I rode past a garbage heap the other day, some girl had left a bunch of stuff behind when she moved house. Off the top I pulled half a bottle of Dr. Bronner's and CD book. The book had a bunch of burns and pretty clean copies of Refused's The Shape of Punk to Come and the first Neutral Milk Hotel album. The Dr. Bronner's I'm saving for the floor and such. Damned contagion heuristic.

My laptop is still down, which is causing me no amount of massive and really sad consternation. And I have so many photos floating about that I could share with the world, including the best shot of espressio I've ever had. There is something to be said for the all-manual Arduino. I don't have pictures of the second greatest bike I've ever seen, a sight so great that the owner came out to see what I was doing, or of the weird teenager who I found photographing MY bike. Or the girl who came through one day and told me I was "the sweetest, most adorable" thing she'd seen in a while. Which was very flattering, I guess, inasmuch as I like being called "adorable." Or how I really want a new man-purse. Or I could wait until I had something to say that wasn't bragging or whining.

So, I'm broke, have a broken car, am poorly shaven, haven't showered in about four days and am wearing clothing I literally picked up off the floor of my room when The Cutest Girl I Have Ever Met flirts with me. And she's a barista. What a stupid world.

FIX PUSH

Butler University is a bicycle graveyard. The Trusties all think it'll be really cool to go to college and bike around and then they lock it in front of their dorm and drive everywhere for four years. When my roommates and I went dumpstering this move-out week, we found this Huffy over by the apartments. According to a girl who lived near the rack--
"it's been there for at least two years. One night we heard some drunk guy waling on it, he had it in for that bike. . . nobody's ever owned up to it being theirs. . ."

Signs that cyclists are populating a house:










#1-- Random wheels/parts serving as interior decor.





#2 -- Goop serving as hand soap in the kitchen (not my ash tray!).

#3-- The floor pump is readily available, and cost more than $20.

Okay, I'm just showing off, but I had to show SOMEBODY that I spend a month's fun money on an air pump.

I've been having problems with what seems to be Ulnar Nerve Compression in my left hand. Which makes me wonder if I'd be better off with a flat bar (and therefore a more upright posture). Which gave me another reason to think that Pake is awesome:




Too bad they don't ship until September.

Joseph Spence

ugly materialism

$5 at my favorite overpriced secondhand store. Sure I already have a pair of gloves, but these are super cushy, in addition to having the retro-crochet going on.

$10 at the same store. And did I mention that when I bought the gloves I found out the tall girl who works there rides an eighties Raleigh conversion? That's mad hot. And Bev totally needs a girlfriend. Although Ann says her bike told her Tonto, Brad's bike, has been seeing Bev. I don't approve of my girl rolling with Tonto, he's a bad influence.

Probably the best thing on the Youtubes.

". . . cool, so where do you live?"
"The fifty-second block of Fingerbang."

Oh you Butler kids, a bunch of real cut-ups you are.

I went on the Indy Cog/ Green Broad Ripple bike ride last Saturday. Ignoring the fact that it saved me money (20% off at Joe's Cyclery and Luna!), ignoring the fact that it was a great way to support two groups I like, I went because it was a way to get out in public and meet people. Well, really, I wanted to meet girlies, and if I could meet a girlie with a rad bike, well, that would be ah-may-zing.
But, I can't really say I did. Today, however, I possibly saw that girl's bike. Because I like to pretend that there's an absolutely perfect person out there, I just have to bump into her. If not, this is still a pretty sweet ride. Single speed, cruiser handlebars (but not a full-on slow-ass ninty-pound cruiser), and a little bit of giraffe print.
Plus, we use the same type of U-lock. Obviously it's meant to be.

no, I don't just stand by it in front of Starbucks

I know, she's gorgeous. ~1978 Fuji Monterey conversion. I know it's a bit of a hipster bike, sue me. Gimmie credit, I've escaped having matching rims and chains. And don't get me started on bike pads.
I've wanted to try out fixed gear for a long time. And in a city like this, there isn't any reason for gears. No hills, stop signs every five feet, may as well shed the weight.
Also, it's harder, the difference between a manual and automatic transmission in a car. And I like making my life a little more difficult. Who needs a dad to build character when sheer self-loathing and a desire to figure shit out drives you to it?
So, this is my new toy, and I do ride it. As often as I can. With three bikes in the house, the car gets broken out on about a weekly basis, thereby allowing me to live my fourteen year-old fantasy of living in the midst of a city and traveling everywhere by bicycle. Yes, even when I was in junior high I was a self-consciously bohemian shit. It's amazing I sleep on something with a frame, really should trade up to an exposed

I've had this idea lately where I'd do a game show. I don't know what the game is, but I know I want to scale back on the prizes.
* * *

"You've won. . . a pretty good car!
"This is a 2008 Honda Civic with only forty-five thousand miles! It comes complete with power everything. . . except the rear passenger's side window."
* * *

"You're going to the Hampton. . . Inn & Suites in Cleaveland, Ohio!
"That's right, you're spending a week at the Hampton Inn & Suites in beautiful Cleaveland Ohio. You'll relax by the pool and enjoy a wonderful continental breakfast every morning until eleven. See the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame, from the outside!"
* * *

You've won a genuine factory reconditioned GE refrigerator. There's a little scratch by the handle, but I'm sure you can hide it with a little spray paint.

This is Sherman, he's my bike. He's an "All-Pro" (Pennies) by Huffy with a Shimano 3-speed hub. He's my buddy, although I think I need a new bike with a bigger frame. Or maybe I just want an excuse for a new bike.
I bought Sherman from some kind of shady dudes on 24th and Arlington, although about everybody around Arlington is kinda shady. His hub was slipping horribly, so on a recommendation from a coworker, I took him to D&G bikeworks in Nora. They fixed the dérailleur-- a simple adjustment--tightened the brakes, and gave me new brake pads. They didn't charge a penny for the work.
When a shitbag alchoholic gave me a set of aluminum drop bars, I needed a new stem, D&G sold me a used one for $5. But, they don't sell used bikes.
So, I decided to check the BikeWorks in Broad Ripple. I ask one employee about how they size people for bikes, because the internet will just give you a lot of contradictory opinions on the subject. He looks at me and says "you'd be about 56 or 57 inches." Ignoring that my question was not quite about how big of a bike I needed.
They had two old road bikes that were abandoned at the repair shop. Not worth the cost of repairs, but decent frames. While I'm looking at them, the owner walks by and says to the mechanic "hard to believe those things would be an upgrade, isn't it?"
Sherman isn't the best bike by a long shot, but he's still MY bike, and I still can't believe that a shop owner would just up and insult a customer out in the open like that. Damned spandexers.
* * *

My roommate's sister is going to beauty school, and her and a friend needed to do a men's haircut. So I went. Considering my last haircut was me standing in front of the bathroom mirror, it couldn't turn out too bad.
While I was receiving a scalp treatment (or was it a deep condition? I'm supposed to be doing these things? I thought I was doing pretty good conditioning in the first place), somebody made a joke about me getting a mohawk. When I sat down in front of the mirror, Sister's Friend commented, "actually, you'd look pretty cute with a faux-hawk." And now I have one, because. . . why not? I never thought I'd actually have a hairdo, but even Roommate, who was ready to make fun of me admits that I don't look like douche-bag.
* * *

I have a recurrant joke about writing a letter to my nephew, for when he turns fifteen or so. The idea is to tell him things I learned the hard way, such as:

-- if you're dating somebody, and they have a fucked-up family, don't assume you're dating the only sane member.
-- if you're at work, and you don't have something to do, find something to do. Anything the boss finds for you to do will be much less pleasant.
-- if a person will cheat with you, they will probably cheat on you as well.

and-- most recently:

-- if you want people to think you're seriously "with it," make up your own slang. It will almost always work, but only if you can define everything you're saying.

And I am serious. Which is also why I'm going to tell you I saw the gonest femme in Broad Ripple today. Where "femme" means an attractive female, but "gone" means that she was so unimpeachably cool that I'm actually kind of intimidated to talk to her.
For the record, femme does not mean pretty per se, it also indicates a person who looks like they have the right attitude--inasmuch as one can check out a great personality across the room.
Although, in my case, it tends to be tacked on to a majority of skinny brunettes with short haircuts. Because I'm not at all shallow and totally don't have a type.

I'm going to go ahead and throw all the punks, metalheads, hipsters, scenesters, goths, et. al. into one big group I call music people, and that's a group I don't mind being in. Because we're out there, and we're pretty serious about something the greater portion of the population considers background noise for doing the dishes.
And the reason for this is I've noticed something-- no matter what job you have, you will find another music person. It's kind of weird.
I'm working at a fucking Kroger store, my job is emptying boxes and making pyramids out of apples. And I work with two people with whom I can have a coherent conversation about something about which I feel passionate. I think the last time I was in a situation where nobody at the workplace got it was the library in Glen Carbon, Il, which only had about ten employees anyway. Most of them middle-aged women (and while I'm sure there are middle-aged housewives who are also serious collecters, I haven't met any).
Laurie's one of the music people at Kroger, and you'll probably hear about her again, because she's also crazy. No, seriously.
This week she's pretty much discovered Joy Division, and now is in that part of her life where that's all she likes. Since I've had that phase (okay, about three times now), it's kind of cute. Suddenly everything, including Prince singing "When Doves Cry," has been influenced by the band.
At this point, I'm beginning to wonder where the Joy Division influence stops, and where it's just the band tapping into some primal music energy. Or maybe I should just stick to making fun of bands who did rip them off. Like, say, U2.

saw a kid at Kroger wearing an Attack Attack! shirt the other day. I kind of locked on to it to the extent that I started making him a little uncomfortable. It was like the lit teacher I had who had a beer-gut that was overdue to start contractions, or the lady at the local bank who has a mustache that's thicker than some guys I know can deliberately grow. You want to be polite, but you just sort of lock onto it.
I was surprised by this shirt because I honestly can't imagine somebody liking Attack Attack! I really can't, I think I've crossed the old-age line because I no longer understand kids these days.

This is what I'm rambling about:


Isn't it amazing?

Let's see what we have here. . . synchronized headbanging, nintendo synthesizers, some vocoders, vaguely virtuostic guitars, a pop culture reference in the title (which I doubt anybody in the audience will recognize). . . maybe it's a complete package for success.
But. . . it's lacking in every way.
I think what really puzzles me about contemporary bands is that they cram so many ideas into every song. It's as though the CNN soundbyte culture-- whereby every piece of information is condensed into a few sentences-- has permeated our art as well. We now have instant gratification music. Or maybe the imfamous Mr. Bungle (who skipped between genre's within their songs) has been more musically pervasive than I thought. Then again, I doubt Attack Attack! has ever listened to Mr. Bungle.
Then again, Mr. Bungle learned their tricks from Naked City and the Residents.
But Attack Attack! isn't the only band doing this anymore, I looked up the Icarus Line, a band touted by Skyscraper-- a now-defunct magazine I tended to agree with-- and they weren't a million miles off:


What am I supposed to grab onto here? Where's the hook? This could have (should have?) been four songs. Can we stop being clever and start writing? I think the last mainstream band to have an actual guitar hook was the White Stripes.
On the plus side, maybe rock has finally moved away from Nirvana, it only took a decade.
-- Mason

PS: I swear, I'll never make you watch YouTube again.
PPS: I found out about Attack Attack! because Mr. Gunder was nice enough to show me yourscenesucks.com a while back. Because nothing is funnier than making fun of scenesters.