Did I tell you about this already?

That would be one Shane MacGowan sitting on a rolling equipment case at the Pogues show last month. After falling on his arse three times, they finally rolled out the case so Shane could sit and finish the show. He couldn't however make it to the final encore. His legs are old and weak my friends. Plus he had a few to drink too, I'm sure.

I’m due for a rant like this

Monday night I watched this documentary on the Fuse channel called "Punk's Not Dead." It started out well but about an hour in to the 2-hour program, it took a fatal dive at the mention of Green Day, Nirvana & the Offspring. From there it only got worse.

Here's the thing, those that know don't feel like punk rock really has much to do with the style of music you play. It has more to do with your general overall package - the way you live your life, the decisions you make, what you feel & believe, in addition to the style of music you do or do not play. It doesn't have to be about just the way you dress, or just the way you think & believe. It's a package deal.

I can spend way more time on this subject (and I have in the past) than I should. The bottom line is that as a performer when you start negotiating with corporate America (MTV, Target, etc.) you automatically give up your punk rock card. Period.

The only exception is when you've hit middle age. If you've made it all the way to middle age purely by just kicking out the jams and touring for all those years, it doesn't get much more punk rock than that. You deserve to treat yourself a little for your dedication.

All these other post pubescent prima donnas prancing around for MTV should be happy with the fact that they're millionaires and quit trying to label themselves something they are not, never have been, or never will be.

As for the N-word (Nirvana), if Kurt Cobain wouldn't have cowardly blown his head off, he could probably tell MTV in person all about how his over-rated band ripped off the well cemented sound of another band called Mudhoney. Nevermind. Nirvana isn't worth my time. As a "punk" band neither are pop sensations Green Day and the Offspring.

I guess I'll just sit back for the rest of my life, smile, and snicker (that was not meant as a candy bar product placement), all along knowing that I'm aware of something that THEY (sorry, but that means 99% of those reading this) will never know of. The whole world could be deaf and mute and there would still be punk rocker. It's not a sound, or an outfit, but a state of mind. I never want to live in any other state.

*This blog was typed on my BlackBerry. How un-punk rock is that?

Maybe instead of cross practice, I should practice caring.

This Wednesday morning cyclocross practice thing isn't going so well. Last week it was just me and Haglund. Steve was in Kansas for a bar mitzvah or a quinceañera or something. Neither one of us felt like riding hard so we skipped the practice part of things and just went for a lazy spin.

The Wednesday before that, I woke up to a cold windy morning so I laid on the couch in the fetal position, taking sips of coffee, and watching the morning news as Steve was busy trying to track down the rat(s) who broke into his garage and jacked his MTB and PowerTap wheel. Meanwhile, the guy who is not currently racing, but is the only one to have religiously shown up to "cross practice" week after week, rode alone. That would be Haglund. He wins by default.

Tomorrow morning I'm going to turn over a new leaf and actually practice my dismounts, remounts, accelerating out of corners, etc., etc.

I'm thinking one of the reasons why I can't buy a top-ten finish at a cross race may have something to do with my lack of practice. That and the fact that 15 minutes in, I stop caring. The race in Bakersfield this weekend was no different. It had all the potential to be a good race for me – with its mountain bike-like descents, loose sandy corners, and general hilly lay-out. But I failed to get clipped in at the start and played catch up for the first couple of laps before I just stopped caring. At that point I rode around for 45 minutes trying to look pretty and not get lapped. Mission accomplished.

The Legend Continues

It's about a minute-thirty in:


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