Some Days Off Are Better Than Others

The thermometer is stuck at 50.9 degrees. Check that, it just now fell to 50.7. The sky has gone from partially sunny to completely gray, with heavy rain clouds looming about like thugs wanting to cause trouble. And now it is 50.4, and I’m perfectly content sitting here on my couch, all warm and cozy, drinking delicious coffee, wondering what to do with my day off. Biking is now officially out, so don’t bother looking for me out there on Route 12, layered in brightly colored thermal apparel, riding into a patch of bone chilling April rain way out in Elmore. What better time to catch up on some writing, I say.

Although I’m clearly not a die-hard cyclist, ready to die riding in the most inclement weather, I will always feel guilty if I don’t take advantage of a beautiful day and stay indoors. But today, with the temperature now at 49.8, and still falling like the value of an unsold Trek Y-Bike in the twilight hours of used bike swap, I am more than happy to stay put. Maybe, if motivation strikes, I’ll go through my closet and gather enough abandoned clothing for my next yard sale. Or perhaps I’ll watch the new Star Wars Trilogy to see if by chance I overlooked one single redeeming thing about the films. The bathroom could use a cleaning, so I could do the domestic thing and bust out the elbow grease. Let me think about this for a tick: The Phantom Attack of the Sith or scrub-a- dub-dub? Well, considering the time penalty, I guess I’ll go for the rubber gloves and chemicals. With any luck, after the bathtub is sparkling, the sun will come out and I can ride my road bike after all. As a matter of fact, it is now 51.1, and it’s getting brighter out there. Check that, it just now fell to 50.9.

If it were summer or fall, I’d probably go hiking or mountain biking, two activities that are perfectly appropriate for a less than stellar day like today. But it is mud season, and the trails are closed so that they may be eroded away from too much foot and tire traffic while dry instead of wet. If I were still paddling whitewater, I’d be surfing a standing wave in the spring run-off, but I got “Maytagged” for the last time years ago, and anyway my spray skirt has more holes than my story about why I shouldn’t be road biking today. As far as pedaling around on dirt roads, I’d rather watch Padme say to Anakin, “Hold me like you did on Naboo” while disinfecting my toilet. As I said before, I am not a die-hard, and besides, that damn thermometer is still stuck at 50.9. Check that, it just jumped up to 52.7.

My Rejected Album Review for Seven Days

Recently, I tried to get a freelance writing gig for Seven Days. I made the first cut of wannabes and as my next assignment was told to review any album from my collection. Sadly, armed with the following album review, I didn't make the second cut. Noneltheless, I had fun writing this little piece, and have decided to free it from captivity on my flash drive and give it eternal life in the blogosphere.

GOGOL BORDELLO,
SUPER TARANTA!
(SideOneDummy Records, CD)

“If we are here not to do/What you and I want to do/And go forever crazy with it/Why the hell are we even here?/Heeyaah!” The double meaning in the lines that open Gogol Bordello’s excellent latest release, Super Taranta! is as clear as the unconditional self-confidence the band flaunts: In life as well as in music, if you don’t have a purpose, you might as well go home. In the case of New York City’s Gogol Bordello, their purpose, according to exuberant front man Eugene Hütz, is to take over the world. Time will tell whether or not they accomplish this goal, but two things are for sure: they will have had a hell of a time trying, and during their journey, they got to hang with Madonna.

Ukrainian-born Chernobyl refugee and ex-Burlington transplant Hütz brings more than a gypsy mustache and a mullet to the music scene. He brings an urgent and contagious energy that is the signature of Gogol’s live shows, but which translates amazingly well in the studio. You couldn’t count the times he screams “Yeeaah!” and “Woooaah!” on the disc, but he lets them all fly with equal sincerity, emphasizing his beliefs on topics ranging from religion, on the straightforward stomp “I Don’t Read the Bible,” to the gypsy lifestyle, on the frantic “Wonderlost King,” to struggles associated with love, on the tender ballad “Alcohol.”

The formula to their inimitable sound is simple. Borrow the basic structure and chords of traditional Ukrainian folk music, change the rhythm a little, leave the accordion and fiddle right up front, blend in the standard rock trio of guitar, bass and drums, and add a couple of female cheerleaders for good measure. Plug it all in, and you have Gypsy Punk, a perfect dichotomy between Eastern and Western music that is catchy yet refreshingly diverse and appealing to fans of multiple genres, from Ska to Reggae to Metal.

There are no weak moments or album fillers on the disc, and the energy never lets up, but towards the end of Super Taranta!, some listeners may feel as though they’ve broken into a bottle of good Russian vodka, and perhaps should have taken a few less shots. Others, however, will want to keep on indulging, tear their shirts off, and scream “Heeyaah!” and “Wooaah!” until they’ve conquered the world.

Prolonging the Generosity: An Open Letter to CAKE

Dear CAKE,

I was at your show last week at Middlebury College in verdant Middlebury, Vermont, and I wanted to share some thoughts in the hope that they will enlighten you just a bit. I also need some advice, but not just yet. It seems as though you’ve become even more embittered since the last time I saw you play, and I feel compelled to act as a voice for a large slice of your audience. Simply put, there are some of us out there, myself included, who are true CAKE fans, who know what the name of your first album is, who have never purchased a ring tone, and who would appreciate not being debased during the performance. I realize, especially at a college gig, that there are always going to be dipshits out there, we were standing next to three of them in fact, but there are also good people like me, who are there to see a band they really dig and really know, and who don’t deserve to be lumped in with those morons.

My purpose here is not to lecture, it is to raise your spirits, but I must say one more thing. Try not to get so angry with people for yelling song requests. That’s what people do, and will always do, and I don’t think it warrants rage on your behalf. Some artists encourage that behavior, and others simply ignore it, but every CAKE show I’ve ever attended inevitably leads up to the moment when John throws a hissy fit at someone for wanting to hear their favorite song. I’m not suggesting you honor their request and become a slave to their demands, fuck them if you don’t want to play Jolene, just know that they’re not trying to be belligerent. They are only being happy, fun-loving people at a rock show, that is until a tongue lashing from the singer kills the mood.

I hope this horrible world doesn’t grind you down too much and that you keep going. I can’t wait to go down to the record store and buy another high quality album of catchy rhythms, smart and clever lyrics, magical guitar and trumpet phrases, and all of that, but I haven’t yet decided about seeing another show. At thirty-five, I’d rather stay home and hang baskets on the wall than be unjustly scolded.

I trust you’ve read this far, because after all, a DJ friend of mine got you to sign a copy of Pressure Chief for me, and you wrote, “Ryan is great.” Thanks for that. Here is my question, which I hope you can answer. What the hell gives?


Sincerely,

Ryan

Snowburning

Yesterday was my day off, and after I pried myself out of bed, I once again faced the quandry of whether to go to the mountain one last time or stay in town and get on the bicycle. It was still fairly early, so I went across the street to get the paper and I asked the girl at the counter what she thought I should do. She said go biking. Enough with the snow already. That sounded good to me, but I couldn't shake the idea that snowboarding in eighty degree weather would be spectacular, and this was my last chance to experience it. As I was crossing back to my side of the street, I ran into a coworker who was biking to work. I asked her what I should do. She said go snowboarding, it's your last chance, and its gonna be eighty degrees.

With the advice from two different women bouncing back and forth like a pingpong ball in my brain, I went back to my place, poured a cup of coffee, settled onto my porch, and read the paper. It was the first time this year that the porch was warm enough to do this, and it made me want to stay there all day, but I knew better than to waste such a beautiful spring day sitting on my butt.

So what was it going to be? Well, after considering my options, I decided that the dry road would be there tomorrow but that the snowcovered mountain wouldn't be, and that I'd probably whine all sumer long about not heading up there that one day in late spring, so I grabbed my board and got in the car.

It turned out to be a good choice. Between runs on corn snow, or hero snow if you will, I basked in the glorious sunshine while reclining on the chairlift. The weather could not have been more pleasant and the short-sleeved, western style shirt I was wearing could not have been more stylish. Or so I thought...

One thing I've noticed about spring skiing is that some people are prone to wearing silly things. Cowboy hats, jean shorts, Raybans, things like that. Girls will occassionally wear bikinis, which is great of course, but...well, that's just great. But nothing is as silly as wearing a bra when you are a guy, as one silly guy was doing. I mean, why would he do such a silly thing? He didn't even have man boobs.

I first noticed him while I was riding up the hill. He was ripping through the bumps like Johnny Mosely, or should I say Donna Weinbrecht, and although he was wearing a bra, I noticed a lack of jiggling going on beneath it. Nothing unusual, I thought, flat-chested women wear bras, but there was something else that didn't settle with me: large sideburns.

Later, while enjoying a delicious IPA on the patio outside the baselodge, he showed up, still sporting his bra. I wanted to ask him if perhaps it had fallen from the lingerie tree, and he had picked it up and put it on, but there was already someone else inquiring, so I left him alone.

Maybe he was planning on adding it to the lingerie tree's branches on the next run.

Bad Day Gone Bad

Yesterday was a busy one, but the busy-ness wasn’t unexpected. It was one of the first gorgeous days of spring that makes everyone want to go to the bike shop, drop their bike off for perhaps a few hours for some major repair work, and then pick it up and take it for a ride before putting it away until next spring. It is always a shock to some folks when they’re told that about a hundred other people were thinking the same thing and that the only thing we can do for them before this weekend is explain that the rows and rows of service tickets in the service board aren’t a creative recycling technique.

I’m no stranger to this kind of thing, and delusional expectations combined with a mob scene had nothing to do with the fact things weren’t going my way. Normally, I can simultaneously check in two repairs, sell a road bike, answer the phone, and search for random car rack parts without breaking a sweat. But yesterday, other forces were working against me, and for a while there, I was having a very bad day.

It all started with a bang. While trying to get a stubborn tire to seat properly on an old, crappy rim using the over-inflate-the-damn-thing-until-it-settles technique, I blew the tire to shreds. When this happens, a heart-stopping blast equivalent to a cannon being fired occurs inches from your face. It is an extraordinarily unpleasant thing that happens every so often, and over the years, it has happened to me probably a dozen times. My hearing, which is diminishing like hair on a balding man’s head, has been further compromised as a result, and was further compromised again yesterday. I felt like I had pillows stuffed inside my ringing ears for about an hour. During that time I received a snide remark from a fellow coworker about my having devoured a sandwich while on the clock. Or at least I think that was what I heard. Come to think of it, maybe being deaf won’t be so bad after all.

And then I was handed a message that read, “So-and-so called about her bike. It’s urgent that she speaks with you.” Like the onslaught of bikes on a sunny day in early spring, this wasn’t at all unexpected. I was so sure that So-and-so would hate her bike after riding it that I would’ve bet my entire savings of twelve dollars on it, because firstly, that bike is cursed, (it is the sole remaining bike of a brand we no longer carry, and it’s been returned once already), and secondly, she’s one of the myriad people who thinks that bicycles should be as comfortable as your grandmammy’s sofa. Nonetheless, that message could’ve come on a different day. Now I was just plain bummed out.

So she’s coming in next week with that dreaded bicycle. I’ll see if I can get the handlebars high enough so that there is no pressure on her hands whatsoever, and that the entire weight of her body is focused on her saddle. But first, I better strap a sofa cushion to it.

Fall Into Spring

Yesterday, I had to evict the spider that had set up residence over the winter in my spokes. I had the day off, the temperature was in the sixties, and the sun was extending its long arms to ground level in an attempt to pull people out of their dwellings and into the fresh spring air. I had thought about taking my snowboard to the hill one last time, but instead chose to get some real exercise and stay in town and ride my bike. Enough with the snow, I decided.

That being determined, I began the process of gearing up for the first ride of the season, which involved digging through closets in search of my shoes, helmet, arm warmers, gloves (never found those), and kit, which I could only hope was washed before being hastily packed away.

My bicycle needed some air and lube, but was otherwise ready to go, or so I thought. After about ten miles into the ride, while the cobwebs on my legs were still hanging tough, I remembered that I forgot to make one very critical adjustment, the old early spring ride stem raise, and as a result of this oversight, my ride was slightly less pleasant than it could've been. Fortunately, I wasn't heading out too far, and was able to finish without keeling over. Nonetheless, these days, the old body just doesn't work as well as it used to, and consequently, I wasn't riding in Pleasantville.

Of course, my being out of shape can't be entirely attributed to getting older. I didn't spend the winter riding a trainer, or doing yoga, or doing anything that would've maintained the level of fitness I had going in the fall. I just rode chairlifts and drank a lot of beer. I did get my heartrate up once, while nordic skiing. But only once.

We'll see how I hold up on the group ride tonight, trying to hang with dudes who already have five hundred miles on their legs and five hundred less beers in their bellies. I'm sure I'll get blown off the back, left alone for dead, but as long as there is a beer at the end, I should be ok.

Ah, home.

I'll Be Back. I mean, I Am Back.

Well, it turns out the grass isn't any greener on the other side of the fence, or at least on the other side of the fence that I climbed over. In fact there wasn't any grass at all, only snow. And looking at all that snow from the window of a stressful office was an ironic kick in the gut, but it taught me a lot about my former job that I had been taking for granted. And now, having returned to the old Bike Store, I feel as though I ran away and came back home, and I've never been happier. I whistle to and from work, and nothing gets me down. And I feel incredibly fortunate that the door was open when I came back knocking. Thank you Mr. Doorman!

Some of the things I learned are:

-Parking cars sucks but counting cars sucks worse.
-Checking tickets at the lift line isn't as bad as it sounds, until someone reconizes you.
-Hearing your boss say about a fellow coworker, (EXPLETIVE ALERT!) "I'm gonna cut his nuts off and staple them to his fucking forehead!" is kind of funny, but also very sad.
-Commission is only good if you actually earn some.
-Just because you feel as though you are perceived as an idiot and despised, doesn't mean that is at all the case, but nonetheless, feeling as though you are perceived as an idiot and despised sucks.

The list goes on, but I'm starting to feel a queasiness that I've not felt since...Well, never mind.

Anyway, now that I am back in retail, where I belong, apparently, I am going to be reposting on this little blog of mine, only I think you will notice a slightly different, perhaps more upbeat tone to my ramblings. Think of it as Retail Junkie Burnout 2.0, and take all the posts prior to this one with a grain of salt.