Winter, a time for real men, and first aid.

Saying farewell to summer, and welcoming winter can be bittersweet, as you put away the shorts, sleeveless shirts and sandals and break out coats, boots, and sweaters, it is easy to remember the joys of summer.  Mowing, raking, baking in the inescapable,  unforgiving sun...  Well, that doesn't sound that good.  Reaching back a little further... ah yes, the joys of summer, the carefree days of sitting in the withering heat trying to catch a fish.

Fishing is a great past time, trying to outsmart an animal, crafty, and cunning, hiding in the depths, a ruthless carnivore, a relentless, tireless predator.  Armed with nothing but a $250.00 dollar rod and reel, several hundred dollars of assorted "tackle," a cooler full of beer, and a fifteen thousand dollar boat.  Morning turns to afternoon, and slides effortlessly into evening, as you match wits with a primitive creature.  Trolling, drifting, setting anchor, nothing works, all day, and not a nibble, enough blood loss to mosquitoes that you may need a transfusion, and a sunburn so bad it might require skin grafts, and not one nibble!  Stupid fish, anyway.  Things will go so much better when you have a new pickup to haul that boat to the lake, then you would be reeling them in.

But, winter is not the time for fishing, (well, ice fishing is popular in some places, but, since that doesn't support this post, so we are going to ignore it) winter is for hunters.  Ah, hunting, there is a past time that is older than humanity.  It is just you, and a five thousand dollar shotgun loaded with shells that cost more than the first several cars you owned, and the birds, facing off in a life and death struggle, may the most evolved species win.

After hours of tromping through wet undergrowth, in arctic conditions you still have not seen your first bird.  Sure, you have heard plenty, as they jump up right behind you, (you must have almost stepped on the stupid things) and fly quickly away, screaming in bird language, "hey, here I am, human, right behind you."  Oh, this is too much.

You are no longer even willing to eat the evil thing, you are convinced it is the same bird, following you throughout the day, jumping up, shouting bird obscenities at you, and flying away.  Enough is too much!  You just want to blow that bird into little pieces, pieces so small it would take a vacuum cleaner to pick the thing up off the ground.  You have a plan, and you are ready.

At the first sound of a bird taking flight, you spin violently around, looking wildly for the malevolent bird, and hit your friend, who is sending a text message, right in the face, with enough force to shatter his nose.  Blood flies everywhere, and he drops his phone in a muddy puddle at his feet.  To further complicate problems, the force of the collision, gun barrel against nose, causes you to pull the trigger, and in what has become typical of the day, the pellets blow out the windshield and puncture the radiator of your wife's car.  Dammit!!!  If only you had spent the extra $3.000 to buy the really good shotgun.

You head to the road, helping your friend, who is starting to look pretty pale, just in time to see the bird wink at you and run into the bushes at the bottom of the ditch.  

A nice day for a drive.

It was a great drive to work this morning.  It is Friday (which improves everything) and Billy Preston and I were asking the musical question "will it go round in circles, will it fly high like a bird up in the sky?" still unanswered, but with a wonderfully upbeat sound who cares.  The roads were still wet from the overnight thunderstorms, (storms that had washed the the work week almost completely away) but the sky was brightening and the horizon was smiling and gave commuters a little wink, even the heavens were feeling good.  It was going to be a nice day.

Merging from one freeway to the next and wanting to get over into the left most lane, (the fast lane) a quick, cursory glance in the drivers side mirror revealed a car fast approaching.  It is Friday, and nobody wants to be rude on such a wonderful day, so I waited to let it pass.  But, it was two cars, a black Honda and a Silver Hyundai.  And they were in a hurry, and were waiting on no one.

Pulling in behind them, and listening to Billy Preston sing about having a song that

"ain't got no melody," he is "gonna sing it to his friends.""  I couldn't help but wonder what they were listening to, maybe "click click boom," by Saliva.  Something aggressive and filled with rage.

The Black Honda made a tragic error, letting the Silver Hyundai slip to the right and go around him. Maybe the driver was looking for "Guerrilla Radio" by Rage Against the Machine on his MP3 player. Or they were an older person who needed something like "Danger Zone," by Kenny Loggins.  Perhaps it was just a moment of lucid, reasonable thought.  Probably not.

That was not going to happen to the driver of the black Honda, don't be foolish.  The car swerved quickly to the right, to pass the offensive Silver Hyundai.  Meanwhile, Billy Preston was telling me about his dance,

"ain't got no steps, no, gonna let the music move me 'round." Sadly, there was a car too close to the front of the Hyundai and the only choice the Black Honda had was to pull back in behind, stuck in 2nd place, you know it was murderously painful, too.  I imagined the grip tightening on the wheel as the driver cursed the fates, and the lousy music on local radio.

They both flew past the blocking car, and found themselves stuck in their respective positions, the traffic was getting too heavy.  Desperately trying to out maneuver each other, weaving in and out of traffic, horns honking, tires squealing.  It was going to be something to see, who would get downtown first, I wish I had put money on the Hyundai.

Unfortunately, a large, seriously large, pickup (with a "Love to Scrapbook" bumper sticker and an artificial flowered wreath attached to the tailgate pulled between me and the battling commuters, and I would never know who won the race downtown.  But there was something so peaceful in the way the wreath rocked back and forth as the pickup swayed, almost tipping over, too large, and unstable for that kind of high speed, abrupt lane change.

When I pulled up to the stoplight at the bottom of the exit, (just as Billy Preston sang about his story with no moral, and the bad guy winning every once in a while) the Hyundai and the Honda were sitting side by side at the red light.  Engines revving, staring intently at the light, waiting for the green, hoping to get a jump, both hands clutching the steering wheel as though they hated it, studiously not making eye contact.  Women can be so stubborn.

Anyway, thank you, racing, raging commuters , large pick up drivers, the smiling, winking heavens and especially you, Billy Preston, you all helped make my ride to work special.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ghj5V5cUo1s

Happy Friday, all.