Jack Diddley

Nobody's home here for the time being...

2010-03-14T22:14:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know. There's nothing new here. Try this place.

I needed a change in scenery.

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2010-03-04T17:01:00.000-08:00

Are you depressed because you don't live on Pandora? Wow! Get a life. I love that movie. But, get a life here on Earth! It ain't gonna happen.

Ma-Mamiya Ma-Mamiya!

2010-02-25T19:04:00.000-08:00

Geeze, what a forgettable movie (Mamma Mia, Mamma Mia). But whether you pronounce it Mah-My-Ya or Mah-Mee-Yah, its's my "new" camera and flagship of my photographic armada for 2010.

I won't go into any of the details here...but suffice to say, Medium Format Film has been around for a long time and is still (and may always be) a staple of fine art, studio, and landscape photography.

I do have a few recently-acquired older film cameras, ie, a couple of Minolta 9000's (arguably one of best 35mm SLRs ever made), a couple of real old Pentax Spotmatics, and couple of Canon EOS Elan 35mm's, and my baby, a pristine 1979-ish Mamiya 645 1000s...and, an assortment of lenses for all of these formats. The entire booty hasn't cost me a quarter of what a near-new 12 megapixel digital SLR camera body (alone) would run. As a matter of technical fact: A 2 1/4 medium format negative is (arguably) equal in resolution to a 40-50 mp digital file. A 35mm negative is still far superior to any 10mp image.

Bottom line: I'm still using digital. However, I am going back to "old school" with film...both black & white and color.

No film (digitized through my new high-res scanner) files to upload yet. Soon, though.

It's scarier'n shit to push the shutter release with film...plus, I won't find out if I screwed up until the film is developed! Oh well, Ansel (admittedly) did most of his best work in the "darkroom"...now called Photoshop.

Eat Comfortable: Roasted Butternut Squash Soup

2010-01-30T07:23:00.000-08:00

You know, I would probably have passed on this
soup five years ago. Just doesn't sound very
appetizing to my (at one time) limited palette.
However, after taking heed from Roth and Jen's
suggestion, I gave it a try. Those two are closer
to being true "foodies" than I ever will be. Their
version of this soup (I think) involved a brown sage butter; my version (due to lack of fresh sage at the time) uses some fresh rosemary and a few
other items not found in the recipes a pirated.

As with any soup, stew, casserole, or other
conglomerate recipe, the finished flavor profile is
entirely up to your own tastes. And will only be
successful when you learn to progressively season
throughout the process, again, to your own tastes.

This is the first time I made Roasted Butternut
Squash Soup. And if I do say, hit a triple in the
flavor department. You'll notice I didn't say
home-run as there is room for improvement, ie,
experimentation, especially when making a soup. I will use fresh sage next time and I will make
up a batch of my own chicken stock (versus canned broth fixed up with onions, carrots, and celery). There are simpler soups to make then this one. Just plan ahead and mis-en-place properly. And above all...season, taste...season, taste.

As a side note regarding serving and slurping of soups, here is a thought or two. Serving pretty
soups in shallow, wide white bowls look great on dinner tables and in food styling photos. However, even if you ladle the soup into a warm bowl, it will still get cool real fast at the table. At home during non-dinner party times, use a short, stout, thick sided soup bowl or, better yet, one of those crock-like handled bowls. Pop them in the oven at 150 degrees for 10 minutes or so before serving, it will hold the soup at a warmer temperature than those fancy, shallow bowls. By the way, same goes for any table service dishes like plates. Warm them in the oven before service. And, put salad plates in the freezer. Why not do these simple things to help ensure your hard-earned meal has every chance of receiving kudos (from your guests and from yourself)?

Just another day...

2010-01-27T08:10:00.000-08:00

My sixtieth birthday has come and gone without much fanfare (by design). I've never had much of a desire to mark this date more than any other day during the year. Turning sixty years old is really not much of a landmark like sixteen or eighteen or twenty one or thirty. Sixty two will be somewhat worthy of note as I will begin receiving a nice little monthly paycheck, a raise of sorts.

This birthday for me is significant due to the fact that I made it at all. I suppose we all could make that statement about any birthday, "Another day above ground...it's all good!" Life is indeed short. My new cardiologist told me yesterday that all three of my major heart muscle arteries (we all have three big ones coming out of the aorta that supply blood to the heart muscles) are 100% closed. I live and breath today because of a couple of well-placed grafts and a small piece of wire mesh called a stent. No telling how temporary all of this is. I'm quite sure there is more medical magic waiting in the wings that may help extend my tenure. But, it is all temporary, for all of us. Our time on this earth is finite as individuals. I'm hoping for a few more years. Quite possibly I have a third of my life left, maybe more. Geeze, I hope so. I have too many other things left to do...some of which will be quite substantial in scope, possibly affecting many other people than just myself (in a positive manner).

So, taking stock at 60: I still have (most of) my mind, some of my hair, a lot of ideas and dreams, and plenty of time!

Irreverence is worse than you think...but not as bad as being a serial killer!

2010-01-25T05:59:00.000-08:00

Wordplay...

I used to think the term irreverence, when it came to humor, meant simply being funny, as in comedian-stand-up-monologue-type-humor. After reading a few googled definitions on the word irreverence and its kin, it appears to be more closely related to the oft used contra-eufemism asshole.

According to one edictionary definition, irreverence means lack of reverence or due respect; or a disrespectful act or remark. Furthermore, stated synonyms include blasphemy, discourtesy, flippancy, insult, mockery, profanity, ridicule, and sauciness...among many others. In other words, someone who is the irreverent kind may also be considered a typical asshole.

To put this into a more understandable context, consider this. Someone you may view as being an asshole is not necessarily a really bad person, but a person who may even deserve your sympathy. For instance, you really wouldn't refer to a serial killer an an asshole, right. He or she is certainly much worse than being simply irreverent in his or her behavior. One might call this person a monster of sorts...a heinous human being...an abnormality...but not an asshole. On the flip side, you really wouldn't refer to irreverent late night comedians Jay Leno or Conan O'Brien as assholes. However, David Letterman may be considered an asshole. Letterman's irreverent humor and even more (admitted) irreverent, ie, ridiculous, flippant, profane, or saucy off camera behavior of late could certainly place him in that milieu. Yes, in my opinion, a diddler of subordinate employees is an asshole!

"You irreverent asshole!", would appear to be a redundant statement, correct? "You charming little asshole!"...a contradictory statement...a conundrum...a riddle...an enigma?

Am I an asshole for writing about this sort of thing? I don't think so. Irreverent? Yes.

Do ya' think?

2010-01-21T11:53:00.000-08:00

During recent hospital visit...

Old Asian treadmill doctor: (glancing at Navy anchor tattoo on my forearm just prior to beginning stress test) Oh...you was in Navy?

Old cardio patient, ie, me: (rolling my eyes, glancing at nurse and smirking) No. I wasn't in the Navy. However, I was one of the original founding members of the Village People. You know, the sailor guy?

Nurse: (smiles, emits a quiet chuckle, and rolls her eyes too)

Old treadmill doctor: Oh, that's nice. Step onto treadmill please, Mr. Hansen.

Another encounter during hospital visit. Approximately 3:30 am in my room...

Nurse: Are you asleep, Mr. Hansen?

Me: (waking up, realizing someone was speaking to me and that I still had that nitro headache) Huh? Oh. No, I'm not asleep. I'm dead. Please leave the flowers and go!

This exchange occurred several times over several days with everyone from the ambulance guys, to nurses, visiting docs, to the lady taking my meal order, to the little old man emptying the trash...

Ambulance attendant: Mr. Hansen, on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being worst, what is your pain level now?

Me: (one of my answers) What would one consider bad enough for a 10? Having your fingers sawed off one by one with a rusty steak knife while being forced to watch Star Wars VII: Jar Jar Binks, the Beginnings in iMax. It fucking hurts...like, maybe, OK (not wanting to sound like a wimp)...a 7, alright? A 7!

Ambulance attendant: Relax, Mr. Hansen. We're almost there.

Me: (thinking to myself) The first ride 23 years ago, I got a shitload of morphine on the way to hospital. This time, not even a tylenol!

Disclaimer: Truthfully, all of these conversations took place, I embellished a bit on my responses.

Call me Stentman!

2010-01-19T16:36:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting at home after several days in the hospital. The worst "scars" are a bunch of misplaced tape marks (bruises), and a few puncture wounds and bruises from untalented and uncaring phlebotomists. And the smallest "boo boo" (requiring a Band-Aid): a slight puncture wound (about the size from giving blood) in my groin where they repaired a 90% blocked artery (a repair from a 13-year old bi-pass) . The most unpleasant part: going in on a Friday (just like my surgery 13 years ago) and having to wait until Monday for the angioplasty. If I had gone in on Wednesday, I would have been home on Friday! Damn golfing doctors!

A very talented, very congenial, very friendly, and very engaging Cardio/Angio doc by the named of Michael Zhu performed the procedure in about 30 minutes in Dameron Hospital (contracted to Kaiser). We bonded immediately the night before during a visit to my hospital bed when he found out we both own iPhones. Strange bedfellows! During our conversation, I asked, "Well, I haven't been in a cath(eter) lab for over 13 years...could things have changed that much?" Dr. Zhu, "Light years! We're much better at it now...less invasive. We can get to (arterial) places we've never been able to before. We're putting (bi-pass) surgeons out of business!" Well, howdy-doody, rocknroller, Long Live The Beatles! I was a happy camper after that conversation. Of course, there was a possibility he couldn't affect a repair via catheter and another surgery would be in order. That would not be the case. Dr. Zhu found one of my three main arterial vessels (quite) blocked, the other two were clear...all three having been bi-passed in the previous surgery. In a very cheerful, slightly Mandarin/American accent, "You are one of my favorite patients. And, I did a great job on you!"

So, that's it in a nutshell. Prior to my bi-pass 13 years ago, I underwent three PCI's (percutaneous coronary intervention) over a period of ten years, angioplasty without stents. I lasted three years past the predicted "warranty" on a "cabbage", (surgeon speak for CABG - coronary artery bipass graft) and now I'm "clear" again. Relief from chest pressure and pain is immediate, recovery is minimal (a week or so), and I had no heart muscle damage (no heart attack, ie, MI, ie, miocardial infarction), ie, no excuses to get back on the bicycle...pun intended. A drug-eluting stent was installed in the occlusion, and all is well in Cardioland for now. Another bullet dodged.

The new lease (on life)...signed, seal, delivered. One week to go to sixty. I may actually make it!

Loretta's back on the WWW

2010-01-13T11:18:00.000-08:00

Loretta's birthday isn't until March 11th. However, she's expressed a hearty desire to get back into email and the web, something she used to do a few years ago on one of our old computers. And, her requested b-day present is a netbook, ie, a small notebook, ie, tiny laptop without an optical (DVD) drive. Well, being the instant gratification kind of guy that I am, and being that a lot of that has rubbed off on my wife the past 14 years...I got her one the other day. Her re-learning curve is coming along fine despite much fear, paranoia, and anxiety (about screwing it up!). "Don't worry, honey", I comforted her, "I'll be patient. I'll just double my dose of Prosac for the first days!"

Eat Comfortable: Meatloaf

2010-01-07T09:01:00.000-08:00

I have made many meatloaves in my
life. Some good. Some just O.K. And
some just plain bad.

After many years of trying, I have finally gotten together a recipe that not only tasted good...but I've actually made it several times following my own recipe! It is (not surprisingly) no where near as heavy or dense as traditional meatloaf recipes. It is very flavorful, not at all greasy, and, yes, one can actually taste the veggies, though they don't over power the ground meats. After all, it is called meat-loaf.

Try your own seasonings and veggies. Try ground veal or even ground turkey (if you must). I use JD breakfast sausage and grind my own beef from chuck (about 80% lean). But make sure you either saute or roast the veggies (then cool) before putting it all together. Also, be sure to form a tight loaf, ie, use your hand to mash and squeeze together all the ingredients. If you don't make it tight, it will fall apart when cooking. Keep the veggie dice small (1/2 inch or so, not only for conformity and even cooking, but so as not to arouse suspicion from friends or family members to they think you are forcing some gawd-awful vegetarian recipe on them). And please, for gosh sakes, use ground meat and not some sort of tofu-meat-like crap from a health food store! Save that for something other than one of the most coveted comfort foods ever to be served at any diner from here to Kalamazoo. Putting this many veggies in meatloaf is skirting that fine line anyway.

One final disclaimer regarding flavor. It all comes down to proper seasoning, and that is always according to taste.

Eat comfortable!

It's 5am, can't sleep...Here Come the Mummies

2010-01-06T05:24:00.000-08:00

Gotta get this out of the way first. I'm sure some will consider this a bit too avant garde, but check out this group sometime: Here Come the Mummies. The link is to their website and a Bob & Tom segment of them playing live in their studio. They've been together for about 10 years. Rumored to be a bunch of session players keeping their identities secret due to contractual concerns with their home labels. Bottom line is...they are a smoking RB/Funk band. Warning: Some of their tunes (including Pants) may be heard by some as very tongue in cheek, provocative, naughty. I just think they're a hoot! And, yes, by the way, they dress in full mummy regalia on stage.

Anyway, 5am...couldn't sleep past 3:30. Made coffee, checked lotto tix (won free replay on Fantasy 5), checked email, read Jen's blog, found what appears to be a mouse turd on my desk (!), played with one of my vintage film cameras, shot a couple digital pix of my desk, trying to psych up for another day of work to begin at 8:30, thinking about what to do on my (other) day off this week (tomorrow, split days off...ecck), checked Facebook page, don't Tweet any more, foggy and near freezing outside, new tattoo still a bit crusty in a couple of spots but doing fine, just ate the last carmel scone (gotta make them someday, basically a biscuit with some flavorings), gonna go to the garage, light up a Swisher Sweet and clean up my newly-acquired 1964 Pentax Spotmatic, just decided what I need to do on my next day off (run my first roll of 35mm film in 15 years), not going to make it back to bed, may as well stay up and watch the morning "snews".

Cheers.

New Year, New Decade, Turning 60

2010-01-04T04:32:00.000-08:00

Just sixty words to remind me from time to time...

Happy New Year (Decade)

The Rain, the Park, and Other Things

2009-12-31T07:10:00.000-08:00

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

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

2009-12-25T06:13:00.000-08:00

...and to all, a good morning!

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

2009-12-21T08:49:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-13T10:13:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-12-12T09:14:00.001-08:00

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

2009-12-11T05:42:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-09T08:01:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-05T08:01:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-12-02T10:06:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-11-24T09:04:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-18T06:30:00.001-08:00

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.

2009-11-09T06:14:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-02T04:26:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-10-31T06:02:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-10-29T07:20:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-10-01T09:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-10T15:58:00.001-07:00

Back to the Bianchi...

2009-09-06T10:14:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-03T09:27:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-02T10:15:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-08-28T09:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-27T09:10:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-21T06:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-16T05:51:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-08-14T05:59:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-08-05T09:59:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-02T08:30:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-01T00:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-27T06:54:00.000-07:00

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?

(We've been having fun) All Summer Long

2009-07-20T06:04:00.000-07:00

The words to that enigmatic Beach Boys song from the early sixties come to mind this morning. It's 6 am, the sun is just beginning to rise. It's only about 70 degrees, but well on its way to the oppressive 100's again today. Right now, the air is cool and fresh.

Back when that song was playing on the radio, I would still be fast asleep at least until 10 or 11 or so. I was an early teen back then, enjoying the freedom and carefree life that came with summer vacation.

"Skip", my Mom or Dad would say standing at my bedroom door, "Are you gonna sleep all day? It's time to get up". "Argh" would be the standard answer from under the covers. The sounds of yard work and weekend chores being done just outside my window. Dad was already busy trimming the palm tree or spreading manure on the lawn or just watering parts of the lawn the sprinkler didn't reach. Mom doing housework. My two sisters playing with dolls in their room, still in their pajamas.

If I was lucky, it would still be early enough to have breakfast before being coaxed into helping with the chores. Cleaning the pool was something I was taxed with doing most of the time. I didn't mind that very much. I would end up in the pool by the time I had finished.

If there were no family activities planned other than staying home, us kids would spend a good part of the day swimming. Sometimes neighbor kids would show up and join in. We were the first family to have a pool in our neighborhood. "Make sure it's O.K. with your mom to go swimming", Mom would chide. Of course, it always was O.K. We had a lot of friends back then.

Quite often on weekends, my parents would have the typical San Fernando Valley pool party, inviting another family or three for swimming and a barbecue. It was until years later and watching the 8mm films my Dad took did I realize the adult's sodas were laced with bourbon or vodka or some other liquor of choice. Those films, without sound of course, told many stories. "Is Uncle Bill drunk or something?", I'd ask my Mom. "He keeps trying to dance with those other ladies". Or, "Why does Mr. Townsend keep taking movies of Mrs. Cavner's butt?" The films are still around, now transferred to video tape. There was always music playing on our Magnavox Hi-Fi Dad had dragged out of the house onto the patio. Yes, Hi-Fi...no stereo yet. The adults dancing around the pool deck tolerated the kids standing on the tops of their feet for a tune or two. As the camera panned by, a "toast" would always be offered in the direction of the photographer, my Dad. Someone was inevitably and reluctantly pushed into the pool on cue. Usually a husband shoving some else's wife into the water. Their children standing on the edge of the pool, jumping up and down, squealing and applauding the debauchery, then jumping in the middle of it all.

At some point, the food would come out. Amidst the swirling smoke from the barbeque, the redwood picnic table under the cabana would fill with bowls of potato salad, cole slaw, chips and dip, paper plates, hamburger and hot dog buns, ketchup, mustard, and pitchers of cherry Kool-Aid. Ice cold cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon stashed in the coolers. Bottles of booze kept sequestered in the kitchen to be visited from time to time by whomever desired an extra shot of party encouragement. As I found out later in life, visits to the kitchen cabinet were quite a popular activity. "Dad", I would ask peaking my head inside the kitchen door, "What are you and Mr. Baker doing? Mom says it's time to start cooking!" Their heads simultaneously tilting back, finishing off shots of Seagrams before returning to the backyard. "Can I have some of that?', I said with a cheshire grin on my face. They both chuckled. Mr. Baker patting me on the top of my head as he passed by. "Someday, son. Someday".

Such is just one snapshot of summer for me. There are many more. Sure, it's not the same any longer, save for one thing. The heat. Only back then, we really didn't notice it. At least we didn't complain about it like I do now. A leap into the tepid, summer pool water would take our minds off the weather. Drying off for a few minutes. Then jumping back in, sometimes staying in the water until our fingertips wrinkled like raisins. That was 1962. I was 12.

Now, the wrinkles are on my face.

Another Schwinn Continental in the works

2009-07-08T08:56:00.001-07:00

Yes, it has a generator, a front
headlight, and rear tail light.

Also, a front wheel driven
speedometer (not shown).

...continued...at six weeks old.

2009-07-06T07:46:00.001-07:00

Some "grandfatherly" shots of Rowan...

2009-06-28T07:53:00.000-07:00

A little over six months now.

A few shots from my Father's Day weekend.

2009-06-25T07:56:00.000-07:00

We had the opportunity to visit Pismo Beach, my Mom, sisters, niece, son, daughter, son-in-law, grandson, and brother-in-law (hope I didn't leave anyone out) this past Father's Day weekend. This time, we stayed two nights rather than the one night whirlwind trip. Although time was short (as always), Loretta and I managed to fit everything, and everyone, into the two days on the coast.

The annual Pismo Car Show was going on, and though we had hoped to stroll the streets of Pismo gawking at all the cool cars, that didn't happen. It was just too darned busy and crowded to make the attempt.

A little barbeque Saturday at my sister's and a self-cooked Father's Day breakfast at my Mom's with Jimmy, Jen, Roth, and the baby highlighted the weekend.

Brother-in-law, Mark, and niece, Kassie (home from UC Santa Cruz). Sister Kris and Kassie.

I handled most of the cooking honors at the barbeque: Foil roasted salmon, grilled zucchini and portabellos, Italian sausage, and a "96-ouncer" sliced up for everyone to enjoy a slice or two of beef. Kassie, by the way, is a vegetarian. A few beers, a couple of cocktails, a game or two of croquet, and excellent chow...and it was over almost before it began. But, the short length of time spent was coveted and we all had fun. Our Sunday morning breakfast was similar in time. A few hours with Jimmy, Jen, Roth, Rowan, Mom...and, of course, Loretta. Jen, Roth, and Rowan flew back to Seattle on Monday morning. Jen's perspective chronicled on her blog.

The 500+ mile drive there and back is always near excruciatingly painful, ie, Highway 5...ecch!!! But, is always worth the effort. Hopefully, we can make the jaunt again sometime this summer or fall when I have some vacation time.

Check out 80 year Betty and granddaughter Kassie playing croquet.

You can't beat times like this!

Modesto: Where American Graffiti all began.

2009-06-14T05:23:00.000-07:00

"Where we you in '62?" That was the catch phrase from George Lucas' 1973 film about a group of teenagers' last night of the summer after graduation. Modesto, California was Lucas' hometown and the setting for this enigmatic movie, a macro-chronicle of post pubescent passage.

We've lived in Modesto for close to eleven years now. And echoing my own bitching and complaining in past blogs, "We hate it here!" Sorry, Modesto lovers everywhere. Yes, it was our choice. No lectures, please.

Despite this aversion for our current location, Modesto does hold that one claim to fame for us fans of American Graffiti. No, it wasn't filmed here (Petaluma and San Rafael were chosen). It was based on George Lucas' actual teenage experiences in the town where he lived for quite a while including attending high school. Many of the street names and other geographical references remained in the script, ie, Paradise Road (where the climatic car race scene was suppose to have taken place).

A few years ago, the American Graffiti Car Show was resurrected. And, it is going on this weekend at Modesto Junior College (one of Lucas' alma maters before heading south to USC film school). Loretta and I managed to spend a few hours there yesterday. It has gotten quite huge. Hundreds of people from all over California and the U.S. converge here with their hot rods and classic cars of all shapes and sizes. There is also the usual contigent of nasty, tomane-potential, fair food peddlers and vendor booths selling almost everything except car-related products. We did buy a bag of fresh-popped pop corn and a couple soft serve ice cream cones. We passed on the polish sausages on a stick, chicken skewers and fried rice plates (the best chance for acquiring a three day case of the runs), and other dangerous, though great smelling barbequed animal flesh concoctions. We were there to gawk at and me to envy the cars! And there were lots to look at.

My favorites: the 60's and 70's muscle cars not customized much beyond their original showroom appearance. Chevelle Super Sports, Pontiac GTO's, and '69 Mustangs tickle my fancy the most. The older, completely-restored-to-original 50's Buicks and Chevys are also sights to behold. I did bring the camera and a new lens. I forgot to bring my wide angle lens, so all the shots are closeups from the telephoto.

As usual, I couldn't help snapping a few self portraits in the shiny chrome bumpers and paint jobs!
The weather was perfect. We ran into a few old friends. And, we had a great time. What else is there? Well, next weekend: The Pismo Car Show.

Good news from the vet the other day: "His testicles have definitely dropped...!"

2009-06-13T06:28:00.000-07:00

Good news from the vet the other day: "His testicles have definitely dropped. He's an early riser!"

Loretta gleefully reported that news to me upon returning from Boo Boo's first vet appointment (and checkup) the other day. Besides getting his next round of shots (the 6-in-1 thing), the dog doc confirmed that his package is complete. You see, we had been concerned that "it" hadn't happened yet since his "package" seemed devoid of, well...nuts! I guess they just haven't yet grown to their full size. Whew! No big deal, it was just some sort of male, testosterone-concerned thought. "Damn it...I want our new little boy dog to have balls!" A side note, somewhat related: he squats to pee. Thank goodness...a non-alpha male dog!

And with the injection he got the other day, Boo Boo will be protected from bordatella, parvo, etc, and we can feel more secure about taking him to public places, ie, the park. Oh, and he weighs about 8 1/2 pounds, perfect for his age (5 months) and close to the 10-11 pounds a male mini doxie should top out at.

On another note, the young canine squire will be accompanying us on our Father's Day weekend trip to Pismo. He loves riding in the car and is fairly well-behaved to this point. We are still in mid-training in efforts to leash train the little shit. He is requiring a chest harness as still thinks that he is the boss. Practice, practice, practice. One of the things we are looking forward to: a walk with him on our old beach. He must experience the taste of sand, seawater, and old seaweed as part of his development...not to mention chasing the seagulls on the wet sand.

Daughter Jen, son-in-law Roth, and their young squire (my grandson), Rowan, will be visiting Pismo from Seattle that weekend as well, so, needless to say, we are very excited about our first little weekend away in quite a while. This time for two nights as I have three days off in a row! The annual (huge) Pismo car show is going on that weekend and hopefully we can see some of that. Visiting my mom, my son, and my sisters are also on the agenda for those days. A lot to do, but we always look forward to and savor our time on the central coast, our old stomping ground.

With new puppy and cameras in tow, we will leave this Saturday morning and return Monday. Should be a nice Father's Day, one of the first in years I haven't had to work in some silly restaurant on one of the most chaotic food service days of the year!

"It's All Good!" Bullshit!

2009-05-28T20:14:00.001-07:00

This will be a short one. Sorry, but my new, least favorite coined saying is, "It's all good!"

Well...I'll tell you what. "It ain't all fucking good!" That's MY new, favorite saying.

What it is is this. It's as good as you want to make it. And that's it. Put "It's all good!" on the same list as:

"Have a nice day"

"Love means never having to say you're sorry"

and..."You get better with age"

The fun part is making a list of all the naive, deluded, catch phrases in the world today. Now, that's all good.

Schwinn!

2009-05-27T15:43:00.000-07:00

Amidst living in a new [rented] house in a new neighborhood with a new dog and a new (8 months) job, I seem to have resurrected the covet for something from my teen years. Like an old, unrequited teenage love affair, my passion to own this now relic of a machine has not subsided over the years. When I was fourteen or so, my Sears J.C.Higgins model paled in comparison to the lines and chrome forks of my neighbor's Schwinn Continental. Another buddy of mine pedaled around on a Schwinn Varisity, a lessor Schwinn than the Continental, but...it, as well, was a Schwinn.

My new 1979 Schwinn Continental was one of the last few actually born in Chicago. Japan and Taiwan became the parent countries of Schwinn bikes a short time later. Without going into a mini-history lesson to help extol the virtues of Schwinn bicycles, some real, some imagined...let's just say that to many of us, old and young, the name itself is an American icon.

In today's world of trendy carbon frames and carbon components and carbon wheelsets, it's the still the steel (chromolloy to be more precise) that brings home the bacon in bicycle frames. And although my '79 Continental weighs more than twice Lance's or Levi's wheels, it rolls as steady and sturdy as any road bike on the road. Yes, it's called a road bike now. The change in moniker necessitated by the continued addition of more and more gears over the years. One would be hard pressed to find a "new" 10 speed nowadays. The bicycle world now accepts an 11 speed rear cog set as norm...times two in the front...well, you get the pictures. BTY...three speed front cranks, popular for a while, are going the way of the Do Do bird and are said to be owned only by wimps and city slickers who never ride their mountain bikes any longer.

My other Schwinns, in various forms of restoration and part raping, are a Super Le Tour, two Open Roads, a World Sport, and a Le Tour. A couple of these frames will morph into those trendy single speed things that don't require shifting gears. Photos coming soon to a blogsite near you.

To put it simply, being someone who has always thoroughly enjoyed dismantling things and, on occasion, actually putting them back together...farting around with these bikes is a real kick. The 1979 Schwinn Continental that resides in my garage (and the subject of these photos) was acquired recently from my next door neighbor. It had been sitting in an extra room in his house for nearly 30 years. I convinced him to sell it to me and he did, with one condition: I don't sell it, ie, keep it for myself as a collector item. And so, I probably will. The restoration was relatively simple and painless. I took it apart, every nut and bolt. Clean it, repacked all the bearings, both wheel and headset (where the handle bar stem goes), put on new cables and housings and new tires. The old tires exploded when I tried to pump them up! Voila...a near perfect '79, Chicago-made Schwinn Continental...Candy Apple Red. The paint will need a touch up here and there. Other than that, I now own something I only coveted since the age of fourteen.

It's just a piece of steel, chrome, and rubber. But, it is a Schwinn. And, I think I will still refer to it as a 10 speed if that's alright!

By the way, if you know of anyone wanting to sell a vintage Schwinn Paramount (the model just above the Continental), let me know. I've been known to pay way too much for old bicycles!

Say Hello to Jack Boo Boo Diddley, Esq.

2009-05-26T04:16:00.000-07:00

So, yah...we have a new dog. A puppy, to be exact. And why I feel obligated to explain the reasons for this action is beyond me. So let's just say, "It felt like the right thing to do right now".

His name is Jack Boo Boo Diddley. Although our next door neighbor, Bob, insists on calling him Bo Diddley and thinks the dog and his name is rather cool (Bob is our age. 'Nuff said?). Boo Boo is a soon-to-be registered Mini Dachsund acquired locally from a lady who owns the mother dog. Boo Boo is an only child from his litter. The exact color description for this type of weiner dog is Black and Tan, Silver Dapple. He is four months old and was born on my birthday...a strange and appropriate coincidence.

Our other remaining pets, Sassy (the old lady), a four pound black Pomeranian...and Sparky (the old man), a twenty six pound Dachsund are reluctantly dealing with this new addition in their own ways. Sassy remains sequestered in her closet sleeping quarters for most of the day. Sparky's routine hasn't change much, as he sleeps in various out of the way places all day, lumbering out only for food, water, and bodily functions. Both Sassy and Sparky truly want nothing to do with Boo Boo's young, impetuous, playful, harassing demeanor. When Boo Boo attempts to play with Sassy, she let's out strange blasts of gurgling, blood curdling dog screams, at the same time running in and out and around the furniture with an occasional faux counter attack (no, definitely not playing). The puppy remains undiscouraged. We try to keep them apart as much as possible. With Sparky, it's a simple case of, "Get the hell away from me!"...communicated by deep growls followed by some convincing body language, ie, a nose nudge or outright body slam. Boo Boo is still enthusiastic and continues to subscribe to the illusion that Sparky will someday run around the backyard with him, something that will never happen as Sparky is over 100 in dog years, is blind, old, and extremely grumpy. Loretta and I think that both of the older dogs are pissed off at us for letting this wiggling, energetic, bothersome thing into their once peaceful, mundane existence.

Boo Boo is still learning how to assimilate into his new environment, with only an occasional "mistake". He knows how to use the dog doors. Despite the challenges of raising a new, young dog, he has brought new joy into our lives. His personality is what drew us to him from the first meeting. He is very affectionate, playful, and sensitive...he knows "no" and responds to verbal discipline immediately. He has already learned how to pout when not getting his way or we yell at him. And, yes, Boo Boo is very protective of us and his home, although his bouts of barking are judicious, short-lived, and very selective.

Are we crazy? No, just dog lovers.

Dog Day Afternoon. Lost friends. New roads.

2009-05-11T17:55:00.000-07:00

Who new?

Dogs would play such a poignant part of our lives.

Three months have passed: Our dog, Lucy...Jen's dog, Sierra...Ronda's dog, Bailey...Sue's dog, Leo. All gone now. They all meant so much...a part of our lives, members of our families. Our new dog, Boo Boo...a welcome new addition.

Six months have passed: My first grandchild...geographically afar...but closer than most and sweeter than I could ever imagine.

Nine months have passed: Our house...gone. Some friends...lost? A career...put on hold while I work for money. Just find the strength to swipe the time clock five days a week.

Thirty years have passed: Too much to write about in a silly, neglected blog. Nearing sixty. Much to contemplate...much to plan still...too many regrets, no time for that any longer. At least some contact with one of two siblings. Bicycling, writing, photography dreams help.

Forty years have passed: Wish I could do over...impossible. Too much water under the bridge.

Fifty two years have passed: Does that plane crash still affect me? It still does affect everyone who was there according to their blogs. I still cry every day. I guess I'm not alone. Some consolation: commiseration...and, I'm still here for some reason.

Must write more.

Fuji Roubaix...huh?

2009-04-03T17:54:00.000-07:00

The consensus is that it is pronounced roo-bay. Roubaix is a region in Northern France. Also, it's a model of Fuji road bike...the latest I'm building from a newly acquired new frame. Completed bike photos forthcoming. It won't be the sexiest bike I've built to date (a future Bianchi will fill that bill), but, close anyway...

It (she) will go on eBay soon...if I don't decide to keep it. Mostly new components. Mavic wheels, Campy derailleurs, brakes, cassette, crankset, shifters, etc. Virgin, 2008 aluminum/carbon frame. Starting price: $1000.

1996 is vintage in bicycle years!

2009-03-21T09:04:00.000-07:00

My "new" 1996 Trek 5000

The ratio is probably something akin to dog years. Bicycles, for the most part, have a relatively
short life span. They take a beating and are not often well-cared for, ie, left outside, thrown down, crashed, etc. Finding a 13 year old bike in great condition is somewhat rare, as in the case of the Trek I just got. It was ridden a few times, then put in a basement time capsule for 12 years.

One thing I've found about riding at my advanced age: one cannot turn one's head around as easily to check for oncoming traffic! I guess I used to be able to spin my head around as a teenager, put not anymore. If I try to turn my body for a better view, I get paranoid about falling over. Perhaps things will loosen up a bit as I get into better shape. In the meantime, I do a lot of stopping and starting when I have to turn corners or move into traffic. I just thought it would be a tad easier to assimilate back into this activity...not! I am however, not deterred. Riding is becoming quite addicting, something that is written about quite often in bicycle magazines and online forums. Could be worse. I could have taken up some other "addiction" with less benefits. The only downside: $$$. But, I'm learning how to ration out that as well.

Time for some inventory clearance on eBay.

2009-03-08T06:34:00.000-07:00

The first of several bicycles going on eBay...an early nineties Trek 2300 Carbon/Aluminum road bike. They made this model out of both materials for some reason. It's kind of a collector's item but needs to go in order to "finance" a few other projects and the arrival of my everyday rider coming soon...a 1996 Trek 5000. The 5000 is a few years old but was not ridden for many years by its owner (less than 100 miles according to the listing). Since I can't afford a new Trek Madone yet (Lance and Levi's ride), this one will suffice.

Photos forthcoming of the "new" one when I gets here.

The 2300 was purchased as a frame only and I added all new components...that was the fun part. Selling it, packing it, and shipping it won't be quite the joy of building it.

But...its' all good.

At least I saw them ride by!

2009-02-21T12:16:00.000-08:00

The Tour of California wraps up this weekend. I know I have never been a sports fan of any form, but...I guess I'm a fan of this tour thing. Lance has returned with his entry in the Tour of California, and a guy named Levi Leipheimer from Santa Rosa (and Lance's teammate) is the rider to watch. Check out the AMGEN site if you're interested in the stages and routes. My close encounter came near the end of Stage 3, San Jose to Modesto last Tuesday.

I managed get my lazy butt out of house just as a monsoon-like deluge ended around 4:30. Drove about 4 blocks, parked in a nearby neighborhood and sprinted to the intersection by the college where the peloton was to make a turn toward downtown and the finish. The Tour of California rode by, making the 90 degree right turn without incident. They had bunched up together by then, ie, the main group (peloton) closed the gap with the break-away riders.

The crowd started screaming, "Here they come!" just as I reached the intersection. Standing one row of onlookers back, I raised Loretta's point-and-shoot camera (mine stayed home due to the rain, bad mistake it turns out), and commenced to push the bottom repeatedly as they glided by around the corner. Unfortunately, the button I was pushing was the on/off button! When I finally noticed that the flash was not going off and the lens was moving in and out each time I pushed the button, I recovered from that temporary insanity and started taking pictures. Pictures of the pavement, the man's hand waving in front of me, and the old bag's camera who raised her's up blocking my view.

Nice shot, huh? One of those wheels may or may not belong to Lance or Levi. But, they were in there somewhere.

There's always next year when I can plan on attending more than one of the starts or finishes somewhere in California...and bringing my own camera.

I...

2009-02-12T12:08:00.000-08:00

I am a 59 year old male.

I have a wife and live with her in Northern Central California with three dogs (one blind one, one sick one, and one very small one).

I have two ex-wives.

I have a mother. I don’t have a father any longer.

I have two children, one female, one male...and one grandson and a son-in-law.

I have two younger sisters and five nieces and nephews. One sister I communicate with semi-regularly, the other I don’t.

I had two grandmothers and one grandfather (I never met one grandfather).

I daydream and fantasize all the time about money and things I’d like to do and places I’d like to see.

I am not proud of everything I’ve done in my life.

I have a feeling there is still something big and important I am destined to accomplish.

I have traveled to and lived in several states and foreign countries.

I play the guitar. I used to play drums and learned to play the accordian.

I make a living working for a major retailer, though I have also worked as an Avon delivery person, a fast food employee, a tire installer, a creamery worker, a member of the armed forces, a restaurant manager, a radio DJ, and a photographer.

I have a large bucket list.

I have recently taught myself to work on bicycles and would like to make a living building custom bicycles.

I rode Harley Davidsons for five years, and will ride again someday soon.

I have several tattoos and plan to get several others.

I have pattern male baldness though my hair has remained black (what’s left).

I had a quintuple bipass as well as four angioplastys and a heart attack at a very young age.

I love to cook and consider myself a self-taught chef with no desire to ever work at this vocation professionally.

I used to have many friends, now only a select few.

I pray almost every day, though I don’t really know who I praying to besides myself.

I am an optimist 80% of the time.

I don’t take anti-depressants any longer.

I used to work out at a gym five days a week.

I weight 238 pounds right now though my goal is 198.

I would like to be a vegetarian but am far from it right now.

I love to write and would like to write short stories and a novel.

I want to publish a book of my photographs.

I believe most people think I am funny and witty though sometimes moody and too serious.

I smoke and drink alcohol.

I cry during sentimental movies and some news stories.

I am very critical of others uncaring and rude attitudes, beyond that I give people the benefit of the doubt until they prove otherwise.

I believe in capital punishment and think that the list of capital crimes should be expanded.

I can water ski, but not snow ski.

I hate most professional sports and have virtually no interest in following any of them.

I have Jamie Leigh Curtis’ autograph and lip print on a napkin. I once had a 20 minute conversation with Mark Hamill in person. I’ve met Lou Ferrigno, George Fenneman, Bruce Hornsby, Carol Kane, Jack LaLane, Fess Parker, Engineer Bill...I know there’s more, can’t think of them right now. I interviewed Lloyd Bridges on the phone.

I heard my name read aloud on my birthday by Sheriff John.

I earned three combat air medals in Viet Nam.

I hope I win the lotto.

I have no idea where this came from, it just sounded like fun at the time,

Face time in Seattle

2009-02-07T06:03:00.001-08:00

I recently had the opportunity to fly to Seattle and meet the newest member of my family, my grandson Rowan. Born on December 17th 2008, he just turned 6 weeks old. I'm quite sure I was much more impressed with him than he with me. Besides simply being able to simply see him in person, I managed to fulfill another small goal: hold him and rock him to sleep. In fact, I was even able to take him from a fussy crying state to sleeping in my arms...at least once (my efforts weren't always successful I might add).
He is quite the beautiful baby, this coming from someone who rarely doles out any compliments in the direction of newborns...I happen to think most should be kept swaddled from head to toe until they are at least two or three years of age as a public service (remember that Seinfeld "ugly baby" episode?).

All babies have their "moments", as evidenced by these two photos. He was not real happy about being dragged out of his nice, warm house and shuttled to Pike Place on a cold, dreary, Seattle morning. Not even flying fish impress him at this point. He does love riding in the car though, blissfully asleep on the way there and on the way home.

All in all, the short, hectic trip to Seattle only whetted my appetite for more "face time" with Rowan James Gonzales...not to mention with my daughter and son-in-law, Jen & Roth. I don't know exactly when I'll be back, hopefully soon. I do want my grandson to know his Grandpa Skip, aka, Grandpa James.

What a maroon!

2009-01-14T17:52:00.000-08:00

A depressed writer who has spent most of the money he earned from his first book...

That title was taken from a description from a movie playing on cable today (The Dog Problem). The film itself appears somewhat forgettable, but the title may serve a purpose in this blog.

A depressed writer? Isn’t that statement alone redundant in nature.

So, what is a depressed writer? Certainly not a writer who has been “successful” enough to sell some of his work, perhaps in the form of a novel. Would that writer have realized one of his greatest dreams: the selling (to a publishing firm and the public) of his work(s)? And would that goal make him more happy, more self-actualized, and not depressed?

I suppose the same could be said about a musician, or a photographer, or an artist. Or any number of artist endeavor based professions. You know, those right-brain type intellects; right-brain meaning random, holistic synthesizing, subjective thinking human beings. Versus left-brain type intellects; meaning logical sequential, rational, analytical, objective thinking human beings.

How about a writer/photographer/artist who embraces the left side of his brain as much as the right side of his brain, ie, he loves the logical, planned, analytical, mathematic side of life just as much as the sentimental, sunset-loving, spontaneous, what-is-the-meaning-of-life side of his brain?

A depressed writer? Isn’t that redundant (adj, exceeding what is necessary or normal; serving as a duplicate). In the same category as in tuna fish, lower down, raise up, big giant, or any number of other pleonasms* we use on an almost daily basis.

So, if you ever meet a writer who is not depressed (clinically or otherwise), how about more precisely describing him as a happy or non-depressed writer? Which, now, would be a term that could be considered an oxymoron (adj; figure of speech that combines two normally contradictory terms). Now, we may, indeed, have found an example of a conundrum.

Conundrum: verb; a paradoxical, insoluble, or difficult problem.

I feel I am more of a conudrum than an oxymoron. Emphasis on moron (verb; disused psychological term for a person with a mental age between 8 and 12, slang for a stupid person).

I prefer to consider myself ignorant versus moronic. Ignorant: adj; without knowledge, sophistication, or, at times, intelligence. An ignorant, moronic, depressed writer/photographer who has never been able to afford therapy.

I may have simply made some poor choices in life. But at this point in time, I’m quite comfortable with it all, et al...as well my future prospects...despite it all.

*pleonasm: verb; the use of more words (or even word parts) than necessary to express an idea clearly. Kind of like this blog!

Is phlegm nutritious? And other questions to ponder this new year.

2009-01-13T05:32:00.000-08:00

Haven't written anything for a while. Don't care! Oh, shit! I'll admit it...I do care.

With the passing from 2008 to 2009, it seems a good time to at least ponder what this means to me. No matter how hard I try to ignore the importance or non-importance of January 1st compared to any other date during the year, I'll always be destined to dredge up fresh platitudes about new beginnings, past failures, and other nostalgic sentimentalisms. First and foremost in my thoughts: what the hell happened in 2008!

So much of what transpired last year I wish to forget. Let's face it, it wasn't the greatest year for most of us. At the very least, it was somewhat scary as well as historical. A rowdy, over-blown presidential election and the choosing of a new leader who promises real change (for the better) this time. The fall of an already crumbling, precarious economy and roller coaster stock market ride. The disgraceful gouging of gas prices followed immediately by a severe record drop in price after the demand went down (duh...do ya' think?). All of the previous keeping the media in a town crier feeding frenzy mode on a daily basis. I'm back to watching the 5:00 0'clock TV news for the first 2 minutes again. When the lead story is about some woman who has been keeping 175 cats in her house, I switch back to the Travel Channel to see if Kirsten Gum's program is on (Cash and Treasures...and, yes, she's smokin' hot).

The news media is now obsessed with the upcoming inauguration, punctuated with a couple Afghanistan and Gaza feeds plus a daily dose of the who-gives-a-rat's-ass story of the year What Will You Do After The Digital Conversion? Our "local" Sacramento TV stations even post a countdown clock every time they run a story about this during every newscast. "Only 39 days, 14 hours, 3 minutes, and 17 seconds left until your rabbit ears won't work any longer!!! Find out what you can do about it tonight at 11:00". Anyone who cares about watching television and is still using rabbit ears or an antenna screwed to their roof needs to sell their moonshine still and get a dish or something similar.

For us (Loretta and me), 2008 could be considered the worst year since we've been together (13 years). Not because we had problems or issues with our relationship mind you. But because of the some of the changes we incurred in our life: losing a job, losing a house, losing a longtime best friend (not by death, but lost nonetheless), just to name a few. Those first two loses are just things, possessions, and have since been replaced. The last one...not quite as easy to replicate.

Yes, last year will be one we may talk about for a while. Or maybe it's best to let dead dog's lie. And since I'm quite the (day)dreamer, I should prefer to think about what is in store for us this new year, 2009. Unlike in years past, I didn't make any New Year's resolutions...at least not publicly. I have certainly set some new goals for myself and for Loretta and I as a couple. All of which, by the way, are health and personal in nature, not financial or possession-oriented.

Last year wasn't a great year in my life...save for one, huge, gigantic, epic ray of silver lining light. Jenifer gave birth to her and Roth's first baby and my first grandchild. Rowan James Gonzales was born a couple weeks early on December 17th. Had he come into this world as scheduled, the first week of January, 2008 would have been a total loss on the plus side. I'll thank Rowan personally some day for jumping the gun and what his (early) appearance meant to me.

I closed out 2008 with several weeks of a nasty cold/bronchitis malady that we haven't quite identified and I have not yet totally said goodbye to. It lingers a bit to this day, but is waning as each day goes by. I still have the cough at times as well as that persistent phlegm. Which leads me to the question, "Is phlegm nutritious?" If it is, I should be experiencing some sort of benefit from it. Evidently it isn't. At least I haven't found anything to suggest that it is by Googling that question. Besides, there are other questions for this new year much more profound and pertinent that I must ponder. And ponder them I will, but without much intensity or over-thinking. I reveal one of my resolutions by saying that. Less stress, more fun.

I'll close this one with a quote from one my favorite philosophers, Foghorn Leghorn.

"I say...I better not look...I just might be in there!"

Sweet Baby Rowan James

2009-01-08T08:00:00.000-08:00

Too cute for words...yet.

It's a boy! But we knew that months ago...

2008-12-18T12:38:00.000-08:00

Well, it happened a little earlier than expected. Everyone was planning on January 2nd. But, December 17th will be his date of birth. His name is Rowan James Gonzales. He...is my first grandchild. My daughter Jenifer gave birth to a 7 pound (and change) bouncing baby boy at 8:22 the evening of the 17th in Seattle. All went well, albeit he decided to make his appearance a couple weeks early. Jenifer has always been a little impatient. I think she gets that from me. Maybe it is Rowan who is the impatient one in this case!

The first name was chosen by Jen and Roth totally unrelated to any family names - although Rowan does begin with an “R” like his father’s. The middle name - James - is my first name, as well as my father’s, and my son’s (Jen’s brother). How much cooler could that possibly be? Gonzales (with an “S”) is a Spanish surname. Both Roth and Jen have (had) blond hair, so it remains entirely possible the new “he” in our family may be a toe-head as well...at least for the first few years!

Knowing Jenifer and her propensity for the world of blogdom, the first pics will show up on her blog soon after she returns home from the hospital. Her blog has always been, is now, and will always be a microcosm of what happens in her life...verse and photos.

As far as this proud grandfather meeting the new addition in person...Loretta and I are planning on flying to Seattle for a few days the end of January. We decided to “let the dust settle” a bit before descending upon the new parents and baby. Jen’s mother, Anna, will arrive today to spend some time with and help Jen with the usual postpartum procedures at home. In the meantime, there will be a more than judicious use of our web cams to get up close and personal to Rowan, an experience he will only be able to understand and relate to later in life. Who knows what kind of communication tools will be available as he approaches adulthood?

What Rowan will ultimately become as a person remains to be seen. One thing for sure...he is destined to be a great cook! One can only hope his impending culinary expertise, both from environment and genetics, will be a hobby and not a vocation (it’s a rough business). His father, grandfather (yours truly), great-grandfather, great-great grandfather, and uncle all have culinary backgrounds. Not to mention his mother who has become quite the foodie/cook/chef apprentice the past few years. You can’t be married to a long time chef without a lot of that rubbing off.

Rowan James Gonzales has come into this world during tough times. He will not know of recessions, or wars, or money worries, or stress for many years to come. But, realistically, coming into this world at any point in time is tough. His world immediate, all that he experiences, will consist of simple motherly and fatherly love, warmth, and comfort. That is all he will need for a long time...and that is what he will receive. Jen and Roth are two of the most loving, caring, intelligent people I have ever known. And I am overwhelmingly proud to be able to call them my daughter and son-in-law. There are no words to express my joy at this point in time being able to say, “I’m grandpa to a little guy named Rowan James Gonzales. Welcome to the family!”

(insert tear running down grandpa’s cheek)

Greed...is good (?)

2008-12-05T04:23:00.000-08:00

That and other rhetorical lines uttered by Gordon Gekko in the movie Wall Street...

Greed - for lack of a better word - is good. Greed is right. Greed works. And you are all being royally screwed over by these, these bureaucrats, with their steak lunches, their hunting and fishing trips, their corporate jets and golden parachutes.

***Here's a typical American story I've heard told to me many times of late...

The main bread-winner loses his job. Not a great job, but a good job in terms of workable income. During the good times leading up to the job loss, credit is over-used so the family can have a few "things" they don't need...fun things. Greed? Perhaps. Refinancing the house occurs (more than once). The homeowners mortgage adjusts as they are unable to secure a new, fixed loan as planned a few months later. The last refinance should not have been approved by the mortgage company. Greed? Perhaps. Homeowners are unable to pay the new exhorbitant mortgage. Home values plunge to less than half the amount of the last appraisal. Eight months pass with them working with the loan company in a modification program, ending with a stamp of DECLINED. Homeowners home is sold at auction for an amount significantly less than the total debt. A knock comes at the door the same day as the sale. Time to get out. Can you vacate the premises in five days? We'll give you a $1000. How about ten days? We'll give you $500. If not, we'll go through the sheriff, ie, the eviction process. Homeowners plan to move into a nice, older, smaller house on the other side of town. The rent: about 1/4 of their former mortgage amount. The rental house is a recent foreclosure of a longtime mortgage. The homeowners are starting over with less than desirable credit and an embarrassing, shameful cloud over their heads. All results from (their own) greed? Perhaps. They'll get over it. In fact, they already have. You gotta live your life. It's just a house now anyway, not a home any longer. The rental house will now be their "home". In the meantime, the government is doling out billions of our tax dollars to the companies whose mismanagement and greed led us to this point. The homeowners know that their choice of actions brought them to this. Greed? Maybe. But where is their bailout program? No one is being approved for these programs. The DECLINED stamp is everywhere. Why doesn't the so-called investment group that purchased their home opt for renting to the original homeowners? They will certainly rent to someone, and soon. The company wants the homeowners out ASAP so they can "move forward". Life goes on. Our home of ten years now belongs to someone else.

***This is not only a story told to me by dozens of people recently...it is our story. At least we're not alone.

Commiseration is the consolation prize. And, Wall Street is one of my favorite movies!

I remember reading books, do you?

2008-11-28T04:31:00.000-08:00

I used to read books a lot more than I do now. Let's face it, besides newspapers and (paper) magazines, books were the only source for this kind of pastime before the advent of the WWW. Comic books you say? My Dad forbade me from reading or owning comic books. I can't recall his exact reasoning for this restriction, something about them being "silly, worthless, and non-educational". My friends' old copies of Superman, The Hulk, and Spiderman found their way into my hands on occasion, so I did get my comic book fix every once in a while.

My choice of reading material was the paperback novel. I read lots and lots of paperbacks in my pre-teen years. Most of these were adventure stories, war stories, Hardy Boys, and...James Bond novels. From 1962 (I was 12 that year) until 1965 or so, I read all of Ian Fleming's stories about the British Secret Service agent...double oh seven!

Beginning with Dr. No, I couldn't wait for the next one to come out. The order in which I read them corresponded to the release of the motion pictures. In other words, I read the book...then saw the movie (sometimes, the other way around). By the way, the Bond films (22 of them) were not made in the same order in which Fleming's books were published. In fact, Casino Royale was the first Bond book, published in 1953. It was made into a movie (the first time) in 1967, then again in 2006. The '67 version didn't resemble past Bond flicks as it was a comedy spy-spoof about an aging Bond (played by David Niven) coming out of retirement to concoct a plan to thwart the evil SMERSH organization. It also starred Peter Sellars, Ursula Andress, Woody Allen, and a host of other contract players from that studio. Orson Welles handled the part of Le Chiffre (one of the actual evil-doers from the novel and the 2006 film). Consequently, the 1967 Casino Royale isn't really considered a "Bond film" by fans (including yours truly). Dr. No, the first Bond flick, came out in 1962. Followed by From Russia, With Love ('63), Goldfinger ('64), and Thunderball ('65), etc, etc. In fact, the last line in the credits from those films always mentioned the next Bond movie, already in production.

Yup, I actually read 'em all. And, of course, I've seen all the films. Ian Fleming passed away in 1964. The James Bond book legacy continued on though, most written by a guy named John Gardner. Fleming's 007 novels ended with Octopussy and The Living Daylights.

My favorite Bond book? From Russia, With Love. My favorite Bond movie? , With From Russia, With Love? My favorite movie Bond? C'mon...let's be "real"!

Leaderbike Single Speed #1...almost done.

2008-11-26T17:41:00.000-08:00

The bicycle thing - update

2008-11-21T09:03:00.000-08:00

Like I said recently, this bicycle thing has become very gratifying for me. My biggest challenge: stop from buying additional parts and older bikes before "moving" finished projects. Speaking of finished projects, one is complete and one will be 90% complete today (after the UPS guy makes a visit).
The logo above will likely be the decal placed on the cross tubes...white on the darker color bikes.

Below are a few shots of the what my garage shop looks like right now. I don't realistically anticipate having a shop/studio space anytime soon, though that is certainly not out of the question for the future. I say "studio" because bicycle "studios" are growing, ie, small, custom operations designed to build a limited number of bikes by appointment only. In addition, an outside space will accommodate a photo studio as well. By that time, perhaps my 40 hour a week job with the major retailer I work for will not be necessary (or possible). Who knows?

That last shot on the right is the opposite of the garage. And, no, we don't keep our cars in the garage now...ever! The six or so bikes I have will eventually make their way to hanging on the wall and from the ceiling. But, I don't want to do anything very permanent as we will most likely be moving within a few months or so. Moving to a rental in another part of town. Fortunately, this "business" will be easy to move anywhere.

The Mother Road website won't happen until after the first of the year. In the meantime, it will have to exist soley on eBay. I hesitate to list any of the bikes locally as I have no desire to let people test ride these custom bikes I work very hard to build. Besides, Modesto is not a bicycle town by any stretch of the imagination. Many riders I've spoken to have told me horror stories of getting hit with beer cans, spit, and paint balls while riding around here.

One good thing about Modesto...the Fall weather. It's been very nice, mild, almost balmy in the afternoons. Great time for a short ride once in a while!

What dreams may come...

2008-11-10T07:39:00.001-08:00

Dinner last night was Orange Chicken and Chow Mein Noodles...and this fortune cookie.

My first bike project heads to eBay this week. Four more are under "construction".

Stress...where did mine go?

2008-11-09T05:45:00.000-08:00

It may be time for me to write a new Bucket List. Yes, I recently saw the move, The Bucket List...and, I've made these lists before. Heck, I made Bucket Lists when I was 7 years old! After all, I have the list gene. The reason why I should revisit this list of things-I've-yet-to-do-but-would- like-to-do-before-I-kick-the-bucket? Well, realistically, we don't have the funds that jack Nicholson had in that movie! And, most of my goals and priorities have changed drastically in the last few months. And, yes, I've changed a bit.

Loretta and I were chatting the other day about our wants and needs at this point in our lives. The subject of stress came up again...or lack thereof. "Honey", I said with raised eyebrows, "should I be concerned that I'm not stressed out any more?" She replied with her usual, casual reassurance, "No". I went on to remind her that my new job garners less than half the income I was making in a former career (albeit, half the hours and no stress). We owe lots of money that we can't repay. And I don't foresee any short or long term change in that situation. By the way, Loretta and I have had this conversation on numerous occasions. It seems in this state of unstress I manage to attempt to manufacture stress, at least when I think I should be stressed out! "Don't worry", she comforted me (again), "We're doing what we can. Besides, let me remind you of that little diddy your Mom used to say to you: They can't eat you!" Kind of turn on the question 'What's the worst that can happen thing', ie, answer: someone (or something) eating you. Sorry, you had to be there I guess.

Back to the New Bucket List. Well, gotta think about that one. Since things have changed so much in our lives, and will continue to change, er, I mean evolve, some thought must be put toward this. Perhaps I should wait until my birthday in January...I'll be 59. Maybe I should hold off until my 60th, that's an appropriate point in my history to re-establish goals...realistic goals this time. The only problem with waiting until my 60th birthday is that there are a few things I'd like to check off of that list before my 60th. Some of which I need to start training for now. Did I say training? Yes, I did.

So, the New Bucket List will take a little time to compile. It will be much more succinct that the last one I did a couple of years ago. I think it was 55 things on my 55th birthday. This time, I will do some judicious editing and come up with those goals and aspirations before January, probably next week! Gotta start training you know.

It won't be too awful disappointing to remove from that old list Flying in an F-14 or White Water Rafting in Nepal. Besides, we have some pretty nifty rivers close by. And, we also have several places to skydive! It's all good. I have my first grandchild(son) due in January!

It's time now to move forward...

2008-11-06T06:45:00.000-08:00

I have much to say about how I feel two days after the election. But, for now, I will just link you to my daughter Jenifer's blog who said it with graceful eloquence.

And, yes, Loretta and I voted!

What season are you in?

2008-11-02T05:52:00.000-08:00

It's funny to me how every year at this time we whine about the coming of winter, the time change, and the early darkness.

Just a month ago we were whining about the sweltering, 100+ degree heat at 7:30pm, the oppressive summer, and the huge air conditioning electric bills.

In a month, it will be dark at 4:30pm.

Loretta and I were talking about these changes the other day. I waxed nostalgic about how, as a child, I so looked forward to the coming of Summer, getting out of school and Summer vacation. I also greatly anticipated with great joy, the coming of Fall and returning to school and Thanksgiving. Surely everyone one of us enjoyed the weeks leading up to Winter, Christmas vacation, and Christmas itself. Spring was the only time of the year that didn't hold much fascination with me. Growing up in southern California, Spring was kind of a non-season. Except for Easter (Spring) vacation, there wasn't much to look forward to, except that it meant we were getting closer to Summer again.

So which season's arrival do I relish the most now? Why, this season, of course. I really appreciate the coming of Fall. Let's call it by its more proper name, Autumn. After all, it is the Autumnal Equinox. This year, it came at 3:44pm on September 22nd. Equal day and night. It happens at the Vernal Equinox (Spring) as well for one day and night.

Autumn is surely the most colorful of the seasons. Plant life on Earth remind us that change is underway. Some regions do that more expressively than others. Around these parts, Northern Central California, the trees turn vibrant hues of red, yellow, and brown...then shed all or most of their leaves almost as much as in New England. The wind blows more often, and the rains begin to make their appearance from time to time. And the temperature is just right. This move out of the 90's and 100's to the 70's and 80's makes every day much more bearable.

I'm not spring chicken any longer! Perhaps that is why I hold Autumn in such an enamored state. I'm living in the Autumn of my life every day now. Hopefully, it's early autumn as I am looking forward to the next 10 years or so as the most enjoyable, most productive, most self-aware time of my life. Hopefully, I truly know who I am, what I am, and where I am going. At least I have a better idea of the direction than in years past. Still adrift in a fall breeze like a dry leaf, I'm enjoying the journey. The destination is no longer as important as it used to be.

The roses in the window box are tilted to one side

2008-11-01T08:09:00.001-07:00

I haven't written for a while. If that deserves an apology here, so be it. I apologize.

Not writing hasn't been for lack of thought, just lack of motivation I suppose. Many changes have transpired in the last few months. Not drastic changes, just, well, changes in direction for me.

There has been a return to work, as in an 8 to 5 job. In this job, I am a non-member of management in a very, very large company...the name of which is not important at this point. What I am actually doing at this job is irrelevant as well. I am reminded daily (by myself) of a saying some past pundit passed on to me years ago: "This job is not what I am. It's simply what I do right now". That pundit was an old boss in another lifetime who has since been flushed from my life. But, I did retain some snappy sayings and anecdotes from him...very few of these preachings did he actually practice. It was more of the usual in the end, "Do as I say, not as I do" sort of thing.

One thing I can tell you. I've been enjoying a new hobby of sorts. Playing with bicycles. Seems I enjoy working on them, restoring them, and even riding them (again). Each one has been a "project" that I've actually completed. For those who don't know me, I am, among other things, completion-challenged.
I quite often start things...and don't finish them. Not all things, just most of them. I get bored very often and very quickly, and these projects simply get pushed aside for some other "light bulb" appearing over my head. It wasn't always like that though. As a child I built hundreds of plastic models. I lived in the world of Revell planes, cars, and other miniature machinery. I always finished them all. In fact, I resurrected that delight when my son Jimmy was very young. I helped him build an entire air force of vintage model airplanes that hung from the ceiling of his bedroom. So, now it is the cycle of the bicycle for me. Until something strikes my fancy perhaps.

Metaphorically at this point in time...if I had a window box with roses planted...they would indeed be tilted to one side. What that Elton John song* line means, as with most metaphoria, is up to the individual. I just know I ain't standing up as straight as I used to! But, at least I'm still standing. OMG! Isn't that another Elton John tune? Totally inadvertent on my part.

By the way, I'm not so sure roses are actually meant to be planted in window boxes. Could this be the reason they are tilted to one side!

*Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding - 1973

At least we made the effort: San Francisco

2008-09-15T18:35:00.000-07:00

When you live a mere 80 miles or so from one of the most interesting and culturally diverse cities in the country (and rarely go there), you feel almost guilty for not making the effort. The effort it takes for us to visit San Francisco is sadly minimal compared to the amount of times we've gone there in ten years. So, we went Sunday.

This time, Loretta and I decided it would be fun to ride BART from Dublin (50 miles from our home). The drive to the Dublin BART station is pretty much a straight shot on a couple of freeways. During the week, it would be out of the question. What person in their right mind would brave this nasty commute that, at best, now resembles the Hollywood Freeway 30 years ago, ie, bumper to bumper, but moving. Compared to the Hollywood Freeway now that is bumper to bumper and doesn't move. But, alas, our little "commute" on the 580 on a Sunday morning is nothing more than a 45 minute interlude where we would chat, listen to the radio, and enjoy thoughts of the upcoming touristy visit to the Bay Area.

Frankly, our plans were much bigger than our stamina(s). We spent about three and half hours on the embarcadero from Pier 1 to Pier 39...it's about a mile and a half walk one way. Our planned excursion uptown to Union Square, Chinatown, and The Presidio will come another day.

In the meantime, we did take photos, not near as much as I had hoped...but some anyway. Check them out here.

It was a nice day that left us with pleasant memories, plans to go again, sore feet, and, for me, a slightly sunburned dome. Small prices to pay for a cheap "fun day".

I've always had a crushed on her...

2008-09-11T16:51:00.001-07:00

Check out her website. Very interesting. She's 77 now.

Just the facts, maam. Just the facts!

2008-09-04T09:17:00.000-07:00

Although the speech last night showed her charming and at times humorous, the information was far from 100% accurate, especially when chiding the Democratic nominee (how she referred to Obama at every turn, never saying his name).

There was an interesting article found at Yahoo news today.

It shouldn't be an issue...or should it?

2008-09-02T07:46:00.000-07:00

Quite frankly, I'm not convinced that the unwed pregnancy of a politician's daughter need be an issue in this election. In the particular case of Sarah Palin, there are many other more pertinent factors that will cast doubt on her qualifications or abilities.

Signed...a registered Democrat.

I've never wanted to have sex with a vice presidential candidate...

2008-08-29T08:36:00.001-07:00

...until now.

Truth be known, I'm not going to vote for her...but she sure is a pretty politician.

I can't wait for the talk show monologues!

Note to my wife: It's called bloghumor.

News Flash! We're all Runnin' on Empty

2008-08-15T13:27:00.001-07:00

Good for you Jackson Browne...for suing the McCain camp for using your song in a campaign ad. My only question is, "What the hell was McCain thinking?". Which young, snot-nosed Harvard MBA grad on your campaign committee managed to sneak that one by? I am one of most a-political, a-moral SOB's around, and even I know that Jackson Browne has been a staunch supporter of the Democratic party for many years.

Runnin' On Empty, Browne's 1978 live LP and ode to playing in a rock band on the road, was and still is one of my favorites from that bygone era. I was spinning records at radio stations when it came out. Besides the title track, several other tunes made it to station play lists including The Road, You Love the Thunder, and Loadout/Stay. AOR (album oriented radio) stations played the entire song list. This LP was that good.

It is a tad ironic that the song, Runnin' On Empty, may have spawned new meaning thirty years later. And I'm not talking about the gas crisis! I'm talking about us...crotchety, curmudeonly, grumpy, tired, old baby boomers. We're running out of juice. And even the most upbeat, positive-thinking, another-day-in-paradise-near-60 type has to admit as he or she rolls out of bed every morning..."I'm fuckin' tired!"

So, if anyone should be allowed to adopt a new rock and roll anthem, it should be us. And the song should be Runnin' On Empty! By the way, I will be voting for Obama if that has any relevance here.

If you get a chance to listen to the entire album, this whole thing may make more sense, especially the track titled Loadout/Stay. And don't think it has anything to do with carpooling or drilling for new oil off the Santa Barbara coast.

"Oh won't you stay...just a little bit longer...?"

We may be tired, but we ain't goin' anywhere just yet!

One of the enigmas that is New Mexico

2008-08-15T08:05:00.000-07:00

The Monsoon Season...
Summer in the Southwest is also the Monsoon Season there. Something about a subtropical ridge from Mexico and a thermal low from Bangladesh causes this annual weather pattern normally associated with the tropics (during our winter months). The thunderstorms hang out during the early part of the day over the Sandia Mountains shadowing Albuquerque. Late in the afternoon and evening, the clouds turn dark, move over the city, and it rains like hell, sometimes for just a few minutes, sometimes the better part of an hour. Then, the next morning, one wakes up with a typical New Mexico summer sky: deep azure blue, with huge, billowing, white Simpsons clouds. Then the pattern begins all over again.
Just one of the many enigmas that is New Mexico. It is much more than the hot, arrid, desert southwest most people perceive.

A Life in the Day - "My boys aren't too sure about this yet!"

2008-08-11T10:06:00.000-07:00

I decided a few weeks ago to venture into the Land of Bicycling For Fitness and "Pleasure". I bought a used Italian road bike on eBay.

From my days as a teenager in the San Fernando Valley and that very first 10 speed I rode to school and destinations much farther...to this: A sleek, 80's vintage Bianchi 12 speed road bike built for the likes of professional Tour de France professionals under the age of 17...what was I thinking!

Lest not I judge my success in this foray based on the first 5 minutes of excruciating pain, the paranoia of falling down (apparently, one can indeed forget how to ride a bike), and deciding it was not a good idea to mount an ashtray and a beer can holder on the handlebars...I will do this or my name isn't Jack Diddley (and, as most of you know, it isn't). Not to mention the fact that I have already had bad dreams of getting crushed by an errant hay-hauling, Red Bull slurping semi driver.

Getting back to the excruciating pain, most of which located south of the border, I can't seem to recall as a boy that this was that much of issue. But today, this morning, my boys were crying out the moment I swung my leg over, scooted myself into motion, and settled onto the saddle. I must also tell you that it took three tries to actually swing my leg over in the first place. Geeze, I have trouble putting on my boxer shorts let along attempting a near high jump over this road bike frame. Loretta was standing nearby, providing the encouragement needed to complete the first step. Encouragement coming in form of, "Honey, be careful...you can do it...you can do it!" And as I wobbled off down the street a few feet, "How are your balls on that tiny seat?"

Like I said, unlike many past follies of mine, I will save judge ment until I've given it the full "college try". Unfortunately, the choice of words "college try" would not be very appropriate as I lost interest in attending college courses 10 minutes after enrolling.

My boys will just have to endure for the time being. I may have to install a full size motorcycle saddle, but I'm gonna do this!

Pass the ice pack, please.

A Life in the Day - Damn those bacon and eggs!

2008-08-10T08:40:00.000-07:00

With visions of all these things dancing in my head...thoughts of who-knows-what that just don't seem to go away...I will attempt to put a few words into this cyber self-therapy journal on a semi-regular basis. Now that I have that disclaimer, lie, and promise out of the way...

Bacon and eggs...genetic predispositions...impending grandparenthood...illusions of grandeur (past and present)...growing old(er)...busted careers...crazy schemes...olympic envy...self-loathing prophecies...debilitating insecurities...the man in the mirror...addictions (past and present)...thoughts on women...the bucket list...The Pollyana Syndrome...The Peter Pan Syndrome...The Peter Principle...Jobs I've Hated...Jobs I've Loved (not a short list, a non-existent one)...Vietnam...college (or lack thereof)...the traumatic amputation of my left index finger at age 4...that plane crash at age 7...best friends...sex (or lack thereof)...right brain, left brain, no brains?...the novel...the screenplay...did I mention bacon and eggs?

Are bacon and eggs one of the reasons I am sitting here with a 10 inch scar on my sternum? A souvenir surgically inflicted for the purpose of saving my life and caused by eating too much bacon and too many eggs? Bah...humbug! Would that trophy on my chest be there if I had subscribed to the Gorilla Diet as a teenager? Would those 12 stainless steel wires preventing my rib cage from bursting open and spilling out entrails and alien demons like Kane in the movie Alien be there if I had really enjoyed eating spinach, tofu, and seeds instead of french fries, chimichangas, and lard? Let's not forget smoking. What a disgusting habit that is!

But, you know what? There's not much I can do about those nasty habits now. Except, maybe stop doing them. And until I can get my flux capacitor up and running, I can't change much of what has already flowed under this tired bridge.

Change, you say? Sure, it is the one constant in our lives that still allows us some control.

Anyone got five ones for this five?

Can one get their kicks on Route 66?

2008-07-17T09:47:00.000-07:00

According to the song, one can indeed get their kicks on Route 66. I've never been quite sure exactly what those "kicks" are, but I'm bound and determined to find out...now that I live in Albuquerque, New Mexico!

The highway that runs from Los Angeles to Chicago hardly exists in its original path any longer. Most of the time it runs parallel to other so-called super-highways, just off the beat and path. Signs abound on Highway 40 through Arizona and New Mexico inviting travelers to exit and drive the original Route 66. On my way out here a few weeks ago, I opted not to do that...yet. I stayed on the 75 mph, four-lane divided thoroughfare that would get me to Albuquerque in the least amount of time. There will be plenty of time to savor (and photograph) the old road.

Route 66 still does run right through the middle of Albuquerque. Old and new structures alike sit side by side. Some of the old diners and motels still stand, some have become eerie, empty relics of a time gone by. Others have been converted to new diners, restaurants, shops, and tourists traps. Old Town Albuquerque is one of those tourist destinations that one must see when passing through the Southwest proper. There is an old church and convent, a grassy, tree-lined plaza with a gazebo bandstand, and many shops with a few steps selling T-shirts, dream catchers, dried up scorpions, rattle snake replicas, and turquoise and silver jewelry. All the usual New Mexico-ish stuff one would want to take home to South Dakota or Illinois.

The food here is typical "Southwestern"...but not what the Food Network has lead us to believe. Bobby Flay does not have a restaurant in Albuquerque. Traditional southwestern cuisine is much simpler than those trendy chefs in New York have concocted over the past few years. When you order something, anything...it's "Do you want red or green sauce?" And, usually, it has been made fresh and is nice and spicy! Tortillas are made fresh and taste better than any I've had in California.

And the weather? Well, just let me say this: It ain't what most folks have been lead to perceive. Most New Mexicans, born and raised or transplanted, are happy to let Westerners or Easterners continue to believe that this place is just another hot, dusty, desert town. Far from it. Albuquerque is higher than Denver (the Mile High City)! We're in the Monsoon Season here now.

As the Bobby Troup song goes:
If you ever plan to motor west
Travel my way, the highway that's the best.
Get your kicks on Route 66!

Like I said, there will be plenty of time to savor and photograph that old road. I live here now.

It really is much more than roadrunners and cottonwood trees!

Self-Depreciation 1 Cent Sale - All Tendencies Must Go!

2008-07-09T08:46:00.000-07:00

* Unrealistic Expectations

* Past Failures & Bad Choices (2-for-1)

* Peer Pressure

* Family Baggage

* Childhood Misfortunes

* Divorces

* Regrets

* Insecurities

* Wishful Thinking (Free Bonus with every purchase)

Many, many more tendencies available. If you don’t see it, ask your own therapist.

All sold “As Is” as they are vintage tendencies and are not guaranteed or warranted in any way.

All inventory will go in the dumpster if not sold by the end of the sale.

No shipping. Pick up only by assimilation.

Cash only. No financing available.

"I know...you just roll with the flow!"

2008-06-17T10:23:00.000-07:00

Neal Page's somewhat subdued reaction to a comment by Del Griffith in Planes, Trains, Automobiles ("I've never seen a man picked up by his testicles like that before!") bears closer examination in these troubles times. We, us, everyone are all being picked up by our testicles, ie, they've got us by the balls big time...male or female notwithstanding.

The price of gasoline alone is prime evidence of this perplexing, ubiquitous situation. The fuel-price-gouging screw job happens every summer, only this time it's quite a bit worse than last year...and the year before that, and the year before that, etc.

Conservatives want to open up drilling off the coast of California and build a shit pot of new nuclear (not nucular) power plants. Liberals? Well, they're not sure yet. They are sure they don't want to disturb the sea otters or run the risk of irradiating entire city populations when that China syndrome thing inevitably happens.

One thing is for sure. Earth dwellers will use up the available oil and gas resources in a relatively short amount of time. Not until that future is tapping us on the shoulder...check that, rapping us up the side of head, will we commit to doing something truly productive. Maybe the solution is in the politics of dealing with the world's oil reserve mongers (for lack of a better term). We use most of this stuff, can't we just tell them to piss off? We could, but that wouldn't make them go bankrupt or change their stingy demeanor. They are already set for life if they didn't pump another single gallon out of the sand. The oil-rich countries afar are well invested and immensely diversified. Their citizens will always enjoy $.45 a gallon Techron no matter what happens.

So, in the meantime, we as Americans just "roll with the flow". Still satisfied to be held by the gonads at the am/pm gas islands. But unlike Neal Page, whose excruciating testicular pain eventually subsided after a couple of Del Griffith's mini airline cocktails back at the motel... ours will not.

As the saying goes, one never forgets how to ride a bicycle. Unfortunately, not enough of us are willing to give it go.

Occam's Razor, Tim Russert, and that damn half full glass!

2008-06-13T17:42:00.000-07:00

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. KISS - keep it simple stupid. Why are you making this so complicated? It's obvious to the most casual observer. Occam's Razor.

Tim Russert. NBC's Meet the Press moderator died Friday, he was 58.

If you don't think that life is short, consider this. The old saying goes, "The glass is not half empty, the glass is half full". If you're over 50, "The glass is not half empty, it's three quarters empty, or one quarter full". And that one quarter is what we in this age group have left to work and live with.

I have never been a raving fan of Tim Russert, Meet the Press, or politics in general. But this guy was one of most straight-forward, get-to-the-point journalists of our generation. Professionally, he was living his dream reporting on the political arena, especially this campaign in particular. Russert may have been one of those rare individuals who was self-actualized...doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing at a certain point in time...and loving it. He was the same age as I am when he died today, 58. Maybe that is why his passing has affected me more than usual celebrity obituary. They say it was a heart attack.
As an television journalist with a degree in law, he was one of few in this profession who probably subscribed to the principles of Occam's Razor...paraphrased, "All things being equal, the simplest solution is the best". He ask politicians the most basic questions in every interview, and that usually made them squirm in their seats. Tim Russert managed to slice through the usual political rhetoric when moderating Meet the Press, helping us make some sense of the smoke and mirrors that politicians excel at throwing into journalistic exchanges. I thank him for that. A sad day in the world of television journalism. And a sad and early end to someone who was helping all of us understand the confusing politics of this presidential campaign.

If you are over 50, your glass is still at least one quarter full. That's at least three fingers of fine Tequila! Break out the salt, a fresh lime, and make the best of that while you still can. It can all end too damn fast! And, by the way, Keep It Simple Stupid. For that, we can thank that 14th century Franciscan friar named William...of Ockham.

Take the bus, and leaving the crazy-ass driving to us!

2008-06-10T07:30:00.000-07:00

I'm not a regular bus person. I don't use local "rapid" transit near my home, nor do I take longer bus trips to visit relatives in other parts of the state or the country. But circumstances demanded that I use an alternate form of transportation this past weekend. I needed to pick up a car recently purchased on eBay. This particular jaunt would terminate in my old stomping ground, so a visit with my mom and my son seemed like the right thing to do as well.

Overall, my bus ride from Modesto to Grover Beach was relatively uneventful. Not to say there weren't several interesting chapters and characters along the way. One can not spend over eleven hours on four separate buses and not experience something a bit out of kilter. By the way, the eleven hours were spent traveling about 250 miles! And that was on the itinerary by design.

First, there was the two hour delay in departing Modesto. Scheduled departure time: 4:55 am. Actual departure time: 6:40 am. My bus arrived at the stop nearly two hours late. And at that time of the morning, the station office is not open and no information was available as to the why's and the when's. Loretta and I simply sat in the dark in the parking lot and waited. I found out later from a passenger that the previous 650 mile leg of the trip (originating in Oregon) suffered through four driver changes, most of which drove too slowly! My planned two and half hour layover (and transfer) in Fresno was reduced to 25 minutes and I was back on schedule boarding bus #2.

A short 30 minutes later, I arrived at Goshen Junction, just off Highway 99. I waited 20 minutes for my next bus at the only stop in which I took any photos. Check out the these shots of the luxurious Goshen Junction Bus Depot and Senseless Casino.

There were no slot machines or crap tables. Just a lot of old crap, a Greyhound bus sign, a small office, disgusting restrooms, and some dirt. The casino had long-since closed. No snack bar, no waiting room, no drinking fountain, and (as you can see) very little shade. The graffiti on the ladies' room door reads, "Women...enter at your own risk!" How accommodating? I was smack dab in the middle of Central California, but it felt like I was stranded in a scene from The Grapes of Wrath. Shame on you Greyhound.

To be fair, the next two stops were at near new Amtrak stations in Hanford and San Luis Obispo. But that's Amtrak. And, the last two buses were Amtrak as well.

One of the highlights of my bus adventure was listening to conversations between passengers. Total strangers striking up short term, verbal relationships across the aisle. One exchange of note almost ended in a fist fight between an old man traveling to his niece's wedding and a 40-ish burned out hag who decided to demean the old guy for taking a stand on religion. Another passenger close by said, "Maybe we should change the topic of conversation. Let's talk about my divorce!" That comment was followed by a few muffled chuckles as she commenced to document in detail how her marriage of 25 years recently ended when her husband ran off with the cleaning lady. A younger woman across the aisle from her commiserated by saying her spouse took off last year with their babysitter. A young mother traveling with her 8 month old baby trumped them all by saying, "I just got out of Chowchilla women's prison where I had my baby. My husband killed a friend of ours and is doing a life sentence in San Quentin". It was then I decided NOT to chime in with my sad story, "Well, I sold my old Porsche on eBay this week...and the buyer flaked out on paying! Gotta relist it." My saga paled in comparison to the other stories I had been privileged to hear on this bus.

The conversations between those passengers waned as our bus headed into the hilly, construction-laden pass on Highway 41 toward Paso Robles. We all found ourselves on a new thrill ride called Mr. Toad's Wild Late Bus Ride to Hell.

Our octogenarian bus driver (yes, he was 85 if he was a day!) announced at the beginning of this leg that he was 30 minutes late and didn't know when we would get into San Luis Obispo (about 60 miles away). Picture a full-size Greyhound bus highballing it down an old, curvy two-lane highway at 70 miles an hour, tailgating and passing slower cars as it gained speed. At this point, all conversations ceased as every passenger grasped their armrests and hung on for dear life. Near the back of the bus, four elderly passengers joined hands, recited Hail Mary's, and gave each other communion of Cheese Nips and swigs from a bottle of Ripple in a paper bag. I opted not to join them. The bus driver's demeanor reminded me of that scene from Dr. Strangelove where Slim Pickens road the atomic bomb down to its target...yahoo-ing and waving his ten-gallon stetson over his head! We were careening down the hill at 75 miles an hour toward the Highway 46/41 junction where James Dean died back in the fifties. How appropriate I die in a bus crash here?

Well, I am not writing this blog from a hospital bed, or worse, from the grave. I made it to Grover Beach 10 minutes ahead of schedule! I got to spend a couple of days with my mom near Pismo Beach, visit with son Jimmy, and pick up the car I had purchased. The trip back to Modesto in the 1992 Subaru SVX went smoothly. The seller even filled the gas tank before I picked up the car.

I also had time to hang out for a while at one of my favorite Central Coast ocean spots and visit with my sister Kris and brother-in-law Mark. Not to mention the quality time spent with my mom and my son. It was a good trip after all. And, I will send Disney a letter suggesting a new thrill ride at their theme parks!

" I don't know. I'm making this up as I go!"

2008-06-04T05:33:00.000-07:00

To coin a line from the first Indiana Jones movie seems appropriate right now. Yes, we saw the new Indiana Jones the other day...but that's not what this is all about. By the way, the movie wasn't as bad as some people say! Not great...not bad.

I've always been not only a dreamer, but a planner. Where I seem to short is in being a finisher. Or at least I have been accused of that (by others and by yours truly) for a long time. The reasons make no matter at this point in my life. But, my point is: Life is like the outline of a movie script or a novel. The actual finished version is realized one day at a time. The penciled-out scheme only makes it to print as each thing happens...including the ending.

I know a lot of people who could be considered better finishers than I am. But when asked about dreams and plans, they have no answer. It's not a bad thing, simply living in the moment, it's just the way some folks are (and some folks aren't).

I recently had a conversation with someone very close in age to myself. A conversation about dreams, plans, and the so-called "bucket list" some of us have. You know, that list of things to do before you kick the bucket? He has none. He does have the plan to retire from his long-standing job as early as possible and draw retirement. "What do you wanna do then?", I asked him with envious curiosity. "I don't know", he replied shrugging his shoulders, "I don't care. As long as I don't have to work any more". Well, I suppose that is indeed a "plan".

Sometimes it seems my plans and dreams are more Walter Mitty-esque than what could be described as pragmatic or realistic. So be it. One must continue to write (in pencil) that outline for life. Filling in the blanks as they present themselves. For life in the future is most certainly a blank canvas. The only completed works of art are in the past. There is no finish line. The only limitation is time...and that runs out before you know it. Game over.

Pass the nuts, please!

An open letter (and song) for my kids...

2008-05-14T19:00:00.000-07:00

I don't get to see them very often, but they're in my heart every day...

Thanks to Neil Young for letting me borrow the words from his tune (I'm) Here For You.

When your summer days come tumbling down
And you find yourself alone
Then you can come back and be with me
Just close your eyes and I'll be there
Listen to the sound
Of this old heart beating for you
Yes I'd miss you
But I never want to hold you down
You might say I'm here for you

When the winter comes to your new home
And snowflakes are falling down
Then you can come back and be with me
Just close your eyes and I'll be there
Listen to the sound
Of this old heart beating for you
Yes I'd miss you
But I never want to hold you down
You might say I'm here for you

In the spring, protective arms surrounding you
In the fall, we let you go your way
Happiness I know will always find you
And when it does, I hope that it will stay

Yes I miss you
But I never want to hold you down
You might say I'm here for you
Yes I miss you
But I never want to hold you down
You might say I'm here for you
I'll always be here for you

Dad

Clark Griswold: Why aren't we flying? 'Cause getting there is half the fun!

2008-05-14T09:41:00.000-07:00

We're moving 1200 miles east very soon. Packing up, picking up, moving the entire lock, stock, and barrel(s) to the heart of the Southwest. Of course, when you lived in California for many years, moving east and south isn't really the southwest any longer, at least to us.

Initially, I will be heading southeast in a few short weeks, Loretta will stay here to wrap things up with the house. I will be starting a new career, both of us will be starting a new life in a new place. One of my duties going early includes securing a new place to live. More on this evolving story as it happens. I'll be staying with my best friend of over 40 years until the process is complete. He's single by the way and lives alone in a nice house on the outskirts of Albuquerque. I would never undertake such an intrusion of a friend's life if he was married and still had kids had home. We'll be "bachin" it for a few months. And I know he won't let me leave mys shoes or dirty clothes lying around!

Anyway...so, how the heck does one get to New Mexico from northern central California? Well, you fly, of course! Why not drive? Several reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I need to leave the "reliable" car here for Loretta. And certainly not the least of which is what it will cost me to drive versus flying. Try this: $240 for gas, $75 for a motel room, $50 for food totalling $365. Compared to $111 to fly.

Another reason not to drive...did you see Vacation? Clark Griswold and his family traveled a similar route on their way to Wally World. I wouldn't be driving a brand new Wagon Queen Family Truckster. I would be driving a 1986 Nissan 300ZX. And although it is in relatively good condition, a lot can go wrong in 1200 miles of desert driving!

After the Griswold's unfortunate accident at the end of the wrong road, his experience with the greasy garage mechanic/sheriff deputy makes me a little leery of taking this route and mode of transportation through remote areas of the southwestern United States.

Mechanic: Ain't never seen anyone so shit-all stupid as you driving off that road. You musta got manure for your brains.
Clark: Yeah, well, we're from out of town. How much do I owe you?
Mechanic 1: How much you got?
Clark: No, I'm asking how much the repairs are.
Mechanic 1: I'm asking how much you got!
Clark: You're out of your mind. Look, I don't have time to fool around so how much is it?
Mechanic 1: [waving a wrench] All of it, boy!
Clark: What does the sheriff think of your business practice?
[Mechanic 1 laughs and shows Clark his sheriff's badge]

'Nuff said?

Just for fun. More of those memorable quotes from Vacation.

"Mom!"

2008-05-11T08:53:00.000-07:00

This is a photo of MY Mom when she was a kid.

Get your own.

Happy Mother's Day, Betty.

O.K....I'll share her with you!

Bucket Seats Killed The Drive-In Theatre

2008-05-09T08:35:00.000-07:00

I believe it was the proliferation of the bucket seat in American automobiles that lead to the ultimate demise of the drive-in theatre. More on that theory later. And even though one would be hard pressed to find an operating drive-in near them, they are still around...but, sadly, not many.

Historically, the first drive-in theatre was built, and patented, in the early 1930's by Richard Hollingshead in New Jersey. His patent was eventually declared invalid by a Delaware district court in 1950...and drive-in theatres multiplied like bunnies.

My very first memory of going to the drive-in was somewhere in the late 1950's. My parents took me to the Van Nuys Drive-In to see War of the Worlds. I don't recall if that was the "feature presentation" or the second feature...no matter, it was my first. By the way, I can still remember to this day watching this flick from the back seat of an old Oldsmobile and hiding my eyes through most of the basement scene. There were always two movies, a cartoon or two before the start of the first movie, and previews at intermission. And, those wacky snack bar ads successfully designed to produce a salivation response for hot buttered popcorn, icy cold soft drinks, and other tasty treats. There was always a playground located near the snackbar or right below the screen where we could go and swing on a jungle jim or spin on one of those little merri-go-rounds until it was time for the movies to start.

Many a time our family would pile into the station wagon to go see movies like Creature From the Black Lagoon, Beach Blanket Bingo, or The Birds. We'd bring our shopping bag full of homemade popcorn (yes, a full shopping bag) since Dad refused to pay the exhorbitant price charged for America's favorite snack at a drive-in snack bar. We would, however, usually be allowed a trip to the concession stand at intermission for an ice cream bar or some other more perishable junk food item. Friday night trips to drive-in theatres as a child were nothing less than exciting and highly anticipatory. Great memories from a different time and space.

Going to the drive-in as a teenager with a driver's license was quite a different story of course! I finally understood why some of the cars windows were so fogged up you couldn't see the occupants inside. Yes, people went to the drive-in without any intention of watching the movies. And, the advent of bucket seats (and subsequent death of bench seats) would contribute significantly to the extinction of this iconic form of American entertainment...making out at the drive-in! This outlet for adolescent debauchery became nearly impossible, or at the very least extremely uncomfortable, with bucket seats. Forget the back seat as well as cars got smaller and smaller. Thank goodness for our 1960 Chevy Impala and 1962 Pontiac Bonneville. Those seats and roomy interior provided endless options. Enough of this already!

A local news story recently reported the closing of Sacramento's last drive-in theatre. And, Loretta and I visited (for the first and last time) a nearby double-screen drive-in swap-meet last weekend. They don't show movies there any longer, and the swap meet was nearly void of vendors or patrons. Walking around, up and down the sloped aisles where cars filled with families parked on Friday nights brought back these fond memories. The speaker stands had long since been removed. In-car sound being accessed through the car radio, quite a technological improvement over the tinny, metal speakers we'd hang on the window.

But, stereophonic sound and upgraded concession stand menus featuring sushi, goat cheese pizzas, and lattes wouldn't stave off the inevitable. The drive-in theatre's time has come and gone. Automobiles without bench seats may not be to blame, but it's a quaint, if not completely naive rationalization on my part for the death of the drive-in theatre. A more likely culprit would be the home video/home theatre explosion. In any case, another opportunity for parents and children to spend close knit time together has gone away.

By the way, that last photo is of the Galaxy Drive-In Theater in Ennis, Texas. Yes, there are a handful of operating drive-in theaters remaining in America. Many of them in the mid-west and quite a few located along Route 66.

Try this link if you're interested in seeing more of what used to be a favorite, and abundant, form of entertainment in a baby boomer's childhood.

Another Time, Another Place, Another Life

2008-05-07T08:55:00.000-07:00

I couldn't help myself. A huge wave of nostalgic waxing flowed over me as I began the overwhelming task of going through boxes and boxes of old stuff in our garage. I just had to drop this into a blog.

Yes, that is me (on the left) in an ad for my radio show in December of 1986. This morning news, music, "entertainment", comedy skits, and whatever else we could conjure up off the cuff program was one of the last ones in my illustrious career in radio. I did stay in that business for a few more years however in sales and commercial production. But the daily early morning grind ground to a halt shortly after that picture was taken. It didn't end for lack of an audience. It ended for lack of commercial revenue at the radio station. Live, small town morning radio shows were beginning to go the way of the Do-Do bird. Satellite programming had begun to wedge its way into the Central Coast market,ie, San Luis Obispo/Pismo Beach area of California.

Oh, I could have endured a few more years on the air...without a raise or even promise of more money. I could have stayed on and accepted longer work hours and more duties to justify my salary. I could have, but didn't. A couple of years later, I was "wooed" away from the glamour and fame of local radio and into the glamour and fame of restaurant management. The remainder of that hideous story (restaurant management) is now history as well.

I still long for the days of getting up at 4:00 am to do my morning radio show(s). I didn't relish hauling my lazy ass out of bed that early. But I did perk up once I got shaved, showered, and dressed, mustered some enthusiasm, and got quite a kick out of sitting down at the microphone before the sun came up and doing what I did. What I did was, and I use the word loosely, "entertain" folks on the radio. I played what was called Adult Contemporary music in those days, Easy Listening might be what it is referred to today. Although there was music, most of what I did was talk, take calls on the air, run trivia contests, interview people on the air live, do comedy skits as various characters such as Professor J. Michael Klembottom, Madame Julia, and Winston Mannington. The latter character's spouse being Phoebe Mannington (voiced my Glenda, my morning partner). It was a lot of fun while it lasted. But the times were changing. I guess I was as well.

The radio audience wanted "more music and less talk" now. And it was easier to sell commercials for a music format than for a talk format back then. It was and still is a game of ratings. It didn't matter that the higher rated stations audience were comprised of mostly teenagers (and still is today). Our very loyal, slightly more mature, more discerning, money-spending listeners couldn't keep me on the air any longer, despite a very flattering letter-writing campaign after we announced our impending departure.

I was no Howard Stern. That wasn't my style anyway. I was somewhat witty, but certainly not as crude or sensational or shocking. I did come across on the air as if I was actually enjoying what I was doing. And I was.

People ask me all the time, "Why don't you get back into radio. You were really good and you enjoyed what you were doing?" My answer: "It is rare to find a radio station owner who appreciates than genre any longer. And, heaven forbid...actually pay you for it!" And as a point of fact, too many of those little stations are owned by large radio groups. They own hundreds of stations now. And it's all about "numbers".

Perhaps with our upcoming relocation to another city in another state, I will explore the possibility of radio broadcasting again. Perhaps not. At the very least, my radio experience will always be there to fall back on. And you know what? It may indeed be time for that "fall back".

Bing bong! Five minutes past the big hour of five o'clock! Here's the new one from the Eagles!!!

The One Dollar Donut Economic Indicator

2008-05-03T08:23:00.000-07:00

Forget about the government's leading economic indicators or the news media's town criers who masquerade as experts in this field. Never mind the cost of gasoline as it passes the four dollar mark. If you want to know where the economy is going, check out your local donut emporium!

Yesterday morning, I sauntered in to our very local, very old, donut shop. Salida Donuts (not sure if that is actually its name, it doesn't matter) is a mere 100 feet or so from the Salida Post Office. Every couple of weeks, either Loretta or I rationalize that it is time again for a huge dose of starch, sugar, and fat in the form of a donut (or three) and we indulge. She always gets some sort of cream filled eclair thingy. I opt for several old-fashioned-buttermilk glazed or maple bars. Know this...I'm not talking about those anemic Krispy Kreme air-filled puff donuts. I'm talking about nice, big, gut bombs from your locally-owned-by-prideful-Asians donut shops. Good donuts!

In a brief exchange between myself and the friendly Filippina donut shop proprietor lady, I learned some disturbing, though not surprising, economic news. The cost of her basic, no-frills donut line will go from 65 cents to 75 cents very shortly. Late last year, it was 55 cents. Of course, the fancier ones will also undergo a similar price increase. She explained the cost of flour and other pastry accoutrement has gotten out of hand lately and she has no other choice but to pass this increase on to her customers. "No big deal", I consoled the donut lady as she continued to apologetically explain her business dilemma. "We'll still buy donuts...maybe not as often", I offered with a patented sympathetic smirk on my face. In a quaint broken English, her lamented response was, "Business much slower than last year this time!". I grabbed my little white bag of donuts off the counter, threw her a real smile, shrugged my shoulders, and excited the Salida donut shop with the little silver bell ringing out a subtle goodbye.

I can't help but think that our donuts will reach the one-dollar mark soon. One dollar for a frickin' glob of flour, sugar, and fat! If you don't believe that, keep in mind the cost of gasoline has risen much higher than 30% in a short amount of time. I realize the factors controlling the cost of a gallon of gas are much more volatile and politically oriented than the cost of donut flour, but not much more.

Whether we are in a recession or not, we are in for continued tough economic times ahead. Perhaps The One Dollar Donut will be a good thing for us Americans. After all, most of us are too fat anyway! We have a choice with donuts, eat less of them. Not so the case with utilities, milk, and bread. We need heat...and we gotta eat something!

By the way, did you notice the price of a half gallon of milk is almost three dollars now?

Am I a geezer...yet?

2008-04-25T09:06:00.000-07:00

First of all, what the hell is a geezer? According to various google searches, a geezer is an elderly, old fart, senior citizen, man or woman, who is usually eccentric and sometimes crotchety and most always grumpy. Please note photos of what could be considered geezers.

Of course, Gabby Hayes, erstwhile sidekick of Roy Rogers, was probably one of the most recognizable geezers in the cinema. And, Neil Young, dubbed a guru of what could be referred to as geezer rock, one of most iconic pop geezers of late.

The question remains...have I reached geezerdom? Have I crossed that line from simple middled-aged, grumpy, sometimes depressed, frustrated artist, baby-boomer guy to simply being a crotchety, old geezer? Close friends and my spouse are not allowed to answer that question or comment at this point please!

I believe that true geezerdom is more a state of mind than a point in time predicated by days on a calendar. In my opinion, here are some characteristics of the geezers I have had the displeasure of running into in my life:
1. Over 39 years old.
2. Man or woman.
3. Poor hygiene, ie, you can smell his or her stale, musky body odor from 6 feet away, often masked with cheap aftershave, deodorant, or cologne. This odoriferous aura has moderately lasting residual effects, especially in grocery store or K-Mart aisles. You may not even see the offender, but he or she has been there recently.
4. Poor public social skills, ie, quite often a close-talker who oft times takes out a crusty, stained handkerchief and blows his or her nose with a reckless, gurgling abandon while continuing to speak to you. Then, neglects to properly clean off his or her facial region after the blow session, leaving behind one or more small to medium sized goobers stuck to the stubble in the upper lip region (again, man or woman).
5. Public flatulence, both audible and S.B.D.
6. A slow, shuffling gait and stooping posture.
7. Crusty or sometimes white material accumulated at the corners of the mouth.
8. A "get-out-of-my-way" attitude toward others in a public place.
9. Has several, long, thick, errant hairs growing out of nose and ear areas.
10. Writes in a blog about geezers before looking in the mirror.

There are a couple of those characteristics I don't have!

Idol time on my hands 2/Burning Down the House

2008-04-23T09:42:00.000-07:00

I don't usually do this, but here goes...last night's AI performances and HK heats up!

Jason Castro - Yes, a train wreck performance. Borrow a set of heuvos and sing something with, well...balls!

Syesha Mercado - Great show tune effort.

David Archuleta - The judges were kind, but...again, can you conjure up some testosterone from somewhere?

David Cook - Respectable job considering this should be the first and last time he attempts to sing a show tune.

Carly Smithson - A smoking' version of JC Superstar. And, she is finally wearing decent outfits!

Brooke White - Brooke...poor lovely, sweet, appealing, sexy, moderately talented Brooke...ya' had a whole week to learn the words!

My prediction for tonight's results show: Jason Castro...or Brooke White. Please vote off Castro. I'd give Brooke another chance (or 12).

From the bowels of Hell's Kitchen, they could barely manage a fast food menu for kids. The producers pick mostly losers for the dramatic effect. The one clown couldn't even cook chicken wings all the way through. And when someone like Ben shines a bit, Gordon is quick to slap him (or anyone else) back down to the ground. Yet, we still watch with great anticipation. At least they finally got rid of Craig. What a wuss! Is that how you spell wuss? Not important. To the chick who burned her hand (possibly not nearly as bad as it looked): McDonalds and BK is always hiring. Just stay away from the french fry station!

Idol time on my hands

2008-04-22T10:17:00.000-07:00

I find it interesting, if not disturbing, that I look forward to Tuesday night television. I look forward to Tuesday night television almost as much as I look forward to Wednesday night television.

Used to be that Lost was on Wednesday nights....wasn't it? I've completely lost my interest in that disjointed, confusing, and contrived fantasy/sci-fi/mystery/survivor soap opera filmed a few hundred yards from Oahu tourist resorts. So now, Wednesdays (and Tuesdays) I'm planted in front of the plasma device tuned to Fox. Yes, I have become a reluctant (and embarrassing to admit) fair-weather fan of American Idol.

I think the affection (or should I say infection) for and/or caused by A.I. began last season with that whole Sanjiyah (sp?) thing. My wife Loretta and I just couldn't turn away from watching the weekly train wreck over and over again. We could not wait to see what silly hair style he sported while singing inane, whimpy versions of pop hits. At least he was finally voted off near the end, and at least Jordin Sparks finished on top. Whew! What a relief!

This season, albeit quite dissimilar in talent from last season, is no less perplexing to watch. This season's Sanjiyah is that David Castro guy. There's no way he will win, but why is he still there when the Australian guy got the boot already? They finally axed Kristy Lee Cook last week. She's not a bad singer, she's just not a great singer. How about the whiney, hobbit-like little kid with the decent voice (David Archeleta)? Looks like he's on the verge of crying all the time. Good voice? Yes. Dynamic performer? No way.

I must admit that I have a slight crush on Brooke White. Her Faith Hill resemblance could be the blame for that. Not a great singer though, and, she comes off a bit snotty at times during the critique period.

Anyway, I'm not going to run down the entire list of A.I. survivors to this point. And my point is that David Cook is the obvious front-runner and will probably win (if he doesn't have a cardiac event before the show ends).

The bigger point to make is my morbid interest in watching American Idol at all! As I said, it is quite disturbing. I should be watching any number of thriller/slasher/mystery flicks continually replaying on cable. Or trimming my toenails. Or surfing eBay. Or jogging. But, I defer the use of the wide screen and surround sound to my wife's obsession with A.I. I must also admit that I go on line at the start of Wednesday's results show and find out who gets booted. Of course, I never tell Loretta...I value my marriage more than that. I just can't stand surprises! Yet, that is where I will be tonight (Tuesday) and tomorrow night (Wednesday). Watching the less-than-stellar performances of star-wannabes. Then listening to painfully repetitous critiques from (Yo...dog...check it out! A little pitchy at times....) Randy, (I...I...I...just know you're gonna be a star) Paula, and (Brooke, it was kind of like a hamburger with no meat) Simon (cue the boos).

Maybe the saddest statement of all is that I am not alone. Each week, I discover more and more people, my age and younger, watch this show. And that doesn't include the closet American Idol fans. Of which, I am sure there are millions! Maybe billions. Perhaps the first couple of seasons are now reaching distant galaxies and is being watched by aliens.

Don't even get me started on Ryan Seacrest. What a talent-less robot? But, he's laughing all the way to bank. And I'm writing a blog on an old iBook, selling shit on eBay, and thinking about trimming my toenails now so I won't miss American Idol tonight.

Wait a minute! American Psycho is on at the same time. Now what do I do?

Music is (almost) my life

2008-04-20T07:53:00.000-07:00

Somewhere near the Canoga Theatre, on Sherman Way in downtown Canoga Park, there was a music studio. I think it was in the late 1950's, maybe I was eight or nine years old at the time. My parents would drop me off in the afternoon after school a couple of days a week, and I would lug a heavy, cumbersome suitcase up a steep set of stairs to the second floor where the studio was located. It was there where I took accordion lessons.

I don't remember the teacher's name. I'll call him Mr. Lentl (for lack of anything else that comes to mind). But he was an old guy who I recall reminded me of Adolph Menjou in Pollyana. A grumpy, sometimes inpatient fellow who taught me a lot about playing the accordion and music.

I think it was somewhere around five years of accordion lessons. During that time, I played at several park/bandstand community concerts (on stage with my music school accordion students), a couple of grade school events, and, naturally, many impromptu at-home "go get your accordion and play something for your aunts and uncles", performances. The latter of which began enthusiastically enough (see photo, that's my grandma Hansen drinking a glass of Pabst Blue Ribbon, plugging her ear and wondering when this will all end), then digressed into a embarrassing whine-fest by me to let me go out and play with my friends.

Funny, in a scene from one of my favorite movies, Fargo, the son is shown sitting in his room with an accordion on his bed and a poster of some Bavarian accordion master plastered on the back of his bedroom door! Apparently most males of Scandinavian decent are subjected to taking accordion lessons early in life. I call it the "Lawrence Welk/Myron Floren Syndrome". Geeze, no wonder I hate polka music to this day!

Anyway, much to the dismay of my Danish mother and grandmother, my feigned interest in playing the accordion wained as I entered pre-teen years and picked up a guitar for the first time. The rest is history, since I still play guitar to this day. Check that...try to play the guitar. Evidently, one must practice on a regular basis to become proficient in anything, something I don't do enough of...practice, that is.

Oh yeah, I also dabbled in playing the drums in my teens and was even a drummer in a small, short-lived rock band whilst in the Navy at Moffett Field and in Hawaii. We actually did respectable versions of Cinnamon Girl (Neil Young), Hey Joe (Hendrix), and a selection of other rock and roll gems from the 60's and early 70's. My band buddies and I spent most of our practice time arguing about which song to play, how to play them properly, and how each of us sucked at our particular role in the band! Our front man and lead guitar player, Greg, was very good...the rest of us did, indeed, suck. Greg left the band first due to all the bickering. It was all over five minutes after that!

Today, I am an average-skilled rhythm guitar player, ie, wannabe lead guitar player whose idols include Santana, Eric Clapton, Daryl Stermer (Phil Collins guitarist), and Russ Freeman (Rippingtons). Oh...I am, however, a wicked air-guitarist. At least I got that goin' for me!

oxymorons

2008-04-09T09:09:00.000-07:00

"A capfull of oxymoron in a bucket of water, and you're ready to clean anything!"

Actually, oxy from the Greek for sharp...moron from the Greek for dull. The word oxymoron is itself an oxymoron. Similar to a contradiction in terms.

Such as: Jumbo Shrimp, Military Intelligence, Silent Scream, Living Dead, Same Difference, Peace Force, Working Vacation, Microsoft Works. Or a few of my favorites: A Good Job, A Caring Boss, Bad Luck, Honest Politics, Tax Break, Legal Loophole, Customer Service Ethics.

One cannot delve into the word oxymoron without uncovering so many references to cynicism, sarcasm, nihilism, paradox, juxtaposition, or rhetoric (just to name a few). I just described myself in terms!

Oxymorons, like rationalizations...you can't live a day without them.

DILLIGAF !

2008-04-03T16:19:00.000-07:00

Pronounced dilly-gaf, the first time I heard that term, or should I say acronym, was in 1969. I was in Navy Electronics "A" school in Millington, Tennessee (just outside Memphis) learning how to be an Aviation Electronics Technician. Actually, I didn't really hear the word. Point of fact is that it was written on the blackboard my first day of class. DILLIGAF in big, six inch high chalk letters.

A tall, lanky, greasy-haired Navy 2nd class Petty Officer named Pritchard strolled in. Dressed in the obligatory blue bellbottom work pants and denim shirt starched to squeaky stiffness, he picked up a wooden pointer from the chalk rail and slapped it against the chalkboard near that word.

"Dilly-gaf!", he blurted out toward our class of twenty five or so fresh faced young men eager to learn the ways of the United States Navy, "Any one of you swingin' dicks care to tell me what dilly-gaf means?"

There passed what seemed like a full minute of silence, no one volunteered to answer the question since no one knew what this silly word meant.

"Well, since none of you dumbasses seems to know", Pritchard barked back at us, "I guess I need to tell ya'!" He pointed an oversized thumb over his boney shoulder and said, "Dilly-gaf means Do I Look Like I Give A Fuck?" A few half-hearted chuckles emanated from the class.

I just thought to myself, "Nice. I gotta remember that one".

2nd Class Petty Officer Pritchard continued by saying, "And that is how I run this class. I could give a flying fuck if you pass or don't pass. If you don't pass, you'll be shipped out to the fleet and be scrubbing destroyer hulls in New Jersey next week! Got it?"

It wasn't something I thought about for many years until I found a metal pin for my Harley jacket at a Harley function. Evidently, DILLIGAF blended nicely into that lifestyle as well as the armed forces. Funny how some things never change.

There was another instructor who wrote FUBAR on his classroom blackboard. Another poetic relic from a time long gone.

Turn right or left, but only turn three times...

2008-04-02T09:37:00.000-07:00

The inherent problem with making right angle turns in life is a mathematical one.

In school, grade school and high school, I was told that I was gifted child, especially in science and math. Gifted being the always-a-bridesmaid-never-a-bride intellectual consolation prize to being deemed genius. "Missed it by that much!" Almost Mensa material...a bright child with a lot of potential...teacher’s pet...musically inclined...and very creative. That was in grade school. High school was an entirely different story. Damn puberty!

Back to my loosely related comparison of life to the theorems of Pythagoras. If one makes four right angle turns, one will return to a point of origin. If ones makes enough right angle turns, one will find oneself going in circles...check that, squares that brings one back to where one started. By the way, no credit to Pythagoras for this one...it’s my idea!

With this in mind. It would seem judicious for me to make a sharp left angle turn this time, sted the usual right angle turn. Then, keeping in mind that enough left angle turns will also bring me back to a point of origin...I mustn’t make any more than three turns, left or right, to point me in a different direction. This direction may only be assumed to be the right direction, ie, correct direction at this point in time.

Furthermore, perhaps only one singular right or left angle turn may indeed be the key to a proper change in my direction (my life).

I am truly not a person who dotes on Pre-Socratic philosophy or any other ancient writings from people who lived in a time before indoor plumbing or iPods were invented. However, Pythagoras is widely accepted as the”father of numbers” and the philosophy that everything is related to mathematics and that numbers are the ultimate reality.

I believe my own personal number in life is “3”. It also happens to be a prime number. I may have already made the first two right (or left) angle turns and this last change in direction was indeed the third. I just may be headed in the right direction right now! As long as I don’t make another (fourth) turn. Then, you know where that will take me.

Math. At least I got that goin’ for me!

The 1st of April

2008-04-01T14:44:00.000-07:00

April Fools’ Day. According to Wikipedia, ‘the day is marked by the commission of hoaxes and other practical jokes of varying sophistication on friends, enemies and neighbors, or sending them on fools’ errands, the aim of which is to embarrass the gullible’. Seems more like April Cruel Day when you think about it. Anyone who participates in “celebrating” this date is the biggest fool of them all. And, most likely, celebrates in this fashion 365 days of the year anyway. I have never really been a practical joker...though I have been the gullible recipient of such behavior on many occasions. The key word here is gullible. My gullibility has not only affected my personal life, but a good deal of my professional life as well. In this context, I’m juxtapositioning gullible and naively trustworthy...to a fault.

April 1st is also the day I began writing again, at least in this here blog. It was one week ago today that my life reluctantly took another right angle turn toward who knows where. The sordid details forthcoming.

From the start of this web-log, I’ve tried to avoid making it a simple journal of my day-to-day life. Friends have told me this type of narcissistic prattle is not interesting to read by anyone but close acquaintances and relatives hoping to stay “in touch”. I somewhat disagree with that observation. If these ramblings and musings constitute a journal or a diary, so be it. It’s all I have to go by, at least with non-fiction. My fictionesque works in progress certainly contain many elements of real life as well...my real life. Of course, my so-called life is heavily laced with daydreams and fantasies, some of which closely relate to reality, some not so closely.

For instance, many years ago, when I was a teenager, I imagined what it would be like to be married, live in a nice house, have children, and work at a job and profession I enjoyed. All of which would bring me great satisfaction and peace of mind. I dreamed about it, I wished for it...and it happened. Then, it went away. The satisfaction and peace of mind disappeared. The memories, both good and bad, remain. My children being the most important relic from that period in my life...a good thing.

Later on, I imagined what it would be like to be married to a caring, loving lady, live in a nice house, and work at a job and profession I enjoyed. All of which would bring me great satisfaction and peace of mind. I dreamed about it, I wished for it...and it happened. Now, it’s going away. The satisfaction and peace of mind have disappeared. The memories, both good and bad remain. My caring, loving lady being the most important relic from that period in my life...a good thing.

April Fools’ Day? Sometimes it feels as if my whole life has been one big April Fools’ Day, with a constant mix of Deja Vu thrown in for good measure.

Evidently, I still have quite a long distance to go before it is over. There are many other roads and choices ahead. I can only I hope I make the right choices. Perhaps I need to make my choices, then do the opposite. Perhaps.

One thing I have learned over the years is that there are two kinds of fools and two kinds of assholes in this world. One kind knows what he (or she) is...the other hasn’t a clue. And, yes...they come in both genders!