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

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

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....

....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?

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"....

...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...."

"....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 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.

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...

…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 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...

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.....

The Midlife Crisis Continues......

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:
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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
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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?

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....

...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?

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

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.