When she says margarita she means daiquiri. When she says quixotic she means mercurial. And when she says, “I’ll never speak to you again,” she means, “Put your arms around me from behind as I stand disconsolate at the window.”

He’s supposed to know that.

When a man loves [...]]]> WHEN A WOMAN LOVES A MAN

When she says margarita she means daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, “I’ll never speak to you again,”
she means, “Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window.”

He’s supposed to know that.

When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia
or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading,
or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he
    is raking leaves in Ithaca
or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate
at the window overlooking the bay
where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on
while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning
she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels
drinking lemonade
and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed
where she remains asleep and very warm.

When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks.
When she says, “We’re talking about me now,”
he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says,
“Did somebody die?”

When a woman loves a man, they have gone
to swim naked in the stream
on a glorious July day
with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle
of water rushing over smooth rocks,
and there is nothing alien in the universe.

Ripe apples fall about them.
What else can they do but eat?

When he says, “Ours is a transitional era,”
“that’s very original of you,” she replies,
dry as the martini he is sipping.

They fight all the time
It’s fun
What do I owe you?
Let’s start with an apology
Ok, I’m sorry, you dickhead.
A sign is held up saying “Laughter.”
It’s a silent picture.
“I’ve been fucked without a kiss,” she says,
“and you can quote me on that,”
which sounds great in an English accent.

One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it
    another nine times.

When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the
    airport in a foreign country with a jeep.
When a man loves a woman he’s there. He doesn’t complain that
    she’s two hours late
and there’s nothing in the refrigerator.

When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake.
She’s like a child crying
at nightfall because she didn’t want the day to end.

When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking:
as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved.
A thousand fireflies wink at him.
The frogs sound like the string section
of the orchestra warming up.
The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.

  — David Lehman (b. 1948)

Christmas is here; Winds whistle shrill, Icy and chill, Little care we; Little we fear Weather without, Shelter’d about The Mahogany Tree.

Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom; Night birds are we; Here we carouse, Singing, like them, Perch’d round the stem Of the jolly [...]]]> THE MAHOGANY TREE

Christmas is here;
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we;
Little we fear
Weather without,
Shelter’d about
The Mahogany Tree.

Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite,
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree.

&nbsp — William Makepeace Thackeray (1811 – 1863), English novelist & poet

No, not because it’s winter, but because it’s Christmas-time … the mass commercialization of the season has really started to get to me, even more so than usual.

Christmas is about being with people, not about buying [...]]]> It’s never been a huge secret that I’m not the biggest fan of this time of year.

No, not because it’s winter, but because it’s Christmas-time … the mass commercialization of the season has really started to get to me, even more so than usual.

Christmas is about being with people, not about buying stuff, so this year I decided that I would not buy a single Christmas present for anyone else; and thus far I’ve succeeded … I’ve given $2000 to various charities this year, and that’s enough financial outflow, and to people who really need it.

On the other hand, there have been a number of holiday events to which I have been invited and attended, sharing good food and good win and good conversation with great friends.

And this is what brings me joy this time of year. Helping others who often do not have the wherewithal to help themselves, and sharing laughter and smiles.

And then my faith in humanity is renewed.

I am the ghost of Shadwell Stair.        Along the wharves by the water-house,        And through the cavernous slaughter-house, I am the shadow that walks there.

Yet I have flesh both firm and cool,        And eyes tumultuous as the gems        Of moons and lamps in the full Thames When dusk sails wavering down [...]]]>

SHADWELL STAIR

I am the ghost of Shadwell Stair.
       Along the wharves by the water-house,
       And through the cavernous slaughter-house,
I am the shadow that walks there.

Yet I have flesh both firm and cool,
       And eyes tumultuous as the gems
       Of moons and lamps in the full Thames
When dusk sails wavering down the pool.

Shuddering the purple street-arc burns
       Where I watch always; from the banks
       Dolorously the shipping clanks
And after me a strange tide turns.

I walk till the stars of London wane
       And dawn creeps up the Shadwell Stair.
       But when the crowing syrens blare
I with another ghost am lain.

BATS

Bats

unveil themselves in dark.
They hang, each a jagged,

silken sleeve, from moonlit rafters bright
as polished knives. They swim

the muddled air and keen
like supersonic babies, the sound

we imagine empty wombs might make
in women who can’t fill them up.

A clasp, a scratch, a sigh.
They drink fruit dry.

And wheel, against feverish light flung hard
upon their faces,

in circles that nauseate.
Imagine one at breast or neck,

Patterning a name in driblets of iodine
that spatter your skin stars.

They flutter, shake like mystics.
They materialize. Revelatory

as a stranger’s underthings found tossed
upon the marital bed, you tremble

even at the thought. Asleep,
you tear your fingers

and search the sheets all night.

Happy Halloween, everyone.

Jazz radio on a midnight kick, Round about Midnight.

Sitting on the bed, With a jazz type chick Round about Midnight,

Piano laughter, in my ears, Round about Midnight.

Stirring up laughter, dying tears, Round about Midnight.

Soft blue voices, muted grins, Excited voices, Father’s sins, Round about Midnight.

Come on baby, [...]]]>

ROUND ABOUT MIDNIGHT

Jazz radio on a midnight kick,
Round about Midnight.

Sitting on the bed,
With a jazz type chick
Round about Midnight,

Piano laughter, in my ears,
Round about Midnight.

Stirring up laughter, dying tears,
Round about Midnight.

Soft blue voices, muted grins,
Excited voices, Father’s sins,
Round about Midnight.

Come on baby, take off your clothes,
Round about Midnight.

  — Bob Kaufman (1925 – 1986), Beat poet.

In just a few short hours, the 106th edition of Paris-Roubaix will depart the streets of Compiègne, heading north some 260 kilometers to the industrial town of Roubaix; along the way, encountering 28 [...]]]>

“A Paris-Roubaix without rain is not a true Paris-Roubaix. Throw in a little snow as well, it’s not serious.” — Sean Kelly

In just a few short hours, the 106th edition of Paris-Roubaix will depart the streets of Compiègne, heading north some 260 kilometers to the industrial town of Roubaix; along the way, encountering 28 sections of pavé (or cobblestones) covering about 53 kilometers of the overall course.

While the race itself is in France, Belgian riders have won 51 of the 105 editions run thus far; truly a race for the hard-men, the Flahutes.

Eddy Merckx won this race 3 times, as did Belgians Rik Van Looy and Johan Museeuw; and Roger de Vlaeminck won the race 4 times. Collectively, these 4 riders have accounted for fully one-quarter of Belgium’s wins in Roubaix.

Is it any wonder that the Vlaamse Leeuw flies as much along this course in France as it does the week before at the Ronde van Vlaanderen each year?

Oddly, to me anyway, the best quote I have ever heard about the race came not from a Belgian or a Frenchman, but from the Dutchman Theo de Rooy, after the 1985 edition:

“It’s a pile of shit, this race, it’s a whole pile of shit … you’re working like an animal, you don’t have the time to piss and you wet your pants … you’re riding in mud like this and you’re slipping and … it’s a pile of shit, you must clean yourself otherwise you will go mad …”

When asked by John Tesh, who was covering the race for ABC, if he’ll ever ride it again, de Rooy responds:

“Sure, it’s the most beautiful race in the world!”

Tesh, his crew and de Rooy then all burst out in laughter.

Thankfully, the forecast is for rain …

Having only spent one brief hour on my bike in the past month, needless to say, I wasn’t really feeling it this evening. When one lap around a basically flat park winds you, then you know you’re fat and out of [...]]]> The Doctor‘s second CX clinic of the season was this evening at Sugarhouse Park.

Having only spent one brief hour on my bike in the past month, needless to say, I wasn’t really feeling it this evening. When one lap around a basically flat park winds you, then you know you’re fat and out of shape. So I spent my time rolling easy on the grass, stumbling over the barriers a couple of times, and knockin’ my ‘nads on a really poorly timed remount.

Thanks to Kathy Sherwin for lending me her multi-tool so I could reset my saddle from a 45-degree up-angle to level. Clearly, I am not ready for next weekend’s CX season opener in Ogden, but I’ll be up there nonetheless, rolling easy for a couple laps before helping officiate the latter 3 flites.

CZT missed tonight for obvious reasons … do funerals in Massachusetts become food and boozefests like they do in the South? There’s nothing quite like returning from a somber ceremony at the church and cemetary to a big ol’ party at the house, will all the pig, potatoes, gin and juice you can suck down. Lots of stories, lots of memories, lots of laughter, and more than anything, lots of love.

I can’t imagine a funeral any other way.