Dave's Good Stuff

• is an ex-con recently released
• is looking for casual sex
• is looking for casual sex with a male
• is looking for casual sex with a male at 5:30pm this evening
• does not feel it is necessary to shower prior to this encounter
• is in construction
• feels he is able to “open up” with his conversation partner because they have “formed a bond”
• has never met his conversation partner face-to-face
• enjoys the effects of alcohol on casual sex with a male
• enjoys the effects of alcohol on casual sex with a male when he is in the “giving position”
• enjoys the effects of alcohol on casual sex with a male when he is in the “receiving position”
• favors tequila
• does not go “ass-to-mouth”
• does not mix marijuana and alcohol
• prefers bowls to pipes or cigarettes
• is in need of a haircut
• is unwilling to pay for said haircut
• believes “friends with benefits” is the most beneficial of all possible relationship scenarios
• has endured scrotal beatings while incarcerated
• did not particularly enjoy said scrotal beatings
• finds watching others involved in group encounters “hysterical”
• is completely unaware that I can hear every foul word he utters
• probably wouldn’t care if he knew

I meant to post about this yesterday, but I got busy right when I got home, and then when the busy wore off, I got relaxed on the couch in front of the television.

To set the scene, as I was riding home yesterday, around the corner of 91st and Lamar, I was part of a long line of traffic caught behind a school bus that had stopped to let off some kiddos.

The woman in the car in front of me was reading what looked like business documents. The papers were propped up on her steering wheel, and she was reading them the entire time I was behind her. Granted, it was very slow moving traffic, and it was stop-and-go while we approached the stop sign, but she was reading while she was driving.

She was reading. While she was driving.

Nothing is so important that it couldn’t wait until she got to where she was going. I don’t care what it was. Nope. Not even that. It could have waited.

Remember the school bus? There were children all around. They were running this way and that on either side of the street. How many of you haven’t seen a child run out into the street without warning? They don’t do it often, but every now and again… and this idiot woman was reading while she was driving. With children around.

I know she wasn’t paying attention to the road because twice she jerk-stopped the car in surprise because the car in front of her had stopped. She didn’t notice the illuminated brake lights because… well… she was reading. While she was driving.

I really wish I’d gotten her license plate, or called her in for reckless driving, or at least tapped on her window and suggested she pay attention to what she was doing – the driving part of what she was doing, not the reading part. Had she actually hit someone, I guarantee I would have felt guilty for not doing so. Not as guilty as she would have felt, but guilty nonetheless.

At the stop sign, she went straight and I turned right. I watched her drive away, shaking my head, hoping she didn’t have far to go and praying that she didn’t kill anyone on her way.

Feel free to quote me the next time someone complains about cyclists behaving recklessly, inattentively, or unpredictably. It’s not a bicycle problem. It’s not a car problem. It’s a people problem.

Last night, I checked the mail and had three Netflix movies waiting for me! Excellent! Except for one small thing… I don’t have a Netflix account.

Huh. Immediately suspicious, I decided to dig in and see what I could find out. My first step, having opened the movies to see what they were (nothing worth watching, and no… no pr0n), I sat down at the laptop and brought up netflix.com. I’m not a member… well… I’m not a knowing member, so I had no idea what my username would be, much less my password. Normally, you can have instructions sent to the e’mail address on file, but I was confident that in my case, my own e’mail address wouldn’t be on file. However, they have a method of logging in if you don’t remember, or have access to the e’mail address you signed up with. It asks for the first name, last name and card number used to sign up with. Using my real first and last name, I started going through my credit cards to see which one had fallen into the wrong hands. I didn’t have far to go… I got a hit on the first try.

I started digging into the account, and while the name and address were mine, the phone number and e’mail address were not. I called the number, on the off chance that I’d find the person responsible, but instead reached a nice couple who (if they can be trusted) don’t have a Netflix account either. We talked for a while, and they’ll be monitoring their credit closely. I then called the credit card company and had the card canceled and a new one reissued. Finally, I called Netflix themselves and appraised them of the situation. They canceled the account and forwarded it to their fraud department, telling me someone would contact me in the next 1 to 3 days. Some scissors to the card and I’m all done.

I can’t help but wonder what kind of completely incompetent idiot steals credit card information to purchase goods online, only to have the goods sent to the rightful owner of the card! The mind, it boggles. It really worked out for me, b/c the proof of fraud was hand delivered to my mailbox, so I’m not complaining… but it begs a few questions… How did they get the card information? When did they get it? Could it be a diversion? Were they drawing my attention away from the real fraud? Or were they truly, just that stupid? There were no charges to any of my cards that I can’t account for, so if they’d planned other acts of theft, they hadn’t gotten to them yet. Still, I’ll be watching very closely.

This morning, I returned the movies I’d been sent in their very handy self addressed no-postage-necessary envelopes. Though it wasn’t necessarily the ideal of first experiences, my experience with Netflix was actually very very good. I might even consider signing up for an account.

In a final bit of humor, I did some searches for quotes about incompetence for the title, and one of the sites had a pop up ad for… you guessed it… Netflix!

WEST BURLINGTON, Iowa – A man faces up to [a mere] 60 days in jail in connection with a November 2007 accident that killed a West Burlington man who was riding a bicycle.

A judge found Marvin Oberly guilty last week of driving on the wrong side of a two-way highway and passing a vehicle on the wrong side. Douglas Kenney died of [the tragic and needless] injuries he suffered in the accident on Nov. 9, 2007 [due to Oberly’s utterly irresponsible and reckless actions].

Oberly is scheduled to be sentenced on Jan. 30. He faces [a paltry] 30 days in jail for each of the counts and up to a year suspension [rather than the far more just complete and permanent revocation] of his drivers license. [It is left as an exercise for the reader to rationalize how 60 days in jail and a year's suspension balances out the irresponsibility and recklessness that resulted in Kenney's death.]

Prosecutors argued that Oberly drove up behind Kenney in his pickup and collided with the bicycle Kenney, who was riding his bicycle in a manner consistent with safety and law.

Oberly testified provided the lame and weak excuse during his trial that glare from the sun prevented him from seeing Kenney[, which would have been inconsequential had be been driving on the correct side of the road and not passed another vehicle on the shoulder].

Original here.

Slightly off-topic post today, but this is, or could be, a rather pressing matter, and I’d like both to record the timing of it, and submit a request for thoughts and ideas.

I took The Squanto to the vet yesterday, and found out that he’s 20lbs. On a 16lbs dog frame, that’s a lot of extra weight. It’ll dramatically increase his chances of having all manner of internal organ problems, including his heart and lungs, increase his risk of cancer, and very likely give him premature joint issues, such as arthritis, and could be the cause of his coughing as the extra weight compresses his trachea.

I’d like to keep him around for a while, and given Schipperke’s lifetimes, that could be another 8 years or so. That means he has to lose that weight

I’ve been aware of this for some time, and to maintain his weight at the healthy 15-17lbs, I’ve had him on a pretty strict diet of 1/2 cup dry dog food, given to him twice daily. In spite of that, he’s still been gaining. There is only one possible reason: The neighbors. I knew the neighbors fed him treats every now and again, but didn’t think it was more than that. Last night I found a full package, with plastic packing included, of those orange crackers with peanut butter. The plastic package. Can we say “choking hazard”?! Also, I recall the ex GF saying she found a partially eaten hoagie sandwich on the ground next to the fence sometime last summer.

So I called the female half of the neighbors last night. We’ll call her Barb, b/c she’s a spitting image of Barbara Bush. That’s not her name, but it fits. I was very friendly, but firm. I told her the vet scolded me for Squanto’s weight, and asked her to do me and him a favor and stop feeding him treats. She responded to that simple, logical, and completely reasonable request by asking what she’s supposed to do when he sits at the fence barking all the time. I allowed as to how if she stopped feeding him, he’d eventually stop barking. She didn’t believe that was true, and went on to (get this!) claim that he’d starve to death if she didn’t feed him crackers over the fence! WHAT?! I told her I feed him twice a day, to which she responded that she didn’t care what I said, that there’s no way I fed him, and it’s obvious that I don’t love my dog. “Ok Barb, this conversation is over. Goodbye.” “Yeah. Ok. Goodbye.” she said at the same time, and we hung up.

Seriously. He’ll starve if she doesn’t feed him unhealthy people food, some of it with the wrapper still present?! I have never been accused of neglect before. I was caught between being amused, dumbfounded, and furious.

Now I’m concerned that she’ll call Animal Control on me b/c she’s convinced I’m neglecting him. Because of that concern, I’ve been advised to call A.C. first and ask if they have any advice, or if I have any recourse aside from just talking with them and watching very carefully every time I let The Squanto out. At least, that way, if she does call, it’ll be on record that I called first.

If she’s allowed to accuse me of negligence b/c she believes that I’m not feeding him, and that his barking constitutes real hunger, rather than him simply learning that if he barks at the fence, he gets a treat, then I think I’m allowed to accuse her of abuse by feeding him unhealthy foods, sometimes with choking hazard wrappers still present, due to the health problems down the line it can cause.

At this point, my plan is to talk to her husband, and explain my concerns regarding the unhealthy food she’s feeding him (to say nothing of the wrappers she’s leaving behind). Depending on how that goes, I’ll either ask him to help keep his wife away from my dog, or advise him that I’m calling Animal Control for their input. I hate to have to go that route, but if there’s no reasoning with them, I will. If I have to choose between being their friend, and ensuring that The Squanto lives for many more healthy years, it’s no choice at all.

Any ideas, anyone?

I rarely disagree with Bruce Schneier, and I’m not entirely sure I do in this case, but I’m certainly not convinced that this is a good use of technology, especially when “security” can be so completely irrational…

Reporting Unruly Football Fans via Text Message

Fans still are urged to complain to an usher or call a security hotline in the stadium to report unruly behavior. But text-messaging lines — typically advertised on stadium scoreboards and on signs where fans gather — are aimed at allowing tipsters to surreptitiously alert security personnel via cellphone without getting involved with rowdies or missing part of a game.

As of this week, 29 of the NFL’s 32 teams had installed a text-message line or telephone hotline. Three clubs have neither: the New Orleans Saints, St. Louis Rams and Tennessee Titans. Ahlerich says he will “strongly urge” all clubs to have text lines in place for the 2009 season. A text line will be available at the Super Bowl for the first time when this season’s championship game is played at Tampa’s Raymond James Stadium on Feb. 1.

“If there’s someone around you that’s just really ruining your day, now you don’t have to sit there in silence,” says Jeffrey Miller, the NFL’s director of strategic security. “You can do this. It’s very easy. It’s quick. And you get an immediate response.”

• Granted: It can be difficult to impossible to reason with unruly, and sometimes drunk sports fans.
• Granted: It can be dangerous to try to reason with unruly, and sometimes drunk sports fans.
• Granted: Security personnel have the power and authority to protect us from both each other and ourselves. Ideally. They’re only human, and have lapses in judgment just as the rest of us do.

All the same, this use of technology seems to be an excuse to not even try to handle things ourselves. It grants permission to tuck tail and hide behind mommy and daddy’s legs while they handle our problems for us. It makes it too easy to defer responsibility for our own feelings and actions, and hand it over to someone else, rather than buck up and stand up for ourselves… or at least try to.

Shouldn’t calling security be a last resort? This seems to make it too easy.

I welcome any and all views on this. In fact, I eagerly await them.

I’m on a conference call with my headphones on. It’s the kind of one-ear headphone set with a microphone that curves around in front of the mouth.

I have a bag of peanuts.

I have a handful of peanuts.

I swing hand with peanuts up towards face to place peanuts in mouth.

Peanuts hit microphone.

I have a lap full of peanuts.

Though I be in Texas, far away from home and the bike that awaits me, new and unridden, with virgin saddle, as it were, my thoughts stray now and again, all the same, to the subject of cycling. I think on how nice it will be to once again sit astride the saddle, my arms outstretched holding brake levers and handlebars. I think on how nice it will be to see my waistline diminish once again, rather than continue it’s current trend of slow expansion. I think on how nice it will be to once again stride out the front doors with pride, knowing that I will be making it home on my own power, while at the same time clowning around like a fool for the cadre of lustful (though unfortunately married) women who have come to be a sort of 4:30pm Fan Club for yours truly (I take the ego boosts where I can get them). But lately, one thought presses forward as I spend minute after empty minute in the cabin of an automobile instead of the saddle of a bicycle… that thought is what I will share with you now.

And here it is, then.

That thought is patience.

More than a healthier body (and the unabashed admiration of womenfolk all across the lands), more than all those things I mentioned above, cycling has given me patience.

I tool about in my car, making my way steadily and surely to my destination, watching in bemused awe as drivers around me scream about (literally and figuratively both), forcibly changing lanes at the last minute, riding bumpers in unabashed displays of apparent superiority, verily burning valuable rubber off at stop signs and stop lights in a desperate attempt to get to the next stop sign or stop light that much sooner, and generally behaving like a group of angry baboons… all in the name of shaving valuable seconds off their commutes.

I used to be one of them. I used to scream at others who behaved in ways not to my liking. I used to drive as aggressively as defensively. I used to speed everywhere I went. I used to strain the engine and the brakes both starting and stopping. I used to be one of them. But I’ve spent a lot of time on the roads in a saddle this year. I’ve learned first hand the energy it takes to go uphill, to start from a stop and to increase to a higher speed. I’ve gained a sense of what my car must be experiencing when I demand of it the same. I’ve learned how it feels to be truly vulnerable on the roads, though my vulnerability has not (as of yet, thankfully) been tested. I no longer consider myself one of them.

I’ve also gained what I believe is a relatively rare sense of time as it relates to distance and traversing said distance.

And this is my point.

It takes a lot longer to get from point A to B on a bike than a car (assuming a distance of any significance and without a maze of stop lights). I’m used to taking that extra time, so now as I’ve found myself behind a wheel more than on a saddle lately, I’m far more patient being behind the wheel, knowing that I’ll get there if I relax, take my time, pay attention, and avoid daredevil behavior. I know what it’s like to take a long time to get home. Driving a car home takes no time at all.

A side benefit, in addition to the lower blood pressure and overall better demeanor is that the learned patience cycling has taught me gives me a better chance of getting where I’m going safely. Not bad as far as side benefits go.

Last night I was playing solo on a 9-foot table at the local pool hall. A couple guys come up and want to gamble. $1 a rack. Seriously? $1.00 a rack? Red flag #1. $1.00 is petty change, but I don’t gamble. It’s a principle thing. I have, on occasion, but very rarely, and only with people I know and trust to not break my jaw.

One of the guys, perhaps in his late 40′s or early 50′s and seemingly “in charge”, goes on about the 1, 5 and 9 being money balls… trying to talk the talk, throwing lingo around like it’s rice at a wedding. Red flag #2. I have a tough time convincing him that I don’t gamble, but am certainly willing to share the table for a while. “What’s the 9 mean, then?” he asks. “It means you win?” I respond. “Uh… you get to break the next rack…” Red flag #3. I’m really starting to wonder at this point about the fellow as this line of conversation goes on for about a minute. Finally, we agree to just play. He racks.

In a manner of speaking.

It’s loose. He can’t control the rack and bumps the balls all over when he tries to lift it. Never mind that the head ball is 3 inches from the spot. I gently allow as to how it should be straight, tight, and on the spot. It takes him (seriously) about a minute to finally get the rack reasonably tight, and figure out how to rack. I’m caught between tapping my toes in frustration and laughing out loud at his clumsy ineptitude. And this guy wanted to gamble?

I give some thought to the idea that maybe he’s playing with me. Maybe he’s coming across as a bumbling idiot in the hopes of luring me into some money games, at which time he’ll wipe the floor with me. I don’t spend much time on that line of thinking.

I cleaned the table with him. Over and over again. He never lets on that he actually knows what he’s doing. He’s a loud talker who puts more energy into making fun of those shots I missed than congratulating me on those I make. I’m not easily sharked by such things, and since I neither know the guy, nor want to, it’s of no consequence to me. He tires of racking (but not before I’ve tired of watching his tragic attempts) and wanders aimlessly off to hit on some underage girls. Pure class, that one. I proceed to clean the table with his mumbling friend who, all sweat and B.O. and clearly unaware of personal space and boundaries, was also entirely too “familiar.” It was a little creepy.

Pet Peeve: People who stand next to the table while I’m shooting. Find a seat, slick. Sit down, get out of the way, and let me shoot.

As it started taking them longer and longer to rack the balls after I beat the crap out of them, I started racking them myself and just shooting it out like they weren’t there. Eventually they quietly left. Well, sweaty guy did whine a little bit, but I responded with an unsympathetic “This table costs money and you guys were wasting mine.” Mr. Class was nowhere to be seen, so I allowed myself to simply be grateful for his absence. My increasing misery at their presence was obvious enough that the waitress commented on it after they left.

That painful chapter of my life over, I got in a small “Rack Attack” demo competition with some other guys. I ended up with a less-than-stellar 39 out of 50, but there was a moment. During my second rack I was on shot 9 with 2 balls left and I have a choice. I can make one ball and I get 9 points. Or I can make both balls in one shot and not only get 10 points, but also crazy pool cred and the shouts and worship of all those around watching.

Care to guess which shot I attempted? I won’t make you. I had the shape and saw the pattern, so I rocketed the first ball into a corner pocket, sending the cue ball screaming around the table three rails and perfectly into the second ball, sending it, in turn flying into the same corner pocket. Oh yes. There was shouting. There was praise. There were high-fives and looks of wonder and envy. It was glorious.

I’m not a fan of the name of the game… it seems a little melodramatic to me, but I do like how it lends itself to (designed for?) stats keeping and finding a true average that can’t honestly be determined against opponents of various skill levels.

Bike today? Magic 8-ball says: Maybe.

I had an interesting ride home yesterday.

About 2 miles in at 99th and Metcalf, I was stopped at the light. When it changed, I did as I normally do, which is to say I stood up on the pedals and cranked to get going. Unfortunately, this time, I cranked, and the pedal just flew around accompanied by the horrendous sound of gears grinding. Not just any gears grinding, but angry gears grinding, and with serious attitude.

Aside from the embarrassment of having just suffered the equivalent of either falling down in public, or getting hit on the head with <insert random object here> (don’t tell me you don’t laugh at those things happening to other people… you know you do), I was immediately concerned that my chain had finally snapped. A quick look confirmed that this was not the case. *whew* But I noticed immediately that my rear derailleur wasn’t moving when I shifted. Huh. Looks like the cable snapped. That’s better than the chain by far, but it leaves me with three gears for the ride home, and the chain is wrapped around the highest gear on the freewheel.

Did I say three gears? Well… thing is, see, you don’t want to cross your chain like that. If you’re in the highest gear on the cranks, you don’t want to be in the lowest on the freewheel. Likewise, if you’re in the lowest gear on the cranks, you don’t want to be in the highest on the freewheel. It torques the chain unduly, causing excessive wear and tear, and possible kinking. I’ve known for a long time that the Fire Mountain was in dire need of an overhaul… every last component of the drive train is in serious need of replacement. They’re all original, after all, and I bought the bike in ’93. Everything is so worn, in fact, that if I can’t just replace the chain, or the cranks, or the freewheel… If I replace one, the rest won’t work with it. So the last thing I want to do now is something that will cause excessive wear and tear to any component. I just want to get home. Stuck in the highest gear on the freewheel as I am, that limits me to the top two gears on the crank.

I did try crossing the chain, but with the wear already worn on the freewheel and chain, there was a lot of slipping. I stuck it out for the rest of the ride in the top two gears. Though I dreaded not having the full run of my freewheel, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. The worst part of the rest of the ride home, in fact, was waiting for 5 (yes… 5) minutes for traffic to clear at 75th and Lamar. I think I’ll be avoiding that intersection from here on out… I’ll find a lighted intersection to jump onto 75th, thank you very much. The car behind me didn’t honk or anything, either. I was rather surprised, but they could probably very easily see that I wasn’t any happier with the waiting than they were.

When I got home, I checked the cable, and it wasn’t snapped. Joy! It had just slipped out of a relatively loose anchor bolt. I pulled it back through, tightened the bolt up good and proper, and I was back up and running again. I still need to replace the drivetrain, but for now, at least, as my ride in this morning confirmed, I have all my gears back.

Oh, and Happy Halloween Month!!