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.

Howl like a wolf and a witch will open the door…

The inevitable fact about enjoying even the most obscure pop culture interest is that someday some other fan of said obscure interest will find himself creating something for mass consumption and the interests of his youth will rise. You will rejoice with a knowing nod to this artist and know that all along that record, comic, movie kicked ass (take for example any of the plethora of modern fashions and attitudes filched from the then shunned skateboard world circa 1990-1994). Clerks 2, aside from being a great movie, has prominent King Diamond music, songs from “Them” to be specific. I still don’t think we’ll King Diamond shirts at Hot Topic, though it might be funny if we did. The last thing I expected to hear at the multiplex was King Diamond.

…

MOTAB is a monthly bike race/parade. The best way to describe it is this: bring a crappy bike, place it in the stack of other bikes, wait for the start, hear the start, run and retrieve your bike, do many laps around the old paint factory (this involves gravel, some off road riding, and much silliness), at the end of 24 minutes the first person to cross the finish line wins. Crossing the line has nothing to do with the number of laps completed, nor the speed in which you are traveling -- it is mainly luck. In celebration of the Tour de France’s doping scandal this was the all doping MOTAB. Your spokecard had the name of a banned rider on it and you had to drink a cup of EPO (read: cheap, red wine) before digging your bike out. It happens every month and I will certainly be there for the next one. It is every bit as fun that it sounds, probably more so.

…

Congratulations to the Mennonite Tour de France Champion Floyd Landis. His performance in Stage 17 is nothing short of legendary, right next to Eddy Merckx. I can hear Yarrow, BC rejoicing.

Always on the wrong side of whatever side there was

My softball debut at Bowling Green in Middleton was not exactly a trainwreck, but not exactly a star spangled spectacular. I went 0 for 5, but lined out once to the second baseman and then grounded out to the first baseman. The conclusion to draw is that my swing was slow. I tried to make some adjustments but all I ended up with was some fouls. I'm happy, like they tell the 8 year olds in little league, to have made contact. They stuck me in left field and my first fly ball was in the fifth inning on 2 outs. I caught it cleanly and ended the inning. It turns out that if I had let it drop we would have lost due to the run rule (if you are losing by 8 runs at any time after the 5th, you immediately lose). In little league we called it a slaughter rule. I misjudged a few other balls after that first one, but I'd like to think that my most important fly of the day was caught. In my defense I have never played fast pitch softball with a 12" softball. Since I'm from Chicago I'm used to 16" softballs, slow spinning pitches, and mangled fingers. These people here use gloves and pitch around 80+mph. When I arrived I mentioned that I was only used to Chicago clincher softballs, not the 12" 'kitten' balls. The response: "Yeah, we don't play with that size. We're straight." I felt like part of the team. Maybe if I could commit to an entire season and take some batting practice in the spring I could play much better, but I suspect cycling will always win my time when summer comes.

A big thankyou to Salma for the American Hardcore book. I'm enjoying it but like any book documenting something as underground and as much a life force as hardcore is to many people, there is plenty to disagree with. The book Dance of Days was a a great read, but too obsessed with kneeling at the Ian MacKaye altar and enshrining DC punk. So far American Hardcore is painting a smarter and wider picture, but a few things are sticking under my skin. I'll finish the book first and rant at that time. It has me digging into my cd collection so it must have an inherently good core. Any book that talks about such importand bands, music, and songs are welcome.

You haven’t aged well, nor have you learned

I think it was Scott that first came up with the expression “ it’s like swimming with your clothes on” to describe riding a mountain bike after being used to riding a road bike. That is a perfect phrase. It is also how I have felt lately regarding the books I’m ‘reading’ right now. Just thinking off the top of my head, here are the books that currently have bookmarks in them:

American Hardcore: A Tribal History by Steven Blush
Showcase Presents: Green Lantern
The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway
Jack Hagee, Private Eye Graphic Novel
Cell by Stephen King
Spider-Man/Black Cat: Evil That Men Do by Kevin Smith

I use old concert stubs as bookmarks and am all out of bookmarks right now. No new books are allowed to be started. That is the rule. I impulsively feel that my reading volume has spiked downward, but I ultimately realize that I’m reading just as much as before, it is just that nothing is getting finished.

Thankfully I am still keeping up on my weekly comics, mainly the all important weekly 52, and I was able to finish Cell at lunch.

Cell was a tight, excellently paced, short novel. I genuinely appreciate a longer Stephen King novel and the way he slowly weaves different characters into each other’s lives, sometimes taking a few hundred pages of characterization and action before they ever meet. This rarely feels bloated or wasteful, The Stand being an excellent example. The Cell is much different and is successful in its own way. The intense doom of the unknown zombie threat and its source functions best when it is unknown to the characters as well as the reader. We only meet characters when the main protagonist Clay meets them – no omniscient storytelling here. At the end we’re never sure of the true facts of the Pulse – we only know what the characters know when we they know it. Not a great book, but a very good one. For me, it all successfully hinged on the third person point of view that veered constantly towards a first person one. Also, there are many zombies to be dealt with, a healthy fear of technology premise that harkens back to the fear of atomic energy centered films of the 50’s, and the omnipresent political underpinnings all zombie tales possess. A solid grade of B.

…

The fast pitch softball team a few coworkers belong to has felt a pinch of dwindling members so I’ll be playing in a double header tomorrow. It’s a kitten ball, not a Chicago softball, but I’ll survive.

Dirge for #28

Better in the long run by far, but sad for the Hawks right now.

Dies iræ! dies illa
Solvet sæclum in favilla
Teste Dale cum Wirtz!

Bell destituet et
Maestitia invesperascit impers.
Havlat attinet spes et
Somnia hodie.



Day of wrath and terror looming!
Heaven and earth to ash consuming,
Dale’s word and Wirtz's truth foredooming!

Bell is gone and
Sadness grows dark.
Havlat holds the hopes and
Dreams now.

Time is not your friend, it spites you

I love the Rev. Paul Bearer's lyrics.


I had been out of town for most of the past week so updating is sparse, and my life has been somewhat uneventful. Sleeping in and simply getting some miles in on the Orbea is wonderful and uneventful and welcome. I swapped my worn out tires for some Hutchison Tour de France tires in a nerdy nod to this months grand tour. Yes, yellow stripes are involved. George Hincapie had a dud time trial today and I fear as a result his hopes of a tour victory are nil. All of USA's hopes are now on Floyd Landis' capable shoulders.

I have an itch to purchase an art print for framing in a grasping attempt to class up my life. Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights has been the front runner in the back of my mind for many years, and it still is. I only wonder if it is too busy and dense to be enjoyed at the width of 4 feet. Would a smaller portion of it blown up be better (probably from the right panel)? Any ideas? What about Memling's Last judgment?

Such a short post -- maybe this coming week will bring more excitement. Maybe I'll get into a fight with a vulgarity screaming hippie -- I mean 'free thinker.' Maybe the Cubs will find themselves on a winning streak and I will write a tear soaked dirge exploring my sadness. Maybe I'll mention my bike.