My Glasses

Say something about my glasses.  I dare you.  Once, when I was 7, I broke an aluminum baseball bat over another kid's cast (yes, he already had a broken arm) because he called me "four eyes".  He had it coming.  Go ahead; make fun of someone because of a weakness, you can't help it.  It's innate.

Later, in second grade, my moniker reared its head again, this time with much different results.  I cried.  Standing in line for the school bell; I couldn't help it.  I couldn't help that I had stripes taped to the middle of my lenses to keep my eyes from pointing inward.  I'd worn glasses for longer than I could remember (since I was two) and now I couldn't hold it in any longer.

I tried to explain.  "I'm farsighted"  I said.  "Oh, so you can't see far away?" someone twitted.  "No (you dumb-ass), I can't see close-up," I replied, now getting emotional.  "Then why do you need glasses?" the grilling continued. Now completely balling and wanting desperately to end this discussion, "because I have a lazy eye."  (It turns out that I have a condition called Amblyopia, which I found out quite by chance sometime last week;  but you wouldn't care.  You can't see past my glasses.) Continuing to try to explain this to other 7-year-olds was proving fruitless.  Catching wind of the unraveling situation now developing at the back of Room 106, Mrs Hobson finally stepped in; I was a snotty, blubbering mess, but I had stemmed the bleeding for now.

Fifth grade was really the last time I ever heard about it.  Maybe everyone had gotten used to it.  Maybe everyone had outgrown it.  Maybe it was the fact that I punched a kid's face in on the school bus for telling me my eyes were all messed up.  "Now your face is all messed up", and nobody said shit after that.  No one could; I got contacts in seventh grade.

It turns out that contacts were not a good fit for someone with my hygienic habits.  I never took care of them.  I slept in them.  Contacts are terrible.  They suffocate your eyes.  The blood vessels in your eyes grow and expand while attempting to get more oxygen.  They grow across your pupil and blur your vision.  I didn't need them.  My self confidence had grown and I realized that glass could be cool.  Elvis Costello was cool.

I got some big, thick black framed glasses, just like Elvis wears.  Just like the BCGs that marines wear; and I rocked 'em.  They became my trademark. They became part of me and I was only reminded of the pain they had once caused me during drunken collegiate wrestling matches fueled by testosterone and alcohol.  Slapped from my face, they'd skid across the floor, and for a brief moment, time moved in slow motion.  My weakness was exposed.  My glasses, skirting a midst stomping feet and falling bodies, had to be saved.  I needed them.  I had become inextricably linked to something that, for so long, had caused me so much pain.  Now I wouldn't live without them.

Couldn't live without them (though they effectively do nothing to correct my Amblyopia; I rarely use my left eye at all--to it's detriment).  They have become a staple of my face.  I like my glasses and I think I'm going to keep them.

Frog Poaching

There's a parable out there that goes something like this:  If you put a frog in a pot of boiling water, it will jump out.  However, a frog in a pot that is gradually heated will be peacefully unaware of its surroundings and will be cooked alive.  This metaphor often finds use in describing a reaction to change.  Abrupt changes are met with an immediate response, while gradual changes, playing on our innate ability to forget and acclimatize, often go unnoticed.  Not being one to accept things at face value, I decided to put this to the test; not metaphorically, but literally.

My local pet store was more than willing to oblige; PetSmart was running a special on Northern Leopard frogs at $14.99, buy one get one free!  Perfect. Two frogs in the bag and I was on my way, but not before the clerk tried to sell me on a small terrarium for my two little buddies.  She seemed overly concerned that these two find a good home.  Not wanting to blow my cover, I reassured her that I had just the place for them.

I rushed home with Hippity and Hop, as I had named them, riding shotgun.  As I drove, I began to formulate the method for my experiment.  I would begin by testing the second part of the anecdote; Hippity was going in first.  He was quite at home in four inches of room temperature water and a pasta-pot, but homeboy knew something was up as soon as I cranked on the burner.  The gig was up and Hippity was having none of this.  No longer sitting on the bottom, he swam around the pot faster and faster as the temperature rose until finally climbing up the side and leaping out.  That wasn't supposed to happen!?  Like any good experimenter and wanting to ensure that this was no fluke, I repeated the test, this time with Hop.  No difference (though Hop proved to be a trooper--that little bugger lasted way longer than I thought he would before bailing)!

Hop had the extreme misfortune of being first up in the boiling pot part of the experiment.  I set the burner on high and got a solid rolling boil going.  After I was sure that the water was heated uniformly, it was time for Hop to perform his best Greg Louganis impersonation.  Plop--in he went!  I stood back, half expecting a scalding frog to come jumping back at me.  Not so much.  Hop gave a few kicks but the temperature proved too much for him.  He nearly instantly went stiff as the life fizzled from him.  By the time I got him off of the burner and out of the water, he was all puffed up like an amphibian pierogi or something.  Weird!

Even weirder was the outcome; the results of my experiment were completely contrary to that of the parable. Who knew?  So, the next time that jerk in your office uses this stupid analogy, you can tell him how I dispelled that myth.  As for Hippity, I opted to return him to the store.  What was I going to do with a frog anyway?  They give me the creeps.  Someone else can get some enjoyment out of a slightly used $7.50 Northern Leopard frog.

Mind Blow

How about a not so little thought experiment?  One that will leave you not only questioning your being, but the existence of everything that there ever was.

Take the smallest things in the known universe; the molecules, atoms, protons, quarks, bosons, muons, and those that are still not known. Now grow them into peptides, proteins, RNA, and DNA capable of replicating themselves in cells which divide and multiply to form life-forms of all kinds, some with seemingly infinite complexity.  This is you (though you probably don't think of yourself this way).  You (we) are nothing but an assemblage of chemicals that have gained consciousness of themselves and their surroundings; having gained consciousness, we are able to think, ration, and reason.  Formed from the Universe's common elements, we have come to dominate the tiny dust spec that we inhabit.  Because of our self-consciousness and our pretend dominance of Earth, we deem ourselves kings of our dominion.  The one and only intelligent being.  Masters of the Universe. Humble yourself.  Look skyward.

Those dots you see are other stars.  Starting to feel small?  If you live in the right area, you may see what appears to be a strip of clouds.  That is an arm of the ten billion year old Milky Way, our Galaxy, and there are many like it in our Universe.  It is even suggested that there are many universes!  Fifteen billion years ago events, as we know them, were set into motion that lead to life as we know it.  Though it likely exists, the laws of physics may prevent us from ever knowing if life exists elsewhere (it likely does--although it may not be as we know it).

Why did it happen?  Where did the original matter for the Universe come from?  What was going on before that?  When does it end?  Where does it end?  What about the other universes?  Can we find another suitable place to continue our menial and ultimately doomed existence?

It has taken us about five billion years to get here, and if our species lasts that long, we will have about five billion more to figure it out.  It will take our descendants 30,000 years to travel to what is thought to be the next nearest habitable corner of the Universe.  The odds that we would come to exist were staggering, but the odds of something like us not existing somewhere else are even more staggering, but can we make it there?
Suddenly our understanding and mastery of our surroundings seems horribly lacking.  Pathetic.

Ohio: A picture montage

Fate

I killed a black snake today; I know, terrible isn't it?  I like snakes, but this one happened to be six feet long and was meandering slowly along my winding route home.  As a general rule, I do not swerve to miss animals and don't get in my way when I'm driving home from work. I'm pretty sure that I got it with both tires, though I don't think it died quickly.

As I drove away, I could see it writhing in pain in my rear view mirror. Flopping and twitching on the hot tarmac, this snake was destined to suffer a fate of: slowing being cooked on the South Carolinian asphalt, being eaten by buzzards, possums, or wild boars, or getting the mercy-kill from another passerby.  I contemplated turning around and doing the latter myself, but that would've delayed me from getting away from work as quickly as possible.  So as I raced for home, my contemplation soon shifted to that snake's fate.  That snake was snuffed out early.

While I don't think wild animals' life expectancy is anything like that of domestic animals, I doubt that Mr. Black Snake awoke on this morning thinking "today is a good day to die."  In fact, I'm sure it was quite the opposite.  One wrong move and nature's course of history was changed forever, but are we that different from the snake?  Sure, we're our own sort of wild-domesticated animal; engrained with preserving ourselves, but no longer hell-bent on survival.  We're all going to die sometime and hopefully we can make our peace beforehand, but what if we happen to be as unlucky as the black snake?

I first became aware of my fate at a young age.  I pulled the string on my sister's explanation of the dinosaurs' extinction and the ball quickly unraveled.  I wasn't going to be six years old forever and, as it turns out, I wasn't even going to be around forever.  I've recently become more conscious of my own mortality and, quite frankly, it sucks.  I'm never going to get to do all of the things that I want to do.  At some point, my being will abandon those that I love and leave them with only memories. 

Live life to its fullest, leave nothing to chance, and have no regrets.

The Run Hug

Anyone with kids knows the Run Hug. It goes like this: walk in the door, heads turn, followed by a pause and a moment of recognition, then a mad-dash ensues to see who can be the first to wrap their arms around your neck and wring out the love. Prepare for it and you'll likely squat down, recieve it with open arms, and be bowled over by it. Let it catch you off guard, and you'll likely be taken out at the knees, climbed like a tree, and then bowled over. Either way, it is the singular act the can wash away an entire bad day of work, road rage filled commute, or just about anything else.

My dog even had her own form of the run hug.  When I'd get home from the night shift and enter into a pitch black house, I'd hear the thump of Sam jumping off of our bed.  This was followed by a sprint down the steps, a slip-sliding scurry across the kitchen floor, and a lunge for my necktie.  Panting frantically and firmly latched on, she would wag and look at you with her sleepy eyes until satiated, and even then, had to be pried off.

A Pavlovian reflex of pure love.  It has been two weeks since I've seen my family.  I'm waiting for my run hug.

Norf@*k

Long after the dust settles and intelligent life re-evolves on post-apocalyptic Earth, the future archaeologists will uncover a lost city of concrete and metal; a vast industrial wasteland.  Among their finds will be empty Mickey's Cream Ale bigmouth "hand-grenades", fast food wrappers, those plastic Black and Mild cigar tips, and signs reading Norfolk, Virginia; my destination of the month.

Yes, Norfolk is a city long founded on the singular purpose of shipbuilding. Steel beaches surround as do the smells of diesel fuel, cigarette smoke, and dead fish.  The city's limited green space abruptly and inevitably end in unkempt parking lots and its historic districts quickly transition into shanty towns.  In my eyes, it seems as though the city's saving grace, its silver lining, is the food.  Being a foodie, I can appreciate good eats, not pub slop, but really good food.  Here's a sampling:

The Coffee Shop (High Street, Portsmouth, VA)
A simple name, a simple place, and quite possibly my favorite new breakfast sandwich.  Raw peanut butter, granola, sliced apples, and organic honey on thick slices of whole grain bread; as simple and good as the shop itself (and their coffee is not bad either).

The Bier Garden (High Street, Portsmouth VA)
Okay, so by now you have figured out that High Street and surrounding areas are about all Portsmouth has to offer.  Street names like High, Washington, and Court quickly and nostalgically bring me back to a special place, but let your mind and feet wander and you'll soon find yourself in a not so special place known as "The Parking District"--apparently a neighborhood (emphasis on hood) set aside for parking your car; hopefully it'll still be there when you return.  Back to The Bier Garden.  This Bavarian gem offers authentic and homemade German dishes like Spatzle, goulash, and bratwurst, not to mention a beer list of over 350 (predominantly German and Belgian) beers. This makes choosing just a few difficult, but certainly guarantees a return visit to try more.  I will be back.

Empire Little Bar Bistro (Granby Street, Norfolk)
A buck-fiddy gets you a water taxi across the Elizabeth River from Portsmouth to Norfolk and to the end of Granby Street.  Granby will lead you to the artsy college town of Ghent and en route, you will find Empire; a tapas restaurant and yet another locale befitting of its name.  I pass on the bistro's eight tables and opt for a seat at the bar.  While enjoying the setting and my pint of BBC Bourbon Barrel Stout, I am ill prepared for the meal that awaits:  quite possibly the best I have ever eaten.  For starters a cool and refreshing jicama and cucumber salad, follow that with Fillet atop a seared lemon and goat cheese risotto cake, then cap it with lamb wantons and a blueberry-jalapeño dipping sauce and you have a smile in every bite--which is exactly what I was doing.

Good food aside, Norfolk still rates as a dead end in my book--sorry Norfolkers (pronounced Norf...well, you know how it's pronounced).

Fruit Suit Armor

Something occurred to me as I peeled my morning grapefruit.  Grapefruit and some varieties of oranges have a thick hides.  Clearly nature had given these fruits adequate protection, but has man ever taken advantage of this?  I bet not.

It's too bad really, as I bet grapefruit rinds would make good Fruit Suit Armor.  What am I talking about?  As paleolithic man was busy hunting and gathering, always worrying about threats from animals or other nomads, he was also squandering great opportunities to protect himself.  All those fruit rinds he cast aside as waste could've been put to some good use.

No one was out smelting new metals.  This was before the iron age or the bronze age, and while animal skins did offer early man some form of protection, there was risk.  They had to hunt and kill the animal to get it's skins.  Not fruit.  Just pluck some from the tree, eat the insides, stitch 'em together with some fish-bone needles and vines and viola, you've got a protective suit made from fruit!

Worn like kneepads, grapefruit rinds could easily prevent skinned knees. Plus, when some prehistoric Pterodactyl tried to eat him, Paleolithic man would taste all funny and bitter.  Monarch butterflies employ this same strategy (not the fruit, but the funny taste).  Oh what the mind is capable of when allowed to wander.

Goodbye Friend

I finally sold the old the house a few weeks ago and I never want to do that again.  Between the showings, paperwork, and hassles, I was beginning to feel as though it wasn't worth it.  The new house has erased all of those doubts, and while there are a few things that I won't miss, I am going to miss some of those intangible memories from the old place.

I won't miss the drafty downstairs in the winter, the constantly running air conditioner in the summer, nor the randomly beeping microwave or hints of shoddy construction that are prevalent in South Carolina.  While there is no love lost there, I did find myself getting somewhat sentimental as I cleaned the place up; trying to make it tidy for it's new owners.  I could see myself in the young couple that was about to move in; DINKs (double-income, no kids) with a dog, full of promise.  We officially started our family there and the house had treated us well.  Despite the abuse we doled out on it, I feel like we left it in better condition than we found it (not that it was bad to begin with).  We made some home improvements and upgrades and family upgrades too, which proved to be the end for that little house.  We simply outgrew it.

It took the movers all of four and a half hours to move our possessions a mere four and a half miles and now I look forward to making our new home the best for us.  We have already done plenty, but there is always more. There will always be more.

Relegated

What's the frequency Geoffeth?  After spending the better of the last two months off of my bike, I am back.  My knee is about sixty percent at best, but thanks to my physical therapy and some new pedals, I am able to ride.  For now that will have to be good enough because, for awhile, I wasn't sure it was going to get better.

I had an idea of what not riding would mean for this year.  At first I was resigned to deal with it and overcome, but the longer I went, the worse I felt about it.  I could barely make it up a flight of stairs without huffing and puffing and my leg hurting like hell; how was I going to race my bike and not totally embarrass myself? Until now, I have had plenty of things to occupy my mind and my time, but now I just stress.  What am I stressing about?  I'm a CAT 4 for chrissake and a professional one at that. My career cycling aspirations involve maybe making it to be a CAT 3.  Why am I letting my outlet become my biggest stress?

I worry.  That is what I do.  I felt so good about my riding last year and was so focussed on being better this year, that I let it dominate my thoughts.  No more.  I'm just going to ride and see what happens.  If that is defeatist, then so be it, at least I will be on my bike.  This year I am riding for fun.

Regression

I've found myself getting pretty fired up lately; the incendiaries? Documentaries.

The first, Bush's War, was part of the PBS news magazine Frontline.  I have always found the Frontline series to be informative, hard hitting, and impartial and this particular episode was all three.  Following eight years of misinformation, Bush's War chronicles the buffoonery of our previous administration.  Frontline's narrator, Will Lyman,  waxes poetic about how the decisions of a misguided few lead to the loss of countless lives and resources of a future generation.  Decisions that stretched our military to the limit and created more enemies than it sought to destroy.  It sickens me to say this, but my God what a waste.  Time to tune to something lighter.

Next up, Food Inc.  The film links forty-year old changes in the fast food industry to an unforeseen evolution of the food we eat (You do believe in evolution don't you?)  The story had all the ringings of Sinclair's The Jungle; human rights violations and huge corporations controlling the food supply.  Driven by the demand of an ever growing populace and with production becoming so mechanized, our food is hardly recognizable when it arrives on store shelves.  Food Inc really made me think about what I eat, but perhaps most disturbing, was how disposable the food industry treats its farmers, employees, and customers.  Just call it culling the herd.

But perhaps most disturbing was the Nova special, Judgement Day: Intelligent Design on Trial.  Scopes Monkey Trial part two, only this time, under the beguile of "Intelligent Design"?  Quite a befitting misnomer for something that seeks to set science back more than 150 years. Championing the cause to undo Darwinism, Intelligent Design proposes that certain lifeforms simply appear by means of an "Intelligent Agent", similar to how monkeys just appear out of my butt.  I suppose a 150-year setback isn't so bad when you consider the same lunatics took nearly 500 years to accept Galileo's ideas on science.

What do the three have in common?  Politics.  I'm not one of these political fanatics; right-wing, leftist, conservative, liberal.  The extent of my political motivation is voting in the last four presidential elections, beyond that, I could give about a crap.  That is, I could give about a crap until certain groups' political ideals begin to affect me; be it pissing away eight years and leaving the country in a shambles, poisoning the food supply, or attempting to take science back to the middle ages.  While interest groups and big corporations try to inflict their wills by bidding for politicians' hands, they also impede scientific progress and our advancement as a society.  If you want to get my blood boiling, just try fleecing the country to accomplish your political, or worse yet, religious objectives.  When are we going to be allowed to learn?

Refuse, Reuse, or make Refuse

Nine years ago, my wife and I packed all of our of worldly belongings into my Honda Civic and made for Charleston to start our lives together.  The Civic's four-cylinder engine begged for mercy from the immense weight of our stuff. The rear shocks sagged from the car's payload, which to my dismay, included a full-size ironing board.  The Honda dutifully made several more trips to Ohio and still sits in my driveway; the ironing board still hangs in my closet and sees little use.

A year later, we again packed up to move into our new house.  This time the Civic couldn't hold us and nothing less than a twenty foot U-haul would do. That day, with my father-in-law riding shotgun, I learned to drive a moving truck and a manual transmission.  I ground through the gears while he ground his teeth as 50-mph was all that truck could muster; it was a nervous time. Buying a home, moving, driving a big rig on South Carolina roadways; there was just cause for using the 'Oh shit!' handles in that van.

It only took us eight short years to outgrow our home and we find ourselves packing once more.  Having a family will do that for you, and packing this much stuff will let you know just how gluttonous we can be.  The movers have assured me that a twenty-six foot truck is all they will need.  But how? How is for them to figure out, but it has got me stressed.  Who needs this much stuff? In the course of packing I've found things I didn't even realize that I had, took three trunk loads to Goodwill, and put another three cubic yards in the local landfill.  Among the notable finds were 200 T-shirts, six bicycles, a preserved alligator head and a set of shark jaws that my dad gave me, and no less than 12 rolls of wrapping paper from Christmases past (no Christmas trees though, those are in the woods behind my house).

How does someone accumulate so much crap?  Clearly after living eight years without using any of it, I didn't need this stuff.  So why do we feel it necessary that each home in America have their own ________ (insert lawnmower, gas grill, nail gun, weed eater, or any other item currently taking up space in your garage here)?  Why not have a community shed of common items to be shared among neighbors?  Each household could have their particular day or week to use certain things.  Think of the money that could be saved; think of the fights that would ensue.  We are so accustomed to having what we want, when we want it, that we have completely abandoned our communal roots. We allow companies to profit from our wastefulness and unwillingness to share.

Next time, before you throw away that motorized tie rack from your closet, ask yourself: Can I use this for something else? Or can someone else use this? Better yet, before you buy that motorized tie rack, ask yourself: Do I really need this?  Until then, happy hoarding.

The Worst Way?

Couldn't sleep again last night.  Between anxiety, my aching knee, and the kids screaming, I just wasn't able to do it.  2:43 am:  Finally get settled back into bed.

Mind racing from this to that, it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest.  This must be what it feels like to drown.  Drowning!  Yeah, that'll calm me down;  I'll just think about drowning.  My mind switches focus to an untimely fate and I feel myself gasping for breath.  What would it be like to drown?  I'm not talking about drowning in river rapids while trying to get back into your raft.  No.  No desperate gasps for air here.  This was more like the getting dumped in the Hudson while wearing concrete sneakers type.

Think about it.  Assume you sank straight to the bottom without a struggle. You are calm and can feel the pressure of the deep building in your head; you can hear your pulse slowing in your ear.  Holding out as long as possible, the lack of oxygen crushes your chest.  You know it is inevitable. You must breathe.

Instinctively you draw in a breath, only this time you half swallow, half choke on a lung-full of water. Violent coughing now ensues as your lungs are flooded with water and explode.  With the respiratory system down, the circulatory system is screaming towards cardiac arrest and therein lies the worst part:  You're toast and you're brain still knows it.  Though you've ceased being an organism, your central nervous system and all of its chemical and electrochemical reactions are still letting you know how bad your situation sucks and still letting you feel pain.  I can only imagine that things are pretty chaotic at this point.  Maxing out on endorphins and adrenaline in a last ditch, self-medicating effort, your body goes haywire while your brain fades to black.  You're dead.

Man that would suck.  Sure, you could conjure up a million more creative and seemingly worse ways to go, but this does it for me.  Suddenly, I have no desire to go to the beach again.  I need some sleep.

The Big V

So here it is; my long awaited film debut.  After much anticipation and thanks to some super cool software, I was able to write, direct, and produce my thoughts into animation instead of the normal pictures and words that you see here.  Expect to see more of these shorts in the future as they enable me to convey information and emotion in ways that I otherwise could not.

What follows proves once again that truth is more entertaining than fiction.  The names were omitted to protect the innocent and any resemblance to real life may have been completely intentional.  For most of you that have seen it (all of the six people that I know), I am sure that you won't mind watching it again.  For others, I present to you without much ado, The Big V.

Full Circle

"Could you take this to your Dad on your way over there?" my father-in-law asked.  "Sure, what is it?" I replied.  "A baguette pan."  With that, a seemingly benign conversation set into motion what I consider a remarkable turn of events.  Events that have caused me to do a lot of thinking.

My dad seemed pleasantly surprised by his unexpected gift.  While most would consider a baguette pan to be a "white elephant", chucking it aside atop a mountain of useless kitchen items, not my dad.  Scoffing at bread machines and sending gluten-free freaks scurrying, dad is always baking up and perfecting some new and tasty breads.  As if he needed a reason and anxious to test out his new toy, he set to work.  Bread-making is a labor of love that requires artisan-like craftsmanship and time.  But on this visit, the family was in tow and the kids were growing restless and punchy.  As far as they were concerned, we had overstayed our welcome and it was time to go.  Time had run out.  "We better get going," I said.  "But the bread will be ready in ten minutes," my mom said "C'mon, I'll throw it in a bag for you."  Despite all of the screaming and chaos I capitulated, "Okay."

With hot French bread in hand and family loaded up, it was time to head across town to the other grandparents' house.  Tired of highway driving, we opted for the Salem Avenue scenic and slightly downtrodden route.  The old Tasty Bird Poultry Company (now out of business), Pinky's Fried Chicken (formerly a Lou's Broaster Hut and a Rally's, now all out of business), an old Red Lobster (now a fully functional funeral home), and a beggar on the I-75 on-ramp.  "Don't stop, Go!"  my wife urged as we approached the yellow light.  Too late, I had to stop.

It'll be okay I thought to myself.  This guy looked pretty bedraggled; too pathetic to try any funny business.  Just don't make eye contact I again reasoned, then he may want something.  His sign simply read "Hungry+Homeless."  "Should we give him something?" my wife asked.  No way was I giving this guy beer money (it's a shame that we have to think this way), but his sign said nothing about money.  "Give him a loaf of bread" she said.  Pausing for a moment I grabbed one of the loaves, shoved it in a bag, and thrust it out my now open window.  "Dude, my dad just made this, it's still hot," I said handing it to him.  Without missing a beat, he grabs it and stuffs it inside his jacket.  "Merry Christmas" he said stoically.  For the first time I make eye contact with him; he seriously looked as if he would cry.

I felt somewhat skeptical about the guy's situation, but I also felt pretty good about what just transpired.  Our intentions were good and it really made me reflect on the day's events.  What if I forget to bring the baguette pan?  What if I decide not to wait for the bread to be ready?  What if that guy really was hungry and doesn't get the bread?  Our decisions, intentional or otherwise, insignificant or colossal, affect our daily lives, those of others, and our future. It's pretty amazing when you think about it.  So many days and people pass right by and no thought is given to how we impact their destiny, most of the time without even knowing it.

I wonder what became of that loaf of bread.  I wonder what became of that dude?

Greatest Gifts

Tis always the season for something and many people use this time of the year to reflect.  Why not reflect on some of the greatest gifts given or received?

Rather than focusing on the former and staying away from intangibles and fluffy thoughts (such as the obvious and far too overused "it's better to give than to receive" and "this season, give the gift that keeps on giving, give the gift of life"), I present this; aren't some of the best gifts the ones that you never knew you wanted?  Okay, I'll admit, that Sega Genesis of '91 kicked ass, and the Hungry Hungry Hippos of '83 made for hours of entertainment (to this day, Pinkie is still the best).  But despite me keeping my Sega through college (and making good use of it too), neither stood the test of time.  Breaking or otherwise falling by the wayside of life, only to be left in a scrap heap and a memory.

So what am I talking about?  Nothing more than slippers and a bottle to name a few. Several Christmases ago I received some slippers from my mom.  I had gone thirty years without and didn't feel the need to change now.  That is, until now.  Now there's not a wintry day that I can go without.  So much so, that when I wore through that original pair, I went out the same day and bought another. The other happened to be a Nalgene bottle that I received from my wife.  I drink a lot of water and was tired of spending two bucks a pop on throw away plastic bottles.  For the eight dollars that one bottle cost, I have gotten six liters of water a day for the past year.  I won't go anywhere without that bottle and won't drink out of anything else. 

While these gifts fall short of Castle Greyskull or a chemistry set for "wow" potential, they more than make up for it in practicality and usage.  It's unexpected treasures like these that sometimes make a Christmas season.

Ich bin kaput/Winter mode

I'm doing something that I haven't done here before: filling this post with my own self pity and doubling up on the topics.

I just haven't been myself lately. Sick for three out of the last four weeks, plenty of motivation but no impetus, and my knee is wrecked. Though I cannot cite when it happened, I can tell you that it has only gotten worse. Two doctors and four diagnoses later, and I can barely walk. This sucks. Thankfully, it is winter time, and the mileage and bike riding have slacked off (though I am not usually accustomed to this much slacking). Winter represents a hibernation for most cyclists.  A time to build endurance with long, slow paced rides and a time to recover. Having been prescribed six weeks of physical therapy, I should have plenty of time for that. 

Facing a mandatory reprieve from cycling, I decided to join up once more with the Charleston Winter Bike League.  Like a dog let loose before being neutered, I wanted one more fling with the bike.  At first I wasn't crazy with the idea of this ride, but after going a few weeks ago, I was sold.  This is a great ride concept with great people and even features some off-road sections that got me feeling like Paris-Roubaix.  The rest of the ride was nostalgic, even down to the pee breaks taken alongside an old logging road.  It was like a scene from one of those old Tour de France posters where all of the riders stop for a smoke and a beer.  Too bad my bones were sawing away again at the tendons in my knee.  What a shame that it will be missing out on these rides.  

I'm doing something that I haven't done here before: hanging up the bike for six weeks.

Dollars Dehumanize

Something caught my eye during a recent trip.  On the horizon, huge steel and glass obelisks; a city skyline.  A few, made totally of glass, caught my attention for another reason; people.  Forty stories in the air, window-washers danced on the slanted mirrored surface of this monolith. Enamored, I stared and thought, "what an exciting job!?...like a thrill ride. I'm sure these people are well compensated for their skills and risks." Nope.

According to most internet sources, window washers pull down a hefty $20,000 a year (equaling the poverty level for a family of three). Considering that these jobs predominantly exist in major metropolitan areas, I can only assume that this salary wouldn't pay for rent in the same building.  No scaffolding and for no reason.  Does someone really need to risk their life for clean windows?  Apparently the tenants of this building thought so.

I suppose that in this economy (or any economy for that matter), if there is a demand for a service, there will be a supply; such is the power of the dollar.  A corporation will stoop just low enough to allow others to eek out an existence (and gladly do so at that) for the dollar at the end of the stick. It's the capitalistic caste system at work and it is evident right here in my own town in the form of human signs.  Have you seen these?  People paid to stand on busy street corners holding signs, usually touting "Going out of business" or "Total liquidation, everything must go" on them.  Perhaps these places would still be in business if they weren't paying people to hold signs; last time I checked, it didn't cost anything to drive a stake into the ground.

Why are people risking their lives for clean windows?  They have to.  What is it that drives a wedge between dignity and humanity?  The dollar.

Charlotte's got a lot?

Destination of the week, Charlotte, NC. Breaking tradition for Thanksgiving this year, we decided to pack up the kids and get out of town and Charlotte, the queen city of the Carolinas, provided a logical choice. Not too intimidating, plenty of on-goings for the holiday, and just big enough. First order of business:  check into the hotel and find dinner.

This shouldn't be a problem, being a large city and all.  Just need a restaurant that is not too pretentious, not a bar, and kid friendly and one that simply does not exist in the city.  Our desperate search yielded no less than forty upscale and eclectically named establishments that were devoid of humans. These places would have been better off all being named The Empty Table. Where was everyone?  The answer began to reveal itself as did the city's seedy underbelly.  On this night, only the city bus stops were inhabited; filled with society's undesirables doing stereotypical stuff. Shooting dice, drinking out of brown paper bag ghetto-sleeves, noshing on a dinner of corn flakes. Honestly it wasn't really that bad and certainly far from the worst situation I have been in, but cities are no place for young children.

"Tomorrow we could reconcile things," I thought.  Get some great breakfast, enjoy the Thanksgiving Day parade, wear out the kids at a park, and then chow down for dinner.  And, with the exception of breakfast, that is how it worked.  Turns out the only places open for breakfast on Thanksgiving were those that value holidays less than dollars; Dean and Deluca and Starbucks! How much does it cost to feed a family of four at one of these places?  I'm ashamed to say, but thankful we found them.  The parade was fun and Freedom Park proved to be even better.  Situated between the affluent suburbs of Dilworth and Southend, the park was a welcomed respite.  I began noticing people enjoying their surroundings and with it, I also began noticing all of the bike paths, bike racks, and bike shops throughout the city.  Charlotte is a big draw for mountain enthusiasts and roadies alike and also hosts a professional criterium each August.  This town did have some redeeming qualities.

Thanksgiving dinner was mediocre and a bit stressful, but with good company. We headed for home the next evening, but not before tooling around for another day and not before doing some reflecting.  I am far from a person who believes in fate, faith, or karma, but the tribulations of that first night in town struck me.  I started to feel that I was meant to see those that had truly fallen on hard times.  It made me appreciate what I had, and for that, I am thankful.

Screw Blue

Hate is a strong word, but hate is what I feel toward the University of Michigan. There, I got it out of my system. To even utter the name of that wretched place strikes me to my core (therefore that university will herein be referred to as "them", "they", or "group of despicable sucks"). More than willing them to lose every football game from now to eternity, I bid they go straight to hell and die. A plague on all their houses, including the Big House. Why do I feel the urge to spat on anyone sporting the maize and blue? I bleed scarlet and gray, that's why.

My appreciation for football came during my formative years. Starting with running endless pass routes with my brother in the backyard and graduating to barnyard football games, Madden, and Monday Night Football; football consumed the dreary fall afternoons in Ohio. Ohioans love football; Ohio State Football. Look, we have the Bengals and the Browns, okay!? Lovable losers. The real fate of Ohio Football (and to be honest that of the free world) rests with the Buckeyes. National Titles and undefeated seasons hinge on one game. Mediocre and crappy seasons hinge on one game. Life and death hinges on one game; the last game: OSU v. that "Group of Despicable Sucks". You know who I'm talkin' about. The stage is set.

Rewind to the '90s. Ohio State is graced with legendary names like Galloway, Germaine, George, Boston, Pace, Katzenmoyer (too many to list). Unfortunately, the Bucks are also graced by John Cooper. Year after year the Buckeyes are either mediocre or National Title contenders and year after year (for a decade) they manage to lose to those wankers! My college house mates and I had made it tradition to each drink a 40oz. of malt liquor per quarter during the big game. This usually ended in a lot of slurred swearing by late in the fourth. Our one win during the Cooper-era only bought us a lousy Rose Bowl trip since we couldn't put MSU to bed. Frustration.

Enter Jim Tressel. Finally someone that recognized that all of Buckeye nation teeters on the brink of one game. After five years of drowning ourselves in Magnum and King Cobra, no more. Three trips to the promised land, one National Title, and most importantly, only one loss to those pansies from up north. My college buddies and I still call each other during the big game to mock the other team or to vent. It has been awhile since we got belligerent together and shouted hate slogans at the other team (Author's note: To be exact, it was January 3, 2003; a date that every Ohio State fan will remember. My buddy Ted and I decided that it would be a good idea to trade off Irish Car Bombs for every Buckeye touchdown. Good thinking until the game went to double overtime. Anyway, despite not knowing my own name, I was able to tell everyone in Englewood Ohio who the f-ing National Champs were!).

For tradition's sake, I think I'll pour back a few beers this year, root on the Bucks, and give ol' Ted a call. I dunno if I can do the malt liquor anymore and I'll have to keep the obscenities to a minimum, but know this: Hail to the Victors bitches!