The Slice

Note:  Earlier this week, a friend pointed out that last week's post was problematic in terms of my "style."  The complaint was that the post had a beginning, middle and logical end.  It had plot, form and blah blah blah.  I aim to correct that here, and hope that sort of thing does not happen in future posts.  I apologize for last week.  Here you go:


Not even to the first tee yet, and navigating the carts was already a challenge.  Another day in paradise for The Wallington Foursome.

Ed Wallington, former big fancy CEO was retired on the strength of a lifetime of severance packages.  He was the leader of the four vacationing executives.  Their seven day golf tour took place every February.  It was nice to get away from all the boring lounging around at the country club.  

They'd been coming to this island resort for 5 years now.  It was their favorite.

Joe Sharpe was Ed's best pal and Ed's wary golf cart passenger.

"You got this, Ed?"  Joe laughed, hanging on to the roof handle as Ed swerved, knocking over a bucket of driving range balls.  

"I'm fine.  The day I can't handle a couple Bloody Marys ..."

"Here's your turn, Ed,"  Joe said, just in time for Ed to miss the turn, over-correct,  and sideswipe the sign pointing the way to the tee box.

Driving the cart behind them was Ed's half brother Rocky with Ed's son, Eddy, the 53 year old "semi-retired" heir to Ed's fortune.    

"Hey uncle Rock - looks like dad's already wasted," Eddy said, hoping.  The boy had never beaten his dad.  He'd come close, but the old man had a way of intimidating Eddy into choking away the lead.  But with Dad already hammered, Eddy felt good about his chances.  

"I wouldn't get my hopes up, Jr.  Your old man's a cagey son-of-a-bitch.  He always seems to "miraculously" sober up when there's a buck on the line.  You can't count him out."

By "a buck", Rocky meant "a thousand bucks."  That was the price to play each hole as a member of the Wallington Foursome.  This was Eddy's first year.  The previous regular, "Fat Bill," was unable to make it due to a scheduling conflict with mortality.

Winner of the hole takes $1000 from each of the others.  Ties are carried over and so on.

The first $1000 was wagered on the tee flip.  The foursome stood in a circle while one of them tossed a tee into the air to land at their feet.  Whoever the tee pointed to got the honors and won the first $3000.

It was usually Ed for some reason and today was no exception.

"This must be my lucky day. Again,"  said Ed, as he collected the cash from his grumbling buddies.  He stumbled over to the cart and grabbed his 3-wood.  Hole #1 is long par 3, slightly dogleg left with a beautiful cliff side view of the ocean on the right.

"Dad - are you sure you're ok?"  Eddy had seen his dad drunk many times.  He'd never seen him so red in the face or out of breath.  Maybe age was finally getting to the old man.  Or maybe it was as uncle Rocky said, some kind of ruse.

"You know goddamn well - I'm fine," shouted Ed.  Then, pausing momentarily to catch his breath,  "After I drive this green, You're gonna wish your little snot nose was as alright as mine!"

This brought chuckles from Joe and Rock.  Eddy crossed his arms and stared at his dad.  He hated being called "snot nose."  Just another way the old man could get under his skin.  

Ed approached the tee box with a drunken air of confidence.  He tossed his cigar to the ground and bent over to pluck a few blades of grass, lift them high and let them fall to determine the speed and direction of the breeze.  A slight blowing from the left was exactly what Ed hoped for.  He nodded with satisfaction.  Ed's swing fault caused a slight hook that was perfect for this hole.  He knew the others all tended to fade or slice.  It would be much more challenging for them to get anywhere near the green.

Ed addressed the ball and began to swing but stopped.  A tightening in his chest.  Probably nothing.  Maybe slow down on the drinking for a couple of holes.  He took a moment to recover as Eddy looked over to each of the others to see if he could detect any concern.  They nodded to Eddy to assure the kid the old man was fine.

When he felt ok to continue, Ed took a mammoth swing at the ball.  He knew as his hips thrust toward the target, this was going to be a monster.  Then as his lax arms followed the path his professionally trained body had carved out, a spiky steel clamp clenched his chest.  He lost composure and his hands lost feeling.

The last thing he saw was his Titlist Pro V1 slicing wickedly over the ocean side cliff and his 3-wood tumbling after it, bouncing end over end across the right rough and over the edge of the cliff.

Raucous laughter was immediately followed by shouts and a bunch of fat old executive assholes mourning the loss of their dear, dear friend.  Ed Wallington was dead of a massive coronary event at the age of 78.

Eddy's earlier desire to beat his dad was replaced with guilt so powerful, he wouldn't golf again until later that day. 

~~~

"Wake up, bum.  Hey Nate buddy.  Wake up.  You won the lottery again!"

Nate Keeler was also retired.  Nate Keeler also drank in the morning.  Not Bloody Marys, though. Usually a rum based drink with some citrus in it "for Vitamin C".  Also, Nate didn't golf. He did, however,  live next to a golf course.

Nate did his drinking exclusively at "The Slice."  A great little bar and pizza joint situated right on the beach and backing up against the bottom of the cliff that plateaued  above at the first tee of the island resort golf course.  A long par 3, slightly dogleg left.

It was also Nate Keeler's lucky day.  For the third time since he'd started coming to "The Slice" he'd hit "The Lottery," a daily promotion at the restaurant.  "Get Balled or Get Screwed!"  was the subtitle/slogan of the Bar/Restaurant.

Nate always sat outside in his lucky chair at his lucky table.  The Lottery prize was that Louis would cover your ticket.  Free food and drink for the day.  Louis hated it when Nate won because Nate was Louis's thirstiest customer.

Louis also feared for Nate's health.  Not so much his liver as his head.  Sure, Nate drank way too much liquor, but as a result of his insistence to go for the "free lunch," Nate had already suffered a concussion and a hairline fracture to his left radial bone.

This third time, Louis wasn't sure Nate was going to wake up at all.

This was also the first time Louis had seen it happen.  He was sitting with Nate.  Nate was eating a slice of Louis's world famous breakfast pizza and washing it down with a double Captain and O.J.  when it happened.

"So what's on the agenda today Nate.  Drinking perhaps?  A little surfing later on?"

"You better believe it, Ramrod!"  Nate always called Louis 'Ramrod.'  Nobody knew why.

"I'm gonna get my check today, get the board outta h..."  Konk!

Louis, who'd been barely listening, happened to glance up at Nate just in time to see a nice new Titleist Pro V1 bounce off the side of Nate's head.  Louis flinched.  Nate stopped chewing, dropped his slice of pizza and slammed his head on the table before falling to the ground.

And that was how you win the lottery.  Wayward golf balls regularly pelted Louis's property.  Most folks had the sense to eat on the other side of a net Louis had put up.  But for the daring, if a ball hit you or your table, your bill was on the house.  This is why Nate kept coming back.

"How long was I out this time,"  Nate said as he sat up to his elbows and lifted a hand to rub the knot already forming on his skull.

"I have it at 12 minutes.  A new record for you.  Listen Nate, you gotta stop ..."

"Louis, if you really cared, you'd just give me my food and drink without making me get nailed with golf balls."

"That's true, Nate."  Louis said as he went back inside to clean up some dishes.

Nate then looked up toward the direction of the first tee box.  It could not be seen from his vantage point.  He tipped his glass to the unseen golfer in thanks for the free food and drink.  "May your luck be as good as mine today,"  Nate wished the late Ed Wallington.

Fast Food Psycho

Roughly once a week, I get fast food for breakfast.  Chick-fil-a is the only place I go. The Magnificent Spicy Chicken Breakfast Burrito is the only thing I get.

I dine in.  I don't drive-thru.  I take a book to read so I can enjoy my Magnificent Spicy Chicken Breakfast Burrito while I read.

By the way, It's just called "Spicy Chicken Breakfast Burrito" but it is magnificent.

There is rarely anyone else at Chick-fil-a in the morning.  If there is, it is this one Christian family.  No kidding. They have a minivan and 6 kids.  They are solemn.  They pray over their food.  All 8 of them eat their breakfast in silence.

It makes me happy that Chick-fil-a sticks to its ultra conservative Christian ideals so I can enjoy my Magnificent Spicy Chicken Breakfast Burrito and read my book in monasterial calm.

 At McDonald's I'd surely have to contend with the hullabaloo of all the little sinner boys and girls.  Oh yeah - and McDonald's food is shit.    

But this morning I knew something at Chick-fil-a was amiss.  I drove into the parking lot and saw half a dozen cars waiting at the drive-thru.  I would never expect more than 2.  So either there was a problem or the secret is out on the Magnificent Spicy Chicken Breakfast Burrito.

Also, there was a car parked in the lot.  Unusual.   It wasn't the Christian minivan.

I stopped my car, took a deep breath, and considered skipping breakfast.  I decided that since I had my book, I could wait for my food while they sorted out whatever their problem was.

I just about changed my mind when I set foot inside.  It was all wrong.

There were no employees in sight.  Most days, a cheery cashier is at my beck and call the instant I enter, eager to wish me a "blessed day."

I stood there assessing the scene.  In front of the cash register was a half empty soda cup with a chewed up straw sticking out of a cracked plastic lid.  The only person in sight was a customer.  He was on the same side of the counter as me, but at the far end.  He was the cup's owner.

No employee came to take my order.  I heard them in the kitchen. They were not paying any attention to me or the line of cars at the drive-thru.  There was arguing.  Panic maybe.

I approached the register to get somebody's attention.  As I did, the man at the end of the counter bolted toward the soda cup.  I figured he was going to move it so I could stand at the register.  He looked at me and I said, "Morning," but he did not reply.  He walked up to the cup, left it there and walked back to the other end.

The message was clear.  Nobody orders until I get my food.  And stay away from my cup.  That's my cup.

Then Lorna came out from the back.  Lorna works there.  I didn't know her name was Lorna until she walked toward the register to take my order.  Before she got there Dave said, "Hey Lorna.  You know what I think would be good on that burrito?  Two slices of tomato.  I've never had it that way before, but I think with all the other things you're adding, tomatoes would make it perfect."

I didn't know his name was Dave until Lorna said in a voice barely above a whisper, "Yes Dave.  That is an excellent idea."

She kept a wary eye on Dave as she backed through the kitchen door to explain Dave's latest amendment.  Dave gave me an angry look and began pacing from his soda cup to the far end of the counter.  He was clenching and releasing his hands as he paced.

At last Lorna came out and told Dave that if he'd kindly have a seat, she could bring his special order out to him just as soon as it was ready.

Dave paused.  He squinted at me, then glanced at his cup, then at Lorna.  Lorna smiled.  Her eyebrows so high, it had to be some kind of trick with mirrors.

Dave acquiesced, grabbed his cup, throwing me a warning glance as he passed by and stomped off to a table somewhere behind me.

Then Lorna took my order.  I noticed that the line of cars was now moving.  Things seemed to be getting back to normal.

I sat down to read while I waited for my Magnificent Spicy Chicken Breakfast Burrito.  But I couldn't concentrate. I looked up to see Dave staring at me.  A snarled lip.  I don't know what his problem was, but I turned my back to him and was sort of able to begin reading.

About 5 seconds later, Lorna came out with a tray.  I didn't pay any attention, because surely this was the food Dave had been waiting for for God knows how long.  The breakfast to end all breakfasts, stop a line of cars and turn poor old Dave into a seething madman.

Nope.  It was for me.  I didn't dare look back at Dave.

It was embarrassing, but certainly not my fault.  Clearly, Dave had a gripe, but with Lorna, not me, right?

I flipped my foil wrapped burrito over to peel off the sticker.  Hmm.  That's weird.  Normally, the sticker says "spicy."  This one said "special"

I think you can see where this is headed.

Oblivious, I took a huge bite out of the burrito and was surprised to find that

1) The Chicken was not spicy
2) There were lots of crazy ingredients in this burrito, including 2 slices of tomato
3) It was the most delicious breakfast burrito in the whole wide world.

As I was enjoying my first bite of Dave's Burrito, Lorna came up with a plain old boring Spicy Chicken Breakfast Burrito.  She apologized to me, told me to keep both burritos and to have a blessed day.

This put me in such an awkward position I was forced to stand up, walk over to Dave and stab him  in the throat with a plastic butter knife.

I then went on a rampage and slaughtered everyone in the Chick-fil-a while the Christian minivan family praised the lord that even though a flat tire prevented them from their beloved Chick-fil-a today, father had skillfully repaired the flat and they were up and running again.  Chick-fil-a could wait until tomorrow.

And that's the story of the Fast Food Psycho.

You ought to know

I've written more words this week than any other in the history of me writing words.  Ironically, none of those words are suitable for this forum at this time.

Well, maybe it's ironic. I'm not quite sure.  I guess that depends on what ironic means.  I'm going to make this brief because I don't want to do it at all.  I also will not mention you-know-who or her song about irony, because, c'mon.  Boring.

When somebody says, "Wow. That's ironic,"  they're usually talking about some coincidence.

I'm not sure anybody knows what ironic means but I've found a few definitions.  Without looking them up, I'll describe what I think they are.

I always think of it as something that happens as a result of actions taken in an attempt to stop that thing from happening. That's ironic.

Back in 8th grade or something, they said it was like sarcasm, but nicer.  The idea is you say the opposite of what you mean and since it is so ridiculous, it makes your point.  Like "Oh yeah, I really want to get eaten alive by mosquitoes!"

Then there's the one they always talk about with some philosopher (plato or socrates)  Where you argue with someone by simply asking questions that force them to contradict their position.

There's one that has something to do with theater.  But that requires you to go to the theater, so ...

The last and most important definition of irony I've ever seen is: "Like iron"

To me, that's true irony.  Not coincidence.  Is it coincidence that aluminum is kind of irony?  The correct answer is a resounding "nope."

In fact, coincidence may not actually exist.  Many have said they don't believe in coincidence.  Maybe they're right.  Maybe that's why they call it irony.

"Woah.  You have the same birthday as I do?  I suspect some sort of conspiracy.  That's ironic."

So anyways, I got to thinking.  Would it be possible to have one huge circumstance or entity that was all forms of irony (including 'like iron') at the same time.  As an added bonus, if it could be a coincidence, I'd send the result to you-know-who and respectfully request that she write a song about it.

So it should be obvious that I am making this up as I go along.  I haven't a clue what situation could fulfill all senses of the word.  Oh wait  Back up.  Let's skip the theater one because who wants to sit through a play?  Actually - if you want to have a go at adding it, fine.  I don't care.  Just keep me out of it.

So the situation/event has to have:

1) bringing about your own demise by trying to thwart it
2) nice sarcasm
3) dumb questions to illustrate that your enemy is dumb
4) having similarity to iron.

Bonus: The mythical notion of coincidence.

So let's just say there was this guy.  What he wanted more than anything was to be obscenely wealthy.  He also wanted a hot girlfriend.  He had the girlfriend, just not the money.

But this girl did everything for him.  I mean everything.  He loved her so much he could never imagine being with anyone else.  He told her he'd hold her until he died, until he died.

As the years went on, however, her career was not going too well.  She was basically a failed singer.  So he dumped her.  He found an older, richer version of her.

Well, this upset the ex-girlfriend so much that she wrote a song dripping with irony (sarcasm).  She said things like:

I wish nothing but the best for you both.
I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother.
I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner.

Well this song was a big big hit and the ex-girlfriend made 100 billion dollars for the song (one penny for every time it was played on the radio).  So Mr. Duplicity missed that boat (ironic that he left her for a 'sort of rich' woman).

These cover the first 2 in my list above.  Next there's the socratic (or is it platonic) type - dumb questions to prove your point.  Also in the most ironic song ever written:

Is she perverted like me?
Will she go down on you in a theater?  (strictly speaking, this is probably not the "theater version" of irony)
Does she speak eloquently?
Would she have your baby?

Maybe that theater one is irony.  Because (rhymes with cabanas) was trying to use her mouth to get pregnant.

I don't know what kind of cross she bore, but I'd be willing to bet it was iron.

Anyway - I'm tired of hearing people say her song has nothing to do with irony. It's all over the place in the lyrics.

Hmm? What?  They're talking about a different song?  She wrote another song?  What a coincidence.

Lick The Glove

As I've stated here, here, and here - I ride bikes in the winter now.  Particularly the Saturday morning ride that gets posted to Group Ride Omaha.

Last year, there was always a pretty good group.  This year - not so much.  Not that the group is bad or anything. It is just smaller.  Fewer people.

But I will always go as long as I can figure out where the mystery meeting place is.  Oh and also as long as there isn't some sort of scheduling conflict.  Like my son has built  some sort of baseball playing robot for some competition or something.  Then I'd probably have to go watch as this evil robot cyborg ball player thing destroys the competition or whatever it is they do.

Last year - it seemed like it was not less than 11 people each week.  This year, it's more like 4 or 5.  There's always Rafal.  There's usually Paul Webb.  Brady often appears.  Savery's been showing up the last couple of weeks.  Then me.  But I'm only there because of this:




That was Lou Gossett Jr. playing Rafal and Richard Gere as me.

Haven't seen Shim, Spence, or Leah lately.  Lucas Marshall has shown up once or twice.  

Obviously, there's a perfectly good reason for the sparse winter crew.  My knee jerk intuition guess is that since just about everything else is a better thing to do, they've got better things to do.

Please disregard that last explanation.  We all know it's because those guys are all a bunch of pussies.

Oh sorry.  Please disregard that last explanation.  It's because sometimes the meeting place directions are vague.  Then if you ask for clarification, a smartass answer is coming your way.

For example:

january 18th 2014

meet at Blue Line NODO
I've got bunch of  stuff to do in afternoon and so do other people.
I't's going to be breezy
coffee 8:30  (if you inclined)
rollout 9:00 am
the route is gravel pavement mix .
see you there

~~

SeanJanuary 17, 2014 at 12:28 PM

For the uneducated what is NODO? Thx.

RDJanuary 17, 2014 at 1:29 PM

is north of SOMA

Last week, it was this:

2-15-2014

Meet at culprit 9:30 am
Rollout 10 am
Going south to glenwood
Road bikes 
Bring money for the toll
No freeloaders
That is all folks

I had never heard of "culprit" before.  I didn't want to ask where culprit was, because I was thinking the answer would be something like "where we meet."

Also - No freeloaders.  So bring your own money for the toll.  More on this later.

So I googled culprit and sure enough, an address came up of 16th and Farnam.  Then I took a break from all that investigative work.

Sneakiest Coffee Shop In the World

As you can see, even the cook guy logo is wearing a mask!  Ooh!  Culprity!

 Anyway - Before last Saturday's ride, I took a gander at the hourly weather forecast.  It looked to be about 50F by the end of the ride.  There was a 30% chance of light snow early in the ride.  It was 28F when I went out the front door, dressed for weather later in the day of about 45F.  There were a few flurries coming down.

By the time I got to the meeting place, it was snowing.  Hard.  Also, it was pretty windy.  I was getting a little chilly.  I took the optimist point of view that maybe there's something to that whole brown fat thing, and cheerily shivered on down to this mysterious "culprit," place.

Because there is so much salt on the roads right now, you could [do something that takes a lot of salt to something really big], 28F was warm enough to keep the snow from accumulating on the street.  

The bonus there is when the water splashed you, it was colder than ice!

When I got there, Rafal, Paul, and Savery were already there.  It was about 5 minutes until rollout, but Savery had received a text that Brady was on his way but running late.

So we waited for a few minutes.  At roughly 12 after the hour we rolled on without Brady.  The plan was to ride south to Glenwood.  Initially, we would have taken roads, but the shitty weather precipitated a plan to use bike paths in Iowa for a while via the Bob Kerry Ordinary Bridge.  I guess - less splashy than the streets since the bike path is not covered in enough brine to marinate a [something really huge that needs marinating].

As we approached the bridge, I received a text.  This required me to remove my glove and reply.  Brady was asking if I was on the ride.  I figured he must've bailed, so I just replied, "yes."

Then I tried to ride and put my phone away and put my glove back on.  My hand was getting cold.  While this was happening, I was falling behind the other 3.  I figured I'd catch up.  They were sort of waiting.  Taking it nice and easy.

Just as I got my glove back on I got another text from Brady letting me know that he was at "culprit."  Obviously he knew where culprit was.

So I took my glove off again, told Brady I was at the bridge and gave up on Rafal, Savery and Paul who were now out of sight.

I also gave up on the use of my hand.  It was really cold by then.  

When Brady got to the Bob Kerry Average Bridge, The weather was snowing and blowing harder than ever from the direction we were heading.

The other guys were long gone.

Brady said, "What are you thinking?"  

I said, "I could go home right now.  Hot Chocolate.  I believe in Miracles.  etc."  But I figured we should just see how it went for a while.  After a few minutes, and with no provocation that I could discern, Brady mysteriously decided, "Let's just go in to Glenwood."

"Yeah," I said.

I think this might have been to put the test to something I had said to him a few minutes before.

I didn't believe anyone should be out riding around on road bikes in this weather.  It seemed pretty stupid.  The problem was the forecast.  It was supposed to be nice later on.  But I had mentioned to Brady that I thought the ride happened because nobody (myself included) had the guts to be the first to chicken out of it.

Somehow, Brady spent a few minutes in whatever hell he lives in and returned with "Let's just go to Glenwood."

Before I said "yeah," I heard from inside my head, the sound of my tongue clicking.  My tongue did not actually click, but the sound was there (in my head).  Also, I think I sighed internally.  Then I geared myself up for the long miserable ride ahead.

The ride to Glenwood as we generally take it has 2 routes.  The longer one is hillier and Brady and I were both willing to take the shorter route.  We hadn't really hurried or anything, but there was still a chance we'd catch the three guys in town if they took the longer route.

They did  take the long way, so we got there about 10 minutes to an hour ahead of them.  I figure they were about 5 minutes in front of us all the way to Glenwood, so that was pretty good.

Everything I've said up to this point was to talk about one thing in particular.

Savery was first of all surprised that we (Brady and I) hadn't bailed.  They all assumed we must have.

Secondly, he was surprised that, even though we went the short route, we got into town before them.

Luckily, he quickly realized the only possible explanation.  Still reeling from the shock that we got there before them, he said, "Wow.  Brady.  You must have motorpaced Fred all the way here!"

Thanks Mark. 'preciate it.

Then we all did the rest of the ride.  By that time, it was warm and sunny and everybody was happy.

We got to the toll bridge and I paid Brady's (because I had told him I would) otherwise, I think he'd have gone the non-toll way.  Also - the guy who posted the ride and the mystery start place and the no freeloaders admonition.  He couldn't locate his coin purse so I paid his too.  Then I paid for the car behind me.  An idea I got from Ryan Feagan.  As I got going again, I had to put my glove back on.   The rest of the group was already rolling up the hill.  Then I dropped my glove and had to go back for it.

"Not again," I thought.  But I was able to catch back up to them eventually.

Stupid glove.

In conclusion,  I've just learned that my son has finished work on an evil baseball playing robot.  I am saddened that I will be unable to attend this weekend's ride even if I can figure out where it starts.

Have fun fellers.  Try not to miss me too much.

Click, swish, ahh.

My second favorite joke from when I was 9:

So there was this guy, right?  He was having the whole inside of his house painted by professionals.  It was a pretty big job and the painter guys told him that he'd probably be best off if he crashed over at a friend's house for a few days so the painters could leave all their crap lying around until the job was finished.

So the guy called his brother because his brother had always told him if he ever needed a place to stay, not to hesitate.  There was a spare bedroom right next to his, so it would be cool.

After getting all situated in the guest room the guy heard a peculiar noise from the next room over.  It was his brother's bedroom.  It sounded like, "Click.  Swish. ahh."  The "ahh" sounding like a sigh of relief.

Strange, thought the guy.  Then he forgot about it until the next night when he heard the same thing.  "Click. Swish.  ahh."

Curious, he went over to his brother's room to ask him about it, but when he got there, the light was off, and it sounded like his brother was already asleep.

After the third and final night of his stay (by the way, there always has to be 3) when he heard the mysterious sequence of sounds, he decided he had to know what it was, even if he had to wake his brother to find out.

So he went to find his brother fast asleep and gently woke him.

"What's up bro," came the cheerful but sleepy reply.

"What's that noise coming from this room every night."
[ at this point, I will mention that the brother did not need to be told what the guy was talking about, because we were 9 years old ]

"Oh that,"  said the brother, instantly understanding what the guy was talking about, "Every night, when I go to bed, I shut off the light (the click) I leap through the air to my bed (the swish) and land on my comfy sheets and pillow (the ahh).  Whenever I do this, I fall asleep instantly.  It is the most wonderful thing.  You really must give it a try some time."

Nonplussed by this totally bizarre explanation, the guy said, "Um.  Okay then. (under his breath) Goodnight weirdo." ¹

When the guy got back to the guest room, he figured he had nothing to lose, so he'd give it a try.

Five seconds later, the guy's brother heard the curious sound of "Click, swish, AAAAAHHHH!!!" where the "AAAAAHHHH!!!" sounded a little like a scream of incredible agony.

The brother rushed to the room, terribly worried.  When he arrived and turned on the light, he saw the guy doubled over in pain on the floor.  "What happened, guy?"  the brother asked.

Through clenched teeth, the guy explained, "The click you heard was the sound of me shutting off the light (labored panting).   The swish was my leap toward the bed.  The AAAAAHHHHH!!! was when I hit my nuts on the bedpost."

~~~

Freddy Hans told me that joke.  He was one of the kids my mom watched when we were young.  So then my mom asked us what was so funny.

"Oh nothing," I said all guilty and nervous-like, preparing to leave the area.

Then, to my horror, Freddy Hans said, "One time, this guy was getting his house painted ..."

I was panicked.  I couldn't believe he was telling this joke to my mother.  There was really no way to stop him.  I would have to explain why if I did.  Freddy had a bit of a course mouth and my mom and I knew it.  I knew it would be terribly embarrassing when he told my mom the punch line.

Finally, he got to the line.  My heart stopped.  My god, he was really going through with it.  "The AAAAAHHHH!!! was when I hit my" (at this point he glanced over at me and stretched out the 'n' sound) "knee on the bedpost" he finished.

You sonofabitch, I thought.  He did that on purpose to freak me out.  Good one, Freddy.

At that, my mom kind of shot a smile/smirk glance at us, letting us know she was onto us, but she just turned and went about her business.  Her brand of cruel punishment.  She was leaving me the rest of the day to worry about whether or not she was going to relay the story to dad.

But Cube - Surely you didn't gather us here today to tell us that stupid joke.  Did you?

Well no, not exactly.  It's just that I was reminded of it recently when I jumped into bed and went AAAAAHHHH!!!

No bedpost - and it was the "knee" version of the joke I was reminded of.

About 2 years ago, There was a noticeable buildup of fluid over my right kneecap.  I went to the doctor and since there was no redness, soreness or excess heat, he said, "Yeah pretty good.  Carry on as you were, etc."

I was happy about this.  I had been concerned that I'd need to back off on the cycling.  But the Dr. said it was cool, so.

Then last week, I jumped into bed and got a sharp pain on the outside of my lower right leg, just below the puffy knee.  I made an appointment with the doctor and pedaled softly until I got consultation.

The doctor examined me and said, "looks like some kind of a temporary pinched nerve dealy or sumpin'.  Otherwise, your knee is in great shape.  Mash away!"

Yes!  So for the first time this year, I set up the magnets behind the rollers.  The magnets add resistance using something called "science."²  It's pretty cool.  They are nice when you want to work hard.  They're similar to the fluid trainer.  It gets exponentially more difficult and your speed increases.  It's more linear with the rollers and no added resistance.  See?  Science.

It reminds me of this time long ago, when I was ... Oh wait, I think the pizza delivery guy is at the door or something ...  I will be right back.  I promise.

~~~

That "Click, Swish, aah" joke was my second favorite joke.  My favorite joke was the one about Charlie Brown getting fancy new Speedo swim trunks so people would think he was cool.  When he showed Lucy, she said, "I always thought you were crazy Charlie Brown, but now I can clearly see your nuts."

The first thing to mention about this one is that it also includes the word "nuts."  Secondly, Freddy Hans told me this one too.  I'm pretty sure every joke he told had the word "nuts" in it somewhere.  Also, he didn't tell this one to my mom.  Although, "Now I can clearly see your knees" would be hilarious.

1. Many of the oldest manuscripts omit this verse.
2. And this is Eddie's resistance unit, then?<sup>3
3. The sofa reference.</sup>

Zombie Bus

Now there's a headline you can really "sink your teeth into", hardy har har.

Man, I hate headlines.  Especially lately, but I've always hated them.  They used to always have some stupid pun or play on words.  Then they'd put single quotes around the cleverness to make sure the reader was in on the joke:

"Oprah's studio audience all 'Winfrey' cars"

"Tom Petty Tour Bus Suffers 'Breakdown'"

And so on.

Then people stopped reading the paper.  Maybe it's because of the headlines but probably since everybody  now has 3 computers and a smart phone every story is out there on the internet somewhere.

For a while the internet news story writer guys went with the same 'pun' idea.  But there are too many consumers and not enough news so non-stories have to appear interesting.

That's why The Super Bowl must be covered 24/7 for 14 days before and 4 days after it happens.

Celebrity drug overdoses get a minimum of 5 days with every possible angle covered.  "The step-daughter of a drug dealer who Hoffman knew, but hasn't talked to since November speaks out!"  seriously.

Celebrity drug Overdoses that happen on Super Sunday are a disaster for internet news.  "C'mon guys.  Spread the news out a little, please."

There are 3 types of headlines I see on the internet:

1) Actual story

This is the rarest.  The headline will tell you exactly what's going on.  No gimmicks.  The writer knows people want to read this story.  It's pure gold.  It will be splayed across the top of your screen in big, bold, red, sans letters so it looks hastily plastered there:

Brad Pitt Found Dead and Stuff

Now that's a headline.

But if you see, "Fight Club star found Dead" you can bet it is neither Brad Pitt nor Ed Norton - or even Meatloaf for that matter.

In fact, if the guy who played 'Norton' on "The Honeymooners" was still alive and he died, they wouldn't say, "Art Carney Dies."  They'd say "'Ed Norton' actor dies"  Then you'd be all, "What!?!? the guy from Fight Club? and you'd click on it and see a goofy old guy wearing a hat, and realize what had just happened.

We don't talk about bowling club

Doh!

2) Misleading 'Teaser' Headline

These really bug me.  They actually don't tell you anything at all.  They start a fascinating sounding sentence and go all ellipses ...
So instead of saying "Area Woman Goes on a Diet"  they say something like "You won't Believe Incredible thing that happened to Woman after she ..."

3) Lying About the Existence of Zombies

Sadly, this is a common headline trick.  Whenever you see the word 'Zombie' in a headline and it's not about some work of fiction, you can just skip the story. Why?  Because Zombies aren't real.  They never will be.  I'm not talking about the voodoo tricks they do in Haiti.

A few months ago, there were a bunch of headlines about a new "Zombie Drug" from Russia.  It was some narcotic that supposedly gave you a cheap high and then ate your flesh.  It was all the rage in Russia and was making quite a splash in the U.S.

Yeah, whatever.  "Hey - do you guys have any of that stuff they're taking in Russia that eats your skin?

I don't know if there was such a thing or not, but I do know that they kept calling it the "Zombie Drug"

They were doing that so people like me would go "Really?" and click on the link and learn that "Zombie Drug" is a horrible name for this stuff.

Then more recently, "Zombie Bees"

From  ABC NEWS:
Mutant "zombie bees" that act like the ghoulish creatures of horror films have surfaced in the Northeast after first appearing on the West Coast, a bee expert told ABC News on Wednesday.

Now wait a minute.  That sounds promising.  Sure, it's just bees and not humans, but it's a step in the right direction. This is way better than the Zombie Drug because immediately after the Zombie Drug headline, you learn, that oh wait, it doesn't really turn you into a zombie or anything.  It's just some poison that has a similar effect to some spider bites (if it exists at all).

But "Mutant?" "ghoulish creatures of horror films"?  Wow! Tell me more!

An amateur beekeeper in Burlington, Vt., last summer found honeybees infested with parasites that cause the insects to act erratically and eventually kill them. It was the first spotting of zombie bees east of South Dakota, according to John Hafernik, a professor of biology at San Francisco State University whose team in October verified the infestation.

"They fly around in a disoriented way, get attracted to light, and then fall down and wander around in a way that's sort of reminiscent of zombies in the movies," Hafernik said. "Sometimes we've taken to calling [it], when they leave their hives, 'the flight of the living dead.'"

Huh? Wait, you used the word "Mutant" up there.  Um.  There was no mutation of any kind.  There wasn't even a virus.    Huge disappointment.  I really thought we were on to something this time.  It's just a parasite that makes the bees sick and die.  They don't become undead, craving fellow bee flesh.  They don't continue relentlessly until some hero bee with a glock comes up and double taps their ass. That would be a Zombie bee and everybody, including the irresponsible writer of this non-article, knows it.  These are just sick bees.  But nobody clicks on a headline that says "Sick Bees."

The point is, I don't want to be tricked into reading even part of an article, so I tend to read less of them.  Possibly even some that might be interesting.

But I didn't come here to talk about that.  I am here to talk about the Zombie Bus.

As I stood alone on that cold dark January morning I became aware of a gnawing anxiety.  What am I doing here, I thought.  There was no one else around.  Was I even in the right place?  The howling wind carried the sound of a tormented dog wailing in the distance.  Then, at the appointed time, it arrived.  The Zombie Bus!!!

I heard its deafening moan before I saw it.  My throat went dry and I swallowed hard.  My stomach was tied in knots as the behemoth charged toward me.  It was too late for me to do anything but watch as it mercilessly bore down.  The empty bus, a shell of its full potential came to a screeching stop at my feet.

The bus driver guy opened the door and I asked, "Is this the bus to Tara Plaza?"

"Que?" questioned the driver.

Midway through my repetition, The Zombie Bus Driver responded in the English affirmative.

I hadn't taken a city bus in decades.  I had been planning on it and looking for the right opportunity for a couple of weeks, but I still had great apprehension.

Normally, I would have no fear of a bus, but this time there were too many unknowns.

This was the first time I had done the "Bike and Ride" thing.  My commute is about 11 miles at its shortest.  I can do that down to about 15 or 20 degrees Fahrenheit.  Below 10, I have no interest.

On the morning I decided to try the Bike/Bus Thing, it was 2 degrees Fahrenheit, but forecast to be 40F in the afternoon. My brilliant idea was ride the 3.5 miles to the bus stop and take it to the end of the line about 1.5 miles from my office.  Then ride home in the afternoon.

Here's a list of the things I remember worrying about before this trip:

1) How to use the bike rack.  There are instructions online that I memorized.  I went through the motions in my mind repeatedly.  I really didn't want to mess up.  It turned out to be so simple, a caveman could do it.

2)  The bike rack will be full and I'll have to go back home and drive to work.  There is room for 2 bikes on the rack.  Yeah.  I was the only passenger on the bus.

3) There will be standing room only on the bus and I will have to stand in my bike boots for the whole time with my big commuter bag.   Yeah.  I was the only passenger on the bus.

4) My bike will fall off of the bike rack during the interstate part of the trip.  Not even close.

Strangely, the only thing I was not worried about was paying the fare.  I have done that many times in the past and it's straightforward enough.  All of my concerns were about the new element to the bus ride (the bike part).  Ironically, when I tried to shove the quarters into the slot at the top of the money taker thing, it was the wrong place.  That was for cards or bills or something.  The place for coins was down lower.  The Zombie bus driver didn't laugh at me too much though and I had a pleasant ride to Tara Plaza (other than worrying about my bike launching itself onto the interstate).

It was so rewarding overcoming the great fear/obstacle thing that I did it again on Monday.  This time, however, I was able to pretend to be bored by the whole process.  I even sighed with impatience as I deftly paid the fare, placing the quarters in exactly the right slot.  Yawn.

You pay it forward, bitch!

Sorry about the asterisks around the word 'you' in the title.  I didn't see a way to do italics in the title section.  Oh wait, hang on, I have an idea ...

Yeah, that worked.  Ok.  Never mind.  I got it.  When I look at the title, I see "<i>You</i> pay it forward, bitch!"  When I look at the last sentence, I see ... Oh never mind.  This could go on forever.  Uh oh, I think I've just proved (entire proof too large to fit in margin) the existence of God.  Dammit.  Now I have to repent and stuff.  Surely there will be plenty of time for that later, though.  Right now, I have a deadline ...

Anyway - what's happening with me today?  I'm ever so happy that you've asked.

Warning:  The following will be about bike shit.  If you came here to read part 2 of about 3 from last week's post, I'm afraid you don't understand how this blog works.

Disclaimer:  I may talk about the dead fish from last week's post later on.  But the rest will have to wait for at least 2 weeks.  Next week's post is already locked in and it doesn't have anything to do with where I wanted to take last week's post.  The good news is that none of this matters at all, because I didn't really leave anything unfinished.  There was just more I wanted to say.

I have a few favorite authors.  Christopher Moore, Conn Iggulden, Ken Follett, Dr. Seuss (inventor of the word 'nerd').  When I've only read one or two books by a certain author, his style or formula isn't necessarily clear.  After about 4 or 5, it becomes almost tedious to read the author because it's relatively easy to guess where the story is going.

As disorganized as this blog is, it may surprise you to learn that I also have a template I follow (attached below):
~~~
//TODO: cleverly use foreshadowing device

//TODO:  write stuff for blog.

//TODO: pretend to get attacked by a vampire.
~~~

I would like to start off by talking about Rule 12.  Of course everybody knows what rule 12 is, but Munson insists that I spell it out every time I mention a rule, so:

Rule #12

// The correct number of bikes to own is n+1.

While the minimum number of bikes one should own is three, the correct number is n+1, where n is the number of bikes currently owned. This equation may also be re-written as s-1, where s is the number of bikes owned that would result in separation from your partner.

You're welcome, Munson.

Last year (late 2013), I raced for the first time since 2007.  Cyclocross.  I entered 4 races in total.  Of all the races I've ever done, these were my favorite 4.  I am not good at it, yet.  After barriers, I basically stop the bike and clumsily get back on.  But I don't care, that's some fun stuff there.

Several weeks ago, Mrs Cube and I put some hanger thingies up in the basement.  They were for my bikes.  I have 3 bikes.  We put up 4 sets of hangers (rule 12 compliance).

Then due to certain state and federal regulations governing all activities, home improvement projects,  and meals, I was legally bound to take a photograph of the hangers (with bikes on 3 of them) and post it to Facebook.

The photo shows that I have 2 road bikes and a cross bike.

Last Summer when the boys were going to the Mountain Bike classes, I started riding on the trails (Tranquility and Swanson) and found my one true love.  Off road cycling.  At the time, I absolutely had to have a hardtail 29er.  I was using my cross bike, which is ok on those courses, but not ideal.

I would still like to get a 29er, and after seeing the Facebook photo, several people suggested it would be the perfect bike for the empty hangers.

Yes and no.  My cross bike weighs 26 pounds and I am going to race cross next year.

I need (want) a new cross bike.

But I'm old.  I spent too much of my earlier life not saving money.  I'm trying to catch up now.  I set aside a certain amount each month now that leaves little for small purchases like "A New Bike."

So I have to save for the new cross bike.  I'm fine with that.  The sooner I cut out other expenses, the sooner I can get the bike.

Fortunately, there are many ways I can tighten up.  One example that seems almost silly is my daily cup of coffee.

For a large coffee, it is somewhere around $2 - $2.50 depending on where you go.  There are roughly 23 work days in a month so that's around $50 a month.  Not much, but I have a coffee maker.  I can make my own coffee.  So that's what I do now.

Except this morning.

I was running late and decided to swing through Crane for a cup.  I was not happy about the $2.42, but I had bought a "Crane card" several weeks ago.  For $25.00, they put $30.00 value on the card.  It still had about $10 left on it, so I figured it was ok to use it just this once (and 3 other times).

Usually when I pull up to the order/speaker thing, I'm the only one there.  This morning, there was a car at the pick-up window and another one at the speaker.

On my morning drive, there's this thing I do.  I also do it when I ride on the keystone.  It is not genuine, but it entertains me.  I pretend like everybody and everything is making me mad.  I am in no way mad.  I just enjoy the harmless game of insulting unknown faceless people in other cars (or on comfort bikes on the trail).

So upon seeing the car waiting at the speaker, my tirade went something like, "Just fuckin' great.  Now it's going to be 5 minutes instead of 10 seconds because you can't go one fucking day without slamming 1000 calories of chocolate whipped cream coffee mocha treat down your fat gullet.  Look at that stupid car you're driving (it was the same make, model and color as mine).  'Oh - I just have to have a Honda so I can go to Crane and get into real people's way.'  Stupid Bitch."

Eventually, it was my turn to order and like every day (that I go to crane) I asked what the special flavored coffee was.  And like every day, I didn't listen to the answer.  I just said, "Yeah - I'll go with the unflavored kind. Black."  and like every day, they said, "Did you need a muffin or scone added to that?"  and like every day, I said, "No thank you."  

But unlike everyday when I got to the window and offered my Crane card to the hippie, he said, "Um actually?"  That's how he said it.  Like a question.  Then he continued to ask me questions in the form of statements.  "Um actually? The lady in the car before this one?  she paid for your coffee."

"Could I have that scone now?"  I said.

Um actually?, I said, "Wow.  Ok thanks."

And I drove off.  I was a little touched by the stupid random gesture, but it was not enough to get me out of pretend rant mode.

"If I find that fucking bitch, I'm gonna thank the hell out of her.  Who does she think she is?  How chicken shit is that?  Pay for my coffee and then just drive off.  Next time, I'll cut in front of her dumb ass and pay for her drink.  See how she likes it."

Then I envisioned how that would have been a much better start to the day.  Just cut in front of the woman while she was still at the speaker.  While she's still fuming at the injustice of my "cuts"  the hippie would ask her that not only did I pay for her drink, but I also paid for extra chocolate and whipped cream and insulin shots.  

As this hilarious (to me) vision faded, I realized I still had 4 more visits to Crane instead of 3 and actually was happy.  The end result of that woman's kindness is that I will be able to get my cross bike roughly 4 seconds sooner now.  That's training time I can't afford to give up.

So remember, next time you are being impatient for entertainment purposes only, the person in front of you is most likely trying to win God's favor for some horrible sin against humanit ...

Hang on, I have to answer this ...

Why hello, lady who bought my unflavored coffee this morning, what on earth are you doing here?  Is that chocolate dripping from your fangs?

Oh no!  Ahhh! Bite. Crunch. Die.

Are you Ready? Part 1 of probably about 3 or so

I was in about first or second grade when I became best friends with my first best friend ever.

His name was Stephen.  There were 2 Stevens in our class and 1 Stephen.  We all decided in about first or second grade that Anderson was Stevie, Thompson was Steve, and Stephen was Stephen.

Stephen and I were 2 of the smartest 3 kids in our class (Jimmy was the other).  We were (in our minds) hilarious.  In everybody else's minds, we were weird.  The word "nerd" wasn't around yet.  Don't tell me about Dr. Seuss or whatever.  Nerd came from "Happy Days" as far as anybody that matters is concerned.  At least that's where we got it from, but Happy Days wasn't there yet.  

Before people were called nerds, at my school at least, they were called "Red."  Red was short for Redneck.  I think it was started by the kids with older brothers/sisters.  It meant you weren't cool.  Like a straight laced, burly farm type.

To adults, "redneck" meant exactly what it does to Jeff Foxworthy.  To the Jr. High (LKA Middle School) students, it meant you didn't smoke dope and were therefore a "narc."  Jr. High Students are stupid.  Often calling each other "narc".  As if there were 2 types of Jr High student; Drug addict and DEA Agent.

But this was elementary school, and "red" simply meant "not cool."  I envisioned the sunburned neck sticking out of a stupid red and white plaid button (or mother-of-pearl snap) down shirt.  This redneck was blond and wore stupid cowboy boots as he hopped into the passenger side of his dad's stupid pickup truck to help his dad pick up some stupid hay or something on their stupid farm.  Stupid redneck.

When "Happy Days" eventually popularized "nerd,"  things made a lot more sense.  Then there were two types of people at school.  Drug addicts and students. As it should be.   

But in elementary school all I knew about drugs was that this one girl's older sister got her name put in the paper for possession of marijuana.  She took a lot of crap for that one.  It was so dumb.  If somebody argued with her, it usually ended like,

"What do you know? Your sister's a pothead." 

Cry.

Kids are mean.  And don't think for one second that I joined in the reindeer games.  I would never behave like that for one reason.  I was totally in love with that girl.  I thought she was the coolest, prettiest girl in the whole world.  I used to go home and talk to my mom for about an hour or 2 each night about how I was going to marry her some day.

And you know what?  

No I was wrong on that one.  Never mind.  We never got married.  I did see her in a neighborhood bar about 20 years later and said "hey!"  She was still pretty, but she like worked in construction or something and chain smoked and had a voice like gravel.  So that was cool.

Anyway, back in elementary school, we thought of all drugs as being pretty much the same thing.  Except LSD.  That was different.  We had seen a film about how if you took LSD, you would think you could fly and then you'd jump out of a window and kill yourself.  Guaranteed.  

I had my doubts about that because I wondered why anyone would want to take a drug that made you "think" you could fly but actually couldn't.  We had all seen Willy Wonka and the Fizzy lifting drink and knew the dangers of overhead fans, but how pointless is a drug that has no effect other than deception.

Anyway - doubts or no - it was enough for me to fend off the dozens of attempts by 4th graders to get me to trip on acid, as it were.

But that's not why I'm here.  I'm here to talk about The Minnesota Vikings, my favorite NFL team.

I mentioned that my first best friend was Stephen.  Like me, Stephen had little or no interest in Pro Football.  He was a college football fan, but we didn't talk about that because his dad had gone to LSU, so he was a fan of the Tigers.

In about 4th grade or so, Stephen and I were still best friends when a new kid (Mark) arrived at our school.  He was also funny like us.  Unlike us though, he was inherently cool. He noticed right away that Stephen wasn't cool.  It took him a while before he noticed I also wasn't cool.

I liked Mark, but he didn't like Stephen. This is a situation that I've always experienced, but never understood.  Eventually, Mark made me choose between him and Stephen.  I didn't want to, but I did (and obviously made the wrong choice).

Maybe I will go into all of that next week.  This week, it's all Vikings!

One day, Mark said to me, what's your favorite football team?  I was like, "Duh. The Huskers!"

The Mark was all, "College football?  God you are so red!  I'm talking about the pros."

"I don't know.  I guess I like the Dolphins ok."

"The Dolphins?  Get real!  They Suck.  I'm a Vikings fan.  Fran is the man!"

"Fran?"

"Tarkington!  You really don't know anything do you?"

Well - it was about 3 days later that the student had become the master.  I learned everything I could about the Vikings.  I even learned that the quarterback's last name was "Tarkenton."  I bet Mark still thinks it was "Tarkington."

A few days after that, I asked my dad what his favorite pro football team was.  I was shocked to learn that he was a "Green Bay Packers" fan.  I couldn't see how anybody could be anything but a Vikings fan.

January of the following year saw my favorite team of all time against the Pittsburgh Steelers in The Super Bowl!

Now I'm not sure, but I think people make a bigger deal out of the Super Bowl than they did in 1975.

I watched The Vikings lose while I sat in a house alone petting a cat.

It wasn't my house.  It wasn't my cat.  It wasn't my TV.  I was 10 years old, but I learned a lot that day:

1)  It's true about "too much fish food"

2)  Franco Harris was not an Irish guy named "Frank O'Harris"

3)  When to call it a day

To be continued ...

I found the next one

Warning: The following post was a bit of a rush job.  I have to go to a deal tonight and know I'm not going to want to do this afterward.  I forced words onto the page in such a brutal manner, there ought to be a law.  Say, that reminds me, don't you hate when people say "I'm a libertarian." Yeah, me too.  That's what makes being a libertarian so humiliating.  Because as a libertarian, I do not really think "there ought to be a law."  Libertarians don't believe in laws.  Sort of.  Libertarians are stupid.  Also, don't you hate it when people say "But I digress."  Man I hate that so much.  You know what you should really hate though?  The fact that you've just finished reading the best part of this post. Sorry about that, but I have a deal.

~~~

One time, a few (6 or 7) years ago, I gave up cycling.  There's was no conscious decision to give it up.  It just sort of fell away over the period of a couple of years.  While I was drifting away from cycling, I was completely obsessed with golf.  It was my new thing.

I have talked about this thing with my brain and obsession before.  I've always had it.  My parents would complain about it.  I am often humiliated by it, but once I latch on to a desire to have or do some 'thing', I cannot stop thinking about it.

Sometimes it is something I just have to have (skateboard, digital watch).  But usually, it is a skill I want to master (cycling, rubik's cube, pool, darts, Christianity, computer programming,cycling again, weight lifting, poker, cycling again, golf, cycling again and the latest one:  Rocking out on the guitar).

Every time I "get into" something, I fantasize that I will become the greatest at it.  As long as I study the craft, I can see no reason I will not be the best.  I have envisioned outgolfing Tiger, outguitaring Jimi, outlifting Arnold, outplaying Doyle and outhealing Benny.  I mean - I actually entertain these delusions for a remarkably long time.

I've enjoyed cycling off and on my whole life, but it wasn't until golf came along that my love of cycling was actually 'replaced' by a love of something else.  Whatever it is that I get into, it has to be difficult to learn.  I start out overwhelmed by all that needs to be learned.  The time commitment to whatever the new thing is seems impossible.  There are usually years of, "Oh man, I suck at this,"  but it only makes me regroup, reevaluate and try harder.  For whatever sick reason, I like the feeling that I'm improving, followed by the realization that I'm not very good.  That causes me to try to figure out why I'm not good and hunt for a solution.

It's the searching for a solution that keeps me interested.

Eventually though, I become bored with whatever I'm into and go back to cycling.  That's the way it's always been.

When I caught the cycling bug in late 2012, it was worse than ever before.  Strava is partially to blame for this.  I've always enjoyed trying to analyze stuff and Strava offers a bunch of data.  Also, it allows me to be more honest about my ability.  That's a good thing.  I'm particularly negative.  But I can see some decent efforts with all the info laid out.

Anyway, I mostly gave up golf.  I went out about 5 times this year and had  a decent time, but my preference for cycling never waned.

Two years ago, I started playing guitar again.  Over the past 6 weeks, I've been sick 3 times and unable to ride much at all.  I started playing guitar more.  I got into the same mode I do with everything else.  Feeling like I have to play for at least an hour a day.  Mostly I was putting in about 2 or 3 hours while I was not riding.  The first day I was well enough to ride, my time was limited.  I had to make a decision.  I wanted to do both but didn't have time.  One would have to take a back seat.  Then I laughed.  "Are you kidding me?"  I said to myself.  "You are more likely to compete in the Tour de France than be the next Stevie Ray Vaughan or Billy Gibbons."

It was ridiculous.  The thought that I needed to play guitar to attain some expert level.  That could never happen.  I'm far too old.  The important thing is staying in good physical shape.

I surprised myself, but ultimately renewed my vows with cycling.  It's a long road to the Tour de France, but I promise you, I'll get there.  I know you don't believe me.  But that's only because I haven't shared my training plan with you.  It's just a hop, skip and a jump from 50 year old cat 4 hero to world class cyclist.  Also, I have a passport, so getting to France should be "no problemo," as the French say.

BBC

I have a confession to make.  I absolutely can't stand Downton Abbey.  I'm talking about the TV show.  If there's some Abbey named "Downton,"  I don't have any problem with it other than it seems to have inspired a wildly popular TV series.

I first became aware of the show after I read a Ken Follett Book called "Fall of Giants."  I'm a big fan of historical fiction and Ken Follett is my second favorite writer of it.

"Fall of Giants" was about the events leading up to WWI from the perspective of various royalty, peasants and working class folks from all over the world.  Follett ties it all up nice and tidy to make an amazing story out of something I would otherwise have little interest in (WWI history).

So I was telling a drinking buddy about the book.  Since it's a drinking buddy, I was required to preface telling him about the book with, "I know it sounds totally gay, but I was reading this book ..."

After I told him all about it, he said if I liked that, I might be interested in this show called "Downton Abbey."

Well, what he said was, "Ok this is gonna sound really gay, but I've been watching this British series on PBS.  It's FABULOUS!!!"

Well - I was interested after that.  My drinking buddy and I pretty much agree on lots of stuff. He went with me to Pearl Jam. When I asked him if he wanted to go see Pearl Jam at Wrigley Field, it was more of a taunt.  I knew he'd go.

Season One of Downton Abbey was on Netflix, so one night, I sat down to enjoy Episode One of the best show ever.

Eight minutes later, I was done with Downton Abbey.  Forever.  I can hear you saying, "Um Cube, do you really think you gave it a fair shake?  Eight Minutes?"

You - and my wife, who thinks that Downton Abbey is so incredible, she is now forced to watch every single British TV show that comes out - may have a point.  It doesn't matter though.  I'm sure it's truly a fantastic show.  Judging from the people I know who just want to do terrible things to the show, they love it so much, I bet I would also love it if I could get past that one thing.

But I can't.

Over the last few days, I started thinking maybe I'd give the show another chance.  Maybe I overreacted.  Now that a new season is starting, maybe I should at least try.

There's a certain type of humor I really can't stand.  I'm not talking about puns.  I can't stand puns, but that's not really humor, is it (the way this sentence is written is an example of what I hate about Downton Abbey.  So even though I am guilty of the same thing, I can't stand it when the British do it).  

It's the British snobby smart-ass clever humor.  I don't know why, but I want to put a bullet in my head every time I hear it.  And by "my head" I mean "my gun."  I want to put a bullet in my gun, then shoot that stuck-up bastard making his snide remark.

Is "limey" wrong to say?  Because if it is, I won't say it.

Anyway, The thing I'm talking about happens every 12 seconds on Downton Abbey.

I believe within the first couple of scenes on the first episode of Downton Abbey,  There was like some butler or something.  I think he was retiring.  He was talking to some other servant in this house.  

Then one of the people they worked for came in and said some pretty snotty shit.  After she left, The butler raised his eyebrows and said something equally snarky, British and annoying.

It may not have happened like this, but that's how I remember it.

It was something  like, "Hobson, be a dear and fetch me the tea kettle polish, if it's not too much bother." She was being all bitchy.

Then Hobson's like, "Well - I should say if the good lady is in need of some polish, I shall drop everything Lord Python commanded and fetch said polish posthaste.  If it pleases milady, this polish performs most flawlessly when shoved outlandishly far up milady's bum."

"Oh Hobson, by all means, send it up there without delay.  I simply can't stomach the idea of your poor lips spending the entire day up there all alone.  Sniff,"  I'm paraphrasing.

Anyway - like I said, I was thinking of giving the show another chance, but I got home from Jimmy John's tonight and handed out a bunch of sandwiches.  Jill was watching one of her British TV shows.  I wasn't really paying much attention.  I was at the dining room table, but could hear the television and there it was.  That same chalkboard screeching smart-ass British noise I hate so much.  After about 4 minutes I realized this was none other than the latest episode of Downton Abbey.  So much for giving it a chance.

Understand, I'm certain it is an amazing show.  It's just they always do that thing I hate.

By now you may have noticed I don't have anything to say tonight.  That's ok.  Having something to say was never part of the agreement.  

Actually, I do want to briefly talk about something.  It's been on my mind as much as Downton Abbey is annoying.  It has to do with JWait's last post. 

jwait is a good person from what I can tell.  In his latest post, he hatches a scheme to be nice to people.  So far so good.  What could possibly be wrong with that?

On the surface, nothing.  Granted, being nice to people is a young man's game.  I'm too old for that sort of thing and I admire him for his gumption (old guy word).

But the people he's talking about being nice to.  Sorry.  No thanks.  He's talking about newbies to cycling.

This is not running.  I remember when a certain person (who I promised myself I wouldn't mention by name tonight because I mention him every week) came to cycling from running.  He saw people getting dropped and instigated a buddy system.  He appealed to our something or other and quoted Yoda.  We were all like "Fuck that noise.  You ride slow with them or something."   Good times.     

Anyway - yeah jwait - not that any of the standoffish folks he's talking about are "nice" to me.  In fact some of them are real assholes.

When you're new to a group and you don't understand what you are doing, you're going to get yelled at.  This is because you are potentially putting people in danger.  This is not a game.  Lives are literally on the line. The yelling is partially anger, but it is more instruction during a fast paced ride.  Whispering will not be heard. Waiting to explain until later is unwise.

Ok, I know jwait was talking about the environment at the meetup before the ride being cold and unwelcoming and not about what happens later on the road.  In fact, he then goes on to say the group would be dropping that newbie posthaste on the trace (a section of the ride).  Then they'll all sit up, put in their monocles or pince nez's or whatever and say something like "I say.  Where's that young newbie you were so chatty with earlier?"

then jwait will say, "Egads, you're quite right. I guess he forgot the tea kettle polish."

And sceeeene!

Nice to see you again, Group Ride Omaha.

Last Saturday (12/28/2013) was the first of the Group Ride Omaha Winter Rides.  This was about where I started last year with getting more serious about being on the bike.  And when I say "serious" I mean - get that smirk off your face.

I love these winter rides.  When it is this cold out, I generally have no motivation to ride outside in the dark during the week either before or after a long day of work at the toasty cubicle.

Even on Saturdays - it would be difficult without having others there to share in the suffering.  But last year there were always at least 11 people on the Saturday winter rides, which I think is amazing.  We had some pretty cold ones last year.

Earlier this year - I wondered if I was even going to be able to go at all.  Group Ride Omaha was giving me a "You're not special" error.  It would say that it was only open for reading by those permitted to do so and I wasn't one of them.  I thought that was weird if they wanted to ride with a group.  Well - maybe they just didn't want me there, which would be understandable.

Typical conversation on the Saturday Omaha Winter ride:

Costello: What's that Fred's name? (pointing up ahead to me)
Abbott: Fred.
Costello:  Obviously, but what's his name?

 ... and so on.

So for a while, I thought I might have to rely on Brady to help me crash the rides.  You may not know this, but oftentimes I'll be sitting in the basement of my house alone on a Friday night.  I will be facing the cinder block wall in the damp darkness (there could even be a dankness involved), staring off to nowhere in particular.  I will glance at the half-empty brown bottle of Budweiser and take a pull, drinking in the bitter flat warmth that it has become while I'm flooded with a lifetime of matching bitter warm regrets.

I'll sigh heavily and heave my massive barrel chested girth to one side so I can reach into my pocket and grab my cell phone.  It's buzzing with a new text message.  And like most Friday nights, it's Brady letting me know there's a ride tomorrow.

A ride.  That's just what I need to get me out of this funk, I'll think.  I will then typically lick my palm and smooth down a tuft of misguided hair.  I'll straighten the lapels of my stained, white cotton tank top.  Once presentable, I will text back to Brady, thanking him for letting me know about the ride.

That's why some people think that I am only on rides if Brady's there.  The bitter (like flat warm Budweiser) irony of Brady's and my respective cycling histories will hit me like a ton of pungent liquid bricks as I reach from my basement lawn chair and flip the top off of the styrofoam fishing cooler, only to find a dozen or so empty Budweiser bottles.  I will pick up a couple and shake the last of any dregs onto my tongue as I consider the next day's ride with great relish.  At this point, I should mention the awkwardness of the last sentence and ambiguously placed whatsamahoozits is entirely intentional.  Make your own decision about the relish.

But Brady's in Singapore studying ancient methods of coconut puncture or something.  So with Group Ride Omaha's blog safely locked away from my prying eyes, I was left to the fishing cooler, the green and white basement lawn chair, relish dregs, and the cinder block wall.  Good grief.

But it turns out it was some sort of unintended privacy setting at the blog site.  Rafal got it fixed and all who cared to join were once again welcome.

In a way, I was hoping it was personal.  Like most of the country, I am always looking for the next big thing to enrage me.  Just as the "ZZ TOP Duck Call Guy" outrage glow was fading - Exclusion from a local group ride might be just the ticket to fill my outrage void.  But no.  No such luck.

So yeah.  I can see the ride announcements now.  Yay!  Even with Brady in Singapore, I can learn the time and place of local group rides!

And what a fantastic day it was.  It was sunny all day and started out in the mid 30s.  We spent much of the 3-4 hour ride in 50+ temps.  Just great for this time of year.  It was the most wonderful perfectly marvelous ride of the year.  Except for all the assholes.

I'm just kidding.  I mean yes - there were literally exactly the same number of assholes on the ride as there were cyclists, but I think that is always the case.  Before I slide into a "Team America" like diatribe, I'm going to move along and chat about the highlights of the ride from my vantage point.

The first 2 were before I even had a sip of coffee.

The start point for the ride was at Crane Coffee at 60th and Center.

I arrived and sat near a small group of cyclists forming in the northwest corner.  I removed my gloves, helmet, cap and sunglasses.  Leah said, "Wow Fred, I didn't know you ever did anything without Brady!"

I suppose I deserved that.  I mean, I had my bike painted (powder coated) yellow, so ...

After a few hellos and stuff I went up and got a cup of coffee.  I went back to my stuff, but there were more cyclists who had arrived and now no place to sit.  Shim then said, "Hey Cube, we saved you a spot," and pointed across the room.

"I've been dropped already, I see,"  I said.  Good times.

Then we all went riding around for a while where eventually we saw this sign.

Brady took this photo

This photo was taken a few weeks ago, but the sign was the same. After we passed it.  Shim was like, "Uh Fred.  Where's the fun?"

"I don't know,"  I didn't know.

Then Shim said, "You're not very fun.  Here.  Here's a joke to get you started."

Okay that was pretty funny.  I don't remember what the joke was but Shim said his kid just told it to him or something.

And there it is.  The highlights of the first Winter ride.

And Scene.