I had a pretty great holiday yesterday. I went for a forty mile ride in the morning, and got home in time to watch the end of the first stage of the Tour. I puttered around for the rest of the afternoon, blogged a little, and then Dabysan and Carrie Nation picked me up around four-thirty to head to Bernadette's for the quintessential Fourth of July celebration. We hung out in a backyard in the suburbs. The adults consumed adult beverages while a few children scampered around our legs. Daby and I organized a game of touch football during one of the few moments when no one was jumping on the trampoline. There was a big bowl of tortilla chips and various dipping options while meats and fake meats and vegetables were grilling on the grill. There were desserts and good conversation. And, of course, the naked pool party at the house next door.
Carrie Nation mentioned as we pulled into Rockville's Flower Valley subdivision that Bernadette's neighbors were nudists. But I didn't realize that meant that they would be nude at that very moment. Nor did I realize that they would have invited other nudists over for their holiday celebration. I couldn't have been more wrong. The party - complete with festive red, white, and blue bunting - was in full swing (so to speak) by the time we arrived. Speculation about the goings-on next door didn't dominate the conversation, per se, but it was an underlying theme. And I wish I could say I took the high road when Bernadette asked if we wanted to visit the windows of the house from which we could see over the fence, but I didn't. There's nothing quite like suburban naked people to turn a bunch of thirty-somethings into children. Except, of course, the children weren't allowed to peek.
Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown) / Margaritaville / Stand By Me / Lay Down Sally / It's Five O'Clock Somewhere / ??? (Bring Back My Something Something?) / Nowhere Man / Save Tonight / Brown Eyed Girl / Shaky Ground / --intermission-- / Happy Birthday / Can't Buy Me Love / Cheeseburger In Paradise / Crazy / Me and Bobby McGee / Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard / The Game of Love / Mustang Sally / All Along the Watchtower / All For You / Rocky Raccoon / The Joker
The lesson, I guess, is that baby-boomer nudists like their Beatles. Sadly, it was time for us to leave during the Steve Miller Band cover, so I can only speculate how the rest of the evening went. The reports from the upstairs window, though, were not encouraging. As the evening grew cooler, more and more of the guests were putting their clothes back on, with only a few brave men holding (and hanging) out. And besides, by then the "neighborhood watch" had gotten out their golf cart and had begun making their drunken circuit of the subdivision, asking the children if they had pooped yet. As entertainment goes, it's tough even for a naked pool party to compete with that.
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A nice day for a game. Day 2 of my three game series.
I intended to run yesterday. Really, I did. But I hosted a happy hour fundraiser on Thursday, and my cycling friends who showed up conspired against me. Even the runner. They had been discussing the Lake Barcroft loop - a popular mid-week training ride, and decided on the spur of the moment to plan a ride for the next day because one (the runner) was a "Barcroft virgin." I'd never done that ride either as it's virtually impossible to get to Arlington by six o'clock on a weekday. And since it's a ride I can do literally from my door, it didn't take much convincing. We weren't meeting until noon, and I briefly entertained the notion that I could get my run in early before the ride. Then I stayed out until after midnight. So that plan got all shot to hell.
Well, Barcroft lived up to its billing, with several nice rolling hills balancing out a somewhat convoluted cue sheet. And I wasn't feeling especially guilty about skipping my run until I showed up this morning for the forty mile pie ride. I had been planning on doing this ride for the last week, since we didn't have an official training run today. But at least five people asked me "Aren't you supposed to be running?"So on this day noted for bold proclamations of freedom and liberty, I hereby declare independence from my bike until October. That's not to say I won't be riding at all. (I've already been cleared by my running coaches to ride on Sundays for the next six weeks or so.) What I mean is: yesterday was the last time that, when confronted with the choice to run or ride, I will opt to ride. I will be free from my bike. Sort of. As I write this, the Tour de France is on in the background. I still get to ride vicariously.
I am fundamentally opposed to seeing music performed in sports venues. The sound quality always sucks, the jerk-to-not-jerk ratio is unacceptable and the venues themselves are way, way too big. I've felt this way for a long time and I more or less swore off of arena/stadium shows in college.
I say more or less, because up until December 22, 2002, there was one circumstance in which I would not only go to a stadium show, but camp out to get front-row seats. But when Joe Strummer died, the possibility of a proper Clash reunion vanished, and so too did the likelihood that I'd ever again willingly see a jumbo-venue concert.
One thing I dislike almost as much as concerts in giant sports venues is live albums. Live albums provide all the downsides of live musical performance -- poor sound, mistakes, ragged vocals -- while offering none of the energy and sense of community that make concerts worth attending in the first place. This probably explains why it took me so long to pick up a copy of The Clash Live at Shea Stadium.
I finally righted this wrong on on Thursday, and I can say without exception that it is the best live album I've ever heard. The set list is spot on, they sound amazing and the album reminds me of why the Clash will likely always remain my favorite band. As always with Clash performances, the songs take on a greater urgency live. Sloppier, certainly, but also faster and more aggressive. The intensity and vigor of the show is particularly remarkable since this was a band not at its peak, but rather nearing its end.
I'm sure that my blind and incessant Clash boosterism is beyond tiresome to everyone but me, but I still highly recommend this album to anyone who likes the band and its music. It also wouldn't be a bad theraputic purchase for those tin-eared, deluded souls, who "don't understand what the big deal is" about the Clash. Though, I'm not so sure that those people are worth saving.
Cooking at Brad's got a little out of control tonight. Dough from 3 different sources; crazy toppings. Most unique: peach & feta.
It's time for another dump run.
