The hand of a hobbiest. Check out those grungy nails!
I’ve been getting a lot of comments on all my “hobbies” lately. Some of ‘em are snarky: “Just what you need–another HOBBY.” Some are jokey: “You really don’t need to be good at EVERYTHING, you know.” Some (mostly from Vern) are just incredulous: “You’re volunteering for SOMETHING ELSE???” And it’s true (obviously, from my last 20 posts or so) that my time is richly occupied.
Not to beat a dead horse, but I’m really, really, really happy with my life right now. Yes, my calendar is packed. I have to shuffle things around alot. Sometimes I hit an obstacle (or a toeclip!) or can’t figure out where something fits, and I have to let it go for awhile. Every now and then (though not often) I forget to do something (like eat dinner, the past two nights); and not everything I’m doing gives me pleasure all the time: I could certainly do without most of the drama and politics involved in my roller-derby related positions at the moment. Sometimes I even lose sleep over some of the stuff I’m involved in, because it’s all pretty important to me. But the bottom line is, the fact that I’m actively pursuing so many things that are important to me is mother. fucking. awesome. So put that in your pipes and smoke it, snarky peoples.
When I was a kid, I did a lot of running around outside, riding a bike, getting into hair-pulling fights with other girls, playing with my dogs, building forts… you know the drill. I was always a little oversensitive I guess (I had a drunk for a dad: so no wonder), but I was still a pretty active, leggy, smiley, smart, artistic kid. I don’t know exactly what changed or when… moving from Ann Arbor to Kentucky was traumatic in about 20 different ways I guess. I really didn’t fit in with the other kids, and increasingly stayed inside reading instead of running around like a jacked-up crazoid. Maybe the advent of cable sealed the deal. At some point, I stopped riding my bike and hardly left the house except to visit my one or two friends (I couldn’t bring them over what with Dad the way he was) and go to school. You’d think I’d be eager to get away, but my records, my books, and my Movie Channel kept me very good company. I barely moved from the time I was 11 until I was 18. I had my own subscription to TV Guide. Ask me anything about tv from the 80s. Go on…ask me. I dare ya.
No wonder by the time I got to college, I was numb, depressed, listless, self-conscious, fat, and a budding drunk (booze made it a lot easier to leave my room and speak to people). I think there was somthing going on down there–I certainly had the angst of someone with an unconscious–but I was so completely incapable of accessing or expressing any of it, or even knowing what the fuck I was interested in… I mean, I wasn’t a complete turd. I had some pretty awesome friends in college, they must have seen something worthwhile there… Probably my rather dark sense of humor. But I just remember being terrified and repressed, for the most part. And depressed. Very, very depressed. This was pretty much my life story until, oh, 1999 or so. I was more or less a zombie.
So what came first, the sedentary half-life, or the depression? Did I sit on my ass consuming entertainment and Oreos 24-7 because I was depressed, or was I depressed because my thighs were melded to the couch?
Dunno. Do know that the few times I’ve managed to gather enough wherewithal to DO SOMETHING with myself, though ultimately doomed to failure of confidence (or alcoholic relapse), I’ve always been happier with myself. When Vern met me, I was in one of those periods: I was performing with the Gospel Jubilee, managing Tallulah and doing PR and doing a lot of bike riding…compared to now, my schedule was actually pretty light. But I was pretty happy with my life. I’m fairly sure this was an attraction for him.
And then I got married, and I did what married people do…I made marriage my hobby for awhile. And that was pretty awesome. But it was also pretty sedentary after awhile… involved a lot of couch-sitting and video-watching; and I think depression naturally followed (although it also involved a lot of artmaking, which I think probably kept my head above water). It took a MAJOR effort to drag my butt into roller derby…but I had to heed the frigging call to adventure or whatever. Sometimes I get asked if I’ll regret getting my WCR tattoo. No way. Throwing myself into something so passionately reminded me of how satisfying my life can be. Even though I basically sucked at it.
But something about Dad dying kind of cranked it all up to 11, I’ll admit. The guy who joked that I don’t have to know how to do everything kind of hit a nerve. I’m gonna die, buddy, and so are you. And there are a lot of things in this world that interest me and that I’m good at, or could be. So, in fact…maybe I do have to know how to do everything. Or everything I’m interested in, anyway. Why the hell not???
I know this chick named Mia Park.
In the time I’ve known her, she’s hosted a cable tv show, done PR, been in umpteen bands, done corporate sales, hosted a clothing swap, acted in numerous plays and films, taught yoga, done writing, editing, accounting, and traveled the world. I’m sure there are other things I’ve failed to mention, and that she hasn’t been 100% happy that whole time. But I’ve rarely seen her looking anything other than radiant. She seems to love life, and her attitude just conveys generosity: all that satisfaction is projected outward.
I’ve always admired the hell out of Mia. For one thing, she seems to be working on something all the time. And lately, I seem to be working on something all the time, too, whether it’s art, or accounting, or bikes, or taking notes on some book and keeping a journal. Didn’t someone once say it’s all grist for the mill, or whatever?
I read somewhere something about the Japanese and how they can’t understand Americans’ obsession with leisure time: how we make this huge distinction between work and leisure, and strive our asses off at one in order to have time for the other, and end up satisfied in neither (or maybe I’m embellishing–aren’t the Japanese supposed to be stressed out of their minds? Anyway, that’s MY interpretation…).
But the way I see it lately, if you think of your life as work, and spend most of your time working on SOMETHING, then life becomes work and work becomes life and it all becomes satisfying, or it becomes what is (”Chop wood, carry water”… yeah, I did take the Buddhist precepts. I forget sometimes). Or something. Fun? I think it’s fun. I think working my arms for 4 hours pulling prints in a hot, humid studio and getting something beautiful out of it is way more fun than sitting on the couch watching tv. I think working on a painting is more fun than browsing the web. I think getting my hands dirty in a failed attempt to overhaul a hinky bottom bracket is a lot of fun too.
And then while I’m doing all that stuff (even the art, I for the most part do while hanging out at Star) I get to interact with cool people who teach me new stuff, or get something out of what I’m doing, or I get something out of the interaction–it becomes an exchange. It’s stimulating. It makes life more interesting.
Sometimes I decompress and watch movies or veg out in front of the computer (that will hook me faster than the tv these days, unfortunately). Unless I’m staring at something really engaging, I often come away feeling kind of lousy. But I understand that sometimes, a person needs to stand still.
…but not nearly as often as I used to. And I find I need a lot less sleep these days. Is that weird?
Yeah, I do kind of want to know how to do everything. I’m kind of desperate for it. I probably think about the fact that I’m gonna die a little too much. This is the only way I can think of to deal with that.
I read a Joseph Campbell book the other day and he was talking about the three cultural attitues that evolved re coping with the knowledge that we’re all gonna die. One was asceticism, or saying NO to everything: this world sucks, so I’m going to totally withdraw from it and when life runs out, I’ll be better off; one of ‘em is like the Judeo-Christian thing: a qualified yes: I’ll approve of this world when it lives up to my standards, and in the meantime, I’ll work to earn my place in the next one; and of ‘em involved acceptance: saying YES to everything, to packing in as much as possible. That’s my favorite.
Last week Jay at Star asked me to do posters for his band, The Wisebloods, who are opening for the legendary Roky Erickson at the Double Door on the 31st. Because Roky is one of my favorites, ever, I happily complied.
Jay wanted a woodcut. He was inspired by seeing these guys at a street fair–Drive By Press:
They drive all over the country making t-shirts directly from block prints with a mobile press! F’ing spectacular. Look at these prints!
I bought a shirt with the luchador on it
Photos by Jim Escalante, taken from the Hybrid Press blog: “Committed to politically motivated printmaking.” Jim has a full set of Drive by pictures here.
I saw them at West Fest, as well, and was inspired and eager to get back into blockprinting before Jay even approached me. Great minds think alike.
So I looked around in my drawers of supplies and found a poster-sized linoleum sheet (no wood–that’s a big hunka wood) and got out my carvers. It had been awhile. I did some online reference searches–Jay knew he wanted a two-headed dog (the title of one of Roky’s big “hits”) and that he wanted it to look “medieval and shit.” So I found an old German woodcut of a werewolf to use as a reference for the head(s). Since the two-headed dog in the song is “working in the Kremlin,” I pulled a couple of photos of Kremlin buildings and Soviet soldiers for costume reference. I did the lettering on the computer using one of the awesome HP Lovecraft fonts I bought a couple of years ago, then flipped it, printed it, and transferred it to the linoleum with carbon paper (I didn’t want any stupidly reversed letters this time). Then a spent a couple of days carving at my cubicle and on the porch at Star.
Carving at Star was a blast–most people have never seen a relief print being cut. There is something really fascinating about artmaking that is also a technical process. And it’s also really accessible, in a way: cutting into a surface seems like something anyone can do, much less rarified than painting or charcoal or whatever. I think it was so cool that back in the day, the “artist” would make the drawing, and a team of “artisans” would do the carving. There’s something very “popular” about blockprinting–that’s why it’s been used for so much political art I guess (see my flickr set on one of my favorite artists of all time, Chicago political printmaker Carlos Cortez).
But the carving is actually the easy part. It’s making the prints that can be a staggeringly frustrating process of trial and error. I don’t have a press (they’s expensive!). I don’t have access to a press. In fact, I’ve never actually used a press to make blockprints. I’ve always done them by hand, using a baren:
Rub. Rub. Rub.
Sigh.
If you’re making a large print, that’s a lot of trial and error. It’s really hard to get consistent pressure. Then there’s the fact that only certain papers will work with a baren. And that some inks are better on some papers. And that my linoleum was a bit old and dry. After buying a few samples of paper to see what would work, and doing some dry runs, first in Jay’s apartment while watching You’re Gonna Miss Me, the documentary about Roky, and then at Star, I found that expensive oil-based ink worked a lot better than the cheap Speedball crap; that expensive paper, especially colored paper, did not work as well as a roll of brown postal paper (so ghetto); and that by pulling some faded looking prints and burning the edges with a lighter, we’d get something suitable for hanging to promote the show.
But Jay wanted to sell them. And I wouldn’t pay five bucks for one of these prints.
After hashing through some bizarre mechanical ideas with some of the Star regulars (stomping on them with our feet! Filling a metal duct cylinder with concrete!) I decided there MUST be somewhere in Chicago where I wouldn’t have to purchase a co-op membership or register for a class to use a printing press. I contemplated calling Drive By (I had chatted one of the guys up at West Fest. Printmakers like taking to other printmakers). But then some creative googling led me to Spudnik Press. Oh. My. God.
Spudnik is a community printmaking studio. There are no membership fees. There are two open studio nights per week where skilled printmakers can work on the presses or do silk screening. They have computers, a darkroom, all the supplies you’ll need (except paper), and two etching and one litho press. All in their apartment (they’re moving to a new location soon). They also have classes.
I made 100 prints last night in 3-1/2 hours, almost oll of them perfect. If they weren’t perfect it was my negligent inking that was the problem, and none of them were messed up enough not to sell. I used thick, almost construction-grade paper because these presses will take anything. And I had a great time.
I recognized the guy on the bike while watching the video–Tom Sachs, who lived across the hall from me in my freshman dorm. Nice to see someone I went to college with doing something useful with his life…
Now that financial reality has set in yet again (I’d be interested in getting someone who’s more stat-happy than I am to calculate the average frequency of the ebb and flow of my financial reality checks) and I’ve had to scale back my involvement in certain pay-to-play extracurriculars, I’m starting some OTHER projects that have been a long time coming. To-wit:
Project 1: Selling shit.
I have way, way too much shit. I cling to this shit, some of which hasn’t been touched in years. Most of it, maybe no one will buy. But I gotta try. I verified my damn Paypal account and I’m ebay-ready. But I’m starting closer to home. Sold so far:
Burley D’Lite: Bought for $100 at Play It Again Sports to convert for Brownie. Brownie rode in it once and looked pissed. Never busted it out again. Sold to a derby girl for $80.
Derby skates: Got ‘em free as a prototype test when I was repping for Riedell to my league. Got a decent season out of them. Sold to a WCR skater tot for $150. They’re great skates, and I feel their sale is the final nail in my derby skating coffin. Oh well.
Art: I never thought I’d sell my original book illustrations. I certainly went to enough trouble to get them back from the publisher (before I bought a laptop and started FTP uploading). But what the hell. The buyer is a friend and really, really likes them. He bought five and is introducing me to a gallery owner friend who might put some more in a show. I am officially “in the art market.” Feels weird, but at least they’re going to a good home, so far.
Next up: I’ve been trying to sell some of my hastily acquired belly dance attire. I don’t want to throw in the towel (though it’s money I’m not sure I can spend right now) but I also don’t need all the crap I bought. So far, no luck on tribe.com. Maybe I’m selling too high. Or need pictures. Or something. I keep flirting with selling the fiddle and bow, too. If I adhere to a “sell anything you haven’t touched in a year” rule, they would pass, but just barely. Why do I get so attached to concepts of things?
Project 2: Eat what’s in the cabinets
I have enough dried beans and grains to choke a cow. I’ll bet I could live for a month on the staples in my kitched cabinets, only buying enough fresh stuff and protein to “add flavor.” How long do dry beans stay edible? Cuz some of that shit’s been hanging around since I lived on Whipple Street. I might want to invest in some Beano…
Project 3: Read the books on your shelf, use the art supplies in your drawers
This is probably gonna be the hardest to accomplish. I have an extremely hungry and fickle brain, and spend more money and time on the aquisition of information than on almost anything else. I had to put a “NO MORE AMAZON” sticky next to my computer monitor. Shopping is just too frigging easy these days, and my mailroom brings booty right to my desk. My credit cards have all been gutpunched. And instead of sitting with my purchases, I put them aside and just keep piling up the books. I have five or six books about basic mechanics and electrical wiring. WHA???? See, this is why I stopped browsing boingboing.
The second area of crazy accumulation is art supplies. I have canisters of 2-part silicon foam moldmaking compound. I have a suitcase full of monster makeup supplies. I have a model for building wooden automata. I have a 10 pound box of Sculpey!!! Most of these items have been used once. Once. Halloween is coming, so I guess I’ll have reason to bust with the liquid latex. But the Sculpey? I think I’d better add that to the “for sale” list.
If I just used the stuff I already have, I could entertain myself for quite awhile. If I’m absolutely dying for a book on a subject I haven’t already compulsively collected (there may not be many left), I can go to the damn library. Books can be ordered online and delivered to your nearest branch! Woot, technology!! I went there at lunch today, in fact, on my bike (free!) to acquire some books about another current project: “Pathways to Bliss” by Joseph Campbell; “The Female Hero in American and English Literature;” and “Divine Madness,” which is about romantic archetypes. (I’m currently engaged in some hardcore imaginary wrestling with a wicked projection of my animus figure. But I ain’t blogging about that shit! Sorry, suckers!)
The sad fact is, even if I actually start using everything I’ve accumulated, sell everything I’m not using, and stop buying any and all new shit, I still won’t make much of a dent in my credit debt. So here’s another project I’ve undertaken: a moonlighting gig at Star Lounge. Look for me Sunday mornings and Tuesday nights!
Rode to work in a crazy storm this morning. I only saw one other bike, a gal on a Schwinn with no raingear who didn’t look nearly as happy as I felt. I had my Burley jacket (besides my bike, the most money I’ve ever spent on a bike-related item and totally worth it), short shorts, Keens, my helmet, a freezer bag over the saddle, and all my gear in my trailer, which it turns out is totally water-resistant. Yay!
I don’t find the alternatives to biking, even in a storm, nearly as interesting. I laughed as I passed the cagers, frustrated by slow-moving traffic and sitting on their horns. Ha!
Last week I took a few days off, initially to read up on Quickbooks and take a long bike ride or two, though I also ended up getting a last-minute (and heinously evil) commercial art job that managed to take up an entire day. I’m trying to earn a buncha extra money though, so it was welcome…
I did work in a ride–I wanted to bike as far north as I could comfortably go before getting nervous about making it back without expiring. Wednesday was going to be very hot and sunny, so I was a little worried about my stamina (not worried enough to put sunscreen on my back, though, apparently. Duh.). I also stripped the pedals with toeclips from Vern’s old bike (my current West Town project) and was trying them for the first time, hoping they’d ease the numbness I get in my feet on longer rides. I had a doctor’s appointment in Boystown at 8am, and when that was over I headed to the Lakefront path and up.
The Lakefront path ends around Loyola. I mean, technically it keeps going, but it isn’t on the lakeshore anymore because all that beach is private up there (fuckers). I was hoping it was a little better marked than it was the first time I did it about 10 years ago, but no. Not really. I think I probably lost the official path at some point on Sheridan, but whatever. It was still a fun ride, though there isn’t much clearance and traffic moves at a pretty good clip. Things got a little dicier once I actually crossed into Evanston. As expensive as property is up there, you’d think they’d be paying high enough taxes to be able to care for their streets. But you’d be wrong. Evanston is a quagmire of potholes, and my aluminum frame was bitching until I detoured through the Northwestern campus, where the path hits the lakefront again and gets a little more “recreational” for awhile.
Past campus I hit sewer work on Sheridan and had to cut west. I was still pretty perky and having fun with the new toeclips (I don’t wear anything like proper biking shoes–today I was wearing my clunky Keen sandals–but I still managed to get them in and out of the loosely-fastened clips ok and the clips really did seem to be working out great) so I decided to just keep going. The tip of campus was as far as I’d ever gone in the past so my goal was just to reach the next town, whatever that was.
Turns out it was Wilmette, where I lived when I was a baby (I was born in St Francis in Evanston). I’d driven to the house where we lived a couple of times and vaguely remembered the address, so I decided to try to find it. First, though, I thought a swim on the very pretty beach would be a good idea, so I rode in and locked my bike up amidst a cloud of hornets and seagulls. I’d brought my bathing suit just in case, and as I was trying to find the changing room I noticed a sign with admission fees. Admission fees? Yup. Non-residents were expected to pay $7.50 for the privilege of dipping their asses in Wilmette’s fancy stretch of lakewater. I could have put it on a card, but I decided on principle to just bag it. Too bad. I think I have a picture of my dad and me at this beach.
Fancy-ass beach where I canna’ goo.
I headed west (realizing as I exited the parking lot that the attendant may have been raising his eyebrows at my city-fied tattoo. Oh well.) toward the center of town, figuring I’d find Wilmette Avenue (where the old house was located) there. On my way I passed a bike shop and thinking, as usual, that my tires seemed low (I’ve been paranoid ever since I read about the Chinese tube recall) I doubled back on the sidewalk to avail myself of their airhose.
For some reason, this was when I forgot about my toeclips. I put on my brakes right in front of the shop and then realized, too late, that I needed to unclip. Couldn’t get my feet out in time, and keeled right over into the window!! Luckily I didn’t break it, but I did end up splayed on the sidewalk with a skinned knee and a mangled right big toe, and a very red face.
Ow.
The man in the shop gave me a band-aid and a funny look. I was more embarrassed then injured I guess, so I kept on into town, found Wilmette Ave pretty easily, and biked up the tree-lined street until I hit Ridge, which I remembered as the cross-street. 1818 Wilmette Avenue, my childhood home (my bedroom was in the turret, apparently). And no, we didn’t own it. My parents rented from some old Polish lady.
Now THAT’s bucolic!
Decided to make that my end-point and turned around to head south via a different route. Naturally I ran into all sorts of frustrating construction (Asbury was awesome. Ridge, though, really really sucked, especially when I got the the point with the big “no bikes” sign). It was about noon by now and the sun was really beating down on my naked, sunscreen-free back (Duh). I stopped for lunch at the (!_&*#!&_#_! EXPENSIVE!!!) Heartland Cafe, after which I powered on (in great pain at this point from the sunburn and the mangled toe) to Al’s house to deliver some stuff I had borrowed before and to bring him some DVDs for his newly-installed player (used to be Dad’s). Boy. At this point I was feeling pretty dehydrated and tired, so I sat and watched “Dogtown and Z-Boys” with him for awhile (awesome movie, BTW).
The ride was only about 30 miles, I think the sun issues made it seem longer. The clips were great, event though they’re a little old and rickety and not really that accommodating to my wider shoes. And then there was the whole falling over thing. My toe isn’t broken, though. Just kind of ashamed of itself. And the Brooks saddle is already making me sooo very happy. Everything they say about them is true. I think I lucked out and installed it correctly right off the bat, and haven’t had any break-in issues at all.
I REALLY should have worn sunscreen, though. Really. I couldn’t wear a bra for several days, and at one point the feeling of my skin air-drying after a shower was like some kind of needle torture.
I also wish I could have kept going to the Baha’i temple. Didn’t realize it was so close. Next time I might wanna map a little better, but it’s also fun just winging it. There were signs in Wilmette for the North Branch Trail. That was pretty tempting.
Morning, at Star Lounge, with many, many pounds of artisanal cheese.
Afternoon, Pilsen block party, home-made pinatas.
This kid cried “I killed Mickey Mouse!” More block party here.
Evening, Wicker Park Fest, my friend, journeyman musician Oliver plays accordion for the worst band I’ve ever seen in my life. Oliver stole the show, as usual, which means he’ll probably be fired soon.
Yesterday’s bike ride was just the usual to-work-and-back route, with a couple of surprises, as I was heading west on Adams and about to make my usual turn north on Wood.
Then, this:
Did I? Oh yeah, you betcha.
I dried off in the backyard at Star Lounge and put this in my brain for two hours:
Admittedly, not as awesome as an open hydrant. But it may lead to future awesomeness. H-Dog would be proud.
View of the Museum of Science & Industry from Jackson Park
Once, I’m ashamed to say, I went to a hypnotist to try to lose weight. I didn’t lose weight. In fact, about the only thing I got out of it was confirmation of the fact that I am an incredibly contrary and self-conscious person. I am NOT highly suggestible, in other words. When I was supposed to be “under,” she kept asking me to describe scenes from my childhood. I ended up making shit up so she’d leave me alone.
The hypnotist tried to induce relaxation by asking me to visualize my favorite place, the most relaxing spot I could imagine where I had spent time alone and at ease. This is pretty much SOP with any “visualization” exercise, so I have a standard locale: the pathway through the faculty village at my college. It wound behind the science building and past a pond with ducks and dragonflies and a tree swing, then through a walled apple orchard, past the New England-cute-overload of the slightly dilapidated clapboard faculty houses, finally ending at the huge music mansion, which was supposedly the inspiration for Shirley Jackson’s “Haunting of Hill House” (she was a faculty wife there in the fifties). Whenever I’m supposed to go to my happy place, that’s where I wind up.
Yesterday I found a new candidate for my own personal la-la land: the Osaka Garden in Jackson Park, just south of the Museum of Science & Industry and the University of Chicago.
Osaka Garden was created as Japan’s contribution to the big ol’ Columbian Exhibition of 1893, the same World’s Fair that gave us all these big white museums, the hoochie-coochie, America’s introduction to bellydance, the Devil in the White City, and so much more. More history here.
It is friggin’ adorable. I walked my bike over the lil’ wooden bridge and sat on the rocks, eating a vegan energy bar and watching the geese swim by. I spent a good half hour lying in the afternoon sun and majorly blissing out. There were only a few other people around, also being very quiet–the place just seems to demand hush.
Jackson Park was totally new to me, pristine but practically deserted. Before finding the island I rode my bike down a gravel path into something called Bobolink Meadow, where high grass hid birds that clattered away when I wheeled past. After a few minutes in my lyin’ down spot, it occurred to me that I was experiencing something like perfection: my ride down on the lakefront path on a 75 degree, sunny day was made all the sweeter by an awesome tailwind. I was feeling pretty cocky, having made the 9-mile ride down without a single physical complaint. I felt energized, not tired. Piece o’ cake. I realized my water bottle was getting low, though, and had an inkling the headwind on the ride home would slow me down…
…and boy, was I right! I had seen the bikers coming my way rocking some pretty major grimaces and it had occurred to me that I might want to turn around and get a feel for what I’d be dealing with on my way home, but nah…I was having too much fun. So the whole way back, I was down to the first cog and the granny gears. By 47th St I was pledging to buy a Brooks saddle. By 35th St, I was thinking those clop clop clop shoes and clippy pedals might not be such a gay idea after all. By the time I got to McCormick Place, I was thinking I would throw fashion to the wind and buy some padded spandex at my first opportunity. When I finally reached the Loop and turned west, the realization that I’d have the wind at my back for the rest of the ride home was a massive relief.
So I’ve learned some things here. Besides the beeline I’m about to make to a Brooks saddle, I know I can bike 30 or so miles just for shits and giggles after work and I know what I need to do it. Remarkably, my body is feeling fine today (all that yoga I’m doing must be good for me!), and I’ve found a new place to go be solitudinous.
Biked about 27 miles, all-told. Happy happy joy joy.
A fellow biker imparts some valuable life lessons about how to bliss out to his offspring, in the garden.
Yesterday instead of doing what I normally do at quittin’ time, which is sit at my desk and stare, zombie-like, at my monitor consuming the nutrient-free brain candy that is the interweb, I went for a ride.
I always have SOMETHING to do after work, it seems. But I get off at 4 and the rest of the world gets off at 5, so I almost always have at least an hour to kill. I usually spend it in Clockwork Orange mode: eyes propped open, drugged by the pretty pictures. Then it occurred to me: I should ride my friggin’ bike.
So between clocking out and yoga class, I cruised over to the Lakefront: tourist territory! The Chicago that everyone who doesn’t live here refers to when they tell me what a beautiful, clean city I live in!
And while it’s true that Chicago is a helluva lot cleaner than it was when I moved here, before Daley started putting flower pots in all the medians, it still floors me when I hit the lakefront and see Chicago the way the mayor wants it to be seen.
The view from Adler.
I rode to Monroe Harbor and south, around the Shedd Aquarium and what I guess is Adler Planetarium: honestly, except for a couple of rides to Hyde Park many, many years ago, I’ve never been out there and I’m not quite sure what those buildings are for. Way to take advantage of what your city has to offer!
The ride around the planetarium was pretty deserted, and it was only in the 70s yesterday so “pleasant” would be about right. When I reached the other side I discovered…whoa! A beach! A tiny, very clean beach with some kind of clapboard beach house and rowboats! Where was I, Connecticut? I THINK that might have been Northerly Island, the outcropping formerly known as Miegs Field! Since I am not a tourist, nor am I a Lollapalooloo, I really had no idea where this mythical place was located. I think I confirmed it on a map! When it gets hotter I’m going there to swim, for reals. It was very sparsely used!
On my way back into the Loop through Grant Park, I saw these:
These flowers, and the lady at the top of this post, were welded from Cadillac parts by my friend Dessa, who makes things that the City wisely plants in its tourist-visible parks. I haven’t seen Dessa in awhile. Shout out, Dessa!
Today after work I’m going to try to make it to Jackson Park and back, since I actually DON’T have anything going on tonight. Long way, but I’ve never seen that there Japanese Garden everyone is always crowing about. We shall see.
My bike is keeping me from wasting my time. Awesome.
I spent the last 8 Sundays at West Town Bikes in their “Build a Bike” class, overhauling an old Schwinn Suburban that Kevin Womac at Boulevard sold me for 25 bucks.
I shoulda taken some “Before” pictures to show what a rusty mess it was. Did you know that a spray of WD-40 and a brass brush cleans rust off steel like magic? Neither did I, but that’s just one of the awesome items I learned in my class, which was taught by this man:
Alex Wilson is a guy I’ve been seeing around town since I’ve been riding, practically. He has some amazing self-built cargo bikes that heave the powerful sound systems that make Critical Mass more fun (he doesn’t know it but he’s also the reason I started listening to Sugar Hill records again); for awhile he had his own cargo trailer-building biz too; but now I think he devotes pretty much all his time to West Town, which is seeing some big successes this year, including a big fancy award from the Mayor and a lot of benefit monies from Tour de Fat festival.
From the WTB website:
WTB offers bicycle mechanics workshops, youth programs and special events to members of the community. WTB is also used as a creative workspace for special bicycle building, utilitarian human powered design, kinetic art, advocacy projects and all sorts of constructive creation.
Really they are mainly about their Youth Programs, which you can read more about here, but they are also a big hang out for bike geeks in general, especially their open shop Tuesdays. And for those who are less self-starting like me, they have actual classes on how to clean, fix, overhaul and build bikes from the frame up.
UPDATE: Found a link to this frigging awesome video about West Town’s youth program, Bicker Bikes, from a WTTW profile on WTB’s site. Dang, now I wanna volunteer more than ever. I am so gay for this place….
Over eight weeks I learned to overhaul my headset, bottom bracket, front and real wheel hubs, brakes and gears, and how to true wheels (Note: this is exactly what the kids in the Biker Bikes program learn, except they get to pick their own project bike from among the second-hand wonders at Working Bikes Cooperative, and they get to take field trips all over the city…Hey Alex, how come WE didn’t get field trips!).
I overhauled this bracket! Bearings are cool!
Schwinns are odd ducks with parts that aren’t quite like some of the newer bikes out there. In some ways they are a lot simpler to deal with , but the age of the bike made some adjustments pretty hinky, especially the wheel hub bearing adjustments (as Alex says, crunch is better than click…and my front wheel has plenty of crunch!) and the wheels… not only are they not true, those rims are hoppin’ all over the place. I don’t think I even got close to knowing my way around a truing stand!
Other than that, though, the bike is fun to ride, though compared to the Badger and even the Breezer it’s slow as Christmas and hops up and down like a toad. Since it’s green, maybe I’ll give it a toad-like persona…although the sock monkey sitting in the basket seems to like it there. Monkey Toad, maybe?
This bike will be used primarily for the Critical Mass ride, which tends to go slow as Christmas, plus the front basket will allow me to bring my iPod sound system for mo’ betta’ CM fun. If I can find appropriate tires it may get me through crappier winter riding I don’t want to subject the Badger to, as well.
I am going to take the class all over again starting next Sunday. This time it’s gonna be taught by Sarah Miller, who helps run West Town and loves truing wheels! I’m going to work on Vern’s old Puch roadster, which has been hanging in the basement for at least 15 years. It needs sturdier wheels for him–actually, it only has one. He says he kept bending them out of true and may have “broken the hub.” We’ll see about that. I’m gonna get a Brooks saddle for him. Maybe I can get him on the damn thing. It looks like it could be a honey. Hopefully after a second round in the class I’ll feel more like I know what I’m doing…. I wanna volunteer at West Town as a mechanic eventually.
The other night I was in my basement until 1:30 examinging and stripping the Puch, the Breezer and my Raleigh. It was very Zen. This week I think I’ll take the WD-40 and the brass brush to the breezer, which is way too rusted for a bike its age. If I can get the stickers off maybe I can even sell it.
I wish I could put into words how cool it is to learn to fix bikes. It’s something I’ve wanted for so long. As I said in the first class by way of introduction, I’m a DIY person who doesn’t actually know how to do anything. Self-sufficiency is such a turn-on. That, and long walks on the beach…
This morning I had a notion to get up early and take a long leisurely bike ride along the lakefront to Hyde Park, just for shits and giggles. Instead, I slept for another hour. Ah well.
However, after having a cup of coffee at Stab, sucking back some water, eating a bagel, and getting a little painting done, it occurred to me that there was nothing stopping me from taking a leisurely ride a little closer to home. I’d cheer myself up, get some exercise, and still be back in time for another cup of coffee and some loafing before my last bike repair class (more on that later).
So I hopped on the Badger and made for Garfield Park. Garfield is pretty close to my house, only a little farther (and in the opposite direction) than Humboldt, but except for one trip to the conservatory to see a Dale Chihouly exhibit years ago, one jaunt to the peace museum that was housed in the golden-domed fieldhouse (below) and the monthly drive to Cicero Stadium (I take the boulevards because the highway is too hard on my old jalopy) I’ve never clocked any time there.
Old postcard view of the fieldhouse.
I spent about 45 minutes tooling along the roads and paths, along the shores of the ponds where I interrupted some very territorial geese, saying good morning to the old guys doing their Sunday fishing (I always wonder what they catch in those Park District ponds, and if they eat it). Garfield is far less trafficked than Humboldt, which is really a big hub for the Puerto Rican community and has also been discovered by the new, upwardly mobile neighborhood residents. Garfield Park gets a lit of evening barbecue and bike (as in, motorcycle) club action, but on a Sunday morning it was so peaceful that if not for the occasional hip-hop blasting car and a bit of trash strewn about (but less than i expected), it was practically bucolic.
The postcard below shows that the City used to take much more care with the landscaping. I imagine as whitey begins to inhabit the West Side again, there will be a revival of more than just the very tricked-out Conservatory on the outskirts of the park. For now, things are slightly overgrown and neglected, but the squirrels and amazing variety of birds don’t seem to give a shit, nor to the very friendly fisherman (btw, I find that my tattoos really fascinate older black men. It’s a form of cred I didn’t expect–I think there’s the some conveyed that I have balls and therefore am somehow genuine and worth being friendly to. Same thing I get when I go skating with Delow. Kinda cool, kinda weird, very grateful because it’s made me a much less guarded person with strangers, which is really a good way to be in a big city for a gal who likes to ride her bike alone a lot…).
It doesn’t look much like this anymore!
I wish I’d brought a picnic lunch. I imagined myself in a split shirt and Gibson Girl hairdo, feeling free and shirking society’s expectations on my velocipede.
I also wish I had brought a camera. I saw some birds I’d like to be able to identify (I mean, of more exotic varieties than the red winged blackbird I ducked by very sheepishly–they’ve been known to go for the heads of unsuspecting bikers who stray too close to their nests!).
The park in 1910–more people in this picture than I saw today!
My bike is wonderful because it so easily enables me to follow my impulses. It’s the best thing ever. It’s especially good to ride in a bikini top, although prudence dictated I wear a t-shirt today!
I’m looking forward to more of these jaunts and getting to know my city better. Next week…Pierogi Ride to Indiana???
That’s how much ground I covered on my bike yesterday:
home –> work = 4.25
work –> dance class = 7
dance class –> Foster Beach = 5.4
Foster Beach –> home = 8.2
And I was pulling the trailer because I had to pick up some new tires for the Schwinn I’ve been working on at West Town. I didn’t eat enough (didn’t really feel it til today), my skirt kept blowing up (that’s no biggie), and my butt hurt by the time I got home from the rivets on my saddle, but otherwise it was a divine day. I may have to cave and get one of those fancy-ass Brooks saddles, even though I think it’s way too uptown for the Badger. I want to get in on the Indiana Dunes trip that the folks on Mariah’s block are planning.
I did pick up some gloves yesterday, and they are already making a big impression on me. My palms are very grateful.
Also of note: Presta valves are the shit. I have officially switched over.
At Foster Beach was the monthly Full Moon Jam to…encourage the full moon. Or something. The dirty hippie factor was in full force. It was FABULOUS. There was an immense drum circle, E.E. was in attendance, and the fire dancers…oh, the fire dancers.
Plus, I ran into this guy again:
Travis D on his incredible flip bike! Photo by Don Sorsa, who has many fine photos of bike events at his website…
That makes like 10 times in two weeks. I think it’s a conspiracy!
