Shhhh... It's Twiathlon Season... I'm Hunting PRs...

Wow. That's is a twisty title isn't it? It's like Elmer Fudd meets Runner's World and I think it's only funny to me. I would say I'm hunting "twiathletes" but after my performance at Saturday's Champion's super Sprint, I have some serious work to do before I'm any sort of threat. It doesn't make things any easier knowing that woman in my age group are super competitive- and will be this way for the next ten years.

What didn't go right:

• Didn't eat as well as I should have the 4-5 days leading up to the race. Next time: less processed food and more chicken and brown rice.
• Poor sleep the night before: not sure if this was just nerves or what. I ended up getting out of bed a 2am and cranking the AC down to 68 to try to make it more comfortable. Next time: work on sleep patterns so 4:50 doesn't feel so damn early.
  
• Swim- I never got into my long smooth stride. Next time: I'll take the time to warm up.
• Bike - no hill power. Next time: time for hill repeat training sessions and time to get reacquainted with Southwest Parkway
• Run- I had plenty in the tank for really run it out in the end. Next time- push it, even if its a short distance. Also, more bike-to-run bricks

What rocked:

• I scored a great transition spot near Bike In/Out
• I was properly hydrated and fueled for the race
• Despite not finding my stroke for the swim, I met my goal of about 8 minutes for 300ish meters
• Hearing my friends yell my name on the bike course
• Hearing strangers and fellow competiors give me encouragement on the run
  
• I finished strong- with a little too much left in the tank, but I have a better idea of what I'm capable of.
• A Fireman's 4 in one hand and a vanilla frosty cone in the other

My race was a super sprint: 300m swim, 12 mile bike, 2 mile run. I finished about 15 minutes past my overall goal- so I'm considering this a reality check. Today I volunteered for the Olympic distance tri and watched both the amateurs and the pros/elites including two of my coaches: Amy Marsh and Brandon Marsh. Watching the elites was truly inspiring- fluid, powerful, strong. It makes me want to work harder. So what does tomorrow's run have in store? Hills? Sweet. Bring it.

Gimme More: SXSW 2009 (Wednesday & Thursday)

I was going to lead off with how important music is to me and how critical it is to my sanity and creativity but I really just want to get to the music so .. let's do this:

SXSW 2009 as heard through the ears of yours truly.

Wednesday night.
The goal was Echo and the Bunnymen at Emo's main room. I'd had a beer earlier at the Thirsty Nickel and watched a few songs by Boston frat rock band Lansdowne. Not awful. Not remarkable. They even had their fan base in front- college-ish looking guys in plaid shorts and golf shirts raising their Bud Lights in the air.
Unfortunately, I didn't make it into the show at Emo's. The long line of badge holders continued to grow as we wristbanders could only look on with scowling faces. But I learned an important lesson:
Learn what you can from your line buddies. I became line buddies with 4-5 people that night. We compared notes on past shows and what SXSW acts we planned to see (provided we could get in of course). It was as much a part of the experience as watching the bands themselves- and you can learn a lot.

Thursday
I headed straight to Red 7 for the Found/Quack Media Party. (Found Magazine - go there. Wonder if you'll ever recognize something form your past. Dismiss it. Laugh it off. And find yourself checking the site on a semi-regular basis. Or maybe that's just me).

There I caught the end of the Hard Lessons' sweat inducing set. I need a second shot at these guys. They put on an energetic stage show and the guitarist/vocalist was the first of several acts to incorporate the tent supports into the act (he hung his guitar by its strap from one of the metal beams and let it play while he crawled like monkey above the crowd.
Lucero and the Hold Steady followed. I enjoyed Lucero quite a bit- but I'm still needing to be sold on the Hold Steady. The enthusiasm of the crowd is causing some dissonance with my perception of the band- why am I not into them?

Leaving the Red 7, I lingered at Emo's annex for Micachu- a girl who's making a name for herself in experimental dance music. I'm not going to rush out and buy her songs- but if she opens for a band I like, I'd arrive at the show on time to check her out again.

Peter Murphy was next on my schedule- I waited in line an hour with some really cool people and was finally allowed into the dark shadows of Elysium. Gay or British? Who cares? He owns it. Peter's voice has an uncanny resemblance to Neil Diamond's which I find both alarming and comforting at the same time. Primarily due to my Electra-like fascination with Neil Diamond. He didn't sing any of my favorites off Cascade- but he played to the audience the whole time- with extended dramatic poses and arched eyebrows. He engaged the audience- responding to questions and asking his own.

Forgive me. I am totally blanking on what I did between about 8:45pm and 11.

At 11pm I went to the Velveeta Room for Elliott Brood. The Canadian trio has been referred to as a "black grass" or "hellbilly" band. With the incorporation of mandolins, banjos, a pedal bass and the obligatory train drumbeat- they twist all preconceived notions once they begin singing. Between the singer's raspy vocals and their lyrics- you know this isn't some other alt-country band. Not only that, but for one number, they passed out pots and pans with wooden spoons so the audience could bang along. Awesome, I'm keeping mine in the bar.

So its true. I came for the Brood but I stayed for Doucet. Luke Doucet. The man can write songs. And the man knows his way around a guitar. the lyrics of his songs are dark, introspective, and direct. "You've got to have a heart to have a broken one." Ouch. Now come over here and tell me all about it, sugar.

Again... I saw some more bands that I can't remember offhand- until it comes to Phil Marshall. an unassuming fellow until the music starts. Of all the 6th Street bars that hosted unofficial SXSW showcases, Spill was one of the best equipped. From what I could hear, Phil presented some of the more commercial stuff up front- but I felt his set got better with each song. He's got a sweet longing in his voice without sounding desperate or whiny.

Again, I lose a little time. Unsure if I called it a night after that or if there were more bands... I'll check my notes. And include anything I left out in the Friday write up.

Treat yourself to something new:
Elliot BROOD

One of my favorite songs


The video that started it all (note that the character Joseph Bower, the character who gets the telegram in the beginning of the video, is my great grandfather. Read more about him and the bridge.



Why I ended up with a baking pan and a wooden spoon at the end of the night


New discovery: Luke Doucet


Luke's other project, Veal.




Phil Marshall


Stay tuned for Friday and Saturday posts!

I am Being Stalked by the Wienermobile

Originally posted on MySpace 2/15/2007

Its cold. It's the day after Valentine's Day. I'm already late for work by the time I step out of the shower and wrap a towel turban around my head.

As I walk from the sink to the closet, a burst of orange catches my eye. Just below my third story window is the Wienermobile.

Interesting.

Generally some fresh flowers or a little note will do but since I was on my own this time, I accepted this giant phallus as a gift from the universe. The kind of gift that bends you over a hot dog cart and reminds you who's boss. Oh yeah. You're fucked.

I do get a little nostalgic when it comes to the Wienermobile. It makes me think of Sundays at Nun's Beach in Capitola when I and 300 other happy campers (literally) invaded the beach- no matter how fucking cold and windy it was. We all sported red bathing suits and our proud green Kennolyn camp teeshirts and sweatshirts (is that yours? no? is it mine? no? where's yours? who's is that?).

We had to have a buddy when we went into the the water and when the lifeguard blasted two whistles, we sloshed through the sea to grasp the shivering hands of our buddies and raise them up high to prove that a) we were cool enough to have another person who wanted to be our buddy and b) we were good little rule followers.

When the lifeguard was satisfied no one had drifted off into the bay, he let out another whistle and we were again free to bounce up and down in the waves and dig our toes into the sand.

But that wasn't the best part. Neither was the hike up to the nunnery to use the bathroom- although that was a close second. You try pulling on your cold, wet one piece bathing suit followed by stiff sandy jeans after getting nearly completely naked just to take a piss. Only assholes peed in the ocean. So I guess that makes all those happy sea creatures assholes. Even sea otters.

The best part was "dinner". A special place was roped off with a few dozen "firepits" (read- holes dug into the sand with lit briquettes). This is when they busted out the roasting sticks and hot dogs. I always found that sliding the hot dog on lengthwise versus piercing it through the middle made for a more thoroughly cooked weenie. But it also increased the sand to dog ratio.

Once we were fairly certain the dog was mostly cooked- it had begun to sweat a little, maybe plump up some- we slipped that puppy into the cold bun that we had doctored up with a little ketchup and relish. By the time I got to the mustard packet, I lost my motor skills and ended up squirting Mandy Walsh on the knee. So into the bun the dog goes then into the mouth. It tastes like this: cold-soft bun, waaay hot casing, slight crunch as you bite through it, then slightly warmed inside and crunch. Sand.

Sand in your mouth, sand in your crotch, sand in your hair and your belly button. As you eat you feel the salt from the ocean drying on your face and mixing with the slight sunburn across your cheeks and nose (they used to call that "healthy color"). When you lick your lips you can taste it and your lips feel parched even though they are wet and you know that what your thirst for is simply water.

So... let's return to the present. Its oh.. 10 pm CST in Austin Texas. I'm puttering around in my suite and I look out the window again. And there it is. The Wienermobile. This time its using a tourbus as a decoy- and its parked several yards away- but I know its there. You can see it too. Just look.

Why I Love Autumn: Reason 10

Originally posted on MySpace 10/24/2007

Why I Love Autumn: Reason 10

Last night I rediscovered my favorite hoodie in the whole entire world and I put it on for the first time in forever and it felt like football and orange leaves and soft blankets and loving backrubs and macaroni & cheese like my mom makes and oak burning in a fireplace and a full bodied cabernet and a puppy curled up next to me...

I stole it. I adopted it. I wooed it. I seduced it.

It was his. It was his favorite color. All but the teeny patch of silver sparkley stuff on the back that he didn't notice when he first bought it. To this day he'll swear that he allowed me to take it but I know he was sad to see it go. Green suited us both. His house was cold and I was deliberately ill prepared in my white v-neck tee shirts.

He spilled beer on it. I spilled whiskey on it AND washed it with fabric softener. He worked on the car with it, I wore it to football games. He let the dogs get to it one morning. I coaxed it from their slobbery jaws with the promise of pup-per-oni treats. I'd wear it with nothing else but socks in the mornings, drinking coffee, using the hood to dry my damp hair.

And now, its mine. Somewhat dingy, somewhat shabby, the smell of him long gone and replaced with memories of better and worse times, the soft downy fleece replaced with the gentle nubbiness old sweatshirts get. The hood string has ripped through the fabric and is tied in an unloosenable knot.

To replace it is unthinkable.