Now Yous Can't Leave

I've talked about my dad from time to time.  He has his stories about confrontations in bars and bowling alleys.  Maybe that's why "this scene" is about his favorite scene in any movie.

When I was looking for this video clip, I came across some analysis of the scene about life choices and mistakes and blah blah blah.  Just enjoy the scene for God's sake.  Because it's badass.  End of story.

Anyway - I think of the punch line "Now yous can't leave" every time I feel like - by my own actions and loud mouth - I get myself into an uncomfortable situation.  That would be today.

I don't know how many times a day (at least a couple of dozen) a line from a movie comes into my mind.

I can tell you that no matter what I weigh,  I think of "American Werewolf in London"  every time I step on the scale.  I see what I weigh and I think, "What's that star on the wall for?"

See what I did there?

Hmm.  So what else is going on?  Oh:

Jack and Abe have recently started taking gymnastics.  They both like the classes, so we'll keep them in there for as long as they want to go.  The only other sport they really get into is lounging, so we'll take gymnastics.  Who knows?  Maybe they'll be the first 6'5" gymnasts at the Olympic games.  I have visions of Jack - his arms outstretched as he holds the still rings impossibly still, his arms perfectly horizontal while the cries of "foul" are shouted from the finest athletes in the world.  "His feet are totally touching the floor!"  They'll yell.

A father can dream.

So last week - they said, "Uh yeah - we need to move Jack up to intermediate ..."

"Fair enough.  So that's at the same time as beginners, right?  So we don't drive clear the fuck out here and hang out  for two hours while the boys tag team bitch for an hour a piece about how bored they are? Right?  Right?

No.  Not the same time.  Different time.  Different day.  Intermediate is on Wednesday (beginner's is on Saturday).

So after Jack gets out of School on Wednesday, I take him directly to gymnastics.  

So no bike commute on Wednesday.

Yesterday was the first of the new class for Jack.  I needed to go directly from work to pick Jack up from school.  Normally, they take the bus.  Also - yesterday was pretty cold.  Not as cold as today or tomorrow, but pretty cold (just now, I thought of Pulp Fiction. - I'll be back before you can say blueberry pie - ok maybe not that fast, but pretty fast.)

There's this guy at work.  I have been introduced to him, but I can't quite recall his name.  It might be "Smuggy."  He's taken a great interest in my bike commute.  Rather - he's waiting for me to fail.  He seems to be rooting for the elements against me.

A couple of weeks ago, I was walking to the building from the bike rack and he was there (walking from his car to the building).  He cheerfully commented, "Not much longer for bike riding to work, eh?  Hardy har, har!"

Also - I think he writes for Chick publications.

Tuesday, I rode in, but didn't see the guy on my way in.  No - it was at some point in the afternoon.  I passed him in the hall and he said, "I see you're trying to get in every last day possible!"

"Yeah,"  I said, shifting my eyes nervously about.  Did I forget to take off my helmet or something?  Have I been walking around at work all day in my bike shorts?  How does Creepy McSmuggerson know I rode the bike in today?

Eek!  I have a bike stalker!

So yesterday morning sometime, he said "No biking today, I see."  Then he kind of chuckles because he's thinking - of course he didn't ride in today.  It's like 20F or something.

Anyway - I ignored the obvious fact that this guy seems to be monitoring the bike rack and said, "I would have ridden in today, but I have a thing I have to do ..."

He thought I was making an excuse/joke.  He clearly didn't believe me and I didn't care.  I don't need to explain how my son is on his way to becoming the greatest gymnast/basketball player the world has ever seen.

When I went over to Jack's school to pick him up for gymnastics, I saw his teacher from last year.  She is an avid cyclist.  She said to me, "Please tell me you didn't ride today."

My big fat mouth said, "I didn't - I would have, but I had to pick Jack up."

Well today (Thursday) I had to meet some friends for lunch in midtown.  No way I could get my bike there and lunch and back in a reasonable time.  So I didn't ride today.

I didn't know if creepy office stalker guy would see me today. He did.  This is 2 days in a row I didn't ride because of obligations.  Well today - I probably would have driven anyway because it was really really cold out.  So he says all sarcastic like, with a smuggly smirkly grin,  "I see no bike again.  You must have another 'thing' ."  When he said "thing" he brought out the dickfingers to pantomime the double quotes.

Now (like every day) I'm a little irritated.  He's all mocking and everything.  What's this guy's problem and why is he always scoping out the bike rack?

So I'm like, "Actually - yeah I do have a thing.  I have to go see a friend of mine in the hospital.  He might not be there tomorrow."

When I saw how awkward I had just made the moment, I softened my lie - "I mean he'll probably be released.  Anyway - I'll definitely be riding in tomorrow.  Yeah - it's cold, but I've got the gear.  No sweat.  Literally."

What was I saying?  I don't want to ride tomorrow.

Right now, weather.com is saying that it should be about zero fahrenheit when I leave for work tomorrow morning and 13F with a 15 MPH North wind as I head home (to the north).

But see - now I's can't leave.

I have no excuse other than the cold.  There is no snow forecast.  

So if anybody wants to grab some lunch or needs a ride to gymnastics or anything, let me know right away please.  Because otherwise I'm bike commuting and it's really cold out.  Dammit.

That last sentence is in clear violation of the V - my apologies.

Oh yeah - and I should mention.  Ain't no effing way I'm riding tomorrow.  But to save face, I'll take my bike in my car and park it at the bike rack for Bike Rack Stalker guy's benefit.

If I haven't said it before, I'd just like to take this opportunity to say that it's been nice writing this post and having you read it. I'll see you next week.  Believe me when I say with all my heart, goodbye.

Shim is Funny Sometimes

Monday I went on the U.P. Lunch Ride.  I had the day off.  It was an especially nice day for December in Omaha.  Calm, sunny and high 50's.

After the U.P. part of the ride, I took advantage of the weather and rode around in Iowa for another 15 miles or so.  So that was nice.

Last weekend, a bunch of the cross racer types road tripped together in the big Trek Sprinter van thing up to some cross races in Le Mars.  I guess if a bunch of guys go together and share the costs of room and board, it can be considerably cheaper or something.

Before the Monday U.P. Lunch ride began, Brady was saying something about the weekend with the racer guys.

This reminded me of a time I was going to race for the weekend in Kansas City.  I told Brady about it.

Munson, Randell and Legg were all going down to the races and sharing a room downtown, near the courses.  I had my own room several miles from the course, but considerably cheaper than theirs.  Munson suggested I ditch my room and crash with them.  I didn't really want to, but Munson was persistent.  He felt that if the room fee were divided one more way, it would be just perfect.

I wanted to explain to Munson, that not only would I rather not share a bathroom with 3 dudes, they probably would be sorry once I did my damage on race morning.

But I didn't.  I eventually went along with the idea, but wasn't very happy about it.

Oh also - Randell's girlfriend would be sharing the room.  She was cool with it.  I actually think it was her room or something.

Well, she was cool with Munson, Randell and Legg sharing the room.  After she found out that I was also staying, I got an awkward little email from her.

It said something like, "Um Fred - I think it would be better if you found a different place to stay.  I'm not sure how my parents would feel about me shacking up in a hotel with 4 guys."

Presumably, her parents were the kind of prudes that get upset when their daughter shacks up with any more than 3 guys.

So I was relieved and offended.  I was the only married person who would be in the room, so whatever.

Anyway - as I was finishing telling this story to Brady, Shim walked out of the U.P. building toward his bike. Overhearing, he said, "That's because if you're there, it's no longer a "menage a trois".  Then it's a "menage a cube".

Good one Shim.

Sorry about being so cross

So the last couple of weeks, my posts have been really bitchy.  They're all like "I dislike motorists" and stuff.  Well even though that's true, so what?  Who cares?  I find myself now at the end of Thanksgiving day without having given any thought to this post.

One thing that happens when I think about these posts is that they can be a bit long-winded.  No worries about that tonight.  Everybody wins.

So sometimes when I'm writing these, I think - wouldn't it be funny if I use the "F" word?

Anyway - about 30 minutes ago, I solidified something that I've been trying to shape up for the last 2 weeks or so.  I'm racing cross on Saturday.  There are races on both Saturday and Sunday, but I have to rake leaves on one of those days.

Earlier in the week, Saturday looked to be the only nice day of the weekend.  I had to reserve that for raking the fucking leaves (tell me that's not funny).  I hadn't noticed that Sunday looks about the same as Saturday.

On a jra session today - Brady said "rake on Sunday."  Thanks Brady.

Now the dilemma is whether to race "Cat 4" or "Masters 40+".

Cat 4 starts at noon.  Masters starts at 11 AM.  Masters would be stiffer competition and perhaps slightly out of reach for my current skill level.  Who am I kidding - so is Cat 4.  But I can sleep in an hour later if I do that one.

When you go to USACycling and register for a race, they have this nifty little thing called  a "race predictor".

It does some magic with all of the entrants and their racing history and assigns this mysterious number that somehow estimates the strength of that rider.  The race predictor orders the entrants from lowest number (best) to highest.

After I enter, I will be able to see what my number is.  The current entrants of the Cat 4 race are:

1	Lance Moran	Central Plains Cycling	Sioux Falls, SD	401.10
2	TODD RAMSEY	The Bike Way Racing	Omaha, NE	414.89
3	Ben Cork		Jefferson, SD	501.35

If I join this race, I expect to see something like: Fred Cube   505.91

But if I join the Masters:

1	Randall Crist	Greenstreet Velo Club	Omaha, NE	278.42
2	Brent Linn	Powerade - Independent Fabrication	Sioux City, IA	337.29
3	Harry Fortney	DMOS Racing Team	Kelley, IA	379.77
4	Kevin Vanderlinden	Sioux City Velo	Sioux City, IA	557.08

Oh looky there.  Last time I looked, Kevin Vanderlindenhoser wasn't signed up.  Well, let's see what happens ...

Ok well - I am still predicted to be in last place.  Damn.  It came out to Fred Cube 561.25

That's close enough to Kevin Hemoglobin as far as I'm concerned.  Look out Lederhosen, here I come.  And by the way - Ben Cork - Even though you have that impressive 501.35, I wouldn't get too comfy,  I'll be coming at you with one more race under my belt since I'm racing Masters, then Cat 4 on Saturday.  Oh snap.  Yes I did.

Now if you'll excuse me I have to start training for the cross races that are taking place 36 hours hence.

And I'll say - Good day sir!

Thanks but no Thanks.

You know how sometimes people want to be nice?  No?  Well it's true.  Sometimes people want to be nice.

I don't know why this happens, but it does.  Sometimes when someone decides to slightly inconvenience themselves to help another person out, everything goes according to plan.  The helper successfully helps the helpee and receives due thanks.

I know from personal experience that the half dozen or so times in my life I've gone out of my way to "do someone a solid,"  the gratitude I've received has literally warmed my heart.

Seriously.  Some woman with a bag of groceries in one hand and a baby in the other drops her keys trying to open the back of her minivan, I scoop up the keys and press the unlock dealy and I feel like a big huge hero.  Her warm "Thank you" brightens my mood for several hours until the shots of scotch do the work they're intended for.

But what if she wasn't thankful?  How would I feel if instead of letting me help, she was all, "What are you doing?  Give me my keys or I'll call the police?"

Well yeah - helpful becomes harder at that point.  I'd turn from hero into guy who dropped the keys back on the ground.  Then I'm pretty sure I'd kick them several feet under the minivan.

The reason?  I'm not a nice person.  And neither is anybody.  If I were a nice person in the situation above, the woman's reaction one way or another would have no effect on my mood (until the scotch kicked in).  I would be helping only because I saw a person in need and it was nothing for me to make life slightly easier.  Maybe.  I don't really know what my motivation would be because I don't suffer from any sort of altruistic condition.

My point is this:  If someone does not want the help you offer, do not get mad about it.  If you do, you prove that your motivation was selfish.

Yeah but cube, what are you getting at?  Nobody here is accusing you of being some sort of Mother Teresa or anything.

First of all, don't get me started on Mother Teresa.  And secondly, I'm glad you asked.

I'm talking about traffic.

Sometimes, when people are driving in their cars, they get nice all of the sudden.  I'm not talking about safe cautious driving.  I am a huge fan of the aware focused motorist.  I absolutely despise the aggressive angry motorist, but if s/he is alert and not speeding too much, no real harm or danger is present.

The worst is the person who is not paying attention.  Whether it's texting or goofing with some control on the panel or just a bad or drunk driver.  These people are a danger and potentially lethal to motorists and especially to cyclists.

The second worst is the "helper."  I can't stand these people whether I'm in a car or on a bike.

These are people who disrupt the flow of traffic by either bending the rules or doing something unexpected to "help" either another motorist or cyclist.


One of my favorites is when you are waiting to turn left across two lanes of busy traffic.  For some reason, the person in the outside lane of oncoming traffic decides to stop in front of you and block those behind so you can get through.  Um - thanks, but you're an idiot.

Did you think I only needed your lane to be clear before I could make my turn?  I bet if you were a Boy Scout, you'd help a little old lady to the middle of the street, then just go back or something.

The one exception is when traffic is backed up to the intersection.  Then you're an idiot if you block the intersection and don't let people turn, but anyway ...

This next one is a little advanced, so don't feel too bad [sic] if you don't know it.  I mean, it's in the driver's manual and stuff, but that's ok.

Four way stops.  Strictly speaking if you get to a 4-way stop at "about the same time" as another car, and you are not facing each other, the one on the right goes first.  I assume that if there are 4-way stops in England, it's the other way around.

This makes sense if you think about it.  And that causes a great deal of problems for most motorists (thinking about stuff).

This happens to me often.  I arrive on the left.  By the way, follow me here for a second.  If you look to your right and that's where the person is, you are on the left.  If you look to your left and that is where the person is, you are on the right.

Anyway - I'm on the left.  Other motorist is on the right.  I'm looking at other motorist, waiting for them to go and they wave for me to go ahead because they have no idea what to do.

These days, when this happens - I just go.  Throughout my driving history - I used to:

1980-1991: Just go.
1992: No car.
1993-1997: Stare at them until they gave up and went.
1997-2001: Just go, but flip them off as I went by (because I thought it was funny to flip off someone who thought they were being nice, but was really just dicking up the flow).
2002-2008:  Hold up an enlarged page of the driver's manual page with the related information.*
2008-present: Just  go.


In a way, I get when people drive in an unpredictable way around cyclists.  I understand that when a motorist sees a cyclist, s/he thinks it's a little kid (or I guess - a really, really big kid in my case) who knows nothing about traffic.  So there is extra caution.  Stopping or pausing when you don't need to, confusing everyone with the slightly ironic consequence of making the road a little more dangerous.

The longer I ride, the more I learn to ride in a way that makes me more visible and is ultimately safer for me.  For example - I think it was just this year that I started drifting over to the left side of a lane when I'm going straight across a busy intersection.  This is so that any oncoming traffic can see me better before turning into or onto my path.  I know the law says something about staying as far right as is practicable, and I think practicable means "the ability to practice,"  but I'd rather go with "be safe."  Just me.

Another one -  I learned from a comment Julie Harris made about "trackstanding" at stops.  To a car, when you are trackstanding, it looks like you are going to go.  It made total sense once I thought about it.  I still trackstand as much as I can, but I understand why it can cause confusion.  And that's half the battle or something.

There's a spot downtown when I'm going east on Burt Street where this one thing always happens:  For some reason as I slow to stop for cross traffic, which the sign below the stop sign clearly states "does not stop,"  somebody driving northbound stops and looks at me.  This person has no stop sign.  I do.  Then the person waves for me to go on ahead.  Then I shake my head and wave for them to go.  Then I look at the westbound motorist facing me at his stop sign and we both shrug at each other.  Then we both wave for dumbass to go.  Then another person gets behind that guy and starts honking.

This happens every single time I get to that stop sign.  I don't know why.  Maybe it's because I'm trackstanding.

Today's topic is inspired by an incident that happened yesterday.  I was on my way home from work.  Actually, I was on my way to an ATM in Benson, but that's a different story.  Anyway, I usually go through Memorial park (on the trail) north to Underwood.  There's a light there for pedestrians because Underwood is usually fast, heavy traffic right there.  The light is always green for the Underwood traffic.  J.E. George, which spills onto Underwood from the north there, ends in a STOP sign.

If you push the button on the light post, the light immediately changes and allows pedestrians to cross.  This lasts for roughly 7 minutes.  Ok, maybe not that long, but as George W. Bush would say, it's "apple time" to get across the street.

Usually, when I get there on my bike, I don't have the heart to stop all of these motorists.  I decide to be nice.  Oops.  Anyway.  I just wait for an opening and cross.  I'm rarely ever there for more than 30 seconds.  If I push that button, the cars I stop will be there for much longer.

So last night, it was (as always) pretty busy.  Then a minivan coming from the West stopped.  I thought she was waiting to turn left onto J.E. George Blvd.  She had no signal on, but like that matters.  Anyway, there was a bunch of traffic coming from the East, so she had to wait.  After a while, there was a break in the westbound action and she had enough time to turn.  She didn't.  Cars began honking.  They were really lining up.

That's when I realized she wasn't turning.  She was being nice.  She was letting me go.

Except, my intention was to go all the way across the street.  Without someone being "nice" on the other side, I couldn't cross.  Even if that did happen, I couldn't be sure someone wouldn't swerve around the stopped car.

So the next time the westbound lane cleared, I knew what she was doing.

But I just looked at her all 1993-1997 style while she frantically gestured for me to cross the street.  This was way more entertaining for me than going to the ATM.

Traffic would clear.  She'd wave hysterically for me to go.  I'd look around making sure the coast was clear.  Cars were honking.  Then I'd give her a "thumbs up"  and sit back on my top tube all casually deliberate.

After about three or four openings, making a whole bunch of honking enemies, and getting the "thumbs up" sign from me, she gave up.  She continued on her way with possibly a great story about some idiot cyclist by memorial park.  You're welcome, stupid lady.

As she went by me, she threw both hands in the air (look ma, no hands) in disgust at how clueless I am.  Oh yeah, she was shaking her head pretty vigorously, I can tell you.

Op-ed:

You try to be nice and look what it gets you.  Stupid cyclists not taking you up on your offer to help them get safely across at least half of the street.  That why I yelled "breeder" at that stupid sonofabutch [sic] just standing there giving me the "thumbs up" sign all casually deliberate and everything.  Also, he was very slender.

*Not really.  2002-2008 I just blew through all 4-way stops.  Fuck 'em.

The Lady Doth Protest Dothen't She?

My skills of prognostication are just now being realized.  Also, that one thing they always used to complain about  in high school about using the passive voice in writing?  Yeah, it's not listened to here at Fredcube.

In the words of a dear friend, "What the hell is cube talking about?'

Yesterday (Wednesday), I talked about the new information Iron Mike Tyson is revealing about his drug use.  This was closely related to my Friday post.  What a coincidence.

Back in May of 2012, I wrote a report on the lasting effect of Lance Armstrong's accomplishments on the psyche of the stupid fat lazy greasy smoking driving public (A.K.A. Motorists).

It boiled down to the fact that this pack of morbidly obese undisciplined gooey slob matter known as "The American Public" had moved from shouting "faggot" at me (or any cyclist) to the slightly less offensive "Lance."

I had also taken note that I was hearing the "L" word less in 2012 than in it's heyday in say, 2006 or so.  I surmised (what a faggy word) that people were forgetting about Lance and that soon we'd just be back to "faggot."  I was not looking forward to it, because, well, I don't like it.  Not because I give a shit whether or not somebody thinks I'm gay.  More because it is a dangerous example of unwarranted hostility toward a person on a bicycle from a person of less than average intelligence who has been allowed to drive a car.

Well that post/prediction was 18 months ago and today, for the first time since Lance Armstrong became famous, it happened.  I was not called "Lance."

First, I'm going to tell my side of the story.  It's my blog and my right to tell things as I see them.  But because I want to be fair, I am going to tell the other side of the story too.  I realize that the person who yelled at me  has just as much right as I do to express his opinions but I have no way of finding his blog.  I would like to hear his side of the story, so I'm going to tell it after I get done telling mine.  You're welcome, guy in the minivan this morning.

For a while, I thought maybe people don't shout "faggot" anymore.  It would make sense.  As a derogatory term for homosexual, it says more about the person using it than anyone else.

A couple of weeks ago, a guy called me "Asshat" because I was not using the sidewalk through Elmwood.  I was not happy about being called Asshat.  It really bugged me that someone would feel the need to "set me straight (literally)."  So, as I've mentioned, I stopped and talked with this young student about his opinion.
I told him I had every right to be on the street and I didn't want to ride on the trail.  I have my reasons.  There is a lot of dog, foot and slow bike traffic on the trail and I'm commuting, not touring.  Anyway, he said "That's why you're an Asshat."

For the sake of staying on task, I did not address the obvious cause/effect error the young student had made.  I knew what he meant.  He did not mean that I am an Asshat as a result of my riding in the street.  He meant that I am an Asshat (cause unknown) and my riding in the street was evidence of that fact.  I ignored this little error and stuck to the main argument:  "And you're a fucking loudmouth pussy who won't do anything about it."  I then dropped my bike and stalked toward him as he ran to his car.  It's a good thing too, because I was bluffing.  I'm actually just a loudmouth pussy who wouldn't actually do anything about it.

But the thing is, even though I don't really understand what an "Asshat" is supposed to be, it doesn't seem in any way like a compliment.  It is some sort of dig.  But it is an enlightened way to call someone a name.  I personally would never use it because it sounds kind of douchy, but it is a harmless, general sort of slur, independent of race or sexuality or any other outdated mode of aspersion.

So - even though I'd like to punch that guy who called me asshat in his stupid face, I can respect his choice of words (even if it does sound douchy).

So anyway.  Yeah - this morning.

On my morning commute, I ride through Elmwood park to Pacific.  I take the high road because there are less intersections/traffic.  I turn on to Pacific and immediately get over to the left to go through Aksarben.

This morning I was in that turn lane at about 6:30.  I was stopped at a red light.  To my right was a grey minivan.  It was going straight (literally) and also stopped at the light.

Once the light turned green, I had to wait a moment for the oncoming traffic to clear.  Oddly, the minivan did not move forward.  The driver had the green light (literally), but was hesitating for some reason.  I didn't think anything of it.  Eventually, I was clear to turn, and as I got going, the driver of the minivan yelled "faggot," and took off down the street.

Oh, that's why he was waiting.  He wanted to make sure I was well on my way before he boldly shouted his insult through frosting/gravy stained taut pink cheeks and multiple sticky, sweaty chins.  Surely, the folds of skin haphazardly lodged between his chin and clavicle region are home to weeks of various pastry items and bits of fried food.

I can't be sure, but It seems like right after this incident, his cell phone rang.  Struggling to reach a flabby arm into his XXXL parka for big and tall fatasses, he answered the phone on the fourth ring, a trickle of sweat forming on his brow.

"Hello," he gasped, a little winded from the effort of shouting, answering the phone, and putting the electric window back up.

"What's wrong Marvin?"  asked the caller, "you sound more winded than normal."

"Oh, I just ... hang on, faggot,"  said Marvin, clutching at his throat to loosen his collar.

"I'm going to have to call you back, faggot," Marvin finally wheezed as he intelligently pulled the minivan over to take a rest.  I gotta get into shape, he thought, and as he remembered the cyclist he had just yelled at, something stirred deep in his loins.

Oh no, he thought.  Here it comes again.  Think about volleyball.  But it was too late.  Marvin had spent too much energy shouting and had looked at the cyclist for a little too long.  With the blood rushing to his loins Marvin realized to his horror that he had left his glycerin pills at home.  As the shooting pains went through his left arm, what looked like a brilliant white fireworks show was obscuring his view of the road ahead.  "Stupid faggot." were his final words.  Sniff.

Marvin was 42 and he left behind an imaginary girlfriend who would not find out until later that night that he would not be returning to his bachelor pad in his parents' basement.

So that kind of pissed me off.  Normally, I don't get that irritated when people yell stuff, but I was literally never in this guy's way or anything.  In a way, I'm kind of glad he's dead.  I know that sounds terrible, but really, we could use a few less homophobes in the world.

Once I got to Papillion, I stopped at ChicK-fil-A for one of their delicious spicy chicken breakfast burritos.  I don't like going into places in my bike clothes, but there is never anyone inside at this time of the morning and I get the burrito to go.

Besides, the folks at Chick-fil-A have repeatedly told me that they are happy to serve me, though judging from the way I dress they cannot in good conscience, support my "lifestyle choices" as a cyclist.  They are god-fearing Christians and everything, after all.

Ok - that was nice.  Now, as promised, the other side:

Hey, Marvin here.  How's it going?

What a morning.  Boy I'll tell you.  You'll never guess in a million years what I saw again today.  Alright, that's not fair.  I'll give you a hint.  It is something I hate very much.  It rides a bike around in the street and it rhymes with "maggot".

I thought that once we got into November, I wouldn't have to see these guys.  A lot of you have expressed sympathy for my plight, but I'm afraid you're missing the point.

It's not that these cyclists are in my way or slowing me down or anything.  It's the clothes they wear. They leave little to the imagination.  You can totally see the shape of their muscular legs and toned glutes and ...

Hang on.  I gotta slow down.  Volleyball.  Volleyball.  Breathe.

At church we learned that if you see a person that is the same sex as you and you feel sexually attracted to them, that means that person is a homosexual (faggot).

That's how I know all cyclists are faggots and the best thing to do is to call them out.  That way, they understand that I'm wise to their scheme of turning me on.  Hold on.  There's a really loud knocking at my chest.

Kaboom!  Oh ouch.  My heart just exploded because I'm such a big fat waste of human.  Damn.

Wednesday Extra: Why You should be reading Fredcube

I try to stay several days ahead of the news.  Today, it's all over the news that Mike Tyson has a new book coming out.  I mentioned Tyson on Friday as an example of someone not making excuses after a loss.

I also talked about his crazy post-savarese rant where he said he would very much like to eat Lennox Lewis' children.

Turns out that now, not only has he written a book full of what appear to be excuses for his bizarre behavior, but he claims that when he fought Savarese he was all coked up and stoned on marijuana.


The news article describes his brilliant method of fooling the testers using a fake dick that the guys used to pass around or something.  Um.  Yuck.


So if somebody said "Hey Tyson, why did you compare yourself to Alexander, Liston and Dempsey,"  instead of the answer that I'd like to hear ("I say stupid stuff"), It would be more like, "Oh, I'm actually an intellectual giant, but I was under the influence of lots of drugs and someone else's penis."

Oh well.  As long as Steve Spurrier doesn't write a book, I'll still have one "no excuse" role model in the world.

http://www.foxnews.com/sports/2013/11/13/tyson-admits-being-high-on-drugs-during-several-fights/

Friday Extra: Oh Craigslist

Below is a Craigslist message from somebody saying he's looking for a guitar.  At first I thought it was a joke.  Someone trying to be funny.  The problem is that it is only funny if the writer is making fun of one of his buddies or something.  That's an easy way to get a cheap laugh.  Pretend to be somebody else and say absurd things.  Unfortunately - none of the Craigslist reader people are in on the stunt.  But that's what I think it is, because ...

First Act Guitar - these are sold at Toys R Us for about $100.  They are crap.  When I was looking for a guitar for Jack, the guy at Toys R Us said - "Oh don't buy one of these.  Go up to Russo's"

"I currently can play all the power chords on the first two strings" - here - he means the fifth and sixth strings and what he's talking about would take about 3 minutes to learn.  If that long.

The best thing (and it would only be funny if it was someone giving crap to his friend trying to learn guitar) is all the stuff about Jon [sic] Mayer.  I kind of thought this was a serious - but stupid - post until then.

So he want's to upgrade from a toy to an American Standard Stratocaster and his reason is Jon [sic] Mayer.  Forget about Jimi Hendrix, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Jeff Beck, David Gilmour or a thousand other better guitarists.

In conclusion: Bravo, some guy punking his friend.  You had me there for a second.

~~~~~~~~~~~

 4jbzn-4177481672@sale.craigslist.org ^[?] 

flag ^[?] : miscategorized prohibited spam best of 

Posted: 2013-11-07, 12:33PM CST

Hello Omaha music community and fellow musicians! I'm new to Omaha and am

an aspiring musician looking to buy a quality American Stratocaster for around $300.00.

I currently can play all the power chords on the first two strings using my trusty First Act

and now am ready to make the leap to an American Stratocaster so I can be

the next Jon Mayer!

I know I'm asking a lot since new American Strats go for around $900-$1000.

I am currently unemployed at the moment so any help or if anyone knows of any

entitlement programs that could help a struggling artist out please let me know. 

The reason I want an American Strat is because JM plays them and they can make

anyone sound better. I want to be the next voice of a generation and when I make it

to the big time, I will gladly buy you a brand new American Strat in the same color.

Thank you kindly and bless you all!

Location: Omaha

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Posting ID: 4177481672

Posted: 2013-11-07, 12:33PM CST

email to a friend

Promises Promises. i.e. No Excuses Part 2 of 2

Man I hate it when people make excuses.

And I'm one of the worst there is.  But I'm trying (see - there I go again).  It's just that I (oops - I was about to make an excuse for why I make so many excuses)

I generally hate all excuses, but the ones I hate the most are what I hear from the loser of some athletic competition.

Whatever the reason for the loss (and there are often valid ones), it smacks of poor sportsmanship to complain about something that happened or some mistake that you made.  The implication is that you are better than all of the people who just defeated you and if that one little thing would not have happened, you would have won.

Maybe.  Maybe not.  It doesn't matter.  If you are truly better, the win will happen.  Everybody has to overcome something.

The first time I noticed how much I hated hearing excuses was when I heard a counterexample.  It was after the 1996 Feista Bowl.  Florida against Nebraska who was a 3 point favorite.  It figured to be a close game.  Florida got embarrassed.  It ended up 62-24.  By the way - I had to look all this up.  Unlike everyone else in my family, I don't remember these things too well.  What I do remember is what Steve Spurrier said after the game.  It floored me.  It was so rare in sport that it stood out.  He was asked what happened.  He said, "They whooped us."

That's how you do it.  A lot of people don't like Spurrier for whatever reason, but I've always respected him after that.  He knew he had a good team.  He didn't have to make excuses.  He just told the plain simple truth.

In 2002, Lennox Lewis finally got his chance to fight Mike Tyson after waiting for years.  I think Tyson was in prison for raping someone or something.

Boxing is one of those sports where there seems to be more excuses for a loss than any other.  It's common for a loser to say - after a fight - "Well yeah, I broke my hand earlier this week in training so that was hindering me."

You what?  Broke your punching thing that you use to punch people with at your job of punching people?  You didn't think that's something the bettors would want to know about?  Idiot.

I'm not bitter.

Anyway - Tyson was not in his prime when he fought Lewis.  I don't know that anyone other than the greats of the late 60's early 70's would have had a chance against Tyson at his best.

On Tyson's path to Lewis, he had to fight Lou Savarese.  Thirty-eight seconds later, he was being interviewed where he rambled on incoherently about his religion and burying relatives.  Then an amazing shit storm of words came to him.  It seemed at the time like some spirit with a vocabulary had just entered the otherwise muttering goofball known as Mike Tyson.  It was poetic, weird and scary:

"I'm the best ever. I'm the most brutal and vicious, the most ruthless champion there has ever been. No one can stop me. Lennox is a conqueror? No! I'm Alexander! He's no Alexander! I'm the best ever. There’s never been anyone as ruthless as me. I'm Sonny Liston. I'm Jack Dempsey. There's no one like me. I'm from their cloth. There is no one who can match me. My style is impetuous, my defense is impregnable, and I'm just ferocious. I want his heart! I want to eat his children! Praise be to Allah!"

Always the logician, Lennox Lewis was at once disturbed and confused by Tyson's stated intentions.  It seems that he took Tyson's charming rant to heart.  I was listening to a radio interview where Lewis was saying that it was hurtful what Tyson said and anyway, Lewis didn't have any children, so.

Now - I don't think taking Tyson's word literally is too smart.  Lewis may as well have said "How can he be Alexander, Sonny Liston and Jack Dempsey?"  On the other hand, Tyson had tried to eat Evander Holyfield's ear a few years before that, so maybe ...

But much like Alexander, Sonny Liston and Jack Dempsey before him, Tyson got knocked out by Lewis in the eighth round.

Because of the crazy shit Tyson says, I was eager to hear his nutty take on his defeat.  This was several years after the Spurrier incident, so my extreme distaste for excuse making was in full swing.

Interviewer guy:  What happened?

Oh here it comes, I thought.  I expected something about how Allah tripped Tyson or something.

Tyson: He beat me up.

And there it was.  The smartest thing Mike Tyson ever said.  And I got to see it live!

What's really weird is that no matter how goofy (very) Tyson is, I'll always respect him for that one time he accepted defeat gracefully.

The Saturday morning group ride.  One of my favorites.  You never know when it's going to come, but it will.  It could be as early as departure from the coffee shop or as late as the mellow few miles back into town.  It might be after a brutal climb, but it's coming.  At some point, someone is going to tell nobody in particular how late they stayed up drinking however many beers they had and how little sleep they got as a result.

I believe this is meant as an excuse for any potential inability to hang with the group that day.  But I'm not sure.  I hear it from people who then proceed to drop the group, so maybe it's one of those lies that cyclists tell.  Like "I'm on recovery today, so I won't be going hard at all."

Besides, I usually ride really well when I'm hungover, so ...

Anyvomit, I started thinking about all of this because I recently realized that the post-loss excuse is usually preceded by the pre-game promise.  I don't know if Spurrier made any sort of claims about the outcome of the Fiesta bowl.  But Tyson compared himself to Alexander The Great.  Then got beat by a guy from Canada (Something that never happened to Alexander the great).

November is my favorite time of year in terms of cycling.  The off-season.  A.K.A. Promise season.  It’s time for all of us to come out and make all kinds of promises about training and next year’s results.  It’s so easy.  It requires almost no work.   You only need to state your intentions.  If you’re smart, you will just do this with your voice and not write it down somewhere where everyone can reference it later.  Not that anyone will because, well, nobody gives a shit about your training plan.  Well, unless you win all the time.  Then they will ask you about it.  You won't have to write it down anywhere.  At least, that's what I hear.

I can't tell you how often this has happened (but I bet you can make a pretty close guess):

Hey Cube, you've never won a race or anything.  Could you tell me about your training plan, please?

You know what? Screw this post.  I'm tired.  Dammit, there I go again.

Tuesday Extra: True story (In your dreams)

I was riding in the Tour De France.  It was stage 10.  It wasn't the Tourist L'Etape, but the actual Stage.  I don't know why they allowed me to ride, but it seemed natural at the time.  I was in the lead group of 10 as we hit the final climb.  I was being dropped as we approached the summit.  There were 8 ahead as Fabian Cancellera and I reached the summit, him about 50 yards in front of me.  But now came the descent.  I knew that I would catch Fabian and he had the skill to catch the rest of them.

As we got to the bottom though, I hadn't closed the gap to Cancellara.  Oh also, we were not on bikes anymore.  We were lying on the street, sliding down the hill like some sort of lycra-clad otters.

Anyway, I never did catch up to Fabian Cancellera, but with no one at all behind me and about a quarter mile to go, I was content to finish in the top 10.  Then I realized I had taken a wrong turn.

I had to backtrack and find the right road.  I found it, but didn't know if anyone had gotten ahead of me while I was looking for it.  Then I saw a woman in front of me.  She was racing as well.  Tenth may have already been gone, but I didn't know for sure.  I had to beat her if I wanted any chance at what I felt I deserved.

Unfortunately for me, the very last section of the race went over a swimming pool.  We had to swim the width (not the length).  In the middle of the pool, there was a couple concrete barriers.   I had to climb over those and get back in the water to cross the finish line.  I never even came close to catching the girl.  I ended up 11th place and in my mind - a complete and utter failure.  Not because I beat 180 Pro cyclists, but because Shim was at the finish line, pointing and mocking, saying, "You got beat by a girl!"

Looking Forward to Winter i.e. No Excuses, Part 1

It has never happened in the history of being me that I have been looking forward to winter. I have always hated winter.  I hate being inside.  I hate the feeling that I need to bundle up to go for a walk to avoid dying in the process.

I have always dreamed of moving some place with a better year round climate.  I've even considered places like Phoenix (which would be horrible).

Oh that reminds me - Hey - all you people in Phoenix who put up all these "Hey the weather's great here.  I sure feel sorry for my friends and family back home in Nebraska" comments in January.  Don't bother.  We know it's livable in Phoenix in January.  But 130 F is not worth a couple of months of marginally better weather.

Stupid Phoenix.  Hey Phoenix, Nebraska weather is better than Phoenix weather almost every day.  And when it's not, you suck.  Pussies.

Anyway, my dream place has always been somewhere like the Goldilocks climate in Northern California.  After that, there are a lot of places in Colorado I wouldn't mind living.  These places also have the benefit of some seriously nice mountain rides.  I would like to do hill training.  I think it would be good.

I can whine about the weather every year (really.  I can.  Ask anybody) I can gripe endlessly about how much fitness I'm forced to lose by not being able to ride 5 months out of the year -- or I can just HTFU and ride.

That's what I did last year.  I actually started riding in November.  Then I got up the courage to go out on the packed snow with my cross bike.  Piece of cake.  Sort of.

To say I'm looking forward to winter isn't exactly true.   It's just that every winter of my life so far, I have dreaded the thought so much, it spoiled much of my Autumn.  That's just wrong.  

The truth is I'm not even considering winter.  I'm not dreading it.  The most accurate thing to say is,  I'm not thinking about it because it has little relevance.   It's not going to get in the way too much.

At work the last couple of weeks as the weather has cooled, people see me coming in from the bike commute and say friendly things like, "Not much longer, eh?" meaning my commute by bike days are coming to an end.  Usually, I just stare at them with what I imagine comes across as a look of perplexity.  I'm doing this to try to be an asshole.  To try to convey the message, "Whatever do you mean good sir or madam?"

But they probably think I am not answering because my face is frozen stiff (they can't see the healthy dollop of mutton fat smeared on my skin to protect and moisturize).

Once I get done with my "I'm perplexed" stare and get no reaction, I usually just bare my teeth and growl at them, like I imagine a true Mongolian would.  Those guys could really handle the cold well.  Seriously.

Honestly though, there may be times when I am forced to do indoor roller sessions.  They suck, but I can do that.  It's just an hour long.

But as long as the streets are relatively clear, there isn't a temperature that happens here that is too cold for a 90 minute ride.  I have the gear.  I've learned a little about riding in the snow.  It's not that big a deal.

This Spring came late and Summer was short and here we are in the middle of cross season.  A few people have talked about their plans and expectations for next year's racing.  This would normally be the time when I'd pretend to be committing to some sort of goal next year.  Much like the fact that it doesn't bother me that Winter is coming,  I don't care anymore about what claims I might make about the future.  I've shown far too many times that they are meaningless.

So maybe I'll see you at the races next year.  Or maybe not.  But either way.  Suck it.  Especially  you people in Phoenix.  Suck it in your stupid desert.


~~

Full disclosure. I just got a really nifty new balaclava and nice warm pair of merino wool socks in the mail today.  I wore them the whole time I wrote this, so I'm a bit toasty right now and wouldn't mind a slight temperature drop.  Oh yeah - and Phoenix? You know what to do.

Monday Extra: Time to Make a Change

Well it's been a fantastic 5.5 years here at the company, but I need to consider new opportunities.  The following text appeared as the contents of an email sent to me.  I have deleted the link from this post because I don't want one of you jerks to get the pounds of cash wads before I do.  For a happier life, remember the 4 sudden p's. sudden presents, parties picnics and pleasure trips.  Where do I sign?

~~

Every person wants to be rich even if he or she denies the fact.

Withal guys do not like to take the responsibility and make decisions 24/7.

Of course, we do not give you pounds of cash wads but with our simple and understandable approach you can forget about tough limits that you have now.

Concentrate and teach yourself to get rapid bucks simply within hours.

You will always earn enough for sudden presents, parties, picnics and pleasure trips and your life will become happier.

Friday Extra: Just Kidding, Asshat.

I'm not really done blogging.  I just wanted to let Nate Keeler have a go at it.  I'm considering "embracing the pariah status"  I'm looking into the genius of Andy Kaufman for guidance and it seems to be working.

Yesterday on my commute home, I'm going through Elmwood.  I'm not on the narrow busy multi-use path to the west of it.  I'm on the street.  Oops.

As I ride along, a guy walking in the grass just east of the road points to the sidewalk and yells, "There's a bike path right there, asshat."

Maybe he had a problem with my helmet?

Anyway, I swung around into the parking lot and confronted him.

We discussed our opposing views for a moment.  Not to brag, but I was right and he was wrong.

Particularly when I mentioned that it was my strong belief that he was a fucking pussy who wouldn't do anything about it anyway and why the fuck was he walking on the grass when there was a sidewalk right there.

To this, he turned from me and walked away, holding out his hand making a shaking motion with it in mock fear.

"Told 'ya."  I said.

Man, I think I need more of those Nate Keeler pep talks.

Outro

Well that's it.  I quit.  I'm done.  I have been struggling over this for a long time, but I've come to realize I'm in some kind of cycling no man's land.  Somewhere between the local competitive riders and the social "fun" riders.  This is not acceptable to me, so I quit.  This is no joke.  I'm done.  I mean it this time.  

I'm done with this stupid blog too.  If you want to read something stupid, just go here.  And if you want to know where and when the group rides in Omaha are happening, go here.  Hopefully, you (unlike me) are among the select elite crew of cyclists invited to read it so you don't get the big "permission denied" page when you're looking for a group to ride with in Omaha.  Enjoy your ride, bitches.

Goodbye.

Friday Extra: I Haven’t Smelled That Since I Dyed My Hair Black

Back when I was considerably stupider than I now am, I had this friend.  He was not a smoker, but I was.  A nasty habit I had picked up at the ridiculously old age of 19.  Like most of the stupid dumbasses I hung around, I smoked Marlboro light 100's.  Hard pack, please.  I didn't switch to King size until I started working at a place that gave us 10 Minute smoke breaks.  Couldn't easily get 2 100's smoked in 10 minutes so the switch became a matter of what seemed like good economics.

I hid my smoking from my parents.  There just never seemed to be a good time to open that can of worms.  I sometimes wonder if they really knew I smoked and didn't say anything or if they were in denial about me smoking or if they just didn't notice my stench.

These days, it's hard to believe you wouldn't instantly know a smoker from about 50 feet away.  But back then, with smoking allowed in just about every public place, the smell could easily be explained away.

But my friend, Ric, was not a smoker.  He was (in my mind) a punk rocker.  To me, that was anyone who listened to The Dead Kennedys or Black Flag.  He also wore a long black overcoat.  I did too, but he was kind of short, so it looked (to me) really funny.

One day, I was walking around in the Old Market and I saw Ric.  We started talking and he pulled out a small narrow black box of what appeared to be cigarettes.  He offered me one and I took it - though I was surprised.  He was also 19 and it seemed a late age to start smoking.

"When did you start smoking, Ric?"

"Oh these aren't cigarettes.  They're cloves."

"Like the shit that people stick into ham?"

"Yeah.  You can smoke it and it tastes and smells terrific and it's not addictive and it's really cool."

"Hmm.  Okey - Doke.  You need a light?"

"Say - those do taste swell - but I think I still want to smoke tobacco.  But where'd you get these things anyway?"

"You have to go to David's Briar Shoppe at Westroads.  It's only about $3.00 for a pack of 16."

At the time, 20 Marlboro Light 100's was about $0.95.  I figured I'd go out to David's Briar Shoppe and get me some to pull out on special occasions when I really needed to impress the people I knew who would be called "Emo" had they been born 25 years later.

Also - I felt the freedom to light these babies up in front of my mom (not my dad) because Ric said they weren't cigarettes.  Mom was like - Yeah - neither is plastic, but I don't want to light it up and inhale it ...

So I haven't thought about Clove Cigarettes in oh, 30 years or so.  Yesterday afternoon, I was taking a walk around the building here at the company.  It was a lovely day and one time around the building is about 1/2 a mile.

As I went near the deluxe company smoking area, I got a whiff of the unmistakable scent.  Are you kidding me?  Someone was smoking cloves in there.

Later on, I looked it up and Clove cigarettes have been outlawed (for sale) for a few years.  I guess they actually are about 70% tobacco and 30% cloves and other crap.

They were outlawed because children find them so delicious.

But I know what I smelled.  A little further research led me to find that it is perfectly legal to make your own. In fact there was a 15 step simple "how-to" that included some marination and baking in the oven.

Seems a little bit much to go through, but I guess some people really want to be 1980's cool, no matter how much trouble it is.

You can hide, but you can't run (Rule 42)

... should only run if being chased. And even then, one should only run fast enough to prevent capture.

Ok, time to start being a bully again.  Brady and I have often discussed how we do not deserve Munson.  Here's the thinking.  Munson is always good (at least the Munson that Munson shows the world).  There is absolutely no reason to think there is a malicious bone in Munson's body.  Usually, I reward Munson's considerable kindness with less than nice words.  How does he respond to this?   By the time Munson gets done with me, I always feel like I've had coals of fire heaped on my head

Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head - Romans 12:20

So grab a shovel Munson, cause I'm hungry and thirsty for some Munson abuse.

A few weeks ago, I was Keystone Hammering (Yeah - it's a verb.  And you're a tool - I'm being a bully) on one of my Commuter Grand Prix rides, when all of the sudden - I noticed a commuter way up yonder.  Well, it wasn't too far from where I had to get off the trail, so I set this guy as the carrot to reach before Askarben.  As I buried myself to make the catch I began to ask several questions.  Is that Munson? Does Munson still ride bikes?  That's kind of Munsony looking hair, isn't it?

I figured, yeah that's Munson, so I rolled up next to him and said, "Hey Munson."

I hadn't seen that guy for several months so we chatted about all kinds of stuff.  He was near his house when we met, but he wanted to get a few extra miles in, so he rode on up to my house with me, where we discussed how much he needed to get back on the bike, starting the next day.

Well he was keen on the idea.  We rode the GSV Tuesday night route (on a Saturday morning) and he did surprisingly well.  Then he rode a lot the next couple weeks.  I had loaned him an extra Garmin I had and he joined Strava.

Also, Peter Boyd was riding with us.  The band was getting back together and it was (like totally high pitched) awesome.

Brady and I started to believe maybe Munson was really going to do it this time.

Then I made an error.  I jumped the gun, so to speak.  I was thinking that if the comeback actually happened, it would allay my concern that I'm just some stupid Ben Kenobi trying to do a job meant for Yoda.

The Ginnys are not awarded lightly (except that there was almost no thought involved in awarding them).  Never in the history of The Ginnys has an award been revoked.  I don't believe one ever will be, either.  But there is a strong contingent (existing only in my brain) calling to strip Munson of his award.

If you don't know about The Ginnys, it is the most coveted award in this area for great local cycling achievements.  It is thrown together by the fine folks over at the sister blog, Gin Soaked Vagina.

Arguably, the highest of all of these awards is the "Harden The Fuck Up" award.  Yeah, Munson won it.  It was based on a rather heroic effort during a winter ride earlier this year.  That effort stands on its own and the fact that Munson is now a big huge pussy will not enter into the equation.

To be fair, Munson has some sort of issue with his wrist that "kills" when he rides. Sucks for him.  He needs to take it easy or get to a doctor and find out what's going on.

Ok, enough being fair.

At first, it was the blogging that tricked me into thinking I was on the precipice of motivational greatness where Obi Wan had so miserably failed.  Munson's blogging, I said.  Oh it's on.  Crap!

Why was I saying "Crap!"  Because I know how good Munson is/was.  He doesn't, but I do.

In those couple of short weeks when Munson's wrist didn't have to hand out timing chips at wedding rehearsal dinners, his improvement on the bike was coming - I'll say it - a little too fast for my liking.  I could see that if he kept it up for any amount of time at all - he'd be dropping me like yesterday's old stuff that gets dropped pretty hard.

I was getting worried, sure - but I figured that it would just force me to improve.

Well that's over now.  I haven't heard from him in a couple of weeks.  He hasn't blogged.  He's done.

Too bad.

Oh by the way - Munson?  How about an early ride this Saturday for a couple of hours?  Everyone else will probably be racing cross.  Place your lame excuse in the comments section, please.

And I don't want to hear that you're doing the timing chips for the cross races this weekend.  Get somebody else to do it.  Let's ride!  Hyah!

Strife

I didn't want to fight.  I have never "wanted" to fight.  Not in the "Two people giving each other a physical beating" sort of way.

I wanted to laugh.  I wanted to make jokes.  I've mentioned before that in my early naivety, I would make jokes at other people's expense and was surprised that they didn't think it was funny too.

I don't know that the fight started from something in particular I had said or done.  I doubt it.  I think it was more of a general consensus from some of the classmates that if Jimmy and I fought, Jimmy would lose.  Jimmy's dad was kind of a biker dude.  He came across to me as a real badass.  I wonder if some conversation happened between Jimmy and his dad that made Jimmy think he needed to fight me.

None of that matters.  Jimmy had been talking for a while about how he was going to kick my ass.  I was completely mystified.  We had been friends for about 5 years (we were in the fifth grade).  There were three of us who were often described as the 3 smartest children to ever attend that little grade school.  Jimmy, Stephen and me.

Stephen was my best friend.  Jimmy was just this funny toehead who had a biting edge to his humor.  Certainly a little rougher around the edges than the rest of us with our looney tunes jokes.

When Jimmy let me know he wanted to fight me, I was scared.  I didn't know what to do.  I told him I didn't want to fight.  In a way - it was the first time for me that I questioned why life had to be the way it did.  Rodney King had not yet said it, but I was thinking, "Why can't we all just get along?"

But to some people, fighting was no big deal.  It was just something to do.

"What a pussy!"  Jimmy said, looking around at everyone who nodded in confirmation at my hesitation to start punching him.  Now I was horrified, but I thought I had just been given an out.  If being afraid to fight someone means you're a "pussy,"  whatever that is, I'll take it!  Yippee! I win.  Problem solved.  Whew!  Ok, guys.  Are we square?  I think we've all learned a valuable lesson from this.  Jimmy is not a pussy and I am.  Ok, I'll just go on home now.

"Hey faggot!  Where are you going?"  Oh crap.  Now I'm also a faggot, whatever that is.  Well I was happy with one disparaging title, but now I was not so sure.  There might be several names to endure if I stick with this whole "not getting into fights," thing.

So I walked the 2 blocks to home with my head down as Jimmy and some others yelled at my cowardice from the other side of the street.  They were not really allowed to go that way because they lived the other way and the safety patrols kind of monitored that stuff.  They would report you if you went the wrong way.  Nobody wanted to get "reported."    

You would also get reported if you were fighting on school grounds.  So I was safe because my street to cross was attached to school grounds.

But the derision from classmates increased as the next couple of weeks went by.  Stephen was in my corner.  In fact, Stephen would refuse to fight anyone as well.  We went around saying we were pussies.  But for whatever reason, nobody was giving Stephen any crap.  I think it was because I was taller than everyone.  I was something for Jimmy to prove.

I started losing sleep over it.  Dreading going to school.  Finally, I went to the one person I knew who knew about fighting.  I explained it all to my dad, but mom was listening.

Mom, bless her dear heart, said, "We need to talk to the boy's parents."

"Shhh," dad said, gently raising a hand to mom,  "That is exactly what we don't need to do.  If we do that, Freddie's problems will only be beginning.  It's a school yard fight.  Nobody will get hurt, but it has to happen or it won't end."

In the movie, "The Godfather" A dying Vito Corleone explains to his son what will happen as the other families plot against the Corleones.  He has so much experience, he can accurately describe how everything will go and what will be the aftermath.

My dad doesn't know the olive oil import/export business, but he does know about how childhood fights go.  It was amazing.

"Listen son.  I've been in a lot of fights.  I've won some and I've lost some,"  Then he winked to my mom.  I didn't know yet, but he had taken it upon himself to violently avenge all of his losses.

"I'm scared.  I don't want to fight anyone.  I didn't do anything."

"I know you didn't.  Fighting is stupid.  There's never a reason.  It just happens.  And I'll tell you a secret.  Jimmy is scared too.  More afraid than you."

Now I thought my dad was insane.  I began to think he didn't know what he was talking about.  He could see my skepticism and said, "How often do you look at other kids and wonder who would win in a fight between you and them?"

"Never,  Why would I ..."

"I know.  But Jimmy's not like that.  He looks around and sees someone he thinks can beat him up and he gets scared.  That's why he picked a fight with you.  He wanted you to back down.  He will continue to bother you until you fight him.  But everybody is scared to fight.  Either that or they are crazy.  The fear ends once the fight starts, then it's just crazy."

"But if he beats me up, it will be worse."

"No.  It doesn't matter who wins.  As long as you stand up and fight him, it will end.  You will be friends again."

Now I knew my dad was crazy.  That didn't make any sense.  There was a lot I needed to learn about the world.

"But I don't know how to fight.  I don't know what to do,"  I told Dad.  

Exhaling heavily, knowing he was going to take some heat from Mom, he said, "Well we should probably take care of that, then."

The first thing he did was explain how the fight would start and what to do next.  Then he taught me how to punch.

"What is your strongest hand?"

"My left"

"Then I'm going to teach you how to fight right-handed.  I am right handed, but I stand southpaw because this is not a boxing ring.  It's sloppy.  Usually over after one punch.  You'll lead with a jab.  You want it to be  powerful."

None of this made any sense to me, but he showed me how to fire straight out,  how to keep my knuckles in line with the top of my forearm, how to keep a loose fist, etc.  Then he had me practice on his arm.

"No - you're just pushing my arm with your fingers.  Flatten out your hand.  Better.  Better.  Ow!"  Yeah that's it.  Training's over.  Hit him with that.  He'll quit.  Ow."

So I was terrified, but after my dad's assurance that Jimmy was too and that the fear would stop once the fighting began, I took a different approach at school.  When Jimmy and his choir came up to me I told them that I didn't want to fight because I would be forced to kick his ass.

There was just a moment when I saw a tiny wave of what I was hoping was fear flash across his face, but it was probably just surprise.  As he regained his composure, we agreed to meet Tuesday after school on my side of the street.  He was allowed to cross my street on certain days because the cub scout meetings were on my street every other Tuesday.  We were both Cub Scouts or Webelos or whatever.

So Jimmy and about 7 or 8 unauthorized schoolchildren followed me on Tuesday to just out of sight of the safety patrols (who all knew what was going on and didn't report any of it).  We faced each other.  I got into the right handed boxing stance, ready to punch him like dad showed me.  But I was too hesitant.  Jimmy charged and knocked me to the ground.  Now I was on my back and he was wildly throwing punches at me and slapping at me.  I wasn't scared anymore.  Adrenaline took over and besides, none of these slappy-ass slaps were hurting me at all.  I felt exhilarated.  I put my arm around his neck and twisted to get him underneath me.  What happened next, I could barely believe.  Because he was considerably lighter than me, his legs windmilled through the air as I flung him to the ground.  Experience or not, he was simply completely outmatched.  I realized this as I decided to release a couple of weeks humiliation (literally) on his face.

In retrospect, it probably was not necessary for my dad to teach me how to punch.  Sitting on top of Jimmy, I wailed away at his face with my knuckles.  I was in some sort of frenzy.  The moment was captured perfectly in "A Christmas Story".  My arms were beginning to hurt from being tired, but I wouldn't stop.  The cheering stopped and people were yelling at me to stop hitting Jimmy.  I could not.  I think I would still be there if they hadn't pulled me off.  

Jimmy's face was a mess.  I saw my friend on the ground.  I saw what I had done.  It didn't matter that he had brought it about.  I had thought if I won a fight, I would be proud like my dad was when he always told stories of winning fights.  I wasn't proud.  I was more sad than ever.  I looked around at all of the kids who had wanted to see a fight.  I suddenly hated them.  I blamed them.  I was thinking if it weren't for them giving Jimmy steam, none of this horror would have happened.  It may sound as if I'm overstating it.  It's just a couple of kids fighting, right?  But for me, it was the most emotionally devastating feeling I had ever had.  

Forcing someone into a helpless position and losing control and refusing to relent.  I was disgusted with myself.

The other kids were staring at me like I was some kind of monster.  I had expected to be some kind of hero.  Now they just saw me as a bully.  I turned toward home and started crying.  Nobody came with me.  They all started home the other way without talking.  There was not the expected animation or excitement over the event.  Maybe they talked about it later, but I never heard a word from anyone about it ever again.

With each step away from the scene, I became more upset.  I didn't understand it.  I still don't.  I had expected to feel like a man if I could somehow beat Jimmy.  But I just felt like a fool.

At one point, I stopped walking toward my house and just stood and bawled.  I was completely alone inside myself without the mental maturity to console myself or forgive my error.  

Then this older girl Lisa, who lived across the street from us put her arm around my shoulder and said, "It's ok, Freddie.  Jimmy's alright.  You're ok.  I'll explain what happened to your parents.  It will be ok."  Lisa was sometimes our babysitter  She was about 3 or 4 years older than me so as with all girls 3 or 4 years older than me, I was in love love love with her.

But her calm voice and assurance was exactly what I needed to help me get a grip on my emotions and get home.  Thinking about it, this girl couldn't have been more than 13 or 14 years old at the time.  Man, girls mature faster than boys.

The next day, I was over at Jimmy's house in his room.  We were playing Hot Wheels.  He had a really cool setup.  I mentioned that it looked like he had something on his face and he slugged me in the arm.  I told him I'd have to teach him how to punch some day and we just laughed.


~~

 So after I finished this, I sent it to my mom to read.  We were on vacation this week, so I wrote it ahead of time.  She didn't remember any of these events, but it sparked a memory of her own that was interesting.  The following is an excerpt from her response to reading the story above (names changed, etc.): 


A couple months ago I was backing out of our driveway to go pick up Dee at work. This young man who had been sitting on the neighbor's porch visiting waved at me to stop. I thought he was a friend of theirs. He asked me if I was "Mrs. Thompson"  I told him no. He was very talkative. He was going around the neighborhood looking at homes he remembered and talking to anyone who might remember his family or him.  He went to Saunders in kindergarten, then to St Cecila's or Cathedral or whatever it was called.  I think he was between you and Steve in age.  The only people we seemed to have in common were The Johnson's (no relation) . He said he did not like Jimmy Johnson because he was a bully.  I said "JIMMY JOHNSON? I thought he was a wimp."  He said that Jimmy knocked down his little brother and took his Halloween candy. He found Jimmy and told him he knew what he did. I don't remember exactly what he did about it, but Jimmy did not like it. Pretty sure HE would like your story.  SO THIS morning I was cleaning out a desk drawer and found his card ...

~~

So to me, the big question is, why are people taking their stories of Jimmy's bullying to my mother?

Oh universe, you're a tricky one!