Okay ... I think we've all done this ... About two years ago, I found myself standing in Sports Authority, hands on my hips, looking over machine after machine, designed to get me into tip top shape. Pulleys and giant rubber bands and cables and attachments out the wazoo. I ended up buying an elliptical machine. I figured, I can climb on this thing and just walk/climb the pounds off and get my wind back. The salesman was more than happy to confirm this, touting the benefits of the gadget. He even helped me load it into my truck. That's where the help stopped. I got it home. I nearly KILLED myself getting the three boxes into the house. Then I spent the next three days putting the thing together. But ... Once I had it together, it looked impressive. It had a friggen computer on it that told me how many calories I was burning and how far I'd gone and what my pulse was ... It was so friggen cool. Each morning, for months, I woke up, had my coffee, then climbed aboard. After three months, I'd lost ... 3 pounds. My hips were getting screwed up from the lack of variation in motion and my live-in fiance' was not at all happy with me rolling out of the sack every morning an hour early, cutting into our 'snuggle time'. In the end, it ended up becoming a really nifty place to hang my jacket when I wasn't wearing it. A month later ... Yup ... Back at Sports Authority ... Hands on hips ... Same salesman. He didn't even remember me. Gave me the same line about a weight machine being the absolute best machine I could get my hands on ... Just like he'd said about my previous purchase. This go round ... 5 boxes. Weighed twice as much. Took a week to put together. And, three months later, I was in the same boat as before. This time, we started hanging damp towels on it when we got home from the beach. At least it was good for something.
I'm a Health Physicist by profession. I know a bit about fitness. Here's the skinny: The number of repetitions you do is far more important that how much weight you can lift or how much time you spend working out, running etc. With each repetition you do, you burn calories. Physics mandates that variety of motion and change of direction increases the number of calories burned and the amount of muscular benefit. It's just plain science.
That having been said, ad in the logistics of machines that weigh hundreds of pounds and take up a ton of space. Take into account how much time you have to spend changing configurations of your equipment for different exercises. Or if you choose to get a gym membership, take into account travel time on top of workout time etc. It's so friggen complicated.
So I went in search of simplicity.
Here's what I found: The FITRYO TOTAL BAR. I'll post the link where I found it in a minute. It has the science behind it. It doesn't take up ANY space. You can stand it up behind the bedroom door when you're not using it. It's fast. I can get in like 1800 reps in about 15 minutes. It weighs less than ten pounds. I don't have to spend a week putting it together. I watched the video for it and it's the first one I've seen that makes actual sense. There is one draw-back ... It doesn't look like I could hang much laundry on it. But then again, I won't have to.
So ... I'm ordering one on Friday. I can't wait to get my hands on it. With Winter creeping in, I'm gonna need something to keep from packing on those seasonal pounds and to stay in "swimsuit" shape so I don't have to work my butt off in the Spring, frantically trying to get back into shape.
Here's the link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xsWe92wnZcM&context=C3194141ADOEgsToPDskLBzulTRDHzu2OkcMAq0Tkl
Buy one. I'm gonna.
Enough said.
Thanx for spending a little time with me.
I appreciate it.
Billy
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
What's In A Name?
Ahhh, Shakespeare ... "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet ... "
Back then, it applied. Now days ... Not so much.
A name can have an extremely positive, or negative impact on the wearer of it. I was born, Floyd William Flanigan. In 1927, Floyd was a popular and usual first name. In 1979, not so much. Granted, I was named after my maternal grandfather who was a wonderful man. He had no sons, so I was offered up as his namesake. But ... as I grew up, believe it or not, I had girls who wanted to go out with me but didn't because they just couldn't handle the name. There was a guy in my high school named Billy Heck. Talk about a cool name. And the girls flocked to this guy. When I started going by a shortened version of my middle name, which is Billy as well, the girls were much more easy ... to come by ... yes, much more easy to come by. It was kind of like a social experiment. If I introduced myself as Floyd, I was received a certain way. If I introduced myself as Billy, it went much better. But ... I'm not the only one. My name-related woes were short-lived and not really that bad. But let's take a look at some others:
Dick Trickle ... Race car driver.
Parker Schnovel ... Gold Prospector.
Coco Crisp ... Baseball player.
Dick Pole ... No kidding. He played for the Red Sox.
Matt Schmuck ... He was in my study hall, freshman year.
Fair Hooker ... Player for the Cleveland Browns.
Ben Dover
Harry Butts
Richard Head (Dick for short)
Rusty Ford
Penny Nickles
The list just seems to go on and on. What were the parents of these people thinking when they named them? Talk about cruelty to children! Imagine roll call each morning in the sixth grade for Mike Hunt. Imagine what third grade was like for Jeff Artz.
Anyway ... I'm keeping this one short.
PLEASE ad to the list of screwed up names if you know of any. And if you are an expectant parent, read the list and think hard before naming your new addition to the family!
Thanx for spending a little time with me.
I appreciate it.
Billy
Back then, it applied. Now days ... Not so much.
A name can have an extremely positive, or negative impact on the wearer of it. I was born, Floyd William Flanigan. In 1927, Floyd was a popular and usual first name. In 1979, not so much. Granted, I was named after my maternal grandfather who was a wonderful man. He had no sons, so I was offered up as his namesake. But ... as I grew up, believe it or not, I had girls who wanted to go out with me but didn't because they just couldn't handle the name. There was a guy in my high school named Billy Heck. Talk about a cool name. And the girls flocked to this guy. When I started going by a shortened version of my middle name, which is Billy as well, the girls were much more easy ... to come by ... yes, much more easy to come by. It was kind of like a social experiment. If I introduced myself as Floyd, I was received a certain way. If I introduced myself as Billy, it went much better. But ... I'm not the only one. My name-related woes were short-lived and not really that bad. But let's take a look at some others:
Dick Trickle ... Race car driver.
Parker Schnovel ... Gold Prospector.
Coco Crisp ... Baseball player.
Dick Pole ... No kidding. He played for the Red Sox.
Matt Schmuck ... He was in my study hall, freshman year.
Fair Hooker ... Player for the Cleveland Browns.
Ben Dover
Harry Butts
Richard Head (Dick for short)
Rusty Ford
Penny Nickles
The list just seems to go on and on. What were the parents of these people thinking when they named them? Talk about cruelty to children! Imagine roll call each morning in the sixth grade for Mike Hunt. Imagine what third grade was like for Jeff Artz.
Anyway ... I'm keeping this one short.
PLEASE ad to the list of screwed up names if you know of any. And if you are an expectant parent, read the list and think hard before naming your new addition to the family!
Thanx for spending a little time with me.
I appreciate it.
Billy
Monday, December 19, 2011
Cry Freedom
Yesterday, the last of the American troops left Iraq. Coincidentally, the "Beloved" dictator of North Korea died in his sleep about the same time of a massive heart attack. Seems the proverbial dogs of war, or at least their scent, is around us in some form all of the time. The opinions on war and violence in general are vast and varied. Over the past nine years I have heard any number of said opinions on our country's involvement in conflicts around the globe, brought on mostly by our involvement in the whole Iraq business. But one in particular stuck with me. In fact, it stuck in my craw:
Some time ago, I found myself in a quaint coffee shop in a college town. I sat at my booth and worked on my latest novel, "Dark Gardener" while sipping away on a frozen, coffee drink. My hair wasn't nearly as long as it is now, but I guess I still had the stereotypical appearance of an intellectual. Enough so to attract the attention of a John Lennon-esk man in his early twenties. He came over, asked if he could sit and, after being given the requested permission via me nodding to the affirmative, did so. A conversation slowly grew between us. First weather. Then the book I was working on. Then politics ... Which led to personal ideology. That's where things took a turn for the worse.
"War is just wrong, man. I mean ... Violence just brings on more violence. It's like ... a vicious cycle, man. Me ... I'm a pacifist. Never been in a fist fight. Never had to. There's always a way to resolve things without violence man ... You know what I mean?"
Guess which one of us said that.
If you guessed me ... I'm sorry. That was the incorrect answer. Game over. But we have some lovely parting gifts for you. Roddy! ... Tell him what he's going home with!
No ... It was, in fact, the frail little chuckle-monkey across the table from me. His hands were slight and fragile. His brow was smooth and free of furrow. He wore one of those silly bracelets, woven from hemp with beads in the mix. The urge to smack the shit out of him crept closer to the surface of my calm exterior with each word he spoke. You get the picture.
But ... I let him finish. He regurgitated some philosophical crap he'd read and tried his best to sound like an authority on the issue ... As if to educate me on the finer points of the subject. It was measured ... practiced. I imagined he'd coughed up the same schpeal any number of times to the delight of doe-eyed schoolgirls and adoring throngs of stoned buddies. And just when he was about to slip into his closing statement ... I gave him "the look" ... The same look I'd given many a dipshit just prior to letting them have it. At first he looked confused as he fell silent. Then I think a twinge of fear might have hit him ... You know ... That feeling you get when you realize you leaned too far back in a chair and you have to catch yourself. That being the desired result, I let fly:
"Let me tell you something about war. Let me tell you something about violence. The only reason you have the freedom to sit here in this place and prattle on about this shit, is because someone, somewhere, kicked the shit out of someone, to buy you that freedom. The only reason this is America, is because someone was willing to kick some else's ass to purchase our freedom to become our own country. The only reason this is still America is because countless men and women went out and kicked people's asses who would have otherwise taken away your freedom and mine and that of everyone else who lives here. The only reason some scumbag doesn't walk in your house and take your belongings and impose their will on you and anyone else who lives there, is because they don't want to get their ass kicked, either by you or the police or some monster named Bubba in the prison they'll end up in if they get caught. The very fact that you are able to live your life as a pacifist is thanks to ass-kicking in some way, shape or form, performed by someone, somewhere, at some time in the past, to enforce the rules that protect your freedom. Hell ... I don't even think they should call it freedom. It comes at such a high price, they should come up with a more fitting name for it ..." There was more. But you get the point. I railed on him for a good three minutes straight.
At that point, I stopped speaking long enough to realize the frail, little man across the table, was on the verge of tears. He looked as though he'd have much rather been under the table ... perhaps curled into the fetal position in a puddle of his own urine ... He said nothing. He just stared at me in disbelief. It occurred to me to give him another piece of my mind. But, being a father and knowing the ignorance of youth, I relented. I simply snatched up my frozen drink and left him there, speechless.
In the parking lot, pity set in for a moment. I thought perhaps I'd been too harsh. After all, he was a pacifist and my tone had more than likely given him cause to fear I might visit violence upon him. With me being easily twice his size, I could only imagine his horror at the thought of the outcome of a physical confrontation with me. I hate bullies and in that moment, I felt like one.
But then ... I thought of my grandfather who'd been an Army sniper in WW2 then come home with a twisted mind and murdered my grandmother and then taken his own life. That was the price he paid for our collective freedom ... My cousin Jay who'd done a few tours in Vietnam and later died from the ravages of Agent Orange exposure ... My uncles and friends who'd done their respective time in foxholes and rice paddies and deserts ... And how afraid they must have been, knowing the potential price of their defense of my freedom and that of every American. And with that, my desire to apologize ... My concern for the fear I might have instilled in that little man ... subsided and gave way to indifference to his plight.
I thought, in short ... 'Fuck him'.
There are far too many people out there in other countries who go to bed every night, cowering in fear from the things they endured through the day for lack of freedom. I imagine they pray for someone to kick someone's ass on their behalf. Fear is a horrible thing. It strips people of their ability to suppose themselves anything more than animals at the mercy of their government or enemies or foreign aggression ... Freedom, bought with the currency of violence ... blood and sacrifice is the only thing that allows people to live without fear. George Orwell once said, "People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf." A simple phrase that says so much.
Well ... Enough from me. Let me know how you feel on the subject.
And, as usual:
Thanx for spending a little time with me.
I appreciate it.
Billy
Some time ago, I found myself in a quaint coffee shop in a college town. I sat at my booth and worked on my latest novel, "Dark Gardener" while sipping away on a frozen, coffee drink. My hair wasn't nearly as long as it is now, but I guess I still had the stereotypical appearance of an intellectual. Enough so to attract the attention of a John Lennon-esk man in his early twenties. He came over, asked if he could sit and, after being given the requested permission via me nodding to the affirmative, did so. A conversation slowly grew between us. First weather. Then the book I was working on. Then politics ... Which led to personal ideology. That's where things took a turn for the worse.
"War is just wrong, man. I mean ... Violence just brings on more violence. It's like ... a vicious cycle, man. Me ... I'm a pacifist. Never been in a fist fight. Never had to. There's always a way to resolve things without violence man ... You know what I mean?"
Guess which one of us said that.
If you guessed me ... I'm sorry. That was the incorrect answer. Game over. But we have some lovely parting gifts for you. Roddy! ... Tell him what he's going home with!
No ... It was, in fact, the frail little chuckle-monkey across the table from me. His hands were slight and fragile. His brow was smooth and free of furrow. He wore one of those silly bracelets, woven from hemp with beads in the mix. The urge to smack the shit out of him crept closer to the surface of my calm exterior with each word he spoke. You get the picture.
But ... I let him finish. He regurgitated some philosophical crap he'd read and tried his best to sound like an authority on the issue ... As if to educate me on the finer points of the subject. It was measured ... practiced. I imagined he'd coughed up the same schpeal any number of times to the delight of doe-eyed schoolgirls and adoring throngs of stoned buddies. And just when he was about to slip into his closing statement ... I gave him "the look" ... The same look I'd given many a dipshit just prior to letting them have it. At first he looked confused as he fell silent. Then I think a twinge of fear might have hit him ... You know ... That feeling you get when you realize you leaned too far back in a chair and you have to catch yourself. That being the desired result, I let fly:
"Let me tell you something about war. Let me tell you something about violence. The only reason you have the freedom to sit here in this place and prattle on about this shit, is because someone, somewhere, kicked the shit out of someone, to buy you that freedom. The only reason this is America, is because someone was willing to kick some else's ass to purchase our freedom to become our own country. The only reason this is still America is because countless men and women went out and kicked people's asses who would have otherwise taken away your freedom and mine and that of everyone else who lives here. The only reason some scumbag doesn't walk in your house and take your belongings and impose their will on you and anyone else who lives there, is because they don't want to get their ass kicked, either by you or the police or some monster named Bubba in the prison they'll end up in if they get caught. The very fact that you are able to live your life as a pacifist is thanks to ass-kicking in some way, shape or form, performed by someone, somewhere, at some time in the past, to enforce the rules that protect your freedom. Hell ... I don't even think they should call it freedom. It comes at such a high price, they should come up with a more fitting name for it ..." There was more. But you get the point. I railed on him for a good three minutes straight.
At that point, I stopped speaking long enough to realize the frail, little man across the table, was on the verge of tears. He looked as though he'd have much rather been under the table ... perhaps curled into the fetal position in a puddle of his own urine ... He said nothing. He just stared at me in disbelief. It occurred to me to give him another piece of my mind. But, being a father and knowing the ignorance of youth, I relented. I simply snatched up my frozen drink and left him there, speechless.
In the parking lot, pity set in for a moment. I thought perhaps I'd been too harsh. After all, he was a pacifist and my tone had more than likely given him cause to fear I might visit violence upon him. With me being easily twice his size, I could only imagine his horror at the thought of the outcome of a physical confrontation with me. I hate bullies and in that moment, I felt like one.
But then ... I thought of my grandfather who'd been an Army sniper in WW2 then come home with a twisted mind and murdered my grandmother and then taken his own life. That was the price he paid for our collective freedom ... My cousin Jay who'd done a few tours in Vietnam and later died from the ravages of Agent Orange exposure ... My uncles and friends who'd done their respective time in foxholes and rice paddies and deserts ... And how afraid they must have been, knowing the potential price of their defense of my freedom and that of every American. And with that, my desire to apologize ... My concern for the fear I might have instilled in that little man ... subsided and gave way to indifference to his plight.
I thought, in short ... 'Fuck him'.
There are far too many people out there in other countries who go to bed every night, cowering in fear from the things they endured through the day for lack of freedom. I imagine they pray for someone to kick someone's ass on their behalf. Fear is a horrible thing. It strips people of their ability to suppose themselves anything more than animals at the mercy of their government or enemies or foreign aggression ... Freedom, bought with the currency of violence ... blood and sacrifice is the only thing that allows people to live without fear. George Orwell once said, "People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf." A simple phrase that says so much.
Well ... Enough from me. Let me know how you feel on the subject.
And, as usual:
Thanx for spending a little time with me.
I appreciate it.
Billy
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Welfare in America
I was forwarded this rant in an email from a friend and I thought it needed more exposure. So I'm borrowing it and including it here. While some may find some of the things this young woman writes harsh, I believe they have merit:
Now ... Don't get me wrong. The welfare system has an important purpose in our country. It is there to help those who need a hand up ... Not a hand out. People can use the system to get the things they need to survive while they work to improve their respective lot. Success is out there. Anyone can have it. But it requires hard work and sacrifice. If welfare were strictly utilized for that purpose (with the obvious exception of those who genuinely CAN'T work due to disability etc.) it would be a far more respectable proposition. But when it is viewed as a lifestyle and those using it consider it a life-long situation, the mark has been sorely missed.
Anyway ...
Thanx for spending a little time with me.
I appreciate it.
Billy
"The problems we face today are
there because the people who work
For a living are outnumbered by those
Who vote for a living"
This was written by a 21 yr old female who gets it. It's her future she’s worried about and this is how she feels about the social welfare big government state that she’s being forced to live in! These solutions are just common sense in her opinion.
__,_._,___
|
Now ... Don't get me wrong. The welfare system has an important purpose in our country. It is there to help those who need a hand up ... Not a hand out. People can use the system to get the things they need to survive while they work to improve their respective lot. Success is out there. Anyone can have it. But it requires hard work and sacrifice. If welfare were strictly utilized for that purpose (with the obvious exception of those who genuinely CAN'T work due to disability etc.) it would be a far more respectable proposition. But when it is viewed as a lifestyle and those using it consider it a life-long situation, the mark has been sorely missed.
Anyway ...
Thanx for spending a little time with me.
I appreciate it.
Billy
Friday, December 9, 2011
Is There Anybody Out There?
No ... I'm not quoting a Pink Floyd song. It's all about the Aliens this go 'round. Recently there was a video posted on the web that appears to show a "cloaked" alien spacecraft, hiding in orbit behind the planet Mercury. A solar flash or something like that shoots out from the Sun and illuminates this thing. It's friggen HUGE. It remains stationary as the energy blast pours over it, exposing it to the view of a military satellite camera. I watched it several times and it is quite convincing. But in an age where computers can do pretty much anything to digital film footage, it's hard to put much stock in anything we see via video.
But, let's take a look at this from a purely scientific slant. What are the odds, out of all of the billions of trillions of stars out there and all the gazillions of planets ... What are the odds that Earth is the only planet with intelligent life on it? The odds are crap compared to the pure statistical probability that we are NOT the only ones. Even if you put God into the formula ... Why would He create the entire Universe and decide to only put life on our tiny, little spec of a planet? If this is the only place where anything like that is going on, what the heck is all that other stuff out there for?
Granted ... It is a psychological tendency of humans in general, to confine their thoughts to the environment in which we live. Thinking outside that is something we have to stretch our minds to do. We also have a psychological predisposition to think of ourselves as special ... Like the Universe was built around US ... Like we are the only ones. But in order to truly examine the probability of other-worldly life, we need to put those limitations aside for a bit. Yup ... There isn't any obvious mention of other planets being populated in the Bible. There is no mention of computers either ... or race cars ... or fruit rollups ... or Red Bull ... The Bible was written a very long time ago. The things in it are things that were known to mankind at that time. The world was flat. Stars were pinholes, punched in the curtain of night. Volcanoes had angry demons living in them. If we are to assume God gave us the Bible, we also have to assume He only gave us what we could handle at the time. Telling us about outer space and nuclear fission would have been a waste of time back then. I'm obviously not trying to say I KNOW any of this. I'm just running down a chain of logic.
So ... What if there ARE aliens? Who's to say they are even slightly interested in us? Who's to say they live close enough to visit? Believing there is intelligent life elsewhere does not predicate belief in alien visitors to our planet. But let's say they ARE interested in us ... and they DO live close enough to visit ... One might ask, "Then why haven't they landed on the White House lawn and asked to be taken to our proverbial leader?" Well ... If you flew to Italy for a vacation, would you jump off the plane and ask to be taken to their leader? I know I wouldn't. I'd just go around looking at stuff and enjoying my visit. We assume that any alien visitors are either from their military or their scientific community when in all likelihood, they could well be tourists! I mean ... They always seem to interact with common folk ... They seem to like abducting people who are out in the middle of nowhere (They probably think they are hitchhikers), they have a penchant for cows and landmarks ... They sound like tourists to me.
Anyway ... I've prattled on long enough. Depending on what kind of comments I get on this post, I might write more later.
In the meantime:
Thanx for spending a little time with me.
I appreciate it.
Billy
But, let's take a look at this from a purely scientific slant. What are the odds, out of all of the billions of trillions of stars out there and all the gazillions of planets ... What are the odds that Earth is the only planet with intelligent life on it? The odds are crap compared to the pure statistical probability that we are NOT the only ones. Even if you put God into the formula ... Why would He create the entire Universe and decide to only put life on our tiny, little spec of a planet? If this is the only place where anything like that is going on, what the heck is all that other stuff out there for?
Granted ... It is a psychological tendency of humans in general, to confine their thoughts to the environment in which we live. Thinking outside that is something we have to stretch our minds to do. We also have a psychological predisposition to think of ourselves as special ... Like the Universe was built around US ... Like we are the only ones. But in order to truly examine the probability of other-worldly life, we need to put those limitations aside for a bit. Yup ... There isn't any obvious mention of other planets being populated in the Bible. There is no mention of computers either ... or race cars ... or fruit rollups ... or Red Bull ... The Bible was written a very long time ago. The things in it are things that were known to mankind at that time. The world was flat. Stars were pinholes, punched in the curtain of night. Volcanoes had angry demons living in them. If we are to assume God gave us the Bible, we also have to assume He only gave us what we could handle at the time. Telling us about outer space and nuclear fission would have been a waste of time back then. I'm obviously not trying to say I KNOW any of this. I'm just running down a chain of logic.
So ... What if there ARE aliens? Who's to say they are even slightly interested in us? Who's to say they live close enough to visit? Believing there is intelligent life elsewhere does not predicate belief in alien visitors to our planet. But let's say they ARE interested in us ... and they DO live close enough to visit ... One might ask, "Then why haven't they landed on the White House lawn and asked to be taken to our proverbial leader?" Well ... If you flew to Italy for a vacation, would you jump off the plane and ask to be taken to their leader? I know I wouldn't. I'd just go around looking at stuff and enjoying my visit. We assume that any alien visitors are either from their military or their scientific community when in all likelihood, they could well be tourists! I mean ... They always seem to interact with common folk ... They seem to like abducting people who are out in the middle of nowhere (They probably think they are hitchhikers), they have a penchant for cows and landmarks ... They sound like tourists to me.
Anyway ... I've prattled on long enough. Depending on what kind of comments I get on this post, I might write more later.
In the meantime:
Thanx for spending a little time with me.
I appreciate it.
Billy
Monday, December 5, 2011
Oh Christmas Tree
So ... Yesterday was Sunday, December 4th. I needed to pick up a few things in town, so off to Riverhead I went. Traffic on the way there was normal for a Sunday. A bit congested, but nothing out of the ordinary. I bought groceries and a few necessary odds and ends. Then ... The drive home ...
I live in Cutchogue, New York. To get from Riverhead to Cutchogue, one must drive through an area that is peppered with vineyards, wineries, farm stands and ... wait for it ... Christmas Trees Farms! The area is peaceful ... serene ... People are courteous. They drive on their side of the road. They slow down and allow others to enter traffic. They go when the light turns green. They stop when it turns red. They drive somewhere near the speed limit. The yards are large and well kept. It is a lovely place to live. BUT ...
As I drove, it became obvious to Kat and I (Kat is my fiance') that the Christmas Tree crowd had once again descended upon our little slice of paradise. The roof of every third vehicle or so had at least one Christmas tree strapped to it. People were swerving and crossing the center line that separates east and west-bound traffic. People were cutting each other off. When stop lights turned green, it seemed that whoever was at the front of the line of cars had better things to do than press the accelerator. Cars from the crossing thoroughfares ran red lights and practically dared each other to hit one another. It was the invasion of the Citiots! (Pronounced sittiots. The word is a hybridization of city dwellers and idiots. We on the East End use it to describe those who venture here from New York City)
Now ... Don't get me wrong. There are many businesses in our neck of the woods that derive a great deal of their business from Citiots. It's amazing what they will pay for a home baked apple pie ($16) or a bottle of locally produced wine ($36) or farm fresh produce. They show up and gobble the stuff up. They'll pay $12 for a pint of raspberries at a farm stand when they could go to the local grocery store and buy the same raspberries, grown in the same field, for $3. It's amazing. All Summer, it's the farm stands. In Fall it's pumpkin pickers and people buying decorative corn stalks. And now, in December, it's the Christmas Tree crowd. They bring much needed revenue to our area. Unfortunately, that's not all they bring. They bring the driving habits of the New York City sect. It makes life for those of us who just want to get home from work or run errands, absolute hell. I've had to sit in stop and go traffic down stretches of road that are normally free flowing traffic. I've spent two hours making a drive home from work that normally takes 45 minutes. I've had people bring their vehicle to a dead stop in the middle of the road while they point out a really cool looking house to their passengers. I've been stuck behind people doing 31 miles an hour in a 55 mile an hour zone for miles. They act more like they are driving through a friggen safari park than a neighborhood. It is down right maddening.
Sooooo ... Just in case any Citiots are reading this, here's something of a plea from those of us who fall victim to your visits to our little slice: While you're out here, take a look around. Try to remember that you are no longer in the Big Apple. There is no hustle. There is no bustle. If you see something cool, pull the hell over and THEN take some time to look at it. USE YOUR FRIGGEN GPS. If you don't have one, BUY one. PLAN out your trip a little before you leave home. Use your turn signal. Drive somewhere NEAR the speed limit. Be courteous to your fellow motorist. If you see a farm stand up ahead that you want to visit, start slowing down BEFORE you decide to turn in. Slamming on your breaks in a 50 mile an hour zone and making a break-neck turn is a bad idea. Enjoy yourself, but try not to do so by pissing off EVERYONE else you get near.
Okay ... Sorry ... Had to get that off my chest.
Thanx for spending a little time with me.
I appreciate it.
Billy
I live in Cutchogue, New York. To get from Riverhead to Cutchogue, one must drive through an area that is peppered with vineyards, wineries, farm stands and ... wait for it ... Christmas Trees Farms! The area is peaceful ... serene ... People are courteous. They drive on their side of the road. They slow down and allow others to enter traffic. They go when the light turns green. They stop when it turns red. They drive somewhere near the speed limit. The yards are large and well kept. It is a lovely place to live. BUT ...
As I drove, it became obvious to Kat and I (Kat is my fiance') that the Christmas Tree crowd had once again descended upon our little slice of paradise. The roof of every third vehicle or so had at least one Christmas tree strapped to it. People were swerving and crossing the center line that separates east and west-bound traffic. People were cutting each other off. When stop lights turned green, it seemed that whoever was at the front of the line of cars had better things to do than press the accelerator. Cars from the crossing thoroughfares ran red lights and practically dared each other to hit one another. It was the invasion of the Citiots! (Pronounced sittiots. The word is a hybridization of city dwellers and idiots. We on the East End use it to describe those who venture here from New York City)
Now ... Don't get me wrong. There are many businesses in our neck of the woods that derive a great deal of their business from Citiots. It's amazing what they will pay for a home baked apple pie ($16) or a bottle of locally produced wine ($36) or farm fresh produce. They show up and gobble the stuff up. They'll pay $12 for a pint of raspberries at a farm stand when they could go to the local grocery store and buy the same raspberries, grown in the same field, for $3. It's amazing. All Summer, it's the farm stands. In Fall it's pumpkin pickers and people buying decorative corn stalks. And now, in December, it's the Christmas Tree crowd. They bring much needed revenue to our area. Unfortunately, that's not all they bring. They bring the driving habits of the New York City sect. It makes life for those of us who just want to get home from work or run errands, absolute hell. I've had to sit in stop and go traffic down stretches of road that are normally free flowing traffic. I've spent two hours making a drive home from work that normally takes 45 minutes. I've had people bring their vehicle to a dead stop in the middle of the road while they point out a really cool looking house to their passengers. I've been stuck behind people doing 31 miles an hour in a 55 mile an hour zone for miles. They act more like they are driving through a friggen safari park than a neighborhood. It is down right maddening.
Sooooo ... Just in case any Citiots are reading this, here's something of a plea from those of us who fall victim to your visits to our little slice: While you're out here, take a look around. Try to remember that you are no longer in the Big Apple. There is no hustle. There is no bustle. If you see something cool, pull the hell over and THEN take some time to look at it. USE YOUR FRIGGEN GPS. If you don't have one, BUY one. PLAN out your trip a little before you leave home. Use your turn signal. Drive somewhere NEAR the speed limit. Be courteous to your fellow motorist. If you see a farm stand up ahead that you want to visit, start slowing down BEFORE you decide to turn in. Slamming on your breaks in a 50 mile an hour zone and making a break-neck turn is a bad idea. Enjoy yourself, but try not to do so by pissing off EVERYONE else you get near.
Okay ... Sorry ... Had to get that off my chest.
Thanx for spending a little time with me.
I appreciate it.
Billy
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