tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32672240895548894792024-03-12T20:58:17.900-07:00The Trailer Park Cyclist Life ain't that bad when you're happy with what you have.
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.comBlogger157125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-44923922122955343222022-01-01T11:45:00.001-08:002022-01-01T11:50:14.073-08:00The Truth As We Know it<p style="text-align: center;"><b> You Can't Get There From Here</b></p><p style="text-align: left;">Comes now the Trailer Park Cyclist to once again spread good cheer and hopeful hopings unto his scarce, if not altogether gone readers. But be that as it may, I will spread it anyway. Lo and unto the many there is at these gloomy times a clear call for hope, and good cheer. We outvoted The Orange Rascal, but now, a year later, <i>he's still there!</i></p><p style="text-align: left;">Like the monsters under the bed, he just won't go away. </p><p style="text-align: left;">So, while I <i>promise </i>to get bicycles in here somewhere, it might be a bit sticky. Why, you ask? Well, for one thing my ever-increasing girth might require <i>two</i> bicycles<i> </i>to haul my fat ass around. And I haven't been astride a bike since that incident last July when I found myself stopped on the little bridge, gasping for breath and wondering simultaneously if the bridge tender knew CPR and if it was wise, after all, to choose to take my single speed out today. Man, I can joke around, but I couldn't catch my breath.</p><p style="text-align: left;">But what of that?</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Meanwhile...</b></p><p style="text-align: left;">We have been worried about the covid. I have, at least. Two weeks after getting my second Moderna shot, I came down with a serious case of the puking my guts out. Luckily, my old friend Coyote was in town and he was able to hose me off. Come to think of it, I might have caught that odd bug by the serious drinking that accompanied Coyotes' visit. He lives in a little town on the Mexican border. He makes his way here about once a year and I fear he won't be back, anymore. Just a hunch I have. So that's another drinking buddy I have alienated and really, there aren't any left. Uncle Bill just deserted me and Dirty Phil the biker (Outlaws) ain't coming round here no more. What the hell?</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>It's Age, Of Course</b></p><p style="text-align: left;">It's age, of course, that does us all in, ultimately. Just plain old age. That and this damnable plague that won't end, much like the Ex-Presidency of Donald Trump. Jesus Christ! Here in Florida we are again breaking records in the Emergency Rooms and where it all ends, I don't know. But I promised to bring glad tidings, and so I will. By asking...Where were the guns?</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Where Were The Guns?</b></p><p style="text-align: left;">I just recently was able to watch the tapes of the Capitol attack, the ones they didn't show us at first. You remember the first photos we saw...the QAnon dude with a spear and a cool costume like he might have been Davy Crockett's sidekick. Or the shots of peaceful guys wandering around the Halls of Congress, with the Speaker's stand or even a few files from an office they didn't even know the name of...they were like fuzzy little harmless Wookies out for an adventure.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Not so the attackers from the videotapes I saw courtesy of CNN just the other day. Claiming they had to <i>sue</i> somebody to get these films, this three-hour piece of evidence reveals the absolute madness of that day. </p><p style="text-align: left;">These were Berserkers. Madmen determined to gain access to the inner sanctum at all cost. Out for blood.</p><p style="text-align: left;">But where were the guns? Not one of three thousand or so attackers pulled as much as a slingshot out. And trust me, this is the most concealed-weapons-carrying-permit-gang alive. Where were the guns? Even Ashlee Babbit was unarmed. What the hell? The Capitol Police were, apparently, ordered not to use deadly force. Why? If I was stuck in that tunnel for three hours, forced to fight for my life, I don't think I would have given a good goddamn for orders. But not one of those crazy assholes pulled a gun out and started spraying lead around. This is disturbing, to say the least.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Anyway</b></p><p style="text-align: left;">Miss Daisy the Yellow Dog has left the stage, so to speak. My almost constant companion for thirteen years, she was deaf for the last two, suffering some kind of crippling malady in her hind legs, and just, she just...we made the decision after about a month of debate and decided to let her go. She didn't complain. We took her up to the vets one last time. She died in my arms.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Hang In There </b></p><p style="text-align: left;">Look, I know I ain't doing so hot in the Glad Tidings department, but bear with me. Don't I always <b> </b>manage<b> </b>to slip the noose at the last minute?<b> </b>At least I think I did...nothing is certain except death and taxes and let me tell ya, I've pulled a fast one on both in the past, and I don't see any reason to think things have changed. But I understand your concern, whoever you are.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Back To The Bicycles </b> </p><p style="text-align: left;">I am old now. I know it. I am reminded of that every time I glance over in the corner at Little Miss Dangerous, my 1981 Schwinn Super LeTour. She speaks to me, somehow; I know that any ride I take might be the last. But Goddamn! What a blast these past ten years have been, what a thrill to have been the Trailer Park Cyclist, King of Beers, Friend of Man (and Women), Rex Fatali, et al. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>And Finally</b></p><p style="text-align: left;">There aren't any monsters under the bed, kids. That's just an old myth. Old Presidents are just a lot of noise. He won't be back. The next threat will be Florida Man. Not as scary as the Big Cheeto, in fact he can at least speak in comprehensible sentences. Business as usual.</p><p style="text-align: left;">I will catch my breath sooner or later. My Doc keeps warning me if I don't quit drinking I will die. Well of course I will! But I'm going to die anyway, so why not know what caused it?</p><p style="text-align: left;">But where were the guns? </p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>Trailer Park Cyclist </i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>New Years Day, 2022</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-75192711630947490872019-09-14T14:34:00.000-07:002019-09-14T14:34:52.577-07:00Friday the 13th: Urine Never Lies<i>I'm not publishing as the The Paleo Cyclist these days. I'm saving it all for the ebook. Instead, I will just throw out samples like this one once in awhile.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Meanwhile, I HAVE been doing a bunch of reading about the Paleolithic (the actual epoch, not the diet) and I gotta say, maybe we should have quit while we were ahead. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>More meanwhile, if you find your eyes glazing over when it comes to the statistics stuff, don't worry. I don't read them either. Much. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
FRI September 13, 2019 <br />
Miles: 18 Time 1:40 Average Seed:12.9 Weight: 228lbs<br />
<br />
I did the same ride with the same mileage and time as yesterday...actually, I was a bit slower this morning, owing to a headwind and I took my time getting from the trail to the trailer. I plan to ride the same 17.5 mile route for ten days then step it up to 20 miles. I think I overdid it last month by trying for too many miles too soon. Also, my average time is inaccurate because my time and speed on the trail is adulterated by my time on the 3 miles out and back from home to trailhead.<br />
<br />
I am thinking about pedaling the NoName bike to the shop/trailhead and starting my time/distance/average speed just based on trail time only. A bit clunky but if I am going to keep records they might as well be accurate. I could drive to the shop, also...<br />
<br />
Another concern based on recent experience is that I am having trouble getting out of bed in the morning, and when I do get up I have zero energy. I slept through the alarm this morning and that is VERY odd. Diet? Old age? I don’t know. But it seems highly unlikely that I will be doing any morning riding once the work-a-day starts back up...but if I drove to the trailhead I could do a brisk one hour on the trail, clean up and change at the shop and go straight to work. <br />
<br />
Hmmm...well, it’s worth a try.<br />
<br />
10 almonds<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>60<br />
2 bananas 200<br />
Big Salad<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> 475<br />
4 beers<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> <u> 400</u><br />
TOTAL<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> 1135<br />
<br />
On another note, I have been somewhat troubled by a very dark brown, low volume urine situation. Normally I pee all the time and a lot of it but the last two days I haven’t filled a teacup, and what I did produce looked like...well, tea. Based on internet research it seems to be dehydration accompanied by too-strenuous exercise. That seems to fit in with my other symptoms of the last couple days (fatigue, mild confusion, stumbling around on weak legs)...disconcerting, to be sure...thus the beer and I am chugging as much water as I can stand. If things don’t clear up (sorry, I can't help myself sometimes) I will be seeing the VA Doc. I have high hopes though. I HAVE intuited that I have maybe been pushing a little too hard.<br />
<br />
UPDATE 620 pm After sitting on the porch for the last few hours, chugging water and three (soon to be four) 16oz beers I just urinated in an empty water bottle with the top cut off (plenty empties lying around here) and my urine was a glorious bright yellow. Not clear, but a definite improvement over the root beer I was pissing earlier today. Still low volume, but overall, a vast and welcome improvement. So there ya go: dehydration and strenuous exercise.<br />
<br />
SAT September 14, 2019<br />
Miles: 14.40 Time: 55 Average Speed: 15.1 Weight: 230<br />
<br />
Not much to say. I am weighing myself daily now because that’s how I did it last time. How did I gain two pounds since yesterday? The four beers last night? I hope not because I’m sorta planning on doing it again tonight. Hey, it’s Saturday night. Today I rode NoName to the trailhead (my shop, by some special grace bestowed on me, is RIGHT THERE. I changed into my bibs and jersey at the shop, laced up my shoes and headed out. The trail is the only way to go; I have one busy road to cross but all four directions have “yield to cyclists” signs so it isn’t too much of a deal to cross, except that it is also a main road to the local high school so ya got that to consider...but once clear of that road (Mission Road) you are mission clear for as far as you can go; the trail, this miraculous rail trail that starts RIGHT AT MY SHOP goes over fifty miles with ZERO crossings of any significance. <br />
<br />
I remember five years ago saying “Man too bad I won’t be around when they finally get the trail up and running...but guess what? I’M STILL HERE! AND IT”S DONE! It really is too good to be true. And today I did a solid 55 minutes at an average speed of 15 mph. My decision to limit my record keeping to just trail time is a definite payoff. While blasting along on flat, almost windless (trees) tarmac (or whatever it is) I would glance down at my speedo, see 14.9 mph and then get down in the drops and pour it on. <br />
<br />
I think this is the stuff. I think so...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-88248585156567774772019-09-03T06:29:00.000-07:002019-09-04T03:52:28.944-07:00The Once and Future Roadie<br />
<br />
I just found a really small animal bone on my writing table.. Most likely it is a stray cast-off from one of my alcohol-induced chicken feasts where I take a half a Winn Dixie roast chicken and hack away at it with one of my sheath knives that seem to be reproducing here in my room faster than I can give them away...everyone I know has a Buck knife that I gave them; Smyrna Jan has the big one (I originally bought it for myself but that knife, a Buck 139, for some reason gave me the willies so I gave it to Jan because he IS the willies and ain’t afraid of nothin’, not because he is brave (he is) but because he is crazy as hell and capable of anything). I kept a very nice little rubber-handled unit that cuts just right slicing ribs or apples or anything else and I also use it to cut up half a chicken when necessary and that, most likely is where this little bone came from...and yet, I don’t know.<br />
<br />
Be that as it may, I am here to report somewhat shame-facedly that I never made it to Mexico Beach to save the day. In fact, looking at the reports from the Panhandle, nobody else made it up there either. As near as I can tell, they got things cleaned up pretty good but rebuilding has not progressed much at all. I was headed there to rebuild a string of Macburgers that I can guarantee you are up and running by now, with or without my help. The rest of it is predictable; what was once a sleepy little seaside village with an alluringly charming name will soon enough be a solid wall of high rise oceanfront condominiums. It is the Florida Way and anybody who don’t like it, well, I feel the same way while at the same time making my living building those very same atrocities and so what can I say? I am, after all, a Trailer Park inhabitant and a Florida Man…<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the rascally bastards that owned the Whispering Pines finally found a buyer and things are kinda-sorta topsy-turvy. The new owner is an Orlando lawyer and since taking over a month or so ago he has evicted four trailer’s worth of miscreants and deadbeats. Those newly empty trailers are scheduled to be thoroughly cleaned and painted and rehabbed with new doors and windows and then sold to worthy customers, over age 55 and preferably having pension checks or social security benefits that can be routed through a kindly benevolent Orlando lawyer’s office.<br />
<br />
Me, I have always been something of an outlier here at Riverside Palms Mobile Home Village. (Yeah, that’s the new name. But last week they cut down all the palm trees and the pines too. They ain’t whispering any more.) Not my pines, though. Because of my unique position in a far corner, next to a large lot owned by the city, the pines and palms are just fine. They are off the trailer park property and it seems to me my squirrel population has increased in both quantity and nervousness; squirrels and chainsaws are far from simpatico but some sympathetic handouts of extra peanuts has done a great deal towards smoothing things over with not only the squirrels but also with a group of jays and redbirds that were passing through but now seem happy to stick around.<br />
<br />
And yet...and yet; ya don’t make it to 64 years old without learning to sniff the wind and keep an eye on the sky and there’s something coming. I don’t know what, but there’s a lawyer in it and when has that ever turned out any good for anyone involved, except the lawyer?<br />
<br />
But listen to this: I have been unemployed for over two weeks now. I have been riding my bicycle every day, and I don’t mean beach cruising. I am slamming out daily twenty mile rides and bragging about it on a new blog I started called <a href="http://thepaleocyclist.blogspot.com/">The Paleo Cyclist</a>.<br />
<br />
What happened was I came in from the Road and found decent local work and got into a groove. It was a groove that involved slow but steady beer drinking all day (yeah I drank at work get over it I live in a trailer) and also involved the Blonde’s considerable skill at preparing her native West Virginia fare, fried chicken and dumplin’s and all manner of crockpot wonderfulness that, along with a case of beer and a half-quart of Capn’ Morgans a day resulted in what might at best be described as an amorphous blob occupying the airspace of what had previously been a cyclist.<br />
<br />
So…<br />
<br />
Well, I am pretty happy to be typing here on the TPC again. I am going to do more of it. What is over there at the Paleo Cyclist isn’t really writing, or entertainment. It’s just a journal of my struggle to find my way back to something a little more better than where I am now. But as I was typing it up every day after my ride I started to think, well, maybe someone else might get this, someone else might want to see this…<br />
<br />
tj<br />
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<br /></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-3888319947799694702018-10-14T04:15:00.000-07:002018-10-14T04:45:45.892-07:00The Rat God<br />
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<span id="m_6768763857266607535gmail-docs-internal-guid-20c8e6f7-7fff-9d49-50c1-867c07c4397d"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Carved into the post at the corner of my porch where I sit and drink and pontificate is the arcane symbol 02/17/18. For those of you not well versed in arcanery, I will share with you the secret meaning of this profound image: It is a date, Gregorian, representing the day that I once and for all left my forlorn life on the road, remodeling restaurants and rebuilding burger joints.</span></span></div>
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<span id="m_6768763857266607535gmail-docs-internal-guid-20c8e6f7-7fff-9d49-50c1-867c07c4397d"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Since that fateful day I have slept each night in my own much-loved room in my even more loved bunk. Motels have beds of a very haunted nature and often are far too soft for my old carpenter’s back and many times my roommate of the moment has been stunned and disturbed to wake up in the morning to find me asleep on the floor.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Actually that never happened...I mean, yeah, in motels I usually sleep on the floor but so far in my life I have yet to encounter a roommate that wakes up before I do...ever since Air Force basic training my eyes open at five o’clock a.m. without fail. I am awake and ready at five a.m. because, really, that’s the time when it all starts. The birds know this as do the nocturnal animals that stalk the night and also the delivery guys who have to get ice and honey buns and Budweiser to the various markets that I am known to haunt in the early hours. Today the Budweiser guy, pushing a heavy cart and grateful for my holding open of the beer store door where I was getting my work-day ice and several packages of various flavors of salted peanuts said to me “Thank You, Sir!”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He was pumped. He was up and rockin’ and so was I and I said to him, “No, my friend. Thank You! You are doing very important work! Keep it up!”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It occurs to me just now that I am well paid these days and that they probably had trail mix in that store…</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, because I am a purist of sorts and because I fell, at an early age, for some claptrap from BooBoo Rum Dass about how a yogi must sleep on a hard surface and suffer or some such but maybe just because those yogis were always penniless (the real ones) and so was I, I went ahead and eschewed mattresses for most of my life and just slept on a pile of blankets. These days my bunk is a 6x8 piece of plywood cushioned with a double thickness of sleeping pads courtesy of REI and a three-ply stack of heavy blankets from the Goodwill. It works for me and the only thing more haunted than a motel bed is a motel floor and so, ever since February I have been very happy and grateful to crash, every night, in my own room and in my own bed.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(Note: What the hell is a claptrap and why would anybody want to catch some?)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Also, after a devastating rat invasion two years ago (or was it three years ago?) I was forced to research everything I could find on the Web about rats and how to get rid of them. The little bastards would wait each night until I was passed out (nocturnal) (the rats, not me) and then come out and gambol about and look for beer drippings or a stray piece of the popcorn or frozen pizza I would invariably have had for dinner. Failing this, they would return to their maze of rat paths in my ceiling and stomp around up there, trying to wake me up so maybe I would pop some more Redenbacher’s. The Blonde, my long-suffering female companion, had retreated once again to her daughter’s condo. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I, empowered by Wiki, was not daunted and after a few night’s research, with little whiskered rodents looking over my shoulder, got it sorted out. Habitat, food and water were all they were after and I was not their enemy, they figured that if I was going to put out a banquet of raw peanuts for the squirrels every day (diurnal) then there must be, by pure rat logic, some kind of feast waiting for the night crew. Plus, if I didn't like them, why would I provide them with a warm and cozy rat home in the ceiling?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then, one evil morning, blanketed in the desperate gloom of a professional-level hangover and needing some serious bathroom time, I was saddened to find a teenage suicide in the toilet, some poor little rat cut off too early in life while trying to get a simple drink of water. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That led to the fairly gruesome task of ripping out all the old and deteriorating ceiling and moldy insulation in my thirty year old mobile home. In the process, I was dazzled by their network in the ceiling. In each corner was a nest (hey! There’s my missing sock!) with straight tunnels through the insulation on diagonals that intersected in the middle of my room, right over the ceiling light. There were obvious ingress and egress points, perfectly round, leading to the outside world. I guess that is where they all went when I fired up the sawzall.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A day later all the debris was in the trailer park dumpster. I paid eleven dollars for some lightweight roof flashing and got out my trusty rivet gun and tin snips. All those holes got covered and riveted down and then, at the insistence of Blondie, her half of the trailer got new insulation and a new plywood ceiling. I left my half open to the bare tin roof. The cheap-ass trailer trusses, exposed now, give my room and my bunk and my writing table a very Captain’s-cabin feel and at night, when I rouse momentarily from some wanton dream, I look around and I thank the Rat God for forcing me to create a special place that I might not have achieved left to my own devices.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Having destroyed their habitat, by putting lids on the dog food bowls and closing the toilet seat religously, my rat problem was solved. My home was once again my own and the Blonde, looking warily about, moved back into our little trailer.</span></div>
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And yet, now, hear my lament: for once in my life home all the time and happy and doing lucrative work that I enjoy, The Call has come again. Remarkably coinciding with a financial downturn at the condo project where I have been toiling and daydreaming since March and maybe due to a little avarice on my part, Corporate is cutting off my cash flow and at the same time, just today, one of the gazillionaire contractors from my piratical past called and wanted to know if I wanted to lend a hand at a place called Mexico Beach. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hear the laughter of the vengeful Rat God!</span></div>
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Whispering Pines Trailer Park</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">October 13 2018</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="yj6qo" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
</div>
</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-56810668711614322712018-09-16T12:31:00.000-07:002018-09-16T12:31:51.444-07:00Danglin' Is As Danglin' Does<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Listen: I am trying to write like I
did in the old days, before Tim Joe Comstock, before the Trailer Park
Cyclist, before all the fame and the millions of dollars that were
showered upon me...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wait: The millions of dollars...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dangit! I knew I left those Bitcoins
somewhere...maybe behind the refrigerator...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Great. Now I have to start over.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's what I'm thinking. Gravel
bikes. I only own three bicycles and (apparently) zero bitcoins, but
I know a cool bicycle when I see one and now I am (kinda) drooling
over this Salsa Journeyman:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(non-existent photo)</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the old days I was pretty poetical
and got all manner of accolades for writing moody and soulful stuff
about dead relatives and awesome bicycle rides and how cool I
am...was...dangit! Is that a dangling participle? Why do we have to
worry about participles, dangling or otherwise? In fact, I am
reasonably certain that almost NOBODY uses the word “participle”
in daily speech. I sure don't.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Incomplete
sentence/contraction/possible dangling participle.)</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, here's whats groovy: the same guy
who wrote the definitive book (along with some guy named Strunk) that
tells us the Elements of Style was also the guy who wrote Charlotte's
Web.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But let's face it. The old days are
gone. Bicycles have disc brakes now. Fat tires are the norm. Old
Tim Joe can't even come close to remembering how he wrote way back
when he had an element of style. But all the same, here we are.
(there's another one. It's like flies in here.)</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's another thing: Once I started
to get some readership I got all excited and looked up stuff on the
web about how to get and keep a following. Mostly it involved
pictures and short entries that could be read at work. You know,
ways to screw your employer out of office time. It seems that 1500
word posts fit in perfectly between a restroom break and a stop by
the break room. It's sad, really.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The thing is, when I write honestly (as
hard as it is) it takes me awhile to get it all figured
out.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have to wander around. I have to
type and type until things coalesce, I have to think about today and
I have to think about yesterday and I have to think about what it is
I am thinking about. That is what I did back when I only wrote for
myself, before other people saw what I was up to and what was
happening in my world. Each day is so full of surprise and dangling
that I cannot see how anyone can comprehend it all without taking
notes.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So the truth is, it ain't easy. All of you know what I mean. Moments of distressed clarity, a glimpse of what should be, what should have been...but what of that? Here we are. Here are we.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Speaking of notes, I have my Pandora
station set on Joni Mitchell. So while I type this we are getting
Joni and James and Carly and Carol and Stephen and Neil.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So OK. There ya go. I am still Old
Tim Joe, I still live in a trailer park. This is pretty much what ya get from here on out. Maybe something about gravel bikes, if I remember.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yer friend, Danglin' Tim</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Whispering Pines Trailer Park and
Mermaid Cafe</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Sept 15 2018</i></span></div>
<br />Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-61420286201938926652017-05-15T18:47:00.002-07:002017-05-15T18:47:16.798-07:00Come Monday<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Who Knows? Soylent
Green Might Be the Answer</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Here we go now. Once again, a couple
weeks ago I quit my job and dragged my ass back home. Even though I
live in the crappiest trailer park in Florida, it is MY trailer park
and the squirrels really missed me. Not due to my charming
personality, but because of the raw peanuts in the shell that I get
from the Winn Dixie. Even as I type here at a sublime sundown, they
gather outside the door screaming out their demand for more peanuts,
but I ran out of peanuts at the noon feeding and I really don't feel
good about this. I'm too drunk to drive and that means I am WAY too
drunk to ride my bicycle. But these are some scary squirrels. M.
Night Shyamalan (an obviously made up name) could really do something
with this scene.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Saurians</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But on a groovier, more better Audubon
note, there are two birds who have joined the fray. I think they are
Steller's Jays but one looks like what we would call a red cardinal
and the other one is the same thing but blue. Just beautiful birds
but also pretty pissed about the lack of sundown peanuts. Birds are,
after all, the last living relatives of the dinosaurs. I honestly
don't know how I get into these jams.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Gathering of the Gloom</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Listen: I spend a whole lot of time on
the road, chewing on rolaids and and battling motel maids, as some poet
once said. Plus there are prostitutes (the friendliest appellation I
can apply to what they really are) and I have a disturbing habit of,
when in my cups, as we say, engaging them and getting into
grandfatherly conversations. Thirty years ago I wasn't a Grandpa but
now I am and so I often find myself giving them money just to go
away. I got a better deal thirty years ago.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And Yet...</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">All of my bicycles are done. Built and
ready. And the money I give those lost girls ain't peanuts, but,
having known the freedom and pain of having nothing, I like to hand
out a little surprise once in awhile. The other day, just before I
realized I was losing my mind and it was time to head out fast for
the home fires, I went to the ATM and got out five twenty dollar
bills. I roamed the neighborhood of the motel I was at in Sarasota,
handing them out. You would think I had cured cancer, or brought
back a dead relative when you saw the expressions that rewarded my
gift of a lousy twenty dollar bill. I can't recommend it enough. I
know my readers and I know that every one of you can afford to take
out a hundred dollars every other month and hand out five random
twenty dollar bills.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't make a ceremony of it. I just
hand them the twenty and get away as fast as possible. But I almost
always hear “God Bless You Sir!” as I pedal or stride or drive
away. I hope that Fucker is listening. He better be, if he wants to
get a twenty when we finally bump into each other.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It Helps If You Are
Crazy</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Feel the darkness dwelling in my soul?
I am sorry for that. I have been home almost three weeks and the
treasury is seriously depleted. I gotta go back out there. All
three bicycles are built and I have not, in three weeks, pedaled a
dozen miles. OK, maybe fifty. This bodes not well for the Trailer Park Cyclist.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But what of that? All three bicycles
are built and ready. Little Miss Dangerous is ready to go. So
whatever else happens, I at least have my righteous steed, hand built
by me my ownself and with that knowledge I know it will all work out.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Plus, there is still enough daylight to
pedal to the Winn Dixie for another pound of peanuts, and maybe a
little rum. Hell Yeah.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Animal House</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Mid May 2017</i></span></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-65435007022196081222016-08-14T18:08:00.002-07:002016-08-19T13:41:43.832-07:00A Good Idea<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Finding myself inexplicably awake at sunrise, vaguely hungover and wondering what to do about it, I reached for my bicycle and rolled it out onto the porch. I wasn’t going to ride, necessarily, but I thought I would put her out on the porch for old time’s sake, just to watch the golden-red glow wash over her as the sun got up and began to do its thing. But it was quite overcast this morning and misty and foggy and looking like some kind of Precursor-of-Winter Sunrise, even though it was, after all, still August.</span></span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-0333c156-8bb9-5dbf-6fc4-58730f71f01d" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As I pushed her out the door I realized the front tire was flat. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What the hell?” I thought. “That’s odd.” It WAS odd. This is the</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><a href="http://ryansrebuilds.blogspot.com/2016/01/a-new-bike-for-trailer-park-cyclist.html">New Bike.</a></b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I have had her for a year now (she may be a him) and never came close to a flat. Then again, I have yet to put any significant miles on the New Bike. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Well, there goes my morning ride,” I thought. “Dang flat.” I started to shuffle towards the fridge.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Yeah, you can’t ride a bike with a flat tire. Too bad we don’t know what to do about flat bicycle tires.”</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I spun around. Nobody there. Toby the Trouble Puppy was sitting there, startled by my sudden spinning about, wagging his tail warily.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Toby? Did you hear anything?” He wagged his tail and stuck out his tongue and yawned a cautious yawn. I wasn’t cussing, so he started to relax, meanwhile keeping his eye on me at the same time. But I HAD heard a voice, clear as a bell. I looked at the bike on the porch. I turned and looked at my work bench three feet away. There was my bicycle tool box, stuffed with all manner of esoteric bicycle tools and also not one but TWO inner tube patch kits, both the glueless and the glue type. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There was, I could see in the morning light, considerable dust on the toolbox.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Hey!” I said to Toby. “I know how to fix a flat bicycle tire. “ Daisy the Yellow Dog (getting on in years) stuck her head out from under my bunk to see what was going on. Seeing me standing in my boxer shorts in the middle of the room talking to myself she stretched and crept back into her personal spot in front of the dog fan. She heaved her best “here we go again” sigh and went back to sleep. Daisy sleeps a lot these days.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“We’ll see about this,” I said, sounding confident. I strode over to the refrigerator and reached for the handle.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Wrong box.” </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I whipped around again, going into my best imitation Elvis karate stance.</span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Who’s there, dammit!? Show yourself!” Toby jumped up from his bed, (the backseat pulled from my Chevy van) and ran under the bunk to hide behind Miss Daisy. I went to the front door and stuck my head out, looking back and forth with what I hoped was a fierce expression on my face. “I ain’t playin!” I shouted, stepping out to where I had parked the bike.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Christy, the redheaded widow from across the way, was doing a little early morning work in her tiny trailer-park garden. She turned to see what this sunrise hollering was about. Seeing me standing there in my underwear, she stood up and came over to my gate.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Going for a bike ride this morning? I never see you out on your bike anymore. You used to live on that thing. What happened?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“I have a flat tire.” She looked down at the big trash can sitting next to the gate. The birds were starting up with their morning racket. There are a lot of birds around the Park.</span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Well, if you recycle all those cans, you should be able to afford a new tire. Maybe even a whole new bike.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“I gotta go inside and put my pants on,” I said.</span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Good idea,” She said.</span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Good idea,”</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> the Voice said. This time I didn’t even flinch. I went inside the trailer. I looked at the pile of empty bottles in a box behind the trailer door. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“No wonder I’m hearing voices,” I said to no one in particular. I reached up into the cupboard over the refrigerator and grabbed a dust rag and a can of WD-40.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I headed over to the work bench. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Halfway House</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">August 14, 2016</span></span>Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-37978063673612175812016-07-18T08:55:00.003-07:002016-07-18T09:01:08.306-07:00Nothing Good Can Come of This<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Note from the TPC: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> This post originated as a comment over at my friend Brian’s booger, </span><br />
<span style="color: cyan; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><a href="http://midlifeinthefastlane.blogspot.com/">Mid Life In the Fast Lane</a> </b></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> He was ruminating about the coming election, mentioning that in times of uncertainty we can always fall back on the comfort of the number 42 and also how it seems that Hillary Clinton seems to feel herself to be immune to the laws of the land.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-5046c114-fea0-112d-0834-2a1d1979a653" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-5046c114-fea0-112d-0834-2a1d1979a653" style="font-weight: normal;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-5046c114-fea0-112d-0834-2a1d1979a653"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 1.38; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Did I Say That Out Loud?</span></span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b id="docs-internal-guid-5046c114-fea0-112d-0834-2a1d1979a653" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well, Brian, apparently Ms. Clinton actually IS above the rules. After all, her husband was President 42...and didn't she murder somebody back in Arkansas? I never did quite understand that Vince Foster story. Never cared much, either. I kind of like the idea of a president who is capable of murder, though. Don't forget, when I was twelve I campaigned for Nixon.</span></b></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="186" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/MW-vbuTJqOW2YH7GejZ4d3cBcdGLqCeXgy0dnkxRueTuynj306uiPfFmVmzt9IA4Qx73ctkfksFbjGWOAGdmZ0wcEmbUnhgA4gZ2vaNV7ADaKtJzZqQTjzqstuI-7sSKcotLE4Q1" style="border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="272" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"You won't have Dick Nixon to kick around anymore"</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Somehow, to my jaded old-man vision, the inevitability of Clintonus Secundus seems further insured by the inability of the Republican Party to overcome the Trump Machine. A big part of me (the conspiracy kook part) cannot help but wonder if the whole thing isn’t some huge set-up.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="225" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/snBZhDXHsKZ3_8Ydo3RbnNkleJiZrCV7rdcwMFBQnZRzIGpVKPLCfTiojzgLlM05_za2H0AR3hAXZlrVCx8aZLogOSQMAQbSFFPZIUjhNHd7Mdg2juXKB5Yrpvoq1NkH8_PRjx94" style="border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="224" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">peek-a-boo!<br />
(Who's eye is that, anyway?")</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But to what end? One has to wonder where the third-party candidate is...the independent who marches triumphantly back from Tennessee into D.C. to claim his rightful crown, I mean throne, no, dangit, his </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Presidency</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> stolen from him all those too many years ago, victimized by dangling chads and a questionable Supreme Court decision.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="194" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/f_J7Ige1AOHYoZiZehtQLNgmDUwdqHPkMxBzcgaB4rp0RDZpWekiVAyRtqyxdbcThLKY5I9SM6sBUnYif5WdANFabaLTKJ60iepkWnkFLxGrjzni7sCIt_VMAW1dXjISBkVsQGIO" style="border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="259" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Man, it's getting hot in here."</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have always thought the country (and the world) would today be a far better place if Mr. Gore had instead decided to settle things Tennessee-style, say a duel at ten paces with flintlock pistols. That’s what Hillary would have done, I like to think. But it didn’t happen and instead of the Environmentalist President, we got the Howdy Doody Mission Accomplished President.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="265" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/zK4vtS9ctLMNCDwqn9DD-TUurbFddOxdm44dVLpAS6QMAa5_O9X2BEUV0sCd0aAXxmz-iDYKzyrkYnG2lcXIYXZMSroaymvHDW7MySGDxL6D2P55l0tQ5ekLzicTANTrgnLuuUQv" style="border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="191" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I...never mind</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 121.5pt; margin-right: 103.5pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sadly, in hindsight, I think we got what we deserved. And I think Ol’ Man Trump will get what he deserves if he thinks he can beat the Establishment. He made it this far, sure, but don’t expect to see him at the finish line. He started out doing his rich buffoon routine, then, to our (and to his, I believe) astonishment, it kept going. It got out of control. The pundits started taking him seriously (a little) He’s getting the nomination in Cleveland. (By the way: Cleveland?) But he’s a crafty old weasel and he knows he will be in one hell of a bad position were he to win the Game of Thrones. There is no way he can accomplish a tenth of the things he has promised; in fact his whole campaign has been a Tea-Party danse macabre that cannot end well for the prima donna. He’ll find a way out that makes him look like a winner and victim at the same time.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="194" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/iQQ3C-J4Z1dtvPkMPldzmrAwxB56xaZvTDDsFttx5O-z9eRjlCUMQU98wA3XhhOs03sJ9sHCYA0N_Vf7BQuDeKkbw2Xevb0EfHBCgTUJuEetSKyQ754F6l5ZFE51sSVxPw8uvoM7" style="border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="259" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'll sue every man, woman and child in this country. It's going to be huge!"</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Many years ago, while I was ruling the roost of high-rise condominium carpenters in Tampa Bay, the Big Man came to town to build a 50 story tower. We were all agog at the chance to be a part of the magnificent proceedings. He bought an entire city block with a wave of his hand and within days had the existing buildings demolished and hauled away. He put out bids for model centers. We all wanted in but at the point of bidding, it was discovered that condition #1 was that the models had to be installed at the bidder’s expense. That was a sizeable amount of money, far more than I could ever afford. I called my mentor, a millionaire many times over.</span></div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-5046c114-fea0-112d-0834-2a1d1979a653"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img height="192" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/ULSxKxqhWZTGvRXMDo5JcHrCUE-U0QafvqXZJH9eDOcfHKzqxaji7UnkArl5S81ivh7x2r8-s8WhIsz2mHYqw21TYIC03RsPY9bdDxREw2eAO5LHLrSfNqtAXoFiTanRkS5VFT-l" style="border: none; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="262" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img height="168" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/A6pfGHdOz8ELtgnaWGu21YH6wRtkakEvW5MAp1lcFSS9viMlvK75J9cGN2QahBSGtDnS54j3T66EwH5oo9FuwWMi08R7MjNrGLzvT_-zaN70dSOPnwSaQvfFNdbHBFjHwt1d977t" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0.00rad); border: none; transform: rotate(0.00rad);" width="299" /></span></span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-5046c114-fea0-112d-0834-2a1d1979a653">
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-5046c114-fea0-112d-0834-2a1d1979a653"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I can’t hack it, boss, but if you will cover the materials and permitting, I can provide the labor at my expense.” Looking back, I probably sounded like a crack-head desperate for a fix.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Don’t be stupid, Tim Joe. We don’t want anything to do with that project.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“But boss! It’s Trump!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That’s right, T.J. And try to find one person who has ever been glad they did business with him. That guy screws every single person and institution he gets in bed with. I have no reason to stand in line to be screwed, and neither do you. Besides, we have other business to consider.”</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="183" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/NNZC_k6BgT55F9pXOvSVw4ei51Cm7lzu8HkIPYMQrp1HhL2o7xdxWs9CGET_XjS-bR4JqQi7gb-kcYu0QURUivfXFhragdk3dlfvJ9B2b3xX9On3L9Ue8aE_2OO6ZfIhsfrhObbs" style="border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="275" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standing in line for you-know-what</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He was right. The only payment the owners of that Downtown Tampa city block ever saw by way of payment was that initial wave of the hand. The model centers never quite got finished. Nobody involved saw any profit, in fact the whole mess ended badly and if you look, there is no 50 story Trump Tower in Tampa. And The Donald sued everybody involved.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So: an Evil Jester who would be King, or the Dark Sorceress, stepping forth from the shadow of the Throne to claim the Crown?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img height="187" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/w9SiR0WWfY0PgkIdAAlp3uhBEL_yilUXCpz0LymBP2kBWjA-0Ijmy3P1cEWcdb3TKJ86FzXESSsrKFMZh2syElZIRkadsRbDw0JUyyC1glAhtjDDPxn71QQ9u9C9G5_EfJ__rK7I" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0.00rad); border: none; transform: rotate(0.00rad);" width="270" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img height="188" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/6chIBqEzRv-VbjerfHpafi5-MrK6Ht8D1CCD7fdgWbaZQGbG3dUz7pOSpxV88rVjMbxKXa9vdsCtTw_kRDKmAj3MLmE-yLRSRhAclIKx0s9vSkxRqlcmIywMXILsA7hCrfR5Re6c" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0.00rad); border: none; transform: rotate(0.00rad);" width="268" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Either way, it looks to me that what we have to look forward to at the polls this time around is an opportunity to stand in line to get screwed. And we really do have other business to consider.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The answer? An American Hero. A true independent who comes out of nowhere, captures the popular vote and slays these monsters. A hero who marches up the steps of Congress and kicks some old fart ass. Where is this superstar? I don’t know. But look into your hearts, my friends. This is the Age of Social Media. This is the Time of You Tube. Where Is Our Hero?</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/iYa7lhTi508XYTRMqUCNZxGa0BSog5VpNkIu6XGM3BJVbVrp0zGquaCko6deu6kWljs3OvlKVKPBDhJiOW0KVXvKlMfhOcMkR7bj4gxq-gtIIpQpoaxDo4CjrGinVEdFbi10twEU" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/iYa7lhTi508XYTRMqUCNZxGa0BSog5VpNkIu6XGM3BJVbVrp0zGquaCko6deu6kWljs3OvlKVKPBDhJiOW0KVXvKlMfhOcMkR7bj4gxq-gtIIpQpoaxDo4CjrGinVEdFbi10twEU" style="border: none; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="260" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where have all the cowboys gone?</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sigh. I’m getting too old for this nonsense.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yr buddy, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">tj</span></div>
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Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-75499805593188046552016-04-11T17:28:00.001-07:002016-04-11T17:46:38.914-07:00Desperado<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Where Am I?</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Don't ask how it happened. You don't have to ask; as usual, I will explain everything in exhausting detail but in the meantime just try to bear with me. My typing fingers have atrophied and seem to be semi-frozen in a half grip around a phantom hammer (but on deeper pondering I suddenly realize that a hammer grip is not much different than that of a handlebar grip) and this of course could easily start me down a trail of a different pondering, but no: this story is about a trail named Flatwoods. It is directly behind my hotel room and here, out my fourth floor window, I am stunned to see a deep new old Florida swamp. It's out there, just feet away.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Cypress and fern and palmetto and water, this is the real deal and I am amazed they let it live...this is a young swamp, the cypress trees are small and unsure of themselves but they are here all the same and this wacky place called New Tampa or North Tampa (they can't seem to decide) is one of those god-awful Florida places where the invasive ruination is so strenuous that one certainly never expects to see anything primitive anywhere nearby but here it is: <a href="https://www.swfwmd.state.fl.us/recreation/areas/lh-flatwoods.html"><b>Flatwoods Nature Preserve.</b></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Tired Superman</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Having driven about six hours across the state (a normal person could make it in three hours but I stop alot to pee and I have a habit of turning down side streets because of a big tree I saw or because I just forgot where I was going) but ultimately arriving more or less where I was headed, I checked into the hotel and then went out to the van and pulled out <span id="goog_1268173814"></span><b><a href="http://ryansrebuilds.blogspot.com/2016/01/a-new-bike-for-trailer-park-cyclist.html">my new bicycle</a>.</b> I lept gracefully into the saddle and fell into a small grassy knoll next to where I was parked. I lay there a minute, pretending I did it on purpose. Then I looked around, found no witnesses watching and, righting myself and my bike, did a proper old-man left side pedal mount and headed off.<br />
<br />
"I'll just pedal to the trailhead and look around," I said to myself. I have to talk to myself because I am alone. The Voice has been gone for a long time. "I haven't ridden (rided? rode?) over two blocks in the last six months and my butt can't take too many miles."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Yeah, Right </b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Problem is, this hotel is situated (ironically) off the beaten path and by Trailer Park Luck I entered from a back way. There was a sign, of sorts, and my previous research had told me that the trail was a seven mile loop so what could go wrong? Well, my research, for starters.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Almost immediately I was immersed deep in the middle of a fathomless maze of trails both paved, gravel, and dirt. Now, in the interest of honest reporting, the truth probably is (as near as I can ascertain) that if I had stuck to the paved portion, I wouldn't have found myself two hours later pedaling REALLY hard in traffic as the sun started becoming more of a glow than a shine. My legs most likely (if I had stayed on the paved part) would not right now be soaking in a hot tub of epsom salts to ease the slings and arrows of inadvertedly blundering through a hedge of stinging nettles.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And that was the easy part.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Lost and Lonely Child</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Somehow I got turned around. I kept having opportunities to blast down some kind of clean white gravel road, only to find it taper off to a pine needle trail going into an abrupt turn. When these turns erupted I was usually looking at a hawk or a gopher tortoise or, truth be told, just pedaling hard and paying no attention.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And my research (questionable, at best) says they have singletrack!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="text-align: center;"> Goodnight, Irene</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
This place is several square miles and I managed, in my tentative foray to "check out the trailhead" rode pretty hard for a couple hours. I exited the park ten miles from my hotel, pretty much lost and now, after two hours in the wilderness, pedaling with all I had left in me in commuter traffic, the sun below the horizon and my water bottle empty. No lights, of course.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
What's it all about? Man, you tell me. I really did this. I really did drive over here in my usual<b> <a href="http://www.npr.org/sections/monkeysee/2011/11/11/142218444/bil-keanes-dotted-line-an-appreciation">Family Circus </a></b>fashion of getting around, then go for my first ride in a long time. It really was an epic three hour ride involving a new bicycle, three wetland crashes and a one hour blast through dangerous traffic.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Fourth Floor, Please</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm in the elevator. I've been awake for 24 hours and my legs are bleeding a little, the blood isn't much but it's draining into my socks. I still have on my construction clodhoppers. The door is about to close but then a pretty old couple approaches and I hit the "Hold" button. They hesitate. </div>
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<br /></div>
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"Come on in," I say. "Are you going up?"</div>
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<br /></div>
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"Yes," says the gentleman. "I've never seen a bicycle on an elevator," he says. He and his wife get on.</div>
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<br /></div>
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"My brother Peter rode a bicycle all over the place," says the lady. "He had epilepsy and couldn't get a license to drive a car."</div>
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<br /></div>
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"He was a lucky guy," I say. The elevator doors close. We're headed up. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>La Quinta Inn, North Tampa</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>4/11/16</i></div>
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Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-70080161092271167982015-05-01T13:08:00.001-07:002015-05-01T15:12:40.361-07:00At Least I Didn't Just Sneak Out the Back Door<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Lurker At the Threshold</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I keep coming here and typing an
opening sentence then deleting it and going back to looking at
pictures of Surly bicycles that maybe I can afford but am too cheap
to purchase. Plus Little Miss Dangerous is just sitting here in the
stand, painted, ready; last week I got the new Shimano bar-end
shifters and the crazy NOS Sachs front derailleur that I hope will
Solve Everything but I'm afraid to find out.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Still Half Homeless</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Today I spent a lot of time using free
library internet (and air-conditioning) and converted every single
post of the Trailer Park Cyclist Blog into PDF's. As I was doing it,
I realized what I was up to...That's it, guys, I know my own
subconscious self and I'm pretty sure that's all she wrote for the
News From the Whispering Pines. But there is some pretty good stuff
in those hundred-plus pieces and I made myself laugh (alot) and I
dunno...maybe I thought I would break the news here, if indeed such a
belated announcement can even qualify as news...I haven't typed up a
post in almost a year and I noticed just recently that a most of my
friends have quietly removed me from their Blog Rolls.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To Be Or Whatever</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So what's it all about? Well, working
long days out of town and being away from the bike for so long at a
time has a whole bunch to do with it, I suppose. Most of my writing
(the good stuff, anyway) takes place late at night after I have
crossed a magic threshold (Okay, when I'm drunk). Nowadays out there
on the road I am sleeping in the wee hours, resting...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Plus, let's face it: every story needs
a beginning, a middle, and an end. It all has to end, sooner or
later. There has to be an ending. A good story always does, anyway.
End, I mean. Otherwise, what are we to think? Did everything work
out? Did the hero triumph? Did Good win out over Evil?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Not that I ever tackled much in the way
of Big Thoughts. I tried, but what can I say? I have always been
more of the Jester than the Sage, which is fine with me. I once
said that there is nothing that happens in our lives that sooner or
later we can't laugh about. I'm not sure if I was right about that,
but while Sooner is always here Later has yet to come, so who knows?
God, I guess, and...wait for it...the Storyteller. He knows how it
ends. He ends it. All the good storytellers do, anyway. End it, I
mean.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But Sequels Are Never
As Good</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But hey! There are sequels (and
prequels) and god knows how many other ways to only pretend to quit.
Me, I'm just glad I finally got off my ass and PDF'd those posts.
Now I have to scrounge up the money for some printer ink and I'll
print them all out. I will sort and red-line and make notes and then
pull it all together as best I can with maybe a dramatic and touching
backstory or who knows, maybe I'll just tell the simple truth (which
is never simple) and I don't know...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But this is it...this is true and about
a year ago something changed for me and the Trailer Park Cyclist
wasn't who I was anymore. Trust me, nothing changed but my mind. I
still live in the trailer park and I still ride my bicycle
(sometimes) and I still suffer through budget (and heart) breaking
repairs and Little Miss has been in the stand for a year now...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I just ain't the ol' TPC anymore. I
jumped back into the workaday world and it was a kind of suicide.
There are reasons and family (of a sort) obligations and there are
people who count on me, again. I had to go back to being a grown up
and I don't like it. But I was always doomed to be a Do the Right
Thing kind of guy and here I am, doing it. I hope.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So Just Go Already</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't know how to pull the plug,
exactly. While I was figuring out the PDF thing today at the Library
I saw a Delete Your Blog button. That certainly sent a shiver down
my spine and it would take a whole lot of beer and rum for that
button to get pushed. And they frown on weeping drunks fooling with
the computers at our local branch and even have a cop there (not too
sober-looking himself) to make sure it doesn't happen. But I owe it
to all my thousands and thousands of loyal readers (tee hee) to at
least say goodbye.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But this isn't goodbye. I will still
get all boozed up and come by your Blogs and leave long rambling
comments that are related to your post by the merest thread...I'll
still go to Drunk Cyclist about once every three months and start
trouble and then disappear. I have ridden (rode, rided?) a bicycle
since I was about three years old and that will never change. I just
am going to set aside my Trailer Park Cyclist gig, (for what it's
worth) for now and see what happens.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As endings and farewells go this one
ain't so hot but I had to try. I can't explain what I don't
understand myself so, well, this is what you get.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yer old buddy,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">TJC
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whispering Pines Trailer Park and
Trails End</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">May 1, 2015</span></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-91129843557799810002014-08-02T02:53:00.000-07:002014-08-02T03:37:28.026-07:00Chameleon<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You Can't Always Get
What You Want</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Enigmatic
lyrics from a different century echo through my mind as I stand here
typing at five in the </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">morning.
I am home now, home for the first time in twenty five days. August
is upon us and that means lots of heavy rain and even heavier heat
but what of that? This is Florida. This is what happens here in the
last half of summer and if ya don't like it, move to France or Mars
or one of those places where everybody else lives. Me, I'm a Trailer
Park Cyclist and bad weather and sultry realities are part of what
makes up the wild ride I am on and bicycles, too.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What About the
Bicycles?</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Miss
Daisy the Yellow Dog (ever a steadfast companion) is fixated on a
chameleon that is driving her mad, changing colors and dashing about
the trailer in an effort to escape her stern doggy gaze. This lizard is
big and lithe and overfed, an obvious recipient of my open-hearted
generosity. There are holes in the screens, you see, and when you
abandon a crappy trailer for weeks at a time in the heart of a
Florida summer, There Will Be Bugs. I only mention the chameleon in
context with the bicycles. Here is what happened. Daisy, banging
through the bike shop/living room in pursuit of this slithering
lizard ghost, knocked over the recently painted frame of Little Miss
Dangerous, my 1981 Schwinn Super LeTour dream machine. Immediately
recalcitrant, she bows her head in apology but then thrusts forward
yet again, ever in pursuit of this rascally reptile who I know; I
know this lizard, it has been hanging out around my writing table for
quite awhile now and he is welcome here, in my home. I really don't
seem to have a choice in the matter, chameleons come and go at their
own discretion and if only I could get my Yellow Dog to grasp that
all things not-canine are not necessarily adversaries I think her
world and mine would be a far more peaceful place.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hang In There</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But
dogs and lizards have their own agendas, as do I: sitting here on
the table next to the antique (XP!) Dell 6000 computer that I utilize
for my ramblings and ravings, sitting here in spectacular black
leather glory is a Brooks B-17 Imperial bicycle saddle. I have the
wrench and the kooks at Brooks also included some red white and blue
lacing tied to the rails. I don't know what these lacings are for or if Brooks does this for every customer but for now I will imagine that it was done just for me.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Home Again</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It all
ties together, this bicycle seat and the knocked-over frame, the
chameleon and the dog...it all ties together. Stripped of parts,
Little Miss has spent the last three weeks baking in an un-air
conditioned trailer. Her new paint, a silver and black metal-flake
rattle-can job applied by a pro (me) is really cool and a a diametric
opposite of the flat black of two years ago. The flat black was sweet and murdered-hip, but it was also soft and easily scratched and this will be, probably, the last rebuild for
Little Miss. So she gets a snappy-shiny paint job and about ten
coats of clear gloss spray and she gets all-new drive parts; here on
my bench is a new crankset and chain and derailleur and tires and
everything. Everything. This bicycle has changed my life. I owe
her a lot, really. The first post of this Booger, <b><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3267224089554889479#editor/target=post;postID=118207824880720870;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=151;src=postname">Coyote Brings Me A Bicycle (Project)</a></b>, tells all about the way I found a new path and
new friends and in many ways a new reality.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>And Again</b></span></div>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Meanwhile,
the fat chameleon has sneaked around and sits here now, inches away,
glaring at me. I am his friend, but he doesn't know that yet. The
Yellow Dog is outside on the porch, greeting the new day. Me? I'm
out of rum and beer at sunrise; a new day is dawning and I am without beer and rum but I am ready. I am ready and Little Miss will soon enough be decked out in her new array and it
will be a good last half of this year, this future-time, this 2014.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of this
I am certain.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yer
pal, tj</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whispering
Pines Trailer Park and Reptile Refuge</span></i></div>
<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">August
1, 2014</span></i></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-39119040675209067842014-07-04T08:07:00.000-07:002014-07-04T08:07:05.467-07:00Owner of a Lonely Heart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_5I8-1puemg/U7bBrVMKkPI/AAAAAAAAAsg/ikZ_RMHRhZw/s1600/bicycle+cellphone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_5I8-1puemg/U7bBrVMKkPI/AAAAAAAAAsg/ikZ_RMHRhZw/s1600/bicycle+cellphone.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<h2 class="entry-title" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; color: #222222; font-family: 'Hoefler Text', Cambria, Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 1.7em; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px 0px 4px;">
<br /></h2>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>From the Desk of the Trailer Park Cyclist</b></div>
<div>
<i>Hey, guys. Are all of you reading<b><a href="http://pvcycling.wordpress.com/"> Cycling In the South Bay</a></b>? Authored by Seth Davidson, Esq. it is almost the anti-Trailer Park Cyclist blog. He's a decent human who pretends not to be, a successful attorney and a racing-type cyclist. Like I said, kind of a Bizarro World TPC. Plus he's skinny.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Whatever the case, I DO read it and last night, while in me cups, as they say, I read this comment by Erik and it threw me into a tailspin of sorts, which ain't hard to do. Go read the <b><a href="http://pvcycling.wordpress.com/2014/07/03/my-bicycle-cellphone/">original post</a>. </b> But this comment by our brother Erik stands alone and says more about cycling than everything I have ever written. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>ERIK Comments at Cycling In the South Bay</b></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 1.9em;">I always enjoy your tales of childhood, because they remind me so much of my own. Though I’m about 10-15 years younger than you, so the wussification of Suburbia was well underway by the ’80′s. Either way, I spent my summer days in the woods. Learned to curse during the summer after first grade in a long string of nonsense profanity that involved tits and balls, but not cunts and cocks. We had a neighbor with a pump track in his yard that we’d poach (you never asked ANYONE if you were allowed to do something, you just did it), and my steel-frame Huffy with plastic mag wheels was my steed from about 3rd grade until well into high school before I got my first road bike, which was actually my mom’s. It was a white chromoly Puch, about 4 cm too small for me, with a squeaky rear brake – so I only ever used the front. One evening I was riding without a light, head down, when I looked up at the last second to see a parked car where there never was one. I grabbed the front brake in a death grip and went right over the handlebars with the bike still between my legs onto the trunk of the car. I rung the doorbell across the street and apologized for the few tiny dents and scratches to the trunk, and offered to pay for them. She never called me back. I rode all over town on that thing when i was 15-16, and the only reason I ever started learning to drive was because it got stolen when i dropped it in the grass behind the bank one evening while I ran int to get 10 bucks. I was in there 5 minutes and the bike was gone that fast. I’ll never forget the dread of my first stolen bike. It was like the first time you loose sight of your child in a big crowd, only you know it’s never coming back. That bike was my escape from a shitty new life in a new town with an alcoholic step-father and his sociopath sons, that began abruptly the day after my last day of 10th grade after 10 years of my father’s long and destructive descent into untreated schizophrenia. I miss that bike.</span></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-6006303465054507472014-06-27T15:43:00.001-07:002014-06-29T06:35:09.962-07:00We Are the Gods<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><i>This is an old back-burner post that I just found while surfing the archives of the Trailer Park Cyclist Blog. I really got a kick out of it and I have absolutely no memory of writing it. Channeling my inner Thoreau, no doubt.</i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><i>I hope you like it.</i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><i>tj</i></b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Observe: I have here in my left hand...</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Throughout history scholars have
despaired of our race, our species. As far back as Socrates,
probably. Maybe even farther back, all the way to Thales, who if I
remember correctly was Socrates' Grandpa. My Greek History ain't
that strong. But also there is the Old Testament. Plenty of
complaining about mankind in there! Mostly by God. He creates man
and calls him Adam and Adam looks lonely and so God creates (stop me
if you've heard this one) woman and calls her Eve...or Adam did I
don't remember and I'm too lazy to look it up. If you want careful
scholarship go to the library and check out a book, for chrissake's.
This is the Trailer Park Cyclist and I'm typing in a trailer that
actually resembles a beat up old railroad boxcar from the Depression.
The Great Depression, not this pathetic little depression that
everyone seems to think is over except for me, cause I'm still here
in this...wait...</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-owJ6cKrf3q4/UbXj53OM15I/AAAAAAAAAcU/uGyaSPFUhvo/s1600/boxcar+bertha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-owJ6cKrf3q4/UbXj53OM15I/AAAAAAAAAcU/uGyaSPFUhvo/s1600/boxcar+bertha.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Sometimes I Get Sidetracked</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So God created the first episode of <i>I
Love Lucy </i>and then, of course,
the trouble started. Lucy got pregnant and had little Ricky, except
in the Bible version his name was Cain and he wandered the Old West
playing a flute and kung-fu fighting and spouting wisdom in a way
that makes him sound like maybe he got kicked by a mule...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Different Cain.</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“What's that,
Voice? I'm kinda busy here.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I said that you are confusing Kane
the fictional Shaolin monk with the first natural born human, Cain,
who by the way, was also the world's first murderer.</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“The Kung-fu
guy?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of course not.</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I know, Voice, I was just messin' with ya. Now let me get back to work, here."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-us-tbM69fYY/UbXkaM97ktI/AAAAAAAAAcc/DWpRiDUx7Io/s1600/fish+whisperer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-us-tbM69fYY/UbXkaM97ktI/AAAAAAAAAcc/DWpRiDUx7Io/s1600/fish+whisperer.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Goldfish Bowl</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So anyway, even
back in the very beginning of time (as recorded by the religious right) God was usually pissed and I often wonder about that. My Grandpa was a kind
of god to me, when I was little, and he was an avid keeper of
tropical fish. It was a big deal. One medium sized tank, carefully arranged and meticulously
cared for and he loved those fish. The tank in his den was
holy and after supper we would sit and study on the fish and he would sometimes tell
me stories. Not much though, he was half Cherokee and given to the
taciturn nature of the Natives, but let us set that aside for now.
The important part of the fish story I am sharing here is that my
grandfather was never angry at his fish. He never complained about
the fish or changed his mind and, uh, flooded the fish tank or blast
out his wrath and holler at the fish like some kind of drunk on the
roof or otherwise piss and moan and send other, bossier and
holier-than-thou fish into the tank to tell the other fish how to
live or how to pray and if Gramps ever sacrificed his favorite
firstborn fish for the good of the other fish I never heard about it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I was little
and maybe there were things I shouldn't know about.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3wSnq3XeejY/UbXlQfdZv_I/AAAAAAAAAcs/sGz85Uw0P-8/s1600/cofee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3wSnq3XeejY/UbXlQfdZv_I/AAAAAAAAAcs/sGz85Uw0P-8/s1600/cofee.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>I'm Glad That's Cleared Up</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So: Good Morning,
everybody! It's your old buddy Tim Joe and now that the right hand
has got all of you looking at the left hand I'll say what's on my
mind. It has not one damn thing to do with religion or politics;
religion and politics are the crayons we use to color inside the
lines that are being drawn somewhere by forces we don't know about
and never will, completely. Even though I am a conspiracy nut, I try
not to indulge in conspiracy theory. “Geronimo!” Hah! ,
remember that? Back when we all still loved poor Mel Gibson, the
Lance Armstrong of Hollywood. No, what I'm up to right now is trying
to get a handle on the news. The other morning I was bored and since the
recent storms provided me with a rich windfall of firewood I
foolishly decided to fire up the Ol' Quasitron 6000 Steam Powered
Search Engine and see what has been happening lately in the
world outside the Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Fish Camp.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Ladies and Gentlemen! The Quaz!</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I carefully
arranged the abacus-style keyboard to form the word “Wassup?!”
and tapped the glass on the dials to make sure nothing was stuck. I
made a quick note that I was going to need another five gallons of
Brasso, various parts were turning green. Then, leaping up, I
grabbed the big Go! chain and let my weight (plentiful as it is) pull
the giant flywheel into action and set things to spinning...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5rj1q-t_r70/UbXik32rpZI/AAAAAAAAAcI/F-AAX32CpbU/s1600/stockbrokers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5rj1q-t_r70/UbXik32rpZI/AAAAAAAAAcI/F-AAX32CpbU/s1600/stockbrokers.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TPC Editoral Office</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Recession Over,
Everyone is Rich Again...</span> </b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">well,
that's certainly good news. I guess my check is in the mail. I give
the brass wheel another spin.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Economic
Improvement Results In Uptick of Housing Market, People Buying Larger
Homes...</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">
“The Wall Street Journal reports today that the upturn in the
marketplace and an increase in new home construction is revealing
that first-time homeowners are once again buying larger homes, in
record amounts. These indicators of a reviving economy were good
news to Wall Street and hint at a light at the end of...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“STOP RIGHT THERE!” I screamed, almost blinded by the tears of
rage and the overwhelming sense of absolute incredulity I was
suffering as I read these words. I grabbed the slowly spinning
Search wheel and gave it another spin. Dashing up the steel stairs
to the keyboard, I quickly, sheer dread numbing my fingers,
rearranged the beads to say “What About the Cars...” Then
stumbling back down the stairs to the big six by ten foot cathode ray
black and white screen, I saw only static and a rolling horizontal
bar. Kicking the Quazitron injudiciously, I watched in dread as the
screen cleared and I saw what I knew would be there:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Automobile
Manufactures Report Record Sales...</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">
“Major automotive retailers reported today that sales have reached
a five year high. Leading the market were the new “crossover”
cars with improved fuel economy, many getting over twenty miles
mpg...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
I hopped over and collapsed into my chair. I propped my throbbing
foot up on an old discarded wire spool I had found somewhere in the
Park.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
If I were God, or even just a drunk on the roof, I would right now be
screaming at the fish.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rqsNZFDatgo/UbXn16iTC6I/AAAAAAAAAc8/pD0FCn9YeMM/s1600/kenniso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rqsNZFDatgo/UbXn16iTC6I/AAAAAAAAAc8/pD0FCn9YeMM/s1600/kenniso.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Cue Sam Kennison</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
“BIG HOUSES NEED MORE RESOURCES TO OPERATE! BIG CARS NEED MORE
OIL! AREN'T YOU FUCKERS PAYING ATTENTION? AAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Here We Go Again</b>
</span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
Obviously not. We are obviously not paying attention. Like precious
tropical fish in an aquarium we foul our tank with our waste. But
there is no kindly halfbreed god to change the water and check our
pH. It is up to us. No matter how wealthy we become, we will
continue to be slaves until foreign oil is no longer of even the
least interest to us or to the benefit of our national economy.
“They” know this. “They” don't care. They know we are
stupid and oblivious and distracted by bright flashing images and
shiny new things.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_GFLdNpHPR0/UbXpTrsXlYI/AAAAAAAAAdM/RDKrTefv23M/s1600/imagesfish+and+mirror.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_GFLdNpHPR0/UbXpTrsXlYI/AAAAAAAAAdM/RDKrTefv23M/s400/imagesfish+and+mirror.jpg" height="301" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Forced To Get It Right</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
I discovered this “base-life” that I am living by accident. One
major mishap in my business, a contract that I didn't get, put me on
hold. It kept going. New work came in, but it was not enough to
support our lifestyle. We moved to the Pines, temporarily, three
years ago. The Blonde, despairing of me ever again rising to my
former glory, was forced to get her now teenage twins out of the
trailer park. This place is one foul fish tank indeed. She moved
into a condo in town and I moved into this boxcar, because it was
free. Then the microwave blew up, a victim of way too many chinese
noodle suppers. Later, the refrigerator died. There was no money to
replace these things. I put them into the trailer park recycle pile
and swept the floor where they had been. I shook off the dust. I
have been living without these necessities for awhile now. I barely
miss them. I started counting how much electricity such a life
needed. Not much.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QPjD1iMHAcE/UbXp3c1GMbI/AAAAAAAAAdU/9p4Cf-zWf-w/s1600/hobo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QPjD1iMHAcE/UbXp3c1GMbI/AAAAAAAAAdU/9p4Cf-zWf-w/s1600/hobo.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Sure, It Works For <i>You, </i>But You're <i>Weird</i></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
I realize that most people could not live this way. Not American
People, I mean. Otherwise, there are people living this way all over
the planet. Up until about a hundred years ago,<i> everyone</i>
lived this way. We were just not doing it right. Coal smoke
blackened the sky and disease spread rapidly, as it is wont to do in
a fish tank. But we could do it better, and we did. But...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Everytime necessity forces us to get it right, we rally our resources and do so. Things then get better, of course, and then...we go right back to doing the things that started the problem in the first place.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Lifestyles of the Down and Out</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
I'm living without an air conditioner. In Florida. In the summer.
It's no big deal. I have screened all my windows and moved some
walls around and set things up so I can catch the breeze no matter
from what direction it comes. I have strategically-placed fans.
Life without refrigeration is a little tougher. I miss drinking
cold-as-hell beer. I don't drink ice tea, or milk or chilled
lemonade. I drink room temp water from the tap. I'm still alive.
But yeah, a refrigerator would be nice. Before it died, I was using
one of those little dormitory units. It was plenty. The microwave?
I never did trust those things anyway.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IJdDzLwO5SQ/UbXrfYLBbwI/AAAAAAAAAds/xdwfUpPj1lQ/s1600/microwave.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IJdDzLwO5SQ/UbXrfYLBbwI/AAAAAAAAAds/xdwfUpPj1lQ/s320/microwave.gif" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
I'm not holier-than-thou, I hope. Just poor as hell. But I am, on
purpose or not, a kind of warrior. I am a soldier in the Fuck You
Army. Fuck you and your oil! I'll walk, pedal my bicycle or take
public transportation. If I need to get my tools to a job site, I'll
hire a Cab Truck in the appropriate size to haul my gear to the job,
where I will store it with my fellow tradesmen in our
surplus-purchased shipping containers.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
When off work, I can get anywhere I want to go on the buses and
trains that run every fifteen minutes. There are bicycle cars that
are a blast to ride in, a chance to hang out with my fellow cyclists.
There are public bike stands at every stop.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
Since we overcame 'Them” and initiated a national movement to
outlaw private ownership of automobiles, oil is cheap, and local
governments have been able to rebuild failing infrastructure to
support sustainable transportation. Our downtowns are alive and
hoppin', with food stands and cool saloons with bicycles tied up out
front instead of horses, even though horses are also making a
comeback. Horse crap ain't a problem; urban gardeners fight over the
stuff.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
Now that we have all caught our collective breath and returned to
sanity, the immigration problem has gone away. We're doing our own
dirty work now, since it doesn't take a small fortune to support a
family of four anymore. The poor immigrants all left, headed for
China.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Every Movement Needs Someone To Blame</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
The strangest twist of all was how, based on the writings of a simple
little man living in a trailer park in Florida, we changed our way of
looking at life. It became ridiculous to want More. We learned to
laugh at greed. Our national and tribal incentives were toward Less.
Popular culture faded away, pretty much. The silly and pompous
became more than just foolish; excess wealth and power struggle and
avaricious intent came to be considered a sin punishable by death.
(Yeah, we killed them. Brittany was the first to go) After Simple
and Poor became the New Rich, professional athletes and big name
actors (like Mel) were endangered species that we didn't try to
protect. Heroes to us these days are the people who are living the
simplest, doing the most with the least. There are local
competitions for the Least Awards.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
The Malls are all livestock barns now. There are waiting lists for
trailers in small mobile home communities. Local craftsmen build our
furniture, we eat locally grown crops. There is plenty of
everything. Even for the bums. In fact, like ancient Greece we have
bums who we indulge. They think they are philosophers, but really we
just get a kick out of their bullshit.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
We owe all this to the Cyclist who showed us that to have too much
was a true crime, against man and nature. There is no benevolent
keeper-of the-tank to take care of us. If we don't learn to live
simply by choice, our descendants will learn to live simply by
necessity. We are the Gods. It is Us.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
All Hail The Trailer Park Cyclist!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
Glory Be To The Trailer Park Cyclist!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hey, wake up!</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
“Wha...where, uh..I guess I nodded off.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You were laying
there on the floor snoring like an old hog. It was positively
indecent. </span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
“Uh, sorry, Voice, I got a little worked up over the news...”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't know
why you even bother. Anyway, get up, I want you to meet my cousin
Earl.</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whispering Pines Trailer Park and
Dream Machine</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Written Sometime in 2012-13, posted June 27,2014 (the future)</span></b></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-4851910676145052562014-05-28T16:56:00.000-07:002014-05-29T03:41:58.144-07:00Cromwell Gets A Bicycle<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Doldrums</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Miss Daisy the Yellow Dog and Toby the
Love Puppy are trying to get a grip on this their new reality: they
have their own fan. They have their own dog fan, a sweet little unit
I picked up for a measly twelve dollars. It is one of those cheap
square box fans but it is set on High here in our sultry Old Hawks Park
in my not-air-conditioned mobile home/barn; they just cannot
believe their luck and Toby, an amateur yodeler, has already learned
that howling weird noises into the blades of the fan results in all
manner of fun sounds that cause Miss Daisy to run outside and hide
under the trailer.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>For What It's Worth</b>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Such is the life of the Trailer Park
Cyclist. Simple pleasures and dog tricks; carpentry and drinking
and just getting by in these doldrums of the sorta-post recession and
a recent Presidency that will leave all of us, I think, saying “What
was that? What just happened?” It may have been an example of
don't let the Right Hand know what the Left Hand is doing but I will
take it, these doldrums. The absolutely unbelievable stupidity and
ruthless cruelty of the crew before this one leaves me weary and old
and fearing for my future, sometimes...I'll take a boring
administration anytime over a war mongering idiot and a supporting
cast of Cold War leftovers.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And yet: guess who's coming to dinner.
No, he ain't black, we already did that: he is uber-white and the
true scion of this weird Skull and Bones dynasty that didn't exactly
ruin everything, but not for want of trying. And yet, having lived
under his governorship with no complaints and faced with the other
dynasty out of Arkansas I will, pending the debates, make mine Jeb.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This page is not, usually, political
(that's a bald-faced lie) but I have a lot on my mind right now. For
one thing, I am old and feeble and I am supposed to be doing my
Captain Ron routine somewhere South of here and on my way to work
each day I pass the anchorage and there they are; the sailboats. But
I know the truth about sailboats and I also know I am too lazy to
bother with getting in a boat and risking my life just to get to a
new saloon. I live in a tourist town and there are plenty of
watering holes around here that real sailors can't wait to get back
to from some crappy Carribean Island where beers cost twice as much
as usual and if you can afford to buy enough beer to get arrested you
will find out that there are no bail bondsmen and the Embassy has an
unlisted number.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>As Always...</b>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But what about bicycles, you ask? Even
if you didn't, I'll tell you: this afternoon I assembled a <a href="http://www.bikeshopwarehouse.com/"><b>Bicycle Shop Warehouse</b></a> bicycle for my old friend Cromwell. The first thing I did
was motor up to his pottery shop in my antique Ford pickup truck. I
drive nowhere except for work, but I had my Park bicycle work stand
in the back and Cromwell, ever a sucker for flash, was impressed that
such a device even existed, needless to say that such a one as me
might actually own one. But that is the nature of me and Crom's
relationship, however tenuous it may be; for example he has never
visited these pages, even though he knows all about them...maybe.
But enough of that. Instead, let me tell you about the Motobecane
hybrid he bought and I put together.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was sweet. The welds were the same,
if not neater, than my '91 aluminum frame Mongoose Alta. Even with a
cheap Suntour suspension fork, the overall bicycle was light. Plenty
light. The chain was lightly lubed with clear oil and all the gears
shifted just fine, straight out of the box.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2BegZpyjLYc/U4cOjW9leZI/AAAAAAAAAq8/FQst88VwBkM/s1600/elite_sport_silver_2100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2BegZpyjLYc/U4cOjW9leZI/AAAAAAAAAq8/FQst88VwBkM/s1600/elite_sport_silver_2100.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>Motobecane Elite Sport</b></i>
</span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Always There Are Caveats</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There is this to know: The seat post
was crap. Total crap. The Tecktro Brakes were marginal, at best.
The suspension fork I cannot comment on, because suspension forks are
totally alien to me. But when I took the test ride, thirty minutes
after opening the box, I was flying in slow traffic like a
Quicksilver </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">remake was in the offing and it was
really cool how the nose dived when you put on the front brake. I
shifted through all the front derailleur gears and all the rear ones
too. I didn't cross-chain anything because that ain't my way and
everything worked just fine. I would buy one of these bicycles, I
think, except that this was the lowest-end offering in the Motobecane
Elite series...and I don't ride hybrids.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At least, not yet. This bicycle was
plenty quick and the Altus rear unit and the Tourney front was a bit
rough, but still serviceable. With the little riding that Cromwell
does, it may be years before this new drive train breaks in and
smooths out. With me, not so long. If that bicycle I assembled this
afternoon were mine, she would be seeing thirty miles by sundown and
probably a bicycle sick-day tomorrow. I haven't ridden to Daytona for a long time now.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Some Days Are Better Than Others</b>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The sun is setting over the yardarm,
maybe; at least it would be if I were on my boat and knew what a
yardarm was. Since I ain't and I don't, what I will do instead is
pedal down to the closest House of Spirits and grab some grog. Cheap
beer too and here we are, all of us; and here is Miss Daisy and the
Love Puppy and here comes sundown and the dogs have a cooling fan to
lie in front of; it is a better day, now, for the dogs and not such
a bad day for the Trailer Park Cyclist. I got to play the part of
the wise old bike guru and the Park work stand got a supporting role;
I did something worth doing today and I also was the first person to
ride a brand-new bicycle that did its job just fine.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whispering Pines Trailer Park and
Bike Shop</span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">May 28, 2014</span></i></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-87076794418061792712014-04-18T07:10:00.000-07:002014-04-20T09:32:49.980-07:00Nowhere Man<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Lazy Day</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As
I enter the fourth week of my involuntary vacation (I'm unemployed
again, apparently) I find myself taking longer and longer rides on my
bicycle. My goal is to live on my bike, a term we all are familiar
with, I suppose, but at the same time, what does it mean?
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This is
the best time of year where I live here in Florida. The thermometer
hovers around 75 degrees during the day, the nights are cool
and the windows are open. Overnight, it seems, my world turned
green, everywhere it is green and cool and the breezes are just
right, blustery sometimes and variable, as they say, but just right
all the same. Also, I don't know if they are migrating or just
suddenly found themselves down and out and living in a trailer park,
but all manner of birds have arrived, robins and cardinals and
woodpeckers and bluejays and others; I can hear, as I sit here at my
table, chirpings and singing and squawkings and they sound as though
they are having a blast, those birds. At least I hope they are.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Destination Home</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As for
me, I have been riding not far, but long. Ever a master of time and
space, I know how to do it, this drifting, this going nowhere and
taking my time to get there. I have been doing probably thirty
miles, maybe more, each day, setting out around ten a.m. when my
Florida world is perfect: the sun just right, the cars settled into
their routines and cadences; I pedal off with nowhere to go and
nothing to do when I get there. What I am usually doing is poking
around out on the far corners of town, looking at one acre pieces of
ground that I have found listed for sale on the internet. Small
pieces of uncut jungle, mostly, the kind of places homeless guys who
truly live on their bicycles are known to seek out. Places that are
not too far from supermarket sustenance or the conveniences (and
bathrooms) of handy neighborhood parks and public libraries.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“<i>Are
you going anywhere with this? You seem to be rambling.</i></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
“Silence, Voice! I know what I'm doing here, mostly.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well,
a lot of people read this stuff at work and don't have much time and
besides, aren't you supposed to be concise and sparkling and kill
somebody by the end of the first chapter?</span></i></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
“What? Kill somebody?”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yeah
and then you spend about a hundred and fifty pages having the hero
sort things out and you sprinkle in some red herrings and false
plants and misdirection and there is lots of action. Plus you can
use juxtaposition and non-linear timelines to keep the reader
off-balance and...</span></i></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
“Voice! Stop! Calm down! What the hell are you talking about?
You sound like you've been auditing writing classes out at some
Junior College somewhere. Wait a minute...is <i>that</i> where
you...”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Well, someone has to do it! I didn't have anything else to do
while you were off in the outback building</i> t<i>hose stupid
McGrease's. At least one of us is trying to better himself and find
a way out of this damn trailer park.</i></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
“OK, buddy, take it easy. You just caught me by surprise there,
for a minute. Look, this piece here ain't a murder mystery, it's
just a rambling post about, uh, rambling. And, by the way, that
stuff you were spouting is what results in formulaic fiction. You're
better than that, partner.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What
we need is a formula for some dollars. I really like that property
out on Cow Creek Road. The one with the little pond and the big oak
out front.</span></i></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
“I like that one, too. Let me finish up here and we'll pedal out
there and have another look.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Waiting
For FedEx</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
So there you have it. That's what I am doing, these days: pedaling
around on some new trails, new roads that are familiar to me and yet,
not; I'm looking at my roads a little differently. Things look
different when you are seeking a new place, a new home...</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
To that end I recently fired off one of my yearly $100 (free
shipping!) bike parts orders. There will be newer, fatter tires, a
rear rack (and a front one as well) and a new seat and a light kit.
I am prepping my old Schwinn Le Tour, Little Miss Dangerous, getting her ready for living on my
bicycle. Not homeless, but ready. I was waiting (and waiting and
waiting) for a magical time when I could buy some Surly or Velo
Orange dream machine, but reality has set in (as it is wont to do)
and it occurred to me that Little Miss could get the job done just
fine. We'll find out.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">TJ
the DJ</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
I recently started listening to music while I ride, plugging in
earphones and streaming mostly what is called New Age or Ambient
music. I previously scorned such a practice as unsafe, but so far it
seems safe enough. For my aimless roaming around town at lazy speeds
it seems safe enough for me. And it has opened an entirely new
dimension, (almost literally) of riding. If I were on a fast
intermodal run or on my way to someplace I had to be, it wouldn't
work, I don't think. But for just rambling around the countryside,
or doing big figure eight's in the empty parking lot of a failed
strip mall, it is just right.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
A lot of things are just right, lately. That would make a good name
for a bicycle company, don't you think? Just Right Bikes.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Success
Is Mine, Sayeth the Cyclist</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
Yesterday, after about four hours in the saddle, I was coming around
a bend in the road and for just a moment, a brief flickering moment
of time and life, I did not know where I was. Lost in a dream,
flutes and tinkling bells and acoustic guitar echoing around the vast
empty spaces of my mind, I suddenly found myself disoriented and with
absolutely no idea where I was. I only knew that I was on my
bicycle, pedaling to the rhythm of my heart, lost.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
That's what I am trying for, it seems; I'm trying to pedal my way to
another place. I think it is working.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whispering
Pines Trailer Park and House of Dreams</span></i></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>April
18, 2014 </i>
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-34524290665227661512014-04-01T09:18:00.001-07:002014-04-02T06:47:13.848-07:00Gatorland<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Good Morning</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Tim Joe! Wake up!”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Huh? What? What's wrong?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Better just wake up, Bud. You're in
it deep this time.</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Voice? Where
the hell have you been? It's been months...”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“<i>France. But never mind that, you
got bigger...</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Tim Joe!”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“OK OK, honey I'm
awake. What's happening?” I sit up, then lay back down, fast.
Too much sunshine for such a little room. The Blonde, in the
snapshot I got before I pulled the covers back over my head, looks
pissed. But not terminally pissed. That wasn't her terminally
pissed face. Last time I saw her terminally pissed face I was in the
back of a cop car, looking out through the window. I run a quick
scan of the night before, trying to figure out my crime. I suddenly
realize I am naked. She kicks the side of the bed.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“What's this
about cocaine and skanky women?” she asks. Oh, man, I feel sick.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Stall. Beg for coffee.</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Oh, God honey, I
don't know what you mean. Is there any coffee out there? I gotta
get dressed.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“This place is a
wreck. Get your ass out of bed. I'll make some coffee, not that you
deserve it.” The whole time I could hear her moving around the
room. I didn't have to come out from under the covers to know that
she was picking up, sorting the wreckage, straightening things out,
all the while looking for clues.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">OK, she's gone. Quick! Get up and
put your pants on. And splash some water on your face. You look
like you fell out of the back of a pickup truck.</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This snaps me
awake, fully awake. Fell out of the back...wait a minute...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The
Intermodal Cyclist</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Man, what a day!
There's a gator hole south of town in a little place called the
Merritt Island Wildlife Refuge. At least I think that's what they
call it. Only wildlife down there is usually me and my buddies and
some beer and fishing poles and so on. The day started with me
getting into the cab of my truck and reaching for the keys when it
dawned on me that it was 72 degrees outside, the sky was
perfectly clear and the only wind was a gentle breeze tickling the
tops of the palm trees. It further dawned on me that I had a
perfectly good 1981 Schwinn Super LeTour with a new rear tube and a
newly lubed chain. Ten minutes later I was reaching for my Goodwill
Messenger Bag, stuffing in some trail mix (not really. I never have
trail mix. But I always look) and swung my leg over the saddle and
settled in. Man, it was just like riding a bike...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I already knew that
the bus would be at the stop in front of the Whispering Pines at nine
o'clock. The gator hole is about thirty miles south of the Park and
I have made that ride many times, but today would be a long one and I
had friends waiting.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A
Scary Magic Carpet</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If you ride urban
transit in big cities, the bus never has a chance to get up too much
speed, I guess. But Old Highway One south of Hawks Park has long
empty stretches of open road and the bus goes FAST. It's a wild
ride, blasting along at sixty with a giant windshield framing Little
Miss Dangerous as she hangs on for dear life on the rack on the front
of the bus. It's only a matter of minutes until fifteen miles have
melted away and I am getting off the bus at the Dollar General store
in Oak Hill. I take my bicycle off the rack. The bus stop is on a
slight rise above the parking lot and I just stand on the pedal and
coast down to the entrance. There's an old fart with a fuzzy little
dog on a leash sitting out front in the morning sunshine.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“What kind of
mileage does that thing get?” Some kind of Yankee accent.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“About twenty
miles a can,” I say. I can smell the river. I'm only about
fifteen miles from a place I consider Paradise. There will be
smiling friends and ice cold beer and manatees and pelicans. I
figured out many, many years ago that if you are somewhere where you
can see a pelican, you're probably doing it right. I go into the
store. I go straight to the beer cooler. I know where it is. I
grab eight 16 oz Budweisers in cans (no glass at the bridge!) and
take them to the counter. This is not a first time experience for
me. I glance wistfully at the packages of trail mix displayed there
next to the checkout. One of these days...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Shiloh</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then, just like
that, I'm pedaling south, cruising at about fifteen mph on a freshly
paved road. There is zero traffic down here, this time of day. I own
the road. The phone rings.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Hello?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Where ya at,
cracker?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Shiloh. I'm
riding my bike.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Yeah, right.
Hurry up. Nothin's bitin' here and we're going down to Haulover.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“OK. I'll be
about a half hour.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“A half hour?
What the hell...you mean you really rode your bike all the way down
here? Hey, y'all! Dumbass Old Man Tim is on his bicycle!”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Not so old I
can't smack your ass around once I get there.” This is going to be
a great day. Hell it already is a great day.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Alright, we'll
be under the bridge, pumpkin, make it quick. Don't have a heart
attack.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Good advice. East
Coast Johnny stands about five-four and weighs about a hundred and
fifty...but that's a hundred fifty pounds of tightly wrapped gristle
and grit and red-headed menace. I'll throw him in the canal, maybe.
Right now I feel like singing some Merle Haggard songs but I can't
remember any. Not all my rowdy friends have settled down, just yet.
I sure haven't.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I can see the
drawbridge up ahead. Too bad. That was too short a ride on such a
perfect day. But I still have the ride back. Little did I know...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Meanwhile,
Back At The Trailer Park...</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Here's your
coffee. I'm not cleaning up this mess. You're lucky you didn't burn
the trailer down. Now I want to hear why you texted me at work at
two in the morning saying you were leaving me and going to run off to
the woods and spend the rest of your life snorting cocaine and
dancing with skanky women. Are you crazy? I had a five hundred
doughnut order to have ready by five a.m. and the last thing I need
is your drunk ass sending me stupid messages that don't make any
sense.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I have no idea
what you mean. You know I don't do drugs. And I don't know any
skanky women.” That's not entirely true. I do live in a trailer park, after all. But I did have a very vague (<i>very </i>vague)
memory of East Coast and Josh over by the fire, hunkered down over
something and giggling like idiots. For some reason I was on the
porch roof at the time. Now, the morning after, I knew without looking that my phone wasn't
in my pocket. Those silly bastards...I wonder who else got some
insane message from my phone at two a.m.?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“And who was that
skinny little bitch with East Coast? And why do you look like you
fell out of the back of a truck?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Oh yeah...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Well, honey, I'm
sorry you had to work last night. We had a great day down at the
bridge and one thing led to another...”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Man,
What A Day!</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm lying on my
back in the dust. The biggest gator I have ever seen is a dozen
yards away, looking me over. I can see Little Miss Dangerous in the
back of East Coast's truck, fading away in a cloud of dust. Josh is
in the back, hanging on to the toolbox, banging on the roof of the
cab. I figure it's gonna hurt to get up, so maybe I'll just lie here
awhile. The sky is really beautiful today. Maybe I'm dead. This place is certainly Heaven enough for me. I turn
my head to look at the gator. That's the biggest damn gator I ever
saw. He ain't movin'. Neither am I.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I can hear Johnny's
truck turning around. I can hear them laughing all the way down the
road. Silly bastards. I really love those dumb crackers. The big gator
still hasn't moved, but I figure I better get up. Those fuckers
might run over me just to see what happens. I start to dust myself
off but it hurts so I stop.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm getting too old
for this shit, but not today.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whispering Pines Trailer Park and
Redneck Refuge</span></b></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">March 31, 2014</span></b></i></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-87090334103721702552014-03-04T14:00:00.000-08:002014-03-30T07:17:49.993-07:00Hawk In the Rain<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Rain</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The rain is falling steadily this wet
afternoon in Jacksonville Beach as I shuffle across a huge empty lot,
a few acres that separate the motel where I am staying from the Winn
Dixie plaza where there is hot deli food and beer and also a little
rum, a little rum for a wet Sunday in a town where it seems to rain
all the time. I am sniffling and making strange sounds with my
throat because I have had some odd sinus infection for a month now
and I am getting used to being a sap head and it rains a lot in
Jacksonville, Florida.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Raptor!</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A beautiful red-tail hawk of some
considerable size dive bombs the retention pond as I pass by; it is
a big hawk and it lights in a dead tree next to the pond and shakes
the rain from its feathers and cocks its head to look me over and I
pause, here in the rain, to admire this wild raptor living here in
this field. There is a homeless camp nearby with a soggy sleeping
bag and a cold fire pit that only seems to make things worse and I
turn and shuffle away. There is rum and beer and hot deli-cooked
barbecue ribs and baked beans ahead.. As I cross the field I turn
and look back at the hawk and he is still there.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Peaceful Easy Feeling, Interrupted</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There was time in my life when, (still
living in my old house near the beach after Number Two departed the
premises), when I would be awakened every morning by cooing doves,
love doves, I think; they would be there in the big cedar tree that
sheltered the back patio where I could also hear the sound of the
waves crashing on the beach and they were a pair, always there,
always there...myself, no longer a pair, was somehow comforted by the
cooing of the doves and I was happy for them. I was alone, then, but
at least I had the doves.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then one day, sitting in the sunshine
on my back porch, sun-stunned and beer-soaked, there was a violent
fluttering overhead and one of the doves landed throat-ripped at the
base of the tree. I looked up and there it was, a fierce hawk on the
lowest branch (only feet away) from where I sat. The hawk was
glaring at me and looking down at the dead dove and I mentally willed
the murderer to swoop down to claim its prize so I could wreak
hateful vengeance on this intruder, this killer...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But the hawk flew away and I went over
to the dove and picked it up. I didn't know what to do. It was
dead. I took it out to the wild palmetto thicket behind my property
and laid it under a small palm growing there. I didn't know what to
do. It seemed then that the reality of my life crashed straight into
me and I was alone, now, alone like the other dove and I knew that
tomorrow that other dove would be alone in the cedar tree and I was
also alone, now.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Sweet Adaline</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This damnable Jacksonville rain dampens
the world and I am tired. We have worked twenty days in a row and I
am beginning to wonder when it will end. The clerk at the liquor
store looks like maybe he was once in a barber shop quartet and his
jolliness fails to change my mind about the rain but I appreciate his
effort. I trundle back across the wet field with my food and drink
and there he is, the hawk, there he is and I am glad to see him. I
don't know why.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I step into my room I suddenly think
about my brother. I was leaving a liquor store in sunny St.
Petersburg one afternoon over a decade ago, smiling about some witty
remark I had made to the guy behind the counter. I heard a voice say
“There's my brother, smiling in the sunshine.” I have told this
story before but I don't care. Every time I see a hawk I remember my
brother and that moment in the sun and I don't know why. They are
not connected, as far as I know; hawks, I mean, and my brother. But
I had those doves once and a hawk took one of them away and made me
more aware of my loss and sorrow and for some reason hawks make me
think of my lost brother and this rain, this damnable rain makes me
something of a brother to that hawk here today, in the rain.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>I Am, After All, A Cyclist</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What does any of this have to do with
bicycles, with two wheels, with the long road? Well, nothing; and
everything. Out there, sleek and tight-wrapped in our road clothes
(our plumage of destruction) we are each (in our way) hawks. We fly
swiftly and with gentle malice along our swift trails and we are
raptors, of a sort; we roadies, we fast-runners...not the mountain
crowd, today, I mean lean bicycles and dedicated suffering and joy on
the tarmac and flying is our business and yeah, I have somehow lost
my way and my road bike has been gathering dust in the corner, with a
flat tire.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My brother has been gone for many years
now and I never did learn why. But when I went to pick up the stuff
he left behind out on the balcony of his lonely apartment there was a
beat up old ten speed. It was a thing he learned from me, I
remember, to always keep a ten speed handy. I never quite knew why
but I always had one and so did he, my little brother.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>And Finally...</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This damnable rain makes for these
times of sweet melancholy and I am not sorry for the dove, the lost
dove nor for my lost brother; this is the way of the world and it is
how it should be, I think. But I will soon enough begin to get my
road bike back up strong and hawk-like and she will get gears and I
will clothe myself in proper garb and I will once again take to the
road, the long road of the far rides and once again pursue the
answers that I seek; maybe there on the long road I can resume my
search for the hawk and the dove and the answer to all of this, this
rain and a hawk in the rain and the job of the long rider.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Weather Report</b></i></span><br />
<i><b>March 4, 2014</b></i></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-63009147344992136272014-01-18T10:32:00.000-08:002014-01-18T10:32:57.398-08:00Stingray<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Robot Chickens</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was probably around 1979 and I was
standing down at Mallory Square in Key West with the rest of the
misfits and tourists watching the sun go down and tippling from a
sneaky flask of rum when this bedraggled dude in long cutoff jean
shorts and no shirt or shoes and hair way down his back came cruising
up on a red bicycle of indefinite pedigree. It had Stingray
handlebars and a straight diamond frame and it was a single speed and
the dude was standing erect on the pedals and the high handlebars
allowed him to be erect and somehow noble as he cruised up to the
scene; this monster circus at sundown that was Key West back then,
back before it got Disney-fied and hyper expensive and now there are
cruise ships and I even think the chickens may be mechanized or
robotic; who can tell?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But this bicycle caught my eye because
it was a Stingray, really, a grown-up Stingray (although grownups
were scarce in that milieu in those days, we were mostly there on
nefarious cowboy business or just there to drink, hard.) But that
big kid's Stingray caught my eye because of the way that hippie/pirate
was cruising up to the pier and the color red and just..in the ambiance
of the moment and my substance-stunned state of mind I flashed back
in time to my first bicycle, my first REAL bicycle, a custom
something chopped into the 1962 version of what would become perhaps
the most iconic bicycle in American History: the Schwinn Stingray.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Crazed</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In those Key West days I was caught up in the
ten speed craze and rode god knows what; Walmart wasn't around then
and if it was I didn't know about it. We got our bicycles from
Sears, probably, but my ten speed was just some bicycle I picked up
somewhere for five or ten dollars. All I remember is that it was
gold. I didn't ride that much. But all my life I have had only a
handful of times without a bike. I have always had a bicycle. If it
got a flat it sat in the corner until some benevolent soul came along
and offered to fix it. I was into cars and motorcycles then and a
bicycle was...I don't know what. I just always made sure I had a
bicycle.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But years later I became something of a
bicycle genius (Hey! No laughing!) OK, I learned a lot more about
bicycles and became a cyclist and a slayer of sorts and bragged about
it on and on and on on here and always there was that image, that
pirate bicycle back in the glory years when I was cool (hey! I said
no laughing!) and life held promise and I remembered that guy on that
big Stingray. Being slightly more knowledgeable than I was in '79 I
pondered on this and stared at my old '93 Mongoose Alta and then one
day, lugging a big bag of empty liquor bottles and aluminum beer cans
to the trailer park dumpster I came across a derelict comfort bike
and it had BMX style bars and I grabbed them and put them on the
Goose.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They are still there. The Goose, eight
years mine now, has achieved the look of a Stingray and as I type
this, I realize that my “ten speed,” Me Little Darlin', my '81
Schwinn Super Le Tour, is sitting in the corner with a flat rear
tire.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I Didn't Do It</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Guilt is a funny thing. It hits you
from all sides and it can cripple you, it can blow you asunder and
make you feel like hell. We all know it, this guilt, we all know
that it is all our fault and we don't deserve to live and the world
would have been better off if we had never been born. Inanimate
objects and beloved pets will really kick your feet out from under
you. Here's why: we can argue with our kids and spouses and bosses,
we can lay down seasoned lines of reasoned thought that clearly show
that we are right and if that fails, we can resort to shouting and
violence and let the cops and the lawyers sort it out.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But an anthropomorphisized bicycle or
goldfish don't get it. They don't understand and they only know that
their water smells like pee and that they have a flat tire and why
won't you fix me and at least ride me around the block?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I may be losing my mind.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I Have Custody</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Toby the Trouble Puppy and Miss Daisy
the Yellow Dog are with me here at the Park for a couple days. I
have visitation, it seems. The Blonde and I didn't split up,
exactly. We just live in different places now. Because of my
extended time out of town working, the dogs stay with her. But they
are with me now and in true Weekend Dad fashion they are being
spoiled horrendously, steaks and dog treats and so much belly-rubbing
and ball tossing and benadryl-laced macaroons that they might as well
be staggering along the pier in Key West a vast long time ago.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Toby is some kind of Jack Russel-Pit
mix and given to the shivers. He has found one of the few patches of
sunlight in my deeply shaded yard and rests there now in this cold
Florida afternoon, a sweet little patch of chilled sunshine with warm
dirt and a big fern shading his gaze. Miss Daisy, an elderly Yellow
Lab who has been with me since she could fit into the palm of my
hand, is back in her favorite place: curled up at my feet and
listening to her old favorite noise of a clicking keyboard and
antique jazz.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Meanwhile</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Me? Hell, I'm not losing my mind, I'm
finding it. I'm working my way back home to those days when all it
took was a sunny afternoon and my old Stingray, the sound of my
breathing as I pedaled standing up across little hills and open
fields, headed nowhere, headed here; headed to that place where we
have sorted out our crimes and our guilt and our sadness and our joy
and all of it, all of it, is just a shadow in the sunshine.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So Anyway</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Later, soon, I will jump on my big-kid
Stingray and pedal fast to the store for more beer. Little Miss
Dangerous will get her tire fixed, soon enough; but right now I am
back at work and it ain't easy and it interrupts my search and so,
now, I grab my fun wherever I can get it. I will grab my fun and I
got just the bike to do it, I have the bicycle for the job.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2TD9wbYbzvQ/UtrIbR_GODI/AAAAAAAAAnw/mzDSuk6F-1U/s1600/goose.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2TD9wbYbzvQ/UtrIbR_GODI/AAAAAAAAAnw/mzDSuk6F-1U/s1600/goose.tif" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whispering Pines Trailer Park and
Observatory</span></b></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">January 17, 2014</span></b></i></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-52045146198950221362013-12-21T14:56:00.000-08:002013-12-22T15:24:20.650-08:00Terrapin Station<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Another Trip to the Vet</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At a little after ten in the morning I
gotta stop for a moment and pull off a couple layers. The morning
started chilly, maybe forty-five degrees, but the sun is up and
running now and it is warming up just fine. This ride was planned as
an<a href="http://trailerparkcyclist.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-reality-of-intermodality.html"> <b>intermodal bus/bicycle combo fast run</b></a>, but due to the
lackadaisical schedules of the local mass transit and my general lack
of patience it turned into a fast run by bike only. Fine with me,
except for my persistent yearning for some kind of Pony Express style
rapid transit that has me swinging down from the bus or train with my
bicycle already half launched as I leap into the saddle and barrel
off to the next station.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">While I stuff the layers of fleece and
cotton into my Goodwill Messenger Bag a glint from some bright
reflected light catches the corner of my eye. My first bus stop of
the morning is across from our little airport. We are a quaint and
artistic tourist trap and quite humble. But we also got one of
these:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qcmgcyR7nyI/UrYVAZpB8wI/AAAAAAAAAnA/380hza60cTM/s1600/Picture+073.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qcmgcyR7nyI/UrYVAZpB8wI/AAAAAAAAAnA/380hza60cTM/s320/Picture+073.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Is that thing gorgeous, or what?! Man.
I have another twenty minutes before the terrapin bus is due, so I
walk across the morning highway for a closer look. Wow.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Return to Forever</b>
</span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Going back to the bench, I notice an
advert for bi-plane rides. Being an inveterate bi-cycle junkie I
pause to reflect on the whole Wright Brothers thing. Seven minutes
have passed and the bus is still a ways off, behind me. I notice
that Little Miss Dangerous is looking a little less ladylike than
when I did a <a href="http://trailerparkcyclist.blogspot.com/2012_09_01_archive.html"><b>full rebuild and paint</b> </a>over a year ago. But what
of that? Like her owner, Little Miss lives close to the street and
is a bit of the rough and ready kind. Plus, neither of us is getting
any younger. Also, as near as I can tell, that damn bus ain't
getting any closer.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qe-GpusLuyQ/UrYVU_XpQOI/AAAAAAAAAnI/mLu1y3wsLX0/s1600/Picture+078.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qe-GpusLuyQ/UrYVU_XpQOI/AAAAAAAAAnI/mLu1y3wsLX0/s320/Picture+078.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whatever</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I grab my rag-tag single-speed antique,
swing my bag over my shoulder and hit a lick. My goal: Beat the bus
to the Transfer Station, ten miles away. I'm headed for my bi-annual
checkup at the VA Clinic. They are convinced I am borderline
cardiac-bound; (at least their charts and machines say so) but when I
tell them I just rode over twenty-five miles in traffic in under two
hours they get a little confused, then close my folder and send me on
my way.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Reality</b></span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm stroking North and I'm weak as
hell. I have not ridden even two or three miles a day since starting
work again and my butt is reminding me of this fact, but my legs are
strong. I spend a lot of my work day standing in a hi-lift
installing the framing on these McD's that have taken over my
existence. There is no walking involved, but in that basket you are
like a sailor at sea; there is a constant subtle movement and you
are always balancing and bobbing about and also, we lift very heavy
sheets of plywood using only our upper bodies and we attach these
sheets with a multitude of screws that do not want to go in all that
well. It's hard and goes on for ten hours a day and as I pedal
firmly and with malice over the three bridges north of town (on my
way to be told that I am old and tired) I feel pretty good. My legs
are good and I am breathing pretty good and except for my butt, we're
getting there just fine.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xaCkp6VkSGA/UrYVv6yD3MI/AAAAAAAAAnQ/msJTzP2nVlc/s1600/Picture+039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xaCkp6VkSGA/UrYVv6yD3MI/AAAAAAAAAnQ/msJTzP2nVlc/s320/Picture+039.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Truth Cannot Be Escaped</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I am an experienced cyclist and I
know the truth: I'm strong now but as a cyclist I know: it won't
last. I'm secretly weak as hell but I'm out in front of the bus with
a thirteen minute head start and I'm kickin' hard and if I lose it, I
can always get on the bus. It is early and the bridge fishermen are
pulling in and getting their rigs ready. The seagulls, always rowdy,
are doing their thing, ripping around overhead and demanding their
fair share and far away, over the crystal water shining her morning
colors is the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse, old, an old structure, old
before we were born and still here, brick-solid and stunning and a
reminder that sometimes, maybe, things last longer than we thought
they might and that Lighthouse is still there and so am I and so is
Little Miss Dangerous and we're blasting along on the other side of
the bridges now and I have to be slick and smart and careful or
morning traffic will put an end to all this longevity I am bragging
about.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Survival Is Everything</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">These painted bike lanes are insane and
when I'm doing this run to the Clinic I ride like I never do. I use
the bike lanes and practice vehicular riding and obey the laws and I
also find myself pedaling really fast, way faster than I would on my
fun rides. This is commuting and I guess I could get used to it, but
I don't plan to try. It isn't that far now to the bus transfer
station. I'm in three lanes of morning traffic and I can't help but
wish I was somewhere else, preferably with a beer in my hand. But
I'm almost there.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Oh, By the Way...</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I bought a truck. My original choice
was a little Nissan pickup but one afternoon, late in the year when
the first welcome cool breezes begin to feather down from the North I
was out on my big loop country ride, beside myself with the inherent
pleasures of country and solitude and being on my bicycle after weeks
away. I was lost in that Other Place I go to when it is all just right:
the ambient temperatures, the quiet of the road and a mellow
wind; the mesmerizing tempo of a steady and absent cadence...and, as
usual, there she was. It always works this way. You just know when
it's right. A well-aged 1984 Ford F150. There was no question. I
took out my bedraggled much-folded scrap of notepaper and copied down
the phone number. The two-thousand dollar price on the windshield
meant nothing. This was my truck and I would buy her for
fifteen-hundred dollars, which (of course) I did.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4szTnfjSA0k/UrYXw9ok93I/AAAAAAAAAnc/OoQTUowk42A/s1600/Picture+080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4szTnfjSA0k/UrYXw9ok93I/AAAAAAAAAnc/OoQTUowk42A/s320/Picture+080.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Doesn't she look fine in that dramatic
night shot, perched on a big flatbed tow truck? I think so. That is
a shot of her, after a month of diligent service hauling me and my
tools to various jobs around Florida, on her way to have a new
transmission installed. As an honorary good ol' boy, I am an ad hoc
member of a hillbilly network that can get such things done cheap.
The tow truck cost nothing, and the new transmission, a unit built
for a 5.0 Mustang that had to leave town before receiving its new
tranny, cost a painful yet affordable $750. And so, as I predicted,
I am earning again and saving but also an owner of a motor vehicle.
They are insatiable. And yet...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">HA!</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There it is: the Votran Bus transfer
station. I did it. I beat the bus, again. As I pull up, I hear the
terrapin coming up from behind. I just barely beat it. And this is
only the transfer station, the VA Clinic is still another five miles
away. But I have plenty of time, after that sprint. I can poke
along and cool down and make it to the Clinic with plenty of time.
If my new Old Truck was available, instead of out in a barn getting a
new hot rod transmission put into her, would I have driven her here,
or would I have rode my bicycle? I don't know. As a dedicated
cyclist, I have a rule: I only drive for work, when I must carry my quarter ton of tools from job to job. Everything else I do by bicycle.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I really love my truck. I love
cruising to the job, windows down and radio playing, my left arm out the window. I feel quintessentially American and redneck and somehow honest all at the same time. But gas is VERY expensive and I am,
after all, saving hard for the seed money for<a href="http://trailerparkcyclist.blogspot.com/2013_03_01_archive.html"> <b>Comstock Farms</b></a>,
even if it is only one trailer on one acre...I'm saving...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So...</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Here's what I did: I took some of my
earnings and rented a twelve by twenty four foot storage unit about three
miles from the Whispering Pines. I put almost all my stuff in there
and I park my truck there when I am home from the road. So if I want
to drive somewhere, first I have to ride three miles to the storage
unit. It works. I still ride everywhere. My cool old truck sleeps
inside when she is not on duty and I still ride everywhere.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And, Finally:</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My new doctor at the VA was lecturing
me about my cholesterol and my drinking and my blood pressure and
something called Metabolic Syndrome but when I told him I had just
come twenty five miles fast by bicycle and had twenty five more to go, fast, to beat the sundown...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well, you know.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">tj</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-32768536117653051172013-11-16T09:09:00.000-08:002013-11-16T09:15:50.237-08:00Blame It On Pythagoras<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And Once Again</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As an elderly man of this the Hyborean
Age, it falls upon me to tells tales of might and woe and also beer
drinking. Might and woe I ain't so sure about, but beer drinking I
know and also do I know about hard work and pain. I once was quoted
as saying “there can be no art without pain” and while what I am
currently involved in doing might not be art, there is at least
plenty of pain. So maybe it is art after all but that is not what I
came here to talk about; in fact, I have no idea what I want to say
but as usual, you can count on me to say it anyway.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There's This</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of the things I always worked hard
at teaching my various offspring were these little nuggets that I
magically called “Secrets of the Universe” to make them sound
enticing but really they were just the stuff of common sense, another
thing that has involved pain and loss in my real reality but whatever
the case, the Pythagorean Theorem is about as real as it gets and
there is also Pi to consider. So there ya go.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And Then Again</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Meanwhile, the Trailer Park Cyclist
pedaled this morning; again in the predawn to the local coffee place
for a mug and an apple fritter. Enjoying a momentary lapse of work,
he then came home, drank the coffee, ate the fritter, pondered the
Universe and then looked over in the corner of the trailer to where
sat his forlorn and neglected Little Miss Dangerous, his Little
Darlin', his 1981 Schwinn Super Le Tour bicycle, the partner of many
a long ride, many adventures and much guilt.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There were clouds in the sky and rain
foretold: and yet...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>The Rest of the Story</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well, I rode. Worn out yet restless, I
rode. The saddle beckoned and hurt my butt. The pedals were mired in
some kind of glue and every little bump was painful. But I rode and
the sky opened and the rain fell and the thunder rang and yes,
there was lightning and it would have been disastrous and dismal but
somehow, it was perfect: this is Florida and the rain was warm and my
road was empty: rain-drenched and exhausted and recharged I plowed my
way home and soaked up a hot shower and cracked a beer (and poured a
shot) and here am I to tell about it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b>And This...</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What's to tell? Oh, just this: there
are secrets in the universe and one of them is that the more it hurts
the better it feels and also, sooner or later, pain pays off and
another thing: A squared plus B squared equals C squared and 3.14 is a magic
number.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yer pal, Old Tim Joe</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whispering Pines Trailer Park and
House of Mirrors</span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 15, 2013</span></i>Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-7566951060257464632013-09-21T18:09:00.004-07:002013-09-22T06:01:12.581-07:00Consider the Bee<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Message In A Bottle</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">OK. I'm typing in the dark by the
light of the screen reflected on the computer keys. I'm typing in
the dark because I moved my work table back to the back of the
trailer before leaving town for another bout of McDonald's remodeling
and yet tonight I am sitting in the front of the trailer where I get
a smidgen of intermittent pirate wi-fi. I am typing in my underwear
and so I don't want to turn on any lights because I don't want to put
my pants on.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So there is that to consider. Today I
sat a bike (the Goose) for the first time since Labor Day and I am
currently a bit insane as a result. Tomorrow that will change when I
do my country loop McLarge (34 miles) and then I am going to come
home and get drunk as hell. Then (shudder) Monday I will wake up,
take a cold shower, drink a gallon of McCoffee and then: I'm going
to buy a truck.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">How Far I Have Fallen</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There, I said it. I don't like it and
I was hoping somehow to get around it but there is no escaping the
fact that I will buy a motor vehicle on Monday and that may be the
End of the Fun. But I gotta do it; today it cost me a hundred bucks
to get from Orlando to home, a fifty mile ride. Forty dollars gas
for my girlfriend's SUV and breakfast for me and the girlfriend and I
gave her some money for her trouble and then beer (and that is
running out fast) and so on...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">How long, O Lord?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As long as it takes, apparently. I
looked at a decent little Nissan pickup on the way in from the Road
and following my policy of Riding the Least Bike, I will try to
purchase the least truck and that fifteen year old little piece of
tin looks pretty least to me. I'm sighing inside but it is all part
of the big picture.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whatever the hell that means.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Viva Las Vegas</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So I can't say much about cycling
except that it is Interbike Week again and I ain't there (again) even
though I keep expecting to be invited out there to Vegas for the big
show; it has been thirty years since the last time and I'm pretty
sure they forgot all that stuff that happened and there is the
statute of limitations and so on...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But whatever. I look forward to the
pictures and there are some pretty exciting things coming from the
usual sources like Surly and Velo Orange and once again it will be
about bigger tires and common sense, rare developments for the
cycling world and long overdue.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For What It's Worth</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Me? Good Lord. I am involved in so
much disaster and conflict and sweat and blood and tears all in the
name of Money and McDonald's that I really don't know where to begin.
I mean, there is blood on the keyboards, not from some maniacal
pursuit of my art (for what it's worth) but instead because our
boss tried to save a couple bucks and bought really cheap plywood
screws and so when you use one of these new impact drivers to put
them in and the screw slips you jam the pointy screwdriver tip into
your thumb or forefinger. It hurts really bad the first time but
after the hundredth time you just giggle and cry at the same time and
thank the heavens that you are not a brain surgeon or violinist in
your spare time because your fingers are swollen and mushy and
holding a cup of coffee in the morning is a monumental challenge.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No Sugar Tonight</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm not tanked up enough right now to
wax poetic and I really don't have anything worth saying but I miss
you guys and wanted to say hello and goodbye and see ya soon and so
on...it is all about people, I think, the people. I am part of a
crew that I don't lead and it is a new thing, this following. But
that is gradually turning around as it always does; I learned many years
ago that sometimes the best way to lead is by being the best fucking
follower they ever saw and by pushing firmly from behind. Not that
I have much desire to be the boss; but look, the least I can do is
buy the right kind of screws and also there is unnecessary pain going
round the crew; these guys need help of a different kind, a lot of
unnecessary pain out there and that is one of the duties of a good
leader: to make it as easy as possible for the crew to get the job
done. It is easy and all it takes is a little organization and open
ears and a little heart. None of those things are happening right
now but I'm hacking away at it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of the hacks is to buy a truck so I
am no longer a hitchhiker.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Consider the Bee</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was building a house once with a
little crew (three men strong) and a carpenter bee was buzzing around
the rafters we were setting and I watched as the morning progressed
how quickly that little bee bored a hole in the fresh-cut pine of the
roof framing; it didn't take long and I was coming down from the
roof and was surprised and delighted to see how this tiny insect had
created a home in the smallest part of the home we were building. It
had chewed its way into a 2x8 rafter and I got a drink of cold water
from the big jug and I thought about that bee. I have always remembered
that bee and how good pure cold water tastes on a hot day when you
are building.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm doing it again now and I am
drinking the cold water from the big jug and remembering the bee. I
am typing in the dark without my pants and drinking the last of the
cold beer, it is late and tomorrow I will ride and I will consider
the bee.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">tj</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whispering Pines Trailer Park and
Apiary
</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">September 21, 2013</span></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-44518796185409222272013-09-02T08:18:00.001-07:002013-09-02T10:56:50.995-07:00It's Not Only Rock and Roll<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Nostalgic Preparations</span></b></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My new
Smart phone is driving me crazy. But what of that? It plays music,
doesn't it?</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It does
and I have been streaming Pandora, listening to old tunes that I
haven't heard for years. My taste in music, as you may imagine, does
not exactly run to the sound of the Top Forty. (Do they still call
it that?) Or maybe it does. A lot of this music was on the charts
'back in the day' (I promised myself I would never use that phrase,
but by putting it in those single quotation marks (whatever they are
called) I have marked my usage as 'ironic' (another word I swore
never to use.))</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A Labyrinth of Words</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Good
lord. I certainly have a knack for getting myself lost inside a
sentence. Also lost inside an old tune. Never did I like the
television, the canned laughter made me sad and seemed to not fall in
the proper places. The commercials made me hungry for things I never
knew existed (also making me feel like a failure for not owning those
things) and there was usually a roomful of cigarette smoke in the
room where the watching was done. I cannot abide cigarette smoke,
which is ironic for someone who has spent a lot of time in smoky
saloons...</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Left-Handed Labor Day</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It is
Labor Day. I'm making preparations that involve not ribs and potato
salad and baked beans, but rather I am preparing for future labor
(tomorrow) in the hot Florida sun, long, lucrative days that may not
end for many weeks. I hope not. By experience and planning I have
learned that by going out with a road crew and working myself <b><a href="http://trailerparkcyclist.blogspot.com/2011/05/tangerine.html">nearly to death</a></b> over an extended length of time I end up tired, lean,
and wealthy, for me. Tomorrow we head back out.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>The Importance of Being Grateful</b></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have
earplugs stuck in my ears and I am listening to my personal Pandora
station called Grateful Dead. The music is old and damned funky and as I listen something occurs to me. I see how much this music
shaped my world-view over the decades and how it also affects my
writing. An old Faces tune, “Angel” was just on and with these
earplugs the lyrics were clear and I was thinking how much I loved
the poetry of the song, made particularly poignant by Rod's
whiskey-soaked voice.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z3Pj2jikR1M">Angel</a> </b>came down from Heaven yesterday, stayed with me long enough to rescue
me...</span></i></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Man!
That's what I'm doing, here, hunkered over a keyboard, whiskey-soaked
and trying to capture the essence of these old rock lyrics. Many of
them made no sense at all, and yet they got the point across just
fine.
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And
she told me a story yesterday about the sweet love between the Moon and the
deep blue sea...</span></i></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
Sound familiar? Argh! I'm a plagiarist! Crap! I always thought I
was just some kind of soulful white boy who paid his dues and earned
the right to sing the blues. A <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Skydog-The-Duane-Allman-Story/dp/0879308915"><b>Skydog</b></a> of prose, as it were.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
I live by the sea: and the moon, always there, is an unavoidable
reference. Does 'channeling' count as plagiarism?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>My Hands Are Not Idle</b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have a big pile of tools to clean and prep and pack. I find myself wondering how many of the other guys who will assemble tomorrow at dawn will have done this; this worshipful preparation, old rock hymns blasting and small prayers in the form of tool cleaning and oiling and sharpening...it is my life story, really, wrapped up in this music and these tools, these preparations. I treat my career (for what it is worth) like a good gunslinger or practiced samurai: if it is worth doing, it is worth doing as though the gods are watching. Because they usually are: watching, I think.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>More From the Jukebox</b></span></div>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Here's another one: <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZQxH_8raCI"><b>When I'm old and able to rest...</b></a></i></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
Check out the bass lines on that tune. Pure hypnosis. Or how about
this: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lP94PlEtsEQ">Saturday night I </a>was downtown, workin' for the FBI</b>...</i>about
as odd an opening rock line as ever imagined. The Hollies.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Where There Is Classic Rock, There Is Hope</b></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Here's
another thing I find ironic (hey, once you get started it's hard to
stop.) At the job the other night, while remodeling a Carraba's
Restaurant, somebody had their smart-phone plugged into a jobsite
radio. I was working away at some simple task when it occurred to me
that I was hearing the old good stuff. I asked who had that music
playing? It was the youngest kid on the job. Twenty years old. Me,
(the oldest guy on the job): well, I was comforted and reassured that there
was hope for the future if these young guys could still connect to
the tunes that shaped our world back in the sixties, back in the day. </span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm
incorrigible. But again, what of that? I'm a dreamer and a rock star and a cowboy and a samurai. The pay ain't much, but it makes Labor Days like this one, days like this, when it is just me and the Universe and a peaceful easy feelin', it makes days like this one count. Big time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">tj the dj</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>The Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Juke Joint</b></i></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>Labor Day 2013</b></i></span><br />
<i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></i>
<i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">By the way, for those of you who are interested, I started a new Blog for posting stray chapters of<b> </b><a href="http://tpcsmilinginthesunshine.blogspot.com/"><b>Smiling In the Sunshine</b>.</a> You can link through to it on my Blog List. And by some kind of cosmic coincidence, just as I finished putting together the new Blog, I was startled and honored to see that Lloyd Khan, one of the spiritual gurus who set me on the path I tread, <a href="http://lloydkahn-ongoing.blogspot.com/2013/09/phils-backyard-paleo-playground.html"><b>had featured one of my favorite chapters </b></a>on his great Blog. Check it out! Thanks, Lloyd!</i><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-55027818261495076032013-08-28T15:31:00.000-07:002013-08-28T15:31:31.495-07:00The Salvation and the Curse<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Back In the Saddle</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yeah,
I'm back at work and what a strange trip it is. Having gradually
realized (as I am wont to do) that my life was suffering from some
kind of self-induced entropy; and further realizing that the end was
near (in whatever convoluted and agonizing form it chose to take) I
called an old colleague/competitor and basically begged for a job.
The begging part was easy: my stalwart son Beauregard (recently
returned from California) had already landed work with my old friend
Jack Jackson and so, upon hearing that his former foe (me) was
destitute and living in a trailer and spending his days wandering
aimlessly around on a bicycle and bragging about it online, JJ (after
he stopped laughing) called and said “Saddle up, son, we got a lot
to do.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So I
did and here I am now, respectable once again and regretting it. But
Mammon must be served, it is the deal we got once some smart-ass
hunter figured out how to plant seeds and pen up cattle. Ever since
then we have had, as a species, an abundance of everything. If it
were up to me we would all be hunter-gatherers still, but no: it is
the future and we gotta work for pieces of dirty green paper that god
knows who has touched them and what they did without washing their
hands before they handed them to me along with a receipt.
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Even
that ain't exactly true. I hardly handle Benjamins or Georges or
Andrews; I am so respectable now that I have a plastic card that
takes the place of the paper and all I do is swipe it (more times a
day than I like to admit) punch in some numbers and the smiling
person behind the counter says “Thank you” and hands me a receipt
(did she wash her hands recently?) and I take my beer and my tequila
and mosey back out to the bike. It is all...well...</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Once and Future
Thing</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't
like it. I don't mind work; in fact I like it. But something is
wrong. It smells funny. After a long, long period of inactivity
(during which I was plenty active) here I am trading the precious
moments of life I have left for a chance to spin the very wheels that
are trampling our hearts and souls and also killing our planet.
We're doing it wrong, folks, and we all know it. That's the big
fucking lie we all live with. We are all so busy being busy that we
don't even know who we are or where we are; spinning and spinning and
spinning...</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Or not.
I'm not trained in this kind of thing, this deep (for me) thinking.
But I wouldn't be me if I didn't at least try to say what I'm
feeling. It smells funny but I'll do it, this working, I'll do it
and like it. But I know better. I know what it is like to be
without ambition or desire and to wander aimlessly about on my
bicycle. But even THAT simple machine and pastime requires care and
parts and so, somehow, I must do whatever it takes...including a lot
of whining.
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Voice? Hello...?</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The
Voice abandoned me the day the work started, too. Nobody to talk to
now but my co-workers who all seem to find me odd, somehow; too old
and what's with the bicycle thing? They are all about big trucks and
mileage and other things I don't understand. I think they learn a
lot of what they know about by watching television, which I refuse to
do. I love them though, mostly; and it is important to remember
that I was once a member of their tribe. But a thing happened to me.
A thing happened and I caught a glimpse of the truth and I know it
now and never again will I be a member; there is no tribe now for me
and I will always be grateful for my transmutation and yet: lonely,
also.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Paleo Tim Joe</span></b></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But
loneliness is the hunter-gatherer's curse; it is the salvation and
the curse of the heart of the hunter and I'll take it. Besides, the
other morning at pre-dawn I was out in the vast parking lot of the
motel where the crew is bivouacked doing VERY fast laps on Little
Miss Dangerous, leaning into the curves on some new tires (I have a
job) and pedaling through the turns hard and quick; I know that
bicycle, that Schwinn, and she knows me. I know just how hard I can
push through a turn and not get a pedal strike, I know exactly how to
pause my pedals when the lean is too much and I know just how to get
the attention of a droopy-sleepy construction crew departing their
rooms for another day; coffees in hand and yawns and stretches and
what the hell was that! whizzing by...</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That,
boys, was the Trailer Park Cyclist: riding old steel and a
hunter-gatherer, Paleo-fed and alone; hungry all the time, a seeker
of knowledge and the King of Beers. Watch out! Here he comes again!</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yer
pal, tj</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whispering
Pines Trailer Park and Stopover</span></i></div>
<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">August
28, 2013</span></i></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-5973219641663948252013-08-18T19:10:00.000-07:002013-08-19T03:47:06.099-07:00The Return of the Trailer Park Cyclist<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>The Lady Or the Tiger</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This is a dilemma. I'm sitting here
staring at both my bicycles trying to decide which one to load into
the back of the SUV tomorrow that will tote my sorry ass back down to
Boca Raton. Here are the choices: my 1981 Schwinn Super LeTour,
recently converted to single speed and uglied up beyond imagination
in a drunken frenzy late one night last month when I was facing
real-live homelessness (as in sleeping in my sleeping bag that I
didn't have in the woods behind Kmart except the Kmart was run out of
business by Walmart and that prevented me from shoplifting a sleeping
bag from Kmart to sleep in the woods behind of) or my 1992 Mongoose
Alta, which in its day was one bad-ass bicycle and I also converted
THAT bicycle to single speed but in a much more dramatic fashion than
the Schwinn; the Goose's switch-over involved surgery that required
the attention of one of those wandering geniuses that know how to
weld aluminum, for yes, the Goose is a child of my previous life
before steel, before steel...</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><br /></b>
<b>But Seriously, Folks</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm exhausted. As you may have deduced
from my recent absence, I am either incarcerated or back at work.
It's work, although jail would be far more restful and (except for
the food) possibly more rewarding. As I predicted, a couple
desperate phone calls resulted in employment and now here am I,
typing faster than my pay rate, trying to get the news out before the
drugs and alcohol kick in and my forehead crashes into the keyboard,
resulting in some kind of cryptography that will bring black
helicopters hovering over the Whispering Pines Trailer Park in search
of the last straggling extra-terrestrial cyclist from the planet
Two-Wheel.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hey, I said I was exhausted.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So anyway, here am I, wondering which
bike to take, although it really isn't a choice: if my ass was on
fire and it was either grab Grandma's china or the bicycle (which
one?) me and the Schwinn would be pedaling away from the flames and
laughing about the fact that we pawned the china grandma never had a
long time ago.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I plan to be buried with that bicycle.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>The Trailer Park</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But the Mongoose ain't bad and she is a
hell of a lot of fun to pedal around. Tonight, after a grueling
Sunday afternoon spent swilling cheap beer, trying to hustle
transportation back South for the beginning of the work week, I
returned home to my barn/trailer hoping to find refuge of some kind
from this the hard world we live in...but the amazingly obtuse
motherfucker in the trailer next door has some kind of inborn need to
make lots of noise in the holy period of pre-sundown, the time when
we the Naturals begin to tuck in our spirits and get ready for the
down-time, the falling of the sun, the quiet time; but not the guy
in the trailer next door. Last night at twilight he fired up a big
commercial-quality gas powered leaf blower and spent the next fifteen
minutes leaf-blowing whatever the hell he could find to blow around
in his twelve by fifty foot yard. There ain't any leaves over
there, the only thing he was blowing was my fucking cool. Then,
tonight, it was a chain saw. A chainsaw.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Twenty years ago I would have gone next
door with a baseball bat but tonight, twenty years later, I saddled
up the old Mongoose. I poured a subtle blend of Yuengling Black &
Tan and Bud Light into my insulated water bottle and then I put some
ice in my Goodwill (to all mankind) Messenger Bag and stuck in
another can and bottle of each.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Escape!</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We're all cyclists here, so let me
remind you of what happened next: I put my foot on the drive-side
pedal, hit a stroke and flew away, my soul intact, down the blessed
street on which I live and down to the Indian River, the place of my
heart and soul and instantly the voracious racket was gone and
forgotten and nobody got hurt.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Next thing I knew, I was wading waist
deep in the stream that flows both ways (it's a tidal estuary) and
watching the August moonrise and glancing like a shy lover at how the
falling sun marked the ancient alloy of my goofy little mountain bike
turned beer fetcher: she was fetching enough in the peace and
serenity of the falling tide and try as I might, I could not remember
why my blood had been boiling just moments before.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Just the Facts</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here's what I'm up to: I have been
working for the last three weeks in a trade that involves big trucks
and lots of bulky heavy gear. I myself have half a thousand pounds
of tools stored down there on the job site, in one of those shipping
containers. I'm riding my bicycle the ten miles from the motel to
the job every day and mooching and hitch-hiking rides from Boca back
here to Volusia. I get dropped off anywhere from fifteen to fifty
miles from home every Friday, depending on which colleague or cousin gives me a ride; then me and Little Miss Dangerous take
over and I become myself again, the Trailer Park Cyclist, Straggling
Extra-Terrestrial, Wheelman, Human.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wader of Streams, Seeker of
Understanding, Friend of My Foes: well, you get the picture.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It all starts with that first pedal
stroke on the drive side.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Yer pal, tj</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><b>Whispering Pines Trailer Park and
Tidal Estuary</b></i></div>
<br />
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<i><b>August 18, 2013</b></i></div>
Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3267224089554889479.post-79569699413486019312013-08-05T08:00:00.000-07:002013-08-05T08:00:06.831-07:00Smiling In the Sunshine Fifteen: Secrets<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Secrets</b></div>
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“What's the situation with your warehouse out by the
Airport?” Cromwell asked as we pulled away from the storage place.</div>
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“Well, it's still there, if that's what you mean.”</div>
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“No, I mean did Mona ever get her hooks into all that old saloon
stuff or does she have a key or is her lawyer hanging around or
anything?” He went past the turn to his pottery shop and continued
north up Old Dixie Highway. Towards the airport and towards my old
warehouse full of salvaged saloon fixtures, antique wall panels, old
brass lamps, a British phone booth, stained glass windows, stacks of
choice hardwood lumber and other oddities I had collected in my
years working throughout the South. This was the first time
Cromwell had ever expressed any interest whatsoever in the place.
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“No, Crom, no harpie's hooks or bushwacking barristers. And yes,
you may stash this crate of whatever it is we just stole in my
warehouse. I changed the lock a month ago and Mona never had any
more interest in that stuff than you did, until now. But is it too
much to ask what is happening? And if you will be buying lunch?”</div>
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“Lunch is on me, alright, after we unload this crate. I want to
get a better look at what's inside and see if I can find a shipping
manifest or anything else that might tell us if this stuff is what I
think it is.” He blew through a yellow light and cut left across
the railroad tracks over to the little warehouse district behind our
small municipal airport. “Which one is yours?”</div>
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“Right over there, next to the welding shop.” He pulled up in
the front next to the big sliding door.</div>
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“Wait a minute,” I said. “Look, if you pull over there to
the side a little, see that block wall between my shop and the
other building? It's not a wall, exactly. Let me push it open and
you can back down in between the buildings where we can unload this
thing with privacy.” I hopped out before he could ask any
questions and jogged over to the “wall” between the two
buildings, waited until he had the van positioned properly then
reached over the top and hit the little button that you had to know
about to push. That released the magnetic lock and the big block wall
section swung inward, taking with it the planter and ornamental
shrubs that were attached to it and gave it the appearance of being a
solid, fixed wall. Cromwell backed the van into the ten foot space
between the two buildings and I shut the gate.</div>
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“You have a secret passage?” He said. “I'm impressed. But
why?” I was busy unlocking the compact roll up door, and when I
sat the big padlock on the shelf next to the opening I hit another
little switch that Crom didn't see. It killed the security system.</div>
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“Don't be too impressed,” I said, “It came with the place.
All the same, let's keep it between you and me. Now, let's get the
contraband out of the truck, I'll rustle up some boxes and we can
inspect the booty.” He opened the van and we pulled out the crate
with the dolly. It came out a lot easier than it went in. I got a
couple big oak planks and put them on a pair of sawhorses, creating
a makeshift table. Cromwell got busy digging into the crate,
brushing off the pieces and setting them on the table. They were
terra cotta figures, oddly shaped.
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“They remind me of a chia pet,” I said.
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“Well, these will sprout some green, indeed, if they are what I
think they are...but listen, Blix, I have some checking to do. It
is imperative that not one word of this crate leaks out. OK?'</div>
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“I never imagined I would ever hear you say 'imperative'', I
said. “But sure. Don't worry about it. Who's the one with the
secret passage, anyway? I'll let you out the gate. The secret
gate.” I wasn't too happy about any of this. Whatever that crap
was in the crate, I realized I had just added some convolution to my
already convoluted life.</div>
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Tim Joe Comstockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05351911607475089105noreply@blogger.com5