Three on the Third

Happy birthday, rockers.

You are the best.

Resolute

1- Improve father skills.

2- Depression will not get me.

3- Less talk, more rock.

4- Air out the Colnago.

5- More poetry, less yelling.

6- Air out The Wife.

7- Neck tattoos.

8- Pushups.

9- Mixtapes.

10- I will do better.

Do you have things that you'd you'd like to work on?

Will you tell me about them?

I'm listening to you.


.

Pig Sunday

Keep your football. We makin' bacon. And prosciutto. And loin. And shoulder, butt, and a metric shit ton of sausage.

One of the perks of working in the restaurant business is having access to a proper kitchen, and to the purveyors who can supply you with the goods.

"Cooper" was a beauty. Killed and delivered thursday, and broken down today. 2 inches of fatback and two 24-pound hams. The knives were sharp and we drank some pretty good tempranillo.

Spirits were light. I like to meet my food. I like it a lot.

2009

For you picture takers/likers.





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The Selvedge Yard.

New Koan

Here Now


Now and again
I am here now
And now is when
I'm here again


Samuel Menashe



Stolen from POETRY magazine. September, 2009.

Rest Easy, Jack Rose.

There were a lot of cold days where we used to live. I like to think that I remember the two dogwood trees on the shady side of the house and the bees in the quince. But I don't really.

When I think about it hard, there's only January. Sitting with the Ashley Book of Knots and waiting for my sons to come.

Jack Rose was there, too.




February 16, 1971-December 5, 2009




.

More

From Antler



Whitmansexual

Whitman was a mansexual,
a womansexual,
A grasssexual, a treesexual,
a skysexual, an earthsexual.
Whitman was an oceansexual, a mountainsexual,
a cloudsexual, a prariesexual,
A birdsongsexual, a lilacsmellsexual,
a gallopinghorsesexual.
Whitman was a darknesssexual, a sleepersexual,
a sunrisesexual, a MilkyWaysexual,
A gentlebreezesexual, an openroadsexual,
a wildernesssexual, a democracysexual,
A drumtapssexual, a crossingbrooklynferrysexual,
a sands-at-seventy-sexual.
Whitman was a farewell-my-fancy-sexual,
a luckier-than-was-thought-sexual,
A deathsexual, a corpsewatchsexual,
a compostsexual, a poets-to-come-sexual,
A miracle-sexual, an immortalitysexual,
a cosmos-sexual, a waiting-for-you-sexual.

Haw-Lin

My friends and I are warning you not to get sucked in.

Cyclocross, 1976

This will be my last post of the cx season. Probably.

Oregon: Destroying it, olde timey style.

We're all damn cowboys too.

Hey Berg, Dan Reeder makes his own guitars. He doesn't shoot them first, but he does a pretty good job. You're going to like this.

Whiskey Soda Lounge: Post Mortem

We fucking killed it last night.

Andy Killed it. Nick killed it. Dave killed it. Lindsay killed it. Even the new kids killed it.

House full of Portland's restaurant glitterati, writers and critics, and urchins lured in by the promise of free Wassail.

Some screeching woman accused Gabe Rucker of stealing the credit cards out of her purse. "He's covered with tattoos!"

Yeah, he could also buy and sell you.

I'm in love with loving my job.

All three of them.

Whiskey Soda

Starting another job today. I am so thankful that, contrary to the thousand other scenarios that I could envision for us this Christmas, I think that we'll have a warm house and full bellies this year.

Take nothing for granted, you.

We're all, every one of us, a misstep, mishap, missed opportunity away from landing right on our asses.

Or our feet. I guess it's all how you play it.

Also, I went and got a tattoo of a shark last night. Well, this morning, actually. But who's keeping track of the time?

Walt Whitman And The 501 Jean.

"Walt Whitman, who in the mid-1800s was quite possibly among the first generation of Brooklyn hipsters."

Cal is Awesome.

He just is.

Munday

I just realized that my last five posts have all been videos swiped off the internet. Damn boring.

What's new?

I haven't taken any pictures lately. There's something wrong with my little Lumix and everything looks like shit. Besides, Hamachi and Patches are working their Panas out, so I don't have to.

I suck at racing bicycles, so I bitched out of the race on sunday. Kruger's farm. Always pretty and perfect. Tractor ruts and the last geese overhead. The first place I raced after I came to Portland, and my favorite.

We went up with the Lads, drank some beer, did a little bonfire action. In talking, realized that it was their third season attending cx at the farm, and they won't be three years old until January.

Raising them up right!

Which gets me to considering that my sons already don't think of the the Bicycle as a novelty, or as a toy. They are, at this early stage, already fully attuned to its use as an everyday tool of much utility, and also one of great joy.

It's what gets us to the store. And to the park. And to the Bye and Bye for edamame and brussels sprouts and The Doo-Shay of a Sunday afternoon.

It's my hope that when they're older, they'll ride more than they drive, take pleasure in the maintenance of the machine, and most importantly, not have to think about it nearly as much as I do.

What did you guys do this weekend?

Transportfietsrace

I do this every day on my way downtown.

But I have an ipod.

Post Ride Convo

I totally know this guy.

Discussing

This is only funny to me. The little fuckers have been showing up at the races-- Pushing their bikes around like it's Valencia St. and dropping cigarette butts everywhere.



Thank god I'm too fat and hung over to race anymore. Ninkasi just dropped the '09 Oatis Stout and I'm fixing to put on the chill-chasing 15 lbs. Fuck Gore-tex and fleece. I need my waxed cotton jacket, a layer of seal blubber, some black, black beer and a bike with fenders. Call me good to go.

See you come spring.

It's All Over Now, Baby Blue

One of my favorite songs, and the Van Morrison/Them version is the best one-- But I found this and thought I'd post it. Brilliant.

Colors and the Kids

Another in our ongoing series of feel good/feel bad songs.

"Yellow, hair. You are a funny bear."

Results

66th out of 213. I "beat" Trebon and Wicks. Too bad I'm so slow, because I got out of the field in the first group of 20 or so and lost a good forty spots.

The course was really, really tough.

BG hit 33rd. Good going, crusher.

A Little Taste of Mayhem

SSCXWC

+




=


Um, don't ask.



Photo by MaxIsNow.

SSCXWC

This is going to suck. Or be the Best Race Evar. Time will tell.

Again, you're all invited to stay at my house for this. I'll cook up a big pot of vegan chili and buy a bottle of whatever, and we'll be good to go. Because, I know people, and people, they know me. Dig?

Heckle Pit

Someone's camera phone movie of sunday's Heckle Pit. Note the human barriers (which moved all over the course), and the stack of caskets (which were re-arranged every lap).

Every lap. Laply?

That's already a word, right?

Cross

You might be thinking that it's all smoke. Or some kind of hysteria.

That it's being packaged and presented to you in a way that somehow amplifies its glory.

None of this is fake.

It's all dirt, blood, booze and blind dedication to an unknown cause.

BIKECRUSH


PDXCROSS.

Cross Crusade. Astoria, OR, 2009

I wore the suit again. The terrible suit. It binds and is hot. I drank beer before coffee. I drank beer before food.

I had food. I stopped at the Safeway in Clatskanie and bought two bananas, a Clif bar, some string cheese, and a bottle of Pellegrino. $4.89.

Out on the highway, some fifteen miles further into the fog of the coast range, there was a guy pushing one of those bicycles with the ratty trailer. A lot of hefty bags and tarps and a brown dog wearing a person's wool sweater.

I saw his down coat with the feathers sticking out and the tape on it, and his wet hair hanging down, and I pulled the car over and backed down the hill. The dog barked at me and I gave the guy the plastic bag of food. He looked like he needed it. He didn't say anything, but it was 48 degrees and going right thru to the bone. I hope he ate it and got some sustenance from it.



The Team had been camped at the fairgrounds for two nights already. They looked like mud and rain and oatmeal stout. They were chopping up pumpkins with a double-bit axe and pretending to eat a little, here and there.

Everything was glowing when I arrived, and there was a keg. I put on the suit, knowing it was the wrong thing to do. Such has been my life.

I'll leave the details of the racing to the Hankbuilt blargh, but I can tell you that we are in trouble with everybody.

True