Under The City Prt II

Still from Mash SF. Check the cyclist 3/4 of the way up, on the left, coming down. No brakes, no gears, no worries.


This was going to be a simple review of a DVD I recently acquired called Mash SF. Then the Thursday before last, just after 11pm, I found myself lying on the cold ground on a busy street in downtown Portland, with my legs awkwardly wrapped around my bike frame. Seconds earlier, a car driver, desperate to find parking on this ‘First Thursday’ art walk, dangerously cut me off to squeeze into a primo parking space. I didn’t hit the car but in a desperate effort to avoid collision I went flying over my handlebars while my feet lay stubbornly strapped into my toe-clips.


As I lay there trying to get out of my toe-clips, the driver and her passenger got out of their car.


“Wow, are you OK?”


“Ah, yeah.”


“Did we hit you?”


‘No. You just cut me off.”


“Wow, we didn’t even see you.”


“Yeah, no shit, you didn’t.”


Now, normally, I like to offer a little lecture about traffic law, etiquette, car vs bike etc. to people who drive dangerously but this time, I didn’t want anything to do with them and walked away, after making sure my bike and body were both in one piece. I was happy to have a couple of witnesses offer their help and sympathy and not at all surprised that two of Portland’s finest were less than a block away and ignoring the whole thing.


Just days earlier I was busy bragging to my wife, how after years of cycling in city traffic on an almost daily basis, I have become remarkably adept at predicting stupid moves pulled by drivers, pedestrians and, of course, fellow cyclists. Now, I was left deliberating over whether I should to continue to assert my right to the road or surrender and cycle more ‘defensively.’


I don’t really have much to add to the bike versus car debate. I do both. I hate how reliant I am on a car but I still drive and get to experience the frustrations all drivers do. As soon as I get behind the wheel in that metal box, I feel my mentality aggressively morph and it is easy to become incredibly frustrated with bikes and other road users. Then I remind myself, to chill the fuck out and consider the power of the vehicle I’m in. And that’s my bottom line on the matter. One’s care and consideration as a road user should be (at bare minimum) proportionate to the killing power of one’s vehicle of choice. That’s not to say we all shouldn’t take care. But if you choose to drive a machine that is capable of accelerating to lethal speeds, that can crush and kill people and is choking our atmosphere, please consider the implications of your transportation choice when coming into contact with other road users. Again, this is not to shrug of my responsibility to everyone else when I ride skate or walk.


If you drive, please, consider that kids like to play footie or basketball in the street, please consider people do random, unpredictable and dumb things on the same roads you drive on. But more than anything, consider that kids, peds, cyclists, and so on should be able to do all this without risk of death. It is you who will be killing them and not the other way around. The car’s dominance over public space is quite frankly, sickening. But all of this should be painfully obvious.

If you choose to take to the streets in a non-auto manner, as a cyclist, skateboarder or whatever you will inevitably one day hear something in the manner of ‘Get out of the fucking street. You are blocking traffic.’ The American city is so auto-centric, there is no room for anything else on the roads. You’d swear that going into the streets on or in anything but a car is as sacrilegious as burning a flag. My experience is mostly in Portland, a city the prides itself on being ‘progressive’ and ‘bike friendly.’ God help those of you living in less ‘enlightened’ towns and cities.


Yet, the streets and ‘downtown’ don’t have to be limited to consumerism, commerce and transportation. I could go off on an anti-capitalist rant about why things are structured this way but that will make this even more long-winded than it already is. Let’s just say, I am of the belief that the quality of all our lives would be greatly enhanced if more of us choose to seize, claim, re-interpret and re-define public space. Space that was once wild nature but has not had the wildness completely squeezed out of it.


There are enough pointless wars raging on. The war over public space, needn’t be one of them.

Rant over.

So now to the Mash SF film…


Like thousands of others I have been pretty fascinated with the explosion of fixed gear bicycles over the last few years, especially of the brakeless track bike variety. These bikes hit the streets hard at the turn of the century. Was it a punk rock reaction against the unaffordable technology of carbon fiber, multiple gears and sportiness of contemporary road bikes? Maybe. But fixed gears and track bikes undoubtedly became a fashion accessory and many people have written it off as a result. Of course, it is easy to dismiss this ‘culture’ off as a hipstered-out trend. There are lots of people who obviously care a lot about the style of their clothes as well as their bikes riding around very slowly and/or unskillfully. Furthermore, it has become co-opted and commoditized like every youth culture before it but at even more staggering rate, due to the Internet. But it is unfair to write it off based on the fashion and trend aspect, as there are some very profound cultural and political implications to urban track bike riding.


These bikes have a rich and colourful history but were essentially meant for a very specific purpose, ie racing in the sanctuary and safety of the velodrome. The story goes that Jamaican bike messengers in New York, first began using these bikes as they were the bikes they were used to back home, they are relatively inexpensive, easy to maintain, and utilitarian in nature, perfect as a ‘working’ bicycle. Others messengers caught on but until recent years it was mostly an esoteric culture, limited to bike messengers, serious bike nerds and of course people who actually rode them in the velodrome.


While, I love analyzing subcultures and their evolution, I’ll save that for another time. What I will say is that, there are now legitimate ‘crews’ out there, pushing these bikes to the limits within the urban confines but far beyond the confines of fad and fashion. Perhaps the highest profile being the Mash crew from San Francisco. From what I can tell Mash is a loose affiliation of bike messengers, BMXers and skateboarders who have taken it upon themselves to see how far they can push themselves while tackling the 49 hills of The City, without brakes. At first, I was pretty skeptical that the video about track bikes would make for captivating viewing but it is produced much like contemporary skate videos. Each rider gets their own segment where they get to display their individual skills set to a wide variety of tunes. While, the footage of riders doing stationary or slow-moving tricks is impressive it does get a bit old but what never gets old are the segments of people bombing the hills, negotiating traffic and seizing the streets. Obviously it takes some serious fitness and physical skill to tackle San Francisco on a brakeless bike in the way these riders do but perhaps more impressive is the way they ‘read the city,’ tune into the chaos and thread through it with grace and power.


Part of me, wants to dismiss it as bad PR for cyclists. People who ride like this are going to piss off a lot of road users and I don’t want to pay the consequences of a brakeless hipster infilling a car driver with rage for blowing a red light, when I’m the next cyclist that driver comes across. Yet, I can’t help but admire their skill. And I can’t help but think that for all the negative response its going to provoke, this style of riding, like graffiti serves a higher purpose in the way it encourages both participants and viewers to reconsider their interaction with the streets and pubic space.


It is beyond time we broke out of the confines forced upon us by artificial authority, take back public space and make it livable again…

...and this is just one way to do it...

More of this in Foulweather #3... (Yes, yes I know #2 isn't even out yet)

Grianstad an Gheimhridh

In all the consumer frenzy, don't forget tonight is the longest night of the year. Embrace it. As it can only get brighter from here. Light a bonfire, tell stories and drink some sweet ale.

And as far as the 25th of December is concerned, the only thing I'm celebrating is Shane MacGowan's 50th birthday.

Hopefully.

...a little teaser...

For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

As the winter solstice approaches, I thought I'd round up some images from Autumn. Autumn is my favourite season both here in the Pacific Northwest and back home in Wales. The kids are back in school, workers back in work, everything quietens down a little, the surf begins to pump, the weather can still be agreeable (sometimes even better) and decay sets in, ensuring the eventual fertilization of new life.

Clickforbigger.

Sometimes you only have to walk a few hundred yards into the sticks to get a sense of how things should be.

I can never take enough tree photos.

How many photos of this rock do we need? It was a beautiful evening of family, Belgian beer, dune running and surf anticipation.



Cape Foulweather. One of the first places I ever visited in Oregon and 'Where the history of Oregon began.' Funnily enough, every time I go there the weather is stunning. I have a collection of Cape Foulweather 'pennies.' 

The 'cleanse and purge' Autumn surf trip is becoming an annual affair. This year we rolled deep... in a Hearse... Don't even ask about petrol mileage... Mike's sanity relies on these trips.

More public spaces in Portland are becoming sanctioned sites for legitimized shred sledding. The kids are stoked and fat old men's lives become easier while seeking the thrill. Fitz rocking a Frontside Rock and Roll on another amazing Autumn afternoon.

Tom Curren by Tom Servais

This is one of my favourite surf photos of all time (along with the famous MP cutback still from Morning Of The Earth). Why is it relevant? It isn't except to say I just enjoyed two days of super fun right handers. Cold, uncrowded, beautiful weather and very few people around... Shame about the brown water from all the storm run off but otherwise it was great.

Still waiting on a couple of slackers before we send foulweather #2 to the printer...

The Butcher Of Bahrain

Photo taken from the Bahrain Youth Society For Human Rights

The following chapter is from my first novel that I wrote about ten years ago. It was a fictionalized version of my time as an expat kid in Bahrain. It was far too ambitious and pretentious but I'm hoping it will provide a worthwhile reference for my next project which is the non-fiction version. Anyway, this chapter is the protagonist being informed about The Butcher of Bahrain or The Scottish Beast, who is very real. His name is Ian Henderson. He served as Head of Security for Bahrain for many years, after being deported from Kenya for his part in suppressing the Mau Mau. Many of the major Human Rights groups hold him largely responsible for the torture and suppression of pro-democracy activists in Bahrain during the 1980s and 1990s.

A young Bahraini boy told me...

Chapter 7

“... The Scottish Beast is alive and very much present here in Bahrain. I don’t know whether the actual living Beast is still here himself, but his presence, his magic, his power, his control lurks in every crook, cranny and corner of this island. You can feel it when you are down the market haggling over Hamor, when you apply for a driving licence, when you pray in the mosque on Friday or when you try and relax with your family at home. The Beast’s name is HU... HU... HE... HE... HEN... ahh I don’t want to say.

He is very tall and skinny for a beast but as ugly as any beast you have ever read about. He is pale, such pale white, with silver hair. He looks very old and frail but his power is as strong as it ever was. I think the source of his power is the huge tusk that hangs from the top jaw. It looks so very sharp, that is if you are able to get a glimpse of it. From most angles the tusk shines a brilliant white that blinds the rest of him from view. He has many such mechanisms to keep himself out of sight.

I hear that he was born in a very cold place called Scotland but somehow he ended up in Africa. It was in Africa that he transformed into a beast. Some people say it was the temperature change that sent him crazy. Anyway in an African land called Kenya he was in charge of killing people who got angry. These were people who had no food and no jobs. People who were asking for help but getting nowhere. The Scottish Beast made sure that these poor people did not disturb the rich people. His work in Africa came to an end one day and on his way back to Scotland he ended up here in Bahrain. This is when things went bad. Very bad for the poor people of Bahrain.

Once again he worked for the rich people. I think he was the body guard of the government and all the sheikhs. He makes sure nobody could get to them and that nobody can upset them. I don’t think it is bad to have somebody to protect you but the poor people never had body guards and still don’t have anybody to protect them. Some people say that he even controls the police and the army and all this control has made him even more crazy. They say that with his craziness has come supernatural powers. Powers to read people’s minds and listen in on any and every conversation taking place on the whole island. You could be enjoying some breakfast with your mother in your house, in any village before going to work or school and the Scottish Beast would be able to hear everything you said and sometimes he is even able to hear your every thought.

He listens to every telephone call and has copies of everything, absolutely everything that is ever written down. The scariest thing is that he could appear at anytime anywhere. He could be floating under your roof just before you go to sleep. Next to you on the bus. Behind you when you buy vegetables in the market. Under the sand of the football pitch as you play.

I have heard that he was the one responsible for taking away one of my uncles, out to a secret island. My uncle was locked in a grey cell and beaten with sticks by men who work for the Scottish Beast. My uncle is free now but he won’t tell me much about what happened to him. Lucky men who have been imprisoned on the island but now are free say that the Beast just stands there and watches during torture sessions. That he barks orders at the guards to abuse prisoners. They say that before they were freed, they heard him shout some mysterious words and then the guards pulled every one of my uncle’s fingernails out.

My uncle was lucky, his friend who was taken away at the same time was not so lucky. The Scottish Beast stuck a glass bottle up his bottom before pushing him out of a helicopter. They say my uncle had to watch his friend fall to his death. My uncle said that as the Scottish Beast let go of his friend his friend smiled and when his body hit the desert surface his soul was released and did a beautiful dance before flying above the helicopter.

My uncle told me in a dream that he wished he could have joined his friend on his flight to freedom. He used to be a fisherman and a pearl diver. He used to spend all day at sea and come home with a big smile and plenty of food for my whole family. Now all he does is sit at home in the dark staring at the wall, too afraid to go outside. Because of his meeting with the Scottish Beast my uncle is now too afraid to visit his favourite place, the sea. Can you imagine being too afraid to sail on those lovely waters? I think you would like my uncle. Maybe one day in a better world you and him will meet each other and sit down for tea. I think he will have a good story for you.

I am telling you this because as I was watching you take pictures I heard some snarling. Don’t get caught my friend. Its best if you get home to your family but please do not forget all that you have seen. You have witnessed more than most foreigners but for now maybe it is best you keep quiet. If the Scottish Beast catches anybody here at this moment in time, he will do more than pull out their fingernails.”

Slow And Steady

Just re-stocked foulweather #1 at Reading Frenzy in Portland (SW Oak between 9th and 10th). I Will probably put a few more at Q is for Choir on SE 26th and Clinton also. Down to the last few copies incase you need a nifty Winter Solstice gift... you can always mail order them from Microcosm Publishing or drop me an email if you don't live in P-town.

As for issue #2... well lay out lady Kara, is moving house and artist Dennis is a busy man, so we're still working at it... soon... soon...

I've started conceptualizing issue #3, so potential contributors stay tuned...

My Stench

Towards the end of last summer, my person accrued a weird stench and I can pinpoint the exact time it was assigned me. I had been out skateboarding all day in the blazing heat with no food in my stomach. After four hours or so, I was dirty, bleeding, de-hydrated and in pain but it all felt incredibly good at that point.

My friends Eg and Fitz encouraged me to join them for some beverages to celebrate our skateboarding and the summer. So we went to this scummy little bar on Powell Blvd called the Lottsa Luck. The first pint was overwhelmingly refreshing. I had a small cheese sandwich and another pint to wash it down. Soon we were fed and rested but the beer kept coming. We are all fathers of young children. We pulled out our hair with parental frustration, cried in the joy of it, moaned about our jobs and laughed at being thirty something grown-ass men, with beards and beer guts living for a few hours of skateboarding in the sun. It was now 8PM and I was supposed to be home by 6pm.

The physical pain from skateboarding had subdued and I stepped out of the Lottsa Luck and tried to skate in the car park only to fall on my face. I got up and immediately fell off my board again and again. I was in hysterics and so were my friends. It was ridiculous; I couldn’t roll three feet without ending up on my arse… If, I’m honest deep down inside, I was a little scared that I had surrendered my skateboarding skills to booze and the following debauched behaviour. For some reason, I then traded in my skateboard for a bike and we moved from the Lottsa Luck to a karaoke bar called the Bear’s Paw.

I sang ‘Amazing Grace’ and drank more. Still covered in sweat, blood and dirt, (I was actually dirtier than I had been all day at this point after rolling around the car park). Us three grown ass men on skateboards immediately began to attract a lot of attention. Things got weird quickly and mostly the details elude me but some things stand out. A couple of gay bus drivers who walked up to our table and proceeded to tell us that they were beginning to feel a bit threatened by some bigots at the bar and did we ‘have their backs?’ Damn straight we did. I would have died for them right then, I was so high on life.

Next, I was approached by a girl who was celebrating her twenty first birthday. Would I be nice and sing a karaoke song with her? Never mind the fact I had never sang karaoke ever before, I soon belting out ‘Let’s hear it for the boy!’ or as I was later informed ‘Let’s hear it for the Oi!’ aimed at the skinheads who I presumed were hassling our gay bus driving friends. I soon realized I could not read as fast as the prompts on the karaoke machine and so the foulest language I am capable of game streaming out of my filthy gob. More beer. And then some kid began to sing 'Amazing Grace' but was absolutely destroying it, so I took the mic off him and showed him how the Welsh sing, only one song after loosing my karaoke virginity. Fitz sang Sweet Home Alabama three times and Eg sang obscure bubble gum pop songs, I’ve never heard. My African American co-worker squealed in delight when I told her I rescued ‘Amazing Grace over the weekend.

One of the skinheads then approached me and asked if my drunken tirade was aimed at him. I commended him on his courage at approaching me and said I was just a cultural observer. He seemed OK with this, so I went for a piss and none of the skins ended up coming in to the toilet to give me a seeing to.

Next a clown walks up the our table and starts a conversation with me. It is a friend of my wife’s named Brian or Pompeii, which is his clown name as is Briano and Zompei. Anyway, he is a real clown and a hilarious character and he had caught some of my act. However, I had a hard time convincing anyone that Briano is a genuine bona fide clown. For whatever reason, this frustrated me and I began my descent but not before a wonderful midnight cycle home through the leafy green neighbourhoods of Southeast Portland.

I got home just after midnight blind drunk and festering in filth on all levels. Six hours late. I knew things were bad but I have sunk pretty low in the past and always managed to pick myself up. But before I could even collapse on my pillow, my wife uttered in disgust ‘Jesus Christ you stink, go sleep in the basement.’ And kicked me out of the bedroom.

She later asked me if I had pissed myself, which I don't think I did... But since that day, I have been unable to get rid of that stench and my body odor absolutely reeks, even after showering. Piss, sweat, smoke, alcohol, excrement body odor, dirt, cap park scum, blood all smeared into my skin, under my arm pits, my arse crack, my bollocks, my breath, behind my ears, between my toes, under my fingernails. My wife is really concerned as she doesn't want to be anywhere near me. I’m still embarrassed to go to work and I must have had at least twenty showers since that night. Every time I sweat, it is as if I have been living under a bridge for the last ten years. As if I rolled around in the cat litter. A deep funk has been released from a forbidden depth. I’ve been to see my doctor about it. Even they gagged when I lifted my arm-pit. All the doctor did was ask if I had changed my diet and told me it would fade in time and perhaps drink more water.

It all brings to mind me a great Italian film I once watched before moving out the US, called Caro Diario, or ‘Dear Diary.’ It was on late night television. Late night British television can actually be quite good and its part of what makes being on the dole so great. So in this film, the protagonist, who is also the director, takes on a journey, both geographical and metaphysical, around his daily haunts. We get to sit on the back of his moped and cruises around the narrow winding streets of the city. We get to share his elation as he zooms out to the surrounding countryside. We get to relish in the beauty of normal people going about their day, celebrate Rome’s architecture and drool over the scenery of the Aeolian Islands.

'Caro Diario' is split into three parts. The first two of which are mostly devoid of plot. I like this. Oftentimes a good film can set itself apart from a narrative. Why rely so much on plot and narrative? If you want to do that write a book. Film really should take advantage of the liberties of its medium. Few directors really do this. Terrence Mallick does it and so does Nanni Moretti for the first two thirds of his film. He let’s us taste Italy through his senses. We hold his hand tighter and tighter begging for more, and then in the third act he develops an itch. And also insomnia. In fact he develops a tumor but he doesn’t yet know it. Suddenly the film changes pace and becomes an arduous struggle for diagnosis and cure. It is pretty depressing from there on out but we are still grasped tightly to his hand. It is staggering how much so, actually. While we sympathize with his cancerous condition, it is easy to loath him for taking us on the route he did to get us there.

Ultimately, there is little Nanni can do to help his condition but drink more water. After all it can't do any harm.

And that is all I really have to say about that.

A journey an artist might make to honor he that inspired him.