A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

I just uploaded my very first image to my blog. In the column to the Right. Naturally it is an accurate rendition of myself. I really look like this. When I am not wearing the clown paint and nose, that is.

And to see if I can also muster up enough intelligence to follow idiot proof prompts, hopefully I will find another image somewhere in this post. Where will it turn up? And what will it be?

Well lookee there! Up at the top. Who's the flounder making it look like a hard climb?

Uh, that would be yours truly actually finishing a brutal 3 mile ascent at Blue Job in New Hampshire. Even the gnarly dudes have a tough time with this one.

An astute observer might ask why I am the only one in the shot? And why was there enough time to set up a tripod, mount the camera, and get the dark room ready before my muscular manly legs pumped me over the crest?

Good questions, all. I can only state that this was not staged. It is however an indication of how far off the back I was on this particular group ride.

So I have successfully reached for and attained a new level of sophistication in the blogging world. No more will I need to hang my head in shame when browsing other blogs filled with images they think help to make their points. I can stand tall now. About time.

Nothing

I love the diverstity of the Internet. There is no subject too minute or silly that someone will not dedicate a site to it. Some sites like ClickClick Click do not pretend to have a point. They are barbs to remind us to get over ourselves. We really are just specks in the cosmic debris.

The sites that kick my butt are the ones that insist I take seriously the various outfits a barbie should have to be considered well dressed. Or huge amounts of bandwidth dedicated to proving that each snowflake may not be unique and how this is important in the scheme of things. Or how about the site that is solely about barrels of smashed assholes?

Google "Nothing" and 500 million hits come up. There are Nothing blogs. There are online stores selling Nothing for those who want for nothing. Nothing has a place on the Internet. Nothing finds a way to fit in with the 200 billion other wastes of bandwidth. At some point you'd think even the electronic ether of the WWW would fill up. But no, it just keeps coming up with nothing.

Nothing Ventured - Nothing Gained

Uncomfortable Comfort

Recently my wife and I had just begun to become more financially stable. It has been an uncomfortable, unused to situation that made us both nervous. Many years of struggling to get my business up and running, college for the kid, and the usual poor spending choices had created a kind of perverted comfort zone for us. We were living the dream. Plastic and home equity kept the fires burning and the hamster moving. It may not have been the lap of luxury, but it was something we could get our heads around. Owing money to everyone was a way of life for us.

That all changed when my wife was fired from her accounting job. That steady income she brought in was gone. What to do? Panic? Yeah, we did some of that for a couple of days. Anquish? Yep.

With no prospects of another firm picking her up, she hung out her shingle. "B-A Accounting". Since her firing had been a matter of economics for the firm, she had many contacts inside who threw business her way. That was just over 2 years ago. Now she is turning work away and her income is twice what it was as a staff accountant. So we became better than solvent. We actually began to get ahead a tad. And did I already mention this made us nervous?

We had every reason to be as it turns out. In the space of 2 weeks 2 of the 3 family cars died. Well maybe not dead exactly. But close enough so's you had to hold the mirror under their nose to see if they were still breathing.

We needed vehicles. My business and our rural lifestyle demand that both of us have motorized transport. Dependable transport. My wife puts 300 plus miles a week on her car visiting clients, And I needed a truck for my bike shop and home obligations.

So we went car shopping. Damn I hate car shopping. But after 2 intense days of frantic internet searching and then dickering with the local Ford dealer, my wife drove home in a spiffy new red Focus to the tune of $17,000 or therabouts. The next day my 15 year old Chevy pick up blew a head gasket and wouldbn't pass inspection.

2 more days of frantic internet searching and then back to the local Ford dealer because we liked how we were treated. After looking at the new trucks, I settled on a sweet little Ranger with only 10,000 miles on it. Nice rig. The bed's smaller than I am used to, but I'll figure it out.

Whew! That uncomfortable comfort we were just getting used to is gone. We now are happy as pigs in shit and owing everyone again. What a great country.

Retro-Grouch

I am a crusty ole fart when it comes to embracing all the new technology that changes hour to hour now. Ten minutes ago it was I Pod with 2 giggle bites of memory. You could store 14,000 songs on this little box and stuff it in your shirt pocket. Hey cool. Now the little I Pod box holds 50,000 songs and you can hang it off your earlobe or stuff it where the sun don't shine.

This is really cool and state of the art. But I wonder what the Hell good is it? In order to store the 50,000 songs, you have to have a computer to download them from and it has to take some time. Before you can do that, you have to have a file of songs to download from. And these must have taken some time to download to the computer you use to download onto the IPod. Add in the time to edit, collate and pick your nose, and the time spent setting it all up probably took 10 hours out of your modern, always in a hurry, lifestyle day.

Me, I listen to one CD at a time. Just like the vinyl I used to listen to. I am pleased that CDs have made this simple operation even simpler. No careful placement needed of the needle over fragile plastic grooves. Just stuff that CD in a slot. It magically disappears and music comes out clean and pure. Technology basically stopped here for me. I need go no further.

But I will. Kicking and screaming. The world has me tied to the back of the wagon. I have no choice.
________________________________________________________________________________

My daughter calls the other day. "Dad, there is something wrong with my cell phone."

"Uh, okay. Are you using it right now?"

"Well, yeah."

"I see. You seem to be coming through crystal clear here in Maine."

"No, Dad. (picture exasperated daughter voice like I am an idiot) "My Text Messaging does not work. I can't text my friends. I need my Text messaging."

Need? Entitlement? Can't live without it? Right.

So I did what any father confronted with the dilemmas of youth would do.

"Wait a minute. I'll go get your mother".

A-I who calls Himself Tom

Instead of whining about my lack of visitors, I have decided to do something positive instead of flapping my gums. A new blogging sub forum in Bike Forums goosed my sorry blogging butt into action. With the help of one of the cycling forum posters (we'll call him Tom), I am dedicating this post to a first attempt to really add something new to my blog. Actual links in the post as opposed to the "Oh BTW, over on the right are some links I like" type recognition.

I don't know Tom in the classical sense of knowing anyone I have had face time with. He has become an internet buddie. We both seem to be of similar mindsets. Twin sons of different mothers so to speak. Tom has/is going through a life changing metamorphisis at the moment. His story is what I would call true inspiration. A brave struggle to overcome daunting obstacles.

His story is one of millions of stories that tug at our heart strings. And it would be easy for me to just say, "Hey cool dude, you are the Man!" and then go off on my merry way and forget him. But I got to know him before I had the back story. His sharp and intelligent mind came through crystal clear. His easy going manner of blowing off flames and turning them into humor really struck a chord with me. I liked him.

So if anyone out there is listening, stop by his Blog or Tour de Cure Page . His story might just inspire you also.

Feed em some rope, then we'll let em drown.

Earlier in a post in a forum far far way, a member had referred to the instability of long term employment as a reason to not buy a home. Why would anyone do it in this country now? A good point. But one that only brushes the surface of the problem. Along with that house, so many Americans also have the 2 year old cars, the house full of unecessary gadgets and gizmos, and children dressed off a budget that would feed 10 third world families for a year. The overall nut folks have allowed themselves to get sucked into is more a reason to be nervous than the mortgage.

They lose the job and all of a sudden that monthly nut they easily paid with none left over, comes crashing down on them like a ton of bricks. And the lenders, ever so friendly when times were good, get ugly in a heartbeat. They raise the rates when checks start coming in late. They become vicious in their quest to bleed a downed man before he croaks. Once in the Hell of Credit Card late fees, they make it even tougher to get out.

I say we have a sick system that needs addressing from many angles. The lifestyles we have been sold by Madison Ave are not within everyone's budget yet we have been told through stupid high credit limits, it is. The banks no longer push savings as much as their new credit card. "0% interest for a year" or "No Payments til 2010". In a natural response to a gift horse, we think, "Cool, I can get that new truck even though the old one is fine and I won't have to pay the piper til next year." We have been seduced by snake oil salesmen.

Ultimately, it is no one's fault but each individual's. We are responsible for the debt we take on. But the atmosphere is so permissive, it invites financial failure when the edge so many live on crumbles. We need to adjust our thinking. And if our private sector had any real interest in long term profit, they would begin adjusting theirs also. But they won't. They have no concern if a consumer fails. There are more where they come from. But once the personal debt of millions becomes multimillions, it will be their problem also. Can't sell much if most everyone is broke and under the yoke of bad credit.

It is so easy to blame the fool for failing and not look at the one feeding him the rope.

The Five Pound Bucket.

Went shopping over to Sam's Club in Portland today with my wife. I didn't want to go, but I could tell it was not an option given the suggestive look and the baseball bat she had hidden behind her back.

I do not like to go shopping for those everyday things. Food, soap, underwear. Bores me to tears. And Sam's with it's industrial sized packaging makes the trip not just boring but tiring also. Lift a few 30 packs of canned beans into the cart, 20 pounds of frozen fish sticks and few five gallon buckets of 10w40 and by the time the cart's full, I want to rent some punk to wheel it out to the car.

But Sam's holds a serious fascination for my wife. The calculating domestic that she is, I can just imagine the 2 months of meals tumbling around in her brain as we leave the parking lot. Somehow she has convinced herself that a monthly trip to Sam's negates the necessity of that twice weekly visit to the local super super market in town. She won't admit that it doesn't, and wisely I do not comment one way or the other.

So the first thing I see when we pull into the parking lot is a mom and son duo struggling to stuff a brand new high impact driveway basketball backboard into the back seat of their American version of a Mini Cooper. Junior is on the inside pulling and Mom is tossing all her weight into it on the outside. As we pass by, they have it stuck half in and half out. Mom looks at me pleadingly like somehow I will magically turn this five pound bucket into a ten pound one and the box will instantly slip cleanly into the watch pocket that is their back seat. After years of training in the fine art of exercising futility, I avoid eye contact and pick up the pace to the front door. "You are on your own darling" I think. "I have my own 5 pound bucket to fill in a little while."

The First Link

I just moments ago, placed a link to this blog on a forum I visit regularly. I figured that since no one was going to accidentally find the genius in my mind, I would have to invite them. I am sure that the genius of my mind will be questioned and possibly be relegated to, "a legend in his own mind".

Anyway, the link is out. We'll see if anyone drops in.

Wasted Effort

I have spent the better part of this beautiful Sunday in front of this computer attempting to bring my blog up to date. A recent change in the structure of the blogging network I am part of indicated I should make some necessary changes to my blog. These changes, they promised, would make my experience here more delightful and filled with more fun.

It seems I can now add labels to my blog so that any visitor to my site can punch up all the posts under certain categories. They then do not waste time on posts they know they will have no interest in. But in order to add this spiffy new feature, I must first complete a transformation to the new blogging protocol.

Promising a relatively pain free process, I willingly punched the appropriate button. Now 3 hours later, I sit wondering why the Hell I even tried. The blog transformed just fine. But now I have a whole new set of editing duties to fulfill on each of the 300 or so posts in order to bring them up to speed. At this point, I have 40 or so done. The rest can wait. I need to make a point now. Or an observation. A notation. A conclusion? Whatever.

Why do I bother to update the navigating aspects of a blog that has no vistors in need of navigation easement? I have had no vistors in so long, I am sure this blog has been marroned on some internet desert isle somewhere akin to a sandy atoll 3000 miles from anywhere. Yet, I still followed through with the renovation as if there were eyes other than mine around to appreciate it. If nothing else, I have made another small step in my blogging education.

A Brothel of Mechanical Whores - Part One

5 years ago the 1976 16HP Yard Man tractor my dad left me finally shit the bed. Something in the tranny went ka-blooey and it would only go forward in 5th gear. Tired of the increasing tendency of old parts failing at the wrong moment, I shoved it in the back of the garage and began mowing my 2 acre yard with a walk behind mower.

Lack of deep enough pockets kept me from even contemplating a new riding mower. That was then, this is now. I have 5 years of pushing a 22" swath through 2 plus acres of incessant green. I also find my pockets could now handle the idea of a new riding mower. Add in the fact that I have met my wife's criteria of no new equipment until the old had been tossed and the time was ripe for me to begin to dream.

So a few weeks ago while on a quest for other DIY stuff from Loew's, I told myself I would check out their mower section for a minute. When I found their display area, that minute turned into an hour. There were 12 or so riders sitting there seductively, all gleaming and shiny, promising a no hassle beautiful lawn should I just plop down the card and take one home. It was a brothel of mechanical whores.

I was instantly in love again. Only this time, not one but 12 lovers beckoned me and I could not choose. I would stand next to a Husky and run my fingers over it's hood and that red paint shouted sexual lawn pleasure should I fire up it's beefy 23 HP twin V motor and allow the 54 inch deck to hover over my grass. Mowing with this little beauty promised pleasures beyond my comprehension.

But soon I noticed a red Troy Bilt winking at me. She had a confident air and clean look that drew me away from the Husky. I fondled her mower deck and I swear she shivered. I was in lawn mowing heaven.

But then I looked across the aisle and there before my eyes the green and yellow paint of 5 different John Deere's shook their little PTO's at me and I was smitten. I almost ran over to them. I had heard about JD's. They had the rep. They always delivered.

Almost too bashful to even touch them I just circled each one and carefully turned over the teaser cards found attached to each steering wheel. I think I read the specs. I am not sure now though. All I remember is the fit like a glove feeling I got as I boldly climbed up on one and sat down. That yellow weather resistant seat caressed my ass and fit my back like it knew me intimately or soon would should I take her home.

The steering wheel was soft to the touch but hinted at rugged determination should the terrain get dicey. I swear it purred with pleasure as I gripped her wheel hard. As I sat lost in my fantasy, I gazed down at a dash full of intriguing knobs and small lights. I could only guess their purpose. I was sure they would enhance the experience though. These painted up hussies had turned my head.

At some point I remembered my original mission and regretfully left that alluring brood of mechanical seductresses and found the heating duct parts I had come for in the first place. To say it was a letdown to find myself taking home duct work instead of a new girlfriend would be an understatement. The severe case of mechanical blue balls I drove home with drove in my disappointment with every pothole I encountered.

End of Part One

The Dripping Faucet

It has been over a month since I last posted here. Not being one to multi-task in a big way, I allowed another activity to steal my blog time. Considering that this theft of blog time was looked upon kindly by my wife of 26 plus years, I should feel okay about it. But I don't. I am guilt ridden and ashamed of my lack of participation in the blogging culture. At least while I am explaining myself here I am going to be full of regret. When confronted by my darling signifigant other, that regret will melt away as if it never even crossed the barren landscape of my mind.

Coming back here after such a long absence is tough. Those re-directed creative juices must now switch from construction of physical things to construction of subjective things. With a healthy dose of self doubt, I often feel my efforts in either direction might be better spent buying finished products than attempting to create them. But self doubt always loses to ego in my case. Misplaced confidence maybe. But there it is.

For 3 weeks of the last 4, I have holed up in my basement toiling away at renovations and reconstructions that have been successfully neglected and ignored for 20 years. A load bearing wall down there had lost it's plate to years of Spring run off that insists on passing through my basement on it's way to the ocean. The floor above dropped an inch or so. Walls began to crack and doors started acting funny.

This did not happen over night. And while I would like to say it sneaked up on me, I cannot. I watched it unfold and did nothing. Not sure why. I have the carpentry experience and tools to handle the fix. Laziness? Um maybe. But it was more than that. A perfect vehicle by which I exposed one of my more irritating character flaws. I have always had a high tolerance to problems. I always make them hit a critical point before I do anything about them. In inter-personal relationships and when dealing with the physical world. I can listen to a faucet drip forever without wishing to fix it. It nearly broke up my marriage in the early years until she got over it.

Unlike many of the emotional and personal glitches of my life, when I decide to fix something I really fix it. No half ass solutions. Over kill all the way. The new wall I built was no exception. It is stronger, better looking, and water proof. It will definitely outlast my time left on this planet.

Dubya

I actually listened to the Prez's recent speech about his future plans for Iraq. As a rule I don't do that. He has a voice that gets on my nerves. Or is it his policies that do? Anyway, I usually find something else to do when his mug comes on the screen. But this time I listened.

For 20 minutes or so he rambled on. A lot of words came out his mouth. But essentially he only said this. In order to win in Iraq where mistakes have been made is to throw more troops at it.

On some level this makes sense I guess. I am just having trouble finding that floor. Seems we could throw our entire population into this fray and the Iraqis would still be at each other, us, and anyone else in the way.

We opened up a Pandora's Box when we took down Saddam. Now we cannot get it shut again. A paltry 21,000 US troops will not change that. I think this fire we set will have to burn itself out.

I did take note of his somewhat backdoor acknowledgement and responsibility of the "mistakes made". But nowhere were specific mistakes even mentioned. Rather than admit the invasion was a cluster fuck from it's inception, he focused on the importance of establishing a stable government in Iraq. Well, we may not have liked Saddam, but he did have a more stable hand on the tiller there than we seem to have now.

Some Plans Work Out

In an effort to beat the winter slug I usually become by this time every year, I vowed in October to do anything to avoid it. I created an arbitrary winter max weight limit. I assumed that in order to keep at or below it, I would have to stay busy. I did create a couple of rules. Everyday I had to do one thing that would eat at the long list of home projects that have been festering for several years now. And I had to ride my bike at least one day a week.

I'll be damned. It seems to be working. I have averaged slightly over 2 rides a week now for 8 weeks and the lack of snow has allowed me to gussy up the property like it hasn't been for 15 years. And I am solidly below my max weight limit. I have not felt this good in January in 10 years.

Weird Weather

This past Tuesday in honor of keeping with the early Spring Clean up, I decided to remove some of the uglier lawn ornaments from view in the front of my house. The 1940 homebuilt trailer seemed like a good place to start. I dug it out of the ground it had taken root in, filled the one flat with air, and loaded her up with some tires and barrels. Happy as if I had a brain, I hooked my 3/4 ton Chevy to her and hauled it all to the lower 40. It's not really 40 acres. Hell, it ain't even 2 acres. I just call it that.

Anyway, I get in position to back the trailer through the pines and snake it back to the pucker behind the house. I notice the tires of the truck seem to be denting the yard more than usual for the dead of a Maine winter. But what the Hell I thought, I'll just throw it into Lo/Lo 4WD and be gentle as I punch the fuel to it. Just as I backed it off the yard, yeah, it dropped to the transaxle. Not mud on top, but 6 inches down, it was a bog. 2 hours later, blisters on my hands and much cussin to go with them, I dug the truck out and skedaddled. Left some serious trail damage in my wake.

That was Tuesday. Tonight, the damn ground is brick hard. 2 days of below freezing wheather has stiffened everything right up. I'm guessing that mess I created out back will be there in all it's glory until April now.

Yeah, weird weather alright. Damn Al Gore for inventing Global Warming.

This Non-Winter

This non-winter we are dealing with this year is beginning to grate a bit on me. It is nice to be able to continue yardwork I normally ignore in the Spring and Summer when all I have time for is beating back the lawn. I have more hours in the yard in the last month than the last 3 years total. I have made a difference. The 60 foot long 6 foot high pile of brush on the north border of my property is testimony to that. I have ridden my bike more than in winters past. I am not looking this gift horse in the mouth. I am taking advantage of it.

But there has to be some payback. The other shoe will fall at some point. The longer this unusual wheather blesses us, the stiffer the price. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. And that is why I am nervous. That is why I actually would like to wake up to a good foot of white crap some morning. Might make me feel Life is back to normal. Or at least heading in that direction.

A Perfect Sunday

I asked around and had no takers. Everyone had an excuse not to go for a Sunday ride in the woods. Keith had to go to Conway and snowboard on almost no snow. Brian had some bogus excuse that he was cooking a big feast for his signifigant other's birthday. What's up with that? Does it take all day to open a can of beef stew and toss a bag of Ho Ho's on the table for dessert.? And big baby Dave the water guy did not want to get his bike all yucky on the frost thawed trails. Bunch of whinin wusses, the lot of them.

Looked like I was riding alone this first Sunday of January 2007. It did not seem right. I had to hook up with someone local. The Sun was supposed to out and the trails could be handled without studs. Unatural for this time of year here in Maine. I was bound and determined to take advantage of it.

Then I remembered Dave the Punk. He had kind of dropped out of our local riding scene when he bought that new house in Alfred. All of sudden home improvement became more important than riding. Imagine that.

I gave Dave the Punk his name. The man is 56 or 57 and he rides like I did when I was 30. There was no way around it. He rode like a smart ass. Always ahead of me and able to converse on the toughest uphill like we were sittin around just shooting the breeze. I knew a ride with him was a spanking for sure. But I called him anyway.

Part of me wanted him to say no. He ended that hope with a quick, "Sure, I can get away for awhile". So now we fell to hashing out where to ride. He suggested an in town loop out of my shop. I was tired of "in town". That was all I had been doing for the last month and a half. But I did not want to make a road trip out of it either. I had to be in front of the tube at 1:00 PM sharp to watch the Pats take on the Jets. I thought about my home area, but the recent warm wheather and rain out the wazoo had turned the trails to mud slogging struggles that made me hate the ride.

I suggested I meet him at his house and ride from there. Alfred was chock full of trails just like any other town in this area. He seemed thrilled. He could show off the trails he had discovered in his area.

Being on CRUM time, I was my usual 1/2 hour late. I just could not get my ass in gear in the morning. Then Dave had to give me the grand tour of his new home. Damn it was big. Not a small room or low ceiling in the huge 2000 sq ft plus house. And he had a barn and a huge equipment shed to stash all his outdoor toys. I was immediately envious. I made myself feel better by thinking that at least I had 2 fireplaces and he only had one.

I knew Dave was not one to call an hour in the woods a ride. When he went out he liked to be out there 2 or 3 hours at least. Me, especially in Winter physique, liked those short excursions to break a sweat or two and then back to the barn. But this was his ride and even if I missed part of the Pats game, I was bound to be the good guest and tough it out.

The ride basically followed some local ATV and snowmobile trails. Nothing really technical or single tracky. Expecting brutal mud conditions, I was pleasantly suprised. Some mud, some water, but for the most part the trails were hard and packed. Good riding conditions.

What kicked my butt was the hill after hill routine with no recovery in between. Lots of short and sweet climbs followed by short and sweet downstrokes. I was amping over the line in about 20 minutes. And Dave the Punk just slow strokin next to me like he was crusing a bike path at Cape Cod. Damn him. I hung in and at about 45 minutes into it, started to get with the program and really enjoy myself. Some of the downstrokes had some mild pucker factor and made my eyes water.

Two hours later we were back at his house. He looked and acted like he had done nothing but get up in the morning. Me, well, I was pounded. El toasto. Damn him.

I wanted to get home ASAP, so I did not buy into the usual post ride re run of the ride. I said thanks for the ride, had a great time, and I left. I had not looked at a clock, but knew making kick off would be close.

I cannot abide parking a nasty bike. I have to park em clean. Just a habit I picked up 20 years ago and never lost. I like starting every ride on a clean bike. So I had to stop at the shop and wash my ride. As I rinsed it off, I re-ran the ride through my mind. Then I thought of the game I was about to collapse in front of. And I grinned. No more perfect day has come my way in a long time.

Pot-pourri

There is a danger in reviewing previous blog entries before I begin a new one. Oftentimes, the pearl I want to expand and expound upon gets lost when I digest my previous drivel. I had something in mind to write about this morning. Really. But it's gone now. Retreated to some dark dusty corner of my brain. Either that or it became bored and left.

Titles
Just what is it that creates the human need to hang as many letters before and after their names. Other than ego inflation, all I can tell is they are like the feathers and coloration of birds. People of letters stick together.

No better example than the announcement by the radio host of everyone who was anyone at Gerry Ford's Funeral. By the time he had finished with all the honoraries in someone's name, I often lost track of who the Hell he was referring to.

"And taking their seat right now is The Right Honorable Doctor of Letters Edward Elitem, BA, DA, FA, LLF, HGT, LB, BMW, Blah, Blah, Blah"

In the meantime 10 other people of more importance snuck in, sat down, and then started nodding off before the guy was finished with ole Edward.

Heroes
On our night ride last night I asked if anyone had heard about the construction worker who saved a dude by protecting him from a subway train with his body as it roared over them. No one had. And oddly, other than the initial report I caught the other day, no mention anywhere on TV.

What is up with that? This is one of the most amazing feats of heroism I have ever heard of. This guy deserves more than his paltry 15 minutes.

Obligatory Pet Comment
Fernando El Gato is a large nuetered tom we have lived with since he was a wee one. He was one of the many kittens my wife would bring home to foster for a local shelter. Right out of the gate, Fernando stood out. His fur coat reminded us of a Gateway computer box or a cow if you will. Names like "Gateway" and "Moo" were considered.

When I went through the names of our other 8 little wastes of feline fur, I noticed no acknowledgement of our hispanic neighbors to the south. This would not do. So I set out to find the name that would fit Fernando.

At the time, the Tour de France was going full bore. Plenty of Spanish riders to inspire me. But none had names that worked for me nor for Fernando. There were Juan's, Pedroe's, and Jose's. I would try one out on him and he would just look bored as cats only can. Then I remembered one of my favorite pro cyclists from across the pond. Pedro Delgado. Knowing Fernando was underwhelmed with Pedro, I tried a host of names with El Gato tagged on behind. When I called out, "Fernando, Fernando El Gato", he came running. I always thought that was kinda cool.

Dead & Buried

I am sure most of us know Gerry Ford is dead and now buried. At 93 and while still drawing breath, he was the oldest living President. Now I guess he is one of the youngest dead ones. Doesn't seem fair. Something happens beyond his or anyone else's control, and he gets knocked down to the bottom of a new pack.

I listened to all the pomp and circumstance on NPR as Gerry was eulogized in DC. The high point for me was all the choral groups there singing "America the Beautiful". The hairs on the back of my neck stood up at attention. Far and away the best song about America ever. Should be our anthem. Not that war mongering, impossible to sing piece of garbage we have now.

Anyway, the radio guy did a very good job bringing the funeral services into my garage as I did garage stuff that AM. Not being distracted by anything visual, I had to create my own visualization based on the sounds only. The sounds of the Honor Guard as they removed the casket and then slow marched the body into the National Cathedral made me think immediately of my own father's burial at Arlington many years ago. And while he did not have mortars fired in his honor, their sound brought back the 21 gun salute at Arlington like I was there in person. And Dammit, I shed a tear for my dad and then for Gerry.

RIP Gerry. You too Dad.

Another Man's Junk

I am a packrat. A life long pack rat. And today I divested myself of some packed junk that was acquired over 20 years ago. It was an odd feeling tearing down some piles instead of building them up. I thought it would be more emotionally draining. Oddly I feel better for doing it. Oddly I felt more empowered with each thing I threw onto that junk man's trailer.

It all began because of a crumbling wall. A much needed renovation project in the basement meant I had to find a home for some of the acculumation that was in the way. But because the junk in the basement was mostly keeper stuff, I had to make room for it out in the shed. Which meant that some room had to be found in the shed.

The shed is a temporary metal building I built in 1985 out of scrap wood and old metal roofing. It was to be but a brief repository for all that good stuff I brought home whenever I found it. I filled it by 1986 and buttoned it up tight. The light of day had not shone on the wonderful recyclables inside for over 20 years. And yesterday I cracked it open.

With only a vague memory of what I had jammed inside, I was actually excited at the prospect of rediscoverying the lost treasures I had felt important enough to stack and and pack inside. Just what prizes would I pull out and would I be able to part with any of it? My expectations were under-whelmed by the reality.

The other man's junk I had lovingly packed away as my treasure had gone full circle over these last 20 years. For the most part, it had all turned into or decayed into junk again. Why I felt stashing 50 to 60 empty plastic 5 gal buckets was a good idea is beyond me. And just what was I going to do with that full size hang it on Main Street street light? I would have had to score a 30 foot telephone pole just to hang it. The 10 or so truck tire tubes puzzled me. A few old bikes, some rugged steel tables, many buckets of bolts, screws, nails and scrap metal all kind of mixed up with a wide assortment of lumber chunks. There was no rhyme and obviously no reason behind this inventory. A mad man had created what I found inside.

So I emptied the building out. I spread everything over the side yard so I could really evaluate it's worth to me now. 3/4 of it was placed on a local trash guy's trailer and the rest I put back inside. I had more room than I needed for the stuff from the basement.

But the clean up bug had bitten me. Most of the stuff I removed from the basement went on the trailer also. Not satisfied with just that, I started looking at the lumps up against the house that had started as orderly piles of good stuff and were now unrecognizable pucker plantings springing from rotted blue tarps. 5 more bikes and over 100 bike wheels went onto that trailer. Some of the piles were so old, saplings 5 inches at the butt had grown through the frames of the bikes and the spokes of the wheels.

When the Sun finally went down, I had filled that 25 foot trailer 5 foot high and the yard seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. I had accumulated this stuff so effortlessly. Getting rid of it was not. I am toasted. When I close my eyes I see junk. Individual pieces and massive piles of junk. I will most likely re run the whole day in some bizarre comedy in my sleep tonight.

Happy New Year Dear

2007 has had a rough beginning here in Acton. My wife wakes up before me. She is always the one to discover any overnight presents our elderly dog, Bernice may have left for us on the carpet, in the kitchen, or any path that sees high traffic. So she finds a reminder that January 1, 2007 is just another day day in the life. Happy New Year Dear!

After cleaning up after Bernie, she tosses both dogs outside to hopefully have them continue their morning purge outside and not inside. As she steps onto the front step, the ice from an overnight dousing causes her to lose her footing. Up, up and away. Down hard on her hip and elbows. That left knee that has been a pain is screaming bloody murder now. Happy New Year Dear!

Then I wake up. Bright eyed and bushy tailed from one of the most complete night's sleep in a long time, I am a happy camper and full of good cheer. "Happy New Year", I shout as I make my way to the kithchen.

The death stare I met as I came into the kitchen should have clued me in. The silence that accompanied that stare should have emphasized the point. But I was happily clueless. It was not until the words, "Your Dog", left her lips did I begin to catch on. Too late. I had led with my chin.

Bernice was not"my dog". She was usually "our dog". She became "my dog" when she did something wrong. Apparently I took over responsibility for her actions when they were performed under the blanket of darkness and in secret. I never agreed to this arrangement. It was assigned to me. It was not fair. But there it is. Life is not fair.

I dropped into the sympathetic spousal mode quickly. Ahh, that's awful sweetie pie, I wish I had found it not you routine. I did not know about the falling on her butt thing yet.

"Why did you not put sand down on the walk?" Uh oh. The other shoe just dropped. I was now handily caught and about to be disemboweled. I could feel it coming. I had no escape. My role as scapegoat for a day was about all I had to look forward to now. Happy Flippin New Year!