Open the Door

Last night I dreamt I met you at the top of a mountain.

You were whispering to me in the darkness, but I could hear nothing more than the howling wind. I looked deep into your eyes: past my reflection. Past the sullen green. Past the tiny atoms. I looked deep into the darkness and I saw a small flickering flame. I gasped as it grew stronger—singeing your lashes and sending wisps of blue smoke into the night.

It was only a fleeting moment before the flame died out and you turned to ice; cracks spreading across your cheeks like spider webs. My hands flew to your face, but slipped on your glassy skin. Before I could hold you in my arms, the wind pushed past me and sent you tumbling over the edge.

At the base of the mountain I found you shattered into a million pieces, each one glinting like a shiny tooth. I sifted through the shards, staring intently at their patterns; finding tiny memories of you locked safely within.

The way you curl you hands closely to your body when you sleep:

I must keep this one.

Your laugh: resonating and honest, robust yet child-like:

I love this one.

The way you hold me close to your chest and kiss me, as if I hold the answers to all of your questions:

I cannot live without this one.

I gathered each piece in earnest, surrounded by your presence: lost in thoughts of you. But for each of the pieces I picked up, another would slip from my grasp, falling silently back down to the earth. I collapsed to the ground, frustrated in my futile attempts, holding my head in my hands as I cried.

Through the tears, I looked around at your pieces spread out before me and began to count them. I counted long into the night: through the setting moon and rising sun. As the warmth surrounded me, the shards began to melt away, and I sat back in stunned silence.

Surrounded by a million billion pieces of you, I was overwhelmed by your graces, overwhelmed by your accomplishments, overwhelmed by your love. As the last sliver of your remains melted away, I stood up, unsure which direction I had come from—which direction to go. I looked down at my clenched fist, slowly uncurling my fingers, revealing a tiny object grasped tightly beneath...

....one solitary piece of you left in my hand; pale blue in its reflection of the sky. I stared at it, safely locked away, never more grateful to have known a million billion pieces of you.

Plus that one.


All my love C.

[callie].

Local Woman Full of Thanks, Burritos

The grains of rice clung together for support, piled high on the hard white ceramic, forming canyons and mountains across the vast landscape of my plate. A lone scallion was perched high atop the rice summit, facing toward the twin peak in the distance, perhaps counting its rations, resting for only a minute before making its slow decent. What was it doing without any fellow climbers? I thought to myself. Everybody knows you should never climb alone. I imagined other scallions, belaying each other up the steep face, a Sherpa carrying their gear and following cautiously behind.

I looked up from my plate to the brightly colored walls of the Mexican restaurant. The place was packed with people, laughing amongst friends, sharing stories of the week, plans for the holidays. The servers bustled around the room, barely squeezing between the chairs, not spilling a drop of tequila as they passed. I imagined the waiters as little beans, mashed into the crowds of people, melting together into a giant burrito.

¿Quién tiene hambre?

The ground beneath my feet became soft and rubbery, granules of rice sticking to my chair. The walls curved softly towards our table. I pressed hesitantly at the thin tortilla, verifying its authenticity. I looked down at my chair, a giant green chili, my eyes stinging from the fumes. Slowly around us cheese began to ooze into every crevasse, quieting our conversations, squeezing the final breathes from our delicate lungs.

“Callie, do you want another Margarita?”

The burrito room quickly melted away, leaving nothing but concrete walls and terra cotta floors remaining. I looked up at my husband’s silly grin.

“I think I have had enough”, I said, perhaps too loudly.

Our table brimmed with exciting stories and laughter as our guests discussed the day’s events. They had driven up to Milwaukee from Lake Geneva for a day of riding, and happily quibbled over when they would return again. Soon the discussion turned to Thanksgiving, and we shared our excitement over which family members we were anxious to see, and our stresses over those we weren’t. Hours later, stuffed from the carb-laced meal we had just consumed, and high on each other’s company, we piled in our car and headed back home.

But as we drove through the city, my mind was still entangled with the fastly approaching holiday, and I thought about my family, and about our ritual. Every year on Thanksgiving, before we touch our food, we grasp hands. For a few moments, eyes closed, I hold on tightly to those hands, noticing how much softer one has gotten, how the other has aged. I open my eye a crack. Others are thinking the same.

Slowly we each take turns expressing our thanks for that year, reflecting on its trials, on Tim’s escapades at school, on embarrassing stories (usually involving dad). Once full circle, only then do we begin to pass the dishes, poignancy hanging in the room as thick as the fragrance of the bird.

I barely notice as we arrive home, stretching out my hand to our guests as they say their goodbyes. We climb into bed, and I stare wide-eyed at the ceiling. Mind racing, I start to piece together what I will say come Thursday. Should it be affectionate? Humorous? Should I discuss the heartaches? The blessings? Ideas fill my head, clogging it with anticipation, and I allow it to drain for a few moments before pondering more. Sharp pains emanate from my stomach, undoubtedly due to the burrito I had consumed earlier, desperately trying to get out. As I grow sleepier, visions of my family are intermingled with Mexican foods, forming horrific collages in my mind.

The year passes before my eyes in quick bursts. I think about the symbolism of the burrito, how its ingredients melt together in unity, just as our family, full of different flavors, comes together. Each piece is critical to its structure, each component offering its own unique service. As the visions flash through my mind, the pain in my stomach grows stronger, and I worry I will not make it through the night.

I wonder what would happen if I was to die in my sleep, due to a stomach ulcer or stroke. I think about what family would say, about how they would remember me. I think about the headline in the paper.

“Local Women Full of Thanks, Burritos,” it would read.

Members of the community would open the Journal-Sentinel to see my picture, clutching their cheats as they whisper their condolences to my family. A grave police officer, assigned with the unfortunate task of informing the family, would slowly walk up the steps to the front door of my parent’s house, practicing what he will say to my frantic mother. As he knocks, the door would slowly creak open, revealing an empty room, void of furniture, void of books, void of art.

Confused, the officer would step into the room, staring in amazement. Then he would see it, one solitary item lying in the middle of the floor. He would crouch down to the ground, touching it to verify it is indeed real, scratching his head in amazement, looking around to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

But there it would be, plain as day, staring solemnly back at him. One lone burrito. Bean, I believe.

[callie].

Sadie's ourney

When I was six, my parent’s received a disturbing phone call from my pre-school teacher. It appeared, the teacher sternly announced, that I had been kissing all the boys on the school bus.

There was a moment of silence as my mother collected herself, contemplating the gravity of the situation. She thought of what the boys’ parents must be saying, the hubbub that would be created. Slowly she cracked a smile, imagining her daughter parading around the bus from seat to seat, looking each boy square in the eye, only wavering for a brief moment.

It seems only fitting that 18 years later I was eagerly awaiting the Sadie Hawkins Day bike race in Chicago, IL: a race designed to turn the tables on the stereotypical love hunt that undoubtedly ensues at every bar and coffee shop in this city. This race, it would be the men who would wait in the sidelines to be chosen, the men who would be chased by the women, desperately trying to stay one step ahead.

Cale and I left for Chicago the night before the race, a Friday. As I got out of work that night and stepped outside, I was flooded with visions of the Apocalypse. It had already snowed an inch while I had been curled up in my cubical, and the snow was now coming down even faster, forcing bodies to race towards their cars, briefcases and weekend projects to review covering their sensitive skulls. I looked towards the sky, illuminated by constant bolts of lightning, and my feet shook from the thunder booming 360 degrees around me. It popped and cracked, as if laughing at my dilemma, forcing me to question the trek we were about to make.

I arrived home after an hour of tense driving to find Milwaukee slightly calmer, as if it had fulfilled that prescription for Prozac that West Bend had so diligently held off on. Cale began his hour long persuasion to get me to still attend this race, urging me that bad weather or not we would still have fun, reminding me that it was for a good cause, all of the proceeds going to the Women’s Health Center of Chicago. It worked.

We arrived in Chicago at the home of our good friends,

Ben and Julie, to find a large group of men wearing skirts, casually drinking and discussing their day’s activities. They were out-of-towners who gotten caught in the rain (which had been kind enough to accompany us on our journey southward) while riding, and clothes soaked, Julie lent the crowd her entire collection of formalwear. I stared at the bushy legs, the rippled fabric of the skirts that clung to their hips for dear life, and at the mysterious bulges that illuminated just how little the skirt designers had men in mind when designing. It was a clear homage to Sadie Hawkins Day.

Throughout the night more and more people began arriving, as if pants-less men had somehow acted as a party beacon, illuminating a homoerotic symbol in the sky. Julie had previously been in a dispute with her condo association owner, and feeling that she was owed reparations, she advised everyone to move down to the empty condo below her to party. We had a great time fulfilling all of the required party antics: meeting new friends, conversing with old,



drinking beer and watching that no one else’s be spilled on our feet,



and of course, competing in the obligatory chicken fights...




Yes, chicken fights.

As I looked around the room, my eyes landed on Ben, sauntering out of the crowd. I stared at his shirt, thinking of how true it was, of how many people had wronged me in my full-but-brief life.


Shaken back into reality by people urging me to dance, I moved towards the crowd, allowing the thought to slip from my head.

The night was a total success, and ended with Cale and I, head spinning, ears buzzing, heaped on a spare futon. A futon has never felt better.

We woke up to race day with the sun streaming in on us. Relieved to see a total lack of snow, hail, or locusts, we celebrated the glory of another day on this earth by eating a delightful breakfast together, riding to the cafe on our tandems.


On our way home from breakfast, the wind began to turn Westward, and a chill ran down the back of my spine. Suddenly a person rode swiftly past on a brand new track-ready Redline. He had a cigarette hanging delicately from his mouth, his feet resting on top of the clip-less pedals. This was not his bike.

As he rode by us, he glanced over and paused briefly. “You guys wanna buy a bike?” He said gruffly, cigarette bouncing up and down. We glanced at each other and rounded up any cash we had on us. $50 bought us a $1200 brand new track bike. “You guys made out good,” the undoubtedly cracked-out stranger told us as he started walking back the way he had came. All I could think about was how it was the original owner of the bike who truly “made out good” on this deal. We immediately posted the stolen bike on Craigslist, searching for its rightful owner.

Around 5 pm people started gathering in Humboldt Park for the race. It was an alley-cat style race, requiring riders to be in teams of two, one male and one female. There would be five pick-up points and five drop-off points that needed to be completed before riders could race to the finish line. The race was estimated to be ~20 miles and a 2 hour time limit was imposed. Julie had made a precarious bet on how many people would actually show, predicting that there would be around 100. We were stunned to see that roughly 80 couples showed, plus many assorted single guys looking for riding partners, and nearly 50 people who wanted to help work the race checkpoints and after-party.

[photo by Jana Stow]

[photo by _lyle_]

Julie handed out the manifest containing the addresses of all the checkpoints, and everyone quietly strategized with their partners for a few minutes before the start.

[photo by Jana Stow]

Cale and I were racing on a tandem. At least, “tandem” is what the manufacturer calls it in that it has two seats, two pairs of handlebars, and only two wheels. In reality, however, it is more representative of violent gnashing 110 lb. beast that one rides atop. This would not be easy. But as the clock approached six, Julie gave the nod, and everyone was off leaving nothing but an empty wine bottle and a few skid-marks in their wake. The race was on.

[photo by nat]

Unconfident in our knowledge of the streets of Chicago, Cale and I luckily befriended another couple on a tandem, Sam and Sarah, who agreed to ride with us for the race. We shared our strategies for the best way to handle the event. After the race, Sam uploaded our route, which shows just how full circle we truly came.

[Click for detailed map]

The ride itself was perhaps the most enjoyable one of the year, and we passed people who waved hello and pointed at our bikes, unable to subdue the smiles that tandems bring out. The racers could be seen all over the city, and every where we went people would ask about the race from a cab or a restaurant front. We followed traffic laws as best as could be expected, though we did get a scolding from a portly police officer who advised us not to run any more stop signs. I contemplated asking him if he had ever ridden on a 100 lb tandem whose only real means of stopping was a questionable (at best) coaster break, but Cale, my level-headed half, advised against it. Perhaps the best part of out ride was our riding partners, Sam and Sarah, who were the best company we could have asked for on our journey.

The checkpoints were good fun, usually packed with our competition, frantically trying to complete each checkpoint and get out of there before everyone else.

[photo by Tristan]

Each pick-up point was located at a candy store or chocolate factory in the city, and each drop-off point included a task that required the use of the objects picked-up. The tasks were team-oriented, ranging from transferring a lifesaver between toothpicks we held in our mouths, to tattooing each other with permanent markers...

[photo by nat]

...to the more challenging task of doing the wheelbarrow up and down a sledding hill with our partners. We had finished nearly all the checkpoints, and looked at our manifest to see the second to the last was located at The Bean. Upon arriving, we found a mass of people, arms aching from wheelbarrowing, legs shivering from the 30 degree weather.

[photo by Jana Stow]

But we were heartbroken to learn that the two-hour time limit had passed, and that we should go straight to the end of the race, skipping the final checkpoint, Navy Pier. We took the most direct route possible, and arrived at the endpoint on North Lincoln, doubtful that we would finish well.

Our final destination, which also happened to be the location of the after-party that Julie and pal Kisha organized, was already overflowing with riders.

[photos by Jana Stow]

Thankful for Sam and Sarah's navigation skills, we decided to turn in our manifests together, guaranteeing that wherever we placed, we would place together. Our trip had totaled 30 miles, 30% longer than we had anticipated. We tramped up the steps to the fourth-floor loft that housed the after-party and were welcomed by 200 some odd drunk, sweaty bikers.

[photo by _lyle_]

We warmed up, slowly drinking the 750 cans of pabst that were donated for the race...

Jettas are apparently designed to hold exactly 750 cans of PBR

...meetting many new people...

...and waiting anxiously for the race results.


Finally the results were announced, listing the first couple overall, first out-of-town couple, and best dressed. Finally the first in tandem was announced, and Sam, Sarah, Cale and I reigned victorious, crushing the other tandems that had competed, and winning us a custom-made hip pouch. It was a glorious victory, proving that working together can truly pay off in the end. "YOU'VE BEEN TANDEMIZED!" I shouted out, to no one in particular.

The rest of the evening was defined completely by drunken, mindless dancing as andrew.nothing DJ'd the event. I found myself moving in ways I never thought possible, and witnessing dance showdowns, from which the mental images still remain. Some were so audacious, there was nothing left to do but capture them on film.

[Sound plays a major role...]

As we rode home the magnitude of the weekend hit me hard, and I realized how much I value the friends in my life, and the people this hobby has allowed me to meet. I thought of the new faces, their shiny smiles, the beauty of the city. I thought of the people who came together to make this happen, of how grateful the Chicago Women’s Center would be to have the donations.

J is indeed for Jerk. But when it really comes down to it, this weekend was completely and fully J-free.

[callie].

Dec. 2nd: Dahmer Dash

Help support the bike community, and get out there and do something Dec. 2nd.

This is an alley-cat style race starting in Milwaukee. Race is expected to cover roughly 35 miles. I will see you at a checkpoint.

[callie].

The Sacrificial Lambs

Another month has passed since the Chicago crew has graced us with their presence, and yet another notch was carved on my tree of life lessons a few weekends ago as they returned, carrying with them the wisdom of a thousand regrets.

We met early on a Saturday morning at the Kenosha Velodrome, a long day of riding, greeting friends, and wresting with our inner demons ahead of us.

Leave your dignity at the gate…

It appeared that we had missed Satan only by a few minutes, but he had left a parting gift for us to enjoy.

Mix with herbed cream cheese, spread over bagel

The dead Salmon’s leathery carcass gleaming in the sun, true foreshadowing of the events to follow. It smiled at us, as if to say it understood our crazy lifestyles, as if it had been in on our jokes. “Thank you dead Salmon,” I said aloud, wondering where its other eye was.

After the ensuing dares associated with the Salmon, we released it back to its natural habitat, and it sank into the PCB-saturated river, bubbles floating to the surface like the final puff of smoke rising from the Native American’s pipe as he watches his land being taken away. A solitary tear rolled down Josh’s face.

But we didn’t allow the tragedy of the morning to keep us down. We rode all day, trying out each other’s bikes, eating the picnic we had prepared, and laying in the sun, taking in the beauty of the final remaining days of tolerable weather.

At one point in the afternoon, a sole challenger arrived on the track, his eyes fierce with competition.

Trek “Aristocrat”, to be released in November

His tires squealed on the track as he gathered speed, but he was quickly chased back into suppression by our contenders, and the men in our crew beat their cheats wildly in celebration.

As the day began to wind down, we departed from the track, stopping for dinner at a tiny drive-in restaurant tucked into the underbelly of Kenosha. It was known simply as “The Spot,” a fitting name for a restaurant void of any sense of cleanliness. Or class. Or patrons.

Ben read the large menu posted on the front of the building, admiring that they offered “gallon jugs of homemade root beer”, stunned by the sign’s outright challenge. He decided to take it…

The rules were simple: he had to drink the entire gallon within 30 minutes, after which he would be showered with money; money which would undoubtedly become soaked with his own vomit. Not willing to leave Ben without contender, Tristan offered up his own working kidneys, also agreeing to the abominable feat.

We watched nervously for the car crash that was inevitably about to happen, waiting for the slightest sign that either one was slipping into diabetic shock.

After his sixth frosty mug full, Ben’s internal alarm began blaring loudly, echoing off the nearby houses, raising us all to our feet. He was content to forfeit his victory, opting instead to allow the pavement to sooth his raging organs.

Tristan looked at his glass with regret. It was up to him now. Three, Four, Five…he drank the glasses slowly, staring each one in the eye, determined to win this for himself, as well as the root beer’s solitary victim of the day. His stomach began to fill to capacity, and root beer escaped from his body in the form of tears, raining down on the parking lot. We backed away in amazement.

Tastes like liquid Hitler…

After he regained composer, his knees bucked under the weight of his root beer-logged body, and he was forced to sit down, pants unbuttoning in the process.

Our cheers grew louder, and he mustered the strength to chug one final glass—his seventh, leaving only a quarter of the gallon remaining. But it would prove to be one quarter too much, and Tristan hurried to the nearest bush, releasing the root beer demons from his body.

The sugary soda had struck once again, claiming its final victim. Quieted by the slaughter, we slowly got back into our cars and drove off into the evening, pondering how a beverage could be so heartless, so void of compassion.

With the mental imagery of the carnage still present in our minds, we gathered later that night at our apartment for Biketoberfest. Cale and I rocked the tandem, pushing the 100 lb. beast down south Kinnikinnick with grace.

We rode as one large entourage down to Bay View,

stopping at various bars,

seeing various interesting bikes,

This way bears can’t get to them…

meeting various people, and having various amounts of fun. The night was a complete and total success, reminding me once again how much friends truly add to my life.

We staggered out of the last bar, eager to get home, and searched our surroundings for signs of where we may have ended up. At the corner of the street Cale noticed a Cudahy sign out of the corner of his eye, and we prepared for the fifteen mile journey we would still need to make home.

Once we arrived, we found Ben motionless on our couch, still reliving the terrors of the root beer challenge. Like any true friend, J Dot caressed his head, wrapping his arms around his still recovering body, and nursed him fully back to health.

It was only then that we all realized how one can never underestimate the power of friendship…the power of an individual to sacrifice personal comfort for the sake of entertainment…

…and the power of truly bad judgment.

[callie].

[special thanks to Chris, Josh, and Kat for some of the pics]

Photo Archive

Photos of shows I have taken over the years...more to come....

Hero of 100 Fights - The Globe (Milwaukee, WI) 1999

Hero of 100 Fights - The Globe (Milwaukee, WI) 1999

Since By Man - The Globe (Milwaukee, WI) 2000

Mile Marker - The Globe (Milwaukee, WI) 2001

Boy Sets Fire - The Globe (Milwaukee, WI) 1999

Eighteen Visions - The Fireside Bowl (Chicago, IL) 2000

Eighteen Visions - The Fireside Bowl (Chicago, IL) 2000

By the Grace of God - The Globe (Milwaukee, WI) 1999

By the Grace of God - The Globe (Milwaukee, WI) 1999

Where Art Thou?

For many years I was the older sibling, ruling playtime with an iron fist. My brother, the submissive youngster that he was, three years my junior, put up with more than most, always confident that his sis must know best. We had wonderful times, of course, building small cities under the protective cover of cotton and rayon, conducting improve concerts in the backyard for neighborhood patrons. He confided in me, telling me his deepest secrets, his most fundamental worries. I cherished them like jewels.

As we grew up, he started to realize I was not as tough as I pretended to be. Soon he was gathering his own voice, finding his own interests. No longer could he be persuaded to play dolls with me, to be dressed up in flamboyant clothing. No longer was I that older sibling, wise beyond my years. Our relationship changed suddenly, as if overnight, and my dictatorship was overthrown. Over time we began to level out, teetering on matched spirits, equal forces. We became best friends, enjoying many of the same musical interests, sharing a love of computers and design.

Like any family, we had our rough patches, fighting over who was the master of Duke Nukem (him), or who the higher belt in Tae Kwon Do (me), arguing over which friends I thought were bad influences on him, which boyfriends he denounced. Yet through it all, there was an unmistakable bond, absent between any other family member or significant other. After all, we had been through everything together since his birth: through late nights sneaking out of our bedrooms, through family disputes, through stumped homework problems and High School dramas. We had joked about classmates, rolled our eyes at mom and dad’s overbearing advice.

Now years later, much of our innocence is gone completely. Last weekend I drove anxiously to my parents' house to see my brother after months of separation. Being away at school had changed him somehow: aged him. “Good to see you, sis,” his voice boomed, eyes twinkling. He told me stories of his friends, his studies, his heartaches with women. All the while I listened, trying to find my brother underneath. Every now and then I would get a hint of the old Tim, the Tim who would send secret messages through the wall of our bedrooms, the Tim who would don cape and hat, masquerading around our home to draw out giggles. But deep down, I knew that he was not the same person, that he had grown up like the rest of us. I sat back as he talked, soaking in the moment. After a while he looked over at me and smiled. He still had some secrets.

[callie].

The Downward Spiral

It starts off with a cool breeze in the evening. At first you don’t really notice it. You just continue to talk, explaining to me how Segways don’t belong on sidewalks, how they are pretentious and the “vehicle of assholes”. I sip my iced tea, nodding, enjoying the atmosphere of the terrace. I glance at the Segway rider in question. Indeed he looks like an asshole.

From across the patio, I notice the hair of a woman dressed in a business suit start to move in the breeze, as if attempting to take flight and plant its seed in some unfortunate soul’s drink. She, too, doesn’t seem to notice the foreshadowing.

I glance at my watch. 7:30 p.m.

Already the sky has begun its decay, slowly darkening, spreading like an ink stain on a favorite blouse. Its rotten aroma floats down from the heavens, fills my nostrils, forces me to cough. You keep talking, unaware.

Later that week I sit on the football field of Riverside High, watching as you play bike polo.

You are like a carefree child, giggling as you sprint downfield, entangling yourself in another rider. Looking skyward I see a flock of geese flying the hell away from here, forming what looks like a greater-than symbol.

Perhaps they are sending one final message back down to us, insisting they are above the seasons, that they are better than those who wish to tough it out. I contemplate their message, trying to decipher the formula.

It isn’t until later that evening that you look at me, fear in your eyes, and tell me you noticed the seasons changing. You explain how you just want to feel that sun on your face forever, to feel that warm westerly wind at your back, encouraging you to dive into the lake one more time. You grab my hand as we walk, as if you need someone to aid you along through these darker times. I look down at your brown skin, the true sign of an addict.

Memories of summer flood over me; that week in Maine with our family, countless rides and races, wonderful meals eaten on verandas, drinks shared with friends, the passing of our first year of marriage. I look towards September and am overwhelmed with sadness, not yet ready to say goodbye, yet strangely drawn to a new season like a junkie drawn to a new thrill. September, after all, is nothing more than a gateway month to winter.

I wonder how that Segway rider will get around.

[callie].

The Chicago Crowd Returns, Hilarity Follows

This weekend we were, yet again, graced with the presence of our Chicago cronies, who never fail to amaze us with their unrelenting wit and strangely philosophical drinking styles.



We gathered in what one can only interpret as a random pattern on Evan’s stoop; bodies arriving and dispersing throughout the day, leaving nothing more than a fermented whiff in their wake. Amongst the chaos, however, remained the constant and never-wavering barrage of observatory comments directed towards the passers-by.

The "Canadian Tuxedo"

The "un-bike"

We witnessed a smathering of culture: women and men, children and elderly, people of God and people of questionable motives. Yet through them ran a common distaste for our crowd, and they were repelled like imbalanced molecules from our gathering.

As if part of a cruel joke, the Malort had returned, and it too rejected us, wrapping its icy hands around our throats and sending shudders down our spines. I glared at it with the timidness of an unwanted child.

Do not look at its face

The Malort, however, did offer one simple gift for our sacrifice. For a brief afternoon, it allowed us to contemplate the world from a cosmic perspective; to deconstruct the very intention of our existence.

Pondering the contrast of good and evil

Rationalizing his afterlife

Denouncing the existance of a higher being

But soon our theories would be quietly muffled by unsavory silence as an unidentified vehicle swiftly pulled up next to the curb. For those not witnessing the event, the car could only be described as the following: a brightly colored Mini with a giant-ass Red Bull can on the back of it.

Like a modern day Johnny Appleseed, the car’s passenger dispersed Red Bull amongst us, commenting on our bikes scattered across the lawn and strange preference in liqueur. Then, just as quickly, he dissolved into the evening.

This has Saccharin in it??

The Red Bull served, if nothing else, as a starting point for Malort chemistry: a study in tolerance. Note: Chocolate Milk and Malort do not titrate as expected.

Uh Oh...

Lost in our own mental quagmire, we watched as Cale performed inhumane feats on a Tandem.

The Tandem Trackstand (one footed, no hands)

The Backseat Driver

Later, perhaps in some sort of unconscious wrestle with her mental well-being, Roxanne mistakenly knocked over the only remaining bottle of Malort, shattering its protective vessel and pouring its truth serum onto the steps.

Eric lapped it up in regret.

Later we enjoyed further shenanigans at Roxanne’s digs, discussing our lives and participating in feats of strength.


To draw some sort of existential meaning from the night would be pretentious and self-indulging. Yet, perhaps, if we had to derive any meaning from the events that transpired, we could say simply that life is good. And that it is friends make it so.

Come back soon, you crazy cats…

[Photos courtesy of Nat]

[callie].

Hydrogen, Oxygen, and that 17 Percent

There is perhaps no greater feeling of helplessness than staring at water pouring out from under your sink with no real idea how to stop it. Of course, terror also comes in the form of being awaken out of a dead sleep by frantic pounding on your door, which happens to be created by the neighbor below you, desperately trying to inform you that your apartment is leaking onto his. Just for kicks, add in the fact that your husband was expected to return on a business trip earlier that evening, but his plane was delayed until midnight due to some bad decisions by a few terrorist organizations, and you are stuck all alone in your indoor pool of an apartment.

Last Friday God was testing me. I know this because earlier that week I actually noted that I was due for a good test. My life since the wedding has been nothing but joyful and serene. Every morning on that therapeutic commute to work I found myself wondering what I did to deserve the luxuries I have in my life: my friends, who are more than I could ever ask for, more than I ever dreamt of finding; my family, who truly show me what living is about; and, of course, my husband, who amazes me daily with his intelligence and determination. These people make me a better person, they fill me with joy, they are more than I deserve. Sitting there in my car each morning, overcome with thankfulness and awe, I couldn’t help but wonder when my next test would come.

August. It was August.

It’s amazing how much emotion you can detect simply from the vibrations created by a fist knocking on maple-laminated plywood. The intensity of the knock, the speed with which it is executed: a knock can read as clearly as a child’s voice, a baby’s wail. Friday’s was the kind of knock one comes to dread. It’s likely that everyone will experience this kind of knock at least once in their lives. It is the kind of knock that causes you to hesitate—if only for a brief moment—and prompts you to question whether you may be better off not knowing what lies on the other side.

I opened the door to see a pale, confused face. Before I could even focus, he pointed straight toward my kitchen and to the fountain that used to be a home for cleaning products, recyclables. The water had already crept out to the carpet like an emigrant; hoping for more promising opportunities, a better life for its children. Heartlessly, I flew towards it with contempt.

Relieved that I now knew of the problem, my neighbor scampered off to take care of his own water woes while I shoveled the bleach and forgotten cleaning brushes out of the way, discovering the source of the flood to be a disconnected icemaker line. As I crouched there under the sink, hand clenched around the copper pipe clogging the leak, I started to cry, realizing I had no idea how to get myself out of this mess. I cursed the compression valve for failing, I cursed the floor for not being more water resistant. I cursed the refrigerator because, well, I didn’t really know why but I was sure it had wronged me in some way over the years. Though my tears blurred my vision, they, in a way, allowed me to see more clearly. They clarified how much I truly rely on Cale, how much of my life rests on his patience, his knowledge of inter-working parts.

Kneeling there unable to move my hand from the pipe I actually realized this was my test I was waiting for. I thought about all the things that happened in my life, all the good and the bad. I thought about my family, my wonderful home, our material things. I thought about Mimi, about leaving for college, about the car accident. I thought about Randy. I realized true gratefulness would shine through even in hard times, and that even in this situation, with the overwhelming helplessness, the overwhelming anger, that I truly was grateful for everything. Even for the flood. Overcome with emotion and clarity, I fumbled for my cell phone, confident I would pull myself out of this situation. I dialed the emergency maintenance line, stanzas of hope ringing in my ear. Then promptly dropped it in the water.

As if cast as a real-life commandment, my neighbor returned and helped me shut off the water. Tide cleared, I cleaned the kitchen, soaking up the remnants of the leak, wondering if the water regretted its hasty escape, whether it would have been happier as a frozen body in someone’s drink. Like a US Border Patrolman, I created a barricade of towels blocking the water from traveling across the carpet. Perhaps drowning its final hope for freedom. I sat down, finally satisfied that I had done all I could do, and waited for Cale to return home from his trip, undoubtedly tired and unready for the drama that would soon unfurl with our apartment management.

They say that 17% of people that die in car crashes never knew what hit them.

As I sat on the couch staring at the kitchen, I thought about being in that car that careened off the road, that truck hit head on. I thought about the remainder of the victims, of the 83%. Did they panic, or cry out? Did they try to change their course, redirect their path? Did they see it coming? I wondered if they ever saw their moment of clarity, illuminating for a brief second all they had to live for. Did they thank God for everything in their lives; for the good, the trying, the tragic? Were they humbled by the world, by their relationships?

I wondered if that 17% had ever felt the comfort.

[callie].

A Bissell Bites the Dust, I Die a Little Inside

I believe I am a pretty reasonable person. Above all else, I try to resolve all conflicts without overt anger or shouting, conduct myself in a calm and professional manner. At times I have even been called “patient”. I believe that peace will solve more problems than violence, that self control will get you far in life.

That is why the fact that I want to throw a flaming bag of dog shit through the window of the Bissell headquarters should really say something about the quality level of Bissell “products”.

It began a year ago when Cale and I received the Bissell Powersteam Pro as a gift. It worked well enough for the first three months, helping remove the scars of drunken parties and muddy bike rides.

Bissell Stock Photo*
*Mustache added for visual enhancement

Slowly over time the machine developed a chronic disease known as “madewithcheapplasticcrapitis” (not to be confused with the gum disease known as Gingivitis. I mean come on, it doesn’t even have gums you unobservant bastard*). Its side effects were quite crippling. For example, the knobs, instead of turning, would break. Additionally, instead of working correctly, it would fall apart.
*Gums in stock photo added for dramatic effect.

We babied the machine, nursing it like it was our child, stroking its furniture attachment and giving it plenty of clean water. One day I had worked up the nerve to use the machine, and I plugged it in, hands shaking wildly. As I began to use it, my hope began to grow. Oh my God, I thought, maybe this machine isn’t the devil reincarnated after all! The Bissell was working!

I had finished the small entry way in our place and looked confidently at the bedroom. It was going to make it, I told myself, hands proudly on my hips. And then it happened. To my horror, the cleaner suddenly spit out its cleaning brush like a sick dog regurgitating a side of week-old Canadian beef. I slapped my hands to my face and screamed in terror. WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME?? I cried to the sputtering beast. The pump seized up and screeched to a halt, steam rising from its carcass. As a final act of rejection, the attachment tool quietly fell off the back. I stared in stunned silence.

After relaying the nightmarish occurrence to my grandparents, they confirmed the story, noting that their exact same model machine had similar epileptic episodes as well. They offered their machine in order to use the parts to create a sort of Frankenstein-like hybrid of the two. I called upon the expertise of my husband, and he laid the machine on his workbench with the precision of a surgeon and the grace of a dancer. His eyes were squinted, hands flying wildly; I…I don’t believe it, he stuttered after spilling the machine’s entrails onto the floor. Its….its completely cracked inside. All of the screws are stripped! Is….is this made with superglue?!? He asked, wide-eyed and stunned. Not much was clear to us other than one thing: Bissell had clearly outsourced its manufacturing to seizure-prone apes. Or perhaps Mexico.

Sample Bissell Employee

After the machine was apart, the bike room resembled the fields of Hiroshima. We stared, quietly frightened, at the aftermath as he caught his breath. Finally, the hybrid was complete, resembling the scar-laden and poorly reconstructed face of a Hollywood madam. Cautiously, he began testing parts of it. First the pump started to work, then motor began to turn. After a quick peek to its undercarriage we found the brush was spinning: the transplants had been a success! We held each other close, tears of joy streaming down our face, blurring the celebratory moment.

Delirious with joy, I whisked the machine to the living room, cleaning vigorously, eyes blazing. I had nearly completed the living room when I looked closely to admire my work, my notable achievements. It was only then that we made a horrible and final discovery. I had cleaned the entire rug with only cleaning solution. The water had gotten clogged, filling the inside of the machine. Piles of soap glinted at me from the floor, like tiny bubbles of death.

Sometimes, without any reason, you suddenly realize it’s the end. You struggle for so long, waiting for your loved one to pull through, waiting for them to fight the white light. But after a period of time, it becomes futile to fight the inevitable.

The inevitable…..that Bissell is nothing more than a sweatshop……of horrors. And we may never be the same again.

[callie].

Triumph of the Weaker Sibling

Well, I got into my studio for the first time in a long time last night. I guess I never realized how much I had put off finishing my second painting in a series for my dad until I saw its preliminary state again, the portions of gesso mocking me in some corners. I stared at what was completed of it, already regretting the tones of the under-painting, searching the composition in an attempt to figure out how I would proceed next.

This, is clearly my downfall.

When I begin a painting the anticipation is overwhelming. My mind is brimming with ideas, methods of execution. Many times before I even draw up a sketch I am already coming up with details, little subtleties to work in. I become clumsy with joy, usually stubbing my toe on something heavy and metal-like, or spilling some sort of stainable substance on my favorite shirt. “Eh, I never liked this shirt,” I tell myself. Funny what fervor can do to a girl.

As the painting progresses my excitement wanes. I get the canvas ready, sketch out the boundaries, work up an under-painting. By this point something has usually gone wrong. “Gone wrong” is a term I loosely use to describe when a painting does not conform exactly to the vision in my head (any artist will tell you what a futile and pointless way to work this is). Usually this means a color is not how I had imagined, face a tad too oblong. Perhaps I am stuck in some technical aspect.

This is the most volatile point in the painting’s existence. It is at this point that I may throw up my hands, glare at its profile, smugly propped on the easel, mocking me. I tell myself I need a day away from it, that I need to look at it with fresh eyes, a new outlook. In reality I know it will sit on the easel until I feel comfortable enough to move it to a shelf to gather dust. They never ripen with age.

But yesterday something changed. I looked at the painting for my dad with that familiar helplessness, that familiar disappointed gaze. But out of nowhere a sudden brick of perseverance hit me. I thought about the first painting in this series. Like a stronger sibling achieving higher-goals, the painting was already gone, proudly being framed. There it would be displayed on my father’s office wall, casting shadows on forgotten business cards, light gleaming off of it like a shiny tooth. What chance had this second painting had to prove its worth? Succeed in life? Who had taken a chance on this one?

As the regret welled up inside me, excitement came flooding back, pouring over me and soaking through my clothes. After a moment of clarity I looked down and realized what was soaking through my clothes was in fact Turpentine: a clear sign I was infatuated again.

“Your gonna make it, little buddy,” I soothed the painting.

“Your day is coming too!”

[callie].

First Annual Party of Nothing-ness

Image taken from Return to Tannhauser, Aubrey Beardsley

Join Cale and I for a party at our pad, Friday. Feel free to bring beer or snacks. Email me or comment here if you plan on coming, or if you need further details.

[callie].

Final Exams, Hezbollah, and the Fight for Freedom

Perhaps the most disturbing thing about nightmares, beyond the fact that they bring to light anxieties increasingly childlike and fundamental, is the fact that they are based on concepts so wrought with theory, theory that I had not dreamt up even in more conscious states, that I wake with new philosophies, a new outlook on life.

I sometimes find myself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling after a night of mind bending dreams, wondering how long these concepts had been circulated through my mind, tumbling around like delicates on timed-dry.

As I drifted to sleep last night, I was taken back in time, landing in class at Marquette, fully immersed in a suffocating program to complete for a final exam (on which my graduation was precariously hinged). At one point in the dream, I was flooded with nostalgia as I stared at the computer screen in the lab, wondering how I had wronged God to cause him to not allow my program to compile after hours of debugging. I cursed the textbook helplessly slumped on the corner of the table, offering little more than generic examples and poorly executed attempts at object-oriented humor.

For what seemed like the hundredth time, I scanned the program for missed errors or incorrect syntax, almost assuredly a result of an omitted semi-colon or misspelled variable. In a desperate attempt for answers, I reread the assignment handed out in class. “In this assignment,” the handout read, “I hope not only to help your knowledge of programming, but to help the world as a whole.” Typical computer science teacher megalomania, I scoffed. “Your assignment is to use recursion in order to create a solution to the long-standing conflicts between Israel, Lebanon, and Palestine.”

Throughout my dream I remember the overriding emotion was anxiety and helplessness as I worked, perhaps even some anger towards the teacher for demanding the program be completed in 3 days when, in the past, we were given at least a week. When I awoke I stared wide-eyed into the dark, almost numbed by the metaphor I had just produced, the controversy I had just sparked. Had I really just subconsciously compared the project of a computer science major to the ideology of Hezbollah?

After contemplating the dream, I found it had a lot of truth. Like my peers, I had been born into a country with a predisposition for success and opportunity. In my sheltered 23 years, some of the most devastating things I have had to deal with have been the vexations of exams and other difficult-to-satiate expectations, as pathetic as that sounds. In a way, these vexations are my fight for freedom. Freedom from all-nighters, from nights in the lab, pushing me to tears. Freedom from the stress and pressure caused from overbearing councilors, expectations of high achievements. Like Hezbollah’s desire to push Israeli occupation from Lebanon, I too had a desire to dismantle the academic forces governing me.

In a way this dream brings to light what I feel are American ideals found rampant in this country: misguided beliefs that we are that all-seeing hero, the knight that can solve problems in the middle-east as simply as they can solve a homework assignment. Perhaps not only that we can solve it, but that it is even our assignment to solve to begin with. I find myself quick to judge the passions of these individuals, the beliefs they live (and kill) by. And yet I think in a lot of us there is a notion that we are somehow better, somehow more clairvoyant. Maybe deep down in all of us there is the idea that these problems really can be solved by for-loops and simple algorithms.

As the sun began to rise I turned over to look at my husband, hands curled up to his chest, eyelids fluttering ever so slightly. I noted he was drooling onto his pillow, drool which seemed to form the shape of a dove, a universal icon for peace. I stared at his slightly-open mouth, his protective position, and I imagined him waging wars, caught in battles, fighting for his beliefs. I wondered what he was dreaming about. Wondered if he too was finding freedom.

[callie].

Happy Birthday, Austin

Well, another year has passed, and another 365 days have been de-queued from your age.

It’s funny how the concept of time can change, masquerading in different forms. When looking toward the future, time travels so slowly; like a slug on the carcass of a rotting deer that was hit one night by a drunken motorist. When recollecting past years, they appear to have flown by, leaving nothing but a bittersweet residue in their wake. When viewing the present, we observe nothing more than a “fleeting moment,” nothing with structure, nothing substantial.

Foolishly, we as humans associate this characteristic with time itself, rather than with our minds. Perhaps our brains observe time in this manner in order to keep us moving, keep us creating. It is a constant reminder what little time we have on this earth, how many more parking tickets we still need to pay, how many songs we still need to illegally download. Perhaps our minds are saving us the heartache of the bad memories, illuminating instead the future, the endless possibilities. Meanwhile, time continues to move at a constant speed, as time is wont to do.

I suppose it is customary to offer some sort of advice, anecdote or wisdom in times like this. The truth is that I have nothing to offer you. Clearly you know how to live, I would say you do a moderately good job of it since you made it this far. Perhaps the only thing I can offer you is to remember the state of your queue. You were born with all your years of living secured safely in your heart. Each year, as it passes, is de-queued, leaving an even smaller queue behind. But rather than living your life wondering how big that queue really is, I ask you to think about that year that was just de-queued. And how much you will truly miss it.

That, my friend, will mean you truely are living.

Happy Birthday, buddy.

[callie].

Fixed-Beer

This weekend overflowed with buffoonery as our house became packed with bodies anxiously awaiting the final race of Super Week, Downer Ave.

The concept of a “cookout” was morphed into a ridiculous display of drunken biker shenanigans, and much of the food became decorative carpet art. And face art.

At least the dogs ate well.

Bitches be hungry

After consuming large quantities of unstable beverages, we proceeded to do the next logical thing. Bike to the race. Because bikers generally like to be slapped around a little, we berated the riders, but then handed them beers.

Victory in bottle form.

Ugliest. Jersey. Ever.

Cale drunkenly persuaded more people to arrive at our house where larger quantities of carpet art would be created.

The power of persuasion

Then there was the Malort.

For those of you not familiar, Malort is a liqueur of sorts, or some sort of death serum (I forget which).

On the bottle, next to the impending doom warnings, are factoids about the beverage indicating that only 1 in 14 men will actually make it past the first sip.

Not listed on the label was the fact that 3 bikers can indeed down an entire bottle.

With some consequences.

Consequences

Malort Face

Perhaps the oddest part of the night for me was when I stood in line at the Port-o-John after the race behind one of the racers. After he went into the toilet, the whole thing began to rock back and forth. When he came out, he threw me a somber glance.

“Sometimes bikers get lonely,” he said.

[callie].

If you dislike the esoteric, please leave.

At a young age I was told not to suck my thumb.
You'll ruin your teeth, my parents would say.

Years later I would be taught to be open-minded, to be polite. I was told to follow my dreams, and to return home before curfew; a task which proved exceedingly harder. I witnessed terrible decisions, and examples of where nature has perfected its craft. I have been given advice, golden rules, and "one-lasts-things". Yet in 23 years I am still only sure about two things in life...

1. There are two types of people in this world;
functions and parameters.
2. I want to be more than just passed.

I promise you nothing in this blog other than me, en total.
Proceed with caution.

[callie].