5 posts tagged “klosterman”

Because I have some unexpected time on, this, the eve of the eve of a trek to Western Pennsylvania for the region's premier cycling event (and in the interest of padding those meager stats to the left), here's some recycled material about my first and only other trip three years ago.  It's not all old, though.  I've added footnotes, Klosterman style.  Okay, not exactly Klosterman style; they're in the body of the text because scrolling down would be a pain.  And they'll probably be far less clever.

Y1NZER or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Pedal Picksburgh

I had been taunting Mehaffey all week. We were traveling to western Pennsylvania for Pedal Pittsburgh. I had signed on for the sixty mile tour, which included a climb of the dreaded Mt. Oliver. Dan and Sarah were doing the fifty mile loop. Ten fewer miles and no climb: clearly, Dan was a wuss. (To be fair, the wuss in question is currently training for his second triathlon, but I digress...)  And a wuss, as you well know, is deserving of scorn.  [1] Three years later, I don't believe Dan has completed a third triathlon.  I've got six more century rides under my belt,  Who's the wuss now?  I mean, sure - he got married and bought a house, but.... uh, I don't know how to finish that. Moving on.

Pedal Pittsburgh is an annual bicycle tour of varying lengths of the landmarks and neighborhoods that make Pittsburgh unique. It is hosted by and benefits the Community Design Center. I had planned to ride last year, but bailed at the last minute to ride with the Tahoe team; I was starting to get nervous about my training. This year, I know better where I am in my training, and more importantly, I know what to expect in Nevada, so I gladly substituted sixty miles in the 'Burgh for eighty miles in Davidsonville, Maryland.  [2] This is further proof that I am a moron.  This is the longest - and best - version of the infamous "beach and pie" ride.  I can't believe I willingly passed up pie for Pedal Pittsburgh.

I was sick as a dog last week. [3]  Hmmm....  I am getting sick now.  My sinuses are really raw and I'd be congested if my nostrils weren't leaking all day.  I missed multiple days of work and still had a hacking and wheezing cough on Saturday. I mention this only because I mentioned it to Sarah and Dan about two hours into our journey west and was promptly accused of attempting to lay the groundwork for skipping my last ten miles. [4] I laid the groundwork for bailing MUCH earlier this year.  By which I mean, I signed on for the thirty-five mile ride and was completely up front about that fact.  Of course, after all I ran my mouth, there was no way I could in good conscience - no matter how much I wanted (and I'll be honest - it wouldn't be long before I really wanted) - back out of climbing that damned hill.  [5] Who am I kidding?  Seriously.  I back out of shit like this all.  the.  time. Through my boast, I had signed a contract, much like a medieval knight who vows to rescue the damsel or slay the dragon, back when such was the business of the day. This brave brave Sir Robin was not about to bravely run away. [6] See [5].

After lunch at Taco Loco, as Will and Laura [7] See also: Barracuda. were heading to the bike shop [8] The bike shop in question was owned by the father of a kid with whom I went to elementary school.  This has nothing to do with anything, but I kept in touch with absolutely nobody I knew from when I lived in Pennsylvania so I find it significant somehow. to outfit nine month old Cash with the required helmet, the rest of us did a bit of reconnaissance on the South Side Slopes. Now, I was vaguely familiar with my impending climb because Vrabel [9] See also: The Vrabel. used to live atop the dreaded Mt. Oliver. But it had been several years, at best, since I had been in that part of town. First of all, I don't recall Josephine Street being so steep. Second of all, I don't recall Josephine Street being so long. It looked really bad. Dan, at one point, volunteered to join me for the ten miles provided we race. I hesitated, because the last time I was challenged to a race in Pittsburgh... well, "cheated" isn't strong enough a word [10] Long story short: Garrett cheated.  Big time., but ultimately agreed. We clocked the climb at only a mile and a half, but that particular mile and a half was relentless. It went up. And up. And up. Then it went up some more. And just when it looked as if we were about at the top, it went up a little bit for good measure. And if that weren't enough, the descent was one of the most notoriously steep and serpentine streets in the city, which so happened to be in rather rough condition, potholewise, after the winter. It is this particular street - Sycamore Street - that my father used to drive down after taking out-of-town friends and relatives up Mt. Washington, just to show off a bit. It is this particular street that Vrabel points to when he mentions his concept of urban skiing. On the way back to Lawrenceville, Dan and Sarah and [Vanna] all remarked that I was considerably more quiet and seemed to be scratching my head more than usual.

Despite the minor anxiety, I slept alright once I managed to get Nobody [11] AKA: the Buddy Cat. out of my appointed room. (Nobody is a cat.) [12] Duh. I rose at a quarter to six with a minimum of snoozing and began preparing for my ride. I ate a light breakfast, prepared my water and snacks, and herded the cats a bit before getting to the day's attire. Now, there was some fuzziness to the weather forecast so I went to great pains to pack for every conceivable condition. I ultimately decided on the short sleeve jersey with a windbreaker and no leg warmers, when.... oh, (insert expletive [13] FUCK! here).

I dressed in street clothes and went outside to sit on the stoop to wait for Sarah and Dan. As they pulled up, Sarah rolled down the window:

"What's wrong?" [14] This exact dialogue is almost certainly inaccurate.

"I forgot my bike shorts."

"What about your other shorts?"

"I don't wear other shorts." [15] It's true.  Short pants are for little boys.

(Coincidentally, it was to Dan and Sarah's wedding last month [16] Huh.  I guess Dan actually got married before the ride.  So I revoke my rescindment of my reversal on him being a wuss.  Or something.  I can't keep it straight.  The point is: what has he done lately? that I set out without a coat and tie. I realized I forgot the core outfit of the weekend when we were well south of Fredericksburg and going back for it was completely out of the question. We stopped at Hecht's just outside Richmond, but the clerk forgot to remove the security device from my new jacket, so I spent the entire wedding with my hand robotically glued to my waist so that no other guest would suspect me of acquiring a really nice jacket [17] I mentioned to Cheeseman [17.5] Quote of the weekend, from Vanna: "I'm drinking Cheeseman's wine."  that Vrabel would quote Fast Times when he heard the story and I was right. by less than ethical means. And now, once again, when packing for the weekend, I forgot the core outfit. This is all [Vanna's] fault - I know it; I simply have not yet concocted how, exactly.)

In the end, it worked out okay. Gatto Cycles [18] See [8]. had no merchandise for sale other than helmets and tubes, but I was able to reach Will and Laura before they left home, and they brought a pair of gym shorts for me to wear. I wasn't about to do sixty miles, for reasons I'd just as soon not discuss [19] Chafing., but I did ride the first eight miles with Cash before setting off on my own on a modified version of the thirty-five mile course. So yeah, ultimately, I did wuss out of climbing the dreaded Mt. Oliver, but I did ride up to Troy Hill, Highland Park, and Squirrel Hill. (Let me repeat that last part: Troy Hill, Highland Park, and Squirrel Hill.) The most important part, though, is that I had a blast. And that Whole Foods provided burritos (of a sort) [20] If you could consider 'without a tortilla' to mean 'of a sort' then I guess this statement would be accurate. at the end. If you're within a few hours, I urge [21] Urge seems like kind of a strong word.  Especially from one who is planning to spend the evening before the ride at the Thunderbird. you to pedal Pittsburgh next year. It's a heck of a lot of fun and with five different routes, there is one for every skill level. And it is for a good cause. [22] This is where I went into my spiel about the warm feelings everyone would get from writing a check on my behalf to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.  But I'll spare yinz that speech right now.  Don't worry - I'll get to it.

I have more CD's than ninety-nine percent of America but fewer CD's than forty percent of my friends.  Those aren't my words; Chuck Klosterman wrote them in Killing Yourself to Live.  And I'm not sure I even identify with them.  I mean... except for Soo, I suspect I actually do have more CD's than most of my friends.

I've given discs away, but I have never sold any back to any record store.  I find it dishonest, in a way, to purge one's collection.  Anyone and everyone can sift through the strata of my collection and formulate any hypothesis they wish about my musical development from the fossil record.  My standard response will be that Jesus placed those incriminating discs in my library to test the faith of the believers (or non-believers; I'm not really sure how that concept is supposed to work), but we all know that I - like everyone else - used to listen to some seriously uncool music.  As I've grown older, I have found this policy has - perhaps unfortunately - influenced my buying habits.  I'm less tolerant now than I used to be of the more flash-in-the-pan bands (See: The Fratellis.  See also: everything else to which Dabysan listens.) that come down the pike.  But I still have plenty of older material that rarely, if ever, finds its way into my rotation.  I can hardly be blamed.  Hell, there are records I truly love that I forget about if I go a few weeks without listening.

So with that we begin a musical odyssey, of sorts - an exploration of my back catalog; a re-visitation of those discs which haven't been spun in years.  Here's how it works: I pick a CD early in the week and give it four or five serious listens.  And then I post a completely objective and unbiased review on a day to be determined by whenever I get around to posting my first installment.  Hopefully, that will be Thursday.  Thursdays are a good day for a regular feature.  I think we'll get things started this week with the Replacements' craptacular debut Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash.  Like I said, objective and unbiased.  Totally.

As we've discussed before, the Post-Ironic Hipster banks his or her all encompassing credibility on the fact that he or she was once seriously - tragically - uncool.  This is accomplished in a variety of ways.  Some offer up their adolescent infatuation with Sweet Valley High books.  Others, like Chuck and me, point to our embrace of Eighties hair metal.  But one must be cautious.

The corner has clearly - as we pointed out yesterday - and long ago turned for Guns N' Roses.  Poison seems to be on the verge of a similar break-through.  The big names are off the table, which presents something of a conundrum for the Post-Ironic Hipster, who longs for the pretense of being on the outside looking in.  We humbly suggest Warrant as the next hair band du jour.

Oh, and the careful reader will no doubt note that the nuclear surgeons who compose the creative arm of Warrant did not use brownies as a metaphor for that which we desire.  That's all we're saying.

(The official - and unimaginably better -  video doesn't allow embedding.  We are so, so very sorry.)

Contrary to whatever Billy Corgan might have to say, the current zeitgeist seems to be with 1980's hair bands.  Chuck Klosterman was in town last week with fresh copies of "Fargo Rock City" in tow.  (It's his third best book, for those that were wondering.)  The redoubtable Emma Peel is waxing poetic about the S----- twins.  All spring I was routinely treated on Saturday mornings to spirited mixes featuring Warrant and Skid Row and Slaughter.  Just this afternoon on my way home, AC/DC's "Shoot to Thrill" - which I haven't heard in years - unexpectedly came on the radio.  And, perhaps most relevantly, I inadvertently stumbled across a covers record by Poison which, when purchased, rocketed to the top three in my "Covers Records by 80's Hair Metal Bands" category.  I don't know what this all means, but I'm taking my "Use Your Illusion" CD's in to work tomorrow just to be safe.

On top of everything else, I learned over this past weekend that Poison lead singer Bret Michaels is a life-long Steeler fan.  Actually, this doesn't surprise me overly much.  What's more surprising is that more people, D-List celebrities or otherwise, aren't Steeler fans.  It seems so.... well, obvious.

With some trepidation, I ventured downtown after work with Emma and Yo Han for a Chuck Klosterman book signing/Q & A.  I expected - more than a little bit, actually - that he would come off as a smarmy, self-satisfied douchebag, but I am pleased to report he was pretty much like I thought he'd be when I first started reading his work.  Which is to say he seems like a reasonably cool and dorky guy with whom it would be enjoyable to have a few or ten beers.  I might have over-thought things just a little bit.  Or maybe he could be a colossal prick after all but has learned how to mitigate his prickish tendencies in order to move product.

I had a few questions at the ready but figuring most of his fans for music fiends, they were both sports questions.  As it happened, most of the questions were sports questions, so I didn't ask them.  Plus I'm a neurotic jackass who doesn't like to be the center of attention in a crowd of strangers.  That also might have had something to do with it.  All in all, it was a surprisingly more pleasant evening than I had expected.  I just might join Daby and Nikki, who were unable to make it this evening, when they go tomorrow.  Sure, he'll probably read the same piece, but the questions will be different.  Who knows, maybe somebody will actually ask a question on the topic he writes about most.  And then I can get in my sports questions.

And in the interest of padding this post, following is the best passage from his new book that I read on the way home.  If you read it out loud and "talk like Poindexter" when you do so, you'll probably come pretty close to what Chuck Klosterman actually sounds like.

"Raspberet Beret," the best Prince song ever recorded, is followed by the Bangles' "Manic Monday," the best prince song ever recorded by somebody else.  Prince supposedly gave "Manic Monday" to Susanna Hoffs in the hope that she would sleep with him.  If I were Prince, that's all I would ever do - I'd write airtight singles for every female musician I ever met.  As far as I can tell, the reason you write great songs is to become a rock star, and the reason you become a rock star is to have sex with beautiful, famous women.  Why not cut out the middleman?  Prince is a genius.