Superboil

The most generous people I know, Don and Colleen Stevens, owners of Bill’s Off-Broadway, threw the funnest Superbowl party I’ve ever been to that didn’t include the Steelers; I showed up right about the time some lady was singing “God Bless America” and stayed until right after Drew Brees took a knee in “victory formation” sealing the Saints 31-17 victory over the Colts, an outcome I was delighted to welcome, although the difference between this year’s game—which was all about celebration—and last year’s—where life and death was at stake—was palpable, at least to me, when I touched my belly and didn’t feel any of the butterflies I experienced in 2009 and 2007 when the Black n’ Gold were involved.

Instead, I got to enjoy the game and the festivities, which included something like 180 pounds of crabs boiled up in 60 gallon pots with potatoes, corn, onions, artichokes, and sausage, along with spice from a package that Harley said was called “Smack Yer Momma,” but which, however you might refer to it, made the spuds and kernels taste like the warm inside of a night in the French Quarter.

I watched the crustaceans being dropped into the roiling boil; frankly they didn’t seem all that upset about it; still, I preferred snacking on the boiled tubers than the overheated sea creatures, and more to the point, enjoyed washing down whatever I was consuming with one after another or mid-day beers, celebrating the closest thing we have to a secular holiday in this, the most Christian of developed nations in the 21st century West.

This time last year, I was still fielding calls from folks who thought it made sense to congratulate me for rooting hard for the winning side; tonight, I got to high-five a couple guys who were as much invested in today’s outcome as I was in last year’s, and as I will be next year, when the Steelers win again.

Waffle Ride Five

I thought I stayed pretty late; (it was after midnight when I got home and my clothes smelled reassuringly of breakfast), but apparently, I missed the real shenanigans where people got doused with batter and thrown out of bars; even so, it was a night as full of hilarity as stomachs were full of waffles and as trash cans are of empty containers this morning at that odd little corner of the universe where electricity flows all year long for, as teh Jobies pointed out, “recreational purposes,” an end admirably pursued on this, the Fifth Annual .83 Waffle (The Empire Strikes Back) Ride, the current version, a bit earlier in February than in years previous, but still so hungrily anticipated that no one could possibly have held off another week, even in spite of the nationwide Eggo shortage.

I managed to catch onto the ride just as the line of—I’ll say about 60—bikes laden with fixin’s, toppings, and intoxicants—began pouring through the I-90 tunnel, riders screaming echoes east to west and then there was that heartwarming sight of taillights dotting the entire length of the bridge before all of a sudden a picnic shelter fully lit up from inside and an eight-pack of waffle irons steaming and a pitcher of Manhattans pouring and pork strips frying and some sort of scary-looking sausages spinning slowly on an even scarier mini hot-dog circus cart.

And eventually, of course, people were hanging upside-down from the rafters and spitting bourbon at the fire and a Frisbee-shaped waffle was turning to mush in the rain and then, just as miraculously as things appeared, they eventually were packed up and, although I bet the maintenance workers are scratching their heads this morning over what went down last night, I’m sure the imprint on my memory is more than ours upon the park, though less than the iron upon the batter making those sweet squares that you fill and fill you.

Retarded Morons

So, I guess Sarah Palin is all bent out of shape because Rahm Emanuel said that liberal groups thinking of running health care-related ads against Democratic lawmakers were “fucking retarded.” The ex-governor of Alaska equated his use of the term to using the racial slur “nigger” and called for President Obama to fire him. In doing so, she once again trotted out references to her own child with Down syndrome, apparently unaware of or unconcerned about the irony of exploiting the kid’s mental handicap in the cause of ending the exploitation of the mentally challenged.

Meanwhile, Senate majority leader Harry Reid, and the Las Vegas chamber of commerce are all exercised because they perceived that Obama had slighted Sin City when he said that in tough fiscal times, you don’t blow a bunch of cash in Vegas. This proves once again, it seems, that he hates America.

And then finally, I just read on the internetz that some people who must have way too much time on their hands—or too many Twinkies on their plates, I dunno—don’t like it that Michelle Obama publically expressed some concern over her daughters’ weights; supposedly this is tantamount to condemning them to anorexia and bulimia for the rest of their lives.

People, get a fucking grip!

Didn’t you ever hear “stick and stones can break my bones but names can never hurt me?”

Are people really so delicate these days that an offhand—and all right, admittedly insensitive—remark makes them respond so peavishly?

That’s some sanctimonious shit, if you ask me, especially from a woman known for snarkiness and a guy infamous for patronizing remarks about a black person.

Now, I realize that in my meta-commentary on their commentary, I’m probably committing the same sin I’m accusing them of: blowing something someone said entirely out of proportion to make some point that’s basically unrelated to what the person said originally.

This has got to stop; it’s just fucking gay.

So Lovely

It sure was pretty riding home from school this afternoon: the setting sun’s rays glinting yellow and red off the smooth-as-glass lake, the weather warm and dry enough that I didn’t need a raincoat, the early February false spring light enough that I got all the way home without having to turn on my headlamp.

If this is what global climate change has in store for us in the Northwest, it’s not going to be too bad—except for the millions of climate refugees we’ll have to assimilate into our population—and even though I realize the weather this winter has more to do with the El Nino conditions than the long-term anthropogenic effects on the season, I can almost see why those crazy climate change deniers go off on their denial schtick: it’s hard to get very exercised about the immanent end of the world when it’s so nice outside as it’s happening.

I guess it’s just another aspect of the human condition: we’re not very good at taking the long view; in fact, we’re probably hard-wired not to. After all, if we really accepted the inevitable fact that we’re fucking doomed as a result of our own behaviors, we’d all probably just lose it, and all would simply go to hell, starting, no doubt, with the global economy. I know I’d stop paying my student loans off, that’s for sure.

So instead of worrying about what’s going to happen—probably in my lifetime, but almost certainly in my daughter’s—I just pedaled along, enjoying the beautiful weather and admiring the flocks of robins, I think, that were perched all over the trees between Lake Forest Park and Matthews Beach.

And I consoled myself slightly with the knowledge that if it is only a matter of time before it all goes to hell, at least I’m not contributing to the incipient demise by driving and even better, I won’t be in a car when it happens.

Slow News Day

And today in other stories: Americans will continue to be disappointed in our government leaders, the national and international media, and by products created by Apple computer.

The weather will be chilly and wet in Seattle, except for those brief moments when it isn’t, and most of those will be entirely forgotten by the time locals haven’t seen blue sky and sunshine in more than two weeks.

Teams with the highest payrolls in sports will inevitably finish higher in the standings than those that offer more modest salaries, except in the case of the Seattle Mariners, who seem able to spend way more than anyone else relative to their success in the won-loss department.

Nearly every movie that comes out will feature car crashes, gunshots, and computer-generated mayhem; once in a while someone will produce a film with a script that reveals something interesting and/or poignant about the human condition; no such films, though, will earn as much as a single day’s receipts for James Cameron’s Avatar.

Before the day is out, a dog will bite a man; in all likelihood, that dog will be some form of pit-bull; even more likely, the “man” will be an elderly woman.

Church groups and conservative politicians will be offended by something on television; hateful hate-mongers will monger hate publically but still manage to get people to pay attention to them in spite of being unworthy even of contempt.

Several major corporations will report unprecedented losses on their balance sheets; home sales will decline, unemployment will rise and yet somehow, some hudge-fund managers on Wall Street will make more money in holiday bonuses than most of us will earn in our entire working lives. And no one will really mind.

A B-list celebrity will do something despicable and be made fun of on the internet for a couple of days; a politician will do the same and still get re-elected.

327 words will be written, a few might be read.

Ka-Boom

Apparently, this was the theme of the theme of the night.

I missed the human version, but I was there when we all got to experience a moment that we all got to experience simultaneously.

Somebody—teh Jobies, I think—threw the Heineken mini-keg onto the fire.

The irony, of course, is that it took all night to get the fucking flames hot enough to boil water, what with the wood that was wet and the part about nobody being able to leave it alone long enough to really catch, but anyway, by then, the tipi-shaped conflagration was putting out enough heat to make it worthwhile to stand by.

And that’s why it’s so amazing that nobody got decapitated or at least had an eye put out.

The moment was kind of hilarious, actually: all of a sudden, ka-boom! And I mean it! We were all drowned out. Nobody wasn’t called to attention.

Loud.

And then, in the following seconds as people regained their hearing and composure, there was nothing but laughter, both the ha-ha and “I can’t believe I’m still in one piece” kinds.

I showed up late and left early, but still got to have that burst; all set to make it to Westlake on time, I was called away unexpectedly to responsibilities I’m responsible for, which wasn’t so bad, all things considered. At least I didn’t have to have some software fixed before 5:30 in the morning.

The exploded projectile was found a good fifteen yards down the hill and looked like a giant spinach can opened by Popeye’s mighty grip; later, its power was mocked, as at least one person wore it like a hat that looked like the hairdo of Kid n’ Play, but when it was first discovered how far the thing had gone, I know that I, at least, was thankful I hadn’t been clobbered by something that just came out of nowhere before I could see it.

Same as everyone.

Sunrise, Sunset

Is there anything cornier than an old guy going on about how sentimental he is about the past? (Well, sure, there’s schmaltzy old vaudeville routines by the Sunshine Boys or a medley of songs by Doris Day, but other than that, the old guy’s reminiscences have got to be close to the top.)

Anyway, I don’t care and besides I can’t help it.

This morning, as I was riding onto the UW campus, I saw a guy, probably a decade or two younger than me, carrying his little girl, probably a decade younger than Mimi, on his shoulders as he walked down the path and it all but brought tears to my eyes as I thought about all the times I carried my own daughter like that and how, now that she’s essentially as tall as my wife, those days are long gone. Not that carrying her around like that was always what my mom used to refer to as an “unalloyed pleasure,” but still, I can’t help feeling a sense of loss and longing over the fact that I’ll never again get to do so.

I guess this is why old people start lobbying hard for grandkids—but even I’m not that old yet.

Then I was thinking about my dog, Becca, who—at almost six—is squarely in her middle-age dog years. While she hasn’t started losing control of her bowels yet (a point at which I’ll probably be in the minority among my family when it comes to the prospect of ponying up big bucks for veterinary care), she’s no longer the puppy we have tons of photos of in our iPhoto library; she’s even got gray around her muzzle, just like me!

Of course, getting old is preferable to the alternative and you may as well enjoy your memories—even if they’re bittersweet—as long as you can since, it’s only a matter of time (not much!) till you won’t remember them, anyway.

Appliances

Way back when in the year 2007, when it still was cool to have a weblog, I had this fantasy that I’d get famous for my project—like Julie Powell, of the Julia Child cookbook project—of going 327 days in a row writing a 327-word essay. It was a noble—and by that I mean self-centered and misguided—effort and while it didn’t earn me the riches and acclaim I had hoped for, it did get me pretty well habituated to the practice of writing essentially pointless little pieces about essentially pointless things, an endeavor I continue to this day, although not quite with the abandon that I did before Obama was elected.

Now, I’m content to conceive of the ongoing project as my continuing effort to write the world’s most boring blog, an aspiration that, if you ask my daughter, I’ve sewed up, even though her assessment depends entirely on speculation since, as any self-respecting 12 year-old would attest to, she wouldn’t be caught dead even accidentally running across this site.

But if, by some chance she did happen upon these words, her judgment would certainly be confirmed by today’s offering, which chronicles no less exciting an activity than an excursion Jen and I took yesterday to buy a new refrigerator and washer/dryer combination.

Sounds pretty mundane, but as a matter of fact, we had a reasonably good time, riding the tandem in the rain downtown to Sears in SODO, then north along the waterfront to Albert Lee near Eliot Bay where, in the spirit of buying from the local provider, we shelled out a small fortune for home appliances that, unlike the ones we have now, were built after our daughter was born and which, allegedly, won’t cause our electrical meter to spin so fast when they run.

We got soaked riding back towards home, but warmed up from the inside out with mid-day drinks at the Alibi room.

If that's boring, I'll take it.

Backwards

My impressions of the evening are like a deck of cards that I can shuffle through backwards, in the vein of one of those plotless movies like “Memento,” in which the director compensates for the paucity of the storyline by running things from finish to start, so a “mystery” unfolds where there wouldn't be should you have rolled things in the normal direction.

So, there I am locking up my bike at home and coming inside, but before that, I’m sure I had a pleasant ride back from 9 Million in Unmarked Bills where we’d gone after the abortive attempt to reanimate the most traditional of fire pit choices, albeit, apparently, too early in the evening.

But all that was missing from that trifecta of emergency services was an ambulance; both the police and the fire department managed to show up, the former even pulling off the requisite “good cop/bad cop” schtick—admittedly sorta half-heartedly once they realized we weren’t going to push back too hard and were even willing to engage in a clean-up of our mess while they watched; the firefighters, by contrast, were all business, dumping two huge buckets of water on the tiny conflagration we’d only just gotten going, boo-hoo.

Before that I’m sure there was the Nickerson Tavern, filled up, by the time we were ready to depart, pretty much entirely by cyclists—no wonder there was such a hurry to leave.

A lovely evening for a ride: lost in conversation with the Major, Esquire, along the waterfront and then, surprisingly, east towards Fremont rather than straight to the Boxcar.

The preceding shuffle has me seeing and smelling the fabric dumpster experience; I keep thinking we must have been there longer than we were, although apparently, the whole thing lasted but a moment.

Then, look: here’s Westlake Center, can that be all? And how, I still wonder, did things manage to arrive at the end with no one arrested or even fined?

Avatarred and Feathered

Took the family to see the megablockbuster hit, “Avatar,” the other day.

Here’s my capsule review:

Visually stunning, kinda preachy, but with a message I can more or less get behind, but in the end, I think the film embodies the very values it sets out to critique.

While it purports to send the message that cultural imperialism in the name of monetary profit is bad, isn’t the very essence of a James Cameron film the full-on promulgation of corporate entertainment values to the destruction of anything else?

Where was the nuance, people? The real humanity? It’s ironically amusing, as I’m sure many critics have pointed out, that the main characters are simulations; Cameron’s conception of the inner lives of human beings (and their non-human analogues) goes about as deep as a digital representation of the real thing; the only actor that I thought showed any real life was the guy who played the boss of the earthling operation; and even he was a kind of cardboard cutout of the evil chief executive, right down to his golf-putting during office hours.

But maybe this is all because I didn’t see it in 3-D.

Prior to this cinematic event, the most recent film I’d seen in a theater was “The Fantastic Mr. Fox.” Strange how the stop-motion animals in that movie had more depth of emotion than anyone in “Avatar,” isn’t it?

I have no doubt, of course, that Cameron’s film will win the Oscar for best picture; and it certainly deserves high praise for its production values and the way in which it represents a technological leap forward in film-making. But then, “Tron” was pretty cool in its day, too.

By my perspective on this, I’m once again, I realize, illustrating what an old fogey I’ve become; probably somebody wrote a similar review about “The Jazz Singer” when that, the first “talkie,” came out.

Sound, though, made films more like life; “Avatar,” by contrast, does the opposite.

Heels Over Headwinds

On the sweltering days of summer back in Pittsburgh, we always used to say, “It’s not the heat, it’ s the humidity.”

When I lived in San Francisco in the early 80s, during the rare SF heat wave, my friend Brooke was regularly quoted as saying “It’s not the heat, it’s the homosexuals.” (It was funny then, and especially because Brooke himself was gay.)

Here in Seattle, during these chilly days of winter, the analogue is something like, “It’s not the rain, it’ s the headwind.” (That was a long way to go for so little, but in any case, it’s true.)

I don’t mind so much getting soaked on my bike—especially during the ride home; after all, I’ve got lots of gear that—although it’s really begun to smell like cheese after being damp for so long—keeps me reasonably dry and which can be depended upon to keep my ride from being too terribly miserable, at least from the standpoint of the drowned rat.

On the other hand, I’ve got no clothes that keep me from being pushed back against by the headwind that inevitably seems to be working against me in whatever direction I’m headed.

On Thursday’s ride home, for instance, especially during the flat part around Husky Stadium at the UW, I was pedaling with all my might (admittedly, not exactly what you’d call a lot of wattage), but even so, I was practically standing still. It got so bad that I began looking forward to riding uphill, where the wind would be more apt to go over my head than push so powerfully against my chest.

Two more reasons I prefer hills to headwinds:

First, with the former, you can see an end in sight; even the longest hill eventually has a summit.

And second, wind is invisible. I much prefer the challenge I can see to the one I can’t; like Brooke said, give me homos over humidity any day.

Good Theater

Tickets to “The Lion King” on Broadway are like 300 bucks for an orchestra seat and you’re not nearly as close to the performers as I got to be to the star of the show last night; I mean you’re never in nut-punching range of the actors on stage, are you?

So, it was money well-spent to see Derrick in such rare (but not unusual) form; you’d have thought it was all over after we realized the bar at the airport Holiday Inn isn’t that glowing orb on top, but when 10 shots of Maker’s appeared, it was obvious things were just beginning and when he rode away straight into the parking lot gate, you knew your entertainment dollar was going to go a long way.

And although it kinda burns my mind’s eye to recall it, I can still see the upright dog pile on the dance floor at the joint I will refer to fondly now as The Trud where the bartender, at least, so loved us that she raced outside for photos as we were leaving.

It sure makes the ride to the airport a lot shorter when you take the train out there and International Boulevard isn’t nearly as steep if you only ride it downhill, so we were on Fourth Avenue and at the Orient Express before anyone could even sober up which meant that whatever promises were made were unlikely to be kept, although there’s no question that the costs on all sides were higher than expected.

Still, it was money well-spent and if you think of it as a kind of local disaster relief, maybe even justified, even if we never go back there—as if they’d ever let us.

I finished up with a nightcap at Waid’s where I commiserated with my friend, the owner, about his family and loved ones in Haiti; his night was dealing with a real catastrophe; mine, a traveling roadshow of what that’s like.

Contrast

First off, fuck Pat Robertson. Hard. In the ass with the devil’s red-hot pitchfork.

Guy goes on TV to blame the victims of the earthquake in Haiti for the terrible catastrophe that has befallen them; surely any god with the least iota of intelligence—not to mention one that’s allegedly omniscient—reserves a special place in Hell for such insanely hateful dickheads.

Second, give some money or something to help out. Sometimes people say stuff like, “Well, we can’t just throw money at problems,” but, as Jonathan Kozol has observed in regards to public education, let’s try first before we come to that conclusion.

Third, count your blessings.

Those of us in Seattle, especially, have to accept the fact that it’s just pure chance an earthquake hit there instead of here (and it’s probably only a matter of time before one does shake us up) and anybody who lives anywhere else has to admit some other disaster—hurricane, tornado, space alien invasion—is a possibility and consequently, ought to feel a sense of gratitude that they are, like me, able to sit on a couch in a warm, dry home and face no challenge more difficult than trying to figure out how he’s going to find time to grade all the papers he’s assigned to students over the weekend—a long one at that.

I wonder what Seattle’s going to be like when a 7.0 hits here; my assumption is that many of our earthquake-reinforced buildings will hold up better than many of those in Haiti, but of course, it’s going to be really ugly when the Viaduct collapses and the 520 bridge sinks.

I have this unreflective hope that it’s going to be useful to have bicycles and bicycle trailers; I hope I can make myself useful riding around for supplies and perhaps carrying injured people to safety on the Haulin’ Colin rig.

One thing I know for sure, though: I won’t be blaming the devil.

Puncture Wound

Everyone knows that pride goeth before the flat.

In fact, the most reliable way to ensure you’ll get a puncture in your bike tire is to go on about how you never get flats; usually, all you have to do is mention to someone that it’s been a while since you had to change or patch a tube and before you know it, there you’ll be, feeling that familiar mushy feeling beneath you as the air escapes from your pneumatic friend and you’ve got to pull over and fix it if you want to resume pedaling any time soon.

So, I was a bit surprised this morning when I went to take the Saluki out of the shed for my usual Sunday morning cycling and shopping expedition and found my rear tire to be completely deflated; after all, I’d totally refrained from saying—or even thinking—anything about how fortunate I’d been so far this winter to have yet experienced any punctures, even though they tend to happen more often when the weather is wet and little sharp things are more apt to stick to rubber.

But I was glad that the air had escaped on my home turf, since it makes for an easier repair; I took the bike down to the basement and replaced the tube easily, while patching the flat one, no problem.

I then set out on another errand, only to have the tire go flat again about two miles away. Fortunately, I was close to a bike shop, so I didn’t have to use my lame frame pump to re-inflate once I’d changed tubes. But in no further than two blocks was my tire flat again, but at least this time, while changing tubes I finally located the tiny piece of glass that was causing the problem.

But my last “good” tube had a slow leak, so back at home, it was one more change.

See, I get flats ALL the time!

El Fuego

It was a night of firsts:

• First time I ever had a guy in a car heckle me on my bike as he drove by with the exclamation, “Smells nice!”

• First time I ever affixed the top of a noble fir to my trailer flag and first time I ever carried more than one—make it three!—Christmas trees in the Haulin’ Colin trailer, (and I probably could have done one more if I’d have had more bungees).

• First time I’ve ever seen a parade of trees on bikes stretched out before me for hundreds of yards, pointy tops swaying, branches fluttering, and trunks, on at least one occasion, sounding a bass drum on a car mirror extending too far into the road.

• First time I ever got to see in person the conflagration that ensues when the dried remnants of the holiday season are piled together and set aflame and first time, from what I hear, that Lee refrained from restraining the pyromaniacal impulses of the Jobies so that it all went hotter and higher than ever before.

• First time the kid ever got to toss a dry pine onto an outdoor fire and stand back as the flames shot up into the air, igniting a showering plume of sparks to descend like ochre snowflakes against the backdrop of charcoal sky.

• First time I ever got to mingle not only with the bike gang but the family, too—and later fellow teachers—on a Thursday night mayhem; such abundance is rare.

• First time I’ve ever had anybody ask for my autograph on a photo of me—something I could sort of get used to, although I’d draw the line at carrying my own Sharpies.

And a night of nonsense of which I’m quite familiar but just never tire of:

• Douchecock sonzabitches pedaling like mad, drinking too much, wreaking havoc (to themselves, mostly), burning brighter and brighter, on fire.

Groan Up

Peter Pan was right: growing up sucks.

Once you’re toilet-trained, there’s really little reason to advance: school, work, paying taxes, shaving, being a responsible parent—they’re all way more trouble than they’re worth.

Given the choice, the wise choice is to remain a kid for as long as possible; all this nonsense about growing up and taking responsibility for yourself is just that: nonsense. If I could still get away with somebody else making my bed and going to work so I could stay home and putter about—even if it meant having to go to school for a few hours a day—I’d take it.

Certainly, I’ve managed to extend certain aspects of my adolescence for as long as possible—riding bikes, enjoying the same mind-altering substances that made ninth grade palatable, wearing Converse All-Stars—but I’ve nevertheless had to succumb to certain unavoidable exigencies, including becoming a wage-earner, a tax-payer, and someone who goes to the dentist of his own free will at least twice a year.

I even have a pair of Hush Puppies shoes, although I don’t wear them all that often.

Grown up; it’s more like groan up.

Of course, I really shouldn’t complain. There are aspects of adulthood that make it somewhat worth it: the ability to walk into a bar and have a frosty cold beer at any time, the privilege of voting for government officials who inevitably let you down, and the fact that no one nags you about going to bed at a certain time. Certainly those benefits far outweigh having to get up when it’s still dark outside to go to work, or getting to lie awake at night wondering how you’re going to pay your mortgage, or being the one who gets to pick up all the dog poo in the backyard.

But we can all look forward to the inevitable reversion in old age.

“Life,” said Ronn Lehmann, “goes from dependence, to independence, to Depends.”

Alas

No NFL team that has a losing record in their division deserves to be in the post-season. Nor does any squad that sustains a five-game losing streak at the most crucial time of the year. Nor does any that suffers losses to the Kansas City Chiefs, Oakland Raiders, and most ignominiously, Cleveland Browns. And certainly, any team that falls twice, count ‘em, twice in a single year, to the Cincinnati Bungals has a right to a spot in the playoffs.

Still, I was hoping that the stars would all align just right and that the Steelers would manage to squeak into the big dance in spite of meeting all the criteria just described; of course, relying on the Oakland Raiders to beat the Baltimore Ravens strikes me as something like counting on Rush Limbaugh to admit he’s a fat-assed lying sack of shit—sure, it’s a possibility, but only a logical one, as opposed to a legitimate probability, and, as it turned out, the Silver and Black succumbed to the Ratbirds, meaning that, the football season, as far as the Steelers, and by extension, me, is over.

Frankly, I’m relieved.

Really.

Now, I can get on with my life on Sundays, without having to importune the football gods with sandwiches and towels; I can perhaps take a few more bike rides than I did last year, and maybe even go skiing once or twice.

Moreover, I can now see how silly it is for anyone to care about what happens in the NFL; I’m able take the moral high ground and turn up my nose at fans who are painting their faces, waving their foam fingers, and otherwise demonstrating their allegiances to overpaid brutes running into each other in spandex pajamas.

There are, of course, many more important things to care about in the world and now that’s become apparent to me; for instance, baseball spring training starts in a month and the Mariners might be decent.

New Year's Re-Solutions

Back in the day when I was more apt to wake up January 1st underneath a table than in my own bed, it was easy to make resolutions for the upcoming year: all I had to do was plan to be less likely to repeat the mistakes I repeatedly repeated in the previous twelve months and then carry that plan through for a week or two; that was that.

Nowadays, though, since I’m such a responsible, upstanding member of the community, it’s far harder to develop a program that’s going to result in personal and professional improvement during the upcoming year.

Besides, I’m way too lazy and set in my ways to fulfill any plans I might haphazardly develop anyways.

Additionally, there’s something about the very idea of resolutions that bugs me. For one thing, it suggests I might be able to make myself do something against my own will, that I’d set my nose to the grindstone and behave as I think I ought to rather than as I’m inclined to.

Fat chance of that, frankly.

So, maybe instead of resolutions in that sense, I’ll imagine something like re-solutions, that is, finding or re-finding ways of solving problems I’ve already solved in one way or another already.

For instance, consider my “solution” to the ongoing challenge of entropy as it plays itself out on home and hearth. Generally, my strategy is to ignore things until they reach an acute state: like why fix the roof until it really starts leaking? A new “solution” might be to be more proactive; traditionally, then, I would say, “My New Year’s resolution is not to procrastinate so much.” Now, though, I’ll simply put it this way: I have no idea what I’m talking about, let’s just make it through today and worry about it tomorrow.

Or, in other words, Happy New Year, because after all, this one’s already better than last January 1, when the president was still George Bush.

"Best" of 2009

This is the third year I’ve compiled a “best of” list for 327 Words. Talk about an oxymoronic project; it’s like putting together a “most admired” list Wall Street hedge-fund managers or something.

The good news, though, is that if I do this for another thirty years or so, it will be easy for my biographers to go through and put together an archival collection of the 327 “best” essays, merely by reading each of these year-end pieces, rather than having to sort through all ten thousand plus postings I’ll have by then. So, for the good of those graduate students in early internet studies, I offer the following:

In January, although most of my postings having something to do with the Steelers’ march towards Superbowl victory, a piece about bike-love, “It’s Alive!” wins out.

But of course, “Wow,” my account of said victory, is February’s entry.

March offers “March Madness,” a piece that had one commenter wondering whether I had unearthed some forgotten stash of LSD-25.

For April, I give you the charming and delightful, “Fuck Those Fucking Fucks.”

May’s entry has to be “A Fine Disaster,” although admittedly, I’m biased by my fond memories (those that I can remember) of the event itself.

The best of June goes to “Bicycle Belles,” but again, it’s easy when you have great material to work with.

A couple nice accounts of rides in July, but my favorite has to be the story of a Sunday pedal to the track, “In Stages.”

I think I’ll go with “Magnanimity” in August, although maybe it should have been called “Magnanimousness.”

“Liberty” is my choice for September, but, perhaps revealing a thematic affinity for existentialism, I also appreciate “Soulless,” too.

October comes to you with “Last Chance,” an activity, paradoxically, worth trying again and again.

I like “Tidy” for November, a fine example of TMI.

And finally, in December, it’s “All In My Head,” which pretty much characterizes every posting, every year.

Flickering

Hope, said Emily Dickinson, is the thing with feathers; in the case of the Pittsburgh Steelers, though, I’d say it’s more like something that should be carrying a dart gun to shoot roofie-tipped projectiles at the best players on the New York Jets, Baltimore Ravens, and Houston Texans, since in order for the playoff hopes of the Black n’ Gold to be realized, it’s going to take some serious stumbling on the part of at least two of those three teams.

But at least things are going down to the wire; even though Pittsburgh doesn’t “control their own destiny,” they will be playing a meaningful game on the last day of the season, something that the majority of NFL teams won’t be doing, meaning that their fans would have to really be fans to care, except, I think, in the case of the Seattle Seahawks, who—with their embarrassing defeat yesterday at the hands of the Green Bay Packers (48 to 10 or something like that)—hardly deserve to be cared about even by the most rabid of supporters (if there are any left.)

The Steelers have what the pundits always call “flickering” playoff hopes, which frankly, is good enough for me since, as recently as two weeks ago, it was more like they were dangling from a tree with a rope around their neck, although I should reiterate a point I made earlier, to wit: I don’t really care about pro football and it makes no difference to me whatsoever whether or not the Pittsburgh Steelers make it into the post-season, even though it would make that first weekend after school starts in January just a little more palatable, that I do have to admit.

I brought out all the stops yesterday to help the boys from the Burgh prevail: picked up all the backyard dog poo, mopped the kitchen floor, drank Rolling Rock as the second half began; with hope like that, who needs feathers?

Satisfying

I began getting the dreaded clicking sound with every revolution of the cranks on my Quickbeam; it emerged after a long-ish ride last weekend, which included mashing up a fairly long hill on the backside of Queen Anne (that sounds kinda nasty, doesn’t it?) and so I brought the bike down into the basement to see what I might be able to do about it.

I removed the cranks and took out the bottom bracket, re-greased everything and put it all back together. But when I rode around yesterday on a few Christmas-day errands (Oh no! We’re out of beer!) I found the noise hadn’t gone away.

So, this morning, I brought the bike back downstairs, put it back up on the stand, and redid everything I did the other day, only this time, I removed the pedals, lubed them up and also, when re-attaching the cranks, I put a little bit of grease on the square taper before tightening up the crank bolts—with which I used a “cheater bar” (an old steel seatpost) on my wrench to get really good and tight.

Now, I’m aware that opinions differ on whether one should grease the bottom bracket square tapers. I was told, in the first overhaul class I ever took, that you ought to pinch a tiny bit of slippery stuff—like just as much as you have on your fingers after working—onto them. I’ve also heard, though, that they should be left pretty dry; after all, you don’t want them slipping around; it’s supposed to be all about friction fit.

However, it seems to me, in my experience, that more than just a tiny bit of grease does contribute to the cranks running more silently. At least, in this case, it did, because while I didn’t exactly slather the stuff on, I was pretty liberal in my application.

And, when I took the bike out for a test ride, all was quiet.

For now.

Christmas Heave

The Buddhists have it right: life is suffering and the cause of that is desire; if we could just overcome, eliminate, or otherwise rid ourselves of our lusts, cravings, and attachments, all would be right with the world—and afterworld, too, I suppose.

But we’re trapped in a paradox: if we desire to be desire-less, then that’s a desire, too; so basically, we’re fucked. Alas, it’s the human condition, and presumably, until we manage to get ourselves out of the ongoing cycle of death and rebirth, all we have to look forward to, like it or not.

I mention this not out of some misguided affection for Eastern religion, but rather as an observation about my own state of mind here on the last day before Christmas 2009, one I’ve been having sort of a hard time getting sufficiently excited about, even though I’ve been doing my best to keep up the steady alcoholic glow that typically inspires holiday spirit for me.

Part of the problem, I think, is that I haven’t clarified my Christmas list yet; I guess I’ve been waiting for Santa to be a tad more forthcoming with his intentions, but since he seems to have gotten sidetracked by the eggnog, I suppose I’ll just have to take the lead from children everywhere, climb up on the old guy’s lap, and let him have it.

First, of course, I’d like world peace and harmony and free health care for all people. And a new laptop would be cool, too.

I’d like to see that every child was a wanted child and that all kids everywhere had parents that loved them and took good care of them. And bring me some new cashmere socks to go with that.

Please, Santa, see to it that everyone has safe shelter with plenty of healthy food and water; and if you could manage to ensure that I win the MegaMillions lottery, that would be most appreciated as well.

Philip Roth

Of course I read Portnoy’s Complaint. In fact, I smuggled a copy of it into Ms. Ferrante’s seventh grade homeroom and shared some of the naughty bits with my classmates—even though I’m not sure I understood the part where Alex has sex with his family’s liver dinner, it seemed funny at the time (and still does!)

And I think I recall perusing The Great American Novel, (probably in hopes of getting some tips for my own aspirations), but it didn’t really sink in.

I’ve read Goodbye, Columbus at least twice, although I think the movie with Richard Benjamin stuck with me more forcefully.

And I’m pretty sure I made it through The Breast, but I may be confusing that with the Woody Allen adaptation of Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask.

So, naturally, I’m aware of Roth’s acclaim, but I don’t think I really got how great he is until just now—or make that yesterday—when I finished The Human Stain, his masterpiece about many things—identity politics, academia, love, death, sex, and war, aging, Vietnam, Viagra, and probably hope, desire, life, family, history, and politics, too.

If one of the marks of a great book is that it teaches you things without being pedantic, makes you feel powerful emotions without being maudlin, and keeps you turning the pages without relying on cheap tricks, then there’s no question that The Human Stain is a great book.

It also got inside my head in strange ways, compelling me to act out just a little bit in the admirably sociopathic manner of its main character, Coleman Silk.

The only complaint I might have about the book is the somewhat stereotypical post-traumatic stressed Vietnam vet character that Roth uses to effect the novel’s denouement, but he manages to pull it off without going all Stephen King on us.

So now, I’m reading Letting Go, and already, I can’t put it down.

All In My Head

Nature has gifted me with five charming and useful sensory receptors (although the olfactory has always seemed like something of a poor relation, especially when compared with the visual or auditory), but I sometimes wonder whether they’re not all essentially overkill, given that—like everybody else on the planet—my experience of the world is far more governed by what happens between my ears than whatever it is out there that’s actually stimulating my senses.

I live, as I assume do the vast majority of my human brothers and sisters, in a sort of fantasy world constructed out of hopes and dreams, fears and desires, memories and imagined scenarios, laden with all sorts of possibilities, most unrealized, that drive me to think and behave in response to stuff that never really happened, probably never will happen, and certainly won’t ever happen in the manner I envision when I roll the made-up motion picture in my head time and again for my viewing pleasure.

The so-called “problem of other minds,” the philosophical puzzle that has us pondering how we can possibly know that other human beings are not just really sophisticated robots is supposedly solved by analogy: I know I have a mind and behave certain ways; other people’s behavior is relevantly similar, so they must have minds, too—but even so, I don’t think any of us can really assert that we know what’s going on inside someone else’s head; in fact, it’s probably a stretch to say with certainty what’s going on inside of our own—at least it is for me.

I think.

I know how easily it is to be emotionally moved by fiction—heck, I even cry at animated movies—and so it’s probably no surprise that my feelings are so easily tossed to and fro by stuff that I make up, but you’d think that, as the maker-upper, I’d have a better perspective on it.

But, of course, that’s just my fantasy.

The Christpocalypse

It sure was nice of God to do His immaculate conceiving in springtime so that His human form son would be born in winter, thereby assuring that 2109 years later, in the darkest days of December, we’d all have reason to celebrate, and the end result would be another fine Christmas disaster, complete with muddy nighttime bike racing, hot toddies, and baby powder right in the face, blinding you, but making everyone smell so clean and fresh that you’d want to wrap the whole evening up in a warm blanket and cuddle all the way through the holidays if it weren’t for the fact that there were still two or three more thrilling and dangerous events to survive before settling in for gift-giving and soul-baring and all this before eight o’ clock on Saturday night.

All I want for Christmas is the video recording implant, so I can play back on the insides of my eyelids a few of the visions dancing like sugarplum fairies in my head: the snaking line of red taillights bouncing through the sex trails at Volunteer Park; the meandering but quickly accelerating descent through Interlachen and down to the soggy Montlake playfield; bikes slipping sideways in the muddy soup of the oval track while I took fourth place by cutting across the grass.

I’d like to review the tapes of the gift exchange, too, so I could see how I lost the Ahearn flask and holder and ended up with some sort of weird kitchen or bar contraption that will, I promise, find its way back into the mix for someone else’s comfort and joy next year.

Minor catastrophe, success: we didn’t exactly get kicked out of the bar, but we were asked to leave so cleaner people in uglier sweaters could have their room, which frankly, was a gift, since it resulted in one more bike ride, to a place beyond disaster, where the stars always line up and twinkle catastrophically.