Cycling and wrath fatigue.

I spent too much of this evening watching Fabian Cancellara KILL it in the Tour of Flanders... Damn, Spartacus! 

Epic music, too

Of course a lot of ink is being spilled about Peter Sagan doing this: 

Eww. And I liked him so much when he was popping mad wheelies...

Maybe I'm just suffering wrath fatigue, but I just can't work up a sufficient amount of outrage. He's a sleazy bastard, most of them are sleazy bastards, most athletes are sleazy bastards, and the whole podium-girl thing is outdated and ridiculous. Even Spartacus looks over it. 

And yes, it's yet another symptom of rape culture and the feminist blogs I read are all riled up and boycotting cycling. And I just can't get mad about some stupid 23-year-old boy and I feel like a jerk.

I love cycling of course, and it's really been through the wringer lately. Especially with Lance Armstrong's downfall (and that of everyone he dragged down with him) I don't blame anyone for seeing it as a irredeemably corrupt sport. It will be interesting to see how things play out in the next few seasons. I hope my favorite riders don't turn out to be doping too. Or behave like immature scums. 

So I am going to think about a truly amazing stage in the 2011 Tour, where Thor Hushovd managed to rather handily win a mountain stage he wasn't supposed to, because he's a bulky sprinter and climbers tend to be built like squirrels. Here's a great video-- Thor's the one with the rainbow stripes. 

I love the Norwegian announcers absolutely losing it

And I'm going to think about the best ending of a Paris-Roubaix in recent memory-- a relatively unknown Domestique named Johan Van Summeren won quite unexpectedly, tumbled off his bike and proposed to his girlfriend right then. 

And it was adorable.

And I'm going to think how I know some of the very best people in my life through cycling, including my gentleman friend. How this sport attracts the nicest, most accepting and endearingly weird types you can imagine.

Photo by Pat Engleman. Hi Simon! Hi Sam!

It's just that the famous ones who are terrible are really publicly terrible. 

And that podium girl thing needs to be over. 

--Isis

One unpopular opinion and an enraged bird

First of all, I think the whole red equality sign thingie on Facebook is really sweet. I don't think the Supreme Court is going to get anywhere this time round, but it just reinforces the fact that young peoples' hearts are in the right place and the country will eventually shift towards equality-- kicking and screaming all the way.

Now, there was another minor kerfuffle rolling round the internet, about this guy who had this to say about a Picasso he put his elbow through: 

“My feeling was, it’s a picture, it’s my picture, we’ll fix it,” Mr. Wynn told The New Yorker in 2006, recalling how the painting was damaged. “Nobody got sick or died. It’s a picture. It took Picasso five hours to paint it.”

Now the consensus among artists is that this guy is a giant entitled douchebag, which is difficult to argue with. However, I have agree with him about the painting. Not because it's a Picasso I don't much like, but because a certain healthy irreverence in regards to art is refreshing. I don't think we should run through museums drawing sharpie mustaches on everything, but I do think it's important to remember that paintings are just objects (sculptures too, of course).
In no way does being 'just an object' devalue art as art. But I think it's become standard to view art, especially art with a famous name signed on it, as inviolate. For example, there are some Michelangelo sculptures that are just straight-up weird: 

.......

Now, Michelangelo is my favorite artist, sculptor, fencer and all-around cranky bastard. I LOVE Michelangelo. And I'd look at this sculpture and think I was missing something. I would stare and stare at these lumps and disjointed joints and think, "this is by the greatest sculptor of his time, but it looks all wrong. There's something wrong with me for thinking that." It was only when I looked at is an artifact, without my beloved Michelangelo's name attached, that I stopped being distressed. It's flawed sculpture, made by a man who might have been having an off day and certainly didn't look at nude women very often. It's just an object. 

As an artist myself, I used to struggle with this a lot. I would make a drawing I considered perfect, overwork a small detail, smudge everything out, and wind up in hysterics. As I got older and made more pieces (and dropped some and spilled coffee on others) the artifacts themselves became less and less important. I knew I could fix anything that got damaged, and if not there was more where that came from. It was liberating to stop attaching much value to individual pieces (though when my cat jumped on a picture two hours before going to a show I lost three years off my life, so maybe I'm not as liberated as I think). 

I guess I'd like art to be a living, vital thing, and too much reverence makes for boring art and boring people. And have you seen how amazing restorations are these days? 

Dude.

So I'm not too worried about that Picasso. 

Now, apropos of absolutely nothing, here is a capercailie terrorizing a Swedish reporter:

It gets good about halfway through

That's all I got. 

--Isis

Goodbye Mad City (Roof Deck)

This is the first in a series of posts about events that could only happen in Philadelphia. Since I will be moving to New York in August these stories hold an extra bittersweet charge for me. 

On Friday I made my tired and allergy-ridden tail stay awake for a midnight show, something I haven't done in years. It still took a combination of coaxing from my Gentleman Friend and judicious face-pouncing from my cat to get me out of bed and onto my bike, but once combed and vertical I remembered the lovely anarchic feeling of riding out late and perked up. 

The show was at Lickety Split, which is a South Street bar. I'd never been there before, because it is a South Street bar and they tend to be terrible, awful and bro-full, which is the worst. 

Yes, they are dressed as zombies. But they always look like that anyway.

This time, however, I was pleasantly surprised. I recognized half the faces upstairs, and not a bro among them. And of course, the music was great. 

Roof Deck is a folk-pop trio made up of Jaime Pannone, James Kirkland, and Geoffrey Waterman. This is their official portrait:

Born and bred in the Bikery

And another official portrait:

See above.

On a side note, I've drawn all their portraits (which you can see here, here and here) and displayed them-- at the Bikery. That's the thing about Philadelphia-- there's about one degree of separation between everyone, or at least everyone cool. 

Roof Deck has only been around for a few months, but you wouldn't know it. The three have a lovely cohesive sound, as if they have been together for years. They only play original material, which tends towards the melodic and thoughtful. Their mood is so delightfully relaxed and warm that I wondered why I have subjected myself to so many shows that left me dented and deafened. Jaime does much of the singing, and her sweet, clear voice matches the material perfectly. My favorite song was 'Oh Seattle'. 

After the show we hung out with the band and random bar-folks, trading stories. We stayed till closing (I haven't done that since college) and rode home smiling. 

Roof Deck will be playing at the Woolly Mammoth this Saturday at 9.00. You should go. It's worth it. 

Only in a relatively small city like this one could you find a scene like that. 

--Isis

How to Cheer Up a Nerd

Most of this week was severely terrible. Despite the best efforts of my dear allies, many things conspired to put me in a pretty evil mood. I hate feeling evil, and then I get mad that I feel evil, and that makes me more evil. So sorry to everyone I groused at.

When I sulked into the Last Word (my favorite West Philly bookstore) the nice owner whipped out A Hero of Our Time-- and not just any version, the NABOKOV TRANSLATION. I unsulked immediately-- I NEEDED that book.

AND the Edward Gorey cover...

I don't think I can underestimate how much effect that book had on me as a teenager. It opens with a poem, whose narrator lies in the Caucasus dying from an unexplained bullet wound. He's dreaming of his lady friend, who is dreaming of him, and then he croaks. At fifteen that was the most romantic thing in the entire world. The book itself is about a thoroughly disillusioned, bored, brave depressed young man named Pechorin who has adventures and feels jaded. I had no higher aspiration at fifteen than to be Pechorin. Upon reading it again, I realize I glossed over all the sections about mountain scenery and early 19th Century travel, of which there are pages and pages. I also missed out on Pechorin being kind of a jerk-- but a romantic jerk, but a jerk nontheless. The climax of the book is when he shoots an acquaintance off a cliff. 

Why did I think that was so awesome? Also Pechorin has blond hair and a black mustache. Is that even a thing? Regardless, I stayed up way too late reading and feeling young and dreamed that my bed was surrounded by exotic weaponry, which was cool. 

Then today I was riding home, singing 'Janie Jones' to myself as one does. That song, too, is pretty important to me-- or rather, the Clash on Broadway boxed set, of which it is the first track. I remember the first time my father played it for me, I thought WOW. And I still think that. Anyway, I was hollering out the part that goes,

'This time he's gonna really tell the boss
'He'll really tell the boss
'Exactly what he FE-EALS!'

And right on cue, a guy on a fixie a few yards behind me shouts,

'IT'S PRETTY BAD!'

So I rode the rest of the way grinning.

SO DREAMY

And then I found an acceptance letter in my mailbox from one of the grad schools I applied to. Which inspires all kinds of mixed emotions, because until today my plans to make a huge change in my life were abstract and now they are concrete.

I haven't figured out these emotions yet. Next week had better be calm!

--Isis

It takes a lot to make me completely morally confused, but...

Today on the way home from work I stopped at the PFCU to make a cash deposit (cash in my pocket plus boot sale season equals broke Isis). I rattled my bike over some planks that were inefficiently covering a hole in the sidewalk. As I shoved the cash into the machine I heard a shriek and a specific, sickening thunk-- a woman's wheelchair had caught in a plank, and she had gone over.  I wheeled round and started hauling the chair off her while a crowd gathered. In fact, there were so many people anxiously trying to get her righted that I backed off. She was fine, if embarrassed and surprised, and dozens of solicitous hands got her rolling again pretty quickly.

'Wow, people are so nice,' I thought. 'Maybe I'll write about this.'

I turned round to get my bike and I saw a woman backing away from the ATM with a suspiciously familiar wad of cash in her hand. I noticed red lettering on the bills, which had struck me as I smoothed them out to put in the slot.

'Excuse me, is that mine?' I asked. I wasn't sure, and very much wanted to be wrong.

'I was going to deposit it,' she snapped, and took off up Chestnut street. I thought about checking my balance, but I pretty much knew. So I grabbed my bike and ran after her. I caught up quickly, and asked again if she'd taken my money. She was pretty clearly lying when she said no, and a closer look showed me this woman was younger than I, and had a little girl in a stroller.

'I really don't want to call the cops,' I said. 'Just please give me the money back and I'll scram.'

'Don't have it. I'll call the cops on you for harassment', she said, and spat on the sidewalk and kept walking.  So I followed her, even as she ducked through traffic trying to lose me, till I was able to flag down a bike cop.

Now, I have no love for bike cops. They're the ones who have stopped me when I'm wheeling two bikes, demanding to know which one I stole. The only other time I've filed a police report (over a stolen tandem) the cop accused me of taking it myself.

And these guys were just as nasty as could be expected, yelling at the girl and threatening to take her child away until she pulled the money out of her bra and slammed it into my hand. And oh my lack of god, I felt terrible. Here I am, white, privileged, with an excellent chance of being taken seriously and helped. And the girl, who was black and probably not out of her teens and already with a child of her own? They didn't believe her for a moment. Accurately, as it turned out, but I could just as well have been wrong.

I guess I should have felt self righteous and glad to have taken action, but I kept seeing the girl's pretty face, with that terrible look of resignation and hate. I made it abundantly clear that I didn't want them to press charges and I was glad to see her walking slowly up 16th and vanishing into the crowds. I thanked the cop (how many anti-cop rallies have I been to?) and rode home with a heavy heart.

Humanity: 1. Isis' humanist faith: 0.

I'm gonna go live on a glacier.

I will stand there and survey the world and wheeze. 

Regularly scheduled cheerfulness to resume next post. 

Going to blast Laura Nyro and do some drawing. 

Faith in humanity just a bit restored. 

Isis

The South Atlantic Company Store

(I will finish up NAHBS eventually...)

There's a song by Martin Carthy called Company Policy. Here's the audio:

Company Policy

(Sorry, it's a myspace link, I know, I know! But it's an obscure song by an obscure singer. So there.)

If you don't know, Martin Carthy is a uniquely nasal singer who was active with Steeleye Span in the early 70s. He does mostly older folk songs, in an bizarely compelling drone. This song struck me because it is about Falklands war, which I know very little about, and because I'm a sucker for overwrought lyrics:

'But it was not death that bawled in the alley
'Came skittering up to my love's door
'It was not death that cried and howled
'In the teeth of a south Atlantic roar'

If you were wondering, it was a 'Bomb that plucked the face from my love/ Spread it wide on the face of a swell.' No subtlety here.

So next time I went to Last Word Bookshop (which is one of my favorites because the owner is nice and the cat can jump about four feet straight up despite being spherical) I did a bit of reading on the subject. Unsurprisingly, the older books focussed on strategy and the newer ones on the human toll. None of them gave a very good reason for the war, also unsurprisingly. I felt disgusted with humanity and bought Origin of the Species instead.

But the song kept rolling though my head, and I thought about how so much of my sense of history is gathered from songs and stories. My interest in history meandered along in the wake of whatever band I happened to like, whatever books I was reading. A Rudyard Kipling kick made me read up on India, and then read A Passage to India, which I liked, and then A Room with a View, which I didn't, though it did get me into Isabella Bird (who was kind of amazing). I read Demons by Dostoevsky and it suddenly became imperative to understand late 19th century Russian politics. I don't suppose this fiction-to-fact approach gave me the most linear or accurate view of history, but at least it stuck.

I think art is too often set on a pedestal as something too impractical and difficult for common consumption. But a simple heavy handed protest song gets positively Lermontovian:

'In my dream I stand at Bluff
'I've an empty shell up to my ear
'The only sound is the sound of cash
'Being wrung from the snows of Antarctica.'

And I wonder.

Martin Carthy is still kicking, by the way. Here's a pretty terrible video of the same song performed in 2011:

And he sounds exactly the same. You have to hand it to him. 

What songs will tell future generations about this year? Wait, I started thinking about it and then I stopped because it was depressing.

Someone prove me wrong.

---Isis

Swamp Soccer

I must interrupt the NAHBS recap to present you with.....

SWAMP SOCCER 

This is a thing, my friends.

According to Wikipedia, one of Swamp Soccer's founding fathers was one Jyrki Väänänen, also known as The Swamp Baron. The rules state that you cannot change your boots midgame. 

Think of that as you head into Monday. 

Because no slog is as hard as what those buff, deranged Scandinavian lads are doing. 

THINK ABOUT IT. 

-Isis