Oh, now I remember

A few years ago, my daughter would come home each Summer from college. On most nights she was busy with friends or work but sometimes she'd hang out with Jill and me and watch a movie. Throughout the movie, she did this annoying thing.  About every 30 seconds or so her cell phone would buzz, indicating a new text message.

She would glance at the message and resume the movie watching while tapping away at her phone.  It was pretty impressive.  She didn't have a smart phone.  She texted with the number pad (click '3' twice for 'e', etc).

I was amazed and annoyed.  "You have a perfectly good phone in your hand.  But you insist on using it as a newfangled telegraph machine."

It made no sense to me then, but lately I find myself texting more and more. A text message is generally more appropriate for most of the communicating I do.  Phone courtesy is a bit of a chore when you just need to say, "Lunch.  12:30.  Applebee's"

Granted, if you send me a text telling me you're having lunch at Applebee's, not only will I not join you, but I will have no choice but to assume your tongue has been in some horrible accident.

Then I can simply send a message back like, "Dammit.  I'd love to, but my tongue still works."

The conversation is over.  We didn't have to do all the "How's it going" crap.  We can talk about that some time over a nice Velveeta and cardboard lunch.

So yeah - most of the time, I'd rather text than call. Yesterday, I realized why.

When old people think of phones, it is not cell phones.  It's the kind that work right.

With a phone, both people can talk at the same time and hear each other.  I did telemarketing for about 4 years or so.  I was quite adept at phone conversation. When I first tried to use a cell phone it was so strange I couldn't believe it would catch on.  You can't hear your own voice in the earpiece so if you get disconnected, you might just keep on talking.  There's no clue the other person is gone.

If one of you is in a noisy or windy place, forget about it.  Cell phones work like voice activated walkie-talkies.  If you both start talking at the same time, you'll both stop and say "go ahead" at the same time.  Then you'll both try to talk and so on.

Real phones were pretty cool about letting 2 people talk at the same time.  Also, good old regular low tech phones could even do "party lines."  A cell phone would start crying if you tried that.

Conference calls didn't used to always be a total nightmare.  They are now.  But most of that is completely unrelated to the phone.

Honestly though, I like my phone.  The little idiosyncrasies of cell phones are far outweighed by their convenience. I like that I can always be in touch with everybody.  I can always look up information or get an address.  I often leave the house without knowing exactly where I'm going.  I just ask my phone on the way.  How cool is that?

So I can deal with the goofy voice interface of cell phones, but there's one thing we've lost that I fear we've lost for good.

The satisfying hang-up.  God, I used to love those.  You get mad at someone and you don't have to say anything at all.  You just slam that receiver against the cradle as hard as you can.  Now that's some non-verbal communication there, boy.  Nothing sweeter.

Hang up on somebody like that with a cell phone.  They'll just assume the call got dropped and call you right back.  You have to somehow let them know the conversation is over.  You have to say something like, "Well you could have mentioned it earlier! Bye!"  and gently press the button to end the call so as not to crack the screen of your little pussy phone.

Just not the same.

I realized this when I was telling Jill about hanging up on somebody the other day.  She said, "Did he even  know you hung up on him?"

That's it.  I think I'll write a "Hang-Up" app.  Bye!

Are you kidding me?

Munson Posted!!!  Yes.  Good Job Munson!

Way Hay and Up She Rises

It's too early to know for certain, but I may have just hit pay dirt.

A few weeks ago, we invited my daughter to start having dinner with us on Wednesday nights.  It's been great.  Now we've added my dad to the mix.  Boy howdy!

We had to postpone the Wednesday night dinner (WND) until tonight (Thursday) this week, so everybody was really hungry by dinner time.

But that's not the pay dirt part.  

It all started at the Trocadero Bar ...

Uncle Bob was a character.  He was my dad's uncle, but we just called him uncle Bob.

I remember the first time I saw him.  I was amazed by his magnificent odor.  It was the sort of thing that could be so easily destroyed with a shower (including soap) on something like a monthly basis.

Uncle Bob didn't shower.  Or um, bathe.  I'm pretty sure the occasional drunken stumble in the rain was good enough for Uncle Bob.

Anyway - the first time I remember seeing Uncle Bob, we were over at his house sitting around for some reason.  

It was not a clean house, per se.  I don't know who was all there.  I'm pretty sure my mom was in the kitchen talking to Uncle Bob's wife.  My dad and I were sitting on a card table thing and Bob was in like a church pew in the foyer of the shanty he lived in. 

Bob had a big nose.  But he was actually quite good looking, in my opinion.  Most amazing to me was that when he picked his nose (all the time), most of his index finger disappeared in there.

Bob had an incredible deep, powerful voice.  I always thought he could be in radio where a good portion of his scent would be blocked from his listeners.  Surely some of that shit could travel over radio waves. 

It would be a great radio show too.  Because for every story my dad tells, Bob might have had ten stories.

Like this one time he was at the Trocadero Bar ...

It was a Friday afternoon. He had just walked in and sat down when a woman approached him and said "Why don't you buy me a drink, Sweetie?"

Bob had yet to have a drink that day ...

He turned to gaze upon a most hideous creature.  He let out a slight scream of terror as he jumped up from his spot and moved to the other end of the bar to get away.

Since it was a Friday afternoon and The Trocadero was where all the cool kids hung out back in the day (I guess), The place was hopping pretty good about 3 hours later.  

Bob was having a great time.  He'd been hitting the bottle pretty hard and why not?  He works all week for this.  Literally.  He'd usually be flat broke by Monday.  The soap would have to wait until next pay day.  Again.

Anyway, at around 10 PM, he saw the most beautiful creature he'd ever laid eyes on.  "I must have her," he thought.  But he was unsure of himself.  Then he remembered the old bible verse, "He who hesitates, masturbates.  Then burns in hell for it."  (Living bible).

So he tucked his shirt, took a deep breath and went for it.  He used every bit of charm he could muster and said, "You still interested in that drink, sweetie?"

She turned to him with an adorable little smile and a coquettish little slap of his wrist.  He had to shake off a confusing feeling of nausea as he steeled himself for his next proposition.

"Why don't we grab some package and get the hell outta here?"

Her eyes widened with understanding and they were on their merry way.  Drunk, smelly, and ugly they meandered down the street.

As they approached a streetlight, Bob's fair maiden touched his forearm.  She said to him "Why don't you give me a kiss."

When this story is told, the voice used to describe her plea for intimacy sounds kind of like a cross between Sylvester the Cat and Steven Tyler from Aerosmith in "Walk This Way,"  when he says "Just give me a kiss!"

Bob looked up to see the well-lit leathery visage of his beloved, puckering, grizzled, old harpy.  He was suddenly, miraculously sober, if only for enough time to save himself.

He dropped the six pack to the ground and ran as fast as he could away from the horrible woman.  He did not stop running until a cop detained him a couple of blocks from the scene.

The policeman listened to Bob's story, not believing a word.  He figured Bob had raped the woman or something and was making a break.  Bob insisted there's no way.  He said he was running to get away from her hideous face.

The policeman told Bob to wait there while he went back to get the woman's side of the story.

The cop drove the cruiser backward to where the the woman was leaning against the street light casually smoking a cigarette.

Bob watched as the cop came to a stop next to the woman.  She started to walk toward the cruiser when it peeled out toward Bob.

Out of breath and visibly shaken, the cop said to Bob, "You can go."

I chose this story from a selection of about 5 or 6 my dad told tonight.  Of course two of those, I've already blogged about.  While dad was telling those, I googled my version on my iphone and handed it to Jolene so she could read along to dad's narration.  True story.

We'll always have Tori

A few weeks back, I read a facebook trending headline.  I didn't read the story.  Just the headline next to the squiggly blue arrow.  It said something about "The Black Crowes call it quits."

Now the first thing I didn't think was "Again?"

That was actually the fourth thing I thought.  I thought they already broke up.  But I'm old so I get confused sometimes.

It would be really cool if it was the third thing I thought since the Wikipedia says it's the third time they broke up.  I don't know if it matters all that much. After "Hard to Handle," have they been played?  Is "Hard to Handle" them?

The third thing I thought was "Oh whew.  I'd be really upset if the Black Keys (or is it Keyes) broke up.  Although it seems like that Dan Auerbach guy tends to step out from time to time.

The Black Keys Kind of remind me of the White Stripes except their guitarist isn't as good and their drummer isn't as cute.  Oh yeah - and the White Stripes broke up.  Which kind of reminds me of the Black Crowes (crows?).

The second thing I thought was "Wait a minute.  Seriously. The guys who sing all those funny songs like "Tighten Up" and "Next Girl"?  Those guys are breaking up?  Crap.  No wait.  That's the Black Key(e)s.  Whew.

A few days before I saw this headline about the Black Crowes splitting up, I was over at my brother-in-law (Lane's) house listening to some long play (LP) vinyl records.  His son has recently moved into an apartment and there was a pile of his old clothes at the house. Lane said I should take them home and and let the boys pick through them to see if there's anything they'd like.

In that pile of clothes was an old Nirvana t-shirt.  Jack claimed it immediately.  I said "Do you know who that is?"  He said, "Yeah you always play it."

I said, "Nevermind."

Jack takes a Parkour class on Tuesday nights.  On the way out there, he asked if I'd spin the "Smells like Teen Spirit."

"Sure thing Sonny,"  I said.

Much to my young son's disappointment, I threw on the haunting Tori Amos version.  I personally think as far as covers go, it's one of the better ones.

"Oh god!  What is this?  Why do you even have this?"  Came Jack's scorn at hearing Tori's sweet dark voice.

"I think it's great is why,"  I explained.

"Please put on the real one,"  Jack begged.

"After this is over,"  I cautioned.

Anyway, a couple of days later, I read on the Facebook trending story thing that the Black Crowes Broke up.  Since I was thinking of the Black Keys and they have a rough fun style reminiscent (to me at least) of Nirvana, I immediately thought of Tori Amos and said on Facebook something like "At least Tori Amos is still together."

Of course all of this could have been avoided if the trending headline had a little photo of the band next to it.

Then I would have surely been like "What?  T.Rex is breaking up?"

Never get old.

Peace

Note: This was one of those start to finish, no looking back posts.  It may ramble a bit more than usual.  but I'm not feeling like putting in any effort right now.

I've been undergoing a transformation of sorts the last few months.  I think some of it has to do with aging (getting old).

But mostly, it's a recent reaffirmation of my faith.

When I was about 13 or so, I stopped believing in God.  Immediately afterward, I felt a peace like I'd never known.  I don't know why.  It had nothing to do with "Hey! I can do whatever I want."  It had more to do with "Church people are dorks."

Then when I was around 21 or so, I slid back to the dark side.  I became a Bible thumping born-again Christian.

Once again, I was miserable.  Not completely miserable.  I enjoyed learning the tricky stuff about salvation and everything.  Eventually though, I began to read sciency things and moved ever so slowly back to where I belong (despicable non-believer).

I was at peace again.

I don't think this is because being an Atheist is the way to go.  I am starting to think that people who are at peace in their "souls" are that way because they are able to admit who they are.  To be true to their beliefs (or non-beliefs).

As an atheist, I generally keep my non-belief pretty quiet.  Even though we are supposed to be free to worship (or not) as we wish in this country, the only acceptable religion is non-practicing Christianity.  Practicing Christians take as much crap as anybody.

I never looked for a reason to not believe in a god or magic and stuff.  I just believe in it less and less as the years pass by.

When I was a Christian, I constantly fought against my judgment to convince myself that Jesus and God and floods and 6000 years ago ...

The reaffirmation of my faith?  I have heard from many Christians that being an Atheist takes more faith than being a Christian.  I heard it when I was a Christian and didn't believe it then either.

But I think I understand why Christians say it.  They believe in God.  It doesn't feel like faith to them, because they know there's a God.  For them to be atheists would be to deny themselves.  They would know the torment I knew when I tried to muster up faith in a god.

It wasn't real for me.  I was a fraud.  I wanted it to be true.  I wanted to live forever.  But I was never at peace.

About 15 years ago, I realized finally that I am and always have been (since about age 9) an atheist.  I was a little panicked by this.  It meant a considerably shorter span of existence for me.

But here's where the peace comes.  I'm not trying to tell anyone what to believe or not believe.  I don't think these thoughts necessarily have anything to do with anyone else.  It is what is in my brain and what puts me at ease.

Since I have this ridiculously short time as a person and then nothing.  Since I'm not waiting to die so I can be happy - or my joy isn't derived from a posthumous promise of squishy feelings - I can live to the fullest now.

Some might say that means I need to do more.  But that's not it either.  Living happens wherever you are.

I've been reading these difficult (for me) books lately on what scientists think about the universe and where it's going.  Like how they currently think the speed the universe is expanding will eventually (like in eleventy billion years) increase to the point where galaxies that are not attracted to each other will become invisible to any observers for a number of reasons I won't go into right now.  Mind blowing stuff.  These are books written to the general public, but still hard for me to understand,

It's actually much harder to believe than "In the beginning ..."

So I guess I need to back up now and say that atheists do have more faith than Christians.

And by "faith" I mean brains.  Oh snap.  Just kidding.  There are plenty of idiot atheists and a few smart Christians, so ...

SMH

Note:  This is not tonight's post. It's something I started writing last June and never finished.  I publish it now because of a conversation we (the family) had last night.

I've been seeing this one a bit lately.  I had to look it up.  It wasn't obvious to me what it stood for in the context I saw it.  But since I've seen it, I don't know how I've lived without it for so long.  It stands for "Shaking my head."

This should not be confused with SHM (Shim Hate Me).

For me it's nice to see these new stage direction shortcuts.  Some have been around forever and everybody knows the meaning.  It makes me wonder how new ones get started.  Especially the ones like "SMH."

I guess it's true with most of them though.  It's just that they've been around for so long, we don't really need translation anymore.  When you think about it, ROFL is not obvious.  It's just been around long enough that everybody knows what it means.



My fingers are a little tired just typing all that in.
Now, every time there's an argument among the people of the comments areas of the world's social and news sites, I become aware that I am shaking my head.

I guess I'm simultaneously RME (rolling my eyes), but I don't know if RME is a thing yet.  Also, it's possible that on occasion, I will GDATTR,SH (glance down and to the right, sighing heavily).

No Fatties

A history lesson that is more opinion and incomplete information than fact (history is boring otherwise):

A few decades ago, pickup trucks were primarily functional.  I mean people bought them if they had a regular need to cart a bunch of stuff around.  Pickup trucks did not handle well.  They were not comfortable.  If you wanted comfort, you bought a Cadillac.

Then country music became popular.  I think it's because people started realizing that overt racism was becoming unfashionable.  A subtler approach was required.

Hello country music. 'Redneck' became a badge people wanted to wear.  Now millions of people who didn't need to cart anything anywhere wanted a pickup truck so they could wear cowboy hats and twang on about their troubles.  Also, they weren't going to drive some Buick down to the newly opened Honky Tonk Tavern.  It was wet t-shirt mechanical bull night for Jesus's sake.

But there was a problem.  Pickups were still a "bumpy" ride.

Finally, all the auto makers came to the rescue and made pickups all cushy and expensive.  It was win-win.  All people of every white race could listen to their music seated above all the inferior citizens in their "rice burners."

Yes - "All the rice in ... Japan".  My favorite saying.

Anyway ...

Another nice touch was that all of these big comfy pickups had American sounding names like "Dodge", "Ford", "Chevrolet", etc.  Actually, Chevrolet sounds french, doesn't it?

If I was involved in the Pickup Truck Calvin and Hobbes graphic pissing contest, I think one of my myriad back window stickers would point out the fact that Chevrolet sounds like some french entertainer.

Real men wear zee bow ties, no? - Maurice Chevalier

But there was one group that was not happy about the new popularity of pickup trucks.  Now that everybody was buying them, the compensators needed something bigger.

There are those who must be in the biggest thing ever.  They are called small people.

So - Monster Trucks. Then competitions between monster trucks in arenas.

You know what?  I started this post to talk about how annoying the constant barrage of Fat Bike pushers has gotten, but the monster truck thing is way stupider.

I'm usually annoyed when I get asked the same stupid cycling related question several times a day by somebody who doesn't really know/care about cycling.  Lately it's been "Do you have a Fat Bike?  You should get a Fat Bike.  Those thing are cool."

I just kind of smile and nod hoping the discussion will change course.

I have no reason to have a fat bike.  Also, they look stupid.  I see guys riding them on the keystone in the middle of summer.  There are Fat bike owners all over town waiting for a huge blizzard to justify riding that idiotic monstrosity around. Ok fine, but not for me.  I can sit out a day or two if I can't get around on my 29er.

To be fair, I probably thought 29ers were just as stupid a few years ago.  It takes me a while to come around.

But let me get back to the point.  I came here to bash Fat Bikes.  I cannot in good conscience do that now that I've realized how much I hate Monster Trucks.

Sorry.

One last note.  I was sitting here thinking I might actually post something tonight.  I was wondering what it might be.  I was staring at the Facebook.  I really hate the Facebook.  It is worse than television in idiotic addictive mindlessness.  Anyway, I saw something Scott Redd posted and was reminded of this very blog post.  The one you're reading now.  I wrote it a couple of weeks back but abandoned it to talk about singing to fast food workers at the carry out window.  I have a proud update on that, by the way.  I sang a portion of "Black" by Pearl Jam to the girl at the Chik fil-a drive thru window the other morning.

"I know some day you'll have a beautiful life - I know you'll be a star in somebody else's sky ..."
I belted out to her look of dismay and a slight smile.  It wasn't for her I was singing.  It was for me.  I have stopped right in the middle of a great song before just to make some sort of cheeseburger transaction.

Don't get me wrong, I was only singing because I would have been singing otherwise.  I wasn't going to stop wailing to pay for a breakfast burrito.

On the other hand, I would not go out of my way to sing just because I'm at the drive thru.  It must be real.

But the reason I came back to post this one is that on the Facebook, I saw that Scott Redd posted that he bought a Fat bike.  Even though it's too late for Scott.  Maybe I can help others.

Also, I made a funny comment:

Don't be like Scott.  If you don't buy a fat bike in the first place, you won't have to put it on Mid West Velo Swap when they come out with Morbidly Obese Bikes.   

The answer 2.0

Like most of the people I know who are bike riders, I am always looking for a way to get faster.  Last year was not a good year for me.  I won't go into the details, but I had several setbacks.  Family commitments.  Injury.  Etc.

In 2013, I blogged several times about various things I was learning about improving.  And I did improve.  A lot.  But I never quite made it.

Last weekend I learned the final piece of the puzzle.  Actually, I didn't learn it last weekend. I've been figuring it out over the last couple of weeks based on some observations I've made about recent group rides.

When I started getting serious about my riding a couple years ago, I was introduced to "The Rules."

Now these are mostly tongue in cheek sort of entertaining things to read.  Especially if you're an avid cyclist.

At first, I went a little overboard with it because it was fun and (to me at least) funny.  But then I relaxed and let the rules have their rightful place in my brain.  More of a "yeah but - who gives a shit" guideline.

Sure "HTFU" is good advice for anyone.  But as soon as we let "rules" keep us from what we enjoy, we've lost the point.

I only bring up "The rules" because today I figured out that there is only one rule that matters.  If you follow this rule, you are well on your way to becoming one of the best cyclists in the area.

Which rule could it be?  There are so many.  Maybe it's Rule V.  The cornerstone.  The aforementioned "Harden the fuck up."  It makes sense.  The only way to get faster is to work hard.

But no.

Could it maybe be rule #20:

There are only three remedies for pain.

These are:

• If your quads start to burn, shift forward to use your hamstrings and calves, or
• If your calves or hamstrings start to burn, shift back to use your quads, or
• If you feel wimpy and weak, meditate on  Rule #5 and train more!

Yeah - that's basically rule V all over again.  I don't know how I didn't see this before.

Or how about:

Rule #67

// Do your time in the wind.

Nobody likes a wheel sucker. You might think you’re playing a smart tactical game by letting everyone else do the work while you sit on, but races (even Town Sign Sprints) are won through cooperation and spending time on the rivet, flogging yourself and taking risks. Riding wheels and jumping past at the end is one thing and one thing only: poor sportsmanship.

This is a good one.  It's one I try to stick to.  I try to contribute to a group ride as much as I can until I am dropped.  Some would argue that I should save myself if I can't hang.  But I say I need the work if I can't hang.  Besides, what am I there for if only to sit in?  That's just stupid.

But that's not the answer.

Last year, I specifically detailed the importance of:

Food.
Water.
Rest.
Recovery.

The answer is Rule 43:

Don’t be a jackass.

But if you absolutely must be a jackass, be a funny jackass. Always remember, we’re all brothers and sisters on the road.

When I first read this, I laughed.  The rest of the rules are kind of jackass in the first place.  It doesn't seem to belong.  Through recent observation though I've learned that there is some mystical power to not being a jackass.  And I can prove it ...

I was recently ... uh oh.  what's this?

~~

I had a plan to go into great detail - but I'm starting to get a migraine.  I get them from time to time.  A lot of people think that if you have a bad headache, it could be called a migraine.  This is not quite true.  I can't really see the screen right now.  Not if I look right at it.  My vision is impaired by a bunch of colorful zig-zag lines.  It looks sort of like a packaging design for tortillas or a blanket you might buy in Arizona.

Anyway, I'm going to go to bed and close my eyes now.  It won't stop the zigzags, but it seems to allay the nausea.

I promised proof of the effectiveness of not being a jackass.  That will have to wait.  I will say this however ...

I have been witness to - and victim of - all sorts of jackassery in the last few weeks.  I have also experienced a lot of encouragement and people coming inexplicably to my defense in some of these instances.

In every single case, the jackasses are not among the best riders in the group.  If anything, they are bottom half.

The nice guys?  Toughest mofos in the state.  Seriously.

So if you want to kick ass on the bike, you better learn to be a good human.  Or you can keep on sucking and being a jackass.  It's probably a lot easier to put others down than to actually gain any skill or talent. So you've got that going for you.

Either way is fine with me.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go watch the pretty Aztec light show in my brain.

Friday Evening Post: Nice Grudge , but can you hold it long enough?

I don’t give a shit if somebody wants to shop at Nebraska Furniture Mart or not.  Or anywhere else for that matter.  I sure as hell don’t want to hear about it though.

Especially at 7:30 in the morning.

I get to work at 7 each morning.  I have always liked the 7-4 shift.  I can get a good hour of work in before Lumberg comes in and starts chatting.

Obama.  Huskers. Global Warming. God and church and stuff.

Some mornings though, other people are also there before 8AM.  They come in at 7 to get a head start on their day of talking about whatever inane thing spills from their partially conscious skulls.

Normally, this is white noise for me.  But sometimes (like this morning) some words will grab my attention.  The topic is always stupid, but sometimes it's so stupid, I can't ignore it.

Is this really what you’re talking about right now, I’ll ask myself at a reasonable volume.

For a while this morning, I thought the company had installed a new office drone monitoring system or something.  It turns out the low pitched whining noise I was hearing was a woman explaining why she doesn’t go to Nebraska Furniture Mart anymore.

Again.  Don’t care.  But then the words “Since 1985” droned their way through my ears and into my brain.

Woah.  Nebraska Furniture Mart did something to this poor woman in 1985 that she’s never quite recovered from.  It must've been horrible!

She was wronged.  Big time.  This is a 30 year feud that one of the parties doesn't know about.

And you know what?  I don't blame her.  After what they did. 

Of course I didn't know what it was but I had to hear the story now.  What could possibly burn so bright for so long.

Now I’m eavesdropping.  I’ve stopped working.  It’s close enough to 8 AM anyway.  Lumberg will be here any second.  I might as well hear the story about how The Nebraska Furniture Mart set her kids on fire or punched her grandma or whatever it was ...

"So I ordered this lamp from them," Droney began.  I still held out hope about faulty wiring in the lamp that burned down the orphanage while the NFM Employees roasted marshmallows and ignored her pleas to help save the children.  They just stood there singing songs while she begged for mercy, I figured.

"Anyway, the shade for the lamp in the picture was corrugated,"  Uh oh.  This is turning into a 1 year grudge tops.  Maybe it wasn't that the lampshade was the wrong style.  Let's just let her finish.

"When I got the lamp, the shade was smooth.  Not at all what I ordered," the lady bitched.

Seriously?  Maybe they wouldn't refund her money and then they trashed her credit or something.  I guess that would piss me off.

"They said, I could return the lamp, but there'd be a restocking fee."

"I demanded they get me the shade like in the photo. They said they couldn't do that.  Never again I tell you.  Never a-fucking-gain."

Ok she didn't really say "A-fucking-gain" but she was pretty pissed off anew talking about this thing that happened involving an incorrect style of lamp shade from the time of the Reagan Administration. The person she was telling the story to was like "Yeah.  Figures. Corporate greed, man."

So yeah, I usually get in at 7 AM to get a head start on some work.

The Dance of the Seven Veils

I still have a vague necessity (I must be necessarily vague).


I had a mental breakthrough today.  Or perhaps it was just a psychotic break. I've been struggling with some difficult issues for about the last 3 months or so.

When I was discussing some of the details with a good friend, he said something like, "I'm glad I don't draw any self-worth from that source."

At the time, I knew that was wise, but I didn't know how to accomplish it.

The breakthrough has been arranging itself in my head since about Sunday afternoon.  Coincidentally, I had to return to work after a long holiday break on Monday.

Anyway, I may have veered off course.

I just finished a blog entry that I decided not to post yet.  It is something about how fucking stupid Fat Bikes are.  After I read it, I realized that it doesn't matter how stupid they are.  What matters is that I've barely scratched the surface on their stupidity because I like bikes in general.  So even though I can't stand the sight of those things filling up teh Facebooks, I would ride one in a second if it was my only option.

So I'll shelve that post for a while, leaving the problem of what to talk about next.

The mental breakthrough.  Obviously I did not want this terrifically painful series of events to happen to me.  For me it was the toughest thing I've gone through in a very long time.  I wouldn't wish it on anyone except Fat Bike riders.  They seem to enjoy unnecessary struggle.

But in the end, I've grown from it.  Aging mentally is an ongoing process for me.  Many years ago, I heard someone say that wisdom does not just automatically happen with age.  There are plenty of old fools.  I try to learn from mistakes.  I try to evaluate my beliefs often and adjust as needed.

I put too much value on the approval of others.  I know this.  I don't want it to be the case.  I don't think this is completely a bad thing.  Disapproval can alert you to some action that is potentially dangerous to yourself or somebody else.  But if you stop doing something you enjoy simply because other people think you look goofy, you're only missing out.  That kind of disapproval is harmful.

So keep riding those idiotic Fat Bikes if that's what makes you happy.

Today the words my friend spoke about 2 months ago finally became real to me.  I draw no identity from that area of my life or those people.  I will live on to do my thing no matter what they think of me.

For all I care, they can go ride a Fat Bike into a lake.  Surely, it can  be used as a flotation device anyway.

The point is that I realized it is important to consider what other people think of you and evaluate if you're engaging in destructive behavior.  If so, take heart. If not, fuck 'em.

Once when I was working at the Wendy's carry-out window, a pretty girl drove through and when I opened the window to take her money, she had her radio blasting to some ballad I'd never heard before.  She handed me the money as I stared at her in awe.  She was looking at me belting out the song with absolutely no shame.  She was not a great singer.  She just didn't care.  I was instantly in admiration.  How could she do that?  I never could.  I figured it out today (3 decades later).

I bet she's somewhere right now, singing at the top of her lungs, barrelling down some snowy trail on her brand new ...

If you work at a carry out window here in town, I hope you like Pearl Jam, because I'm gonna be singing that shit to you pretty soon.  Or maybe Creed*.

I would love to take possession of a Jimmy John's Beach Club "With arms wide open ..."

That would be hilarious.  Of course those guys are such hippies, they'd probably be totally into it. I'll let you know.

*This is a joke.  I know I said I don't care what people think, but listening to Creed is destructive behavior, so I thought I'd clarify.

Too hard.

I have been maintaining a low level of fitness for the last several months. I haven't put in too many weekly hours, but I'm sort of maintaining.

Brady sent me a text last night to inform me of a 70 miler happening at noon today.  I knew my legs don't have 70 miles in them right now.  But I figured what I always do:  I'm not going to get into better shape by NOT going on rides.

While this is true to a point, I think I would have been better off going with my original plan for today.  40-50 miles somewhere.

But no.  I went on the long one.  At no point was it really a "hard ride."  The pace was mellow and easily manageable.  I was set at ease and figured I could surely handle this pace for 70 miles.  But my current conditioning level said otherwise.

It's funny because I was fine for 50 miles.  A distance I feel confident I can cover.  After 50, the wheels started falling off.

By the time I was 3 miles from my home, all I could think about was the scene in "The Big Chill" where Glenn Close is in the fetal position, weeping in the shower.  I knew it would be about 15 minutes before I was doing the same.

As it turned out, once I got home I collapsed in the floor for a while.  I didn't have the strength to cry in the shower yet.

Another funny thing to note.  I did not bonk.  I can now say I understand the difference. If I would have really really wanted to, I could have made tiny little hard efforts at the end of the ride.

I bonked last winter during a long gravel ride.  As excruciating as the end of today's ride was, I'll take it over not being able to turn the pedals at all anymore.

I may reap some benefit from today's ride, but I don't think it was wise.  Perhaps it was even counterproductive.

Another thing I noticed is that I didn't replace fluids enough.  I think this is related to riding in the cold.  Today's experience may have been much less brutal if I'd forced myself to drink more.  You don't feel like you're losing sweat when it's cold out, but I lost 6 pounds on the ride.  "Aha" I thought as I stepped off the scale shaking my head at my own stupidity.  Even in the summer, I will typically never lose more than 2 pounds on a ride.

But damn, it was a nice day for a bike ride.  Plus, Rafal was there. So there's that.

You Complete Me

Your name is NOT Lloyd Dobler. Your bike is NOT a boombox. I think you can figure the rest out. Edit - I just made up a new term. "Doblering" As in "Stop Doblering your bike. You look like an idiot."  -- recent Facebook status update by fredcube.

When I posted this a couple of days ago, I thought it was pretty clever.  Who am I kidding, it's damn clever and I know it.

If you don't know who Lloyd Dobler is, you're not alone.  I didn't either before I decided to post this status update.  I had to look it up.

There's this iconic image of John Cusack holding a boombox high above his head.  He's got kind of a late eighties cool thing going on with the trench coat and sleeves pushed up and everything. This is from a movie called "Say Anything." I've never seen the movie, but I have an idea what's going on here.  I could be completely wrong, but it seems like he's trying to get the girl and this is some sort of powerful scene at the end where he finally wins her over.

How do I spell "Triumph?"

I've seen at least bits of this scene and it seems like the Peter Gabriel song "In Your Eyes" is blaring from the boombox.  I bet in the movie there's some significance to that.

I'm thinking the girl was probably reluctant to enter into a relationship with "The Dobler" here, but she finally did and he made some big mistake to break her heart.  Only after the fact did he realize how much he'd screwed up.

Maybe while they were still getting along nicely, he had made a flippant remark.  I bet they were having a conversation about suckers at love.  Peter Gabriel was playing in the background and Lloyd was all, "I could never say this stuff to a girl - give her the upper hand like that?  What a sap!"

So after he realizes he just screwed up the best thing he ever had, he would do or "say anything" to get her back, he plays that very song outside her window.  I'm getting all weepy just thinking of this fake scenario.  Imagine how fantastic the actual movie must be!

The image above says - "No matter what you think, my resolve will not waver.  I'm holding this damn radio above my head."

And that's cool.

But you know what I hate?  For some reason people do that with their bikes.  I've never understood it.  Usually it is to say, "I've accomplished something."

It might be winning a race or finishing a mountaintop ascent, but it always looks really really stupid.

I've seen it for years, but the first time I saw it and it made me go "Ewww!"  was when I saw this:

This is from a couple of years ago.  It is a local cat 5 race.  The winner - who is a brilliant biochemist by day, decided to take his steed up there with him on the podium.

Like I said, I'd seen people lift their bikes before, but this was the one that made me hate the sight from then on.

I mean:

Oh, the Majesty!

Also:

The glorious glorified glory!

I like the last one, because the helmets are hanging from the handle bars.  Douchebags.

I think what I hate so much about it is that it is so unnatural.  I understand that people pose for photos, but this is a whole different level.  You made it to the pinnacle.  You've arrived.  You want to save this moment forever.  Unless you did the race or climbed the mountain while holding the bike over your head, (which would be impressive) why?

The only time you are holding your bike up ever is when posing for a photo.  That's just stupid.  I don't get the inspiration.  I've always wondered about it until I remembered Lloyd Dobler.

I realized that all the people who hold bikes over their heads are trying to win the girl.  I bet they're humming "In your eyes" while they do it.


Well you know what guys?  You're not going to win the girl.  Ever.  You look like a buffoon.


But I do have a suggestion.  You still won't win the girl, but you will look way less ridiculous after your great bike achievements.

Instead of taking your cue from Lloyd Dobler, you need to look to an earlier John Cusack character.  I'm talking about "Bryce" from sixteen candles.  He was one of the super nerds in the movie.  At one point, some bullies threw him into the trunk of a car.

That's where your bike should be for all your triumphant photo shoots you fucking tool.  You're welcome.

I suppose this fits

Tonight when I got home to get caught up on the Facebooks, I threw in "Heathen" by David Bowie.

This is about my favorite David Bowie album.  I automatically buy every David Bowie album that is released (except compilations of hits).  To me, this was the best one he put out since Scary Monsters in 1980 (22 years earlier).  Yes I include "Let's Dance" because though I really liked it when it came out and I enjoyed seeing Bowie getting all super famous and everything,  it's been so overplayed I'm tired of it.

There's also the "Bowie effect."  I blame David Bowie and specifically the success of "Let's Dance" for most of the shitty music that happened mid/late eighties.  The sound was copied to death.  It did not stop until guys like Kurt Cobain came in and brought simple rock and roll back.

I should say 2 things at this point in case they are not completely obvious.  The first is that I have no idea what I'm talking about.  I'm not checking any of what I'm saying.  I haven't heard it somewhere.  These ill informed opinions are based on my imperfect memory of crappy music from 30 years ago.

The second is that I didn't come here to review the 2002 David Bowie Album "Heathen" although it does kick ass and includes a cover of "Cactus" that I like almost as much as the original.

I came here to discuss an idea I had.  I think it would be a good story, but I'm never going to write it for 2 reasons.  The first is that I don't have the discipline to put in what it would take to write well.  I will leave the second as an exercise for the reader.  Or is that exorcise?  (cleverness on display).

You know what though?  I just decided not to reveal the idea yet.  Actually, it's all written out in great detail below, but I'm going to delete that before I post this.  Once I got to writing about it, I realized I am not ready to give up on it yet.  It may not be an original idea, but I can't think of anything I've seen or read quite like it.  It may actually be the first original thought I've ever had.  Or maybe I watched a movie about it in the mid eighties.

[ redacted story idea reveal! ]

That just leaves one little problem.  What to talk about.

Oh man I love this song that just came on.  It is called "Everyone Says Hi" from the David Bowie album "Heathen."

Last night when I was exercising (exorcising) on the rollers, I was about halfway done when I thought, "This just isn't working.  I should just quit."  but I didn't.  I stuck with it.  I suffered to the bitter end.

Luckily for all of us, this blog post is not like my workout last night.  Well it's exactly like it except for the part about forging bravely to completion.

I will however leave you with the opening paragraph from one of the chapters of "So Long and Thanks for all the Fish" by Douglas Adams. Well if I can find it and if that's what book it's from.  Hang on ...

Yep.  Found it.  Here it is:

“If you took a couple of David Bowies and stuck one of the David Bowies on the top of the other David Bowie, then attached another David Bowie to the end of each of the arms of the upper of the first two David Bowies and wrapped the whole business up in a dirty beach robe you would then have something which didn't exactly look like John Watson, but which those who knew him would find hauntingly familiar.”

Man I miss that guy.

Friday Night Extra: Turning Point

Today is my Grandma Surber's 101st birthday.  She died at the age of 96.  Sometime in about 1998, this photo was taken.  I exercised regularly at that time, but mostly weightlifting - what you kids call resistance training - because everything has to be called training.

Anyway for "cardio training" which I only did because you were supposed to, I had sarted riding my bike.  An old Bianchi.  Eventually, I dropped the "Resistance Training" completely and decided I'd become a dedicated cyclist.  When I told my boss, he said, "Cyclist?  Those guys are all anorexic and you look like Chinese Mafia."

Seeing this photo, I know what he meant.  True story.

Gift Ideas

Earlier today my mother sent me an email.  Wait a minute.  I want to talk about something else first.  Last night I was reading the Google box while my wife (Edna Cube) was watching a thrilling crime drama or two.  The first one is a new series called "Stalker!!" (emphasis added).

One of the show's stars is a fine actor by the name of Dylan McDermott. I know who Dylan McDermott is.  He was in the hit Television Law drama series "The Practice."  He has dark hair and dazzling blue eyes.

But I'm not going to pretend for one second that I have ever been 100% sure of his name.  Well, I am right now because I just looked it up on the google box (like I did last night when Edna asked me to make sure).  She said "That guy from 'The Practice' is in this."

I said, "Dylan McDermott?"

and she said, "Well either that or Dermot Mulroney."

"Oh yeah", I said. I was pretty sure it was Dylan McDermott, but I had to check to make absolutely sure.  Just Like I've had to do every single time a conversation about either one of these two has come up.  Which is weird because they don't look like each other.

Just call me "D.M."

"The Derminator"

One of these guys is in the new crime drama series "THE FUCKING STALKER!" (emphasis added).

So then I remembered the first time I saw this guy (turns out it wasn't. It was just the first time I remembered seeing him).  It was in a movie from the early 90's with Tom Sizemore and Sharon Stone.  It was called "Where Sleeping Dogs Lie."  It was a mystery-thriller type movie.  I just remember wondering the whole time if the movie makers would work in a way for Sharon Stone's character to be interrogated by the police.

That reminds me - they should totally remake Basic Instinct (and Fatal Attraction for that matter) with the same actors.  That would be gross.

Anyway, a few days after I watched "Where Sleeping Dogs Lie"  I was telling my sister about it.  I was saying it was "okay," but I really liked Tom Sizemore in it.  And this other guy.  Dylan McDermott.

My sister said, "Was it Dylan McDermott or Dermot Mulroney?"

At that point I had never heard of Dermot Mulroney before, so I told my sister maybe it was,  Maybe I just got the name wrong.

This confusion over who's who is probably good for these guys.  They can potentially each be credited with more work than they've actually done.

I've got to think that if you're a super gorgeous mega hunk, being confused for a completely different super gorgeous mega hunk can only help your star rise.

Mark Anthony McDermott must've thought so too.  That name would never be confused with Dermot Mulroney so Mark Anthony became "Dylan."

But there's yet another serious TV drama Irish pretty boy.  Unfortunately, his name was tragically unambiguous.  Patrick Dempsey was shit out of luck until he had his name legally changed to "Derek McDreamy."  Now he stands to reap the accolades of the other two.  Pretty clever.

Check and mate

Truthfully, women don't care which one of these guys takes the helm of the new hit emotional television drama.  Also, they don't seem to know or care which one is which.  Except ironically for "Derek McDreamy."  All women know which one he is.  Rawr!

But that's not what I came here to talk about.  In "The McStalker" last night, there was a woman who was being stalked.  She had written a book (supposedly).  The way the police people figured out that she had a ghost writer (a fact she denied) is by asking her the meaning of two words found in her manuscript.

The first one was "peripatetic."  I was like - "You mean like in a parapet?  Cause I know what a parapet is."  Maybe if you're "peripatetic" you like to walk around the perimeter of fortresses or something.  Nope.  It means you travel around a lot(I was near a google box so I checked).

My thought was that was a really stupid word to use in a book.

Next, the police asked the "writer" if she knew what "sanguine" meant.  She didn't know that one either and had to confess that there was a ghost writer.  Ooh ghosts!  Scary!

So I was like, doesn't sanguine mean 'red' as in blood?

No. Well yes.  But if you say someone was sanguine about blah blah blah, you don't mean they are red about it.  It means something like "optimism in the face of adversity" or some shit.

So I didn't really learn anything from "The Stalker" because they left the vocabulary words as an exercise for the viewer.

But that's not what I came here to talk about.  My mother wanted gift ideas for Jack and Abe.

So she sent me an email asking for that.

April 1992

In about 1987, I went to work at Idelman Telemarketing.  I was there for about 4 years.  After I left, I did a variety of crappy jobs.  Also, I started going to college.  I was studying Computer Science.

At one point I was taking 12 hours and working 3 jobs.  I worked at The YMCA from 10:00PM until 6:00AM.  I drove a school bus from 6:30 AM to 8:30AM.  I went to class during the day and drove the school bus again in the afternoon.

Once in a while, I'd do a charter.  This was a relatively high paying school bus assignment.  Usually to the zoo.

I went to the zoo about twice a month during that time.  Bus drivers could just go in for free, so I usually just went into the "Treetops Cafe" or whatever it's called and grabbed a cup of coffee.  I'd then go sit and watch the monkeys for an hour or do some homework.

On Sundays, I had a job at a church as custodian.  It was St Paul's Lutheran on about 53rd and Maple.

Also, I was married and had a 18 month old daughter.

I started the bus driving job in March.  There was a bunch of training and testing and stuff.  Then there was the big huge CDL test.

I got through all of that and my first day to go alone was Tuesday April 21, 1992.

I was a little nervous.  I had done the route the day before with the manager sitting near the front to show me the ropes.

He had a real command over the kids. They seemed to get unruly in a hurry, so I was concerned.  I felt I'd be treated as a substitute teacher.

Then that night it snowed.  A lot.  Whew.  They'll surely have a snow day, I thought.

Nope.

So my first day alone with the high school children was in about 7 inches of snow.

As almost always happens, my fears were unfounded.  Those buses get around pretty well in the snow.  The kids were generally well behaved. They had a real tough, street way of talking.  It was a little scary for me sometimes, but it was inherently good natured and friendly.

At this time in the world (like almost always) the trial of the century was going on.

Everyone had watched four members of the Los Angeles police department brutally and relentlessly beat a black man.  This is my first recollection of a video tape of this type.  It was amazing.  There was no denying what had happened.  The man was lying on the ground trying to get away from the baton strikes.  The police just kept on beating the man.

At the time, I don't recall anybody making much of a big deal out of the fact that it was a black man.

It was so blatantly wrong that everybody knew the cops were caught.  It seems to me that the black community was thinking "Finally.  What we've been saying all along is now plain for everyone to see."

The white community was thinking, "Holy shit.  I guess the black people are telling the truth occasionally."

The video proved what no white person (myself included) would have believed without seeing it.

There were tons of jokes about the LAPD.  This is because we wanted to believe this sort of thing was unique.  That the LAPD was somehow an aberration.  Yeah sure, we lied to ourselves, blacks get unfair treatment in LA.  But I bet that's isolated and stuff.

About a week after I started my driving the school bus on my own, 3 of the 4 officers that beat Rodney King were acquitted.  The fourth one, they weren't sure ...

I was shocked.  I couldn't see any way that was acceptable.  Maybe there were people back then saying "If Rodney King hadn't been ..."

These arguments are stupid.  Rodney King had tapped out long before the beating stopped.  Those cops were animals.  No two ways about it.

The next morning at the bus terminal, those of us who had routes into North Omaha were cautioned to be in close contact with the dispatcher.  To watch for violent behavior.

I didn't know what to expect.  I was nervous.  I was ashamed.  I couldn't believe the cops had gotten off.  It had nothing to do with me, but I was the only white person on the bus.

Would a riot start on my bus?  What would I do if it did?

One by one the kids got on the bus.  Sat down.  Looked to the floor.  Did not say a word.  Sad faces all around.  Defeated.

It was the quietest bus ride ever.  I felt like a fool.  I had been worried that the kids might take out some anger on me.

But they had woken up to understand a different reality.  One their parents already knew.  One they had hoped we were past.

It doesn't matter if the whole world sees the injustice. You're fucked.

Later that day, Rush Limbaugh was there to explain that you have to let the justice system work.   That the jury knows something we don't. I used to listen to Rush Limbaugh.

That was the day I stopped.

Stop me if you've heard this one ...

Well here it is.  Thursday night.  Thanksgiving.  Everyone has left.  I'm just "Carol Burnettin' in the kitchen."

The dinner was nice.  Now that we're done having a laugh and singing a song, I'm sitting here waiting for 11PM.

11PM is special tonight.  For 3 reasons.

Reason number one.  It is the deadline to pre-register for frosty cross.  This has been up in the air for us all week.  So deciding by 11 tonight was the goal.  We did it.  We were able to squeeze in Saturday.  Jack and I are signed up for Saturday only.  We race at the same time.  Currently (90 minutes before registration closes) there are 4 people signed up for the cat 4 race.  I am predicted Limpach (last place).  Hang on, I have my reasons, but I have to post that to facebook right now.  I'll be back ...

Oh man, talk about cathartic.  Sometimes, I just let this stuff simmer, knowing my day will come.

Anyway, while Facebook beeps at me (as it is now doing) because of my status update, I will get to reason number 2.  Disclosure:  I don't remember what I was talking about so I have to go back and read this ...  Sorry. Hang on again ...

Oh yeah, 11PM.

The second reason 11PM is special is that if you are a Pearl Jam Fan club member, at 11PM you can buy a very limited edition 7" vinyl of Mother Love Bone something or other.

So I'm sitting here hoping I can nab one of those bad MoFos at 11PM.

I don't even like Mother Love Bone.  At all.  But the rhythm guitarist and bass player from Pearl Jam were in the group, so I have to buy it if I can.

I think it was pretty cool how I referred to Stone and Jeff in generic terms.

Anyway, before I started this compulsory rambling ... shit, sorry, please hang on one more time.  I'll explain in a minute, I've got to nerd-rock out for a few minutes ...






Whew.  That was worth it.  Where was I?  Oh yeah, before I started this post, I slapped in "Stop Making Sense."  I have been listening/watching while I post this.  Then the song (in the video) above came on.  So yeah, I had to nerd-rock out.  Seriously.  Watch this.  It is so effin' cool.  I know bikesnob constantly gives this guy shit, but c'mon. That's some cool shit there.  Nobody sing/jogs anymore.  Cryin' shame, it is.  This guy was Pee-wee Herman before Pee-wee Herman was cool (pretty sure Pee-wee patterned his persona after David Byrne).  Watch the clip.  Watch it.

Actually, it's ok if you don't watch it.  I will.

Did I finish reason number 2?  Buy vinyl of band I don't like?  Yeah? ok.

Reason number 3.  I'm releasing this post at 11PM!

I have a few minutes before this has to be submitted so I'll just fill in with some more rambling.

On Facebook, I will rarely, if ever, enter into any sort of political debate.  I don't think there's necessarily anything wrong with it, it's just not for me.  You can state your opinion on an issue and no matter how articulate you are, you will always influence zero people.

People post political shit for no reason other than to say "Look at me!  Look at me!"

Well don't look at me, but I have to say something about Ferguson.  I will not put this on Facebook because I'm afraid it will be taken the wrong way.

I am deeply saddened by the situation.  I have no idea who's right or wrong but this whole late night talk show war thing has got to stop.

Whenever "The Tonight Show"  gets a new host, somebody's feelings get hurt and a good show ends.  Well, I never liked Conan, but you know what I mean.

You know what Shim?  Don't ask because this time, I don't even know.

The names were not changed. Nobody's innocent here.

"And in the death, as the last few corpses lay rotting on the slimy thoroughfare.  The shutters lifted in inch and temperance building high on poacher's hill.  And red mutant eyes gazed down on hunger city.  No more big wheels.  Fleas the size of rats sucked on rats the size of cats and 10,000 people-oids split into small tribes.  Coveting the highest of the sterile skyscrapers like packs of dogs assaulting the glass fronts of love-me avenue.  Ripping and re-wrapping mink and shiny silver frocks.  Now legwarmers.  Family badge of sapphire and cracked emerald ...

 any day now ...

The year of the diamond dogs."

Oh the glass fronts of love-me avenue.  That takes me back ...

When I was about 16 and a half, I was a little stressed out because I didn't have a job.  I hadn't worked since abandoning my cushy job at the Omaha World Herald.  I knew plenty of people who had carried papers well into their late teens, but I just couldn't stomach the idea.  I knew people who were working at gas stations.  I even knew a couple of guys who said they knew some people who had landed what was considered to be the ultimate job back then.  A post at Baker's grocery store.

The rumor was it was a 2 year waiting list to even get an interview at Baker's.  But if somehow you should get hired on, it was easy street, baby.

I actually put in an application at Baker's.  I went to Customer Service and asked the girl for an application.  She looked down at me (at least that's what I believed).  I mean, she was already "in".

Bitch.

Anyways, I applied at a couple dozen places where I really thought it would be cool to work.  After hearing absolutely nothing from any of them, I started applying everywhere else.

Wendy's called me.  Not too bad, I thought.  Wendy's was just about 4 blocks from my house.  Unfortunately, they needed me at the Wendy's on 72nd (3.5 miles from my house).

Looking back on it, I did not interview well.

I was asked questions about being able to handle school and work.  My basic strategy was to say that I never did any school work.  I always blew it off, so I'd have plenty of time for Wendy's.

The person interviewing me was named "Beth."

It is my sincere hope that nobody who knows Beth (or knew her) reads this, because it is about the most embarrassing thing I've ever written (if you know Beth).

During the interview, I thought she was kind of cute.

Looking back, it must have been her greasy position of authority.

I don't know, but it was probably my charm that got me the sweet minimum wage ($3.35) gig at Wendy's.

Back then, I thought I was going to be a famous comedian.  After a few months at Wendy's I hated Beth so much that I vowed to look her up some day and fire her.

I honestly don't know what I had against her.  If I think back, it is possibly because she was such a fucking relentlessly cruel bitch.  But that isn't even close to justifying how much I hated her.

Anyway, we had this thing we did at Wendy's.

Usually, if an order was held up, it was because the grill man was "burnt."

If you were running the grill and you ran out of cooked meat, they called it "burnt"

Wendy's burgers always came straight from the grill after somebody ordered it.  We kept several rows of burgers at various stages of cooked-ness all day long.  Too many patties and the meat would dry out and become "chili meat."  Too few and the customers were tapping their foot, arms crossed, face grimaced, etc.

If you were "burnt" or close to burnt, the sandwich maker would be waiting for you.  All the toppings (except mustard) would be on the bun.  The mustard was applied to the top of the patty after it was placed on the bun.

Why am I bringing all of this up?  Because I need to explain that when the sandwich maker was waiting on the "burnt" grillman, it was customary to sing to the grill man, "Any day now."

One time, I was sandwich maker while my brother was burnt on grill.  Thing is, I was a huge Bowie fan.  No way I was singing some lame-ass Carpenters song or whatever it was.

But tradition dictated I sing, "Any day now."

So I started in with the little poem at the top of this page.  Steve was pretty burnt.  I had the whole thing memorized.

"And in the death ..." I started.

Steve was not much of a Bowie fan, but he knew the song.  The recognition made him smile.  He listened with what I'd like to think is awe as I recited the entire verse, finishing up with "any day now - the year of the diamond dogs!  This ain't rock 'n roll!  THIS IS GENOCIDE!!!"

"That was excellent," he said as he delivered the single cheese to the waiting bun.  I slapped the mustard on, wrapped it up and sent it out.

Then I turned to Sue Winslow, the hottie who worked the front register, and sang in my best Bowie voice, "As they pulled you out of the oxygen tent, you asked for the latest party ..."

I totally did not have game.  At all.

Full disclosure: As I started this post, I put on "Diamond Dogs" by David Bowie.  I've been singing along the whole time.  I pretty much remember all the words, which kind of impresses me.  Probably still not Sue Winslow though.

and sc*ne

*eeeeeeeeeeee

Metagrumpy

Or maybe metascrooge.  Not sure.  I just know that I find myself being grumpy about what people get grumpy about.  I read the other day that Von Maur will not be opening up on Thanksgiving day.  For me personally, that was a huge relief.  It's nice to have at least one day a year where I am forced not to go to Von Maur.

I wasn't surprised that Von Maur would not open on Thanksgiving.  I was surprised there was an article about it.  Until I read the article.  Von Maur was responding to the news that Target would be opening at 6PM on Thanksgiving.  What!?!

Well I will tell you this, Target Stores.  I will never, ever, ever spend another dollar at one of your stores.  I'm sorry, but that's just Unmerican.  Thanksgiving is a time for people to spend time with their families (and the indigenous people of the land).

The only people who don't deserve to see their families on Thanksgiving are convenience store workers.  Oh, and people who work at movie theaters.  Hospitals stay open too, but you don't want to eat there.  Oh!  And anybody who plays professional football for either Detroit or Dallas.  Plus all their fans.  But everybody else, including Target employees, should be with their families until well after 6 PM.

There's nothing more Merican than sitting around watching a bunch of distant relatives lie around moaning from the pain of a day of advanced surfeiting, checking their parlay sheets, farting, etc..  

I should just back up a little and clarify my statement about never spending money at Target.  I will only change my mind about it if there's something I need to get at Target.  Or if Target is on my way.  Otherwise, I'm done.

After the "Von Maur vs Target" article was the comments.

I can't actually read all the comments on something as controversial as a department store opening up on Thanksgiving evening during the Dallas Cowboys or Detroit Lions football game or whatever.

But I like to skim them.

One guy advocated the return of "blue laws."  These are religion based laws about buying cars or liquor on Sunday.

Plenty of people vowed to never set foot in Target again.  Meanwhile, they praised The Von Maur decision.

They make the point that families should be together on Thanksgiving.  Like this:

"Where do you work, dear?"

"I'm still at Target."

"I told you you should have stayed in school.  Hopefully you'll go back some day"

"I'm fucking outta here!"

Yelling, "Yeah! Don't be late for your shift! It's almost 6 !"

But that's not really what I'm metagrumpy about.  I mean I'm a little grumpy that people care.

What I'm mostly metagrumpy about is all this stuff about the moment Thanksgiving season ends and Christmas season begins. 

People are pissed about it.  That's ok with me.  My problem is they talk about it.  They're all grumpy about it. 

Then I get grumpy.  I'm all "Why do you care?"

Lots of people have a surprisingly specific timeline for the events between November 1 and January 1.

There is a correct day to put up the tree.  To take it down.  To play Christmas music.  To decorate the halls with boughs of holly.  Fa-ra-ra-ra-ra Ra-ra-ra-ra (see what I did there?).

People are seething about seeing some Christmas related thing - literally weeks before Thanksgiving.

"Fuck,"  They'll say.  "That shit ain't right," they'll continue.

"Jesus, please shut up," I'll conclude.

But you know what?  I blame God for this.  That's right.  Go to the source.  When God started America, he should have realized that he put Thanksgiving too close to Christmas.

Surely he could have rigged it so Mary gave birth to Jesus sometime in April or something.

Ok, I'm just having a laugh.  I guess people who care about this stuff say Jesus was probably born in April.  April 7th actually.

But that wouldn't work at all.  The way Easter jumps around from like late February to sometime in June, how awkward would that be when Easter and X-mas are on the same day?  Then what would Target and Von Maur do?  Then who would the Detroit Lions play?  

These are the mysteries of the universe.

Final note:  I'd like to apologize for how horrible this post is, but screw it.  Bah Humbug and such.

Oh yeah, and Happy New Year.