There are very few people, intimately associated with the details of activity taking place in the VMC right now who will not be aware of the story I am about to make up. As a matter of fact I’m sure the BODs are already tired of hearing this account.
A notice was sent out by PM from some of the unhappy members of the VMC. The PM alerted possible associates of an effort to splinter from the VMC and start a new group called: Victory Insiders Club To Increase Malcontent. The acronym VICTIM was chosen as it best represented the faction (or so they felt)!
Being a rabble-rousing, complaining, maladjusted adult, with a juvenile sense of humor, I knew this club would be for me, so I traveled across the country on my bike, to a secret location for the first meeting. This meeting took place several weeks ago while the Soap Box was still a hotbed of hatred. It took me this long to find my way home from the secret location. Sorry for the delay!
I arrived at a barn outside a small town in a small eastern state, with my pillowcase. Don’t laugh, I was wondering the same thing. Why did I need to bring a pillowcase??? There were lots of cars and trucks parked around the barn, but I didn’t see another bike. I approached the barndoor with trepidation, as I always do, under these circumstances! When I was close enough, I could hear muffled voices coming from inside the barn. Suddenly a person stepped out of the barn. He/she was wearing a pillowcase over their head.
“Put it on.” the person instructed
“How am I gonna be able to see?” I asked.
“You don’t need to see, it’s dark inside.
I pulled the pillowcase over my head, wishing I hadn’t picked a flannel fabric. It was at least 100 degrees inside the barn, and hotter inside the flannel. It was so hot you could have knocked me over with a sledgehammer. Actually now that I think about it, it doesn’t have to be hot for that! I realized after only a few hours that the pillowcases were used to maintain secrecy, or hide the identity of the other rabble-rousers, and it explained the muffled voices.
After a few minutes someone with a pillowcase over their head began to hit a wooden rake against a water barrel. He did that for several minutes but no one paid any attention. Next he beat his belt against one of the main support timbers of the barn. Again, no one paid him any mind. After tiring of all this hard work, the man, clearly out of breath leaned against an anvil, accidentally knocking the hammer to the floor, gasped “Can you people please come to order?” in a voice barely above a whisper. The room was filled with silence, after hearing the implied violence in the voice of the speaker.
The guy next to me replied, “I didn’t know they were serving food here.”
Still too winded to speak clearly the first man said “We really need to get started. Dave, can you take the minutes?”
The guy named Dave said he could, but the meeting hadn’t started yet, so there was nothing to write.
Several of the people present who had obviously been to a meeting before said not to worry about that since he could take them after the meeting was over. The rest thought this a good idea.
The first guy, whose name was Carl (I could tell it was Carl by his name tag) said we should ratify the constitution. “Everyone in favor of the new constitution, signify by raising your hand.” No one moved.
“Then it’ carried!” declared Carl. I couldn’t help but marvel at the unity of the membership.
Someone asked “Shouldn’t we write down the constitution?”
“That can’t be a good idea.” I heard several people around me answer.
“I think that would only come back to haunt us...” Carl agreed.
` “Why do we even need a constitution?” asked a guy named Jim.
“How else will we know when to kick someone out of the club?”
“I don’t think we should have to wait for some perceived wrong, on the part of a member,” I suggested “we should kick someone out right now, and get off on the right foot.”
“Here, here!” several enthusiastic members called out.
“Who should we kick out?” asked a guy named Elmer (yes, Elmer).
“I get the idea that Carl is pretty pushy and not at all good for the VICTIM.” said the guy next to me.
“I don’t like his face!” one fellow added.
“His voice is too breathy.” piped up another guy.
“We have to vote on it!” said Dave, the guy not taking the minutes. “All in favor say ‘Aye.’”
The barn was as silent as the grave. You gotta love the unity of purpose shown here.
“Then it’s carried.” cried Dave.
“Get out you jerk...” someone shouted. Others weren’t as polite! Carl shuffled out with what appeared to be the weight of the world on his shoulders, or maybe it was just the weight of the cow dung that had been hurled on his pillowcase.
“Who can we kick out now?” someone demanded.
“That Dave guy seems to be taking over, who elected him President?”
“ I was just trying to...” Dave tried to protest, but he was shouted down by the mob.
“Get out, get out, get out!”
“But when are we gonna talk about posting dirty pictures on our website?” Elmer asked.
“We don’t have a website you idiot!” a helpful member informed Elmer.
Things fell apart from there... With memories of the French Revolution in my mind I headed home. A letter arrived while I was gone.
“It’s something from the VMC,” my wife told me “do you want to renew your membership?”
“For fifteen bucks,” I replied “where else can I get this kind of entertainment???
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
When an audiophile visits...
One of the great aspects of this audio hobby is meeting new people and having them visit your listening room to hear your stereo. One of the worst aspects of this hobby is meeting new people and having them visit your listening room to hear your stereo.
Have you noticed that it is often the impatient and demanding people who keep the world moving? What would it be like if four people approached a four-way intersection and everyone had a stop sign. If not for the impatient and inconsiderate fellow in the blue Audi who really didn’t even stop, everyone else would have sat there the rest of their lives waiting for the fellow citizen to proceed first. The world needs a few inconsiderate people, for the rest of us kind gentle souls to hate and thank!
I have met a number of interesting and knowledgeable people through AudiogoN. One of the guys I encountered lives in the same city as I, when we learned this we decided to get together and listen to some music. Ermylmeyer told me he had several weeks of vacation arranged and that he could come over any time after May 25th2005. I include the date so people will understand when this happened, if they read this years from now, or incase they read it years ago. Ermylmeyer is not his real name, his name is Greg Ritter, but for the sake of protecting his reputation he will be called Ermylmeyer for the rest of this account. I invited him to come of the 25th just so if he had made other plans for his vacation, I would not be interfering.
It is fairly easy to observe the fact that some people simply don’t know when it is time to leave a party, or any social event. I’m not talking about you and me, since we are a little too self-absorbed to make this error, but others just do not know when to say good-bye. These folks, in combination with the polite host, are a tragedy waiting to happen.
I went to work early that morning to finish up several projects, so I could have the afternoon free for Greg’s visit. I was home by noon, and dusting the turntable when the doorbell rang. When I got upstairs from my basement listening room Greg was waiting patiently at the door. At this moment I should have known that only bad could come of this situation, but being the fool I am, I was none the wiser.
Greg had his arms full. He had brought a bottle of wine, or was it single malt scotch, a number of CDs, and several LPs. I helped with the burden, and we made our way down to the basement, put on a CD and let the system warm up. I asked if he would like a drink, and Greg asked if I had any organic tea. I brewed a pot of tea, and we listened to the rest of the CD. When we switched to vinyl, the listening began in earnest. Greg made all the right comments, and asked almost all the right questions, like “Wow that LP never sounded like that before,” and “The treble seems to go on forever without being strident or over-etched,” and “What the heck is that awful smell?”
It was the baked beans from the day before, but he did not need to know that!
After several hours of listening and several pots of organic tea, my wife arrived home and shouted a greeting down the basement stairs. “Oh, I better get going.” Greg suggested. “Don’t go now, we still haven’t listened to the 200 gram pressing of “Time Out.” It was about an hour later that my wife came down and informed me that dinner was ready. “I really should...” he began. “Do you have plans for dinner?” I asked.
“Well not really.” So we went up. By the time Jill announced dinner, we had finished the bottle of wine Greg brought and opened another one of mine. During dinner we talked about a lot of things that none of us remembered, and finished another bottle of wine. After what felt like hours Greg suggested he had better get going. I asked him if he had somewhere to be and he admitted he did not. He settled back in the sweet spot full of wine, tea, and dinner, looking every bit as miserable as he felt.
I began to play music that sounded progressively worse with the hope that he would be compelled to go, but his manners would not allow it. The sky was dark, the sliver of a moon hung high in the sky and we were listening to the second Headeast album, when Jill came down. Greg nearly pleaded to both of us “I really have to get going.” Jill, who was tired and unhappy with the noise, asked with slightly veiled sarcasm if Greg would please spend the night.
Greg misunderstood her tone, groaned and said he would be glad to stay. Jill rolled her eyes and stalked off, but Greg did not see it since his head was in his hands and he appeared to be sobbing.
I put Greg up in the guest room. He was broken hearted at having missed the chance to flee, when it was available. He meant to leave all day, but...
The next morning when Jill came downstairs, Greg was at the kitchen table finishing his breakfast. She tried to ease him out of the house with a joke. “If you stay any longer, I’ll have to charge you room and board.” An unhappy young man shook Jill’s hand, took out $400.00 and handed it to her, then he burst into tears.
For the next few weeks he was withdrawn, and clearly did not wish to talk. He spent most of the days in the listening room. He drank pots of tea and listened to even the most obscure or trivial music I owned. He sat in the chair and talked to the picture of Annie Lenox on a Eurythmics album. His health faded so fast that soon not even Annie Lenox recognized him.
Finally, at the end of one month, the day his vacationed ended, he passed away. I happened to go into the basement when the moment arrived. His face lit up with joy! “At last the angels are coming for me. I really must leave! Good-bye.”
Finally he was able to do what each of us had wanted him to do for a month.
Have you noticed that it is often the impatient and demanding people who keep the world moving? What would it be like if four people approached a four-way intersection and everyone had a stop sign. If not for the impatient and inconsiderate fellow in the blue Audi who really didn’t even stop, everyone else would have sat there the rest of their lives waiting for the fellow citizen to proceed first. The world needs a few inconsiderate people, for the rest of us kind gentle souls to hate and thank!
I have met a number of interesting and knowledgeable people through AudiogoN. One of the guys I encountered lives in the same city as I, when we learned this we decided to get together and listen to some music. Ermylmeyer told me he had several weeks of vacation arranged and that he could come over any time after May 25th2005. I include the date so people will understand when this happened, if they read this years from now, or incase they read it years ago. Ermylmeyer is not his real name, his name is Greg Ritter, but for the sake of protecting his reputation he will be called Ermylmeyer for the rest of this account. I invited him to come of the 25th just so if he had made other plans for his vacation, I would not be interfering.
It is fairly easy to observe the fact that some people simply don’t know when it is time to leave a party, or any social event. I’m not talking about you and me, since we are a little too self-absorbed to make this error, but others just do not know when to say good-bye. These folks, in combination with the polite host, are a tragedy waiting to happen.
I went to work early that morning to finish up several projects, so I could have the afternoon free for Greg’s visit. I was home by noon, and dusting the turntable when the doorbell rang. When I got upstairs from my basement listening room Greg was waiting patiently at the door. At this moment I should have known that only bad could come of this situation, but being the fool I am, I was none the wiser.
Greg had his arms full. He had brought a bottle of wine, or was it single malt scotch, a number of CDs, and several LPs. I helped with the burden, and we made our way down to the basement, put on a CD and let the system warm up. I asked if he would like a drink, and Greg asked if I had any organic tea. I brewed a pot of tea, and we listened to the rest of the CD. When we switched to vinyl, the listening began in earnest. Greg made all the right comments, and asked almost all the right questions, like “Wow that LP never sounded like that before,” and “The treble seems to go on forever without being strident or over-etched,” and “What the heck is that awful smell?”
It was the baked beans from the day before, but he did not need to know that!
After several hours of listening and several pots of organic tea, my wife arrived home and shouted a greeting down the basement stairs. “Oh, I better get going.” Greg suggested. “Don’t go now, we still haven’t listened to the 200 gram pressing of “Time Out.” It was about an hour later that my wife came down and informed me that dinner was ready. “I really should...” he began. “Do you have plans for dinner?” I asked.
“Well not really.” So we went up. By the time Jill announced dinner, we had finished the bottle of wine Greg brought and opened another one of mine. During dinner we talked about a lot of things that none of us remembered, and finished another bottle of wine. After what felt like hours Greg suggested he had better get going. I asked him if he had somewhere to be and he admitted he did not. He settled back in the sweet spot full of wine, tea, and dinner, looking every bit as miserable as he felt.
I began to play music that sounded progressively worse with the hope that he would be compelled to go, but his manners would not allow it. The sky was dark, the sliver of a moon hung high in the sky and we were listening to the second Headeast album, when Jill came down. Greg nearly pleaded to both of us “I really have to get going.” Jill, who was tired and unhappy with the noise, asked with slightly veiled sarcasm if Greg would please spend the night.
Greg misunderstood her tone, groaned and said he would be glad to stay. Jill rolled her eyes and stalked off, but Greg did not see it since his head was in his hands and he appeared to be sobbing.
I put Greg up in the guest room. He was broken hearted at having missed the chance to flee, when it was available. He meant to leave all day, but...
The next morning when Jill came downstairs, Greg was at the kitchen table finishing his breakfast. She tried to ease him out of the house with a joke. “If you stay any longer, I’ll have to charge you room and board.” An unhappy young man shook Jill’s hand, took out $400.00 and handed it to her, then he burst into tears.
For the next few weeks he was withdrawn, and clearly did not wish to talk. He spent most of the days in the listening room. He drank pots of tea and listened to even the most obscure or trivial music I owned. He sat in the chair and talked to the picture of Annie Lenox on a Eurythmics album. His health faded so fast that soon not even Annie Lenox recognized him.
Finally, at the end of one month, the day his vacationed ended, he passed away. I happened to go into the basement when the moment arrived. His face lit up with joy! “At last the angels are coming for me. I really must leave! Good-bye.”
Finally he was able to do what each of us had wanted him to do for a month.
Tribute to Slim Lefevre
The funny thing to me is I’d known him for years and I didn’t have any idea that he was actually interesting. We went to highschool together back in the late 70's in Milwaukee. Then I didn’t see him for twenty years. We didn’t really know each other back then, I just knew who he was. Our senior class graduated over 900 kids, so you can’t know everyone. I met him again when I went back to Milwaukee for my 20th class reunion. Class reunions are great. They give a person the chance to go back and see all the people who made their lives miserable for four years, and then to pretend you are interested in their stories, or lies all the while trying to come off as being more successful than you’ve been. Having been in sales for too many years, I was good at pretending interest. I don’t go to many reunions because I really don’t have anything in common with these people anymore. Well for whatever reason, I was there.
Since a lot of people travel a long way, having done anything they could to get out of Milwaukee Buffy (our class president) made it a two day event. For those who arrived early there was a cookout at a Dretska Park on Friday. I took my brand-spankin’-new V92C, and left my wife at home. She hates these things more than I do, so there was no problem with that. The guy who raped me with the price of the new bike tossed a t-shirt in, so I wouldn’t call the law and press charges. Since it was my best new t-shirt, I wore it to the cookout. I was standing with a couple of people who used to be young girls, pretending to be interested in why their marriages hadn’t worked. I had one eye on Karen while she went on, and one on the parking lot, watching for my friend Roger. Karen was still talking when Slim LeFevre interrupted to ask, “You really ride a Victory?”
Don’t think I haven’t heard a dozen times that ‘I shoulda bought a Harley.’ Riding a Victory in Wisconsin was like being Lutheran in Rome!
“Yeah.” I replied with as much pride as I could muster. Slim smiled, “Me too, it’s a cool ride.” Karen was a lot prettier than Slim, but I didn’t stick around for the rest of her tragedy. We stood in the parking lot talking about the bikes. He had the same thing as me, but his was red and black while mine was KYSO blue and black. I was sure we could tell them apart.
Before leaving Dretska, we made plans for doing a ride together. I’m not sure why I agreed, but a couple of weeks later I was riding from Green Bay to Waukesha, to meet Slim and then we rode through part of the Kettle Moraine to Lake Geneva. By the time I got back to his house I felt like I’d been on the bike for weeks. It had been a few years since I’d spent any real time on a bike, something like twenty of them. Most of my rides were to work and back home. While we sat in Lake Geneva eating lunch and watching all the hot Illinois woman strut, we got caught up, and planned a few more rides.
It turned out that Slim was a lot more mechanical than me, and really knew about the world of biking. Most weekends we would be riding somewhere. If anything went wrong with either of the bikes, he could get us back on the road. Sometimes our wives went along, sometimes they didn’t come along. Either way we had fun. We logged lots of miles.
His name wasn’t Slim, but I never heard anyone, even his wife, call him anything else. He was a big guy, ‘Slim’ might have been wishful thinking. It’s funny how things stick, my mom always called me shorty. Slim had a serious face, but a pleasant personality. All of his wives were still counted as friends, and he had a few. He didn’t say much, but his mind was always running at full throttle. When I asked him a question, he was always right. He also had a big belly that barely hid a serious appetite. His sense of adventure was almost as big as his belly. A lot of times I’d ask “Where we goin’ today?” He’d usually answer “Wherever the road goes.”
I count as some of my most pleasant memories some of the trips we took. I recall riding into the base of the Rookie Mountains and passing a lake that looked like the scene in Forrest Gump. The mountains were reflected in the crystal clear water as the sun rose behind us. A thin mist rose over the mirror of water. We got an early start that morning so we could get to the higher elevations while there was enough daylight to see the glory of the mountains. We’d ride all day for something like that. After standing speechless for a while we’d saddle up and hit the road. Slim taught me that there are some things a person experiences that talking about them takes away from the experience. Something are too big for words.
Slim was a ‘biker’ in every sense of the word, but he was a lawyer from 9 to 5, or maybe 10 to 3. Sometimes I’d forget what he did for a living because he was nothing like the lawyers I’d met. He could wrench, fight, or ride as good as anyone. He made a name for himself in a big city back east by winning ‘some stupid case’ as he described it, but he didn’t want the notoriety, which was why he came back to the Milwaukee area. Yeah he was rich, but not in a bad way!
His other favorite phrase was “We better give it a little more throttle.” He didn’t usually mean that we needed to ride faster, but further.
Rides, as you know have a way of centering you, and bringing peace back to your mind. A little more throttle is a good thing. We were riding in Maine when we got caught in a real storm. We were soaked, even with our rain gear but were enjoying what color the wind had left in the trees. The autumn sun was setting when the rain cleared. It was cold, but not as cold as it would have been in Wisconsin.
“What do you think, call it a day?” I asked
“We better give it a little more throttle...” he said with a grin.
His attitude about riding was that even the longest day was too short for a good ride, but if a person only had an hour that was enough time to ride. We were reminded a few times by the moon that it was time to turn back towards home. Even in the dark, Slim had a great sense of direction. He’d usually go out of his way to bring us home a little farther north than he needed to be, just so I wasn’t riding all the way back to Green Bay alone. I’d send him on his way with “Goodnight Slim, see ya next time!” and a wave. He’d always smile, and turn south. With that I went home, knowing one more adventure was gone forever, but the next one was that much closer.
He never cared much about biker fashion. He’d smirk at matching outfits and that kind of stuff. He smirked when I traded my V92C for a Kingpin back in 2004, as if I were making a fashion faux pax. I know he secretly liked the KP but he would never trade in his red and black cruiser.
He never said anything when I noticed his color change. He had the ugly yellow cast that comes hand in hand with sickness and death. I talked to his wife, but there was never a word from him. She confirmed my fear. We rode, shorter rides the few weekends we had left and they ended with,
“Goodnight Slim, see ya next time.” The last time he nodded, but I saw him turn away as a tear escaped from his eye.
I called his house the next Saturday, but there was no answer. There was no one home. Slim is gone now, and I can’t say anything that I might have wanted to tell him, or at least thank him for things that I don’t even understand. I’ve probably gone on too much already, the only thing I have left to say is:
“Goodnight Slim, see ya next time.”
Since a lot of people travel a long way, having done anything they could to get out of Milwaukee Buffy (our class president) made it a two day event. For those who arrived early there was a cookout at a Dretska Park on Friday. I took my brand-spankin’-new V92C, and left my wife at home. She hates these things more than I do, so there was no problem with that. The guy who raped me with the price of the new bike tossed a t-shirt in, so I wouldn’t call the law and press charges. Since it was my best new t-shirt, I wore it to the cookout. I was standing with a couple of people who used to be young girls, pretending to be interested in why their marriages hadn’t worked. I had one eye on Karen while she went on, and one on the parking lot, watching for my friend Roger. Karen was still talking when Slim LeFevre interrupted to ask, “You really ride a Victory?”
Don’t think I haven’t heard a dozen times that ‘I shoulda bought a Harley.’ Riding a Victory in Wisconsin was like being Lutheran in Rome!
“Yeah.” I replied with as much pride as I could muster. Slim smiled, “Me too, it’s a cool ride.” Karen was a lot prettier than Slim, but I didn’t stick around for the rest of her tragedy. We stood in the parking lot talking about the bikes. He had the same thing as me, but his was red and black while mine was KYSO blue and black. I was sure we could tell them apart.
Before leaving Dretska, we made plans for doing a ride together. I’m not sure why I agreed, but a couple of weeks later I was riding from Green Bay to Waukesha, to meet Slim and then we rode through part of the Kettle Moraine to Lake Geneva. By the time I got back to his house I felt like I’d been on the bike for weeks. It had been a few years since I’d spent any real time on a bike, something like twenty of them. Most of my rides were to work and back home. While we sat in Lake Geneva eating lunch and watching all the hot Illinois woman strut, we got caught up, and planned a few more rides.
It turned out that Slim was a lot more mechanical than me, and really knew about the world of biking. Most weekends we would be riding somewhere. If anything went wrong with either of the bikes, he could get us back on the road. Sometimes our wives went along, sometimes they didn’t come along. Either way we had fun. We logged lots of miles.
His name wasn’t Slim, but I never heard anyone, even his wife, call him anything else. He was a big guy, ‘Slim’ might have been wishful thinking. It’s funny how things stick, my mom always called me shorty. Slim had a serious face, but a pleasant personality. All of his wives were still counted as friends, and he had a few. He didn’t say much, but his mind was always running at full throttle. When I asked him a question, he was always right. He also had a big belly that barely hid a serious appetite. His sense of adventure was almost as big as his belly. A lot of times I’d ask “Where we goin’ today?” He’d usually answer “Wherever the road goes.”
I count as some of my most pleasant memories some of the trips we took. I recall riding into the base of the Rookie Mountains and passing a lake that looked like the scene in Forrest Gump. The mountains were reflected in the crystal clear water as the sun rose behind us. A thin mist rose over the mirror of water. We got an early start that morning so we could get to the higher elevations while there was enough daylight to see the glory of the mountains. We’d ride all day for something like that. After standing speechless for a while we’d saddle up and hit the road. Slim taught me that there are some things a person experiences that talking about them takes away from the experience. Something are too big for words.
Slim was a ‘biker’ in every sense of the word, but he was a lawyer from 9 to 5, or maybe 10 to 3. Sometimes I’d forget what he did for a living because he was nothing like the lawyers I’d met. He could wrench, fight, or ride as good as anyone. He made a name for himself in a big city back east by winning ‘some stupid case’ as he described it, but he didn’t want the notoriety, which was why he came back to the Milwaukee area. Yeah he was rich, but not in a bad way!
His other favorite phrase was “We better give it a little more throttle.” He didn’t usually mean that we needed to ride faster, but further.
Rides, as you know have a way of centering you, and bringing peace back to your mind. A little more throttle is a good thing. We were riding in Maine when we got caught in a real storm. We were soaked, even with our rain gear but were enjoying what color the wind had left in the trees. The autumn sun was setting when the rain cleared. It was cold, but not as cold as it would have been in Wisconsin.
“What do you think, call it a day?” I asked
“We better give it a little more throttle...” he said with a grin.
His attitude about riding was that even the longest day was too short for a good ride, but if a person only had an hour that was enough time to ride. We were reminded a few times by the moon that it was time to turn back towards home. Even in the dark, Slim had a great sense of direction. He’d usually go out of his way to bring us home a little farther north than he needed to be, just so I wasn’t riding all the way back to Green Bay alone. I’d send him on his way with “Goodnight Slim, see ya next time!” and a wave. He’d always smile, and turn south. With that I went home, knowing one more adventure was gone forever, but the next one was that much closer.
He never cared much about biker fashion. He’d smirk at matching outfits and that kind of stuff. He smirked when I traded my V92C for a Kingpin back in 2004, as if I were making a fashion faux pax. I know he secretly liked the KP but he would never trade in his red and black cruiser.
He never said anything when I noticed his color change. He had the ugly yellow cast that comes hand in hand with sickness and death. I talked to his wife, but there was never a word from him. She confirmed my fear. We rode, shorter rides the few weekends we had left and they ended with,
“Goodnight Slim, see ya next time.” The last time he nodded, but I saw him turn away as a tear escaped from his eye.
I called his house the next Saturday, but there was no answer. There was no one home. Slim is gone now, and I can’t say anything that I might have wanted to tell him, or at least thank him for things that I don’t even understand. I’ve probably gone on too much already, the only thing I have left to say is:
“Goodnight Slim, see ya next time.”
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