A tragedy itself, "What Was the Hipster?" at nymag.com, definitively shows that the leading edge of popular culture has run into a brick wall, and is now being crushed to death as the trailing weight of society, full of unstoppable momentum, carreens into it, leaving an unintelligable, unnavigable morass of style, asthetics, and values.
Nothing is new.
Showing posts with label Random. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Random. Show all posts
30.10.10
20.8.10
Retirement
My professional status has been officially revoked.
I can’t daydrink like I used to, and have no desire to do so, regardless. I left the company-event at Wrigley Field yesterday at the top of the 7th to make a purposefully-scheduled 4PM vet appointment, specifically so I wouldn’t get sucked into, “what the hell, ‘hey Old Style here!'” and “what the hell, as long as the corporate card is going down!” or “what the hell, it’s last call!”
As I walked out after seven beers (including pre-game at Red Ivy) at 3:15 saying goodbye on my way out to Waveland Ave, it felt like getting off the Titanic at Cobh, Ireland with full knowledge of the iceberg laying in wait somewhere out there. All of the passengers did too, in this case. There was a time I, myself, would’ve knowingly stayed aboard and stared down the impending disaster along with them. The party was all that mattered; that and staving off the eventual collision: the more you drank the further away the frozen leviathan seemed to be, until the fun came to a sudden, crashing, panicked end.
Leaving early is sign of getting older and wiser for sure. Gone are the days of post-game marathons at the dearly-missed Wrigleyville Tap or the Blarney Stone, over pool sessions ringed in smoke, easy shots missed from fingers slick with pizza grease, and laughter intertwined with the clinking of dozens of glass bottles going into the trash at the start of a new round.
I don’t know if it means I’m weaker as well, but I just can’t handle going to bed drunk at 9PM on a school night, anymore. I want to feel normal, fresh; to be good-tired and not achingly dehydrated with the motivation to do nothing but lie on the couch and watch South Park episodes on Netflix. And the sleep I get, even hitting the sack early enough, is so poor that the morning alarm is unbearable.
The last real bout of daydrinking in my life was New Year’s Day, 2006. After an absolutely epic party in Lakeview with a friend in from out of town, we spent most of the late morning/afternoon at Morrison Road House in Skokie abating the wicked champagne hangover with Bears-game specials. As the sun set on that dreary and ice-cold Day One, we returned to Lakeview to Fil’s place where we drank into the evening before a flip-cup chick brawl sent us pacifists over to nearby Toon’s Bar to await the iceberg collision at last call. Thankfully, that never happened, since New Year’s Day was a Sunday that year, and the office gave us an extra day to recuperate.
Once back on the ground in Edgewater yesterday afternoon, I felt ok getting to and during the vet appointment – a little sweaty and lethargic – but the subtropical weather had returned that day. Doing anything with Jack always peps me up, however, especially in a situation like the examination table, soothing him and making him as comfortable as possible.
Getting home, however, I felt much worse. I did indeed take some couch/South Park time, and needed several glasses of water before I could get up again to take Jack out and then cook dinner. But luckily I started my recovery early enough so that, after finishing supper by 9:30, I was in decent enough shape to head to bed with reasonable confidence of quality sleep. I read a few pages before the comforting nod-offs started, and then there was only blackness until breaking the surface again a full half-hour before the alarm was to go off.
Then sunlight was peeking in through the curtains, and Jack was looking at me with anticipation. I felt superb.
I’m ready for this new stage of my life. It’s not like I’ve gotten here overnight. The bike racing has often necessitated some turbulent choices in my life; as Newt says, the dualities are always dueling. But this is the first time I’ve made the choice completely of my own accord. My new life with Patty, renewed ambition and purpose, and thinking of the future – of just to the next morning, and of the next ten years – makes it a very easy choice to make.
I can’t daydrink like I used to, and have no desire to do so, regardless. I left the company-event at Wrigley Field yesterday at the top of the 7th to make a purposefully-scheduled 4PM vet appointment, specifically so I wouldn’t get sucked into, “what the hell, ‘hey Old Style here!'” and “what the hell, as long as the corporate card is going down!” or “what the hell, it’s last call!”
As I walked out after seven beers (including pre-game at Red Ivy) at 3:15 saying goodbye on my way out to Waveland Ave, it felt like getting off the Titanic at Cobh, Ireland with full knowledge of the iceberg laying in wait somewhere out there. All of the passengers did too, in this case. There was a time I, myself, would’ve knowingly stayed aboard and stared down the impending disaster along with them. The party was all that mattered; that and staving off the eventual collision: the more you drank the further away the frozen leviathan seemed to be, until the fun came to a sudden, crashing, panicked end.
Leaving early is sign of getting older and wiser for sure. Gone are the days of post-game marathons at the dearly-missed Wrigleyville Tap or the Blarney Stone, over pool sessions ringed in smoke, easy shots missed from fingers slick with pizza grease, and laughter intertwined with the clinking of dozens of glass bottles going into the trash at the start of a new round.
I don’t know if it means I’m weaker as well, but I just can’t handle going to bed drunk at 9PM on a school night, anymore. I want to feel normal, fresh; to be good-tired and not achingly dehydrated with the motivation to do nothing but lie on the couch and watch South Park episodes on Netflix. And the sleep I get, even hitting the sack early enough, is so poor that the morning alarm is unbearable.
The last real bout of daydrinking in my life was New Year’s Day, 2006. After an absolutely epic party in Lakeview with a friend in from out of town, we spent most of the late morning/afternoon at Morrison Road House in Skokie abating the wicked champagne hangover with Bears-game specials. As the sun set on that dreary and ice-cold Day One, we returned to Lakeview to Fil’s place where we drank into the evening before a flip-cup chick brawl sent us pacifists over to nearby Toon’s Bar to await the iceberg collision at last call. Thankfully, that never happened, since New Year’s Day was a Sunday that year, and the office gave us an extra day to recuperate.
Once back on the ground in Edgewater yesterday afternoon, I felt ok getting to and during the vet appointment – a little sweaty and lethargic – but the subtropical weather had returned that day. Doing anything with Jack always peps me up, however, especially in a situation like the examination table, soothing him and making him as comfortable as possible.
Getting home, however, I felt much worse. I did indeed take some couch/South Park time, and needed several glasses of water before I could get up again to take Jack out and then cook dinner. But luckily I started my recovery early enough so that, after finishing supper by 9:30, I was in decent enough shape to head to bed with reasonable confidence of quality sleep. I read a few pages before the comforting nod-offs started, and then there was only blackness until breaking the surface again a full half-hour before the alarm was to go off.
Then sunlight was peeking in through the curtains, and Jack was looking at me with anticipation. I felt superb.
I’m ready for this new stage of my life. It’s not like I’ve gotten here overnight. The bike racing has often necessitated some turbulent choices in my life; as Newt says, the dualities are always dueling. But this is the first time I’ve made the choice completely of my own accord. My new life with Patty, renewed ambition and purpose, and thinking of the future – of just to the next morning, and of the next ten years – makes it a very easy choice to make.
1.8.10
July
Before my most recent post, I last left you with a slight rant on Elston Avenue bike commuting. Thankfully, that post, written on Thursday July 1st, covered the last time I was to commute home down that harrowing stretch of Third World, Mad Max-inspired road, replete to the last with cabs darting into the bike lane and left-turning SUVs jerking back and forth in the intersection like a meth-addict trying to act normal as it strangles the cat.
For that night upon arriving in Independence Park, I gathered some things, and left for Edgewater to help Patty move her things down the street and spend my first night at our new apartment.
Patty's move was a quick and easy one, for she was only 2 blocks east on the same street. We had the help of several friends plus a late 90s Mazda, and we were eating pizza and drinking ice-cold Old Styles by 8:30.
I had purged all of my own furniture - every last bit of it, not even a folding chair remained - to the alley and to friends, so I had only boxes, and of course, the bikes. The next night, Friday, Patty and I took the Damen bus (it's northern turn-around is just a few blocks from us) to Irving, where we met some of my now-former neighbors for some heavy German food and refreshing summer Kolsch at Resi's Bierstube. The next two days were to be completely bike-free, and BBQ free, July 4th though it was.
But we got it all done, in hot-as-balls weather, sun beating down on us. We crammed it all in, and even though we'd gotten rid of half of what we owned, for the life of me I thought we'd never find a place for it all.
We did just in time for my parents to see it, less than a week later. I've come quite a long way since my mom used to arrive at my college apartment with a look of horror on her face and started scrubbing the place from floor to ceiling. We were even able to sit and drink coffee and watch the finish of Stage 8 on my laptop.
After an evening in which the waitress at my favorite local joint, The Edgewater Lounge, berated my stepfather for tipping 15% - and I then complained to the manager - we were off to Michigan for my cousin Paul's wedding.
A beautiful outdoor affair, amidst simple white trimming on the grass overlooking the bluff - I saw the sun set over Lake Michigan for the first time in my life.
We toured the S.S. Keewatin, a steam ship that ferried Canadian National Railroad passengers, in two and half days, from the western side of Superior to the eastern shore of Huron.
The following weekend my sister Maggie arrived from North Carolina to volunteer and have free evening access to the Pitchfork Music Festival. It worked out quite well for us. Me especially. I'd been worrying about a bit of contraband in my bag making it past the security checkpoint, but volunteers just walked right in through their own entrance. We were set. Security told us they needed wristband jockeys for the beer tents and people to watch the fences for jumpers.
I was told to assist at the vendor check-in, where four hipsters had made a break for it the night before, three successfully. Living dangerously, they scoped out their chances and took a running start from the sidewalk. Security had since set up a fence behind the table and forced a chokepoint, which I was to menace accordingly, with my arms folded, so everyone showed ID. The hardest part of the job was deciding what free food I wanted from the Chicago Diner booth, and listening to Real Estate.
Jon Spencer Blues Explosion absolutely killed it, as did Wolf Parade, Panda Bear was sadly out of place, and LCD Soundsystem had us dancing our asses off, working up a final sweat in the residual heat left over from the since-departed sun.
Hard to believe I was finally able to race competitively after all that time off the bike last week, and by competitively I mean not get dropped. I certainly didn't sniff so much as a top 20, but I did race three times in Milwaukee, Kenosha, and Whitefish Bay to finish up Superweek. The first and the last races were in support of my teammate Mike Seguin who pulled off a huge 2nd place overall in the series.
All of the races were brutally hot, and Friday really got the best of me. It was a 30 mile criterium, so I didn't have the benefit of Matthew Stevenson handing up bottles of ice-water to us. In fact, I'm so used to packing just one bottle for a 45 minute race, that it didn't dawn on me that I'd need three for a 75 minute effort in 95 degree heat.
Needless to say, that last sip of water with 15 laps to go tasted like hot chicken broth. I finished at least.
And here I sit. My self-imposed facebook exile continues. I was encouraged and disheartened at the same time to read this article today (thanks Leah). It confirms that Facebook is the new AOL of the 2010's...entirely self-contained internet. Except it's not for those who are too scared to go out on the world wide web, it's for those who are too lazy.
I will probably have to go back on at some point, at least to get pictures back, or for some professional networking. But right now, I feel like an addict who's been set free. I've been without a television for a year now, so I suppose this is the next logical step. At least I'm writing for myself again. I don't know if this was even interesting to you, but it feels good to unload the brain again.
For that night upon arriving in Independence Park, I gathered some things, and left for Edgewater to help Patty move her things down the street and spend my first night at our new apartment.
Patty's move was a quick and easy one, for she was only 2 blocks east on the same street. We had the help of several friends plus a late 90s Mazda, and we were eating pizza and drinking ice-cold Old Styles by 8:30.
I had purged all of my own furniture - every last bit of it, not even a folding chair remained - to the alley and to friends, so I had only boxes, and of course, the bikes. The next night, Friday, Patty and I took the Damen bus (it's northern turn-around is just a few blocks from us) to Irving, where we met some of my now-former neighbors for some heavy German food and refreshing summer Kolsch at Resi's Bierstube. The next two days were to be completely bike-free, and BBQ free, July 4th though it was.
But we got it all done, in hot-as-balls weather, sun beating down on us. We crammed it all in, and even though we'd gotten rid of half of what we owned, for the life of me I thought we'd never find a place for it all.
We did just in time for my parents to see it, less than a week later. I've come quite a long way since my mom used to arrive at my college apartment with a look of horror on her face and started scrubbing the place from floor to ceiling. We were even able to sit and drink coffee and watch the finish of Stage 8 on my laptop.
After an evening in which the waitress at my favorite local joint, The Edgewater Lounge, berated my stepfather for tipping 15% - and I then complained to the manager - we were off to Michigan for my cousin Paul's wedding.
A beautiful outdoor affair, amidst simple white trimming on the grass overlooking the bluff - I saw the sun set over Lake Michigan for the first time in my life.
We toured the S.S. Keewatin, a steam ship that ferried Canadian National Railroad passengers, in two and half days, from the western side of Superior to the eastern shore of Huron.
The following weekend my sister Maggie arrived from North Carolina to volunteer and have free evening access to the Pitchfork Music Festival. It worked out quite well for us. Me especially. I'd been worrying about a bit of contraband in my bag making it past the security checkpoint, but volunteers just walked right in through their own entrance. We were set. Security told us they needed wristband jockeys for the beer tents and people to watch the fences for jumpers.
I was told to assist at the vendor check-in, where four hipsters had made a break for it the night before, three successfully. Living dangerously, they scoped out their chances and took a running start from the sidewalk. Security had since set up a fence behind the table and forced a chokepoint, which I was to menace accordingly, with my arms folded, so everyone showed ID. The hardest part of the job was deciding what free food I wanted from the Chicago Diner booth, and listening to Real Estate.
Jon Spencer Blues Explosion absolutely killed it, as did Wolf Parade, Panda Bear was sadly out of place, and LCD Soundsystem had us dancing our asses off, working up a final sweat in the residual heat left over from the since-departed sun.
Hard to believe I was finally able to race competitively after all that time off the bike last week, and by competitively I mean not get dropped. I certainly didn't sniff so much as a top 20, but I did race three times in Milwaukee, Kenosha, and Whitefish Bay to finish up Superweek. The first and the last races were in support of my teammate Mike Seguin who pulled off a huge 2nd place overall in the series.
All of the races were brutally hot, and Friday really got the best of me. It was a 30 mile criterium, so I didn't have the benefit of Matthew Stevenson handing up bottles of ice-water to us. In fact, I'm so used to packing just one bottle for a 45 minute race, that it didn't dawn on me that I'd need three for a 75 minute effort in 95 degree heat.
Needless to say, that last sip of water with 15 laps to go tasted like hot chicken broth. I finished at least.
And here I sit. My self-imposed facebook exile continues. I was encouraged and disheartened at the same time to read this article today (thanks Leah). It confirms that Facebook is the new AOL of the 2010's...entirely self-contained internet. Except it's not for those who are too scared to go out on the world wide web, it's for those who are too lazy.
I will probably have to go back on at some point, at least to get pictures back, or for some professional networking. But right now, I feel like an addict who's been set free. I've been without a television for a year now, so I suppose this is the next logical step. At least I'm writing for myself again. I don't know if this was even interesting to you, but it feels good to unload the brain again.
22.3.10
So you've passed Healthcare Reform...
Personally, I made jerking-off motions when I read the news, and then got back to the business of actually living a healthy, preventative lifestyle (such as riding PAST the Burger King on my bicycle), but there are a million different arguments being shouted all across the country today, over airwaves and dinner tables, and a friend's astute comments (while I disagreed with them) brought an issue to mind, the health insurance mandate: that insurance coverage must be required.
While at first this must seem like a gift to the providers and further proof of President Obama's "socialist agenda", it actually makes perfect sense. Although unconstitutional at the federal level (and will be overturned), it's perfectly legal state-by-state, and just such a mandate is perfectly accepted elsewhere at the state level in the insurance industry.
Auto insurance is mandated in many states because un- and under insured drivers are the reason for high premiums of many reputable companies. Those assholes just pass the costs onto everybody else.
In fact, the Right-ish stance on mandated health insurance should be in support of it because less of your premium and taxes are supporting deadbeats and unemployed. If you support mandatory auto insurance, and those state laws that require it haven't been overturned, I don't see why mandatory health insurance is such a problem.
As my friend pointed out, owning a car is optional. If you can't afford auto insurance, you can't afford to own a car. However, your body is not. I guess choosing to die is, but that's another discussion. If your body is wrecked, it needs to get fixed. And somebody needs to pay for it.
And as I have often mentioned, the primary reasons for the high cost of health care and insurance are A) so many people putting claims in because they are so unhealthy - imagine the cost of auto coverage if people treated their cars like their bodies and made claims for every thing that went wrong - and B) the extraordinarily expensive treatments that rely too much on technological easy fixes and ignore common sense preventative care. But neither this congress nor the president is doing anything beyond lip service to getting our population healthier. Why? Because there's no profit in that.
Mandated insurance coverage, if teamed up with sensible, proactive agriculture policies, instead of letting McDonald's, Monsanto, and Conagra write them, would gain some headway into lowered costs. But government corruption goes hand-in-hand with corporate influence. Why do you think drugs are so expensive, and we haven't had a new antibiotic introduced in 30 years, while we have 30 choices for penis pills, marketed to flaccid wheezers who don't exercise and eat fries at every meal?
The quandary is that the Right-ish stance should also be in support of spending your money how you see fit. Yet, aren't the Right supposed to be the realists? People who choose to be uninsured - speaking broadly here, auto, etc - do nothing but fuck over responsible people. And the government's job is to protect responsible people, if nothing else.
To clarify, I am not referring to another drain on the system: people who cannot afford health insurance but either don't have employment or employment that subsidizes it. Further, I am not speaking about existing conditions upon new-employment, or children with congenital conditions. These are not all morons: in fact, I was uninsured for three months in 2007, which included passing on a trip to the ER for a concussion after crashing my bike, until I found another job.
With these instances, there needs to be a safety net that allows people who NEED it to have an affordable option - not a gold-plated Cadillac, but adequate - until they can find their own coverage. Without it, we are the ones who pay for their healthcare, through higher premiums our providers charge. Obamacare provides for this.
But, as a whole, it won't work because of other the problem I mentioned that is canceling out any gains to be made in lower premium by an increased risk pool; the high demand on the system by our society in general and the manufacturers of needlessly extravagant treatments and techniques. There needs to be a far greater emphasis on preventative care, rather than just fixing what's broken in a giant, losing game of Whack-a-Mole.
We are just going to perpetuate the current disease-management system.
While at first this must seem like a gift to the providers and further proof of President Obama's "socialist agenda", it actually makes perfect sense. Although unconstitutional at the federal level (and will be overturned), it's perfectly legal state-by-state, and just such a mandate is perfectly accepted elsewhere at the state level in the insurance industry.
Auto insurance is mandated in many states because un- and under insured drivers are the reason for high premiums of many reputable companies. Those assholes just pass the costs onto everybody else.
In fact, the Right-ish stance on mandated health insurance should be in support of it because less of your premium and taxes are supporting deadbeats and unemployed. If you support mandatory auto insurance, and those state laws that require it haven't been overturned, I don't see why mandatory health insurance is such a problem.
As my friend pointed out, owning a car is optional. If you can't afford auto insurance, you can't afford to own a car. However, your body is not. I guess choosing to die is, but that's another discussion. If your body is wrecked, it needs to get fixed. And somebody needs to pay for it.
And as I have often mentioned, the primary reasons for the high cost of health care and insurance are A) so many people putting claims in because they are so unhealthy - imagine the cost of auto coverage if people treated their cars like their bodies and made claims for every thing that went wrong - and B) the extraordinarily expensive treatments that rely too much on technological easy fixes and ignore common sense preventative care. But neither this congress nor the president is doing anything beyond lip service to getting our population healthier. Why? Because there's no profit in that.
Mandated insurance coverage, if teamed up with sensible, proactive agriculture policies, instead of letting McDonald's, Monsanto, and Conagra write them, would gain some headway into lowered costs. But government corruption goes hand-in-hand with corporate influence. Why do you think drugs are so expensive, and we haven't had a new antibiotic introduced in 30 years, while we have 30 choices for penis pills, marketed to flaccid wheezers who don't exercise and eat fries at every meal?
The quandary is that the Right-ish stance should also be in support of spending your money how you see fit. Yet, aren't the Right supposed to be the realists? People who choose to be uninsured - speaking broadly here, auto, etc - do nothing but fuck over responsible people. And the government's job is to protect responsible people, if nothing else.
To clarify, I am not referring to another drain on the system: people who cannot afford health insurance but either don't have employment or employment that subsidizes it. Further, I am not speaking about existing conditions upon new-employment, or children with congenital conditions. These are not all morons: in fact, I was uninsured for three months in 2007, which included passing on a trip to the ER for a concussion after crashing my bike, until I found another job.
With these instances, there needs to be a safety net that allows people who NEED it to have an affordable option - not a gold-plated Cadillac, but adequate - until they can find their own coverage. Without it, we are the ones who pay for their healthcare, through higher premiums our providers charge. Obamacare provides for this.
But, as a whole, it won't work because of other the problem I mentioned that is canceling out any gains to be made in lower premium by an increased risk pool; the high demand on the system by our society in general and the manufacturers of needlessly extravagant treatments and techniques. There needs to be a far greater emphasis on preventative care, rather than just fixing what's broken in a giant, losing game of Whack-a-Mole.
We are just going to perpetuate the current disease-management system.
10.3.10
Hero of the week: Randy Michaels
I was prepared to declare Tribune CEO Randy Michaels Asshole of the Week for issuing a memo proclaiming nearly 120 words banned from WGN broadcasts. "Newsspeak," he calls them, and, besides the word, "alleged" (unless you want your already-bankrupt company to be further sued into oblivion for defamation and libel), I am actually in favor of leaving nearly all of these words and phrases out back for the low-lifes of cable news commentary to pick through.
Seeing "touch base" immediately upon opening the article got my attention.
My favorite is "in the wake of (unless referring to a boat)".
Seeing "touch base" immediately upon opening the article got my attention.
My favorite is "in the wake of (unless referring to a boat)".
4.3.10
I ♥ Milwaukee
I just read this post on why Milwaukee rules, shared by Tankboy via Google Reader, and I was surprised at the power the flood of my very personal memories had about our little sister to north. Years ago I dated a woman who lived in the Brew City neighborhood of Bayview. That spring and summer of 2003 we were together and spending lots of time there is a period in my life I am quite fond of. The At Random and Koz's Minibowl are just two of the neighborhood landmarks that are a must visit on a trip to the city.
Not to mention virtually my entire extended family is from the Milwaukee area, and I certainly have the honor of calling that town my second home. I'm gonna repost the article below (in addition to the link above) with my personal commentary in italics on most of the points.
Why Milwaukee Rules
By Drew Adamek
I've lived in Milwaukee twice in my life, first in the early '90s and then in the late '90s during community college. I have a special place in my heart for the town; it is a laid-back, hard-working, hard-partying town without any pretenses or hang-ups. The people are friendly, the town is accessible and the funky, beer fart stench smells like home.
Milwaukee knows what it is and likes it that way. It isn't fancy, it isn't redneck, it isn't Chicago, and it isn't Green Bay. It has a better airport than Chicago, you can get great food and beer, and it's affordable. I miss living there, and would live there again in a heartbeat.
Milwaukee gets a bad rap.
Here, then, is my list of reasons why Milwaukee rules.
1. The Beer Fart.
The cultural significance of the beer fart in Milwaukee is not to be underestimated. There isn't another city in America where people can tell the brand and vintage of beer you were drinking the night before by the flavor, aroma and "mouth feel" of your flatulence. As a corpulent and flatulent man, the cultural honor bestowed to the beer fart by Milwaukee warms my gassy heart.
My uncle's back yard, on a late August afternoon. Hazy, mid-80s. The sun is low and the house is casting a long shadow upon grass. About 15 close family members are chatting quietly about politics and past adventures (we are a Peace Corps family, a traveling family), the remains of a party that included a larger group of extended relatives. An odor of citronella mixes with that of the slowly cooling grill and left over food on the picnic table: chicken, burgers, potato salad, and watermelon. The night will be long and rewarding and relaxing, for the cooler is still full of beer. I hold one of those Old Style cans, ice-cold and dripping with condensation in my left hand, and lean onto my right butt cheek…the loud report rips off the plastic seat beneath, and conversation stops. My uncle Jack responds, “Brian, I take it you’re offering your opinion on this subject?”
2. Bowling Alley Bartenders.
The slim dating pickings I had in the '90s would have been a lot worse had it not been for mildly to severely alcoholic bartenders. You can't ask for more fun than a woman who knows how to keep bowling score, swears like an autoworker, drinks Jager bombs for breakfast and ain't afraid of a dick joke or two.
See Koz’s Mini Bowl above. It’s an amazing, wonderful place. Milwaukee and Baltimore are the only places where I’ve seen mini bowling, or Duckpin, as they call it Charm City. Neighborhood Hispanic kids reset your pins for tips, it’s up to you to keep score (but who cares), and the bar coolers are filled to the point of overflowing with Pabst. Great, beautiful white, silver, and blue stacks, perfectly lined up, beckon from behind the glass set in ancient cabinets. I imagine my father or Uncle Bob here back in the 60’s with its dirty tile and wood paneling. There’s not one “date picking” or even pretty face to be found in a place like this, but would you really rather be in So-Po or Wicker Park (eyeroll…)?
3. East Side Cafes.
All the atmosphere and ambience that you would want in a coffee shop without any "artists" or "writers" fucking up the buzz. Just people drinking coffee.
Brady Street is beautiful in the morning sunlight. The loud fat guys are gone and the trees rustle quietly in the breeze among colorful facades and historic buildings. Take a bike ride down and back along the lakefront, and then roll into the neighborhood and take your pick. Fuel on Center, Roast on Locust, and Café Hollandworth on Downer Avenue are some of my favorite places to chill before, during, or after a ride about town. Alterra is Milwaukee’s answer to Intelligentsia or Metropolis and is better coffee, in my opinion.
4. Summerfest.
This is the festival I thought Taste of Chicago was when I was a kid: bands, drunks, sausages. Some of the best shows of my life have been at Summerfest: Metal Church, Arrested Development, Dylan and the Dead, Tom Petty. All for the price of parking in Chicago.
I was at that Arrested Development show. And Wilco in ’03. And The Roots last year. Cheap Trick more times than I can count. There’s just more to see, more space to walk than just back and forth on Columbus, and far less turkey legs/ass cracks. Take Amtrak up, walk two miles to the grounds, buy the early-bird discount, grab an ear of roasted corn, and wander, listen, eat, and drink your way through the grill smoke and oddly pleasant smell of spilled beer. And all that food and beer are available...for cash. Not tickets. Enough said.
5. Cryptosporidiosis.
The entire town had the shits at exactly the same time. Think about that when you are complaining about the price of a Chicago city sticker.
Totally gross. Got nothing for that, but I do recall the nauseating stench of Alewives along the lakefront…
6. Pat McCurdy.
Sure, this is a stereotypical answer, but show me another bar singer who everyone knows and whose songs everyone can sing along to. If I dated a girl for longer than a month while living in Milwaukee, you can bet that we saw Pat McCurdy together.
I am happy to have broken through this stereotype.
7. County Stadium Bleachers.
The Brewers sucked. I probably went to 50 Brewers games when I lived there, and I can't name a single player from that era. But we could walk to the stadium, get a bleacher seat for $5, and hang out with people from the neighborhood. The old County Stadium was everything that Wrigley pretends to be.
The tears are welling and my lip is all quivery. I saw my first major league baseball game at County Stadium; against the Tigers in 1987. Kirk Gibson hit a home run in the first inning. When Cecil Cooper came up to bat, everyone yelled, “Coooo!” The sausage race only had three contestants (not that I don’t welcome Chorizo these days) and Bernie the Brewer actually slid down his slide from his chalet into a giant stein of beer after homeruns. And my politically incorrect Uncle Bill, in a less politically correct, and innocent, age said to the people in the row in front, whose arrival forced the relocation of my feet, “don’t sit there. He’s got the AIDS. You’ll get the AIDS from him. BEER!”
John and I drove up on a couple of nights the summers of 1999 and 2000. The new stadium was supposed to open in 2000 but a tragic crane accident delayed construction, so County hung around one more year. The walk from the car was long, an epic sensory journey. Much like Summerfest, the smells were to be savored – charring brats and foamy, parch-laying beer, spilled in moments of laughter; the sights of huge crowds under tents and around cars made us smile. The feel of dust, gravel, and broken glass crunching under your shoe soles as you walked into the hazy, smoky sunset towards the gate was as comforting as your mother’s arms. Inside, just as you walked up the stairs and came back into the evening air the experience just intensified, now all wrapped up tightly together in a blanket of organ music and crowd noise; a lazy, happy hum. You sat down in your $5 bleacher seat, with John and your Uncle Bob on either side, took a sip of your beer, a bite of your dog, and told Joe Carter to, “pull up your fucking pants!!!”
Today’s Miller Park is a Disney-esque abomination; a reality-TV version, with all its idealization of what supposedly makes a ballpark great. But nothing is really nostalgic about it at all. It’s a shopping mall, with restaurants, stadium clubs; showy, faux-golden age signs and lettering; that sort of thing. The lighting is terrible. The retractable roof is designed like a Japanese fan, so even when it’s open a great deal remains overhead to block out the sun. Combined with the high walls that support it, the entire field, even on a sunny Sunday afternoon, is in shade. Bud Selig missed the boat by not putting the stadium closer to downtown. The old highway spur north of downtown by the Bradley Center is gone now, and that huge space sits dusty and empty. Perhaps the team is a victim of bad timing.
But the biggest victim of all was Bernie the Brewer. He no longer has a beer stein to slide into; now just a spiral from one deck to another, onto a homeplate. The team didn’t want encourage binge drinking, we were told. This team named after beer, that plays in a stadium paid for and named by a beer company, with a 400 x 400 foot beer sign plastered over the outfield.
8. The Cute Girl At Rochambo That I Never Got The Nerve To Talk To.
My wife is going to kill me for this one, but if that blonde girl still lives in Milwaukee, it's worth living there on the off-chance that you might see her.
I am glad to say I talked to one pretty girl at the Up and Under one night, or I probably wouldn’t be writing all of this.
9. Cheese Farts.
The cultural significance of the cheese fart in Milwaukee is not to be underestimated. There isn't another city in America where people can tell you the brand and vintage of cheese that you were eating the night before by the flavor, aroma and "mouth feel" of your flatulence. As a corpulent and flatulent man, the honor bestowed to the cheese fart warms my heart.
As we say to our racing friends who head north of the border for some weekend warrioring, “Have fun storming The Castle!”
10. Jeffrey Dahmer's House.
It isn't there anymore, but it's still kind of cool to tell people that you lived a couple of blocks from him, and drove past the place once a day, while he still lived there.
My grandmother Morrissey (“Granny Mo”) used to brag about it like she knew him. She lived in Kenosha.
Not to mention virtually my entire extended family is from the Milwaukee area, and I certainly have the honor of calling that town my second home. I'm gonna repost the article below (in addition to the link above) with my personal commentary in italics on most of the points.
Why Milwaukee Rules
By Drew Adamek
I've lived in Milwaukee twice in my life, first in the early '90s and then in the late '90s during community college. I have a special place in my heart for the town; it is a laid-back, hard-working, hard-partying town without any pretenses or hang-ups. The people are friendly, the town is accessible and the funky, beer fart stench smells like home.
Milwaukee knows what it is and likes it that way. It isn't fancy, it isn't redneck, it isn't Chicago, and it isn't Green Bay. It has a better airport than Chicago, you can get great food and beer, and it's affordable. I miss living there, and would live there again in a heartbeat.
Milwaukee gets a bad rap.
Here, then, is my list of reasons why Milwaukee rules.
1. The Beer Fart.
The cultural significance of the beer fart in Milwaukee is not to be underestimated. There isn't another city in America where people can tell the brand and vintage of beer you were drinking the night before by the flavor, aroma and "mouth feel" of your flatulence. As a corpulent and flatulent man, the cultural honor bestowed to the beer fart by Milwaukee warms my gassy heart.
My uncle's back yard, on a late August afternoon. Hazy, mid-80s. The sun is low and the house is casting a long shadow upon grass. About 15 close family members are chatting quietly about politics and past adventures (we are a Peace Corps family, a traveling family), the remains of a party that included a larger group of extended relatives. An odor of citronella mixes with that of the slowly cooling grill and left over food on the picnic table: chicken, burgers, potato salad, and watermelon. The night will be long and rewarding and relaxing, for the cooler is still full of beer. I hold one of those Old Style cans, ice-cold and dripping with condensation in my left hand, and lean onto my right butt cheek…the loud report rips off the plastic seat beneath, and conversation stops. My uncle Jack responds, “Brian, I take it you’re offering your opinion on this subject?”
2. Bowling Alley Bartenders.
The slim dating pickings I had in the '90s would have been a lot worse had it not been for mildly to severely alcoholic bartenders. You can't ask for more fun than a woman who knows how to keep bowling score, swears like an autoworker, drinks Jager bombs for breakfast and ain't afraid of a dick joke or two.
See Koz’s Mini Bowl above. It’s an amazing, wonderful place. Milwaukee and Baltimore are the only places where I’ve seen mini bowling, or Duckpin, as they call it Charm City. Neighborhood Hispanic kids reset your pins for tips, it’s up to you to keep score (but who cares), and the bar coolers are filled to the point of overflowing with Pabst. Great, beautiful white, silver, and blue stacks, perfectly lined up, beckon from behind the glass set in ancient cabinets. I imagine my father or Uncle Bob here back in the 60’s with its dirty tile and wood paneling. There’s not one “date picking” or even pretty face to be found in a place like this, but would you really rather be in So-Po or Wicker Park (eyeroll…)?
3. East Side Cafes.
All the atmosphere and ambience that you would want in a coffee shop without any "artists" or "writers" fucking up the buzz. Just people drinking coffee.
Brady Street is beautiful in the morning sunlight. The loud fat guys are gone and the trees rustle quietly in the breeze among colorful facades and historic buildings. Take a bike ride down and back along the lakefront, and then roll into the neighborhood and take your pick. Fuel on Center, Roast on Locust, and Café Hollandworth on Downer Avenue are some of my favorite places to chill before, during, or after a ride about town. Alterra is Milwaukee’s answer to Intelligentsia or Metropolis and is better coffee, in my opinion.
4. Summerfest.
This is the festival I thought Taste of Chicago was when I was a kid: bands, drunks, sausages. Some of the best shows of my life have been at Summerfest: Metal Church, Arrested Development, Dylan and the Dead, Tom Petty. All for the price of parking in Chicago.
I was at that Arrested Development show. And Wilco in ’03. And The Roots last year. Cheap Trick more times than I can count. There’s just more to see, more space to walk than just back and forth on Columbus, and far less turkey legs/ass cracks. Take Amtrak up, walk two miles to the grounds, buy the early-bird discount, grab an ear of roasted corn, and wander, listen, eat, and drink your way through the grill smoke and oddly pleasant smell of spilled beer. And all that food and beer are available...for cash. Not tickets. Enough said.
5. Cryptosporidiosis.
The entire town had the shits at exactly the same time. Think about that when you are complaining about the price of a Chicago city sticker.
Totally gross. Got nothing for that, but I do recall the nauseating stench of Alewives along the lakefront…
6. Pat McCurdy.
Sure, this is a stereotypical answer, but show me another bar singer who everyone knows and whose songs everyone can sing along to. If I dated a girl for longer than a month while living in Milwaukee, you can bet that we saw Pat McCurdy together.
I am happy to have broken through this stereotype.
7. County Stadium Bleachers.
The Brewers sucked. I probably went to 50 Brewers games when I lived there, and I can't name a single player from that era. But we could walk to the stadium, get a bleacher seat for $5, and hang out with people from the neighborhood. The old County Stadium was everything that Wrigley pretends to be.
The tears are welling and my lip is all quivery. I saw my first major league baseball game at County Stadium; against the Tigers in 1987. Kirk Gibson hit a home run in the first inning. When Cecil Cooper came up to bat, everyone yelled, “Coooo!” The sausage race only had three contestants (not that I don’t welcome Chorizo these days) and Bernie the Brewer actually slid down his slide from his chalet into a giant stein of beer after homeruns. And my politically incorrect Uncle Bill, in a less politically correct, and innocent, age said to the people in the row in front, whose arrival forced the relocation of my feet, “don’t sit there. He’s got the AIDS. You’ll get the AIDS from him. BEER!”
John and I drove up on a couple of nights the summers of 1999 and 2000. The new stadium was supposed to open in 2000 but a tragic crane accident delayed construction, so County hung around one more year. The walk from the car was long, an epic sensory journey. Much like Summerfest, the smells were to be savored – charring brats and foamy, parch-laying beer, spilled in moments of laughter; the sights of huge crowds under tents and around cars made us smile. The feel of dust, gravel, and broken glass crunching under your shoe soles as you walked into the hazy, smoky sunset towards the gate was as comforting as your mother’s arms. Inside, just as you walked up the stairs and came back into the evening air the experience just intensified, now all wrapped up tightly together in a blanket of organ music and crowd noise; a lazy, happy hum. You sat down in your $5 bleacher seat, with John and your Uncle Bob on either side, took a sip of your beer, a bite of your dog, and told Joe Carter to, “pull up your fucking pants!!!”
Today’s Miller Park is a Disney-esque abomination; a reality-TV version, with all its idealization of what supposedly makes a ballpark great. But nothing is really nostalgic about it at all. It’s a shopping mall, with restaurants, stadium clubs; showy, faux-golden age signs and lettering; that sort of thing. The lighting is terrible. The retractable roof is designed like a Japanese fan, so even when it’s open a great deal remains overhead to block out the sun. Combined with the high walls that support it, the entire field, even on a sunny Sunday afternoon, is in shade. Bud Selig missed the boat by not putting the stadium closer to downtown. The old highway spur north of downtown by the Bradley Center is gone now, and that huge space sits dusty and empty. Perhaps the team is a victim of bad timing.
But the biggest victim of all was Bernie the Brewer. He no longer has a beer stein to slide into; now just a spiral from one deck to another, onto a homeplate. The team didn’t want encourage binge drinking, we were told. This team named after beer, that plays in a stadium paid for and named by a beer company, with a 400 x 400 foot beer sign plastered over the outfield.
8. The Cute Girl At Rochambo That I Never Got The Nerve To Talk To.
My wife is going to kill me for this one, but if that blonde girl still lives in Milwaukee, it's worth living there on the off-chance that you might see her.
I am glad to say I talked to one pretty girl at the Up and Under one night, or I probably wouldn’t be writing all of this.
9. Cheese Farts.
The cultural significance of the cheese fart in Milwaukee is not to be underestimated. There isn't another city in America where people can tell you the brand and vintage of cheese that you were eating the night before by the flavor, aroma and "mouth feel" of your flatulence. As a corpulent and flatulent man, the honor bestowed to the cheese fart warms my heart.
As we say to our racing friends who head north of the border for some weekend warrioring, “Have fun storming The Castle!”
10. Jeffrey Dahmer's House.
It isn't there anymore, but it's still kind of cool to tell people that you lived a couple of blocks from him, and drove past the place once a day, while he still lived there.
My grandmother Morrissey (“Granny Mo”) used to brag about it like she knew him. She lived in Kenosha.
24.2.10
Hump day
It might take a second to see what's going on here, but the sheer coincidence of it all is worth it (click on the picture to view the full size):
13.1.10
Oops, I tweeted...excuse me!
Hi there! If you've come via Twitter, welcome to The Car Whisperer: Bicycling, Poetry and Other Bullshit.
I actually have a lot more to say than that, but I'd say that's a good representation of what you'll find here, on my personal blog.
I am a competitive cyclist.
I follow politics.
I am a poet.
And I hate you. Probably.
This should be enough keep you busy for a while. If you'd like even more, I've just started a new food blog, "Big city. Little plate." where I am documenting my experiment with eating only locally produced food.
I actually have a lot more to say than that, but I'd say that's a good representation of what you'll find here, on my personal blog.
I am a competitive cyclist.
I follow politics.
I am a poet.
And I hate you. Probably.
This should be enough keep you busy for a while. If you'd like even more, I've just started a new food blog, "Big city. Little plate." where I am documenting my experiment with eating only locally produced food.
3.1.10
Mighty fine 2009: the best that I could do
As I searched for the right words to begin this post, I was heading into the final sunrise of the year at 30,000 feet, having left the place of my birth far behind me. Looking back on 2009 I was at a loss to find any accomplishments that were truly momentous. Most were relative to the bike obsession only, achievements that are meaningless to anybody with hairy legs. I felt an immediate compulsion to declare 2010 the Year of Getting Something done. However, upon arrival in Chicago that night, amid good friends and wine, I realized that I'd already done it. I had started the year utterly alone in searching for deeper meaning, and that night I was ending it with new found purpose and a positive spirit to guide me there.
365 days earlier, New Year’s Day began epically enough, with a full body hangover and a kitchen that hearkened back to my college days standards of cleanliness. The night before we’d hosted a 12-course dinner to ring in the New Year and judging by the all the empty dishes I set about ignoring, it was a smashing success. I smiled briefly at the empty Jell-O shots on the floor.
First things first: coffee and recovery while I waited for Katy to wake up. The Dark Knight got me through until it was time to clean up the mess.
It wasn’t as bad as it looked and we mowed through the worst of the baked-on grease, dried cheese, and heavy pots pretty quickly. While she went back to bed, I settled into the remainder of the Winter Classic from Wrigley Field, smiling as NBC tried to drown out the chant of “Detroit sucks!” from the raucous crowd, in front of me a huge plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a gourmet Bloody Mary using the leftovers from last night, including the prime rib and stilton cheese. I found myself amidst the thick of an ice cold day where I'd not see the outside or even so much as a pair of pants, keeping my thoughts to myself as I watched movie after movie and delayed reality as much as possible.
And kept them to myself I did, all the way to the move out in late March which was as life-changing a day as I had ever experienced. Jack and I walked the mile and a half to my new apartment in Irving Park on a cool, spring evening at sunset and I wondered where else I was headed. I'd dreaded this day ever since I agreed to move in with Katy - not that I'd known it would end this way, but that it could - and here I was expecting the worst was still around the corner.
But what greeted me instead was clarity and simplification. Let me back up…
I was carrying with me, and still do, a heavy load of guilt for allowing my obsession with the bike to put such a gulf between me and the people I'd called friends since nearly 1999. Yet the late nights filled with cigarettes and alcohol no longer excite me because my mornings are much more important now. Would I rather wake up to nausea and a headache or the giddy anticipation of a soul-cleansing, five hour ride? I didn’t know what else to do than to make those relationships work as best they could under the circumstances while embracing the new friends I have.
But this last relationship wasn’t going to work under any circumstances. And moving into another apartment in less than a year had me second-guessing how important cycling competitively really was to me.
But that night as I walked into my new home, I looked down at Jack, who was of course looking right back at me. I then saw that our relationship was now another level completely. Back on January 1st we’d been contemplating sending him back to rescue…he just wasn’t working out…fitting in, we told ourselves…but in the end I just couldn’t do it. It wasn’t fair to him, he is just being himself: a hyper, food-driven, inquisitive, loves-to-cuddle 30-pound Rottweiler-terrier mix.
And so I took him with me. By making that conscious choice to include him in my new life changed everything. With him now the central focus, and moving next door to my friend who owned the building I was living in, I quickly became part of a close group of friends, all part of the neighborhood, all with dogs.
I then realized my time off of the bike was much more important as the time on it, and as soon as I did, I began reaping the harvest from a newly balanced approach to life. But it wasn't just me - suddenly I was among friends who's schedule and pace of life jibed with mine. My neighbor Mark is a bikemate who comes on my Saturday rides with me, and the rest, Tina, Susan, Rob, Cari and Scott, Kayla and Janucz are always up for a backyard hang or beers and Mexican food at El Potosi down the street.
It's not that nobody else in my life has been this for me - I know I must sound ungrateful to anyone else reading this - but the timing just couldn't be better.
As Tina said at Susan's New Year's Eve party, "Brian, of course you've done something this year! Look around you - you have a posse now!" And Rob drove it home the following Saturday: "you're the glue, man. Before, I never really hung out at our neighborhood joints, and we certainly didn't do much like the dinner parties you throw." Indeed, the week I moved in I made a knockout risotto Milanese and invited them all over to stand in my kitchen and eat it. Nothing more formal than that. We were up until two and I put 15 wine bottles into the recycling. I repeated with rabbit stew the week before Thanksgiving.
It was a really warm feeling just then, to realize I have such supportive friends who are on such a similar wavelength as I. The guilt and regret are still there, always will be, but I have to go with what works best.
In 2009, I think I found my soul. Imagine what I can do in 2010 with that.
Now, a look back , 2009's Top 20:
1. Quality time.
2. ...and then going too far.
3. The new whip.
4. Leaving for San Luis Obispo (and more).
5. Back to Mt. Mitchell.
6. The breakthrough.
7. Almost...
8.. Sherman Park.
9. Jack goes mobile.
10. Tandemonium.
11. Shut up and ride, asshole.
12. My favorite race of the season.
13. 500th post.
14. Charm City invasion.
15. My first cross race.
16. Party pooper.
17. Race day hooky.
18. Stew.
19. The smile.
20. Home for Christmas.
365 days earlier, New Year’s Day began epically enough, with a full body hangover and a kitchen that hearkened back to my college days standards of cleanliness. The night before we’d hosted a 12-course dinner to ring in the New Year and judging by the all the empty dishes I set about ignoring, it was a smashing success. I smiled briefly at the empty Jell-O shots on the floor.
First things first: coffee and recovery while I waited for Katy to wake up. The Dark Knight got me through until it was time to clean up the mess.
It wasn’t as bad as it looked and we mowed through the worst of the baked-on grease, dried cheese, and heavy pots pretty quickly. While she went back to bed, I settled into the remainder of the Winter Classic from Wrigley Field, smiling as NBC tried to drown out the chant of “Detroit sucks!” from the raucous crowd, in front of me a huge plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a gourmet Bloody Mary using the leftovers from last night, including the prime rib and stilton cheese. I found myself amidst the thick of an ice cold day where I'd not see the outside or even so much as a pair of pants, keeping my thoughts to myself as I watched movie after movie and delayed reality as much as possible.
And kept them to myself I did, all the way to the move out in late March which was as life-changing a day as I had ever experienced. Jack and I walked the mile and a half to my new apartment in Irving Park on a cool, spring evening at sunset and I wondered where else I was headed. I'd dreaded this day ever since I agreed to move in with Katy - not that I'd known it would end this way, but that it could - and here I was expecting the worst was still around the corner.
But what greeted me instead was clarity and simplification. Let me back up…
I was carrying with me, and still do, a heavy load of guilt for allowing my obsession with the bike to put such a gulf between me and the people I'd called friends since nearly 1999. Yet the late nights filled with cigarettes and alcohol no longer excite me because my mornings are much more important now. Would I rather wake up to nausea and a headache or the giddy anticipation of a soul-cleansing, five hour ride? I didn’t know what else to do than to make those relationships work as best they could under the circumstances while embracing the new friends I have.
But this last relationship wasn’t going to work under any circumstances. And moving into another apartment in less than a year had me second-guessing how important cycling competitively really was to me.
But that night as I walked into my new home, I looked down at Jack, who was of course looking right back at me. I then saw that our relationship was now another level completely. Back on January 1st we’d been contemplating sending him back to rescue…he just wasn’t working out…fitting in, we told ourselves…but in the end I just couldn’t do it. It wasn’t fair to him, he is just being himself: a hyper, food-driven, inquisitive, loves-to-cuddle 30-pound Rottweiler-terrier mix.
And so I took him with me. By making that conscious choice to include him in my new life changed everything. With him now the central focus, and moving next door to my friend who owned the building I was living in, I quickly became part of a close group of friends, all part of the neighborhood, all with dogs.
I then realized my time off of the bike was much more important as the time on it, and as soon as I did, I began reaping the harvest from a newly balanced approach to life. But it wasn't just me - suddenly I was among friends who's schedule and pace of life jibed with mine. My neighbor Mark is a bikemate who comes on my Saturday rides with me, and the rest, Tina, Susan, Rob, Cari and Scott, Kayla and Janucz are always up for a backyard hang or beers and Mexican food at El Potosi down the street.
It's not that nobody else in my life has been this for me - I know I must sound ungrateful to anyone else reading this - but the timing just couldn't be better.
As Tina said at Susan's New Year's Eve party, "Brian, of course you've done something this year! Look around you - you have a posse now!" And Rob drove it home the following Saturday: "you're the glue, man. Before, I never really hung out at our neighborhood joints, and we certainly didn't do much like the dinner parties you throw." Indeed, the week I moved in I made a knockout risotto Milanese and invited them all over to stand in my kitchen and eat it. Nothing more formal than that. We were up until two and I put 15 wine bottles into the recycling. I repeated with rabbit stew the week before Thanksgiving.
It was a really warm feeling just then, to realize I have such supportive friends who are on such a similar wavelength as I. The guilt and regret are still there, always will be, but I have to go with what works best.
In 2009, I think I found my soul. Imagine what I can do in 2010 with that.
Now, a look back , 2009's Top 20:
1. Quality time.
2. ...and then going too far.
3. The new whip.
4. Leaving for San Luis Obispo (and more).
5. Back to Mt. Mitchell.
6. The breakthrough.
7. Almost...
8.. Sherman Park.
9. Jack goes mobile.
10. Tandemonium.
11. Shut up and ride, asshole.
12. My favorite race of the season.
13. 500th post.
14. Charm City invasion.
15. My first cross race.
16. Party pooper.
17. Race day hooky.
18. Stew.
19. The smile.
20. Home for Christmas.
14.12.09
The Unified Theory of Facebook
1st Law: People who didn't know you/didn't talk to you/made fun of you/beat you up everyday in high school will add you as a "friend."
2nd Law: Any status update that is commented on enough devolves into nothing more than Big Lewbowski quotes.
3rd Law: The first time you "hide" a friend's status updates will be to block the messages from "Mafia Wars" and "Farmville.
4th Law: Posting an "I lost my cell phone" event is a really great way to ensure a smaller contact list on your new phone.
5th Law: You will have one friend who only posts DJ status updates. And you will hide him.
6th Law: You will find out that people you otherwise like are stridently Republican/Democrat.
7th Law: Your mom will be a "mutual friend" of your ex.
8th Law: You will be tagged in a monstrously embarrassing picture without your permission, and by the time you see it, 27 people will have already commented on it.
9th Law: At least one friend a month will leave only "is..." as their status update, in an attempt to be "deep" when they're afraid to just not have anything to say.
10th Law: You will want a dislike button very soon.
2nd Law: Any status update that is commented on enough devolves into nothing more than Big Lewbowski quotes.
3rd Law: The first time you "hide" a friend's status updates will be to block the messages from "Mafia Wars" and "Farmville.
4th Law: Posting an "I lost my cell phone" event is a really great way to ensure a smaller contact list on your new phone.
5th Law: You will have one friend who only posts DJ status updates. And you will hide him.
6th Law: You will find out that people you otherwise like are stridently Republican/Democrat.
7th Law: Your mom will be a "mutual friend" of your ex.
8th Law: You will be tagged in a monstrously embarrassing picture without your permission, and by the time you see it, 27 people will have already commented on it.
9th Law: At least one friend a month will leave only "is..." as their status update, in an attempt to be "deep" when they're afraid to just not have anything to say.
10th Law: You will want a dislike button very soon.
18.11.09
Picture of the day
(With apologies to Newt...)
"Whoa...hey guys...um...I think I'll take the stairs..."
(from Red Kite Prayer)
"Whoa...hey guys...um...I think I'll take the stairs..."
(from Red Kite Prayer)
16.11.09
Canberra, Corn, and Candide
Ah Monday, what delightful little surprises you bring.
This arrived from Australia in the mail today:
All I will say is that there is more than just a book in that envelope. It is Promise that's hidden away in there.
----------
I've recovered from my little rant last Thursday, and I have taken the very first steps towards directing my anger in a positive direction. I hope to tell you more soon, right after the New Year, if all goes to plan...but a simple building block of that plan was put into place just tonight, in a meal of homemade polenta, baked kale with olive oil and sea salt, and some leftover butternut squash soup with black beans and chorizo (note, that is meat - I ain't going veggie...) that I made Friday:
----------
As I cooked that dinner tonight and listened to the Aaron Copeland station on Pandora, Leonard Bernstein's Overture to Candide began to play, and out spilled the most vivid visions and breathless emotions from over 20 years ago, my freshman year of high school.
On the first day of class in fall 1987, I sat in the band hall amid applause and cheers from the other students, directed at me for the sole reason that I was the first tuba player they'd ever had, even the seniors. I still had no idea what I was doing with that giant hunk of brass, having just switched over at the very end of 7th grade from trumpet, riding the instrument's demand straight out of the reject 4th period band to the top tier concert band and now this. I still had no idea at the time that I was reading a different clef and couldn't play anything higher than a middle E flat, but here I was.
Less than two months later I was in the back row of the East High Symphonic Band, in the midst of a city-wide concert on a gymnasium floor - a "battle of the bands" if you will. While the other schools were pandering - with TV show medleys (Dallas and Dynasty), or watered down movie themes - we shocked the room (or at least the other band directors) by belting out the opening staccati to Bertstein's lively intro to his opera.
Our brand new director, James Bowers, was a lot of things, some not always positive as it came to be over the following years, but he was a challenging teacher, and he showed huge balls programming a piece like this for his debut performance.
Candide is fast and complicated, written in time-signatures I'd never seen before. I faked half of it but it didn't matter. The multilayered rhythms whisked me along regardless to a level of existence that I've only reached since during peak performance; music, bicycling... As the playful melodies bantered about between the winds and brass and percussion, interrupted by my quick bursts of bass - the little kid piping into the conversation - I was electrified, overcome with a pulsing energy that made it impossible to sit still. When the final melody came to a head in the horns, then bubbled out of the winds, suddenly ending in that last tutti chord, I sat there in a daze as the applause washed over us, breathing heavily and tingling as though I had climaxed.
This arrived from Australia in the mail today:
All I will say is that there is more than just a book in that envelope. It is Promise that's hidden away in there.
----------
I've recovered from my little rant last Thursday, and I have taken the very first steps towards directing my anger in a positive direction. I hope to tell you more soon, right after the New Year, if all goes to plan...but a simple building block of that plan was put into place just tonight, in a meal of homemade polenta, baked kale with olive oil and sea salt, and some leftover butternut squash soup with black beans and chorizo (note, that is meat - I ain't going veggie...) that I made Friday:
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As I cooked that dinner tonight and listened to the Aaron Copeland station on Pandora, Leonard Bernstein's Overture to Candide began to play, and out spilled the most vivid visions and breathless emotions from over 20 years ago, my freshman year of high school.
On the first day of class in fall 1987, I sat in the band hall amid applause and cheers from the other students, directed at me for the sole reason that I was the first tuba player they'd ever had, even the seniors. I still had no idea what I was doing with that giant hunk of brass, having just switched over at the very end of 7th grade from trumpet, riding the instrument's demand straight out of the reject 4th period band to the top tier concert band and now this. I still had no idea at the time that I was reading a different clef and couldn't play anything higher than a middle E flat, but here I was.
Less than two months later I was in the back row of the East High Symphonic Band, in the midst of a city-wide concert on a gymnasium floor - a "battle of the bands" if you will. While the other schools were pandering - with TV show medleys (Dallas and Dynasty), or watered down movie themes - we shocked the room (or at least the other band directors) by belting out the opening staccati to Bertstein's lively intro to his opera.
Our brand new director, James Bowers, was a lot of things, some not always positive as it came to be over the following years, but he was a challenging teacher, and he showed huge balls programming a piece like this for his debut performance.
Candide is fast and complicated, written in time-signatures I'd never seen before. I faked half of it but it didn't matter. The multilayered rhythms whisked me along regardless to a level of existence that I've only reached since during peak performance; music, bicycling... As the playful melodies bantered about between the winds and brass and percussion, interrupted by my quick bursts of bass - the little kid piping into the conversation - I was electrified, overcome with a pulsing energy that made it impossible to sit still. When the final melody came to a head in the horns, then bubbled out of the winds, suddenly ending in that last tutti chord, I sat there in a daze as the applause washed over us, breathing heavily and tingling as though I had climaxed.
9.11.09
The weekend
No biking this weekend - coach's orders (rest and recovery) - so I got to sleep in and take some long walks with Jack, as well indulge myself a bit, as well.
How beautiful was the weather? See for yourself, if you were snowed-in in Colorado or something:
That night was a fundraiser for the Greater Independence Park Neighborhood Association (GIPNA), a wine and cheese tasting to benefit the renovation of the historic bungalow at the southeast corner of the park. Note that my name is much prettier than my friend Tina's:
Why would anyone go to a wine-tasting and not taste each of the nine Cotes Du Rhone labels offered? By time we had worked our way down the list to the last wine, a Chateauneuf Du Pape, it was gone. People had been skipping all the rest, including three labels of white, plus a rose, instead tasting - no, drinking - all of the big, spicy wine for themselves.
Oh well. It was a fun time, still. Here's a rare view from the balcony of the Independence Park fieldhouse:
And inside the upstairs level, filled with neighbors drinking all that CDP while listening to some smooth, loungy piano jazz:
The rest of the evening saw us moving from another fun raiser at St. Edward's Catholic school - "Red Rock" - where parents' bands entertained friends and family in the school's gym. The place was right around the corner from the Irish-American Heritage center - basically a bar within an old elementary school - so, naturally:
We ended up at Queen Albert's, a Filipino restaurant and kareoke bar just around the corner from home. Serving great food until well after midnight, it was packed with natives from all over Chicago singing to robotic, MIDI accompaniment to generic white girls in bikinis in various states of pastoral beauty behind the words on the screen. Tina sang "The Gambler," Rob gave us an Elvis ballad, and I struggled horribly with a Sinatra tune. I learned the hard way that "Luck Be A Lady" must only be sung in front of a live band.
Sunday I took Jack on a long stroll through the Old Irving neighborhood, west of Pulaski, on our way to the Starbucks at Kostner and Irving to chill with a book for a bit. I was amazed at the houses over there, it was as though I were in Oak Park. Beautiful two- and three story single family homes along sunny tree-lined streets, fall color spilled everywhere. I was suddenly wistful - for what, I'm not sure - but I wanted to see Packards and Studebakers along the curbsides. These are from a stretch of Byron between Avondale and Kostner:
The rest of the day was spent in Greg's backyard, drinking cold beers over the fire and listening to the Bears game. Even a shitty performance like theirs couldn't ruin such a perfect day as this.
6.11.09
Sunday at the Harp
Last night, Kevin Flynn dedicated a song to me, with his band, The Avondale Ramblers.
Considering I only heard him dedicate one song in the five years I was in Kiss n Ride with him, I was honored.
So, I'd like to dedicate this to Kevin.
Sunday morning at the Harp and Shamrock.
We walked in the door at 11, clapping our shoulders free of the blustery cold outside and brushing the dead leaves out of our hair. Inside awaits warm wood, alluring neon, and a welcoming smirk above a big hand unscrewing a bottle.
"Two bloodies, Buddy."
"Pints?" Buddy would ask, hopefully. He hated making bloody marys, as he did with any drink with more than two ingredients, and of course, we responded, "naw...highballs!" and drank them fast so he'd have to make 'em again. The smirk would turn to a sneer below the salt and pepper mustache and kid's haircut, and he slouched even more as he spiced and Tobascoed away.
In the corner was either Sean's hot dog machine, complete with bun warmer or a huge crock of chili. Either way there were several bags of potato chips as well. All that was needed was for us to dig in.
But first we'd sit along the wall under the Paddy mirrors, the framed Hubert H. Humphrey campaign poster, and the map of Europe with no England on it, and sip our drinks while the neighborhood hags and Joe Plumbers smoked by the window, their gray haze snaking around their wrinkled faces. The Bears pregame wrapped up on the televisions over the bar.
After kick off and we'd gotten our first beer, then it was time eat. There was always more than enough, and always free...for regulars, anyways. Just plop it all on a paper plate and take it back to the table and your bottle. It always seemed to me that somebody new would see all of us eating and be afraid to ask.
Those Bears games were somehow comically magical that year. Jim Miller nearly always found a way to make us laugh in disbelief at the end, to cheer and scream triumphantly in a way we never quite felt we deserved, but the joy at 3pm was genuine nonetheless.
With endorphins from the win coursing through our system, Monday felt a week away. By halftime of the second game, I'd probably moved on to Jameson, or at least began mixing it in with the rotation. The crowd would get younger and more familiar as the sun began to set. The wood glowed in the ambient light from the street lamps and the bar signs; nowhere else could've seemed more like home.
At 7:30, the afternoon games and highlights over, the evening game starting, we were in 5th gear and stopping for no one. Now it was Jameson exclusively and I was bumming cigarettes from Sean, who would occasionally come from behind the bar to take his eagle shot on the Golden Tee machine.
Game over, we turned up the juke box. Thin Lizzie, The Pogues, Willy Nelson, and Elvis; as we got drunker, our own Kiss n' Ride EP that was in there. Someone would trip, get up, order another one. Old friends came by, beckoned or by surprise, backs were patted, drinks spilled. We found a neighborhood Joe asleep on the toilet, snoring loudly. That waitress from next door I wanted to get on would come in. Somebody would try to climb over the bar. Somebody would get thrown out.
Then Sean would start turning out the lights, and suddenly Monday didn't seem so far off any more. We'd put our scarves and coats back on, slur our goodbyes, and head back out into the blustery cold.
Considering I only heard him dedicate one song in the five years I was in Kiss n Ride with him, I was honored.
So, I'd like to dedicate this to Kevin.
Sunday morning at the Harp and Shamrock.
We walked in the door at 11, clapping our shoulders free of the blustery cold outside and brushing the dead leaves out of our hair. Inside awaits warm wood, alluring neon, and a welcoming smirk above a big hand unscrewing a bottle.
"Two bloodies, Buddy."
"Pints?" Buddy would ask, hopefully. He hated making bloody marys, as he did with any drink with more than two ingredients, and of course, we responded, "naw...highballs!" and drank them fast so he'd have to make 'em again. The smirk would turn to a sneer below the salt and pepper mustache and kid's haircut, and he slouched even more as he spiced and Tobascoed away.
In the corner was either Sean's hot dog machine, complete with bun warmer or a huge crock of chili. Either way there were several bags of potato chips as well. All that was needed was for us to dig in.
But first we'd sit along the wall under the Paddy mirrors, the framed Hubert H. Humphrey campaign poster, and the map of Europe with no England on it, and sip our drinks while the neighborhood hags and Joe Plumbers smoked by the window, their gray haze snaking around their wrinkled faces. The Bears pregame wrapped up on the televisions over the bar.
After kick off and we'd gotten our first beer, then it was time eat. There was always more than enough, and always free...for regulars, anyways. Just plop it all on a paper plate and take it back to the table and your bottle. It always seemed to me that somebody new would see all of us eating and be afraid to ask.
Those Bears games were somehow comically magical that year. Jim Miller nearly always found a way to make us laugh in disbelief at the end, to cheer and scream triumphantly in a way we never quite felt we deserved, but the joy at 3pm was genuine nonetheless.
With endorphins from the win coursing through our system, Monday felt a week away. By halftime of the second game, I'd probably moved on to Jameson, or at least began mixing it in with the rotation. The crowd would get younger and more familiar as the sun began to set. The wood glowed in the ambient light from the street lamps and the bar signs; nowhere else could've seemed more like home.
At 7:30, the afternoon games and highlights over, the evening game starting, we were in 5th gear and stopping for no one. Now it was Jameson exclusively and I was bumming cigarettes from Sean, who would occasionally come from behind the bar to take his eagle shot on the Golden Tee machine.
Game over, we turned up the juke box. Thin Lizzie, The Pogues, Willy Nelson, and Elvis; as we got drunker, our own Kiss n' Ride EP that was in there. Someone would trip, get up, order another one. Old friends came by, beckoned or by surprise, backs were patted, drinks spilled. We found a neighborhood Joe asleep on the toilet, snoring loudly. That waitress from next door I wanted to get on would come in. Somebody would try to climb over the bar. Somebody would get thrown out.
Then Sean would start turning out the lights, and suddenly Monday didn't seem so far off any more. We'd put our scarves and coats back on, slur our goodbyes, and head back out into the blustery cold.
14.10.09
Had enough today
My friend Steven took this picture last night, at the corner of Halsted and 17th St:
Sorry for the shock value, but there it is. And yeah, that's her liver lying a few feet away. She was hit by a blue or purple 4-door, and then the #18 bus. The bus stopped. The driver is still at large.
It is a fantasy of mine that apprehended hit and run drivers be sentenced to go car-less, with the knowledge that they will be randomly run down at high speed by a Hummer in a state-sponsored execution. Or, I s'pose a pack of drunk hipsters on tall bikes would be more poetic justice. But knowing that the last conscious thought to go through this perp's mind as his liver leaves his body is, "oh, this is what she felt," would be somewhat satisfying.
Also yesterday, this happened in New Zealand.
I couldn't get any of these images out of my mind today as I left work from the parking lot on my ride home. The brushed steel weather of October must gnaw on people's patience. Not even 100 meters onto Milwaukee Avenue some self-entitled blond was yelling at me to "get in a bike lane."
"What bike lane?" I asked as I rolled past her, stopped at the red light she was in such a hurry to get to seven seconds later. "Can't I turn left like everyone else?"
Eyes roll up with her window.
Buzzed three times on Lake by probably a combined 12 inches of passing space. Trying to pedal into a 20 mph headwind, I was getting it from all sides.
Honked at twice on Lehigh between Touhy and Devon.
By time I was on Elston I was convinced I was being tailgated by some phantom SUV. That was completely in my head.
I was in no shape to then get on my cross bike and head down to Cricket Hill for practice, no way I was then biking through the madness that is Uptown during rush hour. I just wanted off of my bike, period. To be inside, locked behind a door.
I've had it with mouthbreathers. Empty heads. People who act like I'm not even there. Snobby Mercedes drivers. Shaved-head "husky" guys who fancy themselves UFC stars but get out of breath walking from their car into the Burger King. Empty Chevy Suburbans, save the driver's seat. People who act as though there is no law at all. People who don't give a shit about anyone but themselves.
Oh man, I've had it today. Had it with this city, had it with this culture. I've had it with this mean-spirited, selfish, indulgent, me-first, obsessive, angry way of life. I want to move far, far away. To Amsterdam. To Copenhagen. To Mackinac Island. To Denali National Park.
To a place where no one is in a hurry, everyone savors the moment, and no one has a sense of entitlement the size of their car.
Sorry for the shock value, but there it is. And yeah, that's her liver lying a few feet away. She was hit by a blue or purple 4-door, and then the #18 bus. The bus stopped. The driver is still at large.
It is a fantasy of mine that apprehended hit and run drivers be sentenced to go car-less, with the knowledge that they will be randomly run down at high speed by a Hummer in a state-sponsored execution. Or, I s'pose a pack of drunk hipsters on tall bikes would be more poetic justice. But knowing that the last conscious thought to go through this perp's mind as his liver leaves his body is, "oh, this is what she felt," would be somewhat satisfying.
Also yesterday, this happened in New Zealand.
"All you could hear was the sound of carbon and bodies falling everywhere ... they were crashing all over the place..."
I couldn't get any of these images out of my mind today as I left work from the parking lot on my ride home. The brushed steel weather of October must gnaw on people's patience. Not even 100 meters onto Milwaukee Avenue some self-entitled blond was yelling at me to "get in a bike lane."
"What bike lane?" I asked as I rolled past her, stopped at the red light she was in such a hurry to get to seven seconds later. "Can't I turn left like everyone else?"
Eyes roll up with her window.
Buzzed three times on Lake by probably a combined 12 inches of passing space. Trying to pedal into a 20 mph headwind, I was getting it from all sides.
Honked at twice on Lehigh between Touhy and Devon.
By time I was on Elston I was convinced I was being tailgated by some phantom SUV. That was completely in my head.
I was in no shape to then get on my cross bike and head down to Cricket Hill for practice, no way I was then biking through the madness that is Uptown during rush hour. I just wanted off of my bike, period. To be inside, locked behind a door.
I've had it with mouthbreathers. Empty heads. People who act like I'm not even there. Snobby Mercedes drivers. Shaved-head "husky" guys who fancy themselves UFC stars but get out of breath walking from their car into the Burger King. Empty Chevy Suburbans, save the driver's seat. People who act as though there is no law at all. People who don't give a shit about anyone but themselves.
Oh man, I've had it today. Had it with this city, had it with this culture. I've had it with this mean-spirited, selfish, indulgent, me-first, obsessive, angry way of life. I want to move far, far away. To Amsterdam. To Copenhagen. To Mackinac Island. To Denali National Park.
To a place where no one is in a hurry, everyone savors the moment, and no one has a sense of entitlement the size of their car.
16.9.09
Hump Day
I'm shameless, I know...
Bike-cop beats bus driver...
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Car-free day, Tuesday, September 22
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5th Annual Dick Herron Memorial Bike and Walk, Sunday, October 4
Bike-cop beats bus driver...
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Car-free day, Tuesday, September 22
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5th Annual Dick Herron Memorial Bike and Walk, Sunday, October 4
4.9.09
AR Friday
You see a lot more when you slow down.
That house. The Victorian gaucheness of it, or maybe the yard's immaculately trimmed hedges.
The way traffic treats you the same whether you're moving at 30 miles and hour, or just 13.
Did you realize the deer in the forest preserve were that big?
What is it about hairy (bigfoot hairy) bodies that make you want to tan on a picnic table in a nutbag Speedo?
That shiny, black '72 Eldorado has been parked there all summer, actually.
And these...?...taste so much better:
That house. The Victorian gaucheness of it, or maybe the yard's immaculately trimmed hedges.
The way traffic treats you the same whether you're moving at 30 miles and hour, or just 13.
Did you realize the deer in the forest preserve were that big?
What is it about hairy (bigfoot hairy) bodies that make you want to tan on a picnic table in a nutbag Speedo?
That shiny, black '72 Eldorado has been parked there all summer, actually.
And these...?...taste so much better:
2.9.09
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