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It’s been purty quiet around these here blogparts this first few days of the new year/decade. Not a lot going on but chores ‘n stuff: de-cluttering of the yards, de-decorating of the house, re-vacuuming of the floors, recycling of the Christmas tree, laundry, revisiting of the Costco, reviewing of the Rose Parade, along with a couple replacings of electrical outlets from ancient two-prong to far more contemporary three-prongers. On the entertainment tip we extended our streak of not seeing “Avatar,” while instead allowing ourselves to beoh-so-visually and morally assaulted seeing “Bruno.”

Generally these first three days were filled with stuff so ultra-compelling I thought it best to refrain from subjecting you to such awesome fascinatingness.

Was I right? Or was I right?

But now it’s time to look forward to a couple happenings I’m planning to start planning, so if’n they interest you getchur pencils sharpened and calendars out:

Long ago in the final September of the naughty aughts, I conjured up the Five Presidents bike ride, but stopped short of doing it or attaching it to a specific date. Since then it’s happened only in my mind, but two things are getting it out of my head and into reality:  1) the upcoming Presidents Day weekend in Feburary, and 2) the chance discovery last week/year/decade on my way to work of two other semi-residentially, full-presidentially named streets in Culver City (Madison and Jackson) that can be incorporated into the route, thus necessitating the ride’s renaming to the “Seven Presidents” ride.

That’s friggin’ unpresidented!

But whoa: better make that “Eight Presidents” because I just found a Van Buren Place in the vicinity of Madison and Jackson. Somebody stop me!

We now pause for a moment of clarification because I can hear some of you saying “Yo Willy, what’s the big whup pedaling along seven or eight or however many streets whose names happen to be the same as past presidents?” To that I first say, don’t EVER call me Willy. Secondly I say there is no big whup. It’s just an excuse to ride bikes with other people along a pre-determined route, connected by a certain theme that coincides with a certain day related to that theme. Was there ulterior motive to the “10 Bridges” ride? No. Existential depth to my Frank Lloyd Wride? Nah. It’s mainly just a chance for people who like to get together and ride bikes to do so. So don’t hurt yerself looking for meaning or relevance where there is just a reason to have fun and perhaps a chance to do something trivial that’s never been done before in the history of civilization as we know it.

More details to come posted here, and crossposted at LA Metblogs, Midnight Ridazz, Twitter, et cetera (but not MyBook or FaceSpace), but for now the most important thing you need to know if you’re thinking of joining me is that it will happen the morning of Saturday, February 13.

Nextly, in the wholly appropriate month of March (tentatively scheduled for Saturday the 6th, but that could change), I’ll be doing the next in my occasional series of urban walks, this one involving Jefferson Boulevard between the Shrine Auditorium and the Baldwin Hills Scenic Overlook Park.

Stay tuned for further, less sketchy details.

And in the meantime before getting my ass in gear and back into work mode, here’s my first photo of 2010, whose subject is brought to you by our potted tomato plant who worked hard these past few months nurturing this proud little fella until it dropped this weekend. Clearly the plant doesn’t know the concept of seasons or the meaning of the word quit. Ladies and gems I bring you:

Wintermater

What a crazy busy wonderful last coupla days. If there’s ever been a 48-hour period where I’ve bitten off more than I could chew but still managed to swallow it all without choking, this was it. It all started Friday night coming home from work with an intensive trip to the market to procure all the ingredients for the Coca-Cola-Brined Fried Chicken recipe (that I wrote about here) I’d been salivating over since reading about it in the current issue of Esquire magazine.

I’d been thinking of cooking it for Sunday, but a late-breaking freelance edit/rewrite gig wasn’t going to allow that so I decided instead of just Susan and me I’d whip up a batch for us and however many cycling pals returned with us from The Village Idiot Ride (that I wrote about here). Keep in mind, I’ve never done much of anything from scratch. Also keep in mind I’ve never fried chicken or cooked for a group. As such I even had hamburger patties and brats onhand as a contingency if my culinary endeavor failed miserably — which it almost did, but more on that later.

So by 8 a.m. Saturday morning in preparation for the arrival of my friend Steve and Alice and Manny and Ingrid and everyone else who might be biking with us over to the restaurant on Melrose,  I had beers on ice in the cooler and was getting the outside and inside of the house in order and cleaned up, first tackling the front and back yards and then the weeks-overdue vacuuming and dusting of the first floor while Susan did the same upstairs.

We managed to finish all that in time for me to get down to the business of mixing the brining mixture and the batter mix and the relish, and getting the chicken marinating in time for me to get cleaned up and ready for everyone to arrive. And by everyone I mean all these cool cats who paused long enough for an awesome group picture in front of the house by Susan before we set out for the crosstown ride (click it to enlarge):

Left to right, top to bottom:
Barleye, Alice, Steve, Ingrid, Harry
Lance, Esther*, Daniel*, Dak, Stephanie, Jeff
Roadblock, John, Some Guy, Manny
*Thanks to Steve for filling in the blanx I was having with these names!

While Susan and I are generally nice people, we’re not the most social of animals and thus haven’t had this many people at the house since our wedding reception back in ‘05 — and certainly never so many cycling pals!

So off we rode to The Village Idiot restaurant, where owner and my next-door neighbor Dean greeted us, and Steve and his “guardian angel” in the form of the restaurant’s barkeep Simon got a chance to reunite under far happier circumstances (click it to enlarge):

After leaving the restaurant, a majority percentage — including late arrival Marino (who showed up while we were at the restaurant) returned home with me. In addition Manny stopped off to bring his wife Cybele over, and I commenced to almost fail in my attempt to complete the relatively simple task of thoroughly cooking some battered chicken thighs in hot oil.

Instead as it turned out, I only half-cooked most of them. Fortunately Marino cut his in half and showed me the trouble before anyone could ingest the undercooked meat and Cybele came up with the plan to recover the distributed food and toss them in the oven for a spell.

Thus they emerged from the O’Keefe & Merritt cooked through now as Coca-Cola-Brined Fried Baked Chicken, and it was generally well received. Sure I was disheartened, but would have been decidedly moreso had anyone taken ill because of my failure. And if it’s any consolation, on Sunday Susan took the leftover batter and extra package of thighs and did them up right. Here are the thumbnails of  a photoset of the overall recipe-in-progress  (viewable here on Flickr):

Sunday was a horse of an entire different color. Whereas I was all over the place Saturday cleaning and riding and socializing and cooking (or attempting to), the seventh day found me in front of my computer from 8:30 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. (with only a few short breaks and a sole one-hour retreat in the mid-afternoon) trudging through a late-breaking editing/rewrite gig. But I wasn’t complaining (at least not about the job as much as about the article’s condition) because even though it effectively removed me from enjoying the last day of the weekend, it paid me for my freelance services as an editorial cleaner almost as much as what I take home for two weeks at the office.

Let’s just say it’d buy a lot of chicken. And some lessons on how to cook it.

As one of the 8,750 people selected out of the million-plus who submitted requests for tickets to the Michael Jackson Public Memorial Tuesday,  I attended the July 7, 2009 event at Staples Center in downtown Los Angeles.

Though very much a life-long fan of Michael Jackson, I went somewhat cynically to observe the spectacle. But what I found was a moving tribute to a son, friend, father and one of the greatest entertainers the world has or will ever know. It was a privilege to have been able to experience it in person.

My Flickr photoset is here. My live-tweets from the day, last to first,  are after the jump:

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Having the good fortune to be one of 8,750 out of the million-plus who requested tix, I just got back from biking over to Dodger Stadium to pick up the necessary ornamentation and documentation to permit me enter the Kingdom of Jackopalooza tomorrow.

Gotta admit, I submitted my request to attend the Michael Jackson Memorial at Staples Center tomorrow far more to just bear witness to the public spectacle than to publicly bare any grief at his passing.

And when yesterday came and went without getting confirmation — especially with the news that I was literally among a million-plus vying to be one of the 8,750 bestowed with tickets — I shrugged and moved on.

Then I checked my email this morning — and there were two in my inbox from Staples Center. I opened, the second one first, delivered at 12:10 a.m. this morning, which advised:

Thank you for your registration.

Sorry, we regret to inform you that your registration to attend the Public Memorial Service for Michael Jackson was not selected.

Hundreds of thousands registered, but only a few can be in attendance.

And I shrugged again, thinking it was at least nice of Staples not to leave anyone hanging.

Figuring it was just a repeat I opened the second email, which was datestamped earlier, at 10 p.m. yesterday. Whoa, it was the exact opposite:

Your application to attend the Michael Jackson Public Memorial Service at STAPLES Center this Tuesday, July 7, 2009 at 10:00 a.m. Pacific Time, was successful!

Please read this notice carefully. This is your chance to receive two tickets for either the service in the STAPLES Center (subject to availability) or a live big-screen simulcast in the adjacent Nokia Theatre L.A. LIVE.

Instructions To Obtain Your Two Tickets and Security Wristbands Are:

1. Click on the GET VOUCHER button below before Monday, July 6, 2009 at 11:59 a.m. Pacific Time.
2. Select 1 in the quantity window.
3. Enter your unique password into the box as prompted.
4. Password: [redacted]
5. Click Find Tickets button
6. Continue through security screen
7. Create a new ticketmaster account or use existing account by entering information requested
8. Choose appropriate ticket fast delivery method for your country
9. Enter information as requested to Submit Order
10. You will see a confirmation screen confirming that your order is processed. THIS IS NOT YOUR TICKET.
11. WAIT: You will receive an email that will link to your voucher
12. Click on “Pick up your tickets” within the email
13. Select VIEW AND PRINT tickets
14. Print the Ticketmaster voucher. THIS IS YOUR VOUCHER. Your voucher will read “This is your ticket” and contain a barcode. You must print out this voucher and bring it with you, along with your valid I.D. to Dodger Stadium on Monday, July 6, 2009, between 8:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m. Pacific Time to obtain your two tickets and two wristbands.

I went through the process and indeed I was successful in completing it. So despite Staples Center first takething away and then givingeth, it looks like I’ll be heading up to Dodger Stadium today and then Staples Center (or Nokia Theater) tomorrow.

More to come.

Frankly though I’ve mourned the passing of a voice and talent that I literally grew up with, Michael Jackson’s public memorial madhouse service scheduled for Tuesday at Staples Center is so not a be-all/end-all event for me and I submitted my request for tickets rather sheepishly.

I’ll be veeeeeeeery surprised if my name gets pulled from among what will undoubtedly be the hundreds of thousands out of the proverbial hat. But if indeed I become the recipient of tix to the event and seeing as I have the day off I might just bike on down into the vortex of the grief storm to see what I shall see.

And if the scene turns out to be even more out-of-this-universe crazy than expected I can always adjourn to Wurstkuche or Blue Star and raise a glass in private tribute.

So with the astounding recovery of my lost camera memory card yesterday comes various documentationings of a Saturday full of bikes, first at the LA Bike Summit at LA Trade Tech, and second at the Hope Rides Again event in Hollywood. I didn’t go as crazy with the camera at the former as I did at the latter, but instead of reposting it all here, I’ll just show you the links:

LA Bike Summit photoset is on Flickr, here.

Hope Rides Again recap is on LA Metblogs here, YouTube timelapse clip of the ride here; another of Lance speaking here; and the Flickr photoset here.

Earlier this week I lost a brand spankin’ new fangled audio recorder to some churchgoing thief that I had left regretably unattended for a few minutes, tempering what had been an enjoyable visit for an organ recital at the First Congregational Church of Los Angeles.

Yesterday, an otherwise fantastic day has been shaded by a second fail.

After a day filled with bikes and friends and awesome and bikes, involving my attendance not only at the inspiring LA Bike Summit at LA Trade Tech College, but also as part of a select group of several hundred riders accorded the opportunity of rolling Sunset Boulevard with Lance Armstrong (or at least if not directly “with,” than at least at the same time and place) and attending an after-ride event with/for him sponsored by Nike at the Ricardo Montalban Theater on Vine Street, I came home to discover I was a big loser for a second time.

This time it’s my digicam’s memory card that’s gone, containing most of my photos from the phenomenal day.

What happened was this: I ended up filling the card up capturing an extended video clip of Lance taking the stage and being pretty inspirational. So when it beeped its alert that there was no more room, I swapped it out for the one in my handlebarcam that I had taken off the bike and put in my backpack when I’d locked up upon arrival. Afterwards I put the handlebarcam away and slipped the filled memory card into the outer pocket of my backpack and went back to snapping pix and just freakin’ loving the fact that I was getting the opportunity to enjoy such a unique event. And free beers! Woot.

In spite of the rockin’ set Ben Harper was playing, fatigue set in around his third song and I split for the ride home  with Ingrid and her partner Patel Kjtel. Upon arrival I eagerly went to retrieve the card from my pack to begin the download process and it was not there.

Needless to say I was pretty much filled with self-loathing that was forwarded to a fitful night of sleep that ended when I gave in and just got up at 3 a.m. to stew in my own lameness and regretfully recall some of the images I’d caught that were gone forever. The only bonus of such a pre-predawn one-way raid back into consciousness was that for the first time in my life I actually welcomed the spring forward to Daylight Savings Time. It may only be a manufactured hour on the dial but trust me, there is a gloom and despair that comes with kissing goodbye a night’s zzzzzz’s at 2 a.m. as opposed to 3 a.m. Therefore, I didn’t lose an hour so much as get to a less indecent morning hour that much quicker. Hey, I’ll take the little victories wherever I can find them.

But in between the headshaking and unspoken invectives as those wee hours slumped and staggered onward I also pieced together what I imagine happened: At some point after I put the card in that backpack pocket, I retrieved my iPhone from that same pocket to check and see who else might be Twittering from in the house. In the course of pulling out the phone I figure the card came with it and it fell to the floor.

Of course that means it might still just be there in the vicinity of my seat. And I plan on returning to the theater today with fingers crossed in hopes that, A) there’s someone such as a guard or custodian present and accessible, B) they’ll let me in to have a look-see, C) the cleaning crew either had/has the night/day off or if they were/are on duty just did a bottle pick-up as opposed to a thorough sweep, and D) the card is indeed there.

Lots of obstacles to overcome, but I gotta try.

UPDATED (2:40 p.m.): Well, guess what? I’m back to only being a one-time loser: found it! I arrived at the Ricardo Montalban Theater a little after 12:30 p.m. to find the place wide open, and an employee telling me to go ahead and look, but warning me that the clean-up had already taken place. Not only that but she said the house was full dark in the midst of some sort of tech rehearsal — literally pitch black. So I detached one of my bike headlights and used that to help me make my way to the section I’d been sitting. A first pass yielded nothing. Next I scanned the floor of the row in front of me. Nothing. Coming back to my row, I went hands and knees and did a methodical look-around. And there it was, half wedged beneath a grate cover under the seat in front of mine. Oh happy day!

Scenes from Friday the 13th’s “Take The Fifth” ride in celebration of the fifth anniversary this month of the first Midnight Ridazz:

Thanks to my friend Eric Richardson of Blogdowntown and his excellent coverage of the inauguration event held at L.A. Live’s Nokia Plaza Tuesday morning, I now have visual confirmation of my presence in his photo, above.

See me and my bike there? No, over there. In the back — what can I say I got there just before Aretha sang. No, I’m on the right. Farther right. Keep going. By those two giant yellow arrows . Yeah, those. The ones labeled “Me” and “My Bike.”

Click for a much larger version where you still can’t see me in those moments immediately following the administration of the oath, standing in the middle of Chick Hearn Way and tearing up like a baby while clapping like a madman.

Bonus! For a less teary and mad and decidedly less hard-to-find me, check out this screengrab featuring an image the camera-ready Bryan Frank got shortly after I arrived and introduced myself to him as a long-reading fan of his blog BeFrank. Dude went and posted it to and inauguration slideshow at the CBS/KCAL site: