Where everything is a sunny breezy smooth and easy bike ride away from everything else
Where it’s OK to horse around while riding because there must be a pony in there somewhere
Where working means riding a bike and horsing around means riding a bike
Where a bag full of beer is much lighter and much more important than a bag full of law books
Where it doesn’t matter how you get there or when you get there or if you actually arrive at all
Where there are no copies to conform so relax and don’t worry about calling to confirm
Where the judges do not want 3-ring binders full of courtesy copies
Where drivetrains are silently efficiently effectively frictionless
Where spoke tension is uniform
Where nobody speaks the same language but everybody understands
Where the Sunday NY Times is delivered by cherubic children on bicycles and it doesn’t get stolen off your porch
Where you can wash your hair with dish soap and wash your dishes with hand soap
Where the gravitational pull of predictability is comforting like a magnetic attraction or a landmark used to get your bearings and not just the same old rote route rut routine that becomes overbearing
The past five days of what some would call a workweek collectively literally a slow leak in more ways than one a hard row to hoe figuratively let me count the ways today I do not want to ride or even touch a bike practically however we do not have a choice on this as we do not own or flex a zip car and specifically the last thing I want to do today is fix a flaccid flat tire after riding it out for 40.33 hours at Dog & Pony Legal Messengers every day fulltime and not just 3 or 4 or when I fucking feel like it and the second to last thing I want to do today on this misty Saturday is ride my bike to Magnuson Park to buy some blown-out chamois skinsuits or some gently-worn brake pads or some shark-finned chainrings or some long-reach dual pivots for my girlfriend’s bike for the day when she’s ready to ditch the 27” wheels and say hello to 700c. See. This is my February. 3 Comments | Add Comment | Permalink
onesie
February 26, 2010
This is my nephew Hunter Pilder sporting a pilderwasser onesie in the Eastern time zone. Who doesn't like kittens and kites and kids in black American Apparel onesies silkscreened in Seattle?
A rear derailleur shifting gears on a shifter bike. Skipping and jumping ADHD like a brand-new chain on a worn out cassette.
After this special presentation we will return you to our regularly scheduled program and join Friday already in progress. Please return to your cubicles with your biodegradable clamshells full of daily specials. If you don’t have a cubicle, go out there a win one for the Gipper
had a dream I was a messenger in Seattle sitting in the lobby of a 55-story office building 25 minutes and not one messenger went by but it was not a dream
straddling the line between One and Two Union
had a dream I was sleeping in the passenger seat of a parked car and still got “pulled-over” by a cop on parade duty who had nothing better to do
do what you do as if you didn’t have to
had a dream I was sleeping and woke up in a shower curtain factory the smell didn’t bother me but being hassled by Rick Steves made me speak Chinese
toeing the line between participant and observer
had a dream I was sleeping the clock was blinking 12:00 12:00 12:00 couldn’t tell if it was getting dark or light couldn’t tell if she was coming or going couldn’t tell if she was a he but I knew it was time to leave
two more than a few screws loose a blown fuse a circuit short wires crossed hither and thither here and now beans and toast trial and error and or a systematic process of elimination the jobs get done eventually but it’s obviously not about efficiency although it feels like it should be in this business of immediate urgent package delivery have you seen the Naj? rationalized and justified ambidextrously in the margins of utility blissfully ignorant denial unhealthy attachment to the ephemeral individual and disposable with liberty and justice for all unique to the mass-produced masses tenderfoot grape juice on ice to entice the fruit fly lying in wait to hibernate through the winter to sleep perchance to dream until conditions are right
my very educated mother just showed us every good boy does fine but what about the nine pizzas?
it’s like diaper rash on your eyelids it’s like playing cards with Cory’s brother’s kids
did they start out that way and end up like this? or did they start out this way then end up like that?
as well as other timeless questions regarding the human condition neither here nor there but somewhere between restriction and liberation
thither and thither and thither
we’ve isolated the source of the odor frozen fish sticks thaw in direct sunlight
tah tah tee-tee tah tee-tee tee-tee tah tah
while authorities await toxicology test results, an unnamed source within the department stated that alcohol could have been a contributing factor. Malcolm Gladwell just as well as any kid off the street could tell you that there were a number of other factors contributing. Duh
the handrail slathered in lemon Pledge leaves a little residue to take with you a souvenir so to speak
the handrail was installed for your safety, please keep one hand on your business and the other one free in the event that we encounter unexpected turbulence or a sudden loss in cabin pressure…if your eyes go fuzzy and your knees buckle then you may find yourself in the dark on the floor of the bathroom in your girlfriend’s apartment and you may ask yourself how did I get here?
postnasal drip hits harder on the elevator
join the club take a number vitamin D deficiency get in line you’ll be fine
ants in my pants and piss poor posture precipitated by years and years of use and abuse in and for by and by a one-shoulder messenger bag
no regrets in retrospect still wouldn’t want your job on a day like this
a brown bag shed from an expired roadmaster tumbleweeds down the alley and into the street on the stiff morning breeze that slices through layers like a wood handled pizza cutter calling into question wardrobe decisions made nine minutes ago with nine more hours to go
Keeping in mind the periodic approval by the Surgeon General of the United States that a daily moderate amount of beer, wine or spirits can lessen the risk of heart attack and other potentially stress-related maladies, I decided to run a personal experiment. Considering as well that even more of the population of Europe would have perished than did during the medieval glory days of the Bubonic Plague had there been no drink of pathogenic moderation (i.e. beer, as opposed to water) to see them through thirsty times (and remembering microcosmic triumphs of personal survival on my own travels to Latin America and Southeast Asia), I decided to limit my experiment to the consumption of beer. For one month I would ingest nothing but beer. Given that I’m a brewer and have many friends who are brewers in a beer-rich region, it would almost certainly be good beer (but it wouldn’t have to be); I would attempt to make nutritional decisions based on mealtime appropriateness related both to style and adjunct; and I would continue my exercise regimen of a mile swim as close to daily as I could manage (and speaking of managing, could I fill my poolside Nalgene with beer and get away with it?).
Naturally, and in the interest of risk reduction and objectivity I would have to set up a monitoring structure. I see my kids and a few trusted bartenders nearly daily; they’re used to seeing me with beer and wouldn’t be likely to judge me, and none of them is particularly shy about expressing their opinions. I would weigh myself daily and give myself a characteristically critical once-over from time to time throughout each day. Was there anyone else I should consider as an objective observer--my mom, or maybe a doctor? I didn’t think so.
The following excerpts from my diary--reasonably well-kept, considering—are taken indeterminately periodically and are selected on the strength of style more than substance. What am I, a scientist? I still need my friends to explain to me how electricity works.
Day 1—I Pop the Top on the Whole Thing 7:00 a.m.--In a celebratory mood, I begin the day (and my experiment) with a Belgian ale of lively effervescence and a sugary and satisfying mouthfeel—the Sugar Pops of beer, with which I have accompanied more than one 7:20 a.m. arrival to Amsterdam. I drop the kids at school and head in to work. I don’t even miss coffee. 10:30 a.m.—While the other guys in the brewery smoke cigarettes and discuss the Sonics, I feel somewhat superior—downright Continental--with a tall pilsner. What a beautiful beverage beer is! 1:00 p.m.—Back from the pool (forgot my Nalgene, and my goggles!), I head down to Big Time, where I am borrowing some malt from Bill, and enjoy a revitalizing porter—so glad I added rye to the recipe back when I worked here, and that they continue to use it. So glad in general. 4:30 p.m.—Following a late specialty malt delivery I find I am slumping a bit—all those 55 lb. sacks up the ladder. I answer with an ESB, well-balanced and hoppy. If I am to continue working this physically, I must resolve to drink heavier beers earlier. 7:00 p.m.—Home on the couch now, trying to make sense of the newspaper. Bed not far off. Had a couple of Loki lagers—sustaining but not heavy—before the maddening irrelevance of food smell drove me away. Jason and Lucas—two of my bartending control group—offer me thumbs up as I climb aboard my cab. I forget my house keys and have to catch another cab back. Thank God for cell phones.
Day 9—I’m Doing Just Fine, Thanks 8:30 a.m.—It’s been wheat beer mornings for me these past few days. I find my sleep has been somewhat thinner (but no less satisfying). I have dropped eight pounds in as many days. My hair looks great. 12:00 noon—Napped on some malt sacks mid-morning and missed the break, so a Valkyrie strong ale to round it all out. Why are all these people eating food? They don’t need it the way they think they do, not as much, not every day. A bit slow at the pool, flip turns a bit challenging. Still, I find myself a bit more loquacious with my lane mates, and the lifeguard. 5:30 p.m.—With the necessary imposition of moderation I end my day’s intake with a dry-hopped IPA (there are sure to be vitamins in all that green). Was it my imagination or was that cute bartender being extra-attentive earlier when I was tasting through the beers? Certain that her hand touched mine more than necessary. 9:00 p.m.—Had one last beer to truly send me off—oatmeal stout. Who can blame me?
Day 22—Bottoms Up! 9:00 a.m.—Following a couple of resolutions involving strong beer early (a sort of de-crescendo idea resulting in theoretical late-day clarity and serenity), and no driving, I start my day with a five-year-old Rochefort 10 while I wait for my ride. Or is it a 10-year-old Rochefort 5? I crack myself up. 10:30 a.m.—A Westmalle Tripel to keep me moving and bright. Still, everyone else seems to be buzzing past me at high speed, like that old Star Trek episode the name of which I might be able to remember if I hadn’t had any beer to drink. 12:00 noon—A theme is developing here, so I go ahead and have a Chimay red—the Trappist beer of moderation, bready and sustaining. 4:00 p.m.—Orval is so gorgeous in the afternoon, with a bit of rare Seattle sunlight shining through, not unlike that café down the road from the brewery. I find these things easier to imagine and recreate these days. 5:00 p.m.—The bartenders are talking among themselves, but I decide not to take it personally. They serve me a Westvleteren , at any rate. 7:00 p.m.—Well, what’s left? The Aachel holiday ale—pretty good for an upstart trappist, but I’ll remember its name once it’s been around for a couple of decades. Where will I be then? This thought sobers me, figuratively.
Day 30—What’s So Funny About Peace, Love and Understanding? 8:00 a.m.—Got my girlfriend to drop the kids off and take me back to the shoe repair to punch another hole in my belt. I am the Incredible Shrinking Man! She is the bartender of some entries previous! Everything to me seems an exclamation these days! She makes sure I take lemon in my morning wheat beer—Bavarian-style anti-scurvy remedy. 12:00 noon—A no-nonsense industrial lager while I ponder it all. Not sure what I come up with, but I am on the verge of accomplishing what many may have done before but no one has bothered to write down in non-fiction form. Much literature, of course, has been born thus. 5:00 p.m.—Napping has been my salvation. What better way to pass the time as I come down to it? I sip idly at whatever. 9:00 p.m.—I drift, I wander, I ponder. I feel beatific, shamanic. Sentences seem too complete; snatches of overheard barroom conversation more apt to my consciousness. Does my staff fear me?
Conclusions There’s little doubt that the experiment has been a success. I have experienced spans of lucidity and lost close to fifteen pounds. The kids and the bartenders at times seemed wary, but I tried always to maintain my perspective and not presume on anyone’s indulgence. Still, this is not something one not as seasoned as myself should probably attempt. Thank God for the astonishing range of styles we have available in this area and in this country—in the world for that matter. This experiment would not have been so interesting thirty years ago. It boggles the mind how beneficial adding a little food to the quotient might be. Are the policymakers listening?
Read more of Cantwell’s articles here Drink more of Cantwell’s beers there
how much iceberg lettuce does it take to counteract one pound of bacon? just add tomatoes and toast
how many Attaboys does it take to makeup for one Ah Shit? call WLM and ask for a conversion chart
nursing assistants and Don Johnson share wardrobe decisions in hospitals and assisted living facilities in Miami Vice reruns and retirement communities why else would anyone wear white pants
dogs don’t know the brand name on their tennis balls and does it really matter what a Nittany Lion is
out of sight sort of out of mind back beyond the bleach bucket outside where the 10-tin brims with butts stewed in brown rainwater runoff where broken chairs retire and mops go to die where lost souls stray looking for the men’s room where no truer truths are told the reality is it’s all there it’s just not for you to see
conspiracy cover-up muff job ranch dressing in a dixie cup soap dispensers empty since August appearances only appear to be superfluous brushstrokes up & down play on the X axis side-to-side slop along the Y split the difference
false alarm lucky charm that’s my weak arm nondescript white Econoline cheapass screw-top red wine faded fermented misdirected re-elected
wiener dog mustard retractable leash 668 the neighbor of the beast that address is across the street
Looking back the morning after it seems I was out late. But it only felt that way because I got a solid 8 hours of drinking in before 8pm. I didn’t race but I did ride to the bar to sit and look out the window and note that Melrose Avenue runs into some poor routing and all roads lead to Cool Guy Park. After notarizing manifests for 2.5 hours between pints of IPA I was able to let gravity roll my bike down to Mobius for the ceremonious festivities after the race. There are now a few Dank Bags Jack Sikma Hella T-shirts rolling around town, sure to be conversation starters when spotted at the mall in Bellevue or at QFC on Mercer Island. I can’t give you race details or play by play or points scored or stuff like that. But I know Steve Young was involved in the results as well as some really bad porn and plenty of xtreme cheese flavored corn dogs… dip’em munch’em everybody loves’em.
Pike beats Pine the bars are better the hill is easier to climb empty calories add up to nothing to get me up that hill after work to race chuffers across Boren calling on adrenaline an amalgamation years and years of elevator conversation Do me a favor… Listen here my friend… and other precursors to horseshit stupid sounds stupid the Oklahoma way not in an OK way machined to tolerances ± .01mm nothing you couldn’t fix with vice grips or a swift kick in the ass stovetop stuffing I’m staying no reason to go halfass Shaq from the line 50% of the time taking ownership and responsibility using a large law firm as a transfer lobby between a small firm and a midmedium stainless steel wicks the heat away economically a self-inflicted haircut the night before picture day immortalized in the yearbook remember see look 1977 F150 and plenty of rope rounding up rogue shopping carts to return them to their proper pasture playing the percentages Pike beats Pine
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I’ll find you near the intersection where expectations meet reality, but we’ll both need to wait in line for a while. Together. Separately. For complete instructions and rules of entry send SASE to PO Box 123.
Do you feel that? That’s not a subwoofer. That is 442 cubic inches of displacement. Muscle. Original flavor long-cut between the cheek n gum. Liquid smoke in the eye a poke. As if meeting in the loading dock makes sense. By design.
If and only if. If then. If only. Migratory six-pack rings wrapped around your finger. An environmental impact statement stated in terms like simplicity, utility and out-of-pocket. Out on a limb like the kitten in the poster on the ceiling at the dentist. You’re huffing so much gas, the kitten begins to speak Spanish and you understand completely.
Paperback reading walker. Walker reading paperback. I’m watching where you’re going, so you don’t have to. Warm shampoo. Cold Turkey. Fingerprints on the glass, compounded daily. Toothpaste splatter pattern on the mirror in normal distribution with standard deviation and occasional outliers. Fat-free vegan organic truck stop. Barstool etiquette. Free refills.
Cauliflower party platter. Roundhouse. Circle to the left counterclockwise here as well as in the southern hemisphere. Losing steam. Solar powered artificial color. 67% majority. Authority. Ponytail pulled back so tight your eyes go funny. Purple mountain majesty. I’m invisible for my own safety. Please ignore me. I dress like this as not to be confused with an attorney. Conversation may be recorded for quality assurance purposes.
They had me going. The entire package, the experience, the atmosphere, the ambiance, the greeting, the presentation, the valet, the hostess, the sommelier, the support staff, the music. They had me going there…but the smell. The butt smell. Who smells like doodie?
Textured vegetable protein American cheese product. Dust-free laboratory. Fingerless glove snot rocket. Tyvek jacket crinkling from Seattle to Portland in one day. That which we call a rose is a Mercury Bobcat is a Ford Pinto is a rose is a rose is a rose.
Terracotta façade undulating in the low angle winter sunlight. Getting all oboe. Oboe all up in your face. Peter and the wolf. Jack and the beanstalk. Hootie and the blowfish. Puke on the pillowcase spring break. Direct pressure eye contact. Plug n play they we all look the same. Are you my Bucky?
She rides around in the drops all day making us all look bad. We’re not in Marymoor anymore. We made the waiting list for the best preschool in Madrona. We got cold feet. Cold fingers. All ears. Captain Right Back Atcha coming out of retirement because he mixes it with love and makes the hurtin feel good.
So firm you could set your beer on them.
She’s a brick house elaborating on an elaborate set of rules. Getting upset when no one else plays along because no one else knows or cares about the rules or the game or the fact that she is still keeping score on that scoreboard that no one else can see. Accurate and precise yet cold and indifferent. Overcooked and cranked up to Asperger’s level. Horizontal stripes stack up like binders full of courtesy copies to C-203.
Quilted patchwork piecemeal. 650 front wheel. Campagnolo cranks BMX anodized fade to pink. Red turtleneck sweater February candy office party glazed high fructose corn syrup distraction delivered floral arrangement calling in sickly sweet.
asshole visible up in the air on the table cat show cat what were you thinking imagine that
socially acceptable sense of entitlement as learned in school the way it is it just is it’s what you do
what does a duck say? what does a cow do? what does a green light go?
disposable gloves disposed of on the spot on the sidewalk for me or someone someone else to take care of
clueless conscientious tooth flosser and your toothpick single-serving fucking floss things discarded in the 4th Ave revolving door at King
dumping an old dryer in the cul-de-sac an exercise bike left at the trailhead shooting up refrigerators in the gravel pit
twin toaster architecture zip tie justice it’s worse when you lie about it like Stupor Bowl stories of the one that got away
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A stereotypical caricature of an exaggeration. Fat, bald and 57 driving a red convertible. Top down. Heater cranked. Adult contemporary blaring. Comb-over fluttering in the wind. Waiting at the light. Fresh silver hoop in the left ear. Bluetooth in the right.
take the training wheels off pull the trigger pushback
A real cliché packing contest. How many can this guy put in one conversation? Is this a joke? Is this a FedEx commercial? Is this Dexter Avenue? Is this really happening? 3 Comments | Add Comment | Permalink
overflowing with gourmet chocolate-dipped apple wedges, pineapple daisies, strawberries, grapes, cantaloupe and honeydew.
February 3, 2010
patterns emerge from the randomness as edible fruit arrangements and counterfeit lottery tickets are hand-delivered via messenger to the last known mailing address of each and every person on earth
gas-powered lazy susan spinning spinning out of control fast far past its intended use condiments cannot be contained at these speeds salt n pepper electrons launched well beyond typical breakfast nook orbits
Duchamp knew the score mood descending staircase elevator out of service take the caffeine up to level two like déjà vu but less interesting more like 1111 3rd Avenue blah blah blasé beige showing the universal sign for boring traffic patterns trod into carpet bobsled track feedback loop groundhog day well worn habit trails grease the rails a dab of olive oil on a Q-tip should do the trick change your panties take it down change octaves break it up break out breakfast steel cut oats strawberries and cream 100% wool made in Italy dry clean only I liked it so much I bought the company front foot fakey like Fever’s lock used to be funky like your grandpa’s drawers those zebra-print pants make you look trashy that hound’s-tooth coat makes you look stodgy every photo brings to mind another on file getting all Getty stock images cookie cutter cut n paste seen one seen them all all 3.6 billion units sold in North America we haven’t raised the price in 12 years the portions just got smaller and smaller when every sentence seems to be a variation on another written long ago recycled recombinant reworked referential homage nothing new under the sun on a cloudy day creativity could be access to a healthy library that’s what she said or not if you haven’t shifted gears for six months or more consider the concept single-speededly
morrispost photo
