Life

“Plato argued for government by philosopher-kings, but who could argue for a system of government by lawyer-kings? No one can argue openly that leaving the final decision on issues of basic social policy to majority vote of nine lawyers–unelected and life-tenured, making policy decisions for the nation as a whole from Washington, D.C.–is an improvement on the democratic federalist system created by the Constitution. Yet that is the form of government we now have.”

Here here!

So today I’ve been thinking about a vacation. Aaron, his dad and his sister are on their way to the BWCA (Boundary Waters Canoe Area) for a week long trip right now. I was over at their house last night observing Steve methodically packing the remaining provisions for the trip and scowling furiously about the missing map. (In my experience, there is always a missing map at some point in a BWCA trip, and the beginning is definitely a good time for this). I could have gone on this trip. I was asked, and at the time, analyzed my meager vacation time and decided against it. Right now, I’m thinking this was a very poor decision.

The last four vacations I’ve taken (aside from going to my–or various friends–cabin(s)) all involved visiting foreign countries and endless worrying about schedules and trains and flights and money. They’ve all been really fun too (for the most part). But seeing my friend pack for a camping trip, the kind we used to take when we were in highschool and college, really made me sorry I didn’t go too. It would have been a great chance to relive the “good ol’ days” of the past, and right now, I’m missing those days quite a bit. It would have been a trip free from overly stressful travel, foreign languages, strange people (aside from the Nelson clan in general… of which at times I consider myself a part, and prolly the strangest of all), and free from the worries of how much money I have left at every given moment. That’s the best thing about a canoe trip. It’s all paid for up-front. Aside from gas to get there, and money for dinner on the way home, you know what it’s costing you, and I’ve never found the price too high.

Plus, you can’t put a price on spending some quality time with your oldest friend, fishing, playing cribbage or poker, joking around, seeing Steve Nelson blow his top over some little thing at one moment and then forget all about it the next… and having the only thing to worry about be rain, mosquitos and trying to avoid the wrath of an inexplicably hostile sister… ahh, it would have been just grand.

But nope, ever the idiot that I am, I chose to be sitting in front of a cube worrying about things I could care less about.

Yay me.

Well, I’m home again. It’s been a week since I’ve been here (upstairs, in front of my computer, typing away for all–most likely just some–to read). I’m finding that at the moment, I’d rather be sitting in front of my couch working on an important project of mine… it’s called “doing nothing” I’ve been working on it for a while now, but I don’t quite have it perfected yet. Therefore I think it would be most prudent of me to spend a little more time at it… right now. I’ll write more about the long week I just had a bit later… once I’ve made some significant progress on my project that is…

I am painfully aware that it is Monday morning. I am dreading the day already and can’t really think of anything in particular to dread about it. This is not good. I’m going to write about yesterday to distract myself from today.

I had decided over the weekend that I would move my motorcycle from my mom’s house in South Minne to my new locale in “The Grove.” Once making this decision I was determined to follow through with it. I had high hopes for the weather and Saturday would have been the perfect day for a nice ride… so of course I ended up doing it on Sunday. Yesterday started out as a fairly nice day. A little rain and thunder overnight, but things looked like they were going to be fine the rest of the day. (Can you sense the foreboding here?) The lucky person I convinced to give me a ride to my mom’s house happened to be my mom. I don’t know how I accomplished this. My mother will do anything in her power to discourage my involvement–in any way–with my motorcycle. She picked me up, and we drove South.

The further South we went, the darker the sky was getting. Not good I’m thinking, but hoping that it will hold off a bit. It doesn’t. About two miles from the house it starts to sprinkle. Crap. I’ve never ridden in rain before, but it’s just a sprinkle, so no big deal (fingers crossed). As we pull into the driveway I immediately get to work. First things first, I pull my bike out from the corner and get it situated in the garage (in the garage because the rain was coming down a bit harder now). Only a couple things need to be done. Install the battery, check. Turn the fuel on, check. Insert the key, turn it to on, set the choke, hit the starter… check. The starter fired up beautifully and put all it’s might into cranking those pistons. Unfortunately they just didn’t want to fire. My mother, who is standing by watching the procedure, asks if anything is wrong. Of course I have no clue, but I tell her not to worry, I’m sure I can get it going (a complete lie). There is hope in her eyes (and I don’t think it was hope that I’d be successful.) After draining my battery for a few more minutes, I smell a bit of fuel. Drat. I’ve flooded the engine. I now need to let it sit for about ten minutes before I try again. Normally this isn’t a big deal; but I haven’t mentioned that while making the first attempt, I had started to here some intermittent rumbling… and not from the engine. Double crap.

We go inside as the rain picks up and I turn on the TV just in time to see my boy Jeff Gordon win (FYI, that’s NASCAR… I’ll move on). Sweet. I flip it to the Masters. Tiger has made a charge and is now well in the lead. Good sports day so far. It’s time to try again. Out to the garage, mash the starter; nothing. Fiddle with the choke, play with the throttle, mash the starter; nothing. Mix and match the order of the previous attempt and the bike roars to life. okay, I have a 500cc chick bike so it wasn’t exactly much of a “roar,” but it did start up so I was all smiles. I was pretty careful for the next few minutes and nursed it along until it was purring just fine without assistance. I headed back inside to break the news to my mom that I would soon be able to leave. At this point the rain was definitely coming down and the thunder was getting less and less intermittent; my mother, amazingly enough, does not have a panic attack… or at least she hid it very well.

I grab my gear (jacket, helmet, gloves) and head out to the garage with mom in tow. No surprise that after sitting all winter the tires need some air. Not a problem, the station is only a block away. I’m all set to go. I promise my mom I’ll take it easy, won’t go over 65 and will call her the very instant I get home. It’s out of the garage, through the alley and onto the street. A short block later I am at the gas station, the air pump at the gas station to be precise. Not too bad of a trip. Pants are a bit wet, but I was able to see out of my visor (the major concern I had) so no problem. After the tires had a more appropriate amount of air in them it was off to the main test. The highway.

Making my way down the on ramp it is hard not to become focused on the fact that the most visible feature of the road is the water which has taken it over. On the road, on the curb, in the air and most noticeably, on me. I had traveled about 100 yards and I was soaked. This was not actually, my main concern. Seeing anything in front of me was my top priority, as well as wondering how exactly my bike would handle breaking on the wonderful liquid surface on which I was riding. Let’s just say I took it pretty easy. I was able to use my left hand to wipe away the water from my helmet about every ten seconds and braking didn’t seem to be much of an issue. The wind was pretty gusty and forced me to make myself as small as I could in an attempt to avoid it. I had the feeling that I looked like an adult trying to ride a tricycle, but that’s okay. The wind, water, rain, thunder (I just assume their was thunder, couldn’t really here it) and traffic persisted until I hit 394W on into Wayzata (or Minnetonka? I have no idea… wherever Ridgedale is). From there on out the road was dryish, the sun was sunnyish, and to my mother’s regret I’m sure, I was riding fastish… all the way home.

So that was my yesterday, or at least a brief part of it. Finished up the night watching Santana rip the White Sox, contemplating but not quite achieving dinner–dinner can be an achievement–and going to bed. (And yes, I did call my mom the very second I got home…)

Kinda a lot of words for not much of a story. Oh well. I’ll try to write something about my Friday night/Saturday morning a little later… reverse order I know… ahh well, but it’s prolly a better story… I’ll try for fewer words though I promise.

I arrived home from work today (okay, actually I was at Happy Hour with my dad… Major’s actually… great time) to find that my recycling bin had been stolen. This is bad. I liked my recyling bin. It was big and blue and the nice lady at the Maple Grove City Offices gave it to me. I’m pissed. So now the question is this: do I steal a recycling bin back? There are loads and loads of them out there. Every Tuesday blue recycling bins line the streets around my house, just asking to be claimed and taken home. Do I do it? Do I become another link in the long chain of stolen recyling bins, or do I let it go? This is the question that I need to answer, indeed we all need to answer (okay right, just me).