Wednesday, April 30, 2008

I Fall Apart


Apparently, this device, makes you ride really fast. It monitors your heart rate, miles, and a bunch of other useless crap. It's just a fad like that intranet thingie. Big Worm has one, as well as Frog Legs. I hate them. Worm, in case anyone is wondering, is on a serious training regimen. He is riding nine days a week, and I hate him. Micro hasn't ridden since Reagan was falling asleep in the White House. He was on the ride last night, and even though I didn't see it, I think he had one, hidden some where. I was looking for a cyanide pill, when I heard Mirco joking and laughing on one of the bad climbs, so I hate him. All this started with Silk. He talked and blogged about it so much, he made everyone else want one, so I hate him.
I have been riding 10-14 hours a week and I am still slow, so if you are reading this I HATE YOU!
I will be on eBay if anyone needs me (that I don't hate).
BASTARDS!!!!
W.B.Z.N.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Tres' Bien Ensemble


I have a long history of not getting the girl. I realized this, when I was looking at birthday cards for my wife. I landed on a "Sixteen Candles" audio card with a picture of the dude that played Jake, (google it, I'm tired) and Molly Ringwald, in the final scene. I was thinking of how many Molly's I have lost to Jake's. "I know This Much Is True" mocked me as the card opened.

Third grade; Tammy Tippens left me for Bobby Larrito because he had long hair.

Sixth grade; Tammy Reacer left me, for my best friend Andy, because he looked more like Peter Frampton, than I did. Thus ended my run of Tammy's

Tenth grade; Julie Johnson left me for Rich Vincik, because he got his license before me.

Eleventh grade; Rhonda Noyse left me for James Bell, because he had a Mustang.

When I met my wife, she was a waitress at the Flamingo Cafe'. She took one look at my leather coat, (with shoulder pads) the boots, bolo tie, and puffy shirt, and she asked me if I was a drug dealer. When I asked why she would think that, she told me that all musicians were broke, and since I had a new car and clothes, I must be subsidizing my income. I was working days, playing five nights a week, and I was really offended by these assumptions. I had to have her.

She was dating a guy named Dane (I know) he was nearly six feet tall and he looked like a model. Everything I lack in the looks department, he had spilling out of the bucket. They had been dating five years, and they lived together. I had no chance.

The thing I didn't know, was that he was a chump. He gambled, drank too much and had a roving eye (and other body parts). He committed the ultimate sin against women, he neglected her. Slowly, (eight months, but who's counting) I made in roads. I would rub her neck while she rolled silverware. I would give her a longing glance while singing U2 songs. We would accidentally meet at Finale's after work, and hold hands under the table. It wasn't long (eight months, but whose counting) before Dane (I know) was filling out a change of address form.

Michelle and I have been together for nineteen years. During that time, I have watched her grow from a shy wall flower, into an assertive business woman. She is the living embodiment of kindness and patients. She will spend money on gifts for friends and family, but I have to force her to buy clothes for herself. She lives with me, which guarantees her a good after life. How could you not love a girl, whose name is a Beatles song?

This Sunday is her birthday. Last year, she slept in a chair at the hospital, while I drooled in a neck brace. The year before that, she was away on business. This year, it is all about her. I am going to make sure she knows it's her day. She will never know what she means to me. I am always looking over my shoulder for some Dane (I know) to steal her away. You see kids, sometimes the funny little guy in the story, does get the girl.

W.B.Z.N.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Running In The Family


I arrived at the fairgrounds late. My brother Davey looked as though he had fought at Normandy all night. He politely had a few beers with me, until I thought the night was over. Later, he found his fellow Celtic performers, and they went at it, deep into the night. Now, he has a problem with his guitar. He is nervously fiddling with everything he owns, trying to get ready for the last set, of a long day.

My family is large, even on a Catholic scale. I am the last of seven. I always thought I came from a vicious lot, until I was old enough to read about the Irish. People that aren't Irish, read books like "Angela's Ashes" and they tell others its sad, and tragic. Irish people think it's hilarious, and it reminds them of their family. I thought the people in my family were sociopath's, turns out we are just Irish. There is always a dispute, a problem, or a grudge in our family. When you are not involved it is silly and petty. When you are, it is The Revolution, or The Crusades, with all the atrocities, hypocrisy, and body counts.

I looked around at the wreckage of the days festival. Vast men in kilts, on the down side of their enthusiasm, and their buzz, sat in heaps on picnic tables. I commented to my brother how stupid all this was. The real Irish, would think us all daft for pretending we were anything but, stupid over fed Americans. He sighed and tried to in vain to hydrate his twisted insides.

My Mother was a complicated woman. She served as W.A.V.E. in World War Two, raised seven children, and lost two. She was a great mother and a vindictive demon, when properly provoked. She loved to sing, and I never heard her sing out of tune. My father was in the Navy, and taught survival at Kaneohe, on the east side of Oahu. He was a salesman and the only truly religious person, I have ever known. He had a dry sense of humor, riddled with inside jokes. He was also emotionally withdrawn, and incapable of acknowledging accomplishment. He was quiet, stern and very patient. He knew a few songs on the ukulele. He looked like he was floating, when he did the Jitterbug, with my Mom. As a result of their parenting style, they produced seven people that can never get enough love, recognition or respect. As Don Henley once aptly sang, "for you, there is not enough love in the world". He must have met someone from my family.

Davey has been doing the same set since fire was discovered, and yet you would think he had never set foot on a stage. His nervous energy is so contagious, I have to walk away from him to get relief. A man comes up and asks him to remind the crowd there is still beer in the kegs. Davey, without missing a step, tells the man that if he brings him a Guinness, he will start with a toast, and the plug. The man heads off for the beer. Davey shoots me a wink. He can get a free drink anywhere.

There is a huge feud going on in my family. The details don't matter, the facts are irrelevant, the result is always the same. Some offence is committed, and the defendant is unforgivable. The plaintiff will bring up every crime, dating back to the moment they were brutally smacked on the ass, and initiated into the family.

I was counting the moments until I could make my escape from this horrid cliche, and get back to the safety of my recliner to watch the Sox. Davey takes the stage, and the house lights go off. I take a picture of him and when I look at the screen, my Fathers ghost appears. The furrowed brow, the protruding bottom lip, and that half grin, all exemplify our clan.

My brother Dennis is trying to throw baking soda on the problems. He is neck deep in the negotiations and calls me. I back away, put my hands up, and shake my head. I won't be drawn in this time. There is no favorable outcome. Like nuclear war, the only move, is not to move at all.

Davey makes his toast. It is eloquent and unknown to nearly everyone. I have never been to the land of my Grandfathers, but when Davey sings, I can taste the morning dew, see the gray North Sea, and the long green fields. That is the guitar, that echoed through our house, in Reading Massachusetts. That is the sound I heard in the attic room. Jimmy, Teddy, and David would send harmonies down the hall, like magic from another world. These were the first voices I ever heard sing. They are the reason I am a musician.

We never celebrate any victories in my family. We spend all our energy trying to get the spot light back on ourselves. We never show any sympathy for our siblings pains, we compare them to our own and dismiss them as trivial. If a compliment slips out, it is followed with an insult, to even the field. We are a bitter, self involved, mess. We also love each other, and at the drop of a hat, will give all we have to one of our own. We race to aid of our fallen.

Davey is playing "The Patriot Game". He gives me a look, and I know it's dedicated to me. I watch him and one of the Irish traits takes me over; the inability to stop tears from forming. I think of my parents, God rest their souls. I think of my brother Chris, surfing and playing golf this week, after getting a cancer death sentence last year. I think of how little I celebrate my wife and kids. I look up at Davey, and I see so much of my Dad, my brothers and my sister, in his face. I am overwhelmed. A die hard fan of Davey's hands me a flask and whispers " twelve year old Maccallan". I toast him and wonder why I haven't had it sooner. My brothers voice cracks, and adds to the drama of the song. I wipe my eyes, and the place erupts in applause.

I love my family. We are a flawed group. No one can infuriate me more than my own kind. No one else can save me when I am on my knees. We will never fix our differences, and we will never get along, but God help the poor bastard that gets between us. We take care of our own and the minute they recover, we attack them like hyenas. Were not sick, we're just Irish.

W.B.Z.N.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Dreaming


I think this model, in Mad Max flat black, would serve nicely. I will need a bush guard, and more lights.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Misty Mountain Hop


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I have been batting the around the idea of an epic trip, for a few years. It originated during the glory days of managing socialburn. I found myself running scenarios where I disappeared, and made the stress stop. Now that things are on the precipice of either heating up, or going profoundly wrong, with the band I am managing now, I find that the idea has come back to the forefront of my noodle.






The trip goes down something like this: I arrange to buy a car, yet to be determined but maybe a BMW Z4 coupe, or if there was a recent hit record, a Sportsmobile camper. I would take delivery in Seattle and start the trip. Definitely there will be bicycles, and maybe surf boards. I would head to Alaska and to a little town called Talkeenta. This is the town that the T.V. show Northern Exposure was based on. I would have to find a bush pilot that had a De Havilland Beaver seaplane, preferably a late 1940's model. I don't really lust after planes, but pre-World War II sea planes make me sigh. I don't care where the plane takes me, but it must involve a water landing, and a stay at a remote cabin, inaccessible to cars. I have to go to Roslyn Washington, to visit the town where Northern Exposure was filmed. I think a couple days visiting the locations of my favorite episodes, and a stay in the haunted bed and breakfast, would be a must. I would have to eat a meal and get drunk at "The Brick" the center of activity in the show.






From there I would head to Yellowstone, and stay in a real lodge, on the Montana side. After a day or two, I would want to spend a few days at the lodge, on the north rim of Grand Canyon. The Itinerary would get loose from here. I think I would have to go through Scottsdale Arizona to see Frank Lloyd Wright's Taliesin West, and the other fine examples of his desert homes in the area. I would need to stop by Santa Fe' to visit my producer buddy John Kurzweg, and remind myself why "type A" Irish Americans can't be hippies. From here I would have to find a way to get up to Colorado to drive the Mt. Evans Road, the highest paved road in the world. Maybe I would cruise through the badlands, and over to Mt. Rushmore, the Little Bighorn could make the list. I would be thinking about all my cool cousins in Pennsylvania, and I would for the first time, consider main highways as a quick route. After hanging with my kin, I would need to make arrangements to have dinner at Falling Water. This is expensive, but the chance to take pictures, and have dinner on the main balcony, would be worth it. Black tie is mandatory. I would pay homage to my favorite architect, gaze at the Picasso, and the Rivera, without tourists leaning over my shoulder. I would spring for the wine the waiter recommended, not knowing if it was good or bad, and I would believe it was amazing. I would over tip, and pose for a picture with the staff. I would tear up when they gently told me it was time to leave. Someone would have to drive me to Union Town, because I would be too intoxicated with the evening, and the wine I knew nothing about.






I would be missing my family, and extreme guilt would be weighing heavy on my mind. My wife would sound distant on the phone, and my kids would be independent and uninterested in talking (they are watching "Survivor"). The route home would be calling, but I would find a little time to go to Hatteras, to visit the Kitty Hawk Museum, and catch a freak summer swell at the light house. Sea food and beer would cap the night and I would toast myself on a life well lived.






Hopefully when I got back from the trip my wife, kids and crew would welcome me, but I suspect it would be a frosty reception.






I haven't really worked out the details, but today the west and beyond, is calling The Wrecking Ball from the mountains.





I am open to suggestions on routes and sights, if the three people that read this blog have ideas, I am all ears.






On another note (if anyone is still reading) my brother Davey Clark is playing at the Highland Games this Saturday. If you want to hear GOOD Irish music (none of that Danny Boy, Unicorn, Irish Eyes, shite!!) you should go see him. He is the real deal, and worth the price of admission. If you hear a smallish Irish guy yelling at inappropriate times, obviously drunk, that will be me!
W.B.Z.N.






Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Monkey Balls


Best Ride Ever!


Tuesday night rides are notorious for drama. If there is going to be a melt down, this is the ride where it will happen. Nothing of the sort happened on the this ride. We had a real reunion of some core O.G.'s (or as I call them "oh jeez").Yes I have to name them, or I will be on the no call list.


Porn Stash, with battle wounds and stories galore.

Spanish Mackerel, with several pounds missing.

Ice Berg, with his road race win grin, still stuck on his face.

Red Dragon, on a no suspenee singular.

Frog Legs, wearing gear with the tags still on.

Big Worm, too legit, and fit, to quit.

Big Jim Slade, with a public service announcements attached to his bike.

Mei Ty, back from the "Out of college, but still drinking like a frat boy" tour.


So after all my belly aching yesterday, I was on an honest to goodness, crew ride. The only thing that could have made it better would have been an appearance by the ghost, formerly known as Micro. The ride started out good and got better. We headed out to Live Oak and Chris finally knocked off the log that has been robbing him of peace for two years. Someone faster than the rest of us, decided it might be good to do a time trial at Red Bug. This idea quickly fell apart, because we couldn't get all the kittens in a box. While Legs, Berg and Slade put lotion on their egos, we all waited in the parking lot. That's when Mackerel found a tennis ball and threw it in the ring. For the next hour we had a steel cage, no holds barred, monkey ball match that was the funniest, funnest thing, I have ever done on a bicycle. There was yelling, crashes and unamused stares coming from the tennis sect. A ten on the fun meter.


Results are as follows:

1st Red Dragon-6 goals

2nd Worm/ Wrecking Ball- 4 goals

3rd Mei Ty -3 crashes

4th Frog Legs-1 crash, with goal scored on him while on ground, and 1 scab removed.


I promise you there will be a sign at Forest Meadows prohibiting such activities in the future.


W.B.Z.N.

Monday, April 7, 2008

Thicker Than Water


There is a natural law that I have been ignoring for years. I can't deny it's existence any longer. There can be waves for days on end, but the minute I put boards in my car and begin to travel in the direction of the ocean, something happens, and the sea goes silent.That being said, I did get in the water this weekend.


There is another equation I have been batting around my feeble skull. Apparently, if you do not surf, or paddle for four years, it makes you surf and paddle like a guy named Norm, on a visit from Wisconsin. I think I get this whole cross training idea. Cycling is fantastic, and I can ride for hours, but surfing is profoundly unimpressed by this stat.


The waves this Saturday were waist high, and I was in the water for a very short time. I was very surprised how tough it was to paddle. I am going to try to work some swimming in to my regimen, and make it a goal to surf more this year. I suppose I will have to do what I did before my last surf trip as well. I tied my cord to my diving board, and paddled against the tension in my pool. It is the surfing equivalent of a stationary trainer.


I did hang with my brothers, Chris and Dennis. Chris treated us to gourmet Thai food on Saturday. I ate more than a third world nation and felt no remorse.We were celebrating one year since Chris was diagnosed with cancer. He had a six percent survival rate. The emotional wounds are still fresh, but the fact that he is working as hard as ever, and surfing again is (and I know the word is over used) a miracle. There is no need for an Oprah style re-hash, he is alive and we celebrate every day that guy is walking around aggravating the shite out of us!


Dennis and I have a sick competitive relationship, and I have never won anything when pitted against him. He is a Shoalin Kung Fu style master, and there isn't anything that bastard doesn't do well. My search for his weakness continues! He beat me by one pin bowling (which isn't fair because I wasn't even drinking). I put him away at ping pong, but it was a hollow victory. My youngest son beat me twice. There is no joy in Mudville.


Well this ends my three weeks of Homer-esk (the poet, not the Simpson) weirdness. The kids are back in School, Dennis goes back to his affluent life, after visiting his trailer trash past, and I am looking forward to my routine of work, riding and over indulgent blog postings! Get out your red pens and prepare to fill the margins with my ineptitude!

Friday, April 4, 2008

Surfin Surfari


I am leaving town for the third weekend in a row. It's all part of my informal gas price research project. This time I am off to Jax, to hang with my bro's (the real sibling kind) and maybe get some waves. I will try to put up some pictures, for Magnum to criticize, when I get back. I am also planning a mtb run at Hanna if the waves falter and I am still able to pronounce my name after a day in the water.

I am sad I will miss the best weekend of the year, to be a Tallahassee cyclist. Hopefully Juancho, Worm and all their crews will drink up, and race up, the slack for me.

Remember while your riding this weekend, that person not behind you, that is not talking all time, is..... me!

Ta Ta sport fans!

W.B.Z.N.

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Castles Made of Sand


My Dad used to say, "When you want God to laugh, make plans!" Well I must have cracked the big guy up this week, when I went on vacation.

1. A day at Disney World: Morbidly obese people from around the world get in your way, scream at their children and buy ridiculous things for seven times what they are worth. The food sucks, (you could do three courses at Chez Pierre for less). $60.00 for four people to eat mulch and particle board, that is deep fried in petroleum products. The rides are antiquated and in some cases so politically incorrect, I was (wait for it) embarrassed. All this for only $368.00 entry fee, plus parking, plus soylent green (I mean food). It was worth it to hear my kids complain for ten hours, and see the cynicism trait pass to another generation!

2. A day at the International Boulevard, mall of the dead: Again my kids were complete a-holes. My son looked me straight in the eye and asked for a $100.00 soccer ball. Go ahead pal....hold your breath.

3. A day at the the beach: This was going really good. I had a brief, fleeting, feeling of happiness. I pushed the kids into some waves, and caught a few myself. I built my wife a wind block/shelter, out of an umbrella and my three board travel case. I saw a look in her eye like, maybe she actually had married a hunter gatherer. It was all coming together. That's when I heard the screams and saw my son running towards the life guard station. He had grabbed a Man-O-War, not ten minutes after I showed him what they looked like and warned him ....wait for it...not to touch them!

Unlike Rocky Balboa, I know when I have been beaten. We gave up and drove home a day early. It was a quiet ride home. Three and a half hours, not one word from anyone. I am changing my last name to Griswold.

I want to ride my bicycle, a lot.

W.B.Z.N.