The Purple Manitous and Riding the Rivet

I have refrained from turning this blog into a one dimensional and ongoing diatribe about the one activity I enjoy more than almost any other. I am a cyclist. One of those whackos folks see out there in tight clothes and ugly helmets. Traffic blocking, trail riding oddball whose free time is spent in the saddle whenever possible. The guy who shows up on Monday sporting a new wound and is not only proud of it, but will gladly give you the blow by blow. I am the friend whose conversation is liberally sprinkled with terms like, Gnarly, Stoked, Singletrack, and Riding the Rivet. I am mildly fanatic, dubiously talented, but enthusiastic and dedicated. 

I re-discovered the bicycle in 1984 after a hiatus of 15 years. Reliving that feeling from my youth of first independence and exploration. My fun depending on on my own strengths and weaknesses and not someone else's. Since 1984 I have been more than an avid enthusiast. Bicycles came to consume my life and have peaked with the bike shop I have owned for the last 7 years. 

Bicycles became a vehicle through which I once again knew joy from pure exercise. Cycling cleanses the body and most important, my mind. Bicycles became more than a fun and healthy activity, cycling has become a way of life. And while I would like to give myself all the credit for this, I cannot. The timing of my re-birth roughly coincided with the birth of my daughter. Lis took to bikes like a frog to water. She kept me interested those few times I seemed less enthused. My little girl probably gave me some extra years with her laughter as she rode her first solo ride. And she continues to boost my spirits through the regular rides we share. And If I am lucky, I will get to enjoy riding with my kid for the rest of my life. 

I started hauling Lis in a Burley Trailer behind my Peugeot "Canyon Express" mountain bike when she was maybe 3. For several years we put many miles on that trailer. I did not keep track, but I am sure it was several thousand. Spending week long vacations exploring Acadia and surrounding locales. Numerous runs to the lake to cool off on a hot summer days. Screaming down a hill over 40 and I turn around and she yells, "Faster Daddy. faster!". I hauled her everywhere. 

Those early memories are something I will hold onto forever. My darling little girl is now 22 years old. For 19 of those years we have shared a mutual love of cycling. 

Yeah Memories:

The struggle to get her off the training wheels. Her first mountain bike and the purple Manitou shocks I put on it. Her first experience with SPD pedals. The time I ran over her when she crashed in front of me. She still bears a good scar from that one. The first wheel she ever built and her first custom bike build. Off road touring in the real backwoods of Maine. A lifetime of experiences burned into our brains and revisited with a smile. 

We still ride together. I do believe we are each other's favorite riding companion. I know for a fact she is mine. And even though she kicks my butt now, I can still keep her honest. This activity we love has had a dramatic effect on how our relationship has turned out. As a father, I have been one lucky SOB.

The Patriotic Index

I'm more than a little tired of this current trend to evaluate a person's "patriotic index" by what they drive, what they hang on their car, whether they support a war, whether they are against a war, or what shoes they wear. Flag waving and chants of USA are empty gestures from the safety of home to assuage and encourage those in harm's way. Patriotism is marketed, pre-packaged and distributed like twinkies. The more you chant, display the flag, and hang ribbons on your car somehow makes you more American than the next guy.

Pointed out to me in a thread in a forum far from here was the opinion that a true patriot is one who has sacrificed for their country. That true patriotism is not what you say you will do for your country, but what you have done for your country. Patriotism does not need to be worn on our shirtsleeves for all to see. Patriotism is caring about your country, calling out fouls, and keeping it going in the right direction. The most patriotic folks I know are buried in Arlington, the shores of France, and the fields of Viet Nam. We do no honor to their memory by pinning flags to our antennas. These displays cheapen the sacrifices they made for us.

If you want to impress us with your patriotism, fight an injustice, put yourself on the line for something that counts. Until then you are just talking the talk, not walking the walk.
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A Childhood Memory

It was one of those family trips planned and worried over months in advance. We were in the final frantic moments before departing. Secured the house. Water turned off, lights off, back door locked, maps in hand, and the house in good order. As my wife Bobbi and I headed to the front door laden down with all the last minute items, she stopped and said, " Anyone need the toilet, We are not stopping until my bladder says we stop."

I mumble something about being all set. We both turn around to look back to the stairs up to the bedrooms as Lis, our rugged 5 year old, comes barreling down the stairs. "Elisabeth", she hollers," Let's go and please check to see if you need the bathroom." Lis stopped at my wife's words like she hit a wall. A blank faraway look came over her face. Standing stock still, she just stared through us like we weren't there. After what seemed an eternity, Bobbi says, "Lis, what are you doing?"

Lis snapped out of her daze and disgustly replied, " I'm checking." The self induced stress of beginning a long trip melted away. My wife and I laughed for the first 200 miles.

This memory came to me out of the blue today. It's been 18 or so years since we made that trip. It still rates a top five childhood memory of my sweet daughter's rise to adulthood. It was one of those unplanned moments a parent enjoys for many years after and reinforces the joy of parenthood.

Dangerously Pink

Re- Posted - 1/22/2025

A woman came into my bikeshop a few weeks ago. This is not an unusual occurrence, but how she dressed and acted was. Located in Maine, our community prides itself in reticent Yankee behavior. We dress down most times and are slow to warm to strangers. So, the invasion by a boisterous and buxom woman dressed completely in Pink, big hair, and enough makeup to make Maybelline bust with pride was a noteworthy event.

When I say she was pink, I mean pink. Pink pumps, pink miniskirt wrapped around a rather generous butt and a pink belly button blouse that highlighted a naval piercing with a, you guessed it, pink stone in the setting. She even smelled pink. A heavy odor of what I imagine 2 thousand pink flowers would smell like. And to top off the overall effect, a wide pink hairband that kept her Baltimore doo standing up and living large. As soon as I saw her, I thought of Divine and the movie "Pink Flamingos". The only thing missing was the "Bawlamer" accent. When she opened her mouth, the hard speech of someone from the blue collar fringes of Boston came out.

Our encounter was a comedy. She had recently purchased a couple of new bikes from some mass merchant nearby. She wanted to outfit them and her with many accessories. Racks, Helmets, locks, etc. As I worked through all the options, she took every chance she could to throw her sexuality in my face. She was obviously well versed in using her female wiles to seduce men to her bidding. A touch here, an accidental brush there. And always that pink smell permeating the whole shop. I countered every attempt of hers to get close with tactful retreats to keep her out of "my space". I am only human and that smell combined with her overwhelming femaleness was having it's affect on me. It was not like she was seducing me, rather it was more of winning by overwhelming me.

After setting her up with all the goodies she wanted and I had her safely on the other side of the counter, I began to breath easier. The 3 feet of glass and wood seemed enough of a barricade to keep me faithful to my wife and out of the madness of brief encounters with the opposite sex. She paid for her items and turned to leave. Then she stopped and turned, making sure all that could jiggle did. Dirty thoughts danced through my mind as she began to inquire about having me show her how her new bikes worked. I did not answer. And as she repeated herself, she smiled that knowing smile that she still had it. She could still turn a man's head.

She knew she had me if she wanted me. I had lost. That jiggle turn had done it. The icing on the cake. Satisfied she had another notch in her gun belt. She said see ya and left. I sat there staring at the door for several moments wondering what had just happened. It had been a lot of years since a woman had turned my head like that. The feeling was familar but new at the same time. And then I grinned and thought, "Damn women. Gotta love em. We have no choice. They literally have us guys by the short hairs."

Flirting with Regrets

I just dropped a good friend an email. I had not connected with him in several months. We have been friends since our Freshman year in college 35 or so years ago. He is probably the only friend I have attempted to keep in touch with. All the other "Friends for Life" I was sure I had made have slowly moved out of my life. It is not that we conciously cut the connection, we just let it lapse into dormancy. It then withered and died.

But Tom was different. He always made the effort to stay connected. He was not obnoxious, just insistent. It helped that we had similar "kiss my ass" attitude about Life and how we went about it. We have been willing to let each other follow our own paths without judgement, just encouragement.

Tom chose the life of a Federal employee. Living in the DC area, he has raised a family, owned a home, and has generally been a all around good guy and citizen . I struggled some at first. I had to find the bottom before I could look up. Once I figured out that Life was not found at the bottom of a liquor bottle or in the rush of a coke packed nose, I got on with the rest of my life. These last 25 years in Maine have been productive I guess. I too, have raised a family, owned a home and I would like to think I am now generally an all around good guy and citizen.

So I dropped him an email. Asked him how things were going. Filled him in on the latest at my end. And then I asked if he still had dreams. Did he still look at the future as one of possibilities or one that was cast in stone? At what point in our lives do we stop dreaming and just give in to the inevitabilites that seem to hold us in their grip? He has yet to reply. And that is okay. I wasn't really asking him anyway.

Literary Masochism Realized

I have been posting to this blog for 6 months now. In that time, I have received little notice. A comment here and there, but nothing of any consequence. Then two or three days ago, I received a flood of comments on a post I made in March. Literary Masochism was my first impression of a writer's site, Everything2. All of the comments came from members of E2. Besides the couple of grammatical critiques of my post, the general tone was that I had the wrong impression of E2. While they were sticklers in regards to the right way to write, they seemed eager to help out flounders such as myself. "Please join in, you will not regret it", was the overwhelming sentiment.

I was very suprised. Here I have been writng in the wilderness for 6 months and all of a sudden one of my posts gets more comments than the other 100 or so combined. A bit flattered that folks from a site far away were taking the time to visit mine, I decided to activate my membership. I spent most of last Sunday mucking around the rules and regs. When I thought I had a clue, I took one of my early blog posts and created a write-up.

Sure that it would be shot down, I was not disappointed. I think it lasted maybe 10 minutes, before one of the mucky mucks of the site blew it away. I was not bothered much by this. I expected it. But what I hoped for did not happen. I had hoped some comment about why it was deleted would be made available to me. Instead, it just disappeared with a little message that told me it was now in "node heaven". Forget the positive feedback, there was not even any negative feedback.

My immediate knee jerk response was to move on. I have never been a joiner. So screw em. But as I sit here and type words that only I will see, I realize that if I blow them off, I may be losing a chance to help myself become a better writer. This site seems set up to make that happen. So, I will lick my wounds and consider my next move. I will go back.

Teaching an Old Dog a New Trick

As I listened to Led Zepplin ll tonight, my mind wandered back in time to when this album was current and the rock album to have. My dad was an audophile who became hooked when mono was king in the 50's and early 60's. He listened to mostly instrumental music, classical, jazz, some swing and a smattering of show tunes. He had a generally low opinion of the human voice, considering it no better than any other instrument. He was sure that it was over used and often ruined an otherwise good tune.

Anyway, he was hip to the stereo thing long before it became the rule, not the exception. The early recordings were crude and not completely figured out yet. He gave up on it, figuring stereo would never amount to much. That is until the day I forced him to listen to Led Zepplin through my headphones on my stereo. I kept the volume turned down to the old fart level and made him suffer through "Whole Lotta Love". When the guitar licks that changed from one speaker to the other hit, I saw his eyes light up and he started grinning. Then I switched Led for Jimi Hendrix and he just kept grinning. The next day, he ordered up the biggest stereo amp Heathkit offered. When it came, he built it in record time. And while he went back to his show tunes and long hair Beethoven and Chopin, I knew I had been integral in helping my father reach a new level of music appreciation.

Introspectively Yours - 580

A piece I just finished and relegated to draft status was 500 words that ultimately said nothing. But it did spark something inside. I indicated I couldn't or wouldn't write about Love. That everytime I did, I came off like some lovesick teenager after his first kiss. I thought about that and it dawned on me that Love is a subject I have avoided in my writing since, well, my early 20's anyway, 30 or so years ago. So with a "that was then, this is now" attitude, I thought I might just re-visit a subject I have been uncomfortable with for the last 3 decades.

I need to identify what kind of Love I want to discuss. Family type love or lust for the other sex type Love? I have never felt completely at home discussing either. So I guess it doesn't matter much which one I start in on. What may matter more is why am I so uncomfortable with the idea of discussing Love. I have experienced Love, good and bad. I haved loved . I have been loved. I have wanted love. I have wished another did not love me. I have foolishly pursued another's love. Pretty much experienced it from all sides. But I don't like talking about it. Odd. I guess it's a guy thing. Well, that's my excuse and I'm sticking with it.

But like most excuses, all the guy excuse does, is allow me to duck out on a tough question. I have often wondered if my refusal to open up about emotional facets of my life is a sign I don't want to face some of the uglier little truths about me and the way I have carried myself from the cradle to the here and now. Like I am ashamed of the life I wasted or failed to use to it's potential emotionally. But most of the time, I think my less than eager attitude to talk relationships is based more on my desire to stay aloof and detached from those folks who would be closer if I let them. That placing an emotional barrier between myself and those I love is a way to soften the blow should I be rejected at some future date.

When I contemplate this, I always end up back to my childhood and growing up in a family of like minded souls. I never felt like I belonged or that anyone really cared I was there. I grew up feeling like some duty everyone had to deal with. I wasn't abused. I was ignored.

Well, That's how I feel when I am in the "Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I'm gonna eat some worms" frame of mind. The truth is, I was probably truly loved and cared about. But like me, my family didn't wear their love on their shirt sleeves. Getting all mushy and misty eyed was not our style. Real men don't act like that.

Even if the truth is somewhere in the middle, the fact is, I have a problem opening myself up emotionally. And after 53 years of developing and nuturing this tendency, is it possible to break the cycle? Is it even worth the time and heartache? Hmm. Self growth at anytime seems like a good idea. But like most ideas, they stay just that, passing moments of what we should be doing but probably won't because staying in the rut we already have is safer than trying out a new one.

Nothing to say

Trying to fulfill my own expectations, I stopped in tonight just to keep this blog gig moving along. Some fresh commentary on whatever I might come up with. Hopefully fairly soon too. Having not sat down with anything particular in mind, it will be as much a suprise to me as to you what the night's subject might be. Until I locate some interesting point to make or rant to vent, I will subject all of us to words of zero sum value, wasting several bytes of memory somewhere out there in the intangible internet ether.

Marriage - Hmm. Always fertile ground there. No marriage is without anecdotal possibilities or spleen venting potential. The signifigant other is always finding unintentional ways to piss us off or ways to tickle us pink.

Workplace woes and worries - I could fill a book and barely touch the general overall feel. And who really cares anyway?

Trips down memory lane - Always the "go to" subject when all else fails.

Favorites - Music, Art, Novels, poems and hobbies. Interests that tiitillate and fulfill my free time but no one else's. For most folks not the page turner I think it should be.

Sex - This will keep em coming back. Unless of course there is no sex and that's what I talk about.

Medical histrionics and hysteria - We all have aches, pains, stitches or an operation or two. And for some reason we like to share the ugly details with each other. A friend waddled into the shop the other day fresh from his recent vasectomy. Made me pucker and instinctlively grab my nads to protect them from hearing the blow by blow.

Sports - I really enjoy sports. All kinds of sports. But like politics and religion, I get my fill on the various forums I visit. Minimal blog time here is through concious deliberation and hard won self restraint. We spend too much time discussing the latest trades, outrageous salaries, releases, wins and losses. Just how many different twists can people put on whether Lance will really retire or is he really a doper?

Self Analysis - Maybe one of my unconcious favorites. Falling into the feel sorry mode is an easy trap to fall into. But once again, any interest to those outside my small circle has to rate a tad over zero at best.

Smitten and in Love - Well written prose on Love and being in it is near impossible to do well. Most times, it comes out like some lovesick juvenile writing I love you over and over again in their history notes instead of paying attention to the professor. At least my stuff does. So I don't go there very often.

That's but a few of the possible subjects to delve into tonight. But as I considered and wrote a little on each, none offered up any clever or witty ways to impart them to my faithful fan base. So I guess, tonight, I have nothing to say.

(506)

Moving day

My wife and I drove 4 hours yesterday down to Springfield College to pick up my daughter's stuff. This parental pilgramage is as predictable as Robins coming back every Spring. Like all rites of Spring, there are constants that do not vary and rituals that play out identically all over America.

First of all, any college with common sense will temporarily rescind their hard and fast rules regarding parking, doors being open, and ID checks. For a day or two, they will allow a mild form of anarchy to take over. They will allow this because it will happen regardless. Combine the tendency of college students to be scofflaws with the determined force of a parent who wants to load up and get out, and what we end up with is a situation that is out of control. The best they can hope for is that in 2 days, the normal sleepy atmosphere they are used to will return and the tire divets in the grass are not too deep.

So, as we approach the college, we give Lis a call. "Find us a spot and stand in it". She calls back. Great! Right in front of the door. I pull around the one way and there is my little darling standing in the best spot on campus for loading anything. What luck. Wait! The car in front of us is attempting to pull into our spot. The man points to Lis as if she is in his way. Lis does not budge. All 5'2" of her stands tall and points to me behind him. I could almost see his shoulders slump as he pulled away. By the 3rd year of doing this, you learn a trick or two.

We walk into her hallway and there is one box neatly taped sitting outside her room. I think, "This can't be good". But being optimistic, I assume the rest of the boxes have not made their way to the hallway yet. Right. We walk into her hovel and it looks like every college room I remember. Crap everywhere and nothing in boxes ready for me to put in the truck. It is going to be a long day. I get the ladies started packing boxes and then head down to snooze in the front seat while Green Day blasts from the CD Player.

Tired of sleeping upright, I plop down on the small couch in the dorm foyer. Constant activity. Moms, Dads, sons and daughters parade past with countless bundles, furniture and bags. Two young studs walk past with a sad excuse of a coffee table between them. Beer encrusted with a bag of chips and deck of cards still glued to the top. Outside, there is a 30 yard container . They heave it in. And in the meantime, the dorm janitor sits on the pic nic table in the sun while his Walkman plays tunes. Lis informs me he is supposed to be helping whoever needs it. I guess he figures staying out of the way is help enough.

I wander up to the room. Good. Stuff ready to be loaded. And so my day continues. They pack, I grunt it down to the truck. 4 hours later, I have a full truck and Lis has an empty room. As I look at the heap in the back of the truck, I am struck by the sheer volume of stuff my little girl needs to get through a year of college. Refrigerator, TV, Stereo, 50 pairs of shoes, the list is endless. The one odd item I do not recollect ever bringing home before is the box of liquor and beer I packed somewhere in the back. Oh well, even the goodie two shoes need to howl at the moon once in awhile. Apparently, my little darlin has discovered this.

Tapped out

I can always tell when the limit of what I can handle has been reached. Unfortunately, it seems I have to reach the limit before I recognize it. After reaching this limit many times over the years, avoiding it would seem an easy task. But no, some lessons need to be pounded in on a regular basis. This time might be different. I might be seeing it before it crests. Or think I do. The reality may be the limit is passed and what I see is rear view observation.

Regardless, the limit is near. Either in front or behind. If I want to remain healthy, sane, and somewhat content, I will have to disappoint a few folks in the next couple of weeks. At least this time, I made no hard promises. I only indicated I would do what I could. A weak escape clause, but I will use it if I have to.

In the meantime, I continue to bear down on what's in front of me. Ticking off each chore and obligation as each is successfully completed. And without looking too hard at the length of the list, I take on the duty next in line and concentrate on it. One step at a time.

A Postscript
GG, the cat I mentioned some days ago seems to have been resurrected. The little bugger got in my face this AM. His eyes were not sealed half shut. They were no longer cloudy and he was back to his normal wheeze instead of that death rattle he has been sporting for the last month or so. Damn cats. Just when you are ready to take them on that last trip to the vet, they pop back like nothing ever happened. Anyway, it's good to have him back and on the bounce. His buddies will be happy.

A Cat's Tale

One of our cats was born sick and almost 2 years later, GG is still sick. I am afraid he is not long for this world. He coughs, sneezes and sounds terrible. All the time. Poor guy. He sits at the window and looks out all day. I know he wants to go outside. What cat doesn't? But he can't. He's sick. Sometimes I just want to let him go and have a blast with the time he has left. It just ain't right keepin him from the fun all the other cats are havin. But we keep him inside. Afraid he will become more stressed than he is, keel over and die.

Bob, our oldest tom, is just the opposite. He stays out day and night. Eats anything that he can fit in his mouth. Well, he's not too partial to toads. He went through a spell when he was kitten. Ate the big one in the basement and then immediately puked it up on my pillow. He generally lives off the land. If we see him with his face in the food bowl, we know it was tough day hunting. Healthy and huge at age 9, he shows no sign of letting up. I think he is actually getting bigger. No Coyotes, Bobcats, or Fishers have grabbed him. His survival instincts are finely tuned. He'll tackle a squirrel, but draws the line when confronted with the irregular troop of passing wild turkeys.

So we have G and we have Bob. One yearns to be out and about and one lives the dream. One sits and slowly dies. And one sems to defy death. Proof that Life is indeed not fair.

You can skip this.

When I sit down in front of this 'puter to pour my soul into my blog, I seem to approach it in one of two ways. Sometimes, I find it necessary to bring everyone up to date on what's happenin in Mike's life at the moment. I find my life very interesting. I am sure everyone else will too. And then sometimes I just sit down determined to write something. Anything. Whatever pops up. Totally random, I will type madly, without any consideration of content, theme, or style. Stream of conciousness rants that sometimes work and sometimes don't.

Tonight, I cannot seem to make up my mind which way I want to go. I had a subject I wanted to discuss. It now sits in a draft limbo, unable to get off the ground. I successfully wrote a few words about my over the top attachment to junk. And now I sit and explain it all. Hmm.

I guess tonight is a random session. I just want to see words go down. That's okay. It's the act of writing I enjoy first and foremost. Bonus if it makes sense.

You throwing that out?

I am a collector. A connoisseur of junk, useless tidbits and odd baubles I find anywhere and everywhere. I may never find a need or have an inclination to utilize their unique qualities. And though I often recycle them into new and useful tasks, it is the act of collecting I seem hooked on. Bending over, picking it up, contemplating some future application and stashing it for the trip home.

As far back as my shaky recollection can go, I have collected. Large or small, I have always been fascinated by other folk's cast offs. My parents did their best to break me of the habit. Especially after that cool rock I found jammed the washing machine and fried the motor. The last straw was the day I scored 8 to 10 sheets of used plywood and stuck them out on the porch of our 3rd floor garden apartment. Dad was definitely not impressed. Even after I assured him they were destined for that one of a kind tree fort me and my buds were planning. It didn't matter, he made me haul them back from whence they came. He certainly had no appreciation of the time and effort it took to cart each one the 1/2 mile or so to our apartment. I sure found some appreciation when I took them back.

Fast forward 50 years. 50 years of unsupervised and unmonitored collecting. The garage became unusable 15 years ago. So I built a shed. Out of found stuff of course. It filled up 10 years ago. Now I just heave it all out into the yard. Over there is a crushed wheel barrow. The wheel is still good and holds air. Behind the shed, a pile of ancient barn boards continue their aging process. Scored some well tiles a few years ago. They sit unused in the pucker behind the house. Here a pile of old bricks. There a stand of 8 inch blocks. 275 feet of 2 inch plastic pipe leans up against the pines. Pulled it out of the well 5 or 6 years ago and couldn't bear to part with it. I have at least 5 lawn mowers. Only 2 work. And bikes. Jeez, the bikes, bike parts, old broken frames, wheels. Must be a 30 yard container worth. Yeah, I like to collect it all. Whatever it is.

A Quickie

Just a quick note to all my fans. You know who you are. Cuz I sure don't. Anyway, I am hard into my busy season at my bikeshop. Any time I have for dubbing, playing, and fooling around is almost non-existent. And since I have always been poor at multi-tasking, I have had to cut out many of the useless, but pleasurable things I did this winter to stay sane. I will hopefully be back in full force when and if the spirit moves me. Like now for instance. I am not gone. Just taking a break from blogging to pay attention to the rest of my life.

A Freshly Kicked Testicle

Brian and I laid hardwood flooring in 2 rooms in his recently purchased house the other day. Like most plans we make together, this one got off to it's usual uneven start. The nailer Brian was scehduled to rent did not get returned on time, so he picked it up late. I ran into some odd glitches at the shop sucking an hour or so of precious nailing time from the equation. We finally got rolling around 1 in the afternoon. Only 4 hours late. Those 4 hours came back with a vengeance about 3 in the morning when we were still kneeling, nailing and cussing every cracked tongue when the nailer over amped. If not for Esther, Brian's girlfriend, we both might have self imploded. The 14 hours spent bent over on swollen knees was not the worst of it. Prying my eyes open 3 hours later to face my day was a morning I will not soon forget. My whole body felt like a freshly kicked testicle. I wanted to puke.

Like so many things in my life, Pain is just another facet of my existence that seems to be evolving as I spend more time on this planet. It's not like pain is any more intense. It just seems to settle in, kick back and over stay it's welcome. I can actually remember pain free days at some point in my past. Not anymore. There is always something complaining. My wrist, that knee, that kink in my neck, or that oh so special drop you to your knees sciatica.

I'm not complaining. Okay, yeah, I guess I am. It's more of a observational type whine. A notation on the aging process. A recogntion that getting old sucks. And since there's nothing else going on, I might as well piss and moan. I now have sympathy for old farts and I appreciate what is coming. Each new day brings on the possibility of another body part letting me down or letting me know to not do that anymore. And what's odd is, I never really saw it coming. Insidiously it crept up on me and one day I realized the muscular demands I took for granted were now but memories. Sustaining the same intensity I did when I was young and numb is done now through will power and clenched teeth. No wonder folks hate getting old.

Bike Lemmings

Finding time for the blog has been tough to locate of late. My bike shop is hard into the Spring windup. I could spend 24/7 down at the shop and still not stay ahead of the repairs and sales. Keeping a lid on it is impossible. We are now officially out of control. I will never understand why everyone seems to be on the same sort of bio-bike rythmn. The first week of April, something clicks, fires off, a specific synapse clicks simultaneously throughout York County, Maine. And like lemmings heading to the sea, everyone in a 20 mile radius yanks out their dusty and trusty bike and heads down to my shop. When I tell them 2 weeks, they all get that same odd put out look on their mugs. "2 Weeks? Why? I just brought in one bike. Surely you can have it for me by tomorrow. I need it for the weekend. I know I haven't ridden it for 10 years, but I absolutely need it this weekend. 10 years and 2 weeks is 2 weeks too long. "

The Dustball in God's Pocket

When I was a young punk, I took Chemistry in school. We were right in the middle of learning the Periodic Table, valences, protons, electrons, neutrons, etc. At the same time, I was also a regular at the local church of my choice. One day when I was hanging out just pondering the why of it all, I had this flash of insight as to what it all is really about. It went something like this.

The Universe is made up of planetary systems. Planetary systems are made up of planets revolving around a sun. There are billions and billions of these systems. This is exactly like atoms. Atoms are made up of varying numbers of electrons circling a nucleous. So, I figure our planet system is just an atom on the dust ball in God's pocket. Earth, but an electron in that dustball atom. This would make God a really, really, really big person. Which would fit right in with how some folks see him.

Unintentionally Sacrilegious

I had a dream last night. In this dream I found myself in a line that stretched to infinity. We constantly moved forward but seemed to make no headway. After what seemed an eternity, I entered a big hall. The line of people to the front were lost in the horizon as the aisle we were standing in blended with the huge alter at the end. I finally made it to the front. Stretched out on this huge pancake flipper was a clown with huge clown feet. His face was pasty white, his nose the obligatory redball and his white hair puffed out from under a cartoon version of a bishop's hat. Just as I got close enough to see the hairs in his nose, he sat up holding a sign that said, "I think we are all Bozo's on this bus". And then he smiled at me. One of those big semi toothy smiles of an old geezer. An old lady in front of me fainted and the guy behind me ran screaming down the aisle. I just stood there and grinned back.

I am not sure what this dream meant. But surely the recent demise of the Pope had something to do with it. Combine my renewed interest in Firesign Theater and what we have are all the ingredients needed for a truly bizarre REM encounter. I awoke disturbed but not like waking from a nightmare. I felt like I had done something naughty but couldn't put my finger on just what that naughty thing was. Regardless, an unusual dream in a mind not known to be a very fertile playground.

Insomnia3

Frantic thoughts dance and bounce
Mind games and concerns
Keeping sleep at arm's length
I can see it if I close my eyes
Almost taste it if I concentrate

But it hangs there just out of reach
As the clock creeps up on a quarter to three.
Oh please free me, release me
Give me a break fer Christ's sake.
Daytime won't wait for me to be late

The covers are too hot
So I kick them off
Roll right,Roll left,
Stop in the middle and then roll back
Can't find that special sweet spot
Not hard, not soft and not too hot

I get up, get a drink, and flick on the tube
Late night TV, ads about college Boobs
Sci Fi's pushing a big snake movie
TNT and TBS, same inane stupidity
Fear Factor reruns and Little House on the Prairie

Watching but not seeing
I sit there and wonder
Why this is happening to me
Listening but not hearing
I sit there on there couch
And watch a cat lick it's ass

This trip is becoming familar
Every night the same routine
Climb into the sack and stare at the dark
worrying the day, suffering every part
Mulling over every fopah and mistake

My wife says, Mike just relax
Take some aspirin and just kick back
Sure is easy to say
as she snores over there on her back

About 4, all I want is an ax
Run amok, go on the attack
Share my joy and wake the neighbors up
But being a reasonable man and generally considerate
I sit silent and wallow in my self inflicted Hell

When I close those little peepers
The low grade nightmare begins
Hyper, energized and mutated
Thoughts and concerns pulsate
So I sit with eyes open
The lights on and no one's home
I can tell. I am on the outside looking in.