Skim coat

One more layer of mud is all I need before getting to paint this thing. The bathroom that just won't end actually has a light at the end of its tunnel. Nothing like the pressure of a shindig at our place this Saturday eve to kick me into subcontractor mode. It's not like our half-finished family room isn't hillbilly enough--at least the bathroom will have all of its pieces and parts painted and trimmed...for the most part.

Kind of like the situation at work lately. Lots of things half done, not quite finished, and since there is little work on the horizon it seems that finishing projects translates into looking down the steep precipice of who knows what. But we gotta finish to send out invoices, so the machine trudges along.

Sad news from one of my friends in architecture school. One of our profs succumbed to brain cancer after battling the cancer that had started in his lungs. This guy was quite cerebral, entertaining, imposing, and quirky, qualities that I always admired. He taught theory and was a great critic, always intertwining Italian modernism and Renaissance/Baroque architecture, among other things, when commenting on the dreck that we presented to him as we stumbled along, learning in lurches. I'll always appreciate his discussion of the "moment" on a facade, that instant when the composition finds its balance, is inevitable, and just right. But even more memorable is the mundane moment at the Circuit City, when the salesman was showing him just how vibrant this TV was, he interrupted him and said "I don't care what it looks like when it's on. I only care what it looks like when it's off."

RIP, Tom Schumacher.

Getting dropped

It's been a woeful year for me on the bike, if all I'm looking at is numbers. Otherwise it's been OK, as the few that I have logged in this year have all been memorable, in their own ways. By now I usually have a couple of thousand miles in my legs (based on 100 mile weeks over 6 months, give or take a few low mileage or no mileage weeks). The weekly club rides are never a problem when my base is laid.

I MAYBE have 350 miles in this year, if I'm charitable. It's no wonder that I'm being dropped like a bad habit on rides that normally are easy. In recent years (and especially when I tried to race), getting dropped was usually a trigger of increasing self-doubt and teeth gnashing which begat all kinds of lame conversation with whoever would listen to the self-loathing. As I hate to hear that as much as the next person, I try to clam up when the discussion of in-season form comes up during the small talk. It's all hollow.

Getting dropped often this year, however, has been kind of liberating. I'm not going to be involved in the animated competition that takes place during the rides because I simply can't hang right now. This is a brutal sport, in which one needs to train consistently hard just to suck. Riding alone gives me ample opportunity to resolve things bangin' around my head, of which there has been a lot of activity lately.

A couple memorable moments from my few rides this year, and lessons learned.

1. Don't eat 4 chorizo breakfast burritos before riding from Herndon to Silver Spring via Poolesville. The demands of the GI tract are much louder and more irrational than most human urges, and certainly harder to control voluntarily. I started that ride with arm warmers; I no longer have those in my wardrobe.

2. When embarking on the annual century with the intention of riding only half of it, I plan on paying attention to where I am so that I don't end up riding 20 miles shy of the 100. While I didn't bonk, I cramped in muscles that were buried in other muscles, numerous times. Stupid is as stupid does.

3. Realize that getting dropped in places where I used to lose contact when I started riding seriously again 5 years ago is because I'm at about the same form now that I was then.

Duh.

MORE FUN/BLACK SUN

One of the most worn cassettes that I played in the '82 Corolla over and over was my 90 minute Maxell with the third and fourth albums by X on each side. More Fun In the New World was more slickly produced and therefore more commercially successful, but the one that sticks with me, speaks to me, marks a shift in the way I looked at things and never gets old was Under The Big Black Sun.




I was a freshman in college in 1984 and my hallmate was practicing his bass on "The Have Nots", the last song on the album. Something about the dischordant harmonies was oddly attractive, and soon addictive. I could turn this passage into an homage to John, Exene, Billy, and DJ but suffice it to say that there's enough of that out there. While their first two albums were even more raw and energetic, there was something about Black Sun that allows me to discover something new every time I hear it. From these 4 albums X put together a set at the 9:30 Club last month that just may be the last time they all play together as a band. I'm glad I got to see them, after many failed attempts.

This is especially helpful when I'm in one of those morose funks that I find myself in every once in a while, about "lost opportunities" and "what could have been," despite the fact that I have everything I want in front of me. Just writing also helps me process these green thoughts, and two solid days of riding this weekend should dispense of the rest of the accumulated flotsam and jetsam of the feeble mind.

That ability to dissipate the negative energy has been missing for much of this year, so that's gotta change now. And 'cross season is just 2 months away.

Pandora's box

Look, don't look. A simple choice can alter one's day significantly.

Sometimes it's better to let sleeping dogs lie.

This is purposely cryptic to remind me of a lesson I learned today. I've found that looking back over this journal has done what I originally intended it to do, which is to stave off memory loss that is part and parcel with the accretion of years that seem to glide past with ever increasing frequency.

So one day I'll look back, read this entry and remember what it's like to lose perspective for about half a day.

Idiots

There is a bike lane on Woodmont Avenue in Bethesda, the portion that is one way with a gentle curve and a nice consistent 3-5% grade in the direction of travel. Before the bike lane was painted, it was a common sight to see cars swooping down into the lower Bethesda business district (also known as Snootytown or Caucasia) at speeds higher than warranted. Our office is perched above these lanes, perfectly positioned to watch the mayhem unfold. Other than a few fender benders, we've seen nothing worse.

That will change soon, especially if idiots use the bike lanes and roadway in ways that I am seeing with saddening regularity.

Typically people roll down this bonus lane in the direction that the arrows are pointing, something one learns early in life. Instead I see, on a daily basis, certain people "salmon" up the lanes opposing the established traffic route, which are determined by

a. the established vehicular traffic pattern on a one way street

b. the painted markings which do not require literacy skills to understand.

Clowns are putting their own lives in danger, and even worse, the lives of cyclists rolling down the lanes in keeping with the direction intended.

But what I saw today (though not the first time) were two cyclists salmoning up the bike lane, and where it ended (or began, if moving in the proper direction of travel), chose to continue riding against traffic IN THE VEHICULAR LANE WHILE THEY COULD HAVE USED THE SIDEWALK FOR A SHORT STRETCH (oh that's right--not cool to ride on sidewalk--and actually lot legal in some places, but certainly more legal than riding against traffic...). Stultifyingly and astoundingly stupid, as while their actions have a direct relationship to their proclivity to maim or kill themselves, by their actions they add another brick in the wall of hatred between vehicles and bikes, making it harder for the rest of us.

Not to say that I never do stupid stuff on the road, I'd like to think that I have about half or even one ounce of awareness. Not a lot, but something...

Staycation

It was such a great week that I can only frame it with the proper reference points to keep it all in order...as in what I ate all week.

It has become a ritual that after the kids are done with school I take a week off to stay at home and just hang out. Kind of like going to the beach, although we have no outdoor shower.

Last year during my week off we sketched a shack for the back yard and built it, roofed it, and painted it. It has served us well this year by being a place where we could store some stuff, do what kids do, and have the odd guest break his arm while shimmying the "balcony".

This year we had no such grand plans, as I scheduled my LEED exam for the end of the week, almost at the last possible moment before they those crafty folks at the US Green Building Council rolled out the next (more expensive, more difficult, and more jumpthroughhoopish) version yet.

Instead we decided to go to the pool as much as possible, or play with friends (kids, that is) as much as possible. I studied while they all frolicked about. It worked out well, since this was the type of test that required repetitive drilling of factoids that are easily referenced in books or on the interwebs.

Monday at the pool: the popcorn was salty and the fruit Mentos were very fruity. Shakes at Potbelly's before the movie were divine.

Tuesday & Wednesday were much of the same. Doin' a whole lot of nothing, though I had to work a coupla hours each day...the only low points of the entire week.

Thursday: The cultural event of the week featured a trip downtown to see the Marine Symphony Orchestra at the Monument. But first a phony baloney "Belgian" meal at Gordon Biersch which was punctuated by fire alarms set off by the hellions at the booth next to us. Dad got a serious talking to by the frustrated wife and ate his salad with his brim pulled way down low while she stalked off with one of the toddlers. Note to this restaurant: Steak frites are not supposed to come with a spicy sauce...

Friday: Our kids and their kids play Wii at their house while we go to a real Belgian joint. Karen had real steak frites, we all shared an order of real moulle-frites, and I had a green peppercorn sea bass dish garnished with a fried prawn that I am still thinking about--the fried prawn, especially. This crustacean treat was so lovingly crispy that it crumbled, nay, melted in my mouth. The company was fab as well, and it sure is nice to let the inmates run the asylum every once in awhile so that both sets of parents could enjoy a fine night out.

Saturday the rest of the family vacated out of town to join the in-laws and I joined the club century ride to Sugarloaf, only expecting to complete a forty percentury. But by the time we reached Sugarloaf Mountain I realized that I had hit that mileage mark and in a continuance of poor decision-making I rolled up and over the top of the hill, knowing I would pay dearly on my return trip home. Good thing there were provisions at the bottom of the climb--gels, bagels, bars, and tons of water allowed me to limp home for a cool 82 mile ride with some memorable moments. Awesome people on this ride, too.

The original plan was to go to a work related BBQ, then a graduation party for a neighbor's daughter, and then my annual get together with the high school in the Philippines crowd. No BBQ due to the extended ride, but the rest of the evening and push through into the wee hours could be described thusly:

Flank steak slices

Curried chicken slices

Shrimp in lime juice

Salmon with a ridiculous glaze

Crispy fresh veggies

Sumptuous fruits

Beer

And that was at 5:30 PM.

Then I got to the party. It was on like Donkey Kong:

BBQ prawns

Steamed seafood, corn and potatoes

Jello shots

Sea salt brownies

More beer

On Sunday we saw the O's-Nats game in B-more. Boogs BBQ featured a horseradish sandwich with roast beef, and I was, for about the 11th time in 4 days, in heaven.

Other highlights: my sister and her fam (with their new pooch) came down to visit, and I passed the exam, so all is well.

It was a grout Father's Day

Six months ago I tore apart my downstairs bathroom to create a more useable space with a shower that wouldn't leak, a sink that was bigger than a teacup, and a toilet that didn't require one's knees to be hovering around one's ears when administering the number two (or one and two, if you happen to be a female of the opposite persuasion).

The sink and johnny have been operational for a few months now, and I just got around to finishing the tile work this weekend in the shower. Repetitive manual labor puts my mind into rewind where I plumb the depths for memories of previous years based on the cues of current actions. This is an especially therapeutic activity, especially while I'm on a long ride by myself.

So as I was spending Father's Day morning grouting the tile (instead of riding) I began recalling the grout grafitti in the bathrooms at the UMD Arch School studios. Tiny pencil lettering in the architectural style, between tiles at about eye height if you're facing the wall, which you'd better be doing if you're at the urinals. Pretty benign stuff, like:

"Three strikes and your grout"

"The Grout Gatsby"

"When in doubt, leave it grout"

"Writing on grout is not alout"

"Little Mary was short and stout; she didn't grow up, she grout"

Seeing these on a daily basis for several semesters seals them into the memory vault, to be sure. Much better than the racist and misogynistic crap that I see in the Port-o-lets at construction sites, but even some of those authors are creative, though misguided.

Best construction site San-i-john grafitti I've seen in recent years:

"Sink too low. Soap too hard."