Harleys, Cars, Girls & Guitars

Surgery Prep Day

One of the reasons I decided to drive cross country to Chicago last week... I'm facing serious surgery. I wanted to indulge myself with a little adventure. Might be the last time in my life that I'm physically capable.

I made it to 66 in very good health, so I'm lucky. 

Today will be purge day. I'll be downing a solution of MiraLAX and water until I poop out my guts. Can't eat. Can't drink coffee. I'm restricted to clear liquids.

I learned from experience when Myrna was in the hospital that surgeons are far too impressed with their skills and tend to always predict positive results, so I'm skeptical of my own surgeon. What can I do? I don't have the knowledge to really evaluate his diagnosis. I've been through three doctors, all of whom disagree to some extent about possible treatment.

Oncologists tend to be much more blunt than surgeons, but I'm not yet at the stage of needing an oncologist. When Myrna was dying from cancer, we shopped around for an oncologist who was willing to treat her. The first was a woman who told us bluntly that Myrna would die in a few months and that the best we could do was to make her comfortable.

In desperation, we worked our way through several oncologists until we found one who promised to cure her, at least temporarily. That only led to what the surgeon described as "butchery." I had to pull the plug. The oncologist, who had been charging the insurance company $750 for each visit to Myrna's room, was furious.

Am I afraid? Worried?

Yes. I'd like to live long enough to see my grandkids reach adulthood. I don't know if I want to live with a colostomy bag, if it comes to that. My mother is almost 90. I just visited her in Illinois. She wishes that her doctor would recommend the colostomy bag no matter whether she has cancer. She's fed up with old age induced incontinence.

Yesterday at Mass, my priest anointed my hands and forehead and prayed for my recovery. I don't know whether that helps.

I retired four years ago, even though I could have continued working, to focus on doing the things I enjoy and to contemplate my mortality and my relationship with God. I've enjoyed this long period of rest and reflection, and I'd like for it to continue.

Only six weeks ago, I went through two surgeries for kidney stones. So, I know the drill. No much drama, really. You go to sleep and then you wake up, and somebody tells you the results. That's about it.

Both the diagnosis and outcome of my physical problems are unknown. CAT scans taken during my hospitalization for kidney stones revealed some abnormality in my appendix. All three doctors I've consulted disagree on what that abnormality might be. Everything from a cyst to a tumor. 

So, my surgery could just be an appendectomy, or it could be major resection of the bowel. Won't know what happened until I wake up.

Joe Maddon's Hometown

I was falling asleep on Interstate 80 after about two hours of driving through the mountains in Pennsylvania during my road trip to Illinois, so I hit the exit for coffee and donuts at Hazleton. 

"Why does the name of this town sound familiar?" I wondered. "Aha!"

The Chicago Tribune has published many an article about Joe Maddon's charity work in his hometown.

So, I decided to try to find some markers commemorating what must be Hazleton's most famous boy. I stopped at the Dunkin Donuts and asked the local boys for some guidance.

"Any signs or monuments for Maddon around town?"

They directed me to the high school. I found the sign in the pic there.

Madden has become quite the matinee idol in Chicago. He unexpectedly took the Cubs to the National League Championship Series last year, just short of making the World Series. He's a laid back 60s hippie. The young players on the team seem to idolize him as a father figure.

I attended a Cubs' game at Wrigley. When the Cubs were about to take the field, the PA announcer intoned:  "And now, let's hear it for Joe Maddon's Chicago Cubs!"

I wonder how long the honeymoon will last for Maddon in Chicago? Lou Piniella and Dusty Baker were celebrated as saviors who would end the curse, too. But, the media and the fans turned on both when they failed to deliver a championship.

For now, Maddon is riding high and pulling down $5 million a year in the most glamorous job in Chicago. A great life story for a boy from a small coal mining town in Pennsylvania.

I'm a small town boy... Watseka, Illinois, population 5,500. Hazleton boasts about 25,000 souls. Back when I was a kid, I would have considered that a big city.

Cross Country in an Old Pickup Truck

My 2011 Ford Ranger pickup truck's odometer read 101,240 when I departed Woodstock last week for a cross country trip to Chicago. My bicycle was strapped to its rack. 

I'm going to drive the damned thing until it dies! No car payment!

Next week, I go under the knife for exploratory surgery. The radiologist found a little spot on my CAT scan. Might be nothing. Might be cancer. I brought along my bicycle because I'm trying to get in the best possible shape for a quick recovery from my surgery.

My mom turns 90 this fall and my sister is also facing serious surgery. I wanted to take the trip home to see them while I can. It's a fact of life, now. Every time I see loved ones might be the last time.

I've always loved cross country driving. Myrna did too. Back when we owned the Ford Expedition, we routinely drove the big SUV to Chicago. I've driven just about all the major routes from the West to the East Coasts.

I took my time on the way to Chicago. Even stopped at Hazleton, PA, hometown of Joe Maddon, the Cubs' manager. (Hadn't really intended that. I was looking for a place to stretch my legs and...) Madden is a small town boy. 

The return trip turned into a relentless sprint. Hadn't planned it that way. I'd spent a night at the Super 8 in Brookville, PA on my way to Chicago. (Brookville is about halfway between NYC and Chicago. Here's an interesting webpage that calculates the halfway point between any two cities.) The prospect of another night in a Super 8 didn't appeal to me on the way home.

A lot of time to think during the 10 hours or so of driving in each direction.

I stopped in Detroit to visit a Facebook friend and take in a Tiger's baseball game. Saw a Cubs' game at Wrigley, too. 

I'm ready now to face the surgeon's knife. 

This was probably my last major cross country drive. I'm old. My eyes don't work so well any more. I suspect that the next trip home to Illinois will be for a funeral, and that doesn't leave time for dawdling. 

Back in the glory days when Myrna was still here, we drove to Chicago to sit in with A.C. Reed, the great bluesman, at Kingston Mines. Here's his tune about pickup trucks:

That was so long ago.

27 years ago, I flew out to Portland to fetch Myrna. We drove her old Dodge Dart all the way to Woodstock. What an adventure! Every day with Myrna was an adventure.

The odometer read 103,464 when I pulled into my driveway. 2,044 miles total!

Grandpa Summer Vacation! Whee!

Grandpa Howling' Steve will have 10 weeks off from daily babysitting of the grandkids starting next week! Yay! While I love my little Munchkins and enjoy my time with them, I need to recharge. (My daughter is a school teacher, so she gets the summer off.) What will I do?

I'll be taking a week long road trip to Chicago with a stop in Detroit. In Detroit, I'll be meeting a Facebook friend for a trip to Comerica Park and a Tiger baseball game. In Illinois, I'll be visiting my soon to be 90 year old mom and taking in a Cubs baseball game at Wrigley.

I considered continuing out to Colorado so that I could buy some 420 from a retail store, but that's a long way to go for a 1/2 ounce of pot. A lot of wear and tear on my 2011 Ford Ranger pickup, too!

The grandkids will still be very much in my life. My 3 year old girl has made it clear that she wants picnics in the backyard with chocolate ice cream. That's fine with me! My back yard is a great place for my one year old twins to play, too. You couldn't find a quieter, safer place. No traffic noise. Only the birdies and the deer.

And, I have no doubt I'll be called on for spot babysitting.

Unfortunately, I have another surgery scheduled for this summer. What can you do? I'm old, as my toddler Munchkin so often tells me. My body is starting to break down. The surgery will hospitalize me for a couple of days, then I face a month long recovery.

I'm still recovering from two surgeries over a month ago. Yesterday, I did a full set of yoga for the first time since those surgeries. I was afraid to go all in. Now that I have, everything feels better and my outlook has improved.

The picture above is from Uncle Grandpa, one of my favorite kids' TV shows. The grandkids do not appreciate the sublime humor of this show. They prefer The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Princess Sofia and P J Masks. I do love Minnie and Mickey, but a summer off from the endless reruns will do me some good.

Most of my great Grandpa Summer Vacation will be spent at home, doing what my dad called "puttering around." Bicycle riding, softball in the backyard, tending to my yoga regimen, playing, writing and recording music, and sketching and painting. My house needs some minor repairs that I can manage, too.

My time with the grandkids is already running out! I've been babysitting them almost full time during the school year for three years. Next year, it's off to pre-school for my toddler girl, so I'll only see her half days. In two more years, my baby twins will also head off to pre-school. Within four years, all the kids will be in school full time and grandpa will have to find something new to do with his life.

To Ride or Not to Ride

I'm having second thoughts about selling my 2003 Harley-Davidson Road King Classic. It's an incredibly cheap second vehicle. Insurance is about $200 a year. License is only $20. And the yearly maintenance ranges from a couple hundred to a thousand dollars. Below, a pic of the old girl.

I'll admit that the damned thing scares the hell out of me. If barreling down the highway at 70 mph on a 700 pound projectile doesn't scare you, what would?

At the age of 66, I can't afford to take a serious fall. That's for sure. Even rolling over at slow speed can lead to serious leg and ankle injuries... and an old man heals slowly.

Every time I mount my iron horse, I say a prayer and perform the sign of the cross. 

I put out a couple of ads, on craigslist and on Facebook, and immediately received substantial offers for the bike, sight unseen. Well, people did see the above pic. She is beautiful. One potential buyer quite accurately said "She's a beast!"

Don't really ride that much. In an eight month season, I ride from 1,000 to 1,500 miles. I ride mostly in lonely, isolated regions of the Catskill Mountains on days when everybody else is at work. Retirement gives me that option.

I've thought of towing the Harley along on my potential 420 Road Trip. My 2011 Ford Ranger pickup, however, is probably not up to the task. I should have bought the larger motor so that I could tow the bike. If I do make the trip out to Colorado over the summer, it would probably make far more sense to rent a Harley so that I could ride for a day out in the Rockies. Cost... about $200!

I didn't respond to any of the offers for my bike. That probably reflects my true state of mind.

Myrna was the one who really wanted to buy the Harley. She hated the pussification and faggotization of men. She was pushing me to express my inner machismo and she wanted to find a social milieu free from the Woodstock/leftist feminist bullshit.

She died within of year after we bought the bike.

I attend, maybe, one major biker event per year. Not much for group riding. That's really for the Vietnam vets who like to pretend that they are back on patrol in the jungle. They love the hand signals and organizing riders. Once you've been to one biker rally, you've been to all of them. My yearly day trip to Lake George for Americade is enough.

The Holy Grail of bikers is, of course, the yearly pilgrimage to Sturgis. I doubt that I'll ever go. My days of partying down may be over. Without Myrna, I don't have a partner for the wild life. And, what would I be missing? I've done it all.

If I keep the Harley, I'll use it for quiet, solitary rides in the mountains. Took a long time, but I enjoy being alone now. 

Welcome to the Pissing Contest

No matter what you write, somebody gets pissed off about it. Goes with the territory. I'm particularly blessed to have a couple of home town harpies who go ballistic every time I suggest that I might exert some attraction on women.

I also have home town relatives who, when they aren't asking for money, curse me for being the world's most appalling son of a bitch.

What the fuck can you do?

I left my teeny tiny hometown in the cornfields in Illinois, among other reasons, to get the fuck away from screeching harpies who figured that I owed them some explanation about what I did with my life... particularly my sex life.

And what a sex life I've enjoyed! Eat your hearts out bitches!

I spent my adult life in San Franciso and New York City. Nobody gives a shit what you do in these big cities, girls! By the standards of my piss ant little home town, I'm a pretty wild character. By the standards of the Big City, I'm a pretty damned normal guy with an occasional kink.

Sex was a particularly joyful and plentiful part of my life. My late wife, Myrna was drop dead gorgeous and she was a once a day (and sometimes twice a day on weekends) Filipina. (I'll get disgraceful e-mails from the harpies on this account. They're brutally vicious racists, too.)

I've had every kind of woman, every race, every body type, every type of character... I've had it all! God bless me, I triumphed over small town simple minded asshole Puritanism. I've enjoyed every kind of sexual pleasure with a women (or with more than one woman) imaginable.

Women loved me fiercely and passionately. Thank you, God!

You can bitch and moan all you like. You can try to engage me in a pissing match, but you probably won't even succeed there.

The joke's on you if you think I'm worried because you're pissed off about this. Sex was an absolutely fantastic part of my life, in every respect... even the procreation and the grandkids things.

I won the battle of life in just about every respect. Sure, there were some very tough tragedies along the way. That's part of the cost of an adventurous, exciting and romantic life. I left it all on the field. No regrets.

So, bitch away. It's all jealousy. Piss and moan all you like. Be creative. I don't owe you (or anybody else) shit. Rot away in jealousy in your sex starved little prison in the cornfields. You deserve it.

420 Road Trip

Over my summer vacation, I'll be taking a trip to Chicago to see my mother and to go to a Cubs' game at Wrigley. I'm thinking of continuing out to Colorado to visit a couple of Facebook friends and to buy 420 legal at a store! What a trip! as the hippies used to say.

My mother will turn 90 this fall. She recently fell and broke some bones in her hand, but in her inimitable fashion, she didn't tell anybody. Why? She didn't want my sister to win out in her campaign to stop Mom from driving. The injuries didn't heal over a couple of weeks, so Mom ultimately had to give in, ask my sister for a ride, and go to the hospital for treatment.

One of my friends in Colorado is a custom woodworker and ex-heavy metal guitar player. He produces beautiful furniture, among other things. Meetings on Facebook always start, of course, with political discussions. This guy is both conservative and religious. Amusingly, he's an opponent of legal pot.

My other Facebook friend is a former Microsoft programmer who is going to school now to become an accountant. Quite a transition, eh? The programming biz, which was the factory work of my generation, is no longer a reliable source of employment. Microsoft has been using the H-1B visa program to import cheap foreign programmers for years. This friend's politics are liberal in a lot of respects, but he likes guns. He's a grumpy old guy, so we have something in common there. He's also a non-smoker with a dim view of legalization.

Woodstock friends (one a retired school teacher) have been flying out to Colorado to buy their 420. High quality weed is selling for as little as $100 an ounce in Denver. That is the price of a quarter ounce of black market weed in New York. So, it is possible to take the trip out to Colorado, buy your weed and return home with better product with little difference in price once you factor in the plane ticket.

My retired school teacher friend says that he doesn't even get frisked for weed at Denver airport and, of course, walks right off the plane in Albany and gets into his car without incident. Possession of up to an ounce is a traffic ticket offense in New York State that costs you a $100 fine.

Out of state weed tourists can buy only 1/4 ounce per transaction at a legal 420 store. I'm thinking of visiting Breckenridge Cannabis Club, the subject of an excellent documentary, High Profits. Breckenridge is a trendy ski resort town. The documentary follows the owner of the Cannabis Club as he navigates his way through the early days of legalization.

Bringing pot home on my road trip might not be a good idea. Purchases in Colorado are a matter of public record, so I wouldn't be surprised if the cops are sharing information from state to state and routinely searching cars leaving the state if their databases show a recent weed purchase.

All this for the thrill of walking into a legit store and buying weed that you know is high quality with assured weights and measures! Maybe I'll do it, maybe I won't. I stopped buying weed in New York several months ago because the process of buying on the black market is just too much of a pain in the ass.

Legalization in New York seems to be unlikely to happen for a few years. The state has no referendum process, so only the legislature can change the law. Legislatures are remarkably resistant to doing anything that might alienate a substantial portion of their constituency, and pot legalization continues to be a hot moral topic for many people.

I've love to tow my Harley along for my 420 road trip, if I do set out on it. Unfortunately, my 2011 Ford Ranger pickup is not up to the task. In retrospect I wish I had bought a Ranger with a bigger motor so that I could confidently haul 1,500 pounds in tow.

For those of you who disapprove of my taste for the weed... go ahead and bitch. I don't care. I'm not one of those people who say there's no price for smoking. There's a price for every vice. I'm willing to pay the price.

Been a long time since I took a cross country ride. So, maybe I will and maybe I won't... take that great 420 road trip to Colorado.

The Jungle Doodle

I was thinking about the city as a jungle. On Facebook, I talked with a woman who chided me for labeling the office a "nice jail." She told me that the office has its uses, and she's right. The office, during my working life, was the jungle where things got sorted out. And I gained a lot from knowing how to maneuver in the office.

The anonymity of a huge city like New York is often presented as a negative... and it is... but it is also a positive. A guy with good tech skills can't be blacklisted. There's always another employer. Nobody knows you. You have the freedom to try out some things about sex that you might prefer not to have broadcast around your little home town out in the Styx.

I liked being out all night in NYC, and I often worked the midnight shift. The city becomes quiet. Only the maintenance and critical workers venture out. I could drive my car right up to the skyscraper where I worked and park.

I spent my life in such great cities, primarily Chicago, San Francisco and New York City.

It was a great adventure. If it were possible, I would have spent all my adult life in any one of those towns. It seems to me sometimes as if I have done everything and been everywhere. 

Ride to the Middle of Nowhere

Getting lost is not easy nowadays with all our electronic gizmos offering GPS. Whenever I'm within cell coverage, Siri tells me when to make the next turn. This may be more convenient, but it also makes the world infinitely less interesting. I set out a couple of days ago on my Harley to get lost. I headed wast from Boiceville on NY Route 42 into the near wilderness of the Catskill Mountains.

For 45 minutes, I saw no cars, very few houses and just about no people about. If I had crashed along Route 42, it might have been days or weeks before anybody discovered my body. 

Wilderness is just about non-existent in NY State, because the reservoir and aqueduct system build to slake the thirst of New York City spans the entire state. One day, I swear, I'll read a history of this incredibly huge and complex system that sustains the world's greatest city. 

Many a small town was buried under a deluge of water as the rivers and streams of upstate New York were damned to build the reservoirs... like Lackawack, which lies beneath the Rondout Reservoir.

I had planned an itinerary of sorts once I left Route 42, but I quickly became lost and began to tack by the sun, heading west and south as best as I could. This took me through dozens of villages and towns that were little more than a few houses and a volunteer fire department at an intersection of two roads. I snapped this pic of a covered bridge during a brief stop in Grahamville.

I followed the sun east and south until I landed in a little town alongside the Delaware River, Callicoon, NY. Since I had ridden 100 miles, I decided that it was time for lunch. Callicoon looked like another of those innumerable artsy-fartsy New York commuter towns. The hotel, below, dominated this hilly tiny town.

The hotel has a colorful and sordid history.

I walked around town looking for a place for lunch. Callicoon is an aspiring Woodstock. Same locally sourced foods and organic foods obsessions. Same type of hipster shops. I settled on a little bar and restaurant that served a perfectly acceptable BBQ pork sandwich. I was wearing one of my Cubs' t-shirts. An old couple from Boston engaged me in a friendly and humorous conversation about Red Sox and Cubs curses and told me they'd be rooting for the Cubs.

This mural festooned the men's room at the restaurant.

My final destination was my girlfriend's house in northern New Jersey, so I headed south on Route 97 along the Delaware River. This proved to be a surprisingly great ride. The road twists and turns through mountain peaks that qualify as towering on the East Coast, as well as through beautiful valleys. I took this last pic somewhere along the river in late afternoon

The remainder of the trip was my first foray in riding in the urban jungle of New York City metro area in years. Route 17 south in New Jersey is a six lane freeway. I rode it in the dark in the midst of a river of traffic. Adrenaline flooded my system so that, although I was exhausted, I remained alert. This type of riding, with drivers fighting for position and using their cars as weapons, is a form of combat. I arrived at my destination high on adrenaline and glad to have survived.

Train Stations and Grain Elevators

The small towns of central Illinois grew up around the railroad lines. Watseka, my home town, was built at the intersection of two railroad lines. Watseka was incorporated in 1865, right at the end of the Civil War. This sign, at the entrance to the now unused train station, recalls the days when the "C&EI" and "T.P.&W." lines intersected in the center of town.

The Chicago & Eastern Illinois Railroad operated the north/south route running from Chicago to Southern Illinois, hauling mega-tons of coal to the city. The town grain elevator sits next to this line, ready to pour mega-bushels of corn and soybeans into cars for processing and use as feed grain in the city.

The east/west railroad through town was the Toledo, Peoria and Western Railroad. Far in the past, this line ferried passengers to the major north/south routes and helped to amass the yields of the corn and soybean fields into the grain elevators.

Below, Watseka's Union Station:

The historical society does a nice job of maintaining the depot and its grounds. But, the days of small scale railroad lines are long gone, rendered obsolete by the age of the automobile. U.S. Route 1 runs directly into Chicago, becoming Halsted Street and leading right up to the major blues venues on the Near North Side. U.S. Route 24 is the major east/west route. 

The TP&W tracks continue west to Gilman where they intersect with the Illinois Central north/south route. A fabled passenger and freight line, the Illinois Central ("IC") is also an economic power in the Midwest. The Gilman train station, still apparently owned by the IC, stands on the intersection of the IC and TP&W lines.

Two Amtrak trains per day still stop at the Gilman depot. It's a 2 hour 7 minute trip to Chicago. A ten ride ticket sells for $105.00! That means you could commute to your high paying job in the loop for $420.00 a month, and live in an incredibly low cost small town in central Illinois.

A few blocks north of the train depot stands a huge grain elevator. Illinois Central is also a powerhouse freight line.

Gilman, an even tinier town than Watseka, struck gold when Interstate 57 was build. The Interstate feeds into an off-ramp onto Route 24. 

Super 8 and Motel 6 both built facilities near the interchange, and a couple of huge combo gas stations/fast food shops are also sited on the interchange. One of those combo shops features a Denny's restaurant. A soybean oil processing plant has been constructed out in the fields close to the interchange and the train station.