3/20-21/2008

3/20

6:00 am: Wake up. Tidy apartment; water plant; take out trash; walk to bus stop.

6:37: Bus to airport arrives.

7:00: At airport. Immense lines.

8:20: First flight to Baltimore overbooked, no seat.

11:00-ish: Second flight to Baltimore overbooked, no seat.

12:00 pm-ish: Reconsider strategy. Hop on flight to Tampa.

6:00-ish: Arrive Tampa, get seat on flight to Islip, Long Island.

11:00: Arrive Islip. Get ride on shuttle to train station, train ideally to take me to New York City (Penn Central, because it’s the Long Island Railroad) in time to get to Grand Central (which is Metro North, the train line to Connecticut) in time for a train to Stamford. Shuttle takes me and three others to some train station in Nowhere, Long Island, where we all freeze our assses off for half an hour on the exposed platform.

11:35: Train. Annnd…it’s a local. Makes two stops before stopping in Babylon, where we switch to another local. The second train stops approximately once every three blocks all the way to Manhattan.

3/21

1:30 am: Arrive Penn Central. I know there is a subway line, called the shuttle, that goes between Penn and Grand Central. I stop to eat some pizza (why is even the most casual NYC pizza better than that done elsewhere…?) before trekking through the tunnels to the shuttle.

1:45: Turns out the shuttle does not run between the hours of midnight and 6:30 am. You have to take the A, C or E train (two of which are not running, I forget which ones) down to Times Square and then get the 7 train crosstown to Grand Central. Fair enough. I count six rats on the tracks while I’m waiting, but disappointingly, only one is longer than six inches (not counting tail). The unheated subways are chilly: not face-flaying sub-freezing cold, but rather a steady cold that settles into your bones and takes up residence in your muscles, making you shiver. Even my ass was shivering.

2:10: Arrive Grand Central. A policeman informs me the station is closed. It closed ten minutes ago and there are no trains to Connecticut. The station will reopen at 5:00 am. Return to Penn Station. By the way, at that hour, the subways contain 75% of the alien life forms shown in the Men in Black movies. I counted.

2:45: Get a coffee at a Starbucks (!!) in the bowels of Penn. This is no time to be slacking off.

2:55: Starbucks closes; I’m ejected. Back up to Penn. There are no seats or benches. Hello floor. The next two hours are kind of surreal owing to the scenery and the wandering spirits that inhabit it. The men’s room has a big sign right when you go in explaining all the rules. And as soon as you enter the washroom area, you can observe each of them being broken.

4:45: Back into the subways for another trip to Grand Central. Hopefully a) it will be open and b) there will be a train to CT.

5:25: Success! Terminal is open–and deserted at this hour, providing a nice view of the Grand Concourse–and I get a ticket for a train to Stamford. Naturally this is a local train, making all stops.

5:35: Train departs. Moment of weakness. I’m tired, dirty and cold. If she were here, I’d rest my head on her shoulder, inhale her smell, close my eyes and drift to sleep on her softness.

6:45: Arrival Stamford, dad picks me up at the station. Soon, a hot shower fixes 2/3s of the ‘tired, dirty and cold’ problem. Not owning a scale I use theirs; I weigh less than I thought at 146. Same as in my freshman/sophomore years–too light, need to eat better & exercise more.

1:30 pm: Recover Tiger! Spend next hour ridin back roads of CT and southern NY.

2:45-ish: Tiger in garage, going over with fine-toothed comb, also install handlebar risers for improved control and comfort, also arrange with friend John to install engine guards (crash bars) tomorrow morning 10:00.

4:00: Watching TV, first time in two months: HBO’s series on John Adams.

7:00: Eat a pasta dinner and drink half a bottle of wine.

8:45-ish: Robert E. Lee once stayed awake, scouting, reporting and leading troops, for over 50 hours in enemy territory during the Mexican-American War in 1848. Owing to my delicate constitution, after only about 40 hours awake, I fall asleep.

Away

Time to get moving again. I think this latest trip will be something like 2,500 or 3,000 miles, enough to propel the Tiger right into its next oil change. Life, moving…

Subdued

So no posts for a while. Sorry. My job search has been busy though fruitless. I’m getting ready for my cross-country Tiger retrieval ride. The weather here is improving so I’m spending more time outdoors. I’m meeting some terribly interesting people.

Don’t get me wrong–there’s still plenty of reasons to be outraged at what’s going on and what people–especially, these days, our government–want you to buy. The latest? Well, news is full of Chinese suppression, as if anyone sane would’ve expected them to behave any differently, and the Federal Reserve’s bailout of some of the wealthiest men in the USA. Your tax dollars at work, folks. But this is another case of me letting it go because I need to focus on what’s closer to home.

Judge

SO the ridin gaijin girls and I went to the Fiery Foods Festival this past weekend. (Please note however–any references they make to cooking demonstrations are 100% bullshit…) gaijin girl #1, at 12 years old, is very adventurous about trying spicy foods. gaijin girl #2 is just 8 but will try anything mildly spicy. (They rock!) We had a great time at the show.

We found ourselves walking past a Buffalo wings sauce purveyor. “Try our sauce!” a guy called out to us. “We invented hot wings, can you believe it?”

Out of the blue, gg#1 replied,

“No.”

Whoa! The guy looked at her in amusement and surprise. So did I. Where’d that come from? He pressed on: “Well, it’s true. We invented hot wings. You don’t think so?”

gg#1 came back with, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. But, no.”

He grabbed a glossy brochure and thrust it at her. “Well it’s written down right here. Read it and you’ll see…”

She didn’t really want it. I could tell exactly what she was thinking. She was thinking, You could write anything at all on there. Why should I believe it? Eventually, to be polite, she accepted it. She didn’t really care if he claimed to invent hot wings. She just thought it was really unlikely, and she wasn’t prepared to take his word for it.

Well, I have no idea where she gets that attitude from…but I sure love it when a gaijin girl thinks for herself.

Dull

News- and media-loathing-wise, it’s a dull Friday. The presidential election looks like it’s going to keep grinding along regardless of its near-total irrelevance to you and me. The economy continues its apparent descent into some sort of stagnation, doldrums, snit, funk, whatever. Commodity prices are up, including coffee and of course oil, driven in part by the perpetually weakening dollar. The LA Times is running a weak story on how much rich people pamper their pets–this is news? No one with any sense at all gives a shit about Prince Harry in (or out) of Afghanistan, and your home is still worth less than it was when you bought it, if not more so. Even the marketing rags and the Wall St. Journal don’t have anything new and interesting to write about. It’s going to be a sunny 65 degrees in ABQ today and I’m feeling too good about life to really generate much in the way of homegrown loathing.

When you take into account the above, the big picture is gloomy. The best possible thing you can do? Ignore it altogether! You can’t do anything about it anyway! Why worry? Focus on the people around you and the things that are meaningful to you.

So go outside. And be alive this weekend!

Nature

A comment on my sex and puppies “marketing is stupid” post defied me to sell laxatives using sex or puppies. Okay. Let’s do laxatives. We’ll make one up called “Nature-Ease”, which we’ll say is an organic laxative suitable for children, in smaller doses, and adults, in larger ones.

Magazine ad (full page):

Full-color photo of a puppy looking wistfully out of a window at a sunny, green lawn outdoors. But the window is closed; the puppy’s looking out from between the panes.
Caption: When you’d really like to go…
Copy: For those times when you’d really like to go, but just can’t…Nature-Ease will relax you the natural way. Let Nature-Ease transform your discomfort into freedom. Our organic laxatives are formulated from nature’s ingredients, so it’s gentle on your system, and are recommended by doctors for adults as well as children as young as five years old. Nature-Ease will get you up and around again!
Small photo, inset at bottom right: the same puppy, running around happily in the sunshine
Product photo
Organic logo
(Small print: cautionary statements, disclaimers, etc.)

Easy.

TV commercial:

Same breed of puppy, sitting in a corner on a hardwood floor, looking forlorn. The lens has a slightly sepia filter.

Voice over (a woman): Are you feeling…stuck? Can’t get up and around? Sometimes we all need to get up and go…[sad tone]…but just can’t.

Pan back to a living room, clean, nicely furnished. Sepia filter quickly fades out. Predominant colors are white, pale blue and pale wood. A cute little girl is sitting on a sofa, looking unhappy. Her mom is next to her, looking concerned. The mom is a total MILF.

Voice over: When you’re unable to go, don’t worry. There’s a remedy close at hand. And it’s all natural, so it’s gentle; and doctor-recommended, so you know it’s safe.

In a sunny kitchen: mom leans over the counter to offer daughter a teaspoon of Nature-Ease. The bottle is shown prominently on the counter. The girl makes Bambi eyes and gratefully opens and swallows; mom’s blouse is undone to the third button.

Voice over: With Nature-Ease, you and your loved ones can relax. Our special formula works in just minutes, delivering an organic, natural remedy…so you can get on with your day.

On the kitchen floor: the puppy cautiously noses its water bowl; then eagerly starts drinking.

New location – the yard – a sunny lawn. The indescribably cute puppy is happily playing with a ball.

Voice over: Nature-Ease is the all-natural laxative, carefully crafted from time-tested ingredients, so you know it’s right for you and your loved ones. (Then the voice does all the medical disclaimer stuff about consulting a doctor, not getting erections or whatever.)

The little girl and the puppy are playing tug-of-war with a fluffy doggie toy. Product picture fades in at bottom right of screen as announcer concludes,

Voice over: Nature-Ease. The natural way to get yourself up and around again!

Fade out

Yeah, I still need a job. So fucking what…?

Meltdown

Consumerist has a really weird little stick figure slide show explaining the sub-prime mortgage meltdown. It uses bad words and gets pretty funny around slide 28. Just suffer through the investment banking part.

Moving

I’m eighteen years old, a sophomore in college. My major is Japan Studies, and I decide that in order to really learn Japan, I’ll tour it by motorcycle. I bug a senior until he teaches me to ride dirt bikes. My parents are uneasy but they give me a leather jacket for Christmas. Using the money I’ve earned at holiday and summer jobs, I buy my first bike, a small Yamaha, from another senior named Colleen. The feeling of riding is breathtaking, liberating. My freedom of movement depends only on something I can fix myself. It’s a marvel, and every time I get on the bike, something lifts me.

I’ve just turned twenty. I’m taking my junior year off and touring Japan. It’s a far more demanding place to ride than the US, and through constant challenge, my skill level is way above what it would have been had I not come. My possessions are limited to what will fit on the machine, and that’s a wonderful feeling, freedom through restriction. It’s December, in the middle of Tokyo, and a car has just made a perfectly legal but incautious right turn in front of me. I hit his rear door hard enough to crumple it and bend my forks. He never saw me. The police arrive and determine the driver is at fault. While his insurance company arranges repairs, I, battered, take the subway to a friend’s. On the train I meet a Malaysian girl and we become passionate lovers for the week it takes the shop to fix my Suzuki.

I’m twenty-one, back in the States, and it’s summertime and I have the best job I ever had—maybe the best I will ever have. I’m a security guard for a huge private estate in Greenwich, and my job is to patrol the woods and fields on a dirt bike. I’m equipped with a walkie-talkie and a pair of binoculars. I also bring to work a birding book and a lunch, and for this I earn $10.00 an hour. When I check the boathouse on my rounds I stand still, arms spread, as swallows dart and swoop perilously close trying to chase me away: featherlight miracles of speed and maneuver. There is nothing more I can ask of an employer. I’ve just rounded a corner on one of the small, curvy roads bordering the property, and right before my eyes a young girl comes around the turn way too fast and flips her car. It comes to rest on its roof, a bulky sedan with its wheels still turning, like a turtle on its back trying to get up. I help her from the vehicle and seat her by the side of the road—she’s unhurt—and while she has hysterics I radio for the police. I give them my statement when they arrive and then ride back into the woods.

I’m thirty-one and soon to be a father. I’ve ridden constantly since I was eighteen. But now my wife wants me to stop, for the baby. I’m in grad school and money is tight, so I agree. We’re in frosty upstate New York anyway, far from the Southwest where we used to live and the riding was good all the time. I sell my current bike without regrets. Those come later.

By the time I’m thirty-eight it’s all different. We’re back out West, in New Mexico, the owners of a struggling small business. Two daughters, now. I ask my wife the Question, and she doesn’t say no. The next day I borrow someone’s Yamaha sportbike and go to the motor vehicle department to get my motorcycle endorsement. I haven’t even sat on a bike in the intervening years. I pass all tests with ease. It’s literally like I never stopped. The balance, the control, the smoothness…it’s all still there. It was sitting in my brain and my muscles, just waiting to be called upon. I buy a new motorcycle, my first brand new one ever. This begins a couple of years of intense riding, all over the West, long, long solo trips. Something is pulling me into the spaces where I’ve never been before. Meanwhile my marriage is fraying and I never see it.

I’m forty. My finances are in shreds and I’m living with my parents back in Connecticut. My wonderful, wonderful children are living all the way across this big country. I still have the bike. I’m coming around a corner on a back road near Ridgefield and the van right in front of me loses control, overcorrects, slams into a pole, and flips over. I swerve—plenty of room—kill the engine, slam down the kickstand, and dash over to help the people get out of the van. It’s hard to get the door open, car doors are heavier than people think and lifting them up overhead takes effort. The police arrive and I give them my statement, and then ride home.

My bike has almost no chrome on it and it’s kind of a weird design, but it’s so tall that I can see ahead over traffic, and I can see what you’re doing in your SUVs when you should be paying attention to the road. And to me. Full-face helmet, Kevlar and carbon fiber gloves, ballistic nylon jacket with augmented armor, and work boots are the minimum gear I ride in. I took the Motorcycle Safety Foundation’s Basic and Advanced courses; they were easy. The street is the challenge. When I’m riding, there’s not room for anything else to happen. I fear you, I want to escape you, I can’t get away from you. This level of alertness consumes me when I ride. Open places are rare but they pull like magnets.

The news tonight had another story about a motorcyclist killed. Forty-two year old guy, wearing his helmet, not speeding. Car turned in front of him. “It was probably turning left,” I say absently. My mom watches. I know what she’s thinking. I’m thinking, He should’ve been watching for the left turn. That accident I had in Tokyo was the last one I ever had on a motorcycle, all these years. I know I’m good. Very good. Because I’m very careful, always. I don’t believe in luck, but I do believe in the odds. Is there an accident out there, waiting for me? Has it been biding its time, patiently, all these years? Are the near misses brushes of its finger; gestures; flashes of impatience? Or merely reminders that it hasn’t forgotten about me?

I’m getting older. In a couple years I’ll need glasses. My back sometimes aches after a workout, or for no reason at all. I can muscle my tall bike around with ease. But in fifteen years? Twenty? Still, it pulls me. The bike is pulling me, past where I was, always beyond. It’s so good when I ride. I wish I could explain it to you. It keeps owning me—not just the motorcycle, but the reflexes inside me, the ones that never quit. I don’t know why they’re there. I guess sometimes I wish it would stop. One day, one way or another, it will.

[Edit - written November 2007] 

Labor

More evidence that humans are, as a Cornell acquaintance doing post-doc research in NYC once put it (only half in jest), “genetically designed to be half-starved laborers.” A Harvard study of over 2,000 men commenced in 1981 has found that old men are likely to live longer if they: watch their weight, exercise regularly (and apparently, the harder the better), avoid diabetes, don’t smoke, and watch their blood pressure. The men were 72 years old when the study began…suggesting that it’s never too late to start helping yourself. Go you!

rrrg.

Well, this week’s not starting out quite so well as previous ones have. My temp job out at the casino is over, but I’ve just found out the planned replacement (more money, in ABQ) won’t happen. Hmm. That’s a little tense-ifying…what to do?

1. Pay next month’s rent now, while there’s money in the account.

2. Buy tickets for the kids and myself to ALT’s production of The Complete Works of Shakespeare (Abridged) now.

3. Worry about future…and join a gym.

Yes, as the four of you who read this mess regularly know (actually, make that three of you, ever since the oddly overheated Katarina B. was invited to take a powder), exercise makes (practically) everything better. But which gym?

There are plenty of attractively priced choices, but I don’t want to drive to a gym to work out. Yet Albuquerque is so sprawled that there are only two choices within reasonable jogging distance. I can’t fix the city’s sprawl–not without a large and enthusiastic demolitions crew and access to a merrily obscene quantity of explosives–so I’ll have to use my feet. New Mexico Sport and Fitness (or something like that) has a downtown location geared towards corporate accounts and rich people. $229 to join monthly and then $78 per month. Otherwise $78 per month with a 12 month contract. Ugh.

So it’s off to UNM, where a friendly Anonymous person from Duke City Fix suggested I look into registering for a weightlifting class. Moi? Yet more education? But apparently the deed can be done for $10 admissions + $190 for an eight week weightlifting course. OR $190 for a 16-week course in something else; but I need to look into whether that something else has to be one of those awful things where you have to show up on time at a prearranged time. {shiver}

Anyway. Pay now, while there’s cash, and work out the stress. Something better will come.

P.S.: Fun Fact: The word “Nickels” is misspelled on every parking meter in downtown Albuquerque. You fucking idiots.