Witness to the Incredulous

I hate grocery shopping. Hate it hate it hate it. I just posted up in Facebook that I hate grocery shopping so much, I've been using my brother's toothpaste for the past week. I had finally given up the fight and went today, because I was out of lemons.

* * *

Less than quick story...weird but true. Last March, after returning to Chicago from Tampa with Trish and her family, we are all trussed up in a mini-van taxi being driven by a big man. I had to cram into the front passenger seat, knees digging into the dashboard, nose seemingly inches from the windshield. I love Trish and her family as my own, but I was exhausted from the parental test-driving I did over the week with her two boys. I tried to send my astral body out to a remote island until we arrived at my car's location and I could RUN AWAY. So I was fairly silent in the taxi.

The driver started to tell me a story...and you know how this is if you don't want to talk to anyone...but he reminded so much of Bernie Mac and his spiel in "Ocean's Eleven" at the car dealer that I couldn't be mean. So I listened to him ramble on and then eventually realized he was talking about my then bad bout of acne. Man, I'm 37 years old and more than once I thought about donating my facial oil to a fast food joint or a biodiesel plant. Grease-ee. Why on the GREEN EARTH is this stranger talking about my bad skin?? He was kind though, and pointed out that he had once been a puppet of the McJob himself, suffered the same facial fate, and someone passed on the virtue of lemon juice. No shit. Wash your face, squeeze some lemon juice into your hand (from actual lemons presumably...I'd imagine the concentrated bottled stuff might be too harsh), splash it on. I did thank him for the advice and, after all the money spent on one stupid product or another that never worked, it seemed so ridiculously simple, I was game.

So, March, April, May, June. I've been using lemon juice on my face every day for all that time. Totally cleared up. No more angry red things. No more grease. Even with that monthly eruption issue, only a couple dared surface. Awesome. Thank you, dear, dear Bernie Mac-lookin' driver man. I owe you big.

* * *

Back to the grocery shopping. Out of lemons. Now you know why. After stopping at the local gourmet beer and coffee joint in town, and cleaning them out of Beamish, I sped over to the grocery store. I can't boil down my hatred for shopping into one reason. It might be that I'm weak and lazy, and sometimes come home with $200 worth of frozen, microwaveable food (and ice cream). It might be that I think I'm just a little agoraphobic. I remember one Christmas season having to leave a shopping mall because I was going to lose it. Now, I prefer to shop online as much as possible for the Christmas holiday and only go to the mall if I have no other choice. I WILL not go anywhere near the mall within a week of Thanksgiving, Christmas or New Year's.

I also equate grocery shopping with some of the worst drivers I've ever seen. I am not without my own errors in judgment, but there's people who drive on the "wrong" side of the aisle, who park their cart in the middle, blocking the whole aisle instead of "pulling over", who plug up the only "hole" in the flow of traffic, and God help me, three people who WERE STANDING DIRECTLY IN THE DOORWAY OF THE ENTRANCE CHATTING. Amazing how I can appear to be so laid back most of the time, isn't it? Which is WHY I avoid the grocery store, right?

I've wandered back and forth throughout the store picking up my necessities...seriously, why are the Hershey's bars in the candy aisle, the graham crackers in the cracker aisle and the marshmallows in the baking aisle? If I had my way, grocery stores would have a s'mores aisle. Damn it, I passed the lemons.

I'm rounding the home stretch past the ice cream and through the bakery section when I notice a slim, solo, blond woman seizing a baguette of French bread. Snarky Me pops to the surface to mumble, "Oh God, how movie of her. Now all we need is to see carrots with the tops still attached poking out of her crisply creased paper bag."

I wheel my crap over to the checkout lanes. Gotta get out, gotta get out. I queue up behind one other woman and start unloading my cart. The pleasant woman behind the counter steps out and places a large sign directly behind my groceries that her lane is closed. LARGE sign. About a foot across and half a foot tall. CLOSED. She smiles at me and says, "After you, of course." I reply, "Thank you. I was worried for a minute there you were going to wait until I unloaded my cart to tell me you were closed." We exchange smiles and I continue to dump my junk on the belt. Now it's my turn. She mentions something to me like, "It's funny. You should see how many people actually move AROUND that sign to put their groceries down." I sort of chuckle and start loading up my groceries into the bags as she rings the rest up (it's a YOU bag aisle...fitting, I believe, as I AM a bag).

My face is two feet from the floor as I'm picking up the case of pop from the bottom rack of my cart when I see two feet appear behind it. I stand up and Movie Baguette lady has perched her little single-people's basket on the belt behind my stuff. AROUND the CLOSED sign. That's when I look at the pleasant woman behind the counter...beaming at me through her cute, square rimmed glasses. I bust out laughing as she says, "See? And you didn't believe me." As I'm still packing my groceries into the bags, laughing hysterically and now, welling up with tears and snot, Pleasant Woman continues to make conversation with me...probably trying to keep herself composed while all around her are losing or have lost their head. "Ooo, you're making s'mores? Hunting, camping, fishing?" I blurt out "Camping!" as I gleek on my loaf of bread and carton of ice cream. The laughter subsides...I can't look at Movie Baguette lady, I keep losing it as it is. Then more laughter. "Oh that's awesome. Thanks so much for planning that laugh for me." Pleasant Woman says, "Oh, no problem at all. Camping, huh?" "Yes," I struggle to breathe. "Brother. Brother's girlfriend, me. Vintage. Motorcycle. Racing." Pleasant Woman to me, as I bust out again, "Sweet! Well you have a nice night." Me: "Oh God. THANK YOU! I hope your job ends SOMETIME today." As we laugh again, and I push my cart of shit out the door...looking like I just popped onion peels under my eyelids.

Movie Baguette lady? Utterly, completely, oblivious.

Okay, so it was probably more funny in person that it is on blog. But I was there...ergo, funny. Have a lovely! Try not to stab anyone at Wal-Mart with a pool noodle!


Also...there's this.


That's right, a new fragrance for your armpits! Take your pits away to a Tropical Paradise! Rent 'em a hammock! Buy 'em a daiquiri, one each! Let's go, Pits! Bora Bora!

Psychic Readings by Kuj

I'm binding books today at work, which allows for much thinking because, other than focusing on "don't crush your fingers in this medieval, Teutonic device," there isn't much going on in my head. A song playing on our radio reminded me of a spectacular precognitive moment I had a number of years ago.

Back in Illinois, when I was relaxing with friends post-work at Friday's, indulging in a Captain and Coke and playing some trivia, my dad called from the Harley 100th Anniversary rally in Milwaukee.

Fahjah said, "We're sitting here in a big field, awaiting the surprise headliner. We're so far from the stage, they've got a Jumbotron set up so we can see. We're taking suggestions on who the mystery headliner is. We've got Aerosmith, The Eagles, Bruce..."

I was MUCH angrier those days (happily that has changed some since I moved north), and my answer was, "It's probably going to be Elton John."

Fahjah: "Dawwww...you think?"
Me: "Well, what says 'Surprise!' at a Harley rally, THE Harley rally, than an old, English gay with a penchant for stupid sunglasses?"

We say goodbye and I'm back into my drink and my trivia. After a half-hour or so passes, my cell phone rings again. It's...my dad.

"So," he said, "the band starts into some long, low notes and it suddenly hits me, Jesus this is 'Funeral For A Friend!' Son of a bitch! IT'S ELTON JOHN! It was a mass exodus. A bajillion-strong leather-clad orange-and-black wave of departure. They even opened up the VIP section to everyone. I think someone's getting fired on Monday."

I'm wondering now that I've been reminded of this, if there isn't a career out there for me in predicting corporate downfalls and stock market fluctuations, assuming I gave a crap about either of those. Hey, Trish, that kitten heel on your left shoe needs a looking-at... Might as well throw a prediction out there. If I'm wrong, hey, at least Trish will have a quick opportunity to admire her own shoes...

You've got a little drool there...

I work in a print shop that is very small for the very large amount of work we produce. There are four of us at the most at any one time. If you've read Gary is 60, you already know about our fast-paced finishing man. We also have Chris, who is our sales dude, and also helps out greatly around the shop with whatever needs doing. Then there the boss of us, who as I've said time and again, is truly the World's Greatest Boss. Even though he laughed wholeheartedly at me when I was the only one in the shop at the time as he walked in and found me trying to hold back an avalanche of 30,000 letters stacked in trays, as I was waiting for my body to sprout an extra arm.

If the boss is out running errands or visiting customers, which he does a lot, I am usually the one answering the phones. There's this one brief statement that many of the people who call say to me and it sort of ruffles my feathers. Now I realize they probably don't mean it this way but...

"Hi, is [your boss] there?"
"No, he's out running errands at the moment. Would you like me to leave a message for him?"
"Well, maybe you can help me..."

Kuj's brain interprets:

"Hi, is [your boss] there?"
"No, he's out running errands at the moment. Would you like me to leave a message for him?"
"Since whom I believe to be the competent person in your office is gone, is there any chance you can summon enough spark in that one brain cell to mop the drool from your chin and listen to me tell you the exact same thing on the phone as I typed in the email I just sent to you? Can you handle that, you knuckle-dragging chimp?"

Eh...Maybe I'm reading too much in to it...

It's really no more frustrating than having my mom and brother drive up to the speaker when I took orders at my first job at McDonald's, back in high school.

"Welcome to the worst job ever, can I take your order?"
"Yes, we'd like two chili cheese dogs and an apple pie, hold the hair."
"MOM!"

You can bet after 90 days at my second job, McD's dropped right off my resume, never to be seen again.

*****

Of course, as I'm typing this post, it occurs to me that if I simply replaced "Would you like me to leave a message for him?" with "Is there anything I can help you with?" that would probably eliminate this whole petty deal. Stupid logic.

Also, Chris was reading over my shoulder and wanted me to add that he's really the company Superman (with small hair<--he once complained about losing his hair, to which I answered, "You're not going bald, you just have...small hair...?").

Don't do it in the dark

Yeah, getting ready for work without turning the light on invites chaos. Take the other morning, for instance. I went through the entire day before I realized my drawers were on inside out.

Or when I overslept this morning. I hit the off button instead of the snooze and woke up with 10 minutes to spare before Fahjah arrived to whisk us away to work. I threw on a nearby "cleanest, dirty" pair of jeans. I was trying to avoid the pair I wore to the Japanese restaurant on Sunday night and the pair I wore out to the bar in Menomonie Saturday night. They had a non-odor so on they went. Now I'm sitting here and I can distinctly pick up the smell of Japanese restaurant. Awesome. At least this hair-do I'm currently sporting can fly with just running a brush through it.

Of course, getting dressed in the dark doesn't help or hinder your sense of smell, but...what the hell...? My underwear's on inside out AGAIN?

Today's the day I meet the man of my dreams, isn't it...

S.A.D. is B.A.D.

I think I have S.A.D.

Granted, I'm not much of an outdoor person. Not that you could go outside and play when the wind chill will knock you unconscious. On the sunny, warm summer days when there's a light breeze and the scent of freshly-mowed lawn fills my nose, there's nothing finer than enjoying all that through the open window behind my computer monitor. I do, occasionally, venture out, but I find it difficult to do so when, shielding my sight with my hand as the tears squeeze out of the corners of my blinded eyes, Brother stops what he's doing outside and declares, "Wow, I didn't know skin could be that white." I hate the sun, or at least the being directly in it. My legs resemble the color of those cave-dwelling, blind salamanders; devoid of all pigment. Toothpaste has a healthier glow.

I've never really enjoyed anything athletic. Marching Band was my only extracurricular activity in high school. The most exercise you'd get is the 12 minute run-through at the end of rehearsal and the occasional run-the-perimeter of the football field for running your mouth constantly (not me...much). By joining band, I got to go places, learn a little discipline, develop some personal pride, be a part of something bigger than myself, and sure, get outside some. However, during the two weeks in August for Band Camp, it felt like I had been abandoned in the desert on some forced march. I tried gymnastics at a very young age. Too flip-floppy. Soccer later on...I swear to you, the rest of the girls were HUGE DUDES. I didn't really like either.

I always tell people I was built for comfort, not speed. I like yoga and pilates, but not weight lifting or cardio. In fact, if you mention the word "exercise" in front of me, I will likely stab you with a spoon. My idea of enjoying a summer day is stretched out in my hammock in our three-season porch, reading a book (or at least the first few pages) until I doze off.

My attitude about "outside" seems to have changed over the last summer. I think it started with the purchase of my motorcycle a couple of years ago, or maybe it was the yoga classes I signed up for a year ago, but I think it was the purchase late last summer of my sweet, sweet beach cruiser that may have turned the tide. The local supply of Ben & Jerry's and Dove ice cream is two or three blocks away at the gas station. Hey, if you bicycle to the place to buy the ice cream, it negates any and all calories and/or fat grams. So sayeth I. After buying the bicycle, I ended up riding around Eau Claire 30 miles one day with Mostly Naked. Offroad too. Then there's the semi-annual "tubing" that we do on the Chippewa River when my mom comes up to visit. I say "tubing" because it's really, "The river's so slow, we're actually moving upriver, and Kuj's attention span is only good for two hours, so she pulls the four laziest of family members downstream." I'm canoeing next time, you f**kers.

Getting back to the S.A.D., I try to sit in the sun in the big picture window when it's out, though these days the sun is purely decorative. I even resolved to steal my dad's snowshoes and go tramping around the Lowes Creek County Park where Brother and Mostly Naked like to hit trees with their bicycles in the summer. But this year, the weather has been so commonly below the normal range for this area, that I just really can't bring myself to want to go out except to the mailbox on the house right near the front door to get my Netflix.

But I can't wait to go off-road on my sweet, sweet beach cruiser with the boys. I'm going to buy one of those GPS trackers so they can come back hours later and try to find me. Maybe I should bring somebody with me to eat, in case I don't get rescued right away. Or has that become too trendy?

I Bet My Money On A Bob-Tail NAAAAAAAAAAG

My iGoogle page has all these little widgets on it that inform and enlighten. I have a "winder" for a few blogs (yes, my own is in there, self-absorbed much?), another for my email, one for looking up words, one for "totally free crap", etc. One widget that has been most enlightening has been the "How-to of the Day" window. Every day there are two links to various "how-to" articles (remember the "How to dig post holes" blog post?). Today I'm scanning my home page and I see "How to write in Gothic calligraphy" and "6 steps to not being needy." Gothic calligraphy, blah blah blah. Every low-rider sports some kind of Gothic announcement on the windshield and it features prominently in overused tattoos. If it's a ubiquitous trend, I'm not interested.

I click on the "no more needy" how-to, and realize, oh man, that's TOTALLY ME! I'm the neediest of needy. Well, not quite. No one's ever actually said it to my face (though it would've been nice if someone would've clued me in before now), and I've always seen much worse examples of human neediness. Guess the "Jump. Both Feet" mantra should remain relevant only to creative outlets and swimmin' holes. What's slightly amusing to me is that I've started doing some of the suggestions (find a damn hobby, for instance). So "Jump. Both Feet" on again, just not on people or your relationship with them. And since I know people are reading this.... ME! ME ME ME ME ME ME ME! PAY ATTENTION TO ME!!!!

Hey, I'll get the attention where I can.

Thank you for your time.

Undiscovered Cerebral Territory

I've been rolling this thought around in my head for some time. I believe that we all have some hidden talent that could possibly go unfound if we don't think outside our conscious creativity. I know I'm not interested in creating most types of artwork. That is a talent my brother, mom, aunt, and cousin seem to possess and, most importantly, they enjoy it. I'd rather look at it. My dad has an incredible artistic ability too, though he's really more of a genius at creating something out of nothing for the purpose of a solution. He came up with the design for my camera mount, just by sitting down and sketching out a design. And he's really good at this. The proof is in the coupe he's building. I know I can ask him very nearly anything and he knows the answer (or at least it's very convincing).

So, a month or two ago I announced to anyone who would listen that I decided I was a pinstriping genius. That was my latent talent. When Christmas arrived, my dad gave me a pinstriping kit, thus making it a sort of "put up or shut up, JEENUS." With that, and in the spirit of the following formula, I present:

Big Mouth + Pinstriping Kit + A Most Convenient Canvas + Jump. Both Feet =

Clearly, there is still a latent talent in the brain somewhere. I'll just have to keep working on this one. I expect people will be lining up to have their toilet lids striped by me within hours of this post. /end sarcasm

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.

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.

Gentlemen, Start Your Looting!

I am an atrocious actress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I told you it was big.

The Bucket Brigade

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

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

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

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

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

Global Warming is the poo. Take a big whiff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come on....really?

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

Too much of a good thing...

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

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

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

Zzzzz...

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure!"

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

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

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

I'm kidding. I hardly ever eat bacon.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

View Larger Map

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

Golf is Satan's Game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great fun. For me.

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

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

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

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

Thath not guud...Or, Kuj the Wrecked Sprocket (thanks, Momma)

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Not the book. MY Zen and MY Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

Some riders are diligent and thorough. They will keep track of the life of their tires, their oil, their valves, etc., and will likely be able to rattle off the exact dates for when they come due.

Me?

Well, here's my "diligent" maintenance schedule:

Male in my life #1: "When's the last time you changed your oil?"
Me: "Dunno. Probably time."

Male in my life #2: "Chain looks a little loose...and bindy."
Me: "Really? Guess I better clean and tighten it."

Me: "What's your tire pressures?"
Male in my life #1: "34, 32."
Me: "Okay."

Me: "What's your tire pressures?"
Male in my life #3: "35, 41."
Me: "Okay."

Male #3: "Ooo, look who's starting to show cords!" Motorcycling terminology lesson: "Showing cords" means the tire's BALD. An example from M.N.'s last tire...



Me: "Wow. Must be all those burnouts I've been doing." /end sarcasm
Male #3. (after close examination): "Eh, you've got miles left to go on that tire."
Me: "What, till I SLIDE?"
Male #3: (smirks and drives away...in a car)

And yes, more than one male told me it was time for a new sprocket. I even ordered one, but suffered a shipping snafu, so it was delayed. I did not stop riding. Then I had what could best be described as an "event". Not an accident, nor a surprise...more of a stupid..."Oh hell. Red light. Oh hell. There's a Civic parked there. I should brake here. Oh hell. I'm going much faster than I at first guessed. Oh hell. The front brake isn't enough. I'll add in some rear brake. Oh hell. Is that my back tire sliding around? Oh hell. Oh hell."

Everything did its job. I stopped. I was safe. I even laughed a little...nervously.

El resulto?

You see...a sprocket should have TEETH whereby, engaged by the CHAIN, makes the back wheel turn, thereby making the bike go vroom. No teeth, well, then you're just riding a toboggan. Total count: 21 of 45 teeth remain. I have since replaced that glorious evidence of torque (after riding it that way for two days unknowingly) and hung it on the garage wall as an "offering to the god of speed." Or possibly, more appropriately, "The Buddha of Redneckly Maintenance."

...could you just imagine 24 pieces of aluminum flinging every which way? Wish I had a camera.

Incidentally, I just ordered a helmet camera. And a heart monitor. I'm conducting experiments. And mounting the camera somewhere on Mostly Naked so I can see myself. Yes, so I can see myself.

...you would too.

I'm evil, I'm evil, I'm evil...

I'd hang my head in shame, if I wasn't so darn amused by two incidences that have occurred in the last week.

I think I mentioned in a previous post that becoming a motorcyclist has awakened a sort of hyper-awareness. It creeps you out a little when you realize you can anticipate other driver's actions. You no longer look at the car, you look at the driver's head and their eyes in the rear view and side mirrors. They telegraph what they're going to do before they act on it. Which, even if you're in a car, it's a better way to be a defensive driver. I think the vantage point from a motorcycle might be better though, because you're up higher than most car drivers. This newest ability has come into play in both cases.

The street I live on has no stop signs for about 3 or 4 blocks. The cross-streets in that distance all have yield signs, which nobody pays any attention to. My theory is that the morons flying through the yield signs think that the traffic on my street has a sign too. They don't. I've lived here two years and there have been 3 accidents in that time, right on my corner. My belief that the doling out of rules, regulations, and safety precautions by the government to "protect" the public, is merely the answer to society revolving around the weakest mental links. Enough stupid people crash at these intersections, soon there will be yield signs all around. Then stop signs. Then traffic lights. With cops directing traffic.

Incident #1
I'm leaving my house (on bike) to deposit my paycheck. Normally, I won't go left out of my driveway because that's the direction of all the intersections with the fools flying through them. But I was pressed for time and that's the shortest route to the bank. I gassed it a little more than I usually do down that street, so I was probably at about 10 over the speed limit. Two blocks from the house I see a guy on a bicycle hauling ass towards MY intersection and we are about to have a meeting. Except that I see him first and let off. Two things happen. I see that he looks left first (I'm to his right). Then I notice that a car parked on the side of the road blocks his vision of my approach. He was truly moving...I wouldn't doubt that he was rocketing along at 30.

So when he finally looks in my direction, I watch as both his hands mash down on all the brakes he has. I was going to let him pass in front of me, but when he decided to park his mountain bike, I slowed down enough to look him square in the eye as I passed him and shrieked with loud, obnoxious laughter at him as the look on his face was truly priceless. It was a mixture of adrenaline-powered fear and the realization that the slamming noise he likely heard behind him was his butthole. Which reminds me of the dog we used to have that would sit on the floor between my mom's and stepdad's chairs during dinner and would fart audibly (wood floor), then look at his butt curiously. Hence the hysterics. Also, there's some genetic bit in our family that mocks another's misery. In particular, I laugh first, then ask if you're okay.

***

The main road outside our neighborhood is a four-lane road with a median. It basically allows traffic to sort of bypass our downtown area and the Chippewa & Eau Claire River's confluence. I realize it's not the bypass you'll find around the Twin Cities or Atlanta, but in a town of 62,000 people, it is fairly busy. Many intersections, many lights.

It's currently undergoing a major overhaul, so all the traffic is diverted to one side. At each intersection, the through lanes veer to the right to make room for left turn lanes. I've been noticing that a majority of car drivers either don't realize the lanes veer to the right, or they change lanes there deliberately, like a straight shot from right lane to left. At any rate, I've been near enough to a handful of cars that decide they want my lane, but since I anticipate this, I ride just ahead of any car that's next to me.

Incident #2
Except the one day recently...apparently I had enough. When a woman traveling in the right lane (I could tell later by the outfit that she was a nurse), decided there was one too many cars in her lane as we approached a light, she barely registered a turn of her head (and no signal) in my direction as I was passing her and moved over. Well, now this time I actually was next to her and had to brake hard to avoid getting hit. I let her get in front of me, but this time I was pissed. And I rode the twenty feet to where the lanes veered right with my horn full on. When I got no response from her, and she stayed in the left through lane, I rode up to the driver's side in the left turn lane and proceeded to wave both flippin' arms in the air at her. "Do you see me now, you STUPID BAG?" "DO YOU?" I'm yelling uselessly into my helmet. I realize this probably lacked the explanation I was so wanting to give her, but it made me feel better. Also, when I finally showed up in her peripheral vision, riding inches from the side of her car, waving my hands in the air like a maniac, she jumped a foot out of her seat, which made me collapse into a bout of hard laughter. Explanation conveyed.

At the next light, which was turning red, I signaled in a grand way that, in addition to my left turn signal...I'M GOING TO TURN HERE. JUST SO YOU KNOW. She totally blew the red light. Fear?

That was a good day.