"working on my faults and cracks..."


post traumatic

war feet (image by lunar/solar)
The Crusher in the Tushar is not meant to be embarked upon lightly. Claims of its extreme difficulty are far from hyperbolic, as they are confidently verified by olympians and professional cyclists alike. The race format is unique in that riders are allowed to choose the bike upon which the punishment is doled out. There isn't really a wrong choice, because at some point the course will wrest away any potential correctness of your decision by showing you that you can't efficiently ride a mountain bike on the road, or can't efficiently/safely descend a washed-out two-track on a cross bike. And with 10,000 feet of climbing over road, dirt, and sand, there are no winners of the Crusher. Only those crushed.


29 days hath intolerable months

I feel somewhat obligated to take time out of my busy blogging/copywriting schedule (pursuits largely spent picking navel lint and staring at the wall) to haphazardly drum up a post for today, considering this super fun 24-hour extension to the calendar's least-favorite month, only rolls around once every four years.

Here's a fun fact about leap year: I once dated a girl who was born on February 29th. I suppose I could generously commemorate this post towards her seventh birthday salutations, but I think it's better spent in the highly amusing remembrance of the hastily-sketched unicorn inexplicably tattooed on her shoulder. With each passing year, may the permanency and embarrassment of that decision never wane.

And in other topically applicable news, I was going to give up crop-dusting the local Whole Foods bulk aisle, along with cylindrical-shaped treats for Lent, but I had a vegan doughnut with breakfast after deciding against granola this morning. So... shit. "Keep your heads up boys," my little league baseball coach would always say. "We'll get 'em in four years."


jean's knees got holes, and there's gum on my shoe

into the blue, wild and cold


martial mixology: the DI reviews a film

Considering I would rank it somewhere between watching shirtless rednecks drive homemade vehicles up steep hills, and betting on underground cockfights in dirty Mexican warehouses, I don't hold the practice of mixing martial arts (better known as "em-em-ayye," to the hyper-beefcake correctionists clad in TapOut-branded tees) in very high regard. A truly graceless sport for the graceless, if there ever were one. So you can imagine how infrequently do I ever find myself hankering to put on a TV dinner and watch two neckless and obscenely muscular neanderthals wearing only booty shorts punch, kick, elbow, and grope each other until one is either knocked completely unconscious, or relents on account of having been strangled in the nethers until his steroid-ravaged testicles became lodged in his own windpipe. Regardless of what disciplines are being haphazardly mixed, it's about as martially artistic as "the whirling about of a medicine ball by the handle through a pyramid of frozen turkeys,* but that's hardly the point.

* on a side note, I'd be pleased as piss if there were black belts to be obtained through this

Hyperbole be damned, if you have time and/or patience for but one movie this year, your priorities would not be so grossly misaligned if you opted for that one movie to be Warrior. Yes, that's Nick Nolte, no the ending isn't predictable, and yes, The National makes an emotionally punctuated appearance on the soundtrack. Fair warning; while this film hardly legitimizes the salami-pounding circus that is MMA, through an excellent cast and some extremely capable screenwriting, it still somehow manages to find itself in a league on par with even The Fighter, which was nearly as superb as that one time Rocky flew to Russia to punch a blonde robot in the face a few hundred times and end the cold war.

Rocky IV was it?


effing busy

Way back in the year 2005, before fading into relative obscurity, the Beastie Boys handed out camcorders before a marquee show at The Garden, and instructed the recipients to shoot however, and whatever they wanted at the show. The resulting grainy, amateur footage turned in was compiled and used to create the aptly titled theatrical release...


illusions of speed

You rise out of the saddle and tighten your grip on the bars. As your legs open the throttle, the drivetrain reacts sharply to the urgent request for acceleration, and the bike snaps forward, out from under you, as though it's trying to escape.
If that kind of euphoria ever wears thin, I'll take up golf.


cafe mclean

The present-day grocery store is a warzone. A veritable hellhole of conspicuously edible chemicals, and cleverly disguised, genetically modified organisms in otherwise innocuous foods we've deemed safe, or healthy. But are they really? Granted, we're not buying napalm in the morning, or depleted uranium shell casings in the bulk aisle, but at the rate the modern digestive system is collectively de-evolving, rendering itself incapable of the simplest of tasks, we might as well be. There are certainly cooler ways to die, and at the hands of some allergen the FDA has deemed fit for consumption, will not be hers.


mansion on the hill

Here, at the edge of town, in the summer, all the lights would shine and the music would play. But now, those joyous melodies are muffled, their guests chilled and reaching for warmer skin. Winter's creep caught even the foliage off guard, leaving the sun unsure whether to shine or vacation in more temperate climates.

Hell, I wouldn't blame him. Assuming, of course, that the sun is indeed a 'him.'


changing of the guard

I remember with perfect clarity the evening we all gathered at Trees for a DVD premiere I knew nothing about. "Something about bicycles," I was made to understand. "The crew from San Francisco. They ride track bikes," Nobu told me. "And they just made a movie about it."


velo narcissisté

fleeting summer lines
Goddamn tragedy, October's nearly expired.

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