Life and times of a derby widow(er)

The Gravitational Time Dilation of the Flat Track

2012-01-02T09:32:00.004-05:00

This morning, I was looking through older posts from the beginning of the year in the hopes it would inspire me to write a brief post about my favorite moments over the 2011 season. What I encountered, however, were artifacts from a time I had thought was further away than March of this year.

Had Dread really only captained for one season? Was the Pajama Jammy Jam of NHRD only ten months ago? I graduated in June? Did Adam die so recently? And when was the last time, exactly, I spent time with some of the widows that I used to see almost weekly?

Time does not merely pass quickly in roller derby; it passes with the velocity of a televised high-speed chase. The goals and ideas that come to your partners' mind (or yours) at the beginning of the season won't necessarily stay the same on the route to Championships. Life, death, and every detail that brings the former closer to the latter moves with such alacrity that you quickly lose sight of perspective. In the constant barrage of roller derby, few have the self-knowledge to stop, analyze carefully, and move on. Hell, in the past year, this blog is more and more about my exploits than the life and times of a derby widow.

With the New Year upon us, I figured it's a good time to tell skaters and their spouses alike how to live a better derby life than you did last year.

Friendships: Keep the Ones that Matter.

People talk a lot about sacrifice to reach their derby goals. Human sacrifice, however, is not to be taken lightly. Your friends from outside of derby miss you. Make sure to give them a call. And your “friends” in derby…well, they’re very different than the friends you made while playing derby. Over the course of several seasons I’ve watched friendships, love affairs, and drinking partnerships flare up and crash and burn with such speed and force, one can hardly believe that these train-wrecks often occurred within sixty days.

You’ve likely seen it yourself. The season starts and two skaters are the best of friends. Two months later, they barely talk, two-and-a-half months later, they only talk horrible crap about each other. Was there an incident people can point back to that kicked off this blood war? Nope. It just happened. As someone who does way more in derby than I was convinced I would, I’ve also been told I’ve lost friends over actions, thoughts, and opinions that were attributed to me I never had. That’s life. But that underscored a real truth about relationships in this sport. Derby friends aren’t always true friends.

Don’t believe me? How many retired skaters do you know that complain that their former best buds, derby wives, or teammates never call? If you answered none, you're the person who isn't calling.

The team won't be the same without you!

Dread equates this to the concept of “temporary hit points.” Nerdy, yes, but I’ll explain.

In Dungeons and Dragons, there are abilities in combat that give you hit points beyond your maximum health. If you get hurt, those points are taken off first before you’re in any danger of dying. But when the fight is over, those points, if you have any of them left, just go away. They’re not really yours. You’re left with what you brought into the fight. Shit, that makes DnD combat seem more isolating and lonely than ever thought possible. …yikes. I think Dread and I also think of derby in DnD terms because the WFTDA rulebook has the same amount of complicated rules.

Coming Soon: the new Bay Area Derby source book.

My advice to you is that you take the time to the people that matter to you that you care. Face time, as my father says, is what matters most. Conversely, team activities are fine, but if you find yourself shopping or drinking with a teammate that realistically is nothing like you in a way that would otherwise ban her from your home, ask yourself if she’d really be there for you if something went wrong. If not, she’s a shitty teammate, and not your friend. Go to the karaoke bar with someone who loves you. You can be civil without being forced to make out.

Be Patient with Each Other

Everyone has their reasons to be in this sport. This isn't a call to coaches to be more understanding, though I suppose it applies, too. This is about people. If the dude in the stands screams bloody murder every time his partner's team receives a penalty, he's just into the game. Until he starts threatening murder or peeing in your drink, let it go. He probably has a rescue dog at home and reads to the elderly... So what if what he reads to them are mean hand-crafted signs that put down your wife's team?

Off the track, people are motivated by different things. I've often been pleasantly surprised to get to know people I had almost written off as wastes of carbon. I've also been vindicated by waiting just long enough to find out I was right, and that _____ is a total _____ and will one day die ____. Just take the time to understand and be prepared to change your mind. Absolutes, when it comes to humans, are seldom applicable.

Talk Less Shit

There are people I don’t like. There are people that disappoint me. If they need to know, I’ll tell them. If you don’t like someone, and it’s not worth your time to confront them, shut up. Otherwise, you run the risk of them finding out through the grape vine, because many of the friends you’re talking smack to are going to make sure it gets out. This goes to the first point: not everyone's your friend. And with all that venom being spat around, it’s hard to see who’s improved, what person you’ve hated for years turned out would give you a kidney, and if you just might be that same bitch you’re describing.

In situations where you think shit-talking is imminent, I whole-heartedly endorse to all of you a trick I've employed:

Shit-talker: ______, what’s her story?

Me: She's my friend.

Shit-talker: Oh.

That tends to end it. If the person's really about to talk smack, his/her mouth shuts and she stares blankly for a half a second. Making people feel bad by nipping their behavior in the bud is an almost orgasmic feeling. Do it. Also, remember that anyone gossiping to you may likely gossip about you. If you like to gossip, can deal with the fact people won't trust you, and don’t mind sowing chaos for the sake of chaos…well, ignore everything I said and All Hail Eris!

"Damn it, this is nice."

Live for these moments. Too many times will you be faced with situations that will piss you off, leave you sad, or wondering why it is you put up with that skinny/fat/stupid/self-important ass. It’s natural. But if it were all that, our Facebook and Flickr streams would be filled with photos of impending violence and empty after parties. I’ve seen your pictures on the Internet, and you don’t look so upset. And that’s because those pictures are the living record of your good times. But a better way to do it is to just stand in that moment and remember, “This is great.” For widows, that can be the smart plays your partner pulled off or the overheard compliments about your lady/dude.

As a culture, we tend to focus on what we hated. What about what’s really good? Think about what went right and you’re bound to take the sting out of an ultimately temporary situation.

Set an Example

There was a time when every fresh meat class set a league on fire with excitement. Skaters acted like old dogs finding new life when a new litter of puppies come into the room. Like New Year's, the new crop of people is an artificial time-stamp signaling new beginnings. For the love of Calliope, bring yourself to a point where you can throw down your blood oaths and just start fresh with as many people as possible.

New kids don’t know your drama. They don’t need to be part of your personal Hatfield-McCoy feud. You weren’t man/woman enough to go to jail to settle it, so it should be over anyway. Reach out to the widow from the opposing team before game time, buy a beer for that old friend at the after party, and maybe don’t send a box full of spiders to your “enemy.”

With injuries and emotional fatigue, each season is potentially the last for everyone. Treat it as such. Because when you’re gone, you’ll have a whole other trial to weather.

No one’s really exempt from this advice, especially me. As derby continue to grow, don't forget to grow up.

Final Champs post: Goodbye

2011-12-07T09:13:00.000-05:00

Hours after my alcohol-soaked reunion with my old friend, I once again awoke before dawn. My body was still on East Coast time and I needed to get up. I called Dread, recapped my weekend while tossing in enough repetitions of "I love you" to make me sound like an Amy Grant song. After hanging up, I was exhausted, but in love. But I had no energy. I needed release from this foggy haze. A walk to the local strip mall offered me options:

They weren't good ones.

Rainman and I walked around this strip mall in horror. It had a theme. There was a store named "Karma," followed by a Doctor's Office (in a strip mall?!), and finally the Cremation depot. People don't want to waste time in Colorado. The only other thing of note in the parking lot: A Wendy's. Red pigtails = death?

The venue was turbo-charged with energy. KCRW vs TX and Gotham vs. Oly was on the agenda. Behind the scenes, officials were bracing up for the high profile games, announcers were researching every aspects of these teams before we did our parts, and skaters geared up for the truly titanic games they were about to play.

Spydr, Draggin Lady, Plastik Patrik, and Double H looking "teh s3x."

DNN, the archives, Derby Deeds, and RDIT already covered this stuff better than I can. I'm also a month or so out. Thus, I implore you to go to their sites and read up if you're curious.

Gotham was damn gracious with their victory.

AFTDA got a mention in the awards ceremony, which brought us to an emotional overload unseen from the rave days of the 1990s. In the picture below, we're screaming to Papa Razzo for our glow-sticks and pacifiers.

2011, I'm a love you, I'm a miss you.

Success came unto us. A few of the announcers ate with each other before going to the Grizzly Rose, a line dancing bar. Eating with my buds, feeling a big sense of community made me homesick for another one. One that I left in June. My Bennington friends, scattered throughout the world, don't have a regular excuse to see one another. I decided to carry you, my fellow alumnae, with me to this bar. Don't believe me?

The bar was gigantic. It boasted a maximum capacity of 2000. Four hundred of them were derby folk, Twelve hundred, however, were cowboys and girls who were regulars. This bothered some of the people we came with, which was strange to me. We were in a major city, coming into someone else's "house." Complaining in said house is only playing into mutual discomfort. But within an hour, the regulars ceded territory on the dance floor and the music went from Toby Keith to Lil John...with no sudden war. The regulars were pretty cool, and the staff seemed to love the amount of liquor and beer a derby crowd can ingest.

Three drinks for every derby person made us the majority.

After dancing the night away with Philly, we left early to go to bed and prepare for our respective morning flights. Draggin Lady was kind enough to get up early to drive me to Denver International where I met up with CMRD and Belle and dined on Pizza Hut before making my way home.

Since I returned, it's been nonstop activity. I have had job interviews, writing groups, and family obligations that have pushed back any time to reflect. This makes these posts more like records of what I did than joke-fueled missives to the masses. Sorry about that.

In the past three weeks, I've been overjoyed to have spent time with NHRD, my beloved home league, Dread, and PRD. I even got to call with my announcin' spouse, Lady O, for the first time in months. Let's hope that everything evens out in 2012.

Be well.

Part Three: High Gear is shifted into, not kicked...

2011-12-05T10:48:00.000-05:00

Within the Denver area, outside of obscene names for their Chinese restaurants, things differ from my native New England. Colorado has a different set of priorities. The Comfort Suites understand the needs of the Southwest. When you wake up in Denver, coffee is essential. But did you know what goes best with coffee? Not a doughnut, buddy. You were close. A bag of popcorn.

Priorities!

I make popcorn for Dread every day. It's a nice, low-calorie snack that we both love. Discovering this on the second morning made me think of home and the lady I had at home. Maybe Dread and I should move to Denver. Popcorn in every hotel and eating at Pho China. That sounds heavenly. Almost as heavenly as Joe Mama's flight suit. Ah well. Wait, we're talking about Champs. Okay...

In the name of research for interviews and recaps, I decided to sit in the stands and watch Minnesota vs. Texas. This decision paid me back with interest. Across from my seats were Minnesota's collection of widows and family members, decked out in war paint. On their tummies. This is the future. Unlike many sports fans, however, many of these dudes have yet to grow the beer gut of wasted energy. Thus, I love it.

YEAH

For my part, I wasn't alone. The ladies of CMRD, HARD, and Boston's very own Belle Air Bomber were there to keep me company. Texas won the bout, and that meant I'd be calling their game against Gotham that night. I skipped back to the Green Room to make sure my hair was sculpted and my breath fresh. By the mirror were all of Double H's toiletries and something that I cannot confirm was hers, but was pretty sweet to have out in a room full of jack asses.

You mean it's not communal? Whoops.

Nostrils clean, I met up with Mike Chexx to call a bout that was definitely one of my best and bar-none solid, solid derby. Mike's analysis and stats information were invaluable. We were tearing through sponsors, play-by-play and quips like they were a phone book in the Rev Al Mighty's hands. Better yet, we had unintentionally color-coordinated our outfits.

I bring this ladder with me to every bout. It makes it easier to pass for human.

Swimming the sea of a fantastic day, I went to the Announcer party at the Westin to have a celebratory drink with my mates before one my oldest friends in the world arrived to catch up on old times. Worlds collided as tales of a young, out of control Pelvis were told to an immortal, gorgeous Plastik Patrik. It was strange to have a beloved friend from back in the day hob-nobbing with the amazing present. When Penny and I rocked New England, I looked different than the hirsute fella y'all know.

Not far back enough.

Too far back.

Yeah...the time.

We spent some time with AFTDA before we made our way to the Westin bar. There I learned about the dreaded Denver pour. You want a single? You get a double. You want a double? You're taking a cab home at three. Which is what we did, but not before a wonderful lady from Chicago told us the wonders of her type of dude. And then did show-girl kicks.

You are fantastic.

Tired, tipsy, and tremendously overjoyed, I crept into my room and slept the sleep of the just. Or just drunk. I don't know. Quit judging me.

Expect the final post on this Champs tomorrow. I got to get current.

Champs, Part Two: Getting it going

2011-12-01T12:58:00.001-05:00

What was the delay this time? Thanksgiving. Sorry. Here's a picture of Goblin eating her Thanksgiving treat to pacify you:

"I love human ears."

We arrived at the 1st Bank Center in Broomfield within fifteen minutes. The sun shone down on our pretty heads as we had to walk on gravel and make our way to the East gate where all volunteers, skaters, and officials needed to check in. The Denver Roller Dolls were friendly and patient with us as we interrupted their efficient process to hug our friends from around the world who were also waiting in line. It was only Friday, so people were still patient, calm, and had their voices.

Before we began to annoy and anger small pockets of dissent around the country (and make larger groups happy), we had a green room meeting with WFTDA, venue, and broadcast representatives in our super sweet greenroom.

Chip is complaining that without dry ice, he can't project the "virtual Texecutioner" over every intro. Gert Derned Texas!

Pumped up speeches and lists of "dos and don'ts," we made our way out into the sports arena proper and prepared for the first game of the day. Minnesota vs. Charm City! Calling it live was super, but here's the part that was so amazing. From our perch, you could see everything right up close. This was almost as good as the HQ feed.

Charm City coming out of those sweet curtains.

The first day's opening salvo of games made me as happy as they did exhausted. Philly's game against Naptown was a fine message from the East Coast team that so many people have slagged off in the press. They had a tough year, but they played everyone, utilized almost all of their team, and they still came into Champs strong. That is a team that pushed themselves to the limit and when they won the spot to face Oly, I am sure that many a viewing party back East turned into a Brazilian soccer riot.

Calling two games on Friday was fun, and invigorating. What I was not prepared for, however was the side-splitting headache that came with not drinking enough water for a high-altitude, dry locale. After going through the stroke checklist, I determined I was merely dehydrated. Draggin and I headed to Old Chicago for food, watched a drunk woman fall to the floor and get sent away in ambulance, and headed back to the hotel.

The next day would be a fun one. One that brought us matching outfits, dancing, high-octane action, and me learning the evils of the "Denver Pour."

Champing at the bit for a Championship recount? Part I: Getting there

2011-11-23T09:21:00.000-05:00

It's been a week since Gotham brought the Hydra back to the East Coast in a phenomenal game against Oly. People from around the world tuned into derbyaccess.com to see the best in our sport compete in action that brought us more highlights than a Project Runway reunion special. Is Hymen Heaven our Tim Gunn? She does have that calm, fashion sense, and "concerns" that mark her as a wise guru of sorts. And I hear men and women want to marry her all the time, just like Tim Gunn. So, yeah. Let's just get into it.

I arrived late to Denver International Airport, worried that I would not get to my Super Shuttle on time. Dee Stortion, Bad Ass Momma, and I wandered through the airport looking for our respectful modes of transportation. A helpful clerk directed me outside to the shuttle's pickup spot. Now, I had checked and re-checked my itinerary before I started my trip. The shuttle should have taken me to the Comfort Suites where I was staying with Draggin Lady. I arrived at the Comfort Inn in Westminster and was told to get out. The main doors of the motel were locked. Through an intercom I heard, "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm here to check in."

"Name?"

"It's under ____."

I was buzzed in where a nice, if strange woman told me that there was no one there by Draggin's name. Under the flickering fluorescent lights of the lobby, I was told to call the other Comfort Suites in the area. I did so. Yup. I was in the wrong place. Instead of the almost-posh Comfort Suites, I was in the bastard hybrid of the movie Hostel and Roadhouse, The ~~Murder~~ Comfort Inn.

"Welcome, Pelvis! I'm the voice of a dead clown."

Draggin Lady was nice enough to pick me up and bring me to the real hotel where there was a pool, hottub, and a concierge who loved watching Chelsea Handler on the lobby television and cackling like a methed-up witch.

Wait, an Image Search for "meth witch" had results that were exactly what I typed? The hell?

Our room was pretty sweet. Draggin and Rainman of Rose City allowed me to have my own bed and I passed out quickly with dreams of the competition bouncing around in my skull. I woke up two hours before my roommates, showered and got a coffee before we headed out.

On the way to the venue, I marveled at the landscape. Giant mountains in the distance, sprawling strip malls in the forefront. Is this heaven? The store names, thankfully, showed that people around here had a sense of humor. "Pho China," "Just a Noodle Shop," and a gaming store that I believe was named "Basement Hobbies." I might not accurately recall the last one, but "Pho China?" That's really there. People dress different, too. We pulled alongside a woman who really understood color coordination.

Same shade of car, coat, frames for her glasses, and the College sticker on her rear windshield. Wacky.

I was no longer in New England. I had come to a place where primary colors meant everything. It was Aldous Huxley's Brave New World only with tumbleweeds and really dry air.

In the posts ahead: Ego! Dancing! The perils of Denver bartenders pouring really strong drinks! And COWBOYS!

On my way

2011-11-10T18:44:00.009-05:00

Here we are at the beginning of my trip to beautiful Denver, Colorado to take part in the WFTDA's 2011 Championship Tournament or as it's known to the hip, swanky internet kids:

Three days in the suburbs of a town filled with fun, friends, and competing skaters. But first, I have to get there. I'm currently in Logan Airport, waiting to board my flight and travel through space and time to arrive a mere three hours after I take off. The ride will only take 5 hours or so. How did Doc Brown get a DeLorean to break this barrier at 88mph when a plane can go far faster, but only go back a few hours into the past?

Flying without Dread is a mixed bag. While her fear of flight makes the actual plane ride a chore, she often distracts me at the terminal gates so I don't eavesdrop on the some of the absolute mundane conversations this side of a moms' lunch out at the local kid-friendly restaurant.

Damn, woman. You know way too much about ABC's comedy lineup. That's a fact.

My ability to keep from laughing aloud or sighing like twelve-year-old girl aside, I am jazzed as hell to get my ass to Denver. Last year, our trip to the Windy City was absolutely magical. Walking with Dumptruck and Lady O down the streets of Chicago at three in the morning, with DT in an old Dairyland Dolls uniform/dress, was one of the highlights of the weekend. That and never going to bed. This time around, it's a bit more business than pleasure, but I'm sure I'll get in some dancing. Of all the activities I can do on a big trip like this, that seems the least likely to adversely effect my performance.

I'm starting tomorrow's festivities on the House Mic with John Maddening and Dill Hero, which should be a great time. After that, look for me on derbyaccess.com throughout the day for interviews before Mike Chexx and I call Philly vs. Naptown for the internet at 7:15 Mountain time. That is , if the games start on time...which may not happen, but who cares? There is so much to see.

My goals for the weekend:

Call the best games imaginable.
Get Prissassin her shirt.
Ger patches for Dread.
Take photos like nuts.
Kick a lot of hiney.
Catch up with some people I rarely get to see.

Hm. Those seem as pedestrian as one of my fellow travelers' explanation of the ABC series "The Middle," which I just googled. Is this a "Scrubs" spinoff? I see the janitor. Anyway, what do you want to see? What pictures or features might you, the reader wish for me to put up here?

Getting ready

2011-11-07T08:19:00.001-05:00

I leave for Championships in three days. Continental Divide and Conquer is looking to be the event of 2011. While the World Cup is just weeks after that, it's clear that what the top teams of WFTDA have been training for all year to win the coveted Hyrda and bring it home.

And I get to bring it to you live, thanks to New Hampshire Roller Derby and everyone who made this happen:

Thank you!

Over the past month, I've been studying rosters, watching games, and writing up a storm on unrelated projects. Has there been time for family? A bit. But Goblin seems to be aware that I'm leaving again and has begun to impersonate a diabetic iguana to show her subtle disapproval.

I just wish she'd talk to me.

Because of my sheer gratitude, I'll be blogging on the trip, letting you know what's up. You're a fantastic group, readers and benefactors. I love you.

I am a lucky, lucky man.

2011-10-01T09:44:00.001-04:00

After East Region Playoffs, I believed that the off season had officially started. The life of a freelance writer is a complex one (and one of variable financial stress). My autumn was to be comprised of watching the rest of the Big 5 tournaments online, work on my novel and other writing assignments, and create the best Ice King costume imaginable for Halloween.

Then New Hampshire Roller Derby (NHRD) did something yesterday that exploded my Facebook into a sea of unbelievable links, all directing users to this picture on NHRD's page:

Uh, that is me.

No way.

I have become the poster-child for a fundraiser benefiting me. My surprise and overwhelming gratitude washed over the internet (sorry if your screens got damp). The rallying cry that came from the 603 area code was as unexpected as it was enthusiastic. Mack Truck Mel has gone so far as to say that any donation received that beat hers (over twenty) would result in her hand-washing the donor's derby pads. If you're not familiar with derby, cleaning one's pads is the modern day equivalent of Hercules cleaning out the Augean Stables.

Dread and I have been floored by this incredibly kind, over-the-top gesture. Not only did they take up the helm, they stormed the internets and have collected money from people all over the country. In one day, they've made half of their goal within twenty-four hours.

Judging by this graphic, the plane needs more "fuel."

This is an amazing gesture from the ladies that allowed me to go on their mic in their first season and keep inviting me back due to my ability to exhibit qualities that I am still unsure I possess. They're so generous, that they're even giving stuff away. Apparently, the top donors will win a pair of VIP passes to NHRD's 2012 season, NHRD merch and other schwag!

It's one thing to be thanked for what you do for a league, it's another thing entirely to be treated like you're that vital to their personal lives. NHRD forever has my heart and my loyalty. As their league continues to grow and compete, I'll be there. And I hope you all will, too.

Go to http://nhrollerderby.com and check out their events. Like this one!

Friday, October 28th 2011

4th Annual Monster Bash
Halloween Costume Party

Come prepared to dance the night away with your favorite rollergirls featuring DJing by MC Productions! There will be 50/50 and basket raffles, a dance contest, and more! Win a $100 gift certificate from the Bruised Boutique or other great prizes!
8:00pm until last call!
$5 with a costume, $7 without.
21+, valid ID required at the door
The Yard
1211 South Mammoth Rd
Manchester, NH
(across from the Best Western hotel)

Invasion of the Faire Or Hayley reaps the whirlwind

2011-09-27T10:21:00.006-04:00

With East Region Playoffs behind us, Dread and I had been looking for an outlet to slap off the dust of the flat track and relax with friends. Dread had been hankering to go back to King Richard's Faire ever since we went with Mike, PeeJay, and Hayley. I appreciated her desire, but hadn't we just been there? No. It was over two years ago. Thus, an open invitation was sent out to our dear friends. We would be relaxing in a world of fun spectacle, great costumes, conflicting egos, and large crowds. What was missing?

Skates.

The opening ceremony in front of the gates was entertaining. I had forgotten about the opening presentation, and the "new" Richard was on top of his game. I had wished Lady O had made it, as I couldn't help but make comparisons between what they were doing and what we do. Except we're serious people (ha).

Derek, Dread and I wanted to start our day with a bang. We found it in the Torture Show.

He made us leave our seats to spit that fireball.

Hayley arrived in the middle of the show, right after Ses Carny (that's his surname) had performed his human blockhead routine. She arrived just in time to see him insert fish hooks into his orbital sockets. Carny's act was refreshing, and though it had been around for a while, I can't recall ever seeing it. Hayley, at this point, began texting on her phone. I imagined she was relaying the disgusting scene to those who had yet to arrive, but it was more likely she was "supping dudes."

After Dread and Derek browsed longingly at the series of warhammers in the weaponsmith's booth, I ran into May B. Knotty and Mr. Knotty as I gnawed on my giant turkey leg. The Cirque De Sewer, a circus performed by trained rats, was going on not fifty feet away. Vermin that close to my food enhanced the illusion of the park. Hayley continued to text. Goddamn it.

More friends arrived. Crash Daily snuck up on us, as he has a habit of doing. Our running crew was nearly assembled in time for the first joust. All we needed was the Bomber family, who arrived in much the same manner as Crash. We took our seats on the "bad guy" side this year.

Ready to heckle some hobo and a dude with a dragon shield. Those guys suck.
Sir James is the man!

The workers were unprepared for our noise. There's an art to cheering or jeering in a crowd. If you go too far, you're just a loud douche. However, if you're keeping with the spirit of it, not picking on people around you, or interrupting the action to appear cool, you're fine. This rule doesn't apply to stand-up comedy, literary readings, or eulogies. If you're not performing any of those, you need to keep quiet.

Our knight, Sir James, was a pretty shady dude. He was rude, crude, and likely slept in the nude. I liked him. We got his attention with our chants, and he flashed us the devil horns. Huzzah! We had made our mark. Hayley began to text again. We punished her.

Which she quickly told people, via text.

Dread was having a great time. Crash and Hayley tried their hands at the Throwing Axe booth. Out of the seven participants, only Crash successfully got his axes to stick into his targets. Thus, he earned an honorary knighthood.

If this were a stained glass window, that water bottle would look wonderful!

I hadn't tried any of the booths in ten years. So, I tried to scale the ladder. How hard could it be?

Hard.

Covered in hay, my mishap brought a huge smile to Dread's face. A five-year-old girl dressed as a fairy ran into the center of our circle of friends, smiled at all of us, and tossed pebbles into the air, hitting a few of us in the head. Her mother did nothing. It's moments like this that you wonder why it's always the good kids that go missing. I appreciate that those heartless monsters who prey on kids like to make it easy for us to hate them, but come on. Take one for the team and get a few shitty kids once in a while. If that offends you, be a better parent.

Dread sees the best sight in the world. We missed Pepper at this point.

As the day wore on, we saw plenty of cool things. If you kept your eyes open and listened, the drama and comedy wasn't just coming from the staff, but the other people. I mean....What the---

Goddamn it.

Here's where we had some fun. The herald of Sir Joseph (we won't hold that against him), helped us dispense justice upon Dame Hayley and confront her with her witchcraft. Never mind that he posed for the photo.

Pictured: Comeuppance.

Hayley-face, a medical condition that renders its victims with a case of permanent sour puss, is well documented in the Boston area. However, my little sister's a huge supporter of taking the piss out of people, and she played along. Surprisingly, she stopped texting, too (UPDATE: no, no she didn't).

With mere moments before the final joust, we assembled at our chosen seating place and prepared for the lack of chivalry and honor that Sir James rained on the crowd. The cheering section for the "heroes" tried to outshout us, but no one can yell over Crash and Derek. Our chants of "Hail Sir James, Kill and Maim!" and "Crush Kill Destroy!" echoed over the tourney field. The chant leaders of all sides looked at us, many of them laughing. However, two little boys that resembled Curly Howard started yelling directly at Crash.

Crash, bathing in their hatred and returning their taunts a hundred fold.
Click on this picture, it's animated.

Their father gave us the thumbs up as these kids insulted our knight, our clothes, and said things that ten-year-old kids shouldn't know about. Crash played along. When Sir James smacked around their chosen knight, he would point at them and cheer.

Sir James. Hair and Sword by the Kurgan, loved by loud derby folk everywhere.

He set his sword on fire. It's like he knew us!

Sir James fought with the power of a thousand rabid tigers, but was defeated by Sir Joseph who looked like the type of dude who does tai chi at a dance club to appear suave. When they decapitated Sir James for his crimes against the realm, Bell Air Bomber's youngest asked, "How did they do that?" I couldn't love her family more.

At the end, the knights saluted the crowd and thanked everyone for coming. We kept chanting for James. When he came out to sign autographs, he pointed at us and nodded. He knew where the real fans were. It was a great time in ye olden days.

Attending King Richard's this year was special. For a few years, it was almost boring. But the staff pulled out all the stops to entertain, my friends were ready to ham it up, and we just let ourselves get lost in the illusion...if only text people outside of the park about things that don't even matter when we're home. Hayley.

The rest of our photos can be found here.

Nightmare on 95: Day Three Am I salty? Because I ham up the camera all day long

2011-09-25T21:48:00.002-04:00

So happy together!

The last day of the tournament started earlier than all of the others. Without my own car, Dread and I took a ride to the venue from Xena. If you know me well, punctuality is another of my spouses. And unlike Dread and Lady Oshun, I get all kinds of irrational if you come between me and being anywhere on time. Say what you will to me, or punch and old lady, and I am unfazed. Delay me... your funeral will be interrupted with a dance party put on by yours truly. Well, Xena not only got me there on time, she got me there early.

Teflon Donna, Me, and ....
Damn it, Crash. Always so damn smooth.
This ain't a dating web site, it's my blog.

My morning's cup of coffee never manifested itself. Instead, I was treated to two games of New England fun as Maine took on Carolina and then Dutchland took on my area code's ambassadors of derby, the Massacre. While Maine was defeated, Boston won the day and were overcome with the emotions that go hand-in-hand with a tough slog through a physical and mentally exhausting weekend. During this doubleheader of New England awesomeness, the Reverend Al interviewed Punchy O'Guts. For a man who is more comfortable in front of a camera wearing next to nothing, he was super fly in his paisley shirt, spitting out thoughtful analysis like no one else can.

Ever since Planet of the Apes, Rev. Al's really into grooming.

Bout after bout, our announcers brought their A games to live and broadcast audiences. One of my favorite pairs of announcers were calling the most dramatic bout of the day, Montreal vs. London on the PA. Plastik Patrik and Sashion Victim were magical. They managed their voices, energy and the crowd with such skill that I was learning something from them. But it wasn't merely their calls. I had taken a page in fashion from our dear elf from Quebec:

You can't tell by the picture, but I got Patrik to laugh the moment I dropped my pants.
I pray it's because of the design.

London and Montreal fought all the way to the last jam where Montreal took the last few seconds to claw up close to London's definitive lead, coming only two points shy of a tie. The Du Burns Arena was filled with the cheers and applause of everyone in attendance. London's place in our region was controversial due to their lack of wins in official play over the season. But their victories over the weekend were all that mattered, and they wound up going from 10th place to 5th. The excitement in the air was electric, but nothing prepared Double H and I for the enthusiasm of Raw Heidi when we pulled her in for an interview. Here's a clip of the last third of our talk:

Charm made short work of Steel City in the battle for third place, but Steel's rise to prominence in the East is indisputable now. During this last game, Dolly Rocket and the ladies of Baltimore played cleaner than their earlier outings, and came out far ahead.

The last bout of the night, Gotham vs. Philly, was another hardcore battle where the score didn't reflect the strategy and action employed by both teams. While Gotham was dominant, I was floored by the never-say-die power of the Liberty Belles. Reverend Al and I called that game, but there were hiccups. My view of the game was obscured early on by overzealous fans and skaters that had Rev Al had to personally move. That's always a dicey affair, but who is really going to say no to that man? We rolled with a few other snafus, but we ultimately focused on the action. I was proud to have come so far from my days in an ape suit.

Once we were done, we said goodbye to the folks at home and I then made my exit after a nearly tearful goodbye with my announcing team. The next eight hours were spent on the road with Crash Daily, Hayley, and Dread. At only one point did I suffer road hypnosis after I took over driving, and we were all thankfully spared from death by the straight roads of Rhode Island and Dread's snappy banter.

Ultimately, the weekend belonged to so many others, and this reflection is merely on my own experiences. Still, my largest takeaway is that, for now, there is still a sense of community in derby that goes beyond a sports league. So long as that survives, there's no need to fret too much about the future. The biggest gem from that weekend is that we're all still necessary to the growth of the sport. The divisive voices, regardless of their cheesy stances, ultimately know in their hearts they have a good thing. Only the truly blind or stupid have become blind to the virtues of sport and spectacle continuing on this road together. Catty, high school era gibes are just so much hissing and self-loathing. Equanimity is key.

There is no one who can't tell me this isn't wonderful:

Awesome.

Nightmare on 95: Day Two Epilogue or is Hayley Contagious Sandor Clegane?

2011-09-24T01:15:00.002-04:00

I am no "bro."

I'm taking a page from George R.R. Martin here and writing an epilogue to that last post. The writer behind the whole Game of Thrones series is notorious for packing a huge wallop of tension and action. His books are proof that genre fiction can be just as emotionally true as literary fiction, and his audience has grown beyond the stereotypical basement dwelling dork (of whom there are fewer than you imagine, a lot of "nerds" are damn cool). Many skaters I know have identified with certain houses found in Martin's fiction, or seem to fit into them almost too perfectly.

Here, we're dangerously close to LARP territory, but I am okay with that.
(original photo by Joe Medolo...who is amazing)

Anyway, Martin is a fan of epilogues, and so am I. The end of Day Two brought the merry band of Xena, Johnny Deep, Dread, Slack Kerowhack, Hayley Contagious, and me to the Paper Moon Diner. If you've never been, it is an eatery that is one part Tim Burton film, two parts Pee Wee's Playhouse.

Contrary to popular belief, this is not Plastik Patrik.

The decor itself was eye-catching and the staff were nice, although our waiter's poor enunciation made me feel like I was listening to the Dresden Dolls' Amanda Palmer singing the menu.

Toys, mannequins, and in a few seconds...a creepy Crash Daily

Not texting. Reading a menu...okay, texting.

It was here where we were introduced to the delicacies of bacon milkshakes and crab macaroni and cheese. "Baltimore has, bar-none, been one of the best cities for food," Johnny Deep said. "No meal was disappointing." I am inclined to agree. Of course, all meals are better with crass conversation, razzing each other over our home leagues, and Crash Daily appearing from behind a clown mannequin making a face that will follow me in my nightmares for years to come.

We ended the night sated, ready to engage in the last day of derby before heading home.

Nightmare on 95: Day Two - Land of a thousand interludes

2011-09-23T18:45:00.001-04:00

Miss the previous post? Go here.

For most, the day started with Carolina vs. Montreal. The action began for me not at the first bout, but as the New Skids' jam coach, the Rev, got ready for battle:

DECENCY!

Truly, the broadcast section was a cavern of wonders. Adding to the magic of the picture is that it appears The Rev's change of clothes was kept in a briefcase. Lady Oshun interviewed Beater Pan-Tease about the way Montreal had been training. I work with Lady Oshun all over North America; it was a pleasure to watch her deep in her craft next to a person who could look over her shoulder instead of right at her boob.

Sort of.

Montreal continued to excel. When it came to Maine vs. Boston, I was in the quality control seat, listening to newcomers Latenight Lyle and Mello Joe call the action. Sitting next to the two of them, writing notes and feedback, I got to see the game. Regardless of brackets, it was wonderful to see these New England teams duking it out on Day Two. Punchy O' Guts and Itsy Bitsy Fighter are very proud of their team. As they should be. Coming to the big dance after a long time being on the sidelines was a kick. Likewise, Boston was able to field new people in this big dance that didn't get play during the Charm City bout. Ginger Kid continues to impress and I hope to see big things from her in the next year. Stay healthy, sucker.

The folks behind the scenes worked their butts off like crazy and were able to tolerate me surprisingly well.

Speed Bump is on the case. Or ignoring me. Why not both?

Bout after bout, I rushed around the venue to make sure that people were doing all right, that our objectives were being met, and that my hair was still holding up. The last was vital to the other two, as I was also on camera interviewing folk. That part was just gravy, I was just there to help in any way I could so people could focus on what drew us all to the sport...

ACTION!

It was around our interview with Teflon Donna of Philly that I realized that I had forgotten a vital key to survival.


Reverend Al's microphone began to resemble a flame broiled hot dog.

Food would be necessary if I was expected to last the night. Thankfully, Pad Thai arrived for me before Double H and I called London vs. Boston, the last bout of the night. And what a bout it was. The sheer defensive power and track awareness of London was an impressive and surprising sight for the Massacre fans in the crowd and online, but the Massacre wasn't about to take it lying down. Here, the story of the bout unfolded beautifully for anyone with eyes, and Double H and I did our best to give the action justice. The victory was sweet. Sure, my "home team" lost, but this was the playoffs and my real team was bringing the action to everyone watching at home. Thus, huzzah!

Stomach rumbling, we interviewed the winners, said goodnight, and I left with my buds to consume something other than fallen skaters.

Nightmare on 95: Day One

2011-09-23T09:34:00.001-04:00

We arrived in Baltimore at 12:30AM. The GPS on Hayley's phone drove us through some of the less wholesome neighborhoods of Charm City as we made our way to the home of Xena Paradox. Xena, a former Boston Derby Dame and teammate of Dread, had stayed up late to let us into our home to crash for six hours before I made my way to the Du Burns Arena. Xena has often been pretty accommodating. Perhaps it's because we have known each other longer than she and Dread have skated. She's always willing to bend over backwards to help us out, and it's appreciated.

I prefer she not bend over backwards in this instance.

Borrowing Hayley's car, I traveled around the back roads of Baltimore to the arena with a mixture of anxiety and sheer excitement. This trip was a bit different than last year's East Region Playoff's insanity. Instead of showing up to call broadcast games for the Boston Derby Dames, I was there to wrangle, schedule, and manage the broadcast and live talent along with my homegirl Hymen Heaven. Good ol, Double H and the Association of Flat Track Derby Announcers (AFTDA) were charged with the task of elevating the level of the call on house and broadcasts. No big deal. And as AFTDA's Eastern Rep, I was tasked with jumping in and getting my hands dirty wrangling my fellow mouths. And to call some sweet derby action.

Du Burns is a decent enough venue. It's the home of Charm City, and a team running a tournament that they're also in can be a real stress on their performance. However, the DC roller girls came in and helped us out. AFTDA's point of contact with the hosts was Pants De Leon, pictured here providing everything we needed:

A living Avatar of Shakti, that woman.

Giving the early morning pep-talk to the troops was surreal. The announcers' locker room was, in fact, a locker room. In order to talk to eighteen people and meet everyone's eyes, I had to step into the showers. I felt like I was giving a pep-talk to Oswald Prison's football team. After a rousing speech by Double H, we tapped each other on the bottom and made our way out to the arena to call us some games.

Pictured: Our magic staging area

My first game of the day was Steel City vs. Montreal. Steel City beat them, and I still felt like I won. I predicted a Montreal win, but only because their victories had been piling on each other like so much rugby scrum. But Steel City, for whom I cheered most of the season, won out.

Most of the day was spent with Double H and the folks behind the scenes. We scheduled folks, did interviews on camera, and planned out our next day. We also fielded feedback from people all over the globe:

I will not transcribe the expletive-laden comments that were both full of praise and criticisms.
However, the word "fuck" is now meaningless to me.

I would detail how we handled the Dutchland forfeiture, but so many people have talked about it that this isn't news anymore. In between games, I stole away to kiss my wife and say hello to members of the derby nations that I hadn't seen in months. But the weekend didn't truly come alive for me until day two.

Coming up: More bouts, Boston peeps step up their game, and Pelvis and Double H manage.

Nightmares on Elm Street, we need to talk (or the danger of derby love).

2011-09-02T11:13:00.000-04:00

If you've read this blog for more than a couple of entries, you know that I'm the derby widower of the BDD skater, Dreadnought, and I announce in Boston and New Hampshire. New Hampshire Roller Derby (NHRD) is where I started spitting word bullets over the PA and the ladies of NHRD have never been anything less than kind to me. Because of that league-wide support, it's easy to call everything down the middle and bask in the glory of a league that, if it retains talent and pushes itself, can become a New England powerhouse. I take pride in having never, ever been accused of favoritism.

Then they came along...

Pictured: Trouble.

The Nightmares on Elm Street, NHRD's third home team, debuted earlier this season. Dressed in my favorite holiday's colors and rostering some of my favorite veterans and 2011 rookies was cruel enough, but a nod to 80s slasher flicks and the horrible denizens of Manchester that cruise the main drag made it difficult not to smile when they took the track. They were also were the first team to ever give me a free shirt. There's no denying it, this team was a derby home-wrecker.

My emotions have altered my memory of events, somewhat. I think the bear was actually black. I don't know.

Like all unhealthy relationships, there were warning signs. An almost three-minute-long introduction at their first bout made me realize the danger of a team that loves itself almost as much as it loves its fans (danger zone). But they were so good during their first game, I overlooked that misstep. And like all bad relationships, their self-indulgent swagger won them a place in my heart.

Make Out Bandit, what the heck, dude? (Photo from the Slam I Am Fan Club)

When I wore their t-shirt during the setup at Roller Consolation, I was called on it by almost every skater not on that team. "What the hell, Pelvis?" was the best reaction. Assuring those that it was not an expression of undying loyalty for a team that had only been playing together for a few months, I wound up getting a couple of other free shirts from other teams to wear that day. Wonderful, I thought, the arms race for my love had started. Thankfully, I wore red hot shorts that day and most people only remember that.

I left the tournament confident that I acquitted myself and would be ready to prove my impartiality at the last home team triple-header, where the Nightmares would attempt to win the K-Cup in NHRD's home team Championship bout. Their opponents were the Granite Skate Troopers, a team filled talent and power. I wore no team colors, made myself look fresh, and gave equal attention to everyone. Then, as though they knew I was trying to be good, the Nightmares skated out with this:

What. The. Hell.

Nightmares, you're that friend who knows your buddy finds you attractive, but knows he/she has to move on because it won't ever happen. However, once one tries to move on, you show up in a rocking outfit and flirt until your friend is back in your pocket. Maybe you don't mean to do it. No, you totally mean to do it. Thus, I have to state, for the record, I love you. You just have that look, as Roxette would say, that summons up that psychobilly excitement in me. You were tailor-made by cruel goddesses to tempt me away from doing my job correctly. But, it can never be more than just a nod and a wink. The other teams are just as groovy, and I think they're aces. In the end, you're just another team. And it's for the best I clear the air before the derby world goes all jealous girlfriend and accuses me of ill goings-on.

Is everyone else still reading? No? You're so cool.

Nuts out? Not quite

2011-08-22T09:16:00.000-04:00

For fans of the Nutcrackers, the last two seasons have been tough. After winning the Fez Cup in their first undefeated season, veterans retired, others left town, and some made the march into Massacre-only competition. 2010 was a building season for the Nuts, where they took on far more new talent than ever before. With a sea of new folks, the ladies in pink took on a veteran-heavy Wicked Pissahs and a more evenly-mixed Cosmonaughties in a season where the Nutcrackers didn't gain a single win in home-team competition.

It was a hard time, but the fans began to multiply. A year of defeat showed the team who was a fair-weather fan and who really gave a damn. Thus, when 2011 began, the amount of people in pink and black in the stands was both surprising and mind-blowing. Just a year back, some asinine dude wanted to beat up my boy Jared because he was wearing pink pants. We know this because Johnny Deep, my best friend in the whole world, heard the man shrieking, "PINK PANTS," and accusing Jared of being in love with "man genitalia." Yikes. This year, however, even my father had been wearing pink and black over his annoyingly chiseled physique as if to say, "yes, I love my daughter-in-law's team. I hope you are loud and stupid in my general direction."

Her father-in-law will beat you up if you boo. Or wear feathers.

With the exception of a couple of blowouts this year, the Nuts maintained pretty close scores against the Cosmos and Pissahs half the time. Being a Nut fan is like being a diehard Sox and Bruins fans. You cheer them even when they're losing...and when they win, you are unprepared. So when they beat the Cosmonaughties 168-80... people went nuts. As well they should. A Nutcracker win, if it happened, should have only been twenty or so points ahead. But no, they brought every tactic to bear and neutralized the Cosmonaughties.

Given my history with the two teams before I was an announcer, I love when they face off. Because calling it down the middle only means I get super-excited for every great play that either team made. But in the end, I made a vow to love, honor, and cherish (wait, I think something about fightin' and vengeance and all that in my vows...Scott? What was it again?) only one skater. Dread. So, as she ends her tenure as captain of the Nuts with a big win at the playoffs, the emotions are high. Seeing Dread ecstatic and crying was overwhelming to fans who only see her from the stands.

How did I feel?

Pretty good.

Photos here are by David Andrew Morris. I like him.

Roller Consolation happened

2011-08-18T08:52:00.000-04:00

Post-grad, the amount of time I have to do things that matter little to you readers or me has increased. However, the routine that kept me writing has been in flux. It's only been in the past week that I've nailed down my routine. Just in time to make my way to Provincetown for a much appreciated vacation. This has thrown some of that routine out of whack, as I'm not about to join a gym for just a week and doing pushups in front of my father-in-law is more awkward than I thought it would be ("Who are you showing off for?"). Thus, my calendar looks rather anemic.

Not listed: Feeding gobling medicine-laced treats and dipping her paw into a blue solution twice a day. I do that when she lets me...Why schedule it?

With time on my side, I decided to finish my article for Roller Derby Inside Track and put something up here before turning to my novel in progress. Oh crap, I mentioned that in type. Rather than delete it, I will tempt fate here as though I'm an expectant mother who just couldn't wait three months to tell everyone she's going to have a baby. Fingers crossed!

Back to roller derby widowhood. At the end of July, I had the pleasure of calling Roller Consolation 2011 in Manchester, New Hampshire. New Hampshire Roller Derby is where I got my start on the microphone, and that means I go to NHRD's bouts in my least favorite city in New England regularly to call bouts for the awesome people that somehow don't realize that 03109 is awful. JFK Coliseum is a wonderful oasis of cool attitudes, kind folks, and eye-catching competition. I was not alone on the microphone. Kevin UP and Thundadome were with me. The three of us called six bouts. SIX in one day. Highlights include:

The best game I've called to date with Kevin. The Boston B Party took on NHRD's Skate Free or Die. I've been traveling the east coast with the B Party, and NHRD games I rarely miss. Add that to Kevin's really sharp analysis, his knowledge of Boston's peeps, and letting down his hair, and we rocked it.
Banter with Thundy. When you get deaf old ladies to repeat your jokes and laugh a second time, you've done well.
Wearing hot shorts in the oven that is the announcer booth. It was important. Though the amount of questions Dread had to field about the contents of said shorts was both flattering and embarrassing (the former is my feeling, the latter is for my long-suffering wife).
Actual competition between teams. I hate blow-outs. We didn't really see many. Some contests were decided in one or two jams.
Dread skated sick. Which foreshadowed the playoff bout in Boston (next post, be patient).

Dread is popping out of a sea of pink to stomp some stuff.

I got to see Dread play in three games that day. The fact that she was fighting what would later be diagnosed as viral strep throat made this skating both phenomenal and, well, kind of annoying. Now that we've been involved with the sport for over four seasons, I've gotten used to that mixture of emotions. As a widow, you have to be. Your woman (or man, I see you, Filthy) is going to want to play more than anything. She's not getting paid to do this, which makes the emotional rewards all the more important. You can chastise your skater for being stupid, but ultimately they're going to do what they're going to do. The best thing to do at the moment is be happy, cheer (if you're not on the mic) and hope that she doesn't need to go the hospital right after she gets off the track. Derby Widowhood makes you a worrying mother.

At the after party, Dread and I switched rides home. She was able to leave early, and I was able to hang out with Hayley, some Boston folks, and all of NHRD. A good night and a reminder that derby gives you a constant chance to redefine, improve, and express yourself.

Howdy!

2011-08-02T08:02:00.000-04:00

It's been age. Why? Where have you been, Pelvis Costello? Did you quit roller derby in silence? Nay, my friends. I am still part of the world of flat track competition, though I'd be lying if I told you that my involvement's been at the level last seen in March.

I graduated from Bennington College in June. What a fantastic, if bittersweet, thirteen days it was, dear readers. While many of you were making your way to Feasterville, PA for ECDX 2011, I was preparing my commencement speech, giving a lecture about amoral protagonists, and reading one of the stories from my Derby Widows collection. Writers are often reserved, quiet people for whom public speaking can be more terrifying than it is to the average person (certainly a drunk sorority girl). However, years of hamming it up, coupled with over two years of announcing made it pretty easy.

You were at ECDX, I was graduating. You know, in my own way.

I miss Bennington. I miss that sense of community centered around something I love. Derby, however, allows me a cushion. The fact I have Dread no matter what is the real thumbs up. Still, writing is what I feel I was always meant to do, so I've stayed in the loop when it comes to readings, keeping in touch with my classmates, and actually typing out ideas that my brain poops.

Last weekend was Roller Consolation. I have a special place in my heart for Roller Consolation, and the ladies of NHRD. Additionally, seeing people from around New England (and other places -- Michigan, WTF?) with whom I've had too few encounters this year was a gas. Annie Cockeldoux, Blitzkrieg Blondie, and so many others made my night. It was also great to call with Thundadome and KevinUP for six bouts. Six. That's a lot. And I kept my voice, which was brilliant. The afterparty was a subdued affair at Jillian's. I spent the last hour of the evening driving Hayley Contagious' car back to my house while she slept in the passenger seat. It was heaven.

This week, we're gearing up for Boston's playoff doubleheader where I get to call with the Reverend Al Mighty, the boys, and LADY O! I'm also able to watch the playoff game which means I get to watch Dreadnought from the comfort of the crash pads on the floor. Which isn't really comfortable, but it's a fine place to hide.

Messages from the underground

2011-06-10T13:52:00.001-04:00

It's been three months since my fingers attempted to paint any sort of word pictures (or sloppy Photoshops) for you. I did not quit you, my sweet cowgirls and boys. I can't. However the last ninety days have been filled with strange toil and a bit of tragedy, which turned into one of those quests for inner truth that seem ill-suited for a mostly humorous blog about my misadventures as Dread's husband and as an announcer.

In March, shortly after I returned from the Wild West Showdown, my friend Adam died. Adam and I fled the Granite State where we were raised for many of the same reasons. We were looking for a place where we could live our lives on our own terms. Where I often compromised, Adam was a stubborn, brave, and beautiful man who did what he wanted. He also didn't lie. If you weren't worth his time, he wasn't going to bother with you. Thus, those of us whom he loved were showered with a sincere and amazingly positive attention one would reserve for only a few people. Adam, however, had many friends.

He also was really good with baby, plastic guitars.

Adam's death took the wind out of my sails in a way I didn't expect. We hadn't hung out in almost a year. Derby and grad school swallowed my soul, and Adam only got busier. We left voicemails for each other, which is odd as we are texters. Maybe it was a desire just to hear each other's voices. The loss, however, brought me to one of those moments of true introspection, and how some distractions had kept me from my own goals.

I traveled with the Boston B Party a bit this spring, which was awesome. I also got to work lights at the Shriners Circus. Johnny Deep and I both worked with some of the coolest older men on the planet while we shined lights on tigers (who hated it), monkeys (who didn't), and tumblers. There were also elephants. Mostly, there was a bunch of waiting for queues:

Lots and lots of this.

We all love the circus.

But the biggest pressure in life right now hasn't been my work on the mic, but my thesis. The dreaded final act of my grad school experience. It's 115 pages of my own fiction, a half-hour lecture on jerky protagonists, and a commencement speech. Yes, I'm one of the people speaking at my graduation. Weird.

And then there was this:

Enlarge it. That's my name.

I submitted a story, "Monster," to the Crazyhorse literary magazine as part of a contest. A week ago, I received congratulations from two of my friends for being a finalist. I wasn't sure if I believed them until they forwarded me the announcement. Holy hell. I am pretty darn proud of myself.

After a long, dark series of weeks, great things began happening in quick succession. I go into next week feeling blessed, recharged, and ready to rock the mic this Saturday.

Always hang in there.

Wild West Showdown Part Five: You Know How to Say Goodbye

2011-03-17T09:33:00.001-04:00

Valphonse Capone, Lady O and I said our goodbyes to those remaining at the Kitsap Fairgrounds at a leisurely pace. Being three of the people who had flown from across the country, it was important to determine who was going the last party and for whom this was the end of their journey and thus someone to say goodbye to properly. The exchange of pleasantries matters, people. However, it appeared to matter most to Val who successfully said goodbye to everyone at the venue...for an hour.

Goodbyes finalizes, we drove over to the roadside hotel hosting the after party. Within the hotel lobby, I finally saw the model of Mt. Rainier Val had scaled at the beginning of the weekend. The fact she'd been given permission to climb it and then yelled at by the same concierge in the hotel on Friday was why she had decided not to stay there. I love a woman that understands that contradicting statements call a service provider into question.

Regrettably, this is the closest we'll ever get to reliving that moment.

We followed the thumpa-thumpa bass beats down a hallway and a flight of stairs to the hotel's ballroom. A man wearing a black windbreaker and a trucker hat labeled "SECURITY" eyed us with a mixture of wonder and disgust as we walked in. It turned out he wasn't a derby dad wearing an ironic hat, but actual hotel security. With all the money that hotel made on us they should give the man a suit to wear. Dude deserves to look to fresh.

The DJ was on point; mixing the very recent beats with mainstays (on my iPod anyway) like "Atomic Dog" and Earth, Wind, and Fire. Is it the West Coast that has the best DJs? Or is it more the fact I live in Boston? It didn't matter. Things had taken a turn for Right-the-F-On.


Philly continues to bring that East Coast love to everything.

Seeing Philly at the after party was a dream come true. This was the equivalent of going to a European club, getting drinks, and then finding out that other Americans are there, not jerkwads, and easily understandable while you dance. You don't have to worry you are going to be put into a "specialist movie" at a hostel and instant camaraderie is flowing through you like cheap wine.

Sin City did pretty well with leg wrestling.

The dance floor was packed, and many of us who went to get water soon had to make due with the carpeted spaces surrounding the hard-top. It was no biggie, though. One of my favorite dance partners ~~of the weekend~~ of ALL TIME ~~was~~ is Mean Satine.

The 90s NYC Club Scene apparently lives on in the Pacific Northwest!

Watching Satine dance is hard to describe. It's more of an eqaution:

Incredible rhythm + yoga-enhanced mobility + outlandish attire = somebody who's ready to impress the crowd.

With her bringing the game's level up faster than a Nintendo cheat code, the rest of the announcers formed a circle and a dance battle ensued. Skaters quickly got involved, as did officials. Challenges were thrown down between dance squads from competing leagues. Denver broke out the double worm. Jet City answered it. Remember this fact, folks: The best way to nurse all bruised bodies and egos is to dance the wounds off.

A half second later and there was a circle of 30 people, because pervs are everywhere.

MoTown Philly is indeed back again.

Frenchie and Draggin

Shakin' it.

Since I started this series of posts, I have been asked what it is like to travel with Lady Oshun across the country, call games, and spend every waking hour together. It's like this:

EVERYWHERE WE GO. EVERYWHERE.

I had to throw the camera back in my pocket at this point, because just standing there every thirty seconds felt weird. Dancing with Justice, Clobber, Philly, and Rose City was the balm that soothed my aches and pains. Both of which were given to me by a rambunctious Draggin Lady who hip-checked, punched, and kicked me throughout the night's festivities. A knee pressing into one's sciatic nerve is predictably unpleasant. She had some steam to blow off. I get it. Should you come out for Eastern Regionals, Draggin, I'm sure you'll understand my needs, too. They're simple. I want to walk in the morning.

A huge round of applause should be given to Denver who brought it to the after party with awesome outfits and attitudes as well as a (mostly) synchronized dance to "Thriller." I have seen hundreds of drunks try this over the years. You, ladies, delivered.

At the end of the night, SECURITY(hat) allowed the DJ to play one more dance song, and the DJ played a long one. We danced the last bits of energy out of our bodies and went back to the hotel. Flopping into bed, Val, O, and I talked to one another until we all passed out with a synchronicity normally reserved for swimming routines. Wait, would that mean we would drown?

The next morning, we left our hotel and went to the Family Pancake House for breakfast, where we were once again confronted by the helium stand in its Pennywise cozy.

Damn it, Bremerton. Stop it.

We had to eat quickly in order to catch the ferry across the Puget Sound to Seattle. As we waited in line to board, a motorcyclist had dropped his wallet onto the street while rolling forward. No sooner had it happened than a seagull the size of Vespa landed next to it and picked the wallet up in its mouth. The biker jumped off his Honda and scared the bird enough to have it drop his wallet before it flew off.

In its defense, what would it do with a Discover Card?

Once on the ferry, the three of us stared out the window together, talking sparingly about little things (mainly how much we loved each other) and planning our next meet up.

Religious pop band in the works.

This looks pretty until you realize those posts are covered with pick-pockets.

Done.

We dropped Val off at the airport with a tearful goodbye before Lady O and I met my cousin and his wife downtown. Looking for a decent lunch spot, we were checking out the fish market's eateries when we heard, "FOUR LOKO, BITCHES!" Turning around, there was Junction City. Again. Those girls get around, I tell you what. We explained the story to my cousin ("s"? Is someone married to your cousin considered a cousin-in-law? Internet? Help?) of our daily run-ins with the carbonated booze peddlers from Utah and had a good laugh while looking over the Puget Sound one more time.

FAMILY!

After a few hours, I drove Lady O to the airport and shared a tearful goodbye before making my way to West Seattle for more family time. Lady O leaving days before me signaled two things about the trip. The first is that the Wild West Showdown was officially over. The second was without my announcing spouse keeping me grounded in what I loved about the sport, it underscored that Dread WASN'T with me and how necessary O had been to keep me from missing the missus.

Coming home late at night (thanks, Hayley!), I crawled into bed with my sleeping wife, held her close and tried to fall asleep before our dog wedged between us. I failed, but I didn't care.

Goodbye, Pacific Northwest. I leave you in capable hands:

If you want to see more shots from the Wild West Showdown, go here.
Feel free to use the pictures on your Facebook if you credit me taking them.

Love,

Pelvis

Wild West Showdown Part Four: Every day is like Sunday

2011-03-16T13:33:00.000-04:00

Resting on Chad.

After the previous night's derring-do, one could have finished the book on the Wild West Showdown and said, "that was a satisfying ending. Let's get back home with tales of derby wonder." But no, the Pants Off Dance Off was merely a howled prayer to the deities residing on Mount Skatelympus to give us more quad-wheeled combat the next day. And lo, that prayer was answered.

In the morning, Val Capone and I called a scrimmage that featured the very same ladies who threw the party the night before. This scrimmage was being recorded for WFTDA as it was a play-test of a "no minors" ruleset. If you're unfamiliar with roller derby, there are minor penalties and major ones. For efficiency's sake, just consider this equation: 4 minors = 1 major. Majors send one to the penalty box immediately. Removing the minors affected game-play and strategy (any track cut was a penalty, some forearms were just ignored) but the game was still roller derby. However, with only thirty minutes of play and the fact nothing was really at stake makes me wish they had gone a full two periods to simulate a real bout.

Denver continued their winning streak against Sacred City, and I called Jet City v. Philly with Miz Spydr. Philly was rested and battle-ready, and they took it to Jet with a fury seen only on nature shows, winning 185-68. This power animal thing is working. I think I need one. As Teflon Donna already has the one I'd choose, I guess I better go for a gibbon:

The gibbon is the loudest land mammal. I know you come here to learn.

Calling that game had taken a lot out of me and my voice so Randy Pan, Lady O and I went up into the beer garden to watch Santa Cruz take on Dockyard. Dockyard took an early lead, but Santa Cruz quickly recovered and blew Dockyard out of the water. The bout was better than coffee, as I repeatedly stood and screamed for Santa Cruz, especially for the jammer Lu Lu Lockaw, a regular reader of this blog. Seriously, I love watching up-and-coming teams. Sure it murdered my throat, but damn the West is exciting.

Look, I write and talk a lot of mess. The skaters are very much the reason we watch.
And if you're out West... Santa Cruz, suckas.

After the game, I sought out sustenance. The food truck was gone, but my hopes for eating well were unbroken. Juanito's Tacos set up shop by Track Two. If you're ever in the Bremerton area, eat there. Not only did they make a superior Carne Asada taco, they brought them over to announcers at the emcee tables. In turn, we praised them as masters of Mexican cuisine. Deciding to give them money for a change I waited my turn in line to buy their food. The owner's son, a boy of about twelve was taking my order when a meth-addled copy of Fred Durst cut the line and said, "Yo, Coke. Yo," while pointing both index fingers at the soda cooler.

Maybe it was him...

Before I could even say anything the kid looks at Meth Bizkit and says, "there's a line. Wait." The guy stared at him, likely in disbelief that his only option was Coca-Cola and not Faygo, and then walked away. After the young cashier's display of no-nonsense control, I would order tacos from Juanito's and request them to be delivered via mail just to give money to the family that raised such a fearless little man.

The final official game of the night, Rat City v. Philly was just tops. Philly seems to be the experts on two person walls and saving their points even with a full penalty box. Rat City, on the other hand, hit their stride in their last game. Playing offensively and penalty-killing worked in their favor and they came out ahead. Calling once more for the internet with Randy Pan, our joking died out before period two because of the sheer power of the bout.

Once it was done, the venue was closed to the public. Another coed scrimmage, featuring the finest skaters from OLY, Rat, and the best of the West fought long and hard in one of the most obscenity-laden bouts I have ever witnessed. If John Waters had directed Whip It, this game would have been the model for the final game in the movie.

While watching the event, Junction City donated a Four Loko to Lady O's "Gettin' Tore Up" fund.

Taste testing...

THIS IS GROSS!

Our final treat of the evening was the NSO bout. The NSHobos are the primary group of Non-Skating Officials in the Pacific Northwest. Many of them cannot skate worth a damn. While this was entertaining enough on its own, things took a turn for the weird:

The streakers returned, their dress-code was quickly adopted by the penalty box and those announcing the bout. The laws of physics, nature, and Bremerton quickly turning into soup of primordial chaos, I felt immediately foolish for believing the previous night's dancing would be the pinnacle of fun I'd experience.

Then came the last after party.

Tomorrow: Thriller! Philly! Thieving Sea Gulls! Yoga! And Goodbyes to the state.

Wild West Showdown Part Three: Everybody dance like your booty's out yo' pants

2011-03-15T10:42:00.006-04:00

The Saturday morning sun reflected off the arrows' fletching beautifully. Lady O and I were ready to face our second day of Wild West Showdown madness. O was scheduled for the first bout of the day (ten in the morning), which meant there was time to neither dilly nor dally. We hopped into the car and made our way over to the venue with an hour to spare. My stomach rumbling, I headed to a trusted friend of the fairground goer, the food truck.

Like this one, except not being driven by a longhaired dude referring to himself as "the Jewish Cowboy."

My friends inside cooked me up biscuits and gravy with bacon on the side. Cost? Three dollars. Taste? Pretty damn good. I ate my breakfast watching Lady O call with Joe Mama on Track Three. Their game? The InvAsian vs. Femme Fianna. It was awesome to see the Asian team's roster, especially because Rice Rocket was rocking the jammer line. That's another bonus of these tournaments. You never know who is going to show.

Joe Mama's jokes were funny and I can't repeat them.

The day continued to roar on. I called with Magic Pony Power Hour on Track Three. We had no team rosters, so a lot of it was trial and error, but we did it! And by the end of that half-hour, almost everyone's name was said correctly.

My biggest gift of the morning was seeing the Coed Cripplers in action. It was in that bout I got to see Val Capone, B Train, Justice Feelgood Marshal, and Quadzilla up on the track as teammates. This was a rare treat, like a dog being able to steal a steak off his owner's plate. I was completely enthralled and with the sweet moves, hits and boutfits that made me twirl my ring around my finger lest I become the type of lech that calls Providence bouts every month while wearing a fringed jacket over my shirtless torso.

Internet creeps, you're welcome!

That night, Rose City took on Philly. With Elle Viento, Fists, and other vets back home, the Liberty Belles were showcasing five new players. I called the game with Draggin Lady, and our words were thrown across the wireless internet and into homes across the country (in Canada, they were politely handed to our viewers). Philly held their own, but the Rose City machine is racking people up and knocking them down. SmackYa Sideways, Cadillac, Acid, and White Flight shake my world. Scratcher in the Eye just demolishes it with sheer power. During my commentary, I was receiving texts from Dumptruck, Reverend Al, and skaters from back east who gave me words of encouragement like, "you're a clown," and "you mind if I date Dread while you're gone?"

RAR

The end of the night came with a bang and it was time for THE after party event. The Vagine Regime were hosting the "Pants Off Dance Off" party at a local bar in Bremerton. My outfit had been decided before I left Boston. We arrived at the Naval Bar known as "The Horse and Cow," and navigated the congested parking lot out back until we found a space. The local police rolled past the pub in twenty second intervals. I felt as though I were the sea turtle in the main tank of the New England Aquarium surrounded by sharks with badges. They weren't about to bite me, but they wanted me to know they were there. No matter. After showing my ID to the doorman, Lady O and I got in and got ready to dance!

Party time.

Rejecting the premise of East Coast v. West Coast play on the track, I do see that the West Coast is ready to throw down at the party harder than the Northeast does. Being one of the exceptions to that statement, it was nice to get out and not feel like I was hanging out at a WASPy wedding reception. People were ready to shake their booties and throw themselves into the Satyr-like atmosphere with the type of abandon that you enjoyed in our youth. To symbolize that, I came wearing a boutfit worthy of the party:

We were missing our Michaelangelo.

I rarely need to drink, and being the designated driver was actually the best thing for me because dancing in a cable-knit sweater can get hot. Drinking liquor would have been a recipe for hangover city anyway. Sans pants, however, I was very comfy. While out on the floor, I ran into Val Capone who had found something under foot that deserved more care.

Trampling this 'zine was heck of sad.

While HELLARAD was banned from the venue, it was all over the town of Bremerton. I imagine the citzenry had a great read about the effectiveness of adult diapers, derby, and Dumptruck's defense of the free-range announcer while they were cleaning up after us. I know I did.

Clobbs says hello, Boston!

The strangest thing that happened at the 'Dance Off came after finally meeting Chrome Molly of the Southern Oregon roller girls after months of mutual admiration on the DNN site. We danced and chatted before finally realizing who one another was, and I was excited to hear that her boyfriend listens for me on web casts. Thanks for listening, dude!

Nothing better than meeting the lady that got you votes on the West Coast! Love to Chrome Molly forever!

Shortly after we said hi, a skater came up to me and had this exchange:

Skater: So, is being here weird now that you're flying solo?

Me: Oh, I'm not! Lady O is right over there!

Skater: Crazy! You mean, you and her--?

Me: No, I .... (finally gets it) Oh, No...I'm still married to Dread.

Skater: Cool! (The skater, Chrome Molly and I go back to dancing)

Later on, a ref came up and asked how my divorce was going. Explaining that I was not getting divorced, he excused himself and said, "I have to go stop someone from making an ass of herself."

So yeah. Still married. But thanks. You made me blush through my turtle mask. Dread found the story funny, as I never get people are actually talking about that stuff until I almost walk into trouble. I'm the Forrest Gump of the romantic world, or the pretty girl who's all like "sure you can rub my back," before realizing it's probably not the best thing.

The night ended with me shouting at a gothy skater out my car window. "This is your weekend, honey! You rock it!" She thanked me. I realized that I just shouted to a lady out of a window.

I am a buffoon.

Wild West Showdown Part Two: The action begins and Pelvis makes a party foul

2011-03-14T22:33:00.000-04:00

After taking a moment to appreciate the archery skills of our neighbors, Lady O and I did our hair, threw on some decent clothes, and made our way to the venue to meet up with Draggin Lady and Mike Chexx, the Rose City announcers with whom we've worked the most, and the two in charge of announcer wranglin' that weekend. My GPS, left overnight in the car, refused to work. We left our hotel with printed out directions and they were fantastic. We arrived within fifteen minutes.

The Fairgrounds were nice. Three tracks had been set up for derby action. Track One and Two were in the main building, and they were for sanctioned play. Track Three, which was in a smaller building a mere 300 feet away, hosted the various challenge bouts. We were excited as hell.

Going away on a tournament weekend and reconnecting with your friends from around the country is a lot like summer camp, or so I'm told. The nearest thing I can compare it to is my own grad school experience. Whenever I arrive on the Bennington Campus, I'm nigh orgasmic at the sight of other writers with whom I share a sense of common passion, interests, and favorite scribes. Being with the mouths of derby, I get the same sense of common passion and interests, but instead of moments of introspection, we're often getting louder than IEDS.

Val Capone explains the proper way to project on a live call starts with a split.

My first bout of the day was calling Sin City v. Slaughter County with the latter's own announcer .00 Buck. Buck was a great host on the mic, and though we had to mad dash for rosters a few minutes beforehand, he was unflappable. It's good to be taut in these situations. We called the game, and at half-time I took a quick photo of myself to say hi to Dread.

Hey, Sexy pants!

If you saw the game, you know that Slaughter County's jammers were fantabulous. With time before the big Denver v. Rose City bout, Lady O and I went over to Track Three to see Quadzilla and the Puget Sound Outcasts play. The man's a skating machine. Hell, his whole crew is impressive, but if I hear one more lazy, pot-bellied dude talk about guys being unable to skate with the same grace and watchable style as the women-folk I'll...still stare at said pot-belly and think the same things I always do. Simply put: Quadzilla is amazing.

Puget Sound has the speed to give you what you need.

When the big game of the evening came, I hustled my way to Track One. Lady O was calling for the people watching on the internets, so the beautiful lady voice that massaged my ears with play-by-play goodness was Randy Pan's. The bout was so amazing, like watching a political debate suddenly turn into a Jerry Springer slapfight. The lead changes, the huge plays, the screaming fans...I was on constant overload. When the score was finalized (Denver 112, Rose City 98), I was thanking every god I could remember for giving me the chance to go to this tourney.

Stop Motion won't help you. This was not a slow game, even in the sense that made you boo all 2009 long.

Lady O did some awesome post-day wrap-up in "The Penalty Box." She was clever enough to make me stifle a laugh and I had to just marvel about the amount of insight she has about West Coast play that I could later steal and appropriate as my own opinion. That's what derby marriage is for.

Lady O's "Biggie vs. Tupac" comparison about derby enthralls the boys.

Back at the hotel, we were unwilling to go to bed right away. We went to the on-premises bar that was now packed with leagues and officials. I bought a drink, went over to say hi to the karaoke DJ, and promptly spilled my drink all over his deck. A panicked run to the bartender got us the necessary towels. Mortified, I sat down to lay low until we left the bar.

PELVIS IS SO SMOOTH!

However, the DJ was cool about it, ribbing me only a few times, and it didn't stop Lady O and I from singing anyway. If you were there and tipped him, thank you.

Before we called it a night, we met Power Jammers fans from UTAH, The Junction City Roller Dolls! As they are from the state of the Big Salt Lake, their alcohol is not as strong as ours. Imagine Bruce Banner is a UTAH beer. It's 3%, if that. Now, bring these skaters to a place where that beer gets angry and turns into the banned Four Loko. This = a cost-efficient way for them to get the type of screamy-laughy drunk they may not have had elsewhere.

SCREAMING TIMES!

The ladies were nice, full of energy, and didn't show any sign of slowing down or paying for their mind-blowing intake. As the weekend went on, they were indeed the front-runners of the marathon of partying that so many joined in on as the weekend wore on.

Happy and exhausted, we went to bed without any significant hoarseness and prepared for the second day.

NEXT: MORE BOUTS! MORE FOLKS! NINJA TURTLES SWEATERS!

Wild West Showdown Part One: Goin' Out West

2011-03-13T10:26:00.000-04:00

"We're experiencing some turbulence and ask that you remain calm," the pilot said via the intercom. "Up in the cabin, we think it's pretty fun."

For the first fifteen seconds, I agreed. The view of the clouds above St. Louis, MO lost none of its charm as the overhead compartment rattled with each mini-bump the plane hit. I had eaten a snack, been served a Coke Zero by a flight attendant who looked a lot like Julianne Moore, and just finished Jennifer Egan's A Visit From the Goon Squad (procure this book and read it). Had Dread been with me, I'd have been gritting my teeth as she crushed my hands to cope with her fear of flight. Relishing my mitts uninterrupted blood circulation, I was loving the ride.

Then the woman to my left slumped over and onto me. Minutes before this, my seat neighbor told me she'd taken a Xanax prior to boarding so she could sleep all the way to Seattle. The turbulence had shifted her now-unconscious body to the right and my bony shoulder was her new pillow. An elbow moved her without her waking up. I was resolved not to complain much that weekend. I was headed to the Wild West Showdown!

Southwest Airlines: gremlin free since 2011!

Arriving in Seattle, I was greeted with the rainy weather for which the beautiful Rat City is known. My dearest aunt, Patricia, picked me up from the airport for a quick lunch and then brought me to her house to retrieve the car that Lady O and I would use on our trip. Kissing my aunt on the cheek, I left her house with alacrity and went back to the airport to pick up my announcin' spouse.

True.

A word on the Pacific Northwest's highways for those who have never been there: They suck. Most of the smaller highways have NO NUMBERS on them. There's also places where an off-ramp is for THREE different exits. Given the pouring rain, you may miss your exit. Fifteen minutes from our destination, we almost missed ours. I was able to get onto the exit 100 feet before I'd have to wait until God Knows when to turn around. Then Lady O and I were pulled over, threatened with a thousand dollar ticket for reasons that our police officer friends and lawyer relatives have since dispelled as "bunk" and sent on our way. Honestly, I am grateful we received a warning, even if it was all BS. We arrived in Bremerton, WA at 7PM PST. We made our way past the shipyards, juggalos and different roadside inns to our home-away-from-home, The Oyster Bay Inn.

Home for the next five days.

The staff of the Oyster Bay Inn were exceptionally kind. The concierge was ready to do anything for us, including moving Lady O and I to a new room when our first room's heater blew cold air and the refrigerator was both on and blowing hot air. Was there a disgruntled HVAC worker in this quiet town? We'll never know.

There was a bar in our hotel, reminiscent of the Chinatown bars in 80s action films where Steven Seagall would fight Yakuza for whatever reason was hot at the time (Asian confusion, sadly, still plagues most Americans to this day). There were only six hotel guests in the bar that Thursday. We met Stu Pidasso and Bruce, referees from Utah's leagues, along with a truck driver from Eugene, Oregon (who bought us drinks!) and the town's local band leader, Willy. Never passing up an opportunity to get on a microphone, O and I sang karaoke at the other four patrons and the three staff until it was time for bed.

Our room had a quaint porch that looked over the bay. The next morning, I went out to enjoy the view while Lady O beat her face in the mirror. Nature was happening. I loved it. Then I saw something that reminded me we were no longer in Boston.

"LADY O! LADY O! LOOK!"

They hunt trees from porches out here.

I grew up in a hick town, but this...this was some Crystal Lake type of shenanigans.

Tomorrow: Day One of the Wild West Showdown! Meeting the folks! Awesome games! Dancing! Derby Skinz! Be there!

Gender Bending? Widowers wearing their girls "team jacket"

2011-03-03T16:48:00.000-05:00

In the United States, it's pretty common to see young ladies wearing their boyfriend's sports jacket, or team jersey either around town or to pass through a crowded living room of roommates to get ice cream before retreating back into her boyfriend's room. Before roller derby entered my life, after my days of being a fabulous Drag Princess, I normally borrowed just Dread's shoes:

Fabulous!

However, the flat-and-banked track revolution has seen the rise of widows with the Y chromosome sporting team t-shirts, merch, and sometimes their own lady friend's jersey at bouts. The more conservative, but nevertheless die-hard will wear shirts with names printed on the back like "Mr. Splatter," "Lady Shatterly's Lover," or "Philzie." Widows of the same-sex as their partners are often in on this, too, but for those in a heterosexual relationship (Tab Wang into Slot Vay Jammy) a man exhibiting this behavior is a pretty recent phenomenon. We just think it's old hat because we have forgotten that derby hasn't been around that long.

Pictured: Older than modern derby but damn cute.

It's a tradition I hope will never die.

Hey, this came from my blog. Google searches love me.

The coolest thing about this is that it shows a real outpouring of love, support, and even parents get into it. Poppa Feevs, Boston's original hardcore daddy is a fixture. But as we pull fans from the families of volunteers and officials, will this tradition continue?

Wait.

What.

HA.

I am a little upset he didn't come as Dread, though.

Kidding aside, gentlemen I support your support. Now walk to your girlfriend's fridge in her women's size tiny tee and get yourself a Fanta. Don't worry about putting on pants, it was okay when she did it in your dodgeball team's shirt.

The Heartbreakers Ball

2011-02-15T11:04:00.000-05:00

Last week was filled with a lot of non-derby issues that I don't want to go into, so it was a good thing that Johnny Deep and I decided to make our way to NHRD's Heartbreakers Ball. The theme of the evening had been a Pajama Jammy Jam. Desperate to shake my ass to Kid N' Play's "Ain't Gonna Hurt Nobody," Johnny and I set out from my house with such quickness that we had to eat at Wendy's or risk Mr. Deep falling into diabetic shock. It's real, I've seen it, and the first sign is he's really mean. Like James Woods at the beach finding out his boat drink has sand in it mean.

Take it back. Now. If there's anything in it when you return, you're crab food.

The issue with going to fast food joints is that we both don't really like the food, but it's supposed to be fast. As Johnny had no cash (it's the 21st Century, so I know it's more common than I'd like) we had to go inside, at which point we are met with a line of twenty high school basketball players. All ordering the same thing, all claiming it was wrong. My hatred of delays and incompetence well-documented, I almost stroke out. In trying to avoid an appearance of seaside James Woods, I became him.

After arriving in Manchester, we ran into the party prepared to dance. I changed into my pajamas at the sign-in table. Meaning that I pulled my pants off and went in to the party in my underpants and a hat. Johnny, ever the man of action, also wore his pajamas (AKA his clothes). Johnny has been getting smoother and the beard he's grown for the winter seems to be having a positive effect on the ladies. I think it's because he looks like a Doobie Brother.

Michael McDonald gets all the ladies.

Once I entered the function room, I was ready to take that dancefloor. However, the duo playing acoustic guitar and bongos that had taken over the wooden floor were our primary source of music. Hmm. I expected to shake my ass, not chill and listen to covers of "Hey Jealousy" or the Bon Jovi catalogue. Do I think they were talented? Yeah, sure. And people did seem to dig their stuff. That's cool. However, the breaks in their set invited us to the floor where we danced as though our next fifteen minutes depended on it.

ROCK THIS NOW. BECAUSE THE JOVI IS COMING BACK!

Awesome times.

Ultimately, the Ball is about community. It's a kickoff of the new season for NHRD, and I dig seeing people, even if I can't dance. Currently I have sciatica so it's likely the bongo band did me a favor. The advantage of the floor being denied to us was that I got to talk to the new freshies, reconnect to the old guard, and pose for pictures that aren't scandalous so much as a reminder that the gym has missed me.

A wizard is eating my hat!

Can't wait for the season to begin.

BDD Teaming Scrimmage Two: The New Batch

2011-02-06T08:52:00.001-05:00

Last week, I traveled to Holbrook to watch the fresh meat of the Boston Derby Dames duke it out the eleven or so open spots on the home teams. I made my annual trek to this scrimmage because it's the finest time to start acquainting myself with the names and numbers I'll be shouting out over the PA for the entire season.

Due to the lack of parking around my favorite sandwich shop, Dread and I drove down to Holbrook early, ate at Five Guys Burgers, and then built a welcome sign for the gladiatrixes who had come to compete.

MEAT

This was our second attempt at snow sculptures that weekend. I believe I did better the previous day when I built a special wizard to greet my in-laws to enjoy when they had their morning coffee facing the porch:

SHAZAM!

The scrimmage itself is also amazing because of the non-skaters who choose to watch this moment. The Prince Of Paine, Lady Oshun, and I were joined by Thunderdome. Also present was the now veteran widower Mr. Splatter, Tommy (he's a wizard of pinball, I think), and Chris.


Thundy is still reacting from my comment about lil ladies with no chins loving big, husky lovers.							.

Mr. Splatter is back, paying widow love forward.

Noticeably absent from this year's scrimmage were any soon-to-be widows of our freshmeat. Bronco of CMRD was there to cheer on Belle Air Bomber, who is now a Nutcracker, but no dudes or ladies who frequently rubbed shoulders and whispered words of encouragement to their sweeties before and after every practice that led up to this moment. It's a noticeable, if regrettable change.

A lot had changed from the previous season. Compared to this year's tryouts, last year's teaming scrimmage more closely resembled earlier days of the league. The playing field has become rockier. Many of the ladies unpicked were at a skating level higher than the starting skill of some of our most celebrated veterans. Watching this scrimmage, I was blown away by the athleticism of almost everyone. Heart is an important thing, and these ladies had more of them than an illegal organ harvester at a shady hotel.

My dear friends, Dr. Pepper Spray and Farmer Geddon had taken over the fresh meat momma(s) position from Dread this year. Now that Dread's co-captain of the Nutcrackers, she could no longer go through the bittersweet shepherding of the potential new recruits as she'd be the one selecting folks for her team. It's a bizarre wheel that turns in Holbrook.

The competition that night, and its aftermath, cleared most of the stink of that horrid rink from my nostrils. The next morning, watching the freshies change their Facebook pictures to their team logos was a real kick. A reminder that the season has started up again, we've got some new blood that will reinvigorate the ladies before the Shriners open their doors, and that we're out to set new records. Though the sport changes in some ways, though thank the gods for the positive attitudes of the new blood, steadfast veterans who haven't lost a sense of teamwork and community, and teams like Montreal:

Looking forward to seeing y'all soon.

While I've been away.

2011-01-24T17:17:00.000-05:00

Greetings, derby world. How are you? You're looking pretty good. I assume you've been working out in the off-season. It's been a pretty good off-season. During that time, I've been able to re-commit to fiction, hang out with folks, and be voted third-best announcer on DNN.

So there are a 107 people who were on the computer during Christmas that like me... whoa.

First, thank you to everyone who voted. It was a really humbling thing to read over the Christmas break. Starting out as a fiance, then becoming a mascot, and finally becoming an announcer was a weird evolution, but like so many skaters trading in their fishnets for spandex leggings, it was an organic one.

I gave you a rundown of the things I loved about the previous season a month ago. Now, I want to let you know that a lot is going to go on during 2011.

Thanks to Dread, the podcast will be sounding more fresh than ever. We have a new 4-track that will allow us to mic up the treehouse just right. You will love our voices, even if Johnny Deep is still a mime.

Next, Boston's season starts on February 26th! It has been months since I have called a game with Lady Oshun, so I am really excited to get back on the PA at Shriners with her. And with Montreal coming down to take on our dear sweet Massacre, that means we will get a game that's definitely worth calling.

That very next week, I'll be out in Washington State for the WildWest Showdown! It's my first tournament without Dread. I feel kind of weird not being with my missus, but Lady O, my announcin' spouse will be with me. Thus, we have won a battle.

I will still update here from time to time, but it's also going to take a backseat to my thesis, which is due in June. Things will be rocking, but I will not forsake you.

Happy Birthday, Dreadnought

2010-12-15T08:03:00.000-05:00

As of midnight, Dreadnought is now thirty-two. Roller Derby has been in our life for over three years. Since she was freshmeat, the ladies of the Boston Derby Dames and other New England leagues have assembled at either our home or rented out dancehalls to celebrate the passing of another year of Dread's life.

This year's celebration was held early. Unlike last year, there was no piñata.

Elmo demanded tickles from the wrong lady.

Yes, Muppet slaughter was the highlight of 2009's party. Dread's battle axe cleaved Elmo, and much of the candy, in twain. Aware that we would have twice the people over as last year, the concept of swinging around Medieval weaponry was terrifying. We opted for another option with the same level of mayhem: Tree House Karaoke!

Hayley Contagious was the first to arrive, and helped me set up the party decorations and to test out the sound system. After "Allentown," "Aces High," and other karaoke staples we were raring to go. Our new apartment is larger than our previous one. However, I quickly discovered many of our friends are much like tigers raised in captivity. Open the cage door and they still cling to smaller environs for security.

On a special Meerkat Manor, BDD and NHRD invade my loft.

The loft in our treehouse is where I get most of my writing done. Typically, I'm the only one up there. However, from the start of the party to the end of the night, it had no fewer than seven people up there at any time. At one point, we had an entire team-load of skaters up there, singing along with Dread and Farmer Geddon to "Jackson." I'd upload the video, but it would melt your face.

Reverend Al, Chum Chum, Sticky, and our Dear Dr. Pepper Spray kept the jams going. Hayley and Dee kept reminding us they were ear delicious. Not to be upstaged, my erstwhile partner in crime, Johnny Deep, took the microphone. "All right," he said. "Things are way too upbeat. Time for 50 CCs of melancholy."

Without missing a beat, he launched into "Sailing."

Leave it to Johnny Deep to break out Christopher Cross.

And. It. Was. Amazing.

I hate that song, I hate it. But under the auspices of Dread's birthday, Johnny's dead-on Christopher Cross left the party speechless. The sheer talent and fearlessness on display from all of the members of New England Roller Derby in attendance was staggering.

Chopper and Pep-Pep hold it down.

The Commodores brings out the animal in the Prince.

Goblin is a fine pillow.

A derby's eye view.

As the night wore on, and nearly everyone had a turn to either murder or massage their fellow guests' inner ear canals, Dread was overcome with the love and support of so many people with whom she had shared the track and long car-trips to away games with over her derby career. Those who couldn't make it were missed, but those who answered the call kept the night roaring.

Malicen Thunderland helped me hit the high notes of "Run to the Hills." Moody and Crowbar joined the chorus of folks who sang along to Bender's rendition of "Fairytale in New York," and current Massacre coach, Lil' Paine and I discussed arson and Vlad the Impaler. Good times.

The party was closed down by Dee, Eric, Nick, Hayley, Mike, and the hosts singing until 2:30AM. The next day, my voice was fine. Perhaps that book Lady O gave me is helping after all.

Today, on the actual anniversary of Dreadnought escaping the womb and racing into the world, I feel lucky. She is my light, my best friend, and marrying her is my greatest accomplishment to date. If you think that's sad, it's likely you have a lonely existence and I am laughing at you.

Happy Birthday, darling. I love you.

Pictured here: Fate.

Thanksgiving Post

2010-11-25T10:00:00.001-05:00

The season's behind us. It's over. After today's feast, many of us have several more days of family time, resting our bruised bodies (vocal cords, minds, a few egos), and looking forward to the next season, and what's coming around turn one of 2011. With respect to the holiday, I wanted to talk about what moments I was most thankful for this season.

Before we start, however, I googled "Turkey in Rollerskates" for this entry. Here are two images from the first page of thumbnails:

The turkey seems to be at least anticipating a roller disco. The lady, though, just has her boobies out. What the hell, internet?

I tend to give you all the most positive, funny moments of roller derby because there's already plenty of things to whine and complain about out there. To have roller derby in your life means you are part of a very passionate community. It's like being part of an immense extended family. Occasionally, you're in the room with your arsonist cousin, or your ridiculously vain aunt who can never seem to see the hairy, red mole on her cheek. You grin and bear it, wish them well and look for the relatives you want to talk to before you head home. It's life. Not everyone has to get along. Nor should we. Let us celebrate what goes right. So, in the spirit of showing off our brightest colors, here's what I've loved this year.

Sunday afternoon cooldowns w/ the Paines

From the start of the season until June, this was derby sacrament. Lil Paine and the Prince (aka The Kid, AKA Prince of Paine, etc) would get together with Dread and I after a bout to decompress and hang around. It was something that I always looked forward to, and though time and other aspects of life got in the way, I hope it will return.

Power Jammers

Powerjammers.net, the podcast I do with Solo, Johnny Deep, Lady O and Three-Day Bender really started to take shape this year. We recorded thirty-eight podcasts. Hell, because of our prodding, we got NHRD and GMDD to play a rematch at the end of the year. Unfortunately, it was during the BDD playoffs and we couldn't go! The site's getting an overhaul, and we're stepping up our game for the next season. The market's flooding, and we want to expand.

ECDX, Regionals, and Championships

Wow. Yes, I called at 2009 Nationals, but ECDX allowed me to get to know (and learn to love) so many people from all over the world. Hell, I talked about these experiences in this blog before. Still, it's good to know that there are so many people out there who are friendly, kind, and not so stuck up their own bums to shed their pretentious "game faces" and have fun.

I am on teh WEBZ!

Regionals, being able to call with "old" friends made months prior, was a dream come true. I can't wait to do more of it.

Bout Production

This one's bittersweet. To take on a job like this and build a process by which future heads will go by (or toss aside like so much "whatevs") was a huge challenge. Bully, Chris and I took it on, took a few hits in popularity at times, but people were mostly really happy with us. There are people that got hurt, which really makes me feel awful, but in the end we left it better than we found it. Personally, I'm glad to be rid of it, but man did we do some pretty cool things.

Travel

As a writer, I love to experience everything I can, so traveling the country to see this sport has been rewarding. Meeting people around town that had nothing to with derby is always neat. For example, I neglected to mention in my last post was that an older waitress in Chicago fell in love with me and was excited that I ate all of my biscuits and gravy. The Splatters and Dread teased me, but I believe that she was getting a contact high from all my gratitude and good manners.

Announcing

I have been a mascot, a security guard, lighting guy, volunteer (and then bout) coordinator, but the best job in this sport is announcing. Also, it's something that I get better at every time I get on the microphone. My best work, I feel, was during Regionals. Why? Because I stuck to the game and did more play-by-play than ever and I was still funny. And a special thank you to everyone at the Derby News Network who gave me opportunities to make my Dad proud. Thank you.

Calling with Reverend Al, Lady O, Dumptruck, and so many GREAT people only makes me want to work harder. Which brings me to this:

Lady O and the Reverend Al Mighty

There's a lot of things in life I'm thankful for, and the two of them are on the level of my favorite writers and professors.

I have no small amount of love for Lady Oshun, without whom I am adrift on the PA systems of New England. Her thunderous, smooth voice casts out the greatest team introductions I have ever heard. Other announcers have remarked to feeling chills when hearing her summon Boston's skaters to the track. I have never gotten over the novelty of her ability, willingness to exceed her own expectations, and to put her all into everything we do. She inspires me not to just be a better emcee, but a better man.

Jim Henson's creature shop created the "Pelvis Costello" Muppet to say the things Lady O doesn't care to.

Truly, I am blessed to know her and call her my friend and partner. By partner, I mean it in the sense your grandfather thinks of before realizing you mean "lover." Our platonic lovefest is one for the ages.

Of course, where would I be without the Reverend Al? Likely, I'd still be a chimpanzee shouting and leaping for the Cosmonaughties. He may have saved my knees from further damage, but at the cost of all of your ears. That suits me fine. Over the past few years, the two of us have become very good friends. He's one of the wisest, kindest men you could meet. What may surprise you, is how much he is willing to share the microphone, his food, bronzer, whatever you need. Reverend Al is the best roommate I have ever had, outside of Dread, for any road trip, and I will always be grateful to him for telling me to ditch the fur for announcing.

And he was a barbarian for my birthday!

Dreadnought's everything

Announcing is my job in derby. My reason for being here, what really gets me excited, is watching Dread play. Watching her come along, improve with every game, and give this sport her everything is what made me get involved in the first place. From her starting point to now, she's become a real force on and off the track. Now, she's going to be the Nuts' 2011 co-captain. Hard work pays off, people.

It's my height that causes women to hold me like a rockabilly lapdog.

Dread is my muse, my confidant, and my wife. She's also my best friend. More importantly, she is my favorite player.

2011 has a tough act to follow.

2010 Nationals - An efficient, if late recap of my favorite moments

2010-11-21T10:29:00.001-05:00

Hello folks, it’s been a while. In the two weeks since the 2010 Championships, I’ve been busy writing new short stories, assuring graduate school I have not forgotten it, and teaching the dog how to cook Lamb Vindaloo. I’ve been so busy, that I neglected to post any entries about my time in Chicago with the fantastic ladies and gentlemen of WFTDA, particularly those I favor more than some of my own family. Thankfully, Dreadnought has posted a day-by-day breakdown on the Roller Derby Quilt blog about her own experiences. I endorse them, even though I feel I come off a bit “Lindsay Lohan, age 18” in them. I didn’t party all night, folks, I just started my celebration of the coming dawn at 9PM.

Chicago’s influence is still felt in my household. Yes, Uproar on the Lakeshore brought my larynx’s range inevitably closer the Dumptruck/Rev Al markers on my handy scale of vocal health.

Bruce Dickinson is only higher up on the scale because it also is a sub-chart of awesomeness.

The trip’s assault on the velvety-throat of Pelvis was a cunning one. Put me in a hotel with Salome Splatter, her gentleman suitor, Dread, and my dear friends from around the country and there is no way I cannot shut up. Add the volume of other motor-mouths, great derby, and awesome topics, and my voice was doomed. So doomed that I could not sing at the karaoke bar on Saturday night.

Given time away from this blog, I was thinking how to best cover as much of the action without giving you three, extremely late, recaps. So, I’ve decided to give you some photos that underscore why this weekend was so amazing.

Although I took no photos of the first night in Chicago, I want to point out that there is nothing finer than drinking with Mike Chexx, Mz. Spydr, and the ladies of Rose City before the start of a tournament. It was great to catch-up, kick back, and greet my roommates who had to fly in later than Dread and me with a drink in my hand and a song in my heart.

Then there was this:

Who really lost the bet? Seriously.

Dumptruck was calling the first bout of the tournament for DNN. The Texecutioners vs. Bay Area was something I had been looking forward to more than anyone else I'd traveled with, and it isn't because of my unappreciated love of Demanda Riot (come on guys, all that ability and being one of the Uruk-Hai? You're the weird ones.). Bay Area's recent uptick in the ratings had me hoping they would win. Hell, Dumptruck was sporting the gold after losing his bet at Westerns in which he believed Denver would knock them out of the running. Even though Texas won against BAD, and by Thor they were excellent, we were treated to the Bay Area D-Bags in all their glory.

Yes. Roller Derby.

The games were excellent. Even with a couple of blowouts, the gameplay was fantastic. The officiating, minus a few bad calls, was top notch. I've been all around the country calling games this year, and I witnessed crews doing far, far worse in bouts where people didn't complain about the zebras. So, hats off to the officiating crew.

Texas vs. Gotham was a great way to start the day.

Of course, with all that gameplay, you need to break up the monotony. And, aside from partying, you need to dance:

We bring it so hard, the world goes out of focus.

And eat:

I wasn't going to steal it, I was running on Halls and tea.

And spend time with your friends:

Boston teams cross-pollinating makes my heart fill with blood.

There electricity of Championships could not be denied. For those of you like Lady Oshun and myself, you are wondering what it was like at the after parties. Here's an idea:

Announcers rush the photobooth

Perfection!

VALerina!

I am cheering violence.

DANG!

I will not be silenced!

Most nights ended with Lady Oshun and I on the Mezzanine with our buddies until four or five in the morning. We would gab about the games, the best musicals to croon to Justice when he was wearing hot shorts on his head that made him look like the Virgin Mary (Jesus Christ Superstar=no, Grease=yes), and generally fight off the Christmas Eve-like excitement that kept us up until sunrise. During the weekend, I had prided myself with my catlike ability to pad into my room undetected and get into bed without waking the Splatters or Dread. Weeks removed, I am certain I was not so stealthy, but my roommates were tolerant of my early-morning creeping.

There is a ton I am leaving out, mainly because it's fueling some fictional plots that I am working on, but I left Chicago realizing that some of the better moments of my trip were sitting next to Dread and watching games together for a change. That was brilliant.

Love you, roller derby.

-Pelvis

Barroom Hero: Dumptruck comes to town

2010-10-21T10:38:00.001-04:00

Of all the personalities I've had the pleasure to spend time with this year, ~~Denver's~~ roller derby's own Dumptruck has swiftly become one of my favorite people. In my posts about 2010's Eastern Regionals, I covered the joys of calling games with him. However, there is another side to the roller derby announcer that I did not comment on. Mr. Truck is a man who brings his celebratory nature to everything he does. On the mike, at the gas station, or an exorcism, the man is Dumptruck at every moment. Simply put: he is the gravelly-voiced avatar of the god Dionysis.

On Monday afternoon, I was editing a film review when I received a few text messages from Baby Fighterfly about Dumptruck's impending arrival at Logan airport. Each of her texts were ideas about possible activities all of us could attend...in Providence. I was unsure if I wanted to leave the house. Should I accept the invitation, I'd have to drive to Salem, pick up Dumptruck, and then make the trek to Providence. The full travel time would be four hours. A sensible man, one who hadn't grown up in a rural community, would have scoffed. Still, my life has been built around road trips like this. What to do? It took a call from an unknown phone number to assist me in my decision.

"POWERJAM!"

Dumptruck on the phone is a shiatsu massage for your eardrums. Within moments, I had committed to come pick him up and made my way to Salem, MA. In the City of the Witch, I met the ladies and gentlemen with whom he works on music festivals, had a pint, and watched him eat the worst cod sandwich Salem pubs have to offer.

The initial plan was to meet Baby at the infamous Club Hell. Club Hell is a bar whose clientele ranges from amazing drag queens to homophobic metalheads, depending on the night. A call to Reverend Al Mighty made us change our plans to meet up at the Hot Club for karaoke. This was a welcome change as I didn't want to pay thirteen dollars to shout over a band which sounds like Gary Busey screaming over feedback.

We arrived at the club to the cheers of our friends. The population of the venue was friendly. So friendly that I had wondered if MDMA had been dropped in everyone's glasses. Then I realized something: when you get three announcers into a situation where gregariousness and a lack of embarrassment is necessary to get on the mike and perform, we'll easily take over.

Reverend Al's "Georgia" was the most surprising song of the night. The gentleman can sing. However, my joy was only heightened by capturing footage of the exception to the rule that rapping at karaoke is a painful thing to witness:

"Work it out." (his asides in the video make it worth it...wear headphones)

By the end of the night, we were on the first name basis with the DJ, the regulars, and the bar staff. When it came time to go home, Dumptruck and I made our way back to Massachusetts. Our Odyssey home hit a snag when noticed there were no open bathrooms to be found on the way North. Gritting my teeth, I made the decision to stop at my house first for a pit stop before bringing Dumpy back to Salem.

It's here where having Dreadnought for a wife is an advantage. Everyone keeps a ledger of their partner's deeds. Mericfully, my wife pays more attention to the "win" column over the stupid things I've done. We entered the house quietly, only to have Goblin wake up and instantly want to play with the raspy-voiced Sasquatch I brought home. While he was waiting his turn for the bathroom, Dumptruck heard Dread saying the loving words "I will kill you all." Deciding to show his appreciation for her strained hospitality, he chatted with her sparingly in the dark of our bedroom.

Photoshop recreation of Dread's view of the evening. In truth, he was wearing glasses and a coat.

Once back in the car, Dumptruck fielded texts from my amused, but annoyed missus, and negotiated my sentence for such a trespass into driving her to work that morning. Under normal circumstances, the average man coming home late at night with his very buzzed friend could be grounds for weeks of sleeping on a couch. However, thanks to Dumptruck (roller derby's own Cat in the Hat) I was instead asked for stories from the previous evening. Like me, Dread loves this ridiculous man with a passion we reserve for our closest relations. Next time he comes to town, however, we're crashing in the city we land in, even if we have to spoon on a love seat. Lightning does not strike twice and Dread's way too strong to tempt fate.

At karaoke, Dumptruck said on the microphone that only roller derby would make it possible to be in Denver in the morning, Salem in the evening, and drinking in Providence that night. But it's also roller derby that allows us to meet people for whom we would drop anything just to spend time with one another.

Be somebody.

Day Three: The aVOXalypse or Pelvis becomes Dumptruck of the Shire

2010-10-01T10:49:00.006-04:00

Voice rested, I started to sound like my old bony self again. Just before dawn, paranoid the Reverend Al would beat me into the bathroom, I ran into the shower rather than risk two hours of staring at a sleeping Hayley Contagious and Dreadnought. Once clean and dressed, the Reverend Al asked if I wanted breakfast, "for real this time." The fact that the previous day's egg sandwich disturbed my innards worse than all the free drinks I received on our first night, I felt I owed it to myself to have a breakfast that would redeem my faith in the culinary hole that is White Plains.

The ladies refrained from coming with us to the Lower Lobby's restaurant. When we arrived, there were only four other people at the buffet. Considering it was 7:00AM on a Sunday, I shouldn't have been too surprised. Even with only four customers, Reverend Al and I enjoyed the fruits of fame after we got our food.

Not pictured: Reverend Al performing overhead tricep extensions with the fruit table.

Noticing that that the Macho Man and Metrosexual Wolverine had entered the room a woman yelled, "Oh my God, it's you two!"

Ready to thank her already, Reverend Al started to open his mouth until she finished her thought.

"The guys from the elevator!"

Well, hell. We're lords of a moving room, that's cool. We gave her a polite wave, had a sentimental and meaningful discussion with each other, and went up to get the ladies for day three.

If there's one thing that people who have traveled road with me ~~know~~ rue is that I am a morning person. A crazed, ready to go, morning person. So when we arrived at the venue, I was pumped and prepared to go all out.

My love of morning sunshine ruined my Black Metal Career.

As we waited to start, some DJ was wise to this morning energy. Once Depeche Mode came over the PA, I just needed to dance. Yes, mornings make me the drunk blonde girl at every eighties night. While keeping to the downbeat of "Just Can't Get Enough, " I was joined in my revelry with fellow morning warrior, HYMEN HEAVEN. It was a vindication of my spirit and a nod to the Bennington dance parties I have with my fellow grad students.

Now ready to rumble, I called the DC vs Steel City game with Paige Layout, Rockerboy, and KD Caustic. This made is the fifth time I've called a DC game this season. As our old buddy Mayhem skates on their league, it fills my heart with blood to feel invested in their futures. That investment came at a price. At the end of the game, I became mini-Dumptruck.

My voice was all right if I kept quiet. A whisper? I became Reverend Al. Talking in a manner where people could hear me? Dumptruck. With this newfound vocal range, I had no choice but to record the three of us for a contest that will be featured on the latest Power Jammers podcast. Here's a sample of the game (for the love of Zeus, use your headphones).

The afternoon was filled with some fine-ass derby, and when it came to the bout that had me on pins and needles, I had the pleasure of calling it with Justice Feelgood Marshall. A word on Justice: the dude's brain should be studied by sports scientists and military strategists. Almost nothing gets past him, not even MC Hammer and Skid Row jokes. It was effortless to call the game alongside a man who knows what he's talking about. When the dust settled, Charm City was victorious. Still, it was cool to know my family was watching and had great things to say about Lil Paine and the Massacre. What my parents didn't understand was why I had them tune into a game where the Reverend Al was calling for DNN.

It's DNN Appreciation Day!

The Championship game saw me take the third seat next to Hymen Heaven and Rockerboy. By this time, I was full-on Joan Rivers on HGH. A couple of times, I could have sworn Rocker was giving me the eye that says, "Are you F%^&* with me?" I was not. Third mike was colder than the reception we received by the spray-tanned natives, so speaking quietly was not an option. Rockerboy, who had worked so damn hard the entire weekend went on autopilot. But I will tell you this, you would never know. He's amazing. So too is Hymen Heaven, who is so sharp that you could shave with her wit.

The victorious ladies of Eastern Regionals. Not pictured: Dread teasing me about my voice.

Once the games were over, the celebration began. However, the party was over for me. Voice broken and tired beyond comprehension, I piled Hayley, Dread, and the Reverend into the car and we made our way home. Looking back on my time in White Plains, I am humbled and honored to have been a part of the announcing team, and roller derby in general. Now rested and back to normal, I look at the past weekend with love in my heart for Suburbia and all people who worship the quad skate.

Thank you, Suburbia. We love you.

Regionals: Part Two

2010-09-30T09:50:00.000-04:00

The next morning was a bit tougher than the first one. The mechanical bull had burned off much of my nervous energy, leaving me exhausted and in much-needed sleep before calling the first bout of the morning. The game was Steel City vs. DC. I was announcing with Double Destroyer and Ida Feltersnatch. But before we went to the venue, I suggested we get breakfast.

"I just need to shower and have a few minutes to get together," said Reverend Al.

In my tired brain, I forgot that I was not dealing with a mere dude, but one who really needed to "get ready." Below is a timelapse reenactment of what I believe transpired in the bathroom while we waited for thirty minutes:

To be fair, he didn't go back to putting on the lipstick, so we didn't have to wait the full three hours.

Once in the elevator, we made haste to the lobby, hoping to get in line for the buffet. When the door opened, however, the sheer brightness of the Freemason ladies dressed in their ceremonial robes blinded us. Yes, the Crowne Plaza was filled with Freemasons for some sort of convention or ceremony that we could not wrap our heads around. As we rounded the corner, Poppa Feevs let us know that the line for breakfast was insane and that we had better look elsewhere. When the king of the tailgate (whose primary mission on bout day is getting you fed) tells you to give up, you do.

Dejected and sad, we found a Dunkin Donuts where I ate a microwaved bacon, egg and cheese sandwich. I don't normally eat breakfast, but I didn't eat much the day before and needed energy. Sweet, intestinal wrestling energy. My guts feeling betrayed by their pompadour-coiffed master, I got ready to call me some games.

With a constantly mutating schedule, I was blessed that Rockerboy of Carolina and Justice Feelgood Marshall of DNN threw me into as much stuff as they did. Even sweeter was that I was able to call games for some teams more than once. Familiarity with the skaters is a big deal in this sport. When you're rifling through papers to find out the name and number of someone kicking ass, you don't want to miss any action. And I am proud to say I didn't.

In between bouts, I took some time at the roller derby quilt with the missus, Hayley, the Prince of Pain, and Johnny Deep.

The three of them look like they're doing a photoshoot for their band, Purple Paine's, new synthpop album. Yikes.

My throat felt raw around noon and Dread began laughing at the sound of my yelling which had started to sound more and more like Denver's own Dumptruck. I reined in a bit, but you can hear my voice getting gravelly in the DNN replays. As the night wore on, Dread became less thrilled with my vocal damage when Dumptruck, Reverend Al, and I stood behind her and whispered "sweet nothings" into her ear. If your imagination took you to a bad place, that's your brain working against you, not I.

One thing I noticed throughout the day was the Rockerboy was the epitome of speed as he ran through the crowd, setting up the mouths, working with the staff, and calling games with the type of energy reserved for the meth-addled fools of South Caro--- oh yeah. Nevermind. He stopped by the derby quilt and asked Dread if he could test the authenticity of the quilt. That's the only moment where I thought we lost him.

I never thought one could drool horizontally and not be in orbit.

At the end of the night, Philly and Gotham had already cemented their spots at Regionals and Boston had to go toe-to-toe with their longtime rivals, Charm City. Carolina won against Montreal by two points. This win was marred by a controversial call that later turned out to be totally legal. Whether or not people agree with it is another matter entirely.

Still aching from the mechanical bull, and unable to sound like myself if I had to talk over anyone, which is my default volume anyway, we went out for Asian tapas. Okay, let me back up. We were supposed to meet up with Rocker and Dumptruck, but apparently they had stopped in a bathroom to emulate the Reverend Al's beauty regimen, and we arrived at a saloon at the right time only to find Ed Hardy and spray tans instead of Southern accents and Sass. Thus, we went for Asian cuisine at Haiku. Haiku's food was the ONLY meal I want to remember from the trip, as it was actual food. Delicious. So delicious it inspired this:

Bars filled with Douchebags

New plan, where do we go now?

Eat well, then hotel.

Back at the hotel, we briefly chatted with the ladies of MRD, who had taken over the poolside to shout threats and cursewords at passersby. We love those ladies, they're true New England. <3

Instead of falling right into bed, the Reverend Al gave a speech about teamwork that was impassioned as he was pantsless. Nothing gets you more fired up than a former MMA fighter with the voice of Harvey Firestein explaining group dynamics in very small underpants. For once without a smartass thing to say, I let him finish his speech and we all went to bed....

Tomorrow, Part Three! Jokes! Hoarseness! And newfound appreciation for iPhones!

Regionals: Part One

2010-09-29T10:56:00.002-04:00

We were fifteen miles away from White Plains before I noticed my car's gas light was on. Since picking up the Reverend Al in Providence, I was determined to make double-time to our destination while looking out for the ever-sneaky highway patrol and trying to stay engaged in the conversation. After Dread, Hayley, and the Reverend Al were made speechless by a joke I expected to be less funny than it was I took the next exit and we refueled the tank and our bellies.

Once in White Plains, we checked into our hotel and attempted to get some Zs. The night before a tournament is much like Christmas Eve. I can't sleep, because I've never quite grown out of the feeling that sleeping before a big day means I will miss something. That, and my mind was unable to rest after seeing the Reverend Al's idea of pajamas.

He actually doesn't wear the shoes to bed, so there's that.

We did sleep for an hour or so, only to be awoken by an overjoyed Reverend Al Mighty, who loudly sang "Springtime for Hitler" until Dread got moving. After each of us showered, we took the ten minute ride to the venue. White Plains isn't large. It's roughly the size of Waltham, Massachusetts except it's densely populated with blowout hairdos and muscle-queens. Still, the ladies of Suburbia Roller Derby don't fit the zip code's stereotypical mold and they are among the fairest of skaters in the land...though their ability to run a tournament is far more important.

The arena was glorious, its appearance a cross between high school gymnasium and a theater with balconies. The hybridization of these two venues conjured images of other hybrids in my mind, such as Massacre widows embracing their lofty perches whilst continuing to vocalize their support of a ruffle-butt revolution.

Not pictured - Tommy Rock's fainting spell after the win against Montreal brought on by lead face powder and "vapors."

Calling the first game with the incomparable Dumptruck was a dream come true. Being able to just have an entertaining conversation about derby while still providing color commentary was sublime. Throughout the day, I ran back and forth from the DNN table on the stage to the announcer's nest on the floor of the venue. Thankfully, my voice held up.

After the last game of the night, it was a quick stop to the hotel. The Reverend Al and I wore matching outfits out on the town that made me realize how my Dad must feel on holidays. We barhopped through the fist-pumping dives of Mamoraneck drive until we arrived at The Thirsty Turtle. It was here where Hayley, Baby Fighterfly and I took turns on the mechanical bull.

One-handed, but she did kiss the bull beforehand.

Baby and Hayley had impressive times (Baby 28, Hayley 24). The operator of the bull was a bit of a douche, cranking up the speed on those he thought were drunk and slowing down the bucks on the women who rode the bull in short skirts. A 58 second record was called out before I hopped on, but the lady wasn't wearing underpants. Undaunted by the fear of contracting the "Herpe AIDS," (A vile quote from a local) I hopped on. 19 seconds. Still, the ladies of BDD and PRD deserved to win. As the night wore on, we were aware that the young men of the ~~Jersey Shore~~ White Plains night scene were unsure what to do with the flashy and classy that had appeared from nowhere at their favorite nightspot. Did we not realize this was their place?

Pictured here: Townie waiting for his turn on the mechanical bull.

We did. After a few incidents of chest-beating and dog-park antics, we decided to call it a night. We went to sleep, dreaming of derby and spray tans.

Tomorrow: Day Two! Where Rockerboy goes crazy, the crowd goes wild, and I slowly become Tom Waits!

Packing up the car for Regionals.

2010-09-23T13:16:00.001-04:00

The home season behind us, Dread and I are headed to White Plains, New York to both watch and do our parts at the Eastern Regionals tournament, or "Derby in the Burbs." The missus has a vendor table to display her largest artistic piece, the roller derby quilt. Dreadnought's forty-pound quilt has been packed into the car in a bag that would be less taxed if it held wild game or at least one sad pug who is more than aware that derby is taking her parents away for the weekend.


Thankfully, we are leaving her with the Wii.

Packing the quilt provided me with a sense of accomplishment. Not only could I lift such an awkwardly-heavy load and easily navigate the stairs, I was able to jam it into the trunk with enough room to put in our suitcase. Still, I am looking around the house and making sure I can fit all the things I need and still leave room for Hayley Contagious and the Reverend Al. So far I need to get in the following:

The Roller Derby Quilt sign and a bag of fabric. The sign has to go in last, as I don't want it to get ruined. Still, its presence makes sense. The bag of fabric is likely an opportunity for Dread to get more squares at the convention, or she intends to build a nest in the corner of our hotel room rather than making the mistake of getting into the wrong bed at the hotel. While the former is more likely, the latter is practical in a way I enjoy.

Coffee? I don't know. I would like to bring my own machine and cups, mainly because I hate risking any coffee provided to me at the venue. An essential element to a derby weekend, a bad cup of coffee is the equivalent of swimming in slurry. Now that you've looked that up, I'm sorry.

I was going to pack my big boots and have a change of shoes for each day, but I decided to pack lighter for the sake of my travel companions. I considered the Reverend Al Route, where you judge each piece of your couture thoughtfully. If it can completely cover 80% of your body, then you shouldn't wear it. I tried putting something together, but it doesn't seem right...


Maybe lose the vest?

Deciding that I should just wear stuff that I usually do, and screw the haters (Mom!), I have packed a few cool things and decided to let my personality speak for me. Or my mouth. Eh, whatever.

I hope to see many of you there. And for those of you who can't make it, tune into derbynewsnetwork.com tomorrow at ten in the morning where Dumptruck and I will be be calling the first bout of the day.

Good Times.

Coming to you live from the Provincetown Hive: An update for the regulars

2010-08-23T23:58:00.001-04:00

While sitting in the Wired Puppy in Provincetown, I have been witness to how the rain and chilly temperature has turned one heterosexual father into a social terror that demands his drink for free over some petty detail. The exchange with the owner wasn't very pleasant, but as he and his family are now leaving, I am relieved and proud that I didn't shoot my mouth off and jump to the defense of the owner, as it would have prevented me from enjoying my coffee and figuring out how I wanted to attack this post about Dread's roller derby quilt, which was a bigger success than either of us could have expected.

Dreadnought's art reception was even more well-attended than our wedding. Many members of New England's roller derby leagues with whom Dread's had the most contact were there. Boston, NHRD, CMRD, and Pioneer Valley were in attendance, as were several referees, announcers, and derby widows. Like our wedding, folks showed up in exciting attire, for the ladies and gentlemen came in their uniforms or derby t-shirts. A few were even on skates. Unlike our wedding, we were down a baseball-wielding Caesar.

Though my grandfather was not there, my mother's mother was, which ruled.

The installation was gigantic. There were a total of three artists in the space, but Dread's work took up two walls. It was hard, however to comprehend the scale of the display when seventy-five to eighty people have come to see it. There were more people in the room, but I am biased and care mainly for the folks I see every weekend. In truth, the derby crowd were respectful of the other artist, reviewing their pieces with the same reverence anyone would have at an art show, but there were moments that were decidely derby. It's rare, for example, for an artist to get a crowd to chant for them:

Dread Smash!

The assembled crew were a blessing. It felt great to be there and see Dread so happy. I was congratulated a lot, which was odd, as I hadn't really done anything except drive her there. It was a great moment in time.

Check out the sweet panorama action.

Winding down...the season, that is

2010-08-11T21:32:00.000-04:00

The Season is winding down. Last year, I wrote about how it feels at the end of the season. But that was just volunteer coordination and being a mascot. This year, I took on even more.

It's a simple truth that running bout production, volunteers and announcing is a full plate. The kind that, on rougher nights, allowed me to skip the food served to skaters and volunteers and head straight to the after party where I attempted to use DJ Barera's sick beats to burn away the stress and hurt of the evening, only to wake up the next morning tired and surrounded by the aftermath of me letting off steam.

Again?

In some respects, I envy the widows who just buy tickets and sit up in the stands. They're doing something similar to what those of us working the bouts do; supporting their partners and loved ones through their attendance. I can't let stuff alone, though. While I could be content to watch Dread from the comfort of a chair and shout commentary on everything from the officiating, to the questionable haircuts of the dudes I'm sitting next to, I know that I'd pick up on what needed to be fixed and likely complain. So, rather than wait for the inevitable challenge of "I'd like to see you do better," I jumped in and did what I could to make things work.

Besides, I can watch Dread whenever I want.

Hot damn, did things get challenging in the beginning of my term. Without yanking the curtain back too far, tough decisions were made (some that really hurt), new policies and steps were added, and we dealt with all sorts of weird crap. Bout Production is now organized, almost automatic, leaving me to field questions and concerns that matter to people, like what color the pads in front of the announcer table should be, and who will tell the fans up top that the paper blocking off the restricted area is not a hammock to drape oneself across. Easy stuff.

The season's seen some great changes and I'm happy with what I've accomplished. Though we still have two doubleheaders, NHRD, and Regionals to go, I'm confident I'll get through it well enough to appreciate my slow days and focus on my interests outside of roller derby.

It's your year, Goblin!

The fruits of labor of from my couch cushion neighbor, Dread continues to rock

2010-07-22T11:06:00.001-04:00

Almost a week has gone by since this happened:

Can't see what's going on? Then read below and know you missed out on a gripping, emotional moment where the video sets the tone and you are only getting a fraction of the experience.

The doubleheader at Shriners contained some of the greatest plays we have seen from our home team and Massacre skater skaters this season. In front of nearly a thousand fans, four teams gave it their all in the mercifully air-conditioned auditorium. While the Cosmonaughties won the bout, the Nutcrackers were able to staunch the bleeding and keep pace with them. However, the person who kept pace the most was the missus. That's right, Dreadnought, who was able to race after players and suck them back into the pack like the angry tentacle of a pink-hued, primordial kraken. My wife, whose ass and shoulders are already a forced to be reckoned with at home and on the track proved that she's a LOT faster than any of us imagined. Including herself.

It's been a long road for Dread on the track. Her first season with the league, she didn't even skate. Injuries sidelined her and slowed her progress while members of her fresh meat class went on to soar among the veterans that had inspired all of them to join. It was tough as sin for her, but she did not give up. She trained harder, listened to feedback, and worked until even I was fatigued. You cannot stop Dreadnought when she's decided to do something, as I have found out in countless, frustrating non-derby moments. Here, that stubborn will is an asset.

Over the past year, after the Nuts' Championship win, it's only gotten more impressive. Dread's gotten leaner, meaner and speedier. Saturday's MVP win (bet you wish you watched the video) was proof that effort and perseverance brings victories that are better savored than success right out of the gate.

It's not just her skating. The roller derby quilt is nearly finished and she's working on getting a book published about it. A lesser, pettier writer would be jealously guarding his medium from his wife's incursion, but she let me invade the world of the flat track. I'm also not a jealous dude. See how I was able to give myself thumbs up in an article about her? That's awesome. Thankfully, she's not writing an autobiography, as someone's already beaten her to it:

Yeah, you better be Dreading me.

To think, were it not for that A&E series, the desire to hit ladies with her butt would never have been realized. Now if only we could find something on television as challenging for this little lady:

She knows the remotes are important, and that they bring horses into the house through that stupid box.

Husband of the Fresh Meat Mama = Derby Stepfather? A confusing interlude of Povich proportions

2010-07-17T10:28:00.001-04:00

The season has only three more doubleheaders (two after tonight) and flyers are already circulating around the Metro Boston area for the Fresh Meat skate clinics. Bad Person, part of the 2010 class of Wicked Pissahs, posed for the recruitment flyer and it looks pretty sweet:

She wants you to play so bad, because she wants to hurt you.

Around my house, this time of the year is magical. Dread loves try-outs and really goes out of her way to help the new girls learn skills, ride out tough criticism, and meet up with the right skaters who can help them take their training to the next level before the home team draft. Our apartment becomes a flurry of activity, and strange women, with whom I have never had any interaction, invade my home to socialize and share a dream of becoming a Boston Derby Dame. As Dread has gone by the term "Fresh Meat Mama" for two seasons, it's not been lost on me that my marriage means I meet a lot of these potential skaters faster than some of our skaters. Although some of those introductions can feel a little jarring for me, as Dread does foster a level of social intimacy and warmth in these ladies that often transfers a bit onto me. It's like having Maury Povich drop a bombshell in my lap that these ladies in my house are due a lot of respect and affection already, though I don't even know them:

Pelvis Costello, you ARE THE FATHER!

Our former apartment was a tight, bunker-like command central. Dread would spend long summer and fall nights emailing folks, helping orchestrate pairings of veteran skaters and potential fresh meat called "skater sisters," and talking to me about how excited she is about this or that girl. It's cool, if somewhat repetitive. The only issue I had with this blessed event in the old place was there was no place in the apartment I could sequester myself to meet deadlines without being interrupted with news about this-or-that-lady, any standout interviews (both good and bizarre), and descriptions of how people are skating at the clinics. However, in the tree house of our new digs, I can now escape to the loft and write with my headphones on, uninterrupted and oblivious to both the merriment and the eventual emotional crash when it's over and not everyone makes it in. Sort of like a real Stepfather, without the added flavor of deviant creep.

Getting ready for it again, I am hoping that Dread still has the same excitement and that the competition for the limited space on the league is both fun and fierce. Now to go do some vocal exercises before the double header tonight.

ECDX = the best way to recharge your derby batteries

2010-06-29T22:54:00.000-04:00

Pelvis here!

The East Coast Derby Extravaganza (ECDX), formerly known as ECE, was a blast. Before I go into the details of this super-fine weekend, I want to answer a question that I have fielded from numerous people. "Why did they change the name?" I believe the change was necessitated because when said aloud, it confused fans hoping to see the resurrection of one of gangsta rap's illustrious pioneers:

Straight outta Feasterville.

The trip to Pennsylvania sucked. Each mile on the Jersey turnpike was increasingly frustrating until the only words I could utter to an equally impatient Dreadnought were curse words and oaths of blood vengeance against the miserable suckers that caused an accident that delayed us by TWO HOURS. The two of us made it to the Red Roof Inn in time to check in and then race to the Sports Center to see the first two games of the weekend.

The sportsplex was fantastic. Though it's only three roller hockey rinks in one building, there is ample room for the massive crowd of skaters, officials, announcers, and fans of derby with room to spare. Something was amiss that I could not identify until I realized that this was the first roller hockey rink I had been to in six months that did not reek of bodily waste. I applaud Philly for that.

I also give them an insane amount of credit for a setup that allowed for video, announcer tables by the track, and other magical facets. If I could join forces with them for a year, we'd create a bout production team so perfect that we would ascend to heaven at the end of the season.

Pictured here: A rare, clothed Al Mighty

We ended the night going back to the hotel, where the Garden State ladies were drinking and roughhousing on the motel's lawn like modern-day Bacchante. Assuring them their revelry would be no disruption to our rest, Dread and I retired. Garden State did not. They partied through the night, kindly waking me up with their shrieks of horror at the dawn's first rays hit the horizon.

An artist's depiction of my wakeup call, courtesy of Garden State.

Calling games was a blast. New England Roller Derby was in full effect. Though each of the teams fought mightily, many of them lost when paired up against teams of fantastic might. Not one of them should be ashamed, because many of these losses were slight. With all the bouts, both challenge and tournament alike, it was hard to keep everything in perspective. Thankfully, there was a pool to take the edge off.

Being able to swim with Dread, the ladies of Boston, Johnny Deep, the Prince of Pain, and Monsieur Chum Chum de Week was a gas. Being among hundreds of derby women and men made it even better. Poolside was a catalog of skin art and sexy butts. It's rare I comment like that, as I like to keep it classy. I may be married, but I'm not dead or blind. High Fives for all that sexiness.

After swimming, I got to call yet more games, hang out with people from around the nation, and roast the Reverend Al Mighty who had long abandoned the concept of clothing for roller derby greatness.

Seriously, google him. Check him out. I'll wait. See him? That is the dude we were roasting. A dear friend and wonderful snuggler, but it was pretty easy to eff with him. Though his rebuttal was impeccable.

The weekend roared through Sunday and into the late Pennsylvania night. The last bout was my favorite. Boston took on Rose City. The latter being the subject of my favorite documentary of ALL TIME (Oh crap, I forgot to mention on here... my article was posted). The Massacre played well, and it was hard not to cheer from the mike. Both teams are master tacticians, able to change their styles to neutralize their opponents' strengths. Unfortunately, Rose City were able to adapt faster and won in the second period. But it was far from a blowout.

After a brief stop at the hotel, I left Dread to go to the after party. This is where the widow-hood switched hands. Content to sleep next to her before our long trip home, she urged me to go out and have fun. "You'll regret it if you don't," she said. And she was right. While we are lucky to be so supportive of one another, we do need our space on these weekends. So, Rockerboy and I headed to Philly's Bowl-a-rama where I chilled with my fellow announcers, danced with Providence and Rose City ladies, and mingled in the way only Pelvis can. Which means I got away with speaking my mind without becoming an uber-douche or talking shit.

The ride home was a terrific cooldown, as we ate seafood by the Connecticut shore. A traffic jam inspired us to take a detour that added an hour to our journey, but it was worth it. The lush greenery. docks and homes of Essex Island were gorgeous. But there was one sight that will stick with me for months to come:

This woman is weird.

Life on the compound

2010-06-12T01:30:00.001-04:00

As I've mentioned before, I am pursuing my M.F.A. in Creative Writing at Bennington College. Many of you reading this blog have been, I believe, entertained by my nonfiction accounts of derby widowhood. Well, I hope in the very near future to have a few of my works of fiction published and available to you either via the internet or in books (that you can buy over the internet).

To hone my craft beyond its natural starting point, I went to Emerson. Peter Shippy, Alden Jones, Karen Lindsey, Pam Painter and Joe Hurka were among the notable people who kicked my fiction into high gear. Being a nontraditional student, when it came to graduate I knew there was no point in stopping at a Bachelors. I needed to go whole hog. If this education I am getting is ultimately for selfish purposes, then surely I needed to go to a place that matched my desire for enlightenment.

Hence, Bennington College. Here I am in front of our student center:

Reckon the end is nigh. (Photo by Art Lee)

While I love the immediacy of calling a bout, or cheering on Dread from the sidelines (something I don't get to do at all this season), writing has always been my first, greatest passion. Making a thousand people laugh while teaching them about the sport is wonderful. Writing about people surrounding the ladies on the track, however, that's been special. And what better place to write about derby than the forested hills of Southern Vermont?

Where every trip to workshop is a scene from Fellowship of the Ring

(the walking ones, not the long talks in Elvish about being king

or kissing Liv Tyler's big bumhole lips)

The sheer amount of talent I interact with on a daily basis is staggering. These are my regional and national level skaters. And I'm not just talking about the faculty.

There's also a tree filled with Mardi Gras beads. (Art Lee Photo)

Seriously, there is a tree near a place we call the End of The World that has Mardi Gras beads hanging from most of its branches. I picked myself a necklace to get over the jitters of my coming workshop. It's for the story that I mentioned in May's blog entry, "Open Skate." While eating today, I made this note:

For fear of going too far astray from the main thrust of this blog, I'll depart on the note that the past two days have been damn awesome, but I'm looking forward to coming home and moving Dread's skate bag out of the way so I can give her a big kiss and find out about how her bout against the Wicked Pissahs went.

As you were, suckas.

Moved.

2010-06-08T00:00:00.002-04:00

Greetings from the tree-house.

It's day seven of unpacking in the Dread and Pelvis tree-house. As you can tell by the photograph I am not living in a tree, but an apartment that boasts a living room with three walls of windows and a ladder to my writing lair is certainly tree-house enough for this former chimpanzee. The wonder of the apartment is only lessened by the large mob of cardboard boxes of books and clothes. Many of which have only started to have been unpacked as we needed to find room for skating equipment and tutus first. Though the facts may be disputed, the following discussion took place.

As we began to unpack our clothes and put them into the closets, Dread was unsure that we would have enough room for our clothes in just two closets and one of the IKEA sectionals that had stood at the foot of our bed in the old apartment.

"Given the benefit of two bedroom closets," I said, "I think we only need one of the sectional things, as we can put coats and winter clothes upstairs."

"Yes," she replied, "but I am pretty sure that we won't have enough room as both closets are almost filled."

She was correct. The closet was filled with dresses, lady-sized t-shirts, and a hell of a lot of shoes. Most my clothes were still in boxes.

"Well, I guess I can put my stuff in the sectional." I said. Then I looked into the shelves.

Crap in a hat.

Of the four wire drawers, two are filled with tutus and derbywear. One is filled with bras and undies (but half of each are mine, so I should relax on that) and the other with socks...but not ones I wear. Don't get the wrong idea, Dread's by no means selfish. She unpacked in order of what she needs right away. And before toothbrushes, dishes, or food, we needed the derby clothes out for she still needed to attend practice in order to bout in two weeks. Still, a dude needs his living space, no?

Afraid of being lost in a sea of sports bras and stinky knee pads, there was but one option for me.

Take the Living Room Back by force.

The thought of reassembling my old LARP crew to maintain claims to prime apartment real estate, while thrilling, quickly passed. Instead, I took to the heavens and scaled a ladder into my own, happy hidey hole.

The loft had been awarded to me prior to move in, with Dread to take the attic as a studio space, and place for derby-related items. In a day, I was able to unload a few things and make a decent office...

Once set up, I had to focus on writing the last of my packet to send to my professor, Tom. Meanwhile, Dread did this:

This posed photo represents how quickly she made that damn attic look way awesome.

We are rapidly unpacking, and I hope to have most of this done before I leave for Bennington. Thankfully, we now have enough room in the small hallway to keep Dread's stinky derby bag out of my way.

Oh, for Fu---

The road to your dreams isn't neatly paved

2010-05-17T23:15:00.005-04:00

Two weeks ago, still reeling from whatever virus the lovely ladies of NHRD passed my way, I woke up early in order to drive twelve copies of my new short-story, "Open Skate," to Bennington College. Days before that trip, I had lost three days of valuable reading/writing time when my body rebelled against my mind, leaving me powerless to find matching socks, let alone stay on task with all deadlines. In my delirium, I took comfort in the fact that as long as I mailed my workshop packet out by May 3rd, I'd be fine. On April 30th, I opened up my laptop for the first time in three days to discover that I had misremembered and that the copies of my draft were supposed to arrive on May 3rd.

Shocked at what I believed to be a colossal screw-up on my part, I resolved to drive up to Bennington and hand my work in personally rather than pay an insane shipping and handling fee for over-nighting 300 pages (plus paperclips) to a destination only three-point-five hours away. Paying for gas beat the hell out of a stamp, and I'd get to take a road trip. That's a win, right? What I didn't realize was that not only had I forgotten the due date, I'd forgotten to replace the drivers-side tire on my Ford Taurus after discovering the previous weekend that the steel belt was slightly exposed.

Two days prior to the ride, I had learned I could fit my head in my Snuggie sleeves. Yeah, that is the perfect mindset one must be in to plan a road trip.

Two hours into the trip, I hear the sound of a zipper being slowly undone, followed by a loud hammering. Realizing that I have not driven into an old Ministry album, I look for a place to pull over. Thankfully, Rte 2 has no small shortage of abandoned, Chainsaw-Massacre-looking auto dealerships. I slide into the parking lot, and discover my tire treads are unraveling. Awesome.

Now changing a tire is really easy. You must remember to place the jack properly on level ground. Do that, you're good. Easy peasy. However, Leatherface's empty lot was built on an incline. So, after I removed my tire, the jack sensed my pride and decided to slip, causing the car's front-left side to kiss the asphalt while I passively watched. Deciding that calling anyone for help would forfeit my Y chromosome, I crawled under the car from the other side and retrieved the jack.

Me after crawling under the car to retrieve the jack. There's a bug in my eye in this picture.

After some clever uses of leverage and the old tire, I was able to get the donut on and make my into Vermont only forty-five minutes behind schedule. Covered grease and gravel, the latter I was washing out of my hair for the rest of the week, I headed straight for Bennington. I knew of at least three places in my college's town that repaired tires, and I'd be damned if I risked any more delays. Arriving at Bennington, I was jubilant. Stomping across the campus, filthy and disheveled, I proudly handed over my packet, which was then thrown atop the pile of mailed manuscripts and workshop materials that had just arrived. My tale impressed the Writing Seminar staff so much they suggested I go to the cafeteria and have a meal before getting back on the road to find a tire. Yes, that seemed like a fine idea. Like Beowulf in Hrothgar's hall, I went to get a lunch worthy of my epic journey.

yup.

Before I left town, my tire was safely replaced by a man who looked remarkably like Bubbles of the Trailer Park Boys. My quest successful, I returned home to my woman who, after laughing at my plight, promptly left for roller derby practice. Which I suppose was the proper thing to do.

Give what you get.

2010-04-27T15:40:00.000-04:00

The ladies of NHRD, as you know, have given me a lot. Whereas Boston is where I drop anchor in the derby world, it was in the waters of New Hampshire where I was able to clear my throat and start out my career as an announcer. It's also one of the places in derby where I am not a widow. Here, I'm their announcer and friend. The fact I'm married to Dreadnought, a skater with whom they have a great rapport, is an added bonus. Before I leave this paragraph, here's a visual to go with all of the boat/ocean metaphors in this paragraph:

The squid is roller derby, the whale is my attention. Neither of them are ships...but both are in the sea... Metaphor consistency = C-

Being an announcer in NHRD is relatively stress-free. It hearkens back to the days before I began volunteering several hours of my time to this sport. But in New Hampshire, it has been easier to help because I'm not tethered to any of them by a ring or sleeping arrangement that gives anyone license to take me for granted. Likewise, I do not take my position up there for anything other than what it is: friends helping friends. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who loved this league.

Boston skaters, refs, and other volunteers were there to support the skaters of New Hampshire in a way that we have not in a long time. NHRD often comprises twenty percent of BDD's support staff. This time, we returned the favor with interest. Not only did Boston swell the security ranks...but they also filed into the stands and beer garden.

It's a good thing to see a community that is symbiotic. New England Derby, for all its variations, fights between individual skaters, and stresses is actually a unique coalition of ladies and gentlemen who so love their sport and each other that they help each other out on a weekly basis. I can't speak for anyone else, but helping out in a league where its success and failure is not the primary concern makes me feel refreshed.

Now if one of the people in New Hampshire can own up to infecting me with this cold, I won't change my mind on how much I value that league.

"Those are my douche-bags you're talking about."

2010-04-19T09:24:00.003-04:00

Outside of the referees, there is almost no volunteer position least respected than those who work security at a derby bout. These people, all of whom work without pay, sacrifice the chance to actually watch a sport they love so that the skaters can play the game without interruption and retreat to the locker room without molestation. Unlike the bouncers at most dance clubs, or the armed entourages of numerous recording artists and actors, these people did not begin this job with huge chips on their shoulders. Thus, it's the duty of anyone involved in derby to not allow that chip to grow.

When you stop and look beyond their silly staff shirts, it's clear that what you're looking at are our fans who are so committed to this sport that they're willing to give up seeing the game to make things better. Other fans see them as assholes, bullshit artists, and douche-bags. Hell, some skaters do, which is a shame. I am ten years past praying for broken limbs and cancer, as that's a rotten thing to do. But I will say this to all passengers on this train:

Those are my douche-bags you're talking about. Technically, they're yours as well. Cut the crap and fly right. They're doing it for you.

I am often filled with mirth, and in this blog I've talked about the joys of being behind the scenes. But the rotten popcorn kernel stuck between the teeth of derby's fractured smile is that we don't often thank or even get to know the people who work with us each month for a bottle of water and a possible piece of pizza. And if autographs and photo-ops are given to the people who spill beer on the floor and spit at our volunteers, what do we feel is fitting for the volunteers to receive?

For those of you pondering the answer, I'll give it to you. Thank them. Get to know their names, if you can. They're more than human, they're the silent golems protecting your playing field and backstage so that you get to skate. There's one cure for a thankless job. Thank them.

Just take that moment.

2010-04-16T14:30:00.001-04:00

It's been two weeks since I've updated the derby widow blog. There have been fitful half-starts. Drafts are saved on the blogger dashboard, waiting to be pushed out into the ether the moment I can do them justice. I've hesitated writing about the Albany All Stars trip, mainly because it's been covered rather well in our bout recap on powerjammers.net.

On a personal note, the best takeaway from that trip was that I was the sole Y-chromosome rolling with the B Party from start to finish of that trip, and it didn't feel odd. Perhaps it's because it's understood that I'm no creep, but I think it has more to do with the fact that this was the first trip in which I was surrounded by skaters I've shared more than ten words with...and they've been pleasant ones. You should never attempt to shoehorn yourself into every situation in the hopes that people "get used to you." It doesn't work. But in Albany the stars aligned and I had that one moment where I was among friends, and I knew it.

The sport continues to evolve, and the work that everyone puts in to take it to the next level is both hard and daunting. Never allow the blinders of your vision of derby stop you from enjoying the entire horizon. Sometimes you have to pull back, assess the present and exclaim, "Damn, this is nice. Thank you."

Goblin's going to Grandma's and Ari's man of the house...

2010-04-02T21:59:00.002-04:00

Dread and I will be heading to Albany tomorrow morning. She's playing on the Boston B Party against Albany's Empire Skate Troopers. It's a decent drive, a little over three hours, which is what I do to go to school every six months anyway. With Spring in bloom, the trip across New England and then into New York will be a decent one, with the spring air only briefly fouled by exhaust and cow dung.

It will be an exciting journey, though we must leave our two roommates home:

A typical morning scene at the Costello/Dread household.

While Ari, our cat seems to have little interest in roller derby outside of rubbing himself all over Dread's sweat-soaked pads, Goblin's been in more than a few derby-related photographs. The most important of those photos was in the team photo of last season's Nutcrackers.

I've rarely heard children or pets called "derby orphans," but that's probably because most skaters treat both better than they may the average spouse. As they should, for while a widow(er) is grown-up enough to deal with the heavy time commitment that derby demands, spawn and furry friends require the proper amount of time and energy in order to keep them from becoming juvenile delinquents or neglected pets. Envisioning Goblin and Ari in ratty jean jackets, burning down churches is funny, but I know we would never neglect them bad enough to turn them into copies of my neighbors from my ill-spent youth. While our pets will be cared for in our absence, I'll miss them.

Flyering for the league is weird when you have a penis.

2010-03-25T22:13:00.002-04:00

The new bout poster is out, and I'm pleased as punch that Dreadnought and Splitter Noggin are the featured skaters for this one. The former is my missus, the latter is the captain of the team I served faithfully for two seasons. So proud am I, that I have flyered a couple of salons, my gym, and other store fronts.

Dreadnought's tiara cannot be seen through the contrast.

Flyering for roller derby is pretty easy now that I announce, but I absolutely hated flyering with street teams when Dread started playing. Why would I feel uncomfortable? It's simple, really. It's an all-woman league, passing out flyers on roller skates. As they were skaters, they could at least say things like, "I'm skating in this one, you should go," or "come watch me skate!" What could I say?

Stuff like:

"You gotta see this, man."

"It's amazing, you should go."

"You look like someone who would love this, and you don't look like a rapist..."

I was often taken aback by the weird comments random men on the street would whisper to me about the ladies as we shilled for the bouts. A few close-calls almost ended with me in fist-fights with guys who, if they had written online what they said to me about these ladies, would have had them dealing with an entirely different master of ceremonies.

Why don't you have a seat?

In some ways, I understood why some of these men thought it would be okay to talk to me, rather than the skaters. I don't have the parts they're ogling, and I'm around those lady-parts...therefore, I might actually be thinking what they were thinking. Perhaps I was the gatekeeper. A St. Peter of womanly delights. Alas, no.

Just being a widow meant that my promotion had to come about more organically and less public. I emailed my friends and families, I put up posters at work, and I networked within the sphere of people I knew wouldn't have to register with each city they moved into. Dressed as Drago, I was able to make a more public show of selling our games, yet you would be surprised how few people want to talk to man in a chimp suit in the middle of Harvard Square.

Even with my announcing job, I still don't flyer on the street. Rather, I bring up bouts casually with people I am talking to and give them the information they need in order to get them to buy tickets. So my advice to widows going out with their skaters to flyer: Don't do it. Stand slightly apart, hold bags, and watch for creeps. If you're a pacifist, or you would use your lady as a shield, have your cell phone ready to call the coppers or to take pictures of the nasty dudes. Avoid any awkward conversations while handing out leaflets; you can promote derby bouts it your own way on your own time.

Or don't. You're free to do what you want.

-Pelvis Costello

Doubleheader Two rings true!

2010-03-22T15:02:00.001-04:00

The sold-out crew this time around was in a vastly superior mood compared to February 27th's season opener. Maybe it had to do with the dancing of Slam Chowdah and Anna Wrecksya. Likely, the weather, which was gorgeous, heightened the mood. Poppa Feevs, master of the derby tailgate, had been grilling since noon, so our parking lot smelled of sizzling meat and molten cheese.

The mood of the day was soothing. Instead of turning red from stress, I maintained my pale, default coloration. However, there were occasional hiccups in bout production that caused me to lose my typical smile, turning me into a slightly unsatisfied, alabaster gumby:

Really, man? Really?

(photo by Art Newberg...who is a talented dude)

But if that's the worst face I pulled, then we can call it a success. One of the things that surprised me were the sheer number of widows that had come early to help us set up the venue, three of whom left to wait in line to pick up their tickets and watch the game. Many people who help out do look for a few hand-outs, but not these gentlemen. Mr. Geddon in particular helps out without expecting anything in return. So thanks, dude. You're now internet famous.

I was interviewed twice, got to to do a plug for Silly Gillman, and I was able to call two games in the mighty Pelvis manner with Lady Oshun and Kevin Up. Though I missed most of the after party because I decided to help clean up the venue, I am happy to hear people had so much fun. Now, I need to finish reading The Sound and the Fury before Wednesday. I like it so far, but it's a far cry from watching three teams I love entertain over 1350 fans. We need a bigger venue.

The best part of the season is when your lady takes the track

2010-03-19T18:39:00.000-04:00

Ask any derby widow what moment they look forward to most in a new season and, if they're smart and worth being with, they will say it's the moment their woman first takes to the track. Whether it's the intro, or the first jam, seeing her out there should make your heart and gonads go all a-tingle. There she is: your missus, out there playing the game she loves as much as you, if not more.

Tomorrow, I get my love tingles right away. Dread's team, the Nutcrackers, are taking on the Wicked Pissahs in bout one of the sold out Boston Doubleheader. While I will keep my utter love for this woman in check on Saturday, I wanted to say right here... I love her.

photo by Erin Caruso

Tomorrow, watching her play will certainly cut down on the bout stress that comes from being part of a triumvirate in charge of bout production and an announcer. Whereas last month's bout was all about putting out fires, I think I will just revel in Dreadnought lighting up the track. And calling the game. Yeah. Because I still need to do my job.

Widow pride

2010-03-15T08:31:00.005-04:00

The Boston Derby Dames were in their second season when Dreadnought joined. MySpace was still the king of online social networking (where people like "Digital Boob Angel" would send you friend requests and it seemed easier to point to the name and say, "This, Mom, is why we should keep our conversations on the phone"). On my MySpace account, I was sent a friend request from the "Boston Derby Dames Roller Derby Wives Club." It was run by Triple Deck-Her's Bottom Floor, who was instrumental in getting after party food for the bouts.

While she and I were friends, it was rare to see us out making omelets and partying with the other widows in our league. I believe the distance between widows is shrinking, and certainly there are pockets of Boston widow running crews, but it's also a relief that we're not all forced together on mandatory play-dates like the toddlers of uncool, wine-swilling socialites. "You two would love each other..." Right.

Of course, the culture in every league is different. Some leagues party more, some have great senses of humor, and some leagues are so intense you wonder if they'd descend into chaos if someone passed wind in the middle of a bout setup. Needless to say, each society of skaters can dictate how well their widows socialize. Vermont, thankfully, has such a great group of ladies that their widows and widowers seem to have formed a team of their own:

Look at those shirts. They had them ordered from Arizona and gave them out before the bout started. Sharks and Jets be damned, there is a new gang in town. In this case, you see a sort of working-class athletes' wives club, proud of their girlfriends and partners, and unafraid to to form a drunken pyramid, but do you want to dance fight against them? I didn't think so.

The reading, the continuing season, and happy times

2010-03-12T13:43:00.003-05:00

Almost a week ago, I was writing to you from New York City about the reading I was going to do in Metuchen, NJ at The Raconteur. It was, in a word, memorable. The Raconteur is a fantastic bookstore, overflowing with used books, DVDs and tchotchkes. The store's decor gives it the appearance of awesome attic and eccentric library. Sort of a Bugaboo Creek for literary types. I went on first, and read a short-short called "Replacement" that had come from an email I almost sent to the man to whom I was going to give Drago. Who would have thought it could have actually been something entertaining.

The Nutcrackers couldn't be here, so I was a cheap stand-in.

Two men in the audience laughed pretty loud at some of the lines. One was Mike Edison, who has been a pro-wrestler, punk guitarist (worked with GG Allin), pornographer, and writer/editor. The other, was Juan F$%^ing Epstein from Welcome Back, Kotter. My brain almost bled.

The other people in my class often remind me of how talented they are by breathing in the same room I inhabit. Getting to hear seven of them read for fifteen minutes at a time was revelatory.

So, I made it home in time to start working on bout production, my school-work, and Power Jammers. It's a decent life. What makes it truly beautiful is that I came home to Dread, with whom none of this would have occurred in the delicious sequence I have enjoyed.

Tomorrow, I go up to Burlington, Vermont again to watch GMDD take on the Utica Clubbers. I'm doing it solo, so this should be an odd experience for me.

Counting down till Metuchen

2010-03-05T20:39:00.000-05:00

In about twenty-four hours, I will be reading some of my work that is going into a fiction collection called about derby widows. Sitting at the cold, stone-topped table of my friend, V, I am nervously awaiting his critique of the first draft of the story Dread suggested I read.

I am in one of the coolest apartments on earth, preparing for a moment I have feared to have, with a dude smarter than I will ever be...it's heaven.

It is one thing to be calling derby action. To put your own stuff out there; whoa baby!

Location:Lafayette St,New York,United States

When Art Imitates Life Part Two: My turn at the wheel

2010-03-03T15:56:00.003-05:00

While many of this blog's readers are from New England, there are a small number of you who live within an hour or three of the event below. I would love it if you could spread the word and bring some derby love to the Raconteur. The owner, Alex Dawson's a really great dude and I am honored to go on first. Here's the event announcement from Alex:

The Raconteur Presents
8 PM, Sat. March 6
BENN @ RAC
Readings/Live Music

In keeping with my previous efforts to bring accomplished Bennies to Metuchen (Pultizer Prize finalist David Gates, South African author Sheila Kohler, travel writer Rolf Potts), I've extended an open call to my fellow MFAers. Bennington is a place where the students are almost as accomplished as the faculty, and this weekend seven of my Bennington College colleagues will be descending on The Raconteur from various Seaboard states for a night of poetry, music, and prose.

The evening will include such illustrious guests as Steve LaFond, a roller derby mascot (his day job has him donning a red astronautical jumpsuit and elaborate Planet of the Apes-style latex to play a Soviet space chimp named Drago), who writes stories inspired by his life in monkey make-up and the skate rink; Willa Carroll, an acclaimed Manhattan modern dancer-cum-poet recently published in Tin House and labeled an "angel who stirs up trouble" by the Village Voice, whose onstage unicorn-horned wrestling was praised by the New York Times; Jeremy Oldfield, an appropriately surnamed former farmer once dedicated to rejuvenating fallow land (get it? old field) who sings songs about, among other things, compost; and myself, reading a very funny story which begins with the trusted knee-slapper, "When I was ten, my stepfather hit me in the head with an axe." Also with Jennifer Acker, Jamie-Lee Josselyn, Julia Lictblau, Robert "Vee" Hansmann, and Sue Repko. Plus a surprise guest. Free. Comp libations (wine, beer, bourbon).

The Raconteur hosts free weekly events (live music, film screenings, author signings, staged radio plays, art exhibitions), and organizes oddball literary happenings that range from Manhattan pub crawls and arm wrestling tournaments to motorcycle rides and beard growing contests. It's been called "a literary center of gravity" by The New York Times, "a literary landmark" by Time Out New York, and "a literary sanctuary" by the London Guardian.

Previous guests include Jim Carroll, Susan Orlean, Kelly Link, Jim Shepard, John Crowley, Charles Bock, Arthur Phillips, Paul Muldoon, Todd Solondz, Mark Doty, Ian Mackaye, The Bindlestiff Family Cirkus, Sheila Kohler, Samantha Hunt, John Wray, Arthur Nersessian, David Gates, John Wesley Harding, 2008 Oscar winning documentarian Alex Gibney, and two guys who made a shot by shot remake of Raiders of the Lost Ark when they were ten.

--
The Raconteur
431 Main Street
Metuchen, NJ 08840
www.raconteurbooks.com

Honestly, going first is a real way to keep me from looking the fool. Everyone from Bennington has no small amount of talent and I have always been floored at the skill that each of the people I am reading with on Saturday possess. It's an intimidating and very entertaining group.

Bliss

2010-03-01T22:05:00.003-05:00

Derby Widow searches that led people here, and how long they stayed

2010-02-27T07:31:00.003-05:00

Web statistics are a great tool for any blogger, writer, or typical attention prostitute ("whore" is vulgar, and has just become a pejorative term for any lady needing some love squeezings. Shame on you, men and women, who use that term that way. Go get some). They let let you know where people who read your blog came from, what people have read the most, and often how long they stay.

Early this morning, at 3:30AM, someone in the South was looking for "pictures derby widows," and I think was disappointed to find my link because they left after two minutes. Well, here's a little sexy .jpeg to keep you coming back, baby!

Hot.

Today, I am up early to capitalize on a silent morning and edit my latest Bennington College packet before sending it to my uber-genius of a professor, Tom. I'm two-for-two with instructors who have had the brain meats that challenge my writing to the point I wake up paranoid days before, copy my work over into another file and re-type it in from scratch to make sure I do not appear the fool when I send the work in. As my nose started to bleed from the stress, I turned to the internet to tell me what's good. Which led me to my stats page, because like all lonely people on the internet, I want my kicks. Unlike them, I decided to keep both hands on the keys. Unless, of course, I'm cam-prostituting.

The written word is dangerous. Wear your gauntlets at all times.

All the other searches have been less ambiguous, some with even my government name being used along with the phrase "derby widow." That's pretty cool. Thank you to everyone, whether I know you or not, for reading.

All right, enough procrastination. I have some reviews to edit, a bout to run, and some games to call. Take it easy!

-Pelvis Costello

Delegation Station

2010-02-26T09:49:00.001-05:00

Last night, as the stress of setting up the bout and finishing up my packet had begun to boil over, I was thankful to set it aside for a couple hours to work on the podcast with Three-Day Bender and Señor Macho Solo (download here). I was also able to interview Peter Rottentail of CMRD, who discussed Men's Derby and updated us about Central Mass Roller Derby's new lady teams.

Once the interview was over, the Power Jammers studio was transformed into a special effects workshop as we worked on the new Dragomir mask. The original prosthetic mold was based on the original Planet of the Apes masks. Now that I've passed the torch for the new season, we updated the mask to the one used by Tim Roth in Tim Burton's version of Planet.

When you first receive the facial prosthetic, it's completely naked. The surface is an almost shiny yellow, giving it the appearance of badly burned skin.

It's got to be painted, so I made sure to get a bunch of the best Mehron makeup and setting spray money can buy for Peter to set up the mask. Here's where being an avid geek comes as an advantage.

Years of making monsters, painting models, and general Halloween antics made the work rather seamless. I was impressed with how fast the dude was getting stuff done. I didn't need to lift a finger, for Peter had this in hand. Was this what I looked like to Dread as I painted my first chimpanzee mask while watching Real Time with Bill Maher?

Hayley, the Cosmonaughties co-captain, came over just in time to see Peter complete a "dry fit" of the mask. While I don't have a picture of her reaction, here's as close to the end result I can show before bout day, which is tomorrow.

Take that, people's dreams!

I came here to kick butt and chew bubblegum...and I've lost my shoe...

2010-02-24T14:30:00.003-05:00

Two days before the big bout in Boston. We are already breaking records in online ticket sales, which reminds me to tell you to buy tickets fast, because they will sell out. If you read this, and are in the Boston area, my warning has merit. If you just like to watch me write, don't go away, I'm going to peel back that curtain into the backstage planning of derby.

In an earlier post, "The Screams and Shouts when you get Burnt Out...", I touched upon the work that goes into bout production and how we put in a ton of effort each month to get stuff looking nice. We do it for the fans, for each other, for you. Planning the bout, recruiting staff, setting up a venue and making sure we have enough seats is a full-time job. You know people who throw those big arena festivals? Nevermind doing it once a year...do it once a month, and with an all volunteer army.

AMATEURS!

Today is all about setting up half-time fun for the audience, double-checking every to-do list, and working on my grad school packet (yes, I actually non-derby work, but my fiction lately is all derby-related...thanks, ladies). Tonight, I meet with the announcers to discuss the bout runthrough from that perspective. In between the stuff, I've planned, I've fielded phone calls and emails ranging from the five-alarm alerts to the "dude, do you like stuff? Get back to me in ten minutes"emails that are not idle threats. For within ten minutes, I get, "Seriously, dude? Stuff? Y/N."

No. I do not like "stuff."

This year's bout production team are really a pleasure to work with, and I'm lucky to have them. Each of us brings something unique to the table, and I seem to share a brain with one of them, so it's pretty cool that I've not taken a corkscrew to my temple and lobotomized the two of us.

Once the house lights of Shriners go down and the crowd starts cheering loudly, today will disappear in the fog of euphoria that I get every time I see a game start. The game will be called with the same "Hot Fire" I was breathing on GMDD and NHRD the weekend before. Reverend Al will be there. Lady O will be holding court over the intro and commentary fiefdom. And Pelvis Costello will continue to be your King of Smooth.

GMDD was very nice to me (and NHRD)

2010-02-22T13:09:00.005-05:00

The trek up to Essex Junction, Vermont from Arlington, Massachusetts is roughly three-and-a-half hours. My erstwhile companions, Dreadnought and Johnny Deep, had started a game of “cows” once we he hit the Vermont border, raking up one point for every herd or single cow seen on their sides of the ford Taurus. Each of them howled in dismay whenever we passes a graveyard for its appearance heralded a clearing of the tally on whomever’s side of the car the cemetery happened to be on. Our visual branding of cattle was merely a side effect of driving up I-89 to watch the Green Mountain Derby Dames take on New Hampshire Roller Derby’s Skate Free or Die.

Actually a cow... This bastard cost me the game, as Dread's iPhone confirmed its bovine genetics. Thanks a lot, Emo-Udders.

My job as the announcer for NHRD meant that I’d be separated from the missus and Johnny for much of the bout, as I crept along the side of the track like a stalking baboon with a microphone. We arrived at our hotel in Burlington, Vermont at 2:10 pm, with snow beginning to fall in slow, heavy clusters. Weather can be a deterrent for many roller derby fans, but this is Vermont, where snow is merely a condiment and ice comprises much of their building materials. After check in, we raced over to the Champlain Expo Center, for I believed I had to arrive for check-in at three.

The Green Mountain Derby Dames have a regular spot in the Expo’s event rotation, and the staff of the Expo were a younger, hands-on answer to the generous Shriners that run the Aleppo Auditorium where Boston holds their games. Arriving in the expansive parking lot of the Expo, a massive sports compound any derby league, or cult leader, would kill for, we walked through the loading doors of the rink, into a sea of green and black shirts that could only be GMDD’s support staff. Introducing myself as Pelvis Costello, I was shown the announcer table and informed that my co-commentator, the lovely Candy Coronary, would arrive shortly.

A note about GMDD: they are the living custodians of Xenia, the Ancient Greek laws of hospitality. Like Odysseus, my dog's favorite epic hero, I was treated to kind faces and asked about what I needed before the start of the bout. My offers to help fell on deaf ears, though the bout setup machine GMDD has in place is impressive enough to not need a super-god like myself. Before game time, I was introduced to Candy, a former skater-turned-announcer, whose demeanor, like her derby namesake, threatened my heart with its sugary deliciousness.

NHRD warming up.

Calling this game was a personal highlight in my short announcing career. I tend not to brag about myself. Rather, I have the desire to deify my friends and loved ones. But I was on fire. I explained rules to the crowd while keeping the play-by-play rolling with Candy. There were references to NH and VT's longstanding feuds, the Hobbit, and how derby was were settling our differences.The crowd was awesome and responsive. You want to know more about it, jump over to Power Jammers.

The last jam of the bout tied up the game 69-69, which threw us into a jam off. Basically, we kept going until there was a definitive winner. Make Out Bandit scored ten points to Basher Barbie's 3, ruining my adolescent chuckling on the score, but giving NHRD the win. Floating on the boos and death-threats of die-hard fans, we made our way to the after party where the two teams were able to laugh and make merry together, while we all waited hours to be served food.

I would speak more about the night spent at the hotel, and how one British guest took exception to the celebratory mood of some NHRD people, but like Lovecraft, I dare not speak of it.

"It was just scary, okay? Damn, what do you expect from

a dude who's scared and confessing his deeds on his death bed?!

The monster was mean and all GRRRR!" - from the unpublished story

"Look you had to be there, all right?"

Holy Crap

2010-02-19T17:58:00.001-05:00

DNN added powerjammers.net to their Weekly Rollup! We've only had two podcasts up so far for this season...and only two weeks for the website.

It can only go down from here. HA.