The Rain, the Park, and Other Things

We spent a few precious hours at our home with Roth, Jen, and Rowan.

Merry...merry...merry? Ah, Merry Christmas!

...and to all, a good morning!

Tattoos...there will be blood...sweat...and pain!

It's been about 16 years since I got my first tattoo at the age of 44. Yeah, I started the inking late in life. I have several, including a Harley shield on one arm, a ying yang thing on my calf, and Michigan J. Frog on the other arm. And now, 36 years after getting out of the Navy...a Navy anchor on my forearm.

There is no gray area when it comes to tattoos, ie, you either love 'em or deplore 'em. I happen to love getting tatted despite the blood, sweat, and pain associated with the procedure. And if anyone says it doesn't hurt, they're crazy as a shit house rat. Some pained me more than others. But this last one left me a bit woozy after four hours of being stabbed several hundred times a second with multiple vibrating needles.














My friend (the tattoo artist and co-worker) didn't take any prisoners as he went at my forearm
like a crazed viper. "Man, you're tough! You haven't complained once!", he chided. You kind of try to put yourself into some sort of zen state, meditate as it were...wincing occasionally from pokes in more sensitive spots. After a while, it becomes more annoying than painful. You just get through it, knowing that each time the needles lift from your skin for more ink, the pain immediately goes away. Of course, for a few days afterward, it's like having a bad sunburn...just a little sore. Slap on some A+D (diaper rash ointment), keep it clean, and let it heal properly. Voila...body art...forever!




Next...the other forearm, as I am designing something similar to include my Navy aircrew flight wings and squadron logo (VP-1, Patrol Squadron One), etc.

Some folks will say, "How do you get your forearms tattooed when you're wearing a straight-jacket, for you must surely be crazy?" My answer, as with many things in life, "If I have to explain...you won't understand!" But most comments go in this direction, "Hey, man...nice tat!"

And yes...Loretta has a few as well.

Sunday Morning Ambrosia

Defined simply as food (or drink) of the gods, ambrosia is just good stuff to eat! Nectar was considered ambrosia in Greek mythology. At our house, toasted sourdough with peanut butter, honey, and bananas is it.



I don't consider that mayonnaisey, marshmallow, apple salad thing a food of the gods...most of the Ambrosia Salads I've had were just plain gak!

A night out, finally...

In these financially challenged times, it is rare that we get a night out...a date night...let someone else cook...relax away from the TV, and the dogs.

Our fourteenth wedding anniversary was celebrated with a pleasant hour or so at (by default) one of our favorite restaurants here in Modesto: The Elephant Bar. We've always had fun going there, with other couples and by ourselves. The menu is diverse and used to be relatively inexpensive. However, in the year or so since our last visit, The EB has "adjusted" their fair a bit, mostly in price...UP! Not a surprise, just very noticeable. By the way, I use the word "default" since this is one of the only places that hasn't totally disappointed us on more than one outing, ie, Tahoe Joe's (joke), Outback (simply went downhill), or The Olive Garden (lost interest after working for them for 3 years). We've tried some of the locally-owned bistros without much fanfare (or return visit). Most of them have gone out of business (for good reason).



Me: Man, I wish we could find a nice, small, local joint we can call our own.
Loretta: Haven't we had this conversation many times?
Me: Yeah...so?
Loretta: You mean a few steps up from In N Out?
Me: Hmmm...come to think of it, when was the last time I had a Double Double? But, they're not locally-owned.
Loretta: Oh, that's right.
Me: Sure wish we could find a nice, small local joint we can call our own.

Grandpa for a year

My first (and only) grandchild, Rowan James Gonzales will be one year old on December 17th. His Mom, my daughter, Jenifer recently posted her thoughts on this rite of passage on her blog.

Just a few thoughts from Grandpa James, aka, Skip, aka, Jack Diddley...

We were able to visit with Rowan only a few short times this year, culminating with an upcoming year-end holiday get together that will last two days. I'm grateful for these times. Though face to face time has been economical at best, Jen's conscientious publishing of photos and video on the internet has kept me a bit closer to grandchild #1 considering the geographic separation is 872.5 miles. I feel as though I've watched him grow up to this point, including savoring video(s) of his very first solo steps just a few weeks ago, almost like being there.

Jen knows I don't complain about our "distant" relationship...because it is far from "distant". We communicate daily via instant messaging, emails, and an occasional skype session. I'm a very fortunate Dad to have this form of closeness.

Jen, Rowan, and Roth will be in our area (which also happens to be the same vicinity as Roth's parents) this Christmas. Loretta and I will visit the in-law's abode in Sonora on Christmas Day, then play host to the three Seattleite Gonzales's the last three days of the year here in Modesto. We will take them to Sac for their flight back on December 31st.

We are planning a short trip to The Emerald City (via auto) toward the end of January, near my birthday. As far as the rest of 2010, one of my resolutions is to make that trek more often than this year. I enjoy visits to Seattle and can totally commiserate with Jen and Roth for moving (staying) there. Is there a move in our future? Perhaps...in time. My employer welcomes transfers and there is a location in Puyallup, just a short jog down I-5 from Jen and Roth's place.
If and when everything is right, it may happen...got a few ducks to get in line first!

In the meantime, in the present (and near future), we'll enjoy it as it is.


"Are Grandpa Skip and Grandma Loretta here yet?"

"Yes, Ro. Mom's picking them up at the airport".

Finding my way at 60.

As December 2009 ambles on, the specter of turning 60 is getting clearer and clearer. Near the end of January 2010, I will celebrate becoming a sextagenarian. Besides joining the age rank of most of my schoolmates (I was always about six months younger due to skipping a grade in elementary school), I can also raise a glass in January to celebrities like Al Pacino, Bob Dylan, Mick Jagger, Paul McCartney, Richard Gere, etc, etc. This list gets longer and longer as we baby boomers keep on keeping on.

But my survival to this age provokes much more thought than superficial age commiseration. Turning 60 will be a personal milestone that goes beyond that. "If I had known I was going to live this long, I would have taken much better care of myself!", I quip quite often. The thing is, despite not taking better care of myself, I feel pretty damn good. Despite many scary glitches along the way, I'm still here. And despite staring at that bright light on one occasion, I'm still alive, kicking, feisty, hopeful, proud, and (still) somewhat arrogant! Among other things, I've come to embrace the so-called generation gap.

During the past eleven months when someone would ask me my age, my response is always the same, "I'll be 60 next January". Not "59" or "Older than you think" or "Geeze...old!" I still haven't figured out why I'm looking forward to my birthday...I just am. You see, I've always shunned birthday celebrations. In fact, I've always dreaded my birthday by becoming "depressed" through the entire months of January and December. Part of my December doldrums also stemmed from a long time disappointment (anxiety, reverse anticipation) with the holiday season. It just ain't the same as when I was a kid!

So, with that being said...why am I looking forward to this particular passage in time? Dude, I still haven't been able to put a finger on it. I still can't elaborate as to why turning 60 is any different than turning 44, or 12, or 27. The last birthday that got me all a twitter was 16. I remember taking my driving test, getting my license, and driving my parent's car solo for the first time like it was yesterday. Memories of proudly whizzing around the streets of Canoga Park in that '62 Pontiac Bonneville, visiting buddies (who had gotten their licenses six months earlier), and jumping at any opportunity to go to the grocery store resound loudly to this day. I was excited. It was a heady time. Not at all dissimilar to how I feel now.

On January 26th, I will get a license; a license, so to speak, to live my life. A (self) permission chit to reaffirm, to confirm, to move forward, to continue, to dream, to plan, to try, and to act on my goals, plans, and aspirations.

Just Do It has already been coined, but it pretty much says it all in a nutshell. Keeping it real will be a consideration. But keeping it focused will be just as important. I have no illusions of grandeur any longer. In fact, they are not illusions at all. Just desires to be pondered with judicious enthusiasm tempered with a dash of cautious bravura.

Will I ever be self actualized? Will I have to "settle" in order to realize that? We'll see. All of what I speak coming to fruition hinges on me, myself, and I following through...one step at a time.

No illusions. Just dreams coming true. And fortunately, acquiring that "license" doesn't require passing any kind of test. It's there just for the asking.

Dogs don't know they're dogs.

You know, I've come to the conclusion that most dogs don't even realize that they're dogs.

Spoiled, house, family dogs simply think they are a member of this so-called pack that resides in the house. Sure, they kind of realize their place in the scheme of things, ie, responding (at times) to discipline from the pack leader(s). But, they just seem to have their own agenda and don't often give a rat's ass if it is right or wrong or...dog-like.

Our little Jack Boo Boo Diddley Black and Tan Silver Dapple Mini Daschund most certainly is a big part of our family. He has established himself as a card-carrying member in the few short months he has resided here. Is he a pet? I suppose. But he is more than that.

It may be hard to explain to anyone else just what your pet means to you. I sometimes think that he has been royally spoiled. But after conversations with other pet owners and hearing about their behavior toward that family member...I don't think Loretta and I are the least bit eccentric.
However, as I write this, she is condescending to his refusal to remove himself from the bed so she can make it (a daily occurrence). He simply wants to be a part of the activity as well as "play" 99% of the time. Everything is a game! Of course, Loretta tends to let herself join in with the game, "Look at you Boo Boo. C'mon, get down. Oh, you're just so cute". Bingo. Dog Training 101. She affirms the behavior(s) every day. As for me in situations like this, "Get down Boo Boo...now", and shove him off the bed. Game over. And this is why he views me as the so-called Pack Leader, putting himself flat against the carpet when I approach him (a pointed index finger indicating the "down" command) until I give the sign that it is OK to jump up and down and act silly again (Boo Boo, not me). And, no, I've never ever been mean to him, hit him, or physically punished him. Verbal punishment? Oh, yeah. Ignoring him? Most definitely. Years ago I read that Albert Einstein simply ignored his dog when he misbehaved. Does it work? Maybe.


"Make-up affection" from your pet is quite satisfying! Boo Boo is a good one for kissing my butt when he knows I'm mad at him. The eyes tell it all.

Meredith...baby...say it isn't so!

Time to take a short break from my days-off-chores and express frustrata (I made it up) about how the day is going so far.

First, I am redecorating my office to the tune of installing one of my old stereo systems on which to play actual records...the big, flat, round vinyl things. I still have a decent collection of LPs from the heady days of radio, the bygone days where record company cronies lavished free copies of records (and marijuana and cocaine) to radio station music directors in return for airplay. Oh, c'mon, why do you think the word payola was invented? I've been planning this renovato for about a year now. Today is the day! But, say it isn't so! My first choice of tuners, a late 60's Sansui 2000, complete with tubes, doesn't work. It won't turn on at all! So, back to the shed I go. Next, my old Scott tuner...nice sound, simple controls, doesn't weigh 10,000 pounds...say it isn't so! The left channel is T.U. (that's tits up, dead, no workee, no sound, etc)! Poop. So, now, back to the shed. I have a half dozen or so vintage tuners, amplifier, turn tables, equalizers, and so on to go. I'll update this part of the saga at a later date. Let's hope my first choice of turntables isn't on the fritz as well.

Second, my favorite MILF of all time is being promo'd on the Today Show. Evidently, Meredish Baxter is going to reveal something rather shocking about herself in an interview with Matt. After a good hour or so of the usual Today prattle...bad economic news, shitty Afghanistan news, and who-gives-a-shit-white-house party crasher news...the bomb hit. Meredish Baxter, Mrs Keaton from Family Ties, 80's TV mom for whom I still carry a teenage-like torch finally blurts out on national television, "I'm a lesbian!" OMG! The humanity of it all! She's been dating some construction contractor for five years. And that's after three marriages (to dudes) and having five children...the oldest kid is 42. And, what's almost worse...she is still hot! After all these years of me pining for this woman, who, by the way, closely resembles my little sister...I guess there's no chance whatsoever (by some weird quirk of fate) of us hooking up. Poof! Gone!
Meredith...baby...say it isn't so! This revelation was totally unlike the Ellen outing (I kind of figured), or the Rosie thing (Ah, duh...no shit Sherlock). Or even the Anne Heche coming out party; although shocking, she did re-sign with the hetero team, get married (to a dude), and have a child.

Hey, you know what? More power to her. You gotta do what ya gotta do to be happy I suppose.

So, who's next? Adam Lambert? Oh, yeah...old news. That Orman broad? Whoops...way old news. Sarah Palin? Wouldn't surprise me. Hailey Mills? Please...don't even tell me that one, even if it does happen. Hailey and I are kindred spirits (in age alone). If she announces her lesbianinity, I'm tossing my 30th Anniversary Restored VHS copies of Pollyanna and The Parent Trap in the fireplace!

When I get my old tuner and turntable going later this morning (fingers crossed), the first song I'm spinning is...yup, you guessed it, Say It Isn't So by Hall and Oates. Unfortunately, I don't think I have that tune on a record. Back to the Best of the 80's CD collection for that one!

Guess I may have to move up some names on my MILF list, ie, Brittany, Stifler's Mom, Christie Brinkley, Sarah Palin, any Desperate Housewife, Jessica Lange, Cindy Crawford, and, of course, Liv Tyler. OK, OK...I'll stop! And, yes, I know...I'm a pig!

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 red, 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!

Mother Road Conversions by Jack Diddley

Back to the Bianchi...

Did some repainting. Still need to detail the lugs with a fine camel hair brush. Maybe some airbrush graphics (just got one, air brush that is!) Designed and printed vinyl decals in Photoshop. Then, complete lacquer clearcoat.

The Fuji Gran Tourer SE Project

Another day...another frame. It's an 80s Fuji Gran Tourer SE (former 10 speed). It may be a candidate for the blaster and a powder coat, going to meet that guy today. Fuji bikes have been around for quite awhile and still are for that matter. Kind of the Japanese Schwinn at a time when Schwinn frames started coming from Taiwan versus Chicago. Quickly becoming somewhat of a vintage bicycle "snob", I limit my Schwinn purchases to Chicago-made frames now. Still searching for that Schwinn Paramount frame (top o' the line), but can't seem to find a deal for under $500! Anyway, here are some shots of the Fuji...pre-blasting.




I picked it up on eBay including the Tange headset (worth almost as much as the frame itself). Haven't decided on a color yet, however, I do know I will not fart around with the two-tone thing I'm struggling with on the Bianchi. Masking off the lugs is a total, lengthy pain in the ass! Ya' live and learn.

The Bianchi Project...continued

Only a small amount of bloodshed so far when I managed to run the power metal brush across the top of my hand. Seems to happen at least once a frame. Anyway, the Bianchi is in "paint" while I finish the fork stripping. Catch a short video of yours truly operating the errant power tool here. Geeze, I look like a cross between Dr. Evil, a mad scientist, and one of those guys from Hostel!

The Bianchi conversion...or vintage road bike mutilation?

As I sit writing this blog, the taste of ground steel in my mouth, I can't help but think I will eventually incur the wrath of some vintage road bike fanatic saying, "How could you take those beautiful, old, Italian road bikes...and, and, and...do THAT to them!?" The that being: grind off all unwanted derailleur stays, cable guides, and other extraneous nubs and parts not necessary for a custom single speed bicycle. Strip off all those coats of still perfectly good Italian Bianchi white paint and decals down to bare metal. Then transform this former elegant mainstay of Italian 80's road bike into a sleek, judiciously customized greyhound-like two wheeler non-geared eunuch bicycle thing. Well...yeah, I can. And, I am.

Just like thousands and thousands of old Chevys and Fords have been resurrected from the junk yard and made into customized roadsters and other hot rods, the same is happening to unwanted, forsaken road bikes...formerly 10 speeds. So, here is the beginning of the first Bianchi project, a complete bike and frame purchased last summer.



Edoardo Bianchi may be rolling over in his grave. Then, again, he may appreciate my maintaining the name on these nice, vintage, steel frames. More images here.

Bad Schwinn Super Le Tour

Just some pics of my near-complete 80's Schwinn Super Le Tour Mother Road Custom Single Speed. Many, many hours of metal brushing, sanding, grinding, priming, sanding again, undercoating, sanding again, black metal flake top coats, then clear lacquer coats. It still needs a final clear coat, then bar tape. Another Super Le Tour, a vintage Bianchi, a vintage Fuji, a vintage Trek, a vintage Schwinn Continental (original restoration), and a Schwinn Le Tour are in waiting. All leading to me being able to "finance" my dream vintage bike, a Colnago road bike (they're expensive and hard to find). A full gallery of the Super Le Tour can be found here.

The Poopatorium

Even though Englishman Thomas Crapper (yes, a plumber by trade) is erroneously credited with inventing the modern day toilet in the 1800's, historical kudos must go to Sir John Harrington and his flushing system from 1596. In a related misconception, the word crap is not derived from Mr. Crapper either. This word comes from the Dutch krappe, or kak. The German schijt may conjure a just as oft used English word for something similar. I digress. This blog is not a history lesson, but a tribute to The Poopatorium.

We all have poopatoriums. It's just that some us have elevated its status to more than just a small room in the house where the water closet resides. Mine is also referred to as the library, where, among others things, I read. I also play solataire on my iPhone, and, most often, think. Rodin's (pronounced like Godzilla's flying nemisis, Rodan) The Thinker is obviously sitting on the crapper...thinking. Once again, I digress into a history lesson.

So, do you truly have a poopatorium or is it just a crapper? In other words, while on the throne, do you read, or play crossword puzzles, or ponder? Or, do you just...well, take a crap and get out?

Here is an accurate transcription from a conversation I had with an ex-spouse many years ago, who, by the way, took the quickest craps in recorded history. She was in and out in less than a minute. Check that...half a minute.

Ex-spouse: Let me ask you something. When you're in the bathroom on the toilet "reading", do you read then crap? Or do you crap then read? Or, is it an on-going combination of both, ie, crap, read, crap some more, read some more, repeat, etc?
Me: If you have to ask, you'll never understand.

Of course, I'm sure many spouses and moms have accused their husbands and sons of doing other things for long periods of time in the poopatorium. But then it would have to be called the Mastabatorium as well. Fodder for another blog, another time.

My poopatorium has a magazine/book "rack". It's more of a decorative, cloth-lined container. It sits right in front of the commode for easy access. In my "library" at this very moment: several copies of Bicycling and Food & Wine, a couple of photography books, and a newly acquired used copy of The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People (found last weekend in the "free" pile at a garage sale). Years ago, Playboys and Penthouses resided but went away when children were introduced. I've read many books in there from cover to cover...not all in one sitting of course.

Over the years, I have had the "crap and read" conversation with many people. And, for the most part, I've found that you are either a reader/crapper or simply a crapper. There doesn't seem to be a gray area. You either are or you are not a poopatorium person. One doesn't understand the other. Like that mars-and-venus, men-and-women-are-not-same book, neither are these two types.

My lovely spouse is a simple crapper. She is in and out in no time. Me, I'm a reader/crapper. If we head to the bathrooms at the same time, she's flushing before I've chosen my first read material. I think at least one of my two children take after me, I'm not sure. In another movie referrence, Miles Raymond (Sideways) was a reader/crapper...taking time to read or do crossword puzzles even when late for an upcoming meeting.


What's the ratio of crapper/readers to crappers? I have no idea. I'm betting O'bama is a reader/crapper for the simple fact that he is probably a multi-tasking, over-achiever who must be doing several things at once. As for my reasons...I just find the solitude of those moments in my day to be extremely rejuvenating and relaxing. Nothing more, nothing less.

At least twice a day (I'm very "regular"), I retire to my poopatorium and do more than just...poop! I emerge just slightly more enlightened than when I entered. And, of course, much lighter!

Three Days of Peace and Love

I really need to post a few thoughts about this weekend forty years ago.

It was August 15th, 16th, and 17th 1969. The Woodstock Music and Art Fair was going on in upstate New York. The iconic, historic gathering of more than half a million young people represented my generation in many ways. I was nineteen. That summer weekend yours truly was sequestered in the U.S. Navy Recruit Training Center in San Diego...boot camp.

Not only did I not attend Woodstock, I couldn't have gone if I wanted to. And, truth be known, would probably not have made the journey anyway. Not due to lack of desire, but because of simple geographics and practicality (I'm a California kid). I wasn't at Woodstock, most of us weren't. But, we were all there in spirit, especially after the soundtrack and documentary came out in the theatres (in cinerama) a few months later. It is still a big part of my DVD library today. And, I dust it off every few years and watch the director's cut, usually solo. In fact, I still have several tracks from the soundtrack residing on my iPod.



For most folks under 50 years old, Woodstock is simply an old news story. A short feature on the evening news documenting music artists playing a concert in front of 500,000 hippies wallowing in mud and squalor, bathing naked in a nearby pond, smoking pot, and dancing like Elaine on Seinfeld. Everyone had long scraggly hair (male and female) bell bottom pants, tie dye t-shirts, love beads...and, a smile on their face.

Director Ang Lee's Taking Woodstock is coming out soon. I haven't heard or seen any reviews yet, but most of us are looking forward to seeing it. At least most of us who are over 50. In the meantime, I highly recommend renting or buying the documentary Woodstock (director's cut) for an excellent representation of this event. I can't say for certain that the upcoming movie or the doc film are accurate considering I wasn't there in person. But it's worth a look.

Something to think about. Most of the artists who spent time on the Woodstock stage are still around and are still playing and selling music...Carlos Santana, Crosby, Stills, and Nash, The Who, Joan Baez, Neil Young, Joe Cocker, Grateful Dead, and others. Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin were there as well. The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, and Led Zepplin declined invitations for attend.

It was just a few moments in time over forty years ago, but for some reason, still represents something about that time period more succinctly than anything else. Woodstock was and is simply Three Days of Peace and Love. With all those people in one place, the logistical mess, the weather, the mud, the lack of food and facilities...there were no riots, no fights, no melee, no nothing like you see today at the most modest music festivals. Times have changed. I only hope the new movie "gets it" like it was meant to be.



Thanks, Max!

Just a note about this economical mess we ALL are in...

We have some friends who, in the past year, have joined the ranks of the unemployed...twice!

They shall remain anonymous.

This couple, empty nestors for the past year or so (one son recently moved back), worked for many years for the same companies. The guy was laid off late last year after more than 25 years with his company. He was looking forward to and planning for retirement in seven or eight years. The lady was laid off a few months ago after more than 12 years with her company. Both employers closed their doors of late. He searched for work and drew unemployment until a few weeks ago when he was hired at a new job. It was a lesser-paying job, but in a similar (but lower) position than before. She moved right into a new position with a big company, a bit different than what she was doing previously...but a job.

Last week, they were both laid off again. She after only a couple months. He after only a week or two.

This is not an unusual tale, just very close to home for us. And as both of us can attest from our own personal (and professional) challenges, heartbreaking to hear about.

Us and our friends are all approaching the back end of 50. Us and our friends are still very vibrant, enthusiastic, competent, capable, and hopeful. All of us have skills and the wisdom (of age) to offer someone. I have a job and am extremely grateful for it. It's not what I was doing before and it certainly isn't paying anywhere near the same as previous positions. But, it's paying me.

I was told many times by bosses, "Sometimes, we all need to reinvent ourselves". Well, I'm no Thomas Edison. But I have certainly "invented" something new in the past year: me.

The fate of our friends is yet to be determined with any accuracy. However, the prognosis for their future is bright. They are good people with good attitudes. And that's a valued, shining commodity in these times.

Perhaps, he just doesn't resemble any of us!

Rowan James Gonzales, my grandchild, may not look like, act like, or grow up to be like any of his relatives. He will most likely be his own unique person, like most of us.

There are children and grandchildren who are the spitting image of people from their genetic pool, perhaps Rowan will evolve into a facsimile of a distant relative none of us have ever seen.

Going through a few old photos today, I did realize a couple of familiar things about Rowan that may indeed resemble folks from my side of the family. His smile seems reminiscent of others.























Eh, maybe not so much as I thought!

Sunday Morning Boo Boo Shots

Sunday morning shots. Didn't get motivated to take any shots of anything other than Boo Boo. Kind of lost interest in the floral thing for the time being. Flying insects, as well. No patience waiting for them to land right now. Bicycle-projects-in-various-forms-of-(un)completion will come next week. Off Monday and Tuesday. One frame is primed, ready for final sanding then final coat...gloss black on the first one. Candy Apple Red (if I can find it) on the next. In the meantime, our little Boo Boo dog...


























Our old man, Sparky, is recovering from a visit to the vet yesterday. No pics of him this morning, he's still sleeping. Had to have the dog doc yank his right rear hip back into the socket (we think). Seems the aged blind guy twisted his leg in the backyard sometime the other day and had been whining and outright crying. $120 later, he seems better. No budget this week for bike parts now!

Bumps in the Night

It's 12:58 am.

The small fan is whirring its whir behind my head, oscillating back and forth. On one end of the cycle it rattles a plastic cover still on our end table lamp.

Haven't been up this late in quite a while...nine o'clock is usual for me.

I tried to go to sleep around nine...no luck. I wasn't really even thinking about anything in particular, like work, or projects, or writing, or vacations. Just lying awake. Wait...I was thinking about something, but it wasn't anything worth losing sleep over.

A strawberry Ho Ho and half a pint of water helps pass the time. The movie on cable I've seen a couple times, not really watching it.

It's not hot right now, but still a little warm...I'm sweating a bit here on the living room couch in my boxer shorts. One o'clock now.

Awake, alone in the middle of the night. Even though she is fast asleep in the bedroom, I feel a alone. The movie on cable...the volume is too low to hear anything, don't want to wake her up. A little spooky. The fan continues to whir behind my head, rattling the plastic on the lamp shade every few seconds. A single bead of sweat runs down my side from under my arm.

I've always wondered whether or not there are things that go bump in the night. As a child I used to sleep with my head under the covers every night. As I got older, whatever fear I had lying in my bed gradually went away...for the most part. That boogey man in the closet, one of my biggest concerns. What about those boggey men outside, in the yard, in the middle of the night? I'm still a little worried about them.

Guess I'll try hitting the sack again. I'll turn out the kitchen light first, then smoke one last cigarette on the backyard patio. It's dark out there, but there is a full moon tonight. I pushed open the sliding door and went outside.

I never came back.

(Soon to be) Magificent Obsession

I was a plastic model builder as a child. Companies like Revell and AMF sold miniature facsimiles of airplanes, warships, cars, and even Creatures from the Black Lagoon...I built them all. My little wooden desk was often covered with newspaper (at my mom's insistance), tubes of glue, little bottles of paint, brushes, Exacto knives, and, of course, the models.

These projects took time and allowance money, quite often replacing homework time. But, I did complete them, every one of them. I mention the completion aspect simply because I have always been project completion challenged when it came to almost everything, save for model building...and, now, bicycles.

I feel that I am a perfectionist. And perfectionists are not famous for completing things, or even starting things. They (we) have an innate fear of failure, an almost debilitating lack of self confidence, and a distaste for criticism.

Take my photography. Over the past few years, I've received an inordinate amount of praise versus criticism for my photos. Friends, relatives, on-line critique forums...for the most part, they've all lavished me with compliments concerning my photo skills. Just yesterday, a co-worker perused one of my picture CDs exclaiming, "You took these? Wow, they look like magazine covers". She went on, "Why don't you send these to someone?" "Well", I told her, "the fact of the matter is...I have done that on several occasions...without any responses". The "failure" of not getting any offers for photo assignments has not deterred my passion for the art, I just don't do it as much as I used to. In fact, this recent impromptu critique has only fueled the fire again. The fire inside of me to keep trying. And, I pledge to myself to do just that. I still love it. Did I mention I am also very vane?

Back to the models. I don't construct Revell plastic models any longer. However, I do work on bicycles. And, I'm pleased to announce, this obsession hasn't suffered from that project completion issue just mentioned. I have finished several top to bottom rebuilds of vintage road bikes and some beginning-to-end new-frame bicycle "builds", a few ending in actual sales of said items. It's been quite a satisfying and extremely encouraging venture so far.

The latest on-going project? A 70's Schwinn, steel-lugged, Super Le Tour frame (the first one I purchased almost a year ago) destined to become a custom-painted "street bike". The frame is now down to bare metal after long sessions of grinding, wire brushing, and sanding. It's ready for paint! Originally an iconic 10-speed, this one will emerge from the shop reborn as a single speed, ie, no gears. The single speed and fixed speed evolution is happening now in the bike world. As carbon-framed, mega buck road bikes garner the spotlight thanks to Lance and Levi, et al...we old-school, stubborn, renaissance folks are staking our claim in the world of bicycles. And, the one obvious noble aspect of it all? We're recycling! There are literally thousands and thousands of vintage bike frames lying around in garages, basements, even backyards (unfortunately, most of the backyard varieties rusted beyond renovation status). Just like old automobiles, these once proud, elegant machines sit rotting, destined for dumpsters and land fills.















So, my Revell model-building days have long passed, spawning a new passion. One that does not suffer from the completion issue thing. Although I have several of these going simultaneously (that keeps it interesting), each one is near done...with several more waiting in the wings (actually, hanging from the rafters in my garage).

Perhaps someday Mother Road Bicycles (my esoteric bicycle renovation company name) will be more than just a hobby that takes hours of my time, time that could be spent on photography, or, God forbid, writing! Instead of lamenting on how little time there may be left to do these things, I savor the times I am actually sanding, grinding, writing, shooting, editing, and planning the projects. I set aside time to do them all. And whether or not I am great at any of them isn't an issue. Yes, I have come to terms with being a so-called perfectionist. Perhaps I will never win a Pulitzer or Noble prize...but I will finish that vintage Schwinn Super Le Tour soon. And that's a prize only I can fully appreciate...until, of course, someone pays me a lot of money for it!

Almost forgot. Did I mention cooking?