doylebrau.com

I don’t think the white-haired man who runs the parking garage at my job likes me. (He’s the same man as the office man from this post.) I arrived at the garage this morning like I do every morning, flashed the gate man my ID badge, and proceeded to walk my bike down to the storage rack in the customary fashion (Mandated by said white-haired man after he saw me riding my bike in the garage my first day there [gasp]). It’s only about fifty feet from the gate to the rack and most of the walk takes place in a place wide enough for two cars to pass each other.

“Hey!” Somebody shouted.

I looked up, it was the white-haired man, and he was heying at me.

“Watch out for that car,” he said to me.

I turned around. There was a large Suburban idling behind me. It had come in via the other entrance (after me) and I was in the midst of crossing its path on my way to the storage rack.

“Don’t worry, I see it,” I replied, knowing that in a matter of seconds I would be headed in the opposite direction as it was, thus allowing it to continue on unobstructed.

“You should watch out for cars,” said the white-haired man. And here’s where the written word doesn’t convey the proper meaning at first, because what he said, and the tone in which he said it, suggested several other statements: Watch out for cars you irresponsible slacker. You should let cars go in front of you because all roads were made exclusively for them, kid. Cyclists should be seen, not heard, you stupid pedestrian.

“I am a car,” I responded, with a tone suggesting: I have as much a right to this road as any car, fuckface.

Somehow, I think my confrontation-prone demeanor combined with my tendency to instigate are going to lead to a few more problems with this guy in the coming months. I may end up parking on the street for a while, but if I can get HR involved and mention “discrimination” in any way, I’ve got a chance of winning this.

I’ve had a hair-trigger for crap like this all my life. I think its because I know that most people won’t react at all, and therefore nothing will ever happen to even address the problem, no matter what the problem happens to be. When I was in high school some stupid jock called me “gay” and I got him suspended for a week with a mandatory tolerance workshop just because I could. My motive wasn’t spite though, I did it because I knew that there was rampant homophobia among the student population and that the school was ignoring the problem. Walking down to the office and putting it on paper would force them to acknowledge the problem, and to act.

Not that holding up homophobia to some old guy who is irritated by bicycles is an apples to apples comparison. I’m not going to be joining any picket lines, or demanding sweeping policy changes. Hell, I just want to be taken seriously, that’s all.

Many wonder if Sniff This lives full time at the Dodd farm, or if he has a lair or a cave somewhere and was raised by bears. A certain sect of Falcon Ridge-goers believe that he is the manifestation of all the mischevious thoughts of the whole folk world. Well, the intrepid, award-winning photo-journalists at doylebrau.com were granted unprecedented access to Sniff This’ pre-Falcon Ridge rituals and will be able to put many of these myths to rest. The photo-essay below may not fully explain his ecentric behavior whilst at the festival, but it at least puts it in context…

Sniff This wakes up early on Thursday morning. He has a full day ahead of him, but the thought of returning to the friendly confines of the Dodd farm puts a little bounce in his step.

Rub-a-dub-dub, Sniff This in a tub. This will be his last shower for the next four days. A bathing song makes the job go faster. His favorite is Afternoon Delight, much to the chagrin of his roommate.

On the subway, taking part in the great New York City rat race.

Gotta make the donuts… Only 8 more hours until he can leave for Falcon Ridge. Sniff This Factoid: His co-worker actually fear even the mere threat of the Sniff This smell.

Standing at the Hudson Train Station. His odessy has just begun, as he now must find his way across Columbia County to Dodd’s Farm. Last year he was able to hitch a ride with a weathervane salesman, but this year seems to have him at a disadvantage, being that Dodd’s farm already has a weathervane.

One of the many well kept secrets of Sniff This is that he loves ice cream. He asked for a small, but got a medium instead. Now he’s trying to eat the evidence before the shopkeeper comes over to ask him for the extra quarter.

Take it from Sniff, the bathroom at the X-tra Mart on the corner of 23, and 9H is not worth the trip, despite what it says in the brochure.

Waking up in a tent on Friday morning. The smell has not yet fermented to its full potency.

Watch as the wild Sniff stalks its prey…

Inexcusable.

Saturday afternoon. Looking a bit more like a bloated rock star than usual.

Sunday afternoon. Good god.

If you would like to meet Sniff This, please contact his manager, Patrick, who will arrange a meeting over a couple of servings of cheeseballs.

Now that I’m back in the land of mattresses, nutritious eating habits, and bathing, I find myself being asked how it was that I got to be so sunburned this weekend. With child-like exuberance, I tell the asker about the magic of Falcon Ridge, the dance tent, Colorado Wraps, and cheese balls. But before long I get mired down in an explanation of the back story that preceded an event over the weekend that was so unbelievably hilarious to myself and my fellow festival-goers, but completely incomprehensible to the poor soul I’m heaping my story upon. Of course, by time I get to that point that poor soul has either fallen asleep or wandered off to watch the linoleum curl.

The problem is, after five years on the hill, we’ve developed our own language of inside jokes, malapropisms, and strange accents that is about as close to English as Unamunda is.

Which is why I’m so excited that I was actually able to capture some of this inside-jokery on camera. Contained within the two videos below is the essence of my Falcon Ridge experience:

Reveling in the same thing happening over and over and over…

Nothing like capturing two friends in the middle of a lover’s quarrel…

Dude man, 6 or 7.

Tomorrow morning, I embark on a strange and wonderful journey upstate to the 19th annual Falcon Ridge Folk Festival.  These are the four days of the year when the Batman to my Bruce Wayne gets to come out and play.  Yes, from Thursday until Sunday evening, I will be Sniff This, court jester of our little group of tents up on the hill.

It all started when I went to my first festival with the current line-up of folk folk.  Apparently, the entire weekend the first time they saw me, I was wearing my Sniff This t-shirt, probably because I was too lazy to change.  And when I came back the next year I brought the shirt along and wore it again (for the entire weekend, due to the urging of my fellow folk folk).  By the third year, a new tradition was firmly established, and I’ve been wearing that thing up to Falcon Ridge ever since.  I’m a little worried this year, though.  The shirt started off red and seems to have faded to a dark pink color on the outside.  But whatever color it’s lost, it retains all of it’s original magic.  Indeed,  I’ve noticed strange powers attributed to the shirt: small children will smell me, old women will smell me, couples will smell me, most men will smell me.  Pretty much anyone except for attractive single females my own age will smell me.

Of course, by the fourth day of being out in the sun without a shower or a proper cleansing of any kind, the shirt takes on a completely new meaning. 

I dumped the bike on Saturday. Nothing serious, just a few scrapes and bruises, but it was really strange because I was joking around about taking a spill only minutes earlier, seriously.

The whole thing was over before I had time to think about it, but as I remember it, I was coming down a slight hill and about to make a left turn down a side street. I tightened the back brake a little to slow down and immediately sensed that nothing was happening. I tightened more and suddenly the back tire was locked up and there was this strange scraping sound. I later realized that the exact time I hit the brake was the instant the tire was passing over a crushed water bottle, which explained the scraping sound. Anyway, with my back tire suddenly on an ice-like surface, I felt the entire back half of the bike start to swing out to the right. I was also slowing down with the front brake, but because I was still moving at a good clip (downhill), I actually had enough time to counter steer, basically creating a jackknifed tractor trailer situation barreling down Henry Street. I had almost stopped, and was nearly completely sideways when the bottle suddenly dislodged itself, immediately imbuing the rear tire with all its lost traction, and dumping me over the side and on to the pavement.

Aside from a pain in my right hand that has gotten better since yesterday, I’m completely okay.

And the rest of the day was quite enjoyable! Liz and Anton and I (and Gypsy) all went on a nice biking tour of the LES and East Village. I got to show off my no-look camera skills as I snapped a few shots in mid-ride. Anton is riding the green Schwinn, Liz is on the pink Tweety-mobile with Gypsy perched precariously in the basket up front. By the middle of the afternoon, she calmed down about riding in the basket (probably because Chihuahuas stare death in the face and laugh on a daily basis).

After lunch at Schiller’s (which my spill directly preceded), we went up on the Williamsburg Bridge and then down to the park directly below, where we found a small pond’s worth of water collecting in one of the gathering places (you can tell by the street lamps that you’re supposed to be able to walk there, then back down into the top edge of Chinatown and back to the LES for some more lounging.

Days like this, when you get nothing real done, but spend a lot of time doing things that seem like they’re productive are the best. It’s like relaxing without getting that guilty feeling that you could have been doing something better with your time.

I also enjoyed biking with other people. Greg and I bike together sometimes too, which I like, but it’s always great to bring more people into the fold. I think I’m going to start going to sanctioned rides, things like the Moonlight Ride or maybe another Critical Mass ride (depends on how many arrests there were last month).

Anywho, sleepy time. Gotta get up for my ride into work tomorrow. Yeehaw!

Is it just me, or has New York City been under one single administration since Dinkins left office in 93?  Though it changed it’s tactics in late 2001, I think the overarching approach to the city was overwhelmingly similar, I’m speaking of course, of Mayor Dad.

At first, when we were much younger, he was fierce and protective.  “My city must be kept safe!” he said.  And he kept us safe from graffiti artists and turnstile jumpers, and vicious squeegeemen. He helped us avert our eyes from the horrors of Times Square, and shut down the evil bars that didn’t card and let people dance too much.  And he was the perfect tightwad Dad, refusing to pay for all the frivalous things we asked him for.  So we got older, and thought we didn’t need him any more, and then we got in trouble, a lot of trouble, and he was there to help us through it, but like the dad we knew and loved, he ended up becoming a little too overprotective.  And then he made a bunch of crazy promises and promised to buy us more stuff in the future, but we could tell his philosophy had shifted from “What I say goes.” to “It’s for your own good.”  He stopped letting us smoke in the house, even in the garage, and then refused to bring home all that fatty food we loved.  But now he’s gone too far.  He’s trying to put his foot down and shame us into giving up our bottles.  Doesn’t he have a stadium to build somewhere?

But seriously, if less people bought snake oil bottled water, we’d at least have a few fewer container ships polluting their way across the Pacific every day, spending valuable resources just to keep us hydrated.

Hipster Chain Letter Game Claims Roguishly Good Looking Victim

Okay, maybe not so snarky, but still, I don’t think I know eight other
people to send this thing to. I’m a popular guy, don’t make that
mistake, but most people I know don’t have websites… This will be
interesting.

Anyway, many thanks to kenspeckle for sticking the proverbial crowbar into the boarded up window that is my life.

Here are “the rules” of the meme:

• We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
• Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
• People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their
  eight things and post these rules. At the end of your blog post, you
  need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
• Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

1.

I Love Star Trek: I don’t just mean that I love Star Trek, I love Star Trek. Love it, love it, love it. And I’m not talking about just a love for the characters and the series. I’ve got several technical manuals on my bookshelf, a Tribble at work, and three books on speaking Klingon. I can tell you the top speed of the Enterprise-D (Warp 9.9986), and the two different classes of Klingon Birds of Prey (K’vort and Brell), and how the transporters compensate for Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle (with Heisenberg Compensators, what else?), and a bunch of other stuff that might actually scare the hell out of you. Luckily, I’m able to contain my feelings around others, even around fellow Star Trek fans (Have you seen Trekkies? Those people are wack-jobs!)

2.

My Survival Tub: I keep a tub of supplies in my room, along with waterproof everything, because I firmly believe that I need to be prepared in case the apocalypse decides to ride in one night while I’m asleep. The tub contains the following:

• Two lengths of 200 feet of rope
• Collapsible shovel
• Canteen
• H-straps
• Waterproof container of matches
• Mosquito netting
• Bungees
• Flashlight
• Batteries, batteries, batteries
  
• Various knives and tools
• Hiking backpack
• Sleeping bag good below freezing
• Head-to-toe rain gear
  

Items on my wish list, but conspicuously absent:

• 5 days worth of k-rations
• Water purifier
• Car battery electrical adapter
• Compass
  

3.

My Rat-Tail: Remember that awful hairstyle in the 80s, when young boys would grow a tail of hair down the back of their head? Yeah, I had one of those, for quite a while. I also carved words into the side of my head in 4th grade. What can I say? Even at that age I had no shame.

4.

I Don’t Wear Underwear: This may be a shocker for most of you, but if you met me in the last ten years, I’ve never, ever worn undies in your presence. Work, play, bike, wedding, slumber party, meeting girlfriend’s parents, doesn’t matter. You may go throw up now.

5.

My Lego Collection: Growing up, I had an entire Lego town in my bedroom, complete with airport, parking garage, high rise, and Blue Oyster (I was in a Police Academy phase back then). It took up most of the floor space and was a big pain in the ass to clean. I still have all of them stashed away in my parents’ basement and once I have a basement of my own, I fully intend on restoring the township of Patland to its former glory.

6.

Moby Dick: I don’t want to sound like a snob or anything, but probably one of my favorite books of all time is Moby Dick. I loved all of it, the characters, the long passages on whales and sea life, the descriptions of whalers and whaling custom, the experimentation with form, everything. It was just one big adventure, but more well written than a typical adventure, and with none of the stumbling over PC issues (lets face it, whaling is about as un-PC a topic as you can get). It’s one of the few books I’ll probably read twice within a three year span.

This is, of course, not to be confused with the book I understood most clearly, which was Horton Hears a Who!

7.

AC/DC: I don’t want to sound like white trash or anything, but probably one of my favorite bands of all time is AC/DC. I was explaining my love of the band to a guy at a party last night and I compared them to The Smiths, stating that both bands were appreciated for the same reason. Of course, after making a comment like that, I was required to explain myself, which I will do again: The Smiths really only have one song: that droning, strangely ironic, melancholy, tragically hip track that they just keep repackaging in different forms throughout each album. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, in fact, I happen to really like that one song, therefore, I like The Smiths. AC/DC is the same way, they only play one song too: a rock anthem that is best described as the soundtrack for a beat down. If you like that song, you can put in any AC/DC album (trust me, it won’t matter) and you’ll find something you enjoy.

Speaking of songs I enjoy, here’s my much requested formula for an AC/DC album. Like mad libs, if you fill in your own titles using my descriptions, then you too will have your very own bizarro AC/DC album: (Leave your own creations in the comments field.)

Album Title: Should be strangely phallic or amusingly violent.

Track 1: Title should reference either electricity or an act of god.

Track 2: You’re lonely and haven’t gotten laid in a while, and you play guitar.

Track 3: A song about the utter invincibility of Rock ‘N Roll.

Track 4: A song about a dirty woman you once knew.

Track 5: An homage to the female anatomy.

Track 6: Title track, also the radio song, also the catchiest song on the album

Track 7: Breaking things (rules, hearts, balls, anything you choose).

Track 8: A double entendre, usually alcohol, artillery, or female themed.

Track 9: Closest thing on the album to a love song. Take your cues from Track 5.

Track 10: An homage to the Rock ‘N Roll lifestyle.

Track 11: A song that under no circumstances would you play for your mother. Be creative.

Track 12: Closest thing to a blues song. Look to Track 2 for guidance.

Track 13: This song will make liberal use of cannon fire, title it appropriately.

8.

The Representative: Having a majored in both Creative Writing and Journalism in college, and finding myself with no creative outlet during the first year after moving to Brooklyn, I took it upon myself to write a newspaper for my apartment. Now, just to clarify, it wasn’t a newsletter for the building (community events, recycling guidelines, other crap like that), it was a newspaper for my own apartment (Population: 3). Most of the stories centered around the cats, but some involved close friends or neighbors.

I made two issues. Upon publication of the second one, I struck a rather deep chord with my roommates at the time and they forbade me from publishing any more. The first I patterned off my old college newspaper: benign stories, typos, bad headlines, blah pictures, stupid advertisements. The second I patterned off the New York Post, and that’s what got me in trouble.

I know, I know, you want to see it. Well, you asked for it:

representative-041023_page_1.jpg

representative-041023_page_2.jpg

Tagged: I went to a few of my friends blogs and most already have posts with this game (apparently it’s going around like a stomach bug in a 3rd grade classroom and I’m the last one go to down to the nurse) so I’m going with the random blogspot blog approach. My apologies to: andrewjenna, mnbicyclecommuter, beingnatashafialkov, karikariboberry, mommieivy, martinb84, billyfish, and walkerrider. Perhaps if all of you decided to post about Second Life, Goth, objectionably religious objectionably political objectionably religipolitical objectionable content, or obscure Anime then I would have left you out of this mess.

July 10th is just a few minutes gone, and I don’t know about you, but I feel safer already. It wasn’t the day’s activities, oh good god no. Hanging out with fabulous ladies who love your hair is probably the best way to end your existence on this earth, which is where I was tonight, at Megan’s birthday festivus, complete with dancing seals and bicycle-riding bears.

Megan is second from the left in this lovely group shot. I swear, leaving Kaplan takes years off your appearance, she’s never looked more vivacious.

But enough about the ladies, why all the talk about the end of the world, Patrick? What’s so bad about July 10th?

Well, I’ll tell you… When I was a teenager, working at McDonald’s, there was a guy there named Rob. He was a quiet fella, about 35 or so, with a nice new red Jetta that featured a license plate that read: July 10. Of course, I was charged with getting to know him well enough to ask him the significance of the date and frankly, I was a little scared to. It could have been anything, a dead relative’s birth date, anniversary with an ex-wife, something else depressing, but I was completely unprepared for his actual answer.

Me: “So, Rob, what’s with July 10th?”

Him: “That’s the day the world’s going to end.”

And then he just went back to making more quarter-pounders…

I’m sure you know where this one’s going. I managed to fanangle the scheduling so that he and I would be closing together on July 10th, and also managed to take my time that evening, so that at 11:59 I had just finished up and was plopped on the counter waiting for the clock to strike twelve like it was Times friggin’ Square.

The clock did indeed strike midnight, signaling a brand new day for the rest of the world. I looked over at Rob, who had also been staring intently at the clock.

Seeing the clock strike 12, he checked his watch to make sure, then looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.

“Maybe next year.” he said, then he walked back into the kitchen to finish wiping down the grill.

I’m unpacking from my midweek trip upstate to Ticonderoga (more on that later) and I think I just experienced what is known in layman’s terms as an “epiphany.” In one big grab, I managed to pull the following items out of my bag all at once.

• An issue of Dwell magazine
• The Divine Comedy
• BASEketball
  

I thoroughly enjoyed experiencing all three of these things, which made me think (and here’s where the ephiphany comes in), maybe my brain is the cultural equivalent of the Simpson’s basement. You know, non-discriminatory, no limit to the crap that fits in it, and about as useless/useful as one room can get, but always with a washer and dryer. I keep gravitating to the many scenes from the Simpsons when Homer goes downstairs to plan or scheme and he passes that giant Olmec statue that Mr. Burns gave him.

I had a similar epiphany many years ago back in my parents’ house when I was looking through my bedroom closet for my blinking construction light and found it behind the helium tank and next to the Festivus pole.

Sometimes I get a little too random, even for me…