Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Rib Crackin' Fun, Ya'll!

I started this entry with thoughts on how the culture of cool has rendered things so cynical and sarcastic that I feel like giving up on anybody older than 10 but younger than 35.  I've since realized that this is due to what I perceive from the media I consume and the relationships that occupy most of my time.  I think part of this stems from the homogeneity of the majority of those with whom I interact.  Everybody is a little into everything and nothing surprises anybody...that sort of thing.  Working at a bicycle shop, one might guess that more variety would be easier to find.  In fact, my colleague and I have discussed this very topic, and there are not many other occupations that put one in touch with so many walks of life.  We see everybody from the homeless guy that barely has enough to get a single flat repaired to those dumping $8k on a carbon tri bike.  Unfortunately, though, we are often so busy that we don't get the chance to see the individuals behind the workorders or purchases.  This situation is a reflection of a larger image.  We are all becoming more removed from what we are seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, and tasting in front of us because we are too anxious about what is waiting for us in our screens.  Oh well, it is nice to write it all down and remind myself that what so normally drives me to madness (I deal with the goddamned customers!) is actually a recurring opportunity for me to redeem my own tendency to cast people into the few molds that seem to represent most of those through the door.

So, you've been cruising along at 70-75 mph for 4 hours or so and your vehicle suddenly lunges slightly, loses all engine power, and flashes the message "Stop Safely Now."  What do you do?  What do you do if you are in the left lane, and a giant truck is behind you gaining speed as it approaches and the right lane is full of jackasses passing you on the right...oh, and you've got 2 4-year-old girls in the back seat, there is nowhere to pull over on the left side of the interstate, Roadside Assistance doesn't cover anything other than the most routine of incidents, your vehicle manual offers absolutely no more clarification regarding what the mysterious message means, and it is Sunday at 6pm, so no dealerships are open.  Well, you pull over when you can, turn off the engine, then re-start it and hope for the best.  When you get home, after driving under the speed limit and without A/C (in case it was a hybrid battery temperature issue...it was), you submit an e-mail setting up a meeting with the Service Manager at the dealership from which you bought the vehicle.  I expressed my utter dissatisfaction with the 2007 Ford Escape Hybrid, and we are probably going to just try like hell to get a trade-in.  We'll see how this develops, but, for now, I would have to say stay away from Ford, or, at least, stay away from their hybrids.  This is third year in a row that we have brought the car in for this problem.  (Update:  After formally complaining with Ford Corporate and the NHTSA, we made a nearly even trade for a 2006 Toyota Sienna at a dealership other than Ford...no complaints at all after half a year of ownership...Ford did next to nothing to help us...fuck Ford).

We also got termites in the house, again.  As always, the "tech" told us not to worry about the thousands of wings we saw on our roof or the few wriggling individuals here and there that were dropping from our ventilation outlets for a week or so.  We'll take his word for it, regardless of my years studying insects at LSU, since that is why one has a bond in this veritable rainforest climate we have in Charleston.  It's all in their hands if we wind up needing repairs again.

Wow!  It is nearly the holiday season again, and I've entered exactly no comments since shortly after our amazing trip to Colorado.  I feel no differently about the job, and I'm interviewing this Friday for another position with the county parks agency.  I simply cannot tolerate the stress of trying to do everything required in a small bicycle shop any longer.  On any given day, I get shat upon by everybody from the online parts shopper that doesn't understand why our labor rates are "so expensive" to the inevitable old-timers that "don't want anything fancy" and have a hard time understanding why there is a difference between the prices at big box stores and our 1-location, locally-owned shop of exactly 3 (count 'em, 3) employees (2 of which support families on their "honest" wages).  Of course, I not only play psychiatrist to those griping about prices, I also have to listen to tale after tale of how "I use to race BMX," "I used to be Cat 2," "I used to commute all the time in...insert over-rated bicycle-friendly town here...but it's just so dangerous here."  I also act as interpreter of mush-mouthed gin-hounds, deaf customers that refuse to just write down what they need and, instead, insist upon gesturing their entire last week before getting to what they actually need from you, and southern drawls that sound as molten springs of clay found among volcanic regions of the world.  I put together $8-13000 bikes while trying to convince another bewildered belle that she just needs to put air in her tubes every month or so, and she won't get "flats."  While rebuilding a fork or shifters with any number of tiny, easily-lost parts, I'm explaining to the 10th shithead that "HAS to ride this weekend" why his tubular needs to sit for an entire day after being glued to his rim.  All the while, I'm thinking about the order I need to place, the fact that 80 bikes just showed up on a truck out front for which we have nearly no room, and the fact that I haven't had an ACTUAL conversation with my wife on the phone while at this job in the entire time that I've worked here (nearly 10 years) and that I'm projecting way too much of this stress at home.  This industry is awesome, and this shop has been really good to me, but I finally feel like it is just time to move.  I've had my differences with management (or lack thereof), but if I were to point a finger, it would be at those through the door.  Yes, I get that they are why the shop makes the bottom line, but it does JUST that...makes it.  We don't exceed it, we don't rise above it as a kite on a breezy day...we only make it.  Sure, that is partly due to the "above-average" lifestyle of the shop owner, but he makes "respectable" money with his full-time job, so I doubt he is funding anything other than the shop with his proceeds from this enterprise.  He's been fair with me, though I haven't received a raise since my initial raise in the Fall of 2011.

Beauty, breathing, and body.  That is my resolution for the new year.  I am in dire need of attention to these three things.  I need to focus on the incredible beauty of my girls, my wife, and the world around me.  There is so much that I am missing by getting dunked in the sludge of routine retail redundancy.  There is beauty in hearing my daughter tell me of how "it's fun to go tripping with friends" and how my wife is more attractive every day for her commitment to her kids at school, her family, while still finding the motivation to run and make herself better for her.  There is beauty in the design of that with which I work every day, regardless of how much the owners of this beauty do to make it all uglier.  There is beauty in the conversations I have on a daily basis, contrary to those that would make light of such conversations as banter among a mere customer and vendor, though most such exchanges may point me down a much darker path.

Breathing needs attention.  I started today with 10 breaths of as long a duration as I could stand.  I need to focus on making more of the breath I take.  Just as I suspect that the smallest of infractions in traffic and other fora of life lead to greater and greater ones, I suspect that ignoring the significance of the "simple" act of breathing leads to a reduced appreciation for the redemption to be found in all other forms of existence.

Finally, my body is done.  It is done with the exposure to destructive toxins that are a daily part of working in a bike shop.  I am not just talking about the exposure to alcoholic gifts from the occasional decent customer and other such voluntary toxins.  I am talking about exposure to all the PVC, lubricants, solvents, preservatives, and other carcinogenic crap that creeps into those that pursue this career.  I'm reading "The Upcycle" by McDonough and Braungart, right now, and I'm sure that is influencing my perspective on this, but I also know that I have only felt worse and worse since starting this job full-time a few years ago, regardless of reaching what is probably the second-highest activity level my body has ever seen.

The girls have one more Spring of pre-K schooling, then they start full-time, balls-out school.  I couldn't be happier about this.  They are ready to kick school's ass.  If they don't, their parents are right there to help make sure they get up and get kicking again.

Andree passed her National Board certification, proving that she is truly a leader among her peers, whether she would admit it or not.  She is a role model for her girls and, indeed, for her husband.  I cannot even compare this to something in my current career (I'm not sure something so significant even exists for bicycle mechanics, aside from securing a teaching position at one of the 2 or 3 schools for bicycle mechanics).

I am listening to Karp and you should, too.  It just happened to come on my "randomizer", but they definitely stand out as one of those bands that will never sound dull to me, no matter how many times I listen to them.  On the same tip, I'm really into garage rock, lately, since Jeff at the shop has been plugging Black Lips into Pandora.  King Khan is a current favorite.  It reminds me of a much better Make Up from days gone by, but the Nerves and others have stood out, too.  He's also gotten me into lots of Pentagon spin-offs like Witch, The Sword, and Early Man.  Lots of that stuff sounds like stuff Nemeth and I would be spinning if he were here (I got the holiday card, by the way and I'll send something, eventually...thanks for keeping us in touch...things just get busy with two 5-year-olds...you know it doesn't mean that we don't miss you guys...hope Gov. Walker isn't docking your pay or enforcing your sexual positions, yet).

I still haven't heard from Charleston County, yet, on the Land Resources Manager Technician job, but I'm hoping something will come through in the next week or so.  Let's just go ahead and say that I will end this blog if it doesn't happen.  I have been a real slouch with this thing, but if such a seismic turn-of-events occurs, I promise to the handful of people that still look at this, that I will turn things around.  If it doesn't, I will copy all of this to a document, print it, and file it away for the girls to read when they turn 18.  I have a really good feeling about this job, and I feel like it will rejuvenate my creative tendencies that used to flow like so much blood.

Well, contrary to my feelings just listed, I did not get the job, but I am not ending this blog.  I am rejuvenating it!  I need to get my mind into more creative pursuits than those found in repairing bicycles.  Though the profession offers many opportunities, they are not the same as those involved in playing music and writing, and I just noticed that another "follower" has been "following" this (thanks D.M....I'll give that Superchunk a shot even though I stopped listening to them after that second album so long ago).  Any kind of feedback is good enough feedback for me.  I need to do something in response to not getting that job, and this seems like a good reward.  If I had gotten it, then I probably wouldn't have had the extra time to get this running again.

Besides, I'm laid up with 2 broken ribs, currently, from riding the shit out of the Markham Park trail in oh-so-southern Florida.  This trail is like riding through a landfill.  While challenging, it is not very much fun without the right bike (big travel or, at least, full-suspension) and became way less fun when I fell 6' off a slope and onto my arm, cracking ribs that are also, now, being assaulted by some kind of cough-heavy chest cold I picked up.  It feels like I'm being repeatedly punched in the mid-section a few times every hour.  I suddenly have an appreciation for boxers that win contests without smashing the other guy's face in.

Markham Park

Anyway, I'm glad I came back to this to see my reminder about body, breath, and beauty.  I'm going to go ahead and add a fourth B to that list and say that Jeff and I are going to start playing music.  I'm not sure if we'll actually get a band together and get any gigs, but this town is ripe for the picking if we do (plenty of venues).

With that, I leave you with a recently re-discovered song lyric (we've been doing a bunch of cleaning around the house, lately):

Drive-thru frozen drinks, rivers of mud,
Follow veins of pavement, white boots of rubber,
In a passing pick-up truck, is a story you should hear,
You take me in, and you give me a smile.

And you don't even charge me,
The happiness of feeling Houma
The happiness of feeling Houma.

Sugar cane commands my eye, gas flares aglow,
Food of human and machine, sight of pride and trouble,
Bridge across the mighty one, roll me into welcome arms,
That pull me close, with every mile.

Chorus

Heavy air, lead me there,
Where the river used to make her bed,
Cradle me in your crooked limbs,
It floods again,
And still she grins.

That song is about what it means to love my wife and southern Louisiana.  If you've never been, it won't make sense.

Now, for some entertainment:

Maps and Atlases

Baba Brooks

Sub Oslo

Oh, and read Dirty Wars, by Jeremy Scahill.  He and Greenwald are THE journalists of our generation.    Apparently, they just got together on a media project, too.  Check it out, Brule...

The Intercept