And I'm 38, I Can't Believe I've Got To Worry About This Kind Of Shit.

There were always going to be a lot of horrible things about the Propagandhi shows over the weekend, but the band was never going to be one of them. Now, because everyone should already be aware of the horrible, and because everyone should also be aware that these punk rock survivors put on one hell of a show, I'm instead going to provide a bunch of unexpected highlights from last night's show.

• Knowing that a whole bunch of people got in for free by drawing the stamp on their wrists with a sharpie.
• Seeing the majority of Melbourne's punk scene from 1997.
• Todd Kowalski (Spelling? Who knows?) rocking out, as per usual, but trying desperately to stop himself from singing along, his voice blown out by the recording process three months ago.
• Folks in the crowd chanting the intro to a new song, then being accused of stealing the new album by an amused Chris Hannah.
• Drunk morons in the crowd cheering wildly at a mention of Charles Darwin's birthday. I mean, I like Darwin too, but I'm not sure that the commemoration of his birth warrants a "Woo-Hoo!"
• Chris again thanking the crowd for coming to see a bunch of 38 year old men dressed like 14 year olds.
• More banter from the band in general. Not too much the previous night.
• Looking over to my right and seeing a bunch of douchebag goons trying to start a circle pit, then looking over to my left and seeing a couple with their eyes closed, embracing each other, quietly intimate.
• The sweet Submission Hold patch Tara gave me after the show.
• Riding home through the quiet city, ears ringing, Purina Hall of Fame stuck in my head.

Your Dream Is That Gun In Your Hand.

You know what I remembered the other day? I was reading the paper, scanning through the twenty pages of obituaries, trying not to cry into my weetbix for the fifth day in a row, looking at all the photos of destruction and suffering and pain. It's not every week we're confronted with such terror. And then I remembered Gaza.

And then, a couple of pages further on, I discover that Benjamin Netanyahu is about to take power in Israel. A man who refuses to consider a two-state solution in Palestine. A man who has never even claimed to be interested in peace in the middle east.

The fires in the Yarra Ranges have flared up again this morning. The roads I used to ride two or three times a week now wind through scenes of devastation rarely seen in this country. Disparate communities are pulling together - punks are organising benefit shows, couriers organising benefit alleycats, everyone passing the hat around, donating their blood and emptying their wallets.

It seems, however, that we only react this way to fleeting natural disasters. When the destruction is caused by humans, when it is deliberate and systematic and continual, we shake our heads and keep our hands in our pockets. According to Human Rights Watch:

"The fighting in Gaza from December 27, when Israel began its military operation, until Israel and Hamas unilaterally declared ceasefires on January 18, left some 1,300 Palestinians dead and more than 5,000 wounded, 40 percent of them children and women. In addition, the casualties included an undetermined number of male civilians not taking part in hostilities. "

Perhaps - and this is an idea so crazy it might just work - when all the pictures of that koala have faded from our collective memories we could continue to be generous. We could continue to work together to ease suffering, by donating our money, our time, and even our blood.

As Easy As.

I am about to go watch Tara's new band play at Tom's house. Tara doesn't really want me to come see her band play because she thinks there's a chance I'll say nasty shit about them here. But really, let's face it, I'm incredibly biased when it comes to the people I hold dear - as long as they're throwing themselves into it with reckless abandon and having a shiteload of fun while they're doing it, they're going to get a decent writeup here.

Come to think of it, any band who throws themselves into the creation and performance of music with reckless abandon and looks like they're having a shiteload of fun while they're doing it is going to win my hard-earned praise. I don't need much else.

Though starting on time and playing a short set also doesn't hurt.

Ain't Nobody Sing Like Me.

At Brunswick Cycling Club - like most cycling clubs, I suspect - there's an old bloke who has been around forever and who knows more about cycling than I ever will. His name is Alf. He's seen me, over the past six months or so, go from an E grade rookie who can barely be trusted to ride in a straight line to a B grade rookie who can barely be trusted to ride in a straight line. Needless to say, his opinion means quite a bit. So I was kinda taken aback on Tuesday night when he started giving me shit about not placing. "Seems the run of Brendan Bailey is over! You let yourself get boxed in," he said. It didn't seem to matter to him that I'd spent the week previous riding from Sydney to Melbourne, or even that I'd won the points race immediately previous."What's that they say? Use your head for cycling and your feet for dancing," he continued.

Nath, who has been around the club a good deal longer than me, later explained to me that this kinda critique from Alf is a good thing. "It means he's watching you, taking an interest in how you're going."

I thought about this a lot at Ryan Adams last night, mostly because I'd publicly bitched and moaned about going, but was secretly pretty keen on seeing him. And you know what? Despite an opening band of truly horrendous proportions (a song about Kylie Minogue's ass was a particular low point), I had a really good time at that show. I've talked before about how much I like classic rock, and let's face it, despite pretensions to Alt-Country, any Cardinals song would fit nicely into a Gold 104 playlist - especially their cover of Wonderwall. And the fact that they started their set at 9pm and were done by 10.30 didn't hurt either - my alarm was due to go off at 6.30, after all.

St You.

I have, contrary to popular belief, returned in one piece, in full possession of all the faculties I had when I departed. When people ask me how the ride went I find it difficult to sum up in one word, but 'alright' seems to be doing the trick for now. When people ask me how my ass was feeling on day 5 and 6, however, they get a significantly different answer. And perhaps a little too much detail.

The question I am facing today, however, relates to music - a welcome return for some readers. Tonight I'm going to go see Ryan Adams play. Word on the street has it that last time someone asked him to sing a Brian Adams song, he took his bat and ball and went home. I can't help but wonder, if the show sucks, how I will find the moral integrity to stop myself from requesting Summer of 69.

Oh, Sinnerman.

I don't like leaving Melbourne at the best of times, but on Saturday I'll be flying up to Sydney, staying for a couple of nights. On Monday morning a bunch of raggedy-assed courier types, fixie kids, McNabb and I will be gathering together at Cheeky Monkey in Newtown, then beginning to ride back to Melbourne along the coast. We're hoping to be back on the 25th, which averages out to about 180 kilometres a day. As much as I'd like to blog continuously throughout the trip, I get the distinct impression that I'll simply be too buggered to do so. But Sarah will be taking photos, and I'll post some of them up here, just to let you share the pain.

Everybody Want To Be An MC.

I was talking with Nath the other day about a cycling event he was putting on. He was mostly doing the promo through a particular website frequented by fixed-gear aficionados and other assorted hipster-biking types. His event was to take place at the Brunswick Velodrome, and he didn't expect a great turn-out. "This has been the problem with the website from the start," he said. "Events that involve riding never do all that well, whereas events like the swap meet, which are about making your bike look cool, are always really well attended." It just so happened that I'd been thinking about this issue a lot - mostly when people give me shit about wearing lycra. "That's because they're into bikes, not cycling." I said. And I feel like these days, when bikes themselves are treated as fashion items or objets d'art, it's a distinction that is growing in importance.

Strangely for me, I don't think either one deserves any heirarchical ascendency over the other, just so long as people are clear about where they stand. If you're into bikes, and having a sweet looking bike that is only ever ridden to Atomica and back, that's just dandy. And if you're into cycling and punish yourself on the hills every weekend, well that's great too. Sure, the two can be combined occasionally, but ultimately when it comes to choosing between form and function, then you gotta figure out which side you're on. This doesn't mean, however, that you get to look down your nose at those who have taken the opposite path. You're not any better than them because you smashed Donna Buang in 1'07", or if you have a set of sweet old school Shamals. You're just doing something different. And that's ok.

Hell, maybe it's even possible to go one step further than this. Maybe we should encourage one another. When people are into something, really passionate about it, then we should be stoked for them, right? You know, unless it's heroin.

Chosen Strong.

As I think I've written previously, when I'm out biking I listen to my ipod on random. This always makes for interesting listening. Interspersed amongst the usual punk and hip hop classics there are French lessons, obscure bebop outtakes and hour long noise soundscapes. It also often throws up records I'd forgotten I own. Such was the case yesterday, when a song came on that was rocky and punky like Hot Snakes, but a bit rougher and more melodic. I couldn't figure it out for a while, before I eventually remembered that it was a song from the Grenadiers demo that Jesse gave me last time they were out. The songwriting and structure is surprisingly mature, given they're still quite young, but I guess when you've been around the Adelaide scene for so long then you get old quick. Myspace tells me that they've recorded a new album. Here's hoping we get to see it soon.

Determination.

2008: The Year In Review.

It didn't totally suck.

Love Brendan.

I Am The Rain, I Am The New Year. I Am The Sun.

Last New Year's Eve it was hot, damned hot. A bunch of us bummed around the house for a bit, then when it had cooled down enough jumped on our bikes and went from party to party until we found ourselves, at around 4am, at the annual gathering in the park next to Fitzroy Pool. I felt pretty good about going home at that point.

This year it ain't so hot. We're going to be riding our bikes around again, with a few ideas about possible destinations. There may be fireworks at some point, but I doubt I'll make it til 4am. What with Public Enemy playing at the Espy on New Year's Day, and a ride to Mt Donna Buang looming on the second day of the new year, the significance of tonight is fading fast. But even when everything else seems more important, we must remember this: tonight will be our last chance in a thousand years to wear those glasses with the two zeros in the middle. Bring on 2009.

Not Growing Up

This came a few days ago from the bikesnob:

"One of my favorite things about cycling is that it can reward suffering with joy. Another thing I love about it is that it often rejects those who don't understand this. Cycling teaches you that there's such a thing as necessary suffering and such a thing as unnecessary suffering, and that sometimes a short cut is a dead end. I'm sorry the hardships Mackey encountered while cycling and blogging made him "feel awful about the world." If he'd looked at them differently, they would have made him love it."

The Universe Is Shaped Exactly Like The Earth.

The most beautiful song about abortion ever:

My Time Is Up.

Last year, for pretty much the whole year, I woke up with the Constantines song Lizavetta in my head. This year it's the Constantines again, but these mornings I'm all about Million Star Hotel. Though they're a fucking great live band, this video doesn't really do the song justice - on record that riff is bludgeoning, sharp and heavy like a cleaver. I've tried, repeatedly, to convert people to the Cons, with limited to no success, and I have no idea why.

Are You Holding On?

Apparently riding your bike doesn't always have to be about pain, suffering and going really really fast. Picture used entirely without permission. Sorry Genevieve.

Soldiers.

I was talking to this American cyclist the other day at DISC. She had been here for the track world cup, and was sticking around for a bit in order to prepare for the next round in Beijing. It's perhaps needless to say that she knew what she was talking about. I listened hard (you know, playing cool at the same time). We bantered a bit, she gave me good advice for my next races and I asked her about training. "It was so tough today," she said, "I spent most of the day in the pain box." I'd never heard this expression before, so rolled with it, making jokes about the only pain box I know being when Home and Away comes on the TV. And then she dropped something into the conversation that, despite a good three years of serious athletic training, any number of stupid hill rides and a human art gallery of bodgy tattoos, never really occurred to me before. "That's really the main difference between a good athlete and a great athlete," she explained. "The great athlete knows how to cope when they're in the pain box."

Let me tell you, I totally slaughtered people on the commute home tonight, thinking about the pain box.