Buy What You Like

I've never owned a minivan. I've never owned a pair of Vans either for that matter. Why would I? I was never a skater. I mean, I was never a skateboarder. I've previously (and quite believably) blogged about being one of the best roller disco skaters in the world, but I was never a skateboarder. I will date myself by confirming I did own a molded plastic FREEFORMER that was the same width as an Olympic balance beam. However, I never joined up with Leif Garrett to sneak into the abandoned swimming pools of Southern California or avenged the death of a sibling by Gleaming the Cube along with Christian Slater.

Many folks know that my friend, furniture maker Chris Gochnour, began his career as a kid making skateboards and eventually some of earliest snowboards. This summer Chris is teaching a weekend class at Marc Adams School of Woodworking on building a skateboard. It could even be a good way to introduce a young person to our craft in a way that will absorb their attention.

(Note: In an effort to make this return to blogging quite complete for my buddy Ed, I am hitting on all of the old standby's.... I'm calling out Gochnour, MASW, bad movies from the 70s and 80s... Holy cow, if I could just do some gushing over modern hand tool makers or make a poignant reference to Steve Perry of Journey, we could call it a year, and I wouldn't have to make another blog update until just before the world ends in 2012.)

My friend Erin recently graduated from Art School. On December 22, 2010 she commented on MyFace about working with skateboards. She wrote, " I think I just realized how much I love designing skateboards.....how do I make this into my job?"  Someone then suggested she call Tony Hawke.

Ever the capitalist and marketing whiz, I responded with, "Then call Burton or Sean White and jump into Snowboards, too... there's more market there. If you're looking for information on the woodworking aspect of MAKING skateboards, Chris Gochnour is teaching a weekend class next summer at Marc Adams' School of Woodworking in Whiteland. (Erin, always find a way to do what makes you happy.)"

I didn't think too much more about Artist Erin making skateboards until January 9th. Again through FaceSpace I saw that Erin had updated her profile picture with this:

I then realized what Erin meant about designing skateboards. I also realized that I wanted that skateboard. Art is like that with me. Sometimes the things I want hearken back to childhood and gentler days. A few years ago Gail and I bought a piece from our friends Mike and Wally that had been painted by Patrick Rapai, an artist in Zimbabwe. 

It is called Bicycle and for me it reaches back to a time when my greatness and all my accolades were received from piloting a two wheeled machine with no brakes around 333 meters of high-banked concrete. (That picture of me wearing Eddy Merckx's Molteni Trainer in the June 2008 issue of Popular Woodworking was not a random choice; it was a shout out to my cycling buddies.)  That is why Bicycle is the first painting I ever purchased.

In 2007, I visited my friend Randy at a craft show where he was selling his turnings.  At the back of his booth I saw something else that was for sale... this walking stick carved by his mother-in-law.

At first glance I knew I wanted it. By comparison the stick does NOT hearken back to my youth. I was never a gnome, and I never lived near a waterfall. 

However, it struck a chord with me. We could analyze whether it is modern folk art. Perhaps it was just my recognizing how many hours of work went into the carving even before the paint went on. I don't know why I had to have that walking stick, but I did.

Similarly, Erin's skateboard touched me. I love card games. I can pass the time playing spider solitaire just as easily as I could explain the finer points of playing Omaha Hi-Low. I don't know if that's why I wanted that skate board or if it was something else.

I just know that on Monday, I emailed Erin and asked if she would consider selling it. Erin and I agreed upon a price, and she informed me that not only is it the first skateboard she has done, but this is the first thing she has sold since graduating from Herron School of Art and Design.

I am not an accomplished art collector. Perhaps I have eclectic tastes. Then again, some of you may believe that I have an eye for greatness. Although I still fall victim to the need to be liked by everyone, the reality of my tiny little art collection is that I do not care what anybody thinks. The art I buy is not about artists names or perceived collectability; it's about what touches me.

I realize that if Gail and I lived with my parents and saved every dime we made for two years we could purchase a Sam Maloof rocker that is truly beautiful and almost universally loved by everyone who has the opportunity to gaze upon one. However, I am thrilled to be the owner of an O'Brien.

Perhaps in the future someone will look upon my skateboard and say, "Oh my God, is that an O'Brien?!?!" And I can say, "That is the very first piece that Erin O'Brien ever sold, and the reason I have it is because I always had the wisdom (and the courage) to buy what I liked."

Erin O'Brien has not yet established her permanent studio. However, if you are interested in her work you can email me and I forward it along to Erin.  Don't try to sneak into my house and steal this one.  As you can see it is being closely guarded by the Attack Lab.

Erin, may you  be greatly blessed in your career.  May you find an audience that fully appreciates your efforts as you create the work that rises up from your soul.  Thank you for letting me have the chance to be your friend and patron.

The Chef is THE CHEFF!!!!!!!

I don't know which is more shocking: my doing four blog updates in a single calendar year or my updating the blog two days in a row?????

Yesterday, I promised to divulge a secret about my friend Brunetto. So today I am following through with that.

Yesterday I told you that Brunetto is the greatest gaucho chef I have ever heard of. He cooks the best tasting barbecue on the western hemisphere and can then cut it perfectly. I have seen him shave off full slices of Picanha that were the thickness of a playing card.

However, Brunetto's secret takes me back to my blog from last Friday. On that day I commented about the rare achievement of Wayman Tisdale having world class talent at two different things: basketball and bass guitar. As I wrote that I was also thinking about Brunetto. You see, the best Gaucho chef I have ever encountered is also Cheff Brunetto, an amazing pastry chef. I realize both of these areas involve food, but they really are not that similar. For the woodworkers who still read my blog it would be like saying the most amazing wood turner you have ever met is also the most gifted person you have ever heard of at Marquetry. Sure, they both involve an area of the craft called woodworking. However, it is understood these areas use different tools, materials, muscles, etc.

Cheff Brunetto recently started a blog where he shares some of his recipes. I encourage you to check out his blog and try these recipes.

Despite my quirky eating habits I mentioned yesterday, one area where I have unlimited appetite is chocolate. I have always agreed with the old saying, "The worst brownie I ever had was delicious." As a brownie expert, I can give two full thumbs up to the creation of my dear friend, Cheff Brunetto.

Brownie Royal

Brunetto, please hurry home from your much needed holiday so we can talk about it over steak, wine, and dessert. Also, while you have been away, the student (me) has done some private study, and I have learned to barbecue shrimp. Imagine fresh shrimp wrapped in prosciutto grilling over natural lump charcoal as we sip wine and talk about the beauty of Porto Alegre and Florianopolis.

To those people who have either stuck with or rediscovered Skiving Off, it appears that in the coming days, I may return to my old (original) ways. I have some woodworking projects to do, and I have some interesting (sometimes irreverent) insights into the world around me. I cannot guarantee the updates of 2011 will be quite as interesting as those from 2008, but perhaps I am finally in a position to put the hecklers behind me and start writing again.  

And if Skiving Off fails to measure up to your expectations, just compare it to the price of the admission.  (That was said with love.... tough love..... whatever.)  Welcome back.

Leaving the Quacks Behind

Sometimes swans swim around with ducks for a long time before they figure out who they really are. I was part of the duck crowd until May of 2009.

Insert dramatic pause....

I don't eat vegetables. I never have. I likely never will. It's mainly a texture thing. Also, I'm a primal carnivore. I've always said if George Burns could smoke and drink and live to be 307 years old, I believe I can live to at least half of than number by just eating meat, cheese, rice, potatoes, and bread.

For years I have been told I was a finicky eater. I have spent measurable hours of my life at social gatherings picking crap off of otherwise great pizza. I am the king of soup broth eating, where prior to bringing the main course, the waiter takes away a bowl half-filled with dried celery and carrots yet completely devoid of all meat, broth, and noodles. If you have a stubborn four year old carnivore, then you have experience with how I get my sustenance.

During the first of my 15+ trips to Brazil (in May '09), just outside Sao Paulo, my friend Sundeep took me to my first Churrascaria, a Brazilian Steakhouse. Immediately, I found what I had been searching for my entire life. Endless supplies of delicious steak (sizzling hot and fresh) delivered continuously to my plate. There were comments about how much food I consumed, but no one had any concern about the lack of vegetables on my plate.

Late in the summer of 2009, I was informed by a friend in Brazil that the greatest of all Churrascarias (Fogo de Chao) has one of their restaurants in my home village of Indianapolis. Upon my return to the United States, I told Gail that I was going to show her the taste of Brazil, the steak-on-a-stick of true Churrasco, and we made our first visit to Fogo in August of 2009.

After convincing Gail to go easy on the most amazing salad bar she had ever seen, we began the dinner portion of our meal. We flipped our cards to green. The first Gaucho Chef who came by was carrying a large chunk of roasted meat. He approached Gail and said, "Lower Sirloin?" I gushed, "Oh, Gail, this is Fraldinha (frau-JEEEEEN-ya)... and it has an amazing flavor!!! This is one of the cuts of meat I have told you about." He cut a long, narrow piece and Gail guided it to her plate with the small silver tongs. Then, he came over to my side of the table, and he smiled at the gleam in my eyes as I said, "Fraldinha, Sim. Por Favor." And once the prize was on my plate I gave him a sincere thumbs up and said, "Obrigato."

The next few moments were some of those that happen every now and then that we never expect or plan for. It was that moment that I first encountered a man who has become a very dear friend to me. It was that day at the end of August that I met the man we will call "Brunetto." He was the Gaucho serving Picanha, and he approached our table likely expecting we would be the typical Americans who agreed to try a little of what he offered as we awaited the guy with the Filet Migneon. However, he was instead greeted by me, an expressive babbler who cried out just a little too loudly, "Oh Gail! This is it! Behold... (hands waving like Doug Henning) Let there be Picanha!!!!!!" Brunetto's smile clearly showed I had made his day. As he began to slice the steak for Gail, I explained that Picanha is the best part of the Alcatra (the top sirloin). I summarized by saying this (one of my best quotes of 2009):

"In Heaven, the Entire cow is Picanha."

As Brunetto moved to serve me, I immediately saw greatness. He shaved off a perfect, wispy thin slice of Picanha that was unlike anything I had ever seen in Brazil. Although there would be little compulsion for a Gaucho chef in Brazil to make perfect cuts for a visiting Gringo American like me, the reality is that there is no Gaucho in Brazil who is capable of cooking and cutting the way my friend does. Like Rob Cosman cutting dovetails, Brunetto has a gift. Mere mortals can try to recreate what Brunetto seems to effortlessly do, but just like woodworkers who watch Cosman's dovetail videos the results just never measure up to those produced by the gifted master.

Now for my confession. Brunetto is not his real name. It is a family name that helps to provide some privacy. I'm really not kidding or exaggerating. There's a reason why Batman doesn't tell anyone where the Bat Cave is....because if he did, there would be people there all the time. And if I told you Brunetto's true name you would find him and bang on his door and make him cook for you. And just like Batman, it is Brunetto's place to decide when to reveal his true identity to the world. However, tomorrow I will write a short (I promise) blog entry that gives away a huge secret but also gives great insight into the talents of Brunetto.

Since we met, Brunetto and I have become true friends. Gail and I have been to his home many times.

He has often been to my home, where he has attempted to teach me the ways of the Barbecue Jedi. The day that his lovely wife gave birth to his younger daughter, I smuggled a bottle of wine into the hospital and we toasted little Bianca, with no concern that the styrofoam cups did nothing to enhance the bouquet or color of the wine. But Brunetto's story must wait until tomorrow; today's entry is about ducks and swans.

367 days ago, Gail and I visited Fogo on the day after my birthday. (We were a day late because I had been on a plane on the real day my age increased.) And as we ate, all of our Gaucho friends (Edson, the Rafael's, Luciano, Thales, Ronaldo, Carlos, JoseRobeto, Victor, and the others) took such good care of us, even though I told no one it was my birthday. As we left Fogo that day, my friend Joelcir (the General Manager) asked how our dinner was. I responded with, "Well, I've been a little down, because yesterday was my birthday, but it always makes me happy to be here." Joelcir comforted me that I was still so young that my life was just beginning, and I felt better as Gail and I walked toward the door. As we were putting our coats on our friend Sean came up and asked us to wait for a moment, and we then saw Joelcir sprinting from the back of the restaurant with the legs of his Gaucho pants fluttering. He pulled up next to me, handed me the black box shown below, and said, "Normally, we give a free dessert on someone's birthday."

He paused and smiled. As I opened the box, Joelcir said, "But let's face it.... YOU'RE JEFF!!! Happy Birthday, my friend."

The gift overwhelmed me. It showed me that Joelcir recognized the same thing Brunetto had always seen. They recognized that a Gringo from middle America really could understand the Gaucho culture of Brazil.

And as I left Fogo that day and returned to world of ducks that surround me, I finally realized I am neither a duck nor a swan. I am Jeff, and I am Gaucho.

Peyton and I Remember Eureka

A couple of weeks ago my dog Peyton got upset.

Early in the morning of December 30th, 2010 before going out to start my real day, I was sitting at the computer. It was a busy online experience as I divided my time between feeding my Webkinz and trying to convince folks in Farmville that they could afford to buy a $200,000+ combine from me because Willie Nelson and John Mellencamp would bail them out if they got in over their heads. Note: my pitch normally goes something like this, "Hey...are you just a farmer, or are you running a thriving AgriBusiness?!?!?"

Anyway, just as I was in the throws of my online used farm equipment banter, I felt a shudder and heard a strange settling of the house and immediately knew we had experienced an earthquake here in the middle of Indiana.

After running to the library at the front of the house to verify my Granny Ann's snow globe was intact, I went to find my dog.

As I rounded the corner by the front staircase I was greeted by the little blonde guy who was giving me the full-blown "Whatchu Talkin About, Willis?" look. Peyton was clearly rattled. I used my best gushy baby talk, and tried to calm him with hugs and an ear rub. However, he wanted no part of it. For the first time ever, my dog Peyton refused to be comforted by me. It was obvious this disturbance in the force would require at least a few Snausages® to set things aright in Peyton's world.

The first official word I heard was that a 4.2 magnitude quake centered about 20 miles northeast of us had provide the morning rouse for Peyton and me.

Only 4.2, huh? The energy from that roughly equates to about 30 metric tons of TNT. By comparison I think the biggest USA earthquake in 2010 was the magnitude 6.5 that occurred one year ago today 33 miles west of Eureka off the coast of Humboldt County. At about 2800 times stronger than what Peyton and I felt, it's a wonder the goats even offered up the milk for the legendary Humboldt Fog.

Ya know, I just realized that hardly anyone even knows that a 6.5 magnitude quake hit Eureka on January 9th of 2010 or that a 5.9M hit the same general area less than a month later, because it was all overshadowed by the 7.0 magnitude quake that rocked Haiti on January 12 of 2010.

Well, Peyton and I are not as easy going as the folks of Humboldt County!!!!! We will not let our three and a half seconds of hell (similar to driving over back to back speed bumps) be overshadowed by anyone else. I'm thinking since the folks here in Indianapolis donated thousands of dollars last year to Haiti at the request of Haitian-descendant Indianapolis Colts wide receiver Pierre Garçon, the only fitting thing is for Haiti to immediately provide some love back this way.

I still have some Rawlings baseballs from the 80's that were made in Haiti. Peyton and I have discussed it, and that's what we want. My 95 pound shortstop continues to have trouble sleeping. In the ten days since the quake he has only averaged 22 hours of sleep per day; down from his pre-quake average of 23.  We believe Haitian-made baseballs will help him get back to normal.

Having seen how quickly the Humboldt County victims were forgotten a year ago in the wake of Haiti... Peyton and I refuse to forget the people of Eureka.

Peyton and I are expecting a shipment of Haitian baseballs in the very near future.

God's Honest Truth:  That black smear on the ball on the right is where it hit the floor in the Right-Center Bleachers at Wrigley Field on the fly before being scooped up back in 1996.  Somebody on the Cardinals hit it, but since it was only batting practice it didn't get thrown back.

Missing My Friend

It's been over a year and a half since we lost Wayman. It still doesn't even seem possible that he's gone. Wayman Tisdale was one of those amazing people who could be great (and I mean TRULY GREAT) at two or more things.

While most of us spend our lives striving to rise above the level of mediocrity with just one gift, there are a rare few who can headline on more than one stage. Nike made sure we knew about Deion Sanders and Bo Jackson playing two professional sports. However, the average American doesn't know that the guy who won a gold medal in the '84 Olympics and was the number 2 overall pick in the 1985 NBA draft was arguably the greatest bass guitar player ever. I'll admit, I didn't know of his talent until 1996 when I picked up "In The Zone."

In addition to that Gold Medal with Coach Knight, in 12 NBA seasons Wayman averaged over 15 points a game; so his talent on the court is understood. The shocking thing is that Wayman was a better bass guitarist than basketball player.

Paul McCartney and Peter Cetera made a lot more money with the bass. Leland Sklar appears on a LOT MORE tracks than Wayman. Stanley Clarke, Mark King, and Marcus Miller... well, they're the reason I said "arguably" up above. Yeah. For real... Wayman truly was THAT good.

Wayman, I miss you. Although you and I never met, we shared at least one friend in common. Still, when I would listen to Channel 71 on Sirius and hear your immediately recognizable sound, I felt like we were friends, too. I'm sorry you're gone, Wayman. Nevertheless, I am just glad I was blessed to get to experience it when almost 15 years ago I heard you request, "Come and Watch Me Play."

(Note: The video below is included for any who have not yet
discovered Wayman's musical gift or his amazing smile.)

M-WTCA Inspectors???

So what could pull me out of my cubby hole where I sit listening to the Bee Gees wondering why my blog attracts hecklers? Well, Panther Saws, of course.

Last week a homemade Panther Saw showed up on Ebay. There were two signs that immediately told me it was not genuine. However, I gladly made the opening bid of 99 cents because I would love to have this guy as a side by side comparison with my genuine Panther saw.

However, a couple of days ago the seller canceled the auction and relisted it with a Buy It Now price of $349.99.

Here are the three pictures that accompany the auction.

Is it just me, or does this saw appear to only have a "panther" carved on one side of the handle? Wow, that is what we humans would refer to as a "RED FLAG." (In other far, far away galaxies they would call that "A disturbance in THE FORCE.")

Also, do you see that pointy area inside the opening of the handle (in the area where the ring finger knuckle would be)? That shape (pointing toward the front of the saw) is normally seen on other saw brands (like Disston Saws). Woodrough & McParlin, the company that patented the Panther Saw, is often seen with a rounded opening inside the handle. I believe I've seen "pointy" areas on some Woodrough & McParlin handles, but I have never seen a Panther Saw with an outwardly pointy area.

Here, let's look at the opening on my Panther Saw as a comparison.

So I realize that this much data would not carry any weight with OJ's jury, but to me, it more than implies that the saw on Ebay was an experimental carving by someone. Nevertheless, I wanted to get additional information. Also, I wanted to let this apparently genuine seller realize that she was most likely overstating the authenticity of this item. So I sent her the following question through Ebay's proper channel:

-------------------

To: thegirls1220
Subject: jeff has sent a question about item #230528219160, ending on Sep-26-10 10:07:24 PDT - Unusual Old Carved Handle Lion's Head Saw (Panther?)
Sent Date: Sep-20-10 08:05:22 PDT

Dear thegirls1220,

It appears you have a fake/home-made Panther Saw. Can you confirm the "panther head" is only on one side? Also, on a real panther saw the area of the handle was enlarged at the front to allow enough room for the head to be carved. From the photos you provided it appears a Boy Scout carved a tiny little panther head into the existing wooden handle (and only on one side).

Do you have any Larger/Better Photos available?

-----------------------------------

Folks, I honestly thought I was being helpful. Then, a few hours later I receive this response:

-------------------------

Dear jeff,

You don't have to be rude. If you don't like the saw don't bid. This saw was inspected by a Director of the Midwest Tool Collectors Association, and he set the value.

- thegirls1220

--------------------------

I will admit her response triggered multiple WTF thoughts in my head. And after months of experiencing what TRUE internet rudeness is and just trying to avoid anonymous conflict, I made the decision that as the owner of a genuine Panther Saw I would defend the honor. (It's sort of like those websites where a genuine former Navy Seal goes through the effort of out'ing all of the Seal impostors who attempt to pick up chicks by saying they were Navy Seals during the Revolutionary War.)

So, here is the latest email I sent to the seller of the "Carved Disston Saw":

---------------------------

Dear thegirls1220,

What part of asking if you have other (different) photos is rude?

Also, I was trying to help you avoid the suffering in case you got a buyer who would immediately realize what you have is NOT a Woodrough and McParlin Panther saw.

As for your statement that you had it inspected by someone with the Midwestern Tool Collectors Association, I don't know of any M-WTCA guys who would look at a saw with a Disston handle with a "panther" carved on one side and declare it to be a genuine Woodrough and McParlin panther saw.

So, please, rather than incorrectly calling me rude, are you able to answer the questions I posed?

1) Is the panther carved on only one side?
2) Do you have additional (better...more detailed) photos available?

Thanks,

Jeff

------------------------

That's it. That's where we stand. I will let you know if we get a response to my questions. By the way, if you are inclined to jump over to Ebay and pay $350 for a home-made Panther Saw.... take a look at the Medallion, too.

Gee, is that a Disston Keystone I see??? Oh yeah, I'm sure "This saw was inspected by a Director of the Midwest Tool Collectors Association."

There is one other thought....perhaps in the early 1880's Disston paid Woodrough & McParlin for the rights to put a panther of their own on this very special saw. Holy Crap!!!!!!!!! Call Antiques Roadshow!!! I just realized that what we have here is...... An American Treasure.

(Now if we could just figure out why the patina on the blade doesn't line up with the "panther" head. HMMMM....)

Note to self (and my father)...when I Google'd images of "Woodrough and McParlin handle" on the WorldWideWeb and was greeted with my own pictures of my adorable dog (Peyton), I got the best belly laugh I have had in weeks.

A Toast To Our Republic

On the way home from work today, I stopped into a local church.

There wasn't a prayer meeting; that church was my polling place to vote in the Primary Election.

I have done a decent job of keeping Skiving Off non-political. Hell, for the last year or so I have done a decent job of keeping Skiving Off non-existent. However, today I want to talk about politics.

When I was younger I was involved in politics. Sometimes I worked as a Poll Challenger, and other times I offered to drive the old, insane, left handed, or the disenfranchised to the polls.

Then, I figured out that no matter who was elected, my life didn't really change. So I stopped wasting my time worrying about politicians. I still vote. I just don't expect to ever see a modern day Jeff Smith (not the Frugal Gourmet) go to Washington in Capra-esque form and filibuster on behalf of my needs.

Which brings us to today.

Rather than just show up at the poll and ignorantly cast my ballot for candidates with the most virile sounding names, I pulled up a website that allowed me to make side by side comparisons of the candidates' answers to a list of standard questions.

The last question was, "Have you ever been arrested? If so, explain."

It seemed everyone was answering, "NO."

Then, I saw a guy running for Congress who said he was busted for DUI 15 years ago. He said it was the worst thing in his life. He said it changed him, and he is better because of it.

That is who I chose to represent me in Washington.

Fifteen years ago when I was a much younger fellow, I had some idealistic notions of what a politician should be. Back then I likely never would have considered voting for a guy who got busted for DUI when he was in his 20's.

So it is interesting to me that today I chose this guy specifically because of his arrest. I didn't give a hoot about his kids. (George Carlin taught me a long time ago that Politicians always want us to know their reproductive organs work.) I didn't care what church he goes to. NOPE. For me, I just hoped that having been busted for DUI 15 years ago, this guy might be less likely to be a high and mighty, holier-than-thou, pompous prick than all the other guys on the ballot. So I decided to give him a shot.

As I left the church, one little old lady was handing out cookies. I turned down the one she offered. Another lady had stickers that said, "I voted today." My first thought was to ask, "Are stickers the only thing you have, or is there a remote chance I am the lucky voter who has won a lap dance?" Nevertheless, I suppressed that urge, took my sticker, and walked to the car.

It was only then that I realized that I may have just played a role in helping to kill the next Mary Jo Kopechne.

Wow.

Just when I was starting to think my vote doesn't matter...

Wanna Change The World? There's Nothing To It

For a week and a half, I have been singing.

It's been a while since I felt like singing, but Gene pulled it out of me.

I don't want to say that "I'm Back" for fear of stirring up expectations in my former readers that I will fail to fulfill. However, I can admit that I have recently done some REAL woodworking.

I think this is my first blog entry of 2010. Last year, I did about 26. The year before that I did 99.

I got the new house in January of 2009, and although the movers carried thousands of pounds of equipment and lumber down to the 1800 square foot basement, that capacious space has remained much more a basement than a shop (or studio) throughout 2009.

During 2009, my only week-long class at Marc Adams School of Woodworking was Marquetry. So even though I learned an amazing craft during that week, that class didn't force me to run a 220V line or put together a dust collector pipe system at home.

Last Fall, when the 2010 MASW schedule was produced, one class stood out to me. BUILDING A CURVED FRONT WRITING DESK WITH CHRIS GOCHNOUR. Chris is one of the best. I have lauded him before, but every compliment is truth. It is staggering how much work one can accomplish in 5 days with Chris, given how well prepared he is, along with his willingness to work as many hours as his students desire. Best of all, Chris Gochnour is one of the nicest guys on the planet.

The week immediately after Easter was the 5 day class, and the students had received a cut list to guide the preparation of the surfaced material we were to bring to class. This cut list served as my incentive to assemble my jointer, tablesaw, chop saw, planer, and dust collector. Waiting until just days before the start of class, I began putting my shop together, and I successfully processed enough saw dust to have surfaced lumber for my class.

Then, for five days, while my buddy (the class brown-nose) Joe Brumley and I sat at the back of the class telling jokes, Chris Gochnour guided the group through leg shaping, bent wood lamination, carcass assembly, table top glue-ups, drawer fitment, dovetailing, and final shaping.

My drawers aren't done yet. I told a few too many jokes. I had a little too much fun talking to students in other classes. I informed Marc Adams which of his possessions I have dibs on should I somehow outlive him. I also rediscovered what woodworking means to me and why it was I first embraced this craft 6 years ago.

My drawers aren't done, but I know how to make them. Also, I have the tools to make them down in my shop. Because as Easter commemorates the resurrection of the Messiah, the week after Easter 2010 saw the resurrection of my Passion for the Messiah's early (Earthly) vocation, woodworking.


My life outside the shop is unchanged. The job is still there, and I am glad. It provides joy, challenge, fulfillment, and CASH. Most of my problems are still there. Nevertheless, my smile is a little more sincere since I rediscovered that my life has room for both a Corporate Profit & Loss Statement and a Spoke Shave.

Some might say that my week with Chris Gochnour wasn't very artistic since I was just copying his desk and not truly designing my own. My only response is that comebacks should be paced and orderly. I am ok with my choice to hang out with my friend Chris and simply remake his desk as my own.

I am not always as tolerant of re-makes, though. I remember a few years ago when I heard Tim Burton was remaking Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory....I bristled. That movie didn't need another version. And when I eventually saw the Burton version with Johnny Depp, I felt even more strongly that Gene Wilder's performance in 1971 was strong enough to last at least a millennium or two before anyone else needed to make it their own. Then again, what do I know, I was originally opposed to the Squeakquel to Alvin and the Chipmunks.

And so it was a couple of weeks ago, as my vacation wound down and I prepared to return to the office that I saw an AT&T commercial that started me singing.



Gene's voice came through the speakers and reminded me of our magical world that is so often obscured by life.

I still only have 168 hours a week. But along with work, yelling at the neighbor kids, feeding my Webkinz, and cutting the grass...I still have time to take responsibility for my own life. And I am making the choice to be who I have always been...the little 5 year old kid with the big blue eyes who would look adults squarely in the face and unblinkingly inform them that when he grew up, he was going to be the President of the United States.... or a Fire Fighter... or a Fighter Pilot... depending on what day of the week it was. I may have a strand or two of grey hair starting to pop up, but on the inside I am still 5 years old. I still have big blue eyes. And I choose to use those eyes to see the world....

The World of Pure Imagination.

I leave you (today) with a classic original.




Pure Imagination
by Leslie Bricusse and Anthony Newley


Hold your breath
Make a wish
Count to three

Come with me
And you'll be
In a world of pure imagination
Take a look and you'll see
Into your imagination

We'll begin with a spin
Traveling in the world of my creation
What we'll see will defy explanation

If you want to view paradise
Simply look around and view it
Anything you want to, do it
Wanna change the world?
There's nothing to it

There is no life I know
To compare with pure imagination
Living there you'll be free
If you truly wish to be

If you want to view paradise
Simply look around and view it
Anything you want to, do it
Wanna change the world
There's nothing to it

There is no life I know
To compare with pure imagination
Living there you'll be free
If you truly wish to be

Gimme the Ball!!!!!!!!!!!

In life, the "Gamers" are the ones who want the ball in the closing seconds. "GIMME THE BALL!!!!!!!!"

"Somebody's gotta win this for us, and that's MY job. So.... GIMME THE BALL!!!!!!!!!!"

I wasn't always that guy.

One Indiana afternoon in 1985, Hebron High School's Junior Varsity Baseball team was down by 3 runs with 2 outs in the bottom of the 7th (the last inning), and I came up to bat. Like Roy Hobbs I could have won the game with a walk-off grand slam. Instead, my brain just kept thinking, "If I can draw a walk I will get an RBI, and then the top of the order could win the game for us." Three CALLED strikes later, I watched everybody run off the field while I stood motionless in the batter's box, having never even swung.

There was one person that year who came to every JV game (home or away) that we played.....my Dad. He gave me an amazing amount of support that season. And the words he had for me when I came out of the locker room for the trip home were simple but life changing, "Jeff, you will never hit the ball if you don't swing the bat."

I have not spent the last 24 years always hitting home runs, but I have taken my cuts.

A couple of years ago my accountant suggested I start an LLC for the woodworking/magazine writing side gig I had going. The best part of it was that I got to create a really cool name for my own private company. That is how I came to be the founder of Davidian Slingshots, LLC.

Throughout my life, I have often been able to encourage myself to accomplish nearly any dream I could come up with. With my slingshot of courage and confidence, I have knocked down more than my share of giants.

Yet, there are still some things out there that scare me.

This week I decided to beat the crap out of one of the fears I have always had. For the first time ever, I committed to rid my body of some blood without using a bicycle, a woodworking tool, or someone else's hockey stick. This week I decide to face and defeat my fear of needles by donating blood.

Yesterday, the Indianapolis Colts sponsored a blood drive at Lucas Oil Stadium. I scheduled an appointment for 12:15, and made my way down there just before lunch time. I filled out the paperwork and then met with the lady who would pre-screen me. I seemed to have all of the right answers to the questions regarding sharing needles and sexual contact with other guys and prostitutes.

I was riding a wave of positive self talk that had me convinced I would overcome my lifelong needle fear and leave a pint of my O+ behind.

Then, she asked for details about my recent travel outside of the USA.

Up until the middle of May, I had not yet secured a single frequent flier mile (domestic or international) during 2009. By the end of October I had reached Gold Elite status with more than 50,000 miles on one airline alone. (It's been a busy second half of the year, people.)

France didn't bother her. Apparently, Foie Gras doesn't taint one's blood.

Brazil made her go to the chart. She produced a map of Brazil and asked where I have been. I pointed to Rio and Sao Paulo in the "green" area of her map, and she nodded approvingly. I pointed to Manaus in the red-shaded Amazon area of her map, and her face fell.

She then told me that I was not able to donate blood until one year after my last visit to that area.

I nearly cried. For real.... All of the energy that I had spent the day stirring into my recipe for courage instantly turned into the shoulder shaking agony of an unrealized goal.

She gave me a brown paper that I was to show to another lady at the exit. This paper would apparently indicate to the "check out lady" why I was leaving with neither a bruise nor a Band-Aid.

There were hundreds of people at the stadium waiting to donate. I held the tears in, and did the long walk of shame, giving no outward indication of whether or not I was gay..... whether or not I sleep with prostitutes.... or whether or not I share needles with my fellow junkies.

I didn't mind the stares. I really didn't care what anyone thought. I just felt rejected. I felt like I dug deep and travelled way beyond my comfort zone in order to offer something to the world....only to be told I wasn't good enough.

I had excuses. I told myself that my company had needed me at our factory in the Amazon more than Central Indiana needed my blood. Yet, the reality was that I had failed in this attempt to donate my first pint of blood, and I am not a guy who handles failure very well.

I made it through my walk of shame, and I showed the lady the brown paper. She said, "Thanks for volunteering. We appreciate your desire and your effort to come down here." Then, she handed me a football.


As part of the Colts sponsorship, donors were given a commemorative football with a facsimile autograph of Defensive Back, Marlin Jackson. It was a really nice football. It was not a cheap, plastic piece of junk. It was really nice.



I wasn't going to refuse my gift, so I let her give me the ball. Then, it all came back to me....

You won't hit every ball you swing at. But you will certainly miss every ball you are too afraid to swing at.

I am not yet a blood donor. However, I will be.

Even if the battle has been postponed until a later date, I have already seen the Blood Donation Needle Giant standing there taunting me and my little slingshot. What he doesn't know is, I am Jeff Skiver, and I am not just calling for the ball.... HELL!!!! They already gave it to me.

A Man of Principle, Too

Sometimes life takes a turn that you just didn't see coming.

Yesterday seemed like a normal day during the early part. Who would have thought it could spiral out of control to where I would end up spending the night in jail?!?!?!?

Although my attorney has told me to keep my mouth shut, I feel I must let everyone know the truth about the event that led to me beating the living dog-S&%$# out of the guy at the Gas & Sip.

I don't make it a habit to go around putting the smack down on people, but I believe that there are times when you are left with no option but to advance to fisticuffs.

In this case I happened to encounter a guy who was so off his rocker and spewing stupidity that I felt justified in putting a stop to the lies he was spreading. Here is how it went down.

As I pulled the Benz into the Gas & Sip next to USA (United Skates of America), I immediately saw Ron Cassletwin's Purple Vega. Let's face it, we all know that at any given roller disco tournament in the Eastern United States it's always going to come down to Ron Cassletwin or me. That's a given. So I expected Ron to be at the competition. What I did NOT expect was to have Ron start his trash talking in the parking lot of the Gas & Sip before we even got to the skating rink. Still that is exactly what he did.

I was just trying to put 13 gallons of premium in my AMG SLK when that assclown in the purple sequin'ed jumpsuit rolled my way. Looking down I saw that Ron had raised the stakes, as he was sporting a new pair of Humphrey 600's...the Reidel 120R derivative that has limited edition chrome plate & trucks, Humphrey ceramic bearings, and Bones elite wheels. Where Ron got $600 for new skates I will never know. Most likely he has been pimpin' his purple clad ass out teachin' lessons to Middle Age Mamas who want to relive the Shaun Cassidy glory days. Nevertheless, the fact he was rollin' on his Reidels on a gas station parking lot still confirmed that even with new wheels, Ron is still the biggest dumbass on the planet.

With Ron rolling toward me, I embraced the tiger and returned to mountain and thought I was calm enough to handle whatever he was going to spew at me..... attacks on my equipment, my patented reverse roll scissor kick, or even my mother.

Instead, Ron went the one place he shouldn't have gone....he went after THE MUSIC.

The entire world knows that the single greatest song to Roller Disco to is Walter Murphey's Fifth of Beethoven. So when Ron got up in my face and began to preach that David Shire's Manhattan Skyline was better...I just sort of snapped.

Even now as I replay it in my head it all seems to be in slow motion. I see my fist flying through the air. I see Ron's hair piece remain stationary in the air as I punched his face right out from under it. I see the waving flash of purple sequins and the sickening sound of Uethane wheels helplessly scrambling for traction on the diesel residue on the pavement. I still feel the cold steel of the cuffs as the Hamilton County Sheriff's department took me away. Worst of all I can still see my attorney telling me that Ron Casseltwin won the 2009 Roller Disco-Hoosier because I wasn't there to represent.

I don't know....I suppose I should have been prepared for anything. But it's one thing to attack me....it's completely different to attack THE MUSIC.

A Man of Amazing Potential...

I am so deeply touched.

I have been weeping all day. There is just such a strong wave of emotions.

I just received word from Norway, that I have been given the 2009 Nobel Prize for Parenting.

I am sure that there are some who will say that I do not deserve this award and the fact that I am not even a father makes a mockery of the entire Nobel process. However, I think it is important to remember that I have the potential to be a father. Therefore, based upon my great and almost limitless potential for parenting success, it is understandable that I should be honored with this prestigious new award from the legendary Nobel Committee.

What makes it even more special is the fact that I have also been awarded the 2009 Nobel Prize for Physics. While it is noteworthy that I am not actually a Physicist (my undergraduate degree is Mechanical Engineering), the Norwegian Nobel Committee recognized that I am quite captivated by high tech gadgets like mobile phones and Blu-Ray players in awarding me the highest prize for Physics.

Nevertheless, there is a tinge of sadness. Despite my obvious joy for the two Nobel Prizes I was given today, I am upset that the Committee overlooked the great work we have done here at Skiving Off when they snubbed me. Friends I regret to inform you that once again I was not awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Gimme Three Steps

Note: This is not a sad, dead-dog entry…even though it is about a dog that is no longer alive.

A couple of years ago our dog Simon developed acute Pancreatitis and over the course of five days deteriorated so rapidly that we chose to end his suffering. An interesting point of his treatment was one morning when we arrived at the animal hospital and our veterinarian (Dr. Jill) said, “So tell me about his gunshot wound.” I remember I stared at her for a moment, and then while suppressing an incredulous tone, I calmly said, “Dr. Jill, we’re here to see Simon. He wasn't shot. He's the yellow lab that cannot keep any food down.” Dr. Jill said, “No!!! Not shot right now, Jeff. In the past he was shot. Simon's x-ray shows a couple of pellets still in his body.”

(Actual X-ray of Simon Skiver, Yellow Lab)

At that moment I was again reminded that one can never know the full history of a rescue dog. We got Simon from the West Michigan Chocolate Lab Rescue when he was about 2 years old. He was a fit little guy with an incredibly sweet disposition and a camouflage collar. I later figured out that the reason a perfect purebred Yellow Lab dressed in a camo collar would be at a rescue shelter was because he likely refused to be a hunter. I imagined his early puppyhood being trained to fetch ducks and geese and living the life of a working hunter. Then, one day he gets an injection of Remington pellets and refuses to ever again be a gun dog.

I picture his having a bad-ass hunter name like Rex, and after his scabs healed the great hunter (his first human) came along to the kennel and said, “Let’s go, boy. We need to repel a Mallard invasion.”

The dog (the former Rex) looks up and says, “Screw Off!!!!”

The hunter says, “Whatsa matter, fella. You LOVE to go hunting.”

Rex (the future Simon) replies, “Past tense, dumbass. I LOVE-D to go hunting. Perhaps you don’t remember that last trip where you shot my ass?!?!?! Now why don’t you be a good boy and you and that gun of yours go get me some kibble.”

I imagine that the hunter did take Rex for a trip…down a country road and left him where he ended up in the dog pound near South Bend, Indiana and eventually onto the WMCLR where they gave him the new name of Simon.

Another possibility is that Rex (Simon) played it real cool and acted like he wanted to go hunting. Then, as soon as he and the hunter reached the wetlands area, he hightailed it for the hills all the while looking over his head and screaming, “Shoot me again, Mother F(&^)&*(er!!!!!!!!!!! Shoot my ass again!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Regardless of how the facts played out, I just know that I ended up with an incredibly loving and sweet dog that worshiped the ground I walked on. Perhaps if a dog gets shot early in his life it makes him better appreciate a sedate life of lying around in an air conditioned house watching TV.

(We let him keep the camo collar for a few months before we got him a nice leather one.)

It seems we will never know how Simon got shot.

There is one other possibility I thought of, but I highly doubt it. Part of me believes that in the future I might find that before he was adopted by us, Simon may have been a Gansta Rapper. Maybe if you pull up that last known photo of Tupac taken on the Vegas strip and analyze it closely…perhaps there could be a little yellow lab puppy tail visible in the back seat?

And with that thought, we have come full circle on how my brain works. Because the only reason I have been pondering the early life of my former dog Simon is because of a realization I made last night while explaining to some friends why I believe Neil Young is the most annoying singer ever.

My quote of the night was:
Most people fail to remember that long before there was East Coast/West Coast and long before there was Tupac vs Biggie Smalls, there was Neil Young versus Lynyrd Skynyrd. The difference is that back then, guys didn’t just go around blasting each other with guns; they just waited for God to make the choice with a nice plane crash.

God, I realize that You love to use airplanes to cull the Rock and Roll herd (Bopper, Richie, Buddy, the irrepressible Ricky Nelson, etc). But what in the world would have ever possessed You to be on Neil Young’s side against Skynyrd?

Keeping it Fresh...

Friends, I am back from Brazil and busily planning for a trip into the heart of the Amazon (Manaus) next week.

It would be so easy to just ignore the blog for a few weeks until things settle down, but I am not going to do that.

So even though this is short, I am tossing you a bone to keep it savory.

This is the best joke I have written in the last 3 days. Feel free to use it. (Hell, there's a chance one of my comedian buddies has already stolen it and used it on the radio or on stage.)

Here goes...

The next time someone launches into a story that is a complete waste of your time, here is what you do. Hold up a finger and say, "I hate to interrupt, I need to take a moment to download the 'GIVE A SHIT App' for my iPhone."

Absense Makes the Heart Grow Fonder...

Wow!!!!

You just never know how popular you really are.

I did my normal Google search of my name today to see how things have changed after going 3 months without a blog entry.

Look what I found....


There are some who say they are fans of the blog, but look at Hannah Bradley. That chick went and changed her middle name to "Jeff Skiver."

DAMN!!!!!!!

Others have claimed to be my "Number 1 fan". One person was just non-committal enough to claim to be my "Number 2 fan."

But Hannah Bradley showed her allegiance without ever even emailing me to tell me how much she loved my work.

Folks, I am sorry for going away for so long. I just never realized how much everyone loves me.

If any other Skiving Off fan has enacted a name change, gotten a tattoo, or (in the case of a black fraternity member) gotten my name or image BRANDED on their body.... feel free to let me know.

You are the people who make all of the hard work and suffering worthwhile.

As Coach Dale said, "I love you guys."

Can You and YOUR Dog Please Fix My Car?

Gail and I had a discussion last night to determine which of us appears more insane based upon the blog entry from yesterday.

The consensus is that I alone am insane since the validity of most of what I wrote about Gail is questionable.

Nevertheless, I went with the “I did it to protect you!!!!!!” defense.

Since it is evident to the whole world that I am out of the country, I had to throw something out there to put trepidation and fear in the heart and mind of anyone who might think of stopping by the Flying J Circle S Dude Ranch and Woodshop and making off with a Panther Saw, a Bridge City Foxtail, or a 25th Anniversary Lie-Nielsen 4 ½.

It seems the house is a somber, lonely place at the moment. Each day Gail sends me camera phone photos of Peyton camped out at the front door waiting for me to get home.


Then, late at night Gail goes down to the door and drags his furry butt up to bed where he apparently drifts off to sleep thinking of me and then wakes up the next morning still thinking of me. (It is sort of flattering to be loved like that, even by a dog.)

By comparison, calls to Gail while I am in Brazil do not find her moping around awaiting my return. Rather, calls to Gail find her at Vera Bradley shopping for hand bags.

Gentlemen, this is my bit of wisdom for the day….

Women say they love you, but manage to “move on” before your car is out of the driveway.

Dogs not only fail to sense you are leaving, but then struggle to even function without you.

The difference is: “Have you ever seen a dog in a bikini?”

Even if you get beyond the hair, the bumpy parts just aren’t in the right spots.

So we always come home to the ladies. And they show us their new hand bags, new shoes, and a flat tire on the SUV that needs IMMEDIATE attention.

Guys, if it weren’t for fixing flats and replacing wiper blades, we might just be completely unnecessary to women of this planet. Then, our lives will have gone to the dogs.

Latest Google Latitude Update Shows Skiver in Brazil

Holy Shit....who are you people???

God as my witness, I was just sitting in a restaurant eating lunch in Rio when my Blackberry buzzed indicating yet another person was pissed at me and willing to tell me so.

Lo and behold, instead, it was an email letting me know someone named "Murphy" had commented on the Blog I used to have.

When I read the comment I got scared trying to think of all the people who might know I was in Rio this week....

In the last three months, I have traveled a lot. I keep meaning to add an update or two to inform the three people who still give two shits (that would be 6 total shits...) what all Peyton and I have been doing during our travels.

Nevertheless, I seem to never get around to updating the blog.

By the way, Peyton is not with me on this trip. Instead, he is home guarding the house this week, but it isn't really necessary given Gail is armed to the teeth and fully trained in how to deal with insurgents and trespassers based upon the time our government paid to send her to a very fancy debutante school located in an exciting place called Twentynine Palms, California. (Ooh-Rah!!!!)

When we bought the new house the first thing Gail did was disconnect the alarm system. When I asked her why, she replied, "On the off chance someone breaks in and I only manage to wound them....I don't want the authorities showing up and saving their ass. There's a lot better chance of their bleeding to death in the driveway if we just wait until the neighbors call in reporting the sound of my M1014...."

Original readers of this blog will well understand that I am married to a badass.

I once asked Gail why she alternates every other shell between buckshot and slugs. She replied, "Sometimes when you actively engage the opposition, one of the little shits loses his balls and wants to hide behind a door or a wall. You need the buckshot to ensure damage on multiple targets, but you need the slugs to penetrate solid cover...."

Original readers of this blog will well understand that I am married to a badass.

As I said, I am in Brazil. Peyton keeps texting me to ask when I will be home to order Gail and her Benelli to Stand Down.

You just keep me hangin' on...

OK.

I don't have nearly enough time to explain where I have been the last three weeks.

However, as a public service to the four people who still follow the blog, I am going to at least toss you a bone by sharing the best joke I came up with yesterday. (Today's best joke is far too R-rated for this blog; but yesterday's was ok).

If a Jewish guy gets Swine Flu...in addition to his being sick, is it also a sin???

Finally, in case you are wondering there is a good chance that my 3 week absence involves my beating the living dog Sh^%$ out of a prostitute who tried to play Hannibal Lecter with my tongue during a night of partying in Miami. Isn't that crazy??? I shoot one Shamwow spoof, and the next thing you know my whole life starts mimicking Vince's.

You Gettin' This, Camera Guy?!?!?!?

I need a haircut. It's about a week overdue to get chopped back.

I really like my hair. I am very happy it has decided to stick around as long as it has. I recently had to make a decision about my future with regard to the onesy-twosy strands of silver that are appearing at the temples. The shift to gray hair is not quite as bad as that seen during the first 100 days of those poor schmucks elected President of the USA, but the last few months have seen an increase in my silver. I plucked the first 20 or so that showed up, but I finally realized that after the age of 25, guys really shouldn't pluck perfectly good hair from the head.

So I am accepting the biologically-forced integration of my hair and allowing the silver ones to peacefully reside alongside the sorrel'ish ones.

Given how much I care about my hair, it's not like me to miss a haircut? However,I needed my top follicles long enough to put it into a nasty, spiky doo.

Regular readers know what Skiving Off is about: Dogs, cars, and Music...with a dash of woodworking that focuses on collecting tools and visiting Marc Adams School of Woodworking.

This year's primary goal is to make the 2010 Lie-Nielsen Calendar. I told Tom a couple of years ago that I want to be one of the pair of hands in his annual calendar. I believe his dead pan response was, "Ya do, huh????" And then he just took the check I handed him and said with genuine enthusiasm, "Thanks. This order will be entered and shipped as soon as I return to Maine."

I decided to boost my case for making the calendar. Therefore, I recently enlisted the help of a "LIfe Coach." I couldn't afford any of the best life coach candidates on my list, so I ultimately settled for Vince (the Sham Wow guy).

In a very short time, Vince has changed my life. He has me dressing differently, talking louder, using bigger gestures, and generally grabbing life by the tail.

So, the video below is just the first step of my public quest to get included the Lie-Nielsen calendar. Let's see how it works out.