I was posting a comment to my last topic, but it got WAY too long. Here's me trying to clear the air (without any fart references...can you believe it?)...
Anonymous Cousin: "At Last" is NOT embarrassing in the least. In my poor opinion, anyway. I'm having that song played at my wedding, should one occur. Maybe at my funeral too. :-)
Momma: I refer to the embarrassment when playing your mp3 player out loud on speakers...not so private then. None of Gord's Gold is embarrassing to me, however, being a child of the 80's more than the 70's, this can be somewhat odd to hear on MY mp3 player if you don't know me too well. Imagine my surprise that Mostly Naked is a devotee of the Neil, and the Denver. Mostly because I thought only OUR family ever heard of them. :-) BTW, he listens to them WHILE HE'S ON CLUB RIDES. And he's a hard-core rider. The amusing assumption is that we all listen to death metal when we ride. Enya is probably my favorite to listen to when I'm riding as vigorously as I can.
Here's some examples of potentially embarrassing mp3 tracks (again, in my poor opinion) when played in the presence of others (i.e., you will not find them on my list, nor do I like them):
Anything by the Osmonds
Anything by Captain and Tenille
Me So Horny
Biz Markie's "You Got What I Need"
Anything by Don Ho
Anything by Menudo
Your artist list, Momma, is a good one, I will not deny. You are of strong character and say "the heck with you" should someone call you out. YOU can listen to Cher without anyone making a generalization. Now, if TOM had it on his mp3 player well, then clearly, he's gay. If he's not...he probably should be. I suppose it all boils down to age and gender stereotypes. I use them...I'm not ashamed. They usually make for amusing observations (Filet-O-Fish/Orange drink).
I'm not at all embarrassed by my song selections because they are my favorite songs, for whatever reason, but mostly because they're good memory triggers. A memory trigger example, "Walking on Sunshine" by Katrina and the Waves? The song that was playing when I last crashed. How do I remember it? When I rolled to a stop and was on all fours staring at the gravel on the access road, I thought, "I'm riding off the road..whooaa. I'm rolling in the dirt...whooooaaaa. And I still feel good! HEY!"
"The Memory of Trees" by Enya is a good one for both Heb and I. We went skiing at Big Powderhorn in the U.P. and took a day-trip to our family's former cottage in Iron River, WI. Her father had passed away and Heb wanted to scatter her dad's ashes at the lake. It was cold, overcast and kind of gloomy. As we were driving back to our chalet at Powderhorn, the sky cleared up, the sun was brilliant and warming, the sky was the bluest blue, the pine trees were the greenest green, and the snow was the whitest white. I had put a CD I compiled in the player and "The Memory of Trees" started playing right at this change in weather and it struck me suddenly, as if her dad had said, "Thanks. That was nice."
Swell, this is making me well up.
Anyway, it made me feel really good that we had done this for Heather and her dad and it felt like the Universe had given us all a little high-five. So every time I play this song, I think of that day and you can imagine how it makes me feel when I'm hauling ass down a sun-dappled County Road D through the trees.
I WILL blush if I'm blaring my mp3s in the garage and one of the songs from the Musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer starts up. But I still love it. And I won't NOT listen to it just because it's blush-worthy. Technically though, I was embarrassed that Brother's mp3 player, not mine, was playing "Hangin' Tough."
I've started asking other riders at the club rides what they are listening to at that moment on their mp3 players. I think it provides entertaining insight into the person they are. Like the 40-something guy in our group who was listening to a Rob Zombie song when I asked. This weekend I'm asking the tattoo-and-piercing covered 20-something what he's listening to.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
You hope the ground swallows you up...
...when the neighbors ride by just as your brother's mp3 player, plugged into the BIG speakers, starts playing "Hangin' Tough" by New Kids on the Block.
Which prompted us to conduct a quick poll of our most embarrassing song/artist on our mp3 player. Brother couldn't decide if the above or having Gordon Lightfoot on his player was worse.
Mostly Naked has John Denver's "Sunshine on my Shoulder" on his...I'm not sure if he's embarrassed by that, however.
I think my most embarrassing song is "Tarzan Boy" by Baltimora. But that's the only one that comes to mind right now. I bet I can top it...Oh! Just remembered. John Denver, "Thank God I'm a Country Boy."
What's yours?
Which prompted us to conduct a quick poll of our most embarrassing song/artist on our mp3 player. Brother couldn't decide if the above or having Gordon Lightfoot on his player was worse.
Mostly Naked has John Denver's "Sunshine on my Shoulder" on his...I'm not sure if he's embarrassed by that, however.
I think my most embarrassing song is "Tarzan Boy" by Baltimora. But that's the only one that comes to mind right now. I bet I can top it...Oh! Just remembered. John Denver, "Thank God I'm a Country Boy."
What's yours?
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Roger "Wilco", Hawkeye Slob-san
The boss man found an internet station that's pretty good...WNEW, from New York. It's commercial-free, and I've heard everything from Marvin Gaye to Death Cab for Cutie, with some Depeche Mode and even School of Fish thrown in.
The only bizarre thing, is that I've now memorized a 2-3 minute piece from one of their DJ's broadcasting "live" from the Bonnaroo music fest in Tennessee. Which was last month. And if I could count the number of times this guy uses the words "audience" and "artist" in his spiel, they'd make up about 90% of the words spoken. It's been played so much that when I was working over by our intern, I said out loud before the DJ did, "Do the artists have the audience in the palm of their hand?" I was promptly answered by said DJ ("The artists here have the audience in the palm of their hand") and our intern stared at me...I thought I detected a little witchcraft fear in his eyes.
That audio quirk hasn't stopped me from listening, though. They even play Wilco...maybe two of their songs. And I just cannot stand them. I feel a little bad...some part of me should automatically like the band because long ago I marched with the drummer, right (I just realized what a dork that makes me...I didn't DO the drummer, I MARCHED with him)? There's a connection and I should honor it by snarfing up all their music...legally, even. Right? Agh...I just can't get into them. I give.
Mostly Naked had never heard anything by Wilco (a trend I'm finding all too familiar, even though Mostly Naked likes just about any music you could name), and asked me to describe what they sound like. I came just short of writhing on the ground in the fetal position, trying to come up with a fair but clear description. Finally, as I sat there sweating with cerebral effort and squinting my eyes as if in physical pain, I blurted out in a Tourette's-like manner, "Pussy Rock."
Sorry, Billy. If it makes you feel any better, I really like that one Son Volt song...
The only bizarre thing, is that I've now memorized a 2-3 minute piece from one of their DJ's broadcasting "live" from the Bonnaroo music fest in Tennessee. Which was last month. And if I could count the number of times this guy uses the words "audience" and "artist" in his spiel, they'd make up about 90% of the words spoken. It's been played so much that when I was working over by our intern, I said out loud before the DJ did, "Do the artists have the audience in the palm of their hand?" I was promptly answered by said DJ ("The artists here have the audience in the palm of their hand") and our intern stared at me...I thought I detected a little witchcraft fear in his eyes.
That audio quirk hasn't stopped me from listening, though. They even play Wilco...maybe two of their songs. And I just cannot stand them. I feel a little bad...some part of me should automatically like the band because long ago I marched with the drummer, right (I just realized what a dork that makes me...I didn't DO the drummer, I MARCHED with him)? There's a connection and I should honor it by snarfing up all their music...legally, even. Right? Agh...I just can't get into them. I give.
Mostly Naked had never heard anything by Wilco (a trend I'm finding all too familiar, even though Mostly Naked likes just about any music you could name), and asked me to describe what they sound like. I came just short of writhing on the ground in the fetal position, trying to come up with a fair but clear description. Finally, as I sat there sweating with cerebral effort and squinting my eyes as if in physical pain, I blurted out in a Tourette's-like manner, "Pussy Rock."
Sorry, Billy. If it makes you feel any better, I really like that one Son Volt song...
Monday, July 28, 2008
If you're gonna be slow...
...try to have a sense of humor about it.
My helmet, as viewed from behindAnd yes...it's reflective. :-)
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Everything I've ever done was out of fear of being mediocre.
Guess old Chet Atkins wasn't lying..
Sunday turned out to be a good day for me. A friend of Brother's was in town with his girlfriend for a wedding and they both ride sportbikes. So there were five of us from our house on the club ride. Turned out we had our biggest group so far...twenty, I think.
Sunday turned out to be a good day for me. A friend of Brother's was in town with his girlfriend for a wedding and they both ride sportbikes. So there were five of us from our house on the club ride. Turned out we had our biggest group so far...twenty, I think.
Here we pause in Chetek for a roller dog and Corn Nuts.
I felt pretty good when I woke up today. Normally, I get a little gut ache and the first half of the ride, I'm twitchy and panicky. Not today. I spent the night before telling myself I wasn't going to wig out, slam on the brakes and creep through the gravel. I was going to Eat. It. Up. And, convinced myself that going off the road was NOT an option.
I updated my mp3 player with some new, gravel-eatin' music and set out with the rest of the group as we headed north to Chetek. On the way up, we took the same route where I went off the road last month. The turn before that one was the dirty one this time, but I breezed right through. Seconds before I came up to "the turn" was when I recognized it. And, honestly, I have no idea how I could tell. There is absolutely nothing that gives it away; no signs, houses, marks in the pavement (not even from me). Yet there it was. And it was dirty with gravel. But since I rode off, enough vehicles have ridden through it to create clear lines through the turn. And I Ate. It. Up. When we stopped at the next intersection, Mostly Naked was waiting with the rest of the group, looking back for us stragglers. I pumped my first in the air and let out a whoop! in my helmet. Victory. THAT felt good.
County highway D heading south from Chetek is probably my absolute favorite road we've ridden so far. It's clean, there's a sizeable paved shoulder and it winds through the trees with fast sweepers and changes in elevation. There is a benefit to being hind tit...if the group gets far enough ahead, you can zoom through a stretch at whatever speed you're comfortable with, and there's nobody in your way. The leader is the only other one who gets to enjoy that.
I was just...switched on.
Gravel comes in different shapes and sizes, as we all know. The smaller it is, usually coincides with the fact that there's more of it. Sand would be the worst. The bigger the pieces, the less there are typically, and if you run over it in a turn, you'll feel the weight shift a little, like a wiggle, but as soon as the tire returns to the pavement, you're on your way. A little knowledge, from me to you.
I updated my mp3 player with some new, gravel-eatin' music and set out with the rest of the group as we headed north to Chetek. On the way up, we took the same route where I went off the road last month. The turn before that one was the dirty one this time, but I breezed right through. Seconds before I came up to "the turn" was when I recognized it. And, honestly, I have no idea how I could tell. There is absolutely nothing that gives it away; no signs, houses, marks in the pavement (not even from me). Yet there it was. And it was dirty with gravel. But since I rode off, enough vehicles have ridden through it to create clear lines through the turn. And I Ate. It. Up. When we stopped at the next intersection, Mostly Naked was waiting with the rest of the group, looking back for us stragglers. I pumped my first in the air and let out a whoop! in my helmet. Victory. THAT felt good.
County highway D heading south from Chetek is probably my absolute favorite road we've ridden so far. It's clean, there's a sizeable paved shoulder and it winds through the trees with fast sweepers and changes in elevation. There is a benefit to being hind tit...if the group gets far enough ahead, you can zoom through a stretch at whatever speed you're comfortable with, and there's nobody in your way. The leader is the only other one who gets to enjoy that.
I was just...switched on.
Gravel comes in different shapes and sizes, as we all know. The smaller it is, usually coincides with the fact that there's more of it. Sand would be the worst. The bigger the pieces, the less there are typically, and if you run over it in a turn, you'll feel the weight shift a little, like a wiggle, but as soon as the tire returns to the pavement, you're on your way. A little knowledge, from me to you.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Bawk!
So we turned around and I got my good old Triumph out and fan-folded myself in my suit on my own bike and we rode. Much better.
Faster can wait. I'll wear the mantle of Hind Tit begrudgingly, but at least my heart rate will climb back down off the ceiling. Annny minute now would be sweet...
Friday, July 25, 2008
That Thumping Sound....
...is coming from inside my chest.
Oh dear God...I talked myself into riding on the back of Mostly Naked's bike tomorrow (at his suggestion, obviously) as we travel to Whitehall to hang some posters for our big ride/party coming up on August 9th. I've dubbed myself the Club Hind Tit because I am the rear-most rider in the group rides. Mostly Naked usually leads the rides. Please note, it's now 10:30pm on Friday, and I'm already amped...maybe it's scared. Probably both.
Funny enough, we spent most of the time this evening hanging out at The Joynt on Water Street discussing how I must be broken inside because I've gone skydiving, crashed a motorcycle twice, and done a track day...all of which were without the usual human surge of adrenaline. Now, I'm wide awake...and what's this? Adrenaline? Think I'm gonna wear that hotbox leather suit tomorrow? HELLS YEAH.
I was just wondering if I should bring my camera and take some video from the back seat, but I think this first time I should just concern myself with that silly hanging on and concentrating on being a non-entity on the back.
What started the whole thing is that I don't feel like I'm improving fast enough and I'm getting frustrated at being in the back all the time. However, whenever I'm out on a ride I consciously tell myself to ride at my own pace...which I do...and enjoy even. Mostly Naked pointed out that I'm only in my 1st/2nd season of really riding and I just plain won't be fast for some time...at least not fast AND in control. Coming from a guy who's been on a motorcycle for...what did he say...maybe 15 years already? That doesn't make it any more soothing for an instant-gratification junkie.
So, as I'm sitting here, all a-quiver, I'm mulling over the possible blocks to my improvement. And yeah, they're all in my head. Stupid head.
1) I don't trust my tires or my bike and just how much they can do (Mostly Naked pointed that one out).
2) I don't trust me to handle whatever happens unexpectedly with clear thinking and graceful, quick reaction.
3) I frickin HATE gravel, ergo it spooks me. How come it's always in the corners??
4) Blind turns and blind hills are creepy if there's no one in front of you to follow.
5) I'm afraid if I unass my seat I won't be able to get back on (picture one of those people bouncing along the side of a horse when they lose their balance, but can't get out of the stirrup...and try not to laugh).
I ask myself, how come all these people in front of me can get through all these issues and I still don't see them until they stop to wait for me at the next change in route? How come I get to be so mental? It occurs to me, the reason for the lack of excitement in response to how I'm currently riding? I don't test myself. Yes, I'm really REALLY new compared to most of the riders in the group, but jeez...how long do I have to be the hind tit? One guy joined up this year and rode behind me because he was all panicky in turns...but one day, not too long after, he passed me and I never saw him in the back again.
No, I'm not going to go out and try to kill myself. I have a fairly strong sense of self-preservation. I'm not...brave. At least not to my satisfaction. Darn me. I am however rambling on hurriedly because I'm as excited as a 7-year-old at Christmas at the prospect of riding behind Mostly Naked tomorrow. I hope I don't throw up in my helmet. Also, he won't be mostly naked. He'll be mostly armored.
In other news, The Joynt is a bar I lovingly refer to as "The Place Where the Pot Smokers Congregate." It's very nearly a guarantee that anytime you walk in there, you will spot a tie-dye t-shirt or pony-tail accompanied by full beard. They have a neon sign over the bar that READS (not "says"...Mostly Naked has taken to correcting my grammar (if you can believe that)) "No Light Beer." Happy Hour? Of course! This is Wisconsin, after all. What? $.40 taps? YES. I walked in with FOUR DOLLARS and walked out with empty pockets and a sturdy buzz. This place is a study in eccentricities. Initially, my dad took me there for a drink and, coming from a sheltered, over-franchised Chicago suburb, I thought this place was a total hole. Now, it's grown on me...it's like visiting with an old war veteran; it's crusty, worn and dusty on the outside, but there's inherent charm, history, and stories if you sit still and observe long enough. With one exception; the war vet likely won't have the finest beer in all the land (Point, Grain Belt, Leinie's, Berghoff).
I'm going to try to go to bed now...and in the spirit of over-exaggerated, adolescent reactions, "OH MY GOD! He TOTALLY touched my arm in gym class today! WEEEEE! D.K. & Z.D. 4 EVER!"
..toodles...
Oh dear God...I talked myself into riding on the back of Mostly Naked's bike tomorrow (at his suggestion, obviously) as we travel to Whitehall to hang some posters for our big ride/party coming up on August 9th. I've dubbed myself the Club Hind Tit because I am the rear-most rider in the group rides. Mostly Naked usually leads the rides. Please note, it's now 10:30pm on Friday, and I'm already amped...maybe it's scared. Probably both.
Funny enough, we spent most of the time this evening hanging out at The Joynt on Water Street discussing how I must be broken inside because I've gone skydiving, crashed a motorcycle twice, and done a track day...all of which were without the usual human surge of adrenaline. Now, I'm wide awake...and what's this? Adrenaline? Think I'm gonna wear that hotbox leather suit tomorrow? HELLS YEAH.
I was just wondering if I should bring my camera and take some video from the back seat, but I think this first time I should just concern myself with that silly hanging on and concentrating on being a non-entity on the back.
What started the whole thing is that I don't feel like I'm improving fast enough and I'm getting frustrated at being in the back all the time. However, whenever I'm out on a ride I consciously tell myself to ride at my own pace...which I do...and enjoy even. Mostly Naked pointed out that I'm only in my 1st/2nd season of really riding and I just plain won't be fast for some time...at least not fast AND in control. Coming from a guy who's been on a motorcycle for...what did he say...maybe 15 years already? That doesn't make it any more soothing for an instant-gratification junkie.
So, as I'm sitting here, all a-quiver, I'm mulling over the possible blocks to my improvement. And yeah, they're all in my head. Stupid head.
1) I don't trust my tires or my bike and just how much they can do (Mostly Naked pointed that one out).
2) I don't trust me to handle whatever happens unexpectedly with clear thinking and graceful, quick reaction.
3) I frickin HATE gravel, ergo it spooks me. How come it's always in the corners??
4) Blind turns and blind hills are creepy if there's no one in front of you to follow.
5) I'm afraid if I unass my seat I won't be able to get back on (picture one of those people bouncing along the side of a horse when they lose their balance, but can't get out of the stirrup...and try not to laugh).
I ask myself, how come all these people in front of me can get through all these issues and I still don't see them until they stop to wait for me at the next change in route? How come I get to be so mental? It occurs to me, the reason for the lack of excitement in response to how I'm currently riding? I don't test myself. Yes, I'm really REALLY new compared to most of the riders in the group, but jeez...how long do I have to be the hind tit? One guy joined up this year and rode behind me because he was all panicky in turns...but one day, not too long after, he passed me and I never saw him in the back again.
No, I'm not going to go out and try to kill myself. I have a fairly strong sense of self-preservation. I'm not...brave. At least not to my satisfaction. Darn me. I am however rambling on hurriedly because I'm as excited as a 7-year-old at Christmas at the prospect of riding behind Mostly Naked tomorrow. I hope I don't throw up in my helmet. Also, he won't be mostly naked. He'll be mostly armored.
***
In other news, The Joynt is a bar I lovingly refer to as "The Place Where the Pot Smokers Congregate." It's very nearly a guarantee that anytime you walk in there, you will spot a tie-dye t-shirt or pony-tail accompanied by full beard. They have a neon sign over the bar that READS (not "says"...Mostly Naked has taken to correcting my grammar (if you can believe that)) "No Light Beer." Happy Hour? Of course! This is Wisconsin, after all. What? $.40 taps? YES. I walked in with FOUR DOLLARS and walked out with empty pockets and a sturdy buzz. This place is a study in eccentricities. Initially, my dad took me there for a drink and, coming from a sheltered, over-franchised Chicago suburb, I thought this place was a total hole. Now, it's grown on me...it's like visiting with an old war veteran; it's crusty, worn and dusty on the outside, but there's inherent charm, history, and stories if you sit still and observe long enough. With one exception; the war vet likely won't have the finest beer in all the land (Point, Grain Belt, Leinie's, Berghoff).
I'm going to try to go to bed now...and in the spirit of over-exaggerated, adolescent reactions, "OH MY GOD! He TOTALLY touched my arm in gym class today! WEEEEE! D.K. & Z.D. 4 EVER!"
..toodles...
Q: How do you avoid looking like a gimp?
A: Leave the ball gag at home.
The more I've been riding, the more protective gear I've been buying. Aside from the original helmet, armored gloves and jacket, I now have racing boots and a back protector. It's a lot of stuff to put on, but I've gotten to the point where even just riding a block to the gas station, I can't NOT wear the back protector, helmet, gloves, jacket and, at the least, thick boots. It just doesn't feel safe without the gear.
And now I own a leather racing suit.
Before my first track day back in June, I tried ordering a full suit off the rack and had no luck. I am WAY too...ahem..."curvy" to fit the waifish outfits motorcycle apparel companies are churning out. Usually, I have to resort to men's gear, but a man's suit wouldn't work...guys have no ass area. I, however, wear three. Asses.
So that rack suit shows up, I don't fit it, and it was a scramble to get my old blue and gold jacket and a borrowed pair of racing pants (that just BARELY fit) to a local seamstress to get a zipper put in both, so they'd make one piece (a requirement for track day). It did the job, but was not my first choice for long term.
No, I don't plan to ever race. I don't have the need for speed. Just fun. In my case (as with most people, I'm guessing), increased speed is fast becoming a by-product of experience, whether I like it or not (I do, weeee!). However, I want to do many more track days and a full leather suit is a necessity. Most of the guys in the club wear full suits whenever we ride.
I decided, after track day, to research more on the internet...it was obvious I was going to need custom fitting. For the asses. All three. A trinity, if you will. Suits can be expensive. Custom suits, well, they border on the ridiculous, but the better the fit, the more the armor stays put, and the less likely you are to spontaneously combust from the inside due to abrasion against your skin. You won't see a custom-fitted rider rolling around on the pavement screaming, "I'm on fire! Help me, Oprah Winfrey! Tom Cruise, use your witchcraft to get the fire off me!"
Here comes the part where every sensible-thinking person goes "whoa." I found a company in California, that might as well be a no-name, who offers a variety of racing suits for $480 with FREEEE custom-fitting AND shipping. Yeah, I thought it too..."Oh right. I throw $500 out there and 'wait-and-see.'" But, with the depressing thought that there is no suit out there ready-made to fit my trinity, I was getting desperate. Besides, the name brand suits cost MUCH more than 480 smackers. Granted, you can't tell for sure if this company knows their stuff about racing (most importantly, crashing)...more than once the thought crossed my mind, "What if the first impact makes all the seams blow apart like the skin of an over-ripe tomato?" I gave it a shot anyway, expecting to be disappointed the whole time.
While it took longer than promised (5 weeks instead of the 2-3), I had been receiving prompt responses to my emails and when I was given a tracking number, found that the suit was already in New York, on its way from, get this...Pakistan by way of Dubai. I guess I support sweatshop work however I can. When it finally arrived, I opened the box outside, in case of scorpions. Come on, it came from a freaking desert!
Pro's: It fits like a glove. The leather seems thick and the seams sturdy. It came with armored shoulders, elbows, knees, knee pucks and thick pads on the hips and back. I got to choose the pattern and colors. They say it's buffalo leather...for all I know it's made from cats, but I'll go with it.
Cons: It's hot as hell...they didn't use perforated leather anywhere or fabric stretch panels, so if it's at all muggy or hot out, I parboil inside. But, I'm also taking into consideration the fact that I've been riding in less-protective gear that is more breathable. I acknowledge the trade-off for safety. Another con: there's too much leather behind my knees and in front of the suit on the gut area. It's entirely possible that's my fault with those two areas. I had the seamstress here in Eau Claire measure me standing up instead of on the bike. I've started researching local tailors to find one who specializes in leather racing suits to see if I can get those fit issues remedied. One more con...any physical anomalies in your stature become glaringly obvious when you're wearing a second skin. Yeeeeeesh.
Overall, I think it was a good purchase, and I'm hoping with more wearing, it will be worth the current discomfort during break-in.
The company looks like they have a lot of great looking apparel for regular use as well. You can see more at LividLeather.
The more I've been riding, the more protective gear I've been buying. Aside from the original helmet, armored gloves and jacket, I now have racing boots and a back protector. It's a lot of stuff to put on, but I've gotten to the point where even just riding a block to the gas station, I can't NOT wear the back protector, helmet, gloves, jacket and, at the least, thick boots. It just doesn't feel safe without the gear.
And now I own a leather racing suit.
Before my first track day back in June, I tried ordering a full suit off the rack and had no luck. I am WAY too...ahem..."curvy" to fit the waifish outfits motorcycle apparel companies are churning out. Usually, I have to resort to men's gear, but a man's suit wouldn't work...guys have no ass area. I, however, wear three. Asses.
So that rack suit shows up, I don't fit it, and it was a scramble to get my old blue and gold jacket and a borrowed pair of racing pants (that just BARELY fit) to a local seamstress to get a zipper put in both, so they'd make one piece (a requirement for track day). It did the job, but was not my first choice for long term.
No, I don't plan to ever race. I don't have the need for speed. Just fun. In my case (as with most people, I'm guessing), increased speed is fast becoming a by-product of experience, whether I like it or not (I do, weeee!). However, I want to do many more track days and a full leather suit is a necessity. Most of the guys in the club wear full suits whenever we ride.
I decided, after track day, to research more on the internet...it was obvious I was going to need custom fitting. For the asses. All three. A trinity, if you will. Suits can be expensive. Custom suits, well, they border on the ridiculous, but the better the fit, the more the armor stays put, and the less likely you are to spontaneously combust from the inside due to abrasion against your skin. You won't see a custom-fitted rider rolling around on the pavement screaming, "I'm on fire! Help me, Oprah Winfrey! Tom Cruise, use your witchcraft to get the fire off me!"
Here comes the part where every sensible-thinking person goes "whoa." I found a company in California, that might as well be a no-name, who offers a variety of racing suits for $480 with FREEEE custom-fitting AND shipping. Yeah, I thought it too..."Oh right. I throw $500 out there and 'wait-and-see.'" But, with the depressing thought that there is no suit out there ready-made to fit my trinity, I was getting desperate. Besides, the name brand suits cost MUCH more than 480 smackers. Granted, you can't tell for sure if this company knows their stuff about racing (most importantly, crashing)...more than once the thought crossed my mind, "What if the first impact makes all the seams blow apart like the skin of an over-ripe tomato?" I gave it a shot anyway, expecting to be disappointed the whole time.
While it took longer than promised (5 weeks instead of the 2-3), I had been receiving prompt responses to my emails and when I was given a tracking number, found that the suit was already in New York, on its way from, get this...Pakistan by way of Dubai. I guess I support sweatshop work however I can. When it finally arrived, I opened the box outside, in case of scorpions. Come on, it came from a freaking desert!
Pro's: It fits like a glove. The leather seems thick and the seams sturdy. It came with armored shoulders, elbows, knees, knee pucks and thick pads on the hips and back. I got to choose the pattern and colors. They say it's buffalo leather...for all I know it's made from cats, but I'll go with it.
Cons: It's hot as hell...they didn't use perforated leather anywhere or fabric stretch panels, so if it's at all muggy or hot out, I parboil inside. But, I'm also taking into consideration the fact that I've been riding in less-protective gear that is more breathable. I acknowledge the trade-off for safety. Another con: there's too much leather behind my knees and in front of the suit on the gut area. It's entirely possible that's my fault with those two areas. I had the seamstress here in Eau Claire measure me standing up instead of on the bike. I've started researching local tailors to find one who specializes in leather racing suits to see if I can get those fit issues remedied. One more con...any physical anomalies in your stature become glaringly obvious when you're wearing a second skin. Yeeeeeesh.
Overall, I think it was a good purchase, and I'm hoping with more wearing, it will be worth the current discomfort during break-in.
The company looks like they have a lot of great looking apparel for regular use as well. You can see more at LividLeather.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Negative, Ghost Rider. The Pattern Is Full
Mostly-Naked and I went up to Duluth, MN for the air show on Saturday. We've just recently watched "Top Gun" (both of us for the bajillionth time) and are throwing quotes back and forth when the situation warrants. It's no surprise, then, that we were both amped up about the air show and willingly drove the few hours north to view the spectacle (it's not dread, Momma; it's airplanes).
It's been warm and muggy here in EC for the last week or so, but when we stepped out of my mighty sedan at a Duluth mall to await shuttle pick-up, I observed, "Ooo! It's cool up here!" The temperature was decidedly lower that close to the Arctic Circle. Maybe upper 60's around 10am. Mostly-Naked Roommate, was, as you could probably guess, mostly naked. So when the skies grew overcast, the wind picked up and dropped the temperature to 55 degrees. My sweatshirt went on and Mostly-Naked's appendages retreated.
....and then it rained. For hours. The whole Blue Angels segment at the end was in the pouring rain, but we refused to leave early, on account of the BA being the highlight. Turned out, we couldn't leave anyway. The traffic was backed up for at least two hours trying to get out of the airport, so we hung out in a hanger where NASA had a booth set up.
This was the first air show that I can recall going to...and the prospect of getting to watch military aircraft up close was totally goose-bumpy for me. Ever since that first viewing of "Top Gun" at the theater with my dad, I wanted to be a fighter pilot. However, I personally would have to skip the whole military part...I wasn't built for physical labor, I don't enjoy it, and having to look and do like everyone around me causes a near-psychotic episode (yeah, I was in Marching Band in high school...Shaddap. Different...downtime w as a junk-food-fueled screw-off good time, and I only had to carry a flute. Besides, the uniform made me look cool. Mandarin collars? Absolutely the way to go.).
We sort of got shafted some on the air show's content...I was hoping to get to see the as-advertised in-flight refueling demo, but that was omitted for some reason. And we waited as much as a half-hour at one point in-between flights. But we got to see F-16's, an A-10, and the Blue Angels and their transport plane. The Blue Angels are always worth seeing. Photos are posted, and a video so you can hear what these incredible machines sound like.
Duluth was pretty cool. It's got that former boom-town, post-industrial look with steep hills and the Freakin' Huge Lake Superior at its door-step.
The Chippewa Valley Air Show, right here at our hometown airport, will be in September and looks like it will have a better variety. Most importantly? A P-51 Mustang in flight. Can't wait!
It's been warm and muggy here in EC for the last week or so, but when we stepped out of my mighty sedan at a Duluth mall to await shuttle pick-up, I observed, "Ooo! It's cool up here!" The temperature was decidedly lower that close to the Arctic Circle. Maybe upper 60's around 10am. Mostly-Naked Roommate, was, as you could probably guess, mostly naked. So when the skies grew overcast, the wind picked up and dropped the temperature to 55 degrees. My sweatshirt went on and Mostly-Naked's appendages retreated.
Mostlyus nakedus, spotted in the wild in rarely seen upper torso covering
....and then it rained. For hours. The whole Blue Angels segment at the end was in the pouring rain, but we refused to leave early, on account of the BA being the highlight. Turned out, we couldn't leave anyway. The traffic was backed up for at least two hours trying to get out of the airport, so we hung out in a hanger where NASA had a booth set up.
This was the first air show that I can recall going to...and the prospect of getting to watch military aircraft up close was totally goose-bumpy for me. Ever since that first viewing of "Top Gun" at the theater with my dad, I wanted to be a fighter pilot. However, I personally would have to skip the whole military part...I wasn't built for physical labor, I don't enjoy it, and having to look and do like everyone around me causes a near-psychotic episode (yeah, I was in Marching Band in high school...Shaddap. Different...downtime w as a junk-food-fueled screw-off good time, and I only had to carry a flute. Besides, the uniform made me look cool. Mandarin collars? Absolutely the way to go.).
We sort of got shafted some on the air show's content...I was hoping to get to see the as-advertised in-flight refueling demo, but that was omitted for some reason. And we waited as much as a half-hour at one point in-between flights. But we got to see F-16's, an A-10, and the Blue Angels and their transport plane. The Blue Angels are always worth seeing. Photos are posted, and a video so you can hear what these incredible machines sound like.
Duluth was pretty cool. It's got that former boom-town, post-industrial look with steep hills and the Freakin' Huge Lake Superior at its door-step.
The Chippewa Valley Air Show, right here at our hometown airport, will be in September and looks like it will have a better variety. Most importantly? A P-51 Mustang in flight. Can't wait!
Thursday, July 17, 2008
This Momma is the poo. Take a big whiff.
I am a marketing genius, what can I say?
So you may have noticed I have a link to "Palm Coast Art" in the upper left corner of my blog. This is a link to a site where my mom sells the beautiful jewelry and other works of art that she creates by hand.
My mom has been a super-creative human being long as I've known her. If you check out my jewelry collection (which, as you'd imagine, despite the fact that I'm a tomboy, is quite extensive), 99% of it is either made by my mom or other members of her highly artistic side of the family. My mom can mold silver clay, glass, copper and stone into the most imaginative items. My cousin Heb is a beading wizard, and my aunt (Heb's mom) is a stained glass queen.
Needless to say, when I snuck onto the Palm Coast Art @ Etsy site and bought this cairn necklace last week, I was not disappointed.
At first glance, it doesn't appear to be much. But when I found out my cousin collected the stones from Lake Michigan and then my mom used ancient cairns, or markers, as the inspiration, I had to have it. I love jewelry with a story.
Please visit my mom's Etsy site. There are much more glamorous pieces available on the site for purchase. Every piece of art you buy goes toward a good cause: my inheritance. Spend big! I want another motorcycle!
Palm Coast Art @ Etsy
So you may have noticed I have a link to "Palm Coast Art" in the upper left corner of my blog. This is a link to a site where my mom sells the beautiful jewelry and other works of art that she creates by hand.
My mom has been a super-creative human being long as I've known her. If you check out my jewelry collection (which, as you'd imagine, despite the fact that I'm a tomboy, is quite extensive), 99% of it is either made by my mom or other members of her highly artistic side of the family. My mom can mold silver clay, glass, copper and stone into the most imaginative items. My cousin Heb is a beading wizard, and my aunt (Heb's mom) is a stained glass queen.
Needless to say, when I snuck onto the Palm Coast Art @ Etsy site and bought this cairn necklace last week, I was not disappointed.
At first glance, it doesn't appear to be much. But when I found out my cousin collected the stones from Lake Michigan and then my mom used ancient cairns, or markers, as the inspiration, I had to have it. I love jewelry with a story.
Please visit my mom's Etsy site. There are much more glamorous pieces available on the site for purchase. Every piece of art you buy goes toward a good cause: my inheritance. Spend big! I want another motorcycle!
Palm Coast Art @ Etsy
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Kuj Recommends The Following Junk...
Whenever we go on a club ride, we usually do one-stop shopping at a gas station. We can fuel up, take a break, get a cool beverage and glom down crap.
My travels have introduced me to these delectables:
Dark Chocolate Mint 3 Musketeers
Java Twix
Gummy Lifesavers (Mixed Berry)
My travels have introduced me to these delectables:
Dark Chocolate Mint 3 Musketeers
Java Twix
Gummy Lifesavers (Mixed Berry)
Friday, July 11, 2008
Fun Family Vocabulary
A conversation my dad and I had a while back reminded me of just how many words our family has added to our schoolin'. I'm sure every family does this. A small child, just getting used to speaking comes up with ingenious and usually right-to-the-point words for common, everyday occurrences and things. Or we were merely mis-heard. Or it's just plain old more amusing our way. Here's a sampling of the Kuj tribe's dictionary:
Feel free to add...
- Snakelips: Kraft mac and cheese
- Hopcorn: Popcorn
- Mortytaco: Motorcycle
- Seatback: Back seat
- Bweem: vroom
- Scalin' a hot one: Originally "peeling a hot potato", misunderstood as "pooping"
- Pants: Dad
- Taco swimming: honestly, I can't remember what this one actually was, but this is what it was interpreted as.
- Woodypecker: Woody the Woodpecker
- Goggy: gross
- Berzert: term of endearment, also, n., a mouth fart on a giggly belly
Feel free to add...
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
How could I forget this??
On our club website has a page for pictures of member's rides. You can really post up anything you want...motorcycling-related or not. One of our officers with some admin privileges will give new members about 24 hours to post up their own photo...after that, if you are sorry enough to leave the "No Picture" template up, you're at his mercy.
We had a newest member sign up this past Sunday...surprisingly, AFTER we had a crash-and-drop. And he's probably my dad's age. And, (sigh) faster than me. I'm fairly certain he had 24 hours...and I watched quietly, and not without a little panic, waiting for the noob to post a picture. I'm fairly certain THIS is not the photo he wanted posted up:
If you want to view it in all its glory, go here and look for "SVBrad", then click on the image. Enjoy.
We had a newest member sign up this past Sunday...surprisingly, AFTER we had a crash-and-drop. And he's probably my dad's age. And, (sigh) faster than me. I'm fairly certain he had 24 hours...and I watched quietly, and not without a little panic, waiting for the noob to post a picture. I'm fairly certain THIS is not the photo he wanted posted up:
If you want to view it in all its glory, go here and look for "SVBrad", then click on the image. Enjoy.
Spazzy Synapse Firings
I don't understand how DAYS can sneak by in between posts. My fans must have collapsed, mere inches from the life-giving fountain of useless burblings that is me. All one of ya. Mom. I kid.
I've got nothin. I've been either painting, working or riding. All, which, for the most part, make for a boring post.
The house is very nearly finished being painted. A couple of coats here, another coat there and we get the rest of the summer off.
Our club ride last Sunday was...interesting. We rode a little farther than we usually do and went south of La Crosse through the Mindoro Cut and then back through it toward home. Another Triumph rider went splat just out of the cut in the first turn. His bike broke one of the fence posts and then hovered halfway into the abyss below. Being a Triumph, aside from a scraped up plastic, a bent shifter lever, and a couple of superficial boo-boos, he finished the ride. I thought I'd drop mine on its side for fun as I was pulling off the side of the road to assist.
I need an automatic, retractable kickstand. There's nothing blonder than forgetting to put your kickstand down. Twice. Worse yet, an old dude on a Goldwing had pulled over to let me pass before the Cut and then stopped next to me to help our fallen rider. I was close enough to him that when I dropped the bike, my instrument cowl brushed up against his leg. Didn't affect him. He merely turned his head in my direction and asked, calmly, "Are you okay?" No sir. I'm stupid. Are you okay? Don't sue me.
I went for a ride with my dad and his friend last night up to a new tavern on Lake Holcombe. Very nice. Ted's Timberlodge. All pine and slate and stone with a great view of the lake. That was a 70 mile trip. Then I got home and realized I didn't deposit my paycheck, so I rode to the bank branch farthest from my house. At some point I decided to get lost. "I wonder where EE goes? I'll follow it till it ends. Oh, it ends at H. I'll turn left here on H and ride that till it ends." That one was a long one. By the time I got to the end of H, it was getting darkish and all I knew was that I was south. And the farm guys in their pickup trucks were looking at me in a "paddle faster, I hear banjos" sort of way. I found a familiar route and followed it home...85 miles.
How are you guys dealing with the gas thing? I think it's around $4.22 here. I could tell you that I've taken an active approach in taking my motorcycle instead of my car, but I like to ride too much. I keep finding the looooonng way home. Honestly, I'm surprised I even know what the price was...I must have glanced at the pump. I don't care, I haven't cut back, I say spook the caribou, start drilling in Alaska, and give me all the 93 octane fossil fuels ya got. I don't think this makes me a bad American. Let's just say I'm doing all I can to hold up my end of the Pursuit of Happiness.
This Saturday the club is heading up to the Twin Cities for a benefit ride. A guy who used to ride in the club (whom we know as "Fez") has an 11 year old little brother who is in remission from Stage 4 Hodgkin's and they are throwing a little party for him. I'm looking forward to seeing Fez again and meeting his brother, but it will also be an all-day motorcycling jag. Yea for me! And Brother is actually going to ride with us for the first time this year.
And I can't get "Mamma Mia" out. Of. My. Freaking. Head.
And Trish got Italy moments after I threw down my Hawaii gauntlet. Shush, Trish. Threaten me again, and I post up your artwork on the notes we passed from high school. Love to the W-W's!
I've got nothin. I've been either painting, working or riding. All, which, for the most part, make for a boring post.
The house is very nearly finished being painted. A couple of coats here, another coat there and we get the rest of the summer off.
Our club ride last Sunday was...interesting. We rode a little farther than we usually do and went south of La Crosse through the Mindoro Cut and then back through it toward home. Another Triumph rider went splat just out of the cut in the first turn. His bike broke one of the fence posts and then hovered halfway into the abyss below. Being a Triumph, aside from a scraped up plastic, a bent shifter lever, and a couple of superficial boo-boos, he finished the ride. I thought I'd drop mine on its side for fun as I was pulling off the side of the road to assist.
I need an automatic, retractable kickstand. There's nothing blonder than forgetting to put your kickstand down. Twice. Worse yet, an old dude on a Goldwing had pulled over to let me pass before the Cut and then stopped next to me to help our fallen rider. I was close enough to him that when I dropped the bike, my instrument cowl brushed up against his leg. Didn't affect him. He merely turned his head in my direction and asked, calmly, "Are you okay?" No sir. I'm stupid. Are you okay? Don't sue me.
***
I went for a ride with my dad and his friend last night up to a new tavern on Lake Holcombe. Very nice. Ted's Timberlodge. All pine and slate and stone with a great view of the lake. That was a 70 mile trip. Then I got home and realized I didn't deposit my paycheck, so I rode to the bank branch farthest from my house. At some point I decided to get lost. "I wonder where EE goes? I'll follow it till it ends. Oh, it ends at H. I'll turn left here on H and ride that till it ends." That one was a long one. By the time I got to the end of H, it was getting darkish and all I knew was that I was south. And the farm guys in their pickup trucks were looking at me in a "paddle faster, I hear banjos" sort of way. I found a familiar route and followed it home...85 miles.
***
How are you guys dealing with the gas thing? I think it's around $4.22 here. I could tell you that I've taken an active approach in taking my motorcycle instead of my car, but I like to ride too much. I keep finding the looooonng way home. Honestly, I'm surprised I even know what the price was...I must have glanced at the pump. I don't care, I haven't cut back, I say spook the caribou, start drilling in Alaska, and give me all the 93 octane fossil fuels ya got. I don't think this makes me a bad American. Let's just say I'm doing all I can to hold up my end of the Pursuit of Happiness.
This Saturday the club is heading up to the Twin Cities for a benefit ride. A guy who used to ride in the club (whom we know as "Fez") has an 11 year old little brother who is in remission from Stage 4 Hodgkin's and they are throwing a little party for him. I'm looking forward to seeing Fez again and meeting his brother, but it will also be an all-day motorcycling jag. Yea for me! And Brother is actually going to ride with us for the first time this year.
***
Admittedly, my useless ramblings are more entertaining than current events...but sometimes you just have to build up the good stuff.And I can't get "Mamma Mia" out. Of. My. Freaking. Head.
And Trish got Italy moments after I threw down my Hawaii gauntlet. Shush, Trish. Threaten me again, and I post up your artwork on the notes we passed from high school. Love to the W-W's!
Thursday, July 3, 2008
There are no taste buds down there
Hah. You thought that was dirty didn't you? 'Snot.
I just wanted to publicly announce that I am eating a mashed potato bowl from KFC for lunch. It's mashed potatoes, corn, gravy, breaded chicken bits and cheese. And, so far, I've managed to keep it down.
While this isn't newsworthy in most cases, I am an exception in that my entire life (so far) has consisted of consuming food as if it were perpetually served on a sectioned Chinet plate. I do not mix my food. There is never corn mixed with the mashed potatoes and gravy. There are NEVER cranberries touching the green bean casserole. Barf noise.
I am constantly forced to respond to the statement, "It all ends up in the same place," with a scathing, "I don't have to taste it once it's down there."
Here I am, eating a mishmosh in a bowl...frankly it's not bad. But if there were cranberries in it too, I'd have to draw the line. Barf noise. Guess I'll check this off my list too; right up there with skydiving and track day.
Everyone out there in the food-mixin' USA, have a great 4th of July. Mind the fingers and toes.
I just wanted to publicly announce that I am eating a mashed potato bowl from KFC for lunch. It's mashed potatoes, corn, gravy, breaded chicken bits and cheese. And, so far, I've managed to keep it down.
While this isn't newsworthy in most cases, I am an exception in that my entire life (so far) has consisted of consuming food as if it were perpetually served on a sectioned Chinet plate. I do not mix my food. There is never corn mixed with the mashed potatoes and gravy. There are NEVER cranberries touching the green bean casserole. Barf noise.
I am constantly forced to respond to the statement, "It all ends up in the same place," with a scathing, "I don't have to taste it once it's down there."
Here I am, eating a mishmosh in a bowl...frankly it's not bad. But if there were cranberries in it too, I'd have to draw the line. Barf noise. Guess I'll check this off my list too; right up there with skydiving and track day.
Everyone out there in the food-mixin' USA, have a great 4th of July. Mind the fingers and toes.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
How Come I Don't Get to Have Parosamia?
Topic: Things that are stinky.
Stinky: "Escape" by Rupert Holmes
Shortly after I moved up to Eau Claire, I bought an XM radio. Why? There are roughly 11 mainstream radio stations in this area (after eliminating the Christian rock, NPR, talk, and college stations). Aside: college stations play music that reminds me of that scene in "Animal House" when Otter is picking up dates at the nearby women's college. That song playing in the background while he waits in the lobby of the sorority...yeah, that one...the "I haven't washed in three days, my armpit hair is long and braid-able, I'm hanging out here in the coffee shop with the book "On The Road" sitting on the table (unread), and I'm rambling on about curing the world's hurts, but darn if I don't sound intellectual" song. We get a lot of that up here in Collegeland. Sometimes I like to hang out in the coffee shops with a highfalutin book I actually am reading, and scoff at the pretentious little twits. And who gave permission for white boys to grow dreads?
The eleven radio stations can be boiled down to FOUR genres: Top 40, classic rock, country, rock. Ergo, XM. I have a sort of A.D.D. love of music. Not too much of any one thing, but never enough of everything. Oddly enough, my A.D.D. does not include the above mentioned four genres, other than a few hardly-played numbers.
My employer is a definite late 70's/early 80's child of rock. He naturally chooses the classic rock station. With all the machinery noises in the background at work, I can almost drown out the music with the monotonous clicking of the press and my usual busy-headedness. Unfortunately, the station of choice is an internet no-name that, I've discovered, is fairly limited in scope. I have heard "Escape" at least once a week. Now, I KNOW none of you dear readers can claim that. And how is that "rock" anyway?
Last week, the song finally intruded on my conscience, and I was forced to listen to the lyrics. The story goes like this: couple is bored. Man of couple reads personals and finds intriguing mystery woman. Insists he must meet her. Turns out Man of couple re-meets Woman of couple. They laugh, they like pina coladas. Now, would this happen in real life? If you were bored with your girlfriend, and you go combing the personals, find someone you want to meet and it turns out it's your girlfriend after all, would there really be laughing? Or would there be stabbing? Does this do damage to the trust of a relationship? What kind of strength of will is necessary to overcome that terribly awkward realization that your significant other went sneaking off to look for someone new (or had already posted a personal ad doing same) without the common decency to come clean first? I digress. This song still stinks. Brother can come up with better songs thinking about toilet activities.
Stinky: Lawn clippings
Leave eight bags of last year's lawn clippings out in your backyard. Then move them to your dad's house. Try not to vomit. There is no way to describe the smell of decaying grass cooking in the sun in a black plastic garbage bag. For 12 months. Does it smell like cow manure? Nope. Feet? Not even. Guinness farts? No. More like all three together.
I had returned from my Saturday morning yoga class to find the back patio cleared of all the black bags, but there lingered a frightening odor that I couldn't pin down. Until our newest roommate wandered into the garage and made the barf noise. And described, all the while moving aforementioned bags, the number of times he and Brother made the barf noise. While I was making the barf noise. And when Brother returned from dumping the bags behind my dad's house, he resumed the barf noise. All day, waiting for the patio and garage to air out...the barf noise.
Now, we go bagless. It helps that Roommate finds mowing the lawn to be "therapeutic" if he's not forced to mow the lawn. I find this acceptable, though he, by no means, is required by us to mow. Frankly, I HATE mowing the lawn. I've mowed once this season; Brother may not have at all. Roommate does this regularly; also, mostly naked (yea for me). And darn if he doesn't mow on an angle. Our lot looks like someone dropped a dilapidated (read: scraped of exterior paint) ranch house in the middle of Fenway.
Stinky: Painting a house
Warm weather up here in the Northwoods is slow to appear. It really never hit 70 until early June this year. So when April rolled around and we discovered the exterior paint hanging off the soffit in chunks, and huge bubbles on the siding, guess what took priority while waiting for a suitable temperature to paint? Realistically, we could use new siding and windows, but painting was more financially feasible at this point. The last paint job on our house is crappy at best. No prep at all, it appears. So, perfectionists that Brother and I are, we've been pressure-washing, scraping, filling, and slopping on primer for the last, oh, 2 months. Mind you, I'm inherently lazy. If there's labor to be done, I can come up with all manner of seemly reasons to not labor. My cells are busier than I am.
Brother works two jobs and when he's not at either of those, he's working on the house. I feel bad, but...labor. The last couple of weekends and a couple of weekdays after work, when I'm done eating dinner, and it's not hot, and the sun isn't beating down on me, and I'm properly hydrated, and the hammock in the 3-season porch is not calling me, and I get to use the non-rickety ladder...I've done some work. Mostly because I can't stand looking at our awful Alabama swamp hut anymore. So we've been working in shifts. Brother sands during the day, I primer in the evening. We might get done before we start piling up bags of grass clippings again. Barf noise.
The house-painting highlight so far was last night. I was in the backyard, slapping primer on the bare wood spots when Roommate returns from his "run" (he doesn't, much), grabs a lawn chair and parks it in the grass (mostly naked again; yea for me) to watch me paint. Granted, this was to have a conversation while I was (ech) laboring, but in my head it was totally amusing to watch a woman up on a ladder painting and a mostly naked man in a lawn chair watching. I'm surprised men walking in the neighborhood didn't come up and congratulate Roommate on his achievement.
Stinky (but infinitely funny): Farts
Now that there are two dudes living in this humble abode, the farting has increased exponentially. I'm sure you can imagine the giggle factory I've become. Yes, farting is disgusting. Yes, it's socially unacceptable. However, if you constantly laugh at every toot, fweep, and BLAAAAT, you are unconsciously allowing the behavior to continue. It could be worse. We could have cats...and hairballs. Besides, I like to laugh. And now, I do a lot of it.
Brother, as I have stated, will drop a single BRAP and the deadly cloud spreads. Without warning. The rotting gas bag. He has convinced me that he likes the smell of them, even while making the barf noise. "Sniiiiff. Oh. Baaad. Sniiiiff (as if to confirm). Oh yeah. " Fun for him, not for us.
Roommate, on the other hand, makes me laugh, every time. Damn him. Melodic and tonal with a definite longevity. Not a hint of odor (not that you would catch me within 10 feet of him post-symphonic outburst. But, while Brother's has a way of filling the room, Roommate? Non-stinky.) We've determined he's made up of "sunshine and farts." Last night, while we were enjoying our non-cable TV (Public Television, I heart you) in the 3-season porch, I sat curled up in a chair and Roommate was sprawled out (mostly naked) in the hammock. At first I thought a random animal had passed by the 3-season and left a distinct "GTFOOH" mark on the air...then I realized it was the poo-lecules of my fellow human being.
Me: "Hey, you're not supposed to stink."
A pair of eyes peek out over the hammock.
Roommate: "I think I might be lactose-intolerant."
Me: "Why do you think that?"
Roommate: "My dinner of cheese and crackers, chips and dip, followed by cheese and crackers?"
Me: "I suspect it was your 'run'. That's why I don't."
Roommate: "Anyway, it's starting to hurt."
Me: "Want some ice cream?"
Roommate: "Does your pillow smell funny?"
Roommate and I went out on a ride Sunday night after our usual sportbike club ride. He has years of experience at riding (and a few more experiences than me at crashing) and I've improved much piloting my own bike while following him. But, I couldn't help but think as I watched him crest a hill into the sunset and lean out of sight into a left turn, "Is he farting right now? Would I be able to smell it back here? What does he mean 'Does your pillow smell funny?'"
Stinky: "Escape" by Rupert Holmes
Shortly after I moved up to Eau Claire, I bought an XM radio. Why? There are roughly 11 mainstream radio stations in this area (after eliminating the Christian rock, NPR, talk, and college stations). Aside: college stations play music that reminds me of that scene in "Animal House" when Otter is picking up dates at the nearby women's college. That song playing in the background while he waits in the lobby of the sorority...yeah, that one...the "I haven't washed in three days, my armpit hair is long and braid-able, I'm hanging out here in the coffee shop with the book "On The Road" sitting on the table (unread), and I'm rambling on about curing the world's hurts, but darn if I don't sound intellectual" song. We get a lot of that up here in Collegeland. Sometimes I like to hang out in the coffee shops with a highfalutin book I actually am reading, and scoff at the pretentious little twits. And who gave permission for white boys to grow dreads?
The eleven radio stations can be boiled down to FOUR genres: Top 40, classic rock, country, rock. Ergo, XM. I have a sort of A.D.D. love of music. Not too much of any one thing, but never enough of everything. Oddly enough, my A.D.D. does not include the above mentioned four genres, other than a few hardly-played numbers.
My employer is a definite late 70's/early 80's child of rock. He naturally chooses the classic rock station. With all the machinery noises in the background at work, I can almost drown out the music with the monotonous clicking of the press and my usual busy-headedness. Unfortunately, the station of choice is an internet no-name that, I've discovered, is fairly limited in scope. I have heard "Escape" at least once a week. Now, I KNOW none of you dear readers can claim that. And how is that "rock" anyway?
Last week, the song finally intruded on my conscience, and I was forced to listen to the lyrics. The story goes like this: couple is bored. Man of couple reads personals and finds intriguing mystery woman. Insists he must meet her. Turns out Man of couple re-meets Woman of couple. They laugh, they like pina coladas. Now, would this happen in real life? If you were bored with your girlfriend, and you go combing the personals, find someone you want to meet and it turns out it's your girlfriend after all, would there really be laughing? Or would there be stabbing? Does this do damage to the trust of a relationship? What kind of strength of will is necessary to overcome that terribly awkward realization that your significant other went sneaking off to look for someone new (or had already posted a personal ad doing same) without the common decency to come clean first? I digress. This song still stinks. Brother can come up with better songs thinking about toilet activities.
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Stinky: Lawn clippings
Leave eight bags of last year's lawn clippings out in your backyard. Then move them to your dad's house. Try not to vomit. There is no way to describe the smell of decaying grass cooking in the sun in a black plastic garbage bag. For 12 months. Does it smell like cow manure? Nope. Feet? Not even. Guinness farts? No. More like all three together.
I had returned from my Saturday morning yoga class to find the back patio cleared of all the black bags, but there lingered a frightening odor that I couldn't pin down. Until our newest roommate wandered into the garage and made the barf noise. And described, all the while moving aforementioned bags, the number of times he and Brother made the barf noise. While I was making the barf noise. And when Brother returned from dumping the bags behind my dad's house, he resumed the barf noise. All day, waiting for the patio and garage to air out...the barf noise.
Now, we go bagless. It helps that Roommate finds mowing the lawn to be "therapeutic" if he's not forced to mow the lawn. I find this acceptable, though he, by no means, is required by us to mow. Frankly, I HATE mowing the lawn. I've mowed once this season; Brother may not have at all. Roommate does this regularly; also, mostly naked (yea for me). And darn if he doesn't mow on an angle. Our lot looks like someone dropped a dilapidated (read: scraped of exterior paint) ranch house in the middle of Fenway.
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Stinky: Painting a house
Warm weather up here in the Northwoods is slow to appear. It really never hit 70 until early June this year. So when April rolled around and we discovered the exterior paint hanging off the soffit in chunks, and huge bubbles on the siding, guess what took priority while waiting for a suitable temperature to paint? Realistically, we could use new siding and windows, but painting was more financially feasible at this point. The last paint job on our house is crappy at best. No prep at all, it appears. So, perfectionists that Brother and I are, we've been pressure-washing, scraping, filling, and slopping on primer for the last, oh, 2 months. Mind you, I'm inherently lazy. If there's labor to be done, I can come up with all manner of seemly reasons to not labor. My cells are busier than I am.
Brother works two jobs and when he's not at either of those, he's working on the house. I feel bad, but...labor. The last couple of weekends and a couple of weekdays after work, when I'm done eating dinner, and it's not hot, and the sun isn't beating down on me, and I'm properly hydrated, and the hammock in the 3-season porch is not calling me, and I get to use the non-rickety ladder...I've done some work. Mostly because I can't stand looking at our awful Alabama swamp hut anymore. So we've been working in shifts. Brother sands during the day, I primer in the evening. We might get done before we start piling up bags of grass clippings again. Barf noise.
The house-painting highlight so far was last night. I was in the backyard, slapping primer on the bare wood spots when Roommate returns from his "run" (he doesn't, much), grabs a lawn chair and parks it in the grass (mostly naked again; yea for me) to watch me paint. Granted, this was to have a conversation while I was (ech) laboring, but in my head it was totally amusing to watch a woman up on a ladder painting and a mostly naked man in a lawn chair watching. I'm surprised men walking in the neighborhood didn't come up and congratulate Roommate on his achievement.
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Stinky (but infinitely funny): Farts
Now that there are two dudes living in this humble abode, the farting has increased exponentially. I'm sure you can imagine the giggle factory I've become. Yes, farting is disgusting. Yes, it's socially unacceptable. However, if you constantly laugh at every toot, fweep, and BLAAAAT, you are unconsciously allowing the behavior to continue. It could be worse. We could have cats...and hairballs. Besides, I like to laugh. And now, I do a lot of it.
Brother, as I have stated, will drop a single BRAP and the deadly cloud spreads. Without warning. The rotting gas bag. He has convinced me that he likes the smell of them, even while making the barf noise. "Sniiiiff.
Roommate, on the other hand, makes me laugh, every time. Damn him. Melodic and tonal with a definite longevity. Not a hint of odor (not that you would catch me within 10 feet of him post-symphonic outburst. But, while Brother's has a way of filling the room, Roommate? Non-stinky.) We've determined he's made up of "sunshine and farts." Last night, while we were enjoying our non-cable TV (Public Television, I heart you) in the 3-season porch, I sat curled up in a chair and Roommate was sprawled out (mostly naked) in the hammock. At first I thought a random animal had passed by the 3-season and left a distinct "GTFOOH" mark on the air...then I realized it was the poo-lecules of my fellow human being.
Me: "Hey, you're not supposed to stink."
A pair of eyes peek out over the hammock.
Roommate: "I think I might be lactose-intolerant."
Me: "Why do you think that?"
Roommate: "My dinner of cheese and crackers, chips and dip, followed by cheese and crackers?"
Me: "I suspect it was your 'run'. That's why I don't."
Roommate: "Anyway, it's starting to hurt."
Me: "Want some ice cream?"
Roommate: "Does your pillow smell funny?"
Roommate and I went out on a ride Sunday night after our usual sportbike club ride. He has years of experience at riding (and a few more experiences than me at crashing) and I've improved much piloting my own bike while following him. But, I couldn't help but think as I watched him crest a hill into the sunset and lean out of sight into a left turn, "Is he farting right now? Would I be able to smell it back here? What does he mean 'Does your pillow smell funny?'"
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