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Middle-Aged Man and Dr. Martens: A Love-Hate Story

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I first learned about Dr. Martens in 1992, when my friend Matt, who was cool as all get-out, was wearing a pair on campus at the small college I was attending in New Hampshire. The shoes were Docs, the 1460s, kind of shiny, and not the boots. When I got the chance, I had a pair of my own. Wearing Docs fit in with my developing darker persona in the early-to-mid '90s. I wore mostly black, listened to the Sisters of Mercy, wore an old Army-Surplus field coat, and was pissed off at the world. Living in Boston, and living without a car, I walked everywhere. The city streets are rough on footwear, and my jobs always required a lot of time on my feet, so the Docs were great! --Once I had them broken in. As a teacher, I liked that they were tough and comfortable and fit well with my lifestyle as a young ESL teacher on the make (if an ESL teacher can ever be said to be "on the make"). Then I moved to Fiji, and Docs did not work in that environment at all. They quickly molde
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My Experience Owning Two Scottish Terriers

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This morning, I was reading an interview with a Scottie breeder. She was going on about how Scotties are very independent and are certainly NOT lapdogs. She said they are likely to be aggressive towards strange dogs and that they hate to be treated with condescension. Apparently, my Scotties are not really Scotties. Maybe my evil plan worked: I bought them as wee puppies and brought them home to a family of Malteses, six Malteses, to be exact. I reasoned that this environment would teach my Scotties how to behave in a more Maltese fashion, and it worked! For starters, they are very much lap dogs! They love to lie on me or very near me, and they love to get rubbins and snuggles, just like my Malteses did (before the ex took them to FL). They are very friendly with other dogs, which is rather unlike my Malteses, actually. And they are quite well-behaved, generally speaking. My Scotties are not typical, then, except for a few factors: First, they do not listen very well, espe
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Rage against One Machine by Way of Another

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Life in middle management has been an oft-times bitter pill to swallow. Increased responsibility, longer hours, and dealing with more headaches--all while not getting a raise in salary ("lateral move," they said)--all contribute to a serious sense of unease, bordering on despair. Suffice't to say that the past year has been more stressful than I have had to deal with in over a decade, and it has left me feeling increasingly unhappy, angst-ridden, outraged, and just plain demoralized. Lately, and on an increasingly more emphatic scale, I have been looking towards my one and only real outlet for my frustrations: riding my motorcycle. I've ridden more than in years, I have formed an ad hock group of riders/motovloggers for a yearly meetup, I've bought a new motorcycle, and I've wrapped the "biker lifestyle" around myself like a blanket to defend me from the cold. After the bike purchase, I got myself a new jacket, new boots, a Harley biker wallet, c
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