But I Will Never Wear a Bimbo Shirt

Yesterday I went to my first professional soccer game. It was fun! A bunch of impossibly buff guys ran around in circles and fell over and writhed in apparent agony until some call or other was called, whereupon they leaped to their feet and continued scooting around with renewed vigor. Not that they weren't impressive! I can't so much as run around the block and they maintained a level of absolute sprightliness for an hour and a half. I must say though, the Philadelphia Union has a branding problem: 

They look thrilled

I was impressed that the swarms of bros swarming the stadium were happy to wear their Bimbo jerseys with a complete lack of irony. The look in this guy's eyes at the sponsorship party though...

....

They do make an effort to get English speakers to stop snickering....

But I snickered.

I liked how non-gross the fans were-- compared to hockey fans, who are kind of violent and terrible, they just yell useful advice and clap politely. 

The weeks are flying by, and it's astonishing to me that I'll be leaving Phila in a month. It's getting more bitter than bittersweet, really. I'm gonna miss everything.

It's not bitter to donate all my cool weather work clothes, though-- one of the reasons I'm going to grad school is that I want to work somewhere that doesn't leave me encrusted in half an inch of filth every day. Not that there aren't a lot of cool things about working in a metal shop, but looking like a scruffball every day for three years taught me that I don't like looking like a scruffball. 

With that in mind, here's how to not look like a scruffball on really short notice if you happen to be one (inspired by a conversation with Miss Laura who never looks as scruffy as me). 

Rayon is your friend. You can scrunch a rayon dress or top into the bottom of your messenger bag and it will emerge looking just fine. 

Also, make sure that anything wet in your messenger bag is sealed hermetically. Also, things that can become wet. You try getting melted chocolate out of a light blue blouse. 

Don't worry about clean pants. If your jeans are a mess but your top is obviously expensive, it's chic.  Somehow you don't get the same effect the other way-- a grimy Cinelli t-shirt and a shantung silk skirt looks weird. 

By obviously expensive I mean it has a fancy label and you got it for five bucks at AIDS Thrift. 

The awl on your Swiss Army knife is great for de-grubbing your nails. 

Slightly beat is scruffy. Really, really beat is hip. Don't ask me why. I had cloth mess bag in college that looked drab and shabby and made me feel broke. A girl I knew had an identical bag (ten bucks from the army-navy store) and it was covered in paint, mud, dust, grime, slime and mold, and made her look like a gypsy bohemian. So if you can't make something better and you don't want to chuck it, make it worse. 

Don't ever wear white. 

No matter how nuts your hair is, if your part is straight it will look like you did it on purpose. 

There is no reason to wear crappy, itchy, pilly fabric. Even to a metal shop. Ever. 

If it's cool enough for a scarf, wear one and wear a nice one. If it's bright and eye grabbing no one will notice that the rest of you is covered in bike. But take it off around power tools that spin. 

On that note, have a nice assortment of coats and jackets. Then if you have to look nice immediately after looking scruffy you can just keep your coat on and sweat in the name of sleekness. Also, hug your cat goodbye BEFORE you put your coat on in the morning (I can never remember to do this. Next coat I buy will be Dorian colored). 

Don't try biking in flowy wraparound skirts. They will unwrap. 

Anyone have any more suggestions? Pretty soon I'll have to present a reasonable facsimile of an efficient, sleek design-y New Yorker. I draw the line at Ray Bans, though. Why does everyone have Ray Bans?

And finally, the Tour opened with a team bus getting stuck under the finish line with the riders only 12k away:

They eventually let down the tires.

You can't make this up. 

--Isis

Stop the World

Many months ago a guy called the shop I work at to see if we could make him a special bicycle. I happened to get the phone and we got to talking. He told me he was stationed in Afghanistan, and planned to devote himself to helping kids with muscular dystrophy on his return. I think he mentioned having a relative with MD, but I could be wrong. The bike was to have a seat in the front so he could take kids riding with him. I told him that would be no problem, and booked the bike into our build queue.

He called fairly frequently after that, to talk about his bike or just talk. That bike seemed to symbolize the civilian life he was looking forward to so much, and he said he thought about it all the time. Once I asked him what it was like in Afghanistan. He was quiet so long I thought the connection had broken, and then he just said that you get used to it. I always wished him luck when he rang off.

We finished the bike, but there was no word from him. He'd said he was sometimes hard to reach, so we just hung the bike up and waited. But weeks turned into months and I got concerned. I googled his name, but it's a common one and I felt like a creeper and stopped.

Then today I read an email from him. He'd been severely wounded and implied that he didn't expect to ride again. He asked if we could sell his bike for him. 'It sucks, but that's war.'

I had to hide my face in my arms for a minute. It's easy to dismiss the military as jingoistic and bloodthirsty, especially with all the news about sexual assault and brutality against civilians. But one forgets (I forget) that these are just young people like myself, with passions and idealism and dreams that they cling to to get through hard times.

I'm glad this guy survived. I hope he does manage to ride again.

No pictures or goofiness today. I'm just feeling weary and sad with the world, that sends its young to get blown to bits and lets its wealthy and powerful commit extraordinary crimes.

This world is too much with us late and soon...

Isis

Never mind, a picture: if you happen to be in Pennsport and you meet a hairless cat, he needs to go home.

Goodbye Mad Industry: Le Cirque du Cyclisme

I'm being a very bad blogger; between my own distractibility and the Great Kitten Emergency the last thing on my list is blithering on about things I do. For the record, the Great Kitten Emergency is under control and everyone is safe and well (and out of my studio). A marketing major told me that the best way to get readers and money is to put up cute cat videos, so here's a cute cat video:

SO FUZZY! Also, where's my ten grand?

Anyway!

Last weekend I went to Le Cirque du Cyclisme, which is a classic bicycle rally. A lot of vintage bikes show up, and a lot of vintage bike fans. Some framebuilders come too, to show off and socialize. Now, as much as I gripe about the bike world, the lack of money and organization, the egos and the inefficiency, you will not find nicer people anywhere. The first year I went to the Cirque I hadn't even graduated college, didn't know a soul and had a wicked case of bronchitis, but I managed to make several friends and buttonhole my current boss and get him to give me a job.

Le Cirque happens in a Best Western in Leesburg Virginia, which is one of those heavily curated small towns with historical log cabins and artisan cupcakes. There's also a nice long rail trail I rode on for a bit with other Cirque attendees, and apparently some lovely rolling hills that are just great for riding but I din't find out because all the group rides left at 7.30 AM which is completely barbaric. Everyone (except my lazy tail) rides out in the morning, dorks out over each others' bikes and listens to seminars in the afternoon, and eats and drinks too much in the evening. There's stuff like this:

Drillium!

And modern stuff:

The finest lug

And a swap meet:

Old n fancy parts yo

And for lots more pictures you should check out this guy. I never take enough pictures of anything. 

On Saturday my gentleman-friend and I skipped out and went to a boat festival on the Chesapeake. We're building our own sailboat out of a kit from these guys, and the Cirque happened to coincide with their Okoumefest.   There were boats on the shore,

Just as fancy as the bikes

And boats in the bay:

There was one patrol boat that might have been patrolling for amateurs overboard, or not. 

I haven't sailed in ten years and my gentleman-friend hasn't sailed at all, but the nice and harassed staff cheerfully shoveled us into various boats and watched us flounder around. There wasn't much wind for the first one (a twelve foot bathtub) or the second one (a skerry-- like ours! with a busted tiller) but by the time we got in the third one, a dory with a sloop rig, the wind had picked up and we actually got moving. Which was great! I remembered why I loved sailing so much, the sense of speed and adventure skimming over the water (or in this case wallowing, since the friendly staff had been helpfully installing the rudder and swamped us pretty good and didn't have a bailer). Then I noticed that the divot cut in the transom for the tiller was either in the wrong place or something wasn't installed right, because we could only turn to starbord. We made it in eventually and if anyone was laughing at us I didn't notice. 

OH MY LACK OF GOD I CAN'T WAIT TO GO SAILING FOR REAL!!

I noticed that the boat people and the bike people were more or less interchangeable-- iron grey hair, mostly male, eyes gleaming with zealous perfectionism. Those sorts of people don't often get to let their nerd flags fly quite as high as they'd like, so at events like Cirque and Okoumefest they are brimming over with enthusiasm and generous knowledge. It's the loveliest atmosphere. 

Once back, covered in Chesapeake, we sat around with a bunch of fellow framebuilders and chatted and complained. It's a shame that most independent bike manufacturers exist in a constant state of financial anxiety. Really nice bikes take a long time-- and the current market just does not allow most builders to charge what their bikes are worth. It's a lot like fine art and fine craft, I think, where even top tier artisans are barely making ends meet. I would love to see custom bike builders doing better and getting more for individual frames, but this does contradict my philosophy (and many of theirs' too) that bikes should be for everyone, and affordable. 

There is exactly one custom framebuilder I know who is doing really well for himself. I'm not going to name him, and he's not famous. He works alone and makes about 200 frames a year which is a huge amount for one guy. Once I asked him how he managed and he gave a deranged giggle and said, 

'I do 'em in BATCHES!!!' and that was all I got. 

So there you go, I guess. Do 'em in batches. 

I wish it was possible to do better in this industry. There is so much talent and creativity and good people who deserve the best. I feel a bit of a traitor for leaving, for entering industrial design and most likely not building bikes anymore. I'm going to miss the camaraderie, the people, the unabashed nerdiness. I promised to go back next year. 

Isis

Oh Brooklyn!

As I've said before, I am moving to Brooklyn at the end of this summer. Despite having grown up in the New York suburbs, I don't know Brooklyn at all-- except for its reputation and the art museum (I roll my eyes at the former and like the latter). And I know how to get from the Music Hall of Williamsburg to Grand Central in time for the last train. But that's about it.

So I spent much of Saturday puttering around on a Dahon seeing what I could see. Here's some preliminary thoughts (and goodness knows I'll probably prove myself wrong in all sorts of ways come August).

Fixed gears are still a thing. Except now they have  tiny gear ratios, cruiser bars and little porteur racks on the front. I guess the first wave of fixiesnobs all blew their knees out? Also, no one wears helmets. 

Speaking of bikes, the lane situation is really confusing. They are everywhere, but they're also all over the road. I've heard enough horrific stories about cops fining cyclists for putting so much as a spoke out of line, so I found myself yawing all over the road trying to stay between my designated stripes. And the cabs give a lot less elbow room than their gentler Philadelphia cousins.

Riding through Williamsburg I got a lot of censorious looks from guys in hats: at my bare shoulders and  midriff from the Hasidic guys in their giant fur schtriemels, and at my dorky little bike from the scrawny hipsters in Cinelli caps.

Bed Stuy looks a lot like South Philly, if it were expecting a siege. Bars over everything. And no bars, to speak of. Or grocery stores. Or cafes. But plenty of hair salons. I might have just been going down the wrong streets.

The less bourgie areas have a layer of grime over them that is far more aggressive and permanent looking than laid-back Philly could ever achieve.

There is a bike vending machine!

PROOF!!

Brooklyn Bridge Park is stunningly gorgeous. I love rivers, bridges, and manicured parks, and this has the lot. I counted no less than five weddings. One of them involved a tandem bike, and reminded me to never try riding in a crinoline.

Red Hook is visually amazing too. There are giant fort-like buildings with gothic shutters along the waterfront. Out of sight of the river, it looks like Portland wants to look- so hip and quirky your teeth hurt. But at least it did it first.

It takes a kind of hiccup, a shift of perception, to see myself as a New Yorker again. For the first four years that I lived in Philadelphia I insisted on an outsider status- I wore black and walked fast and cultivated a superior attitude (in retrospect, I wasn't being a super-sophisticated New Yorker, I was being a hipster).

But then I fell in love and got a cool job and an independent life, and New York became the foreign place. Days flew by, happy, quiet days. I resented going to New York, almost, because it represented something I'd convinced myself I didn't need. But I got restless eventually, restless enough to give up the lovely, easy life I've led for nearly three years. And the other day, sitting by the river with the two great bridges overhead and the sun frying my black clothes, I thought 'I'm coming home.' 

--Isis

OH RIGHT, HEADLINE OF THE DAY!

Woman Finds Toad in Can of Beans

You're welcome.

Sorrow Fatigue and Eight Shiny Things

I spent too much of last week glued to the news- everything from Gawker to the New Yorker- and feeling a mixture of sick fascination, guilt for that fascination, and exhaustion.

Here's a good summation from Lindy West at Jezebel (Don't read if you're averse to cussing.) Incidentally, I've been reading her ever since she wrote for the Stranger and MAN has her writing improved. Smart, smartly evolving lady writers turn my crank in all kinds of directions.

Also, oh my lack of god, I wanted to name my cat Tamerlane. A good thing there was nothing in his goofy little face to justify the name of a hotshot historical warrior man/deranged Chechen yobbo.

So here are some things that are nice and not sad and that I think about to give my mind a rest from being miserable and anxious, which doesn't help anything but is impossible to avoid.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1) The other day I was in one of those trashy South Street shoe stores buying their ONE pair of untrashy flats, and I noticed those giant neon heels and thought only a drag queen would wear those. And sure enough, there was a pretty dude trying them on. 'You look skanky!' his companion said. 'I know!' he said, and bought them. 'I'm always right,' I thought.

2) Chris Hoy, my favorite track cyclist, announced his retirement with extraordinary grace. While I'm sorry to see him go, it's unusual for an athlete to recognize he's done and not keep plugging on until he is embarrassed. Also, an excuse to post the legendary Hoy legs:

Eek!

3) The inimitable Bike Snob is doing a ride and book signing next month. Ya'll better be there! 

4) The simplest songs can be amazing: 

All you can do is do what you must.

5) If you can get through this video without tearing up a little, you're a cyborg:

6) France legalized gay marriage too! Also, who knew how many bigots conservatives there were messing up the boulevards? Well sucks to be them. 

7) The swallows are back! I saw them zipping around the Schuylkill when I rode out the other day. Soon the tubby fledglings will be popping their heads out of the nest boxes, gaping away. I love swallows. 

I think the one in the hole is an adult. Fledgelings are fatter. 

8) A blog post I wrote for work featuring my opinions on Claes Oldenburg's horrible paintbrush is creeping up the google results for 'Paintbrush drip Philadelphia'. It is number five. Let's make it number one, shall we?

AND, with that shameful bit of self promotion, I am out. 

Coming up will be a SERIOUS essay about writing about places that don't exist. I'm working on it, but the world keeps persisting to exist and it's getting to me. So it's taking some time. 

--I

Goodbye Mad City (Springtime and House Shows)

This is the second in a series of posts about things 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.

Green, how I love you green! Every pale, revelatory spring I think of that line, from Romance Sonambulo by Lorca. Here's the first stanza:

Green, how I want you green. 
Green wind. Green branches. 
The ship out on the sea 
and the horse on the mountain. 
With the shade around her waist 
she dreams on her balcony, 
green flesh, her hair green, 
with eyes of cold silver. 
Green, how I want you green. 
Under the gypsy moon, 
all things are watching her 
and she cannot see them. 

Here's the rest. The version I grew up with translated 'quiero' to 'love' rather than 'want', but I suppose this is more contextually accurate. 

But not this green. I HATE this green.

On an entirely unrelated topic: House Shows! I went to one last night, the first in a while. It reminded me how exhausting and great they are, and why I don't go too often. 

West Philadelphia is full of great big Victorian houses that were once very grand and are now bursting with punks. Some have huge pyramidal stacks of empty 40s on the stained marble mantlepieces. Others are full of paintings and Christmas lights. Some are houseplant jungles, most have dogs and cats and giant bike piles near the door. They are usually warm and friendly and dilapidated and smell of weed and zealous vegan sweat. 

Usually the shows are in the inevitably disgusting basement. I've found myself sitting on derelict washing machines, dancing in the slot between two filing cabinets, and trying not to knock over an extra bike pile. Usually the deliriously drunk and happy listeners are respectful of the house and appliances, though last night a particularly hammered young yob was punching the ceiling pipes for no particular reason and pulling the insulation off.  

The bands can be anything from absolutely terrible- a duo whose broken amp produced earsplitting shrieks at random intervals but soldiered on for half an hour anyway comes to mind-- but they can also be great. You never know, and I've enjoyed shows from the third floor of the house because to descend was to stop hearing music and just be subjected to vibrations and pain from the overamped band in the basement. 

But I like being clean and like my personal space and don't enjoy being sweated, spat or stepped on, so I hadn't gone in a while. But last night we went because a lovely friend lives in that particular house, and this guy called Erik Peterson was playing.  And damed if it wasn't an absolutely cathartic experience to be crammed into a living room (moving up!) with dozens of overexcited teenagers hollering 'SEE YOU IN HELL, BOYS!' 

'I'll be coming to recruit your rebel children!'

And yes, I felt a hundred years old, but it was nice to see that a bunch of suburban looking kids were just as into idealistic lefty punk as I was at their age (and still am in a corner of my cold and cynical little soul). 

There was another band I like, called Blackbird Raum. It was hard to hear them though, because the crowd (now relegated back into the basement) thought that an acoustic folk punk set is an appropriate time to start moshing. I stood on an end table to peek over the crowd, and could barely see the band past the roiling mass of tipsy young heads. I didn't miss being younger, when I would have stayed farther up in the throng. I didn't miss being clipped in the ear with studded pleather boots. I didn't miss concentrating on the band with half my mind and avoiding sharp spikes and elbows with the other half. 

But I missed enjoying these things, just a little bit.

It's better without the screaming kids.

And then I spent much of today dealing with taxes because I am a grownup.

Where else in this world will you be welcomed into a house and know that you'll recognize many of the faces, where you can sit in a colorful kitchen between sets, chatting away with new acquaintances, where you can pay seven bucks and hear three genuinely good bands? (The third was called Pale Robin). 

Oh mad city, I will miss you.

Isis

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