Beep Beep

Last week, I was kayaking on the coast of Maine. One day, I was carrying my boat down a slope to the water and passed a group of paddlers who had just finished up. My eyes locked with one of them as recognition sparked. I had met Chris several years ago when I was in Bayfield, Wisconsin to paddle the Apostle Islands. He’s based there and imparted the mantra that’s on everyone’s lips in that town, “The Lake is the boss.” It’s also on t-shirts, signs and about anything else you could print on. Lake Superior takes no prisoners and all the ship wrecks on its floor attest to that. Even though the town makes a decent living from kayakers who journey to this mecca, they always suspect we’re in over our heads and will predict doom to your face. What mostly supports their viewpoint are those who paddle there without proper training or equipment. Why someone would venture out onto that killer expanse without preparation is beyond me. So, running into Chris planted the seed of this memory in my mind. I’ll add another thought that may seem unrelated, as many of mine do. “Beep Beep” was a song by the Playmates (1958). In a nutshell, the singer is rhapsodizing about driving his powerful, expensive car, up until he’s smoked by another guy in a Rambler (cheap car). Pretty much lets the air out of his balloon. After exchanging pleasantries with Chris, my paddling companion and I launched onto the open seas, headed out into the ocean for an island chain. While the weather and waves blessed us with good conditions, we knew that could change at any time. At first, we were a little “tight” as port receded into the distance. But, confidence swelled with time as well as no small amount of pride that we were taking on the North Atlantic. That is, until we reached the first island and rounded its tip to the far side. There, we encountered two paddlers in small, inexpensive rental kayaks. Kind of devalued our whole experience. They waved and shouted to us cheerily. My recollection was that all we could do was stare. Beep beep!

The Dinner Bell

No great insights into the meaning of life tonight. Just memories. A few years back, I got into reading a series of books by an author who sets her novels in Trenton, New Jersey, the site of my primary high school job. In one book, she alluded to a location that elicited some poignant (and humorous) memories. I was moved enough to hunt down her email address and thank her for the moment. That initiated and exchange of correspondence. It’s not like we email all the time, but we were in touch this week. The subject was The Dinner Bell. Back then, I worked in an auto supply store in a somewhat decrepit part of town (it’s a sliding scale in Trenton), mostly selling and installing tires, batteries, shocks, seat covers and an assortment of other related items. But, my primary responsibility occurred on Saturday mornings. I was to show up before the opening of the store, walk next door to The Dinner Bell, return and greet the arriving staff with coffee and doughnuts. A botched tire or seat cover job could earn me a frown. But, failing to have the provisions awaiting on Saturday was a capital offense. The Dinner Bell resembled a small road house you’d find out in the country. Wooden exterior with peeling paint. It was owned and run by Bud and Mary. Due to its proximity, we had many lunches there. Bud was a character. He looked and sometimes spoke like Will Rogers. If you were a regular, the ritual was to walk in, plop yourself down and ask Bud what was on the menu today. That was the setup for his response in a machine gun delivery, “Ham, ram, lamb, bear, beef, billy goat, buffalo and bacon.” Your response was to laugh. Every time. But he wasn’t the primary act. If Bud was there, so was Louie. He’d make his way around the diner to check on the quality of your food. By grabbing and eating some of it. He was also known to chatter loudly. Not great manners but somewhat understandable. Louie was a monkey. Try to sneak that by the health inspector these days. The supporting cast was the blue collar workers who ebbed and flowed through the place. There was always something going on. It was a fun place to be. My author friend told me that Bud died decades ago and Mary went to live with her sister in Asbury Park. The car dealer on the other side bought the property, knocked down the building (not that it needed a lot of help) and expanded their lot. The Dinner Bell may be gone, but it lives in our hearts.

Intelligent Life

I’m about over the delusions of my youth. One was that I bought into that intelligent life thing. Humans are brilliant. We split the atom. Eradicated major diseases. Conquered space travel. Developed the M&M so chocolate doesn’t melt in your hand. We’re pushing a score of 10 on the brain scale. The fallacy is in attributing the exceptions to the whole. And on the whole, my rating has plummeted to a two, with one being dumber than a bag of hair. My latest confirmation came this week when I received a friend request on FB from an attractive young lady, clad in a tube top that was imprinted with a suggestive phrase. I accepted because, by and large, these inquiries from unknowns are from other paddlers. And, one can always use a network for intelligence about local conditions. Shortly after accepting the request, I received a message from her. It said my photos were fabulous and I appeared to be in the condition of a star athlete. Both of these are credible since I travel to some exotic places and adhere to a strict diet of pasta and fermented grain. She included her phone number so we could talk and get to know each other. Yeah, like that’s going to happen. I go to my FB page to assess my profile photo for just how stupid I might appear. Not long after, I see a few alerts (or whatever they’re called) about some other men liking or commenting on her picture (assuming it’s even her), essentially fawning all over her to curry favor. Are you kidding me? Granted, guys attain a special level of stupid in these matters. But, are they really looking at her and then their own photos and information, concluding, “Yeah, she’s into me bigtime?” At least make her set the hook. Don’t jam it through your own cheek. The rating is creeping below one.

Labels

I do understand when this label thing got out of control. Some court awarded a huge judgment to a dolt who stuck his hand under a mower to see if it was running, chugged the lemon scented furniture wax or tried to give himself a pedicure with a table saw. Not to be outdone in setting inane precedents, other judges strived to get their names cited with even more outrageous cases. I get that. But, I thought that wave had peaked and we were leveling out at something just north of sanity. And, as a buyer of outdoor gear, I probably see the worst. Or, so I thought. Earlier this week, I bought two carabiners. You’ve probably seen a “biner” even if you didn’t know the name, possibly posing as a keychain. It’s a c-shaped piece of metal with a hinged gate across the open end. In the great outdoors, they are usually used to manage lines. I hadn’t bought one in some time and was surprised to find a large wad of folded paper secured around the gate. After cutting it free, I discovered it was the directions and disclaimers. You don’t need a lot of room for directions – press gate to open, release to close. If you can’t figure that out, you probably shouldn’t be using a biner. The remainder of the six pages more or less cautioned you about the use of the device and backpedaled away from any responsibility, should you manage to maim yourself in doing so. The owner’s manual of my first motorcycle had less verbiage. Outdoor clothing also seems to bristle with tags and labels although even I would be hard pressed to injure myself in its applications. Most of these ballyhoo the magical attributes with some caveats, of course. I fear it has come to the point where they’re just pinning any piece of paper available to everything that leaves the mill without giving it much thought. Today I received shipment of a storm shell. This is an outer layer composed of stout material that renders protection against the most extreme elements. So, you’re climbing a mountain ensconced in fleece or goose down. A storm crops up (rain, snow, sleet, hail – pick your poison). You whip this out and pull it on over your insulation layer. Done. So why does the plethora of tags dangling from this garment include a smiley sun with the text “UPF 30+?” I’m layered up but the sky has closed down and I’m being pelted with sleet. What do I care about this thing providing protection from the sun in the very good range? If they really want to overdo the label thing, it should be in the area of garment care. The print detailing cleaning precautions is readable only with an electron microscope and the symbols require an Egyptologist to decipher.

Watched Pots

The ability to track (like packages in transit) is a mixed blessing. It’s great to know what’s going on but it can also drive you (or, is it just me?) crazy. I ordered a sporting good last week and have been wearing out the keyboard tracking its crawl across the country. This is partly my doing in that I seek the best price and that often involves buying clearance from some trout fishing shop in Montana or similar situation. Of course, closer isn’t always better. There are mail order warehouses in the immediate area but the goods get shipped far and wide before they finally return to here because of the vagaries of the respective systems. That can be exasperating. My worst experiences in this area involved my travels to the Pacific Rim when I was in the product development business. My usual flight reached Singapore via Minneapolis and Tokyo, taking about 23 hours. On the headrest in front of you was a screen of about 2.5” x 3”. If you didn’t care to watch the insipid movie twelve times, you could track the flight progress. A map of the hemisphere appeared with the plane represented by a red dot. On that scale, movement of the dot wasn’t discernible. By hour fifteen, I was silently screaming and cursing at it to do so. A watched pot never boils, but I can’t help but watch it.

Faith

I was watching a program about a primitive society on one of my obscure channels. They commented on the bizarre religious rituals of the people. As opposed to drinking wine like it was blood or not eating pig flesh? I’m in touch with many of my high school friends and we’ve hit the mid-sixties. I’ve noticed a distinct migration to “faith” as the ills of old age beset them. I won’t go into a deep analysis of the fear and control origins of religion, nor dismiss the value. Doing the right thing produces positive outcomes and however you get there is almost irrelevant. I ran a mental health/drug & alcohol clinic and faith was the only thing that kept some in the program. If that’s what was needed, fine. But don’t lose sight of the fact that faith doesn’t do it alone. I had a coach who used to admonish us, “Pray like it’s up to God. But play like it’s up to you.”

Smart phone, dumb buyer

My phone contract is coming to an end and the carrier who has had little interest in my issues is suddenly my best friend. Surprise. The offer came proposing I upgrade to a better (smarter?) unit for as little as $49. It’s not that my phone lacks features. More like it has a mind of its own and I don’t find that to my liking. I did the research and decided on which of the alternatives I wanted. Off to the store. Before one of the youthful predators could pounce upon me, I angled for someone with a little gray in his hair. The callow ones speak a tongue unknown to me. Of course, he tries to talk me up to a more expensive model. But, I stick to my guns. I have a few basic usages and don’t need the functions he enumerates. I don’t even understand what they are. He finally recognizes that I’m a lost cause and grants me access to the product I came in to buy. We go to ring it up. I’m expecting a $49 sum, exclusive of the state’s override. But, it comes out to $129. I hold up my hand in a halting gesture. “It’s 49 after the $50 rebate,” he explains, as though to a small child. The email promotion didn’t mention this and I hate rebates. I won’t go into what a scam they are here, but I have little choice if I am to continue down this road. However, I do point out that he’s still $30 too rich. “That’s the upgrade charge.” Again, no mention of this in the email. “Then, the price is $79, not $49, as advertised.” “No, the phone is only $49.” I don’t point out we’ve already established that the actual price is $99. “The $30 is a separate charge.” “Then I’ll take just the phone without that.” “You can’t.” “Then it isn’t separate and is part of the cost of the phone.” “No, it’s a separate upgrade charge.” One of us is an idiot and I’m beginning to suspect it’s me. I fear that marketing has taken a cue from politicians and will tell you anything they want without fear of negative consequences.