Slowdown Throwdown

Eli, AKA DJ-E, has taken the Hannah Montana pop classic Hoedown Throwdown and slowed it down by about 30%. The resulting song, The Slowdown Throwdown is fantastic. I think that this pays nice tribute to Cyrus' voice because it does not sound weak or watery at the slower speed. The whole thing works.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0h08Y5PyvU

Listen to half of it and you should be hooked.

Robin

For years and years, I had a boss that I really didn't like very much. Al was funny and capable, but not a good person. Married with two small boys, he would spend every weekend on overnight scuba diving trips or camping at a minor league NASCAR track. Working pit for his friend. He said these trips were reward for being the bread-winner. His wife sat around all week, so she didn't need a break on the weekend like he did. When the inevitable divorce came, Al started buying gold bars. He embezzled as much money from the relationship as he could get away with. His wife deserved nothing. He cringed at the thought of her taking the money that he earned. Al's favorite movie was "Good Morning Vietnam". 

At first blush, Good Morning Vietnam seems like the sort of movie that cheese-balls like Al prefer. The sort of movie that they can quote over beers with their friends. Like Top Gun or Stripes. And it is. GMV is loaded with quotable lines. The sort of jokes that immature men can tell one another when they cannot think of anything witty to say. I have seen GMV a dozen times. I won a copy of the VHS tape on a radio call-in contest in the late eighties, so I have owned it for twenty-five years. Comedy and action, a movie to watch when restless, late at night.

There is a depth and warmth to the movie that transcends the cheese. It paints a human portrait of residents of Vietnam that has nothing to do with war. It shows their life of poverty and striving. It shows humor and hardship. The movie is a roller-coaster. From comedic to heartfelt to tragic and back. And the reason it works is Robin Williams. His character makes each section of the movie believable. His humor is undeniable, but it is the acting that makes him special. His facial expressions tell most of the story. His wonder, his joy, his pain.

It would probably be hard to find an American who couldn't think of a Robin Williams movie she or he loves. The body of work is vast and varied. He was prolific (three movies in post-production right now) and unpredictable. I looked through his filmography on www.imdb.com and I was shocked to see the number of films he starred in. Most of them were unfamiliar to me. But many of them are in my list of favorites. Funny movies that made me think. Thinking movies that made me laugh. Movies about broken people trying to find their way in life. The Fisher King, Dead Poet's Society. Even RV.

My favorite in the list is Good Will Hunting. When it came out, I watched it twice. A movie about a troubled young man wrestling with his demons. But when I watched it a few months ago, the first time in a decade or more, I found it to be about an aging therapist. A man trying to get his life back on track following loss. Clearly, my perception has changed because of my age and my maturity, but there is something else there. Something that is consistent in every Robin Williams movie that appeals to me. While he is completely overbearing on screen, the star of the show, he somehow lets the other actors leave a memorable impression. My most vivid memories of GMV, et al, are not of Williams telling jokes, but of another character's crisis. Every Robin Williams movie I can think of, that I love - where his character grows, adapts, improves - is also about someone else.

I'm sure that my old boss, Al, is throwing out Good Morning Vietnam quotes these days. Me, I'm thinking of Robin's trademark sad-smile. His warm but resigned eyes. The evidence that there is always a bit of pain beneath joy.   

Why Fixed?

"The bike cannot coast. The pedals never stop turning. Can't stop. Don't want to either." - Premium Rush (movie 2012)

"That's stupid. Coasting is the best part." - My brother, David.

Two disparate quotes, polar opposites. A starting place that indicates common ground will never be reached. That's fine. It isn't an important topic. Doesn't affect society, not worth arguing about. Not like climate change, gay marriage or Lady Gaga. It really only impacts the rider. It is about aesthetics, purity, preference. It is riding “fixed.”

Fixed gear bikes have gained in popularity over the past two decades. Their simplicity is undeniable. Fewer moving parts, less to break down, to maintain. Less to rust. Less to steal. The design is straightforward. The bike has no freewheel. A device invented more than a century ago; it allows the back wheel to spin without moving the pedals. On a fixed gear bike, a fixie, as the hipsters call it, the pedals, the chainring, are essentially chained to the back wheel. If the wheel is spinning, so are the pedals. If the pedals are spinning, so is the wheel. Frontwards or backwards. The pedals and the wheel move as a unit. Pedal hard, the bike goes fast. Stop the pedals, the bike stops. Not much is simpler than that.

I began riding fixed when my kids finished child care, started grade school. No more drop-offs and pickups on my work commute. It had been eight years since my last stint as a bike commuter. I was itching to resume riding to work. Hell or high-water. Hot enough to fry an egg. Rain, sleet, dead of night. Any other clichéd adverse riding description. Any weather, any time. As early as 4:00 AM, as late as midnight. I didn't want to ride my 'good' bike. I had to park outside. I would ruin it. Or it might get stolen. I had a decades-old Trek 1200 in my attic. Nice frame, light, aluminum. It was all I needed. I stripped off the gears, the derailleur. Ditched one of the two chainrings and all other extraneous parts. Cut my dropbars into bullhorns. 'Flop & Chops' they call them. Shortened the chain. The only money I spent was on a cheap back wheel with a fixed hub. And then I rode it for years. Back and forth to work, all over town. Pretty much rode it until it was worn out, too hard to maintain.

The bicycle isn't as old as many people think. Barely older than the automobile. I once read on a bike-shop website that "for centuries Americans have enjoyed riding bicycles..." Not correct. The first pedal-propelled bike wasn't invented until almost 1860, and the first chain-driven bikes became available in the mid-1880s. But five years later, bikes included pneumatic tires and the familiar diamond design. And there it was. Just 30 years after the first pedal-bike was created, the bicycle was perfected. Materials have changed. Lighter, more durable metals, more pliable rubber for the tires. Improved machine techniques make everything sleeker, stronger. But the basic design was set. And they nailed it from the start. My brand new Specialized Langster is conceptually identical to a bike I could have bought in the late 1890s.

With proper seat-height and alignment, a bicycle is the most efficient means of human transportation. Least calories expended per miles covered. And on this machine, the engine gets stronger the more it is used. I would argue that the bicycle is the most perfect machine ever invented. In the past 125 years, engineers and manufacturers have tried hard to improve on the design. Adjustments made to the geometry. Shocks, disk brakes, and gears, lots of gears. Some of the changes have merit, some are just stupid and don’t last. But in the end, the basic 1890s design will work adequately for many if not most riders.

Langster with custom Hot Wheels track fender

I have two bikes right now. The Specialized Langster I mentioned earlier and a 2012 Giant Seek. The Seek is marketed as an "urban-influenced sport bike." Sort of a cross between a mountain bike and a road bike. Geometry-wise, it looks and feels more like a mountain bike, but it is road bike through and through. Sort of a bad-ass hybrid. It has 24 gears. I'm not opposed to gears, or even a freewheel. Both are nice on a long hilly ride. But for popping around town, I find them extraneous and in the way. One more thing to worry about. Am I in the right gear? Much more satisfying to just dig in and ride the gear I have. Attack the hills, control the descents, stand dead-still on my pedals at traffic lights. Trackstanding. Like a unicycle, fixies are far easier to keep upright when stopped. Imperceptible rocking, forwards and back. An inch or less. Riding fixed is fun. Aesthetic. Artistic. Human and machine working as a unit. Zen.  No need to switch gears and ride the brakes around every corner.

And for me, that's really what it comes down to. Connecting with the bike. Riding fixed pays homage to the roots of cycling. Recognizing that the bicycle has been perfect for well over a century. I find happiness in fixed-gear riding. It leaves me feeling peaceful. In touch with a bygone era. In touch with my favorite machine. For years I have been striving for simplicity in my life. So when asked why I ride fixed, I forego this long explanation. I usually answer "Why not?"

What if people purred?

Last Saturday morning, we adopted a cat. A kitten from our local shelter. A teeny male tabby that meows incessantly and purrs even more. Affection-starved from spending his life in a cage, this cat wants constant attention. This works well for us, Roz, our other cat, isn't all that interested in affection. She loves petting, head-scratching – for about twenty seconds. Then she gets up and walks away. How does Roz like the new cat? She's pissed. Lots of hissing. Paw up, claws out, ready to take a swipe.

I keep writing the "cat." I'm not certain he has a name yet. When we met him last week, we started calling him Moxie. He has plenty. Bold and playful. Spunky and fun. It was the perfect name. But at the time, the cat was a female. Or so everyone thought. On the intake form at the shelter, he was tagged as a female, and no one checked since, including us. We went to the shelter looking for a female cat. I've only had one male cat in my 51 years of life, and he was a bit of a let-down. Not very affectionate, mean to our other cat. I assumed all male cats were like this.

Eli and I talked about the word moxie about a week ago. His cousins from Maine had just concluded their annual visit. Ben, a high-school student, loves to drink Moxie soda. He wears a Moxie t-shirt almost every day. Moxie must be an acquired taste. Or something Mainers tolerate to be different from everyone else. It's terrible. During their visit, the family took Eli with them to the Air and Space Museum at Dulles Airport in Virginia. The Amelia Earhart exhibit included the word "moxie" several times. Apparently, in conjunction with Ms. Earhart is the only place in modern lexicon that the word can be found. The coincidence was notable to Eli, and we looked up the etymology of the word Moxie. It appears that the word derived from the brand – how American.

We're all in agreement that Moxie is too feminine a name. Possibly because of its association with Amelia. Maybe because it ends in "ie" – I can't say. Regardless, when we tried to call the cat Moxie, we kept referring to him as "she."

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Five days have passed. The cat now has the name Tommy. We toyed around with several names. Moxie, Mojo – really "Mr. Mojo" shortening the name "Mr. Mojo Risin’"  from the Doors' L.A. Woman – and Bob. The name Bob is a huge joke with my kids. For some reason Sophie and Eli think that Bob is the funniest name a person or an animal can have. Every time the name comes up, they dissolve into fits of tear-inducing laughter. I cringe at the eventuality that they meet an adult Bob in real life. It isn't going to be pretty.

While Moxie/Mr. Mojo/Bob was still being confused by all the names we threw at him, Susan had made a veterinary appointment for the obligatory parasite check that shelter cats need. The appointment was scheduled for the next day and we needed to settle on a name. Tommy Ramone, the last of the four original Ramones had just died, and his name had been thrown into the mix. A true outlier. Not really something any of were talking about, considering. But suddenly, it all gelled. Eli and Sophie simultaneously said they preferred Tommy and we were done. It's a nice name. It fits him. We now all refer to him as "he." I think he has started to respond to the name. He meows a bit less now but still purrs all the time.

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All this purring. I never question where I stand with my cats. Their emotions are on display. Tommy, climbing all over me, poking me with his head. Roz, she sits a few feet away, other side of the couch. A satisfied smile on her face. Allowing twenty-second pet-fests. And as soon as she gets enough, she walks away. Or twitches her tail. Or bites me (gently). I was getting a massage the other day. Susan, my wife, is a massage therapist. And since I'm an aging fitness freak, this works out well – at least in my opinion. It occurred to me that the nicest compliment I could pay to Susan during the massage would be to start purring. So primal, so spontaneous, so honest.

Purring humans would make the world simpler, better. Even when animals don't like me, I prefer their honesty. I ride my bike to work. This is something that our neighborhood dogs hate. They go nuts when I zip by. Barking, growling, lunging at the end of their rope. Our relationship is clear. It's never like this with people. We are allegedly the intelligent animal, and therefore more complex, nuanced. People get along for myriad reasons. Of course there's friendship and amiability, but then the deception starts. People strive for harmony, for reciprocation, for advancement, to simply be polite. But many of us aren't very good at this. And some of us suck. Purring with a twitchy tail. Smiling with claws out. Mixed signals. Party small-talk is often like this. Are we getting to know one another or just doing time, a societal duty. Those of us prone to anxiety get anxious. I'd rather the person hissed at me and walked away.

There is a joke within my group of friends about niceness, who's nice, who's not. "Nice" – it's such a weak, insipid word. This is intentional. In this joke, nice is an insult. An implication that the person is tepid and bland like the word. A few months ago, chatting with my boss, I mentioned something about my friend Doug. She knows who Doug is, but doesn't know him at all. But she knows Doug's wife, Annie, well. And she pretty much hates Annie. They have clashed in the past, claws out and in this case, not much pretense of amiability. Their relationship often causes me discomfort at work. So mentioning Doug was a stupid move on my part.

Me: Blah blah blah, Doug, blah blah.

Boss: Oh, Is Doug nice?

Me: <Pause> I think he is the smartest person I've ever met.

Boss: I asked if he was nice, not smart.

Me: Hmmm.

And so this five second exchange started a huge analytical round of what motivates me to be friends with people. Niceness isn't on my list. Doug actually is a pretty nice guy. He is genuinely interested in what I have to say. Caring. Remembers when there is something big going on in my life. He's like this with everybody. But many of my friends aren't all that nice. They are smart, witty, driven, interesting, honest, but not necessarily nice. I'm not that nice either. If you want real feedback on your new haircut, the outfit you just bought, I'm the guy to ask.

And this probably gets to the heart of my aversion to polite, societally-accepted human interaction. I'm not looking for fake smiles and uninspired chit-chat. It leaves me feeling disingenuous and dirty. Like I just told a lie. My friends, although many of them fantastic at the small-talk game, share my sentiments. Our conversations are much deeper, wittier, intelligent, sarcastic and rewarding. I spend an evening with them and I know nothing about how their job is going, what they think of the weather, their opinion of the last Pirates game.

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As time has passed, Tommy and Roz are getting along better. I won't call it friendship, but certainly a relationship. They fight. In the sort of way that only cats can fight. Hissing, batting, but lots of back and forth chasing. It seems kind of harsh, violent. But it is honest. And at least they are spending time together. Meanwhile, as a member of the 'advanced' species, I spend my evenings out talking with acquaintances about gas mileage and mortgage rates. 

Tommy

They're piling in the back seat

They're generating steam heat

Pulsating to the back beat

The Blitzkrieg Bop

That back beat – Tommy Ramone. Stark, simple drumming that perfectly complimented the magic of the music. Fast, direct and flourish-free. The fourth and final “original” Ramone was taken from us yesterday. Sixty-two or sixty-five years young (no one seems to know), he outlived his band-mates by years. They gave us so much that they wore themselves out, used it all up. Nothing left to live on.

It seems odd for a middle-aged man like me to be upset by the death of a rocker thirty-five years after his prime, but I feel it. Like a pit in my stomach. Perhaps because he was only eleven or fourteen years older than me. Because I identified so much with the music when I was a teen. Regardless, I hope his life was rewarding, peaceful. I hope he felt like a king. I hope he saw himself as the visionary that he will one day be considered.

Months ago, I wrote a tribute to the original Ramones line-up. I was just starting my blog and not many people have read it. I would like to think that Tommy read it and smiled.

The Ramones were PERFECTION. ← Please take a minute to read about it. For Tommy. 

Stuff

Toys, expensive toys. Seems to me that most men my age have a bunch of these. A set of golf clubs appropriate for an emerging pro. Latest phone, tablet, laptop. In-home theater. A comprehensive wood-shop. Carbon fiber bike (or two). Motorcycle, kayak, sports car, boat. Status symbols, reward for a successful career, for raising kids. Akin to ordering decent wine at dinner, at some point in adult life, most men make a switch. Change from Budweiser to craft beers. Quality over quantity. No more making do with what's OK. Wanting better if not the best. These are their hobbies. Do them right.

I might have missed this gene. I'm not very "stuff" oriented. Sure I've got a garage full of bikes and bike crap, but almost all of it is old, really old, and none of it is high-end. A couple of refurbished fixies – built from discarded frames and spare parts – one twenty-five years old, the other almost forty. A bike trailer made from an old running stroller and wood scraps out of my attic. A pair of old mountain bikes that I cannibalized for parts. Even my "good" bike, my performance bike, was well under $1,000. Other than bikes, I don't really own much. No cell phone, no tablet, I have a laptop, but it isn't fancy. No stereo. A low-end running watch. A bit of sport-specific exercise apparel, but most of it is ancient. Fifteen year old cycling shoes. Twenty year old running shorts, and so on. I exercise in old, cotton t-shirts. Other than drinking too much mediocre wine. I really don't spend money at all.

People get satisfaction from treating themselves. Validated by their stuff. Retail therapy. The term seems to be associated with women, shopping for purses or shoes. But men do it too. Expensive stuff, larger purchases. We need more therapy.

This is pervasive in America. But it doesn't work for me. Buying nice stuff makes me feel fraudulent. Showy. Spoiled. It stresses me out. I worry about the expense. How else I could have used that money? Will I make the right choice? What if I'm let down by my purchase? My hobbies are free. Reading (library books). Writing. Instructing spin classes (I actually get paid for that one). I can't really tell if this has been intentional, but the result is that the things I do, the the way I spend my time, it's all free. But last weekend I bought a new bike.

Background: My two home-made fixed-gear bikes frustrate me. The old one, a 1975 Sears Freespirit, looks awesome. I stripped it to the metal. A flashy paint job. Rebuilt wheels. All recycled parts. The only expense was paint and handlebar tape. But it rides like crap. The geometry is a mess. Weighs a ton. Creaky. My newer bike, a 1989 Trek 1200, rides beautifully. Fits me like a glove. But the frame style is inappropriate for a fixed-gear rig. I can't adjust the chain tension. After a few months, the chain will stretch a millimeter or two. Fly off when I'm spinning 90 RPM. Dangerous in traffic, a pain in the ass when I'm a few miles from home. I need a wrench to reset my wheel, and I never have one with me. Long walks with a bike on my shoulder.

So last weekend, I bought a bike. A Specialized Langster. Fixed-gear. Not a high-end bike, but a huge jump from the antiques I've been riding. It shipped form California, so I just got it yesterday. I'm hoping I fall in love with it. Right now, it seems a bit above me, like dating a model. I tell myself that I deserve a decent bike, something that works, doesn't breakdown in traffic. I ride to work all year. Snow, rain, heat. But I can't make myself believe it.

Because I don't need a car to get to work, Susan and I have just one. That and a 20 year old beater truck that we hardly drive. But getting this new bike leaves me feeling like I'm cheating. In my mind, the things I own are supposed to be second rate. Refurbished. Home-made. Used (like my truck). I'm not sure where this came from. I grew up in a frugal family, but when we got stuff, we got it new. Even cars. And I'm not that handy, not really that capable of making stuff myself, keeping it working No one expects this of me anyway. Susan is constantly telling me to buy new clothes, new shoes. But it just doesn't feel right. The stuff I have, it works. My shorts are old and stained, but they fit. My shoes are worn, but no holes. I can make do.Why buy something new?

And when it comes to luxury items – like a a new commuting bike when I already have two (that suck), the word "deserve" comes up a lot. Why do I deserve a new bike. I'm so unaccustomed to buying stuff that when I think about replacing anything old, I agonize over it. A new MP3 player - $12 from Walmart – replacing the one with the broken clip. Can't attach it to my clothing. But it still plays. I tuck it into my underwear when I run. A luxury purchase! I need to convince myself that I'm worthy. I need to explore all options on how to make the old one work. I can only move forward once I'm sure that I can't fix it. At one point, I was even researching a home-made tattoo. Alcohol and ash. Fortunately, my brother talked me out of it.

The Langster needs work before I can truly own it. It's over-geared. 48/17 for folks who talk like that. Too heavy for in-town riding, for the southern Pennsylvania hills. By the time I get a decent spin going, I'm at a traffic light. I've got legs, but not those legs. After I adjust the gearing, I'm positive that this will be my last major purchase for years to come. There is nothing else I want. Nothing that I wish I had. Like Sean Penn's "Jeff Spicoli"character in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, my needs are simple. Books to read, time to write, roads to ride, trails to run. What more do I need. It's the adult version of "a cool buzz and tasty waves."

But even Spicoli had a surf board. Hobbies take gear. And I need to respect the fact that performance often takes better gear. Things wear out, and most stuff we buy today cannot be fixed. Plastic MP3 players, Lycra exercise gear. When it cracks, when it tears, it is done. Duct tape has it's limitations. Sometimes I need to suck it up and buy something. And when I do, I need to allow myself to enjoy it.

Validation

Me: Like a teenager waiting for the phone to ring. Right, teenagers don't talk on phones. It's all texting, Facebook, tweets, other medium I haven't heard of yet. I don't use any of these. I use email, but no one else does. The spammers and me.

I don't get out much. Maybe a bit reclusive. My "public appearances" are infrequent. Everyone knows who I am, but few people actually know me. Twice weekly, I instruct a early morning spin class. I brief my company's board of directors monthly. I run a handful of road races each year. Recently I added a Wednesday night outing with a running group. This is pretty much all. The only times when I'm on display, out in my community. Well, this and my blog. But that's anonymous. And every week or two, we'll get together with another family for drinks, dinner, that sort of thing. Quiet life. Not a ton of social interaction.

When I do something in public and do it well, I want someone to notice, to comment, to validify. Great spin class! You smoked that 5K! Excellent briefing! Wow, you really nailed that! How do you grill your hot dogs so perfectly? I'm looking for that pat on the back. The affirming email. An acquaintance to approach me, tell me that people are talking about how great I was. Seriously. This has to be some sort of mental illness. If I was on Facebook, I'd be tallying "Likes".

On Sunday, I posted an essay to my blog. Beer Running. I loved it. I started writing it as a promotion piece for a fitness oriented council I serve on, but it morphed into a heartfelt piece about my inability to connect with others. And then... Silence. These postings don't come easy. Lots of work. Heart and soul, innermost thoughts, all that crap. I'm looking for a nod. A "plus-one". A positive comment. "Your essay changed my life." This doesn't happen. And why should it? I don't do much of that either. I don't even know why people read my blog. It's all over the place. Fitness, mental illness, ranting about society, technology, teachers. In truth, I don't even know if anyone reads my blog. Lots of page views. From all around the world. But how long do they stay? Stumble in, think "what the hell is this?" Then quickly click out. 

And why do I care? I blog for myself. To work through my issues. Give myself space and a backdrop where I can ponder. To improve my writing. And it works. On the days I write, I feel better. More at peace. I've purged my demons. Opened a valve to let out some steam. But once I post the essay, the peace is gone. Now I'm just looking for someone to prop me up. Acknowledge that they read the essay. Argue a point. Anything. 

I have the same issue with spinning. I instruct the class that I want to take. The workout has purpose, the music too. But the workout and the music are unlike the other classes at my fitness center. Especially the music. Hard driving classic rock and punk. A bit of Reggae. Some middle-eastern folk music, weird kids' music. Anything. Except the radio pop and country the other instructors use. I started my own class because I was sick of other instructors calling off, sleeping in. This way I knew that if I showed up before dawn, the class would happen, the instructor would be there. Initially, I said I didn't care if anyone came. The point was the workout. Now I'm disappointed if only five people or six people show up. Disappointed if they don't walk out of the room mumbling "best.spin.class.ever."

And then I wait for the feedback. The feedback that never comes. An email. A phone call. "I never understood a balance sheet until I heard you explained it!" Or a link to someone's Facebook post. Telling the world how great I am. "Guys, you have to read this blog!" "... take this spin class!" It's pathetic, needy, high school.

I confessed this to my wife, Susan the other day. My need for external validation. BTW – Susan doesn't like it when I write about her on my blog. She feels that I make her seem too together, too evolved. But the fact is that she is more balanced and thoughtful than me. I am more instinctual. Primal. Impulsive. Childlike. And of course she told me exactly what I needed to hear, and what I already knew, but needed to be reminded. The only one who will give me the validation I need, the props I crave, is me. I am the only person I need to impress. Peace comes from actualization. Not from pats on the back. When I do my best, nail something – a run, a class, an essay, grilled meat – I should just soak it in, feel proud. And strive to improve next time. An audience of one.

A stupid validation joke from my past.

Me, handing my parking stub to the bartender: "Can you validate me?"

Bartender: "You're a wonderful person!"

Everyone is looking for it. I know this. I see posts on Google begging for plus-ones. To be circled. At work, I see posturing in meetings, bragging about achievements. This is the result of a lifetime of conditioning. Feedback from parents, teachers, employers. We are supposed to impress others. It's the American way. It might be the Malaysian way as well, I've never been to Malaysia. But I've learned from my below average educational achievements and my above average career that how others perceive me has a direct impact on how I feel about myself. How standards set by others dictate my self-worth.

Susan reminds me that I can only do my best. Once I've done that, I can coast. I don't need to worry anymore, I'm maxed out. Actualized. If it sucks, so be it. If no one else cares, so be that, too. I don't need to be awesome, better than everyone. Just as good as I can be. If I think I rocked a spin class, nailed a briefing, smoked a race, that's where peace lies, not in praise from others. But still, the phone doesn't ring. My email is full of spam, and I don't know what people write on Facebook. Wish they were writing about me.