tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17062444445203713582024-03-13T11:07:00.858-04:00MIddle Class Middle Aged White GuyI coalesce the vapors of human existence into a viable and logical comprehension.Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-8040273042760289452021-01-05T10:07:00.033-05:002021-01-06T11:24:53.782-05:00Bereft<div style="text-align: left;"> <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">He came into my life 14 years ago, as a chunky little fuzzball.</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"> </span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmAwXvbZNPY6SabjBNyFiCZRTgFerUPdwSx8LIZiPp92qrOVPQhgSybEjfcaJV34ffd746Fz7OkNMfcFlSeWxfRImqImpzDo8JlQP9suoxTnVCVJWrYt4-xqCgCTbK_nxLOn-_ls3O-f8T/s1687/5BFA6010-BEA2-410F-8571-440F52639019.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1135" data-original-width="1687" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmAwXvbZNPY6SabjBNyFiCZRTgFerUPdwSx8LIZiPp92qrOVPQhgSybEjfcaJV34ffd746Fz7OkNMfcFlSeWxfRImqImpzDo8JlQP9suoxTnVCVJWrYt4-xqCgCTbK_nxLOn-_ls3O-f8T/s320/5BFA6010-BEA2-410F-8571-440F52639019.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Very early on, he showed his strong sense of “right” and “wrong” when -after having been house trained when all was covered in snow - he continued to do his business on an ever-shrinking patch of snow, somehow convinced that to go on “the green stuff” somehow just wasn’t right.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 27.4px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">He filled the role of “goofy, clumsy, younger brother” to Zöe. (<i>Somehow, I can relate...)</i> He was like the big, clumsy kid you went to school with, who always meant well, even if things didn’t often go as planned. When he ate the arms on <i>every single piece</i> of <i>brand new</i> living room furniture, I yelled and ranted and raved when I came home, while he stood there shaking and drooling, not knowing what he’d done wrong or why I was raging like a maniac. It was the first lesson in my education as to just how <i>sensitive</i> he was. Sadly, it took me a while to figure out.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 27.4px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">For six years, he lived in Zöe’s shadow- a role he was content to play, since it meant he had someone to look to for guidance. There was structure, there was a hierarchy, but I always wondered if he should have been an “only dog”. When she was gone, he got all the treats and all the attention and was “allowed” to have toys, but he still seemed lost without her. I understood - I was too. I guess we looked to and leaned on each other. It’s only now I realize just how much.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 27.4px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">It took a while for the understudy to move into the starring role, but he soon became my close companion, my confidant, my accomplice and yes, sometimes, my “nemesis”. He went everywhere with me - rides, errands and walks in the woods. The last was probably my favorite - the solitude of being alone without the loneliness of being alone. (<i>Even when the stupid shit found a bear den</i>)! I am definitely not a “people person”, but I suppose he largely filled the need for socialization that others turn to other people for. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I like to think it was mutual <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>- one day, while I was at work, he pulled my sweatshirt off the bench in the entryway and laid down with it, apparently for comfort. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL9ALyO-vH1QDAo29v0Zb-Mo6F7z4dGUiKjbo6Fmp07XIRTQDwFFVPh7GJLPw-fseNh7ZpC1oEPUQJXwlLwtd2TO3YVUIKcIbiKPYZsvWYLllsHmy3wDu5px109eiC2t2aZn7Az1s17WSC/s2048/78547697-73B1-421C-A30F-D9E5376AB5BC.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL9ALyO-vH1QDAo29v0Zb-Mo6F7z4dGUiKjbo6Fmp07XIRTQDwFFVPh7GJLPw-fseNh7ZpC1oEPUQJXwlLwtd2TO3YVUIKcIbiKPYZsvWYLllsHmy3wDu5px109eiC2t2aZn7Az1s17WSC/s320/78547697-73B1-421C-A30F-D9E5376AB5BC.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span class="s1">He was just a big, goofy lug, always eager to please. He was at his best when he knew what you expected of him. </span>People often commented on his size, but I explained that you couldn’t fit that much <i>heart</i> in a smaller package. He was also the only dog I’ve ever had that could look genuinely <i>bewildered. </i>I once offered him some sriracha on my finger...and he backed away and gave me the “<i>why do you hate me</i>?” face...then stood there in complete amazement when Zoë not only licked the hot sauce off my finger, but came back for seconds. “<i>NO WAY! You eat that stuff”? “</i>People On Water<i>”</i> was complete sorcery to him:</span></p><p></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEJ-ON2MNH3NJgGZYb2xlsUD-i_-aHtCE7T7_PNfkXh_QnGRJ_NZ7ucYpB8uZgG-jmugk86z5I9qZ52OOR-uNrYRDvKCmDLtGnVna1JnFPc-tGxlUgfkrzZGNeOR2yexiqQRud8_aWf-mc/s2048/52692127-0AA5-4CD8-879B-AF3325B17032.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEJ-ON2MNH3NJgGZYb2xlsUD-i_-aHtCE7T7_PNfkXh_QnGRJ_NZ7ucYpB8uZgG-jmugk86z5I9qZ52OOR-uNrYRDvKCmDLtGnVna1JnFPc-tGxlUgfkrzZGNeOR2yexiqQRud8_aWf-mc/s320/52692127-0AA5-4CD8-879B-AF3325B17032.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span>He <i>looked</i> intimidating, but he was afraid of the tape measure. He loved pretty much everybody. I used to caution people he met that he was “a leaner” because if you weren’t ready for “the lean” into your legs, he could knock you over - unintentionally. In fourteen years, I only ever saw maybe a half dozen people he didn’t like. With a record like that, I trusted his judgement about the ones he didn’t like. (<i>If he didn’t like someone, he wasn’t aggressive, he just wouldn’t get near them</i>). I couldn’t even get him to “roughhouse” with me because in his mind, it was just “wrong”. One of the only times I ever saw him stand up to Zoë was when she was roughhousing with me. She completely ruled him and he was ok with it, but her “attacking” me was going too far.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 27.4px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">As age began to catch up with him, it was hard to watch this once powerful, swift dog slow down. It was kind of humbling watching him accepting the things he couldn’t do anymore, with grace. The walks got shorter and I now sometimes had to wait for him, instead of the other way around, but that was ok. If anything, we bonded more over our shared “old man-ness”. Whenever it was time to go on an errand or for a walk, I’d say “<i>You ready, old man</i>?”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 27.4px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">As he neared the end, and he got harder to care for, in moments of frustration, I thought “<i>he’s certainly doing his best to make me not miss him once he’s gone</i>”.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 27.4px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">How wrong I was.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 27.4px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">I suppose I could go through and “sanitize” the house of his presence, get rid of the toys -like the ball he “stole” from the dog hotel - and delete all the pictures...but there’s no getting around the fact that he was part of the very fabric of my life. What do I do when I turn around and there’s no one to give the empty yogurt cup to? Butter wrappers and steak scraps go in the trash now - but not without a hitch or hesitation. When shredding cheese, I keep half expecting a big head to show up next to me, staring at the floor waiting for stray cheese molecules that might fall.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">When cooking, I used to (good-naturedly) complain to him that “<i>If I ever could work in the kitchen and there wasn’t a damned dog in my way, I’d think I was in someone else’s house</i>”! - he elevated “Obstacle” to an art form. Now the kitchen just feels <i>empty</i>.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 27.4px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">But I suppose the worst is that moment when I pull in the driveway and feel a momentary pang of guilt for leaving him home alone...and then realize he’s not there:</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 27.4px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><i>“The house is dark as it can be</i></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><i>I go inside and all is silent</i></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><i>It seems as empty as the inside of me*</i>”</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="s1">I suppose if I believed in something beyond this plane of existence, I’d be happy, knowing he was free from his pain and his broken down body...but I don’t. There’s part of me that thinks there’s another dog out there who needs me as much as I need them, but I just can’t even consider it right now.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 23px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCs8NX-6qAj4jio59qUMJMhkkLNUkRD9fTtiaOQebxMh_cA5JWrnaWKShI-tskCuiv22knyNa2O_Ya67m49cFnG81YjYjhvpvMlbijecCuGMa1bcw7LckcL_qv1ezT7pNKiHZhKjU7CA5u/s1724/4A5CAD9F-4532-4E72-9688-FC733793DB4A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1141" data-original-width="1724" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCs8NX-6qAj4jio59qUMJMhkkLNUkRD9fTtiaOQebxMh_cA5JWrnaWKShI-tskCuiv22knyNa2O_Ya67m49cFnG81YjYjhvpvMlbijecCuGMa1bcw7LckcL_qv1ezT7pNKiHZhKjU7CA5u/s320/4A5CAD9F-4532-4E72-9688-FC733793DB4A.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span class="s1"><br /></span><p></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 23px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="s1"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 23px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="s1"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 23px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 23px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 23px;">*“</span><i>Long Ride Home” - Patty Griffin, (by way of Dave Hause). </i>Not only is the last verse on point, but it’s a song about the ride home from a funeral...and I had it stuck in my head when driving home from the vets, for the last time. How appropriate.</p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 23px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></p>Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-79567544326658128502020-05-30T17:39:00.000-04:002020-06-01T08:59:30.255-04:00Why Is It.......that people talk endless shit about trailer parks, but if you shrink the trailers to half size, cram twice as many in, and call it “a campground”, people line up and pay good money to get in?Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-47816296769242693652020-05-27T07:42:00.001-04:002020-05-27T07:42:52.053-04:00Thought For The Day“Maybe you're your brothers keeper not by code or creed or canon, but the simple hope that someone will be yours”<br />
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“West Allis” - Matthew GrimmMiddle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-54755293143269535452020-05-16T15:43:00.001-04:002020-05-16T15:51:09.964-04:00Pranks A Lot!<br />
I have had the fortune/misfortune to work with some of the most outstanding pranksters and jokesters ever.<br />
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I have even been accused of being one of them, but what meager skills I have, I learned at the feet of the masters. Al, George and Stanley were the Obi-wans. I was just an aspiring Jedi.</div>
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At the steel mill, when I found the day shift guys had left their coffee cupboard unlocked, I found a sleeve of styrofoam cups and suggested poking holes in some of them. Al immediately pointed out the error of my ways and admonished me to “...<i>go get a piece of welding wire and run it through <u>all</u> of them</i>”. Silly me and my small time, chickenshit thinking.<br />
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He also was the one who taught me the art of subtle, long cons and gaslighting.<br />
One of the day shift guys used to leave his hard hat on top of his tool box, when he went home. Al would tighten it up <i>one notch</i>, every night.<br />
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I walked in the office one night to find him sitting at the foreman’s desk and linking all his paper clips together. He explained he hoped that one day, when the foreman was having a bad day, he’d go to reach for a paperclip....and finding the whole damned box in one long chain would just send him over the edge.</div>
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That was all well and good, but at my next place of employment, I learned to take it to another level, from George and Stanley. The pranks were extremely clever, highly original...and pretty relentless. To give you an idea of what life was like in the toolroom, one of the kids on the shop floor, working with Garry, gestured toward the toolroom and said “<i>What do they do in there</i>?” He replied “<i>oh, don’t go in there....they’ll make you cry</i>”. BUT...there were unwritten ground rules. You weren’t allowed to do anything where someone would get hurt, you weren’t allowed to do anything that would screw up what they were working on and doing something that would ruin something -like stain someone’s clothes- was verboten. But that was ok - it just made it that much more challenging.</div>
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From George, I learned the art of social engineering - creating a prank based on the predictability of the victim’s response.<br />
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He was known for putting things in your lunch bag, if you left it unprotected on your bench, when getting ready to go home at quitting time - <i>particularly something he knew you’d have to remember to bring back</i>, like one of your tools. You’d get home, empty the bag, find your calipers or something and go “....<i>aw shit</i>....”<br />
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My favorite of his gags involved Stanley’s penchant for eating sardines. When he was finished, he’d throw the can in the trash. George would then go and retrieve the can and hide it in the boss’s office. Eventually, the boss would trace the smell and find the offending tin. Of course, the only guy who ate sardines caught hell for it. Now this would have been a small potatoes kind of a prank, but for the change of tactic that followed. Astute student of human nature that he was, George did this two or three times, but figured if he pulled the same gag again, it would start to look suspicious. He switched up the game - the next time Stanley threw out his empty can, George took it out and put it on the floor, in front of the trash can, which was just outside the office door. Exactly as he predicted, the boss happened to walk out the door, saw the sardine can on the floor and bitched at...Stanley: “<i>Stanley</i>! <i>What’s the matter with you? Can’t you even put this thing in the trash???</i>” I was in awe. </div>
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We got a die in from a vendor that needed work done. We did the work and put the die back in the wooden box that it came in, for return shipment. I watched George put the lid back on with about 175 drywall screws. Then he went and got two or three three inch ones that damned near killed the screw gun putting them in. Eager to participate and show what I had learned, I went and got <i>one</i> screw with a <i>straight slot</i>. Some poor bastard, somewhere must have cursed us for <i>days, </i>after trying to get that box open.</div>
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George was the one who told me that if you want someone to believe something, let them think it was <i>their</i> idea. From him I learned that nosy people were almost too easy as targets - just give them something to be nosy <i>about</i>. For months on end, I would clean every chip up around my area before going home. I put hash marks on my machine so that I could put the table back in the <i>exact</i> same place and zeroed the readout, at the end of the day. Hopefully that fed the night shift guy’s suspicions that I didn’t do anything all day. Sadly, I never found out if this paid off. My making a fake invoice for a ten thousand dollar TT bike and hiding it in some papers on the desk <i>did</i>, though. My intended target snooped through the papers (<i>I left the top, with official looking letterhead sticking out</i>), exactly as I predicted he would and immediately went and started gossiping about how I’d bought a “<i>ten thousand dollar bicycle</i>!” (<i>Everyone else was in on the gag</i>).</div>
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But Stanley....Stanley was the master. Nothing escaped his notice and everything was a potential target. If you saw him walking around and giggling to himself, it was a pretty good indication that you should check your shit, because it was <i>guaranteed</i> he’d fucked with something.</div>
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Who but Stanley would realize that a pneumatic cylinder could also be used like a syringe? He submerged a cylinder in water and pulled the piston back, filling the cylinder with water. He then made a bracket to hook it to the cabinet door. His only miscalculation was that the victim -me, in this case- was shorter than him. When I opened the cabinet, the blast of water shot harmlessly over my shoulder. Instantly realizing who was responsible, I turned to him and said “....<i>nice try</i>...”</div>
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Gene got a new oilstone. He took it, with the transparent plastic sleeve it came in, thumbtacked it to the window frame and filled the sleeve full of oil, for the stone to soak up. Every night, after he went home, Stanley would empty the oil. The next morning, Gene would refill the sleeve and marvel at how much oil the stone had absorbed... This went on for weeks.</div>
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It was Stanley who came up with the idea of putting a bolt and washer in the end of one of the collets in George’s collet rack. When George tried to pull the collet out of it’s hole in the rack, to use it...it only came out as far as the washer and stopped dead.<br />
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Stanley was the author - but not the perpetrator- of the “sooting-up Jay’s earmuffs” gag. (<i>This involved using the torch with acetylene only, no oxygen, which makes a nice, sooty flame</i>). The unsuspecting victim walked around for a couple of hours with big, black rings around his ears, on both sides of his head.<br />
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...and it went on and on....<br />
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With mentors like these, is it any wonder I turned out the way I did?</div>
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Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-79415538879538931002020-05-14T07:47:00.000-04:002020-05-14T07:47:09.200-04:00Touchstones and NostalgiaWriting my post about my “abnormal” lack of need for social interaction made me wonder how many <i>other</i> things I lack in common with “normal” folks.<br />
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In no particular order,<br />
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<b>Holidays</b>. Everyone seems to have pleasant memories of Christmases or birthdays that they draw upon and perhaps try to recreate. Not me. I half-ass remember putting up a Christmas tree, up until I was about eight or so. I remember a Christmas at my grandparents’ when I was five, when I got the car carrier toy truck I really wanted, but that’s about it. At some point, we just <i>stopped</i> celebrating holidays. No explanation given. I’m sure there wasn’t a lot of extra money in the budget for such things, but we did ...<i>nothing</i>. No special meal, no decorations, no dessert, not even a “Happy Birthday”. Thus, I have nothing upon which to base any feelings of nostalgia. It’s just a blank page. I remember going outside to play one Christmas Day and no one was around - it was like the Zombie Apocalypse. I realized that for me, it was just another day.<br />
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<b>Television and movies</b>. Not having a television made for some painfully awkward social moments. Other kids were watching (<i>and talking about</i>) Dark Shadows and Championship Wrestling. I was reading a book. For the sake of social self-preservation, I got good at faking familiarity - even <i>today</i> I remember Barnabas Collins and Crusher Verdu, but I have no context in which to put them. They’re just names.<br />
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Movies were <i>never</i> really much of a thing - but then I don’t think they were, even for my friends. It was much later in life that this became much more pronounced. (<i>I think the advent of movie rentals really pushed this to the forefront</i>). I’ve realized people can talk endlessly about whatever movies they’ve watched...and as far as I’m concerned, they may as well be speaking Martian. I have no patience for sitting and passively staring at a screen and I think it’s gotten worse as I’ve gotten older.<br />
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<b>Celebrities. </b>I’ve <i>never</i> understood this one. I dimly remember music, movie and sports idols, but they never meant anything to me. The current trend for people to be famous just for being famous makes even less sense. “<i>Who are these people and why do I care</i>?”<br />
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<b>Comfort food.</b> As an unrepentant foodie, this should be a thing with me, but it’s not. “Comfort food” has been described as “...<i>like the tomato soup your mom gave you when you got sick, to help you feel better</i>”. Hell, my mother never even gave me an <i>aspirin</i> when I was sick, just banished me to the back bedroom so my coughing wouldn’t keep her awake. So no, I have no particular dish that I wax nostalgic over. I miss my dad’s breakfasts and his homemade applesauce - but that’s a manifestation of missing <i>him</i>. Maybe that’s close enough?<br />
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<b>Family vacations</b>. Another big “nope”. Everyone seems to have fond memories of vacations, picnics or camping trips. I got nothin’. Other kids went to Disney or weekended at Old Forge. Those places might as well have been on Venus for all I knew. We weren’t exactly wealthy, but it seems we did nothing as a family, regardless of cost. About the only thing I remember is having a picnic/cookout in a park once (<i>prior to age seven, when we moved here</i>). It started raining, so we took shelter in the car. To our great amusement, the blackbirds were in no way deterred by the rain and helped themselves to the hamburger and hot dog buns - right through the plastic bags. That was it...up until I was fourteen or fifteen. My mom went somewhere on a weekend retreat and my dad grabbed some picnic supplies and a couple of office mates and we had a picnic at Lake Delta. I was floored. It was completely out of character for him and unprecedented. It was only afterward that I wondered how many <i>other</i> things he didn’t do, because she had no interest. A sobering realization, to be sure.<br />
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Now I know you’re thinking “<i>Aw Jesus, he’s whining about his childhood again</i>....” but that’s not the case.....really! It’s more the case of me seeing these things as an outsider and not really comprehending them. The saying “<i>You can’t miss what you never had</i>” applies perfectly here. I don’t feel depraved - er- <i>deprived</i>. It’s a weird state of dispassionate observation. I think maybe I see things more clearly, for not owning rose colored glasses. I don’t wax nostalgic about Happy Days and the Fifties, for example because I realize that it was a great time...if you were a white male - women were still supposed to be subservient and black people were supposed to be seen and not heard. While I understand the postwar euphoria and the astounding growth of America, it was also the days of Fallout Shelters and “duck and cover”. So I see the balance.<br />
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In some ways, I find it liberating. I’m not bound by tradition, not burdened by nostalgia. I can celebrate - or not - in a way that has meaning for <i>me</i>, not Hallmark. If I want to celebrate Dio de los Muertos I can. (And have!)<br />
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<br />Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-28194193181041627462020-04-30T14:11:00.002-04:002020-04-30T14:11:23.296-04:00I Come From...?I have long been a fan of <a href="https://www.ordinaryelephant.net/">Ordinary Elephant</a>. (<i>For the uninitiated, follow the link. Listen to all the music. Watch all the videos. Buy all the things... I'll wait)</i>. Their music is simple, solid, unpretentious, genuine and, well, <i>honest</i>. (<i>Any of those former adjectives would have been almost as good an album title as the latter</i>).<br />
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I watched their webcast concert the other day and for some reason "<i>I Come From</i>"stuck with me for a while afterward and made me think. It's a wonderful song about being proud of (<i><u>not</u> arrogant</i>) and grateful for who and where you came from. It made me reflect on my own influences - who and where <i>I </i>come from.</div>
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...and I came up empty. It was kind of a startling revelation. </div>
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I realized I see my roots more in terms of Marillion's "Accidental Man":<br />
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"<i>An accident of gender, </i></div>
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<i>an accident of birth. </i></div>
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<i>that holds me to point of view</i></div>
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<i>this time and place on earth</i>".<br />
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I have lived here virtually all my life and while I intimately know every nook and cranny of this area, any attachment I feel is born of familiarity and comfort. (<i>No small thing to a creature of habit like me, but still...</i>)This area is no better or worse than anywhere else. Sure, I could bore the ears off a visitor about local history and the Erie Canal, but that would simply be a case of trying to share something they don't know or hear about all the time. I'd probably serve them <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spiedie">Spedies</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salt_potatoes">Salt Potatoes</a> or <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Utica_greens">Utica Greens</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chicken_riggies">Chicken Riggies</a>, but that would be more from a desire to share something unique, something different, as opposed to any real pride in those dishes.</div>
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As much as I love the woods, I suppose I could just as well feel the same about the mountains, the ocean or the desert. (<i>But not the city. No way.</i>)<br />
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The only place I feel any affinity for is up north, the area where my camp is and my grandparents' house was. Something about that area just speaks to me - from the coarse, glacial, sandy soil to the plaintive call of the <a href="https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/White-throated_Sparrow/sounds">White-Throated Sparrow</a>. I kind of suspect this is owing to spending two week vacations up there, during my childhood. It was the only time and place I was out from under my mother's oppressive thumb. (<i>And she often commented that it took two weeks to "straighten us out" when we came home</i>). I often joke that my house is "where I live", but my camp is "home".<br />
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Ok, but surely there must be <i>people</i> who have helped make me what I am, right? Well, I came up pretty fuzzy there, too.<br />
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The whole "family" thing wasn't really part of my formative years. Outside of my mother, father and sister, everyone either lived downstate or was on my mother's personal Shit List (or both) so we never saw much of them - no real influences there. Most anyone I <i>could</i> think of as an influence was somewhat of a mixed bag.</div>
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My paternal grandfather helped form my love of the outdoors, but I also realize he was a product of his times - ie a bit hyper-conservative and a bit of a bigot. Thankfully I didn't get that part.</div>
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I don't really remember either of my grandmothers having much influence - but I'm willing to credit my maternal grandmother with my love of food. "<i>Mangia</i>!"</div>
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I'm pretty much empty as far as teachers go - though I had a few good ones - so I guess that leaves my parents.<br />
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My dad wasn't with us quite long enough to complete his tutelage, but I think my sense of honor, my belief that my word means something and feeling that you should always strive do do the right thing - especially when no one's looking- came from him. He was the quiet type. He didn't say much, but he didn't have to. He was calm, quiet and logical. I can channel that sometimes, but it's offset by my inheritance of my mother's short fuse. The older I get, the more I see him as an iceberg - a lot going on below the waterline that no one really saw. His early passing certainly left me constantly mindful of the passage of time and a knowledge that regret is a terrible thing to carry around.<br />
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But he didn't know shit about tools.<br />
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Last, but by far not least, my mother. She was a mixed bag of influences if ever there was one. From her I got my fierce sense of independence. Whether this is a good thing or not depends on the circumstances. It's been an asset sometimes but gotten me in a lot of hot water, too. (<i>No regrets</i>!)<br />
She was independent in thought as well, and it's to her that I attribute my willingness to question everything and not just mindlessly accept the status quo. I think it's served me well, and it's the one thing I tried to pass on to my son. I'm not sure if i inherited my love of learning from her, but she did teach me to read, very early, which has paid a lot of dividends.<br />
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On the other hand, she also taught me that hitting your kids doesn't work; it just made me a better liar and good at keeping my feelings hidden - not exactly desirable traits. On the surface I suppose her constant admonition that I was lazy and selfish having made me aways strive to prove the <i>opposite</i> looks like a good thing, but there's a flip side. I have a very, very hard time relaxing - I always feel like I should be doing something <i>productive</i>. While my lifelong desire to prove her wrong has helped me be kind and considerate, it's left me unable to ask anyone for anything - no matter how badly I may need it -far, far in excess of the normal Y chromosome related reluctance to ask for assistance. No matter how badly I'm drowning, I won't ask for help. I will -usually- take it if it's offered, but to ask someone to do something they wouldn't do of their own volition is an anathema.<br />
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So I see myself as byproduct of a whole slew of varying influences...but that doesn't make for a very good song, does it? (Accidental Man notwithstanding).</div>
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Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-34541622324597681982020-04-20T07:52:00.000-04:002020-04-20T07:52:34.097-04:00Edward G Norley's Reign of TerrorI've been doing a fair amount of research about the seedier side of local history. In the course of so doing, I ran across this January 1895 article, which I have quoted verbatim. (<i>It was perfect as written. To paraphrase or edit would be a crime.</i>)<br />
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You can call Mr. Norley a lot of things -"a slow learner" among them - but you can <i>not</i> call him "a quitter". He saw it through to the bitter end.<br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Made A Reign Of Terror</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>His Wife Disarmed Him and Gave him a Horsewhipping - Assaulted Several Store-Keepers and Resisted Arrest But Was Clubbed Into Submission</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Lyons, January 27. Water Street was the scene of a batch of sensations all day Saturday In which Edward G Norley figured largely. Early in the morning, he had a quarrel with his amiable spouse and left home in high dudgeon. Purchasing a pair of revolvers and with a skin full of cheap whiskey he returned. As soon as he began abusing his wife, he exhibited the revolvers, which Mrs. Norley took away from him and chased him out of the house, shooting off the guns in the air.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Norley sought refuge in the barn, but the wife followed and with a horsewhip administered awful punishment, driving him out. He hastily went down town and commenced drinking heavily. At last, he went into Boeheim & Sons furniture store and tried to kick up a row with Alderman Boeheim. The latter declined, at which espying an old enemy William Harris, he called him and his deceased father a lot of dirty names, which Harris resented by knocking Norley flat three times, at which the latter begged and Harris, at Boeheim’s request, withdrew.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Alderman Boeheim’s Strong Arm</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Norley turned his mud batteries thereupon Boeheim who, after standing the abuse for a time, grabbed the drunken loafer , dragged him five rods out of the store, across the sidewalk into the gutter and chucked him in after which he punched him in the nose as hard as he knew how to. This performance required some effort as Norley stands six feet four in his stockings and weighs 280 while Alderman Boeheim is five feet six and weighs 160.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Norley crawled out of the ditch and espying D.J. Mahoney who runs the Oriental House, rushed at him with vile names and attempted to “slog” him. Mahoney warded off several blows at which Norley drew his knife and alleging that he would dispatch Mahoney started in, but Mahoney fled to his place, procured a revolver and returned.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Norley had been taken into Noble & Tromer’s hardware store, where he would be safe from Mahoney, at which he picked on Ward Compson, a clerk, and again drew a knife. At this, George A Tromer, one of the proprietors, quieted Norley down and took him home in his cutter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Norley began smashing furniture as soon as he reached the house, to which his wife objected. He retired to the woodhouse, he seized a crowbar and returned to the scene of battle at which Mrs. Norely grabbed the bar and poked her husband in the stomach and he fell again, smashing the stove with the crowbar. Mrs. Norely came down to police headquarters and made a complaint, charging her husband with assault in the second degree, drunkenness and disorderly conduct.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Attacked a Policeman</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Officer Sharpe accompanied the wife home and on the corner of Layton and North Water Streets meeting Karl Martin’s delivery sleigh, ordered it to wait.Mrs. Norley was unable to restrain herself and stood crying, wringing her hands. Officer Sharpe went up to the door and knocked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Who’s there?” asked Norley</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Officer Sharpe answered at which Norley called him a vile name, swung open the door, reached for his hip pocket with one hand, grappling the officer with the other and came out on the stoop ready for business. Realizing his peril, the officer used his club several times, reducing Norley to insensibility, splitting the club.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The handcuffs were adjusted and Norley’s legs tied with the hitching strap after which, minus coat and vest, he was carted down to the Station House and a charge of resisting an officer was docketed. Jail physician Dr. John S. Bend was summoned and found Norley in terrible shape, with his nose knocked out of shape by William Harris and alderman Boeheim, while his eyes were badly bunged and his head all cut open. He was patched up and eft in the station for the night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Numerous friends called on him and bail was applied for. Yesterday morning Norley was in his right mind and blamed the whole thing to whisky. He was arraigned before Police Justice Mason and released on bail secured by Charles P Williamson his attorney.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">(<i>Probably the worst part of all this was having to do the Walk Of Shame around town, ever after: "</i>Hey! Hey Norley! C'mere! Joe here's new in town...he hasn't heard about your reign of terror. Go on - tell him about the night you got your ass beat by everyone in town...<u>including your wife</u><i><u>!</u>"</i>)</span></div>
Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-35748415564964877162020-04-16T08:09:00.001-04:002020-04-20T07:59:06.662-04:00What I Learned From A Fungus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKBxkMFaqhMJvZRhkkTD_haUg3U3dkOVPVe7gVLeE6pxZ8XOPNyaVpI7jU8AYhNHo4ay0qctVK21vcP4n7XQqij-wNZlDmcn-7tNkQHtcXGA_-3oWHxgmzjXXmFxdHwshpwpeMoUOUQowe/s1600/37867CC2-FC13-410F-A96B-2D4A2F7C4809_1_100_o.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKBxkMFaqhMJvZRhkkTD_haUg3U3dkOVPVe7gVLeE6pxZ8XOPNyaVpI7jU8AYhNHo4ay0qctVK21vcP4n7XQqij-wNZlDmcn-7tNkQHtcXGA_-3oWHxgmzjXXmFxdHwshpwpeMoUOUQowe/s640/37867CC2-FC13-410F-A96B-2D4A2F7C4809_1_100_o.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Here is, what is on the face of it, a rather unremarkable photo. The composition is mediocre, the exposure rather ordinary and the subject matter seemingly dull. Definitely not Instagram-worthy.<br />
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But look deeper. There's a story here. (<i>Click to embiggen</i>).<br />
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Once upon a time (<i>because all good stories start that way</i>) there was a tree, standing tall, with bracket fungus happily (?) growing on the trunk. Being very strict, traditional polypores, they grew perpendicular to the trunk, parallel to the ground.<br />
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One day a mean, evil witch (...<i>or a windstorm...or a guy with a chainsaw...</i>) knocked the tree over. Now the pores containing the spores were <i>sideways</i>! How ever would they release their spores and spawn the next generation? Oh no!<br />
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Our hero (heroes?) the fungus didn't rail against a situation it couldn't control, didn't wallow in self pity, just shrugged their nonexistent shoulders and resumed growing, 90 degrees from the previous growth -once again parallel to the ground as is right and proper- and life went on.<br />
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Huh. Sometimes even a simple life form has more sense than I do.Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-39564097682277877072020-04-16T07:42:00.000-04:002020-04-20T08:02:47.604-04:00Guilt and GratitudeAfter the initial shock of the world turning upside down subsided, I saw a lot of <i>potential</i> in this period of imposed isolation.<br />
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At last I have time to do things I've not had time for, or have been putting off - both "non-fun" stuff like yard work and "fun" stuff like riding my bike. I see an <i>opportunity</i> to get a bit ahead on things I need to do, freeing me up for fun stuff later on when the weather improves.<br />
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I also see that it is a chance for me to think...and maybe learn a little. Being <i>forced</i> to slow down, and being unable to do some things might help me understand why I am so <i>driven</i>, all the time. "<i>Why do I feel the need to multitask all the time</i>?" "<i>Why do I feel like everything I don't get done will come back to bite me in the ass later on</i>"? "<i>How much of it is 'real' and how much is <u>self</u>-</i><u style="font-style: italic;">created</u>...<i>maybe to bolster my own ego, inflate my sense of self-importance</i>"? It's a rare chance for reflection and I'm trying to make the most of it.<br />
<br />
I promised myself to get my camera out and go back to playing photographer - not because I fancy myself an artist, but because I use photography as a <i>tool</i>. It <i>forces</i> me to slow down and actually <i>see</i> what's around me, not just hurtle through the landscape blindly, locked inside my own head.<br />
<br />
As you can see, I've also used this chance to sit down and start writing again - after a four year hiatus- not just because I finally got around to straightening out my password issues, but because it kind of helps me turn the noise in my head into a somewhat coherent form. That way, maybe if I write now, I won't be "writing" at 2AM.<br />
<br />
....and all these things benefit <u>me</u>.<br />
<br />
People are getting sick and dying. People are in tough financial straits. People are feeling the strain of enforced separation. People are living under a cloud of fear and uncertainty.<br />
<br />
I have a job. I have insurance. I have my health. I have the means to keep myself fairly well isolated and lessen the odds of getting infested - a lot of people <i>don't</i>.<br />
<br />
...and I'm looking at this as an <i>opportunity</i>? What kind of self-centered son of a bitch am I? <br />
<br />
I have been railing against the selfish people who clean the stores out of toilet paper and sanitizer because, well. "<i>Hooray for me, <u>screw</u> the next guy</i>..." I've been looking with disgust at businesses who profiteer and put money ahead of the well being of their employees. I have been thinking with loathing of politicians or those who would use this as a chance to do some shady shit, while everyone's attention is elsewhere,<br />
<br />
...am I one of <i>them</i>? Am I that which I despise?<br />
<br />
After a brief period of self-loathing*, I realized that the difference is that the good that I hope to get from this doesn't come at the expense of anyone else. The gains that I seek to wrest from this are <i>in spite</i> of the situation, not <i>because</i> of it. It's my way of giving a middle finger to a situation I cannot control. I can live with that.<br />
<br />
If the "price" I have to pay is to be reminded and humbled about how goddamn lucky I am, I am more than ok with that. It's more than fair.<br />
<br />
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*<i>My Catholic education never made it much past first grade, but apparently the "guilt" portion of the indoctrination "took</i>".<br />
<br />
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<br />Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-87792218365278526822020-04-06T11:15:00.001-04:002020-04-06T11:15:45.281-04:00Gender BlenderI don’t get it.<br />
<br />
I have heard much about “non-binary gender”, “gender fluidity” and “gender dysphoria”. Each time I see or hear something about the subject, I try to understand it...and come up empty.<br />
<br />
Now before you brand me as a hater, let me try to dispel that notion. I am willing to accept and respect anyone willing to grant me the same courtesy. For someone to live a lie, just because it’s what <i>others</i> expect of them, is a sin of the first order. I am a firm believer that people should be themselves, whoever that might be. The “problem” is not that people are this way, it’s <i>my</i> inability to relate - and I’m working on that.<br />
<br />
I like seeing paradigms challenged. Any time my preconceived notions are questioned, I find it kind of refreshing to ask myself “...<i>yeah, why <u>is</u> that</i>?” More often than not the answer is “...<i>well, I don’t know, you just <u>do</u></i>...” because there is no real reason! Doing something “just because we’ve always done it that way“ or “because everyone else does” is stupid.<br />
<br />
For me, the first step toward understanding something new to me is to relate it to something I <i>do</i> understand. When I look at same-sex relationships, while I may not understand the attraction -in the same way I don’t understand how people can like chick peas - I do understand that it’s a <i>relationship</i>, with all that entails. “<i>Oh, it’s a relationship! I know what those are! I’ve had them</i>!” So for me the first step was to try and think of a time when I felt like maybe I was someone else or not a guy-type person...and I came up empty. My immediate, visceral response was “I am a man”. There was no ambiguity there.<br />
<br />
I have never been one to subscribe to established gender roles. The idea that people are not allowed to (or are unable to) do something just because of their gender, is beyond stupid. The idea that somethings are “manly” and others are not is just plain dumb. I have often shook my head at the idea that because I am a male person, I’m supposed to like monster trucks and fishin’ and football...or whatever. I don’t, but <i>it’s never made me question who I am.</i> If that’s what “the rules” say I’m supposed to like and I don’t, <i>then <u>the rules</u> are fucked up, not me</i>!<br />
<br />
Like Popeye, “I yam what I yam”, rules and labels and convention be damned.<br />
<br />
...which is what I suppose someone of “non traditional” gender might be inclined to say.<br />
<br />
Hmm....maybe I just learned something.Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-23310098782965705692020-04-01T10:35:00.000-04:002020-04-15T10:15:50.886-04:00Social Distance...and Isolation.I have heard many people bemoaning the lack of socialization during this period of forced separation. Many, many times, I have read of the mental toll solitary confinement can take on people. But...I don’t really get it. I understand how <i>confinement</i> could make me go stark raving mad - probably quicker than most - but as someone who needs and wants little social interaction I don’t really understand how lack thereof can take such a toll on people. So far, the only downside to this whole “social distancing” thing for me is that places I used to go for solitude are now...<i>crowded </i>and I dread the thought that my “secret places” are going to <i>remain</i> crowded after this all blows over. Now my “crack-of-dawn-to-avoid-the-idiots” grocery runs are not quite as placid and idiot-free as they once were. (<i>Hopefully they’ll go back to the malls instead of the woods and take up sleeping in again, once this all blows over</i>).<br />
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<br /></div>
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I don’t feel like I’m missing anything and I have to wonder “...<i>why is that</i>?” “...<i>what does it say about me</i>?” “...<i>am I some sort of sociopath</i>?” The logical place to look for answers seems to be the past - Where did it start and how did I get to where I am now? </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Growing up in a small town where I didn’t fit in probably had a lot to do with it. I realized fairly early on that I was <i>never</i> going to fit in, so there was no point in trying. I found that being “different” was acceptable but being “uncool” was a major, major sin to be avoided at all costs. Being different earned me a mostly undeserved reputation for being crazy, but it accorded me a degree of respect. The lesson I took from this is that, if you give people a few threads, they will spin an entire cloth of an image of you - and because they came up with it themselves, they believe it wholeheartedly. It’s better than anything you could come up with on your own. Still, maintaining the machinery that creates an image is taxing. When I was on my bike alone for hours, I didn’t have to keep up appearances, there was no one to judge me and I didn’t have to be on alert not to make any missteps. In addition to my bike freeing me from my mother and my small town, it freed me from having to manage the smoke and mirrors of the persona I created. I liked it. I had “guys I hung out with” but no real “friends”. Like Barf, I was my own best friend, and I was mostly ok with that.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
As I got older, my social circle expanded. I had friends and did social things. I have to admit, I had a lot of fun. I even -gasp!- initiated get togethers and hosted parties! Still, I found it draining. After several hours at a party, I found myself just shutting down and needing to go off by myself. It felt like my batteries were depleted. Again, it seemed like I was maintaining an image and ever on my guard against being “uncool”. I realized how many little things I was doing - like making sure not to tell the same story twice, keeping track of what I had in common with which person so that I could direct the conversations in a “safe” direction, always wearing something that I had gotten since we had been together last (so that I knew I wasn’t wearing the same thing as last time)...and so on. I maintained a mental Rolodex (<i>I’m too old for a database</i>) of everyone’s likes and dislikes and acted accordingly. I kept a ready store of witty quips and quotes, just in case I needed them. If I was hosting, I depleted my emotional batteries making sure everyone was having the best time ever. That all has a mental and emotional cost, and at the end of the day, I was spent. Recharge and recovery was lengthy.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I have been a member of many groups and clubs and while it was fun sharing a common interest with folks, the inevitable eventual discord soured me on social groups. Someone always has to ruin it, so I mostly stopped getting involved.</div>
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I’ve always found interactions with coworkers to be taxing as well, but it wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I was aware of just how much. One day, I realized I was unconsciously taking a mental inventory of what my coworkers were wearing. Every day. God knows I’m no fashionista, but I realized it was so I could tell, at a glimpse out of the corner of my eye who was approaching or in my immediate area. Apparently, without my even being aware of it, I had created an entire defense network. Since there were people I despised and was likely to conflict with, I had built my own DEW line to keep me apprised of who was where. Because there was no way to make everyone wear IFF transponders, “<i>blue shirt good/striped shirt bad </i>” was the next best thing. But that epiphany left me wondering what the cost of being on DEFCON 4 all the time was - without even knowing it. The strange part is, I notice that I <i>still</i> do it. The atmosphere at my former employer was (is) toxic and stressful, to say the least, but I actually <i>like</i> my coworkers now. Why am I still on guard?<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
We have a small, separate shop for the students to use -about 15’x30’- and one day I walked into the empty room to get something...and the quiet and isolation was like a soothing balm. I briefly entertained thoughts of moving my machine and tools in there, so I could be alone. Why? Habit from my old job? I don’t think so, for one day when I went down to the park to walk the dog, as I stepped out of the truck I had the mental image of slipping a cape off my shoulders and letting it fall to the ground - except the cape was weighted, very much like the X-ray vest you wear at the dentist. It was very similar to the calming effect I felt walking into the empty "student cave". What was this weight that fell from my shoulders, why was a carrying it around and at what cost?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I dabbled in social media for a bit - Reddit and a couple of cycling forums. I met some nice people - some in real life and a couple who have made it into the very exclusive group I call “friends”. After a time, I stopped to consider the implications of what I was doing. I realized I was posting things and then checking back -almost obsessively- to see if anyone responded, if anyone “liked” what I posted, hoping for that little endorphin hit. It seemed kind of sick and narcissistic, not to mention a huge time-suck, so I stopped posting. (<i>A blog that no one reads doesn’t count, smartass</i>).</div>
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<br /></div>
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Strangely, I make a conscious effort to interact with store clerks and the like. For some reason, I go out of my way to make our interaction more than a business transaction. I know it’s partly empathetic- I realize that they have a job that may be boring and stressful, so I try to alleviate it a bit by not being <i>another</i> person who just throws their stuff on the counter and ignores them. But, maybe it’s a "low-cost" way for me to get my socialization fix. They’re no “threat” to me and I will walk away at the end of our brief encounter. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I started writing this looking for answers and understanding. Instead, I’ve ended up with more questions and no insight. I still don’t get it. But hey, I’m at least aware.</div>
Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-45270219061755001972016-10-09T10:40:00.001-04:002016-10-09T10:40:41.434-04:00I Got Fired.Yeah, I'm now Middle Class, Middle Aged <i>Unemployed</i> White Guy.<br />
<br />
I've been told there's a "mourning period" when one loses a job. I guess it's true - smarter folks than I came to that conclusion - but for me, it was like when someone dies after a long, painful illness; a blessing and a relief. They took a fun place to work and slowly strangled the fun out. (Along with slowly whittling away at the benefits). It went from a place I <i>cared</i> about to a place I struggled to <i>forget</i> about when I came home. Any misgivings I still might have had disappeared when a former co-worker told me they just put surveillance cameras everywhere. All they need now is a sign over the door that says "Arbeit Macht Frei".<br />
<br />
Still, after 25 1/2 years, that much of a change has been a bit disorienting, to say the least. Like when you lost a tooth as a kid, it's not painful, but the hole where it used to be is noticeable and disconcerting. You never really noticed it when it was there, but once it's gone.....<br />
<br />
When I first got let go, I was like, "<i>Hell yeah</i>!" I made myself a laundry list of things I was going to do; both things I <i>wanted</i> to do -like ride my damned bike- and things that have been hanging over my head, undone, like a List of Damocles. I started whittling away at my list. "<i>I'm going to run! I'm going to ride! I'm going to finish the goddamn siding, soffits and fascia! I'm going to walk the dog every morning! I'm going to do some trail work at camp</i>!"<br />
<br />
Slowly, though, I realized I was sitting on my ass in front of the iPad longer and longer, every morning. There was no sense of urgency. All those things would be there mañana. It didn't matter if I got them done, they'd still be there if I didn't and I had nothing but time. I had no sense of purpose, no goals, no real future. Every day was going to be the same as the last. <i>That's dangerous territory.</i> I began to understand those people who retire, then drop dead, six months later. The lack of social interaction began to take a toll, too. I'm not exactly Mr. Social Butterfly, but day after day of being by myself began to get to me. Don't get me wrong, Gus has been my buddy the whole time, and if I didn't at least have <i>him</i> to talk to, I'd have come unhinged a while ago, but I've noticed even interacting with store clerks can perk up my mood. Okay, so I'll admit it, I need at least a modicum of social intercourse - I can't quite go <i>full</i> hermit.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure what the catalyst was, but I've started to adjust. I could get used to this "not working" thing. I'm sort of ready to go back to work, but when retirement comes, I'll be ready for it, thanks to this "rehearsal".<br />
<br />
I've gotten a whole lot of things done around the house, just PR'ed a 10K, lost 11 lbs, stopped drinking soda, made a batch of beer, changed my diet for the better and even- as you may have noticed- started writing again.<br />
<br />
Since the wheels of bureaucracy apparently turn very slowly in NJ, I get an extended vacation, for which I am grateful. I also realized I needed this time to reboot my attitude - it's not fair to my future employer to hold them accountable for sins visited upon me by my old employer. I really shouldn't go in there resenting, hating and not trusting them, which was the norm, previously. It's time to get my enthusiasm and my work ethic out of storage. It's time to put my animosity and apathy away. (Hopefully for good). This part may be the biggest challenge of them all.Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-51974213663298690802016-09-30T09:28:00.000-04:002016-09-30T09:28:28.202-04:00Why do we.........buy a Corvette - arguably an ostentatious, "look at me" vehicle - customize, individualize and personalize it...then join a Corvette <i>club</i>?<br />
<br />
I'm not really singling out Corvette owners, but they were the inspiration for this post. (You'll notice I use the pronoun "we" throughout this). I saw what was most likely some sort of a club event in Watkins Glen, recently. There were a number of Corvettes driving by and each was <i>different</i>, yet the same. Like wild animals living their solitary existences, they had all come from their respective garages to converge at the watering hole, only to disperse again.<br />
<br />
This made me reflect on the question of why we humans do things to set ourselves <i>apart</i> - cars, clothes, hairstyles, tattoos, lifestyles or whatever - <i>and then seek others to feel "included"</i>. We very much value individualism, yet at the same time, we have a need to "belong". In some respects the two would seem mutually exclusive. We want to be individuals, yet we want to be part of a tribe.<br />
<br />
Why is that?<br />
<br />
I don't have any ready answers, but I'm sure some dude with a "PhD" and a bunch of alphabet soup after his name has already sorted this out in a paper somewhere. But hey, I'm only a Standup Philosopher, what do I know?Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-48127894832068284672014-08-21T08:14:00.000-04:002014-08-21T08:20:27.712-04:00And so.......the darkness claims another one...<br />
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I have to admit that, at my age, I've gotten used to hearing that someone has died. When I saw the headlines that Robin Williams had died, my reaction was "<i>Damn, that's too bad. Hope it wasn't a lingering, painful illness...still, he wasn't that old..</i>." but I wasn't too shook up over the news - I filed it under "shit happens to everyone, eventually - some sooner than others...".<br />
<br />
When I heard <b>how</b> it had happened, however, things got dark, fairly quickly.<br />
<br />
Now I admit, being the diligent movie-watcher that I am (<i>your sarcasm detector should be going off like mad....</i>) I have not seen any of his movies. I remember him from his HBO specials (<i>yeah, that long ago..</i>.) and just random clips of him on different occasions. Hardly enough to have formed an opinion of someone, but on the other hand, I don't remember him playing a role - a scripted persona that he was trying to portray. I remember him....<i>being himself.</i> His manic energy and the ability to pull from very disparate sources and synthesize something on the fly was amazing to me. (<i>Well, that and the damned voices...</i>) Yet, one thing I remember is that, even when he was parodying someone, it was never mean-spirited, for just as often as he lampooned someone else, he poked fun at himself. He just seemed so full of life, warmth and humor.<br />
<br />
So, like everyone else, I was left going "How the fuck did this happen?".<br />
<br />
I was dimly aware of his substance-abusing past, but wrote it off to "Hey, it was the '80's..." I thought he, like many of his contemporaries, had put that behind him. Not being too into Hollywood gossip. I wasn't aware of his struggles with Winston Churchill's "black dog". In retrospect, it makes sense, I guess, for he was not the first (and sadly, won't be the last) to suffer the dichotomy of creativity/depression. I've often wondered why the two seem to be inextricably linked.<br />
<br />
How can a person who has everything -fame, fortune, friends, family and a seeming joyous outlook on life- take the plunge off the abyss?<br />
<br />
Maybe in humor, he found a way to hide his darkness, or perhaps, knowing what that blackness was like, he sought to provide joy to others that they would be spared that pain.<br />
<br />
I've heard so many stories of his generosity -from being personable and gracious about autographs to the bicycle pizza delivery guy he quietly bought a new bike for* to picking up the tab for the medical bills that Christopher Reeve's insurance wouldn't cover. Maybe he gave so much to others that he had nothing left for himself? With empathic and generous people when more people ask more of you, rather than shortchange someone else, you reduce your own share.<br />
<br />
The only good I can see coming from this is that -at least for a few minutes- people are talking about depression, people are talking about suicide. The American people's attention span being what it is, I don't see this lasting....<br />
<br />
Many, many people have walked to that cliff and looked over the edge, but walked away instead of taking that last step. Even among people who eventually do, there have been many times where they turned away from the edge. If we could only figure out what makes us turn around and go back to the light, we'd have taken a huge step toward understanding this affliction and how to combat it.<br />
<br />
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* He happened to be in a bike shop when a guy brought his bike in for a repair. They struck up an conversation and Robin commended the guy for all his hard work. When the guy went back to pick his repair up, there was a brand new bike and a note from Robin.<br />
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Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-6655557620438818522014-03-30T06:18:00.000-04:002014-03-30T06:18:35.701-04:00Unexpected Thrift Store Find Among the many items on my Saturday morning "to do" list was "<i>Take bed frame to Rescue Mission Store @ landfill</i>".<br />
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Being in a hurry, I was just going to leave the frame and headboard on the dock and be on my way, but the sign said "<i>See attendant when dropping off donations</i>", so I decided to "follow procedure".<br />
<br />
When I opened the door, it was my intent to just tell the attendant what I was doing and be about my business, but she was arranging ceramic knick-knacks in a display for Easter, and something about the careful, Zen-like way she was doing it, made it seem <i>wrong</i> to interrupt. I downshifted my pace to hers and watched as she moved things here and there - often a very small amount - trying to find just the right place for the piece she held in her hand. Humming to herself as she worked, she finally got things "just so" and turned to me and said cheerily "<i>Donation</i>?"<br />
<br />
We unloaded the bed frame and I went on my way, but something about what I'd just seen stuck with me and made me think.<br />
<br />
I usually regard thrift stores as somewhat melancholy places full of cast-off things someone no longer wanted - and no one wants <i>now</i> - being pawed through by apathetic customers. Ceramic knick-knacks in particular have always made me think: "<i>Who bought this cheesy thing in the first place…. and who the hell is going to buy it <u>a second time</u></i>??" And yet, here was this woman carefully arranging things - things I saw no interest, beauty or value in - and taking pride and finding delight in them. I'd be willing to bet she wasn't told to do that by her supervisor, she just took it upon herself because it brightened up the place. She took what I saw as a joyless job -babysitting a bunch of crap no one wants, in a store no one comes to - and found satisfaction and beauty in it. Even if no one noticed or cared about her Easter display, <i>she did</i>.<br />
<br />
I didn't buy anything, but I took something of value with me.Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-31550689352617358422013-09-22T09:54:00.001-04:002013-09-22T10:06:52.282-04:00Yes I Have To Say I Like My "Priv-a-see"I was watching an interview with Steven Wilson (of Porcupine Tree fame)* and was a bit surprised to hear him say "<i>I don't talk about my personal life</i>" when the interviewer asked a question he perceived to be a little too personal. He wasn't a dick about it, he just politely but firmly drew a line. In this day and age of <i>over</i>-sharing (yes I'm looking at <i>you</i>, Ozzy Osborne) it was actually kind of refreshing.<br />
<br />
It also started me thinking about how different things are now between an artist and their fans.<br />
<br />
<creaky codger="" old="" voice=""> "<i>Back in the day</i>..." it used to be that artists were on a pedestal, locked away from all but the most determined fans and groupies. I suppose their mangers found it easier to maintain the mystique and control the image they desired to project. Somehow, I guess that reverence and awe was beneficial to the bottom line.</creaky><br />
<br />
Now, with artists Facebooking, Twittering and blogging, a lot of barriers have been removed between "stars" and their adoring public. For the most part, this is a very positive development, perhaps somewhat necessitated by the changing business model of the music industry.<br />
<br />
As a music fan, I really enjoy seeing an artist more as a whole person, rather than a cardboard cutout, like the fake people in the fake Rock Ridge in Blazing Saddles. I first became aware of this listening to the old "Rockline" radio show. It was refreshing and interesting to hear an artist interact, in real time, with fans. (I distinctly remember hearing Greg Allman and thinking "<i>Damn this guy is a complete burnout...</i>" and then being blown away as he did an acoustic cover of "Jessica"). Now, I don't know how knowing that Matthew Good enjoys riding horses in his "spare time" makes me appreciate his music more, but it I suppose it deepens the connection - and that's what I listen to music for, in the first place. I think maybe it helps fill in some of the gaps in the dialog, which is inherently one-sided.<br />
<br />
As an artist, I would imagine it's better as well. There are far too many songs that reference the "bird in a gilded cage" metaphor. Having had the very disturbing feeling of feeling alone in a city crowded with people, I can understand what the latter part of "The Wall" was about - feeling completely alone on stage, in a packed arena. Electronic media lets you stay in touch and interact with your fans, without being overwhelmed. Back in the day, at best, there was the old standby "record store appearance", but even there, fans shuffled through the line, thrust out their album cover to be autographed and moved on.<br />
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No, I don't care what brand of toilet paper an artist uses, but somehow, I think the more modern model of the artist/listener relationship is more fulfilling for both.<br />
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*<i>hence the lyric from PT's "Deadwing" -complete with faux English pronunciation- in the post title....</i>Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-77618632421648819362013-06-15T14:51:00.000-04:002013-06-15T14:55:20.976-04:00Help Wanted: Lock Tender...I doubt you'll see THAT on Monster.com any time soon...<br />
<br />
I was out chasing the ghost of the Black River Canal a couple of weeks ago, driving up NY 12, looking for remnants of the 109 locks that used to be. Just north of Boonville, "The Five Combines" -five locks all together, one right after the other- have been somewhat preserved.<br />
<br />
There is a house of the appropriate vintage about halfway through the lock set, that I suspect was the lock tender's house.<br />
<br />
When I visit historical sites, I try to visualize what it was like, in it's heyday. (The only problem is my visions always seem to be in sepia...) I tried to envision the lock tender going about his business, locking cargo boats through, with the skill and economy of movement that only comes from experience.<br />
<br />
...and then wondered how he felt watching the canal slowly slide into irrelevance, thanks to the railroad.<br />
<br />
How did he feel, knowing his occupation would fall by the wayside, as well? How did he feel, knowing his skills, his knowledge and his experience - things that helped define who he was- were no longer of use to him? And no one seemed to care. Let's face it, it's not like there were other canals in town where he could earn a living. How did he feel, knowing he'd have to move, or learn a new trade? Did he feel uncertainty about how he was going to feed his family? How did he feel, watching the world changing around him, coldly casting him aside?<br />
<br />
Then it occurred to me I know how he felt.<br />
<br />
Too well.Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-9812671336544755212013-05-19T06:44:00.001-04:002013-06-15T14:52:44.228-04:00Ev'ry Single Day... Buffalo-based singer/songwriter <a href="http://www.daveyo.com/index">Davey O</a> has a wonderful song called "Ev'ry Single Day". (<i>Download it <a href="http://www.daveyo.com/audio/download/88/Ev_ry_SDn-w_FINAL__hifi.mp3">here.)</a></i> It's a song about about having a solid work ethic, inspired, he says, by watching his dad make it to work, every day, no matter what.<br />
<br />
It's been a favorite of mine, because I realized -to my surprise- it sort of applied to <i>me</i>. "Ev'ry Single Day" for the last 35 years, I have dragged my ass to work, and done what I was asked, no matter what. (Ok, so there were a few "mornings after" when I was in such a sorry state that I didn't last all day...)<br />
<br />
I look around, and all the things I have - decent house, car, toys - because "every single day, the work got done". No one <i>gave</i> me anything. Yeah, I was lucky to be born a white, middle class male in a great country, but what I have is mine, because <i>I've earned it</i>. Huh. I never thought of myself as particularly <i>responsible</i> before.... Who knew?<br />
<br />
So where's the song about the flip side of that? The song about a guy who's done his job to the best of his ability and gets his picture plastered all over the company "telescreens" -with all the bosses smiling and congratulating him on his "35 Years of Service"- and then gets let go, a week later? (<i>No, not me. As much as I'm sure they would have loved to have gotten rid of me - I think my file in HR says "<u>Does not play well with others</u>" across the top - I know stuff no one else does</i>).<br />
<br />
I suppose there are plenty of songs about betrayal that could be adapted to this situation, but the most apropos one I could come up with was Flogging Molly's "<i>Revolution</i>":<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #f7f8f7; font-family: verdana; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I spent twenty-seven years in this factory</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f7f8f7; font-family: verdana; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">And the boss man says, 'hey you're not what we need'</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f7f8f7; font-family: verdana; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">The penguins in the suits they know nothing but greed</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f7f8f7; font-family: verdana; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">It's a solitary life when you've mouths to feed</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f7f8f7; font-family: verdana; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">But who cares about us?</span></div>
<br />
"<i>Well</i>...." you might say, "<i>these things happen</i>.." "<i>Times are hard, when there's no work, or the company isn't making money, they have to cut back</i>...." That's just the thing, though - we HAVE work and we ARE making money. The reason there was (about) a ten percent reduction was because we weren't making <i>enough</i> money. Someone, somewhere decided they wanted "<i>more</i>" and they wanted it <i>now</i>. "Penguins in suits who know nothing but greed" is a great way to describe them, but there's a much simpler term for someone who takes something from someone else.<br />
<br />
In an effort to understand, I said "<i>Well they were "just following orders"</i>..." and the blame shifted further up the food chain...but it has to stop somewhere. Someone, somewhere made the decision. Someone, somewhere decided to ignore the fact that those numbers on a spreadsheet were <i>people</i>. As <a href="http://sethgodin.typepad.com/seths_blog/2011/07/no-such-thing-as-business-ethics.html">Seth Godin so eloquently points out</a>, there's no such thing as "business ethics" only <i>people</i> can have ethics, but businesses are made up of....people.<br />
<br />
No matter where the blame lies, though it still makes me think "<i>It must take a special breed of amoral asshole to be able to do that</i>..." I know I couldn't.<br />
<br />
I guess that's why I'll never be a CEO or anything more than a blue collar mutant and I'm OK with that. I'll continue to get mine the old-fashioned way, not by violating the Eighth Commandment.Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-62920263441628076132012-09-24T07:16:00.001-04:002012-09-24T07:16:40.537-04:00Battle of the Bands: Big Slyde vs Bruce SpringsteenShould be a no-brainer, right? I mean, "The Boss" - multi Grammy award winner, international superstar and rock legend- should handily defeat a small, regional artist you've probably never heard of, right?<br />
<br />
Not so fast there, Grasshopper- it's not that simple.<br />
<br />
A couple of weeks back, we went to see The Man hisself. I'm not a <i>huge</i> Springsteen fan, but really respect the man and his work. Besides, how often does a legend of his status play anywhere near here? This I gotta' see. Two hundred bucks notwithstanding, off we went.<br />
<br />
I have never been so disappointed in a concert in my life . (And hope to never <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">be again.) </span><br />
<br />
Now I understand that with someone of his stature (as a musician, not <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">his height ) there's a metric shit-ton of people who want to see him, and they want to try an accommodate as many of them as possible, which necessitates the scale of the event we went to. The problem then becomes that the <i>scale</i> of the show feeds on itself. A beast of that magnitude requires a small army to put on and careful scripting to control. In order for a show of that size to be financially feasible, it behooves them to play as many places as they can....and managers and accountants suck the life out of the music once again</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">... That was the first -and biggest- disappointment of the whole evening: The whole show was just so fucking <i>scripted. </i>I half expected Bruce to say "<i>It's great to be back in Name of City Here</i>...." It was just so <i>canned</i>, without even a <i>hint </i>of spontenaiety. I hate to use the adjective "insincere" but it really fits.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">The audience itself was about as artificial as the show. I think many of them were there because, "<i>well, dammit, we used to go to concerts all the time, back in the day</i>....." I think some were there just so they can tell everyone they went. Some were there because they're sheeple and it was "the thing to do" - like the lady helping her friend pick out a shirt at the t-shirt booth: "<i>Get the one with the ass on it....that's the best album - the one with the ass on it..." </i>(Born in the USA). I can't think of anything more shallow and stupid than choosing a musician based on how their ass looks on the album cover. BUT, there were hordes of them there, drinking $8 cups of fizzy yellow pisswater that were being pawned off as "beer" and shouting along at the appropriate moments in the songs. It felt likely Disneyworld, where everything is cut, dried and sanitized for your protection - where they even tell you where to stand to take your keepsake photos.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">Speaking of the songs, they were pretty lackluster, too. They were about 1/3 of the way into "Darkness on the Edge of Town" before I even <i>recognized</i> it. I like remixes and alternate versions as much as the next guy, but man, that was <i>lame</i>.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">Since there were so many people, the only way anyone apart from the handful of people way in front could see anything was via the ginormous TV screens that flanked the stage...which showed, well, mostly just Bruce. At one point, I heard a violin and thought I could see a woman playing one, but because I had to look where I was "told to look", I couldn't be sure.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">We didn't even stay for the whole show. As we walked out, Della Rose said to me "<i>We just paid $200 to watch TV...."</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">Fast forward three days, and we're at the <a href="http://nelsonodeon.com/">Nelson Odeon</a> to see <a href="http://bigslyde.com/">Big Slyde</a>. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">It was night-and-day different. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">Now, I realize it's not fair to compare a show at the "Endormo-dome*" to a small venue like the Odeon, but I tried to give Bruce the benefit of the doubt and asked myself: "<i>Self, what if we'd seen that show in a small club? Would that have been better?" </i>I think it would have been <i>much</i> better, but it still would have been like comparing Olive Garden to my grandmother's veal cutlets: industrialized, focus-group surveyed and portion controlled vs....I dunno, that intangible something that says "genuine", "done with care, especially for <i>you</i>".</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">With Bruce, it was, at best, a journey through songs we've heard a brazillian times. (I blame <i>radio</i> for this, not Bruce). With Big Slyde, it was an unfolding, a journey through new songs and sounds that I'd not heard before, along with a few surprises. (Anyone who can cover a Jackson Five song that I absolutely <i>loathed</i> as a kid and turn it into something that delighted me earns huge <a href="http://www.kudosbar.com/">kudos</a> from me).</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">At the Odeon, I could actually see the facial expressions of the performers, I could focus on an interesting element that I was hearing, even if it wasn't the "focal point" of the song. (Nattily-attired Christina Grant left me with a new-found respect for the cello). </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">When Bruce breaks a guitar string, an anonymous guitar tech immediately hands him another guitar from the wings, all tuned and ready to go. When Mikey Portal broke a string, he soldiered on through the rest of the song, then changed it himself - while the rest of the band made spontaneous chit chat with the audience. Spontaneity! What a concept!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">I'm sure Bruce has about eighteen wardrobe people to keep his Armani "work shirts" all cleaned and pressed, but I'd be willing to bet that the Stihl cap that Sven Curth (special guest of Big Slyde) was wearing was one he got <i>when he bought the chain saw</i>.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">Bruce is always referred to as a "working man", but let's face it, when was the last time he actually <i>worked</i>? Don't get me wrong, what he does is <i>hard work</i>, but when was the last time he had to deal with an asshole for a boss? When was the last time he dragged himself out of bed to go to a job he hated, because he had no choice? He could retire tomorrow and not have to live on cat food. John Doan has a day job as a music teacher.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">The audience was much different, too. Where the folks at Vernon Downs followed their cue cards and shouted along and fist-pumped at the appropriate moments, the stomping and clapping of the Odeon audience during the encore was completely <i>genuine</i> - prompting Hannah Doan to say "<i>Yeah...if you could keep that up, that would be great...</i>"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">As someone who brews his own beer, makes most of his own food from scratch, from the best ingredients, I guess that being "real" is very important to me.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
One of those two shows was much more real than the other, and I think we have a clear-cut winner.<br />
<br />
....by a landslyde.....<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">*<i>obligatory Spinal Tap reference</i></span>Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-40347368722284755302012-04-20T15:35:00.000-04:002012-04-20T15:35:06.015-04:00Thought for the day <br />
“We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.”<br />
<br />
-Orson Welles-Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-29861827149103441072012-02-19T09:10:00.000-05:002012-02-19T09:10:35.906-05:00Three guys, a banjo, a dobro, some spoons and a suitcase.........rocked way harder than some bands I've seen with a stage full of equipment and a wall of amplifiers.<br />
<br />
Saw Morgan O'Kane at the aforementioned Odeon last night. The videos DO NOT really do these guys justice.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/zrRBdnyqcXg?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-48211294076566895732012-01-24T18:39:00.001-05:002012-01-31T17:03:09.514-05:00The Nelson Odeon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmCZpvhHjQVwDMay-V0arbjDdFct837l9urqk7aVNNfUmf2YP4ZCqZkKspt6PMKg0IyfQh7knfyJpb_PY-NUkIh6o-iNlNqDxEhPS7_VkOK8kyz-OR5ij7lV_oQIKSgq_5dW2aaL7i7vNe/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmCZpvhHjQVwDMay-V0arbjDdFct837l9urqk7aVNNfUmf2YP4ZCqZkKspt6PMKg0IyfQh7knfyJpb_PY-NUkIh6o-iNlNqDxEhPS7_VkOK8kyz-OR5ij7lV_oQIKSgq_5dW2aaL7i7vNe/s320/photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
What the hell <i>is</i> an Odeon, anyway? <br />
<br />
The textbook definition is a "Greek or Roman theater". For our purposes here, though, we're talking about a former grange hall in the town - crossroads, really- of Nelson.<br />
<br />
True to both the theater of antiquity and it's former life as a grange hall, it currently hosts musical artists, mostly of the "roots" persuasion.<br />
<br />
Oh, so it's a theater, or club, then?<br />
<br />
No, it's much more than meets the eye. It's only after experiencing the Nelson Odeon firsthand that you realize it's more than just a charming room with a stage.<br />
<br />
When you realize that the folks who work hard to bring the shows do so out of love for the music and because they want to share the music with others and the acts themselves do what they do because they love what they do that you begin to realize it's something very special. Sure, the owners and artists would love to make money doing what they do, but it's not the primary driving force behind what they do.<br />
<br />
Recently we attended a potluck for friends and volunteers of the theater and what surprised me was that that spirit carried over into the food that was there. Now at almost any gathering I've been to, there are always those who - for whatever reason - just stop at the deli and pick up their contribution. That was not really the case here. Almost everyone who brought food to share went the extra mile and prepared it from scratch...because they cared enough to.<br />
<br />
So my definition of Odeon would have to include something like "oasis of benevolent spirit in a sea of apathy and animosity"Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-29986133054259234882011-12-06T06:03:00.002-05:002011-12-06T06:08:54.173-05:00Oh, Poor, Lonely, Neglected Blog.......good thing no one reads you...<br />
<br />
All my writing energies - such as they are - have been hijacked by English 103. I learned a lot in that class, such as: "<i>Scholarly writing is where you take a perfectly good piece of writing and cram it into someone else's framework, because WHAT you say is much less important than whether it fits someone's arbitrary guidelines or not</i>" and "<i>Editing is where you take the piece you're writing, and re-write it over and over again, until you've completely sucked the life out of it and no longer CARE about what you're writing. Then you're done</i>".<br />
<br />
Fortunately, only two more classes and I'm done. I still, however, have one more semester of English. (Why I have to spend as many credit hours in ENGLISH as I did in ANATOMY for a PTA degree is way beyond me...) No more driving 45 minutes each way for "peer review" - I don't give a rat's ass what my CLASSMATES think of the paper, they're not giving me the grade - I'm taking the next class ON LINE.Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-48895556856529883852011-08-13T13:53:00.000-04:002011-08-13T13:53:40.576-04:00That was easily.......one of the worst days I've had on the bike in quite a while.<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul><li>Felt like I was riding in wet concrete almost the whole time.</li>
<li>Caught up to another rider and hung with him for a while... until he dropped me like a sack of hammers.</li>
<li>My ass hurt for a good part of the ride. (What's up with that? I thought I had already done my "break-in" for the season).</li>
<li>About 2/3 of the way through, my legs started barking at me pretty badly.</li>
<li>I had a headwind on the way home, seemingly without the benefit of the tailwind on the way out.</li>
<li>Near Edgewater, I ran out of "gas" and had to mow down some Shot Blocks and a Clif Shot.</li>
<li>About a half mile from home, my left quad cramped up so badly that I couldn't pedal for a little while -fortunately, that section is downhill....</li>
</ul>....oh, and I flatted, too.<br />
<br />
But, all in all, it was still better than the <i>best</i> day at work....<br />
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<iframe width='465' height='548' frameborder='0' src='http://connect.garmin.com:80/activity/embed/106188432'></iframe><br />
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Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1706244444520371358.post-49240884062706192152011-07-08T06:10:00.010-04:002011-07-08T07:38:21.916-04:00The Midlife-Mobile<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><a href="http://i.imgur.com/IKQoEl.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><u><br />
</u></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.motorcyclenews.com/upload/258032/images/VFR1200.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>I got it in my head that I needed a "toy".</span></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I justified to to myself by saying "</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Hey, you've been "diligently" at your job for 20 years, your kid just turned 21 so you're theoretically done there, you took the plunge and went back to school</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">....</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">you've been Mr. Responsible, you deserve a toy</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">....."<br />
</span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I thought about building an old truck or a street rod.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I thought about buying something stupid-fast.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I thought heavily about another motorcycle.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I still felt guilty and irresponsible. I have a Honda Element that's paid for, everything works and it does what I need it to do: haul people and "stuff". But still.....</span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I said to myself "</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">What would I do with an old truck or street rod</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">?" and the answer came back "</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Drive it to "car nights", park it and stand around and BS</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">...." Not exactly my idea of a good time, and not very practical.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I thought about buying something stupid-fast, but thought "</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Where the hell would I actually </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">USE</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> such a thing</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">?....</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">and Jesus, at damned near four bucks a gallon, how practical would THAT be</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Okay, so I started looking around at smaller, but sporty cars. One of my buddies just bought a Subaru STI. I thought a lot about that -it's pretty sweet - but the price tag (30K) just made me ill - and yowzer! The gas mileage he's getting is worse than what I already have!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Apparently if I was going to be irresponsible, I wanted to at least be responsible about it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A motorcycle would seem to be the ticket, then. I looked around at what's available and came back empty-handed. All it seems that's out there are cruisers - which I despise - and stupid sport bikes -ungodly fast, but uncomfortable. Another GoldWing would be OK, but the price tag on those is stupid expensive and I don't really do the type of riding to justify a long-haul bike anymore.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Then I found the brand-new Honda VFR1200:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; clear: left; color: #0000ee; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="171" src="http://www.motorcyclenews.com/upload/258032/images/VFR1200.jpg" style="display: block; height: 564px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 656px;" width="200" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Sporty? Check! Comfortable? Check! Practical? If I got the optional hard bags - Check! Gas mileage? Well....lousy for a bike, but still better than every car I looked at.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Still, the price tag kind of had me hesitating. It was twice what I'd </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">ever</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> paid for a bike, and it would sit in the garage all winter. How practical was that?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Somehow - and I'm not even sure how- I heard about the new Honda CR-Z. I went and looked at it, and test drove it. Hmmm....</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Sporty? Well, it wouldn't exactly mash you into the upholstery, but it had a definite "fun quotient". Comfortable? Check. Practical? At around 40 MPG, yes, definitely. I could certainly at least </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">pretend</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> to justify the purchase by saying "</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It's gets almost twice the mileage of The Dumpster, and with going back and forth to school two nights a week, that's important</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">..."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Okay, so now I'm really on the fence. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I absolutely hate being in the throes of indecision.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">One night, on my way to school in 90 degree heat, I realized how glad I was to be in an air-conditioned car and not on a motorcycle. I am a firm believer in "all the gear, all the time" and 90 degrees on a motorcycle is just </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">no fun</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">. Been there, done that, didn't like it. Okay, so a motorcycle wouldn't get ridden in extremely hot weather or extremely cold weather. (I'm OK with rain). There's a demerit.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Another night - again on my way to school - I was threading my way through a couple of miles of stop-and-go traffic alongside an Audi R8.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">That thing was </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">BADASS</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">. For a few moments, I thought: "</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">WANT</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">....."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Then I realized he wasn't going any faster than I was in The Dumpster and was probably frustrated as hell.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The CR-Z was starting to look better and better.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I stopped in at a couple of other dealers. One made me a better offer than the others and I kind of just threw in the towel and put a deposit down. (Of course, I bought the cheapest model).</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the MCMAWG Responsibly Irresponsible Midlife-Mobile:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; clear: left; color: #0000ee; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="133" src="http://i.imgur.com/IKQoEl.jpg" style="display: block; height: 428px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 640px;" width="200" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; color: #0000ee;"><br />
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</div>Middle Class Middle Aged White Guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13781991895469133830noreply@blogger.com0