Monday, June 30, 2008

Weekend with the Dweez

Ah, another weekend gone. Hot days of riding all over town, carrying heavy things, walking a bike in to get another tire repaired, and relaxing evenings of soccer, SNL with the late George Carlin, and music.

Decided to record from 3 cassettees of every song I have written. 200 in all. Just guitar, drum machine and background rumble.

But to top the weekend, took a trip to Barnes and Noble. Had just been there last week, so not much had changed. Wasn't looking for anything in particular, but wandered into the movie section. Buy 2 get one free. OK, let's take a peek.

"What's this?"


I had just send the Dweez play his daddy's songs in the spring and was very impressed by the accuracy. The boy also has his dad's cherisma. The half grin like he knows the joke that all of us are missing.

So chuck down a couple of bucks and go home with the Dweeze.

Pop in the DVD, sit back with a cool drink and enjoy.

Recorded in Seattle (home of the mudshark), it is a fast paced, good sound (options of stereo or surround), tight cuts, and zooms to follow the action. And there is action. These boys and girls are enjoying themselves and the audience. And why not? They have rehearsed. Note for note they are dead on. Pop must be proud.

Haven't seen the second DVD yet, but the first one made me smile.

So I highly recommend you enjoy FZ's son continuing his father's Open Mind policy. Take a listen and enjoy.
Spend a little time with the Dweez. Keep the music alive. Music is the best.

Would you vote for this guy?

He may be the real change agent.

Friday, June 27, 2008


On my ride this morning, there was no people out. It was very quiet. Just the whiz of my tires on the pavement. It's almost spooky for a town this size to have no one awake at 6:00 a.m.

Then I saw a woman walking her dog. She just kept looking down and the dog plodded forward.
As I turned and went down Hanover I saw another person. A young jogger enjoying the coolness of the morning. With i Pod in had, she paced herself toward me.

And as we passed, she smiled. And it wasn't that "look at the funny old dude riding his bike". It was a pleasant smile. A smile that said "I acknowledge you and it's nice". A greeting smile. Just a happy smile.

A little further up the road, I passed another cyclist. A young woman with a back pack. She looked over and also smiled.

A smile can make a day. It started mine out right this morning.

When things get hectic this afternoon, I'll think of those two girls' smiles. I'll never know their names or probably ever see them again, but I'll remember their smiles.

Pass it on. Smile at someone today. 8^)

Thursday, June 26, 2008


Everyone lives a routine. It's the habits that hold our world together.


5:00 - 6:00 a.m. Wake up at sunrise.

6:00 - 6:30 a.m. Get dressed (same clothes as yesterday), right shoe first, tie back the hair, grab a cap, put on glasses and go outside.

6:30 - 7:00 a.m. Strap on a helmet, gloves, backpack, walk up the alley to the street, judge the weather and the day, peddle to work.

7:00 - 7:30 a.m. Shower, brush teeth, shave, change clothes (professional look), and start the work day.

7:30 - 9:00 a.m. Check emails, get tea (green with jasmine, orange, and passionfruit), and iced water.

9:00 a.m. - 11:00 a.m. Work on clean up fileservers, backing up files, transferring files to online servers, troubleshooting, preflight, and other network stuff *

11:00 a.m. - 11:30 a.m. Get another cup of tea and water. Have a oats and honey crunch bar. Read the paper online.

11:30 a.m. - 1:00 p.m. * More of the same, yet always different

1:00 - 2:00 p.m. Lunch. Usually soup, crackers and water. Check emails and Internet.

2:00 - 4:00 p.m. * with a little more rush for deadlines.

4:00 - 4:15 p.m. Another cup of tea and water.

4:15 - 5:00 p.m. Finish up the day. Pack up the back pack.

5:00 - 5: 30 p.m. Back to the basement to change back into street clothes and pack lockers. One with clothes, one with shampoo, soap, socks, underwear, shaving materials, and hairbrush.

5:30 - 6:00 p.m. Ride home. (Tonight in 97 degree heat)

6:00 - 7:00 p.m. Change bikes. Drink a bottle of water. Change the helmet to a cap. Take off the backpack and gloves. Ride to the grocery store to buy animal products, cleaning products, crappy chicken, and some sort of libation.

7:00 - 11:00 p.m. "News Hour" and other PBS shows in Mansland. Eat crappy chicken. Play music (either recorded or live). Computer = financial and music.

11:00 p.m. - 5:00 a.m. Sleep (unless the project is so interesting, it could last all night)

So one day, shake it up. Get out of the routine.
Go a different route. Start with the left shoe. Don't watch television.

But these are the usual sequence for a set of activities that are unvarying or boring repetitive.

It just another life.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Morning Conversation

The time is 6:00 a.m. I stand at the end of the alley, pack on my back, gloves and helmet strapped on. Already the temperature is warming as a haze fills the air from a fire 80 miles away. And so I start.


"Stop having so much fun going down this hill, we are just starting."

"OK, what do you want to talk about?"

"Don't know yet. It's too early. Haven't found the day's rhythm."

" What music shall we hear?"

"Rebecca by Flo and Eddie keeps coming to mind."

"Ree beck A Ohh Ohh!"

"Look at all the sprinklers."

"Yes and check the joggers, where did they all.... squirrel on the right."

"Got him."

"What about that girl..."

"Oh grow up and get over it."

"Yeah well.."

"Car behind us."

"Got him."

Pause at a stop light. Been in the zone so far.


"What is that?"

"Silence, with the occasional bird."


"Let's go."

"It's nice out here in the morning with no one around."


"And.... pant.... up.....pant....the....pant....Jefferson....pant....hill...."

"pant.... pant...."

"Pretty time and hardly broke a sweat."

"Re beck A...."

"Oh shut up, it's time for a shower."

and so it goes, just another life.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

From a ShirtSleeve(cliff &/or joe, 1966)

I've been told it makes no difference how old, you are
It's not so sometime a girl ought to go, so far
You say, whose she
How old, she be
My God! she's young
Too young, for fun
I hope not,’cause I need some.

Here she comes, she looks so good, but yet, so young
You think you might make time with her that would be wrong.
You say, whose she
How old, she be
My God! She’s young
Too young, for fun
I hope not, ‘cause I need some.

She tries to make you think she's old, you know, she's not
But still you go along with her, for what she's got
You say, whose she
How old, she be
My God! she's young
Too young, for fun
I hope not, ‘cause I need some.

Dedicated to: Val, Vicki, Robin, Sindey, Dusty, Dabnet, etc.

How To ReachA Peachy Keen Beach (cliff &/or joe, 1966)

From this town I went away
I couldn't have stayed another day
I thought I'd go to the beach for fun
Lie in the sand soak up the sun
Now daytime there was quiet all right
But, ever more right were the nights
On a blanket with a girl
But, I had to return from that fabulous world

People thought we were strange
But, we're still just the same
The beach it has not changed us
From what we were

It's true I wore my hair kind of weird
My friend he even grew a beard
But me and my friend were just out to please
If it hadn't been for "Miss Cream cheese"
He and I would have been all right
But, as it is we stayed up all night
Leading a band, felt sort of woozy
Fifty kids demanding "Susie"

People thought we were strange
But, we're still just the same
The beach it has not changed us
From what we were

My girl said, "Why don't you take off your hat?
Oh, you were hiding that
Hair that hangs down on your back
Go right now and get it cut, jack!"
Our clothes we tried to wash to begin
We had to burn them in the end
But now we've fallen into line
Wearing Sunday suits singing "Sweet Adeline"

Dedicated to: Seashore State Park, 1966

Monday, June 23, 2008


A few weeks ago I was having brunch with a few friends at a local eatery. We all agreed to met around 11:00 a.m. I rode down into the Fan about 10:45 with plenty of time to spare. Since it was a wonderful spring day, I enjoyed the slow ride through the streets of row houses way over priced. I locked my ride and walked into the establishment.
After announcing the reservation, the wait person pointed to a corner and said, “This way.”
I stepped forward and then WHAM! I stopped and pulled back.
Since I just walked in from outside I still had my sunglasses on. The interior of the eatery was dark and I had walked fast step into a chair.
The wait person, realizing I had suddenly stopped and was bending over in pain, asked, “Are you alright?”
I shook my head and hobbled forward. My leg felt pain, but it did not buckle.
As I took my seat, I changed my glasses to see the group being assembled before me. I smiled the cat smile. More of a grin than a smile.
After ordering drinks, we started small talk, which really did not work well in a packed room with tin ceilings. I could not hear from across the table.
As time proceeded, I could feel the blood oozing down my leg to dye my sock. Now and then I would shake my numb leg. Then the blood started sticking to my jeans to form a clot.
An hour and a half rolled by and we auntie up our potion of the bill. Then it was time to stand up.
I thought my leg might buckle, but it held. Each step was a searing throb to the outside world.
We bid our good byes and parted ways.
I hobbled to my bike, unlocking it and wondering if I could peddle. The first sweep was fine. Actually it was better. A different pressure and bend.
That night, as I took off my jeans, the scab separated to show a golf ball size bulge. It felt hard. Had I broken a bone? Or was it just a clot that would flash to my heart ?
After several days the swelling had not gone down and the purple bruise appeared. Several people asked about the injury. I laughed it off. Rub some dirt in it.
On the third I began to be concerned. A band aid had not cured the problem. What should I do?
The ocean. Salt water is the best doctor. So, for a day I went to the beach to soak the injury in the mother earth. And sure enough it is going away now.
We can handle a lot of bodily pain, without medicines and pills and shots, but the society says we need to take this medicine.
A few years ago I hit a pothole and flew off my bike, face first onto a driveway. A few scratches. Then I noticed I was having problems breathing. My chest was tender and when I pressed the breathing became shallow. I walked the bike home and for a few days of tenderness, I did not ride. Then slowly, then faster, then uphill. The breathing came back. I could still feel a lump on by ribs. Probably cracked a rib or two and maybe stressed a lung, but why go to the doctor for that. Shake it off. Rub some dirt in it.
The beginning of this year I had a different pain. An internal pain, but I could not shake it off or rub dirt in it.
Some of us can handle outside pain better than inside pain. You can’t put a band aid on the soul.


1. State of being solitary 2. Lonely place
This is how the Oxford American Desk Dictionary defined it.

Solitary: 1. Living alone, not gregarious, 2 Secluded or unfrequented, 3. single or solo

Sounds pretty miserable by that definition.

But solitude is also the time of contemplation, meditation. The time when you are alone with your thoughts. Away from interruptions, time to focus, examine your inter thoughts.

I am quiet gregarious around people. Some say too much, but I do have quiet times. More than most.

I spend approximately 12 hours a week bicycling. That 624 hours a year. And it is all solitary time.

Riding a bike is like the old cowboy riding a horse. Just you and the steed. Except mine has two 100 pound of pressure inflated rubber tires, lights, odometer, mirror, and rack. But it the same solitude.

I don’t use ipods or cell phones to interrupt my thoughts of the morning or afternoon commutes. Instead, I observe the city waking up. I watch the little creatures as they search for food in the early sunlight. I listen the sprinklers awaking on the lawns. I feel the warmth of the sun or the cool morning air.

All this time moving to the rhythm of the peddles.

It is the time to enjoy the clouds, the dew drops, the sunlight shadows dancing across my path.

It is the time to think of conversations to far away friends. Think the thoughts that words can express.

It is the time to get the days song list in mind. What tunes will fill my head today?

So solitude is not as bad as the dictionary makes it out to be. Try it. You may learn a lot about your surroundings and a little about yourself.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

A summer shower

The clouds were forming as I unlocked my bike. The garage guard "Doc" said, "Will you make it home before it rains?" 
So I checked the dark clouds coming and started down Grace Street. Slow ride. Lots of distracted drivers. 
Final turn to VCU. Then it started. 
The big drops dotted the sidewalk. 
Then it really started. Might as well enjoy it.
The temperature dropped. 
Waves of rain came. The heavy drops banged on my visor. 
Waves of rain danced across the street in front of me As the drops filled my sunglasses, I smiled at the lack of visibility. 
Then the steam rouse upon the payment. The road was a fog of steam from the rain. 
When the rain comes, she....
The steam followed me home.
Under the shelter of the trees, the temperature dropped 20 degrees. The sun lite the other areas in steam. 
And by the time I got home, it stopped. 
Very refreshing. Still wet. 

A Day at the Beach is not a Walk in the Park

It’s time to go to the beach. It’s time. It’s the right time. It’s a vacation. It’s necessary.
So go to the bus station and buy a ticket. It’s best to do this in 101 degree heat. Just ride down the boulevard and ride over the rail road tracks. Stop at the top of the bridge and breath. Phew, it’s hot. Walk the rest of the way to he bus station.
Welcome Greyhound. Tile floor, wire seats, and the usual loud speaker with unexplainable vocabulary of bus status. Step up to the counter and ask for a ticket to Virginia Beach. There are several other people standing there seemingly confused. Sending family members back and forth and looking about confused.
One ticket to Virginia Beach = $40. Bus leaves at 11:00 a.m. and the return is at 5:11 p.m.


Packed a extra t-shirt, socks, shorts, and underwear. Oh, and take a book, like “Can’t Buy Me Love” by Jonathan Gould recommended by Art Spencer. (I never read a word).
Then it’s waiting a half an hour for a city bus to take me to the boulevard. Walk it over the train track bridge to the bus station to find a long line. An hour before the bus and there were already a line. A bunch of folks were lined up at Gate 2 with rolling bags, duffel bags, back packs, and other carry ons.
And I was at the end of the line. So I stood next to this black woman who was worried she had over paid for her ticket. And I stood. A young black man and his younger son came and stood beside me. The son was energetic but very polite. The father seemed concerned and attentive of the loud boy. The reaction made the surrounding crowd smile. Another couple lined up behind him, then another older man.
And we waited. 11 a.m. came and went and there was no bus. 11:15? 11:30?
And then I saw the bus pull up and the crowd began to stir. Lining up with all the baggage and pressing toward the door. As the crowd shuffled through, I moved forward with my little bag. Closer and closer to the door. Then, just a step away, the door closed.
The bus had a capacity of 55 passengers. The crowd aligned at the door seemed huge. Is it over? I can see the bus. I am so close.
Another Greyhound worker walked through the door and counted the remaining riders awaiting the on board arrival. She walked away to the ticket counter as we waited. “They’ll get another bus.” one person said. “I’ve waited for over an hour.” another said. “I’ve got to get there.” demanded another.
The Greyhound worker approached us slowly and said, “I’m sorry but the next bus will be at 4 p.m.”
”Where do we get a refund?” one passenger asked. The Greyhound worker just smiled. “You’ve overbooked!” screamed another.
Just then, the driver opened the door and said “We have room for 3 more.”
The older black woman and I found seats. And the black father and his young son fond the third seat in the back.
I’d made it. I had got a seat on the bus. It was a great seat. Right next to the toilet.
So we waited on the hot bus. We twitched. We wiggled. We waited.
Suddenly, the large metal mobile machine moved. We are moving. The adventure had begun.


To begin with I was happy to be aboard and traveling, even though it was over a half hour late, I was glad. Even though a four year old black boy was screaming in my ear. Even though I was sitting next to the stink box. Next to the man wearing the headphones listening to quiet rap. Behind the cute curious kid who kept looking around to the cute black boy singing G-I-M-B-O in my ear.
The first stop, a bunch of folks got off the bus and the black father and son moved up front.
The second stop and an hour an hour later we were still rolling along.
I’m not great about traveling. Speed out of control. Turning tight curves on a top heavy vehicle.
Bumpity bump on the road. With all the instant conversation around you. The phone calls. The comments.
The middle class do not ride the bus anymore. There is a whole different class for the bus routes. Lower yourself for the ride.
And another stop. Two off, three on?
And another stop. Pause for 10 minutes until it is 30 minutes.
Through the tunnel. The long but, not as long as I remember when I was young, journey.
The water told me I was getting close.
And then at 3:00 p.m., I was there. A small strip mall with a seafood seller next door and the Greyhound station was closed. Only opened for every couple of hours a day. Swell.
”Which way to the ocean”, I asked. The driver pointed down Laskin Road and said, “ About a mile.” with a smile.


So I walked the mile. Up the pass route on Laskin Road. I kept looking to the left. I think my old friend Art lived on this road. I couldn’t place the place, but the memory was good.
So where to go? To the left was the Hilton. That doesn’t sound like it’s cheap. To the left is a Residence Inn / Marriott. I’ll try that one.
Walk up to the desk and say, “Do you have a room for the night?”
The clerk looked up at this crusty old guy and said, “I’ve got the King Suite for $275”.
Wow! One night for $300.
Oh well I was at the beach.
And it was a great room. King size bed. Kitchenette. Ocean view. What more could you ask for on the 5th floor.
Stopped and stepped out on the 3 foot deck with a plastic piping railing. Doesn’t make you feel secure. But the view is wonderful.


The soul of us all. The vast water of mother earth. Surging forward wave after wave. As far as you can see. Now that’s what I’m talking about. This is what I’m here for.
I wander through the lobby and out to the sand. Slowly. Down the steps, onto the sand, closer, closer, closer, and then there was water. Foamy surging water. I took off my shoes and stepped forward. It’s cold. I took another step step forward and the wave splashed up my shorts. Aw. I was in the ocean. Mother Earth gathered me in. I was at home. Over and over the water splashed up on me. As I stood still the water rushed around me. This is the ocean I came to see.


Walked down the strip of the beach and checked out the art show. Nice stuff. Expensive stuff. Glass, painting, interesting concepts, obvious observations, nice woodwork, and more.
But I needed food. I hadn’t eaten all day and it was now after 3 p.m.
Stop in to a Dough Boy. A pizza place full of fresh young waitresses.
”What can I get you?” she said. The little blond waitress started to say her repertoire of questions to make the pattern make the decision to consume food and drink.
”Wait”, I blurbed out, “You missed your mark. You stammered when you where asking the menu solution”.
She stopped and looked shocked. “It’s my first day” she slyly said.
I laughed and ordered a philly cheese steak and a corona with a lime slice.
She smiled, knowing I was only playing with her and walked off to file the order.
As I watched the wait staff inter act and the tourist (of which I was one ) walk past the window, the music played. The music drew me in. Peter Gabriel. Can’t beat that. Once inside, the music was still interesting.
The food came and I consumed. She was pleasantly sweet, so she got a good tip.


Now what? I was at the beach. There is the sand. There is the ocean.
I walked back to my fifth floor room and look through the glass at the ocean. The waves crashed upon the sand the same as it did in 1950, 1960, and so on. The same water. The same sand. Well kept. Clean. The trackers go back and forth raking the sand all night.
And the bikes There are hundreds and hundreds of bicycles, riding up and down the bike trail on the boardwalk.
Nice to see the bikes. I wonder if they will take that home with them?
So I sat and watched the ocean. Wave after wave. It is a heartbeat. From mother earth.
Go out and walk on the beach. Barefoot and free. Let the water wash over me. It’s rejuvenating. It life’s gift to man.
Sit on the water’s edge and look at the light. Stare at the light. Reflecting off the water. The sand is a soft chair to comfort you there. The breeze cooled your brow.
Then back to the room to sleep. A wonderful peaceful sleep. Rest. There is no other.


Woke. 5 a.m.  Rested. Ready for the day. Looked out the bedroom window and it was fogged up with the air conditioning at 65 and the outside temperature. I stepped out on the tiny patio and saw the purple and pink sky light the world. All was silent. All was the way it was in the beginning. A red orb rising from the sea. The way it was suppose to be. Lightening up the sky and the sea. Rising from the east. Lightening the world. Bright and awakening. Beautiful gift to the world every day. And I was privileged to see it again and again, but now it was different.
Many years have pasted from the viewing of the sun rise over the ocean. Thoughts of times before, sand and sea and youth. It had not changed. It was still special. Very special.
Suddenly I heard a thud on the carpet. I looked down and saw the bracelet had fallen off my arm. “Wow, what timing”. I picked up the Navy identification bracelet from my uncle who I was named after, a pilot from WWII who went MIA. Recently given to me by another uncle, I picked it up and strapped it back on. I don’t wear much jewelry, but this is pretty special.
I put down my coffee and walked down to the beach.
The sand wrapped around my feet as I slid to the water. The embrace of the earth’s kiss on my feet. Wet and raw. Rough and soothing. Power and calm.
I sat in the sand and watched the waves for 4 hours. Each wave spoke to me. Each crash of water.
There is something here. There is something in my soul.


It was time to check out. Quick shower. Ah, soap on the body. Bag up the wet clothes. Go to the desk, here you go, 502 has checked out. $310 for a night at the beach.
Now what? Wanna go to the beach? You got five hours before the bus comes. Walk the strip. “You want something pierced?” “Hi, you wanta..” the Hawkers were out.
And so it goes. White bathing suits wrapped around young teenage bodies. So ready for the future. Not ready for the future.
Onto the beach. Onto the boardwalk. Got five hours to wait for the bus. The sunburn is setting in. Walk. Walk . Walk with everything you need or own on your back.
This is freedom. This is life on the beach.
I walk past restaurants that I remember sweeping sand and dust from on the ocean in Wrightsful Beach. The beach life.


If you think there is an immigration situation, stop in any shop at the beach. There is every accent you want. These are retail shops for towels, sun tan lotion, and shells, but not a single one had Caucasian workers. Eastern Europe, Asian, Latino, .... all different. It’s not bad, just different. It is not your mother’s beach.


First walk up the beach, then the boardwalk, the street. You got hours to kill. Pass the tourist shops. Watch the flags blow in the sea breeze.
Then the wait. Wait at the Dairy Queen with water in the shade. Listen to the young girls burp and curse. Ah, the next generation. Then it’s time to move on.
Walk the mile up Laskins Road. Past the reeds. Past the young girls blowing me a kiss?
Then to the strip mall baked in the sun and waiting for the bus.
Already there is a couple of Russian girls and guys and a Navy guy unpacking his “stuff” and throwing away 80% of his life. And there was a bus. The driver was on the phone so I didn’t know if this was the one to Richmond.
Then the driver got off the phone, walked over to the bus, closed the storage compartment, climbed aboard, closed the door and drove off. Was he going to get gas? Was he just gone.
The Russian crowd talked to each other and walked about. A black car drove up with 4 males inside. The stepped out and started to speak to the Russian crowd. They walked around for a while, then opened the trunk and started to pack the car. Several girls packed into the car and others walked off in another direction.
The young Navy man was filling trash bags full of “stuff” and walking to a nearby dumpster and tossing them in. Very polite and well mannered, he spoke of how the Navy had realized he had a breathing problem after two years and basically kicked him out. So he was dissolving his assets and moving back to Missouri and his mom. We chatted for awhile. With a hat saying “I heart Bikinis” Smoking Camel cigarettes, and a wonderful attitude.
Then the bus came. A half hour late, but I was expecting it. At least I will be at the front of the line. I checked with the driver. “Richmond?” He nodded. I handed him my ticket. He tore the part he need and handed me back the stub. “Thank you sir”, I said and climbed aboard. The adventure wasn’t over, it was only beginning. It was 6:30 before we started to pull out.


The bus was rolling. On the way home. The first few miles were uneventful. The red orb I watched coming up in the morning several hours ago, was going down. It was still a bright red circular globe sinking in the blue sky.
First stop Norfolk. 30 minutes of filling the bus. Children. Gangstas. Recently released jail members. A fine lot
Next lights out and up to Hampton, then Newport News, then Williamsburg. The ride went over and over and over and over and on.
After Williamsburgs, the little historic town that held so memories for me, it was on to the home town. Richmond.
I watched the glass as the silent mobile machine moved through the night Reflections on the windows of the passing cars lights. Then there was more. As I stressed to view a sign of life the lights started appearing to me. First I could understand it and laugh it off as a hallucination. Then it became real.
As the bus rumbled down the highway, I could see visions in the windows. Perhaps I was tired. Perhaps it was reflections of the road. But I saw it Weird visions. Just like 30 years ago And it made me smile.
Then the lights started to brighten the sky. The city was near.
People started to stir on the bus. The end was near.
The driver announced that Richmond was within reach and stay seated until arrival. Then he rode over a couple of girls bags at the station.
The crowd mumbled as they stood and pressed toward the door. I sat and waited for the rush to go by watching the reflections in the windows.
I seated off the bus. I was free.
The first cab welcomed me to take me home. I stated to tell him directions as I climbed inside, but he paused and asked address for his GPS. Wow! High tech cab!
Moments and $15 later I was home.


Unlock the gate and climb the steps of the front porch. In the dark find the key to the door. Press it open against the wallboard and dust and you are home.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008


Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah - woh
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah - woh
Don't pass up this chance, this time it's a true romance
Heatwave, heatwave, heatwave, heatwave

It’s June 7th. Day after D-Day. And it is hot in Richmond. That is HOT! 100+ degrees. With humidity, 110+. That’s HOT!
So for four days at the start of my first vacation of the year 2008, record temperatures.
Riding to the store meant the arms were wet after the first block, Sweat would drip in your eyes. The tires were soft from the heat off the street... and no one was out.
Everyone was inside in the air conditioning. Not a soul on the street. A few massive metal mobile machines rode by with detressed looks on the occupants with the windows rolled up.
Everyone still needs to survive in the heat. Even LOTS of heat. Even unbearable heat.
Drink lots of fluids and stay in the shade.
Yeah right.
Ride your 10 miles on Sunday and stop on occasion to wipe your brow. Park the bike and come back to the hot shed and cool down in front of the fan. Drink bottled water and let your shirt dry out.
Luckily it is shaded, but the ever present heat continues. The weather announcers on TV make jokes about it, but it is no joke. It’s HOT. Very HOT.
And it continues. Another day of HOT. Take a breath and go out for a ride. Sure you sweat. Your muscles ache. Peddle forward. Wipe the sweat away. Tomorrow will be the same.
Four days of record breaking HOT. So what do you do?

Learn to adapt. Global Warming?

Friday, June 6, 2008

Morning Conversation

" Wow, it's grey today."

"Grey nothing, it is cloudy."

"So why are you wearing dark glasses?"


“So what will today bring?”

“Don’t know.”

“Wonder what she is doing now?”

“She's asleep. Remember she works nights”

“Ah, sweet dreams I hope.”

“What about the other one?”

“The one with the great gams?”


“Smiling I hope.”

“Lucky dude that Greggo.”

“Sure you say that now. What happened 20 some years ago and you are still hot for it.”

“Watch out the traffic is weird again.”

“Must be later than I thought.”

“The air feels better today.”

“Yeah, and the flowers are.... ouch!”

“Sorry about the bump.”

“Can't wait for the email. Maybe I got another gift.”

“Don't get your hopes up. That’s a long way away.”

"Yeah, I know. I just wish..."

"Wish what?"

"You know. If things were..."

"Get over it. It ain't gonna happen."

"Nice jogger."

"You are hopeless."

"Just another life."

Thursday, June 5, 2008

Out of Sync

Today is different.

The air doesn't smell right. The traffic patterns are all off. The birds are quiet. The city doesn't feel right.

There is something different. Something out of sync today. Can't put my finger on it, but...

This causes me to pause and step back. Take a look before you cross the street. Stop before you turn that corner. Something is lurking. Waiting.

The heat of summer is upon us, but that's not what is causing this.

Today is different. Today will be weird. Be cautious.