Gwynns Falls glorious

I have a new favorite place to ride. Selfish being that I am, the only reason I'm exposing it here is because I know my readership is so minuscule. And of those who do follow my babblings, most are not local, so the chances are slim that this wonderful gem of a place will become overrun due to my glowing review.

I first heard of the Gwynns Falls trail a few years ago but never took the time to look into it. While blowing some $$ recently at one of my favorite local bike shops, I noticed a stack of brochures for the trail that included a full map, so I grabbed one. A quick look showed that it passed through some areas of town that I thought might be more than a tad sketchy. So, while my curiosity was definitely aroused, I was also tentative about riding my snow-white, lycra-clad self through neighborhoods where I'd stick out like a sore thumb. So I did some googling, which led to two accounts of people being punched in the face or hit with rocks by miscreant youth in one specific area. Aside from that, though, the intarwebs turned up nothing but mentions of how nice the trail is. No one I found to ask about it went into much detail, but all said that it was an excellent ride.

With this weekend being a holiday one, my cycling options were limited. Everyone and their brother would likely be out on the rail-trails and at the parks where I like to ride, and I wasn't in the mood for crowds. That left either a rural road loop I've done a couple of times up above Frederick or, possibly... Gwynns Falls. Would the Labor Day hordes find their way onto this supposedly lightly trafficked trail and spoil my bid for solitude? Only one way to find out...

The trail begins at an exposed and barren commuter park'n'ride lot. How misleading. It quickly drops from the concrete wasteland into Leakin Park, a huge, amazingly natural urban park that was almost intersected by an interstate. I've been told that it was dramatically saved by MD Senator Barbara Mikulski and a crowd of protesters standing in front of a bulldozer, literally preventing it from tearing into the forest. If that's the case, I'm grateful and will continue voting for Mikulski each and every time she runs for re-election. (Now, if only she'd spearhead a crusade to clean up all the garbage along the creek...)

Within Leakin, the trail is a tangle of off-shoots leading to spots like the Carrie Murray Nature Center and the historic neighborhood of Dickeyville. The route I took by-passed these detours (leaving more for me to explore on future rides) and meandered along Gwynns Falls creek, transitioning from smooth pavement to old abandoned road to a crushed stone and dirt mix, and back to another stretch of abandoned roadway that finally, after 6.5 miles, spit me out into urban neighborhoods. This was the sketchy part, though the few people I encountered were perfectly pleasant. Another mile or so later, I was in the industrial area next to Ravens Stadium, passing old warehouses with fantastic architecture and bouncing over railroad tracks. From there, the trail heads either to Inner Harbor or down along the Middle Branch of the Patapsco River to Middle Branch and Cherry Hill parks. For my first run-through, I kept things short by heading in the direction of the Harbor via a brief jaunt through the re-gentrified section of Federal Hill.

After walking through the crowds on the Harbor promenade, I locked the bike up and headed into the food court. It didn't take long to snag a greasy soft pretzel and lemonade and return to the bike, where I sprawled in the grass and ate, watching the clouds and gulls floating over the Harbor... totally, surprisingly, at peace with the throngs of noisy tourists.

The ride back was as peaceful and solitary as the ride down, easier because it was simple to re-trace my way, yet also ever-so-slightly harder because I was heading back up, literally, to Leakin Park. I was amazed at how few people I encountered throughout the day, aside from the Inner Harbor crowds, and I can't wait for the chance to get back up there. Next time, Dickeyville and Cherry Hill Park. And photos, in order to document the awesomeness of the best damned trail I've found yet.

Spreading the Twitter meme...

Jim over at Unholy Rouleur has sucked me into Twitter-land. I still don't have an account and don't plan on posting any "twits" of my own, but I ended up first chuckling, then giggling, then practically guffawing out loud as I read back through this guy's posts (Be warned. To say the guy is irreverent is putting it lightly).

One more freaking intarwebs waste of time in my RSS feed. Dammit.

Farewell to a hero

Anyone who follows the Fat Cyclist blog most likely knows by now that Susan Nelson passed away last night. For those folks who have no idea what I'm talking about, here's the story as of 2007. And things went crazily downhill from there. For long periods, Susan would seem to be stable, and then they'd get horrendous news like this. By the time Elden posted this recent update, it was apparent that Susan's battle was drawing to an end. Even so, the news this morning was a surprise that left me in tears at my computer.

As I commented over at his sister Jodi's blog, Pistols & Popcorn, Elden's posts about Susan's battle have served so many times to help me regain perspective when I've lost focus due to stressful situations. I'm so very sorry for what they went through, for what he and the kids are going through now, yet at the same time I'm incredibly grateful that they had the courage to share it with all of Elden's readers. He and Susan will always be my heroes.

Shameless self-promotion

One of my photos was selected for the most recent edition of the Schmap Baltimore Guide in their section on the Baltimore Museum of Art. I'd never heard of Schmap before but will certainly begin using it now. And I've definitely gotta get more of my photos up on Flickr. Recognition's a nifty thing.

The addiction dance

Addiction is a powerful thing. I don't think anyone could deny that, yet I do believe that most people don't realize that we're all, each and every one of us, susceptible to it. It's so very obvious in the form of compulsive, physical craving for drugs, alcohol, child porn, or even caffeine. But how often do we explore its less obvious forms?

My own strongest addictions take the forms of the intarwebs and driving fast. Like many other folks out there, I see the 'net for the time-suck that it is. And yet, there's just so much out there to explore, so many people from all over the world to converse with at almost any time of the day. With every new social networking site, every new message board or blog, I give more of myself and my time to it. Like a junkie I sit, jumping from tab to tab, refreshing pages, looking for that next fix, all the while knowing that I need to get my ass away from the computer to do housework, or sleep, or get ready for work, or just plain get outside.

Driving, on the other hand, has a tremendously narcotic effect, which I've described before. There's been many a day I've sat at my desk at work, or stuck in rush hour traffic, when I've found myself almost literally aching to be on some back road in West Va, swooping around curves and flying along straightaways. I had enough accidents in my younger years to fully realize the potential dangers of this craving, but I can't fight the excitement that arises when I picture my favorite roads under a sunny blue sky and I know I'll continue to indulge as often as I can.

I wish I could say that I'm addicted to physical movement, but what I have is really more of a deep appreciation that's easily overwhelmed by an apparently stronger appreciation of sloth. But I've always loved movement. Ballet class at 5 years old, a month on the middle-school track & field team, short-lived dance classes again in my teens, cycling, martial arts, vinyasa yoga... The flow of movement is both soothing and invigorating.

That deep appreciation that stops just shy of compulsion is what's behind an annual addiction to which I've succumbed: the reality/contest tv show, So You Think You Can Dance. Most people I know have gotten hooked on SYTYCD's elder sibling, American Idol, which I've never watched. But I happened to channel surf past SYTYCD a few seasons ago and stopped to check it out. One episode was all it took, and now I plan my weeknights in July and August around its air-times. And, yippee!, it'll now grow to a bi-annual addiction, as they're adding a second season later this year.

The show has all the elements of every other reality/contest show: Beautiful young hopefuls who put their heart and soul into claiming the title of "America's Top Dancer", and a suitably sympathetic, magnificently appareled emcee who shepherds them past a panel of sometimes annoying, yet always quirky judges. But it's also intentionally being used as a platform to introduce the viewing public to the art of dance. They've included expected styles such as jazz, hip-hop, and tango, but also surprises such as paso doble, Bollywood, and Russian folk dancing. And each season contains at least one performance that is flat-out, amazingly impressive, technically fantastic yet also emotionally moving. This week's episode included one of those sequences, the addiction dance...



Choreographed by Mia Michaels and performed by Kupono Awaeu and Kayla Radomski, this routine is a perfect example of just what makes dance an art. Purely through movement and expression, these two young dancers tell a story that so many of us can identify with, if we've looked deeply enough into our selves, or into the souls of those around us. From the first moment that Kayla runs to him and he wraps his arm around her, Kupono incredibly embodies the way that addiction controls us. She's drawn to him, and he in return man-handles her, plays the puppet master, tossing her around, taunting and stifling her, soothing then throttling her, all with a chillingly dispassionate expression on his face. And when she desperately tries to break free, to reach up and away from her craving, he grabs hold and shows her, with condescending ease, just how much stronger he is. Malevolent, one of the judges called Kupono's performance, and that's exactly what addiction is, in all its forms.

I'm addicted to this dance.

Farewell to Yr

What is it about madness that so fascinates? Is it a tentatively acknowledged fear that the grasp on sanity is tenuous? Or is it an attraction to the honesty of insanity, the letting go of our internal guard in exchange for freeing the deeply buried urges inside of us?

A couple of decades ago, perusing the crammed shelves of a used bookstore, I picked up a copy of I Never Promised You a Rose Garden. The story of Joanne Greenberg's experiences (told through the character of Deborah) is stunningly eye-opening, with stark descriptions of the patients' characters and behavior, and of the treatments they received, off-set by the intelligently sharp wit Greenberg possessed even then. One passage that's always stuck with me takes place after several patients gang up on one of the ward attendants and Deborah is called upon to explain what took place:

"Well... Hobbs came down the hall and then there was the fight. It was a good fight, too; not too loud and not too soft. Lucy Martenson's fist intruded into Mr. Hobbs's thought processes, and his foot found some of Lee Miller. I had a foot out, too, but nobody used it."

... Deborah knew why it was Hobbs and not McPherson... Hobbs was a little brutal sometimes, but it was more than that. He was frightened of the craziness he saw around him because it was an extension of something inside himself. He wanted people to be crazier and more bizarre than they really were so that he could see the line which separated him, his inclinations and random thoughts, and his half-wishes, from the full-bloomed, exploded madness of the patients. McPherson, on the other hand, was a strong man, even a happy one. He wanted the patients to be like him, and the closer they got to being like him, the better he felt. He kept calling to the similarity between them, never demanding, but subtly, secretly calling, and when a scrap of it came forth, he welcomed it. The patients had merely continued to give each man what he really wanted. There was no injustice done, and Deborah had realized earlier in the day that Hobbs's broken wrist was only keeping him a while longer from winding up on some mental ward as a patient.

That's it, right there. Experiencing the insane is to walk the fine line between Hobbs and McPherson. When I found out that I lived only a handful of miles from the sanitarium at which Greenberg was treated, I was of course elated. The place was Chestnut Lodge, in the historic district of Rockville, MD, a huge Addams Family-ish building set on 20 or so acres of huge old white oaks (the chestnut trees after which it was named fell victim to blight many years ago). In its time, the Lodge was world-famous for its treatments. A few decades later, those same treatments would bring it notoriety, as the doctors there clung to ice-packing and electro-shock, along with psychoanalysis, while the rest of psychiatry turned towards chemical treatment.

For years I would drive by and peer at the building through the foliage, wondering what went on behind the windows on the upper floors. But I never went there. Even after the hospital closed and the building sat empty, I never stopped the car, never got out and wandered under those trees to see what the place looked and, more importantly, felt like up close.

As it sat empty, a developer bought it and the grounds and began to build luxury homes behind the main building. The Lodge itself was apparently to someday become million-dollar condos, which would bring an end to it being a hangout for the homeless and partying teens.

And now it's gone. At 3:00am this past Sunday morning, ninety-five firefighters responded to a call that the building was on fire. The condition in which it was left apparently made it ripe for burning, and it ended up nothing but a shell. When I finally had a chance to drive by this evening, demolition had already begun and all but the rear portion of the building had been reduced to piles of bricks. But I snagged some memories of what was left, and finally spent some time close enough to see through those mysterious windows, and to wonder, for one final time, about the people who had once passed through those rooms.


Edit in 2020: Since Photobucket has become glitchy and won't display linked photos properly anymore, click here for the full album of including the images below.

Searching for Zee Deveel in the City of Sin

I just got home from a business trip in Las Vegas (The annual JCK and Couture jewelry trade shows, which are a BIG DEAL in the luxury jewel trade). Last year was the first time I took this trip and I tried my damnedest to blog about it, but it was so overwhelming I couldn't put it together coherently. When I began jotting notes on the first day of the trip, my intention was to put it together linearly, with day-by-day entries. But I quickly became disoriented by the dichotomies in my experiences, and by my reactions to those dichotomies. This year, I'm going to try again. Any linear time-frames have been thrown out the window and this has become just a jumble of thoughts and impressions from both trips. I wouldn't be surprised if you become as disoriented as I was.

Cast of characters for both trips: The Boss (owner of the store), the President (the owner's son), and The Boss's wife, plus one co-worker, The Buyer. Plot twists: 1) because this is a work trip, I'm having to put on my work persona, and 2) these people live a vastly different lifestyle than I do. I'm gonna have to work on controlling my gag reflex. They're all lovely people, really, in their way, but to listen to them talk about what they consider "quality" food and shopping makes me feel a bit queasy. What they consider "the finer things in life", I consider ostentatious luxury. They'd possibly fall out of their chairs if I told them that I'd be as happy eating at Waffle House as at any of the high-falutin' places at which they've apparently made dinner reservations for our group for the week. With those reservations in mind, I ended up in a bit of a tizzy while packing for the trip, trying to figure out what clothes in my limited, inexpensive wardrobe would be appropriate for a place like Robuchon.

Airport slot machines (All photos can be clicked for full-sized view)


The full impact of Vegas took some time to hit me. It started with slot machines in the airport as soon as we stepped out of the gate and, of course, a casino between the swanky hotel lobby and the elevators to our room. The Buyer and I are staying in the brand-new Palazzo (named the largest green building in the world), which is connected to the Venetian, which is famous for its inside shopping arcade replete with Venetian canal, singing gondoliers, and blue "sky" painted with fluffy clouds.



The canal at the Venetian hotel begins along Las Vegas Boulevard..


...and continues underneath the building to flow...


...past the Grand Canal Shops and Vegas' version of St. Mark's Square.


Wandered for a bit through the swanky shops, barely bothering to glance in any windows until I found a jaw-dropping exhibit of photography by Peter Lik. Despite the fancy framing and mounting and the slick way in which his photos were displayed, there was a weird dichotomy (sorry, I couldn't find another suitable synonym) in seeing these awe-inspiring, reverent depictions of nature in the midst of one of the most superficial, artificial places on earth. I had to wonder whether the rich folk for whom these gorgeous works are intended buy them just for the eye-appeal, or whether they actually appreciate the sacredness of the places captured.

And after that, I stumbled across Baumann's Rare Books and just about lost my already exhausted, over-loaded mind: a shop full of first editions such as Winnie-the-Pooh, Darwin's Origin of Species, Joseph Heller's Catch-22, assorted works of Mark Twain, Einstein's Out of My Later Years (of which I own an identical copy, though mine's not in anywhere near as fine condition and probably nowhere near as valuable) and, the piece de resistance, a $175,000 Leaves of Grass from Whitman's personally financed first run of only 795 copies. I walked through that place alternately with my jaw dropped or grinning like a fool, and they probably had to clean my nose prints from all of the glass display cases when I left. It was amazing, though. There's an energy that emanates from books like that, even the children's books, an energy of art and knowledge imparted, of what's best in humankind, that is glaringly out of place in the midst of the ritziness of the Venetian and Palazzo shops.







But those books weren't the only things that seemed out of place. Much of this trip became about finding pockets of beauty amidst the neon, glitz, and general ostentation of Vegas. One thing I wanted to check out but didn't have time for was the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art. I have to remember it for next year, though I did get to see the Dale Chihuly glass sculptures that comprise the lobby ceiling of that hotel.

The next day was spent mostly in what The Boss calls the "rabbit warren"-- from the hotel room, through the hotel casino, into and all around the hotel convention center, back through the casino, up to the room, only to realize that I hadn't been out of doors in over 24 hours. I begged out of tonight's fancy dinner so I could take a walk, and a look, around the (in)famous Vegas Strip. Wandered down as far as the Bellagio, where I stopped to watch the water show at their famous fountain. Noticed a street person-looking woman strolling along with a cigarette in one hand and a gorgeous white cockatoo in the other. I watched her watching a passable Jack Sparrow impersonator who had a six-pack of Coronas and a pair of colorful parrots with which he was posing for photos with some scantily-clad and equally tipsy tourists. When the woman continued along the sidewalk, I caught up with her and learned that the cockatoo's name was Angel. Fitting name for a beautiful bird.

Stopped in McDonald's for a quick dinner and found myself wondering whether I had made that choice in reaction to the surroundings into which I've been thrust on this trip. I needed a meal that didn't cost as much as a month's utility bills. Sitting outside to wolf down my cheeseburger, fries and chocolate shake, watching the crowd hustle by, I was suddenly surprised to realize that I could hear crickets chirping nearby. It was a strange and unexpected sound under the cacophony of the Strip, and again, a bit of beauty that was very much out of place.



Day whatever: Finally had the chance to check out the other side of Vegas-- took a cab from the Palazzo down to Fremont Street and wandered up and down the covered pedestrian walkway (which was featured in U2's video for I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For). The Boss warned me that Fremont was the "seedier" section of town and that I'd see some of the dregs of society. Not surprisingly, I had more fun and felt more comfortable while there than at any other point on this trip so far. It's been a great big smorgasbord of experiences-- from The Boss' refined, "finer things in life", moneyed lifestyle and the opulence of the resort hotels in which we're staying, to the all-American, trailer-trash, glitz and seediness of Fremont St.







God says please do not go to hell... go to the $15.99 seafood buffet instead.


Fremont Street light show.




To top all of that off, there's been the luxury jewelry trade show that is, of course, the main purpose of the trip. At one vendor appointment, I found myself wondering wtf I was doing in such an environment, as The Boss and The President discussed which of their clients would be happy to snap up an $80,000 yellow diamond bracelet if we were to order it for the store. A few appointments later, I was amazed and fascinated by the beautiful design and technical craftsmanship of a really unusual necklace of the same price. Last night I shamelessly wolfed down a $35 veal scallopine (so much for my Buddhist aspirations) at Mario Batali's newest restaurant, Carnevino, while tonight I dined on greasy pizza from a joint on Fremont. The dichotomies (there's that word again) from one moment to the next have left me with a lot to think about.

Just what did I hope to see in Vegas? A Devil's playground of the Seven Deadly Sins? Well, Vegas isn't called Sin City for nothin'. I think I flew to Vegas with visions of lustful, avaricious cravings dancing in my head, little old ladies glued to slot machines and drunkards leering over mostly naked showgirls. Those things were around, to be sure, but the vices I witnessed were more mundanely insidious than sexy. Lust, gluttony and avarice showed their faces in the guise of massive over-consumption. Now, I work in the luxury jewelry industry, so this is something I see on a regular basis. But Vegas is on a scale that's off the charts. From ridiculously priced hotel rooms (yes, the service was great but, really, I've slept just as well at Holiday Inn) to tony shopping arcades, to absolutely fantastic yet exorbitantly priced restaurants and shows, the amount of money shelled out on non-necessities is mind-boggling. And I have never seen so many obese people in one place within so few days.

So which is worse: uncontrollable acquisitiveness driven by craving, or acquisitiveness based on a sense of entitlement? I was exposed to all of this through the largess of my boss. Yes, I was there to serve a necessary function on the business trip, but he went out of his way to include me and my fellow co-worker in the non-business dining and entertainment reservations his wife had arranged. And I do truly appreciate his generosity. The chances of me shelling out $175 for a single Cirque du Soleil ticket are slim-to-none, and their Beatles "Love" show is mind-blowingly awesome (seriously, it was the most amazing thing I've seen yet in my life). And a couple of the meals we had were truly, elegantly sublime. But was his generosity based on altruism or ego? He and his wife and son would certainly have enjoyed these luxuries even without the attendance of us on the payroll, but there did seem to be a hint of preening in his response to our expressions of gratitude. Or was that just projection on my part, an attempt to raise my humble aspirations above his more conspicuously consumptive ones, to assuage my guilty conscience in having taken part in such indulgence?

Compared to all of this, how do I live my own life? And how do I feel about how others live theirs? I was entranced by a book costing $175k, but looked down my nose at the wastefulness of hotel/restaurant/jewelry/clothing prices in Vegas. How does one define principles and values of this sort in a way that encompasses all the levels of society? In doing so, how on earth do you avoid hypocrisy? And of course this brought up the specifically personal questions of how and why I've ended up working in the luxury jewelry trade, and whether I'm willing to trade the stability and paycheck this job affords for a career that would have more meaning for me, but most likely involve a tremendous financial sacrifice.

So, I'm conflicted about my job in jewelry trade: The Boss lives a lifestyle I find vaguely repulsive, despite the fact that I continue to struggle at reaching out to help others. Yet The Boss is very generous, both towards his employees and to charities. Does that make me a self-righteous hypocrite? I've written several times in the past about my conflicted feelings toward the job in general, but these days, with the current economic climate, I'm damned grateful to have it. And I'm conflicted that there are places like Las Vegas on this earth. Perhaps there are lessons to be gleaned through being in such an environment, such as learning what's really meaningful to me while finding compassion for the cravings that drive all of that superficial consumerism.

A little irony at the airport on the way home: A very roly-poly woman sat down a few seats away from me at the gate. Clutched in her chubby fingers was a bag from one of the airport food vendors which read "I SNACK LIKE I MEAN IT".

Zee Deveel

Nice car!
Where'd you get your ride?
A trophy? Badge of honor? Over-compensation?
Price tags advertise your pride!
Since when did what we paid for colored cloth
gauge our gravity?

Yeah, you got your little world
Picture perfect, it's a pearl
Now go and try and sleep in the bed you made

You should be careful what you wish for!
'Cause everyone of us has a devil inside
You should be careful what you wish for!
'Cause all of what amounts becomes you

Nice watch!
Man, d'you got the time?
There's never enough,
and it always goes too slow, too slow.

Yeah you got your little world!
Picture perfect, it's a pearl
Now go and try and sleep in the bed you made

You should be careful what you wish for!
'Cause everyone of us has a devil inside
You should be careful what you wish for!
'Cause all of what amounts becomes you

Nice watch!
Man, d'you got the time?
Theres never enough,
and it always goes too slow.
Price tags advertise your pride!
Since when did what we paid for colored cloth
gauge our gravity?

You should be careful what you wish for!
'Cause everyone of us...
You should be careful what you wish for!
'Cause all of what amounts becomes you



For the record, Incubus are not big fans of Vegas. And, after this year, I'm not so sure I am, either.

(Click here for more photos.)

Progression

This has become fascinating for me. Gross, occasionally painful, somewhat inconvenient, but also fascinating.

Hematoma, second morning after crash:



Hematoma, fourth morning after crash:


It's growing and changing like something out of a sci-fi movie, and I can't help but wonder if it's planning to take over my entire leg.

Eating gravel on the C&O Canal

Well, I had a fun ride today.

Drove out to Sharpsburg and got on the C&O Canal towpath across the river from Shepherdstown, headed downstream towards Harper's Ferry. It was gorgeous out, so I had no specific plan or mileage in mind, just figured I'd ride as far as I felt like then turn around to head back, and enjoy the beauty of the sky, river, and trees along the way.

So I'm cruising along, when I glance down and see a wasp on my thigh. I brush it off without looking, then glance down again and see it's still there. I brush again, looking to see if I got it and... I don't know if I hit a rock or leaned my weight the wrong way or what, but the next thing I know I'm sprawled face down in the gravel and dirt, with my bike under me. Hopped up, grabbed the bike to check it out, and noticed blood running down my arm. Twisted my elbow as close to my face as I could only to find a nice little hole gouged in my arm. There's also almost 6 inches of bright red road (towpath?) rash down my shin and the leather on the palms of my gloves is shredded. And I can feel a goose egg growing on the inside of my thigh from where it must've smacked into the nose of my saddle.

Fortunately, I was just upstream from the Huckleberry Hill campsite, so I start walking the bike towards it and see 4 people standing near the porta-john. They were standing around a snake that was in the middle of the towpath (and which was probably wishing they'd all go away). I had to walk around and through the group to get to the porta-john for some toilet paper (since none of them would move), holding my hand up in front of me to prevent the blood from running down my arm, and not one of them seemed to notice. I come out of the porta-john wiping gore off my wrist, and still not one of them says anything to me.

So I grabbed my bike and headed down to the picnic table, where I had to lie down for a bit for the adrenaline to wear off and my ears to stop ringing (I had hit my chin on the ground). After a while I sat up, pulled out my first aid stuff (thank goodness I come prepared), and began trying to clean myself up. Then I had to get my chain untangled from the bottom bracket and fix the shifter that'd been knocked cockeyed. During the time that I was sitting there, 3 more pairs of people passed by and two of the people who had been looking at the snake passed again heading back. Again, not one of those 10 people said "How are you?", "Are you ok?", or even "Gee, you look goofy."

The 9 mile ride back to the car was easier than expected, and it was so very beautiful out this morning that I was actually still able to enjoy it. If it weren't for the fact that my elbow continues to ooze blood as I type this, the crash would kind of be no big deal.

And there's a big drop of blood right in the middle of the top tube of my bike. I think that I'm not going to clean it off. It will serve as a reminder to me that, in this world of oblivious idiots, I can take care of myself.

Cafe Nola- New menu, new (capsule) review

Cafe Nola's chef has outdone him/herself with the newly revised kitchen menu, which includes breakfast every day of the week (yay!). Close your eyes and allow your taste buds to imagine: a portabella mushroom cap topped with spinach and mozzarella, crowned with poached eggs and hollandaise a la eggs Benedict-- The creaminess of the egg yolks and lemony-ness of the sauce are a startlingly tasty compliment to the meaty flavor of the mushroom. An absolutely brilliant combination.

Now if only their spiced chai latte actually had some spice...