ChuckDoherty.com

Last night I was enjoying a glass of wine and plate of duck at Loue Fuller, a relatively new French bistro in Providence.  To my left, a well dressed couple was tucking into their a second round of cocktails and engaging the two women across the bar in conversation.  Before long, the two next to me dove into a spirited -and loud – defense of the war in Iraq.  It seems that they had consumed enough gub’ment-issued Kool-Aid to believe that the entire affair was and is a brilliant idea indeed, and how dare those ungrateful Iraqis (the surviving ones anyway) not be more appreciative of all the benefits that the war has brought them.  From there the exchange shifted into what can be best described as a shouting match, with the woman to my immediate left doing the lion’s share of the shouting.  

Without taking sides one way or the other, I turned to the folks next to me and said something to the effect of; “Why don’t you take this fight outside and not disturb the rest of us.”  The woman replied that they have every right to have a political discussion (which they do), but I countered that this “discussion” was by that point just shy of her climbing on the bar and throwing a shoe.  The restaurant hostess also asked them to cool it a bit, and noted that this was neither the time nor the place for such debates.

The now morally-wronged couple indignantly proclaimed that their first amendment rights were being violated, and stated that they were leaving, never coming back, and were planning to tell all of their many, many friends to stay away (thank God).  The neutral bartender was, of course, stiffed out of her tip as as Tuurston and Lovey stormed off. That’ll teach her! To the departing couple I say; don’t let the door smack your ass on the way out.

For those of you who are not familiar with the protections contained within the first amendment:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances. Nor shall any restaurant staff member or bar patron infringe upon the rights of bloviating morons to disrupt others’ quiet enjoyment of a nice confit in peace, for Christ’s sake already.”

Saw Iron Man yesterday – it was terrific.  I have always considered Robert Downey Jr. one of the best actors of our time, and he was great in this role.  Jeff Bridges (who I did not even recognize at first) seems to have matured into the Lex Luthor phase of his career, while the otherwise talented Gwyneth Paltrow just managed to get through the film without tripping over anything.  The special effects were first-rate, and the suit itself… oy!  I must have one.

Today at 5AM I was jarred awake by a screeching cat fight.  In my bedroom.

I have but one cat. The challenger in this bout let himself in through the cat door and wandered upstairs into my room where Weegee, who until then had been sleeping by my side, put the kibosh on the house tour.

I think it is time to install a cat door with some sort of controlled access (a kitty-retena scan?)  I guess it could have been worse; skunks are about cat-sized.

The greatest son any man could ever hope for came into the world.

Happy Birthday, Ben!  I love you.

Until I get around to selecting the best of these for inclusion here, you can see all of Mike’s photos of the trip at: http://mikenot.smugmug.com/gallery/4888012_7kJ9L#P-1-20

Trip Summary, courtesy in part to Garmin:

Miles: 744.2

Average moving speed: 42.7mph

Max speed: 81.1

Moving Time: 17:24

Encounters with law enforcement: 0

Bike problems / mishaps / brushes with death: 0

Most expensive gas: $4.29/gal., on Long Island

Large insects crushed against my face: 1

Favorite spot: A tie between the breathtaking vista along The Bear Mountain Parkway overlooking the Hudson near West Point, and Tweed’s Restaurant in Riverhead where Friday’s lunch at the bar with the great folks who work and hang out there mysteriously lasted from 11:30AM to sometime after five.

And that was even after enduring a gut-wrenching acapella rendition of Midnight Train to Georgia by a patron once several adult sodas convinced her (erroneously) that simply resembling Gladys Knight carried with it the same musical talent. We at the bar made a yeoman effort to Pip along as best we could, but even our echoey refrains could not save this midnight train wreck. 

Tom (above) makes it through the experience with a bit of liquid courage.

This morning Tom, Mike and I went into the spa at the hotel with a plan to book some treatments since we are all but trapped here with this weather. I was thinking a nice facial, or perhaps the Pomegranate Martini Manicure & Pedicure special that they were promoting on a poster near the front desk. I wanted to feel pretty, damn it, and was willing to pay whatever it cost to be wrapped in seaweed like a giant spicy tuna roll and immersed in a tub of the finest imported muds with cucumber slices on my eyes. But it was not to be. I was to be denied pampering.

Notwithstanding flyers spread liberally through the hotel promoting the services and specials the spa offered for men, the pedantic and humorless woman at the spa’s front desk was having none of it, at first assuming – nay, insisting – that the only possible reason the likes of we three would dare to befoul her establishment was to purchase gift cards. When I finally convinced her that I did indeed want to take advantage of their offerings myself, she continued to look and talk to us as though we were a pack of Neanderthals. We were unworthy of her time, much less the spa’s offerings. Even if she believed we had mates back at the cave who could walk upright, she made it clear that the three of us should just go about our hunting and gathering somewhere else, thank you.  In her eyes, we were better candidates for a facility where they provided the services our sort needed, such as forehead waxing.

I asked about the manicure / pedicure special, and was informed that it was not available (all booked up, you see. And it takes far, far too long.) I grudgingly booked a massage but regretted doing so the moment I walked out the door. So, after stewing on my experience for a few minutes, I marched back in and canceled the appointment making it clear that their pissy attitude was the reason. I even went as far as to dime her bitch ass out to the very accomodating and helpful (really) hotel manager.

The upside is that the $90 I would have spent on the massage could go instead toward the surprise $100 rate increase on the room for a Friday night stay*.

More from this same soapbox later; right now I am heading down to piss in the pool.

*Update: The aforementioned hotel manager adjusted the increase to $50 more rather than $100 more. This guy was great. Now I feel bad about the pool. (For the record, I’m kidding.)

Yesterday at breakfast, Mike (one of the crew members) stated that he thought it best that we abandon the trip and head home in advance of the terrible weather that was closing in. I can’t really blame him; riding in the rain is no fun. Tom and I wanted to press on but also wanted to stick together and not have Mike ride back alone.

So, after a bit of negotiation we compromised and altered the route so that we were now heading in the general direction of home but taking our time to get there. We still planned to proceed via Long Island and the Cross Isand ferry from Orient Point to New London.

Off we went, through the heart of PA Dutch country where horse-drawn buggies share the road with cars, their only compromise with modern times being a triangular reflector on the rear and a set of flashing taillights that they use at night and in foul weather.

Our revised course along PA’s scenic RT 30 took us through the town of Paradise which, not surprisingly, is in the general Intercourse area. Having made the one-way trip from Virgintown to Reamsville the day before, I am now quite familiar with many towns whose names would cause Bevis and Butthead to shoot milk out their noses.

It’s worth noting that some of the smells one encounters in this part of the country are more breath preventing than breathtaking. I expect that farms would use plenty of good old fashioned manure to get their crops off to a flying start, but there are some spots (like the intersection where we were stuck Wednesday for at least twenty minutes) where the smell is akin to the inside of a cow’s rectum. On a motorcycle, you do not have the option of rolling up the windows and hoping that the cabin air lasts until the toxic cloud has passed. Oh no; you are in it for the duration.

The return route took us through tiny towns in rural PA, on into NJ, and along the NJ turnpike to exit 13, then across a never-ending series of bridges until we were ushered into the underbelly of New York City. For whatever reason (probably because I had inadvertently selected the “avoid highways” option on the GPS), dear Garmen got it in her little electronic head that the best route to Long Island was via the heart of Brooklyn, and took us on a Flatbush and Park Slope adventure ride.

Getting further into Long Island, we came to the realization that married couples in this area can sleep soundly knowing that their partners were not off at some motel, seeing as there are none of them to be found anywhere. We did eventually find the lovely East Wind Inn and Spa, where we are staying until the rain passes. I am going to head down to see about a pedicure shortly; more later.

It is indeed raining here in Lancaster, which means that I get to try out my new fluorescent-orange, Nelson-Rigg raingear that I suspect doubles as a sauna suit in this muggy weather. 

It is 6:30AM, and as I await Tom and Mike to join me at breakfast, I am using the hotel’s public computer located adjacent to the breakfast area. The room is rapidly filling with chreerful Canadians on a bus tour of the PA Dutch area. Each new person to join the pack sends a wave of (x+1) good morning‘s through the room, followed by yet another observation (and acknowledgement by all) that it is, indeed, raining.  Two ladies seated not far from me are discussing the coming rapture and arrival on the scene of Jesus, and how so much depends on what “The Jew” (sic) does next.  There is not a great deal of lox consumed on this particular tour.

Today’s plan is for less actual than yesterday and more time visiting the World’s-Largest-Ball-of-Yarn’s along the way.  More to follow.

Made it all the way to Lancaster PA (430 miles), where I am in a Holiday Inn Express, freshly showered, and in need of dinner and cocktails.  A typo-filled post to follow in a few hours.