I Want to Piss in Bill Keller's Gas Tank

This scares the shit out of me.

Why in the bloody hell would the New York Times, in spite of the protests of several top officials in the White House, the Justice Department, the Treasury Department and the CIA, print this freakin' story about the banking record inqury. I know its old news today, but DAMN.

What was Bill Keller thinking giving the stamp of approval for that to run? Here's a valid question/scenario that I hope you'll respond to:

If Bill Keller was the editor of the New York Times in May of 1944, and discovered that we had decieved the American people (which we did), the British (which we did) and the rest of the god-damned world (which we did) by falsifying the strength of our invasion force poised to strike from Britain, would he have printed the story for the sake of 'potential abuses' of a programme designed to inaccurately portray our military strength?

I hate to admit that that smug bastard by the name of Bill O'Reilly is right about something, but damnit, he hit the nail on the head when he said:

"The New York Times' editorial staff's contempt for the Bush Administration has become more influential in their decision-making process than the security of the United States of America."

And he is 100% freakin' correct, folks. This whole episode of Bush-hating makes me want to piss in Bill Keller's gas tank. I'm pissed off that he gave O'Reilly the chance to be 100% controversial and correct. What really has me freaked out is his desire to trapse every 'secret programme' used under authority of the Patriot Act across the pages of the NYT as another erosion of our Liberty engineered by the Bush Administration.

Mr. Keller is clearly more concerned about the freedom of the press than he is about the security of the nation. To be reasonable, I have to admit that he should be. I happen to agree with the familiar, but no less relevant, statement that our founding fathers envisioned a free and independent press VITAL to holding sway over government amassing overbearing power. It behooves us to have a truly independent voice of objective criticism looming over those that would cast our liberty aside.

However that still begs the earlier question to be asked...when does it go beyond the line? I wonder if Bill Keller was in New York on 9/11/2001. I was. I haven't forgotten how that felt. I wonder if Mr. Keller believes that we're in a war or not. I wonder if he believes that the 'terrorists' would be reasonable negotiation parners.

The recent trend at 'creating' news rather than 'reporting' news has run amok. Frankly I would be standing up and applauding the New York Times if they had revealed a programme that was illegal, or that violated a US Citizen's civil rights. Dissapointingly, by the Times' own admission, there was no illegality in this programme.

Yes it was secret. But, there are 1000's of secret programmes in play every damn day in the intelligence community that are 100% legitimate.

Do we want the President (GOP or not) ever having control of the media? HELL NO.
Do we want the Congress (GOP majority or not) ever having control of the media? HELL NO.
Do we want the media (NY Times or not) to use their better judgement more often? HELL YES!!

I am sick and tired of people (and many of them being in positions of media & politic power) that hate George W. Bush more than they love their country.

Maybe we have turned the final corner on the road into oblivion.

From old hat to nostalgia...It matters not what I think...just you

So I was driving home last night and found myself wondering about how disco has become nostalgic for a lot of people. I remember in the 80's when disco was villified as a low point in American culture, and how bell-bottom pants and lime green carpet should forever be a thing of the past. Then I recalled a recent trip to Ikea and how almost everything there would look great on the set of the Brady Bunch.

How do we do this to ourselves? Indeed George Santayana was correct when he said "Those that do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it." This obviously applies to lamps that look like bubbles and chairs shaped like a piece of used chewing gum.

In lighter fare, I'm looking forward to Thanksgiving and Christmas this year. Instead of the usual 25 people at Thanksgiving at my Uncle's house, we're down to 8. Should be nice. I'll be hosting Christmas Eve, and I'm primed for my ritual of making entirely too much food, drinking way too much wine, and wrapping presents until 2:30 in the morning in the garage.

People suck...but sometimes they surprise you

Let me predicate this post by saying I am a fan of 'personal responsibility' to the utmost. I believe that your lot in life is dictated (for the most part) on the choices you make. However, I witnessed something on Saturday that has me rethinking my view on society's role in assisting the downtrodden and 'less fortunate' amongst our midst.

I was making a run to the local Fred Meyer store to pick up some light bulbs and a lamp fineal for the living room. I was turning left off Aurora Avenue into the parking lot and while waiting for traffic to clear I spotted an obviously homeless man on the opposite side of the street. What caught my eye was that his ass was hanging completely out for all the world to see, and he looked like he was praying to a Chrysler LeBaron that was out for sale in the Fred Meyer parking lot. At first I shook my head and said to myself 'Jeez, what a wierdo'. Then, while still waiting to turn left, I realized this guy was trying to get up and couldn't. It was raining like hell, was about 45 degrees, and the wind was whipping badly.

Upon finding a chance to turn left into the parking lot, I whipped around and parked next to the LeBaron to watch him. After a few seconds, I realized he was in need of help, and that it was beyond me to be of assistance. I dialed 911 and described the situation to the dispatcher. I told her I would stay with him until aid arrived. Within seconds of hanging up, the siren of an aid unit could be heard approaching rapidly. The homeless man heard them too and tried even harder to get up, but to no avail. At this point I knew I had done the right thing.

The ambulance pulled up on him and two medics (a middle aged man & a young woman) hopped out. The man approached him. I overheard part of their conversation.

Medic Man: " How are you doing my friend?"
Transient: "I had some methadone this morning,...and my legs just gave out on me."
Medic Woman: "You want to go someplace? Where's home?"
T: "No, No, I just need to get up." (Or something like that..I could barely hear him over the drone of traffic and the whipping of the wind). He was obviously trying to maintain his independence to the last.
MW: "At least let's get you into the back of the van here so you're someplace warm and dry."
The homeless man seemed to acknowledge this need and surrendered himself to their care.

At this point, I knew that he was going to be okay without me. The medics hadn't noticed me sitting in my truck yet, so I said "Thanks guys!" loud enough to get their attention. The guy medic heard me, was a bit surprised, and turned my way. Realizing quickly that I was the one who called in, he said "Thank YOU."

This struck me.

It was so sincere, so filled with gratitude, so appreciative.

...It was the last thing I expected.

I had pulled this poor EMT out of his warm and dry station on this severely crappy, rainy, cold Saturday and had led him to be crouched over a smelly, destitute man on the side of a major highway---and he was thanking me with all the sincerety of someone you had just helped out.

I pulled away and drove to a parking spot as close to the entrance to Fred Meyer as I could. When I stopped, I started to cry. Exactly why I'm still wrestling with, but I think it has to do with how that Medic responded to me. I'm sure this man has seen hundreds, if not thousands, of inebriated individuals over the span of his career, and many have been less than appreciative no doubt. You would expect callous, clinical responses in most cases. But this guy obviously loved his career choice to help people.

Did I feel bad for the homeless guy? Yes and no. Yes that he was in such a sad predicament where his need for drugs placed his life in jeopardy. But no that he had decided to get involved with drugs in the first place.

"Did society fail him? Did the education system fail him? How could I prevent this from happening to someone else again in the future? What led him here in the first place?" I found myself asking these questions while I sat in my truck, drying my eyes.

I know a popular culture that doesn't show the consequence of drug abuse can make those impressionable fools we call teenagers more prone to 'experimentation'. Popular culture that glorifies drug abuse assures there will be some casualties to drug addiction. So what to do? I don't know right now, but I need to do something.

The man on the side of Aurora with his ass hanging out had an unintended effect, and I can't turn away from it any longer.

Gotta get the cold hard funk with the downtown crowd

My own version:

Seven things that Scare me..

1. Michael Moore
2. The unfettered success of Jessica Simpson
3. George W. Bush
4. Any car made in Korea
5. People that take the WWF seriously
6. Failing to be as successful as I know I can be
7. Forgetting what's important in life

Seven things I like the most..

1. My daughter. She's the most wonderful thing I've ever known. To be given the gift of unconditional, unshakable love and devotion is beyond cool.
2. Music in all its forms. There's nothing like hitting 'random' on my iPod and burning up 200 miles on the motorcycle.
3. ...motorcycles. Not the poseur Harley-Davidson cruiser-type bullshit, but the fast, loose and dangerous world of the cafe-racer type.
4. Baseball. It is the purest form of inter-personal competition to me, next to arm wrestling
5. Women. I love my wife desperately, and would never betray her trust...but appreciate the very construction of the female of the species. Not in a porographic way (although that sometimes has its place), but in cherishing, admiration-addled idolization.
6. Being in control.
7. Waking up early. Those that rarely see the dawn miss out big-time.

Seven things that are most important at home

1. Never smoking in front of my daughter. I know, I know...I need to quit, but until I do, I shall not break this solemn vow.
2. My kitchen. What can I say, I love food.
3. My computer.
4. My drumset.
5. All my motorcycles.
6. My bed. What can I say, I love sleep.
7. My wonderful neighbors.

Seven random facts about me

1. I am losing my hair. Big freakin' deal
2. I love good wine, good bourbon and the occasional PBR
3. My father and I were estranged for about 30 years until I discovered his whereabouts on classmates.com. Yes, it's true.
4. I worship my wife. She's a pain in the ass sometimes, but frankly is 90% of the reason I'm as successful as I have become. The other 10% is still in committee.
5. I love Star Wars. However, if it ever comes to choosing sides, I'll take the Empire. They have better uniforms. I look better in black.
6. One day, I hope to be President of the United States, and I know its very possible.
7. I want to build a model railroad. All I need is the room. And the time. And the materials. And...

Seven things I plan to do before I die

1. I will own my own automotive dealership.
2. I want to get involved in politics, and will.
3. I can't wait for grandchildren.
4. I want take a trip to Eastern Europe. Russia, Poland, Hungary, Czech Republic, the Baltic States, etc.
5. Climb to the top of the Staute of Liberty
6. Ride my motorcycle all over North America over a summer
7. Drive a Baja 1000 car from Encinada to Cabo...again!

Let's just start taking drugs...

Why is it that the drug company commercials think we believe that:

• Your grandson will win that model boat race he's been losing before you took Avacor
• My wife will suddenly turn into this sex-crazed MILF as soon as I see my doctor.
• I won't be able to stop smiling---no, correct that---LAUGHING after I get my Zoloft prescription.
• Mandy Potampkin really seems like he's interested in helping me with my cholesterol
• The research study justifying us popping mad amounts of pills won't change NEXT WEEK.

I could go on, but I won't.

Bad Noise

When I got up this morning, I had no idea it was going to be such a tough day. I had to conduct a 6:30 staff meeting, and I still had crap to prepare for said meeting. At 5:00 the world dawned bright and sunny, my cat gave me an uncustomarily warm greeting and I was in the shower in seconds. After dressing and eating something I made the mistake of turning on the radio in the car. Damn. London. Attack...9/11 all over again...

We were on our way back to New York on Tuesday morning for one last hurrah in the city. We had missed the last ferry to the Statue of Liberty on Monday, partly because we had spent way too much time walking from 42nd street to the Carnegie Deli for a goddamned pastrami sandwich the size of a truck, so now we were back. We dove from Easton to Hoboken that morning without any cares. We were all together, it was a wonderful morning without a cloud in the sky (unlike the very wet and thunderstorm-strewn day we had spent in the city on Monday). All was good. I savor recollecting that day's feelings...kind of like the last streak of innocence before you lost your virginity...but dread the flood that is sure to follow.

When we arrived in Hoboken, we went to the same parking garage on 4th & River that we had patronized the day before. Hey, we'd parked there all freakin day and didn't have a busted-out window...so why not tempt fate again? Actually, Hoboken has become quite upscale lately, and the riff-raff that I was used to dealing with growing up had been shooed away from these once mean streets with little fanfare.

My dad, his wife, my wife, my daughter and I all exited the garage and started walking towards the old Delaware, Lackawanna & Western railroad terminal that now housed New Jersey Transit and the PATH tubes. We wanted to use the PATH to take us to lower Manhattan so we could catch the subway at Cortland Street and head south to Battery Park. After that we'd be one of the first to get on the Statue of Liberty ferries, which began running at 9:00. We were a little late, but nobody cared. There were departures every 20 minutes, and we'd still be able to take all the time we wanted. I was looking forward to crawling all the way to the top. I'd grown up in New York and New Jersey and never made it to the top of the Statue. I was proud that my 4-year-old was going to be able to look out of her crown on such a great day. I felt good. I was doing a better job than my parents did.

About 2/3 of the way there I noticed something funny out of the corner of my eye. It had passed as a glimpse between two buildings. I stopped. I remember it being the strangest thing I could have ever seen...like it was some sculpture in the park the next block over that had some black plume waving off the top of it. It appeared to be floating in mid-air. Almost as soon as I had stopped I backed up to get a better look. I know I had a bewildered smirk on my face, because I remember how it felt when it dropped away.

Every hair on my body stood straight on end as I realized what I had mistaken for sculpture was the North Tower of the World Trade Center (the Twin Towers). It was obviously on fire. MASSIVELY ON FIRE. I didn't--no--I couldn't speak. My wife was the first to notice that I had stopped. I was still halfway through the block when they were just about to cross the next street. She says she called to me and that I didn't respond, so she tried to see what I was looking at. At just about the same moment, people started pouring into the street to witness what was going on. I raced up and rejoined my family, who now had a plain view of what I had been staring at.

Regret is a really funny thing, don't ya know. I found myself amused for a moment, jovially speculating that this was the result of some dude smoking in the restroom on the 70th floor. A few of the younger people in the growning crowd seemed to be cracking jokes and making light of what was going on. I wasn't cracking jokes, but I sure was trying to make light of it. DAMN. I have asked for forgiveness so many times for that one. I truly do regret my choice. I really had no idea.

Then, out of nowhere, the second plane hit. We were far enough away for the sound to be delayed a bit, and it felt like we were watching a TV show with the soundtrack on delay. The roar of the 767 was apparent, and actually caused me to focus on it some time (maybe 10 seconds) before it actually hit. It was hauling ass, for sure. I remember thinking "damn, what is up with that plane...is it heading for LaGuardia? It sure is low, but wow--isn't it going kind of fast? No gear down. Wait...where's it...OH MY GOD, NOOOO!"

All of us gasped. No more laughing. Some screamed. Most just stood there dumbfounded. I did as well until I droped to my knees and bent over. I can still feel the bile welling up in my throat like it did that morning. I nearly vomited, but managed to keep control. We left almost immediately, knowing that getting into the city would be a feat beyond our means, unwilling to find out what would happen next.

We returned to my Dad's place and experienced the remainder of the day through our TV.

This is the first time I've written this down.

I wish nothing but the mercy and comfort of peace upon those who are suffering from today's attacks. An Irish Blessing:

May the road rise to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face. May the rains fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again, May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.

Motorcycles, Trains and Nostalgia on Friday Morning

I went to scenic Bow, Washington this past Friday for a meeting. I got up early enough to get cleaned up and leave my house by 6:00am, so I could take a nice long ride before I had to be at the meeting 60 miles away by 8:00. I was going against traffic, so I could deviate from the most direct route with ease.

I fired up my black 2002 Triumph TT600, 'La Sombra Negra', and suited up for the ride. I almost always dress in a full set of leathers, not so much for the look (even though it is somewhat imposing) but mostly for the protection. Cows don't get rashes, after all. Anyway, the morning was dawning warm, with a light sheen of low clouds slightly obscuring the rays of sunlight. This was in spite of the weatherman speaking of rain showers being about all day. Here in Seattle, we're blessed with the catch-all weather prediction: 'Mostly cloudy with showers and sunbreaks'. I gotta ask: How the fuck can the bastard weathermen in this town sleep at night? I mean, really...I could fuck up the weather just as much as they can, and I can't get on TV. If I ever meet Jeff Renner I will find it very hard not to stomp him like a gnat...

I caught myself smiling in the reflection of my car window, and smiled back. I was looking forward to this ride. After setting out, I ran north on I-5, tunes cranked up in my helmet, barely any traffic, feeling fine. You can't pay money for feelings like that. I breathed deeply, the cool morning air tickling my nose with the sweet aroma of late spring and the liner of my helmet. 75mph is a wonderful thing in the morning.

Just before Everett, my low fuel warning light came on, so I exited on Pacific Street. To my good fortune, a BNSF freight train was leaving Delta Yard, so I pulled over to watch her cross the grade and head for Seattle. As I caught the glare of the SD40-2's headlight, I found myself flooded with memory of this area. I had lived in Lake Stevens until about 2 years ago, and loved to sneak out of the house after the wife and kid were asleep and cruise down to Delta and Bayside yards to watch the switching engines roll back & forth to sort the cars. Whatever it is about trains that I love so much I don't know. Maybe its the fascination that these little steel rails can take you to so may far-off places; or maybe its the juvenile urges of a little boy playing with trucks, cars & trains.

Whenever watching trains roll by slowly, I always thought of Sparta, New Jersey and the NYS&W tracks twisting through the Walkill Valley...when Greg Simmons and I would be at my house, and we'd hear the horn of the diesels making the crossing in Ogdensburg. Frantically we'd scurry to my 1978 Ford LTD Wagon like roaches running from the light and race off to the trestle at the old Sparta station, which lay about 2/3 of the way through a broad curve. The trains would have to slow down to about 10mph which was coincedently slow enough for one of two stupid--VERY STUPID--teenage kids to hop onto a running-board ladder and hang on while the other stupid teenage kid hopped back in his car and took off for West Mountain Road. Meanwhile the train would straighten out and head west through Woodruff's Gap and bent to the north towards North Church and Hamburg...gaining speed the entire time. Meanwhile the other kid is driving like he's taking his pregnant girlfriend to the hospital to reach the rendezvous in time.

Shortly after Lake Grinnell and before North Church, there was a section of track parallel to a large, wide dirt lot that was about 3/4 of a mile long. I think there was a rock quarry here at one time or another, as New Jersey limestone is second only to Indiana in its quantity. This vast patch of dirt is where the rendezvous occurred. The driver would line up the car next to the tracks at the end of the lot from which the train was to come....and then wait. When the train came by, all hell broke loose. Whichever one of us was in the car tried to time his acceleration to speed up enough to allow the other to HOP OFF THE TRAIN ONTO THE ROOF OF THE CAR WHILE DOING ABOUT 30 MPH!!!! This was about a 4-5 foot leap out and down, and we always used my wagon because of the roof rack. It gave us something to grab on to.

Frankly, this took skill---and practice---and seldom-exceeded levels of stupidity. We found out that you needed to pay very close attention to where your partner got on, or you were liable to run out of room before you could line up for the leap. Twice I took the ride to Hamburg...9 miles away...before the train slows down enough to hop off without breaking limbs. Once, while driving, I pushed it too far and drove off the end of the lot into a stand of reeds and had to call Luba out of a drunken stupor to pull my wagon out of the mud. Greg had a hell of a long wait in Hamburg that night.

Its a wonder we were not seriously hurt throughout this series of stupidity. Oh, we did suffer minor cuts, bruises, abrasions, contusions and blisters (from hanging onto that ladder). I am content to never know how seriously fucked up we could have been.

Wait a minute---Didn't this story start out with me taking a motorcycle ride? On, yeah...well after watching the freight train, I gassed up and headed for Arlington...a small town along the banks of the Stillagaumish River. Like a lot of towns in western Washington, Arlington was originally a logging and rail town, with mills and rail connections to Seattle. Both the Milwaukee Road and Northern Pacific served Arlington in its heyday, but now all but one of the the mills are long gone. A rusty, rough and weedy spur of the BNSF slithers through the valley to reach it from Marysville to the south. How long it will remain in service appears thoroughly dubious. The NP main no longer exists north and south of town. South of town, several on city and county councils are trying desperately to turn the train bed into a bike trail. Main Street is still much the same as it has been for 30 years, but that belies the real story. The town is changing for sure. Lots of money is flowing in as Seattle gets more and more expensive. Real estate has easily doubled in value here since 1980, if not more, and people are flocking to the suburbs. Arlington, while probably too far for most to commute to Seattle, is welll within reach of Everett and several communities of housing have stared springing up in and around the city limits. Here and there within the old town, signs of this new influx of money can be seen...the new traffic circle; new sidewalks along a few of the side streets; shiny new trash receptacles EVERYWHERE.

I headed through town and north along highway 530, towards Darrington. A dump truck I regretfully found myself behind turned off relatively quickly, and I was free to pace myself as I wished. Not too fast to get a nasty ticket, but fast enough to challenge the road.

Rolling into Darrington at just a few minutes past 7:00, I fueled up again just to be safe and headed off north after a smoke and a cup of coffee barely 10 minutes later. This is where I knew I could open up the Triumph. I had ridden this road several times before and, with the exception of conditions, could almost recall every corner in order. Frankly, I don't live for the speed, but I live for the corners. There's nothing like the feeling of a bike wrapping itself around the shifting of your weight to the inside of the curve, then having the little minx stand up and wheel off down the straightaway like a slot-car set on 220. I don't think I ever shifted out of 3rd gear more than twice in the stretch from Darrington to Marblemount, in spite of assuredly exceeding 100 mph more than once. My redline is 14000 rpm's and I hope these Limeys meant it.

Arriving in Marblemount I turned west and relatively complacently rode into Mount Vernon and on to my meeting at the Skagit Valley Casino. I arrived at 7:55, had a smoke and cruised inside for my complimentary continental breakfast.

What a great way to start a morning. :)