Call Me a Boor, a Rube…..

 …. 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.

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

(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...

...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.....

...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????????

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!

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

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...

...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!

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.....

....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...

...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....

...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...

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

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.