This is silly. I’ve been trying to upload a photo for an hour now. Blogger must be having technical difficulties. Hmmm… I shall have to try again later.

Odd. I’ve never had problems with Blogger or any Google product before. They told me to clear my cache and delete my cookies. I’ve done that, but it still doesn’t work. I’ll try again later.

Later yet… No luck. I’m getting perturbed. Google-related software is usually reliable. Hmmm…

Still later… Nope. Nothing. *sigh*

The next day – no dice. I guess they don’t want me to upload pictures this week.

A week later… Success! Almost. I can only get one photo to work.

In my last post (see below) I mentioned that I actually dread playing with my band in public these days. Last night my soundman woes happened pretty much the way I feared.

Before I had even played a single note, as I was turning on my amp and tuner, the sound man came up behind me. “Turn that slider on the left side of your EQ all the way down. Don’t use that channel at all, ever. And I need you to take some of the low end out…”

I complied. I spend about half an hour or forty-five minutes trying to get a good sound out of my bass without using the “forbidden” channel on my EQ, without having “too much low end,” and without using my second speaker cabinet (also forbidden by the sound man, at least for indoor shows). Needless to say, all I could come up with was a twanky, wooden sound. “Oh well,” I thought to myself. “My volume is turned so low that no one can hear me anyway. The soundman will make sure I have a good tone ‘out front’ through the main speakers…”

The first set went okay. I did turn my volume up a smidge, then right back down again. I’m turned down so low that if you turn the knob a millimeter you double the volume. During our first break I wandered over to a table of familiar-looking faces. It turns out that Miss Amy’s other band was there to see us. “I’m sorry about your bass,” one of them said. “What happened? Do you have a bad cord? Or is your amp broken?” I reassured him that all was as it should be, and that my bass was fine. “Oh,” he said. “We couldn’t hear you at all out here. We assumed something was broken. I can see your fingers move, but no sound is coming out…”

“No,” I explained with a sigh. “My sound man likes me to keep my volume low so he can control it from his sound board.”

A few minutes later a quick deal was struck between the Smokin’ Clams and Miss Amy’s other band, and they agreed to do a song or two. I showed their bass player up to the stage and gave him a quick lesson on how to run my amp. “The volume’s over there, this is the EQ I’m using, the tuner is right below,” I said. “Feel free to change any settings, but don’t touch the left slider on my EQ. My sound man hates that.” He thumped a few strings experimentally. “Geeze,” he said. “Where’s the low end? This doesn’t sound like a bass at all! Where’s the volume? I can’t hear anything! How can you play like this?” I just sighed again and pointed at the sound man.

A few seconds later they started their song. I was hopping up and down on one foot, impatient to hear how my bass sounded to the audience. For the first thirty seconds of the song, there was no bass at all – just kick drum and guitar. I could see the bass player’s fingers moving, though, so I knew he was playing. I made a beeline to the sound board, ready to tell the sound man just exactly what I thought. He saw me coming and hit a button or turned a knob or something, and WHAM – there’s the bass sound.

Satisfied, I sat down and kept my peace. “Vy are you so agitated,” my beloved bride Dagmar asked. “You were so happy all day. You were happy until you got here, where you get to do your favorite thing and play with the band. So vy are you so unhappy all night? What can ve do?” I have to admit, I really was pretty upset. “You know,” I told her, “I’m really sick of this, always bickering about my sound. From here on out I’m going to bring all my speakers, I’m going to set my speakers up where I want, and I’m going to EQ my sound the way I want. The sound guy can just deal with it.”

“What vood you do if the rest of the Clams don’t like it?” asked my vife. “I don’t vant you to quit the Clammies. I really like them. They’re your friends.”

“It has nothing to do with friendship,” I told her. “Of course they’re our friends. If they don’t like the way I play bass or they’re uncomfortable with my attitude about things, they’re welcome to find another bassist. I’ll stay with the band until they find a replacement, if that’s what they want to do, and I’ll help teach him the songs. I’m not mad at any of them or anything – it’s just this constant struggle about my bass tone. It’s killing me.”

Fast forward – the Clams are back on stage again, doing the second set. There’s a song that Clam Dan plays bass on, giving me a chance to hit the loo (something I ALWAYS have to do halfway through the second set). I handed him my bass (which I had turned back up a smidge in response to the audience reaction the first set) and made my way off-stage. They started the song – no bass. Again, I could see his fingers move, but all I could hear was kick drum and guitar. It was evident the sound man turned me down again. I was peeved, to say the least.

When I got up this morning I had a very nice e-mail from a friend and fellow musician. “The sound man works for the band,” he wrote. “Not the other way around.” He encouraged me to play with my “old” sound and be comfortable.

Tonight I have to play again at the same place. I’m gonna turn the volume where I want, and I’m going to tweak my sound the way I want (even the forbidden left slider on my EQ), and the sound guy can deal with it. Next time we play I’m gonna bring in both speakers and set up where it’s convenient for ME, not where it’s convenient for the sound guy, and I’m gonna play my bass the way I want to – the way I always have. And, something I just thought of… I’m gonna try to put a microphone in front of my speakers instead of letting the soundman run a cord straight from my amp. (He runs a cord to his sound board from the back of my amp, before the signal goes through my amp itself. This gives him what he calls a “clean” signal. Unfortunately, I don’t want him to have a clean signal – I want people to hear the same sound that comes out of my speakers, AFTER the signal has run through my tube amp and my equalizer.) In a way, it’s disrespectful for him to do that – everyone else in the band gets full control over their sound except me for some reason.

Wish me luck. I think there’s a fifty-fifty chance that I’ll simply shut my yap and keep going the way things are now, just to keep the peace.

—————–

On another note, my neighbors have parked in my driveway again. They’re standing out in their back yard screaming at each other at the top of their lungs. There’s gotta be something I can do about this… Maybe a “No Parking” sign in my driveway (but why should I have to pay to have a sign in my own driveway?) would do the trick on the parking situation, but what can I do about them always yelling and raising a ruckus? Poor Dagmar’s trying to sleep…

Oh well.

Well, I don’t know what to think. I’ve been offered the opportunity to let people advertise on my blog. My immediate reaction was “no.” I hate advertising. Then I though, well, if I make twenty bucks a year to let people advertise on my blog, that covers part of the expense of the web site… Hmmm… Well, okay.

So now there’s a little bar up at the top up there somewhere that says “Ads by Google” with a bunch of ads after it. I guess, in a few days when everything gets finalized (there are “fake” ads there now) I’ll get a fraction of a penny for every person that clicks on an ad from my blog.

If this bothers anyone, please let me know. Hopefully it’ll be discreet.

——————-

The Smokin’ Clams are playing at Rhonda’s this weekend, both Friday and Saturday. Should be a fun gig. I’m looking forward to it. Well, I’m sort of looking forward to it. I’m kind of dreading it, too. I’ve been having problems with my bass “sound” lately.

Here’s the deal. I kinda spent a lot of money and time choosing the right bass guitar, the right speakers, and the right amplifier to get the tone I like. Before every gig I spend a few minutes tweaking the sound to get it the way I want it… Only to have the sound man tell me to turn the volume down or turn my speakers around. See, he’s got a cord that runs from my amp to his sound board so he can control the tone and volume of my bass, as it comes through the main speakers, from his sound board. He doesn’t like it when the sound from MY speakers (which sounds the way I like) interferes with the bass sound coming out of HIS speakers (which, in my opinion, has bad tone).

So, I’m looking forward to playing tonight, but I’m dreading the battle that always happens. I’ve already turned my amp sideways and hoisted the speaker up on a rack so it’s pointed right at my ear so (hopefully) no one else can hear it. (Can you imagine how that feels? “Sure, you’ve spent fifteen years studying bass in your spare time, but we think the sound guy can do a better job, even though he makes your bass sound like a twanky guitar instead of a mellow bass guitar. So you just turn your speakers down and let the other guy control everything, okay?” It’s kind of like asking an artist to paint a picture, but you let someone else choose what color paints he uses, and what brushes he can paint with. “But, you see,” says the artist, “the sky is supposed to be blue. Why do you keep giving me orange paint?” Or like taking away the drums and making the drummer bang on plastic buckets, then telling him he has bad tone.) Anyway, I’ve already turned my bass down to the lowest possible volume and put the speaker right up next to my ear. But I’m dreading the sound man. I know, positively, beyond a doubt, that he’ll come up to me and start turning knobs on my amp without my permission, or he’ll tell me I’m too loud, or that my bass is interfering with the kick drum.

If I had a million dollars I’d buy a wireless in-ear monitor for my bass. Or better yet I’d get a Bose PA for the band.

My buddy Monte’s guitar, taken from the top down. (Photo taken December 29.)

This is Phillips Kiln, the company across the street from my house. Gotta love the barbed wire fencing… It instills a sense of trust in the community. My whole neighborhood is like that… *sigh*

Due to an odd combination of vacations at Record Printing (my current employer) I’ve been working longer hours lately and have been too busy to write much. (I don’t mind working longer hours, mind you, I’m just not used to it, and I wasn’t prepared for it so it’s been a little surprising. I need the money, though, so I’m not complaining.)

But, if I DID have time to write, there’d be lots to write about. Ultra-conservative Supreme Court Justices passing into the great beyond, ultra-unqualified FEMA managers getting the boot, ultra-small towns in Pennsylvania wanting to teach Creationism in science class – lots of good stuff there.

But the biggest thing on my mind is my neighbor passing away earlier this week. Nice lady. She was almost 90 when she died in the house her father built before she was born. The neighborhood is gonna miss her…

Well, time to go back to work.

(Sept. 16 – I just deleted a comment. Someone named edwarner6043 left a comment with links to his adult-oriented website. I do NOT normally delete comments as I oppose censorship and promote free debate, but this was nothing but a blatant advertisement for his rather dubious site.)

If you read my post from yesterday, you know we’ve been having insurance woes to the tune of six-hundred bucks. As I thought about the situation last night and this morning, I came to the conclusion that Mr. Terry Cantrell of Bill Markve & Associates is the person that we should hold responsible and accountable for the mess. Not that he himself did anything wrong, but as the paid representative for the insurance company, it’s his responsibility to make sure that the customer (us) is taken care of. As of the end of the business day yesterday I had the distinct feeling that we were getting the brush-off from Mr. Cantrell.

I was mistaken.

Turns out that Mr. Cantrell was indeed working on our problem, and has in fact found the error and corrected it. We’re VERY grateful that he put forth the effort to rectify the situation! People like this renew my faith in humanity! So, a public thank-you to Mr. Cantrell – we appreciate it!

I’m not sure if anyone particularly noticed, but I’ve not written lately. There’s a simple, though slightly unlikely explanation for that. I’ve been afraid to write.

You see, two months ago I started taking Wellbutrin (a.k.a. Zyban). It’s an antidepressant that often helps people quit smoking. Being “lightly” depressed and wanting to quit smoking, it seemed to be the right thing to do. And indeed I did quit smoking! Things were going wonderfully. My plan was to keep taking the Wellbutrin for three months or so, as they say the mental addiction to nicotine should start easing up after ten weeks. Unfortunately, now that I’m on week six, I’m noticing odd symptoms.

The past two weeks or so I’ve been VERY edgy. Of course I blamed it on withdrawal. I’ve also had odd spurts of uncontrollable anger. My heart has been racing. My insomnia has been MUCH worse than usual (which was pretty bad to start with). It’s been very hard to focus on things; following a thought through to its conclusion has been almost impossible. Depression loomed. The thing that got my attention, though was the paranoia. While I’ve always had a healthy dose of paranoia, I thought it was odd that I was suddenly convinced that the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court died just to spite me because he knew I wouldn’t like Bush’s selection of a replacement.

Writing my thoughts and opinions in a public forum probably wouldn’t have been a good idea.

So, at the urging of my wife, I started poking about the Internet to see what could be wrong with me. I was, of course, very careful to use a public, non-traceable computer so the government couldn’t track me down. I eventually figured out that Wellbutrin will sometimes have that effect on people. Hmmm… So just yesterday I quit taking the happy pills. My urge to smoke isn’t any worse than it was before, but my heartrate is already back down to somewhere approaching normal and I haven’t been nearly as angry as I have been lately. No little spurts of adreniline. And I realize now that the government probably doesn’t really care who I am – least of all a recently deceased Supreme Court Justice.

All in all, I feel MUCH better now. I’m back. Hurray!

On a different note, has anyone but me (and friend Dan) seen the Red Stripe Beer commercials? Great stuff! You can see them on the Internet, too – just go to www.redstripebeer.com. It’s almost as good as www.talklikeapirate.com, but not quite.

Tonight is the opening night of the 2005 NFL season. Patriots against a certain team, who shall remain nameless, from the left coast I used to like watching until they hired Randy Moss. I really and truly used to enjoy the good ol’ Silver ‘n Black. But then they agreed to take former Buccaneer and full-time loudmouth Warren Sapp (a man once remembered for a friendly rivalry with Green Bay quarterback Brett Favre, but now remembered only for dancing around in front of an opposing team’s coach yelling obscenities and acting like a fool). I still watched the nameless Oakland team, but without joy. Now they hired Moss, who, in spite of once serving jail time (battery and smoking dope), persisted in trying to run over a Minneapolis policewoman a few years ago whilst smoking an illegal substance and acting like a fool. source Classy guy. Go Pats!

Well, I just lost my good mood. Some of you may remember that a couple months ago I was diagnosed with high cholesterol. I now have a new diet, more exercise and another little pill to take. I don’t feel any better, really. Besides having to pay for the little white pills, we just now got a bill for $600 for the lab work at the clinic. That’s two weeks’ wages. I worked half a month for that money. The main problem is that our insurance (United HealthCare) has changed their policy, and neglected to inform ANYONE of the change. They used to cover blood work as part of the copay, but that’s no longer is the case. Now it’s out-of-pocket. My wife called United HealthCare representative, Terry Cantrell, who works at Bill Markve & Associates (located in the very prestigious and upscale Dakota Dunes community), only to find that we are indeed boned to the tune of six-hundred dollars. Mr. Cantrell shifted the blame to our doctor’s office (Family Health Care of Siouxland), who in turn shifted the blame to the company that processes the labwork, LabCorp, a publicly held company. If I had any money left (which I don’t as they already took all my moolah) I’d invest in the company (ticker symbol LH on the New York Stock Exchange). They’re on track to make their rich stockholders a LOT of money, mainly by taking it from poor folk. I’m not sure who to write letters to, as everyone in this whole chain is pointing fingers at someone else, so I’ll probably complain to the whole bunch of them.

You know, this wouldn’t have upset me nearly as much if they’d just been up front about the whole deal. “We think you may have high cholesterol. It’ll cost six hundred dollars to find out for sure.” Okay, I’d grumble about that, but at least I wouldn’t feel like they’re stealing my money.

Harrumph, grumble.

This past weekend Clam Dan and I went on an impromptu (sort of) motorcycle trip. We decided we’d take the backroads down to St. Joseph, MO and back. So, by nine Saturday morning my bike was loaded up and I was in Sloan, IA where I met Dan, who lives thereabouts. I gassed up, trying real hard not to wince at the price, and off we went. (If you click on the map at the right it’ll give you some idea as to our route. It’s not the best map in the world, but it’s better than nothing… I just figured out the other day that if you click on a picture it gets bigger. Wow.)

So, we rambled from Sloan over to Smithland (which is where the trip starts to get pretty). We were wanting to stay in the Loess Hills as much as we could, the curvier the road, the better. From Smithland to Mapleton was a nice little stretch. After Mapleton, Dan had me so lost in the backwoods that I have almost no clue which roads we actually took, but they were all pretty. I do know that we ended up at Prairie Rose State Park just outside of Harlan, IA, eventually. Strangely enough, Prairie Rose State Park had neither a prairie nor a rose, as far as we could tell. It was kind of a forest and lake kind of park. (Dan told me he’d lived in that area as a wee lad and that the trees weren’t there then. They probably didn’t do any proscribed burns, so the prairie turned into a scrubby kind of forest.)

We lunched at Walnut, IA, the Antique Capital of Iowa. We ate at Aunt B’s Kitchen on the assumption that anything with “Aunt B” in the name must be good. It was VERY difficult to refrain from whistling the theme to “The Andy Griffith Show” as we sauntered into the cafe. The fries were good and skinny and the BLT tasted like a BLT, so I guess I’m not gonna complain. It was a little odd, though, that all the knick-knacks scattered about the restaurant had price tags on them…

And off we went to Atlantic and Villisca, through New Market to Bedford… At one point we went over the Nishnabotna River, which got me thinking about how names influence people. Nishnabotna. What a cool word. A little later we went over the Nodaway which had me thinking of lazy wizards and gentle dragons for some reason. What a happy, sleepy name! Nodaway. Then we went over One-Hundred-Two River. I imagined cartographers arguing over this one… “What should we call it?” asked one mapmaker, squinting academically at a map of Northwest Missouri. “I dunno,” answered his co-worker, who was leaning back in his chair eating a roast beef sandwich on white bread with some nice mustard. “How many rivers have we done so far?” Thus was born One-Hundred-Two River.

Bedford, Hopkins, Pickering – eventually we found ourselves skirting Maryville, MO. To my vast surprise, they have a Kawasaki factory there! For some reason I thought their plant was in Illinois somewhere. I would have stopped and taken a picture had there been a convenient place to do so… A quick search on Google revealed the fact that Kawasaki has two plants, one in Maryville and one in Lincoln, NE. So for all you who think it’s un-American to drive a Kawasaki, my bike’s built closer to the heartland of America than Harley-Davidsons are. Hah!

From Maryville to St. Joe was a fairly forgettable stretch of road. We’d left the pretty scenery behind quite some time ago, and now we found ourselves on a divided highway going 70 miles per hour – something we just didn’t want to do. But, there seemed no alternative, so we kept going.

We didn’t see much of St. Joe, but the entrance to the city was really cool! I had no idea we were anywhere near the city when we came over the top of a hill and WHAM – the city was right below us! Very pretty… Dan spied a Holiday Inn off to our left, so we zipped over a few lanes and found ourselves parking in a no-parking zone in front of the hotel. (For some reason, every time we parked the bikes on the whole trip, we’d inevitably be in a no-parking zone. See photo above, for instance.) Once we had our accommodations in order, we hopped back on the bikes to go park them in the parking lot behind the hotel. Unfortunately, the street was a one-way, going the wrong way. So we went that way. The next street was a one-way going the wrong way. To make a long story short, we went around in circles three or four times before we figured out how to get from the front of the hotel to the back of the hotel.

We did, however, eventually manage to park legally for the first time all day and find our snoozing spots. We also found the hotel bar, which was nice. They had booze there. Nice. And buffalo wings. Nice. I noticed that other patrons of the bar were looking at me and smiling that particular smile that means “I bet he doesn’t know he has a cockatoo on his head.” I eventually made my way to the restroom where I took another look at myself. Burned. Oddly sunburned. You could see exactly where my helmet and sunglasses were all day. Oh well… Back to the nice bar I trotted, where I had another nice frosty beverage. Nice. At least it was nice until we realized we were paying over four bucks a bottle for domestic. Not so nice.

The next morning we were on the road at the crack of nine, traversing the maze of Interstates to find our way across the river to Kansas. Wathena to Troy to Highland, then a detour. It was the happiest detour I’ve ever been on! We ended up going a few miles back east before heading north on Highway 7. I’m going to have to go back to Kansas again just to drive Highway 7. It’s a gentle little highway that runs along the Missouri River – it’s absolutely beautiful! Through White Cloud we went, then across the border into Nebraska. For some reason it wasn’t so pretty in Nebraska as it had been in Kansas… But there were a lot of flowers for some reason.

Breakfast in Rulo, Nebraska was interesting. We ate at a little place called the Bridge Cafe & Bar. It was, indeed, near a bridge. There was a sign on the door advising us that smoking is allowed throughout the entire establishment. (Oh yeah – I’m on week five of not smoking already. I still can’t drink beer or coffee without going into a near panic, but things are going well, overall.) We found a table and were promptly served by a nice lady. Eggs, hash browns, sausage, bacon and soda – can you tell my low-cholesterol diet went out the window for the weekend? Dan peeked over my shoulder. “What must your life be like,” he asked, “if you’re sitting in a bar drinking Budweiser at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning?” Nice people, though. It reminded me of Bob’s in Martinsburg, NE, just a bit bigger and swept.

Off we went to Falls City, Verdon, to Auburn. I remembered the stretch between Auburn and Nebraska City from a trip I took a few years ago. The road at that time was bouncy, under construction, decidedly un-scenic and confusing. It still is. Avoid it if you can. Nebraska City to Syracuse to Weeping Water to Louisville, where we stopped for a break in a pizza joint’s parking lot. For a change, we were parked legally. After perusing the map, we were off on a pretty little county road towards Ashland. The road followed the Platte River for a ways, so we paused to peek at the river for a few minutes. (Of course, we were parked awkwardly along the side of the road. “What do you want to bet,” said Dan, “that there’s a park right around the corner with a scenic overlook.” We went around the corner and there was a park, complete with a scenic overlook.) If you’ve never seen the Platte, it’s about half a mile wide and about half a foot deep. There were butterflies everywhere! It was a nice road.

Then on to Mead. From there we tootled northward to Fremont.

I was once in a band that played in Fremont fairly often, so I’m familiar with the town to an extent. I was looking forward to coming over the bridge in the middle of town because it always seems like a nice view. This time the view sucked. We came up over the bridge to see a VERY black sky to the north and west, complete with lightning bolts and thunder. That’s something you really don’t want to see when you’re on a motorcycle. At the first stop light, Dan looked at me. “Well,” he said. “Shall we head east?” I nodded, relieved – I had the same thought. Perchance if we ran east we could outrun the storm. So we abandoned our planned route and headed due east.

We made it to Blair with no problems. At the first stop sign, Dan looked at me. “Wanna try to go north?” he asked, “Or shall we sprint to Missouri Valley?” I pondered the situation for about half a second. “Let’s go to Missouri Valley.” So we continued east as fast as legally allowed. When we got to Missouri Valley we paused for a few moments to put on our leather coats and chaps and generally batten down our hatches before we ran up the Interstate north.

Sure enough, just a few miles north of Missouri Valley it got real cold, and the wind started gusting (NOT fun when you’re on a motorcycle going 70+ miles per hour). Raindrops started splattering the windshield Kioti gave me earlier this summer, which was good as it was about eighty-five percent covered with butterfly remains. I hunched over and concentrated on keeping the bike going in a straight line in spite of the gusty winds. After just a few miles I was white-knuckling it, about as tense as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. About that time I was passed by a guy wearing a T-shirt and shorts, kicked back on his bike, riding with one hand… I felt like a wussy. But I don’t particularly enjoy feeling dangerous – I’ve gotten this old by remembering to duck at the right times.

About ten miles south of Sloan (our starting point) the sky cleared up and the temperature rose to about ninety-five degrees. A beautiful day. The birds were singing… We stopped at Sloan where I bid Dan a happy good-bye and continued the last 25 miles home. Of course, in the interest of expediency, I left my leathers on. By the time I got to Sioux City sweat was running down my back. Other people on motorcycles were looking at me like I was an idiot as they rode past me, half naked, basking in the sun. By the time I got through town to my happy little garage I was soaked. But happy!

I unloaded the saddlebags and staggered to the front door. My beloved wiking vife threw the door open and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m so happy you’re home!” she said. “Dinner’s almost ready. Go take a shower, you smell funny. My gosh, what happened to your face? You look like a startled raccoon! Here, smear this goop on your poor burned beak…”

It was a very good trip. I am much relaxed now… Though I’m still covered in aloe goop and my lips are kinda sunburned and swollen. I’m happy.

If you watch the news, you’ve probably heard about Cindy Sheehan’s vigil outside President George Walker Bush’s 1,600 acre ranch in Crawford, TX, where President Bush is taking a five-week vacation. When is the last time you got a five-week paid vacation? I had to work at my job for twelve years just to get three weeks off, and my bosses will only pay me for two of them. Mr. Bush has worked at his job for four and a half years, and has spent over 20 percent of his time on vacation in Texas. This does NOT count the time he’s spent on vacation at Camp David or Kennebunkport. If you add that in, he’s absent from his post more than a third of the time. In fact, President G. Walker Bush has now taken more vacation time than any other president in history, and he still has three and a half years in office. It’s public – look it up. (By the way, did you know that Mr. G.W. Bush just bought that ranch in 1999? The way he wanders around in front of the television cameras hauling brush and cutting firewood, you might get the impression that he’s been a rancher for longer than six years. It must be the official cowboy hat he wears.)

Anyway, Ms. Sheehan lost her son, Casey, in the Iraq war. She’s understandably upset about it, and wants to talk with President Bush and ask him a few questions. Mr. Bush doesn’t seem to have time, though, for that sort of thing.

Instead he went for a bike ride. According to President Bush, Americans want their president in shape and “in a position to make good, crisp decisions. And part of my being is to be outside exercising. So I’m mindful of what goes on around me. On the other hand, I’m also mindful that I’ve got a life to live and will do so.” Source (Side note – on his bike ride, Mr. Bush made it a point to tell his entourage that no one is allowed to pass him.)

Said Bush, when asked about Ms. Sheehan’s request to speak with him:

“But whether it be here or in Washington or anywhere else, there’s somebody who has got something to say to the president, that’s part of the job. And I think it’s important for me to be thoughtful and sensitive to those who have got something to say. But I think it’s also important for me to go on with my life…” Washington Post, August 15, 2005

That’s certainly sensitive. About as sensitive as the Texan who ran over Ms. Sheehan’s little white crosses the other day. But I suppose it’s important for the President to go on with his life and not dwell on the 1,800 American casualties. It’s important for him to enjoy his vacation. After all, he hasn’t had one since April…

Well, time to go to work. I’ll continue this later…