn response to my mother when she would remind me of some basic chore, like taking out the garbage, was, “It's at the top of my list.” It was a list that rarely saw anything checked off. Alfred E. Neuman was my role model.

My attitude has somewhat evolved during the last decade. Maybe that's a result of a ride around the block on the reality bus, bringing me face to face with my mortality; but I find myself less and less inclined to waste time. In fact, I abhor it.

I confess that most days when I'm in residence at my Greenville home I am in my recliner in front of the TV by 4:30 or 5. I watch a fair amount of TV when I am in town – none of it educational in any way, shape or form. Nope. I'm one of those escapism-TV types. I enjoy brainless TV. But, the only way I can plop down in front of the TV at the end of the day is if I have actually accomplished something earlier. I have to have done something to earn some money, put in a few hours working on the house or furthering one of my video projects.

My Saturdays have suffered most from this new-found work ethic. I always loved Saturdays because it is the one day of the week when I had nothing to do and all day to do it. I didn't even need to fret about going to work the next day because it was Sunday. Now I find I can't just sit on my rump watching movies all day. Things left undone don't call to me, they scream to me. Ugh, I hate being responsible. Now, even on Saturdays, I must accomplish something.

When you freelance doing anything from home, you either adopt a degree of self starting or you starve. Think of it as a daily gym workout. The toughest thing about going to the gym is, well, going to the gym. Donning your gym attire, pushing yourself out the door and making the trip to the gym is the toughest part of the exercise. Beginning some project, any project, demands some amount of self motivation. I have somehow developed that.

Making yourself productive when you don't punch a clock or have someone prodding you on is a challenge. Inertia is my natural state. Setting myself in motion requires some serious inner dialogue. Prioritizing tasks is another learned skill that remains a struggle for me. That list of things to do is always in my head taunting me with the tasks remaining undone. A decade ago I could tune them out. Today: not so much.

The above is a preface to sharing with you that I have made a slight change of direction in my BEER2WHISKEY YouTube channel. Over the past couple of years I invested a ton of money in to this project. Acquiring all the necessary gear, including editing software, and traveling around the country shooting videos all cost money. I decided that this year, I'd scale back on the B2W trips. I did take a road trip to Ohio in May to shoot some brewery videos; but because I drove and stayed with a fraternity brother in Dayton, the cost was minimal.

I am always pondering other things I might introduce into the B2W format that will 1) gain some audience traction, and 2) be cheap to produce. I decided to try something new and created the “It's Just Bourbon” playlist. The plan is to shoot videos in my home with me (and perhaps sporadically me plus one) talking about bourbon. Some videos will be recommending specific bourbons and some will be tasting them. The first of these went live last Thursday; I've embedded it at the end of this post.

“It's Just Bourbon” checks a few boxes for me. It certainly fulfills the “cheap” requirement. It also allows me to shoot multiple segments at a single sitting as does the “Big Jon in 5” playlist. Plus, it also contributes to the whiskey content, which has been somewhat lacking to date.

So, addressing the “not doing the same things and expecting a different result” statement at the top of this post, we'll see how well this new playlist works. Early returns are in and I'm optimistic. We'll see.

A note to my TAWA friends: I am putting together a small group to visit Austin's Whiskey Vault on the Sunday afternoon we arrive for the Truck Rodeo. I booked a 1:30 p.m. reservation for October 27^th. I directly reached out to a few members who I know would have an interest, but the reservation is for up to 12. Three of us have already registered. Anyone attending the Rodeo, including non-media types, with some interest, reach out to me and I'll provide more details. Cheers!

Red Box Failure Turns into Old-Movie Gold

"Wow" From "The Great Escape."

I'm not the kind of guy who can't appreciate old movies. No, I'm not a huge fan of Casablanca, but I own DVDs of several John Wayne films and watch them from time to time. And, of course, there are classics such as “The Godfather,” “The Great Escape,” “The Magnificent Seven” and “Hard Bodies.”

I am waxing on about old movies because I watched one last night. First a bit of background. On Saturdays that I'm in residence at Casa Heaps, I usually rent a couple of Red Box movies. Sometimes they are movies I know about and have an interest in watching, and sometimes they are movies I'm not familiar with.

Yesterday I rented two movies I knew nothing about. One was “London Fields.” It's one of those movies defying description. “Mulholland Drive” meets “Pulp Fiction” is about as close as I can come. Never have I watched a movie so centered around sex in which there was no skin. That, at least, would have been a redeeming quality. At no time before, during or after watching it did I have a clue what it was about. I could have dozed off three minutes into it and awoken in time for the end credits and had the same tenuous grasp of the plot that I have now. I rented it because it stars Amber Heard and Billy Bob Thornton. How bad could it be? I reasoned. Bad enough.

Not since Cheech and Chong has anyone made a career out of burning one.

The other DVD I rented was a comedy? Apparently so. I had never heard of it. Called “Long Shot,” it features Charlize Theron, whom I like a lot, and Seth Rogen, whom I don't. Obviously I rented it based on Theron. I can't tell you what this movie is about either because I ejected the DVD about 20 minutes into it. Rogen has had a very successful 20-year career essentially playing the role of the “stoned dude” in countless movies and TV shows. It's as though he is on the top of Central Casting's list for burned-out doper. “Hey, the script calls for someone who can pull off a couple of marijuana gags; send for Rogen.” Rogen's character's name in this turkey is Fred Flarsky. If that made you chuckle, it would have been the only such reaction you would have watching this thing. I guess the writers went with Fred Flarsky because Paul Blart had already been used.

This brings us to the old movie I wound up watching to fill in for “Long Shot.” I probably haven't watched it in five years, but last evening, as I scanned the 200 DVDs in my cabinet, my gaze came to rest on “Proof of Life.”

I didn't realize until I researched it this morning that this movie was released in 2000. I think 19 years qualifies it as old. I was sort of surprised it was that long ago. It still holds up reasonably well. It's notable on several levels; none having to do with the story or its execution – both of which are solid.

No, what I find noteworthy about this film that failed so spectacularly at the U.S. box office despite being good is, it was the movie that brought Meg Ryan and Russell Crowe together. Their fling began just as her marriage to Dennis Quaid was ending. In one fell swoop, Ryan fell from grace as America's darling. Her career never really rebounded from that six-month tryst. She finally drove a stake through the heart of her reputation with her role in "In the Cut" that released in 2003.

"Bad news, David, looks like your movie career is about over."

"Proof of Life" is also notable as providing our last glimpse of David Caruso on the big screen. If you recall, he left the wildly popular cop series NYPD Blue in 1994, after just one year, to pursue a career in the movies. It never really happened. A supporting role in “Proof of Life” was probably his biggest movie, and it was about his last.

As it turned out, I was sort of glad I had invested two bucks so poorly in renting “Long Shot.” It provided the motivation to revisit an old favorite. Maybe I have finally learned my lesson for taking a flyer on movies I've never heard of. Then again, probably not.