I say ‘party’ because I’m reasonably sure that’s what I did on Friday night.
It was rough going, but being that I am a professional, I stuck to my guns. At last until I fell asleep in the middle of a text to Tina B. in which I simply said;
“Im so mad at you i can hardly tell you how mad at you abo.”
“So what transpired before the text to make your brain and fingers work so effectively together?” you might be asking.
Well, in a strange turn of events following a bicycle ride with Brij during which he narrowly escaped a pinch flat as proven by this image;
(That right there is called finesse;)
I spied a flyer on a wall Indicating that the Sailors of The Salton Sea were playing in my hometown burgh. All amped up to get my get down muscle flexed, and preparing myself for a night out, I came to find that they were playing in Oakland as well. Never one to miss an opportunity to get to the sweet East Bay (that’s ‘beast’ in pig latin), I rounded up a couple gal pals, threw on my Dingos, and stuck myself in the eye of the storm. What followed was a barrage of cocktails and serenades through cranked amps.
The opening band was a Bay Area outfit that goes by the name TurbonegrA who did little for me aside from make me scratch my head;
All I could think of was that these folks, who are all quite accomplished musicians in their own right, were simply telling a punch line to a joke that was a decade old. It was similar to when someone mentions that they like your shoes, sport coat, ascot, or what have you, and then follow it with a quick ‘NOT!’
Whatever. They did their thing and I did mine, and we all walked away from the experience none the wiser. The band who I was there to see were the remnants of Throw Rag anyway, and even in their fractured state, didn’t disappoint.
Though they no longer had their somewhat signature washboard player, and were paired down to a four piece, (five if you care to include ‘Bob’) they didn’t disappoint, and I left with a head full of fuzz and ears full of ring;
After all was said and done, I still can’t tell you why I was mad at Tina.
Amanda knows a thing or two about shaking what her mamma (I assume) gave her, as proven in this latest installment from Minneapolis West’s 21st Avenue Bikes;
As I told her in response, it’s very evident that she has the Michael Jackson kick down pat, but I challenge her to do the Angus Young stomp while building a bike.
It’s the only thing I’ve ever mastered.
It also helps to actually be listening to AC/DC during any and all attempts.
While we are on the topic of music-ie things, which we all now know my taste in sucks, shortly after I posted Saturday’s ‘One For The Weekend‘, I came across the following image shot by Atlanta based photographer Nicholas McIntosh of Washington DC’s Soulside;
In an absolute collision of cosmic forces, as well as far too much time spent behind the keyboard, I came to the realization that at exactly 4:37 into this video, you can see the precise moment Nicholas’ flash goes off;
In the footage check the fatigues on the guy crawling up onto stage. Then in the image check the kid in the pit with the camera, and most importantly, check the individual on stage left ripping his air drum a new one.
I find it utterly astonishing that this split second from almost exactly 22 years ago should have found its way into my hands simultaneously.
The Kennedy assassination footage analysts have got nothing on me.
Let’s see here, what else do I have on deck? Ah.. I know. A few days ago I was graced with the acquisition of a brand new pair of my own DZR shoes;
Eagerly I began reading over the accompanying hang tag when I realized I had originally written it. I took a second to pat myself on the back and then I got back to work. Right out of the gate I stripped out the cleat plate, so if I were you I would just throw the ones that come with the shoes in the garbage, and replace them with some Shimanos;
Once I had that resolved, I took a couple of stickers, (one from here and one from here, natch) and applied them over the freshly replaced plates;
Before much more time got away from me, I took them on a real-live test ride;
on which Mr. Blacksocks lived partially up to his name;
Now while I wouldn’t necessarily say these compare to a high dollar, technical mountain bike shoe, I would say that if they hold up to several hours of abuse at the hands of my feet, then there really isn’t much they couldn’t handle as far as getting a person to the job/church/A.A. meeting/school/M.C. Hammer concert/what have you in style and comfort.
Certainly in terms of a shoe that you can throw on and feel comfortable and astonishingly handsome on or off the bike, my money is on the DZR brand, and I thank them for allowing me to be a part of their world.
In other news, Will contacted me last week with this bit of news about some young people in the Southern California region who were immersed up to their necks in amateur hour-
Five cyclists arrested for riding under the influence.
Rarely will I comment on an article, and then stand in line waiting for someone to take issue with my point, but for this matter I was moved;
“These knuckleheads are making the professional drunk cyclists look bad. Think I’m joking? We’re like ninjas. If not for this comment, you would have never known we existed. These dopes need to get back to their Pudding Pops and pogo balls, or whatever the kids are into these days.
Posted by: Stevil | January 14, 2011 at 09:05 AM”
9:05 am and I’m already on the computer railing against a bunch of retarders in Los Angeles.
Finally, Jim from Vecchio’s in Boulder got ahold of me to notify any and all who care they they just got a virtual spit shine;
“Dear Mr. Kin Evil,
On the one year anniversary of Vecchio’s deliverance from darkness, January 14, we have dropped a brand-spanking new website.
Have a looky-see.
They are no slouches over there at the bike shop, and their new site blows doors on the old one. Stop though for a hello and a hand shake if you happen to be unfortunate enough to live in Boulder.
If you do, you’re probably mad and if that’s the case, maybe you should text me abo.