A Return to Bicycling

I've been able to bicycle more than I would have expected this month.  But, let me back up a little bit.  As a dedicated motorcyclist who has toured in all 49 states that are accessible by land, is "bicycle" a typo?

This actually starts with my dogs.  One of the most important times of my day is my daily dog walk.  My current dogs are aged 10, 14 and 18.  The two "younger" dogs are still quite healthy, but on many days, even the 10-year-old can't go on the longer walks I like to take, especially in the heat of the late summer.
I was looking at something to augment my dog walking.  Running sucks; ever since I was a kid I have a knee which is sometimes unpleasant.  And, I've never seen a jogger smiling.  My dog walks are as much about mental health as physical health.
Walking without a dog would be pointless and creepy.  As I've said before, a fat ugly old man walking a dog down a rural road is quaint.  A fat ugly old man walking alone down a rural road is a vagrant.
Indoor exercise such as a treadmill or a gym membership?  I'd rather let lethargy kill me quickly.

The options were limited and I wasn't sure if I really wanted to start to ride a bike.  I had a cheap bike that I used just a handful of times when I was in college - I estimate I rode it less then 10 times.  It was given away when I moved after college.  Before that, the last bike I had was a Schwinn 10-speed that was too small I rode until I turned 15 and bought a Yamaha Chappy and licensed it as a moped (it was technically my first motorcycle since it had a 90cc engine).

I looked at bicycles for quite some time.  To say I was shocked at the price of bicycles would be an understatement.  Used bikes could be bought fairly cheaply, but I wasn't sure if going that route would result in my buying someone else's problem.  I also realized there was quite a bit I didn't know about bikes and buying new would allow me to understand what I was getting better.  Not to mention, that amortized over the life of a bike, the difference in price between new and used becomes smaller.
I turned to bike reviews and online blogs for more information.  What quickly became apparent was that as with many other activities that have a religious-like zeal of devotion, bicycling has some very opinionated jack-asses out there.  Among some of the wisdom entombed online:

• Any bike less than $xxx is absolute trash.
• Any bike brand besides xxx is absolute trash.
• Most bikes are good, but xxx is absolute trash.
• Only real bicyclists need to buy xxx, the rest of the trash can buy any trash.

Compared to other activities I enjoy, the bicycling community is a very unwelcoming.  I was really on my own.

After reading what objective information I could find, I decided buying a decent brand bike was probably a good idea.  I know myself well enough that small things that don't work right can end up being utterly maddening.  I can recall on my previous two bikes how frustrating shifters and brakes that didn't work well were.  

Still not sure I wanted to take the plunge and feeling like a neophyte, I went to a small local bike shop.  The owner was extremely helpful, but recognized my hesitance.  Surprisingly, he gave me brand new Trek Shift bike to try for a weekend, this allowed me a low impact way to see if bicycling might be a good choice in general for me.  Since I didn't want to spend a lot of money, this was also one of the bikes I was thinking about.

Taking the bike home in the back of my truck, I rode a bicycle for the first time in about 20 years.

After a few minutes, I WAS HOOKED!  Why had no one told me how fun bike riding was?

My first ride was quite short since it was later in the day.  My next ride was long enough that it hurt to walk when I got home, especially down stairs.  Take it easy grasshopper...

A few more rides that weekend convinced me that biking was going to be the right choice to go along with my dog walks.  It also convinced me that while the Trek Shift 1 was a capable bike, spending a bit more and getting a bit more was also worth it.

I really did not like the twist shifters on the grip.  The seven speeds on the bike were adequate, but going down hill, I wanted a taller gear, and up steeper hills there were limited choices other than the lowest gear, which was sometimes too low.

Talking with a few acquaintances I work with who ride was of limited, but some help.  My sister who lives in a very distant state rides very often and has even raced competitively for a time.  Her advice:

• Get a bike with good derailleurs or you'll go insane.
• If you might ever go off-road (mountain biking), get a front shock and disk brakes.  Wheel rim brakes don't work very well when wet or dirty.
• If you are only going to ride on the road, a hybrid will be outgrown quickly.
• Specialized makes great seats.

I was looking at three makes of bikes at this point:  Trek, Specialized and Cannondale.

I looked into Specialized and despite the advice of my sister, I ended up not going that route since the only nearby place that sold them seemed more interested in selling me what they had on the floor, not what I really wanted.  They were somewhat condescending and unhelpful to a neophyte. 

I can't say I looked closely at Cannondale since there wasn't much close by to look at.

Feeling somewhat loyal to the shop that gave me the loaner, I chose to go with Trek.  The lineup of bikes form both Specialized and Trek and really very comparable with respect to features and price.  Having the nearby Trek dealer as opposed to the much farther away and condescending Specialized dealer was a huge plus as well in case anything went wrong.  If the situation was reversed, I could have just as easily gone with Specialized.

This left me with what model to choose.  After comparing features of the bikes, I had it narrowed down to the Trek DS 8.3, FX 7.2 Disc and Verve 3.  I'm not following my sisters advice in a hybrid bike, but I wasn't sure if I would be doing any non-road biking and because my back sometimes give me issues; I thought the flatter handlebar would be better than the boy-racer bars on most of the dedicated street bikes.  Besides, many of the roads around the area I live in, especially in Indiana are paved in name only and often resemble rubble with inconsistent patches of asphalt.  All three of these bikes are similar in price, and with only subtle variation in features.  The DS 8.3 has a lot going for it and was the model I eventually chose.  My first ride was home from the Trek dealer; the person who helped me finalize the sale on the bike once assembled looked at me like this was odd (this seems a most logical way to get it home given that it is only about 15 miles).

Since buying the bike, I've been riding quite a bit.  Before the weather started to turn unpleasant I was alternating walking the dog and riding the bike.  I had a hiatus in mid-November due to deer hunting and an atypical November snow and cold weather that stuck around for quite some time.  

I find bike riding a good complement to dog walking.  Dog walking is great for quiet contemplative moments, great thinking time and the dog loves it.  Biking has more going on both physically and mentally.

Weather between Thanksgiving and Christmas had several nice days where I was able to ride more than I expected.  I've found I can ride quite comfortably above temperatures in the low to mid 40s as long as it isn't too windy, and down to the upper 30s if it is somewhat sunny with little wind.  I will probably make an investment in better dedicated clothes at some point in the future, but I can't say a lot of spandex will be in my future - nobody wants to see that.

Other things I've learned since returning to biking:

• I enjoy this much more than I thought I would.
• Going downhill is boring.  Uphill can hurt, but there is a sense of triumph getting to the top - especially if I don't have to resort to granny gear.
• Wind has a much greater effect than I thought it would.  I try to plan my routes with the wind at my back for the return half of my bike rides.
• Most cars are fairly courteous, but a small percentage are out to kill.
• Most dogs are fairly innocuous, but a small percentage are out to kill.
• Google's My Tracks is a great alternative to a dedicated bike "computer" and is free.  I've been using this to keep track of my rides and overall mileage on the bike (it is a bit of a battery hog).
• Riding my bike has allowed me to see areas in and around my township that I've never seen before.  Drawing a 20 mile radius circle around my house, the options for where I can go feel almost unlimited (but I'm already starting to see some roads as favorites).
• Mapometer is a great and simple site to plan rides of appropriate length.  The ability to see altitude is a great feature.

I'm not sure where bike riding will go long term.  I have yet to ride on a day that is 90 degrees F and 90% humidity, but that is a ways off.  I'd love to explore touring by bike, but that is not something to go into lightly.  

For now, I'm really glad the owner of the small local bike shop gave me that Trek Shift 1 to try.  I'm disappointed the biking community seems so closed to new riders.  I'll be doing my best to wear out my Trek DS 8.3 and am looking forward to more consistently good weather next year.

The Best Christmas Gift

Christmas Day, 2014.
I got the best gift ever this year:  Nothing.
No, I wasn't bad (maybe I was).
No, I'm not destitute (maybe I could become so).
Nothing is the best gift because I don't need anything.

I guess there are things I might think I want.  But if they were things I realistically could use, I likely would have bought them already.  I might sometimes say I want a Ferrari or 150 acres of perfect prime hunting land, but those come with other significant expenses built in (maintenance, and taxes and insurance).  Those things are also fantasy, and real life is always more interesting than fantasy.
More stuff tends to clutter life, not improve it.

It is actually kind of hard to think back and remember any specific Christmas; It is a bit surprising that I can't think of anything terribly memorable even about Christmas 2013.
I can remember minor events of past Christmases and even sometimes put those pieces together with the actual year.  Mostly this has to do with what else might have been going on around the same time.

The weather this year has been more typical of late December weather.  Cold rain, resulting in ice and mud.  I'm sure snow is coming, but there is no magic in a white Christmas.  Christmas morning came first at around 2:00 AM.  Thankfully, I was able to sleep a few more hours before getting up, reading for a bit and going on a long, if slightly damp dog walk.
Which, is about as good as Christmas gets.

So maybe a dog walk is something, or maybe it is nothing.
But, nothing equals contentment, which might really be the best present.

Why does everything have to be so awkward?

A concept that I've been pondering for years now is the "End of History Illusion."  Briefly, this postulates that as we look back on our lives, we can see changes that have taken place.  Changes in likes and dislikes.  Changes in interests.  Even some changes in values.  But as we look forward, we assume we've had the last laugh and things won't change much personally in the future.

This past summer, I went up to the area where I used to live, a short overnight trip of a few hundred miles.  I wanted to see some family I hadn't seen in a while and the automotive shop I used to work at was having its annual summer party.  The summer party used to be a big event, drawing hundreds of cars from all over.  Things have quieted down since then and there were maybe just over a hundred cars (actual estimates vary).  I ran into a few people I used to work with.  These are people that not only did I work with, but was also fairly good friends with.  Having not seen these people in a few years, in theory we should have had tons to talk about.  The reality was much different.  The conversations were somewhat forced, the pauses awkward and longer than they should have been; at times we seemed to be mutually searching for the continuation of the topic or what to say next.
There is definitely a difference in where we are in our lives, but I was still surprised by how awkward the conversations were.  One possible difference was the lack of the social lubrication of alcohol.  No doubt with enough beers, we could have rehashed the same old stories.  But, that would be fake.
It is unexpected at this stage to look back on time spent in youth as an uncomfortable teenager and seeing adults who seemingly had it all together, only to get older and see that having it together is a sham.  I'm convinced we are all faking it.  Every day.
It is too natural to expect things to remain frozen in time when we aren't there to see the evolving changes.  I've seen changes in various houses I used to live in and it almost seems like a personal violation.

The extension of this is work "parties" (and I use that term loosely since a party implies fun) and work "happy hours."  These are also forced events.  I hate talking work outside of work so I am quickly repelled by those conversations.  However there are only a few other people at work that I have many similar interests with or I talk much about my outside-work life.  Thus, work "happy hours" become time spent listening to the Gen Y crowd talk ad nausea about how interesting the minutia of their life is.  Work happy hours should be renamed, "hours" since they aren't terribly happy.  There are things I'd rather be doing that more closely approximate happiness.  I'm reaching a point where I, without apology, rarely attend work functions outside of work hours.  And only attend the work functions within work hours if there is some reason I find personally compelling.  Career implications be damned.

I'm not sure if I look back 10 years if I'd say there were big changes in the things I like.  There are a couple big changes I have made that affect what I do and do not do.  Most of the personal life changes have been more refinements, focusing on what I find important and parking everything else in the column of interests.  I find that to be an enviable place as I see others rushing off to regret.

I'm not sure what that means as to the End of History Illusion.
I would actually hope that the next 10 years will have more changes than the last, but I'm afraid that is unlikely unless I change values, which I don't want to happen.  Maybe that is the key.

Breadfruit

The grocery store had a tasting of breadfruit a few weeks ago.  I overheard the produce manager telling one of the employees to take a few breadfruit to do a tasting.  Having never had the chance to try breadfruit, I was intrigued and hoped it would be out by the time I was done shopping.  The employee, an older thin woman, took a few breadfruit quarters wrapped in cellophane to the back.  Several more wrapped breadfruit quarters were on the shelf for a few dollars a pound.

Grocery shopping is an almost intimate task.  I grocery shop at the same place on almost every Saturday morning at nearly the same time.  Not unexpectedly, many of the same employees are working on Saturday mornings, I often see the "morning huddle" near the beer cave and shudder when I think of the horror that efficiency consultants have done.
I also often see the same shoppers on Saturday morning.  These are obviously people who have a similar Weekend ritual to mine.  There is the tubby man in scrubs who I presume is shopping after working at the local hospital.  If he gets there before I do he often buys all the reduced price deli pizzas.  There is the woman with short grey hair and glasses; we see each other so frequently that we often smile and say, "Good Morning."  There is the granola woman I see in the produce department, but nowhere else.  There is the guy that I've decided I probably hate, even though I've never talked with him.  I don't have a reason to dislike him, but I'll find one.  There  are many other nameless people I nod hello to or recognize when I see them.
The grocery store is also a very awkward place to have a conversation with someone.  On my most recent grocery shopping trip, I saw a woman I used to work with and we talked for quite some time about our respective jobs and oddly, guns.  As we parted ways, I was dreading the idea that we might now meet several more times through the aisles as we worked our way through the store.  There is no good social protocol for these situations.  Do we ignore each other?  Do we nod politely?  Do we try to continue the conversation.  Sometimes when I see people I know in the grocery store, I pretend I do not see them for this reason; if we run into each other later in an aisle, we can nod hello or talk without the awkwardness of the recent conversation that was appropriately ended.

I typically like the free trials that grocery stores put out.  I've never been to Costco, but I understand they often have many of these and I heard of one person at work who will go there, walk through the store and never buy anything, but use the free samples as an inexpensive lunch out.  I find this odd since he is a manager at a level significantly above me.  Free lunch meetings at work do nothing to entice me to come since food stability is not something I worry about.  I make enough to pay for my own lunch.

While I often try them, I also find the store free food trials a bit creepy sometimes.  The great unwashed masses, using the same plastic knife to dip into the same plastic container of crab dip shedding who-knows-what into the tepid frappe.   I'm glad the way I live my life has allowed me to develop a strong immune system - I sometimes go back for seconds.
"This stew's aweful good." -Delmar O'Donnell
"You think so?  I slaughtered this horse last Tuesday. I think it's startin' to turn." -Washington Hogwallop
I'm goin' to R-U-N-N O-F-T!

By the time I was nearly done grocery shopping, the older thin produce employee had returned from the back with a tray of cut-up breadfruit and a tin of toothpicks.  I meandered over and tried a cube.  It was terrible.  Stalky.  Woody.  Bland.  Difficult to chew and nearly impossible to swallow.  Despite copious chewing, it felt like it was permanently lodged in my throat.  A few of the woman's fellow employees were also trying to eat it with the same difficulties.  The display was very near the sushi stand and the two Asians who create the sushi came over.  I've long suspected they were not Japanese, but more likely Malaysian.  In broken English, they informed us ignorant fools that only a small yellow part of the fruit can be eaten.  I found this very odd since the fruit is very large and I believe it is a staple in Polynesian areas.  How can so much of a staple be inedible?  How can they sell this for a couple bucks a pound and only have 3% of it be edible?
I've since learned that breadfruit is supposed to be cooked and eaten more like a vegetable, often mashed.  Had the Malaysian Sushi Chefs had better English, they might have told us that.  Or, possibly they saw so much humor in our trying to eat it as we were that they couldn't stammer it out, and resorted to their own language.  We may have deserved it, the produce manager definitely did.  I doubt there was very much breadfruit sold as a result of the trial.

Breadfruit looks a lot like durain.  I've only seen durian in the crazy international grocery store around 25 miles from home.  I used to go there for their beer selection, but always walked through the produce section just to see what was there (and the seafood section as well).  I saw durian there many times.  Durian looks like it can slay other fruit and I've heard it smells like rotten onions or diseased feet.  I'm curious how something described so vile could taste good enough to eat, let alone enjoy.  I don't suspect that it will be used for many food trial displays.

I didn't buy breadfruit and have no inclination to.  Thankfully, the small amount I did try passed through unannounced, despite being eaten uncooked.  Fellow Saturday morning shoppers, I hope things are well.

Welcome Back to the Effluvium

While pecking out my last post, I was undoubtedly wearing shorts and a T-shirt.  Today, I'm wearing jeans and a quilted flannel shirt.  It was also an anniversary as is this week (four years in the "new" house).  The last five months allowed me to work on 30,000 (approximately) words in another medium.  That averages to a pathetic 200 words per day, but with a few vacations and most weekdays consumed elsewhere it isn't quite that tripey.  Call it short stories, call it a novella, call it stupid, but it was something I had an idea for and wanted to do.  Something realized in a sea of false starts.  At times, it was much harder to do than I thought it would be.  I definitely had to be in the right mood, the right frame of mind to work on it.  There were several times where entire sections were scrapped with a quit hit of the "Delete" button, bringing me back to the scary blank page.  Remember how terrifying Word Perfect was when the program was started?  It really was just a blank page with a blinking green cursor.  The Function Keys on our keyboards lie there as relics of that era, fossils of the dead dinosaur.
The project isn't done at this point, but the bulk of it has been created.
The big question is:  Now What?  I'll definitely spend time self-editing; a process I really enjoy.  I may let one or two other people read it.  But, ultimately I'll probably let it sit, terminally ill in Google Drive.  Like most things done outside my paying job, this was done for myself.  I may also go the route of self-publishing.  Since this is a fairly permanent thing to do,even if it is almost by definition done quietly, it is not something to be done lightly.  There is always the option of doing it privately (vanity publishing).

A lot has happened over the last five months, both in real life and the outside world.  I've missed spouting off, but nobody has missed me - which I'm fine with.  My page hits are well over 5000 at this point which I'm pretty shocked by.  Even assuming many of these are automated hits, I'm still quite surprised.

Thanksgiving is over and we're into the "Holiday Season."  There is a stack of Christmas Cards and a letter on the desk behind me, idly waiting for addresses.  Past history has told me these are not actually read by very many people, despite their being succinct (1/2 page, both sides, no more, with space enough for a quick note at the bottom and a font my older relatives can read).  It is important to not take anything too seriously.

So now I can return to pecking out words every week or two (or three).  I often scroll through Blogger's "Next Blog" feature.  Sometimes it brings me to really interesting places.  Other times it brings me down an incomprehensible road.  Ik begrijp niet hoe " Volgende Blog " kan plotseling veranderen languge?
Maybe the Next Blog will be better...

Four Years and Taking a Break

It has been four years since I quit drinking.  I almost forgot about the date, which says something.

The first year was about getting through it.  I was incredibly busy during this time: moving, getting ready to sell the old house, selling it, new work issues.  I thought about it a lot during this time, but with so much else going on my mind was preoccupied, and it helped.

Year two was about it becoming more normal.  I went on my first vacations without it and found them more enjoyable than I could have imagined.  I tested myself a few times and found I didn't crave it, but felt totally out of place in social situations where most people were enjoying it.  The upside to those situations was much less in the way of social blunders, and those that I did make were likely remembered by nobody but myself.  Two years felt like a real milestone.

In year three, things were becoming more normal.  I still often thought about it on hot summer days or boring winter afternoons.  But there was no reason to really look back.

And, now it is four years and at times I'm forgetting about it.  Things are so normal without it that I can't imagine restarting life in that trajectory.

There are two vignettes from well-written books I often recall.  The first is from Neil Steinberg's Drunkard.  He recalls terrible traffic on his way to an AA meeting and giving up on getting there.  Instead, he turns into a liquor store and buys a bottle of Jack.  What is telling about this is that this isn't a compulsion, but a necessity.  It was as if he was preordained to do this.  When I think about this, I know life's events are uncontrollable enough to push things in any direction.  A while back I was driving a route that I have taken for years and thought that if it was five years ago, I undoubtedly would have taken a slightly different route to a store with a sizable selection of great off-shore and micro brews, likely dropping quite a bit of money for an extended weekend.  I laughed at the thought, and never even considered not pointing my vehicle toward home.

The other bit comes from Pete Hammil's A Drinking Life.  At the end of the book, he briefly examines his new reality with the poet Joel Oppenheimer who had also recently quit.  Oppenheimer is quoted as saying, "You won't have as much fun, but the fun will really be fun." (emphasis added - I think).  I originally read the word really as in the adverb very, the fun will be much more extreme fun.  I now see this as word as the adjective "not artificial" which has a completely different but much more lasting meaning.  The fun will be true.  I may not be as interesting without it, and I know sometimes things can be more boring without it.  But, I have more time in my life than ever before for things that are really interesting.  It is too easy with several beers to sit in front of the TV for a couple hours.  It is much more possible to do things that make life truly interesting without imbibing first.

More recently on a cross-country trip in a four-wheeled vehicle I listened to David Sedaris' When you are Engulfed in Flames on CD.  In this book he talks about going to the extreme of moving to Japan for a few months so as to quit smoking.  Simultaneously, he quits drinking as for him the two went together.  He describes one conversation where someone talks not about quitting, but finishing.
I related to this analogy.  With apologies to Joel Oppenheimer, I had lots of fun while drinking.  But, perhaps there was a set quantity I should have in my life, and maybe, hopefully I've reached it.  It is time to move on.

The second half of the title of this blog post is "Taking a Break."  No, this doesn't mean I'm taking a break from not drinking.  I have some ideas I want to look toward which may consume most of the time I often spend at the keyboard.  This may last a few weeks, or potentially much longer.  Taking a cue from Poet Oppenheimer, I want to pursue something which has the potential to be really interesting.  It may not be and there is every chance that it will only last a few weeks, meaning that the nobody who never reads this will never not notice.

At least I can now take the chance to try.  We'll see...

Giving Up My Ghost

It is the longest day of the year.  Nope - every day is 24 hours (sans days with correction seconds).
It is the day with the longest length of daylight of the year.  Maybe, but if it is really cloudy and/or rainy early or late in the day this might not be true.
It is the day where the sun is not below the horizon for the longest period of any during the year.  Correct.

The neighbor had a party yesterday.  As I was walking my dog past, I noticed the balloons, tinsel and a sign announcing a graduation.  I don't know the neighbors well enough to be invited which is just fine.  On seeing the sign though, a historic shudder went up my spine.  Even though I've lived in this house now for over three years, I recall the neighbors at my former house (the boys) having parties nearly every weekend accompanied by noise and unruly behavior a near guarantee.  The graduation party must have happened since I did see lots of cars parked in their yard, but never heard a peep.  Life is good here.

It is about four years now since I started to think about moving.  The hootenanny bar down the road from the old house had two weekends in a row where they hootenanny was really too much and this was coupled with a general inability to sleep; this is not a good combination.
As I occasionally did, I perused the MLS listings more out of curiosity than anything else.  The difference was, I could actually see something in some of the listings.  I knew real estate listings lie, but wanted to see what some of the listings within a certain price range actually looked like.  After doing some drive-bys and stopping at a few open houses, things were set in motion that led to 10 acres.

There have been a few surprises in the not-so-new house, but most minor.  Whereas I used to go to the big box home store every few weeks, and the smaller hardware store even more often, it is now pretty rare.

Both of my first two houses were old Victorians.  To be honest, while I see some benefits to the new house's open floor plan, I love the Victorian look.  Tall imposing ceilings, woodwork that is both ornate and understated.  Rooms are separated by walls and doors; as life was similarly compartmentalized in the 19th century.  A heaviness to the construction that ends in exquisite detail.  The Victorian Era is named for an English Queen, but it is the time period where The United States became more defined.
 "Europe was created by history. America was created by philosophy." - Margaret Thatcher

Both of my previous houses were largely utilitarian, with ornateness only in the rooms originally designed for receiving guests.  As with many other utilitarian structures, they had over a hundred years of "other people's bad ideas."

I don't believe in anything paranormal, but houses wear their history.  While preparing for increasing the insulation in my first house, I went up into the attic.  Despite limited access, previous occupants of the house had obviously used the attic for storage and along with the lath ceiling and years of dust and coal soot I found evidence of the previous lives.  A library card.  A letter requesting employment.  Newspapers and playbills.  Advertisements and magazine cut-outs used as children's doll-toys.  I researched the previous occupants of that house back through the years, until the early 20th century; prior to that, houses were cataloged by occupants names, not addresses so further research was not practical.
The former owners had owned the property for decades.  The woman who lived there died on or near the front porch.  I could hear and feel the history of the house, especially after I moved in.  So maybe there are ghosts, not as bodiless beings, but something we don't comprehend.  Those letters and newspapers were left there by someone and part of them remains.

In his book Giving up the Ghost, Eric Nuzum writes of a girl he saw in his house.  He ultimately attributes this to mental issues.  It was but maybe, just maybe...

Evidence of former owners was also found in my second house, but its history was more scattered since there were many more owners.  There were a few interesting tidbits found, but icky plastic curlers from the 70s and deteriorating hardware form the 50s was more prevelant.  The most interesting thing were the names scratched into nooks in the Victorian woodwork, the hisotry etched in a name on the windows.

While looking for a new house four years ago, the saddest ones to look at were those that had many recent sales.  Thankfully, the county records make finding this information easy.  Every sale seems to bring at least some cosmetic changes and these are not always done with longevity in mind.  In multiple sales, these feed off of the last to create a house that appears held together by a shoestring.

I'm glad the hootenanny bar prompted me to start to look at new houses.  No, the new house doesn't wear over a hundred years of history like a heavy cloak.  There was a small tin in the back acreage filled with playing-card sized paper, it appeared to be something secreted away by some previous boy so there is at least some history to build on, I can delude myself with that.  That history went into the sky as it was burned before I noticed it while cleaning up the acreage in preparation for farming though.
And when I'm honest with myself, geothermal central air conditioning, doors that all close with a satisfying click, and neighbors who have a party that I wouldn't know about if it weren't for some tinsel on the mail box is worth a lot more.

Hopelessly Complicated

It will never happen.  But, indecipherable complication never affected legal principles.  Lawyers write and revise indecipherable laws, meaning we need more lawyers to interpret and further create and revise - an ever expanding circle.

A few years ago I created a video which I posted on Youtube that included most of a popular song.  Shortly after uploading, I got a notice from Youtube that the video potentially contained content owned by someone else and was not available everywhere.  They removed the audio from the video, but informed me that the full video was available in a few obscure countries like Azerbaijan.
That started me down a rabbit hole of looking into what is legal and not legal with respect to Copyright.  As far as I can tell.  Nothing is legal.

"Nothing is true.  Everything is permitted."  Assassin's Creed

Since then, the situation seems to have improved somewhat?  I've had "Content ID Notices" from Youtube and they throw adds on the videos.  This seems fair enough, but despite hours spent reading what I can on Copyright law, understanding the legalities is impossible, pointless.

To be fair, Youtube has done a good job of creating several tools.  The words between the lines still leaves some ambiguity.  I'm not sure how to interpret, "If you're comfortable with a third-party claim on your video, no action is necessary on your part."

The US Copyright Office has a publication that tries to help.  I wonder if this document is copyrighted?

Wikipedia gives a summation of the history of copyright (and everything on Wikipedia is true).

If I had to guess, it goes back farther than this.

I may not be able to use the above image.  BUT!!!!!!!!!!  Maybe I can.  Since I am using the above image to make an educational point about the further complicated legalities and humor involved with a cartoon of a stone age man and a copyright symbol, the use of the cartoon likely falls under that of Fair Use.

And quoting from the US Copyright Office, "The distinction between what is fair use and what is infringement in a particular case will not always be clear or easily defined."

What I find most amazing about this situation are the automated tools for identifying potentially copyrighted content within seconds of posting.  According to Youtube, Content ID scans over 400 years of video every day.  That...is amazing.  

Basically, Youtube has created an automated version of the long-running TV game show Name That Tune and maybe even the never-created TV show Name that video.

Yet even more amazing is that record labels have the time to worry about this.  Scratch that, they don't.  Youtube has over 6 billion hours of video which equates to 684,000 years.  They just have to threaten Youtube and Google creates these amazing tools to scan, block, monetize, mute, etc.

The lunacy of worrying about some dork's personal video using a song in the background removes credibility from the whole situation.  In the several years I've had stuff on Youtube, my total viewership equates to less than 500 views; of videos which potentially may contain copyright material, it is far less than half of that.  An untold number are likely automated hits and not real views.

The situation is even more complicated than Youtube though.  From what I've been able to decipher, using a popular song in a work presentation could be prohibited.  Using a karaoke version might not.  Creating a photo montage for use in my living room might be allowed.  Including a popular song in a photo montage at a wedding reception could be prohibited.  Coincidentally playing a song while showing pictures on a video screen at a wedding would probably not be.  Posting a video of this coincidence online could potentially be prohibited.

And so, we are where we are.  It would be nice to be able to pay a nominal amount to legally use an obscure artist's creative work but the process to do so is ridiculous for the common dork; the cost a complete black box.  I guess Youtube has done us a favor by creating the legal limbo of monetizing videos.  Please click on the ads.

Disclaimers:
Anything stated or implied in this post is not an admission of legally or illegally using material which may or may not be copyrighted or may or may not be used under the principle of fair use.
This posting may contain material which otherwise may be copyrighted, links to copyright material and/or may be copyrighted itself.  However, I am unsure if the copyright is owned by the author or Google or both or neither. 

Taxidermy IS Art

Taxidermy is art.  Anybody who has eaten at the Texas Road House near where I live has seen what bad taxidermy looks like; which demonstrates that doing taxidermy takes the skill of an artist.  Like all art, there are poor and better examples.  And like some other forms of art, it makes some people uncomfortable.
While it might be even be a bit vulgar, taxidermy art is no more distasteful in the wrong place than statues of naked people or a bunch of silly squiggly lines on some canvas.  Taxidermy is also one of the most participatory art forms.  It is one thing to have a van Gogh displayed on the wall, but totally more personal if Monet paints the lily pads in your own pond.

I just got my pronghorn antelope back from the taxidermist in Wyoming.  It looks great and was quickly mounted on the wall in my living room.

I've about reached the carrying capacity of that room, with several other mounts in my home office.   The story behind my pronghorn is retold here.  It is worthwhile retelling the tales behind all of my taxidermy, as the personal story accompanies the art finished by the taxidermist.

"November" 2003

I had been deer hunting on the same farm in Owen County, Kentucky for several years.  This was probably some of the most deer infested property I've ever hunted, but the number of mature bucks was fairly low as due to some specifics of the area, poaching was endemic (heart breaking that a near twin to this buck was poached from the same property the following year).
Finding the property wasn't easy in the dark so I skipped hunting opening morning and drove down during that time.  I got there a little before noon and let myself into the "gentleman farmer's" house as he had given me the key instead of tent camping in his yard.  Even though the middle of the day isn't terribly productive, I didn't want to sit around the house so I nestled into a small thicket of prickers to sit until the evening when I was planning to move to a much better spot in a tree stand.  The thicket overlooked an open area containing a pond, pasture and a few oaks that had shed many acorns.  After a short amount of time, I saw a truck crest the hill of the property across the road, followed a few minutes later by the buck coming up the hill in front of me - likely pushed by the other hunters going to lunch.
My jaw dropped when I saw the deer and I was totally unprepared.  I got my gun up as quick as I could and before he disappeared into the woods.  At the shot, the only instant reaction was running, but he dropped within about 20-yards.
Being my first very large, 10-point, symmetrical deer it was very special and I am glad that my first taxidermy mount was such a great deer.

"Mr. Goofy" 2005

2004 was a very tough year.  Work was terrible and I almost got fired for taking time off for deer hunting (the work I was doing wasn't all that important, but my boss' attitude was something needs to be done, even if it is wrong).  For whatever reason, the deer hunting was also terrible that year.  It is the only year I didn't get a deer while hunting on the farm in Owen County, Kentucky, missing a decent buck which was one of the few deer I even saw that year.  After the season, I decided the next deer I shot would be mounted no matter what, assuming it would be a doe to go along with my gorgeous 2003 buck.
I was hunting with a friend on his newly acquired farm, also in Owen County.  Opening morning came cold with a threat of heavy rain.  As it got light a moderate 6-point stomped toward me; I could hear him 100 yards away.  As he rounded the bend in front of me he looked up at my ladder stand and turned inside out getting out of there.  A few hours later this spike deer came up.  After 2004, I wasn't going to wait and shot him seeing he was a large-bodied deer.  I trailed him down hill and found him near the road.  By any measure he is not a specimen animal.  However, he was definitely an older deer.  His pathetic mismatched antlers were likely due to poor eating, due to a massive overbite he had.  When I had him mounted, I made sure the taxidermist kept the overbite, and he also skillfully created the underside of his upper jaw.

"Carolina" 2008

I had been hunting hogs a few times before 2008:  first in Texas in 2005 and 2007 in South Carolina.  I shot two small (and I do mean small) ones in 2005.  In 2007 I didn't shoot any, but liked the place enough that I was in the same place in 2008.  It was the last day of the hunt and I still hadn't seen anything I could shoot.  The property being hunted is owned by the very wealthy descendants of one of America's "barron" families.  Hogs are hunted on the end of the property that they don't use due to it being heavily populated with hogs and very swampy.  The part of the property near their house was seeing significant hog damage, so Rick was asked to take a few animals from that area, and I was put in a ladder stand there on that last night.
Rick had told me I was likely to see a sow who was missing an ear with two litters of piglets.  True enough, a sow came out early in the evening with two litters of piglets (she was actually missing both ears).  It was both difficult and fun to watch them for a couple hours.  Watching piglets root and spar is something every hunter should experience at least once.  As it got darker, they left and a short time later I saw another pig come out.  I could tell by the coloring that it wasn't the same sow so I carefully brought my gun up.  It was dark by this time and hard to see, but I wasn't too far away.  The lack of light plus shooting offhand after being on a slightly uncomfortable ladder stand for hours made shooting more difficult than it otherwise would have.  The shot was true, despite needing a short trailing job and a finishing round from Rick's .40 (as penance, I later sent Rick a box of home-rolled .40s).  She was an enormous sow, and one of the other hunters in camp christened her "Water Buffalo".  She was probably also the wild hog with the most fat on them that I have shot over the years.
Being my first large hog after several attempts, I wanted to get her mounted.  I decided this after she was being skinned so there was some repair needed, but the taxidermist did a great job.  Many sows are mounted as boars with fake tusks, since sows and boars generally look the same.  This didn't feel right to me so I had her mounted as she was - a sow with a closed mouth.

"Blade" 2009

It was the second night of this hunt (I think) and I was sitting on a very swampy tree stand called the "Feed Lot" on the same property where Carolina was taken in 2007.  I had seen many deer but it was getting dark and the deer had all left.  I heard "stomping" through the muck and new it wasn't a deer before seeing this hog come into the area.  It was a classic, off the shooting rail, clean head shot and he dropped into the mire.  He flopped around a bit, but was dead before he hit the ground.
He didn't look all that large, but was deceptively heavy at 235 pounds.  As this was my first large boar, I knew I wanted to have him mounted.  While caping him for the taxidermist, my knife hit something odd near his spine.  After further work on the carcass, it was revealed that he had an arrowhead and piece of cedar shaft from a traditional hunter that had been in camp a few weeks earlier.  This hunter had thought he had hit a small sow however, not a fairly large boar.
While cleaning him up at the taxidermist's studio, his coloring became more evident.  He wasn't the classic mean black boar, but the range of blonde to brown to nearly black make him a very interesting wild boar mount.  I'm not sure if it is true, but the split hairs he has could suggest a significant amount of European (Russian) genetics.

"Manni" 2009

Bear hunting was on my must-do list for a long time and in 2009 I finally got the chance up in Manitoba, Canada.  I prepared for it as much as I could and anticipated this hunt more than most.  As often happens, the weather plays a role.  While the forecast for that May week I was to be there was for temps in the 70s, things changed quickly and temperatures dropped to freezing and below for most of the week.  There were several other hunters and in camp and none of us were completely prepared for the frigid temperatures.
The cold weather shut bear movement down considerably.  I had seen several bears, including three cubs with mom who stayed in the area for quite some time.  It was a magical experience.  Several guys were able to connect with good bears though.
It was the second to last night and while having the time of my life (the fishing was phenomenal), I really did want to get a bear.  I was on a stand called "Gas Can" that was nearly flooded due to recently passed rains.  I had been sitting most of the evening and the shadows started to play tricks on me as it got dark.  I said to myself, "I wish one of those dark spots would be a bear."  And, one of them was.  How such a large animal can stealthily move is a little scary.  I watched her for a while and knew she was a small bear.  But, being near the end of the hunt, I decided she would do.  One shot, a short run and he died just out of sight after clearing a large deadfall tree.
She was a small bear, but I was happy.  I had the taxidermy done by a large shop Winnipeg.  Small animals are harder to work with than large ones, but the job they didn't wasn't that great.  She is missing the spark that makes great taxidermy great.  But, as my first bear I 'm glad I got her mounted, even if she does look small compared to my other mounts.

"Snowball" 2010

A heinous snow storm was rolling in the day before I was to leave for hog hunting in 2010.  I got to work and tried to concentrate on my job, but kept turning to look at the radar and weather forecast.  Things continued to deteriorate.  When my boss got in, I told him I was taking the rest of the day off to get ahead of things.  After driving home and furiously packing, I left - forgetting a few things in the process.  After a night in a cheap hotel, I got to camp very early and was able to take a decent meat hog on an extra day of hunting.
The next evening we went out and I was sitting on the "hunt club" stand.  I saw many deer that evening until they all looked to my right before bolting away to the left as it got dark.  A few minutes later the reason why appeared in the form of what was obviously a large black boar hog.  He owned the area and slowly meandered around.  It didn't take long for me to get things lined up and hit him with head shot.  He dropped at the shot and flopped for a few seconds like hogs will do after being brained.  As it got dark, I got out of the tree stand and walked about half way up to him.  Seeing he was dead, I turned around to meet back at the rendezvous point.  We drove up to get him after everyone met up and he as gone.  Oh my.
This was one of the few real intimidating experiences I've had while hunting (the other being the sow bear with cubs with sitting staring at me from the base of my tree).  At this point it was absolutely pitch black and we were trailing a large boar into very thick brush.  Rick was a few yards ahead and saw him.  We heard two shots from his .40 followed by the slide rack, "Someone get up here and bring me a f*ing gun!"  Nathan handed Rick his .357 revolver.  Click.  Click.  "What the f* is wrong with this thing?"  I was carrying Rachel's Lady Smith which finished things quickly at that point.  Rick had forgotten to reload his .40 and only had two rounds while Nathan's "trusty" .357 had a bent firing pin.  Hauling out the very large boar was a lot of work.  My shot had been about as good as it gets, hitting the base of the skull and brain which should have dropped him instantly for good; it just shows what tough critters large hogs are.
While I already had a good boar taxidermy mount, this pig had it all.  Very woolly.  Huge head.  Giant shoulders, little tiny butt.  I had to have him mounted.  He was probably the fastest turn around taxidermy animal I've ever gotten since the taxidermist agreed to finish the mount quickly so that I could pick him up a few months later during my turkey hunt.

Turkey 2010

It was the second full day of turkey hunting.  We hadn't seen much the first day despite good conditions and made a ground blind of sorts at the end of a fence row point where we had seen two gobblers the morning before.  We got into the ground blind before light and waited.  As it got light we started hearing some turkeys including some gobbling.  Rick did only a little bit of lite calling, letting the decoys do most of the work initially.  Rick was pretty familiar with these birds and so was expecting them to come at us from behind us to the left and that was the way I was set up with my shotgun.  We could hear turkeys getting closer by the sounds of gobbling, and soon enough drumming as well, but it sounded like it was coming from the right.

With the sounds getting very close, Rick (who was on my right) whispered for me to peer around him to see if anything was there.  I stretched and craned my neck but couldn't see anything and told him so.  He looked out a little farther than I could and looked back at me, pissed off and tersely whispered, "He's right there!".

We watched the gobbler move slowly from behind us on our right in full strut.  It is best not to shoot a turkey in full strut as there is a strong likelihood of destroying a lot of the meat, if not the bird itself.  He told me to get my gun over that way which I did as smoothly and slowly as I could.  

"Are you on him?"

"My barrel is right by your head." I replied.

Rick looked to his left and whispered, "I've had worse."

"I need his head up."

He very, very softly touched his slate call, making just the slightest purr.  As he did this, the turkey's head jumped up, giving me the shot I was looking for.  A swarm of pellets came out of the gun.  The turkey flopped around a bit before it was all over.

Of all the hunting I have done, those few minutes with that turkey so close, trying to get my gun over at it, being close to Rick's head - those were some of the most exciting minutes of hunting I've ever had.

We dropped off the turkey at the same taxidermist that had finished my large boar from earlier in the year.  The taxidermist had chicken, and they were very interested in the turkey, even pecked at.  I was able to bring the turkey home the next year while wild boar hunting.

Bear 2011

This was my second bear hunt and at the same place as the first.  It was a totally different year and I had seen many bear, including a few really nice ones.  I was sitting on the same stand where the previous evening, another hunter was sitting just to take pictures as he had already gotten a bear.  He had seen and gotten a few pictures of a really big furry bear.

I didn't see much during most of the afternoon, but enjoyed being there.  It was right near the rapids on the river and the sound was somewhat mesmerizing.  As it was just starting to get dark, I saw a bear come out of the brush.  This may not make sense, but I knew it was a small bear; yet, for some reason I just thought at that moment I really should see a big bear.  I brought my rifle up and shot it.  As it ran away, I thought, "Gosh, I just shot another small bear."   

In all reality, the bear wasn't that small, but it wasn't even close to the biggest bear I saw on that hunting trip.  This trip occurred after moving to the new house, but before selling the old so money was a pretty real issue.  The hide was very nice and the bear looked good so I ended up deciding to have this one made as a rug.  My local taxidermist is a good guy and does great work, but he often takes quite a long time.  Treating the hide for bear rugs is something he sublets out (I was aware of this) but after my bear went out, the place that had it went belly up.  Eventually, my bear made it to another place for this, but the time between shooting the bear and getting it up on the wall was over two years.  However, the result is really nice.  And, if there is a silver lining to not shooting the biggest scratchiest bear in the woods, it is that a really large bear would not have worked well where I wanted to put this - on the wall over the basement steps.

So each of the taxidermy mounts I have had done have a great story behind them.  The mounts themselves are both the ultimate in participatory art and a reminder of great times I have had while hunting.  There are a couple more I would like to have eventually, but I will, of course, need to wait until after I hunt them, as buying taxidermy is like buying a portrait of someone else's child.  

I am not a trophy hunter though.  I have no interest in going after the biggest, freakishly large examples of any species that many hunters lust after.  What I am most interested in are classic, good examples of what the species looks like.  While I think a bull elk is majestic, or a moose is amazing, any kind of mount of them would overwhelm any room of my house.  So if I ever hunt elk or moose, it will likely be cow elk or moose.  All the fun and experience, and potentially more meat and less cost. 

Regardless of my or anyone's motivations, it really doesn't matter.  Taxidermy doesn't justify hunting and hunting doesn't justify taxidermy because neither really requires justification.

What taxidermy is though, is an art form where involvement is required that also serves as a great reminder of awesome adventures.

Generation X

They told us we were special, but not as special as they were.

This was after our parents told us we could have the world, but forgot to mention we'd have to first delouse it from the 60's.

This time of year brings a fresh crop of interns in at work.  Along with these gogetters, some major work reorganization means there is some evaluation of what new work spaces will look like.  In their infinite wisdom, the people leading this effort took it on themselves to ask younger Gen Y how they thought they would work and what their careers would be like.  If someone had done that to me in the 80's, I would have been very wrong, and thankfully.
What the generation that gave us Justin Bieber thinks is not only self-serving, but simple-minded and contains a lack of awareness of what 10 years of a less-than-ideal economy has created; a generation that has not had a real job.  I say that with full acknowledgement of the horrors of Tiffany and New Kids on the Block and yes, we can always blame Bieber on the Canadians.

I don't really believe that generations exist.  Since children are born every year, there is a broad continuum, not discrete groups.  But, I'm smack dab in the middle of Generation X and fit more of the stereotype than I care to admit.  The Lost Generation.

My parents were divorced and I came home with my siblings to an empty house.  We were the latch-key kids.  Actually, I rarely came home as I was usually working; a fat kid washing dishes at a bakery.  The jokes are too easy.

Our parents gave us Ronald Reagan.  We liked him if our parents did.  He broke communism.  He bankrupt communism first, and almost ourselves in the process.  The terrible side effects to the end of Gorbachev was the loss of a common enemy.  No longer was the Soviet Union the acceptable enemy in every movie.  We had to search for new enemies, but none worked as well.  While the actual end of the Soviet Union didn't happen until I was in College, prescient people saw that walloping an aging dog with a piece of an iron curtain wasn't going to work for much longer.  Red Dawn tried to use the Cubans and Nicaraguans as the enemy - it didn't matter that it didn't work.  We were raised on the threat of nuclear annihilation and we needed an enemy.  If education didn't save us, our desks would as we drilled on the art of Duck and Cover.
In 1986 Rutger Hauer went head to head against Gene Simmons using Arabs as the enemy.  An enemy without a state isn't quite as easy to rally behind - or without a state that political sensitivities will allow.
Thankfully Indiana Jones continued to chase the Nazis.

Our parents gave us the internet, but only after they couldn't figure out what to do with it.  We weren't sure either, but were not saddled with the thought of the internet only being a different form of print.  Smart people thought to create web pages devoted to scientific experiments with Twinkies.  Our parents tried to take that away.
We all started mass emailing jokes and sometimes pornography - the first social network.  This was while Mark Zuckerberg was still just another dorky middle school kid.
We used Usenet to do inappropriate things (and sometimes learn stuff too).  Even long after Usenet has been supplanted by more advanced web-based features, school and corporate filters never stopped it since they didn't understand it.  Like holding on to a cherished childhood memento, I still have the .exe file to install Forte Free Agent.

We were the last generation to have real winners or losers.  All trophies were not almost the same.  Even the person who was judged to have played best at the piano recital got a larger cheap metal head of Beethoven; the rest of us got cheap plastic heads of some guy named Brahms.  The winners of the soccer tournament got a trophy, the rest of us got soggy orange slices from reused plastic bags out of a cooler.

We were the first kids who were taught that cigarettes would kill us from day one, but lots of us tried them.  We second-hand smoked packs of cigarettes anyway, before anybody knew what that was.  Our teachers obviously didn't think that much of our intelligence as they snuck down to the boiler room to smoke during recess.

We were all moved behind the barricades for the fireworks.  What our parents refused to believe was that it was boring back there and the Crystal Flash gas station sold fireworks to anyone.  Even better fireworks could be bought from the older son of the junior high art teacher.  Never, has the rare tip from delivering newspapers been so important as when roman candles or enormous strings of lady finger fire crackers can be purchased singly.

We went to arcades because they were so much better than the Intellivision or Atari that some of our friends had.  For a few quarters, we could entertain ourselves on Spy Hunter or a vector-based Star Wars.  If anybody was there with money to burn, we could watch them play Dragon's Lair; but the two dollars in quarters was too much for most of us to pay for three quick deaths.  "Drink Me" was the only level that was passable to a neophyte.

Riding bikes without a helmet is now taboo.  Kids in a car without car seats (not to mention seat belts) is illegal; very few kids born today will know the joy or riding cross-country in the back of a station wagon or sleeping on the floor of a blue VW microbus (yeah - that was us).  On second thought, that would only have been joy if the people in charge could have been a little more civil.  Sun-tan oil probably still exists, but SPF5 is seen as risky now as opposed to being 80's overcautious.

Parachute pants are long gone (are they?) and the last Space Shuttle flight is grounded long after Challenger killed Christa McAuliffe.  Crockett and Tubbs are vague memories while Sonny (the Congressman) is dead.

The hangover form the 80s is about over now, although I'm not sure I'll ever be able to smell peach schnapps again without shuddering a little.  The Brat Pack are nearing the half-century mark.  The black white guy that gave us Thriller turned into a nut-job, a drug addict, and is now dead.

I guess the crowd that grew up not knowing a world without email addresses, and not knowing a "portable" phone that weighed several pounds and costs dollars per minute to use might have something important to say.  Maybe.  But for a while, Generation X, raised independent to a fault will continue to do what needs to be done.

You talk like a Rosicrucian, who will love nothing but a sylph, who does not believe in the existence of a sylph, and who yet quarrels with the whole universe for not containing a sylph. - Peacock, Nightmare Abbey

Short Stories

I just finished reading a book of short stories.  Merriam Webster's word of the day a few weeks ago was "Walter Mitty" defined as: a commonplace unadventurous person who seeks escape from reality through daydreaming
Reading the origin of the term was from a short story by James Thurber, I felt the need to read the origin.  My local library had a book which included The Secret Life of Walter Mitty among other titles.

Short story books are good to read when there can be lapses between starting a finishing a book.  Every story is an end to itself and if any of them aren't very good, it won't last long.

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty was very short, and not terribly interesting. But a few other short stories from the book made the time spent worthwhile.  I'm surprised a movie was made out of this, I may have to look for it as well?

An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge is a story I knew about, but had not read.  I think we were shown a movie short on it in junior high school.  I'm familiar with the writing of Ambrose Bierce mostly through short quips and musings, reading something slightly more substantive was interesting.  The story is morose, but inventive.

The Pearl by John Steinbeck was also a good read, if not particularly fun.  The story is inventive, with many parts that tie together only tangentially.  I have not read The Grapes of Wrath as it is sort of over my usual length limit.  I may have to revisit this the next time I know I'll have time and energy to read it in entirety.

While not contained in the recent book, a few other short stories have made an impression on me.

T.C. Doyle's After the Plague is a little disturbing, bringing together love, hate and death all in one story which is both uplifting and a let-down at the same time.

Barn Burning by William Faulkner is like a shortened version of A Walk on the Wild Side by Nelson Algren.  One short story and one book that tell a similar tale, but altogether different.

No discussion of short stories is complete without talking about A Boy and His Dog by Harlan Ellison.  This was made into a movie starring Don Johnson.  The movie is good (a true guy's movie if there ever was one), but it defaced the story.  The end of the written short story brings a different feeling to the final scene in the book.  As is almost always the case, the book (or story in this case) ends up being much better than the movie.

True to the genre, this posting is short.  I'd say I can follow this up with a fictional short story of my own, but given that no one would ever likely read it I would then be acting in the way of a true Walter Mitty.

2014 Triumph Trophy Part II

There is no better way to wring out the good, bad, great and ugly of a motorcycle than to take a multi-day trip on it.  Even better if the weather is a spectrum of perfect to heinous.  Mission accomplished.  I recently got back from a few days away on my (relatively) new Triumph Trophy SE.

I'm a member in a couple motorcycle online forums and a lurker in many more.  It is easy to sit back and read post after post about how terrible any given bike/marque/brand/model is.  There are slightly less posts how a given bike is the last word; the best never to be bettered.  The two most polarizing bikes, Harley Davidsons and BMWs seem to represent the best and worst of this - castigating every flaw with a motorcycle while remaining fiercely brand loyal.  There is a dearth of honest reviews from real people.  While most motorcycle magazines will point out issues encountered, the overall honesty is often in question since manufacturers also advertise in said magazines - although sometimes reading between the lines can point to bikes that may have less-than-desirable features.

The reality is, vehicle manufacturers go to great lengths to build, refine, test, and market motorcycles while balancing what a very broad array of people will want as well as balancing cost, manufacturability and repairability.  The result is almost always a sound bike built for a target.  The balancing act means that nothing will ever be perfect for everyone.  But, being content in the middle ground is a good place to be.  The big watch out for people is to not buy something if it isn't really what is wanted.  If someone wants to tour, a CBR250 probably isn't the best choice.  If someone wants to go crazy fast, a Sportster probably shouldn't be high on the list.

So a few days ago I found myself several hundred miles away from home parked in front of Hotel Room 6.

The trip away from home was threatened to be hurt by inclimate weather, but it remained dry the entire time.  Thinking back, what I noticed most about the trip away was what I didn't notice.  Compared to my ST1300, there was very little fatigue in my back or wrists.  While not as comfortable as my Goldwing, the bike was wonderful for the several hundred miles.  This is especially important given my mode of travel is to go-go-go with stops only for fuel or the relieving of biological function and every effort is made to have them infrequent and occur simultaneously.
The trip north did have a significant east wind.  This resulted in amazing fuel economy when going west, but was a constant battle when going north.  Fighting the wind as it ebbed around terrain changes made the last few hours tiring and I was happy to be done for the night in Room 6.

I spent a couple days away from home before heading back on only a slightly different route.  Half the trip home was spent in rain which ranged from light to torrential.  Again, the Trophy did a marvelous job, keeping the adjustable windscreeen in the sweet spot to allow good protection from the weather and still being able to see over it was easy - I've always been a proponent of never looking through a motorcycle windscreen.  Since I also own a Goldwing, I cringe every time I see some dude on a GL1800 with a picture window size aftermarket windshield - ugh...

The second half of the trip home was dry, bordering on hot.  So the overall trip gave a little of everything.

There are probably only two small issues encountered that were real for this wring-out.

Cruise Control
The cruise control on the Trophy worked wonderfully and I'm sure having it helped with the lack of fatigue after many hours on the bike.  The cruise control on the Trophy can be deactivated by hitting either brake, the clutch or rolling the throttle off.  This last feature is a really nice way to turn it off when coming up on a situation which requires it, but it was a bit sensitive.  On a few occasions, the combination of wind gust and hitting a road bump in just the right (wrong?) way turned the cruise control off by my bumping the throttle forward.  In theory, this isn't a big deal as a slight movement of my right thumb resumed speed control.  In practice, it was frustrating.
Given that I've used the cruise control in many other situations without experiencing this, I'll attribute most of this annoyance to the high wind and gustiness.  I haven't seen it on my trips to work or other instances when I have been using cruise control.  A slight adjustment of my hand position did help as well.

Antenna
The stock antenna on the Trophy is troublesome.  At the right combination of windscreen and antenna position, it is fine.  And, both do adjust - the windscreen electrically for wind protection and the antenna angle moves mechanically.  In the wrong combination, the wind deflected by the windscreen hits the antenna resulting in violent movement of it (that might be a bit of an overstatement), at times resulting in a Galloping Gerdie oscillation (definitely an overstatement).

Luckily, the fix for this is pretty easy.  The stock antenna unscrews with a male m5 thread on the antenna base.  This is a fairly standard antenna fixing, so a trip to Autozone resulted in a shorty replacement.

With this replacement, I am nearly certain that regardless of windscreen position, there is almost no chance that the antenna will wag around, even remotely.  So far, I haven't noticed any significant difference in radio reception either.

And, I actually like the looks of the shorty antenna a little better!

2014 Triumph Trophy SE

We were introduced on April 1, 2006, but the story starts a year before that.

On an early spring day in 2005, I suddenly realized I had no choice.  I needed to buy a sport bike.  I already had a Harley Davidson Electraglide, so the sport bike was a significant departure.  I can't explain the logic, but I had no choice in the matter.
A bit of searching showed a lot of sport bikes quickly get beat up pretty bad.  Recalling an in-passing conversation with a coworker the previous fall, I contacted Matt who confirmed he was selling his 2001 Honda VFR.  A few conversations and a test ride later and I bought the low mileage bike for a fair price.
I doubled the mileage on it that summer and loved it.  There were two real problems with it though.  First, I couldn't carry anything outside of my pockets on it.  The lines on the bike were gorgeous and the thought of destroying it with beetle bags or scratching the snot out of the rear end with textile bags was horrifying.
The second problem?  I was always getting into the triple digits on the bike.
Of all the motorcycles I have owned, that VFR had the best voice.  The growl from the exhaust under a heavy throttle at speed combined with just the right amount of whine from the gear-driven cams combined to an intoxicating sound.

The next spring the VFR had to go.  On a glorious April 1, after contacting many Honda dealerships the plan was to start close to home and ride until I found the right combination of price and trade-in.  I sealed the deal at the second dealership I went to and rode home on my new 2006 Honda ST1300.  This was the beginning of a strong friendship.

That ST1300 grew to become my best friend.  I commuted on it most days during three seasons.  I had impromptu trips to see friends or nowhere in particular.  With a humongous gas tank and reasonable mileage, I could leave home and arrive at Terry's house in Northern Michigan without even stopping.  Helibars was about the only modification that the bike needed.
I went through a lot during that friendship, even killing my second deer while on two wheels.  On the good days, we had a constant conversation through throttle, brakes, seat...  On the best days, the bike was an extension of me.
It was not an easy decision, but at some point I knew the friendship needed to come to an end.  I would often find myself far from home with a desperate need to get home fast which would mean long hours on the interstate.  Not having cruise control could make this painful even with the Helibars (I had grown fond of cruise since I also owned a GL1800 which replaced the Electraglide).  A few other reasons helped my eyes move toward new bikes; while an amazing bike, the ST is a bit long in the tooth, and Honda's recent direction of new bikes can generously be described as odd.

There were really two bikes I considered to replace the ST1300, bikes that had the minimum of what I was looking for:  The Triumph Trophy SE and the BMW R1200RT.
The nearest BMW dealerships are almost two hours a way.  Even my born-in-Germany die-hard biker acquaintance described both of them as sub-par (he surprisingly chose Buell until they were folded by Harley Davidson).  And, I'm just not ready to feel that proud of myself and say, "Yeah, I'm a BMW guy."
I had cut my teeth on British cars, working as a line mechanic on aging sports cars descended from the crown.  I paid for college on Lucas electrics, bad gearboxes and questionable front suspensions.  I love British vehicles, quirks and all.  There was no choice.

A few visits to nearby dealerships and a down payment later brought a new 2014 Triumph Trophy SE.
I picked up the new bike on a warm very-early spring day.  The 'wet' in the picture below is melting ice in the shadow of the garage I had to survive.  Interesting friendships almost always start out with a story.

True to British form, there are a few quirks compared to the refined ST1300.  Everything is computer controlled and it takes rolling a few tenths of a mile for the computer to fully sync up.  The most interesting manifestation of this is that after refueling, the bike needs to think and decide if more petrol was put into the tank before displaying the new fuel level.
But, the bike is lighter, faster and more agile than the ST.  Compared to the ST, cornering on the Trophy feels more like the vehicle is right on the balls of its feet, ready to spring where I will it.  The computer is filled with a wealth of information and a quick flick of my left thumb can ease my paranoia toward low tire pressure.  The various combinations of suspension make more difference than I would have expected, and much more difference than the rear preload on the ST1300.  Wind deflection is more pronounced with the windshield up and still free flowing down; I just wish the antenna was stiffer so it didn't violently bounce around when the windshield is set to push air toward it.

It was hard to sell my best friend.  But, I'm starting a new friendship and that is always exciting.  I am on the cusp of creating many new memories with the 2014 Triumph Trophy SE.

More Stuff Tends To Clutter Life, Not Improve It

Wednesday is garbage day.  The catharsis of being about to put just about anything I can carry out by the road and have it disappear by the time I get home from work is wonderful.  The cost model seems crazy though.  It costs the same amount for me to throw away my one average plastic bag as some of my neighbor's enormous weekly piles.

I've lived in this house now for about 3 years.  When I started thinking about moving (well before it was even close to reality), I started looking around at all the stuff I had accumulated.  Much of it was fairly well organized, but much of it was also rarely used.  In the house I had stuff stored in the basement, a storage room in the attic area and closets, drawers, etc. with more rarely used stuff.
In the garages, I had even more.  The smaller garage was a 2-story and the second story was a sorry state of equipment, building materials and general mayhem that I kept "in case I ever needed it."
Before moving, I threw a lot of it away - for many weeks I had mountains of garbage to rival my neighbor's.
It was hard to throw away some of my treasures, but as moving became more real getting rid of stuff that had sat for so long felt pretty good.
After moving, I was determined to not let it get to that state again.

Over the last few weeks, I've been reorganizing some rooms; making better use of the space in the basement and allowing for a "guest" bedroom - which really means a bedroom for me most of the time.  This prompted some second looks at what has not been touched in the last three years.  In place of much of the borderline garbage at my old house, this time it was mostly usable.  I frankly didn't have the energy to sell much of it, and didn't want to landfill it...yet.  There are many people who have not yet learned the third rule of life.  I thought about putting stuff like complete fishtanks including wooden stands on Craig's List, but I really don't relish the idea of people who want free fishtanks coming to my house.  I put them on the bulletin board at work and the response was frightening.  I can only hope the stuff brings them more pleasure than it did me, sitting in storage for years.

Since I rarely dress in anything but casual attire, a recent wedding prompted me to look at some clothes, my nice clothes that rarely get worn.  I realized that after sitting for so long, many of them had smaller stains and a general very dingy appearance.  I was keeping them only because they were expensive when I bought them, but in their present condition, I would never be able to wear them at the times one might need sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes.  They are in purgatory until a wash determines whether they should be kept or meet the big truck on a Wednesday.

At the same time this is happening, I also find myself unable to throw away stuff.  Furniture from the room to become the guest bedroom is now in the basement and the pole barn.  If I was truly able to live what I believe, I'd have a bonfire.  The end of Windows XP means the perfectly functional computer I am typing this on will eventually become a security risk, albeit slight.  It isn't powerful enough to run Windows 8; can I justify the cost of Windows 7 for the remainder of its support life?
Microsoft is encouraging the increasing of piles of stuff.

More stuff tends to clutter life, not improve it.  I often find more enjoyment out of getting rid of something that hasn't been used in a long time, over buying something new.

Often...