Six hours in a parking lot

I spent six hours today standing in a parking lot collecting signatures to force the county income tax onto the November ballot—the same income tax that was defeated on last November’s ballot. One hundred volunteers collected signatures in eight locations. My location had a steady stream of voters despite the fact that the Register Guard and at least one local television station reported that the commissioners were “probably” going to do away with the tax anyway. When I asked people why, having heard this, they still came—thirty miles in some cases—they all said that they don’t trust the commissioners or the media. Many people appear to place a negative truth correlation upon what they are told by the powerful. A local TV station sent people to the wrong location for our rally last week, and the Register Guard sent them to the wrong location for my signature station today—in a paid ad, no less. Accidents? Even if they were, they would suggest that the media is untrustworthy.

I asked one of the three men who started the petition how it came about. He said that he and the other two work together, and that they often threaten to take action against one government outrage or another, but that, until now, their threats had fizzled. This time, one of them donated $10,000 for legal fees and advertising, and they all took off from work to support the effort.

The volunteers at my station thanked everyone who signed. Many of those we thanked pointed out that it was we who were doing all the work, but we didn’t see it that way. As one volunteer said, “We could stand behind these tables all day, but if people didn’t care enough to show up, we would be wasting our time.”

A perfect fit bike, fun with my internist

T’was a big day. I got my new bike out of the shop after leaving it overnight for its second fitting adjustment. I paid $100 extra for a “custom designed perfect fit” only to discover that the only way I could get it was to go home and measure everything about my old bike, and have the custom design team redo the new one to match it.

I’m reminded of a woman who told me that she had a contractor come out to see about replacing her patio door. The man failed to notice that the door was closed, and he walked into it and broke it. His replaced it with a new door of her choosing, entirely at his expense. Obviously pleased with her sagacity the woman assured me that she would “never hire that klutz again.” I concluded from this that she was a hard and silly woman indeed, because it is not the perfect workman who is to be cherished but the workman who is willing to keep plugging away until the job is right.

Another reason it’s a big day…. The results of my follow-up blood-work were in, so I went to the doc to talk about why it was screwed up. He said I have low testosterone. He added that the problem is easily and cheaply remediable with shots, and so he shotted me. I feel better already, like a bull rather than a steer (as he put it). Come to think of it, I felt like a bull anyway, and was astounded that my testosterone was low, so maybe I’m aroused by my new bicycle rather than my new testosterone.

A strange arousal, perhaps, but surely not a bad arousal. Better a bike than a farm animal, I always say, if for no other reason than that bikes don’t kick or transmit hoof-and-mouth disease. Besides, I don’t know where I would keep a farm animal, although, come to think of it, Bonnie is a herd dog, so she would probably enjoy having something to herd—something other than Baxter who just lies on his back and looks despondent when she tries to herd him. But, on the other hand, there’s Peggy to consider. If your spouse told you, “Look, I’ve absolutely, positively got to have a romantic relationship with either a bicycle or a farm animal—you choose;” what would you say—“Get a cow, honey. I’ve been wanting to try my hand at cheese-making.” I don’t think so.

So, Bonnie votes for a farm animal, whereas Peggy would no doubt prefer a bicycle—if I had enough testosterone to ask her—but Peggy can give me infinitely more grief when she’s frustrated. Easy choice, no? Wife—ten. Dog—zilch.

Now for some doctor jokes, or rather jokes told to me by my doctor.

“Why do men have holes in the ends of their penises? So their brains can get oxygen.”

How are bulls able to screw three times a day? They get a different cow each time.”

“Yeah, men are different,” I said. “With women, sex is mostly a function of what’s upstairs. They’re defective that way.”

“You’re right,” he said sadly, as we gave one another a manly hug. “Too bad we don’t know how to fix them.”

“Well, maybe you can work on it after you learn how to cure the common cold,” I offered.

“Yeah, maybe we can,” he answered, but, with a notable lack of optimism.

Another demonstration with Peg

I had a good birthday. Shirley gave me daffodils and chocolates; Walt gave me comb honey from his hive; Peggy’s parents gave me their usual $25; others sent cards; and I got word that my new bike was ready. I didn’t pick it up until Saturday (my birthday being on Thursday), because I wanted to take my first ride without getting rained on. This bike “feels” the pavement more than my other one, and the vibration puts my hands to sleep. I took it back today for some modifications, but the problem wasn’t eliminated, and I anticipate it being even worse when I go off-road. I can get my money back within thirty days, but I am loathe to ask for it. Although I went to lengths to make a prudent decision before I ordered, I obviously failed to go far enough, and for that I feel badly. On the other hand, I’m not about to eat $1,700. My hope is that further handlebar adjustments will remedy the problem.

While I was at the bike store today, an elderly couple arrived to pick up their new bikes. I spoke with them for a long while, and the man said he and his wife have been tandem enthusiasts for years, but that Parkinson’s has made it unsafe for him, forcing them to return to “beginners’ bikes” as he scornfully called a regular bicycle. I know nothing about tandems, but thought he looked ready for a trike. I considered saying as much, but since he was already indignant about his “beginner’s bike,” I bit my lip. I felt sorry for his wife who quietly endured his bitterness, and I felt disgusted with him for ruining what might have been a joyous occasion. Later, I realized that his unhappiness might not have been entirely a result of selfishness. He might have also felt remorse that his failing body had deprived his wife of something she loved. I know the feeling since I can no longer hike with Peggy.

I went to the monthly neighborhood peace vigil last night. We had fourteen this time, which was about double last month. I also went to the federal building today to stand with Peg. She was in the twelfth day of a two-week fast, and confessed to feeling sickly. I caught her at her second of three demonstrations today. The first was a sit-in at Congressman DeFazio’s office. She said that people were arrested, but that she was not among them. “We take turns,” she explained. Since no mention of these arrests ever occurs on the news, I don’t know what the point is.

I have observed that the spiritually oriented protestors (like Peg, who is a Quaker) act on the basis of what feels right rather than on what seems pragmatic. This causes me wonder if the point of their protests is more to feel good than to do good. Since I am out there with them, I am forced to ask myself the same question, and I can but offer that I support them because their dedication makes me ashamed to do otherwise, and because of my hope that, together, we can inspire others to join us until our numbers become great enough to end the war. If nothing else, our efforts might bring more thoughtfulness and compassion into the lives of those who see us. For this reason, I would never knowingly demonstrate with anyone who planned to use harsh words or destructive behavior. To paraphrase a Quaker admonition: When you work to end war, be sure that you are free of the spirit that causes war.

Right after her daily stint at the federal building, Peg crossed the street to protest with “Women in Black.” True to their name, they all wore black. I biked home, sick as always from exhaust fumes. I asked Peg if the exhaust doesn’t bother her, especially in her weakened condition. She said, “I worry about it, and many people have had to stop coming because of it, but I always think about how much worse the people in Iraq are suffering.”

Peaceniks in the snow

I went to the federal building for a peace demonstration today. As I biked, a stiff wind blew wet snow into my face, stinging me with surprising sharpness. No one was there when I arrived, so I speculated that maybe I was the demonstration, and this posed a problem because I had no sign. Then I saw a woman slowly approaching with a five-foot high poster that read “Vigil and Fast for National Repentance and World Healing.” Her name was Peg, and she said she hadn’t eaten in a week, and that her back was killing her. Her every word and movement was in slow motion, and, although she showed a friendly interest in me, she had trouble tracking what I said. Others began to arrive singly until we numbered five women and myself. Hearing my accent, someone asked what part of the South I was from, and said she had lived ten miles from there. Finally, another man appeared. I was the youngster of the group.

Unlike on Saturday, I was very much in the mood for a protest, so I stood right next to the curb holding a borrowed sign. I alternated between waving and smiling at the four lanes of traffic from the west, and—when they had to stop for the light—waving and smiling at the three lanes of traffic from the north. Hundreds honked and waved back, including a cop and a bus driver. I chatted amiably with my companions, all of whom seemed pleased-as-punch to be out demonstrating on one of the foulest days of the year. I commented that we were surely a scraggly looking group in our comfortable but unstylish raingear. Someone replied that, as peaceniks go, we were more scruffy than scraggly. I could but defer to the voice of experience. After an hour, we formed a circle, held hands, and chanted: “May all beings be safe. May all beings be well. May all beings be happy. May all beings be free,” before going our separate ways. Peg said she comes everyday, so maybe I will see her tomorrow.

This was my third demonstration in a month. I also wrote to Republican Senator Gordon Smith to thank him for his bravery in opposing the war, and I had a letter about bicyclists published by the Register Guard. Even if nothing I do makes the least bit of difference, I feel better for having done it. The hardest thing is to say nothing. The next hardest thing is to speak out alone. The easiest thing is to speak out as a member of a group.

I felt increasingly sick during the demonstration. My chest is congested, and the exhaust fumes were torturous. The cold and wet didn’t do me any good either. By the time I got home, I was close to vomiting. Two hours and a hot shower later, I am still close to vomiting.

I asked Peggy to go with me to the demonstration, but she said she worried that some Marine with PTSD might come by and blow us all away. When I told one of the demonstrators this, she said she had been spat upon and hit, but never shot. She speculated that the spitter must have been a smoker, because the sputum was green and thick.