The REAL time in a bottle

This is what my day's last Culinary Adventure contained (thanks to a coworker for that perfect word combo!). It began with trying to conquer the poached egg. Alas, a second failure, despite having googled advice and technique from the internet. I even got brave and used balsamic vinegar, but that just made a more colorful mess as the whites ran a muck in the roiling stew of water. Patting it all back together with a slotted wooden spoon made for a pathetic little pile of goo in the plate. Not unpalatable, but not right and definitely overcooked (that part was my own fault, I have a feeling, as I didn't want to toss the mess into cold water to stop the cooking). Everybody out of the pool!

So, I end my day with something less predictable, but more prefab. I'm really just trying to stay awake after my graveyard into this morning so I can flop back for more, though different, in the morning. It's harder than you might imagine, to stay a demotivated lump on the couch after being up for more than a day, thoughts of productivity dancing in your head, AND still stay awake. It's the kind of thing that seems reasonable right up to the moment the key hits the lock on the way in the door. But, with a little help from my darling, coffee, and, later, my long-time associate, Dr. Pepper, the battle is nearly won. That and some lively Facebook posting has kept things humming along. It really is better to be up in the late evening. I don't care what other people say.

Now, why is it that I feel like I'm going backwards in my so-called career? Well, my friends, a "regular" schedule will do that to ya after a few years, I guess. Event stagehand work is like being on a never ending hamster wheel, no end in sight, even when the LED is shining directly into your eyeball and they are slapping you around telling you to go home already. Just because it is a "different event" doesn't mean it's not the same hamster wheel with the same shavings and alfalfa pellets. Since I've never quite gotten it together to get any goals going, I guess I might have already arrived and didn't know it. As Peggy Lee sang, "Is that all there is?" Only my feet hurt, so I'll pass on the dancing for now. Just pass the monkey butt powder instead. Gee, thanks. Yeah, it's a brave new world even when it's the same old shit. Strange. And yet, oddly familiar.

Thinking, the Real Endangered Theses

The first interesting headline of my day: Irish Atheists Challenge Blasphemy Law.
 (In Ireland, blasphemy is now a crime punishable by a €25,000 fine).

They did this by posting a list of so-called "25 Blasphemous Quotations" including selections from everyone from Jesus to Mark Twain to George Carlin (this last being one of the most terrific ones of the bunch, though all are quite good reading). Simply amazing. And yet not, sadly. You may follow the following link to read them all:

http://blasphemy.ie/2010/01/01/atheist-ireland-publishes-25-blasphemous-quotes/

Having arisen at the crack of post-noon, enjoying the last of my week of recent vacation with a heavily milked and saccharined (welcome, new word!) coffee, I feel privileged to have the luxury to be able to read this list and story. Although the list is not earth-shattering, this is a view not widely shared through much (most?) of the world, obviously. Even though I again despair at the idea of such crazy thought control as law, I only have so many despair molecules anymore. I've long ago understood that we will not all just get along. Especially because of those who do not like those who fail to toe the line of religious belief. And, despite the yearly exercise in holiday shenanigans surrounding whose season it really is and why and how, I tire of the relentless onslaught upon the tiny minority of actual atheists. It's not that I feel personally singled out even. I do still feel compelled on occasion to remind individuals within "the presumptuous masses" that, while I may not celebrate with religious displays, nor necessarily agree with the salutational yoga that often is represented as "political correctness" gone wild (a redundancy?), I too can enjoy the various other seasonal celebrations without being hammered with the baby Jesus. Besides, does anyone really believe that Americans would really enjoy the season en masse as we do without the rampant economic consumption and displays that DO NOT feature Christian religious symbols? Oh, cultural history, me must again fish you out from under the collective rug and dust you off…

Is it politically incorrect to call all of the endless hoards of unrelenting, attention whore, religious believers "wackos" (that is the nicest term I can muster)? Perhaps. But there are so vastly many more of them than non-believers, it seems a fairer observation than the reverse (ooh! reverse discrimination, ye ugly head has risen!). After all, despite their constant and voluminous press calling out their favorite  traditional whipping boys and girls--witches, pagans (aka "devil worshippers") and atheists--it really is all the "other" denominations that are their usual and far more powerful rivals in all things high religious and civic dudgeon. This gives some comfort, I must admit. They are so much more numerous and diverse. It reminds me of the famous Martin Niemöller quotation ("First they came for the Communists…"). I have come out many times on behalf of others in conversation and, trust me, it is not fashionable, nor common. It reminds me of the rapidly disappearing Yankee spirit, which includes the idea of religion being a private, personal thing, not a public sleeve-adorning display to be foisted on others.

My personal philosophy is keep your hands to yourself, keep your religion to yourself and mind your own business. I think that is an eminently workable and reasonable modern way of attempting to live, even as we are ever more subsumed in glitteratti gossip at every turn. Of course I would. And it allows for others' to carry on as they please without stomping everyone else into the nearest pew. And, I simply do not understand why such basic golden rule living seems to have gone so out of style, except for the idea that we as human beings apparently always know better than the other gal. And it drives us mad that others' have other ideas and ways. It really does. Or, at least, a large percentage of us seem to. It's when these masses begin to make a boarding house reach to my plate and abode and body (!!) and try and tell me how to live that I get twitchy. I feel myself becoming positively pugnacious. I can never have enough rocks to throw. And I know I am in the minority, always, which makes the rocks more important than ever. Thank goodness I am not also a pacifist. In most other countries of the world I would either be dead already, or in prison, or an outcast (soon to be dead and/or in prison, therefore).

This brings both an odd sense of undeserved good fortune as well as the obligatory despair. And that brings us back to the beginning: Thinking and ideas versus blasphemy.

And on that note, I believe I will take full advantage of my place, time and privilege to enjoy some moderate consumption and take in the last of the day's light. Too much depressive thought can hinder further thinking, after all.

I'll leave you with the George Carlin quotation:

“Religion easily has the greatest bullshit story ever told. Think about it. Religion has actually convinced people that there’s an invisible man living in the sky who watches everything you do, every minute of every day. And the invisible man has a special list of ten things he does not want you to do. And if you do any of these ten things, he has a special place, full of fire and smoke and burning and torture and anguish, where he will send you to live and suffer and burn and choke and scream and cry forever and ever ’til the end of time! But He loves you. He loves you, and He needs money! He always needs money! He’s all-powerful, all-perfect, all-knowing, and all-wise, somehow just can’t handle money! Religion takes in billions of dollars, they pay no taxes, and they always need a little more. Now, talk about a good bullshit story. Holy Shit!” (George Carlin, 1999)

It's Aliiiivvvve!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas, Poor Buell Blast…

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

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

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

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

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