Wednesday, June 30, 2004

my head is swimming

Last night my friend Matt and I tried once again to catch Fahrenheit 9/11 at the 7:30 show at two theaters, and they were both sold out. We ate Mexican and picked up some tall boys to drink at my place.

I got home (by bike) before he got to my place in his car. The cell rang and I took the call from Shannon that had been bouncing around for the past couple months.

At first she couldn't believe that we had contact, and then she began to forge a conversation. She was really trying to be nice. She said that she had seen me on my bike on my commute, but hadn't been close enough to stop me. Apparently - by chance - each time she'd seen me it had been on days that she had tried to contact me.

She asked me where I had been all of this time, and I responded "Chicago." She bled me for a bit of information about what had been going on, and why we hadn't spoken. I was vague. She kept being super nice. She told me that she and Ricky (Ricky is her Yorkshire Terrier. Ricky is the shit... a very clever, totally passive aggressive and often funny 4 lb. dog. Ricky loves me, and I have missed that little man a great deal) have missed me and have wanted to see and spend time with me.

She wanted to know when I would be available. I told her that Wednesday (tonight) is my only night available for the next week, so tentatively after she closes Nick's, we're meeting up.

I don't know my approach. I think that I'm going to be honest and direct with her, and may have to tell her to stop contacting me.

Thank God that Matt was over. I've been friends with that guy since I was 11, and it's a great thing that he's living in Chicago right now. We spoke about the conversation, and the situation (which he has witnessed from the start to... now). He knows what this is like because he had a somewhat similar experience a couple of years ago.

His primary advice: fuck what she thinks, do what you have to do, don't worry that her feelings may be hurt by a hardline solution.

Fucking shit. I'm going to go swim some laps in the pool. It's 85 degrees and sunny. My head is swimming.

Monday, June 28, 2004

the speed of this year

I'm shocked by the speed of this year. It's a week off from the 4th of July. A lot has happened in the past six months, but has approached at crawling speed... left its mark... and dashed.

Scrolling the phone list on my cell, virtually all of my friends have had something life changing happen... or are in an entirely different place now than they were six months or a year ago. It's fucking fascinating. It may be the age - 30 seems to be a dog leg in the life cycle... or at the very least, a self-imposed mental psyche out:

"where am I?"
"who am I?"
"what've I got?"
"who am I with?"
"how come I'm not the person I wanted to be at 30 when I was in high school?"

Shit, what a wank off.

I realized this weekend - while in discussion after about 11 beers at a kegger - that most of the problems that I wrestle with are based on philosophical and ethical debate. I do not mean for that to sound the least bit intellectual or self-obsessive (yet at the same time, this weblog is all about me, which kind of negates the "this is not self-obsessive" claim), rather that I don't have any real problems. I should shut the fuck up and be happy for what I've got.


I'm excited about the coming month. At the end of the week I'm going to travel back up to Winona, MN to spend the holiday weekend with Eric. Kyaking, fishing, biking, smoking, grilling, time killing... and I'm getting a sweet bike out of the deal. The stable is filling. It's a long drive (6 hours), that I'll hate, so I'm breaking it up: 2 hours to Janesville/remaining 4 the following morning. I wonder if I'll be bothered by memories of my last trip up with Shannon. That was a good time, even if I did suffer a secret anxiety attack the first night lying on the floor. Pull a tube, held by the girl and it passed..

The following weekend Rick is supposed to be back in the city. The weekend after is the all night bike ride through Chicago. The weekend after that I'm road tripping through Colorado.

Fuck yeah.

Sunday, June 27, 2004

he's a fucking rabid dog

Friday morning the borrowed bike failed at the corner of Racine and Fullerton. It was the chain, as I'd been warned. My hands were covered with fresh oil fucking with thing and the hour was closing in. I gave up on the chain and wheeled the bike three blocks to the Fullerton stop and caught the train in, arriving to work five minutes early.

Friday evening Matt and I decided to catch Fahrenheit 9/11 at the Davis. We figured on the 10 pm show. Matt came over with Lisa around 8:30, and we walked to the show, but it was sold out. Instead, we picked up a couple bottles of wine and had dinner at Sabor a Cuba. It was excellent. Afterwards we spun a record, drank the second bottle and played some foosball.

Saturday I called Shannon back (I'd dialed her on Thursday evening around 7 pm, but she was at work, and called me back around 10:45 pm... saying that she'd "be out of work in a half hour, and to give her a call," but I was already asleep). Once again (heart in my throat) got her voice mail, and decided to go retrieve the bike at the Fullerton stop. Unlocked it, jumped back on the train, got it home and fixed the fucked up chain. I decided to get new road tires and a new tube for my vintage Schwinn Typhoon ( the bike in the picture is blue/my Typhoon is green. I'm still restoring it. At some point, I missed Shannon's return call by about 15 minutes. I called back, but got the fucking voice mail again, so I left a message. After replacing the tires and cleaning the chain, plus adjusting the seat, I took the Typhoon for a spin down the lakefront from Wilson to Belmont harbor and back.

About 5 pm I went to Mondi's party at Kelly's Pub and started to drink off the tap. E called and eventually showed... and long story short, that uncontrollable drunk Brian pulled some shit and he and I stepped outside. He was wrong, I was standing up for E, it was broken up before it came to blows. I never liked that guy... he can't handle his drinking and he's violent and unpredictable. Nothing's changed since college. I can't believe that his total sweetheart wife Katie married him. Katie's such a nice girl that even after she and my friend Shawn stopped dating, she would still occasionally bake cookies and bring them over to me at my house for no reason. Brian doesn't deserve her. Further, the helmet boy actually considers he and I friends since the mid-90's. I've never trusted his unpredictability or snap sudden violence. This is a New York City guy who really should have gotten his ass handed to him years ago... but who wants to fuck with him? he's 6'4" 240 lbs and jacked. Violent alcoholics should avoid Red Bull and vodka... it's like a potent combination of cocaine and gasoline. Violent alcoholics should also avoid Rage Against the Machine ("killing in the name of!"). Brian's insane. He's a fucking rabid dog.

This morning I got up around 9 am and gathered my shit to drive up to Wisconsin to see my sister, in town visiting from Colorado. She flew in for her 24th birthday and to catch two Phish shows at Alpine Valley. I was in Chicago traffic when Shannon called at 10 am, but I didn't take it because I drive stick, and the fuckers in Chicago drive aggressive. Her message apologized for the phone tag and that she was headed to the Pride Parade. I don't know what to think or say... we haven't spoken for a couple months, and that ended kind of bad, and haven't seen each other since early April.

I got back to Wisconsin in just under two hours. Diana had a friend staying with us named Kevin, who's a private pilot based out of Los Angeles. He teaches private flight lessons and works with swordfish fisherman on the side... spotting swordfish in the Pacific and then sending the fisherman the GPS coordinates. He gets 35% of the take, with the fish getting $7 a lb... a couple $1000 per fish. He flew here from L.A. with a young girl who's getting in her hours. He's flying back tomorrow. Real interesting conversation, and a nice guy.

I'm fucking tired. I'm going to wash the car and walk the German Shepard.

Thursday, June 24, 2004

I always enjoy dressing down

Last night E called me at work and wanted to get a drink. I was in a sour mood (as usual. dick!). I wanted to look at the rich people, so we went to that lame joint Melvin B's on Rush. It didn't disappoint. So many fucking wannabe celebrities swarming about. Even the waitstaff's main currency is their looks. I always enjoy dressing down at such places and catching elitist attitudes from total nobodies. Such fun.

About 8:15 E mentioned live music and I recalled that The Streets were playing the Metro at 9. We jumped the red line and continued our masochistic lashings from the previous night. It was more fun in public. It was even more fun when we were the only white people on the train. E licked her index and middle finger and lashed away at my wrist and forearm, leaving red marks. A little boy, maybe three years old rode the train with his mother and laughed and laughed at E lashing my forearm. I hope that it's his first lasting memory: watching two cracker ass crackers lash each other for no apparent reason on the train.

We got tickets at the door. Mike Skinner had a live band of bass, drums and keyboards plus a real rapper to fill-in where he was weak. The show was hot. It was one of those controlled spontaneous nights that I live for. The beer went down easy.

Afterwards we had a few drinks and I allowed E to believe that just being friends was her idea and not because I hadn't made a move on her or showed her any real attention for weeks.

Wednesday, June 23, 2004

ride the wave till it crashes the shore

Last night my friend Rick and his brother Bill came over to drink beer and play foosball. Rick's taking off for Michigan today, so I gave him three pictures I'd had blown up from our visit to Los Angeles to see Shawn back in March. They left around 12:30.

Today it's fuckin nice out, so I'm going to go swimming at the pool in a few. It's an excellent oasis in the middle of the city... populated by office girls with fake tits, kept women and various creepy types stealing an hour away in the summer sun.

I've decided to contact Shannon at some point this week. I'm confused (as usual) about what to think or say about the whole thing. My guard is up. I'd like to communicate without fear of manipulation. I've been burned, so it's difficult to take what she says or the way she acts at face value. I don't trust her. Yet, oddly, she seems to need me. She tells me that she loves me and I believe her,.. she's just got such a fucked up version of what that is. This shouldn't make me feel this sick and she shouldn't even still be on the radar after all of this time. I'm cursed by bad karma. I've got to ride the wave till it crashes the shore.

humans and organizations

movements crash, organizations breakdown and ideologies are betrayed because of the human element.

humans breed inefficiency because nobody wants to do their job.

Tuesday, June 22, 2004

rocket fuel in drinking water

So, I ran across this article online today... and it's incredible.

SAN FRANCISCO -- Young children and pregnant women who drink milk from California cows may be exposed to unsafe levels of a toxic chemical used in rocket fuel, according to a new study by an environmental group.

yes, rocket fuel.

The EWG did not call for Californians to stop drinking milk or giving it to their children, but said it does advocate tougher standards for perchlorate.

yeah, nothing to worry about here... it's only rocket fuel...

Perchlorate has been found in drinking water in more than 20 states, including California, which has extensive ties to the military, defense industry and the space program. The chemical has been detected in the Colorado River, the major source of drinking water and irrigation in Southern California and Arizona.

It's in the drinking water of Arizona and Southern California.

Researchers are divided about the effects of perchlorate on mental development and what exposure levels are safe.

hmm... is it bad to have fucking rocket fuel in drinking water?

A recent study by the University of California, Irvine, found that healthy adults were not harmed by levels as high as 100 parts per billion of perchlorate. But the study did not draw conclusions about perchlorate's impact on pregnant women, children and infants.

I'm totally safe! Sweet!

cancel my subscription to the resurrection...

the constant threat of a swift and effective beatdown

So I'm riding home last night in the rain up the traffic-packed Lincoln Avenue. A jackass in a sedan slowly slowly slowly doesn't look in his rearview and inches into the right lane (no signal), forcing me to the curb with him. I brake, let him inch his five feet to the curb, then pull around him and scold him in a menacing tone "Watch where you're driving". The pussy didn't acknowledge, just stared ahead, hands gripping the 10 and 2 position on the wheel. I don't believe in swearing at people in public. I think it's rude. Besides, at 6'3" 195 lbs., I can pretty much get my point across with direct eye contact and tone of voice. It's like scolding a dog. These are the benefits of being a large boy... the constant threat of a swift and effective beatdown.

I kept feeling the bike's back end shimmy with each crank of the pedal. The bike didn't feel solid. This was dangerous. I pulled over to the curb to examine and then walked it to On The Route. The mechanic there noticed that the welding on the swing arm had busted off and that a fine crack in the metal was forming. This was fucked up! Here's my options:

1. Trek may accept this as a warranty repair due to human error in the welding and replace the swing arm, or at the very least repair it.

2. Eric may sell me a Klein frame which he would strip my Trek down and re-build the Klein. I would effectively get a better bike with the same components.

Either way, I am out at least $100. This bike has been costly this year.


E came over last night pretty much hell bent on getting answers about what I want from her. I'm so bad at this kind of confrontation. By night's end we ended up talking about the troubles with my head and Shannon, and she stayed overnight on the couch. A friendly solution I suppose. Next: deciding how to approach and find some kind of resolve with the Shannon issue because it is still bothering me. Fucking still.


Today I'm listening to Stereolab: Sound Dust.


I spoke to Eric last night. The trip to Colorado is shaping up to fucking rawk. He's buying an RV and we're hitting the fucking road with his dog Sagan and exploring parts of Colorado high and low. This is exactly what I need: a straight up 4 day road trip into the mountains with mind altering substances, a bike, an RV, a trusty sidekick and athletic as fuck dog, single snapshot camera, and the road ahead. I really hope that we run across UFO... I'd like to fuck a space girl.

Monday, June 21, 2004

coastal cut-throat! you dirty switch, you're on again!

So it's raining today. It wasn't raining this morning, but it's raining today. It will be raining in an hour and a half when it's time to ride the seven miles home. But that's ok, because I don't fuckin care/because I'm hardcore.

Led Zeppelin's Rain Song is a favorite. I always play it when I run across it on bar jukeboxes. I also always play The Beatles' Daytripper, Radiohead's Dollars and Cents and Pearl Jam's Last Exit. The rest of the time I blindly choose whatever and sip down another pint.

I can easily kill several hours sipping pints, throwing darts, smoking cigarettes, shooting pool and pulling one hitters in the men's room (blow it out the exhaust) at a bar. For a time it was one of my favorite ways to spend an afternoon or evening. I could do it at least once a week. Considering the Irish and German blood, plus genetic code engineering a two-fisted shit-talking chronically-unemployed alcoholic meeting his end before sixty, this sort of thing is my heritage, bitch.

Yesterday was a long wasted day at my parent's place. I cut the lawn for my dad because it was getting long and because I'm sure that he didn't want to do it. I hadn't cut a lawn in over a year. It took me about 45 minutes to push the mower through the half acre. Easy. I'm skilled from way back.


Work today is boring. The designer just left because there isn't shit to do. Idle hands are evil hands.


This morning I listened to The Breeders: Last Splash on the ride in. It's fucking great, 10 years old and timeless. Kim Deal hijacked all of the elements that made the Pixies great: surf guitar, distortion/feedback, solid beats and guitar hooks and her angelic voice; and showed us why Black Francis isn't half the shit we thought he was, or the Pixies were, without her creative input. The disc plays through effortlessly, but I'm partial to Hag:

Hag! Coastal cut-throat!/You dirty switch,You're on again

All night, all night, all night

Under the stars/Under their light/All over the girl/Only looks bright

You're just like a woman
You're just like a woman
You're on again

But some...times/Under the stars/Under their light/You're everything right

You're on again!/Under the stars/Under their light/All right/All right.

Sunday, June 20, 2004

hand to hand combat techniques

I've been listening to a lot of stone roses lately. I listened to bit of British rock back in the late 80s/early 90s - charlatans uk, stone roses, what became new order.. it seems like most of the front men went for a mick jagger 1967 look and all of the bands around the period aped the stone roses sound and image. Whatever, the licks and beats stand up. And unlike other bands of the Manchester period, the lyrics are coherent, fresh and biting...

take "she bangs the drums":
I can feel the earth begin to move/I hear my needle hit the groove/And spiral through another day/I hear my song begin to say/Kiss me where the sun don't shine/The past was yours/But the future's mine/You're all out of time..

or, better yet, "I Am The Resurrection":
Down down, you bring me down/I hear you knocking at my door and I can't sleep at night/Your face, it has no place/No room for you inside my house I need to be alone

Don't waste your words I don't need anything from you/I don't care where you've been or what you plan to do

Turn turn, I wish you'd learn/There's a time and place for everything I've got to get it through/Cut loose, you're no use
I couldn't stand another second in your company

Don't waste your words I don't need anything from you/I don't care where you've been or what you plan to do

Stone me, why can't you see/You're a no-one nowhere washed up baby who'd look better dead/Your tongue is far too long/I don't like the way it sucks and slurps upon my every word

Don't waste your words I don't need anything from you/I don't care where you've been or what you plan to do

I am the resurrection and I am the light/I couldn't ever bring myself to hate you as I'd like/I am the resurrection and I am the light/I couldn't ever bring myself to hate you as I'd like

fuck,.. that's about the ultimate "fuckin take off" lyric... floating above a solid base line. I'm sick of being disregarded and pissed. I'm sick of being sullen and a bit selfish and mean. This is no good for me. In the end I miss the stone roses. They imploded.


Friday night my back wheel kept fucking shimmying on my bike. Earlier I'd thought that it was the back mud fender I'd purchased catching the wind,.. But I'd removed that, and the fucker was still shaking. I was feeling a loss of control and this was becoming slightly dangerous. I pulled over to examine and saw that the back tire was worn and beginning to swell... Too many miles. So, I rode a block to On The Route on Lincoln/Belmont and picked up a Bontrager. Examining the front tire, I could see that it was slowly losing it as well. I have to replace that this next week as well. Fuck.

I went to Rick's and we grilled on the roof of his condo - 10 stories above the west loop on the 900 block of Van Buren, with an unrestricted 360 view of the entire downtown, plus miles into the distance facing south/west/north... Spectacular pink and light blue sunset. He and heather move on Wednesday... I'm going to miss them. There go the regular scrabble games, as well as real challenge chess and foosball. Fuck. After grilling we drove the bike back to my place with a cooler of High Life, had a smoke and then played foosball and listened to the stone roses until 2:00 am. Rick forgot the cooler, so he'll have to stop by for one last foosball series and kill the remaining 6 or 7 cans of beer.

Saturday I got up at 9:30 and drove to Wisconsin to attend my cousin Melissa's wedding in Madison. She's a 34 year old wallflower who's now married to Don, a 39 year old 1970's Vietnamese boat person who works for the CIA (his side of the family believes that he is an engineer for the "state department"). I bet that he could kill a room of men with his hands. My cousin Beth and I agreed that he, with his 5'9" 140 lb build, is probably an expert at judo (and without doubt other hand to hand combat techniques), as well as small fire arms and possibly even explosives.

Most of Don's family lives in Paris, France, so there were several 50 year old Europeans in attendance. I helped one of them make a hotel reservation in Chicago for this next week, and he took my address down so that he could send me a tie from Paris out of gratitude (now all I need to do is learn how to tie a tie on my own). We agreed in broken English that red was a good color to choose. The 50 year old Europeans were kick ass once the DJ started to work... dancing to the dance floor and shaking their ass to Ludacris. It was like there was such a thing as cool middle aged people.

Beth told me some war stories about her husband Todd, a captain in the US Army Reserves, and his second tour going on right now in Iraq. He told her that one afternoon he and seven US soldiers were standing guard at an Iraqi parade (numbering the thousands), and that there were several young Iraqi men walking down the parade with AK-47 assault rifles. One of them approached a US soldier and pointed the gun at the soldier's leg. Todd told his soldier to not react, fearing a quick onslaught that would ended up killing them all. The Iraqi then raised the rifle to the soldier's face. Todd again told him not to react. The Iraqi then pointed the rifle to Todd's head. Todd drew and cocked his .45 sidearm and stuck it in the Iraqi's face. After a couple of tense seconds the Iraqi lowered the rifle and walked away. Todd told Beth that he had never been as scared in his life.


I bought flight tickets to Denver for 22 July - 30 July to visit my sister and Eric and Jacque. The trip will involve hiking, smoke, biking, camping, roadtrips, staring at the stars from a mountain and a much needed general re-charge. Looking forward to it.


I've got a couple of phone calls to make this week that I've been putting off. I'm not really interested in making either. They both grate my nerves and give me butterflies. I wish shit were easier.

Friday, June 18, 2004

has got me spooked

fuckin shit.

Johnny Ramone is in the hospital due to a prostate cancer-related infection. The Ramones are exiting this universe at a rapid pace.
Joey Ramone died in 2001 of lymphatic cancer and bassist Dee Dee Ramone OD'd 2002.

"Tattoo your name on my arm/I always said my girl's a good luck charm/If she can find a reason to forgive/then I can find a reason to live" -Ramones/I Believe in Miracles


so I haven't called E back yet. I have to soon, this is rude. She deserves to hear it as opposed to wondering "what the fuck gives?" Shannon calling me the other morning has got me spooked a bit as well (I was doing good),.. I think she's thinking of last summer also. I don't know where to go with this, or whether to even call back. I don't want to be in a vulnerable spot, and I don't want to hate her. I'm better at avoidance.


I'm thinking about taking my bike on the Amtrak train to Colorado to visit my friends eric and jacque and my sister on 23 July - 30 July. It's $200 roundtrip. Flights right now are the same, but cargo fee for the bike may be extra. The bike is key. I'm bringing it, regardless. The bitch is the train. The train is a psychological endurance test... survived only by exhaling smoke into the jet exhaust toilets on the ground level. This particular train trip is only overnight, but it's alone, which makes it worse because the train is only used by white trash, the Amish and the terminally stupid. But bike cargo is only $15 extra each way. Plus: biking in Colorado in July. yesss.


tonight I'm going to rick and heather's moving away party. Tomorrow morning I'm picking up my dry cleaning and driving to Wisconsin to attend my cousin's wedding. She's marrying a CIA agent. I decided to cancel E a couple weeks ago when (among other annoyances) I decided that I'd rather fly solo than take her to a family party. That told me where my head was at.


I've been listening to a bit of John Frusciante lately. He placed a ton of free mp3s on his site (, and a majority of it is really interesting... mostly 4 track demos with acoustic guitar and cheap-o drum loops. Much, much better than the shit he was recording in a drug haze in the mid-90's. That shit sounded like heroin.

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

tuesday night

Last night I met my friend Matt at Village Cycle. He'd purchased a new bike the night before and was picking it up.

Of all of the bike stores in the city, I like that one the least. The employees have a huge chip on their shoulders, yet I understand why: stop in on any Saturday or Sunday afternoon and you'll find hordes of yuppies ordering the staff around like they're "the help" and blindly buying expensive bikes that they won't ride with gold cards.

To work for $10 an hour and see the types of people who wouldn't give you a second glance on the street purchase shit that would take you months to pay off is a big pill to swallow. So, my advice Village Cycle People: drop the attitude and work at a different store, or increase that attitude ten fold and go be a messenger.

After Matt rolled his bike outside, we rode up North Ave. to his apartment. He was fuckin stoked to have a bike again (his got stolen this spring), and said that the ride felt good. I'm fuckin glad to hear that because I'll need a riding pal once Rick takes off.

I stopped by Rapid Transit to pick up some bike lube for my chain. This White Lightening stuff kind of sucks, and the dude at the store told me that he thought it was shit because it apparently flakes off constantly and needs to be re-applied often. Whatever, new lube.

I mentioned that I was looking for a track bike but didn't want to spend something like $1200. He got an interested look on his face and asked if $600 was too much. I said no, and he showed me this wicked yellow 63 cent. track bike. Further, he said that I could put a 25% ($150) layaway deposit down and then pay the shit off when I could. I looked at the bike. I recalled my checking account. I had to get out of there.

It's got me thinking today about it. I could sell the two Pixies tix on e-bay for at least $150 (maybe more) and have the down-payment. Then, I may be able to do some creative budgeting and get the bitch by the first of July. This would fuck up any July vacation to Colorado (but not August)... fuck, these are my problems.

I saw a yellow track bike on the street today. It was fly.

Afterwards my parents called for our weekly 10 minute conversation (8 minutes of mom, and then I get sick of her busy body constant critiques of people I don't know/relatives,.. followed by 2 minutes of dad talking about the dog, the weather, or my job). I got off quick to have a smoke and clean the place.

My place is a mess: empty beer bottles on the tables, ashtray full of white cigarette filters, fucking DIRT(?) on the floor,.. the joint needs a serious cleaning. The joint still needs a serious cleaning, as all I did was spin a record (Beastie Boys Hello Nasty) clean and re-oil the bike chain, and toss the beer bottles in my haze. Then I passed out. Tuesday night.

I still have to officially lose E. I haven't called her, she's probably justifiably pissed. Maybe these few days has given her the time to accept what I haven't brought up yet,.. so she can either be combative or cool about it. I'm not sure which, I'll accept either.

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

crazy samurai fuck

Last Saturday:

My friend Dave came into the city with his bike so that we could ride to Grant Park to see the Blues Fest.

Two items of note:

Dave went to get us beers while I stood with the bikes. A girl came up to me out of the crowd and gave me a handful of free passes to Scores gentleman's Club. I looked at her. She was a stripper. But not the surgically enhanced kind of stripper - rather the skank kind that looks like she was raised in an apartment building. She smiled at me and walked on. Dave came back with the beers. I showed him the passes and then handed them to a wealthy looking middle aged white couple and said "I don't need these." The old gent looked at the passes laughed and showed his wife who gave me the thumbs up. Cool! Cool rich white people! We need more of them.

On the ride back north we rode past some crazy D&D motherfucker wearing a full-on samurai costume, complete with wooden sword. He looked like motherfuckin Tom Last Samurai Cruise, bitch. He was out for a jog in full uniform on the lake front. I've seen this crazy samurai fuck before, and he always says something aggressive to me like "get your bike off of the running path!" or "move over!" This happens once every eight to ten weeks.

We rode past him and he said some shit and may have spit at me. Further up the path we pulled over for an ice cream sandwich, crazy samurai fuck run past and yelled "get your bike out of the running lane asshole!" I'd had enough. We got back on our bikes and I advanced the frame on my disposable camera, rode slowly past the crazy samurai fuck and carefully snapped a picture. Crazy samurai fuck freaked out and began to run full stride, pulling his wooden sword for attack and shouted "you fucking nazi! fuck you! fucking nazi!" Dave shot past to catch up to me and said that a black guy rode past crazy samurai fuck who shouted "what are you looking at criminal?"

I think I won this round, getting a photo of this crazy fuck in his lame ass samurai costume running around in public. Dummy.


I hung with my friend Rick and his girl Heather last night. We rode down to the Miracle Mile and fucked off. It was good times. Then rode north to play some foosball. Those took off around 1:45. They're moving to Michigan in a couple of weeks and it bums me out. Rick has become me best mate these past couple of years. Shit changes in directions I don't want them to go in.


Monday, June 14, 2004

Beastie Boys: To the Five Boroughs


I've been listening through this, and it's just not grabbing me.

That pisses me off a bit because I've always liked the beasties. Maybe it's because I'm 30,.. maybe it's because they're all about 37 years old by now,.. but this just doesn't have the innovation or the imagination and certainly not the lyrics that they had on earlier releases.

This is average at best.

I have excellent memories of being in hot as hell Madison house parties in the middle of July drinking and smoking in the early hours with the Ill Communication in the background...

Or hearing Hello Nasty for the first time on the beach in Milwaukee, and then seeing them in the round with Tribe Called Quest a couple days later.

Maybe they're older/maybe I'm older. This kind of sounds like reaching to the Old School beats and roots because of lack of inspiration. This makes me miss the acid jazz (for real).

Oh yeah, and I didn't laugh once at any of their samples or jokes.

It's almost like hanging out with few years older uncle who you swore was the shit when you were young and now realize that he's just a reaching old tired aging hipster with nothing new to say and no idea how to say it.

This gets a solid C

sorry fuckers

On Friday night I met my friend Rick at a bar with a pool table after work. My friend E called me to ask what was up and then invited herself along. I didn't want to hang around her, but accepted that she was on her way over. After holding the table for four or five games, we decided that Rick was going to ride his bike to my place, and that I'd meet him there after I took the train. E came along.

On the train north E asked what we were up to and I told her that we were going to see an improv comedy show that my friend Chris was playing in, and then may go to a party in Lincoln Park. I asked what she was doing. She said "oh, I'm going to meet a friend out for dinner. You don't know him" I'd looked at my watch 10 minutes earlier so I knew that it was already around quarter to 8. Further, I knew that this was a line of shit because she'd made no mention of, or even appeared to be hurried to get home (including now on the train).

I told E that she was invited to tag along with me and Rick if she wanted, and she quickly agreed. I waited five minutes before mentioning that she should probably cancel her dinner plans with her friend and she admitted to lying! I told her that that was a super weak lie and that those sort of games won't ever work. Can't she figure out by my actions that I don't care? How stupid! I'd already started to think that E was kind of dumb, but this was a legitimate turn off.

Anyways, I'd been thinking about losing E for the past few weeks,.. Such as when I'd decided that I'd rather attend my cousin's wedding next week solo instead of bringing E,.. And when I'd started to catch myself rolling my eyes behind her back when she's made a stupid or otherwise totally obvious observation.

I think I'd rather be a bitter prick on my own as opposed to this uncalled for extended passive aggression on a poor dumb girl who really just wants a boyfriend. I just haven't given her the slip yet.

Instead, I've taken her out of her comfort zone.

Friday evening Rick and I decided to ride from 4500 north to the show (located 800 north in the west loop), meaning that E would also be riding. I knew that she wasn't really used to this (city riding in city traffic), but didn't think she'd be so fucking slow. She doesn't know how to properly ride her bike. And her backpack is small, designer and lame. I had to trail behind her at a super slow speed while Rick darted off blocks ahead of us. I could tell that she was pissed, but kept a good game face on.

After the show it had rained really hard, and was still coming down a bit. Rick and I (especially) enjoy riding in the city at night in the rain. It can be super fun. Again, E kept her game face on even though I could tell she was pissed that she was stuck in the rain on her bike. I'm sure she was wondering what her friends were up at that moment: most likely at some lame southport bar drinking lame bottles of Bud Light and getting chatted up about lame subjects by lame investment bankers who were already drunk at 10 pm with their lame frat brothers from their lame Big 10 university. Compared to riding in the rain, soaked and fucked up makeup, I'm sure that other scenario sounded about right-on for E.

Anyways, we got to the bar in Lakeview to play some foosball and ended up drinking five or six pints of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Rick and I then rode back to my place and E placed her bike in a cab and had him drive her over. At home we continued to drink bottles from a late night 12-pack and listen to the Stone Roses. E had never heard them before but claimed to like them. I could only silently wonder "why are you here? All of this is my fault. I've got to cut this girl loose because this is getting mean."

So, both crashed over. Rick was gone when I woke up and I made E and myself some tea, then E rode home.

My friend Dave was over most of Saturday, so I cancelled on E's invite to go to some block party with her and her friends. I told her that I'd call her on Sunday, I didn't.

So, I'm going to have to tell her that it's not her it's me this week. What can I say? If it's not happening it's not happening. I shouldn't think that my girl is dumb. I shouldn't think that my girl has bad taste. My girl should know how to ride her bike.

There's probably other somewhat unrealistic qualifications that I demand, I just can't think of them right now. And, oh yeah, I have dated the girl I've described,.. The only real problem with that situation is that she's crazy in a zoloft-refill kind of way and can't emotionally or mentally handle any sort of real applied human relations. Damn you!

This blog has got to brighten up. Sorry fuckers.

Friday, June 11, 2004

all of the kids had guns

I was such a nice kid. I wonder when I turned into such a bitter bastard. I suppose that it was slow and gradual evolution leading me to here (yeah, it's that fuckin great).

I got my hands on a Daisy air rifle last night. I hadn't held one in at least seven years. It had the plastic stock and metal barrel that I remember. I pumped it up a few times and took steady aim. I've still got it. It made me recall the hours I spent walking through the woods with my friend Matt killing small animals. That sounds fucked up to someone who grew up in a suburb or city and spent their childhood kicking a ball against a wall, but I grew up in an area out of town, surrounded by acres and miles of wooded wilderness.

All of the kids had guns.

Everyday we'd shoot cans. And if there weren't cans, we'd shoot empty beer bottles. And if we didn't shoot empty beer bottles, we'd shoot chipmunks. And if we didn't shoot chipmunks, we'd shoot birds. And if we didn't shoot birds, we'd shoot squirrels. Sometimes we shot each other.

By estimate I have at least 50 confirmed kills.

I remember one summer afternoon killing five or six chipmunks and a couple of birds. I went home and cried and said to myself "I can't keep doing this...." I was 11 years old.


So, anyways, I continue to deal with insomnia and wake up nightly for a half hour around 3:30 am. I know what the problem is, and it causes me anxiety. The kind that itches on the inside and doesn't leave until you occupy yourself with some other thought or activity. It's a problem that hasn't gone away and I wish that it would because it's unresolved, it's fucked up and there's nothing I can do about it besides let go. It's caused nightly dreams that wake me to a reality that I wish I could change or have some sort of control over, but I don't. I don't want to be an angry 30 year old, but I kind of am. And it's making me occasionally mean spirited, disjointed and a dick. I should be openly curious and exploring, not burdened. It's my nature.


I found a great haiku online by a guy named Michael Mulder entitled:

Seven Haiku at Night in a Convenience Store
Gimme some fuckin'
Kool Filter Kings, you white punk.
And some damn matches.

Can I use your phone?
It's local. I'll hurry. Well,
why not, stupid-shit?

Hell, I be killin'
some white mutherfucker a
cuse me a stealin'.

Is that a bathroom?
No? Please, I really have to
bad. Oh, please. Let me.

Oh, my God, what time
is it? What city is this?
Where is my boyfriend?

Just fuck you and your
ugly white whore boss-lady
in the fuckin' ass.

Oh, my God, I am
so drunk. I am just so drunk.
I mean, I'm just drunk.

fucking brilliant.

Thursday, June 10, 2004

you don't know shit about Iraq

I ran across this link:

"For starters, you don't speak Arabic. In fact, there's a pretty good chance you don't even know someone who speaks Arabic. Further, you probably don't even know what percentage of Iraqis speak Arabic. I know for damn certain that you don't speak Kurdish."

"Eleventh, what little you do know, or what little you think you know, comes entirely from the mass media. Maybe a couple of times a week you will actually watch the news all the way through. You know more about "Friends" or the "American Idol," than you know bout recent events in Iraq."

"I'm only saying this so that you will stop pretending that you know the solution to "the situation in Iraq." You don't have a clue. Even if you did know all of the things I listed, you still would only have a cursory understanding of how to help "the situation." Even then, the best you could do was offer a semi-demi-psuedo educated guess about the best course of action that would be rife with sweeping generalizations and the lacking in significant evidence. Even then, you might as well use a dartboard."

It starts off as a rambling rant, but seems to tie it up and make sense by the end.

Alright, enough about that.

For the past two days I've spent an absurd amount of time ordering, negotiating and preparing TWO plaques for a Dr. Lazowski, recognizing him for "exceptional bravery and service". I've had to actually construct a wooden plaque with plexiglass and a certificate (nailing bolts through the plexiglass and certificate into the wood with a metal date stamper)... and negotiating getting a marble plaque engraved and delivered by next Monday with no rush charges attached. This is because my client likes to wait until the 11th hour to request jobs that should have been submitted a month ago.

Seems as if times are changing again this summer. I've got three friends moving away this summer, and I'm bummed about it. Kind of sucks, but time marches on.

I can't believe how different things were a year ago, and how far away and irrelevant those times seem now. Shit changes so fast.

Rained today so I didn't ride in. I'm fucking tired and have eaten three krispy kremes. I'm wearing a tie today. I look like a waiter at an Italian restaurant.

Wednesday, June 09, 2004

hack hacked

Today's wednesday. For the past three days I've been hacking up this horrible green/yellow shit from my lungs and throat. It's an accelerated self-cleansing of my body of the toxins of nicotine. It's also a bit painful.

See, I quit smoking about a month ago, but had a relapse over the weekend while I was out drinking. Over the course of six hours I smoked about 8 cigarettes. My body is paying me back.

This is an accelerated cleansing because it's been super hot and humid in Chicago this week (today is overcast/humid/90 degrees), and I've been riding my bike to and from work. Roundtrip it's about 15 miles. Considering all of the green tea (minimum of 40 oz/day) I've been drinking, the humid bike rides have got me sweating like never before. I am soaking wet when I get to work or get home and take the backpack off. Sometimes while I'm riding, sweat drips down the side of my face and into my ear canal, flooding that space between the CD headphones and my ear. I wonder if it's possible to electrocute myself directly to the head while on the bike. That would be fucked up.

Anyways, because I'm sweating so hard and riding so many miles, it's breaking up that sick film of shit that's collected in my lungs since I started smoking again last fall. I guess this means that I'm purifying myself and I should encourage this, but it's gross as hell.

Sometimes I get caught in a coughing/hacking fit and really work at dislodging the fucker because I can feel it loosening in my chest. When I finally feel it reach the back of my throat, the bitch is on the fence. That's when I enjoy spitting it with great velocity against a wall or the ground. Then I take a nice long look and snicker at the little demon seed.

Monday, June 07, 2004

face plant

Today I'm getting many good suggestions on how to deal with the "mark" on my forehead. I'm not talking about 666,.. the mark of the beast (that's hidden), I'm talking about the mofo gash on the left side of my forehead.

Story at work: over the handlebars roadrash..

True story: Friday night/early Saturday morning, I was at Christina's Place (home of the $2 pints of Guinness on the corner of Kedzie/Grace) at three in the morning with my friend Scott, his girlfriend, and Rick.

Scott's 5'2" girlfriend told me that she was a state-ranked wrestler in New England during high school, and could dead lift me. I told she couldn't do it/she told me that she could. She tried to and she failed. I landed a face plant straight to the floor and felt an immediate headache come on.

Fortunately I was wearing a hat, so my head wound is behaving more like a burn than a cut. In fact, I may have required stitches if it had been a clean cut.

I've been cleaning the wound with antiseptic and keeping it covered with a bandaid. Note: a strategically placed bandaid on your face is an excellent prop when shooting pool against strangers in bars. Nobody fucks with you.

In the elevator a nice lay suggested neosporin. I'm gonna go hit some up at the Jewel Osco right now. Use my Jewel Osco card,.. let the marketing database know that I bought neosporin at 10:30 in the morning, and save 20 cents in exchange for the information.

Off to Jewel Osco...

self destructive(?)

Timer set for self destruction?

I don't know much about the bloodline on my father's end. We don't talk about it. I do know this much: Granddad Burdick drank himself to death by 60. All of his brothers and his father met similar early deaths due to the bottle.

My father doesn't drink, and in fact gets dizzy on 3 beers,.. but the man has smoked Camel straights (filterless) for over 40 years. Ever try one? Pure toxin. Now that he's getting up there in age, he's decided to be better to himself and switched to Marlboro reds.

My genetic code has predisposition me to have a high tolerance rate for alcohol (great granddad on my mom's side was an infamous drunk who carried a pistol at the turn of the century for killing purposes), and I've found that I can easily stay with, if not outdrink many.

At the top of May over a couple tumblers of Canadian Club on ice, my friend Rick questioned why most of his crew were self destructive. Being a part of that pool, I asked if he thought that I was self destructive. Rick then began to list his reasons. Some of it sounded true, some of it was finger pointing. I was sure to volley back a few examples Rick's way, and we ended with a truce and a challenge: go the rest of the month without a drop of alcohol. Easy enough, Rick.

A week later Rick was over at my place and admitted that he'd had a couple beers over the weekend. I hadn't touched the stuff, so I won the bet and poured a pair of tumblers of CC on ice.

So, am I self destructive? I don't think so. If nothing else I seem to take things to the extreme in most directions. I'm quietly driven. But, it's gotten me what I want so far, so why fuck with it?

Friday, June 04, 2004

hyper links

So there's some truly bizarre shit on the internet.

some of it's funny/some of it's just creepy.

check these links:

(pictures of cats in jars)

(in the information age your most embarrassing 15 minutes are available on the world stage)

(hook up tips for computer hackers)

I also saw a disturbing, yet excellent movie this week called Bully... it was directed by Larry Clark, the photographer who filmed Kids. Like Kids, this movie has an almost creepy pedo-obsession with young bodies. All of the actors (and each is excellent) are just on 18, and there's a ton of gratuitous sex, violence, smoking drugs/dropping acid, and finally a bloody and savage murder (basically everything a 16 year old wants to see). The pacing is a slow burner, and the entire show is hypnotic. This is one of those movies that you want to recommend, but aren't sure if you should/because of the way you'll look to the pal you recommended it to (like a sick fuck).

Yeah, you know me.

operation: get your stalk on (may 04)

for an intimate glipse into my sad, sad life... read this exchange between me and my college friend Lauri.

"Operation: Get Your Stalk On"

out of general boredom/seeking some bit of excitement, i've begun "operation: get your stalk on (may 04)".

operation: get your stalk on involves this girl at my job. she's 5'8" or 5'9" slender blonde with runners legs and a pretty girl/kind of ugly girl face. she either dresses really sharp or looks super sloppy. she usually has a pissy look on her face. i never see her with anyone.. she's always either reading by herself or i've seen her in the cafe by herself. a couple of times last fall i saw her meet up for lunch with some business casual guy, but i haven't seen that since i decided to begin casually paying attention to her behavioral patterns a month or two ago.

i want to purposely meet her and talk to her and pick her head and crack the code: why doesn't she have any friends at work? is she really shy? is she a bitch? is she mentally ill? so far nobody i've asked even knows her name. she's been here at least as long as i have. i'll meet her and report.



OK- I love operation get your stalk on. I used to stalk big time in college for laughs or to see how far I could go with something- it usually led to some good drunken make out sessions. I kind of miss stalking.

I feel bad for this girl with no friends. Timmy I have no friends at work, a little bit because sometimes I can be shy around people I don't know but mainly just because the people I work with are totally LAME. Maybe your work chick would love just having someone down to earth say HI.

- Lauri



As of 0855 hours I have to abort operation: get your stalk on.

this morning i was running late and i got on the brown line (L) near the back of the train/i'm usually near the front.

and when we got to the southport (white bread yuppie) stop, i was standing at the door and my fucking target walked right in. she looked ok... she had her pissy bored bitch look going on.

and i was thinking "FUCK YEAH I'm going to get my stalk on right now." so i smiled at her and she smiled back and i said "good morning."

then then THEN i noticed the motherfuckin huge diamond engagement ring on her finger... which i hadn't noticed before, and i'm certain i looked.

so it added up... southport... pissy bored bitchy look... huge engagement ring... no friends at work...

my profiling/recon work paid off. my friend reuben said it best: "you threw it out to the universe and got your answer." (i mean the fuckin target walked right on to the motherfuckin train that i was running late on and i got to see her ring).

searching for a new target...

Thursday, June 03, 2004

Most stolen!

I drive a 1995 Saturn. Today I found out that 1 in 200 were stolen in 2003, making it the most stolen car in the country.

The 1995 Saturn SL received the dubious honor of being the most stolen vehicle of 2003, according to the most recent stolen vehicle report from CCC Information Services Inc. The CCC report is based on the number of vehicles thefts in 2003 compared to the number of registered vehicles and found that one out of every 200 1995 Saturn SLs registered was stolen last year. The 1998 Acura Integra and the 1994 Saturn SL were second and third on the list.

I'm baffled by this.

Believe me when I say that the ladies do not like the Saturn. I've found it to be an accurate barometer of a girl's future worth. For instance: the barely hidden look of disappointment, disgust and settling for the night when I roll up more often than not results in a girl that'll be out of contact within 10 days.

However, no mention of the lame car usually means that the girl looks beyond material possessions and naturally figures that I'm hung like a rhino.

Example of a lady hating the Saturn:

I went out with J maybe five times. She was a fellow MU grad (who I didn't know back in the day), and was quite impressed with herself for landing a consultant's job (what's a consultant? Go print yourself up a business card at kinko's with your name on it. Congratulations, you're a consultant) with a firm that flew her to silicon valley every week. Because the consulting firm paid for all of her food and lodging on the road, her salary paid for her condo and growing savings account. Additionally, all of her frequent flier miles and hotel credit allowed her to take a few European vacations every year for free (wait a minute... How do I get that job?). Oh yeah, and she was really hot.

So anyways, I rolled up to pick up the spoiled bitch in my Saturn (with a sunroof and cruise control) and immediately she asks "this car doesn't have power locks? Don't all cars have power locks?" I reminded her that when she finally got around to buying a car she should make sure that they had power locks (I brought this up because she was quite embarrassed that she didn't own a car. For real.).

Oh well she sucked. She did take me to a Bulls game that night, and I did notice that our seats were $95 each. We never called each other again after that night.

My last girlfriend didn't even bother to hate the Saturn. Her Jeep got totaled by a hit and run accident involving Mexican gangbangers (no insurance), and she hopped a cab and then never claimed the Jeep from the pound for fear of arrest. She wasn't much of a problem solver.

Wednesday, June 02, 2004

the streets

I picked up a copy of the The Street's hyped second CD A Grand Don't Come For Free, and it's excellent.

It's minimalist production and beats suit his somewhat thick british accent in this concept record about trying to return a DVD and spending time at an Ibiza burger stand, smokeing spliffs on his girlfriend's couch, bitching about a broken TV, sorting out his epilepsy pills, philosophizing about the nature of friendship and grumbling about the failures of mobile technology.

check this review:

Tuesday, June 01, 2004

the hell I live in

I'm 30 years old. I loved my last girlfriend. For awhile I thought she was going to stick around longer than she did... but with fucked up timing, backgrounds, motivation and a few cutting arguments,.. split.

So, here I am back amongst the late 20's/early 30's dating pool. It's a weird scene. Sometimes like being at a 4 am bar at bartime... sometimes free and good.

Anyways, if you're single and still can't get laid at 30, you should seriously consider rethinking your approach. None of us are getting younger, bobo,.. and for many, the first round picks have been taken. So, go younger or go for the damaged psychos your age.

So begins our tale: I met E before I met M. First mistake. E is a nice girl, definitely open to suggestion, but a bit insecure,.. M is half dutch/half german, was raised in Germany and moved here at 23 (6 years ago) and speaks 3 languages. M is also bad ass at foosball and more athletic than E. E is very into me, to the point of making a fool of herself on occasion. It's all very selfish on my part.

Anyways, there's this all night bike ride coming up. Recent e-mail exchange between E and I (E does get points for being a bit funny).

From: E
To: T
Subject: RE: The LATE Ride
Date: Tue, 1 Jun 2004 11:11:58 -0500

Should we sign up for the late ride now. Does it sell out really fast? I think M wants to do it too. Let me know.

From: T
Sent: Tuesday, June 01, 2004 10:35 AM
To: E
Subject: RE: The LATE Ride

sure, sign up now. it doesn't really sell out. you'll see, it's a couple thousand riders and they release them in 3 or 4 heats spaced out by 15 or 20 minutes. It's a lot of fun, but it's a pretty long ride. especially at the end after you get back to buck fountain for the breakfast/relax/massage,.. and then you have to ride all the way back to your place. I've found it best to cap the ride off with a group sleepover in any available waterbed.


From: E
To: T
Subject: RE: The LATE Ride
Date: Tue, 1 Jun 2004 11:29:14 -0500

And let me guess, you get to sleep between M and me. You have to pay for the baby oil.

From: T
Sent: Tuesday, June 01, 2004 12:09 PM
To: E
Subject: RE: The LATE Ride

good idea. I hadn't thought of that. I'll use my jewel osco card for xxxtra savings.


From : E
Sent : Tuesday, June 1, 2004 1:11 PM
To : T
Subject : RE: The LATE Ride

You know M was my New Years Eve date. We kissed at midnight. It was really hot. If your not a good baby oil boy we could just leave you out in the cold. You know all the slumber parties that girls had, they were really just lesbian love fests. The pillow fights in our nighties were really foreplay. It was training for later. All these years all of our girlfriends have really been our lesbian lovers. We really don't like boys at all. We're just trying to torture you. We are spawns of Satan.

single at 30 is bizarre