letter for you
By Kervin | January 4, 2010 | 1 Comment
hello internet. how are you? i am fine. i just returned from a slightly-famed trip to tempe, arizona. the time spent was hard-earned and well-worth. after all the drama our collective endured, from tests of friendship to broken cars, powergrip failures and leg-over-to-concrete-chestsmacks, we returned with that sticky-sweet, too many cigarettes and far too much coffee peanut-butter taste behind our shit-eating grins.
crossing over the naughties into the tens in another city, another state, another frame of reference was nothing short of surreal. yes, there was glitter; glitter and glamour, expensive whiskey, cheap champagne– stinky handkerchiefs, sweaty feet, stale smoke– objectivism, romanticism, et. al; the day of, the night of, the mornings and evenings after new year’s were a swirling concoction of these abstractions, colors, sights and sounds.
the party eventually reached its peak with a static moment of calm. all present were on the same page, those who weren’t were no longer around, and we melted into and around the couches, little puddles of people trailing on the surrounding floor. so we asked each other what 2009 was and what 2010 will not be. i ask nothing more of myself than genuine interest in the naked experience, and to be appreciative of what is there. no, i am not talking about my penis. i then extended a firm apology to the parties i offended that night, which was well-received. no, i am not talking about my penis.
how about you, internet? let’s get together soon; ride some bikes.
Poetry
By Anna | November 19, 2009 | No Comments
Woo – Kervin taught me how to fix the gallery. Man, the internet is completely beyond me sometimes. Anyway, we practiced our mediocre fixie tricks for like four hours the other night, and took lots of epic pictures and really boring video which you’ll see sometime later.
To all you cyclists out there, stay safe and keep warm!
this was going to be in the zine…
By Kervin | November 16, 2009 | 3 Comments
…but I’ve decided to write something a little different. More… fictional.
I don’t know where to begin. The importance of being one of the few selected to write an article for the first issue of a self-produced magazine, live or die (however it will turn out), is gargantuan. And I ponder what sort of audience I should tailor my writing to– this much I remember from English 120– and given the other members of the collective, I shall assume it’s the DIY punk-rock types; those who will pick up an issue of a cycling mag with “cult” in the title; those brave enough to take a set of pliers and a hammer to their chainrings, et. al. So to you brave enough to pay the three bucks and crack it open, I’ll scribe my memories surrounding the inception of the to-be organism known bluntly as BIKE CULT.
There was a night, similar as any other, and I do believe it was a Tuesday, on which a few of us youngins decided to do some beer drinking. As small a gathering as it was (no party aspect here, just four or five friends killing an eighteen pack) it still provided the stimulating environment in which a pseudo-intellectual brain can thrive. And really the night was about transcending all of that gumption and pride: would we be subjecting ourselves to the heinous devil what is intoxication had we been treading the trenches of important philosophical, psychological, existential quandry? All rhetoric– no, we would not. So we hopped on our bicycles and for a few blissful hours reminded ourselves that our bodies are more than transport for our heads.
So onto the campus we went. Words were exchanged, somebody in particular (and no specific names here– non-exclusivity and all) suggested we perform “MAD ONE-EIGHTY SKIDS ALL UP IN THIS BITCH.” There are two factors one must consider when attempting such a feat: 1) decent clearing and 2) minimal friction coefficients. I had neither. Want to see my bent fork? Maybe you’ll see us some night: crack your eyelids for areas of reflective brick; there are several. Tricks were performed, beers were consumed, (ssh it ain’t a dry campus but who’s looking right) one particular Vietnam veteran joke was told and I laughed until I threw up. Or maybe that was a different night.
