My 22nd high school reunion

My wife and I went to the same elementary school, junior high, high school, two year college and university. And, we never met until I was almost done with college.

That's a pretty unusual set of circumstances that do not happen to be the subject of this blog.

She graduated high school in 1988 and I in 1986. This means I was able to go to my 20th high school reunion two years ago and then hers last night. I knew a lot of people from that class. They were sophomores when I was a senior. And I hung out with lots of different groups of people back then. Like now, I was also not very mature and found myself comfortable with a younger crowd.

This reunion was much better run than mine was. And, I'm not just saying that because the people who ran it might read this.

So, if you'll have me, I thought I'd list just some of the highlights of this occasion. Here they be:

Tom is everyone's friend: By far and away, the most successful person to graduate from our high school graduated in 1988. His name is Tom Tull. Tom is a big-time executive movie producer. Everybody was hoping he'd attend the reunion, maybe flying in on a helicopter or something. But, he's too busy being rich, so he didn't make it. But, let me tell you, he was there in spirit because everyone was quick to volunteer the last instance they heard from or saw Tom , blah blah blah. I'm sure they would have done the same had Tom been a homeless bum.

I'm glad to be alive: I saw an old friend Greg. Co-conspirator of our audio and video skits. As soon as he saw me he made a funny face and then yelled "Mick! I heard you died!". I walked over to him, did the "secret handshake" (where we join hands and simultaneously pretend we are being electrocuted) and informed him that I was very much alive. Greg smokes pot and this might have something to do with his confusion.

No one believed Santiago: All the 1988 classmates wore name tags. Well, I got a little buzzy and felt a little left out. So, I put on the name tag of a different person; a foreign exchange student named Santiago. I have no foopin' clue who Santiago was. But apparently, he wasn't in attendance because his name tag wasn't taken. If people didn't recognize me, I told them I was Santiago and performed my best "Fez" impersonation. It didn't really work.

Noodles got me choked up: I saw Jeff, an old friend from the wrestling team. Jeff was always very interested in everyone's welfare and I always appreciated this about him. We called him "Noodles" because he was so flexible. Jeff was still a junior in high school when I completed my cancer treatment and was given a clean bill of health. He told me he vividly remembers being in the trainer's office in school when he heard the news that I was clean. It touched me that this news was so important to him. What a great guy.

I'd like to write a very poignant ending to this blog. But, I have a hangover. Did I mention one of the main reasons this reunion was better than the one two years ago? Open bar.

Bye.

Today's ride and it's true moment of glory

The chip and seal surface stuttered under my knobby tires. The Lake loomed vast in front of me. Today's high wind abraded the surface rendering it unable to reflect the large, frothing cumulus clouds above. I stopped, unclipped and precariously placed a leg down on the loose gravel of the pier area at the dead end of the road. I briefly drank in this image, lake churning and grey, only one sailboat far in the distance, then started riding again. I had completed the first leg of the out and back journey to Lake Ontario and back. I mounted, changed direction and began logging the first feet of the remaining thirty six miles.

Wedged between large wheat and corn fields, I soon became aware of the quietness of this segment of road and how the world had temporarily granted me some time completely alone.

So, I capitalized on 'dat shit and ducked behind a bush, whipped out my willie and took a leak for almost 3 minutes straight!

Cus, I had to pee for like the past hour and a half! Looking at that lake didn't help any. Dang!

That's pretty much all I had to say.

Bye.

Packing for vacation: Normal Guy vs. Cyclist Guy

Normal guy packs:

clothes
toiletries
laptop computer
a good book or two


Cyclist guy packs:

clothes
toiletries (with extra razors and TAG spray)
laptop computer
cycling "porno mags" (bike gear catalogs)
cycling clothes (about 6 sets)
bike rack
time trial bike
road bike
mountain bike
extra road wheels
time trial disk wheel
extra tubes
chain lube
grease
tools
road helmet
time trial helmet
road shoes
mountain bike shoes
floor pump
mini-pump
17 Clif Bars
water bottles
brown rice
all the stuff to support my eBay business that helps pay for this shit

Cyclist guy is so daunted by this task he hasn't even started yet.

* sigh *

The Consequences of Stardom

Today was the first day the commercial TV spot aired.

I appear for 5.78 action-packed seconds. I measured it.

Whelp, when I got home, I discovered a voice message from "Ms. Olivia Snoddgrass" of Multimedia Productions, Inc. Ms. Snoddgrass has a very nasal voice that sounds curiously like a person pinching their nose with the thumb and forefinger. In her message, she explained how Hollywood, Reno and various European countries are requesting a copy of the commercial and how I needed to contact her office as soon as possible. Then she closed with "thank you Mr. Cornstarch, please call us".

Maybe Mr. Cornstarch is leaving town at just the right time.

And I'm not sure how many Cornstarch's there are in the white pages, but he needs an unlisted number.

I raced today and my fork broke!

Nah! Just kiddin'.

Made ya look!

It's coming...

Coming Monday to a TV screen near you...if you live in Dayton.

From the producers of Debby Does Density.

It's the Mike-Mercial!

Making history one stupid word at a time

Well, I thought I was on to something when I thought I created the word "Foop". But, I found out this was chartered territory.

I didn't let this get me down. No foopin' way.

About 2.5 blogs ago, I created the Japanese inspired word "Toyashahinga" (Toy-ya-sha-hing-gah) which was supposed to be the battle cry of a dive-bombing Japanese beetle.



So, I Googled it, and was pleased to find out the only internet presence the word Toyashahinga presently enjoys stems from that blog only.

And so, because I'm blogging about the fact that the word Toyashahinga was found in the other blog, there will be another Google entry for this blog which is about the other blog and that will be two google entries for Toyashahinga.

Did everybody...follow that?

I have made another indelible mark on the world.

I'm on to my next project already. I emailed a guy from the bike shop and stuck the word "flarnation" in a sentence to see if he noticed. I'm not sure what flarnation means yet.

Toyashahinga!

Bicycle Repairman to the rescue!

What do you do when you someone provides a service that costs too much?

I think, if it's possible, you learn how to do it yourself. Education is empowering. Sometimes you can learn on your own. For example, you can learn to cook your own meals by watching the TV Food Network. Or, you can learn through trial and error because the stakes are not too high with cooking.

Unless of course, the stakes are steaks.

I'm trying to learn how maintain and repair my beater and higher end bikes and I'm running into brick walls. I mean figuratively. I'd really be repairing my bike a lot if I were running into real brick walls.

I have the book Zinn and the Art of Road Bike Maintenance. It's very good and has taught me most things. But, reading a book isn't my style of learning for everything. I need more.

Cus I'm not all that bright.

So, does anyone know where I can find a course on bike wrenching that is close to Dayton, OH? I found some saturday afternoon sessions at a bike shop in Chicago. But that's a hell of a commute.
Please help.

What inspired this?

I went to the bike shop to have my main racing mama, Suzy Fuji, tuned up. The wrench there (not the guy I like) said my tire had been rubbing on the fork and damaged it. I've known about this for two years. I remember early in Suzy's life, it was hard to get her front wheel aligned properly and it rubbed the fork. Eventually, I learned to seat the wheel straight on my own.

Today, wrench guy called me and told me the fork is dangerous, could break and I needed a new front fork. And, he had one he could sell me for only...

* Drumroll *

$249 plus $20 labor.

Pfeh, "fork that". I told him, I'd come in and look at it.

So, I went to the shop and using the special "looking" procedure, I saw it had worn about 1/16 of an inch through, but there seemed to be no fraying (of carbon fibers). So, I was inclined to blow it off. I thought it was laughable, actually.

Wrench said I was crazy and it wasn't safe. Ya know, because he's looking out for me.

And my 269 bucks.

I told him I'd take it to work and have engineering X-ray it. This made him make a funny face.

I admit, I gave him a line of total bullshit. I don't know anyone at work who can X-ray it. But, it's good to have some technical jargon handy to put sales people back on their heels.

So, he backed off and I took it over to my neighbor two houses down. He looked at it and thought it was dangerous too.

But I think he's also full of it. Why? Because his house is always completely spotless and his wife does all the cleaning. Let me just say I have my theories why he wasn't the best guy to ask.

So, I asked my Dad and he blew it off.

He also blew off his angina attacks though. But, he also was an engineer with 10 patents.

Here's the bottom line; it would have broken sometime in the past two years if it was gonna break. It's less than 5% worn through on the one side and it looks like it hasn't even worn down to the carbon fiber.

Finally, I'm doing a crit race Sunday with a section of cobblestones. If it breaks I accept full responsibility. I'm hoping I can rely on my critical thinking skills here.

Every time I go to a bike shop, I have that feeling I'm going to get screwed in the rear derailleur.

Ya know why? Because I am!

I just wish they'd use some teflon grease next time and be a little more gentle.

So...I'll let you know.

Thanks for reading this. It was probably not too exciting for non-cyclists. But I'm sure anyone who has visited a car dealership can empathize.

If you know something, get with me about bike repair classes please?

I'm sick of bike shops.

Sorry if you work at one, or like them.

Bye.

This happens to me every year...

It's starting to become downright demoralizing. My favorite rider gets booted.

Italian Riccardo Ricco positive for EPO at Tour

1 hour ago

LAVELANET, France (AP) — Italian rider Riccardo Ricco has tested positive for the banned blood-booster EPO during the Tour de France. He was booed by spectators when he was taken off the Saunier-Duval team bus by police Thursday.
Ricco was in ninth place overall and had won two of the 11 stages at this year's race. He was runnerup at the Giro d'Italia earlier this year.


Join the list Ricco:

Tyler Hamilton
Floyd Landis
Alex Vinokourov

Goodbye Ricco. Maybe see you in two years when you'll be just like everybody else.

Ya foophead.

Thought De Jour

I rode a really crappy time trial tonight. 25:18. Last month I was almost a minute faster and it was very windy.

So, a thinker like me has to ask "why".

"Why God, Why?" I said to myself. Oh, and God. Sorry God.

And then, I figured it out.

I spent all foopin' day in a off campus retreat for work. So, I was well rested from sitting on my heiney. But, I don't think I ate good racin' fuel 2-4 hours before tonight's time trial.

Here's why. At lunch break, there were these Croissant sandwiches. They were just sittin' there, lookin' all French and snobby. But, broke down and I tried one and...

Que c'est délicieux!

They had like chicken salad in them with walnuts. Doesn't sound good but Jacque De Bleu! I ate one and then went back for another. Then, I had another and then at 4pm on the way out the door, I looked to see if anybody was watching and then I ganked two more and ate them in the car.

So, I have come to the conclusion that eating French food (which is not very carb heavy) makes you ride...like you were French.

And I did.

Have you seen how the French have ridden in the Tour De France this year? Exactly. How about last year and the three years before that? Uh huh.

So, Sunday, I'm gonna stick with the pasta.

Viva Italia!

I just thought I'd share this revelation with you as I sit here drinking my chardonnay.

Shit! I'm drinking chardonnay.

Oops, pardon my French. I hope it's out of my system by Sunday.

Suburban World War II: The Japanese Beetles

Now that we have conquered woodchucks, it's time fight another front; the Japanese Beetles.

I have another childhood memory. It involves Japanese Beetles. When Mickey's Mom hung laundry on the clothes line out back, the Japanese Beetles would land on it. Well, one time, I put on a fresh, clean pair of Underoos and there was a Japanese beetle was in there...

...and he bit me in the naughty bits.

Ouch! I said.

You never forget something that bit you in the naughty bits. So, as prejudiced as it sounds, I don't care much for Japanese beetles.

Now, I'm all growed up and I live in the suburbs. To earn the respect of my neighbors, I planted three of my favorite trees in the front lawn.

But, the Japanese beetles like it too! They look like this:



And, they have the munchies for Plum trees. They have taken over completely, converting the area with the three trees to Tokyo, Osaka and some other Japaneese city I can't recall because I didn't study much in high school.

Now, it's time for war.

I went to the Home Army Depot, to procure weapons.

There's this spray stuff called Sevin, which is like a H-bomb for Japanese beetles. It's spelled "Sevin" instead of "Seven" because the people who make it are dealing with poison and they can't think straight. Also, Pat Riley copyrighted the word "Seven".

Anyhow, I bought a bottle, hopped in my car and headed back to the battleground.

But, as I hopped in my car a Japanese beetle came out of nowhere and flew at me!

Toyashahinga! He screamed, as he dive bombed me.

* Actually, "Toyashahinga" is a word I just made up. Sounds Japanese though, doesn't it? *

So, I used my bottle of Sevin spray...

...to smash him.

Stuff works good!

Bye.

Woodchuck

When I was in high school, my car smelled sorta funny.

That was due to about eight different reasons. But one of them was because mice liked to escape the cold weather by crawling into heating vents of my car where they would promptly die.

When you turned on the heat or air conditioning, it smelled like death. One time I saw the Grim Reaper fly out! The awful smell would eventually go way after a few days.

Well, one time, my car smelled like death for a whole month. This puzzled me.

Hmmmm...I said.

Because I'm deathly afraid of all rodents (we owned a bunny rabbit that once bit me in the nipple), I asked my Dad to look under the hood of my car to find out what smelled funny. When he did, he pulled out a dead, fully grown woodchuck! It had crawled into my car to escape the cold, just like the martyr mice. He must have crawled in my car to find a warm place to sleep. Then, I started my car and he couldn't jump out without being hurt. So, he just stayed there and cooked in the engine's heat. He also had a big gouge in him where one of the belts had almost rubbed him in half.

It was gross, and sad. Because, he went to Woodchuck Heaven.

I fault myself for this. I should have noticed the "Woodchuck Indicator Light" flashing on my dashboard.

So, now, I'm all growed up and I live in the suburbs where people behave like they did in high school. They care about their lawns. It's a status thing, I think. My lawn has weeds and we have a family of a hundred woodchucks living under my shed. I don't enjoy much status. And, I think I'm okay with that.

One day, I went out and bought a Havahart trap. I set out to trap me a some woodchucks so more casualties would not be on my hands.

I caught one.

He looked like this.

Now what to do?

Go for a bike ride and think about it, of course, like I do everything else!

When I came back, Greene county animal control had already visited and gave him the Jim Jones Cool-Aid.

That's my story and I'm stickin' to it!

So, yesterday, I caught another one. He was just a little baby and I wanted to make damn sure he didn't get killed.

I took him out to the cornfield behind my house. I tried too loosen one of the panels of the trap and he took a swipe at me!

How ironic, eh?

Well, eventually, I freed him by opening one of the panels of the trap and pushing it over so he'd run the other way. I did the same, screaming.

I guess this story doesn't have much of a punchline, except that woodchucks are certainly a theme of my life and and I wish they'd just leave me the hell alone!

Bye.

Going into my closet...

Yethhhhh, the-at's right. I like men's shoes. And I'm sick of hiding it.

Two nights ago, I scored me a pair of these Clark's Nebulae.

On sale.

Yeeeee-aaaaaaaa-uuhhhhhh!

They have leather laces.

* Buffing nails on shirt *

So, go on, manly guy. Poke fun at me. But watch everybody's head turn as I walk in monday morning sporting these numbers as I order my mocha latte...

with whipped cream.

* Three snaps, turn *

I've gotta run. I'm hungry for quiche.

See ya later, Jelly-fin!

* shaking hips *

Some thoughts on chicken suits

I was driving through Centerville, coming back from the best bike shop in the world and I saw a guy in the 88 degree heat wearing a chicken suit, lookin' like this:

He was advertising "First Month Rent Free" for some apartment complex. Actually, I don't know if it was a he or a she. But, I do know he had a pecker.

Anyhow, I must share three thoughts about how the practice of hiring humans in giant chicken suits is offensive and questionable.

Thought #1: Does this type of advertising really work?

Like, when we see this, does it really act as a legitimate message that will persuade us? Will we drive by and say; "Look Honey, a giant human-sized chicken thinks that apartment complex is a good place to live! We should live there and get our first month of rent for free!".

I say no. Moreover, I've seen where chickens live. They poop on each other and peck each other. If a chicken tells me where I should like, I ain't listenin'!

Thought #2: Somebody gets off hiring a person in a chicken suit.

Yeah, some d-bag property manager or pizza place owner secretly likes the fact that he/she is making a person who is low on the pecking order dress up in a humiliating costume and sweat their ass off in the heat. You would have a hard time convincing me otherwise. And, this leads to my last and final thought...

Thought #3: We should discourage this practice in any way possible.

How about if you and I go have a few beers, bring a movie camera and then approach people working these jobs? We ask them what they are making for the rest of the day. Then, we tell that person "Well, whatever you are making, divide it in half and then double it! We give them a day pay in cash to walk off the job right then and there. Maybe even take the chicken suit with them. What do you say?

This practice is absolutely fowl. And, we must stop it.

Stop the Giant Chicken Farmers!

Bawk Bawk!

Don was really Duke and Duke was really a dog and the dog is dead

Okay, so I need to fact-check more, as in...period.

Yesterday, I had doubts about humanity and I wrote a tear jerking blog about a homeless guy named "Don" who had a friend who made a memorial along the bike path which was removed by someone.

First of all, no one removed the memorial. I checked this morning and it is still there. I guessed I missed it on the way home yesterday.

See? I took a picture for ya!

Secondly, the guy's name wasn't "Don". It was "Duke".

Thirdly, Duke wasn't a guy. I mean, I think he had a penis. But, it was a dog penis.

What I'm trying to say is I think it was a dog. No one names a cat Duke.

Using the special process called "looking", I noticed that there was a mound of dirt where Duke had been buried. And, it wasn't a big mound of dirt, maybe at most 3 feet long.

So, Duke wasn't a guy. Or, if he was, he was a midget. Uh, I mean, he was vertically challenged.

So, Duke is dead. But he's probably a dog. And, no one messed with his memorial. It's still there. My faith in humanity is restored.

Not really.

To correct my blog; Duke's a dog.

Hey! I think I just wrote a hip-hop.

Rest in peace, Duke.

RIP Don

I rode the rail trail to work today.

Just west of Eastwood Metropark, there's an abandoned building that looks like an old railroad station. I've seen a lot of clues that would indicate there's homeless people living there. Some of these clues include...homeless people for starters!

Today I rode by and saw a makeshift cross that read "Don". It was made out of two old boards.

I figured it was a tribute to a guy named Don. I'm assuming he lived there and the tribute cross was made by a friend or loved one who must have lived with him or known him.

I rode back home today and was looking for the cross so I could take a second look at it.

But, it wasn't there. I assume someone from Metroparks thought it was ugly and removed it. Or, somebody else messed with it somehow.

If this isn't a reminder of unimportant our lives are on Earth, I don't know what is.

Of course, Earth's vast number of calloused and unfeeling people sure help that process along quite a bit.

Don't they?

Attention, all late night patriots!

It's the 4th of July night.

Every year, tonight is the night people who lives near me become quite overzealous with their feelings of patriotism.

Yep, in my little corner of suburbia, people stay up and shoot fireworks off until 3am.

I know they don't need to wait until 3am. They are just doing it because they know they can get away with it once a year and they want to be drunk bastards and keep us all up at night.

Well, I have a special ace in the hole for you this year, Mister late-night fireworks dis charger.

I've ridden 216 miles this week. I'm taking care of three dependents; a five year old, an eight year old and a stubborn sixty seven year old man recovering from a heart attack.

So, because I'm wayyyyy to tired for any sort of confrontation...

...I'm going to just sleep right through your little late night display of freelance pyrotechnics.

Yeah. That's how I even the score.

Good night.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

This is your Dad's crotch...

This is your Dad's crotch on Coumadin.

any questions?

He seems proud of this, by the way.