...speaking of shopping...

Earlier this week I went to the grocery store, a not uncommon event, and got depressed as soon as I got in my front door. While I'd loaded up my bike with all I could carry and had enough food for a week or so, I was unhappy. There was nothing I wanted to eat.

Usually when I get back I can't wait to tear into something, even if it's M&Ms. This time there was nothing in my bags to reward either my cravings or my soul. But, since I'd done my shopping, there was little to do except suffer and hope to shop better next time.

As it turned out, next time was the following day. The one thing I needed was cereal, a habit I picked up last month thanks to some rice crispy type cereal. My box of Uncle Sam Cereal was empty after having delivered less than the listed servings per box. This isn't unusual for me, since I have lot of mass to maintain.

I'd picked up Uncle Sam Cereal for two reasons. One, it's wheat flakes, which I like much better than corn. The US, I've read, is making corn (a historically minor crop) into just about everything and farming it like mad. Also, I have fond memories of being home ill from school and eating Wheaties.

Anyway, while increasing my cred in online message boards and making me sound patriotic, I needed more cereal. With that in mind I rode back to the store yesterday and came home having forgotten what I went for. The good news is I have some things I care to eat.

Today I returned for the third time in four days and got some new organic cereal ("Buy one, get one free!") that calls itself Golden Wheat Flakes Medley with Flax or some such thing. Not a very catchy name, but since I wasn't about to buy just one thing I loaded up on toilet paper and paper towels.

Oh, and some M&Ms. I expect them to be cranking those out now that The Scream has been recovered, though I have no idea if anyone will win the promised two million of 'em.

The other day I was out shopping for a birthday present for a baby, something I know as much about as I do animal husbandry. This particular baby, who may well be an infant (he's one year old), is one I've only seen in pictures, but he's damn cute nonetheless.

One of the better things about giving presents is you get to impose your taste on others. You can't often do that, so any chance to do so should be greeted with delight. Another good thing about presents, about the ones you receive, is even if you don't care for the particular item you're pretty much stuck with it. Oh, sure, you can "re-gift," and give it to someone else, but then your own taste is suspect.

Since someone's gone to the trouble of selecting and wrapping something they hope to delight me with, I can't ever just toss it aside. There's a part of them in there and, no matter how much it conflicts or jars with my personal taste, I have to cherish the thought and effort. It would be the height of affrontery to simply cast it aside, it would be as if I was tossing the person and her or his feelings into the trash.

I can't do that.

I didn't find what I was looking for as far as the baby was concerned, but I did find a Vans shoe store. I'd been looking for a new pair of shoes, something I'm proud to say I have confidence in buying (unlike most things), but the shoe stores downtown never had my size. This store, an official Vans store that sold only Vans items, did, and I got me some new shoes. Since I'm trying (unsuccessfully) to keep my possessions down to a more manageable level, I cast off my old shoes and wore the new ones home.

I was thinking of all the homeless in Santa Monica when I carefully placed my old shoes in the trash, but upon riding out of town I saw that most of the homeless (and, there are legions of them in SM) were wearing better shoes than the pair I'd discarded.

That's fairly humbling.

So maybe someone got my old shoes, but I doubt it. What *did* happen is I went on the Internet and found something for the kid.

"I felt it too. As if a million of voices suddenly cried out in terror, and then, suddenly, silence."

!@(death.jpg)

Like the Challenger Disaster, Kennedy's assasination, and Sept 11, we'll all, forever, remember where we were when we lost a planet.

Now I need to weep and grieve, then get my horoscope updated to accurately reflect this new reality.

I should really get a job making these predictions, I'm so good at it.

Some of the nearby streets were, in fact, painted black yesterday, and there's no reason to think the one in front of me won't undergo a similar treatment tomorrow. The other day I called it slurry in an attempt to impress, but I'm not sure if that's the correct term. I picked that word up at a job, and it was what the contractors did to the parking lot to turn it black and was the step before painting.

What happened here is the streets that got the treatment were "painted" with a thick black goop, maybe an eighth of an inch thick. It looks like a mix of sand and black paint, and I'm glad I didn't have to pay for it.

Only, except, of course I did through my taxes.

I'm not sure what they're trying to prove by this roadwork, but they didn't do a very good job. I'm not saying I could do better, but the coverage is uneven, to be generous. There are long tire tracks where they ran over and removed the new topping, and the slurry itself frequently runs into and over the cement gutters.

Best is the cavalier attitude they displayed toward the plant life struggling to gain a foothold in every nook and cranny. I always kind of like that, the persistence and insistence of nature to find a spot to germinate, but these roadworkers just dropped their goop right on top. There are now weeds wearing thick, black hats, and it looks bad.

What that means, of course, is that I need to eliminate as many weeds as I can from the front of my house. Still, that's better than the plight inflicted on so many of my neighbors, who were forced to resurrect their cars. Yesterday showed a parade of lumbering vehicles that hadn't moved in months or years, coughing and spitting down the street chased by people with jumper cables and much cursing and cheers.

All for a newly black road surface, that doesn't seem to improve much of anything for very long.

Unlike flying cars and a reasonable government filled with decent people, which I doubt I'll live long enough to witness, one future mystery only requires me to keep breathing in and out for four more days, and I think I can do that.

Yesterday, pedalling madly back from In-and-Out after seeing Snakes on a Plane, I saw in my neighborhood some of those temporary no parking signs. They were threatening cars to be towed away if they were sitting on the street Monday, from six in the morning until six at night, but no reason was given.

The first thing I thought of was a movie shoot, since those frequently mess up traffic around here, but I'm not so sure. They did the same thing about five years ago when they resurfaced our streets, and that was my next thought.

That disturbed me. The orginal paving, as far as I know, lasted for probably fifty years, though there was occasional patches. The work done five years ago was more of a black slurry and, while it made the street look new, didn't really do anything. Oh, sure, it let us see who failed to abide by the restrictions by leaving telltale tire tracks, but it did nothing to strengthen or repair the road.

I likened it to makeup.

Anyway, today I rode down another street and saw they had the same sort of signs up, but these were for Wednesday. Later today, I found they'd erected another Wednesday sign on the streetlamp right in front of my home, so something's definitely afoot.

Incidentally, Snakes on a Plane is, I think, the only action flick I've ever seen in a theatre, and it was both better and worse than I expected. And, I don't count my trip to In-and-Out as one of this year's two trips to nationally advertised fast food places, as I don't think they're national. It was, however, the first time this year I've been there, since I can't afford to eat out.

The hamburger (3X3, animal style - my first!) was tasty and life-threatening, the movie was one I was glad to participate in, and the reason for the local street closures a mystery yet to be solved.

Not frequently enough for me to notice, but sometimes the world forgets to kick me in the teeth and things go according to my plan.

Today, just when I needed them most, my tires arrived from Portland, Oregon, I city I've been to a couple times so I know what they're missing. They made the trip in a cardboard box, one of the new cheap ones, but may have travelled by plane and in a motor vehicle just as I have. I doubt they took the train, so I may have that over them.

They made the trip in about sixty-seven hours, at a calculated speed of just over fourteen miles an hour. That may be the slowest they ever get to travel, since I expect to beat that for the rest of their rubbery lives.

Not that I'm any great bike pilot, not any more, but that's a pretty slow bike ride. Right now they're resting on my bike, inflated to within an inch of those earlier mentioned lives, and I hope they're gearing up for tomorrow's outing.

I'm depending on them to take me to the movie house for the first film I've seen since Return of the King. Movies are a luxury I can no longer afford, but I'm splurging tomorrow to see the premiere performance (a matinee, no less) of "Snakes on a Plane."

Like many of you, I have no idea what the film could possibly be about, but it has Samuel L Jackson in it so it should be fun. That's all I want right now, a little mindless entertainment, and I expect the film to deliver it in spades.

Well, I'd also like to be cherished and respected, but first things first.

Years ago I was awarded a prize of my choosing for having endured five years of employment at some place. A month or so prior to my anniversary, I was given a small catalog (think of an Air Mall brochure) and could choose between several items.

I chose a telescope.

That, alone, qualifies me to weigh in on the the latest astrophysical event, whether or not Pluto is a planet. I can hardly wait.

To be truthful, I couldn't care less how many planets there are, but it does upset some people to think children and others may have to change from being "sure" of the nine everyone alive now knows. What I can't wait to hear is how astrologers respond.

Astrology, you see, mistakenly believes that the planets have a strong influence on the human condition, disregarding the fact that the gravitational pull of the attending physician is greater than that of even the moon, our nearest celestial neighbor. Now that Ceres, Charon, and UB313 may become planets, what will that do to astrology?

Will they reprint, at great cost to astrologers, all the empherides? If so, I'd love to hear their justification. If astrology was correct before, how will the explain the changes?

The way I see it, if astrology was a complete and accurate system before, they'll have to add in influences for these new planets. If they do that, how can the astrologers explain why they weren't affecting us before? And, if the new planets are explained by astrologers as affecting something like my love life now with "greater accuracy" or some such thing, how is it that their omission wasn't explained?

I never heard any astrologer saying "this might not be right" or "there may be other factors at work here," things I'd expect if Charon was influencing me but the astrologer wasn't taken into account.

Nope. I'm sorry. If these new planets get added in, then "old" astrology was all wrong, and I'd like them to admit it. I think it's obvious that astrology is great for selling newspapers or otherwise separating fools from their money, but other than giving us cool and obscure-looking symbols with which to decorate horror or paranormal movies, they have to admit they got it all wrong.

And, still do.

The race is on!

I've narrowed down the problem to one of three things. Having done that, I'm sure the real cause will never be known, but I can take solace in knowing it's none of the three listed below.

1) I'm weigh too much (or carry too much weight)
2) I didn't install it right
3) Bicycle tires wear out more quickly than I might like

Whichever it is, my rear tire is falling apart, and I'm expecting a blowout any day now. A few months ago I had to replace the inner tube (yes, I'm using *those* kind) and I thought I did that simple task well enough. In the past week or so, however, I've noticed a repetitive thump when I ride, much like I would feel if the tire was underinflated and the valve was hitting the ground.

The tire is not underinflated, but the sidewall is coming apart.

So, I ordered some new tires through the Internet, and they should be arriving in about a week, I guess. In the meantime, I feel as if I'm riding a ticking bomb.

I'd like to think that the problem is because I've overloaded the little crate I sometimes carry on the back with too many heavy items, but it's just as likely that me, riding alone, is too much weight for the poor rubber to handle. Or, I somehow managed to screw up putting the tube in when I replaced it. Or, best of all (as far as my ego in concerned), maybe today's tires are so much better that they wear out more quickly than they used to.

My hope, of course, is that the new tires arrive before I blow the old one up. I'd not ride at all, except both me and the dog will soon need food, and Minardi really doesn't understand my reluctance to ride off and get him treats. It's come down to either chancing the tire or hunting squirrels.

Those new tires better get here quick!

I rarely write about government, but that's because I try not to think about it. I follow politics, but only because it explains so much.

Today there was an arrest of suspected terrorists in the UK, and the US govt was all over it. Now many people I know (and, by "many people" read "one," and by "know," I mean "invent") have the idea that government should be relied on to do good things. They actually expect government to function, to do things for the betterment of humanity, and to be there when things go right or wrong.

If only.

In response to today's arrests, the US government had decided that we can't take liquids on planes. This, somehow, lets us keep our freedoms, which they keep talking about. The terrorists, you see, had plans to concoct a mixable explosive and blow planes out of the sky, something I cannot endorse or feel very good about.

But what struck me is that terrorists have been using and planning this method for over ten years now. A few years ago some clown tried to blow up a plane with his shoes and we suddenly had to have our shoes inspected prior to boarding. Now other idiots want to mix up an explosive compound, and we can't take liquids on board.

This strikes me as reactive. Only after some method is used by the terrorists do we respond, and this exemplifies why I think government is a waste of time. Instead of figuring out, or studying, the ways we can be hurt, they wait until something is tried and then ban it.

And, they try to act all smug and self-confident when they present their new strategies.

A lot of my family has, or had, worked for the government. This has taught me much. The government rarely knows more than the private sector, and even less frequently acts on it. When you consider that half the population is of below-average intelligence, it's not hard to see why the government makes many of the decisions they do. Sure, there's plenty of people who work for the government, but that's mostly because if they didn't get a government job they'd be unemployed.

I was thrilled to hear that Mozambique was using rats to detect land mines until I saw the article says it's Tanzania. No matter, they share a border, and maybe the rats are used in each.

Still, I was smiling like a child getting a pony for Christmas. What better use for rats, I wondered, than to send herds of them scurrying over minefields? They would not only find the mines, but it may be a better way of dealing with them than the old spring traps. Sure, the rats are too light to trip the mines, but that could easily be solved with tiny lead vests, perhaps festively colored. Hell, you could include wagering and make it a fun event for the entire village.

Alas, the rats only sniff the explosive and, so far, none have been blowed up.

It's a good thing to do, though, so I applaud those who came up with this idea. Not so with these geneticists, though. It seems they've identified a gene that will let them create "waterproof" rice. This Sub1A-1 gene, which sounds suspiciously like the first one mapped, will let rice plants live for a couple weeks while submerged. This is not good. Manipulating the genetic makeup of plants is evil, and those who depend on rice to live are far better off going hungry and dying of famine if their fields get flooded. Especially now, with global warming melting arctic ice, we can only expect more flooding, and treating a valuable food commodity can only result in increasing human life.

The only salvation I can hope for from this horrendous effort is that this is that cheap white crap, the kind nobody of any value eats, anyway.

I can find no argument with the Israelis wanting to live without being subject to rocket attacks. Hell, I'd like that, too.

What I can't understand is why, if they're so gung-ho on this no-man's-land buffer zone, they don't create it inside their own borders.

I'm not much of a fan of omens, but that doesn't prevent me from looking for them and celebrating when I stumble over one. Not all omens are good, however, and when I run across one that I can take as evidence of something negative, I gravitate towards it.

This morning I shaved and, while that's not unusual, I couldn't help but notice how smooth my face was afterwards. Well, that's the purpose of shaving, so that didn't surprise me. What did surprise me, though, was that this morning's shaving was accomplished with the aid of a two-blade razor.

These two-blade razors are so 1980.

It's no news that razors are now up to five blades, and one brand has six, but it's on the rear and not part of the typical shaving face. The insidious progress of time, even in my short life, has taken us from one to five blades, with the promise of more to come. For the past few weeks I've been using my "travel" razor, one with three blades that I bought as an emergency replacement, and all I could think of was the baseball strike.

During that strike one player brought up to fill in for a striking major league player mentioned that the clubhouse was littered with expensive, name brand razors that he couldn't afford. That, alone, showed him the difference between the haves and have-nots, the men and the boys as it were.

Anyway, this morning I discovered that my beard (such as it is) doesn't really need any more than two blades to be removed. It may be that each generation produces a denser, thicker, and tougher beard than the preceeding one, and that would explain why people need an ever-increasing number of blades to achieve the smoothness of their ancestors, but I doubt it.

I think I'm just one of those who don't have the beard-growing ability of the more manly men. Any blade beyond two is wasted on me, but I predict that within five years I won't be able to buy any razor that only has that number.

It's progress, you see, but not any progress that I need.