Reminder

Guys Bible study on Micah at Bucer's. Wednesday, 1:30. If you can bring some outside references or commentary on the book, that'd be great but come regardless.

If I can make it I'll be a bit late, my 1:30 class that I've been skipping has the nerve to give me a test tomorrow.

Suspicians Confirmed

We were visited tonight by a prominent author of young adult fiction named Chris Crutcher in my Lit for Adolescents class. On the topic of censorship he had this to say:

"Words don't do damage. They're arbitrary."

Bikes Part II

Alright, so the main problem I had with my racing last year was the fact that I made it so important. I was pretty excited about the idea of crossing the finish line in spandexed glory for five weeks. While there were most likely some pride issues going on, I think that God brought me down (literally) to focus my attention on more important matters.

With that in mind, I decided to approach this year heavy on the recreational side and light on the obsessive. I was on my bike five or six times all semester, then a few more as our first race came up. Just enough to wake my legs up and not be miserable in the races.

More importantly, I’d made a much more concerted effort to maintain dialogue with my sister, and keep up to date with her. It was funny, most times that the thought of riding my bike came into my head, it was quickly tailed with “When was the last time you talked to Christa?” Through painful road rash I’d been conditioned to associate bettering myself on the bike with neglect to a relationship.

So our first race this year was again in Corvallis, Oregon. The Kerns of Eugene were gracious enough to open their home to me and fill my belly for the weekend. I drove the eight hours there on Friday night, crashed (haha), and left early Saturday morning for the 9:05 road race in Corvallis. I left with plenty of time to spare, so I wasn’t too worried when traffic started slowing on I-5. I got a little more worried when it stopped. I sat for a good half hour before we started inching forward again to come upon a semi that had slid sideways across all three lanes of northbound traffic. And not just the lanes, but the shoulders as well. Both of them. We had to creep past the truck in the mud of the median in a single line one car at a time.

Once past the wreck at up to highway speed, I wasn’t too worried about making the race. I’d left enough of a cushion to still make it on time. Unfortunately, in all the hubbub with the accident, I missed my exit. And with no map to tell me I’d gone too far, drove almost all the way back to Portland before realizing something was up.

Now not only did I miss the race, but I was bringing a teammate’s bike with me from Moscow. And I had all of the team’s spare wheels, and yes, one guy had a flat tire and couldn’t finish. So three of us were not scoring points because of me. This was my first thought when I realized I wasn’t going to make it. What happened next was interesting, and hard to describe. I was definitely in a funk. Not a frustrated, angry, or necessarily sad funk, but a feeling more like “I should’ve known better than to try this racing thing again.” I can’t draw the direct connection that I could last year, that racing was taking me away from something else I should have been doing. But I was nonetheless consumed with a guilty feeling as I made my way back from the outskirts of Portland toward Corvallis.

I’ve heard a lot in Doug’s sermons lately about “God as an author,” and it’s really had me thinking about why we notice and are focused on certain things over others. The long and short of it is that I feel God brings things to your attention for a reason, that the fact that I immediately felt wrong about racing was God’s nudging. Even if I don’t understand why as clearly as I did last year, the feeling was very similar, even amplified. Not only did I feel that racing was bad news, but the funk part of it was that I felt that I should have known. That’s really interesting to me, because even now I only have a hunch as to what biking could possibly have been taking the place of. Even if there never is a life-changing revelation that comes from this time, I know I was saved from burying myself financially and academically. Every time I opted out of a race weekend, I would realize within a few hours that there was so much that I needed to do in that time that I may not even get it done being here in town. I wasn’t altogether comfortable with the leadership on the team this year, and had my doubts about getting gas money and entry fees reimbursed, which would have ruined me.

There isn’t an obvious good deed left undone because of my cycling. I didn’t stay home one weekend and save a baby carriage from rolling into traffic at the same time my race was starting in another state. Wouldn’t that have been cool? I’m thankful in the end though that I didn’t have this feeling, look around and not see anything immediate to take care of, and shrug it off.

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

Community Happenin's:

I. Tonight (Thursday) at 7:00, the strictly unbiased group "NoSuperWalMart" is sponsoring the film "Is Wal-Mart Good for America?" It's FREE and there will be a panel discussion with open mic questions following. Please come.

II. Wednesdays at Bucer's, guys Bible study, room in front of the smoke room. We've gone through Jonah the past three meetings, and we're moving on to Micah. If you're so inclined, look up and bring some outside references/commentary on the book. The more the merrier (people and references.) Current cast includes Josh Gibbs, Nate Wolff, Asher Weinbaum, Matt Dau, Nick Heid (sp?), Jordan Wilkins, Josh Hatcher, and more!

III. This Friday through Sunday at the Kenworthy, sweet looking French flick called Cache. Mystery suspense, and Frenchness! Friday at 7, Saturday and Sunday 4:10 and 7. Check out the trailer here.

IV. This Sunday, April 23, Jason Webley is playing at the 1912 Center at 7:00. Accordian playing merriment. I haven't seen him but I've heard from many people who have that his shows are amazing. I'll be there if I don't go to Montana for a (gasp) bike race (It's more of a sightseeing jaunt, really.)

V. Sunday May 7th, our house, Substantial BBQ '07. After you've practiced your Mo-Groove the previous weekend at Susanna's bash, get ready to do the Standing Still in our front lawn. Just kidding, you can dance, and to the swingin' sounds of the Shaun Daniel Band at that. There will also be an outdoor movie when the sun goes down, so suggestions for that are welcome. If you're reading this, you're invited. Nate and Hannah, would you guys be interested in playing a bit as well? Email, call or post here with questions.

Das ist alles, tschuss!

Holiday Humor

I scooted into the Co-op with about five minutes till close. Cafe Mam's Mocho Blend coffee (beans) and an apple were all I needed and that's what I brought up to the only open register.

While scanning: "So what's up tonight."
Me: Not too much, glad I got in before you guys closed.

Smiles.

Me: Are you a coffee fan?
Nods.
Me: Have you tried this? The mocho blend?
She hadn't.
Me: Best coffee I've found anywhere, you should give it a whirl.

Cashier: Do you know that your total is $6.66?
I had noticed and I told her so.
"And it's Easter," I added, flaring my eyes wide in mock horror. She found it hilARious.

Since I Can't Write....

I've taken some pictures. A few more from Vancouver, some from the farm. I'll work on Part II a bit tonight.

Long, Rambling, Overly Detailed on Cycling: Part I

I’ve been asked lately how the bike season is going. Every time I hear the question I have to consider how much this person knows about my experience last year, and how much they’d want to hear. The short answer is that it’s not going well at all. The long answer is everything that follows.

January of last year I started riding my bike for the 2005 collegiate season. I rode a lot. Eight to ten hours a week. I couldn’t have asked for better conditions, if you were around the greater Moscow area you’ll recall a two week stint of 65-70 degree weather in February that I took every advantage of. I almost always rode alone, as my schedule was pretty hectic with two jobs and full time school and rarely had the foresight to plan group rides. I also liked being alone for two, three, or four hours at a time.

By the time our first race rolled around I was easily in the best sport-specific shape I’ve ever been in. I’d raced my first year as a ‘C’, the lowest category and was starting off in the ‘Bs’ this year. My first season had been cut a bit short the last time I’d raced in Oregon when I put a pedal down too early on a turn and slid myself down the pavement at about 25mph. Now I was back, this time in Corvallis and with hours upon hours of work put into my legs.

The race started in a gentle drizzle. As we took off from the start I worked my way into the front third of the peloton. About three miles in there was a small hill, maybe ¾ mile long. Hills are a blessing to someone as metabolically blessed/cursed as myself, so I stood up out of the saddle and pulled off the front just to see what would happen. With minimal effort I was pulling away, so I sat back down and let the pack envelop me as we crested the hill. As we came to the second climb I did the same thing, but didn’t let up at the top. I instead dropped a few gears and smoked down the backside at about 80%. As we flattened out near the bottom, the pack came back around me. I felt like I had this in the bag. I felt that physically I was in good enough shape to be competitive in the As this year, and after winning this race, I’d bump up to the category. Guys around me were shaky on the hills and struggling to catch back on to the little attacks that were going on. I settled into a comfortable position about three or four people from the lead.

I was hugging the shoulder line with four riders to my left, as well as people in front and behind me. We were in a straight, flat section of the course. Imagine the least likely place for a wreck to occur. That’s where the guy on the median to my left went down. I could see the commotion in my peripheral vision, then watched as bikes dominoed over right into me. With the gravel shoulder on my right, a bike in front and a bike in back of me, and an OSU Beaver crashing into my left, I didn’t have many options of escape. I got knocked by the crash, then once the four racers to my left were down I was able to try and regain control by squirting up and to the left where I promptly ran into the guy in front of me. It happened very quickly, but I think that I ended up with my front wheel rubbing against his chain-stay and me leaning into him. This only lasted a split second before something caught and I ended up over my bars and rolling down the road. Thankfully we weren’t cooking along too quickly so I was able to roll back on my feet with my momentum and grab my bike. My chain had dropped off of the front rings and I spent about a minute trying to get it back on as the pack sprinted away. When I finally got it in working order, I hopped on and tried to catch back on. They were out of sight by now, but I was hopeful.

Here’s the best part: I came to a T-intersection with a roadside volunteer who was supposed to be pointing us in the right direction of the course. I was pointed in the wrong direction. I rode about twenty miles off course as the wind and rain started picking up. When I happened upon I-5, I knew something was amiss. I turned back around, and noticed how absolutely frozen I was. Riding in the wind while wet will do it. I also realized that I had no idea where I was. Even if I were to ask someone for directions, all I knew was that we were parked in a big empty lot in the middle of nowhere. So I rode, backtracking as best I could, and thankfully came back to our car where I (slowly and with numb claw-hands) peeled off my wet garb and put on every piece of dry clothing that I owned. A few hours later I was warm enough to put my wet jersey back on for the team time trial. I opted out of the criterium on Sunday. Physical damage from the wreck: Minimal.

The next week found us in Seattle. Typically our road races are the first event, but this week we started with the team time trial. The As were down a rider and asked if I would ride with them and I agreed. We weren’t out to break any records, just get some points for the team. Travis and Charlie took off with me sucking their wheels. In the first mile, the road drops down a hill and turns to the right. Unknown to me, as I was gazing at Charlie’s wheel and butt, the U. of Oregon team had just crashed two minutes earlier on the corner. One of their riders was standing on the far side of the road telling us to slow down and watch for gravel. I didn’t hear this and by now had my arms in the aerobars on my bike, which don’t have brakes attached. Imagine the three of us in a straight line. Travis, Charlie, me. Travis sees and hears the warning, and slows. Charlie, sees Travis slow down, and pulls out of line to the left as he slows. Me, looking down, with my hands gripping something that can’t stop me, creep right up to Travis’s wheel with Charlie to my left as we hit the corner. I reached for my brake with my right hand, but it only twitched my bike a few inches left, right into Charlie. This time, we went down at about 35. I clearly remember having a very calm sense of “I can’t believe this is happening” as my right forearm dug into the chipseal. We slid, rolled, and bounced for a bit, and got up as Travis rolled up to us after turning around. Physical damage: Substantial. We hauled ourselves over to the ER for some stitches and Hydrocodone prescriptions.

As I was having my arms and legs picked clean of gravel I started to think about this bike racing deal. I started thinking about how much time I’d put into this. How many hours I’d spent sitting on a tiny bike seat, alone, moving myself around Washington and Idaho. For what? Even if I’d been winning these races, I was beginning to see this as something extremely selfish. Everything I’d put into this “hobby” was self-serving. It was to make me look good. I couldn’t honestly say that anything I’d done on my bike had benefited anyone but me. And it actually wasn’t doing me too many favors so far. Hmmm.

Our next race was in Bozeman, Montana. I’d done this race the year before and was looking forward to it. It ended on a three mile climb, 1100 feet gained. It was my best shot at winning a race that year. I was excited.

I was also feeling a lot of tension about it. The thoughts from the previous week had been rolling around in my head and building a tiny fort of doubt.

Now understand this: I’m a terrible criterium rider. This is because I’m scrawny, and a retired runner. My mentality on a bike is similar to how one runs; steady. Pick your pace, stick to it to the end. Crits are nothing like running. Road racing in general is nothing like running, but crits especially. Good crit riders are typically your beefy dudes, with legs the size of couches, to use the classical reference. I’ve always gotten smoked in them, but I was hoping to maybe be able to at least hang on with all my training this year. The crit was the first event on Saturday, and as usual, I got owned. Started near the back from the get go and only fell back until I was totally alone, then pulled out. No big deal, road race tomorrow.

More tension that night and the next morning. Can’t shake the feeling that I’ve wasted my time this semester on something selfish. The drive to the start of the road race was a good hour. I spent the majority of it asking God for some clear sign about what I should be doing with the cycling thing. We got there, unloaded bikes and started warming up. As I took my bike down the road I felt a clicking/knocking in what I thought was my crankset, which was a new addition to the Trek. This was its maiden voyage. I asked Charlie to take it out to see what he thought. As he pulled back up he said “I didn’t feel what you’re talkin’ about, but what’s up with your left shifter?” I didn’t know what he was talking about. He proceeded to show me how my front shifter was seized up and I was therefore stuck in one chainring up front. We took it apart and dumped about a quart of lube into the thing to no avail. There would be no shifting between big and small rings for the Trek. Given the nature of the course, with a huge hill and all, I was out of the race. That seemed to be a pretty clear answer. I told the team that I was done for the year.

You may be asking what else I could’ve been doing besides riding my bike. Plenty, I think. Over Christmas break of that year I found that my sister wasn’t saved after a quick talk with her. Our relationship is another topic that I could (and should) spend a lot of time on, but for now it’s enough to say that I failed as a big brother while I lived at home and now had a chance to repair some of that. Instead, I rode my bike.

Similar situation with my brother, as far as me not living up to my role as a brother. I’d been trying to establish more of a relationship with him as well, but bike riding went on.

There are a few other things that I may have been neglecting, some of which I talked a bit about in my Shakespeare paper last semester, but my brother and sister were definitely on the front burners.

So that’s the backdrop for this season. I’ll try to have it up this week, and hopefully it will be edited and smoother than this.

Doom

What if you saw this on your front porch late one night?

A Few Thoughts From the Road

Road bike that is...no this isn't the post I promised about the evils of my bike, but that's coming...

I was riding my bike back from Troy on Highway 8 this afternoon. The shoulder is virtually non-existent this time of year, covered with the gravel that's been on the road all winter. Although even when I'm riding the white line, there's still plenty of room for cars to be passing me going both directions.

I was about 75 yards from where I'd be making a left turn, so I glanced over my left shoulder to check traffic behind me. One car about 150 yards back. No one in sight up ahead in the opposite lane. I swung my bike across both lanes and ended up near the left shoulder to make my turn. About 10 seconds later a black Mercury, the car I'd seen behind me, passed in the right lane. And he blared his horn as he passed. Not the friendly two-honk of "Hey how's it goin?" or "I approve of your activity," but the long, sustained, "I'm pissed at YOU, Matt Gaither."

This reminded me of something I've noticed this year. What are horns in cars for? If you asked a Ford or Toyota employee they'd probably say something like "To let someone know they're in danger," or something to the effect of preventing an accident. I disagree. Far and away, the most common use of horns that I've seen has been to express one's annoyance with something that's already happened. It has the frivolous use of getting your buddy's attention, or like the honk I didn't get, a friendly hello to a stranger. But when do we get honked at most? After we’ve been cut off. After someone turns into our lane without signaling. After the guy in front of us stops short. The horn is just there to say “I AM ANNOYED WITH YOU” in one single bleat.

You may be asking: Have you ever been in an accident or seen one? Or seen one avoided by a horn’s use? I’ve seen two since I’ve been in Moscow. The first was pretty awful. It was early in the morning and I was on my bike heading towards the intersection of 6^th and Jackson from campus. When I was about 20 yards from the crossing, a minivan heading towards me collided with a loaded semi moving about 40 miles an hour. The truck continued through to the other side unaffected while the minivan spun around almost 400 degrees. Turns out that the sun was rising just behind the stoplights and the woman in the van didn’t see the red. No horns.

A few months ago I was riding my bike up 3^rd St. near the old Co-op as a station wagon inched its way out of the parking lot, trying to make a left turn. They were quickly caught in the middle of the lane, perpendicular to traffic, stopped by cars heading the opposite direction. I knew there was a car behind me and to my left, and sure enough it passed me, locked up its brakes and slid right into these people. Again, no warning horn.

It seems like horns are just there as a release valve to regulate people’s frustration on the road. When faced with a possibility of actual danger, we’re too focused on avoiding the danger to think about tapping the middle of our steering wheel. I think about this every time I’ve had a near miss in my own car. I actually specifically think about how I didn’t think to use my horn. It was the furthest thing from my mind.

So I say, do away with the things. That’s right, this is my proposal to remove car horns from our world. Anything that gives us another outlet to be spiteful to one another I can do without, thank you very much. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me it’s the condition of the heart that’s the problem, and that people will just find another way to express their anger without their horns. That’s fine, but until we shape up, let’s at least keep it quiet.

Think of Me, Think of Me Fondly....

This guy would like to ask for your prayers this weekend. He has yet to finish a road race in the great state of Oregon without leaving a bit of skin behind. He's just riding for fun this year and doesn't expect to break any land-speed records, but he'd appreciate your prayers for safety. I mean look at him, he needs all the help he can get.

Color

Say Hello To Canada, Eh?

I put up a few pictures from our trip to Vancouver. Asher, Nick, and I went up to see Jesse Beck and the greater Vancouver area. We were interviewed by Pakistani TV show hosts, ate ourselves silly-full of delicious Asian foods, and scoffed at the Canadian dollar.

There are also a few shots from Josh and Paula's wedding.

For If You Rescue Him

This really isn't edited very well, but I've had the idea for a while and just wanted to get it out. Suggestions and criticisms are welcome.

For If You Rescue Him

“Man it’s so good having you around again,” said Kyle.

“Tell me about, it’s cool to have this time to just hang like we used to,” replied Jake with a warm smile.

The two were sitting in Kyle’s parents’ living room with the TV on, making wry comments about date shows that popped onscreen.

“So Washington’s pretty cool huh?” Kyle asked, staring at the screen. He sat in the same position that Jake always remembered him in; leaning on his left arm, remote in right hand balanced on his bent up right kneed and left leg folded under him.

“Yeah, I’ve been loving it. Lots to do and it’s gorgeous.”

“You’ve been doing something at like an old folks home right? I think I heard that from your Mom, I ran into her the other day at the mall.”

“Really? Yeah, a friend invited me one day, shed been going for about a year and reading to some of them. That’s what I went to do my first day, but I ended up just talking with this guy that grew up in Oregon and was always out hunting and hiking and stuff, so we just talked about all that. Since then I’ve just gone back and hung out once or twice a week.”

“Isn’t that a little…weird? Just showing up to talk?”

He laughed. “Yeah, it felt really weird the first time I went back just to “talk,” like I was some counselor, or patronizing them, but they love it. All the nurses think that I’m some wonderful humanitarian for doing it, like it’s this arduous task, but it’s actually pretty cool. When you live as long as some of these guys, it’s hard to not have gained some kind of wisdom or insight that they love to tell you about.”

“So you’ve got nurses swooning over you these days?”

“Sure,” he laughed.

Sitting in the room brought back a lot of memories. But since this was largely what they did when they hung out, it was more like one memory, really densely remembered. Ten minutes passed with a few laughs and witty observations on the lameness of reality romance.

“Weren’t you doing something with the homeless before that?”

Jake sat forward in his chair with both hands on his near empty glass, looking down into it. “Yeah, it was hard. I really had this overwhelming feeling that what we were doing for them wasn’t what they needed. Basically, I was getting pretty annoyed at them and the situation,” he added in an attempt to bring himself down from the pedestal that Kyle’s questions had built a ladder to the top of.

Jake was getting a little uneasy, like most do when something unpopular is on their mind, but curiosity won’t let the thought dissipate.

“How’s your Dad doing?” Jake ventured.

“Alright, we’ve been getting along ok since I’ve been back. He’s not around too much, but he was kind of a prick last night about me coming in late with this girl.”

“Becky, right?”

“No, that kinda fell apart this fall, it was just this chick I met at Sanke’s party last night. Which you should’ve been at, with ME,” he said, pointing at Jake with mock authority.

“Wow, that sucks. You guys were together for a while, what happened?”

“You know, just weren’t clicking anymore, arguing about little things all the time. It just wasn’t fun anymore.”

“Huh. Too bad.”

Jake looked around the room, taking in the general “rustic” appearance of the place. Huge, pointed bay windows overlooked a small lake, barely visible in the moonlight. Wood planked walls and gigantic rafters, coupled with the chocolate colored carpet and sparse lamplight gave one an overall sense of “Brown. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.” On the wall which Jake’s chair sat against, there was some kind of deer-like mammal’s head. If he glanced up at it, he got the impression that the beast was about twenty feet high and in the process of stepping over him on its way to more important matters.
"Look at this crap," Kyle said, nodding at the TV. "They tell you this wax takes out scratches that have gone almost through the paint. Did I tell you about that?"
Jake looked back and shook his head.
"Oh, dude, so I come out of work last Tuesday and as I'm coming up to my car I see a long line from the driver's door almost to the back quarter panel, but it looks like just a reflection. But when I got up next to it, it was a friekin scratch, I couldn't believe it, you know how I always park way the hell out away from everyone just to avoid that. Doesn't matter, some jackass still managed to completely ruin my ride."

Jake glanced out the window at his '88 Trooper. He thought about saying that he just lets the layers of mud and salt cover up the dents and scratches, and did you ever consider that maybe it's because you park out in the sticks over three or four parking spaces that people wreck your car.
"That's too bad man," was all he could manage.

It was getting to be about lunchtime, and both Kyle and Jake decided to head into town for some eats. As usual, Kyle drove, with his seat pushed as far back as his legs would allow, maximizing the cool-slouch look. Jake wondered if it would be gangsta rap or cookie-cutter angry rock in the CD player. It was a mix of the two.

Being back in this car with Kyle driving brought back the memory that Jake had been fighting off all day. It was about three years ago when Kyle had screamed through the parking lot of the school in front of Jake and stopped, asking if he wanted a ride. It was unusual that Jake did, but that day his car was getting worked on and he did in fact need a ride after practice.

"Cool, I'll meet you back here at 4:30," Kyle said and took off towards town.
There was a familiarity about Kyle's tone and the way he cocked his chin upward when he recognized Jake. Jake had seen it before, and it always reminded him of how basketball players acted towards one another when there was a lot of talk flying around the court. It was a puffing up of the ego, like a porcupine making itself look bigger to say "Back off." Jake knew Kyle well enough to know that it wasn't him that Kyle was puffing at, it was residual puffing from a recent challenge of some kind, and Kyle never ignored those.

"Hey." Same chin cock.
"Hey, what's up?"
Kyle shrugged his shoulders with his hand at noon on the wheel, legs almost straight out to the pedals.
"That Avery kid is a punk man. If he doesn't back the hell off there's gonna be trouble."
"What happened?"
"I was walking down the hall today with Beck(at this, Jake imagined Kyle’s walk, a loping swagger, dipping each shoulder with every step) and he opened his locker door right in front of me so I hit it into him on accident. Then he got right in my face and we exchanged some words. I didn't want to get into it with him with Beck right there, but man he wanted it."
"Hm."
"Man, why do people have to be such pricks? It's shitty." Kyle was gesturing with fingers together and making jabbing motions forward with his free hand. His entire face was tight and eyebrows were almost furrowed together in anger.
"Yeah."
They rode the next five minutes with only the sound of Lil' Somethingorother in the car.
"You've gotta be kidding me," Kyle said looking in his rearview mirror.

Jake leaned forward to look in the side mirror to see a rusty Mitsuhondyota right on their bumper. Josh Avery. Kyle slammed the gas to the floor and took off, only to have Avery creep right back up. This went back and forth a few times, with plenty of expletives and thrown fingers from Kyle. Jake sat and wondered what would happen. Then he saw the car pass them on the left, and got a glimpse of Avery, in a similar position as Kyle, giving them a quick glare before pulling in front and hitting his brakes. Kyle reacted quickly enough, and came to a halt a few feet back. Before they'd stopped moving, Avery was out of his car and halfway to them. Kyle had his window down to maximize his fist shaking and bird throwing, and Avery came right to the door and started punching through the opening over and over again into Kyle's face and hands and arms trying to protect himself.
Avery got in five or six punches before Jake was on his back, pulling him from under the arms away from the car. Jake wasn't a very big or strong kid, and Avery could probably have turned on him and laid him down. He just struggled instead, then whipped his body around, swinging his arms towards Jake. He fell back into the road, just in time to see a pickup lurch forward on its brakes four feet from him.

Avery and Kyle screamed at each other, while Kyle held his nose in the nook between his thumb and forefinger trying to slow the blood. Avery reared back and kicked in Kyle’s door. He marched back to his car and sped off leaving Jake on the street with his heart racing and Kyle in his car, still buckled in, catching the blood seeping through his fingers with his other hand. The driver of the truck looked nervously at them, and leaned out the window.
"You guys alright?" praying they'd say yes so he could be on his way and not get mixed up in this.
"Yeah we're fine," said Kyle, muffled by his hand.

Jake had left town for college a few weeks later, and they'd had little contact in the time in between. They pulled into the parking lot of the small soup and sandwich place they used to hang out in. As they walked in, Jake recognized the server behind the counter as Chris Parker, a teammate from high school. Kyle went to the bathroom while Chris and Jake caught up.
"Is that Kyle, from high school?"
"Yeah, it is."
"Man, he hasn't changed much. Looks kinda ticked, like always."
"Yeah, he's always been kinda easy to set off. Takes things a little too personally, you know?"
Kyle had emerged from the bathroom and was coming up behind Jake.
Chris smiled and laughed, "Yeah, well, I hope this guy I hit in the Best Buy parking lot doesn't take it too seriously."
"What happened?" Jake asked. By now, Kyle was behind him and to the right listening to the story.
"Sheesh man, I had kind of a crazy night on Monday, and I had to be in at work over there Tuesday morning. I was still a little, you know, 'not all there,' and I saw this idiot that parked way out in the middle of the lot over three spots. You know, those guys that think their car is some pimped out work of art. Anyway, I wasn't really thinking and I just smoked past the car without really caring if I nudged it, and I actually ran my bumper along the driver's side on accident. But then I kinda laughed about it, you know?"

As Jake looked around to his left to see if Kyle was out yet, he heard the soft sound of rubber soles on the stainless steel counter, the swish of tearaway pants, and a surprised yelp. He quickly completed his 360 degree turn to see Kyle land on Chris and disappear behind the counter. Jake planted his hands on the counter to launch himself over and almost ran into Kyle's back as he stood up quickly with his hands raised. Chris struggled to his feet with one hand pointed at Kyle. As Jake came around them he saw that in that hand Chris had a large butcher knife. Jake found himself between both of them, with insults and challenges flying back and forth, his hands up on either side of him, palms facing Kyle and Chris.

Say Hello To Tomorrow's Lunch

Hell's Gate Duathalon tomorrow in Lewiston. Wish my legs luck. Much to everyone's dismay, I may have to trade in my full spandex costume for something a bit warmer, as the the temperature at the race start is forecasted to be 38F.

All You Need Is Compliance

I was looking for a paper on archetypal criticism that I wrote last year but instead found one where I used Marxist criticism to examine Moulin Rouge. We were limited to a page for this, and I know that there are too many commas and that they're mostly in the wrong places. Try to enjoy it.

Attempting to apply a literary criticism that stemmed from the pro-communist movement seems like a stretch at first. But after realizing that the driving force of most stories is conflict, and that Marxist criticism focuses exclusively on class-conflict, we can quickly pick out parallels between them and the world. In Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge, the characters are presented to us in a very distinct class system and more importantly, their attitudes genuinely reflect class struggle under a Marxist lens.

We’re first introduced to the proletariat, who make up the vast majority of the cast, portrayed by a group of Bohemian artists who call themselves the “Children of the Revolution.” We can see this as the lower class’s way of dealing with their poor status in the system by seeing themselves as artistically superior where they’ve been financially and materialistically inferior, and ushering in a “Revolution.” Christian, Satine, and Harold are also members of the working class, but in different positions. Christian is a penniless writer, Satine an entertainer and prostitute, and Harold the ringleader of the Moulin Rouge. While all three have different day to day obligations and responsibilities, they all share one thing in common: They are all trying to please the Duke, the only symbol of the bourgeois in the film.

The Duke provides us with the most interesting ideas for Marxist criticism in Moulin Rouge. He obviously has the most pull of anyone in the film, as everything seems to revolve around him and what he wants. Christian and Satine have their relationship, but always around the Duke, always knowing that it’s big trouble if he finds out. Harold may run the Moulin Rouge which seems like the most powerful position in the context of the movie, but even he scrambles to keep the Duke happy at all cost by lying to him about Satine and Christian and signing the Moulin Rouge over to him as insurance. As the Duke begins to become aware of what’s happening, the story reaches its most profound points.

First of all, the Duke only realizes what’s going on between Satine and Christian when a dance-girl, a member of the proletariat, lets him in on it by asking “Why would the [girl] fall for the penniless writer? Oops, I mean sitar player.” The Duke is seemingly clueless until that point. Next he does something that embodies the style of the bourgeoisie almost perfectly. He demands that the play be re-written with Satine falling in love with the maharajah, understanding that Christian is writing the story exactly how the love triangle is really playing out between himself, the Duke, and Satine. Here we see the essence of bourgeoisie interpellation; obedience without heart. The Duke sees that things aren’t going his way and will now use his power to have them “act out” what he wants, totally aware that Satine doesn’t love him. He would rather have obedience and maintain his position over a real love with Satine. We see this again the end of film when the Duke tells Harold that he will have Christian killed if Satine doesn’t come to the tower to be with him, again we see that the duke doesn’t want actual love, his ideology is that the mere action of submission is all he can hope for now.

You Were Laughin At My Gollum Face

I enjoyed it. Highlights included Philosophy, Chris Mills, and a personal tribute in song from Ben Folds himself to the great state of Idaho. There are a few more pictures from the show at my flickr site.