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Anyone who knows me, knows this had to show up. I can hear Sherrice Croft (my oldest friend) say “Seriously Reiswig?” in her, “I knew you would say that, but really!”, tone of voice as she rolls her eyes. But I like curves. No, I LOVE curves! Different shapes and sizes of them excite me. Sometimes I can’t help but run my hands over them. Other times my body aches to drag a knee around them!

I mean seriously, who can keep their hands off of the front curves of a 1971 Alfa Romeo 2000 Spider Veloce, or resist the urge to caress the back side of Kevin Schwantz’s 1993 Suzuki RGv500? Who doesn’t desire to experience the Corkscrew at Laguna Seca or to carve up the Tail of the Dragon at Deals Gap in North Carolina?

Old cars, new cars, pretty cars of all ages have curves! I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for the 1967/68 Camaro’s and Firebird’s and early ’70’s Corvettes just drive me crazy. But some of those European cars can take my breath away. The Mercedes Benz 300 SL Gullwing and any Porche 911 wide body have curves to die for! My latest object of desire is the sensual Alfa Romeo 4c Spider in the stunning color Giallo Prototipo. Be still my beating heart! There are curves and color enough to ignite a wildfire in my soul!

Then there are bikes! I enjoy the visual elements of everything from cruisers to sport bikes. Japanese, Italian and American makes all have their own flair. Of all the beautiful bikes that I have seen, there are two that will forever be etched in the pleasure center of my memories. The 1987 Honda Hurricane 600 had curves aplenty. It was love at first sight! But the first Ducati 916 I saw, at the Rock Store on Mulholland Hwy, took my breath away. It was pure lust! Oh how I wanted to twist her throttle and carve through those Southern California canyon roads! Pictures were great, but that first view in the flesh was worth the time spent on the detour to that famous destination.

The fascination with curves didn’t stop with cars and bikes. I needed curves and texture in my world, and I needed to touch them. One day I walked into a new, hip sandwich shop in Spokane Washington, and they had sculpted curves and waves into the walls. I was almost embarrassed as I stood there running my hands over their walls. I just couldn’t help myself, much to the amusement of the owner. When I apologized for fondling his walls, he said all was well, as he understood my impulsive behavior.

I cannot forget those twisty ribbons of pavement that undulate over the earth, begging me to go faster. Sunlight and shadows dancing along the way, adding their own texture and flair. The little yellow signs entice me as I wonder if I can really triple this one or that one. Smoother, faster, bring on the pleasure overload. Yes, curves and speed are a lethal drug combination, but such a wonderful combination they are!

These primal desires came naturally to me. My family had a storied history with fast cars, fast bikes and, well… pretty girls. And I embraced that heritage with gusto, like the addict that I am. They say the first step to recovery is to own your stuff. Well, I like curves, but I don’t want to be cured!

And yes, there are other curves I love too!

I’ve been thinking about suicide lately. Not my own, really, at least not my own now. More like my own, long ago.

I’ve carried the belief that suicide was wrong, that it was selfish, that it was a permanent solution to a temporary problem. I’ve believed that for as long as I can remember. Not because I read it in a book, but because I lived with the possibility that suicide could impact my life any day. I never knew what I might find when I came home from school. My mother told me many times that the only reason she didn’t kill herself was because she was afraid I would find her and she didn’t want to do that to me. What a noble reason! Let’s not mess our children up right? Maybe someone trained to help would have been a better sounding board. Maybe some one trained wouldn’t have to wonder if today was the day they might find mom dead in the bathtub. And so I carried the belief that suicide was selfish, like a reviled treasure, buried deep within.

It’s kind of funny how our greatest strengths can be our greatest weaknesses and visa versa! Some of us are programmed to believe we can fix things. To believe that we can overcome challenges and be victorious. That’s all good and well when we can. But, some times we can’t fix things. Sometimes we are not able to overcome. That is when the spiral sets in. The self doubt, the vicious self-criticism, the feelings of failure. Depression.

I remember pain, not physical, but mental pain. Paralyzing mental pain. I remember laying on the floor, staring blankly at the ceiling, not knowing what to do, or how to do it. Wondering why I was here. Thinking that if I didn’t exist, then I wouldn’t hurt. But, I wasn’t going to kill myself. That would be selfish!

Speed was my drug dealer. I did not take little pills because I self-righteously thought that was wrong. But I was an adrenaline junky. Any time life was rough or I needed an escape, I went for a ride. Often, there were “go to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200” speeds involved with the trips. Sometimes it was a two hour and twenty minute trip to Hayden Lake Idaho or a 22 minute trip to Fishhook Park. More often than not it was just a quick trip out and about in the countryside. Anything to get my fix. But, like any drug, I needed more the longer I used. I needed to push harder, go faster, take bigger risks.

I told myself it was therapy. I told myself it cleared my head and helped me focus. In reality, I needed my fix to escape life and its challenges. I needed my fix to lift the depression and the feeling of being lost. I needed my fix to feel alive! I was taking risks without thinking of the consequences, at least not consciously.

I didn’t expect to see 25. But not because of suicide. I mean, I liked to live life fast. And, if you died doing what you loved, well, what a way to go right? I was sure no one could be sad, because I would die living life to the fullest. It was all in, all the time. I was the full throttle guy!

I didn’t expect to see 25. But it wouldn’t be suicide, right?

Of Politics and Passion

Oh how I am looking forward to 9 November 2016. The day we get to wake up and learn who will try to wreck our country for the next four years (because both clowns will try). The day that political ads will no longer be everywhere. The day when we can all breath a sigh of relief and greet our new reality with trepidation.

I have been fascinated by politics and history since I was a young child. I can honestly say this is the worst election cycle of my life! While I want to shout my opinions from the rooftops, I’ve remained fairly silent. Why, you ask? Well, the short answer is that there is so much divisiveness, so much anger and hate in our country and in our communities, that sharing my opinions risks too much. It is so sad that we live in an era where we can’t have healthy debates instead of resorting to childish behavior! Where did the society go that allows us to have civil discourse, even when we don’t agree? Why are passions so inflamed, that we try to vilify and dehumanize people who think differently that we do?

I used to passionately implore people to get out and vote, let them know that they have a privileged right to vote and a responsibility to exercise that right. While I do believe those things, I recently read an article that has changed my opinion, slightly. This individual opined that if you don’t take the time to educate yourself, you should not vote. He said you need to vote from an educated position, not an emotional position.

I know they were wrong, but sometimes I wonder if the founding fathers weren’t on to something when only land owners were allowed to vote. You needed to have skin in the game in order to cast your vote. You needed to be informed, because you were invested! You have to take a class and pass a test to drive a car, pilot a boat or airplane or to hunt, but all you have to do to vote is turn 18. And that vote can be just as lethal as a poor choice while driving!

I wish everyone would realize that the right wing and the left wing help fly the same bird. That they both want power and control. That they both get their money from the same places. Together, they are both trying to divide and conquer us.

So I beg of you, read history, ours and the rest of the world’s. The good and the bad. Read about economics and politics. Become an informed voter. Realize that your vote may not make a huge difference on the national stage, but it will make a difference. Think globally, vote your conscious, and then try to make a difference locally. Keep your passion alive, but use it to better your community.

I hope that we all wake up 9 November 2016 and try to be better people. That we try to have respectful conversations with every one, not just those who think like us. That we try to understand each other. That we try to make this a better, kinder country. That we try to love each other passionately, not hate each other with passion.

Because if we don’t, the left wing and the right wing win, and we the people loose.

His-tory

The irony of a giant dog in our home wasn’t lost on us. On our half acre in town, we had bantam chickens, bantam ducks, a miniature lamb and miniature cows. We jokingly called our menagerie “Mini Acres”. Then there was the animal that was not to be. Not because it was too expensive, not because we didn’t have space, nor because it wasn’t legal (it wasn’t, but that didn’t stop the cows either). It was cute, it was small and it captured my wife’s imagination. “No,” I told my wife, “we couldn’t have the miniature fuzzy burro because she already had one donkey in her world, we didn’t have room for another ass in our family as long as she had me”. I was her donkey, her jack ass, her fuzzy burro!

My grandfather was German, born in the U.S., but learned to speak English as a second language. He was a dashing young man who threw caution to the wind. His whirlwind life was probably driven by his demons that resulted in fast times, fun times, foolish times. But he had a heart of gold, he would give you the shirt off his back, if he thought you needed it worse than him. But stubborn as the day was long! His name was Jona, but he went by Jack. Some what appropriate, given that you can tell a German, but you can’t tell them much!

Thus was the world I was born into. I looked like my grandfather and I appeared to just naturally assume the role of being a donkey (pejorative term) in my world. Leave it to me to be that stubborn, angry person who wrecks the mood of the day. The one, who when hungry or irritated, can become the explosive bundle of anger. Or when hurt or disillusioned, could get lost in the depths of despair. My highs were high, and my lows were low. Life was fun, fast and foolish, and it came with it’s fair share of angst.

In my youth, speed, art and poetry were my pressure relief valves, my mechanism for coping with the stress’s of teenage angst, a broken home, an abusive childhood and a lost journey through life. There are pages and drawings who’s inspiration had a name, some knew it, others didn’t. As time and life marched on, there just didn’t seem to be time for that any more, besides, I thought “I’m an adult now, I should just be able to Cope!”

I was wrong! Adulting sucks and I need a release! So here goes. A journey, slightly mapped out, attempting to scratch out some meaning in my world. Be forewarned that my ramblings might make you uncomfortable, angry, sad or numb. Sorry, but its my journey and my release, you’re welcome to come along, just be forewarned, it might get a little raw.

So at the end of the day, I’ll take the moniker of Fuzzy Burro, as a term of endearment, that carries a little to much truth.