Jump. Both Feet.

My old stomping grounds were the Northwest suburbs of Chicago. As I was growing up, my aunt and her two children, Heb and Beefcake, lived two blocks from us. My dad's parents lived about 20 minutes from us; my mom's, 40 minutes. My dad's brothers and sisters along with my seven other cousins were within an hour radius of our house. I lived there for about 14 years. I ended up moving a couple of times within the northwest/west area. I worked at the same place for 14 years.

Looking back I can't imagine why I didn't move up to Eau Claire sooner. But then, when I'd lived in Illinois, the thought of leaving every last thing I had come to know and love was a fearful and anxious deal. Until my last parental anchor (I mean that in a good way, Momma) moved to Atlanta. After that, I felt...homeless. I moved in with two other women my age...and couldn't stand it. Aside from living way south of where I worked, I had to commute in what can only be described as a most heinous journey of gridlock, a multitude of stop lights and nearly an hour in the car one way. Then I moved in with my aunt for a year, and as that time passed, and the realization that affording my own place wasn't going to work the way I wanted it to, Eau Claire started to appeal. I had no attachments in Illinois, other than friends and extended family. The job was never that important, but moving away from my social circle, small though it may have been, was something I wasn't ever sure I could do. I didn't have any work lined up in Eau Claire either, despite some dedicated effort to snag employment prior to the move.

But I did it. Granted, I had a comfort zone to move to...I've been to Eau Claire many times before I moved here and having my dad and brother living up here made the decision less intimidating. But the move made me realize that it's true what all those adults had been telling you your entire life (see? They aren't as stupid as we all once thought!): The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. You never know if you don't try.

Since I finally determined I was going to move, it's like this part of my brain has suddenly awakened and I've become so much more brave than my former self. Sure, it's not exactly Medal of Honor courage that makes you move to a new town, or try something that you've never tried before. But it's your own battle against whatever you fear, no matter how small. I fully expect the possibility of failure or face a rough road ahead at whatever I do...at first. Where once long ago the voice in my head would say, "Why bother? You won't be good at it," I now hear, "Why not? You won't be good at it at first."

Failure, I've learned, is a necessary part of everything you do. Human beings cannot be perfect in whatever they attempt. It's also not the way the universe works. Without failure we wouldn't have evolution, advances in technology and science, or medicine. Failure is a required piece of experience.

So, being afraid of failing? Utterly ridiculous. Face the fact that you will likely fail, but what makes a difference is if you keeping trying regardless. I always like to recall something about Thomas Edison failing 1,000 times before he got the incandescent light bulb to work. To put a better spin on his experience, he said, "I have not failed 1,000 times. I have successfully discovered 1,000 ways to NOT make a light bulb." But what other ideas or inventions did those 1,000 times yield? Did one of those attempts steer him in another direction as well?

I'm soapboxing here because I like to think I'm an example (and improving) of the "What the hell?" philosophy. It started with "The Move" and it's only been limited by my finances at the time or my not thinking big enough. Motorcycling was one. Pinstriping is another (oh yes, Me of Little Art armed with a brush...no surface is safe). My first attempt is flippin' HORRIBLE, but I'm still excited about what's to come. Maybe I'll become renowned as a "primitive pinstriper." Guitar lessons (good lord, maybe even singing lessons) are coming as soon as I pay off the 50cc dirt bike I bought last month...for improving my sportbike riding, believe it or not. Okay, so it's really because I'm lazy and would like my own pit bike when I'm trackside. But a neat side effect might be excelling at motorcycling on the street. Why? Because I'm more brave on such a small, slow bike and it presented itself as a much less stupid idea than screwing around on my sportbike.

Maybe you're pinched for cash. Maybe you are completely occupied with your children. Maybe you're "stuck" in a rotten relationship. Find a quiet place, sit down, relax, hash out what's the worst that happens if you change direction? You risk your money? There's more to be found. Think bigger, broader. You have no time? Bet you could find some. Don't go up and down the stairs 20 times a day. Plan out multiple tasks for one trip. Maybe you free up 5 minutes to learn Japanese that way, a little bit at a time.

Fear is stupid, limiting, and keeps you from becoming a well-rounded person. Think of it this way...how much time do you have left if this is the only life you get? Wouldn't you want to be able to say you've accomplished so much and you wouldn't change it for anything? And be proud of that??

Jump. Both Feet.

Tribal Holiday

My super-duper creative mother brought a bucket o' crafty bits to the post-Thanksgiving Day dinner table when we were all in Chicago visiting my family. Here's what we came up with...

So when Mostly Naked saw my masterpiece (front row, 3rd from right), he thought that was our only Christmas decoration in the house. He also thought I made it in grade school. Proof that I'm an ARTEEST with the big vocabulary, not so much the mixed media. Keep in mind, we haven't seen MN actually make anything...except a mess of his motorcycle.

Winter at the EC Tribe's house this year doesn't involve housing any less motorcycles in the living room. Just smaller ones. The one in the lights is my gift to me.

My most excellent gift to the boys...honestly I don't even care if they don't like them (though I think they did)...I just think these posters are the coolest thing. I could stare at them for hours. More, though, at my own poster, hanging up in our "Command Center." me. me. me.

Happy holidays!

Gary is 60

As I've gotten older, I've become more interested in other people's perspectives, particularly when they're from another generation. I've started grilling my parents and anybody who wants to share stories from their past. A couple of weeks ago, one of the gentlemen I work with celebrated his 60th birthday. Gary is actually retired. But the man is stuffed full of energy and, honestly, I can't see him slowing down any time soon. He worked for 30 years at UW-Stout in their Publications Department and upon retiring, started with us a year or two ago.

I'm constantly grilling him about what hobbies he enjoys (locomotives, old cars, particularly Oldsmobiles and I think he has a Studebaker), what his family is like (his mom is in her 90s, but you'd never guess as active as she is), has he ever smoked pot, what it was like for him growing up. He's a soft-spoken man with a positive outlook and, while I have the mouth of a sailor, he never utters so much as a "gosh," has no vices, or even shows any emotion other than a smile and a sincere laugh. He's probably the most even keel I've ever met. We talked about this and I remarked that he's a kind of laid-back stoic. On his birthday, I asked him, "What's the biggest change in society you've seen over the years?"

His response was how things that were once considered taboo are now a common part of society. Which, if you look to 60 years ago, wow.

Sure...from my own point of view (and I'm just guessing here), women almost always wore dresses, were homemakers, made up their hair and wore makeup every day. Piercings were only on ears and only on females. Tattoos were almost exclusively on sailors. Nobody swore in the movies, no butt cheeks were bared on TV. Blood spray from gunshots and charred corpses were never seen. Cops and their trailer park targets were behind-the-scenes. Paparazzi was non-existent, nobody videotaped you cheating on your wife. Female presidential candidates? Ridiculous. A black president? Not likely. Definitely a different time.

Aside from all the usual bits of trivia you see in those "In the year you were born..." articles, give this a mental chewing...

Gary was:

• 5 years old when the Korean War ended
• 9 years old when the Soviets launched Sputnik
• 11 years old when Hawaii became the 50th state
• 15 years old when Kennedy was assassinated
• 21 years old when the first man landed on the moon

So much of human history can be revealed just by talking to the person next to you.

While I was looking for events over the last 60 years, I found this article from 1958 where Popular Mechanics made predictions for what life would be like in 2000. Amusing and a little unsettling at the same time.

*****

Gary's answer to "have you ever smoked pot?"? "I'm saving up all my vices for when I'm 80." "So," I asked, "It'll be all, 'Help me to the can [urp]! And don't spill my bong water! And for *$&%'s sake! This time try not to catch your finger on my piercing!'?" At 80. hee hee.

It is with some degree of regret that I didn't think to get all the juicy stories out of my grandparents while they were still alive. Thankfully, my parents and their siblings offer glimpses of times past, and it's inspired me to work on a project. So if you're a part of my life? Don't be surprised to see an email from me soon grilling you on your past.

Some individuals can make big impressions on society in general, but, in my opinion, the collective stories of humans growing up have a bigger impact. Those stories are the ones that make you feel not so alone.

Christmas Torture

Brother and I have a long-standing tradition each year at Christmas. The two of us historically have had ants in our pants a matter of days before the event and, despite the fact that we're both in our 30's, this has not lessened where giving each other presents is concerned. What sustains us for another few days is each of us once agreed when we were much younger that I would let him open one present from me and he gave me one from him to open. Really, it's not so much of an agreement, more of a necessity. It's so hard to get wired for a holiday that the consumer-driven world starts marketing to death in SEPTEMBER, and then you're repeatedly bombarded with sales, traffic and people for months to come. It's funny, but this little burst of excitement is so sweetly painful to both of us that only one present a piece, opened early, seems to be an aspirin of sorts. I don't think we've even ever told either of our parents just how many years we've been committing this taboo act.

I only have one present for Tommy this year and I'm so truly excited about the gift I'm giving him and a similar one I have for Mostly Naked, that everything else tied to the holiday is eclipsed. I even surprise myself with this spirit of giving, because for most of the year, in my own head anyway, it's "gimme, gimme, gimme."

Last night, as Brother is signing the pile of mutual Christmas cards (yes, those of you who are receiving, they're gonna be late), I'm sitting on the bench by our picture window, looking at my first real tree in years, modestly decorated and with presents from my mom tucked under it. And the case of beer for M.N. (not the present I'm excited about, btw).

I inform my brother that I've only given him one present this year, so it looks like our tradition will be somewhat fractured. And honestly, I don't even care if he doesn't honor his end of the deal...me--> too excited about my gift to him. After a few minutes, I say to him, "Wanna open it?" He replies without looking up from signing, "Nope."

Me: "DAMN YOU!"
Brother looks up and says, "Look, it's not like I don't know what it is...I saw you bring it in and the shape was a dead giveaway."
Me: "I don't care if you know what it is already. I'm just so spazzed out about you opening it and seeing how utterly awesome it looks."

I begin to go into detail regarding how I snagged the item necessary for Mostly Naked's similar present (not the beer). Which is to say, sneaky web surfing, discreet contacts, and a tiny bit of subterfuge. He interrupts me in mid-sentence...

Brother: "Wait? That's what you got me??"
I halt, my mouth hanging open.
Me: "DAMN YOU!"
Brother: "I'm kidding. I knew already."
Me: "DAMN YOU!" I'm actually shaking my head back and forth and stomping my feet rapidly in a seated tantrum. "Wanna open it?"
Brother: "Nope."
Me: "DAMN YOU!"
Him: "You know, as much fun as the 'open one early' thing is...torturing you? WAY more fun."
Me: Silence. Damn him.

Would he make a great hostage negotiator or what? ...or maybe I'm just that big a sucker.

Switching Gears Makes Kuj Laugh

I'm easily amused not only by farts, but also by celebrities who are willing to step outside their usual roles. Examples. Enjoy! I did.

Natalie Raps

Give It On Up Wit JT

Robert Downey Jr is the dude playin' the dude, disguised as another dude

Tom Cruise Playa

Coming soon...some more cerebral junk. About me, of course.

Carrots behind your ears, fruit in your armpit

I went grocery shopping last week, a requirement that I absolutely HATE to do, no matter that I'm eating marshmallows for dinner. I only do grocery shopping when the poo tickets dwindle to within two squares.

I had to pick up some deodorant and, I just want to know...what the hell happened that caused the Secret deodorant manufacturers to get the idea into their head that I'd want to smear ASIAN PEAR scent under my arm? Vanilla chai?? Really. If they were smart, they'd manufacture underwear instead. (insert naughty grin here).

Gentlemen, Start Your Looting!

I am an atrocious actress.

My dad was pulled over by a state trooper for speeding as we were heading "into town" (I love saying that....couldn't, living in suburban Chicago), and the trooper asked, "Are you Tom's dad?" I immediately cackled out loud and thereby ruined any fabricated story Fahjah was going to come up with to get out of a ticket. The trooper knew Brother and was apparently amused by the whole thing, therefore we were released ticket-free. Wait. What? Let go ticket-free? Because of my brother??

Here's the reason I couldn't contain myself: Most of Brother's driving past is checkered with hooligan behavior involving all sorts of vehicles. The EC is not a big town (62K) and I remember hearing Fahjah talk about the occasional co-worker who would approach my dad and say something to the effect of "Hey, I saw your son yesterday..." followed by a detailed tattling involving, say a one-wheeled pass for example. Eventually my dad must have started doing the mental version of the fingers in the ears while singing "Mary Had a Little Lamb" out loud just to tune out the "Hey, I saw your son yesterday" conversations. Brother's exploits had started to become legendary; his employer at the time had stickers made and sold them to anyone who was on the same make of motorcycle as him. Stated plainly to deter the po-po from exercising retribution, "I'm not Tom."

Another example: At a toga party, when a handful of drunken us had somehow climbed a 7-foot wrought iron fence to go skinny-dipping, it seemed the cops were there before I had even completed one lap. When asked to hand over my driver's license, instead of silently obliging in an effort to avoid further legal issues, I cracked, "It's in my other birthday suit." What saved my ass? Higher priority call in the area. Whew.

So, relying on me to play a joke on someone, or to blatantly lie to a victim of a prank, or to utter a boldfaced fib to get my way...I suck. If I'm the criminal mastermind and I am free from the stress of face-to-face interaction with the patsy during the prank, I rock (see: Golf is Satan's Game). So, should you choose to involve me in misdemeanor crime, I'm like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get.

Some time ago, when I lived in the Land of Flat, prior to my nasty streak as Junior Pranker, I worked in IT (1 company, 14 years, 4 different jobs). Occasionally, travel to sales rep offices would be required to set up networks, install new computers, etc. On this particular trip I drove the 2 hours north to Milwaukee on a fine June day. Whatever was required of me at that sales office was going to take the better part of a week, so I got a hotel room and visited with a couple of friends when I wasn't working at the local sales office. The upcoming weekend was the Indy car races at the Milwaukee Mile. My dad had been going to this June race (the weekend immediately following the Indy 500) for years and since, at that time, Fahjah and Brother had been living up here in the EC, this was a good opportunity to spend time with them, so I kept the hotel room for the weekend. We went for dinner Saturday night at the Safe House...a Milwaukee landmark. Afterward, some mischievous energy overtook all three of us...we were headed back for the hotel when my elder spied a race banner out in front of a liquor store, zip-tied to a fence. Brother, impish devil that he is, brainwashed Fahjah into "freeing" the banner from its moorings. And the feeding frenzy began.

Eventually, Fahjah decided he should return to the hotel room "to post bail." Brother and I went back out in my trusty 2-door (man, I miss having a sunroof...and manual transmission). "Lovely evening for asshattery, don't you think?" After lifting our 4th or so banner, Brother spied the mother lode. All lit up, definitely bigger than the previous "finds"...and TWO STORIES UP. Looking back, I suspect it was my brother's Mount Everest. Why? Because it's there.

The owner of that now-closed-for-the-evening establishment thought he was so smart, mounting his banner way up there. As the getaway driver, I parked behind the building and waited. Like a blond, gangly ninja, Brother bounded off toward the side of the restaurant, while I watched through tear-filled eyes (What? You thought I'd make it through this without hysterical, paralyzing laughter? We were lucky I could manage to compose myself enough to drive back to our room. My mug shot would've looked like I survived a tear-gas attack, but only just so). Somebody had the convenient foresight to install a chain-link fence only a couple of feet from the building and it was excessively high, as if to say, "Let NO height deter you from that misdemeanor, er...banner!" Brother scampered up between the fence and the brick wall like a monkey and disappeared over the top of the Mansard-style roof.

Finally a giant wad of noisy, crumpled plastic flew through the air and landed feather-like on the pavement near my car. My brother climbed down just as nimble as going up, though I didn't see it. I was too busy with my head rammed against the steering wheel, cackling merrily (and likely loud enough to alert the neighborhood) while the tears ran and the snot flowed. While I sucked in a gasp of air, I heard "Pop the trunk!" and blindly reached for the lever. Brother hopped in next to me and reported that the banner was stapled the entire way around and, at first, he tried to be stealthy; the banner was completely illuminated. He reached one arm over the edge of the roof and started out picking at a corner of the banner, popping the staples out carefully, while trying not to expose too much of his theivery to the passersby below. Realizing it would take too long, he said he finally just stood up, grabbed the corner, ran the length of the roof, and ziiiiiip! One swipe, no more staples. When we returned to the room and I rested my aching sides, I swear I saw a gleam of pride in Fahjah's eyes.

That banner was later stapled to the ceiling of my dad's garage. Brother stapled it starting at the corner where it met one wall...across the two-car-width garage...

...and down the opposite wall another 3 feet.

I told you it was big.

The Bucket Brigade

I'm not a parent and I realize I'm lacking the "if I actually had a child, I'd think differently" belief, but it's of my own poor opinion that we have become an overly-padded society. I never think twice about wearing all of my gear when I get on my motorcycle, but bicycling down the street? Helmets for roller-blading? Come on. Grow some neck muscles. I wear my gear because I must (in my head)...motorcycling has the potential for extremely painful and/or deadly injuries, even at 30 miles an hour. But if you are struck retarded hitting the curb with your melon while riding a ten-speed, my friend, that's not irresponsible. That's survival of the fittest.

Growing up, I've gotten scars; my brother had chipped a tooth...in fact, a couple of times we've wounded each other permanently (thermostat to the scapula and alledged steak knife wound in the hand); this is stuff that just happens when you're growing up. Actually, all the scars have stories. There's the two-inch scar on my stomach from where my cat launched off me when I was high school age. I have a visible scar from where the kite string burned through the skin in my wrist in grade school when I was trying (unsuccessfully) to fly a kite down my street...a talent I seem to be lacking even now. My knees crunch audibly in yoga class...they don't hurt...I know one is crunchy from dislocating it long ago, not sure why the other one emulates.

Brother sports a scar under his chin from barreling down a hill on his face instead of his mountain bike. He likes to tell people that the hospital gave him internal stitches as well as external because there wasn't enough "meat" to close the wound. There's the one on his elbow from another sports-related incident.

We know how we "earned" all our scars, and yet, somehow we survived them all. We played in the dirt, we stomped in the rain puddles barefoot, we've thrown sand in each other's face. We didn't have anti-bacterial blahty-blah, HEPA yadda-yadda, anti-microbial schmala-schmal. We had chicken pox, colds, stomach flu (okay, maybe the world would be a better place without stomach flu...that really blows). I really believe that without the dirt, scum and bacteria around, we'd all be frail and asthmatic. I'm probably alone in this line of thinking, but I'm starting to see it in the children that are being raised around me. The ones who fall and go boom, skin a knee, get back up and move on are growing up healthier than the ones slathered in alcohol hand rub and living in Filtreted homes.

As I write this I realize, if I ever have kids, they're gonna be dirty as sin. ;-)

Global Warming is the poo. Take a big whiff.

Riding in November? Never thought I'd experience that up here. Winter seems to come a little earlier here in the Chippewa Valley. Earlier than in Illinois, and that's only about 4 hours south of here. As a motorcyclist, I jump on any opportunity to ride if it's warm enough out. I usually save the desperate, upper 30 degree rides for the beginning of the year, when I've been off the bike so long, I fear I will have forgotten how to ride.

So it was a balmy upper 70's a couple of days right around Halloween. I've said it before and I will reiterate again: I have the best boss. Ever. I like to think I work hard for the man and I try not to ask for much. But my resolve was weak when, after a few weeks of temps in the 40's, then we get the mid-70's days, I begged for an opportunity to bail out of work at noon. And he let me. Twice.

I recently purchased a sweet digital video camera that's small, waterproof, and mountable. My dad happily (almost giddily, I'd say) fabricated a custom mount for the gas tank on the Freaky Tiki and it all works most splendidly. With that, I'd like to share a sample of video footage from an October 30th ride, complete with my one of my top ten favorite riding songs ("Hard Sun" by Eddie Vedder). I'm trying out some new video editing software, so this is kinda messy amateurish.

Hwy 95 is out near Arcadia, Wisconsin and it's a relatively unremarkable road. You typically won't find us riding on it except for this one spot. Although, after this hill climb, the rest of 95 is all fast sweepers, which, it turns out, are my favorite kind of turns.

Not bad for a hundred dollar camera eh? M.N. and my brother, whom are experienced, fast, and are my motorcycling mentors, are officially uncomfortable watching me. I call that a win. Not because I'm fast...I'm not. But because I've progressed so quickly in one season, they may not be convinced that I've tapped my true ability to ride well. I have miles to go, yes, but the second half of this season has made me prove to myself that I do, indeed, have some great potential at this sport. Sorry, Momma. [insert evil laughter here]

Row Row Row Your Boat...Your Dad Will Kick My Ass

My mom's parents had a cottage up on Twin Bear Lake near Iron River, Wisconsin. Up until the early-mid 80's, we had traveled up there every summer for a week or so to take in the scenery and live among the giant spiders. And black bears. And skunks. And raccoons. You never would've caught me outside after dark. The spiders alone were enough to conjure up terrifying stories of small children being carried off by one of them.

I was never a fishing/hunting kid. Worms were ishy, and if I was ever forced to bait my own hook, it was all I could do keep the barf down when the hook poked through worm flesh. Same for removing the inevitable bluegill from the hook. Any fishing off our dock with me involved one other person, usually my mom or dad, and I'd swing the fishing pole at them to either bait or remove.

Despite all this ookiness, I have some great memories of my time up in the cottage...aluminum tumblers, the (now) retro kitchen table and chairs (yeah, the sparkly red vinyl!), Uncle John's Bathroom Book. The book always sat on the toilet tank and as a kid, it was taboo. I suppose I spent a longer amount of time in the can, sneaking peeks at it while doing my business. This is probably why I now spend WAY too much time in the bathroom. The bathroom is my second library at this point.

The cottage was perched right on the edge of a drop down to the lake. There were a series of stairs leading down to the dock, the railing made from birch tree branches. I never used the railing. Giant spider haven. Even then, filled with the exuberance and stamina of a child, the run back up the stairs to the cottage was sucky.

On the property was a pump house that resembled a little red barn and a mysterious thumping sound could always be heard coming from it...another place I steered clear of. Amazing, really, the things that creep you out as a kid, where if you had just asked someone, you still would've steered clear of it, likely, but at least you'd know what it was. Imagination is a powerful thing.

There was also a big garage constructed of white corrugated panels. I think the roof (maybe the walls too) were fiberglass, because I was always in awe of the amount of light and the airy feeling inside the garage. It smelled like worms and fishing tackle and there was a big old white fridge, that was always stocked with bait and Pop Shoppe pop. The cream soda and strawberry flavors never lasted long when I was there visiting.

Those of us non-sportsman guests spent a lot of time picking blackberries, traveling in the "Iron River Bus" to the dump to get an up-close look at the black bears, and catching painted turtles with a net in a quiet corner of the lake and racing them off our dock later. Heather and I would sit out in the rowboat in that lily-pad strewn spot as much as we could. She was a pro at the catching and eventually trained me as a competent second-in-command. We would even catch extra for my little brother and anyone else up visiting, so we could all participate in the turtle race.

Once, Heather's friend Jenny was with us and we took her with to the turtle catching spot. I think it was her first time in this event and she was having trouble catching anything. When she finally did net her first turtle, we pulled it aboard and EW. A giant nasty leech was parked on top of the turtle's shell. As Heather tried to scrape the leech off the turtle with the frame of the net while Yertle was perched on the edge of the rowboat, we all shrieked like banshees and I'm sure if anyone was within earshot, it would've set their hair on end. One final attempt at scraping and the turtle pivoted too much toward the water and PLOP! Back to the depths of the lake, turtle and leech backpack. And the shrieking halted abruptly at the same time as the splash. Then silence. Then the shrieking was replaced by loud, raucous laughter. Dude, leeches are grody.

On the other side of the lake from our cottage was a beach that we would hang out at once in a while, and not far from it, after we'd row under a bridge was a bigger version of our turtle catching area. Huge lily-pads, water bugs, weeds. Heather is older than I am and she would always be the designated rower. One late afternoon, we took our nets and rowed out to the far side of the lake, I can't remember now, but it felt like it was hours away by rowboat. We spent some time out in the pond hunting for more turtles, but no joy. When we started back for the cottage, we were losing daylight and mild panic started to set in. We both had a good sense of direction, and I don't remember being all that concerned about not being able to find our dock, the lake wasn't that big. What was disconcerting was the absolute, utter blackness that would settle in once the sun went down. No moon that night, of course.

So, there we were, in the middle of the lake, and there was no way to tell where sky met trees met shore. I doubt if we could see each other in the boat. There's me...violating my "after-dark" policy, and I could swear every nasty creature was swarming around our boat waiting for one of us to fall in. Heb just kept plugging along with the oars and I sat in the front of the boat, feeling very small. At some point, we both noticed a flashing light coming from the direction of our dock. Yea! Somebody's trying to help us find our way! Ulp. It's my dad. I can't POSSIBLY imagine that he's pleased with us at the moment. And that, right there? Was the moment that every nasty creature disappeared from around the boat and was replaced by that icky gut feeling you get when you are row, row, rowing your boat toward ugly punishment.

I don't remember my dad ever hitting me except once when I got a crack across the rear end for some transgression. Nevertheless, in my mind, he was never someone I wanted to cross. Just being in the mere presence of him when you know you did something wrong was suffocating. I don't know how Heb felt at that point, but as we rowed toward the dock and I recognized the voice as that of my dad's, well, I have to admit at this very moment as I type this, I can't remember anything after that. Well, except for that overwhelming urge to flop down on the dock, kiss a giant spider and wail, "Land!"

Happy Thanksgiving

Bucking the system, the Kuj Tribe way

Brother and I are thinking this is a prime piece of living room furniture. So much so that we're considering reassembling his old bunk bed (upper decker only) my dad made for Brother when he was little, and buying a decent looking futon bed/couch thingy for under it.


Thirty-somethings (three of them), who have been spotted--more than once--outside in their stretchy clothes, living in a house with a bunk bed/futon combo in their living room. Outside the norm? Most definitely. Funky? Or just creepy? You decide.

Btw, we actually went to this store to check out the couch behind this contraption. When we attempted to take it down off the rack it was perched on, the arm on the side I was lifting popped off and clocked me in the jaw (it was upholstered and cushy). I had to lay down on another couch and wait for the laughing/crying jag to pass. We get the couch to where we can sit on it and mess with it (in the aisle, likely blocking fire routes). Brother flattens it out into a bed (it's one of those cheesy klik-klak things), proceeds to lay down across it and I watch as it tips to one side and nearly ejects him. The look on his face and the position (picture trying to push a cat into a toilet...limbs splayed): more laughing jag. And some drooling. And definite flood of tears. Never mind when Brother tried to vault himself up onto the top bunk and instead managed to crush his junk when he slammed into the front of it.

We've decided to blame all this store hijinks on the two of us working 10 hour days all this week. Brother+slap happy=destruction of property. Me+slap happy=fits of hysteric laughter. This has been proven in the past, such as the late night run through Milwaukee before the Indy car race. That is another story, however.

*****

The CVSC has a funny pics thread and this one has been in there for a while. But it's taken on a life of its own as of two days ago during our pre-dawn commute.


I had recently posted new funny pictures on the thread and you have to scroll down past the Gothopotamus shot to get to the new pics. I even dwelled on it for a while once again before going to the newest post. As previously stated, Brother and I have been commuting to work together. We work within a mile of each other and the 20 minutes together saves us gas, and my boss is gracious enough to allow me to adjust my schedule (and get overtime...never bad). I'm excessively groggy first thing in the morning, Brother is fairly quiet at that time too. As we ride up to Chippewa, he sighs and says quietly, "Gothopotamus." To which we both begin to chuckle softly. And it builds into laughter.

That night, as we are driving home, we're trying to figure out the gender of the leashed one. I argue that it's a dude. Brother, and later, Mostly Naked, both believe it to be a female. The unfortunate (yet hilarious) side effect is that now Brother and I have started to add "opotamus" to the end of nearly any word we speak. Which, much in the way of farts, makes me giggle audibly. Every time....opotamus.

*****

I nearly forgot our stop at Menards prior to the sofa bed debacle. Brother was in the market for 3 8-foot pieces of 2x4 lumber. He handed me one and took the other two. As we were walking to the cash register I'm carrying my piece under one arm, Brother the two over his shoulder. Like a comedy we are...just waiting to happen. I keep poking him in the rear with my piece. He keeps saying "Stop shoving your wood in my ass." Well, now I'm having fun. It's not often a girl gets to walk around carrying her very own wood. I say, "I'm putting my wood up on the conveyor belt." Brother says to the dazed young cashier, "My good man, ring up my wood." I say, "Yeah, ring up his sister's wood too." Dazed young cashier giggles and rings up our collective wood.

Lack of sleepopotamus, I tell you.

*****

Lastly, a few nights ago, we were waiting at Papa Murphy's for our Steak Gorgonzola pizza (note: Mostly Naked does not favor Gorgonzola cheese in large chunks...I nearly jumped out of the way as it appeared he was going to vomit the one bite he took; needless to say, the remainder of the pizza was ours). I watched an elderly man nearly fall over as he turned around and shifted his weight dramatically to avoid this hole in the flooropotamus.

Trapped in a small space with nowhere to run, it took all the fortitude I could summon to not laugh out loud at himopotamus. I merely turned to my brother and managed to whisper, "That man nearly fell in that hole." Brother said, "There's a blog post." Indeedopotamus.

I'm glad I'm out of thoughts for this post. My stomach hurts from laughing...more...again. Cheers!

...opotamus.

All Skate! Everyone out on the floor!

I've had a couple of old Michael Jackson songs on my mp3 player for at least a year now. Old, as in, when Michael Jackson was still black. And...normal-looking. And you couldn't see his brain by way of his nostrils. I've played "Can't Stop Till You Get Enough" and "Rock With You" over and over and haven't gotten sick of them yet.

I'm a crazy Google monkey, I will admit. If a thought occurs to me and there's no one around to hear it...or I get that "you are such a retard" look, I turn to my trusty Google. Really, you can Google just about anything. "What date did Hitler invade Poland?" "What's this lump behind my ear?" "Who was the tallest man?" "Why do zippered hoodies make your t-shirt choke you?" No dice on that last one, though if you're looking to fashion a Bigfoot costume, there's your search sentence.

The MJ songs were two of my favorites that I remembered dimly from my childhood days spent at the local roller rinks. During a club ride a month or so ago, I recalled the reason why I liked those songs and when I got home, I googled "roller skating music," because I might be missing more fantastic songs and, sure as I'm typing, playlists posted by other people triggered all kinds of recollections.

Roller skating is definitely a 2nd generation pastime on my mom's side of the family. I wouldn't be surprised if my grandparents were skaters, but I know for certain my mom and her sister spent most of their teenage years at a rink.

There were at least three rinks near us at the time. My favorite was Fireside in Schaumburg. It had a smooth wooden floor that had been urethaned within an inch of its life. It was bright, airy, high-ceilinged. The center area for "moves" was surrounded by a waist-high wall with maybe four openings to escape from. There was a "roller coaster" along the back wall if you were into working harder at cracking your skull open. And not a helmet to be seen. The floor was almost pillowy, I tell you. I know I spent time there with my cousins Beefcake and Heb, but I vaguely recall skating with my mom and aunt when the organist would play at the rink. Yes, an organist. Dig it.

It was a horrible, horrible day for me when I learned that Fireside was closing down. Now, I was going to be forced to go to, ugh...Coachlite. Dark, cramped, lumpy-ass concrete floor. Hated it. Until I ordered a "suicide" (every flavor of soda from the fountain in one cup). And 4-foot long red licorice ropes, capable of leaving welts. Sometimes you'd eat them too. Or...OR! You could use the red licorice as a straw and SIP your suicide with it. Heaven. My hate relationship with Coachlite started to weaken after these discoveries. What final straw broke the hatin' back? Boys. Ah, hormones. From then after, Coachlite became THE place to flirt. Until I started drinking alcohol...then, surprise surprise, you could flirt ANYWHERE with the booze runnin' through you. But that was a little later down the road. You likely can't drink and skate...you'd spill your Pink Lady.

LOVED the front stopper. This is back in the day where dragging a skate actually slowed you down instead of sending you into a high-speed spin.

My dad had moved up to the Twin Cities near the twilight of my skating years. He hooked Brother and I up with a new-fangled invention that was big in Minnesota at the time and I KNOW Tom and I were the only two kids in the neighborhood if not the WORLD with these.

Yup. Those lace the whole way up.

Coachlite wouldn't let us bring them in. Hah.

Music? I put together a list of the most memorable for me.

"Situation" by Yaz
"I Wanna Rock With You" by Michael Jackson
"Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" by Michael Jackson
"Bad Girls" by Donna Summer
"You Dropped the Bomb on Me" by The Gap Band
"Freakazoid" by Midnight Star
"In My House" by The Mary Jane Girls
"Jam On It" by Newcleus
"It Takes Two" by Rob Base

Hopefully, this jogs the memories of Brother, Heb, Momma and Auntie and they'll share their thoughts, too.

I'm glad I decided to write up this post...I feel better now...it's miserable outside and I'm fighting the urge to go fetal until Spring. Somebody find me a roller rink with a bar. Ooo! Camelbak!

Start stocking up on cat food

I won't say who I voted for in this past election. Let's just say that, since Wednesday morning's results, I've been looking for ways to survive the all-but-certain implosion of my IRA, the probable increase in my property taxes, and the likely pounding my small business employer is going to take, all in the name of helping those who are too lazy to help themselves.

How to Make Alcohol from Common Table Sugar

I wonder if I can toast the generic version of Cocoa Krispies on a hot plate for flavor...maybe get something close to the taste of Beamish.

Also? Google reveals a number of Ramen cookbooks. Grilled. Seriously.

Internet Cookies, or Taking Baked Goods from Strangers

Cheryl, my faithful blog viewer and fellow blogger, "booed" my blog earlier last month. She posted a Halloween poem booing me in my comments section and then ordered my virtual ass over to her friend Claudia's blog, highlowaha.com. I, in turn, posted a comment that I had been booed. And, I apparently was the winner of a drawing for "boo-ees."

I've poked around in Claudia's site a little, but the creativity thing really only resides in me by way of words. Still, she comes up with some JENUS ideas. You should visit if you're looking for that creative whack upside the head...namely, the rest of my ingeniously creative family.

Anyway, my winnin's arrived Saturday via Jim, our trusty postal carrier. Here's what I won!

Don't be jealous of my sweet, sweet Hollow-weenie slips!

Brother test-drives the Internet cookies.

Come on, like I was going to try them first...that's why God made little brothers. Claudia also included a lovely note and a gift card for Starbucks. Thanks, Claudia and Cheryl!

My own stupid clothes are trying to kill me

I'm wearing a t-shirt today with a fleece zip-up hoodie over it. The hoodie is causing the t-shirt to slide back on my shoulders and choke me. Am I alone here? Is this another one of those universal mysteries?

Useless? Maybe not...

Don't let it ever be said that I didn't try to teach the world to dig post holes.

Working on a project for my job. Have a post in the works, but I'm trying to save my ass at the moment. Will check in soon I promise. Teaser: backwards, couples, all.

Let me whisper sweet nothings in your ear...

As in, I'm doing sweet nothing today.

I may have the best boss ever created by man. Thus, I am on vacation today. Short story...not that important.

Anyway, things of observation...

Remember that recipe I made with arborio rice and (GAG) tarragon? Well I still have the rice sitting in my pantry so I experimented a little last night. Chicken stock instead of water. A little butter. The rice. Follow the directions on the rice package. A little lemon juice and the only thing missing from my favorite Greek lemon-rice soup is well...soup. Sprinkle some Parmesan on it and delish! I used all chicken stock, which made it a little salty. You could probably ratio water and chicken stock for less salt. Tarragon, leave this home and be gone from my sight!

***

I'm still in bed, watching "Buffy, the Vampire Slayer" episodes on dvd, and this particular episode revolves around the school talent show. Which just reminded me of this skit I did in a talent show at our grade school with a then best friend of mine. We did that old phantom arms thing with a makeup demonstration. Kristie stood in front and spoke to the audience while she held her hands behind and I applied her makeup with my own arms...pretending they were her arms. Get it? If I remember it right, we got some good laughs. All right, this is how I remember it. We ROCKED. In my head.

In junior high and high school we started hanging out with decidedly different groups and eventually we drifted apart. Then, back in 2002, my mom noticed an article in the local Illinois newspaper. Not sure how I feel about it. I had forgotten about it until I was just watching this Buffy episode. I recall when I first read about it, how I really didn't have much reaction to it then either. Which makes me think I'm damaged or something. It was something of a "Meh" reaction. RIP, Kristie. I miss our friendship, brief though it was.

***

I've started reading Dispatches by Michael Herr. I think he's the guy who wrote the screenplays for "Full Metal Jacket" and "Apocalypse Now." He writes as a war correspondent while in Vietnam. You can tell in the writing. The point of view speaks volumes of a man exposed to horrors no one should ever see, and written by someone with a decided "dialect" of the 60's. All he left out is "man" after every sentence.

BTW, any guesses on why "Apocalypse Now" would be perpetually unavailable on Netflix? I still have yet to see the movie in its entirety.

***

I had a lovely list of things to do today: clean the house, whittle down the pile of excess belongings in my possession, clean the bike in prepration for bringing it in the house for the winter. In the immortal words of Dana Carvey as George Bush, "Not gonna do it." Shortly, I'll be moving into "Command Central (where we keep the BIG computers)" and playing video games till my butt falls asleep. Shower be damned!

Miss Crankypants

I went with Fahjah for the monthly Sam's Club run to pick up paper towels and poo tickets in bulk the other day. I also purchased chocolate in bulk, and while eating my weight in flavored chocolates typically will soothe my winter ravaged soul, this time it's not working...the cold weather is settling in...my S.A.D. is kicking into high gear, and I've started stocking the fridge with Beamish and the bathroom with Nyquil.

No more Stretchy Pants Sunday (strutting our stuff from garage to front door clad in black, snug Underarmor). No more watching MN mow our lawn...MN. No more using cars as moving pylons. No more sweet, sweet beach cruiser. No more hammock in the three-season porch.

Only things we'll have for the next half a year (whimper)? Beer, bonfires, fluffy white snow, chili (with beans, of course...ammo) and flannel sheets. And the crankiest of residents at La Casa de Gasa. I'm escaping for a week in Tampa as soon as the New Year hits. Once I let her know, I'm sure my mom will be excitedly planning to do all my favorite things as soon as I get off the plane...Go to a Florida Wal-Mart, grocery shopping, bicycle 50 miles on the bike trail, check the mailbox for snakes, etc. I'm hoping if I show up at her house with a case of her favorite Leinie's (and bulk chocolate (Dove, Momma)), I might get off easy.

After my first hardcore season of motorcycling, I'm looking forward to winter this year with all the joy and silliness of a Silkwood shower.

...But I'd STILL rather live here than in Florida. We Cheeseheads may be a more weather-worn, hardy people, but at least we're laid back and delightfully redneck. Worst thing that happens here is somebody lights his friend's balls on fire.

Netflix-a-go-go

Anybody want a free month trial of Netflix? Email me your address and I'll forward the freebie to you. Enjoy!

Come on....really?

I have a moment to relax here at work and I went poking around on MSN. Scanning the page, I see this link, Britons jailed, fined for having sex on Dubai beach. I never looked at the article...don't really care enough, but immediately I think to myself, "What? British people have sex?? Together??"

Too much of a good thing...

I've ridden the Freaky Tiki approximately 7,000-8,000 miles this season. By contrast, I think I've put maybe 1,000 miles on my Saturn Sedanmobile. Keep this in mind as you read on.

Today, I took my car. When I left work, my car was running on fumes. I arrived safely at the gas station just off the bypass on the way home. I pull up to the pump, and get out. Somebody thinks they're funny and put my gas hole (yes, gas hole) on the opposite side of my car from the pump. I get back in and move the car correctly into position and get out. Ha ha.

Also, I hope my car runs as good on Premium as my bike does. "Why the hell is gas $3.14?? Somebody just told me it's under 3 bucks! ....oh." Damn.

It's White Trash...but it's EXPENSIVE White Trash

I'm about halfway through Such a Pretty Fat by Jen Lancaster. I'm not quite cruising through it as fast as her other two books, but it's still a good, decadent read. I am an avid reader of her blog, Jennsylvania, as well. Today's post...laughed my ass off. I'm telling you, Jen and I were once one person, split into two separate and completely opposite halves, likely in an experiment gone awry. She is light. I am dark. She is fashionista. I am tomboy. She just doesn't know it yet.

And I sound like a stalker.

Swell.

http://www.jennsylvania.com/jennsylvania/2008/10/great-moments-i.html

Dahhhh....uhh....

"How does it happen that people stray from social instances and play with packing lists? Who are we to fly in the face of turmoil and dirt? There must be something more than this shape-based pricing."

Huh. That was interesting. I thought I'd start a new post, but suddenly had forgotten what I was going to write about. The sentence above was me just typing the very first words that popped into my head, and when I'd be at a loss, I looked around my immediate area for words to drop in (packing lists, shape-based pricing).

Try it! Post a comment of your senseless sentences. I want to see what your brain comes up with (still can't remember my original topic...).

Zzzzz...

It's 4:30 am. I've been awake since 2:30 am. I'm blaming the entire pot of tea I drank at Border's the night before for the insomnia. But since I laid in bed for two hours, staring at the ceiling thinking about things that do me no good, earning a paycheck seemed more productive. Hence I am at work now before even the Army gets anything done.

BTW, don't try to read a Jen Lancaster book in order to go back to sleep. It doesn't work. Too amusing. I should have picked up Whitman or The Selfish Gene. I can't get through those two books more than a page's worth before I'm out. I'm reading Lancaster's Bitter is the New Black. Since Trish and I spent four hours in a bookstore when she was VERY pregnant and the two of us nearly completely read through Lancaster's entire Bright Lights, Big Ass, I decided last night at Border's that it was time to read her other two books. Bitter highlights Lancaster's fall from Prada and Trader Joe's to Target and Jewel. I'm not too far in yet, but she's so snotty at the beginning of the book, I can barely stand to read it (good thing I know she's hilarious), and wish to slap her. Up until the part where she goes into the salon to get her hair colored and, it turns out, I'd rather slap the vacuous "girl behind the counter" that they have propped up at the computer. I heart Jen. I'm glad to see I'm not so out of touch with fashion that I don't recognize things like Lacoste, dupioni, cashmere, grosgrain, Neiman, and Michigan Avenue, so I can follow right along with her obsession with the finer things (though financially nutso in my eyes).

***

The sucky part is it's 52 out right now (heat wave!) though rainy, and I've been itching to get back on the bike after a week of car-driving. Since I can't tell when the insomnia will run out, four wheels seemed more prudent than two; even though motorcycling is what refreshes and enlivens me. No club ride yesterday because, of course, it had to start raining 20 minutes before I would've left the house...and then was rainy and cold the remainder of the day.

My brother installed hand warmers under his grips on his R6 this weekend, and of course, after making me test-drive them, now I need them. If my hands are warm, there's no stopping me.

Anyway, I give me about till sunrise before I'm sleeping on the keyboard. Good thing the keys are flat...

Because you just can't get enough...

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Random Weirdness

Waiting at a stoplight yesterday afternoon, I watched a flock of small birds, maybe 30 or so, wheeling around in the sky over some trees. They'd swoop back and forth like one, in a big circle shaped group, all of them making the same sharp turns at the exact same time, but never seeming to be in any danger of colliding into one another.

My brain --> How are they doing that? I bet it's bird "Simon Says." Or it's a bird air show. They're the precision flying team, the Blue Swallows. Oops. Green light.

***

Riding to work this morning, I look at the same deer crossing sign I pass every day. And I'm thinking back to a video an acquaintance of mine sent to me. It was video footage from a police car at night, emergency lights on and speeding on a two lane highway in the middle of nowhere. A big deer suddenly appears in the headlights on the left side of the road. Almost as soon as the headlights illuminate this deer, it decides to run out in front of the cop car. And literally explodes as it's hit by the cow catcher on the front of the car. Chunks of guts smear up the windshield. Totally barf-worthy.

My brain --> Are deer really that stupid? That can't be the case. Maybe they can't see right. Is it depth perception? They've only got one eye on each side of their heads. You need both eyes focusing on the same point to have depth perception...right? So if the deer stands perpendicular to the road, it can't tell how far away a car is right? If you cover one eye while you're driving, it affects how you see...maybe it's the same with deer.

***

Saw this in a catalog today, and thought it was just the most fun and quirky chandelier I've ever seen.

....how long is it going to be before I start wearing muu-muus, live with multiple cats and share their food?

Sweet Sweet Jeebus, what have I gotten into? Or, Kuj Armstrong and the Tour De Pants

Thanks for that title, Momma. When this blog makes me rich, I'm hiring you as Executive Tag-Line Creation Specialist.

Back on Saturday, August 20, I started out with a serious weekend plan. No showers, all gaming. As I wandered sleepily out to the three-season porch to dine on a bowl of cereal on Saturday morning, Mostly Naked was already out there. He asked, "Want to enter a bicycle race with me today?"

I'm stupid sometimes. I realize this. In fact I know I heard my brain stabbing itself and screaming, "NO! You are NOT going to say 'Sure'!"

"Sure!"

What? A bicycle race? Like, without engines? Me? Fatty McTubb? Pft. Good lord, the last time I actually rode a bicycle--before I just recently purchased my completely and utterly bitchin' beach cruiser--was, I think, when Reagan was President. I had tried here and there with a ten-speed that made sitting extremely uncomfortable days after (ew, yes, I know) and one time on one of my brother's old bikes...I would've gotten farther on a pogo stick. And pogo sticks likely bounce less than that bike did.

I repeat this time and again to people; I am built for comfort, not speed. At least as far as exercise is concerned. Or it's a thinly veiled way of saying I'd rather hack off my own fingers with a rusty spoon than participate in any aerobic exercise. I check my blood pressure occasionally. It's always disturbingly low, therefore, sweating, cramped lungs and knee pain, in my opinion, are nowhere NEAR chocolate and naps on the Pros side of the list of life.

I started attending a yoga class back in October last year and, for the most part, I've been going once a week, every week since then. I've never claimed that the one-hour-a-week exercise has helped me lose weight. Maybe it has. If nothing else, between yoga and what I do at work, I've improved somewhat in metabolism and muscle tone. I tend to believe, though, that it might be the bacon-and-bulimia program I've put myself on.

I'm kidding. I hardly ever eat bacon.

Kidding again. I actually just pay better attention to my eating habits. Smaller portions, less eating in general. Don't eat till you're stuffed. Stop earlier than you think you should and see if you're still hungry in a little while. Now, those of you who know me, don't start thinking that I've altered my lifestyle and eat healthy. Well..ramen is organic, right? I still eat junk food and processed food, and products made with white flour, and ice cream (love ice cream). I love chicken ramen, I occasionally go for McDonald's Surf-N-Turf, I love butter. And meat. I just don't eat as much of it. And damnit, if you want the ice cream, just eat the ice cream...don't eat a meal first out of guilt! That's me.

Now...am I a health nut? Hell no. Am I on a celebrity diet? Puh-lease. Am I keeping track of points? Good Lord no. But I've still managed to dump 10 pounds and they've stayed dumped for a number of months now. So when I die of cancer from the processed foodstuffs, I die thinner! I call that victory.

I've recently switched from a total yoga class to a Pilates/yoga combo class. Again, once a week for an hour. My guts start to hurt about a day and a half later and pain me for a couple of days after that. But something weird has happened. I guess I felt I was ready for more of a "challenge." I grumble about the dominatrix who runs the class (whom I absolutely adore, btw), but very nearly beg to be tortured more. Suddenly the pain is good. I don't get it. I think I might be broken...

***

Seriously...did I just say "Sure" to Mostly Naked? Holy cats, I think I did. So I go shower (pft, there goes THAT plan), throw on a pair of capris and a t-shirt (Triumph tee, of course...even when I'm not motorcycling, I'm motorcycling), and gym shoes. I have a kick-ass water bottle that Brother custom-painted, but no bottle holder on the cruiser. I throw a canvas bag over my shoulder and drop the bottle in the bag. I'm ready darn it...let's do this.

...Aaaaaannd, Mostly Naked is wearing bicycle shorts (they look like normal shorts (thank God), but have that thick butt pad in them), a bicycle helmet, clip-in binding shoes and he's riding a lightweight mountain bike with disc brakes and suspension. My bike has a springer front end (that's squeaky) and springs under the big-ass seat. My cruiser has to weigh something in neighborhood of 10 pounds more than Mostly Naked's floaty sport utility vehicle.

Any bets on whether I get through the "race" without crying? Or get through the race at all?

As it turns out, it's actually only a checkpoint ride with no fixed route. It started at 1 and one of the friendly, good natured, granola eaters says, "Be back here by 3:30." Ha. ...Ha...ha hahahahaha. When I rode up to the starting point with Mostly Naked, there were probably about 30 other riders. Not one beach cruiser. Lightweight, carbon-fiber, stretchy shorts, little dopey hats, bindings and road-racing bikes as far as the eye can see. One, even, without brakes and only one gear. Dead meat on a stick? Me.

Mostly Naked and I didn't work on a plan. We were given a list of checkpoints...5 I think, all spread out over the environs of Eau Claire. And we did them in numeric order. That might've been our first mistake. Also, the fact that we both took turns getting ourselves lost didn't help either. But so what? I had a good attitude (at least when I started out) that I wasn't going to get discouraged and that I WAS going to finish this here silliness.

The cruiser is actually a 7 speed in the rear wheel hub, so it's not like I had to grind through one gear the whole way. But if you ever look at an elevation map of Eau Claire...there's not much around here that's flat. A couple of particular hills (Birch/Madison and State Streets) are just painful to look at. Honestly? I kept trying to find minus 2nd gear. Had to walk those two bastard hills. Not Mostly Naked. The punk.

Mostly Naked was a saint. SAINT. He's in much better shape than me and, when we all first left the start point, and I watched the main group ride away out of sight within seconds, I looked over at him and said, "I understand if you want to start seeing faster bicyclists." He assured me he was just looking to enjoy the ride and not haul ass. Well, at some point he actually did haul ass...mine. Up one incline (minor though it was, but at that point it ALL felt like it was uphill), we grabbed hands and each took turns pulling one another up to the top. If I wasn't laughing so hard, I probably could've used him another 20 feet or so.

How'd we do? The last two checkpoints were supposed to have people manning them. They apparently gave up after 3:30. We rolled back to the start point...about 4:30...maybe 5. But we did it! Finished! Nearly 30 flippin' miles! Here's our route. While it may appear to not be that much on this map, we actually took the same route back in some places.

View Larger Map

I slept pretty good that night. No surprise there. The next morning, Sunday, I awoke bright-eyed and sore-tailed, slithered into the leather suit, hopped on my motorized two-wheeler and openly mocked every bicyclist I saw. Neener neener indeed.

Golf is Satan's Game

I realize it may be boring to some passersby because my blog leans heavily on motorcycling and its inherent adventures. So I was going back over some older posts and suddenly, stories from my past began to bubble up to the surface.

This one's a doozy...but probably only hilarious to me. Which is fine. My purpose in starting a blog was 1) to stop annoying the CV Sportbike Club forum-goers with my brain droppings and 2) to keep a sort of online record of my lifetime exploits, so that when I'm old and frequently crap myself, I can go back over all these posts and read about someone who didn't want to change the world, make a difference or do anything other than say, "I lived a good life." That said, on to the anecdote...except that, in the strictest sense, nothing I write about is short.

Back when I lived in Illinois, the company I worked at for 14 years had a golf league from April to September. I can't remember now why I got involved in the league. I suppose it was like anything else in my life that suddenly interested me...someone I liked, knew, or had a crush on inadvertently sucked me in. I enlisted the aid of a co-worker or two who knew how to whack a ball and before I knew it, I had a $100 set of lefty clubs and was hitting the driving range. A lot. Turns out if something doesn't immediately frustrate the crap out of me, I actually apply myself. Not that I ever got really good at golf...I think my lowest score was a 54 or 53 on 9 holes. But when that happened, it was right around when the U.S. Women's Soccer team won that big thing...and yes, in imitation of Brandi Chastain, I whipped my shirt off and ran around the green, in celebration, wearing...whatever the hell I was wearing under my shirt.

The usual Wednesday ritual involved 9 holes of golf, followed by a lovely evening in the company of good friends and co-workers, a friendly and hilarious bar staff and a pleasant atmosphere conducive to analyzing the game. Ach, we'd drink pitchers of beer and smoked cigars till we closed the place. Nearly every Wednesday. If the local authorities had ever caught on, they'd only have to work on Wednesday nights to fill their ticket/arrest quota for the month.

One of the more tame evenings, I had remained in the clubhouse along with a fellow coworker from my department, whom I affectionately referred to as "Junior." The little smart ass. To be fair...and on a tangent, Junior was a lot of fun. He brought out the prankster in me. Which I didn't know I had.

Prior to his departure on his first business trip with our boss, I informed him that, since he was leaving his vehicle in the parking lot over the next few days, he should give me the keys to his car in case it had to be moved. I was able to back that up with a true story, whereby I left my car in the parking lot one weekend...and was contacted on a Saturday that a local paving company was repaving the lot with a fresh layer of sealer. I was too late, and the dopes actually schmeared the goo directly around my car.

Junior gave me his keys and the next day, I called him to see how his trip was progressing. As I was sitting in his car. In line at a local car wash. You see, it was January or February and his car, a way fun RSX, was normally blue, but at this point was covered in an even layer of road salt. So I called him...never let on that I was in his car...or had made off with it, for that matter. I washed it, promptly returned it to the same parking space at work, then changed all his preset radio stations to Mexican stations. He'd probably claim to this day, that his car was clean when he left. Because all he was really upset about was the radio presets. He didn't believe that I actually took the car.

Another time, while he was on another business trip I cleaned his entire cubicle out (he's an engineer, ergo, a slob. He will, however, tell you that he has a "system."), and put up "This Space for Rent" signs. Take a look.

Great fun. For me.

Anyway, now that you have a little backstory into my relationship with Junior, it may help to understand where this next story comes from.

End of golf night. Junior and I are walking...er stumbling...uh yeah, walking back to our respective cars and I pull my trusty vehicle up to his driver side window to have a last-minute conversation with him. Honestly, I'm laughing right now as I type this. There was a lab tech who worked at the company who was, for lack of a better term, odd. And, looking back, I think, possibly smitten with me. Now, I will be the first to admit that my reaction to somebody being interested in me when I'm not interested in them, well, it turns into a Benny Hill skit. Because I'm a chicken-shit douchebag. At least I was. I think now I might just be chicken-shit.

Junior and I...chatting, driver side to driver side. Odd pulls up in his car on the other side of Junior, as I beg Junior, "Don't you leave me." Odd says to Junior, "I want to ask Kuj something." Me begging..."don't you dare....Junior...Junior!" As Junior slams on the gas pedal and flies away. To which I then slam on the gas pedal and fly away. Junior is gone. I mean gone. Like a fart on Wall Street...in the wind (props, Momma). Odd is hot on my trail as I haul ass out of the parking lot. I am already on my cell phone, calling Junior and coloring the air blue at him for leaving me. Then I inform him that Odd is following me...I'm laughing really hard right now relaying this story to you, you can imagine how hard I was laughing then. I finally get Odd off my tail about two or three miles down the road. Or he gives up. Whatever.

By now I'm in hysterics, I'm laughing so hard that the tears are rolling down my face, I'm screaming in to the phone and Junior actually had a tone of concern in his voice. He says, "Where are you?" I say, "I'm at such-and-such intersection." So he meets me there, we both get out of the car, and start convulsing. Seriously, I think snot was running out of my nose. The two of us laughed so hard, there was physical aching. After relaying "The Chase" to him, Junior suggests, "Oh, we need to get you a drink." Mind you, it's already midnightish on a Wednesday. We end up at a dive bar near my house and after a couple of beers, I believe I recall saying, "You know, one day we'll look back on this and laugh."

Don't Ride Angry

Heck with that...Ride angry. It brings out the intestinal fortitude.

Over the winter, some club members decided to keep in touch by meeting for an occasional drinky-poo. Sometimes we feel the need during the riding season too. In some cases, it's the only time we use our cars. So, a Friday or two ago a handful of us wander off to the Joynt for 40-cent Premium Grain Belt taps. Undoubtedly, the only pride of New Ulm, Minnesota. Horrid everyman beer, cheap yet surprisingly, minimal hangover. Must be all the water in it.

To summarize the evening: Kuj drinks too much, is nagged for a lifelong bad habit to the point of absolute irritation, and, with hurt feelings and a "repression-in-progress" attraction issue rearing its frustrating head, walks the mile (uphill) home in the pouring rain after dark. Kuj empties drunken, pained soul on to Best Friend Trish via phone call. BFT offers comfort, compassion, advice as best she can to a rambling, sauced dope. Kuj wonders after talking to BFT if Kuj might be too old to be behaving in this manner. Then sleep takes Kuj. Sweet, sweet sleep.

Saturday passed with a weight in my chest and silence. Angry, hurt, need for solitude.

Sunday morning finds me amped up for the club ride. No more than usual. At the meeting spot near a gas station, I wander into the BP and grab a bottle of V8 and a package of little chocolate donuts, The Donuts of Champions (RIP John. RIP SNL).

Our Secretary, Mileageguy (forum names are used to protect the populace), was the ride leader that day. The route he picked was a great combination of new and old to me. Most of it was clean, open, higher-speed sweeping turns, and roads you could see all the way through. I've learned this is to my liking. VERY MUCH to my liking.

I can never explain how these little epiphanies arise in me. It always seems to be a combination of events or things that one can never really replicate. But they are almost always memorable. This combination? V8, little chocolate donuts, the copper wolf and crescent moon pendant my brother gave me that I decided to wear that day, the drunken, Friday night dip in spirit, greasing up the butt of my leather suit with armor-all (I stick to the seat otherwise), the roads, the suit, my first attempt at getting off the seat in turns to be able to go faster and confidently execute smooth turns.

When we stop at intersections to wait for everyone (me) to catch up, it's also an opportunity to move around in the lineup. About halfway through the first part of the ride, I just had this moment. Or something. We were zooming along some great roads and I realized how good I felt. I was actually following right along with the mid-pack guys. At a gas-up stop, Mostly Naked and Turd Furgesson were standing nearby and M.N. said, "Have your Wheaties today? Good job!" I said, "I think I gradu-ma-tated!" The gang stopped at an intersection just before this wild, uphill section on 95, and I jumped in front of the faster guys...M.N. and Turd. Mostly Naked passed me again, but Turd stayed back. Holy hell, that was fun. Off the seat, knee down, the pavement visible up close in the corner of my eye. It was the first time I can remember ever feeling the adrenaline pumping, heart racing, feeling out of breath. But without fear. Not even on track day did I feel like this.

The first stop after that section, we paused for the group and I was caught up in a big, one-armed hug, and I hear Turd holler through his helmet, "I think you DID gradu-ma-tate!" Later on, I told him how nice it was...that it felt like a proud daddy moment. He said, "I did feel a little like a proud daddy...I can't get that kind of moment for myself anymore. I have to look elsewhere."

Let this guy hug you. It's nice.

Somewhere around the halfway point in the afternoon, I took a couple of turns a little wider than I was comfortable and realized my time for personal glory was subsiding...and I dropped back to my Hind Tit status. After that, it was just a calm Sunday drive. Brother was on the ride too. He hung out behind me for a little bit early on, gave me a thumbs up as he passed me and then told me later that he couldn't ride behind me anymore. He wasn't sure what was going on in my head and said he couldn't watch. M.N. said something similar...something about watching me ride, leaned over, on the double yellow stripe (which is sometimes slippery), and cringing a little.

Best. Day. Ever.

Lesson learned? Get drunk once in a while. Cry. Walk home in the rain. Swear and writhe at the air. Take a break in a park. Feel pain. Swim in it a little. It truly does make you stronger. And most of all...do something that scares you once in a while. Because the feeling you get from accomplishing something that up until that moment terrified you, is fantastic. And the memory of your own moment of glory lasts a long time. Longer, if you put it down in a blog. :-)