Segway to Lethergy

October SEAHA note from the editor

I have seen the enemy and it is convenience. I got to ride a Segway this week at work. That is one of those strange, two-wheeled, auto-balancing platforms you ride when you decide to stop walking. Minimalist in the extreme, it' has just two wheels beside a foot platform, which also sprouts a handlebar. The first time I saw a 7 1/2-foot tall head and torso floating smoothly past the cubicle wall at 5 MPH I almost got whiplash. Most bystanders have two questions: what the heck is that, and why isn't he walking? Horse folk are sometimes asked the same thing. I've been on several crowded trails and heard joggers and bikers mutter, "the horse is doing all the work." We know it's a combined effort for rider and mount, though not as many calories get burned on horseback as with the more frenetic activities. I’m sure nobody considered the first person to ride a horse lazy. "Hey Xenophon, why don’t you get off that thing and get some exercise?" Before domesticated horses it was work to get anywhere. You only went to market a few times a year, because it took two weeks to walk there, and two weeks back. The horse gave a little welcome relief. But it is work to daily feed and care for the animal, so that he is willing to occasionally carry you. It is work to brush his coat, to clean his feet, to throw a 40-pound saddle on his back. It is work to keep a balanced seat and help pick the best route. Yet today it is hip to opt out of walking and use these new-age devices, but is becoming unacceptable to have a partnership with an animal. Next time you see someone riding a Segway down the sidewalk, ask, "hey…why aren't you walking…or riding a horse?"

Winter's Here - Put the Top Down

Out of the heat, finally. I'm so glad it has cooled off, my goal is to leave the convertable top down for the remainder of the fall. Kind of opposite of what you'd expect. If you are from a temperate zone, the summer is roadster weather. In the dead of summer in Tucson it's too hot to leave the top down, you wait till it cools off. Driving with the top stowed or the windows down in July makes as much sense as a screen door on the space shuttle. To allow the harsh, blinding, white-hot atmosphere to intrude would mean death. Your car roasts in the parking lot, the seats smolder, the dashboard cracks, the microscopic windshield pockmarks spontanously sprout festive footlong cracks from the heat. Summer sucks. I declare it over and the miata is in it's element. As am I.

Songs for the moment

...Cause everybody hurts. Take comfort in your friends...REM.
I tried, I can't do it myself.
Lyrics links are all I can now offer. Even without the music... Oh, to be able to write like that, to be able to play, sing, communicate like that.

If I needed you
Would you come to me
Would you come to me
For to ease my pain
If you needed me
I would come to you
I would swim the seas
For to ease your pain
Emmylou Harris version of, If I needed You.

I tried so hard, my dear, to show that you're my every dream
Yet you're afraid each thing I do is just some evil scheme,
A memory from your lonesome past keeps us so far apart.
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold, cold heart?
Hank Williams

Pretty flowers were made for blooming
Pretty stars were made to shine
Pretty girls were made for lovin'
Little Maggie was made for mine.
Bill Monroe, Little Maggie.

Skin Blotches Found on Women!

It was good to read I'm not the only one that loathes tattoos on women. I couldn't say it better than Lileks. As I've been watching the growing skin altering trend I seldom feel disgust, but usually sad amazement and pity. I'm starting to see the tattooed crowds change from being just young, "hip" kids in their late teens, to moms with strollers, to middle aged women. I don't know if these older marked ones are newly blemished, or if the tattoo fad has been ongoing for that long a portion of our generation.
What was barely overlookable on young, shapely women really becomes unappealing on out of shape 30-somethings. Maybe that's the point, it is meant to scare men off. I supposed there are some men that are attracted to the giant above-the-butt designs or shoulder gunk. If they get into a long-term relationship with such a women, I wonder what both of them will think about it in 15 years?
I've yet to notice it on career women, except those in the entertainment industry. I recall that women in the seedier entertainment venues were some of the first to embrace these ugly splotches. I wonder when the engineers and businesswomen where I work will start having distracting logos emblazoned on their epidermis?
What I keep saying is if you want to ornament yourself, get a nice design on a shirt, dress, bandana, something other branding the thing on your skin.

Belligerent Labor Day Kids, Then and Now

Then:
When I was growing up, Labor Day was always the last time for my family to take a trip to the mountains of North Carolina. Every year we would return to the misty Blue Ridge Mountains as summer wound down and the school year approached. My cousins, sisters and I would fish for trout in the South Toe River, watching in amazement as their dark shapes would gobble up all of our canned corn chum; except the one kernel with the tiny hook in it. We'd jump into the icy water below the old log dam, swimming away from the face quickly to avoid the copperheads and occasional timber rattler that liked to rest in the cracks. Our parents turned us kids loose, the main rule being not to make any trouble for the grownups that mostly stayed in camp and talked. That was a pretty high expectation for my cousins and I. Before lunch one day the three of us hiked the familiar nature trail that wound about 2 miles up the ridge above the campground. About half way up we sat on a wooden footbridge that spanned a steep cove in the forest. The slope dropped below us, with giant douglas fir blocking any distant view. It seemed a natural spot to practice whistling with our hands. The technique involves cupping your hands together and blowing into the hollow at your thumbs to make a low-pitched dove sound. We'd been told to stop doing it in camp by my mom. For twenty minutes we sat on that bridge trying to top each other. We'd see who could make the strangest warbling sound. We'd see who could make the loudest sound. The forest resonated with pseudo wildlife. Hunger called, so we ceased and headed to camp for lunch. When we got there my mom fronted the angry parent contingent. It seems our secluded spot actually formed a natural amphitheater, with the campground in the prime location for maximum acoustical amplification. Our whistles had been interminably echoing around the campground, as angry campers tried to figure out where they were coming from. Our parents recognized the hoots as a retaliatory strike for being kicked out of camp earlier. No amount of explanation would convince them otherwise.

Now:
Kids are allowed to push into higher levels of disrespect than when I grew up. This Labor Day weekend I invited a friend down from Phoenix to join our camp. He brought his daughter and a delightful Korean friend who is doing postgraduate work at ASU. I camp in the Santa Ritas often, enjoying riding and relaxing in the semi-wooded, rolling hills below the Mt. Wrightson wilderness. I headed up with the girls and the mules Friday to get a site. I knew it was going to be a busy weekend when I started spotting blaze pink flagging tape tied to trees along the dirt roads. I'm sorry, but anyone who needs to use flagging to find his way along a road is an idiot. That's what odometers are for. You can bet they don't remove the tape. My favorite giant oak was already taken, so I started looking for alternates. The best was off the main dirt road, far enough into the mountains to keep the average car out, 100 yards into the juniper up a side 4wd path. I "might" get some seclusion there, the flipping pink flagging suggesting otherwise. Sure enough by sundown truck after truck had worked past my camp to stop just out of sight through the junipers. The tejano music started, as always, signifying the end of solitude. This particular part to the Coronado National Forest is multi-use, meaning that quad-wheelers and dirt bikes are allowed as are mules and hikers. Each trucked pulled a trailer full of quads, which were promptly unloaded and given to the kids. For the next 24 hours it was like a scene out of Road Warrior. The kids, none of whom were older than about 12, rode back and forth in front of my camp, blowing dust and scaring the mules. Now keep in mind there are miles of roads that go in all directions. The parents must have told the kids to keep away from their camp (they didn't want to be disturbed) but not to go too far. Those instructions meant about a dozen quads rode round and round my site. Those as young as 7 or 8 couldn't even restart their vehicle when it stalled. One trio of three 9-year-old girls rode together on one larger quad. None wore helmets. The oldest boys made a point of revving and spinning out every time they passed. Which was every 2-3 minutes, their circuit was so small. I finally got out of my chair and looked at what they were doing. They would ride a few dozen yards beyond my camp to the main road, turn around and come back. They never thought to explore the miles the path went in the other direction. It's fun to show off. Over and over and over. Of course we got angry and embarrassed for the Korean girl's first camping experience. But I don't enjoy approaching a camp full of dozens of heavy drinkers. Stopping the kids in the road and negotiating a better riding area only made it worse. An adult led the next pass in review with the boy we stopped waving his butt as he rode by. Thankfully the riding stopped at dark, and the trees muted their music. I kid you not, at 0730 the first one fired up and it started all over again. What a great baby sitter, each child gets a motor vehicle so they never really have to learn to walk. They'll remain occupied for hours, except for when they need to eat or gas up. Another equestrian camp packed up and moved on. We trailered the mules 2 miles further and took a needed hike into the wilderness. When we came back it was like the kids had never stopped riding. The final pass we noticed a bigger quad chasing up their rear. It had flashing lights on it. Oh yeah, the Calvary! Little did I know the Forest service patrols this area for improper OHV use. They need help, their area covers from Nogales to New Mexico. After our detailed statements the belligerent quad camp received a long lecture on respectful use. Thanks to Rangers Ricky and Chris peace returned to the forest for the first time in 36 hours.