PANCAKES ANYONE?

This morning, rather than having my usual big bowl of cereal in preparation for the days's big ride I figured I might whip up a few pancakes. After all I haven't had any in a good long while and what with a good 140 miles ahead of me I'd need the additional nourishment. Upon having mixed up the batter, complete with blueberries for a little antioxidant fortification, I poured it on the griddle. Following was the result:

I don't know what happened. The second pancake didn't turn out all that much better:

By the third and final pancake, I was just beginning to get the hang of things:

And then it was over. Kind of like life itself. You set out to create a masterpiece and if you're lucky you reach the end remotely resembling something that bears the mere appearance of a human being.

WAITING ON AN "N" TRAIN

Morning commute at the 36th Avenue Station Stop in Queens. 7:00 am. Humid as all hell. Waiting on an N Train. The N Train. Sinus headache and the smell of Windex and nicotine on my fingers. Can’t seem to get rid of it. Another day of cleaning some rich bastard’s apartment. Again. Is this it? Is this as far as I’m going to go in life? Beggars can’t be choosers though. It’s not such a bad gig after all. A few hours work and I’m out the door with cash enough to make it through the next day or two. Today’s job on the Upper West Side. Jeff Buckley’s “Grace” on my Walkman. “Hallelujah”. How in the hell’d he do it? I press my way into the mass of flesh that becomes one with the greasy metal interior of the train. A tantalizingly tender scent rising up from the nape of the neck of the girl standing next to me. Lovely Latina Lady. If only she were with me I’d have it made. “Dream Brother”. Queensboro Plaza. Train stalled out for what seems like an eternity. Sure hope she doesn’t get off the train. She’s the only thing that’s keeping me sane at the moment. I think I need to quit drinking. I know I need to quit drinking. Why can’t I quit drinking? Damn. She’s getting off. Salvation passes me by yet again. Free spot by the door. Quick. Take it before somebody else does. The subway shuffle is a pain in the ass I tell ya’. Why can’t I just stay in the same spot until I reach my stop? Why do I have to move all over the train as we reach each new station? Train’s moving. Good. There she is standing on the opposite side of the platform. Waiting for the 7 Train. Probably going to work in Woodside, or Sunnyside maybe. Who knows. It doesn’t matter I’ll never see her again. Even if we lived next door to one another. That’s how messed up this city is. And yet I’ll see other people visiting from across the other side of the country. I don’t get it. Descending under the East River. How many times I’ve done this over the course of the past couple of years is anyone’s guess. Not that anyone would guess, let alone care to. I wonder if it’s possible to age ten years in two years time? God, I sure hope I don’t end up living here for ten years. Cream-colored coffee running along the silver floorboards of the train. Dunkin’ Donuts & The Daily News. I’ll take Dunkin’ Donuts. Fuck The Daily News, you can have it. Nothing “Daily” about “The Daily News”. Same shit every day, they just rearrange the words and pictures. Don’t know how in the hell I got here. I think it had something to do with her but seeing as she’s gone I can’t verify it one way or the other. Whatever the case, it appears there’s no way out and save an act of Providence I may well remain here for the duration. Born in San Diego died in Queens. Speaking of death I think I’m dying of some sort of wasting disease. Tingling sensations all over my backside like a hundred thousand ants crawling all over me. Extreme fatigue. Diarrhea. Muscle cramps. Yep. Wasting disease. I’m sure of it. They’re closing down all the strip clubs in Times Square. Big deal. Strip clubs are a joke. Use your imagination for cryin’ out loud. It’s a hell of a lot cheaper and you don’t fear nearly as lousy about it when it’s over. Who the hell are all these people? All I ever wanted was to be somebody. I don’t care now, though. It’s hard enough being nobody in particular without all the pressure that goes along with being somebody. Just give me a regular stipend, send me off to some remote wilderness area with plenty of food and I’ll be fine. Oh and if you don’t mind send that Lovely Latina LadyLady out every now and then so I don’t go entirely insane. Wow, I didn’t even realize the train just stopped. It always stops under the East River. Guess I’ve gotten used to it. Maybe I already have. Maybe she and I are laying next to one another at this very moment, out in that remote wilderness they sent me to. She’s wearing a dark blue cotton t-shirt with short sleeves and frills and a drawstring neckline. It goes down to her thighs when she’s standing upright, but at this moment it’s riding up over her waist. We’re tight up against one another our legs entwined, she fast asleep and me there running my fingers through her dark brown tresses, tucking it gently behind her ear. Ah. New York was nothing but a nightmare after all. Suddenly I hear the heavy creak of steel wheels as though somebody were pulling the bed away from the wall. Ah, hell. Could you just give us five more minutes? That’s all I ask. Five more minutes? I bolt upright eyes wide open to find that New York wasn’t a nightmare after all. I’m still there, but she’s not. Something seems to have broken loose in my head and my temples begin to throb. An aneurysm perhaps? Excess mucus, maybe? Who knows. Nobody. Nobody knows. Nobody cares. Feels like I’ve been on the wrong side of life, trying in vain and dying to make my way across to the other side. Here we are at Lex. Lexington Avenue. Junction of the 4, 5, 6 and the R Train. Take the tunnel up to 59^th for the Q. Train’s moving along now. No rhyme or reason to any of it. Don’t understand how the subway system works. How in the hell they coordinate it all. Thank God I’m not in charge, I’d really make a mess of things. Something large and yellow taking up the bulk of the periphery on my right. I take a glance. Holy shit. It’s Tom Brokaw. What the hell’s he doing here? For a moment I feel as though I may well have happened upon the man who has “The Answers”. “So Tom, what’s the inside scoop? Have you got any hot news tips? Is this all just one horrible joke? Is The Director going to say ‘Cut’ and relieve us of any further burden so that we can all just be ourselves for a change? Huh, Tom? What’dya' say? Tom? Tom?” Tome hasn’t got a clue the line of inquiry I’ve just posed him with. That’s the great and terrible thing about thought, you can be standing right next to somebody and they won’t have the foggiest idea just what in the world it is that’s going through your head. It’s a strange thing, thought. I haven’t much use for it, but I use it nonetheless, or it uses me rather. 5^th Avenue. Tom gets off. Important interview with Arafat probably. Or the pope. Or the rich bastard whose apartment I’ll be cleaning in short order. Up next West 57^th. An empty seat right next to me. To hell with it I’ll stand. Just close my eyes and ride it out. No sense in sitting down for sixty or so seconds only to stand again. I wonder if Tom Brokaw feels the same on the way to work as I feel on the way to work? I don’t think so. I wonder if he’d feel the same on his way to clean an apartment as I feel on my way to clean an apartment? Probably not. I wonder if I’d feel the same as way in preparing to deliver the evening news as Tom feels preparing to delivery the evening news? It’s highly unlikely. “Times Square, 42^nd Street Stop, let ‘em off, let ‘em off!!!” Holy shit, how’d I miss 57^th Street? Did the train even stop at 57^th Street? Alright, alright, get off the train. Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle. Why in the world folks waiting for the train have to stand in front of the doors as it comes to a stop is beyond me. It’s as though we’re all unconscious, just brain dead stumbling from one place to the next reaching out blindly into the darkness with the hope that a few filthy buckskins might land in our grubby little hands. Yeah that’s nice, there you go, get on the train as people are trying to get off, brilliant. Nice guys finish last. Fuck the Dalai Lama. You’re not nice you’re just lazy. No, you’re not lazy, you’re just chicken shit. Just be an animal for Chris’ sake, do like all the rest. Care and concern for other human beings, you’ve gotta’ be kidding me? Who the hell do you think you are anyway? I don’t know, that’s the problem. What proof have I of my supposed brilliance? A box of journals? A few old recordings of off key guitar and vocals? We’re moving like cattle now up the ramp. Off to the slaughter. I trip a hoof on the third stair and stumble, all the cattle behind me moan. Shaking that brain clot loose I can feel the aneurysm coming closer, it’ll be here any second now. That’d be something. My last memory being the smell of bleach from the scoured out subway tunnel and nothing but an endless succession of hooves crushing me to death as my brain convulses in a pulsating explosion of purple plasma. I make it to the top of the stairs. Mexican woman selling churros, a massive mountain of them under a big blanket of plastic wrap. Two for a dollar. Wish I could just buy the whole damned tray and head back to Queens. Sit around in the apartment and eat churros all day. That’d be something. The thought of eating anything these days makes me sick to my stomach though. It seems whatever I eat makes me feel horrible. If there’s a hell it’s the subways in New York. I have to believe that. No more oppressive place I’ve ever been in the middle of summer or any other time of the year for that matter. Grab the rail. Hoist yourself up the stairs. Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle. As many times as I’ve done this I’ll bet it’s never been with the same people any of them. And there’s thousands. Grab the rail. Step down. Down. Down. To the 1,2,3 & 9 platform. Nothing coming on the 1,9 side. Nothing coming on the 2,3 side either. Just find a sliver of tile and wait against the wall. I wonder what Chris Whitley’s up to. “Vacant above the din…” Two rats, big ones scurrying along the tracks. Oblivious. I wonder what would be better, qualitatively speaking, this life I’m living now, or the life of one of those two rats scurrying along the tracks? There’s got to be something wrong upstairs to make one wonder such things. Do you think any of these people here are wondering or have ever wondered such things? No. Why would they? Why would anyone wonder such things? Mental illness. A likely cause. New York is filthy. Unless you’re rich. Then you’re filthy rich. Ha-ha. I made a joke. Did you hear that everybody? Apparently not. Then you take a cab everywhere and hire somebody to clean your apartment instead of doing it yourself. What is it I’m seeking? Love? Maybe. No not maybe. That is it. That’s all. Transcendence. The most potent form of transcendence I’ve ever felt. Suddenly a 1 train comes screeching to a halt in front of me. Where the hell’d that come from? “Stand clear of the closing doors!!!” Holy shit! Something wrong with me. Either time is moving faster, or I’m moving slower. Squeeze in between the closing doors of the train. Must be some combination of both. Empty car. Just a few folks scattered about the train. Sit down. Feels as though I’m still leaning against that wall. Old woman in an orange dress sitting in front of me. Bright red lipstick and heavy mascara. Staring at me. No, through me. Past me. At death. Probably doesn’t even see me. Still bugs me nonetheless. Close your eyes. How does anyone manage to live that long? The prospect of living to 30 makes me tired as all hell. Looks like the train is going to blow right past 51^st Street. Guess they got the order to take the 2 track. Backed up trains maybe. There goes 59^th Street. And 66^th. Wow, we’re really flying. “So I wait for you…and I burn. Will I ever see your sweet return? Oh will I ever learn, lover, you should’ve come over. It’s not too late.” Hmn. Seems we’re stuck waiting for that serendipitous something or other that sneaks up on us and takes us entirely by surprise. No way to make it happen. It has a life of it’s own. She’ll either come over or she won’t. Don’t think there’s anything you can do to convince her otherwise. You know the deal. West 72^nd Street. Time to get off. God I don’t feel like cleaning another fucking apartment. You can sit and moan about her as long as you like and it ain’t gonna’ make a bit of difference. Up the stairs and into the blaring light of day. It’s hotter than ever. As though the heat and humidity were on some sort of solar powered mission to put me out of my misery once and for all. It’s over on Riverside, today’s job. Alright. Stop into the deli on the corner. Pick up a pack of American Spirits and a Diet Dr. Pepper. Rip that cellophane off the top. Flip the lid. Tear away the silver wrapper. Pinch a filter and pull one out. To the tip of the lips, a flick of the lighter and it’s lit. Crack open The Doctor and take a swig. A long, slow drag of smoke and there she is on the other side of 72^nd Street, my Lovely Latina Lady from way back in Queens. Holy shit. How in the hell’d she end up out here? You think it’s a sign, maybe? A divine dispensation from The Celestial Director, an intimation of sorts that I might have her hand in marriage, or at the very least a magical week or two together under the stars? No. Its just New York. Things like this happen all the time here. Nothing unusual about it in the least bit. That’s just The City’s way of fucking with you. Make you think it’s something special, when it’s just another random incident thumbing it’s nose at you in schizoid glee. Enough with the seeming significance of things. Just get on with the day. Get real for cryin’ out loud. We are headed the same way though. Maybe if I walk fast enough I’ll catch up to her. Nope. There he is waiting for her on the steps halfway down the block. They’re waving at one another. Shit. Shit. Shit. Of course. And he’s some rich bastard. I screw the cap back on my soda and hit play. Make my way toward Riverside. “Don’t fool yourself, she was heartache from the moment that you met her.” You can say that again, Jeff. “My heart is frozen still, as I try to find the will to forget her somehow, I think I’ve forgotten her now”. I hear ya’ loud and clear, brother. Loud and clear, I hear you. I’m trying to find the will myself this very minute.

AN UNLIKELY SCENARIO

This afternoon, as I was riding my bike north up The Silverado Trail in Napa Valley, I went flying by what at first glance appeared to be a dead humming bird sitting stone still in the glaring sun. Upon closer inspection, I found that it wasn't dead, but rather in a serious state of debilitation.

It sat there, eyes closed and teetering with every gust of wind that trailed off of each passing car. My conscience made it quite clear that something had to be done and fearing that it'd end up being run down by another cyclist, or worse yet a car, I concluded I'd best pick it up and go about figuring out just what to do with it.

The poor fellow was weak as can be and made but only a few feeble flaps of it's wings as I picked it up off of the pavement and placed it in the palm of my hand. I rode along for some time, trying to figure out just what in the world to do with it.

At first I thought I might call around and see if there was some sort of bird rescue center in Napa Valley that might be able to come pick it up, but if there was one, I'd have a hard time seeing them drive out to save a hummingbird. A red-tailed hawk perhaps, but a hummingbird? It seemed an unlikely scenario indeed.

The only other alternative would have been to wrap it in one of my arm warmers and take it back home with me, but with 70 miles remaining in my ride, that seemed no more realistic an option than the former.

Musing on what other prospects might pose as probable I rode on for a mile or so with it in the palm of my hand. Aside from the aforementioned considerations, the only other option that ocurred to me was to find a large stone and put it out of it's misery.

As I remained uncertain of it's true status however, I couldn't possibly have done so with the complete assurance that I was doing the right thing, so this option was swiftly dismissed. Perhaps it simply had a hangover from too much humming bird feed the night before and would soon make a full recovery. With no further options in sight, I rode on.

Eventually I came upon a stone bridge alongside the road with plenty of shade and a small creek running beneath it. I decided I'd simply leave it in the shade and hope for the best. Oddly enough I had a bit of a difficult time getting the sucker out of the palm of my hand as it's tiny nails had gotten caught in the mesh of my riding gloves. With considerable effort I eventually managed to unhook it's nails one by one. I didn't want to break one of its tiny toes and further incapacitate the poor thing.

I placed it a cornerstone, grabbed one of my water bottles, turned it upside down and dribbled a couple drops of my energy drink on it's beak, thinking it could use a shot or two of glucose to lift it's spirits. Lo and behold it's beak sprang wide open and it took in a good couple dozen gulps in rapid succession. I then poured some into a small indentation in the rock hoping perhaps it might be able to drink more as needed.

With that I bid my hummingbird friend adieu, praying that in some slight way I'd made it's life a little easier. I hopped on my bike and resumed my ride down the road ahead. I briefly wondered whether or not I'd done the right thing. Perhaps there was more that could have been done and my failure to have investigated any further meant the difference between the life and the death of a seemingly insignificant hummingbird.

Thankfully, I didn't puzzle over this for too long. The realization came that I could have done everything and then some to save it and it may well have died nonetheless. No doubt I'll never know what ever happened to it. Given it's condition I'd be surprised if it made it through to the end of the day. Perhaps having moved it from the hot tarmac at the shoulder of the road to the relative protection of the shade made all the difference. Perhaps it didn't.

Sometimes we just don't know what the results of our actions will be. Nonetheless when presented with a situation, however perplexing it may be, we have to do something. We can hesitate indefinitely, but that in and of itself is an action of sorts. Assuming we've done what we deem to be "the right thing", acting in the best interest of all concerned, all we can do from there is rest in the faith that Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom will act accordingly.

AN EPIC DAY ON THE BIKE

This last Saturday was an epic day on the bike to be certain. The Geysers, Skaggs Springs, Fort Ross, Cazadero, Occidental. 166 miles. 12 Hours. I set out upon the roads of Sonoma County at 8:30 am, well after my planned start time of 7:00am. In typical County fashion it was cool and foggy in the morning and would remain so for the first couple hours of my ride. However, having checked the weather to find a forecast of sunshine and an expected temperatur Sonoma e of 73 degrees, I felt fairly certain that the fog would lift and things would warm up a bit. That said, twenty minutes or so into my ride, I'd finally settled into the slow and steady rhythm required for such a ride. It's on long rides like this that my mind runs wild. Occasionally my musing is interrupted by some external oddity and around about twelve miles in I came across a telephone line that had what looked like a stump straddling it:

A strange sight to be certain. I never cease to find myself fascinated by such things. If it’s unusual, extra ordinary or just plain weird I’m there. "What", "where", "when", "why" and "how" are all questions that pester me relentlessly when I stumble upon such sights. Of course what one deems “extraordinary” is by necessity relative to what one deems “ordinary”. That said, I’d like to think I’ve cultivated somewhat of a penchant for finding the “extraordinary” in the “ordinary”. I am admittedly biased where my own personal idiosyncrasies are concerned however, so I’ll leave such judgment to you the reader and disgracefully digress.

At any rate, after a relatively flat couple of hours spent winding north through the vineyards that line either side of Westside Road, I hit the base of The Geysers climb at about 10:30 am.The first portion of The Geysers is a 6 mile grind that rises high nearly 3000 feet above the valley floor. From the bottom of the climb right up to the summit it was covered in a thick blanket of fog, however, upon reaching the summit of the first climb the fog on the west side had begun to yield to a bright blue sky on the east side:

Mind you it was a far more magnificent sight than the picture might indicate, but you get the idea. Just short of the top I spotted a rider up ahead of me and upon descending and beginning the second of The Geysers climbs, an incredibly unforgiving incline of hot tarmac, I caught up and rode with her. It was a welcome change of pace and we chatted for the duration of the second climb and straight on through the rest of The Geysers. Turns out she'd done The Terrible Two a coupla' years back. I've been training for The Terrible Two for the past four months and so I bombarded her with an endless round of questions regarding the event, which she graciously answered.

Parting ways with my Geysers companion, I stopped off to refuel in Cloverdale and made my way south down Dutcher Creek Road. Taking an eventual right on Dry Creek Road I rolled north for a couple of miles and before I knew it Skaggs Springs Road was upon me. Skaggs Springs is an entirely different beast compared to The Geysers. It's a series of lengthy ascents and descents that rise successively higher into the sky, ultimately offering an impressive view of Sonoma County. Just short of the first summit, I paused for a shot of Lake Sonoma.

I suppose I should offer something of a disclaimer here before I proceed. I am admittedly, something of a curmudgeon where the masses are concerned and I suffer a bitter distaste for much of what passes here in America as recreation. There's few things I love more than the silence and solitude offered up in generous abundance by Mother Nature herself and I find it incredibly irritating when such scarce qualities are rudely interrupted by the din of Man and His Machines.

Skaggs Springs Road is a haven for motorcyclists who like to play Evel Knievel up and down it's various twists and turns. I can usually hear them well up the road, like irksome mosquitoes humming about my ear lobes. They fly by in twos and threes at breakneck speed every twenty minutes or so. Typically motorcyclists are the only motorists I've ever seen out on Skaggs Springs Road, which makes their presence all that much the more unnerving. Almost as unnerving are the motorboats out on Lake Sonoma:

They whirl about in droves, performing an endless succession of doughnuts, usually to the tune of some wretched Creed anthem or other, spewing several cubic tons off filthy exhaust into the virgin air and making a general nuisance of themselves. Yep, at a reservoir near you thousands of Americans can be found each weekend enjoying the outdoors by drowning it out in a cacophony of competing outboard engines. Call it a case of testosterone gone awry, I prefer to work out my masculine angst by actually working it out, which in my case would be silently grinding my way up a seriously steep grade, legs a burning and lungs a bursting, disturbing the peace and quiet of my lactate threshold and nothing more.

The folly of such an argument however, is that I too am seen as something of a disturbance to those about me, motorcyclists notwithstanding. My very presence on the road, however far to the right it may be, has been enough to inspire the ire of many an angry motorist with profane outbursts, obscene hand gestures and on a few rare occasions, projectile matter which I'll tastefully decline to describe. Granted, such expressions of brotherly love are above and beyond what's called for, but they do likely have their origins in some earlier such event wherein one of my fellow cyclists failed to respect the rules of the road. That said, it isn't so much a matter of presence that I object to, but rather proportion. I digress once more, however.

After pausing for the Lake Sonoma shot, I proceeded onward. This being the second time I've ridden Skaggs Springs, I found it both easier and harder by turns. Easier in that I knew what lay ahead of me and harder in that, well, I knew what lay ahead of me. I've ridden a fair share of climbs here in California and this stretch, 32 miles of continuous up and down, is among the most formidable I've ever faced. Around about halfway through I came upon a Harley Davidson Guy and his Harley Davidson Girl. Harley Davidson Guy was taking photos of His Harley Davidson Girl as she sat upon His Harley Davidson.

As I passed them, Harley Davidson Guy said to me "You need an motor on that thing", to which I responded somewhat cryptically "I'm not going anywhere". I recall hearing a bit of befuddled laughter as I climbed my way past them. I suspect he failed to understand exactly what I meant. But then again, I suspect I failed to understand what I meant as well. Unfortunately this would be a characteristically typical retort on my part. I might have responded with "It's already got one!!!" thumping my chest with a firm fist indicating my heart, but no, I had to make some ethereal statement that would be entirely lost upon such a fellow and thus render myself incomprehensible. Such is the story of my life however, thus, I digress, for what, the third time? Yes. The third time.

Speaking of thirds, about two thirds of the way down Skaggs Springs the ladder collapsed as it were my legs and lungs received a welcome respite with the series of light rollers that run along the Gualala River. At Camp Gualala, I was greeted by a Sag Crew that had been following a number of riders on an organized ride put on by the Santa Rosa Cycling Club. No sooner did I ask them where I might find some water did I find a half gallon jug of cold spring water in front of me, as a generous portion of Peanut M & M's, dried apricots and granola bars.

I sat and chatted with them for a good fifteen minutes or so. Turns out a handful of them will be working The Terrible Two, so I'll be keeping any eye out for them come June 20th. Having enjoyed several fists full of Peanut M & M's, I bade my newfound friends thanks and made my way on down the road. It was 4:45 and with a good 70 miles to go, I'd have to pick up the pace if I was to make it home before nightfall. Unfortunately, I had what was the steepest climb yet ahead of me, The Rancheria Wall, a 1.5 mile monster with an average gradient of nine percent. Oddly enough after several thousand feet of climbing behind me, it was The Rancheria Wall I dreaded the most.

Fort Ross Road was yet to come however and in retrospect, it's this final climb of The Terrible Two route that I now look forward to the least. Having now ridden the entire course in successive segments, I know what to expect and Fort Ross road is going to be one mother of a climb at 165 or so miles into the ride. 2.5 miles in length, some portions of the climb reach a gradient of twenty percent which means the old quads will be searingly sore at that point. Suffice to say I eventually made it to the top of Fort Ross Road, but it took all I had within me to do so. Shortly after reaching the summit I came across this street sign:

I've seen a strange street sign or two in my day, but this would have to be amongst the strangest. Wahoo Court. Nowhere Way. Celebration Street. But Brain Ridge Road? No doubt there's a story in there somewhere. At any rate, following the intersection of Fort Ross and Brain Ridge Roads there came a series of twisting descents, followed by a handful of small gradual rises and an eventual screaming swoop down into the woodsmoke laden town of Cazadero. At that point it was gaining on 8:00 pm and though theoretically this meant a good forty-five minutes or so of daylight to avail myself of, for all intents and purposes it was night time in Cazadero, what with the towering redwoods blocking out what little was left of it.

It was full gas from there on out and rather than taking the busy River Road, I decided to opt for the relatively vacant Bohemian Highway route, leading up into Occidental. It did pose the challenge of additional climbing, but where it lacked in ease, it promised little if any traffic. After five miles of gentle incline, I reached Occidental, took a left onto Graton Road and ground my way up one brief and final rise in the pitch black cover of a densely packed forest of redwoods. When I emerged, the evening sky was a deep purple and were it not for the faint trace of a white line marking the shoulder, I mightn't have had anything to guide me.

I time trialed my way home, flying down the hills to the west of Santa Rosa. Hopped onto 116 briefly, then Occidental Road for a slight stretch and finally reached Sanford Road, wherein my penchant for the mystic kicked in. Night had fallen and a bright moonlight shone upon the pastures on either side of the road. They were being watered by giant sprinklers and dozens of streams of water whirled about in all directions producing a fine mist that soothed my sun baked bones. How many times I've ridden along Sanford Road in either direction I don't know, but on this occasion, it was as though it were the first. With the road ahead entirely obscured and only the light of the moon and stars to guide me I felt for a moment as though there was nothing beneath me but infinite space. I felt as though I were flying.

The remaining couple of miles home were a celebration of sorts. It was 9:30 pm and I had spent the entire day out on the roads of Sonoma County. 12 hours and 166 miles later I was finally home and what a journey it had been. I pulled up to the curb in front of my place on 4th Street, heaved a deep sigh, looked up at the night sky and thanked the moon for guiding me the rest of the way home. A great sense of accomplishment washed over me and I felt as though I could do anything.

But first I'd have to do one last thing before I entertained the notion of any further pursuits. I hoisted my bike up over my right shoulder and completed what would prove to be the last climb of the day: making my way up the stairs that lead to the courtyard of my building. Ironically, of all the climbs I'd done that day, it was this last one that took the most out of me. And yet it was the most rewarding climb of all, for it meant my journey had finally come to an end and I had made it home at last. And what a journey it was.

A DAY FOR THE REPTILES

Yesterday was among the more brutal rides I've done in some time. Did a hundred miler heading south toward Glen Ellen, up over Trinity Grade, down into Napa Valley, up Silverado Trail into Alexander Valley, east into Healdsburg and south back into Santa Rosa. with the temperature approaching triple digits it was a scorcher and I was loving every minute of it. So too were the reptiles. With the heat cranked up full blast and miles of hot asphalt to warm themselves upon they were out in force. They're my kind of people, them reptiles.

Lizards and snakes were on display all over the place and I spent a fair portion of my ride trying to avoid them. Blue Bellies, all too literally known as The Western Fence Lizard, are tough to avoid at 20mph as they blend right in with the asphalt and they typically can't be seen until they've begun hauling ass out of the way in the attempt to avoid being crushed. At one point I thought I might have run one down. Unable to carry on in good conscience I circled back and was relieved to find it was simply a twig.

Snakes are a different story though. I can usually see snakes well up ahead as they lay strewn about like discards of old rope. They're not so easy to spot, however, whilst flying downhill at 40mph and if I did run one over, chances are slim to none I'd circle back to put the poor bastard out of its misery. At any rate toward the end of my ride and just short of making a left on River Road, I caught sight of a baby Rattlesnake sunning itself out on the side of the road. I'd seen plenty of snakes out on the road, mostly King Snakes and Gophers, but the only Rattlesnakes I'd seen had been relegated to roadkill status.

As I had my phone with me I figured I'd snap a shot of it. Given the prospect of being bitten and dying on the side of the road from snake bite with complications of heat stroke, I proceeded with caution. First I rode by it a couple of times to test it's responsiveness. It made nary a move. Taking that as good sign I made a couple more passes, snapping shots each time.

Unfortunately this didn't work too well as the lo-tech camera on my high-tech phone has the no-tech inability to maintain it's focus whilst in motion. I can't blame it entirely on the camera as it's damned difficult taking pictures with one hand while pedaling a bicycle, particularly when Rattlesnakes are involved. Thus I gave myself over to the prospect of getting close enough to get a good shot whilst remaining far enough away to hop on my bike and haul ass in the event it decided to make any less than amorous overtures. Here's the result:

Given the lack of anything in the background that might provide some perspective, it looks as though it might be an adult, but in reality it was much smaller and consequently less threatening. And as it seemed entirely absorbed in it's sunlit reverie, I thought perhaps I might get a bit closer, hoping to get a better shot. No sooner than that thought arose, however, did it suddenly begin to wiggle a bit at which point I wisely decided not to push my luck and settled for what you see above. Whatever the case, I'm always excited to chance upon the diversity of wildlife here. It's but one of the many things I love about being back in Northern California, the wildlife.

You just don't see this kind of thing back in New York City. You see other stuff, like rats the size of cats and cockroaches as big as birds, but not snakes and lizards. Oh, there've been a few Coyote sightings in Central Park, but they're rare indeed. No, I much prefer to witness wildlife in it's natural environment whilst pedaling my way through the lush Sonoma County countryside, than to encounter it's urban counterpart, gnawing on the baseboards. City critters do have their own unique appeal, mind you, particularly when the only other living creatures you have access to are of the human variety. But given the choice, I'll take a Rattlesnake on a dusty back road over a Renegade Rat any day, or a human for that matter. It was a day for the reptiles to be certain.

HELLO OUT THERE

Hello out there. No doubt if you visit this blog as infrequently as I post to it, you haven't missed a thing. And if you have missed something, well then there's two things you can be sure of: first off, you'll never know what you’ve missed, thus you remain blissfully unaware of nothing in particular. And secondly: it's highly likely that if you did miss something, I had nothing do with it, which is something in and of itself. That said, I’ve decided to post a little something with the grand hope that you’ll be able to make nothing of it. So far, I’m doing pretty good, right?

At any rate, in the name of progress, I digress. The purpose of this blog after all, is neither to entertain nor bore you, though both may have occurred by turns…no the purpose of this blog, as with any blog worthy of it’s weight in html code is sheer self indulgence and nothing more. You see, over the course of the past two plus years I simply haven’t felt the urge to share so much as a single sentence with anyone, let alone a sentiment of any sort, sardonic, sordid or any combination thereof. No doubt the world at large is no more the worse for it and apologies entirely unnecessary at this time. But seeing as all constructs as we know them seem to be unraveling before our very eyes, it occurred to me that the time is ripe to contribute to said unraveling. My muse has come a’callin’ as it were and I’m feeling the urge to document a thought or two for public consumption.

There’s just too damned much silly stuff going on out there to simply sit back in a mutely bemused state of wonder as it were. That said, I’ve a tirade or two to embark upon, at least one related to that supercilious segment of society known as the Redneck Sector and another on the absurd vanity of those given over to Racism. In addition I've a few forthcoming reflections upon the more mundane aspects of life like standing in line at the Post Office and the ever elusive search for that “special someone” via the wonderful world of Online Dating.

No need to stay tuned, however. I guarantee you you won’t miss anything. That is if you're paying attention. And if not, well, it's probably because you have better things to do than track the offbeat observations and improbable insights of an erstwhile anarchist such as Seamus O’Rourke. Better things, such as catching that latest episode of your favorite Reality Show, regaling your friends with that latest inane Facebook app and updating your Twitter status are no doubt in order. That said, I don't blame you in the least. That's what we're here for after all. Life is short. Our days are numbered. Why waste them?

Vox Clamantis in Deserto…

A DUBIOUS DISTINCTION

A little over a week ago, I overheard an interesting story that at the first sounded anything but extraordinary, but upon further consideration struck me as an altogether revealing account of the human tendency to turn fiction into fact and fact into fiction.

According to New York 1, the locally televised twenty-four hour news program, a street in New York was recently named in honor of Thomas Brick, a New York City firefighter who died in the line of duty on December 16th, 2003. The commemoration took place on October 27th, and among those interviewed by New York 1 was Brick's father.

"He was the first firefighter to die in a fire in the line of duty after 9/11." said Tom Brick Sr. with equal parts pride and sentiment.

His declaration struck me as somewhat dubious. The first firefighter to die in a fire in the line of duty after 9/11? As though this were something to take pride in? Taken literally such a claim would seem ludicrous. The first firefighter to die since 9/11 within the New York City Fire Department, perhaps, but within other companies across the nation, let alone across the globe, it'd seem highly unlikely. That the context within which Mr. Brick identified his son relative to the N.Y.F.D. was clearly obvious. That it was said within the context of a brief interview at a commemoration ceremony was equally if not more so obvious. What was not so obvious was why Brick chose to make such a distinction, given a lifetime's worth of memories he might otherwise have called upon.

I quickly dismissed his assertion as that of a proud father honoring his departed son the best he knew how. However, as the news on New York 1 went through its usual hourly rotation, I ended up hearing the same sound bite several times in succession and each time I heard it, I found myself that much the more perplexed by the absurdity of such a distinction. Whether or not he was the first or the last would seem irrelevant in the face of death itself. Finally, after the fourth or fifth time I'd heard Brick's statement, I couldn't take it anymore and turned off the television. However, his words stuck with me and the harder I tried to dismiss them, the harder it became to resist the compulsion to question them.

"Was Thomas Brick really the first N.Y.F.D. firefighter to die since 9/11? Had no N.Y.F.D. firefighters in the two years past died in the line of duty prior to Brick's death? Why was old man Brick so proud to have made such distinction? Would he have done so if his son had been the second firefighter to die since 9/11?"

I envisioned such a scenario, wherein Brick stated as much on public television.

"He was the second firefighter to die in a fire in the line of duty after 9/11."

Somehow, it didn't pack the same emotional punch as his original statement. At any rate, being the confirmed obsessive compulsive I am, I couldn't help but hop on the internet and do a little research. The only way I'd be able to put a stop to the endless inquisition taking place in my head was to dig around for some answers. However, the answers I soon found had the opposite effect, posing yet further questions in search of definitive answers.

According to a press release located on no less than nyc.gov, James O'Shea was the first firefighter to "die in the line of duty since 9/11." Apparently O'Shea'd "suffered a fatal heart attack on September 27, 2003 after returning home from a tour of duty at his firehouse." Yet another article found at firehouse.com reveals an inverse assertion, stating Brick was the second firefighter to die since 9/11.

Alternately, an article from the New York Times states that "He was taken to Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center but soon became the first firefighter to die fighting a blaze since Sept. 11, 2001."

"Which is it?" I wondered. "Was he the first or the second? Does it matter?" Apparently it does, otherwise folks wouldn't be given to make such distinctions in the first place.

Given the obvious inconsistencies, I found myself left but to conclude that something had gone wrong here. If Thomas Brick "was the first firefighter to die in a fire in the line of duty after 9/11", well, more power to him, he'd earned his place in the hearts and minds of those who knew and loved him, and the public at large. But if he wasn't, why was James O'Shea overlooked? And why hadn't there been any effort made on the part of the N.Y.F.D. to set the record straight?

Clearly O'Shea had beaten Brick to the grave by a good couple of months. An oversight on the part of the press perhaps? It certainly couldn't have been a blunder on the part of the authorities, what with the press release posted on nyc.gov and all. Unless, of course, it was an intended blunder. There had to be a distinguishing factor somewhere amid the mire of misinformation available and I suspected it had something to do with timing.

Thomas Brick was pronounced dead upon arrival Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, having lost consciousness at the scene of the fire. Though indeterminate by the absence of an exact time of death, Thomas Brick's death undoubtedly took place between his collapse at the scene of the fire and his arrival at the hospital. The moment of James O'Shea's death was clearly established. He died shortly after arriving at the hospital.

Could the timing of their deaths, from the time of their departure from the scene of the fire to the time they were declared dead have been the sole distinguishing factor in the determination of who would be graced with such a distinction, or were there other factors involved? What other distinguishing characteristics might have seen the reversal of such a judgment, if any?

According to the nyc.gov press release O'Shea was a seventeen year veteran of the N.Y.F.D. By contrast Brick had only been a member for two years at the time of his death. O'Shea had "received a unit citation for his heroic actions at a Queens fire in 1995". In addition he'd been "a former winner of the International Fireman of the Year award.", according to firefightinglinks.com Brick had been the recipient of the "Thomas R. Elsasser Memorial Medal" for rescuing two occupants in a five-story multiple dwelling on 187th Street in Manhattan", according to nyc.gov. O'Shea was forty years old, happily married and a father of two sons. Brick was thirty and divorced with two children.

Perhaps it's simply a matter of personality that led to the apparent reversal. Though O'Shea had served much longer than Brick, he had a reputation for being somewhat of a "gentle giant" among his fellow firemen. His term of seventeen years was long and steady. His personal story, outside his life and death as a fireman, was anything but dramatic.

Apparently Brick had little with which to identify outside his life as a fireman. In an article in the New York Daily News, Mayor Michael Bloomberg observed that on his first day of duty, Brick assisted in rescuing six people in a fire in Washington Heights, an act for which he was later awarded a medal of honor. "If that's not hitting the ground running, then I don't know what is", said Bloomberg, "he always wanted people to know he was one of New York's Bravest." Perhaps Brick's pride was ultimately his undoing. What had he to prove in identifying himself as a fireman and to whom was he compelled to prove it?

It seems it's not so much life we celebrate here in America as it is death. A life characterized by modesty and humility, reaps little reward, but a death fueled on the drive for success that so characterizes this nation most certainly does. The felt need to distinguish ourselves from the masses often leads us to seek distinction where we otherwise might believe ourselves to be commonplace and average. Perhaps this is where Thomas Brick Sr. re-enters the picture.

What motivated him to distinguish his son's death against all evidence to the contrary? Did he feel as though his son's passing might otherwise have gone unrecognized? That the City elected to name one of it's streets after his son leads one to believe the answer would be a resounding "no". Did he feel as though his own personal stake in the matter necessitated taking such liberty with the truth? Certainly he was aware of the death of James O'Shea and the announcement via the nyc.gov press release that he was the "first firefighter to die in the line of duty since 9/11". Perhaps swept away by the current of nostalgia present at the commemoration, fact had become fiction for old man Brick and fiction, fact.

Beyond all fact in the matter, did he feel the folks his son died serving might otherwise conclude Thomas Brick Jr. died in vain? Perhaps. Apparently an alarm installed in Brick's helmet that otherwise might have alerted his fellow firefighters of his collapse had failed. Given the prospect his son might have been saved it's entirely plausible that Thomas Brick, Sr. might suffer the pangs of such a regret. Worse perhaps than the revelation of his son's death would be the realization that it might have been averted had it not been for the failure of his equipment. Did he feel motivated by guilt, perhaps even responsibility for his son's demise that could only but be assuaged by taking liberty with the truth? Would he rather his son died in 9/11, than in a relatively pedestrian event such as a warehouse fire? Suppose 9/11 had never happened. What then would he have to call upon in order to distinguish his deceased son?

It's strange the significance we place upon events that might otherwise force us to face the apparently meaningless nature of the events that give rise to them. It seems our very lives are constructed of efforts to evade the terror posed by such perceived meaninglessness. A lifetime's worth of hope and faith can be dashed in a day and where otherwise the death of a dream might seem entirely without reason, we feel compelled to assign meaning where none might otherwise exist.

In the final analysis whether or not Thomas Brick was truly "the first firefighter to die in a fire in the line of duty after 9/11" is of little consequence. Were that the case, I'm sure James O'Shea's family would have stepped forward to correct the error made in the public record. However, given O'Shea's nature, I suspect his family has accepted there's more to life than dubious distinctions and medals of honor. There's the memory of James himself. James the father playing with his kids in a moment of leisure at home; James the husband taking a late night stroll on a sultry summer's evening with his wife; James the son, stopping by to see his folks on a sunny Sunday afternoon. In the end it's these things that stand out as worthy of distinction. All else is mere window dressing.

And if it makes Thomas Brick, Sr. feel that much the better to remember his son as a man of distinction, then perhaps Thomas Brick, Jr. died not in vain after all. Thus considered, fact does indeed become fiction as effortlessly as fiction becomes fact; what saves us enslaves us where enslavement saves the free; and what we believe becomes far less important than why we believe in it.

A CONCEPTUAL CONUNDRUM

Okay, so here's a bit of a conceptual conundrum that's been kicking around in my head with an increasing frequency as of late:

If the "Big Bang" theory is correct in that the universe was created with a singular explosion in which it continues to expand at an ever increasing rate of velocity, is it possible that it will one day begin to slow down and eventually reach a standstill such that it begins to decelerate and return to the state in which it existed prior to it's creation?

The "Big Crunch" theory would certainly support such a possibility. The theory behind the "Big Crunch" is that the expansion of the universe will one day reach a point of terminal velocity such that it can only but remain at the same rate of acceleration before eventually slowing to a complete standstill and consequently implode upon itself.

And supposing the two of these theories are compatible, is it possible then that the universe was conceived of several billion years into the future and that it's creation billions of years in the past was merely the inverse side of its own conception? In terms of life itself, is it possible we were born in the future and will perish in the past?

If such were the case it'd present a plausible explanation for the phenomena of deja vu, beyond the pedestrian psychological and parapsychological theoretical postulates available. The older I get, the more frequently I'm hit with the sense that I've already lived this life and that I'm merely experiencing it as though it were happening for the first time.

A more pragmatic approach to such a phenomenological postulate would be that I'm on the verge of what may well be a schizophrenic breakdown a good many years in the making. Perhaps my frenetically charged mind has expanded such that it has reached a kind of terminal velocity of its own and is now in the process of decelerating toward an inevitable implosion of pathetically unprofound proportions. It's quite possible. I do come from a long line of finely tuned mental defectives, a legacy I bear with equal parts pride and scorn.

However, I digress. The line between mysticism and madness is fine indeed and those of you who take the pains of reading these scatological ramblings can provide far better testimony than I whether its a case of the former or the latter.

At any rate, I just thought I'd throw a little something out there for the consideration of those of you given to contemplating such caustic conundrums

Vox clamantis in deserto...

SHOOT THE FREAK

A couple of years ago while strolling the boardwalk at Coney Island I stumbled upon a strange display of American ingenuity that was both fascinating and disturbing at one and the same moment. A large crowd was gathered at the threshold of what appeared to be a vacant lot. My curiosity piqued, I wandered over to the edge of the crowd to find out just what in the hell all the excitement was about. A carnival barker, I shall henceforth refer to simply as Barker, stood shuffling off to the side, bullhorn in hand, belting in rhyme a sadistic appeal to all who dared draw near.

"Shoot the Freak, Ladies and Gentlemen, shoot the freak, shoot him in the eye make him cry, shoot him in the head, watch him drop dead!!!"

Peering through a small opening in the crowd I finally saw what all the fuss was about. Armed with a paintball gun and a half full party cup of Budweiser, an overweight middle aged gentleman wearing a ball cap with an American Flag emblazoned upon the front, stood braced behind a beat down barricade, firing off a rapid succession of shots at a heavily padded carnie shuffling dispassionately at the opposite end of the pit below; the Freak as it were, buried beneath a complete outfit of haphazardly assembled protective gear, entirely inhuman in appearance and easily superimposed with whatever object of Freak inspired hatred one wished to project upon him, her or whomever.

In the case of Mr. America the Freak quite likely represented Osama Bin Laden, Ralph Nader, or Tinky Winky, the purportedly gay Teletubby, or some other such Freak of the Week within his preferred paradigm. What else had I to go by? I could have been wrong. I frequently am and wouldn't be surprised to prove so yet again. There's always the chance he might have entirely misrepresented himself, in staunch betrayal of the liberally minded, down to earth dude, philosophical dude he truly was. There's always the chance he might have been a huge Bill Mahr fan. Chances were however, he wasn't nearly as clever as I'd imagined him to be and so far as he was concerned what you see is what you get. At any rate I turned my attention back to the man of the moment, Mr. America, hell bent on victory in the fight for freedom.

After several missed shots, an orange ball of paint splattered across The Freak's Shield. The Freak, however remained unphased. There's only so much melodrama a disillusioned young carnie can conjure before crapping out entirely and merely go through the motions. Either that or there was more going on there than was immediately apparent.

"Ooooo!" the audience exclaimed in utter amazement, doing their best to celebrate Mr. America's hit, despite the marked lack of response on behalf of the Freak.

"The Freak's been hit, but he ain't gonna' quit, do better than that if you wanna' make him fall flat!!!" taunted Barker with all the bluster of a bully on a grade school playground.

Down in the pit, the Freak taunted Mr. America half heartedly as he fired off another missed shot.

"Aww!" the crowd lamented.

"C'mon, guy that ain't gonna fly, just one shot, is that all you got?! Hit him with two, show him what you can do!!!"

His pride on the line, Mr. America tossed back a thirsty gulp of Budweiser, swiped his mouth with a flustered forearm, steadied his aim as best he could and launched a rapid volley of shots at the Freak. Not one of them hit.

"C'mon, guy, your wife's standing by, you keep firing blanks, she'll start sayin' no thanks!!!"

Having depleted his initial supply of paintballs, Mr. America tossed a shameful glance back at his wife who nodded in reluctant approval. He plunged a grubby mitt into the pocket of his shorts and withdrew his wallet, slapping a five dollar bill firmly on the counter. Barker's assistant, likely an alternate Freak himself, swiped the five and reloaded Mr. America's weapon with a fresh round of ammo, as Mr. America finished off the last of his beer.

"Alright, buddy...you got you some balls, now give it your all!!! Make your wife proud, no sissies allowed!!!"

Mr. America fired one, two, three, four, five shots in a row, none of which successfully restored his shaken manhood. His face flushed, he tossed his left leg behind him and leaned nervously into the barricade taking careful aim at the Freak who stood in staunch defiance in the pit below.

"C'mon, dad you can do it!" his teenaged son rallied in support.

"Don't be a clown and make your son frown, lay down the law, shoot The Freak in the jaw!!!"

Mr. America turned and shot an angry glance at Barker. He paused a moment, took a deep breath and focused intently on his target. He fired a single shot. It missed, disappearing into a pile of garbage. He fired another, even further off the mark, flying high over the back wall. He shook his head in disgust and launched his remaining eight shots recklessly at The Freak who staggered from side to side narrowly dodging each one.

He adjusted the bill of his ball cap, stood stone still for a moment, staring scornfully down at The Freak and turned to Mrs. America for yet another nod of approval. She shook her head side to side in an overt display of disgust. His account overdrawn, Mr. America shook his head sheepishly, plunked his paintball gun down on the counter, stuffed his hands in his pockets and shuffled shamefully back toward his embarrassed wife and son.

"Well ladies and gent's, it look like he's spent, every dog has its day, what else can ya' say?!!" Barker barked from behind his bullhorn. "How 'bout your son, maybe he can shoot a gun, give it a try, shoot The Freak in the thigh!!!"

"Yeah, dad can I try?" pleaded the son.

Fearful of being shamed yet further, Mr. America shook his head disdainfully as he ushered his young son through the crowd.

"Mom?!"

"No, Junior, that's it, it's over, we're done!!!" declared Mrs. America as they pushed their way through the crowd and disappeared amongst the masses.

"Shoot the Freak, shoot the Freak, ladies and gentlemen!!! Shoot him in the hand, say it was planned, shoot him in the chest and prove you're the best!!!"

Suddenly, the crowd scrambled in all directions, save for a small group of college kids, stoned out of their minds and entirely incapacitated with hysterical laughter. Barker suddenly shot a glance my way. I froze.

"C'mon buddy, you got the guts?! Throw down some cash, shoot the Freak in the nuts!!!"

Apparently I'd hesitated a few seconds longer than I should have. I thought for a moment.

Loathe as I am to admit it the temptation to "shoot the Freak in the nuts" was there, if not for the novelty of shooting the Freak, then surely for giving Barker a run for his money. However, having nuts myself and a full fledged acquaintance with the pain of having them so much as lightly tapped, let alone shot at, I found hypocrisy of doing so to one of my testicular contemporaries entirely unsavory. Further to that, having witnessed the cruel demise of Mr. America at the hands of Barker, the fear of failure in the face of such a challenge was eclipsed by the fear that the nuts of my male psyche would most certainly suffer an assured shot or three, a prospect perhaps more painful than its physical counterpart.

I turned and took a few steps in the opposite direction.

"Alright buddy, it's all up to you, if you ain't got the balls I'll find a guy who has two!!!"

I paused for a moment. Despite all rational reassurance I couldn't shake the sudden sense of rage that rose up within me. I closed my eyes and envisioned myself tossing Barker a twenty, stepping up to the plate and launching a relentless round of paintballs that'd knock the Freak flat on his ass with a precision that'd make an Army sharpshooter blink twice; thus striking Barker speechless and in need of a good several years worth of speech therapy that'd render the Freak show terminal without it's essential antagonist to play upon the fears of all passersby.

Clearly there was no escape. Having long since entered the realm of the "Shoot the Freak" show, I'd surrendered the bulk of my dignity to begin with, what had I left to lose at that point? Five bucks? Enough to pick up an order of chili cheese fries and a Coke at Nathan's? Given the choice between restoring my dignity, an improbable prospect at best, and losing it entirely, I chose Nathan's; wondering all the while if there was in actuality any difference between the two. At that point however, I could care less. I was hungry as hell. Thus hunger, as opposed to hubris, won the day. A wise move on my part, prompted more by necessity than anything else.

Just as I reached Nathan's and took my place at the end of the line I caught sight of Mr. and Mrs. America seated at one of the picnic tables, shouting back and forth at one another, engaged in their own verbal version of "Shoot the Freak". Young Junior sat silently devouring a plate of nachos.

"For cryin' out loud Otis, would ya' let it go already?!" she implored him.

"Aw, hell Arlene, all I'm askin's for five more dollars, that's it, that's all I'm askin's just five more dollars, five more dollars and I'm done, I'm through, I promise!"

"How many time's' have I heard that the past hour'n'a' half, Otis!!!" Arlene challenged.

Otis was dumbstruck.

"Five is ten is twenty is forty is...for Christ' sake Otis, you damned near spent a hundred dollars messin' with that stupid thing!" she fumed.

I couldn't help but feel sorry for Otis. The ridiculous nature of the situation was all too familiar. I'd felt Otis' pain on more than a few occasions. I'd been there myself, in similar such instances, having suffered the pains of public humiliation in the presence of those I knew and loved, my manhood mangled beyond all recognition over some trivial matter equally as absurd; like riding the damned Cyclone with a former girlfriend so as not to arouse her suspicions, all the while screaming like a school girl scared shitless and in need of a good swift slap in the face; just one of many such moments I've suffered at the expense of what otherwise needn't have been proven.

I felt the urge to stroll on over to Otis and give him a hug with the full fledged assurance he'd redeem himself at some point; if not in New York City, then certainly when he'd arrived back in Omaha, full of tales to tell, which could be altered accordingly to the expectations of his intended audience. Amid Arlene's detailed account of how she met Matt Lauer after a taping of the Today Show, Otis could wax victorious about how he shot the Freak shitless while Sharon Stone looked on in wide eyed wonder. The folks in Omaha'd never know the difference. Then all would be well indeed and he could then resume going about the business of maintaining his stature in the community, if not until the next financial dispute between himself and Arlene at the local Sonic.

"Excuse me sir?! Sir?!"

I returned my attention to my place in line. There was nobody left to place an order but myself and the two dozen or so folks waiting impatiently behind me.

"You gonna' place an order, sir or you just gonna' stand there?!"

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Sorry. I'll take a small order of chili cheese fries and a large Coke."

Apparently I'd become so absorbed by Otis' and Arlene's argument I'd taken complete leave of my senses.

"That'll be five dollars and thirty-five cents" the vendor declared. I glanced at his name tag. Reggie, it said. Suddenly recalling I'd only five dollars left in my wallet, I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me.

"Ah, hell, I...I'm afraid I forgot to...stop by the ATM. All I've got's five dollars. Is there an ATM around here anywhere, Reggie?"

Reggie's irritation increased visibly as he paced back and forth, nervously anticipating a mad rash to the counter.

"How much do you need, son?!" an old woman a good ninety some odd years old whispered from behind me.

"Oh, no, don't worry about it maa'm, I'll just…is there an ATM around here anywhere?!"

There's nothing worse than making a purchase and not being able to pay for it. ; aside from the burden of an angry horde of hungry tourists and a ticked off hot dog salesman glaring at you all at the same time.

"Here you are dear", the old woman muttered, handing me a dollar bill. "You keep the change dear, you never know when you may need it."

"Thank you, maa'm. I appreciate it", I responded with gratitude only outright humiliation can offer up.

"Oh, don't you worry dear. You just give someone else a hand when they need it."

"I will", I promised. "You wouldn't mind if I asked your name, would you maa'm?" I asked.

Of course, I wouldn't. Doris, my name's Doris."

The prototypical elderly woman behind the counter in a large town. A deus ex machina of the geriatric variety.

"Thank you, Doris."

"You're welcome, dear", she smiled.

To the relief of Reggie, I paid the remainder of my balance and made my way to an empty bench at the edge of the boardwalk. Taking a seat I turned and glanced back at the table where Otis', Arlene and Junior were sitting. They were gone. I turned back toward my chili cheese fries, stabbed my fork into them and withdrew a healthy heap, washing it down with a swig of coke. I lit a cigarette, took a drag and stared out at the water. Amid the laughter of children showering themselves under a rusty spigot, amid the crying gulls in search of synthetic sustenance, I could hear Barker in the background, taunting the tourists as relentlessly as ever.

As I sat there, staring out at the water, it occurred to me that "Shoot the Freak" was a perfect metaphor for an America that appeared to be in the midst of a schizophrenic breakdown of sorts. We take pride in our individuality and yet at the same time we loathe it. We define ourselves not so much by who we are, but rather, by whom we are not. And in so doing, we lose sight of ourselves. We trivialize and marginalize, stigmatize and dramatize the differences between ourselves in the attempt to establish whom we believe ourselves to be, all the while turning others into external caricatures of what we despise within ourselves. We render one another Freaks, in order to perpetuate the illusion of our own normalcy.

Given such sentiments it occurred that perhaps we'd be far better off aiming our arsenal at the Freak within, than the Freak without. I've no doubt we'd be far less inclined to take fire upon ourselves, given the prospect of perishing at our own hands, or at the very least emerging with our egos bruised and our pride pummeled. And that the very thought of such a suggestion defies the current socio-political power play in which we find ourselves embroiled, perhaps that's the very thing we need in order to redeem what little is left of our integrity. Perhaps if Otis had taken a moment to ask himself why he was so hell bent on proving his manhood at the expense of his dignity, he mightn't have endured the shame that made an otherwise eventful trip to Coney Island a disaster.

However, I strongly suspect such a suggestion would fall on deaf ears. After all, to engage in the kind of rigorous self examination Socrates praised, seems contrary to our survival instinct. To do so, poses the prospect of self immolation, a virtue we love to preach, but loathe to put into practice. Look what happened to Socrates for cryin' out loud. What otherwise might have altered the course of human history, was branded the propaganda of pedophilia and promptly put down with a frothy cup of Hemlock. That Socrates urged introspection as a virtue by no means was a declaration that we should examine others. But such was the way of the world back then and sadly such is the way to this day.

No it's far more fun to "Shoot the Freak" without than examine the Freak within. We all do it. The Republicans shoot the Democrats, the Democrats shoot the Republicans. The Pro-Choice Activists shoot their Anti-Abortion Activist contemporaries. All the while under the impression they're shooting someone other than themselves. To paraphrase that wise old scoundrel Mohandas K. Ghandi, a freak for a freak makes the whole world, what…freakless? Hmn. Maybe there's something to this "Shoot the Freak" phenomena after all.

Perhaps the day will dawn wherein we no longer feel the need to "Shoot the Freak", without, within, or otherwise. Perhaps the day will dawn wherein we engage in such a form of entertainment as say, "Hug the Freak". I can see it now, old Barker standing there on the sidelines crying out in plaintive plea:

"Hug the Freak, ladies and gentlemen!!! Hug the Freak!!! He needs some drugs, just give him a hug, he needs your love, like a hand needs a glove!!! Hug the Freak, ladies and gentlemen, Hug the Freak!!!"

And just as we once did when playing "Shoot the Freak" we'll superimpose whatever image we wish to project while we "Hug the Freak". We'll hug the Republican; we'll hug the Democrat, The Pro-Choice Activist and the Anti-Abortion Activist equally, favoring one no more than the other. However, having arrived at such a place of compassion and empathy for those unlike us, we'd likely have done away with our differences and simply become human beings as opposed to Freaks, utterly fallible in all of our foibles and more like ourselves than we'd previously cared to admit.

Realistically, however, we just ain't there yet. The mere notion of "Hug the Freak" at this juncture in human history poses an absurd proposition at best, let alone hugging Republicans, Democrats or otherwise undeclared partisan peoples. Why else would we find such a notion humorous? Hell it's hard enough hugging those outside our immediate circle of friends and family let alone whatever Freak we happen to loathe.

Until then, there's quite likely a "Shoot the Freak" booth somewhere within the vicinity of your immediate environment. Such is the popularity of Freak shooting these days. And if there isn't, well, hell just purchase yourself a paintball gun and practice your aim upon your favorite antagonist until the upcoming mid terms hit the stage. There's sure to be Freaks a' plenty upon which you can fire your ire.

Locally established Freak show or no, get the hell out there and have yourself a blast. I'll even donate the sixty-five cents remaining from Doris' donation on my behalf, just to get you started. And when you've exhausted your supply of paintballs and subconscious self loathing, carve a brief moment or two out of your busy Freak shooting schedule, take a flying leap down into the pit and give the Freak a hug. He needs it. She needs it. We all do.