Dale’s gone to outlying areas, Roy

Today's question:

The forecasters always say "colder in the outlying areas." Where exactly are the outlying areas?

First of all, I don't see how I can be expected to work after I found out Dale Evans is dead.

The Queen of the West, gone to join Roy at the Last Roundup. I'm in deep mourning. I told the trail bosses who run this here herd I was too hornswoggled to punch any doggies after hearing about Dale, but they just looked at me and asked the usual question: "Which one are you again?"

So I guess I'll just saddle up and get to work. Roy and Dale would have wanted it that way.

As to outlying areas, that's a good question. If you ask me anything north of Glendale Avenue, south of Washington Street, west of 15 Avenue and east of 40th Street is outlying. And 40th Street is pushing it. Things start turning kind of odd around 32nd Street.

That's a bit parochial I suppose, and I don't think I have ever noticed it as appreciably colder a few miles outside those boundaries. I may not have noticed, though, being busy gawking at the sights.

I asked around a bit and never really got a very definite answer.

Basically, for the Phoenix area, outlying means any part of Maricopa County that is not especially urbanized.

And why is it colder in those outlying areas?

Mostly because of the urban heat island thing. In town, all the tile roofs and concrete buildings and pavements and whatnot soak up heat all night and then release it when the sun goes down. That keeps it warmer in town.

The farther away you move from concentrations of concrete, asphalt, tile and so forth, the cooler the nights will be because there isn't as much stored-up heat. Eventually you'll be so outlying you'll be out on the desert, out in the open range, out where Roy and Dale rode.

An answer that’s right on the nose

Today's question:

Why does a Labrador retriever's nose turn pink in cold weather and then turn black as soon as the temperatures rise?

I put this question to the distinguished columnist who sits to my left and who is on a first-name basis with a number of dogs, and he said he didn't know. The distinguished columnist who sits to my right said he thought it had something to do with the space shuttle. You know, some days I think it's a wonder we get the paper out at all.

So I called the distinguished Kenneth White, who is the executive director of the Arizona Humane Society and who writes a column about animals in the Saturday paper, and he said he wasn't sure but thought it had something to do with blood flow. In the end, I talked to the exceedingly helpful Dr. Kathleen Croteau, who is a veterinarian at the Humane Society and actually knows what she's talking about.

What you are witnessing with your dog's nose is common to Australian shepherds, Huskies and golden and Labrador retrievers. It has something to do with pigmentation, and it keeps Fido's nose from getting sunburned. When it's cool and sunburn danger is low, the dog's nose is pink. When the sun is hot, it's black. Don't ask me how it works.

However, while we are on the subject of the Humane Society, you should know that the 2001 Bicycle Extravaganza will start at 7 a.m. March 3 at Del E. Webb Memorial Hospital, 14502 W. Meeker Boulevard, Sun City West. It's organized by the Arizona Bicycle Club, co-sponsored by a whole list of groups and is a fund-raiser for the Humane Society.

There are a 15-mile family ride, a 30-mile ride, a 15-mile mountain bike ride and a 100K ride.

For registration and other details, call (602) 943-6807 or 547-0912 or send e-mail to the Arizona Humane Society at events@azhumane.org.

Are wackos only ones who walk?

The other day my car somehow sensed that I was in danger of finishing the month with money in the bank, so it promptly checked itself into my mechanic's garage for a couple of days of expensive rehab. Cars can always tell.

That first afternoon I was sitting around the office thinking about taking the bus when it suddenly occurred to me I could walk home.

Is this odd? I will cheerfully drive some distance to go hiking in the mountain preserves for a couple of hours, but the idea of walking three or four miles to get home strikes me as novel.

Anyway, it was a nice day, so I walked. It took about an hour, and aside from the fact the office supplies I'd stolen that day made my briefcase kind of heavy, it was very pleasant. I liked it so much, I walked to work the next day.

It was very nice. I found 35 cents on the sidewalk. I stopped at a gas station for some coffee, and the clerk gave me a free cup. I saw my friend Rob's office. I always wondered where that was. I saw a lot of interesting buildings that I drive by every day without really noticing.

Obviously, the Valley isn't a pedestrian's paradise. Everything is too far away. I made a list of six places where I always go, such as work or the grocery store, and three of them were too far to walk. Even the hour to or from work would be a bear in the summer.

But anyway I'm wondering: Does anybody really walk to get some place by choice? Of course, people ride the bus or their bikes, and of course, some people don't have cars and have to walk. And people hike in the desert or walk around the block for exercise or pleasure. I'm wondering if anybody walks everywhere by choice.

Let me know if you do, and why you do, and if you just like to walk or whatever. Send me an e-mail or write to Arizona Republic Outside NM-19, 200 E. Van Buren, Phoenix, AZ 85004. It might be kind of interesting.

Lucky guy or gal dines in Buckeye

Friday is the deadline for the big Lunch in Buckeye contest and entries are piling up fast.

While there are some good ones, I must report that many are lacking that certain – oh, how do the French say it? – goofiness.

Lunch in Buckeye is the best we could do to follow up on last year's immensely huge weekend-in-Fort Wayne contest, which sent two incredibly lucky winners on a winter weekend for two to that enchanted city. However, this year the Thanes of the Dark Tower are pleading poverty, and the budget will only allow for me to take one lucky winner and a guest for a meal at some undetermined Buckeye eatery.

Anyway, I have a few front-runners at hand, but overall there's just something missing.

For instance, the simple fact that you are Ohio – the Buckeye State – does not consititute in my mind a good reason to take you to lunch in Buckeye.

A few of you said you'd like to have lunch so you could complain to me about The Republic. This doesn't sound like much fun to me.

Also it pains me to report that some of you have violated the no-poetry rule. For example: "A Buckeye lunch/won't cost a bunch/and also avoids/the traffic crunch." See? This is why there is a no-poetry rule.

This is not to say that there aren't a few good ones. One lady wrote to say she always wanted to have lunch with Lillian Hellman, but since Lillian Hellman is dead, I'd have to do.

This one has sort of a plaintive note to it, don't you think: "My husband switched us over to a fat-free diet, so I need to suck up the fat where ever I can."

So the field is still wide open. Mark your entry "Budget Can You Spare a Dime?" and e-mail it to me at the address below or send it to The Arizona Republic, Outside, NM-19, 200 E. Van Buren St., Phoenix, AZ  85004.

We’ll shed no tears for raindrops

Today's question:

I know snowflakes are six-sided crystals. What shape are raindrops?

What shape are raindrops? What kind of question is that? You people never cease to amaze me. You know, my horoscope Friday said, "If you can avoid going to work, do so." I should have listened.

Wouldn't you rather know about butterflies? Did you know that the Arizona Federation of Garden Clubs is asking the Legislature to name the two-tailed swallowtail the official Arizona state butterfly? I don't know why we need an official state butterfly, but I suppose there's no harm in it, and it will give the Legislature something to do. Maybe they'll offer a tax rebate to people who convert their back yards into alternate butterfly environments.

Anyway, the raindrop thing turned out to be kind of interesting, in a weather-wonkish sort of way. I always through raindrops were supposed to look sort of like a teardrop, pointy on the top and round on the bottom. This, like so much of the stuff I always thought, turned out to be wrong.

Raindrops start off round, like little marbles. They can be anywhere from 0.01 inch to one-quarter inch in size. That's pretty big. I wonder what would happen if a quarter-inch raindrop hit a two-tailed swallowtail butterfly right on the head?

So, a raindrop starts off round, but as it falls, the air pressure flattens out its bottom. The sides of the drop bulge out because the pressure on the sides is lower. So it ends up looking more kind of mound-shaped than teardrop-shaped. If it gets to be bigger than a quarter-inch, it splits in two little round drops and the process starts again.

While we're on the subject, the reason snow crystals are six-sided is that that is the shape water molecules take when they freeze. It has to do with the way electrical attractions bind oxygen and hydrogen molecules.

Good hair and a mood to match

You're in a good mood today. Or at least you're supposed to be. You're also supposed to have a high attention level and sharp reflexes, and it should be a good hair day.

Best of all, ast least for most of us, there is little chance of going into labor today. I don't know about you, but this is a great load off my mind.

All this and more I discovered at www.intellicast.com, which is an extremely weather-wonkish site that you should check out if you haven't done so already.

In addition to all sorts of forecasts and weather records and other neat-o stuff, the Intellicast site includes outlooks for how the weather will affect your attention levels, reflex times, hair and the chances of going into labor. At the main page, click on "health."

This is a somewhat far-fetched form of biometeorology, which is the study of the relationship between weather and climate and living things.

People, even my masters, tend to be happier, more alert and generally in a better mood when the atmostpheric pressure is high and stable and the temperatures are pleasant. Well, duh.

And it is well known that low pressure and stormy weather cause aches and pains in people with old injuries, scars or missing limbs. It has to do with your body adjusting to the falling pressure so you don't implode, which would definitely affect your mood and the moods of people standing nearby at the time.

Anyway, it's kind of hard to put much stock in a map that says the entire western United States is having a good hair day when you can see from your own desk two or three tragic victims of major hair failure.

But there's no harm in it, and the site has a lot of other cool stuff so you should check it out. I'd spend some more time on it, but I think I just felt a contraction.

Slots’ payout essentially a roll of dice

A guy who owns a slot machine store here in the Valley says he thinks slot machines pay better when the weather is cold.

That's pretty essential, hard-hitting news, don't you think? I should call the city desk on my cell phone and let some editors know I've got a fast-breaking, essential weather story coming in. On my cell phone.

The other day I got a memo from my masters saying they want to confiscate my cell phone because I am a "non-essential use." Apparently my masters ran out of money for cell phones, so they want to give mine to an essential user.

Granted, it's hard to argue that someone who writes about making wallets out of duct tape needs to be in instant communication with the city desk. Still that "non-essential" thing is sort of disconcerting. Not the sort of thing one addes to one's resume: December 2000 – declared non-essential user.

Anyway – essentially, that is – this slots guy thinks that cold weather affects the computer chips or something in slot machines and makes them more likely to pay out. To prove this theory, he put $320 in coins into four machines and recorded the results for temperatures below 64 degrees and sent me the essential results.

On one machine, he won money at the cooler reading and lost when it was warmer. On two of them, he lost no matter what the temperature, but he lost less when it was cooler. And on one machine he lost more when it was cooler.

So what have we learned here essentially? First of all, this guy must have pockets the size of elephant ears to haul around all those coins. Second, it took me forever to figure out how the dice game on my cell phone works, and now they're going to take it away. Third, this guy may be right, but I wouldn't be the farm on it.

Essentially.

Be sweet to those snowbirds

Now that my Christmas shopping is done (thank God for yard sales), I have turned my attention to my New Year's resolutions.

So far I have "eat more pie" and "get the brakes fixed," and I'm adding to that "be nice to snowbirds."

This comes to mind because I have just returned from a trip to the Midwest to visit the Old One at the ancestral home, and I am here to tell you it was cold there. Really, really cold.

Even the traditional allusions to well-diggers and brass monkeys fail to describe it. It was bitterly cold. It was wind-chill-of-50-below-at-noon cold. It was curl-up-and-whimper cold.

Fortunately, I was able to keep my strength up with massive infusions of Christmas cookies, althought I was wearing so many clothes that I sometimes had difficulty lifting my hand to my mouth.

Which brings us back to snowbirds. It is customary in some circles to snark on snowbirds and their erratic driving habits and their dopey questions and their gas-guzzling RVs and their black socks and Bermuda shorts.

But after a few days on the frigid prairie, I now see these people not just as funny-looking moochers, but as downtrodden refugees from a weather war zone.

When we take in people from Bosnia or Rwanda or some other awful place, we don't make fun of their clothes or their accents, so why be snarky to these shivering, pasty-skinned refugees from the North and East?

So this year, if you meet any snowbirds, kiss them on both cheeks and offer them a basin of warm water for their feet and speak to them in low, soothing tones.

Say to them: "Greetings, frozen ones. Have a cookie. The sun is shining and you are safe here and welcome, even if you drive like a moron."

It's the decent thing to do.

How do we treat thee, winter guest?

They're coming. There's no stopping them. Pale, cold, hungry for the sun and whatever is in your refrigerator – winter visitors.

Of course you love them. Of course you're glad they're coming. Of course you'll be happy to see them.

But what in the world are you supposed to do with them for x-number of days or weeks, or God forbid, months.

You've already taken them to Sedona, to the zoo, to Tucson, to the Desert Botanical Gardens and the Heard. They've hiked Squaw Peak and Camelback, and you took them out to the Superstitions one year.

You can't just drop them off in the desert, as tempting as that might be, because I'm pretty sure that's against the law, and they'd probably just find their way back anyway. For God's sake, don't bring them to my place. I've already got a couple of old ladies booked in for February. At least they don't eat much.

So anyway, today we are launching the annual Outside What To Do With Winter Visitors That Isn't Illegal or Immoral Survey.

Actually, I was thinking of setting up a winter-visitor exchange whereby you could swap your used winter visitor for someone else's. Kind of like an exchange-student thing. At least there would be some new faces hanging around your patio. But that proved kind of complicated to arrange, so I decided on the survey instead.

So e-mail your suggestions to the address below and put "Oh, We're Fine, Don't Worry About Us," in the subject line. Or write that on an envelope and send it to Outside, NM-19, The Arizona Republic, 200 E. Van Buren, Phoenix, AZ  85004.

This isn't a contest or anything. Think of it as a valuable public service you'll be performing. And until the results are in, I'd suggest turning off the lights and pretending you're not home.

Old boots best for cold bog

Ha! Hardly a day's gone by and already things have taken a turn for the thoughtful. No more cheesy jokes and snarky comments here. From now on high-mindedness is the watchword.

As proof I have at hand a letter from an honest-to-goodness geologist on the effects of schist vs. granite on hiking boots. And it is not just any geologist but the estimable Simon Peacock, a professor of geology and chairman – chairman! – of the Department of Geological Sciences at Arizona State University. And he has a Ph.D. And I bet it's in geology. This is pretty upscale for this column, yes?

Dr. Peacock opines thusly on the subject of schist, granite and hiking boots:

"In my opinion, schist (for example, the rocks present on the Squaw Peak trail) is tougher on hiking boots that granite (for example, the rocks that make up the hump of Camelback Mountain). Rot induced by tundra, a fancy word for 'cold bog,' is even tougher on boots."

So, what have we learned here? That the letters in tundra can be rearranged to spell Durant, which is a small town in Iowa. And, you should stay away from cold bogs if you are wearing your good hiking boots.

 ***

Team Outside Update: I have seen the design for the T-shirts that Team Outside will proudly wear in next month's New Times 10K, and I can report with confidence that the design is way cool and that you'll eat your livers out when you see these shirts.

The design is shart, the colors are good, all the words are spelled right and the whole thing has this sleek, aerodynamic look to it that just seems to say "Wonk."

And, in my capacity as Team Outside chaplain, I am still at work on the team prayer.

"Dear Lord, please don't let anybody we know see us wearing these shirts. Amen."