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]