Ah, Fort Arvada it is!

Ok, so it's been a really long time since I've written on here, mostly because of the hectic moving atmosphere and adjusting to a new place in my life. Right now, I'm listening to a wonderful song by Faith Hill (yes I'm a nerd), and appreciating how much art is involved in song-writing. Speaking of song-writing, we somehow acquired a copy of David Archuleta's new CD, and I was dismally disappointed. The songs aren't him. They're obviously written by someone else, most of them have virtually no meaning whatsoever, and I think it is a disgusting waste of his incredible talent. What good is it to have the best voice in the world if you're not expressing yourself when you sing? I mean, seriously, a meaningful song performed by a nine-year-old is better than an empty deluge of pre-teen fantasies.
Ok, off my little rant. Things are great here in Fort Arvada, right next to Fort Denver (I've decided to prefix every Colorado location with the word “fort”). I made a bet with Steph yesterday that I'd beat her to the next city on my road bike, but was robbed the victory by a ludicrously busy hill the size of Mount Timpanogas that forced me to the dirt roadside. I was riding over 40 miles per hour going down the other side, which should tell you at least something about how bit this hill was. Nevertheless, it put me behind schedule and I made the 12 mile bike ride in more time than it took my wife to drive through traffic. Rats.
I took a walk the day before, nearly taking a swing at a man who startled me so bad I thought I was going to faint from the change in blood pressure. You see, I was trolling along with Braeden in the ATV (meaning his $140 stroller) and this guy comes jogging up beside me, under a bridge, wearing dark clothing and a black hood over his head. This is Denver, guys, and the graffiti combined with my normally jumpy self contributed to the scare that pushed its way out of my chest in the form of an Indian yelp. I actually think I may have startled the jogger as much as vice versa.
Last item: once upon a time, there was a place in Tennessee named Lafayette. Unfortunately, the residents there were fifth-generation folks whose ancestors never spoke French in the first place, so the name had somehow become twisted to be “La-FAY-et,” as in “That woman, La Fay is her name, et it!” If one ever attempted to pronounce the city's name correctly, any nearby loyal, law-abiding citizens would immediately jump on the correct-the-stranger wagon, and thus the city is not known by its original pronunciation.
End of the story is that Arvada is pronounced with the “a” as in “add.” Thus, arvAda is our new home, bright and beautiful. I washed and waxed our car three days ago and it snowed today. Thanks, weather-man, I'm going to egg your house tomorrow. Merry New Year, everyone!