Yo! Bum Rush the Show

We've being fielding an awful lot of questions regarding just what this Project-B hoonery is all about, and we'll be getting back to you just as soon as we figure out some kind of definition for ourselves over the new garlic-and-onions hotness at Bon's. In the meantime, content your bad selves with a few definitions from the B-Tionary:

“Zoolander”: A rider incapable of executing a left turn in traffic.

"Ridin' dirty": Helmetless, lightless, plateless, drunk, on the sidewalk. Picture us rollin', they hatin'.

“Vicenzan salute”: A smooth, fluid downshift via extended middle finger. HeyFixie, indeed.

"The five words": "She might not be gay." Give'r.

“Catastrophic failure”: See above. Also, “Lyle's crankset.” See here for our previous definition. Metal fatigue is some real shit.

“Ricer”: MSJS. Main St. Jitensha Shinkokai. Fashion-fixie.

“Ricer flyby”: Wheelsucking and passing someone who clearly has no interest in a spot of the dirty-dirty at the moment.

"Walter Mitty": Grey hair, MEC rain jacket, rearview mirrors, panniers, pinning it.

“n+1”: A simple equation for determining the correct number of bicycles you should own, where “n” represents the number of bicycles you currently own.

“Cynicism”: This gong show going down in front of the 885 Georgia peanut gallery on a slow day.

So while we're on the subject of definitions, I think that there's an a important distinction to be made between public art and corporate frippery in the Chuck Palahniuk vein. A few Midnight Masses ago while cruising the Coal Harbour seawall, I remember chatting with someone – don't recall who it was - who advocated the subversion and stencilling of the bland and inoffensive, but damned if I don't have a weak spot for those 8-bit Dig Dug-lookin' worms thereabouts. Shit, some of those Coal Harbour installations even look rideable, and that's word to Gassy Jack rollbacks.

The Kountdown Klock itself may be a rhapsody in beige, but despite its aseptic neo-Ericksonian brushed-metal and wood construction (HAY WEST COAST ARCHITECTURE HAY), it definitely qualifies as offensive to the higher sensibilities. Provocative, even; a giant middle finger to social and fiscal responsibility, and a garish Indiglo violation of public space that consequently requires a 24/7 security guard for the next three years to keep the plebes from violating it right the fuck back. Is Omega going to be picking up that tab as well?

For that matter, who gets stuck with the VPD's overtime bill? Po was rollin' deeper than next weekend's prize list, but despite the ring of blue steel surrounding the VAG, the antipovitivista crowd still managed to clown the VPD, hard. Son got close enough to play KRS-1 to some VANOC flack's PM Dawn and scream out something that sounded suspiciously like “FUCK COURIERS!” before the mic got cut and “The Bridge is Over” was replaced with something that sounded suspiciously like a Chad Kroeger side project.

Bland and inoffensive, indeed. I threw up a black fist of solidarity every time I rolled by the kids with the cammy fatigues and Warrior Society flag. Project-B: bikebloggin' from unceded Coast Salish First Nations land.

So after an otherwise uneventful week, Camilo hit me up on the Blackberry Friday afternoon as I was getting off, and convinced me to come back to the Alberni liquor store and grab a couple or six pre-race beers before his dash4cash was scheduled to go off. I e-heckled Sascha about missing out on it, but he'd had the good sense to get out of the core before the rain started. Also, Flat Friday is a cruel mistress with sharp talons.

Only Sue, and Elaine and Alex from fixedvan ended up rolling through, and the event was thus called on account of pho and general disinterest. I got to indulge my narrow-bar/small-frame fetish aboard Elaine's neapolitan delight while she hit Kingsgate, and ended up crashing out early at the purple house.

Project Breakfast was scheduled to go ahead on Saturday regardless of whether Lyle and Morgan were here for me to flail on them or not, so Skylar and I kept up the fine tradition of flailage and didn't meet up til the afternoon. Midnight marauders Matty and Jen scored a table ahead of us at Hipstery Jim's while they were enroute to the Bike Expo:

“You figure it's gonna be all XTR up in there and shit?”

“Yeah, pretty brosive.”

Skylar finally showed up at the purple house with FRABRO Shack Ryan and his new pretty bike, and now I'm all messed up about having so much fun on Ryan's – dare I say trendy - ghetto-brakeless BMX with a 20.8” top tube, micro gearing, integrated headtube, press-fit BB, and thin grips. And the colour scheme matches my house. And up in this crib, we do admire a well-coordinated and purposeful build. Handguns is boutique, the shotties is doofy:

We bumped into the always-gregarious NikCee and fixedvan Duncan at the 12th Ave banks and were heartened to see that Jer's on the mend as well. Nik and Morgan will be co-sponsoring the DFL booby-prize next weekend, and I half expect that the Olmo will spontaneously combust between my legs before the first checkpoint.

There's a new addition to the stable, on that note. It's amazing what a six-pack will get you these days.

(n+1)