Recharging: Part 1

Where to begin a story can be difficult. Do I start this tale from when Eric's girlfriend (the fabulous Brandy) sent me a text (because he was driving) about having a motorcycle trip weekend? Do I start from the preparations of the trip and why we chose the direction to head? Do I start from the day of the trip? Do I start from the end and work my way backwards? Do I go Memento style and jump around?

I'll start here:

Combining an old love with a new love has proven to be an experience that proverbial recharges my batteries. I know you wonder, "Rob, why do you need to recharge your batteries so often. I mean I don't get to, and I have more headaches than you- you bum." My response is everyone needs to engage in self care on a regular and basis, and I'm sorry you don't get to as often due to responsibilities. Make a concerted effort to take care of yourself so the everyday stressors are set to 5 instead of 11. My juvenile response is, "Don't be jealous!"

 I have been camping from a very young age, and it is one of my favorite things to do. There is nothing like sitting around the fire (also known as Caveman TV) and oscillating between conversations and comfortable silence. Even large national campgrounds, there is a sense of privacy and respect for the natural beauty, which equates to people actually being respectful of their neighbors. The infinity of the sky is awe inspiring. I'm not much of an astronomer, but outer space is cool. Also, coffee never taste better than when it is brewed after a night in the sleeping bag.

 I find complete tranquility in the late evenings and early mornings of camping. I believe this is a perfect counterbalance to riding a motorcycle.

On top of Gizmo, I have solitude, but feel connected because there is not much between you, the pavement, and cars. Senses tend to run high while maneuvering around turns and the flow of traffic. There is excitement, concentration, and technical challenge while riding a motorcycle. On a side note, I will never understand not wearing full gear and driving reckless. Florida has no helmet laws and we say many people riding topless (top of their head, naughty person). It is infectious riding a motorcycle.

Combining motorcycle riding and camping has the additive effect of minimizing what you can bring. I have side panniers that hold 39L and 25L respectively; plus two waterproof bags that can be strapped down, as noted above. When packing, you have to consider length of stay, weight, bulk, and necessity. It is a big puzzle to work on. Honestly, I'm already planning my next couple of camping trips (the perk of limited responsibilities and attachments).

It had been a tedious period leading up to my weekend getaway, but I was excited. We decide to go to Florida for our trip. Part of the reason is that Florida is a short drive away, there are some beautiful stretches of road, and I had not been to Fort Pickens for camping since 2002 with my brother and dad. The other reason is that after riding in Florida, I had ridden in all the southeastern states on my motorcycle: Louisiana, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida was last on that list.

We left Baton Rouge in the morning, and we could not have asked for better weather. It was cool with a slight breeze. As previously stated, I ride in full gear all the time, and riding through traffic in summer it can be less fun, but this weather it is no bother to move slow. The first leg of our journey was I-12 (the dreaded tarmac/pavement), which is just straight. Once we hit Mississippi, it was time to get off the interstate and enjoy more picturesque roads.

More to come.

Until I ramble on again. . .

Festivities: New Orleans on Tap

This is the next part of my experience at New Orleans on Tap, which is a fund raiser for the SPCA sponsored by The Bulldog. You don't necessarily need to the previous post, but it helps.

I live roughly 7-10 miles from City Park. I run between 7-10 miles on Saturdays, takes me anywhere from 90-120 minutes in the summer. That seemed like a possibility. However, I didn't want to end up at City Park completely covered in sweat just 65-70% covered, and dehydrated before I started sampling beer. Next thought was riding my bicycle, but same problem just shorter time to get to City Park. Therefore, I needed alternative ways of getting there, and driving was out of the question (over 200 beers to sample). Public transportation was the correct answer.

The way I operate public transportation is based on a simple system- is there an all day pass that allows me to jump on and off as many times I want and which modes will it allow me to utilize said pass? If a city has such a pass, I find the general direction I figure I'm suppose to go and jump on the first line. Once on transportation system, I check to see if I am going in the right direction or on the correct line. If not, jump off and find the right one. It might take longer to get somewhere, but it is way more fun. Recap: 1) Day pass 2) General direction 3) Check once on moving object to ensure you are on the correct route. 4) If not get off and repeat. 5) Find a map later.

New Orleans Regional Transportation Authority have buses and streetcars and an all day pass called the Jazzy Pass, which is three dollars and allows someone to hop on buses and streetcars all day. Perfect. The ancillary beauty of said pass is the fact that I don't have to remember to save coins for the ride home.

So not to bore you too much, I used feet, streetcars, and buses to get to City Park. I think it took about an hour of jumping on and off. It was a bright, sunny day and I was heading towards beertown, so all was right in the world.

I got my tickets to acquire samples and bands: one for being age appropriate and a second to get into the VIP area. My head was spinning with possibilities. I made a round to see all that was available. There were even two sections of homebrews as part of the cornucopia of beer. There were sample sizes (3oz) and for extra tickets a larger size (9oz). Some 3 oz cup beers cost 1-3 tickets, and the 9 oz cups were double whatever the 3 oz cups of beer. I had to plot out a course of action. Furthermore, the VIP section had beers that were not available in the other areas. There was also a selection of food to purchase.

Step 1: I ordered a drunken pig sandwich.
Step 2: Walk to VIP area because there were tables and umbrellas to block the sun.
Step 3: Ordered my first beer in the VIP tent (a 9oz to go with food)
Step 4: Map out beer consumption

The sandwich was really good, and I wish I could remember the people that I bought it from, but apparently beer was the only thing on my mind.

I had a favorite, but I will be reviewing that here.

Here is a list of some of my favorite beers that I enjoyed:

Cellar Door by Stillwater Artisan Ales
Class of '88 Barleywine Ale by Deschutes Brewery
American Wheat with Blueberries by Sweetwater Brewing Company
Ephemere Pomme by Unibroue
Miel Sauvage by Bayou Teche
There were a couple of homebrew that were amazing, but there names fail me.

Over the course of the day, I ran into a couple of people I knew, but without fail I ran into my cousin- Marianne. I really don't know how to describe her other than I can riff with her all night long- often times making me laugh hard enough to have streaming tears. Eight years my junior, but many of the same interest. During the Hurricane Issac last year, we stayed with her mom in Baton Rouge. The night was spent enjoying spirits, playing Cthulhu Gloom, and listening to Buffy the Musical on CD (hers not mine). To some this may seem boring or bizarre, to us it was a great night. Needless to say (but I will anyway), we had a fun during the New Orleans on Tap festivities.

After having many samples of a variety of beers, listening to some music, getting a free 24 oz of Ocktoberfest beer (a wink and flirt can get you so much), and laughing until it hurt it was time to retire. Marianne brought me home, through her own designated driver. We had a short stop for herbal chicken, biscuits, and fries, then it was bed and movies. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday in September. I look forward to next years New Orleans on Tap.

Until I ramble on again. . .

Stop Bullying- The Ostrich Story

*Steps on Soap Box*

Today is National Stop Bullying Day or Anti-Bullying Day (http://www.stompoutbullying.org/) and I have been reading some of the accounts that people experienced as children. I was bullied at times. The worst was during my junior high years. I was spit on, threatened, and pushed around by another kid. It stopped when I went to high school away from him. Otherwise, I have a knack for anonymity- like Buster Bluth. However, this story is not about being bullied or the bully.

This story took place when I was in elementary school (mid to late eighties). There was a kid in my class that was brown (I honestly can't remember his ethnic background, but this fact is important to the story). We would hang out at recess and play or talk about things that interested us. We talked about video games, Star Wars, superheroes, and other vital important topics to kids our age. I remember he was funny and we had a good time together. He didn't play sports and I was mediocre at best, so it was more fun to discuss the the latest GI Joe episode.

Let's draw some connections now. I went to a private, predominately white school, the kid I was friends with was brown, and I'm talking about bullying. Yes, two plus two does equal mistreatment. I remember one of the "popular" kids coming around and making fun of my friend. I can't remember what exactly was said, probably something about my friend smelling bad (which he didn't). He began taunting my friend, which created a crowd to fuel the bully fire. My friend was being picked on because he wasn't white. It is about picking on the "other". That was obvious to me even then. I did something worse than joining in the bullying like the other kids- I hide from it like an Ostrich with its head in the sand. I took the coward's way. I ran away. More accurately, I slowly crept away when the attention was not focused on me. I blended into the crowd and headed to the bathroom to escape the situation.

I knew what they were doing was wrong, but instead of joining forces with my friend, I slowly backed away from a hostile situation. I didn't want to get in the crossfire, nor did I want to engage. Not only did I not help with the taunting, but I did not even notify the teachers of the situation. Maybe I couldn't have stopped it. Maybe I would have been bullied more. Yet, maybe he wouldn't have been bullied as much because I was taking on some of that energy from the bullies. Maybe with my voice added to his, we could have convinced the teachers to stop the bullying instead of telling my friend that he was a tattletale. By doing nothing, I was perpetuating the bullying, which continued for years.

My friendship ended soon after the bullying began because I did nothing. I honestly regret not doing anything. I do not know the outcomes of the young men that was bullied or did the bullying. I moved away a few years later and experienced my own intense bullying. Sometimes we need to add volume to the voice of those that are mistreated. Even if we did not engage in the bullying outright, we are part of the problem not the solution. Stand up for yourself and help others stand up for themselves. We don't always have to lead the fight or act like the White Knight, but we can lend our voice to counter the negative outburst of the ignorant. Don't act like the Metaphorical Ostrich and believe it will all go away.We are all "other" to another.

*Steps off Soap Box*

Until I ramble on again. . .

Festivities: Origin Story

This is part 1 of this series.

I know I have been neglectful of this blog. Instead of indulging my inane need to vindicate myself, I'm going to jump right into it.

This story starts over two year ago. While visiting my parents, I went for a run in their neighborhood. It is quaint area with large pine trees (not as many as pre-Katrina) obscuring the houses, styles of houses that I do not care about, and tucked away from busy streets. On this particular run, I wanted to decided to extend my distance by running towards a dead end that would give me the there and back mileage I needed. As I ran closer to the end, I noticed two large dogs. These dogs did not have the look of "wild" dogs- no matted hair, looks of desperation. They seemed like two well kept dogs out on a stroll; buddies lounging around no cares in the world. Obviously, these were "good" dogs because their owners did not care to fence them in or provide a restraint on their daily dalliances. However, as I ran past them, I could feel the air change around me, and knew that my previous perception was misleading (stupid endorphin).

Sensing something amiss, I turned around and head backed towards the direction I had come from, but these two dogs blocked my path with malice on their faces. I stopped in my tracks and let out a loud, "Come on!" I felt like I was back in grade schools with two bullies, but these bullies had sharper teeth and quicker. An initial shout to shore up Alpha male status was met with sneers and growls. I even get emasculated by animals that enjoy sniffing each other privates as a form of flirting. Fearful of getting gnawed on by two Cujos, which was escalated by reading about a severe dog attack on a runner, I jumped into the nearby ditch, grabbed a large branch, and swung it at the dogs. This causes them to back up slightly and look for an opening to cut one of my hamstrings (this is what was going through my mind- don't judge). Using a tactic that I call brush-brush-scoot, I was able to get around the dogs and ran back to my parents house (I was like the Flash).

This encounter was a catalyst to me believing I needed a dog to run with me. In my mind the dog would deter potential threats, and push my to run often. I researched potential 'running' dogs, but saw how much they cost, and quickly decided to got the adoption route. I signed up for the SPCA newsletter, while I was rummaging through their website (http://www.la-spca.org/). Although I saw some dogs to potentially adopt, I thought better of the idea, and a can of mace is much cheaper.

After reading this, you may be wondering what this has to do with festivities? Things are tenuously connected, but connected nonetheless. I still get newsletter updates from the Louisiana SPCA (which are about once a month), and a few weeks back, I received one that was announcing "Jump the Line at New Orleans on Tap." This was a charity event for the SPCA that was taking place in City Park, where you could sample over 200 types of beer. I purchased tickets (needed for sampling beer) and a VIP pass immediately. Supporting a good cause and drinking beer- fantastic. You get to feel warm and smug on two levels.

Moral of the story: dogs wanting to kill you can lead you supporting displaced animals and beer.

There is more to this tale. Come back and find out how I take the long way round to get to the event.

Until I ramble on again. . .  

The Naming of Gizmo

I've always had a fascination with naming things. Whether it is a nickname or given name, it is interesting how one arrives at a name. According to my mom, the names that my parents had picked out for me were Elizabeth or Jay depending on gender (obviously). In a moment of genius, my dad suggested 'Robert' to my mom and she readily agreed because she had been in labor for about 20+ hours. I dodged a bullet there. The reason he named me 'Robert' is that it is his father's name (my grandfather). My dad could be nostalgic and sentimental, for he was named after his grandfather as well. I was 'Robert' until I went to college. It was there that I started introducing myself as 'Rob'.

I introduced myself as 'Rob' because it didn't feel like I was saying my own name. 'Rob' was somebody different and I didn't feel like I was talking about myself. It was a weird self-conscious thing about saying my own name. Also, college is a huge shift, and I felt changing my name would be a way to reinvent myself. Nope. Still the fool.

During college I took up the moniker of Mitch Moon for my college radio station. I play the drums, and I named myself after Mitch Mitchell and Keith Moon. Most of my friends from college were DJs, and we still call each other by our chosen nicknames- except me. Maybe it doesn't role off the tongue or fit me. Maybe if I called myself 'Jester' that would have stuck.

From previous positing about my adventures (if you haven't read about them, start here), you know I named my motorcycle Simone. This is not her original name. I originally named her 'Helga' because she is German (BMW) and there is something hefty about her.When I hear the name 'Helga" I think a hearty woman. As I rode her more and more, I realized there was a beauty to her that left me enamored. I met a beautiful German girl named Simone years ago (10 years in December), and she left me enamored. I didn't name my motorcycle after the girl. I'm just alluding to her- it is an association thing. Stop judging. However, after testing the waters with a couple of different name, I have finally found the perfect name- Gizmo III.

My grandfather had a boat called Gizmo. Then there was another boat called Gizmo II, which is the source of one of  my favorite stories concerning my dad and uncle. My dad and uncle were in their 20's and just the two of them took Gizmo to go water skiing. My dad's version was that he was on the skies and my uncle was driving, sitting on the side, while steering. My uncle hit a wave and it through him out of the boat. My dad fell of the skies. My uncle claims that he was skiing and my dad was driving. However, what happened next they both agreed on.

The boat started going in circles with no captain. As the boat was circling, my uncle grabbed on to the ski rope and tried to pull himself to the ladder to get on the boat. This is very dangerous because of the boat propeller. As my uncle got closer, the force push of the propeller took my uncle's bathing suit clean off him. He let go and tried to find his swimming suit to no avail. Dejected, my dad and uncle waded in the water as the boat just circled around until the ski rope tangled up in the propeller and stalled the engine. They swam to the boat and drove back in to the boat launch. However, the two young guys in their infinite, youthful wisdom did not bring a towel or extra clothing. The only bit of clothing was my uncle's shirt. He wrapped it around his waist to cover his naked half, hoping not to offend too many people. Fortune was not on their side as the boat launch was crowded. My uncle had to dock and help load up Gizmo on a trailer in nothing but a shirt wrapped around his waist. In my mind's eye, he has it wrapped like a diaper because that makes me laugh.

I came to Gizmo III as a remembrance of my deceased ad and grandfather, and the many adventures they had in those boats. I'm having my own adventures just on land- so it is Gizmo III

Gizmo III and Rob(ert)

Until I ramble on again. . .

Community

This is truly a disjointed ramble. There are nuggets of thought tenuously strung together. I think each section is its own thought. However, the string that holds them together is social interactions. I think I could have fleshed out each paragraph into its own post, but I like the idea of being able to read a post out of order. 

Moving back to New Orleans, I have been told that I HAVE to follow Saints football. If I don't, it is like I have leprosy and will be ostracized from the city. When I was younger, I followed football to a certain extent, even had my picture taken with Dalton Hillard in Schwegmann's Supermarket (how is that for Saints cred?).  I have not followed the Saints or any football team since junior high age (maybe younger). The only sports event I follow is the World Cup, but only while it is going on. I don't follow futbol (soccer) year-round, but once the World Cup starts up, I get very enthusiastic. This has only occurred for the past 2 World Cups (since it happens once every four years). The camaraderie that sports brings has me thinking about community and how it helps create a language for people to engage socially.

I was in a story recently, and a young man was trying to create idle talk by stating, "You gunna watch the Saints game?" Fear of an inappropriate response, I said, "Yea?" To my dismay, this furthered the conversation with his retort of, "So whatdya think the score is gunna be?" In my complete lack of even knowing whom the Saints were playing, I found a nugget of information that I learned from some movie or book. Thus responded with, "Don't know the spread. Do you?" What am I, a bookie? This halted the conversation in its tracks, and I practically ran away fully aware of my social awkwardness. This young man was attempting to make a connection. It is a store that I frequent weekly, and maybe he recognized me and was making a connection- bringing me into the community. Now I can never go there again.

Our first community is our family. I am fortunate that my father was an odd duck- his favorite movie was The Jerk. While driving, he would, to no one in particular, sing-talk, "Hello. Good-bye." He would sing, "Fritz the cat-dog. He's a cat." at random intervals. He even made a joke that is still used among some close friends about being "sluggish." I could list many more examples, but I believe you get the picture. I also have cousins that have odd humor and this brings about only a modicum of feeling peculiar in your own family. My older cousins are, well, older so it was not until I was older that a bounding began to form. I felt like a nuisance around my older cousins, whether they felt that way or not- I did.

I think books were my first foray into escapism. I used them as a means to deflect any social interactions. If you are reading a book in public, most likely no one will bother you or attempt conversation. On the other hand, if someone asks what you are reading, then you can discuss something that is fresh in your mind. On the other, other hand, that person can quickly display the thought, "I've made a terrible mistake," in a non-verbal communication, which is often loss on me.

Until I ramble on again . . .

Poetry?

Time, although only a continuos set of intervals, flew by this week. As I have about ten different thoughts, activities to do, I thought a nice change of pace would be to regal you with some of my bloody awful poetry. This is actually a reaction to me finding some of my old poetry and reading. My kindle broke, and I decided to whip out my Norton Anthologies (I have several of them from my time as an English major in undergraduate school) and re-read some pieces that I haven't read in about ten years. I have read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Beowulf,  and am currently reading Paradise Lost. My poems are nothing so intense or good for that matter. The first one, I think was me trying to be silly and playing with in a certain form. Although, I can't remember the form. It just made me laugh a little at my bravado. The other two are in the form of poetry that sounds like a sneeze- haiku.

Apples Teach

How do apples taste?

Can words decribe its essence?

Experience it!

Live

Hold a cup of tea.

Set down your stored anger.

Enjoy the moment.

The Nut Bomber

On bench do I intend my spot to watch 

A creature most peculiar bounding above.

I take a walk knowing his eyes are searching.

Someone will be target for his pecan.

His cute and surprised looks are deceiving.

Those evil eyes filled with dark intent and pain.

Lurking, hiding in shades above our heads.

On bench do I intend my spot to watch

A creature most peculiar bounding above.

He vaults from limbs with a malicious sense.

Watch the mischievous design develop.

A human is walking not aware of it,

The bomber calculating trajectory.

With a sinister smile the bomb is dropped- Hit!

Ouch! Stunned! quick, look up for the evil culprit.

But a rustle of branches is all he sees.

On bench do I intend my spot to watch

A creature most peculiar bounding above.

Searching towards the branches, but not a crackle

From above. I give a grin as he is searching

For that elusive creature who dropped its nuts

On him. I had my fun today, I walk

Away mindful of any rustle over my head.