I don’t have a great lead-in to this, and even if I did, I still couldn’t do it justice. Check out Tom Jones and Janis Joplin blowing the fucking roof off this place with an amazing performance of “Raise Your Hand”.

I was about 3 months old when that was filmed, I think it’s held up pretty well.

That’s about all I have to say, except, of course, for this: have a delightful weekend.

The post below regarding the Women’s Garden Cycles Bike Tour brought to my mind another bike tour taken by a smaller, but no less intrepid, group of young women not long ago.

One of the highlights of our Southern California experience was getting to spend some time with a very good friend of ours from New York who is not only one of our favorite people in the world, but a gifted illustrator and designer, and a committed velophile as well. She was one of the few people I knew that went car-free in Los Angeles, and did it with aplomb.

My wife and our friend did a pirate bicycle scavenger hunt in Echo Park (I believe that’s where it was, I could be wrong) with a couple of our friend’s friends, who were also delightful and talented and skilled and velophiliacs, and they had a band. We saw them perform as The Ditty Bops at Amoeba in Hollywood when Ruby was a little younger than 2, and Huck was still in pre-production discussions. They harmonize like angels, are skilled musicians, have an amazing stage presence and put on a great show. They make music that you could call “old-timey” (if you cared to), but it’s not derivative or gimmicky or hokey, it’s just… perfect. Oh, and Amoeba gave away a bicycle too, which was pretty neat.

That show kicked off their Moon Over The Freeway Tour, which they undertook by bicycle from May to September of 2006, charting a course from Los Angeles to New York and back to Seattle. What’s better than that? Hmmmm well, they did it on a couple Surly Cross Checks, that count?

So, on this lovely Friday afternoon, please sit back and enjoy this tune from The Ditty Bops. It’s the title track off their latest release, Summer Rains.

If opportunity knocks, and you get a chance to see The Ditty Bops live, do it. In the unlikely event that you they don’t hook you, you still won’t be able to hate the show or their music, I don’t think it’s possible. It’s far more likely that you’ll at least enjoy them a little, and there’s a better chance that you’ll succumb to their charms and be delighted in spite of that hard boiled persona you project to keep people from poking around your sensitive, vulnerable interior. Or maybe not, but if they come to your town, you should check ‘em out.

Have a great weekend, and hey hey hey! Let’s be careful out there.

The What Shall We Name The Karate Monkey Xtracycle? debate at Casa de House has continued since it was first brought up, costing my wife and I precious finite moments of our life, and burning processing cycles from our aging and deteriorating brains. There has been soul searching and introspection, and after looking deep into the recesses of our inner selves, we both agree that, by comparison, the living room’s actually not so messy. There have been some failed trials, Karate Donkey didn’t stick no matter which conceptual adhesive I used. Kong was attempted, which seemed like a good fit, being a big big monkey, but that didn’t make it either. Apes are not monkey’s, goddamit.

But we may have arrived at something agreeable to both of us this week. The “donkey” theme arose from the KMXtracycle’s amazing carrying capacity and work ethic, and the spelling proximity to “monkey”. A random association led us into the realm of donkey literature, where we found Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, one of Ruby’s favorites stories. A little dwelling on the name Sylvester revealed the similarities between Sylvester the Cat and the black-and-white motif of the Xtracycle. Score! But Sylvester seemed like it might be too long a name, and that bike really does beg for a more feminine moniker.

Sylvie works for me, zat alright by youse?

Naming the Trek 930 Xtracycle, currently in the build phase, took an entirely different train of thought, but thankfully a more direct route. The Forest Green powder coating, with the cream tires, brought to mind British racing cars. And a British Race car driver should have a good solid English sounding name, like… oh maybe Basil or Graham or… Nigel.

I’m always making plans for Nigel!

(Nothing against XTC, but I’m partial to the Primus version.)

Also, 17 months ago today my son moved out of his apartment in my wife’s uterus and joined us out here for some breathin’, eatin’, pissin’ and that other thing. He started life cold, wet, and cranky, but he’s feeling much better now. Cheers to ya Huck, I love you, son.

Ruby and Huck doing their git’n'r dunnest to got’r did.

Have a splendid weekend y’alls.

The Internet, bless its heart, sent us a couple AirZound refillable air horns for our steeds, and some Incredibells too. By gawd, we will be heard.

Getting in and out of Northeast D.C. requires riding some routes that aren’t bike friendly, and as much as I’m averse to riding sidewalks, there are some spots where it’s safer than being on the street. I take it slow and easy through those sections of the commute, and make every attempt to be courteous and non-threatening to pedestrians since I’m a guest on their turf. Even in my most cheerful voice, yelling “Coming up on your left!” feels abrasive. The sweet tones of the bell are a mellifluous way to announce my approach, and break the ice enough to occasionally say “Good Morning” as I pass.

And then, upon returning to the road, I frequently have to get the attention of motorists who don’t seem to notice that they’re about to cross my path. I’ve found that yelling is effective, but there’s a chance they’ll take it as a sign that I’m engaging them in a conversation.

The last such conversation took place one night recently, as the family and I were headed home from the pool, with a young woman riding shotgun in her friend’s car. He floated through his stop sign, nearly T-boning me in slow motion, so I yelled “HEY!”. I got their attention, and he stopped for the 2 seconds it took my family to clear the front of his car, but she felt like she had to respond, and passed on this piece of advice: “You need to learn to… watch out!” I’m doing ten miles an hour on a straight road, following a massive parade-float of a bike with my wife and both kids on it, we’re both decked out in lights front and rear, passing directly in front of his car. And I need to learn to “watch out.”

Yeah, so I’ve decided I don’t want motorists mistakenly believing I’m interested in talking to them, I just want to let ‘em know I’m there. And ya know what seems to work really well for that? A refillable 115 dB air horn, that’s what. I’ve used it two or three times since I put it on the commuter earlier this week, and it definitely got the reaction I was hoping for from the daydreaming, phone yammering, cavalier drivers (which is not to say, drivers of Chevy Cavaliers) that may or may not have been pretending I wasn’t there. You’re awake now there, eh buddy!

Ironically, the one person I really wish I’d had it ready for was the young lady on the bicycle, early in the week, that blew through her red light at 14th to make a right on Rhode Island just as I was coming through with the green and traffic. Having to grab fistfuls of brake to avoid crashing another cyclist, one who actually saw me coming and decided to cut me off anyway, was beyond annoying. I expect that kind of dangerous disregard for bikes from drivers, this felt like a betrayal from one of my own.

Come to think of it, I’ve seen a lot of boneheaded bike maneuvers over the last few weeks, not like Idaho Stops, but “wrong way, downhill through a red, threading cross traffic” kind of stupidity. I don’t know if it’s new cyclists trying an alternative to driving, and testing the limits of natural selection, or if this is par for the area and I’m just new to this side of town. But it’s a disease, and it fuels the already abundant antagonism between bikers and drivers.

Well! Ain’t I Mr. Crankypants! Clearly, I need some release. How about we look back into the idyllic past, to a time when men in high-octane muscle cars could chase each other around San Francisco, a time when the Mustang was king, and when bad guys looked like your wood shop teacher. And how about we rock the fuck out while we do that. Check out this superdeluxe Bullit / Fu Manchu mashup, and then have a great weekend if ya can.

I’m off to New York for a 3-day weekend, thanks to the wife’s awesome sister and hubby who’ve graciously lent us their apartment in Chelsea while they’re away. We’re visiting friends, the kids are partying at Tompkins Square Park’s playground, and I might get my hair corrected at Astor Cuts. Rumor has it that a friend of ours might wrangle our children for a night and let us get out on our own. When your life is mostly parenting, and you’re faced with a break and a massive array of activities to choose from, it’s easy to get paralyzed browsing the menu. We’ll have to set a time limit on pulling the trigger. Maybe we’ll just walk around holding hands, New York’s really nice for that.

Anyway, spend some time with folks you love this weekend, call at least one you haven’t talked to in far too long, and try to get outside a some if you can. Hopefully doing something besides chores. Hit the bottom, and escape.

See ya next week, cheers.

I’m out tomorrow, travelling this weekend, so the singin’ and dancin’ and whatnot comes a day early. My personal 3-day weekend means early entertainment for you!

But, before we get to dessert, I thought I’d throw out something nutritious. Don’t worry, it’s funny too, but it’s something substantial to chew on. Here’s James Howard Kunstler smacking America around with its own architecture and city planning.

There’s not enough Prozac in the world to make people feel okay about goin’ down this block.

Enjoy the stinging sensations!

I just caught this Neal Stephenson lecture, via BoingBoing, about SciFi-Fantasy as a literary genre, in which he discusses genres generally, talks about geeking out and vegging out, and relates the story of how an otherwise unflappable professional waiter in a New York restaurant transformed into a fanboy at the mention of Lucy Lawless.

I do love this part:

It’s fun to imagine a comedy sketch, with Robert Heinlein in a writer’s workshop, having the first draft of Starship Troopers evaluated by a circle of earnest young post-structuralists. I don’t imagine that there is anything like out-and-out censorship, but I do suspect that people who write about relationships, who write autobiographical introspective fiction from a subjective point of view are going to have an easier time of it in this environment from those who write SF.

On the science fiction side of SF, writers are working with abstract ideas from science, and scientists who believe, and who can prove, that they’re right are notoriously at odds with post-structuralists who are always looking for ways to bring science into the realm of what is called criticizability.

On the fantasy side, writers are creating entire worlds inside of their brains and populating them with species and civilizations and histories, an undertaking that seems fantastically arrogant from a post-structuralist standpoint.

The characteristics I spoke of earlier that lead SF fans to want to see intelligence at work in the faces of movie characters, when rolled over into literature, mean they want ideas. They want to learn something, or join with the author in speculating about a future, or about a fantastical otherworld. Naturally, they will see the aliens as dangerous predatory creatures that have to be killed, while literary theorists will say that perhaps the real reason we’re afraid of the alien other is because it represents the eruption into our discourse of heretofore subjugated knowledges.

Post-structuralist critics, assuming they have the courage of their convictions, would say to the young Heinlein, “I see that you are intelligent, that you know a lot, that you’ve worked hard, that you’ve put a lot of ingenuity into this book. But the whole thing is pre-theoretical, and therefore naive, and as such simply of lesser intellectual stature than something that was written taking into account the intellectual trends of the last half-century.”

Yeah, blow it out your ass, Roland Barthe! You’re going to know all about the “death of the author” when the goddam Arachnids of Klendathu rain death from the stars! Ahem. Anyway, good lecture. Bless the internet for letting me attend while writing a regression test script on a Friday afternoon.

What else is the internet good for? Let’s see. How about… zombies and Jim Carroll?

Yeah, that’ll do. Have a great weekend.

Fourth of July’s around the corner, nice long weekend to hang out with the family, finish a couple projects, maybe grill some veggies and meats at the pool. It’s been hot and stormy this year, like New Orleans in D.C. Last weekend was Tent Night at the pool, Ruby’s first shot at camping overnight. She and Rebbie had been backyard camping all week to get ready, and she loved it.

On Saturday, we broke down backyard camp and loaded the tent and tarp and thermarests on the longtail (noting that Wideloaders are in our near future), and pedaled ourselves to the pool. We had a nice dinner and a swim to cool off, and around 7:30 p.m. the announcement was made to set up tents, which we did.

Roundabout 9:00 p.m. lightning was spotted and we all had to retreat to the covered area by the dressing rooms. A few had to defy the order to bring it in, since they hadn’t gotten their rain flies up and there was pretty clearly a squall moving in. So for a couple hours a hundred or so parents, kids, and toddlers hung out under the eave, handed out beers to one another, enjoyed a dramatic storm and hoped our tents were staked well enough.

I got the opportunity to look another parent square in the eye and say, con gravitas, “I see lightning, and it always brings me down. ‘Cause it’s free, and I see that it’s me that’s lost and never found.” The person I said it to looked at me quizzically, but another overheard and gave me the look that said she understood. The storm passed, the stars came out, we had a great night and a splendid morning replete with cantaloupe, coffee, and an early swim. Ruby had a blast, I wasn’t sure if she was ever gonna want to sleep inside again.

There’s 200-ish days left of Bush’s Reign of Error, the Constitution’s in trouble, and there are signs about that we’ve seen the end of the cheap petroleum era. We’re in the beginnings of something else entirely, and what the weather will be like in the new era, no one can say.

“Fourth of July” makes me flash on X, but that’s not the song that’s going through my head this weekend.

No one is united, and all things are untied. That’s what’s going through my head. Exciting, and not entirely in a good way, but given a choice between uncertain existence and certain doom, uncertainty’s alright by me.

Enjoy the bonus interview and… aw hell, ya know, that’s just not enough X.

Have a great holiday weekend, and remember, must not think bad thoughts!