It's Aliiiivvvve!

It occurred to me the other day that when I am really upset, I cannot compose my thoughts. It is like panic. It feeds upon itself and soon you are jibbering in a corner, talking to the dust bunnies. And there are many dust bunnies in this household. Metaphor? Yes. Reality? Alas, also yes.

So, when a well-liked co-worker suddenly died a couple weeks back, I was thinking, "hey, a serious topic for my blog." But, now I don't think so. It would be a great thing for a personal journal, probably. And I know there must be those blogs out there that are essentially the same as that, only public. But that is not for me, despite all the public blubbering that I do on the occasion of every funeral I attend. That I cannot help, it seems. I have tried. And, I admit, except for music of any kind, when I become inexplicably Pentacostal, the religious portions do cause my head to clear so that I can again practice self-control while contemplating those little hinged thingies that everyone likes to kneel upon at random intervals. This is the true meaning of saving grace.

You see there is no such thing as an uncontrollable, emotional outburst of a blog. You may think you see some evidence of this, given the state of the online content out there, but no. And you may be the biggest geek this side of the Silicon Valley, but you can control your blog. Trust me.

So, on this occasion, I thought I could channel this energy (*cue the woo-woo music*) into my much neglected blog. No can do. I could not find the words. It felt so meaningless. Despite what the religious will tell you. Despite what we all do to try and give it meaning, in order to derive some comfort. There simply is none. Possibly why it is so maddening in the end. Literally. It just is. And no one can tell me that there is a otherworldly "plan" or "reason" for a 35 year old to just die of leukemia.

And here I am doing what I said I could not.

But in the wake of that horribleness, I realized that what I could write about was a reconnection, not a terrible ending. Just yesterday, while wasting more precious moments of my life flopping about on Facebook (yes, I know), I found an old friend listed under a name that I should have known all along he'd use. We're talking an almost 25 years ago friend, someone from college. Then, this morning, he called. It was an amazing thing. It was like talking with a ghost, honestly, a ghost from my past. Almost not my past, but someone else's. I've never understood it when people say "it seems like only yesterday." Often even yesterday doesn't seem like yesterday to me. But twenty-five years? Another planet. I had antennae and walked on six legs back then. I have pictures.

How do you compress nearly a quarter century into an hour and a half conversation? They were mostly the reader's digest versions. But, that didn't matter. My memory has always been terrible, so there was a lot of reminding to do on his part. But the important part was that back then we had a lot of fun while running about trying to educate, find ourselves and get our social bearings simultaneously. There was a fair amount of Peyton Place in it too, as I do recall and try to remember when I observe my much younger co-workers winding themselves around the mystery of it all while trying to hold down a job that bestows many a bizarre schedule on a weekly and sometimes daily basis.

It was an oddly familiar pleasure. Talking to him, I felt small echos of the simple fun and exhilaration we used to have with the most mundane things and situations. Of course, some of it was fueled by extracurricular substances that enhanced the experiences, but I found a tidbit of bona fide nostalgia creeping over me. In many ways, back then, it was like being a two year old, for whom every little thing is a great new thing or show to behold. Only better, because you were a proto adult and had control over where and when and what you did instead of being put to bed by your parents at 7 pm. But that was another life, a communal one that allowed one to exist in a glorious privileged bubble, reinventing yourself as you went, opening the cookie jar whenever the mental munchies came upon you.

I didn't realize that I missed it anymore. I missed him, and all of the technicolor exuberance and crazy possibilities, all compressed in a tiny college petri dish. All these years later he summoned it back, just a bit, in between the years of sadness and loss, running, searching, and finally moving on. I remember feeling the loss of community upon graduation. Acutely. A rarefied four years gone forever. It was a kind of agony to dwell on it, even with the array of tattered feelings and charred bridges strewing the exits. In the end there were no Hallmark moments to cast a glow over us. Just a couple of middle aged cackles ruminating over our long ago shared past, and trying to fill in the second half a lifetime. He knew most of the words, the names, and places, while all I could remember was the decay of the metaphorical music. But I guess that's pretty good, considering.

No wonder I blubber at funerals. I may give them up soon.

Alas, Poor Buell Blast…

The bike that was my first real motorcycle has ceased production, I found out today. That's it, the little cube in the picture (well, not MY bike). Although it wasn't a classic and it was underpowered and guys with small weenies liked to make fun of it (mostly in the safety of print) and there weren't many of them out there, and it did get curious stares often, I did love it. Oh, yes, I loved my little Reflex too, but not quite in the same way. The scooter was sleek, refined, smooth and needed no additions; it was a complete blue work of art.

My little Blast was more wart-like. But simple, basic. It was a steal, used, and had a mysterious starting/back-firing issue at first that the illustrious HD/Buell mechanics failed to solve. Instead, a denizen of a terrific little online forum offered a simple solution that resulted in a bike that, while still a burbly, tater-tot-sounding single, an itty bitty Harley, ran like a top after that. It was a little, lightweight but bomber piece of naked goodness. Yes, I made my first offering to the bike-eating juniper with my little Blast. Discovered the true horror of freeway rain grooves. My first adventures in cosmetic mods and their addictive qualities, not to mention the meditative satisfaction of simply polishing, gazing and contemplating the possibilities, were had with my Blast. It was not fast, but could turn on a dime, if you would only do the balancing. It ate twisties for breakfast, if you were only brave enough to let it run wild.

If I had never had visions of freeway riding of any consequence, this is the bike I would still have. Self preservation at speed in crazyland called. The lure of the "road trip" and the call of the modern Huck Finn adventure called. Yes, the dumb but vast super slab was whispering my name. So much easier to hear when there are no doors and windows around you. Strange siren call. Still I took my first road trip with my Blast, even if it ended badly and solo with double luggage strapped and stacked onto every last millimeter of its little pillion space. It was my ride up a harrowing late-night, chilly, black twisting pass of sudden and fierce gusting winds, after a long, too hot day of sweat, and too many extra unplanned miles. Not to mention the crash. My first ride, nonetheless.

Apparently Buell feels that the Blast does not deliver the proper message or impression of the entire line that is its bread and butter: American Sports Bikes. Too bad. I thought it was a great intro bike myself. I didn't give Buell a second thought originally; they were ugly. Cruiser dreams only. Then, unexpectedly, the ugliness grew on me. Somehow the oddity began to appeal. I don't think I would have ever given Buell another thought if it were not for the Blast (the Lightnings are über ugly I still think).

So long, Buell Blast. You were my wee potato mobile for a formative riding year. My first moto-crack high. You taught me how to handle the basics and even appreciate that 360 lbs was lighter than I thought was possible, even as I had to huff you up out of the grips of the evil driveway shrubbery one day. Another first. Sweet dreams.

Couch, Thy Name Is "Aaaaaaaaaaa!"

Again, my journey to the center of the couch is complete. My journey to the center of the bed is not. Again. I was goin' along so well, and then, $6 mil later in Mafia Wars, well, my concentration was shot. Long email to an ailing co-worker and friend, some digital pillow fight, some nice game loot...I almost succumbed to another round of custom domain. I'll take that up tomorrow perhaps. Only $10/year! I remember when it was $35...**rests on her gnarled cane, stroking her single Hungarian chin hair**(ok, two...bah!) How could I not? The only thing that pops up under "eclectic duckbite" is an ANCIENT (can you say 13 years old???) music linked page from my original HTML-slinging past.

I have not tried in a while, but, in years past, I have tried to remove it, but the path of corporate ownership has gone and it is now floating about, disembodied, old dead email link, little baby face, without any culpability or editing in its near future. Waaaaaaaa! Just like the little animated gif baby I made so long ago. Can you tell what is going on with her? I thought it was cute at the time and now it is like the digital living dead. Ahhhhhh! Yep. Maybe I'll go on that wild goose chase again.

Bring on the popcorn. This could be entertaining.

A Floor with a View

This is a little bit of a surreal shot of one of my favorite positions: horizontal. All you salacious minds can just stop right
there…

Yes, from this view it appears that I have elephantitis in my left leg. It is also a view I neve see since that would require some effort to rise from the fabulousness that is prone.

It is my first phone entry in quite a while (see Snoopy, earlier).

Had an outstanding second day off with some relaxation, a lovely ride along Santiago Canyon, a movie on the fly, some nice BBQ and a
sumptuously sleek and dark ride home, that felt otherworldly and hypnotic and seemed to go on forever…

It almost did too, since after a while we became worried that we were goin in the wrong direction (stupid Irvine!). But, thanks to a little
pause for an iPhone moment, we were back on track. Despite the momentary interruption of "are we getting there?" this is the kind of night that makes you want to just ride into the night and not stop until the sun begins to slip the suggestion of color before you, then slide into some dark and cool bedding and not rise until the sun sets again and you are off. Mmmm…

Couch Surfing

Here I am again. Ensconced on the couch. It is sunny and looks a little breezy and I am full of tacos. But it is a perfectly fine way to spend the second of my two days off. I wonder if others look at their "weekends" this way? Probably not. Straight from the old contract. "Second of two days off."

Hoping I can get the motivation to pry myself up and take a ride. Oil freshly changed, chain freshly lubed and even the chain guard freshly cleaned of its accumulated gunk. That is how I spent much of my productive time yesterday (first of my two days off). It's not rocket science, but more of a meditation, I find. It's the journey, not the destination. The slow journey. I need some more stuff to make it a little less goopy on the cement outside the garage. If I could just get a few more weeds to grow into the cracks, I could always park it over them and they would catch the drippage. 'Course they also might catch fire after all that, which would be a sight indeed: a motorcycle over a hot weed fire. Not so very nice. Another perfectly good idea gone into the dumper.

This touches on the subject of "the small things in life." The "being" part (versus the "human doing", as someone said). I've been concentrating on the merits of this idea for quite a while now, as it has always suited me, but I have struggled against it for a great many years. Less stress with the "being." This translates: whatever seems good to be doing or not doing at a given moment is fine. Enjoying it? Valhalla. The should's and could's and what-not are immaterial. It's not a perfect system, of course. Ya gotta do certain things eventually. It's just that the list of "things" gets remarkably smaller and less important. Like all those appalling emails that seem to be so popular amongst older folks (65+...creeping closer and closer) that exhort one to "dust less, enjoy life more!" These are the very people, I think, that have spent most of their lives doing all those other things that "had" to be done: cleaning, fixing, straightening, doing all the kid-related stuff, appointments, and on. Especially the former: cleaning. Not like your regular cleaning, from what I have surmised, btw, but the kind that used to be the norm for your garden variety housewife of 40 years ago.

I guess if it had been me, I'd have been the recalcitrant, smoking, diazepam-taking, crabby wife whose house didn't quite make the grade, as judged by "the other wives." I never did chew all the way through the "Feminine Mystique," but the pages I did get through gave me the idea vividly enough. Not hard to figure out where the mystique came from: boredom and dying life aspirations. "What are they THINKING and what do they really WANT??" Uh, I'd like some real mental stimulation and a whole adult life. No mystery there. Unless you figured women were not really human beings in the same mental sense. I happen to know someone whose life was shaped by that bifurcated social reality. I lucked out, I suppose, between the era and my childhood. Choosing between the abundant possibilities was the more pressing concern to me. Not that it wasn't also clear that there were still "limitations," societally speaking, like funding for school sports and and who was asked to move tables and who was not (e.g. physical abilities). That would be a long diatribe whose time is gone I think.

As usual, time marches on and so does "progress." At least in that area a bit. The possibilities open more each day, I think. But, it is really what the individual conceives for herself, isn't it? That is my strong suit, though I have scaled things down a bit, just out of laziness. Laziness is a luxury, I've come to realize. This sitting on the couch stuff and pondering the stories of the day, the things I might buy to help me on my way, the discussions over motorcycle projects & plans, or just inane banter, the communication with others in email and Facebook and even a dumb game or two (yes, you, Mafia Wars).

Where is the sunshine in all this? It's not only out there, right where I can see it, through the picture window, but also as a state of mind. And that's a good way to wrap up this post.

Moving On

My much neglected blog.

It's been more than a year since I sold the Buell and Reflex and bought a Honda 599. It was in sorta sorry shape, but, as Michael says, I saved it. I've dolled it up to my personal fit and taste and now it is a singular beast. It even has its own UFO on the back.

But after having frothed my way through most of the year chomping on the bit of accessories and minor modifications, I've hit a bit of a slump with the warm weather. Today I actually got up off the stick and got the bits for an oil change. Starting back in with the basics. It's been so hot my mind has just left it and wandered into the freezer. No longer. Today I rode into work and it was gloriously cool for the 10 minute freeway excursion. Thanks to my fabulous Olympia-poke-your-eyes-out jacket, the venting kept me from melting completely on the long way home on side streets.

My new facebook/mafia wars fascination has kept me from revealing all here in my blog. Poor "old" tech. Along with actually exercising regularly, I'm going to turn over a semi-new leaf and make an attempt to actually post to the blog every now and again. Maybe even look up the necessaries to post from the old iPhone. We shall see. Perhaps inspiration will strike.

Coming topics I have thought to write about, but haven't: My motorcycle, or More obsessive behavior; People I Know are Dying All Around Me; Enjoying the Small Things: A Cynics Oddly Uncynical View; What Is Wrong With People? To The Bottom Of The...and others that I have yet to remember and/or think about. I don't even know if anyone is reading any of this, so, I won't feel as constrained, except that perhaps my parents might remember that it is here and pop in (well, maybe Mom and my brother).