Another crazy week. Displayed a piece in the Bike Winter Art Show, had a nice Ethiopian dinner with my sister, and produced my first run of stickers. The Hammer was stolen from inside my workplace and then recovered by a kindly janitor who found it stashed, waiting for the thief's return. Made two trips down to Bubbly with the help of Lil’ Gordie’s massive 81 Suburban, which was made before the ban on inter-dimensional spaces forced automakers to produce cars that had less cargo space than the physical dimensions of the vehicle.

Some Scallywags.

The build day was a raging success, with much production rather than goofing off and talking about what we were going to do. Many new bikes were produced. In addition, the Scallywags came by, or at least the newly-founded Chicago branch. We were able to welcome them to town by providing a bunch of free bikes and equipment, and sent them on their way with one complete chopper and a vanload of works in progress.

The Chicago Scallywags are all Jesus People, which makes them much more than a chopper gang, more like a family. I got to visit their compound in Uptown where 500 people share space and possessions. They were a welcoming bunch. I’m glad that The Rat Patrol was able to cement an alliance with them, a relationship that will lead to much chopping and riding of choppers. The Mpls gang is coming down next weekend to ride in CM and help the Chicago branch start up.

Three weeks until St. Rattrick’s Day. Plus I’m supposed to edit the Derailleur zine this month. The blog has been suffering lately, though I’ll have pictures of all this to post. When it rains, it pours, and that’s a good thing. I can’t believe that a year ago I invested all this creative energy into a video game.

Thursday night we met The Pope at the local snooker hall for a bit of friendly billiards. We three Yanks played against the Kiwi mathematician-musician, his friend the Argentinian mathematician-magician, and a Scottish biologist. There were also magic tricks, some of which I could catch being done by sleight-of-hand and some of which seemed frickin’ impossible. My favorite was the Invisible Deck.

We played Yanks vs. Foreigners, and even managed to get in a little kelly pool. Why don’t pool halls ever have kelly peas? Then on the way home we stopped in at this block where some of Singular’s office’s ridiculous 10-bedroom single-family homes are going up.


On Friday, the folks from The Onion were throwing a free viewing of Rock’n’Roll High School at the Vic. They were there giving out swag like “Let the Fucking Begin” shirts and a Ramones skateboard signed by Johnny Ramone. We had a drink and watched the cult classic. I have no idea where they managed to find a print of this old movie. The crowd was really into it, which was good for the most part except for some asshat sitting next to us who thought she was at Rocky. She was the only person yelling things at the screen, and they were dumb things. For example, in one scene the students throw their papers out the window of the school, and asshat-ra yells, “It’s a ticker-tape parade!” Oh, be still, my quivering belly! I cannot handle such hilarity being yelled while I’m trying to watch a movie!

The movie itself was fantastic. Amazing how the Ramones’ music stands the test of time. What didn’t stand the test of time was what was considered “punk rock” clothing… it was so free back then, so up to the individual. The punk rockers at the movie were all dressed in a tightly conformist uniform, which allowed variation only in the color and style of one’s hair. I wonder if the Ramones knew what a homogenous army they were creating when they first donned those leather jackets.

One of my favorite parts was that the Ramones almost seemed like they didn’t know the movie was being filmed. Who knows what they were on in this one… probably heroin, if Dee Dee’s death is any indication. But Joey always has this look like he thinks he’s just playing a gig, and so why is there a six-foot dope-smoking mouse over there and a guy cramming wheat germ into his mouth?


Saturday, a Herculean task was achieved as the Rat Patrol hauled a bunch of crap from Logan Square to Bridgeport. We had four trailers piled with bikes and bike parts and three or four escorts, making us look like a parade of bums. I can’t believe we made it without any incidents. I’m sure there’ll be a writeup at chicagofreakbike.org

Later that day, my ole buddy’s band 12RODS was playing at Double Door, so Singular and I headed down there. They played a good show, a nice mix of new and old compared to the last show in town which was the CD release. Ryan does this thing where he’ll see a fan in the front row who knows all the words, and he’ll let the fan sing a verse… it’s a nice touch, the ultimate recognition for the obsessed disciple.

He also put us on the list and let us drink comp beers with him the green room, two things that are minor to him but can really mean a lot to friends not used to such privileges.

In fact, it was The Week of Nice Bands. At that same show, the lead singer for the opener (Phistine Verona) introduced himself to us because he had seen us diggin the tunes he was delivering earlier. I’m a sucker for any band with a moog, especially if they throw out a 2/4 beat now and then. Then, today, I get an email from James of the Polkaholics, saying thanks for mentioning the band on the webpage and “those lederhosen rocked!” Damn right they rocked. It’s easy to rock out in black leather and studs… it takes true rockin’ness to do so in green leather short-shorts.

Could this be the beginning of an era of considerate, appreciative rockstars? Nah, I probably just been listening to too many assholes.

Nothing is better for thee than phat beats

Here's a treat. I obtained some Friendly Gangstaz tracks from Weighty Grandpa. Also, have you checked out their new stuff? They've certainly polished their act.

My cousin Frankie had been bumming around lately, seeing as he didn’t get along with his mom’s new husband and their trailer was pretty small anyway. So he was living here and there, in a warehouse at one point and at another time hitchhiking to Austin to live on a roof while the heat cooled off from some bullshit assault charge caused by a cop mistaking drunken roughhousing for a fight.

But he’s got this rich friend whose dad owns a bunch of property, and one of them had a house on it that hadn’t been lived in for a few years. The dad was going to demo it, so they decided to go check it out.

The place was a house that had a physical therapy center added on in the 80’s. So in addition to that medical-style interior design, the house had a hot tub and an indoor pool! “Why aren’t you living here?” he asked his friend, and before long, they were moved in there. Frankie’s room used to be one of those doctor’s exam rooms where you sit and read magazines while waiting to be poked and prodded.

So now they have an indoor pool, hot tub, and no rent! Sounds like a sweet gig.

I admit it, I’m a sucker for “new and improved” food products. To me, different taste is more important than good flavor, so I greatly enjoy eating things that taste nasty if it’s a taste I’ve never experienced before. This is also why I’ve been eating bugs lately. So if I see a new flavor of potato chip, or a new soft drink, I’m bout it bout it… especially the soft drinks.

I was raised on Coca-Cola, and I am solidly addicted to it. I’m addicted enough that the material the Coke is bottled in matters. Glass is the best, followed by cans, then fountain (though they often have the machine poorly adjusted), then plastic. Here in Chicago I can often get Mexican Coca-Cola, which has a slightly different taste that’s not at all unpleasant and is greatly enhanced by the fact that the bottles are still glass.

I also love Coke II and Moxie, and I’ve long been tickled by the Jekyll/Hyde relationship between Dr. Pepper and Mr. Pibb. Like some multinational telecom, here’s a product that Coca-Cola is distributing in some markets and competing against in others! Dr. Pepper is actually owned by Cadbury-Schweppes, and is distributed by Coke, Pepsi, AND RC! O, if only this cola would take a side, instead of switching back and forth like the Junkyard Dog!

Needless to say, I was excited when Pibb Xtra came to my area. It may be old hat to Texans but it was new to me… and much more exciting than that crappy Bubble Tea, the Poor Man’s Orbitz. A fat straw does not a tasty beverage make!



Even more interesting is Coca-Cola’s decision to replace Mr. Pibb entirely with this extreme new flavor. Don’t they remember the most famous product flop in history? Regardless of what the conspiracy theorists say, New Coke was an unplanned failure, as evidenced by the heads that rolled at corporate. Yet it appears that history will not repeat itself, if the weak showing at the Keep-Mr-Pibb petition is any indication.

Coca Cola’s coming on strong with this stuff, even sponsoring the Pibb Xtra Thrillway at the Texas state fair. Ooooo-eeee, who gives a crap? As marketing schlock goes, a street at a state fair can’t compare to Cadbury-Schweppes’ stupid extreme milk product, with its slogan “Think Outside the Barn”. We are beginning to see why Mr. Pibb has always been a sad, sad second to Dr. Pepper, the good doctor selling like crazy at places like Taco Bell while Mr. Pibb languishes in obscurity at the low-rent Arby’s. Goes to show you kids, stay in school! Get that degree!

But why replace Mr. Pibb entirely? Like all soft drinks, it’s bottled by different companies, who are even allowed to substitute ingredients, so why not let the local market decide? A clue is found on Coca-Cola’s website:

Mr. Pibb was launched in Texas and quickly expanded through much of the U.S. Mr. Pibb appeals to 12-to-15 year olds who are just gaining independence from home and looking for things to call their own. Mr. Pibb enables them to have an uninhibited, fun and unconventional attitude because it has the sweet, refreshing bold taste they need to express their independence.

In 2001, Pibb Xtra was introduced in Houston and Dallas with an intense flavor kick -- a bolder version of the original taste. Its bold taste and graphics appeal to young adults who are looking to get the most out of life and the most out of their soft drink. Based on its tremendous success in Texas, Pibb Xtra will replace Mr Pibb across the U.S. in 2002.

Aha! Mr. Pibb is for the 12 to 15-year-old market, enabling them to have an uninhibited, fun and unconventional attitude! It has the sweet, refreshing bold taste they need to express their independence! Yet Pibb Xtra is a bolder version, with a bold taste and bold graphics for young adults who are looking to get the most out of life… and the most out of their soft drink! It contains an intense flavor kick!!

In other words, for some reason Coca Cola is really hurtin’ for this key demo, and they’re growing up. The beast that took Mello Yello, and regurgitated Surge, has struck again. I can’t wait for this Xtreme generation to get old, just to see the Depends and Viagra commercials.

So what did I think? Well, I wouldn’t describe the flavor kick as particularly intense, nor even a kick. But it’s definitely there. The best I can think of is that it’s more of the same. I liked it. I won’t be signing the petition.

Maybe soon they’ll re-release Mr. Pibb Classic as Mrs. Pibb, for the gentler, less extreme sex. A mellow, kickless version of Pibb Xtra. A man can dream… a man can dream.

They Can Have My Banana Seat When They Pry It From My Cold Dead Thighs

Whew! Every time I start to worry that I'm living in reality, I get a nice healthy dose of the bizarre to reassure me that everything's alright. Friday I arrived as usual in Da Mare Plaza for a Critical Mass ride, but this one was very special. It was the Polka Ride, a traditional trip to the Baby Doll Polka Club to see the Polkaholics. Last year, when I first started going to these rides, I had heard that Chopper Bob got his nickname by taking his chopper Hoser on this ride. Hoser's fork was held together with nothing but JB Weld and hose clamps. People spoke in hushed tones about how he had ridden it all the way to the other side of Midway airport. At the time, I had only Noam Chopsky and was inexperienced in the art of building a wacky bike that could actually be ridden long distances before the rider suffered from Critical Ass. I have been progressing, you see, from pure form in the highly decorative bikes I was building when I was 7 towards a harmony of function and form. I swore last year that when the next Polka Ride came around, I would have a chopper that could go the distance. Little did I know that by this time, 14 miles would seem like chump change, especially on a chopper that can fly and transform into mist when neccessary.

Now, back when I was in the early half of high school, I went through this huge polka phase. It was touched off by Weird Al and let me digging through the $2 tape bins for records that noone else but me and old immigrants wanted. I made up this fake polka band, The Mister Rogers Polka Band, and I would make album covers for the mix tapes that I distributed to less-than-enthusiastic friends. Sometime during this point I picked up a pair of lederhosen and an accordion, though my polka obsession soon forked into two post-polka phases- accordion-based rock (They Might Be Giants, Those Darn Accordions) and German/Austrian new wave (Nena, Falco, Trio). And to clarify what you're thinking right now, yes, I was a total dweeb, and no, I didn't realize it. Or at least I didn't celebrate it like I do now.

So I wore those lederhosen on the ride. I only get a few chances a year to pull them out. On Halloween they won me $25 for funniest costume at work, and pretty much my only other chance would have been Oktoberfest. But it's nice that I still fit into my old lederhosen from high school. Do you?

Bike people tend to get a little obsessive with the gear. Some of them even openly fetishize it. So it was hilarious to me to ride in a crowd of 100, each one of them decked out in bike shorts, a wicking layer, a cotton layer, a waterproof outer jacket and pants, a headband, balaclava, glove linings, outer gloves, knee-high spandex leggings, socks, leg strap, reflective vest, helmet, goggles, and hand- or spectacle-mounted wearable rear-view mirror. I was wearing a Navy-issue thermal top, a turtleneck, and a buttonup shirt, lederhosen, and knee socks. And I was perfectly comfortable. It was about 31 degrees, and only my kneecaps got cold, until someone actually loaned me some elbow grease to put on my knees. I'll bet I woulda been warm even without all the whiskey I was drinking.

Lil' Gordie was representin' in lederhosen as well. He was actually wearing his uncle's pair, and riding a tandem that used to belong to his grandma and grandpa! On the back was the VeloRat, plucking out some polkas on the banjo.

When we arrived at the club, it was packed and rockin. The Polkaholics play a sort of punk polka that's guitar-based. Everyone was singing along, drinking (a beer is usually required as a prop to sing along in a polka), and polka-ing. Some couple in their sixties or seventies were partying the heartiest, with the woman in a crop-top and lowrider jeans, wearing Polkaholics bumper stickers over her breasts and crotch. People (including the guys in the band) kept coming up to me and asking where in Chicago they could get a pair of lederhosen for less than $300. I even got the heavy mack from two people, a guy who liked lederhosen a little bit too much and a woman who was really turned on by waxed handlebar mustaches. I was in heaven- for one brief night, polka was cool, and all of my dorkiness was celebrated and accepted.

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The next day, Singular and I went on a double date to the International Museum of Surgical Science. Nothing like looking at gross stuff when you're all squeamish from being hung over. This museum is sort of odd, sort of the combination of a scholarly tribute to the history of international surgery and a storage place for odd questionable medical devices, a la the museum in Minneapolis. So it was the type of place where it looked like your typical dry museum but if you looked closely you would find some really weird shit.

In the guestbook, some kid had written "REEEEEAAAALL NEEEEEATTTTT NOW I NEVER WANT TO BE A DOCTOR I'M HUNGRY CHEEEEEEZE", which pretty much summed up the experience. This place made me never want to be a doctor. The majority of the collection consisted of either artwork depicting notable surgeons or old surgical tools, the latter of which you can imagine had a high squick factor, especially in the areas of tools designed to work on sensitive areas. I was able to hold my own through the hemorrhoid removers, Roman-era specula, tools for leeching and cupping and cutting the eye, the gallstone collection, and I wasn't even squicked by the trepanning tools, har har... but the catheters got to me. Especially the ones that expand.

Another theme from the museum seemed to be how often religion has held back the progress of our ability to keep ourselves alive. This was not the message the museum wanted to convey- in fact one exhibit glorified Jesus as preaching the sanctity of life over "other religions" that don't consider life sacred- but time after time I'd read about some surgeon who'd written about what's really going on with the human body versus the popularly held supersitions of the era, and then been burned at the stake along with all his books. The museum spent plenty of time on surgery's own setbacks, as well- bleeding, phrenology, and all the damage that was done with X-rays before it was figured out the hard way that they could harm you. They had one of those X-ray shoe fitters, the kind that shoe stores used to have to let you take a look at your foot inside your shoe. And oh, the stuff in the apothecary shop! I loved reading about all those old diseases, melancholia and the vapors and "bowel complaint" and the miracle cures that treated them.

"That was a horrific date," Singular said afterwards.