From May 7, 2008 I'm Fixin to Go Green

You hear about people ‘Going Green’ more and more often these days.
Another PC term for it is called ‘Downsizing.’
Basically people are ditching their 3000 square foot homes with two AC units, a $300 monthly utility bill, a three-car garage and the three cars parked inside for that one-bedroom loft in the city and a Moped.
If downsizing is considered going green then I’ve been doing that for the past couple years now.
Last year I drove a Ford Explorer that averaged about 18 mph.
This year I drive a VW Golf that gets twice that (I have since sold the Golf, bought an Infiniti, it died, and now I have the Sebring ragtop).
Granted I carry a shoehorn with me to get in and out of it and wear it like a child’s ‘floatie’ when I drive, but I’m doing my part to conserve energy.
Besides, a VW Golf is nothing more than a Moped with windows.
Oddly though, I feel compelled to do more.
Actually, it’s not feeling compelled to do more, instead it’s more an itch to think about maybe perhaps wanting to do more as I’m lying there on the couch watching the Braves game on a Sunday afternoon.
Instead of ‘Going Green’ I call it ‘Fixin to Go Green.’
It’s not actually doing anything, it’s thinking about it.
Don’t confuse me with one of those ecologically minded do-gooders who recycle everything, don’t buy their gas from Venezuelan demigods or wear T-shirts recycled from used paper towels.
No, the big problem with me and anything ecologically motivated is the root word “logic” buried in there. There is nary a shred of logic in what I’m fixin’ to do.
I want a bicycle.
Those of you who have seen me from the neck down can stop laughing now.
Yes, I want a bicycle.
I want a bicycle in order to travel the short distances around town I would normally use my car to do.
All right, a confession here.
The other problem I have with being ecological is that being ecological evokes a sense of selflessness in the person being ecological. The whole word just oozes intelligence and upward mobility Yuppiness, and I am lacking in all intelligence, selflessness and especially Yuppiness when I ponder the notion of owning a bike and using it.
I want a bike to ride.
I want to ride a bike so I can get in shape and lose weight.
Okay, so it’s not about Going Green but instead about trying to have my cake in my double cheeseburger value meal at Mickey D’s and eating it too.
I’m 50.
I’ve grown rather sedentary lately.
I haven’t seen my feet in ten years.
I miss them.
Unless I wake up tomorrow morning to find Godzilla chasing me, I’ve done all the running I intend to do in this lifetime. I spent the first 25 years of my life running.
I want a bike.
Not one of those 10-speed Tour de France numbers that require a degree in engineering from Georgia Tech to ride. No, I want a Huffy 26-inch cruiser with the big balloon wheels and the extra big fanny-seat. I want the big basket in front, a bell and tassels on the handlebars.
I live a mile from town and about a quarter mile from Berkeley’s baseball field. What’s wrong with riding a bike to the next ball game?
Hey, I’ve studied the terrain here.
It’s flat.
All I’d have to do is pedal up some decent momentum and coast the rest of the way.
There are no hills.
When I first moved to Georgia I had one of those nifty Lance Armstrong 10-speeds and I left out of my home for a short bike ride.
Unfortunately, that’s when I also discovered mountains and the fact that I lived on top of one.
I screamed like your baby sister all the way down.
I never pedaled once but reached speeds nearing 60 mph shooting like a spit watermelon seed down the side of Mount Widowmaker. It took more than a week to pick the bugs out of my teeth.
I want a bike and I want to ride it.
So this summer, if you see said fat man pedaling down the middle of Main Street, cast a wide berth okay?
Don’t honk. I start easily.
And if you see a fat man lying sprawled along side the road and a red Huffy 26-inch cruiser lying next to him, go ahead and call 911.
I wouldn’t be Going Green then, I’d be Gone Blue.

I am a Procrastinator an April 09, 2008 reprint

Ben Franklin said, “Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today.”
I say, “Never put off until tomorrow what you can put off until the day after tomorrow… or indefinitely.”
Sure you’re first assumption is to call me lazy, but I stand here before you to say that I work hard at putting things off until the last minute.
I’m reminded this time every year how much of a procrastinator I am.
Tax time does it to me.
It’s not because I have to pay. This year I even get money back. It’s just the whole process of filing your income taxes is tedious.
It bogs down my brain like oatmeal in the VCR.
Even doing it online.
I’ve had my W2’s and such since January and I’m still putting this off.
I have a yellow sticky note tacked to the bottom of my keyboard that says in big capital letters “DO YOUR TAXES TODAY!”
I wrote that little note-to-self eight weeks ago.
I even wrote a second one on my big desk calendar that has since been joined by a doodle of Batman and is now hidden under a dollar and a half in change.
Tax time simply brings to light that which I live with all year long.
I am a procrastinator.
I do this to myself all the time.
You’d be amazed at how much and how fast you can clean your house when you realize you have just twenty minutes until company arrives.
There’s a procrastinator’s website designed to provide help and support for those suffering from this affliction. The address is http://www.illgetaroundtoit.com/ but the site is still under construction.
When it’s time to go shopping I don’t look through my cabinets to see what I need from the store, I look through my Wal-Mart bags to see what I’m out of.
The same goes with clothes.
I just check the laundry basket.
My laundry basket is my closet and chest of drawers.
Laundry is such a study in frustration. What’s the point in folding and hanging when it’s simply going to wind up back in the basket in two days?
I grew a beard because I didn’t feel like shaving daily and I don’t buy new razors until it feels like I’m shaving with a rake.
I bought a printer last year.
It’s still in the box.
The box has been sitting on my kitchen table since I moved here three months ago. I have a lamp sitting on it now.
I’ll install it next weekend.
I’ve been saying that for more than a year now.
For a printer it makes a nice centerpiece.
I actually started this column a month ago as kind of a ruse to make me do my taxes.
Now I have two things I want to get done by April 15. I’ll be typing frantically at 11:45 p.m. to get both done.
Take that back, I don’t do anything frantically. To do something frantically would imply a sense of urgency that something needs to be done now and that is not the procrastinator’s way. I will never rush into any project frantically without first studiously considering all options and figuring out how I can put this off to the very last minute.
While I haven’t missed a deadline yet and being in the newspaper business I am faced with a plethora of deadlines daily, what you don’t see is the inner angst that I endure each week. Since this is an issue that could directly impact my ability to receive a paycheck each week, I keep this angst internal – my only concession to the Ben Franklin way of thinking.
To argue Mr. Franklin’s point, yes the early bird may get the worm, but it’s the second mouse that gets the cheese.
I’m not a has-been or a never-was I’m a hasn’t-started-yet. I figure I’ll get around to it eventually.
Items on my Honey Do list are arranged in order of the bodily harm I’ll suffer if said task is not completed by the time the missus gets home from work.
If a project or task were so important that it must be dealt with now, somebody else would have done it already.
I looked to seek help for my affliction and joined a Procrastinator’s Anonymous group. We could never get around to deciding on an agenda or setting a time or place for the meetings.
When we did, nobody showed.
There was a sign posted on the meeting room door: Rescheduled for next week.

What do they take us for, idiots?

I’m beginning to think the people in charge of telling everybody else what to do and how it’s done take us for a bunch of idiots.
I saw signs of it again today while driving along the Interstate. Either they take us for a bunch of Class-A morons or we really are the idiots they think we are.
I’m driving down a multi-lane thoroughfare through town, six lanes total, with three lanes each way. Each lane is marked with the appropriate directional designation. Upon reaching a major intersection where two turning lanes were added for my driving convenience I noticed something as I sat in the far right hand lane.
Hanging up above just to the right of the traffic light was a message intended solely for the motorists in my far right hand lane: NO LEFT TURN.
I thought for a moment, regarding the sign. I looked to my left where, if I wanted to make a left hand turn from here, I would have to traverse. Five lanes of traffic – count ‘em – five lanes of traffic stood between me and my left turn.
While my first thought asked the question about our general idiocy as a whole, a second thought crept up on my indignant outrage.
They wouldn’t put a No Left Turn sign here unless somebody already tried it once, twice at least.
One time is an anomaly.
Anything more than once is a trend.
As I cleared the intersection and made my way onto the Interstate, I noticed a second sign, again a multi-lane route with clearly marked and excellently painted lane markings and directional designations.
As near bumper-to-bumper traffic shot down the freeway at speeds that invoked images of going toe-to-toe with Dale Jr. at Talladega, I noticed this sign: STAY IN LANE.
I cut a quick look at the solid white lines on either side of me, along with eight other cars within arm’s reach making me feel like Whoopi Goldberg (or Paul Lynde for you older folks like me) occupying the center square in Hollywood Squares.
First, the Stay In Lane sign wasn’t a request or even a suggestion; it was an order. At no point did I see the words “Please” or “If you don’t mind” preceding the STAY IN LANE directive.
I thought: where the heck am I going to go except for in my lane?
Only an idiot would try to lane-jockey at a time like this.
Which told someone did try to lane-jockey at times like these at least twice.
Have we fallen that far as a species?
You don’t see any signs or post-markings in the woods warning animals to stay under cover during hunting season because we went and invented firearms.
The Bambis and Thumpers of the forest know better.
It is because we enjoy the greatest capacity for intelligence and cognitive thought that we often fall way shy of that potential.
I’m always amazed at the warning signs on tubes of Preparation H and other liniments, ointments and salves saying these products are designed for EXTERNAL USE ONLY.
Whenever I take note of these label warnings I’m compelled to ponder who decided he was going to treat his hemorrhoids from the inside out?
You do know there is mint flavoring in Preparation H.
Honest.
It’s one of those “just in case,” ingredients.
Jeff Foxworthy said he saw this sign in a labor and delivery room. Posted on the wall near the bathroom door was a sign saying, “Sexual activity should be avoided once the water has broken.”
Two thoughts enter my mind at this point. First, why would such a sign be posted here, in a hospital labor and delivery ward, and second, such posting of said sign meant someone tried it already.
It takes a Man’s man to look upon his wife locked in the throes of labor contractions to even conceive the idea and then act on it.
Next they’ll have a sign posted right underneath saying, “No baseball bats allowed in Maternity Ward.”
I know what you’re thinking. If she didn’t, she should have.