Full Moon Fiasco VI true-up

---click the spoke card on the left for pix---

Six Fiascos, and not a single one in fair weather. The law of averages insists that number seven will be sublime. Despite the cold and impending rain, we numbered about a dozen, including newbs Tim, Lee and PJ’s sister Lisa.

The route was sweet: Clark Street, Lakefront, the North Ave Beach Ped Bridge. There was a quick stop for some illicit activity in the Park, then we hit the Underground Wonderbar ready to drink. Lisa hooked us up with a massively discounted cover and we settled in for some Red Stripes and Reggae music.

The Pink Sash of Shame debuted with a half-assed awarding to John. The main reason he ended up the first recipient was because he walked by PJ and I when we were talking about the idea a few weeks prior. Several variations on how to rock the Sash were demonstrated, most disturbingly by Marcus. The true purpose will be to adorn the rider that leaves a ride early for what is deemed "wussy" reasons.

Speaking of Marcus, he has volunteered to co-captain the ass committee. Two ass captains are better than one in my estimation. Marcus quickly fulfilled his duties by organizing the Full Moon over Walton Ave.

Full Moon Fiasco V true-up

Our safety record stays clean (barely), there were tons of new faces, a committee is formed and as a result the FBC gets some ass (again).

Seconds after hanging up my phone, hearing that he was only a few blocks away and about to join up with us, The Hazard called back to let me know he’d just been hit by a car. The look on the driver’s face was one of shock when 20 bicyclists flew into the parking lot two minutes later to check on him. Thankfully Martin escaped the event with some soreness and a wobbly front wheel and the Fiasco was on.

There were too many new faces Saturday for me to name check them all but I do want to shout a big WELCOME TO CHICAGO and slap on the back to Andrew and his fancy black track rig. Good to see so many people Saturday.

The plan for this Fiasco was to celebrate spring under the full moon by hitting one of the best beer gardens in town at Moody’s Pub. A Springtime Arctic Blast common in Chicago thwarted this and kept us on the medieval interior of the joint. The factor I did not foresee was the restraint-setup of the place which lamely kept us all sitting at one long table—making it hard to drift about.

Last, certainly not least, the Ass Committee was formed Saturday night to organize the ever-elusive ass photo. The Ass Committee is really comprised of one person, so Ammo is more along the lines of our very first Ass Captain. An honor for sure. After a couple of assless months, a number of brave and prideless FBCers lined up at about midnight to moon the moon. A glorious thing.

Biking in Amsterdam

When people asked me what my plans were for Amsterdam, I replied, not entirely joking that I was going to:

A.) Rent a bike

B.) Get higher than Jesus

C.) Cruise around town on said bike sipping some local beer and enjoy the sights.

Knowing that Amsterdam is a bike-oriented city, this seemed the perfect plan. What could be wrong with it? Seems to be a pretty laid-back relaxed place right?

Wrong. Upon leaving the train station with a slightly off-kilter, hungover gait, Darin and I were nearly dismembered maimed or nearly separated from life by: three trams, one bus, four cars and about 37 bicycles. This was in a span of 45 seconds. Safe at last in the hotel room, I collapsed.

Despite the deadly madness of Amsterdam streets, we did end up renting bikes. Imagine a ginormous sharp-angled cruiser geared like a track bike and thrown off a cliff. That's what we were issued. The Amsterdam standard.

At this point stoned-riding was out of the question and Darin and I learned the hard way the previous day that drinking on the streets of Amsterdam does not have the same legal protection as say, Germany, Italy, New Orleans. (Ironically enough, we were taught this lesson by cops on bikes.) Sober was the only way to navigate. Well, mostly sober.

The fast and light riding most of us are accustomed to in Chicago is certainly a product of our environment. A lack of, or ignored bike lanes with drivers hurtling their cars heedlessly down pot-holed streets makes us essentially fighter-pilots on the streets. Amsterdam bikers are more like...critical mass every day. But, imagine a critical mass in which if you stop paying attention for a split second, a Fiat and tram car will slice you in half.

Full Moon Fiasco IV true-up

(Click the spoke card to see the pix.)

Thanks to John, we have a true up this month, and to Aaron for the pix, which I have the pleasure of uploading and linking, respectively, from Venice. (Ain't the internet swell?)

Fiasco #4 held true to the founding principle of "visible moon, no visible ass." Michael made his debut at the Gingerman as a new Fiasco rider; Martin regaled the uninformed with the always terrifying "Tale of the Phantom Shitter." Fried things from across the street were consumed while Darin distributed the always coveted spoke cards.
From there, we stopped at the Hungry Brain, for a dark, jazzy mid-ride interlude. Some were lured by the vintage Galaga game, others by cheap beer and the sight of hipsters on couches. Carolyn and Fernando joined up en route.
The climax of the evening was at Weegee's Lounge, after Martin baffled a couple of officers in a squad car along the way. The photo booth stuffing record was achieved (trashing the first set of photos due to ass-blockage of the flash), the bar cat was petted heavily and Brett realized his u-lock had fallen out of his bag when leaving the Hungry Brain. He tore up the pavement racing back, retrieved the lock and returned to Weegee's in triumph. Eventually the vintage tunes were interrupted by last call being announced, and we reluctantly left to brave the blue light cameras and empty streets for the ride home.

FIASCO IV is coming!!!

Good news is that it's almost time for this craziness again. Bad news is, I won't be able to attend. Trust me, it's for good reason...I wouldn't even consider missing it if it were otherwise. BUT, there's still a route planned and there will be some rockin spoke cards.

So here's the scoop: Gingerman at 8, as per usual. Heading to Weegee's via the Hungry Brain at 9.

Full Moon Fiasco III true-up

(Click the Spoke card to see the pix--they're on my facebook until Chainlink fixes the album feature.)

On the Full Moon Fiasco, viewing the actual moon seems to be inversely porportionate to the viewing of moons of the bare ass variety. This was the first Fiasco with skies clear enough to see the moon in it's shining splendor. (Matt H had good route intel that we could see it over the Graceland Cemetary on Clark.) But sadly, there was not a critical mass of shining white ass later in the eve. Sadly, there will be no full moon photo this month.

So speaking of ass, it was cool to see some new faces on the ride. Matt, McKelvie and Brett were our honored newbs on Wednesday. The hazing process involved allowing them unmolested access to the bar to drink beer as they felt necessary.

On the ride, we did take a beer break at O'Shaugnessey's, as was the tentative plan, to celbrate Irishness. I had a pretty goddam delicious Three Floyd's Alpha King Pale. It is a beautiful thing to behold.

The plan to ride up Damen to demonstrate to motorists how cool we look was thwarted by whoever was riding point, who decided to roll straight up Ravenswood. Ravenswood is awesome for all practical purposes because so few drivers are on it, but not nearly as adventurous when riding en masse. Well, whatever, we got to Fireside in a relaxed manner and drank more beer.

Nortside Crit Mass and the Bike Winter Art Show

So, the first Northside Critical Mass was last week. Good turnout, over 20. I guess name recognition goes a long way. The route was short and in my opinion, one should follow Garth's lead and make your flask standard operating equipment for this ride.

The ride came to an abrupt halt after about 5 miles with the organizers waving goodbye. The FBCers present immediately took over and led the pack to the next open bar. Once the wheels of culture and conversation were well lubed, on we ventured to the Flat Iron in Wicker Park for some art and shit.

For such an event, it is best to be at least marginally conversant in Hipster. It is a tongue that I am not accustomed to using in most of my conversational adventures. Well anyway, I think I looked at some art (saw a good pic of Ammo and her boyfriend) and drank a good share of the available PBRs. I am going to get back to the show to do what I was supposed to: look at the art.

Once the beer and Garth's flask were exhausted, the remaing Crit Massers gathered up and headed back north for more beers. Having consumed the greater part of his flask, we herded Garth and his Steel Bitch up to Gannon's where we closed out the evening. I'm quite positive I was about to end my evening with some enchiladas around 11, but grabbed Tank-Ridin Ryan by the sternum and bought him and myself a drink. I think that was the first of my 7 "last drinks." Next thing I knew it was last call.

So, my years of art school didn't garner me any tattoos or the physique of a herioin addict, but as the evening's end showed, I can pee my name in the snow. Without those last 7 drinks, it might have even turned out legible.