Another Tale From the Great White North…

I had always heard the phrase combat fishing here and there but never really thought about it. It always floated out of my mind just as quickly as it lit in. There is really no combat fishing to speak of in the Midwest. Smelting on the Chicago lakefront doesn’t really qualify. I’m told that during the Walleye run on the Wisconsin River it can get a little congested, but it’s really nothing to get that impressed by. Combat fishing in Alaska is a unique animal and something I never would have believed had I not seen it with my own eyes. The above picture is from Willow, right off the Deshka River (the King Salmon were running through). It was much, much worse on the Russian River (Red Salmon running through). While driving through the Kenai Peninsula we saw it in full force. Apparently the bears even come out in close proximity to the hundreds of fisherman – everyone present just wants fish.

In Wisconsin the fishing is rarely as good as it is in Alaska, but it’s almost always guaranteed that you can find a part of the lake or shoreline to nestle into to quietly fish, chit-chat, and simply enjoy the lake and outdoors. Now, Alaska is a very big place and there are uncountable places where you can fish alone, but when the salmon are running and you are within driving distance of Anchorage (half of the state’s population) you can bet you’ll be combat fishing.

I was a little put off by it myself, but if we had actually caught some King Salmon I’d probably not care at all. People are constantly getting their lines tangled with each other. Most of the time one person will reel all the way in and unhook the other line. I did this for a few people myself, but the glasshead that reeled in my line found it easier to simply cut my line with his knife and then smile. We were on a boat and he was on shore so there was enough distance to prohibit a shouting match, etc. I was pretty angry at first and then realized after taking a breath that tomorrow I’ll be waking up with a good job and education while he’ll still be a burned out meth head. Fine, you showed me up, dude. Have your laugh with your buddies. I’m assuming some strange class envy magically developed because we were in a boat and they stood on shore. I guess they were keeping it real and we were the Magnificent Ambersons or something of the like. Silly.

Faithfully

A Tale From the Great White North…


Skate videos always gave me songs to hear in my head as I attempted to put together my own runs. Certain songs still always appear in my mind visually along with the exact trick that was landed at that musical moment. Gangstarr and Mike Carroll are prime culprits.

Journey’s Greatest Hits is the hottest CD in my life right now. Driving back from a canoe trip in northern Wisconsin a few weeks ago found the CD played straight through from Tomahawk through Stevens Point. It’s perfect driving back to civilization music (We listened to Neil Young on the way up – perfect entering the woods music). That Sunday night “Don’t Stop Believing” became canonical again via The Sopranos. In Homer, Alaska a week later I found myself at 6:30 am waiting to get on my Halibut charter. Your limit is 2 per day and we went out for 2.5 hours into the ocean for this ugly as sin (yet delicious) fish – 6 of us in total. I guess we started fishing around 10 am and our captain told us we were on a shelf of kelp that had big fish on it, and that we wouldn’t get any hits for about 30 minutes, until our bait and chum bag fully announced our presence. About 20 minutes later one guy caught a 25 lb fish but threw it back. It was too early to limit out on small fish. Then right at that 30 minute mark another guy caught a 60 lber. Beautiful fish. The sun was shining and it was about 55 degrees out, but with the wind on the ocean sea it was a little chilly. I kept a jacket on during this and still had a shiver but the crew had simple sweatshirts on – locals. With the nice weather and our settling in on our fishing grounds, it was time for music, so decreed the captain. The Journey CD came on and the captain mumbled, “They always hit for Journey.” No shit. Soon I hooked my 73lb fish, fought it for almost 10 minutes to songs unknown in the middle of the CD. It wiggled and pulled on the drag, but ultimately the experience descended into pulling up a sewer cap from 45 feet. So much fun and truly an exhausting experience. As the day begun I fought the discomfort from a long ride in the ocean coupled with the smell and noise of a diesel engine. Along with the chill from the wind I was eager to see my mood change, and given that it took about an hour for me to catch a fish I was nervous about being skunked to say the least. After I saw that gaffed 73lb fish flopping around the rear of the boat I cannot explain how quickly my mood changed. The day then relaxed for me. If I caught another fish and capped my limit that would be great, but if not then 73lbs is a very nice fish, considering they bone out around 60%. After landing my halibut the captain told me personally that I had caught a nice fish. This was nice to hear since I, along with everyone on the boat, had very little sense of what a good day or fish would be. He probably tells that to all the shmucks that catch something. I was feeling pretty good about my catch (still am) but I was soon trumped. A guy from California caught a 100+ lb fish which he had the pleasure of fighting to “Don’t Stop Believing.” Lucky guy. Over the next few hours 2 more 100+ lb fish made it into the boat. When the fishing slowed down at that spot we headed over to deeper water where within 30 minutes we all limited out on 25lb fish. Much smaller that pulling up a 73lb sewer cap, but challenging in its own way due to that fact that those 25lbers live at 125 feet. So we headed back on our 3 hour ride with everyone in the boat catching their limit while also getting some much larger fish than usual. My fish was just a warm up for the boat in the end, but I sent 48 lbs of meat home so no complaints. Maybe next time I’ll get two 100 lbers.

It’s the easiest fishing I’ve ever done. You bait the circular hook, place a 2lb sinker a foot above it, and then lower the whole operation to the bottom of the sea, feel the plunk, and then reel in 2 feet of line. Place it in the rod holder and wait for the hit. Easy. Also, with circular hooks you don’t need to set the hooks. You just look around at the scenery, take some pictures, drink a coke, and then grab your pole when it bends in half. Easy. One of the first things we were told on the boat was that when the crew was dragging our fish into the boat we needed to grab the 2lb sinker and hold it for them. “That damn thing easily turns into a wrecking ball when we’re wrestling a fish.” He then pointed at his forehead, “It sucks. Trust me.”

Sadly, they did not shoot my fish. When the first 100lber got close enough to be seen the captain asked us to stand back while his crewman held the gaff nearby. “This could get active.” I saw the revolver in his hand and watched him silently load one bullet as his eyes stayed on the fish, still 10 feet out from the boat. As the fish was gaffed it was steadied next to the boat and then a single shot went right through its head. Even with that when it was hoisted into the boat it flopped around like a madman and the crewman that grew up in Montana straddled and kneeled over it like a bull and wrestled it to a momentary calm where he gave it a few wacks with a sizeable, rapidly produced varnished stick and settled it once and for all. My fish did not warrant the head shot and I do feel cheated by this. The other guys got to take home their shell casing.

I have no clue whether we had a typical day or a great day. It felt great to me, especially counting the weather (Sunny and over 50 in Homer is a gift). I heard the captain mention to another captain back at the dock when we returned to Homer that our day was epic. I’ll take that as fact rather than tourist cheerleading.

Epic indeed. Journey will always mean fishing in Alaska to me and the great strength it takes to pull up big fish from 45+ feet below.

I seldom fly so I have no litany of horror stories about airlines, but that may be changing (I’ve actually flown fewer than a dozen round trips in my life). I was informed via computer voicemail that my NWA flight for tomorrow was cancelled and that I had been placed on an 11am flight Friday morning. That is a 24 hour bump in under a day’s notice! I called and was told that the computer had made the bump and that I could be placed on a different Thursday flight. Fair enough, though I do now have to spend a 3 hour layover in Detroit. I’ll be in the last frontier Thursday night so all is well.

Piss on the Red Wings.

How do you write a book review for a 15 year old book? It’s not new, but it is not old enough to have begun the endless war with time and relevance that all works of art must undertake. It’s not yet the same as writing at length about books by long dead people from decades long before I was born, or even work by Salinger, whom is socially dead by his own design. Wayne is not dead. He is still very much greeting Chicago daily with 2 fists raised up, his back endlessly against filthy gangway bricks.

I always dug The Holy Terror, and not just for the omnipresent Chicago scenery and mood, though that is wonderful. Reading it for the first time 9 or so years ago I remember being struck by the wash of grey in the characters, environment, and conclusion. The conclusion is unsettling and unresolved, something I enjoyed immensely back then. The Painkiller is still out there, lurking in Chicago’s broken streets, though gentrification has certainly shoved him out of Wicker Park (I’ll also gather that Humboldt is too pricey as well). I loved the way the city breathed on each page and became a hulking character in the corner of each scene.

This past week’s reading was a bit different. I found all the things above still there in the same ways they had been before, but I ended up focusing on what wasn’t there – the attractive people coming and going, the nice bars, the good neighborhood with the nice homes on its blocks, and the pain free people. These things are mentioned sparsely and then forgotten. There seems to be a brutal disconnect of the world all of the characters occupy and the rest of Chicago. It is very clear that there are two (maybe Infinite) Chicagos at play here, and that Wayne only cares about the one with grime, filth, broken cement, and pain ridden humans, each responding differently to themselves. It is interesting to think of the true Wicker Park of 1989 in the novel and place it next to the true Wicker Park of today and see that the other Chicago steamrolled Wayne’s characters and their world. Their stomping grounds were not very happy so maybe that’s ok. Chicago is a big place and there will always be dirty alleys and narrow gangways for Vic and Haid to retreat into. They are still out there for sure, stumbling around El platforms.

I can’t recommend this book enough, both as an excellent modern horror tale and a true snapshot of Chicago. It’s not that expensive. C’mon, read a great book and then tell Wayne about it.


Oh yeah, while I’m telling you how to spend your money, buy a Cognition cap. Mine fits better than any other cycling cap I’ve ever bought. Good hat, good people.

Through a few patches of old growth pine...

Before the rain in the afternoon, Saturday was a beautiful 60 degree day in the North woods. This is a beautiful, smooth road through the Timms Hill County Park, near Rustic Road 62 (do people actively try to visit all of the rustic roads?) and Ogema. These woods up north never cease to impress me. Summer is pretty much here.

It was 36 degrees Sunday morning. Summer is maybe not here just yet.

Oats, brah.

It starts out poorly but I think the story pays off.

I eat oatmeal every morning at my desk and therefore have the big cardboard cylinder container in my drawer. Now, it’s cheapest to buy the big 6lb boxed plastic bags of oatmeal at Sam’s club and just fill up the cylinder every 3 weeks or so. Like I’m carrying a fragile newborn babe I end up walking home every now and again with the cylinder in my hand to avoid getting it smashed in my bag. I assume it looks a little silly. While walking home the other day I passed a guy my own age that nodded and then added , “Way to go with the oats, brah.” It was not sarcastic at all. It felt like it needed a high five and a gentle smile in the vein of some phrase like “Yeah, I recycle as well, brah.”

Only in Madison. Cred for eating oatmeal.

Hotel in Homer, AK. Check.

Reservation on Halibut and Salmon charter boat? Check.

Canoeing long days with maximum daylight in the Kenai Refuge? Check.

Most of my wilderness adventures have been in Wisconsin, Minnesota or Michigan – the Midwest at the very least. My impending June trip to Alaska has me remembering that almost every time I head to the woods I bring along my dogged copy of Hemingway’s complete short stories. It has only seldom been accurate, but reading about Nick Adams and looking around at the streams and birches surrounding me makes it believable that I am right where he wrote those stories about 100 years ago. The countryside would have easily looked the same. I did visit the two hearted river last summer in the UP and while it was just as beautiful and similar to all of the north woods I’ve seen in my lifetime, it also added a bit extra for the Hemingway nerd. But, Hemingway never set foot in Alaska. It seems odd that it never came to happen in his life of travel and adventure, but it eluded him. I’ll still drag along the short stories on my canoe trip but it might not be the same. Maybe it’s time to bring along the complete works of Jack London and read beyond the main novels and more famous short stories…

Excellent Choice

Way to go Alaska!

Comics this week…

No spoilers here, but be careful if you jump to the wiki link.

Rumblings spread across the internet a few months ago that there was a very sad disjoint between the 52 braintrust’s storyline planning and the OYL factoids already on display in the current books. Having Rucka, Johns, Waid and the God of All Comics is enough for me to simply say, “Hey, they’ll build the storyline bridge some way and it’ll be great. No worries.” From the message boards at the time there was more concern than I had, but I dig all of their work independently and have loved 52, so I’m a cheap date for the future possibilities. They can write their way out of anything. This week they did their job but

First off, why is World War 3 4 comics, especially when they have to come out on the same day? Make them one big book, annual sized, and be done with it. Oh, but then it would be close to $10, and would therefore scare many people off. For $2.50 a book people will bite and then immediately pile on for the remaining three. There is also something to be said for buying 4 books and knowing you have the entire set. I’m calling it a scam nonetheless. The story also didn’t merit that high of a page count either. I can see the pitch session clearly and envision the inevitable statement: “If its 4 books then it can be a trade.”

I was initially confused as to whether I should have read 52 #50 first or plowed through WW3 first. The cover of #50 told me that WW3 begins here so I went that route. I loved that book. It covered a huge battle, showed some character changes, and had a strong resolution. No complaints. Jumping then to WW3 was such a downer. It was essentially a drawn out, less interesting retelling of the story I had just enjoyed in 22 pages. Why was Martian Manhunter’s presence looming like the Spectre usually does? I know the Spectre is MIA and it was addressed but still. Too much navel gazing. If this big event helped us fill in some of the OYL bits, and it did, why do I still have no clue about Commissioner Gordon? That little fact is nagging me. I’ll bet a Batman annual will fix that in the next few months. $4.99 I’m sure.

I love comics and more importantly never mind spending cash on books I plan on reading – it is almost always an inherently good act. Still, this feels very much like an unnecessary book. 52 #50 covered all I needed to know and about an extra 15 pages here or there would have given me the OYL info I needed. This, coupled with the pricing I noted above, makes this feel more bloated than usual.

I love 52 and I’m in for Countdown. Black Adam is one of the most interesting characters around these days but it would be nice to see him in a better set of books. I’m sure Countdown will fix that. These events, when elevated above this week’s bloated books, are very interesting and will happily resonate for the next year of infinite purchases.

Did Infinite Crisis result in newly energized sales across the board? Did the One Year Later stories catch on? On a creative level, I like some books and ideas and dislike others. Nightwing is bland when it is not terrible, Green Arrow is very cool as always, having Gordon and Harvey Bullock back is great, and I could care less about Hawkman/girl. I'm interested in JLA yet still not sold on it's big picture, though there is so much to like here and there that I'm surely in for the long haul. JSA is a blast (I love Starman), but I dig the Justice Society so much that I'm a cheap date on this one. The jury is still out with 4 weeks of 52 left, but so far a mixed bag with an uneasy sense of poor planning lingering over the OYL concepts.

On to what matters -- the sales figures. Do these numbers represent DC's storylines and events and their success (or apparent lack thereof) ? or are they harbingers of the ongoing comic marketplace's economic reality?

Its well worth a read and not as dense as it appears upon first glance.

Covered with dust in the barn I dug through box after box of books that I had decided needed to make the migration from Chicago in 2005. In hindsight at least 3 boxes should have ended up in a thrift store on the south side, probably Unique on Archer. I wasn’t as brave at the time and thought that all of those books would eventually be reread someday. A fair amount will be, but a fair amount made the trip for nothing. On Saturday I came up with two medium boxes filled with paperbacks and a few hardcovers that will soon end up at Jasper Junction. Saturday night I was disappointed that I only came up with 2 boxes so I promised to look through it all again Sunday morning. This produced another full large box, this one with many beat up Far Side collections. They are funny but I hope to buy the complete collection someday so perhaps that will speed that goal along. So many great books made the cut and will be allowed to stay until I get another bug to dig through things. All of the Hemingway made it of course. Flipping through each text produces a flutter of notes and scribbling in the margins. If I could ever see myself rereading something it could not be given away. This explains the huge box of Archie double digests that remains. I still dig those books. If it is something I could see lending endlessly I could also never give it away. That explains the piles of Sin City and DC trades. If it is anything that I would definitely buy again I could not throw away my ratty old copy in good faith. I may buy other copies, but the fraying and splitting copies of In Our Time, The Things They Carried, and A Farewell to Arms are the specific copies I know I read for the first time. How could I get rid of those?

Meme

I don’t know if it is some sort of spring fever bug or just an attempt at the endless pruning of my life, but I’m knee deep in digging through boxes and boxes of stuff (mostly books) to drop off at St. Vincent De Paul on Williamson or perhaps even ebay. I have always hoped to have no more possessions beyond what I could pack into my truck for a single trip move, but this has never happened. I’m a materialistic jerk like everybody else, and I have too many bikes – but I’m still reaching for that brass ring of simplicity and immediate mobility.

I’ll be home this weekend digging through boxes and boxes of books in the barn. All of the books are decent and I have read and enjoyed them, but some of them need to find new homes (If they weren’t jettisoned during my Chicago->Madison pruning they must have some interest, right?). I can’t promise a hardcover but how about a paperback meme coupled with some inevitable cdr evangelization (Lair of the Minotaur, Dio, Joe Coffee, etc.)?

Post away and I’ll accommodate (Salma, I know I owe you for your meme and BG) with a package containing a mystery paperback and some metal.

Word has trickled down here at the office that streaming video (no surprise there) and streaming audio (this one really hurts) is now a no-no. Even streaming radio is bad news. This stinks. Its not a distraction like video is, but rather a great way to drone out the office noise. I’ll sorely miss Chicago’s Roe Conn Show, This American Life repeats, and Milt Rosenberg archived shows. They have been replaced by a little music (Mercyful Fate, Merauder, The Jam) and lots of Rollins spoken word. There is something about hearing speech rather than music that helps the work day move quickest. Aside from lifting more often and heavier, the Rollins results remain to be seen, though a result is surely coming. I remember most of the bits and a fair amount of the phrasing but it’s interesting to go straight through and digest it as a whole.

I love it when companies surprise me and have fun with the process of doing business. Joe Coffee's new cd "When the Fabric Don't Fit the Frame" is out now directly from the band and being the loyal fan I am I jumped on it ("Stink of Love" is a terrific and true track).

Here is the confirmation email I received from the online company:

Your CDs have been gently taken from our CD Baby shelves with sterilized contamination-free gloves and placed onto a satin pillow.

A team of 50 employees inspected your CDs and polished them to make sure they were in the best possible condition before mailing.

Our packing specialist from Japan lit a candle and a hush fell over the crowd as he put your CDs into the finest gold-lined box that money can buy.

We all had a wonderful celebration afterwards and the whole party marched down the street to the post office where the entire town ofPortland waved "Bon Voyage!" to your package, on its way to you, in our private CD Baby jet on this day, Friday, March 30th.

I hope you had a wonderful time shopping at CD Baby. We sure did. Your picture is on our wall as "Customer of the Year." We're all exhausted but can't wait for you to come back to CDBABY.COM!!Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Sigh...--Derek Sivers, president, CD Baby
the little store with the best new independent music

Ford's Gym War Hellride

Maybe its because I will always have on toe in Chicago, or maybe because I try to remember to find the smaller things in life that make a place unique, memorable, or interesting . Either way, small Wisconsin details never cease to interest me.

At the pot luck or VFW dinners in Chicago or Indiana you will have the option of water, coffee, or kool-aid. In Wisconsin there is no kool-aid option, but in its place you can have 2% milk. As much as you want! Eating corned beef and cabbage really gives me a taste for milk served by charming old women in American Legion smocks. I jest, but I had two glasses of milk like the ever acclimating person I’m trying to be.


I am starting to sound like Garrison Keiller. (“Stupid blog! Be more funny!”)

…

A new member of the gym looks just like Wesley Willis, only a little less hefty. He benches 225 lbs in reps of 2, over 10+ sets. Its very odd and silly, aside from rudely monopolizing the bench for 30 minutes. Some have dubbed him Benchy, which is appropriate. I only hear “Rock on Madison. Rock on Ford’s Gym. Wisconsin – You’re among Friends!” when I see him.

Its a little warmer and the days are longer thanks to the early time change. The salt and sand on the slushy early spring side of the road is making daily cleanings of my bike almost necessary, but I'll never complain about that. Its so nice to be out again. Life is busier than ever these days but with the looming spring on the horizon I am completely relaxed and happy, yet I have found more clear, strong grey hairs in the same area as before. Its no longer a story. When you get that first one its a story. When you get that first clump its worth noting. Now, its on to more interesting things to complain and blog about.

Saturday was a perfect confluence of some Chicago friends on Madison. I met Tom and Jess in Milwaukee to see the Bacon exhibit. Very disturbing and unforgettable. We high tailed it back to Madison for rollerderby where Salma’s Chicago contingent was headed. We had 2 tickets for our group of three which was no worry because you could always buy them there. I don’t know if a bout has sold out before (probably) but this was one was very sold out before it even began. This was troubling -- we passed many groups of people walking away from the venue with heads hung low. The will call line was long so we figured we’d stand in it and work on a plan. We hoped for the “we came from Chicago and already have 2 tickets…can be buy one measly ticket?” approach. We also planned on asking for “professional courtesy” for Chicago’s finest and bravest. Our line inched closer to the will call table over the next 10 minutes when finally a man in full Reservoir Dolls regalia (a sharp black suit) walked out with a ticket in his hand and calmly stated, “Who is a fan of the Reservoir Dolls?” I poked Tom, his hand shot up, and all three of us walked in. Salma and crew were inside, the place was jumping, and I still cannot believe our good luck.

…

Found my first grey hair this week. I’m sure it is not the first but it is certainly the first bold, clear one I’ve noticed. Does this mean I can no longer listen to youth crew records?

Blizzard,Yo

About 6 years ago at Chicago hardcore fest the headliner was supposed to 25 Ta Life. I had not caught that band before but I had seen Comin’ Correct at the Fireside, so I knew Rick’s presence and appreciated it. While I dug CC, I much preferred the songs from 25 Ta Life so I was pretty excited about this show. If I remember correctly it was most of the reason I even went to the fest (Envy from Buffalo was the other one I believe). The band wasn’t on tour so the plan was to drive straight from NYC to Chicago. It being winter and all the chance for tough weather certainly was omnipresent. As it happened, a big snowstorm hit NYC about 4 hours before the band was to go on in Chicago, but strangely enough this snowstorm shot out of the northeastern seaboard. The point is that 25 Ta Life would have cleverly dodged the snow by being on the road extremely early Saturday morning or even Friday night, which were the times they would have needed to leave anyway. It was a random snowstorm and an even more random way to dodge it. Talking with the promoter at the door he told me Rick and co. were not coming due to the weather. His frustrating conversation from that afternoon went like this:

“Hey, where are you calling me from? Are you on the road?”

“Blizzard, yo.”

“You’re still in New York? Did you try to leave? You would have dodged it.”

“Blizzard, yo.”

“You’re my headliner.”

“Yo, sorry but this is a straight up blizzard.”

I saw them a year or so later and the show delivered and they were cool guys. Rick’s merch/flea market is something to behold. Every time I am in the middle of a big snowstorm I endlessly hear ‘Blizzard, yo’ looping through my head in a New York accent.

Trek X01

Aside from giving cross racing a try in the fall, I hope to use this as my full time commuter, errand bike, and poor weather bike. It just might replace the track bike...

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars and say "These wounds I had on Crispin's day."

What is the best way to approach art, writing, film, etc? Do you decide on the theme, thesis, political objective, or concluding dynamic of the characters and then write towards it? Or do you pick out some interesting characters, place them in a situation/time/place and then just write as you follow them to their own conclusion? I support the latter, though unavoidably you need to keep the former in mind. Lean on the characters first and you'll get to the end properly. Otherwise you'll risk ending up with a cultural artifact that rapidly becomes dated (Easy Rider). Lehane's comment on the writing of Mystic River is an excellent example of the right way (I think):

And for about seven years the title and the neighborhood and the main character stayed with me, just lightly rapping on the door every now and then. About three years ago, a sentence—"Brendan Harris loved Katie Marcus like crazy, like movie love. . ."—started echoing in my skull, and it merged with some of the properties of the Mystic River idea (which had been sort of elbowing its way into pole position in my head) and everything coalesced, I guess.

We shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may

Salma mentioned that she is attempting to take a picture a day as an interesting exercise, so I’m going to try and take more pictures than usual, knowing full well that the photo a day is not going to happen. I’ll keep my digital camera with me more often and try and post some of the more interesting pictures. This morning we started getting some snow around 5am and by 6:45 when I began walking to work this is what it looked like. I believe the open ended subject or frame of reference of the “revolt” perfectly works for Madison – there is always something people here want to revolt against in their own little way, so perhaps it’ll stand as a snow riddled mad-lib. I’m revolting against the red crossing flags.
…

Raced in Chicago yesterday and it was very cold and very fun (as always). We ended up with a 14 degree starting temperature on our roughly 30+ mile loop through the city. Cruising north from the final checkpoint in Sherman Park (in Englewood – yes, that Englewood) we cut over from Halsted onto Archer, turning north again onto Canal. We knew we were not in the top half of finishers but also knew that we had a few people behind us so we kept a hurried pace. I caught a flat around 20th and Canal, rode on it for a few blocks, and ultimately ended up fixing it at 17th after riding on the rim for a few blocks. Scott and crew had already zipped ahead out of earshot. No worries – that’s why I carry a tool kit. My fingers were numb fixing my rear wheel (so much more of a pain than the front on a fixed gear), but since my truck was up around 2400 north even limping to the finish at 500 W Madison wouldn’t change the need to ultimately fix my flat. Freezing on Canal was the same as freezing on Madison. At least with freezing ahead of time I was ensured winning DFL. I was awarded some fancy cycling socks for my placement that eventually went to Clare as they fit her much better. According to J9son a later DFL stumbled in after I left but that sounds like a scam to me. He can fight me for DFL if he thinks he has a right to it.

…

In Hockey on Thursday night a kid (19 or so) ran into me in the neutral zone. He was skating with his head down, as opposed to on a swivel (the way it should be), and plowed his head cleanly and firmly into my chest, mainly right into my heart. I didn’t move but he stumbled back. Game on was called immediately and we all continued uninjured. Starting Friday morning I have noticed that any pressure on my chest in that area is a dull, deep pain. I’m sure this is simply a bear of a bruise, but it did have me worried until I remembered the collision. “Hmm, I keep having a pain in my chest, right over my heart, should I be worried….oh yeah, somebody speared you, smart guy.”

Alea iacta est

Nothing left to do but nervously embrace the -11 temps this weekend (without wind) and hope for the best Sunday night. People keep laying it at Rex's feet, but I believe Brian will determine the outcome for the Bears. Go Bears!

People around the office are telling me that even if the Bears win the Superbowl, they will nonetheless have last been beaten by the Packers, at Soldier(s’) Field nonetheless. I guess there is something to be garnered from having beaten the team that would go on to win it all. I suspect that it will ultimately ring hollow though, much in the same way it did for me in 1983 when the White Sox lost the ALCS to the Baltimore Orioles, whom would go on to win the World Series. I’m sure my father said something along the lines of, “Well, at least the Sox lost to the winner. They were beaten by the best.” It was a valiant effort, but didn’t help in the least. If the Bears win or lose they were in the Superbowl. The Packers are playing golf (like the Blackhawks always do). Simple.

…


There has been a bit of 52 explosion here lately. Well, DC has provided a nice, big image to further the endless silliness and speculation. Is that a flight ring on the bottom?

On my desk this morning, anonymously, was a note with the following scrawled:

The Bears Still Suck!!!

How much can I win from a hostile work environment lawsuit?

Multum in parvo

I try to constantly push towards unread books, unwatched movies, and unheard music. I'll never experience it all before I die, but I ought to make that effort. Yet, I am ceaselessly drawn back to an endless re analysis of books and music. Neil Young, Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants," Darwyn Cooke, and Grant Morrison are on tap this past week and the Matheson and Aquinas (both being read for the first time) are on the back burner. So I haven't digested much new this past while, but I've seen the old as new yet again.

Since I mentioned comic books in this post Wayne is more than encouraged to reply at length about 52. How 'bout Animal Man? And the multiverse? But we don't know what is going to come of Adam Strange's eyes...

This past weekend I reread The New Frontier, loving it more than ever. The original intention was to read an issue a day and let them sink in gradually. Once I made it to day 2 this plan quickly evaporated and I ended up reading the final 5 issues over 2 days. This series is so terrific – its seemingly simplicity in art coupled with its complexity in theme is perfect . I had always loved it the first two times I read it, but I hadn’t fully captured the sense of glory and purity at the advent of the Silver Age heroes. Cooke so fully captures this in his sharp, blunt pencils. The panel at the end where Lois is told that the injured Kal was asking for her and her alone is amazing and so expressive. I jumped right into Seven Soldiers #0 last night. This series will probably blur if I rush it though. One book a night is the plan. Anything more than that and Grant will cook my brain.

I devour comic books much in the same way I pour through movies and tv shows and usually have the same result -- most of it is either mediocre or poor. Its just the nature of reading a lot of comics. Most are forgettable, some are bland yet remembered for their continuity contributions, and a few knock you down with just how good they are. Many great comics are immediately great, thought most are dense and only appear great after being reread 6 months down the road. Its only January but I would not be surprised if All Star Superman #6 holds up as one of the best single issues of the year. So exciting and heartbreaking. The God of All Comics does it again.

Arduum sane munus

Here is my recipe for a great Tour da Chicago Prologue, albeit it one with poor temporal results.:

Go to bed at 2:30am on Saturday night, dream yet again of the Last Frontier, and get up at 4:30am. Drive to Chicago at 5:15am and stop for coffee at the Des Plaines Oasis, where you purchase a cup of coffee.

I never drink coffee (for no discernible reason – I drink Green Tea if anything) so the half dozen times a year I have a cup I really get a boost out of it. Sunday is the perfect example of a day when I needed that boost, so I opted for the most intimidating and interesting flavor available – “Dark Thunder.” I found this emasculating, but also the kind of raw power I needed. It was pretty much strong, dark coffee. Perfect.

I felt that I rode faster than in the past, and I know my fitness level is higher than in past years, but my result was pretty piss poor – even compared to past results. I only added on about ¾ of a mile of extra distance so that shouldn’t have been too much of an anchor to my time. Oh well. I had a good time, the weather was great, the vibe excellent, and I’ll be back for more.

My cell reception at work is terrible so I never answer it (though txting is fine), especially when the area code or number is unknown. Yesterday I received a voicemail from a 212 number, which turned out to be the Late Show with David Letterman offering me tickets. I had forgotten that I dropped them a note for standby tickets in January. I hoped that maybe I would get a call for Monday tickets (Friday's show is filmed on Thursday) as that would be easy to travel for, but they were for Wednesday, January 10th tickets. Too bad it won't work out, but it was interesting to get the call. Now that I know its possible to have something come from submitting that little form on their website I'll have to take it a little more seriously next time.

One of the more consistently creepy things I run across in my travels is any sort of forgotten or converted dance hall on the edge of a beautiful lake in Wisconsin. Its usually more than 50 years old at the least and though it probably has been converted to a beach house or restaurant a long time earlier, you can still see the structure of a large, open room looking onto a clear lake. You can still hear the music and picture the flappers dancing away on some long past New Years Eve overlooking a frozen lake. Its all so charming and sweet, but it really brings back The Shining for me. I can still see Jack Nicholson in that Black and White photo, transported back to 1921 for the July 4th Ball. I always felt this at the beach house at Devils Lake, but I recently had dinner at the Silvercryst and they had a photograph of a 100 year old dance hall on the lake that sat on the location the large restaurant currently does. It went right under my skin. The building and structure may be gone or changed, but those flappers dance on, eternally young and careless.

Doesn't anybody tape "Check, Please!" ?

Every now and again people ask me if I miss Chicago. It’s a valid question and one that I almost have a canned answer for, though I do try and give it a bit of dynamic thought each time. I know that I miss people -- certainly and without a doubt. The geography though strangely holds little allure for me. I love the skyline and will be the first to assert that Chicago is a world class city, one of the greatest in the world. However, I was amazed how quickly the connection with the tangible city vanished. I love racing there in the winter, but I love it even more when I’m driving up John Nolan Drive and see the Capital on the edge of Lake Monona. I guess I left at the right time, or rather I’m in the right place now.

All of that having been said, man I miss certain Chicago restaurants, and the show Check Please! in particular. I would even watch the reruns, swearing at goofball guests that have really strange ways of looking at dining. But that is the whole fun of the show – the mix of people. I hadn’t anticipated missing a silly tv show, but when I think about it I really do miss a silly tv show. The reason this popped in my head today is because Palermo’s was featured on the show recently, or at least I found out about it recently. I cannot illustrate in words how great Palermo’s sauce is. All of their food is great, but the sauce is the kingpin here. It is so sweet and aside from the obvious sugar involved, the rumor was always that beer made its way in. Knowing a handful of ex employees I can attest to the fact that sauce was always made by the owner, behind a locked door, with ingredients hidden before and after the process – though on one occasion there was a small amount of spilled sugar on the floor. I know every town has a handful of Italian places with secret sauces and the requisite secret recipe story, but this is my story and I say it’s the best. I wish I could see this segment, but youtube is not solving this quandary. They visited the 95th street location, which is near my old stomping grounds, yet I have never been inside oddly enough -- I lived 2 blocks from the original location on 63rd street. I have always wondered how the 95th location became a flagship when the 63rd street location predates it by quite a bit and has always had a large dining room. Maybe its as simple as my old neighborhood getting tougher by the day and Oak Lawn not. Who knows. The sauce is the same at either place. Well, with the Tour Da Chicago looming in the near future I’ll get my fix.

Being allergic to cats, yet having a profound fascination and love for all things Hemingway, I am confused as to which side to take in this story.

The Orbea has been reglued and reassembled, and saw some mileage in Indiana over the Christmas holiday. I was initially disappointed in having a repaired frame – one that I would always glance down at and wonder when the piece would crack again – but now I think all will be fine. I rode it a few times and it feels so perfect and smooth and clean that the whole experience has moved away from a disownment of a betrayer and loafer towards the now embrace of an old friend. All is forgiven and it rides again like a dream. If it breaks again it is still under warranty so no big deal. Take care of it as much as possible but ride it like you stole it till it falls apart. That is the plan.

Salma has graciously yielded and allowed a glimpse of the healed outline of her sleeve. It looks terrific. The design is no Mortiis riding a unicorn, but it looks wonderful nonetheless. Hopefully some of her sleeve incorporates a yin yang and a panther, preferably with the yin yang on the panther. All great tattoos do.

After organizing and bagging/boarding about 500 comics in Indy over the weekend I set aside a small pile for rereading. On tap: The New Frontier (haven’t reread it in a year – so wonderful), We3, Seven Soldiers (yep, I dug out all 28 issues plus the bookending issues 0 and 1 – I’ll blow through it all in a few days in the order Grant lists in the rear of each issue. The Filth read much better when time had passed and I was able to reread it in a flurry, though I loved Seven Soldiers to begin with), Darwyn Cooke’s Solo, and JLA:Classified 1-3 (yeah, the Grant Morrison arc). The net has been flooded with Seven Soldiers decompression articles and I really want to avoid their polluting effects before I reread it all again. Grant Morrison is very dense most of the time, but its always worth the time and there is really no way out of the tunnel but through the other side. 30 books here I come.


I am still living on applesauce more than I’d like, but I have resumed molar usage. No chewing of meat yet, but having made it through the experience without the horror of the whispered and threatened dry sockets I consider myself blessed.

Due to OSHA laws prohibiting the return of extracted teeth to patients, I do not have photos of my 4 wisdom teeth. They're gone, headed for an incinerator, and I left not as wise as I was Thursday night. I did photograph some strawberries, er, gauze pads. So at least I can offer some gore, if you want to click through.

Even at the height of my skating ability and lack of fear I would probably have a healthy respect for Burnside in Portland. Its such a tight and burly course that I would be pleased to have carved it. Unfortunately I had no board when I visited last month, otherwise I would have eaten shit for old times sake. It was without a doubt a religious moment -- just to be able to gaze upon its cement.. Not much more can be said.




I have a strange habit of being photographed with male friends and their children, while their wives are nowhere to be seen.

With any luck there will be bloody photos next week of the 4 wisdom teeth that are to be cut out of me tomorrow morning. Fun.

The Dahmer Dash was pure brutality, appropriately so given the subject matter. In hindsight it was a complete blast and very challenging, but at the time maddening and frustrating (mainly due the weather and my bad luck following different groups that didn't know Milwaukee as much as I assumed they did). I would expect it will gather some degree of legendary status for its weather challenges, though it was 10 degrees warmer than the 17 at the start of the Tour Da Chicago Stage 1 in 2005. That was brutal. I wore canvas vans on that race but wisely wore sambas in Milwaukee. Huge difference for my feet this time. Great race all around, and a disturbing shirt on top of it all.

Another Dirge

All things come to and end, and in this case, they have come to a sad, unexpected end. My Orbea is currently being warrantied at Machinery Row here in Madison. While talking on the phone a few weeks ago and glancing randomly around the room I noticed the seat stay on the non-drive side looked strange. After closely examining the carbon wishbone’s connection to the dropout I realized it had separated – the glue cleanly popped. No carbon splintering, but a clean break that explains the creaking I had heard the previous week. Annoying, but part of the allure of the brand is that it has a lifetime guarantee. That, along with the wonderful ride it affords, completely justified the price. Still it is sad to see the frame go. There is a slight chance that it will return reglued, but I am more confident that I’ll get the chance to pick a new color. At least it didn’t happen in the summer. So here is a picture from happier times. I’m sure a picture of the new ride will follow in a week or so. Hopefully every fall isn’t a time for a new color. Those 5000 miles were too few…



Dirge for a 9 Speed

Absit omen.
Beatae memoriae,
Consummatum est.
Hodie mihi, cras tibi.
Ego veho, semper!

May this not be an omen.
Of blessed memory,
It is completed.
Today for me, tomorrow for you.
I ride, always!

Skate Videos

I don’t want to become yet another of the uncountable hordes of bloggers that write something to the extent: “Wow, youtube is so cool. There are so many great videos there. Let me show you some” Suffice to say, I am yet again driven ceaselessly into the past, this time down the path of skate videos from my more flexibly-jointed youth. I tend to gravitate towards the videos I never owned and only watched endlessly in Pete’s basement. I sadly cannot find the Madcircle video out there.

Tim and Henry’s Pack of Lies – Blind Promo

Video Days

101’s Falling Down

Kris Markovic in the Color Video

Kris Markovic in the 101 Promo (I remember it either came in a sleeve advertising Golf Tips or Smoking Cessation tips)

Rick Howard in Goldfish

Ed Templeton in New Deal’s Useless Wooden Toys

The Walgreens on the Archer Ave of my youth never seems that far away. I still wear skate shoes out of habit. And youtube has facilitated another reason to endlessly look to the past.

(such a lazy, link ridden, post…)

In the past I have thrown a few (read: plethora of) good natured spears at Madison’s half-cousin-twice-removed city – Portland, OR. I stand by them, but since I have now visited that cool town I will likely temper my jabs while also defending them via a vague ‘Hey, I was kinda local for 48 hours.’

Portland had rain, as promised. But returning home to Wisconsin on Sunday night and approaching my truck in an external lot yielded different November surprises. It had snowed a few inches and with the sun and sub 32 degree nights I was given about 2 inches of ice in the entire bed of my truck. The top was a little slushy. That makes it very easy to come screaming off when you find an empty part of the lot, put your vehicle in reverse, hammer it, and then slam on the brakes. The snow is all gone now, not because the weather is back to normal, but because Wisconsin is being uncharacteristically kind this week. Portland’s rain may be the target of some jokes, but I only kid because I love. If there is going to be snow it should at least get cold enough to make some ice. Pond Hockey needs to begin soon.

Amazingly, Portland was rainy

It is very difficult to try and accurately capture all the interesting and new things I enjoyed in Portland, OR visiting Melissa and Paul. As much as I visited them purely out of our longstanding friendship, I can't help but feel that there is also some silly sense of electronic-blog visiting in the mix. I guess that's life in 2006.

Aside from being in the company of gracious hosts, I was shown:

-- The Pacific coast and Haystack Rock in Cannon Beach, OR, where I bravely ate a tasty fried oyster sandwich.

-- Burnside skatepark, which was the religious portion of the trip (Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages).

-- The mighty Powell's bookstore.

-- Downtown Portland along with overcast stolen glances at mountain ranges crying out for a summer return trip.

The trip was all too short, but wonderful nonetheless. In the above photo we can see that Sam is obviously fascinated by my superior verbal ability to caption photos before passing them on to others. I will hopefully be back soon in the summer with some camping and hiking in mind, along with the spelunking the rain robbed us of by washing out the road to Mt St. Helens.

...

For reasons I honestly cannot understand, Bigfoot keeps finding his way into my geographical life. I canoed in northern Wisconsin this June and overlapped in time and region with a Bigfoot expedition. I can appreciate that he dwells in the dense forests up north, but apparently he's moving south for the winter. In the first report, Bigfoot tried to snag a doe off of a pick up. In the second, he leaned against a tree and hung out. All within 60 miles of Madison -- close to Milwaukee actually. Its things like this that make me proud, while also offering a smile and a shrug, when telling people I have adopted Wisconsin as my home.

When I turned 24 I announced the beginning of my "Year of Fear" -- after Bob Probert, #24 on the Chicago Blackhawks. For quite a while Bob was the most feared fighters in the NHL, and to this day is easily one of the greatest fighters of all time, if not the greatest. People always seem to talk most about his reclamation of the NHL heavyweight belt in the Domi fight, but I am partial to the Marty McSorley fight.



The following year I chose to announce that I was a "Quarter Century Man." Silly, but something to hang your hat on. It seemed more interesting than just telling people I was 25.

The funny and quirky attempts have drifted into the ether as time has marched beyond my mid 20's. Anyone know a witty brand for 31?

Work being busy and not having a computer makes blogging slip just a bit from my grasp. All work and no play makes Homer a something something.

Halloween in Madison usually means some combination of dressing up, getting loaded, and standing on State Street till the cops tear gas you at 2am to send you home. For men there were many Borats, some pirates, a bunch of other misc things, and strangely more than a few 6ft-plus inflatable penises. The women had costumes far across the board, though it seemed that the overwhelming majority followed this simple formula:

Costume = sexy/slutty +

Sexy Cop? Many. Sexy Nurse? Yep. Sexy Wench? Check. Sexy Mechanic? Saw one. Etc, etc, etc.

Before all of that terrible sexiness in the 30 degree Wisconsin night, I raced the Scaredy-Cat alleycat race earlier that evening. We all met on picnic point, ensuring that the start of the race would find us all barreling down the dirt jogging trail to get back to pavement and city streets. There weren’t too many joggers or dogs on the path as we freight trained through the woods and if it sounds like a clusterf***, it is because it was. Its an alleycat and some confusion and non conventional cycling challenges at the beginning are to be expected. You roll with it. As much as we took off like bats out of hell, the race was clearly structured in a way where finishing order didn’t matter – it was all about hitting the stops in order and getting the most points. That was made crystal clear in the beginning, yet everybody still has to ride balls out, at least to the first stop. That’s how alleycats go. We bobbed for apples, scavenged for playing cards down a hill with optional weights(I went for 20lbs – Jason went for 50lbs – most went for none or less than 20lbs) loaded in our bags, told dirty jokes, put condoms on our bike seats, and other things that have drifted out of my mind at this point. Since the weather was nice and Madison isn’t as riddled with bike thieves as Chicago, I saddled the Orbea, hoping to finish higher than I usually do in these things. I’ll never win an alleycat, but I was pleased with my placement. All around it was an excellent time -- the stops were interesting and challenging, and the after party had great food and beer and hospitality. I only regret having to leave in the middle of the skid contest.

I rode home, finished a too short phone call, jumped in the shower, and shuffled quickly to Real Chili for my 10pm Halloween shift. In short, it was packed beyond belief, we were able to stay on top of customers and the clearing of tables, and in the middle of the blasting hip hop and vulgarity spewing employees we managed to survive. There was almost one fight, and yes it included an employee. At 2am the cops cleared State St and while that is an excellent idea for many reasons, for our little part of the world it meant that our customers dried up. That part sucked. So we slowed down much earlier than expected and I ended up walking in my apt at 4:10am – after the clocks moved back. All in all a fun night. Good costumes, good attitudes, and good tips.

Hockey hair, or a mullet, is always present in the NHL, but not so much in the last decade. Jagr had a terrific mullet in the early 90’s but few have attempted to take that crown these days. My Chicago Blackhawks have one Michal Handzus that easily wears the crown these days. And just in case you are not so informed, the hair is not a fashion statement, it merely exists to protect the player’s neck from errant pucks and stick slashes. A purely utilitarian choice. I had hoped to find my way to Chicago in the near future for a game to experience the beast in all its glory, but it is not to be. A knee injury has him out for the year. I may still see a game this year, but it just won’t be the same.

…

I read “Like a Velvet Glove Cast in Iron” by Clowes last week, which is easily one of the strangest comics, much less stories, I’ve ever read. I found myself trying to put it together with that awful high school question that would always come up in English class: “What does it mean?” It’s a useless question by the time you get to college and have to ability to talk about aspects of a text without generating an overly general concluding sentence for your paper. Yes Huckleberry Finn is about how slavery is bad, but that is not really an adequate comment. Nonetheless, I tried to find a place to start on Clowes and was drawn back to that silly question.

I wonder if it works as a threat to not try to hard to get what you want, because you might get it – or rather, don’t fixate too much on what goes on behind the scenes. If you ever uncovered all the layers you’d simply find a base level of filth, corruption, violence, and ugliness.

I also considered that the only characters in the book that looked physically normal (the cops, etc) were the most evil and vicious. So, maybe the main character was too normal and only after descending into his own strangeness and becoming an amputee was he able to find his comfortable place in the world. Our true selves are ugly and strange, but they are our true selves after all so we might as well embrace them. I suspect this idea might be closer to what Clowes had in mind.

So I’ll say that it tells us that being ourselves, however strange, is good, like Robin Williams told us all in Dead Poets Society. That is a very mean sentence to put into the world but Clowes’ images are a little unnerving at times, so we’ll call it even.

The leaves on my little weekday cycling loop are almost all gone. I remember Madison soon after moving here this time last year and seeing more leaves. I can only assume the cold snap was a little sooner and more brutal this year. Riding in the wind on Saturday was so unforgiving. I dressed for winter riding but was never able to warm up. Maybe I need to get my winter legs yet.

I am still recovering from the Bears game last night. My blood pressure is barely coming down a day later. Nothing more can really be said. I hope it is a case of a great team finding a way to win games the shouldn't win. I hope. And the Blackhawks are doing well also. All is well

Poe never had it so good

Riding a century is always unique in a way that 60 mile rides are not. The weather, stops, scenery, and pain always become more memorable. It is much easier to crystalize images and moments due to the length and mental challenge of the ride, or simply the mandatory recovery you’ll feel happening the next morning. The weather was simply perfect – 70 degrees and sunny, though a little windy. Considering it will be a high of 40 this Thursday and it is October, we had nothing to complain about.
...

After lunch at 3pm we found ourselves cracking 70 miles and feeling the distance. Perhaps we still had much of our physical strength to draw from, but chatter was down, the hours were mentally taxing, and the wind was no longer a mild annoyance but a beast that was winning the war. We finally turned north for the last 20 miles with the wind at our backs and found that our legs were happy to spin us at 22 mph as we caught glimpses of the capital in the distance.

…

Earlier, we were investigating the availability of a small café with outdoor seating in Paoli and found ourselves in the middle of a wedding that was emptying out in the parking lot. While chatting about our next option of food we were apparently blocking the way for some wedding guests, so the middle aged man in the car told us, rather sternly, “Could you please move so my family could get through?” It was very funny. We weren’t being loud, much less swearing or doing anything that could be considered rude. I felt like we must then be some sort of a biker gang, albeit one wearing underwear and pedaling. I really don’t know where he was coming from, or why his family couldn’t have said, “Excuse me.”

…

Aside from taking many fantastic shots along the way, Frank easily won the coolest bike contest. His late 1980’s steel Merckx with tubular tires classed up the ride a great deal.

Tomorrow at 10 am I will take on 100+ miles of Wisconsin hills and country roads. It'll be a bear for sure, but I'm up to it. Saturday night I will be sleeping about 12 hours.

I wish I had made it to Chicago to see Negative Approach at the Touch and Go fest, but that's what youtube is good at fixing. I just wish a clip existing of the song "Nothing," because I'm certain they played it. Easily one of the greatest hardcore songs of all time.

Battlestar Galactica is tonight, along with carb loading.

If you are guessing that this is paintball in Southern Wisconsin you would be wrong. If you instead opted for an explanation involving the Forest Moon of Endor, move to the head of the class. Everyone agreed that the face protection is surplus Rebel Alliance gear.

The whole paintball scene is an odd one, though one that is highly addictive and fun. Most people there are completely into the event to the tune of far too many dollars towards clothing and technology. It had a very militia feel to it.

In the first game our patrol of 3 fell into an ambush in tall grass. We were pinned face down to the ground for about 5 seconds, after which Greg rolled over to return some fire. Within the next split second each of us had received head shots from the sniper 10 feet away. Yes, they hurt. I never fired my weapon. The problem was us creeping towards the enemy encounter.

The second game we sprinted, not crept, into position, ensuring our arrival before enemy units. We nestled into sniper positions and waited. After 5-10 minutes I had 2 kills and it was obvious that our flank was no longer a threat so we went back to protect the actual flag at the fort. We successfully protected our flag and Paula got a kill in the process.

The third game was by far the best. It involved close quarters and about 100+ barrels scattered and stacked in a small area, with a road running right down the middle. Yes, it was a lot like Raiders of the Lost Ark. I advanced very far up the obstacles and never was hit, but I ran out of paintballs and had to leave the game.

It is funny how often people take headshots. I figured on shooting for the chest whenever possible simply because its larger. But, while sitting in the weeds and peering between barrels all you want to do is shoot somebody in the head. Its odd, but true. Greg felt the same thing.

Go Bears.

I wanted to write a Fall themed entry, concentrating on the incoming color change, the crispness in the air, and the buildup to Halloween. Aside from that teetering a bit too much towards romance than I dwell in these days, its not the most accurate snapshot of the Fall changes afoot in Madison – at least my little piece of Madison.

Starting on Monday I had to begin wearing arm warmers on my nightly rides. Shorts and summer jerseys are still passable, but the writing is on the wall. As long as I can put off wearing knee warmers, and the inevitable tights, I’ll remain happy. There is a subtle red speckling across the south central Wisconsin foliage that will surely be full blown within 4-5 weeks.

Like most people, I have a plethora of interests, hobbies, money holes, etc. Gaming is omnipresent, but it usually goes on a break of sorts during the summer, only to ramp up when crisp air creeps in. The photo above represents my newly burgeoning dwarf army along with the yet to be read new Warhammer rules. 52!52!52! (Rip Hunter said that for time not to break Scott must send me 52 dwarves, or at the least all that are in the Skull Pass boxed set).

Fall always means that the warmer cycling gear comes out, and the gaming element of my life increases its presence and time demands.

I will never alter or upgrade my contempt for the Green Bay Packers. Nothing personal, its just the way it is. But, I have married myself to the state of Wisconsin to a legitimate degree so I need to find some teams to root for. I want to fit in. Enter : Team America’s Dairyland. Aside from being an all women’s cycling team dressed like cows, their mission is” to promote Wisconsin milk products.” They have passed me in team gear while on training rides in the Madison area and they are very fast. Serious cyclists with a serious cause. Show me where to donate and cheer and I’ll be there.

As a final cycling note, I am helping organize a century Saturday October 7th (8th is in the rain date) here in Madison. Check out the myspace group page. Any ideas for a theme, name, snappy art, or cool October 7th event to commemorate are encouraged. (It is the day Poe died and the anniversary of a beer tax rebellion)

I hope I’m not getting mentally slower as I rapidly tumble towards the old folks home. I have an English degree. I push my nose into a book everyday, usually multiple times, not counting comic books. Given those facts, I had trouble keeping track of the characters in the Hardy Boys story within “Hunting for Hidden Gold.” I read enough mysteries here and there to not be taken aback by whodunits and ‘hey, wasn’t he a good guy.’ But, I couldn’t keep pace with this Hardy installment. It had adventure in the Rocky Mountains and the Montana wilderness, but alas, it outran me. Its possible that its written a bit more sloppily than the other stellar entries, but I don’t want that to be my crutch. I read it within a few days, so stretching it over time and losing the thread isn’t a concern. No crutch to be found there. Maybe the DC continuity changes I’m attempting to memorize are shoving it aside. That must be it. I am not proud of this.

…

Watching the Ironman competition Sunday morning was fascinating and inspiring. At 8 am I stood on John Nolen Dr. watching the lead competitors ride their time trial bikes while still trying to secure their feet into their cycling shoes (that were already clipped in). I kept wondering, why not burn 30 seconds to fasten the shoes before mounting the bike? They must know what they’re doing, considering they were in the lead. They were off in the 50 degree drizzle for their 112 mile ride, followed by a full marathon. Crazy. For about 24 hours I thought I could do it, and made vague, wide-eyed plans to do so. That desire has now passed. I could do the swimming and cycling rather easily, but the running is impossible. I hate running. I don’t think I could even knock off the half Ironman. Maybe a double metric century is a better goal. It all adds up to fight back the grave a little bit at a time.

…

How about those Bears? 26-0 against Green Bay. Behind enemy lines, I couldn’t be more pleased.

If you look in the right hand corner of the above photo you’ll see highway C continue on snaking through the north woods of Price County, WI. I’ve swam in this tiny lake before and its pretty much as big as it looks – perfect for a quick swim with a small group of people. You’ll also notice the insidious leaves starting to turn. Visiting Prentice is always a journey to the heart of things for me. The hills on my bike ride were a little tougher than Madison’s (thanks to Timm’s Hill being right nearby), but the scenery more than makes up for some extra pedaling. While fishing I saw 3 bears (a sow and 2 cubs), which brings the bear count this summer up to 4. I should add a ticker for that in the right column of this blog.

As you can see from the growing pile of bags at the bottom of the picture, someone is moving out. My roommate is moving in with his girlfriend this coming weekend so I’ll be alone for the time being, though the possibilities always exist that another person will come along in need of a living room (fron-troom in chicagospeak) to inhabit indefinitely. Its not fancy but its right downtown and the price is cheap. The point of this post is the wonderful print hanging on the wall – Bosch’s “The Garden of Earthly Delights” to be exact. Ty framed it like a champ and Scott and Clare drove it north –thanks is given all around. I wanted a print that I enjoy, but one that will yield new insights as the years go on when it becomes harder to “see” each day. I think this threads the needle nicely, though the probability for nightmares is certainly higher than average. The rightmost panel is the prime candidate for REM gremlins. To the left of this, above the tv, hangs 3 great photos of the Uptown Theatre (in Chicago) sent to me by Melissa in Portland. In an attempt to be a bit more of an adult I’m trying to surround myself with some art, yet the façade will surely crack immediately when the bikes and comics are seen to be littering the apartment. It’s a start in the right direction though.

The woman in the Seney train depot told her dog to stop barking just before giving me a 10 second run down of what the little museum had to offer. There was a fair amount of old photos and artifacts from the pre-1900 Seney lumber town that had a substantially larger size than today. That wild west atmosphere had burned out by 1919 when Hemingway visited and though it wasn’t literally filled with burned out stumps at the time of his visit, the impression of a ghost town was accurate. The Hemingway exhibit in the train station had an interesting display case filled with 1919 era fishing and camping equipment – the same type described in the equipment list Hemingway had written at the time. While it isn’t known exactly where Hemingway and his 2 friends camped in 1919, it is known that they camped among some late summer blueberry pickers, and those pickers camped along the east branch of the Fox River near its intersection with the highway (top picture). Hemingway fished the main branch of the Fox as well (primarily it seems) and so did I (second picture). Both are very deep and cold rivers, even by north woods, trout standards. I caught nothing in either but used a Hemingway fly (yes, they make an Adams fly with that specification/title). I suspect this elevates my geekiness above the previous Star Wars/comic book/Warhammer nexus it had previously inhabited. Fair enough. The river and country were just as beautiful as the Wisconsin north woods I know so well, only with an added dash of history I enjoyed. I doubt I will be back to Seney anytime soon, but there is something (with ALL hipness certainly aside) to be said for having fished the same water and stood in the same woods as Papa himself.

Ernest Hemingway
BIG TWO-HEARTED RIVER

The train went on up the track out of sight, around one of the hills of burnt timber. Nick sat down on the bundle of canvas and bedding the baggage man had pitched out of the door of the baggage car. There was no town, nothing but the rails and the burned-over country. The thirteen saloons that had lined the one street of Seney had not left a trace. The foundations of the Mansion House hotel stuck up above the ground. The stone was chipped and split by the fire. It was all that was left of the town of Seney. Even the surface had been burned off the ground.

...

I don’t attend nearly as many hardcore shows as I used to, largely out of my taste not keeping up with the times, economics (more so a reason when I was still in school), and a general lack of time. Life is busy and it can be tough to find the time to stand around in a small space listening to a bill of small acts trying to get it together for the first time. It can be an amazing, enlightening, and unexpected experience (ie. the way I first was exposed to The Murder City Devils), but most of the time it is a bust. I know the journey is what counts. I buy a handful of comic books each week and only a few are truly memorable, but you’ll never find those diamonds if you don’t keep showing up every week for new book day. Not having been to a show in a good while, I expected a mixed bag at Gorilla Biscuits Saturday night. I was mildly excited to see the gig, my excitement only tempered by the possibility it would mostly be a sluggish cash in by tattooed men in their late 30’s. Joyously, I was wrong, wrong, wrong. Murphy’s Law was everything it was supposed to be, along with Jimmy Gestapo’s birthday cake being thrown into the crowd. GB was tight, in a great mood, and played almost every track they had in their canon (I honestly can’t think of a song they missed). 50 minutes, nothing but smiles from the band and crowd, and aside from some brutish bouncer behavior, a perfect show. Nothing more could be said. A+.

On the drive home I was able to tune in to one of my favorite late night radio shows, The Nick Digilio Show. I listen in Madison over the internet at times, but its enough of small project to make it so that it doesn’t happen often enough. They were chatting about strange, anachronistic phrases people use and I called up and chatted with Nick on the air, offering the phrase “take a cure.” Being on the radio isn’t the coolest thing to claim, but it was a fun cap to an already great night.

If you don't hear from me within 7 days, you now know where to start the search.

Stay off my lawn!

I just really like this cover.
…

Who gets to say that they were at the nascent stage of a given movement? I mean really at that first moment before the thing became watered down, which is probably when more than a handful of people heard/saw it. In this case I’m thinking specifically about hardcore, or punk if you want to describe that particular branch of rock music another, slightly broader, way. In American Hardcore, the period of 1980 – 86 is considered not so much the first era of hardcore (which it certainly is), but the only real era of it, before things drifted towards metal, emo, etc. I would disagree that the later eras are invalid (at least in being labeled “hardcore”). In fact, I might even attempt to argue that they are closer to a better definition of hardcore, sort of like an extra polishing or refinement. For me the sound of the late 80’s into the early 90’s remains fairly close to that of the early era (Black Flag and Bad Brains being some of the better examples of the standard sound, if that can even be quantified), even with the creeping in of metal. NYC and Boston produced a pure sound, but with a tighter message. In my experience the largest difference was in the turning away from the excesses of punk, and in the direction of straight edge. Bands didn’t need to be straight edge – the idea that it was a strong element in the scene had a subtle effect on what would be tolerated and what was considered foolish. As an example, it seemed like heroin raced through the scene in the early 80’s but was not a strong thread later in the decade, according to American Hardcore. I yield to no one in my love for the Misfits, but SOIA and Slapshot always seemed more direct and focused, even when they weren’t screaming about sxe or the like (I know SOIA was never straight edge). I can’t say anything bad about the book though. Reading interviews with all the heavyweights is inherently interesting, even if it makes some of them look like fools. Perhaps the simple reality is that I was young and into hardcore for the first time in the late 80’s and the author was first exposed in 1980. The kids today seem to think that their records are “amazing,” though they seem weak and should be in the cut-out bin, and by cut-out bin I mean garbage can. I suspect the author of American Hardcore laughs at the way I hold “Step on It” and “We’re Not in this Alone” close to my heart. He can wait to take me on with his “ROIR” cassette until I tend to the kids running around with their American Nightmare and Fall Out Boy records. I think there is some truth in all the perspectives flying back and forth across the generations, but the fact that music nerds can be so foolishly passionate at times makes books like this endlessly fascinating in their attempt to describe and document something so wonderful, pure, and beyond description. As more books are released I expect I will read them all and argue incessantly with each of them.

I am such and old man.

I hate those Leeward Islands so much. For years they have silently mocked me. Never again.

...

If you are ever in the mood to see something completely unique, yet akin to walking in a living kaleidoscope, see the House on the Rock. Its about 40 miles west of Madison and is well worth the admission. The Infinity Room was very unnerving as it swayed ever so slightly as I walked out towards the viewing station near the end of it. Very unnerving.

...

Sometimes when cycling in the country you will run into Bears. Literally.