Sunday, August 18, 2013
Sunday, August 22, 2010
New York City's New Ground Zero
When at first I'd heard of the proposed construction of a new Islamic community center mere blocks from the former site of the World Trade Center, I admit to having some reservations. To this day, my eyes swell with tears when I see footage of the destruction. I'm from New York City, and when I still lived with my parents, I could see the tops of the Twin Towers from the kitchen. I absolutely adore New York City, and for strangers from a strange land to come and destroy its most recognizable landmark and kill thousands had me angry and depressed.
I joined most of the rest of the nation in the knee-jerk spasm of nationalism in wanting to start bombing every Islamic nation back into the stone age. To see the governor, then Rudy Guliani, walk bravely and gallantly amongst the ruins, later joined by then president Bush, had me fist-pumping and chest-thumping to get the bastards. Their speeches inspired me to think that no answer was better than retribution.
That was then.
Since, I have come to realize the err of my thinking. In fact, I wouldn't put it past the administration of the time to have been at least implicit in the destruction of the towers. Knowing what I now know about how our government goes about the business of keeping America distracted with bread and circuses makes me suspicious of everything it does.
So, now we are faced with the prospect of people who share the same god as those who were accused of the atrocities of 9/11 wanting to build a community center near the scene of the crime. They do so, now, with my blessing.
Hearkening to my suspicion of all things of our government, the infighting we are engaged in plays to the distraction from addressing the needs of our nation and the accountability of our politicians. Much better to argue over something as moot as a globally accepted religion building a place of worship than ask our elected officials the tough questions and start doing the business of making America better than it now is. We have problems so much more grand and pressing than where a mosque is built. Many of our fellow citizens go to bed sick or hungry, should they even have a bed. The United States uses 25% of the world's energy. We are killing innocent people in foreign countries. Some of the youngest and bravest among us - our soldiers, marines, sailors and airmen - are risking their lives for global dominance predicated upon the control of resources and the oppression of those with no voice for change.
Now, the American people have an opportunity to prove to the world that we are of tolerance and generosity. We have an opportunity to cast the seed of virtue and show the global community that kinetic altruism that at one time made us the apple of the world's eye. We have an opportunity to prove our founding documents are more than just the words that compose them. Instead, we fight amongst ourselves over a building.
I joined most of the rest of the nation in the knee-jerk spasm of nationalism in wanting to start bombing every Islamic nation back into the stone age. To see the governor, then Rudy Guliani, walk bravely and gallantly amongst the ruins, later joined by then president Bush, had me fist-pumping and chest-thumping to get the bastards. Their speeches inspired me to think that no answer was better than retribution.
That was then.
Since, I have come to realize the err of my thinking. In fact, I wouldn't put it past the administration of the time to have been at least implicit in the destruction of the towers. Knowing what I now know about how our government goes about the business of keeping America distracted with bread and circuses makes me suspicious of everything it does.
So, now we are faced with the prospect of people who share the same god as those who were accused of the atrocities of 9/11 wanting to build a community center near the scene of the crime. They do so, now, with my blessing.
Hearkening to my suspicion of all things of our government, the infighting we are engaged in plays to the distraction from addressing the needs of our nation and the accountability of our politicians. Much better to argue over something as moot as a globally accepted religion building a place of worship than ask our elected officials the tough questions and start doing the business of making America better than it now is. We have problems so much more grand and pressing than where a mosque is built. Many of our fellow citizens go to bed sick or hungry, should they even have a bed. The United States uses 25% of the world's energy. We are killing innocent people in foreign countries. Some of the youngest and bravest among us - our soldiers, marines, sailors and airmen - are risking their lives for global dominance predicated upon the control of resources and the oppression of those with no voice for change.
Now, the American people have an opportunity to prove to the world that we are of tolerance and generosity. We have an opportunity to cast the seed of virtue and show the global community that kinetic altruism that at one time made us the apple of the world's eye. We have an opportunity to prove our founding documents are more than just the words that compose them. Instead, we fight amongst ourselves over a building.
Monday, June 7, 2010
But it still hurts...
Some time ago I bought a bicycle, a '92 Trek 7000 mountain bike. I bought it from a pawnshop. It wasn't in working order, and I figured I would fix it up and start losing this ten pounds of extra 'me' that I've been carrying around for a couple of years. It didn't immediately work out that way.
For over a year the bike leaned against the wall collecting dust. Occasionally, in the dark still of the night, I would stub my toe on a tire or catch my boxers on the handlebars as I tried to navigate to the bathroom. When that would happen, I would vow to either liberate the damned thing by chucking it off my third floor balcony or get around to 'flipping' it, as people do with real estate: Fix it and sell it for more than I paid for it. I wanted it gone.
Finally I did fix that bicycle. I bought all kind of parts for it; new tires, new shifters, brake levers, cable/lock combo and a tire pump. I cleaned it up quite a bit, too. There was road dirt and grime and leftover sticker adhesive all over it. I cleaned the cartridge, the chain and chain ring, along with the wheels and, well, let it suffice to say that I did a bang up job of making it pretty.
Then I aired up the new tires, adjusted the brakes and shifter cables and took her out for a test spin. She did great. Breathing life back into a broken thing with my own two hands was very satisfying. I said to myself, "Self, I'm keeping this bike for my own use."
One day I got a wild hair up my ass and thought I would take her out for a ride. A real ride, not like the test run around the parking lot of my apartment complex. No, I would challenge the hills and traffic and potholes and actually go somewhere. For many of you that own a bike and ride it regularly, this may not sound like much of a challenge. But for me, a 44-year-old smoker that has put on a few pounds as the result of being rather sedentary and filling my gut with pizza and eggs and too much beer, this was an undertaking.
Checking the weather on my computer (didn't want to get caught in a sudden downpour,) I saw the temperature to be quite warm, around 85 degrees, giving me second thoughts. I persisted, though, and bounced the bike on its back tire down the three flights to the parking lot. Putting my foot on the left pedal, I pushed off and began my journey.
My first obstacle was a hill, perhaps 200-feet long. I dropped the gear shifter to its lowest setting and huffed and puffed to the top. I began to sweat like a whore in church, head pounding, legs feeling as though they were filled with tapioca and fishing weights. Once again I began to reconsider. After catching my breath, though, I traveled on.
The terrain leveled out, for the most part. I was still encountering long, but bearable, grades. I finally decided that my trek would take me to my local bike shop, about three-and-a-half miles from my apartment. I still had a few things to buy, and I wanted to show off my handiwork to the staff. Here's the thing: Despite the occasional uphill direction I had to travel, the overall terrain was downhill to my destination. That's an important point to keep in mind, kids: Wherever you go, you have to get back.
I rolled into the parking lot of the bike shop and proudly wheeled the bike to counter of the maintenance area. I must have looked like I just went ten rounds in the octagon: Sweat poured off of me in cups, my face flush-red, heaving like a machine and probably a little shaky. But there I stood, in all my grandeur, very likely grinning like an idiot. The fellow at the counter asked if he could help. I immediately began to go into describing all the work I had done, from buying the parts to making the adjustments on the front and rear derailleur, truing the wheels, fine-tuning the brakes, cleaning her up and finally riding all the way here from my apartment. He stared at me blankly for a moment and again asked if there was something he could do to help. Right, um...
I asked if there was something more I should do to make the bike perform better or make it safer to ride. He looked it over and checked my adjustments. All he could recommend was a head- and tail-light. My sweaty, flush-red head swelled with pride. Is that all he could suggest? I must have done a good job. Surely, I continued to grin the grin of an idiot.
There was one thing he didn't check, however. That was the tire pressure, which would become an important factor on my return trip.
The nice young man started to show me different options for head- and tail-light combos, starting from the most expensive ($200 for lights?) to the economy model ($30 for lights?)
The lights would wait until I got to Target. $12.
Feeling a little deflated because the guys didn't bow down before me in awe of my achievement, I started the trip home. This is where things got fun, I tell you. The temperature climbed to the low nineties. The sun beat down on me like I was somebody else's bad dog. As I rode I looked for some kind of reprieve; a shaded street, level terrain, a lawn sprinkler, anything to ease the strain on my poor body. No luck. All uphill, all in the sun.
What had taken me twenty minutes in one direction was stretching into close to an hour to get back. I stopped frequently, straining to catch my breath, sweat burning my eyes. Finally, I could see my apartment complex. My ordeal was coming to an end.
As I lugged my bike up the stairs, it felt like I was carrying a car. When I got to my front door, I was having difficulty using the key to open it. My hand was shaking like it was attached to a jackhammer. The sweat was coming down to the point where I couldn't see the keyhole. When I did get the door open, I pulled the bike in and let it fall to the floor. I literally collapsed onto my couch and then slept the sleep of the dead for several hours.
Back to the tire pressure thing. A few days ago I broke down and spent the three bucks to buy a pressure gauge. I checked the pressure and to my great surprise I came to find out that the tires had, at best, maybe fifteen PSI. The sidewall of the tire suggests 35-65 PSI. Huh...
After filling the tires to a better 50 PSI, I am able to conquer the hills in both directions. Since then I have probably logged fifty or so miles on my bike.
The moral of the story? Perhaps there are two: Do what you intend, and keep your tires properly inflated.
I really am trying, but it still hurts.
For over a year the bike leaned against the wall collecting dust. Occasionally, in the dark still of the night, I would stub my toe on a tire or catch my boxers on the handlebars as I tried to navigate to the bathroom. When that would happen, I would vow to either liberate the damned thing by chucking it off my third floor balcony or get around to 'flipping' it, as people do with real estate: Fix it and sell it for more than I paid for it. I wanted it gone.
Finally I did fix that bicycle. I bought all kind of parts for it; new tires, new shifters, brake levers, cable/lock combo and a tire pump. I cleaned it up quite a bit, too. There was road dirt and grime and leftover sticker adhesive all over it. I cleaned the cartridge, the chain and chain ring, along with the wheels and, well, let it suffice to say that I did a bang up job of making it pretty.
Then I aired up the new tires, adjusted the brakes and shifter cables and took her out for a test spin. She did great. Breathing life back into a broken thing with my own two hands was very satisfying. I said to myself, "Self, I'm keeping this bike for my own use."
One day I got a wild hair up my ass and thought I would take her out for a ride. A real ride, not like the test run around the parking lot of my apartment complex. No, I would challenge the hills and traffic and potholes and actually go somewhere. For many of you that own a bike and ride it regularly, this may not sound like much of a challenge. But for me, a 44-year-old smoker that has put on a few pounds as the result of being rather sedentary and filling my gut with pizza and eggs and too much beer, this was an undertaking.
Checking the weather on my computer (didn't want to get caught in a sudden downpour,) I saw the temperature to be quite warm, around 85 degrees, giving me second thoughts. I persisted, though, and bounced the bike on its back tire down the three flights to the parking lot. Putting my foot on the left pedal, I pushed off and began my journey.
My first obstacle was a hill, perhaps 200-feet long. I dropped the gear shifter to its lowest setting and huffed and puffed to the top. I began to sweat like a whore in church, head pounding, legs feeling as though they were filled with tapioca and fishing weights. Once again I began to reconsider. After catching my breath, though, I traveled on.
The terrain leveled out, for the most part. I was still encountering long, but bearable, grades. I finally decided that my trek would take me to my local bike shop, about three-and-a-half miles from my apartment. I still had a few things to buy, and I wanted to show off my handiwork to the staff. Here's the thing: Despite the occasional uphill direction I had to travel, the overall terrain was downhill to my destination. That's an important point to keep in mind, kids: Wherever you go, you have to get back.
I rolled into the parking lot of the bike shop and proudly wheeled the bike to counter of the maintenance area. I must have looked like I just went ten rounds in the octagon: Sweat poured off of me in cups, my face flush-red, heaving like a machine and probably a little shaky. But there I stood, in all my grandeur, very likely grinning like an idiot. The fellow at the counter asked if he could help. I immediately began to go into describing all the work I had done, from buying the parts to making the adjustments on the front and rear derailleur, truing the wheels, fine-tuning the brakes, cleaning her up and finally riding all the way here from my apartment. He stared at me blankly for a moment and again asked if there was something he could do to help. Right, um...
I asked if there was something more I should do to make the bike perform better or make it safer to ride. He looked it over and checked my adjustments. All he could recommend was a head- and tail-light. My sweaty, flush-red head swelled with pride. Is that all he could suggest? I must have done a good job. Surely, I continued to grin the grin of an idiot.
There was one thing he didn't check, however. That was the tire pressure, which would become an important factor on my return trip.
The nice young man started to show me different options for head- and tail-light combos, starting from the most expensive ($200 for lights?) to the economy model ($30 for lights?)
The lights would wait until I got to Target. $12.
Feeling a little deflated because the guys didn't bow down before me in awe of my achievement, I started the trip home. This is where things got fun, I tell you. The temperature climbed to the low nineties. The sun beat down on me like I was somebody else's bad dog. As I rode I looked for some kind of reprieve; a shaded street, level terrain, a lawn sprinkler, anything to ease the strain on my poor body. No luck. All uphill, all in the sun.
What had taken me twenty minutes in one direction was stretching into close to an hour to get back. I stopped frequently, straining to catch my breath, sweat burning my eyes. Finally, I could see my apartment complex. My ordeal was coming to an end.
As I lugged my bike up the stairs, it felt like I was carrying a car. When I got to my front door, I was having difficulty using the key to open it. My hand was shaking like it was attached to a jackhammer. The sweat was coming down to the point where I couldn't see the keyhole. When I did get the door open, I pulled the bike in and let it fall to the floor. I literally collapsed onto my couch and then slept the sleep of the dead for several hours.
Back to the tire pressure thing. A few days ago I broke down and spent the three bucks to buy a pressure gauge. I checked the pressure and to my great surprise I came to find out that the tires had, at best, maybe fifteen PSI. The sidewall of the tire suggests 35-65 PSI. Huh...
After filling the tires to a better 50 PSI, I am able to conquer the hills in both directions. Since then I have probably logged fifty or so miles on my bike.
The moral of the story? Perhaps there are two: Do what you intend, and keep your tires properly inflated.
I really am trying, but it still hurts.
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