Anonymous Communist

While they say there’s no such thing as a free lunch, District 186 is doing what it can to help hungry kids eat this summer with free breakfast and lunch:

(Six) schools are offering the meals through the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Summer Food Service Program, which targets communities with high percentages of children who qualify for free or reduced-price meals throughout the school year.

It’s a wonderful idea for sure, but I don’t know if it’s been thought all the way through. While any child can eat for free, the program is ostensibly for lower-income kids. Why, then, are most of the schools offering the meals in more affluent parts of town?

Springfield High really is the only location that makes any sense, as it’s more or less centrally located. Things start getting trickier with Dubois, as it’s farther west on Washington Street.

But Lindsay? That school is the shining jewel of the evil far west side. Sandburg is located across Wabash Avenue from Sherwood, the sleepy subdivision in which I grew up. Wilcox, if I’m not mistaken, is in the Northgate subdivision, which is basically Sherwood on the North End. And Lee is near the Interstates 55-72 interchange, or quasi-lake area.

If the program is geared toward lower-income families, shouldn’t it be offered at schools in lower-income areas? If parents are having trouble feeding their children during the summer, it stands to reason that they’re also having trouble putting gas in the car.

Why, then, make them drive miles from home in order to take advantage of this helpful program?

Normally, I’m the one looking for bikes. This one found me.

Years ago in college, I had a crappy Web page (built by my non-code-knowing ass with Adobe PageMill) that had pictures of my two Schwinns and my friends’ bikes. Apparently, a gentleman who lived in southern Illinois and had a bike to unload found that Web page, unbeknownst to me.

One day, I get a call from my mom, who tells me some guy who lives in West Frankfort or some such town called my parents’ house in Springfield trying to contact me about a bike. I got his number and proceeded to play phone tag for a couple weeks until I finally got a hold of him.

He told me how he had this tandem and was looking to get rid of it. He said he was going through a divorce, and that the sight of a bicycle built for two was too painful seeing how his riding partner was leaving him and all. He knew of my appreciation for old Schwinns from my Web page and asked if I was interested.

I could barely restrain my enthusiasm in answering “yes.” But because I neither had a truck nor knew anyone who did, picking it up presented a problem. Don’t worry about it, he said, offering to come to Carbondale to conduct the transaction.

So I told him to meet me at Travel Service when my shift ended at 4 p.m., and $80 later this sucka was mine. I remember feeling a little silly riding a tandem by myself, but that was the only was I was getting it home, which at the time was a tiny two-room apartment. This enormous bicycle took up half the space in my kitchen.

As far as I can tell, everything on this bike is original, including the tires, which are cracked with age but still hold air somewhat. It still has the teardrop rear reflector with the silk-screened “S” intact. The paint is in great shape (for a 43-year-old bike, that is) with only a few noticeable scratches, and the decals and screens are excellent as well, especially on the chainguard:

Unfortunately, the chrome is not in such great shape. Overall, it’s mostly dull with only a few shiny spots, and rust has set in in a few places. The front wheel was in kind of bad shape; it took extra elbow grease to clean it up. But I guess that’s what years of disuse will do.

The Twinn hasn’t been ridden since probably 1999 or so. Back then, Mrs. Communist and I lived on Walnut Street, in between Lawrence and Canedy. Sitting on the back, she understandably gets kind of nervous not being able to engage her instinct to steer, and riding a bike on a busy street like Walnut was not something she wanted to do more than once.

But now that we live in a quieter area and the kids are old enough to ride bikes, maybe the old Twinn can start getting some use.

I’ve found something else I can blame on President Bush. First Hurricane Katrina, then my bad back, now this:

Dear Valued Customer:

[…]

Recently, you may have received a letter from the IRS advising you when to expect your Economic Stimulus Payment (rebate). That IRS letter may have inadvertently left off some important information. Taxpayers who chose to have their tax preparation fees deducted from their federal tax refund will receive their tax rebate in the mail, not via direct deposit.

Our records show that you chose this payment option in TurboTax. As a result, the IRS has determined that you will receive your tax rebate in the mail. This may result in you receiving your rebate on a date later than expected.

Emphasis mine. According to that e-mail from some TurboTax schmendrick, I’m not going to get my stupid check until sometime next month. I’ll bet a Coke that someone tries to file a class-action lawsuit over this.

My brother-in-law Ryan indulged me in a bit of tomfoolery recently at the Old State Capitol.

One of my favorite euphemisms for stealing music online is saying you’re “sharing.” Rose by any other name and all that.

But damned if I’m not hooked on a little application called Mojo. Developed by Deusty Designs, Mojo is a sort of hybrid of an instant messenger and file-sharing application. You have a buddy list of sorts, and when a buddy is online you can view their iTunes library and download songs from it.

Awesome.

I’ve rationalized the ethical quandary of stealing sharing music in this fashion by imagining Mojo as the modern equivalent of taping a CD (or tape, LP or 8-track, depending on one’s age) from a friend, which we all did back in the day. With it, I’ve picked up all sorts of cool crap.

From Unpainted Huffhines (who first told me about Mojo), I’ve picked up the Avett Brothers and the Raconteurs. I’ve gotten a bunch of old-school (read: Diamond Dave-era) Van Halen and “Totally 80s”-style pablum from Johann. My friend Steve has hooked me up with a bunch of stuff I slept on back in the day: British shoegazers like Ride and My Bloody Valentine and the manic-depressive Wedding Present. Fellow pal Eric has given me a ton of rarities from two of my very favorite bands: Ween and Tortoise.

The downside to all this, of course, is that now my 30GB iPod is too small to hold all the musical goodness.

So what are you waiting for? Go download Mojo and get your steal on! When you get it installed, add “AnonComm” to your buddy list. I normally leave Mojo on all the time, so people can steal from me at their leisure. Try to ignore the embarrassing children’s tunes (Dora and the frightening Jay Jay the Jet Plane) and Mrs. Communist’s poor taste in music (Indigo Girls, 10000 Maniacs, et al).

Finally, Party House Liquors has opened in the (generic name of shopping center) along Koke Mill Road.

Taking advantage of Ride Your Bike to the Beer Store Day today, I rode down there to check out the selection. Right now, there’s nothing that the other beer stores don’t have. They did, though, hand me a notebook with instructions to write down what I would like to see.

I took them up on their offer, giving them the names of half a dozen or so brewing concerns, among them the obligatory New Belgium, Kalamazoo (Mich., the brewer of Bell’s products, which in Illinois are sold under the Kalamazoo name), New Glarus (Wis.) and Stone (San Diego) brewing companies.

That’s as good as I could come up off the top of my head. Do you, fellow beer nerds, have any other suggestions? I will be more than happy to make a return trip with your requests, as it’s about a 3-minute bike ride from Casa Communista.

I suppose I should be happy that a beloved former Cardinal found work again, but in that uniform? Why don’t you run over my dog in your Ferrari while you’re at it, Jim?

And what are Cubs fans to do now that the man they loved to hate is on their team? Will they now cheer for what they once lustily booed: his uppercut swing, his flair for the dramatic, his frosted tips? At least now, Cubs fans won’t have to deal with him killing their pitching anymore.

There’s apparently no truth to the rumor that Carlos Zambrano drilled Edmonds with a fastball when Edmonds walked into the clubhouse.

Still waiting on that economic-stimulus direct deposit. My savings account and I are getting nervous.

Everybody’s mad at the oil companies these days, so welcome to the Breakup of the Standard Oil monopoly edition of the cool band names list. Reader submissions always are welcome.

Bigoted Tinkerbell
Charismatic Terrorists
Democratic Yoda
The Eco-Chicks
Favorite Jason
Grilled Peaches
Jar Full of Vomit
Meat Thief
Paranoid Misanthropy
Racist Corn Pops
Sadistic Genie
Spunky Nun

My longtime softball team is no more. No longer will I make my weekly trips, as I had for the past eight spring/summers, to West Nile Riverside Park to play in the dirt, fall victim to the 10-run rule and be devoured by mosquitos.
Because of this, I am officially a free agent, offering my services to a slo-pitch softball team in need of a shortstop. Or second baseman. Or centerfielder. Or whatever… it doesn’t matter where I play.

Well, I guess it does matter a little bit. I don’t want to pitch, and I don’t want to be catcher (cue joke from Your Neighbor in 3… 2… ). I actually enjoy playing in the field. Because I’m a sucky hitter (yes, even in slo-pitch softball), I need to play in the field to actually feel like I’m contributing to the team’s well-being.

My preference is shortstop of course, but I understand the massive ego involved in being shortstop. Your current shortstop might not want to abdicate for a stranger. So I’ll play most anywhere. Even right field, where I can showcase my Clemente-like arm.

Anyone?

So I was doing a little research just now, trying to find some album artwork, when my travels took me to AllMusic. Imagine my surprise to see its Album of the Day:

The Brand New Heavies‘ “Heavy Rhyme Experience, Vol. 1″ is the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup of music: Two great tastes (rappers and a live funk band) that taste great together. If there’s any album that is right in my musical wheelhouse, it is this one. The only low points are the two tracks that feature dancehall MCs (one of them, Jamalski’s “Jump n Move,” was on the “Happy Feet” soundie a coupla years ago). The music on those tracks is good; I just can’t stand that style of rapping.

While this album did have a few of the Brand New Heavies’ Delicious Vinyl labelmates (e.g., the Pharcyde and Masta Ace), this was no mere promotional vehicle, as some of the off-label artists included Main Source, Black Sheep and Gang Starr, whose “It’s Getting Hectic” is playable below.

Unfortunately, the “Vol. 1″ verbiage in the album title is a misnomer, as nearly 17 years later there’s yet to be a second volume. Just think of the possibilities Vol. 2 could bring: You could have modern-day rappers like Mos Def, Blue Scholars and Common Sense as well as reunite groups like A Tribe Called Quest and Digable Planets. Whoever has that power, make it so.

Despite my inclination as a lover of animals (in a strictly platonic sense, of course), I find it hard to get worked up about Eight Belles getting shipped off to the glue factory.

In fact, it’s surprising that this kind of thing doesn’t happen more often. What do you expect when an animal that weighs 1000 pounds or more is forced to run at top speed on little spindly-ass legs? If you mess with the bull, you’ll get the horns, as the saying goes.

But of course, the frenzied hordes at PETA have made Eight Belles a martyr for its cause (even though its spokesman cannot defend her position), calling for a ban on racetrack betting, saying the sport is “no better than dogfighting.” They’ve even condemned Hillary Clinton, calling her complicit in the horse’s death.

Yawn. All of that is ridiculous, course. My issue with horse racing is not because it’s allegedly barbaric. I dislike it simply because it’s boring. Watching a bunch of horses run around in a big circle is worse than watching paint dry. The most exciting two minutes in sports? How about the most over-hyped and anti-climactic?

Except when a horse dies, I guess.