4fraziers.com

A new motorcycle, so they say, is simply a down payment on accessories.

While the new motorcycle market’s aggressive competition and and constant buy-outs, mergers, bankruptcies, and new entrants keep prices reasonable on that new arrangement of wheels, motor, and gear box, after market accessory suppliers still enjoy charging premiums for the saddle bags, touring trunks, wind screens, crash bars and other goodies that round out the functionality and comfort of a big two wheeler.

Fortunately there are still a few motorcycle accessory stores that offer quality merchandise at reasonable prices. In the Dallas area there are three that top the list for affordability, quality, and variety.

Moto Liberty
A consistent winner in Ride Texas magazine’s annual favorite store polls, Moto Liberty has a location in Dallas at 11441 N. Stemmons Fwy, Suite 201.

This little store at the top floor of an ancient strip mall is so jam packed with merchandise you can’t walk down the aisles without your shoulders brushing the articles on the racks and shelves. Mostly textiles, helmets, and gloves, Moto Liberty also carries a modest selection of soft bags, tools, and gadgets like Cardo communication sets.

Riding jackets with built in CE armor and leather from classic biker jackets to full racing sets are abundant and competitively priced on the garment racks. Moto Liberty also has a full wall dedicated to one of the best selections of riding gloves you will find anywhere and a full aisle of riding boots and footwear.

The entire store is dedicated to merchandise for serious riders…no Harley Davidson doggy t-shirts or coffee mugs here.

Beyond the brick and mortar, Moto Liberty also has an eCommerce site at http://www.motoliberty.com with an even larger range of motorcycle related products. You can also find directions to their San Antonio location at the site.

Cycle Gear
Cycle Gear is a national chain which carries much the same types of products as Moto Liberty, although some of the product is cheaper (in which cases the quality is slightly less than stellar as well). Cycle Gear is the Wal Mart of motorcycle accessories, with all the most common brands displayed on it’s shelves and racks.

Cycle Gear has a massive selection of quality helmets from top manufacturers like Shoei, Arai, and the less expensive HJC.

With three DFW locations at 1424-B Airport Freeway in Bedford, 2301 N. Central Expwy, Space 182 in Plano, and 3032 Alta Mere Drive in Fort Worth there’s always a Cycle Gear withn a short ride from and DFW metroplex neighborhood.

Like any other large chain, Cycle Gear has an eCommerce site boasting even wider selections of all it’s retailer offerings at http://www.cyclegear.com.

Bates Discount Cycle No. 2
We have no idea where Bates Discount Cycle No. 1 is or was, but we love browsing the bargain priced items at the cave-like Bates Discount Motorcycle Parts 2 in an old dilapidated building at 14007 North Stemmons Freeway in Dallas.

When one enters Bates, it’s easy to get distracted by the massive array of merchandise packed into the building and miss the gems hanging in the rafters. Old frames, a few full bikes, and various other motorcycle related items dangle there like a suspended room from a transportation museum.

Back on the floor, the selection of racing fluids, tires, leathers, helmets, soft luggage, and gadgets is excellent, with budgetary selections for many items ranging from dirt cheap to moderatly expensive depending on how much quality you can afford.

Bates 2 also has tire mounting services at excellent rates if you’re willing to pull and reattach the wheel yourself.

They have a splash site at http://www.bates2.net but unfortunately no specific product catalog or online buying capability.

Yesterday I marched into the Texas Chrome shop in Houston and said to the owner, who was standing near five Harley Riders, “I got a 800+ lb British bike out there with a 2300cc motor and a dinky little fairy horn.  Which item do ya think I’m looking to replace?”

The Harley boys chuckled and sauntered outside toward their hogs and my British monstrosity.  I heard one of them say, “Dangit, Carl, there ain’t no such thing as a 2300cc bike.  2000 is all…well…sonuva…” as the door closed and cut him off.

Last week I changed out the brake pads.  That was so easy I plan to do it while I riding 70 mph on the highway next time.

Now I was looking for an Italian product, the Stebel Nautilus compact air horn.  It is slightly extra legal by Texas standards, but I don’t plan on honking at cops, or having the thing proudly displayed on the front forks without a bit of camouflage.

The Texas chrome shop only had giant high school band chrome trumpet horns from Rivco, and since I didn’t want military aircraft mistaking them for mounted RPGs I passed on that option and asked if they could order the Stebel Nautilus.  The answer was yes, and it might be here in a week.  Yeah, but I’ll be gone in a day…have to do a little work for one of my celebrity friends since he can’t let on where he’s staying due to the paparazzi thing.  I had zero desire for the Rivco Trumpets.  We know how confused everyone over here is about what is and is not a weapon of mass destruction.

I moved away from the really expensive stuff packaged just for motorcycles and cruised on down to AutoZone, where I found a 32 dollar pair of high-low automotive horns.  I got those back to the garage and southern engineered them into the bike, using the old horn wires and tossing the relay, since it wasn’t going to pull any more heat than the old horn.  It also wasn’t going to produce much sound, I discovered on my first test beep.  More fiddling only resulted in the low freq horn disassembling itself into a pile of brittle plastic, a large spring, and a hopelessly mutilated gasket seal between the two halves.

Today I visited O’Reily’s auto parts in Grapevine and found just the ticket:  A Stebel Nautilis 139db air horn.

There will be no more polite (“meep-meep, hello kitty” noises coming from this bike.

The next time Mister Oblivious behind the tinted glass talking on his phone runs me clean onto the shoulder without waking up until I start tapping on his driver side window with my middle finger (forgive me, Lord) he’ll get the horn instead and arise from his reverie as if Gabriel has just called him home.

I’m fed up with the toy horn manufacturers put on motorcycles these days.  It’s like a bunch of drunk procurement specialists found an old Vespa distribution center and decided to use the horns stashed inside on the biggest cruisers they make just as a joke.  Yet no on ever owned up to the joke so the bike makers have just kept on doing it.

Never again.  Stebel Nautilus Ultimate Blast to the rescue.

I’m wiring that screamer in tomorrow night, pictures and instructions will follow.  Texters and mobile phone yappers: prepare to get your hair done.

Have you ever been so primed for an event, so anxious for it to arrive, so excited to be going that you started feeling apprehensive…like maybe your expectations were too high and you fear disappointment when it finally comes to pass?

If you are one of those folks who has not yet seen Meat Loaf on his Hang Cool Teddy Bear tour, get as primed as you want. I’m here to tell you there will be no disappointment.

There’s only one time in my life that I’ve had a silly grin on my face as big as the one I was sporting at Meat Loaf’s concert last night. That was when I first test rode a Triumph Rocket III. Raw power, emotion, and a feeling that this was just too good to be true.

As my wife and I stood in line waiting to enter the House of Blues in Dallas I looked at the ageing Meat Loaf fans surrounding us. “Gee, Sweetie, will ya look at all these old farts waiting in line.” I said to Robin.

“I hate to tell you this,” she responded, “But those ‘old farts’ are our age.”

Yeah, I guess she was right…but I’m a fan of the Neverland Express and though my goatee has grey bits and my hair is starting to resemble Jerry Garcia’s, I have no intention of growing up or growing old.

Neither, apparently, does Meat Loaf.

After we’d entered the balcony and claimed our seats we were treated to a set of songs from Pearl, the opening band named after fronted by Meat Loaf’s adopted daughter, Pearl Aday. This isn’t a review of Pearl, and her music was very different from Meat Loaf’s (whose isn’t?), but I will say this: Pearl may have the option of riding her father’s mighty coat tails, but she doesn’t need them. She’s like a Janis Joplin with even more talent. I’m a fan. And I’m buying her new album, “Immaculate Little White Fox” as soon as I can get my hands on it.

After Pearl cleared out and the roadies swarmed the moderately sized HOB stage, the lights dimmed and then the Baron of Bombast strutted onto the stage. He paced back and forth for a few seconds, staring into the audience as if looking for someone who needed an ass-kicking. The crowd cheered, screamed, and roared.

Then the music started.

I’ll try, but I have no words to adequately describe it. If you’ve been to Meat Loaf concert you know what I mean. No performer, with the possible exception of Elvis Presley, has ever put that much effort and energy into a live performance.

And that crap some reviewers have been spouting about singing off-pitch and not being able to hit the notes like he used to? That’s a load of horse feathers and I’m ashamed of myself for assuming they might be right prior to attending the concert. Meat Loaf was spot on, his voice was strong, and the tempo was perfect. I detected none of the “slowness” in the speed of the songs that a few other writers have mentioned.

If Meat Loaf has ever given a lousy performance, it wasn’t one of the shows I’ve attended.

I won’t give away the set list, but I will say that the third song was the legendary “Bat Out of Hell”. The band absolutely slaughtered us with their perfect performance, and Meat Loaf crooned and bombarded the sold-out crowd with a flawless vocal performance. He didn’t just own the stage, he owned every square foot of the House of Blues.

At the end of that song he paused, and told us, “You know, you gotta be insane to do ‘Bat Out of Hell’ as the third song in a set. I’m 62 years old now…when I walked out on this stage I was #$%^&*ing forty-seven!”

Some hilarious banter with the incomparable and ageless Patti Russo followed, and the crowd ate every bit of Meat Loaf that was fed to them.

Then the music began to blast again, as Meat Loaf took us on a journey through a barrage of samples from his own timeless and unique catalog of hits. He didn’t hold back, and being in what appears to be the best physical shape of his professional career, perhaps his life, he poured out an incredible amount of energy and talent upon the audience, which participated as only rabid Meat Loaf fans can do.

I went home last night after the show and scratched “See Meat Loaf in Concert Again” off my bucket list.

This morning I got out of bed and added “See Meat Loaf in Concert Again” to my bucket list.

P.S: I contributed this article to my Associated Content portfolio and guess who read it and had a link to it posted on his FaceBook page? And two days later I get an email from his assistant telling me he asked her to send me a ‘thank you’ message for the positive review. I can’t imagine how busy the guy must be, he’s been in a different city nearly every night for doing concerts…I’m sure he doesn’t have time to be concerned with some po-dunk wanna-be blogger like me, but he took a couple of precious moments to make sure someone on his staff sent me that message. That’s the sort of fan appreciation that’s missing from most celebrities these days.

Thanks, Meat Loaf, for being as human as you are super-human. It must be because you’re from Texas, where folks know how to be proud and humble at the same time.

Just an hour and a half before quitting time and my Motorola Drois goes nipples up on me. I seemed totally bricked. I assumed the battery had died, so i plugged it into the charger at my desk. Nada. No lights, no bells, no whistles.

I tried my car charger.

Nada.

Great, I said to myself, this thing has been dependable from day one, but now that I’m going to what could be my last opportunity ever to see Meat Loaf in concert it decided to commit suicide. Not to mention that I have my work and personal email, office and mobile work numbers and personal mobile numbers all ringing to the Droid via the magic of Google Voice. In that tiny package lies all my ability to communicat with anyone beyond shouting distance. Or vice versa.

So I hit the door, knowing at 3 PM that I have a conference bridge to be on for work at 4 PM. Can’t skip it, I’m the leader.

3 to 4 was my only opportunity to get the Droid replaced at the Verizon store, considering there’s no telling how long my conference call will be and the Perl/Meat Loaf concert at House of Blues starts at 7 PM. I hit the parking lot and swung a leg over BB, then roared down Hwy 114 to Grapevine. Ten minutes later I was in my local Verizon store, anxiously watching the clock as I waited in the queue for the tech to call my name.

5 minutes after that it was 3:15 and the guy calls my name. I stroll rapidly to the counter and some broad steps in between us to ask the guy how long she has to wait. The tech asks her name, she tells him, and he says, “You’re next in line after this gentlman.” as he nods toward me.

“Well, how long is that going to be?” she asks him.

“I dunno…depends on what the issue with this gentleman’s phone is.”

As I contemplate whether it would be a sin to yank her away from the counter by the hair of her head she says, “Well, the girl at the front of the store said the wait would only be about five minutes. It’s been over ten.”

I couldn’t stand it. “Lady, you came in after me and I’ve only waited five minutes. The sooner you get out of the way and let the guy help me the sooner he’ll be able to help you.”

She spun around, blurted an expletive at me, and stormed out the door.

It reminded me of some of those women who called us on family violence assault case when I was a cop. Sometimes as I was handcuffing the wife beater and listening to the woman I just had to think to myself, “I’d have a hard time not knocking the ^(*&%% out of you, too, if I was your husband.”

The tech, seemingly oblivious to the whole incident, took my phone, pulled and re-seated the battery, then hooked it up to his charger. Blip. It cranked right up.

“You’re battery is just dead.”

“Naw,” I replied, I did the same thing you did and it still wouldn’t start charging or come on.”

“Well, you must have a bad charger, then.” He said.

“Not unless I have a bad wall charger and a bad car charger,” said I, “I tried both.”

Well, it’s working now,” He said, giving me the ol’ “I ain’t giving you a new phone.” stare.

I needed to get to the house and on a reliable phone for my bridge, so I decided I didn’t have time to argue. I thanked him and hit the road.

Now I’m home, the Droid is charging in a cradle, and in three minutes my call starts.

All I can say is that thing better not croak in the middle of my opportunity to get pics and video of Meat Loaf live tonight, or I’ll be busting through Verizon’s doors tomorrow like a bat out of hell.

How hard can it be to change the brake pads on a Triumph Rocket III?

It is pretty darn easy as long as you don’t read the service manual when you get ready to do the rear pads.

You heard right, DO NOT read the instructions in the Triumph Rocket III service manual if you want to know the correct way to change out the rear brake pads. They wrote clear, simple, and accurate directions for swapping out the front pads, but apparently the yearning fool came on shift right after that and wrote the incredibly misleading and confusing instructions on changing out the rear pads.

In spite of what the manual says, all you have to do is remove the two cotter pins that hold the back caliper pin in place and pull it out. Next, lay the pin and cotter keys on the concrete so the pin rolls away under a nearby vehicle and the cotter keys get stuck in between the treads on your boot. Then slide the old pads out to toward the rear. You may have to do a little jigling, they have a hook at the front that keeps them in place. Get the front end angled up and they should slide right out.

Now, slide a flat piece of metal such as a screw diver shaft in between the piston cup and rotor. DO NOT pry with it. Get your finger tips under each end of the shaft and use hand pressure only to compress the piston cup back into its cylinder. Slide the new pad in and make sure the hook part at the front gets over the front pin, then repeat on the opposite side of the rotor.

Take your time, and if something doesn’t seem right, put it back together and take it to your dealer. Don’t go doing crazy stuff like reading the manual and trying to figure out how to take that spindle nut off. You’ll find yourself trying to figure out how to get an eight hundred pound bike without a back wheel onto a trailer so you can take it to the shop.

You’re almost there. Take a deep breath and hunt down that rear caliper pin that you previously set on the concrete and subsequently kicked under the car without realizing it. You should find those two cotter keys somewhere close by as well, unless they’ve gotten wedged in between the treads on your boot.

Put the rear calliper pin back in, insert the cotter keys, pump up the brake pedal, and you’re ready to go.

Check this thread out at the R3owner forum if you’re still confused: http://www.r3owners.com/showthread.php?24334-Changing-brake-pads.&highlight=rear+brake

The next time you change those rear pads it should take you less than five minutes. It took me about five, not including the two hours the night before I spent trying to figure out how to follow the bogus instructions in the service manual and looking for specialty tools to hold the axle fast so I could remove the spindle nut. Thank goodness I wasn’t able to locate that tool.

By the way, see that nasty scrape on the side of my rear calipr housing? That’s leftover damage from my crash last November that the jerks at BMW/Triumph of North Dallas (Plano) didn’t alert me to or repair on top of all the other things they put on upside down, didn’t tighten properly, or just flat failed to complete. I didn’t know it was there until I took the saddlebag off on that side to do this brake pad job. Yet another reason why they will never get any more of my business and all work on my bike in the future will be done by Eurosport Cycle of Fort Worth.

Yeah, seeing Meat Loaf one more time was on my bucket list even before I knew what a bucket list was. And I saw him in the 93. And again in 95. And neither time did I scratch that item off my bucket list.

Because I haven’t seen him at least one more time yet.

As long as Meat Loaf is willing to get on stage somewhere within driving distance, I’m willing to buy a ticket and be in the audience. I don’t give a rat’s ass that he can’t hit the notes like he used to. He’s like 61 now, and still rocking like a fleet of chairs in front of a Cracker Barrel. He is the only guy on the planet who does “Bat Out of Hell” and “Anything for Love” justice, and the most pitch perfect singer on earth had best not even attempt those songs.

I’ll write up a review next Friday, and let you know what I thought of the night before. There might be some criticism of the pitch and a little grousing about the band since Kasim Sulton parted ways with Meat Loaf a while back but I’m already astonished to see the name Patti Russo in recent reviews of the tour…I thought she’d signed off after a decade or two with the Neverland Express. If she’s on stage with the Baron next Thursday I will consider that a massive bonus to this bucket list line item. Aspen Miller is a doll and has awesome pipes, but Patti Russo is just the irreplaceable queen of Meat Loaf duets.

I know the concert intro will be a hoot, Meat Loaf and the band always start off with a gimmick, and it’s always worth it, no matter how campy, cheesy, or outlandish it is.

One of those bucket list items accomplished by the time I lay me down next Thursday night.

And Friday, I’ll add “See Meat Loaf in Concert One More Time” to my bucket list.

Trust NO ONE who is of Islamic persuasion, and be suspicious when someone seems to have strong Islamic ties yet claims to be non Islamic or even Christian instead (such as Obama). The Islamic practice of Taqiyyah allows them to deny their faith with impunity and without creating any guilt in relation to their religion as long as they are doing it to mislead and destroy their enemies.

Look it up, folks.

Be tolerant if you want, but trust a Muslim only if you are a fool.

Radical, moderate, or seemingly apostate Muslims all follow a book that orders them to destroy those who do not convert to Mohammed’s Satanic creed. Don’t bother posting comments to the contrary here unless you’ve read the Koran and actually know what you’re talking about. We’re sick and tired of the dumb-asses (including George W. Bush AND Barack Hussein Obama) who spread the lies that Islam is a religion of peace.

Thanks to Blogfriend Greybeard for encouraging us to research this term.

The itch is getting stronger. I got an email from Tony Lewis at Eurosport Cycle yesterday inviting me to the annual charity bike wash at his dealership this weekend. He said it may be too hot to ride but it’s not too hot to get your bikes washed.

I don’t know about the too hot to ride part. While the big Harley Davidsons that were parking next to BB every day two months ago only rarely show up these days, I’m still wearing a rut in the pavement from Grapevine to Las Colinas every morning and enduring the sweat and desert wind on the way home each afternoon. I’m fast approaching the ten thousand mile mark and it’s almost time for an expensive six quart oil change and new brake pads front and rear.

As long as I’m not stuck in a traffic jam it’s never too hot to ride. Of course, the new 661 “pressure suit” field armor makes it easily bearable to ride in the heat with some arm, shoulder and back protection, even if it was designed more for off road riding and I look like a nerd pretending to be the dark knight.

But the 15 minute trips to and from the office aren’t enough to satisfy me. I need to see some woodland and hit some curves. Talimena or the Jefferson/Caddo Lake area are looking like preferred destinations for a weekend ride. I’ll see if anyone wants to come with, but don’t mind going solo and sleeping in a tent with my 45 under the pillow, either.

Maybe I take next Friday off, leave that morning and come home Sunday afternoon. That might be enough of a fix until Mike is ready to make another trip.

Robin needs to let me sell the old Avalanche (I think we need to do an intervention, she’s turned into an Avalanche hoarder) so we can buy her a starter bike. Stephen needs to just rent a Fat Boy or something from Eagle Riders and come along for one of these short jaunts, too.

Meanwhile I keep listening to Bob Seger’s “Roll Me Away” and it’s just making me itch more.

Thanks to my fellow blogger Greybeard I ended up writing an entire article in response to his request for advice on buying a helmet. I’m re-posting my reply as an article because it occurs to me there might be a lot of folks out there who cold use the info:

I loved my current HJC IS-Max at first, mainly for the features at a very affordable price. I wrote a review on it here, you may have read it already.

Problem is, it has developed an annoying loss of shape memory in the plastic inside shield on the chin guard that makes it impossible to flip the face up with one hand any more. Also, the pad flanges refuse to remain tucked under the rear edge. It is still very functional for its primary mission, though, and for the price those are annoyances and not good enough reasons to toss it out.

I can’t say it was a bad deal, you can’t expect the quality of a $700.00 Shoei in a $200.00 HJC.

The primary thing about helmets is to get something that is comfortable and that fits. The biggest key is to keep in mind that the foam is going to compress slightly over the first few hours of use until it reaches the point it’s slightly molded to your skull. This is also why you shouldn’t buy one that’s on the display shelf…make them give you one that’s still in the box after you decide on a winner (for that and many other reasons also stay away from used helmets, no matter how good a deal they seem). The display units may have been tried on any number of skulls and you have no idea how much of that precious “crush factor” has been depleted and robbed you of the helmet permanently conforming to the most optimal fit for your own cranium.

This equates to: Make sure it fits a little snug, it’s going to loosen up a tad over the first few uses. If you’re going with a full face or modular flip-up, when you’re trying them on have chewing gum in your mouth. If you can chew gum without biting the insides of your cheeks while it’s on go one size tighter.

If the sales guy doesn’t insist on measuring your head before selling you a helmet go to another store. Any MC accessory shop that deserves to operate in the market should know enough to make sure this most critical safety device is at least offered in the right size to their customer.

Make sure it’s minimum DOT certified, of course.

Beyond that it’s a matter of how much you want to pay for very small increments of quality and comfort.

Here’s a few suggestions to try on:

Can’t go wrong, but expensives $500.00 and up -
Arai
Shoei
Nolan (probably the most innovative of the lot, check out their removable chin bar model)

Moderate prices, moderate quality $175.00 to $500.00 -
Vemar Jiano (equivalent to my old Caberg, probably my next purchase)
HJC
Bell (Careful, their low end is kinda shoddy, high end is good)
Icon
Shark

Junk / stay away! -
Vega
Anything under $150.00 is probably going to be a piece of crap

Thursday, July 29, 2010 I was wheeled into the operating room for a uvulopalatopharyngoplasty.

Commonly referred to as UPPP, the uvulopalatopharyngoplasty procedure is done by a qualified surgeon who carefully inserts a ripe pine cone coated with aluminum oxide (the stuff that makes the “sand” in sand paper) into your throat, gives it a good twist or two, then leaves it there to slowly dissolve over the next two or three weeks.

That’s what it feels like, anyway.

Actually the procedure involves removing the uvula (that little thing hanging down at the back of your throat and cutting out some flesh at the back of the throat to make your airway larger. This helps relieve obstructive sleep apnea in most cases.

My last happy moments were when the anaesthesiologist shot a cocktail of drugs into my IV just before they rolled me into the OR. Everything went blurry and in what seemed to be the very next instant (it was actually a 50 minute surgery) I was being awakened by a nurse who asked me what my pain level was on a scale of one to ten. It was about a seven, but I lied and said “four” since I didn’t want anyone to think I was a wimp.

Fortunately the nurse brought me a shot cup with a dose of liquid vicodin elixir despite my tough guy act. The medicine burned like fire as it hit the back of my throat, and I remember thinking that if it hurt that bad whilke the anethesia was still wearing off I was in for a rough recovery. I spent the next two hours in recovery, and somewhere in that time frame they allowed an angel of mercy, Robin, to come back and stay with me. I ate ice chips and jello to prove I was able to swallow.

There was a tracheotomy kit perched at the foot of my bed…a constant reminder of what happens when this procedure goes wrong. Doctor Gonzales stopped in to give some instructions and prescriptions to Robin, and told her the kit was a precaution, and that he’d never had to use it in all the times he’s performed UPPP procedures.

He told us that the pain would get much worse before it started getting better, and that we could expect the back of my throuat to become very grotesque with various nasty colors over the next several days. He said that would be normal, as well as a foul odor as I was healing.

He was right on all counts. I took some pictures so I could see what things were looking like. I wished I hadn’t. The human throat is just downright nasty when it’s healing from a major amount of cutting like this. And no, there’s no way I’m going to post the pics.

I slept in half-hour increments the rest of the day and night, asking for pain meds every time I awoke. That was going to be the routine, because the pain was what was waking me up. Robin (thank God for her) stood firm and gave me doses on the schedule that the doctor prescribed, no more, no less. She was very efficient in making certain I didn’t run out of that precious liquid vicodine.

On day two I followed the same routine, although I was able to eat some scrambled eggs with loads of butter. I found that ice water was about the only thing I could swallow without intense pain, and also discovered that too little or two big a swallow would send liquid down the wrong pipe, resulting in a choking and coughing fit that was insanely painful. I learned quickly to sip in a teaspoon at a time.

The pain meds never eliminated the pain, they just took enough of the edge off to make it somewhat bearable and allow me to get a few naps in during that precious half hour after taking the vicodine when it was acting at its peak.

Day three seemed a bit better. I was able to stretch the time between medicine doses, and I thought maybe I was over the worst of it.

Wrong. Day four arrived and it felt as if someone had given that pine cone a fresh twist. The pain was worse than it had ever been. By the end of the day it had subsided back to what it had been on day three.

I’m en route to bed at the end of day four now. Hopefully I’ll be feeling just a little better in the morning. It’s still too early to tell, but I think my obstructive sleep apnea will be largely reduced or eliminated all together by the time the healing is done. It just feels like I can breath better already.

Since I will be unable to eat solid food for several days after midnight tonight it is very fortunate that we have dinner plans with the Meleskys tonight at their restaurant in down town Dallas, The Press Box Grill.

Located in the historic Wilson building, this fabulous eatery and beer garden is one of Dallas’ best sports bars, with tons of plasma screen high definition displays scattered throughout and some awesome menu items. The Shiner Bock chili is some of the best I’ve ever had, and it tops off the best chili dog you’ll find in the Lone Star State…or any of the others, for that matter.

We’ve known Tom and Jan for years, Tom being the guy who kick started my IT career back in 1995 and made sure I progressed rapidly up the ol’ corporate ladder. He also made sure Robin got some great career opportunities as well, so we both owe him a lot of gratitude.

Tonight we’ll be celebrating that friendship and the recent acquisition of The Press Box Grill by Melesky Enterprises. I haven’t convinced Tom to turn it into a biker bar but you never know…he is a Ducati fanatic and a very experienced track racer.

No worries, sports fans, I think The Press Box will remain your classic sports venue and only has embellishments and upgrades in store (some already underway). But don’t be surprised if you see a few Triumphs, Ducatis, and even HDs parked nearby more often.

I think I’ll try the Heart Attack Sandwich tonight: Fried tender chicken breast, tossed in gravy and topped with bacon, jalapenos and cheese. May as well start the fire in my throat before the surgeon does. I’ll wash it all down with a pint of cold and bitter dark Guinness…maybe even a Black and Tan.

Haven’t had one of those in a while.

Next time you’re in downtown Dallas, stop in and try the great food, brew, and atmosphere of The Press Box Grill, 1623 Main Street, Dallas, Texas 75201 at the corner of Elm & Ervay.

Several years ago yours truly was diagnosed with obstructive sleep apnea.

Yours truly was prescribed a CPAP machine.

Yours truly did not find the CPAP machine to be of any benefit, truly.

So now I’m at the end of my rope and there’s really no option left but to have this procedure done that no one can pronounce. It’s commonly referred to as a UPPP. It involves removal of the uvula and a bit of selective trimming of the soft tissue at the back of the mouth/throat where my adenoids and tonsils used to be.

The internet is full of horror stories and miracle tales regarding uvulopalatopharyngoplasty, and in about ten to fifteen days I will be weighing in on one side or the other. The one thing I do know is this is going to be a miserable recovery. My family doctor and the ENT have both warned me that I am going to hate them before it’s over, and the pain is going to make the worst sore throat I ever had seem like a momentary trifle.

I’m apprehensive, but I’m also hopeful that this is going to be at least partially successful and allow me to get more true sleep than I’ve been able to experience for the last couple of decades. I stay so tired these days that I think any improvement at all will make the pain of recovery worth it.

Stay tuned. I won’t be able to talk much the first few days after the surgery, so I’ll probably be doing lots of blogging to let information out of my brain so it doesn’t explode from excessive data retention.

I’ll be sure to give you some vivid descriptions of the sensational pain I’ve been warned I will have.

I can hardly wait…NOT!

I’ve got everything lined up for finally getting a proper layer of insulation in our attic tomorrow. But unfortunately somebody else’s project is all haywire and therefore my project is now on the brink of ruin.

I left the office today and spent the evening in procurement mode, purchasing $1,500.00 worth of insulation and putting a $500.00 deposit down on a machine to blow it all in. I have the machine for 24 hours.

My carefully crafted plan was to get this stuff stacked up in the driveway tonight and have a crew here first thing in the morning before the attic got unbearably hot to help me blow the new insulation in.

As fate would have it, the phone started ringing as I was slowly crawling home with a tower of insulation bales stacked 12 feet high on the trailer. Work. Gigantic problem.

Now it appears the entire weekend will be spent dealing with conference bridges and on the fly project coordination. I fully expect it to rain, ruining at least a third of those bundles of insulation. And I’ll probably have to pay an extra fee to extend my use of the blower.

And I’m just one of a half dozen people who will have their weekend interrupted for the same thing. Hopefully they won’t have as much financial impact as I.

If I ever find that Murphy dude whose law keeps doing this sort of thing I’ll punch him right in the mouth.

Yesterday I said my brother Michael is a genius. But back when he was 14 or 15, he wasn’t always displaying that potential.

Growing up in Ardis Heights on the outskirts of Greenville, Texas, my siblings and I had ample opportunity for adventure. When nothing exciting was being foisted upon us by the outside world, we were more than capable of creating our own entertainment.

On a hot summer day my older brother, Steve, and I were sitting in lawn chairs drinking iced tea and relaxing after finishing a few gruelling chores. Our younger brother, MIke, was busy fussing over the old Chevy pickup he’d just purchased to restore. The vehicle wasn’t in running condition, and had been towed from the previous owner’s back yard to our front driveway the weekend before by Mike and Dad. I think Mike was 14 or 15 years old at the time.

Dad was at work, and Steve and I were not offering to help Mike with whatever he was currently planning to do with his new project vehicle. We were too busy teasing him about how he would never get the thing back in running condition.

I was bored, and the conversation and teasing had stalled.

Then I heard Steve say, “Look what that crazy kid is doing!”

I had been contemplating the ice cubes in my glass of tea and looked up to see Mike driving Dad’s GMC pickup across the yard. He was looking at us and grinning as if to say, “I don’t need ya’lls stinkin’ help, I can do this all by myself!”

Behind the GMC, hopelessly attached with about twenty feet of chain, Mike’s junk Chevy followed, driver-less, front wheels wobbling back and forth as they traversed ruts and bumps in a lawn that was frequently rotated between uses as a garden and shade tree mechanic parking lot.

Seeing he had captured our attention, Mike apparently forgot about the vehicle he was towing and decided to give us a show by punching the accelerator on the GMC.

To fully understand what happened next you should know a few things about my Dad’s 1966 GMC pickup truck. This machine had a V6. Not the sort of teensy wimpy V6 you find in cars these days. This was a dump truck engine. The cylinders in it were bigger than what you would find in the classic GM 350 cubic inch V8. It had so much torque I had personally used it to destroy the transmissions of half the FFA club members’ pickups at school in illegal parking lot pulling contests. With a Spicer 44 rear end and a granny gear transmission, that truck could do things that the average farm tractor couldn’t. In third gear at 50 miles per hour on smooth pavement you could punch the gas to it and the rear tires would break lose and spin.

That’s how much torque that monster V6 had. As I said, it was literally an engine designed and typically deployed in Chevrolet dump trucks. It got 8 miles to the gallon on the highway, going downhill with a tail wind.

So, Mike punched the accelerator. Sod flew from the back tires as the mud grips tore chunks of earth up and created a rooster tail of blackland clay, grass, and night crawlers that splattered across the grill and wind-shield of the trailing Chevy. All the while Mike was looking at us with that stupid grin on his face, clearly assuming that our slack jaws and stunned expressions were a result of awe that he could push the accelerator all the way to the floor.

As the two vehicles lurched forward and gained momentum, Steve and I could do nothing but watch like spectators at a morbid accident, unable to tear our gaze away from the inevitable disaster that was about to unfold.

In the midst of the increasing velocity Mike suddenly remembered his tethered vehicle.

He panicked and hit the brakes.

The glory of the resulting crash has never been equalled inside the chain link perimeter of our yard. The GMC ground to a halt, then lurched forward as the Chevy closed the gap and smashed into it from behind, like a giant rusty red foot kicking it’s ass.

Mike few forward into the steering wheel, then bounced back, his head flopping like a shot quail’s.

Steve and I were momentarily concerned, but when we saw Mike exit the vehicle and realised he was unhurt the hilarity of the situation suddenly struck us, and we both disintegrated into two heaps of quivering laughter.

Mike was unable to see the humor, and fuelled with a combination of embarrassment, fear over what our Dad would do upon seeing the damage, and shock at our levity, he flew into an instant rage. He snatched a tire iron out of the GMC and strode toward us with a murderous expression on his face, cocking his arm with tire iron in hand over his head as he approached, ready to bring it crashing down upon our helpless bodies.

We tried to flee on hands and knees, still laughing too hard to catch our breath or even stand, as we gasped out threats amid our guffaws about what we would do if he actually hit us.

We managed to crawl just far enough to create the space needed for Mike to reconsider whether he wanted to go to prison for the dispatch of his siblings, and he finally dropped the tire iron and spun around, stomping back to the wreckage to see how much of the vehicles and his pride he could salvage.

P.S. Stephen has reminded me that the reaction of our father to this incident later that evening involved the ejection of his partial plate dentures, and infrequent but entertaining event that occurred when he was yelling sometimes, especially after he had gritted his teeth so hard in anger or frustration that he bent the metal dentures out of shape, causing them to lose their retaining capacity. But those are some other stories.

When it comes to machinery, especially if said machinery involves any sort of internal combustion engine, my kid brother reigns supreme.

I have to wonder if the execs at Aramark have any idea how many hundreds of thousands of dollars he’s probably saved them over the years in preventative maintenance and proper problem diagnosis and repairs for the fleets he manages on top of the people he supervises.

I know his advice and help has saved me a lot of trouble and money with my vehicles and outdoor power equipment of various types.

Case in point: Yesterday I was at my wit’s end with my Snapper 28″ riding mower. For two years I’ve struggled with its annoying habit of shutting itself down randomly when I engaged the blade, shifted speed settings (it doesn’t have gears, per say), or for no apparent reason at all.

I called Michael and told him I was on the verge of dumping the garden tractor upside down in DFW Small Engine’s front lot with a nasty note, then going out and buying a new John Deere.

Mike asked me three questions, then gave me a suggested possible root cause and fix. Fifteen minutes later, having implemented his fix that turned out to be dead-on, as usual, I was mowing without mechanical interuption for the first time in two years.

I’d had this thing to the mower shop where they claim they’d fixed the problem but hadn’t. I had changed the spark plug, air filter, fuel filter, and completely disassembled and rebuilt the carburettor all to no avail.

I’d spent hours upon hours fiddling with wires, grounds, and air-fuel mix adjustments. I’d tried fuel additives and adjusting the gas cap venting. Nothing worked.

Three questions, fifteen minutes, and my brother had fixed a problem over the phone that a trained Snapper repair specialist couldn’t fix.

And he’s not even a “small engine” wrench twister. He specializes in big multi-cylinder diesels, trucks, and heavy equipment with a past sideline in drag racing. He has an innate troubleshooting ability that I haven’t seen in any other mechanic.

Mike saved that Snapper riding mower’s life last night, because before calling him I was one tequila shot shy of blasting holes in it with rifled slugs from my m500 12 gauge. I’m sure local law enforcement would have been un-approving of such activity, so it’s fortunate I called Mike before sating my appetite for revenge against the machine.

I just wish I’d called him about it two years ago.

I have named our armadillo invader Baldy, for obvious reasons.

Due to an onslaught of PETA protests via email, I have decided to offer the public an alternative to me simply killing Baldy after I capture him.

If you want me to relocate Baldy to a secluded forest area where he can live his life in peace (until he makes a poor speed and distance judgement while crossing the highway in front of a big rig), please click on this site’s donate button and send me 1,000 dollars via Paypal. Be sure and type “Save Baldy” in the memo field so I will know what the donation is for.

I know a thousand bucks seems to be a lot to ask for the life of one armadillo, but considering the truck I will be transporting him to his forever home in costs twenty times that figure I think it is a total bargain.

Again, $1,000 will save Baldy’s life. Can you live with yourself if you use that money to buy groceries and pay rent instead?

Of course you can’t.

Having completed my improved trap design, I immediately changed into chore clothes and headed to my workshop after arriving home from the office.

I butchered and dressed out four pine planks (the hydes are tanning on the east wall of the smokehouse) and assembled them into a long rectangular box with trusty Gorilla glue and Kreg square drive pocket hole screws. Ripping strips of 3/4 inch square stock provided the makings of the end channel assemblies for guiding the guillotine doors.

Don’t worry kids, those slamming guillotine doors won’t harm the armadillo, this is a live trap; the design ensures no injury or death occurs when Mr. Armadillo gets caught in it. After which I will blow his head off with my .45.

For something thrown together in an hour and a half (not including supper break somewhere in between) it turned out very well. The trigger mechanism works wonderfully.

The sun had just disappeared below the horizon as I finished up and carried the freshly carved contraption to the front garden. I set the doors in place and rigged the trigger. Two boards staked out at each end to gently guide my quarry into his coffin and everything was set.

Now comes the hard part; waiting for something to happen. I will likely awaken several times tonight, thinking I hear something. I will creep out of my bed, snatch the pellet rifle and flashlight, and open the creaky front door to peer outside.

It will be the same routine as last year, I suspect. I’ll venture carefully into the yard, initially on the lookout for burglars (no sense getting ambushed by a predator while doing your own nocturnal hunting!); then ease over just far enough to see if the doors on the trap have fallen shut.

If they haven’t I’ll return to my slumber, frustrated and anxious, knowing the enemy still lurks free in my domain.

But if they have been tripped, O happy day! I’ll wake Robin up to make sure she witnesses the victorious hunter and the captured prey. I’ll tell her I’m taking the armadillo out to the county to relocate it.

And that’s what I’ll do. I’ll take it out to a remote spot in the county and relocate it’s head about ten yards from the rest of its body with my Kimber 1911.

There will be no escape, no controlled release, no mercy.

Armadillo must die.

Grandpa Hulk’s home made armadillo trap borrows heavily from features previously found in a trap designed by old Doc Mockford who was a veterinarian in Greenville, Texas in the mid nineteen hundreds. His design has spread across the country over the last 60 years and it remains the most effective armadillo trap you can find.

Image 1 is the basic box and gravity powered doors.

The new redesigned trigger mechanism and top will be added later, but it is only a slight improvement on Doc’s original, which consisted of a notched dowel rod with twine attached and threaded through pulleys hung from a canopy framework. The notched dowel was pulled through a hole in the top of the trap and “caught” on the ledge of the hole.

When Mr. Armadillo bumbled through the trap, which appeared to him as a pleasant tunnel with open ends, he would bump into the dowel rod, causing it to dislodge from the hole and the weight of the door would bring them crashing down to seal each end of the box, trapping the armored mammal inside to await its dreary fate.

image 1

The genius of the trap was in its simplicity and the ability to take advantage of the armadillo’s propensity to follow along obstacles instead of traveling over or under them. The trap needs no bait, you simply staked some lawn edging or a few feet of boards on edge to “funnel” the critter into the trap from either end. An armadillo would come to the edge of these obstacles and turn and follow along it, either into or away from the trap. With the random burrowing and rooting habits of the armadillo, even at a fifty percent success rate for each time it happened to blunder into the boards, he was bound to get funneled into the trap sooner or later over the course of a single night.

The new trigger will be even simpler, consisting of the hole in the top, two small springs, two sticks whose ends will hold the doors open until the unsuspecting creature steps onto a trigger plate in the interior center of the trap, which will result in the withdrawal of a dowel rod from the top hole which holds the spring loaded sticks apart.

As the sticks draw towards each other their ends will retract from the bottom edges of the doors, allowing them to fall down into their closed position.

Stay tuned, actual photographs and more articles are on their way as this trap is built and deployed. Hopefully even photos of our first captive will be forthcoming.

Design image created by Timothy Frazier with Google’s free 3d CAD program, Sketchup.

As the giant oil company struggles to stem the environmental damage compounding in the oceans with each passing day, the fortress in Grapevine has undergone attack by a silent and elusive enemy.

Wearing bio-mechanical body armor and moving only under the cover of darkness, the intruder has created a series of underground bunkers mere feet from the front wall of the fortress.

The damage and destruction was so gradual and done so stealthily that were it not for the poor eye-sight of the culprit it well may have gone past the point of no return. But early in the morning on July 11, 2010, the nefarious interloper made the mistake of sneaking along the west wall when the residents would normally not be out and about yet. However, on that particular day the commander of Fort Frazier just happened to be out early and was surprised to see the enemy creeping along the wall.

Valiantly rising to the occasion Commander Frazier grabbed the nearest weapon, a push broom, and used the handle to attempt to spear the near blind armadillo as it rambled casually along.

The attack failed, and as the broom handle narrowly passed over the prehistoric mammal’s hairy ears and glanced off the brick wall, the blind creature realized that it was under attack. It bolted forward, thick, stubby legs and claws churning at the sod as it scuttled for its life along the perimeter of the house to the front flower beds when it disappeared into its lair as the commander made a last desperate leap only to have his hand close inches away from the tail as it vanished into the ground.

For the following two nights Commander Frazier has risen from his slumber at every sound, treading softly out the front door armed with a halogen police issue flash-light and Remington pellet rifle to see if the bandit has been ensnared in the flimsy Havahart live trap set just beyond the lair of the beast with funnel boards staked out to guide the sightless monster to its doom.

It hasn’t fallen into the trap yet, but plans are under way for a new and glorious war machine, crafted with the fires of Mordor and the blades of DeWalt in the Fort Frazier fabrication shop.

Soon the doomsday device will be complete, and the burrowing nuisance will be captured.

If it doesn’t get run over by an eighteen wheeler on the highway first.

Here’s a shout out to Officer Toney, badge number 6828 of the Grapevine, Texas police department, and Chief Eddie Salame:

When you stop a gal for speeding and she is driving a brand new vehicle she bought the day before with a valid insurance card for her two other vehicles, it’s perfectly fine to write her a ticket for exceeding the speed limit. I have no problem with that.

However, tacking on the second citation for failure to maintain financial responsibility is simply feather-legged. It’s a way for you to pad your numbers and justify your job as a glorified ticket writer on a motorcycle. You knew perfectly well that it was a brand new truck, purchased this week at Classic Chevrolet, and that insurance coverage from the previous vehicle to the new one is automatic, and that the current insurance card with my wife’s name and other two vehicles on it is valid proof. You are 100% aware that we will not have to pay a fine for it, since it was not a violation, but we will have to take our proof of insurance (the same proof she showed you) and proof of the purchase date of the vehicle (the same proof you saw when you stopped her) down to the municipal court to have it dismissed.

That will take valuable time out of our day.

But hey, it’s no skin off your back, and you got another gold star for having generated a second citation, no matter how useless it was to society or what damage it did to the support I used to provide to motor officer programs specifically. You proved that all the nice talk we heard at the Grapevine Citizens Police Academy during the motor officers’ presentation was a load of crap…your primary goal is to write lots of tickets for the sake of writing a lot of tickets, the stuff you guys claimed was your priorities was all pretence, judging from your action yesterday.

This is the sort of thing that accomplishes nothing other than a waste of the citizen’s and the court’s time…except for the fact that you get one more little tick mark on your record to show you are writing enough tickets to maintain your position as a motor officer.

I have always been a big supporter of local law enforcement, especially since I was a police officer for eight years. However, you just sealed the deal on my withdrawal of support for any and all law enforcement motorcycle programs. You’ve proven that motor officers live to write tickets for the sole purpose of being able to ride on the job, and the city’s main purpose in maintaining a fleet of bikes is to generate revenue, not to augment public safety.

Isn’t it funny how one misjudgement by one cop can affect a guy’s attitude for the rest of his life? How many other feather-legged tickets have you written that have turned otherwise adamant supporters of your profession into lifelong critics? I couldn’t stand guys like you who lived for ruining peoples’ days when I was a cop busting burglars and violent offenders while they spent their days playing mobile-meter maid and got patted on the back every month by the brass for all the tickets they wrote. I had pretty much forgotten how much I despised that attitude and style of LEO, but you brought it all back and reminded me you guys are still out there, making sure the public stays good and pissed off at the other officers who don’t deserve that kind of flack.

Chief Salame, I know you’re a big Harley Davidson fan, but let’s sell those bikes and put the money into something more useful like CID or giving the guys busting burglars and violent criminals a raise. The glorified ticket writers do little except to look fancy and annoy the public…and generate tons of revenue, of course.

I’d love to see some statistical evidence that having a motorcycle fleet actually results in less traffic accidents. Maybe that would change my mind.

Regardless, Officer Toney #6828 will always be a writer of feather-legged number-padding tickets in my book.