The bells!!! The bells!

It's started. And just like that, it will abruptly end. The holiday season.

For me this year it will mean working in retail on Black Friday. I arrive at 4:45 am. The "deals" will be unveiled at 5:00 am to the throngs hoping to find something special at a special price. Since most major retailers "leak" their ads days early, what will be on sale will not be a surprise...except to us. We aren't told what items will be on sale in our departments until the night before. That night before is Thanksgiving, and I'm off that day. No big deal (pun intended). You do the best you can. Apologize for running out of certain items early (while supplies last). Be patient. Be polite. Pop an extra antidepressant (or two). Work the shift. And go home early (1:45 pm). Then, it's over. Perhaps I will find something special for a special price as well. Perhaps not. I've never really done the Black Friday shopping thing. I've never truly understood why people get up (or stay up all night) to fight the crowds, the lines, the rudeness that sometimes ensues, the "humanity of it all" akin to the Hindenburg disaster without the flames. Though people have died in past years.

Then there are the bells. Standing outside most every retail outlet through Christmas...the Salvation Army bell ringers. I'm already feeling a bit like Quasimodo and it's still two days from Thanksgiving!

My fondest recollections of the holiday shopping season comes from visits to Sears or Montgomery Wards. When the decorations were all set and the family went shopping, usually after Thanksgiving, I would head straight for the train set display in the middle of the store. There was always a huge decked out Christmas tree, bigger than life or anything we could fit in our house. The Lionel train set ran around, over and under the tree and the presents. White smoke puffed out of the big, black steam engine pulling what seemed like hundreds of train cars. Every once in a while, the whistle would blow. A full-sized, fake Santa stood guard near the tree, waving, nodding, and turning side to side...greeting all who stood in awe at the display. Off in the distance, the "real" Santa sat in front of his little read, snow-covered workshop. Children waiting in line nervously, some crying from the fear of their first lap visit with the jolly old gent. At one large shopping center in Van Nuys, Santa was flanked by real reindeer in cages. One even had its nose painted red. Geeze, do I look like a happy camper? The shot was either just before or just after a crying jag. I was scared shitless! It was the first time I smelled gin...but, certainly not the last. Clowns and Santa...not little-kid-friendly icons to meet up close and personal. Who thought up that picture on Santa's lap thing anyway? Oh, that's right. Adults did.

Have a nice Thanksgiving.

Squirrely Dreams

I woke up this morning with thoughts of singing squirrels in my head.

I know what many are saying now: Skip, are you taking your medication? And the answer to that is a resilient YES.

So, of which singing squirrels was I dreaming? No, not those singing squirrels...not the ones fronted by Alvin. Besides, they weren't squirrels...they were chipmunks!

Having spent what seemed like eons in radio broadcasting, I fashion myself as somewhat of a Student of Discography. I hesitate saying Expert of Discography since I can be stumped by almost anyone presenting me with some eclectic song title from some one-hit-wonder. I simply possess a bit more musical trivia than the average bear. Useless Talent #37.

Soon after Ross Bagdasarian (aka David Seville) gave birth to Alvin and the Chipmunks around 1958...recall (now annoying) The Christmas Song in three part harmony played at double speed...another group of singing rodents made their debut and hit the Billboard charts. The song was called Uh-oh and was "sung" by The Nutty Squirrels. Uh-oh actually made it to #47 and even spawned a television cartoon show (which didn't share the same success as the Chipmunks).

The Nutty Squirrels music was more jazz and scat oriented than the pop-inspired Chipmunks tunes. But they did produce several albums and eventually collaborated with Ross Bagdasarian on some projects. That was back in the day before lawyers got a hold of the entertainment industry and folks still worked things out themselves.

That's it. Your discography lesson for the day. And, yes, you will find Uh-oh by the Nutty Squirrels on an iTunes search! I didn't need to download it, I still have the 45 somewhere.

Note to self: Call doctor to see if I need to ramp up the dosage.

Have a bicycle sale, and they will come.

They showed up. Certainly not all of them, but some came. Others of my kind. Despite Modesto's deserved reputation for not being the most bicycle friendly place on this planet, there are a few of us residing here. Our kind: folks who collect, appreciate, and work on older bicycles as a (sometimes obsessive) hobby.

About a dozen people stopped by my little bicycle garage sale/swap meet on Saturday. They perused the vintage frames, parts, and bicycles I had displayed outside my garage. Some of them purchased a few cranksets, seats, and bottom brackets. Another late-comer bought a mountain bike frame. A few of them expressed interest in the single speeds I was working on and wanted a notification when they were completed. All in all, it was a success! A success for the simple fact that most of the visitors hung around for an hour or more and just chatted with me and each other about bicycles. And this is what I was hoping for more than sales. We all exchanged phone numbers and emails and planned to try and do it again in a month or so.

One thing I did learn from this get-together is that most folks are collectors and not mechanics. I seemed to stand alone in that department. Some of these guys have a dozen or more bicycles, most of which sit in makeshift museums in the garage or extra bedroom. All manner of bike was represented: high end Italian road bikes, very expensive collectible American cruisers, and even old, old (30's) bicycles. Near the end of the sale, I even got a visit from three teenagers looking for parts for their "fixie" (no gears, no coasting) bikes. They bought a couple of parts and may return someday to buy one of my custom single speed conversions. "Dude", one exclaimed, "the paint job on that frame is sick!" Sick being the new bad...or cool or bitchen.

I'll try it again in a month or so. I'm hoping one of the others picks up the baton and volunteers his driveway next time. If not, I'll doing it again.

A retired teacher with whom I chatted for an hour or so returned after it was done to hand over an old Schwinn lady's Varsity frame he picked up. "Hey", he said pulling up in his truck, "want some free parts?" It was pretty rusty and incomplete, but had exactly what I have been looking for: chrome fenders. He bought it for $5 from a neighbor for the pedals. The frame and seat are very salvageable. "Jon, can I pay you something?" "No, I got what I needed. Besides, I just like what you're doing...and because you had this garage sale!"

Sick! See what I mean?

Death...Taxes...Time Changes

It happens every year, twice a year, for most time zones. Fall back, Spring ahead is the easy way to remember in which direction to change your clock(s). We're now back into Standard Time.

Conveniently, many of our time keepers change all by themselves. Computers (if you're on line), cell phones, cable guides, fancy dancy wrist watches...they all update automatically twice a year.

We're warned about it weeks in advance. Despite these fore warnings in the news, on notes taped to time clocks, print ads, Post-Its at your desk, some people just don't get the message. Every year, year after year, the morning after (a time change) finds countless ignorant individuals showing up an hour late or an hour early for work or appointments. "You're late, buddy!" "Late?", he lamented, "I'm ten minutes early...its 6:50!" "No, it isn't. It's 7:50, dude!"
"Shit!" Of course, the "late" conversation comes in the Spring. Dummies show up early after the Fall time change.

Changing the house clocks is easy. Changing our internal clocks? Not so easy. Here it is, the morning after the morning after...and I'm up and awake at 4 am. For me, getting up at 5 am is fairly normal. Today, that "internal" time still chimes 4 am. And it's not just me! Our dogs start doing their afternoon feed-me-dance an hour early and wake us up an hour early for the morning feed. We have yet to be very successful training the family dog how to read time. On top of that, with dogs, we all know they run on their own time agenda anyway.

The sun will set today at 5:05 pm. Inevitably, Loretta and I will have this conversation this afternoon.

Me: Wow, it's dark already!
Loretta: Yeah, I hate this time of year.
Me: Really? I love it. Let's start making soups again for dinner.
Loretta: Hmmm. I love soup. But I still hate the time change in the Fall!

With or without government imposed time "changes", time doesn't really "change". We simply move the arms on a mechanical device. Or, dig around in drawers looking for operating manuals to "adjust" digital clocks. I still need that manual to adjust the time on my watch, a cheap Timex Ironman. This year, I managed to set it back an hour without the manual (good, considering I couldn't locate it). Last year, I distinctly remember placing that little folded up piece of paper somewhere secure and saying, "There, I'll put it in here so it won't get lost (again)!" One season my watch read the wrong time until the next time change. My car's clock is still wrong six months out of the year!

Time may change. But we never seem to get used to it. Dogs could care less, they simply get hungry!

Hypochondria: It's inevitable with age.

Hypochondria: the belief that real or imagined physical symptoms are signs of a serious illness, despite medical reassurance and other evidence to the contrary.

Boomer husband: (lifting shirt and pointing to a mole on his side) What's this look like to you?
Boomer's wife: A mole honey. It looks like a mole.
Boomer husband: You sure?
Boomer's wife: Pretty sure. You've asked me about it before.
Boomer husband: Yeah, but it looks a little different now, and...it kind of itches. Plus, it used to be circular. Now, it resembles the state of Texas!
Boomer's wife: If you're worried about it, go to the doctor.
Boomer husband: What? The doctor? Oh, hell no!

This scenario must happen quite often and not only in my house. Loretta and I have similar conversations with some regularity. Sometimes it's over a mole. Other times it concerns some new "twinge" here or there. That word: "twinge". It's the scourge of Baby Boomers. "Ooooh! Shit, what was that?"

Is it inevitable that we will all become hypochondriacs with age? To some extent, I think so. Every little itch, red mark, cough, sneeze, scab, or twinge is perceived as some life threatening (ending) malady. Most of the time, this hypochrondriacal (not a real word, I just made it up) feeling soon passes and all is well in Boomerland. Other times, if it persists for more than a week or two, it may be a real (or imagined) sign of something more nefarious, in which case, a visit to the doctor may be advised.

For me, Loretta has to drag me kicking and screaming to the doc. But, I only go when I'm "forced" to, ie, an annual meet and greet with the doctor to renew prescriptions. Here's a recent conversation in the examining room:

Doc: How've you been feeling?
Me: Great. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Doc: Yeah, I guess so...since I haven't seen you for over two years! (scold, scold).
Me: Sorry. (feigned chuckle)
Doc: Please don't let it go so long next time. We really should see you at least once a year.

The last comment presented to me as leaned over the examining table on my elbows, preparing for that dreaded intrusion of an orifice not preformed since 1973...at least not by a stranger!

So be it. We've all known hypochondriacs (of any age) in person or portrayed in comedy scenes in the movies and television. Evidently, it's a real condition (sometimes serious and debilitating) concerning real or imagined health maladies. Is there an opposite of hypochondria? If there is, I must have it. Hyperchondria? The real or imagined feeling that there is never anything seriously wrong with you? Or, Stupidchondria? Unconcerneditis? Doctorous Fearous?

I know I'm not Superman. I know I must see the doc more regularly now. But(t), part of that exam felt like he was using a Louisville Slugger and not his middle finger!

By the way, my prostate was deemed "OK". Unfortunately, that could change tomorrow I suppose. Maybe if he at least bought me a drink first. Might make that indignity a little easier to accept next time!

Does this matter?

I think about writing (ex: in this blog) all the time. Every day. The result: I, for the most part, write nothing. Partly because of my feeling that it doesn't really matter. The same thought process is happening about and affecting my photography...or lack of it.

My daughter, Jen, is going through something similar (writer's and photographer's blocks), though for much different reasons. So, at least we commiserate via email, IMing, and a weekly phone call/Skype or two. Needless to say, at least these communications keep us in touch.

I'm also privileged to have an old friend with whom I can "chat" once in a while. This, too, via email and a phone call on occasion. My sister and I write back and forth on a regular basis, including a minor scolding when we don't respond in a timely fashion!

So, I guess it really does matter...writing, that is...writing down something as often as I can. Something that others can read if they so choose.

I tried Twitter a few months ago...too short. And Facebook...still too short and too mundane (?), plus, I haven't figured out how to exclude all of my "friends" daily stuff that fills my page. Stuff that I really don't have much of an interest in. Not that it isn't important to them. I just don't need it. Does that sound crass?

I liken this blog to when I was doing a daily radio show for over 18 years. People would write in or (worse) call in and complain about things I would say. This didn't happen a lot, but enough to affect my on-air demeanor and content. ATMO: there are two very important control knobs on every radio...the "Tuning" knob and the "On/Off switch". "Use 'em!", I used to chide, "If you don't like what I say, change the channel". Geeze, I guess I was sounding a lot like that Limbaugh guy way back when! The same goes for this blog. A couple of years ago, I turned off the "comment" option for these posts. This was due partly because of some "off-the-topic" harassment I was receiving from some misguided, unhappy (with THEIR life) folks needing a place to express some kind of opinion. My blogged advice to them: "Get your own blog...this one's mine terdbag!"

Write...or don't write. Read it...or don't read it. It's your choice. Just like having friends. It's your choice. It's not a requirement nor is it a law.

The moral: I think I need to just write more here. Call it blathering if you will. Speaking of that word, "blather"...an old radio friend of mine used to say that about some of his colleagues. He called what they do "blather and prattle". Of course, he was one of the best "blatherers and prattlers" in his own right. He's dead now. So be it.

If you like what is here, that's great. If you don't, that's great as well. Maybe I'll hit a home run once in a while, maybe I'll ground out. Perhaps I'll totally strike out. But one thing is for sure...I'll never get thrown out of the game for trying!

Does this matter? Well, ATMO...it does. If you don't think so...get your own blog!

Blather, blather, blather. Prattle, prattle, prattle.

I see your point? Or, get a life?

I just received an email from an eBay member scolding me for "converting" old, steel, 10 speed frames to custom painted, (sometimes) single speeds. The arrival of that email was anticipated. In other words, it was simply a matter of time when someone would take the time to express their opinion to me about "customizing" old bicycles. I did respond with a short diatribe about "10 speed, purist, self-righteous clowns" not seeing the whole picture.

How many '57 Chevy's, or '32 Fords have been made into bad-ass, customized hot rods that don't resemble the original? I made this point in my response. Visit Hot August Nights sometime and try to get into this debate with the good 'ol boys who build hot rods! They would twist his perfectly restored, original-condition bicycle around his neck and leave him somewhere in the desert near Virginia City. Perhaps he may see a spotted owl, a gila monster, or any other number of endangered flora and fauna.

So, should I have #1: Ignored the comment. #2 Said, "I see your point". Or, #3: Said, "Get a life!"

I said none of that, other than referring to him as a "clown". And, suggested he seek out in his surrounding area owners of old, bikes rusting and rotting in their backyards...and chastise them. Isn't that worse than rescuing an old bike and giving it new life in any form?

I guess there is a place in this world for tree huggers and vintage 10 speed huggers!