The days here in southern Maine have made their commitment to the upcoming winter. Under 12 hours now, daytime has ceded control to the dark of night. The transition is peaceful and without fuss. The days backpedal in retreat a few minutes a day. By the time Summer has replenished it's will around the middle of December, Winter's invasion will have claimed over 14 hours of daylight every day. The beauty of this cycle is the predictability and annual light at the end of the tunnel. The beast of this cycle is knowing that predicability.
Many of us here in Maine suffer "cabin fever". A depression tied to the annual decline in daylight. I never thought I was a victim until the last few winters. The last few winters have been tough to deal with. I find keeping a upbeat attitude and a smile on my face more trouble than it is worth. Going to work at 7 AM in the dark gets old and the Sun out of sight by 4 just drives home that point.
I understand the mass exodus of seniors to Florida. After a lifetime of bone chilling winters, the year round warmth of Florida might have some appeal. But having lived in that Hell hole as a youngster, I will never make that commitment. The wheather may be warm. But it is not a friendly warm like the western desert. The humidity in the states surrounding the Gulf of Mexico punish my lungs every bit as much as the hard cold of Maine. When it is cold, I can always get warmer. Put on more duds, throw on that comforter, or back my butt up closer to the fire. Down south, I can only take off so much before I run out of options. I would still be hot and the neighbors might look at me oddly as I lounged in the hammock bare assed.
Always mentioned is Air Conditioning. Living in a climate controlled enviroment that re -circulates the same stale atmosphere I huffed out an hour ago. I find climate control at 70' F a boring existence. My lungs may like it, but like food, too much of a good thing is never good in the long run. Give me the erratic performance of Mother Nature here in Maine. Wheather that tests the body and the soul. Wheather that is not wimpy or indecisive. So, as much as I detest the drop in daylight, the winter that comes with it is exactly what I want.
Blatant Self Indulgence
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Monday, September 19, 2005
Closer to Home
I punched Beck into the player. I then sat down in front of this screen with every intention of making mincemeat of some yahoo on a political forum I visit on occaision. I was ready to rip him a new one. Lay him low.
But I couldn't do it. The free for all political forums I have had so much fun in these last few years have lost their luster. Where I once found witty and intelligent adversaries, I now find one line Harries who only want to insult. The boards seem overrun with reactionary posters or trolls. So instead of punishing myself there, I came here. I prefer the calm and solitude of my blog. Besides Beck does not go well with trading insults.
I created this blog to work on my writing. Hone the few skills I have. I made only 2 rules when I set it up. One, I would not allow my livelihood or obession with bicycles to take over. Two, I would keep the political commentary to a minimum. So far so good. Well lately, I have run a bit heavy on the bike side. It is difficult to rein in that which your life revolves around. The politics have been easier to deal with. When I wanted to get that fix, I went to some forum of armchair politicians and we could mix it up. But now that I am not stopping in as much. Where will I get my release, if not here in my blog? We will see if I can resist.
I have kept journals forever. Until this blog, I always spent a large amount of energy stating my opinions on how things oughta be. With no feedback, my personal views seemed nothing more than political masturbation. Then I found the political forums. Now I was part of a circle jerk. A little better I guess.
A couple of weeks ago, the group feeding frenzy I was actively part of changed. Or I changed. It does not matter. One of us did. I spent a whole session just lurking. It seemed that all anyone wanted to do was blame Bush, blame Clinton, love the war, or hate the war. Useless and futile discussions from one hardhead to another. Every poster I read had come with a chip on their shoulder and their mind already made up. So I did a search to review some of my recent posts. I sounded just like the rest of them. A whining angry man. Nothing sadder.
Unfortunately this Internet thing is akin to some crazy drug. It gets it's hooks into you and before you can say gigabyte, you are spending 20 to 30 hours a week surfing but going nowhere. I am determined to cut my time wasted on the boards to a minimum. But when I punch this computer up, automatically my fingers do the walking and I find myself looking for some idiot to lay into. I will stop in the middle of that first or second post, re-plant reality in my mind and scoot home or here. Not that here is really reality. But it is closer.
But I couldn't do it. The free for all political forums I have had so much fun in these last few years have lost their luster. Where I once found witty and intelligent adversaries, I now find one line Harries who only want to insult. The boards seem overrun with reactionary posters or trolls. So instead of punishing myself there, I came here. I prefer the calm and solitude of my blog. Besides Beck does not go well with trading insults.
I created this blog to work on my writing. Hone the few skills I have. I made only 2 rules when I set it up. One, I would not allow my livelihood or obession with bicycles to take over. Two, I would keep the political commentary to a minimum. So far so good. Well lately, I have run a bit heavy on the bike side. It is difficult to rein in that which your life revolves around. The politics have been easier to deal with. When I wanted to get that fix, I went to some forum of armchair politicians and we could mix it up. But now that I am not stopping in as much. Where will I get my release, if not here in my blog? We will see if I can resist.
I have kept journals forever. Until this blog, I always spent a large amount of energy stating my opinions on how things oughta be. With no feedback, my personal views seemed nothing more than political masturbation. Then I found the political forums. Now I was part of a circle jerk. A little better I guess.
A couple of weeks ago, the group feeding frenzy I was actively part of changed. Or I changed. It does not matter. One of us did. I spent a whole session just lurking. It seemed that all anyone wanted to do was blame Bush, blame Clinton, love the war, or hate the war. Useless and futile discussions from one hardhead to another. Every poster I read had come with a chip on their shoulder and their mind already made up. So I did a search to review some of my recent posts. I sounded just like the rest of them. A whining angry man. Nothing sadder.
Unfortunately this Internet thing is akin to some crazy drug. It gets it's hooks into you and before you can say gigabyte, you are spending 20 to 30 hours a week surfing but going nowhere. I am determined to cut my time wasted on the boards to a minimum. But when I punch this computer up, automatically my fingers do the walking and I find myself looking for some idiot to lay into. I will stop in the middle of that first or second post, re-plant reality in my mind and scoot home or here. Not that here is really reality. But it is closer.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Missing
My brother left a message on the machine today. Apparently my nephew has gone missing in the Persian Gulf. A seaman on an Aegis cruiser, he has been lost for over a week now. At this point, sea searches by the US Navy and the Iranian Navy have turned up nothing. They do not know if he fell overboard, jumped overboard or was forced overboard. No news at all. He is just missing.
This news is shocking enough, but what pounds it home even deeper is this is the first real contact with my immediate family since my oldest brother basically cut me off 10 years ago. Rather than get in their face, I blew the whole family off. I chose to remove myself. I did it conciously. There are a multitude of reasons I could come up with. They all seem so petty and trivial when compared to the family tragedy my oldest brother is dealing with right now.
I am still in shock. A lot of history has come flooding back into my mind. Combine it with the bizarre situation with my nephew and I sit here poleaxed. Dazed. I am not able to sort out the bad blood from the concern for a lost relative. It is all jumbled up. Needless to say, conflicting emotions swirl around inside me. I have harbored hateful thoughts toward my brother, but never once did I include anyone from inside his circle. And now I deal with an intense guilt from thinking ill of someone and having hard times actually happen to them. Falling off a boat is not something I would wish on him or anyone. Some inconveniences and embarrassing moments maybe, but never once did I wish physical harm.
I came into this world the result of an unplanned pregnancy initiated out of wedlock. My parents were older, my brothers were in their teens, and all of a sudden there I am. The proverbial monkey wrench thrown into an already shaky family dynamic. As I grew up, I never felt I belonged. I never felt accepted. Reactions to me ran the gambit from outright meaness from one brother to total disregard by the more distant relatives we would visit from time to time. As a child, I had no information to go on. I thought they just did not like me. I was someone to hate. And somehow I deserved it.
It was not until my mother's death did I connect all the dots. Organizing her papers after her death, I found my parents' mariage certificate. I really looked at it. Unless I was premature, there is no way I was conceived while they were married. Those many years of feeling like an outsider immediately came into context. Suddenly I understood the cooler shoulders I had to deal with as a young kid. And it really pissed me off. That was the day I picked up a serious grudge. That was the day I stopped worrying about what anyone in my family thought of me and how I led my life. I had wasted so many years fishing for affection, it was now time for payback. I would show them. I would give them a taste of what filled my mouth for so many years. I would ignore them. Yeah, good plan.
Now I pay the price for that plan. The price for this grudge is shaping up to not be worth the emotional currency it costs. Of all the relatives I should have identified with, my missing nephew is now unable to know he was not alone. He too was not born into the best of family situations. My brother, fresh off a 17 or 18 year marriage hooks up with a co-worker. He marries her and they have a kid. He comes into this world an add on, an afterthought, a desperate mechanism to save a faltering marriage. And whether he understood or not, he most definitely grew up with serious baggage. God, I hope that baggage had nothing to do with his disappearance.
So I sit here pounding out my pain, hoping to relieve the guilt I have for not taking time to be closer to him. And I can't. I deserve this. He does not.
Part Deux
According to Eastern Time Zone rules, it is a brand new day. September 18, 2005. Whew! Seems like yesterday I was impressed when it was 1970. I feel like such an old fart. I'm ready for plaid pants, a golf shirt, white crew socks and black tie shoes. Get the walker Mabel. I gotta go check the mailbox.
In 1970 I didn't have one foot in the grave. Long haired hippie loser, happy as if I had a clue. Blue jeans, barefeet and tye dyed T shirts. Worrying about next week not in my mind. Remembering last week an impossible task. In 1970, I lived in the moment. In 1970 I existed second to second. In 1970 I lived for the weekend. Bars, broads, and where I could score some good weed about all I worried about.
That was then. This is now. Now I sit here wondering why I felt that aimless existence was a dead end. From where I sit now, the respectable life that latched onto me often feels the same. At age 26 or so, I awoke from my drunken, drugged stupor and decided I was going nowhere. Yet now, my rose colored glasses paint a different picture. When once my biggest worry was sobering up enough to go to work, now, I have a multitude of middle class worries to chew on. So many pitfalls waiting to ruin my day.
I look back on my irresponsible youth selectively forgetting all the angst that comes with that age. I conveniently dismiss the deep loneliness I suffered on a regular basis. I neglect to bring up how selfish I could be back then. Serving only my whims and looking for self-gratification at all times. Unable to share myself, I spent my waking hours getting high, looking to get high, or wishing I could get high. Yeah, those were the times.
As I compare the me of 1970 and the person I am today, I realize I haven't really changed much. I can still be selfish, put myself first, and let others down. The difference is when I was young and dumb, any slights and self centered ways were performed without premeditation. I had no inkling that what I did affected other lives. My connection to the rest of the World unrealized. Guilt free but guilty nonetheless.
And now, I know guilt. Now I know regrets. Now I know what is expected. Now I know responsibility. I have for over 25 years. But knowing it and living it is still a struggle. Waking up each day and doing what's right day in and day out takes a stronger man than I. Thankfully, my lapses are brief and most times of small consequence. They serve as reminders that I am not that far from my past.
In 1970 I didn't have one foot in the grave. Long haired hippie loser, happy as if I had a clue. Blue jeans, barefeet and tye dyed T shirts. Worrying about next week not in my mind. Remembering last week an impossible task. In 1970, I lived in the moment. In 1970 I existed second to second. In 1970 I lived for the weekend. Bars, broads, and where I could score some good weed about all I worried about.
That was then. This is now. Now I sit here wondering why I felt that aimless existence was a dead end. From where I sit now, the respectable life that latched onto me often feels the same. At age 26 or so, I awoke from my drunken, drugged stupor and decided I was going nowhere. Yet now, my rose colored glasses paint a different picture. When once my biggest worry was sobering up enough to go to work, now, I have a multitude of middle class worries to chew on. So many pitfalls waiting to ruin my day.
I look back on my irresponsible youth selectively forgetting all the angst that comes with that age. I conveniently dismiss the deep loneliness I suffered on a regular basis. I neglect to bring up how selfish I could be back then. Serving only my whims and looking for self-gratification at all times. Unable to share myself, I spent my waking hours getting high, looking to get high, or wishing I could get high. Yeah, those were the times.
As I compare the me of 1970 and the person I am today, I realize I haven't really changed much. I can still be selfish, put myself first, and let others down. The difference is when I was young and dumb, any slights and self centered ways were performed without premeditation. I had no inkling that what I did affected other lives. My connection to the rest of the World unrealized. Guilt free but guilty nonetheless.
And now, I know guilt. Now I know regrets. Now I know what is expected. Now I know responsibility. I have for over 25 years. But knowing it and living it is still a struggle. Waking up each day and doing what's right day in and day out takes a stronger man than I. Thankfully, my lapses are brief and most times of small consequence. They serve as reminders that I am not that far from my past.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Scraps of my past
I cannot come up with anything for the blog lately that does not seem forced, contrived or more banal and empty of substance than the usual dribble I spew forth. I want to write. But there's a fog or barrier keeping the witty and interesting from making the trip from my brain to this screen. Shit! I can't even seem to muster any righteous indignation over the many injustices and mistakes the World honchos are making as we speak. There is always something out there that is pissing me off. Right now though, the energy needed to get excited seems such a waste of time.
I sit here contemplating this latest creative drought as I work the rough spot on that back molar with my tongue. I pause and look at a photo of my dad wearing a silly wig. I jammed it into the edge of the door casing 25 years ago and there it still sits. Dad, Father, the ole man. Of all the pictures, I pick one that is not even a good likeness. I often wonder what he would think of how, why, and what I turned out to be. Would he be pleased? Proud? Or just shake his head?
Right under Dad, a picture of the first mountain bike I ever rode. I borrowed it from a friend for a couple of months in 1984. I knew I was onto something new and unique when I first floundered in the woods on that bike. I did not know or would have guessed the impact the loan of that bike would have on the rest of my life. Something I took up to fill some leisure time became an avocation and quickly turned on me and became my life. Obsession mutated into duty often grudgingly dealt with. Twisting wrenches and selling bikes to John Q is most definitely not a lifestyle of the rich and famous. I often feel it is thankless and a useless endeavor. But I cannot help it. I love bicycles.
Switching my tongue to the chipped canine, my brain follows suit and switches gears. Dropping my eyes along the door casing, my ratty first truck license hangs on by a scrap. Man, was I young and full of cum when I strutted into the Glen Burnie DMV to take that driving test in 1971. Brought down a few pegs when I watched the 2 guys in front of me fail before they even left the parking lot. I remember sweaty palms and a test guy wearing mirror sunglasses monotoning, "Okay, see those offset cones? I want you to back up between them and stop within 6 inches of the dock." Suddenly, all the learning old Fred had pounded into my head was lost. But somehow I managed it and 20 minutes later I strutted out, Class l license in hand. And then spent the next 17 years delivering what America wanted.
Under the license, a picture post card of the New Dorm at Towson State University dangles. In 1972 it was the New Dorm. I wonder what they call it now? I remember the night Bean and I went over to the half constructed building and checked it out. Rolled and smoked too many doobers. I walked into the elevator shaft thinking it was a closet. I remember being grateful when Bean caught me by my shirt tail and saved me the hassle of falling 3 floors to the basement. One of those moments we all have when we know one of the nine lives has been used up. I have always wondered why I did not take that post card down. Maybe that near death experience is why. Hmm.
My favorite cartoon of all time hangs nearby. Stained and dotted with the many thumbtack holes I punched into it as I took it with me where ever I went. Yellowed and frayed, it has paid it's dues. And even now, it brings a smile to my face.
These few scraps and pictures have no good reason to be on my wall. I do not even remember why they went up. But of all the useless crap I have held onto, I chose these snippets of my past to display. Meaning nothing to anyone else, they have incidents and times attached to them I will never forget. The disorderly and desperate way they are jammed or pinned up seems so temporary. Yet they have endured over 20 years. And my wife, Miss law and order, has respected their place on my wall. She has no clue why they are there, but she leaves them alone. Somehow, they seem important maybe. And they are I guess. Reminders of a time when my step bounced higher, my forehead was smaller, and my outlook brighter. When I pause now and again to look them over, they always have an impact. Sometimes they make me sad. Sometimes they make me glad. And occasionally mad.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Wake Up Fool!
No easing into this day. I was not going to enjoy the gradual process of becoming aware. Waking to some dumb pet antic has the potential to get a day off on the wrong foot. And sometimes not. I sat up in bed. Fernando, that big dumb tom, jumped back up into bed, stood up on his hind legs and threw his front paws on my shoulders. Briefly he looked me in the eye. I think he was checking out my P-oed index. Satisfied I wasn't going to bounce him off another wall, he head butted me and bit my nose.
Fernando is huge and a clumsy lummox as cats go. His idea of gentle will make you want to cry sometimes when he attacks your feet or decides that ear looks tasty. His nose nip caught me perfect in the nerve that goes right to pain central in the brain. The one that also turns on the tear reflex and makes me want to sneeze. Damn, awake 45 seconds and I am already trashed by one of our little darlings.
I sneezed and quickly rubbed my nose to soften the intensity of that perfect bite. I did not toss Fernando. He stayed there front paws perched on my shoulders and hitched his head sideways and it seemed he was smiling. "Wake up fool. Time to rough house. No, let's get the string and, uh , not that, the jingle ball! You throw, I'll go. Get it and then not bring it back." So I obliged and threw him down on the bed and gave him a screamin belly rub. I tossed him, beat on him, picked him upside down and threw him into the pillow. 'Nando gave as good as he got. Those big paws and mouth made me pay. I walked down to the kitchen with shredded hands and a smile on my face.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
What a beautiful morning
I was heading back from the doc's office this morning on my bike. I was not in a hurry. It was a gorgeous morning. Brilliant and almost cool. I had to pedal hard to break a sweat. I'm only pushing about 15 mph and rubbernecking the neighborhood. I hear a car come up behind me. I do not move. I am over to the right, there's nothing coming the other way, and besides it was just another of the hundreds if not thousands of cars that pass me all the time.
This joker decides to get up right behind me and honk his horn. Mildly annoyed, I do not move. I keep my line. He blasts again. I move into the lane a tad just to establish my right to it. Then I guess he wanted to teach me the lesson he was attempting to share with his horn only. He revs up beside me, slows down and through the half open passenger window starts in, "What the Fuck are you doing? What are the fucking sidewalks for?" I turn to him and smile and continue on my way.
He zips ahead and pulls the classic cop pull over at an angle to cut me off trick. "Oh Great", I think, "another beautiful day and some jerk is going to try and ruin it for me." He throws open his door and gets out. The bonehead has pulled too far ahead, giving me plenty of time to avoid this tactic and I easily go around him. I keep the same pace. I don't speed up. As I pass him he is spewing epithets and as I pedal away, I envision spittle and bulging eyeballs. Definitely someone I want to avoid. But I can't. It isn't in me.
He does his best imitation cop stop again and this time I pull up. Before he has a chance to get out of his car, I jump off my bike start pounding on his car and screaming, " You want a fucking piece of me Asshole. Just get the fuck out now and we'll fuckin dance. Come you fucking pussy." I do the best imitation of him I can. The man thinks better of it, closes his half open door and speeds off. I smile and continue on my way. What a beautiful morning. And I smiled all the way back to the shop.
This joker decides to get up right behind me and honk his horn. Mildly annoyed, I do not move. I keep my line. He blasts again. I move into the lane a tad just to establish my right to it. Then I guess he wanted to teach me the lesson he was attempting to share with his horn only. He revs up beside me, slows down and through the half open passenger window starts in, "What the Fuck are you doing? What are the fucking sidewalks for?" I turn to him and smile and continue on my way.
He zips ahead and pulls the classic cop pull over at an angle to cut me off trick. "Oh Great", I think, "another beautiful day and some jerk is going to try and ruin it for me." He throws open his door and gets out. The bonehead has pulled too far ahead, giving me plenty of time to avoid this tactic and I easily go around him. I keep the same pace. I don't speed up. As I pass him he is spewing epithets and as I pedal away, I envision spittle and bulging eyeballs. Definitely someone I want to avoid. But I can't. It isn't in me.
He does his best imitation cop stop again and this time I pull up. Before he has a chance to get out of his car, I jump off my bike start pounding on his car and screaming, " You want a fucking piece of me Asshole. Just get the fuck out now and we'll fuckin dance. Come you fucking pussy." I do the best imitation of him I can. The man thinks better of it, closes his half open door and speeds off. I smile and continue on my way. What a beautiful morning. And I smiled all the way back to the shop.
The Burnt Car Loop 2
Yesterday, I poached a ride with Keith. I told my wife I was going to the shop to get some work done. I promised to come home and perform domestic chores. I did go to the shop. I did attempt to tidy up some loose ends. And then Keith called. I had forgotten about our tentative plan to ride. In an instant I conveniently forgot my committment to my darling signifgant other. She was there, I was here. My bike was here. The trails were here. And Keith would soon be here.
With a shrug of resignation to the predestined aspect of this day, I quickly changed, found a helmet and off we went. Our ride was a re-run of our night ride last Thursday, only we added in the Old Folks Home downhill. This ride I scooted along on legs twenty years younger. This ride, I was in a groove. Every technical section I nailed and when we hit a downstroke, I left Keith like he was standing still. Well, not really. But I was in front and that is not the way most of our rides pan out.
That brutal creek crossing on the Burnt Car Loop. No problem. Keith watched me make it, and then he did also. Neither one of us remembering the last time we cleaned that section completely. The Old Folks downhill is a trail that dumps into the parking lot of an assisted living complex. It is only challenging if it is hammered full bore. But get up to 20 miles an hour and pedal hard through the couple of rises and it will deliver plenty of pucker factor. This day, I stayed on Keith's wheel and wished he would get out of the way.
As we whooped it into the parking lot of the retirment home, we startled an old lady sitting in the sun sucking on a butt. Keith, the ever friendly guy, decides to engage in conversation. As the niceties were exchanged, I realized we were helping to make this lady's day. Something out of the ordinary for her to discuss with her buds. Two crazed looking guys on bicycles bunny hopping onto the parking lot. We left her smiling.
The negative result of playing hooky was a cold shoulder at home when all the chores I managed to do were the ones I dreamed about when I passed out on the couch. Ah domestic bliss.
With a shrug of resignation to the predestined aspect of this day, I quickly changed, found a helmet and off we went. Our ride was a re-run of our night ride last Thursday, only we added in the Old Folks Home downhill. This ride I scooted along on legs twenty years younger. This ride, I was in a groove. Every technical section I nailed and when we hit a downstroke, I left Keith like he was standing still. Well, not really. But I was in front and that is not the way most of our rides pan out.
That brutal creek crossing on the Burnt Car Loop. No problem. Keith watched me make it, and then he did also. Neither one of us remembering the last time we cleaned that section completely. The Old Folks downhill is a trail that dumps into the parking lot of an assisted living complex. It is only challenging if it is hammered full bore. But get up to 20 miles an hour and pedal hard through the couple of rises and it will deliver plenty of pucker factor. This day, I stayed on Keith's wheel and wished he would get out of the way.
As we whooped it into the parking lot of the retirment home, we startled an old lady sitting in the sun sucking on a butt. Keith, the ever friendly guy, decides to engage in conversation. As the niceties were exchanged, I realized we were helping to make this lady's day. Something out of the ordinary for her to discuss with her buds. Two crazed looking guys on bicycles bunny hopping onto the parking lot. We left her smiling.
The negative result of playing hooky was a cold shoulder at home when all the chores I managed to do were the ones I dreamed about when I passed out on the couch. Ah domestic bliss.
Denial
I had hoped to pen something perky, funny or clever this AM. But I awoke in a dark mood. I fell asleep last night to the bad news coming from further south. Katrina is still having it's effect.
This century has certainly been packed with excitment. In 5 or so years, a lifetime of catastrophies have been packed. I cannot help but reflect back to many of the biblical doom and gloom fortune tellers, Nostradamus, and the whacko on the corner sporting the sign that said, "The End is Near". An odd combination of disasters, political events, and economic trends have more of us considering the predictions we all used to quietly chuckle at.
The end may indeed be near. But like so many things not worth worrying about, this is one of them. If it is near, any contribution I may make to avoiding it at this point seems too little too late. Besides, if the prophecies are correct, we cannot do anything anyway.
But even if the end is not near, Life as I knew it is going to be different. Life for my daughter will be different. My US culture is apparently going through some major adjustments. The final outcome may or may not be good. But we are changing. Our short sighted ways are coming back to bite us. Our overwhelming dependence on a finite resource without considering the end of that resource may well be our undoing. What we are doing now is akin to the phases of grief. Right now, we are in denial.
This century has certainly been packed with excitment. In 5 or so years, a lifetime of catastrophies have been packed. I cannot help but reflect back to many of the biblical doom and gloom fortune tellers, Nostradamus, and the whacko on the corner sporting the sign that said, "The End is Near". An odd combination of disasters, political events, and economic trends have more of us considering the predictions we all used to quietly chuckle at.
The end may indeed be near. But like so many things not worth worrying about, this is one of them. If it is near, any contribution I may make to avoiding it at this point seems too little too late. Besides, if the prophecies are correct, we cannot do anything anyway.
But even if the end is not near, Life as I knew it is going to be different. Life for my daughter will be different. My US culture is apparently going through some major adjustments. The final outcome may or may not be good. But we are changing. Our short sighted ways are coming back to bite us. Our overwhelming dependence on a finite resource without considering the end of that resource may well be our undoing. What we are doing now is akin to the phases of grief. Right now, we are in denial.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Taken for Granted
I just posted something I had posted before in a different location somewhere here in the 'net. I was just nodding off, satisfied with my effort and listening to some Ani Difranco. And then I felt shame. Not a large charge of it, but enough to bring me out of my stupor and come up with some fresh out of the box writing.
The conceptual getting my mind around the idea of the Internet has been attempted, repeatedly thwarted and cast aside. I see a indeterminable alter dimension filled with electrons bouncing around an infinite other universe but with purpose and a plan. Some yahoo in East Gish, Slobavokia will toss some thought out there with confidence his words will reach someone in Lower Billabong, Down Under. And all those busy little electrical pixies carry his message with accuracy and dispatch. It'd be mind boggling if I did not take it all for granted.
The conceptual getting my mind around the idea of the Internet has been attempted, repeatedly thwarted and cast aside. I see a indeterminable alter dimension filled with electrons bouncing around an infinite other universe but with purpose and a plan. Some yahoo in East Gish, Slobavokia will toss some thought out there with confidence his words will reach someone in Lower Billabong, Down Under. And all those busy little electrical pixies carry his message with accuracy and dispatch. It'd be mind boggling if I did not take it all for granted.
Worm Food
Trying to come up with something to say tonight, I found my bag of tricks empty. Since i am in a writin frame of mind, I needed to do something. Dredge up a pearl. Glean some remnant. Wrestle a thought or two to the mat. But I can't.
The next best thing is to retreive a thought passed on in the past. What follows is a Thread started by "Buck Fitty" in the Dirt Rag forum, "Hangin Out"
http://www.dirtragmag.com/forums/showthread.php?t=7208
A rant about self-importance... from Buck Fitty
I'll start by stating the obvious. I'm not nearly as important as I'd like to think that I am. Neither are you.
There. I've said it.
The movie "the Incredibles" got me thinking about this- "if everyone is special, then no one is..." It's a good point. And my corollary is this- If everyone thinks they're important, then everyone is less likely to see anyone else as important.
Think about it- we rant on websites, just like I'm doing now, spewing forth our opinions about things we may not know anything about, we take out our fears of unimportance on others by inconveniencing or berating or just plain ignoring common courtesy. We puff up ourselves at the expense of others.
What does all this self-importance gain us? Do we gain an increased sense of self worth or an increased fear of obsolesence?
Is our oversized sense of self worth the reason we as a country are increasingly in debt, increasingly overworked and increasingly stressed out and (I know this is pretty subjective, but hear me out) unhappy?
What if, just as an experiment, we all looked in the mirror and said to ourselves every morning "I'm just not that important"- Not in a self loathing sense, but in the spirit of saying "I have permission to take it easy on myself".
And maybe if we all give ourselves permission to take it easy on ourselves, we'll find ourselves with more time to do the things we really love. Maybe by dropping our sense of self-importance, we'll get a chance to learn what is actually important in our lives. Maybe by giving ourselves permission to fail, we'll feel more like taking chances and create something truly incredible. Maybe by seeing everyone else as important, we'll try to be better to each other.
I don't know, I'm just talkin'...
My Reply
Jeez, let me wake up first
Interesting thread for sure. I just need some more coffee and a few more minutes to fix on my important contribution to this subject. Ah, coffee, nectar of my god. Thankfully there are not too many posts to re-read. Heavy thinking this early in the AM ..... Ah, coffee. Good, that other eye is starting to come around.
All the different twists on importance of self. And everyone making good points. I read the first one from Buck Fitty and I start nodding, "Yeah good point there". Often we are not as important as we think we are. But Buck Fitty, I wonder if you are not being a tad harsh with yourself and others. From where I sit I would say we are all important to someone. Our families, our communities, our employees/employers, but most of all to ourselves.
The fact that we may often puff ourselves up on occaision only points to our inability to see the importance of our lives. The fact that many of us beat ourselves up points to that same inability. Most of us do not live lives filled with obvious examples of importance. We work, go home, mow the lawn, feed the dogs, play with the kids, and go to sleep. The rhythms of our lives lull us into a mistaken idea that we do not matter. At least that's how I feel sometimes about my life.
During those odd moments when I am feeling introspective or I happen upon a thread somewhere in the internet ether, I will take a moment and ask if I am important. I worry about it for a few moments. Contemplate what others think. Just about the time I start feeling good about myself, I come to the realization that during the brief instant of time I am on this planet, I am important. But when weighed against the big picture of time, the Universe, and the Big Bang, I am just worm food waiting to happen.
Keep it 'tween the ditches,
CRUM
The next best thing is to retreive a thought passed on in the past. What follows is a Thread started by "Buck Fitty" in the Dirt Rag forum, "Hangin Out"
http://www.dirtragmag.com/forums/showthread.php?t=7208
A rant about self-importance... from Buck Fitty
I'll start by stating the obvious. I'm not nearly as important as I'd like to think that I am. Neither are you.
There. I've said it.
The movie "the Incredibles" got me thinking about this- "if everyone is special, then no one is..." It's a good point. And my corollary is this- If everyone thinks they're important, then everyone is less likely to see anyone else as important.
Think about it- we rant on websites, just like I'm doing now, spewing forth our opinions about things we may not know anything about, we take out our fears of unimportance on others by inconveniencing or berating or just plain ignoring common courtesy. We puff up ourselves at the expense of others.
What does all this self-importance gain us? Do we gain an increased sense of self worth or an increased fear of obsolesence?
Is our oversized sense of self worth the reason we as a country are increasingly in debt, increasingly overworked and increasingly stressed out and (I know this is pretty subjective, but hear me out) unhappy?
What if, just as an experiment, we all looked in the mirror and said to ourselves every morning "I'm just not that important"- Not in a self loathing sense, but in the spirit of saying "I have permission to take it easy on myself".
And maybe if we all give ourselves permission to take it easy on ourselves, we'll find ourselves with more time to do the things we really love. Maybe by dropping our sense of self-importance, we'll get a chance to learn what is actually important in our lives. Maybe by giving ourselves permission to fail, we'll feel more like taking chances and create something truly incredible. Maybe by seeing everyone else as important, we'll try to be better to each other.
I don't know, I'm just talkin'...
My Reply
Jeez, let me wake up first
Interesting thread for sure. I just need some more coffee and a few more minutes to fix on my important contribution to this subject. Ah, coffee, nectar of my god. Thankfully there are not too many posts to re-read. Heavy thinking this early in the AM ..... Ah, coffee. Good, that other eye is starting to come around.
All the different twists on importance of self. And everyone making good points. I read the first one from Buck Fitty and I start nodding, "Yeah good point there". Often we are not as important as we think we are. But Buck Fitty, I wonder if you are not being a tad harsh with yourself and others. From where I sit I would say we are all important to someone. Our families, our communities, our employees/employers, but most of all to ourselves.
The fact that we may often puff ourselves up on occaision only points to our inability to see the importance of our lives. The fact that many of us beat ourselves up points to that same inability. Most of us do not live lives filled with obvious examples of importance. We work, go home, mow the lawn, feed the dogs, play with the kids, and go to sleep. The rhythms of our lives lull us into a mistaken idea that we do not matter. At least that's how I feel sometimes about my life.
During those odd moments when I am feeling introspective or I happen upon a thread somewhere in the internet ether, I will take a moment and ask if I am important. I worry about it for a few moments. Contemplate what others think. Just about the time I start feeling good about myself, I come to the realization that during the brief instant of time I am on this planet, I am important. But when weighed against the big picture of time, the Universe, and the Big Bang, I am just worm food waiting to happen.
Keep it 'tween the ditches,
CRUM
Friday, September 02, 2005
Hangin On
This summer has been a tough one at the bikeshop. Come to think of it, all 7 seasons have been tough. Not a one has gone according to plan. The first 5 years I actually had a plan. The last 2, hanging on is about all I had in me. I have caught on that wingin it doesn't work either. I need a new plan. I need to find some new enthusiasm. Locate some more will.
Owning a small retail business in a small town is a challenge to be sure. As most are, I am undercapitalized, under educated, under pressure, and under many different thumbs. I rob Peter to pay Paul. I juggle cash flow like some clown at the circus. Daily I check the bank balance to figure out what I can spend that day. Then I give away product for a song just to make next month's rent and keep the lights on. And across this land, hundreds of thousands small businesses feel the same pain I do.
Why do we do it? What madness takes control and deludes us we have a snow ball's chance in Hell to go up against Walmart, Staples, K-mart, X-Mart, and Home Depot? All the pat answers can boost our optimism and fill us with confidence. But when we've been down 30% for 3 months, the pat answers are nowhere to be found. More like we's stupid, gluttons for punishment, truly masochistic. Or just too hard-headed and contrary to give up. So we plug away at the monster. Open the doors everyday, Sweep out the dust, and hope that "brand new day" is today.
This is how I felt about running the shop 2 weeks ago. 2 weeks ago I knew the summer was almost Fall and the big weeks were behind me. Today I sit here perplexed. In the last 2 weeks we have done about 10% of our total to date gross sales for the year. Go figure. Just about the time my spirits couldn't get any lower, a contrary sales wave takes hold and I hang ten. While the uptick is certainly welcome. I am also a bit unsettled about this unforseen boost. Since 9/11 any dependence on historical sales flows has been tossed out the window. Months that are supposed to be up are down and months that are supposed to be down are up. Sales predictions are useless exercises in futility.
So for now, I will just do what I have been. Hang in there, keep the lean and mean attitude and hunker down. But soon I have to figure out how to deal with this new market place. The internet offers opportunities and at the same time eats sharply into my profits. The out of control oil economy has everyone nervous, tense and uptight. The uncertain future dictates I find something different than SSDD.
Owning a small retail business in a small town is a challenge to be sure. As most are, I am undercapitalized, under educated, under pressure, and under many different thumbs. I rob Peter to pay Paul. I juggle cash flow like some clown at the circus. Daily I check the bank balance to figure out what I can spend that day. Then I give away product for a song just to make next month's rent and keep the lights on. And across this land, hundreds of thousands small businesses feel the same pain I do.
Why do we do it? What madness takes control and deludes us we have a snow ball's chance in Hell to go up against Walmart, Staples, K-mart, X-Mart, and Home Depot? All the pat answers can boost our optimism and fill us with confidence. But when we've been down 30% for 3 months, the pat answers are nowhere to be found. More like we's stupid, gluttons for punishment, truly masochistic. Or just too hard-headed and contrary to give up. So we plug away at the monster. Open the doors everyday, Sweep out the dust, and hope that "brand new day" is today.
This is how I felt about running the shop 2 weeks ago. 2 weeks ago I knew the summer was almost Fall and the big weeks were behind me. Today I sit here perplexed. In the last 2 weeks we have done about 10% of our total to date gross sales for the year. Go figure. Just about the time my spirits couldn't get any lower, a contrary sales wave takes hold and I hang ten. While the uptick is certainly welcome. I am also a bit unsettled about this unforseen boost. Since 9/11 any dependence on historical sales flows has been tossed out the window. Months that are supposed to be up are down and months that are supposed to be down are up. Sales predictions are useless exercises in futility.
So for now, I will just do what I have been. Hang in there, keep the lean and mean attitude and hunker down. But soon I have to figure out how to deal with this new market place. The internet offers opportunities and at the same time eats sharply into my profits. The out of control oil economy has everyone nervous, tense and uptight. The uncertain future dictates I find something different than SSDD.
The Burnt Car Loop
I went for a night ride tonight. All day, I looked for an excuse to bail. I have been doing that quite a bit lately. And now that I have ridden, I wonder why I didn't want to go in the first place. Maybe it's the whiny, pissin and moanin mood I have been in of late.
"Wah, wah wah. I have to get the bike ready. Check the tire pressure, put on riding duds. Get the lights out and hooked up. Check the shifting and the brakes. Find my shoes and strap myself into them. Adjust the lights. Fill the Camelbak. Adjust the helmet. Jeez, gonna take me an hour just to get ready for a 1 1/2 hour ride. Hardly seems worth all the hassle. Wah, wah Wah." All day I was like this. What a whiner. If I had pulled this shit in front of the boys, they would of left me sad and pissy in the parking lot. Pre-emptively I pooped on the party that had not happened yet.
Anyway, 4 of us hit the trails around 8:00PM. Took me 10 minutes to stop whining at myself. "Wah,Wah, Wah, I'm tired. My legs hurt. Jeez guys, where's the fuckin fire? The trails aren't goin anywhere. Slow down fer chrissakes. Wah, wah, wah". And then we hit the first section of singletrack. A sharp left off the railroad bed and into the dark pucker.
It must of been my need to pay attention that got me out of the whining mode. As the boys dropped me like a rock, I fell into the rhythm. "Lift, dip, weight back for this log, up and sharp left. Damn, face plant !" But I didn't whine. I picked myself up, straightened my glasses and pulled some partially decomposed forest out of my helmet and right ear. As I turned the cranks to reset the chain, I grinned. This was gonna be a fun night. I knew right then and there, I was feeling frisky. Tonight, reasonable and judicious fear was MIA.
This trail was not particularily tough, but it requires full attention to stay smooth and on track. Space out a moment and it will stop you. Drop you hard. Make you pay. We call it "The Burnt Car Loop". Named after a burned out car someone managed to drive up the rail bed 20 years ago. They must have had a helluva time that night. Smashed, broken and torched, that car signaled the beginning of a sweet loop that ended with a satisfying downstroke. Go as fast as you dare, it always rewarded. And sometimes punished. Dips, water, rocks, roots, and some low flying branches just to keep you sharp. Corners you can't see around, but if you trust yourself that day, keep those tires rolling, catch the berm around and down. 15 minutes of in your face pleasure.
The Burnt Car Loop ends abruptly, dumping us back onto the railbed 300 yards from where we started. Swooping down to the T, I always wish it would go on a little longer. Tonight was no exception. I almost spoke up and said "let's do it again". But I just fell in behind Warren and we headed up the rail bed and banged a right onto an old washed out tote road. I hate that damn road. I hate it so much, I won't name it. It's just "that damn tote road". Not very long, but full of loose rock and just enough upstroke to make it tough going. I always slow down. Poke along and prolong the agony. Not sure why that particular route doesn't suit me. The other guys scoot along fine. I could barely catch their red flashes up the hill. Falling into that slow grind I am partial to when not happy, I seek a happy place and do a mental re-run of the Burnt Car Loop. It passed through my mind as I slow poked it up to hook up with the crew at the pavement. I thought about the rocky creek crossing that makes most of us walk most of the time. But tonight I had it's number. Tonight I made it. Well, almost. Kinda. Sorta. What was important, I didn't go on auto pilot, get off and walk. I relived the one eighty I survived when I careened off that huge rock I did not see. I lost myself in the last few minutes of glory and in a few I was through it.
Dropping down the paved road to the trail off Butler Corner, we came to "the Rock Wall". Haphazardly placed, the big rocks perform the function the irate landowner had in mind when he tossed them there a few years back. They declare, "ATV's not Welcome", but if you can walk or ride, come on in my friend". The wall is another intimidating barrier that teases you with but one good line up and over. Rewarding with a rush, punishing with sharp edges that bite. Most times I just dismount and do the lift and grunt. Or when I am feeling frisky, it drops me hard onto the same jagged rocks. But tonight the one truth path revealed itself to me. "Right there, That's it, lighten up on the bars and float. Damn! Made it!"
Feeling cocky and full of myself, 20 feet later some deadfall catches my Camelbak and smites me down for feeling so high and mighty. I am laughing so hard, when I start to get up, I trip and fall again. I pulled myself together as we pulled the offending branch off the trail. Hitting the dirt again, the rest of the ride goes by too fast. All of a sudden we were back. It was over. And I was immediately a tad sad. I almost said, "Let's do it again".
"Wah, wah wah. I have to get the bike ready. Check the tire pressure, put on riding duds. Get the lights out and hooked up. Check the shifting and the brakes. Find my shoes and strap myself into them. Adjust the lights. Fill the Camelbak. Adjust the helmet. Jeez, gonna take me an hour just to get ready for a 1 1/2 hour ride. Hardly seems worth all the hassle. Wah, wah Wah." All day I was like this. What a whiner. If I had pulled this shit in front of the boys, they would of left me sad and pissy in the parking lot. Pre-emptively I pooped on the party that had not happened yet.
Anyway, 4 of us hit the trails around 8:00PM. Took me 10 minutes to stop whining at myself. "Wah,Wah, Wah, I'm tired. My legs hurt. Jeez guys, where's the fuckin fire? The trails aren't goin anywhere. Slow down fer chrissakes. Wah, wah, wah". And then we hit the first section of singletrack. A sharp left off the railroad bed and into the dark pucker.
It must of been my need to pay attention that got me out of the whining mode. As the boys dropped me like a rock, I fell into the rhythm. "Lift, dip, weight back for this log, up and sharp left. Damn, face plant !" But I didn't whine. I picked myself up, straightened my glasses and pulled some partially decomposed forest out of my helmet and right ear. As I turned the cranks to reset the chain, I grinned. This was gonna be a fun night. I knew right then and there, I was feeling frisky. Tonight, reasonable and judicious fear was MIA.
This trail was not particularily tough, but it requires full attention to stay smooth and on track. Space out a moment and it will stop you. Drop you hard. Make you pay. We call it "The Burnt Car Loop". Named after a burned out car someone managed to drive up the rail bed 20 years ago. They must have had a helluva time that night. Smashed, broken and torched, that car signaled the beginning of a sweet loop that ended with a satisfying downstroke. Go as fast as you dare, it always rewarded. And sometimes punished. Dips, water, rocks, roots, and some low flying branches just to keep you sharp. Corners you can't see around, but if you trust yourself that day, keep those tires rolling, catch the berm around and down. 15 minutes of in your face pleasure.
The Burnt Car Loop ends abruptly, dumping us back onto the railbed 300 yards from where we started. Swooping down to the T, I always wish it would go on a little longer. Tonight was no exception. I almost spoke up and said "let's do it again". But I just fell in behind Warren and we headed up the rail bed and banged a right onto an old washed out tote road. I hate that damn road. I hate it so much, I won't name it. It's just "that damn tote road". Not very long, but full of loose rock and just enough upstroke to make it tough going. I always slow down. Poke along and prolong the agony. Not sure why that particular route doesn't suit me. The other guys scoot along fine. I could barely catch their red flashes up the hill. Falling into that slow grind I am partial to when not happy, I seek a happy place and do a mental re-run of the Burnt Car Loop. It passed through my mind as I slow poked it up to hook up with the crew at the pavement. I thought about the rocky creek crossing that makes most of us walk most of the time. But tonight I had it's number. Tonight I made it. Well, almost. Kinda. Sorta. What was important, I didn't go on auto pilot, get off and walk. I relived the one eighty I survived when I careened off that huge rock I did not see. I lost myself in the last few minutes of glory and in a few I was through it.
Dropping down the paved road to the trail off Butler Corner, we came to "the Rock Wall". Haphazardly placed, the big rocks perform the function the irate landowner had in mind when he tossed them there a few years back. They declare, "ATV's not Welcome", but if you can walk or ride, come on in my friend". The wall is another intimidating barrier that teases you with but one good line up and over. Rewarding with a rush, punishing with sharp edges that bite. Most times I just dismount and do the lift and grunt. Or when I am feeling frisky, it drops me hard onto the same jagged rocks. But tonight the one truth path revealed itself to me. "Right there, That's it, lighten up on the bars and float. Damn! Made it!"
Feeling cocky and full of myself, 20 feet later some deadfall catches my Camelbak and smites me down for feeling so high and mighty. I am laughing so hard, when I start to get up, I trip and fall again. I pulled myself together as we pulled the offending branch off the trail. Hitting the dirt again, the rest of the ride goes by too fast. All of a sudden we were back. It was over. And I was immediately a tad sad. I almost said, "Let's do it again".
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Failure
I began this back in May. Tonight, I re-visited it and decided to finish it, or at least complete the thought.
"Early to bed, Early to rise" might ryhme nicely with "Makes a man healthy wealthy and wise". But like most slogans canned for public consumption, the sentiment neglects to fill in the details. Like for instance, the actual work and abilities needed to attain wealth, health, and wisdom.
Regardless, this AM I have awakened early and by 5 had completed my morning rituals, such as they are. And now I find myself at loose ends. This is unusual. Most mornings are spent in a semi frantic state trying to be where I need to be on time. Insomnia has been a mainstay in my life for several years now. Sleeping a solid 6 or 7 hours is an unusual occurence. My best sleep comes when other folks are getting up. So I wake and have to go full bore out of the gate just to catch up.
I run my own business. It is a small bike shop located in a small town in Maine. When I opened up 7 seasons ago, I was sure I would be successful. I am not sure the success I envisioned at the beginning is what I will end up with. At this point in time, I am hoping to survive another season. Success being able to open my doors next year in better shape than I did this year. It is frustrating to put so much labor into something for such little reward. I am tired of living like a Laotian immigrant.
But I chose this. I gave up a decent job to pursue my dream. If blame is laid, I must bear the full brunt of it. And I do. My problem right now is finding the energy to attack another season. I have slowly lost my enthusiasim over the last 6 seasons. Will I have or be able to find the necessary energy level to get through this one coming up? I have no choice. I have to. Too much money and effort invested to this point.
I know I cannot continue like I have forever. To address this, I have finally come up with an exit strategy. I fought the need to have one. I viewed admiiting I needed one as a type of failure by itself. But I guess every business in trouble needs to plan for a sane and orderly closure. Just closing the doors and walking away might feed the fantasy in my mind, but the reality is it would cause more pain and discontent than closing with a plan. So I have a plan in place now. I hope to not implement it, but it is there when and if I need it.
The problem with failure is all in the mind. We have been ingrained with the idea that failure is a bad thing. Certainly it is not as good as success, but it is not as bad as we paint it out to be. Failure will often suck the life out of us. But often failure shows us what we are made of. Tenaciously, many of us hang in there until they pry that last great idea out of our cold dead hands. Timidly, many will be smart and find an easier way through the flow. Which ever avenue we choose, failure will teach us a lot about ourselves. The problem lies in paying attention.
"Early to bed, Early to rise" might ryhme nicely with "Makes a man healthy wealthy and wise". But like most slogans canned for public consumption, the sentiment neglects to fill in the details. Like for instance, the actual work and abilities needed to attain wealth, health, and wisdom.
Regardless, this AM I have awakened early and by 5 had completed my morning rituals, such as they are. And now I find myself at loose ends. This is unusual. Most mornings are spent in a semi frantic state trying to be where I need to be on time. Insomnia has been a mainstay in my life for several years now. Sleeping a solid 6 or 7 hours is an unusual occurence. My best sleep comes when other folks are getting up. So I wake and have to go full bore out of the gate just to catch up.
I run my own business. It is a small bike shop located in a small town in Maine. When I opened up 7 seasons ago, I was sure I would be successful. I am not sure the success I envisioned at the beginning is what I will end up with. At this point in time, I am hoping to survive another season. Success being able to open my doors next year in better shape than I did this year. It is frustrating to put so much labor into something for such little reward. I am tired of living like a Laotian immigrant.
But I chose this. I gave up a decent job to pursue my dream. If blame is laid, I must bear the full brunt of it. And I do. My problem right now is finding the energy to attack another season. I have slowly lost my enthusiasim over the last 6 seasons. Will I have or be able to find the necessary energy level to get through this one coming up? I have no choice. I have to. Too much money and effort invested to this point.
I know I cannot continue like I have forever. To address this, I have finally come up with an exit strategy. I fought the need to have one. I viewed admiiting I needed one as a type of failure by itself. But I guess every business in trouble needs to plan for a sane and orderly closure. Just closing the doors and walking away might feed the fantasy in my mind, but the reality is it would cause more pain and discontent than closing with a plan. So I have a plan in place now. I hope to not implement it, but it is there when and if I need it.
The problem with failure is all in the mind. We have been ingrained with the idea that failure is a bad thing. Certainly it is not as good as success, but it is not as bad as we paint it out to be. Failure will often suck the life out of us. But often failure shows us what we are made of. Tenaciously, many of us hang in there until they pry that last great idea out of our cold dead hands. Timidly, many will be smart and find an easier way through the flow. Which ever avenue we choose, failure will teach us a lot about ourselves. The problem lies in paying attention.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Thanks for the Mammaries
What is it with guys and their fascination with women's breasts? And what's up with women and their fascination with their own breasts? Our culture seems to have developed an unhealthy fixation for all things pertaining to tits. As a piece of personal outerware, boobs are a nice add on. But if they get too big, you wonder whether there should be a counterweight hooked to the butt in order to maintain an even keel.
Women will get a boob job. After they have had the size 44 D implants implanted, they are sure they will become popular. Sure the guys are going to look. We cannot help staring at women's breasts. I think it is a genetically inserted gene that creates the need to look at breasts. Any breasts. Big ones, small ones, danglers, old ones, new ones. We just cannot resist that first impulse to look. Where women make a mistake is they think with the look, a judgement is being made. Sometimes yes, but more often than not, it's just an uncontrolled action and the guy thinks, "Damn, did it again. Why can't I look at her without noticing the Ta Ta's?"
Believe me, most guys do try to not be disgusting sex crazed pigs. But when you ladies walk around looking like you do, sounding like you do, and swishing like you do, you make it hard for us. And it doesn't help matters when you rearrange things to a natural focal point. Let's face it, big boobs just shout, "Lookee here, we want to be gawked at". So we do what we think you want us to do. We look. And then get slapped upside the head for our trouble.
Personally, I favor jugs that look like they belong. When a 115 pound woman walks by sporting a set of 40 pounders, I am not titillated. I am awestruck. Astounded and perplexed that she could possibly be proud enough to have crammed them into a tube top too small with no support structure to keep them from knocking her out should she need to move out of the way of, say a runaway truck or crazed cab driver.
But supposedly the bigger the boobs, the better. I have always been puzzled by this. As a kid growing up, I was certainly fascinated by the buxom young wenches I saw in the various skin mags my friends stole from their fathers, uncles, or brothers. We would all sit around and go, "Whoa, check out this set." Pass the mags around and be predictably impressed by the big racks. But rather than cause my pubescent juices to flow, viewing large bettys had the opposite effect. I found small breasted women much more attractive. And still do. And besides, I'm a butt guy. But that's another tale.
Women will get a boob job. After they have had the size 44 D implants implanted, they are sure they will become popular. Sure the guys are going to look. We cannot help staring at women's breasts. I think it is a genetically inserted gene that creates the need to look at breasts. Any breasts. Big ones, small ones, danglers, old ones, new ones. We just cannot resist that first impulse to look. Where women make a mistake is they think with the look, a judgement is being made. Sometimes yes, but more often than not, it's just an uncontrolled action and the guy thinks, "Damn, did it again. Why can't I look at her without noticing the Ta Ta's?"
Believe me, most guys do try to not be disgusting sex crazed pigs. But when you ladies walk around looking like you do, sounding like you do, and swishing like you do, you make it hard for us. And it doesn't help matters when you rearrange things to a natural focal point. Let's face it, big boobs just shout, "Lookee here, we want to be gawked at". So we do what we think you want us to do. We look. And then get slapped upside the head for our trouble.
Personally, I favor jugs that look like they belong. When a 115 pound woman walks by sporting a set of 40 pounders, I am not titillated. I am awestruck. Astounded and perplexed that she could possibly be proud enough to have crammed them into a tube top too small with no support structure to keep them from knocking her out should she need to move out of the way of, say a runaway truck or crazed cab driver.
But supposedly the bigger the boobs, the better. I have always been puzzled by this. As a kid growing up, I was certainly fascinated by the buxom young wenches I saw in the various skin mags my friends stole from their fathers, uncles, or brothers. We would all sit around and go, "Whoa, check out this set." Pass the mags around and be predictably impressed by the big racks. But rather than cause my pubescent juices to flow, viewing large bettys had the opposite effect. I found small breasted women much more attractive. And still do. And besides, I'm a butt guy. But that's another tale.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
U R a Stoopid Head
I came home from work tonight. Ate some grub and then sat down here to do some surfin. The 3 or so forums I usually toss my board into were dead calm. Low Tide. Not a breaker in the bunch. Just the usual anti this, screw that and you're an idiot posters having their regular feeding frenzy after supper. I often jump right in, but my heart just is not in it right now. I am feeling some burn out coming and may have to vacate the boards for some R and R.
I love slapping down the obnoxious and stupid as much as the next guy, but at some point, the dumbasses all seem to spew the same crap. And there are so many of them. Like some suicidal peasant mob brandishing scythes, rakes, and hoes, they pour through the ether asking to be cut down like hay on a hot June day. Fun for awhile, but eventually my fingers can't take poundin out the words to put em down. They just overwhelm me with their stupidity. And end up victorious through the use of sheer numbers.
When the mood for combat is not in me, I will often just sit and lurk. As I happen upon a post that is particurarily inane or vacuous, I will pause, close my eyes and imagine the poster in physical form. For some reason, they most always conjur up as thickly bespectacled, skinny and wearing a plaid shirt with beef stew stains from their last repast dribbled onto a small paunch that is reaching for the edge of their desk. The gleam in their eyes read, "I'm a tough guy, read this you loser". And they manically pound the keys, paying only cursory attention to the actual letters they produce. Each key punch a fist in the gut, a knee in the crotch, or finger in the eye of the guy they are after. They are the dweebs everyone picked on in school. The kids who never caught on to the hip in their corners of the world. The guys always picked last when choosing sandlot teams. But in here, this anonymous void, they become tigers and bad asses. You don't fool with them cuz they's bad motor scooters.
The folks I especially love are the Ao-elites. These people are in love with taking grammatical shortcuts, acting as if it is cool, but really just hiding the fact that they have no writing skills and cannot spell their way out of a paper bag. "U R a Stoopid Head". I read something along those lines and I know to move along. Do not pause. Do not even contemplate understanding, let alone responding. To respond is to enter a comical world where having a clue is useless and making a point not necessary.
At the other end can be found high on their horse, the pontificator, the know it all, the "You are an idiot, only I have true wisdom in all things human or divine", poster who lives to condescend and denigrate. I have been accused of this. I have been guilty of this. I am trying to crank it back a tad. But it is so hard to do when I know how special I am. I tend to call em as I sees em. And all I sees is "Stoopid Heads".
Of Course, I know I am not special. I am not unique. There isn't much I can come up with someone else has not already said more eloquently and succinctly than I. But years of athletic competition have proven that while there is always someone faster than I, there will always be someone slower. The genetically inbred food chain code allows me no alternative but to feed on the the slow and the weak. A slow moving target is better than no target at all. The tricky part is keeping an eye out for the bigger fish while reeling in my own meal.
I love slapping down the obnoxious and stupid as much as the next guy, but at some point, the dumbasses all seem to spew the same crap. And there are so many of them. Like some suicidal peasant mob brandishing scythes, rakes, and hoes, they pour through the ether asking to be cut down like hay on a hot June day. Fun for awhile, but eventually my fingers can't take poundin out the words to put em down. They just overwhelm me with their stupidity. And end up victorious through the use of sheer numbers.
When the mood for combat is not in me, I will often just sit and lurk. As I happen upon a post that is particurarily inane or vacuous, I will pause, close my eyes and imagine the poster in physical form. For some reason, they most always conjur up as thickly bespectacled, skinny and wearing a plaid shirt with beef stew stains from their last repast dribbled onto a small paunch that is reaching for the edge of their desk. The gleam in their eyes read, "I'm a tough guy, read this you loser". And they manically pound the keys, paying only cursory attention to the actual letters they produce. Each key punch a fist in the gut, a knee in the crotch, or finger in the eye of the guy they are after. They are the dweebs everyone picked on in school. The kids who never caught on to the hip in their corners of the world. The guys always picked last when choosing sandlot teams. But in here, this anonymous void, they become tigers and bad asses. You don't fool with them cuz they's bad motor scooters.
The folks I especially love are the Ao-elites. These people are in love with taking grammatical shortcuts, acting as if it is cool, but really just hiding the fact that they have no writing skills and cannot spell their way out of a paper bag. "U R a Stoopid Head". I read something along those lines and I know to move along. Do not pause. Do not even contemplate understanding, let alone responding. To respond is to enter a comical world where having a clue is useless and making a point not necessary.
At the other end can be found high on their horse, the pontificator, the know it all, the "You are an idiot, only I have true wisdom in all things human or divine", poster who lives to condescend and denigrate. I have been accused of this. I have been guilty of this. I am trying to crank it back a tad. But it is so hard to do when I know how special I am. I tend to call em as I sees em. And all I sees is "Stoopid Heads".
Of Course, I know I am not special. I am not unique. There isn't much I can come up with someone else has not already said more eloquently and succinctly than I. But years of athletic competition have proven that while there is always someone faster than I, there will always be someone slower. The genetically inbred food chain code allows me no alternative but to feed on the the slow and the weak. A slow moving target is better than no target at all. The tricky part is keeping an eye out for the bigger fish while reeling in my own meal.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Where the F**k is Howard?
The following words relate my most immediate impressions left over from racing a mountain bike for 24 hours on a team of 5 people. They do not give the whole picture, but hopefully leave you with a feel for the essence of that type of madness. To dedicate 24 straight hours to any activity takes focus and dedication. 115 teams came to Great Glen, NH this past weekend. They came to test that focus and dedication. My experience is but one of hundreds of different twists on the same theme. Riding a bicycle in the woods for 24 hours.
"Howard! Howard! Where the fuck is Howard!"
These words floated up the valley to me as I plunged down "The Chute" at dark-thirty in the morning during my second night lap at Great Glen. I remember this plaintive cry only because of the overwhelming silence that comes with that time of night. I smiled as I hit that last bit of singletrack to the finish/lap area. I knew what was up. Howard wasn't up and some poor slob was finishing with no Howard there to take the baton.
I sit here days later and remember the anxiety I felt this year. I remember not wanting to go. I remember the 3 weeks of next to no riding because of stomach issues. I remember the last minute decision to not bail and leave my team in a lurch. I remember resignation to some fate worse than death. I was not ready by any stretch of the imagination. Ride 40 to 50 miles off road? Hell, I would be lucky to make it one lap, let alone the 5 planned for me. I dwelled on the fact that I was not happy to go but was now pleased that I did. I rose to the occaision and carried my weight. Not pride so much as self-satisfaction.
It's been three days and I can still feel the torn and bruised muscles. I close my eyes and I can see every turn and transition in the 7 plus mile loop. I remember every dab, every success and the bone deep weariness as I rode that first daylight lap. I remember odd things. A smile from one of the course monkeys as I cleaned a section barely in control. The look of concern the lap folks showed as I stiff-legged my way to the table to check in after a lap. I remember this one empty gel packet I saw on my first lap and every lap thereafter. But most of all, I remember the massage. That manipulation of my tortured muscles that gave me new life and the willingness to go one more time.
We brought two teams with us. "Recycled CRUM's" and CRUM's Dirty Bums". The recycled guys were our serious contenders. In the 4 man master class, they were determined and focused on re-living the glory of last year. They were machines. 32 laps later, they would finish on top and once again bask in the spotlight. The Dirty Bums raced the 5 person co-ed class. We just wanted to finish better than last year.
Lis, my daughter was the star. Her 3 out of 5 laps of under 50 minutes balanced out my 5 laps of over an hour. We ended up 5 places better than last year. Great Glen once again reinforced the feeling of tribal goodwill in the mountain bike world. I came away having re-visited some off road friends from my past and I made a couple for the future. I ran into Maurice again. He did not remember our first encounter. Nor was I clear at which bike show we had met, just that we had met. I was politely straightened out by Thanita on how to pronounce her name. Their laid back ways and comping me a Two Fish strap-on bottle holder took me back to the days of earlier races in the 80's.
So it goes at a 24 hour race. Pounding out lap after lap, hoping the next one is your last one. And sometimes the last lap is your last, even if your team mates don't think so. I now have two of these odd events under my belt. I am not sure why I love it, but I do.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
The Purple Manitous and Riding the Rivet
I have refrained from turning this blog into a one dimensional and ongoing diatribe about the one activity I enjoy more than almost any other. I am a cyclist. One of those whackos folks see out there in tight clothes and ugly helmets. Traffic blocking, trail riding oddball whose free time is spent in the saddle whenever possible. The guy who shows up on Monday sporting a new wound and is not only proud of it, but will gladly give you the blow by blow. I am the friend whose conversation is liberally sprinkled with terms like, Gnarly, Stoked, Singletrack, and Riding the Rivet. I am mildly fanatic, dubiously talented, but enthusiastic and dedicated.
I re-discovered the bicycle in 1984 after a hiatus of 15 years. Reliving that feeling from my youth of first independence and exploration. My fun depending on on my own strengths and weaknesses and not someone else's. Since 1984 I have been more than an avid enthusiast. Bicycles came to consume my life and have peaked with the bike shop I have owned for the last 7 years.
Bicycles became a vehicle through which I once again knew joy from pure exercise. Cycling cleanses the body and most important, my mind. Bicycles became more than a fun and healthy activity, cycling has become a way of life.
And while I would like to give myself all the credit for this, I cannot. The timing of my re-birth roughly coincided with the birth of my daughter. Lis took to bikes like a frog to water. She kept me interested those few times I seemed less enthused. My little girl probably gave me some extra years with her laughter as she rode her first solo ride. And she continues to boost my spirits through the regular rides we share. And If I am lucky, I will get to enjoy riding with my kid for the rest of my life.
I started hauling Lis in a Burley Trailer behind my Peugeot "Canyon Express" mountain bike when she was maybe 3. For several years we put many miles on that trailer. I did not keep track, but I am sure it was several thousand. Spending week long vacations exploring Acadia and surrounding locales. Numerous runs to the lake to cool off on a hot summer days. Screaming down a hill over 40 and I turn around and she yells, "Faster Daddy. faster!". I hauled her everywhere.
Those early memories are something I will hold onto forever.
My darling little girl is now 22 years old. For 19 of those years we have shared a mutual love of cycling.
Yeah Memories:
The struggle to get her off the training wheels. Her first mountain bike and the purple Manitou shocks I put on it. Her first experience with SPD pedals. The time I ran over her when she crashed in front of me. She still bears a good scar from that one. The first wheel she ever built and her first custom bike build. Off road touring in the real backwoods of Maine. A lifetime of experiences burned into our brains and revisited with a smile.
We still ride together. I do believe we are each other's favorite riding companion. I know for a fact she is mine. And even though she kicks my butt now, I can still keep her honest. This activity we love has had a dramatic effect on how our relationship has turned out. As a father, I have been one lucky SOB.
Friday, July 22, 2005
The Patriotic Index
I'm more than a little tired of this current trend to evaluate a person's "patriotic index" by what they drive, what they hang on their car, whether they support a war, whether they are against a war, or what shoes they wear. Flag waving and chants of USA are empty gestures from the safety of home to assuage and encourage those in harm's way. Patriotism is marketed, pre-packaged and distributed like twinkies. The more you chant, display the flag, and hang ribbons on your car somehow makes you more American than the next guy.
Pointed out to me in a thread in a forum far from here was the opinion that a true patriot is one who has sacrificed for their country. That true patriotism is not what you say you will do for your country, but what you have done for your country. Patriotism does not need to be worn on our shirtsleeves for all to see. Patriotism is caring about your country, calling out fouls, and keeping it going in the right direction. The most patriotic folks I know are buried in Arlington, the shores of France, and the fields of Viet Nam. We do no honor to their memory by pinning flags to our antennas. These displays cheapen the sacrifices they made for us.
If you want to impress us with your patriotism, fight an injustice, put yourself on the line for something that counts. Until then you are just talking the talk, not walking the walk.
.
Pointed out to me in a thread in a forum far from here was the opinion that a true patriot is one who has sacrificed for their country. That true patriotism is not what you say you will do for your country, but what you have done for your country. Patriotism does not need to be worn on our shirtsleeves for all to see. Patriotism is caring about your country, calling out fouls, and keeping it going in the right direction. The most patriotic folks I know are buried in Arlington, the shores of France, and the fields of Viet Nam. We do no honor to their memory by pinning flags to our antennas. These displays cheapen the sacrifices they made for us.
If you want to impress us with your patriotism, fight an injustice, put yourself on the line for something that counts. Until then you are just talking the talk, not walking the walk.
.
Friday, July 15, 2005
A Childhood Memory
It was one of those family trips planned and worried over months in advance. We were in the final frantic moments before departing. Secured the house. Water turned off, lights off, back door locked, maps in hand, and the house in good order. As my wife Bobbi and I headed to the front door laden down with all the last minute items, she stopped and said, " Anyone need the toilet, We are not stopping until my bladder says we stop."
I mumble something about being all set. We both turn around to look back to the stairs up to the bedrooms as Lis, our rugged 5 year old, comes barreling down the stairs. "Elisabeth", she hollers," Let's go and please check to see if you need the bathroom." Lis stopped at my wife's words like she hit a wall. A blank faraway look came over her face. Standing stock still, she just stared through us like we weren't there. After what seemed an eternity, Bobbi says, "Lis, what are you doing?"
Lis snapped out of her daze and disgustly replied, " I'm checking." The self induced stress of beginning a long trip melted away. My wife and I laughed for the first 200 miles.
This memory came to me out of the blue today. It's been 18 or so years since we made that trip. It still rates a top five childhood memory of my sweet daughter's rise to adulthood. It was one of those unplanned moments a parent enjoys for many years after and reinforces the joy of parenthood.
I mumble something about being all set. We both turn around to look back to the stairs up to the bedrooms as Lis, our rugged 5 year old, comes barreling down the stairs. "Elisabeth", she hollers," Let's go and please check to see if you need the bathroom." Lis stopped at my wife's words like she hit a wall. A blank faraway look came over her face. Standing stock still, she just stared through us like we weren't there. After what seemed an eternity, Bobbi says, "Lis, what are you doing?"
Lis snapped out of her daze and disgustly replied, " I'm checking." The self induced stress of beginning a long trip melted away. My wife and I laughed for the first 200 miles.
This memory came to me out of the blue today. It's been 18 or so years since we made that trip. It still rates a top five childhood memory of my sweet daughter's rise to adulthood. It was one of those unplanned moments a parent enjoys for many years after and reinforces the joy of parenthood.
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