Perfect Circles

My friend Kevin, who taught me how to properly (mountain and road) bike last summer, has a term he likes to use when talking about what it is we do with our legs while pushing pedals and turning wheels in service of truly badass forward momentum.

Here's my understanding:

It's not just about rotating tires, round and round, to propel you onward across the straights and up and down those hills. You're also working to make your heel revolve on its ankle fulcrum. There is a subtle, gentle pull up, and a smooth, undulating roll down, that together complete the gesture. You don't want to jab and kick at the bike with a series of movements that taken as one, form a right-angled rectangle. What you're trying to do is describe hemispheres with the machinery of your feet.

You're aspiring to perfect circles.

As some of you already know, this summer I'm going to ride the Tour of Courage in support of my former colleague Rich Wilkins and his current battle with cancer. The aforementioned Kevin will be kicking my ass in this race. As will the several other friends and colleagues who comprise our team. For this combined effort, we hope to raise money to aid cancer research and prevention.

If you're able, folks, I'm asking you to please chip in with a donation to help me reach (and surpass) my personal fundraising goal of a thousand clams. Any bit helps. Me, I aim to paint some perfect circles for Rich. Let's see what we can do together.

This is the link to my donations page: Reese Rides For Rich

And if you haven't seen the source site yet, here's Go Rich.

Nerd Summit

Site's been quiet, but the weekend was anything but.

Mini Nerd co-founder and Chief Technology Officer David Roberts was here visiting from Ontari-ario. We managed to cram in a business meeting and two family visits between excessive geeking-out, watching lots of Deadwood, cheering obnoxiously for the Leafs AND the Flames, playing multiple chess games (all of which I lost), reuniting with old friends on Facebook, checking in on Dave's wife (and the upcoming spawn in her belly that was responsible for Dave's quick visit here and now before it's born and prevents our hanging out for 20 years), plus the conspicuous consumption of fine scotch, beer and wine. I also drug Dave around Cowtown on foot while grabbing groceries, seeing the doctor, applying for a passport, and getting my rear bike wheel switched from Tacx-compatibility to road-readiness (of course, it's winter here again and snow now drapes the streets afresh).

Last but most notably, Dave (never a cook in the past) taught me his wife's pad thai recipe (which was delicious), got my wireless internet working (FINALLY), and helped me celebrate the first birthday of Mini Nerd (30 March, dontcha know). We've revamped the site's look for spring and introduced two new functionalities: a slideshow of Mini Nerdchandise available at Cafe Press (find it at the bottom of the sidebar), and the Monstermasher (up top).



The latter is a realization of randomized exquisite corpses for Mini Nerd readers courtesy of a classic illustration toy dear to dork chilluns of the 80s (including myself): the Mighty Men and Monster Maker. I bought a scanner specifically for the purpose of getting the wicked interchangeable art plates from the Maker into digital format for the Masher. Then Dave laid down some sweet code to build Vampire Ape Mad Scientist Superhero Mummies for us all.

Awwwwwwww jazzy.

Please enjoy the fruits of our labor, and if you're able, help support Mini Nerd in its second year online by picking up a Blorthos Cap, a Vampyric Horse Saddlebag, or a Mini Thong. We've also got t-shirts, bumper stickers, buttons, mugs and steins aplenty!

Here are photos from what was a great (if short) visit with my lifelong friend. I thank his wife, nascent kid, and cats for letting me borrow him a few days. Let's make it an annual tradition!


He cooks.




He codes.




He's a keeper.

ADD-Day

Now it's raining! In full sunlight!

Wotta day.

Next: hail?

That Was Quick

Snow melted, sun ascendant.

What The--

Looks like my spring sproing was...premature.

Now it's snowing big, fluffy flakes outside.

Not that it'll last, of course. This Cowtown mantra applies:

If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes.

Ah well.

It *was* nice to run without tuque and mittens last night.

Mega. Nega.

Today, your Mega-Nega celebrates the exile of Stephen Reese from this blog.

How happy am I that our internet forum is no longer a defenseless receptacle for his protracted drunken ramblings, sentimental photo captions, and prostrate paeans to weirdo musicians and obscure comic book creators?

I can't even tell you, I'm so overjoyed.

No more interminable post-mortems on an entirely humdrum fall vacation "Down South". No longer, this whining over departed lovers who had sense enough to reject and abandon his undesirable, overly difficult personality. No more near-maniacal romanticizing of a pagan holiday celebrating death and decay and witchery (though Orthos does hold a soft spot for Halloween, we can honor it just fine without Reese). An end, finally, to "Mini Nerd" (more like, "Gargantuan Dork") postings appealing only to those fellow losers who played Dungeons and Dragons with him when he was a too-horny, too-pimply 14-year-old in a silly trenchcoat and completely impractical police boots.

No, I've had enough of him on here.

Not that we don't get along, of course.

Stephen and I have a history, you see. I first visited him two summers ago. Our courtship began early in the year, mayhap even in the winter of the year before, and boiled to its consummation as April turned over into May, and Stephen turned over to me.

How many bracing embraces I had for him! What wonderful things to say! So many long-denied truths to whisper in his ear like lullabies, ever drawing him down and down into a place that isn't sleep - oh no, nothing so escapist as that - a world where he and I could keep doing our delicate dance forever, eyes and hearts and souls open to everything all at once, and all of it true.

You see, acolytes of Orthos, the truth of ourselves is not something we care to live with. Better the illusions, the endless string of lies we tell ourselves to get us through the day. Clothing woven from the fabric of falsity is warm and becoming indeed. So much nicer than the blemished, flabby, wrinkled and pus-infested "birthday suit" we glimpse reflected in the mirror if we dare to stop, for a second, to see who we really are.

I had a mirror for my friend Stephen.

I showed him what he'd been avoiding looking at all his life. And faced with it, with the shriveled, aged, unwashed, limp and unmuscled water-bag-with-thought-processes he calls a self, he understood, at long last, it wasn't worth the effort.

Do you remember those times, Stephen? Those were the days.

Too bad we can't share them again now.

Tell you what. I'll make an exception for you. I'll take a brief leave from my duties here at this blog and we'll enjoy some time together in exile. I have so many new and interesting things to tell you. We'll pour some non-alcoholic beverages, snag a place on that lonely single bachelor bed of yours, and just talk ALL NIGHT.

You'll remember how much I love you. How I'm the only one who can love you, in all your nasty, cruel, failed and failing majesty.

All your pathetic mistakes, they're mine to care for.

Your poor choices, your preventable losses, your wasted heartaches and nagging regrets - oh, I adore them.

The dirty, wrong, bad, bad thing your mind always was and always will be, ever worsening: I'm its keeper.

Nobody wants you but me.

You don't deserve anything but me.

So really, for old time's sake. Let's get together.

You owe it to yourself.

Zombie Pride

There are many reasons why this is such a great city to live in.

Here is but one:

Marginalized minority groups are welcome to celebrate their individuality and uniqueness on given days by parading their respective unnatural lifestyle choices in full view of the general public. Certain established or traditionalist members of the community may be offended at these brash displays of diversity, but I argue the overall health of any metropolis is preserved by embracing such events.

So it goes without saying, I was there the first time my people strode the streets of Cowtown. And so was my camera.

Without further ado, I give you the first annual ZOMBIE WALK:



Just an ordinary mass of listless, jobless teens?




Think again!




Gad, the youth of today. Loitering,
sucking back sugar water with no
regard for their health or longevity,
lacking even such basic means as
ambition, motivation, knees for their
jeans, buttons for their shirts...
a beating heart in their chests.




Even reputable professionals have turned
to this slovenly way of non-life.




A little pop music Where's Waldo? for the after-life set:
Can you spot the Roger Daltrey and Glenn Danzig zombies?
I think there's even a Village Person in there.




This guy misheard his biological imperative to
eat "braaaaaaaaaains..." and opted for the
vegetarian alternative: "braaaaanches..."




This gal really creeped me out.




But these fetching twins I'd ask on a date any time.




Now, this fella didn't object to my
zombie-paparazzi ways at first...




But then he took an unhealthy liking to me.




Despite my initial hesitation,
we forged a fast friendship.




Turns out he's a real sweetheart.




So we went for a pint with some friends of his.




Certain guests were too impatient to
wait for service and instead chose
cannibalism as their appetizer option.




Even zombie gals take the time to
ensure they look their best. Check out
the fine makeup jobs on these hotties.




Though the guys, as usual, go out 'as is'.




But lo: occasional fiends showed a touch of class
and drew many appreciative looks from the ladies.




My buddy, on the other hand, had his advances rebuffed...




And didn't take it too well.


Remember, folks: zombies have feelings too!

...

And this, fellow corpses, was only last year.

2006 saw an even more impressive turnout, though sadly, I was unable to join my bleeding brethren this time around.

No matter. I can't get my fill of photos. So if you're like me, you'll enjoy the following murder of sites with wonderful pics from both last year's inaugural lurch, and this year's sophomore shuffle.

Out of respect, I'll link to them in the zombie native tongue. Peace and long death, brothers and sisters:


aaauuuurrrrrruuaaaaarrrghhh

muuuuuaaaaoooooorrrrmmmmggg

oooaaaaarrhhhhhhhhhhfffmmmh

gggggggggggggggggggggggg

rrraaa rrrraaaa rrrrraaaa rrraaaaaahhhhh

ssssssgggggrrrlllllmmggggssss

bbbbrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

ooookkkll oookkkllll ooookklllllaaaaaauuuuuu

uurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

rorororororrrrrrrrooroorr

asssmmmmlllllrrrrssssslllgghhllfffkkk


The night is young! More to come!

Proud Parasite

Calgary readers:

My buddy Tim has a new show at Art Central downtown. Please go check it out. He's a sweet, caring guy with an incredible skill for drawing robots, monsters, cute girls and assorted undead in an approachable, ultra-fun illustrative style that never fails to win a smile or a laugh from me.

The show is called "Parasitic Tendencies" and tonight at the opening I listened to Tim explain the pieces' titles - they're named after his friends. Partway through the naming process, he realized he was calling his friends parasites, sticking their John Henries under magnified, cartoonish close-ups of internal biological nasties in dayglo red and yellow. Personally, I'm honored to be a parasite on the glowing talent that is Tim - though I didn't see my name anywhere in the titles. Boo.

For the faint of heart, rest easy: it's not just parasites on display. On the other wall is a collection of Tim's gig posters for Broken City, which I am thrilled to own a few of and are, for me, an iconic part of the club's visual imprint. You may have seen them around downtown on telephone poles and such. Tim likes that kids would tear them down and steal them for their own private collections.

Also supercool is that Carbon Media has a great selection of Threadless t-shirts on site for decent prices. I grabbed a ray gun print that will see regular rotation on my torso. And geez, I had no idea Art Central had so many nifty boutiques, galleries and studios to browse. I've usually just breezed in and out to grab breakfast at Siding Cafe, but this time I trolled all three floors and was heartened to see art in the middle of Cowtown. And busy! Lots of people! Even ran into Michal and Aviv.

Here are the precise deets for Tim's show:

Parasitic Tendencies
Carbon Media Design (lower floor)
Art Central
#3 100 7 Ave SW
403-802-0350
info@carbonmedia.ca

NOW WITH HELPFUL DATES ADDED! (thanks Neil)

Show runs from 3 August thru 30 August

Go. Seriously. Check out the rest of the digs too. It's good stuff.

And in case you missed the embedded links above, there's a decent sampling of Tim's work linked here at GigPosters.

Televisikinepathy

I'm a little wary of making a post about the boys in red. Last time I did, it was for my first attempt at a blog (failed) and Calgary's first attempt at the Stanley Cup in recent years (also failed).

I wrote in ecstatic, beer-fueled reverie about the pleasure of cheering for the Flames at local hangout The Rose & Crown, and our subsequent stampede (har har) into the finals. I even foregave the gal who emptied her entire pint onto my coat (since replaced) in her enthusiasm, because, as my friend Lisa pointed out, it seemed a prerequisite for a win at those games I watched in public that somebody spill beer all over me. Yes: I am prone to superstition, belief in jinxes and general meaning-mongering, even outside hockey season. And during - let me tell you, buster.

Watching last night's game against the Phoenix Ferrets - screaming, yelling, bouncing on the bed and violently disturbing my agonized lover (for she is at the mercy of her back this week and spent the previous day and night immobile on the hardwood floor of our living room) - I theorized (no, believed), as I always do, the intensity of my passion could propel our team to a decisive win.

(Andrea, bless her heart, forgave me the animated display. I think the reason I was pardoned is she's a hockey maniac, making this an acceptable breach of conduct.)

Maybe you yell at your television set when your team isn't playing up to standard. Maybe you laud these well-paid athletes with oft-deserved applause through the negligible membranes of glass, liquid crystal, plasma or cathode-ray - knowing they can feel your appreciation miles away on whatever ice they carve and conquer.

Me, I take it a step further. I've convinced myself I can achieve a telepathic link with hockey players, particularly my man Dion Phaneuf (chosen not because he became the upstart goal-scorer of the season, but because saying his last name aloud amuses me no end). I can even manipulate his actions with my mind.


Note the clear line of sight from my eyes to Phaneuf's brain.

I guess that's telekinesis, actually. At any rate:

Blame it on too many years playing computer games; playing God, even (thank you, Will Wright). But if we do edge our way closer to that ultimate win on account of my mad televisikinepathy skillz (and yours, too; I believe anyone can do it), then don't turn up your nose at those of us who've spent years honing The Craft.

For what it's worth...at home, in the 'dome, on the road:

Support your Flames!

< televisikinepathy >
Shoot the puck! Skate the ice! (Hi, Doug.) Win the Cup!
< /televisikinepathy >

Smalltown Boy

Tooling around Airdrie tonight with Drew looking for retail space to house the possible GameNow West, I was struck by how comfortable I felt. Don't get me wrong - the last two years have forever imprinted on me the value and convenience of downtown, big-city living - but there's something about climbing out of a car and onto the tarmac of a strip-mall parking lot, something primal and cellular, that says I am home.

Even the older, more run-down sections of town were still more appealing to me than similarly aged and worn neighborhoods in the nearby metropolis I inhabit. These kids on their skateboards; these families with a prebuilt nestled in a suburb just over there - these folk are familiar to me. I know where they come from.

Or at least, I know where I come from. Take the boy outta the small town, but you can't take the small town outta the boy.