Syzygy

The Sun and the Moon and the Stars

As all of you know, a Syzygy Event is one in which three or more Heavenly Bodies find themselves in Planetary Alignment. What a phenomenon! In the Wild and Wacky World of Astrology anytime this happens all manner of insanity ensues, because we humans need very little to send us over the edge into a condition I call Syzygyitis. Law Enforcement All the World Over will confirm that a Full Moon makes the Saloon Crowd crazier than usual, so what the hell must happen when THREE full moons line up and send their Crazy Rays into the Hearts and the Souls of the Addled?

I will tell you.

 I know what happens because I live at a place that is 100% chock full of sufferers of Syzygyitis. They got it so bad that they are crazy when even ONE planet lines up. This place is practically a leper colony of crazy. Recent experience proves it to be so...

Saddle Up and Hang On

It was a typical Saturday afternoon when it all began. The weather has been windy, wet and weird and not conducive to pleasurable rides. As a Gentleman Cyclist I insist on dignity and decorum when out and about on two wheels and so Meteorological Circumstances had forced me to huddle indoors, sipping strategically on alternating doses of Beer and Bourbon. (I am cautious: I never drink Rum during Celestial Upheaval). Finding myself at a loss for worthwhile endeavor, I decided to repack the hub bearings on a recalcitrant rear wheel I had found one day up under Coyote's trailer. I had put this chore off for awhile and it was time.

Fish Tank Bike Shop

My Living Room Bike Shop is at the very front of my mobile home. There is a fine large bay window there where I installed a workbench and there is good North Light and plenty of room and I spread some newspaper on the bench and began. If any of you are familiar with the process of removing a cassette and the seals and cups and carefully getting out the crusty little bearings and cleaning and repacking all of this then you no doubt realize the amount of alcohol, swearing and bloodshed involved. It ain't pretty and it is bad enough on Bright Sun Shiny Days but this was a day when the Planets Were Not Smiling and neither was Old Tim Joe.

There are times when that big bay window at the front of my trailer might as well be an aquarium filled with Kook Fish. As I worked on that wheel, chanting and doing shots and waving a small sledge hammer around in a menacing manner, the natives were getting restless out there in the Park. We have new Tenants and they bring with them New Troubles.

Nadine

Nadine in the trailer across from mine is new. I had my suspicions when she first appeared and subsequent events have only confirmed my theories. She has afternoon Gentleman Callers who don't stay long, a testament to Nadine's skills or the inadequacies of the gentlemen. As soon as one of these guys leaves, it is only a matter of moments before I hear the boom boom boom and the walls of the trailer vibrate as a dark colored sedan with ridiculously large and shiny wheels pulls into Nadine's parking spot and yet another gentleman  (also dark colored) leaps out and runs inside. He stays the least time of all and runs back to his vehicle and boom boom booms his ass out of the parking lot.

Miss Nadine is a little one-woman economic stimulus package for the Park but I fear those dollars are not being well spent.

George

So this other new guy George in the Trailer Across the Way has twitched his finely tuned antennae towards the direction of this booming. He has admired Miss Nadine in her comings and goings and now that his theories (like mine) have been confirmed, he decides to pay a visit. George is about my own fiftyish age and apparently he is very pregnant. He is short and not handsome and  looks like he may not smell all that good; yet he is possessed of that drunken confidence that tells him that all women find short, fat, smelly and pregnant old men irresistible and thus armed with this misinformation and fortified with whiskey and bravado he struts over to her trailer. The Planets Above quiver in anticipation and for just a nanosecond shift out of alignment.

Always wear a Helmet When Re-Packing A Hub

Me, I'm trying not to watch but it is impossible. I don't own a television and don't need one. I have instead this aquarium of Kook Fish and they are entertaining enough. But my work suffers for it. These bearings are very small and slippery and that boom boom crap vibrated a couple off them off of the bench, I think. I am crawling around on the floor with a flashlight and when I hear shouting across the way I leap up, or try to. My search has carried me under the bench and I don't bang my head all that hard but then it doesn't take much of a bang to get your attention. The remainder of the bearings fall to the floor. Three of these small steel planets roll over towards me and Yea and Verily line up perfectly right under my nose.

Meanwhile

I am a careful sipper of refined spirits and long ago learned the beneficial effects of Drinking Responsibly. But it is painfully obvious that 'Ol George skipped class that day and he is doing such a fine job of playing the part of the Rejected Lover and Buffoon that the only way he could improve his performance would be if he were wearing a donkey head.

Trailer Park Drama! Or, The Morning Becomes Etcetera

Nadine is shouting through her closed door and George is loudly muttering dire threats and this brings out George's twenty-something son. Now the Kooks Are On the Loose. I do not know what happened to the Son of George but remote observation on my part would indicate he may have once been kicked by a mule. He is the Epitome of Oaf and always smiling and bobbing his head in time to some distant music that only he can hear, and thank God for that. I have intuitive knowledge that it is Banjo Music. Son of George now stands in the middle of the parking lot shouting unintelligibly at his Father, who is now kicking futilely at Nadine's door.  . From my window I cannot hear what he is saying; his back is turned but somehow I get a sense that his pleas are accompanied by drooling and now: Enter the Chorus.

I don't know who these chicks are. They are vaguely familiar. I think I have seen them before, but I can't tell; they are of a type seen in Walmarts and Malls, Tattoo Parlors and Truck Stops all across This Our Mighty Nation. They have very black hair with bright pink and green tips. They are invariably pudgy and tattooed and they have black fingernails and tight-fitting pants that leave considerable real estate uncovered in a manner best described as unfortunate. They wear lipstick that is somehow never right and it is either their lipstick application or some form of unrelieved constipation that gives them a facial expression that would be a smirk except that a smirk requires some kind of brainwave activity and latent contempt, both of which are apparently absent in this case. And a lot of cigarettes.

But there are Two of Them and we need a Chorus and they're all that we have. They set up a clamor that distracts All Players and brings out of doors the other denizens of the Kook Tank that have hitherto been either unconscious or involved in their own pathetic pursuits.

I Say Thee Argh!

At this point I have given up on the wheel on my bench. What started as a prayerful cloistered Saturday Afternoon of wrenching and drinking, of jazz on the stereo and the tinkling of piano music and the tinkering of small tools and the satisfaction of a job well done has idiotically and inevitably devolved into a Pageant of Depredation that is now at a volume level and crowd factor that will soon enough result in Police Attention.

What Now?

Then, from just around the corner, comes the sound of Boom Boom Boom and all the dogs begin to bark and the sweet music on the radio pauses for a Hemorrhoid Cream commercial and now I have Had Enough. The crack dealer pulls back into the Park and gets into some mildly heated exchange with drunk-ass George. They apparently reach some form of accord and George and the Son of George and the Chorus noisily and sans Beauty and Grace retreat unto the Trailer of George. The Crack Dealer goes into Nadine's trailer and as another heated exchange starts up I take the opportunity to slip out and go across the parking lot to his car. When he comes out I am sitting on the hood. I'm Plenty Pissed but I almost smile when I see the “What Now?” look on his face.

“This ain't gonna fly,” I say.

“What ain't gonna fly?” he says.

“This. You know what I'm talking about.”

“You need to be quiet, Pops.” This is one of those split seconds that explains why I don't own a gun.

“I AM being quiet. But that's about to change.” I get off his car, deliberately turn my back and walk over to the middle of the parking lot. Then I turn back around. There is no danger or bravado going on; it is a dance. I have danced it before, at many times, in many places. He of course has a gun, and no doubt an AK47 in the trunk. They all do. They are all really just a bunch of punk ass losers who live in constant fear. Fear of the Law, fear of each other, fear of a future that holds no promise other than more fear and also certain jail time. Right now it is fear of this possibly dangerous crazy old white man. He knows which way the wind will blow if this escalates. My part of the dance is easy. I give him a way out that allows him to save face and he will go.

“Look son, I don't care what you do as long as you don't do it here.”

“I ain't your son,” he says, getting into his car. He boom booms his ass on out of there. I don't expect to see him again. Out of the corner of my eye I see the curtains fall closed from where Nadine has been peeking out. Two Koo-Koo Birds with One Stone. I go back into the Safe Haven of the inside of my trailer and pour myself another shot of mediocre Bourbon.

I Use Lithium Grease

There that Coyote wheel is, sitting on the bench. I count the bearings and they are all there, in the little jar  that I use for degreasing. Here on the wall is me Little Darlin' Schwinn and over there is the recently re-built Mongoose that gives me so much  joy when I do lazy figure eights in the Springtime Sunshine. I reach up and take down the thirty year old tube of Shell Brand Lithium Grease. It is light tan in color and it is a clean and fun and easy grease to use when repacking bearings. It even smells good, in some odd way that reminds me of other things and other days.  This is a Lifetime Supply of good, clean lithium grease. There is no way that  I will use all of it, ever.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Spaghetti Western

#54

Tree House

In the Beginning

As many of you are aware, I am a Carpenter. I am a builder of buildings and a repairman of mobile homes and a cooker of meat and an eater of same; I cut large pieces of wood into smaller pieces and then put those pieces back together into shapes and items that humanity is pleased by and for which they will pay money. I also take large slabs of meat and cut them up into individual units and lovingly baste them with magical sauce and expose them to fire until they too are something that is good and desirable and something that I also hope will one day garner pay and adulation.

And Also...

But that is not all. I do other things. I am a cyclist and a bicycle mechanic and a rider of bicycles. I don't cut them up; bicycles come already chopped and assorted and assembled into pleasing shapes. My job is to keep those shapes pleasing and while I am possessed of the ability to take a box of bicycle parts and put them together until they have become a wondrous steed of miraculous wonder and joy what I really like to do is ride my bicycle and put her in the repair stand and oil her moving parts and keep her clean and silent and happy until next time.

(Disclaimer: I am not a misogynist nor a pervert (as far as I can tell) but every time I write about my bicycle it gets a little weird. If it makes you uncomfortable just skip over those parts.)

And Still More Also...

I also and delightedly take words and phrases and assemble them into sentences and paragraphs that may or may not be pleasing and desirable and may or may not one day bring me money and adulation; it is a thing that is hard to know and were I to be paid for it I suspect some measure of joy would be lost in the doing of it and so I am happy to leave that part of my cosmos a bit of a mystery.

You don't have to worry about fame and fortune in the writing world if you keep using words like “delightedly” in a sentence.”

“You are no doubt correct, Voice, but shut up. I'm elucidating here and I do not require assistance.”

I Have Dogs

Meanwhile, just as the Voice interrupts my stream of wisdom Toby the Trouble Puppy gallops into my writer's garret and leaps into my lap. It is early morning and while Miss Daisy the Yellow Dog is noble and dignified (in comparison) Toby in the morning requires hilarity and dog kisses and will not be deterred; he is one half Jack Russel and one half Pit Bull and All Terrier. He has the personality that I wish I had and until I laugh at him and let him wiggle and lick and do his clown act there is nothing to be done.  Pontification and elucidation will have to pause for a Dog Moment.

You weren't doing all that great with the pontification and elucidation anyway, said the Voice.

“You know, Voice, one of these days...”

Tales Of Future Passed

But where was I? Ah yes...I am a Carpenter. Yesterday the Blonde broke out her Family Album and sorted through some pictures that, as always, created a bit of sogginess but it was also fun to look at old pictures of job sites from the Days When I Was A Builder. My friend Coyote was (and still is) a fairly skilled amateur photographer as well as a highly skilled driver and handler (of me) and I had forgotten some of these jobs; here was me with no gray hair and my brother Broc in all his fierce glory and my other brother Theodore and old Mountain Man Gary, who was a Muscle Shoals Blues Man (bass guitar) and perhaps the best carpenter I ever knew. These were days gone by and people gone by as well and like I said, there was a little sogginess and also it started me down memory lane which can be both a sad and joyous road on which to tread.

But that is neither here nor there. I am a Carpenter, I have built many things both large and small.

Calling Mr. Peabody

Recently I had an experience that was soggy and profound and more than a little religious. To share this experience with you it will be necessary to fire up the Quasitron 6000 Wayback Machine. Please excuse me while I get more coffee and another shot of Morning Rum (steadies the hand for typing) and also so I can sharpen my rusty ax and chop up the big old oak tree that crashed into my trailer during last night's tornado. The Whispering Pines Trailer Park is a busy place. (But that fallen oak was fortuitous; it takes a lot of firewood to get a head of steam on the Ol' Quaz this early in the morning.)

Okay. It is five minutes later. Don't ask. Everyone hang on. When I strategically kick the Quasitron 6000 just right we will all be instantly transported back to 1990:

1990

“Don't be afraid, honey. It's just Tim Joe. Go ask him.” We are sitting in a lushly tropical rear garden in Florida. Everyone is thirty-ish and successful. They are not smug about it, but they might as well be. A lot of things have not yet happened. But today it is a beautiful and sunny afternoon on the East Coast of Florida. There is meat on the grill. You can hear the Atlantic waves crashing on the nearby beach. A sweet little seven year old girl, the daughter of our host, climbs onto my lap.

“Tim Joe.”

“Yes, baby?'

She speaks in a shy whisper with her head tucked into her chest. I have to bend close to hear. The circle of friends, wine glasses in hand, well dressed and successful, pause in their conversation to also listen. This Tim Joe is a newcomer to their circle, but he has come on fast. He built the new pottery studio for the host; and the beachfront home for one of the guests. But this is an insular circle, careful of who gets in and they are curious (and maybe a little  jealous) about this intimate development. Chelsea never speaks to grownups. But her boyfriend is Tim Joe's nine year old son and all of them, (after all is said and done) all of them in this insular little circle are family, tribal members of the Inner Circle.

“Will you build me a tree house?”

“Of course I will, baby.”

There is polite laughter and some kind of applause and then conversation returns to the gossip and yesterday's sailing and the other things that they talk about at such affairs; but Tim Joe is not listening. Shy Chelsea has run off to other pursuits and one day she will be an anthropologist. But here in 1990 Tim Joe is looking up at the big old Live Oak tree that shelters the yard and embraces and comforts the gathering. He is looking at the pattern of the sturdy limbs of the tree and envisioning where struts will be placed and where the ladder will go and how he will anchor such a thing to a tree that has had the audacity to have grown in a place where sometimes the wind blows with ferocity and seriousness. He turns to the host.

“Will it have a roof?”

“Of course. She wants to have friends over for sleep-outs and she wants a little table for tea.”

“OK.”

Back To the Future

Outsider my trailer door the birds are singing their asses off here in Old Hawks Park. This place where I live, this place here by the River is part of the migratory pattern of many types and species of flying creatures and no small amount of swimming ones. It is a beautiful place and very quiet and early morning is a good time to remember things and distill those memories into words to share with your friends, if you are fortunate enough to have friends. I am a fortunate one and it gives me pleasure to share these memories with you guys. Hold on a second...

“Yes Toby, I love you. Good boy. Yes, that's a good boy. Love the Puppy. That's a good boy. Oh, ear licks! Oh good boy. Yes, love the puppy. Ok. Ok. That's good, puppy. OK. That's enough. Ok. Bye Bye puppy. OK. BLONDIE! Get this varmint out of my hair! I'm Blogging over here!”

“You want an egg sandwich?”

“Yes! And it's about time you woke up! I'm a sensitive artist and need my morning coffee and food and so on and how am I ever going to achieve greatness with such slipshod handling ...”

She's already gone.

“I know.”

Telephone

So as these migratory feathered fowl serenade me into yet another Monday I will relieve your pain and suffering and wrap this up. One day my phone rang. I heard a voice that I once heard every day but now never. Sometimes insular circles are hollow and made to be broken. I don't know. My friends did not drop me; they are all still there. What happened was a lot of stuff happened and the years went by and now here we all are: apart.  My phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Blix!”

(I have many names. I have lived long and variously and all these various adventures and lives require lots of various nomenclature.)

“Hello, Cromwell.”

“Hey Buddy! How have you been?”

“What do you want? I've been fine. But you're speaking with exclamation marks and that means you want something.”

“Of course I want something. Why else would I call?” Textbook Cromwell. “You remember that tree house you built for Chelsea a while back?”

“Vaguely,”  I reply.  He laughs. I really love this guy. I wonder what happened.

“That was a dumb-ass question, wasn't it? I forgot that you never forget anything. Anyway, we want to take that tree house down. Chelsea's been at college for a long time and nobody ever goes up there and we just thought you might want to take it down.”

“OK.”

What Goes Up...

Four hurricanes and many years have not diminished this little work of art that I created so long ago.   I have always been proud of this tree house. No nails went into the tree, I used careful joinery and and chains to hold her in place. The ladder was designed as a structural member and here she is, this icon of my memory and now I have the privilege of taking her down, the honor of undoing one of the hallmarks of my past. So much has occurred, so many things have changed in my life, yet here is the tree house and here was Cromwell and in a way nothing has changed at all.

As we loaded the aged wood into the back of my big old step van, Coyote laughed.

“It doesn't seem that long ago that we were taking this wood out of this truck to put up in that tree, Boss.” I have a lot of names.

“It was yesterday, seems like.”  I look back at the beautiful old oak.  She looked somehow empty.  But she was, after all, a tree.  They do fine without our help.  But she looked...empty.

“How long ago was it?” He throws the last piece of worn out and used up wood into the truck.

“It was a long time ago.”

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Bird Sanctuary

#53

Journey

Dumpster Diving

The other day I finally got motivated to do a little work on my old Mongoose Alta. For a couple years she was my only bike and I put a lot of miles on her before I got the Schwinn from Coyote and rediscovered the beauty and the wonder of big skinny tires and gears and the sensation of flight that they impart. After that the Goose mostly sat in the corner collecting dust. I would ride her to the beer store once in a while just for old time's sake, but she felt sluggish and slow compared to the Schwinn. But the other day the Blonde found a bicycle carcass in the Park dumpster and pulled it out for my inspection.

Derelict

It was a sad kind of thing. The frame was brand new. It was one of those low-end comfort bikes they sell at beachside bike shops for weekend riders to use to cruise the boardwalk. It was a single speed, of course, and thoroughly stripped of wheels and chain and seat. All that was left was the frame and fork and handlebars. I put it in the corner with the Mongoose and more or less forgot about it until one day I was straightening up the shop and there it was.

Its a stolen bike, said the Voice.

“No kidding, Voice. What of it?"

It's a stolen bike so you should give it to the cops. The serial number is right there on the bottom bracket.

“Voice, that is a noble intention but you forget: we live in the crappiest trailer park in town and those cops will wonder what happened to the wheels and tires and chain and so on and furthermore, O Noble Voice, perhaps you forgot that here in the Living Room Bike Shop there are many bicycle wheels, tires, used chains and various other parts that might cause suspicion to be cast my way. Duh.”

No, YOU duh. But you're probably right. So what will you do with it? I had not considered this question. In fact, it just occurred to me that I had a probably stolen and definitely stripped and serialized bicycle frame stashed in a room full of bike parts.

“Here, Voice. Take this thing and put it back into the dumpster. I don't want anything to do with it. It is a Tainted Thing. I have spoken.”

Have spoken all you want. I am only a voice and so if that poor derelict is to find its way to the trash heap it will be your problem to make it so. Thus speaks the Voice.

Ashes to Ashes

Stupid Voice. But as usual, the Voice was right. I guess. I pondered further about taking it to the Cop Shop but finally said to hell with it and threw it back from whence it had come. I was crafty; I waited until Wednesday morning to do the disposal. The dumpster guy comes on Wednesday so there would be minimal exposure. I didn't wipe off my fingerprints because it seemed ludicrous to do so...but you never know. I then went on about my day and forgot about the episode, pretty much. I did make note of the sound of the dumpster truck doing its job later that morning and I do remember thinking to myself, “That's that,” and then I went for a Town Ride.

When I came back to the trailer a couple hours later there was the same forlorn frame leaning up against my gate. It looked like it was scratching to get in the same way Toby the Trouble Puppy scratches to get out.

Boomerang

“What the hell,” I thought to myself. Then I knew. The Blonde. I stuck the frame under my front stairs then went next door to her trailer to have a Domestic Policy Conference (DPC). When I walked in she was standing at the counter whipping up a bowl of potato salad. There was something sizzling away on the stove and it sure smelled good and for a moment I forgot why I was there but then I remembered and cleared my throat dangerously in preparation for a stern lecture about stolen goods and social-economic levels and class-based police perception and other things that would come to me after I got started but I was still drawing in a powerful preparatory lungful of hot air when she beat me to the punch.

“Don't go clearing your throat and lecturing me, mister.” She didn't even look up from her work. “Jungle Jim came by here with that thing and said he found it in the dumpster first thing this morning. He said he knew you would be able to get the parts off and recycle the frame. It's aluminum.”

“Who said anything about a lecture? What smells so good?”

If You Can't Beat 'Em

So, setting aside my high moral integrity I took off the mediocre (but alloy) cranks and chain ring. I removed the handlebars (also alloy and the exact high rise bars I have been wanting for the Goose.) I tossed the frame into the Trailer Park recycle pile. Two days ago I put the new bars on the Goose and installed some fat street tires and went for a test ride.

The Big Kid's Bike

Not bad! I had a really cheap big Bell brand saddle from who knows where. I put this on the Goose as well and the upright and soft ride was sweet and it was like a new bicycle and I have been riding it all over the place, kid style. I needed some new handlebar grips and the only place in town for that is the new Super Walmart that opened last month way out on the far side of I-95.

Stranger In A Strange Land

No one we know has been out there yet. To venture beyond I-95 is to go to a Far Country. We get all our needs at the Winn-Dixie and the Dollar General. Well, sometimes one of My Needs requires a trip to Big Bob's Liquors. But these places are a five minute drive and a fifteen minute bike ride so to go much farther than five miles from the Whispering Pines is not necessary. Until now.

So enamored was I with the novelty of my new Kid's Bike I decided to ride it the twelve miles out to the new Super Store and see what this place was all about. Plus, the only other option was the motorsports hunting and bicycle shop boutique that is the closest thing to an LBS in our little town and I was tired of their avarice. When they charged me eight dollars for a tube a couple weeks ago I took a vow and so far have stuck to it. So, child-like and full of wonder, I pedaled off to Oz.

Relapse

As many of you may remember, I had some kind of rather severe bronchial infection last week. I still do, but it has improved enough over the last few days that I felt strong enough to venture forth. As I pedaled vigorously towards the Interstate I had second thoughts. I was coughing again and not feeling strong at all. But cycling is about nothing if not suffering and perseverance. No pain no gain! And I really wanted those grips!

Here There Be Monsters

The shoulder and the sidewalk both gave out about a mile from the Walmart, and I had to traverse the four way cloverleaf at the Interstate. These things are nightmarish for a cyclist. Cars are hurtling around in high-g turns, tires are screeching and whining, the shoulders are strewn with glass and steel-belt wires and some unidentified but gritty substance seen no where else. There is no clear cut way to get through the thing with anything resembling decorum or dignity. If you attempt to use “vehicular cycling” you will be rapidly reminded that as a vehicle, a bicycle is a paltry conveyance when an eighteen wheeler is thundering down the Off Ramp while some bastard who didn't leave on time for the airport is blasting through a yellow light and taking the On Ramp on two wheels while he screams at someone on his cell phone. Even the safe traffic ain't safe in the vicinity of one of these hell holes and there it was and there was the new Super Walmart just on the other side.

Fear Not!

But I am, after all, the Trailer Park Cyclist. I pulled off the filthy shoulder onto the grass. I went a few yards up the side of the  On Ramp, waited for a lull and dashed across the On Ramp over to the relative safety of the underside of the overpass. I did some cocky bank shots off the concrete slope under the overpass, paused on the other side to determine that there was no threat of four or eighteen wheeled doom waiting for me and dashed across. I was through! There it was! Good Lord, look at the size of this place. It's like a little city!

America the Bounteous

Walking inside I didn't know whether to weep with pride, shame or bewilderment at the absolute huge cleanness of the place. It was vast and immaculate. That is the only way to describe it. I once saw the Grand Canyon and I remember thinking that it was so large that you could see it, but the brain could not process the vision. It was so alien and strange that there was some kind of disconnect taking place. This Super Walmart is aptly named. Six Whispering Pines Trailer Parks would fit inside.

And yet, for all its vastness and glory, there were only three different handlebar grips to choose from and all three sucked. But I didn't tarry. I grabbed the least suckiest of the three, paid my eight (!) dollars and got out.

The Rest of the Story

Outside, I spit on the handlebars, carefully spread the spit around and slipped on the new grips. Yep. They sucked. But I wasn't riding twelve miles home on bare bars. 'Oh well,” I thought, “they'll do until I get up another order for Tree Fort Bikes or Jensen.” I wait until I have enough money for a hundred dollar plus order so that I get free shipping. It doesn't take long to spend a hundred dollars on bike parts, but it takes me quite a long time to accumulate that one hundred dollars.

I jumped on board and before I even hit the first pedal stroke I realized the new front tire I had mounted yesterday was flat. Real flat, not sorta flat. New tube, serviceable (and fat) tire, careful installation, proper pressure, FLAT.

Sometimes that ol' Karmic Wheel spins pretty quick, said the Voice.

“What?! Cough Cough. Argh!” More coughing. No tools, no pump, no spare tube...looking across the vast plain of the Walmart parking lot, I wondered if that gas station way over there would have an air pump. I decided to push the Goose over and find out. It was a long push, but yes, there was a pump. It would require four quarters and I had twelve bucks left after my shopping spree.

Trailer Park Manifesto

When you are really poor you learn to do without things that some people cannot imagine living without. As for myself, I am sort of poor on purpose. I have learned through brief periods of poverty that I can certainly do without almost everything I can't eat, drink, or wear. If I wanted to do some carpentry work around town, which I would not mind doing, I will need a truck, which in turn will require insurance and gasoline, as well as periodic service. These days things are so bad that carpenters make much less money per hour than they did five or six years ago. But gasoline prices have become drastically higher. Also, the encroaching gentrification of our little surfing/fishing town means that various local government agencies are taking themselves a lot more seriously these days and once that happens, permits and licenses and insurance requirements go up. So, for me to get back in action at the age of fifty six I would have to work significantly harder and longer to make less money to help feed these oil companies and government agencies and car dealers.  So for now I fix trailers and ride bicycles.

Where was I?

But manifestos don't fix flat tires.   That requires pressurized air, not hot air. So I put four quarters into the machine, apply the nozzle and squeeze. The tire makes a feeble effort to inflate but then quivers and dies in my arms like a tragic heroine in a bad Western.

There must be a hole in the tube, said the Voice.

“Cough! Hack! Ya think?! Really?!”

Attitude:  the Difference Between Ordeal and Adventure  

(quote courtesy of Bob Bitchin)

Alright, then. I got eleven dollars and there's a Walmart right there. I'll lock up the bike here at the pump and walk back over and get a tube, put it in and be on my way. I walk briskly back across the prairie/parking lot. While inside the store my head starts pounding and those little cold beads of sweat are popping out on my forehead. But I'm way out here in the Florida Outback and this tube is four dollars after tax. OK. When I get back to the bike I notice I ain't feeling so great but there is nothing to do but get this tube on and get out of there. Bending over to take off the wheel I also realize that this 36 spoke rim I decided to put on yesterday is not a quick release. It is two acorn nuts and I need a wrench and now I'm starting to get a little downtrodden. I stand and gaze across the wasteland/parking lot. It's a long way. A shadow darkens the sky and I look up and there it is: one of those fat juicy pregnant-looking Florida cloudburst thunderstorm clouds that were promised for this afternoon. This cloud is quite obviously looking right at me and laughing. Staring at the bike I briefly consider trying to loosen those nuts with my teeth but this gas station is busy and I don't know how these Walmart shoppers will react to the sight of a fifty-something homeless guy thrashing around on the ground in a torrential downpour trying to eat a bicycle.

There's nothing to do but hike the hundred miles back across the parking lot and back into this god-forsaken Cathedral of Crap and buy the cheapest adjustable wrench I can find and then once more cross that parking lot and if this trip don't Get 'er done it will be a fortunate thing that I am so close to the Interstate because I am going to go over to it and throw my bike into the path of an eighteen wheeler and then jump in after it.

Adventure!

A couple of hours later I'm sitting in my trailer drinking my third Budweiser and wondering about my day. The rain never happened and on the way home it took only about fifteen minutes of pedaling before the ordeal was nothing more than another Tim Joe story and Blog. I found a slow and steady cadence on my Big Kid Bike and my breathing and pulse regulated and that was it. The coughing let up and my head quit pounding. Pretty soon I was singing the refrain from that old Journey song, “Wheel In the Sky.”

Not a bad day after all.

“Actually, it was fun.”

And you got a new tool. That cheap little crescent wrench is kinda cool.

“Hey, I forgot about that!” 


 It doesn't count as an ordeal if there is a new tool in it.




Whispering Pines Trailer Park and House of Pain
#52

Roseanne, the Zombies and the BUG

Hack Hack Cough Cough

It has been rather cool here in East Central Florida for the past week and I managed to contract one of my dreaded every-other-year colds that tend to put me on the skids for a couple days. When this happens I bravely face my illness with as many potions and powders and pills as I can get my hands on.  My goal is to survive through over-the-counter induced coma. I pile books next to my bunk, add blankets to the pile and say my farewells to my dogs and my woman and then crawl into my nest to meet my fate.

Trailer Park Benefits

We don't have a Health Plan here at the Park; in fact, if anything, it would have to be called an Unhealth Plan. Besides, I am far too bold and manly to report to the hospital for a mere chest cold. Not me. What I do is take a bunch of pills that look vaguely like Christmas candy, drink syrups that taste like nothing else in the world and then spend two or three days catching up on my reading, sleeping and alternately whimpering for mercy and howling for more soup or orange juice or whatever else enters my feverish head.

The Bad English Patient

The Blonde is always very indulgent for the first couple of hours. Once she realizes I actually do have an illness and not just a more worser than usual hangover, she suddenly remembers a bunch of errands and shopping she forgot to do and then disappears for the next couple of days. She ain't no Florence Nightingale, but I admit that I am the worst patient in the world and if we were Eskimos, there would be an ice floe somewhere out there with my name on it.

But that was three days ago and now here I am, typing merrily away with only an occasional rumble in my chest and that delightful sniffle thing that doesn't warrant an actual nose blowing but makes you snert and sniff and wish for warmer days.

Irregular Programming

As an inveterate Bicycle Nerd I hang out at a Site called Old Ten Speed Gallery. Over there we are like those guys in High School that really did believe that Esperanto would one day be the One World Language, instead of Klingon. But our language is bicycles and OTSG is like that saloon where everyone knows your name. In the course of yacking it up about an old Schwinn Caliente a frequent contributor mentioned that Roseanne Barr and John Goodman are appearing in a pilot episode of a new TV series. This time the plot centers around life in a Trailer Park.

I know what you are thinking. You're thinking “Hey! Trailer Park Cyclist! You live in a trailer park!”

Or maybe you're thinking, “Esperanto? What's that? Some kind of soup?”

Or, “ Remember when this Blog used to be cool?”

Hold on. I have to blow my nose. Did I mention that I have been sick?

Hooray For Hollywood

So anyway, these Hollywood big shots are going to try and illustrate in a touching and humorous manner what I live with everyday. They will get it wrong, of course. These guys are so far removed from this layer of strata that they can't even imagine what really goes on. Me, I came to trailer living late in life, as many do. But most of those other elderly trailer dwellers have sold their homes up North and came here to live in pretty nice trailer parks with golf carts and swimming pools and clubhouses where they all get together and do all that hokey crap that you do when you retire. Whatever it is. I don't know. I only say it is hokey because I went to one of those places once and in the clubhouse there were a bunch of people only marginally older than me actually doing the Hokey-Pokey. No, really.

The Whispering Pines isn't a retirement trailer Park. It isn't a place where elderly people come to hang out until, You Know. I guess those big fancy retirement parks are like luxurious ice floes.

Zombies!

The Whispering Pines is more of a place to come and not wait for the Big Sleep, but rather to embrace it.   Most of the people here are pretty drug-addled. The advent of these super-strong downers like oxycontin or whatever it is has created a new American Class. While the middle class is shrinking, we now have the Rich, the Poor and the Zombies. Government subsidized medical programs are shoveling these Zombie Pills into the eager maws of the impoverished like Manna from Hell. I see it everyday. The sheer volume of these pills is unbelievable.

I don't expect to see a lot of Zombie episodes on Rosanne's new show, but it would be pretty cool if there were. In fact, unless I break down and buy a TV, I probably will never even see a single episode.

This is all a little depressing. Probably aftershocks of the meds I took for my cold. Did I mention...

Meanwhile,  Back At the Bicycles...

In the world of bicycles, frequent commenter and Horticulturizing Cyclist Dee was kind enough to answer my query as to what she has been up to Down Under:

To: Trailer Park Cyclist:

In my copious spare time I am the president of the James Cook University Bicycle Users Group. A couple of years ago the Uni got a new high tech central cooling system, and all the old individual cooling plants were set to become redundant. The cooling plant for the library was housed in this great little building I had always liked, so I contacted my facilities management people and asked if it could become a bike shed when the old plant was removed. To my surprise and eternal gratitude they thought that was a great idea, and they spent a lot of money to make it happen. It needed a new concrete floor, and a roof (I guess it never had a full roof before) and they partitioned off a workshop and added lockers. They wanted to add showers but there was no plumbing available. I almost lost the project at that point because they figured if I couldn’t have showers I wouldn’t want it, but they were so wrong!

Anyway, many meetings and good will later it is all happening. Took us a fair time to get the community bike shop concept going, because it needs volunteers. I got tired of waiting for interested people to come together and went out with another employee and gathered up all the abandoned bikes at the colleges and put them in the shed, and now lots of people are really excited to have bikes to play with, and the workshop is starting to take shape.

O-week is next week, and we will be selling cheaply anything we get fixed by Wednesdays market day. As for the rest, I figure I will invite students to choose a bike, join the BUG and do it up to keep for free themselves. I just love all this. I am a terrible doer.

But NOT a terrible Zombie.  Good work,  Dee!  JOIN THE BUG!

That's it for now.  

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Hack Attack

#51

Floating

Notes From A Sunny Day

I went out for a Float yesterday. A Float is a ride that I take that requires that I exert absolutely no physical exertion. It is a ride involving quiet streets and trails and sidewalks. I'm going really slow and that is OK because I am also going nowhere. The main requirement for one of my Float Rides is that I have as little external stimulation as possible. Well, there are two main requirements: no exertion and no exterior distractions like threatening automobiles or chasing dogs or road debris or even beautiful scenery.

I took this ride totally unplanned. I originally set out to cruise over to the beach at a moderate pace and then ride over the Big Bridge one or two or maybe even three times because it is the only “hill” for miles around and sometimes I like to pretend I am On Tour and I am told that touring involves hills.

But The Best Laid Plans

But as I floated coasting down the gentle incline that leads from my trailer to the river, as I adjusted my glasses and wiggled my flip flops into an optimal position in the toe straps and as I prepared to turn North onto the River Road I realized I wasn't up for a ride. I just didn't feel like it. There was trouble in my soul and things I needed to get sorted out in my head (and heart) and I should go back to the Park and work out some of these damned little nuisance issues and get going.

But Then...

Or you should just wander aimlessly on your bicycle and do your sorting and worrying and then go back to the Park. The Trouble at the Park is self propagating and will always be there.

“You don't think I know what 'propagating' means, do you, Voice? Well, I do.”

Don't worry, there won't be a quiz or anything. But when was the last time you did lazy figure eights in the parking lot across from City Hall?

“It's been a long time. I think I'll do that.” The City Hall in our little town of Hawks Park sits across the River Road from a big park and boat launch ramp and is surrounded by water on three sides. On a weekday there is almost no one there and back before I was a Serious Cyclist I would ride my old Tramp Steamer ('91 Mongoose Alta converted to single speed) all over the place. I was always going slow and those big tires gave a very pronounced floating effect. The Tramp is set up for a pretty upright position and has a big padded saddle and she was my daydream ride before the Big Schwinn came along. Now she mostly hangs on the wall.

Why Fight City Hall?

So I went to the big public parking lot and did some figure eights. Low and Slow and I amused myself by seeing how tight a circle I could do on my Old Ten Speed before falling over. Remember that? Remember being a kid and just Goofing Off on your bike and doing nothing except pedaling around with nowhere to go? I do. If you don't remember, go out and do a Low and Slow Float and it will come back to you. It is a necessary thing to sometimes reach inside ourselves and find that kid that could laugh out loud and to remember a time when Troubles were fleeting and life was a long and seemingly endless path that stretched out before us. A long path of hope and promise and joy.

It is a promising path when you are looking forward from youth but a tormented trail when looking back from the end of the story.

“You're just chock full o' wisdom today, aren't you Voice? But shut up. I'll do the proselytizing around here. And anyway, you're wrong. Sure, There's plenty of stuff I wish had been better, but to call my life a “torturous trail” is wrong. There were lots of good times. Like today.”

The Heart Of the Matter

By now I have left the parking lot across from City Hall and wandered into the the big old neighborhood down the street that was carved from a primeval Florida Oak Forest. What is nowadays called the Indian River was once a huge soggy swamp. The oak trees and palms that grew along the edges of this swamp had plenty of water and rich soil in which to propagate. (Ha!) Those oaks are ancient and moss-covered and the houses in that neighborhood are from a time before we cookie-cut our dwellings. They are large and individual and  handsome and the sidewalks in front are made of some kind of concrete that you don't see anymore. The streets are broad and the sidewalks are empty and just right for a sunny day when a Troubled Cyclist needs to pedal around lost in thought and sorting things out and has no need for speed or destination. The Spanish moss hangs low and must be dodged; some low hanging limbs reach out for a high-five and I absent-mindedly give them one. I can wander this place all day, crawling along the sidewalk at a far faster speed than walking but pretty slow all the same.

Meanwhile, Back At the Park...

Whispering Pines Trailer Park is an old and venerable institution. It has probably always been the Worst Trailer Park In Town. I know that it is these days. After a year of working pretty hard to get things cleaned up and fixed up, I can look around me and see improvement. Where before there were crumbling wooden steps leading into dilapidated trailers, now there are neat little roofed porches of my design and installation. I have ripped out many rotten floors and walls and replaced them with appropriately inexpensive but carefully crafted repairs. Roof leaks have been fixed and fences mended and added and there have been some minor landscaping efforts. Improvement, yes, but far from anything I can qualify as satisfying.

Words To Live By

The motto of this Blogsite is “Life ain't that bad when you're happy with what you have.” There are times when I am proud of this attitude and there are other times when I see it as a cop out, a form of Acceptance of Less that could also be considered the Byline of a Loser.

Whatever

But what of that? As I wander slowly through these quiet streets of fine homes with their facade of tranquility, maintaining my pace with only an occasional pedal stroke, I realize all too well that within these dwellings there is as much joy, pain and turmoil as there is inside the lowliest Trailer here at the Park.   Human Life is Universal.  All the rest is stage settings.

 Life.

Grandpa Was A Tree Hugger

My cadence today is about six RPM and it suits me just fine. I'm not going anywhere, not anytime soon, anyway. My efforts at the Whispering Pines have been rewarded with My Own Little Corner of the Park. The heavy burden on my soul today has many sources. One is that I am Becoming Happy which has always been a sign of clouds on the horizon. There are other things going on, things that are not really my business or problem but the Problems of the Park all seem to find their way to me soon enough. But I have Me Little Darlin' to pedal slowly around this cool old town and I reach down and pat the top tube. I really do. As a writer and delusional cyclist I tend to anthropomorphize All the World. I can't help it. There is a powerful Pagan somewhere in my ancestry and I am glad for him; because of him I seek out the sounds and signs that bring me into the Here and Now. Would you rather listen to the wind in the trees or a politician? Would you prefer conversing with a squirrel or the Lady Behind the Counter? Stare at the television or the rising Full Moon?

I'm not special. We all see and hear these things.  Like a listener turning the knob on an old-time analog radio, we skip many channels in search of the sound we want to hear. There are many stations to tune into.

You are being sentimental and maudlin, said the Voice.

“It's just that kind of day, Voice.”

We've Been Down This Road Before

And so it is. In the enforced Slowing Down of this damnable Recession I came to this little Trailer Park where my old friend Coyote has lived for many years. I knew about this place and when the Blonde and I found ourselves at the end of our resources and my not inconsiderable ability to dodge old creditors and scam new ones was no longer working, when all my best efforts brought us to the face of defeat I sounded a retreat, rented a little trailer and began again.

And so Here Am I, burdened with Happiness, pedaling a bicycle that I love around a town that makes me glad no matter where I look, pedaling slowly and with wonderful mindlessness around this Old Hawks Park while the voices in my head rage back and forth, sorting things out for me while I take a ride and high-five ancient oak trees and let the voices have their way up there. It takes very little effort on my part; in fact, it seems the less effort that I spend on Trouble , the more quickly It is resolved.

Enjoy your Ride, Boss.  I'll let you know when we get it figured out.

“I know you will, buddy. I know you will.”

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Think Tank

#50

The Incredible Lightness of Being A Clydesdale

You Think That Other Guy Is the Fat Cyclist?

Look, there is something I want to make clear: my Buffalo Status is getting worse. To call myself a Clydesdale is an insult to the equines of the world. But then again, a Clydesdale may be bigger than a Buffalo. How am I supposed to know all this stuff? I know when I was a little kid the Budweiser Clydesdales came to town for some event or another and Mom took us to see them. Man. Those things were big. Ummm, Budweiser...

Weighty Matters

Where was I? Having finally sobered up long enough to sit down and bang out a Blog post, I found myself thinking about weight. Well, I suppose that we all think about our weight pretty much all the time. We are the Fattest Nation on Earth and the Most Obsessed With Thinness. Crazy, huh? While I have always ridden a bicycle for relaxation and exercise, it wasn't until this past year that I became obsessed with all things cycling and weight related. And a funny thing happened. I found out I could increase the length and speed of my rides only slightly and the weight would start to drop off one drip at a time.

Wow! That means I can eat all I want as long as I add a few miles here and there and bear down a little on the stretches that I used to ride slowly!

Yeah, right.

And Another Thing

The other thing that happens is that the Cycling Obsession results in a lot of time looking at other cyclists on the internet. It is easy to identify with these people. I mean, we all ride bicycles, don't we? The thing is, photographers and editors of cycling magazines tend to not photograph fat cyclists. Yeah. So I spend many hours imagining myself thin and strong and fast but then the Reality of the Saddle sets in once astride my steed and I'm huffing and puffing and arguing with the speedometer and blaming my Mom for taking me to see that Budweiser Parade when I was only five years old, imprinting me for life and giving me The Thirst That Is Never Quenched.

So I Ride

So I got my holiday-enlarged self out on the bike a couple days this week, riding my old familiar 24 mile course.  I have seen the scenery on that ride so many times that looking around and goofing off is easy not to do. Instead I ride, I push and sometimes instead of downshifting to maintain my cadence I just pedal harder. I pedal a little harder until those big thigh muscles start complaining and then I back off and catch my breath and congratulate myself on my stupendous effort and then I do it again.

But Man Those Ribs Are Good!

I don't know if it will work or not but something's gotta give. In my twisted world-view I figured starting a Barbecue Sauce Empire and Rib Shack would meld gracefully with my efforts at Cycling Superiority. Since Uncle Bill and I have started having Sunday cook-outs every Sunday, guess what happened to my Sunday Centuries? Unless eating a hundred ribs and drinking a hundred beers counts as a Double Century, I'm not doing so hot.

Those cookouts are a lot of fun. They have a slight chance of translating into a late-life career change that may Save the Day. Those Century Rides were endurance events. They didn't start out as Centuries. Originally I was very unemployed and very poor and very depressed and I would ride my bicycle A Long Way and then realize I had to ride back, also a long way. Then I started measuring the miles and realized that if I did it on purpose I could brag about it online and then one day I realized that sooner or later some Young Gun would drop by to make me Prove It.

Whatever Happened To Billy the Kid?

I'm not too concerned about a shoot-out, however. I am Old and Tricky. Any Bonzai Buckaroo comes around here lookin' to Ride Long with the Old Man will first be stuffed so full of ribs and beer that his carbon fiber bike-cycle will collapse beneath him before the first mile. Besides, I am accustomed to being a Clyde and I'm good at it.

So How About This?

Today I rode 24 miles in an hour and twenty-five minutes. The wind was gentle and out of the east on a more-or less North-South ride. No hills. A really nice day. Is that a good time? I have no idea. I mean, yeah, I had a good time. But how fast is that in the real world? I know a group can generally go faster than a solo rider, due to drafting and humiliation and those slots in the helmets. But that is my fastest time on this familiar course and since I have some catching up to do, I thought it might be a personal challenge to see how many minutes I can whittle off that target time of 1:25. It might cause me to whittle a few pounds off my Buffalo Butt and get me back to that coveted Clydesdale Status.

What's In the Stand

Meanwhile, what about Bike Repair? Funny you should ask. I haven't been doing any. We all know what that means: something is due to break. Oh, I had a roadside flat last week. I fixed it in twelve minutes. I seem to be timing things these days. But I had it fixed and up and running in twelve minutes so now I guess I have another target time to try and reduce. Not that I want to work on that particular time.

Old Steel Rules

But, no, my Old Schwinn has only been mounted in the stand for purposes of worship. I haven't even squirted any lube on her for a while now. Man, I love that bike! What a machine! Thirty-plus years old and still Kickin' It. That Mavic wheel and Tiagra hub are still as sweet and smooth as they were when they were new. The chain is shiny and the SRAM cassette silent and crisp.

But now that I have jinxed myself by writing about over a thousand and a half maintenance free miles, I think I will wander over to the bench and grab some clean rags and some Armor-All and a spoke wrench and some chain oil, open a can of Clyde and do a little worshipful work.

Have You Hugged Your Bike Today?

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Buffalo Preserve

#49

Moonshine

Another Day In the Park

Three trailers over my good friend Jungle Jim is revving the motor on his old Triumph motorcycle. The sound is just distracting as hell, especially when I am trying to Blogulate and Edify. But there is nothing to be done about it; to Jim it is the Music of the Spheres and also totally necessary as he tries to get his crotchety old Weber carburetor to do its proper job. Many, many years have passed since that motorcycle left the factory and it takes a genius like Jim to keep it alive. I know all this and appreciate it and so the revving of his old engine, while distracting, is music to me also.

Plus I appreciate my friend Jim and feel indulgent towards his sometimes crotchety proclivities. Old guys should stick together and we do. It is not a secondary consideration that Jim has an old Raleigh Pro stashed away in his stash room and he has not thrown a leg over that bike in Lo These Many Months. As you all know, the TPC is not a covetous or materialistic person, but me and Jim are the same size. And that Pro has a full Campy drive train.

But That's Not All

Also filling my ears is some birdsong and squirrel chatter outside my door. It is mid-winter Florida, we are suffering from some downright chilly 50 degree nights and it only got up to 70 yesterday...

Trains!

Wait...as I type these words the Florida East Coast Railway train just blew through. The tracks are only about a half mile from my trailer door and it is one of the comforting sounds of my life. I live in a really sweet and quiet place. That FEC runs on a schedule and it reassures and guides me through the night. In the old days I would wake up at 3 AM and start worrying about every possible thing I could remember to worry about. But now the 3 AM train blows through in the middle of the night and I stir in my sleep and think to myself 'That's the Three O'Clock Train” and I fluff up my feather pillow and go back to sleep. I never dream about bicycles, but I wish I did. At 6 AM the Morning Train comes through and gently wakes me from my bicycle-less dreams and I start my day.

Two Doctors Are A Pair A Docs

To be gently awakened by a freight train is just one of the many paradoxes of the World of the Trailer Park Cyclist. Here's another: As a Blogular Wizard and Wordsmith of Many Wonders, I frequently find it necessary to skip work and massage my weary brain with morning beer and birdsong. This don't sit so well with Miss Jo the Trailer Park Manager. As I type these words she is at my trailer door.

“Are you busy?” she asks.

“I'm always busy, Jo. What do you want? I'm Blogulating.”

She comes in with a Spiritual Offering. By spiritual I actually mean spirits, as in the Old Way of referring to alcohol. Every so often Miss Jo gets a mysterious shipment of corn liquor from her family up in Arkansas and she then buys a couple gallons of apple cider and some cinnamon sticks and cooks up this heady brew that keeps me incapacitated for several days. I like it. Today is one of those days and one of the cool things about being poor and living in a trailer park is I can goof off, listen to birdsong and freight trains and drink moonshine and yet, miraculously, the World Keeps Turning.

Yet Another Disclaimer

Be Thou Not Jealous, my Friends and Readers! It is a life of Sloth and Cycling but remember: mixed with this glorious laziness are frequent periods of working on sewer pipes and mildewed floors and rotten walls. It ain't all drunkenness an foolishness. Sometimes I suffer.

But not today.

Remember When I Was Cool?

So...what about the bicycles? No news. I rode 24 miles a few days ago. That's my old Regular Loop that I have done so many times that I really do it as though it were a dream. My other More Better ride is the Daytona Loop, but I ride it less because it involves Old Highway One which is dirty, filled with tire-piercing debris and homicidal pickup drivers. But it takes me further afar and so I take it when I am feeling bold. Today? I don't know. Just hanging out with you guys and doing nothing. I could ride, but sometimes it is pure luxury to just be a dude (and a lazy dude at that) and share my thoughts and kookiness with my friends.

Tell them about Toby the Trouble Puppy, said the Voice.

“What?”

You know, how cute he was with his head on your pillow this morning and...

“Voice, this is a Lazy Drunken Dude Post, not a Gay-Turned-Into-Martha Stewart post. Man! This won't look good when your annual job review comes up! You know, there are a lot of Voices out there looking for jobs! You better watch it, buddy!” Stupid Voice.

That's not what you said when the Six O'clock train was coming through. He was licking your nose and you liked it.

Well, that's true. Ol' Toby the Trouble Puppy is one cute little rascal. What a day! Miss Jo will get by, as will the Blonde. Toby the Love Puppy will be a danged cute little dog, Miss Daisy will continue her noble Elder Dog status. The birds will sing, the squirrels will chatter, and the trains will run on time.  Hopefully, also: the World Will Turn.  I am somehow certain of this.

Treat yourselves today, my friends. You deserve it.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Distillery

#48