Lost in the Bozone

Free Range Holiday

2009-07-04T09:37:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-03T09:03:00.002-04:00

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

2009-06-25T08:46:00.006-04:00

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

2009-06-23T23:36:00.001-04:00

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

2009-06-21T21:21:00.002-04:00

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

2009-06-20T07:24:00.007-04:00

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

2009-05-29T22:00:00.000-04:00

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

2009-05-28T20:52:00.007-04:00

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

2009-05-28T08:07:00.005-04:00

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

2009-05-14T09:21:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-10T19:16:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-08T06:17:00.002-04:00

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.

Even more interesting is that I have not even bothered removing many of the things my father kept stashed inside it's guts. In the top drawer his trusty slide rule, triangular scale rulers, fountain pens and ink sit dusty alongside 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 out with some gizmo I often 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

2009-05-06T06:32:00.011-04:00

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

2009-05-02T05:32:00.000-04:00

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)

Breakfast on a Beautiful Maine Spring Morning

2009-04-26T04:09:00.006-04:00

Got bit by the first Black Fly of 2009 the other day. Squashed that sucker flat and did not even think about it until later. No big deal. Once Mud Season winds down, Black Flies and Peepers will quickly follow. Just another rite of Spring here in mostly rural Maine.

This morning early, I was sitting out on stone steps by the garage. The Sun was just peeking up solid over the trees to the East. It was the first truly warm morning since last July. The Black flies were already out in clouds. I sat and pondered this warm beautiful morning with that first fresh cup of coffee cradled between my hands. One of the little bastards landed on my forearm and dug in. Instead of squashing it, I flicked it off my arm. It landed right in that just poured cup full of coffee. I looked down at it as began to frantically backstroke on the surface. Flapping it's little wings and probably pissing black fly piss into my coffee. Little bastards. Dumbest damn insects on the planet in my opinion.

What to do? Do I pour it out and let the little bugger ruin that vitally important first coffee of the day? Do I try to fetch it out of there to save the cup? Then I remembered that in the course of any normal Black Fly Season, I will probably ingest, inhale or otherwise consume pounds and pounds of Black Flies before Mosquitoes move in and take over. So I drank the coffee.

As I dropped the cup from my lips, I looked inside. Hmm. Good. Fly is down the hatch. I imagined what sort of horror filled thoughts might be going through the mind of that fly as it traversed the gravity well to my stomach. I delighted in knowing it would suffer as stomach acids would consume it and break out the nutrients it might have within it to keep my body's energy level up. Then I remembered Black Flies must have no minds. They are so dumb, they cannot even find their way out from behind my glasses. Just keep beating themselves silly against the inside of my lenses until I manage to snag them and crush them out of their misery.

So it goes. The first true sign snow is behind us for a few months. Warm weather is here. Gardens are being tilled, grass is poking up and the the forsythia is brilliantly yellow. In the evening, the peepers begin their nightly song looking for other frogs to mate with. Life moves on it's predictable way and I once again get used to eating bugs.

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

(444 / 10,882)

This Post Was Supposed to be About Coffee

2009-04-22T23:13:00.007-04:00

Accidentally he regained his stride. Without a clue or an idea, somehow he relocated his center. For months his life had been out of sync. Off kilter and without direction. Oh sure there were duties, obligations, and those day to day situations he could not avoid. He side stepped what he could, putting off the inevitable for as long as possible.

About the time he was sure it was too late, he discovered it really is never too late. Starting where you are, you move on, put one foot in front of the other, deal with the task up front. It is but a matter of finding a gear, any gear to move forward in.

Nothing corrodes the soul like sitting in idle for too long. Comfort zones often become life sentences. Fear of the unknown or loyalty to the familiar can stifle Life's many pleasures along with Life's many evils. Erecting walls is often not selective. Much of what we should probably experience or would definitely enjoy if experienced is kept out along with the ugliness we seek to avoid.

I certainly fell into the comfort zone trap. Domestic bliss brought with it a whole new set of priorities. No longer could I chase whatever butterfly floated by. My life was part of another's and hers part of mine. Normal roads were traveled. Steady work sought, homestead founded, and family begun. One day led into the next. A child was born, was raised, and set free. Matters of importance centered on physical needs. Food, new school clothes, and gas for the truck replaced dreams that once flitted through on occasion. When the dreams re-visited, they were often not even given a first thought, never mind a second one. Immediate concerns about being a good parent, a good provider and a decent partner took their place.

It all changed the day the last chick left the nest. I was suddenly without a reason to exist. My job had been done. My purpose fulfilled. Time to wander off into the forest. And basically that is what I did for a period.

I sought excuses. I found them easy to find. Seems no matter where you look, a convenient excuse sits. I made use of them for far too long. Lost too much time wallowing in the comfort of my self pity. When I realized what I had done to myself, the cycle had been well established. Insidious and relentless, it kept me in emotional shackles. I could not find a way out. Life was busy all around me, but I had quit.

Today I sit wondering just how I fell into such a hole. And at the same time I try to understand how I seemed to have climbed out of it. Crisis has a way of re-adjusting attitudes and focus I guess. I will credit my troubled bike business with this latest goose to bring me back to the land of the living. Life's cycles move in mysterious ways. Ups and downs can visit without rhyme or reason. And often I will come out on the other side and wonder how the Hell I did it.

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

(526 / 10,438)

50 Pictures

2009-04-22T05:25:00.005-04:00

I really should be working on my business plan. Or I should be asleep. Even at 4:25 AM, fooling around on the blog creates pangs of guilt. I feel the need to utilize every waking thought to efforts to salvage my business. But you know what? Screw that. I can only be consumed by something for so long before I either explode, or walk away for a time. A sanity break. Or insanity break. Take your pick.

The other day I was reminded just how out of touch I was with the pulse of this shrinking world. I hit the Drudge Report for a quick overview of what was happening in the World and I came upon a link to the 50 worst celebrity pics of 2008. Say what you will about Drudge, but the man has figured out just what headlines to link to draw in the millions he does everyday. I visit because his political link list is huge and saves me the trouble of keeping one myself.

I punched up the 50 Worst Celeb Pics link. I was immediately tossed into the world of trash journalism I used to only see while waiting impatiently to check out at the local Piggly Wiggly. I took the time to look at each picture. When I finished, I sat back and realized I only recognized maybe 5 people out of the 50. Am I out of the loop or what? 20 years ago, I would have identified at least 20 of them. All those celebs begin to look alike when all I see are drunk pictures or naked body shots from 200 yards away. I did enjoy the picture of OJ in handcuffs while the verdict was read.

But all in all, perusing those images of celebrities not having the best of days, was like looking at some strangers family photo album. I felt no connection to most, and the poor quality of most images looked like an amateur took them. "Oh Look, here's our darling Ami smoking crack." People caught up in private moments that happen everywhere everyday. Yet, because these folks have done something famous, been something famous, or were born famous, somehow these Kodak moments of them living below their fame are worthy of being printed? I just do not get it.

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

(385 / 9912)

A Journey with a Drunk

2009-04-18T23:48:00.008-04:00

I found the bottle of Black Label Jack Daniels the other night. I had bought it to take with me camping last summer. I was not looking for it. I was looking for something else. Just what I was looking for was forgotten the moment I laid eyes on that fifth with about 3 shots worth still inside.

I gave up drinking..... uh, I guess about the mid 1990's. I didn't think about it, I just decided one day drinking was not doing it for me anymore. Hangovers, obnoxious behaviour, and wasted money all suddenly seemed so foolish. 25 years as a hard likker drinker had finally worn me out. So I quit.

Okay so I have tipped a few since then. But I would guess less than a case of beer and way less than a quart of likker have passed my lips in the 12 years since I gave demon rum the boot. The occasional party, wedding, or those moments I just wanted a beer came up from time to time. But for the most part, I just stopped. Didn't anguish. Didn't even really think about it. Became a semi teetotaler.

And then I found that bottle of Jack. I picked it up, unscrewed the top, and passed the bottle under my nose. The sweet smoky aroma caught me and I just had to have a taste. I tipped the bottle back and let a small amount drain into my mouth. Wow! I was immediately questioning the poor judgement I used when I cut this elixir of the gods out of my life. Swishing the brown liquid joy, I swallowed and felt the old familiar burn and warmth the first shot always brings with it.

We all have weaknesses. Some of us have more than others, but all of us have something that makes us crazy. Of the many weaknesses I seem to embrace, hard liquor is most definitely one I have trouble controlling. Sour Mash and Single Malts are my favorites. I can consume them like they are water. I begin to drink because of the taste. At some point it turns into drinking for the buzz. And finally I black out and do things I would regret if I could remember them. I was often rudely reminded of this impolite tendency of mine by folks who regretted having me around when Mike's lights went out. The last time I blacked out, I made quite the scene at my nephew's wedding. My brother still has not forgiven me. Sen. Dick Lugar was there and apparently I was very rude. That was I think in 1991. Thereabouts anyway. Open bars are so dangerous.

Flash forward to tonight. As I sipped what was left in that bottle of Jack, I was immediately bummed there was only a token gesture left. And yet at the same time relieved. Not enough to get out of control, just enough to leave me with a good taste and a mild buzz. Forced moderation is about the only way I can handle moderation. And even then, when the appetite has been teased, I often will search out more buzz fulfilling substances just to keep the momentum of the whatever buzz I have at the moment. Probably a good thing I quit when I did.

Never underestimate the power of a determined drunk

Because the measly three ounces left in that Jack bottle left me wanting more of the same, I went exploring for more of the same. My wife still drinks. I knew she had some Cuervo Gold in the liquor cabinet. She likes the occasional girly drink of some kind that needs to ruin good tequila to make it. Yes, there it was. Up front, half empty and just asking to be drained. But wait! What's this? Hiding up on the top shelf covered in an inch of dust? By Jesus, it's a never opened bottle of Rebel Yell. Uh Oh. I see trouble brewing.

In the scheme of, or rather the hierarchy of my sour mash favorites, it goes thusly - Jim Beam when that's all I could get and what I wanted was a buzz and no fooling around. When in a more casual mode, Black Jack was my go to favorite. Reasonably priced, especially in St.Louis, and the quality was hard to beat. True sippin whiskey. Good, straight or on ice. Definitely sacrilege to mix it with anything else. But of all my favorites, my top tier pick even though it was often cheaper than Jack, Rebel Yell Whiskey has to be the one. More kick at 90 proof than Jack and it still had that special smoky flavor only those Scottish descendants from the South know how to tweak out of some corn meal and water. And here right in front of my half mast eyes was a bottle that has been aging for God knows how long. Going to sleep soon was put on hold.

I pulled the bottle out of the cabinet. Dust and cobwebs covered it. A quick wipe off with a wet rag and I was ready to crack the ATF seal, tip it up and take a good hit when I remembered my place. An unopened bottle of Rebel Yell could not just be cracked open and drained into open gaping mouths. There were rules about this kind of shit. A top quality sippin whiskey needed to be sipped from an appropriate vessel to achieve the full impact of the nectar so many slaved over to get into that bottle. It was a matter of respect.

While I contemplated the various ways to enjoy this fine whiskey, I looked the bottle over hoping to find some kind of date that would tell me how long it had been waiting for me to open it up. Hmm. A Maryland tax stamp. Looks like it was 1990 I brought this bottle home from a trip South. 19 years in the bottle after who knows how many years in an oak barrel in some dark dank warehouse in Kentucky. Excellent.

Now, to pick just the absolute perfect glass to waft it, whiff it, and swish it between my cheek and gum. I looked up to the forgotten shelf of alcohol glasses from my previous years of wanton imbibement. Pub glasses, wine glasses, shot glasses with clever and witty slogans on them and then I saw it. My silver gilded shot glass. The glass a lady friend from my loose dog single days bought me for Christmas or a birthday. It had significance at the time. Now it sat dusty on the shelf, the silver long gone black and just shouting, "Pick Me. pick me."

It is now 3:10 AM. I have made a serious dent in that fifth of Rebel Yell. I sit here drunken and disorderly trying to impart what it is like to be shitfaced after an absence from that scene for so many years. It's not like being drunk for the first time. But it's close.

As ever, moving onto something else, something hopefully better..............

Notes from the next day - Payback for being stupid

As I stated, the last time I remembered was 3:10 AM. I must have at least found the couch because that is where I came back into reality in a semi-comatose state around 7:30 AM. I immediately understood why I had given up alcohol in the first place. It was waking up like this after losing control the night before. My head was at least the size of a basketball. My tongue felt and tasted like the cats had taken turns using it as a litter box. And each eye seemed to follow their own path, one focused at two feet, the other at three feet.

Several cups of coffee and a handful of Ibuprophen finally performed their magic and both eyes fell into sync and my head seemed to shrink down to something resembling normal. My balance was still shaky and no amount of tooth paste and mouth wash was going to bring back that fresh mouth feeling. The crud was going to have wear off I guess.

I staggered through my morning rituals beating myself up because I still had to go to work ferchrisakes. I had to be presentable in a few hours, at least pretend to be among the living. Yes, I loved my demon rum. But the price it exacts because I have no control is not worth the full day of payback that follows. That bottle of Rebel Yell is back on that dusty shelf, hopefully forgotten until the next time I need a reminder of why I do not drink anymore.

Some lessons need to be updated brutally on occasion just to reinforce positive behaviour in the future.

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

(1424 / 9527)

The Commuter

2009-04-17T18:09:00.001-04:00

The man hoisted his winter bloated pear shape up and over the flimsy two wheeled contraption and settled gingerly onto a precarious perch. Shifting his copious weight to the left a little and then back to the right so as to not damage his procreation orbs, he slowly lowered his top heavy body onto a platform measuring about 6 inches wide by about 10 inches long. After a couple of tentative touchdowns he allowed the puny platform to disappear into his butt cheeks. The resulting sensation was not pleasant, but he figured he could handle it. He pushed down on the right crank arm. His first bike commute of Spring was officially underway.

This simple action was the culmination of weeks of procrastination, wallowing in guilt as the pear shaped man used any excuse handy to not begin this annual torture.

"Not warm enough. Oh, look there, looks like rain. Shit! Not enough time to do it today. Or I really should take the truck, I might need it to haul something, anything could happen. Never know when a truck might come in handy."

Yes, weeks had passed this way as the man continued his pear shaped ways and sought any reprieve no matter how flimsy, from the eventual pain and agony of that first warm season commute by bike. And even when all the delaying excuses had worn thin, he still dragged his feet. Went over the bike not once, but two or three times. Adjusted this, played with that. Wasted more time looking for the right gear to make it safely from home to the shop. Checked his tools, his tubes, his pump, and even made sure that five dollar bill was still in the seat bag. Didn't matter that it was only 8 miles one way, he had to know he had the gear to go on a three week tour ready and able. He often dreamed of not stopping at the shop one day. Just keep going. Don't look back. Pedal away from this life and into another.

As that first hill swept by at forty plus, the fat commuter man was grateful he had guessed right about his clothing choice. It was damn cool, but only his face seemed uncomfortable. His eyes teared up. He couldn't see. He just tried to keep the bike on the black ribbon in front of him and hoped no one was coming the other way. The bike wandered from one side of the road to the other. He caught a crack and almost stacked it hard. Somehow he held on. At the bottom of the hill he smiled.

This is what it was all about. The predictable pain he worked so hard to avoid and put off was forgotten as the joy of pedaling a bike re-dawned on his soul. Simple pleasure took it's place. The pedaling fool geared down smoothly as the bottom transitioned up again. By the top and out of breath, pain finding it's way into his muscles and lungs, he stilled grinned. Harder now, he stepped into it and punched up the big ring and blasted out onto the highway not even giving that four way intersection a second thought. Out on 109 he pedaled the ridge. A beautiful glorious view across Apple Valley stopped at skies so blue, it hurt to look at them. He stroked easy, he took his time. He landed in Springvale pumped and ready for whatever came his way that day.

Our hero conveniently did not consider that going home would be a different matter. He would cross that bridge when he closed up for the night. Right now, this moment, he felt alive again. In pain and out of breath, his face still laughed. Winter's cocoon had been shed.

Later..........

(630 / 8103)

Making Something from Nothing

2009-04-16T07:23:00.005-04:00

Immersing myself into my business so completely has been interesting. Not only am I attempting to run something that would be better served with four hands on the tiller instead of two, I am also attempting to find some money to re-finance my business with. That means writing a new business plan. I remember now how much agony it was to write my first one 12 years ago. I am also working with the Small Business Administration (SBA) rep in my area and attending seminars on helping dumass small business owners navigate the labyrinth and mazes of the world of big finance.

My SBA rep did tell me I was managing the money I did bring in about as well as it could be managed. What I need is more sales. I have learned to make do with less sales. Both of us realize that in order to make more money, I have to spend more money. And not having more money is the problem. So my only alternative is to borrow it. To find money, I need to appear to have a better grasp of the future than I do. It's always about the future ain't it?

He has given me some serious homework to complete. First I have to study all those important accounting entries my shop has generated over the last 4 years. Then using the percentages of costs as part of the Gross Profit, inject them into a worksheet to predict my future based on projected future gross sales. While I would be happy with any positive growth instead of the slow downward trend I have been experiencing for the last few years, the SBA guy insists that I need numbers to woo and impress the Bankers with. And they need to be realistic numbers. I would prefer to pull them out of my ass, but he will not let me do that.

Mind numbing stuff for sure. Accounting, spreadsheets, cash flows and overhead are not terms I enjoy watching bump around the ole cranial void. They upset all the free spirits up there and before I know it, everyone is unhappy. Like someone turned on a spigot full bore and let it run, my mind is being poured into things and duties outside my comfort zone. It is interesting, but my unfamiliarity with this "next" level of business stuff leaves me feeling overwhelmed and exhausted. And I still have to find the energy to be pleasant to customers, vendors, and keep the wrench turning turning. I will say this. The bike shop is anything but the same ole, same ole this year. If I survive this summer, I will indeed be patting myself on the back come September.

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

(452 / 7473)

Reflecting

2009-04-14T07:07:00.004-04:00

As we transition from children into adults, most of us go through similar phases. The phases of discovery, rebellion, re-discovery become part of what makes us the adults we become. Each phase brings with it a little more maturity of body and mind. Yet each experience is totally unique to each of us. Where we were raised. By whom were we raised. Small town, big town or all around - each and every one of us goes through similar changes but with the specific backdrops tweaking that experience and folding it into the character we ultimately develop as adults.

I was no different. I looked at the life of my parents and told myself, "Not me. I am going to follow my path, not theirs" I then actively sought a life completely removed from the traditional professional trades both sides of my family had been involved in for generations going back hundreds of years. I was not going to be a doctor, a lawyer.........a boss. I would carve my own way. Yeah right.

I did start out on a different path. Out of college, I pursued the blue collar life of an over the road truck driver. And for 8 years, I lived out of a suitcase and collected hundreds of hotel room keys. I saw things. I did things my middle class family would never have dreamed of. Yeah, I was showing them.

I had not considered that the value systems I had been exposed to as a child would eventually win out. At some point while pounding the highway between point A and Point B, I had a revelation. I was damn sick and tired of being on the road. I had had it with being alone. The time had come for me to leave this life of truck stops and clothes smelling of diesel fuel. I wanted to sleep in the same bed every night. Suddenly the idea of settling down became important to me.

I had become what I vowed not to become. I know it was no small satisfaction to my parents that they had been right all along. I just had more rebellion in my belly to work through before I understood that the Life they had been grooming me for was going to happen no matter what I did to fight it. It would be great to say I beat the system. But I didn't. I just put off the inevitable a tad longer than others might.

And now after almost 30 years of domesticated existence, I sit here waxing nostalgic about the Life I left out on the super slab somewhere. I could go back to it I guess. Trucks still operate the same as they did many years ago. But no. I have made commitments and promised myself to other endeavors. I am in a life long relationship that requires my attendance and focus every day. And even though it is a struggle sometimes, I have no regrets. What I have, I built for myself. Both the good and the bad.

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

(511 / 7021)

Another Resurrection of Sorts

2009-04-12T13:12:00.000-04:00

My ability to find time to play on the computer has been cut back dramatically in the last few weeks. The bike shop has picked up. Since I am attempting to run it completely solo this season, I am putting in more time to make up for the lack of hired help. I have not put as much thought or effort into the blog recently. Seems my mind is into a different mode at the moment. The Business mode. Creativity is needed, but on different wavelengths than I use when diddlin and fiddlin on this blog.

I can never remember which side of my brain is the creative side and which is the get er done side. Two weeks ago though, the side I used then is definitely not the side I am using now. Thoughts do not wander off the reservation as much as they did a short while ago. I have the Loose Dog leashed to the sled and we're mushing it. So far, we seem to be holding our own.

I am now into my eleventh season at CRUM Cycles. I am absolutely amazed I have made it this far. Conventional wisdom says one should have at least $75,000 to start a bike shop. $100,000 would be even better. Proof I guess of the tired old saying, "It takes money to make money". In late 1998, I had maybe $2000 in bike parts, maybe $3000 dollars in tools, and a determination to give the bike business one more good shot before I gave it up.

I found a location in need of renovations. I found a bank willing to loan me $25,000 dollars. My future landlord would give me a break on the rent for the labor I invested in the renovations. The bank would give me 7 years to pay back the $25K. Full of myself, I was sure I could make this happen and in five years not be a renter, but an owner. In five years, my business would be debt free. That was the plan anyway.

My five year business plan was shot in the butt in the year following 9/11. Starting in 2002, our local economy began an odd cycle. I think it was that long ago we began a slow slide to where we are today. I only say this because that is when I began to have trouble at the bike shop. My speculation of future sales and the resulting purchases I made to meet them created a negative cash flow situation that I have not recovered from completely since. My purchases were not based on unrealistic projections. They were actually quite conservative. Yet my pre-season commitments at that time were too much for the business environment that followed. My shop has been limping along for basically the last 7 years as I am constantly playing catch up for the past due bills of the previous year. Had I been smart or less hard headed, I would have bailed in 2004. Cut my losses and found something else to do for a paycheck.

What I shoulda, coulda done is beside the point. I am here now with whatever bed I have made for myself these last 10 years. I still enjoy doing what I do, fixing bikes, selling parts, and talking about bikes with the wackos who ride them. But it has become harder to stay enthusiastic as each year pans out like the previous one. I am the captain of a ship taking on more water than the bilge pumps can pump out. I am still afloat, but with each passing summer, I sit lower in the water than I did before.

All of this soul baring is really just a notification of sorts. I am one more time going to focus all of my faculties on saving my business. One more time I will attempt to keep my shop from crashing on the rocks or just going down in heavy seas. So expect my visits to other blogs to be seldom. I will try to post here as often as possible. This writing thing is a wonderful release for me. But bear with me and don't take it personally if I am not the frequent visitor I used to be. More important shit is going on and I need to pay attention to it. But I will drop in from time to time. Right now, on this Easter Sunday, I am headed down to the shop to fix a couple of bikes for next week.

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

(757 / 6510)

From One Dream to Another

2009-04-11T06:42:00.004-04:00

She told the three of us, "I wouldn't believe one word the three of you said. You do not strike me as the kind of people who would have a clue about burrowing in hard, digging deep, or have what it takes to really want to find the answer."

I sat across from her and listened to this. On either side of me were two fellows I did not recognize but I guess I probably should have. They looked familiar but for some reason I was drawing a blank about their identities. I looked from one to the other. Their blank faces told the truth of what the woman had said. We were all indeed clueless. I know I was. Her words made no sense to me. What were we supposed to be seeking that she was sure we did not have what it took to find? Who were these clowns on either side of me? And where the Hell was I?

I re-focused on the woman across the broad table from me. I tried to identify her, pin down a description to hopefully get a grip on who the Hell she was and why I was sitting across a scarred table from her. Her face was one moment a tranquil and pleasant face. I would blink or look away for a second and when I returned to confront her, her mug would be twisted in anger or be the bloated jolly face of a laughing fat woman. Sometimes blond, sometimes brunette. Each time I looked away and then looked back, it was a different face speaking the same words in the same tone. And still the three of us sat mute and hopelessly vacant of any clue.

At some point in this odd stand off, a window opened. A cool wet blast of air moved through the room. I shivered. I woke up. Fernando el Magnifico's furry face was two inches from mine. "Dude, it's five o'clock. I want you to play with me." Clamped between his jaws was one of the many plastic rings we took off of milk bottles. I closed my eyes trying to regain the dream that had caught my imagination. Another wet blast came through as Fernando again rubbed his cold wet nose across my cheek.

"Damn cat. Okay, okay. Gimme that ring." Fernando let go as I grabbed it. I tossed it as far as I could from my prone position. Fernando chased. I sat up and rubbed the left over sleep from my eyes. Fernando found the ring, picked it up and trotted back so I could toss it again. Another day on the planet begins.

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

(444 / 5763)

Happy Birthday Curly

2009-04-09T13:07:00.000-04:00

Odd how some posts I concoct start off with the idea of keeping the post on the lighter side of things. Humor or at least subjects with little controversy attached being my goal. Often, no sooner do I get started with some research for a picture or background information, all the fun and humor get smacked out of me with the click of a mouse.

This morning's effort is a perfect example. Today is my birthday. I have had enough of them so instead of tooting my own horn, I was going to find someone else who shares this unique day with me. Someone famous or not so famous. But famous enough to have made some birthday list somewhere. By some vicarious manipulations, some of their fame might just rub off for a second or two.

At History Orb.com I found a link to 242 people way more famous than I who were born on April 9. I wandered up an down the list. Stopping when I recognized some name, or something caught my eye. At one point, the words "Columbine Shooter" grabbed my attention. All the fun reasons I was here got shot in the butt right then and there.

It never dawned on me that Evil could be born on the same day as I. But there it is. Eric Harris, one of the two Columbine Shooters was born on 4/9/81. 18 years, 11days later he and his buddy, Dylan Klebold died of self inflicted gunshot wounds. In their wake, they left 12 dead and 23 wounded people who had been just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. As it turned out according to to exhaustive FBI profiling and investigation, their act of terror was not even just payback for normal teen angst and mistreatment. They were hoping to make the Oklahoma Bombing look pitiful in comparison to their effort. They did everyone a favor by offing themselves.

Magnar Am not only shares my birthday, but my birth year also. Today we are both 57 years old. There is not much out there about Magnar. But way more than there is about me. Magnar is affiliated with some worldwide organization against hunger. And he obviously takes his Norwegian roots seriously. His discography does not seem to have made it out of Norway.

Magnar is a Norwegian Contemporary Classical Music Composer. The term "Norwegian Contemporary Classical Music Composer" came from some web site. I assume it is an official designation in the hierarchy of musical genre possibilities. The audiophiles out there just love to pigeonhole every type of music as specifically as possible. Why is that? Is it not enough to just say, the guy composed music for some Norwegians and leave it at that?

And last but no means least is one Earl "Curly" Lambeau. Curly was born on April 9, 1898. Curly was so good at football, he made it a career. He was the Green Bay Packers first coach and has since had a stadium named after him. He is certainly more famous than I. And apparently better at the game of football also. He coached the Packers from 1921 to 1949 and had almost a .600 winning average.

So Happy Birthday to all of you out there who were born this day. Even those of you dead and long gone. April 9 may just be another day in the life for most of us, but for some of us, it is another day but with a footnote.

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

(585 / 5319)

Product Endorsement

2009-04-08T09:37:00.010-04:00

It does not matter how I found this website. Through a convoluted series of brain skips and forks in the roads of my mind, I stumbled upon these folks in Massachusetts who make organic Earth friendly soap. I would call them Hippies, but well, first of all I do not know them. Second of all, we all know Hippies are too busy being stoned to take baths, so soap is not something dirty Hippies would be interested in. That is of course if you like to live off stereotypes. If so, then why would a Hippie make soap?

Anyway, their name is "Just Soap" . Their claim is their soap is organic, biodegradable, and handmade. Handmade? Well, not exactly. The owner found that mixing the soap to proper thickness by hand was a tedious and tiring chore. Mixing by hand necessitated smaller amounts of the pre-soap brew which meant his prices had to be high to compensate for all that hand labor.

Being a cyclist also, he decided to find a bike builder who would help him design and build a soap blending contraption powered by foot pedals. Their efforts apparently worked. He can now produce more soap in less time by pedal power. His prices are kept down. His commitment to Eco-friendly means of production are met. And I assume he has more product to sell and possibly live a little more comfortably because of it. Win/win all around.

My experience with handmade soap is limited. But so far, all I have tried has been a pleasant surprise over the mainstream soap I find at the super market. I will be ordering some of this soap. It looks like the best bang for the buck handmade soap I have seen. Most of the organic soaps I have purchased are more the size of motel room bars and way expensive. "Just Soap" seems to offer value along with a good product. They even age their bars for two months to harden them up so they will last longer. In addition, there are hints to increasing the life of a bar of soap.

I realize this endorsement is based on no more than a website visit. My plug is solely based on the method of production, I felt the urge to give these folks some props. At some point, I will follow up with my impressions of their soap. I am partial to oatmeal soaps. I think I will start with their version.

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

(414 / 4734)