HOBBIES FOR OLD FARTS

I've been searching for a good hobby to keep my hands and mind occupied. It used to be that old farts would play checkers, collect pennies or stamps, play a harmonica or other such activities. Of these hobbies I find one of them to be the most humorous.

Collecting pennies? How ridiculous.

As none of those mentioned holds any particular appeal to me, I've been actively seeking other ways to occupy (spelled W-A-S-T-E) my time. I was at a dead end until last week when I read that there's a local group of model airplane flyers close to where I live. They even have their own airstrip. Thinking about this, I remembered fondly how when I was a young boy I would beg my father to take me to where model airplane enthusiasts would fly their creations every Sunday. On occasion, he would drop his Sunday Boston Globe and take me to the model airfield where we would hobnob among the "pilots" (that's what they called themselves). To a young kid, these guys were the real deal, dressed in airplane-appropriate clothing, having huge aviator watches, and wearing those ultra-cool sunglasses with green lenses. Yep, to me, these guys were "the high and the mighty". I loved how they talked to each other with sweeping hand gestures, describing the last flight of their model crafts. Even as a young boy I ascertained that the pilots' conversations were highly exaggerated but were nonetheless exciting to my young ears. 

Thus, with a newfound youthful enthusiasm I dug into every bit of online information that I could find about radio-controlled (RC) airplanes. I was amazed at how much information was available. 

In analyzing and synthesizing this veritable warehouse of data, I learned one thing - these model planes crash...a lot. Each and every pilot related horror stories about how many planes they have crashed over the years. Interestingly, most of the pilots take it in stride, the thought being "I'll just buy a bigger faster plane". (NOTE: One which they likely will subsequently crash.)

So, armed with this information, I did some math. First: Each flight of a model plane lasts about 10 minutes. Let's exaggerate that time and say 20 minutes (or about 8.5 hours per 6 months). Next: Pilots who fly weekly will crash a plane every six months (my SWAG estimate). Thirdly: A fairly good plane and setup will run you about $500. So, if we ignore all other factors (gasoline, jewelry, dinner, wine and dancing for neglected wife, etc.) we come up with $500/8.5 hours or about $59/hour. 

For a guy as cheap as I am that's a pretty expensive hobby.

Accordingly, I've changed my mind and have decided to collect pennies.

Pinching the ones that I collect will be a bonus.

Readers, enjoy your day.

"CASE QUEEN"

While neither of my two readers may know what a Case Queen is, I'd venture a bet that nearly every guitar enthusiast knows the term. A Case Queen is a guitar that was purchased numerous years ago, left in its case, stuffed away in a closet and never or rarely played. These guitars are rare, indeed. And guitarists are scared stiff of them. 

To put it into terms that are more familiar to those who fall outside of the guitar aficionado genre, try this on for size: you read an ad in eBay that states "For Sale - 1955 Cadillac, 5 actual miles, garaged for the last 64 years, immaculate condition. Price: $200.00". Are you skeptical? You should be.

Thus, when Case Queens come on the market, they are met with a certain degree of trepidation.

That trepidation hit me between the eyes last week when I saw a listing in eBay describing a 28 year-old Fender Stratocaster. The words used to describe it were very familiar to me: 1991 Strat, mint condition, never played, still has plastic protection layer on pickguard, no fretwear.

 Yeah, right.

Despite my disbelief, over the next few days I was repeatedly drawn to the listing. Something made me think that this one was for real. Accordingly, I submitted an offer and, presumably due to the general disbelief among my fellow musicians toward Case Queens, my offer was the only one submitted and it was accepted.

GULP!

To make a long story short, the guitar arrived yesterday and it was 100% as advertised. I have scored a genuine Case Queen. But there's more to the story.

Among the various items provided to me was the original sales receipt. The owner was a guy (whose name was listed) who bought it from a Guitar Center in San Francisco, California. I Googled the name of the original owner. The name was not a very common name and I am fairly confident that he is a well-known lawyer who still lives and practices in San Francisco. 

It bugs the heck out of me that he never played it - but why?

Short of contacting the lawyer in S.F. and pulling him out of an important court case to answer my stupid questions, I've opted to consider several different scenarios for why the instrument sat untouched in a closet for the past 28 years. 

The first scenario is rather dull but certainly the most plausible. Specifically, the original owner (the lawyer) was thinking about learning guitar but due to his busy job in the legal profession he never took the time. One day his wife needed more room for her burgeoning collection of fashion shoes, saw the guitar in the closet and sold it on eBay.

The second scenario is highly unlikely. It goes something like this: the lawyer was heavily involved representing clients in the music industry. As a gift for his hard work, B.B. King, Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, Robert Cray and Jimmy Page bought him the guitar. Twenty-eight years later, the lawyer's wife needed room for her fashion shoes and sold the guitar on eBay. 

Rather than spend the rest of my life pondering why my mint condition 1991 Strat was never played, I'm going with the second scenario.

Despite it's unlikely nature, it just feels right.

Readers, enjoy your day.

NIGHTMARES

The dreams that I normally experience are the kind and gentle variety - walking calmly through a wooded area, skiing on a bright sunny day, or other pleasant experiences. I think that, before the past few weeks, the worst dream I've ever had involved being chased by Ethel Merman wielding a hockey stick while singing "There's No Business Like Show Business".

My mother's philosophy about nightmares was that they're caused by eating Italian food. I've never believed that but always think about it while eating a large pizza.

Of late I've had the absolute worst nightmares - the type that you wake up in a cold sweat wanting to scream. The misery and suffering in these nightmares is indescribable. Blood, guts, gore, murder, sleazy lawyers, guns, police chases, addiction, death, insanity, poverty, revenge and suicide. An that's only about half of it.

I can barely stand the thought of closing my eyes at night.

But, enough of that.

In an unrelated matter, the wife and I have finally subscribed to Netflix. We've binge-watched all 62 episodes of Breaking Bad in the past two weeks.

Readers, enjoy your day.

DOGGERS AND HORSERS

I do a fair amount of bicycling which I find very enjoyable. To me, there is nothing quite like getting on my bike and enjoying the freedom and physical activity that a bicycle provides. Of course, with most things, part of the act of riding a bike involves the sharing of a roadway or trail. Where I live we have a trail that is an old railroad route that has been converted into a biking/walking path. It is a wonderful path with sections of forest, coastal and urban landscapes that is enjoyed by many of our local folks as well as visitors. On any given day one may find oneself sharing the trail with other cyclists as well as walkers, bird watchers, geocachers, dog walkers and equestrians.

The latter two groups ("doggers" & "horsers") are an interesting study. Doggers are mostly simple folks while Horsers are clearly more well-heeled. Doggers are warned to pick up after their dogs do their business along the trail. Most of them willingly comply rather than face a steep financial penalty if caught by the authorities. Horsers are not subject to the same rules of courtesy and animal sanitation.

So, let's get this straight. If you walk your 1.5 pound Yorkshire Terrier on the path and he/she decides it's time for [you know], the Dogger can be fined in excess of $100 should he or she not pickup the offending mass which is roughly the size of a peanut M&M. On the other hand, a Horser can simply trot away from his/her horse's ten-pound turd without a care in the world. Weeks later, that same mass will remain in-place (absent fewer flies, to be sure).

Thus, our public trail (thank goodness) is free of the offensive canine leave-behinds but is unfortunately covered with massive piles of horse poo.

In a way, I can understand this. Let's face it, an equestrian is looking generally forward over the horse's head and (for the sake of safety and general inconvenience) is not really concerned as to what the posterior of the animal is up to.

Despite these realities, it doesn't change the fact that the rest of the poor, huddled  masses who use the trail have to dodge, ride through or step on huge piles of horse dung.

It does beg the question: why are horsers exempt from the rules to which the rest of the trail users must adhere?

Think about it.

Readers, enjoy your day.

AN ADVENTURE IN MOVING

Picture this: you're driving down the interstate heading somewhere (it doesn't matter where). Ahead you see one of the ubiquitous U-Haul trailers that litter the highways. Emblazoned on the back, sides and probably the top of the trailer are the words "An Adventure in Moving".

Anyone who has ever moved would be annoyed by these words. You see, moving may be a lot of things but an "adventure"? Naw. Maybe that's why U-Haul ditched the phrase some years ago.

Truth be known, the wife and I are in the midst of a move, - "relocation", if you will. It is (get this) our ninth move in 35 years of marriage.

That averages out to less than four years per dwelling. That's really sick. There are people in witness relocation programs who have moved fewer times than we have.

On the flip side, in our many moves we have lived in the plains, mountains, desert and along the coast. We have enjoyed the company of some amazing and interesting friends, eaten some incredible local food and seen a variety of places that few others have seen.

Yes, at times the moves themselves have been pretty miserable. But, admittedly, U-Haul may have a point.

Moving is, indeed, an adventure.

Readers, enjoy your day.

"FAMILY" PET

The wife and I lost our dog "Scooter" last June. We bid goodbye to him when we learned that he was suffering from cancer. Please keep in mind before you read further that this will not be one of those sad tales about how a pet is taken away from this earth way too early, blah, blah, blah.

This story is about a practice that otherwise well-meaning people commonly do after people experience the loss of a pet.

Since we lost Scooter, we have been asked one or more of the following questions on numerous occasions:

First, the probing, uncertain question:

"Are you going to have another dog?"

Next, the nearly foregone conclusion question:

"When are you going to have another dog?"

Lastly, the it's going to happen for sure question:

"When you do have another dog, what kind of dog will you have?'"

Let's think for a moment of how most pet lovers view their pets. Pets are part of their families. That said, a pet, albeit to a lesser degree, occupies a place in a family not dissimilar to that of its prime members (husbands, wives, siblings, etc.).

Now, think about a man who has lost a loved one, a family member - a wife, for example. Let's substitute the word "wife" in the previous three commonly-asked questions and see how that feels:

"Are you going to have another wife?"

"When are you going to have another wife?"

"When you do have another wife, what kind of wife will you have?"

Sounds pretty cruel, doesn't it?

Readers, enjoy your day.

LOSING A FRIEND

He's been close to me for so many years.

Now he's gone.

But, oh, the times we spent together were so memorable.

He was always there when I went to sleep at night and there again when I would wake. A bastion of friendship the likes of which I have never known. Seeing him decline over the years has been terribly painful. Reminding myself that "life is too short" is small consolation for the sadness that I feel.

It all started out so wonderful when he first came into my life. He was a beautiful member of a unique breed - one that brings comfort and joy to those lucky enough to own such a prize. I named him "Mr. Floppy" because his most unique characteristic was, well, his floppyness. In short, he was the goofiest thing you've ever seen.

But his internal mechanisms could no longer support him and I was forced to make a terribly difficult decision.

He is no longer.

A day later, now that Mr. Floppy is gone I have moved on and have already replaced him. While his replacement is adequate, he will never soothe the loss of my good friend.

You see, I have owned some great pillows in my life, but they were never as comfortable a pillow as Mr. Floppy.

Readers, enjoy your day.