Of actual mushrooms and actual motorcycles

First things first. I promised my good friend, Jack Riepe that I'd write him a poem. He loves my poetry so much, so here goes:

Jack Riepe was once again late
He was late for a date with my mate
And with me, so I thought
That our lunch would be naught
When he finally came in through the gate

I should share a word about my job hunt, since that last post might have sounded rather more grim than the variations on a theme that I intended. I had my second interview with Citicorp on Friday. It turns out that I'm the only one who got a second interview. I've been around the block often enough that none of the situations he described to me were new, and I had ready answers that he liked. I even helped him describe his questions. He wanted to say (I think to his boss) that they were hard tricky questions. I suggested he say they were appropriate for this kind of interview, and he liked that. Later I got word from the headhunter that I'll get word on Monday. Good sign, I think. Citicorp is in Tampa, and If the job goes through, I'll be living in Tamps for a couple months.

Which leads to the motorcycle. I plan to ride down there, so I figured I'd better give the old girl a little bit of attention (referring to the bike, not my dear sweet wife). I haven't ridden much since my ride to Atlanta back in December. In fact, it's so bad, that when I went out to the shed/bike garage, I found mushrooms growing around the tires. Cute little brown ones, making little oblong nests for the wheels and stand. Our place is a construction site, and there's a lot of mud.

Anyway, I needed to change the oil and do a bit of dusting. Later I'll decide what to pack in the side carriers. Well, let's see... I started to think about that while I removed some screws that hold the fairing in place. I should have been paying more attention to what I was doing because when I stood up to get a wrench, I stepped on the edge of the tray that held the screws and scattered them all over the floor, including in the direction of the freezer in the corner. The big, industrial, heavy freezer in the corner. One screw rolled underneath to be just out of reach. Maybe I could get Beka, the ten-year old to reach under there for it. Nah, I'm a guy—I can do it myself. The magnet! I had a big heavy industrial magnet in the other shed. That'll do it. So I went to get the magnet, but when I went inside, I noticed mouse droppings on the table saw. I needed to clean off those acidic little things or I'd mark up the steel table. Looking for a rag, I heard noise in the chicken coop (one end of the shed is a nice hotel for chickens), so I quietly went out and around to the coop entrance. scurry scurry scurry. A fox had gotten all our barnyard fowl last fall (we'll get more this spring) so it had to be something wild. I sneaked around to the gate and crept to the chicken entrance to peek inside. I carefully squatted down by the side of the opening, then popped my head around the edge to look inside. I accidentally yelled YAH! I was face-to-face with a suspicious skunk, just on his way out, all nervous about a human trying to be quiet sneaking up to his hotel room. I also reflexively fell backwards and started to roll away—to come up short against a bush. My back was to the skunk, and I grabbed a quick breath to avoid breathing any fumes, and froze. Nothing. No smell, no scurrying, no nuthin'. I finally looked back, squinting, and saw what appeared to be an empty chicken entrance. I didn't know if he had retreated into the hotel or scampered into the woods. I still don't know. You can check the coop if you want when you come by to see me off. If I ever get the oil changed.