:: Tuesday, April 29, 2003 ::

Hello Chicagoans, Wisconsinites, denizens of the Upper Midwest, and everyone who has faithfully followed this site for the past seven months of its existence.

As of this past Sunday, my base of operations has shifted it's location South from North Avenue to Cortez Avenue. This means a lot of new things: less roomates, more kids on the street, less traffic, infinintly more windows, more gangbangers, a shorter ride to school, a longer ride to work, a new neighborhood grocery, no cats, no dogs, and two more stories of elevation above street level.

Is this the end of the North Avenue Traffic Report? Probably not. North Ave is still a significant part of my commute, which with summer on it's way will get crazier than ever. Warm weather brings all the wingnuts out of hibernation. I don't have an internet connection in the new place yet so reports could be kinda patchy throughout the next month, but look out for ZINE COMPILATION of this site sometime in the early to mid summer.

Oh yeah. Kevin, those cookies were awesome. Thanx. You cats who helped us move are the greatest. Andrea and I love you. You kids at the playground across the street, I'm glad you have a nine o'clock curfew. Everyone else, I'll see you on the streets.

:: Ira 12:26 PM [+] :: [comment/respond]
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This Easter morning I felt like I was rising from the grave. My mind was awake but my body had dozens of stiff muscles, a couple cramps, and enough bruised tissue to pass for a scurvy seaman. No, I didn't get hit by a truck. My geriatric ass played kickball last night, followed by basketball, and climbed a backstop in between, all outdoors in the rain.

The games were organized by Andrea's friend Kate. She called a handfull of friends, said "Meet at the park," and brought a red rubber playball. Genius. None of us had played kickball since fourth grade so we had a lot to compensate for. It was perfect night temperature, just warm enought that you only notice the weather when a breeze floats through. Whenever I started getting sweaty the rain would turn on in a way that seemed more miraculous than the current Christain holiday. After kickball the girls talked and played on the swings in the dark while us guys played a haggard game of one-on-one. Ira+basketball=comedy. The fact that I am tall and look like I should have an advantage makes in all the better.

You would think that because I bicycle like a fiend I would be in decent shape, but the ball playing kicked my ass. Now all I can do is stumble into things and moan in pain. The consolation is that our kickball team won by a large margin. Even though it was a friendly, non-competative game, it was clear who the victors were. Just kidding. Props to Kate for setting up the game.

And now I must do homework...

:: Ira 1:23 PM [+] :: [comment/respond]
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I went out for dinner last night at the Heartland Cafe, the North Side's co-op hippy eatery. Andrea rode in her friend's car and I biked. The ride is around eleven miles and the weather was gorgeous. I took Ashland all the way from North to Morse. At Belmont I picked up a racing partner, a cycle-jock type: spandex and wrap-around shades over a roadbike with aero-bars. I flew by on my fixed gear. A block later he passed me and the race was on. At first I just thought about the nice contrast between our clothes and bikes. I had jeans cuffed up to the calf, my patched up messenger bag, and home-brew track bike. To an observer it might look like a scene from Breaking Away. It's a rare treat to ride with someone who presents a good challange. Halfway into our ride I was breathing hard. I was pushing my bike as fast as it would go and ended up over-spinning my (warning, geek talk) 48-18 gear ratio. The guy was really fast.

"This is my first ride of the year," he told me. I told him that I had done the same route in March in two inches of slush. Not that I would brag. We were almost evenly matched and it felt good.

At the end of the ride I had a very nice meal with Andrea and her friend Kathrine. I had a fat lentil burger with soy cheese, hot mustard, and a boat-load of French fries.

I shoulderd my bike and rode home on the Red Line with Andrea. We got off at North and Clyborn and walked West down North Ave. toward the EMS/Whole Foods/Best Buy conglomerate.

For this next part I'm not giving out specific locations so you'll have to use your imagination. While Andrea was waiting for the bus, I checked my favorite high-end health food dumpster. Picture a cornicopia shaped like a green metal box. There was so much food that we couldn't fit it in in our combined messenger bags. Some of the boxes were torn on the edges but most of it wasn't even expired. Here are some highlights:

1 pt. Hagan Das (still frozen)
1 pt. Soy Delicious Chocolate Almond Brownie (same condition as above)
5 boxes of mixed Garden/Boca burgers
2 cans of organic rootbeer
4 boxes whole fruit popsicles
1 handmade organic frozen pizza
3 boxes of blueberry/flax frozen waffles
5 bags of cookies
and a huge assortment of gormet frozen entrees.

We were as happy as pigs in slop. Andrea went into the store to ask for extra bags so we could carry the stuff home. I would never imagine how much food is wasted in this country if I didn't have nights like this. We will be eating like yuppies all week.

:: Ira 8:36 PM [+] :: [comment/respond]
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Two things today, a progress report and a product review.

Last week was spring break. No "Girls Gone Wild" in Fort Lauderdale for me. Tanned thighs graced my computer screen only, and untied bikini tops dangled out of reach like metaphorical carrots as I assembled bikes in snowy Chicago.

After reining my commuter orbit in to the West Side for a week, Downtown began to feel like a distant planet or even a dream. This morning a nine o'clock class at 624 S. Wabash snapped me back to reality. For the first time in seven days I crossed Division and cranked into the automotive mayhem of downtown Chi. My legs felt like they had been fried up in barbeque sauce. It's times like this that I realize what a nice endurance training routine I have locked down, biking to class every day. After graduation in two months, what will I do?

Now for the review:

Poonjiaji's Ready to Cook Gravy Bombay Pav Bhaji ($1.59)

I was sitting home last night with a taste for curry, specifically the Vietnamese potato variety I used to eat in Minneapolis. My cupboard devoid of fresh basil and curry paste, I ventured out into the night. Sultan's Market was the closest and most likely candidate for these ingredients, so I made tracks for the plywood and plaster Kasbah facade at North and Hoyne. Upon entering I was surrounded by rich smells, exotic packaging, and people lined up to buy falafel, but alas, no curry paste. A small foil packet of Poonjiaji's Ready to Cook Gravy was what I ended up walking to the cash register with. It looked promising. First off, the main ingredient was potato. Second, the cooking instructions were easy enough for my glucose-starved brain but involved enough steps to promise something like real food. At home in the kitchen I boiled and mashed two potatoes, fried up a diced jalapeño, opened a can of peas, and squirted in the packet of brown paste. The pot smelled good but looked more like something on the other end of the digestive process. This imagery didn't last because I was so hungry and the spices were overwhelming my brain. I followed the serving instructions and added cilantro, lemon slices, and a couple hearty slabs of bread.

The verdict: Not as flavorful as I was expecting. Super spicy though. Too much hot pepper I think. It reminded me of the devil chili from Infant Island chili nights. The peas made it really good. Overall, I'd say it was worth the 1.59 for the spices packet, but only make the stuff if you have every ingredient, especially lemon.
www.poonjiajis.com

:: Ira 7:07 PM [+] :: [comment/respond]
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Name-dropping and No Air.
(How many times can I say "stylish" in one post?)

This past week can be mapped out in a series of flat tires. There were so many that I have to crank my brain up to full horsepower to get them sequenced correctly.

The first couple were slow leaks. I discovered them in the basement of the Rapid Transit bike shop, where I am apprenticing. The people I work with are great. I'm learning all about bikes and verbal abuse.

The third flat was also discovered at the shop. I spent my lunch break viewing apartments with my girlfriend. I should have used better judgment when I discovered a flat donut for a back tire, instead of filling it with compressed air and cranking off for the East Ukrainian Village. The place we looked at had high ceilings, big windows (my criterion) and bathtubs (hers), but I quickly realized I was stranded due to lack of air pressure. Andrea let me ride her Bianchi so I could make it back to work on time, telling me it looked like a kid's bike under my six-foot-four frame. Then she walked my bike all of the way back to the shop. She is the greatest girlfriend ever.

At this time, my rear inner tube had so many patches on it that it looked like a case of adolescent acne. Each time, the damage had been inflicted by flakes of broken glass working their way into the cracks of my worn out Conti slick.

"It's obvious what the cause is," Nate told me later. "You're skidding too much. You're not only destroying the tire, but you do it at intersections, which is where the broken glass is. You'll be lucky if your tire lasts half a season." Nate may nag worse than your mother, but he knows his shit. Trouble is, skid stopping on a fixed-gear bike is both stylish and functional, making it a difficult habit to give up.

The apartment hunting flat happened of Thursday. This Friday as the last of the month, time for Critical Mass. March came in like a lion this year, and was about to go out like a lamb. Then a Gigeresqe alien ripped from the lamb's belly and we ended up with thirty degree weather and snow flurries. I had on thin canvas shoes, dress-socks, no gloves, and only a sweater on top. To stay warm, I alternated riding and running along side my bike. The stoplight jumping jacks and manic sprinting was putting me in a great mood until I hopped back on my bike and heard the aluminum-grinding sound of yet another flat. The wonderful Critical Mass community supplied me with enough tools to keep moving, but the rest of the Mass turned into a pump-and-ride, where I hopped off every ten minutes and franticly refilled my flat.

We ended up at Western and Devon, epicenter of Chicago's Indian community. After a gut-stuffing meal of curry, somosas, and cloyingly rich gulab jamin (think pancake balls drenched in syrup), Alex Polotsky suggested that we check out Version Fest at the MCA. As we rode the Red Line el train down town, I entertained the passengers by fixing my flat tire. Alex and I were in turn entertained by a hostile, loudmouthed trash-talker who made jokes about the fact that we had bikes on the train. "Fuck a bike" was his favorite phrase.

We got to the MCA at 11:00 p.m to find it deserted. We ran into a couple of stylish kids who I recognized as members of Neon Hunk. It seemed as though they were trying to connect with someone at the MCA as well. Alex told me about a party at the Buddy space on Milwaukee, so we left downtown heading Northwest.

Buddy and the Heaven Gallery next door had been connected by way of rooftop staircases to create the ultimate art-tech-geek dance party. A staggering sea of shaggy-haired art students twitched to click-hop and electro, surrounded by walls of art and druggy video projection. The pirates from Redline Radio were broadcasting live, inviting party-goers to talk on-air about the Iraq war. While leaving I ran into Liam who does the zine War Against the Idiots. He was sporting the usual baseball cap and no-nonsense expression; in his hand was a large paper bag of bread.

"Dumpster dove?" I asked him, and mentioned the name of a local bakery.

"Yep."

"Is there more?"

"A lot."

I stopped by the dumpster on my way home and loaded my bag with fresh loaves of multi-grain and fruit bread.

On Saturday I went to Gallery 2 for the SAIC BFA Show . I had a chance to test the eternal question "How much art can you take?" as i viewed exhibits by 300 students covering 3 floors. There was some really nice stuff that you should go check out before the show closes.

On the way home, I got another flat. I think of the Ashland/Division intersection as being pretty close to my house, but that changes drasticly when I have to walk my bike the entire distance.

When I got home my puffy chair felt like a womb. I would have left under no terms, except that Alee from the bike shop was having a birthday party. With my bike flipped over in the living room, I stripped off my fucked-up Conti slick and replaced it with a 700x28 Conti touring tire. For non bike-geeks, that is one beefy piece of rubber; one of the set I rode across Wisconsin on last year.

It felt like I was cruising across the West Side on a moster truck.

Alee's party was wonderful. She has the nicest friends. Unfortunatly I had two more parties on my agenda. First stop was Camp Gay for the BIEGE Records Cassette Jockey World Championship. Yet another room packed with geeky art kids, and even more blippy, noisy music. The crowd was way past E2 density. I met up with Melissa and some other kids, went dancing, and got home around 4 a.m.

While limping into my front hallway, groggy with sleep, I noticed that my back wheel had a cancerous growth just above the rim. After cursing all thing bicycle related, I examined the lump and found that the tire had torn off of it's bead. Put simply, the tire was fucked. I emptied the tube and dropped off to sleep.

Like most bad fiction, this story has a happy ending. On Monday I purchased a tough-ass Conti Gatorskin tire to replace my dead one. Not only is it sleek and stylish, but the thing is built like a military-spec flack jacket. Have my troubles ended? Check back next week...
:: Ira 9:49 AM [+] :: [comment/respond]
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It's hard to equate weather this nice with going to war. I keep thinking about how historians are going to look back at the early 2000's. There's no way to tell for sure, but it's becoming increasingly likely that they compare the United States to the Roman Empire or the WWII Axis. I'm not good at political theorizing these days because everything feels too complex. Four years ago I would have not only had an opinion but been damn mouthy about it. It's nice to be a teenage anarcho-punk because politics are really straight forward. Every problem, whether personal to political, is part of the System. It rises up around you like a corroding Soviet monolith, oppressing everything in it's shadow. The solution is easy: the System must be smashed. If only my dirty mohican friends and I had big enough bricks, a whole lot of shit would have been destroyed. To our dismay and the relief of the community around us, we didn't have much beyond cinderblocks.

The thing that scares the hell out of me is that a lot of those soldiers who are in Iraq right now are the same age I was back then. They have a different idea about who the enemy is, but there is no doubt in my mind that they are using the same solution: Smash. The difference is that they have Stealth Bombers, MOAB's, Assault Helicopters, basically the nastiest fucking arsenal ever brewed up by the Pentagon's satanic priests. What they don't have is the knowledge that things aren't as simple as their commanding officers tell them, and that in a few short years they will be completely different people, if they live that long. I fear that a whole lot of damage will be done before then.

:: Ira 1:12 PM [+] :: [comment/respond]
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Crazy weekend. First of all it got nice as hell outside. I spent yesterday afternoon sitting on my roof doing homework, sans-tshirt. I bought a dripping ripe melon from the Puerto Rican grocery store and sat in the sun, chowing down on fat slices at my makeshift desk in the middle of our rooftop garden.

Saturday night was the final stage of the Tour-da-Chicago alleycat series. I was excited all week, although my ridiculously busy schedule prevented me from doing a pre-ride. I was nervous too. Sunday morning races are one thing, but this one was at eight thirty Saturday night, in the wake of Saint Patrick's Day craziness no less. For those not familiar, the Tour races take place on an open course, which means tear-assing through full-on traffic on busy city streets. The race this weekend was the Stairmaster. In between sprinting around downtown and the lakefront, racers had to shoulder their bikes and dog their way up and down 400 steps worth of staircases.

The riding and climbing felt really good when it was over. Had I done the pre-ride, I would have been prepared for trecherous ice accumulation and some mud-bogging shortcuts. We clanged up vertical downtown staircases and pounded down wide concrete lakefront steps. As I finished the first lap, I could tell by the cheering that my girlfriend Andrea had arrived. By the end of the second lap, every muscle in my legs were burning. Half the people I raced with had bloody shins and knuckles due to crashes and collisions. As far as I know, none were too serious and everyone finished in high spirits. I finished 12th.

I got doored on the way home that night. We were riding through the heart of Wicker Park (which is hardened beyond recovery by hipster cynicism) and this big furniture truck opened it's passenger-side door into my face. I remember hitting the door fast, but beyond that things aren't too clear. I bounced into the back of a parked car hard enough to dent it, but I don't know which part of me did the damage. A cop saw it happen, and suprisingly told me I could leave if I wanted to. All my parts were functioning so I did. There are some deep bruises on my wrists and I feel like someone dropped a bag of bricks on me, but no structural damge.

fuckcorporategroceries.net is a rad local website about independent shopping.

:: Ira 10:14 AM [+] :: [comment/respond]
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