Anyone who has skated derby for more than five seconds knows that injuries happen.
The attitude one takes toward getting injured determines whether that person comes back for more when they're healed.
But what about the one who may have caused said injury?
I'm dealing with an incident that happened yesterday when we had visiting skaters from a league that's in the beginning stages of getting a banked track. We were playing during wRECk League, and it was a session that was got a bit...aggressive at times. Not all on me, by the by. But I was getting wound up, and it started to show in the previous couple of jams I skated in. Then...it happened. I was at the front of the start line. I see one of the visitors lined up behind me, just downhill from where I was at. The pack whistle blew, and I threw a shoulder at her. Unfortunately said shoulder hit this skater in the face, and she went down immediately. Hitting off the line isn't unusual for us, and everyone else started forward as if nothing had happened. The jammer whistle blew, the jammers took off, and the skater I'd hit was still in the infield. Shit.
Jam was called off. Injured skater got to her bench, she was checked out, and the jam was reset. I found out afterwards that I momentarily dislocated this poor girl's jaw on the left side. She popped it back into place, sat out five jams, and came back in and skated as if nothing had happened.
But DAMN, how does one deal with the guilt of a hit, no matter how it happened, when an injury is the result?
It could be said that I'm just a jerk. This post can remind one of that. But I'm not out to hurt anyone. I don't have any pride for hurting anyone for real while playing. I've been on the receiving end of this type of event, too. I had my right ankle screwed up for six weeks when I got stuck in a Siren sandwich back in 2005. Heaven knows how many times I hyper-extended both shoulders from falling after either getting hit or tangled up with other skaters. Bruised ribs? Yeah, got that, too. My one concussion was all my fault, though.
All of this made me concentrate even more on general form when I had to teach the Fresh Meat later in the day. I hope they catch on quick and don't do stupid things like me. DO AS I SAY, NOT AS I DO!
Monday, April 25, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
What's In A Name?
Long-time LA Derby Dolls fan and game reviewer DF just coughed up an amazing paper about DIY derby names. I'm not saying that it's amazing because I'm mentioned in it, but it certainly doesn't hurt. I'm not one for reading legal papers on a regular basis, but DF has done for legal papers what he's done for game reviews: he made for interesting and funny reading. You can download the pdf here.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Good grief...
Yesterday morning started normal. Did my bicycle ride, a few burpees, made lunch and took the Softail to work.
As I was riding up Bob Hope Drive to Alameda, I see a long line of cars waiting to turn right. Which happened to be the direction I wanted to go. DAMMIT. I thought to myself. Some asshole is asleep at the wheel and is holding up traffic. ASSHOLE. Since I myself have assholish tendencies, I rode the bike up the left turn lane and turned right onto Alameda. As I whooshed by, I see what the hold up is that's creating this conga line of non-movement and increasingly loud car horn cacophony.
A midsize VW car is in the middle of the lane, hazard lights on. Obviously it died while making the turn. The driver of the car was standing on the sidewalk corner, cell phone in hand, visibly upset at how her morning was progressing. Or not progressing, as the case may be. She was small, petite, brunette, and not up to the task of being an on-site mechanic to figure out what's wrong with her car.
The thing that got me about the whole situation was that there were at least ten cars sitting behind her car. Gawd knows how many other people who were making a left turn and could see that this tiny woman was in distress. But no one stopped. No one got out of their own little metal cave to ask if she needed help. No one called AAA or the police. They just sat and honked their fucking horns.
And now we take a break from yesterday's adventure to tell another quick story:
Back to yesterday's story.
With my sister's car mishap fresh in my mind, I immediately pulled over to the side of Alameda as I passed the petite woman and her car trouble. As I stomped over to where she was standing, she was yelling back at the asshats who were still sitting in their cars honking their horns. I said, HEY! and she immediately turned around. Do you want me to help you push your car to the side of the road? I ask. YES! PLEASE! she cried. OK, put your car into neutral and you steer it over while I push. I replied.
This is the part where things get hilarious. I've pushed cars before, obviously. But usually with a little help. The woman puts her car into neutral and gets in the car. Oh, jeez! Ah well, might as well give it a try. What do I have to lose, except maybe a little pride?
I start to push. Nothing happens. I keep pushing. Nothing. Oh shit! I start to think. Some fuckwad starts honking their damn horn. I turn around and gave them the GLARE OF DEATH. What kind of mindless idiot who can see that the car needs to be pushed out of the way and sees a WOMAN doing it would DARE honk their fucking horn instead of getting their lazy ass out of their own car and helping?! Fucking coward!
The GLARE OF DEATH worked, and apparently the added adrenaline rush from the honking jerkface got me to slowly push the car forward. In about three minutes the car gained momentum and was moved to the side of the road, perfectly parked behind my motorcycle and out of harm's way.
I did what I did not because I think I'm better than anyone else. But based on these people's reaction to a situation, I've decided I'm certainly no worse than anyone else. I'm not a superhero; I did what I did because I've been in that situation and every little bit of help helps me deal with it so that I get out of everyone's hair and things can go back to normal. I did what I did because I just wanted to get to work on time, but the broken car was preventing that. So I helped move the car out of the way so that everyone else could go about their day while the woman could deal with calling for help in relative safety. I did what I did because I saw a situation that needed to be fixed, and it wasn't a big deal to fix it. Yet no one else felt they could be bothered to help fix it. Instead they sat and bitched about it.
Part of it is human nature, to be sure. But it also PISSED ME THE HELL OFF that we as a society seem to have gotten to such a point where we're too mentally paralyzed to help ourselves and fix things for ourselves even when we have the direct impact to do so. Even when there's someone who obviously needs just a little boost, no one would give them one. Even if that boost would benefit themselves as well as the person who directly needs that boost. What will it take to get people off their asses? I don't know.
I tell this story not to stroke my own ego, but to remind everyone to help fix the problems of life, not be part of them. We all have shit going on, but sometimes just a little gesture can help someone else get through a tough day as well as helping oneself along. I wish more people would do that.
As I was riding up Bob Hope Drive to Alameda, I see a long line of cars waiting to turn right. Which happened to be the direction I wanted to go. DAMMIT. I thought to myself. Some asshole is asleep at the wheel and is holding up traffic. ASSHOLE. Since I myself have assholish tendencies, I rode the bike up the left turn lane and turned right onto Alameda. As I whooshed by, I see what the hold up is that's creating this conga line of non-movement and increasingly loud car horn cacophony.
A midsize VW car is in the middle of the lane, hazard lights on. Obviously it died while making the turn. The driver of the car was standing on the sidewalk corner, cell phone in hand, visibly upset at how her morning was progressing. Or not progressing, as the case may be. She was small, petite, brunette, and not up to the task of being an on-site mechanic to figure out what's wrong with her car.
The thing that got me about the whole situation was that there were at least ten cars sitting behind her car. Gawd knows how many other people who were making a left turn and could see that this tiny woman was in distress. But no one stopped. No one got out of their own little metal cave to ask if she needed help. No one called AAA or the police. They just sat and honked their fucking horns.
WHAT THE FUCK?!
And now we take a break from yesterday's adventure to tell another quick story:
Something similar happened to my sister last month. She had been running errands on a fine Saturday afternoon, and as she was leaving a grocery store parking lot, a sensor in her car decided to die just as she was about to turn out of the parking lot. Again, no one stopped, no one asked if she needed help, no one did anything except honk their horns and eventually worked their way around her car to go on their way. She called me in a panic, and I asked her calmly if she had called AAA yet. She thought for a moment, said she thought she still had time on her extended warranty from her car company, and would call them. As she did that, I put on my shoes and drove over to where she was at. On the way I spotted some Girl Scouts selling cookies in front of their house, so I got two boxes of Thin Mints(one for me, one for my sister), and continued on my way.
By the time I got to where my sister was, she was a little more calm, having figured out that she couldn't use her extended warranty, and so had called AAA in the meantime. I started to help push her car out of the grocery store driveway back into the lot. An old man who happened to be wandering by stopped and helped us, and I think he was kinda-sorta hitting on me. Or he was just a touchy-feely type of guy. Either way, he got $20 from my very relieved sister for helping out. About ten minutes after that the AAA guy came along and we managed to load my sister's car up and get it to a local dealer just as they were closing for the day. Everything turned out OK, because my sister got some help instead of a ration of shit from asshole strangers.
Back to yesterday's story.
With my sister's car mishap fresh in my mind, I immediately pulled over to the side of Alameda as I passed the petite woman and her car trouble. As I stomped over to where she was standing, she was yelling back at the asshats who were still sitting in their cars honking their horns. I said, HEY! and she immediately turned around. Do you want me to help you push your car to the side of the road? I ask. YES! PLEASE! she cried. OK, put your car into neutral and you steer it over while I push. I replied.
This is the part where things get hilarious. I've pushed cars before, obviously. But usually with a little help. The woman puts her car into neutral and gets in the car. Oh, jeez! Ah well, might as well give it a try. What do I have to lose, except maybe a little pride?
I start to push. Nothing happens. I keep pushing. Nothing. Oh shit! I start to think. Some fuckwad starts honking their damn horn. I turn around and gave them the GLARE OF DEATH. What kind of mindless idiot who can see that the car needs to be pushed out of the way and sees a WOMAN doing it would DARE honk their fucking horn instead of getting their lazy ass out of their own car and helping?! Fucking coward!
The GLARE OF DEATH worked, and apparently the added adrenaline rush from the honking jerkface got me to slowly push the car forward. In about three minutes the car gained momentum and was moved to the side of the road, perfectly parked behind my motorcycle and out of harm's way.
I did what I did not because I think I'm better than anyone else. But based on these people's reaction to a situation, I've decided I'm certainly no worse than anyone else. I'm not a superhero; I did what I did because I've been in that situation and every little bit of help helps me deal with it so that I get out of everyone's hair and things can go back to normal. I did what I did because I just wanted to get to work on time, but the broken car was preventing that. So I helped move the car out of the way so that everyone else could go about their day while the woman could deal with calling for help in relative safety. I did what I did because I saw a situation that needed to be fixed, and it wasn't a big deal to fix it. Yet no one else felt they could be bothered to help fix it. Instead they sat and bitched about it.
Part of it is human nature, to be sure. But it also PISSED ME THE HELL OFF that we as a society seem to have gotten to such a point where we're too mentally paralyzed to help ourselves and fix things for ourselves even when we have the direct impact to do so. Even when there's someone who obviously needs just a little boost, no one would give them one. Even if that boost would benefit themselves as well as the person who directly needs that boost. What will it take to get people off their asses? I don't know.
I tell this story not to stroke my own ego, but to remind everyone to help fix the problems of life, not be part of them. We all have shit going on, but sometimes just a little gesture can help someone else get through a tough day as well as helping oneself along. I wish more people would do that.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
An Uncomfortable Afternoon
This past weekend was a busy one of running errands, going to bachelorette parties, beach skating, taking care of stuff around the house and having an early dinner with the in-laws.
It took us a few minutes to even decide which route to take to said dinner: surface streets or the freeway. The Dear Husband pondered surface streets while I said, Why the hell wouldn't we take the freeway? It's Sunday, it's warm, everyone will be at the beach, it'll be clear.
Jinx.
As soon as we got on the freeway, it was backed up.We quickly saw the reason. There was an accident in the two right lanes of the 10 where it transitions to the 405. A car was parked sideways across the two lanes. As we crawled by, we saw a sport bike lying on its side...next to another sport bike also lying on its side. DAMN. With the sideways-parked car, this looked ugly. The CHP wasn't on scene yet. No ambulances, no flashing lights, no sirens of any sort yet. There were people milling about in the middle of the blocked off lanes; some just looking, a couple people on cell phones. And then we saw the worst part: one of the motorcyclists was still splayed out on the scene, laying on the road.
He wasn't alive. It was in the way he lied there...crumpled clothes and ragamuffin limbs. He was wearing full gear, including a full-face helmet. He was lying on his stomach with his head turned to the side. The way his head was turned so far to the side looked wrong. A live neck wouldn't be able to do that with that helmet on. After years of seeing horrific images of roadkill in my travels and being occasionally haunted by such memories, this just crowded everything else out.
The DH hopefully said, Maybe he's just unconscious. I squinted at the dead man's face. No. I said. He's gone. I can tell by the way he's lying there...he's gone. The DH remained optimistic. He might be fine, we'll find out on our way back...if the scene is still closed, we'll know he died. If not, he's alive.
When things like this happen, the usual thought that first springs to mind is: What did the biker do to get himself killed? Especially with sport bikes. Some people call those riders "squids" because they do stupid things at high speeds and get themselves hurt or killed for their shenanigans. Two bikes down, a car parked sideways across the lanes...what the hell happened? The DH speculated for the rest of the trip. Maybe they did something stupid? Maybe a car cut in front of them? Maybe a car cut off one of the bikes, and the other came up to the car?
No matter what brand or type of motorcycle, I feel a type of kinship with most riders because the laws of physics are against us when there's a motorcycle involved. Well, except when we lanesplit. That's the joy of riding a bike in California. The flip side is we're always going to lose in a crash, no matter how minor because we're so exposed without that metal cage of a car around us to protect us on impact.
Needless to say, this event put us in a weirdly foul mood for dinner. We didn't explain why, we just soldiered through. On our way home, we saw the CHP on the taped off scene, taking measurements. The car and bikes were gone. The motorcyclist we saw was indeed dead and also had been taken away.
To go from reading articles, seeing news footage, or even seeing wreckage to visual fact on a fatal accident isn't in most people's experiences, despite those of us who live in big cities and therefore would be more likely to see this sort of thing to begin with. I've lived in LA for 20 years and have seen accidents of mangled metal, but if anyone was injured or whatnot, they were already gone by the time I've rolled by in the ensuing traffic backup.
How emergency workers, cops, firemen, and accident site cleanup crews do it day after day, year after year boggles my mind. How do they cope with such horror?
This obviously shook me up, to see the direct human cost. Especially since we didn't know what caused it.
We watched the late night news, hoping to hear what caused this mess, but a driveby shooting at a Taco Bell in Rialto took the top headlines. We looked at the CHP site and news station sites online, but to no avail. The CHP site merely listed when the call came in about the accident, what time the officers got there, what time the ambulance arrived on scene(fifty minutes after the accident was first reported, by the way.), etc.
It wasn't until Monday morning when I perused the LA Times website that I found a short blurb about the accident. The two bikers were weaving through the traffic, and one hit the other. A car was somehow involved, but the article didn't clearly explain how. Anyway, both bikers went flying through the air. One lived, the other died. Drinking was involved. The dead one was only 23 years old.
I won't lie when I sighed with a very slight sense of relief, because there wasn't any indication that a car purposely cut in front of the bikes as they whizzed through traffic. They seemed to be solely responsible for their own tragedy. That previous kinship and horror I felt for the riders were a little bit abated, because damn, it's so stupid to drink and ride. But a new fear and paranoia about riding settled into my brain; burrowing its way through all the good memories of riding.
Tuesday morning I decided to ride to work. I was terrified. But even though I hadn't directly been involved in the accident, mentally I had to get back on the motorcycle horse, even though it was just psychological.
I didn't ride fast. I didn't ride crazy. Well, contrary to popular belief, I've been mellowing out on the fast and furious lanesplitting and stuff since I joined derby. The direct physics lessons a full-contact sport has given me new respect for the damage I could do to myself if I didn't pay attention. And I got to work safely. I rode home with no incident, either.
Thank goodness.
But I continue to feel very unsettled. It's going to last for awhile.
It took us a few minutes to even decide which route to take to said dinner: surface streets or the freeway. The Dear Husband pondered surface streets while I said, Why the hell wouldn't we take the freeway? It's Sunday, it's warm, everyone will be at the beach, it'll be clear.
Jinx.
As soon as we got on the freeway, it was backed up.We quickly saw the reason. There was an accident in the two right lanes of the 10 where it transitions to the 405. A car was parked sideways across the two lanes. As we crawled by, we saw a sport bike lying on its side...next to another sport bike also lying on its side. DAMN. With the sideways-parked car, this looked ugly. The CHP wasn't on scene yet. No ambulances, no flashing lights, no sirens of any sort yet. There were people milling about in the middle of the blocked off lanes; some just looking, a couple people on cell phones. And then we saw the worst part: one of the motorcyclists was still splayed out on the scene, laying on the road.
HOLY FUCK.
HOLY FUCK.
HOLY.
FUCK.
He wasn't alive. It was in the way he lied there...crumpled clothes and ragamuffin limbs. He was wearing full gear, including a full-face helmet. He was lying on his stomach with his head turned to the side. The way his head was turned so far to the side looked wrong. A live neck wouldn't be able to do that with that helmet on. After years of seeing horrific images of roadkill in my travels and being occasionally haunted by such memories, this just crowded everything else out.
The DH hopefully said, Maybe he's just unconscious. I squinted at the dead man's face. No. I said. He's gone. I can tell by the way he's lying there...he's gone. The DH remained optimistic. He might be fine, we'll find out on our way back...if the scene is still closed, we'll know he died. If not, he's alive.
When things like this happen, the usual thought that first springs to mind is: What did the biker do to get himself killed? Especially with sport bikes. Some people call those riders "squids" because they do stupid things at high speeds and get themselves hurt or killed for their shenanigans. Two bikes down, a car parked sideways across the lanes...what the hell happened? The DH speculated for the rest of the trip. Maybe they did something stupid? Maybe a car cut in front of them? Maybe a car cut off one of the bikes, and the other came up to the car?
No matter what brand or type of motorcycle, I feel a type of kinship with most riders because the laws of physics are against us when there's a motorcycle involved. Well, except when we lanesplit. That's the joy of riding a bike in California. The flip side is we're always going to lose in a crash, no matter how minor because we're so exposed without that metal cage of a car around us to protect us on impact.
Needless to say, this event put us in a weirdly foul mood for dinner. We didn't explain why, we just soldiered through. On our way home, we saw the CHP on the taped off scene, taking measurements. The car and bikes were gone. The motorcyclist we saw was indeed dead and also had been taken away.
To go from reading articles, seeing news footage, or even seeing wreckage to visual fact on a fatal accident isn't in most people's experiences, despite those of us who live in big cities and therefore would be more likely to see this sort of thing to begin with. I've lived in LA for 20 years and have seen accidents of mangled metal, but if anyone was injured or whatnot, they were already gone by the time I've rolled by in the ensuing traffic backup.
How emergency workers, cops, firemen, and accident site cleanup crews do it day after day, year after year boggles my mind. How do they cope with such horror?
This obviously shook me up, to see the direct human cost. Especially since we didn't know what caused it.
We watched the late night news, hoping to hear what caused this mess, but a driveby shooting at a Taco Bell in Rialto took the top headlines. We looked at the CHP site and news station sites online, but to no avail. The CHP site merely listed when the call came in about the accident, what time the officers got there, what time the ambulance arrived on scene(fifty minutes after the accident was first reported, by the way.), etc.
It wasn't until Monday morning when I perused the LA Times website that I found a short blurb about the accident. The two bikers were weaving through the traffic, and one hit the other. A car was somehow involved, but the article didn't clearly explain how. Anyway, both bikers went flying through the air. One lived, the other died. Drinking was involved. The dead one was only 23 years old.
I won't lie when I sighed with a very slight sense of relief, because there wasn't any indication that a car purposely cut in front of the bikes as they whizzed through traffic. They seemed to be solely responsible for their own tragedy. That previous kinship and horror I felt for the riders were a little bit abated, because damn, it's so stupid to drink and ride. But a new fear and paranoia about riding settled into my brain; burrowing its way through all the good memories of riding.
Tuesday morning I decided to ride to work. I was terrified. But even though I hadn't directly been involved in the accident, mentally I had to get back on the motorcycle horse, even though it was just psychological.
I didn't ride fast. I didn't ride crazy. Well, contrary to popular belief, I've been mellowing out on the fast and furious lanesplitting and stuff since I joined derby. The direct physics lessons a full-contact sport has given me new respect for the damage I could do to myself if I didn't pay attention. And I got to work safely. I rode home with no incident, either.
Thank goodness.
But I continue to feel very unsettled. It's going to last for awhile.
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
Last Saturday I team managed the Tough Cookies. Fight Crew co-captain Haught Wheels bench managed them. In other words, Haughty kept track of penalties while I adjusted the lineups according to the penalties.
Anyway, I had expected to dress like a slob for the game. I wasn't feelin' the Pretty. But Haughty was. She texted me the night before the game to say that she was Doin' Pretty because she was highly impressed with how spiffy and professional Gotham Girls' infield managers dressed for games. Dammit. I changed my Saturday plans to include Trying To Make My Hair Do What I Wanted time and borrowed Iron Maiven's troop leader uniform.
This amazing photo was taken by Jess Reynolds as we were watching the intro clip for the game:
My favorite comment made about this photo was made by one of our skaters who said, Oh my god, it's like an old school Sears portrait of sisters. Hahahahahahaha!!!
In completely unrelated news: I'm not adjusting to getting up at six o'clock in the morning for work. Well, I'm kinda adjusting, just not well. I don't know why this is when I was able to do it last year, but it ain't workin' for me this year. Speaking of, I gotta get it together and commute to work.
Anyway, I had expected to dress like a slob for the game. I wasn't feelin' the Pretty. But Haughty was. She texted me the night before the game to say that she was Doin' Pretty because she was highly impressed with how spiffy and professional Gotham Girls' infield managers dressed for games. Dammit. I changed my Saturday plans to include Trying To Make My Hair Do What I Wanted time and borrowed Iron Maiven's troop leader uniform.
This amazing photo was taken by Jess Reynolds as we were watching the intro clip for the game:
My favorite comment made about this photo was made by one of our skaters who said, Oh my god, it's like an old school Sears portrait of sisters. Hahahahahahaha!!!
In completely unrelated news: I'm not adjusting to getting up at six o'clock in the morning for work. Well, I'm kinda adjusting, just not well. I don't know why this is when I was able to do it last year, but it ain't workin' for me this year. Speaking of, I gotta get it together and commute to work.
Sunday, April 03, 2011
BC Glasses
Two years ago I went through the trauma of picking out new eyeglass frames.
I have to admit, I ended up not liking the frames I chose. So when I went in for an eye exam last week, I decided that I needed new eyeglass frames again.
As soon as I got my updated eye prescription, I started roaming around the eyeglass shop ready to pick out THEE new glasses. After ten minutes, I found myself bogged down in overwhelming crapaciousness. I wanted something retro-ish but not too girly. But not too masculine, either. And nothing that curved down at the top because I'd get that annoying angry librarian look that doesn't work well on me. But at that moment I wasn't finding much of anything that was appealing.
Luckily a saleswoman came up to me and I happily let her start picking out frames for me. In another ten minutes she found frames that I thought were cool and hilarious at the same time. As soon as I tried them on, I knew I'd end up with them:
I look like crap in the photo because I have zero makeup on, but the glasses are cool in a supernerdy way. I call them my BC glasses for obvious reasons. They're Raybans, they're burgundy-colored, and heavier than my old glasses because they're bigger. The prescription is uber-visible, but at the moment I don't care. There's just something about them that I'm liking for the moment. I have a better feeling about these than I did my previous pair, so I hope to hang on to these frames for awhile!
I have to admit, I ended up not liking the frames I chose. So when I went in for an eye exam last week, I decided that I needed new eyeglass frames again.
As soon as I got my updated eye prescription, I started roaming around the eyeglass shop ready to pick out THEE new glasses. After ten minutes, I found myself bogged down in overwhelming crapaciousness. I wanted something retro-ish but not too girly. But not too masculine, either. And nothing that curved down at the top because I'd get that annoying angry librarian look that doesn't work well on me. But at that moment I wasn't finding much of anything that was appealing.
Luckily a saleswoman came up to me and I happily let her start picking out frames for me. In another ten minutes she found frames that I thought were cool and hilarious at the same time. As soon as I tried them on, I knew I'd end up with them:
I look like crap in the photo because I have zero makeup on, but the glasses are cool in a supernerdy way. I call them my BC glasses for obvious reasons. They're Raybans, they're burgundy-colored, and heavier than my old glasses because they're bigger. The prescription is uber-visible, but at the moment I don't care. There's just something about them that I'm liking for the moment. I have a better feeling about these than I did my previous pair, so I hope to hang on to these frames for awhile!
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Dammit
It's been awhile since I had to write a letter to my bike. But apparently it's time to do it again. So here we go...
Dear Sportster:
You're so saucy and cute. You lanesplit like a champ. You're nimble and get great gas mileage. You don't have a lot of icky chrome on you to distract from your awesomeness. I love taking you to work.
So why do you keep crapping out on me?
You can't blame me for not riding you quite as often as I should...it's been raining, for fuck's sake. A LOT. But c'mon, I took you out over the Softail on more than one occasion to show you off when the skies were clear. And with the new job I just started this week, you get to go to Borebank often.
But you apparently like to hold grudges.
What was it about yesterday that pissed you off so much? Was it the fact that I had to take the freeway the entire way to work? It couldn't have been the weather, it was sunny and cool but not cold. Borebank isn't so bad...you usually like the parking space that's right in front of the studio, where EVERYONE can see you, so it can't be that. I even took surface streets for part of the way home instead of taking the crapacious 101 freeway, and we cut through a shit ton of traffic. Yay, us!
When you died at the intersection of Laurel Canyon and Riverside, I was shocked. And pissed. Luckily there was a Mobil station right across the intersection from where you staged your protest, and after waiting in the middle of the westbound lanes on Riverside for an extremely harrowing streetlight cycle, I pushed you to the gas station. I had just filled the gas tank, so that's not the problem. The lights work, the battery is new, and you'd turn over but wouldn't catch. WTF?!?!?!
I let you rest for a minute, and tried starting you again. You refused.
A guy who may or may not have been a rider asked me if I was alright, but didn't have any tools. But he was very nice and said that if I needed anything, to go to the bar next to the gas station.
I should've gone and had a drink or five.
Instead, I called AAA. Twenty minutes, they say. Fine, no problem, I say.
During the initial twenty minutes I tried a few more times to start you up. Same thing: lights, turning over, but you wouldn't catch. DAMMIT.
Twenty minutes later I get another call from AAA. They now say it'll be an HOUR AND A HALF before I get rescued.
I hope you felt proud of yourself when I did what any roller derby-playin', murdersickle-ridin' grown woman would do in that situation...I burst into tears.
It's not that the intersection of Laurel Canyon and Riverside is a shithole neighborhood, but there were definitely a few shady characters lurking about. What is it about gas stations that brings out the shady lurkers, anyway?! I notice one particular creepy weird dude wander by the bus stop on the opposite side of the gas station, talking to himself as I dropped to the curb and sobbed to myself. Then he starts lumbering towards the gas station. You know where this is going, right, Sportster?
After about fifteen minutes of me freaking out, my phone rings. It's the tow company saying that it'll be fifteen minutes. They had a couple of cancellations.
I try starting you up again just for shits and giggles, dear Sportster. Nope, not gonna happen.
The tow truck pulls into the gas station just as the Creepy Weird Dude who was lurking by the bus stop walks by me and starts to talk to me. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. The driver comes over and that is enough to shoo away the Creepy Weird Dude. Whew!
We talk about what went wrong with you, Sportster. And then you made me look like a total asshole by STARTING UP JUST FUCKING FINE when I turn on the ignition.
The driver asks if I still want a tow. The look on my face must've been priceless, for he immediately says, Ah, you don't want to get stuck again before you get home. Alright, let's get going. And off he goes to prep the tow truck bed to take your miserable metal self back to the Westside.
Since the Harley dealer doesn't have a drop off spot for broken bikes after hours, I bring you back to home. You got a smooth ride, the tow truck driver was very nice and very conscientious. By this time, it's late enough where traffic going to the Westside isn't bad at all, though the driver will be in Driving Hell getting back to the Valley after you're dropped off.
There's something about you, Sportster, that keeps AAA drivers from charging me the extra mileage when you're towed beyond ten miles. And I guess I'm a sucker for you, too, as I'm going to limp you to the Harley dealer on Saturday and see if they can track down what the hell is wrong with you. Because I DO NOT want to have any more towing adventures, Sportster. DO YOU HEAR ME?! You must be ridden, not towed!
C'mon, you don't want to be stuck in the garage any more than I want to leave you in there, unridden and neglected. Summer's comin' and you gotta get out there and enjoy it!
xoxo,
Me
Dear Sportster:
You're so saucy and cute. You lanesplit like a champ. You're nimble and get great gas mileage. You don't have a lot of icky chrome on you to distract from your awesomeness. I love taking you to work.
So why do you keep crapping out on me?
You can't blame me for not riding you quite as often as I should...it's been raining, for fuck's sake. A LOT. But c'mon, I took you out over the Softail on more than one occasion to show you off when the skies were clear. And with the new job I just started this week, you get to go to Borebank often.
But you apparently like to hold grudges.
What was it about yesterday that pissed you off so much? Was it the fact that I had to take the freeway the entire way to work? It couldn't have been the weather, it was sunny and cool but not cold. Borebank isn't so bad...you usually like the parking space that's right in front of the studio, where EVERYONE can see you, so it can't be that. I even took surface streets for part of the way home instead of taking the crapacious 101 freeway, and we cut through a shit ton of traffic. Yay, us!
When you died at the intersection of Laurel Canyon and Riverside, I was shocked. And pissed. Luckily there was a Mobil station right across the intersection from where you staged your protest, and after waiting in the middle of the westbound lanes on Riverside for an extremely harrowing streetlight cycle, I pushed you to the gas station. I had just filled the gas tank, so that's not the problem. The lights work, the battery is new, and you'd turn over but wouldn't catch. WTF?!?!?!
I let you rest for a minute, and tried starting you again. You refused.
A guy who may or may not have been a rider asked me if I was alright, but didn't have any tools. But he was very nice and said that if I needed anything, to go to the bar next to the gas station.
I should've gone and had a drink or five.
Instead, I called AAA. Twenty minutes, they say. Fine, no problem, I say.
During the initial twenty minutes I tried a few more times to start you up. Same thing: lights, turning over, but you wouldn't catch. DAMMIT.
Twenty minutes later I get another call from AAA. They now say it'll be an HOUR AND A HALF before I get rescued.
I hope you felt proud of yourself when I did what any roller derby-playin', murdersickle-ridin' grown woman would do in that situation...I burst into tears.
It's not that the intersection of Laurel Canyon and Riverside is a shithole neighborhood, but there were definitely a few shady characters lurking about. What is it about gas stations that brings out the shady lurkers, anyway?! I notice one particular creepy weird dude wander by the bus stop on the opposite side of the gas station, talking to himself as I dropped to the curb and sobbed to myself. Then he starts lumbering towards the gas station. You know where this is going, right, Sportster?
After about fifteen minutes of me freaking out, my phone rings. It's the tow company saying that it'll be fifteen minutes. They had a couple of cancellations.
OH THANK JEEBUS.
I try starting you up again just for shits and giggles, dear Sportster. Nope, not gonna happen.
The tow truck pulls into the gas station just as the Creepy Weird Dude who was lurking by the bus stop walks by me and starts to talk to me. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. The driver comes over and that is enough to shoo away the Creepy Weird Dude. Whew!
We talk about what went wrong with you, Sportster. And then you made me look like a total asshole by STARTING UP JUST FUCKING FINE when I turn on the ignition.
GODDAMIT.
The driver asks if I still want a tow. The look on my face must've been priceless, for he immediately says, Ah, you don't want to get stuck again before you get home. Alright, let's get going. And off he goes to prep the tow truck bed to take your miserable metal self back to the Westside.
Since the Harley dealer doesn't have a drop off spot for broken bikes after hours, I bring you back to home. You got a smooth ride, the tow truck driver was very nice and very conscientious. By this time, it's late enough where traffic going to the Westside isn't bad at all, though the driver will be in Driving Hell getting back to the Valley after you're dropped off.
There's something about you, Sportster, that keeps AAA drivers from charging me the extra mileage when you're towed beyond ten miles. And I guess I'm a sucker for you, too, as I'm going to limp you to the Harley dealer on Saturday and see if they can track down what the hell is wrong with you. Because I DO NOT want to have any more towing adventures, Sportster. DO YOU HEAR ME?! You must be ridden, not towed!
C'mon, you don't want to be stuck in the garage any more than I want to leave you in there, unridden and neglected. Summer's comin' and you gotta get out there and enjoy it!
xoxo,
Me
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Brain Dead
I seem to be creatively brain dead when it comes to my own artwork.
Next week I start a new short-term gig, and I know I'll get my shit together to do a good job on that. But I'm squandering my free time away on...almost nothing.
OK, I did useful things like get an oil change for the car, purchased new contact lenses and eyeglasses, and started to go through the millions of packing boxes full of crap that the Dear Husband and I haven't touched in at least ten years.
But artistically I'm in the middle of a Sahara-sized creative desert.
I don't know whether it's continued stress, frustration and burnout from derby(part of it definitely is), or if it's continued stress and frustration about not having a steady gig, or about not feeling as confident about my own art as maybe I could/should.
I do know that I'm taking things on a day-to-day basis on just being not miserable. And that's OK for the moment. I'm enjoying stupid shit like this as I sit on the computer:
For some reason 80's funk is really making me happy when I listen to it. Nostalgia? I hope not!
And then there's this:
I can't say I like 50 cent. But damn, his music just grooves for me, especially when I'm out running errands on the bicycle.
The Dear Husband just started a new job which makes him(and me)very happy. He's working in the mid-city area where all the gourmet food trucks gather at lunchtime. It's as if he's in Foodie Mecca. Lucky bastard!
Welp, I have two more days to waste before going back to work, so I shall get back to it. Not a very inspiring blog posts, but they all can't be winners.
Next week I start a new short-term gig, and I know I'll get my shit together to do a good job on that. But I'm squandering my free time away on...almost nothing.
OK, I did useful things like get an oil change for the car, purchased new contact lenses and eyeglasses, and started to go through the millions of packing boxes full of crap that the Dear Husband and I haven't touched in at least ten years.
But artistically I'm in the middle of a Sahara-sized creative desert.
I don't know whether it's continued stress, frustration and burnout from derby(part of it definitely is), or if it's continued stress and frustration about not having a steady gig, or about not feeling as confident about my own art as maybe I could/should.
I do know that I'm taking things on a day-to-day basis on just being not miserable. And that's OK for the moment. I'm enjoying stupid shit like this as I sit on the computer:
For some reason 80's funk is really making me happy when I listen to it. Nostalgia? I hope not!
And then there's this:
I can't say I like 50 cent. But damn, his music just grooves for me, especially when I'm out running errands on the bicycle.
The Dear Husband just started a new job which makes him(and me)very happy. He's working in the mid-city area where all the gourmet food trucks gather at lunchtime. It's as if he's in Foodie Mecca. Lucky bastard!
Welp, I have two more days to waste before going back to work, so I shall get back to it. Not a very inspiring blog posts, but they all can't be winners.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Last London Photo Dump
This is hopefully the last installment of, Hey! I Finally Got Out of the USA for a Fun Trip!
When my sister and I got back to London from Amsterdam, it was my sister's turn to have a total meltdown. The hotel we were scheduled to stay at was, how shall I say? Icky. It was in a good neighborhood, right next to the east end of Hyde Park, and the lobby was newly remodeled. But the room? Small, cramped, and dirty. The hallway gave an indication of this when we noticed the door moldings appeared to have been gnawed on by rats.
My sister was still in the throes of sickness, and absolutely LOST HER MIND. She stated, I'M NOT STAYING HERE EVEN ONE NIGHT. THIS PLACE IS GROSS! She called her LA boss immediately(it was early evening in London, early morning in LA), told her about the squalid conditions, and even took photos with her phone to send to her boss to show that she wasn't exaggerating. So if you get reservations for a hotel near Hyde Park that rhymes with "cummerbund", change said reservations IMMEDIATELY.
Luckily her boss is awesome and quickly switched our lodgings to a place that's on the western edge of Hyde Park on Kensington High Street. This place was fancy, but not in the same fancy way that our Amsterdam hotel was fancy. This place was understated modern British fancy.
It was so fancy, rich Arabs were staying there. THAT'S PRETTY DAMN FANCY, PEOPLE.
We were so damn happy, we celebrated in style:
In the morning, I enjoyed the view of Hyde Park from our hotel room window:
And when I looked to the left, I see...Kensington Palace!
My sister was too tired to come out and do stuff, so I was left to amuse myself.
After another ridiculously delicious British breakfast, I went out to take photos of me in front of Kensington Palace:
Then I wandered through Hyde Park. From there I wandered east and covered a great deal of Very Central London. I should go to googlemaps and see if I can map my route and get a mileage reading. My feet say I walked a LOT.
On my way back to the hotel, I found Royal Albert Hall:
And an Albert statue, right across the street from RAH:
And I had to get a photo with an iconic phone booth:
Later in the day my sister was finally feeling well enough to do something, so I took her to Camden. I went there with former ACDG skater Bette Noir before we went to Amsterdam, and got a quick tour of the place. This time, I got to linger a bit more with my sister in tow. It was fun!
Camden canals:
We also did some wandering on Kensington High Street. This is the only photo I got of my sister the entire trip, and it was akin to pulling teeth from a wolverine to get it:
The day of our departure I wanted to go to the Harley dealer in London to get the Dear Husband a shirt. I took an arbitrary LONG walk to get there, and on my way I spotted this:
The house where Benny Hill used to live!
I managed to get lost on the way back to the hotel, which freaked me out since I was cutting it very close timewise to finish packing and get going to the airport.
Oh, I walked across Tower Bridge. Not on the last day I was there, but here are the pix anyway:
Every time I look at my vacation photos, I want to go back SOOOOOOOOOOO MUCH.
When my sister and I got back to London from Amsterdam, it was my sister's turn to have a total meltdown. The hotel we were scheduled to stay at was, how shall I say? Icky. It was in a good neighborhood, right next to the east end of Hyde Park, and the lobby was newly remodeled. But the room? Small, cramped, and dirty. The hallway gave an indication of this when we noticed the door moldings appeared to have been gnawed on by rats.
YUCK.
My sister was still in the throes of sickness, and absolutely LOST HER MIND. She stated, I'M NOT STAYING HERE EVEN ONE NIGHT. THIS PLACE IS GROSS! She called her LA boss immediately(it was early evening in London, early morning in LA), told her about the squalid conditions, and even took photos with her phone to send to her boss to show that she wasn't exaggerating. So if you get reservations for a hotel near Hyde Park that rhymes with "cummerbund", change said reservations IMMEDIATELY.
Luckily her boss is awesome and quickly switched our lodgings to a place that's on the western edge of Hyde Park on Kensington High Street. This place was fancy, but not in the same fancy way that our Amsterdam hotel was fancy. This place was understated modern British fancy.
It was so fancy, rich Arabs were staying there. THAT'S PRETTY DAMN FANCY, PEOPLE.
We were so damn happy, we celebrated in style:
In the morning, I enjoyed the view of Hyde Park from our hotel room window:
And when I looked to the left, I see...Kensington Palace!
My sister was too tired to come out and do stuff, so I was left to amuse myself.
After another ridiculously delicious British breakfast, I went out to take photos of me in front of Kensington Palace:
Then I wandered through Hyde Park. From there I wandered east and covered a great deal of Very Central London. I should go to googlemaps and see if I can map my route and get a mileage reading. My feet say I walked a LOT.
On my way back to the hotel, I found Royal Albert Hall:
And an Albert statue, right across the street from RAH:
And I had to get a photo with an iconic phone booth:
Later in the day my sister was finally feeling well enough to do something, so I took her to Camden. I went there with former ACDG skater Bette Noir before we went to Amsterdam, and got a quick tour of the place. This time, I got to linger a bit more with my sister in tow. It was fun!
Camden canals:
We also did some wandering on Kensington High Street. This is the only photo I got of my sister the entire trip, and it was akin to pulling teeth from a wolverine to get it:
The day of our departure I wanted to go to the Harley dealer in London to get the Dear Husband a shirt. I took an arbitrary LONG walk to get there, and on my way I spotted this:
The house where Benny Hill used to live!
I managed to get lost on the way back to the hotel, which freaked me out since I was cutting it very close timewise to finish packing and get going to the airport.
Oh, I walked across Tower Bridge. Not on the last day I was there, but here are the pix anyway:
Every time I look at my vacation photos, I want to go back SOOOOOOOOOOO MUCH.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Proven Wrong
Remember when I did some shit-talking about this logo?
Welp, it looks like I jumped to conclusions. A couple of Pearl River peeps commented on that post last night, saying that they indeed DID get permission to use that drawing from Sure Grip.
Which means I'm back to not being blatantly ripped off art-wise!
YAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So there you have it. I'm a jaded, cranky asshole who got this wrong. If I'm going to be wrong about something, I'm glad it was over something like this! Carry on, Pearl River, carry on.
Welp, it looks like I jumped to conclusions. A couple of Pearl River peeps commented on that post last night, saying that they indeed DID get permission to use that drawing from Sure Grip.
YAYYYYYYY!!!!!
Which means I'm back to not being blatantly ripped off art-wise!
YAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So there you have it. I'm a jaded, cranky asshole who got this wrong. If I'm going to be wrong about something, I'm glad it was over something like this! Carry on, Pearl River, carry on.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Completed...
Final artwork for this year's Battle on the Bank tournament.
Done.
I think it turned out pretty good...I actually looked at a shit ton of derby photos before attacking this, as I feel that I use the same type of pose all the time. Now I know why...to do this particular style with the pointed toes on the skaters really limits what works and what doesn't posing-wise! Ah well, as long as it works!
BOOM.
Done.
I think it turned out pretty good...I actually looked at a shit ton of derby photos before attacking this, as I feel that I use the same type of pose all the time. Now I know why...to do this particular style with the pointed toes on the skaters really limits what works and what doesn't posing-wise! Ah well, as long as it works!
Thursday, March 10, 2011
THEE Hat
The first day we were in Amsterdam, my sister and I found a flea market in our afternoon wanderings. While there, I found an awesome hat. Lately I've been enjoying hats more, and this one was way cool. However, since I was a dumbass, I didn't purchase it right away like I should have.
When I went back to the flea market the next day, the lady with the hats wasn't there. D'OH. I made it a point to go by the flea market every day to see if the hat lady with THEE hat would show up. I was sorely disappointed each day to wander down the aisle and see the skeletal remains of the booth with no hats inside said booth. Until the morning we were scheduled to leave to go back to London:
SUCCESS. A sunny day and a new hat! The photo makes the hat look like a bowler. It's not. It's a more feminine version of a fedora. And it's cool.
An atypical dinner in Amsterdam for us. NOM NOM NOM:
A typical building in the City Center:
A real live Rembrandt etching:
Watching the process of how that was done was really great to see. At the Rembrandt house they have a room with all the etching stuff and primitive printing press. While I was wandering around in that particular room, a small group of German tourists came through and started asking questions to the museum employee who was in there manning the press. He went into a German explanation of the tools used, the printing process, the type of paper used, etc. I don't know German, but I was able to follow the lecture the entire time. WEIRD.
On our last night in Amsterdam, we went for Mexican food. I know, I know. I live in LA, why would I go to a Mexican restaurant in Amsterdam?! Because they had this as a window display:
The penguin spun around. I couldn't pass that up!
First course: onion rings and what the menu called a "quesada", but it was really a quesadilla:
And we forgot to take a photo of the nachos before we destroyed them:
The margaritas they had were en pointe, too!
When I went back to the flea market the next day, the lady with the hats wasn't there. D'OH. I made it a point to go by the flea market every day to see if the hat lady with THEE hat would show up. I was sorely disappointed each day to wander down the aisle and see the skeletal remains of the booth with no hats inside said booth. Until the morning we were scheduled to leave to go back to London:
SUCCESS. A sunny day and a new hat! The photo makes the hat look like a bowler. It's not. It's a more feminine version of a fedora. And it's cool.
An atypical dinner in Amsterdam for us. NOM NOM NOM:
A typical building in the City Center:
A real live Rembrandt etching:
Watching the process of how that was done was really great to see. At the Rembrandt house they have a room with all the etching stuff and primitive printing press. While I was wandering around in that particular room, a small group of German tourists came through and started asking questions to the museum employee who was in there manning the press. He went into a German explanation of the tools used, the printing process, the type of paper used, etc. I don't know German, but I was able to follow the lecture the entire time. WEIRD.
On our last night in Amsterdam, we went for Mexican food. I know, I know. I live in LA, why would I go to a Mexican restaurant in Amsterdam?! Because they had this as a window display:
The penguin spun around. I couldn't pass that up!
First course: onion rings and what the menu called a "quesada", but it was really a quesadilla:
And we forgot to take a photo of the nachos before we destroyed them:
The margaritas they had were en pointe, too!
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
Is it about YOU?
I'm back to brooding today.
I remember when DIY derby was meant to be inclusive...every body type, every background, every woman was encouraged to join. The biggest bullshittery that went on a few years back was flat vs. banked track. Which I want to comment on in a different post. More on that later. Anyway, yeah...inclusive.
But now, it's getting more exclusive and dooshy. It starts with basic human nature stuff like cliques. Maybe it moves to how teams and practices are structured. Or it becomes difficult to even sign up as fresh meat for a league that may not be chock-full of skaters.
Maybe there's a power-hungry person or three who takes over a committee, or bullies others on how things should be done in their eyes within the league...whether it's their business to do so or not. These types probably haven't done a lot of team sports or team anything in their past with much success. Right now I'm seeing a lot of that type of crapaciousness up close and personal. If I wasn't subject to Code of Conduct violations, I'd be doing a lot of gut-punching on others this very moment.
I find it weird when teams and leagues get the doosh label when the majority of the individuals who make up that team or league can be perfectly nice. What is it about the group dynamic that takes a logically-thinking person and turn her into an asshole when she's with the dooshtastic team or league in question?
I'm also noticing a lot of petitions and groups on Facebook that cater to flat track only. Like the petition to get flat track derby on tv. Or the flat track derby announcers group. Gosh, jackholes, are you still insecure about fans liking banked track better than flat, or are you purposely ignorant that DIY banked track isn't all that you were told they were in the '70's? Get out of your box.
That means everybody. Get the fuck out of your box and really take a look around you at yourself, your team, and your league. Are the things you're doing by shutting others out really the path to grow this crazy hobby into a paying gig? There are standards for things, sure...like having whomever is running the league finances have some reasonable financial training, for example. Or the skaters on the travel team should actually be the best derby players.
On the other hand, if you shut out your skaters in your league from doing stuff, you're playing to your own ego and shortselling the future of your league. You have to train the future leaders and skaters for your league if you expect it to last, and for them to remember you with fondness(if at all), instead of as That Cunt Who Needed To Get Her Head Out Of Her Ass And Thank Fucking Keerist She's Gone.
As things are getting bigger, I don't know if it's getting better. Some of it is growing pains, sure. But some of it is preventable dooshiness. It's difficult to sometimes see when one is being selfish, but I'm finding that if others are as unhappy as you are, then something's going on, and it may not be good.
I'd like to see the fun put back in the dysfunctional of this adventure.
I remember when DIY derby was meant to be inclusive...every body type, every background, every woman was encouraged to join. The biggest bullshittery that went on a few years back was flat vs. banked track. Which I want to comment on in a different post. More on that later. Anyway, yeah...inclusive.
But now, it's getting more exclusive and dooshy. It starts with basic human nature stuff like cliques. Maybe it moves to how teams and practices are structured. Or it becomes difficult to even sign up as fresh meat for a league that may not be chock-full of skaters.
Maybe there's a power-hungry person or three who takes over a committee, or bullies others on how things should be done in their eyes within the league...whether it's their business to do so or not. These types probably haven't done a lot of team sports or team anything in their past with much success. Right now I'm seeing a lot of that type of crapaciousness up close and personal. If I wasn't subject to Code of Conduct violations, I'd be doing a lot of gut-punching on others this very moment.
I find it weird when teams and leagues get the doosh label when the majority of the individuals who make up that team or league can be perfectly nice. What is it about the group dynamic that takes a logically-thinking person and turn her into an asshole when she's with the dooshtastic team or league in question?
I'm also noticing a lot of petitions and groups on Facebook that cater to flat track only. Like the petition to get flat track derby on tv. Or the flat track derby announcers group. Gosh, jackholes, are you still insecure about fans liking banked track better than flat, or are you purposely ignorant that DIY banked track isn't all that you were told they were in the '70's? Get out of your box.
That means everybody. Get the fuck out of your box and really take a look around you at yourself, your team, and your league. Are the things you're doing by shutting others out really the path to grow this crazy hobby into a paying gig? There are standards for things, sure...like having whomever is running the league finances have some reasonable financial training, for example. Or the skaters on the travel team should actually be the best derby players.
On the other hand, if you shut out your skaters in your league from doing stuff, you're playing to your own ego and shortselling the future of your league. You have to train the future leaders and skaters for your league if you expect it to last, and for them to remember you with fondness(if at all), instead of as That Cunt Who Needed To Get Her Head Out Of Her Ass And Thank Fucking Keerist She's Gone.
As things are getting bigger, I don't know if it's getting better. Some of it is growing pains, sure. But some of it is preventable dooshiness. It's difficult to sometimes see when one is being selfish, but I'm finding that if others are as unhappy as you are, then something's going on, and it may not be good.
I'd like to see the fun put back in the dysfunctional of this adventure.
Monday, March 07, 2011
AmsterDAYUM
I'm still trying to catch up on posting photos from my European Adventures from January. Yes, I'm tardy. So what. I'm cranky today, so deal with it.
Going from London to Amsterdam broke my brain.
After having been in the UK for almost a week, my sister and I flew to Amsterdam. We flew on KLM, which takes a much more relaxed attitude about boarding the plane, listening to the safety instructions, and checking to see if one has turned off their cell phones or mp3 players or not. I had to give up my precious skates to checkin, as the flight was full, but they were very nice about it and I wasn't charged to check in the bag. Win? Their snacks sucked, but they had Coke with real sugar, and it was DELICIOUS. Fuck you, US Coke. Corn syrup is rancid.
Anyway, my brain broke as soon as we got off the plane and saw that all the signs in the airport were in Dutch. Now, everyone in Amsterdam pretty much speaks English, but for some reason I expected more of the signage to also be in English. Nope. Maybe it was the sugar from the Coke, but I just about freaked out.
My sister and I had to take a deep breath, get a coffee, and figure out how to get from the airport to Centraal Station via the train. It took us about seven tries with the automated ticket machines to figure it out, but figure it out we did!
As with London, I walked everywhere and got lost every day. The tram stops don't have the handy street maps that the London bus stops do, so I had to attempt to not look too much like a tourist as I pulled out my map every two blocks to figure out where the hell I was. I was more worried about looking like a tourist here than in London because I was told that pickpockets will swarm upon any tourist who made themselves obvious and pick them clean of any useful belongings. No one bothered me at all.
Speaking of obvious:
That photo is SO Amsterdam to me. Very pretty architecture-wise, lots of old stuff to look at, yet there was a messiness to the place that's an interesting antidote to the prettiness.
This is the church across the street and canal from our hotel:
Here is the hotel we stayed in:
I should post the pix I took of our hotel room. It was RIDICULOUSLY nice. I was feeling all swank and stuff. The big drawback to the place was that the city had torn up the street right outside the hotel. So when we were dropped off by the taxi, we had to hike down the block through dirt and scattered cobblestones to get to the front door. My travel agent sister had a shit fit. I didn't care once I saw the room. By this time my sister was full-blown sick with a cold/flu thingy that kept her from having as much fun as she should've. I had brought some old-fashioned sudafed with me, and that was the only thing that kept her functioning on any level whatsoever.
The Salad Trouble that plagued me in London was evident in Amsterdam, too. All I wanted was green leafy foodstuff, and I couldn't find it for the life of me. Until I stumbled upon the Hard Rock Cafe in my wanderings. I hate places like that, but I knew they'd have a fucking salad.
Meet my so-so salad, delicious bottled water and fantastic Long Island Ice Tea:
I don't know what the deal is with this cool skull arch, but it's cool. So I took a photo of it.
This apartment window was funny. Bogart and gnomes. The Bogart was great enough...
...but it got better when one noticed the gnome-like critters:
I didn't drink in here...in fact, I didn't hang out in a single Amsterdam pub. But hey! I had to document its existence for obvious reasons:
Going from London to Amsterdam broke my brain.
After having been in the UK for almost a week, my sister and I flew to Amsterdam. We flew on KLM, which takes a much more relaxed attitude about boarding the plane, listening to the safety instructions, and checking to see if one has turned off their cell phones or mp3 players or not. I had to give up my precious skates to checkin, as the flight was full, but they were very nice about it and I wasn't charged to check in the bag. Win? Their snacks sucked, but they had Coke with real sugar, and it was DELICIOUS. Fuck you, US Coke. Corn syrup is rancid.
Anyway, my brain broke as soon as we got off the plane and saw that all the signs in the airport were in Dutch. Now, everyone in Amsterdam pretty much speaks English, but for some reason I expected more of the signage to also be in English. Nope. Maybe it was the sugar from the Coke, but I just about freaked out.
My sister and I had to take a deep breath, get a coffee, and figure out how to get from the airport to Centraal Station via the train. It took us about seven tries with the automated ticket machines to figure it out, but figure it out we did!
As with London, I walked everywhere and got lost every day. The tram stops don't have the handy street maps that the London bus stops do, so I had to attempt to not look too much like a tourist as I pulled out my map every two blocks to figure out where the hell I was. I was more worried about looking like a tourist here than in London because I was told that pickpockets will swarm upon any tourist who made themselves obvious and pick them clean of any useful belongings. No one bothered me at all.
Speaking of obvious:
That photo is SO Amsterdam to me. Very pretty architecture-wise, lots of old stuff to look at, yet there was a messiness to the place that's an interesting antidote to the prettiness.
This is the church across the street and canal from our hotel:
Here is the hotel we stayed in:
I should post the pix I took of our hotel room. It was RIDICULOUSLY nice. I was feeling all swank and stuff. The big drawback to the place was that the city had torn up the street right outside the hotel. So when we were dropped off by the taxi, we had to hike down the block through dirt and scattered cobblestones to get to the front door. My travel agent sister had a shit fit. I didn't care once I saw the room. By this time my sister was full-blown sick with a cold/flu thingy that kept her from having as much fun as she should've. I had brought some old-fashioned sudafed with me, and that was the only thing that kept her functioning on any level whatsoever.
The Salad Trouble that plagued me in London was evident in Amsterdam, too. All I wanted was green leafy foodstuff, and I couldn't find it for the life of me. Until I stumbled upon the Hard Rock Cafe in my wanderings. I hate places like that, but I knew they'd have a fucking salad.
Meet my so-so salad, delicious bottled water and fantastic Long Island Ice Tea:
I don't know what the deal is with this cool skull arch, but it's cool. So I took a photo of it.
This apartment window was funny. Bogart and gnomes. The Bogart was great enough...
...but it got better when one noticed the gnome-like critters:
I didn't drink in here...in fact, I didn't hang out in a single Amsterdam pub. But hey! I had to document its existence for obvious reasons:
Friday, March 04, 2011
The Best Thing about Camp This Year.
March RADness is in full swing this weekend. It's pretty damn fun. I'm getting to take more classes this year, which rocks my world. Especially when those classes are led by skaters such as Deranged, Psycho Babble, Carmen Getsome, OMG WTF and Bonnie Thunders. We even have Pitchit from AZ out to teach stuff.
But the most fun part is this year's in-joke. It started yesterday at lunch. Some of the trainers are eating Italian food in the room where the trainers are designated to put their stuff. Lace N' Arsenic, Deranged, Psycho Babble, Carmen Getsome, Skatum O'Neal, Chargin' Tina, Cherrylicious, Isabelle Ringer and myself are amongst the ones stuffing our faces. Lace sees Chargy munching on a piece of pizza-ish bread and asks, Is that ice cream? No. Chargy replied. We then ALL sigh and wish we had ice cream. I said, If one of the visiting trainers wanted ice cream, Demolicious would TOTALLY go out and get it. And it was quickly decided that Bonnie "I don't have an ounce of body fat on me" Thunders would DEMAND ice cream or else she'd walk out on camp.
Now, you have to know a little more about Ms. Thunders to realize how totally absurd this is. She's awesome in the best way possible. She is a great trainer, a dedicated athlete, and is very nice, though a bit aloof. She's a vegetarian and doesn't eat junk food. People are in awe of her...it's really funny to watch. But from what I've seen she's very down to earth.
She wasn't in the room while all this silliness took place. Demolicious comes by and asks if we need anything. We tell her that Bonnie Thunders DEMANDS ice cream sandwiches. Neopolitan flavor. With the strawberry part cut out. She laughed and says, REALLY? We say, OH YES. She laughs again and leaves the room.
An hour later she comes back with a box of ice cream sandwiches. WE DIE LAUGHING.
The joke of course has expanded to the point where Bonnie Thunders is "demanding" endless cans of regular Coke, a mini-horse who hates children, a gravel pit to play in and a swimming pool on the roof of the Doll Factory. We crack ourselves up.
During one of the afternoon breaks I came into the trainer room and see Bonnie and OMG WTF sitting next to their gear. I ask if she enjoyed the ice cream sandwiches. She laughed, but apparently hadn't been let in on the entire joke. She wasn't told until dinnertime, when more jokes about her "demands" surfaced, and she had been dismayed that anyone would think she's being a diva. Once she was told that the joke wasn't on her, she joined in.
Being easily amused has its advantages!
But the most fun part is this year's in-joke. It started yesterday at lunch. Some of the trainers are eating Italian food in the room where the trainers are designated to put their stuff. Lace N' Arsenic, Deranged, Psycho Babble, Carmen Getsome, Skatum O'Neal, Chargin' Tina, Cherrylicious, Isabelle Ringer and myself are amongst the ones stuffing our faces. Lace sees Chargy munching on a piece of pizza-ish bread and asks, Is that ice cream? No. Chargy replied. We then ALL sigh and wish we had ice cream. I said, If one of the visiting trainers wanted ice cream, Demolicious would TOTALLY go out and get it. And it was quickly decided that Bonnie "I don't have an ounce of body fat on me" Thunders would DEMAND ice cream or else she'd walk out on camp.
Now, you have to know a little more about Ms. Thunders to realize how totally absurd this is. She's awesome in the best way possible. She is a great trainer, a dedicated athlete, and is very nice, though a bit aloof. She's a vegetarian and doesn't eat junk food. People are in awe of her...it's really funny to watch. But from what I've seen she's very down to earth.
She wasn't in the room while all this silliness took place. Demolicious comes by and asks if we need anything. We tell her that Bonnie Thunders DEMANDS ice cream sandwiches. Neopolitan flavor. With the strawberry part cut out. She laughed and says, REALLY? We say, OH YES. She laughs again and leaves the room.
An hour later she comes back with a box of ice cream sandwiches. WE DIE LAUGHING.
The joke of course has expanded to the point where Bonnie Thunders is "demanding" endless cans of regular Coke, a mini-horse who hates children, a gravel pit to play in and a swimming pool on the roof of the Doll Factory. We crack ourselves up.
During one of the afternoon breaks I came into the trainer room and see Bonnie and OMG WTF sitting next to their gear. I ask if she enjoyed the ice cream sandwiches. She laughed, but apparently hadn't been let in on the entire joke. She wasn't told until dinnertime, when more jokes about her "demands" surfaced, and she had been dismayed that anyone would think she's being a diva. Once she was told that the joke wasn't on her, she joined in.
Being easily amused has its advantages!
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Cat's Out of the Bag...I mean, Hoodie
Back in November I was talking to Wanton Rebellion from Scarred Derby Designs while we were in Chicago for WFTDA Nationalships. We were joking about the Pivotstar contest to name their armless hoodie...you know, the contest I lost. She said, You should have your own hoodie anyway! I concurred.
About a month later she emails me asking if I was still interested in doing said hoodie. OF COURSE! I reply.
Then I got caught up in the new derby season and hating my life and going to Europe and rediscovering my reason for living. Wanton reminded me that she needed the design in time to start selling the hoodies at Wild West Showdown in Bremerton, Washington this weekend.
So I started to sweat, busted out a design, and hoped for the best.
Today she sent me this photo:
If you're going to Wild West Showdown, you can get a hoodie there. Or you can go here and ask them nicely how to order one.
Did I say GIGGITY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! already?!
About a month later she emails me asking if I was still interested in doing said hoodie. OF COURSE! I reply.
Then I got caught up in the new derby season and hating my life and going to Europe and rediscovering my reason for living. Wanton reminded me that she needed the design in time to start selling the hoodies at Wild West Showdown in Bremerton, Washington this weekend.
So I started to sweat, busted out a design, and hoped for the best.
Today she sent me this photo:
GIGGITY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
If you're going to Wild West Showdown, you can get a hoodie there. Or you can go here and ask them nicely how to order one.
Did I say GIGGITY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! already?!
Stumped
Sunday afternoon I was stumped.
I had to lead Fresh Meat practice in, "Jamming, Blocking, Light Scrimmaging".
Which should be a cinch, since "blocking" is right in there. But in reality, I was stumped on what to do. Why?
Because the previous night New York's Gotham Girls came and played against LA, and it was AMAZING to watch. Mainly for badass Gotham jammer Bonnie Thunders.
The girl's got smarts and footwork like nobody's business. The rest of the team follow suit; they're a team of long and lean athletes that know their stuff. I believe the only reason they lost to LA was because they didn't keep tighter packs. You can't go one-on-one as well on the bank against a fast-moving jammer.
Anyway, after seeing Bonnie skate, my mind became overloaded with awesomeness. How the hell am I going to teach our Freshies a damn thing about jamming when Bonnie's in town?!
I sat down to write up my lesson plan. And threw it away. Went back to a blank sheet of paper, started scribbling, and threw that away, too. I swear I threw away four to five lesson plans when I usually don't go beyond numero two-o. I had looked at drills, plans, and other training stuff online and that hadn't helped either.
I just couldn't get beyond not feeling worthy enough to do the job effectively.
I finally wrote up something that was semi-suitable and trundled off to wRECk League.
Which turned out to be the best way to use the cntrl + alt + delete on my brain to restart it.
I didn't play particularly well at wL, but there were a few skaters from a league in San Diego that have flat track experience but have never been on the bank. And that's where I was able to draw my lesson plan from.
After scrimmaging I took advantage of the hour of downtime between wL and Fresh Meat practice and quickly wrote up my lesson plan in about five minutes. BOOM. Finally done.
And FM practice ended up being awesome.
It's not that I came up with anything mind-blowing, but I came up with a series of drills that built up to the results that I wanted to see. Which I try to do at every practice, but somehow it worked particularly well for this one.
Which made me happy, as I saw some vital improvement in so many of the skaters! I hope that they take what all the trainers are giving them and putting it all to good use!
When it comes to other league stuff, especially politics, I'm really beginning to take this attitude:
Thank you, Xena.
I had to lead Fresh Meat practice in, "Jamming, Blocking, Light Scrimmaging".
Which should be a cinch, since "blocking" is right in there. But in reality, I was stumped on what to do. Why?
Because the previous night New York's Gotham Girls came and played against LA, and it was AMAZING to watch. Mainly for badass Gotham jammer Bonnie Thunders.
The girl's got smarts and footwork like nobody's business. The rest of the team follow suit; they're a team of long and lean athletes that know their stuff. I believe the only reason they lost to LA was because they didn't keep tighter packs. You can't go one-on-one as well on the bank against a fast-moving jammer.
Anyway, after seeing Bonnie skate, my mind became overloaded with awesomeness. How the hell am I going to teach our Freshies a damn thing about jamming when Bonnie's in town?!
I sat down to write up my lesson plan. And threw it away. Went back to a blank sheet of paper, started scribbling, and threw that away, too. I swear I threw away four to five lesson plans when I usually don't go beyond numero two-o. I had looked at drills, plans, and other training stuff online and that hadn't helped either.
I just couldn't get beyond not feeling worthy enough to do the job effectively.
I finally wrote up something that was semi-suitable and trundled off to wRECk League.
Which turned out to be the best way to use the cntrl + alt + delete on my brain to restart it.
I didn't play particularly well at wL, but there were a few skaters from a league in San Diego that have flat track experience but have never been on the bank. And that's where I was able to draw my lesson plan from.
After scrimmaging I took advantage of the hour of downtime between wL and Fresh Meat practice and quickly wrote up my lesson plan in about five minutes. BOOM. Finally done.
And FM practice ended up being awesome.
It's not that I came up with anything mind-blowing, but I came up with a series of drills that built up to the results that I wanted to see. Which I try to do at every practice, but somehow it worked particularly well for this one.
Which made me happy, as I saw some vital improvement in so many of the skaters! I hope that they take what all the trainers are giving them and putting it all to good use!
When it comes to other league stuff, especially politics, I'm really beginning to take this attitude:
Thank you, Xena.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Further Adventures in Nottingham
Things I unexpectedly got to do while in the UK:
--Take a train from London to Nottingham. When I was asked to train the Hellfire Harlots, I didn't really think about it. Former London Rollergirl el Visious brought it up, I quickly said yes without thought as to the whats and wheres of Nottingham, or even looking up the Harlots on the web, and away we went. I got to figure out how to get myself from my hotel to the correct train station, buy the right ticket at the right time(failed to do that as well as I could've, actually), and get on a train for a quick hour-and-a-half ride north.
--At one of the stops along the way, I got to see my first closeup view of a nuclear power plant!
I don't know how many nuclear power plants are still operating in the US. I only know of one in California. So to see one CLOSE UP RIGHT OUTSIDE THE TRAIN WINDOW was kinda cool...and a little scary since us 'Mericans are freaked out about nuclear power.
--A cool old train station. The station in Nottingham is small, full of pigeons, and cold. BUT, it was built a long time ago, so it's automatically neato in my book. While I was waiting for el to pick me up( I ended up being an hour early, and unfortunately couldn't get the little laptop computer with me to work to let el know that I was sitting at the station), I sat and watched a constant stream of interesting-looking people wander through. And the pigeons inside? Those little feathered bastards knew how to forage for themselves very efficiently. I'm sure they would've pecked my shoes to bits if I'd gotten in their way of the fallen croissant bits that were their main dietary source.
--I got to be a passenger in a car on the freeway. You wouldn't think this would be exciting, but it was kinda cool. Remember, I'm easily amused.
--I got to stay in a British home. Namely this one:
Tara and Neil were foolis--uh, nice enough to let me stay with them. I don't know if they knew what they were getting into when they agreed to this plan. Funny thing: they had the roller derby art book that I'm in, and apparently were looking through it prior to my visit and found my artwork. Ohhhhhhh! they said in realization of what they were signed up for. And figured out it was too late to fake their deaths or something. MWAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHA. They treated me very well, and even made me breakfast! NOM NOM NOM. I would totally stay at their house again if I found myself in the area!
--Bearing witness to the Castle vs. Stately Home debate. Nottingham is where Robin Hood was from. I didn't realize this when I first agreed to go up there. I know, I know...DERP. So when I was being shuttled about to and fro, el said to Tara and Neil, We have to show Tara Armov Nottingham Castle! to which Neil replied, It's not a castle, it's a Stately Home. el said, It looks like a Castle. Neil replied, It's still a Stately Home. And much discussion ensued as to whether Nottingham Castle is actually a castle or a stately home. And yes, the way Neil said it, Stately Home is capitalized.
So here we have the front of Nottingham Castle. It certainly looks like a castle from this angle:
Buuuuuuuut, what's that behind the facade in this shot? Looks like a Stately Home. Hmmmmmmmm.
Either way, I got my photo taken in front of the Robin Hood statue:
--As an added bonus, I got to see a real honest-to-goodness Tudor house. Yeah, a REAL Tudor house!
Conveniently located right across the street from Nottingham Castle/Stately Home.
This side adventure was great! I got to see things I never would've seen, meet people I wouldn't have met otherwise, and had a damn good breakfast to boot. AND I GOT TO SEE A CASTL--ERRR, STATELY HOME. Or something.
--Take a train from London to Nottingham. When I was asked to train the Hellfire Harlots, I didn't really think about it. Former London Rollergirl el Visious brought it up, I quickly said yes without thought as to the whats and wheres of Nottingham, or even looking up the Harlots on the web, and away we went. I got to figure out how to get myself from my hotel to the correct train station, buy the right ticket at the right time(failed to do that as well as I could've, actually), and get on a train for a quick hour-and-a-half ride north.
--At one of the stops along the way, I got to see my first closeup view of a nuclear power plant!
I don't know how many nuclear power plants are still operating in the US. I only know of one in California. So to see one CLOSE UP RIGHT OUTSIDE THE TRAIN WINDOW was kinda cool...and a little scary since us 'Mericans are freaked out about nuclear power.
--A cool old train station. The station in Nottingham is small, full of pigeons, and cold. BUT, it was built a long time ago, so it's automatically neato in my book. While I was waiting for el to pick me up( I ended up being an hour early, and unfortunately couldn't get the little laptop computer with me to work to let el know that I was sitting at the station), I sat and watched a constant stream of interesting-looking people wander through. And the pigeons inside? Those little feathered bastards knew how to forage for themselves very efficiently. I'm sure they would've pecked my shoes to bits if I'd gotten in their way of the fallen croissant bits that were their main dietary source.
--I got to be a passenger in a car on the freeway. You wouldn't think this would be exciting, but it was kinda cool. Remember, I'm easily amused.
--I got to stay in a British home. Namely this one:
Tara and Neil were foolis--uh, nice enough to let me stay with them. I don't know if they knew what they were getting into when they agreed to this plan. Funny thing: they had the roller derby art book that I'm in, and apparently were looking through it prior to my visit and found my artwork. Ohhhhhhh! they said in realization of what they were signed up for. And figured out it was too late to fake their deaths or something. MWAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHA. They treated me very well, and even made me breakfast! NOM NOM NOM. I would totally stay at their house again if I found myself in the area!
--Bearing witness to the Castle vs. Stately Home debate. Nottingham is where Robin Hood was from. I didn't realize this when I first agreed to go up there. I know, I know...DERP. So when I was being shuttled about to and fro, el said to Tara and Neil, We have to show Tara Armov Nottingham Castle! to which Neil replied, It's not a castle, it's a Stately Home. el said, It looks like a Castle. Neil replied, It's still a Stately Home. And much discussion ensued as to whether Nottingham Castle is actually a castle or a stately home. And yes, the way Neil said it, Stately Home is capitalized.
So here we have the front of Nottingham Castle. It certainly looks like a castle from this angle:
Buuuuuuuut, what's that behind the facade in this shot? Looks like a Stately Home. Hmmmmmmmm.
Either way, I got my photo taken in front of the Robin Hood statue:
--As an added bonus, I got to see a real honest-to-goodness Tudor house. Yeah, a REAL Tudor house!
Conveniently located right across the street from Nottingham Castle/Stately Home.
This side adventure was great! I got to see things I never would've seen, meet people I wouldn't have met otherwise, and had a damn good breakfast to boot. AND I GOT TO SEE A CASTL--ERRR, STATELY HOME. Or something.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Fighting
I'm fighting a cold/flu thingy right now. Everyone I know has been sick the past three weeks, and I've been dodging sick bullets the whole time.
Last night I bought raw garlic and ate ten cloves with some olive oil and bread. My stomach is paying for it this morning and I COMPLETELY reek of garlic, but I don't feel any worse sick-wise. So that's a good thing, I guess?
In between noshing on garlic, swabbing my nose with zinc, and slugging down enough vitamin C-enriched juice to keep the Florida orange industry in the black, I adapted my flier design for LA's March RADness training camp into a shirt:
Hopefully it'll turn out well and the happy campers will be happy.
Last night I bought raw garlic and ate ten cloves with some olive oil and bread. My stomach is paying for it this morning and I COMPLETELY reek of garlic, but I don't feel any worse sick-wise. So that's a good thing, I guess?
In between noshing on garlic, swabbing my nose with zinc, and slugging down enough vitamin C-enriched juice to keep the Florida orange industry in the black, I adapted my flier design for LA's March RADness training camp into a shirt:
Hopefully it'll turn out well and the happy campers will be happy.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
UK Derby
And now, back to adventures in Europe...
UK derby. How different is it from US derby?
The rules are the same. The floors they seem to generally skate on is a typical wood-covered-with-polyurethane found in many a gym and recreational center that feels thick but not slippery. The terminology? A little different, but probably not any more different than what one finds in the US. The skaters mainly dress the same. The refs are pretty much the same; they're made up of fans and spouses/bf's/others of the skaters.
I mentioned that before, I know. But it's the glaring difference between the US and UK in terms of derby.
Both in London and Nottingham I was by far the loudest skater there. Some would say, Well NO DUH, Armov. But really? I'm kinda surprised. I guess I was influenced by stories of soccer hooliganism and thought that maybe some of the superfan behaviors that would happen during soccer matches would also happen to a much less-violent-but-still-vocal extent.
When I went up to Nottingham, I got to see a men's derby match. Which of course was fun. But I started my usual pattern of heckling quickly when one of the teams obviously had less going on in the strategy area than the other. I find a lack of strategy BORRRRRRRRING. And I said so. Repeatedly.
What I didn't expect was the reaction. Of course this is the UK, so no one said anything to me as I continued to "coach" from the sidelines(I yelled repeatedly to the losing team: HEY! SEE THAT GUY WITH THE STAR ON HIS HELMET? HIT HIM! ONLY HIM! NO ONE ELSE MATTERS! They didn't take my advice), but I could feel the stares and wonderment at my continued minor-league assholiness.
One group of visiting skaters started semi-organized cheers. In response to me? Doubt it. But I'd like to think that I had some sort of influence on them. Even if it was bad.
When I scrimmaged with both London and Nottingham, no one in the pack said anything during jams, either. That was WEIRD. I talked. A lot. Saying where the jammers were, telling my pack to speed up, slow down, inside, outside, etc. What method of communication do these skaters use if they don't talk?! I don't mean to be an asshole with that question, I'm honestly puzzled, because I didn't see anyone use hand signals or anything.
MAYBE THEY'RE ALL PSYCHIC. Which will make the upcoming Derby World Cup very interesting for the US team!
Another random observation: I noticed that the skaters didn't call each other by their skate names as consistently as US skaters do. I knew more government names than skate names in Nottingham!
Speaking of names, I enjoyed the way my derby name was pronounced. Here in the US, "Tara" is pronounced "TAIR-uh". Hence the pun of my skate name. But in the UK it was pronounced "TAR-uh". Which loses something in the translation, though I have to admit hearing anything said in a non-US accent is pretty damned cool for me.
All of these photos were taken of Nottingham skaters the night before I trained them for three hours. They took me out to a pub that had THE BEST GODDAM BURGERS I've had in a long time. And then they bought me cider and I drew on them. I wonder if they would've been so nice if I had done the training and yelling first?!
Uhm, they would have.
UK derby. How different is it from US derby?
The rules are the same. The floors they seem to generally skate on is a typical wood-covered-with-polyurethane found in many a gym and recreational center that feels thick but not slippery. The terminology? A little different, but probably not any more different than what one finds in the US. The skaters mainly dress the same. The refs are pretty much the same; they're made up of fans and spouses/bf's/others of the skaters.
It's the volume, people.
I mentioned that before, I know. But it's the glaring difference between the US and UK in terms of derby.
Both in London and Nottingham I was by far the loudest skater there. Some would say, Well NO DUH, Armov. But really? I'm kinda surprised. I guess I was influenced by stories of soccer hooliganism and thought that maybe some of the superfan behaviors that would happen during soccer matches would also happen to a much less-violent-but-still-vocal extent.
When I went up to Nottingham, I got to see a men's derby match. Which of course was fun. But I started my usual pattern of heckling quickly when one of the teams obviously had less going on in the strategy area than the other. I find a lack of strategy BORRRRRRRRING. And I said so. Repeatedly.
What I didn't expect was the reaction. Of course this is the UK, so no one said anything to me as I continued to "coach" from the sidelines(I yelled repeatedly to the losing team: HEY! SEE THAT GUY WITH THE STAR ON HIS HELMET? HIT HIM! ONLY HIM! NO ONE ELSE MATTERS! They didn't take my advice), but I could feel the stares and wonderment at my continued minor-league assholiness.
One group of visiting skaters started semi-organized cheers. In response to me? Doubt it. But I'd like to think that I had some sort of influence on them. Even if it was bad.
When I scrimmaged with both London and Nottingham, no one in the pack said anything during jams, either. That was WEIRD. I talked. A lot. Saying where the jammers were, telling my pack to speed up, slow down, inside, outside, etc. What method of communication do these skaters use if they don't talk?! I don't mean to be an asshole with that question, I'm honestly puzzled, because I didn't see anyone use hand signals or anything.
MAYBE THEY'RE ALL PSYCHIC. Which will make the upcoming Derby World Cup very interesting for the US team!
Another random observation: I noticed that the skaters didn't call each other by their skate names as consistently as US skaters do. I knew more government names than skate names in Nottingham!
Speaking of names, I enjoyed the way my derby name was pronounced. Here in the US, "Tara" is pronounced "TAIR-uh". Hence the pun of my skate name. But in the UK it was pronounced "TAR-uh". Which loses something in the translation, though I have to admit hearing anything said in a non-US accent is pretty damned cool for me.
All of these photos were taken of Nottingham skaters the night before I trained them for three hours. They took me out to a pub that had THE BEST GODDAM BURGERS I've had in a long time. And then they bought me cider and I drew on them. I wonder if they would've been so nice if I had done the training and yelling first?!
Uhm, they would have.
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