Half Past Awesome

I'm So Over Waldo

Chaos is absent right now. My kids are healthy and full of piss and vinegar. The Wife has a birthday of indeterminate origin tomorrow. Good and decent people came to our house tonight to celebrate the simple joys of a home cooked meal. It’s as hot as Satan’s trigger finger right now, pretty typical for July in the Ozarks.

I’m still horribly out of shape, and starting to get a little nervous about competing in a foot race in Portland, Oregon in September, as well I should be. My stepfather arrives from the beaches of  the Central Coast of California on Tuesday and I’ve no doubt he’ll find the state of my shop to be horrific and may well shake his head in disgust at his slack-ass son. The neighbor procured a new tractor, and I swear that he’s driving back and forth in front of our house as a means of showing off.

The fire service is what is was last week, last year and last career. It’s a mess of people in dire need of something, anything, and a call to 911 helps put their mind at ease. And we’ll be there to hold their hand and administer oxygen or put our their garage fire or pry them out of some sort of horrific car wreck. All very predictable, really.

We need a new roof on our house, but really, that’s nothing new. More urgently, I need to get on the road, see a new town, preferably somewhere where you don’t have to chew the air. The motorcycle repair job is about done, perhaps when El Jefe gets back from California we can hit the trails out of town.

I hope to get some work capitalizing on my inability to pay attention for more than a few minutes. My status as an international sex symbol seems to be secure, especially in light of Mel Gibson’s latest fall from grace. I’m thankful that we haven’t had a medical patient refer to me lately as a “fat Vince Gill”. We miss hanging out with my Brother Bones out in Santa Barbara, especially when conversations focus on Area 51 conspiracies. I hear the Lyrical Jackass got engaged, much to no one’s surprise.

Above all, I’m thankful for the relative quiet of the last month. Because I’m sure that my ever-present sidekick, inconsistent chaos, will make an appearance before long, and I’ll have to go into spin doctor mode, trying to explain my latest deviation from the accepted norms. And then I’ll be grateful for the return of my normalcy.

Hope all is well with you, amigos.

Uli Motorcycle Dreamin' Bones, El Jefe, the Heathens, The Wife

Mississippi John Hurt: bluesman, fellow hater of humidity (I think)

“I believe I’ll get drunk, tear this barrel house down.”
—’Drunken Barrel House Blues’, Memphis Minnie.

Time to bitch about the summer. The mercury’s on the rise, and so’s my short temper with it. And the humidity. For the love of Satan’s breath, it’s humid already. That’s the problem with movies depicting scenes in the South, scenes in the desert, scenes in the Midwest: they never can replicate the scorching, syrupy mess that drips off your neck, running in rivulets down your leg hair, making your head hang with the weight of the whole hot and sticky affair.

People who say they just love this time of year should be shot. That includes several of my friends, so when the shooting goes down, I’ll make it an ankle shot, not a kill shot. These are the same people who generally work indoors for a living and consider the stroll from the air-conditioned comforts of the house to the air-conditioned comforts of the car “getting outside”. My own folks like to comment on how wonderful and green the area looks, especially considering that Coastal California is now turning a lovely shade of dead yellow and dead brown combined with just a hint of scrub-brush drab green. Green in pictures IS lovely, I suppose, but do you know what that takes? It takes steam and relentless sun, both of which are plentiful in the Ozarks. Which apparently is nothing, as compared to the South.

I once visited some friends in Mississippi in summer and came back with a whole new appreciation for the state of weather in Missouri. That region of the country is king when it comes to making sweat sauce soup. For the life of me I can’t figure out how one would work on a road crew down there without spending one’s evening’s with a revolver in your mouth, contemplating sweet release from asphalt and back sweat. But I also came back with a new appreciation of an art form that never held my interest: the blues.

The blues are a product of life in the South. The music has that lulling cadence, a result of expending all available effort to the  task of chewing the air before breathing it. It speaks of misery, heartbreak and unrequited passion that ends in gunplay. In short, the blues is complaint set to music, and I love it. It is driven by the sultry steam that is a constant companion of that part of the country. You can’t have the blues in New Mexico – I mean, sure, you’ve got the heat, the loneliness, desolation, all that but you’re missing two ingredients: sticky air and fried foods. Up North? Prairies and bitter cold seem like they’d make good fodder for the blues but they are a people far too practical to complain in that time signature (Chicago, of course being the major exception. Chicago is an entity in and of itself, but I know nothing about it, so I’m going to stop talking about it. Just pretend I know that of which I speak). And California? Forget it. When I go home and witness the beauty of the ocean, the irate drivers and self-absorbed fabulosity, it’s hard to picture taking them seriously with regards to cranking out blues tunes. They have no humidity, no fuel for the slow-pace of a music that moans and wails and not in a good way.

So now, as soon as it kicks past 80 degrees and I get all clammy and sticky from just sitting there, I know just the thing to commiserate with me. I want to bitch and moan, and the blues is, if nothing else, bitching and moaning to a soulful beat. So I’ll kick it onto B.B. King’s Bluesville on Sirius/XM radio and wipe the sweat from my brow as I contemplate another day of building random shit out there in the heat. Then, I’ll say “screw it”,  jump on the motorcycle, meet up with El Jefe and find a joint that’s selling some ribs and sweet tea. Because if I keep on complaining to the Wife about this weather, I’m the one that’s gonna be shot.

And that sounds like a song in the making.

Uli Motorcycle Dreamin', Tales of Misery El Jefe, The Wife

Old Friends Picking Old Tunes

“CALIFORNIA WOULD BE A GREAT PLACE TO LIVE IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE CALIFORNIANS.“  -Dirtbag (a native of the S.F. Bay area and current resident of Washington State)

Top 10 Highlights From California

1. Best Truck Stop Name I Found - “Jesus Christ Is Lord Not A Swear Word Truck & Travel Plaza”
2. Best Aspect About Barbara’s Wedding - whole thing took less than five minutes. Seriously, we drove 1857 miles one way for that? I didn’t even get a chance to finish the cocktail I’d purchased to make it through the ceremony. Plus they walked down the aisle to punk. My family is classy like that.
3. Second Best Aspect Of Wedding – blood spatter on Nan’s tux vest at the reception as a result of some clown being paid a visit by Nan’s fists  “because he needed it”.
4. Best Moment In Cayucos – jamming with old friends in the Old Boradorri Garage (best place in town) and keeping it to ourselves. Good because it was like sharing old secrets, better because no one heard how awfully I sing and play guitar. Safe to say Rodrigo y Gabriela won’t be calling me to play for them in the near future.
5. Best Line (By Aunt Viper) – “Well, you’re not so fat this time.” (first line upon seeing me)
6. Second Best Line (By Aunt Viper) – “Boys, remember, I love you very much, all the time. Your father, not so much.” (to The Heathens)
7. Best Part Of Disneyland – hacking, coughing and looking like enough of a psychopath that most people avoided me. I’m not so down with crowds and crowding, so it all worked out. That, and the boys had a great time riding vomit inducing attractions while I drank coffee and glared at people.
8. Biggest Difference Between California & The Ozarks – try saying “hello” to someone walking down the beach and they look at you as though you’ve just suggested you have sex with cats recreationally. People there are too busy to be bothered with such trivialities, I suppose. You are there to be seen, not talked to.
9. Best Part Of Being Home – outside of family and friends? Had to be all the fresh fruits, vegetables and seafood. There’s nothing quite like homegrown, a fact lost on me growing up and now sorely missed.
10. Best Part Of The Trip - came home with a motorcycle and a new lease on idiocy. It’s great to be back. I’ve missed you guys. Promise to write more soon.

Uli Family DysFUNction, Motorcycle Dreamin', Travelblogue, West Coast shenanigans Aunt Viper, Dirtbag, the Heathens

The Latest Member Of The Gang

Yesterday another step towards motorcycular freedom was achieved: I took the written exam for a license and am now the proud owner of a permit. It’s been a generation or two since I’ve had to take a driver’s test, and the first flaw in the previous sentence came at me all too quick; there is no more writing in tests administered by the State. No, it’s all computer-y and stuff, with touch screen answers and instant results, so of course I don’t trust it.

NONETHELESS.

I passed, much to the chagrin of high school and college professors who never thought I’d be able to pass any test in any form. The real tragedy of the whole situation is that there were several teens who were busy NOT passing this 25 question exam, despite there being available a manual which will tell you EXACTLY the kinds of questions you’ll encounter. Apparently I am NOT the epitome of lazy, since there were at least two people who couldn’t be bothered to read. And how hard were the questions, you ask? Let me cite several options that were available in my study manual.

TRUE OPTIONS IN STUDY GUIDE MANUAL

1.) Usually, a good way to handle tailgaters is to: b.) Use your horn and make obscene gestures
2.) Making eye contact with other drivers: c.) Is not worth the effort it takes.
3.) When it starts to rain it is usually best to: a.) Increase your speed.
4.) If you are chased by a dog: a.) kick it away.
5.) If you wait one hour per drink for the alcohol to be eliminated from your body before riding: d.) You cannot be arrested for drinking and riding.

These were actual study guide questions and potential answers, I kid you not. The smartass in me wanted to answer with those options, but since I’m not ready to be an Outlaw Biker just yet, I thought I oughta answer with what they, The State, wanted. When the computer told me I’d passed, I raised a fist in the air as though I’d just won the Mensa World Cup, answering spatial physics questions. It would’ve felt the same.

I made my way back to the examiner, who, with her hair piled high and pinned in several locations, quizzed me on street signs. I answered them….mostly. Apparently the triangle shape on top of the people crossing the road? Yeah that means they’re crossing near a school, an answer I guessed at, then triumphantly fist pumped again when I got it right. She then sent me to the second floor to complete the bureaucratic process, which involved a hideous picture in laminate and more waiting around with nervous teenagers and one old guy who smelled like a dumpster and cussed in a quiet tone the whole time.

Time came to settle up with The State of Missouri for all of this effort. I’d brought the check book and 13 forms of I.D., remembering well my experiences with the California DMV which have been scientifically proven to take years off of a persons life. As she handed me a pen, arching her eyebrows at me (didn’t care for numerous fist pumps, I guess), she gave me the grand total for this whole extravaganza:

$3.50

Seriously. Three whole mothertruckin’ dollars and four bits. How could I possibly have wasted two State employees’ time, a half hour and a laminated I.D. card only to have it cost me less than a megaventiquad frappamochachinnissimo? And we wonder why government runs in the red. I was beyond incredulous, and made mention of such to the administrator as I wrote a check for $3.50. She assured me “No, honey, that’s just for the permit. When you take your driving test, your license will run you $10 for three years.”

Oh. My bad.

As I took the time to celebrate with one obligatory Guinness at Patton Alley Pub (conveniently located two blocks from the State Office), I pondered the enormity of just how little it costs us to be licensed. It blew my mind. No matter, I was now one step closer. I paid my tab and headed home.

The bill?

$4.50. Plus tip.

Uli Motorcycle Dreamin'

Nan, Chewie, Oma, Amanda & Barbara

One week from today, the entire Missouri wing of our clan is rolling west to California, road tripping in what will surely be come to known as “I-can’t-believe-we-thought-that-was-a-good-idea fest 2010“. I’ve made the drive a handful of times, most notably in a newly purchased Peterbilt with the Outlaw Trucker (back when I had an excavating “interest”) and with SeaBass (on a trip to gather up the Lyin’ Dutchman’s abandoned possessions when he left the country, saying he wasn’t ever coming back. Two weeks later, he was back, but that’s another story).

This trip will be the first time I attempt 26 hours in a vehicle with The Wife and The Heathens.

Someone may die.

Neck-wringing will be determined to be the cause.

So here’s the plan: we leave at 3am, this way I can get at least 4-5 hours of solid, uninterrupted driving time. Time in which I get to pick the music (even if it is in ear buds), time where I can drive without constant “advice” from the passenger seat. Time without questions and pesky little voices declaring war on one another over Spongebob.

It’ll be the smoothest part of the trip, no doubt.

Chewie On What Shall Soon Be Mine

The reason we’re heading out there? Supposedly my brother Barbara is getting married, to a lovely girl named Amanda, and we’re going. I feel sorry for her, she seems so nice, and Barbara is such a, well, a Barbara. He’s actually extremely intelligent, but he doesn’t want anyone to know this, so he never displays this trait. He’s kind, but he’s my brother, so I refuse to acknowledge this fact, preferring instead to harangue him mercilessly online and to his face. I’m proud of him for becoming the man he has, but don’t tell him this, you’ll ruin our rapport. THIS is why I’m enduring a road trip with all the appeal of The Exodus.

But not really.

In an unusual alignment of the moons, it turns out my other brother Chewie is selling his motorcycle. To me.  What better way to get it back to Missouri from California than to be attending a wedding out there? Who better to buy a motorcycle from than my own brother? How perfect is it that he’s selling EXACTLY what I want? This logic is nearly flawless in my eyes. Not so much in The Wife’s or anyone who cares about “surviving”, but what do they know? This whole wedding affair is getting so many earmarks, I’m making politicians look like amateur pork-barrelers. The Wife has talked me into hauling the family down to Disneyland so that my boys can experience that whole hobnobshebob. Any objection I raise? “Motorcycle. You’re getting a motorcycle, so you just shut your face.” Can’t argue with that. In a little more than seven days, I’ll have my nasty, filthy hands on a bike. AFTER ALL THIS TIME! The road trips with El Jefe have already been plotted, I’ve already started a motorcycle gang, I’ve already pissed off my wife – this is just the natural progression of things.

I just gotta get the thing back here without choking the crap out of my family in the process. One week. ONE WEEK AND LIFE AS I KNOW IT CHANGES! YES! YES! YES! VICTORY IS ON THE HORIZON, BOYS!!

Barbara may feel the same way, although for different reasons, I suppose. Just give it a few years, a couple of kids and he too, will salivate at the thought of freedom on two wheels. Maybe he’ll give me a call, looking for a motorcycle.

That sounds like a road trip.

Uli Motorcycle Dreamin', Travelblogue, West Coast shenanigans Barbara, Chewie, El Jefe, Nan, Outlaw Trucker, SeaBass, the Heathens, The Lyin' Dutchman, The Wife

Living the Dream in Missouri

Spring is busy trying to spring. Last night marked the beginning of the season with our first tornado-watch/panic-fest that local meteorologists seem to drool over. We had thunderboomers, lightning and the sounds of frogs looking to get their freak on permeating the night air. Stupid wild onions have started to rise up from what I loosely term my “lawn”. My slut of a cat Skunk is out on the prowl, looking for some strange tom to knock her up, thus prompting The Wife and I to look at one another in a fit of laziness and say “we really oughta take care of that.”

But the sure sign that the seasons are on the move? The endless rumbles of Harleys motoring up and down the two-lane state highway in front of the house. From Thursday through Sunday, lawyers in leathers, the old, the young, nasty scumbuckets and yuppies alike tool their Hogs up and down the roads,enjoying that wild, carefree sensation of bugs smacking them in the face at sixty miles an hour.

I’m so jealous, I just can’t stand it.

And, in a series of maneuvers I’ve been keeping from you guys, the day is almost here. It turns out one of my five brothers, Chewie, is trying to sell his dual-sport bike in order to drum up some cabbage. I love dual sports. He’s letting it go dirt cheap. I love dirt and I love cheap. The bike is out on the West Coast. I’m going to the West Coast in April to attend yet another brothers’ wedding (the brother we call Barbara). This is a divine sign, if ever there was one. There was only one obstacle left, and she was somewhat significant.

The Wife.

She can conjure up tears on command when the subject is brought up. She likes to talk about such uplifting possibilities as “orphaning your children”, “making your wife a widow” and “maiming your face”. She also tossed around fun phrases like “a cold day in hell when you get a motorcycle” and “maybe you can live on your motorcycle, cause you won’t be living here”. I looked at these as minor setbacks. I tried quoting a co-worker named Lenny, using his brilliant defense of purchasing a bike against her will, “what is she gonna do, take away your birthday?” When I used this argument she suggested exactly where Lenny and I could stick it. Time to re-think strategy.

Loving affection didn’t work; she was immediately suspicious I was “up to something”. Putting my foot down and insisting that I’d do what I want only resulted in her laughing at me and pointing, like you would at the clown with his pants unzipped (yes, that clown is often me). Sulking and pouting only resulted in me joining the Heathens in the corner, left to mutter to ourselves about running away. And then, one night when she was excitedly screeching at me about housework, or money woes or something else (selective listening is an essential trait acquired through years of marriage), it hit me: DISHES.

She hates the dishes. With the intensity of a thousand boiling suns, people, I’m serious. Now, to be fair, The Wife is a phenomenal cook, handles laundry like she’s running a dry-cleaning business from our laundry room and basically keeps our house from looking like a crack den, so it’s understandable that she chooses to unleash the hate on the dishes. I can live with that. And, when I’m feeling relatively mentally stable, I do them with an alarming frequency. Unfortunately for her I’m rarely stable. But for a motorcycle, I could fake it. And, for several months, the ruse has been in play.

I declared victory three weeks ago. I found a banner that said “Mission Accomplished” on eBay for a good price (used once on a large ship!) and purchased it.

Come April, this fool is getting him a motorcycle. Today, I dropped into her salon and smugly declared to The Wife that I’d been faking stability and the dishes for months in order to gain approval for a bike.

“You haven’t been fooling anyone. You’ve never been stable” she deadpanned.

I tried to saunter out of there like I knew that. I won. Every aspect of our marriage is a competition, I kid you not. And then she dropped the bomb on me.

“Oh, and by the way? I said you could buy one, I never said you could ride it.”

Uli Motorcycle Dreamin' Barbara, Chewie, the Heathens, The Wife

Every year, around this time of year, pundits ’round the world remind us to be thankful of the simple things in our lives. That’s great. It soothes the guilt of conspicuous consumption and makes us feel a little holier-than-ourselves for at least a week or two. So I’m thinking of writing something that has no connection whatsoever to such profound emotion; I thought I’d fire off a list of five things I’m asking Santa for this Christmas, and they’re in no particular order.

1. The Ability to Choke Pat Sajak From Long Distances. I find him condescending and arrogant, and for some reason I’d love to be able to make the sign and ol’ Pat would start clutching his throat, no matter where he was in the world. That sort of power would make me very, very happy, and I’m not sure why.
2. A Fully Funded Gulfstream V Aircraft. That’s right….I said fully funded. It’s no miracle in and of itself to be able to wiggle through the financing process of jet ownership; it’s the maintenance, operating costs and other assorted minutiae that would make owning such a fine bird a bummer. It does me no good to have one parked in my shop if I can’t afford to fly up Minnesota for gelled fish eyeballs at a moment’s notice.
3. An Hour With Those In Life Who’ve Wronged Me, Ever. If my mortal enemies, nemesis’s (nemesii?), and sworn foe cannot be reasoned with in an hour, it will probably never happen. So, in the spirit of the season, I’d like to spend an hour with each of them to try and see through our differences. That, or inflict great bodily harm. This should take approximately three years, by my calculations.
4. The Motorcycle. We’ve talked about this in several posts. The Wife won’t ever let me get one, but I doubt she could deny you, Santa. So get on it fat man, let’s make this happen. Speaking of which………
5. My Metabolism, Circa 1991. Today, I ate chili and am, literally, chewing on Tums as I write this post. I gained three pounds from the Tums alone. I long for the days when I could order every single thing from a Taco Bell without irony. Essentially, this must be how Alec Baldwin feels. I was watching him in “The Hunt For Red October” and then later that week on “30 Rock”, and instead of laughing at his comedic presence, I was empathizing with what is no doubt his crippling sense of self-loathing. No wonder he screamed at his daughter. He probably couldn’t fit into his pants that morning. Right there with you, Alec.

Uli Less Lardass, Motorcycle Dreamin' The Wife

For the last five months, I’ve endeavored to bring you glimpses of my convoluted thought process and the subsequent chaotic results. This is not an issue of happenstance; I had recently sold off my excavating business in order to spend some much needed time with my family and to pursue this whole writing experiment. With the construction market being what it was, and continues to be, the decision to sell was timely, and the rewards I’ve gained in terms of being home more often are worth more to me than I could have hoped. By focusing primarily on my fire department career and my fatherhood-like responsibilities, I’ve been able to devote the time and effort my family deserves. That’s great. And when no one is around, I hammer out some verbal missives and hope that it brings you some laughs.

Another aspect of life that’s changed is re-focusing on being healthier and slightly less inclined to clutch my chest one day and drop dead (this would absolutely occur in the most embarrassing location possible). To that end, I signed up for a, um, cycling class at the Downtown YMCA and took up some yoga and pilates, just for good measure. This provides my co-workers endless entertainment. To have gone from running heavy equipment and shooting excavation grades to signing up for a “yogalates” class and claiming to want to get home “so I can write” has led some to question my very status as a man.  By “some” I am also including “me”.

Dirt work was never a passion for me, though, not like writing is, and so it’s not as though I’m missing it that much. Sure, I miss my beloved Peterbilts and the excavator was a pretty damn cool machine to own. But I don’t miss the homeowners whining and chasing money down and getting back to the shop at weird hours and, worst of all, my oldest asking me why I’m never home. I miss hanging out with all my contractor friends and looking over a freshly graded site and knowing the job was done right. No matter how great it is to indulge the writing and get in better shape and all, I was missing working with my hands and smelling like diesel and dirt. I need that connection; to work with my hands, to shoot the bull with friends, to build something other than essays on the internet. I also need a way to pay for the ever elusive motorcycle.

And so a simple request from a co-worker was the genesis for my return to manhood. He asked if I have a welder, and the answer is yes, of course. He then asked if I could weld up a new receiver on his lawn mower trailer; I hate to say no, and he’s a friend, and I thought “what the hell, why not?” Within a few days his trailer was in my shop, the Outlaw Trucker was onsite to supervise and drink breakfast PBR’s and I was back. Back to building something. Back to creating. Back to choking on fumes and smelling of grime. In short, I was happy, and I’d found my religion again. I could take on small welding gigs, have Outlaw co-fabricate, and who knows? At the very least I’d have new material to write about, if nothing else. As for payment, I’ve decided to throw out a coffee can, and whatever folks feel the work is worth, that is what they should throw in. Coffee and beer are also accepted forms of currency. I threw the word around the firehouse wires and have had more work already materialize outta thin air. It turns out quite a few people need just a little help mending metal. I’m glad to have some side work / motorcycle money and the company all my friends bring to the shop. We drink strong mud and barley sodas, discuss the state of affairs, cuss the ignorant and praise the worthy. All in all, a pretty good way to spend some time. The re-MANonization process has begun, and I’m all for it…..as long as it doesn’t interfere with spin class.

Uli Less Lardass, Motorcycle Dreamin', Tales of Misery Outlaw Trucker, the Heathens

The era of the bailout has enshrouded our mindset as of late. In a last, desperate gasp, personal accountability has finally croaked, and we are now rewarding unethical and downright greedy behavior by pledging financial aid to institutions that should have, by all rights, gone under. It’s kind of hard to feel sorry for a baron in the Hamptons being forced to rethink his purchase of a small third world nation until he gets the taxpayer-funded bonus he “worked” so hard to get. But it’s a sight easier to feel empathy for folks watching the pensions they’ve worked a lifetime to fund go up in smoke. I should know; I’m in a job where the citizens may well decide to justify bad behavior with worse behavior (I lost my pension, and you should, too!), and frankly, this puts me in a bit of a funk. Half-truths and mis-information abound, and police officers and firefighters’ retirements are at the mercy of some extremely agitated citizens.

In light of these cheery prospects, I’ve decided to hold my own version of  the Cash for Clunkers program. I am gonna call it “Cash For My Worthless Crap”. Seeing as how The Wife is dedicated to curtailing my dreams of purchasing a motorbike due to logic, safety and finances, I need to tackle these hurdles head on. Being logical has never meant much to me, so that’s out the window. I’ll argue for the ridiculous, just for the sake of arguing; she knows this, and once I start waving my arms around and making noises like a highly irritated baboon, she knows it’s useless to resist: I’ve won. Safety? that is going to be a bit tougher. Last night I threw out this philosophical question: “If you’re so convinced I am going to end up maimed and/or dead on a bike, do you think they should outlaw motorcycles completely?” She paused momentarily and then made some inflammatory rhetoric about me wanting to orphan my boys and leave her widowed, followed up with “I hope you can sleep well at night, on your motorcycle.” (The Outlaw Trucker pointed out to me that this wasn’t going to be necessary: I just needed a bedroll to sleep alongside the bike. TAKE THAT!)

So we’re left with the financial aspect of this whole she-bang. I can’t rightly justify taking out a loan to buy a sure-fire deathtrap when the citizens of our fine city may well decide that a fully-functioning fire department is really more of an “extravagance”. I might well be looking at a career change involving hanging out on freeway off-ramps and claiming (on a piece of cardboard) to be “out of gas” to every passerby. Yeah. She’s got me there. And, as I’ve recently gotten out of the excavating business, I still have a shop full of tools I can’t REALLY use recreationally (chain binders, anyone?). I am also in possession of 19 years of my childhood, er, treasures that might just be my ticket out of four wheel living. I’ve bought and sold stuff on sites like E-Bay and Craigslist before; in fact, it’s how I sold all of the excavating equipment. But those monies were dedicated to paying down business debt and throwing my middle finger to the credit institutions. As I look at a box full of Briar toy horses (never played with, by the way) here in my office and think about just how many shovels I own (what, am I equipping an ARMY of shovelers here?……wait a sec, there’s an idea…..) maybe I can pull off  a little cabbage collection on the side. In fact, if I look at the opposite scenario, I’d be hard pressed to find anyone who hasn’t complained about being “Nickle and Dimed” to death. So, that’s it, then…..I’ll nickle and dime myself on up. A dollar here, a sawbuck there, and I’ll be one-tenth on my way to having enough cash to purchase that elusive motorcycle.

With that kind of thinking, I’ll be running the Treasury Department before long. FROM THE SEAT OF MY MOTORCYCLE.

Uli Motorcycle Dreamin', Tales of Misery Outlaw Trucker, The Wife