This is how my pedal exploded

I will attempt to explain the sheer terror of declining a steep, long hill on a bike with no brakes that you can't stop pedaling, but unless you know what it feels like to ride a track bike, it's hard to convey exactly how it feels.

Just imagine going this fast....

...from the top of this hill....

...and there's almost nothing you can do to stop going that fast. In fact, there's not much you can do to stop at all. You can try to be as non-aerodynamic as possible, sitting upright in your saddle, hoping & praying for wind resistance, but there isn't much you can do to counteract gravity.

more of Johnny Midwest's Photos
more of my photos

Leftover painkillers

Tell you what, people, if you can get 'em, get 'em, but if you don't need 'em when you can get 'em, save 'em, cuz when you'll need 'em — and if you're like me, and you just do stupid shit all the time, like falling when you're not drunk...or when you are drunk...because you're riding your bike, which is just retarded and you know it, — you'll need 'em and you'll be glad you have 'em. Because Chiropractors are great and all - what with their crunching and popping and jesus what the fuck did you just do to me that fucking hurt but it kinda feels better, and kneeling on you and making things pop & crunch - that's all great, but drugs are better. There's a reason god created things that make us feel less pain, like cocaine, for instance. It's because he knew we were traumatically flawed, and we were going to fall off of our out of things, or just generally hurt ourselves all the time, and he only wanted us to suffer emotionally, not physically. And even then, he let us figure out antidepressants, too! So man, when you get the painkillers, save the rest of them if you're feeling better. They'll come in handy. And not just recreationally. Trust me, you'll hurt yourself. Especially if you hang around me. Punk.

What's up with all these men grappling me?

Pablo, Brad, what the fuck? What makes these guys toss me to the ground and lock their bodies around mine until I'm immobilized? Did I come back from Europe with makeup on or something? I don't get it. Furthermore, I think I have soft ribs or something. At some point in these two short battles in which I was clearly bested, it appears that I have fractured another rib. This time in my back, near the shoulder blade? How do I know this? Because it hurts like fuck and I can barely move. I've got to stop doing these things - they're not the most hetero moments of my life, either.

They Make Kids Fight in the ThunderDome in Edinburgh

I thought that was a little fucked up, but it's true. There's photographic evidence to prove it.


For a city that hosts the worlds largest festival of theater, comedy, film, books, uh...dance, ale, uh...oh, art....anyway, they do a hell of a lot during the festival in Edinburgh. It's like a college town: there's probably NOTHING to do for the rest of the year. Anyway, for a city so culturally elevated, I thought that this kiddie thunderdome was a bit depraved. But it looked fucking awesome. I didn't stick around to see which of the two kids who entered was lucky enough to leave. I had to catch Pappy's Fun Club.

Ooh, maybe I'll write them a review. Maybe they'll link to superimportant. And then superimportant Word can spread further and grander.

Pappy's Fun Club. They made me feel like I was stoned, in a living room, with four hilarious idiots with bad jokes. This is totally a good thing. It sure doesn't sound good though. Hm. Well, Take my word for it. These 4 guys are like your buddies. Those dudes who just screwed around all the time, and put you in stitches, peeing your pants because their jokes were so dumb they were funny. They've got that knack. The knack to tell a terrible, hackneyed joke, acknowledge it, and make the acknowledgement funnier than the joke. They're infectious like that. Yeah, maybe they were in a tent in Edinburgh, so what? You still had to pay to see them. 6 pounds. Hey, does anyone know how to make the British Pound symbol on an american keyboard? Or the Euro? Let me know. It might come in handy.

So yeah. The Thunderdome. Two Kids Enter. One Kid Leaves. If you got bored from watching decent theater like Pappy's Fun Club, you could stroll down to the massive touristy area by the National Gallery, and watch the kids go at it. Absolutely brilliant. I commend the Edinburgh touristy bureau on that one. It was almost more entertaining than the military bagpipe band. In fact, now that I remember, one of their final tunes was "Everything I do, I do it for you" - that regrettable Bryan Adams chart-topper from Robin Hood. "16 weeks at the top of the charts" the announcer said. 16 of the worst weeks of my life, they were. And they played it for tourists in a castle in the capital of Scotland. Fuck that. The thunderdome was much much better.

I haven't scored in three weeks

I knew I was going to leave something behind when I packed for my trip. But I didn't think I'd be so careless as to forget to pack my mojo. Holy crap. Of all things to bring on vacation, mojo should've been the first thing in my bag. I still haven't necessarily found it. I honestly can't remember where the hell I put it, and I'd really like to find it. It's pretty useful, you know? It's gotta be around here somewhere.

The superimportant offices, in their research, find that there is a strong correlation between this and the following post.

I haven't been drunk in three weeks

I haven't been pissed, trolleyed, hammered, or what have you for nearly a month, except for last night on the Lower East Side & Brooklyn, where a married girl gave my mojo back to me. (It's unfortunately not as shocking as it sounds. It's kind of a long story. OK, so basically, when I get drunk, I get louder, and when we rolled up to the bar in Clinton Hill, I was relaying my "I totally forgot to pack my mojo" story for the dozenth time, because self deprecation is like, my thing. Then this girl in front of the bar was like "oh hey, it's right here", and digs into her pocket. I take it back. I'm all "Hey, thank you so much, where did you find this" and being all charming and stuff. She's laughing. I'm reeling. I think it's going great. In a swerving, transparent maneuver, I hesitate to follow my friends in, seeing as I'm trying to pick up a girl. She says "go ahead, go ahead in", and I'm all "duuurrrrrrr...", and she says "no, really...go ahead", and very deliberately shows me her left hand, all but pointing out the ring around her finger. Drat)

The exhange rate these days is terrible. It costs me twice as much dollars as it does pounds - for Scotland & England - and something like 1.43 dollars to each Euro. In London, this wasn't as much of a problem, because adequately priced cheap swill was reasonably available. 2-pound beers? A-OK. I drink Sportsmans at the Levee. My standards are LOW.

Dublin, on the other hand was anachronistically overpriced. Anachronistically is probably the wrong word. But "ironically" is terribly overused. And "anachronistically" is close. What I'm trying to say is that a city in a country that is often visited with the intent purpose OF GETTING DRUNK should not cost me the equivalent of $7 per beer. MY STANDARDS ARE LOW. I'm wearing cutoff shorts. They're the same shorts I wore yesterday. All I need is cheap beer, and I'll recommend your country to friends. But no. My fellow travelers and I were led only to crappy non-high class, overcharging bars, and I never got my drunk on, for the entire three weeks of my vacation. I felt the toxins abandoning my body. It was sad. Those toxins love me, and I love those toxins. And I was starving them. It became hard to live with myself. I have to give acknowledgement to the Hospitality of the Irish though - in the airport, where I arrived 3 hours early for a flight that was delayed another 4 hours, a group of Irish bought me two rounds of beer! That was especially cool, because by the time I got home, I had a negative-two dollar balance in my bank account. Oops! These Irish people were on their way to a wedding in Milan, and I was sitting alone at a table. At first, it was just three of them. Then the other dozen came by. I felt mildly awkward. But that was mostly because that married girl had found my mojo somewhere on the streets of Brooklyn, where I must have dropped it on my way to the airport. In return for their attempts at crowding me out, the wedding-goers roped me into their rounds. Sadly, all the alcohol wore off by the time the flight finally left, and AerLingus CHARGES you for booze on the flight. Screw you, AerLingus. Air India kicked ass. Free booze AND a bollywood flick. Quality.

Somebody's trying to sell me something

But whatever. Spiffy videos featuring bikes always catch my attention. I might even be able to scrape this "DJ saves my life" video off the bottom of the proverbial barrel for September's Bike Shorts, which needs A) submissions and B) a venue, so send me both. If you're lucky, your video will win $100 and possibly end up in the Bicycle Film Festival, garnering you international fame and grandeur. All because of superimportant. Please now buy me a beer next time you see me. It's the least you can do. Seriously. I mean come on, that video features a bike, a breakdancer, and an old lady in a wheelchair getting hit by a car, which is always hilarious! You see what I do for you?

In no particular order

This is the fashion in which the next several posts will be made. Superimportant is devestated that our readers wallowed in a barren sea of meaninglessness for so long while this site was not updated. The entire staff was in The United Kingdom of Britain featuring London, Dublin, and Edinburgh, researching the problematic underage binge drinking debacle for the past three weeks. Rumors that UK hooch is too strong & too cheap went unsubstantiated, especially with the shitty exchange rate the superimportant dollar has today. Wherever these extra-cheap happy hour bars were, we certainly weren't led there on our investigative journey.

For the next few days, Superimportant will report a series of findings from this junket in arbitrary order. These articles may be finished already, or may be finished later. It all depends on how late the staff decides to work for their nickel-an-hour.

Wow, I didn't realize my toenails had grown that long, and other realizations from a three week trip to the United Kingdom

Including "Welsh: 'Y' is the only vowel"; "Small town people are bored, drunk, and their cops don't have jails large enough to house the 40 of us anyway"; "Being more norther is colder, temperature-wise, and the sun sets much later"; "Dublin is a shithole and Edinburgh is gorgeous, but actually might be boring, while Dublin is at least full of fun drunks"; "Speaking of drunks, how about that shitty exchange rate?!?"; "The Euro is an ugly currency"; "Oh my god the bacon..."; "I clearly forgot to pack my mojo"; and "adverse, humiliating, self-deprecating situations are only funny for so long...".

COMING SOON, due to popular demand.

JK, LOL, I didn't sleep with your mom...yet

The superimportant dashboards were LIT UP for DAYS following the expose "hugging is like a gateway drug". At least, that's what a certain superimportant staffer was telling us, but that kid grew up dropping acid, and we suspect him of being a zombie anyway. He just lurches around and never takes his day's nickel whenever we give it to him. Then there was this one time he showed up with a giant jar labeled "bits'o'brains" and sat there all day dipping them in barbecue sauce. That was weird. But his grunts and moans are highly effective customer support, so we keep him around. Plus, he isn't costing us anything, so whatever.

Anyway, apparently you superimportant readers have been concerned that the licentious nature of the superimportant executive staff has finally made it's way into the annals of ink, for the whole world to feast upon it's delightful debauchery. Maybe it's that awkward, uncharacteristic breach of privacy that kept you from posting comments on what I thought was a hilarious post. Well fear not, fearful readers! That post was just an allegory. Or a metaphor. Something like that. The point is, the naked life of superimportant is limited primarily to the fact that all of our work is done naked. Like right now. I'm naked. Think about it. And leave comments.

And, I didn't do it with your mom. But I totally would. I mean, who wouldn't? More importantly, who hasn't already? Sheesh.

who wants a cookie?

Anybody? They're three for a dollar, but I couldn't eat all three of them, really. I got one of each: an oatmeal raisin, an..uh...regular cookie with White Chocoloate chips & some nuts, and a chocolate cookie with white chocolate chips. Take your pick. ... ... Ok. Well I'm going to have the oatmeal raisin. I love oatmeal raisin. But you can have whichever one you want. ok. alright. well. better hurry up, because I'm just going to end up eating another one. OK then, only the chocolate cookie is left. But seriously, you're welcome to it. Go ahead. I don't. I mean, I don't want to eat all of the cookies. That's just gluttonous. It's just sitting there you know. No, I'm not going to eat it. I don't want to eat all the cookies. So go ahead, take one. It's on me. Alright. OK. I. Hmm. I guess I'll. I guess i'll just have this.

I carbo-loaded because I couldn't stop

Are there any races coming up in say, the next day? Nope. But I bet I could run to work tomorrow if I wanted to. Cuz I just had a big plate of pasta, and then cooked up some pillsbury biscuits that I had lying around for the next time I try not to burn my apartment down trying to make Monkey Cake. And I'm almost finished with them. They're so good. Apparently, the suggested serving of three contains 29grams of carbohydrates. Is that even a lot? I don't know. A good friend once asked me how often I make food decisions based on calories or carbs or...something. And I realized that never in my life have I ever made a conscious decision on that. I am ignorant of what's in food. Maybe, were I a fat lazy dipshit, I should be concerned. Turns out I'm awesome though, so there's nothing I should be worried about.

Don't have that ice cream sandwich.

You're lactose intolerant.

And yes, banana ice cream does sound delicious. But it's not worth it.

Clear your browser cache

There are times in life when clearing your browser cache is important. Let's say - "on interviews" - for instance. Because if you're a web designer and you're using your laptop to show potential future bosses the best of your your work, you better hope she types real fast when she grabs your computer to bring up a website she wants you to check out. It could be catastrophic if she's a one-finger typer, and an array of smutty websites scroll down your recent history when she types the first letter of wherever she's going. So yeah, remember to clear your history. And delete all those movie files from your desktop. And don't stare at her tits, while you're at it. That's not going to win you any favors, either. And for gods sake, don't hug her. We all know where that leads.

Hugging is like a gateway drug

It starts innocently enough, but a hug, no matter how affectionately, is only a step on the way to dangerous activities like heavy petting. One may think that this innocuous embrace is merely a dismissable token of appreciation, but then the swelling of your mom's breasts pressed up against my chest heightens the arousal in both of us, and hands begin to wander. A hug can be short or long. There are bro-hugs and family hugs. Careless individuals should never ever let these types of hugs lead to anything further. The dangerous types of hugs, on the other hand, find your mother breathing heavily on my neck as the hug lingers just a moment past normal. Then she invites me back sometime when you're not around. Yeah, that's why I couldn't go to the movies with you that time, by the way. Hugs are dangerous. Hugs lead to hands caressing your mom's back, which is surprisingly in shape for a woman of her age. And then unbuttoning shirts and reaching for undergarments. By this point, the casual hug has clearly shown it's darker side, and when your Dad is off on a business trip, your mom and I are doing terrible, terrible things in the very spot where you were conceived. Dont' do hugs.

This is not a bundt-shaped asteroid

But superimportant can understand your confusion.

In Superimportant's ongoing quest to demonstrate valuable lessons in healthy living, we bring you another important lesson: Do not bake in the middle of the night while drunk. Our offices narrowly escaped consumption by fire after this monkey cake lay in the oven for 5 hours, while we laid on our bed, passed out in our clothes, with the lights on. Don't try this at home, kids.

It's superimportant

It's superimportant to step back and ask yourself if your photoshoot might be subliminal. (From Martha Stewart Living, July 2007)

Caffiene doesn't work

However, maybe i'm just not trying hard enough. Maybe I shouldn't have taken that preemptive nap after work. Maybe what you need to do is force your way through your body's instinct to shut down, disregarding whatever harm may come, and charge like a .... hey, I won't send that email about how I just noticed that the main image of the dude who's website I'm designing is of him standing in front of some fine art - fine full frontal nudity art, boobs all up in your face is what I'm talking about. Maybe it's just that hour where those things cease being fine art and start becoming porn. I mean, it's art, but do we want boobs all up in ya'lls face when you go to this guy's website? It's not a porn site, in case you're wondering. Although his food is orgasmic, really. He's a chef.

So, the point is, caffiene doesn't work. I'm a runaway freight train. This is how I imagine caffiene should be working: somewhat like PCP, where I've been told it gives you superstrength and you can like, flip cars and toss kegs over walls, and compete in Celtic fest competitions. Building longboats with Viking dragons on it & stuff. O. Caffiene would basically be like doing pullups all the time. Instead of my bike being partially camoflauged, it's wheel detached, half of a cardboard discwheel half attached to it...instead of that, my bike would be fully camoflauged, and I'd have already taken a photoshoot of it. Also, this chef's website would be uploaded. And my film would be fully edited and I'd have four arms to push play on the four DVD players that are going to play it at the same time. If caffiene TRULY worked, my couches wouldn't be askew and there wouldn't be boxcutters & x-acto knives on the floor of my living room. My resume would also likely be floating through the tubes that make up the internet and instead of spending the last two minutes watching Transformers stop-action videos, I would've actually found the video of that senator trying to describe the internet as a series of tubes.

All those tubes would be pointed back to my up-to-date website portfolio, as well.

Fifty Dollar Bill?! Fifty Dollar Bill?!

Shit, son.... Bank machine's these days are like, straight outta the 21st Century. Not only does it suck checks in without envelopes & read em with scanners or something, it reads 'em right! Even written ones. Furthermore, I got Grants in my wallet now! Fifties?! From ATM machines? whoa! I thought I made a mistake. Then I stared at it. Thing's pretty. It gots pinstriped flags & things. Oh, so Han & Leia are now flying into the asteroid field where they fly into the belly of that huge worm, because the Millenium Falcon's hyperdrive thingy was damaged. Fifty dollar bill! I felt like the monopoly man. The riches! I felt like living in Luxury. What better place than to break a crisp Fifty than on a $3.99 Cheeseburger at Crown Friend Chicken. Da-go-bah!

Listening to Star Wars

I don't own a television, but one thing I do own is the Star Wars Trilogy on DVD. #4,5, and 6, of course. Those ....other.... movies don't count. Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I bought my cousin's 7-year old twins the original series on DVD and they were like "oh, we don't really like those Star Wars. We like the new ones". .....Not only did those kids die to me that day, a little bit of myself died as well. This is sorta akin to how I feel about the Batman movies. I think "Batman Begins" is probably the best one, but by virtue of the fact that "Batman" came out when I was 12 years old - that being prime time to be completely obsessed with Batman - the two movies are running even keel, although I'd give more merit to my youthful delight with the first Tim Burton Batman, which I saw in the theaters 6 times.

Anyway, I'm listening to the DVD of Star wars right now, visualizing the movie as it plays out audially from my living room. Han Solo's trying to get the Millenium Falcon fixed so he can leave Hoth. C3P0 is acting all gay. Leia's all "give the evacuation code....and get to your transports". I'm doing this:

Stop being lazy readers, lazy readers.

You know, the superimportant staff slaves for long, very poorly paid hours day, night, and weekends to bring you breaking news and groundbreaking reporting . (And when I say "slave", I'm really not joking. You should see the conditions these poor kids have to work in. I'd almost feel sympathetic for them, if they didn't have such bad attitudes about it.) Often, our newsbriefs redefine brief, but our theory is that you don't need to be too wordy to get the point across. Keep it concise and to the point. Brevity is the soul of wit. Ignorance is Bliss. Something like that. But every so often, we bring you a great feature, filled with pearls of wisdom and awesomeness. For instance, "Bad Things Happen when you leave the city", and "Minor Revolutions". These are award winning pieces of literature. Unfortunately, the Pulitzer committee is filled with retards & hos, so we can be sure we won't ever receive proper, adequate recognition. That's why we turn to you, our readers. And what do you pieces of trash do? You probably stare at it with your Frankestein like gaze, see more than a paragraph, and belch out "hnggghh...too many words" between shotguns of PBR, and look for something with more pictures. Well let me tell you something, readers, pictures are for kids. This is superimportant.

Double Booking is just asking for trouble

A note to British girls visiting their Boston friends and making weekend trips to New York who might happen to stop by a Bike Polo game and give out their numbers to ex Philadelphians: Don't do this if you've got boyfriends who you will talk to for a half hour on the phone at the bar after the Philadelphian and his friend buy you drinks the next day. Furthermore, try not to meet the *other* two dudes you gave your slut phone number to at the same bar at the same time. It just doesn't. make. sense. It's a good thing superimportant is here to clear up this breach of etiquitte.

Secondly, a note to single, Philadelphian, polo players in search of wingmen: try to make sure the double-booking, taken girls you pick up are attractive. Thank you for your time.

I used to be good at math

But these days, it seems like I can't count on two hands. For instance, this morning, I slept in a bit, taking an extra "after-breakfast" nap, then leaving later than usual. There wasn't really anything to do today, and everyone was going to leave by 2pm. I skipped my normal morning-coffee stop, because I didn't want to show up TOO late, but here I am now, it's not even 10 yet, and I have to kill my time by bringing you superimportant news & updates. And it's hard, because I already have to plug in Slayer to drown on the people around me. This is going to be the longest short day ever. And it's all because of math. Fuck you, math!

My playlist beats your playlist

And it makes me awesome. This is a formula for success. At the very least, it is a formula for tricking your brain into beliving itself to be awesome. Totally, totally awesome. HINT: set to "repeat-all", and play all day long.

1) James Bond Theme
2) Mission Impossible Theme
3) Theme from Metalocalypse
4) Knight Rider Theme (for being 20-some years old, this is still totally rad)
5) Superman Theme.

This began when my friend Ch0mb0 told me his tale of diving onto the Brooklyn Bridge roadway to recover the ipod he accidentally dropped down there in a fit of misplaced rage at it's disfuntionality. I told him he should've put the Mission Impossible theme song on the ipod before he went down. Then I decided to listen to the Mission Impossible theme song all day long and see what happened to me. Maybe I'd start sneaking around and clandestinely stealing things from people's cubicles. As it were, all I really did was feel rad, and play bike polo.

My apartment isn't burning down, again.

Yet my landlord is knocking on my door at 6:15am anyway. It's funny, because when he knocked on my door at 6:15am yesterday, the apartment wasn't burning down either. My landlord is apparently a morning person. Fresh air. Relaxing jogs in Prospect Park. I can understand that. Except fuck no, and my landlord can't move faster than 3 miles per hour anyway, so that's out the door. Maybe he reads the newspaper. Except I'm pretty sure he's illiterate. I'm basing this on the fact that his signature looks like he shoved a pen up his ass and sat on my rent check receipt to sign it. Except I don't think he can bend very well either. But he gets his chores done in the morning. Like asking me to see the leaky kitchen sink (yesterday) and then asking me when I'll be around later so he can tell me it's been fixed (today). I'm glad he got me up out of my four-hour slumber, honestly, because I wanted to get up & go for a jog in the park myself. And by that, i mean punch myself in the face, repeatedly.

Bad things happen when you leave the city

There was almost a fight in the Port Authority while trying to board the last bus of the night at 11:30. For some reason, the bus driver boarded the people getting off in Clinton NJ before everyone else. A few people at the front of the line apparently weren't happy with that. Shouts were shouted. Shoves were nearly thrown. Four cops showed up. I ended up standing for the entire bus trip. An hour and a half to Easton, PA. It sucked, but it wouldn't have been nearly as bad if the fucking ride didn't take two and a half hours. It also wouldn't have been as bad if the drunk dude who barreled through the aisle of 15 standees on his way to the bathroom, which he spent the entire trip in, drinkin' 40's, hadn't been smoking cigarettes in there as well. And those preboarded passengers from Clinton, NJ? I don't know what was happening in the 10 minutes that we spent stopped in Clinton (after picking up even more people at the Newark airport), but it sure didn't look like anyone got on OR off the bus at that point. Then in Phillipsburg, NJ, at the stop behind the P'burg mall for those 6 minutes? No one got off there either. Oh, no, wait, they did...after we started moving again. She had been sleeping, and didn't feel or hear the bus stop, and wasn't bothered by the lights abruptly coming on either.

Phillipsburg is right across the Delaware river from Easton. Maybe 6 miles. At this point, I was seriously, seriously considering taking my bike from the baggage compartment (which it cost an extra $7 to load into), and riding the rest of the way. The dude was still smoking cigarettes in the bathroom. The immense Dinosaur Barbecue meal I had eaten immediately before boarding as a standee on the bus was swimming in my stomach. I was sobered up. I had listened to Yo La Tengo and Slayer. Both seemed appropriate. Some dude said "I'll give you $20 for that bike underneath the bus". I ignored him. He's also the guy who said "yuppers", when I said "watch out for my bag as you go to the front of the bus. It's in the aisle". No one who says "yuppers" needs to be paid attention to. (He was standing in front of me. The entire trip, I kept passing out until the tip of my nose brushed his jacket. I don't think he ever felt it.)

It was after 2am when we got into Easton. My Mom had been waiting there since 1am, and called when we were in Clinton, which was about 1:20. About that time, I had decided that I was going to go directly to Trexlertown. My Mom knew that I was going to borrow her car in the morning anyway. I told her, when she picked me up and asked me if I wanted to drive, "No. I don't want to drive right now. All I want to do is sit. But, thanks.... This is what I think I'm going to do though. I'm going to go home, use the bathroom (Dino BBQ wanted OUT), take your car, go directly out to Trexlertown, and sleep in the car. Otherwise, there's no way I'm gonna be able to get up in the morning." Somehow, she let me do this. A bit before 4am, I was fully passed out in my Mom's Prius in the parking lot of the Lehigh Valley Velodrome.

I woke up around 6:30, wandered around, looking for people I knew at the swap meet. It isn't uncommon for people to camp out overnight. The best deals & the best goods are sold before the doors even open at 9am. I got some coffee down the street. I ogled some bikes in the lot. I saw "Pops". I sat in the car some more. I wondered why the hell my feet were all wet until I remembered what "dew" was. I got out again and my friends from the city, Ceya, Sasha, Chris, and Rashid had just rolled up. Sasha got me into the swap early, with a $5 VIP pass. I made a quick loop of the goods in the hour before opening, looking for the track wheelset I was hoping to find out there on the cheap*. I came back to their vendor spot, and there, lying on the ground in front of Ceya and his cane, was exactly what I was looking for, which, he tells me after I helped him pay his back rent, had been in the Sale/Trade thread of a forum we frequent all too frequently for months.

Ironic.

OK SO THEN
I go back home, help my Mom with her yardsale, buy a decent outfit to keep at my her place, and take a nap. I ride around Easton, PA a bunch and unwind. That was the best part of the day. Then it had to go start sucking again:

My sister drove me downtown to catch the 10:15 bus. I called my friend Jon to tell him I was already on my way back to NYC and was sorry we couldn't get together. at 10:45, I call Trans-Bridge Bus Lines, navigate through the automatic menu, and dial "7 for the dispatcher on duty for emergencies only". I wondered if I qualified as an emergency, then decided I didn't care, and besides, what else could the dispatcher be doing at 11pm on a Saturday?
"10:15 bus? Downtown Easton? Hmmm...yeah...this has happened a lot," he patiently drawls, "The schedule might be a little bit misleading. We should do something about it sometime."
"dude. ok. bottom line. Is the 10:15 bus coming?"
"Hm. Oh. No. There is no 10:15 bus." There is no 10:15 bus. Not on Saturdays. Only Sundays.

I call Jon back up and meet him at the bar around the corner. I had begun rehearsing "give me a Maker's, neat, and a Bass". I locked up my bike and the two wheels to a parking meter outside "Drinky McDrinkerson's", the local douchetard hoochie "it's not New York, but we're totally trying - look at this wand were going to wave over you & test for weapons!" bar, and follow Jon inside. The guy collecting the $5 cover peers around my shoulder and says "Oh, sorry pal. Can't bring that bag in. it's too big. You can leave it outside"

(ineffectual argument follows, in which I try hard, real hard, not to lose my cool & prevent my entrance no matter what. Sob "missed bus" story works not on doorman/"owner" or meathead bouncer. Meathead bouncer actually kindly chatted with me once Jon had come back with keys to his friend's sister's car so that I could stash my bag in there. Meathead bouncer was alright. Dickbag owner can eat ass.)

I finally get in, despite my t-shirt, and their apparent dress code. I get all wanded & patted down, and I'm wondering why the fuck this douchey bar with this booty shakin' music and these skanks and douchebags in smalltown Easton, Pennsylvania needs to wand me and deny my entrance because of my man-purse. I drink, copiously, then wondering where I'm going to sleep & how I'm going to get to the Velo-City tour. I never made it to the Velo-city tour, but I slept on Jon's parent's couch, and even woke up in time for the 6:50am bus, which DID actually come. The shaken hangover came back by the end of the bus ride, and the ride back to brooklyn with a wheelset and a full bag wore me out. (I always pick up a few goodies at home. This time it was "In Cold Blood", which I've never read. And a pair of shorts.) Plus, I figured I should quit pressing my luck. It was 9:30, and prior to boarding the bus, I had mysteriously misplaced the "return" half of my round-trip ticket.

But Ceya's dura-ace hubs laced to Tubular Assos rims WITH the tires, plus the promise of a one-on-one "how to tubular" class was worth every goddamn cent.

I do not like the new Justin Timberlake album

I do not like Justin Timberlake's new album. The beats do not make me want to dance my face off at times, and the lyrics do not remind me of my own painful or blissful memories of women I may have loved in the past. There is nothing about this album that is surprisingly quite good. I have not found any of the songs to be catchy, much less worth a second, third, fourth, or fifth listen since obtaining the album for a coworker a few days ago. I am certainly not reminded of much greater artists like Prince or much greater albums like The Beatles' "Rubber Soul", which is a far superior album about the trials & tribulations of a lifetime of freakin' girls. In spite of JT's history of association with bubble-gum teenybop mickey mouse club pop, I am not impressed by the intensity of his work. His egotistical, Ladies-man style boasting on tracks like "SexyBack", "Sexy Ladies/Let me talk to you", and "Damn Girl", is not excusable just because the songs are actually quite dope. "What Goes around" is certainly not a great tale of a typical, if hurtful cycle of relationships that in ways, hits home for me. The clubby sound of "My Love" is not awesome. It's just not. So please don't go around telling people that I like this album. Because it is clear that I don't. I would never like a Justin Timberlake album.

EXCLUSIVE: Girls Poop!

Shocking news from the wires this morning as, according to dayxandcounting.blogspot.com, girls poop. Once believed impossible, or at best, mythic, the idea of girls pooping challenges deeply held personal beliefs. The superimportant staff has all been fired in a severely violent tirade following this shattering revelation. The office was thrashed, gods names were cried out in agony and despair, tears were shed, and self-mutilation was contemplated, just to see if I could ever feel _anything_ again. Then we got over it, and went out to get cupcakes at Billy's. Billy, I learned this afternoon, is no longer "Billy" and is now "Lorraine". I feel tainted, pun wholly intended.