R.I.P.H.P.

Well, it has come, the day that childrens' sections world over have been dreading: the Boy Who Lived will die. Now whether that's literal (which I'm banking on) or metaphorical (the world will weep either way) I can't say for sure yet and, since I've steered 100 miles south of any whiff of spoiler, hopefully that blissful ignorance will hold until I'm, well, holding my own copy (I'm not reading the last page first, promise). I'm really banking on some fool in line ahead of me shouting the ending out and spoiling it for everyone in Borders.

Some fool like the New York Times, perhaps? Now don't get me wrong, I love me some NYT and read it religiously, but come on; I know competition is stiff, but must you ruin the fun for everyone? I assume you readers know what story I'm talking about (well, unless you think the word "snitch" refers to that dude who ratted you out for copying homework back in fourth grade): the review that rocked the Potter world yesterday, the notorious pre-review, the Review-That-Must-Not-Be-Named. For those of you steeped in the lore of dorkdom (and yes, it is a dark, dorky pit we dwell in, shunned by adult society, relegated to the back of the line behind all the 10-year-olds with their sparkly gold lightning bolts zig-zagging across their foreheads), then you know that the New York Times went and let the Hallows out of the bag, so to speak (warning, there is a spoiler waiting to pounce just beyond that link). And why? Why must they? After all, their own movie reviewers scorn such foul play (as inked so eloquently only weeks ago -- ironically in a story blasting other publications for jumping the gun prior to "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" hitting theatres). Now I'm a news guy (or used to be); I understand competition with television and the internet, I understand break-neck news cycles and selling copies, but still, couldn't you wait an extra day? Couldn't you have left the bit about the Hallows out (isn't that a bit like showing off)? Couldn't you at least slap a spoiler warning below the headline? I put one up above, it was incredibly simple.

Sigh, I suppose not. Thanks for ruining a bit of the magic, guys.

(Oh, and good luck Harry Potter).

So long, freedom

Ah, the wilderness; Pecos Wilderness. Three days spent stalking trout through cold rapids was not nearly enough to wash off the work grime, but it was a nice escape. Now my whiskers are shaved off again, my hair is washed, and I'm back in the tie again. Surprisingly few misadventures, though we did have a lightning storm the first night that put any severe weather I've seen in Lubbock -- which is plenty -- to shame.

Sadly, my next big adventure involving a lightning bolt will take place in a book. Yeah, THE book. The one about the kid with the owl and the wand. I'm sure I'll know if he lives or dies or winds up bedridden for life after a nasty tumble from a Firebolt by Saturday night -- Sunday morning at the latest. And that would be latest. I'm not wearing robes. I'm not wearing robes. Damn, I'll probably wind up in robes.

I thought this was an interesting bit of dust-up: I'm not planning on watching Sicko and really hate to give Michael Moore any kind of publicity at all, considering that his movies only thrive because of his purposeful creation of controversy, but I think this spat with CNN over the facts of his movie gives some interesting insights into how he juggles numbers and creates controversy out of, well, nothing.

Fourth of When?

Fireworks flashed as usual but my Fourth fizzled. I ate no watermellon; I touched not a drop of standing water; the only grill I came anywhere close to was the one I was sitting behind... all day long... in my car... on the road.

My brother and I managed to stretch what is typically like a five-hour drive from Fort Worth to Lubbock into a 10-hour trip. Of course, we did make a stop in Midland, but let's just say that by the time we pulled into town at a quarter of seven I was doing 55 mph on the shoulder following a Firebird with a blown-out tire in the trunk, a semi-flat donut spare playing the crutch and duct tape holding the fender in place. We'd made two stops at the Town & Country in Lamesa and one at the parking lot for the Golden Peanut Company.

So talk about losing your pet... cow. 21-foot wingspan? Man, might as well have a private plane on the prowl. Sankar Chatterjee, the curator of paleontology at the Museum of Texas Tech and Horn professor of Geosciences and Museum Science, found that this menace of the Andes glided lazily on updrafts and thermals. Click here to see John Davis break it down for ya. Suddenly I don't mind the pidgeons so much.