November

November, a single leaf,

Once a vivid green,

Now scarred by the sun,

To a dingy brown.

Battered and worn by the wind,

Clings desperately to the tree,

It’s only source of life,

Holding on with endless hope,

Refusing to let go,

Like a lonely lover,

Denying fate it’s due,

Striving to avoid the fall,

That will bring it slowly to the ground,

Spinning in the chill air,

To lay withered with its brethren,

Until it is dust once again.

On Politics

Sometime not to long ago, I posted a prediction that the Presidential election would be won by the candidate with the best haircut. Would that there was a decent set of locks on one of these guys but alas, they are both noticeably lacking in that department. So, instead of harping on that old dog, I'd like to talk a little about something else instead, the disintegration of the stuff that lies under John McCain's hair, his brain.

To be honest, I'm no rampant politico. I neither live, nor breathe for the daily dose of polls and pundits' comments. But neither am I one of the countless majority of Americans who pay politics a mere passing glance if anything at all. Consequently I'm well aware of the grizzled old vet's record and reputation as one unafraid to fly on his own wing (and prayer...). Quite honestly I sort admired the guy at one time. But now, well, now he has clearly unraveled.

During the debate last night it was scary watching his eyes, blinking away at a rate pretty close to 60 bpm (blinks per minute). Don't believe me? Grab a video and count for yourself. Several random samples of my own consistently derived the same results, though I must admit it was pretty hard to keep up the count at that breakneck pace. For some odd reason, it reminded me of the replicants in Blade Runner. Talk about frightening. But wait, there's more...

Strangely enough I think I could almost deal with the possibility that McCain is actually some technological marvel (what really happened while he was in captivity anyway?) What I can't handle is how totally whacked he's been since he decided on Sarah (even funnier than Michael) Palin as his running mate.

Even if they look a bit similar, she's not as pretty, or as funny, or as smart as Tina Fey. And I don't buy the "I'm just a good old gal with a gun and a fucked up family like the rest of you" shtick. But she did offer the old goat an opportunity to show some balls and distinguish himself from the current administration (and even the Republican party as a whole). Sadly, he missed the boat. Instead of touting the All-American as apple pie aspects of his partner, he set her up as the vicious attack dog he didn't have the sack to be on his own. So now her political career at the national level is pretty much hosed (thank goodness!) and he's heading for an ignominious fall in his own candidacy.

Does this make me happy? Of course! Sure there's plenty of time for the tide to turn, but for now I'm reveling in the thought that I'll wake up the Wednesday after Election Day without wondering who won. In these times of uncertainty, can you blame me for wanting at least one night's good sleep?

Improv Everywhere

A while back I added the Improv Everywhere website to my "Links I Like" sidebar. I don't remember why I wound up at the site in the first place, but I'm sure glad I landed there. The latest "prank", the Human Mirror, is so ingenious I just had to throw this post up to urge y'all to check it out. But be careful. I found myself addicted to the site and thus reading through one after another of the missions until I was bleary-eyed and my ribs hurt from laughing...

Thanks for the Advice

Not that it should matter to you, but something is bothering me. Actually there are many things that bother me, but this one has my attention at the moment so I'll spare you the full-blown rant.

It seems the marketeers of the world, not content to provide the simple convenience of browsing from the couch have found new ways to exploit the habits of internet shoppers. These shameless pirates have set about to collect information on our purchases so they can then make recommendations about other things they would like us to buy. If you've been to any of the big shops, like Amazon for example, then you know what I'm talking about. Under the guise of "customer service" they are offering a new version of the classic soft sell.

Don't get me wrong. I'm down with the general concept of linking buying habits of the masses. But they've got it all wrong. Here's a typical Amazon-like recommendation: Buyers of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas also bought these fine titles; Hell's Angels, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest & The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. Oh, please! I don't want to know what the buyer's of Fear & Loathing bought, I want to know something about them. So if Amazon wants to sucker me into more purchases, they'd better tell me what I really want to know.

You see to my way of thinking, it would make more sense if when I browsed to a book, they told me something like this: Sixty four percent of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas buyers are males in their late 40's with drinking problems and a history of mental illness. Or say I'm looking at Interview with a Vampire, I expect to find out that Other readers of well-known author Anne Rice's most popular novel are usually women with active imaginations and carnal desires that lean toward a bloodthirsty lust. That's the kind of thing that would lead me to buy a book.

To be fair, booksellers are not the only purveyors of this shill. Clothing stores will often present other color coordinated items to go with your new shorts, music stores tout other bands you'll love if you listen to Pearl Jam, and even sites that sell tools will provide supposedly deep discounts if you'll also purchase a matching screwdriver set with that hammer.

So will any of these vendors take my advice? I doubt it. I'm afraid the future of online shopping will be much different. I picture (reluctantly) a scene like this:

I am browsing, let's say LL Bean for example. A red polo shirt makes it into my basket, but not without this admonition from the website: Red? That's not really a good color for you. Why don't you try the teal. It's a much better match for your complexion and will really complement your eyes.

Now that would be progress, or would it?

Everyone else is doing it, so why not me?

It is ten o'clock on Tuesday night. All over the news is the same story, young Obama is in, old Hills is out. At mere first glance there are thousands of commentaries flooding the internet. So here's my little drop in the pool.

Everyone knows Barack Obama is suave if not debonair, and bright if not experienced. They also know John McCain is a veteran of just about everything but he carries a chip on his shoulder about some of the Republican Party platform. These two will duke it out in what will in all likelihood become the most expensive campaign in human history. It will be a tumultuous maelstrom unlike any that politics has ever seen before. No one could write a better novel pitting two polar opposites against each other. And this is real. As real as it gets. Except it is also totally unreal. The sh#$ is about to fly as some people might say. Not me mind you, just other people. I'm merely throwing that line in for their benefit. Really. My mouth is clean as a whistle. Swearing is bad. And so is John McCain. Here's why.

I was willing to give McCain the benefit of the doubt. That's because I didn't know anything about him. Now I know something, and I don't like it. No, I'm not going to tell you what it is. You're just going to have to trust me on this one. It's bad. Believe me. And while you're at it, believe all the sh#$ the media is going to throw at you for the next five months. Because it's ALL true. Every word of it. Oh dear, did I say sh#$ again? Da%&, er, darn it. See what this election is doing to me already. I'm losing it I tell you. The very thought of the vile froth that is about pour forth across our nation depresses me, and oddly enough, makes me feel like a sailor. But not some Popeye-assed sailor, no, I'm thinking more like a guy drifting endlessly through the Pacific on an 18th century frigate, heading for the tempestuous waters around Cape Horn.

Speaking of Cape Horn, have you ever noticed the massive oceanic trench that cuts away from the tip of South America? It kind of reminds me of the hole Obama is going to have to get out of to win in November; big, wet, slippery, and much deeper than he ever thought possible. To begin with, he's got to deal with the VP issue right off the bat. Now the great thing about people who fight like Hillary is when they do finally throw in the towel, they capitulate completely. She's already made it known that she's willing to put all the vitriol in the past to stand proudly beside him in the Oval Office. And it's only 10:35 PM at this point.

Now I don't want to paint a ghastly scenario, but the paranoid in me speculates on the worst possible human behavior. So, what if, and I really mean just if, somebody takes OB out during the campaign. As abhorrent is the thought, we can't escape it. So if it happens, there's Hills, ready to take the reigns, prove her mettle under fire, (she'll take one that grazes her shoulder so she can zip off to the hospital away from immediate media scrutiny) and then with the courage of her convictions (not that she ever was actually convicted) and the sympathy of the American public, she will ride a wave to victory with that bold smile on her face.

But that's not going to happen.

So what is going to happen? Well before I settle down with a book for the night, I'm going to direct your attention to the real heart of the matter in this election. Are you sitting down for this? You should you know, because you're not going to see it anywhere else. Okay, you're sitting, right? I know I kind of had you on the edge of your seat there. I'm sure you're dying to know but just let the tension loose a bit. Stopping gripping the chair so tight. And let me tell you, right here on Tuesday, June 3, 2008, the key to the 2008 United States of America Presidential Election, the one thing you have to know in order to predict who will win 22 weeks away from this very day and find themselves sitting at the best seat in the White House, is nothing more than this: Who has the best haircut?

Remember in November, you heard it here first.

Two Stolen Jokes

An old country preacher had a teenage son, and it was getting time the boy should give some thought to choosing a profession. Like many young men his age, the boy didn't really know what he wanted to do, and he didn't seem too concerned about it. One day, while the boy was away at school, his father decided to try an experiment. He went into the boy's room and placed on his study table four objects.

1. A bible.
2. A silver dollar.
3. A bottle of whisky.
4. And a Playboy magazine.

"I'll just hide behind the door," the old preacher said to himself. "When he comes home from school today, I'll see which object he picks up. If it's the bible, he's going to be a preacher like me, and what a blessing that would be! If he picks up the dollar, he's going to be a business man, and that would be okay, too. But if he picks up the bottle, he's going to be a no-good drunken bum, and Lord, what a shame that would be. And worst of all if he picks up that magazine he's going to be a skirt-chasing womanizer."

The old man waited anxiously, and soon heard his son's foot- steps as he entered the house whistling and headed for his room. The boy tossed his books on the bed, and as he turned to leave the room he spotted the objects on the table. With curiosity in his eye, he walked over to inspect them.

Finally, he picked up the Bible and placed it under his arm. He picked up the silver dollar and dropped into his pocket. He uncorked the bottle and took a big drink, while he admired this month's centerfold.

"Lord have mercy," the old preacher disgustedly whispered to himself. "He's gonna run for Congress."

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The Pope and George W. Bush are on the same stage, in front of a huge crowd. ‘W’ and ‘His Holiness’, however, have seen it all before so to make it a little more interesting the President says to the Pope, “Did you know that with just one little wave of my hand I can make every Republican in this crowd go wild?”

The Pope doubts this, so W shows him. Sure enough, the wave elicits rapture and cheering from every Republican in the crowd. Gradually, the cheering subsides.

The Pope, not wanting to be outdone by such arrogance, considers what he should do.

“That was impressive. But did you know that with just one little wave of MY hand I can make EVERY person in the crowd go crazy with joy? This joy will not be a momentary display like that of your subjects, but will go deep into their hearts, and they will forever speak of this day and rejoice.”

The President seriously doubts this, and tells the Pope this. So the Pope slaps W upside the head.

Smackdown With an Otter

It is an irregular habit of mine to wander across the railroad tracks that divide my yard from the Connecticut river, scramble down the steep banking and sit for a while beside the gently flowing water. The serenity of this scene in the early evening of a late spring day is perfectly delightful and so the other day I did just that. My buddy Sukey and I perched ourselves on a flat spot, breathed in the fresh air and relaxed while watching a variety of birds flitter across the water's surface in pursuit of an evening meal.


After just a few minutes there, I was surprised to see a river otter poke its head up. Now those of you who have seen a river otter before, you should skip right over to the next paragraph. But those of you who have not, let me describe it for you. Regardless of what you might find at Wikipedia, the river otter, an amphibian (not that there's anything wrong with that), is a fearsome creature with long, sharp fangs and razor-like claws. They can grow to ten feet in length and are reputed to have stolen cats, small dogs and even unattended babies from backyards. With fur as tough as steel and lightning fast reflexes they are in short, viciously ruthless killers.

As I was saying, this bloodthirsty creature popped out of the water and began to swim towards the center of the river, moving slightly upstream. He (I say he, but that's really just a literary convenience, it could just as easily have been a little lady otter) appeared at first to give me nary a glance, but as I watched him, a curious thing happened. With obvious annoyance he raised his head slightly, looked towards the bank in my direction, then dove beneath the water with a loud slap of his tail against its surface.


Now on the face of it, this action might be considered as just some cute little animal fun. But I had seen the look in his eye and I knew the truth. Without the benefit of vocal cords, this otter was talking trash at me. Any doubt I might have had about this supposition (not that there was any), was entirely erased moments later (or would have been had there been any). Having taken a deep dive, he resurfaced slightly downstream, turned and headed back towards me, this time coming closer to the bank.


Somewhat taken aback by his behavior, I hesitated, and for doing so received another audible assault. It was nearly a repetition of the early incident, but this time he whacked the water even harder. It was clear, that tail slapping was meant for me, and it wasn't a friendly "Hello." At this point I knew I couldn't just sit back on my heels. So I watched carefully to see when and where he would come up next. It didn't take long. He had taken advantage of his secret submarine skills and drawn himself even closer to the shoreline. But I was ready for him. You see my highly evolved human mind also took advantage of his secret submarine skills and so by the time he had resurfaced, I was at the water's edge. Before he had a chance to lash out at me again, I slapped my hand down on the surface of the river and relished the smacking sound it produced. If he wanted to talk trash, well I was down with that.


So I got his attention (along with wet pants). He tread water for a moment, raised his arrogant head slightly, and then plunged down again with totally tame tail slap. Clearly I had him rattled. When he popped up next he was well upstream and he continued swimming that way, the ripples of his motion rolling gently away from his body towards both shores. I had called his bluff and he backed down, the wimp.



River otters aren't particularly social critters but they can cover a fairly large territory and are bound to run into each other now and again. So by now I'd guess most of his buddies have heard about the guy who won't take any lip from trash talking river otters and I don't expect my peaceful evening reverie will be spoiled again for a while. You know who owns this river now Mistuh Ottuh, and you'd best be glidin' by nice and quiet next time your on my turf or we'll see who really knows how to slap some tail...

Today's Lessons

Today I learned a few things the hard way. The real hard way. I learned that cars, even small ones, are actually fairly hard and can be somewhat immovable objects. And I learned that something I always suspected is actually true. The people who drive cars aren't necessarily paying attention to what's going on around them. I also learned that you should never underestimate the kindness of strangers, or the dependability of friends.

When I first started riding a motorcycle almost everyone I spoke with said it is inevitable that someday I'd "lay it down". "It happens to everyone," they all said. This was very similar to something I had been told when I first started running sled dogs, "everyone loses their team sometime." When I first heard that I thought, "how could you lose your team?" Of course I figured it would never happen to me. Then one day I was training in the Groton, Vermont state forest. It was fairly early in the day, about 10 degrees below zero, but a lovely, sunny January morning. The air was cold, but crisp in that invigorating winter sort of way. I reached a turnaround point about 5 miles from where we started, swung my team 180 degrees to head back to the truck and then stood back to admire the special beauty of a happy sled dog team. Then I watched in horror as they jerked forward, pulled the snowhook (kind of like a boat anchor for dogsleds), and bolted down the trail without me.

It is difficult enough to get one dog to respond to the command "come", but convincing a team of huskies to turn around for their driver is a special talent that very few mushers possess. Sure, I had read about people who could, but apparently I wasn't one of them. So, I ran down the trail after them, shouting (pleading, really) for them to come back, but to no avail. By the time they slipped out of sight around a corner I'm afraid my yelling was colored by words that might make even a sailor blush. With nothing else to do, I just kept running, and running, and running, until I finally reached the truck to see them all sitting in a bunch, tails wagging and eyes concurrently laughing at me while clearly saying, "where have you been? We're hungry!" It was around that point that I remembered something else I had been told by the sages of the sport. Never let go of the sled. Never. Ever.

But I digress...because that was a long time ago and what happened today had nothing to do with dogs. No, today I had the misfortune of discovering just how exposed one can be when riding on an open, 2-wheeled vehicle instead of being wrapped more safely within the confines of what bikers call "cages". Cars, you see, despite all their fallibilities, are still a heck of a lot safer than motorcycles. I suppose I knew that intuitively before, but now I have the experience to prove it. Kind of like an experiment that validates a theory. The final proof of my theorem is best shown by the photograph here. This is what can happen when a relatively small object with many plastic parts hits a much larger one at a certain velocity. If this photo by itself doesn't help much in giving you the perspective, compare it to the one in my earlier post below.

Now the good news to all this is that I miraculously avoided serious injury. It could have been so much worse and so in seeking a silver lining to this black cloud I can happily say I am so glad to be writing this post from my home and not a hospital bed. I was fortunate enough to be attended to on the spot of the accident by both a nurse and an EMT who just happened to be driving by. A very kind fellow whose name but not generosity I've forgotten, was kind enough to bring a pair of ramps that were an invaluable aid in loading the bike into a truck. And I was lucky enough to have a very good friend, Jack, who without a second thought, dropped everything he was doing to come pick up me and the shattered remains of my motorcycle and bring it and me back to my apartment. I am indebted to all of these people for their assistance and though it is unlikely that I will ever be able to repay all of them directly, you can be sure I will do the same for someone else if, God forbid, the opportunity comes my way someday in the future.

Oh, and I learned something else, too. There is no price tag to high for a good helmet and jacket. Both were worth every single penny...

A Friend

As I was driving home one night a little while ago, a nearly full orange moon was sneaking through the treetops as I wove my way East. I considered my riding companion and decided a tribute might be in order.

Who is a friend,
Who asks no questions,
Tells no lies,
Gives no suggestions,
Carries a smile,
When one's really needed,
Dwells never long,
If ever defeated,
Offers sympathy,
When it's required,
Knows how to sleep,
Yet, never gets tired,
It surely must be,
When day's finally done,
For a man's best friend,
A dog is the one.

Tougher than Tiger

In early April of this year Sports Illustrated posted an article called The Toughest 25 Athletes. Like so many lists, this one was bound to be controversial. To begin with, exactly how could one define tough in the context of so many different sports? At SI, in order to defend their lame choices, they gave a very wide ranging set of criteria which makes it rather difficult to argue with their decisions. Except, and this is something I find particularly astonishing, their number one choice, Tiger Woods. What? Tiger? Tough? And not just any plain old street guy tough, but the toughest athlete in the world??? At first I said to myself, "Dude, check the date. It's April 1. Must be an April Fool's joke. Yeah, that's it. Good one. Almost got me there SI guys."

But no, it's not a joke, at least not intentionally as far as I can tell. They chose Tiger, really. Now I will not question for a second that Woods is an incredibly gifted athlete. And I'll even admit that he has, at times, shown some great nerve under serious stress on the links. But the toughest athlete in the world??? Nope. Sorry but I ain't buyin' it.

My argument is ridiculously easy. By way of comparison, look at their # 2, sled dog musher Lance Mackey. This guy just happens to be the other amazing athlete named Lance who beat cancer and then one-upped himself by totally beating the pants off his competition, too. But unlike Tiger, instead of waking from a comfortable night in a hotel room to press his slacks and shirt each day before stepping out under the sunswept greens and fairways to ply his leisurely trade prior to cocktails in the clubhouse, Mackey merely braves winter's worst weather while suffering severe sleep deprivation to drive the team of extraordinary huskies he's been training all year through some seriously nasty wilderness. Over 1000 miles. In 10 days. Twice. In one winter. To win. Two years in a row.

For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, let me explain. Up there in Alaska they get a little bored in the winter. So to pass the time, some of them (masochists more likely than not) conjured up a couple of sled dog races to pass the time. The Iditarod, which runs from Anchorage to Nome, is the more famous of the two, but equally (and some say more) challenging, is the Yukon Quest which traverses the extremely rugged terrain between Fairbanks and Dawson in the Yukon. Both are somewhere around 1000 miles long. Both test the limit of human patience, endurance and intestinal fortitude (as well as the ability to train and then care for 16 remarkable canine athletes under extreme conditions). Now to merely finish one of these races is an accomplishment for most people. But winning? Well that requires a significantly expanded set of skills, not the least of which includes extraordinary physical and mental toughness. And not only did Lance win the Yukon Quest last year (2007) but he followed it up mere weeks later by winning the Iditarod, too. Then, not content to rest on the laurels of this first ever accomplishment, he did the same thing this year. Think about it for a second, maybe even a moment. The guy won back to back 1000+ mile sled dog races, two years in a row. I would go on and on about just how amazing this is but the more I think about it the more I realize there just aren't words to capture that kind of human achievement. But I will add that last year Mackey was a runner-up for the ESPN "ESPY" award for Best Outdoors Athlete and if he doesn't win this year it will be, without question, a travesty.

Okay, so enough about Lance and Tiger, what about the other picks? Who cares? If you screw up the top slot that badly, how much value can we put in the rest? None. And I can say this confidently because it's the easiest way for me to get out of ripping the entire article to shreds, which, quite frankly I don't have time to do. But I would like to make a couple of other observations.

First of all, in regards to the current top 50 I'm a bit surprised (stunned actually) they left off mountain climber extraordinaire Ed Viesturs. Why, you might ask, should Viesturs be on the list? Oh, I don't know, maybe because he's climbed all the tallest peaks on the planet. Without bottled oxygen. In flip-flops. Okay, I made that last one up. But seriously, doesn't that kind of climbing take a little more toughness than dropping a 6 foot putt to add a few more million to your already healthy bank account?

Finally, I simply can't help but drop the bomb on the accompanying gallery of 50 Old School Tough Guys. I won't, though I certainly could, quibble over any of their selections in this category. But for them to leave out Eddie Shore, quite possibly one of the most talented and demented athletes to ever don a uniform, is simply unfathomable. It's the demented part that puts Shore in the elite of tough. Examples abound but because I like irony, I'll just point you to this article from SI's very own archives. Read it, then come back here and tell me that isn't one of the toughest SOBs that ever, er, graced, the sporting world. 'nuff said.