My First Blast

I have been remiss in adding to the blog for a couple months.

Back in late May, I became the proud owner of a 2003 Buell Blast, delivered to me courtesy of the Harley Davidson dealer that did the 1K service. It was all very exciting. The seller was very nice and allowed me to test ride it around the neighborhood to be sure I wanted it. It was so different than the MSF class bikes or my Reflex. So...burbly. The Blast is a very different ride than your standard rice burner or even a UJM (Universal Japanese Motorcycle). For starters, it's American made. Buell is owned by Harley Davidson, started by a former HD guy. It is much more elemental. The term "thumper" is definitely accurate at idle and very low speeds, even at 492cc's. But, as others have noted, it smooths out in the higher gears. I'm just psyched to have "my first motorcyle," and put my newly-learned MSF skills to use finally. Great class, but, oh, how fast the skills seem to fade without use! Shocking. As they say after passing the class, "you are now qualified to ride a motorcycle at 20mph in a closed parking lot." Very true. Actually my first motocycle is technically a Honda Reflex, a 250cc scooter. But, no clutch. Automatic transmission. Alot of body fairing. Don't drop or you will be sad and your wallet will be even sadder. Super cute and cool looking and very fun to ride, but not the same. I feel guilty not riding it in favor of the Blast, but I've been trying to get out and gain experience with the manual bike.

I've put about 500 miles now in the last two months, and it has truly been a blast, each and every time I get it out. It is nimble, nimble, nimble and turns on a dime. Corners and curves are so much fun, it can be a little scary. Over, over, over...yes! I have yet to scrape a peg, but don't like idea of it, despite the siren call of the turns. The little thing just goes right over. Quite lovely really. I am afraid I will be spoiled for other bikes. I catch myself thinking about what my next bike will be (a Suzuki sv650, btw), but then feel guilty, as my little Blast is so cool and unusual and fun. How could I? I have yet to see another on the road, but now find that I notice every other bike out there. So I know I haven't seen one. Have gotten a few interesting reactions too. Questions, folks checking it out while parked and one fellow even backed up at a stop to check it out, then gave me a thumbs up. Entertaining and fun, to be sure.<

The Blast is more of a naked bike. I hated the look at first. Went round and back between small cruisers, beginner sports bikes and other naked bikes. Then I had to have a Virago 525, which Yamaha no longer makes. Had to had to had to. But then I came back to the little Blast. This is the nature of obsession.

Now, if I could only find a pair of boots that inspire me and that I could walk in too...

With the weather now hot and hotter, it is a challenge to put on all the gear and take the bike out during much of the day. My new windshield that is so fabulous at freeway speeds unfortunately also keeps my jacket from thoroughly venting as it used to. I found out yesterday that if I lean to the left a bit, I get a little rush of air through the jacket vents. Ahhhhhh! But, I seem to be getting used to that hot, sweaty feeling when sitting at lights especially. It is just so much fun that I can put up with the heat. On the positive, with the windshield in the way I also don't cool down too quickly once the day's swelter begins to die. Riding at night, though dicier for visibility, it truly thrilling. Hypnotic almost. I always liked driving at night, but riding at night is extra enthralling. Fewer cars in general, of course, but, I don't know... Looking forward to the weather cooling down. Never have liked the broiling waves of endless asphalt that seem to be the rule in these parts. Blech. Trees, trees, where are my trees?! Nope, just a lot of road, which, in this case, is just as well, as I can ride onto it on the bike. Despite all the gear (and it's ATGATT, for sure: All the Gear All the Time), even short trips to the store, or Post Office are fun. Who knew?

And, to add to the fun, I managed to solve my first performance problem with the help of a truly awesome and useful Yahoo Group dedicated to the Buell Blast. A couple screw turns and some exploratory part removal later, no more stalling before warm up and occasionally (!) at lights. 'Course, the new-rider-re-start-the-stalled-bike-as-the-light-turns-green moments were, to say the least, character building. And strangely morale-building. Getting oneself out of an unfamiliar sticky situation pumps the ego (as well as the adrenaline). Considering that it sat for most of its previous life of four years with only 1K miles on it, things could have been so much worse. But no! Service manuals are great. Thank you Buell Blast Yahoo Group! I can't recommend it enough for any who are interested.

Keeping a wary eye out for the cages (cars) is the priority, of course, since so many accidents are caused by cars not looking for and not seeing bikes. So, am perfecting the Zen of Motorcycle Riding. Keepin' outa trouble and away from trouble, which is all around, it seems, courtesy of the ubiquitous cell phone, in large measure. More on that later, perhaps. Meantime, I enjoy the ride ever more each and every time I'm out. Mm!! Keep the rubber side up all!

Bullet Proof

I have never been bullet proof or immortal (that I know). As far back as I can remember, I do not recall ever having had this feeling. Others have, I am told. Usually young guys, from what I hear. The first time I ever heard about this phenomenon was years ago from a good friend. He told me a story that included a tale of physical peril which injured him as a result. It was at that point in his life, he said, that he realized he wasn't immortal. Interestingly, this is a person who, at that point in his life, had lived through two tours in Vietnam. But that is another story entirely.

"Bullet proof" is a commonly used term for this idea. When I first heard about this feeling, I was amazed. I had never heard of such a thing, though it is supposedly common in young people of a certain age. Apparently, I slipped by this age envelope without noticing, as I have always felt an inherent sense of physical jeopardy. Indeed, I remember feeling amazed that I had made it past twelve years old, and then, twenty. Now, you would think, given this orientation, that I was a cautious individual from way back. But, you would be wrong in a way. When I think back on it, it occurs to me that this attitude came as the result of a few early experiences with physical excess and the pain that resulted. There are two that particularly stick out, mundane as they may seem.

At the age of ten, I decided to see if I could do one hundred deep knee bends, which sounded like a challenge to my young brain. Nice round number. It turned out that it was not nearly the challenge I thought it might be. At the time. The next day I could barely walk. The simple idea of it had never occured to me. The mind boggled. Delayed muscle reaction to excessive exercise.

I "threw my back out" when I was eleven. Much later, I would realize that I probably just pulled a bunch of back muscles as a result of doing a playground monkey bar maneuver that involved standing on top of the bar, swinging forwards until momentum allowed my legs to swing out and my hands release, flinging me away from the bar and landing feet first on the ground. A little scary. Super fun. Done it before. Then, one day, it just didn't work out quite right. Again, could barely walk for days. Only this time, the result was immediate. I don't know when your first muscle pulls were, but I think I was perhaps ahead of my time for a kid not engaged on parent-driven, serious, competitive sports.

I think these early experiences were formative. Pain was not good. I mean the kind of pain that resulted from just being a kid running around like a banshee, like normal. Burning energy like so many spare plastic army men. Not like being dumb and putting your finger in a light socket, or playing with matches or knives. These are the things you were warned about continuously, and they always made perfect sense to me. You could see the consequences would be undesireable. To me at least. Perhaps another symbol of my overactive imagination. That is another story by itself. But no one ever really said, "Don't do too much of that exercise!" or "Watch out! You might pull a muscle!" Even though Dad seemed to do both of these two things on a regular basis. It was said later, but not before I already had a smattering of first-hand experience. You know, how many of those darn deep knee bends constituted "too many?" Who knew? One hundred, it turned out, was too many. But fifty probably would have sufficed for the cautionary effect on a kid just messing around in the back yard. But, you know, going overboard is in the nature of being a kid, in a way. Testing the limits. I just learned those earlier than many, apparently. Having to hobble along at the age of ten as if you needed a walker was definitely not an experience I wanted to duplicate on purpose.

And, I could extrapolate from these experiences, it turned out. Many years of this continuous extrapolation (AKA How much pain and disability do I want to possibly endure?), have lead me to what I think is fairly sane risk analysis and mitigation. In fact, I am the queen of risk anticipation. When one must make a living physically, she is forced to face this nearly every day. And it does not have to be grueling or overly demanding, just physical. As in, you can't just hobble into the cubie the next day and type away all day in MS Office, then get paid.

So, when a very likeable cohort of mine was recently in a major motorcycle accident and almost killed, it particularly bummed me out. Fortunately, he will recover and has a lot of friends and family to support him as he does. But the thing that astonished me was the unquestioned anti-motorcycle sentiment that swirled about in the immediate aftermath. Now, don't get me wrong. I get it. But, then again, I got it before. As in, it's an inherently dangerous activity, and there are wacko drivers behind every hydrant. But it is a risk that you decide to take in return for the potential enjoyment of the activity. Hopefully, you also factor in a lot of risk management, but I understand that many don't. How sad is it, then, that it took a life-threatening accident to put that into perspective. It was there before. And, to be honest, I felt sort of traiterous, listening to all the "motorcycles are bad" sentiment. It just didn't seem polite to even think, "in spite of your misfortune, I'm going to ride again." But people do. Many believe that it cannot happen to them. I've never been one of those. Lots of shitty things happen every day.

I understand that this is not the politically correct view in many ways. I also understand that it is life altering and can take the fun completely away from anything. On the other hand, a few months back, I was a moment away from being killed in a car myself by the wreckless behavior of another automobile driver. As it turned out, I sustained relatively minor injuries in the end, mostly due to some quick reactions by me and my driver at the last minute, and the safety features of the car (side curtain airbags on a VW Jetta, to be specific; I recommend these highly, both the bags and the Jetta). Let me say, that when I was healed enough to drive again, it was very spooky, to say the least. For a while. No fun at all. Nerve racking. I could have made other arrangements, taken the bus, whatever. But it is more convenient and timely to drive. The freedom it provides trumps the inherent risk. And there is inherent risk. On the other hand, I could drop dead from a brain aneurysm, like another friend from work did a few years ago.

Perhaps I would have a different perspective if I were the one in the bike crash. It could well be. But, on the other hand, crummy things happen every day to good people. Especially recently. Like a cloud hanging. In my vicinity, the under fifty crowd of folks I actually know and work with has been taking a beating in this regard. Crummy things happening en masse. Injuries and illness in a tight little cloud of blackness. A real continual downer to say the least. And yes, it makes one really appreciate what one has. But, for so many years, for various reasons: finances, work, fear, risk aversion and even just lack of available friends and cohorts, I've felt as if I never really explored things more at the edges of life. OK, some, very early on, when in my pack behavior stage. But once I began trying to scrape out a living, it dwindled precipitously. Fear took over for much of my life. Fear of a failed marriage, fear of loneliness, of what others think, fear of failure, of financial ruin, of hurting someone you love, of not being able to make a living. And on and on into the sunset.

I'm tired of being afraid. I've been tired for a while now and cannot live that way any more. It's been a slow process and has its gaps here and there. Sometimes the gaps are enormous (more on that later). But that is what life is all about, isn't it? What risk are you willing to accept in order to live life in all its aspects? Life is not short, for the most part, as the saying usually goes. Here, life is generally long. Maybe too long in too many cases, if my family's experiences are any indication. It is way too long to just languish without at least reaching out for experiences and challenges. Managing fear is a true challenge. Going with the flow and staying within the lines only takes you so far, it turns out. The rest is about managing the risks of staying alive, while still feeling alive. And they are legion.

As they say, tragedy is easy, comedy is hard.

Funky, Art & Just Old Funk

So Jerome turned out to be sorta cool, if you like to cruise local artists, with creations of all kinds from prints and ceramic, to textiles and glass and a lot in between. About half the place is falling apart it appears, the other half or so is either renovated or in process. Quite a few structurally dubious buildings that appeared to be inhabited, scarily enough. Lots of Harleys driven by visitors. I didn't see anything but (well, two ancient looking Hondas that I'd guess were actually residents or employees of shops, but hey). Used to be 15K or so residents during the height of copper mining activities which peaked in the 1920's. Sort of a Hippie revival started in the 60's and 70's. Hard to imagine in such a relatively small area. "America's Most Vertical City" and "Largest Ghost Town in America". I usually think of a ghost town being unoccupied, but, with a grand 450 current residents, it most certainly is not, small as it is. But, nice and funky and old, with less pretension than those shops in Tlaquepaque, I think.

More info for the curious: http://www.azjerome.com/default.htm

Bought my first piece of art (after much searching during the year), an ultra cool photo print by Tom Narwid of a slot canyon called Antelope Canyon. Abstract looking formations in close. Hard to describe. See his site below for more info. And he mans his gallery himself, which is great because he was fun to talk to and made me an offer I could not refuse on his print. If I'd had more $$, I would have bought more (so hard to decide! Not my strong suit anyway), but this my inaugural purchase, so I didn't want to get too crazy. If you are ever in Jerome, visit the American Landscape Gallery. The day I we were there,

Check out his gallery online:
http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/american-landscape-gallery.html

Also, check out Phil Timper's work, at the Artist's Coop, for "digital media" art, which I liked a lot (nice site, btw):
http://www.jeromeartistscoop.com/artist_timper.html
His personal site is also particularly nice: http://www.philliptimper.com/pt_high.html

This is the sort of digital non-representational work that looks like it might be easy to throw together on a computer (like so many things the art neophyte thinks are possible with a mere flick of the tablet), but oh, SO is NOT! Obviously personal taste here, but, you know who you are out there.

I was sorely tempted by "Doesn't Match My Couch", the title of which made me laugh out loud (anyone who has studied art in any way will understand), and "Bagpipe Innuendo." The titles are a whole fun by themselves, I thought.

Afterwards, alas, the trip ended early with a big 'ol raging funk. Me in the decidedly unhappy crosshairs. The more things change, the more they stay the same. My interstate vacating karma had slid suddenly and precipitously into the dark side. So, goodbye AZ. Apparently, our semi-dead lawn is contributing a lot of bad Feng Shui to my life...then seeping into the house from outside and hitching a ride into another state. Sounds serious, doesn't it? Is that even possible? Who knows. Glad I'm not superstitious.

Sedona

So, here we are in the famed Sedona. Fascinating. My Dad and Stepmom have been gracious enough to invite us to come up here and see the famed Red Rocks, take in the various sites and trapezo-de-touristas and hang out in general. So far, the weather is very nice and even gets cool at night, which I have enjoyed very much. Had to put on my fleece and a hat (!) this evening to avoid a chill. Lovely food, great views nearly all around. But, I find that the resorts, despite pleasant grounds and ammenities are sort of like a blight on the stunning landscape. Like someone plopped a giant CGI composite in 360 around the man-made stuff. It is weird to behold at times.

Fortunately, even a hike on what was sort of the equivalent of the I-5 freeway (so many people on the trail--nice to see everyone out, but not all at once!) was a simple pleasure that felt restorative, even as we raced back for our ill-advised meet back time, after which the National Guard would be called to scape up our bodies. Always add an hour to what seems like more than enough time. I kick myself for not sticking to my schedule guns, despite knowing better. I am so used to going solo, I guess, and being the sole judge of timing, I wimped out. I hate to rush on the trail, though I seem to do it more than I like, mostly racing the sun, being a late riser. The interesting thing about all the people on the trail was, everyone who stopped along the way to talk about where the trail ended, etc., was super nice. Or at least it struck me as more unusual than...usual. Even had word trickle back from another hiker as to the outcome of the "end of the trail", an actual sign saying just that. Amusing in every way. I don't remember ever seeing such a thing before. We didn't see it ourselves, being about a quarter mile short, we guessed, because we ran out of time. That and a few snaps later with my handy dandy little Gorillapod on SD500 camera, we were off on our race back to the trailhead. Though we "sacrificed" B's ankle a couple times (ow!) and his fussy foot in general, we were rewarded for our efforts by a end-of-the hike mule deer siting along the road. And a picture. It turns out I really needed that hike. A real plus to the day. Not long, the Boynton Trail, but worth it.

Overall, I can see why the place is absolutely chock-a-block with New Agers of every stripe. Crystal this, Aura that. It is not enough for many to see the tremendous Red Rock formations and strangely lush surrounds as an astounding natural wonder, part of the earth's timeless geologic beauty. It must be something more. Something mystical. So, in celebration, they plop businesses made of ticky tacky down in the midst, to tempt needy souls to spend $$ and thereby achieve spiritual awakenings, cleansings, centerings, enlightenings, meanings, all complete with sacred, man-made crystals. I mean, I like Enya music as much as anyone, but really. Is all that necessary? Of course it is. It turns a buck. I suppose the citizens of Sedona enjoy the taxes well enough. Keep that traffic moving, boys!

Did I say that there seemed to be churches in every other corner as well? See above for same.

Oh, and Pink Jeep tours EVERYWHERE. Gotta wonder. Yet another buck.

By the time you get to wilderness or a National Park or Forest or Monument, you really appreciate them. They seem so quaint and simple by comparison, despite the inevitable goo-gaws to be bought there as well. I still love them and need to give more of my money to them. A small drop against the rampant tide of unfettered commercialism. Phew!

Tomorrow we are heading to a place called Jerome, which sounds very promising in its funkiness and retro-hippiness. As far as Sedona, if you hoof it into "the woods", I think you get a far better appreciation for the thing's majesty. Even a little way, I think. But, I can see that in no time at all, the place is becoming a grade A trapezo-de-tourista, as the Furry Freak Brothers would say. If it isn't already there. Too bad. It seems that the well-to-do, when they decend in numbers, they also tend to "ruin the neighborhood", cluttering it up with spas and resorts that no regular person can afford, or appreciate. Artifice.
Perhaps it is just the nature of our "tour", but why not more camping areas? Are there any in numbers? I will have to research this. I will ask about it. Perhaps there are some here that are just not part of the "tour."

The "upscale" art is fun to cruise (is there any such thing as "downscale" art--besides grafitti?). I always appreciate that. I find it strangely meditative and hypnotic. One of my vices, when my feet will hold up long enough to stand, stroll and ogle what others have created. It is always vaguely inspiring looking at it all. I wish I could patronize more of it (any?) On the other hand, where would I put it? I suppose we have enough bare walls that could use something, but I always feel as if there should be more of a plan instead of a random collection of stuff. My random selections would be truly horrible to behold, I'm afraid. And, I always fear that I will tire too quickly of looking at them. One of the many reasons I have never been able to decide on a tatoo, of all things. So permanent. It would have to be something I would not have to look at every day. I cannot abide a single color favorite for more than a couple years, much less a design or picture or creation. Ah well. It's still fun to think about though.

I have to admit, I do find myself drawn to the red clay-color (more of a golden brown) dye that a local company uses on their t-shirts. If only they had sweat shirts. I need another t-shirt like I need another hole in my head (well, perhaps another ear might be nice sometimes, but really...it's hard enough to find sunglasses and hats that fit...)

Here's the view I'd rather be enjoying right now.

Work

So, I tried to phone blog today from work, but this time, it didn't want to connect up to the blog like it had before. Lots of glitches on this site! Whadya want for free, right?

So, instead, an after-the-fact, instead of a blow-by-blow boredom moment. Is that less relevant, less "of the moment"? I dunno. Certainly less timely. I'm still working on the gadgetry, afterall. But after a lot of tedious typing into the phone, I discovered a 435 character limite and a service glitch. Nice. Made the day's boredom almost exciting as the new ground covered.

Long day, even if it was only two hours OT. At least the OT was fun, on-rope practise to keep in touch with my inner SPRAT cert. But then into the regular day, which was the usual. Better than yesterday, which felt like a real half-brain, two cell day. But, after more than four years of the same show, the threads (mental, that is) are showing. My techniques for avoiding utter brain-numbing madness: Humor where I can find it (sometimes difficult due to the unwavering bitterness/grumping of a certain crew member), attention to detail (no gelling out--it's just not safe...or smart), tons of "what-if" scenarios to get any possible contingencies into the brain continuum, watching for anything out of the ordinary on stage (ya never know: live theater), my exercise interval (about ten minutes during the show when there is nothing to do but drool or get gig butt and end up doing the former "gelling" routine--again, not wise), creative thinking about numbers, like contemplating the following news item: Ford CEO paid 28 million American dollars for 4 months of work, while Ford simultaneously plans to let, oh, about 30,000 employees go. Belt tightening of course. But not for certain overvalued individuals, of course. Oh, and the $28 million was not his entire compensation, btw. The usual. Chump change in comparison with the total for the workers fired. But, hey. Why can't they ever start with Joe Overcompensated for the Job Who Could, With One Paycheck Retire and Never Work Again?? I just don't get it. I wish I had copied the poppycock PR sentence the company/board used to justify this guy's salary, too. Utter Dilbertian nonsense. One of the many things that signals that this civilization is going down, as I like to say. Hello late Roman Empire. My little watch calculator came up with an error message, the number was so big on the lost worker wages (AKA "savings for the company"). If you just did a ballpark figure of 40K per worker (pulled straight outa thin air, in case you wondered), multiplied by 30,000 of them, probably a really low number, I'm thinking, that'd give you a cool 1.2 BILLION in savings. What could you possibly be doing wrong with your company that you went "whoopsie! gotta ditch a lotta personnel!"?!

Goin' down with help from Ford Motor Company. And not in the good way, either.

Especially hard to swallow (over and over again...just cruise the business section on a given day, if you dare) when study after study shows that CEO compensation has zilch to do with actual performance or company stock performance. Nice. I'll try and remember that the next time I hear another corporate monster declare how tough the economy is and how much it costs to offer affordable health care to its workers (you know, the ones who actually do the majority of work every day).

So I guess that makes another way to avoid boredom on the job: get disgusted by the latest news headline. Does take energy. Probably burns a few more calories of indignation too. That's always sorta fun, if not overdone. Don't want to hasten an overuse injury. It would be so easy, depending upon the day. And that story was a bonus, 'cause I didn't get more than a couple headlines into the CNN list before my little calculator was buzzing and error-coding. Yes, I admit that I was lazy and didn't just add the zeros together in my head. Hey! I'm trying to do a show here too, ya know! OK, so I didn't get much into my exercise interval, what with all the righteous indignation going on in my head.

How did this post begin? Daily grind. Avoiding boredom and danger (AKA mistakes). I'm sure this will be a continuing thread, since it is so very near the surface so often. I've been good, better than the vast majority, but even my mighty powers cannot overpower the stultifying power (is that an oxymoron?) of monotony. Ups and downs and the search for something new, something progressive, something positive, something that will give an extra laugh to the day without completely flinging away the last shreds of professionalism left. Or at least not carelessly so. It's touch and go at times, I admit. But I think it's in the company's interest to have a minimum of long brewing insanity cropping up, don't you? It's nice to be in accord, isn't it? We already know we can't all get along, but it doesn't have to be morose while we're at it, does it?

All you folkies out there, sing along: ...to the bottom of the...husbands and wives, little children lost their lives, oh, it was sad when that great ship went down... Great lyrics.

Blog By Phone

Testing blog-by-phone issues, like tedious text entry.

Now I know why the original Kelsi photo was blurry: limitations of the phone. Well, lighting didn't help here. It was just an experiment after all.

This feature is pretty cool though.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Ogling

Through luck of association and the goodwill and enthusiasm of a dear friend, I acquired a motor scooter recently. A fine little scooter indeed. I was ecstatic, of course. It was unexpected and sudden. But it has turned out to be a gateway drug. You see, there are many things in life that sound like fun and that I know are fun, and one of them is motorcycles. Not the hyper testosterone-drive-like-an-idiot-sportbike type of motorcycle fun. That holds little appeal, I must say, including track stuff. It is more on the level of a modern Huck Finn appeal. I like fast well enough. But I like the romance part more. I don't mean candles and flowers and mournful sighs of longing "romance." I mean the spirit of adventure. You know, get on your little twiggy raft with some hard tack, your dog, Blue, your best friend and push off into the unknown. Not that there's that much "unknown" left for most of us urbanites any more, unless a more severe adventure (say, Denali) is in your mind's eye. No, I mean the idea of the thing. Something a little less protected. But, more than that: Something less predictable, more whimsical.

I discovered way back that it wasn't the potential perils of an adventure that floated my boat, but the romantic appeal. The individual struggle. Even if the struggle was plain and simple. The struggle with one's own thoughts, hopes and fears, for example. Sorta corny and narcisistic, I guess. For most, they run off and have a handful of kids and put all of that into them. Fine enough. No less narcisistic, I think, however. Just another being into whom you can place the same things. But that is not me. I suppose, it never was since ever I can remember thinking (an intriguing thought in and of itself: self awareness in thought). Around the age of seven. It is very striking to a seven-year-old, I can tell you. Very exciting. In some ways, it still is. But I digress.

So, here I am with this cute little thing, motoring about when I have a chance. Negotiating the intrigues and roadblocks of the DMV. Contemplating the possibilities. The obvious ones: commuting with less gas, more fun (and a bit more hassle: gear), less wear and tear on the car, better parking. The boring stuff (except for the fun bit). But adventure. There's the thing popping up in the back of the eyeballs (the mind's eye, afterall). Pinter pause. So I scour the web for info and tidbits concerning motorcycling, gear, my little scooter, reviews, techniques, pick my friend's brain for advice and options, all in the service of this little niggling idea. And before you know it, I am nearly consumed, drinking the Kool-aid, beginning the ceremony. I am only hampered by the limitations of my permit status and a naturally letter-of-the-law perspective in these matters (safety being one of them). This is considerable, actually, given my schedule and my other desire not to be the equivalent of single again. It is more fun doing things with your "most desired other creature" (sounds strange, doesn't it? I like it). Solo is good for when I just can't be bothered (which is distressingly often, I have found) and want to do what I want to do. Or don't have a choice. Also, distressingly often. But again, I digress.

Plotting the possibilities, I discover an ongoing travelogue of a guy who is scooting around Alaska with what looks like his camping gear (!). I didn't look closely (I'll have to look it up again), but it was so motivating to see. Mind you, this scooter does go freeway speed, if you don't weigh more than a house. More of a studio apartment. But, at the same, it looks a little wacky, which, of course, draws me further in. More Kool-Aid. Now, this might seem depressing to some of you (echo), but, I swear, I am starting to feel as if just contemplating adventure, reading about others' adventure--especially the perilous kind, mountain kind, is simply enough. I never thought of myself as much of an adventure story reader (*yawn!*) until I picked up "Into Thin Air" and "Into the Wild." Riveting. Vicarious. So that's what everyone has been blabbering about all these years! But not all types. Water-based? Not so much. Mountains and woods, yes. Climbing, definitely. Horses? Not so much. Hiking in all terrain? Definitely. Colin Fletcher's Complete Walker III &IV, I sucked down as fast as my slow-reading cells would carry me. A period when I got out, but was and still am hampered by my own over-active imagination, my childhood fueled by tales of terror. But that is for another post.

Stream of consciousness. It's just me. I do go on.

So, I am plotting. Lurking. But, much as I enjoy the look of a classic cruiser, including the new variants, I find that, lo and behold, I do not like them for actual riding position. Footpegs forward: No good. The nice scooter uprightness is too comfortable and I feel in control. So now, I sense that the sport bike look is growing on me, though I know that it will put my short torso too far forward for comfort. The touring bike is out of my range, especially for what is essentially an experiment. Perhaps someone will leave me a lot of money and I will be able to resist the temptation to save it all in an IRA. Stranger things have happened. Like my little scooter. Have I said how much I do love it? Sleek, light, simple (no clutch) and easy to maneuver. But it makes cars look even more sinister than when one is on a bicycle, ironically. With my bicycle, I know that they know I won't be going even 30 mph (on a downhill, maybe). And I'll be off to the side. But with my scooter... *shiver* I like to think of it as a survival mechanism. And, there is the specter of looking cool. But I chopped that down right away (thank you, M!) by getting a pair of actual riding pants with armor and skid resistance, instead of my way cooler jeans that would last about a half second in a skid (I know, I read it in testing reviews). I feel safer and so much less cool (the hip armor has this effect). I don't have much in the hip department, but now, thanks to these pants, I got a complimentary pair of saddlebags to go with the bike. So, I narrowly avoided the specter of coolness that I've shunned for low these *** years (you can figure it out from my earlier post).

Also, despite a lot of back and forth, as a direct result of the Kool-Aid-drinking, I decided that instead of winging the DMV skills test for my regular license, I'm gonna take an MSF course to learn how to properly ride a "real" scooter. One with a clutch and shifter. It seemed the wisest thing to do and opens up the options. I can ride my scooter day or night, with passenger or not, or pick up a more powerful vehicle and...wander much further and faster onto the wild tarmac, where the scary things are. If I can only get past the thing under my bed...

Contemplating Peggy Lee

Watching a clip of Peggy Lee singing "Is that all there is?", which I've always loved since I was a kid and learned it from my Mom's Songs of the Sixties Billboard collection. I loved the refrain, but did not hear it sung by anyone for many many years after learning the chorus as a kid. Very Kurt Weill-ish, as she says in a clip from the documentary. Maybe it's that weird quality that attracted me. But I just liked the refrain. It just struck me. The lyrics andmusic together, which is unusual, since I long ago learned that it was always the tune I remembered, not the words. But these words, the refrain, was different. I guess it seems sort of morbid, but at the same time always had a strangely optimistic quality. Sort of live what you've got. Enjoy it. "Break out the booze, and have a ball." Seemed about right as a teenager. Still does. Great torch song. Gotta get a copy for the ipod.

Then there's the Karen Carpenter song: "On Top of the World", that, while I like, I cannot dissociate from my grade school experience of it. It was the song that a group of the "cool kids" performed with a little dance at one of those school talent things that always seemed to crop up. This was the moment, as much as I did, in fact, enjoy the performance and the song, when I knew for certain that I was not ever going to be cool or popular. These kids all had a "look," you know? Hair perfectly cut, straight, long and shiny (even the boys--1973), straight white teeth, nice clothes, upper middle class ("had things"), sort of what I consider to be an "All American/Californian" look, which included at least one Chinese-American kid. Not unusual . You know. The popular ones. It all seemed so..."together." Definitely "other," from my ten-year-old view. Just can't remove that image from the song.

I find that often, as most probably do, with songs from different periods. But for me, since I never paid much attention to that period's music until it was pretty much over, which is when I started paying attention. As that music was becoming "classic" rock and then even the new "oldies" (versus the 50's, which were always the oldies, when I was a kid), that was when I realized, that despite ignoring it, I had absorbed it anyway, the tune parts at least. While my classmates were declaring their favorite bands (Boston, Kansas, CCR, Lynyrd Skynyrd, etc), my little brain was compiling it all for my later use and amazement. "Hey, I know this." But not really. I had just heard it all so much in the background that I could hum it all, but had no idea what they were singing about. Words, schmords! Sort of a party trick. Except that everyone expected you to already know it, of course. Duuuh! But no, I was the kid who put down "Boston Pops and Arthur Fiedler" for favorite band. That's all I could think of. I guess I could have said "The Inkspots" and really sealed my fate. I'd done that already by bringing in an Inkspots album of my father's, which I really liked. You know, another of those embarass-yourself-at-school moments. I remember my teacher pulling me aside to the snickers and glassy-eyed stares of my classmates and softly telling me that she liked it too. I don't remember feeling unhappy or disappointed, just confused. Why didn't they see how cool those vocal harmonies were?? Later, The Nylons would revive the style, which I also thought was great.

Like anyone cares. But, when you're a kid, you do, even if you're running against the tide and revel in a certain brand of geekiness that was definitely before it's time as far as broader coolness goes. That sort of cool would not find its time until high school and beyond. And computers. I don't mean punch card either. It's not meant to be "oh, poor thing" at all. I remember quite vividly how superior I felt my musical tastes were. And broad-ranging. I mean, there was the clearly superior Vivaldi and Mozart (a couple years of violin will do that), but also the Inkspots, some fifties stuff (which was considered cool), folk songs that you learned in music class (which I always loved) to say nothing of the ongoing folk revival and all the stuff you could hear/see on public tv, Pete Seeger, et al, and even some Opera. Clearly superior. 70's rock by itself just can't do it all by itself. Can't imagine. Still. Fill in the blank for whatever popular music available. How could you ever really pick things to take onto a desert island that would last. You'd get stuck with your Pink Floyd--sorry that one just free associated out--and your Mozart, your Trance, your Irish traditional, your CCR and your BB King, when suddenly, you say, "Dangit! I shoulda brought some bagpipe music!" And then you'd throw yourself to the sharks, sadly humming "The Battle of Waterloo" (a great tune) or something. Well I would.

Except I couldn't throw myself to the sharks. Too limbicly disturbing. Hm. Those nightmare scenarios are always more psychologically fraught anyway. Cautionary tale: always bring ALL of your music with you on your ipod. You never know. Desert island and no pipes. you know. Think about it. Or don't...just break out the booze and have...a ball...if that's all...there is.

Yep. Gotta have that one.

First Bite

This is the first entry of my blog. Very boring, but entertaining at the self-absorbed, minute level. Two brain cells worth.