BRIAN LIBBY

Understanding Spandex

When I first started posting blog entries a couple years ago, there were a lot of rants. I indulged the chance to declare many longtime pet peeves: turn signal misuse, men who wear shorts in wintertime, Dodge’s over-marketing of its “Hemi” engine, deliberately shaved and penciled-in eyebrows, slow drivers in the left lane, leaf blowers. But ultimately I came to believe that ranting alone does not comprise an interesting enough post. So now the bar is higher, with a little introspection a necessary accompaniment to the bitching.

Which brings me to spandex bicycling clothes.

The other day I was driving downtown during morning rush hour. On the Hawthorne Bridge ramp alone I must have seen thirty people on bicycles. I assume a majority were on their way to work, but they were almost universally outfitted in that familiar but-hugging, advertisement-festooned spandex we’ve come to associate with serious cyclists.

Last night I started telling Valarie that I’d never be caught dead in that kind of outfit. I can understand wanting to not get your work clothes all sweaty and therefore having an exercise outfit of some sort. But I’m always shocked that so many people take the step of actually wearing spandex. Am I the only one who doesn’t feel comfortable being shrinkwrapped? I mean, unless you’re Lance Armstrong, to me it looks kind of silly.

To this Valarie replied with an obvious explanation but one I hadn’t sufficiently considered, that these outfits are all about performance. It’s not that cyclists collectively decided spandex was the fashion statement they wanted to make per se. It’s that when riding, the more aerodynamic you can make yourself, the easier your ride will be.

What this all tells me is that I must be vain. There’s no doubt that I would rather be burdened by an inferior wind coefficient due to instisting on clothes that don’t make me feel silly than to ride scores of miles, however more aerodynamic, clad in the same material they use for leotards and tutus (not to mention many a headbanging rocker's costume).

Nevertheless, I must confess that fashion is largely about the context of what culture, sub culture or pursuit (such as cycling) you happen to be associated with. I suppose the cyclists with the Discovery Channel logo hugging their asses don’t think they look silly at all. They probably believe that, besides choosing their clothing based on performance considerations, the message world from cyling gear is that its wearers are devoted to what they're doing. And they're above all that prudery about revealing the body, just as female tennis players long ago stopped wearing skirts that go all the way to the ground.

Ironically, however much I may sound touchy about clothes that hug the body, aside from my spandex bycyclist rant I actually think most men dress way too baggy. (Ever heard of tapering, fellas? That shirt needn't look like a gunny sack.) But that’s another conversation.

The point is that I have to acknowledge my take on cycling attire isn’t an indestructible argument. Spandex apparently has its place beyond the Tour de France, even if it looks like you had to jump off a building to get into it. Not everybody is as much of a couch potato as me, content in sweats and tee-shirt on those rare occasions working out; for many, exercise is a passionate, even spiritual pursuit. And these people are admittedly a lot healthier than yours truly.

I rant, therefore I am? Nah, more like I rant, and therefore I reveal – perhaps even more than the cyclists.

Who Is This Taco, andWhat About His 50 Cents?

Today I committed an act of vandalism for the first time. Well, maybe not vandalism, but I did alter somebody else’s property without their permission. And it felt great.

I was walking past a local restaurant and bar when I saw a grease board outside that said “Taco’s 50 Cents”. Without much thinking, I slyly licked my finger and wiped away the apostrophe in order to correct the incorrect punctuation. At least I assume it was incorrect punctuation. After all, they could have meant that a particular taco is in possession of 50 cents. But I naturally assume the establishment meant to advertise that they were selling tacos at a cost of 50 cents each, in which case their sign was wrong.

Valarie and I have long daydreamed only half jokingly about establishing some kind of nonprofit organization called the Grammar Police, or something to that effect. Any time one of us saw a sign or other public notice with incorrect grammar, punctuation or spelling, we’d send a notice to the proprietor notifying them of the error and asking them to fix it. I don’t claim to be perfect when it comes to using the English language in verbal or written form, but I am continually astonished at how many errors there are on various signs. It might seem rather innocuous, but I think these error-laden texts are contributing to a culture of lazy ignorance. Today it feels all too permissible to punctuate or spell incorrectly on public signage.

I haven’t taken my vigilante English language fundamentalism to the next level yet, which would be going around in the middle of the night with a ladder to climb and correct the bigger signs out there. But don’t think I haven’t thought of it. And while I had no right to change that grease board today, I must say that I have not one iota of remorse for my crime.

Noble Words, Treacherous Intent

Ever since last November’s election, I’ve tried to pay as little attention to politics as possible. Sure, I read the paper every day to keep abreast of what’s going on, but I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I oppose the view of most people in power and I’ve got to live with that.

But a headline in today’s New York Times drew me out of dormancy: “Rice asks Arab allies to pursue liberty.” The article quoted Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice (I’ve never had to spell her name before – are there really two Zs?) saying the following:

“For 60 years, my country, the United States, pursued stability at the expense of democracy in this region here in the Middle East, and we achieved neither. Now we are taking a different course. We are supporting the democratic aspirations of all people.”

I used to think the problem with the Bush administration was its ties to religious fundamentalism or its related strain, Texanism. But now I’ve come to believe the greatest danger is how the president and his minions are drunk on the notion of promoting “liberty” and “freedom”, corrupting both principles as part of a smoke screen for imperialism.

Saudi Arabia and Egypt are not the best friends the US has ever had. In particular, Saudi Arabia is responsible for promoting institutionalized Islamic fundamentalism through its mosques and schools to the rest of the Arab world. But make no mistake: we’re very lucky to have these countries as allies. In both cases, those nation’s leaders are going against the overwhelming tide of domestic public opinion to maintain friendly diplomatic relations with America.

The Bush administration seems to be asserting that a more democratic Middle East will give a healthier, less violent outlet for those to express their frustration with the United States or their own countries. That may be true. But threatening or forcing some of our only allies in a hostile region to drastically transform their political systems is a dangerous approach. Bullying our few friends in a hostile area is not the way to make America safer from or less hated by the religious fundamentalists of the Middle East.

If George W. Bush really wants terrorism to go away, the United States ought to concern itself more with its own image in the region. People there overwhelmingly believe that America is an imperialist bully seeking to take over the entire Middle East, if not the world. When we threaten not only our enemies but also our friends with violent reprisal if they don’t kowtow to the political system we see fit for them, it’s only going to fan the already massive flames of hatred.

All throughout history, great empires have invaded and attacked foreign lands under the guise of liberating the people there. And to the overwhelming majority of the world’s people, words like “freedom” and “liberty” that America holds so sacred are really just inflated rhetoric camouflaging the inevitable bombs and rockets and gunfire.

I’m afraid that the Bush administration believes the only way to win the war on terror is to become an even greater threat to the world than the ones we face. And that’s something I want no part of.

Rachel Ray Before & After

Often on weekdays while I’m making dinner, I have the TV tuned to Food Network’s 30 Minute Meals, hosted by Rachel Ray. I’ve always liked cooking shows: there’s something about the simple instructional aspect that makes it feel educational, and having it on around dinner time makes me feel motivated to cook creatively. 30 Minute Meals isn't as entertaining as Iron Chef or full of odd facts like Good Eats, but its mission of encouraging healthy, flavorful, easy-to-make food every day is important in an obese society addicted to take-out.

When Martha Stewart went to jail last year, Food Network replaced the 6:30PM timeslot for From Martha’s Kitchen with a second episode of 30 Minute Meals. So now a new episode of Ray's show airs at 6:00, and an older rerun from a few years back immediately follows. As a result, viewers see the 2005 version of Rachel Ray at 6:00, and what I’m guessing is the 2002 or 2003 version of Rachel at 6:30.

You’d think I would enjoy a second helping of show I’ve always liked, but watching an old episode and a new one back-to-back has made for an odd revelation.

The earlier episodes 6:30 show Ray to be a normal-looking person who would fit right in at a PTA meeting: maybe a little too perky for some tastes, but refreshingly genuine. Compare that Rachel with the modern version at 6:00, however, and you realize that she’s been overzealously glammed-out.

Rachel’s everyday brown hair is now a giant mane with more highlights than an extended SportsCenter episode. (Highlights to me are today the biggest cliche in hair care.) She loudly throws her voice as if you’re in the next room, or there's no microphone a few feet away. Her makeup is caked on like Tammy Faye (well maybe not that much, but I’d still recommend buying stock in Loreal). And what was once an endearing array of cornball expressions (“Yuh-hum”, “get some of these guys goin’ on”) has been exaggeratedly turned up to eleven.

I don’t feel completely comfortable, as a male or as a viewer in general, micromanaging another person’s personal style. I don’t want to sound like some obsessive fan who mistakenly thinks he has the right to get personal about someone who in all likelihood is very nice. But I think the point is still worth making that TV professionals have a revolting tendency toward heavy-handedness when it comes to handling grooming for people on the air—especially women. I find local TV news virtually unwatchable, for example, not just because of the general lack of substance to the reporting, but especially because the on-air personalities are presented stylistically like upper-class suburban psychos drunk on too much hairspray with a perma-grin that's more Stanley Kubrick than June Cleaver.

Rachel Ray got on national television because of her culinary expertise and her passion for getting people to make cooking a greater part of their everyday lives. I respect her and 30 Minute Meals for that. But inevitably watching a particularl TV show on a regular basis you develop a familiarity with the host. And I find it a legitimate distraction when that host is glammed-out by the handlers. If this were food, it would be revoltingly over-seasoned. I say let Rachel be herself, a simple woman from rural upstate New York, not another Nordstrom-ensconced lemming whose perfume you can practically smell through the cable box.

The Sorrows and Joys of Rasheed Wallace

By the time Rasheed Wallace was traded to Atlanta midway through last season, he had more than worn out his welcome here. Wallace’s off-court behavior was often an embarrassment, from threatening a referee on the Rose Garden loading dock to being cited for marijuana possession.

And on-court he was often worse. Wallace twice set a league-record for technical fouls in a season. He infamously threw a towel at one of his teammates, Arvydas Sabonis. And despite being arguably as talented as any power forward in the NBA, countless times Wallace refused to lead his team at the ends of games by acting as the go-to scorer.

But watching Rasheed Wallace go to the NBA finals for a second straight year as a member of the Detroit Pistons, one has to admit that for all his downsides, he remains a very special player.

Wallace is a top-notch defender, and I would not be surprised one bit if he shuts down the Spurs’ Tim Duncan for large stretches of the Finals (he's done it before). He also has exceptional shooting range for a 6’10” player. Wallace routinely hits 3-point shots and his turn-around jumper from the baseline can be impossible to stop. And while Blazer fans know all too well that Wallace’s temper has gotten him into a lot of trouble over the years, it also means that he plays with a matchless competitive fire.

I’ve been fascinated by Wallace, both the player and the man, ever since he emerged as a star in college at North Carolina, where as a sophomore he and teammate Jerry Stackhouse led the Tar Heels to the 1994 Final Four. I was ecstatic when the Blazers traded for him from Washington. And while I was just as frustrated by his behavior as a lot of other Portlanders while Wallace wore red, white and black, seeing him succeed elsewhere is bittersweet. Beyond the on and off-court issues, Rasheed is also such a theatrical personality. In a movie he'd be described as "the good-looking rebel who plays by his own rules".

The scars of Wallace's years in Portland still need many more years to heal, but I hope there will come a day in the future when his time as a Blazer is remembered for the good as much as the bad. Wallace was the star of a Portland team that made it to the Western Conference Finals two years in a row, and he routinely stood toe to toe with the likes of Tim Duncan, Kevin Garnet, and any of the league’s best power forwards.

I don’t blame the Trail Blazers one bit for trading him last year. It was inevitable and desperately needed for both sides. But in the long run I think Wallace should rank with Bill Walton, Maurice Lucas, Clyde Drexler, Geoff Petrie, Jerome Kersey, and Terry Porter as one of the best to ever wear a Blazer uniform.

Saving the World, One Organic French Mini Loaf At a Time

I’ve developed a habit over the last several months of walking every couple of days to New Seasons for what’s called the Organic French Mini Loaf. It’s only $1.29 and it’s better than any bread I’ve ever bought in a plastic bag on the supermarket bread aisle.

As such, I've been on a bread-heavy diet lately: usually a slice of buttered toast for breakfast, often a sandwich for lunch, and almost always a couple of slices with dinner. I think low-carb dieting, by the way, is unconditional insanity. (Rice has been the centerpiece of Chinese and Japanese cooking for centuries. Ditto with pasta as the heart of Italian cooking, or potatoes and Ireland. None of those people are fat—just us Americans!)

Most people like to go grocery shopping as little as possible, and certainly Valarie and I are no exceptions. We’ve often rung up $200 grocery bills at Safeway because we put off the trip for several days. But with the arrival of a store, New Seasons on Southeast Division, that’s not only within walking distance but also has better, healthier food and is more inviting to be inside, I’m getting in the routine of going almost every day. Always having fresh-baked bread in the house that never has a chance to go stale is just one of the dividends.

Because my New Seasons excursions are on foot and not in the car, it doesn’t feel like a chore. It’s a pleasantly peaceful stroll through the neighborhood and a few quick minutes picking out items (I’ve never waited so little in line at any store). I’m happy to pay more, especially since it amounts to at least lifestyle change. I’m out of my car with less stress, more exercise, and cooking with fresher ingredients.

It’s just too bad that for the overwhelming majority of the population, that trip to the grocery store means entering traffic in your car, finding a parking space, and then being in a store the size of an airplane hangar where it takes forever just to load your cart. That’s not the kind of trip you want to make every day. But it’s those regular trips for fresh produce, meat and so on that have made all the world’s best cuisines what they are.

I think both Americans’ obesity and the related fact that our diets are based more on processed, prepackaged food can be directly linked to zoning. If more people lived in mixed-use areas, with apartments and homes always within a few blocks of a smaller, easier-to-negotiate grocery store, the ramifications would be felt for both individuals and society.

Which reminds me: I think I'll go have another piece of bread and butter. There's always more where that came from.

Elvis Costello and Early-Career Alchemy

I still remember the song that made me an Elvis Costello fan. It was 1991, and I was a sophomore at NYU. My friend Chad was really into the song “Beyond Belief” from the 1982 album Imperial Bedroom, especially its lyrics:

History repeats the old conceits
The glib replies, the same defeats
Keep your finger on important issues
With crocodile tears and a pocketful of tissues
I’m just the oily slick
On the wind-up world of the nervous tick
In a very fashionable hovel

During this initial phase of his career, Costello and his backing band/collaborators, The Attractions, toured and recorded albums at an astonishing pace. Imperial Bedroom was their sixth studio album in as many years. And while Costello has done excellent work throughout his career, this is unquestionably his most fruitful period. Along with Imperial Bedroom early albums like This Year’s Model, Armed Forces, and Get Happy are my favorites out of all the 17 Costello albums I own.

Many of these classic early albums were recorded during short breaks in Elvis & The Attractions’ touring schedule. And they’re arguably better than later albums for which Elvis had a much greater luxury of time to work on them. This is of course a common occurrence. How many bands can we all name whose best albums were recorded on the fly?

In the past I’d thought there was something about the finite amount of time that focused the artist and produced the quality album. But after reading Graeme Thompson’s book Complicated Shadows: The Life and Music of Elvis Costello, I was reminded of the relationship between touring and recording. Being on the road all those nights allowed Elvis and the band to continually play the new songs and tinker with them until they were truly great. The regiment of playing virtually every night for months on end amounted to one long rehearsal.

And yet even that doesn’t tell the whole story. Elvis has continued to tour extensively and record prolifically. And while there are some very excellent albums to his later career (Brutal Youth and Mighty Like a Rose are my favorites), nothing matches his early work. What is that alchemy that musicians so often have ahold of early in their careers but can’t quite maintain? For every artist like Paul Simon who goes on to record classic albums in middle age, there are countless others whose attempts fail.

Reading Thompson’s biography has inspired me to listen extensively to Elvis Costello and the Attractions’ early catalogue from 1977-82. And these records just never get old. Costello is often associated with punk, and there are certainly elements of the aggression and sublime musical simplicity of that era in his early records. But Costello was never really a punk; his influences were far too diverse. Rather, with the help of The Attractions, punk made his good songs great, giving them newfound focus, economy and fury.

What’s also fascinating about early Costello especially is that he played lead guitar, yet this is undeniably the instrument you hear the least of. Instead, Pete Thomas on drums and Bruce Thomas on bass lead the way with a pulsating rhythm, which Steve Nieve’s keyboard then dances through while Elvis sings. I think that’s something that really sets apart Elvis Costello from punk bands like The Clash and The Sex Pistols. Costello’s sound may not be as ferocious, but it’s brighter and more articulate. It cultivates spite instead of plain old anger.

Chances are Costello will never equal the mastery of his early days, but even a three-star recording by the man originally known as Declan Patrick MacManus will always be worth a listen to my ears. And the fleeting nature of almost any artist's pinnacle is all the more fascinating because it doesn't last.

Five Years Later: Reclaiming the 1999-2000 Trail Blazers’ Legacy

For virtually any Portland Trail Blazers fan, the 1999-2000 season is a bitter memory despite it being technically one of the team's most successful runs. That’s because of the way it ended, with Portland squandering a fifteen-point fourth quarter lead over the Lakers in Game 7 of the Western Conference Finals.

For five years that game has haunted me. Or, perhaps more accurately, I’ve been haunted by the lost NBA championship that I believe the Blazers would have gone on to win had they held on to win that game in Los Angeles. (The Blazers, led by Scottie Pippen and Rasheed Wallace, and the Lakers, led by Shaquille O’Neal and Kobe Bryant, were clearly the two best teams that year. Portland would have beaten Indiana for the title almost as easily as Los Angeles did.)

Even though Portland had won two series games in a row going into the game (rebounding from a 3-1 series deficit), as the road team going into Game 7, I didn’t expect the Blazers to be ahead late in the game. Yet there they were, leading 73-58 with eleven minutes left. To have the brass ring within your grasp and lose it is the worst of sports tragedies.

Now, with this year's Western Conference Finals concluding last night, for the first time in these five years I find myself wanting to take back the memory of the 1999-2000 season as something more than tragedy. After all, that fourth-quarter meltdown came in the seventh game of a playoff series that followed two other long playoff series, which of course came after a 72-game season. As their 59-23 record indicates, Portland’s successes dwarfed its failures that year.

I don’t want to whitewash what happened in Game 7. I don’t want to deny it. Hell, I can’t deny it. The game still angers and depresses me all too regularly: when I see Rasheed Wallace winning a championship with Detroit, for example. Or when I see Scottie Pippen’s jersey retired in Chicago and his tenure in Portland already forgotten by most people who follow the NBA. Or when I see Damon Stoudamire all but told “good riddance” as his contract expires.

But there’s got to be a way to savor that season, or at least certain aspects of it, without the memory of Game 7 rearing its ugly head at every mention.

My best memories of 1999-2000 revolve around Scottie Pippen. Although admittedly a little past his prime, he could do almost everything well. When healthy his stat sheet routinely had points, rebounds, assists and steals—a rare feat in a game of specialists. And with Pippen essentially a hybrid between small forward and point guard, Damon Stoudamire was allowed to flourish as a scoring point guard, penetrating or shooting three-point jump shots.

As for power forward Rasheed Wallace, Most Blazer fans (and especially the media) only seem to remember power forward Wallace’s technical fouls and off-court problems. But he was a tremendous scorer who could hit turn around jump shots on the post that were at times almost undefendable. And Wallace often hit clutch three pointers, as evidenced in a Game 5 road win against the Lakers in the West Finals.

The other power forward, Brian Grant, was arguably the only player whom the community has unequivocally embraced since the Clyde Drexler era of the early 1990s. Grant was a tenacious rebounder whose gutsy play inspired the team. And often stuck on the bench was a future All Star for another team: Jermaine O’Neal. If only we’d kept him.

And Pippen wasn't the only over-the-hill player whose game could still inspire. Arvydas Sabonis, Portland's center, was more than a decade beyond his glory days as part of the Soviet national team. But while his body often failed him, Sabonis was perhaps the best passing center the NBA has seen since another Blazer center, Bill Walton. His behind-the-back passes often made me laugh out loud with wonder.

To expect non-Blazer fans around the country to remember anything about that season but Portland’s infamous choke would be swimming upstream. Sports history, perhaps like history itself, is told in shorthand. But at least in my own mind I want to remember more to the eight or nine-month season than those horrific few minutes at the Staples Center.