A New Appreciation of Snow vs Rain

Two weeks of snow and ice piled on the pavement seemed like a blessing - and a significant improvement over freezing cold endless rain.  Today, the rain is falling, snow is melting, streets are clearing, and a sigh of relief hisses from the bridges as cyclists shake off their forced hibernation:  we can put rubber to road once again!  Stir crazy, anxiety-ridden and packing on the pounds, I pedaled a mere 5 miles today, the most in three days.  

It looks like tomorrow will be a day for actual mileage.  

I have a sudden renewed appreciation for roads, endless miles of them that I am permitted to pedal.  And the other kind of road:  the type where my gas-guzzling hybrid can cruise at a quick 75 to take me away from the familiar surroundings of the city.  This is not to insinuate that my beloved cycle has not taken me to far away beautiful places; it has.  Here in Portland, in Flagstaff, Tucson, even in New Jersey, I found serenity and beauty mere pedal strokes away.   But there is something special about watching the topography change rapidly and winding up in a region whose biodiversity varies greatly from the city you woke in that morning.

Although, if that is "special", then "exhilarating" is the appropriate description for taking such a journey on a bike.  

To ride 70 miles and find yourself a world away from the surroundings that greeted you in the morning.  To ride for hours and summit a mountain and see forever, yet no city starting point is in view.  To know that your own strength, your own drive, your own sweat propelled you to a pristine environment is awe-inspiring.  Suddenly, the world can be conquered.  My body, my strength, it can climb mountains.  Freedom.  Freedom of knowing that when the engine blows, gas prices rise, and traffic jams stall, I can still escape to an old growth forest.  I can, of my own volition, without creating any sound pollution, air pollution, without contributing to wars on foreign lands, without playing the rules of mass popular culture, I can burrow deep into a water-filled canyon.   With my own two legs, one 18 pound, silent bicycle and a stock pile of water and nourishment, I can sit by a secluded mountain lake, or even make it to the coast.  

I can do all this on two human powered, heart pounding, sweating, slimming, strengthening wheels.  That is, as long as the roads stay clear of ice and snow.

Out the windows in front of me, it is rainy and grey.  The windows behind my head reveal blue sky with traces of whispy clouds and a full rainbow.  The rainbow is close enough that I can see it imposed over the bridge that is a mere three blocks away.  Hail still sits on the window sill ledge.

I sit in a coffee shop occupying an old warehouse beneath a complex crisscrossing of highway ramps and bridges.  This room serves as the divide between rain and sunshine, and has sat in this precarious position for a good 15 minutes, still holding.  

I know nobody here.  It's a feeling I should be used to, a sensation I have craved, at times.  And yet in my current chapter of life, it feels foreign and vacant.  

For a moment, sunshine pours in through every window.

Heroin in the Hamper

I discovered a guy shooting up in the laundry room.  

About half an hour ago, I was switching the wash to the drier, when I heard someone moving around behind the wall.  "The wall" itself is a bit strange:  it's a huge slab of concrete that separates the large laundry room from a separate section of the room that is three feet wide by ten feet or so long.  This small sub-room has all the water/electric meters mounted on the wall and is often home to a handful of locked up bicycles. 

I heard the kind of tinkering that one strives for when they are hoping the person in the next room won't hear.  But I heard.  No ones moves that slow and quiet unless they are trying to hide something.  I assumed someone was stealing a bike or it's parts.    

I walked around the corner.  

"Hi."

"Uh, oh - hey!  What's up?

"What are you working on over here?"  There were no bicycles anywhere to be seen.

"Oh, nothing.  Just working on something."

He was putting some objects into a Crown Royal bag.  I recognized the purple velvet pouch immediately; I used one of those for a purse for awhile.  It looked a chemical experiment, complete with glass vials of translucent white liquid.  Then I noticed the long, thick rubber band, then the orange-capped insulin needles.

"You're shooting up.  Is that Heroin?" 

"Um, yeah."   At least he didn't try to cover it up.   The bent spoon and lighter quickly disappeared into the bag. 

"How long have you been doing that shit?  I mean you look like your "

"About a year and a half."

We continued to talk about his addiction and he informed me of his plans for recovery.  "I just need four days off in a row to go through detox, then I have this new medication and program to help me kick it, but I just can't ever get those days off."

"But really, it's not as bas as you think" he added.

"No, that's the whole problem:  you're not that bad yet.  That means you've got a few more years of wasting your life away doing this crap before all hell breaks loose, somebody dies and your living on the street.  And THEN it will be bad enough to really give it up.  It just might be too late.  Good luck.  Get help."

By this point I had escorted him out the back door of the building.  He left without another word.  I came upstairs to write this.

I forgot to put the quarters in and start my laundry.   Oops!  Gotta run!

 

Blog On!

When blogger was bought by Google, by automatic sign in page expired. I had forgotten my password and the e-mail I created this account with seven years ago no longer exists. After many trials and tribulations I have emerged victorious and once again have access to my beloved, though sadly neglected blog!

Just in time, too - as I believe my life is about to take a turn back into the realm of the interesting. Anthony & I arrive in Portland, Oregon just over a week ago and are testing the tepid waters of life in a new (and wonderfully wierd) city together!

Above are photos of our ridiculously over-packed ghetto car that should never have made it past Indiana, let alone through the icey mountain passes of post-storm Eastern Oregon! Two adults and a dog with everything they own shoved into a small car, with two car top carriers and four bicycles strapped on. Quite a sight! For some stretches of the trip, snow chains were strapped on as well....

Cycling Manifesto, Part One

I'd like to talk about the benefits of cycling WITHOUT mentioning Global Warming, Exercise, or Oil Wars. The subjects too often consume the spotlight on the myriad of bicycling wonders.
Community, local economy, out-sourcing, world economy:  strip malls and chain stores would be a thing of the past if the majority converted to cycle-commuting.  We'd see a thriving resurgence of local economy.  If folks were cycling, the town center or neighborhood square wouldn't be a ghost town do the difficulty and unpleasantness involved in accessing the far off big box store. Tearing down historic old buildings or large stands of trees for the sake of a strip mall or parking lot? Who would conceive of doing such a thing? And if we weren't CONSUMING (and subsidizing) so much gasoline, it wouldn't be so cheap. If prices were to skyrocket, it would no longer be economically feasible for big box stores to pay slave wages at off-shore sweat shops and ship products from other continents. If they still continued such practices, their inevitable price increases would prevent them from retaining their positions as competion killers, which would even out the playing field and nullify their current political power.   In genereal, if bicycles were the primary mode of transportation, big business could not exist as is, shifting the balance of money and thus political power to local owners who are actually invested in their communities.  It would put the wabash on the World Trade Organization, bring more manufacturing and labor jobs back into this country, and potentially assist in the re-birth of a place for true artisans.

I say all this like it's common sense. Perhaps I should explain in more detail. But the sun is shining, the dog is whining and it's time for a jog in the park. More, much more to say. Someday soon.....

By the way - those with a similar sentiment might want to check out "Car Busters" - a magazine started in Lyon, France in '98, now based in the Czech Republic.  Its brand of activism tends to get a little more radical than I agree with, but to read of cycling promotion and anti-car activities all over the world is fascinating and inspiring!  Though a little dis-heartening that most Americans are still so in the dark.....

Missing my piss-poor, cycling starving artist

Met the man of my dreams. (Nine months ago; thus why I have not written.)
Then he became a mailman.
Going postal has certainly changed him. Sixty hours a week of walking up and down hills and staircases, sometimes trudging through thick banks of snow, all while carrying a heavy load of catalogs and junk mail, has broken him. He clenches his teeth as he delivers the embodiment of 2 acres of Canadian old-growth forest clearing per minute. He then returns home, tired and weary, to sit on the couch, watch tv, and let his woman cook, clean and massage him. And his one day off? Sitting INSIDE (who wants to be outside after working out there all day, six days a week?) and resting.
Resting!? Inside!?
This is an artist/ex-hippie who cycled approximately 150 miles a week, climbed mountains and/or camped on any consecutive two days off, who kept his house spotlessly clean and organized on his own and took great pride in that!
And I swore I'd never be a housewife.
Well, I'm not. We're not married, I do have a fulltime job, and we split the costs of most things. I used to be active - both in the outdoors in the arts and local music - in an almost compulsive and unhealthy manner. Now I work - for the first time - inside an office, under florescent lights, in a cubicle. I come home, walk th dog, buy groceries, cook, eat, cuddle, clean, then sleep. Two years ago, I lived in old converted Ice Cream Factory / Warehouse in the little nook of the ghetto taken over by artists, now I'm in a house in the 'burbs. (sort of) This lifestyle, so common to the majority of Americans, is so foreign and soooo offensive to me!! And now the couch and tv are my good friends. I didn't even own such things prior to moving in with him!
Yes, that's right: at 28 years old, I had never owned - nor had any desire to own - a television.
The man also came with a dog. A fabulous, amazing Chocolate Lab who is also feeling the pangs of our new-found laziness. He is going crazy! Barking and moaning were things I was sure he wasn't capable of doing, yet these past few snowy and home-bound weeks, his disgruntled noised are constant.
The only grasp I maintain on my previous form of non-comformist sanity is that my mode of transportation is still my bicycle. My salvation! My religion! My soul-salvaging, anxiety reducing, eco-transit!
Until the snow came. With no shoulders and no sidewalks, I'm a little hesitant to cycle down the middle of a one lane street in the dark. Most folks 'round here aren't hip to the law that bikes share the road.
Yesterday I finally said "Fuck-it - at least to go grocery shopping, I'm riding my bike."
The garage door ("Bicycle shop door") was frozen shut. No shit. Couldn't open it. No cycle for me.
Oh, cursed are student loans!!! Especially for relatively meaningless art school degrees!
Almost paid off. By the time spring is here, the debt should be gone, a small cushion in the bank, Anthony can quit the oppressive and soul-squasing, postal service, and I can have my over-eager, exploration/adventure-loving, broke-ass cycling artist back!!!
As long as I don't break before then.

An Arizona Story

My one woman show about self discovery featuring my original music opens on Friday, June 2nd as part of the Cincinnati Fringe Festival!!!
Mr. Pitiful's at 1325 Main Street, downtown Cincinnati, at 7 PM. Subsequent performances are Saturday, June 3rd; Tuesday June 6th; Thursday June 8th and Saturday June 10th. Tickets can be purchased at 513-621-ARTS and for a full line up in the Fringe Fest, plus specific show info & to purchase tickets, check out www.cincyfringe.com
If I can figure it out (doubt it) you'll find my poster (which I designed; I'm so proud!) on this blog, or on my website: www.lindsaycaron.com, or on my myspace page: www.myspace.com/lindsaycaron.
I've gotta beable to post a pdf somewhere, right?
Best of luck to me!!
Seriously - this is undeniably the most important event of my life, so if you can make it out to support me.....
Eternal love and joy!
Rock n Ride!
:)

Bikes, Boys, Insanity and Job Offers....

My Gary Fisher was stolen almost exactly one year ago – give or take a week.
Today it was returned to me.
Job offers/ interviews are rolling in daily. Some of them sound wonderful. Weird.
For the first time in ten years, I think I may be on the verge of being in a relationship. Not quite sure how he feels, but I think I’m kind of addicted to the guy. Weird.
In three weeks, the most important project of my life – the one woman show about my AZ experience featuring my original music as part of the Cincinnati Fringe Festival – takes to the stage. Insane.
The publicity, promotion, graphic design, media contact and other preparedness for the show – outside of the writing, producing, directing, performing – is an absolutely crazy and hectic learning experience.
My first ever 100 mile bike ride was almost one week ago!!! Yeah, go me. We rode to Rabbit Hash, KY, which is actually only a 75 mile round trip. I’ve done that much mileage twice before; Anthony had never gone so far. We were almost home when I turned to him “So…how you feelin?”
”Like we should rack up another 25 and hit 100 in one day.”
“Fuck yeah.”
Life is good. Hopefully, my show will be as well.

Brilliant Thugs

If life wasn’t so damn exciting, I might get more work done. Each time I walk down my street: an adventure. Each bike ride through the ghetto produces another story of endearment or disgust. Every shift in the weather: another little miracle to rejoice in. Every conversation with a stranger: enlightening. (Well, not every. Slightly more than half, though!)
Today I’m outside my favorite ghetto hand: The Ice Cream Palace. I’m geeked out in cycling spandex, when three thugs walk up. I use the term thugs loosely, ‘cuz though they were clothed in ghetto gear, they certainly exuded a positive energy and seemed clean and kind. We start talking about the state of the ‘hood, Over-the-Rhine, the community and how city council is intentionally preventing progress in this area. The subject sways to the country, the world, the war….
The most articulate and outspoken of my three thug friends is incredibly impassioned, animatedly depicting the correlation between today’s world and the Babylon of biblical times and the Spanish Inquisition and quoting Homer, The Illiad & The Odyssey, and noting relevant Greek Mythology…. He was amazing. Brilliant. And all this talk of the scripture and quoting the New York Times and the three books he read last week – all infused with street slang. “So my boy Christopher Columbus – who was actually a Jew named Christopher Boyd – had to holla at Queen Isabella and say ‘Yo sis, check it: the gold in the New World, it’s some tight shit, and we’s gots to pay off the Spaniards to win…’” He was far more versed in history, mythology, religious texts and the state of life in OTR than I could ever be. I was silent, in awe of the street slang spewing articulate intellectual analysis of every major writing and belief system and their relevance to the world today.
“You are amazing, my new friend. What are you doing just chilling in the ‘hood?”
“I’m selling dope. It’s the only way I can make a living. Couldn’t graduate high school living in this shit hole….”
Never has my longing for a video camera been so intense as throughout this conversation.
“Hey Butter!” The call comes from across the street. A large, unhealthy looking white woman waddles over. “I just got out. Yeah, was in for fifteen days. They got me on selling weed, on prostitution, on disorderly conduct… all sorts of shit.”
The conversation deteriorates to talk of jail time.
“We is lucky” says one thug. “We ain’t been caught by the cops, or shot at, or nothing.”
I’m somewhat aghast. A: at the quick turn in the depth and context of conversation. B: that these people are actually telling ME – cookie-cutter clean (looking) white bicycle chick in padded spandex – about their drug dealings and such.
“You are brilliant” I say to Butter. “You could do so much with your passion and knowledge. Best of luck. I hope I see you again.”
I love magic encounters with beautiful strangers.

Touring with Tweety - Ghettoside

"Hey! Can I ride wit 'choo?"
I hear it all the time. A few times each day. My typical response is "Ha ha" or "You couldn't keep up, baby!" or "Get a bike, honey! We’ll race!" But I always keep riding, and only a handful of times has one with a bike endeavored to race me - usually little kids who give up after two blocks, despite my efforts to go slow so that they are never far behind me.
On the hellacious five way corner that is McMicken and Vine, I heard "Aw, c'mon - just let me run inside and get my bike; I'll be right back."
And I waited. Maybe a full five minutes.
He hopped on his bike and we headed up hill, complimenting one another on our mutual strength and ability to ride well with one another.
"Well, what you doing riding around here?" he inquired.
"I ride through here a lot - I live on Main - but I'm actually looking for my stolen bicycle."
"Oh yeah? You're riding with the right guy. Follow me."
I thought I lived a block from the ghetto. I thought I'd ridden through the roughest parts of the ghetto alone quite enough. But there were streets I missed. And others that I just flew down too fast to truly experience.
"Tweety" took me under his wing - and on the craziest ride of my life.
"If anyone asks, we're looking for crack - NOT a stolen bicycle."
I looked in his earnest eyes and understood completely.
We rode slowly. We rode on sidewalks. We rode down old cobblestone alleys.
"Drugs, drugs, drugs" whispered persistently in my ear as those who once shot silent stares at me with fear and hate, suddenly saw me as "one of them" with my new companion in tow.
"Hey, Tweety! What's going on, man!"
Jovial faces were greeted with his stern expression. "I'm okay, buddy. But listen: something was stolen from me. You hear anything about a good bike coming around these parts? 'Cuz if you do, it's mine." Informants whispered and buzz filled the streets, but noone really spoke.
I saw upwards of a dozen drug deals within two hours. And I think one dozen is a gross underestimation.
Tweety devised plans – specific for each area of town – as to how we should “safely” execute the apprehension of my beloved bike. “Now, thirteenth ain’t really my turf, you know what I’m saying? I mean, they’re not really my peeps and don’t necessarily got my back. So, I’ll do my best to distract ‘em…. Can you carry one bike on your shoulder while riding the other?”
“Sure. I mean, never tried it, but I can.”
I assumed all the folks approaching us were Tweety’s buds. But one was headed toward me: “Hey, you find your bike yet?” “Nope!” “Well, I’m keeping my eye out for it sister. You’re my nigger; I got your back!”
I think I’m supposed to be flattered by that expression of respect.
The ghetto that I discovered that day is far worse than what I’d already known. And worse than any I’d seen in movies. I mean, if you remove the creepy underscore, camera angles and various tension enhancing effects out of most films in the ghetto – they are all infinitely kinder than this one. Nauseating piles of trash everywhere. Needles, broken glass, fast food containers, plastic jugs and endless crap piled thick on the ground. Open spaces sprouting rot instead of grass. Filth festering on broken stoops, cluttering doorways and filling the spaces between uneven cobblestone. And babies riding their Hotwheels on through while gangsters trade guns and drugs; mommas ignoring the cries of the bruised and fallen.
“This is so fucking weird man!” Tweety was nervous. “Everyone’s staring at you ‘cuz your white!”
“No shit. That shocks you? At least now they’re looking at me more with curiosity than hate.”
People were virtually silent in shock. Usually it’s hoots of “Hey! Hey! Watch it! Po Po!” or “Hey baby, slow down” or “Bitch, what choo doing in my hood.” Maybe it was the combination of being with Tweety and riding down streets that quite possibly no white person had been down in years. People just froze: jaws dropped, drugs in hands….
I had to go to work at 6:30. Promoting Cadillacs to the rich white folk who patronize the Aranoff Center. Quite the extreme shift in surroundings!
I was searching for my bike; Tweety for his daughter. Neither of us were successful. “Next time?”
“Yeah.” I gave him a hug, grateful for his kindness, his protection, his risk, and for this experience.
His smile was immense. “Damn! I got a hug! Thank you, baby! I’m gonna find you that bike, you hear?”
“I hear. Good luck to you. And thanks.”

An inordinate number of transvestites

There's a remarkable number of transvestites in my life right now. The retarded maintenance man in the apartment beneath me is dating - perhaps living with? - a transvestite hooker.
Wait.
Something phenomenal just occured to me.
I've never seen her.
I mean, I've seen him pay a transvestite hooker before, and I've heard one or two calling his name from the front gate, though they didn't have this voice....
I hear her "voice" all the time. She sounds like Miss Piggy. It's high-pitched, iritating and seems to ring with the "coo" of one who is in love. I see HIM - maintenance man - all the time. I see him coming and going and standing outside. I see the crack dealers that visit and those that sneak in and I see them high and stumbling out. I see him and his only older white buddy (the other visitors are all 19 year-old thugs, while these two men are probably in their 60's). I see maintenance man twice a day. But I see HER - the tranny whose voice I hear almost daily - never.
How is that possible?
Maybe it's his alter ego! Maybe he has another personality - or the ultimate imaginary girlfriend - that loses his incoherent stutter and lisp and speaks in an awfully faked, high-pitched she/he tone!
But they both giggle a lot. And moan. Yes, I've heard them moan. And that would take a LOT of talent to make two different personalities giggle and moan virtually simultaneously.
So maybe she doesn't leave the house. Ever. Weird.
Tranny number two is Red's new Flop. When Red said "You like the new Flop?" I jumped to all sorts of conclusions as to what that meant.
"Eeww! You're sleeping with her!?"
"Noo!" he screeched in horror.
"Is Jason sleeping with her?"
"No. She's a Flop. Yet another person in need of an emergency crash pad who is thus Flopping on my couch."
"Oooh. I got it. So she's staying awhile, eh?"
Her name is Tara. Those who know her find it offensive to use a word as classy as transvestite in conjunction with her name. "She's a dirty, dirty man with waay too much facial hair wearing combat boots and a dress" as one friend put it.
She smells like a wet dog. I'm not quite sure how a human being can manage this feat, but it is trully the case.
We are all hoping Tara gets her twiggy ass out of the building quite soon. She's been "crashing" with Red for about a full week now.
The other FOP in the building is Red's friend, Jason. As if there weren't enough Jason's milling about my life. Jason is from Lexington. He's a sex addict. Two weeks ago he found out he was HIV positive, had to put his cancerous dog to sleep, broke up with his boyfriend, packed his bags and moved in with Red. Jason looks white trash (wife beater, cowboy hat and a moustache) but decorates goth and practices devout Wiccan. He has a creepy energy that I just can't approve of.
I used to keep my doors unlocked.
I used to love the safety, comfort, and positive energy of my building. (This was in the days when the Pimp lived two floors down.) Now I feel little violated.
The worst is that I just caused my friend Steph to move in. I mean, I told her to look at the place and before I could even tell her about the Maintenance Man and his make believe girlfriend, Steph moved in.
And then the FLOPS came and entered Red's life. And mine.
And about two months ago, the only guy that I happen to sleep with once in a great while, moved in next door with his depressedly sick and co-dependent girlfriend.
And now my bike was stolen.
I might need to move soon.

My Bike Stolen...Again

My bike was stolen today. Again. Three witnesses saw an older, heavy-set black man take bolt cutters to the chain around my bicycle - in the middle of the day, on Main Street, mere feet from the glass windows of the coffee shop I just started working at yesterday. I went to the coffee shop quasi defeated, uncertain I could subsist off the meager wages of my various part-time and freelance jobs, thinking I might need more money. And so today I lost my $800 bicycle. I know: I'm a jackass for even riding such a thing through my neighborhood, instead of leaving ten minutes earlier and simply walking. I got into the habit of riding everywhere - I had a sweet but crappy old school bike that was my close-to-home transport until last week, when a friend said "wow that bike rocks! If I had one like that, I'd never drive."
"You'll ride it all the time?" I looked her in the eye, she said yes, and I gave her my bike. That was last week. Karma is as false a notion as religion. This week I give in and got an "extra" job, and my mountain bike is stolen. The best part, is three people witnessed it. Stood by and watched and not a single one of them said "Hey, buddy, what are you doing?" They all just stood by and watched.
How can someone do that?! He had bolt cutters!!! It was evident to all parties that such a man did not own such a bike.
I know without question, that if I were fortunate enough to NEVER have had anything stolen, to have NEVER been hurt or struggling, I would still ALWAYS be the type of person I am today: the type of person who stands up and screams when they see injsutice; the type of person who fights for good and beauty in this world; the type of person who says "Back away from the bicycle, Mother Fucker."
The glory of the ghetto is wearing on me.
Though at one moment, as I was stolling down the street telling everyone I know to look out for it, I was approached by a familiar face. One of the myriad of street people who I wave to regularly, though I don't believe we've ever spoken.
"Hey honey! I hear you got your bike stolen" There is sincere pity in his eyes. "Well that Niger messed with the wrong white chick. He don't know it, but that dumb ass got the whole Main Street posse on his ass. We gonna rip him apart. You is good people and don't deserve none of this. Don't worry pretty lady; we'll find your bike."
And he is only one example. There is a community here.
It doesn't mean anything positive will come of said community, but it's good to know its there.
I need to go break things now.

Dynamics of Friends in Love and Art

There is “the thing”. And “the thing” is created by beautiful people.
The world, of course, gets a wee bit rocky. Smiles masquerade on the surface. An air of “Heal, soothe, love...and keep secrets” permeates - simultaneously upholding beauty while mitigating truth. Interesting dichotomy. No need to share the extraneous info that may cause a friend pain. Stay strong. Protect the friendships, the people.
And a pattern of not being honest about emotions and actions and a lack of communication (save for the sake of creation) is established.
But a line is crossed. More negativity seeps in.
Protect friends – and certainly “the thing!” This will all soon be smoothed over and when all is said and done the negativity will seem trivial the love will prevail and we will still all have “the thing.”
And another line is crossed.
Denial. Denial for the sake of needing concrete proof prior to a firm accusation? Or denial simply for the sake of protecting the friendship?
Some people might not deserve protecting…but oh “the thing!” And there was once love here…. Fuck love. A line was crossed. Stop protecting. But, oh, “the thing!”
Where does that line end and people begin being real?
And what speech there is: vague, obtuse circles. Our strengths? Communicating through art about culture and politics - not through speech about emotions in our personal realities.
And I – probably the least invested – still bottle it up.

frolicking toward the future

Two weeks is a very short period of time.
Twee weeks ago, this month had not yet begun, and now it's half over. February sucks like that, but the other months ain't too much better.
And so I wonder how just shy of three weeks without a day job has left my apartment a shambles, my bills neglected, my music still unfinished, my to-do list a mere two bullet points shorter, and my belly and thighs a whole butt-load bigger.
Excitedly I sat to work in front of the computer, prepared submit to music and Fringe Festivals, only to find that the latter were already past submission, save for those that cost an excess of $400 dollars to submit to.
Hello. I'm an artist. Do I have $400 or $500 to pay someone else to let me perform at their festival? Paricularly after traveling there and securing accomodations? And particularly EIGHT months in advance!? These festivals thrive on new works, and thus are usually accepting shows that are not yet finished. Do I have enough faith in my work that I believe I can recoup $500 + in ticket sales for a show that I haven't even finished yet, let alone witnessed reactions to!?
The answer is no.
And so, I set out simply submitting to music festivals.
I'll probably spend $700 on cds. Copies of crappy quality cds that I self produced and recorded at home. I'll spend several humdreds of dollars (probably $400) submitting to festivals and purchasing memberships to various online services that assist in the touring needs of solo musicians.
And then I'll hope that I book enough shows that driving rather randomly across the country several times is atleast worth my while as far as exposure. ('Cuz I certainly won't make shit.) I say very randomly, 'cuz it's virtually impossible to book any sort of coherent path connecting logical cities' festivals. As in: can I make it from Vancouver to Austin in four days, then to Atlanta three days later, then go back out to Denver the following week? Or should I just skip Atlanta in that mix? It's a freaking headache. And a heart attack.
And I don't want to do this alone.
Not sure that I'm even capable of doing this.
But if I do it - just once, I can cross it off the list and move the fuck on and stop incessantly dreaming.
I just have to be willing to let my dreams be shattered.

A great party to kick off 2006: hanging with friends NOT in a bar, triviia pursuit, wrestling and good conversation.
And lots of cars. And lots of crap - processed meat packages and KFC and boxes of twinkies and ho hos.
My friends - the ultra progressive, liberal movers and shakers of the Cincy art scene - ccontribute thoughtlessly to the very concepts that enrage us. Disturbing that if not even these amazing people spend their non-woriking hours being more conscientious consumers, how can we ever expect the more apathetic individuals of the planet to live more responsibly?
Lengthy rant penned (alright, typed) last night follows:

There’s been a lot of talk. And thank God for the talkers loudly speaking out, while so many others sit, perplexed, in silence, and others still can’t even see that there is something wrong. But very few are talking about consumerism. We all shout with certainty that “oil controls the world” when in fact, it’s money that controls the world. We as a society, are simply spending our money on oil.
“Kyoto talks continue without US participation.” (BBC News 12-5-05)
“834 American deaths this year in Iraq, down by three from last year. Casualties up.” (New York Times, 1-1-06)
“Blood flows for oil in Nigeria” (New York Times, 1-1-06)
“Global warming ____”
And the world rightfully points fingers at the US government. And many of us more conscientious liberal citizens do the same: point fingers at our own government. We cry “no blood for oil” at protests, then hop back in our cars and drive home. We bemoan the deplorable air quality and it’s potential impact on the abundance of natural disasters in 2005, then we drive to the store to buy meat from cows that grazed the vegetation off half of Nebraska’s open spaces, owned by major corporations that sprayed poisons over their fields near school children and who hold stock in Wal*Mart and Shell.

Yeah, I’m angry. And as one of my favorite slogans / bumper stickers/ protest chants states: “If you’re not angry, you’re not paying attention.” And if you’re not analyzing your own purchase power and decisions – you should probably turn some of that anger inward.
I am quite confident that the dollars I spend annually count far more heavily than my ’04 absentee ballot.
Too often folks write off certain lifestyles – such as commuting by bicycle or eating organics – as physically self-serving. “Why spend a few extra bucks at the grocery store? I don’t care what I put in my own body!” That’s great. But consider the environmental and socio-economic and political implications of the food you eat. Consider the FDAs involvement in supporting pharmaceutical companies and pesticides as opposed to natural remedies and how the big names sold in big box stores have big bucks that they are investing in big corporations that you ideologically oppose. You think Amy’s Organic Kitchen or any of its employees hold stock in >>>?
Put a photo on your steering wheel: of an Iraqi war zone; the small village being pillaged for its oil in Nigeria; of the ice caps this summer next to the far larger ice caps of a mere two decades ago; the rubble of New Orleans; the fumes emitting from oil tankers. And next time you get in the car consider if driving is REALLY necessary. Could you walk, bike, take the bus, carpool?
The government will not substitute renewable energies for oil because it makes sense. Car companies will not make hybrids more reasonable in price and design & parts more accessible simply because it’s ecological. The city of Cincinnati will not create bike lanes, maps or racks because intelligent, progressive cities do such things. Governments and organizations only respond to consumer demand. Already, Cincinnati has taken a huge step in replacing Metro’s diesel consumption with a 30% bio-diesel blend, turning heads across the nation more so than the inhabitants of this city. And even with the fountain fiasco and its impact on parking availability, ridership is only up a mere ___%. So until we as a culture stop being so lazy, put our dollar where are words are and start creating the change we long to see…we’re all just talking.
We refuse to sacrifice certain comforts like our cars and the ease of stopping by the major chain grocery store and purchasing the slightly cheaper mass market product instead of hunting out its ten cents pricier, healthier organic equivalent sold at a locally owned market….
Think of what you ask of your government, of your community. Are you working towards those ideals yourself, or are you fiscally supportive of the very ideals you verbally protest?
So you wanna see the state of the world change in 2006, eh?
The government may or may not listen to our cries and bend to what is increasingly being proven in polls as majority opinion. They will, however, listen to consumerist trends. This a government, if not a world, run by the dollar. Spend yours with great caution.