Dealing With the Repercussions of Preconceptions

I had an old customer come in the bike shop a while back. He bought a new road bike from me about nine years ago and became a regular customer. Well, regular in so far as he always has me tune or at least check out his bike every year. And he will come in a few times over the course of our all too short summer for tubes or some other odd bike related product or service. He is a quiet man of about oh, 60 years old or so. I do not think he has ever been married. He has that I lived with Mom my whole life air about him. I always thought he was gay. Or at the least gayish. Definitely effeminate.

Well. Don't ever ask me to evaluate or give my opinion about someone based on the stupidity I can come up with after only dealing with someone regarding their biking habits or how they carry themselves. I am more often wrong than right. You would think I would stop trying to guess.

His recent visit happened to coincide with Maine's Legislature signing off on Gay Marriage. He asked me what I thought of that.

I am usually pretty careful about keeping my opinions on such flash point issues like gay marriage, abortion, illegal immigrants, etc close to my chest when dealing with the public in my bike shop. I am especially careful when dealing with customers I do not know very well. I have learned that politics and taking folks money don't mix unless you happen to be a politician. And I am definitely not a politician. Speaking out of both sides of my mouth is just too awkward a skill for me to master.

Common Sense lost the battle quickly and I blurted out that I had no problem with it. Folks should be able to marry whoever the Hell they want to, provided of course, both are in agreement and of a mature age and coherent enough mental state to make the decision. I went on to say the issue was pissing me off because the government has no business dictating this.

I then went on a tear about marriage in general and how the hallowed institution in this country is a hollowed sham of what it should be. Heteros in the US don't give it the respect it deserves, what with their divorcing at the drop of a hat, their stepping out on each other, and their all too frequent use of their children as pawns in their failed relationship. I didn't think we had any moral high ground to claim here. Saying God doesn't like it just doesn't work for me. Nobody has a clue what God likes. But they sure think they do.

The whole time I figure I am preaching to the choir. Remember I had nine years of assumptions built up about this guy.

The customer looked at me as I ranted. I should have noticed the subtle rise in his eyebrows when I spewed my opinion about how the government should stay the Hell out of it. And I really should have caught on when he squared his shoulders as I talked about us being clueless regarding God's likes and dislikes.

I then asked what I should have asked before I stepped off the edge. "So what do you think?"

It turns out he feels Homosexuals are nothing but perverts who want their sinful perversions sanctioned by the State. Marriage is meant to only be between a man and a woman.

Wow. I never saw that one coming.

That I even write about this weeks after it happened indicates the incident bothered me. I have chewed on the encounter off and on for quite awhile now. I have not been able to understand why it bothered me so. It definitely was not that someone else might disagree with me. That happens all the time. I love disagreement. Oftentimes, I have to disagree first before I can come to a point of agreement. I think what eats at me is that I made assumptions about someone. I pigeonholed them based not on facts but appearance and demeanor. It is not that I thought he was Gay, but that I even used that trait to evaluate him. I have always contended being Gay means no more to me than being Straight, yet I chose to place a label on this guy. I never look at someone and think, "Oh they must be Straight".

Anyway, it is no big deal in scheme of the overall plan the Universe has for me. But it did cause me some moments of introspection that well, ended up here as the drivel you have just read.


BTW and because I am trying not to poach from starving artists - The image above, "Introspection" is by Stephen Georgeson and was for sale as of 2008 at stephengeorgeson.com

And the image at the top of the post is by someone somewhere and I hope they do not mind me using it. It is also entitled "Introspection" I think.

Later........................

(852)

Good Habit Bag

Not sure what I am going to end up writing about tonight. I was stoked to share my pleasure and anxious anticipation over the new Hydraulic brakes I just ordered for my hardtail mountain bike. But somehow my antsy childlike eagerness over new bling for my ride lost some of it's edge when I looked in the mirror and saw an old fart staring back. There's rules I guess about being too happy when you reach a certain age. Yeah big deal, new brakes. Shit. What am I? Fourteen?

Maybe I'd tell the tale of the first bike ever stolen from the parking area outside my shop. Embellish it just enough to make it more exciting than it was. But it turned out to be a practical joker thinking he was being clever and funny with his buddy's bike. Had all of us wound up hard for an hour or so.

And then there's the classic rendering of a typical Thursday night ride in weather so hot, the bikes were sweating. But again, just more mud, gears and tears bull shit. Great ride, but definitely one of those "you had to be there" situations.

As it turns out, the highest point of my day was leaving the shop at 11:30 PM and knowing that when I go back into work tomorrow, I will have a spotless workbench to start my day from. I could fill your heads with self serving garbage about how I always keep a clean and tidy shop, work area, and I know where everything is because I have drawers neatly arranged and labeled clearly with what is in them. All my product hangs logically and in a hip fashion....................Yeah, I could do that.

But as ugly as it often is, the truth is my safer bet.

Tonight marks the first time I have seen the top of my bench in .... oh I guess at least a month. Jim, that neatnik jerk, will probably insist it has been two months.

Took me over an hour just to unclutter the clutter that had coagulated there over the last 30 days. I found tools I was beginning to think were gone forever. I found that note I had torn the office up last week looking for. Lost invoices were located. A trail map I had hoped to use 2 weeks ago but was secreted under some magazines on the corner finally came up for air. Tonight I reinforced why cleaning my bench every day is much less painful than the shovel job I had to do tonight.

I finally found that friendly old blue Formica top with the hammer dings in it. Grease spots and coffee stains were all that were left when I finally stashed or tossed everything that was on it. A quick wipe up with some 409 and a clean rag left it glistening. Like it was saying to me, "There ya go bub, this is how you are supposed to treat me." Now I have a fresh uncluttered surface to start my next clutter collection.

All of this unnecessary effort and wasted man hours brought with it another one of those Life's lessons I should have long ago established as part of my "Good Habit" bag. Problem is, I noticed early on, say about age 15, my "Good Habit" bag was smaller than some of the other guys bags. It could only handle so many "Good Habits" at a time. This threw me into a funk. One of those painful realities of the looming future of adulthood rearing up and making me take notice. I was learning about priorities. My less than average size bag forced me to pick and choose which "Good Habits" I would develop and which ones I had to leave on the side of the trail. Like survivors on a lifeboat and in order for some to be saved, one or two survivors have to be tossed over the side. Being neat and orderly seemed a logical first choice. After all, it's all about staying sane throughout the trip.

Onto the next misstep....................

(680 / 2708)

Dumb Parasites

Better late than never I guess. Even a token appearance with only a month or so left beats a blank. Summer had to at least stop in for a minute before the leaves on the trees started turning.

Which somehow brings me to one of the top ten hairs across my butt. One of the buzz topics that has fed the fires of heated debate over the last decade at the least. Yeah, that's right, Climate Change, Global Warming - whatever word you find comfortable to use.

What I find interesting is rather than be proactive and face this obvious switch in climatic trends, the issue has become politicized and is now just another topic for folks to fight over. Each side working hard to convince the other who is right. Arguing about stupid details that mean nothing and all the while we sit on our hands and do nothing tangible to deal with what might be coming. Precious time wasted in a pissing match over definitions and who or what is to blame. Our climate is changing. We should pay attention.

A while ago, I watched an interesting treatment of the problem by a futurist who put forth the idea of an Earth as a living organism. A living, breathing, functioning entity that had been alive for billions of years. For the sake of the argument, those of you who might not agree the planet is this old, please bury this notion and go with it. With regards to the argument, it matters not how long the planet has been in existence.

So we have this orb rocketing around a star for many years. As it followed it's elliptical route, it's one concern has been to travel. What happened on it's skin mattered not. Life evolved like some skin rash and has been tenaciously holding on for a long time. Earth could care less. It's only concern is making it around the Sun one more time. At least that is how it appears.

In reality, the planet has been in a constant state of change since it's inception. It has created some of it's own change through chemical reactions of heat mixed with various chemicals. It will continue to do this until the day the core goes cold. Pressures will build. Continents will shift to release this pressure. And obnoxious expulsion of gases and hot fluids will be the result.

For most of the planet's time in existence, this was no big deal. There was no other life around to even care one way or the other. But at some point, a sentient race evolved (or for you theists out there - was placed here). Regardless, humans popped up. The Earth did not care. It's the trip, remember?

Over the time we have been aware, we have noticed and even studied the predictable climatic and environmental changes that have littered the history of this place we live on. Some of the smarter humans among us caught on to the fact that the conditions necessary for us to even exist have only been existence for a relatively short time when considering how long this piece of rock has been circling the Sun. And if we are to continue on our happy parasitic way, we need to address changes in the overall climate or we will be out of a home. Remember the Planet just does not care. What we do matters not to it. It knows it will survive with or without us. I can just imagine it chuckling at how stupid we are as we waste time arguing insignificant details.

I don't care to place blame. I don't care why it is happening. I just know that in the short 57 years I have been alive, I have seen dramatic changes in the climate. And even if this is just a small uptick, or burp if you will, the changes have made me aware of what we as parasites have been doing. We can be be smart parasites or dumb parasites. Parasites that use up the available nutrients with no new host to hit on are dumb parasites. Smart ones look to take just enough to survive without killing the host. In our case, it means not shitting in our own nest and adding more toxins to the flow of natural ones. Until we have a new host(planet) to set up shop on, we need to make this one last. And from what I can tell, we are doing a half assed job of it.

Later...........

(756 / 2708)

Lance

I tried to resist a post about cycling during the Tour de France. Not sure why. Maybe it was because I just did not want to be so predictable. What the Hell? What is so damn wrong with predictable, ruts, and the same ole same ole? Seems to me, we humans should be more comfortable with who we are and not so concerned with being someone we are not.

I will admit that for three weeks every summer since the 1980s, my mind is distracted by a sporting event thousands of miles away that most American sports fans have only a passing interest in. And this interest is only teased to something of note if an American is doing well. It is odd but many Americans consider Golf and Nascar more challenging as athletic events than a multi day, multi-thousand mile event that requires inhuman endurance, inhuman strength and intelligent team strategies to win.

The lack of respect America has for professional cycling used to piss me off. Now I just chuckle at the chuckle heads on "Fanarchy" many of whom have not developed past the knuckle dragging phase of human development. Actually, I wonder if the producers of the show have evolved much further than the fan base drawn in. Given that they ask the dumbest questions and expect intelligent answers as they seem to weigh each answer as if any of them have weight. And then allow some kind of democratic stupidity be the final answer if a majority of the fans asked agree. Whenever I tune in, I am reminded of a scene in "Stand BY Me" where the 12 year old boys argue which TV hero is the baddest ass of the bunch.

To reach the top of any sport or athletic endeavor, certain physical gifts, tenacity, and focus are needed. Comparing one to another is but an exercise in stupidity in my opinion. The recent comparison of Michael Phelps to Lance Armstrong in "Fanarchy" is the perfect example. There is no comparison but the fact that both have become the top dogs in their sport of choice. Yet the morons interviewed on Fanarchy argue with each other which one is better than the other.

I won't rehash all of Lance's accomplishments over the years he has been riding professionally. His comeback after 4 years away from the sport is phenomenal. Unprecedented. Cyclists vying for a podium spot at age 37 are unheard of in modern professional cycling. And while the talking heads of sports discuss his reasons for the comeback - proving he doesn't have to dope to do well, or he just couldn't stay away, or Pro cycling needed the PR boost his name would bring - none of these matter to me. I am just glad to see his face, hunched shoulders, and legs pumping up insanely steep mountain roads faster than I can ride on a flat road. The man is the most exciting cyclist I have ever watched. And this Tour is no different. Glad you came back Lance. Give em Hell.

Later.........

(512 / 1952)

I Am Not From South Dakota

I really should be sleeping right now. Maybe I am and I just don't know it and this is all just part of the recurring dream I have been experiencing recently. I seem to be picking up where I left off the night before.

Let's see................In this dream sequence, no matter what foolishness I get myself into, I always seem to end up on the wrong side of the law for one reason or another. The common denominators are legalities, ID cards, always ID cards of some kind whether a passport that makes me a citizen of New Zealand, a Green Card that expired twenty years ago with a picture of me at age 12 on it, or some bizarre drivers license from South Dakota. Each dream has cops, ID issues and incarceration of some kind. Weird. Really weird.

Shit, I don't know, it seems I have some hang ups about ID cards and being a legal citizen. The reality of being born in Colorado never seems to enter the picture. A bizarre mini series I have been experiencing of late while the clowns are down for the night anyway.

I guess I should be grateful to even remember my dreams again. It seems they come when I am getting decent hours of nap time. I do not seem to dream when I am in the grips of insomnia. Any sleep I get then seems to be an illusion I convince myself I experienced. Any dreams, real or imagined, lost in my rush to convince myself I actually closed my eyes for a time. Regardless, the days of mindless sleep are well behind me I guess.

Truth be told, I have enjoyed these recent brushes with real weirdness. This run of similar dreams reminds me of a brief period many years ago when I had dreams of being chased and falling great distances to escape my pursuers. I always landed on my feet no matter what I jumped off or out of. There was a whole slew of these dreams with enough variations in setting, cast and plot so that each one was enjoyable and did not seem redundant. Well except for the falling part and the chasing part. Just when I thought they would last forever, I stopped having them. I figure the same thing will happen with this run. My brain will come to grips with whatever is eating at it and the ID card/incarceration hang up will just disappear.

I thought I had a point to make when I started writing this tonight at dark thirty on Sunday morning about 2:00 AM EST. But now I am not so sure. No. I am sure now I have no point. I just woke up from a bad scene in which I had no answer for why I was traveling alone without an ID. And I figured I would write about it before I laid my head down again. They had just clamped the cuffs on me and tossed me in the back of a horse drawn wagon when my eyes popped open.

Back to Sleep......See Ya............

(514 / 1440)

My Favorite Riding Partner

I will be the first one to agree that parents can and will often go over the edge when gushing, bragging, or just mentioning their children. I often listen to them go on and on about how wonderful little Johnny is or the latest award their darling Susie just received for collecting the most pop bottle caps for some charity gig. Whatever. There is no one prouder than proud parents.

Positive I am not such a parent, I consider the pride I have in my daughter. I run through all of her accomplishments I can dredge up from the swampy goo that is my memory and I realize I am no better and if being honest counts, probably worse than those parents I often roll my eyes over. But I usually choose to put it here or in a letter. At least folks do not have to listen to me.

I won't go into the specifics of Lis' many accomplishments over the years. They are too many to mention. Many are just the normal victories, many if not most kids manage to find as they make it from child to adult. She may not be a future Nobel Laureate or future president, but she turned out better than I deserved considering the poor role model I offered up. Anything she is, she did herself. She is smart. She is kind. She has courage. Her work ethic is phenomenal. And did I mention the most important thing? She kicks serious ass on a mountain bike.

Of all my memories of her transition from child to adult, the one that sticks in my mind as my favorite is her progress on the bicycle. The one activity I can puff up my chest and say my influence was what prodded her to become the skilled rider she has become. From the first pink Schwinn single speed with tassles to the high end Jamis hardtail she favors now, Dad was the guy who put her there. There were tears. There were skinned knees and bruised egos. I even ran over her once on a ride in Pawtuckaway State Park. Rather than give up, she showed her mettle and always came back for more. Lis has serious sand. And that makes me proud.

(378 / 1304)

Free Range Holiday

Hey now. It's the 4th of July. Depending on one's time on the planet, the 4th of July will be a family day, a day to burn burgers out back on the Lanai and suck cold brew out of cans that turn blue when they are cold enough. Or for many past the oblivion inbibement age, this weekend will be grandkids and sparklers, or maybe spreadin a few small flags around the local cemetery on friend's graves who did not make it home alive.

The 4th offers up any excuse one wants to use to celebrate it anyway they want. Some folks will go camping and toss M8Os at each other in drunken stupors after burning some food on an open fire. Thankfully the majority of us, either of the age that signifies surviving the stupidity of youth or those too young to know what's coming will keep the weekend mostly sane and keep things from getting totally out of hand. Regardless we all seem to tolerate a bit more craziness than we would, say, on a Monday in March.

The common denominator is the 4th is a day to do something, anything you do not normally do any other day of the week. Or make it just another day on the planet. Go to work, work at home, or do something nice for a neighbor, the town, or a church. Bottom line - The Fourth is a day to celebrate being an American. No flag waving needed, but no one notices if you do.

Of all the holidays I have celebrated over the years, the 4th always seems to end up being my Free Range Holiday. The central theme of Independence manifests itself in infinite ways. I have played marathon games of softball. I have been in the outback with nothing on but some sandals and a smile. Once I floated around the Chesapeake on a boat that had no gas. Got towed to shore by Marine cops and had to eat a ticket for being drunk at the wheel of a boat. Didn't matter that it was dead in the water. And I wasn't even the pilot. One Fourth I spent in a lockup in Mississippi after getting too much of an early jump on the holiday the night before. Camping outside Dallas, Texas in 1977 with 6 other whacked truck drivers, we touched off some booming rockets and they touched down in the campsite across the lake and burned it to the ground. Mix some bone dry knee high grass with tents, coolers and sleeping bags and let me tell you Mr. Man, it makes a for a pretty good blaze. Yeah, I have found many ways to celebrate the Fourth over the years.

Here's hoping your Fourth leaves you smiling as you pass out from too much food, spirits, or fun.

Later...............

(475 / 926)

Sump Wars Revisited

With almost a month of rain under our belts, it would seem even thick skinned Mainers have their limits. I certainly have reached mine. It's one thing to have the weather add insult to an already injured bike shop. It is another to have to deal with yet another flooded basement at a time of the year when we are normally whining about the 80 degree heat and the sump hole tosses dust up when the occasional salamander ventures through it.

I was dutifully staying late at work last night trying to act like the responsible business owner I should be when I get a call from my wonderful wife. "How do you get this F*#^king sump pump to work? It's ankle deep down there."

As I listened to her, all I could think about is how I finally knew for certain the notion of sump pumps and their dependable failure when I need them the most will one day, maybe not this time but at some point in my diminishing future - one day I will die from a blown blood vessel when they fail once too often. It appears the "Sump Wars" are not over. The 28 year struggle continues. And I seem to always be on the losing end. Sigh.

I know other folks nestled next to the rivers, lakes and streams are anguishing over much more serious issues like losing everything they own and not just concerned over the kind of junk we all put in unreliable storage areas. Anything of real value, not counting the furnace, the water heater, and the coffin freezer are safely up and out of harm's way. It is just the psychological toll of that yearly wet reminder and the occasional extra inning tossed in that Mother Nature proves she rules and the rest of us drool. She will take her pound of flesh. All at once or a piece at a time. Suffering the slow agony of a death by a thousand floods seems worse than having her smite me down in one fell swoop.

So now I have learned a new lesson. A sump pump that runs continuously for days on end probably ought to have it's own electrical circuit. It certainly is not a good idea to have it plugged into the same circuit as the furnace, the washer, and a variety pack of lights and other fixtures. Loew's here I come. I have an unused 30Amp circuit I can tap into and by the end of this holiday weekend while others cavort and recreate, I will have wired up this unused 30 Amp circuit with 12/2 wire and a GFI plug receptacle. Happy Fourth of July! ................Yeah right.

See Ya........

(451)

Screw All This Rain

The Black Eyed Susans that have made a home on the banking next to the lower drive have decided, "Screw all this rain, we have to bloom."

It is not raining at the moment. I only make note of this because a day without rain is a rare thing recently here in my part of the World. Life will normalize later when the new front and trough move our way and settle in for another week of lousy weather. And what's this I see? Blue sky? My eyes have become so used to the dark over the last 25 days, I will need sunglasses if I hope to not go blind when I step out of my door.

Whew! That was close. Blue Skies only visited briefly. Like a ship passing in the night, they have moved on to make a beautiful day over the Atlantic. Guess the ocean needs the blue shining love of clear skies more than we do. I now am safe to head outside without doffing serious UV protective gels, lotions and lenses to keep the unfamiliar Sunshine from touching my pasty rotund white boy body. Besides, I have begun to accept and almost even embrace the fancy new kinds of molds and fungi that are beginning to appear on anything made of living or previously living material. I guess there is an upside to rain 24/7 for three weeks.

To point out that this weather is affecting my bike shop would be an obvious understatement. But this post is not to whine about lack of business, but rather to whine about all the GD water that has been falling out of the sky in recent weeks. Damn that Jet Stream! All I ask is a shift of about 100 miles to the east or west for a few days. My lawn could use a good trimming.

See Ya............
(311 / 2106)

The Orchid

I was walking with Stub across the road from the house In Mary's Woods a couple of weeks ago. I know this small parcel of land very well. I have been stomping around there going on 40 years. So I notice when something is out of place, or some new change has happened.

Near the intersection of Trail #1 and Trail #2, I noticed about 50 yards off the trail some stakes had been driven into the ground. I walked over and inside the border of wooden stakes marked with orange surveyors tape, I found several small patches of an unusual plant I had never seen before. The stewards of this small nature preserve had obviously found a special plant. A plant they felt was worthy enough to identify for future perusal.

It is nothing special in the scheme of cool plants that grow everywhere up here. But the fact that I have been screwing around in the woods of Maine and New Hampshire for most of my life now, I had never seen this particular plant. So I went home and tried to look it up........Right. With over 400 plants on Maine's rare plant list, I knew it would be like finding a needle in a haystack. After several lengthy sessions of Internet searching, I gave up. I ended up asking Carl, one of the stewards of Mary's Preserve, what was up with the stakes. Rattlesnake plant was his answer. And yes, it is fairly rare here in Maine, especially this far south.

I mentioned to Carl he may want to remove the stakes. Some flounder is likely to dig them up and try and replant them in their dooryard. He agreed and will remove the stakes and replace them with a simple marker only seen once one is almost on top of them.

Okay, I had a name now. There are plants all over the World with "rattlesnake" in their name. I guess that diamond pattern is a popular go to pattern for plants as well as snakes. Sifting through them took some time, but eventually I found a picture and a real name for the plant.

Goodyera Repens is an orchid that has to have just the right combination of conditions to make a stand in the wild. They seem to only be found in cooler northern climes in boreal forests at least 95 years old. They do not tolerate being disturbed. Logging, soil changes, etc will wipe them out in a heartbeat. It takes about 7 years for a plant to mature enough to flower. With the single stalk in bloom, they stand a stately 30cm or so. For you metrically challenged folks out there, that translates to around a foot tall.

What is really interesting I guess is that while finding this rare plant not more than a 5 minute walk from my dooryard is cool and all, what really fascinates me is how much information can be deduced from it's discovery. I knew Mary's Woods had once been farm land. There are old pictures taken from our hill back in the late 1800s. In every direction were fields. North, South, East, West - fields as far as the eye could see. Now there are nothing but huge trees and dense pucker. Mary's Woods is one of the few areas that has never had serious pucker. Just big white pines as a canopy and short undergrowth at ground level. This plant taking up residence in those woods tells me it has been at least a century since that land was tilled. Another mystery I sometimes wondered about has been patially solved.

Later........................

(604 / 1795)

Motorcycle Week

This past week was motorcycle week over to Weir's Beach in Laconia, New Hampshire. Umpteen thousands of crazed bikers gather on the shores of Lake Winnipesaukee to drink beer, show off their tits and fondle chromed encrusted machinery that has no other purpose but to look good and feel good at 2500 rpms through those favorite jeans only pulled out for special occasions like this.

I live just 35 miles or so as the crow flies from the normally staid and conservative Weir's Beach. Living on the major conduit there from southern Maine, I have had the pleasure, no - strike that - I have had to endure thousands of Bikers cruising through my small town either going to get drunk for a week or coming home after being drunk for a week. Convoys of Harley's, Choppers, rice rockets, and even mopeds numbering in the hundreds have passed by my bike shop. Exhausts so loud, conversations indoors became shouting matches until the numerous processions had passed by.

Don't get me wrong. I understand the draw. I can relate to the need to let it all hang out. I can, or could party as hard as the next guy. And all that stuff is fine. What I don't get is, why are straight pipes with not one iota of muffling considered cool? About the dumbest upgrade I can think of would be to turn an already noisy machine into an ear splitting, brain numbing stupidly louder machine. And then to ride with 50 other stupidly loud machines hundreds of miles in a group. I just do not get it. Didn't get it even back in the day when I owned motorcycles and enjoyed the taste of an occasional fat June bug between my teeth. No more blatant and obnoxious example of in your face pollution than a Harley running a too lean fuel mixture through straight pipes at 50 mph. It's just painful to experience. Physically painful.

The motorcycle rally at Laconia (Weir's Beach) is the oldest continuous event of it's kind in the nation. The first rally was held in 1917. Back then the cool biker dudes and dudettes called themselves "The Gypsies". I wonder if that first crowd had mullets also? Seems they are required doo's now if you are going to play with the big dogs. Also required is that every biker chick must wear a bikini top for those "show us your tits" moments that crowd seems to get off on. You know they are feeling no pain when they cruise around town by foot or on their bikes with a 16 ounce Bud Long Neck stuffed deep in their cleavage while sporting Bud bottle cap pasties. Ouch.

So let's flip this around some. I have imparted my low opinion of loud motorcycles and how I just don't understand the attraction. I have shown extreme condescension for the hairstyles of choice and the over the top need to expose body parts to anyone whether they are interested or not. I have lifted my nose and sniffed as only one trying to be snobbish can sniff.

And then I looked at myself in the mirror. Let's see. I still have mud all over my legs from riding my mountain bike in the woods 10 hours ago in the rain with 7 other crazed riders. I consider the leg burning pain of a steep hill climb as almost a sensual experience. I like nothing better than cresting a hill out of breath with eyes bulging wondering if I will puke this time or not. I often go into stores wearing skin tight lycra and spandex outerwear stretched to it's limit around a body no would care to look at. Instead of picking bugs out of my teeth, I often pick leaves and other forest flotsam out of my mouth. And my sport of choice is populated primarily by males. No biker chicks hanging off my rig wearing Bud caps as pasties. So who is cool and who is not? Hmm. At least I am quiet. Nothing but the sound of bike parts rattling over the roots and rocks and the raspy sound of an aging set of lungs forcing themselves to limits past what many would consider sane. That alone makes it worth it.

I am sure the bikers have similar feelings. Their chosen recreational release may seem foreign and make no sense to me, but I would guess that when they see me pop out of the woods onto the shoulder of Rte 109, they think, "Dumbass - get a motor for that thing! And while you are at it, make it a loud motor."

Keep it 'tween the Ditches...................

(777 / 1191)

A Conquering Hero

Here we have our intrepid hero contemplating his world as he is about to engage in dangerous warfare. Close combat weapons are secure in their scabbards and his trusty and lethal cultivator is firmly grasped. He knows he is as ready as he can be. He understands the risks of this next expedition. He knows he will come up against mantraps, IEDs hidden in small holes that will erupt without warning and flying shrapnel will sting him. Thorn ridden sinews will reach for his tender parts and attempt to shred him to pieces. His opponents have determination and endless resources to bring to their defense.

But our hero knows he has been living in fear for too long. The insidious invasion that started so long ago has reached a tipping point. He can no longer sit idly by while the enemy encroaches and claims more and more of his once grand land. They have shown their disdain for the borders he set up so long ago. Their only goal is to bury him. He knows that now. They have awakened the sleeping fat guy from his sloth like existence. There will be death and destruction. And it will not be his.

The battle waged was ugly. Evil deeds were committed by both sides. But on this day our hero prevailed. And though the War has only begun, he has sent a strong message to his opponents. He will not be overwhelmed. He will not give up one more square foot of land. He will drive them out. He has proven he can sink to their level and give as good as he gets, no matter how much of his blood is spilled.

A nervous truce has been called while both sides fall back and re-group for the next big encounter. While the savages of the jungle hunker down and peek out from the fringes of their territory, they will notice our hero has erected funeral pyres built with the flesh of their fallen comrades. He will let them rot there as a reminder of what he has planned for those still surviving. And one night when the mist hangs heavy in the air, he will touch a flame to their rotting flesh. Flames made up of their friends and family will reach for the sky. Our hero will paint his face with their ashes and do a little dance.

War is always ugly. But sometimes it is the only way Peace can be found.
_________________________________________________________________

Figured at least some kind of post was in order just to let those who care know I am still here and have not completely forgotten or given up on my blog. Bear with me. I will return with a vengeance at some point.

Later........................

(414)

The Invalid

Bob is not a happy cat. His routine has been interrupted. His life is not his to control at the moment. Bob is very ill. Death's Door ill a couple of weeks ago. Bob is feeling better after a denigrating and humiliating visit to the Vet. Medications have been ingested and continue on a twice daily basis. Kidney function seems to be rebounding and that sunken eye ball has come up for air and looks like the left one again.

I think I liked him better when he was a furry lump that didn't care what happened to him. Now that he is feeling better, he wants out. Now that he is feeling better, his displeasure at being force fed pills has resulted in a daily dose of cat bites and clawed flesh for me. I hope I survive the next ten days.

Bob puts up such a fight over the pills, our encounters take on the feel and look of physical violence. Anyone casually spotting me with Bob brutally pinned down and my fingers down his throat might consider me a vicious monster who enjoys hurting animals. My shredded flesh though indicates any abuse from me is met with equal abuse from Bob. Bob more than holds his own in this battle of wills.

My fear is I will alienate Bob before all the pills have been ingested. Turn him against me. But no. It seems that after a couple of hours of being huffy and keeping his distance, Bob forgives me. We rub heads and he begins that crooked and uneven purr of his. Our relationship is sound again. Bob just cannot hold a grudge. Apparently, neither can I.

Keep it 'Tween the Ditches...............


(281 / )

Wandering Aimlessly

Randal over to Lennui melodieux just posted a brief post about his recent bout of writer's block. Not being able to come up with anything "worthy" as he put it. But he would hang in there and not give up.

I think Randal jinxed me. As soon as I finished reading his post I had something pertinent to write in response. But by the time I settled in to punch it up, it was gone. See ya. Think of something else or hang up. Thanks Randal. You are such an inspiration. Yah Dude.

I know when I hit a wall with this writing thing, I will pull out some tricks and gimmicks to try and yank something of worth from inside the morass that is known as my mind. Put some music on. Down a shot or two of something tasty. Look at some pictures. Or if nothing else works, just start typing the first thing that comes to mind. When the itch to write strikes, I will do what it takes to make it happen. Good, Bad, or indifferent.

So tonight with my lack of burning issues to rant on, no advice worth sharing, and without a topic burning a hole in my mind, I pull out each trick hoping one will spark it up and set what is just below the surface free. Music went on first. Helpful, but only leaves me with a notion of hope anything will gel. Okay, some carefully distilled brown liquid in a three ounce glass - served room temp and sipped slowly. May not help, but it's the effort that counts. Right? The oddest things can come to mind as the whiskey warms it's way down to my stomach.
_________________________________________

As the years passed and I noticed my time on the planet had stretched past the half century mark, I took a moment, or more I had a moment when the overall impact of making it past Fifty really sank in. Like I said, it was but a moment. It passed quickly. But I still think of that moment from time to time. I will often expand it to consider the idea of what my life has meant so far. But then as is my tendency, I am soon flitting onto something else that just caught my eye. And another potentially profound and deep moment is lost. Oh Well. That pretty well sums up my Life anyway. A bunch of moments. Some I paid attention to. Some I did not. And more often than not, even when I thought I was paying attention, as it turned out, I was not.

Later....................

(437 / 4102)

An Update of Sorts

Okay. I have been MIA for awhile now. I knew my new focus on getting the rest of my Life in better order was going to cut deep into the time I had for Blogging, contemplating my naval, and other World changing activities. I had no idea I was going to abandon my efforts here for so long. Each day I did not write, the pangs of guilt or was it pangs of regret of not pursuing a guilty pleasure hit me. As one day led into another, the intensity of the guilt lessened but the regret deepened. Suddenly over two weeks passed without a word written.

So just what the Hell have I been doing? And what do I have to show for this nose to the grindstone mentality I have exhibited these last two months?

Hmm. Good questions. I am not sure I have good answers. The bike shop is still open and yes, it is still in serious trouble. I am at least not accruing new debt on top of old. In the meantime I have been able to take small bites out of the impressive debt load I carried over from previous years. And folks are able to have their bikes fixed locally without driving 20 plus miles to the next closest bike shop. Should the rest of the summer play out this way though, I do not see myself in this business again next Summer. Staying enthusiastic on a sinking ship can be a daunting task.

The yard has not looked this good this early in the warm season in years. I have many hours logged already in my efforts to beat back the jungle and restore the homestead to something resembling.....well, a home someone actually lives in. Squeezing in yard work before and after work has had an impact.

I have been riding my bike. The picture up top is proud proof. Instead of the shapeless flabby stumps I started out on 2 months ago, I finally found the legs that were hiding in them. And once again I have begun my annual collection of dingers, scrapes, and bruises. Odd thing about mountain bikers. We seem to take pride in our scabs and scars. And this is odd because the dingers are usually proof we rode past our skill sets and were caught being stupid. The fresh dinger on the left knee is an example. Too far forward as I rode into a rocky stream crossing and wham! Face plant, knee whacking, total immersion, full body dab into cold running water, the result. Yet, here I am showing off the resulting pain with pride. Definitely a guy thing.

I have also commuted by bike to the shop so much, that now I look forward to it. The time spent in mindless physical effort has been good for me. I am more relaxed when I get to the shop. I am dead dog tired when I get home. What it seems to have done is bring sleep back into my life. I pass out now usually by 9 o'clock and sleep to 4:30 AM with few interruptions.

I would say Life is good now. But that would be inferring Life was bad before. Life is what it is. It changes, it stays the same.

See Ya...................

(549 / 3665)

Someone Else's Blues

Long ago and far away David Bromberg once wrote and then sang many times after, a song called "Someone Else's Blues" . About waking up with no good reason for or in fact any reason to feel blue, yet when he woke up that morning, he woke up with someone else's blues. Everything was going great. All pistons, firing in sequence. He had more dope than he could smoke and it was almost a perfect day. He couldn't enjoy his good fortune, revel in all his grand luck. Cuz, gawdammit, when he cracked his eyes that AM, he had already rolled out on the wrong side.

And as David makes his guitar whine, a sax moans and a piano chimes in with perfection, it's as if the whole band woke up with the blues. Somewhere out there in the real world, some undeserving slob has hijacked poor Dave's good vibes. Some flounder who should be crying is out having himself a fine ole happy time.

I think most of us can relate. At some point in time, a specific moment in the grand walk, we all have felt down when there was no good reason to live under a cloud. We weren't fielding curves, our monthly bills were caught up, and it was not raining. Yet sometimes we act as if we wished we weren't caught up, all Life had was curves and some rain would justify the way we feel. We wouldn't feel so damn guilty about being out of sorts, pissed off, or just having our nose out of joint.

Being contrary "just because" fills a valuable slot in my tool bag of moods I use to get through the shit that flows all around me. I figure some overload switch has been tripped if I wake up a tad off, a tad mean. Small doses of moodiness sure beat the Hell out of the full blown Monty malevolent Mike I can become if small irritants are not purged on a semi regular basis. Being in a funk with no excuse I think is just my subconscious doing some needed maintenance.

I surely learned many years ago to not fight a mood too hard. Nothing sucks worse than trying to keep a stiff upper lip when tripping over that lip is what I really want to do. Being unhappy can be it's own reward. Just can't let myself wallow in it. Get a taste and then perk up.

Looks like this is night to rip some Blues into the Library. A Bromberg Album first, now the Don Brewer Blues Project is twisting my brain and all the while Stevie Ray Vaughan is hanging cool waiting his turn.



Not sure why I left Stevie Ray until last tonight. It could be argued that I saved the best for last. Certainly his version of "The Sky is Crying" is second to no other artists efforts. But calling him the best just doesn't cut it. Too many other great Blues guitarists out there. Each one with their own style, tone, and shtick. Each one "the greatest" in his/her own way.

Well I blew it. I went into You Tube and now it is an hour later and all I have to show for it is an hour of wasting time on one excellent video or another. Caught 4 versions of "Sky is Crying". One had Stevie Ray, Albert King and BB King together all on stage doing their thing. Absolutely cool.

And then I ran into this - David Bromberg doing an acoustic version of "The Sky is Crying". Damn.......... the Internet can be a real hoot some nights.



See Ya ..................

(608 / 3114)

New Managementship - Trains of Thought Converging on Different Tracks - Or Just Another Manic Sunday in Paradise

Setting sail in a new direction, the company founders commissioned the "USS Setting Goals Instead of Sails". The management ship left the harbor with a happy crew and Mid manager passengers full of enthusiasm and desires to land at their next safe harbor better managers and able to incite blind allegiance from the minions who slave day in day out under their scrutinous eyes.

Upper Management stayed home. Upper Management had no enthusiastic desires to attain better synchronicity among the the rank and file. As long as the bottom line kept climbing, they would hire circus elephants if it kept them in titanium golf clubs and fifty thousand dollar BMWs. If any of them had once been where the seasick passengers on the company ship were now, those memories had been washed away by thousands of martinis served dry at functions designed to solidify their position in the overall pecking order of Life in the Corporate Jungle. Fat and happy, they await the return of employees fired up and ready to help them put even more jingle in their pockets. They are absolutely sure that Capitalism Rocks.

In the meantime Main Street Everymen pull into Wally Mart parking lots across this great land in their oil burning ten year old used conveyances with baby puke encrusted on the back of the seats. Oblivious to the next great conspiracy to separate them from their hard earned money, they enter the belly of the beast. Old fogies wearing blue smocks smile and welcome them as they eagerly grab carts to fill with meaningless trinkets and doodads that will hopefully add some meaning to their lives. Like drones they wander up and down crowded aisles. With so much to pick from, they are sure they have found Nirvana. They wonder if they should have grabbed a second cart.

Passing plastic cards close to magic machines, they leave the 4 acre super store without even dropping one real dollar in the till. Plastic money is endless they think. It is almost like free. Life is wonderful when they shop. Not so much when they are not. Defining their existence by how many bags they throw in the trunk, they head home to hyper-processed TV dinners and Andy Griffith reruns on the TV Land channel.

Satiated and full, many will fornicate. Some will masturbate. Others will pass out after ingesting the best part of that 30 pack they got at a reduced price just hours earlier. And America falls into a fitful slumber. Only criminals and lost souls wander the landscape over the next few hours.

Day in day out, Americans live the life. Day in day out, Americans think they love this Life. But insidious machinations have been utilized from their conception. Strategies have been brought to bear that ensure America will continue to be born to shop. Once proud of our independent ways, now we puff up our chests when our neighbor notices that new super duper stainless steel grill we brought home last week end.

I would love to lay claim to higher ground. I would just as soon rise above the scrambling masses packed like sardines in aisles piled high with plastic electronic gadgets. Alas, I am but one of the masses. Another brainwashed drone prone to buying what is shoved in my direction. I try to resist. Years of Madison Avenue sticking in my craw, I hack and cough and look for the Visa Card.

It is not even a question of being weak. Years of indoctrination 30 seconds at a time have convinced my subconscious that consuming is what a soul needs. Scoring that Thigh Master will save me from the slug that I have become. With every intention of using it as intended, that Thigh Master ends up as a door stop for the basement door when I needed to bring in the 40 pounds of meat I bought for the new coffin freezer in the basement.

We are helpless my friend. Any resistance, even a token gesture is futile. We are what we buy. Ownership of anything reinforces our existence. Inextricably linked through electronic gadgets into the network of slick talkin worms and snake oil salesmen assures our participation in the grand plan.

We own shit, therefore we exist. Descarte would be so proud.

Later.............

(718 / 2506)

My Father's Desk

I use the desk my father used. I use it in the same room my father used it. It is a beat ex-US government issue desk some federal bureaucrat slaved over (Ha ha) back in the 1940s and maybe the 1950s. My dad bought it at one of the many auctions he often attended inside the federal triangle when we lived in the DC area in the early 1960s. I think he paid $5 for it.

It started out life a wonderfully cheerful Olive color. You know, that color the the government likes to use to gussy up their equipment. My father painted it a sort of baby shit reddish brown in an attempt I guess to make this steel monstrosity blend in better in the paneled room he called and now I call "the office". This desk has been moved around in this small room, but has not left it in 43 years since it moved in. It is actually too big for the room it sits in. The broad plain of it's massive top takes up roughly 20% of the available floor space in this room. With the wings extended, it makes an even larger dent. Throw in some file cabinets, a couple of book cases, some ancient stereo equipment and an old school wooden desk chair on wheels and the word "clutter" doesn't even begin to cover it. I call it cozy. My wife has other less kind words for it.

I have not bothered removing many of the things my father had stashed inside its guts. In the top drawer, his trusty slide rule, triangular scale rulers, fountain pens and ink sit dustyalongside the many magnifying glasses  he used on a more regular basis once his eyes began to fail.Also inside, his cherished set of US Navy charting compasses he would handle with care and only let me use under the strictest eye he could muster.All kinds of cool old desk stuff sits waiting for me to rediscover it.  The desk is a time capsule.  I will often rifle through it looking for something  And come up with some gizmo I ofen saw my father use when he was in his mad scientist mode.

I could say I have kept it as it was because of some strong sense of honor for my father's memory. That would be Bullshit. I have left them there because I figure to use them once in awhile. Why rock the boat? I know where to go if I need a magnifying glass. When drawing up plans with circles and doing them to scale, I know where the tools are that will help me in this endeavor.



Maybe my use of the tools he left me is the greatest honor I can give him or them. Placing them in some box in the attic or selling them out on the driveway on a sunny Sunday afternoon does nothing to honor their intent or their history. Tools are meant to be used. Somewhere I know the stern eye of my ole man is watching and waiting for me to not use them right. Knowing this makes me fondle them with care.

Keep it 'tween the ditches......................

(532 / 1788)

The Bike Wheel

I am beginning to feel like a stranger here at the BoZone. Sad, but there it is. This is my first visit back since my last post. The bike shop and now included. home and garden improvement duties in those spare moments have consumed every waking hour and even most of my dream time also. Last night I dreamt of a wheel truing job lost on the Darkside. No matter which way I tweaked the wheel, the worse it got. Damn dream actually woke me up. At least I woke up chuckling.

I won't be chuckling later today at the shop. That damn dream wheel actually exists and is currently leaning up against my work bench at the shop. I have been walking around it since Sunday when I found it locked to my bike stand outside. Inside a message on the machine from some gnarly dude about making it right man and this time use that locktight penetrate we had talked about the last time it semi-tacoed. Right on Dude. I'll get right on it.

This particular wheel is one of those manifestations of technological wizardry that a certain wheel manufacturer insists will enhance the ride by creating bombproof wheels. To be fair to them, other wheels made by them in this manner have held up well. This specific wheel though is a different matter. It has been an issue since the day the gnarly dude got it in the mail after finding it on some Internet deal site. Paid way less than regular retail and has now gotten what he paid for.

This is at least the 3rd time I have had this wheel in my shop. I hate this wheel. It won't stay fixed. All the negative wheel karma the wheel manufacturer had built up was stored in the wheel and is now my problem. I can straighten it. I can get the spoke tension just right. I can send it out there for future punishment in as good a shape as possible. Yet in a few weeks, it is toast again.

Not sure why I am whining. This wheel is the perfect returning customer. Every time it shows up, I make money. But I would like it to stay fixed longer between visits. This time I will do the loctite routine. Hate to do it though. Somewhere though are threads not meshing cleanly with other threads and the good tension in the spokes is being ridden out of it prematurely. Loctiting the spokes makes future truing a tougher job. And it almost seems like cheating in a bizarre sort of way. Like a cop out on my part. A failure to deliver services promised. The customer wants it. The customer is always right. The customer gets what they want.

The damn wheel has emasculated me. ------- I just love it when my train of thought goes from one end of a spectrum and ends up with the emasculated idea. Seems we guys allow the strangest things challenge our manhood. This makes me chuckle.
________________________________________

The bike wheel image by Dylan Miner I found on this site,JUSTSEEDS. They call themselves a "visual resistance artists' cooperative". Interesting stuff.

I'll Be Around...................

(532 / 1256)

2:11 AM

Hmm. It's 2:11 AM May 2nd. I just got home from the bike shop about 20 minutes ago. Massive doses of coffee on top of Pizza over the last 6 hours of trying to catch up with backed up - just gotta have em for the weekend bike repairs rewarded me with a tapped and exhausted body, but my eyes and my brain continue to red line at 1500 RPMs. Coherent thoughts, sensible points, majestic statements are all missing in action. All I have is eyes wide open and a vacuous cavity behind them. The lights are indeed on but no one is paying attention.

I am my own worst enemy. I would not be sitting here awake with nothing to say if I had just applied myself a tad better over the course of my previous work week. I'd be sawing wood, catching Z's, maybe even comatose if I had just paced myself better this past week. Oh well. Perfect excuse to pour a couple of shots of Rebel Yell.

Back in the day when I drank hard and played hard, I would often finish off a night of bar hoppin with some serious caffeine intake and some greasy late night food to try to neutralize the alcohol intake from the previous few hours. Coffee on top of booze just creates a wide awake drunk. No matter how much I am sure I am different and special, all coffee seems to do for me is create a new window of opportunity to jam down some more alcohol.

Tonight I am reversing the process and the concept. Now that I am all jacked up on at least a gallon of freshly ground Guatemalan Shade Grown coffee that goes by the name "Speed Max" (I buy it from one of my bike parts suppliers. This stuff lives up to its name.), I will attempt to use a couple two finger shots to blunt the edge of the caffeine buzz and maybe go to sleep by 3:00 AM. Never used Likker this way. Be interested to see if it works.

I know I have been missing in action for more than a few days now. My Internet time has recently been spent wading through bike parts supplier sites or trying to find just the right words to put into a new business plan. I bet I have written 10,000 words but only have 500 or so saved that make sense. Forced creativity, producing words for others to consider seriously - when I have to write not for fun but for profit, this whole writing gig is like pulling teeth with dull pliers. Anything can become work if you let it.

Well I blew it. Apparently a little liquor on top of massive doses of Joe has about the same net effect as massive doses of Joe has on top of many drinks. It makes no difference the sequence. Caffeine first or caffeine last, mix in alcohol and my eyes are still open, sleep is a distant wish that fades with every shot I have nursed over the last hour. 4:00 AM is about to tick in and here I still sit pecking and plodding my way through yet another blog post just for the Hell of it.

All is not hopeless. I do not sit here a total waste of space. I am able to mutli-task to a degree. As I sit an ponder my next word, in between and on the side, I am also ripping CDs. Creating a new library of tunes to replace the library I lost during the great 2009 virus smackdown.

When I reflect on the many ways I have recorded music over the years, every time I rip a CD to the hard drive, I know it just does not get any better than this. In years past I have recorded on 8 tracks, reel to reel, and cassettes. I would often spend hours just planning and then executing the successful recording of an hour long mix tape. Now I can create the same thing in 5 minutes with the click of a mouse. ...............

............ It is 4:30 AM. I have been awake for 24 hours. I have to be back at the bike shop in 4 hours. Gotta go now. Just needed to unwind some. Relieve some pressure..........

See Ya............

(724)