Halloween on the Washington, D.C. Metrorail system

This was the first guy I photographed. His name was Alex. Turns out that he wasn’t dressed for Halloween- he was just heading out to meet his droogs for a Ludwig Von performance at the Kennedy Center. He invited me to meet him later for a drink at the local milk bar.

The legs of these burlesque boys actually belonged to Marines. I followed them to the metro from the Marine barracks. They couldn’t stop giggling at themselves.

You think this guy was playing dead for the camera, but he was actually in a serious state of inebriation.

She wasn’t that great of a mime because when I asked if I could photograph her she said, “yeah” out loud.

Dudley Dooright!

I couldn’t figure out if this girl was dressed for Halloween or not. Either way, I liked her style.

This girl was having none of what he wanted to give her.

Pipi!

This guy fell out of a tree.

And broke his arm.

This is my friend Erin. She was dressed as a hot photographer girl. She joined me in making pictures all night and here are a few that she made:

and here are a few photos I made a few weeks ago while looking at the greco-roman sculpture at the Met.

I was driven thence by foul winds for a space of nine days upon the sea, but on the tenth day we reached the land of the Lotus-eaters, who live on a food that comes from a kind of flower. Here we landed to take in fresh water, and our crews got their mid-day meal on the shore near the ships. When they had eaten and drunk I sent two of my company to see what manner of men the people of the place might be, and they had a third man under them. They started at once, and went about among the Lotus-eaters, who did them no hurt, but gave them to eat of the lotus, which was so delicious that those who ate of it left off caring about home, and did not even want to go back and say what had happened to them, but were for staying and munching lotus with the Lotus-eaters without thinking further of their return; nevertheless, though they wept bitterly I forced them back to the ships and made them fast under the benches. Then I told the rest to go on board at once, lest any of them should taste of the lotus and leave off wanting to get home, so they took their places and smote the grey sea with their oars.

-from Homer’s Odyssey, Book IX

I am still recovering from last week’s battle with the Acura, yet footing in the war against the gas guzzling beasts of the concrete jungle has continued to show positive advance. While the mourning period has yet to wane and being mired in police reports and insurance deals has done little to quell the sense of loss for my beautiful Peugot, a wonderfully corroded and multi-colored machine of two wheeled beauty has appeared and offered itself as an honorable replacement. In short, I have a new bike. Its a PUCH CAVETTE- an Austrian cycle from the mid 80’s. I found it this weekend, fell in love, paid too much for it and brought it home for some mechanical tweaking.

This is me doing the mechanical tweaking:

once tweaked and ready a baton passing ceremony was held, and the Peugot gave over her seat to the PUCH. Here is a view from the ceremony. It was beautiful and moving.

Most importantly, it was on the PUCH (pronounced like poohk, with a strong H sound on the end before the k sound) that I went right back to the battlefield this morning and cycled straight through the intersection where I had been plowed into exactly one week to the day before.

This is the intersection, taken from inside a friend’s jeep over the weekend:

Sucker intersection. I now own the corner of North Capitol and Mass. Ave.

Vengence is mine.

The first automobile crash in the United States occurred in New York City in 1896, when a motor vehicle collided with a pedalcycle rider. More than 49,000 pedalcyclists have died in traffic crashes in the United States since 1932 — the first year in which estimates of pedalcyclist fatalities were recorded. The 350 pedalcyclists killed in 1932 accounted for 1.3 percent of the 27,979 persons who died in traffic crashes that year.

In 2005, 784 pedalcyclists were killed and an additional 45,000 were injured in traffic crashes. Pedalcyclist deaths accounted for 2 percent of all traffic fatalities, and pedalcyclists made up 2 percent of all the people injured in traffic crashes during the year.

Most of the pedalcyclists killed or injured in 2005 were males (87% and 80%, respectively), and most were between the ages of 5 and 44 years (57% and 72%, respectively).

In 2005, the pedalcyclist fatality rate per capita was almost 7 times higher for males than for females, and the injury rate per capita was more than 4 times higher for males.

Today, I went into battle with my valiant vintage Peugot head to head versus an idiot-lady and her brand new Acura. I emerged victorious.

I am, perhaps, unbreakable.

The crash sent me hurdling through the air, skidding over the hood with legs and arms and newsboy bag flailing into the air, rebounding from the front dash window then rolling back down the hood until finally coming to a skidded stop that effectively had me splayed over in one lane, my beautiful red vintage Peugot bicycle mangled in another. Bones were jarred, metal was mangled, police sirens wailed.

But I stood up.

As soon as my ass stopped skidding across the asphalt I stood up, looked squarely into the drivers eyes and roared the most masculine roar ever roared at the intersection of North Capitol and Mass. Ave. It evolved into a gutteral “DAAMMMMIIITTT” tipped with anger and shock that seemed to echo as far as the capitol dome. I paced like an angry wounded lion, found the carcass of the Peugot, grabbed it and slung its lifeless body across the road and onto the curb.

And the adrenaline wouldnt stop.

Pacing, pacing, breathing heavy, pacing. “Oh fuck what just happened, I could be dead, oh fuck.” The Acura parked, the lady sheepishly puts a hand on my shoulder. I shrug it off. “I’m ok, what do you mean you didnt see me? Dammit. My bike.” Then lights, a siren, and, “No officer, I dont need an ambulance. Yeah, I’m sure.”

I was a friggin superhero, but the Marv Mobile was totaled- the whole frame twisted, the pedals bent inward, both wheels tacos. “Sir, if you can, please come over. I need to you to confirm the damage on the lady’s vehicle.” Dents. DENTS, i said. Scrapes. Skids. Gashes. I was all over that hood. I couldnt believe I had done all that to a 2000 pound machine and was still standing to see it.

Numbers were exchanged, more apologies issued, she admitted fault and I snarled a few more times but then remembered that I was supposed to be acting like Jesus wouldve acted if he had just been run over by an Acura. And now how’s the picture in your head of Jesus on a Peugot getting laid out by Acura? I know, pretty great, but for some reason you feel like a blasphemer. And so the story ends with me carrying my bike, or the red twisted piece of scrap metal that once was my bike, over my shoulder up Capitol Hill because the cop wouldnt give me a ride.

And finally something broke.

My heart hurt because I would never ride mon beau Peugot vélo rouge ever again. I loved that bike.

0-0

Epilogue: I spent the day at the hospital, and yes, really, I’m ok. The doctors agreed that I am a superhero. Fortunately, my secret identity was kept under wraps. Pictures coming soon.

I’ve been recently initiated into a music club set up by a friend here in DC. Each month one of 12 club members edits and mails out a mix cd to the 11 other members. Each person takes a turn and over the course of a year every body gets a crapload of music. This is month numero uno, and we’ll see how it turns out. As part of said club I receive emails from other club members, and tonight one came across the line that asked for everyones info so that we could all get to know each other better. The questions asked are listed here, my answer below:

– Name
– Age
– Where are you from?
– Where do you live now?
– Who do you live with? (pets? spouse? kids? etc.)
– What’s your day job?
– Hobbies?
– Favorite book?
– Favorite food?
– Favorite music (genre and/or artists)?
– Least favorite music (genre and/or artists)?
– Favorite music mags and/or blogs?
– Favorite concert experience?
– How do you listen to music (at home? in the car? on the train? at work? CDs? MP3s? Vinyl? Headphones? Out loud? etc.)?
– Do you make any music of your own?
– Three things you love (non-music)?
– Three things you hate (non-music)?

Hello my name is Marv, but its not really and I have been breathing for 28 whole years pretty much non stop except that one time at age 4 when I nearly drowned in Pensacola, Florida. I come from Alabama but there is no banjo on my knee. Banjos are over-rated these days anyway. Thanks freak folk. Thanks Sufjan. My apartment in DC is nice except the neighbor next door keeps his workout equipment in the front yard. I’ve thought about asking, “hey, do you need a spot?” when he is doing the bench press because otherwise ill just walk home to an empty place and I aint got nobody, sad and lonely, sad and lonely. I do have my hobbies however, and there’s always time for crocheting or pilates or dungeons and dragons even though I do none of that because I’m too busy reading the English Patient or A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius for the umpteenth time. Both are served well with a short stack of hotcakes or with a side of hummus, depending on my mood or the time of day.

Music is good. I like sad songs so much that people wonder when I’m gonna launch myself off a building, but I really think its Morrissey that should take a dive into concrete. It’d give the bloggers plenty to talk about and pitchfork would do “pitchfork’s 100 favorite Morrissey songs” feature spanning 5 days and I would read none of it at all. Stylus is pretty ok though, and I might read what they have to say because like Morrissey, they spell “color” with a “u” and refer to two weeks as a “fortnight” and I think that’s just really damn cool. Exactly 624 fortnights after my near death experience on the white shores of Pensacola Beach I saw my first concert- the Beach Boys reunion tour, sans Brian. He was still in bed and not talking to anybody back then, but I loved the show and had no idea that the Beach Boys were actually missing heir genius leader. I thought it had always been Mike Love. Remember, I was only 10 years old. I didn’t know any better.

Exactly 15 years after that I saw Sufjan sing about the shores of Lake Michigan to a crowd of about 20 people in Atlanta, and yes, I am saying that with a full lilt of elitism. It’s the same sort of snobbery I employ when talking about my superior vintage vinyl collection that I can never listen to loudly because I have a picky landlord who lives on site. It’s also the same snobbery that’s displayed when you scroll through my bipod and don’t recognize any of the bands and I think you’re clueless because, “What, you’ve never heard of INSERT OBSCURE BAND NAME HERE. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of INSERT OBSCURE BAND NAME HERE !!! You have to get INSERT OBSCURE BAND NAME HERE’s latest record, even though their first release was better.” And then, once you do go out and buy INSERT OBSCURE BAND NAME HERE’s latest, I’ll resent you for it because they were mine first. I hate that feeling, and would get rid of it if I could. I also hate hating things, and I love my grandfather and books and junk and coke in a bottle and a full tank of gas and fries in the bottom of the bag and scarves on cold days and when a pretty girl smiles at me on the street for no reason.

and after we found it you said ‘dont let me die nervous,’ ya know, and there was that video of califone with the banjo player sitting on the man trough in an old public bath, and now theres ROOTS AND CROWNS, one of the best records i mightve ever heard six times in one day by choice.