Cheeseburgers at Paradise

The Paradise Cafe under the El. It's a diner across the street from where I live. I'm sitting with Tara and Drew, and I'm eating a cheeseburger.

Spent a day in bed.

I'm feeling tentatively acceptable. Tara drove us out to Kennett, and we laid in bed watching dumb movies. She washed a contractor trash bag full of our dirty clothes, and we headed back to the city. We stopped by Carraba's to use a gift card. I left a sub-par tip and had a mild jackass-attack about that and the fact that I'm behind my savings plan for the bicycle trip. For as highly as I think of myself, I can start to be dopey at the drop of a hat.

Malaysian food

My watch beeped outside of a Malaysian restaurant.

I feel unwell, and I'm doped on CVS cough medicine. We'll go inside and order food to be shared. Intestine, literally, will be eaten. Good but chewy. We're in Chinatown, and we're blocks from where some of Tara's family are staying at a hotel.

Back to the hotel for drinks, and back home again. None of this is helping me feel better, but I suppose it's better to at least get outside for a bit. I promised to go to work tomorrow after calling out today. The promise won't be kept, because nighttime will find me feeling much worse still.

Winter blues

You know, I was in a shit mood today. It's not worth numbering or listing the reasons or excuses. Winter kicks my ass. My nose was running, and I felt inundated at work. And depressed. I miss Lala Land where the sun shines hard and the aura of silliness massages my body like a sponge bath. That's far from my current reality of blowing my nose into toilet paper every couple minutes.

Buying wine for another human

721pm? Cooking noodles, and having a 1936 penny close at hand.

I stopped by the liquor store a couple hours ago. There was a guy outside with some change in his hand, and he was trying to increase the amount.

"Hey brother, can you spare some change, I'm tryna get a little bottle." He said, holding change and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
"What are you looking for, whiskey?" I asked.
"Wine" was his response. He looked almost visibly more calm just saying the word.
"I'll see if I can get some change in there" I promised as I headed in.

I got some $5.99 red-something, and handed him the bag. If I'm going to drink subtle poison, I might as well provide or share or whatever. His face lit up. I shook his hand. I walked towards my bicycle and placed my personal purchase and backpack inside my orange Wawa milk crate.

He called out one more thank you, to which I responded confidently that I was just looking out for a man. I threw my leg over my vehicle wondering if he had a good way to deal with the cork; assuming he did.

I'm getting sick now.

Getting sick is a relatively rare event for me. This is the first time of the season, and all I want is to be able to pass time faster. I want to sleep until it goes away. At 7:21pm, I was in the kitchen hovering on two feet while Tara cooked food for us to eat. I waited until she was busy with the sink to pour the last bits of flavored vodka into a pint glass.

Whipped cream vodka tastes like cream soda when you mix it with Coke. I got a bottle for Tara, who expressed interest after learning about this drink from a friend. I drank most of it, then I quit drinking for about seven weeks. Now I'm standing in the kitchen pulling off some kind of sneaky pour to eliminate the remainder. The guy getting sick feels sheepish drinking something he knows won't help while his girlfriend cooks.

Weekends that end on Tuesday

Lazy day. This is the second day of my off-center Monday-Tuesday weekend. I slept late and accomplished little.

Splitting up, leaving, maybe coming back.

After all those nights of drinking, it was tough to slow the momentum. I didn't bother. Me and Tara goofed around with a Wii Fit board that she bought, and watched some TV shows on my computer.

It is interesting to note that I bought a 32" flat screen not long ago, and I'd still rather just watch shit on my laptop. It's complicated enough to get stuff over to the big screen that I'd rather not bother. Technology is an endless pit of necessary upgrades. Bicycles too, if you're like some people.

Me and Tara are splitting up when I go on my bicycle trip in May. I said she could keep the big screen. At some point I have to get all my belongings out of this room and house and put them somewhere else. I haven't given much thought to if or when I'm coming back to this area. I think I'll get my van's electrical issues worked out, and move back into it. I picture that being a beautiful time. There's nothing that makes a van seem more like a mansion than spending many nights in a small tent.

Three Piece Fest 2011

Three Piece Fest 2011 occurred at the Danger!Danger! Gallery all the way in a different corner of Philadelphia. I brought the other half of that MGD case from yesterday, and headed over with Tara in her car.

It was a success. There were plenty in attendance, and it got hot, crowded and full of energy. I brought plenty of pot to share if anybody wanted it. Not as easy a sell as I thought. Every time I'm at a house show and someone is smoking pot, I think "gee... I'd like some of that." Maybe people thought I was a cop with rainbow socks. One person did not hesitate.

Here is a photograph. Yesterday, I mentioned seeing Peter & Craig at Two Piece Fest. The same Peter is also in this band, Algernon Cadwallader. They played last, and everyone got batshit.

Two Piece Fest 2011

I left work about an hour early to go to Two Piece Fest.

This warehouse show boasted 22 Bands, all with two members each, starting at 2pm. All bands had 20 minute sets, and there were two stages for quick changes between bands. There were posted schedules, and the times were adhered to like clockwork. There was an intermission at 7pm that gave me enough time to partake in free food that some housemates had prepared, and still ride a bicycle home, smoke mad weed, and get back in time for more music.

I left work at 3:30pm, and picked up a case of MGD on my way. I dropped off half the case at home, put the rest in my backpack, and headed to the show. It was a highly enjoyable time of music and all-day drinking. Probably hundreds paid to get in. I can't count, but it was a successful show. I was hoping to see the band 1994!, but the cops shut everything down a few hours early.

I was fortunate to witness the set of Peter & Craig who wore huge paper mâché masks decorated as caricatures of themselves. Well executed, and I also liked the music.

Hanging out with Mike

We went to the El Bar. It's been awhile since I've been in that place. I drank at pace I'll call reasonable, and we talked about topical subjects.

The CB-1. My 1991 Bridgestone City Limit.

I own a 1991 Bridgestone CB-1 "City Limit" bicycle. I've said it before, and I'm talking about it right now. It's a beautiful red bicycle. In 1991, Grant Petersen was the guy designing the best bicycles that Bridgestone sold in the USA. Bridgestone is a huge Japanese company. After they couldn't remain competitive in the US market (dollar/yen exchange rate), Grant started Rivendell. The Rivendell website is an excellent source of information about sane bicycles that make sense. That is a matter of opinion, but it is my opinion, and I hold it strongly.

If bicycle design wasn't driven by marketing and a need for pointless changes touted as improvements, then bicycles would probably be a lot more like the ones produced by Rivendell. Not exactly like them, but bicycles certainly would have evolved much differently. It can't hurt to poke around the Rivendell website, even if you don't spend a dollar. If you have even a passing interest in bicycles, then I strongly recommend it.

I don't know how much design input Grant Petersen had in developing the 1991 City Limit. The CB-1 was the cheapest bicycle produced by Bridgestone in 1991. The frame is TIG welded (not lugged/brazed) and the frame tubing is un-fancy 4130 steel joined in Taiwan. Grant Petersen would no doubt love it more if it was Japanese and lugged using butted tubing. Sheldon Brown has information about the City Limit as well. Sheldon calls the design "mainstream" claims they are intended for the "non-enthusiast" and says they are "nothing special." The nicest thing he says is that there is "nothing wrong with them." Sheldon knew a lot about bicycles, but I'm going to keep enjoying this one even though his claims seem to indicate that I should set my sights higher.

Me? I think this bicycle is great. This is my do-everything bicycle. I made component upgrades and I added fenders and a rack. It's good. I haven't made a final decision on what to ride across the country, but if I have my head screwed on right when I'm ready to leave, it'll probably be the CB-1.

I've had a great time riding my new 3 speed around, but for the past two days I've used the CB-1 for my short commute, and it's been great. I have tons of gears, and a milk crate securely hose-clamped to the rack. These are good times we're living in, and this is as good a bicycle as anyone needs.

In conclusion: read all of the technical information and opinions on the Rivendell website, then apply what you've learned to choosing a sensible bicycle. If you're lucky, you might end up with a 1991 Bridgestone CB-1 City Limit. Or it might be a 1994 Giant Nutra Hybrid. Possibly an old pre-suspension Diamondback Outlook. Those options all roll nice, and there are millions more like them.

Center City Coffee

I don't hang out with Mike that much. We haven't been hanging out enough. I stopped by after work to meet with him for a coffee. We talked about relationships. I was maxed out on caffeine intake for the day, so I just talked. It was good. Then I went to visit Dreamane 'cause she lives about four blocks from there. I went home a little bit later and talked to Tara. Lots of talking today.

Getting a ride back from Kennett

Cathy and Karl are giving me a ride back to Philly from Kennett. My van has been sitting in the driveway of my parents house for months. The battery is dead, and there's something sucking the juice out of it. I have to get that fixed, but for now I'm just as happy to let it sit while not paying for insurance. My parents have a slightly different feeling about it, but we all seem to exist in harmony for the time being.

Cathy is my sister, and she married Karl who is one of the nicest guys around. I have a good family, and I'm happy that I can recognize it, state the fact, and feel proud and happy. They took me home, which was nice because it was a big favor to me and a runaround for them.

Sitting in Kennett. General state of my existence.

I'm sitting around on the couch in Kennett. Spots the cat is getting old. My parents are both retired these days, and now they're on vacation as well. While they're in Florida, I'm doing a lazy job of watching the cat. She's getting smaller and skinnier, and I don't know if she's enjoying her life. She throws up a lot.

I've been regularly irate and feeling overwhelmed. Between big life plans, winter, and not knowing if I'm on the right track, it all feels more difficult than it probably really is.

I'm in a good mood for a reasonable amount of my time. I don't take anything terribly seriously, but I'm also randomly afraid to die. I don't want to die. Will I be reincarnated? Is something like heaven possible? Doesn't seem likely, nor does it matter. You can't know. It shouldn't be scary, but sometimes it is.

I quit drinking. Except for last night. I went ahead and drank a lot of whiskey last night. I don't feel good about it, but I don't feel too bad either. It was fun until I stopped remembering what was going on. Then I woke up on the couch with an extremely dry mouth. Maybe it'll all be ok.

I'm leaving on a bicycle trip in May. Hopefully that will be fun. I'm saving some money, and hopefully it cheers me right up and gives me some new perspective. Part of me always wants to leave and never come back. A big part of me also wants to buy some land and live in a vehicle. I've checked on empty lot prices in Philadelphia. Philly is a pretty decent place if you cut out the winter part.

I'm 28. Getting older slowly and passing time. I don't know if I'm doing the right thing, or if I ever will be.

Drinking.

I've been proud of myself for going a bunch of weeks without drinking. Seven weeks? I quit a few days before New Years. I never told myself it was forever. I don't make myself that promise anymore. It got more and more difficult. What's the point, I decided?

I got dropped off in Kennett to watch a cat. Tara dropped me off, and it was obvious that I needed time alone. I needed time alone to drive my dad's car to the liquor store.

I made mashed potatoes and didn't eat much. I drank whiskey and had dozens of genius-creative thoughts. I called Shawn at some point, and don't know what I said. That was about it.

Drinking isn't a great idea for me because it increases in frequency and dosage until I deem it a problem. I have too many good memories of drinking, and too many future projections to times when appropriate drinking should occur. It's hard to be without, but it's hard to find a middle ground.

Look at me. Look into my eyes. This is me rolling the dice. This is me hoping that I can do the right thing. This is my sincerest face.

Working on a 1970 Phillips

I have a 1970 Phillips 3 speed. I stayed after work to mess with the cranks and the bottom bracket. I re-tapped the threads to English threading. I used a grinding wheel to take off the shoulder of a Shimano UN-54 bottom bracket. I installed the bottom bracket, and put on a pair of old Dura Ace cranks.

Apparently I didn't tighten the bottom bracket enough. It loosened up on my ride home, and now I'm left to hope that I didn't screw up the threads by riding it that way. All I can do is take of the cranks, tighten the BB and hope for the best.

At 7:21pm I was listening to Halfway To Holland and making strange anachronistic changes to a bicycle. One of my customers, Eric, stopped by with his girlfriend, and we chatted for a bit. I was in a hurry to get home, feeling rushed and anxious.

Putting grease in a bottom bracket.

I work at a bicycle shop in Philadelphia. Shelly opened a bicycle shop, and I'm working at it. This is a good job. Probably the best job I've had up to this point.

Ahhh, Philadelphia. Your winters and strong headwinds continue to erode my soul. I should be in Key West. I should be somewhere else feeling distant and alone.

I'm writing on this blog again. Maybe I needed a change of internet scenery. I like the Blogger interface pretty good. It's easier to search through the titles of past posts. I think that's great. I'd like to move over all the Wordpress stuff, but I don't know if that's easy or not.

I was just reading through some of my writings from Ashland Oregon in 2008. I can barely remember what that was like. I was lonely. I was sometimes desperately lonely.

I'm planning a bicycle trip from Philadelphia to Virgina to Oregon. I'm leaving in May. I'm trying to get $3600 in my bank account, and hopefully not blow it all on booze and prepared food before making it back to Philadelphia. Somewhat un-secretly I don't even know if I want to come back to Philadelphia. I like it, but I question whether I might belong somewhere better. I can leave, but that's when the loneliness kicks in. I'm ready to be lonely on the bicycle trip. That's part of riding alone. It leaves more time for contemplation, and more space for easy decision making. It'll be good. Lonely on-the-move is OK. It also allows for random choices and meeting strangers. Hopefully it's a good trip.

I stayed after work to do something about my bottom bracket. It clearly needed an overhaul. At 7:21pm, I was trying different square taper spindles to see if one would work with the old Raleigh-threaded cups. None were to my satisfaction, so I regreased some new bearings and put together the old cottered setup with new pins. Jolly.

Vandwelling in Key West

I started listing suggestions for killing a billion hours while living in a van in Key West. If you email me, I will send you an invitation that will let you follow my progress. The writings are rife with references to sandwiches and dildos. So don't cry in your cereal about how nobody is writing anything abstract and tropical.

chrisharne@gmail.com

RV’s, Vandwelling and Hobos

It was a long day.  I worked from 8am – 7:21pm again.  It’s 7:21pm.  I’m sitting in Mike’s Jeep, relieved to have taken the weight off of my feet.  The sun is going down now, illuminating the long rows of wind-blown clouds from below.  Cooking the clouds from the bottom like fluffy strips of bacon.  I’m hungry, and the clouds are bacon.  My feet are ham.  My life is a salad.  By life, I am referring specifically to my mind, my body, my living situation, and all of my possessions that I have ever owned or will ever own.  It’s a salad, so I might as well eat it.

But back to salads.  Back to the fluffy, cooked clouds.  Back to who Mike is.  Mike is one of the RVers who is staying in the same campground.  He is one of the older RV set that I mentioned having carpooled with.  Mike gave me a ride today, because we worked the same surprise extra shift, which was offered to us yesterday.  We talked on the twenty-or-so minute ride back to headquarters after work.  We talked about modern-day hobos and Roth IRAs.  We had a good discussion, including personal experiences, opposite opinions, and agreement on superficial matters.  I think that a dreadlocked hitchhiker sitting on a guitar case is a safe turkey to stuff into a passenger seat.  This concept raises Mike’s eyebrows, in spite of the fact that he has hitchhiked, and enjoys gravy.  We talked, and the conversation was good.  I’m as comfortable talking to Mike as I am talking to the wildcats who are sitting around the hobo trashcan fire in the other corner of the campground.  I’m equally comfortable with either type of person: retired RV guy, and wildcat who flips the bird to society using overall appearance as a finger.  I look my part well enough to fit with either crowd.  I can squish in with either group, but the squish isn’t nearly a mesh.  I don’t have big ears and an NRA hat, and I haven’t gotten “FIST FUCK” tattooed on my knuckles yet.  I can somewhat fit in with both – but also neither.

I thought about all of this while I was eating a few sandwiches.  It was then that the symbolism hidden in the arrangement of this campground appeared to me.  I am parked equidistant from the RV’s with their slideouts, and the dirty fuck-yous making a circus in the corner.  Is my van not a kind of small RV?  Is a vandweller not so often portrayed as a bum with one last worthwhile possession?  Here I sit.  I talk to everybody here, but at the end of the day I just sit inside my van and type.  And type, and type, and type.

I look forward to future times when I can scare people into eating couscous and watching movies.