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I used to think my friend Tommy quit using the internet around 2001. As soon as the web went 2.0 he gave it up. His email address is luddite@dotmatrix.org. Don’t bother, he doesn’t check it.

Or does he?

We rode together last night and he was turning the cranks at what I have to call “grudge speed.” If I didn’t know better I would suspect he knew he had been compared to a baby seal, lying helpless on the ice. I am going to have to be more careful or start assuming every hollow threat I make on the internet has been taken to heart.

In order to keep it together and not get dropped I had to call not one, but two mechanicals (the old tire pressure gambit) and one nature appreciation (isn’t it beautiful out here Tommy!) He just stared at me, only one foot unclipped from the pedals.

We ran at speeds more common to a road bike, and we traded body blows in the trees and on the hills. I’m going to call it a draw, and if he is reading this I hope he can leave it at that. If he has someone interpreting the internet for him, tell him I take it all back.

Juancho

Winn Dixie ain’t Publix. Anyone can tell you that. It is a second-tier grocery store hanging on to a dwindling market. That’s probably why the Wrecking Ball and I felt so comfortable lounging in their plastic chairs. Permanent “B” group riders, the also-rans, the Mister Congenialities of competition. Everybody else seems to have peaked in August, and I took the month off the bike. Wrecking Ball is discouraged, I have been otherwise engaged. We both feel like we are perpetually healing and never well.

We talked about nutrition, and sleep, and brilliant green chlorophyll dumps. We talked about hating people because they are beautiful, or maybe just for acting like they are beautiful. We talked about being hopeless and drinking the mistakes- sitting at the end of a bar. We have both seen worse times than this.

Things are looking up for me lately, really up- so up I have a crick in my neck. I don’t have much to complain about, and neither does the Wrecking Ball, but we would never let that stop us.

-Juancho

be back later-

Juancho

A little discussed aspect of my wellness program of 2011 is literature. When you give up certain behaviors and habits they must be replaced with something. Brown rice and kale are only part of the story. Books are an essential part of my continued turnaround. I have always been a reader and a lover of books. I worked in the FSU Strozier Library for the Inter-Library Loans office my first two years of college. I would rush through my rounds of picking up and dropping off titles to be loaned abroad so I could have the rest of my shift to browse the stacks and take naps on the ledge of the 5th floor, where they keep the Early American Literature.

In 1995-96 I worked for Powell’s Books in Portland, OR. At the time it was the largest independent bookstore in the country. I worked in a satellite store that specialized in books for cooks and gardeners. I was the guy who produced the UPC Scan stickers and put them on the books. I was happy to do it.

In recent years my taste became lazy. Challenging books began to intimidate me. Why bother? It will take forever. It’s probably stupid. With an entire bookcase of Louis L’Amour to work through, why would I ever ride my Appaloosa in off of the prairie?

Last September I set a goal of reading one book in particular, Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace. I had read many of his non-fiction books and found his voice and breadth of references exhilarating. Reading DFW is like sticking your finger in the light socket over and over for fun. Infinite Jest was his most powerful wattage. This book was big enough to replace all kinds of demons and hobgoblins. So that is how it began: Brown rice, yoga, and 1,079 pages of compulsively footnoted compound sentences. As my brain woke up to the rigors of such a demanding read, I added new books to the list. I added some only because of their daunting reputations, and others because they caught my eye as books do.

I do not recommend any of these books to any of you, because recommending books is a lost cause. Books find us, and no third party can make a book the right choice for us at any given time. I draw inspiration and food for thought from many of you, so consider this a vanity post. As I pat myself on the back, feel free to read over my shoulder as you see fit. I will keep my comments brief.

Titles are linked, if you can’t tell.

Infinite Jest– It had to be done.
The Instructions Instant Favorite. Join the Side of Damage.
Chronic City– Late nights with Perkus Tooth
Cloud Atlas– The best 3 short stories and a novella to ever pretend to be a novel.
Freedom– Held my nose through the entire story, loathing everyone, then cried at the end.
State of Wonder– Chew all the flavor out of this one.
–A Visit from the Goon Squad Rock and roll as high art
War– Happening right now.
Matterhorn– Dude must know people. Reads like an 8th grade book report. Not a good one.
–Stephen King On Writing Stephen King must have serious issues with Infinite Jest.

Libra This is a fantastic book if you have trouble falling asleep. Well-crafted, but oh so what.

The Unnamed, by Joshua Ferris. A tender account of an American affliction.

How about you guys, read any good books lately?

-Juancho

I am the son of a carpenter. His father, my Papa, was a carpenter also. He served in the SeaBees Naval Construction Force. My brother is renowned for his knowledge of tools and trade systems. We built our house when I was about twelve. My brother was six. He was on the roof hammering in shingles while I walked around below picking up lost nails and scraps of wood. I was not jealous. I thought he was being punished.

I am told I was a pretty good waiter, and I can cook anything under any conditions. I was a better than average breakdancer and I won an award in World History in 10th grade. I am not without worth.

Tools though, have a way of getting lost, or not being where I want them to be when needed. Tools are never the right size and they are rarely charged to functioning capacity. Tools for me have been unreliable. Most of my friends take a lot of pleasure in strapping on the tool belt and going about the manly business of tooling. My friends can build rock climbing gyms and pole barns. They can tile floors and mix mud with Tommy’s drill, “Old Grandpa.” They lay fiberglass in the boat and run duct work above and below as required.

For me, this type of activity means picking up nails and being confused. I can’t keep the necessary steps in the right order and every act appears to be random and mystical. As they solid block the floor joists I wonder if burning some sage might not accomplish the same thing. Once the nails are picked up I get right to the next task, feeling dumb.

Things might be changing though. Mungam, Robot Army Regular, stopped by last night to further improve upon the rescue job Tommy did on a leaky faucet. I helped. Fixing stuff is about more than feeling stupid. It is about spending time with your bros in comfortable parallel play activity. It is about self-reliance and the joy of knowing what you have to do today. When the hot water is running freely you don’t deliberate between a bike ride or yoga class. You make the water stop.

Mungam and I rode to the big Hardware stores in his gigantic pickup truck and just riding shotgun in such a rig extended my manhood a quarter inch. At one point I encouraged him to go ahead and ram the Kia in front of us since we were almost in the backseat anyway. “Nah” he said. “She should hang up and drive, but that’s somebody’s mom.” A garnet-colored H2 Hummer passed us on the right and I said, “What about ramming that guy?” With a glance Mungam said, “and that guy is somebody’s douchebag cousin.”

You got to love tools.

Juancho