OK, let me get this straight... pretty much anyone breathing right now in the U.S. is going to get a rebate check. Our government says this money is for spending -- go out and buy something, anything, for gosh sakes; it will help save our economy from recession.
Please don't use it to pay down your credit cards, or save it for retirement, or put it under the mattress, no sirree, Bob. Our friends George and Nancy want you to make like a bandit for the department store, the car dealership, Disney world, where ever, and blow it as soon as you can.
This is nuts.
For one thing, where are those billions coming from? Isn't this country running a huge deficit? Isn't our dollar's value pathetically low? Aren't we already straining, budget-wise, due to the war?
First things first. I think I can credit Mike Huckabee for the following thought, but don't quote me on it:
We don't have $150 billion sitting around, we have to borrow it. Who loans us money these days? The Red Chinese. We pass all that money out, and what will we be buying down at the local Wal-mart? Stuff made in China... so whose economy are we helping, anyway?
That's right, Mike. Think of how history would have been changed had Herbert Hoover just printed up a few extra billion dollars and spread it around the country back in 1929. It boggles the mind -- Roosevelt might have lost the election. No WPA, no CCC, no NRA, no "We have nothing to fear, but fear... itself".
Poor Herbert, he was a victim of his own pre-Reaganesque trickle-down, supply-side economics, though to his credit he actually thought the dollar should be worth a dollar. It was Roosevelt who took us off the gold-standard, remember... and Americans were forced to turn in their gold coinage. (Gold was something like $32 an ounce, then.) Even when we were kids, paper money had the words "silver certificate" printed on them. Theoretically, you could exchange the paper for real silver at the treasury. Your paper money these days is just...paper.
So, these days, rather than create a beneficial, seemingly benevolent governmental bureaucracy to put people to work, like FDR did, it's easier just to hand out some dollar bills and hope the problem goes away. Yeah, right. George and Nancy are, in effect, Giving cancer patients aspirin; they can say they honestly did something, and if the patient doesn't feel any better, at least they will.
It's the same reasoning we used in Vietnam. Remember Zippo raids? Our troops would march in to a village, set the hooches on fire with their Zippo lighters, round up the civilians and ship them off to someplace "safe". Our logic was that we had to destroy the village in order to save it. Our government thinks that in order to save the American economy, we have to destroy what value the dollar has left, so that our debts are essentially less and the hourly value of our labor more competitive with the third world.
So, in short, neither Republican or Democrat, conservative or liberal have the slightest clue how to save our economy without destroying it. May God help us all.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Something Of Value
Recently I placed three groups of books for sale on eBay. The first was a six-volume set of hardcover books sold by Time-Life back in the 1960's that covered the world of science and mathematics. The second set was a collection of American Heritage hardcover periodicals; the third, Britannica's 'Book of the Year' from 1968 to 1975.
Of the three, only one sold, the Britannica year books, for the grand sum of $10. I've yet to be paid.
All of these works took months of effort to create by their authors. They are a veritable treasure trove of information. Yet, nobody wants them. I guess I'll put them back on the shelves they've occupied for the last few decades, and someday the wife or kids can dispose of them.
Meanwhile, the nation occupies its time watching so-called 'reality' shows on MTV. These shows are not real, their situations are not real, the actors in them are as phony as the rest of the show. Yet the public is fascinated.
I suppose there's an ironic point to be made here, but all I can come with right now is a deep, deep sadness for our world.
Of the three, only one sold, the Britannica year books, for the grand sum of $10. I've yet to be paid.
All of these works took months of effort to create by their authors. They are a veritable treasure trove of information. Yet, nobody wants them. I guess I'll put them back on the shelves they've occupied for the last few decades, and someday the wife or kids can dispose of them.
Meanwhile, the nation occupies its time watching so-called 'reality' shows on MTV. These shows are not real, their situations are not real, the actors in them are as phony as the rest of the show. Yet the public is fascinated.
I suppose there's an ironic point to be made here, but all I can come with right now is a deep, deep sadness for our world.
No, Really, What Time Is It?
The Doomsday Clock -- from The Bulletin of Atomic Scientists:
The Bulletin Online
The Bulletin Online
Sunday, January 20, 2008
My Brand New Bicycle...(sorta)
Those who follow my blog are aware of my recent fascination with all things Bicycle. We all knew it would happen sooner or later...yes, I bought a bike. Sorta.
I say "sorta" because it's sort of missing a few parts. Like wheels. A seat. Handlebars. A fork.... for starters.
I can hear the wailing and gnashing of teeth from here. "What kind of junk did he drag home this time?"
Come on, guys. You know me too well. I like Old Stuff. In this case, it's just a bike frame, circa 1980-something. It's called a Proteus. It was built in a small specialty bicycle shop in College Park, Maryland...so it's kind of rare. Nothing out of a giant factory here. They started building bikes in 1972, and this one, built ten years later, is only serial number 1187. That's roughly two bikes a week. Why they named their bikes after Proteus, the Greek god of the sea, I have no idea. Maybe the first few owners threw them into the ocean.
Now, while the frame is a quarter-century old, it's actually brand new, never having been built into a completed bike. It hung on some bike shop wall for years, if I'm to believe the seller's eBay description. It is a brilliant Ferrari red. "Just a few nicks from storage" I'm told. We'll see. I think I want to repaint it, anyway.
It's got sexy lugs. Lugs are very important on old bikes. They are the joints that hold good bike frame tubing together, you see. This one has some fancy curves, and cutouts shaped like hearts. These lugs are from Italy. Oooh.
I showed pictures of them to my wife. She looked rather dubious. I think she was hoping that if I must spend money on a bicycle, I could at least ride the damn thing by the time the check cleared. But noooooo.......not David.
Now I can start collecting handlebars and a seat and the three-dozen other gizmos I'll need so that I can screw it together. I know what it will look like. I know how it will feel.
Proteus will glide effortlessly, almost silently down the street. The steering will react as if by telepathy. Hunched over the bars, I will peer over the top of my glasses, therefore obscuring my vision. Small specks of road debris will fly off the tires and pepper my face. My fat ass will squirm on the hard, imported leather seat. The tires will moan, pitch rising as I press harder on the pedals. Faster, faster, I will coax my Italian-American steed.
Until I am out of breath. Or slam into a car. Did I tell you I'm not going to destroy this bike's seductive, clean lines, by adding brake cables? That's right -- Proteus will have no brakes. It's the trendy thing, trust me.
It's all going to be sooooooo cool.
I say "sorta" because it's sort of missing a few parts. Like wheels. A seat. Handlebars. A fork.... for starters.
I can hear the wailing and gnashing of teeth from here. "What kind of junk did he drag home this time?"
Come on, guys. You know me too well. I like Old Stuff. In this case, it's just a bike frame, circa 1980-something. It's called a Proteus. It was built in a small specialty bicycle shop in College Park, Maryland...so it's kind of rare. Nothing out of a giant factory here. They started building bikes in 1972, and this one, built ten years later, is only serial number 1187. That's roughly two bikes a week. Why they named their bikes after Proteus, the Greek god of the sea, I have no idea. Maybe the first few owners threw them into the ocean.
Now, while the frame is a quarter-century old, it's actually brand new, never having been built into a completed bike. It hung on some bike shop wall for years, if I'm to believe the seller's eBay description. It is a brilliant Ferrari red. "Just a few nicks from storage" I'm told. We'll see. I think I want to repaint it, anyway.
It's got sexy lugs. Lugs are very important on old bikes. They are the joints that hold good bike frame tubing together, you see. This one has some fancy curves, and cutouts shaped like hearts. These lugs are from Italy. Oooh.
I showed pictures of them to my wife. She looked rather dubious. I think she was hoping that if I must spend money on a bicycle, I could at least ride the damn thing by the time the check cleared. But noooooo.......not David.
Now I can start collecting handlebars and a seat and the three-dozen other gizmos I'll need so that I can screw it together. I know what it will look like. I know how it will feel.
Proteus will glide effortlessly, almost silently down the street. The steering will react as if by telepathy. Hunched over the bars, I will peer over the top of my glasses, therefore obscuring my vision. Small specks of road debris will fly off the tires and pepper my face. My fat ass will squirm on the hard, imported leather seat. The tires will moan, pitch rising as I press harder on the pedals. Faster, faster, I will coax my Italian-American steed.
Until I am out of breath. Or slam into a car. Did I tell you I'm not going to destroy this bike's seductive, clean lines, by adding brake cables? That's right -- Proteus will have no brakes. It's the trendy thing, trust me.
It's all going to be sooooooo cool.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Cool Site Alert: The Star Wars Guide To The Candidates
Just too funny for words. I wish I'd thought of this.
best of craigslist : Star Wars Guide to the Candidates
best of craigslist : Star Wars Guide to the Candidates
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Blame The Sixties On Dr. Seuss
Those of you out in Internetland, who actually have met my wife and I, will be familiar with our recently redecorated kitchen. One of the key elements in our post-war 1940's design are the curtains, which feature illustrations from the old Dick and Jane books we knew from elementary school.
Remember Dick and Jane? They were the nice, well-adjusted kids living in an active, kid-friendly neighborhood with dogs and cats and blond little sisters. Dick and Jane rode bicycles and pushed wagons and roller-skated on the sidewalk. Mom and dad seemed never far away; you had the sense they were just out of frame, making sure everyone played by the rules, while they did the dishes or washed the Hudson Hornet.
Then, along came Dr. Seuss.
Suddenly good old Dick and Jane were, well, uncool. Progressives (we called them liberals, or commies, back then) criticised Dick and Jane's neighborhood for being too middle-class, too white, and, in effect, too goodie-two-shoes. The dear Doctor, on the other hand, illustrated his neighborhoods with Salvador Dali-esque houses and trees and odd-shaped characters we'd never seen before. Even the typography was deformed! The Left loved Seuss's creativity, his tongue-twisting alliterations, his rebellion against conformity and uniformity.
"Oh, the places you'll go," Seuss promised. A decade before any of my generation smoked their first joints, we'd already been introduced to a hallucinogenic lifestyle.
Meanwhile, over at Dick and Jane's, things were getting tough. Stories were revised. Kids of Other Colors moved onto the block. Everyone wore more contemporary clothing, and Dad got a newer car, but... things just weren't changing fast enough to suit an America dealing with riots in the big city, freedom marches, assassinations, moon shots, and Vietnam.
Suddenly, Dick and Jane's world looked less real than the Cat in the Hat's. Anybody for green eggs and ham? Far out, dude, pass the plate...by the way, did you say "ham," or "hash"?
Seuss had subverted America. Parents in his books looked stupid, and naturally hadn't a clue what to do with a Horton or a Who. Don't look to your parents; only Cats in Hats had answers. Poor Dick and Jane; their kitten only knew how to play with a ball of yarn.
And soon, by the late-sixties, all parents everywhere looked stupid. Our other role models, the ones on TV, had evolved from well-meaning Ozzie and Harriet Nelson into Archie and Edith Bunker. The White House had gone from two war heros, Eisenhower and Kennedy, to two lying crooks, LBJ and Nixon. Republican or Democrat, it didn't matter -- our world was seriously screwed up.
"Teach your children" CSNY sang. So we did. We passed Dr. Seuss on to our kids, and soon, they'll do the same. Dick and Jane fade farther into the nostalgic past, soon to be as arcane as the moralistic stories told in our grandparent's McGuffy readers.
I suppose the kids who are home schooled by conservative parents, or those living in Mormon Utah, or some other outpost of traditional (read right-wing) America will be indoctrinated differently. It probably doesn't matter; the pendulum swings backward, as well as forward, eventually. I hope.
Maybe there's a boy and girl out there, somewhere, happy to ride their bikes down the sidewalk, their dog chasing playfully alongside them, who will never know what a Grinch is, or how he stole Christmas. I don't know. I just know there's something missing from this world I'd like to have back.
Remember Dick and Jane? They were the nice, well-adjusted kids living in an active, kid-friendly neighborhood with dogs and cats and blond little sisters. Dick and Jane rode bicycles and pushed wagons and roller-skated on the sidewalk. Mom and dad seemed never far away; you had the sense they were just out of frame, making sure everyone played by the rules, while they did the dishes or washed the Hudson Hornet.
Then, along came Dr. Seuss.
Suddenly good old Dick and Jane were, well, uncool. Progressives (we called them liberals, or commies, back then) criticised Dick and Jane's neighborhood for being too middle-class, too white, and, in effect, too goodie-two-shoes. The dear Doctor, on the other hand, illustrated his neighborhoods with Salvador Dali-esque houses and trees and odd-shaped characters we'd never seen before. Even the typography was deformed! The Left loved Seuss's creativity, his tongue-twisting alliterations, his rebellion against conformity and uniformity.
"Oh, the places you'll go," Seuss promised. A decade before any of my generation smoked their first joints, we'd already been introduced to a hallucinogenic lifestyle.
Meanwhile, over at Dick and Jane's, things were getting tough. Stories were revised. Kids of Other Colors moved onto the block. Everyone wore more contemporary clothing, and Dad got a newer car, but... things just weren't changing fast enough to suit an America dealing with riots in the big city, freedom marches, assassinations, moon shots, and Vietnam.
Suddenly, Dick and Jane's world looked less real than the Cat in the Hat's. Anybody for green eggs and ham? Far out, dude, pass the plate...by the way, did you say "ham," or "hash"?
Seuss had subverted America. Parents in his books looked stupid, and naturally hadn't a clue what to do with a Horton or a Who. Don't look to your parents; only Cats in Hats had answers. Poor Dick and Jane; their kitten only knew how to play with a ball of yarn.
And soon, by the late-sixties, all parents everywhere looked stupid. Our other role models, the ones on TV, had evolved from well-meaning Ozzie and Harriet Nelson into Archie and Edith Bunker. The White House had gone from two war heros, Eisenhower and Kennedy, to two lying crooks, LBJ and Nixon. Republican or Democrat, it didn't matter -- our world was seriously screwed up.
"Teach your children" CSNY sang. So we did. We passed Dr. Seuss on to our kids, and soon, they'll do the same. Dick and Jane fade farther into the nostalgic past, soon to be as arcane as the moralistic stories told in our grandparent's McGuffy readers.
I suppose the kids who are home schooled by conservative parents, or those living in Mormon Utah, or some other outpost of traditional (read right-wing) America will be indoctrinated differently. It probably doesn't matter; the pendulum swings backward, as well as forward, eventually. I hope.
Maybe there's a boy and girl out there, somewhere, happy to ride their bikes down the sidewalk, their dog chasing playfully alongside them, who will never know what a Grinch is, or how he stole Christmas. I don't know. I just know there's something missing from this world I'd like to have back.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Up Periscope - The Colonoscopy Chronicles Part 2
A clean colon is a happy colon. Apparently, I have a happy colon. Getting that information is a relief; getting to the point where you can get that info is the trick.
Since we last talked about colonoscopy, I spent two days prepping my guts for the test and another visiting the medical center and having my innards probed. For those of my vast Internet audience who are contemplating such a screening, let me give you the bottom line:
It ain't that bad.
The prep work is the hard part. It takes 48 hours. Chugging the laxative solution mixed with ginger ale is disgusting stuff. It leaves a gag-inducing taste in your mouth that several glasses of water fail to remove. There is an alternative witches brew of laxative with lemonade, which could be better - the lack of carbonation might make it easier to drink.
Once that's down, you wait.
Your gastro-intestinal tract growls and rumbles like an old boiler. Finally, your bowels say: Go.
And you do. And again. And again. And again....
You can't eat anything while all this is going on, of course. I felt hungry, but not overly so. I did have one recurring craving - toast. I'd have given a lot for a single piece of buttered toast. That night, I dream of food. I never dream about food... odd.
Although the screening wasn't until after noon, I still had to be up for my 5 AM dose of spiked ginger ale. Back in the day, Anita Bryant on TV would chirp that "a great day begins with orange juice." It sure wasn't the stuff I was drinking.
Back to gagging, grumbling, and squirting for the last few hours, then away we go...
The nurse, as it turns out, is an old neighbor. Dan, the anesthesiologist, politely laughs while I pepper him with bad jokes.
Dan the man ticks off boxes on his chart. "Do you drink?" he asks.
"Only to excess," I cheerily reply, and then correct the statement with fact.
My Old Neighbor takes forever to find a vein and start an IV. Thanks for being careful, but...
Another nurse wanders in and opens a tall cabinet. I wish I hadn't seen that; inside is a row of the dreaded Black Snakes, one of which will soon be exploring my insides. They look sooooo long, six feet, at the least, hanging on their hooks...
The Doc, a pleasant Asian gentleman, comes in to introduce himself and make sure I know that he might rip a hole in my colon requiring major emergency surgery, but that it happens very, very rarely. Thanks for the disclosure, doc.
Dan injects two vials of drugs into my IV......
"Wake up, David," My wife instructs. It's an hour or so later.
No thanks, I'm comfortable right here. ZZZzzzzz.
I'm in a different room. No pain whatsoever, but I'm still sedated and disoriented. I don't remember getting dressed. The doc comes in, but all I remember him saying is "Everything looks good; no polyps," and he waves a page of color photographs in front of me...like I could focus? Yeah, right, whatever.
A little later, while Wifey drives me home, I eat the best tasting hamburger I've had in years and slurp a chocolate milkshake. Good stuff after two days of nothing to eat.
So, that's it. Nothing to be afraid of; no pain. We'll see if I remember that when I go back for another one in five years.
--
For more info, check out the Mayo Clinic website. These days, you can probably find video of the procedure on Youtube, if you dig that sort of thing.
Since we last talked about colonoscopy, I spent two days prepping my guts for the test and another visiting the medical center and having my innards probed. For those of my vast Internet audience who are contemplating such a screening, let me give you the bottom line:
It ain't that bad.
The prep work is the hard part. It takes 48 hours. Chugging the laxative solution mixed with ginger ale is disgusting stuff. It leaves a gag-inducing taste in your mouth that several glasses of water fail to remove. There is an alternative witches brew of laxative with lemonade, which could be better - the lack of carbonation might make it easier to drink.
Once that's down, you wait.
Your gastro-intestinal tract growls and rumbles like an old boiler. Finally, your bowels say: Go.
And you do. And again. And again. And again....
You can't eat anything while all this is going on, of course. I felt hungry, but not overly so. I did have one recurring craving - toast. I'd have given a lot for a single piece of buttered toast. That night, I dream of food. I never dream about food... odd.
Although the screening wasn't until after noon, I still had to be up for my 5 AM dose of spiked ginger ale. Back in the day, Anita Bryant on TV would chirp that "a great day begins with orange juice." It sure wasn't the stuff I was drinking.
Back to gagging, grumbling, and squirting for the last few hours, then away we go...
The nurse, as it turns out, is an old neighbor. Dan, the anesthesiologist, politely laughs while I pepper him with bad jokes.
Dan the man ticks off boxes on his chart. "Do you drink?" he asks.
"Only to excess," I cheerily reply, and then correct the statement with fact.
My Old Neighbor takes forever to find a vein and start an IV. Thanks for being careful, but...
Another nurse wanders in and opens a tall cabinet. I wish I hadn't seen that; inside is a row of the dreaded Black Snakes, one of which will soon be exploring my insides. They look sooooo long, six feet, at the least, hanging on their hooks...
The Doc, a pleasant Asian gentleman, comes in to introduce himself and make sure I know that he might rip a hole in my colon requiring major emergency surgery, but that it happens very, very rarely. Thanks for the disclosure, doc.
Dan injects two vials of drugs into my IV......
"Wake up, David," My wife instructs. It's an hour or so later.
No thanks, I'm comfortable right here. ZZZzzzzz.
I'm in a different room. No pain whatsoever, but I'm still sedated and disoriented. I don't remember getting dressed. The doc comes in, but all I remember him saying is "Everything looks good; no polyps," and he waves a page of color photographs in front of me...like I could focus? Yeah, right, whatever.
A little later, while Wifey drives me home, I eat the best tasting hamburger I've had in years and slurp a chocolate milkshake. Good stuff after two days of nothing to eat.
So, that's it. Nothing to be afraid of; no pain. We'll see if I remember that when I go back for another one in five years.
--
For more info, check out the Mayo Clinic website. These days, you can probably find video of the procedure on Youtube, if you dig that sort of thing.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Tracks Of My Tears
I'm kind of focused on health issues (see previous post regarding my colonoscopy) and it occurred to me that my body itself is a kind of blog for my half-century-plus of life.
I don't need tattoos to remind me where I've been. A quick look-around will find evidence of some painful experiences...
Circa 1962-66: My kneecaps were cut and scraped so many times from childhood falls that they are just one big hunk of wrinkled scar tissue. I could have provided transfusions with all the blood I lost from them during that period.
1963: Damage to my right eye while playing with my cat. My vision's gone down hill ever since.
1968: Acquired seven-inch scar across my right lower belly from appendix removal. There I was, accompanying my parents to the grocery store, and WHAM! I doubled over in excruciating pain. The surgery the next morning caused me to miss the inaugural California 500 Indy car race, for which my dad had acquired full-access media passes. At least I got out of six weeks of Phys. Ed. in school.
1969: While farting around with a bunch of other kids on the slippery perimeter of a chum's swimming pool, I slipped and ripped off one of my toenails. It never grew back correctly and to this day reminds me of when I met one of my best friends...isn't that right, Dale?
1973: I'm cleaning the meat slicer at the restaurant I work at. The blade is razor-sharp. I am very, very careful. My right index finger still manages to find its way across the edge of the blade. Clutz.
1987: Helped another friend transplant a new engine into his Jeep. I'm standing on the front fender, guiding the motor into place. The engine is swinging from a chain-fall. Unbeknownst to me, my dear buddy has used undersized and/or metric threaded bolts into the block... One slips out; motor slams down, and my hand, wrapped tightly around and through the chain, zooms up -- through the hoist. Result: missing right index-fingertip and a goodly chunk of the webbing between my thumb and index finger. Today, what used to be the side of my index finger is now its end, and I have a spiderweb of white scars where some of my webbing used to be.
2002-present: Two-inch thick layer of fat around my midsection. My wife is an excellent cook.
I don't need tattoos to remind me where I've been. A quick look-around will find evidence of some painful experiences...
Circa 1962-66: My kneecaps were cut and scraped so many times from childhood falls that they are just one big hunk of wrinkled scar tissue. I could have provided transfusions with all the blood I lost from them during that period.
1963: Damage to my right eye while playing with my cat. My vision's gone down hill ever since.
1968: Acquired seven-inch scar across my right lower belly from appendix removal. There I was, accompanying my parents to the grocery store, and WHAM! I doubled over in excruciating pain. The surgery the next morning caused me to miss the inaugural California 500 Indy car race, for which my dad had acquired full-access media passes. At least I got out of six weeks of Phys. Ed. in school.
1969: While farting around with a bunch of other kids on the slippery perimeter of a chum's swimming pool, I slipped and ripped off one of my toenails. It never grew back correctly and to this day reminds me of when I met one of my best friends...isn't that right, Dale?
1973: I'm cleaning the meat slicer at the restaurant I work at. The blade is razor-sharp. I am very, very careful. My right index finger still manages to find its way across the edge of the blade. Clutz.
1987: Helped another friend transplant a new engine into his Jeep. I'm standing on the front fender, guiding the motor into place. The engine is swinging from a chain-fall. Unbeknownst to me, my dear buddy has used undersized and/or metric threaded bolts into the block... One slips out; motor slams down, and my hand, wrapped tightly around and through the chain, zooms up -- through the hoist. Result: missing right index-fingertip and a goodly chunk of the webbing between my thumb and index finger. Today, what used to be the side of my index finger is now its end, and I have a spiderweb of white scars where some of my webbing used to be.
2002-present: Two-inch thick layer of fat around my midsection. My wife is an excellent cook.
Up Periscope - The Colonoscopy Chronicles, Part 1
We men of a certain age (over 50) are told by our doctors that a routine colonsocopy is, as Martha Stewart would put it, a "good thing". I've been blowing off my doctor for the past three years on the subject, but the time has come to join the snake-up-the-ass club.
It must be a popular exam; it's been six months since I first called to make the appointment. The clock is running, as they say in NASA parlance -- T minus 48 hours. Unlike a NASA rocket launch though, I'll be spending the next two days de-fueling my internal tanks. No solid food, only water, Jello, and clear broth. Yummy.
The condemned man did eat a hearty breakfast. My wife prepared fresh waffles and crisp bacon, which I washed down with my last cup of coffee. I later snuck a handful of sliced oranges and my traditional tuna sandwich in seconds before the noon deadline. (Burp.)
The next big step is to take the liquids from the pharmacy that should make me crap like the proverbial goose. It's too bad I waxed the kitchen floor yesterday, because I've got a feeling the gastric juices in my vomit are going to eat right through that fresh shiny surface. I don't do well with medicine, you see.
In case you haven't guessed, I'm not the world's best patient. My sister-in-law seems to endure annual major surgeries with little complaint. Me? "Help, I've got a hangnail! Mommeeeee!"
I'm going to warn the doc that I'm telling the whole World Wide Web about what he's doing to me. So all three of you stay tuned, ya hear?
It must be a popular exam; it's been six months since I first called to make the appointment. The clock is running, as they say in NASA parlance -- T minus 48 hours. Unlike a NASA rocket launch though, I'll be spending the next two days de-fueling my internal tanks. No solid food, only water, Jello, and clear broth. Yummy.
The condemned man did eat a hearty breakfast. My wife prepared fresh waffles and crisp bacon, which I washed down with my last cup of coffee. I later snuck a handful of sliced oranges and my traditional tuna sandwich in seconds before the noon deadline. (Burp.)
The next big step is to take the liquids from the pharmacy that should make me crap like the proverbial goose. It's too bad I waxed the kitchen floor yesterday, because I've got a feeling the gastric juices in my vomit are going to eat right through that fresh shiny surface. I don't do well with medicine, you see.
In case you haven't guessed, I'm not the world's best patient. My sister-in-law seems to endure annual major surgeries with little complaint. Me? "Help, I've got a hangnail! Mommeeeee!"
I'm going to warn the doc that I'm telling the whole World Wide Web about what he's doing to me. So all three of you stay tuned, ya hear?
Friday, January 11, 2008
The Real End Game For Iraq
For all the talk conservatives have force-fed us on Iraq, nobody has dared suggest anything but that the Iraqi government will eventually get its act together and create a free and democratic nation. The left wing hasn't suggested anything less optimistic, save that we bail out immediately, and by doing so, force their government into functionality by way of coalition-style "tough love".
I've got a different scenario, one that their traditionally undemocratic society will no doubt embrace when the time comes.
Here's how it's going to come down, ladies and gentlemen. The Sunni and Shia are going to continue to bitch-slap each other in their Parliament for the next decade. Meanwhile, we're going to do what we do best, which is build them a fully-trained, well-equipped army so that presumptively the country can protect itself.
Nobody trains soldiers like we can. We'll build a cadre of professionals that can field-strip their AK-47's blindfolded, under mortar attack, all while singing the national anthem and taking a crap in a slit trench. We'll send their officers to war colleges in America and they'll learn the fine art of which fork to use at state dinners.
We can't teach democracy, but we can teach them corporation-style military management. Junior-grade soldiers will learn the quickest way out of the trench is by kissing ass and memorizing George C. Scott's speech from "Patton". Middle-management Majors will learn double-entry bookkeeping and read the translated version of "How To Win Friends and Influence People." And the Generals?
They'll increasingly look with disgust at the professionalism of their people, and the worthlessness of their government. And then, one day, over a cold one down at the PX, one General is going to look at another General and grumble: "You know, Adbul, those clowns up in Bagdhad? We could do a better job running the country than those idiots."
And so 72 hours later, there's a coup. The general with the best looks and table manners will stand before the people and say, "Change is coming. Believe in us."
He might even look a little like Barack Obama, for all we know.
We'll shrug our shoulders, and see the logic behind it all; never mind those of us with good memories, recalling that this was the path to power for Saddam Hussein.
So it goes. Democracy is nice, but the US will settle for a friendly dictator, any day.
Of course, thats just as long as General Abdul Barack Obama says he loves America, sells us oil, and buys Chevy pickups and F-16's with the proceeds. Well, then, sure. Everything will be just fine with good 'ol Uncle Sam.
I've got a different scenario, one that their traditionally undemocratic society will no doubt embrace when the time comes.
Here's how it's going to come down, ladies and gentlemen. The Sunni and Shia are going to continue to bitch-slap each other in their Parliament for the next decade. Meanwhile, we're going to do what we do best, which is build them a fully-trained, well-equipped army so that presumptively the country can protect itself.
Nobody trains soldiers like we can. We'll build a cadre of professionals that can field-strip their AK-47's blindfolded, under mortar attack, all while singing the national anthem and taking a crap in a slit trench. We'll send their officers to war colleges in America and they'll learn the fine art of which fork to use at state dinners.
We can't teach democracy, but we can teach them corporation-style military management. Junior-grade soldiers will learn the quickest way out of the trench is by kissing ass and memorizing George C. Scott's speech from "Patton". Middle-management Majors will learn double-entry bookkeeping and read the translated version of "How To Win Friends and Influence People." And the Generals?
They'll increasingly look with disgust at the professionalism of their people, and the worthlessness of their government. And then, one day, over a cold one down at the PX, one General is going to look at another General and grumble: "You know, Adbul, those clowns up in Bagdhad? We could do a better job running the country than those idiots."
And so 72 hours later, there's a coup. The general with the best looks and table manners will stand before the people and say, "Change is coming. Believe in us."
He might even look a little like Barack Obama, for all we know.
We'll shrug our shoulders, and see the logic behind it all; never mind those of us with good memories, recalling that this was the path to power for Saddam Hussein.
So it goes. Democracy is nice, but the US will settle for a friendly dictator, any day.
Of course, thats just as long as General Abdul Barack Obama says he loves America, sells us oil, and buys Chevy pickups and F-16's with the proceeds. Well, then, sure. Everything will be just fine with good 'ol Uncle Sam.
Why I Love British Television
There's actually lots to dislike about the BBC. Their news is slanted only slightly to the right of Radio Moscow back during the cold war, and their situation comedies are largely impenetrable, due to a combination of what is politely described as "British humor" and madly insane laugh tracks.
What then is there to love? Moldy period dramas? Nope. It's a show called "Top Gear" which I suspect from the title you'll think is about cars. You'd only be half right.
Top Gear, you see, is, yes, technically about cars, but even Ralph Nader would find this show laugh-out loud funny. What it is, is great writing, great personality, great adventure, and occasional stupidity wrapped around an automotive theme.
As much as I occasionally think everyone is in love with their cars, especially here in California, I recognise that a large percentage of our adult population couldn't give a rat's ass about what they drive, so long as it consistently starts at the turn of the key. What with the oppressive taxes and the generally nondescript vehicles most Brits drive, you would think a show about cars would find only a small audience. Guess again. Top Gear is consistently the number one program on the BBC.
Nobody here in the Colonies could approach the daft way Top Gear relates the driving experience to its viewers. Words fail to describe their methods; you'll just have to watch the show, or visit their excellent web site.
As a matter of fact, visit the web site first. Click on a few of the videos, and be prepared to laugh your head off. You'll be hooked.
What then is there to love? Moldy period dramas? Nope. It's a show called "Top Gear" which I suspect from the title you'll think is about cars. You'd only be half right.
Top Gear, you see, is, yes, technically about cars, but even Ralph Nader would find this show laugh-out loud funny. What it is, is great writing, great personality, great adventure, and occasional stupidity wrapped around an automotive theme.
As much as I occasionally think everyone is in love with their cars, especially here in California, I recognise that a large percentage of our adult population couldn't give a rat's ass about what they drive, so long as it consistently starts at the turn of the key. What with the oppressive taxes and the generally nondescript vehicles most Brits drive, you would think a show about cars would find only a small audience. Guess again. Top Gear is consistently the number one program on the BBC.
Nobody here in the Colonies could approach the daft way Top Gear relates the driving experience to its viewers. Words fail to describe their methods; you'll just have to watch the show, or visit their excellent web site.
As a matter of fact, visit the web site first. Click on a few of the videos, and be prepared to laugh your head off. You'll be hooked.
Go here: http://www.topgear.com/
Oh, yeah, then there's the magazine...
Brave New (or is it really old?) World
I've never been a huge fan of serious science fiction, though I've read my share of the classics. Here's a thoughtful article on SF. Live long and prosper, fellow pod people...
Why don't we love science fiction? - Times Online
Why don't we love science fiction? - Times Online
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
A Comment on Comments...
Where are the millions of comments the Internet World has surely wanted to post about "Another Day"?
Well, umm. Gee, my maniacal ego wondered that, too. It seems the good friends at Google set the defaults for Blogger so that only those of you with Google accounts can post.
I think I've fixed that. You no longer need the intimate details of your life stored in Google's mainframe. Not that it wasn't already.
So, Internet World, comment all you want. To quote my favorite thespian, Clint Eastwood:
"Go ahead. Make my day."
Well, umm. Gee, my maniacal ego wondered that, too. It seems the good friends at Google set the defaults for Blogger so that only those of you with Google accounts can post.
I think I've fixed that. You no longer need the intimate details of your life stored in Google's mainframe. Not that it wasn't already.
So, Internet World, comment all you want. To quote my favorite thespian, Clint Eastwood:
"Go ahead. Make my day."
Cool Site Alert: McSweeneys
Graduate-level humor. Bring an encyclopedia and don't be afraid to use it.
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
The End Is Coming
...Not the end of the world; at least I hope not.
What is coming is the end to "My" generation. Not soon. But here are some landmarks to guide you to when you can definitely say the Baby Boom is history.
When the last WWII veteran dies. How could that happen? There were so many, after all. Can they really be in their 80's now? They're out fathers; our fathers can't be that old. Can they? If the last vet dies, then where does that put us? Orphans, for one.
When the last Beatle dies. Two down, two to go. The Beatles are the very symbol for the 1960's. Losing them is losing, well, us.
When you drive all day, and never see a 1965 or 1966 Ford Mustang on the road. Ford literally built a million of them; they were loved and driven hundreds of millions of miles. When the last daily driver Mustang is consigned to either the crusher or the car show circuit, bye-bye, Baby Boom.
When TV commercials quit using famous songs from the 60's and 70's to sell stuff. That might be quite a while, as there's nothing to replace those songs with. Can you name one song from last year, or last ten years, that might make a great jingle for cars or orange juice? Neither can I. (Can you name a song at all from the last ten years that you can actually sing?)
For me, it'll be when Bruce Springsteen checks out. Hopefully I'll go first.
What is coming is the end to "My" generation. Not soon. But here are some landmarks to guide you to when you can definitely say the Baby Boom is history.
When the last WWII veteran dies. How could that happen? There were so many, after all. Can they really be in their 80's now? They're out fathers; our fathers can't be that old. Can they? If the last vet dies, then where does that put us? Orphans, for one.
When the last Beatle dies. Two down, two to go. The Beatles are the very symbol for the 1960's. Losing them is losing, well, us.
When you drive all day, and never see a 1965 or 1966 Ford Mustang on the road. Ford literally built a million of them; they were loved and driven hundreds of millions of miles. When the last daily driver Mustang is consigned to either the crusher or the car show circuit, bye-bye, Baby Boom.
When TV commercials quit using famous songs from the 60's and 70's to sell stuff. That might be quite a while, as there's nothing to replace those songs with. Can you name one song from last year, or last ten years, that might make a great jingle for cars or orange juice? Neither can I. (Can you name a song at all from the last ten years that you can actually sing?)
For me, it'll be when Bruce Springsteen checks out. Hopefully I'll go first.
Political Pot Shots
That's a cute alliterative title for a topic that I seriously worry about.
I'm not talking "pot shots" as in cheap shots, here. I'm talking about political assassination.
Being of a certain age, I lived through the deaths of John Kennedy, his brother Bobby, and Martin Luther King. Nine year old kids shouldn't experience five-syllable words like "assassination," outside of history and references to Abe Lincoln. Nine year old kids shouldn't watch Jack Ruby gun down Oswald live on TV, in the middle of their lunch, as I did.
We watched loonies take pot shots at Jerry Ford and Ronald Reagan. (Odd how, as hated as he was, nobody ever tried to stop Nixon the same way.)
We now have a man who is running for the presidency who is handsome, black, and charismatic. He evokes memories of the Kennedys and King both in his presence and his speeches of hope. And I pray for a new generation of nine year olds that the past doesn't repeat itself.
We recently saw what happened to Benazir Bhutto. Another charismatic campaigner, carrying a message of hope to a distressed country. The terror lives on in a new century.
Oh, stop. Please, God. stop this.
I'm not talking "pot shots" as in cheap shots, here. I'm talking about political assassination.
Being of a certain age, I lived through the deaths of John Kennedy, his brother Bobby, and Martin Luther King. Nine year old kids shouldn't experience five-syllable words like "assassination," outside of history and references to Abe Lincoln. Nine year old kids shouldn't watch Jack Ruby gun down Oswald live on TV, in the middle of their lunch, as I did.
We watched loonies take pot shots at Jerry Ford and Ronald Reagan. (Odd how, as hated as he was, nobody ever tried to stop Nixon the same way.)
We now have a man who is running for the presidency who is handsome, black, and charismatic. He evokes memories of the Kennedys and King both in his presence and his speeches of hope. And I pray for a new generation of nine year olds that the past doesn't repeat itself.
We recently saw what happened to Benazir Bhutto. Another charismatic campaigner, carrying a message of hope to a distressed country. The terror lives on in a new century.
Oh, stop. Please, God. stop this.
Oh No, It's The Dreaded "Funny Pets" Post
One of my dearest friends is my cat, Shadow. I inherited Shadow from my mother, who passed away six years ago. Like all cats, he's unique. He's not the lover who is eager to please, nor shy and aloof, as cats are well-known to be, at least among non-cat owners.
He's people. Shadow bitches about the weather, doesn't appreciate unexpected guests, is resentful of his sibling's presence. He likes a good nap, but occasionally delights in a fast romp around the house. He politely tells us when it's time to get up, when it's time to eat, and when it's time to go to bed. I some days think he's channeling my mom and dad.
Come into the bedroom on any afternoon, and he'll crack open an eye from his slumber, give us his patented "murrack" sound (no meow from this fellow) in way of acknowledgement, and go back to sleep. Lay down on the bed, and he'll crawl up on your belly, ask for a good scratching of his ears, and plant himself between your legs to continue his nap. You're left with the dilemma of how to move without disturbing him.
No big demands, No drama. He's just...people. Sometimes the greatest things in life are the most simple. The attentions of an old cat are one of those.
He's people. Shadow bitches about the weather, doesn't appreciate unexpected guests, is resentful of his sibling's presence. He likes a good nap, but occasionally delights in a fast romp around the house. He politely tells us when it's time to get up, when it's time to eat, and when it's time to go to bed. I some days think he's channeling my mom and dad.
Come into the bedroom on any afternoon, and he'll crack open an eye from his slumber, give us his patented "murrack" sound (no meow from this fellow) in way of acknowledgement, and go back to sleep. Lay down on the bed, and he'll crawl up on your belly, ask for a good scratching of his ears, and plant himself between your legs to continue his nap. You're left with the dilemma of how to move without disturbing him.
No big demands, No drama. He's just...people. Sometimes the greatest things in life are the most simple. The attentions of an old cat are one of those.
The Three Most Beautiful Women Ever...
....besides my wife, of course.
#3 -- Audrey Hepburn. What a shame we lost her at age 64. I was reminded of her today when I was cruising the news rack, and LIFE has a retrospective magazine on her life. As beautiful as she was in the movies, the candid photos of her off screen are even more amazing. The ballerina poise, the joy her face so often revealed just caught my breath.
#2 -- Christie Brinkley. Now, everything I've ever learned about her personally hasn't exactly endeared her to me, but since we're just talking "beautiful" here, Christie is just about perfect. From the 1970's til now, she causes me to do a double take: The "wow, she's pretty" followed by the "that can't be real". Amazing.
#1 --(drum roll, please.) Ingrid Bergman. Watch "Casablanca" again, and tell me how anyone could be more beautiful than Ingrid Bergman. She's the definition of natural beauty. Not model thin, no one thing you can point to, but...damn. Combined with that voice... she's number one.
Runners up, in no particular order:
Teresa Wright. If that name doesn't ring a bell, it's because she wasn't in the public eye for many years, and not in a long, long time. She's the one who played Greer Garson's ill-fated daughter-in-law in "Mrs. Miniver." I'll bet her performance sold several million dollars of war bonds. Somebody you'd just want to hug and never let go.
Speaking of which: Greer Garson. A woman every man would love to find waiting for him at home.
Elizabeth Mongomery. TV's favorite witch was always bewitching. Another one who left us too soon.
Beverly Sills. Can you think of anyone who would have been more interesting and fun to be with than Beverly Sills?
I think I was born at the wrong time, looking at this list. Everyone but Christie Brinkley is dead, for one reason. Then again, were I not born when I was, life would have not lead me to where I am now, and who I am with; and for whom I wouldn't trade the entire list.
P.S. (1/12/08) How the hell did I forget Valerie Bertinelli?
#3 -- Audrey Hepburn. What a shame we lost her at age 64. I was reminded of her today when I was cruising the news rack, and LIFE has a retrospective magazine on her life. As beautiful as she was in the movies, the candid photos of her off screen are even more amazing. The ballerina poise, the joy her face so often revealed just caught my breath.
#2 -- Christie Brinkley. Now, everything I've ever learned about her personally hasn't exactly endeared her to me, but since we're just talking "beautiful" here, Christie is just about perfect. From the 1970's til now, she causes me to do a double take: The "wow, she's pretty" followed by the "that can't be real". Amazing.
#1 --(drum roll, please.) Ingrid Bergman. Watch "Casablanca" again, and tell me how anyone could be more beautiful than Ingrid Bergman. She's the definition of natural beauty. Not model thin, no one thing you can point to, but...damn. Combined with that voice... she's number one.
Runners up, in no particular order:
Teresa Wright. If that name doesn't ring a bell, it's because she wasn't in the public eye for many years, and not in a long, long time. She's the one who played Greer Garson's ill-fated daughter-in-law in "Mrs. Miniver." I'll bet her performance sold several million dollars of war bonds. Somebody you'd just want to hug and never let go.
Speaking of which: Greer Garson. A woman every man would love to find waiting for him at home.
Elizabeth Mongomery. TV's favorite witch was always bewitching. Another one who left us too soon.
Beverly Sills. Can you think of anyone who would have been more interesting and fun to be with than Beverly Sills?
I think I was born at the wrong time, looking at this list. Everyone but Christie Brinkley is dead, for one reason. Then again, were I not born when I was, life would have not lead me to where I am now, and who I am with; and for whom I wouldn't trade the entire list.
P.S. (1/12/08) How the hell did I forget Valerie Bertinelli?
Friday, January 4, 2008
Cool Site Alert: The Urban Dictionary
From time to time I'll post web sites that have struck my fancy. Here's a good one:
Urban Dictionary: Define Your World
Urban Dictionary: Define Your World
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Old Habits Strike Again...
I've got this habit. It's expensive. It's ultimately fruitless. Yet...
My habit is this:
Stage 1) I discover something that interests me.
Stage 2) I research the shit out of it.
Stage 3) I buy something (usually quite expensive) relating to it.
Stage 4) I use it, and it fails to live up to my lofty expectations.
Stage 5) I move on to next hobby.
It happened again, over the long pause between Christmas and New Year's, and right now, I'm in that euphoric Stage Two phase, where I'm learning everything I can. Ah, the excitement.
What is it this time, you ask, impatiently...
Bicycles.
Bicycles? Aren't you a little old for that, you might ask?
Oh, no, I answer to myself... I could use the exercise. And besides, it's not just any bicycle I'm interested in, it's OLD bicycles. Not the cute 1950's cruisers Schwinn built either, nor the ever popular Stingrays, like the ones we had when we were kids. I wish it were that easy.
No, I've become fascinated with rare, obscure Italian, French, and English racing bikes. You know the kind; the ones that are as lean as greyhounds chasing stuffed rabbits at the track.
The ones that used to fly over the Pyrenees and down cobble-stone roads, their riders battling for position in the Tour de France -- before everyone wore helmets and the bikes were made of aluminum, titanium, and lately, carbon-fiber.
Of all my hobbies, the word OLD always seems to enter into it, someplace. Old race cars. Old cameras. Old rifles. Old furniture. Old motorcycles. Old houses. Usually, that means stuff built back before the war. That's THE war, WWII, for the record, not the mamby-pamby police actions we get into these days and are unable to extract ourselves.
There's something about OLD that never ceases to interest me. In the age before computers, we found a way to build highly complex devices that were durable, attractive, and held their value. A Stickley desk, a Garand rifle, a Hasselblad camera has stood the test of time, and will outlast their modern replacements. Psychological note: maybe it's my way of wishing that what I have to offer will outlast me. Unfortunately, I don't think so...
But back to bikes: The technology change has been so swift in bicycling, that bikes built as little as 20 years ago are considered OLD in ways only someone young can understand. To the rest of us, they look, well, like bicycles should look.
They're made of steel, of course. Good quality Reynolds 531 tubing was the norm. Frames weren't welded together on these war horses, either. They were delicately brazed with a torch and solder, the corners mated with lugged joints that were often ornately carved and decorated by their creators. For a good example of this, Google "Hetchins Bicycles." The company still exists, unlike many of their far-larger English brethren of the period. They still make frames. About twelve a year. They cost a fortune. I just saw two of their less-ornate frames (Not bikes!) auction on Ebay for over $1,500 each. They were 30 years old, scratched and faded.
The Italians, oh, the Italians! What they could do with tubing. What the craftsmen of Torino, Rome, and Milan made for Ferarri and Ducati, they first learned by building fine bicycles.
The French, famous for their idiosyncrasies, offered the same to the bike racing world. Different, beautiful, sometimes odd, but always unique and functional.
And what of America?
Well, by God, we didn't do half bad, up until the late 70's, anyway. Schwinn, yes, good old bombproof, balloon-tire Schwinn made a true world-class bike for almost twenty years. Their Schwinn race bike took most all its parts from Europe, it is true, but it was torched together in the USA and is still very much in demand. In the days when you could buy a regular Schwinn 10-speed for a hundred and thirty bucks, a Schwinn race bike would have set you back five hundred. The were so expensive, the dealers had to pay for them in advance, not FOB as was the norm for the rest of their extensive line of products.
There are still boutique builders out there. One little company, with the silly name of "Vanilla" makes frames so desirable the current waiting list is five years long. Guys all over the world are still gassing-together bikes like in the "old days," using Reynolds 531 or newer, lighter steels, and charging big bucks for it. Reminds me of the car hobby. There's always somebody who'll pay for quality and exclusivity.
So, if you want to get in on the ground floor to supplement your retirement nest egg, start scrounging the local Starvation Army for old bikes with weird names. Ebay awaits. Or, better yet, call me. I haven't reached Stage Three yet. But hurry.
My habit is this:
Stage 1) I discover something that interests me.
Stage 2) I research the shit out of it.
Stage 3) I buy something (usually quite expensive) relating to it.
Stage 4) I use it, and it fails to live up to my lofty expectations.
Stage 5) I move on to next hobby.
It happened again, over the long pause between Christmas and New Year's, and right now, I'm in that euphoric Stage Two phase, where I'm learning everything I can. Ah, the excitement.
What is it this time, you ask, impatiently...
Bicycles.
Bicycles? Aren't you a little old for that, you might ask?
Oh, no, I answer to myself... I could use the exercise. And besides, it's not just any bicycle I'm interested in, it's OLD bicycles. Not the cute 1950's cruisers Schwinn built either, nor the ever popular Stingrays, like the ones we had when we were kids. I wish it were that easy.
No, I've become fascinated with rare, obscure Italian, French, and English racing bikes. You know the kind; the ones that are as lean as greyhounds chasing stuffed rabbits at the track.
The ones that used to fly over the Pyrenees and down cobble-stone roads, their riders battling for position in the Tour de France -- before everyone wore helmets and the bikes were made of aluminum, titanium, and lately, carbon-fiber.
Of all my hobbies, the word OLD always seems to enter into it, someplace. Old race cars. Old cameras. Old rifles. Old furniture. Old motorcycles. Old houses. Usually, that means stuff built back before the war. That's THE war, WWII, for the record, not the mamby-pamby police actions we get into these days and are unable to extract ourselves.
There's something about OLD that never ceases to interest me. In the age before computers, we found a way to build highly complex devices that were durable, attractive, and held their value. A Stickley desk, a Garand rifle, a Hasselblad camera has stood the test of time, and will outlast their modern replacements. Psychological note: maybe it's my way of wishing that what I have to offer will outlast me. Unfortunately, I don't think so...
But back to bikes: The technology change has been so swift in bicycling, that bikes built as little as 20 years ago are considered OLD in ways only someone young can understand. To the rest of us, they look, well, like bicycles should look.
They're made of steel, of course. Good quality Reynolds 531 tubing was the norm. Frames weren't welded together on these war horses, either. They were delicately brazed with a torch and solder, the corners mated with lugged joints that were often ornately carved and decorated by their creators. For a good example of this, Google "Hetchins Bicycles." The company still exists, unlike many of their far-larger English brethren of the period. They still make frames. About twelve a year. They cost a fortune. I just saw two of their less-ornate frames (Not bikes!) auction on Ebay for over $1,500 each. They were 30 years old, scratched and faded.
The Italians, oh, the Italians! What they could do with tubing. What the craftsmen of Torino, Rome, and Milan made for Ferarri and Ducati, they first learned by building fine bicycles.
The French, famous for their idiosyncrasies, offered the same to the bike racing world. Different, beautiful, sometimes odd, but always unique and functional.
And what of America?
Well, by God, we didn't do half bad, up until the late 70's, anyway. Schwinn, yes, good old bombproof, balloon-tire Schwinn made a true world-class bike for almost twenty years. Their Schwinn race bike took most all its parts from Europe, it is true, but it was torched together in the USA and is still very much in demand. In the days when you could buy a regular Schwinn 10-speed for a hundred and thirty bucks, a Schwinn race bike would have set you back five hundred. The were so expensive, the dealers had to pay for them in advance, not FOB as was the norm for the rest of their extensive line of products.
There are still boutique builders out there. One little company, with the silly name of "Vanilla" makes frames so desirable the current waiting list is five years long. Guys all over the world are still gassing-together bikes like in the "old days," using Reynolds 531 or newer, lighter steels, and charging big bucks for it. Reminds me of the car hobby. There's always somebody who'll pay for quality and exclusivity.
So, if you want to get in on the ground floor to supplement your retirement nest egg, start scrounging the local Starvation Army for old bikes with weird names. Ebay awaits. Or, better yet, call me. I haven't reached Stage Three yet. But hurry.
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