In a Good Place

No matter how crazily life has spiralled up, down, sideways, in the past three weeks, I have come to a calm. Its a good pace, in a happy space, especially when you sit on my face. OK, maybe not that last part. From a passionate kiss to the little leaf buds popping on the trees, the rebirth is here.

Today on my Strength Training ride, pushing 50X11 up short, steep climbs, and some on gravel, my rear tire became that dreaded soft, sluggish feeling. I raised my right arm for the team car to swap out my wheel, but unfortunately I am not ProTour level so there is no team car. Long story short, the spare tube & CO2 inflator were not cooperative so I knew there was only one way home, on foot. Not wanting to ruin my nice white shoes, I stuffed them in my jersey pocket, removed my socks & began the 2 mile walk back to the Blacksburg Transit bus stop.

Under normal circumstances, walking while carrying your bike would piss most people off and ruin their day. For some reason I was thinking for once & instead of walking on the road I walked through the grass. It seems like years since I have walked barefoot through lush, soft grass and the cool squish beneath my feet made the walk actually, yes, enjoyable. Instead of dwelling on the stupid flat tire, I focused on the greenness of the grass, the shapes of the clouds, the curious cows that ran up to the fence line to watch this lycra clad dork walk by carrying a bike instead of pedalling it.

And I smiled. I sang a song that I just heard over on a video at Ignacio's Speedmore Racing Blog. And I smiled some more. For once I wasn't pent up with unnecessary rage, but being "tranquilo".

Hit Play & Smile cause "No one's gonna love you" more than I do:

Too much Salami...

Let me be the first to admit it: Nothing ever good comes from too much salami. Oh yes, feel free to read into that as deeply as you choose. Whether it's the salami in my refrigerator cooler drawer or the salami in my drawers, too much salami is never a good thing.

After what seems like a month of feeling like crap on the bike, its seems the body has blown clean of relative sickness & riding is once again enjoyable & punishing at the same time. Glorious days are here again. With all the time I've been spending on the bike I should be plowing through the post ride calories, but oddly enough, I've been content to eat sparingly & still feel full and fueled. Of course two Pabst tall boys followed by three St. Bernardus Pater 6 aren't totally light on calories, but I did manage to eat only a garden salad so it balances out. Or so I tell myself.

But what is all this talk of Salami you say? Well it is somewhat well known that I have a fondness for tubed shaped meat. No asshats, not that kind of tube shaped meat, but dried meat products stuffed in some kind of casing. Ok, ok, I'm getting nowhere with this.

On my trip to Belgium last year, I was in dried meat heaven. I managed to make a habit out of gorging on Stickado, and even managed to smuggle some back in stateside, though they only lasted about 3 days before I ate them all and USDA kicked down my door. So, how can too much salami be so bad? Well if you are a loser with the ladies like I am, it goes down something like this.

I return from a hard ride with Matt "Stickado". Wow that sounded homo.

So anyways, I get back from our ride & I have only about 1 hour to eat, wash up, and head out to yoga, where there is a super cute girl I've been making eyes at. I open the fridge, hmmm, what can I eat quickly & still is satisfying? Why of course, Salami, that will sit fine in my stomach after strenuous exercise. I munch on some tasting soprosetta sausage, and head out to yoga. After some up dogs, down dogs, and other poses that contorts my gut, I begin to feel the salami repeat into my throat. Good job dumbass, lets go talk to the cute girl with salami breath.

Unfortunately I no longer live in NJ, aka Soprano Italian land, so my salami breath would not have the aphrodisiac effect it would have on the ladies back in say, Nutley NJ. Class ends, the cute girl smiles goodbye and my salami breath feel so repulsive to myself that I barely dare crack a smile in fear of leaking out some sausage spices gas.

I return home, tail between my legs, having to wait another week to cross paths again. So to dull the pain of my loserdom, I cook up some stuffed salmon, maybe fish breath is better? No wonder I'm still single.

The Times They Are A Changing

12 days till I'm 32 & all I can say is getting old blows. All through school you are taught useless shit, like history, English, terrible sex ed class. Hell, the only class that actually had some latter day application was home ec where we learned how to cook rice. They need to go back & have a class called "Getting Older Blows - 101". In this class you will learn about back pain, mortgages, friends coming & going out of your life, receding hairlines, pills that cause 4 hour erections (not necessarily a bad thing), and the monotony of the 9-5. Another required viewing of class will be Office Space, for those who dream of climbing the corporate ladder, you need this heavy dose of reality.

Why didn't someone warn me of this shit?! Well as I can hazily recall, people who were in their 30's & 40's were warning me, but at the time 30 seemed so far off I never could wrap my noddle around ever making it that long. So now I get to hear people say "wait till you're 50" and I say, that is highly improbable. Maybe I should enroll in "Getting Even Older Blows 202, the 50+ years" and learn about the joys of my future prostate exams, senior citizens discounts on Tuesday, all you can eat buffets, more erection pills that now require asking your doctor if you are healthy enough for sexual activity, and receding grey hair.

Blah, too much to wade through and not enough time to figure it out. Pass the bottle buddy, hit the play button, turn it up, and dream about those not with you today. The bonus of older days is that maybe one day it will make sense and the cards will fall in place.

From Mega-Watts to Melancholy

As easy as the wind blows weather changes through the mountains of southwest Virginia, life blows changes through the simplistic routines of the everyday. Rewind one weekend & I'm pumping out power to the pedals I've never done before. Fast forward to today, and the body says, "enough, time for a rest whether you like it or not." And so the funk begins again. Unfortunately the mental anguish is accompanied not by a simple sinus infection, but the thought of the "C" word. No, not cunnilingus, but the big C. The uncontrollable C that takes hold of people's body no matter how healthy they are, or how much they fight all the causes. C'est la vie.

And so with the drab weather casting gray shadows over all I see, the brain has time to wander about & reminisce of past encounters, fleeting minutes spent staring in the eyes of beauty & longing for those time to hurry back. But like the changing weather or the big C, those moments are out of our control so we simply can reflect on them & be hopeful we shall experience them again.

Thoughts of a cold beer at the campsite, shins shredded from stinging nettles as you bomb downhill mud flying in your face, a wet dog waiting at the tent to greet you at the end of a great ride.

Oh warmth, come back soon. Your sweet embrace is missed by my body. Your sweet spring breeze feels like gentle lips pressed to my cheek. Your sun rays milking the sweat down my face (and giving me goddamn skin cancer) as I grind uphill. Your morning dew coating the rocks and causing the tires to lose their line, skinning my knees like sweet carpet burn. And yet through all the falls & abrasions, I get back up & push forward, for it is in that feeling that you get such sweet release.

So today there will be no Metallica pumping through the headphones, no need for that aggression. Instead I offer up to Mother Nature & those long at heart a mellow mood to ease the mind as we await warmer days. Oh Mother Nature, you MILF, I can't wait for your hot touch so I can get at your "Buttons & Zips" & tear it up with two tires.

Mega Watts

No this isn't part of Obama's Greening of the power grid, this is the power of tequila fueled cycling legs. On Saturday I headed out with Fatt Phillips to do our typical Bradshaw Rd Loop & we were greeted by a stiff tailwind heading out on Blacksburg Road. Cruising along at 30 miles an hour without having to work too hard is always a great feeling & about as PRO fast as I can ever get.

We turn onto Rt. 311 and start to eye of the green town sign sprint for Catawba. We are riding shoulder to shoulder, no sucking wheels here, this will be a showdown of pure sprinter hardness. About 175 meters to go I give it the gas first & quickly find the tailwind is pushing us along as I have to drop gears to keep from spinning it out. I surge, Fatt pulls up along side, I drop it another gear & move away, Fatt surges, I drop one more gear and do the Boonen head bob as the line approaches. I give it my all, throw the bike & take the line by half a wheel. Whooo, that was rough.

We catch our breath & check out the Powertap numbers. Holy crap, Max Watts 1339, speed 35 mph. Fatt rolls up & says he hit 1343 Watts. I reassure him those extra 4 watts he had is do to his ass being bigger than mine & he needed an extra 40 watts to come around me. We get home, I download the power file, and holy shit, new 5 second personal best by almost 60 watts. Way to go Belgian Beer & Tequila, must be high grade alcohol rocket fuel.

As they say, if you don't have the file, it never happened, so here you go:

Boundaries Defined

From Merriam-Webster: Boundary - something that indicates or fixes a limit or extent

Seems simple enough, but as long as the week ends, and the weekend begins, boundaries are constantly disregarded and crossed. There has got to be some reinforcement tool to help establish those boundaries and remember not to cross them. What boundaries you may ask?

Boundary One: Caution...do not cross regulary: the limit of strong Belgian Beer followed by high dollar Tequilla. The problem lies when the tab is open under someone else's credit card or the bar does not charge you for the right price for the tequilla, that boundary line gets quite fuzzy. Quite fuzzy from the booze, the 8.5% abv beer and any extracircular activities that may be too incriminating to mention.

Boundary Two: I really need to get that cell phone breathalyzer installed when combined with crossing boundary one. Too much booze, a sexy woman on the other end of the line, and the next morning you wake up hung over with a vague recollection of a conversation that may have went something close to this:

Bad Phone Sex - Chris Rock

Sick in the Head

One week till the Jeff Cup Road Race and I wake up with infected snot draining from my sinuses. Contrary to what Phillips believes, it was not from watching Two Girls, One Cup, (which I have never, nor will ever, view) but from the changing weather. Every spring & fall when the weather changes from warm to cold, I seem to get a little sinus infection. I lucked out & did not get sick this fall or winter, but hell, today the 1st day of spring, I wake up congested.

In an attempt to blow out the congestion, I went on the usual Saturday ride, the plan was to do about 90 miles. I made it about 25 miles before deciding I would be better served to rest & recover than to force onward. It turned out to be the right decision. As a mountain biker more than a roadie, I pride myself on my bike handling as a way of intimidating the regular roadies. Little did I know that all the pressure would force me to use all my skills just to make it home. As I struggled up Gap mountain at a blistering 6mph, closing my eyes would make the pain go away but also make me zone out & swerve like I was zooted off my ass back in "High" School.

It's funny what the mind will imagine when the body is pushed to hard, the glucose in your body at dangerously low levels. As I forced the cranks over, the song kept repeating in my mind.


Here's hoping there is no permanent brain damage done.

"Sorry Sir, Doing My Best"

Today shall be remembered, a day of epiphany. The vision: I am a dyslexic heart asshole when it comes to picking up women. Case in point, my often aggressive, self-assertive style of never being wrong (but usually in hindsight, find I am way wrong on some deeper level.) So long story short. I go downtown to get a haircut at the usual barber shop only to find it closed. Fuck. I really need a haircut, the hair on the side of my head is long enough to make my head look 2 sizes too large for my body. Remembering that a Great Clips just opened down the road, I stroll in for a quick haircut.

I'm not one to be picky about my haircut, just buzz the shit off & make my head look proportionate to my body. I realize the canvas that is my face does not give much to work with, so just make me look slightly better than a baboon's ass & I'm happy. The canvas that is my face is more in line with a Picasso, only beautiful to those who can see through the jumble of shit that composes it.

So I am greeted by a cute girl, hair stylist. For some reason, hair stylist have this extraordinary cuteness, driven by their own uniquely styled hair & fashion-mod sense. Or maybe they are cute cause I know they'll be rubbing my head in a few minutes. Regardless, this girl was exceptionally "cute" and super friendly.

And here is where it all goes downhill. She simply asks for my name and phone number to put in the computer and I resist like a P.O.W. with jumper cables clamped to his testicles. I only give out name, rank, & serial number, I know this shit, I've been trained to kill. Really, whoever is the marketing douche who thought of this years ago, I say "Fuck you" I hate getting spammed either by email, phone, or shitty mail flyers that just end up contributing to the trash heap that is pushy marketing. But the cute girl plays it off like its not spam, just a way to know something, like your haircut or god knows what. So they crank the power up & the battery cables sizzle my nuts, but I resist & say "John Doe", sounds good.

Having obviously made more of a production out of this than is necessary, I get my haircut, & in the process talk with this lovely girl who is new to the area (hint #1), talks about dating (hint #2), asks me if I'm married with kids (umm, no) (hint #3), etc. She spends way more time than is necessary to make me look pretty, a losing battle really, & I feel so douchenozzlish, that I give her my name, phone, blood type, & all the secret plans for invasion I had so direly resisted initially. Feeling like a huge dick, I give her a $5 tip for a $10 haircut, take my shrivelled & dejected balls out the door, & that's when I have my epiphany.

That girl was making nice, almost too nice, & I was a total dickbag. God I'm an asshole when it comes to picking up the signs. I walk over to the grocery store & can't stop thinking, "what an asshole", "what an asshole". If I had just given her my fucking name, I could have then hinted at asking her out, but no, Mr. Anti-Marketing, Anti-Man, you fucking blew it! What an asshole. Have fun jerking off tonight instead of taking cute hair stylist girl on a date. "What an asshole".

"How many assholes we got on this ship anyhow?"

Push play & hammer

After a long weekend in NoVa visiting the family, the Capt seems to be on the biking downswing. I only managed 1 ride in NoVa, a nice 64 mile solo ride to visit my sister & mom's work place & meet some of the fine ladies at their office (if you're reading this Kelly, you should next be emailing me). My Rogues Racing picture is displayed in the office & I have found out it has been affectionately (or perversely) dubbed the "package picture." Funny cause I'm not holding any boxed goods, hmm.

After riding Wednesday, trying out a new Prologo saddle, the old back pain flared up & the demotivation kicked in. After reassessing the saddle fit, I determined it was 6mm to rearward. 6mm too long, the story of my life. After moving the saddle forward, I still didn't have the inclination to get on the bike & fear the back pain I have come to dread.

Luckily my crazy sister called saying she wants to buy a bike. After a 20 minute talk about bikes, caloric burn rate, & heart rate monitors, I felt I should man up & get on the bike & see how it goes. Knowing I still needed a little push to get out the door into the warm weather, I stuck the I-Brick mp3 player in my pocket, loaded up some old Metallica (when they were good), and blasted down the road, instantly realizing my saddle was where it belonged, cradling the "package." For 2 hours, double kick drums & tight guitars blasted through the ear buds, oh yeah, the legs are coming back, the brain is thinking positively.

So little kiddies, when you are feeling low, load up on coffee, eat some potatoes, grab the bike & blast Blackened. This shit will having you pedaling like a coke head on a stolen bike.

Reverse Road Rage

It's confirmed. Northern Virginia blows for cycling. After living in Blacksburg for almost 4 years, I've become spoiled by our low traffic, rural roads. So after riding 65 miles on shit traffic, a-hole clogged NoVa roads, the Captain is ready to rage and snatch & grab the douchenozzles who think they own the road.

In SW Va you can usually chock up all the "biker fag" comments to some uneducated redneck in a dually pickup, but in NoVa, the spectrum of assholeness knows no bounds. So to the rich business man in his Mercedes SUV, to the Redneck with the 4th grade education in your big ass pick-um-up truck, I give you a hearty FUCK YOU.

I warned you I was ready to rage. Maybe its years of supressed anger from my time in the Marines, the andrenaline I feel while stomping the pedals, or years of sexual tension, but yesterday I was praying someone would have the balls to stop & exchange words. The only words I would have uttered would be:

HAMMER FIST BITCH!

Swingers, Martini's, & Dogs...oh my!

5 days later & I think the remnants of my weekend in NoVa have finally subsided. What was orginally meant to be a getaway weekend at my sisters house for my 6 year old nieces birthday party turned into the same old scenario when I hang out with my sister too much. Instead of 5 days of the bike training, I only mananged 3 rides, & I can barely call any of them training. I'll chalk that up as a rest week & move on.

The real story is, people in NoVa are weird. Yeah, thats coming from me who believes everyday should be a weird day. It seemed like a normal family get together, playing with my niece, drinking an adult beverage or two while the little kiddie birthday party raged on, throwing kids across the room onto the couch, and doing the fun stuff that uncles are meant to do. All is well, until my sister gets the notion of taking uncle Dan out on the town.

And here is where I see the trend. Everytime I've gone out with my sister to a big city I:

1. Get royally shitfaced (lost count of the beers & Martini's)
2. Have a run in with security or some "authority" figure at some point or another
3. Get royally shitfaced
4. Talk shit to guys 5 times my size, well at least in height or width
5. Get royally shitfaced
6. Learn about suburban married life
7. Get royally shitfaced.
8. Wake up the next day, vowing to never do that again.
9. Have to research Statute of Limitations before I cross back into county lines again

So, Yes, I'll admit somewhere therein lies a problem. And I believe I found the root cause. My sister broke out a picture of times long gone & it all became clear.

She has never forgiven me for being the cuter baby and now it has become her life goal to secretly, or actually not so secretly, help me (though not much help is needed) make an ass of myself whenever we hang out. I'm sorry Jen, I had no say in the matter of baby batter. I received the Collinsworth genes, you got the brains & the money, I got the looks & self destructive behaviors. Seems like a fair trade-0ff.

What I did take home is some valuable lessons in suburban survival. For one, I learned that white rocks in your front yard signify your house is a Swinger house. Not one to miss such an opportunity I promptly went out & purchased a white rock for my house that hopefully conveys the message.

No sooner did I put it in front of my house, and this lovely lady showed up.

I also learned that I need to "accesorize" my house more, so I am off today to Bed, Bath, & Beyond to pick out some lovely curtains, maybe some paintings, and some decorative spear tips that I seem to have a liking to after some drinks. I feel my man bits shrinking at the thought. Never would I dream I would have to analyze, "hmm what color curtains go with my carpet." <--- Not Code, either.

Tis a sad day. The only saving grace was, "hmmm I wonder what color curtains signify a swinger house?"

Owen Cup B Race

This past weekend, Blacksburg once again held the Owen Cup race ride. After a good Rogues Racing training camp, I felt ready for the distance & intensity this ride would bring. We had a huge turn out for the 10:00 a.m. start that meets at the local coffee house Bollo's. The race ride is broken down into two groups, the A group made up of Pro, Cat 1-3 riders, and the B group made up Cat 4-5 & old fat guys. After Cow Tail talked some shit to me, I did what I normally do not do & just bit my lip & kept quite. Its called keeping your cards close to your chest. Knowing that the form is coming around after training camp, a good night of eating lots of good food, and plenty of rest, I felt prepared to put it all together come Saturday.

And come together it did. The long hilly course coupled with a headwind on Blacksburg road saw earlier groups all come back together on Harding Rd. & with the A group intermingling with the B's, everything was blown open. Coming back on Blacksburg Rd into the headwind I knew I needed to soften up @RyanHarne since on most days he will blast me on the climbs. Several feeler attacks showed that my legs were ready, his were failing, & come the base of Harding I gave it full gas, opened up the gap, & willed my fat ass up the climb to take the B race*

* (It has been determined that if you are a former all American runner & previous Cat 2 racer, you should be racing in the A race Steve , sorry you've been relegated by the commisare, but thanks for the sweet bike)

So 2009 is looking to be good as long as the back holds out, the zole fits into the saddle cutout, and I keep the post race vomiting to a minimum. I can feel relieved that for the 2009 Owen Cup, I was the fastest of the fat, old men!

On another depressing note, I received my USA Cycling race license. Racing age for 2009: 32. Fuck, I wish I was dyslexic, & it read 23. Don't let the old people fool you, getting old blows goat nuts.

Rearviewmirror Rogues Racing Training Camp

Back in Bburg after a great weekend of riding for 3 days down in Georgia with Rogues Racing. We mananged to ride nearly 200 miles in 3 days, ate some good food, got plenty of rest, and managed to shake a lot of the cobwebs out of the legs from a long cold winter in southwest Virginia. It was great to spend time with friends and devote all aspects of life to bike racing. If we weren't riding, we were talking bikes, fixing bikes, or watching Belgian Classic bike races. Pure heaven.

Matt L. is looking fit & trim & was riding well for such a big bubba, look out come this spring. John W. earned the title of camp hard-man by taking the Brasstown Bald climb. John the Hippie has got the diesel engine fired back up after recovering from last years run in with a car; race & weekend ride climbs now will be a lot harder. Matt P. is looking ok, I think he needs to lay off the veges & come to the Dark Side for real power. Carlson is well, Carlson. I felt better as the days progressed, and My Legs are starting to look ready for the upcoming spring races.

Overall, I was impressed by the Georgia residents on the road. Never got the "F-U" for being on the road and for the most part got a good 3 feet or more of room on the side of the road. I wish the same could be said for the local rednecks around this area at times.


Oh and maybe I am a little redneck cause Mtn. Dew is the best soda ever. 70 miles into a ride, chug a 12 ounce can of Mtn. Dew & you will be flying up the Georgia Climbs.

Where Did It All Go?

Two weeks ago I find myself in some nicely improving form. About 10 days off for the holiday's gave me plenty of time to rest, ride, & eat... ahh the life of a cyclist, if it could only be this way everyday. The legs were coming around well, the power was improving, and the general aches & pains were gone due to gym work & yoga. Riding again was fun & motivational as turning the pedals over was easy.

Fast forward to the past week and the form is gone. Constant left calf cramps sting like a dull needle in the leg. Its an annoyance more than anything & better than the 2 days of constant stomach bug that had ruined any hope of Andrew Gold this past saturday.

This week the team heads down to Georgia for a 4 day training camp. Yep the Devil Went Down to Georgia. Hopefully the bug will be gone & the legs will be ok so I can steal some souls on Brasstown Bald.

Remember December?

Happy New Year? Where the hell did December & the holidays go? Back to life, back to work, back to the blah of a cold winter with only 1.5 hours at best to ride the bike after work.

This holiday I told myself I will remember December, what I enjoyed from it, and what I'll do to make next December better. This year I got an early start on the holiday spirit by watching a "A Christmas Story" early. This is by far the best Christmas movie ever made or ever will be made.

With the thought of Momma's Little Piggy fueling me until vacation started, I was excited to go to NoVa and visit my Sister, Mother, & Niece . I brought the bike as usual & planned on staying for 5 days.


Lesson 1 learned: 5 days was not enough time. I had so much fun chasing my niece around the house, taking her to a bike shop & letting her wreak havoc, and giving her my "toots" as presents that it makes me want to almost get married & start my own family. Almost...

I also enjoyed watching my favorite "A Christmas Story" movie on 24 hour loop. And this is where the sadness crept in. Once the 24 hour loop ended, I felt like my Christmas had slipped away, even though I still had 3 more days with the family. Lesson 2 Learned: Bring my DVD & play it on 96 hour loop (that'll make everyone happy) & they have no option in their happiness or madness as this is Uncle Dan's only Christmas request.


As is tradition, I got plenty of riding in. NoVa is so flat compared to Blacksburg that I feel like I have extra gears cruising around at 25mph. I did my traditional 75 mile ride into Washington D.C., saw the sights & got the hell out quick as there was plenty of tourists visiting to see Obama's Inauguration Stage being built. Lesson 3 learned: Kashi GoLean! bars kick ass on the bike, tons of protein for the long burn, low fat, & easy on the gut.


So now begins the next Countdown to Christmas. I'm sure 2009 will bring plenty of fun adventures, but come early December I'll re-read this & remind myself, take the whole 12 days off, I triple dog dare you.

Spent

Definition from Merriam-Webster:
SPENT
Pronunciation: \ˈspent\
Function: adjective
Etymology: Middle English, from past participle of spenden to spend
Date: 15th century
1 a: used up : consumed b: exhausted of active or required components or qualities often for a particular purpose
2: drained of energy or effectiveness : exhausted
3: exhausted of spawn or sperm

Spent is what the Captain is. After Saturday's 113 mile ride over Potts Mountain to Paint Bank and eventually back to Blacksburg I was pretty spent. Then with Sunday's noon two hour mountain bike ride hammerfest at Poverty Creek, the level of being spent has increased ten-fold. And let me clear up any confusion, I'm spent as in definition number 2, not number 3... unfortunately. Though number 3 wouldn't be a bad way to die. Hell I think I put out more energy over two days of riding than the salmon who swim upstream just to bust a nut & then die. And unlike the salmon, no nut was busted, the only consolation prize being sore quads & a saddle sore or two.

Still, I can't find any reason to complain. Two continous days of no rain or snow was enough to satisfy the caged beast until I visit NoVa and prepare to ride the 94 miles to Washington D.C. from my sisters house. Bring on the WO&D TRAIL and its never ending supply of Fred's. I think this guy is nicknamed "bas".

Losing a whole week

The never ending shitty weather that has descended on Blacksburg has caused the Captain to spiral into a funk of boredom and self-reflection. Aside from the thrice weekly yoga, the Captain has become a caged beast behind the bars of physical inactivity and a slumping economy. Without the ability to take the angst out on the bike, burying all of life’s worries in a beautiful orchestra of sweat, suffering, and simultaneous endorphin produced high, life becomes a slow motion slog of repetitive chores. Click on the weather and look for respite from the madness. 5 more days of this rain, fuck me.

With no physical outlet to ease an even wandering mind, the only choice is towards menial house work but you can only sweep the floor so many times before you realize this is no was to pass time. And for whatever reason, the Captain has sworn off the drink till New Years. Sure it's kind of an ass-backwards New Years, or should I say End Years, resolution, but hey I think I have about a 26% chance of upholding it. If this rain keeps up, the odds decline ever faster.

So I’m forced to sit here and type witty shit to keep the mind from eating itself . Listening to music from the hey-day of my life, reminiscing about ex-girlfriends, and dammit stop looking at that bottle of beer and concentrate. But really there isn’t much to focus on. Christmas is a week away, but at my age, Santa is more about time off from work than presents or any of the material shit that I’ve been busy selling off on eBay, trying to lighten the load for when the great mind-snap comes & I leave town on a whim for greener pastures.

Until then the only solace comes from 90’s rock and hazy memories of good times gone by. I’m still amazed, and one of my great loves, is the association of music to memories. Some memories are clearer than others, and some of the best are covered in a green haze of broken fragments and cake covered fingers. Yet, as the Captain ages, and the gray hair, and not just on your head…(wtf nobody ever told me of this part of aging) become more prominent, I can’t escape the great times spent with those close to my heart and the distance that separates us all at this time of year. So all I can do is sing along staring at old pictures of a young Captain & long missed friends.

Ohhh let the music/memory association roll on…








"I remember you and me used to spend The whole goddamned day in bed"

Beer Mondays & The Shoelace Knot Syndrome

Oh Fudge. That is the only way to describe waking up on Tuesday after blitzing your liver Monday night. And why did I do this again I keep asking myself the next day. Cause there ain't much else to do in Blacksburg when it is rainy/snowy/windy all at the same time at night. After seeing Religulous & feeling assured that my soul will forever burn in hell for even viewing this movie, I thought no time like the present to further my impending damnation. Drinking way too many beers seemed like the appropriate way to go to Hell in a Bucket .

And that bucket was lined with one too many beers & some stupid Drinking & Texting. I need to put a Breathalyzer on my cell phone so I don't do this dumb shit (of course someone has already found out how to do this, so fuck me for thinking I had an original thought). First let me be clear, the Captain does not condone drinking & driving, or any such animal. One of the main selling points when I purchased my house was that it is on the bus route so I could get royally shit-faced free of any dependency of me driving afterwards. Sure you might say that's a red flag for being an alcoholic, I argue it's called being responsible. If more people had this mindset, there would not be so many unnecessary car accidents & injuries. Better yet, while we are on the subject, lets just replace those cars with bikes. Drinking & bike riding is a comical mode of transport at best. I give you exhibit A:

But back to the title and away from my defense of being a winter boozehound. The shoelace knot syndrome is that annoying head split after one too many beers finished off by a Jimmy John's sub with onions, no mayo please, I am still following my diet, thank you very much (well not counting all the beer calories).

Overnight, if you do not properly rehydrate, the shoelace knot will grow in your mind & next morning you awake to the squinty eyed, head split pain that only this lethal combination brings. The onions are key cause no matter how much you brush your teeth, the onions taste is regurgitated into your mouth & nasal cavity with every stinking morning breath. This is probably why I am still single.

And that leads us to: "the shoelace knot" is that super tightened knock that you can never undo from your laces, expect it is your brain that is knotted. You pick at it with your fingernails. No dice. Next you dig at it with a fork. Still not budging. You find a thin nail to pry at it. Nope, nothing. So you get impatient & say, fuck this, and cut it out with scissors, only to realize now you shoe is all loose & won't stay on your foot and who the hell keeps spare shoelaces anyway?

And that is what is going on inside your beer swelled skull. A super tight knot that only lets you know how much of an asshole you were the night before. Unfortunately there is no way to untie your brain & so you must live with the fact that after another stupid, drunken night, you have not learned your lesson. Still, it does beat Puking in the Kitchen Sink & missing the Duke football game.

I'll make it all go away

Not much can floor me anymore. But there is one constant that can humble me. Blind Melon and the passing of Shannon Hoon. Angelic melodies are intertwined in "Soup", a song that resonates through my hardscrabble life.

Listen & read:

The clothesline of cold eyes is washing away the face before
Now tell me what's wrong you see everyone's gone
You gotta do your best to decorate this dying' day
This dying' day
All over a bowl of bitter beans
All over a bowl of bitter beans
And outside way, way up high I got a quarter moon mist hanging' over me
And now, I want that rocking chair outta there
Cause he's no longer living here
It's no longer needed here
All over a bowl of bitter beans
All over a bowl of bitter beans
And I got a corner store and that's all the more
For me to praise upon the holidays
And now I'll close my eyes really, really tight and make you all go away,
I'll make you all go all go away
And I'll pull the trigger and make it all go away
And I'll make it all go away, I'll make it all go away

One Year Anniversary

Today marked an important milestone for the ever aging Captain. My one year check-up finds the Captain free & clear from my previous precancer diagnosis of Actinic Keratosis. Hearing the "C' word at 30 years old was an eye opening experience. With those simple words from the Doctor, the first feeling was that hollow gut, almost nausea in the pit of your deepest stomach cavern.

Then the thoughts quickly go to how do we treat it? Easy enough. Put this Efudex on your face & your skin will start to fall off like the Nazi in Indiana Jones.



And just like that Nazi, well maybe not like a Nazi, but you get the point, my face melted & then healed back up to the lovely lady killer that I am.

So now it's remember to use your sunscreen kiddies, visit the dermatologist once a year while trying to avoid the inevitable Proctologist visit.