Also known as Satch, his full name was Satchmo. No particular connection to the first one, but I like to think of both our Satchmo and Louis Armstrong as gentle giants. Certainly, Big ‘Mo was. When he would encounter a small dog who would be afraid of ‘Mo’s 90 lbs. of muscle, Satch would lie down to get as low as he could so the small dog wouldn’t feel threaten. And often he would roll over on his back to submit himself to some 10 lb. toy dog.

Not that he couldn’t defend himself if needed or if his adopted brother Duke would get into a scrap, Satch was there with him, but somewhat reluctantly so. Mostly, he just wanted to love on you and be loved in return, which he was.

Satch was mostly boxer but we suspect with a touch of Bull Mastiff, which infused his gentle spirit. Like most boxers he couldn’t comprehend his size or strength. He would often come up to you sitting in a chair and put his front paws and then his chest in your lap—a 90 lb. lap dog—while his hind legs held up the rest of him. And yes he would occasionally see if he could get his entire body up there.

Boxers look fierce, but they are not aggressive. Our daughter Kate tells the story of when a drunk college kid broke into her apartment. Satch heard the broken glass and immediately started—whining. He wasn’t about to confront the spooks in the night, though in a real danger, I know he would have fought to the death for any of us.

Kate, her sister Hunter and Zack regularly broke my rule that dogs not be allowed in the bed. Whenever they could they gladly relinquished most of their bed to Satch and sometimes Duke, too.

When we rescued Satch, then ironically named Sugar Ray—again, he was not a fighter, he was a bit timid, thin and didn’t know how to climb stairs. He bulked up, learned about stairs and spent his life giving our family lots of love, though he wasn’t much for kisses. That was fortunate if you’ve ever seen a boxer with a long slobber drooling for his lips.

But like many boxers, he succumbed to cancer yesterday. We were able to relieve his misery with all three kids connected by Skype to say goodbye. He was one great dog. So long, Satch.

My wife and I went on one of our monthly treks to see our new home state, the lovely pancake flat and sandy Florida. This past weekend included Sanibel Island near Fort Myers and the summer homes of Henry Ford and Thomas Edison. (Quick: What invention first made Edison a rich man? The phonograph? The light bulb? Nope, it was the Universal Stock Printer in 1871. Wall St. investors loved its synchronized printing of the same info. at the same time. He made the equivalent of $500,000 on it.)

Sanibel Island was a disappointment, only because we didn’t get to see its main attractions, a preserve that has a five mile bike path through it and the lighthouse, which was closed for repairs. We were hoping to see our first crocodile or alligator or whatever they have down here that we didn’t in Virginia. But the road was closed for construction and not expected to re-open until Oct. 1. It was apparently a federal project that the greeter at the Chamber of Commerce visitors center derided as evidence that the federal government is slow. Never mind that his little community was making big bucks off the preserve. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to bash the feds, something a lot of Floridians like to do.

We had taken our bikes with us, so we just rode along the bike path for a little while until we decided that all there was to see other than the beach were condos. So we left for the mansion tours. (Actually, they weren’t mansions at all. Certainly nice homes but they looked like outhouses compared to the John and Mable Ringling estate in Sarasota.) I should say that what we saw of the beach was nice as far as beaches go. But alas, it had a lot of sand and water, making it a dubious pleasure at best.

After dinner in another very forgettable tourist stop, Punta Gorda, we headed home over Interstate 75. All of sudden, Karla, who is driving, says “My God, the bikes!” I thought she had just seen a motorcyclist go down. “The bikes fell off the car,” she said. I looked back but couldn’t see them. I imagined them a steel pretzel and hoped that no one ran over them causing drivers to lose control. No, we were dragging them along the highway at 70 mph.

We have one of those bike racks that attached to the trunk of the car. I use it usually once a year for our annual trip to the North Carolina beach (also with way too much sand and water). For years I tied the bikes down with a half dozen bungee cords and then tied the rack’s straps around the bikes as an added precaution. This time I used only two bungee cords, and after our Sanibel Island ride I didn’t tie the straps around them. However, when we went to dinner, I tied a lock around the bikes and the rack, figuring that most bike thefts are ones of opportunity and the lock would complicate things a little.

That lock is what kept the bikes dangling off our trunk as if we were two just married cyclists headed for our honeymoon. Now, how much damage can one do to a bike using it as a road sweeper at the barely sub-sonic speed Karla drives? Well, damn little, as it turns out. These were our mountain bikes, both heavyweight Mongooses that are at least 15 years old. Both have a few scratches on them but I could not find any new damage to the frames. When I got home, they both rode fine. In fact, the only visible damage was to my saddle, which apparently served as the sled that dragged along the ground.

Chalk one up for dumb (really dumb) luck.

Sometimes life throws you a curve that actually looks like a fat pitch to hit. That’s happened to my wife and me. We’ve been in northern Virginia for nearly 24 years. It’s been good to us, but the only changes we contemplated were moving into DC or spending summers in Colorado. Then came the offer for her to be the COO of a company in Clearwater, Florida. We never expected it but thought it sounded like a great adventure, especially since it could be a limited engagement of a few years. So she, possessing infinite confidence, and I, possessing my new Medicare card, will soon be on the road.

I have no idea what I will do in retirement. My greatest worry is that I will bore myself to death, literally. I’ve seen that happen when after years of fearing starvation, staggering college bills and sparse later years that drives us to achieve, we replace it with nothing of consequence. The mind and then the body become resigned to the inevitable, and, seeing no better alternative, decide to cash it in.

So one strategy for me is to keep writing, even if it’s just for this blog. They say it keeps the mind sharp, but I’m as interested in its impact on the spirit. Make no mistake, as an independent contractor most of my professional life, I’ve had periods where I had plenty of free time. But the permanence of free time is a daunting.

In additional to the Fourth Estate. expect musings about cycling, politics, jazz, playing the piano, the Great American Songbook and food, as well as what we inevitably leave behind.

Be forewarned: I am writing about something I know nothing about. (And how’s that unusual, you snark.) But I’ll freely admit, I know nothing about bath salts.

Apparently, they are, shall we say, all the rage.  Literally.

I may have tried bath salts once, but I’m not sure. If I did, it was because someone else in the bath tub suggested it. In which case, of course, she could have suggested we pour dirty motor oil in the tub, and I would have acceded.

But I seem to remember them as unremarkable. If they are supposed to relax one, well, I couldn’t relax, certainly not if someone else was in the tub.

Nonetheless, bath salts are now the latest designer drug, with names, such as “Ivory Wave,” “White Lightning” and “Hurricane Charlie.”

I think this is an AP story. The Washington Post identified it as an AP story, but the Fox News site claims the AP “contributed to this article,” though it seems essentially the same article as in The Post.

The offending drugs are called mephedrone and methylenedioxypyrovalerone. Let’s just classify them under the family “Raging Ragu,” but they are labeled “bath salts.”

One man, Neil Brown, of Fulton, Miss., got high off the bath salts and then slashed his face and stomach. He survived, but authorities said other people have not been so lucky.

…In southern Louisiana, the family of a 21-year-old man says he cut his throat and ended his life with a gunshot. Authorities are investigating whether a man charged with capital murder in the December death of a Tippah County, Miss., sheriff’s deputy was under the influence of the bath salts.

Several states have or are considering outlawing it. Mentioned in the article were Mississippi, Louisiana and Kentucky. No offense to anyone who lives there, but when those states are in the vanguard of anything, it’s time the rest of us pay attention.

But after reading this article, I have some questions never explained by the AP reporter or the Fox News propagandist.

If these are legitimate bath salts, why is it necessary to have something in the salts that is impossible to pronounce, not to mention, you know, deadly? That should be a warning to everyone. Or perhaps a condition of purchase: You have to pronounce methylenedioxypyrovalerone—and spell it. You can even look at the label while you try to spell it. I’d lose my place in such a word.

If these are not chemicals that are in legitimate bath salts, how did the drug dealers let drug users know that this handy method of self-destruction was available in your local convenience store? Did they run promotions with 7-Eleven: “Buy a day old hot dog but forget about it with bath salts.”

And why is it so easy to develop a new drug that can be so destructive and yet the FDA, DEA, and law enforcement are powerless to ban it? The article suggests it could take years for the DEA to outlaw it. (Apparently, the states can just pass a law, an action that understandably is not something we can any faith that the U.S. Congress could do.)

So there you have it: bath salts.

And if you are now a little leery of any type of bath salts, motor oil works just as well—unless you drink it.

 WolframAlpha

Who wants to bet that even if they did, none of Own Honors’ superior officers will pay the price for knowing of his offensive videos?

California doesn’t have a private police force, but it seems to have a pubic police force “steered” by private corporations. 

Congrats to The Washington Post and Bristol, Virginia’s Herald Courier.