The Port Huron Statement...Don't You Worry 'Bout A Thing...Old Chub...

Another day on the road. Just as I was about to turn onto the entry for 80West at about 8:45 AM, I hit random play on the iPod and up came "Don't You Worry 'Bout A Thing" by Stevie Wonder.  That is one of those songs that you hear later in Life at some point and it just bowls you over, how fucking awesome it is, and you had never realized it till then.  This happened to me some years ago now, but I still feel it today.  Fitting also that it began my journey to Detroit, since Stevie was from there putting out his records on the Tamla Motown Label!

Saw the divide between the Great Lakes and the Mississippi watersheds, or rather, saw the sign indicating it.  Saw a lot of terrifyingly flat land through Ohio.  Everything about everything there was about agriculture, and I wondered how much of it was Devil-dealt by Monsanto.  When I drove past Toledo on the Highway, I hit the Westernmost point I've ever been to in this Country.  Got on 280 North, then 75, and that's when the sights started to change and the road began to remind me of "The Metal Muncher" back home. (I once was on Jury Duty in New Haven and heard a State Trooper say how he and his cohorts at the barracks call that section of I95 between New Haven and Stamford "The Metal Muncher" because of all the accidents.) Not being a smart phone user, and unable to look at my iPad as I got into the heavy Detroit traffic, I overshot my exit for Warren, Michigan, where I am now, by a long way....

I had gotten off an exit to get my bearings, and couldn't.  I didn't know where the Hell I was.  Everything out here is Gigantic.  Kept looking East to see if I could see a Great Lake, but they were obscured by giant auto plants apparently.  I asked a guy in a parking lot-suppose I should have found out exactly where I was, because he told me continue North, and there would be signs for Warren, but what he really meant, maybe without knowing it, was that I should've gone South, and that there would 'nt be signs!  So I went North a good half hour, thinking that this area was so huge I'd find it eventually.  At last I stopped at a rest area and got straightened out by some locals with a smart phone, headed back South to find I696, where I needed to be-the exit for Port Huron.

Arriving late, but not last, of our twenty van force, to the hotel, within a minute of entering the lobby there was a beer in my hand.  Checked in, threw my bags in my room and off I went with a couple of my co-workers. There is an Irish pub called Malone's across Van Dyke.  I had two pints of  Old Chub Scotch Ale that did me right, and I can normally handle much more. Good, strong beer after the long haul was life-affirming.

Somehow I woke up early.  Today we go to work . Yet another Winter storm should arrive today, if you can believe it, on March 12th, so today will assuredly be an adventure-what I signed up for...

Er-lie In The Marnin'

Leaving Old Saybrook, the banjo song on my radio station was "Er-lie in the marnin'" then "I'm Only Sleeping" by the Beatles.  Fitting send-off in an unfamiliar vehicle starting on a long days journey into the only slightly unknown.  Got to the office ready to go with the truck I usually drive, only to find out it was unregistered, not a good thing for interstate travel.  Had to borrow X-ray Man's truck.  Now everything about my trip will be unfamiliar.  Typical corporate Snafu, always trying to push the envelope on the Regulations.  I am on the way to Detroit, Michigan to work, a lot, and find a small temporary fortune...

Spent a lot of time on the highway in Pennsylvania, mostly West 80.  I can say this: they do not clean up their roadkill here.  Also saw a million or so blue plastic bags strewn on the roadside. But pretty country!  Even in that end-of-winter dreary state it's in now.  Saw people riding in a horse-drawn sleigh off in a field that had some snow left.  I am with a convoy of seven telephone service vans heading for a long haul of relief work in the Motor City. Tomorrow's trek will bring us back into snow and eight degree weather, I hear.

Destination, the mythical City of Detroit. Lions! And Tigers! And Fords! Oh My! Lake Huron and Lake St. Claire. Motown.  Poverty and abandoned neighborhoods.

For dinner went to Pizza Hut for bad pizza and life-affirming beer, and Hot Damn!, this is Pennsylvannia, and the fucking Pizza Hut has Yuengling!

Took a shower and I'm watching Sir Paul on TV.  Na Na Na Na Na Na nah...

Lottery Land

It's been some days since I've looked at the News with much scrutiny after having been very attentive during the Government Shut-down.  This exercise in Political Dickishness perpetrated by the party of the Insane, the GOP, has left me exhausted and confounded.  Hunter S. Thompson believed that the 2001 September 11th attacks caused a National Nervous Breakdown, and this kind of divisiveness based in Hate is blatantly symptomatic of an untreated post-trauma...

At times I've felt that the only solution to the divisive attitudes in Congress these days is to break up the Two-Party System into smaller parties, so that actual coalition governing could take place, like in some of the more civilized nations around the World.  For the sake of familiarity, lets say those parties might be Progressive or Green, Liberal Democrat, Libertarian, GOP, and Tea Party.  Now I'm not so convinced it would work.  The Money influences would find a way to fuck with that scenario soon enough, and we're back to Square One, which is Government for The Rich and Powerful.

There is only one solution I think can work in this brain damaged, nervous breakdown country we live in:  Election by Lottery.

Are you feeling lucky?  If you are a US Citizen, and a registered voter, you could be elected!  There would be a drawing for all offices on a certain date, and every citizen, no matter what views, economic status, social connectedness or even qualifications they had would be equally likely to be elected as anyone else. You could end up as a state senator, or a US Senator.  How about President?  There could be no possible conspiracy to predetermine the trajectory of the Nation by falsifying paperwork and perpetrating some kind of Manchurian Candidate scenario.  Think of the relief most citizens would have in not having to deal with the agitation that comes with the political campaign cycle!  No campaigns! No ads!  No Gerrymandering! No sexist/racist anti-voting shenanigans!  Your sexual behavior would not, could not, be an electability issue since your holding of office would only be judged by your post-election behavior.  If you're ugly, or black, or a scientist, or poor, or an Atheist you'd have just as much electability as Captain America.

Think of the Time, Money, and Energy that could be saved, instead of dumping it all down the existential rat-hole that is the U.S. political election cycle!  How great it would be to not have to listen to those primary debates (or what the Media allows us to believe apparently passes for debates--go to a real proper debate at a college and you'll see what a Wankfest our political debates are).  It would certainly help my outlook for the future not having to get to know the candidates.  Right, I'd rather just be surprised on Election Day.  There would be some sort of oversight process, of course, in case some real whacko is elected, but then again, I'd bet things would work out much better.  There would be strict term limits, no lobbying, and elected officials would be required to vote the will of their constituents rather than whatever agent of Evil Greed gave them money and blowjobs.

I think it's the only hope for this country.  It's certainly less crazy than what we have now.

Editor's Note...State Of The Blog...Pediddleville Lost?...

EDITOR'S NOTE: It has come to my attention that the author of this blog, avalonjeff, has not posted anything since July 1, 2013. No contact has been made with him since around that time.  A check into the back pages of this thing show three unfinished drafts dating from August, 2013.  One addresses Racism in some way, while the second is a whimsical piece about the Only Hope for Democracy, and as one would suspect, some kind of aquarium update may be lurking in the draft folder.

It can only be imagined what he has been up to.  He might come back with wild tales of Lottery Elections, mystical experiences, xmasphobia, kayak wanderlust, job insecurity, escapes from Pediddleville, Mallet Finger and Healing, bagpipes and three funerals of very different sorts.  All or none of the above.  -Ed.

Tank Update #7...The Hunt Is On...High Water And No Trout...The Food Chain Channel...

Stability at seven fish for some time now.  The two fish that look similar to, but are not Dace, are growing quickly on their farm feed.  I'll have to try to identify this species.  I think I may have seen some of their kind in Salmon River the other day.  The fish I saw looked the same, but were maybe twice the size, so I'm looking forward to seeing these fish grow bigger.  These two are now almost as big as the two biggest Dace, about four inches long. I'll call them minnows until I know better.  The smaller  of the Dace are curious.  They may be a different sub-species than the others . They have a different, sucker-like shape to their profile, making them less reminiscent of Salmonids, like I believe the other Dace resemble.  I wouldn't be surprised if they were closely related to Salmonids.  In fact, if you blew a Dace up to the size of a trout, I bet they'd be delicious.

After a very cool and wet spell this summer, we finally got some swimming weather three days ago, and we answered the call.  The river is running fairly high, still draining away the rains of the last couple of weeks.  Unfortunately there was not a lot to see as far as trout is concerned.  I don't know if this has to do with the high water, or have they been fished out, or understocked?  It was very refreshing, perfect temperature, and running very strong.   I did a "hang" several times, and it was amazing.  What I do is go to the bottom wearing a mask and snorkel, grab onto a rock and just let the current pull at me.  My feet just hang in the water as I face the unrelenting current.  It feels like I'm plugging my nervous system into the energy flow of the Planet.  In psychophysiological terms, it's my Happy Place...

Owen and I planned on trying to catch some of these minnows with a net.  They will school all around you, so we figured they would be easy to catch, but no luck.  Next step is to make a trap out of a plastic bottle and see what we get.  I'd like to get some of those minnows to compare them to the ones in the tank.  A baby Bluegill would be nice, as an experiment only, because I think it might eat the smaller Dace. Owen did manage to catch one tiny fish.  I couldn't identify it--basically an inch-long golden colored minnow.  We put it in the tank and the fish went right after it, but it got away and was darting back and forth at the surface.  I went to the other room to get my glasses and it was gone when I got back.  I think that like myself most people would forget that fish in an aquarium are still wild animals and there's no reason to think they would forget their predatory instinct just because they get easy farm food at regular intervals.  It occurred to me when splitting firewood that the Dace might enjoy a termite or a little wood worm.  Turns out they go nuts over live food.  I have fed them moths, termites, woodworms, ants,  tiny earthworms, mosquitoes, mayflies, houseflies, tiny fish, possibly pollywogs, and even newly hatched praying mantises.

Lawyers, And The Candy-Assed Douchebags Who Make Them Rich, Ruin Everything...

Dickinson's Creek flows into Salmon River I would guess about a half-mile downstream from the Lyman Viaduct.  I recently found out from the East Pediddleville Facebook group that the viaduct has undergone major changes recently, and pros and cons be damned, it really kind of hurts.

The fence was put up last year, but I figured somebody would bring a set of bolt cutters and get busy on it soon enough for the summer jumping season.  I don't normally condone vandalism, but what's right is right.  Little did I or a lot of people know that the fence was only the first phase of the changes to the site.

The deep hole full of water that used to be at the outflow of the twin culverts has been completely filled in with boulders and concrete.  A jump thirty feet off the viaduct now would mean certain death.  No more can the youth of Pediddleville claim a jump as a rite of passage.  No more can I anticipate the day when my sons would share in the thrill.  No more can I plan to explore the dark pool with my mask and snorkel--yes, I planned that for this Summer, figuring the chain link fence would prevent people from landing on my head from above.  I'll never get to see what whoppers lived down there.  For a small river like this, the pool would have been a home for the largest of its denizens.  By now they have all gone downstream into Salmon River.

Never much of a daredevil, I have only jumped feet first off the thirty foot drop, but on YouTube you can see videos of people doing back flips, cartwheel dives, and even going off it on bicycles.  It may well be that some of these videos, when they were brought to the attention of certain people, have led to the crackdown.  It was always forbidden to jump there, but it wasn't generally known how crazy some thrill seekers could be in sleepy Pediddleville.  The Bummer Patrol stepped in to save that inevitable drunken ass from himself, and themselves from a lawsuit.

I remember well my first jump off the Viaduct.  I arrived, stoned, on a late hazy hot afternoon.  We had been cruising around in my friend Ted's 1963 Buick Riviera.  Ted had restored this old powerhorse of a cruisemobile in auto shop at school.  He was a character.  He was the first friend I made when I moved to East Pediddleville in fourth grade.  He often spoke in an affected, convoluted Monty Python accent, and he had painstakingly mixed paint colors and used a tiny brush to alter his driver's license so that he could buy alcohol at age seventeen. Also in the car was our friend Roy, Ted's next-door neighbor, and Doug, who was more Roy's friend, but I knew him from Boy Scouts.  Probably we had been talking about how we had been on a hiking trip in Vermont where we had seen local people in White River Junction jumping off a bridge into the Connecticut River, and several of us from our troop had jumped.  This would have prompted Roy to ask if we had ever jumped off the Viaduct.  Since I had never done it, we were now on a mission...

I had never known about this place until then.  The road that winds along Salmon River comes to a hairpin turn halfway up a hill where the old train line ran.  You could take the Airline Trail to the top of the viaduct and clamber down the steep bank to the viaduct, or you could take the lower trail in from further down the road.  Originally a large trestle bridge over the creek valley, the whole area was filled in with gravel, after installing the culverts for the water, because of the increasing weight of the trains.  It goes at about a 45 degree angle from the top to the viaduct several hundred feet down.  Over time the water had dug out a deep pit which I think was at least fifteen feet deep at the center of the pool.

                        This graffitti covers over an offensive grafitti that can be seen in videos.

When we got down to the bottom of the steep incline, our shoes filled with gravel and sharp coal slag fragments, there were several people there jumping and hanging out.  We stood there at the edge for a while watching others jump, trying to get our nerve up.  Suddenly a young girl started screaming down below in the pool.  Doug and I looked at each other with the instant acknowledgement that the quickest way for anyone to get to her was for us to jump, so off we went!  Boy Scouts!  The girl was fine without our help, but what a first time!

Industrialized "Safety" is not as beautiful as the twisty Hemlock roots that used to line the bank.  I wish I had some "before" shots of the place, not just these photos of how it is now.  It's the same sense of loss that you get when they put up a strip mall in the field you used to play in, or cut down your favorite tree, knowing it's gone forever, but it's worse because of how many people will miss it.  I did bring two nephews of mine there to jump a few years back, but I will lament not being able to see my sons jump, and for myself never to do it again.  Even the tame way I used to do it was exhilarating--truly feeling Gravity and then the splash and whoosh of bubbles all around you as you bobbed up in the pool.  The truth is, it was totally safe to jump if you did it right.  All it took was an easy little hop to put you right into the center of the pool. It was the crazies and the graffitists and the YouTube posters who caused concern over the place, and lawyers and the candy-assed douchebags who make them rich ruin everything.  I've always felt that if I drown or break my neck out in Nature, that it's MY fault, and I'm not going to sue somebody just because they didn't stop me.  But this is the world we live in, and for once, Pediddleville is superior.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=quQfg-WHDfE

Staycation Blues And Creatism...Winter Fatigue Sequestration...I Want A Bike...

It's a good feeling right now.  The winter funk has lost its firm grip on me.  Something resembling enthusiasm is bubbling up, and I need to safeguard it so that it doesn't go Missing In Action.  I started working with my lathe on a set of Swedish bagpipes I resolved to build years ago.  Somehow I overcame a mental block I was having about them effortlessly.  Now I am nearing a return from musical expatriation.  I started taking guitar lessons to clear out the cobwebs, compiled a list of obscure cover tunes I'd like to play at a local coffee house, and am near to starting up my live radio project, which will be like an artists collective series.

But it wasn't always this way...

I work outside, even during Winter, so I tend to come down with a motherfucker of a case of Winter Blues.  The ol' Seasonal Affective Disorder.  This past Winter has been particularly hard and depressing.  Pediddleville being Pediddleville, the vehicle I drove through the Winter to and from work has NO HEAT.  Also weighing in is the fact that winters seem to be getting harder and harder.  I don't care what you think about whether Global Warming (Climate Change) is real or not.  To me it is real.  To Irene, Sandy, Alfred, and that big blizzard two years ago it was real.  All that extra water vapor has to go somewhere--collapsing roofs with its weight, and seeping into your basement, ruining those forgotten boxes of stuff,  molding up your carpet and drywall.  Two years ago, you may be surprised to hear, I was thankful that I came down with Walking Pneumonia, because it meant I did not have to work outside in three feet of snow for ten days.  Winter is also the time when I'm not simply broke, as usual, but near destitute.  I really wish I could abstain from Christmas, because that's the one expense that fucks me for the whole season.  It's corporatized bullshit anyway.  What I want for Christmas is for there to be no Christmas.

 ...Or to be able to afford a new car, one that has heat, and a working gas gauge for that matter.  One cold day I was driving home from work in the pick-up with no heat.  At just about the twenty minute mark--the amount of time it takes for me to get a good chill--I ran out of gas.  I thought I had had enough to get home and I'd planned to fill up in the morning, but instead I was stuck in the parking lot of a library across from the old Nathan Hale schoolhouse.  I had already crossed the steel grate swing bridge over the Connecticut River and had already passed by the nearest gas station.  Pediddleville being Pediddleville, my gas can was also empty, so I had a predicament.  I had a feeling that pedestrian traffic across the bridge was not allowed, and the next gas station was way too far to walk to.  Just then I remembered the roadside assistance membership I had.  It was a budget motor club, not the expensive name brand one.  I called them and the guy I spoke with said that he was about forty-five minutes away, and couldn't seem to understand the directions I had to give him.  Frustrated, I thought maybe I'd call my neighbor to bring me some gas.  I told the operator I'd call back, then my cell phone battery died as if on cue.  Pediddleville.  See what I mean?

Shivering, I locked up the truck, grabbed the gas can, and started walking back toward the river.  It took just a few minutes to reach the bridge.  There was no "No Pedestrians" sign on the bridge, but it was clearly designed for auto traffic only.  There was no line demarcation of any kind of sidewalk, and the bridge is fairly narrow.  It was dark, and the lights of the oncoming cars and the overhead lights made it quite surreal as I strode as close to the side wall as I could, my feet clunking down on the metal grate.  It felt like a hard surface, but the optical illusion of the lights, and being able to see the water way down below my feet was vertiginous, but somewhat thrilling.  I just kept fearing getting hit by a car, because with the wildness of the experience and the proximity of the cars and the unexpectedness of my presence and the day I had been having, it just made perfect sense.

From the bridge it took another probably fifteen minutes to reach the gas station.  Pumping the gas came off without a hitch--no card declined, no spillage, and soon I was walking back toward the bridge.  Now the concern was being pulled over by the police.  After all, I was carrying a container of a hazardous material over a body of water, but I suppose any cop would simply give me a lift over the bridge.  Halfway across a young guy stopped and offered me a ride.  I didn't know him, and didn't think about the potential for misadventure that getting into a car with a stranger at the wheel could bring, but it was okay. He told me I really looked like I was having a hard time.  I said I wondered about walking the bridge, but he said he'd walked it several times, and that there was no rule against it.  He dropped me at my truck and wished me well.  My luck had turned, I guess, when I decided to walk in the cold over the water.

A few weeks later I had thoroughly had it with Winter, for this and ALL years.  I am getting too tired of dealing with the cold and the poverty that comes with the season.  I had a scheduled vacation, and I had a LIST.  There were so many things I wanted to get accomplished during the vacation.  I told my wife not to get her hopes up that I would be much help around the place.  I was determined to do my things in order to preserve my sanity.  Since there was no money, a "Staycation" it would be, but that was fine with me since I'd have time to work on my list.  Of course Pediddleville being Pediddleville...

Winter depression exacerbates the 'ol Creatism disease, it appears.  Creatism is a made-up psychosomatic ailment that I have suffered from over the years.  It can best be described as a cross between Creativity and Autism.  No, I'm not really Autistic, but it seems like whenever I have a burning desire and need to accomplish things on a creative level and actually have the time to do it, that I can't do it.  I have this need, like most people need food, to do creative things.  I like to make stuff--my own stuff.  My own beer.  My own radio show.  My own musical instruments. My own music, and on and on.  Bob Dylan wrote my theme, in his song Maggie's Farm:  "I wake up in the morning, fold my hands and pray for rain.  I got a head full of ideas that are driving me insane.  It's a shame the way she makes me scrub the floor..."  I can't stand when anyone wastes my time or my energy.  I am quite capable of wasting my OWN time, thank you very much!  I have my best creative  ideas when I am imprisoned at work and can't do anything about it.  The frustration builds up more and more as I have to work more, and do more everyday responsible stuff, and not having the time, the energy, or the money to afford it makes me nuts, especially in the winter.  When I do have time I am overwhelmed with the size and time factor of THE LIST, and I get stuck.  This is what happened during my vacation.  I kept setting goals and timelines for doing things, but my list just went cold.  I did nothing all week.  Nothing.

                         High water from snowmelt, late Winter at Comstock Covered Bridge


And so it goes.  I started writing this post weeks ago.  Some champion level procrastination has taken place, and of course the everyday busy busy rigamarole of having a family, but I've also been busy with a few good things like working on the lathe and getting my bagpipes out of mothballs.  The days are much warmer now, and it is no problem driving that truck.  Getting out in the woods, though it is time consuming, is good for the soul. This year I will try to get a bike and do some rides along the Airline Trail that skirts in and out along Salmon River.  Time to blow out the cobwebs of Creatism...