Back in the saddle

It's the first day back to work after my extended Thanksgiving holiday. I cringed ever so slightly as I returned to my cubicle, wondering why hadn't someone tidied up while I was gone. Yes, it was with some trepidation that I fired up the workstation, then Outlook, expecting to find my in box chock-full of trouble tickets, circular design discussions, and pleas from accounting to get my timesheet in on time; but I was pleasantly surprised to find none of that.

Sure, the e-mail detailing this year's erosion of the company's health plan was a bit of a downer, but nothing to harsh my tryptophan-induced mellow.

To everything its purpose

Thanks giving (the action of giving thanks, not the holiday)—you just never know how it's going to hit, do you?

Sweetie and I typically ease into Thanksgiving Day with a cup of coffee and a bit of parade coverage watched in the comfort of our PJs. She then sets about pie-making and turkey preparing, and somewhere along the line the parade coverage gives way to the normal weekday television programming. I hear shouting and bleeping, and I look up to see a stage full of white, black, and brown trash shouting at one another, their faces twisted into grotesque masks of rage and indignation. Sometimes—aw, who am I kidding? Usually—they've resorted to moves obviously cadged from the WWF.

Then it hits me. If not for Thanksgiving Day, I'd be at work with a bunch of other white-collar geek types who don't say things like "Aw naw, you di'en't mutha[bleeeep]!" Jerry Springer wouldn't be on, and I wouldn't be witness to these living, breathing illustrations of how lucky I was to grow up when I did, raised the way I was, and with the opportunities I've had.

And I give thanks. There, but for the grace of God, go I.

Ooooo... ahhhhh....

Yes, I did drag myself out and bought a new string trimmer. Had to; the old one was dead. Being a moderately cheap sort, I went with a Ryobi—the cheapest straight shaft, attachment capable model Home Depot carries. It's a big heavy thing that will strengthen my arms, shoulders, and back. It has a 1 hp engine that roars like an enraged water buffalo so that the neighbors will know that I've finally gotten off my ample buttocks and mown the lawn. I went ahead and sprang for the edger attachment so that I, too, can have perfectly straight... um... edges.

Straight edges are very important in this neck of suburbia.

Before the day erupts in pre-feast activity, just thought I'd comment on how the week has gone, so far. Monday, I had my bone density scan and the preliminary results show that I don't have osteoporosis. Tuesday, I went for a 30-mile (okay, 29.13-mile) bike ride with CliffyB up and down the rolling hills around Grapevine Lake. Cliff's a great guy, fun to ride with, and if I can ever get my neck problems squared away, I hope to get strong enough so we can ride at his pace.

Yesterday, Sweetie and I ran over to Lewisville and had lunch at Johnny Carino's, one of our favorite restaurants that we've really missed since moving to Allen. As we waited for our food to come, I entertained myself by looking at the evocative black and white photographs on the walls; when I tired of that, I took to watching my fellow patrons.

The really expressive guy waiting to be seated.

The blast of perfume that followed in the wake of the middle-aged, elegantly coiffed woman and made me think of the elderly ladies in their furs who sat in the pew in front of me at midnight Mass when I was a kid.

The woman at the next table with the forced, nervous-sounding laugh.

The way the ceiling was designed so that it gave the impression of being lower and more finished than the water pipes, sprinklers, and wiring conduits it distracted from but didn't cover.

My wife thinks I'm being critical, and perhaps I am; but mostly I'm just people watching, trying to glean from what I can observe the lives they lead, what they're thinking.

Maybe I should just discourage the question, "What are you looking at?"

Monday update

Yeah, I know: uninspired title. Moving on.

What a nice weekend. Neck's still bothering me, so I wasn't able to ride for any significant distance; but I did go out on my mountain bike with the PBA 16-mile novice ride. Finally, the weather felt like autumn with starting temperature around 48°F. Several of us were chuckling about the relative lack of conversation. Just the sound of sniffling and clicking of freewheels. Afterward, I popped in to Einstein's Bagels for a bite to eat and some hot coffee. The place was hopping, as always, and I plopped myself down at the first free place I could find. I ended up having a nice conversation with a guy who noticed the cyclists often came in on Saturday and asked about our rides.

Saturday evening, Sweetie and I dug through our closets to find something non-chalantly dressy to wear for our second pre-holiday party of the season. The hosts are friends of ours from the bike club, but the guests were a pleasantly eclectic bunch. Lots of cyclists, of course, but also neighbors and local politicians. It was an enjoyable evening, and when we made it back home around 11:30, I made sure to point out to my wife that it was past 10:00 on a Saturday night and I wasn't falling asleep yet. I think she's going to have some sort of plaque made up.

Sunday, we more or less lay around the place. I did some online car shopping, caught up on e-mail, and ran the vacuum to give the appearance of contributing to the running of the household. But mainly I enjoyed knowing that when we crawled into bed after watching Gray's Anatomy I wouldn't need to turn on the alarm. I have the entire coming week off from work!

Which is not to say that there won't be catch-up doctors' appointments, vet appointments, shopping for a new string trimmer, and weatherproofing the fence—but at least I don't have to fight my way into Dallas and back every morning and afternoon.

Tool of the day

Gold, late-model Corolla driving in the second-to-leftmost lane of the George Bush tollway during rush hour, doing five MPH below the posted speed limit (read "20 MPH slower than everyone else") while reading the paper. Saw several near misses as people whipped out to pass on both sides and nearly collided as they tried to swerve back into the original lane at the same time. What a tool.

Tool of the day

I conceived the "tool of the day" posts as a means to vent my spleen over the churlish behavior I witness every day on my commute. Imagine my surprise when my first "tool of the day" ironically turned out to be not some clown in a giant pickup truck but a guy on a bright yellow road bike, wearing a gaudy red jersey with yellow stars all over it.

At 5pm, as I was on my way home this evening, I watched as this guy rolled the red light at Angel and Exchange. It wasn't your garden variety roll either. Instead of getting in the left turn lane with the rest of us who were headed up Angel, this guy rolled up to the light, squeaked to the right, and rolled slowly across both lanes of traffic in the crosswalk before swinging left and heading up Angel.

And we, as cyclists, have the nerve to get our feelings hurt when drivers behave aggressively toward us? Hey... I wanted to run the guy down.

What a tool.

What is a veteran?

Some veterans bear visible signs of their service: a missing limb, a jagged scar, a certain look in the eye. Others may carry the evidence inside them: a pin holding a bone together, a piece of shrapnel in the leg--or perhaps another sort of inner steel: the soul's ally forged in the refinery of adversity. Except in parades, however, the men and women who have kept America safe wear no badge or emblem. You can't tell a vet just by looking.

What is a vet?

He is the cop on the beat who spent six months in Saudi Arabia sweating two gallons a day making sure the armored personnel carriers didn't run out of fuel.

He is the barroom loudmouth, dumber than five wooden planks, whose overgrown frat-boy behavior is outweighed a hundred times in the cosmic scales by four hours of exquisite bravery near the 38th parallel.

She—or he—is the nurse who fought against futility and went to sleep sobbing every night for two solid years in Da Nang.

He is the POW who went away one person and came back another—or didn't come back AT ALL.

He is the Basic Training Company drill instructor who has never seen combat but has saved countless lives by turning slouchy, no-account rednecks and gang members into Soldiers, and teaching them to watch each other's backs.

He is the parade-riding Legionnaire who pins on his ribbons and medals with a prosthetic hand.

He is the career quartermaster who watches the ribbons and medals pass him by. He is the three anonymous heroes in the Tomb Of The Unknowns, whose presence at the Arlington National Cemetery must for ever preserve the memory of all the anonymous heroes whose valor dies unrecognized with them on the battlefield or in the ocean's sunless deep.

He is the old guy bagging groceries at the supermarket—palsied now and aggravatingly slow—who helped liberate a Nazi death camp and who wishes all day long that his wife were still alive to hold him when the nightmares come.

He is an ordinary and yet an extraordinary human being--a person who offered some of his life's most vital years in the service of his country, and who sacrificed his ambitions so others would not have to sacrifice theirs.

He is a soldier and a savior and a sword against the darkness, and he is nothing more than the finest, greatest testimony on behalf of the finest, greatest nation ever known.

So remember, each time you see someone who has served our country, just lean over and say Thank You. That's all most people need, and in most cases it will mean more than any medals they could have been awarded or were awarded.

Two little words that mean a lot: "THANK YOU".

–Author unknown

I'm An Adult Now

"I'd sure feel like a fool, dead in a ditch somewhere with a mind full of chemicals like some cheese-eating high school boy."

–The Pursuit of Happiness, "I'm An Adult Now"

Now playing: The Cars, Candy-O

Carbon dreams

I'm generally pretty realistic about the relatively narrow strip where my materialistic dreams and my finances intersect. I also know I'll probably never be enough of a rider to justify a really bling bike.

But a guy can dream, can't he? I was out at the Trek site and started playing around with the configurator tool for their Project One bikes. I really like their custom "Pave Flambé" and "Flying Ace" paint schemes, but if I were going to go with the custom flame job option, I'd go for one of these:



It's for the best that the Madone and Pilot lines are so far beyond me. I'd probably be so mesmerized by the sheer gorgeousness of such a bike that I'd be looking at the paint job instead of the road, hit a pothole, and then throw myself in front of Billy Ray Bob's monster truck when I couldn't live with the knowledge that I'd dinged my steed.

Now playing: Stone Free: A Tribute To Jimi Hendrix.

Desperation boulevard

It used to be that the sure sign of a movie actor's decline was when he or she started doing TV. These days there are so many "big names" on the tube—not only on cable network series, but even network shows—that I figure there must have been some kind of cachet shift while I wasn't looking. I mean, Geena Davis may be a couple decades removed from Earth Girls Are Easy, but her new gig as Commander In Chief is nothing to sneeze at.

And then there's John Lithgow. Dr. Emilio Lizardo ("Laugh while you can, monkey boy!"), Dr. Dick Solomon, Roberta Muldoon, and many other memorable characters in a career spanning four decades. So what's the story with these new Campbell's Select adverts? Every time I see him singing, dancing, and plastered with more pancake makeup than an over-the-hill hooker, I can't help but cringe. Did he lose a bet? Forget his reading glasses while looking over the contracts?

I keep hoping he'll pop up on Ellen Degeneres' show or something, cackling about the huge joke he's pulled on us all. Yeah, that's got to be it...

Classic? That's antique!

As you may have gleaned from an earlier installment, I have a bit of a distraction issue with the various nasal tics and personal telephone conversations that waft over the walls of my cubicle throughout the day. Receiving (and now expecting) no sympathy from my handlers, I took matters into my own hands and bought a nice pair of around-the-ear noise-canceling headphones. I just slap them on and pop in a music CD to make all disgustingness and the bonfire of inanities go away.

But here's the thing: I haven't been buying more than a couple CDs a year since getting married in 2002, so I've been cycling through my sizable back collection. The other day, I had on KISS: Alive! and was thinking how it still sounded good to me after all these years. Curious, I peeked at the copyright notice to see how many years and was stunned when I was reminded that this title that was all the rage when I was a freshman in high school came out in 1975. Thirty years ago!

That rattled me a bit, so I switched over to something "current". I should have left well enough alone, but I looked at its copyright and was somewhat surprised to be reminded that Soundgarden's Down On The Upside has been out for nine years now.

It may be time to break down and buy the latest White Stripes album, if only to keep from feeling like I'm sliding into Classic Rock hell.

Now playing: Marillion, Afraid Of Sunlight.

Okay... maybe not that wrong

Courtesy of the unseasonably warm weather, we had a great ride last night. Because it didn't start until after dark, there were very few of the joggers, wobbly bikers, and stroller pushers that you have to contend with during the summer. I didn't swallow a single no-see-um and didn't have to fight off a single mosquito until I was back at the car and loading up my gear. I got in nearly 14 miles, which puts me within 3 miles of the 2000-mile goal I set for this year.

This is just wrong

Where in the Divine Architect's blueprints did it ever say we're supposed to have 86°F temperatures during the first week in November? By way of protest, I'm going to gather up my new headlight and the tireflys I didn't get to use on Hallowe'en, and I'm going to ride the loop around White Rock with the DORBA bunch.

If that doesn't cause about a 20° drop in the temperature, nothing will.

If I pay attention...

...I learn something new every day.

invigilator - n : someone who watches examination candidates to prevent cheating.

Is it just me, or does that sound like some sort of contraption you might find in Dr. Evil's cupboard of failed devices?

Here's how I see it

"There is a huge difference between disliking somebody—maybe even disliking them a lot—and actually shooting them, strangling them, dragging them through the fields and setting their house on fire. It was a difference which kept the vast majority of the population alive from day to day."

-Douglas Adams, Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency.