MIddle Class Middle Aged White Guy

The Nelson Odeon

2012-01-24T18:39:00.000-05:00

What the hell is an Odeon, anyway?

The textbook definition is a "Greek or Roman theater". For our purposes here, though, we're talking about a former grange hall in the town - crossroads, really- of Nelson.

True to both the theater of antiquity and it's former life as a grange hall, it currently hosts musical artists, mostly of the "roots" persuasion.

Oh, so it's a theater, or club, then?

No, it's much more than meets the eye. It's only after experiencing the Nelson Odeon firsthand that you realize it's more than just a charming room with a stage.

When you realize that the folks who work hard to bring the shows do so out of love for the music and because they want to share the music with others and the acts themselves do what they do because they love what they do that you begin to realize it's something very special. Sure, the owners and artists would love to make money doing what they do, but it's not the primary driving force behind what they do.

Recently we attended a potluck for friends and volunteers of the theater and what surprised me was that that spirit carried over into the food that was there. Now at almost any gathering I've been to, there are always those who - for whatever reason - just stop at the deli and pick up their contribution. That was not really the case here. Almost everyone who brought food to share went the extra mile and prepared it from scratch...because they cared enough to.

So my definition of Odeon would have to include something like "oasis of benevolent spirit in a sea of apathy and animosity"

Oh, Poor, Lonely, Neglected Blog....

2011-12-06T06:03:00.002-05:00

...good thing no one reads you...

All my writing energies - such as they are - have been hijacked by English 103. I learned a lot in that class, such as: "Scholarly writing is where you take a perfectly good piece of writing and cram it into someone else's framework, because WHAT you say is much less important than whether it fits someone's arbitrary guidelines or not" and "Editing is where you take the piece you're writing, and re-write it over and over again, until you've completely sucked the life out of it and no longer CARE about what you're writing. Then you're done".

Fortunately, only two more classes and I'm done. I still, however, have one more semester of English. (Why I have to spend as many credit hours in ENGLISH as I did in ANATOMY for a PTA degree is way beyond me...) No more driving 45 minutes each way for "peer review" - I don't give a rat's ass what my CLASSMATES think of the paper, they're not giving me the grade - I'm taking the next class ON LINE.

That was easily....

2011-08-13T13:53:00.000-04:00

...one of the worst days I've had on the bike in quite a while.

Felt like I was riding in wet concrete almost the whole time.
Caught up to another rider and hung with him for a while... until he dropped me like a sack of hammers.
My ass hurt for a good part of the ride. (What's up with that? I thought I had already done my "break-in" for the season).
About 2/3 of the way through, my legs started barking at me pretty badly.
I had a headwind on the way home, seemingly without the benefit of the tailwind on the way out.
Near Edgewater, I ran out of "gas" and had to mow down some Shot Blocks and a Clif Shot.
About a half mile from home, my left quad cramped up so badly that I couldn't pedal for a little while -fortunately, that section is downhill....

....oh, and I flatted, too.

But, all in all, it was still better than the best day at work....

The Midlife-Mobile

2011-07-08T06:10:00.010-04:00

I got it in my head that I needed a "toy".

I justified to to myself by saying "Hey, you've been "diligently" at your job for 20 years, your kid just turned 21 so you're theoretically done there, you took the plunge and went back to school....you've been Mr. Responsible, you deserve a toy....."

I thought about building an old truck or a street rod.

I thought about buying something stupid-fast.

I thought heavily about another motorcycle.

I still felt guilty and irresponsible. I have a Honda Element that's paid for, everything works and it does what I need it to do: haul people and "stuff". But still.....

I said to myself "What would I do with an old truck or street rod?" and the answer came back "Drive it to "car nights", park it and stand around and BS...." Not exactly my idea of a good time, and not very practical.

I thought about buying something stupid-fast, but thought "Where the hell would I actually USE such a thing?....and Jesus, at damned near four bucks a gallon, how practical would THAT be?"

Okay, so I started looking around at smaller, but sporty cars. One of my buddies just bought a Subaru STI. I thought a lot about that -it's pretty sweet - but the price tag (30K) just made me ill - and yowzer! The gas mileage he's getting is worse than what I already have!

Apparently if I was going to be irresponsible, I wanted to at least be responsible about it.

A motorcycle would seem to be the ticket, then. I looked around at what's available and came back empty-handed. All it seems that's out there are cruisers - which I despise - and stupid sport bikes -ungodly fast, but uncomfortable. Another GoldWing would be OK, but the price tag on those is stupid expensive and I don't really do the type of riding to justify a long-haul bike anymore.

Then I found the brand-new Honda VFR1200:

Sporty? Check! Comfortable? Check! Practical? If I got the optional hard bags - Check! Gas mileage? Well....lousy for a bike, but still better than every car I looked at.

Still, the price tag kind of had me hesitating. It was twice what I'd ever paid for a bike, and it would sit in the garage all winter. How practical was that?

Somehow - and I'm not even sure how- I heard about the new Honda CR-Z. I went and looked at it, and test drove it. Hmmm....

Sporty? Well, it wouldn't exactly mash you into the upholstery, but it had a definite "fun quotient". Comfortable? Check. Practical? At around 40 MPG, yes, definitely. I could certainly at least pretend to justify the purchase by saying "It's gets almost twice the mileage of The Dumpster, and with going back and forth to school two nights a week, that's important..."

Okay, so now I'm really on the fence. I absolutely hate being in the throes of indecision.

One night, on my way to school in 90 degree heat, I realized how glad I was to be in an air-conditioned car and not on a motorcycle. I am a firm believer in "all the gear, all the time" and 90 degrees on a motorcycle is just no fun. Been there, done that, didn't like it. Okay, so a motorcycle wouldn't get ridden in extremely hot weather or extremely cold weather. (I'm OK with rain). There's a demerit.

Another night - again on my way to school - I was threading my way through a couple of miles of stop-and-go traffic alongside an Audi R8.

That thing was BADASS. For a few moments, I thought: "WANT....."

Then I realized he wasn't going any faster than I was in The Dumpster and was probably frustrated as hell.

The CR-Z was starting to look better and better.

I stopped in at a couple of other dealers. One made me a better offer than the others and I kind of just threw in the towel and put a deposit down. (Of course, I bought the cheapest model).

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the MCMAWG Responsibly Irresponsible Midlife-Mobile:

Everyday heroes

2011-05-09T09:17:00.003-04:00

I was at Wegman's in DeWitt NY the other day for my weekly grocery pilgrimage. As I was walking across the parking lot on my way in, I passed two "cart wranglers". I only heard part of their conversation as I passed, but the gist was that they were both going to do something or go on break together, but the older gentleman was telling the young guy he had to do something first.

He said "..Ok.....but I have to go drop this in Lost and Found, first...."

I happened to look over and he was holding up a bank deposit envelope. Y'know, the cloth kind, with a lock on them? The ones that often hold a metric shit-ton of money?

...and he was turning it in to Lost & Found.

Wow.

Not only was it good PR for the store and whoever lost it must have been sweating bullets, but, it may have been a nice example for the younger guy... and it was a nice reminder for me that in this ever-increasingly self-centered world, there are still people out there who care.

Twenty One

2011-03-28T05:54:00.003-04:00

Wow.

I won't say "It seems like only yesterday..." because I doesn't, but it sure seems like a lot less than twenty one years since I took on the job description: "Father".

It's the hardest job I've ever done, because kids don't come with an owner's manual. There is no degree program: "Parent 101". There can't be, since each child is an individual. The best I could come up with was to look to the examples around me. First and foremost were my own parents. I guessed I should look at what they did - both right and wrong- and use that info. I also looked at other parents around me and copied from their notes - keeping the "good" and throwing out the "bad". Still, I didn't have any younger siblings or even any younger cousins around to watch grow - so I was almost completely and utterly in the dark.

I knew that I did not want to create a "Mini Me". I had seen that too many other times before - parents who tried their best to mold their children in their own image. I saw this as patently unfair to the child, and often had dire consequences down the road.

I decided that the most important thing my parents ever taught me was to think for myself. When questions were posed, I seldom ever gave a straight answer-in fun and as an effort to encourage critical thinking - or I walked through the steps of how to go about finding the answers. If I didn't know, I said so and went about finding the answer. I figured that no matter how life ahead would be different, the ability to think, rather than just blindly accept what was being handed out would be critical.

I tried to be as "hands off" as possible - perhaps the opposite of a "helicopter parent"- only stepping in when it appeared that things had gone seriously astray. I offered advice when it was asked for. The big drawback is that that could be misconstrued as apathy. Quite the opposite. Caring enough to step back and let go is a tricky proposition. You want to step in, but....

I tried to lead by example - both in doing "the right thing" and following my own path, regardless of what everyone else is doing. I hope seeing someone do the right thing - even when no one was watching - just because it was the right thing took root. I also wish that my being "different" is an example of living by what is right for you, rather than just doing what everyone else does... because everyone else is doing it.

Perhaps my failings are a good example of leading by example... of what not to do.

I also tried to be a man of my word. If I promised something, I tried like hell to deliver. If I threatened something, I followed through (just often enough to keep the "threat" credible). I'm not sure my track record was too good, but I tried.

I encouraged learning, exploration and trying new things. I hope it didn't seem too scattershot or ADD... or that one shouldn't delve into things in depth, rather just superficially

In short, I sought to teach independent thinking, honor, and compassion. Pretty vague concepts, but ones that are essential, no matter where life takes you

I think, based on what I've seen, I succeeded, but the final exam is often decades long.

I hope I did a good job, for my part, and where I dropped the ball can be overlooked.

Certitude

2011-03-10T19:30:00.003-05:00

I said a while back that I promised myself I wasn't going to discuss religion, politics or red headed women here.

I've already violated that once, so what the hell - I'm going to do it again, and this time I'll violate BOTH of the first taboos. (The topic of red headed women remains sacrosanct).

What do they have in common? What George Will referred to as an "excess of certitude"; the view that the world can be viewed on simple terms, and that one's particular point of view is unshakably correct.

While being firm in one's convictions can be admirable, it seems that "my way is the right way" all too often leads to "my way is the ONLY way". (And in the case of religion, this all too often leads to "Our God can beat up your God").

What happened to mutual respect? The art of compromise? The willingness to accept someone else on their terms, though they may be different? Why does everything have to be an "all-or-nothing" proposition?

Politics seems to have degenerated into a test of political wills. Each side tries to ram it's agenda through, over the opposition, who dig their heels in and try to block anything and everything that their opponents try to do. The health care debacle was a perfect example. Rather than the Republicans accepting that the Democrats had the horsepower to push the bill through, and try to shape it into something workable, we got nonsense about "Death Panels!" and "Socialism!". What SHOULD have happened was the Republican party sitting down and saying "Ok if you change XYZ, and take this out, put that in and modify this, we'll vote for the bill". Why would it have been so horrible for a bipartisan party to sit down and say "Ok, we can all agree that our health care system needs reform..." and work from there? Why is "compromise" a dirty word? Why do we admire a shrewd bargainer in the business world, yet view politics in absolutist terms?

Politics has become all about "winning".... and you and I are the losers.

In the case of religion, I like to liken the world's religions to three blind men touching an elephant, and each describing what an elephant is, based on the part they're touching. The one touching the trunk has a very different picture than the one holding the tail, or the one touching the side, yet if you were to ask each of them what they thought an elephant was, they would be very adamant in their "picture". They would all be right, yet, in a way, they would all be wrong, because none of them can see the whole. Only Buddhism says "there are many paths". The rest, all too often, say "Our way is the only way". "Our God is the only God". "We're the Chosen People and you're not". I don't know about you, but to me, to say that you know unequivocally what God thinks/wants is at best arrogant, at worst, very, very dangerous. Too often that certainty leads to people thinking God has anointed them judge, jury and executioner.

People of faith seem totally unwilling to admit that "faith" by definition is "a belief in something that can't be proven" - because that opens the door to admitting that they might not be entirely correct. I see nothing wrong with that, and do NOT see it as a sign of weakness, but to many it's tantamount to blasphemy. To admit that maybe you don't KNOW exactly what God wants might mean you'd have to accept someone else may also have a piece of the puzzle.

As a student of history, I try to console myself by telling myself "This is nothing new. It's happened before and things have worked out", but last time we got so polarized, and let radicals on either end of the spectrum decide the fate of the country, there was a five year war that left about 700,000 Americans dead.

The Founding Fathers would no doubt understand, but I think they'd be very dismayed to see what we've become.

Honor....Where's it gone?

2011-03-10T18:33:00.003-05:00

"Honor is a gift a man gives to himself" - Rob Roy.

I was talking to a co-worker today - he was telling me about his family and personal issues that were sort of piling up on him at the moment. He tried to apply for Family Leave, but was told he'd used it up when he was out on disability for a torn rotator cuff. He asked how then, could some of the other employees get Family Leave - on multiple occasions- when their grounds for taking it were far less solid than his. He said he was told - by someone in authority - "Oh, well, you have to learn to play the game".

This incensed him - and to tell the truth, me as well. "Play the game? Play the game???" he said. Here he was trying to do things the right way and getting slapped down for it, while others, who were less-than-honest were getting away with something, because they knew how to "play the game".

He and I are not just co-workers. We share Italian ancestry and both grew up in a small, predominantly Italian town. I know from whence his indignation comes.

Back in the day.....

When we were growing up, there were two things that were pretty much written in stone: "Don't rat anyone out" and "Your word means everything". The first was a low rent version of "Omerta", I suppose, but the second was a very old-fashioned version of a code of honor.

It was completely inconceivable to go back on your word. Business deals were done with a handshake.

When I was buying my first car, my boss went to the bank with me (this was before they handed out loans like popcorn), lied about how long I'd been working there, and co-signed my car loan. You can bet your ass, I was there at the bank on the day before the payment was due, every month. Even if I'd been in the hospital in a body cast, I'd have sold off one of my kidneys to make sure that loan got paid. You might as well have suggested I could carry the moon around in my pocket, as to suggest I default on that loan.

Screwing someone over just wasn't done - politics and "business" notwithstanding. An employer could be counted on to do the fair thing and an employee - if they were smart - wouldn't try to take advantage of an employer.

If you said you were going to do something, you did it. If you borrowed money, you paid it back - and not just because Giuseppe was going to come around asking which was your favorite kneecap. If someone did you a favor, you OWED them - and if they came around twenty years later to collect, you were still obligated to return the favor.

Not so, today. People make and break promises all the while. Hell, getting someone to even show up somewhere they said they'd be is a sketchy proposition. The workplace is the same: Having heard horror story after horror story about people collecting disability or compensation, were I to get injured at work, my first stop after the hospital would be a compensation lawyer.

Something has been lost.

I Are A Kollidge Stoodint

2011-01-30T17:29:00.003-05:00

Initial impressions:

If colleges were held to the same standards of customer service as retail businesses, they'd be out of business in a heartbeat. I don't think I've ever called for something and gotten through on the first try. I even got a voice message that stated "We're all in a meeting right now...." Grrrrr....

JESUS CHRIST I'M OLD! A great number of my fellow students are 18-21-ish. It was kind of amusing when the prof left the room to retrieve some papers, once. IMMEDIATELY, twenty some-odd cell phones and frenzied texting commenced.

I also wonder how they manage to carry a full course load. I'm taking one class per semester (one class, one lab) and it's all I feel I can comfortably manage.

I was surprised to find that I still remember the names of many of the elements, when we were handed a copy of the Periodic Table. (Of course there are NEW elements that I didn't know about that have been added, since I last looked, but we won't talk about that). Hopefully my internal hard drive isn't full and I can assimilate this new material as well as I did...uh...a long time ago.

The Camera Eye

2010-12-24T07:02:00.002-05:00

My mother and sister both got the "artistic" gene in the family and I've always felt somewhat depraved - er- deprived.

Years ago, I spent -what was at the time- stupid money on a camera and lenses. I took the camera everywhere with me. I read book after book on composition, camera settings and technical details. I took tons and tons of pictures.

They all sucked.

After spending countless dollars on film and developing, only to be disappointed by shitty pictures, I gave up.

Fast forward a whole bunch of years. I bought a digital point-and-shoot camera and managed to take a few decent pictures with it, but found myself limited by what the camera could NOT do.

Taking that as a sign that I might be ready for something a little more "PRO-fessional" I bought a Sony Alpha 200 and started rediscovering photography. I also got Aperture as a Christmas gift last year, and that's been a big help. I think part of what I was missing with film was being able to control things in "the darkroom".

For me, digital has been very freeing. I am no longer afraid to take chances, because I don't have to pay to develop my pictures. I can shoot away and not even think about it. I also know that a certain amount of things can be corrected in "the darkroom".

I still have to learn to slow down and THINK about composition and I need to kick the "auto" crutch to the curb, but I have managed to take a few ...ok... pictures. I am really trying to learn to SEE pictures - a skill those of us without that artistic genes really struggle with.

Where the hell was this 30+ years ago?

They Don't Write 'Em Like That Anymore

2010-11-27T15:16:00.006-05:00

(Did I just invoke Greg Kihn???? Shoot me now.)

While doing some genealogical research, in an article about the death (from drink) of one of my ancestors, they made reference to him having been "...in the spy business with Ephraim Dow and that other shining light, Ad Webster."

Now apart from being very intrigued by the reference to the "spy business", I was rather amused at the sarcastic reference to Ad Webster's character. (MCMAWG thinks sarcasm, done properly, is an art form).

I had to know more. Even though it was tangential to the original purpose of my research, (finding Dell) I began to dig into the newspaper archives.

I found a gold mine of amusement.

Apparently, Ephraim Dow was a politically appointed Federal Marshall, and from what I can gather, they were excise tax agents, charged with making sure taverns and places that sold tobacco were properly licensed and paying taxes - the papers referred to him as a "revenue spy" in a couple of places.

It appears that, if someone was charged with Federal crime, they had to be taken to the capital in Albany to be tried. Whomever had to transport them to court got a per diem - even if the charges were dropped. Can you see the potential for abuse?

I also found that the papers took great delight in poking Ephraim Dow:

"Ephraim Dow and His Friends On A Bender - Dow Sentenced to $25 Fine and 45 Days Imprisonment - A Season Of Quiet Seclusion For Him.

The day before yesterday, Ephraim Dow, the attenuated revenue spy and informer was dispatched to arrest a saloon keeper in Geneseo by the name of John Conroy. It seems that Mr. Conroy, who did not have a license, sold two glasses of liquor to Ad Webster and a complaint against him was therefore lodged with US Commissioner Gilbert.

Dow, on his arrival in Geneseo, proceeded to test either Mr. Conroy's or somebody else's whiskey and tasted it so often that the inhabitants of that village were greeted with the sight of a United States official in a beastly state of intoxication...."

I admit to literally laughing out loud at that description. This wasn't an isolated incident - the Rochester Union and Advertiser is full of articles like that. One of my favorite articles takes great delight in Ephraim getting "euchred" by a woman. (I believe "euchred" would be the equivalent of today's "pwned"):

Ephraim Dow Euchred by a Woman

"Mrs. Schleber keeps a boarding house and lager beer saloon on Front Street. The other day she received a fresh invoice of beer and it so happened that on one of the barrels, the stamp had slid over the bung hole, and in driving in the spigot, part of the stamp was driven in with it. This is a gross violation of the revenue law which declares that the stamp must not be torn.

Through some means or other, Ephraim Dow, the revenue spy and informer, got word of this transaction and it was not long before Mrs. Schleber saw his bilious-looking countenance appearing in front of her bar, demanding to inspect the barrel. Permission was given him, and after searching for some time, he could not find sufficient pieces to make a whole stamp for the good reason that the missing portion was inside the barrel. This was, clearly, to his mind, a gross violation of the revenue laws and visions of prospective fees, traveling expenses &c. loomed up before him.

Putting on his most dignified air, he told Mrs. Schleber he should have to arrest her. This lady, however happens to be a rather muscular woman and she told Dow if he attempted anything of that kind, it would not be many minutes before his face would resemble a freshly plowed field.

High words ensued between the parties accompanied by sundry pushes &c. in which Dow got the worst of it and his departure was a trifle more accelerated than he desired."

In addition to making questionable arrests and snagging a per diem, he was also known to shake down the populace:

"Them Dow Fellers" Again

For some time, Ephraim Dow and his pals have kept more or less quiet but appear to have broken out again and are now in the hands of the law. It seemed that a day or two since the bilious-looking and attenuated frame of Ephraim put in an appearance at Mary Eagan's saloon on Monroe Avenue, telling her that he had come to summon her to appear before Commissioner Husbands. At the time, Mrs. Eagan was too sick to move.

On Wednesday last, he returned in company with Nicholas Krauk and Aderiel E. Webster, and according to the evidence of her daughter, Maggie they told Mrs. Eagan if she would give them $5, they would make the matter all right".

Since he was politically appointed, the newspaper appeared to be looking forward to his departure from office:

"...The public in this part of the country ought to be highly elated that they have such an active, enterprising individual as this Dow, who is always alive and ready to protect their interests, notwithstanding the fact that he costs the taxpayers considerable money in the long run, by hunting up cases that have no foundation to rest on, and taking himself and a whole string of witnesses to Albany, for which he is entitled to draw ten cents a mile and a dollar and a half for each of them, besides other emoluments which could only be obtained by these means. Dow would be an ornament to a community - of human cormorants. The people will be compelled to endure him but a short time longer. He belongs to a political race who's days are numbered".

Can you imagine anything that eloquent, sarcastic and scathing - never mind funny - in USAToday?

Skool Daze

2010-10-26T15:08:00.004-04:00

As I teeter on the brink of once again becoming a "stoodint" I can't help but think back on my previous experiences with education.

Even though I was in school back when there were only thirteen stars on the flag, the thing that still stands out most was the excruciating boredom. Not surprisingly, I didn't do all that well in school - I just skated by. I ignored the course work and aced the tests.

I admit it - I was lazy as hell, but if I had a nickel for every time I heard "We KNOW you can do the work...." I'd be typing this on my laptop on my yacht on the Mediterranean. I just wanted to scream "OK, if I know I can do the work, and YOU know I can do the work - WTF is the point of me doing it??? Am I a student or a trained seal?"

The curriculum was cookie-cutter and dumbed down to the lowest common denominator, like they were programming robots, not teaching people. Students are individuals, not something to try to stuff into a template.

When I had a teacher who challenged me (there were a couple), or I found the material interesting, I excelled.

The other negative aspect of boredom was that I tended to get in trouble - for lack of anything better to do. Every year between third grade and maybe my sophomore year in high school, my mother got called to the school at least once. (I know, that's probably hard for you to believe...)

If that all isn't bad enough, let's throw one more strike against me into the mix: One of my character faults has always been issues with authority. I never was one to grant respect just because someone had a title, or to do something "because I said so". (Needless to say, Catholic school was NOT a good fit for me....) (Even today, this "flaw" still causes me grief, but I'm completely unrepentant!)

It's only more recently that I began to realize that the one thing they don't teach in school is how to THINK. Time after time, I see people around me -some with a lot more education than I - who are very good at making decisions and giving answers as long as the situation fits neatly into a little preprogrammed box. As soon as things get a little off-kilter, they're lost. They don't know how to really narrow things down, to drill down to what the real issues are and are incapable of original, creative thought.

Maybe that's what I truly didn't like about school - everything was predigested and confined to very narrow parameters. There was no room for originality or creativity.

Oh well, it all worked out in the end.

Even though I really had no direction, I knew in school that I didn't want to sit behind a desk like my dad - I wanted to make things. I focused on my shop classes and Carpentry in vocational school. The housing market was in the toilet when I graduated, so I ended up going in my second-favorite direction: metalworking. For the last thirty years or so, it's paid the bills and been "berry berry good to me". Even now, I see I was right - a desk job would have been sheer misery and my job does allow me a great deal of creative outlet. (Now if I could just do something about my issues with authority and my tendency to get myself in trouble...)

But after thirty years of that, I feel I need fresh challenges again - I'm just sort of sleepwalking through my days.

It's time to reinvent the MCMAWG.

(A few years ago, I thought about going into teaching, but decided I didn't want to be just another hamster in the wheel handing out pre-digested material that conformed to the NYS Board of Regents draconian standards. Too bad, too, because I think I would have liked it - I like working with kids and challenging them to THINK. For what it's worth, my son told me he thought I would have made a good one).

The Brilliance of Alfred Hawthorne Hill (1924-1992)...

2010-09-28T18:04:00.002-04:00

...(better known by his "stage" name Benny Hill).

I'm not sure why sometimes I'm reluctant to admit this, but I am a huge fan of Benny's work. I guess it's because far too many simply see him as a dirty old man.

I think part of the reason is the culture gap between England and the US. What's acceptable in England (home of Page Three girls) is seen as - at best- crude, here in the Puritanical US.

In just dismissing him as a lecher, they're missing the brilliant, dead-on parodies and the chameleon-like talent he had for assuming all sorts of personas. While many of these were larger-than-life and ridiculous, they were still completely believable. I also think that most people who dismiss him never really watched the show. How could they do so and not admire the razor sharp wit and clever wordplay?

What they also apparently miss is that, even though there may be skimpily clad women in a sketch, it's Benny (and/or Jackie Wright) that are the butt of the joke, not the women. The underlying joke was always that men will make complete fools of themselves when there are attractive women around.

Yeah, I found the dancers to be kind of crass - but remember, here in the States, we had the "Solid Gold" dancers on at around the same time and they were almost as bad - and yeah, some of the racial stereotype portrayals make me cringe a little, but none of it was ever mean-spirited. Insensitive, perhaps, but completely without malice.

I suppose there are those who dismiss his humor as highly derivative of burlesque, but that was deliberate on Benny's part - that's where he cut his chops, evidenced in no small part by him changing his name to honor his idol Jack Benny.

What I think is also cool is that most of the humor translates - across time and culture. My son, at four years old, used to come downstairs on a Saturday morning and shove one of my Benny tapes in the VCR. I can also imagine the ridiculous slapstick humor being understood and appreciated by someone who doesn't speak English. Anyone can watch Benny do a pratfall and get the joke.

I think this world full of malicious and/or just plain stupid humor could use a Benny or two - if only to remind us to remember to laugh at ourselves, once in a while.

Let me tell you about my dad........

2010-09-01T09:20:00.007-04:00

The earliest memory I have of my dad was when I was....I dunno - three? I either had had a nightmare or was too troubled to go to sleep. Apparently I'd watched something on TV about Martians or something, because I was gripped with fear about them invading. I said something to my dad about it and he merely shrugged and said "If they wanted to invade, don't you think they'd have been here by now?". Now that may not sound very reassuring, but to me, the logic was unassailable, and whatever my concerns might have been, they vanished like smoke.

When I was four, I tripped and fell and cut my arm on some broken glass. Dad took me to get stitches, and promised me a new squirt gun if I didn't cry. I cried. He bought me a squirt gun anyway.

Nineteen sixty seven brought a new town and a new school. The day before my first day, he walked me the four or five blocks, ostensibly to make sure I knew the way and was ok with it. On the way home, we stopped at the little dairy bar by the school and he bought me a milkshake. That was special - guess it must have been if it still sticks with me forty three years later.

At eight years old, he finally managed to cajole me into riding a two wheeler - something I'd wanted no part of prior to that. He also took me across the street to the ice rink in the winter and taught me to skate. He took me skiing.

That was my dad.

I don't have many early childhood memories about my dad - or much else, for that matter - but he just seemed to always be there, solid and dependable.

As I got older, I remember the occasional fishing trip. We fished for hours and didn't really say much more than "pass the worms", but it seemed like we didn't have to. Drove my mom nuts.

My dad was, indeed a man of few words, but when he spoke, it had weight. Whenever I fucked up, (often...) my mom's tactic was to get physical. That never worked. My dad, on the other hand, would just sit you down and talk to you. By the time he was through, you felt like a piece of shit for whatever transgression you'd committed. I'd rather have had mom take the belt to me. THAT, I knew how to deal with.

Sometimes, he was a man of less than a few words. Once, some of my genius buddies and I got busted for bombing cars with snowballs and my dad had to come to the police station and get me. He didn't say a word, all the way home - that was the longest four block car ride of my life.

I don't even ever remember him raising his voice. As a far better writer than I said: "His gentle means of sculpting souls took me years to understand".

When I was about fourteen or so, my dad and I were at the camp, cutting wood. Off in the distance, I heard my father call me. He'd cut himself with the chainsaw. I led him to the neighbors and we got him to the doctors and patched up, but what struck me and stuck with me, was that that was the first time I'd heard fear in my father's voice. My bulletproof dad?

Every so often, a facet of him would emerge that would surprise me - once, when my mom was away, he grabbed some burgers and stuff and a couple of people from his office and we had a picnic at Lake Delta. This was puzzling to me, because this was something we never did. Was my mom holding him back?

Then there was the time he lost his job - to keep the money coming in, he took a job as a short-order cook. My dad! My desk-bound, suit & tie dad! Funny part was, he found out he loved it. Had there been any money in it, he may have stuck with it.

I gradually grew up and stopped being such a fuck-up...at least I hope he saw it that way.

He taught me to drive. We still went to camp, and fishing occasionally, but I had a social life now. Besides, we had time.

I came home from somewhere one day and one of my buddies told me they'd taken my dad to the hospital. When you're twenty two, life isn't scary, and I assumed he'd accidentally cut himself again. Nope. Heart attack. Too many years of no exercise, high stress, too much weight and too many cigarettes.

The heart attack actually had a bright side - as part of his recovery he began riding one of my bikes, with me. Role reversal, of sorts. Pretty cool.

Unfortunately, they'd found something more ominous than the heart issues: lung cancer. I got to learn what the word "metastasized" meant. The day they confirmed that it had spread, I just remember him telling my mom and I that he loved us, as we sat in some dismal hospital room.

I still had no idea how serious it was. When you're 22, death is something that happens to other people - old people.

He started chemo and radiation - and began gobbling Tylenol, like they were M&Ms. I'd lay awake at night, and listen to him shuffling around the house - unable to sleep - and wonder "Why him?". If anyone deserved it, it was me.

I drove him to his radiation treatments - I don't think he needed me to drive, but he wanted the company...and it was a bit of a bonding time. We made small talk. Nothing serious, but it was kind of like when we went fishing - we didn't need to say anything.

He got weaker and weaker and ended up back in the VA hospital.

I still had no fucking clue.

One night, as I was leaving, he looked up at me and, for the first time in days, his pale, blue eyes weren't clouded by the drugs. He was there, all there. He smiled and waved goodbye weakly. I went home.

The next morning, I got a phone call: He was dead. He was 53, I was 23.

"I wasn't there that morning, that my father passed away".

I went home and got on my bike. It just seemed like the thing to do. It felt as though a weight had been lifted from me. I flew.

The years have rolled inexorably onward, but sometimes, 23 years just melts away and things are as fresh and as raw as 1983 - except made worse by all the things he and I missed out on in the interim.

"I didn't get to tell him, all the things I had to say".

Simple things, like:

"Meet your grandson."
"Let's go have a beer".
"I bought a house."
"See? I didn't turn out half bad..."
"Hey, let's do that backpack trip you always wanted to do..."

"I just wish I could have told him...."

The Death of Civility

2010-08-16T09:18:00.004-04:00

Lately, I've been wondering about the rudeness and inconsiderate behavior I see all around me.

My first thought was "Am I just getting old?" Well I am, and I wondered if I am now going through what every generation goes through as things change around them. " "Kids these days....."

To a degree, that may be true, but it's not exclusively in young people that I see it. It seems to span all generations and socioeconomic demographics. There are polite young people and rude older folks and vice-versa.

Now, I'm not advocating a return to the rigid rules of etiquette of the nineteenth century -or any other time where the interaction between people was framed by class distinctions. What I'm bemoaning the apparent death of is what used to be called "common courtesy". Holding a door for someone behind you. Leaving a gap between you and the car ahead of you at the stoplight to allow someone to pull out of a parking lot. Acknowledging the people who wait on you in restaurants or cash you out at the store.

"So what"? "Who cares?" On the face of it, it seems trivial, but what really disturbs me is what it implies. "You don't exist - it's all about ME".

This petty selfishness is spiral in nature - from letting a door go in someone's face it's not that big a step to road rage and worse.

This lack of respect and awareness of the others around you seems to be growing and seems to be related to population density.

When I go up north to camp, I'm always pleasantly surprised by how friendly and polite people are, how unhurried they are. The larger the municipality the more this goes the other way. Walk past someone in New York City, on fire, and they won't even notice.

As melodramatic as it sounds, is there really much hope, when we can't even be civil to our neighbors - much less someone halfway around the world, with a different language and culture?

For a few moments after 9/11, I saw people actually acknowledge each other, and show a little respect.

That didn't last too long.

So maybe there is something to it and I'm not just getting old and crochety.

Now get off my lawn.

Mentors.

2010-06-04T11:40:00.006-04:00

"It's not whether or not you fall in the shit - but how you get yourself out of it". I found myself quoting those wise words yesterday - thirty some-odd years after have had them said to me by one of my earliest mentors - the late Jim Higgins.

I was all of about 20, working in a small, local machine shop. Jim kind of took me under his wing and taught me a lot. I liked working with him because whenever I screwed something up (usually on an hourly basis) and I had to "go to confession", he'd just say "Why you goddamn dummy....Ok here's how we're going to fix this..." He was a funny character - tall, skinny, gangly. I have no idea how old he was, but I'm thinking he was at least in his sixties. He had snow white hair and a mustache to match - except where it was stained yellow from his ever-present cigar. He had a crooked, snaggle-toothed grin and an absolute cackle for a laugh. He told me all kinds of funny stories about the people and the things that had happened at that shop. (Jim had been there a long time).

He taught me other things too - things about how to manipulate people. He told me one time that they had a foreman that everyone hated. The guys in the shop got together and chipped in to buy him a very nice cashmere sweater and presented it to him at the Christmas party. They got the owner of the shop nothing. The foreman was gone shortly thereafter. Pretty crafty.

One night Jim, Dick and I (there were only three of us on second shift) were all hanging around Jim's bench where we spent our breaks... except break was long since over. The owner of the shop came in and, before he got beyond the end of Jim's bench, Jim jumped up and started yelling at him about something the day shift guys had done. When all was said and done, he had the shop owner telling Jim that he'd look into it and backing away. As we walked away from our "extended" break, Jim looked at me and said "Did you notice how he didn't notice we were on break when we weren't supposed to be....?" ....and he cackled loud and long.

I miss him.

A few years later, I was working at a steel mill and another veteran took me under his tutelage. Al was his name. He didn't teach me much about being a toolmaker, but boy he taught me the ins and outs of working in a union steel mill. If anyone knew how to work the system, it was Al.

He was an odd duck. If he liked you, he'd give you the shirt off his back, but if he DIDN'T like you, he was merciless. He used to be a heavy, heavy drinker. He'd bring in a quart of vodka a night in his Thermos and it was empty when he left. Fortunately, by the time I met him, he'd mended his ways.

He was the one who explained to me that, if you were in the mill, they could force you to stay (for overtime), but if you were home, they couldn't MAKE you come in. He said "If they try that shit, just tell them you've been drinking, and you'll need a ride in - but then they'll send you home for being in an unfit condition, so they might as well not come and get you". Flawless logic.

Vacations were handled in a rather unfair fashion: no more than two guys were allowed to be on vacation at the same time, and the vacation calendar was filled out by seniority. By the time the calendar got to me, (low man on the totem pole) everything between Memorial Day and Labor Day was long gone. I really wanted to take a certain week off in August, to go to a motorcycle rally, but it didn't look like there was any chance of that at all. If someone "vacated" a week on the calendar, it was supposed to be trickled down through the seniority all over again. Al, of course, had a solution: he told me to take a certain week in December (that he wanted) that was open - and because he had quite a bit of seniority, he'd take the week I wanted. At the last minute, he said "we'll switch - at that point, no one else will want to make plans at the last minute and they'll let it go....." He was right, of course, and I got to go to my motorcycle rally.

One time, we got written up for being on break when we weren't supposed to be, but wise Al, worked the system and made them take back the write-up. He claimed we'd been working on a breakdown and had worked through our break, so we took break late. Since they hadn't seen us sit down....they had to take back the write-up.

Now, some twenty-odd years later, I find myself in a bit of role reversal. We have a young engineer, who comes to me for advice from time to time. He's a good egg and a very sharp cookie. I find myself telling him things like "It's easier to get forgiveness than permission" and "It's not whether or not you fall in the shit...."

Good? He's G-r-r-reat!*

2010-05-17T11:48:00.003-04:00

Since I'm always on the lookout for new music, I "subscribe" to the iTunes Free Single Of the Week. Normally, it SUCKS. (I've left more than a few sarcastic, one-star reviews). BUT, once in a while they have something that's mildly interesting. Case in point - a few months ago they had some guy named Matthew Good, with a song called "Born Losers".

"Well", thought I, "for once their Single Of The Week doesn't suck, and it's free, so what the hell - I'll take it". Over time, I gradually found myself liking the song more and more - until I got to the point where I was thinking "Damn! I really, really like this! Time to check out the rest of the album!" Off to Rhapsody I go..... yup, there it is: "Hospital Music".

I was never so disappointed in my life. "How could a guy who writes stuff like Born Losers write stuff like this? This is awful". It was so slow and murky.

Still, I kept it in my playlist and re-visited it a few times, just to see if I was missing something. I didn't think I was, until one night, I had it playing in the background while I was surfing the web. I still don't know why, but for some reason, that night, that album just snapped into focus for me.

Intrigued, I went on the hunt for more info. Now Wikipedia isn't exactly the greatest source for info, but their Matt Good entry shed quite a bit of light on the genesis of Hospital music. It was written after a nasty divorce, a damned near fatal accidental overdose of Ativan and the resulting (voluntary) stay in the psych ward of a hospital, before he was finally diagnosed as being bipolar. (After years of misdiagnosis and incorrect treatment - some of which was actually making his illness WORSE).

...and it's all there on the record. Now it made even more sense.

I don't know why I'm so drawn to dark, moody music, but this album sucked me in and wouldn't let go. I began to explore some of the rest of his catalog. When "Vancouver" was released, I was ALL OVER it. "Silent Army In The Trees" hit me right between the eyes...and the rest of the album gradually pulled me in as well.

When I just happened to be on Matt's website one day and saw the concert listing for Water Street Music Hall in Rochester, there was no question: we were going!

By this time, I think I had Della Rose rolling her eyeballs every time I played Hospital Music or Vancouver. She just didn't "get it". I have to admit to being somewhat apprehensive about how Matt's dark, moody music was going to work in a live setting.

My initial misgivings were quickly cast aside. He opened with "Silent Army..." The show started with just him and an acoustic guitar, playing the slow opening to that song. No bombast, no flashpots. A very, very nontraditional opening to a show. Once the song kicked into gear, they segued into "Black Helicopters", quickly moved into and just kept going for four more songs, before they finally took a break.

It was then that I found out just how personable and funny he can be, as well - giving lie to his reputation for being rather prickly. He commented about the "decor" - an upright piano hung high on the wall, with angel wings and a giant eye in the middle of it.

(Yeah, I didn't understand it either).

The show went on, from one song to the next, with barely a pause to catch your breath...and then it was over.

Unlike most shows we've seen we spent the next week or so analyzing and re analyzing what it was that made the show so damned Good (pun intented), when, by all accounts, it should have been mediocre at best.

So the concert I was somewhat apprehensive about turned out to be one of the best shows I have ever seen. (And that's saying something; the only show I think I've ever seen that was better was Queen, front row, center).

(Oddly enough, probably the best part of the show was simply seeing Matt happy and healthy. And unlike many other artists, now that he's gotten himself straightened around, his music has actually gotten BETTER).

...and lo and behold Della Rose finally "got" Matt Good. (To the point now where she curses me for having Matt's music stuck in her head for two months now....)

*not sure if Tony the Tiger or Matt would be more pissed at me for that...

OK, So Sue Me - I Don't Like Cities

2010-04-05T18:26:00.004-04:00

Went to Rochester to see Matt Good the other night (GREAT SHOW, by the way) and was reminded again how much I dislike cities.

There's a restless energy present, and for sure cities offer a cultural diversity unmatched in small towns. I also will be the first to acknowledge the irony in the fact that I had to drive to a city to see an artist I really like - and yet here I am throwing down on cities.

When I arrive in a city, the first thing I realize is that there is so little green. Yeah, I know cities have spectacular parks, but forcing nature into little pigeonholes (pun intended) is just all wrong. I suppose if I were a "glass half full" kinda' guy I would point to things like the resurgence of the Peregrine falcon in many cities as proof of the resiliency of nature and take hope and comfort in that. (Or, as Ian Anderson said in "Jack In The Green" "I saw some grass growing through the pavements today...")

The second thing that always strikes me about cities is that they're so cold and so impersonal. You can live and die in a city and no one will give a damn. You could, if you wanted to, spend your entire life without any meaningful contact with another human being. You could live in a little anonymous little box of an apartment, ride the bus by yourself to your anonymous little cube of an office in another nondescript tower of an office building and come home again. No one will even notice you when one of the myriad of ambulances come to haul you off after a Monday morning heart attack. You're not even a cog in a machine - at least in that case, one might feel like one had a role to play. To be sure, this could happen in a more rural setting, but it's much more difficult to go through life so impersonally when there are so many fewer people around you. Sounds counterintuitive, but when there are so many fewer people, and they're not on the move or as guarded, as they are in cities, it's easier to interact. It's almost inevitable.

The coldness is embodied in the buildings. As I stood looking out the window of our 21st floor hotel room, I reflected on the buildings around us. The inexorable, ruthless pace of change is evident in the physical structures. Older buildings, having outlived their usefulness are either forgotten and decaying, facade-ed over or torn down to be replaced with new concrete boxes. Many of them were built in the 19th century, built by men long since gone. I wondered about those men. What were they like? Did they anticipate the completion of the building as they neared the top? Did they celebrate the laying of the last brick and then pause to bask in the pride of the project they'd just completed? Did they bring their families to see the monument they'd just completed? Their hopes and dreams are there, in the bricks they laid one at a time, in good times and bad. The birth of a child, the death of a loved one, weddings and funerals are all there, in those simple clay blocks,entombed forever. Like a tapestry, the individual threads are lost in the big picture.

One thing that makes me wonder if it isn't getting worse is comparing the older buildings to the new ones. At least the older buildings have details in the brickwork, ornate cornices and flourishes, in places that are impossible to see from the ground. Why? A testament to craftsmanship because someone took pride, because someone cared? Even that level of the personal touch now seems gone - contrast that with the newer buildings: Soulless, cold glass and steel people boxes that look like they were molded somewhere and slapped down on the site, not built with pride.

In the city, it seems as if people are born in boxes, spend their whole lives in drab boxes and die in mundane boxes - be it a gray apartment, a beige office, or the metaphoric invisible box they build around themselves. It seems to me there is so much more color in life that they're missing.

It's sad.

Then again maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm just a stick-in-the-mud hick.

WOW - been a while, huh?

2010-03-23T15:21:00.002-04:00

Nothing like sitting here staring at a blank page and realizing that three months have passed with nothing noteworthy to post.

Intimidating and depressing all at once.

On the fitness front: I have none.

I was doing well with my marathon training - New Year's Day, I "celebrated" by running an unofficial half marathon. It actually went pretty well. I was tired but not really sore. even had enough left in the tank to do a short sprint at the end. Shortly after that, the weather went to hell - as I expected it to. No problem, right? I have a treadmill, I have skis, I have a trainer... That really didn't happen too much. I made a half-hearted effort a few times. Mostly I was just trying to tread water until the weather improved. I did get into the strength training a bit. I actually got outside a few times and ran....and suffered like a dog. Five K hurt more than a half marathon? WTH? Could my fitness really have tanked in eight weeks of spotty activity? Apparently. I ran seven last Sunday and almost couldn't walk Monday morning.

Back to square one.

Jobwise, I'm still in limbo. The "big layoff" turned out to be a bit of a farce. I also got a new uber-boss who's even MORE clueless about what we do than my immediate supervisor. Wonderful. We have no work, but they're convinced they really need us. On the one hand, I'm getting a lot of work done for myself, but it can get wearying to have to find stuff to do all the time.

I am on track to become a Kollidge Stewdent next fall, starting an AS degree in Physical Therapy Assistant. I get to be Torquemada! Kewl!

As spring gathers steam, I am determined NOT to get behind the eight ball with the garden again. I have all my seeds ordered and, once I get my plant stand (with grow lights and stuff) finished, I can get my tomatoes, melons, peppers and squash started. Broccoli and spinach went in yesterday, peas will be going in soon - however this means I'll be needing to build trellises. Once I get the plants started, I can start building more raised beds - hopefully having them done by the time the plants need to go in - Memorial Weekend.

I got the brain fart that, since I only turn 50 once, I'm going to throw my own party. Toward that goal, I brewed a batch of Belgian Golden Strong Ale.... but it won't be done in time. I was also planning on having my basement bar at least far along enough to use for the occasion, but I don't think that's going to happen. It'll be close. Not really mandatory, just incentive to keep me motivated.

I have YET to bike commute.

Got up to camp for an overnighter last weekend. WAY more snow up there than expected, it was barely warm enough to stay overnight, but too much snow to do anything. Still, there are a couple of trees down, just waiting for me to get the chainsaw and ATV and play.... BUT, there's also stuff that I need to do, too. The porch needs replacement, the camp itself needs a coat of paint and some improvements to make it more liveable....

Spring feels like there is just so much promise, like there's so much ABOUT to happen, but it also feels like I've got a TON of stuff on my plate.

Mixed blessings, I guess.

Strange Days Indeed...

2010-01-16T06:02:00.002-05:00

Two weeks ago, we were informed by our employer that forecasted business conditions necessitated another layoff. They asked for volunteers and laid out the package available. They said that people considering it would be allowed two weeks to make their decision. Questions about how many people they were looking to reduce the work force by went unanswered.

Taking the voluntary layoff was extremely tempting, but the more I learned about what the severance package really offered - as opposed to what we were told in the meeting; they were two different things - the more I decided that, if I was going, they were going to have to get their hands dirty to do so.

For the life of me, I couldn't figure out how they were going to spin things. My department has had little-to-no work for at least six months or so, and truth be told, they could do away with most of what we do, by outsourcing. If they went by seniority, I had one person below me. If they went by skill level, I have, arguably, three people who'd go ahead of me. On the other hand, if they went by "politics" - which has happened during previous layoffs - I figured I might as well put my head on the chopping block. Since I've never developed a taste for Kool-Aid and have never masked my distaste for my two immediate supervisors well, I figured I had a target on my back.

I got ready. I consolidated my stuff into my three tool boxes and emptied my drawers and locker. I was ready to go in a matter of minutes.

The two weeks ticked by. Rumors flew hot and heavy. I spent eight hours a day in a building full of people on "death watch". Anger, bitterness and fear hung in the air like a heavy fog. Even the gallows humor didn't help much.

When all was said and done, it ended with a whimper, not a bang. Fifteen people took the voluntary layoff, and, as far as I know, only two people on first shift got canned. (Not sure about the other shifts).

That's it? You put people through two weeks of hell, for that? I think the ulterior motive was to make people worry about their jobs so they'd work harder and be more willing to swallow whatever shit is shoveled their way. I suppose in a few cases, it worked, but amongst the people I spoke with, it backfired. Most of them are angry about it and, when they faced up to losing their job realized that it wouldn't be the end of the world.

Both of you regular readers already know that I'm already looking for the exit, but this pushed me even further toward really facing up to it. My preparations were mental, as well as physical.

I thought about my job, and what I'd miss about it. There are a few elements of it that I'd miss, but mostly it was "well, I doubt my next job will only be a fifteen minute commute..." After thirty years, I'm tired of doing what I do.

I thought about the people I work with - some of whom I've worked with for almost 20 years - and who I might miss enough to want contact information from. I came up pretty much empty. How sad is that?

Oddly enough, I realized the thing I'd miss most would be my tools. Yeah, they're my tools, so they'd be going with me, but I'm pretty sure once I leave there, I'll never really use them again. They'll get put on a shelf in the basement, where they'll sit until my estate auction. Tools that I'd used every day. It almost seemed like I'd be abandoning old friends - friends who'd been with me in good times and not-so-good times. I'd thought about this before, when looking at tools at antique shows but it was always in the context of someone else's tools.

Scary and sad at the same time.

Once again, life insists on teaching me things when and where I least expect it,

Ah, The Simple Life

2010-01-01T05:20:00.006-05:00

Throughout history, people have been "leaving it all behind and living simply".

There are numerous monastic orders where they own almost nothing and lead very simple, devout lives. The idea of living a life of quiet contemplation - on bread, cheese and kick-ass beers- has it's charm.

...but there's that "celibacy" thing...

Shit.

Never mind.

Then, of course there was that whole "back-to-the-land" hippie movement of the Sixties. While I do try to incorporate some of that - like gardening, canning and preserving- into my life, I just can't see myself learning to say "Oh wow, man....far out!" or wearing patchouli and Birkenstocks. (And, in some cases, not much else!)

But recently, I've been thinking about one of our forum members who pretty much did leave it all behind, move just about as far away as she could (from Canada to Australia!) and is living off the grid.

I'm not talking about some paranoid, anti-government whack job holed up in Montana in a cabin full of guns, I'm talking about someone who pretty much wiped the slate (or whiteboard, if you wish) clean and started over.

As I read her web postings and looked at the pictures, I had mixed feelings - a toss-up between "That is so COOL!" and "I could never do that...." This made got me thinking about why I couldn't and what it says about me and what's important in my life.

As a mental exercise, I asked myself "Well, what's stopping you?"

The first thing I realized was that to do that, I'd pretty much have to leave all my "stuff" behind... and I could do that very easily. I'm not one to develop an attachment to inanimate objects, so, yeah, I could leave all this stuff behind and only replace about 1/3 of it. A bike, a computer, a camera and an iPod full of music, and I'd be pretty much good-to-go. Not much of a surprise there, I've known this about myself for a long time.

The next thing was the people around me. Aside from my son and my sister, I could walk away from everyone else forever and not really think twice about it. Huh.... interesting.

So if "people and things" aren't what's keeping me here, what is? For one thing, my camp. Not only has it been in the family for 150 years - and I feel a certain obligation to retain that legacy - but I feel rooted to the place. That place is the one thing I would truly hate to leave behind. I sort of knew this, but the depth of it was a little surprising.

The rest of the roadblock to my doing something rash is ...me. We pretty much live off-the-grid when we're at camp and after two or three days of that, I'm ready to come home to my slightly more swank house where I'm surrounded with "things to do". (That's a double-edged blade - that means both the ones I WANT to do and the ones I HAVE to do). (This also has me thinking about what it would take to make the camp more "user-friendly" without violating the spirit of the place. It also has me thinking about why I need "something to do" all the damn time, like an ADD teen).

I am also very, very much a creature of habit. I don't want to have to think about which drawer the bottle opener is in, I just want a beer. Yeah, I can adjust, but in the meantime, it stresses me out. I don't want to have to think about the little things as well as the big things. It's just how I am. (Anal?)

That also applies on a larger scale. Have you ever seen how a cat knows every single nook and cranny of it's environment ? That'd be me. Having lived in this immediate area for 43 years, I know it intimately. Having spent 20+ years trying to wear out motorcycles, I also know the vast majority of the rest of the state pretty well too. Again, this is a mixed blessing. While I don't have to think about how to get somewhere or exactly where to find such-and-such, and I know all the "secret" places, it also means stagnation. Yeah, I like to travel and see new places (although with the homogenization of America, that's getting harder and harder to do) but I like to come home, too.

If you roll the last three together, I guess you could distill it down to one word: "comfort".

Wow.

I'm going to have to cogitate on that. (And think about it a lot, too).

'Tis the season...and all that...

2009-12-17T14:59:00.001-05:00

Since it’s the Christmas season, (and I happened to be awake at O’dark thirty again) I was pondering what it all meant to me….and decided to favor you, dear reader with this mistletoe missive. (That was bad, huh?)

As I sat down to write how I feel about Christmas, I realized – I don’t really know.

I suppose my perspective stems from my past experiences with Christmas. I’ve been told (by Hallmark, mostly) it’s supposed to be about the traditions and memories, but I don’t really have any of either.

I do remember once, when I was about 5, we spent Christmas at my grandparent’s home in Woodgate. We had snow, a fireplace - the works. What I remember most, though, is that, more than anything else in the world, I wanted a car carrier – you know, the truck that brings the cars to the car dealer? I got one, little cars and all. For a little while anyway, my little world was complete.

Year after year, I would study the pages of the Wish Book and pore over the details of all the new toys until the pages were almost blank. I knew I was never going to have any of them, but it didn’t dissuade me. My grades in school were pretty lousy, but if they had tested me on the contents of that catalog, I’d have aced it.

I don’t think there was too much money to spare in our household. We were never left wanting, but there was seldom money for “extras”. My friends got the Hot Wheels tracks and stuff, but I never did.

One Christmas, Dad must have gotten a bonus or something, because there were quite a few gifts that year – including a Cox airplane for me - but that was the exception, rather than the rule.

Christmas got the axe when I was about ten or so. I vaguely remember being told that, since I wasn’t a little kid anymore, they were kind of pulling the plug on Christmas. No tree, nothing.

For the next few years, I remember Christmas being just another day. Once in a while we would have something special to eat – lasagna or calamari come to mind.

At 17, I began spending Christmas with my girlfriend’s family. Boy was that a one-eighty from what I was used to…

In her family, it was all about the gifts.. Her mom starts shopping in, like, August. There were usually several trash bags full of presents – both at her house and then again at her grandmother’s. They meant well, but there was so much stuff, it was embarrassing, to say the least. In many cases, little-to-no thought was put into the selection: “Gee a Chia-Pet Elvis…how did you know?” Quantity was favored over quality. They completely and utterly bought into the whole Madison Avenue/Hollywood version of Christmas. They bought presents for people because they were supposed to, not because they wanted to. (My question “if you don’t know Uncle Mike well enough to know what he’d like, why are you buying him anything?” was met with mumbled excuses). They did things not because it meant anything but because they were too sheep-like to come up with anything original. Some sort of Pavlovian response ran through the family, only instead of the Salvation Army bell triggering drooling, they went into zombie-like “Must…..buy….” mode.

For the next 20 years, that was what Christmas was: a veritable orgy of gift giving. The only change was that, as her sister’s family grew, the Christmas “celebration” at her mom’s got louder, with more bickering. Fortunately, we lived next door, so when it got to be too much for me, I could just go home.

Let’s pile on top of that the amoral feeding frenzies in the stores, the ever-increasing desperation of retailers, the hypocrisy of those who preach “peace and joy and love” but practice anything but… and, since it’s Christmas, I’ll throw in a freebie: all those who go to the multimillion dollar mega churches….ostensibly to celebrate the birth of someone born in a stable – and the irony is completely lost on them.

Is it any wonder I view Christmas with a mixture of a strange mixture of ambivalence, disgust and bemused apathy?

I guess after all this time, I’ve come to terms with the holiday (who am I to turn down time off from work, huh?) and celebrate it in my own simple way: a few gifts carefully chosen for those who mean the most to me, and a special meal.

For the three people who actually read this (because they mistyped “middle aged porn” into Google) my gift is just a wish:

Peace

In Stasis

2009-12-02T16:43:00.004-05:00

Yeah I live just around here

And I sleep just around here

And I wake up every day

And my feet hit the floor in exactly the same place

(Matt Good - "Empty's Theme Park")

We Gotta Get Out Of This Place....

2009-09-15T16:38:00.007-04:00

....if it's the last thing we ever do... - Eric Burdon and the Animals.

So it seems that the basic premise of this whole "work" thing is that you trade something you have -"your time" (which equates to "your life") - for something you want - money- to buy what you need. (Or THINK you need) .

Well, less and less these days do I think that the trade is worth it. In fact, I've begun to resent that I am pretty much forced into such a transaction. Maybe it's because I realize that I have less and less "time" to give away, and, like any other resource, as it's availability decreases, it's value goes up. (And you try to be more frugal with it).

Therefore, I am going to forsake all my worldly possessions and go live in a refrigerator box under an overpass. Or sell flowers at the airport wearing a recycled burlap sack and sandals. Or something.

Now, we both know, dear reader, that those aren't really viable options. I like my creature comforts and "stuff" as much as anyone. (And burlap is wicked itchy).

So what is the answer? Why am I asking you?*

I guess the first step is to reevaluate what I really need and what can be cast off as "not really worth the "cost" it would entail". Food, clothing, shelter and health care are pretty much non-negotiable. I've definitely lowered my sights in almost every other aspect. I look at something like a new car... but then I realize that replacing it would entail a car payment and further reinforce the shackles. (I know it makes me a bad consumer, but I guess I'll keep driving what I have, until it rots out from under me).

As one who is a slave to a time clock each day, at a place I really don't care to be, I've gotten extremely good at "compressing" my days. I work in a room with four people who don't talk to each other. My usual tactic is just to put my head down, do as little as possible, and turn inward, thinking about things I've done, things I'm going to do, things I'd like to do.... "Working from the neck down", to paraphrase James McMurtry. Pretty soon, it's break time, then, it's lunch time, then break time and then time to go home. Once I DO get home, 80% of my time is spent doing things to get ready to go to work again.

Before I know it, it's Friday. Woot! Time off ! But.... not really.

This propensity for speeding up time spills over into my own time, albeit in a slightly different fashion.

I charge around all weekend doing all the things I need to get done that I won't have time for during the week. And before I know it, 48 hours are shot in the ass and it's Monday again.

Why the hell am I in such a hurry? To get to the end?

I was at my camp a couple of weeks ago, and had a bit of an epiphany. I was out walking with my dogs through my beloved woods... and I realized I wasn't seeing anything. My brain (such as it is) was already back at camp, doing stuff that I thought I needed to do. I'm walking along through this beautiful woodland and I'm looking at, but not really seeing... anything. I stopped for a few moments in a clearing, surrounded by tall maple trees and thought about what it would be like to be one of those trees - trees who measure time in seasons, not ticks of a time clock.

So I'm thinking it's a fourfold approach: reduce the amount of "things" I "need", feeling like I'm getting more of a return on my investment - my time- by doing something I enjoy, at a place I like to be, casting off ambitions that are not important and being more "in the moment":

Yeah, I like my "stuff" (says the hypocrite, typing this on an almost brand new computer), but I will look at my purchases with an ever-more critical eye.

I'm looking around at a career change and getting ready to do what it will take to make that happen, to find a place I'd much rather be. (Yeah, I know, no workplace is immune to BS, but I can at least be someplace different).

I've also started to be less... anal? driven? ... about things that I think need to be done. Yeah, a freshly trimmed lawn looks nice, but is it worth the "expense" of giving up a bike ride? No. (If the neighbors are that concerned about how my lawn looks, they can come over and mow it for me. Otherwise they're just going to have to wait until I get around to it).

I've promised myself I'm going to try and live in the here and now much more than I do. Somewhere there's GOT to be a balance between looking/planning ahead and enjoying the moment. The past is gone and the future isn't guaranteed, so the only thing we truly have is right here, right now. I'm going to try and pursue my photography hobby more. THAT requires you to truly open your eyes to what's around you. Maybe that mindset will tinkle over into my "regular" thinking.

This came up on the iPod the other day and for obvious reasons, I can't get it out of my head:

So I just put my heart on ice,

thaw it out when I'm home

'cause it just might need the rest

....and I think I can't take another day,

but I have to press on 'cause there's no other way

I gotta' work and I gotta' get paid.

(Supersuckers - "Paid")

How's it all going to spin out? I don't know. I do know that it won't be an overnight, quick fix, but an ongoing "battle" - a battle I can't afford to lose.

*Blazing Saddles reference.

What in THE HELL is wrong with me?

2009-09-03T10:45:00.003-04:00

I've committed to doing a marathon next March.

How in the hell am I going to stay motivated and get the miles in before then? In Central New York? In the winter?

Stay tuned folks. Mr. Open-Mouth-Insert-Foot has done it again. (I do that often enough, I'm surprised I don't have Athlete's Tongue).

...and I don't even like running....

A "No Chain Day"....

2009-08-09T15:54:00.006-04:00

...that's how Lance Armstrong refers to those extremely rare days on the bike when the pedaling just seems so effortless you swear there's no chain. They're a gift from the gods and there's no way to make them happen or even predict them.

I had one of those a couple of weeks ago.

Weather and work schedule together conspired to pretty much keep me off the bike for almost two weeks. I think I was able to sneak in one or two commutes, but that was it. (OK, so I'm a wuss and don't ride in the rain...)

I had planned a ride around Oneida Lake with a friend, for the Saturday following that two week layoff. I was looking forward to it, because it's far too rare that I get to spend four hours on the bike and not having done any real physical activity for two weeks, I was starting to get twitchy. The weather looked like it was going to be stellar. (This, in a month where it'd rained every other damned day, too).

As per her usual style, she showed up late. We switched her seat and pedals over to my Felt. I did this with the supposed intention of being a nice guy. My ulterior motive was far more sinister: it was a sales pitch.

We hit the road.

I took a lot of the back roads through the scenic mucklands. There's no shoulder to speak of, but there's also little to no traffic. We finally picked up the state route with it's wide shoulders and whizzing cars, in Lakeport.

Normally, I circumnavigate (and ride around) the lake in a clockwise fashion. Heading west first usually means on the return leg, you have a tailwind. This particular day, there didn't seem to be much of a breeze, so I was immediately suspicious. I thought "Uh-oh, that means a headwind on the homeward bound side...."

Looking down at the Garmin seemed to confirm my misgivings. I was holding a steady 20-21 MPH easily. I figured surely we must have a tailwind. I kept checking flags and trees looking for a sign of wind direction, but everything seemed dead calm.

At our first pit stop in "downtown" Bridgeport, I threw a small piece of paper in the air as a telltale, but it seemed to indicate that we were heading into what little breeze there was.

As we left the pit stop, she bolted ahead of me and said "County line! Two Points!" as she crossed the Madison/Onondaga County line. It went over my head. I was too busy setting my sights on a cyclist off in the distance. I said: "I gotta'..... He's mine...." I dropped the hammer and took off after him. (I'm a sucker for a "rabbit" off in the distance). I caught him and then sat up enough for my riding buddy to hook back on.

We finally got off Route 31 and down onto the lake shore - one of the portions where you can actually SEE the lake.

My Garmin experienced a bit of electronic flatulence (and I forgot to hit "start" until we were a ways from our stop) so I didn't have a real good handle on where we were, time-wise, but it seemed we were ahead of my usual pace for the ride. I was showing a 21 MPH average for the first hour. Unheard of for me.

We made our second pit stop in Brewerton. As we crossed the bridge over the Oneida River in Brewerton, she again jumped ahead of me at the county line and claimed her two points. Ok, that's enough of that shit - now I'm onto her game. Bad move on her part - I know exactly where the remaining town and county signs are; I've done this ride a bunch of times.

Up County Route 37 and made the right turn onto NY 49 to start heading east again.

I told her about my ride through there a couple of years ago: It was the weekend after 4th Of July. As I turned the corner onto 49, I saw people all lined up on the sides of the road and assumed it was for a late Fourth parade. I said to one guy standing on the corner "Wow, is all this for me?" He looked at me kind of funny and sort of laughed. I rode on, seeing more folks lined up on the sides of the road. I saw a sign in front of a church that said "God Bless Major Phillip Dykeman USMC " and it started to sink in what I was seeing: folks gathering to pay their last respects to a soldier coming home. I felt like a complete asshole. Yeah, I didn't know, but still..... When the cortege approached, I stopped and took my helmet off. THAT ride took on a whole different tone after that....

I also told her that the pavement between Central Square and Constantia was pretty ratty. I neglected to tell her that drivers on that particular stretch of road seem to be more hostile to bikes than anywhere else on the whole 60 mile route.

True to form, we got many requests that we vacate the pavement while we rode through there. We smiled and waved.

My earlier suspicions were confirmed to a degree - we had a slight headwind, but not enough to really be a factor. Speed dropped down into the 18-20 MPH range, but it still seemed FAR too easy.

Being the complete, competitive jerkwad that I am, every time I knew there was a town sign coming up, I ramped up the pace and rode her off my wheel- so that when we got to the sign, there was no sprint to contest. West Monroe, Constantia, Bernhard's Bay, and Cleveland, were all "mine".

We stopped again in Cleveland. We got drinks and hung out for a while. Little did she know, I was calculating the sprint to the next county line, and I knew exactly where it was - I know someone who lives directly across the street from the sign! I bagged that one easily.

By now, she was really beginning to fade - probably still feeling the effects of a triathlon she'd done the weekend before. I sat up a bit, but still pushed the pace before the remaining signs in Jewell and North Bay.

We dropped down into Sylvan Beach and I led her off the main highway down Lakeshore Road where I used to live. (Much more scenic). We did a little cyclocrossing through Verona Beach State Park and back onto Lakeshore on the other side of the park. Lakeshore eventually dumps you back onto Rt. 13, and I knew that, as soon as you made the right turn onto 13, the Oneida/Madison line was about 50 yards after the turn. Jerk that I am, I took off and bagged those two points too.

We made the last turn onto my road.

I know that from there, the road drops, levels out for about a half mile, then drops again, just before the house. If I can keep my speed from the first hill to the second, I can fly those last couple of miles.

I went down in the drops and cranked. The speed from the first hill began to ebb before I quite got to the second, so I stood and hammered for all I was worth.

In my body's first display of the effects of the ride, my right quad immediately knotted up and dropped me back onto the seat. Still, when I rolled into the driveway a hundred yards up the road, I felt like I could do it all again.

Epic, absolutely epic. That was one for the record books.

"Suddenly You Were Gone...."

2009-07-06T07:13:00.008-04:00

"....from all the lives you left your mark upon...." - Rush "Afterimage"

How bizarre is it to have a bunch of friends you've never really met?

I have been a member of the Bicycling Magazine Love forum/cult/clique/dysfunctional family for seven years now. Forum members have come and gone over the years (in some cases their leaving was a GOOD thing....) but there's a core group that, through our exchanges of postings, dirty jokes, emails and sniper fire, we have come to know each other fairly well.

The postings are all pretty short, many of them inane, crass and/or in questionable taste, yet from them, we seem to have come to know each other pretty well. It's like a bizarre little family.

Still, it just seems so odd to me that, when someone on the forum celebrates a milestone, or loses a pet or a loved one ,that everyone can actually care about someone they never met.

Some time ago, one of our forum members posted about going through a divorce - and he was taking it very badly. The outpouring of support was incredible. The post went on for pages and pages. Poster after posted offered advice, and support: "...don't give up, it WILL get better....".

Sadly, he didn't seem to listen. He told us he was going away from the board for a while and asked the moderator to remove the post.

He basically just shut down.

Next thing we heard was that he was killed in a head on car crash with a semi.

Folks on the board were just devastated.

Poof! Just like that, one of the biggest goofballs on the board was gone. The guy who was famous for his gaudy shades and his love of anything yellow was no more. No more would I wake up early here on the East coast, only to find that 007Webgod on the West coast had already filled the entire first page of the forum with nonsense posts like "There's a Donut On The Counter - Should I Eat It?" Time after time, I took some good-natured potshots at him and he took it with grace and aplomb, not getting upset, just dishing it back.

This was probably a month or so ago, yet it still upsets me.

So now I have a little yellow tape on my bikes, eat blueberry Clif bars and think about him often when I ride...

...all for a guy I never met.

I hear the echoes

I learned your love for life,

I feel the way that you would

I feel your presence

I remember

I feel the way you would

I feel, I feel the way you would

This just can't be understood

Tried to believe but you know it's no good

This is something that just can't be understood

Godspeed, Webby....and wherever you are, may it be nothing but sunshine, tailwinds, downhills and old, lazy, toothless dogs.

I Said Goodbye to an Old Friend Today.

2009-05-28T15:08:00.005-04:00

I know I "threatened" to sell it last year, but this spring I actually wrote the ad and put it in the Swap Sheet.

The phone has been ringing off the hook, so the odds are very good that it will be sold shortly. I have a very interested buyer coming to look at it tonight.

Granted, it's a Honda GoldWing and they're pretty much bulletproof, but it IS still a 21 year old bike. The luster has worn off; it needs some TLC, and some money thrown at it. 68,000 miles is not a lot for a GoldWing, but she's not what she once was. (But then, neither am I). Some of the aluminum is pitted, the paint is faded, it needs mufflers and tires (to about the tune of $1000). I don't use it much anymore - not like I used to- and it's become one more thing that adds to my "to do" list: Oil changes, tune-ups, winterization, registration, insurance.... The amount I use it these days just doesn't justify the headaches.

I am probably the LAST person on the planet who attaches any degree of sentimentality to an inanimate object and, in my little world, if something doesn't get used and/or becomes more headache than it's worth, it gets the heave-ho. No muss, no fuss.

So why do I feel like shit about it?

I feel like I'm turning my back on an old friend or that I'm selling off a huge chunk of my life and part of myself - all for 30 pieces of silver.

That bike has seen me through about 15 states, a couple provinces of Canada, 20+ years of Americade rallies, club rides and 54,000 miles. Wind, sun, rain and even a little snow. It never let me down.

More importantly, though, it was my escape pod through some of the toughest years of my life. Mile after mile passed under those Dunlop Elite tires as I rode, often just to ride, just to be in motion. The further my personal life went down the toilet, the more I rode. I'm not sure if I was running away from something or running toward something, but I lived by these words:

"See it used to be I was really free

I didn't need no gasoline to run

'fore you could say "Jack Keroac"

You'd turn your back and I'd be gone

But nowadays I got me two good wheels

and I seek refuge in aluminum and steel

Ah it takes me out there for just a little while

and the years fall away with every mile.

I'm back out on that road again

Turn this beast into the wind...."

(Steve Earle - "The Other Kind")

My bike was my companion at the absolute lowest point: I was riding home from work and was caught in a thunderstorm. The storm was so close, you could smell the ozone from the lightning strikes. For a few moments, I panicked - "I'm going to DIE"- I thought. Then a strange calm came over me as I realized I didn't care. The bike got me through that, too.

When things began to take a turn for the better, the bike figured prominently in that too. I rode a lot, but this time, not alone.

Life still revolved around the bike: rallies, group rides and just general enjoyment of the bike, the scenery, the motion and, now, the company.

So what happened?

A lot of things, not the least of which was that for the first time in 20-s0me-odd years of motorcycling, I hit the pavement. A stupid little accident - I hit a basketball rolling across the road - no real damage to me or the bike. My confidence was the biggest casualty. Prior to that, I rode with joyous (not stupid) abandon. I had several people tell me that they "had no idea you could do that on one of those". The bike and I were one and we rode for the sheer joy of flaunting the laws of physics.

No more.

All the joy had been sucked out of riding. My bike and I were now uneasy companions, neither one trusting the other - like two dancers who don't know each others moves anymore.

My whole life had revolved around riding. Riding was all that really mattered. Vacations were planned around rallies, my friends were other bikers. Winter was an excruciatingly long interval of ride deprivation and after that first ride of spring, it took two weeks to wipe the grin off my face. Riding a motorcycle wasn't just something I did, it was a huge chunk of who I was. I was a biker - not just because I owned a bike - but because I "lived to ride and rode to live".

In the years since, I've ridden progressively less and less, either making excuses or just not having the time. There's still a big part of me that's proud to be called "biker", because I put in the miles and earned the label (not just because I dressed like an extra from a Brando flick or have the requisite tattoo, chrome and flames).

Part of me hopes that the bike won't sell. Part of me is looking at another, newer bike.

....to be continued....?

Dell Continues To Elude Us...

2009-04-28T17:57:00.005-04:00

…or is that “delude”?

Despite hours of research and reams of data uncovered, we’re no closer to knowing what happened to Dell than we were when I first wrote this.

All the other players in our little drama have been largely accounted for, their lives spelled out in official documents and newspaper articles.

William C Powers finally settled down and married Callista O’Dell, living first in New York City, then spending the remainder of his days in Syracuse NY. Settling down was no small feat for Will. Will had, what is known today euphemistically as “a zipper problem”. Many details of this have come to light – the newspapers then, as now, seemed to delight in the foibles of the wealthy. He was successfully sued by Sadie Eakins in London for breach of promise. It seems he'd asked her to marry him and bought her an engagement ring and everything. The only fly in the ointment was that he was still married to Dell. He was later sued by another woman for the same reason.... while he was in Japan, living with yet another woman. That's on top of Rose Phelps who he disappeared with earlier, while married to Dell. William died in Syracuse in 1935.

Daniel D Powers was living in Colesville NY in July of 1896 with Dell’s newly discovered relatives when she wrote the letter to her cousin that touched off this whole “investigation”. Ten years later, he turns up living in NYC, boarding with someone we believe to be a family friend. We suspect that he was going to college, but have, as yet, been unable to verify that. After that, he listed his address with William and Callista,in Syracuse but was only there sporadically. He worked for a time as a draftsman at “the auto works” in Syracuse NY (possibly Franklin). He continued his nomadic lifestyle, taking work as an engineer in a power plant in Watertown NY, (where he lived with his cousin Fred) a paper mill in Oswego NY, a paper mill in India, and Shanghai China. When his father died, his stepmother moved back to Watertown (where her family roots were). He went with her. He eventually retired to Culpeper VA, living at the Lord Culpeper Hotel for a time before buying his first and only home in Culpeper. When his health took a turn for the worse, he sold his house and ended up at the Hill Haven nursing home in DeWitt NY, near his cousin Fred, who presumably looked after him during the last year of his life. He died a bachelor November 4 1971.

Dell’s mother Sarah Pratt and her father William A Morgan continue to be a bit of a mystery. We believe Sarah’s first husband E Orlo Reed went West for the gold rush and “forgot” to come back, eventually remarrying. When William Morgan came into the picture, and whether he actually married Sarah remains unsure. We do have a census entry from 1865, showing William, Sarah and Dell living in Colesville. The census lists William’s birthplace as Schoharie County NY and we found a very likely candidate in the 1860 census listing for a “William Morgan” of the right age, in Richmondville NY. What’s extremely curious about the 1865 census entry is that Sarah lists “marriage” and “children” as “one” each, completely overlooking her marriage to Orlo AND her other child - Dell’s stepbrother Henry (who was living with Sarah’s parents at the time). Very shortly after Sarah’s death, William took Dell and moved on, despite making a good living as a “farmer and sawyer”. Given that Sarah’s father “neglected” to include either Dell's birth OR William and Sarah's marriage in the family Bible records, it’s quite possible there was bad blood there.

Dell herself continues to remain a cipher. Her last confirmed whereabouts was the Morello Hotel in NYC from where she wrote to her cousin in Colesville. In that letter, she stated that she would be coming “home” (her choice of words) for the 4^th of July and then would be going on a trip to “England and then Buenos Aires”.

Then she disappears.

The only further clue is that in August of 1900, she or someone, sold the eight grave plots she had purchased in 1895 in the Mount Hope cemetery in Rochester NY.

Somewhere, between July of 1896 and August of 1900, something of great importance happened. Try though we may, we still don’t know what that was. The only reason you sell a grave plot is because you don’t need it. This means either you’ve died and are buried elsewhere or no longer wish to be buried there – you have other plans.

I can’t help feeling that the little smirk on her face in this picture is at least in part, directed towards those of us on the trail of what happened to her. I have a feeling she’s taking great delight in all this.

....It USED To Be A Fun Place To Work...

2009-04-16T06:45:00.005-04:00

In twenty years at one place I've seen a lot of changes, I've seen a lot of people come and go, and I've watched it slip from a place I cared about to a place I'm ambivalent about, at best.

When I first started there, the boss was probably the biggest asshole I have ever worked for. Not only did he run the place with an iron hand, he was the biggest perfectionist/nitpicker I have ever known. No matter how well you did something, he always managed to find fault with it. If he couldn't find fault, he just said nothing. No "good job/nice work", not even a "thanks". Worst came to worst, he could always tell you you did it too slowly.

He was a very prickly person and a bit of a loose cannon. He thought nothing of telling the company president that something was stupid, even if it was the CEO's pet project. He also was known for being merciless on someone he perceived as "weak". (He "rode" one of the guys to the point where one of the other guys went home and told his wife "Y'know, if John kills Andy, I'm going to have to testify in his defense...") I know at least three guys who quit because of him and another who actually picked him up by the throat....

BUT, he wasn't one of those people who couldn't walk the walk - he's probably THE best toolmaker I've ever worked with. If he said he could do something better/faster, chances are he probably could. You've got to at least respect that. He also pushed me to do the best work I've ever done.

Then, they screwed him over on a couple of raises, and he began realize that being such a taskmaster wasn't getting him anywhere and he started to mellow. We also learned how to "handle" him. I made a pretty profound discovery one day when he was chewing my ass for screwing something up: he said: "...WHY DID YOU DO THIS????"(Like I did it on purpose). In exasperation, I said: "TO PISS YOU OFF!" He stopped, said, "...yeah, you probably did..." and walked away. I stopped him in mid-bitch! After that, I realized if you just let him rant and acted like you didn't give a shit, he backed off and left you alone. Apparently if he couldn't make you cower or fight back, it was no fun.

We had a really good crew of six in the shop. Everyone worked well together and we had FUN. It was the biggest crew of ballbusters I have ever worked with, but it was all in fun. (Recently, my son's girlfriend's brother worked in a department just outside mine and he asked one of the other guys in his department "What do they do in there?" The response was "Oh, don't go in there - they'll make you cry!")

I have never seen pranks taken to the level of finesse they were with this crew:

One of the guys was known to eat sardines. My buddy George waited until he (Stanley) threw his sardine can in the trash and then went and got it and stashed it in the boss's office. Guess who got blamed? He did that once or twice, and then, realizing it would be obvious someone was trying to get Stanley blamed if he did it again, took the can out of the trash and set it on the floor in front of the garbage and said "Watch this...." Sure enough, the boss came in, saw the can on the floor and started yelling at Stanley "Can't you even put this thing in the trash????"

Stanley took an air cylinder, submerged it underwater and pulled the piston back (like a hypodermic), then hooked it to the supply cabinet door. His only miscalculation came because he's taller than me - when I opened the door, the water shot harmlessly over my shoulder.

There were multi-part, reciprocal pranks too: Stanley had a plastic gallon jug of pennies on his bench. George had a box under his bench for his empty soda cans. Stanley used to put his cans in there, too, but he'd leave a little soda in the cans, to make a sticky mess in the box. George caught on and took to waiting until Stanley wasn't around, then going and dumping the little bit of soda in Stanley's pennies. (I also "donated" some leftover epoxy to the penny jug). I almost pissed myself the day I walked in and saw Stanley pounding a basketball-sized chunk of pennies on the floor, trying to break them up....

The maddest I ever saw the boss was the day they took the pins out of the hinges on the supply cabinet door. He went to open the door, it fell off and hit him in the head. He took the door, threw it in the corner, put his coat on and went home.

I came close - one time the boss had an ad for a machinery auction on his desk, that he'd torn out of the newspaper. I "replaced" it with a section torn out of the gay personal ads in the Syracuse New Times. I'm glad I wasn't in the room when he found it - I wouldn't have been able to keep a straight face. They said he came storming out of his office, threw the ad, stomped back in the office, came storming out, picked it up and threw it again and stomped back in his office.

I also had him pretty worked up when he had a cassette player in his office - he had some sort of financial seminar on tape he was listening to and I switched it with some Ronald McDonald cassette my kid got in a Happy Meal.

Sticking stuff on people's coats was the rage for a while. Take a chunk of the cotton wadding our cores come packed in, a bent paper clip to make an "s" hook and some tape and you have a very nice little bunny tail to hang on someone's belt loop. I also know "somehow" that if you do a little judicious Xacto knife surgery on the lettering on the side of a box of Butter Lover's microwave popcorn, you can make a big, bright, yellow sign that says "Butt Lover". I also "heard" that ideal time to place this on someone's coat is lunchtime on Thursday - that way everyone waiting at the time clock to punch out AND THE PEOPLE AT THE BANK, get to appreciate your handiwork.

"Buttercup" made the mistake of leaving his umbrella in the shop unattended. Stanley tied tampons all around the perimeter and tucked them in. Didn't get to see it, but it must have looked like one of those Mexican hats, when he opened it....

One of the guys was never without a toothpick in his mouth, so "someone" took several of them from his box, ran them through a jalapeno a few times and put them back in the box.....

Greasing machine handles got passe so I elaborated a bit: grease one handle, and then remove all the rags in the vincinity except one.... and grease the hell out of the rag.

Got a bag (lunch, whatever) you're taking home? Don't leave it out, or someone will "add" something to it, preferably something you'll need and have to lug BACK in....

And so on....

This kind of stuff was constant, but never mean, never destructive. Always fun.

So what happened?.....

A few whiners, and a whole lot of Kool - Aid drinkers. That's all it took.

Used to be, if you got pranked, you didn't whine about it, you just got revenge. If you weren't sure who did it, you just took the shotgun approach and got them all. All it took was one person, who whined to HR when he took some guff, whined to the company president that he was being picked on. Now the games took on a nastier edge.

All it took was a few people to drink the corporate Kool Aid, to believe the Corporate Bullshit being handed out in quarterly meetings, which were more and more straight out of Dilbert every time.

Game over.

Y'know, This Stands All On It's Own.....

2009-03-05T19:24:00.001-05:00

The Midlife Crisis Continues......

2009-02-24T18:31:00.005-05:00

As I chew through what I want to be when I grow up, the question I've naturally asked myself is "What's important to you?"

(Hey! Maybe someday, I can write a book to share my job/life change adventure - I can call it "Who Sabotaged My Parachute?")

Anyway, before I digressed - awright, who's the wiseass who just said "you can cross "writer" off your list "???? - I was attempting to explain how I came to the conclusions I have reached so far.

First and foremost, I decided that, while money was an obvious concern, it is definitely secondary. Number one has to be "doing something you like". Drinking beer while web-surfing probably isn't a career option, so I've thought about other things that might actually pay the bills.

Much to my surprise, when I took my part-time, seasonal job in the bike shop, I found out I like working with people. I actually LIKE retail - even the occasional customer who makes you weigh the drawbacks of a sentence for manslaughter vs. putting up with them for one more minute... I realized that what I liked about it was sharing my enthusiasm for cycling and helping people. I actually enjoyed sharing my knowledge (limited, though it may be....)

Fast forward.

I'm pretty sure no one here remembers way back to January of last year, but I actually decided to try working with a personal trainer. That was the start of my journey into the world of fitness ("fatness?"). The more I looked into it, the more fascinated I became with it. The more I read and learned, the more I realized that there are probably at least six other people out there, like me, who would like the same information. I very seriously considered becoming a personal trainer myself. I hesitated, because I thought I needed to get my own house in order before I started telling other people what they should or shouldn't be doing. I figured I'd have to do that first, before I could even think about learning the nuts and bolts of personal training. Then, the other day, I had a bit of an epiphany: As I go through the process myself I AM learning. Who better to help people figure out what works for a middle-aged person -who wants to get in shape, but has to juggle a career, a family and other responsibilities- than a middle-aged person who wants to get in shape, but has to juggle a career, a family and other responsibilities? I can honestly say "Dude, I've been there, done that....". I know what it's like.

So, to that end, I just started the educational process to become a personal trainer. No, I don't expect to get rich at it, - I don't even see me doing it anything more than on-the-side but it's a step in the right direction. Let's see where it leads. With the economy circling the drain, it'd be pretty stupid to bail on my day job, but I can at least lay the groundwork for the day when I can Johnny Paycheck my boss.........

(I just got this cool plug-in that inserts what I'm listening to as I type this drivel, so now you can get an even better idea of what shitty taste I have in music...) This post was brought to you by:
----------------
Mark Knopfler - Speedway at Nazareth
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Low And Sweet Orchestra - Pencils and Shades
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Dio - Rainbow In The Dark
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Los Lobos - Will The Wolf Survive
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Kaiser Chiefs - I Predict a Riot
----------------
Finger Eleven - One Thing
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John Mellencamp - Void in My Heart
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Dropkick Murphys - Worker's Song
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Matchbox Twenty - 3 A.M.
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Motörhead - Ace of Spades
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Diesel - Sausalito Summernight

(This post was also brought to you by Monkeyrider who actually gave me feedback on this blog - via the untraditional method of the telephone.... So go buy a book from him.)

Are they "Antiques", "Old Junk" or "Grave Robbing" Spoils?

2009-02-15T13:33:00.003-05:00

I spent some time in an antique shop yesterday. (Wasn't my idea).

I already have a shitty attitude about such places - some time ago, someone broke into my camp and stole a whole bunch of "antiques". This has left me with the bad attitude that all antique dealers are fences in stolen merchandise. Not true, I know, but no one and I mean no one, can carry a grudge as well as I. (And, truth be told, had I found any of my stuff in there, there would have been violence...).

As I wandered about, looking at the "stuff", aside from my initial reaction that it was just a bunch of junk, I eventually came to the realization that, at one time or another, all of that stuff belonged to someone. Now it was just something to be sold for a profit, with no regard for the previous owner(s).

At least in museums the items are displayed with a degree of reverence. This was all just strewn about, with little-to-no respect.

Since I make my living with tools, I was particularly moved by the tools they had there. I realized that a great many of those items were in someones hands, every day - through good times and bad, just like mine. I wondered about the fingerprints - both figurative and literal- that were left on those items.

Saddest of all, I think, were the photos and portraits, with no names. Since I do a bit of genealogy, I wondered if someone, somewhere wouldn't be delighted to have those pictures... if only they knew they existed. I was almost overcome with the urge to spend the rest of my life researching those pictures and reuniting them with someone who they really meant something to. I looked at the faces and wondered "Who were you"?"What were you like"? "What are your stories?" A most appropriate Eric Bogen (or Dropkick Murphys, if you prefer) lyric came to mind as I looked at the pictures:

"....Or are you a stranger without even a name

forever enshrined behind some old glass pane,

in an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained

and faded to yellow in a brown leather frame?"

Yeah there were a lot of items that the previous owners would have gotten a chuckle out of seeing sold for outrageous prices and, yeah some of it was just kitschy junk that no one cared about. There were even items that I remembered from my childhood and thought "That's considered antique? But.....but.... I remember those!" Most, though, were pieces of people's lives, cast off and priced to sell.

I left there, still angry at antique dealers in general, but sobered by the realization that we don't really own anything, ashamed at the vulture-like aspect of the antique business and saddened by how much has been lost.

Needless to say, I wasn't exactly a ray of sunshine for the rest of the day.....

I Seem To Be Stagnating a Bit Here....

2009-01-27T16:03:00.003-05:00

...so I asked myself "Why do I blog, anyway?"

...and the answer came back: "For the Fame, Fortune and Accolades, of course!" Ok, so, not really. Let's revise that to say: "Because the occasional comment from you, dear readers, really blows up my skirt..."

Or something.

I was reflecting on my preference for written communication the other day. My first thought was a little disconcerting - I thought that maybe I'm a control freak. I want to say only what I want you to hear and don't want to "slip up" and let something out that hasn't been "edited" "proofread", "polished" and "approved".

I suppose there is an element of that, since I'm not a very "open" person, but there are other, less sinister reasons.

I realized that, I strive to communicate exactly what I'm trying to say. A conversation can't be edited for clarity. In conversation, people tend to think you've slipped into a coma or something if you take the time to "edit" and consult your "thesaurus".

I also realize that too often, conversation tends to wander aimlessly - and off track - like drunken livestock, and after the conversation ends and the person walks away, you remember you wanted to say "________", or you forgot to tell them "_______".

I am also not a "phone person". I am one of the six people in the US who doesn't have a cell phone. With my land-line, I'm still on the old-school plan where I pay for each call. Last month, there were NO additional charges for "calls made". The month before that, four calls, for a total time of five minutes.

I get a sense of satisfaction from writing something and getting it "just so". I also like "word-play", in both written and spoken communication. I am by no means above poaching things I've heard that tickle my funny bone. For instance if you hear/see me use the mangled words "not necess-celery" you can credit Benny Hill..... Phrases like "handier than jumper cables at a redneck wedding" abound in my conversations.

With that, I end this "filler" post until I can find something else to rant/drone about. Thanks to those of you who've commented, so far.

(And for those of you who are breathlessly awaiting further developments of my midlife crisis, don't worry, it's still ongoing. Should I get the urge to get something pierced or tattooed, don't worry, you'll be the first to know).

".....always like to keep my audience riveted...." - Sherrif Bart

(Blazing Saddles).

Middle Class Middle Aged....Midlife Crisis?

2009-01-04T07:12:00.010-05:00

Given that I'm pushing 50, I thought it was time to get on with my midlife crisis.

What shall it be? A red sports car? Too expensive and high maintenance. A twenty something blonde girlfriend? Again, too, expensive and high maintenance. (The only twenty year old I'm interested in says "Bushmills Single Malt" on it...) A motorcycle? Naw, already had one of those for thirty years, now. How about running away and joining some religious group? This has potential. I mean, the Belgian monks live on some kick ass beers, bread, cheese and sausages. (What else is could one possibly ask for ?). Also, the thought of silence -as opposed to the eight hours a day of babbling retards I currently endure- certainly has it's charm. But there's that little celibacy clause that kind of overrules the positives of that scenario.

Guess I'll have to settle for a complete career makeover.

Ever see someone who's been at their trade for a long time? They move with a purposeful grace, minimal wasted motion and seem to make things happen with great ease.

After about 30 years as a toolmaker, I have achieved that zen state of almost effortlesness. I've seen people watching me with the same mild awe with which I watch my brother-in-law the sheetrock finisher .

I work in a small shop - part of a larger company. The shop is clean and air conditioned in the summer. The work is not repetetive, allows creativity, and a fair degree of autonomy. The commute is cake, the hours are good, benefits decent. I've accumulated almost three weeks vacation time. It pays pretty well - allowing to me to live this middle class existence for almost 20 years now.

To paraphrase Garrett Morris, (as Chico Escuela): "Toolmaking been berry, berry good to me"

So why, now, do I want to chuck it all and start over?

Indeed.

I think it's a combination of boredom, changing values and a downward spiral in the atmosphere at work. After 30 years of doing what I do, I'm BORED with it. I have a different perspective on what's "important". What used to be a fun place to work is more and more becoming an opressive, Nazi death camp. Too many people have drunk the Kool Aid.

I ran across an interesting quote the other day that summed it up nicely: "Midlife is when you finally get to the top rung.........and find out that the ladder was against the wrong wall".

I know I'm not alone in this. I remember my dad spending many, many years in the insurance industry, then going through a tough stretch when he lost his job and had to take what he could get to keep the roof over our heads. Curiously, when he was working at Denny's he found he loved it. It didn't pay enough to live on, so he moved on. In the end, he found a job he really, really liked at a family planning clinic, but I was always struck by the fact that my number-crunching, paper-shuffling, pencil-pushing dad found himself as a short-order cook.

Way back when I first left high school, I knew I didn't want to wear a suit and tie and work in an office. I knew I wanted to "make stuff". My initial choice was "carpenter". I went to vocational school and took "Building Trades I & II". (What I really wanted was to be a cabinetmaker, but they didn't offer that). Unfortunately, in 1978, when I graduated, the housing market was competely in the toilet. Plan B was to make use of the Metal Shop classes I'd taken. Six different employers and thirty years later, here we are.

So what do I want to do?

I'm not sure. I just know it's time to do something different. A verse from one of my favorite John Mellencamp songs struck me the other day ( Don't worry - I should heal nicely):

"Jackson Jackson was a good kid

He had four years of college and a Bachelor's degree

Started workin' when he was 21
Got fed up and quit
When he was 43
He said, "My whole life
I've done what I'm supposed to do
Now I'd like to maybe do something for myself
And just as soon as I figure out what that is
You can bet your life I'm gonna give it hell."

Stay tuned as I take this ride! Might be fun, certainly will be interesting. (And who knows, I may get more than one blog entry a month out of it...)

Auld Gang Syne

2009-01-03T08:00:00.006-05:00

I've never been one to engage in mindless ritual, just because the calendar says so, but this year, coincidentally, things seemed to be converging at the juncture of the new year and old, so I said "What the hell..." and just rolled with it.

In general, lately, I've been in a period of coming-to-terms with myself. As an extension of that, - just for shits & giggles- I started to write my autobiography. I was sure I'd never finish it, but I was having fun with it, so I kept adding to it. What started as a whim soon snowballed into about six pages (ok, so I've led a dull life - sue me) and consumed many hours in writing, re-writing and editing. When I was done, I had a document that no one will ever read, but the process of writing it proved surprising. Looking at a lot of things in retrospect was interesting. There were many things I'd never realized and others that I was able to look at with a somewhat fresh perspective and let go.

The next item that seemed to lend itself to a year-end solution was work-related. I'd had the project-from-hell over my head for almost two months. It was almost finished, but I was scheduled to take about two weeks off. I decided to put off the vacation for a couple of days and finish the damn thing. Done.

So now that I'm already rolling in "wrap-up-loose-ends" mode, have two weeks off, and am expecting guests for Snowshoe Volleyball XII in a couple of weeks, I ripped into my list of projects around here with a new sense of purpose. I started from one end of the house and cleaned to the other. I did a massive clean out. I opened every cupboard, closet and drawer and took everything out. If it hadn't seen use in a while, it was GONE. Into the trash or the Starvation Army pile.

Very cathartic.

I cleaned, and cleaned some more, only leaving the things that will need to be done again at the last moment before the gang arrives for the game.

Then it was on to the project list. The finishing touch wallpaper border we'd been threatening to put up in the bathroom since we remodeled it five years ago? Done. The wallpaper repair here in the den? Done. (Not without a LOT of swearing, cursing and throwing things, but done, nonetheless....). The sump pump drain pipe that needed repair? Done. Things to be hung up and cleaned up in the basement? Done. (Well, what didn't get thrown out, got hung up...). Prints we'd purchased a few years ago that have been languishing in the closet got taken to be framed. The landfill was paid a visit.

It was also nice to have the time to ski and exercise. I even managed to do a little family history research I've wanted to. (With mixed success).

Now that I'm on a roll, there seems to be one big loose end to tie up: my job. BUT... that's the subject of my next post.

Here's to 2009.

Call Me a Boor, a Rube…..

2008-12-15T17:02:00.003-05:00

…. a heathen, an uncultured slob…. But I just don’t “get” modern art.

Last weekend we went to see the Victorian Christmas display at Fountain Elms in Utica. Fountain Elms is an 1800’s Italianate house that was owned by the Munson/Williams/Proctor family. They were quite wealthy and, as was the fashion of the times, avid art collectors. When the last of the family passed on, the art collection was made public. Eventually, it was put in it’s current home – the Munson Williams Proctor Institute, next door to Fountain Elms. (I call it “The Munstitute” for short).

Since we were right there – the buildings are literally connected by a covered walkway – we took a stroll through the art museum.

I try to be as open minded as I can about things, particularly in matters of taste. I know that what one person finds interesting or appealing, another may not. I have also experienced numerous instances where either my tastes have changed or I learned to appreciate something that at first blush didn’t interest me.

Over the years, my definition of “art” - be it sculpture, painting, photography, graphic arts, music – has broadened to: “something that makes you feel something and/or something that makes you think”. If it fits that criteria, no matter what the form, it’s “art”. If it has something to say (good or bad), then it’s art. (If it doesn’t have anything to say, then why is it wasting my time?) I like having my preconceived notions challenged, too.

Most of the things I saw in that museum did indeed make me think – they made me think: “What the hell is this and why in God’s name would they pay so much money for it?”

To be sure, there were a few pieces that at least made me think. There was a photo of a flowerpot with some grass growing in it. The flowerpot was on its side, but the grass was growing straight up - a commentary on the resiliency of nature. Got it. Definitely fits my definition of art. There was also a painting done in a series of three panels. The first showed two adults arguing, the second showed the man putting his hat on and heading out the door as a plate of food hit the wall next to the door. The third showed the woman cleaning it up, with a very hurt and angry expression. In each of these, a young boy sort of did the duck and cover bit. Ugly? You bet, but it conveyed emotion and made me feel something. Art? Check.

The bulk of them left me cold. There wasn’t even any hint of appreciation for the skill of the artists. I’m sorry, but throwing paint at a canvas doesn’t imply any degree of skill. If a three year old throws paint, he gets his ass chewed – if an adult does it, it’s “art”?

Instead of keeping non-working appliances and cars on blocks in your yard, and risk running afoul of the zoning folks, try keeping a bunch of rusty scrap metal instead. Just weld it together, name it “ Macular Degeneration #2 “ and call it “sculpture”.

Of course, I’m the same guy who got thrown out of high school art class a lot. When the teacher was going on and on about how the artists who throw the brush at the canvas spent so much time figuring out where they want each color, I had the audacity to ask:

“Well what happens if he doesn’t throw straight? What happens if he wants yellow over here and he misses and it hits over here”?

“Get out……”.

(off I go - again).

Once a Philistine, always a Philistine, I guess.

Fortunately, no one at the Munstitute made me go sit in the hall.

Thanksgiving.... A Day Late.

2008-11-28T07:10:00.005-05:00

Thanksgiving is a holiday where we stop and give thanks for all the good things we have.

The following day, Black Friday, is the anti-Thanksgiving, where we promptly forget what the day before was about - and go out and participate in an orgy of "MORE ! MORE ! MORE !".

Someone had the TV on at the bike shop a couple of weeks ago. (Why? I have no idea). I tried my best to ignore it, but that's the most insidious thing about it - it's almost impossible to ignore.

One show mindlessly segued into another, on the Travel Channel. (Apparently we don't even have to actually go anywhere anymore, we just travel vicariously). I forget what the name of the show was, but this particular episode was about privately owned luxury yachts.

Now, don't get me wrong, I like the finer things in life as much as the next person, and the idea of a sailing vacation on a small schooner has it's appeal, but I was absolutely appalled at what I saw on this show.

One million dollars for a two week vacation? It takes fifty thousand dollars to fill the fuel tanks? It was supposed to be impressive, I guess, but I think my impression was not what they had in mind. I was almost physically ill at the idea of that level of conspicuous consumption. Fresh cut flowers on the table every day? Staff on duty 24 hours a day and a larder stocked with everything possible, just in case a well heeled guest might fancy Lobster Thermidor and champagne at 3:30 AM, in the middle of the Mediterranean?

That's just wrong on so many levels. It left me sad, disgusted and angry, all at once.

I guess I'm un-American because I don't aspire to that level of luxury. I don't dream of riches beyond measure, so the lottery ads are lost on me. ("The Lottery - A Tax On People Who Are Bad At Math"). Yeah, I wouldn't turn it down if someone handed me enough money to pay off my mortgage (or something) but dreams of having my house featured on MTV Cribs are just beyond my understanding.

Both times I've been to Las Vegas (for the Interbike trade show) left me feeling depressed and dirty. The whole city seems to be built on the ideas of "more" and "bigger". It's all so shallow and hollow. I left with the impression that the hookers weren't the only ones prostituting themselves.

Hasn't anyone noticed that "riches do not equal happiness"? Look no further than Hollywood. If living in "utopia" is all that, why do so many of them have their personal problems splashed all over the front pages of the NationalMidnightStar? Why are so many in rehab, plastic surgery, jail, cults.....? How many big lottery winners find that the money brings more headaches and woe than it's worth?

Maybe some of you students of sociology can tell me - where did this whole idea that one should aspire to ever-higher levels of wealth come from? When did the idea of "enough" get tossed by the wayside? When did we start measuring ourselves and others by "stuff we have" and not "the stuff we're made of "?

Am I wrong to value what I have, and not aspire to more? Am I just a bad consumer? Is it just sour grapes? Am I old-fashioned and out of date to think a quiet life of simple dignity is worth more than the opulent but empty "Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous"?

I don't think so.

Indian Summer

2008-10-11T18:08:00.003-04:00

(DISCLAIMER: Click on the pictures to get a larger view, since Blogger is too stupid to deal with large images)

It was one of those rare autumn days. After several days of cold and wet, the sun shone, the sky was completely cloudless, and the temperatures rose - just warm enough to be pleasant, with enough of a nip in the air to let you know the dog days were history. The colors were past peak (not unlike your author), but there were still enough of the vibrant reds, yellows and golds to take your breath away.

It was the perfect day for yard work - one more chance to tidy up the yard and get those last few things buttoned up before winter or do those things you put off because it was too hot or too buggy.

Yeahright.

Some of us viewed it instead as one last chance to sneak in a ride before the weather requires much more in the way of rding gear and willpower.... Come with me, my virtual friend, as I play hooky from responsibility - again - and go for a ride. (Besides, the further I got from the house, the harder it was to see the stuff I should have been doing....)

Let's head south from the house. There's gold (and red, and orange) in them thar' hills.

After a few miles of gradual 1-2% climbing, we encounter rolling hills - short, punchy climbs that give you a choice to spin or jump out of the saddle and hammer over the top - if you're feeling like a hero. I'm feeling pretty smug about how effortless the climbs seem today, but then I remember that I'm on the Roubaix and it has compact drive.... Oh well, the ego takes another hit....

The first serious climb we encounter is "The Oxbow". I love this climb - it's the sort that makes non-cyclists go "You ride up THAT???" It doesn't look like much here, but it's about a mile long, and it pitches between 6 and 13 percent. You start here and end up somewhere above the cool house at the top, in the center. Most of the cars that pass you here are down in the passing gear and they sound a bit labored as they go by. (I, of course, smile as they go by, returning to my open-mouthed grimace only after they are safely out of sight).

Sumacs along the side of the road in brilliant shades of red make plain where Frank Lloyd Wright got his inspiration for his "sumac" pattern in stained glass:

After the top of the Oxbow, the road levels off a bit, but the trend is ever upward. Tangled shrubs and dense swamps make this primo deer country, but not all that hot for farming or housing, so houses are pretty sparse.

We pass through Peterboro, now no more that two rows of houses, separated by a wide village green, but at one time, this was a hotbed of abolitionism and an important stop on the Underground Railroad. Just outside of Peterboro, we take a right onto Cody Road. Cody is another long, uphill slog. It also has a bit of a nasty trick up it's proverbial sleeve - about six "false tops". Each time you THINK you're at the top, as you crest it, there is yet ANOTHER hill beyond. This may LOOK like you can see the crest of the hill, but don't be fooled:

But there's a payoff - if you turn and look behind you, you're greeted by the view of the altitude you've gained.

Also along Cody road, you pass under a stand of spectacular yellow maple trees that has a fragment of "Tai Shan" by Rush floating through my head:

"In the golden light of autumn
There was magic in the air"

After a couple of miles of climbing comes the payoff: the long, bomber descent into Cazenovia. Put it in the big ring and leave it there for about the next three miles. Speeds upwards of 40MPH are possible here.

All this climbing has made me hungry - time for a fuel stop. (Hey, don't underestimate the power of Keebler Pecan Sandies!)

From Cazenovia, we turn north on Route 13 and spin easily along Chittenango Creek as it winds it's way inexorably downhill. This road is a favorite place for motorcyclists (to wad themselves up), as it swoops and turns, following the creek on the right.

The creek passes under the road, and we start a long, fast descent. It's pretty easy to get caught up in the speed and scenery...

But wait - as the road plunges, so does the creek we've been following. Stop about halfway down the hill and look to the left to be rewarded by this view of Chittenango Falls:

Still descending, we come to the Village of Chittenango and turn west on State Route 5, shortly to be faced with the only significant climb left: Sullivan Hill. This one looks MUCH worse than it actually is, because you can see the whole thing. It's actually a mile long, but only 3-4%. On days when I'm feeling my oat ( singular -I only have one left) I do uphill sprints on this baby.

The next five or six miles pass uneventfully under our wheels and, like an old horse that can smell the barn, I pick up the pace as we turn onto the home stretch. One more mile to go.

With a mixture of regret and relief,(and somewhat knotted legs) we turn into the driveway.

By the numbers, here's what we did:

Summary Data
Total Time (h:m:s) 3:16:36 4:43 pace
Moving Time (h:m:s) 2:45:13 3:58 pace
Distance (mi ) 41.53
Moving Speed (mph) 15.1 avg. 41.0 max.
Elevation Gain (ft) +2,271 / -2,287

Avg. Heart Rate 115 bpm Zone 2.2

Temperature (°F) 65.6°F avg. 66.2°F high
Wind Speed ( mph) SE 2.3 avg. SE 3.5 max.

View Larger Map

Thanks for riding with me today. Hope I managed to show you some of what we have to offer around here. Hopefully, it won't be another six months before we can do this again....

Livin' La Vida Local...

2008-08-30T17:37:00.010-04:00

...or something.

By chance, I happened upon information about the Madison County Agricultural Economic Development's "Eat Local" program. There were Open Houses at thirteen area farms and you were supposed to get your "passport" stamped at each one. (A minimum of two stamps scored you a t-shirt, and doG knows I'm a t-shirt whore!) Since I'd been jonesing for a long ride, - and it had finally stopped raining for more than five minutes - this seemed like a good excuse for a ride. I figured on hitting nine of the farms on the list. The route would encompass some of my favorite terrain - the rolling hills of southern Madison County. Yeah, it would be almost eighty miles, but I've done 60+ several times already this year. Piece 'o cake. The route was supposed to look just like this:

v

Insert: "Man proposes, God disposes". "The best laid plans of mice and men oft go to hell in a handbasket"....and a whole bunch of other cliches about things not going as planned. The one factor completely beyond my control changed my route - the weather.

I left at ten AM, waiting for it to warm up and the roads to dry out a bit - heaven forfend I get my new Roubaix dirty!

Out through the village and through Clockville I went, following the creek, the road twisting and turning, just like the creek itself. I turned and headed up the wall that is Burleson Road. It's about a three mile climb and the first quarter mile or so is about a 16% grade. The arm warmers came off for this climb! For some perverse reason, I really, really like that road. It's not that I have masochistic tendencies or anything....well, OK, maybe I do, but the views are certainly worth it. (Here's the link for the full view -stupid blogger software, anyway.....)

My first stop was the Foothills Hop Farm

It was there that I found out that Hop Lemonade rocks. I got my stamp and headed south on Rt 46 climbing, climbing and more climbing.

(Astute readers of this blog would notice I've used that picture before, but since there aren't any, I can get away with it).

As I headed south, I couldn't help but notice the rather threatening cloud cover surrounding me on three sides. I hoped that if I kept heading south, I could sort of work around it.

Next up was Heritage Farm. No one seemed to be around, except for a young boy who was busy with a goat kid. I asked if he knew anything about getting my passport stamped. He just shrugged and said "I don't know". A couple more questions elicited similar responses. With the weather getting uglier by the minute, I decided to move on. No stamp. Poop.

As I reached the intersection of Route 46 and 20, I was supposed to head east to Heamour Farms, and Drover Hill Farm but the weather was really pressing in. I decided to pass on two more stamps and two of the farms I really wanted to see ( farmstead cheeses and Scottish Highland Cattle!) I headed west on 20.

From the intersection of 46 and 20 - in an area oddly named Pine Woods - Rt 20 climbs pretty steadily for three miles. As I launched into this long slog, the skies opened up. It was here too, that I happened to hook up with a guy and his son heading the same way on their bikes. As I bridged up to them I asked "Who the hell ordered this weather?" We soldiered on, making small talk. We finally reached the top and began the long descent into Morrisville. At that point, I decided to bag it and head for home. I said my goodbyes to my companions and turned off. I stopped to put my arm warmers back on and thought "What the hell, I can't get any WETTER...." so I jumped back on Rt 20 and continued where I left off. I actually ended up catching back up with the guy and his son, when they stopped to put the son's chain back on. (It's called "drivetrain maintenance", people.....SHEESH!)

It stopped raining and I dropped them somewhere on the climb between Morrisville and Nelson. Thanks to the modern miracle of wicking fabrics, I started to dry out pretty quickly. (Except my feet....)

I decided if I couldn't find "fuel" in the next little town along the way (Nelson), I'd bag it and head for home, but I managed to score some cheese curds and a soda, at Nelson Farms (there isn't anything else in Nelson!) so I kept on.

I picked up a stamp from Drover Hill Farms at the Cazenovia Farmer's Market (not as cool as seeing the cattle but, hey...). I turned north and dove into the long, bomber descent of Rt 13 as it parallels Chittenango Creek and passes by Chittenango Falls. I felt pretty good as I entered the village of Chittenango, surprising myself by maintaining ~20MPH on the flats.

I decided to skip the farm stand just to the west on Tuscarora Road in Chittenango (the name escapes me at the moment). I turned east for the last leg of my journey....and into a headwind....and it started to rain again. It was also about this time that my gas gauge dropped to "E" and my "fuel" light lit up.

I stopped at Henry's farm stand for my last stamp.

I put my head down and went into "survival mode" as I headed into the wind and rain, determined to endure the last ten miles (and a few hundred more feet of climbing).

A few minutes later, Della Rose passed me in the car, on her way home from her stint as docent at Gage House. She waved, I waved.... She looked back in the mirror at me......and pulled over. I didn't protest and stuffed my Roubaix in the trunk.

I know I could have finished, and part of me wishes I had, but I just wasn't having fun anymore. 56.46 miles, 3:59, average pace of 14.4MPH and 3856 feet of climbing had taken it's toll. I only had four stamps of the nine I'd planned, but I got my "Eat Local" t-shirt, a t-shirt with a story.

I can't wait to do it again! (But maybe next time, I'll eat more than a bagel, a gel and some cheese curds....)

I Blame It On The Broccoli.....

2008-08-16T09:38:00.003-04:00

...No, no, not that... that was the dog....honest.....

I'm blaming the broccoli for being the gateway drug to the whole "Eat Local" thing.

Like everyone else, I've been beaten over the head with the "food pyramid". (I think they're starting that in utero now.....) As we get older, we tend also to pay even more attention to what we eat, perhaps trying to undo some of the excesses and indiscretions of youth. (As if!)

With that in mind, I promised myself to include more fruits and veggies in my diet. The fruit I did pretty well on, but the vegetable group was kind of hit and miss. At best, I drowned some broccoli or cauliflower in cheese sauce or green beans in butter and toasted almonds and choked them down, unenthusiastically. I endured vegetables in atonement for previous sins. Stoically, I bore my penance.

Last spring ('07) I once again began my annual attempt at gardening. (My previous efforts were such disasters, my garden probably qualified for FEMA aid - at the very least, I should have hit up Ag & Markets for a subsidy to NOT plant anything...). One of the items I apathetically sowed was broccoli. Why? I don't know....probably because I thought I was supposed to, I guess... In spite of my best efforts, the broccoli thrived. I even managed to harvest some before it bolted (unlike the previous year) and took it in the house to steam up and have with dinner.

I liked it.......and I wanted more.....

Was there really THAT much difference?

Further confirmation came a few months later. My sister came over for dinner and brought some mixed berries for dessert that she'd picked and frozen the previous summer. I admit to being somewhat underwhelmed when she brought them. Shortly after I began picking halfheartedly at them, I realized they were delicious. I snarfed mine down and started surreptitiously eyeballing the serving bowl, hoping no one wanted more. I began trying to come up with a polite way to eat the rest of what was left, without appearing rude. Is Coveting Thy "Neighbor's" Berries a sin...?

Ok, so maybe it's NOT me..... Maybe the fruits and vegetables being offered in even the best stores are but pale imitations of the "real" thing. I knew that it was a pretty sad day in our household when we ran out of the tomatoes we'd canned ourselves and had to resort to buying them, but I began to realize that produce that's chosen for it's ability to survive shipping and picked before it's ripe is a very poor substitute for the real deal. I'll leave the argument whether or not there's a nutritional difference to the experts, but damn.... there sure is a difference in taste.

I admit, when I first heard about the whole "Eat Local" thing, it smacked of the "New Age California Air-Head" mentality. That's all well and good when you live somewhere that doesn't have that "winter" thing, but what the hell is a Central New Yorker supposed to do? Live on bark and twigs?

Fast forward a couple of months, and I read this. The die has been cast. We are now up to our ears in canning and freezing and scouring the local food scene for sources, determined to eat as "real" and as local as possible.

I even now have come to understand how sensible (and old-fashioned) it is to support your neighbors in your community, rather than some nameless, faceless corporation, God-knows-where.

The whole Eat Local thing even inspired a 58 mile long, rainy bike ride (with almost 4,000 feet of climbing!). But that's my next post.......

YOU RODE YOUR BIKE TO WORK????????

2008-07-12T19:18:00.006-04:00

Wish I had a nickel for every time I've heard that. Heard it so often that I have a ready-made smartass answer: [deadpan]"Well, yeah..... I've found that to be much easier than pushing it....[/deadpan]"

Why is that so inconceivable? It's only seven friggin' miles! We're not talking the Tour de France here! Thirty five to forty minutes. (Twenty eight-ish if I'm really kicking ass, like last Friday morning - gloat, gloat ). They think I'm some kind of god because I rode my bike seven miles down the Erie Canal Towpath???? (Think about what that says about them.... )

I like telling them " I saw deer, and rabbits and herons this morning.... what did YOU see; the back bumper of the car in front of you?" Or, "I actually enjoyed my commute this morning and am looking forward to riding home... How 'bout you"?

What makes it sadder is that many of the incredulous people live only a couple of miles from the hellhole where I work. For the record, it only takes me about fifteen minutes longer to ride than it does to DRIVE. For most of the people who live in the village, the "time savings" would be almost nil, yet they can't even conceive of riding a bike or - doG forbid - WALKING to work.....

In a very similar vein, when I ride either my motorcycle or bike and the weather is sketchy I must get told a hundred times a day "You're gonna' get WET!". Why is that so terrible? Because I don't have dry clothes and a shower at home? (Never mind that the fairing on the GoldWing diverts about 99% of the water around you....). When you were kids, getting wet and dirty was FUN! Why is it when we get older everything has to be easy, clean, dry and climate-controlled????

That's just sad.

Welcome To Pine Acres!

2008-05-10T09:54:00.014-04:00

Pull up a glass and a chair on the screened porch and hang out a while.

This is my home.

Yeah, I know, there's another place where I spend most of my time, and it's my official mailing address, but this is my home. I'm not sure that it's possible for an innate love of a place to be passed down genetically, but since the early 1800's this land has been in my family and it just feels like I belong here. This was always referred to my grandparents as "The Old Place". I'm not sure they meant it in the Celtic sense, but to me, that fits too. My grandmother grew up here. Her childhood home burned in 1935 and the hole where the foundation was is still visible near the southeast corner of the property.

The cabin itself was built in 1929 by a gentleman named Vann R. Law. Mr. Law wasn't a relative but he obtained part of the fifty acres after one of my deadbeat ancestors lost it for taxes. The property was important enough to my grandparents that my grandfather made a standing offer to Vann Law that, should he ever want to sell, he wanted right of first refusal. The property was made whole again, sometime in the 60's.

The cabin consists of three rooms, all stuck in the 1930's.

The living room (which was actually the entire cabin, before the addition of the bedroom and kitchen):

The bedroom:

and the kitchen:

You notice that I said "living room" "bedroom" and "kitchen" but not "bathroom". Ok so it's a bit rustic... It has electricity (though it's quite possible to get by very nicely without it ) and a hand pump. (A bathroom is on the short list of the improvements to be done, since it's the biggest hindrance to us spending more time there. In the meantime, the ladies room is a camp toilet and the men's room is fifty acres in size).

As charming as it may be indoors, that's only half the story. This is what it looks like out the back door....and for at least a half mile straight back:

People often ask what body of water my camp is on, because, apparently there's some sort of mandate that camps be on water. When I say "none" they look rather nonplussed. " Well what do you do?" is the usual reaction... So what DOES one do with three rooms and a crapload of trees? NOTHING, if you don't want to. Sit and read, talk or just listen to the wind and watch the birds. Listen to the rain on the roof. Basking in the timelessness of the place and sloughing off all the "go-go-go" we all subject ourselves to every day can be a little disconcerting at first, but eye-opening and relaxing in the long run. A conscious decision has been made to exclude modern technology as much as possible. No TV, no radio, no computer, no phone and no clock. You get up when you feel like it, eat when you're hungry and go to bed when you're tired. It can be jarring but enlightening to reset ourselves like that, considering that music is my constant companion and my entire working day is dictated by a clock.

When the relaxation gets too much for even me, there's woods to be walked in, trails to be cleared or ridden on the bike, firewood to be cut - funny how when I'm up there, what would be "work" at home isn't. In the winter, there's snowshoeing and skiing.

I was telling a friend about how when I'm up there, I can go out in the woods and work for most of the morning but usually, when I stop for lunch about 2 o'clock, that's it, I'm usually done for the day. I said "It's kind of like when you're at the dentist and they put that lead thing on your chest to take X-rays; I find it hard to move". He said "It's probably all that "stuff" you let go of and leave behind".

I think he nailed it.

The Natural Connection

2008-04-08T20:53:00.002-04:00

My life has been busy, busy, busy lately. Rushing from putting out one fire to putting out another left me little to no time to reconnect with the natural world around me - the world I am of ; not just exist in.

Last Friday night, the rain put the brakes on whatever earth-shattering task I felt it was necessary that I accomplish next. I was "forced" by the weather to pull up a chair at my patio door and watch the rain and the birds still coming to the feeder.

After about ten minutes of this, I felt a strange calm wash over me. I was soothed by the slanting rain and began to really see the world outside my window. I realized just how far I'd drifted from my "connection" with the earth and the natural rhythms around me and how much I need that connection.

I noticed the row of raindrops hanging from the phone wire that goes over to the garage. I realized that, while I am most assuredly NOT a jewelry person, I would wear a necklace with jewels like that.

I'm thinking a visit to my camp is in order.... (thus allowing me to segue to my next post - coming soon).

Ok, now I KNOW I'm getting old...

2008-03-22T07:04:00.009-04:00

...I've stooped to "Gas Station Nostalgia".

My son has no frame of reference for the days when all service stations did was sell gas and fix cars... when they actually gave you little "bribes" like steak knives or Green Stamps to get you to buy their gas... the "click click click" of the gas pump as the numbers ticked off the dollars and gallons (and the "gallons" went faster than the "dollars").... when the different grades of gasoline had names, like Sky Chief, Fire Chief....

DING! DING! DING! DING! You know what that is? That's the sound the bell used to make when someone pulled into the gas station and ran over the rubber hose. (Ok, or - "some little bastard kids jumped up and down on it"). Those of you who are old enough to remember such things know exactly the sound I'm talking about - you can even hear it in your head.

That was the sound that brought out the guy (and it was always a guy) who not only pumped your gas, but checked your oil and cleaned your windshield.

I actually was that guy for a while when I was in high school.

I got a very vivid lesson in life during my brief tenure as a pump jockey: there are all kinds of people in the world; there are some real jerks, but there are also honest, decent folks.

I had a customer come in and ask for five dollars worth of gas (hey, back then, that was a half tank or so), which I dutifully dispensed. He handed me three dollars. I said:

"Uh, Sir, it was five dollars"

"No, I only said three..."

His word against mine - what was I going to do; take two bucks worth back out? Guess where the other two bucks would be coming from? My pay. He left me pretty disgusted and angry.

Only a few minutes later, another customer came in - out of state plates- and asked for a fill-up. I topped off his tank and it came to ten dollars. I rang his gas card through and he went on his way. A couple of minutes later, he stopped back in.

"Are you sure it was only ten dollars?", he asked.

"Yeah, look, see? The pump still says $10.00" (No one had been in since he left).

He pointed to the other side of the pump that read "$14.00".

"Are you sure it wasn't fourteen?"

"No, no, I'm sure I pumped your gas from this side..."

He scribbled on the gas card receipt, stuffed it in my shirt pocket and said:

"There's my name and address - if you come up short, let me know and I'll send you the four bucks".

You could have knocked me over with a feather.

SILENCE!

2008-03-05T15:55:00.004-05:00

Where is it written that humans must surround themselves with noise and babble? Why must we be constantly "entertained"? Why are people so afraid of silence? Why do we need to surround ourselves with TVs playing to no one, talk radio that no one's really listening to? Why would we want to surround ourselves with so many things vying for our attention and more often than not, trying to sell us something?

I know, I know, a guy with a surgically attached iPod should be the last one to throw stones at his own glass house, but the omnipresent, constant din of TVs and other mindless babble has started to push me over the edge. I sat in my camp in the woods one day and just listened to nothing. Yeah, it was a bit unnerving - at one point, I thought to myself: "This is what the inside of a tomb must sound like... for eternity"- but it was also soothing.

I went into a warehouse area at work the other day, and the quiet enveloped me like a warm blanket. The calm that came over me surprised me. Sometimes you get so inured to the cacophony that you don't realize the presence of the noise...until it's missing. Yeah, I work in a factory, it's noisy - DUH- but it's more than that. It's inane chatter among co-workers, it's other people's phone calls - mindless and otherwise and it's not one, but TWO TVs in the lunchroom - often on different stations. Some days even a microwave isn't fast enough to get me out of there.

All that's bad enough, but what made me borderline Postal was a trip to the dentist. I wasn't in the waiting room long enough to be driven mad by the drivel spewing from the TV in there, but when I got to the hygienist's chair, I was surprised to see TV's at each station, tuned in to a talk show.

Now, since I don't watch TV, I may be more sensitive than most, but is it just me, or are talk shows the absolute epitome of mindless crap? The host breezed through about four guests in a half hour, asking the most inane questions of absolutely no substance. As if that weren't enough, this was punctuated by obviously artificial applause and peppered with commercials, it seems like every 30 seconds. It was so disjointed and rapid fire, it was almost disorienting. It bordered on the "Ludovico Technique" used to punish Alex in "A Clockwork Orange". He had no choice but to watch, yet millions of people subject themselves to this willingly every day? Maybe it was aversion therapy for me, so that I'll take such good care of my teeth I'll spend the absolute minimum time in the chair? I think it worked! Most people dislike the dentist for other reasons...

There was but one antidote. The following day, I took the dogs and the snowshoes and headed for the woods. About a half mile in, I stopped and stood still. Off in the distance, I could still hear the sounds of the highway, but they were muted and barely audible. I could actually hear small clumps of snow falling off the tree branches with a soft "plop". I could hear a Downy woodpecker chipping away bark, way over my head in a dead maple; rap-rap-rap. The fresh snow even muffled the noises of nature and I felt something just meting away from me, like a heavy coating. I stood and listened for a few minutes and then continued on my way, smiling, for the first time in days.

Will this finally be the year.....

2008-02-19T15:10:00.011-05:00

....I go without a motorcycle? Every year, since 1983, I've ridden many, many miles on one of the four bikes I've owned. Twenty three different states, two provinces of Canada and over 150,000 miles have passed under my wheels. Now, for the first time, in some sort of reverse midlife crisis, I'm seriously considering selling, and not replacing, my bike.

When most guys hit my age, they run out, buy a V-Twin Compensator, start dressing like one of the Village People and hanging out in front of the rib joint thinking: "We bad....we bad....". Guess I'm not most guys. Does this mean I need a Corvette and a 20-something blonde named Bambi instead? Gold chains? A Rolex?

For over twenty years, my life pretty much revolved around my bikes. Vacations were planned around rallies, my friends were other bikers, my social life was deeply intertwined with the bike club. Weekends were spent on the road. The first ride of spring was almost a religious experience. It wasn't just something I did, it was a big part of who I was. (Indicative of my struggle with this was whether to use the word "was" or "am" in that sentence...).

So what the hell is my problem? What happened?

Is it because I've "been there, done that"?

After 20+ years riding, it's a valid question. I never, ever thought I'd get tired of riding. I saw people drift away from the sport and thought: "How sad - I'll never do that", but there are very few places within a day's ride that I haven't been at least once. So what's a bike without a place to ride it? (Unless of course it's just a "prop" for you to pose on, which leads us to....)

Is it because "it used to be about motorcycling, now it's a ^%@!# fashion show"?

I attended the Americade motorcycle rally in Lake George every year from 1984 right on up through 2005, when I finally gave up. It's become a textbook example of the turn toward "image" that the sport has taken. It used to be about the ride. It's gotten so bad that we were threatening to go there wearing shirts that said "Trailercade" in mockery of the fact that more and more people don't even ride there. Phony anything leaves a bad taste in my mouth, so yeah, that's probably got something to do with it.

Is it because of the one time I went pavement surfing?

I think this is probably the biggest reason - my mileage took a major nosedive after my minor accident. Still, that was ten years ago, and I've continued to ride - admittedly not with the confidence I once had, though. I no longer throw sparks off both sides of my GoldWing. Felt like someone sucked all the joy out of riding for me.

Is it because I no longer need that "escape pod"?

I think this is the second biggest factor. One of my favorite things to do was to get on the bike and just wander. ("I think I'll take the third left I come to..."). I would lose myself, both literally and figuratively. Hours and hours were passed that way. The further my marriage sank under it's own weight, the more miles I put on. I was running....just to run, I guess. These words from Steve Earle hit me right between the eyes when I first heard them:

You see it used to be I was really free

I didn't need no gasoline to run

Before you could say "Jack Kerouac" you'd turn your back and I'd be gone

Yeah nowadays I got me two good wheels and I seek refuge in aluminum and steel

Aw, it takes me out there for just a little while

And the years fall away with every mile

(The Other Kind - Steve Earle)

Mile after mile was devoured in an attempt to dislodge the clouds around me. Sometimes I succeeded, at least for a little while.

Those days are behind me now, so I no longer need that "refuge in aluminum and steel". I still enjoy riding far more than driving, but for the most part now, a motor vehicle has become just another appliance, another tool, to do a job with the least fuss possible.

On and off, I've toyed with selling it or selling it and buying something different. A sport bike? A sport touring bike? A new 'Wing? Last year, I half-heartedly tried to sell the bike - I told a couple of people I knew were interested what I wanted for it, but I never pursued it (and neither did they) - so I rode it. The slight boost in gas mileage was probably as much a reason as any.

Still, it's paid for....and I don't have to make my mind up until April or so when the insurance is due....

If there's one thing that's remained constant...

2008-02-10T14:08:00.000-05:00

...throughout my life, it's been music.

My earliest experiences with listening to music, were, of course, the stuff my parents listened to - mostly my dad. My earliest influences were apparently the most profound: 40+ years later their love of folk music, like Peter Paul and Mary still colors my musical taste. All I need to hear is an acoustic guitar, and it gets my immediate attention. Many of my current favorites are the musical descendants of those 60's folk groups. James McMurtry is a prime example, right down to the message:

Their love of Irish music - stuff like the Clancy Brothers- still resonates with me today, apparent in my love of bands like Flogging Molly and The Pogues:
THEN:

"NOW":

I was fortunate in my earliest musical explorations to have an older sister. She helped save me from the clutches of the soulless crap that passed for the pop music of the day - Cheez Whiz like The Partridge Family, Bobby Sherman, The Osmonds and The Jackson Five. She led me astray with the stuff she was listening to - Grand Funk Railroad, Humble Pie, Black Sabbath and Savoy Brown. This led me to an epiphany in fifth grade... Our class was having a party, so I ran home to get some music. (I lived close enough to the school and this was before schools were locked down like Alcatraz). I brought in some of my sister's stuff and was very, very disappointed when it just sat there, and the OTHER crap got played. What was WRONG with people? This was great stuff! Why were they ignoring it? I realized that there was some great stuff out there that wasn't getting listened to- because people were just friggin' SHEEP! The stuff on the radio wasn't necessarily the best stuff out there. If I wanted "the good stuff" I was going to have to dig a little.

My mom, of course hated all of it, (Ok - The Moody Blues and Crosby Stills and Nash she could tolerate) so the only time we could really listen was when she wasn't home. Any time my parents went out or my mom was at work, we had the record player out and the music blasting. (Well, whatever it was that passed for "blasting", back when dinosaurs roamed the earth).

About the time I was 12 or 13 my sister began dating a guy who had -hold your breath- an 8 track player in his car! I used to sit in his car for hours on end listening to "Demons & Wizards" by Uriah Heep, "Diamond Dogs" by David Bowie and, most frequently and importantly, "Dark Side of the Moon" by Pink Floyd. I must have listened to those bass notes at the beginning of "Time" a billion times. (I'm sure "little brother" hanging around was a pain in the ass, but dammit, I was hooked...)

Eventually, my sister moved out and took her music collection with her - a blow, but not fatal, because I had my own embryonic collection by then. I also had a few of my own "sources" by then, inlcuding my friend Alvin from New York City. When he came up to visit, he brought fireworks, but also -more importantly- "fresh" music.

Some kids memorized sports teams and stats - me I pored over album liner notes and memorized who was in the bands, who wrote what, who played what.... Often, it paid off - when a band split up or someone was off on a solo project, I was all over it.

We had a "cool" music teacher in 7th grade. He strayed from his classical roots a little and listened to stuff like Emerson Lake and Palmer. One day, when he was finished with his lesson for the day, he showed us a bunch of new albums he'd just bought and asked us if there was anything anyone would like to hear. The rest of the class was mute but I said "THAT one..." and pointed to "Dark Side of the Moon". We listened to what we had time for, then went to our next class. (In my senior year of high school - six years later !-, a girl came up to me and said "Do you remember when you had Mr. Wright play that album back in Jr. High? You were right about that!" YYYEEES! )

I had a portable reel-to-reel tape player that I hooked onto the sissy bar on my bike so I could take my music with me. (I smile today when I think of that 12"x 8"x 2" behemoth versus my iPod....)

About this time, my dad bought a car that had FM RADIO! I had no idea what it was all about, but was surfing up and down the dial (there were about three FM stations back then) and all of a sudden, I heard it - "Snowblind" by Black Sabbath. HOLY CRAP! There are radio stations that PLAY THIS STUFF???? I was stunned. W.O.U.R, a fledgling station on the "new" FM band actually played "album rock" - not the same tripe the AM stations were playing, not the "edited down to three minute" versions of songs and not just the "singles". The DJ's actually got to pick their own stuff and were very, very good at it. They would play three songs and then tell you who they were. My catalog grew exponentially. (Sadly, W.O.U.R eventually became Clear Channel Corporate Whores).

My deep involvement with music became apparent in my appearance, as well. My standard "uniform" was jeans or cutoff jeans and t-shirts with rock bands on them. Now, I realize that doesn't sound all that radical, but at the time I was the only one in my small town who did such things. I had to mail order the shirts from some outfit I found in the back of Hit Parader. My hair got longer and longer. Headphones offered the means to listen at home without annoying my mother. Friends began asking me to recommend music to them, and DJ their parties.

Over the years, I went through my Heavy Metal phase, my Southern Rock phase, my blues phase, my "New Wave" phase, my "Progressive" phase, but music remained very much in the forefront of my life. I was always on the lookout for new music. When I started driving, a stereo was of prime importance. When the Walkman made it's debut, I was an early adopter. When I started motorcycling, a stereo was a much desired accessory. I started exchanging "mix" tapes with friends via the Postal service. (I didn't get into the music video scene very much, because "back in the day" they charged extra for MTV, and after watching the same three videos over and over when they let you have it for free sampling I decided it wasn't worth it).

To this day I'm always still on the hunt for new music. Despite the virtual smörgåsbord of music available on the Internet, it's still a challenge to separate the wheat from the chaff, especially since I've gotten a little jaded. It's out there, and when I find something really special, it moves me every bit as much as it did back in the days of 8-tracks.

I Promised Myself....

2008-02-02T06:24:00.000-05:00

...that I would never discuss religion, politics or red- headed women on here, but this rant over at Angela's Ashtray got me thinkin'... What I came up with, in response (at 4AM TYVM!) was too long winded to post as a reply, so I'm doing it here.

Religion is not evil. PEOPLE can be evil, and can use religion for less-than-virtuous purposes, but it is not inherently evil. One could say the same thing about science. Science has brought us evil, horrible weapons, but has also freed people from the pain and suffering of horrible diseases. Just as the same folks who brought us the Inquisition, the Crusades, centuries of violence in Northern Ireland and the Middle East and people like Jim Jones, religion has also provided a moral compass and brought hope and comfort to millions in times of need. As with any source of power, some people use that power for the wrong reasons. It can be used motivate people to give of themselves and help those less fortunate or motivate people to fly airplanes into buildings.

Like Angela, I've struggled with the concept of religion. At worst, I saw it as a means of control over people. At best I thought it unnecessary.

My upbringing was "Ambivalent Catholic". My parents felt that I needed some sort of religious foundation, so I was indoctrinated in the Catholic faith (because that's how they were brought up). After I'd made my Confirmation, it was pretty much left up to me what path I would follow.

Good thing, too. The Catholic faith and I were NOT a good fit. MCMAWG has an independent streak a mile wide and a mile deep. Nothing gets my Irish/Italian hackles up quicker than to be told to do something and not question it "because I/we say so". I also bristled at the inequality I saw inherent in the Catholic Church. According to them, God only talks to men.

The whole concept of an angry God who was waiting to smite your ass if you strayed just didn't sit well with me, either.

Years later, I ran across the painting "The Laughing Jesus" and it knocked me for a loop. (A quick Google couldn't find the right one, but for those who've never seen it, it's just a head-and-shoulders painting of Jesus letting out a big belly laugh). I was stunned. It called into question everything Sister Mary Discipline tried to beat into me. It seemed so.... blasphemous, yet there was something just so right about it. Part of me said "...dude, that's just so wrong..." but part of me said "YES"!

Over the years I drifted further from religion. "Man needs religion like a fish needs a bicycle" was a frequent quote. The hypocrisy of self-righteous TV preachers who turn out to be guilty of exactly what they were railing at other people about, didn't set well with me. (Hypocrisy being ANOTHER thing that gets MCMAWG's hackles up). At best I've been a "Mildly Curious Bhuddist".

Most of what I saw of religion was select groups of people saying "We're right. Our Way Is The Only Way. Our God Is The Only God". This led all too often to "Our God Can Beat Up Your God". Far, far too often, it seems like people's motivation for following the straight and narrow is either wanting to cash in on "the Big Reward" or fear of "The Lake of Fire". I've often said "Show me an atheist who lives a good life and I'll show you a truly righteous person - they're not doing it for the WIFM, they're doing it solely because it's the right thing to do".

Media reports of child molesters hiding behind the church, genocide in places like Bosnia, nutcases like Jim Jones, David Koresh leading trusting people to hell in a handbasket... didn't help either.

But, a couple of months ago, I ran across something in the catbox liner that passes for a local newspaper. I was blown away. An article about a man who's living his faith. Quietly, and without accolades. Here's a man who's giving himself to help others in need - others who are not even of his own "race", country or religion; many of whom are "sinners" in the eyes of the church. If that weren't enough, I noticed that, despite the fact that he's surrounded by death and unspeakable suffering, he's laughing or smiling in most of the pictures.

If you can read this without rethinking religion a bit, if you can read it without a tear or three, if you can read it without feeling selfish and like something you'd scrape off your shoe, then you have no soul.

Ok, so maybe I'm NOT just another grain of rice in the bag...

2008-01-26T12:41:00.000-05:00

My whole schtick here is me making fun of myself for being so.....ordinary but I realized the other day, that, no matter how white bread I am, I'm very different in some ways.

Cooking: I don't find cooking to be a chore - I actually enjoy it. The time and effort that it takes to make something to eat is NOT wasted, it's a chance to be creative and express yourself a little. Life is made up of little moments, and since eating is one of those things you kind of HAVE to do -until they perfect Soylent Green- why not enjoy it and enjoy the process? Most people I know tell me they "don't have time" to cook. Apparently they're in a hurry to go watch The Food Network. Guess I care too much about my family to say "Here, have some vaguely food-like substance from this shrink wrapped box. I slaved over it for at least a minute and a half..."

Pop culture: I had an epiphany in the grocery line the other day. As I stood there, I scanned the covers of the magazines and thought "Who the hell are these people and why do I CARE? The only one I knew was Angelina Jolie. Guess that makes me officially an Olde Pharte or a rube or uncultured or ... something... So they're movie/TV stars? So what? If *I* were to go out, get drunk, indulge in a smorgasbord of pharmaceuticals, wad my car up and get caught in a compromising position with a chicken, it wouldn't even make the back page of the local rag. So why do we care if Joe Oscarwinner does? Are people's lives so dull they have to live vicariously through celebrities? If they're heros, why do people take such an interest when they demonstrate that they are, in fact, mere mortals?

Sports: I'm sorry, I must have failed "Guy 101" because I couldn't care less about sports teams. I'm not taking anything away from their God (and Pfizer)- given talents, but I really have more important things to do with my time than watch someone else do something. I also never really understood getting all hot and bothered over a sports team just because, through an accident of geography, you happen to live near where they play.

Stuff: Yeah, I'm as guilty as the next guy about liking my toys - can't really throw too many stones when there's a $6000 bicycle in my basement - but so many people just have sooooo much... STUFF, just to have.... STUFF. Folks like them are the lifeblood of the economy I suppose, and God knows they're responsible for all those storage rental places that spring up like mushrooms after a rainstorm. Here's a sobering thought for all you pack rats who pride themselves on how much stuff they own: You don't really OWN anything. Don't believe me? Go to an estate sale. Aren't I just a ray of sunshine today?

Last but not least: TV: I admit it, I -brace yourself- don't watch TV........I'll give you a moment to collect yourself after that earth shattering revelation..... Why? you may ask. It's not that I'm a high-brow, snooty intellectual, it's just that 99.9% of what passes for entertainment is, well, CRAP. If I'm only given a finite number of hours on this planet, why would I want to spend any of them on something like American Idol ("The Favorite Show of Idle Americans"!) or "reality" TV. I have no argument with people who spend their time on that sort of thing - what I find sad is that they can't conceive of NOT watching TV. It amazes and saddens me, when I get looks of incredulity and "Well...what do you DO?.." in response to me saying I don't watch TV. My usual response is "All that stuff you say you'd LIKE to do, but don't have time for..." Apparently the human race existed in complete and utter darkness before about 1950.

Ok, Rant Off - back to white bread and mayonnaise posts for a while.

My Stint As A Lab Rat

2008-01-19T15:06:00.000-05:00

After burying myself in workout plan after workout plan, and becoming even MORE confused than I normally am, I decided to seek professional help. (Of the PERSONAL TRAINER type, not the psychiatric variety). Too many of the books and workout plans are aimed at freaks of nature, like Lance Armstrong, not fat, slow, old guys like me. I think the real catalyst was reading in Chris Carmichael's Ultmate Ride training book how I was supposed to be doing about 30 mph before going into a sprint. Dude, I can't do 30, downhill, with an anvil strapped to my ass! Gravity must be lighter on his home planet.

I spent quite a while talking to Jason, owner of Core Health And Fitness before deciding to take the plunge. (I don't know why I'm pimping his place - the dude TORTURED me!). His take on where I am currently, where I'd like to be (the Bahamas?) and how to get there, made sense to me. What he had in mind for me took into account the fact that I'm 47, not 27 and I could tell him that my left ankle isn't exactly OEM - kinda' tough to tell a book that...

I was supposed to keep track of my caloric intake through the week and bring the information with me. I created an Excel spreadsheet at work and faithfully logged everything I ate. (Ok, so I "forgot" to mention the side of beef and case of beer on Tuesday... A guy's got to have SOME secrets...) This file will henceforth be known as the Document From Hell. I finished it up, just before I left work on Friday, and emailed it to myself. When I came home and went to print it, it wasn't in my inbox. Crap. This means I have to go BACK to work. I did so, and there it was, sitting in my Outlook out box, waiting to go - I sent it on it's way AND copied it to my data key, just to be safe. "Safe" is a relative term. Somewhere in the course of stopping for dinner on the way home, I lost the damn data key. When I opened the file from my email in Apple Works, it blew the formatting all to hell and wanted to print only about a quarter of the document. OKFINE! Install Excel on the Mac... still raises hell with the formatting... after much cussing, we got a good copy printed, a copy that I promptly forgot to bring with me this morning.... GAAAAH!

First up was establishing my basal metabolism. This is measured in glacial epochs. What would have made this cooler was playing some sort of flight simulator, while I was doing my Air Force pilot impression. (I'm sure the next person who uses the mask will appreciate that I brushed my teeth before I left the house).

Sadistic bastige that he is, he asked me not to eat before I came. Apparently he was unaware that, if I am denied caloric input in the morning, I get even uglier than usual. I barely managed to refrain from eating any of his office furniture.

After the basal metabolism, I was allowed to eat my last meal before heading off to the treadmill. C'mon, even condemned prisoners don't eat CarbBoom gels before they get strapped in to ride Old Sparky! I was wishing I'd murdered someone - at least I'd get to eat better!

I stalled as long as I could, but it was time to measure my metabolism under load. I think the Inquisition would probably have made WAY more converts, had the treadmill been available to Tomás de Torquemada & Co. Not only are you subject to physical stress, but you get to endure excruciating boredom - there seems to be some sort of time.space continuum warpage that applies to timers on treadmills. GLACIERS move faster. Now, on top of that, throw in a mask who's primary functions seemed to be to trap sweat and make your head three times heavier than it normally is.

He claimed to get some useful information out of the TortureMatic 2000 (From Ronco!) that I was hooked up to, but I think he did it because he just enjoys it.

Since I forgot the aforementioned "food diary", we couldn't do the full workup, but I emailed him BOTH an Excel spreadsheet and a PDF of the file. Maybe I should have sent them in separate emails.... If this doesn't work, I'm going to hand carve the info in stone tablets and hand carry it over there. I don't give a damn if I look like Moses or not.

Gus Turns 1

2007-12-07T17:41:00.001-05:00

Where the heck has the last YEAR gone?????

From this:

To THIS:

...in only 12 months!
He's still a klutz, still has an energy level that's way higher than mine and still needs constant attention and supervision, but he's starting to show signs of brilliance....and he's still all heart.

What the Hell Was I Thinking?

2007-10-10T11:41:00.000-04:00

I blame the dog - he's the reason I started running (and doing less cycling).

With only about six weeks of running under my belt, and less-than-usual mileage on the bike, I took it into my head to do a duathlon....

I even managed to con one of my co-workers into joining me in the madness

They assigned me number 102 - I think that's how old they thought I was going to feel when it was all over.

ruth be told, I held back way too much and assumed the transitions weren't super imporActing on advice not to start near the front for the first run (and get caught up in the pace of the fast guys), I started waaaaay in the back. The first run didn't go too badly. I actually enjoyed the course through the woods.

"I know - I'm a cyclist; I'll lay the smack down on all these silly-ass runners in the bike leg!"

....but it didn't work out that way. I kept waiting for some short, but really steep "rollers" that I thought were part of the course. They never materialized, and with eight miles on the odometer (out of a ten mile course) I came to the realization that it was time to defecate or get off the porcelain. It was a little too late, but I did have the satisfaction of passing quite a few other people.

My only remaining objective was to survive the last run. I did, and at least came across the finish line upright and under my own power.

So, I know y'all want to know how I did.....pretty pathetic. 62 out of 80-some-odd people and DFL in my age group.

My runs were too slow, my transitions sucked, big-time and I waited too long to make my move in the bike leg. A pro who showed up and did the "big kids" course only took ten minutes longer than I did..........to do half again as much distance as I did. Pretty sad...

All I have to show for it is my $45 T-shirt and some crappy pictures.

(Can't wait to do it again!)

You Truly Can't Go Home Again

2007-08-26T09:11:00.000-04:00

"I'm going home despite
that Thomas Wolfe was right" - Josh Joplin "Who's Afraid of Thomas Wolfe?"

In the 1850's, my paternal grandmother's ancestors settled in the White Lake Corners NY area. As the timber resources petered out, they sold off their sawmill, most of their property in the area and moved on. The family scattered. In the 1960's, my grandfather retired and he and my grandmother moved back to one of the last pieces of property remaining in the family.

As a youngster, I spent my summers there on Bear Creek Road. (Or, maybe it was only a couple of weeks, but in the time scale of a child it seemed like all summer).

Somehow, we managed to pass the hours without TV or Nintendos.

We often walked the mile from the house to the corner, where there was a post office/general store and a filling station - one that still had the old soda machine that kept the bottles of soda submerged in cold water to chill them. The walk in and of itself was entertainment enough.

Once a week or so, we piled in the car and drove over to White Lake to swim at the small sand beach.

Hours were spent catching frogs and crayfish in the creek (White Lake Outlet)about fifty yards from the house.

Water rushed through the small dam that held back the coffee colored water of the White Lake Outlet and we sometimes dared to walk across the concrete top, scared of falling into the waters below.

The wooden bridge over the creek made a "thump-thump" each time a car crossed it - announcing the passage of one of the few cars a day that drove down Bear Creek Road. The road sloped from the house down to the bridge, which made for thrilling bike rides (and sled rides in the winter).

After reading author John Huther's book about life in the area: "The Erie Canal's Long Reach Into the Adirondacks" I decided to take a walk (one sees much more on foot than behind the wheel) and explore the area again with an eye toward the history of the area - a history that encompassed both his ancestors and mine.

We parked at the "new" Post Office and started on foot from the corner - Rubyor's General Store is no more. The first part of the road is pretty much the way I remember it, but I was struck by how much more traffic there was.

The little bridge now seems like barely more that a glorified culvert and it's since been paved so it no longer announces the passing cars - and maybe with all the traffic, that's a plus, but kids today will never get to sing out: "Shave and a haircut......."! and let the "thump-thump" of the bridge fill in the last two syllables. (Maybe from a parent's perspective, that's not a bad thing).

The dam, that it once seemed so daring to walk across, is now sad and collapsed. From the perspective of scale of adulthood, the top is at least eighteen inches wide and it's only about two feet to the water below, which isn't even enough to get you wet to the knees.

The "hill" that we rode our bikes down is really little more than a rise of a few feet".

What was saddest of all was the condition of my grandmother's house, sold a few years ago to someone who obviously doesn't care about it's past as a peaceful place for someone to retire and a house full of adventures for young kids.

Just as the Herricks no longer would recognize the road where they farmed and harvested timber,(heck, they wouldn't even recognize the name - it's "Woodgate" now) so the world I inhabited as a kid has slowly changed, mostly not for the better.

Times change and the world moves on. All the Herricks left was this foundation.

Between work, the garden and the yard, I've been busy....

2007-06-16T11:46:00.000-04:00

.......but not quite as busy as these guys (gals).

In fact, so busy that they were on the verge of outgrowing their home. (Bad). Today's item on my "To-do" list was to build them an addition. It was also time to remove the hive-top feeder since there are enough flowers for the little insects to start earning their own keep.

Remove the top and........ hey! There's a lot of bees in here......! Removing some of the frames showed that they have capped brood (this is a good thing - it means the queen is doing her job) and a boatload of honey already put away. Out of ten frames, eight of them were full - this means it definitely is time to add on.

Just like that, we doubled their square footage! Ten more empty frames. Wouldn't it be nice if it were that simple to remodel YOUR house? This is a new colony, but at the rate they're going, we may actually be able to take some honey off this year, instead of waiting until next year.

Ah, Spring And A Young Man's Fancy Turns To Thoughts Of....

2007-04-01T17:50:00.000-04:00

...beer????????

Well not just any beer, but my patented-once-a-year-only maple barleywine! Why only once a year? Because one of the heretofore secret ingredients is maple sap, which only runs for a couple of weeks in the spring! Here's a pictorial record of the process:

The "donor":

The raw materials:

(9 lbs of extra light dry malt extract, 16 oz of maple syrup -donated by the very same tree- 8 oz Munich malt, 8 oz caramel wheat, 16 oz crystal malt, 1 oz each of Challenger, Northdown, Kent Goldings and Bramling Cross hops)

Steeping the grains:

The maple syrup and DME has been added:

Let the boilin' begin!:

(Too bad my camera doesn't have "Smell-O-Vision" - this is aromatherapy, baby!)

The first of many hop additions:

Yeast activated and ready for action!:

Whole lotta' fermentin' goin' on!:

In two weeks or so, this should be beer..... As Tom Petty said "The waiting is the hardest part..."

Stay tuned for part two!

Life is......good.

2007-03-13T23:26:00.000-04:00

Got outside for the first ride of the year today and the first outdoor miles in about three months. Felt (har har) pretty good for the first four or five miles and managed to hold 20MPH+, but faded pretty quickly. Didn't do much climbing but again, started strong and faded a little early. Looks like I've got my work cut out for me, but at least I didn't go completely down the toilet.

Rode a sort of circular route around the scene of yesterday's train wreck. Apparently they were still burning off stuff because I could see a plume of black smoke for most of my ride.

By the numbers:
7,31,316,46,5,13, 31, 7 (Route numbers of the roads I took!)
29.57 miles (give me credit for 30!)
1702 calories burned
1:41 time
Avg speed of 17.4 (not stellar, but not bad!

Forget what Lance said - It IS about the bike...

2007-03-03T20:01:00.000-05:00

I rode the wheels off my tricycle - literally. There were huge chunks of the hard rubber "tires" missing by the time I outgrew it. Despite my father's best efforts, I wasn't ready to move up to two wheels yet. (If memory serves me correctly, I tried, crashed and wanted nothing further to do with it, no matter how he cajoled).

Finally, at eight years old, Dad managed to browbeat me into trying again. My maiden voyage was less-than-auspicious. I soloed - right out of the yard, across the street and into a "No Parking" sign. Still, I was hooked.

My first two bikes were hand-me-downs from my sister. I had to endure crap from my friends because I was riding a girls bike, but I was riding and that meant more than being ragged on.

Since we didn't have much money, all my bikes were cobbed-together from whatever parts I could scrounge, either from the dump, bikes put out at the curb or friends' parts stashes. It was sort of an evolutionary process - the parts were selected by Dawin's law of bike parts: Whatever parts survived endless wheelies, jumping, bunnyhopping and other abuse, made it to the next incarnation of my bike. Through trial and error (mostly error) I learned how to work on bikes.

More than anything else, I wanted a Honda Elsinore dirt bike. Since my parents didn't have the money for such things, and since they despised dirt bikes, there was no way in hell I was getting one, I did the next best thing - I rode my bicycle on the dirt bike trails. ("Mountain biking" YEARS before Gary Fisher and company, thank you very much).

As I entered my difficult teen years, I found that my bike was freedom- freedom from the confines of a small town, where I didn't fit in and freedom from the ever-escalating conflicts with my mother. During the summer months, I rode all day, every day. As soon as I was up and my chores were done, I was gone. My bike was my best friend and escape pod.

As my parents became more tolerant and I became less of a....teen.... the conflicts lessened, but my love of riding didn't. I read books and magazines and dreamed of touring the country by bike.

With the acqusition of the coveted driver's license and a newly found social life, my riding lessened, but it still didn't drop off my radar completely. Through actual, gainful, employment, I was able to buy my first new bike. This was followed fairly quickly by the purchase of my first "good" new bike. (The Lotus mentioned in a previous blog entry).

One day,I was out and about and ran into a friend who told me that my dad had just been taken to the hospital. I hurried there, thinking he'd had another accident in the kitchen. (He'd cut himself badly a few weeks before). Nothing that benign had taken place. Years of smoking, high stress jobs, no exercise and more than a few extra pounds had taken their toll. He was in the cardiac ICU.

During his recovery, he started exercising - and what better way than by bike? I loaned him one of mine and rode (slowly) along with him. I was probably more proud of him when he made it the full length of our street than he was, when I did, all those years before! Riding with my dad ! Too cool! Think of the possibilities!

It wasn't to be.

During his treatment, some ominous black spots had been found on his lungs. It was also found to have spread to his brain. They gave him 6 months.

On the day his pack-a-day habit took him out of the picture for good, I rode. I rode long and hard. It just seemed like the thing to do. He was 53, I was 23.

As I merged into adulthood, I was finally able to get the long longed-for motorcycle. Between the motorcycle and not having anyone to ride with -my wife wanted no part of riding - the bike slid further and further to the periphery of my life. Once a year or so, I'd drag the Lotus out and go for a ride. I'd suffer and think "God, am I THAT far out of shape?" and vow to get back into it.

Eventually, my marriage collapsed under it's own weight - bicycling was just one of many things we didn't have in common. We went our separate ways.

One day, early in my new, "Life V 2.0", we stopped in a bike shop, on a whim. I was stunned at the changes that had taken place while I was "gone". A new mountain bike soon entered my stable, followed by a new road bike, followed by a newer, cooler road bike.... a newer, cooler, full -suspension mountain bike.... and a part time job at bike shop to pay for all this stuff.

I'd like to say that things have come full circle - that my son shares my love of riding - but the jury's still out. Maybe some day.

I Hate Winter.....

2007-02-11T09:31:00.000-05:00

..."Winter Whiners", that is.... You know, the people who are always running around complaining about how cold it is, how they hate the snow....as if complaining is going to change anything. Actually, all it does is annoy those of us who actually LIKE winter. To those people I say: "MOVE....or shut the hell up!"

But for a little work and a change of attitude, they too could enjoy the cold and snow. Learn to dress for the conditions! Take up skiing, snowboarding, cross-country skiing, snowmobiling, snowshoeing, ice fishing.....something, anything, just get your lazy ass off the couch! You're missing out! The first steps are the hardest - overcoming inertia and taking the easy way out by hibernating. The rewards are well worth it.

There's something wonderful about a fresh snowfall that blankets everything and muffles sounds. The impossible blue of the sky and the brilliant, sparkly white of a sunny day are rare treats only to be found during the months that so many dread. Pity those who've never known or appreciated that fresh, crisp, clean air, the comfort of a steaming bowl of stew after a day of skiing, the ear-to-ear grin of the first spring bike ride of the season.....

I don't know why, but there's something deeply gratifying to being properly clothed, outdoors and realizing that you're comfortable that makes one feel like something from a Robert Service poem:

"I have clinched and closed with the naked North, I have learned to defy and defend;
Shoulder to shoulder we have fought it out -- yet the Wild must win in the end."

Ok, So I Have A Legitmate Excuse For Letting My Blog Slide...

2007-01-31T19:03:00.000-05:00

...and here he is:

His introduction to Zoe

Puppy Naps Are Essential

I'm going to need a bigger lap!

Gambrinus landed in our lives Sunday. It's been a few years and apparently I've forgotten just much work a 16lb furball can be. Between the housebreaking and the constant "NO!" "STOP THAT!" and "DON'T EAT THAT!" I haven't had time to blog....or hit the trainer....or put some miles on my skis. Hell, even getting in a SHOWER is considered a victory. He's crate trained, so fortunately, he sleeps at night, but the 2AM potty trip is doing serious damage to my relationship with good 'ol Morpheus.

The little furwad is sleeping under my chair while I write this.

Things I Done Learnt From My Bikes

2007-01-17T20:20:00.000-05:00

If you mount cartridge - style rim brake brake pads with the open end of the cartridge facing forward, when you apply the brakes, the rim pulls the pads forward, out of their holders, and throws them on the road. This leaves you with no brakes. This is not good.

The likelihood of you needing your patch kit on the day you leave it home, increases proportionally to your distance down the trail, from the truck.

The dog leash you always bring but never need because there's never anyone else on the trail, will be needed the day you leave it home. (Which also happens to be the same day as above, when you left your patch kit home, too).

You buy bikes the same way you buy meat - by the pound. But with bikes the more you spend the less you get, - what's up with that?

The girl you were trying to impress with your wheelie-ing skillz will express something other than admiration when your front wheel falls off and you auger face-first into the pavement. (And, no, it was't "sympathy" either).

Many, many bad things have happened on bikes right after the words "watch this!" were uttered.

There is a direct, proportional, relationship between how good a rider you think you are and the possibility of getting smoked by a 60 year old woman on a 50Lb WalMart bike, wearing a flowered mumu, a 70's vintage Styrofoam helmet and flip flops.

There's no such thing as a group of guys getting together for a "friendly, easy ride".

Those people in their car gawking at you are not trying to tell "is that really Lance" or not. They're laughing at you.

Every single person you pass by, when you're on your tandem, thinks they're the funniest person in the world and the first one to ever tell you "Hey, she's not pedaling, back there!"

That "extra" bolt you left on the bench WAS important.

The worst day on a bike still beats the hell out of the best day at work.

2006-12-31T07:17:00.001-05:00

The Mystery of R.Della Powers

Born in about 1867, in Colesville NY, except for one brightly spotlit chapter, much of Della's life is shrouded in mystery. It is not even certain if her parents - young divorcee Sarah Reed and possible Sing Sing inmate William A Morgan - were married. Even Dell's name is in question; she has been variously called "R.Della", "Della Rose", "Dell" -even "Ardella" on one census entry. (As she mentioned in a later letter back to Colesville searching for her roots, even she didn't know what the "R" was for).

Sarah's death in 1868 left infant Dell without a mother. Dell and William moved to Rochester NY in 1870. There, he quickly married Emma Redding and found employment as a saloon keeper. He was apparently his own best customer. On August 2 1877, William was found unconscious on the street in an alcoholic stupor. He died the next day and young Dell's last connection to her roots was severed.

Emma kept a roof over their heads and kept young Dell fed and clothed by running a boarding house.

By 1883, young Dell - by all accounts now a striking young lady, with dark, almost Spanish features - found work in Huyler's candy shop. To someone of her humble origins, the fabulous Powers Building where the candy shop was, must have seemed like something from a dream. D.W. Powers, owner and builder of the building that still bears his name, was one of the most wealthy, powerful and influential men of Rochester.

One day, D.W's son William happened to stop in the candy shop. There, he found something far sweeter on the other side of the counter than the wares in the glass cases. As often happens, romance, with no regard for class or status, blossomed. I can imagine handsome young William developing a sudden sweet tooth and becoming a frequent buyer of candy he probably didn't even want, lingering long in the selection process.

Talk of marriage began to fill the air.

The ever status conscious Powers family was mortified, with Will's mother vowing that her son would never marry "that candy store girl". Mrs.Powers tried to scuttle the marriage by offering to send Dell to Europe for two years to be educated, no doubt hoping Will would forget her in the interim. Plucky Dell agreed to the educational trip - after the wedding. (The offer subsequently vanished).

Denied the fairy-tale wedding she undoubtedly envisioned, Della and William were married in Emma's living room. No society columns trumpeted the event; it rated barely a paragraph in the July 17, 1883 Rochester Union and Advertiser.

The couple moved into the charming Victorian home that D.W. had had constructed for his son around the corner from his mansion, no doubt envisioning his own little dynastic empire on East Ave.

The tension in the air between Dell and her new in-laws was no doubt almost visible.

Employment for Dell was found in D.W.'s monument to himself, where she worked as a clerk in his pretentious art gallery on the top floor of the Powers Building. On paper I suppose it seemed like she'd literally risen to the top -from the ground floor candy shop where she'd started- but her employment there was no doubt not a happy interval.

A son, Daniel, was born in 1886.

Rather than accept their daughter-in-law, D.W. and Mrs. Powers set about using their wealth and influence to undermine the union. D.W. sent Will off to Europe. At the mercy of his father, who was holding the purse strings and being somewhat of a slacker, Will dutifully obeyed his father. While in England, Will must have taken his father's advice and forgot Dell - he was sued for breach of promise by an Irish barmaid he'd asked to marry him. He apparently also forgot he was already married. He made several trips to New York City and "hunting in the North Woods"He was rumoured to have been involved with Rose Phelps, a Rochester minister's daughter. At one point, Dell went after him, to NYC, even going so far as to disguise herself to try and catch him with her.

D.W. sent Will off to Dakota - which in those days was apparently the Las Vegas of divorce. Will stayed the 90 days required for residency and the divorce was granted. It took 12 years, but Mr. And Mrs. Powers finally got their wish.

Having stripped Dell of her marriage to William, D.W. now set about trying to rid himself of her any way he could, with offers of cash settlement, offers to pay for her accomodations, take Dan in and educate him. Dell, either through stubborness or her firm belief that she was entitled to more, held out. He had her literally thrown out into the street. After D.W's lackey Sherriff Davy forcibly removed them from their home, Dell, Emma and Dan spent the night of October 26 1892 on the curb with the few belongings they were allowed to take.

Not one to roll over to even someone as wealthy and powerful as D.W. Powers, Dell sought recourse through the courts. Suit followed countersuit, charge followed countercharge and the papers of Rochester relished in the scandal.

Emma Morgan, the only mother Dell had ever really known died May 4 1895 leaving Dell alone to raise Dan and take on the Powers machine. In her desperation, Dell turned to what little she knew of her roots. She wrote to her grandparents in Colesville NY, who unbeknownst to her, had died several years earlier. Her uncle Eli, being the postmaster there, opened the letter. In the letter, she's desperately searching for someone to help her take on the Powers machine.

The last known echo of Dell is found in a letter from her in NYC in 1896 to her cousin in Colesville. Dan was apparently with her family there, safely hidden from the Powers clan. Dell speaks of being ill with malaria and possibly taking a trip to England and then Buenos Aires.

Then she vanishes.

In 1910, Dan shows up, living with his father in Syracuse NY.

What became of Dell? Did she remarry? Did she find happiness? Die destitute and alone, robbed of what was rightfully hers? The answer to these questions is shrouded in the mists of the past, growing ever fainter with each turn of the calendar, yet I must know.

The players in this little drama are all gone now, gone to a place where one is judged by what's in one's heart, not what's in their bankbook. I'm sure old D.W. was found wanting.

Thou art gone, Dell, but not forgotten.

(Disclaimer: Dell was my second cousin, twice removed)

Ed and Eddie

2006-12-16T20:13:00.000-05:00

For some reason, two very different guys named "Ed" from my past have been at the forefront of what passes for my brain, lately.

Ed was a fellow student in Jr. High. He was the textbook definition of the term "nerd". Goofy clothes, heavy rimmed glasses and squeaky voice. The most unpardonable sin of all - Ed was a bit overweight. He had a funny build - his upper body was round, but his legs were slender. He looked as if you'd taken a fork, broken two tines off and used the fork to spear a meatball. In fact, that was what we nicknamed him: "Meatball".

In the brutally cruel way that teens have, we tormented him endlessly. Most probably in an effort to cover our own perceived weaknesses, we descended on him like wolves on a wounded deer. The capper came the day I beat him up. Sounds cold on the face of it, but it was really a huge misunderstanding. Our gym teacher - who viewed himself as "the football coach" - was late for class (as always). A gym full of unsupervised teens is a disaster waiting to happen. I strolled into class a bit late myself and started to climb up to the top row of bleachers. (They were folded, with only the bottom row pulled out). Next thing I know, Ed has ahold of my leg and is pulling me off the bleachers. I came down and he was just sort of clawing and swinging at me, so I popped him - a solid, overhand right, right under the eye. He kept swinging and clawing at me, so I hit him several more times. By then the gym teacher had deigned to show up and I got hauled off to the office. There sat Ed, with a pretty nice mouse under his eye, 'bout half the size of a golf ball. I got whacked with a paddle (this was before the vice principal had to live in fear of lawsuits) and sent back to class. Shortly after that, Ed disappeared. Rumour mill had it that his parents had transferred him to another school district. It wasn't until after all was said and done that I found out someone had spit on him that day, and he'd thought it was me. Hell, I'd have wanted to open a can of whoop-ass on anyone who'd done that to me, too!

From time to time, I think about Ed and wonder what happened to him. From the long perspective, I am now very ashamed of how we treated him and all I can do is hope he's happy and whole now. Ed, wherever you are now, I'm sorry man, I didn't know what we were doing to you.

Eddie, on the other hand, was a buddy of mine. He'd had polio when he was little, so the muscles on the left side of his body were pretty well wasted. (Why any child, born in 1961, long after the advent of the polio vaccine, had to go through that, I often wonder. His parents should probably be boiled in oil ). He had a very unique gait - unmistakable for blocks away.

Eddie was a bit of a character. He was a music nut, so I suppose that's how he and I found each other. I have so many memories of him, and every one brings a smile to my face, because they all involve laughter. Funny, one that I had totally forgotten about, snapped back into focus the other day. Eddie was an Alice Cooper fan, way back in the late '70s. One night, a bunch of us were out in my friend's car, partying. Eddie asked my now ex-wife, who I'd just started dating, for her mascara to do the Alice Cooper makeup to match his long brown wig (Don't ask). Long story short, a cop appeared at the driver's side window and started asking the driver a whole bunch of questions. The cop asked us all to get out of the car and line up on the curb. Eddie was the last one out, and when he stepped out, with the wig and the mascara around his eyes and mouth, the look on the cop's face was just priceless! (The cop ended up confiscating our bottle and cutting us loose).

Eddie also had a bad habit of falling down when he was drunk. It got to be a joke. One time, he and I left a party to go listen to a tape in my car. As we were walking back to the party, I told him to be careful of the icy sidewalk, since he'd been drinking. He insisted he was fine. He got all the way back to the house where the party was, put his hand on the stair rail, when -ZIP! CRASH!- on his back he went! He lay there laughing "Man, you know me like a book!" was all he could get out.

Funny thing was, later on in Eddie's life, he used to make a killing in bars, arm wrestling for money. People would make the mistake that they could make some easy money wrestling the gimp...... SURPRISE, SUCKERS! Since he did everything with his right arm, he was strong as HELL on that side! That was always deeply gratifiying to watch!

Eddie died young, a couple of years ago, and, while it was sort of a sad thing, part of me is glad he's free of that cursed body. Eddie, man, wherever you are, I raise a beer for ya'!

That was then, this is now.

2006-12-06T20:50:00.000-05:00

The year was 1979. I was fresh out of school and had been working my first "real" job for a while. I finally saved up enough money to buy my first "good" bike. (It was only my second new bike). After reading all the magazine reviews, I decided on a Windsor International. Problem was, I couldn't find one anywhere. One day I happened upon a Lotus Unique in a now-defunct bike shop. For $350 (a princely sum then) I got a real sweet lugged chromoly frame, aluminum wheels, a full Shimano 600EX gruppo and that cool blue/purple color. It was my pride and joy for 20 some-odd years.

The year is 2006 and I had been working my second job in a bike shop and finally earned enough store credits to but my first "top shelf" bike - a Felt F1C. For $5799 (a princely sum now) I got a sweet carbon frame, Mavic Kyserium ES wheels, full Shimano Dura-Ace gruppo and that badass Stealth Bomber black.

The Felt is my current "baby". Every time I ride it, I'm amazed at the smooth ride, snappy handling and responsive acceleration. Too bad the motor's not worthy!

So why blog?

2006-12-05T21:07:00.000-05:00

Why indeed? As I try to find my... rhythm?... niche?.... style?... here I've been asking myself "Well, why do it"? If I can find the answer to that riddle, maybe I can write something worth reading.

Part of it stems, I'm sure from my geneological hobby. I have a database with about 2000 names...and that's all they are is names and dates. I wonder "Who were they"? "What were they like"? and I get no answers. Maybe I have some sort of delusion that some of me will live on, so that 2000 years from now, when someone uncovers this electronic relic, they'll say "Wow, he was a cool guy...." (This, of course implies that I actually stick with this long enough to say so...)

Part of it stems from my love for writing. I love to be able to write something just so and really nail what I'm trying to say. Someday when it actually happens, I'm sure I'll get great satisfaction from it.

The other part of it is an extension of the writing bit - I like discourse. I like the give and take of written communication, which is why I spend quite a bit of time on message boards.[sarcasm] All the replies and emails I've gotten on here are just mind- boggling. [/sarcasm ] Oddly enough, in person, I'm a person of very few words.... I suppose that says something Freudian about me.

Ok, the gauntlet has been thrown down....

2006-12-03T08:41:00.000-05:00

I'm at 1580 miles on my bike for the year. To make 2000 by the end of the year, I've got to put in 416 more miles, probably indoors....(grrrrr). I sure as hell don't want to be doing a century ride on the trainer on New Year's Eve, so I guess I better get my ass in gear, huh? Maybe if I can accomplish this, I can think about my other goal of being in the 155lb range by April?

Oof. One of thooooose days....

2006-12-01T11:32:00.000-05:00

Weather was so crappy, the dog decided she could wait to go out, after sticking her head out the door and neither cat decided they wanted to have an escape when I opened the door for the dog.

Woke up plenty early enough but somehow - probably through my waffling over what to bring for lunch - I ended up running a bit late. No cash on me, and probably no time to hit the ATM. Driving through town, I hit EVERY friggin' light - even the ones that aren't normally red because they're "demand only". I decide to pass on hitting the ATM in town, and, if I had enough time when I got to work, hit the one in the Quickie Mart near work. Don't I get behind every slowpoke, with 27 cars backed up behind them? According to the clock in the car I still had about 2 minutes when I got here, so I stopped at the ATM..... Guess what's out of order? Guess who's going without caffeine this AM? (And I ended up being late, to boot).
SIGH

Tuesday, Bluesday

2006-11-28T11:41:00.000-05:00

Watched this: http://www.whatthebleep.com/whatthebleep/ the other night and it's been screwing with my head ever since....

Conclusions?

A:) Marlee Matlin is hot. I'd go down the rabbit hole with her anytime!

B:) I feel a little bit ashamed of myself after having my "belief" that a deaf person couldn't be an actor, shot down in flames. On the other hand, I LIKE having my preconceptions shot down - it makes you think.

C:) Without getting all "New Age" airhead on you, the movie wasn't really so much of a jolt for me as it was an affirmation of gut feelings, intuitions, beliefs and inklings I've had all along.

Today's "Someone Get Me A Q-Tip So I Can Get This Song Out Of My Head" song : "When Soul Meets Body" - Death Cab For Cutie.

3AM Tune of the Day: "Speed of Sound" - Coldplay

Ooooh looks like someone's got a case of the Mondays...

2006-11-27T11:55:00.000-05:00

Back to work after five days off.... sigh. Doing my level best to balance my desire to do absolutely nothing here with the practical need to get back in the swing of things.

The scale was NOT happy with me this morning.... I've started to go the wrong way. This means WAR! (Yeah, right.....)

3AM tune of the day: "Scars of Love" -Jesse Malin.

S'cuse me, while I whip this out....

2006-11-26T08:57:00.000-05:00

After much hemming and hawing (and a false start at Angelfire) I've decided to unleash my blog on the world! Yes!

This will be a look at the world through my distorted, dirty lenses....

(...and one more thing to neglect on my "To Do" list....)