This week I was asked to be the introductory speaker for the American Bicycle Association Hall of Fame banquet being held in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I was voted into this very Hall of Fame last year for my work in the world of BMX Racing.
This year I was the MC of the event and the person responsible for inducting the new members into the Hall of Fame. Three people whom I know were to be inducted and I felt a great responsibility to bring them into the group in a meaningful way. Being a member of a Hall of Fame of any sort is a little weird in the first place. I have a hard time sometimes telling people about it as it is a little difficult not to sound self absorbed. Anyway, I am truly the greatest and most humblest and greatest most fantastic bicycle racer every in the history of the free world and everyone loves me very much. (If you believe this, please read my post about getting "racked" the first time I rode a bike.)
Katy, Audrey, and I went to Tulsa and stayed at the Radisson during our visit. They have "Sleep Number Beds". It is kind of odd having a "blow up bed". They are loud when blowing up and make a hissing type of sound when releasing air. Or perhaps that was Katy. Anyway, I like the sleep number bed. The number I have the problem with is the $2,000 number that they take from you when you purchase one.
Truly I am thankful for being a member of The BMX Hall of Fame. It is hard to imagine that ANYONE could possibly remember something I did so many years ago. I do love the sport and am proud of my involvement. I can say with authority that it would be more appropriate for me to be in the Oreo Hall of Fame of the French Fry Hall of Fame. I am an industry icon in those areas and would love to go to an event where I could sign autographs and eat Oreos.
Alrighty then, I gotta go get some ugly sleep and pray for the Oklahoma Sooners who play the Misery Tigers (I don't know how to spell Missouri) tomorrow at the Alamodome in San Antonio. The Big 12 Championship is up for grabs and Katy and I will be in attendance. Boomer Sooner!
Solomon Group National Education Center
Creed: To Glorify God and help people.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Friday, November 16, 2007
7 Random Things About Me
My wife, Katy, tagged me. I felt sort of like one of those catch and release large mouth bass that gets caught, tagged, and released back into its native habitat with a new necklace made just for covert activities. I am supposed to write 7 random things about myself. Here goes:
1. I have a phobia that I am going to sneeze a big green booger onto some poor females beautiful black evening gown. Seriously. I have lots of allergies. In the past, I have had lots of green projectile items moving rapidly in an uncontrolled manner. These possibilities scare me. I often fear when I am near a nicely dressed female that a violent sneeze will come upon me and I will add an ill advised freestyle green lapel pin.
2. I dream that I swallow my key chain. I have this dream about 2 times a month, and each time I wake up in a panic. I don't know where it comes from, but it is there. Almost every time I wake Katy up around 3 a.m. and scream out, "Katy, this time I really swallowed them, help me!"
3. I love Spirograph. Enough said. You do too.
4. I sweat easily. Perhaps I am too chubby, but even when I was skinny I sweated a great deal. I am a fat, sweaty, booger shooting goof. Katy married poorly.
5. I have never given it my all at anything. Long story, but I have coasted through life sort of. I don't want to run out of space or bore myself, but I need to develop my A game. Perhaps my recent passing of the NASD Series 7 exam is the exception to this rule, but this has been a part of my life forever.
6. I am a football psychotic. In my mind, I believe that for my team to do well, my right foot must be pointing towards my teams goal line when on offense, and my other foot pointed away from the goal when on defense. I move around alot during games. This is the first time I have revealed this to anyone. Do you still love me Katy? A fat, sweaty, booger shooter is one thing, but to have a FSBS with a foot pointing disorder may be too much.
7. I hate eggs. I eat them almost every morning, but I don't like them. I was told they were great for me (protein), but I really loathe eggs. George Bush hates broccoli, I hate eggs. If he and I ever go to dinner together, I am going to order up some broccoli omelettes just to press the situation a little.
I am not tagging anyone. I don't know anyone else who bloggs, so there you go. 7 ran-dumb things about Cash Matthews. Now back to our regularly scheduled program.
1. I have a phobia that I am going to sneeze a big green booger onto some poor females beautiful black evening gown. Seriously. I have lots of allergies. In the past, I have had lots of green projectile items moving rapidly in an uncontrolled manner. These possibilities scare me. I often fear when I am near a nicely dressed female that a violent sneeze will come upon me and I will add an ill advised freestyle green lapel pin.
2. I dream that I swallow my key chain. I have this dream about 2 times a month, and each time I wake up in a panic. I don't know where it comes from, but it is there. Almost every time I wake Katy up around 3 a.m. and scream out, "Katy, this time I really swallowed them, help me!"
3. I love Spirograph. Enough said. You do too.
4. I sweat easily. Perhaps I am too chubby, but even when I was skinny I sweated a great deal. I am a fat, sweaty, booger shooting goof. Katy married poorly.
5. I have never given it my all at anything. Long story, but I have coasted through life sort of. I don't want to run out of space or bore myself, but I need to develop my A game. Perhaps my recent passing of the NASD Series 7 exam is the exception to this rule, but this has been a part of my life forever.
6. I am a football psychotic. In my mind, I believe that for my team to do well, my right foot must be pointing towards my teams goal line when on offense, and my other foot pointed away from the goal when on defense. I move around alot during games. This is the first time I have revealed this to anyone. Do you still love me Katy? A fat, sweaty, booger shooter is one thing, but to have a FSBS with a foot pointing disorder may be too much.
7. I hate eggs. I eat them almost every morning, but I don't like them. I was told they were great for me (protein), but I really loathe eggs. George Bush hates broccoli, I hate eggs. If he and I ever go to dinner together, I am going to order up some broccoli omelettes just to press the situation a little.
I am not tagging anyone. I don't know anyone else who bloggs, so there you go. 7 ran-dumb things about Cash Matthews. Now back to our regularly scheduled program.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Obey Your Girth
I remember the day I got fat. It was near the end of the 11th grade as I sat in Mr. Reimers class contemplating his future as a history teacher. It seemed ironic to me at the time, but I digress as I do when I am tempted to discuss my health and well being. On this day, I had gorged at Long John Silvers and paid particular attention to the remainder of the crumblies and corn fritters left at the table. My grandma taught me to eat it all, so I did.
Towards the end of a fascinating history lesson, I looked down and could no longer see my belt buckle. Being from Oklahoma, the belt buckle was a major fashion accesory for the time, and I could not see mine. I felt awful. I leaned over to my friend Steve Tomlinson (Brilliant guy, thin, 4.0 average through high school, college, MBA and PHD) and said, "Steve, I am fat!". He replied, "I know!". Apparently, this had been something coming on for longer than I realized.
This began a life long struggle with being chubby. As a young child, I was so skinny it was scary. My parents took me to the doctor a lot to see what was wrong with me. I was a rail. My grandmother, Geraldine, could cook some quality fried food, and she saw fit to fix the problem that the doctors seemed to ignore. Fried meat. Fried potatoes. Fried Ice Cream. Fried Pie.
Today I weigh about 220 pounds and need to weigh less than 175. I have a small frame. I take medicine for high blood pressure and cholestoral. Those pills taste best when slathered in Cool Whip. I am not sure why I chose this life, but it seems to be a choice. Perhaps I am a victim of something and I am just awaiting my shot at a Talk Show where I can cry and have Richard Simmons spring out of the wings....mmmmmmm...Wings sound tasty right now! Sorry, where was I?
My wife is on her way home with hot dogs. She boils them in beer and I eat them with mustard and ketchup. Or is it catsup? We can address that controversy later. I know I should eat a bag of carrots, but the hot dogs won the position on the starting line up tonight. This is something I have to think about I think. I can't go on like this, but I seem to be stuck in the same old rut. I've done several diet things with some success, but when real life sets in, those old habits come back to comfort me.
Do other people struggle like this? I'm not sure I like being the fat funny guy. Funny is good, but the fat thing is getting old. I was so ashamed of being skinny. Is there a happy medium? Medium is how I like my steaks cooked, and usually with a baked potato and sour cream. Dang, can't even get through one paragraph without constant food triggers. I'm gonna go eat three of those delicious Nutri System entrees. That oughta make me skinny.
Ug.
Towards the end of a fascinating history lesson, I looked down and could no longer see my belt buckle. Being from Oklahoma, the belt buckle was a major fashion accesory for the time, and I could not see mine. I felt awful. I leaned over to my friend Steve Tomlinson (Brilliant guy, thin, 4.0 average through high school, college, MBA and PHD) and said, "Steve, I am fat!". He replied, "I know!". Apparently, this had been something coming on for longer than I realized.
This began a life long struggle with being chubby. As a young child, I was so skinny it was scary. My parents took me to the doctor a lot to see what was wrong with me. I was a rail. My grandmother, Geraldine, could cook some quality fried food, and she saw fit to fix the problem that the doctors seemed to ignore. Fried meat. Fried potatoes. Fried Ice Cream. Fried Pie.
Today I weigh about 220 pounds and need to weigh less than 175. I have a small frame. I take medicine for high blood pressure and cholestoral. Those pills taste best when slathered in Cool Whip. I am not sure why I chose this life, but it seems to be a choice. Perhaps I am a victim of something and I am just awaiting my shot at a Talk Show where I can cry and have Richard Simmons spring out of the wings....mmmmmmm...Wings sound tasty right now! Sorry, where was I?
My wife is on her way home with hot dogs. She boils them in beer and I eat them with mustard and ketchup. Or is it catsup? We can address that controversy later. I know I should eat a bag of carrots, but the hot dogs won the position on the starting line up tonight. This is something I have to think about I think. I can't go on like this, but I seem to be stuck in the same old rut. I've done several diet things with some success, but when real life sets in, those old habits come back to comfort me.
Do other people struggle like this? I'm not sure I like being the fat funny guy. Funny is good, but the fat thing is getting old. I was so ashamed of being skinny. Is there a happy medium? Medium is how I like my steaks cooked, and usually with a baked potato and sour cream. Dang, can't even get through one paragraph without constant food triggers. I'm gonna go eat three of those delicious Nutri System entrees. That oughta make me skinny.
Ug.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
I Race Kids Bikes
Along time ago in a land far,far away, I was a little kid. The debate rages on as to whether or not I ever actually grew up, but it is safe to say that now, at the age of 46, I have some level of higher understanding. When I was young, I thought like a kid. Now that I am much older, I still think like a kid, but in the body of a middle aged baby-boomer.
As a kid, I rode my bike as much as possible. I can recall the first day I learned to ride it at the Faulkner's house near my old school in Shawnee, Oklahoma. I finally got the hang of riding and man, what a feeling! The wind blowing in my hair, bugs in my teeth, and the open road in front of me. Living directly across from the Faulkner's was my first grade class mate Debby Duncan. She was out playing in her yard that fateful day when I first learned to ride a two wheeler. I decided that my skill level had progressed enough to ride over to her house and show her my new skills. What I didn't realize is that I hadn't actually learned how to ride over a curb, a skill I would need to reach my destination just 50 feet away.
The dull thud of riding a bike over a curb doesn't sound like much unless you are 6 years old. Not only did I learn how to ride a bike on this day, but it was the first time I ever "racked" myself. You know, taking a shot to the produce section, punched in the little buddies, doin the real achy breaky dance. Racked. Whoever invented bicycles with the boys bike having the top tube and the girls bike not having a top tube got it all backwards. Just as I rode over the curb with my confidence fully in place, I slipped off the pedals hitting two balls with one mighty swing. By the time the pain had gone full circle through my lower extremities, I had rolled to a stop just 3 feet away from Debby. I couldn't speak. She said, "Hi Cash, You wanna Play House". I could only stare at her with tears coming from my eyes. I think I made a slight uttering sound, but nothing more than a meek utterance of desperation was available. I had never known such pain. To experience this in front of a girl that I sorta liked made the situation even worse. How do you tell your possible first girlfriend that you have sore thingys? It never worked out between us.
Somewhere between the age of 6 and 12, I got better riding a bicycle. To make a long story short, (is that still possible at this point?) I was one of the first people in the US to participate in the sport of BMX Racing. What I really wanted was a motorcycle, but my parents wouldn't budge. We simply couldn't afford it. My brother had two motorcycles as it turns out, but for me, my destiny would be much different. I had a bicycle. I made the best of it, and am so thankful that is how it turned out. I raced my bike all over the United States the following 7 years at the expense of Mongoose Bicycles, my sponsor. They gave me dozens of new bicycles, equipment, and treated me like a rock star. From time to time, I would find my picture or an interview with me in magazines. It was a pretty interesting way to live as a teenager.
Last year, I was voted into the American Bicycle Association Hall of Fame. Pretty cool stuff for a chubby old guy. Here is the funny part. I still race. I sponsor a team of kids and adults who race. I still love it to this day. And though it doesn't consume the same energy as it did when I was younger, I love it still. Perhaps more. Most people at 46 don't have a sport that they got to do as a child, and again as an adult.
When people find out I race bmx, they say, "Motorcycles?" Nope. Bikes. With pedals. "Oh, do you do those ramps and flips?" Nope. I race. Defined winners and losers. "So, you know Dave Mirra and Matt Hoffman?" Nope. "Are you on ESPN and the X Games?" Nope, not unless I pose with a John 3:16 poster and get a rainbow wig. (I believe the same way that guy does, I just don't love his method! ) So, I am a 46 year old business guy, I have an 8 year old daughter, and I race kids bikes. I love it. I love to win trophies, and hang out with my friends. Not many understand my sport, or me, but it fits me just right. Now that my clothes fit me just wrong, I am so glad that I never got that motorcycle. Destiny is a funny thing if you let it happen.
Thanks, Mom!
As a kid, I rode my bike as much as possible. I can recall the first day I learned to ride it at the Faulkner's house near my old school in Shawnee, Oklahoma. I finally got the hang of riding and man, what a feeling! The wind blowing in my hair, bugs in my teeth, and the open road in front of me. Living directly across from the Faulkner's was my first grade class mate Debby Duncan. She was out playing in her yard that fateful day when I first learned to ride a two wheeler. I decided that my skill level had progressed enough to ride over to her house and show her my new skills. What I didn't realize is that I hadn't actually learned how to ride over a curb, a skill I would need to reach my destination just 50 feet away.
The dull thud of riding a bike over a curb doesn't sound like much unless you are 6 years old. Not only did I learn how to ride a bike on this day, but it was the first time I ever "racked" myself. You know, taking a shot to the produce section, punched in the little buddies, doin the real achy breaky dance. Racked. Whoever invented bicycles with the boys bike having the top tube and the girls bike not having a top tube got it all backwards. Just as I rode over the curb with my confidence fully in place, I slipped off the pedals hitting two balls with one mighty swing. By the time the pain had gone full circle through my lower extremities, I had rolled to a stop just 3 feet away from Debby. I couldn't speak. She said, "Hi Cash, You wanna Play House". I could only stare at her with tears coming from my eyes. I think I made a slight uttering sound, but nothing more than a meek utterance of desperation was available. I had never known such pain. To experience this in front of a girl that I sorta liked made the situation even worse. How do you tell your possible first girlfriend that you have sore thingys? It never worked out between us.
Somewhere between the age of 6 and 12, I got better riding a bicycle. To make a long story short, (is that still possible at this point?) I was one of the first people in the US to participate in the sport of BMX Racing. What I really wanted was a motorcycle, but my parents wouldn't budge. We simply couldn't afford it. My brother had two motorcycles as it turns out, but for me, my destiny would be much different. I had a bicycle. I made the best of it, and am so thankful that is how it turned out. I raced my bike all over the United States the following 7 years at the expense of Mongoose Bicycles, my sponsor. They gave me dozens of new bicycles, equipment, and treated me like a rock star. From time to time, I would find my picture or an interview with me in magazines. It was a pretty interesting way to live as a teenager.
Last year, I was voted into the American Bicycle Association Hall of Fame. Pretty cool stuff for a chubby old guy. Here is the funny part. I still race. I sponsor a team of kids and adults who race. I still love it to this day. And though it doesn't consume the same energy as it did when I was younger, I love it still. Perhaps more. Most people at 46 don't have a sport that they got to do as a child, and again as an adult.
When people find out I race bmx, they say, "Motorcycles?" Nope. Bikes. With pedals. "Oh, do you do those ramps and flips?" Nope. I race. Defined winners and losers. "So, you know Dave Mirra and Matt Hoffman?" Nope. "Are you on ESPN and the X Games?" Nope, not unless I pose with a John 3:16 poster and get a rainbow wig. (I believe the same way that guy does, I just don't love his method! ) So, I am a 46 year old business guy, I have an 8 year old daughter, and I race kids bikes. I love it. I love to win trophies, and hang out with my friends. Not many understand my sport, or me, but it fits me just right. Now that my clothes fit me just wrong, I am so glad that I never got that motorcycle. Destiny is a funny thing if you let it happen.
Thanks, Mom!
Why Aliens Will Never Visit Earth
For my first attempt at a blog, I wanted to be serious for a few moments and dispell rumors that aliens have visited earth. I will hereby debunk every known theory, sighting, or close encounter and will explain explicitly why aliens will not bother to visit our tasty little orb.
First, the sightings of ufos. I group them all together into one universal group and vigorously contend that each of the known "sightings" can be reduced to one simple answer: flatulence.
Yep, that's right. We all know about it, most of us have it, and even more of us sort of actually enjoy its presence in our lives. It is a well documented scientific FACT that our own malodorous noise maker is highly flammable and that it floats upward at tremendous speeds. Actually, the speed of flatulence is inversely related to the number of people ABOUT to walk into the room where you were tooting your own horn. If 7 of your wife's closest friends are about to walk into the den where you thought you were alone, flatulence travels at about 2 feet per hour at best. But after that, it has been clocked upwards of 4300 miles per hour.
It is believed that the "FART" was documented well before the first alleged alien/ufo sighting. The match and fire was next, then the wheel. It only stands to reason that there were caveman ancestors of mine who saw the logical beauty of taking this new found fire and mixing it with their voluminous quantitys of caveman body gas. Cavemen had a largely sulphuric diet and the early days of our planet were more noxious than most realize. It wasn't meteors that killed the dinosaurs. It was the first pregnant cavelady who combined the sulphur based diet with being pregnant. Basically, that's all it took.
Now, why the aliens will never visit our planet: My dad loves to fart into his cell phone to "get me good". On those fine occassions where I answer with a basic "hello", and am met by the sound of a choking duck on the other end, I know that my dad is on the other end showing me how funny he really is. It wasn't funny enough that he named his two boys Cash and Carey. Nah, he has to call me up at the age of 67 and rip me a new earhole. And how, you may ask, will this keep aliens from visiting the earth? Simple.
As has been documented factually on numerous top rated websites, aliens obviously do exist. That has never been in question. As Stan Dare documented on www.aliensreallyexist.com, aliens really exist. However, they, like most of my redneck inlaws, choose to steal basic cable rather than pay for it. And where do they steal it? Right from those same multi-use satellites that transmist our cable/cell phone signals across our planet. And when my Dad fires one up, (and he rarely stops at just one) that noise gets broadcast right onto the television set of every
Xornquellian (well known dark planet) in the cosmos. Folks, this ain't rocket science. This is alien science. I gotta believe that those aliens up there bootlegging cable from our satellites are smart enough to know that the atmosphere of our planet smells of rotten eggs and ranch style beans.
So, in the name of interplanetary safety, let er' rip!
I dedicate this first blog posting to my wife, who will beat me senseless as I snicker about my "pregnant lady fart comment above. Pain is temporary, but a good laugh can last a while. Sorry, Katy. I have now blogged. You may resume your normal duties.
First, the sightings of ufos. I group them all together into one universal group and vigorously contend that each of the known "sightings" can be reduced to one simple answer: flatulence.
Yep, that's right. We all know about it, most of us have it, and even more of us sort of actually enjoy its presence in our lives. It is a well documented scientific FACT that our own malodorous noise maker is highly flammable and that it floats upward at tremendous speeds. Actually, the speed of flatulence is inversely related to the number of people ABOUT to walk into the room where you were tooting your own horn. If 7 of your wife's closest friends are about to walk into the den where you thought you were alone, flatulence travels at about 2 feet per hour at best. But after that, it has been clocked upwards of 4300 miles per hour.
It is believed that the "FART" was documented well before the first alleged alien/ufo sighting. The match and fire was next, then the wheel. It only stands to reason that there were caveman ancestors of mine who saw the logical beauty of taking this new found fire and mixing it with their voluminous quantitys of caveman body gas. Cavemen had a largely sulphuric diet and the early days of our planet were more noxious than most realize. It wasn't meteors that killed the dinosaurs. It was the first pregnant cavelady who combined the sulphur based diet with being pregnant. Basically, that's all it took.
Now, why the aliens will never visit our planet: My dad loves to fart into his cell phone to "get me good". On those fine occassions where I answer with a basic "hello", and am met by the sound of a choking duck on the other end, I know that my dad is on the other end showing me how funny he really is. It wasn't funny enough that he named his two boys Cash and Carey. Nah, he has to call me up at the age of 67 and rip me a new earhole. And how, you may ask, will this keep aliens from visiting the earth? Simple.
As has been documented factually on numerous top rated websites, aliens obviously do exist. That has never been in question. As Stan Dare documented on www.aliensreallyexist.com, aliens really exist. However, they, like most of my redneck inlaws, choose to steal basic cable rather than pay for it. And where do they steal it? Right from those same multi-use satellites that transmist our cable/cell phone signals across our planet. And when my Dad fires one up, (and he rarely stops at just one) that noise gets broadcast right onto the television set of every
Xornquellian (well known dark planet) in the cosmos. Folks, this ain't rocket science. This is alien science. I gotta believe that those aliens up there bootlegging cable from our satellites are smart enough to know that the atmosphere of our planet smells of rotten eggs and ranch style beans.
So, in the name of interplanetary safety, let er' rip!
I dedicate this first blog posting to my wife, who will beat me senseless as I snicker about my "pregnant lady fart comment above. Pain is temporary, but a good laugh can last a while. Sorry, Katy. I have now blogged. You may resume your normal duties.
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