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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

forever enshrined behind some old glass pane,

in an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained

and faded to yellow in a brown leather frame?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Blazing Saddles).

Middle Class Middle Aged....Midlife Crisis?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Indeed.

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

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

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

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

So what do I want to do?

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

"Jackson Jackson was a good kid

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

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

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

Auld Gang Syne

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

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

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

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

Very cathartic.

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

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

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

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

Here's to 2009.

Call Me a Boor, a Rube…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get out……”. 

 (off I go - again).

Once a Philistine, always a Philistine, I guess. 

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

Thanksgiving.... A Day Late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't think so.

Indian Summer

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

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

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

Yeahright.

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

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

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



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



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


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



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



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



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

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

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



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



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



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




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



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



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



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

By the numbers, here's what we did:

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

Avg. Heart Rate 115 bpm Zone 2.2

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


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