Harlot says, Simon says.

Hands flying, heart beating, hair swept up in a frenzy, a half hearted top bun, a shorn poodle of a woman in thermal cycling tights and a striped bandeau, hair off my face, away away away, up up and away as a distraction shelved for the time being. "EV-ER-EE-BUDDY" as Kaleb would say in a situation like this: Everybody, I just came from a day spent bicycle riding on my beloved fixy, Jessica Alba. I had errands to do, things to get done, people to see on my one day off and I refused to take the bus for a single thing. For a single minute. I hate winter in Winnipeg because I am a pedestrian and a cyclist and not a motorist. If I had a car in winter in Winnipeg, I would love it. I would love the bland white, love the life-threatening cold, love the snow, love the snowsuits and the Sorels. But as a cyclist forced to shelve one's pride and joy for the winter, it is depressing as all get out. It is easy to hate.

Today I wasn't having any of it. I pulled my sparkling summer bicycle down from it's place in my living room and pumped the tires. I never bothered to switch my slicks over to winter tires because I never thought I would ride it in the winter. So I took it down and rode around the block a few times, testing the waters, skidding and track-standing with all the confidence in the world, attempting backwards circles in my winter cycling gear. I just felt it today. I was going to ride come hell or high water. It was as if it were a choice between riding my beautiful bicycle and dying. I was not about to pick death, so I strapped on my messenger bag housing a sketch pad, some nice pens, my camera and an unfinished letter to Lo on good card stock. Riding to Osborne was fine, a bit scary but doable. I stayed in the lines of pavement created by the right side tires hitting salt hitting pavement. Moving out of those tracks for even a split second meant biting it, hard, and potential death. So I stayed, unabated by impatient drivers who were nice enough for the most part, or my freezing fingers. I rode to the Exchange and almost died crossing Portage from a patch of hard to see ruts. I screamed my head off at one point and braced myself, causing a passerby on the sidewalk to rip off their balaclava and stare in horror. But I made it. I was psyched. Had coffee with Barfredo and Ross at the Fyxx and back-alleyed it to Mountain Equipment to get better gloves for the ride home. Made it back to Corydon, (it was smooth sailing down Donald) and picked up a new record at Music Trader and talked to Olivia all the while getting a sudden nosebleed under control in the shop.

There are few things more disgusting than a winter geared lady, balaclavaed, helmeted and bleeding profusely from the nose. Cute.

Rode back to Corydon to go sit at Rabbi's counter for a few hours with Shira. I had one hundred shots of espresso today, wild. Anyway, I came back home, warmed up my hands around a cup of tea and put on my newly acquired and newly released copy of Sigur Ros' 'með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust' album on vinyl and just about had a heart attack over how amazing it was. I had heard it before when it came out in summer, but not all the way through and definitely not on vinyl. GOOD LORD. I actually had to sit down in a chair it was so good. It has been a while since an album has bowled me over psychically at the first listen. Go get it on vinyl and let your knees go weak. It is very joyful in comparison to their other releases. I was very pleased.

My music taste in winter always slows to more mellow, harmonious, folk singing, sighing, low light demanding crooners than it would swing to in the warmer seasons. Winter is all about going on musical journeys. Whether those journies are accompanied by a living room full of people drinking wine, a candle lit dinner for two, or by one's self in the bath with a book, they are important. To me at least. I still yell out to pretend lovers when I am in the bath when the record stops. "Dan" or "Wilfred" or "Harry" or "Tomas" (the Tomas I imagine straight out of Milan Kundera's novel, 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being') are thrown living room-wards on a daily bathing basis. The neighbors must think me a harlot based on all the imaginary names I yell demanding them to "flip the record!!!!". I am pathetic. But honest. It is just something I do, I like it. I think it is the deal breaker for me: calling out men's names to flip the record while I am bathing. When I find someone who will do it without having to be asked, then I will know he is good and right.

Flip the record. No, instead go buy the aforementioned one and go flip a lid over how insane it is. Go on a musical journey.
With upmost sincerity, Madge.