I just make this stuff up, see?

... at least the posts that are in ITALICS, anyway. By way of clarification, opinions and actual goings-on are in regular type. Italicized posts are works of fiction, and although familiar-sounding, are not to be taken as historical fact.

Nothing on TV

Something woke me with a start, heart racing with alarm and lights flicking around the edges of my periphery. The hallways of my dream, in which I'd been running just moments before, slowly faded, as the dim and slowly focusing reality of my bedroom insinuated itself back into my consciousness.

I lay there motionless as the dead, willing my mind into full function. Something had awakened me with the cold, metallic shock of alarm that froze me in place. Slowing my breathing to an inaudible level, I reclosed my eyes and took inventory of all the sounds around me. Next to me, my wife slept, breathing slowly in her slightly irregular fashion. An aging plastic alarm clock next to her hummed, the vibrations of its movement amplified by the wood of the cheap box that served as a nightstand. Overhead, the ceiling fan made its regular tick tick tick, as the collected dust on the fan blades threw off its balance and sent it into a gently wobbling orbit. Next to the bed, I could make out the labored breathing of the family dog, unnaturally old and held together by ever-increasing veterinarian visits that had long ago passed the point of kindness. Whatever had awakened me, it hadn't been enough to penetrate the clouds of the old dog's conscious and rouse him from his temporary coma.

Willing myself to focus further into the house, I listened for the boys in their room across the hall. I could hear the breathing of my sons, softly playing point-counterpoint to each other in sleep, just as when awake. The CD of Celtic Lullabyes, played as part of their bedtime ritual had long ago ended, leaving only the faint hissing of the stereo speakers to fill the void.

I visualized the layout of the living room in my mind as I picked out first the clicking of the faux pendulum in the clock on the wall above the oak entertainment center, it's battery-powered swing rubbing against the pressed-wood housing in a regular rhythm. As its batteries became weak, the hourly chime, reproduced by an electronic chip in the back of the clock, would take on a sickly tone, dropping in pitch like the radio from an open window in a passing car. Below it, I could make out a barely liminal high whine that told me that although the satellite receiver had been turned off, the television itself was still on, waiting for a signal. It was an easy thing to miss, fumbling with the overly complex universal remote, while trying to corral the kids into the bathroom to brush teeth and empty bladders in preparation for bed. In the hustle of all that activity and noise, it would have been inaudible, but to my anxiety-sharpened senses in the night's stillness, it was like a coaches whistle. I would have to turn it off if I wanted to get back to sleep, so I'd have to go ahead and get up.

I cracked my eyes open and noted how the the household sounds dwindled immediately into the background. It was as though power had been shifted from the ears to power my newly opened eyes. The lamp in the hallway, left on for the boys to light their way to the bathroom for nightly visits, cast long shadows through the narrow opening of our bedroom door. I glanced at the clock - 2:15 am. "Damn," I thought, "I'll never get back to sleep." Always a light sleeper, I'd learned how to tune out the sounds around me to which my wife was more likely to respond. She could change a diaper in her sleep and not remember it in the morning, but the second I set a foot on the bedroom floor, I may as well put on a pot of coffee and get dressed for work. That foot was on the floor now, as I rubbed my eyes and grumbled to myself about the TV waking me up.

I am my own Echo Chamber

What the heck is an echo box, anyway?

The other night I was sitting with some Dear Friends after a late supper and Friend #1 mentions that he has been reading "outside his echo chamber." I later came to understand that by echo chamber, he meant outside his usual sphere of (in this instance, politically) like-minded individuals. The implication eventually arose that I should do the same.

It's an interesting idea that certainly has merit and I might want to do so, but I think I'm going to run into some difficulty.

Two of my old cronies that visited me at my office yesterday laughed at the idea, and they were quick to point out that my immediate circle of friends is about as diverse as they possibly come in both genetics and ideology. I, myself am a reasonably conservative, middle-income, pro-gun, meat-eating, heterosexual Christian white male, yet among my immediate circle I can count atheists, liberals, vegetarians, non-heterosexuals (awkward-sounding, I know, but "homosexual" was too narrow) and just about every ethnicity. Points of view range from moon-bat left to reactionary right and all points along that pendulum swing, with me sitting quietly and politely listening to it all, nodding with interest. As often as not, I am the token conservative at social gatherings outside my family. I suppose it could be argued that with the exception of attending church, I surround myself with differing points of view as a matter of habit, and rarely seek out people who share my ideologies. I rarely find myself in the company of people who would actually "echo" my thoughts. Quite frankly, though provided with every opportunity, some polite, some heated, I've yet to be persuaded from my ideological perch, so I've come to a conclusion:

I am my own echo chamber.

If someday, you should find me shambling down the street, alone, destitute and disheveled, muttering to myself and shouting at invisible listeners and unfortunate passers-by, don't pity me or think me insane. Just remind me of my decision to get outside my echo chamber. Oh, and give me a sandwich.

"I have goats in my pants"

Have you ever gotten a song stuck in your head, and try as you might to get rid of it, it just keeps floating back up to the surface of your mind like a mafia victim too buoyant for his cement shoes? Man, I know I have, and usually it's a song to which I only know just a couple of words - and I hear those words over and over and over again until I'm ready to drive a railroad spike through my forehead to vent it out.

My friend, Craig, has a simple cure for himself whenever he finds a song stuck in his head. He would simply replace the inane tune with one he likes. Usually it only took the opening lines of Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me" to push out the offending ditty and he was free to think clearly again. Obviously it worked well enough that it became something of an inside joke among our circle of friends.

So what do you do when it's not a tune, per se, but a phrase? Worse than that, a complete non sequitur of the most embarrassingly goofy variety?

For the last several weeks, I have had the phrase "I have goats in my pants" bouncing around in my skull like a frantic rubber ball, waiting impatiently to find some way to insinuate itself into conversation.

[Friend] "Hey, Keith, what's new?"
[Me] I have goats in my pants "Nothing much ... how 'bout you?"

[Different Friend] "What does the Latin phrase Cogito Ergo Est mean?"
[Same Me] I have goats in my pants "I think, therefore I am."

And so on ... Personally, I'm hoping that by typing it out here in this format, I'll exorcise the phrase from my brain once and for all, but just in case:

"Step inside. Walk this way. You and me, babe. HEY HEY!"

Meaty Urulogists

Twice.

Worse, twice in three days.

You see the fancy images on your TV. You hear terms like "dopplar radar" and "NEXRAD," but it's all a ruse. A sham to convince you that the huckster on one channel is better than the snake-oil salesman on the other. The actual forecasting of weather in Texas probably involves chicken entrails and rolling lizard bones in a cup.

No, I take that back, because I think those methods would have a higher accuracy potential.

Case in point: Saturday morning, as I prepare to attend my 9:00 am Aikido class, I dutifully check the instant weather channel on my Dish Network satellite connection. "Sunny to partly cloudy and warm - chance of precipitation less than 10%." According to a local weatherman, "less than 20%" is just a statistical hedging of the prognosticator's bet, and their way of saying, "it's not going to rain, but don't quote me." Not content with a single source of the local forecast, I check in with a local radio station and they confirm the previous report.

Always enjoying an opportunity to take the motorcycle out, I load up my Aikido uniform on the passenger seat, and take out the rain-suit that usually resides in the left saddle-bag to make room for a pair of heavy sandals to wear while training outside. Being warm, I also remove the large windshield in favor of catching the breeze during my ride. Naturally, shortly before class ended, the skies darkened and voluminous clouds rolled in seemingly from nowhere and launched pomeranian-sized raindrops between tremendous bolts of lightning that bounced the power off-and-on again around the neighborhood. I waited for hours after class was over for the rain to settle into merely a standard soaking before resigning myself to fate and setting off for home by the shortest possible route. Once home, I checked the weather channel again: "Sunny to partly cloudy and warm - chance of precipitation less than 10%." Grumbling, I poured all 10% out of my boots on the front porch.

The following day, Father's Day, the weather forecast was grim: "Thunderstorms likely - chance of precipitation 80% - Severe weather possible." I spent most of the day outside in the abundant sunshine.

During the week, my workday morning ritual usually consists of the radio alarm clock going off at 4:00am for my wife to get up, put coffee on and do whatever it is she likes to do without the demands that two young boys and a needy husband put upon her. At 5:00am the alarm goes off again and I lay in bed until 5:08, when Brad Barton, one of the more respected meteorologists in the area comes on the radio to give his best guess for the day. Thus armed with information and the cup of coffee my wife presses into my hands I decide on whether to take the bike or the truck to work. Monday's forecast was sunny and warm, high around 94°, with winds shifting late evening and chances of storms not arriving until after midnight, because they were still way up in Kansas wishing they could find some feature in that bland, cornfield of a state to knock over. So, confident that I had a free ride until at least after I got home from work, I pulled on my remaining dry pair of shoes, took the bike out of the garage and headed off to the office. Sometime around 2:30 in the afternoon, I could hear hurried conversations outside my office door by my coworkers asking each other if the windows were up on their cars, because it looked as though it were going to start raining at any moment. While certainly dark and threatening-looking, the weather was windy at worst when I finally left for home around 3:30 and pulled out of the parking lot. While the rain may not have made it as far west as my office, it was most certainly waiting for me on the easbound leg of my ride, where it ambushed me and several other incredulous bikers with painful, welting drops that felt more like hail than water. Water-skiers will tell you that water feels like concrete at 60 mph. Imagine what it feels like when it hit you square in the face at 70. That watery, full-auto firing-squad assailed me until I finally reached my exit and could ride slowly on the side streets of my neighborhood.

I arrived home red-faced and numbed from the overload of pain in my face, hands and chest, and after stripping off my wet, clinging clothes, collapsed on the sofa until I regained feeling in my battered extremities. I got up, got dressed again and looked out the window to see the sun sheepishly peeking out from clearing skies.

When my boots are dry again, I'm going to use them to kick a meteorologist in the groin ... hard.

Still working on it.

I'm two pages into a new story. Hopefully, it'll be worth the wait. If not ... well, what do you expect for free, right?

6-22-04 Update: I'm liking the direction this little bit of fiction is taking and really want to take my time with it. It may very well be a while before it finds it way into the eternal sunshine of anyone's computer monitor. It clearly looks like it'll be to big to be a blog-post, in any case.

Observations of Silent Aikido

[Note: Those of you who don't train in Aikido, or any other martial art may find the following rather tedious... H/C]

Each year, on the anniversary of the passing of O Sensei, North Texas Aikido conducts a “silent class.” No student may talk from the time they bow at the threshold of the dojo until once again back outside. A kiai, laugh or moan (as the situation warrants) is considered acceptable, and certain allowances are made for the person assigned to handle incoming calls or visitors; but no verbal communication is otherwise allowed.
For the first few years, this typically made me uncomfortable and left me with an awkward frustration. I have been – and continue to be – the sort of student who tends to learn best by explaining and demonstrating to others. My methods have usually been to use analogies – flowing water, inflating balloons or anything that suddenly comes to mind, and I’ve rarely hesitated to expound on them at length to my usually long-suffering kohai during training. Training partners who don’t respond well to one visualization technique to understand the intricacies of tae no henko are frequently barraged by dozens of others in my zeal to help them understand some abstraction I’m trying to convey to them, and by extension, comprehend more deeply myself. Consequently, during these early silent classes, I would maintain a constant internal dialog, spending the entirety of class scripting out how best to file away the information I was receiving, and more importantly – I thought – how to explain it to others. I would focus more on the deprivation of speech, than any deeper lesson that might come as a result. As I’ve begun to mellow with maturity, I have come to realize the value of these quiet times, both internal and external, and have strived to still my tendency to try and package everything with words.

Shut Up and Train

My Sensei, Russell Alvey of North Texas Aikido, has a sign, which occasionally gets posted on the bulletin board in our small kitchen area. It reads simply, “Shut Up and Train.” There is usually no explanation associated with the sign, nor is it ever specifically pointed out during or after class, yet we all get the message: less talk, less discussion and more actual performance of the demonstrated techniques. It has been during the “gentle reminders” in general, and the somber atmosphere of our silent classes in particular that I’ve made some of my more profound leaps of understanding in my own Aikido training. The inherent problems of overanalyzing technique through discussion become increasingly apparent during the silent sessions. As a result, I’ve endeavored to better understand the qualities of silent training that engender a more personal and valuable training experience.

What Color is Blue?

To a colorblind individual, or someone otherwise visually impaired, “blue” is an abstract concept. No amount of description or expository prose on the subject will make them understand the qualities of hue, tint, shade or the refraction of light that – we who can see – call “blue.” So, too it is with aikido techniques. Certainly we can instruct a student to “stand in this fashion” and “hold your hands up this way,” but the internalization must be through personal discovery. Sensei tells us that we cannot have his Aikido, nor he his sensei’s. That is to say that what we take away from his classes must be our own. No amount of explanation can make our techniques exactly like his. No deep philosophical discussions or metaphorical analogies can make us feel exactly what he feels when performing techniques. Frequently, I stumble when trying to explain what Ki feels like when extended. Words don’t adequately convey the sensation, and all my attempts seem shallow and imprecise. This brings me to my next point.

Making Other People Wear My Filters

If I tell a new student, “you will feel a certain way when you do the technique correctly,” I may be inadvertently prejudicing them towards frustration and failure. What I feel during the execution of my technique is deeply personal and is a result of my current level of understand and training in Aikido. Another student at the same level may feel completely different sets of cues and feedback while doing the technique, even though physically performing the same actions. Frustration may set in for the newer student who may not experience what I describe at all, yet performs the technique properly for his or her level. He or she may feel an expectation put on them that a technique isn’t correct unless they experience the sensations I’ve described. Any other personal feedback or physical cues might be interpreted as irrelevant and discarded. As a consequence, a newer student may struggle with the conflicting information between my description and his or her personal feedback.
I experience and understand Aikido through the filters of my own background experience, culture, beliefs and level of training. If learning Aikido is a journey, then asking a fellow student to focus on the view from my vantage point only serves to diminish their appreciation of the vista from their own mountain.

Tuning out the Static

When faced with a silent class, I am forced to quit forming questions for my Sempai and rather concentrate on the subtle shifts of balance and ki. Careful observation of the demonstrated technique to glean the proper foot position and shape of the movements become paramount. Interpretation of the ukemi to see how the uke’s balance has been affected gives rise to understanding of the direction of the throw. Eventually, the static of internal dialog – the constant buzzing of words and phrases in my mind to describe the motions for later use – give way to a more serene, yet more intense physical focus on the techniques themselves. “Direct transmission” of technique through ukemi, concentration on the manipulation of balance, and blending with my partner begin to transcend spoken communication. Physical emulation takes place instead of rationalization. Rather than limiting technique by vague verbal description, the information bypasses my filters and is absorbed directly. I’ve head this referred to as “muscle memory.” When working with kohai, I am forced to be very clear in the performance of technique, to convey physically the essence of what is expected. I am compelled to demonstrate technique without ego or excuse, without explanation or exposition, without the frustrating inadequacies of mere words. I and my filters have been removed from the equation and only the aikido remains. There is a purity I experience in these classes – a distillation of information into its most elemental form. For a brief moment, my partner and I experience communication on a much deeper and sincere level. Because blending with each other’s motion is so paramount to mutual safety and understanding, it becomes more instinctual than instructed. Without the interruptions associated with verbal direction, ukemi becomes more personal and fluid, flowing rather than halting at preset points. The tendency to overanalyze techniques is washed away by the sweat of actually performing them, and questions tend to give way to revelation.

Afterglow

Following these all-too-rare classes, there is a reinvigoration of the excitement I felt when I first began taking classes and everything about Aikido was new and mysterious to me. My fellow students seem similarly energized, as well. Outside, after the class has ended and the restriction of silence is lifted, there is a quiet reverence that still hangs palpably in the air. No one wants to be the first to break the spell of silence as we make our way back to our daily lives. We smile and nod quietly to each other, as though we’ve shared some great secret, some bond of brotherhood that will forever enrich our experience in Aikido and the world around us.

H/C

Writer's Hemorrhage

Surely, everyone is familiar with the concept of "writer's block," that circular-logic frustration of staring at a blank page (or screen) and willing something - ANYTHING - to come to the forefront of consciousness for the purpose of writing. All writers have expressed bouts of the phenomenon, and some have even reveled in it, using it as a topic upon which to expound.

I seem to have the opposite problem, at least at this early stage in my blogging career.

During my morning ablution, during which I routinely make my morning prayers, I considered writing a positional piece on the concepts of grace and gratitude and began mentally outlining my thoughts while wasting a inordinate amount of hot water. I decided it was a topic worthy of more meditation and put it back on the mental shelf.

As I pulled in the choke on my motorcycle in preparation for my morning commute and the engine burbled sleepily to life, I considered writing a bit about my dalliances on the edges of the biker-lifestyle and the odd, almost schizoid desire to remain a part of the rebel image, while simultaneously wishing for the mainstreaming of the whole moto-culture. We say that the world would be a better place if everyone rode a motorcycle and could understand the freedom of feeling the wind in your hair, while at same time the "brotherhood" of bikers is built on an "us against the world" mentality. First-time motorcycle owners just leaving the parking lot of their local dealership begin to look with disdain at motorists in their SUVs and air-conditioned comforts as the common enemy as an almost-instinctive response to pulling out into traffic. We are "us" because we're not "them." If everyone did join the rebel-faction, the bikers would lose their caché... What a conundrum! Perhaps I'll dig into this a bit more at a later time.

During the actual ride to work, I felt the stirrings of a bit of fiction about the origins of the little drips of moisture hitting my face while riding behind a large garbage truck on the Tollway. MMmmm... the places I could go with that one...

Being called "work" for a reason, I obviously can't write about each of those topics while on the company nickel, and I can only type so quickly before clocking in for the day or during my lunch breaks, so you'll have to settle for a quick overview of the virtual hemorrage of topics bouncing around in my skull until I have time to open up a vent and let them out properly.

H/C

Heat

Sullenly, I tucked my flag under my arm and reached into the back pocket of my Dickeys for my already-soaked hankerchief, dragging it numbly across my forehead and neck. In the heat, my arms felt heavy and limp, like the shot-bags filled with lead we used to weigh down the road signs along the construction area. Last year, during one of the windstorms we get here that blow up from the south like a steel-mill blast-furnace, a couple of those signs got blown down in front of a family of vacationers from the coast. It sent their rusty Ford station wagon into the ditch, tossing luggage everywhere and scaring the kids pretty bad. Jimmy, the foreman, was pretty shook up too and hollered and cussed us the whole time we were helping to get the old heap's bags loaded back up on top again and back on the road. We knew not to take it personally, though. The heat out here makes everybody edgy, and Jimmy was scared we'd get sued for not weighing down the signs. He ran back and forth barking and yipping at us like one of those Mexican chihuahua dogs, veins and eyes bulging and desperate. When we were almost done and Jimmy wasn't looking, we mugged around and winked at the kids, who were all wet-faced and dripping snot from crying. Jimmy even gave 'em a couple of those red nylon flags me and the other new union recruits wave around at passing cars- all to keep them from filing a complaint on our crew with the suits in the main office. Twenty-two man-hours, my road-flags and half a day burned up in the searing heat, just 'cause the sandbags weren't heavy enough.

You better believe we weigh 'em down now. Four bags filled with lead shot on each leg. Six if there's even a little breeze.

"It's gonna be another one of those summers," I sighed, watching the distant signs dance liquidly in the shimmering swelter and weakly wringing out my hankerchief before tucking it back into my sweat-stained pocket. A sedan was coming up a little too fast, and I shuffled out to wave my flag ...

Crack-Cocaine for the Masses

Do you know me?
I'm not a stalker, but I play one on T.V.
That's why I carry the American Excess Card

Don't peep through the windows of another home without it!

The brother of a friend of mine has landed a role in the "reality-based" T.V. show, "Joe Schmoe 2." Based on the popularity of the first installment of the show- wherein the "schmoe" is unwittingly dropped into the middle of a cast of professional actors who pretend to be fellow contestants- it's quite a feather in the cap of an actor to get a role in such a runaway hit program.

He plays the stalker, "Bryce," who fixates on one of the other characters and likes to watch her every move without being seen, himself.

It's rather ironic, really, since that's what the show asks us to do as well. His performance becomes ours.

Karl Marx once said, "Religion is the opiate of the masses." If that's to be considered, then reality-based TV shows must surely be the crack-cocaine - Cheap, low-grade, highly addictive and seemingly targeted to the simpletons of society, who come back to it time and time again regardless of their revulsion.

They're also inherently mean-spirited. Personally, I consider so-called "reality" TV one of the lowest forms of entertainment - somewhere between snuff-films and burning ants in the back yard with a magnifying lens. It's shaden-freude voyeurism for the unwashed masses, who get to sit and themselves fixate on the discomforts, indignities and mental or physical suffering from the comfort of their living room. Add the that the technological wonder of TiVo, and you can rewind and breathlessly watch over and over again the expressions on the faces of the willing victims at the precise moment of their anguish. Delicious, isn't it?

So ... I'm torn. I could tell myself that I'm watching the show only to view the performance of a good friend's brother, but of course he's not always on the screen. I could claim that it's merely an academic interest to bolster or shift my opinion of such shows, but the narcotic effect of such voyeurism isn't deflected by a badge of academia, and would find its irresistable way in to scintilate my synapses and dull my defenses. And lastly, should the serious tone of my thoughts on the matter belie the fact, I know it's a comedy and probably quite funny.

I am certain of one thing, though: those people who pick up a crack-pipe for the first time, don't do it with the goal of getting hooked, either.

In the movie, "8mm" which dealt with the disturbing topic of snuff films, Joaquin Phoenix's character had a line that has stuck with me long after I've tried to wash the rest of the disturbing images of the film out of my head:"When you dance with the Devil, you don't get to lead."

Perhaps I should just sit this one out.

The Path of The Shell

Coming soon to a computer near you. Perhaps not, but it's definitely coming soon to a computer VERY near me. I'm enthralled by the entire MYST universe, and the new expansion pack to URU: Ages Beyond Myst is a must-buy for me. It will doubtless signal the beginning of a renewed period of hermit-like behavior on my part until, unshaven and maggoty-white I emerge from the computer-cave, blinking against the sudden daylight like Punxutawney Phil, looking for my shadow. I already know the results of the prognostication, however, as THIS is coming fast on the heels of the URU expansion pack.

Look for me soon on the backs of milk cartons ...

Dust

Dust.
Billows of forgetfulness spread lugubriously
over good intentions and future promise.

To clean would only reawaken old failings,
lumbering back into unfettered view, wagging moldy fingers
and voicelessly mouthing regrets and admonitions.

The deliberately forsaken, orphaned by restless regard,
rise - hands clinging for my hem and wait anxiously
to resume their tug, tug, tug for my attention.

As is the worker, so too is the workplace.

Time to tidy up.

2004 R.O.T. Rally Report

This is actually a report from two weeks ago, but I thought I'd post it here for your amusement... H/C

After staying up 'till nearly 1am Thursday night finalizing everything and making sure the bike was packed, we got up at 5am Friday morning for a 6am departure time. This would be a new experience for Keli, having never been on the bike for more than an hour's trip at any given time. It was a new experience for me as well - having to operate a fully-loaded down bike with a passenger and cargo in Dallas rush-hour traffic.

Nevertheless, we got under way only a few minutes behind schedule and managed to get to the south side of Dallas before traffic started to thicken up and the nut-jobs talking on their cell-phones while applying makeup or shaving began to trickle into the morning commute. Keli was sure to let me know when she thought her comfort-level had been exceeded by clutching at me with both hands and knees until I thought I couldn't breathe. Fortunately, we quickly left Dallas behind and found ourselves on the open highway with little to do but watch the scenery blur past.
With each passing mile, we were joined by more and more like-minded folks on motorcycles loaded-down with luggage and dressed in their rally-going regalia, until we reached our first scheduled stop on the way down to Austin - The Czech Stop in West, Texas. The parking lot was full of bikes, and the line at the counter for fresh kolaches and the other treats that the bakery is famous for was nearly wrapped around the entirety of the inside waiting area. Along the tops of all the walls are hundreds of autographed publicity shots of the famous and not-so-famous celebrities who have frequented the store over the years, including Brave Combo, Shakira, Alice in Chains, Kiss (!), Willie Nelson, Hank Williams Jr., and just about every other celebrity who has ever taken a tour bus down to Austin. While there, we discovered that Keli's sunblock doesn't do anything to protect against wind-burn, because she looked like a negative from a photograph of a raccoon.

There were a few more "comfort-stops" along the way to relieve the pressure that too-large fountain drinks can cause before we pulled into Round Rock and looked for the Dell Computers campus to drop off our luggage with Craig. Soon we found ourselves victims of my usual lousy orienteering skills, and despite what seemed like simple directions over the phone, we were touring the local neighborhood instead of pulling into the parking lot of our host's workplace. Fortunately, Keli managed to make out the blue tops of the Dell buildings and steered me in the right direction, where we found Craig waiting for us with a bemused expression on his face, wondering how it was that we came in from the direction that we did. We made our hellos and talked bike-stuff while unloading our tour-pack and stripping off the quick-release windshield, before heading back out to ride the rest of the way to the Rally site.

Checking in at the R.O.T. Rally was much simpler than last year, and considerably more streamlined, as the tickets were all imprinted with unique bar-codes that the staff simply scanned before sending you to pick up your Rally shirt and wristband. All in all, it took less than five minutes from the time we parked among the sea of bikes before we were official rally attendees.

Problem was, we were already exhausted. Lack of sleep combined with road-fatigue from the ride and the already-hot sun had us both making our way to the nearest drink-vendor where we given the choice of $5 cans of beer, $3.50 bottles of water or $3.75 bottles of Gatorade or Pepsi. Ouch! Fortunately for us, Dan and Becky of Quick-Shade fame had their booth at the rally again this year, and welcomed Keli and I to use them as a home-base to rest and recuperate when we weren't stumbling around the fairgrounds. I parked my bike out in front of their booth to serve as a product model for their indispensible bike-cover that shades the saddle and saves me from a roasted rump on sunny days.

After resting long enough for the road-buzz to wear off, Keli and I set out to wander the grounds and take in all that the R.O.T. Rally had to offer - which, as usual, was an overload for the senses. For many of the attendees, the Rally is an opportunity to let down your hair and "play biker" for a long weekend of escapism and fantasy - not unlike attending a Renaissance festival - and those people were plenty obvious in their shiny new leather, spotless bikes and gawking stares. However, the hard-core types were in attendance as well, double-rocker colors on their vests and grizzled road-burned looks setting them apart from the weekend warriors. Both types of rally-goers, as well as the myriad folks that fit somewhere in-between managed to mix just fine for the duration of the festivities.

Late Friday afternoon, I got a call from Craig saying that he and Debbie were off from work and were going to go ahead and try to register before the biker-parade was to leave for downtown and the party on Congress and 6th Streets. It was a calculated risk, because if you didn't get back out on the roads ahead of the parade, you could easily be snarled up in traffic for over an hour just waiting to exit the grounds before discovering that many of the downtown streets were completely barricaded against traffic, as well. As it was, they managed to get in, got banded like endangered species and even look around a little bit, before we all hit the road ahead of the parade. Craig and Debbie had less trouble finding parking for their truck than Keli and I did for the bike downtown, but we eventually met up at the stage area where the Georgia Satellites were set to perform around 9pm. We swam against the sea of humanity that the gathered downtown to try to forage for something to eat, and managed to get inside the Chipotlé restaurant several blocks away before it got crowded. The staffers looked like deer caught in the headlights at the prospect of such a crowd pushing in through the front door, and the manager explained to us by way of apology that the evening crew was completely unaccustomed to the incredible rush of hungry patrons. After gorging ourselves on the melon-sized burritos, we waddled out in search of a margarita or daquiri ($10 each!!) and a spot to watch the concert. The Georgia Satellites certainly didn't disappoint, and after we'd heard a few songs we took note of the increasingly frequent lightning flashes to our north that signaled the frontal edge of the storm that was headed our way. It was quickly decided that a hasty exit was in order, and I didn't relish the prospect of getting caught in a downpour without the windshield on my bike to protect me from the rain. At highway speeds, raindrops feel like hailstones, and I knew my rainsuit wouldn't be much help. Despite my suggestion that she ride back in the truck with Craig and Debbie, Keli insisted on riding back with me (what a trouper!) and in our hurry to get on and get out, we neglected to put in our earplugs. We literally raced back the entire route, and while sitting at the light waiting to turn into Craig and Debbie subdivision, we could see the rain blurring out the traffic light one block ahead us of. Still dry, but nearly deaf from the wind-noise we pulled into the garage, grateful and exhausted from the day. We stayed up and chatted until around 1am or so and Keli and I collapsed on the hide-a-bed.

Saturday
Bleary-eyed and feeling hung-over from lack of sleep, I woke to find a too-chipper Craig and Debbie already dressed and ready to go back to the Rally. Keli and I hadn't really made a concerted effort to see and do everything at the Rally on Friday, knowing we'd be back again all-day Saturday, so we managed to muster up enough excitement to overcome our bodies desire to shut back down again. Since the forecast suggested that we weren't done with the rain yet, we decided to put the windsheild back on the bike for the day's riding. Better safe than sorry, I suppose. We got back to the fairground and were waved past the gate upon displaying our wristbands. Today, the crowd of people queing up to get registered for the day was starting to overflow the entryway parking lot, and we were grateful for our wristbands which earned us a straight shot right into the fairgrounds. We rode past the aftermath of the previous evening's storms, which were reported to have dropped over 3 inches of rain on the hapless campers. Once again, we parked the bike in front of the Quick-Shade booth and set up the bike to display the product (and earn our "rent") before meeting up with Craig and Debbie who had to park in the very-remote car parking area. After seeing some "photo-ops" walking around, I quickly discovered that my digital camera had a broken battery door and had to switch to Keli's for the duration. Unfortunately, her camera doesn't take nearly as nice a picture as mine and so most of the shots taken this weekend are blurry. We looked at motorcycles at the Chop-Shop Tour by Rooke, Billy Lane of Choppers, Inc. and Martin Brothers and I managed to get a couple of shots of misters Rooke and Lane, but I managed to miss the Martins. Keli shopped for do-rags for the boys, and managed to find one for herself, as well, and Debbie got a leather do-rag to wear when Craig finally gets around to buying a bike sometime in July by his reckoning. We went inside the arena to cool off and watch the motocross races - but mostly to cool off. The race classes ranged from 4-5 year olds to the "over-30 class," which frankly embarrassed us to watch. I'm hoping the guys in that race were a LOT over 30, because they rode their bikes like the 4-5 year-olds did, but with a sense of their own mortality that dampened any enthusiasm for leaving the ground.

Since Craig and Debbie brought two coolers filled with drinks and snacks, we made several pilgrimages to the truck to restock (two hands - two drinks!) and refuel. Debbie nodded off for a bit, and Keli and I headed back to help man the Quick-Shade booth with Dan and Becky. Keli caught a quick nap in a chair out in front of the booth, where several people asked if she was working on commission or paid hourly. My reply was that she was on a "union break." After everybody rested up we wandered around some more and eventually went to go check on the "parade" that was starting up early. There's a main road that runs along the perimeter of the grounds and is the primary means of getting in and out of the Rally site. Around 4 pm each day, thousands of bikers start cruising back and forth along the roadway with passengers on the back, while people line up in chairs and in the back of trucks backed up to the road to watch the procession. The atmosphere is very much like a parade during Mardi-Gras where the viewers try to entice the women on the backs of bikes or walking by to show off their "mommy-glands" for some beads or a beer, and quite a few do so. As the day wears on and the blood-alcohol levels increase, so do the willing participants - some of whom really should've quit doing that sort of thing 30 or so years ago. There were two trucks backed up next to each other with plastic liners in the beds that were filled with water and naked women dancing for the passers-by. One of the women was a true amazon with hooters the size of large cantelopes, and she could get those things dancing independently of each other. I have some short video of this trick just to prove it wasn't just wishful-thinking or the beer fooling me. I'm guessing she's a professional ...

Keli and I got seperated from Craig and Debbie right about the time that the Hank Williams Jr. concert was to begin, and we sent each other voice mails in a vain attempt to reconnect somewhere in the massive crowd. Eventually, Keli and I decided that we were tired and wanted to get something to eat off-grounds and rode out to a Taco Cabana along the highway, where we left yet another message on Craig's phone to let him know where we were and that we'd just meet them back at the house.

Sunday morning, Craig got a call from his folks telling him that he needed to come pick up his daughters, because Shelby (his oldest) was feeling homesick and missing them too much to wait for a late afternoon reunion with her parents. Despite the offer to stay as long as we wanted at the house, Keli and I loaded up as quickly as we could so everyone could leave at the same time. We knew that we had a long day ahead of us, as well. We rode the 4+ hours back to the house with great speed and few stops, only to hop in the station wagon and drive another two hours east to pick up our own children who'd been spending the weekend with their grandparents. Needless to say, we were both completely exhausted by the time we got home and collapsed in bed just as soon as we could get the boys into theirs.

Keli was smart and took the following day off to recuperate. I'm an idiot and am sitting here at my desk feeling like a zombie ...

There's nothing to read out there ...

Well of course, that's not really true, but I can't find anything.

A friend, several months ago, had made a comment about the Lemony Snicket series of books stating that he couldn't wait until my boys were old enough to read them and sent me a link to the "author's" website. I filed the information away in the back of my head for later retrieval, but otherwise didn't act on it.

Fast forward to the present when my cravings for some new reading material (outside of the 2-foot stack of magazines on the bathroom floor read and re-read during my morning obligatories) disinterred the recommendation. Yes, I know the books are written for children, but (ostensibly) so are the books in the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling - and I certainly enjoyed those. However, unlike the tales of Master Potter, the Lemony Snicket books are short enough for me to consider reading them to my sons as part of their bedtime rituals.

Problem is, they're not available.

Well, all right, YES they ARE available, but not in the cheap packaging I prefer. They've been in print more than long enough to have filtered their way into the used-bookstore system, but apparently not long enough to have found their way into paperback. Amazon.com has them, Barnes and Noble has them - heck, even Wal•Mart has them (just not volume one, blast it!), but they exist only in hardback and command hardback prices.

So, loading up the wife and children in the much-used Mercury wagon, we set out to find used copies at Half-Price Books' nearest location and came up empty, after a thorough search of the aisles and more than one furtive, stolen glance at the more bohemian clientelé.

"Daddy, what does she have an earring in her nose?"
"Because she missed, sweetheart... Never get dressed in the dark."

Rather than pack up the boys and head to another neighborhood location, we decided to go for the big money and drive downtown to the Grand High Poobah of Half-Price Books' locations, the Main Store. This place is larger (by far) than most municipal libraries in north Texas.

I decided not to fool around this time, but marched directly to the information desk upon arrival and asked them point-blank if they had any copies of Lemony Snicket's "A Series of Unfortunate Events." A man behind the counter, who had the look of your usual "undecided-so-let's-just-get-a-Liberal-Arts-degree-in-10-years" type made a noise somewhere in the back of his adenoids that I realized was a giggly little laugh. Perhaps it was the look on my face that made him reconsider, and he helpfully explained that the books in that series, along with "The Davinci Code," "The South Beach Diet" and a few others were the holy grail of used books, and were frequently resold and leaving the store tucked under the arm of its purchaser before the original owner could get back out of the parking lot.

Disappointed, but determined to make to most out of the trip I sauntered over to the section where I'd find motorcycle books. If I wanted a coffee-table picture book singing the praises of Harley Davidson in its one-hundredth year of operation, I'd be set - there were dozens. Those of us riding metric Japanese bikes were out of luck. Next, I wandered over the the martial arts section, to see if any of the Aikido books I've been interested in finding could be located. There were NO Aikido books on the shelf. In fact, the entire martial arts section was smaller than my collection of cookbooks at home.

Feeling less and less enthused, I made my way to the sci-fi/fantasy section of the store and wandered up and down the aisles grazing among the colorful covers and familiar authors. But alas, not knowing what I wanted, coupled with the general malaise that had come over me at my repeated failures to acquire anything new to read, saw me leaving the huge bookstore two hours later with nothing to show for it.

On the plus side, my two boys each got a few books out of the deal. They used them to bludgeon each other in the back seat on the long, sullen ride home...

H/C

What's Inside the Head of HeadCheese

Don't ask why I've done it ...

Call it hubris - call it vanity, but I have decided to dip my toe into the crowded and often fetid waters of online web-logging (or "blogging" for the uninitiated- all three of you).

What form will this blog take? Only time and a dedication to keeping house here will tell.

Doubtless, I'll have postings about my ever-evolving interests, but I keep telling myself that an exercise in journaling my thoughts and creative writings would be a Good Thing, regardless of topic.

And so - a brief (yeah, right!) introduction is in order. My real name is Keith, but for so long as I've been posting to online forums (and I day say it's been some time - Remember dialup BBS's?), I've elected to use the moniker "HeadCheese," after the term of endearment my late grandfather used to refer to his even later dog, Tex. "He's got to be the Head Cheese around here," he'd often say when I was a youth down in the steamy suburbs of New Orleans, and whether it was the heat, humidity or my impressionable youth, the name adhered in my psyche somewhere next to all the other names I'd already chosen for myself in preperation for my inevitable rise to fame. I'm still waiting ...

I am a Graphic Designer in Dallas, working for a modestly-sized printing company, The Master's Press. My previous incarnations have included professional juggler, fry-cook and soda-jerk, advertising salesman, art director for a large Christian publishing company, an exceedingly brief stint as the art director for the largest skin-care magazine in the WORLD (no kidding!) and later (perhaps as a means of gently rediscovering humility at the hands of a loving God), art director for a dysfunctional and very small family-run print shop for nearly ten years before finally landing in my current role. What a ride!

I have studied "Iwama-style" Aikido at North Texas Aikido for nearly twelve years now, and currently hold the rank of Nidan (2nd-degree black belt) as recorded at the World Aikido Headquarters in Japan.

In November of 1989, I married my childhood sweetheart after dating her since we were in middle-school, and after stalling her on the subject for nearly ten years until I was nearly killed by a freak illness, we now have two sons, ages 3 and 5. Funny how near-death experiences change your outlook on living....

Other hobbies which will most-likely make appearances here from time to time are my obsession with my motorcycle and spending all my money on its care and feeding, cigars (which I've come to consider part of MY care and feeding), home-brewing, hunting, shooting, and the finest computer games ever created: Myst, Riven, Exile, Uru and the upcoming Myst IV-Revelation. I'll probably link you to political discourses by persons who share my view of the world, but I'll likely not post much of my own thoughts on the matter, as they often make me feel sullied and agitated.

With any luck, I'll use this forum to experiment with creative-writing, too.

So there it is in a nutshell, with me as the nut. Happy reading (or not).