Found Objects

I’m espousing a new theory, or maybe an old one dressed up in new clothes.  It’s called, “Found Object Bracketing”.

I probably can’t claim this as my own invention, as I’ve seen many examples of the idea on motorcycles on the street, especially in places and at times when many of them gather, such as the Isle of Vashon TT, but I like to think I’m advancing the cause whenever I can.

Back in the day, which feels good to say if you’re old enough to remember it fondly, having forgotten all the bad stuff, the members of the motorcycling world, mostly including the chopper guys, were of necessity handy with tools and able to come up with ideas in solution of problems that arose.  It started with the obvious ones – drill out the rivets on that hinged rear fender and relocate the tail light to the hand built sissy bar – and proceeded from there to the far-our unrideable custom creations of today that reveal their true value when they go up for sale years later with very few miles on them.  Somewhere in the middle of that are some fancy but useful pieces that add value to a bike in the eyes of a knowledgeable viewer.

For me, it started on a road trip one time back in the ‘70s.  A few of us were headed out through Winthrop towards Glacier Park when we ran out of daylight somewhere east of Omak and decided to pull off the road by a small creek and set up the tents.  We traveled light in those days and had the capacity to make and break a good campsite, cook food, and build a small fire to sit around afterwards.

In the waning moments of daylight, I went for a wander through the adjoining field, where I spotted the hulk of an old car out by the barbed wire fence and strolled over for a closer look.  The big square bodied four door had the look of something out of the late ‘20s, early ‘30s, with the balloon fenders and the upright noses of evolved carriages.  I stuck my head in through the glassless side door and saw that everything was in the advanced stage of decomposition by rust, which had already evaporated the floor boards and most of the firewall.  But there, sticking out under the dash in the center by where the shifter would have been if there was a transmission under it still, was a hand lever that appeared to be in perfect condition, not a scrap of rust visible on its gorgeous Art-Deco style.  I reached out and pulled it loose with little effort from the remnant of the vent flap that it used to open and close and took a closer look.  It was hard, and strong, and intact, and appeared to be made of some form of cast metal with enough chrome to make it rust proof.  The mounting end had a couple of screw holes in a bent bracket.  I found a place for it in my saddlebags and drug it all over the country and back home again, where it wound up in the tub with all the other catch-alls and remnants that tend to pile up when you do things.

Some years later, that handle turned out to be the perfect choice for a hand shift conversion on an old Harley Shovelhead chopper.  All we had to do was bend the mounting end a bit to get the proper angle and weld it to that steel cover that activates the shifter on a Big Twin four speed.  So off that old vent flap lever went to a new life on the road, where it may still be, for all I know.

The idea is that every part, no matter what it is used on, contains material and labor, which gives it value.  If that part is scrapped, it only returns the value of the scrap metal to the owner.  If, however, that part can be put back into service somehow, it can return double the value, both because you already had it, so you didn’t have to go buy one, but also because you preserved the value that was already in it and enhanced that value with a new use for it.  Taking that idea to the extreme, you turn that piece into a work of art that not only works well, but looks good doing it, which thereby reflects positively on your own ingenuity and mechanical skills as a bonus.  I saw a Triumph once with top motor mounts made from modified Craftsman box end wrenches that was a perfect example of this.

On my FXR I wanted to run a Supertrapp exhaust, but the outlet for the only headers that would fit with my police floorboards was 2” diameter, and the inlet for the only muffler that would work in the back was 2 ½”, so I had to manufacture a split collared bushing out of aluminum on the lathe to take up the difference.  It is nice to have a machine shop in your garage for this kind of stuff.  Then the remnant bin churned itself and spit out two ideas, one of which, a piece of slotted flatbar with curled edges for strength,  was the perfect length and shape to bolt to the muffler, and the other was a stout length of forged square stock that needed just a slight bend in exactly the right spot with a few drilled holes that allowed it to tuck in behind the muffler and tie in to the bracket on the transmission with the use of a coupling nut from McLendon’s.  I got the exhaust pieces at the swap meet for around $60, and the coupling nut was a couple of bucks, compared to a whole new system for $800+, and this Found Objects philosophy begins to make sense.

On my Guzzi, I got a heckuva deal on new PIAA driving lights, the downside being that they came with a switch, but no mounting brackets.  The remnant bin coughed up an old solid brass bathroom towel rack that I cut the curved sections out of and put to new use under my headlight to hold the lights where I want them attached to the lower triple clamp.  All it took was a couple of strategically drilled holes and some saw work.  One side tended to loosen up, so I tied them both together with a part that looks like some form of track lighting bracket but fits in under there like it was meant to be.  For the switch, I discovered a bracket in the tub that was miraculously perfect to tuck in under the top triple clamp which I attached with a couple of Nut-Serts.

Of course, you must disregard the value of your time in a situation like this.  When you can sit at your computer and look at Ebay and Craigslist, not to mention all the facebook pages dedicated to motorcycle and parts sales, you realize there are few problems that can’t be solved by throwing piles of money at them electronically.  It may cost a bundle, but it will save time compared to the hours you may spend digging through piles at swap meets looking for the right piece.  So it’s a matter of what’s important.  Time is getting short for some of us, and getting the project done sooner might be worth more to us than the money.  But if you have the luxury of time to wait for the perfect found object to pop up in your remnant bin, you can get that extra little thrill that comes when you find something that you can turn into a work of art and solve a problem at the same time.  That’s why we rarely throw any of that useless crap away, and usually come to regret it when we do.  :-{)}

Order amid Chaos

My dad was an organized man.  He was an electrical engineer by trade, and a woodworker by avocation who in his later life produced many fine pieces of furniture that the family has kept among us.  After he passed, we found notebooks that listed every individual tool he ever bought at Sears, where we used to go as a family on Friday nights.  We would park out back in the lot where they later built the annex, and walk in the back door by the loading dock.  Mom would head over to the clothing sections with whichever kid was next on the list for new clothes, or browse for fabrics or household stuff.  There was always something on the list when you had seven kids.

Dad would head up to the second floor where the Craftsman tools were on display, and I would follow up the escalator until we got to the motorcycles, where I would peel off and spend the entire time sitting on the mopeds and pretending I was cruising down the highway (or the sidewalk), or drooling over the scooters or the big black beautiful Allstate 250, which really was an Austrian-made Puch with two exhaust pipes coming out of a single two-stroke cylinder, a “twingle”, as it was known at the time.  I think I was ten or eleven at the time, but I already knew I was born to be wild.

It was a simpler time, when a set of ¼” drive sockets from 3/16” up to ½” would be listed in the book as costing $1.95 in 1963.  The family soon learned to send my brother to collect me on the way out the door, where we always stopped by the famous candy counter back at the foot of the escalator around the corner from the exit, a place of magic where you could buy Chick-O-Sticks by the pound, and the drive home would be quiet other than the sound of chomping and the smacking of lips.

My dad was a wise man.  He knew that, when you’re in the middle of a project, and you need a particular screw for a task, it made sense to acknowledge that if you needed it once, you will probably need it again sometime, so he always bought a few extra.  Over the years, the collection of tools and hardware got bigger and bigger, which posed its own problem:  How do you find what you want when you want it?  Stuff needs storage, and storage costs money.  It’s that simple.

Storage also costs time, and thought, and organization.  In his shop, he lined the wall above the work benches with a series of hand made cabinets, all with doors made from pegboard for airflow set in birch frames.  Some of the doors would open to reveal a particular set of wrenches, say, each in its own slot or hanging from its own hook.  Often there would be a few pullout drawers in a special frame inside the cabinet that held smaller wrenches, or related things like sharpening stones in the cabinet where the planes were stored.  Like was stored with like, and the bench was always clean, other than the tins that held the parrafin-soaked rags with which he wiped down each tool every time he put it away at the end of the night.  You can see the same tendencies in mechanics in the shop.  You’ll notice the ones who lay everything they need to do a job on a handy cart to start a job, and carefully replace them in their proper place at the end of the shift, cleaned and wiped and ready for the next day.  Often, the trend continues to personal appearance, and I suspect a link between the ones who keep their coveralls clean and neat and the ones with the well-organized toolboxes.

Around the corner in Dad’s last shop, at the place they built in Port Angeles, were a series of free-standing shelves, crammed to the top with individual plastic boxes, each subdivided into sections with inserted plastic walls.  One would be full of pop rivets, another of cotter pins, another of washers of all sizes and types (I snagged that one).  You could literally stock a hardware store with his lifetime collection, but none of us were ready to take on that responsibility at the time, so we sent the entire pile off to the auctioneers, where they may very well have done just that.  They were all individually labeled with peel-and-stick labels you spit out of a squeeze gun.  All the spare belts for the lawn mowers and the string for the weed eaters, and the various lube oils and spare parts that you need to have around so you can fix anything that breaks on the spot were on those shelves, for many years in some cases.

It’s a certain type of person who can appreciate that level of organization as something to strive for and be proud of, and I think I inherited some of that from the old man.  My mother must have known when she gave me a name the letters of which can be re-arranged to spell “anal”.

And yet, much to my dismay, I discover that these values are not universally shared, even among the closest members of my own household.  When I mildly point out that, in order to get the most life out of those bath towels and extend the time before they deteriorate to the point of becoming “dog towels”, which are stored on a completely different shelf in the closet, it behooves us to carefully sort them when replacing the ones that just went in the laundry basket so the next one up is the one that has been sitting on the shelf the longest.  And if I go on to point out that the best way to accomplish this goal is to take all of them out every time and put the ones on the bottom of the pile on the back of the shelf on the towel racks in the bathroom, then replace the towels-in-waiting back on the shelf in the same order, well, would not a reasonable person conclude the obvious value of such a system?

But no, what I get instead are eye-rolls, and sneers, and snorts of derision!  I don’t understand it.  My suggestion to use post-it notes to date each towel as it went back on the shelf was rejected outright.

And look at the plates in the dining room!  Would it not make perfect sense, I ask, to always replace the currently washed plates on the Bottom of the stack, thus ensuring that each plate gets used once in turn, and no plate gets overused?  You would think they would be grateful for such insights, and eagerly agree to adopt such a system!  Especially since I do all the dishes!

But no, instead I get snarls, or amused chuckles, depending on the climate.  It’s enough to make me go out in the garage and work on sorting nuts and bolts.  I’m getting the stainless steel ones separated from the Allen heads, which are sorted differently than the cap screws, which are sorted by grade and length.  It’s gonna be great!  :-{)}

Donkeys and Elephants

The Elephants and the Donkeys both send me stuff in my email all the time, and it’s interesting in some ways to compare what they send with each other.

The Elephants sent this one today:

We have seen your strong support for Conservative values and we want to thank you by giving you an exclusive offer…

It’s an offer that’s only for the BIGGEST supporters of Trump’s agenda and Conservative majority.

We are giving you EXCLUSIVE ACCESS to the Presidential Majority Platinum membership. . . And because we know how much you’ve stood with our movement, we also want to give you a FREE American flag t-shirt.

But, we can only do this exclusive bundle today…

What it boiled down to is two things:  A Presidential Majority Platinum Member card that appeared to be made from plastic, and a T-shirt with a small American Flag on the front.  When I clicked on the “order here” button I found that the minimum amount they want is $50, and the maximum is $1,000 or more, with the option to make it monthly already checked for me!  This Limited Time Offer allows me to stand with President Trump and his House Majority today!

The Donkeys, of course, make up in quantity what they fail to achieve in quality, but I will give them this:  Most of their stuff is wrapped around a particular issue or angle.  Today, for example, to just cite a few:

The Legislative Majority PAC wants between $10 and $100 to fight gerrymandering, and they feature a smiling Barack Obama on the page.

Claire McCaskill’s campaign for Senator from Missouri is freaked out that she is now tied in the polls with the Trump guy, so please send money, $5 to $50, anything!  She’ll obviously take money from me in Washington State to run in Missouri, so what does that say about who else she will take money from, and what she will promise them in return?  Sorry, Claire, you will make it or break it in your state.  Stay there and run to them.

Then Bob Casey wants money from me to run in Pennsylvania!  Same answer, Bob, stay home. 

Then the Sanders Institute (a 501 (c) 3 organization, meaning my donations are tax-deductible), wants at least $27, up to $1,000 to boost Solar power companies and take away $20 billion in subsidies for the fossil fuel companies.

Then Patty Murray chimed in, with an offer to add my name to a petition demanding that Republicans do something about Trump, to “Hold Trump Accountable”, whatever that means.  She wanted anywhere from $5 to $250 after I clicked on the “Sign My Name” button.

I won’t bore you with the rest of them, and there are many, but they follow the same pattern.  The Elephants are completely ignoring current events and fishing for money based on a clear cult of personality and an unspecified “agenda”.

The Donkeys are more apt to bear down on one specific issue, which probably gives their data scientists a bunch of analysis of how any particular issue is flying with a given chunk of the electorate so they can fine-tune the message as we get closer to election day.  Clever people, those bit-twiddlers.

They both have one obvious thing in common:  They both have their hands out, and they both are using dollars raised as a measure of the success of any campaign.  The whole thing stinks to me of manipulation, professional image-crafting and corruption.  It’s becoming clear that both political “parties” have been taken over by scammers who are using them to extract money from us, the marks.  I bet they charge by the vote.  :-{)}

It's Over

The light bulb went on the other day, and I got hit with the obvious stick, and it felt good!

As anybody who pays any attention whatsoever to the news - or what passes for it these days - knows, the airwaves and the internet are full of arguments, disagreement, and complaints.  The finer points of axe-grinding, finger-pointing, name-calling and blaming have been raised to new heights as what seems like half the population takes on the other half in a continuing struggle to come out on top, even though nobody really knows what that means.

Well, here’s a news flash for you:  The last undecided voter, a young woman in Peoria, Kansas, finally made up her mind once and for all on April 1, 2018!  That means there is nobody left to convince on any issue!

Let your mind open and let the ramifications of this new reality sink in.  We’re done!  We don’t have to fight anymore, about anything!  It has all been decided, and there’s nothing left to talk about until the next election, which is the only place where we can exercise our right as a citizen in a way that actually does something.  We can vote.

In the meantime, we can just shut the hell up, all of us.  We don’t need to talk about politics anymore, there’s no need.  I already know who I’m going to vote for, and I don’t care who you pick, that’s entirely your business, which means it’s none of mine.

Of course, stuff will continue to happen, and people will react to it, as usual.  I’m not suggesting we give up our rights as citizens to tell the government what we expect from them at any and every opportunity that presents itself.  Far be it from me to even suggest that.  What I do suggest, though, is that we stop and consider who we should be talking to about issues that come up, and who we should not bother with.

Every one of us, at least the ones that aren’t currently homeless, has a representative who is elected to represent us.  We have City council members we can talk to, and a Mayor, if we live in town.  We have a County Council, and an Executive, and of course we have a State Representative, along with a Senator, and a Governor as well.  All of these people have to listen to us, because we live in the districts they represent and we vote for or against them in every election, if we’re holding up our end of the Citizenship Agreement.

And let’s not forget, at the national level, we have both a U. S. House member and a Senator who have the same responsibility to listen to us and respond to our concerns when we take the time to express them.  Or, you can go to the top of the line and work our way back down.  That starts with the President and Vice-President, of course, but you could extend that down to the Cabinet members if you’re a glutton for punishment.

So, as a citizen, you have many different people who would like to hear what you think about any issue on their plate, and, if you let them, will gladly send you newsletters along with never-ending requests for donations and invite you to their public events, so you can talk to them in person (don’t hold your breath on that one).

Every one else can go away.  I don’t need to discuss political issues with my cousins, my co-workers, strangers at the bus stop, people standing in line at the grocery store, or the beggar on the street corner.  I certainly don’t need to bother with trolls on Facebook.  I can smile and be pleasant, say, “Nice day, huh?”, or, “How about those M’s?”, and it doesn’t matter if the person I’m talking to is wearing a Confederate Flag T-shirt or one that says Black Lives Matter, because I don’t want to talk about their causes or hear their opinions.

If someone on the street comes up with a petition for something I would like to see adopted, I can sign it, but that’s all.  No, you don’t get any money, and no, I don’t want to hear about it.  I can sympathize if you’re all worked up about this or that cause or problem, but, in the words of an old song by Ten Years After, “Don’t ask me what I think of you, I might not give the answer that you want me to.”  Address your complaints and your suggestions to the only ones who can actually do something about it, your own representative.  Why are you wasting your breath on the rest of us?

“But, but but”, you say, “Look at those other guys!  Look at all the money they’re spending!  We have to match or beat them in order to win the election!  If you don’t give big now, we will lose!”  To that I ask only one simple question:  How do you measure the effectiveness of all that spending?

As to that, I think – but there I go again, don’t I?  Trying to slip in my opinion when it really doesn’t matter, does it?  Hey, how about those Seahawks?  They gonna be great this year, or what?  :-{)}

This is Getting Ridiculous

Ok, I have been thinking for some time that the way we do politics in this country is all messed up, but the onslaught has gotten so frenetic these days that it’s time to call a halt.  Let me show you what we’re up against.

And it must be said that all I did to deserve this was to donate a few bucks to Bernie Sanders last presidential election, and a little bit here and there for the few local races in which I have a vote.  I try to keep my nose out of other people’s business, so I keep my political contributions confined to this state, and my own district within it.

So here is just one day’s worth of emails alone sent to me for political reasons:

It started this morning at 9:17, when Adam Smith chimed in ask for a few bucks to help him run in the 9^th district here in Washington.  I don’t have a problem with that, I’ll probably donate at some point, he does represent me, and seems to be doing a decent job.

Then Bernie Sanders himself chimed in, at 9:40 AM, with a four page diatribe about what a pivotal moment in American History we are in right now.  He said all the right things:  Medicare for All, rebuilding the middle class and economic, racial, political and environmental justice.  At least he’s consistent.  That’s why I like Bernie.  He’s always in the thick of it and walks his talk.  I can’t donate any money to him unless he runs for president again, so we’ll see what happens.  In the meantime, you tell ‘em, Bernie!

Then at 10:43, Suzan DelBene sent me an email, or somebody named Tracy on her behalf.  She said a lot of people will be looking at her numbers to judge how strong her campaign is, so that’s why I should send her some money before the end of the 1^st quarter fundraising deadline.  There’s a theme in there to which I object, that you can keep score in a political race by counting dollars, but, for the record, Suzan, you’re not in my district, so you don’t get any money from me.  Does that make sense?

At 11:02 AM, I heard from Martin Heinrich, the junior senator from New Mexico, of all places!  Tell you what, Senator Heinrich, why don’t you just listen to the people you represent in that state, and I’ll keep my nose and my money out of your pocket.  This out-of-state money seems to be at the root of the problem, and I for one would like to see it stopped.  You say if you get 575 more $27 donations before Saturday night that will put you over the top and break last quarter’s record, proving you have the momentum to win in November?  How does showing you can beg money successfully from people all over the country prove anything about your abilities as a legislator?  Is that what it takes to win a Senator seat these days?

At 12:29 PM, Ro Khanna wanted to thank me.  I’m not sure what for, I never sent him any money, he’s running in California.  He pointed out that the corporate PACs, with their bottomless pockets, will stop at nothing to defeat us, but we can win if we finish this fundraising period off strong.

Excuse me, Ro, but didn’t the Democrats outraise the Republicans in the last presidential race by billions of dollars, something like 50% more money, and you still lost?

You say you’re bringing progressive values to Congress and boldly fighting for a future that works for all of us, but all I see is your hand out.

Donald Trump finished off the lunch hour with a message at 1:02. All he wanted was a dollar, just one lousy dollar, so he could count me as one of his official Sustaining Members.  That’s down from the $3 he wanted to get me in the sweepstakes for the all-expenses-paid dinner with him and 50 other winners at Mar-A-Lago that never happened last fall.  Once bitten, twice shy, baby…

Then, at 1:51 PM, the Democratic Legislative Campaign Committee sent me one, with the latest poll results from Florida, New Hampshire, Michigan, Wisconsin and Pennsylvania, which apparently show that Democrats are winning in all those races, and isn’t it great!?  Furthermore, a coalition of progressive donors has stepped up to match every donation made in the next 48 hours by five to one!

So I wonder, how does this relate to overturning the Citizens United Supreme Court decision?  What did you say the names of those progressive donors are?  You say you are dedicated to winning and defending Democratic majorities all over the country, but you don’t say how many of them are old tired Democratic hacks that stab their constituents in the back every chance they get, as long as they keep building those pensions.

Things began to get weirder as the day spun on.  Next up was Ron Wyden, the senior Senator from Oregon, at 2:53, but he didn’t want anything for him, he wanted me to send money to a guy in Tennessee!  Again, it was all about the money, and it seems everyone these days on the Democratic side had Act Blue standing ready to tap my bank account, they had my information right there, just click that little blue button…  Bernie started Act Blue, but it seems to have expanded to everyone on the blue side.

Then Claire McCaskill chimed in at 3:12.  She’s the Senator from Missouri, and she informed me that it was mission critical that she get 4,181 supporters to chip in before midnight Saturday, because, “..if we fall short here, we WILL fall short on Election Day, too.”

She’s so grateful to have me on her team as she fights for Missouri in the Senate.  But I’m not, of course, I don’t even live in Missouri, so why is she bugging me for money in Washington?  Must be a form letter…

But I gotta ask one thing, Claire?  Why are you so excited when you don’t even know who your opponent is going to be yet?

I cut this off at 3:41, when some obscure entity calling themselves The Legislative Majority PAC sent me an email wanting to know if I supported Robert Mueller.  They identified me, and them as well, of course, as Champions of Democracy working to defend out country from Foreign Collusion!  They need 200 of us Champions to sign on and donate by the end of Saturday so they can send an open letter to Congress calling on them to protect the Special prosecutor, whose Russia probe is heating up, and Trump is Terrified(!) and can I donate to elect Democrats who will defend the integrity of our government from Trump’s attacks!  I’m like, “Do you guys actually read this shit before you send it out?”

So, here’s a couple of conclusions, and the questions they bring up:

All of these messages, every one of them, even the Republican one, used the same fonts, in the same red, white and blue colors, with the same heavy use of red ink to show how exciting it all was. 

So did each of the various campaigns from all over the country that sent me emails today just happen to have the same design elements in their messages, or did all of them come from just one company?

To each of these candidates with your hands out, including the Orange guy, what do you buy with all that money?  Can I see a financial report after you get your first quarter figures together?  You can send me a copy, I see you all have my email address.  I’d like to see how much money this technique that you all seem to share raised for you, who it came from, and how you spent it.  Name names, please.

How do you measure the effectiveness of a donation, if you’re a PAC, or an ad buy if you’re a campaign?

I have a sneaking hunch that much of the money goes to professional outfits that sit around and think up these approaches, generate the attack ads and criticism that they spread, and tabulate the results, for a percentage, or do they bill by the hour?  I have a sneaking hunch that, in many cases, it’s the same companies that do the same work for both sides.  I also suspect that those same companies employ the sales forces that convince the politicians that they have to play the game if they want to win.  It’s a game that we, the citizens, seem to lose every time.

So until I see those financial reports, you will not see any of my money, thank you.  I think you would best serve your constituents, and by extension the entire country, if you pulled your strings back within your own state borders and concentrate on taking care of the business for which they elected you.  And keep your noses and your hands out of my pockets.  :-{)}

Biscuits and Gravy

When you’re on the road on a motorcycle, there’s something about biscuits and gravy in the morning.  You may not normally spend much time in roadside cafes and restaurants when you’re at home, going about your normal existence, but when you’re on the road, it’s every morning, at a different place.  And while you might not normally order biscuits and gravy at the fern bar where you normally stop for a local breakfast, when you’re on the road on a motorcycle it’s important to eat plenty of carbs to stave off the effects of the wind and supply the increased physical demands of the act of riding.  That’s why biscuits and gravy may become your choice, even if you’re not in a truck.

My preference has always been the local joint, not part of any chain, filled with the local folks, whom it must keep happy to stay in business, and so the food they offer becomes a reflection of what the local folks decide is reasonable and good.  Biscuits and gravy is like a bellwether for small towns.
Somewhere near the Mason-Dixon line you start seeing grits on your plate every time, no matter what you order.  In California it’s an avocado.  Anywhere within 3,000 nautical miles of Boise, Idaho it’s hash browns, lots of ‘em.  But they all have biscuits and gravy on the menu.

So a memorable road trip includes not only the memories of the places you went, the people who rode with you and the ones you saw along the way, and of course the weather, but also the food you ate at the various road side joints along the way.  Not to mention the beer you drank at the end of the day when the riding was over.

And it is natural that in the course of many an idle conversation after a nice dinner and over a beer and a campfire surrounded by tents that the topics would flow to those of most critical importance, such as where to find the best biscuits and gravy in the country.

My riding buddy, Marty, says that the source of the best biscuits and gravy in the country is the Two Mile Café in Albany, Oregon, while I contend that the actual source is none other than the Tastee-Freeze in Laurel, Montana.  Allow me to state my case, if you will.

The best way to sharpen your appetite for breakfast is to roll out of your fart sack as the sun breaks the horizon over the KOA where you slept and spend the next interval breaking down your camp and getting coffeed and cleaned up, then hit the road in the early chill of an August morning in western Montana, or any one of dozens of similar places in any other state.  Ride at least 30 miles or so up the canyon, where the sunny spots almost get you warm enough to be ready for the next shady spot where the temperature drops so fast you start to shake in anticipation.

In our case it was that stretch of I-90 west from Rapid City on the way home from Sturgis on a Sunday morning, and the spot on the map was Wolf Creek, Montana.  But when we pulled off the highway and down the single main street of the town, it quickly became obvious that there was nothing open, no choice but to get back on the road and head West and see what turned up.

By the time we rolled off the freeway in Laurel, the next town down the line, we were hungry enough to look hard at the next sheep that crossed the road in front of us, and the only choice appeared to be the Tastee-Freeze.  I was consoled by the number of rigs with Montana plates on them in the parking lot, which surrounded a building that was longer than it looked from the front, so in we went, five hungry bikers who had been camped in the dirt for the last ten days, and sat down with the town for their after-church Sunday morning breakfast.

I ordered the biscuits and gravy, of course.  Nothing else was going to stand a chance against the hollow ache in my midsection, that and lots of coffee.

As we warmed up over the hot coffee, conversation in the restaurant, which was mostly full, slowly built back up from the shocked hush that had greeted our arrival.  Then the food came, and I ascended into a state of nirvana, or culinary bliss, or some equivalent spasm of delight.  The biscuits were huge, and fresh out of the oven, split and covered with gravy, oh, such gravy!  It was the gravy of kings, the gravy of huntsmen on a cold morning before a fox hunt in Staffordshire, full of big chunks of the local sausage, served at the perfect temperature and accompanied by an impressive wad of hash browns to share in the wealth.  Even the toast was home made.

As I basked in that warm feeling of perfect satiety after a feast, secure in the knowledge that I was set for the day’s hard ride to come, something came over me, and I got up and walked to the front of the restaurant.  I said to the man at the register, perhaps a bit louder than I might have intended, “Let me speak to the chef.”  He hesitated, and I repeated, “I want to talk to the cook.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and a woman came out wiping her hands on her apron and said, “I’m the cook.  Is there anything wrong?”  In the back of my mind, I noticed that the restaurant was dead quiet behind me.  I asked her, “Did you make that biscuits and gravy?”  “Yes, I did,” she said, “Is anything wrong?”  I said, with a smile, “Ma’am, that was the best biscuits and gravy I have ever had in the entire state of Montana, thank you very much!”  Her face lit up and she smiled and thanked me, as the assembled customers all laughed at their tables and my wife made faces at me from our booth.  I went and hid in the bathroom.

Of course, I realize the fatal flaw with the idea that you could decide once and for all just who makes the best biscuits and gravy in the country, which is that you can’t rightly say until you’ve tried them all, right?

So the search will go on, even if the goal remains as elusive as the rewards of the search are rich.  Any tips that could lead to a contender for the crown are welcome.  :-{)}

It's Time

It’s Time

While March is doing its lion thing

And we await what the changes bring

Our souls long for the coming Spring.

It’s time to Rock and Roll.

We’re gonna take everything we get

And on the table we’ll place our bet

You can’t go swimming and not get wet

It’s time to Rock and Roll.

We go out when it’s warm at night

To join a crowd without a fight

And raise our hands to show a light

It’s time to Rock and Roll

It’s time to Rock and Roll, my friends

Time to get up off our hands

Roll the wheels and start the band

It’s time to Rock and Roll.