tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59844332280302537312024-03-05T16:41:07.956-08:00Training WheelsMy Views of Life, Love, and the Pursuit of Perfect Single-TrackJimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-23623254605015830632023-02-10T17:15:00.002-08:002023-02-10T17:15:22.543-08:00Picture This<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCz0icLeyFfwHXXdQc3jQP2IvTH3_LdD-QUkBO4N-60UlHu9sj44EqRRcCrncE3FaUTiPSzAEpyQwVtaxp0qyfaybKjH-nDIv0nZjP9FajSki7ObTNQaapH2zVmk3-Mt_u5i2_hyiLNtYmtWKK0Hkg6SHy9dr7X5IozXB5bJNnk4KCnWeO5xCdI9q-/s4032/20230209_074701.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCz0icLeyFfwHXXdQc3jQP2IvTH3_LdD-QUkBO4N-60UlHu9sj44EqRRcCrncE3FaUTiPSzAEpyQwVtaxp0qyfaybKjH-nDIv0nZjP9FajSki7ObTNQaapH2zVmk3-Mt_u5i2_hyiLNtYmtWKK0Hkg6SHy9dr7X5IozXB5bJNnk4KCnWeO5xCdI9q-/s320/20230209_074701.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>I recently stopped by my parent's house to retrieve an empty Pyrex that had contained homemade soup that I brought them last week. As is often the case, waiting for me on the stove inside the back door was a pile of stuff, in addition to my empty soup container. My 80-something year old parents are constantly cleaning out nooks and crannies of the home they've lived in since I was two. But they can't just throw stuff out. For some reason, they need the approval of a third party. As the closest child, I am all too often the responsible third party. Today's cache was an album of my 1995 move to Oregon complete with pictures of my first wedding. I clearly had no more use for these then they did, but on my way out, my dad added that if I was going to throw them away, that they would happily take the empty album back. So literally they just gave this to me for the tedious task of removing all the photos so they can start fresh with an empty photo album!! It was driving home that I realized I belong to the last generation that feels a personal attachment to photographs. <div><br /></div><div><p></p><p>The way I was brought up, photography was an important part of life. It went so far beyond the simple act of point and shoot and you have that moment in time in your pocket forever like we have (and take for granted) today. First of all, you needed a physical camera! And film. Then came the developing. It was an extensive process. Even after all that, you weren't guaranteed the pictures would be any good. How rapidly or slowly you got to see your pictures would depend on how quickly you would shoot a roll of 24 prints. Heck, my dad was so stingy with film that we'd see one roll of pictures a year. Half from Christmas and half from summer vacation. When you had those photos finally developed, they were sacred. You couldn't touch them with dirty hands, you held them by the edges, and you NEVER threw any away. Even if they didn't turn out, you tucked them into the photo album anyway. Maybe behind a better one. </p><p>While I'm going through pictures of Mount Rushmore, a 26 year old version of myself in my old University of Wisconsin Hockey sweatshirt standing in the Badlands, and the stunning grounds of the Columbia Gorge Hotel, I came across the photograph I posted here. Through a series of moves around these United States and a string of jealous girlfriends, very few pictures remain of me and that time of my life. But the longer I looked at this photo, the more questions I asked myself. The photo is of Meike Haasemann and myself ice skating on a winter flood plain behind her house on Lake Michigan. It was taken in 1986 or 87. It somehow has stayed at my parent's house for the last 37 years (which explains it's longevity). It's an 8x10, which is an odd size for a casual friendship photograph. Meike and I ran in overlapping circles for most of high school. But when we were seniors at North High, we were both dating people from South High. On weekends the four of us would hang out and take road trips in Hans' (Meike's boyfriend) father's Audi. But during the week Meike and I would hang out. Because if you were 17 and didn't have a car, way over on the south side may as well have been the south side of Chicago. But back to the photo....Why did we take it? Since I had the 8x10, was it my camera? Why would I have had my SLR camera out ice skating? Who took it? I didn't really bring a tripod ice skating, did I? I assume there were a bunch of us there. That was the norm at the time. "Hey..... What are you doing?" And a half hour later, a dozen people were there. That was what weekends and high school friends were all about, right? You didn't think about what "it" was, you only thought about who you wanted to be with doing whatever "it" was. At a basketball game, we'd take up an entire row. Hanging at McDonald's, it took three cars to get us all there. At the beach, it took a half dozen blankets to fit us all. I've always considered myself an introvert. But just looking at this picture made me remember those people and those days, how much I've changed, and how much I haven't. When all is said and done, I remember they were good friends and even better times. And THAT'S why you don't throw away pictures. </p></div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-36456481442696341732018-08-05T20:08:00.000-07:002018-08-05T20:08:35.905-07:00A Thousand Pieces<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQCdiSdMhYDckoZUbsE1XSaEghw6VZclJ4LDozMNyENjXKb0Z-_2xkh6ZdWyw7tiTjKgBNMjvVQ56h0obX0b4UJPWF2l1cpJpTKMdBKtN9LUDXLed6nIM2i_D5WsFUY9iPEO9Ns0rSts0/s1600/us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1155" data-original-width="866" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQCdiSdMhYDckoZUbsE1XSaEghw6VZclJ4LDozMNyENjXKb0Z-_2xkh6ZdWyw7tiTjKgBNMjvVQ56h0obX0b4UJPWF2l1cpJpTKMdBKtN9LUDXLed6nIM2i_D5WsFUY9iPEO9Ns0rSts0/s320/us.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
Lately I've been into The Fray. I know you're thinking to yourself, "Where have you been? They've been around since 2002." And no, I'm not into them for 'How to Save a Life.' The song that's been getting heavy rotation in my life's playlist is 'She Is.' The chore claims, "She is everything I want that I never knew I needed. She is everything I need that I never knew I wanted." On the surface it would appear that the girl in the song vastly exceeds his expectations. A year ago I would've agreed with that sentiment whole heartedly. To realize why I don't necessarily believe that is the singular explanation to the lyric now, or why it's hitting so close to home at this point in my life, we need to go back to a time I neither knew nor recognized what it was that I specifically needed or wanted. <br />
When we start dating our desires are few and specific. We probably want someone cute and nice. As we mature, those wants become greater and we start to prioritize them. A lot like assembling a puzzle. Early on, it's a 12 piece puzzle of a dinosaur. Simple enough and when it's done you have a cartoon dinosaur and a mild sense of accomplishment. As you get older and your wants and needs grow and mature, your puzzle becomes exponentially more difficult. In any relationship, things become prioritized as well as compromised. Maybe this or that isn't as important as we first thought. Maybe we can live without this altogether. And then there's this attribute...we didn't even consider that. Or maybe we used to want that, but haven't had it in so long we'd forgotten we ever desired it? No matter how you look at it....it's complicated. Just like a big complicated puzzle! So you meet someone you like and the process begins. You have dumped the pieces out before you and slowing begin. You invest yourself. Time and patience. You learn things about each other. The pieces start to come together. As progress is made, you pick up the pace. A future becomes evident with each new day's investment. Before you know it, you're falling in love. Before you on the table lies a beautiful scene of Paris at night. In the center is the Eiffel Tower. But wait....there are six pieces missing. I mean it's not that big of a deal, right? You still have a beautiful picture of the Eiffel Tower. So what if there are a few pieces missing. But what of those missing pieces? What are you going to do about them? This is the decision that should give more people pause. How important are those six pieces? Is it as superficial as squeezing the tube of toothpaste from the middle? Or are you an introvert while she's an extrovert? Is it merely some random piece of the Paris skyline or is it a piece of the spotlight atop the tower? You have spent a lot of time and invested a lot of yourself in getting to this point. You do still have a beautiful picture of the Eiffel Tower. Maybe that should good enough. I'd be willing to bet that the 30+% of marriages that will fail this year believed that those six pieces were something they could live without. In looking back at both my failed marriages, I can say that I tried for years to look at the beauty of the Eiffel Tower...yet my eye were always drawn to those six random holes. <br />
So life goes on. We put together puzzle after puzzle. We go slower now. Invest ourselves at a little more cautious pace. This ones missing a piece. This ones missing a dozen. With each puzzle we get both more determined to find one with every piece and more jaded that such a puzzle doesn't exist. And just at the moment your cynicism gets the best of you, and you say, "fuck it. I'm done!"......she appears. She seems nice, cute, fit, interesting...the picture has piqued your interest and desire. You decide that this puzzle is worth your undivided attention and commitment. Time flies by as you put the pieces together. The puzzle's scene is strangely familiar, which helps you fit it together with unfamiliar ease. With each piece you pick up you discover something. It might be simple and obvious like your shared love of the outdoors or something considerably less significant, like how we always unpack and do laundry before we relax after a trip. Pieces I never even considered or remembered to be important were flying into place at a fevered pace. Things I need, that I never knew I wanted.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-89644102695306585932018-02-25T19:16:00.003-08:002018-02-25T19:16:53.949-08:00Power vs Luck<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR7bMYI67aQ_xPeqtTqaPrxaAA4QwNWk5ycvd6XG9U_x53uTiMu6wrrmJakg0fMkgKZq-SuJbHxR-sYlMov3BHr9dWvWAnJvt8nslIt-06QEtARzP9lJQ3Iuf2HDaYHaZ4TJH0VglH8XU/s1600/Eagle1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="512" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR7bMYI67aQ_xPeqtTqaPrxaAA4QwNWk5ycvd6XG9U_x53uTiMu6wrrmJakg0fMkgKZq-SuJbHxR-sYlMov3BHr9dWvWAnJvt8nslIt-06QEtARzP9lJQ3Iuf2HDaYHaZ4TJH0VglH8XU/s320/Eagle1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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It was several years ago now that my ex actually suggested that the bald eagles that I continuously saw at the beach must be my Power Animal. A Power Animal is a "Shamanic belief of a spirit that guides, helps, and protects an individual." She thought it must be the case, as while I saw the eagles on such a regular basis that my kids and I named the pair Sam, (after Sam the eagle from the Muppet Show) and Betsy (because it seemed like a great old school patriotic woman's name. That and none of us could properly pronounce or spell Sacagawea); and she never saw them on her visits to the beach. <br />
I relished the notion that those majestic birds somehow protected me and gave me strength. Each day I saw them, I greeted them silently and drew the will to make it a great day. <br />
Fast forward five years. I'm still at the beach and I'm still seeing the eagles on a fairly regular basis. Life is humming along for the most part. My career has maintained a plateau, the kids are, for the most, part happy and healthy. I have a pretty good life. I have been back in the seldom calm waters that is the dating scene again. Never getting it quite right....or at least not right enough by my standards. I still sought the eagles' guidance for a path to what was yet to come. <br />
Not long ago, I found someone with whom everything seemed to click. There seemed very little downside to this becoming something great. We even saw the eagles together when walking on the beach together. That was it, I thought, the sign of my happily ever after. <br />
Well, per usual, I couldn't have been more wrong. As soon as it arrived in my life....it was gone. Days passed as I searched for a logic as to what had happened? Nothing came to me. Damn eagles! Letting me get my hopes up like that. Eventually I forced myself to let it go. It was out of my hands from the start, and nothing I could do or say would ever have changed the outcome. <br />
<br />
My epiphany unfolded like watching a storm rolling in. You know you're going to get wet, but you can't yet feel the rain. It started Sunday morning when my feet hit the floor. I felt strangely at peace. The hauntings of her were in the back of my memory (where they belonged) and my focus was now on what lay before me, rather than things that had happened in the past. Koval and Sydney were still asleep. It had been decided we would go gallivanting in Milwaukee later that morning, so I had told the kids I'd get up and walk Zooey, allowing them a lazy Sunday morning. I, too, had slept in. Catching up on some much needed sleep. I had skipped my usual stop for a mocha. Deciding instead, to hold out for Stone Creek Coffee when we got to the city. I parked and got out of the Jeep. The sun shone brightly for the first time in what seemed like weeks; casting a blinding brightness across the field as I made my way east towards the beach. I took a moment to bask in the sunlight, as to not take it's very presence for granted. I made the cut south at the water line and officially began my Saturday ritual. I scanned the tree line for the eagles. They were no where to be seen. "Fair weather friends," I scoffed to myself. Not that it mattered. I was content. It was already going to be a good day. Even without the eagles. That was the moment it hit me. They were my Power Animal. And today I didn't need the power. As the years slipped by, I had allowed my shallow needs to redefine what these magical birds meant to me. I wasn't drawing inner strength from seeing them; I was pigeon-holing them as my lucky charm. I was making them the talisman of my life rather that allowing them to by the catalyst to a future I could create by my own will. The day she and I saw them on the beach, they weren't there to wish me luck. They were there to give me the strength to handle the inevitable 'what comes next.' <br />
That realization has trickled over into many aspects of my life since that morning. As superstitious as I am, I also realize that no one or nothing is going to shape my future in the way only I can. Even last night at the restaurant, I didn't lose a finger because I couldn't find the purple handled tongs I have used every day since I started there (I have heard that the tongs have been found, though. Whew). They were nothing more than a familial comfort to me.<br />
<br />
I haven't seen the eagles since my epiphany. No matter. I know, when I need them, they'll be there. And when I see them, I will also know what they represent, and I will embrace their presence for what it's worth. They will be there to 'guide, help, and protect' this individual.<br />
Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-11209738637439745152016-05-10T20:50:00.000-07:002016-05-10T21:14:22.235-07:00A Day Without Me (Part Two: My Redemption)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDc1mzww-GUCf_w852Mxd-DmRi_2JHTV5hkUM2GVTUCLCAfyDLnZFmy4MC0Aj1YEQsCtBbf-uK82wHoCDDyCll58g8wQ39VfblBFKowvAdvvEgmMdQs8CXjtFC0B4T6pRJJXygbXKYimM/s1600/P5020002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDc1mzww-GUCf_w852Mxd-DmRi_2JHTV5hkUM2GVTUCLCAfyDLnZFmy4MC0Aj1YEQsCtBbf-uK82wHoCDDyCll58g8wQ39VfblBFKowvAdvvEgmMdQs8CXjtFC0B4T6pRJJXygbXKYimM/s320/P5020002.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black;">It was 10:18am, and the miles were flying past. My windows were down and my iPod was jamming one great song after another. Gin Blossoms, Journey, Live, and other favorites from my 'Soundtrack' playlist were screaming through the Jeep's speakers. I was singing at the top of my lungs, oblivious to the fact I'm tone-deaf. Thank goodness the dog is deaf or this may have been viewed as cruel and unusual punishment. The fog was lifting and the cloud that was following me around all week started to dissipate. The reality is, I wasn't broken hearted. I was hurt. I was falling for someone and had the rug pulled out from under me for circumstances I could do nothing about. All-in-all, the pain was life affirming. I was relieved to find I was still capable of these feelings. Granted it look me losing them to realize I had them, but it was a positive life experience, and for that I found myself feeling a bit grateful. I arrived at the trail-head at a 'local only' entrance to Potawatomi State Park. 1,225 acres of gorgeous north-woods along Sturgeon Bay. I remember riding here every day when I lived here. I'd peel through these wood at daybreak before my shift at restaurant. I still remember the smell of coffee and bacon would fill the heavy fall air as the campers began their days. I got my bike ready to go and checked my water and computer. Today I had brought my carbon fiber hard tail. It would be the first time I'd ever rode this bike here. This bike was made for these kinds of trails. I was ready to begin....and then I saw a sign: "State Park -- Warning -- Hunting in Progress." Hmmmm... It looked as though I was going to get all the adventure that comes with mountain biking, with the added excitement of possibly being shot! "Oh well," I thought to myself. "I didn't come all this way to <em>not</em> ride!" ...and off I went. Surprisingly, I remembered right where the trail met up with the road and I swung off the pavement to tackle the first big hill up to the main trail system. The trails were much better marked than when I was last here. I stopped at the first map and picked which signs I'd follow. I took off and started to find a rhythm. Then, on the way up the next hill...SNAP...my chain broke! I have a tool packed for any relatively minor repair, but fixing a chain is still a huge pain in the butt. Largely because it takes at least three hands. After messing with it for a few minutes, I stood up to stretch my back. I sat back down. I had the link pin in my mouth for safe keeping, I used my left foot to hold the rear derailleur forward to keep the chain slacked so I could hold the two ends together. This time I got it on the first try. I got up, stretched a little, took a long pull from my bottle, and started off again down the trail. This time I fell into my groove. My back went from throbbing to aching to acceptance. My shoulders squared up to allow my elbows and wrists to relax and absorb the ground. My legs pounded out a cadence as if to say, 'no matter what you throw at us today, we're not breaking this pace.' The bike itself ate up the trail. No longer was I fighting to stay on the six-inch wide piece of packed dirt. It was to the point it felt like the ground was reaching up and holding my tire in place. Trees flew past mere inches from me, but it didn't matter. Nothing was slowing me down. Along with the blurry scenery rushing past, my worries also diminished. Suddenly what my boss thought of me was a lot less important to me than not breaking a collarbone on one of these beautiful birch trees. My mind began to wander back to my recent break up. Everything happens for a reason. What would this teach me? PFFFF! My mind snapped back to the task at hand with the interrupting 'cough' of the bike's front shock taking a hit. "Keep your head in the game," I thought to myself. After all, it's all about staying in the moment today. This is my religion. This is where I find the peace I cannot find anywhere else. This is my higher power. Body and mind are one, if only for a moment. I was so in a groove here, that I decided to stay and do another lap rather than pack it in and go further up north to find another trail. Why would I stop? The more I rode, the better I felt physically and emotionally. The songs blaring through my head went from Shinedown's 'The Sound of Madness,' to Marillion's 'Don't Hurt Yourself' to The Eagles' 'Peaceful, Easy Feeling.' Life was simpler like this. I rounded out the ride by coasting down the last hill right to the waterfront. I sit there and bask in it all for a little while. It had been just over ten miles. I had topped out at over 20mph in there. I rode back to the Jeep and stowed my bike shoes and helmet. I let Zooey out and we walked back down along the channel, as I contemplated my next move. I intended to go all the way up to Fish Creek to ride at Peninsula State Park, and cap off the day at my friend Britt's restaurant. But if I decided to do that, I might not get on the road home until after 7pm. That would make for an exhausting drive home. I decided to rather go into Sturgeon Bay and hit Inn at Cedar Crossing' Pub for a burger and cold beverage. After a delicious $13 sandwich and three raspberry lemonades, I got a mocha and walked Z some more through a park along the water before heading home. For you that are still curious about the message on my phone at the end of 'A Day Without Me (Part One)', that caused my day to start late, thanks for staying with the story. If you think it was the girl who I had just split with calling to make up, I'd advise you to stop watching Meg Ryan movies. That's not how the world works. The message was a cross-roads of sorts. It was a message from an online dating site saying someone was trying to contact me. Another great ploy these sites use is this one: After you quit, they leave your information posted. Then maybe someone reaches out to you. But if you want to see who it is or what they want, you have to rejoin. I fell for this once. I signed back up to make contact, only to have nothing materialize. Basically I paid $35 to be rejected. Nothing like adding insult to injury! So here I am staring at my phone. "'MissZ' sent you an email. Click here to subscribe and see what she wrote." Fate staring at me from the three-inch screen of my cell phone. She could be my friend. We could spend hours on a coffee house couch until our butts became numb talking and reading the stories in each other's eyes. She could be my lover. She could be my soulmate. She could be my destiny. But as of today, we will never know.</span></div>
Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-43706289758327906122016-05-06T22:38:00.001-07:002016-05-10T20:58:00.070-07:00A Day Without Me (Part One: The Backstory)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjor9cR5NWpQy5bmVrE5nYglD_qJSyCUp3EfaIeYS1q9NitCi0db-K678gydNBcBpA25OKZWHIu1wDL6d7h4FS3RDHBC_B631rVo_2rOg_w0-As3trFGhuJjN240P3_LqmC7yGk9vbgh58/s1600/metaphor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjor9cR5NWpQy5bmVrE5nYglD_qJSyCUp3EfaIeYS1q9NitCi0db-K678gydNBcBpA25OKZWHIu1wDL6d7h4FS3RDHBC_B631rVo_2rOg_w0-As3trFGhuJjN240P3_LqmC7yGk9vbgh58/s400/metaphor.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>The Metaphor of my Life: Always stay to the right</em>!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Forgive me BlogSpot, for I have sinned. It has been three years since my last post, and I am <em><strong>not</strong></em> a healthier person for it. I used to write because I rode. I used to write because I was inspired to write. I used to have people in my life that I wrote to inspire. In the last three years, I have not been riding, and even more tragic, I have not been inspired. The last time I was inspired to post anything was when I wrote a letter to my step daughter as she prepared to graduate from high school three springs ago. She is now wrapping up her sophomore year of college and her mother and I have been apart for the last four years. <br />
The first of those years solo was spent reinventing myself. After being in two marriages totaling twenty plus years, it was time to rediscover who I was. Or more accurately, who I had become through these experiences. I soon discovered what I had always suspected: I am pretty boring. I settled into a fairly predictable routine of working and fatherhood. Served up with a side of good coffee and a long walk every Saturday morning. The kids and I created a solid, stable, and predictable life for ourselves. Every year around Father's Day and my birthday (the two weekends I am sure to have them), we'd go camping, or to the Wisconsin Dells, or Door County for a mini vacation. We start every Saturday together with a trip to the bakery for fresh donuts and swing by a coffee house for my 'day off mocha' before heading to the beach for a long decompressing walk on the beach. Life was becoming good again. But hardly anything blog-worthy was happening to me. Writing a blog is like making a movie: Who would want to watch a movie about a day in the life of John Q Public? But if something extraordinarily good or bad would happen to John, then people might take an interest. Enter online dating: the good and bad (mostly bad) that brought me back to the fold. <br />
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The very day I wrote to my step daughter, I received a pop-up ad from Match.com. I thought to myself, "it's been a year. Maybe it's time?" I signed up for a three month membership. Online dating is like going on a job search for a job you might not even like. Your write some stuff about yourself that you hope will attract the right person (your resume). You add some pictures of yourself trying to look your coolest (I had never taken a selfie until this fiasco). Then you wait.... You read others' credentials and reach out to people you might be interested in. But for the most part, you just log on to watch what's left of your self esteem and dignity go down the drain. The first girl to reach out to me however, was very nice. She was together, cute, well spoken, smart, and fun to be around. We had similar experiences and got along really well. Our main difference was I had been single for a year and the ink was still drying on her divorce papers. She was just out there to 'meet a few people.' We casually saw each other for about six months. In that six months we never kissed, held hands, or split a check. It was by far the most expensive acquaintanceship I've ever had! In the end, she ended up dumping me just days after I had taken her out to dinner and a concert in Milwaukee for<em><strong> my</strong></em> birthday. She said, "well I can't date everybody." Implying that she had chosen to be with a different dude. "You can do that?" I thought to myself. I don't really think I have it in me to be a serial dater. For starters, I'm not that good with names. I could just see myself sitting across from my date: "Now are you the one with the two dogs, or the one who's son is in the Navy?" I just don't see that ending well for me. "Check please!?" After Match came a month on Zoosk where, in the first half hour, I became reconnected with a girl I used to know when we worked at the same hotel in Appleton twenty years earlier. We were together for a few months until the distance led us into a dead end. The same fate took it's toll on the only relationship I had in a subsequent stint on eHarmony. Online dating sort of sets you up to fail. I live in a small city with much larger cities 50 miles away to the north and to the south. That being the case, 90% of whom I am introduced to are at least an hour away. You are then matched with someone like you: decent job, single parent, and has a home and roots. Who in their right mind would give all that up for some random dude they met on the internet? Unless we're matched with someone down the block, we're doomed before we begin. Then a couple months ago, I got a text from Match.com that I'd get a free 24 hour trail to entice me back to their service. Great ploy: you meet someone and then the 24 hours is over and you have to rejoin to keep the game going. After getting a couple responses, I started chatting with someone about an hour west of me. At least it wasn't Green Bay or Milwaukee. We hit it off and exchanged numbers before my dime ran out. We met for a date less than a week later. Things took off from there. We clicked as a couple and saw each other often. Weeks went by and I realized feelings were coming to the surface that I hadn't allowed myself to feel in over a decade. Love was in the air. I could actually start to see a future with this person. We shared so many complimentary traits. Life was good and getting better. <br />
Now, anyone who has been in love more than once can vouch for me here. The hardest step to make down the road of love is the transition from infatuation to actual love. Infatuation rocks. Nothing can touch infatuation. Infatuation is all the fun and emotion of falling in love without any of the reality. Our realities were now started to seep into the mix. We lost a lot of sleep by making trips to see each other even it was just for a few hours. Baggage started becoming an issue. Soon phrases like, "I'm not sure I can do this," started creeping into the conversations. I started to put out fires that I didn't know how they had started. We were still heading down the road of love, but the bumps were becoming more pronounced. A few months into it, we were done. I was shattered. Work sucked. Home sucked. Even the beach sucked. Oh yeah.... a broken heart sucks! I walked around in a daze for the next week. The pain was like a dark cloud that followed me everywhere, and I just couldn't shake it.<br />
I had vacation time coming. I had requested some PTO so her and I could get away for a few days, but never cancelled it after our demise. I decided I would take the time for myself. I needed to get away and try to get out from under this cloud. As the days went by, I felt a little guilty for not working when I really didn't need the time off. But the closer I got to the time off, the more excited I got. My plan was to spend the day mountain biking some of favorite trails in Door County and then treat myself to a good meal before heading home. I had invited a friend to come with me, but was secretly grateful when he declined. Sunday wound down at work and Koval and I hung out at night. As he got ready for bed, I packed the Jeep and got my bike ready to rock-n-roll. I even went as far as to lay out my outfits for before, during, and after my ride. I slept good that night. It was nice to feel the anticipation of a new day, rather than the dread. Monday morning arrived as if it was made just for me. The sun was shining and temperature was on the rise. It would be a perfect day no matter what I did. I got dressed (in my pre-ride outfit) and took Koval to school. I then headed to get myself a mocha before going to the beach with Zooey. We took a nice long walk to get her satisfied before having to spend two hours in the Jeep. We returned to the house where I changed into my bike shorts and a t-shirt for the drive up. It was 9am. The exact time I had planned on hitting the road. The Jeep was packed, the dog was already curled up on the passenger seat, I grabbed my Nalgene of sun tea from the fridge, and was ready to roll. And then my phone buzzed.</div>
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Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-65785850828019532392014-06-08T15:49:00.004-07:002014-06-08T15:55:26.289-07:00Congradulation Graduate<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOLYaskKwm3x9HLETnZSA3tyzASrWBBSdkkbh4oJtMJtt8RhDyyRarwhOSH9Z90CdVMQ8wAacZm0G1kvU7izBmIRoWAELSr_WlAgVDOT7hZIX6TtCcIIL4FjjIe7JFH_mlhXcm7TJ9Ync/s1600/fam+pics+034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOLYaskKwm3x9HLETnZSA3tyzASrWBBSdkkbh4oJtMJtt8RhDyyRarwhOSH9Z90CdVMQ8wAacZm0G1kvU7izBmIRoWAELSr_WlAgVDOT7hZIX6TtCcIIL4FjjIe7JFH_mlhXcm7TJ9Ync/s1600/fam+pics+034.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a>Dear Indigo,<br />
Congratulations on this milestone of your life. You have graduated from high school. A huge and momentous event that took 18 years to achieve. It seems weird to think about, but all the other major events of your life will come much much sooner than 18 years apart. I mean really.... In the next 18 years you'll most likely have college long in the past; your career will be established (and possibly re-established); you'll have had your ten year class reunion; many a friend will have come and gone (but the best of them will still be there); you'll probably even be married with a couple of kids of your own. In 18 more years, the "rest of your life" will be going full tilt! That is why <em><strong>now</strong></em> is such a big deal. <br />
It's hard to conceive the fact I've known you for fifteen years. I know they haven't been an easy fifteen years. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye on everything. I know you're probably still pretty upset that I dressed you in jeans and a red turtle neck for two years straight. But through it all I believe that we are better people for knowing each other. Through it all, I'm grateful for our times together. I know I am a better person because of you. You are a strong, intelligent, beautiful, and funny girl. The world is yours for the taking. Don't you believe anyone who says differently. The greatest adventure of your life likely be the next ten years. By 28, you'll probably (hopefully) start settling down. So this is it. In the next few years you will realize that all of those outside forces that weighed so heavily suddenly don't carry the clout they once did. Parents, friends (real and on social media), peers, teachers, and matinee idols will all lose their grip on your opinion. Suddenly you'll wake up and realize the only person's opinion who really matters is the face you see in the mirror every morning. That's the person you have to answer to. that's the person who's looking out for you. That's the person who's back you'd better have. That's the person you have to be able to look in the eye every morning and be able to tell her that you love her. <br />
College is the life you've been waiting to live for the last eighteen years. I'm excited to see how you take to it. You've always seemed too big for your immediate life. I truly believe you will love college life and it will be good to you as well. I'm as excited for you as you are for this next chapter to begin. Enjoy this time. It only happens once. These days are the days you will tell stories about after the next 18 years have passed. Indigo, this is "Your Life 101." This is your time. Now go out and live the life you love. I love you, <em>Your Other Father </em><br />
PS: Sorry. I couldn't resist throwing in the 'Miracle' reference.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-1949963046353629042013-02-19T19:44:00.000-08:002013-02-19T19:59:46.723-08:00Pizzatopia<div align="justify" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiEecUyPWP_ss2nLA9LweBhclKHkvV_Sgzo1_MB1ql0D5AFPqkMmYWzuqpd89rAVNji2VA87LCYqKMX-dMwZD8UwkCMwOwmXCBbIk7QQuuat6sTwbp31Omj2es5UO4LOOU1prAL2XNug/s1600/wild-tomato.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiEecUyPWP_ss2nLA9LweBhclKHkvV_Sgzo1_MB1ql0D5AFPqkMmYWzuqpd89rAVNji2VA87LCYqKMX-dMwZD8UwkCMwOwmXCBbIk7QQuuat6sTwbp31Omj2es5UO4LOOU1prAL2XNug/s400/wild-tomato.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
It was Thursday afternoon. I was hungry and probably a touch delirious when I decided I was going to eat pizza all weekend long. I'll explain to you how I got there. Through some necessary changes in my schedule, I had to work eight doubles in eleven days. Those eleven days included nine shifts at the store, four life-guarding shifts at the Y, four nights guarding at North's pool, four plasma donations, and catering a lunch out of town for 18 people. On Thursday afternoon, I was a mere shift away from two days off. To add to the anticipation of the weekend (which in this case meant Friday and Saturday), the family was going to be out of town visiting Grandma for the long President's Day weekend. This meant I could spend all weekend in my boxers watching Bruce Willis movies if I so desired. It was this image that led me to the pizza idea. What else says 'day off' like action movies and take out pizza? I did have plans already for Friday. I would be taking Kovi down to Children's Hospital in Milwaukee for a routine appointment. He asked if we could follow that up with a trip to Toys-R-Us to look at Nerf guns and eat lunch at his newest 'happy place': California Pizza Kitchen. That was going to fit nicely into my plans.<br />
Thursday's shift at the store ended fourteen hours after my alarm had gotten me up. All that remained was taking the dog for a nice long decompressing walk and some dinner. After our two miles at the beach, I swung by the store and picked up a frozen DiGiornos pizza for supper. That took me back in time. Being that we live a hop skip and a jump from a Little Caesar's where you can get a large pizza for $5, it has been a long time since I've bought a $8 frozen pizza. Back in my days of being young, single, and perpetually broke, when I would do my monthly stocking up on Ramen, hot dogs, and Jack's frozen pizzas, I would always get one DiGiornos which I would usually make as soon as I got home. I got settled on the couch and ended my week with a few episodes of <em>Scrubs</em> and a delicious hot-from-the-oven pizza. The weekend had begun. <br />
Friday went as planned. Kovi's appointment went smooth and lunch at CPK was good. We played rock-paper-scissors while we waited for our food and had a relaxing lunch of pasta for him and pizza for me. Two-for-two. We didn't have time to head back west to Toys-R-Us, but mom had promised to take him when they were in Appleton over the weekend so he wasn't too hurt. We did stop at Laacke & Joys in Mequon on our way out of Milwaukee. They have phenomenal sales there which I try to take advantage of. Last time I was there, I got at $200 North Face down jacket for $50 and turned around and sold it on eBay for $130. I wanted to stop in and see if there was anything else there I could flip. I ended up leaving empty handed and we headed home. The family left about a half hour after our return and I settled in for the rest of my weekend. After eating an entire pizza at two in the afternoon, my dinner consisted of hummus and pita chip in front of the TV. The week was catching up to me and I crashed early. <br />
Saturday began as most of my Saturdays do: the dog, the beach, and a mocha. It was on the walk heading back to the Jeep that my mind started acting up. What should I do with the rest of the day? <br />
You see, I have a problem with days off like this. In most cases, in the rare event where I have time off<em> and</em> the fam is gone, I plan my free-time down to the second. Do I go mountain biking in Door County, Kettle Moraine or Meribel? Or do I day trip to Milwaukee and hit my favorite outdoor stores, coffee shops and lunch at Kopp's? In either case, by the time I have to go back to work, I don't feel very rested because I've once again spread myself too thin. When I got back to the Jeep I was still undecided. I had given some thought to some of the stuff I had seen in Milwaukee and considered going back to get a few items to try selling on eBay. I had planned on working on one of my bikes to get it ready for spring, but decided it would be too much of a hassle to essentially move my work space from the frigid garage into the dining room. Zooey and I got in the Jeep, and without a concrete plan, started driving. I turned onto the highway, deciding to go to Milwaukee, only to get off at the first exit. Milwaukee would have killed half my day and cost me a hundred dollars I didn't have. Instead, I ended up at a nearby strip mall where I picked up some storage bags and a bar of soap. Home I went. I was getting hungry and there was pizza in my future. I was sitting right here on my computer sorting though emails, checking my bank balances, browsing eBay, and working towards ordering a pizza on-line when I got an unexpected call from an old friend. We don't talk very often, and lately when we do it's been about fairly rough stuff. This time, however, it was easy-flowing, light, and freeing. Gone was the weight of the past. Everything about it reminded my of those long-ago conversations about everything and nothing. The kind of talks that went on forever but weren't about anything. For example, I remember spending hours on the beach with my best friend Jeff back in our youth, but I don't remember a single thing we ever talked about. This was like that. It was the company, not the content that mattered. Eventually I got back to ordering my pizza and my weekend started to wind down. I had to work in the morning. What <em>had</em> changed was how I'd write this entry. What had started as a thought on the subject of comfort food had now changed direction. Our friends are our souls' 'comfort food.' <br />
By turning off the highway and staying close to home, I forced myself to spend a little more time with me. I lamented to Lori, in retrospect, that I have a lot of trouble enjoying my time off. I have so little of it, that I normally try to pack too much into it. If I don't do anything, I feel bad for not doing more. I have to learn to savour and balance all of my leisure time. Whether it's time with the family or time that I have to myself, I have to do what I feel suits me best. If I want to take the kids swimming, great. If my body's telling me to slow down, then I need to respect that too. And if my friends call, I need to listen.<br />
In the end, my mom ended up throwing a spanner in the works of my weekend's diet by inviting me over for dinner after work on Sunday. We didn't have pizza. Oh well. Three pies in three days was probably enough to raise my cholesterol a few points, anyway. I had nourished myself with foods that accentuate my free time: pizza, chips & hummus, Coke, and good coffee. I spent some 'me' time decompressing on the couch with mindless comedies, and I nourished my soul with good conversation. It was a good weekend.<br />
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<em>I have to give a shout out to my friend, chef, and mentor: Britt Unkefer. The photo above is from his wood-fired pizza restaurant, The Wild Tomato up in the Door peninsula of Wisconsin. I figured if I threw on a picture of the lame and/or uninteresting pizzas I was eating all weekend, you'd lose interest and not bother reading on.</em><br />
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Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-18033599342238212772013-01-17T20:34:00.000-08:002013-01-17T20:34:22.746-08:00Darwin Rules<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPYJFbmO6PWZKRFDhAUMSLhDbpTvMWYj64Ceny8eGsIbLE83mz3PyQhTNAFk8gxpijEWDZ01EsgpHtpKyr8KhSx12mxFyxEDVVB0bRRKcTlRT5ejlslN9VZwMzsw1ALk5_B971vVrUp1M/s1600/Darwin%2527s-portrait-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPYJFbmO6PWZKRFDhAUMSLhDbpTvMWYj64Ceny8eGsIbLE83mz3PyQhTNAFk8gxpijEWDZ01EsgpHtpKyr8KhSx12mxFyxEDVVB0bRRKcTlRT5ejlslN9VZwMzsw1ALk5_B971vVrUp1M/s200/Darwin%2527s-portrait-1.jpg" width="194" /></a></div>
I'm looking for a lawyer. A really good lawyer. Well.... maybe not a good lawyer, but one who goes by pure law. No ethics. No morals. No common sense. Just a lawyer that possesses the fine art of persuasion in spades. The kind of lawyer who not only thinks its a good idea to sue McDonald's for serving hot coffee, but knows he can win it. The reason I need this kind of lawyer is because I want to be able to kill people. Now, I know what you're thinking, but you need to relax and bare with me. I don't want to kill just anyone. Just the stupid ones. According to Darwin's Theory of Evolution, the strongest and smartest will flourish and evolve and dominate over the weak and not so smart. Now if you look at what's becoming of our society, you'll become sadly aware how behind evolution is. We're rapidly becoming a fat, dumb, and lazy society. Need proof? My favorite show, Arrested Development won every industry award there was to win but only lasted two-and-a-half seasons. Why? One critic/writer cited that the show was in fact 'too smart for the average TV viewer.' Still not convinced? The Kardashian's have been on the air for five years running and show no sign of going anywhere! Several years ago, while I was still working as a chef, I worked for a European chef who had just finished a cookbook. In the cookbook, he attributes Europeans' rich diet and long healthy lifestyles to their ability to balance their lives. Sure they eat rich decedent foods, and eat them often; but afterwards, they go for a walk or take a bike ride. It seems to me that Americans would rather microwave a Lean Cuisine meal, wash it down with a diet soda, and strap in for an extra hour of reality TV. Only Americans could become too lazy to evolve. Land of the free, indeed. Back to my feeling the need to take evolution into my own hands... I live on a busy street down the block from a junior high school. Every day at 3:00, thirteen year old idiots in Aberocombie t-shirts and basketball short come bolting out into the road mid-block amidst parked cars with no regard for traffic because they have the 'right-of-way.' I guess they haven't considered that their 150 pounds may not be a worthy match for a half ton of steel SUV. Why? Because they're idiots. If I were to hit one of these idiots, I'd simply be culling the herd of the dumb ones. Let's face it, if they're too dumb to remember a simple rule that they should have learned when they were six: look both ways before crossing the road; then they are likely to be a burden on society later in life. By getting rid of them, I'd be saving society a fortune in welfare and disability further down the road. Don't for a second saddle me with unbridled road rage. I have studied this segment of our society. In fact most kids carrying a musical instrument cross at the corner (most notably, string instruments). Other kids crossing safely are those actually wearing coats when its 10 degrees outside. I really think the right lawyer can invoke enough reason (or lack thereof) to convince a judge that the theory of evolution is a good defence. If nothing else, it'll likely get people looking closer at how they live their lives and the example they set for their brood. I watched a kid spit on a passing car the other day. Where the hell did he pick up the reasoning that that's an acceptable practice? I should have ran him over. Think that punishment doesn't fit the crime? Well then tell me what punishment would deter that behavior. There are plenty of crimes out there at are being 'punished' and the individual gets out and does it again....and again, and again. Hey, in the theory of evolution reasoning, if the individual survives the hit, he may grow up stronger and a little wiser from the half ton of education. See? It work both ways. If your counter-argument to all of this nonsense is that it would never fly simply on the grounds that it's completely absurd and unreasonable, let's take a look at another debate that's going on out there right now. The NRA, who loves to wave the 'right to bare arms' flag, wants to put more guns into schools to prevent more gun deaths. That makes sense, right? How much more fun can grade school get with the added potential to turn any recess into high-noon at the OK Corral! They do love that Constitution of ours. The 200 year old rulebook that says we can have guns. Of course the guns of the 18th century were muskets. One single shot that took minutes to load and when fired, was accurate to 150 yards. I doubt that the founding fathers had put a lot of thought into what we'd come up with for the expressed purpose of slaying each other. The NRA: another prime example of why common sense is not going to win any arguments.<br />
<em>It's been nearly three weeks since I wrote the preceding column. I have yet to receive the epiphany that neatly ties it all together for me. I guess what it comes down to at a personal level is that I'm disappointed at where we are heading as a society. Who honestly believes that the answer to gun violence is more guns? Who really believes that it's acceptable to sue a restaurant for giving you exactly what you ordered? Who thinks 'right-of-way' should trump common sense? When Thomas Jefferson dreamed up the Declaration of Independence, he imagined it would be re-written every 20 or 30 years to adapt to the ever changing American society. Yet we've never managed to do more than make an adjustment here and there. You know -- like outlawing alcohol and then repealing that law -- the real important stuff. It's a sad state of affairs when what celebrities wear is on the news daily and yet another senseless tragedy barely makes page two. But what do I know? I can barely string two thoughts into a paragraph. But at least I know to look both ways before crossing the street. After all, Mitch Albom may be looking to flatten me.</em>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-66559060082549310902012-12-14T16:21:00.000-08:002012-12-14T16:21:10.448-08:00Why?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHZGIGImwhscMjxqdnhkRK4lPCu1YLSaUgOMxluopIlYy_fELM1KxwVu8a35BRI_083cjwKVA4DvYsv4-QZAbMkmz7Pzgp6h66FwNtEP9T_DnJAoDyfvDjQOT6_Zxm0mv3wgOQOqCGOFU/s1600/kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHZGIGImwhscMjxqdnhkRK4lPCu1YLSaUgOMxluopIlYy_fELM1KxwVu8a35BRI_083cjwKVA4DvYsv4-QZAbMkmz7Pzgp6h66FwNtEP9T_DnJAoDyfvDjQOT6_Zxm0mv3wgOQOqCGOFU/s320/kids.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
The second most deadly shooting to ever occur in this country happened this morning. And I went about my day business as usual. I started my day with getting a coffee and going to my 9-year-old son's Christmas program. From there I went to work. It was at work that I first heard the news of the shooting. At first, I just went on with my morning. but it kept nagging at me. Only three days earlier there was another shooting. This one at a packed mall near where I used to live in Oregon. My, but the holidays bring out the best in us, don't they? More nagging at my conscience... I have a cousin with a young family that lives less than thirty miles from the town struck by today's tragedy. I texted him to make sure they were OK. They are fine and safe. More nagging.... Then I saw the photo of our President crying as he addressed the public and my conscience snapped. If I were the president, I would grab the nearest scrap of paper or legal pad I could find and write on it that '...from this day forward unless you are a member of the military or law-enforcement, every single semi-automatic and automatic weapon in this country are now illegal to sell, buy or own.' Fuck the politicians in the pocket of the NRA who think it's our right to kill each other in the name of the Constitution. If any one of them do not sign it into law today, then they can go to Connecticut and visit the Sandy Hook grade school and explain to the children why we need these weapons. Fuck the politicians who think right now is not the time to act on passing tougher gun laws. We don't need to cool down and collect ourselves. I'm not suggesting outlawing soap because I got bubbles in my eyes. These guns kill people. And they kill a lot of people. Everyone of them unnecessarily. No one needs an automatic rifle to protect their family from a burglar. No one. My heart is with you families of Sandy Hook and Newton. And I pray those who can do something to prevent this from ever happening again finally do do something.<br />Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-37229509863301834502012-11-13T16:03:00.001-08:002012-11-13T16:03:06.773-08:00Small-time Downsizing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEins6apoXIgosJ5cyeQTC4OP9uqh4YB_G8YgqTVVjhzUmUIz4Cipm4x8bjPl9gwejAZKZghHaMAq6Mam2ynjcx3KdYgnlVqvebjqs22iSbGBM9Sj-V-kouail5k3ibcR64XYuegpLGb-xg/s1600/suitcase.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEins6apoXIgosJ5cyeQTC4OP9uqh4YB_G8YgqTVVjhzUmUIz4Cipm4x8bjPl9gwejAZKZghHaMAq6Mam2ynjcx3KdYgnlVqvebjqs22iSbGBM9Sj-V-kouail5k3ibcR64XYuegpLGb-xg/s200/suitcase.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA3WD_rlOB6asluvyIRMQDaw47Erma5roYWMKHla2A5CMDf4ti0wOF2QYUht1-Dc74yuDzlYR9ytRKVDRhlIsuIZ_TLUe7-_Uf9bVXtNA7w68s_z1ogAdbiST9ipr5HshH_SNrDrhTqmw/s1600/fall+vaca+022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA3WD_rlOB6asluvyIRMQDaw47Erma5roYWMKHla2A5CMDf4ti0wOF2QYUht1-Dc74yuDzlYR9ytRKVDRhlIsuIZ_TLUe7-_Uf9bVXtNA7w68s_z1ogAdbiST9ipr5HshH_SNrDrhTqmw/s200/fall+vaca+022.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
It was almost a year ago that the plan was conceived to take the family on a grand vacation. Not Disney or Europe, but my version (on my budget) of a grand vacation. An outdoor vacation retracing the road trip I had taken years earlier up north to my cousin's wedding. We would travel to the northern Wisconsin/Upper Michigan border, follow the Lake Superior coastline, and then turn north into Minnesota and finally to Ely (voted the coolest small town in America), the last outpost of humanity before the expansive Boundary Waters Canoe Area. We'd stop along the way to take in the sights, seek concretions, kayak, hike, and explore. We starting putting together the pieces in early spring. I sent out emails (and a blog) to the family getting them motivated and in the vacation planning mindset. We got a GPS and made hotel reservations, but other than that, we left a lot to chance. I watched and compared the weather and let the family know what to except and to pack accordingly. When the middle of August came, all of our ducks were in a row, and we were ready to head North. It was during these last hectic moments of preparation that I was struck with the 'vacation state of mind' epiphany. Otherwise know as 'why people enjoy vacation.' Vacation, in a broad sense, is enjoying time away from one's everyday life. But I think that's just scratching the surface. Everywhere we look today we're being urged to downsize. Living simpler and eliminating the clutter from our lives is better for us as well as the world as a whole. Tiny houses are replacing mini-mansions as the wave of the future. We're being encouraged to buy less and recycle what we don't need or use. Waste not...., right? What is vacation if not a microcosm of downsizing? Each family member packs their favorite things, their essentials and necessities into the vehicle and leave the rest behind. All the extras, all the clutter, all the stuff that we think we can't live without now sits at home waiting to be needed, but it never is. We just think we need more stuff. Bigger stuff. Better stuff. As I write this, I have a basement containing a stereo, a VCR (maybe even more than one), two TVs, and bags full of unknown contents. I don't need any of it, but for some reason I can't get rid of it. Not long ago I was in a dark nasty corner of the basement helping the cable guy find where the cable came into the house. I found a box that contained some nick-knacks I had got when my grandfather passed away. In my haste, I grabbed them and set them on a table across from the washing machine. "I can't lose these," I thought to myself. Guess where they are now? Yep, still on the table in the basement. Four feet from where I originally found them. It takes a while to accept that getting rid of mementos like that shows no disrespect for the memory of those who first owned the trinkets. If I tossed all the hand-me-down stuff laying around my house, I'd be rid of as much as a third of the clutter. And wouldn't be a slight to anyone. I once read an article of extreme downsizing where the author (who was probably a fresh from college single guy living in a studio apartment in New York) was suggesting reigning in his material life to fifty items. Now that's a little nuts when you think of it. If you own a set if dishes, glasses and silverware for four people, you have right there forty-four items! He hadn't gotten very far. By the end of the article he only a pair of jeans and a pen were on the list of stuff he was keeping. I thought I'd give it a try, and started by narrowing my wardrobe down to fifty t-shirts. Oh well. You have to start somewhere, right? I'm getting away from my point..... if I actually have a point to make. Even though we under-planned this trip, it went amazingly well. Everyone in our diverse clan got to do exactly what they wanted to do. Indigo got to kiss horses and do a little shopping, Lori got to find vast quantities of rare Lake Superior concretions, Kovi got to spend all his free time in the hotel's pools, Sydney got to go on a 'Haunted Walk of Historic Bayfield,' and I got the satisfaction of providing my family with a memorable summer vacation. We capped it off with a three hour sea kayak tour that brought us along gorgeous sandstone cliffs and over a shipwreck that has been at the bottom of Superior longer than the Titanic's been at the bottom of the Atlantic. We also got to go see my cousin and his family in Ely where we spent a great night in great simplicity: Family, music, & pizza. Ultimately, for me it really was the Clark Griswold factor that made the vacation special for me. Providing for my family on a day-to-day basis is rewarding, but to see the pure pleasure in their eyes while they are immersed in doing something they truly love is a rewarding experience on a completely different level. Writing a check for lunch money isn't quite as rewarding as fresh cardamon donuts and chai on a Saturday morning two hundred miles from our cluttered 'other' lives. in fact, we had such a good time that we did an abbreviated version of it again a few weeks ago when the kid's had a long weekend. Marillion was right: Less=More (it is their acoustic album title). If the computer has taught me anything, it's that memories...that is photographs...take up very little room. We all need to remember that. I can fill by head, my heart, and my soul with memories, and my t-drive with photographs. Almost anything more is simply clutter. Experiences will last forever, while souvenirs and commemorative t-shirts only last until the next spring cleaning. Less=More is as Happiness=Vacation. And less crap is less to worry about. Enough chiches....Sell that extra TV, give away the extra clothes, and unpack that third pair of shoes. Freedom from clutter and a simpler life awaits.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-25503153517560706342012-11-06T16:32:00.001-08:002012-11-06T16:33:10.273-08:00Happy Birthday, Caveman<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU8d3n2dC_tN1iIYdmRu1buvoJrJnIj60dyW2JrZe7ArQCSiJCOKQbsGG92D4UpNPwcQyoXsxIhUql6mYUoYoGBo-UxvRKh9dGb84-l2Bqc6C5h2qfc-tdY9eBhzmfVu27jaNclVRYSos/s1600/caveman+008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU8d3n2dC_tN1iIYdmRu1buvoJrJnIj60dyW2JrZe7ArQCSiJCOKQbsGG92D4UpNPwcQyoXsxIhUql6mYUoYoGBo-UxvRKh9dGb84-l2Bqc6C5h2qfc-tdY9eBhzmfVu27jaNclVRYSos/s320/caveman+008.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Ready to ride</em></td></tr>
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A little after noon on Sunday the 21st of last month I received a text from my kid brother in Maine. It said, "Happy birthday, bro. Got any big plans for the day?" As a matter of fact I did. At that very moment my dad, Koval, Zooey and I were on our way north to the Cherney Meribel Caves County Park just north of Manitowoc for the first annual Caveman TT bike race. A local mountain bike club had got permission recently to build some bike trails and were holding this time-trial event to raise the funds to expand the trail system.<br />
I texted Jeff back tell him about my plans to enter a bike race to, "...spend my 45th trying to prove to myself I'm still 25." The weather was gorgeous for the end of October: bright sunshine and well in the 60s. The caves park is a great destination as well as a well kept secret. For as long as lived in Wisconsin, I'd never heard of this park until recently. It features not only beautiful natural features and caves, but it's also home to a burnt out frame of a field-stone hotel that was once a premier destination for rail passengers of a bye-gone era that is now on the registry of haunted places in Wisconsin. The hotel was essentially the old fashioned version of a spa. Beneath the grounds there's a mineral spring that was considered medicinal for it's high mineral content, which made it a destination for travellers to soak in the healing waters. While I warmed up for my shot at the time trial, dad and Kov did some exploring. The course was great. I had made the drive up a week earlier to check it out and was excited to get on it again. I rode a 21min lap and went back to the jeep to relax, rehydrate, and zen for a bit before the event started. Dad, dog, and boy arrived a little bit later to share their tales of exploring. At 1:00 it was time for the event, and I went and got in line to take my turn at being Caveman. I took off three minutes after the rider in front of me and gave it all I had in the hopes that the guy who started three minutes after me, didn't catch up to me. I finished in 18min, and that included wiping out taking a corner too sharp and snapping my computer mount. I was pleased with my results in spite of the fact I certainly wasn't in the ranks with the real cavemen who were finishing in 15 minutes or less. After getting my official time, we went down to explore more trails. I drank from the mineral spring (it's delicious) and then we toured the main cave. After the tour, it was getting late and we needed to head back. Upon reaching the main staging area for the race, on the way back to the jeep, I heard my name being called. I had won a swag bag in the raffle! Back in Sheboygan we were meeting up with the girls (my mom, wife, and daughters) for a celebratory birthday dinner followed by the traditional cake and ice cream back at home. Before the drive home, I checked my phone to see another message from Jeff. It read, "Did your plan work?" I responded with, "I didn't break anything or throw-up. So I guess so!" Now let's go eat. This caveman needs cake!Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-6471526600117902042012-09-30T19:30:00.001-07:002012-10-02T15:04:10.595-07:00LIVESTRONGwitchhunt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHsU31Dut3l4lGtz5oubUbpKuphvzdKqLP5rX45NA9h7puNztlWxRUVEr6lN54Xf5_N1c82oCtsI_X_EG35yjBmdgFWztwkgG0QZZftkq-S2loGW7hlGhizFHCqzXMz-KETpDGcJ9cJbI/s1600/lance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHsU31Dut3l4lGtz5oubUbpKuphvzdKqLP5rX45NA9h7puNztlWxRUVEr6lN54Xf5_N1c82oCtsI_X_EG35yjBmdgFWztwkgG0QZZftkq-S2loGW7hlGhizFHCqzXMz-KETpDGcJ9cJbI/s320/lance.jpg" width="281" /></a></div>
Imagine yourself standing at the fence of any grade school playground in America. You see a game of kickball between the third grade boys and girls in progress. In this game, the girls are beating the boys. And I mean <em><strong>beating</strong></em>! Let's say it's 15-2 in favor of the girls. Now the bell rings and the kids have to go back inside. The boys are stunned in disbelief. How did they get beat by girls? Then one boy comes up with a solution to their embarrassment:<em> the girls must have cheated!</em> No one saw or caught them cheating, but it's really the only logical explanation for girls beating boys, isn't it? Now for the purposes of this story, the role of the girls will be played by Lance Armstrong and the boys will be the ridiculous USADA, the French, the UCI, and the scorned cyclists that Lance humbled Tour after Tour. Apparently the unwillingness to continue fighting sensationalized claims of cheating, is synonymous with admitting guilt. The USADA in a likely alliance with cycling's UCI is dragging Lance through the mud, stripping him of all seven of his legitimately won...as in never caught cheating during...Tour de France titles (and all the prize money that went with them), and banning him from the arena of competition for life. All, essentially, because he's decided it's not worth the energy to continue to fight the charges. Lance Armstrong is a brash, possibly arrogant elite athlete who may in fact be a poor tipper at restaurants. This may come from the fact that he is an elite athlete celebrity. Not the elite type of athlete that makes a spectacular one handed catch and ends up on Sportscenter's <em>Plays of the Day</em> and then is gone. No, Lance's 'moment' lasted nearly a decade. Lance Armstrong is the greatest cyclist ever. And those are the types of characters that become lightning rods for the media. The fact is Lance Armstrong may have cheated. But he was never caught. For the seven years that he ruled the tour, he was the most tested athlete in sports. Not once did he fail a test. Now it's seven years after his final victory and the whiners are still trying to prove he cheated? The fact this is still going on should be an embarrassment to everyone involved. He won, you lost. Get over it and get on with your lives. What's next? Should we review and demerit every long shot victory in sports history? "Hello, is this the 1980 US Olympic hockey team? Yeah, we're going to need those Gold Medals back. There's no way you could have really beat the Soviets." And if trying to take away the past isn't enough, the rule makers are going after his future as well. Lance wasn't allowed to run in the Chicago marathon this year and<strong> </strong><em>Ironman</em> has barred him from all of their events as well. <br />
<span style="color: white;">You know, if this was just another ass-hole hedonistic self-involved jock I'd probably just shrug it off and not give it another thought. But it's not just another athlete. It's Lance Armstrong. He's an inspiration. He's a role model I want my kids to look up to. He's his own six million dollar man. But instead of crashing and having the government rebuild him into a half man--half machine that can do thing others can't; his own body turned on him and left him for dead. By his own will, he rebuilt himself from a triathlon prodigy into a honed cycling machine who could do things no one else could. If cancer can't beat him, do you really think he's going to be afraid of Travis Tygart (the USADA tool in charge of the witch hunt)? In accomplishing these layers of unimaginable feats, Lance inspired millions to an international call to arms against cancer. <strong><span style="background-color: yellow;">LIVESTRONG</span></strong> is everywhere. If you don't know about it, then you don't know anyone who's lives were touched by cancer (and if that is the case...you probably don't know many people). Perhaps on the outside chance that there is a case against Armstrong in lieu of a positive drug test. Ban him from cycling competitively again. Send the message: 'We didn't catch you, but we don't trust you. So you can't race with us again.' But banning from every other sport is ridiculous. Hey, I have an idea. Let him race whenever and wherever he wants and give him drug tests. If he fails -- <em>then</em> kick him out of your event. Come on, who wouldn't want a celebrity of Armstrong's caliber in their event? It's just a poor business decision not to allow him to compete. Lance Armstrong is probably an arrogant jerk, but he has more socially redeeming qualities than most people sworn to public office. Leave him alone. These stories of suits bringing forth allegations of cheating in races seven, eight, or even ten years ago just make me irate. Isn't there something better to do with your time? Maybe get out there and raise funds and awareness in the fight against a deadly disease? Oh wait, the accused is taking care of that already. Recess is over.</span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-66003679836783986582012-06-08T21:06:00.002-07:002012-07-09T21:03:47.391-07:00Mission: Accomplished<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtAoJqwrwDoqhycNzURcU6QO2nzIALrayJ6aa9Go6U6VbVK4xLjiRMz15x3oUAvvvM4PFrEkjUIvZeETKdk0Kow94jLEh2ZRmAg_j9nPpwwGBQ6Wp18tFdpzaFspzjb9_yBcwSIFJzX30/s1600/gary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtAoJqwrwDoqhycNzURcU6QO2nzIALrayJ6aa9Go6U6VbVK4xLjiRMz15x3oUAvvvM4PFrEkjUIvZeETKdk0Kow94jLEh2ZRmAg_j9nPpwwGBQ6Wp18tFdpzaFspzjb9_yBcwSIFJzX30/s320/gary.jpg" width="320" /></a>It's safe to say that once you get to a point where your idols are younger than you are, you are apt to stop writing them fan mail and stalking them from your computer. Having said that however, I've come so close so many times to crossing paths with the one and only Gary Fisher, that I can't help but to keep an ear to the ground and still hope for the chance to meet him. I bought my first Fisher bike in 1994 when I was living in Oregon. That was when I started mountain biking with my mountain bike instead of just commuting as I had been doing with my old mountain bike. I loved that bike and was enthralled with the legend behind the mountain bike itself as well as the man who's credited with its' invention. Gary Fisher and his pals tore up a motorcycle, a ten-speed, and a cruiser and pretty soon...<em>viola</em>...the mountain bike was born. If you've ever heard Gary talk about cycling it doesn't take but a moment to realize <em>'this is a man passionate about this subject</em>.' I think anyone who's a protegee in their field probably sounds like that. The kind of people who when 'thier' subject is brought up, you just stand back and listen to them go. I love being around that type of person. Even if they're talking about tires, you can't help but pick up on, and be inspired by that energy. </div>
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Back in 2005, I was at the Wheel & Sprocket bike expo buying a newer version of my old '94 HKEK (Hoo-Koo-E-Koo is the Native name for the mountain range where Gary and company first rode their mountain bikes). When I was checking out with my new bike, the clerk laughed and said, "You should have been here yesterday. Gary Fisher was here signing bikes." So close.... The next few years he was at the show, but for 'members only' type functions. </div>
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Fast forward to two riding seasons ago when I met and got to ride with former Elite Pro team Trek/Fisher rider Jesse Lalonde. He was pals with the guy known as 'the fish' and talked about Gary's fondness of Wisconsin. Especially the liberal Madison area. He assured me the next time the Fish came to town, he's give me a call. There were a couple close calls, but over the course of the next year, it still hadn't happened. I had even gone as far as finding a great print on ebay that I had acquired and put aside specifically for Gary to sign. Last spring I was unemployed and signed up to work at the Wheel & Sprocket bike expo as a salesman. That was the same year that the Trek and the Gary Fisher brands merged so the Fisher bikes were now just a line of Trek bikes. So it came as no surprise when there was no Gary sighting at the show. I did have a great time working the expo anyway and decided to do it again this spring. So on Easter weekend I spread myself very thin and hauled ass to Milwaukee to work for five hours every evening after putting in an eight-hour day at my regular job. I was only able to work three out of the five days, but if was still fun and I've gotten pretty good and matching up bikes and people. On Friday evening, I was finishing up a sale when a voice from the lecture area caught my attention. Only one person could sound that excited to be talking about dirt. The Fish was in the house! I stood outside the little tent for a while and listened to him talk. I was mere feet from the man himself. I had no camera, no paper, and I certainly didn't have my ebay print. When his talk was over, I stood in line with a half dozen or so riding disciples who truly understood we were in the presence of greatness. I talked for a few moments, trying not to gush. He is an amazing man to talk to. I jokingly told him about our 'close calls' as well as my beloved print that was some 60 miles away sitting on my desk. He laughed and said, "Don't sweat it. I'm here tomorrow, too." The next morning, I left even earlier than usual so I could stop and buy a new Sharpie. I had carefully packed my poster and an old Fisher Bikes catalog for him to sign. I went through my shift selling my bikes but never straying too far from the seminar tent. I heard when he started to speak and kept one eye on the time as I glided through more sales. When I heard clapping from the tent I waited for a few minutes to let the masses say hello. When I got to the tent it was completely empty. And I mean <em>completely.</em> Gary was gone! I asked the security guy by the door where the hell Gary went. He responded that Gary had a plane to catch and couldn't stick around. I started to panic. There was no way I could get this close and not see him again. I scanned the enormous hall for the Fish. He was a hundred yards away. Almost to the doors outside. I grabbed my mementos and ran through the expo hall. I caught up with him as he was saying good-bye to the Trek reps. He said he only had a moment, but took the pen from me willingly. He commented on the rare poster I had found and said I'd like the new version of it (if I could find it). We shook hands one more time and he was gone. Off to catch a flight back to the Bay area where he calls home. The next day was Easter and I'm sure he was eager to get back. I carefully rolled the poster back up and carefully slid it back into my backpack under the table of the DNR's booth. I retrieved my clipboard from where I had dumped it and returned to the sales floor. I had more bikes to sell. But for today, my mission was accomplished. I had met the one they call <em>the Fish</em>.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh683PKEMXhSSPaVqDla0PlU7v8ekcD-J04tdlq9S4kYSQb5ImauqEDn0bx3ifik3wZR3WqcBy8sNExWWV78YCtTn-OTPSlRvM5tOxeOnSVnea5Bnh-Ss83SPzHLkrpoUfZKJUKfYw6IJw/s1600/klunkerposter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh683PKEMXhSSPaVqDla0PlU7v8ekcD-J04tdlq9S4kYSQb5ImauqEDn0bx3ifik3wZR3WqcBy8sNExWWV78YCtTn-OTPSlRvM5tOxeOnSVnea5Bnh-Ss83SPzHLkrpoUfZKJUKfYw6IJw/s200/klunkerposter.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-28155536741681739662012-06-04T21:27:00.000-07:002012-06-05T12:00:03.252-07:00The Single-Speed Lifestyle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzw4LEHzkzXosEMeJovZCVItLyQyIaIgtGQ7OVC7V842Rndc5De-QCa1k48glOu_h-bwtoFt83qi1qwj4W7W2qDY3he-5ehyphenhyphenwaoKLWJfGRh5_7t2yFgOW5yED19vsLuAulK6VyXkeYDa8/s1600/commuting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzw4LEHzkzXosEMeJovZCVItLyQyIaIgtGQ7OVC7V842Rndc5De-QCa1k48glOu_h-bwtoFt83qi1qwj4W7W2qDY3he-5ehyphenhyphenwaoKLWJfGRh5_7t2yFgOW5yED19vsLuAulK6VyXkeYDa8/s320/commuting.jpg" width="320" /></a>Since Zooey (our two-year-old Blue Heeler) came into my life, cycling has really taken a back seat to walking and hiking. But as the spring has been warming up, I've been getting back in the saddle again...so to speak. I started riding to work as soon as the thermometer started to reach the 50s on a consistent basis. Recently I've been riding more often than driving. That, I am pretty proud of. I knew if cycling to work was going to become a routine for me, I was going to have to keep it simple. No special high maintenance outfits or gear. I'd ride to work in my work clothes and carry only my lunch, wallet, lock and iPod. To keep in the spirit of 'keeping it simple', I chose to ride my Organic Bikes<em> Dylan. </em>A single-speed who's frame is made from recycled aluminum and bamboo. Yes, I ride a wooden bike to work. I haven't ridden a single-speed since I was learning how to ride a bike some forty years ago. I was actually a little reluctant to embrace this emerging fad. It took bikes all these years to evolve into this machines/works-of-art that they are now: 30-speeds, carbon fiber, disc brakes, full suspension..... Why continue to develop all these upgrades when the masses are returning to their roots? It wasn't a fad I was in a hurry to embrace. The<em> Dylan</em> sort of fell into my lap. The concept of an organic bike was what drew me in. Choosing a single-speed just seemed the natural choice of model if you're going to ride a bamboo bicycle. It's been several weeks of consistently riding to work and I'm still feeling for a groove. Riding a bike with only one gear is a lesson in life. There is no hurrying on a single-speed. These is no down-shifting to make a hill easier. There is no speeding up or slowing down your natural cadence. Just as in life, its not you that sets the pace. In this case, its the bike. That is something that takes a measure of acceptance to get used to. I have a computer on all my bikes. Putting one on this bike is either going to teach me to relax or drive me insane! I know my cadence wants to push the pedals to the tune of about 15mph. Going down a hill with the wind at my back, the<em> Dylan</em> will barely push 13pmh! Little by little, I'm accepting what we can and can't do together, <em>Dylan</em> and I. I know we have to leave by a certain time because there is no such thing as rushing a single-speed's commute. I know I have to bring a water bottle or my pant leg will get snagged on the empty bamboo water bottle cage. I know when I leave work, getting up that long winding hill out of the parking lot is going to make my heart pound even before the access road meets up with Erie avenue and continues uphill for another block. All in all, I feel me as a commuter is growing. I've accepted certain aspects of cycling I took for granted before. Riding a single-speed is freeing in that is allows you so few choices. There's only one way of getting from point A to point B: <em>Dylan's</em> way. And get there, you will. And if I embrace this method of transit, I stand to arrive at point B a more zen rider than those burdening themselves with all the choices of options on their more elaborate machines. Don't get me wrong; there's a time and place for a multitude of gears and long-travel shocks, but 'on the way to work' is not one of them. Today on my way home I started pondering a single-speed mountain bike. Without having to worry about the lame conditions of our roadways, I could achieve a whole new level of zen. </div>
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<br /></div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-22146025251589800402012-05-15T18:18:00.000-07:002012-05-18T17:40:53.784-07:00A Letter to My Family...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4xbvmCLwDpcdNFvca6EpypODTUuBcr-G1Eg9XyiUNbVvNQej-gQgom0Md3Iydn6sX3BWq5POjBVSr_AoEMcaPNAIdmmVSWdy8FCs8XDI3MbkH1AoMCbX9HjC_0406M2ls6zamuDiHekM/s1600/ely.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4xbvmCLwDpcdNFvca6EpypODTUuBcr-G1Eg9XyiUNbVvNQej-gQgom0Md3Iydn6sX3BWq5POjBVSr_AoEMcaPNAIdmmVSWdy8FCs8XDI3MbkH1AoMCbX9HjC_0406M2ls6zamuDiHekM/s320/ely.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Now that our summer vacation has been booked, it's time for each of you to start thinking about it and how you can each get the most out of our time together. We are going to be staying in Ashland but gallivanting to the surrounding communities, including Bayfield to explore the Apostle Islands. From there it's north to Ely, Minnesota. The town that was voted 'Hippest small town in America' not too long ago. I encourage you to look up these places on line. Bookmark their web-sites and monitor their weather. Mom's already found a vegan cafe and coffeehouse that's close to our hotel, so unless you want to be stuck eating sprouts three meals a day, you'd better do some research for yourselves. The reason I ask this of you is because I know this isn't the kind of trip any ol' kid would choose for themselves. This is no trip to Disneyland. This trip was designed to unplug us as a family. To get us together by taking us away. There was a day last week when all five of us were on a computer, phone, or iDevice; and each in separate rooms. No wonder we never know what's going on in each others' lives. I want a chunk of this trip to be left up to each of us. If ever on this vacation you need to say, 'what are we going to do next,' then you didn't take an active enough role in planning. We'll be gone for seven days and only have about four things planned. That leaves a lot of time to explore. The towns we're visiting are know to be small and friendly. Mom and I probably wouldn't even have issue with you walking on the beach or walking to town for ice cream without us (so long as you bring us a treat). The room we'll be in for the first three nights is a family suite with a private porch overlooking Lake Superior. I can't imagine a more perfect place to write, drink tea, or unroll a yoga mat. This being said, I also need each of you to start mentally packing and making lists for this trip as you plan our agenda. At the most northern spot we will visit, we'll be about three miles south of the Canadian border and about forty miles from a Wal-Mart is the opposite direction. So if you forget your toothbrush......please don't breath on me. You get the idea, right? To get you pointed in the right direction -- Remember when we'd go to Mauthe Lake for a day of kayaking and a picnic? Imagine doing that for a week. We'll probably each need to get some quick-drying shorts/capris, a long or short-sleeved sun shirt, and water shoes/sandals for the trip. Other things you'll need to remember are: camera batteries, a book, a journal, pens,{relaxing} music, and whatever 'personal time' items you think you'd need. I'm going to trust you can each get what you need packed. If there's anything you need, let us know as soon as possible. I'll be working up to the night before we leave, so any last minute shopping won't work. And I refuse to spend the first few hours of our vacation in Wal-Mart before we leave town. <br />
Mom has referred to this trip our 'vision quest'. Our trip to look into ourselves. I hope you all take that into consideration. Take this opportunity to find out who you are when there's no one watching. Take this time to enjoy each other, as well. These are the most important people in your life. And, all too often, they are the ones who get the smallest piece of your time. I personally, can't wait for this trip. I've waited a long time to visit the Apostle Islands. The town of Bayfield was featured in my Natural Geographic Outside magazine as one of the coolest small towns in the Midwest. And I've wanted to share Ely with you all since I got home from my cousin Matt's wedding. I'm excited to experience all of this with each of you. And I'm also excited for each of you to help figure out how we'll spend our days. It'll be quite the change of pace to be leaving behind our chaotic world of school, therapy, work, practices, and appointments and fill our days with kayaking shoreline caves, hiking along waterfalls, and watching the sunset from the porch with a warm beverage in hand not worrying where we have to be and when. If this turns out to be the vacation I'm hoping for..... No one will want to return from it.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-43817798114758423632011-12-12T21:32:00.000-08:002012-02-02T19:57:03.235-08:00Caffeinated Dreams<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipEL6yyFTZF_sMbAzGcOXVNs_DsvbqO3BTwoYtOPbft3Mz-j3RDD0HKjeBrRizKC24HhmYcOwybCUiPVuPJW0-aKb-HiHHhh3TCC0a7LJWLNmOq9Xx7pBG3O3flWKqqgIozh_xbK7Q324/s1600/1winter2011+224.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipEL6yyFTZF_sMbAzGcOXVNs_DsvbqO3BTwoYtOPbft3Mz-j3RDD0HKjeBrRizKC24HhmYcOwybCUiPVuPJW0-aKb-HiHHhh3TCC0a7LJWLNmOq9Xx7pBG3O3flWKqqgIozh_xbK7Q324/s320/1winter2011+224.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I had promised myself I'd never write anything as cliche as an 'ode to coffee.' But last week while walking on the beach with Zooey into a sub-zero wind off Lake Michigan clutching my Starbucks the phrase <em>caffeinated dreams</em> popped into my head. "What a great name for an album," I thought to myself. As I'm not a rock-star, this is the only outlet I have to utilize such a phrase. At that point I started rehashing my relationship with coffee to find it holds a prominent place in some of my fondest memories. I'm not a coffee aficionado by any means. I don't have a bumper sticker that says, 'friends don't let friends drink Starbucks.' I don't sniff, swirl, and spit like a wine snob. I just like what I like. I appreciate good coffee. There are certain coffee houses I will only go to when I have time to embrace the whole of the atmosphere. At the same time, I'm not above driving through for a McMocha when that's what my lifestyle demands. I even like cooking with coffee. In fact, I am currently working on developing a coffee related.... Well, that's a story for another time.<br />
I grew up around coffee during a time when coffee came ground in a can and was made in curious vessels called percolators. It was all very strange. Coffee smelled delicious, but tasted awful! Neither of my parents drank coffee. My mom always said, "if coffee tasted as good as it smelled, I'd drink it." My best friend Jim drank it before and after swim meets. My girlfriend in college drank it. All four of my grandparents drank it morning, noon, and night. But not me. It wasn't until my 20s that someone actually peer-pressured me into drinking it. It was during my time cooking at <em><strong>Christie's</strong></em> that I first discovered real coffee. <em><strong>Christie's</strong></em> was one of the finest (in the top three according to AAA) restaurants in Wisconsin and I was lucky to be working there right out of culinary school. At the time, I was working two jobs. I worked as a lifeguard at the YMCA from 5:00a.m. to 10:00a.m, then I'd go home, have a bowl of cereal, and sleep until it was time to work at the restaurant from 2:00p.m. until 10:00p.m. (or midnight if I had to close the hotel's room service kitchen). After work I again would go home, have some cereal, (and if I was really ambitious, an English muffin), and catch a few hours sleep before doing it all again. At <em><strong>Christie's</strong></em>, I worked alongside some characters who drank more and slept less than I did. One in particular, Jesse, would come staggering in twenty minutes after me, throw down his knives and make a pot of coffee. Every day he'd offer me a cup and every day I'd say, 'no thanks.' Finally one day he asked why I didn't drink coffee. I just shrugged. At this, he grinned and insisted he'd make a cup that I'd love. The reason I pointed out that<em><strong> Christie's</strong></em> was a fine-dining establishment was not to brag so much as it was meant for you to realize we served good coffee. Kona, in fact. One of the finest coffees in the world. To this fresh brew, Jesse added heavy whipping cream and natural sugar. That was it. Once it hit my lips, there was no turning back. I liked coffee. In retrospect, I believe Jesse's true motivation to get me drinking coffee, was so that I'd have a pot brewed by the time he made it in. Eventually my chef had to start limiting my intake based on my nightly level of obnoxiousness. I also learned quickly that if I wanted<em> any</em> sleep before going to the Y the next morning, I had to quit the coffee by 6:30p.m. From Christie's, I moved to Oregon. Right about the time a little shop called Starbucks began a growth spurt that hasn't stopped to this day. Coffee places were everywhere out west much like bars are everywhere here in the Midwest. There my drug of choice came in designer varieties and flavors like lattes, cappuccino, and my personal favorite: mocha (chocolate & coffee. Seriously.... What could be better?). But it wasn't really until I moved back to the Midwest that coffee starting being pared with my lifestyle. The earliest memory where I can match a good time and coffee was when I lived in Door County. On my day off, I'd put my mountain bike on my Jeep and head north to Peninsula State Park for an afternoon of trail riding. On my way home, I'd always stop at Door County Coffee Roasters for a mocha in a hand-made ceramic mug (and a bowl of soup in the spring and fall). That theme transferred over to my moving to Sheboygan where a trip to the kettles to ride always warranted the phrase, 'daddy's riding for a mocha,' as I'd leave the house. Last year when we got Zooey, an Australian Blue Heeler herding dog, brisk morning walks often called for a detour to Starbucks en route to the beach. If memory serves, I even mentioned my Sunday morning mocha a few blogs back where I pay homage to our weekly morning ritual. <br />
Coffee has evolved along with my life. Where it used to wire me for long nights cooking on the line, now its matured into a treat to be savoured during my quieter moments. Sometimes its the treat of an iced mocha after an exhilarating afternoon tearing through the woods. Sometimes its a steaming latte on the couch of a coffee house next to my wife. Sometimes its waking up to fresh-brewed coffee on a winter morning before heading out for the dog's morning walk. All-in-all, its easy to say that my life goes better with coffee.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-23088563353014401792011-11-15T20:02:00.000-08:002011-11-15T20:02:39.414-08:00My Eulogy<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Matriarch (center) and her subjects. Christmas 1984</td></tr>
</tbody></table>What image pops into your mind when you hear the word 'grandparents?' To me it's a white haired woman at the stove either making cookies, home-made soup or tea and a nearly bald man in bifocals reading the paper. Now as normal as this scene seems, it's an image locked in time for nearly a generation. That is to say, I remember all four of my grand parents in the same light from the time of my earliest cognitive memories to the time I got to the age that I started missing family gatherings due to school or distance. Yesterday my dad's mom passed away at 96. She was my last grandparent. This is naturally a time to reflect on what role grandparents, and especially Grandma Fetterer played in my life. Grandma & Grandpa Fetterer's house was the sight of many a holiday gathering. Actually <em>every</em> holiday was celebrated there! There were brat frys after any holiday that included a parade. And we were always there for Christmas and Easter. It had a perfectly rectangular yard which made it perfect for cousin vs cousin team sports; and a huge living and dining room for Christmas and Easter feasts. Then there were the lesser known, more private holidays when mom & dad would let my brother and I sleep over. Their's was a big house, so sleeping there afforded my kid brother and I the rare opportunity to have our own rooms. Most of the smells that trigger nostalgic reactions for me can be traced to that house. Chamomile tea, beef broth, moth balls, and snickerdoodles can all be traced there. That was Grandma's house. She took care of the house so that it was always a home to those who were there. She raised a family there -- my family. <br />
Grandma may have been the originator of 'thinking outside the box.' That's the only way to explain some of the stories that came out of that house. Stories that seemed funny and cute when I was young, but now seem bordering on the verge of urban legend. Who in their right mind, after all, would save bacon fat and ham drippings, mix in some spices and flour and fry it as a breakfast meat? Grandma, that's who. And it was delicious (if you could get past the fact it was as black as road tar. The outside was crisp as a potato chip and the inside was the consistency of raw ground beef)! Who would think to market ketchup between two slices of bread as a<em> black cat sandwich</em> for a Halloween Boy Scout fundraiser? Grandma, again. Who would think to open all her canned vegetables and soup from the bottom so when the grandchildren would play 'store' all the shelves would appear to be stocked with full and proper canned goods? Yep. Grandma. This one though is by far my favorite, and so absurd I have Snopes.com looking into it's validity. I don't remember the orgin of this story, but somewhere I heard that grandma on vacation would float around the lake in an inner tube snacking on fresh radishes that she would dip in the salt that she filled her navel with. Now this begs all kinds of questions that I never thought to ask back when I originally heard this story. Primarily, who filled her navel, because she'd have to be laying down to do it? And, did grandma wear a bikini?<br />
Through the years, the image of our grandparents doesn't waver. Even now that they're gone, we can picture their smiling faces greeting us at the door on a brisk Christmas morning. Their stories still make us laugh, they fortitude inspires us, their legacy moves us. They raised our folks and our folks raised us. Now we remember that wisdom, humor, and courage as we raise our own children. I still now remember that house, those smells, and that woman at the stove pouring me a cup of chamomile tea. That's my grandma.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-60836714765182517042011-09-20T18:47:00.000-07:002011-09-20T18:58:23.538-07:00Going to Church<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM-69d8-KDZdGgs8x3D2xShF5pgZVvdN3XxWqdRXXOE01UGFh0z0vdAZAnlBJoRHoGDgG5AdcGyldhxAFrrL5P29dcPFlFHyyRtr8nEmhERYVsL0EuTzIc573rfKR0maN79KlmK-eRIW0/s1600/sunrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM-69d8-KDZdGgs8x3D2xShF5pgZVvdN3XxWqdRXXOE01UGFh0z0vdAZAnlBJoRHoGDgG5AdcGyldhxAFrrL5P29dcPFlFHyyRtr8nEmhERYVsL0EuTzIc573rfKR0maN79KlmK-eRIW0/s320/sunrise.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>"Go home, Jim. This job is a marathon, not a sprint." With that, my thirteen-hour Saturday came to a close and I went home. My first <em>real </em>week working my new job was now complete. It had been capped off with back-to-back 12+ hour days and I was feeling it. As a chef, I had worked plenty of long days (...and weeks, and months, and seasons...). That was nothing new. What had changed, is now I'm over forty and my body complained adamantly when I did <em>anything</em> for that long. Now it was Saturday night. I was home with family and looking forward to tomorrow. You see, I have a Sunday ritual. Even though I had been up at 5:00a.m. every day, I still got up early and headed out. Zooey and I made our usual stop for a mocha which she will try to lick the whipped cream off of, and we headed to our place of worship. In the six months I was unemployed, this walk was commonplace, but the Sunday version had become special. Before Zooey, I used to go for a bike ride religiously on Saturday or Sunday mornings. As the town's faithful drive to church, Zo and I arrive at our place of worship. As we get out of the Jeep, a different kind of music draws me in. It's the sounds of Lake Michigan, not an organ that beckon us closer. At this point, Zooey takes off to do her own thing. This usually entails her darting through the beach grass, with her nose down, after invisible rabbits. I make my way along the trail down to a soft sandy beach that stretches for miles. I look for the perfect seat. One with plenty of sand and very few Zebra mussel shells. I set down my coffee and Zo's leash and kick off my shoes. After I check on the dog's whereabouts and whether she stands to bother anyone, I lean back with my eyes closed and breathe in the morning. The early morning light on my face, the sound of the waves, the fine sugar-soft sand on my hands and feet, and the cool fall breeze all around me bring a kind of peace that only a beach can give. This is where I talk to God. I thank Him for my health, my family, and this day. I ask Him to help us all with our individual challenges. And I ask Him for continued strength and patience. <br />
Eventually Zooey finds me again and we get up and continue our walk along the beach and up the boardwalk along the river and back to the jeep. We drive home amidst the other returning church-goers. Home to thier brunches, football games, and lazy Sunday afternoons. I often wonder during my Sunday meditations whether those dressed in dresses and suits enjoy their time with God as much as I do. Since we moved to this town, we've been 'shopping' for a church we could embrace. But to me, there's no church like the outdoors. Where God's work is all around you. The woods and the beaches is where the peace is. Where the magic is. Where God not only shows up, but also shows off. And there's no place I'd rather be on a Sunday than outside.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-13530114760008115662011-07-20T18:06:00.000-07:002011-07-20T18:43:22.320-07:00To Make a Short Story Long...Back when I still had a job as a chef, I came across a recipe contest in a trade magazine that I had entered once before back in 1994. Last week I came across the torn out ad in a pile of papers on my desk. I looked it over to realize that the deadline was only a few days away. I thought to myself, "Looks like I've some cooking to do this weekend." Well, needless to say, the weekend came and went without me doing a single thing regarding the contest. Now its Monday morning. Kovis off to summer school, the dog is walked, and the deadline is mere hours away. this sounds like a good time to hit the kitchen and whip up a dish worthy of dubbing me <em>'The Hottest Chef in America.' </em><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn6AYQYzMBnsGRXNHk-HJ_zXyN5o5Nf6vQbGVkAHlOHL2H7r_9brogUNSj2xy7oxHktWMzisOGBofbFX8WuK4rLxBR59Ge6rlsCx6bcRv_1ooRdcKi7nD_OcjN7td02a9RjUC7DE7xb6M/s1600/tabasco+031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn6AYQYzMBnsGRXNHk-HJ_zXyN5o5Nf6vQbGVkAHlOHL2H7r_9brogUNSj2xy7oxHktWMzisOGBofbFX8WuK4rLxBR59Ge6rlsCx6bcRv_1ooRdcKi7nD_OcjN7td02a9RjUC7DE7xb6M/s320/tabasco+031.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Spicy Coconut Cilantro Gazpacho with Grilled Shrimp</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Tabasco puts on this contest to feature their products in recipes. This shouldn't be too tough for me to do, since I put their products in practically everything I make already. My wife gave me a sort of culinary challenge a while back to combine two of her favorite flavors: cilantro and coconut in a single dish. After a little brainstorming, I decided gazpacho would be an ideal vehicle for combining all the necessary elements. Gazpacho is a Spanish chilled tomato and cucumber soup. I figured adding cilantro, coconut, and a note of spice would actually make a pretty kick-ass soup. Until recently, I've cooked flying by the seat of my pants. Creating dishes with 'a little of this and a little of that' and never writing anything down. This winter, when I started creating my own granola and energy bars, I've actually gotten into the habit of starting with a written recipe and taking meticulous notes as I went along. So I grabbed a legal pad and started constructing a soup. I started with the basic building blocks of a gazpacho and added to it the ingredients that would give it it's signature. When I felt it was ready, I sat down to enter it in the contest on-line. Tis true -- I was about to enter a recipe for a dish no one, myself included, had ever tasted. But, what the hey? Its not like entering was costing me anything. As I sat at the computer, roadblocks came at me right and left. To enter, the cook had to either be a student or work (in a leadership position) in a professional kitchen. This presented all kinds of problems. First of all, while I am once again employed, the building isn't even done being constructed. So what am I to enter on the 'address' and 'phone number' lines? Plus, I've only met my new boss once and didn't even know his last name let alone his phone number. By the time I limped through the first section of the registration form, it looked as though a 6-year-old had filled it out. (Heavy sigh) On to the actual recipe... With a tinge of guilt, and my shoulder angel screaming in my ear, I began to enter an untested recipe in a nation-wide contest. Then came the kicker: The last line was where the contestant was to enter a photo of what the final product was supposed to look like. How was I supposed to know? I've never even made it, let alone seen it or photographed it! With drooping shoulders, but a renewed sense of pride, I grabbed my keys and wallet and called to my daughter that I'd be right back. After two trips to the grocery store and a thorough cleaning of the kitchen, I had a final product ready to be tasted, refined (adding grilled shrimp if only to make the eventual photo more appealing. Hence the second trip to the store), and finally photographed. The morning had started out with a half-fast, last ditch effort to get a recipe in on time, that should have taken me fifteen minutes. Stopping only to get Kovi off the bus and make him lunch, the project was now on its third full hour. I have to say that the final product was worth the extra effort. The gazpacho was well received in local circles. By 'local circles', I mainly mean, my wife Lori and her friends. All said and done, it was an eventful day. Thank goodness I'm unemployed, if only for one more week. In no time at all, I'll be back in the workforce and have to be much more careful not to squander any of my time. But as for this moment today: I wouldn't have time to be so reckless if I wasn't so busy being reckless. Next year, when this contest pops up, I'll know better. A little planning can go a long way.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-7928476800334625662011-07-09T13:38:00.000-07:002011-07-14T18:08:03.982-07:00Every Now and Zen...<div><div><div><div><div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_WO9jNL9fAY2R9Kvqw2uW7tG3aZmmp43NLM84IU_1xcBAwVoQlknoIgdak5eMVioPxIPstEP10anlPdkgA3VEv9FdaYCToxrdcDVcl14QmXNjUvdtFR76XEcNcDdr0NoPK5TEkGBkPY8/s1600/muddy+127.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622236524878638466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_WO9jNL9fAY2R9Kvqw2uW7tG3aZmmp43NLM84IU_1xcBAwVoQlknoIgdak5eMVioPxIPstEP10anlPdkgA3VEv9FdaYCToxrdcDVcl14QmXNjUvdtFR76XEcNcDdr0NoPK5TEkGBkPY8/s320/muddy+127.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 240px;" /></a>I was recently reflecting on my past writings in an effort to see a pattern that might show why I've stopped writing as frequently as I once had. Oddly enough, I realized that while I started writing as a way of philosophizing about my mountain biking adventures (or, all too often -- <em>misadventures</em>)<em>. </em>In more recent scribblings, I bitched about work and threw out some thoughts on life. I was, in essence, concentrating on life as a way of avoiding biking! How's that for an up-side-down paradox? As is usually the case, it took an obvious everyday situation to show me the obvious any day <em>solution</em>. </div><div>The prophecy of my January blog came full circle the day after Valentine's Day when I lost my job. While it was a pretty cushy job, it was sucking at my soul as a chef to go in every day. Having had the last five months off (I do have a new job, but don't start for a while yet), I've had some serious free time on my hands. So much time, in fact, that I don't have time for anything. I don't know what I do all day, but the calender is full. Thank goodness I don't have a job, because I wouldn't have time to do it! One of the things that takes up a fair portion of my day, is walking Zooey, our 19-month old Blue Heeler. With her, it's simple: the more tired she is -- the less trouble she gets in to. So this means long walks and lots of them. I'd been getting bored with the same ol' beach walk (plus, the summer tourists' presence means more time on the leash for Zo) and started thinking of new places to hike. We had hiked the woods along the river behind the quarry a few times and its closer to home than the beach, so we started there. After several trips to the quarry, I started refining our route so it coincided with the mountain bike course. And then it dawned on me.... I could ride this! The quarry was always just a section of the course I'd ride that wound its way through Maywood and Evergreen parks, as well as around the quarry. If I were to enter the course from the west rather than the south, I could hit the quarry section and join the traffic flow rather seamlessly. I would add distance by doing several laps instead of once around and back under the highway to Evergreen park. <em>Viola</em>! I ride is born! I got on my X-Cal the next afternoon and headed out. There and back plus two laps around came in at about five miles. A fairly typical mountain bike outing for me. I rode it a couple more times since, and my times are coming in line consistently. After the last couple of gun-shy seasons plagued with injury and basic white-knuckle riding habits, I've found a ride that fits. It's got all the elements I love: a few challenging climbs, lots of fast winding single-track, short quick descents and one or two launches off the quarry's slick-rock just to keep me from getting complacent. </div><div>It's unnatural for me to think outside the box all the time. I think most people are this way. Because of that, I spend a lot of time consciencely looking for a catalyst to help me see just beyond the shadows of my conscience thoughts. I look and listen and learn from what's going on around me. Seeing things from a different vantage point, listening to song lyrics, watching what other people experience. These are all valid ways I look for inspiration. This time around, it was Zooey. And I'm sure it will be again sometime.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-60911741469426764362011-05-03T20:47:00.000-07:002012-07-24T19:12:17.484-07:00Working Through My Mid-Life Crisis<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYLeVK4HuaYRrxLmBRYAye31v1R5c66glnTY5ysrCCn7YKW7utNJtU8pocwdlfsDo36StunBLrIWlo7h__CgQoDLgjT-RyuBN3kdYWdFpvJnR4ipaX-kFvSUUO_5KU7WPs51oK6deTDnw/s1600/bikeshowafter.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: 0px;"></span><img alt="" border="0" height="150" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602703391277061826" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYLeVK4HuaYRrxLmBRYAye31v1R5c66glnTY5ysrCCn7YKW7utNJtU8pocwdlfsDo36StunBLrIWlo7h__CgQoDLgjT-RyuBN3kdYWdFpvJnR4ipaX-kFvSUUO_5KU7WPs51oK6deTDnw/s200/bikeshowafter.jpg" style="float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px;" width="200" /></a> <br />
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In the spring of 2003, I was a salesman logging hours on end in a truck listening to the radio. When I heard an ad for a bike expo coming up at State Fair Park, my weekend plans were made. That bike expo was something of a milestone event in my life. I was given the OK to buy a new bike, it was this next bike that forever cemented my alliance with the Gary Fisher brand. Over the last eight years, I've been at this bike show numerous times. Spreading the enthusiasm and love of cycling to friends by helping them pick out new bikes. Last year a sales person suggested that with my knowledge and excitement, I should come down and [temp] work the show. When I was let go from my job (fulfilling the prophesy laid out in a previous blog), the opportunity to work the expo became available. I printed an application off their web-site and drove it down to Milwaukee. A few days later I received all the information and forms associated with being an employee. The schedule would be: a day of setting up, three and a half days of sale expo, and a half day to tear it all down. Wow, I was going to the show. I studied up on my bikes. Spending hours on-line pouring over models, components, and accessories. When the day came I showed up at the expo hall and spent the next six hour as part of a bucket brigade that unloaded over 1,000 bikes off of more semi trailers than I can remember. The bikes were then set up in rows so packed together that bumping one bike the wrong way would have knocked a row of 50 bikes down. Aisles for the customers were maybe six feet wide. It was a sight to behold. Hundreds and hundreds of road, mountain, dual-sport, cruisers, Hy-bred, triathlon, and kids bikes all lined the hall waiting for the doors to open the following afternoon. The first day, the sale didn't start until 4:00pm. I arrived at noon to help put the final detailed touches on my area of responsibility. My name badge said 'Jim [and under that] Mountain Bikes.' I would be planted in the section representing a sport that I've tried to align myself with for years. I don't know any cyclists that I don't look up to. Riders are riders, but mountain bikers are the coolest. And those are who I wanted to be hanging out with. A little before 4:00, the PR guru spoke up with the enthusiasm of a high school cheerleader and told us to, "Have a good expo, work hard, and have fun!" With that, the door opened and I became 25 again.</div>
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I really never aspired to work in a bike shop. However, now that my career has hit a wall (and hit it hard), I long for a job where I could get paid to do something I love. To spend the day talking about the bikes I ride and the places I like to go to ride them would be so refreshing compared to the career I've struggled with of late to even identify with. The day's first customers were in the door, and some of them were making their way to my section. I remembered what some expo vets had said at dinner the night after set-up, "Opening day is the easiest, because those are the people who know just what they want. They're coming in not to shop, but to buy." It was quite a confidence booster to sell two bikes right off the bat, including the newer version of the model I ride. My feet were firmly beneath me and my confidence soared.</div>
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In retrospect, the expo represented everything I felt a mid-life crisis should encompass. It was four days of hanging out with people (staff) much younger and more hip than myself. I knew it was really an unhealthy choice to have a Kopp's burger at 9:00 at night, but I did it anyway (I even added bacon). And I even tried to let go of everything else in my life at the moment that usually churned my guts into a daily caustic mess for the hours I spent at the expo. </div>
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Over the course of the next four days, I would end up selling more than forty bikes (mostly Gary Fishers). It turned out I was pretty good at this game. The training manual had been right; 'enthusiasm <em>is</em> infectious.' It was harder than I had worked in some time, but a thousand times more rewarding. </div>
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I returned to my life with a mildly melancholy feeling. I had been offered a dream job with a fantastic company. But I'm a 43 year-old family man, so I need a career not just a job. I'm eternally grateful to Wheel & Sprocket for hiring me and to my family for taking care of everything at home so I could go off to Milwaukee every day to be at the show. Maybe the fact that it only lasted a few short days made it better for my soul. A short, but sweet moment in a world I can appreciate more because I'm not in it all the time. I love going to cycling events to feel the energy of that community, but to a lot of the people at those events -- its hard work day in and day out. Hopefully next year my schedule will again allow me to indulge my soul in four days of spreading the gospel that is bicycling.</div>
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</div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-15536902278327016202011-02-06T19:34:00.000-08:002011-02-06T20:49:50.653-08:00No Place Like Home<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQ526JSeIJR-MAQTGBmywAkdelvwos39t-tfCb-m3Y9aihbnFyPBde4dxvEejhD2jHWMbP7-JH2uD4TUxZfVLgG_E47i2J2MV5oyyUKPoQs2EPFtmHgkQ2JQ3Yv1K4oYQ9hVHWTYdfOw/s1600/trophy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570805245709186946" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQ526JSeIJR-MAQTGBmywAkdelvwos39t-tfCb-m3Y9aihbnFyPBde4dxvEejhD2jHWMbP7-JH2uD4TUxZfVLgG_E47i2J2MV5oyyUKPoQs2EPFtmHgkQ2JQ3Yv1K4oYQ9hVHWTYdfOw/s320/trophy.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I was 3-months and 15-months old when the Green Bay Packers won Super Bowls I and II, so I wasn't really up to speed on the nuances of what it meant to live in 'Packer Country.' I lived out of state when the Pack won the Big Game in '97. In 1998 I lived through the rioting and chaos in Denver when the Packers lost to the Broncos. Man, I took a financial beating that year, playing the role of a faithful fan transplanted in enemy territory. The odd thing is, I'm not really much of a football fan. If you come from Wisconsin, however, you <em>are </em>a Packer fan. There's so much rich history, passion, and tradition in the Green Bay Packer organization that its hard not to get sucked into it. From the legendary persona of Vince Lombardi to the fact that the team is owned by the people of the city of Green Bay rather than some meglo-maniac billionaire; you can't help but root for this team. I'm not alone in thinking that, either. Apparently there's a Packer themed bar in every NFL city in the country. While I never really embraced the whole football sub-culture, I still quietly cheered for my home-town heroes. This season was no different, save one small thing. I lived in Wisconsin during a Packer post-season. This year's post season even had Cinderella thinking, "Nobody can be <em>that</em> lucky." Sneaking their way into the play-offs missing practically one third of their starters, they just kept rolling. Winning in convincing fashion, they went from mid-season mediocrity to play-off powerhouse. Before we knew it, the Packers we're going to Super Bowl XLV. </div><br /><div>The morning of Super Bowl Sunday was business as usual for me. At 8:30am I was getting a coffee and heading to the lake front to walk the dog. As I drove through town, things were a subtly out of the ordinary. Guys in full Packer regalia were carrying coolers to their cars. The church's parking lots were full (normal), as was the liquor store's (not so normal for a Sunday morning). Wisconsin's faithful praying for a win and then buying the beer to make the ride smoother whichever way it went. Packer fans are that way. Football & God (usually in that order) are what Sundays in winter are all about here. We believe they go hand in hand. That's why I knew The Packers would win. </div><br /><div>Last week, during the blizzard that completely shut the city down (except for my place of business. We remained open throughout the natural disaster, but ironically closed for Super Bowl Sunday), I sealed the victory with a simple act that made the football gods smile favorably upon my team. See, I have these neighbors.... In spite of the fact they have a monster snow blower and I have a shovel, they have never once cleared my walk; in spite of the fact their dog sneaks into our yard to crap almost every morning; and in spite of the fact they're Steeler fans; I helped them push their car out of the ridiculous pile of snow (that they refused to remove even though the have a snow blower) deposited by several passes of the city's snowplows. Don't get me wrong, it was a great game. Hard fought, talent ridden, well coached, very even (even in the unfair calls), everything a championship game should be. I was once again walking the dog when when the final whistle blew showing the Packers as champions. I would have know even if I hadn't been listening to the game on the radio. People whooping and yelling out their front doors and fireworks scattering across the February night sky told the story: the Lombardi Trophy was coming home. It was a very cool feeling. One I had missed in championships past. I was home for the home team's mighty win. I had faith, though. Karma works in strange and mysterious ways. That's why Packer fans believe in football <em>and</em> God. </div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-53261821247377519622011-01-20T20:58:00.000-08:002011-01-20T21:54:40.798-08:00An Open Letter To (insert any private club here)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_lJQH1vBAkptr_Xb8eMw0S-5jOsMv0P8IKfpOOb26MmpZoWSWZXd13tdeKb3HUT0uD7eX8EMgB2O9z-BXDYAVudNrqQNNSprZCHa3T1YZvbGINV203BWZ6IpIbLmxQVFFCWOEt8C3PrQ/s1600/saildick.png"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 151px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564513493676660626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_lJQH1vBAkptr_Xb8eMw0S-5jOsMv0P8IKfpOOb26MmpZoWSWZXd13tdeKb3HUT0uD7eX8EMgB2O9z-BXDYAVudNrqQNNSprZCHa3T1YZvbGINV203BWZ6IpIbLmxQVFFCWOEt8C3PrQ/s200/saildick.png" /></a><br /><div>In 1988 I was pursuing my double degree in Culinary Arts and Hospitality Management. During a management class, the instructor, a knowledgeable man with a penchant for loud ties said, "...and you want to steer clear of 'animal clubs' (his simplification of Lions, Elks Lodges, Knights of Columbus, Yacht Clubs, Golf Clubs, & Country Clubs)." So apparently it's been common knowledge since the dawn of time that clubs are poorly managed facilities and therefore black holes for culinary talent. Seriously? Didn't someone send the clubs a copy of this memo? Wouldn't they realize that they're the laughing stock of the culinary world and want to whip themselves into shape? I didn't give it a second thought at the time, but I did spend the next twenty years of my culinary career successfully steering clear of clubs. Eventually it came time for me to find out the answer to the questions I posed above. I had what seemed like a can't lose opportunity to be part of a club that really wanted to re-build it's integrity. And since I'd be going into it with a General Manager that I knew, trusted, and respected, I felt safe. </div><br /><div>I couldn't have been more wrong. The GM bailed on me less than three months into it; and it turned out that only 3/400s of the membership truly wanted things to be better bad enough to make any real changes; and even they couldn't agree on how. On my first day, I sat before the elected Commodore and the committee that I would directly report to and explained to them my philosophy, "I am a restaurant chef. It's what I know how to do. And in a restaurant you're expected to make money. If you let me run this operation like a restaurant, I will make you money." Sounds simple enough, right? Everyone at that table shook their heads and said that that was exactly what they wanted. And then spent the next three years not letting me do it. Everywhere I turned there were exceptions, 'yeah buts', stubborn staff unwilling to change, narcissistic old timers, and another 200 members that know how to do everything better. I was given all of the responsibility and none of the authority to see it through. Every month we'd sit back down at the table with seven trees worth of graphs, charts, and reports that all said the same thing: this isn't working. Then the powers-that-be would look at me as if to ask, 'We've been chasing our tails all month. Why haven't we caught it yet?'</div><br /><div>Once a month there is a membership meeting. At this meeting the members that care the most (or are at least the loudest) gather to match wits and discuss who's to blame for the latest set of catastrophic numbers. At this meeting I set out a buffet which no one pays for. I was told of an individual who stood and ranted that my food cost should be this specific magic number. I wish I could have been there to charge him $8 for the sandwich he was eating. I can ultimately give them any number they want to see. But that would mean they would have to succumb to doing things my way. That, of course, will never happen. After all, owning a boat trumps a culinary degree and 20 years of experience any day in the mystical world of animal clubs. Whether it be tomorrow, next week, or next year; the smart money is on the talentless waitress will still be shooting off her mouth and doing whatever it is she wants completely unchecked and will still be working at the club while the intelligent, well-travelled, reasonable chef will be gone. Drained of his energy and motivation by arrogant members and spineless managing of resources; leaving another committee asking a another fool, 'Why can't we catch our tail?'</div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-14760289568598634342010-11-15T18:57:00.000-08:002010-11-15T21:10:21.822-08:00Do Over<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9SD8tUmAy3_CtutLKl-WlkCBZb8ZPXm8FqBnnqQ2cnMK9Vfv26lgr9B_i_6ZDqGBvXoZp65zUykGT1_yECcvYwO893oKnAz9SBFuLH0uxH9fLzXtG0oEcKRcA88pQD1ung3eVxnj22FY/s1600/ponzi1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 144px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540010482225847186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9SD8tUmAy3_CtutLKl-WlkCBZb8ZPXm8FqBnnqQ2cnMK9Vfv26lgr9B_i_6ZDqGBvXoZp65zUykGT1_yECcvYwO893oKnAz9SBFuLH0uxH9fLzXtG0oEcKRcA88pQD1ung3eVxnj22FY/s200/ponzi1.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0SQVbzE3ESRkbNJi0PCtye5p6mf-zuMcaftqx2wpSkepSt9eiSb_KInQXZ_eQHvmt7A63cMKltXAipUvN9GLbZ1g5q3QEDr2zswLP3FuOpjulfWlA9rOcu0HENw0zS8_mzuYfeVaj1Yo/s1600/crossroads.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 135px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539997999529649266" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0SQVbzE3ESRkbNJi0PCtye5p6mf-zuMcaftqx2wpSkepSt9eiSb_KInQXZ_eQHvmt7A63cMKltXAipUvN9GLbZ1g5q3QEDr2zswLP3FuOpjulfWlA9rOcu0HENw0zS8_mzuYfeVaj1Yo/s200/crossroads.jpg" /></a> When reflecting on where you are in life, it's possible you may look back on the events that transpired and think to yourself, "I wish I'd done that differently." I'm not talking about the ugliest person you dated, buying a lemon of a vehicle, or actually paying to see <em>Dirty Rotten Scoundrels</em> in the theatre. I'm talking about the huge life events. Something that inevitably changed the outcome of your life to date. I was recently reminded of my 'do over'. In the mid-90s I was in my mid-20s and had it pretty sweet. I had a nice apartment within walking distance of my two good jobs. I made decent money and drove a really cool Jeep. On the surface, it was truly ideal. But I was in my 20s and 'ideal' wasn't good enough. So when my culinary Yoda called me and wanted me to move 2,000-plus miles to become his sous chef in Oregon, my mind was made up before I hung up the phone. Unfortunately for me, I wasn't the most confident young man back then and didn't have the stones to move cross-country all by myself so I brought along my on again/off again girlfriend of the past eight years. After the first day on the road, I knew I had made a mistake, but I was a man true to my word so we got married and I put my best foot forward. Our lives quickly fell into a pattern. Our days off together were so routine that we didn't even have to discuss what we were going to do. I guess that did save time. She had got a husband, which is what she wanted. I got someone who willing to follow me anywhere and pay her half of our bills. I think we both secretly hoped for more, but it never came to the surface. On the professional front, my life was a whirlwind. New positions, new restaurants, new cities, new challenges came at me at blinding speed. Near the end of my time in Oregon, I crossed path with a woman who owned a vineyard in the Willamette Valley. The word around town was that she was contemplating opening a restaurant at her vineyard so I called to offer my services. We talked for a while and she explained that a full-blown restaurant was a few years off and right now the operation didn't require someone of my experience. We agreed to stay in touch, and that was that. I hadn't given that conversation another thought until a few days ago when I was reading an article about Pinot Noir in a trade magazine. The backdrop of the article was the bistro at the Ponzi Vineyard in the Willamette Valley. The lustrous photos of the dining room and surrounding Oregon countryside brought back feeling of regret and resentment. A longing to have done something differently plagued me for days.<br /><br /><div>When you're standing at the cross-roads and have to make those big decisions, all you have to base that decision on is the information and experiences you have before you. It's easy to beat yourself up over the 'should've, could've, would'ves' of your life when you can look back at them<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhISL3P9VPACEo1FxDJBtjMWxvbGusSC8cZIxfkP8lWCBw9gU0xK4vE_4mKEmNJhebCB3a-95LGJJXIHGaHXL-rM_yE0w1bmNUk0vME862gpIpmhV6Ekh5as0F1iZMjOuMjXx3ov9FDiw/s1600/ponzi1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 14px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 1px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539976948734776722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhISL3P9VPACEo1FxDJBtjMWxvbGusSC8cZIxfkP8lWCBw9gU0xK4vE_4mKEmNJhebCB3a-95LGJJXIHGaHXL-rM_yE0w1bmNUk0vME862gpIpmhV6Ekh5as0F1iZMjOuMjXx3ov9FDiw/s200/ponzi1.jpg" /></a> in the distance. And even when you look and those defining moments of better or worse, would you really change them? To change a moment in your past, you must also realize how everything in your life would be different now. The people you wouldn't have met, the experiences you would have missed, and places you may never have seen. This is why Hollywood can't do justice to a time travel movie, there are just too many variables. Are any of these variables worth giving up? Again it's easy to make the calls in retrospect. Even if you can choose the things you'd do and places you go, you'd still be cheating yourself out of the spontaneity of the experiences. </div><br /><div>Before you go down that road of self-pity, thinking 'if only I'd done this...', look around you now. I'd be willing to bet that right here and right now isn't worth losing a single second of. Especially to another set of blind circumstances.<br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div></div></div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5984433228030253731.post-64423209106062126502010-11-04T14:50:00.000-07:002010-11-08T21:03:19.819-08:00If The Salomon XA Pro 3D Ultra GTX Trail Running Shoe Fits...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLINj64pE5yGdGg28ITspyFZg3IqsQyyiIM1OOsi9Q1L-zr8lDNXZ4w2vb_0Fq1kfKWuxgcRWdB0fOKFQQHxev9rY3dns-hs0cXsTChOTjNU5od4j51dEQfhkAs60lswDj-bsIne5PYi4/s1600/Shoes_of_man_lying_on_bench.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 133px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537411032248785362" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLINj64pE5yGdGg28ITspyFZg3IqsQyyiIM1OOsi9Q1L-zr8lDNXZ4w2vb_0Fq1kfKWuxgcRWdB0fOKFQQHxev9rY3dns-hs0cXsTChOTjNU5od4j51dEQfhkAs60lswDj-bsIne5PYi4/s200/Shoes_of_man_lying_on_bench.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Sometime during the era of me moving to a big city and the emergence of the grunge scene, it became impossible to '...gage a man by the cut of his suit.' The obscenely wealthy rock stars were growing their hair long, not shaving, and wearing thrift store flannels. Roughly the same get up as the average homeless man. This coming in the wake of the 80's decade of excess where clean-cut, but usually broke college graduates showed up en mass to Wall Street dressed to the nines in a mortgaged three-piece suit to become the next Donald Trump. There had seemingly been a wardrobe paradigm shift. But through it all, I observed there was a foolproof way of identifying the posers from the real deal: their feet. No matter what you choose to wear; no matter what genre you align yourself with; your choice of footwear will always reveal your true identity. Whether you're a rock star wearing $200 Doc Martins with your $5 flannel shirt or the wet behind the ears college kid in an Armani suit and the same penny loafers he graduated high school in -- the shoes never lie. This being said, what to your shoes say about you? Are your shoes expensive and stylish, but barely comfortable enough to wear sitting behind a desk all day? Are you still wearing the same Birkenstocks you wore following The Dead? Either of these scenarios paint a pretty vivid picture, don't they: A corporate stuffed shirt and a idealistic hippy. I confess that all too often I let my somewhat distorted self-image sway my shoe purchases. "These are perfect! I can wear them hiking around here. And if this is the year I make it to Tibet, I'll be set there too." Image plays a big role in one's personal choice of footwear. Its not always so much what we need as what we <em>want</em> to need. For example; if you notice a guy in a nice pair of New Balance running shoes and he happens to be standing behind you in line at the grocery store buying a TV Guide and cat food, he probably wishes he was that guy stretching his legs at a picnic table in the park. His well-worn New Balances barely discernible through the mud and wear of a marathon seasons' beating. I bought a pair of $110 high tech water shoes that would much rather be portaging a kayak though the Boundary Waters then strolling on the shore looking for beach glass, but someday when I head back up to Ely to see my cousin and his family, I've already got the shoes. Or at least that's what I tell myself. Sometimes though, function compromises with function. Even if its not by design. I have a nice pair of cross-trainers and they really work well for my particular brand of cross training: running my Blue Heeler, and.......well, running my Blue Heeler. That's likely where most of us land. Somewhere between qualifying for the Boston Marathon and putting our feet up on the ottoman. Mom buys expensive running shoes because maybe she'll start running every day again. But the shoes will come in handy chasing around her kids all day. Dad buys a $200 pair of Air Jordans not because he's going to try out for the Lakers, but so his knees don't ache after basketball league night at the YMCA. I'm sure if you look down at your feet now you could think back at why you bought the shoes you're wearing and what you've actually worn them for up to this point. Since you probably didn't buy 'reading shoes,' you'll find your mind wandering. Were they for a job interview? To go with a pair of jeans that are completely worn out by now? For a trip you did (or didn't) take? I'm sure that the ten minutes you spent reading this is the longest you've spent thinking about shoes since you pondered buying a new pair. But now the next time you go to your closet to pick a pair of shoes, you may pause for a second to think about what image you're conveying by choosing the pair of you're about to reach for. Or maybe I'm blowing this completely out of proportion. I can tell you this though, if I met you tomorrow I'd look at you to greet you, maybe shake your hand, and then I'd glance casually down to see if you were wearing wing-tips or Keen sandals just to see if you're someone I'd be interested in knowing. It still may be true that clothes define the man. But its the shoes that show who we really are and who we really want to be. Perhaps that's why its called the sole(soul)?</div>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12026836028849429647noreply@blogger.com0