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.

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.

Mean Street

There's only been two activities I have done in my life that scared me. One was spring board diving (insert Louganis joke here..). My Father, and a few of my brothers were competitive swimmers. I really wanted to do something that my Father considered valid. I was a skateboarder, surfer, and a musician, all activities for the soft of head, in my Dad's eyes. I decided to dive my senior year. I was pretty good, but I could never shake the fear I felt, flipping and twisting in the air. I was able to do anything my coach asked. He loved the fact that I would throw my body, any way he deemed necessary. Just because I was scared, and by scared I mean, wake up screaming in a cold sweat scared, didn't mean I sucked. I just really didn't enjoy myself. My Mom and Dad were proud to have something to say at a party that didn't require an apology. There were some nice looking girls on the the swim/dive team.Things were good for a while. Eventually, a thought started creeping into my head, that it was just a matter of time before the board and I met under less than optimal circumstances. One day my hair hit it, then a hand. I moved up to three meter, where the mistakes had a higher penalty. On a Thursday practice that winter, I blew a back one and a half layout and landed flat on my front side. I got back on the horse, over rotated, and painted the back porch to match. My coach had to lift me out of the water, I was cooked. Thus ended a brilliant ten month diving career.

The other monster in the closet is road cycling. I have been doing it for eight years now and I can't shake the fear. I hate riding in groups. Like diving, the fear is not paralyzing and I still ride aggressively, but I am always thinking of the bad things. The horrible noise of the bike and rider meeting the ground. The fear of an unstable rider, taking me out. Road riding is all about being smart. It's about knowing when to lead, and when to follow. It's about, small refined adjustments of shifters, brakes and body position. These arts, are all lost on me. After all these years, I would still classify myself as a twitchy handler. Last and certainly not least, it kills my neck, on the ride, and for days after.

There's a lot I could say in defence of the discipline, but at the end of the day, I just don't enjoy it. I am tired of dreading road days, and all the feelings that come with it. I don't feel like it beat me, I feel like I am putting something to bed after a solid effort. Life is short and so am I. I will be spending my time in the woods if anyone is looking for me.

W.B.Z.N.

The Longest Day

Last week was odd. I have a theory that the full moon and the high winds made things go kookie. I had one of the most frustrating weeks I can remember, as a cyclist. I missed legendary rides, bonked on the ones I attended, and was plagued by flats on my solo endeavors.

Easter Sunday, I rode with Big Worm, Darien, and Faust. We had a splendid time. Everyone was funny and in good spirits. Worm, fresh from his "Chairs" victory was in cruise mode: Not slow, not fast, but happy and chill. Someone beat Darien on an epic sprint for a yellow sign. It was a good day, and if there is a better way to spend three hours, I challenge you to find it.

Then it was off to Orlando to see the boys play for a record label. This is always happy, and relaxing. All the way there, I was settling local band disputes, acting as a relationship councilor, and trying to guarantee the appearance of said record business guy. In the winds of chaos, somehow the band pulled off a stellar set. Said record business guy was animated and throwing compliments around like dollars at a strip club.

It all ends well. How? I don't know it's a mystery!

I hopped back in my reasonably priced car, and drove through hallucinations, weird gas stations, and bad food, toward home. I took 27 which was delightfully empty and freshly paved. "Hearts of Space" (on NPR) serenaded me back to our fine locale. The story ends with me in my own bed, in a fitful night of tormented manager dreams.

I'm back at work, where everything is predictably boring and I thank (deity of choice) for it.

That's all I have for you Pumpkins. Don't fret, I am working on another homage' to Frank Zappa that will have you clicking over to the BRC before you can say: "Poor spelling, bad grammar, inept punctuation, and weak content!"

W.B.Z.N.

Three Chords and the Truth

Making records is a difficult thing. Making good records is nearly impossible. Making magical, world changing records is something no one can do. World changing records make themselves taking passengers and prisoners on the way. They all start innocently, with a couple of people in a room, one person at a piano, or with a guitar. Some soul aches, is angry or joyful and the only way to pay proper homage, is through song. Once the inspiration has been wrung out of the writer, like a cloth, the judgements begin. The artist may be the first, but when others to hear it, they all take a whack. The song will be subjected to inhumane comparisons and criticisms.

Studious are dark places filled with cigarette butts, bad bathrooms and people that never see the sun. These are carpet covered rooms where romance, and dreams get stamped out like roaches, caught it the light. When the "record" button is pushed there is no where to hide. The computer can tune the notes, and timing, but if the song is an impostor, it will be naked in front of a laughing, ninth grade class.

All great songs all start as a shells. They must be built, piece by piece. Lucid arguments occur over the shaker part on the second chorus. Hearts break when a high harmony is cut. Hours are spent recording parts, no one will ever hear. The ultimate horror is to finish a song, and realize it is absolute shit. It is a mystery any songs get recorded at all. The fact that some songs are good, is proof of the paranormal.

If no one dies during the tracking process, the song must be mixed. The melodies must fly in and out like ghosts. Every part of every song that makes it to this point has had a war fought on its behalf, and yet it still may die, with one push of a button. Parts are featured and then fade like fog.

The song is finally released into the world. It is handed to a friend, shipped by truck, or downloaded to a device. Once that happens you are powerless to stop its life. You have to stand and suffer a thousand deaths or worse, glowing accolades.

The miracle is, it can save a life. It can be the only thing that gets someone through a day. It can say the things the less poetic of our species cannot. It can be the theme of revolutions. It can resurrect the perfume of a lost lover. It can bring the dead back to life. It can allow you to drive your first car. It can make you wonder what happened.

It is a noble mission. It is usually done for all the wrong reasons. Still, in spite of all the efforts to ruin them, great songs happen.

Havin' a Party

I don't think I was ever more amped to ride than last night. Tuesday is a crew night, and I had done my recon on Monday so I could roll some of the new Fern stuff. I bagged everything but the Big Guy (just sayin). I left work early, and got all my stuff ready. It was not to be, a comedy of errors and brush fires kept me off the bike, and I missed the party.
I heard BDS, Jose' and John all rolled the Lincoln Log, and nearly everyone rolled the little log and other stuff. Well... bully for you you guys!
BASTARDS!

W.B.Z.N.

Loggie Log Logs!

Loggie Logs, collect them all, trade with your friends. I have to give a big shout out to Porn Stash. He rolled the short log both ways on his first try. Slade put some muscle on the qualifier, and the pyramid. I am prouda dem boys!

W.B.Z.N.