Dizzy

I've been dizzy for the past month. Every day, I stare at movies like this and try to tease out some meaning. Imagine just staring at a swirl on a computer monitor for hours. It is simultaneously amazing and nauseating.



That was 3 of my hundred+ white whales. Or a small fraction of my really big white whale. Metaphors are stupid.

Mark the Sponsorship Guy

Mark is the Rutgers Cycling Team's official Sponsorship Guy, and I'll be damned if he's not amazing at it. I'll even go so far as to say that we're the best-sponsored collegiate team you'll find, with the possible exceptions of all-pro varsity teams and schools whose asses are inexplicably kissed by major media outlets (although I haven't done my homework in this matter, nor will I).

Blah blah blah. Mark's the man. So what?

I hereby propose that we raise the bar. Now that we have a bike and accessory sponsor, helmet and eyewear sponsor, components sponsor, clothing sponsor, nutrition sponsor, coaching sponsor, and shop support, we must ask: What have you done for us lately, Mark?

And just like that, the bar has been raised! Before you graduate - so by 2015, I guess - I expect that the team will be presented by another university. Picture it: Rutgers University Cycling Team, presented by Dartmouth University. Racing for Rutgers on someone else's dime.

It'd be the ultimate coup! I believe in you, Mark. Start making calls.

Let's Get Some Shoes

In the middle of what I've been calling the luckiest month of my life, my cycling shoes broke. Both pairs. The buckle on the road shoe just snapped off, and the buckle on the MTB shoe no longer stays tight.

Awesome.

Since the MTB shoes are just barely on the wrong side of usable, I've been riding with them for a month. "Just barely on the wrong side" is still on the wrong side, and I quickly developed a pretty wicked knee pain. Wicked, like "hey can you pick me up at a coffee shop in Princeton? Kthx"

I'd already ordered new shoes before the onset of pain, so I'm taking time off the bike until those come in. Specialized shoes are totally sweet, at least the 2nd-tier shoes I've been using, and I can't wait to ride in the Pro-ish carbon versions.

Seriously, I can't wait. Riding again in these broken shoes is tantamount to pissing in the wind, even more painful (but less smelly). So I'm not riding. It's been two weeks. Goodbye, fitness. Goodbye, sanity.

My appetite is gone, I have less energy, sleep doesn't come easy, and I've spent too much time in front of the TV. I miss the road, and I miss the trails.

At least I didn't have elective back surgery.

Stranger in a Strange Land - NYC Karaoke

For only the second time ever, I ventured out of my Central Jersey comfort zone to test the waters of New York Karaoke. The first time was for Dan Flan's birthday party, wherein we got plastered on smuggled beer in a small room in a Korean establishment.
Since the rest of the evening was spent wandering the streets of Brooklyn, bar hopping and tree climbing, the brief hour in the Karaoke room is less prominent in my memory than it might've been.
On Friday, I took the train into the city, then walked a few blocks to meet up with the group. It struck me that despite having spent almost two decades living 30 minutes from NYC, I am still a tourist. I love the skyscrapers, the bright lights, the loud noises, and while I try to look jaded like a local, I'm still obviously not.

I called when I was close, asking for specific directions to the apartment. Along with the street address (useful), I was told that the apartment is located on the northwest corner of the block. Fantastic. Unfortunately, I hadn't brought my compass, and sun had long since set. I was eventually able to find the North Star between the buildings, though, so I did manage to orient myself.

As fun as it is to look down my nose at the city from my high suburban horse, New York does have its merits. For example, in the winter, the smell of garbage isn't overwhelmingly strong. The new touch-screen GPS devices in taxicabs keep you entertained during your inebriated, expensive ride home. In the end, it is the Korean Karaoke bars that take the cake.

I love that we're given options from both English- and Korean-language music. I love that every room gets tambourines, a disco ball, and microphones set to echo. I love that we can't control the option that gives a grade after every song, although I'm not too thrilled that my performances are consistently low-scoring.

I simply adore the accompanying music videos. There's no telling what possessed the production companies to make them, but they're fantastic. In the spirit of cheap knock offs reverse engineering hilariously cheesy copyright avoidance, these videos are just awful. The best I've ever seen was when Ted was laughing too hard to sing "Don't Fear The Reaper" because the video was of a vampire chasing a woman around his mansion.

This post was meant to be a treatise about Karaoke itself, as illustrated by the differences between Harvest Moon Karaoke, Korean joints in Manhattan, and maybe even the Golden Rail. However, as usual, I've had too much fun along the way and will have to save that for another time.

My Unfulfilled Dream

Every little boy wants to be a fighter pilot, or maybe an astronaut. We grow out of it, though, because most people just can't be fighter pilots or astronauts.

I, for example, am colorblind. Damnit.

I never grew out of it, though. Never. Don't get me wrong, it's not like it's gnawing away at my soul or anything. The dream never died, though, it just went unfulfilled.

I'll be posting something later today about karaoke and such, and you'll probably enjoy it. However, having found this video, I got so excited that I had to share it.

Want. Damn my eyes.

Francis, a clarification

In case you were wondering just what sort of movie this was, here's the original trailer.

Apparently, in 1950, begging was an effective marketing ploy.

One last point: I wasn't kidding. Francis Joins the Navy features a young Clint Eastwood as Jonesey, a sailor with a heart of gold.

I Hope To Kiss A Duck

In the most amazing revelation since Aaron shaved his goatee, our apartment has been rocked to its very core by Francis the Talking Mule.

Words cannot express the degree to which we were entertained. Between the "family friendly" banter of a sardonic semi-racist mule, the subtly homo-erotic dialogue between the supporting cast of characters like "Colonel Hooker" and "Buck Private", and the Oscar-worthy acting (ZOMG!!! that mule can TALK?!?), we were laughing so hard that Will nearly burst his stitches.

I had no idea that "I hope to kiss a duck" was ever an idiom, but now, thanks to Francis, it's become a wonderfully anachronistic addition to my vocabulary. Also, puns about jackasses.

Thanks, Bearded Megan! If I'd have known you were coming, I would've baked a cake.

Up next: Francis Joins the Navy... costarring Clint Eastwood.

When In Rome

Every couple of weeks, Jay#1 and I meet up on a Sunday night for a nice platonic man-date. We catch up with each other, we drink beers, and we watch football... it's nice.

It might surprise you to learn that we don't always drink at my favorite bar, Harvest Moon, where we're both regulars. In fact, more often than not, we go to Old Bay, which has cheaper and more exotic beer on Sunday nights. There are some things in life that transcend bar-loyalty (although certainly not Karaoke-loyalty), and the opportunity to try new beers at minimal cost is one of them.

Old Bay has been closed for renovation, though, so Jay and I met at Harvest Moon, only to find ourselves in the middle of the 3rd Annual Jimmy D's Memorial. Since Jimmy D was a firefighter who died in the line of duty, this meant that the place was packed with firefighters. I'll tell you what, it felt like I was stuck in an episode of Rescue Me, but with less fire. When the Fife and Drum Corp took over, I was pretty much ready to leave - while Jay enjoys the bagpipes, my musical tastes exclude tortured cats and headaches.

We ran into some friends, ordered food to go, and enjoyed some Jimmy D's Firehouse Red, a beer that had been named in Jimmy D's honor... not my favorite beer, but eh, when in Rome... The Giants game was on, though, and we could barely hear each other talk over the firefighters, so it was time to leave.

Old Bay turned out to be open. Jay and I sat at its bar, and as we ate our dinners, sampled unusual beers, and shot the breeze, the bar got more and more packed with Giants fans. The game's drama sucked us in, and we found ourselves cheering, booing, and swearing with the crowd. When in Rome, right?

As you hopefully saw, or at least read about the next day, the Giants kicker missed two game-winning field goals. The crowd, and thus Jay and I, were incensed. Outraged. Beside ourselves with bloodlust.

Now, I've been told that my sense of humor is a little too dry. Certainly the written format, for want of tone, has confused even my close friends. Still, when it comes to sarcastic replies to earnest statements, I rather enjoy playing with condescending ambiguity. Someday I'm going to get my ass kicked, but so far so good.

After the second missed field goal, there were a few minutes to kill before the start of overtime. The guy behind us - let's call him Frank - turned to me and Jay and said, "we've got to kill Tynes [the Giants kicker], then burn his house down and kill his family".

Nice to meet you too, Frank.

Jay just sort of chuckled, because Jay knows better than to run with scissors. Me, I looked Frank in the eye and deadpanned, "No. We let Tynes live, kill his parents, and feed them to him."

No, I didn't plagiarize that South Park episode. I plagiarized Shakespeare, which is way classier.

Somehow, this didn't phase Frank much at all. He did pause for a beat, but he came right back with "Yeah, either he eats his parents or we kill his daughter." I'm not making this up, people, and Jay will back me up here.

Now that Frank had devised the ultimate in blackmailing leverage, we moved on to finer details. How best to prepare the parents, for example. Sushi or well-done? What would be the best marinade?

Thankfully, as soon as Frank announced that Mama Tynes would be basted in teriyaki and Papa Tynes would've wanted to be served in steak sauce, it was time for the coin toss. Long story short: the Giants won on a Tynes field goal, Frank high-fived us, it was agreed that all members of the Tynes clan would be spared, and we got the hell out of there.

"When in Rome" is fine, until you realize that you can leave.

Winter Makes the Weekdays Suck

Which looks more fun to you?

or



I can't wait for Saturday.

Gypsy Jazz

It must be an Eastern European thing, the threat that one's heritage isn't Magyar, Jewish, or Cossack, but in fact Gypsy. In today's PC society, telling a child that he's adopted is shockingly tasteless, but apparently that wasn't the case in decades past. Back then, an accusation of Gypsy genetics was some sort of punishment for bad behavior. Hey, if it was good enough for the generation that conquered the moon, it's good enough for me.

Like my troublemaking father before me, I was occasionally informed throughout my youth that I am actually a Gypsy. Furthermore, I hadn't been adopted, so much as traded. My parents had bartered me for the price of a loaf of bread... depending on the severity of my most recent misbehavior, that cost ranged from just right to too expensive.

Since this took place in the 1980s in New Jersey, the effect was probably not as profound as it had been in Cold War-era Romania or wherever. In retrospect, I'm not even certain that I knew what a Gypsy was.

Now, though, I'm beginning to wonder if I might not be part Gypsy. It's not that I have a restless spirit, or that I sympathize (empathize? I always forget the difference) with the Pikeys in Snatch. Mostly it's Django Reinhardt.

Here's a rather long cover of a famous Django song. Let it play in the background as you finish reading.


This guy was amazing. Even ignoring the fact that he lost the use of two fingers in a fire, which makes everything about his career exponentially cooler, Django is the big mack daddy of Gypsy Jazz. Rumor has it that he coined the term itself.

Gypsy Jazz has captured my imagination. As soon as I first listened to it, I started trying to find chord progressions on the interwebs so that I might try to play it myself (another story for another time... spoiler alert: I list ways in which a guitar is like a bicycle). For the most part, though, it's the music itself that grips me. I could listen to it all day.

What is it about this style that so moves me? Unfortunately, I just don't think I have the vocabulary to describe this sort of emotional connection between sound and spirit. The Gypsy-ness of it is certainly key - that darkly minor key, the frantic lead guitar, the way the melody isn't so much a melody as an exploration of some chromatic scale that evokes images of campfires and caravans and drunken dancing. It's intoxicating, it's flamenco without the castanets.

You can't ignore the swing, though. It's been said that it doesn't mean a thing if it doesn't have that swing... or something like that. The rhythm guitar is unlike anything else I've ever heard - done well, it makes the drummer obsolete. The style is called "la pompe", and it has gotten under my skin. Listening to the rhythm guitar begs the question, what would Glenn Miller's Band have sounded like if he'd had anger issues and an absinthe habit?

I guess it all comes down to romance. Listening to Gypsy Jazz makes me feel like a beret wearing, chain smoking, thinly mustached pre-war Parisian sitting in a packed, dimly lit bar with a quintet in the corner. Whether that's because of the nature of the music or because of what the media has taught me to associate with the music, I don't care.