Just like sending an email

The last thing we discussed before she closed her eyes to go to bed tonight:

“Daddy, how does the remote control for the TV work?”

“Well… the remote has batteries in it, and when you press a button, it sends a signal through a tiny little light bulb at the front end of the remote control.”

“Oh yeah! I’ve seen that little light bulb thingy!”

“Yeah – so there’s a little sensor on the TV that receives the infra red signal from the remote control, and that signal tells the TV to change channels, turn on or off, or turn the volume up or down.”

“So it’s kind of just like sending an email, right? It just sends it!?”

“You’re five. How do you know this stuff?!”

“…”

“…”

Shaving my dad’s way

Last month I was inducted into the Rotary Club. I’ve started going to bed much earlier and waking up much earlier. I talk to people about the weather and the lawn. I worry about our economy and my child’s education. I enjoy woodworking and peace and quiet. I’m getting old, and with that, I think I’m letting myself become more refined. And now I shave like a refined man.

I bought myself a safety razor for Father’s Day this year. I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but I’m now the owner of a beautiful, German-crafted, stainless steel and chrome shaving razor. I remember watching my dad carefully and meticulously shave his face in front of the bathroom mirror when I was a little boy. He always used his safety razor and if memory serves me, it had a black handle and stainless steel top. That image of him shaving is forever with me as part of who my dad was – he was always well-groomed and clean shaven.

I went on a “date” on a Saturday night back in my junior high days. My parents were taking my girlfriend and me to see a movie. As I was preparing for my date, I thought it would be manly of me if I shaved my upper lip. I probably didn’t need to shave, but I did it anyhow. And ever since, I’ve had to shave. I hated shaving back then because I was probably the only one among my peers who needed to shave. And as I embarked upon the manly rite of passage known as shaving, I learned to do so with cheap, disposable razors. I don’t know why my dad didn’t teach me to shave with a safety razor; in hindsight, I guess the disposable variety were mainstay and accessible.

I remember one particular morning in my early teen years after I hadn’t shaved in a couple days and my dad said, “Come here. You look like the devil.” I followed him out to the driveway where my dad positioned me where my face was directly in the sun and he shaved my face for me with his electric razor. I was probably going for some kind of “look” that week, and I hated the fact that my dad was shaving my face, but that was one of the smoothest shaves I’d ever had – probably because my dad was anal about keeping his electric razor in top-notch condition and he raked it over my face a couple dozen times. I think he only used the electric razor at that phase of his life because my mom and I probably bought it for him for a birthday or a Father’s day. He probably would’ve still used his trusty safety razor.

In later years the commercials told us men that we need two blades – one for lifting, one for cutting, for the smoothest shave ever. Then they pushed the envelope with three blades. Then four. The blade I threw away this morning had four blades and an “aloe strip” that left a film on my face after the blade passed over it like a slug leaving a trail of goo. Schick and Gillette have done a fine job of manufacturing demand, making millions of dollars and leaving men with stubble and razor burn. We’ve been taught to press hard to get as close of a shave as possible and hurry through the process, which should be an art, of shaving in a feeble attempt to make ourselves look presentable and distinguished.

A few days after ordering my safety razor, it came in the mail. I hadn’t been that excited about a parcel in as long as I could remember. I immediately opened the box and was fascinated by the razors weight, sturdiness and shine from all the chrome. It was like I was holding a tool, not a piece of plastic manufactured in China and sold at Walmart. I don’t know how it happened, but I somehow lost my brand new safety razor between the mailbox and our house. I slowly retraced my steps twice to no avail. By the time I realized I’d lost the razor, I’m sure someone else had found it and was equally mesmerized by the chrome’s shine at least.

So I had to order myself a new safety razor. It arrived in the mail yesterday and I shaved with a safety razor for the first time this morning. The process was like cutting room-temperature butter with a hot knife. I had to keep touching my face after each pass of the blade to make sure I was actually shaving. After 20-plus years of pressing expensive, poorly-designed, mediocre razors against my face for a shave that still left stubble and burn, today I am changed man with a face as smooth as glass.

After splashing on some Old Spice and feeling that real burn from a real, close shave, I had Maly feel my face. She said, “Whoa! That’s smooth! Except you missed a spot there on your chin.”

It takes some patience and finesse, not unlike using a real tool, but I guess that’s the simple burden of getting that clean, close and smooth shave like dad used to always have.

How to archive your Facebook content

Every once in a while I’ll catch Elise complaining about how I post on Facebook too much. She used to go to Janicek.com to catch up with our lives and whatever desperate attempt at witticism I’d convey for all the world to see. She frequently reminds me about how we lost all of those precious documented memories of our trip to New York City in 2009 because I was posting said memories to Facebook from my iPhone (“In Chinatown looking at penis-shaped seafood”). I didn’t much have a leg to stand on, but I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I would, one day, be able to get those documented memories and archive them in some fashion.

On Facebook, I get an immediate audience and I use it for quick posts — something that doesn’t necessary warrant a full blog post; more of a thought or an observation, or more importantly to me, something that might make someone smile or LOL. I like to think that I’ve done a pretty good job of avoiding obscurities (“grrrr, I know she didn’t!'”) or pop culture and/or current event glib (“is watching Jersey Shore”). However, when it’s all said and done, whatever I might share lives on Facebook – to one day be sucked into the distant vacuum not unlike MySpace. I’m a huge advocate of owning your own content. Every once in a while, I’ll go back to the archives of Janicek.com to see what we were doing on Father’s Day Weekend of 2002 or to remind myself of why I loathe the Dell Corporation. I also want to be able to go back and read all of my Facebook posts one day. And on some future date, when my grandchildren are doing their research papers on me, they’ll need to be able to quickly find information about the Chinatown penis-shaped seafood experience of 2009.

Last night I went to Uncle Google and asked, “how can I export and save all of my old Facebook posts?” And he said:

  1. Login to your Facebook account
  2. Click on “Account” in the upper-right side of your screen
  3. Select “Account Settings” from the drop-down menu
  4. Click the “learn more” text link under the ‘Download Your Information’ section
  5. Type in your password and click the ‘Continue‘ button

Facebook will then email you a link that you can click on which will download a zipped folder that contains all of your profile information, photos, videos, notes, messages and wall posts — all in a nifty HTML format so you can read it like a website and click on links, photos, videos, etc.

So with all of that valuable information, I created http://facebook.janicek.com. It contains all of my Facebook posts dating back to December of 2007.

Worth noting is that this Facebook archive information contains Messages. While I don’t regularly check Facebook Messages, it did have email messages from folks that I don’t necessarily want the world to read or to get indexed by search engines. I added an http redirect to the messages.html file, so it will just redirect to my “Wall” page.

While it’s a manual archiving process, it’s still good to be able to have access to my old Facebook posts (online under my own domain and backed-up locally) should Facebook just up and go away one day.

New commute & Google Maps

I’ve been an avid user of Google Maps since its early days, but now that I’ve started riding the bus to and from work, I’ve really become a fan of Google Maps.

I asked the Internet for some help the night before I embarked on my first transit on Austin’s Capital Metro. A golden nugget of advice I quickly received was “Google Maps is your friend.” This person provided me with link to a specific Google Map that had recommended bus routes highlighted. I’d never really paid attention to the Bus, Bike and Walk routes from Google. And now Google Maps really has become my friend…

Here’s my quickest bike path to the Park & Ride:

And here’s the quick and easy “Flyer” bus route from my neighborhood Park & Ride, which drops my off 1.5 blocks away from my office:

And what’s also cool is Capital Metro uses interactive Google Maps that show you the exact bus routes complete with specific pick-up and drop off times, exact schedule data and even Google Street View photos of each bus stop (just in case you’re looking for a landmark or something to find the right bus stop while on foot).

I’ve been riding the bus for a full three days now and haven’t a single complaint. As another person pointed out in my request for help in understanding Austin’s public transit, “we [bus riders] aren’t all window-lickers.” The Flyer route that travels to and from Oak Hill to downtown is just a limited-stop commuter bus, hauling folks to and from their jobs downtown. It’s a busload of approximately 50 professionals — not that I have anything against window-lickers or anything.

And for the price, well, you just can’t beat it if you have to commute to work. This week I’ve spend $6 on getting to and from work by bus (one-way for $1.00). My Jeep gets 14 miles to the gallon and at $3.50 per gallon (or whatever it is today) with a 22-mile round-trip commute, that would’ve cost me nearly $20 already this week.

This evening I went to the grocery store and bought a 31-day Metro Pass for $30, which gets me unlimited trips on any Capital Metro bus. So now my daily commute will cost me approximately $1.36 (that’s my assuming 22 working weekdays a month).

So anywhere between $200-$350 per month to drive myself, contend with rush hour traffic and allow myself to get stressed, or $30 per month to relax, read, meditate or lick windows. Those windows taste mighty good to me!

New commute

Last week my company opened a new Austin office. I made the commute for a week and then over the weekend, I decided to finally try something that I’d been putting off for years: trying Austin’s Capital Metro bus system to travel the 11 miles from our house out in the ‘burbs to the heart of downtown. After doing a little poking around on CapMetro’s website, I plotted my route (which isn’t much of a route considering it’s a 1-way “flyer” route with no transfers and limited stops from my neighborhood to downtown).

I started this week off with my first experience riding the bus to work. I have to say, it was quite a pleasant experience. The ride was smooth, seats were comfortable, no one on board was licking windows and the ride took the same amount of time had I driven it myself, at a fraction of the price.

According to Commute Solutions, my monthly commute costs are ~$350. I’m not sure how accurate that is considering I don’t have a car payment and my downtown parking is paid for by the company, but once you factor in maintenance, gas, insurance, wear & tear, it’s not hard to see how expensive commuting to work actually is.

Bus fare for the Flyer is $1 each way (and I think it’s even less if I buy a 31-day pass, which I’m thinking I’ll do this week). The drive time is the same and I don’t have to contend with the stresses of rush hour. I can sit back, relax and enjoy the ride by just looking out the window, opening my laptop or reading a book.

To me it’s a win-win-win-win. I won’t be incurring the costs of a commute, riding the bus is more environmentally friendly, the difference in commute time is nonexistent to negligible and, most importantly to me is the alleviated stress of the commute. It’s amazing how quickly I realized the commute was putting me on edge. The commute on the bus allows me just the right amount of time for some much-needed downtime.

I’m thirty-five and officially old

Ever since having breached the 30-year mark, I’ve found myself pondering when the days would come in which I would begin to feel “old.” Having been 35-years-old for a few months now, I can confidently say that at 35-years-old is the age at which I have found myself feeling old.

I will begin with the peak of the recent crescendo, which, in my old age, I will refer to as “yesterday.” I set out on a walk alone to get the mail. My 5-year-old daughter was quickly behind me. Half-way to the mailboxes, she decided to run up ahead of me. I decided to chase after her. It was after jogging a couple more than a few paces that I felt a numbing pain along the entire right side of my spine. I’d already expected my body to quickly respond with a, “HEY! What do you think you’re doing here?!” as my knees and hips adjusted to the increase in RPM, but given other recent physically-exerting experiences, I expected my body to quickly acclimate. But, it didn’t. I kept my pace to catch up to my daughter while maintaining some semblance of graceful jogging only to find that I had to constantly adjust and contort my upper body to alleviate the the spasms in my back. I slowed back down to a walk and watched as my daughter carelessly and gracefully kept sprinting along ahead of me. It was at that moment that I thought, “I’m getting old.”

I haven’t tried running or jogging today to test yesterday’s results for fear that I’ll lose complete bowel control or be stricken with spontaneous cataracts.

Speaking of bowels — it wasn’t until I turned 35 that I’ve found myself in the bathroom thinking, “one of these days I’m going to have a really good poop that just cures all of those ailments that I’m too scared to be tested for; Things like early-onset prostate cancer, high cholesterol, low bone density and forgetting where I left my coffee mug.”

It wasn’t until I turned 35-years-old that I feel that I’ve experienced indirect age discrimination. While I was unemployed last year, many of the responses I received after having submitted my resume for a job was that I was “overqualified,” which is a clear indication that I wear my pants too high and don’t understand how to use Twitter. And in recent months I’ve found myself referring to colleagues and coworkers as “the kids.”

When my hair started thinning in my twenties, the cute little girl who was cutting my hair might’ve said with an enthusiastic smile, “you know, we could get you some Rogaine and get this all fixed up for you!” Now she doesn’t even bother, and she trims my ear hair without even asking. And what’s worse is I now have to trim my own ear hair between haircuts.

I’ve always been inherently moody, but now I’m just downright crotchety. I’m always yelling at someone for leaving a door open or the water running, or at squirrels for eating all the damn bird seed. My wife was the one who first called me “crotchety,” and she knows me better than anyone, so I guess that makes me crotchety.

Old and crotchety.

Betterfasterstongerslower


So I’ve been reading a lot in the past couple years. And I mean a lot. I’ve probably read more books in the past two years than I’ve read in my life prior to 2009. And that’s like, six books or something. I’ve read quite a lot of classics, and quite a lot of just crap. After finishing a ginormous 3-in-1 Dean Koontz book that took me a month to read, I needed something holistic, real, spiritual and enlightening. I picked up my old copy of Siddhartha, which was required reading in one of my college classes. I’m pretty sure I’d never actually read this book, even when it was required reading. Back in my college days, I don’t think I would’ve retained much of the book anyway because according to statistics, the male brain doesn’t really function during college. During the college years, the male brain has to service two existential paradigms: 1) is it too early for beer and 2) do you think we could jump that in this car?

Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha is really speaking to me right now. I’m only halfway through it now, but figured I’d recap what I’ve read so far…

Siddhartha is a young Brahmin, a religious student and scholar. Siddhartha has a best friend, Govinda. Govinda, and pretty much everyone else highly regard Siddhartha as he’s just an all around good dude. But Siddhartha is frustrated. He’s not content with his path in life and his spiritual studies. He’s extremely intelligent and just “gets it”, but he feels strongly that there is something still missing in his life’s path. He tells Govinda that he’s going to become a Samana, which is basically a peasant monk who endures suffering in the forms of fasting and patience. Siddhartha and Govidna are accepted into a Samana tribe, and live the Samana life for 3 years in the forest. Sleep, pray, meditate and fast all while possessing absolutely nothing. Soon there is word that Buddha, the Perfect One will be through, to offer his teachings. Govinda excitedly convinces Siddhartha to go to listen to Buddha speak. After hearing the Illustrious One, Govinda is convinced that they must go and continue their spiritual learnings and servitude under Buddha. Siddhartha isn’t convinced as he doesn’t feel as if there’s much more he can be “taught.” Siddhartha respectfully asks to speak to the Illustrious One, and he is granted the opportunity. The gist of the conversation is that Siddhartha thinks that Buddha is nothing short of the most righteous and awesome dude there is, and is worthy of the masses of followers, however, Siddhartha feels that he must experience life by his own devices, instead of those taught through others. Buddha appreciates the young student’s early enlightenment and unquenchable thirst for knowledge and furthering his real life experiences. Siddhartha gets Buddha’s blessing and well-wishes, with a half-cocked smile.

And so Siddhartha heads out on his own – on his quest for real life experiences. Thankfully he has his experience as a Brahmin and Samana on his side, because he goes for many days where he has to fast and just be patient in his travels. He befriends many people on his journey and learns from “ordinary” people. He finds himself most enjoying the most ordinary of things, like the flowing river, trees, fish swimming, birds chirping, and the moon and the stars.

Before long, he happens upon a river with a town at the other side. He speaks to the local fisherman, who he quickly befriends and is granted a ride across the river. Siddhartha has nothing to offer the boatman. The boatman kindly acknowledges that Siddhartha’s friendship is payment enough, and notes that Siddhartha will be back at some point and will be able to repay.

Siddhartha finds himself witnessing a procession with a woman being carried by her servants. Siddhartha is enamored by the woman, and requests to make her acquaintance by one of her servants. She agrees, and she is somewhat smitten by Siddhartha, due most to his all-around awesomeness. Siddhartha asks Kamala to teach him the ways of her indulgent lifestyle. She laughs at him as he is just a lowly Samana, and that he would need fine clothes, shoes and money to be able to carry with the well-to-do in most villages. He asks how he can attain these things, and she instructs him to meet with a local merchant by the name of Kamaswami, but he is not to portray himself as any less than Kamaswami. Siddhartha agrees to meet with Kamaswami because he wants to get some fancy shoes and money so he can get some of that sweet Kamala lovin’.

Siddhartha meets with Kamaswami and they quickly become friends. Kamaswami invites Siddhartha into his home and they discuss business. Siddhartha has absolutely nothing to offer, but has the gift of knowing how to fast, to think, and to be patient. He also knows how to read and write. Kamaswami takes on Siddhartha as a business partner and teaches him many things in the ways of being a merchant. Kamaswami is frequently stressed with rising prices, exchanges and late debtors. Siddhartha takes all of these things lightly, and nothing seems to bother him. All of Siddhartha’s business associates like him and enjoy his company. If a business deal goes bad, Siddhartha says, “oh well,” while Kamaswami gets stressed and his health suffers. Siddhartha would travel for business and if no business was had, Siddhartha would report to Kamaswami that he enjoyed himself, met many new friends and experienced many new things. This, also, stressed Kamaswami.

Siddhartha soon succumbs to the business life of the merchant. What used to be a frivolous game with no consequences and many friends to gain, soon changes into a life of sleepless nights, stress, and aging body and face and deteriorating mental and physical health. He finds himself lying awake at night, reminiscing on his younger life when he had no possessions and an undying quest for knowledge and experiences. He becomes addicted to playing dice and often bets such large sums of money and his estate, that most can’t play against him. Often times he loses, which only compels him to work harder so he can earn more and play dice again.

And that’s pretty much where I am at halfway through the book. I don’t think I could get into this book when I was in college because I wasn’t old enough to have had any real world experiences like real work or endured many sufferings. I was far from mature. I was in a protected bubble monetarily, physically and psychologically. After having been in the “real world” for over a decade now, I find myself wondering, “what am I really doing all of ‘this’ for?” Realistically I know, and am reminded that I have family for which to provide, and an ecosystem in which I’m compelled to be of service. I’m thankful that I’m conscious and have the capacity to see myself from the outside and have those fleeting opportunities to take inventory. I can see myself, my family, friends and strangers alike, all chasing our tails. I wonder if the right way is to keep chasing until it’s caught, or until our emotional and physical well-being is just beaten down and defeated, or to just stop, fast, think, be patient. I think my path is to just keep slowing down and do whatever I can do be a righteous dude, be of service to others and provide an example to my brood.

Oh, the horror

I love having a child – specifically, a 5-year-old daughter. At 5-years-old, she has become a miniature social and psychological embodiment of me, with a significant percentage of Elise mixed in there as well. Seriously, who better to hang out with than an amalgamation of my two favorite people in the world?!

She reminds me a lot of me in that she’s somewhat introverted. She’s comfortable with the people she knows, but she takes her time and has her own process to attain that comfort level.

This past Friday evening she and I were hanging out in the front yard like we do just about every evening when the weather’s nice. Our neighbors came over to chat for a while in our driveway. After talking for a few minutes, Maly politely interrupted to let us all know that she had a secret that she wanted to share.

She then went on for 15 minutes, relaying the synopsis of Dean Koontz’s “Darkfall” novel. You see, one night before bed, Maly had asked me why there were “bad” or “scary” things. I don’t remember the exact context, but I told her that while there are many bad and scary things in the real world, many are created in the imagination and subconscious. I went on to explain to her that she should always embrace and explore her own imagination, and to express it in words, drawings, paintings, music or whatever she sees fit. It was then that I told her about this Dean Koontz book that I was reading. And I didn’t pull any punches. I told her about the slimy, gray-green ratlike demon monsters with rows of razor sharp teeth and fire white eyes who lurked after the protagonist’s children in the night. With each detail I relayed, I told her that it was the author’s imagination that he was sharing in the form of a book. As I told her this story, I gauged her reactions and knew that she was interested above scared.

I think she really appreciated and understood the notion of an authoring pouring his thoughts and imagination onto paper. I think she’s been so excited that she hasn’t been able to sleep for a whole week!

Extreme Makeover: Wind Chime Edition

My neighbors needed their wind chime repaired and I really needed a project to work on (If I’m not creating, building or fixing something these days, I get out of sorts). So, I stole my neighbors’ wind chime while they were out of town. It had rotted and was broken into many pieces from being out in the elements for who knows how many years. My main challenge was cutting the perfect circles for the “head” and the “chime tube striker”. I went to the big home improvement stores and couldn’t find 7-inch and 3-inch diameter circles, so I decided to teach myself how to cut perfect circles from wood. After fabricating a jig for my router, I had the perfect circles that I needed. After routing the edges of the circles and some sanding, I think they turned out nice.

By employing some Bohemian geometry, I drilled holes for the chord to hang the chimes, the clanger and to suspend the entire wind chime. Then I cut out the wind catcher.

After some staining and generous coats of polyurethane, my neighbors will have a good-as-new wind chime that hopefully they’ll enjoy for many years to come. And, most importantly, I am proud to have had the opportunity to use the term “tube striker.”

Cutting a perfect circle with the router

I’m rebuilding a wind chime and needed 7-inch and 3-inch diameter wood circles. I went to both Lowes and Home Depot and neither had little wooden circles, nor could they cut them for me. So I picked up a piece of white pine, came home and figured out how to cut out a perfect circle using my router. I had to create my Bohemian circle cutting jig (keep in mind, I’ve only used this router a couple times) using a scrap piece of lumber and mounting it to the router’s guide rods. I was pretty stoked, while wishing I would’ve taken wood shop in high school.

[flv]http://www.janicek.com/video/20110501_Perfect-Circle-router.flv[/flv]

The longboards I’ve made

From left to right:

1) Maly’s 46″ spoon – I bought her a Tony Hawk “regular” skateboard at Walmart a month ago. One day she rode my 46″ Dregs pintail and really liked it (longboards are quite a bit stable compared to short boards). So I asked her if she wanted her own longboard. She said, “Yes, I want the shape of the Birdie board, with the color of your really long board and the wings like the Finklehopper board. And I want a purple stripe down the middle and pink stripes next to it.” Okay… so I built her a board to her specifications (with a 1.5″ wing depth). I’ll do the pin striping this week, and I talked her into doing some glitter design and glitter pin striping as well. And she picked out hot pink wheels and chrome trucks.

2) Buster’s Rigid (not yet stained) – I built a standard (1/2″ thick) 46″ long spoon nose for Buster. He cracked it within a couple days of owning it. So I made him a new, custom, 4-ply 3/4″ spoon nose. This one is a solid tank. I’m be curious to see how it rides (flexes) after it’s all put together.

3) The 6-foot Pine Cabron – Why the hell not?! I wanted a 6-foot surfboard on wheels. I bought a 1″ solid piece of pine and stole the nose design from my Dregs board and curved and tapered the sides and end using a 1×2 bent by a come-along tie down. I wanted a subtle stain, so went with a “Natural” stain. I also wanted classic pin stripes and chose Bohemian Blue and Purple Wave. Wheels are 76mm blue Bigfoots. It was really bendy, and I thought I was going to crack it in half, so I built some tapered ribs with some spare plywood and pin striped those with the matching Purple Wave. It still has some flex and rides like a yacht. I need to put taller risers on it because the wheels bite the board on hard turns (even though the board doesn’t do much more than straight).

4) The Finklehopper (aka The Deuce) – This was my second board. I made my regular spoon nose, but cut out a 1″ triangle on the tail to make “wings.” I stained this one with Ipswitch Pine and made custom iron-on transfers of Finklehopper Frog (one of Maly’s and my favorite books). I mounted trucks that I custom painted with brown fireplace paint and put some black 76″ Luv Ya Mutha soy wheels on it. It has one of my better grip tape designs on the top, but the Finklehopper transfers on the bottom weren’t doing it for me. I sanded and scraped the bottom to try to get the transfers off, but I kind of messed up the surface of the wood. To try to cover it up, I masked the sides and the top of the board and just painted the bottom black. That didn’t really cover up the scratches, and there’s some remnant Finklehopper Frog designs on the bottom. I’m thinking about doing a cool rhinestone hibiscus design next to cover up and distract from the previous design “flaws.”

5) The Dropthrough (not yet stained) – “Dropthrough” boards, from what I’ve gathered, are designed for a low center of gravity and for “bombing” hills. The trucks are disassembled before mounted and are literally dropped through and mounted to the top of the board. I haven’t quite figured out how to shape and saw the openings at the front and tail to mount the trucks. Really I just wanted to design a dropthrough deck. I’ll finish it at some point. I’m a bit nervous that the nose and tail sections could easily break.

6) The Bird Board – This was the first skateboard I built. It’s a 46″ spoon nose. After owning a longboard for a couple days, I decided I wanted to build my own. I did quite a bit of research and built a longboard press out of 2×4’s. I drafted my design from aluminum mixing bowls and bending a long 1×2 piece of scrap lumber. The only stain I had was Red Mahogony and Maly convinced me to just use what I had available. Maly designed the 3 little birds sitting on a branch. It has green 70mm Luv Ya Mutha soy wheels and is my absolute favorite. It rides like a Cadillac.

Not pictured are Buster’s original spoon nose that broke, my 10-year-old neighbor’s custom designed deck that we’re working on together, and Buster’s son’s spoon nose that’s drying in the press right now. That’s 9 boards in 5 weeks!

I think I have an addiction. At least it’s a healthy one.

6-foot longboard

This thing rides like a yacht. Built from a 6′ plank of 1×12″ pine, stained a natural color with Bahama Blue and Purple Wave pinstripes, lots of semi-gloss polyurethane and Blue Bigfoot 76mm 78a durometer wheels.

[flv]http://www.janicek.com/video/20110417-6-foot-longboard.flv[/flv]

Say hello to heaven

My Uncle J.L. died last night. He died of liver disease and while I don’t know if it’s documented, I’m sure it was caused by a life of imbibing and poor diet. Although he kind of dropped out of my life some 20 years ago, I have, and will continue to have fond memories of him. J.L. was “that” uncle in our family. I don’t mean the “that” that’s synonymous with bad. He was the uncle that was always cutting up and never took life too seriously. And that might be why he died, because he didn’t take his disease seriously enough early enough. My hopes are that he wasn’t in much pain. The doctors and hospice caretakers indicated to my mom that they’d keep him comfortable.

I didn’t say goodbye to my uncle in person. I still don’t think I’ve said goodbye to him. I never really knew where he went when he stopped coming around, and while I don’t think it really bothered me, I still wondered. Did he make road trips to Wyoming? Did he hole himself up in an old house somewhere out in his old stomping grounds in Houston? Did he have a woman in his life?

I remember my uncle coming to visit on the weekends when I was an adolescent. We’d get into his old, nondescript 1970’s orangish-goldish boat of a sedan and go to Crossroads for night crawlers. J.L. would invariably buy a six pack and slip me a comment about the cute twin daughters that worked the cash register. Then we’d go back to the pond at the house and spend a couple hours fishing. J.L. was the one who actually fished. I just kind of stood by as the trusty, doting sidekick and took in all of his stories and whatever else came out his mouth. I looked up to him because he had a long, bright yet dull orange biker ponytail and a deep, raspy tone in his voice that either told you he just didn’t give a shit, or that he loved you with all of his heart, depending on which hemisphere of his heart he kept you.

J.L. was the uncle who made fun of me for having Kiss albums, but was probably proud that I at least liked rock music. He was the uncle who was excited when I got the annual Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. He was also the uncle who always went out of his way to remind me of how lucky I was to have parents who were smart, who loved me and wanted me to do something with my life.

I went through a phase in my pre-teens where having gelled and spiky hair was the trend. Whenever J.L. would come to visit, he’d always look at me and say, “now that’s a cool haircut!” in that giving and familiar voice that always trailed with his smoker’s chuckle. I’d blush with equal parts of embarrassment and flattery. Whenever he’d leave to go back home, he would always tell me that the next time I saw him, he’d have a haircut just like mine. He never did.

One of the last memories I have of my uncle J.L., 20 years later, is my mom giving him a haircut. At his request, she sheared off his ponytail and gave him a clean haircut. I was there for that haircut. That was the last time that I saw him.

I’ll miss you, J.L.