You think your job sucks...

Bethesda Roundhouse Theater this month mounts a version of David Mamet's Pulizer Prize winning Glengary Glenn Ross. Pretty tough stuff for our little community theater, and they've pulled it off really well. Of course this is the quintessential Mamet talk-a-thon, and it lives or dies by the ability of the cast to spew non-stop, rapid-fire, obscenity-laced vitriol at one another while somehow eliciting sympathy from an audience made up largely of elderly Bethesdans. No small task, I assure you. But this group pulls it off really well. The language is gritty and grungey frankly a bit over the top in terms of NSFW vocabulary and the staccato smart-guy lecturing. But these actors manage to deliver Mamet's overwrought dialog credibly, intelligibly and with just the right amount of nuance - it's not as easy to shout 'cunt' at someone while retaining sympathy for the shouter as you might think.

This is one of those text heavy plays that could just as effectively be presented in workshop fashion with just a few chairs and tables as props. But the sets in the Roundhouse production are meticulously assembled, making outstanding, subtle use of the rotating stage which in this instance seems almost to have been more of a liability than an advantage. But the two sets, a Chinese restaurant and the disheveled sales office play beautifully against each other, juxtaposing the silky chintz of Asian eatery decor with the gritty, rough shod boiler room in which these poor working schmucks are consigned to spend their working lives. This one is worth seeing if only to watch a group of veteran actors chew up Mamet's verbiage.

Runs through March 3.

All the world's

Scot McKenzie mesmerizes as KJ in The Aliens

Last week was theater week here at Mondo Blah Blah. I saw Young Robin Hood at the Roundhouse Theater, Bethesda's community theater, on Sunday. Robin Hood was something for the whole family, and not of much interest to me. But I support art in my local community so I can live among actors, directors, lighting technicians, stage hands and theater freaks of all kinds - my kind of neighbors. So I have season tickets and take what they give me. Sometimes art is interesting and sometimes not so much. It wasn’t bad, just predictable family fare, which is not really my thing.

Then it was Malkovich's Les Liaisons Dangereuses on Thursday night which I wrote about on Friday.

Then I saw The Aliens at the Studio Theater on Friday. Of the three, the latter was by far my favorite. Starring Peter O’Connor,  Scot McKenzie and Brian Miskell, all of whom were outstanding. This is tough material and it came across brilliantly. Written by Annie Baker. I will watch for her name.

Though I’ve only seen two plays at the Studio, both have been outstanding and I’ve really enjoyed them. The theaters are really small and intimate and the actors can get right up in your face, which was pretty uncomfortable when we went to see Ralph Ellison’s The Invisible Man. Having a black man sit ten feet in front of me speaking the most eloquent words about racism written in the English language was an intense experience. Theater at its best. The kind that makes you uncomfortable. 

Danger Valmont, Danger!

Go see Les Liaisons Dangereuses at the Shakespeare Theater. Directed by John Malkovich who in 1988 took the starring role in the film, this production is in French with English surtitles and despite the possible language barrier is a really entertaining way to spend a couple of hours. If you actually speak French, great; but if not, don't sweat it. You can just concentrate on the naked French ladies.

The cast is young and lovely and Malkovich has managed to portray these characters as a combination of 18th Century dandies with hoop skirts and sword fights, and modern day hipsters in skinny jeans, talking on cell phones, writing letters to each other on iPads. It could have been cheesy, but it's not. It's not the best thing you'll see this year, but it's good. It's fun. It's sexy.

And I promise - you won't see John Malkovich's ass this time.

http://www.welovedc.com/2012/12/07/we-love-arts-les-liaisons-dangereuses/

Polymorphia Schmolymorphia

Listen to this:

 

Penderecki: String Trio

It is a string trio. Not a quartet. That's in part what gives it the spare quality. Perfect for 20th Century modern music. It is by Krzysztof Eugeniusz Penderecki a Polish composer who later taught at Yale. I don't actually car much for this particular version. It's not bad, and the musicians are technically quite proficient, but I think they're making it too melodic, too warm; not sufficiently hard edge.

If you get the chance, find the version by the Janaki String Trio. I saw them perform it at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and they tore that mother apart. Their version is as cold as Warsaw sidewalk, as sharp as razor, as resonant as abandoned factory. Their sound is clear and precise, as the music demands. If you go in for such things, this is a genuine delight.

Caged

Just so you know, I considered leaving this entire post blank in tribute to John Cage. But I didn't. You may wish I had.

The very King of Cages

Triathlete water storage

I've been thinking about the 'umble bottle cage. That most utilitarian accessory that allows a cyclist to affix a container of water or other liquid (usually in "bottle" form) to a bicycle. Though usually mounted to the frame, on the seat tube and/or down tube, cages can also be mounted on the handlebars and for some reason triathletes seem to prefer them behind the saddle, like a couple of Truck nutz dangling behind the rider's buttocks. I guess the skin suit, aero helmet and bars don't look dorky enough. Well, to each their own I suppose.

The reason I have been thinking about cages is that the '86 Fuji came without any, so I found myself in the market. Actually, at first I put on a cage that I had left over from an old bike - I am nothing if not a borderline hoarder. But there was something wrong with the way the "normal" aluminum cage (like the one in the upper left corner of this post) looked with the slender tubes of the Allegro. The oversized aluminum tubes of the bottle cage seemed to compete in bulk with the elegant chromoly of the bike. So I set about to find the perfect bottle cage to complement my vintage (really? '86 is "vintage"? I'm old...) bike.

I had a sense that there was more variety available for modern bikes, since my late model Treks sport a set of carbon fiber cages (the teenage punk-ass sales clerk actually complemented me on using the same cages as Lance, which very nearly cost him the sale) and a plastic pair. And the modern styling of the plastic cages fits the large aluminum tubes of the '02 2000 and the giant carbon tubes of the '11 Madone. But the Fuji called for something different, and hopefully less expensive, since the whole bike cost just a bit more than a fashionable set of carbon fiber cages.

Honoré Barthélémy during 1919 Tour de France

The Fuji is a project bike; a bike I bought very much with the idea of learning bike repair, experimenting with different equipment and exploring alternatives to the way I have been riding for most of my adult life. And as I learned about different styles of non-racing bikes, I fell back to my original attraction, which was long distance cycling. I've long maintained the romantic fantasy of the long distance rider, the randonneur, the iron man on a bicycle crossing the world's most beautiful landscapes. And the aesthetic of this fantasy has something of the Heroic image about it. I imagine myself rolling through the Strade Bianche, all wool jerseys and goggles, drinking from an aluminum bottle with a cork stopper, eating paninni wrapped in wax paper. Of course when I actually rode across Italy it was on a state-of-the-art titanium touring bike there was a van following so I wouldn't be late to the picnic set up by the tour guides or the restaurant for dinner.

VO Retro cage MKII, with tab

Notwithstanding the inevitable disparity between self image and reality, as I built up the Fuji I found myself under the spell of the classic cyclotouring bike, the lure of the Constructeur. Of course the Allegro is never going to be a René Herse or an Alex Singer, no matter what accessories I hang on it, but I nevertheless decided to outfit it with classic, beautifully designed stuff that will continue to look and perform perfectly for the rest of my life. So I went where you go when that's the sort of stuff you want, and I outfitted the bike with the cage that made the most sense; the Velo Orange Retro cage MK II, with tab. It just looks timeless, is super lightweight, both visually and physically and is constructed with an ingenious design featuring a single cleverly bent wire. I have spent way too much time tracing the path of the wire around its complete path, reassuring myself that it is indeed made entirely from a single strand. Just lovely. Somewhere in the Design Museum there is an empty pedestal waiting for one of these.

Celebrate good times, come on!

My name is Norman and I paint lies

Today, in celebration of the fact that the indigenous people of this land failed to comprehend our ancestors' true intention and foolishly kept them alive through the first few winters of the colonization, we will stuff ourselves with the fruits of their mistake. We will gorge ourselves on the genetic abomination that is the modern turkey; the product of a most unnatural selection so horrible as to have almost no precedent save that of the comparison between the proportions of a Barbie® doll and that of an actual woman. Mankind's obsession with outsized breasts seems boundless.

That said, after spending the afternoon stuffing my gullet with truly obscene quantities of food and alcohol, I anticipate falling into my usual post holiday state of bloated self loathing. And like the good descendant of Puritans I am, I anticipate awakening bright and early Friday morning filled with the desire to punish myself for having indulged my wanton animal desires, my gluttonous impulse to pleasure, my decadent hedonism, my godless debauchery. And I plan to symbolically flagellate my body on the saddle of a bicycle; to purify my soul with Cliff's Bars and sports drinks. So I will climb the hill to Forest Glen, then turn around and amble out past Olney and back. Then it'll be time to stuff myself with leftovers and do it all again on Sunday!

I hope your suffering is as exquisite. Happy Thanksgiving.

Safe cycling served up on a plate

WABA's organizational license plate

Well there's a new Bartlemobile and since the old Bartlemobile was crushed like a sardine can, and along with it the now 13 year old Save the Bay license plates, there will be new plates issued by the Old Line State. Of course I could just get the boring old white ones procured for me by the dealership, or I could stick with the Heron and Crab which actually would complement the new car's Dolphin Gray exterior. But, as I am a bike nerd, I have decided to support the Washington Area Bicycling Association (WABA) and sport the organization's Maryland plate. I'm not yet sure where I will fall in the 0001 - 9999 lineup, but the notion of just needing to memorize a 4-digit integer is attractive. The old cerebellum isn't what it used to be and the notion of memorizing UXP-968 isn't nearly as appealing somehow. So we'll see how it goes and at least I'll have the smug satisfaction of knowing I'm bossing other drivers around while motoring.    

On snot

High in fiber, low in fat.

We stood around the parking lot at the Travilah store, a country market at a popular crossroads frequented by cyclists and other passersby. The Bunny nibbled lightly on a pretzel and sipped some water as a bunny will do, while I hoovered up a Cliff's bar that more than anything resembled some large animal's scat, and drained half a Podium Ice bottle's worth of Lipton instant iced tea. The days are getting cold so we are encumbered by tights, jackets and gloves, our movements constrained by layer upon layer of lycra, spandex and wool. Delicate maneuvers are out of the question and it can be a chore just performing the most basic actions necessary to get from Point A to Point B.

As I stood there chatting with my 60 year-old companion, a line of snot traced its way slowly down her lip and I, myself a bit of a mucus monster elected to not mention it. Even when this otherwise tidy woman, a mother and teacher of young children who has no doubt spent countless hours wiping the noses of others, unceremoniously wiped the slug across her face with the sleeve of her jersey, I took no obvious notice, though the event set me to thinking.

---

snot

noun

1.Vulgar . mucus from the nose.

2.Informal . a disrespectful or supercilious person.

Origin: 1350–1400; Middle English;  compare Middle Low German,
Middle Dutch snotte, Old English gesnot, Danish snot

---

Athletic activities, perhaps particularly endurance events, are specifically designed to push the athlete far beyond the comfortable state in which most of us exist most of the time. When we set out to ride a bike a hundred miles or climb a mountain or run a marathon we are intentionally setting a goal that will test our abilities, a challenge at which we may even fail. And for some reason we love it. I guess we hope to learn something about ourselves as we transcend our limits. Or maybe not. I don't know. All I know is that to be a strong cyclist is to at least occasionally find yourself covered with

I had a riding buddy many years ago who was known for hocking snot rockets over his shoulder as he rode. At one point or another, if you rode with him, you would inevitably be the recipient of a sinus shower. And despite numerous attempts to get him to cut it out, he could never shake the habit. Eventually I just resolved to become a better rider and never let myself get stuck behind him. Easier said than done, as he was pretty strong. But eventually prevailed.

Now all of us on the bike have to deal with our nostralular eminations, and I am not trying in any way to imply that I am not just as disgusting as my fellow slime spewers. Though I hope I have at least a little more situational awareness than some. A few years ago I developed my own technique for ridding myself of unwanted nasal phlegm while riding. It's not perfect, but it worked. I would pinch out the snot between thumb and forefinger of my right hand and with a fluid (ha!) motion flick the unmentionable down at roughly a 45° angle toward the ground just off the road's edge. I would then wipe the hand on the left armpit of my jersey. With luck no residual residue would slather my riding companions. A suitable technique though by no means perfect.

Then, while riding from Venice to Florence in the company of  a couple of Aussies, I noticed that one of them kept a wadded up handkerchief tucked into one of the legs of his shorts. Ingenious! A handkerchief! Why didn't I think of that? Probably because throughout most of my cycling life I've been overly influenced by what is 'Pro' and believe me, professional cyclists don't carry hankies. But I'm not a pro cyclist, so I now do and should you ever chance to take my wheel, I assure you, there will be no loogies hocked your way.

They may not mean to, but they do.

Further to yesterday's post:

This Be the Verse
By Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.   

    They may not mean to, but they do.   

They fill you with the faults they had

    And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

    By fools in old-style hats and coats,   

Who half the time were soppy-stern

    And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

    It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

    And don’t have any kids yourself.

Kind of bleak, but hey, he was British. 

What cost posterity?

It turns out that it costs about $1,800,000 to raise a child, give or take. By my calculation that is the equivalent of about 360 $5,000 bikes.

The Managing Director and I don't have any children, so I put in the requisition today. There was some back and forth on the matter and it was ultimately decided that I am to be allowed 25 $5,000 bicycles so long as our Tuscan villa has room to house them all.

A bike, a baby and a bitch.

And if I buy bikes and an Italian villa, I apparently also won't suffer the lower marital satisfaction and higher depression rates that parents apparently experience. More money, happier marriage, less depression. I guess I'll just have to accept that we will always be one of those sad childless couples having to console ourselves by sleeping late, traveling the world, dining out, going to the theater, you know, just being miserable.