I liked the sharp pop of the tap shoes, and the rhythm that sounded like it came from a room full of drums and not a single pair of shoes.  Practice was boring though, and once I was signed up and committed, I didn’t know how to quit.  I was only 10.  Things got out of hand, beyond the control of a kid, and by the time I understood that I was to perform at a recital, solo, dressed as a hobo, with charcoal smudges on my cheeks and a paperboy cap it was far too late to back out.

All I remember now is the curtain parting and seeing all of those people out there.  The music started, New York New York, Frank Sinatra and just that quick I was hopelessly lost. You only get one chance to come in on cue.

The prickly heat of shame and a clumsy buffalo shuffle.  My shoes didn’t sound like they did when I was wearing them at home, dancing like a maniac in the empty kitchen.  When the song ended I don’t know if I bowed, or stood there, humiliated.

Now I can be fairly sure that the audience of parents and siblings did not give a rip if I was faithful to my choreography.  One hobo kid shuffling on a stage was the same as another.  To this day I can’t bear to hear that wretched song.  As a grown-up, anonymous in a hotel lobby, those first ba-bum-bump notes make my cheeks flush.

Saturday night was different.  I did it as a favor for a good friend, the kind of friend you don’t say no to for anything.  Will you be in my show? He asked.  You don’t have to do anything, but you are the only one who can do this for me. Like so many commitments in our lives, I just said yes, confident I would survive whatever consequences.

So, dressed as a walking nightmare- the horrible poisonous thing that grows like black mold in relationships- I followed him out on cue to the melancholy melody on a Wurlitzer, and crawled into bed on stage.  Underneath my mask I felt safe, belligerent, and dangerous.  I could see faces looking at me, mouths turned down, eyes blank- afraid to make contact with my monster.

When it was time to get up I missed my cue.  The final heavy note hung in the room, all of us now infected by the dark mood.  Hold tight to your dear ones, for they are safest up close, or far away.

My friend slapped my arm.  Get up. Confused still, I looked in his eyes, searching for direction.  That frightened kid hobo missing another cue.  Get up! His angry eyes said this, and the bum’s rush was coming.

I swung my feet to the floor and stood, imposing and fearsome. In my ugly swagger I straightened my collar and slowly swept the room, searching for cowardly eyes before I took my leisurely exit.

Juancho

I have a tablet.  It’s called an Ipad.  You stare into it and it tells you whatever you want it to tell you.  It is a total frenemy.  It never gives you a chance to tell your side of the story.  You can squeeze a word in here and there on social networks, where you are sold and quartered by interest and preference like cattle.  Amazon buys your backstrap.  The Democratic party is happy to buy the leftovers to make scrapple.  On Twitter you cruise by one another, high-fiving and chin ‘supping your bros, with no time for a conversation.  Twitter’s all like, “How are you man?”  But Twitter would cringe awkwardly if you tried to unburden your soul.  If you are lost in the crowd in Tahir Square when the lights go out and the bullets start flying, I hear it is a useful tool.  That’s why I keep my account active.  #mitigate.

My point is, I have a home base again.  A good old Desktop computer, provided by one of my sponsors here at the BRC, LoPo.  A folding table, a second-hand keyboard, and it’s like I never left.  I dismantled my station when LOVE moved in, which is the only acceptable answer.  LOVE is settled, and so I followed my heart.  It lead me right back to this spot against the wall, facing 17 degrees north, which if you draw a straight line goes all the way up to Nova Scotia, then across the ocean to Ireland, then over the flat edge of the earth across the blackness to arrive right back at this desk.  I can hear this exact transmission whispering across the universe and sneaking up behind me.

For two years I let the internet have the last word, and now I have something to say again.

Juancho

Dear friends and enemies,

When I converted this site to my new host platform, WordPress, I was subsumed into a new language and toolbox.  In the ensuing disruption I lost my list of links to friends far and wide, near and dear, sincere and hideously inappropriate.  I find that I miss you all, and the easy reminder to drop in and enjoy your perspective, pictures, stories, lies and scheming plots against the man.  As you will now see, I have mastered the technology to rebuild my illustrious list of co-conspirators.  As a test run, I managed to put my friends Buzz and Mary back on the list, where I hope you will soon join them.

If you can accept my apology for the prolonged neglect, email me your link and other suggestions and I will create a sprawling and confusing list of writers, riders, artists, musicians, punk rock demi-gods, and misanthropic ranters.

Send links to juancho@bigringcircus.com

Juancho

Is it an indication of a lack of saddle time that I find myself entwined in an internet imbroglio? I think that we can all vote a solid yes on that, but straight to the point now.  Bullying is quite out of favor these days.  Also, transmitting music into the open air on a bike trail is at best a very curious behavior.  These two phenomena intersect in the story of Ernest Gagnon and the creator of the “Loudest Portable Speaker for the Active Lifestyle”- Boombotix.

Never could there be a better hero to villain dichotomy than a man with a heart full of courage, riding for his life and a company that seeks to disrupt the serenity of the trail.  In a culture where the Go Pro camera is becoming ubiquitous on every helmet, and the cyclometer is replaced by an app that encourages reckless competition and cutting corners the following scenario is now a reality.

“Dude, I had my Go Pro on my handlebars pointed at my face so I could see myself biting my bottom lip when I railed that berm.  I KOM’ed the connector trail because Nickelback came on my belt speaker so I just pinned it.” 

Hmmm, might be time to get a little further into the forest on my rides.

So, this company posted an ad to a popular social media platform utilizing Mr. Gagnon’s image as an example of a rider who is without a belt-speaker and therefore “Putzing along the fire roads” as opposed to the dude with the belt speaker “bombing the single track.”

Big mistake.

As you will read in the above link to Mr. Gagnon’s name, he is a hero and symbol of courage for many.  He took up cycling at 570 lbs, not specifically to lose weight, but because in his heart he longed to be a cyclocross racer.  He can tell his story quite well without my help and I encourage you to read it if you are interested.  Ernest has endured bullying before, and this was just the latest sad attempt.  He posted a copy of the ad with a request for some support, so I picked up the phone and called Belt-Speaker, and guess who answered the phone?  The other guy in the picture, quite unaware his image was being used to denigrate Mr. Gagnon’s.  I explained that seeing as how Mr. Gagnon and I have never met, and I would be considered for lack of any other term, a fan of Mr.
Gagnon’s, he might should inform his boss to put on the waders, because the shit was most certainly flowing downhill their way fast.

And the shit has flowed.

So the internet is a complex organism, and we are but tiny mites on her ass.

Long may she scratch.

Juancho

I know what it feels like to be in the weeds.  The experience of becoming overwhelmed, literally whelmed over, as if by a giant consuming wave is possibly familiar to all professions, but the term comes from the restaurant business.  To be in the weeds is to be frantically flinging boxes in a walk-in cooler searching for a single creamer to take to a customer who walked out 3 minutes ago without your knowledge, while your food for table seven leisurely dry roasts beneath the heat-lamps.  A line cook bashes futilely on the call bell with his greasy spatula and your fellow servers reach over your withered French Dip to get their fresh Cobb salads.  On the other side of the line the weeds are different; an endless chain of ticket chits clacketing off of the printer, down to the floor, where an order for an 8-top just walked away on the bottom of a dishwasher’s shoe.  By the time you realize the order is missing you will not be able to find the server who took the order, as he is in the walk-in knocking over sheet pans of scooped butter before accidentally stepping on the last individual creamer in the restaurant.

So, I know the weeds.

Madison County Florida is famous for two things- turpentine and cock-fighting.  They raise some of the fiercest long-crowers in the south and the turpentine is as rich and silky as a week-old puppy’s ear.  The finest you ever soaked your dogs in.  I don’t usually wear a suit, but I did yesterday and in my rush to get into Orlando traffic and look peeved in my rented black Mustang Convertible, I didn’t bother changing.  So that is how I came to be sitting at the counter of the busiest Denny’s on Interstate 10, dressed for the occasion with a front row seat to a crew fighting like sailors fighting for their lives on a sinking ship.

When there aren’t other options a Denny’s serves a lot of audiences.  The through-traveler, myself.  The locals, greeting each other with “Well, wells” and parting with “God blesses”, they are unconcerned with the chaos, their children ratchet the gumball machine manically until a daddy says, “Now!” with a warning that implies some consequence they clearly respect.

Bikers, One Day at a Timers, teen couples, and traveling stucco crews fill out every seat in the house.  A broad-shouldered white girl with a black affect asks me what I want to drink and I order a bowl of chicken noodle soup and an un-sweet tea.  The tea comes sweet and the bowl comes with some sticky red stuff on the rim, but considering the situation the soup is hot and a general delight.  The young stucco guy next to me fidgets with his phone and glances at my soup with envy.  He has been here a long time, but he says he’s going to ride it out and see what comes.

I ordered a Cobb salad, my general go-to and in the 20 minutes I wait I watch each cook, busboy, and server closely from my ringside seat.  That kitchen is game.  The head cook delicately wipes the sweat from his forehead on a clean patch of sleeve on his poly-blend chef coat.  He has got this.  The servers?  This is where the problem lies.  So much fear in their eyes I am embarrassed for them.  I realize I will never see my Cobb.

Not wanting to make matters worse I catch my server at the register and ask her if I can pay my tab and go.  She looks at me and sees me for the first time.  “Where are you sitting and what did you have?”  I tell her, but the Cobb salad rings no bells.  “Forget it” she says, “Don’t worry about it, just go.”  “Wait a second” I tell her, flipping through the receipts which fill my wallet.

“For cigarettes” I tell her, handing her a five.  “Well alright then” she smiles, “Thanks for stopping at Denny’s!”

Juancho