Dreams!

Last night I dreamed that I was at a function for my parents' church, and all these old men kept hitting on me. One kept following me around the function, and one kept whispering in my ear. Then, I left and went for a bicycle ride with Leah. She was on a little red fixie while I was on an adult tricycle with a large basket between the rear wheels. We rode through a vintage clothing store, which was particularly difficult with my extra width. Escaping from the ridiculous amount of purple clothing in the store, we met up with a hip bicycle gang and cruised down the street.

Short rides

I rode my bicycle to a job interview last week, past a playground full of children. "Hey!" One of them called at me. "I'll buy your bike for five thousand dollars!"

"FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS?" I called back, laughing, before continuing on my ride.It's a shame little kids don't actually have money, otherwise I would obviously have no need to go to job interviews. I spent $115 on my bicycle originally, and nows she got a new rear brake cable, some new tubes, and trued truer wheels. However, I strongly doubt that these improvements have added $4,885 to the value of my bicycle. This means I would be making quite a profit on my $5,000 bicycle sale--and demonstrates to me just how profitable taking advantage of small children could be. If only they had the funds.

Dear World,

Today it snowed in Austin, Texas. I called half the people in my phone as I spun around, through the puddles in my parking lot, with an unconquerable smile, giggling while the flakes stung my face and scattered my coat.

My smile still will not go away. I don't think the weather has ever made me happier.

It's snowing.

Rude Girl Update

Today, once again, I was behind Rude Girl at the stoplight at Speedway and 38th. Today she was wearing brown shorts over black tights, the only fashion faux pas that I actively campaign against.

My dislike of her has increased, but at least today I rode faster than she did.

Technological progress.

Cell phones are the perfect example of the ubiquity of technology these days. They're also a great example of the current trend of bringing the private into public. For example, the woman next to me right now in the coffee shop just made a call. "Hi! Whoever left me a message saying I needed to come in for another pap because there was something abnormal or something about the last one!"

Pets and Pet Peeves

I have decided that, at least of late, the quality of my life has been reflected by the number of kitty cats surrounding me.

About four months ago, my life was devoid of cats (with the exception of the insane monsters that live at Darlene's house, but those hardly reflect happiness). Then, on a bike ride home one day, I was met with the loudest yowl I've heard in ages. YOOOOWL, YOOOOWL. It pierced the air, and I stopped to see if I could find and help the cat, which must have been seriously injured.

Instead, an adorable little fluff ball presented itself to me, coming up to where I had stopped and rubbing itself on my legs. It looked up at me. YOOOOWL.

I don't know the cat's name, but we'll call it Poodle. This is not the cat. This is an image I found
on Google image search and stole. But this is what Poodle looks like.

Poodle then tried to get me to follow him/her into his/her house, turning to YOOOOWL at me every foot or so, but, as cute as he/she is, I didn't. I've seen Poodle numerous times since, but he/she's never made as much noise as the first time. He/she was my first neighborhood cat-friend.

Some weeks later, I met Corey's cat, a beautiful grey/brown/reddish tabby. She bit me. It turns out, she bites everyone until they figure out just how to pet her. Her name is Iris, and it turns out she's quite a friendly little cat.

She looks like this, but even prettier. I also stole this image.

I had gone from 0 cat friends to two in almost no time, but I wasn't done yet. The next cat was also absolutely fabulous, and entirely gorgeous. She's a long-haired black and white cat named Lola who lives near my complex. She's super friendly and likes to roll in the dirt.

I stole THIS one from the BBC.

Last night, as I was leaving my apartment to head to Corey's, a mighty fine, short-haired black cat met me in the parking lot, escorting me to my car. Totally lovable, she sported a sophisicated leopard print color with matching bell, but no name tag (however, leopard print means I assume the cat is a she). I'll call her Panther.Like this, but with two eyes.

This morning, as I was leaving Corey's, I finally met his neighbor's cat, which has a name that I can't remember, so I won't rename it. It is also very sweet, and also likes to roll in the dirt.

Not really like this cat, but sort of. Kind of.

I am quite happy right now, and I think that the number-of-cat-friends index is a good indicator of happiness. In any case, there seems to be a very strong correlation--and to further support this, there were no cats present anywhere on Friday night.

There were also no cats present this morning when some twat on a mountain bike got in front of me at the stoplight. Granted, perhaps he thought that the fact that I was road biking with a cup of coffee would slow me down sufficiently that he would be faster than I would be, but this was entirely foolish.

Now, there are lots of people who ride mountain bikes around seriously who know how to the ride. Many of these people have better bicycles than I do, and are more experienced bicycle riders. Additionally, I have never seen any of them riding with cups of coffee. All of these factors make it entirely possible that the bicycle rider would be much faster than I am.

However, none of these factors applied to this twat, who appeared to still be learning how to use his gears correctly. It drives me nuts when people who suck at bicycle riding don't even know that they suck at bicycle riding, like the girl riding down Cesar Chavez a couple weeks ago, changing lanes without looking backwards over her shoulder. In any case, I was forced to (even more dangerously) remanuever past this twat while holding my coffee and avoiding the pot holes which are endemic at 38th and Speedway.



Then a guy on an expensive mountain bike who seriously knew how to ride it passed both of us.

Bad night.

She blinked, bleary, at the clock and rolled over, cold and alone, in last night’s jewelry. Her eyes were swollen, and she remembered staring through the mirror, tears rolling past contacts sitting on her cheeks.

She rolled out of bed, looking for pajamas, cold, bare legs goosepimpled in the midmorning interior. She didn’t know what she’d done last night, but hoped she never did it again.

The speakers chattered, and she pretended they were predicting his phone call, knowing they weren’t. He wouldn’t be awake for hours. She looked at the phone, wondered if she regretted last night’s voice mail.

A car alarm sounded outside, not hers. Her car was in South Austin, hopefully still, and she regretted telling him he’d have to pay for it if it got towed. Maybe that was where everything started. She couldn’t remember.

Edwige had been upset. Thump, thump, she’d gone, slapping powerful back feet hard against the floor of her cage. “I’m sorry, precious,” she’d told the bunny through her tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Her neighbors were having sex above her, and she didn’t try to escape. She laid, pressed in bed, and cried for all the things she was afraid she didn’t have anymore.

Riding when it's cold

So, I've been bad. I've been writing entries and saving them as drafts and publishing nothing.

It's gotten cold here, and I think everyone knows that when I say cold, I mean that it's a freezing 46 degrees outside. However, because the internet knows all things, the reason it seems so cold is that it feels like 43. This is likely why my decision to ride my bicycle to campus in thin sweatshirt was a poor decision.


There is a girl who must live in my neighborhood who often rides to class about the same time that I do on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. One day, while I was waiting at the stop light, she blatantly rode her bicycle up the lane behind me, then past me, and stopped directly in front of me. Even those of us on our refined, primitive biycles have manners, and I have intensely disliked this girl ever since. This girl, we'll just call her Rude Girl, has legs the size of my forearm. Not the length of my forearm--they're probably as long as the entire bottom half of my torso--but incredibly tiny. Now, I have nothing against excessively skinny people, but this girl has no muscle on her legs. She does, however, have a very pretty bicycle. It's blue with yellow grip tape, and it's actually funtional at being a multi-speed bicycle (unlike either of my multi-speed bicycles). It's also nicer than my bicyles, and this means that it's faster than my bicycles. The fact that I dislike her, she's rude, and she has a better bicycle is very painful for my pride. However, in spite of the fact that I can never catch up to her superior bicycle as I trail her down the large hill that Speedway is, I'm a better bicycle rider than she is. There is only a small section of the road that goes uphill, and this is where I always catch her and pass her. It's the second greatest moment of every morning, the first greatest being my first cup of coffee.

But on the topic of cold weather bicycling. I need some gloves! I seem to have lost mine in the nine or so months since I last used them, and since we're now down in the fourties, my hands are clamoring for them (by which which I mean numb). I used to have a very great little pair of converitble mittens. These are basically fingerless gloves which have mitten-top attached to them. While riding your bike, you flip the mitten-top down over your fingers, and they all hang out together, sharing warmth and war stories. When you get to the bike rack, you flip the tops off, and voila! You use your unemcombered fingertips to manuever your bicycle lock and key. They're a great invention, but they're lost.

Yet perhaps the greatest cold weather bicycling invention is the Snot Rocket. My father originally taught me this art, which I put to very good use during my youthful soccer career (after the time I blew my nose on my shirt and left a huge snotwad on my sleve, disgusting my teammates, I needed a new solution). I had tried carrying Kleenex in my soccer socks, but it never worked well, and when I finally mastered the Snot Rocket after a messy learning period, my quality of life greatly improved.



I have used the Snot Rocket before while paused on my bicycle, usually at stoplights, but today was the first time I'd used it while in motion. There's only one stoplight on my ride home, and with the weather the way it was, my nose was dripping the way that my bathtub does. Having passed the stoplight but with my nose re-full of snot, I needed a solution. I must say, seeing the snot fly behind me as I ride away is quite a thrill, and I can't believe I haven't done it before.

Now I'm going to go get a flu shot.

Cassavetes is already there.

Monday, not long after publishing my triumph in the War of the Director's Wall (WOTDW), I sallied into Vulcan looking to rent the immenently fabulous Gremlins. Although not remembered as such, Gremlins is one of the best Christmas films ever made, along with It's A Wonderful Life, A Christmas Story, A Charlie Brown Christmas, and Die Hard. As I browsed the shelves to see if I wanted to temporarily adopt a second film as well, I could hear the employees at the counter putting on a new film.

"Oh, man, good choice," one noted.
"Yeah, we'll have a mini-rest-in-peace,-Wes-Anderson marathon," someone answered back.
"Whoever that Teeney person is..."
"Yeah, once we find out..."

For a second I thought I was in trouble, but Sammy peeked his head into the "Action" section, where I was momentarily cowering. "They're not too happy with your email," he admonished me... then gave me a high five. A few minutes later, having decided I was only going to rent Gremlins, I made it up to the counter. Sammy took care of me, and told me that Gremlins was on him. I've apparently cemented some friendships... but likely sacrificed some others. Oh well, RIP, Wes Anderson.

Craigslist has lately been home to all sorts of bicycle goodness, this most importantly:
Yes. That is a wonderfully purple road bicycle. Unfortunately, I don't know anyone who rides 54cm frames. I hope that someone will give this bicycle the home that it deserves it.

In other news, continuing my quest of Billy Wilder, I finally moved on to his Audrey Hepburn flicks. I had been dragging my heels on these, not because I really have anything against Hepburn, but because I beleive her achieved legendary cult status is... well, I think she's a bit overrated (the same way I also consider Andy Warhol overrated; strangely, the same people who obsess over Hepburn seem to similarly obsess over Warhol). While Hepburn seemed to hold little special during the majority of the film (she was supposed to be a little French girl, and while her father had a French accent, she most certainly did not, and I found this rathert irksome), yet I have to say that in the closing scene, she is perfectly brilliant.

I actually wrote this post, I think on Wednesday, and couldn't remember the rest of the things I wanted to talk about, so saved it and then was off the computer for a while. Here it is! Late and still lacking the things I forgot about. Ha.

Signs of foreboding and the justice that they bring.

I didn't have high hopes for today. This morning I was abuptly awoken this morning by having my pillow rudely and thoughtlessly snatched from beneath my peaceful, slumbering head, and I can't think of a wose boding to begin the day. Fortunately, although it is only 3:20, it seems to have been a fluke.

I finally dismantled my pirate boatcycle this morning. Having many vertically placed sheets of cardboard makes a bicycle fabulous at catching crosswinds, and it's a notoriously breezy time of year here in the Windy City Live Music Capital of the World. Let me just clarify that when I say "breezy" I literally mean "pleasantly windy.1 While this isn't a difficult problem to deal with, even when riding essentially a giant sailboat, it did mean that I hadn't been able to, to quote Flobots, "Ride my bike with no handlebars." This is tragic. I really enjoy riding without handlebars. It's really the only thing I can do on my bicycle besides riding it normally (although Charles has been coaching me in my kickflips). Perhaps the height of my bicycle career at this point is therefore the morning I rode down Corey's street, waving at his neighbors as they cheered me on.2 As I mounted my bicycle this morning, I was filled with excitement about cruising handless down the breezy street.

But today was no typical November Monday in Austin.
Instead, a slight cold front (a term I use very loosely) had surfaced. Wind gusting! 13 mph to 22 mph! Ridiculous. Absurd. Also, I sensed a hint of moisture in the air. Fontunately, having removed my bicycle bulwarks, I was easily able to cruise down the street while calling the KVUE 24 weather hotline (512 451-2424) on my cell phone to find out if there was a chance of rain without being buffetted by the wind ("thrown overboard," if you will). Because the above screen capture lacks the urgency of the rain-eminent information that the hotline had, here is tonight's forecast.
Whoa! That's a rain-laden forecast, and a frightening prospect for a little girl alone on a bicycle. Miraculously, the rain staved off for a few hours (which is why I had to post tonight's forecast to demonstrate the threat I facing earlier), and I returned home after class, nice and dry, and unmolested by pesky winds (yes, the "air flow" level above "breezy" is undoubtedly "windy" followed by "gusty" and finally "tornado").





As I mentioned a few posts ago, I wrote an email to Vulcan Video, complimenting their new Mogwai and lamenting the fact that Wes Anderson was on the Director's Wall when more deserving directors--like Ingmar Bergman--were not. Today I received my response!

You are correct! A rogue employee put him there and we just have not had a chance to take him down. As for Bergman, since he has made so few movies in English and our Swedish section would be lacking without him, he isn't on the wall.

Any American directors you would want to add?

Cheers!

Joe Shivers

Vulcan Video

Although Mr. Shivers did not mention my compliment to the mogwai,3 you can hardly argue with an email that begins with the words, "You are correct!" If only more of my correspondence were written in such a manner. Also, I enjoy the ambiguity of the the second sentence: "A rogue employee put him there and we just have not had a chance to take him down." This sentence can be read two different ways, one sensible and one awesome. The first is: "A rogue employee put him there and we just have not had a chance to take him (Mr. Bergman) down." The much more fun interpretation is: "A rogue employee put him there and we just have not had a chance to take him (the employee) down." However, I strongly suspect that this was a female employee (come on, everyone who loves Wes Anderson that much has a vagina). Mr. Shivers did leave me with a challenge, however: Who would I recommend being put on the wall? I don't know! Bergman, apparently being the only major film contributor from his country, is stuck being his country. Any suggestions from you guys?4

But one more thing about this email. They "haven't had time" to remove him!? WTF. The people who work at video stores (and I love them all dearly; I think they know this) have nothing BUT time. Sigh.

Another moment of justice today was when I finally signed up for my UFCU accounts. Goddamn, it's easy to sign up to give people your money. I'm going to wait a few days for all the charges on my BoA account to finalize, and then I'm going to cut them folks off without a dime. I am quite excited to be starting this new chapter of my life.

I hope everyone has had a spectacular Monday.




1Oxford American Dictionary

2That morning began in exactly the opposite manner of this morning, full of "win."

3 I highly recommend looking at the mogwai (which may or may not be Gizmo). The artistic representation has captured all of the charm and adorability that the little creatures lose when you feed them fried chicken after midnight. You don't even have to go inside--or even get out of your car to see it; it is directly visible through the front doors of the store which can be easily seen from parking lot. I invite you to do your own drive-by-viewing.

4 Really! Feel free to make me look good.

Belated Halloween photos

Feeling ill.

When I was roused from my slumber this morning by the rather adorable jingle of my cell phone alarm clock, I was faced with the harsh realization that I felt like shit. Not only was my throat filled mucus and an itching, scratchy sensation, but my uterus had decided to redecorate and was shooting bolts of electricity through my body as it prepared to put up new wallpaper.

"Aha!" I know you are saying. "This is a perfect day for Teeney to sit around blogging all day!" But this is a very foolish thought. Although I woke at 9:00 A.M. after a sickening ten hour long sleep, I was forced to remain in my bed, moaning inconsolably for the next three hours. At this point, I realized I was going to have to make a sacrifice if I was ever going to get any blogging done, and I managed to roll out of bed, throw on some pants and slide on shoes, and stumble bra-less to Walgreen's. Here I purchased Midol for my lady pains and Sprite for my forlorn throat, then ogled the chocolate candies (which I resisted) as I waited in the check out line. I promptly came home, washed some Midol down with my Sprite, and ate Corey's Snickers bar out of the freezer.

Finally about 1:00, I was feeling nearly functional, and began to assess the as-yet unstarted five-page paper that is due tomorrow. This consisted of browsing the syllabus, flipping through my sources, poking around the online library catalog, and planning how I would write about hating the paper in my end of semester course instructor survey.

I made it out of the house once again around 2, catching the bus--for about the second time this year instead of cycling; don't worry, you can give me a high five and a slap on the ass for that when I'm feeling better--to campus and checking out the remaining needed books for such paper. Returning home from my adventure, I quickly collapsed into bed once again.

Man, this blogging has re-exhausted me. I think I'll get back in bed once more.

If you need a laugh today

perhaps you haven't seen this video.

errata v.2

Whoa! What a weekend!

Today is the first day of non-daylight savings time, and I feel great! It's not even 11:00, and I am wide awake, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and dressed. Okay, you're right, I fell asleep in my clothes last night, but that has nothing to do with anything. I'm currently sitting at home waiting for the library and the pet store to open. I know: it looks like I have a thrilling day ahead of me, browsing book-filled shelves, the smell of stale pages (it's such a good smell) and unwashed hobo around me (not so good), and petting bunnies and buying pellets.

I have been emailing anyone who will read them in the last few days. I emailed bikesnobnyc, I emailed atxbs, and I emailed Vulcan Video. This is all a response, I beleive, to the utter ineptness and stupidity of Bank of America that simply sends out form emails no matter what you write them. But I will get them back later this week when I go close all my accounts. MUAHAHAHA. I hope that $10.00 was worth it, you bastards.

My email to bikesnob was informing her of her true identity. Yes, bikesnob is female; I know this because I dreamed it. Bikesnob replied, and uses equally good grammar in private as well as public communication. It's not a farce, as some have proposed (I'm sure you've heard the whispers of "She has a fabulous ghostwriter.") This would explain a lot to me: It takes a long time to craft such excellent, well-organized and well-written essays. These are invariably posted during the middle of the day, which makes me wonder about her occupational status (maybe she's mentioned it in the blog and I've just forgotten). However, the mid-day postings imply that she isn't a messenger, which leaves three options: 1.) Bikesnob, in addition to her ironic orange Julius bicycle, has a moutain bike which he uses to pedicab. This is why she never updates in the evening or on weekends; 2.) Bikesnob works in a coffee shop, giving her ample time and practice in the everyday activity of sitting in dimly lit space, typing on a computer; 3.) Bikesnob is a nighttime messenger, which makes her even more badass. She probably doesn't use lights on her bike, but guides herself through echolocation.

As for atxbs, I merely emailed this article on female cyclists dying more often at the hands (or tires?) of motorists in Britain. This statistic is attributable to the fact that women cyclists are more likely to stop at redlights. Obeying the law is dangerous!

And to Vulcan Video, I emailed complaining about Wes Anderson being moved onto the Director's Wall. I mean, seriously, WTF? Ingmar Bergman isn't even on it, and Herzog only got that promotion in the last year or so. Wes Anderson?! When I commented on it to the guys working, one of them exclaimed: "Seriously! What's next?! Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino?" When the war starts, we'll be in the same army.

I watched The Jackal for the first time last night. Don't read this if you don't want a spoiler, because I'm about to go all out on your ass. But first I'm going to take a sip of coffee.

So, this severe Russian woman and this black guy (because he's the only black guy in the movie, it's most expedient to identify him in this way. I apologize; his race isn't really important, but it's a lot shorter than typing "the who works for FBI" every time) who works for the end up killing this Russian mobster (he was an asshole). Of course, the Russian mob gets angry, and hires Bruce Willis ("The Jackal") to kill the head of the FBI (who is not black). Anyways, Bruce Willis is this total badass who is an international killer and pretty much unstoppable--and only about 6 people in the WORLD knows what he looks like. One of these people happens to be Richard Gere.

Gere is an Irish guy who did something wrong and got caught and sentenced to 25 years. It turns out, Bruce set a trap for him, and Gere fell into it--with his lady friend, who at the time was carrying his child. She got shot and lost the baby, but survived, then while Gere was in prison married someone else and had two children with him. She is also one of 6 people who knows what Bruce looks like.

So, Gere doesn't like Bruce Willis, and the black guy gets him out of prison to help catch Bruce, which is the smartest thing he could have done because Gere is a total badass, just like Bruce. So, while they're trying to find Bruce, Gere and the severe Russian woman (her name is Valentina) begin to fall in love. It's sweet. Aw.

In the meantime, Bruce flies to Canada and hires Jack Black to build a mount for this giant gun that he has. I'm going to go out on a limb and say this is one of Jack Black's least good roles (my favorites being his role in Jesus' Son and now also Tropic Thunder). Anyways, Bruce guns him down in a dramatically bloody scene, then blows up his car (hey, he was just testing the gun). He then buys a boat, hides the gun in it, and sails to America, where Gere spots him on the wharves of Chicago and Bruce tries to shoot him. So, Bruce gets in his minivan and drives away (apparently badasses drive minivans in 1997), and Gere is convinced there is a mole in the FBI because Bruce wasn't surprised to see him.

Gere is right, of course. They get rid of the mole, and then realize that Bruce knows Gere's old girlfriend's new address, so they evacuate the family, but right as Brce gets there to kill people. ANyways, he shoots Valentina in the stomach, tells her to press her hand just right and informs her she was shot in the liver because her blood is almost black, and if she keeps her hand there, she has 20 minutes to live. If the pain gets too much, she can let go and die in 5. Then he tells her, "if you see Richard Gere before you die, tell him he can't protect his women." Of course, she survives until Gere gets there, and tells him, and Gere is angry. Then he realizes that Bruce isn't trying to kill the FBI director; he's trying to kill the first lady!

And he almost does it. He has his gun mounted in the back of his minivan, and he's got this toootally 1990's computer that he uses to aim the gun, which he connects to with these totally giant 1990's brick cell phones. And his computer has got this giant red button to press to fire. His finger is going towards the button in slo-mo as the black guy is running through the crowd to tackle and save the first lady... and barely does! Bruce shoots up the hospital, then runs away, Gere follows him, running through the subway (Kontroll is a much better subway film), and finally Geres first woman shoots and kills Bruce.

Oh, the 1990's.

I'm sorry about the end of my synopsis. I realized suddenly I was really bored with what I was doing, but couldn't not-write the last paragraph.

Oh well.

The unexpected consequences of dating me.

Corey bought me a pumpkin.


So, like any good pumpkin owner the week before Halloween, I decided to carve it.

It was a very nice carving pumpkin, so I knew whatever I carved on it had to live up to high standards. What better than to celebrate the benefactor?

Introducing... Charlotte

So, not long after posting about my bicycle cl addiction, I succumbed to my disease and purchased another bicycle. Note that I do not say "a new" bicycle, but "another bicycle." Without a doubt the least aesthetic bicycle I have ever owned, she is an old Free Spirit, now known as Charlotte.Damn, girl. Them's some ugly.

Charlotte is a horrible tan color that places her squarely in the 1970's. When I got her, she was was accented with equally horrible red stripe stickers.

Sort of like the makeup on a teenage whore.

After many hours of work, I've managed to remove most of these. I'm aided in my endeavors by the fact that I fully intend to repaint her (Would you keep a bicycle this color?!). This means that I don't have to pay really any attention to the paint underneath the sitckers, and can scratch it up as much as I want.

Charlotte is a single-speed in the same spirit as Eileen--someone got rid of the derailler and gear shifts and slapped a smaller chain on her. Very half assed. In any case, I've decided to work Charlotte back up to a ten-speed, and leave Eileen as a single speed. I bought some new bars, and I'm (eventually) going to put them on Eileen and move her drops over to Charlotte. Eventually. I've gotta buy new brake levers and some grips before I do that.

Charlotte might not be a pretty bicycle, but she's got a ton of character, and I'm secretly in love with her and all of her crappiness.

The first thing I did was remove her fender. I'm not going to throw it away or anything, but it's really not my style, and it wasn't installed particularly well in the first place, resulting in a ceaseless metallic chatter. It was driving me nuts, so I solved the problem.

A sad story, the fender has been shunned by even my mop and her boyfriend, the burned pot holder.

Both wheels needed air when I got her, so after removing the fender and reattaching the rear wheel, I proceeded to try to pump the pair of them up. After laboring for a number of minutes with the cheap inefficient Schwinn handpump my father gave me for my birthday, the wheel was approaching ridability, when suddenly my ears were greeted with the sound of rushing air. "Noooooooooo!" I let go of the pump and laid down on the carpet defeated. "What happened?" Charles asked, and reached for the pump, only to start laughing. Turns out I'd pulled the valve completely off the tube. Oooooops. Well, it probably meant I needed new tubes anyways.

Really, I'm just that strong.

Speaking of the rear wheel, perhaps the greatest thing about it is the high pressure tire she's equipped with. How do I know the tire is high pressure? Because it tells me so, baby.

I'm singing Queen in my head now, are you?

"Damn!" you're probably saying. "How high pressure is high pressure?" Let me tell you: Charlotte's rear wheel clocks in at an impressive 90 PSI. High pressure, indeed!

The front wheel, although not self-admitted to be "high pressure" has quite a fabulous (and utilitarian-looking) reflector.

As cool as this reflector truly is, it has nothing on the one mounted on the front of the bike, which really can't even be described in words:

Next best thing to a headlight.

Moving slightly upwards, the greatness continues. Charlotte's got incredibly wide handlebars--"like a cruiser-mountain bike!" Charles and I joked.

I know nothing about Picasa, but as far as I can tell, it doesn't exist for Macs and my photo is staying sideways.

Somethings should be more than 2 feet long, but not handlebars.

But what's even better than the absurd width of these bars --and perhaps my favorite part of the bicycle--is the fact that the grips don't match . Although the brake levers don't match either, this isn't quite as remarkable. Many people buy brake levers one-at-a-time, but grips?! I don't even think you can buy those one at a time. How Charlotte ended up with two different grips, when they're sold exclusively in pairs, is a mystery I doubt that I will ever solve.I guess it's sort of like having one boob a whole lot bigger than the other. Or one nad. Or whatever.

Beyond the brake levers, though, the handlebars have an interesting paint job. Obviously completed some time ago, judging from the number of scratches and nicks in the paint, someone was an incredibly lazy painter. While it's not unheard of by any means to leave your handlebars attached to your stem so that you don't scratch the new paint as you reinstall them, generally those who do this are careful to tape the stem. This is not the case on Charlotte--whose stem is painted, and whose bars are scratched to hell. Poor girl. But it definitely gives her character!


Just to sum things up, here is a photo of the bad ass fake tattoo that I applied this morning:

He's so awesome that he only uses his firebreathing ability to roast marshmellows. And veggie kebabs.

If you can't tell, that is a powerful, deathly dragon on top of a red burst of bicycle loving. And here is a big man on my little bicycle:

The current state of (my) affairs.

It's been a fabulous week, completely lacking in productivity. However, I am finally finished with my Fulbright application and with that entire process, and it's nice to have crossed one thing off of my endless to-do list. At the same time, I was supposed to submit a five page draft to the American Studies Honor Thesis head today, and I'm not doing it. I don't even have ONE page, much less enough information to write about.

At some point I'm going to blog about Charlotte, my "new" bicycle. She's an old Free Spirit, but was pretty cheap, and is my new project. As a very task oriented person, I find having projects to be very fulfilling. This is likely why I also enjoy jigsaw puzzles, sudoku, and blogging. Yet after setting new time-spent and words-written records with my Wednesday post, I'm going to keep it a bit shorter and more light-hearted today.

Charles and I were hanging out yesterday, bemoaning how hungry we were. "What's cheap?" I asked. "Pizza?" He urged me to check pizza chain websites for coupons, to see if there were any great deals. I logged onto Dominos.com and clicked to look at coupons.

To our delight, Domino's currently has a deal for a large, one-topping, carry out pizza for only $3.99. A large pizza for $4.00?! Charles was almost excited as I was.

But price is hardly where the wonders stopped. Not only were Charles and I about to get a rad deal, but we could even order our pizza online. Selecting mushrooms (perhaps the greatest pizza topping EVER), we placed our order and we greeted by a PIZZA TRACKER window.


Besides asking the invasive question about my political affiliations, this screen--with live updating!--informed us what stage of the pizza-making process our pizza was at, as well who was making it (Ashanti) and when she'd started making it. Charles and I unanimously agreed that this was the coolest thing we'd seen all day.

Once our pizza was done, we drove down to pick it up, leaving the tracker up in the browser while we were gone. When we returned home, we found that the pizza tracker had tracked us all the way to the pickup, giving us a nifty thank you.

No, thank you.

I will be ordering all my $4.00 pizzas online from here on out.

In other news, I'm not sure if anyone noticed my little Freudian slip in Wednesday's post, or even if anyone made it all the way through my entire essay. Although I edited the post so that it now reads correctly, I've included a screen shot of the typo for your convenience.

There's nothing sexier than a man with an analog camera in his hard.

To sum this all up with something that's likely way too obvious, I've rediscovered the screen capture. And it feels great.

Pick up your cameras and use them.

I had the most singularly amazing moment on my bicycle today. I had to drop something off at the study abroad office, so instead of my normal route home (which is just to ride up Speedway), I rode through West Campus (stopping at Junior's to chat with Jeremy), then turned onto 34th so that I could cross Guadalupe and get back to Speedway. I pulled up behind the cars waiting for the light to change, when suddenly the day's peace was shattered. The Toyota directly in front of me had all of its windows open as it sat, waiting for the green, the quiet of a rainy afternoon as people lunched on the patio of Food Head's. I dropped my toes to the ground, when a dog poked its head out of the passenger side window of the Toyota, turned around to peer at me. "WOOF!"

Apparently, this was the go sign, because a black pitt's head appeared through the rear driver side window, only to be quickly joined by a black lab which materialized at the rear passenger window. The normal sedan in front of me ahd been transformed into a barking motorcade. As I sat at the stoplight, three large dogs, each with their own open window, barking backwards at me, I leaned forward a bit over my handlebars, smiling. Wait, what was that? Was that? Yes... Yes. It was a little Boston Terrier in the rear window, on the back of the seats, jumping in the window and barking at me as well. I had four dogs in front of me, each with its own window, barking at me. It was fantastic.

Yesterday, Fidel posted an article to /r/snobs, titled "Hipster: The Dead End of Western Civilization," then blogged about it. He seemed to generally support the article, but I think it's vapid, foppish swill. I'm about to join that party.

To sum up the article, hipsters are destroying culture because they take everything and give nothing back, acting as mindless consumers in the name of independent individuality. Give me a break.

An artificial appropriation of different styles from different eras, the hipster represents the end of Western civilization – a culture lost in the superficiality of its past and unable to create any new meaning. Not only is it unsustainable, it is suicidal. While previous youth movements have challenged the dysfunction and decadence of their elders, today we have the “hipster” – a youth subculture that mirrors the doomed shallowness of mainstream society.

Poor Mr. Haddow. The 20th century in America is rife with examples of youth movements that haven't "challenged the dysfunction and decadence of their elders." Examples that immediately come to mind are the youth of the 1920's (women drinking, smoking, and swearing is hardly challenging dysfunction and is certainly glorifying decadence); the "countercultural" youth of the late 1960's and early 1970's, who defined coolness" by running away from the midwest to become a homeless, hapless drug addicts in Haight-Ashbury, who justified a life of theft with by idea of being "revolutionary" and raping women by the idea of "sexual freedom"; the entire youth "movement" of the 1980's, which glammified heavy metal, leotards, and big hair, as well as sex and drugs; and even more recently, the grunge movement of the early 1990's which was co-opted and commercialized in such a way that its figurehead and poet laureate (who made the idea of living underneathe a bridge cool) committed suicide. Yet, to date, 21st century hipsterism is apparently the first of these subcultures to mirror the "doomed shallowness of mainstream society."

Take a stroll down the street in any major North American or European city and you’ll be sure to see a speckle of fashion-conscious twentysomethings hanging about and sporting a number of predictable stylistic trademarks: skinny jeans, cotton spandex leggings, fixed-gear bikes, vintage flannel, fake eyeglasses and a keffiyeh – initially sported by Jewish students and Western protesters to express solidarity with Palestinians, the keffiyeh has become a completely meaningless hipster cliché fashion accessory.

This new idea of Western youth trying to be fashionable, dear God, is going to kill society. Nevermind that there is nothing wrong with wearing skinny jeans or vintage flannel or fake eyeglasses or leggings (although I personally agree that leggings are God awful). And let's not even get started on how horrible this appropriation of a meaningful symbol in the name of fashion is. This is much worse and more meaningless than wider society's adoption of Che Guevara, DARE t-shirts, POW/MIA soldier name bracelets during Vietnam, or Livestrong bracelets as markers of cool.

The American Apparel V-neck shirt, Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and Parliament cigarettes are symbols and icons of working or revolutionary classes that have been appropriated by hipsterdom and drained of meaning. Ten years ago, a man wearing a plain V-neck tee and drinking a Pabst would never be accused of being a trend-follower. But in 2008, such things have become shameless clichés of a class of individuals that seek to escape their own wealth and privilege by immersing themselves in the aesthetic of the working class.

Yes, these three items have become completely devoid of meaning. They have lost the historical significance they may have once had. PBR was one of the defining brews that appeared in the US in the late 1800's, and it could truly be seen as a symbol for American history and should be upheld with such honor. The fact that today's working classes almost invariably prefer Bud Light has nothing to do with whether or not PBR still symbolizes them. Shame on hipsters for imbibing it, this symbol of such patriotism, when they could be drinking the even more tasteless, more popular beer of the contemporary working class--even if Budweiser isn't even an American company anymore. It's not what the damn beer is, it's what it stands for.

And don't even get me started on the v-neck! At least they aren't wearing Doc Marten's which "first catapulted from a working class icon to a counter-cultural icon in the 1960's" and by the mid 90's had "festered in the minds of the youth" (as per the official Doc Marten website). And thank God they weren't wearing cammo, adopting the image and symbol of the nation's fighting forces, or the Mohawk, co-opting a symbol and style of a Native American tribe from the precolonial times. Adoption of these things certainly would have resulted in the spontaneous implosion of Western civilization, but as these kids have only adopted the v-neck, we're just at a "dead end." We can still turn around!

This obsession with “street-cred” reaches its apex of absurdity as hipsters have recently and wholeheartedly adopted the fixed-gear bike as the only acceptable form of transportation – only to have brakes installed on a piece of machinery that is defined by its lack thereof.

I am relieved that Mr. Haddow pointed out this obvious hypocrisy. Sure, some states, like Texas, consider the absence of a brake on a vehicle to be illegal, but there is no way these kids would ruin the light, streamlined appearence of their bicycles so that they might be street legal! Moreover, it's not like correctly riding a brakeless fixie requires any skill or strength. What, you don't think everyone can just hop on one and be able to do that? There's no learning process! There's no need to be able to stop on a dime! It's not like cars don't cut you off or passengers open doors directly in front of you, or people step in front of your bicycle....

Lovers of apathy and irony, hipsters are connected through a global network of blogs and shops that push forth a global vision of fashion-informed aesthetics. Loosely associated with some form of creative output, they attend art parties, take lo-fi pictures with analog cameras, ride their bikes to night clubs and sweat it up at nouveau disco-coke parties. The hipster tends to religiously blog about their daily exploits, usually while leafing through generation-defining magazines like Vice, Another Magazine and Wallpaper. This cursory and stylized lifestyle has made the hipster almost universally loathed.

What makes all this all the more horrible is the fact that hipsters are using modern technology, specifically the internet, to be connected. Can you imagine?! Science has given them all sorts of tools, and the bastards are using them. To do WHAT? To plan ART PARTIES? You must be kidding. I bet they even display analog photos at these, which is completely absurd. Analog photography has never in the history of the world, had any historical or artistic importance. It's a completely worthless technology, and has always been! But let's get back to those art parties. The fact that these kids are creating anything, no matter how trite, is beyond contemptable. Couldn't they play a video game or something? Instead, they're purchasing art supplies, selling art, and having parties about it, as if art is supposed to accessible and fun. This is without a doubt the "dead end" of civilization. Personally, I would be thrilled if we were to reinstate the Academy that ruled the art world at the turn of the century. I don't want to look at Picasso or Mondrian or even those panderers like Monet or Manet. I want a classically styled portrait, and I want it now.

But beyond that, the fact that these kids are going to nightclubs on their bicycles--which one can only assume they only do so that they can be seen riding their brakeless fixed gears in skinny jeans (which never get stuck in their bicycle chains even though they don't have to roll them up--seriously, these clowns should walk around looking respectable with one pant leg rolled up like all of us normal cyclists)--is absurd. Absurd. Why these kids don't just hop in cars and drive downtown is beyond me. It's not like they would have to cruise around for half an hour looking for a free spot, ending up paying $10.00 to park in some seedy garage guarded by a leering parking lot patroller. No, driving downtown on the weekend is simple and easy and cheap as hell.

And to continue on with this paragraph, the fact that hipsters blog about their exploits AND read magazines is particularly what makes them loathful. I hate being forced to read their pathetic attempts at self publication almost as much as I hate the fact that I have to see them in coffee shops browsing their free copies of Vice magazine. Don't they know how these behaviors inconvenience and intrude upon me?

"These hipster zombies… are the idols of the style pages, the darlings of viral marketers and the marks of predatory real-estate agents,” wrote Christian Lorentzen in a Time Out New York article entitled ‘Why the Hipster Must Die.’ “And they must be buried for cool to be reborn.”

Once again, Haddow hits upon an important point here. It is the completely the hipsters' fault that style pages and viral marketers and real-estate agents are attracted to them. Can you believe that they let these "culture" and "style" magazines cover their pages with the fashions these hipsters have chosen? And can you beleive that they allow our Western, capitalistic society to market to them, trying to sell them goods and services? I know that viral campaigns are often online and that it makes sense to use that tactic to try and target consumers who use the internet, but as we already discussed above, the hipster shouldn't be online. It's the rest of us that should be the objects of these marketing campaigns.

With nothing to defend, uphold or even embrace, the idea of “hipsterdom” is left wide open for attack. And yet, it is this ironic lack of authenticity that has allowed hipsterdom to grow into a global phenomenon that is set to consume the very core of Western counterculture. Most critics make a point of attacking the hipster’s lack of individuality, but it is this stubborn obfuscation that distinguishes them from their predecessors, while allowing hipsterdom to easily blend in and mutate other social movements, sub-cultures and lifestyles.

Here, Haddow writes the obvious, that hipsters have "nothing to defend, uphold, or embrace." Why else would he write an entire 2,013 word article about them? Undertaking such a challenge clearly underscores and illustrates his prowess as a writer. He's taken a worthless topic and written an entire an essay--and to say that isn't impressive would be a blatant lie. And to suggest that it's the lack of indivuality that sets them apart, what an irony! The fact that they "blend in and mutate other social movements, sub-cultures and lifestyles" beautifully illustrates this lack of indivuality of authenticity and individuality. We all know it's impossible for anyone to have interests that lie in more than subculture, movement, or lifestyle--real individuals are devoted entirely to only one of these. The fact that this idea--that people can bridge interests, movements, and lifestyles--is going global is truly terrifying. We must act now to prevent any type of--gasp--global unity. We cannot afford to allow any sort of international community to develop, especially one that overcomes gaps between different cultural groups. Oh, the inauthenticity that would result!

Gavin McInnes, one of the founders of Vice, who recently left the magazine, is considered to be one of hipsterdom’s primary architects. But, in contrast to the majority of concerned media-types, McInnes, whose “Dos and Don’ts” commentary defined the rules of hipster fashion for over a decade, is more critical of those doing the criticizing.

“I’ve always found that word [“hipster”] is used with such disdain, like it’s always used by chubby bloggers who aren’t getting laid anymore and are bored, and they’re just so mad at these young kids for going out and getting wasted and having fun and being fashionable,” he says. “I’m dubious of these hypotheses because they always smell of an agenda.”

What is WRONG with McInnes?! He isn't mad at hipsters for "going out and getting wasted and having fun and being fashionable"? How does he not understand the sheer magnitude of the crime that these kids are committing against the entirity of Western civilization!? Young people? Having FUN? It's hard to believe that the cops haven't gotten involved, that Senate hearings haven't been convened, and that the issue hasn't come before the UN Security Council. I hope these groups pull their shit together--and pull it together soon.

Punks wear their tattered threads and studded leather jackets with honor, priding themselves on their innovative and cheap methods of self-expression and rebellion. B-boys and b-girls announce themselves to anyone within earshot with baggy gear and boomboxes. But it is rare, if not impossible, to find an individual who will proclaim themself a proud hipster. It’s an odd dance of self-identity – adamantly denying your existence while wearing clearly defined symbols that proclaims it.

Seriously. These punks with their "cheap and innovative methods of self-expression and rebellion" (none of these inexpensive vintage clothes or art parties) and these b-boys and b-girls (who drive to bars in Escalades blaring rap, so much less obnoxious than those pestering kids on fixed gears) are exactly what we should all aspire to be. Not only should we adopt a group identity, but we should be proud of it and proclaim it to anyone who listens. The fact that, as Haddow has already demonstrated, the label of "hipster" is worthless and empty means that there is absolutely no reason for these kids--or anyone else--to deny being a hipster. Hell, from now on I'll be referring to everyone I know as hipsters.

Perhaps the true motivation behind this deliberate nonchalance is an attempt to attract the attention of the ever-present party photographers, who swim through the crowd like neon sharks, flashing little blasts of phosphorescent ecstasy whenever they spot someone worth momentarily immortalizing.

Completely true. People at other parties and of other social groups do not enjoy taking photos and having photos taken. Ever been to a sorority party? Now that's a social group that abhors the camera, hiding from it at every chance. Obviously, the only real solution to this hipster-photo problem is for all of us to adopt the values of the college Greek system.

In many ways, the lifestyle promoted by hipsterdom is highly ritualized. Many of the party-goers who are subject to the photoblogger’s snapshots no doubt crawl out of bed the next afternoon and immediately re-experience the previous night’s debauchery. Red-eyed and bleary, they sit hunched over their laptops, wading through a sea of similarity to find their own (momentarily) thrilling instant of perfected hipster-ness.

Once again, I have to advocate the sorority life style in response to this rather obvious and hipster-specific fact.

What they may or may not know is that “cool-hunters” will also be skulking the same sites, taking note of how they dress and what they consume. These marketers and party-promoters get paid to co-opt youth culture and then re-sell it back at a profit. In the end, hipsters are sold what they think they invent and are spoon-fed their pre-packaged cultural livelihood.

Haddow writes almost as if we are living in a capitalistic country, as if our entire economy is built around people trying to sell us--any of us--anything we'll buy. What a foolish idea! If this were really true, there'd be an Urban Outfitters and an American Apparel in every major American city. Moreover, hipsters would be completely unaware of the fact that these two stores existed solely for the purpose of selling their own "culture" back to them at a profit.

Hipsterdom is the first “counterculture” to be born under the advertising industry’s microscope, leaving it open to constant manipulation but also forcing its participants to continually shift their interests and affiliations. Less a subculture, the hipster is a consumer group – using their capital to purchase empty authenticity and rebellion. But the moment a trend, band, sound, style or feeling gains too much exposure, it is suddenly looked upon with disdain. Hipsters cannot afford to maintain any cultural loyalties or affiliations for fear they will lose relevance.

Haddow is completely right, once again. The advertising industry, a very recent development, is only now, in the 21st century, beginning to capitalize on "countercultures" in the Western world. I mean, just because Woodstock, the apex of the 1960's countercultural movement, was planned as an extremely profitable, moneymaking, capitalist event (and was almost successful at this) means nothing. The youth movements of the 1960's were full of integrity, completely lacking consumerism. Honestly, considering the genuine purity and selflessness of all those involved in the movement, it's amazing they're not still continuing today.

And this whole hipster system of changing loyalties! Yeah, some of them might have an undying allegience to The Smiths or Joy Division or even Bright Eyes, but those bands don't count. And the fact that hipsters fall all over themselves to support bands--for one album only--is dispicable. Maybe they've ended up giving bands like Wolf Parade, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and Vampire Weekend chances the artists never would have had otherwise, but the fact that they didn't continue to give these artists such opportunities by swearing an unconditional allegiance to them is ridiculous. Who cares that Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's second album was legitimately worse than their first? Hipsters should have bought it anyways.

An amalgamation of its own history, the youth of the West are left with consuming cool rather that creating it. The cultural zeitgeists of the past have always been sparked by furious indignation and are reactionary movements. But the hipster’s self-involved and isolated maintenance does nothing to feed cultural evolution. Western civilization’s well has run dry. The only way to avoid hitting the colossus of societal failure that looms over the horizon is for the kids to abandon this vain existence and start over.

Wait! The youth of the West are "left with consuming cool rather than creating it?" So who's creating it? And "the cultural zeitgeists of the past have always been sparked by furious indignation and are reactionary movements"? How indignant does Haddow really think Marcel Duchamp was when he submitted a urinal to his early 20th century art show? Or da-da-ism as a whole? It's hardly indignant! And pop art? Andy Warhol and Roy Lichenstein as furious? And Robert Rauschenberg! That guy only did what made him happy, and it happened to be considered genius. How about when the Beatles looked to traditional Indian music and Ravi Shankar as they created their music? They were simply recycling the past, but it's considered some of the best pop music ever created. Why do these kids need to start over? How are these kids so culturally secluded if, as Haddow mentioned earlier in his essay, they are able to "easily blend in and mutate other social movements, sub-cultures and lifestyles"? And the idea that this group of kids are going to single handedly cause the Western world to "hit the colossus of societal failure"? You have to be kidding me. And still Haddow isn't done.

The half-built condos tower above us like foreboding monoliths of our yuppie futures. I take a look at one of the girls wearing a bright pink keffiyah and carrying a Polaroid camera and think, “If only we carried rocks instead of cameras, we’d look like revolutionaries.” But instead we ignore the weapons that lie at our feet – oblivious to our own impending demise.

We are a lost generation, desperately clinging to anything that feels real, but too afraid to become it ourselves. We are a defeated generation, resigned to the hypocrisy of those before us, who once sang songs of rebellion and now sell them back to us. We are the last generation, a culmination of all previous things, destroyed by the vapidity that surrounds us. The hipster represents the end of Western civilization – a culture so detached and disconnected that it has stopped giving birth to anything new.

"If only we carried rocks!" Haddow laments, helpless in his own impotency. If only! If only! What creates any great movement, cultural or countercultural is a great leader. In recent struggles of Palestinians and even hipsters, cameras have acted as inaluable tools. In fact, cameras might be the greatest non-violent weapon of today. Perhaps if Haddow was to motivate and organize his peers instead of nitpicking and deriding, today's youth would be out doing something like registering their peers to vote, or inventing new film movements,
or beginning the world wide fight to save sharks or discovering how to biodegrade plastic bags in three months as sixteen-year-old, future hipsters.

Let me quote the hipster favorite The Rapture: "People don't dance no more/They just stand there like this/They cross their arms and stare you down and drink and moan and diss."

It's easy to complain. Haddow can complain about hipsters, and I can complain at Haddow. It's a vicious cycle. In the end, Haddow is one in a long line of those who have critiqued contemporary culture. He's covered no new ground in his essay, and in the end, just like what he's derided, he's left with nothing but an analog camera in his hand. Perhaps instead of complaining about today's hipster culture, Haddow should go out and create his own. But hey, why be proactive and positive when it's so much easier--and cooler--to reiterate all the things that have already been said?