A New Voice In Rock n' Roll Heaven

   The local news tease blared: “the latest on Whitney Houston tonight at ten.” I turned to the wife and said, “The latest? She’s still dead, that’s the latest.”
   Once again, the media has provided us with ‘round the clock  “team coverage” of something we knew was going to happen anyway–the untimely death of another superstar gone bad. Meanwhile, some of the not-so-famous met their fate last week actually doing something for the betterment of us all. American soldiers, firefighters, police, their passing may have been noted in a few lines of their local paper, if at all.
   So a celebrity train wreck has booked an early departure for rock ‘n roll heaven, paid for by drugs, alcohol, paranoia, or the pressures of superstardom. Each pays a different fare but the one-way passage gets them to the same destination–the end of the line. The passenger manifest is a long one: Amy Winehouse, Michael Jackson, Elvis, Janis Joplin and others too numerous to list, each talented in his or her own way, each tossing that talent to the wayside like so many empty bottles and syringes.
   Whitney Houston’s talent was amazing. Even though I’m sick of hearing “I Will Always Love You” after the constant repetition this week I’m still awestruck by her power and range. From the throaty whisper of the opening lines to the soaring final chorus, she covered that song and made it her own. Anyone who’s thinking of singing The Star Spangled Banner at any event from a high school basketball game to the World Series should take a lesson from her stirring performance at Super Bowl XXV. Those who butcher our national anthem by adding notes and words that don’t belong should watch the video over and over until they realize Whitney wrote the book how it should be done.
   Talent like that should live forever. It will in audio and video but we’ll never know where it could have taken us if she hadn’t thrown it away to the lure of chemical highs and lows. 
   Maybe if she hadn’t been discovered  in her local church and thrust on the national stage, she’d still be singing praise to God instead of explaining to Him.

Weird Tricks Under The Sheets

   Maybe you’ve seen this ad, maybe you haven’t. As someone who’s been on the buying end of advertising and the end that writes advertising copy, aka the butt end, I look at all advertising. It doesn’t matter if it’s on TV, on line, or in print, I look at it all.  Some ads leave no doubt as to what they’re selling and the benefits thereof. Others are obtuse, leaving you wondering just what the heck the product is. Some ads are genius; just watch the Super Bowl. Others are pure garbage but you usually have to stay up past midnight or watch obscure cable channels to see them.
  This one shows up on Yahoo and intrigues the hell out of me.
   One weird trick to stay asleep? Judging from the picture what could it be? Maybe you’d have to be a large-breasted woman. Then you gotta wonder how she’d get any rest at all with those things bouncing around all night. No matter how she tries to sleep, they have to get in the way.
   If you’re a guy, maybe it means you have to find a large-breasted woman to sleep with you. Yeah, good luck with that. I can guarantee that if something like her was next to me in bed, nobody would be getting any sleep. But there’d be more than one weird trick going on.

The Never-ending Season

   Christmas 2011 is over. All the wife’s decorations, crammed into more than a score of 32-gallon plastic storage boxes full of every possible item associated with the holiday, are back on their shelves in the garage. Bigger items such as the artificial green plastic tree and decorations too large for the boxes reside on their own shelves awaiting the first week of December 2012 when they’ll be deployed again.
   But is it really over? Not until the last vestige of the season is put away and the final remnant cleaned up. Therein lies the reason for the never-ending season.
   Lurking somewhere in our living room carpet are rogue needles from the tree. Yes, we’ve vacuumed scrupulously with both a standup machine and a shop vac. Still they lurk, invisible to the naked eye unless you happen upon them in just the right light, at just the right angle. There it is! Pick it up now before the light changes or you move a millimeter in one direction or the other. That has to be the last one. Hah! They scoff at our feeble attempts to get them all.
   Every year we vacuum what seems to be thousands of needles after we get everything set up and again when everything comes down. After all these years of shedding, our tree should be just a metal rod with bare, twisted wires hanging from it, more Festivus pole than Christmas tree.  Yet, it still looks full. It must somehow regrow a new crop of needles as it spends the summer in its cocoon-like storage bag.
   We have a lot of grandchildren and we vacuum a lot. Crumbs of every sort, torn candy wrappers, and other reminders of their visits are sucked up on a regular basis. Still, we find at least one needle with every cleaning. Invariably, one will survive the entire year although every square inch of the living room has been vacuumed more than once.
   Our pastor suggests to us each Yuletide that we should leave something from Christmas on display to remind us of the warmth and good cheer the season provides. Consider it done, Father. I have opted for my leg lamp, ala “A Christmas Story.” But even if we put that away there will always be a green needle popping up as the seasons change to call to mind the good times with family and friends–and that we should be more diligent in our cleaning.
  
  

Snowmageddon

   According to the calendar, winter’s been here since December 21 but you’d never know it by the weather. Today is January 11 and the thermometer got up to 53 degrees. That’s more like March or April around here.
   The news this morning was all about dire warnings of the winter storm to come: three to six inches of snow over twenty-four hours. Oh my God  Better get to the grocery store and clear the shelves. It’s gonna be a long winter siege. Schools will close, businesses will be shuttered, and we’ll never see the light of day again.
   Now, just hold on a minute  If you live in Florida or Tennessee, six inches of snow in twenty-four hours is a lot. Down there, six inches in a month is huge. This is Chicago. Six inches in that time period is only a quarter inch per hour. You could go out there with a broom every hour and sweep away a snowfall like that if a few minutes. Remember the big snow last February? Good. That means you survived that one and you’ll survive this.
   Still the taking heads yammer on. “It’s coming. We’re all gonna die,” they maintain.
   You wanna know who’s gonna die? In addition to those people who insist on going out to shovel when they know they shouldn’t, it’s SUV drivers.
   This is not a blanket indictment of anyone who owns an SUV, just those ego-inflated mopes who buy Hummers, Escalades, and Durangos, etc. with the wrong-headed notion that their vehicles bestow a cloak of invincibility upon them. Sure, their high ground clearance and four-wheel drive transports can get through snowdrifts that mere cars can’t even attempt. But there’s one fatal flaw. They have the same weakness that every four-wheeled vehicle has: tires. Every car, pickup truck, and SUV has only two square feet of rubber that keeps it in contact with the asphalt, gravel, snow, or ice under it.
   We mortals who dare to take to the highway in our puny cars realize the limitations winter driving sets for us and drive accordingly. Some SUV drivers think their vehicles grant them some dispensation from the laws of physics as they apply to highway traction. They drive in the snow like it’s summer outside.
   They’re the ones who will die in this winter storm, their vehicles wrapped around trees or rolled over in ditches. If they don’t take any of us with them, it will do the gene pool some good.
  
  

My First Member

   This is just a short note to welcome the first intelligent, discerning, good-looking lover of great prose to do me the honor of following my blog. I write this, of course, under the peril of this person leaving due to the public embarrassment of this becoming public knowledge. Therefore, I will not name names and will use the genderless, and grammatically incorrect, plural when referring to them.
   I apologize to all my high school English teachers who pounded, literally, good grammar into my head, but sometimes the rules must be broken to protect the innocent.
   Since starting this project last year I have tried to be positive by stating that my blog had "almost one" follower instead of  the less than positive "none". Henceforth, I will use that verbal ruse no longer. I will say it proudly, "I have a follower." Until they get fed up and leave, that is.
   To prevent that I vow to pen thought-provoking and awe-inspiring posts that tickle the imagination and make you yearn for more.
   Or I could just write about the daily crap that pisses me off. That seems to work, too. 

A Knotty Question

   What’s up with shoelaces these days? The last couple of pairs of shoes I’ve bought had laces that were way too long, almost to the point of being unsafe.
   The laces on my running shoes were 48 inches per shoe. No amount of knotting, double-, or even triple-knotting would keep the loops from dragging on the ground. If I made the loops smaller, the aglets dragged. (That’s what those things on the ends of shoelaces are called. Look it up.) For full disclosure, I am not a runner; this particular pair of shoes was on sale–my top priority. That they looked and felt good was just icing on the cake. I replaced the 48-inch laces with 33-inchers and could have gone with 30-inchers. Just what was I supposed to do with the extra 15 inches of lace anyway? Don’t answer that.
   You would think in this tough economy that shoe manufacturers would look for ways to cut back wherever they can. A million pairs of shoes with an extra thirty inches of lace per pair adds up to almost 475 miles of unnecessary material. That’s a sizable dent in the old bottom line.
   I’ll wait while you get out your calculator and check my math. Satisfied? Let’s move on.
   I wear work boots on the job. This is not because I labor in some manly trade where heavy-duty footwear is a necessity. My ankles are shot from years of standing on concrete floors and they need the support. The laces on my last pair were dangerously long even when wrapped around the back of the boot, twice. I think they measured 72 inches. After nine years with shorter laces, my trusty boots have finally given up the ghost. They still look great on the outside but the inside support and padding is shot and they’re painful to wear.
   Today I was in Target picking up something for the missus and took a look at replacement boots. I found some that were being discontinued and were half price. Bingo! I tried on a pair and walked around like a prisoner in leg irons with the elastic string that keeps them together still attached.That was in case I didn’t like them. I loved them. They look good, fit right, and they make my feet feel like I have slippers on. Did I mention they were on sale?
   If you think you’ve guessed the problem, you’re wrong. These laces are too short. Doesn’t anybody measure these things? They’re fine if I don’t lace them up to the top hook but suppose I wanted to. Not only that, they weren’t even laced equally. There were at least six inches more on one side than the other. Whatever happened to quality control?
   That’s it! In the future all my footwear will be slip-ons or have Velcro fasteners.
  
  

The New Bike Path

  The village of Homer Glen has finally put in a series of bike paths that go all over our fair city. The northern terminus is right at the entrance to our subdivision. They cross some major and minor streets but mostly follow ComEd easements. Some day they'll connect with other paths and a cyclist could conceivably pedal all day without having to ride in traffic. I doubt it'll be open this year but it gives me something to look forward to next year.

   In anticipation of that, here is something I wrote about my weekly ride. 

   

Sunday Morning

     Early Sunday morning.  Not so early that the sun isn’t up but early enough that the shadows stretch clear across the yard and the creeping tentacles of light haven’t let the nocturnal insects know that it’s time to call it a night. Even at this hour it’s obvious that it’s going to be another hot, sticky one but now it’s still relatively cool in the shade.
     Sounds are clearer, sharper at this hour but I’ve never been able to figure out if it’s an atmospheric effect or if my ears haven’t filled up with their daily dose of the cacophony of modern living. The latch to the shed snaps open crisply and there she is.
     My trusty Schwinn Tempo, still looking pretty good after twenty-plus years and many thousand miles, awaits its Sunday run.  It was teal at the bike shop. Most of it still is but the chain slapping against it has turned the lower right rear fork the color of rusted metal. The pits and scratches of years of use give it the character that only longevity can confer. Then there’s the seat. Rock hard, worn down to a sheen like a highly-polished leather boot by thousands of Spandex strokes, it fits that part of my anatomy perfectly. None of these open-channel, ergonomic, gel-cell  “comfort seats” for us. 
     We used to do this eleven-mile circuit almost every day and many’s the night that the kids went with me after supper. Those days are over. The relentless encroachment of subdivisions has made weekday traffic a nightmare. Inattentive drivers on cell phones have made it downright dangerous.  That’s why we’re relegated to this time of Sunday morning; very few are headed to work, most of the Saturday night party people are home and the churchgoers are still laying out their Sunday best. The only motorists out at this hour are on their way to the lake to cast their lines into the water.
     High-pressure tires must be filled daily so I pump them to the prescribed 110 psi and off we go. Soon as we hit the main road, which is also the county line, we have to tackle a long, but not too steep, hill as if to see if a bike in its third decade and a rider in his seventh are up to it this morning.  We are, and our reward is an equally long downslope out of the subdivisions and into the forest.  Every Sunday I thank Daniel Burnham and the originators of the Forest Preserve District  who, over 100 years ago, preserved this land in its natural state for all time.  This is the Tampier Lake Preserve named after George Tampier whose quarry was flooded in 1964 to make a 160-acre recreational lake restrained by a ten-foot high arch dam.  
     Now on relatively flat land, forest on the right, savanna on the left, our shadow stretching across the road when there’s a gap in the trees,  I breathe the fresh air and the daily grind fades away. It’s hard to believe we’re less than twenty-five miles from the heart of the City of Big Shoulders. Out here it’s all very simple; no deadlines, no phones, no faxes, no interruptions; just me, the bike and the open road. My only concern is getting up the next hill. 
     Before long I hear “passing on your left” followed by a pace line of fellow cyclists, so close in formation that their front wheels almost touch the rear wheel of the rider ahead.  Each greets me with a friendly good morning as he passes and I respond in kind. In my younger years I’d have joined them but now I ride at my own pace and wish them well on their journey. Turning left at the crossroad, they’re out of sight in minutes.
     Going straight, into the John J. Duffy Preserve, we pass a pond on the right and notice a mother duck hustling her brood into the reeds to protect them from the two-wheeled intruder.   Now up another hill we pass twin flagstone gateposts that may have been made from tailings of the Illinois &Michigan Canal in the 1840's. They stand like sentinels to the past where a house now reduced to the remnants of a foundation once stood. Perhaps it belonged to a farmer who worked the bottom land at the other end of the hill. There, what’s left of fence posts mark a field, bisected by the road and now flooded as the lake filled in. No more than two feet at its deepest, this man-made lake can become parched, cracked mud flats in a dry summer.
     Up another hill into Cap Sauer’s Holding and the prairie is now on our right stretching almost a mile, a scant reminder of the ocean of grass that gave our state its nickname. I don’t know who Cap Sauer is or was but his area is part of the largest contiguous area of preserves in the Forest Preserve system. This takes us to the northern terminus of our ride and we head east, prairie on our right, thick woods on our left.  A herd of deer sunning themselves in the road doesn’t detect our silent approach against the breeze and, startled by our presence, they take off for the woods, high-kicking in all directions, their white tails disappearing into the foliage. 
     Turning south and back into civilization we pass the spot where the bell in the tower of a small chapel used to chime the quarter hour and was the timekeeper on our daily ride. It overlooked the ten-acre field where my club used to have its annual camp-out. The chapel and field are gone and in their stead are multi-million-dollar single-family homes, standing as temples to another god.  Just another sign of what some would call “progress.”
     Into a busier section of road now. This is where my son had his accident years ago.  He had to dodge a car that forced him onto the shoulder and soft gravel which flipped him over the handlebars. He did a perfect tuck and roll, winding up on his feet with huge smile in his face. I guess those judo lessons paid off. 
      Normally we avoid residential areas but we turn into a nice one with shady old-growth trees and a few challenging hills. It’s always quiet at this hour and a nice break from what traffic there is on the main road.  Here a red fox skittles across the road in search of breakfast. I watch it disappear into the bushes for a few seconds before looking back and noticing something different this morning...very different.
     There’s a tree-lined driveway where the road takes a sharp right. I’ve often wondered how many drivers have mistaken it for a continuation of the road.  Walking dreamily down that driveway to get the Sunday paper is a vision in nothing but a black robe.  I say “robe” for lack of a better word; it’s long and covers her but it’s sheer as can be.  I wish the sun was behind her but it’s behind me which is probably better since I’m invisible to her. To make sure she can’t hear me I peddle slowly to keep the freewheel from clicking.  She strolls lazily toward the road perhaps in fond memory of last night’s passion or anticipation of what’s to come this morning.  Or...maybe she’s seen the Sunday rider and is walking out to meet him after watching him pass by all these weeks. 
     No such luck. She finally sees us, grabs the paper, and runs back home. It was a nice, though short, dream but I have other thing to consider. My inattention to the road has allowed a mailbox to jump out in front of me and, if I avoid that, I must downshift or we’ll never get up the next hill.
     Back out on the main road again past the eastern edge of Tampier Lake where the waves lap almost right up to the pavement. Speeding downhill I ask a fisherman if he’s having any luck.
He turns his head to the right to the sound of my voice but I’m already past and never hear the answer.
      Up the next hill past the First Presbyterian Church, I wonder why there’s never a Second Presbyterian or Baptist or Methodist Church.  By now my mind is void of all the quotidian thoughts that crowd it and room is made for esoterica like this.
      One more quick pass through open country including a new preserve that was saved from “progress,” we’re back into the subdivisions and heading west.  Here used to be a huge stable with horses grazing by the road. Now it’s humongous houses that, although occupied, never reveal their owners.       
     Crossing the main road we leave the McMansions and pass more normal dwellings to our south while cornfields and a few small farms blanket the north.  Not long ago corn was king on the south side of the road too,  but the new crop is houses, swing sets, and the occasional tomato plant.  This is a quiet road and relatively flat. Pedaling is easy and I greet the walkers, joggers, and fellow cyclists I see out here every week. 
     Turning north we head the six hundred feet toward the entrance to our subdivision, the first in the area on our side of the county line.  I check my mirror, make the left turn, and speed past the house like Lance Armstrong winning the Tour de France.  Well, maybe not like Lance Armstrong but at least I have the yellow shirt.  After a victory lap around the block we head back to the shed.  The Schwinn is safely put away in anticipation of next week’s adventure and I’m refreshed and ready to face the week to come.