Some friends and I have a mountain biking club called the BPB's. We tell most people it stands for Boys Pedaling Bikes, but it's true meaning is substantially dirtier and more juvenile. Every summer we convene at our own little Dirt Camp, an excuse to get away from our chillun and wimminfolk and ride the trails of northern Wisconsin for a few days (and act dirty and juvenile). One of the highlights this year was stumbling across a huge chicken mushroom bloom; we collected them, hauled them back to camp, sautéd them in butter and gorged ourselves around the campfire. And swore and laughed like hyenas at dirty jokes and farts.
We just finished redesigning our T-Shirt Stamping Kit; it's off to the manufacturer and will go on sale in a couple of months. Here I am wearing the shirt that appears on the back of the package; it's a current favorite in my dresser drawer rotation.
An important addendum was added to the sign outside our door today; let it be a word to the wise during this season of brain-devouring slow-walkers. Looks to me like some good Samaritan made it using our Zombie Kit...
Man, what a sweet evening! Saw The Twilight Hours (Matt Wilson and John Munson and their crew) free at the Stone Arch show, and it was a total summer love fest. All kinds of people of all ages, lots of families and friends, seemingly all smiling. Sat next to a guy who turned out to be John's very kind dad (everyone was sitting, and there were tons of folding chairs), who called me Jacob all evening as we chatted; strangely, I sort of identified with that name. Then riding home I passed Fancy Ray (remember Fancy Ray, Minneapolitans?) who was riding a mini penny farthing bike. "That's one of a kind," I said; "Just like me!," he replied. Rode home among hundreds of cyclists, the smell of wood smoke in the air, people out on their porches laughing and enjoying summer... just magical.
Poem composed using The Foodie kit. This jar has been sitting on my desk since the day after I packed 36 of them with my own garden tomatoes. I was so in love with the things I had to have one near me at all times. Now this is the only one left uneaten. It deserved a poem.
My gypsy band, Les Eleves, performed at Six Months To Live last Friday night. It was a ton of fun and came off reasonably well (lots of kudos from our admittedly biased friends), and I especially loved hanging out afterward in my creepy gypsy getup, talking to everyone in my fake Romanian accent. Here are the only shots that sort of turned out; I'm the (again, creepy) guy singing.