On the road and it is incredibly hard to post onto this blog from diners, bordellos and sushi bars.
Will update when possible with stories of cycles and fresh salmon.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Biking in the Pacific Northwest
I will say this, the problem with being a competitive dick head is that when someone passes you on a bicycle, some sort of weird instinct kicks in and you just have to catch them.
Here's the thing, I am spending the summer in the Pacific Northwest and Southern California. This week I have been on beautiful Bainbridge Island and I am riding a friends bike. The bike weighs about as much as I do, which is fine because for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is a Traumatic Brain Injury, I am just a slow poke bike rider now, no longer a lycra clad racer, if ever I was one of those.
I am riding this heavy bike and today I am wearing baggy shorts, running shoes, a t-shirt and an old helmet that has seen better days. I stopped to read a text and I was slowly making my way back onto the road and this speedy rider passed right by me, all clad in tight fitting lycra, thin little tired and clipped in with his super nice bike cleats. His bike probably weighed as much as my sweaty t-shirt.
Since I am all zen about these sorts of things now, and really, just enjoying the road on a fat tired bike and not really a competitive dick head or anything, I let it go, for a good five seconds. Then I started to shift gears until I ran out of them. I was peddling and not winded, taking in deep breaths and enjoying the chase. He was dressed for the ride, and he had a nice bike, but he was a commuter, not a competitor. Well, he was not competing with me anyway, although he was riding as fast as he usually does because he followed what I could see was his daily pattern, swerving to miss potholes and dangerous road slag. I was soon on his tail and could have passed him with ease, which was weird, he had legs of steal, that's how close I was. I could see the veins in the his legs.
I did not pass him. He ended our little game when he finally turned up Baker Hill. A little history, I once lived on the other side of Baker Hill and almost every day for about 10 years I would ride my bike up at least one side of that incredibly steep mountain. The side this guy started to climb is a mile long climb and it's a very serious mountain, most people get about half way up and walk their bikes the rest of the way. Serious cyclists use their girly gears to make it up, honestly.
I did not follow the commuter on his way up Baker Hill. I am recovering from a back injury and can not risk any sort of new injury, but I thought about it. My legs are strong, I am in good health, I figured it would be fun to take him on the mountain. Then again, he rides it every day, he would probably beat me to a pulp. It would hurt my sensitive feelings. Instead I just rode home in the light rain, because I am no longer a competitive dick head who must pass every cyclist I see on the road.
Plus I am on a very heavy bike with bullshit gearing and no cleats and cotton clothes. I have put out a notice to friends asking to borrow a bike for a few weeks of fast riding in the Pacific Northwest. Yes, I am an addict. Yes I am a competitive dick head. Yes, I will be that guy who see's you up ahead and sets my goal to just slowly overtake you as quickly as possible, not a word will be said. It's a game I play in my head. It's a game I call "catch and release" and once my back heals in the next couple of days and a friend comes through with a speedy light bike, I will again be playing.
Here's the thing, I am spending the summer in the Pacific Northwest and Southern California. This week I have been on beautiful Bainbridge Island and I am riding a friends bike. The bike weighs about as much as I do, which is fine because for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is a Traumatic Brain Injury, I am just a slow poke bike rider now, no longer a lycra clad racer, if ever I was one of those.
I am riding this heavy bike and today I am wearing baggy shorts, running shoes, a t-shirt and an old helmet that has seen better days. I stopped to read a text and I was slowly making my way back onto the road and this speedy rider passed right by me, all clad in tight fitting lycra, thin little tired and clipped in with his super nice bike cleats. His bike probably weighed as much as my sweaty t-shirt.
Since I am all zen about these sorts of things now, and really, just enjoying the road on a fat tired bike and not really a competitive dick head or anything, I let it go, for a good five seconds. Then I started to shift gears until I ran out of them. I was peddling and not winded, taking in deep breaths and enjoying the chase. He was dressed for the ride, and he had a nice bike, but he was a commuter, not a competitor. Well, he was not competing with me anyway, although he was riding as fast as he usually does because he followed what I could see was his daily pattern, swerving to miss potholes and dangerous road slag. I was soon on his tail and could have passed him with ease, which was weird, he had legs of steal, that's how close I was. I could see the veins in the his legs.
I did not pass him. He ended our little game when he finally turned up Baker Hill. A little history, I once lived on the other side of Baker Hill and almost every day for about 10 years I would ride my bike up at least one side of that incredibly steep mountain. The side this guy started to climb is a mile long climb and it's a very serious mountain, most people get about half way up and walk their bikes the rest of the way. Serious cyclists use their girly gears to make it up, honestly.
I did not follow the commuter on his way up Baker Hill. I am recovering from a back injury and can not risk any sort of new injury, but I thought about it. My legs are strong, I am in good health, I figured it would be fun to take him on the mountain. Then again, he rides it every day, he would probably beat me to a pulp. It would hurt my sensitive feelings. Instead I just rode home in the light rain, because I am no longer a competitive dick head who must pass every cyclist I see on the road.
Plus I am on a very heavy bike with bullshit gearing and no cleats and cotton clothes. I have put out a notice to friends asking to borrow a bike for a few weeks of fast riding in the Pacific Northwest. Yes, I am an addict. Yes I am a competitive dick head. Yes, I will be that guy who see's you up ahead and sets my goal to just slowly overtake you as quickly as possible, not a word will be said. It's a game I play in my head. It's a game I call "catch and release" and once my back heals in the next couple of days and a friend comes through with a speedy light bike, I will again be playing.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
The visit to Flight 93 Memorial
I have driven from my house in Pittsburgh to Philadelphia countless times over the past three years and every time I see the exit in Somerset County for the Flight 93 Memorial I think I should turn off and go see it and every single time I find a reason not too.
This past weekend my grown son and I happened to be in Somerset County for another reason, he was driving me around and I told him I’d appreciate it if we could visit the Flight 93 Memorial together, so we did. We talked just a little bit about September 11th and what he remembered from that day and I told him what little I remembered about the flight that crashed into some farm land in a rural area of Somerset County on that terrible morning.
What I knew was this was one of the four planes taken over by terrorists. Then passengers overtook the terrorists and in the ensuing battle, the plane crashed. It’s been over ten years, I was pretty sure that was what had happened.
We drove through spectacular rolling farm lands on a bright and brilliant sunny day, quiet for the most part.
It’s about a 15 mile drive from the highway to the turnoff to the National Flight 93 Memorial and then another 4 miles to the actual memorial grounds. We passed a newly planted grove of small trees and I surmised by their number, they must represent all of the people who died on September 11th, not just the people who perished here in Pennsylvania farm country.
We rounded a corner and parked our car and got out and began to walk. There were a lot of cars, but plenty of room in the parking lot for more. There were rusted out beaters and new cars of every type, trucks and motorcycles and RV’s old and new. We were surrounded by Americans of every stripe and as we began to walk towards the various parts of the memorial I realized I was walking with a complete diversity of Americans in color, style and shape. In fact, the only thing we had in common was our quiet.
That is what stunned me and it still does. In my entire life I have never been surrounded by this many people of this much of a wide spectrum of backgrounds and every single one of them from small children to elderly cane walkers, all of them were quietly walking. No one blabbing on a cellphone. No one arguing, no one screaming. Nothing but the sound of all us moving slowly towards the crash site.
We walked a structured path that had designed sections that explained what had happened on that fated day. I did not take much time to stop walking. I was drawn to the actual end of the memorial. On one side is a series of large planks of what I presume is slate or granite, each with a name from the planes manifest etched on it. This forms the end wall and it is long and impressive in its breadth and solemnity. As you approach that, on the left is a large wooden gate, that looks to be hand made out of tough, hand strewn timbers. It is there that you can look out over a field, down a mowed path, the actual final resting place of the Flight 93 is off in the distance. I stood at the gate and just stared. About a city block away is something that is hard to make out, a pile of some sort, the last remains of the flight.
Only in comic books do we ever really get a battle of good and evil that played out that morning in the cockpit of Flight 93. That morning, in those moments, the decisions made by the heroic actions of the passengers on that plane, regular people who decided to step up.They took on a very real evil and in that field they won. Of course, unlike in comics or movies, when that plane crashed upside down into that grassy field going over 500 miles an hour, no one was going to survive.
It’s a strange place for a memorial. Then again, when you look at it, it’s a perfect place for a memorial. My son and I sat on a bench looking over the field. The only sound we could hear was the far off trees rustling in the wind and birds singing an incredibly beautiful song. We sat there for about ten minutes and for that entire time all the people who walked past us did not make a sound. The trees, the birds, the peace was all that we heard, was all that mattered.
This past weekend my grown son and I happened to be in Somerset County for another reason, he was driving me around and I told him I’d appreciate it if we could visit the Flight 93 Memorial together, so we did. We talked just a little bit about September 11th and what he remembered from that day and I told him what little I remembered about the flight that crashed into some farm land in a rural area of Somerset County on that terrible morning.
What I knew was this was one of the four planes taken over by terrorists. Then passengers overtook the terrorists and in the ensuing battle, the plane crashed. It’s been over ten years, I was pretty sure that was what had happened.
We drove through spectacular rolling farm lands on a bright and brilliant sunny day, quiet for the most part.
It’s about a 15 mile drive from the highway to the turnoff to the National Flight 93 Memorial and then another 4 miles to the actual memorial grounds. We passed a newly planted grove of small trees and I surmised by their number, they must represent all of the people who died on September 11th, not just the people who perished here in Pennsylvania farm country.
We rounded a corner and parked our car and got out and began to walk. There were a lot of cars, but plenty of room in the parking lot for more. There were rusted out beaters and new cars of every type, trucks and motorcycles and RV’s old and new. We were surrounded by Americans of every stripe and as we began to walk towards the various parts of the memorial I realized I was walking with a complete diversity of Americans in color, style and shape. In fact, the only thing we had in common was our quiet.
That is what stunned me and it still does. In my entire life I have never been surrounded by this many people of this much of a wide spectrum of backgrounds and every single one of them from small children to elderly cane walkers, all of them were quietly walking. No one blabbing on a cellphone. No one arguing, no one screaming. Nothing but the sound of all us moving slowly towards the crash site.
We walked a structured path that had designed sections that explained what had happened on that fated day. I did not take much time to stop walking. I was drawn to the actual end of the memorial. On one side is a series of large planks of what I presume is slate or granite, each with a name from the planes manifest etched on it. This forms the end wall and it is long and impressive in its breadth and solemnity. As you approach that, on the left is a large wooden gate, that looks to be hand made out of tough, hand strewn timbers. It is there that you can look out over a field, down a mowed path, the actual final resting place of the Flight 93 is off in the distance. I stood at the gate and just stared. About a city block away is something that is hard to make out, a pile of some sort, the last remains of the flight.
Only in comic books do we ever really get a battle of good and evil that played out that morning in the cockpit of Flight 93. That morning, in those moments, the decisions made by the heroic actions of the passengers on that plane, regular people who decided to step up.They took on a very real evil and in that field they won. Of course, unlike in comics or movies, when that plane crashed upside down into that grassy field going over 500 miles an hour, no one was going to survive.
It’s a strange place for a memorial. Then again, when you look at it, it’s a perfect place for a memorial. My son and I sat on a bench looking over the field. The only sound we could hear was the far off trees rustling in the wind and birds singing an incredibly beautiful song. We sat there for about ten minutes and for that entire time all the people who walked past us did not make a sound. The trees, the birds, the peace was all that we heard, was all that mattered.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Grab that book
Hey, Dancing with Mannequins and Idiots is free today on Amazon. It is the perfect gift for all fathers. Sadly, my own children gave it to me as a fathers day gift, which I thought was both touching and just a little bit tragic.
That said, Amazon has Mannequins ranked # 5 in e-book humor political sales, which means people hate hate hate it. That's why today it is free free free. Here is the link, go ahead, grab a copy and enjoy reading it while these pain pills work their magic on my displaced disc.
That said, Amazon has Mannequins ranked # 5 in e-book humor political sales, which means people hate hate hate it. That's why today it is free free free. Here is the link, go ahead, grab a copy and enjoy reading it while these pain pills work their magic on my displaced disc.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Take some pride
Getting Schooled
I was walking downstairs a few minutes ago and I noticed in the dining room, under the table, the dark, angry eyes of my lesbian attorney, an Australian Shepard named Beth. She recently came out to me, as part of some sort of national Price celebration and things have really gone way down hill fast since then, thus the angry stare as I walk thru the dining room on my way to pick up a fresh cup of coffee.
Feeling this uncomfortable in my own house has made me start to think crazy things, not psycho crazy things like chewing her face off, but crazy things like moving my coffee pot up to my office to avoid eye contact with my Jewish lesbian Australian attorney. I had made it to the kitchen and poured the remains of my cup into the sink, added a brisk little bit of half and half and someone began slamming their fist against my front door.
Now, I live in the ghetto and when people slam their fist against your front door it is generally one of two things, either the police about to bust in with a warrant, for a crime I am damn sure about to plead innocent of, or a criminal about to beat me upside the head, shoot my lesbian Australian Jewish attorney (again!) and make off with my illegal counterfeit Brittany Spears classic CD collectors edition t-shirt business. Instead, it was an angry butch lesbian (ABL).
How do I know she was an angry butch lesbian (ABL)? “Hey, you the guy who writes that blog about life in some ghetto?”
“Yeah, kind of. Yeah.” I said, not yet pouring my second cup of coffee and wondering why my own angry Jewish lesbian was still laying down under the god damned dining room table. Oh right, her own ass is much more fascinating than this angry lesbian standing right at the front door.
“This ain’t no ghetto and there is a big fuckin’ difference between gay and lesbian.”
I was about to be schooled, but not on one cup of coffee. I started with, “if you’ll excuse me for a second, I just need to put some coffee in my cup, could you wait right here?” She was already a couple of steps in my house and on a knee, petting Beth. Lesbians, I said to myself, as I turned and walked into the kitchen.
What I learned from the Angry Butch Lesbian(ABL), who by the way demanded that I refer to her as the Angry Butch Lesbian if I was going to refer to her at all. ABL was nice enough to explain to me that you can be gay and be both a man or a woman, and you can be a lesbian and be gay, but you can’t be a man and be a lesbian, except I pointed out, “Ellen DeGeneres.” She looked at me when I said that like she might kick me in the Lohan’s, so I smiled like I was funny and she said, “So this ain’t no ghetto,” ABL proclaimed, “I grew up in a ghetto, this is, like, paradise compared.”
“Yeah, I grew up in surburbia, this is the ghetto.”
I guess, in life, it is all a matter of perspective. For ABL a ghetto is much worse than having a woman who screams almost night and day at a 2 year old “shut the fuck up you stupid son of a bitch” and for me, that is a sure sign you live in a ghetto.
“Another thing,” ABL started, “you should quit referring to all lesbians as lesbians.”
“What?” I asked, as if the Angry Butch Lesbian had just said the stupidest thing in the world.
“Some of us don’t really like the term lesbian, it’s too scientific. Me? I’m a dyke.”
“So you would rather be called a dyke rather than a lesbian?”
“I’d just as soon a fat middle aged bozo not refer to me at all.”
“Yeah, wait right there. I am far from a fat middle aged bozo. First, the Union of Bozo Americans get pissy whenever I mention bozo’s, because apparently, I am nothing close to being a bozo, I don’t measure up, if you can believe that. Second, I have lost 40 pounds in just the last year.”
“Seriously?”
“No, what you think I was, some sort of hippo?”
“Still, you all sorts of fat.”
“So some rad dyke shows up at my house to tell me not to bag on lesbians, do I have that right?”
“And quit calling your neighborhood a ghetto.”
“Can I finish my coffee now?”
“Yeah, long as we clear.”
“We clear.”
The angry butch lesbian (dyke) left soon after petting my own angry butch lesbian Australian attorney before leaving. My coffee cold and my attitude changed from happy to bereft, because I was pretty sure that I indeed inhabited not only a ghetto, but a ghetto I shared with a militant Jewish lesbian Australian who had returned to the confines of the underside of my dining room table shade, only to consume herself with parts of her body that were both foreign to me and disgusting to me all at the same time.
I was walking downstairs a few minutes ago and I noticed in the dining room, under the table, the dark, angry eyes of my lesbian attorney, an Australian Shepard named Beth. She recently came out to me, as part of some sort of national Price celebration and things have really gone way down hill fast since then, thus the angry stare as I walk thru the dining room on my way to pick up a fresh cup of coffee.
Feeling this uncomfortable in my own house has made me start to think crazy things, not psycho crazy things like chewing her face off, but crazy things like moving my coffee pot up to my office to avoid eye contact with my Jewish lesbian Australian attorney. I had made it to the kitchen and poured the remains of my cup into the sink, added a brisk little bit of half and half and someone began slamming their fist against my front door.
Now, I live in the ghetto and when people slam their fist against your front door it is generally one of two things, either the police about to bust in with a warrant, for a crime I am damn sure about to plead innocent of, or a criminal about to beat me upside the head, shoot my lesbian Australian Jewish attorney (again!) and make off with my illegal counterfeit Brittany Spears classic CD collectors edition t-shirt business. Instead, it was an angry butch lesbian (ABL).
How do I know she was an angry butch lesbian (ABL)? “Hey, you the guy who writes that blog about life in some ghetto?”
“Yeah, kind of. Yeah.” I said, not yet pouring my second cup of coffee and wondering why my own angry Jewish lesbian was still laying down under the god damned dining room table. Oh right, her own ass is much more fascinating than this angry lesbian standing right at the front door.
“This ain’t no ghetto and there is a big fuckin’ difference between gay and lesbian.”
I was about to be schooled, but not on one cup of coffee. I started with, “if you’ll excuse me for a second, I just need to put some coffee in my cup, could you wait right here?” She was already a couple of steps in my house and on a knee, petting Beth. Lesbians, I said to myself, as I turned and walked into the kitchen.
What I learned from the Angry Butch Lesbian(ABL), who by the way demanded that I refer to her as the Angry Butch Lesbian if I was going to refer to her at all. ABL was nice enough to explain to me that you can be gay and be both a man or a woman, and you can be a lesbian and be gay, but you can’t be a man and be a lesbian, except I pointed out, “Ellen DeGeneres.” She looked at me when I said that like she might kick me in the Lohan’s, so I smiled like I was funny and she said, “So this ain’t no ghetto,” ABL proclaimed, “I grew up in a ghetto, this is, like, paradise compared.”
“Yeah, I grew up in surburbia, this is the ghetto.”
I guess, in life, it is all a matter of perspective. For ABL a ghetto is much worse than having a woman who screams almost night and day at a 2 year old “shut the fuck up you stupid son of a bitch” and for me, that is a sure sign you live in a ghetto.
“Another thing,” ABL started, “you should quit referring to all lesbians as lesbians.”
“What?” I asked, as if the Angry Butch Lesbian had just said the stupidest thing in the world.
“Some of us don’t really like the term lesbian, it’s too scientific. Me? I’m a dyke.”
“So you would rather be called a dyke rather than a lesbian?”
“I’d just as soon a fat middle aged bozo not refer to me at all.”
“Yeah, wait right there. I am far from a fat middle aged bozo. First, the Union of Bozo Americans get pissy whenever I mention bozo’s, because apparently, I am nothing close to being a bozo, I don’t measure up, if you can believe that. Second, I have lost 40 pounds in just the last year.”
“Seriously?”
“No, what you think I was, some sort of hippo?”
“Still, you all sorts of fat.”
“So some rad dyke shows up at my house to tell me not to bag on lesbians, do I have that right?”
“And quit calling your neighborhood a ghetto.”
“Can I finish my coffee now?”
“Yeah, long as we clear.”
“We clear.”
The angry butch lesbian (dyke) left soon after petting my own angry butch lesbian Australian attorney before leaving. My coffee cold and my attitude changed from happy to bereft, because I was pretty sure that I indeed inhabited not only a ghetto, but a ghetto I shared with a militant Jewish lesbian Australian who had returned to the confines of the underside of my dining room table shade, only to consume herself with parts of her body that were both foreign to me and disgusting to me all at the same time.
Book book
It's true, this Sunday is Fathers Day, a fake holiday for lazy mothers and semi-retarded children to find illogical reasons to purchase crap to try and remind their fathers that they exist.
Want a real gift for a father? How about not spending something? How about a book that will remind daddy why he is a right wing nut case without logic or humor? Here it is, right here and on Sunday, it's free. Beat that.
Well, don't beat that, because then you would not be free gifting daddy the amazing book Dancing with Mannequins and Idiots, "quites possibly the most important political book I have downloaded this week" Bill O'Reilly.
So, Sunday, anytime on Sunday, you or anyone who even looks like you, can download it and read it, or have your father read it, or your step-father read it, or that alcoholic loser your mother keeps telling you is your father, have him read it, if he remembers how to read. Yeah, have him read it.
Either way, it's free and at that price, it's hard to beat.
"At that price, it's hard to beat." Mitt Romney - political has been, 2012
Want a real gift for a father? How about not spending something? How about a book that will remind daddy why he is a right wing nut case without logic or humor? Here it is, right here and on Sunday, it's free. Beat that.
Well, don't beat that, because then you would not be free gifting daddy the amazing book Dancing with Mannequins and Idiots, "quites possibly the most important political book I have downloaded this week" Bill O'Reilly.
So, Sunday, anytime on Sunday, you or anyone who even looks like you, can download it and read it, or have your father read it, or your step-father read it, or that alcoholic loser your mother keeps telling you is your father, have him read it, if he remembers how to read. Yeah, have him read it.
Either way, it's free and at that price, it's hard to beat.
"At that price, it's hard to beat." Mitt Romney - political has been, 2012
Call me crazy
I started posting these videos when I found that Harvard baseball team singing along to Call Me Maybe and thought it was cute or something. Then I just thought I should post all the others.
Well not all the gay models who the gay directors at Abercromebie and Mindless Moronic Shit Clothes have come out with this crap. Since I am now legally bound to post all these videos, here you go, I hate to have to post the perfect shirtless bodies bouncing around singing this mindless song, but I will.
Well not all the gay models who the gay directors at Abercromebie and Mindless Moronic Shit Clothes have come out with this crap. Since I am now legally bound to post all these videos, here you go, I hate to have to post the perfect shirtless bodies bouncing around singing this mindless song, but I will.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
More headlines that worry me
Gretchen Carlson Walks Off 'Fox And Friends' After Brian Kilmeade's Sexist Comment, PHOTOS: Miranda Kerr Is A Braless Wonder, Actress Faces Up To 3 Years In Jail, New MacBook, iPad Factory Worker Commits Suicide, Obama Makes Light Of Private Sector Remark In Ohio Speech On Economy, Reporters Kicked Out Of Mitt Romney Event, EGYPT'S PARLIAMENT DISSOLVED, Video Reveals American Teens Lack Basic Knowledge...
On the road
Here is something.
On Fathers Day, which is, of course, a completely fake holiday, you or someone you know can grab a FREE copy of the most important book ever written. Yes the Bible of the Republican 2012 campaign for the presidency will be free on Sunday June 17th.
Grab it HERE.
Free all day.
So if you are either Jewish or just super cheap, you can give the gift that keeps on giving to either your father or yourself, just by clicking that link on Sunday and downloading the book.
Don't have a Kindle? Amazon will let you download some super crappy software that will allow you read any book you want on any sort of device you own. How easy is that? You know what else that does? Removes the excuse for reading the book. Damn.
So, Sunday, download Dancing with Mannequins and Idiots, maybe some software to read it and enjoy.
On Fathers Day, which is, of course, a completely fake holiday, you or someone you know can grab a FREE copy of the most important book ever written. Yes the Bible of the Republican 2012 campaign for the presidency will be free on Sunday June 17th.
Grab it HERE.
Free all day.
So if you are either Jewish or just super cheap, you can give the gift that keeps on giving to either your father or yourself, just by clicking that link on Sunday and downloading the book.
Don't have a Kindle? Amazon will let you download some super crappy software that will allow you read any book you want on any sort of device you own. How easy is that? You know what else that does? Removes the excuse for reading the book. Damn.
So, Sunday, download Dancing with Mannequins and Idiots, maybe some software to read it and enjoy.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Cycle till it hurts
As most people have been doing lately, I have been spending the last few days stealing a sidewalk.
What? Everyone has not been spending the last few days stealing a sidewalk?
Well, then, that’s probably because they were mixing cement in a 5 gallon bucket to build the staircase on the side of a hill. That’s probably why people have not had the time to steal their sidewalls.
Since I got a head start, I finished my staircase on the hillside, so I have been busy stealing my sidewalk. Now as all you sidewalk stealers know, sidewalks are uniquely designed to not be stolen. They are embedded into the ground, making it almost impossible to actually steal.
I am lucky, the home next to me is set to be demolished and there is a sidewalk that leads to the back door, and I am in the process of stealing it, where it will be installed in my backyard connecting to the new stairs. How about that?
Well, this morning, I was having trouble moving a 200 pound section and I asked my son to help me with the piece. He was nice enough to offer a hand and we were pushing it and lifting, twisting and rolling it and then we both heard this loud snapping sound coming from my lower spine and then I was laying on my back.
He offered to call the ambulance.
I just laid there.
I did not move for quite some time, but I did get to my knees. After some time I was able to get to my feet and I could hobble, but I could not stand up straight, hobbling instead like an elderly Jewish man. We made it to the kitchen were he hovered around me and kept asking if I needed to see an emergency room doctor. I kept refusing, telling him instead that I was familiar with these moments and while the adrenaline was flowing we should try and finish moving the 200 pound cement block. He hemmed and hawed, but we went back outside, me still unable to straighten, but we were going to give it a shot.
We got as far as prepping to lift the block. I could not lift anything, not even so much as grab a serious hold of it, much less lift it.
We were done for the day. No emergency room. I was located onto the couch and my son disappeared. I told him I would be cycling later and he mentioned that I might just be insane.
It’s close to 7 hours since our morning of cement moving attempts. I just finished the most grueling cycling ride I have had in years, the sweat still pouring off my face as I type this.
Not a bad day.
What? Everyone has not been spending the last few days stealing a sidewalk?
Well, then, that’s probably because they were mixing cement in a 5 gallon bucket to build the staircase on the side of a hill. That’s probably why people have not had the time to steal their sidewalls.
Since I got a head start, I finished my staircase on the hillside, so I have been busy stealing my sidewalk. Now as all you sidewalk stealers know, sidewalks are uniquely designed to not be stolen. They are embedded into the ground, making it almost impossible to actually steal.
I am lucky, the home next to me is set to be demolished and there is a sidewalk that leads to the back door, and I am in the process of stealing it, where it will be installed in my backyard connecting to the new stairs. How about that?
Well, this morning, I was having trouble moving a 200 pound section and I asked my son to help me with the piece. He was nice enough to offer a hand and we were pushing it and lifting, twisting and rolling it and then we both heard this loud snapping sound coming from my lower spine and then I was laying on my back.
He offered to call the ambulance.
I just laid there.
I did not move for quite some time, but I did get to my knees. After some time I was able to get to my feet and I could hobble, but I could not stand up straight, hobbling instead like an elderly Jewish man. We made it to the kitchen were he hovered around me and kept asking if I needed to see an emergency room doctor. I kept refusing, telling him instead that I was familiar with these moments and while the adrenaline was flowing we should try and finish moving the 200 pound cement block. He hemmed and hawed, but we went back outside, me still unable to straighten, but we were going to give it a shot.
We got as far as prepping to lift the block. I could not lift anything, not even so much as grab a serious hold of it, much less lift it.
We were done for the day. No emergency room. I was located onto the couch and my son disappeared. I told him I would be cycling later and he mentioned that I might just be insane.
It’s close to 7 hours since our morning of cement moving attempts. I just finished the most grueling cycling ride I have had in years, the sweat still pouring off my face as I type this.
Not a bad day.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Wisconsin update
Everyone keeps asking me what I think of Wisconsin. Now, I am on a special diet, so I don't eat cheese at all, so I remain completely ill at ease with all things Wisconsin.
The stupidest bitch in the world
I do love road trips and I have one coming up that should be fun. A group of elderly writers, at least I think they are elderly, have asked me to do some sort of presentation and I agreed after I asked if they would pay me to come talk. We negotiated and some side deals were worked out. See, in this economy, you have to go to where the money is and right now, the geezers have all the cash.
I also just found out that I have to run back up to New York City, which means I get to mention the Fiat 500 again, and as anyone who reads this blog knows, that means I just made another 25 cents. Then I will be off to the West Coast for two full months of bike riding.
Then it’s back to the blistering heat of Pittsburgh to watch the Pirates attempt a World Series run. I wrote that last part just to see if anyone else is drinking.
I bring all this travel up because I was once again reminded of the fragility of the human body recently when I was riding my bike on a busy road near a local church. I watch for car doors opening by force of habit solely because of the Stupidest Bitch in the World.
Before I met the Stupidest Bitch in the World I had never used the term bitch to describe a woman. In fact, I was so politically correct that if a friend has used the word bitch and I was telling another friend about this friends use of the word, I would say, “so Glen called Lydia a B-word,” unable to actually use the word bitch myself, that is how politically correct I had become.
That was until I met the Stupidest Bitch in the World.
There was a time many years ago, when I was in very good cycling shape and I was very close to fearless, even in city traffic. In retrospect I may have been just a shade close to insane, because I would ride through the streets of Seattle at a very high rate of speed, almost hyper aware of everything that was happening around me. Nothing would be missed, the woman leaving the store on my right, 100 yards ahead of me, not paying attention, she was heading toward the road, so I would note that she would probably step off the sidewalk completely unaware of me and the speed of my cycle in the middle of a warm Spring day. Or the father and his children, skipping happily, he wanting to show them how much he had moved on from the divorce, so happily skipping, never bothering to notice me, shooting past at 23 miles per hour, but I noticed him, and the kids, who came within about 3 feet of my back tire.
Those days, I noticed everything, except the Stupidest Bitch in the World. I was flying down First Avenue, trying my best to make the 1:10 ferry leaving Seattle for Bainbridge Island, my home at the time. I had a young daughter who would be getting off the bus right as I crested the top of the mountain and I would glide down that mountain and meet that bus just like clock work, if I could catch that ferry, so my head was down and my feet were peddling and I was moving down a road cluttered with traffic and shoppers and all the rest of a busy society. It was not a society I was unfamiliar with and I had raced right through it numerous times before. This time, however, the Stupidest Bitch in the World just happened to be parking her fairly new Volkswagon Beetle in a “no parking zone” and with no warning what so ever, she shot her drivers door open, right into the sliver of room that I had carved out between me and the traffic on First Avenue. I missed the door actually opening, as I was taking in the proximity of the bus next to me, thats’ closeness was keeping me right next to that line of parked cars. When her door was opened it gave me no real option, I could lay my bike down immediately and probably be dragged under the buses back tires, or I could just crash my bike, almost at full speed right into her opened door, or god forbid, the Stupidest Bitch in the World could close her door and I would get the edge of the door probably right in my face, oh no, I must have thought in the milliseconds, “not my pretty face.”
Instead, the Stupidest Bitch in the World has flung the door open and then turned to become preoccupied with something in the passengers seat, just leaving her door hanging open for me to slam into. Which I did, at about 20 miles per hour. Now, if her car had been a truck, or a better built American type car, but lucky for me, I slammed into some German piece of shit and the door kind of shimmied and the Stupidest Bitch in the World shit her pants and my body sort of melted into the shape of a drivers side Volkswagon Beetle and my whole world stopped there for a second. Then, just like that the Stupidest Bitch in the World was towering over me, yelling because I had the audacity to have slammed into her illegally parked car and her equally illegal opened door.
“Oh hell no!” my brain said and I jumped to my feet, grabbed my non-broken bike and remembered that if I hightailed it away from the Stupidest Bitch in the World and made it to the ferry, I could still manage to meet my youngest daughter who would be giggling as she jumped off her bus and expecting her daddy to come flying down the hill on his super fast cycle. I did too.
Sometime later that night I think I had bruises all over my body. That broken down and beaten up cycle is still with me, leaning against a wall about 5 feet away from me right now. My giggling young daughter is out in the world, somewhere on the streets of Paris, probably happily having fun and the Stupidest Bitch in the World, I have no idea, I never ran into her again.
I also just found out that I have to run back up to New York City, which means I get to mention the Fiat 500 again, and as anyone who reads this blog knows, that means I just made another 25 cents. Then I will be off to the West Coast for two full months of bike riding.
Then it’s back to the blistering heat of Pittsburgh to watch the Pirates attempt a World Series run. I wrote that last part just to see if anyone else is drinking.
I bring all this travel up because I was once again reminded of the fragility of the human body recently when I was riding my bike on a busy road near a local church. I watch for car doors opening by force of habit solely because of the Stupidest Bitch in the World.
Before I met the Stupidest Bitch in the World I had never used the term bitch to describe a woman. In fact, I was so politically correct that if a friend has used the word bitch and I was telling another friend about this friends use of the word, I would say, “so Glen called Lydia a B-word,” unable to actually use the word bitch myself, that is how politically correct I had become.
That was until I met the Stupidest Bitch in the World.
There was a time many years ago, when I was in very good cycling shape and I was very close to fearless, even in city traffic. In retrospect I may have been just a shade close to insane, because I would ride through the streets of Seattle at a very high rate of speed, almost hyper aware of everything that was happening around me. Nothing would be missed, the woman leaving the store on my right, 100 yards ahead of me, not paying attention, she was heading toward the road, so I would note that she would probably step off the sidewalk completely unaware of me and the speed of my cycle in the middle of a warm Spring day. Or the father and his children, skipping happily, he wanting to show them how much he had moved on from the divorce, so happily skipping, never bothering to notice me, shooting past at 23 miles per hour, but I noticed him, and the kids, who came within about 3 feet of my back tire.
Those days, I noticed everything, except the Stupidest Bitch in the World. I was flying down First Avenue, trying my best to make the 1:10 ferry leaving Seattle for Bainbridge Island, my home at the time. I had a young daughter who would be getting off the bus right as I crested the top of the mountain and I would glide down that mountain and meet that bus just like clock work, if I could catch that ferry, so my head was down and my feet were peddling and I was moving down a road cluttered with traffic and shoppers and all the rest of a busy society. It was not a society I was unfamiliar with and I had raced right through it numerous times before. This time, however, the Stupidest Bitch in the World just happened to be parking her fairly new Volkswagon Beetle in a “no parking zone” and with no warning what so ever, she shot her drivers door open, right into the sliver of room that I had carved out between me and the traffic on First Avenue. I missed the door actually opening, as I was taking in the proximity of the bus next to me, thats’ closeness was keeping me right next to that line of parked cars. When her door was opened it gave me no real option, I could lay my bike down immediately and probably be dragged under the buses back tires, or I could just crash my bike, almost at full speed right into her opened door, or god forbid, the Stupidest Bitch in the World could close her door and I would get the edge of the door probably right in my face, oh no, I must have thought in the milliseconds, “not my pretty face.”
Instead, the Stupidest Bitch in the World has flung the door open and then turned to become preoccupied with something in the passengers seat, just leaving her door hanging open for me to slam into. Which I did, at about 20 miles per hour. Now, if her car had been a truck, or a better built American type car, but lucky for me, I slammed into some German piece of shit and the door kind of shimmied and the Stupidest Bitch in the World shit her pants and my body sort of melted into the shape of a drivers side Volkswagon Beetle and my whole world stopped there for a second. Then, just like that the Stupidest Bitch in the World was towering over me, yelling because I had the audacity to have slammed into her illegally parked car and her equally illegal opened door.
“Oh hell no!” my brain said and I jumped to my feet, grabbed my non-broken bike and remembered that if I hightailed it away from the Stupidest Bitch in the World and made it to the ferry, I could still manage to meet my youngest daughter who would be giggling as she jumped off her bus and expecting her daddy to come flying down the hill on his super fast cycle. I did too.
Sometime later that night I think I had bruises all over my body. That broken down and beaten up cycle is still with me, leaning against a wall about 5 feet away from me right now. My giggling young daughter is out in the world, somewhere on the streets of Paris, probably happily having fun and the Stupidest Bitch in the World, I have no idea, I never ran into her again.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Sunday, June 3, 2012
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