The Columnist Manifesto

This Hip American Life

2012-01-27T20:36:00.000-08:00

The morning is still, the air is quiet and hardly a thing stirs in the cozily furnished room. The two bay windows watching over the narrow street are uncovered, the old glass lets in a bold stream of light pool over a worn out and flattened shag rug. A small fireplace reveals the remnants of last evening's fire, the crumbling cinders perched so delicately, the breeze from a passerby would easily cause the entire structure to turn into a mound of dust. On the mantle, a variety of clocks tick, each one slightly off by mere seconds as if some one took pride and time in setting each and every single one of them. On either side of the fireplace, there are built in bookcases overflowing with old cloth bound novels, several first edition copies of famous books, some art books, and even a couple of fine press books hidden in the mess. Photographs, framed in simple wooden frames hang on the walls and sit on whatever available surfaces are around. Vintage portraits, drawings, prints and drawings get large huge frames as they are carefully placed in the wall space, to give the most aesthetically pleasing situation. Overstuffed couches, covered in pillows, sheepskins and throws sit sadly, sagging from years of overuse but there is something about the bright patterned fabrics that still show they have some life in them. A coffee table made of some stolen street sign is littered with typographical magazines, literary reviews and stumps of burnt out pillar candles.

Down the hall, the door to the kitchen is ajar slightly, mostly because it sticks in the other direction. A peep through the crack reveals a worn looking tile counter, but scrubbed clean. The dishes from last evening's dinner still sit, soaking in lukewarm soapy water. Further down the hall, another open door reveals what looks like an office but looks almost like a reading corner in some old university library. An old lion claw foot table sits in the middle of the circle of bookshelves, a single lamp in the center with several books strewn about. A copy of planetary physics, mechanical systems and a stack of dog eared Harry Potter books are what you can make out from the doorway. It would be a bit rude of barge into this little sanctuary of learning. All around you, evidence of life, scarves and hats hanging on hooks, several heavy coats and a pair of bicycles suspended from the ceiling. At the end of the hall, a door with a stolen restroom sign hints at the contents of that room and the bright sunlight streams in off to the side illuminating the stacked washer dryer.

The door to the bedroom is ajar, open only a crack. Peering in, a semi naked man is seen carefully on tip toe bearing a tray with two cups, a pot of tea and several various pastries. He sneaks to the far end of the room and places them on the coffee table in front of a couch and arm chair. He tries to pick up a cup and a slight shuffling sound from the bed causes him to panic and toss a cup in the air. Realizing the potential peril of the ceramic container, he fumbles and tries to catch it as it bounces out of his fingertips each time. Making a narrow save, he has a look of shock as he realized, he managed to actually successfully catch the cup before it broke or woke the other person in the room. The bright comforter reveals a shock of blonde hair, splayed out over the solid colored pillowcases. Replacing the cups on the tray, he pours out tea, and arranges the pastries carefully. Thinking to himself, for a plan of attack, he crawls on top of her, and begins to kiss her cheek.

Suddenly at once, the clocks on the mantle in the living room all go off at the same time, revealing a resonating barrage of bells and gongs that waft down the hall and into the bedroom. The face under the blanket stirs only slightly as it disappears underneath the comforter to avoid the kisses. Frustrated by his attempts, he walks over to the windows and draws up the curtains, bathing the entire room in light. The tea tray casts a reflection over the bed, with shadows outlining the cups plates and pot. The light only furthers the massing of blankets and pillows over the blonde head of hair. Finally, he resorts to a last measure of attack. Momentarily, the room is empty except for the sleeping person but the half naked man returns, with a record in hand. Placing it delicately on a turntable in a corner of the room, the speakers come to life with the crackle and pop of dust as the sounds of a slow jazz piece come to life. Climbing on top of the other person once more, he resumes the barrage of kisses and the face turns to him as their lips touch. A passionate exchange, he grabs her glasses and places them carefully on her face, bringing a smile as her world suddenly comes into focus.

She wraps a blanket around her shoulders for warmth as he leads her to the couch now warm from the morning sunlight. Gingerly, she begins to take a sip from the steaming cup of tea while he munched on a macaroon. They discuss plans for the day as the record then proceeds to the next song. This time, a lively uptempo solo prompts him to walk over to the machine and turn down the volume. They seem inseparable, brushing their teeth together, getting dressed together and assembling in the hall together. She asks him something and he nods in agreement. Locking the apartment door, they walk down together into the sunny street, the proprietor of the shop they live above begins to set up umbrellas for the lunch crowd soon to pack the shop front. At the corner, they part with a kiss as she walks towards the bus stop and him towards the grocery store.

The day goes by without seeing these two for awhile. The shop is packed for an hour or two with brightly flanneled and bearded people waiting for fresh made sandwiches and cuts of meat. The sounds of electric trolley buses running and the noise of San Francisco almost make the scene ordinary. The call of the vegetable seller at the corner shop, the honks of an impatient woman driver from San Bruno stuck behind a double parked taxi waiting for his fare and the talks about town of shows at the Warfield, Regency and Great American Music Hall. The ordinary scene is broken when the man arrives back home, arms laden with paper grocery bags filled to the brim with carefully picked vegetables and delicacies. Momentarily, he is gone, but returns to enter the butcher shop and picks out a decent sized side of meat. Soon after, she comes back as well, with an armful of small boxes and a potted plant on top. They go up the steps together and return to the little apartment.

Suddenly, the apartment is a blaze of motion. As the burners on the little viking stove come to life, pots and pans are rested, smeared with butter as garlic and onions are put on to simmer. The dressed up side of meat waits patiently on the counter, tied together with twine and seasoned to perfection. Meanwhile, the living room is cleaned up, the ashes swept up and discarded, books neatly arranged and magazines thrown into the magazine rack. The overstuffed chairs and couches are arranged around the fireplace and coffee table and new candles are brought out. In the dining room, the table is stretched out, the leaf brought in and several folding chairs now lean against the buffet on one side of the room. From the kitchen, the sounds of sizzling and the smells of herbs and spices begin to pollute the pantry and the dining room. The cardboard boxes reveal board games and these are placed on the coffee table in anticipation. While he cooks, she goes around setting the table, eight places in all. Satisfied, she enters the kitchen through the pantry in between the dining room and kitchen and wraps her arms around his torso. Smiling he turns around and kisses her tenderly. The moment is broken when again, all the clocks in the living room chime indicating that it was now five thirty.

The harsh buzz of the door buzzer is broken only by a crackly voice through an old fashioned call box. The door opens up to reveal the first couple to arrive, a tall bearded man with combed back hair and a chrome bag over his shoulder. His girlfriend, an equally tall redheaded girl sporting large glasses and a beanie leans in to give the blonde woman a hug. Again the buzzer rings again before the first couple can even get comfortable and the next group of people enter. This time, it's two guys, one with curly hair and a waxed mustache and the other clean shaven but sporting a bow tie and a vintage blazer. They both walk into the kitchen to talk to the man as the buzzer yet rings again. Two girls appear now, one short and slightly round but very pretty, the other about average but sporting the Bettie Page look. The both of them squeal as they see the blonde woman and come in for hugs. Soon, everyone is introducing themselves in the living room, smiling and exchanging words and glances.

Pretty soon, the dining room is filled with the smell of many varieties of food. Garlic butter onion noodles, the beef roast, a vegetable curry, pan fried onion cakes, fried rice, a tray of fish fillets, breaded and fried in oil and several loaves of fresh baked bread. As everyone sits down, all the guests suddenly produce a bottle wine they each had decided to bring. The couple pulls out a port as he explains to the host "for dessert." The two ladies had opted each to bring a bottle of white and red while the two gentlemen both opted for a bottle of red wine each. Soon, flat cylindrical Spanish wine glasses are brought out as all the bottles are opened and soon the entire group is talking, eating and between the group of two males and two females, a hint of flirting. As soon as the food is gone, the dessert is brought out, a gallon of homemade ice cream, a chocolate fondue pot and a variety platter of things to dip. The hostess jokingly remarks, "we should have bought a fountain instead." The bearded man pulls the cork from the bottle of port and begins to portion it out to the rest of the guests and before taking a sip, everyone toasts the host and hostess. Both of whom blush and kiss each other to congratulate them for a job well done.

As soon as the plates are put into the dishwasher, the group migrates to the living room where a fire is started in the fireplace and an iPod is hooked into the handmade goldwire speaker cabinet. A slow indie playlist comes on in the background as the board games are opened and a rabble of voices argue playfully over which games to play first. In honor of the group, they all choose Hipsteropoly and after several rounds, the game is set aside for team pictionary, the boys versus the girls. It wasn't exactly fair since the two guys who had come together were carving artists who worked at the print shop the host owned, but the ladies defended their ground quite well, even overtaking the guys team and eventually winning with the word Tumbler. Pretty soon, the furniture is scooted around and an impromptu dance party begins and more wine flows. Fearing his liquor cabinet might be raided, the host locks it up, but the hostess gives him that look, a sort of pouty, be nice and share look. Reluctantly, the bottle of absinthe and the brollieur are brought out and everyone in the party becomes distracted from dancing in the presence of ice water and sugar cubes.

The mass of clocks all begin to chime as everyone drunkenly turns towards the mantle, realizing the time and the necessity of sleeping in is mandatory, everyone begins to leave, the couple first indicating they have their bikes locked in the hallway. The other two groups, suddenly turning into two couples indicate they would share a cab. As soon as the last guest is gone, the furniture is rearranged back the way they were, the board games put away, the fire stoked out and the candles put out. The dishes are left to dry in the washer and the leftovers wrapped and stowed away in the fridge. She uses the bathroom first to shower while he arranges the bed, getting it ready for the night. They switch places as he uses the bathroom. Once everything is finished, they crawl under the covers and switch out the lamps and cuddle each other to sleep. They kiss one last time, "good night little boo." "Night night beau."

If-- by Rudyard Kipling (1895)

2011-12-07T19:39:00.000-08:00

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

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If you feel like it.

Seeking the Ideal from this Modern World

2011-12-07T18:45:00.000-08:00

The ideal nation has been an object of perfection for the past several centuries from Robert Owen's ideal village to the grand visions of Le Courbsier's modern day city (Le Courbsier). All of which deal with the aspects of modifying the shape of the city to modify the behavior of the people. Or the garden cities of the mid 19^th century that sought to centralize living spaces, to create a sense of place that encouraged healthy outdoor living, happiness in separation from work and the ideal environments, far away from the smokey city centers (Benevolo 46). But I intend to create a perfect society, one that picks up where these all failed in their execution (Jacobs). By taking elements of each, I intend to create a society, where equality and the reigning qualities of life rule primary.

The failure of the ideal cities of the past can stem back to their lack of intent to change, a result of only marginally challenging the structure of life and more ended up being a compliment to the then current practice of life. Their unwillingness to make a complete change to the social infrastructure of behavior, interaction and policy would result in their eventual failure (Hayden).

In this new modern society, which I shall call Perefessinia from here on out, will deal with the social structure, the cultural system, political systems and the economic systems. These four things easily can define the ideal structure of a city, the ideal shape of a city, the ideal society, the ideal body politic, and the ideal structure economic.

The Rules of the Game

Likewise with our current society, there are norms that we must accept and carry over. It is understood that our actions are a direct result of the lives of many people, activities that would cause harm to others are strictly prohibited except in recreation zones. Recreation zones shall be two hundred fifty miles square, fifty miles by fifty miles and placed at the center of every 500 mile by 500 mile grid that the country will be blocked into. Here, people are allowed free reign to do anything they want, shoot, blow things up and crash automobiles. Entry into recreation zones require a minimum age of 16, two previous psychiatric evaluations and application of a pass. People entering these zones of lawlessness are prohibited from a stay of more than 10 days and as such, electronic tracking tags will reveal where these people are hiding allowing for state police to force them out. Passes may only be purchased or in special cases grandfathered in with special permission from the state.

These zones shall allow people to enjoy themselves, unwind and relieve the stresses of modern life (Huxley). This place shall act as a sanity chamber, allowing the people to avoid the rigors of life momentarily.

Thought will be allowed free reign and shall not be inhibited in any way, psychologically or chemically. People choosing the preference of art as a career shall be state funded and allowed depiction of anything of their choosing. Should anyone be offended by the images portrayed by the artist, both the artist and the afflicted party shall meet with a state evaluator to discuss and help both parties understand the reason for the image's creation and reception. In so doing, the burden of meeting with state officials would cause people to consider making art of an offensive nature or criticizing any piece of artwork. Any images found offensive by the state cannot be confiscated without the artist first undergoing a public trial by a jury of his peers, critics, experts and the ordinary to justify why the image was created in the first place (Ball & Dagger 167).

Written text, publications for print, comics, fictional literature and any other works falling under this category shall not be inhibited in any way. Free enterprise press shall be encouraged and the use of government presses shall not be restricted except in cases where presses are restricted for government use only in the case of producing fiat currency, official document blanks and documents concerning income tax, immigration and legal status.

Punishment of persons committing any crime deemed immoral and offensive to the state and its people will be allowed either exile or evaluation in trial by the state (Kelling). In the case of exile, work camps and reeducation centers in the hinterlands will hope to modify the behavior of offender. Should the person choose evaluation, he will be examined by a jury of public peers, and the case brought for and against the person. But the people of Perefessinia should be happy enough that the idea of committing a crime is unnecessary and only then in the most heinous of cases shall the public become the jury to determine and measure against their standard of life what action to take (Brem).

The government structure of life

The government or the state of Perefessinia is not in the business of controlling every single aspect of people's lives. It shall function primarily as the watchdog of the people, the legal channel that everyone should and shall pass through for most of the primary functions of their lives (Ball & Dagger 112). The nation is divided into districts, each of which are self governing, and further on in the metropolitan area, they are in turn self governing as well, but are restricted by the laws of the district and the districts under the Government Principia. All servants of the civil sector shall be publicly elected as officials and hired or appointed as appropriate in the various departments of the state. The state itself shall consist of the following departments to manage all aspects of life not controlled by the self or in the self interest of the state.

The Ministry – shall deal with the heads of each of the following departments. It will be under the control of the first minister who also shall appoint a second minister to serve as his deputy.
The Ministry of the State – shall deal with the ruling districts and the hinterlands. It shall also deal with foreign relations with various other nations
The Ministry of the Interior – shall deal with all lands property of the state, public buildings, natural preserves and Recreational Zones of Lawlessness.
The Ministry of Industry & Commerce – shall deal with all properties under state and private ownership engaged in the commerce, trades or production of durable goods, intellectual goods, and digital goods.
The Ministry of Education – shall deal with all state run schools, primary through higher education. Under this ministry, the bureau of censorship shall exist as a department for the evaluation of the censorship of artworks and intellectual creations.
The Ministry of Defense – shall deal with all things pertaining to national security both at home and abroad. There shall be four heads in this department: The Chief of Perefessinia, The First Sea Laird, The First Land Commander and the First Air Warden. Their defensive territories shall be as in this order: State run police, Sea, Land & Air.
The Ministry of Health – shall deal with all items and topics related to drugs, health regulations and shall be the governing body for any and/or all medical procedures.
The Ministry of Justice – shall deal with any corruption found within the system and by judicial appointment seek to root out this corruption.
The Ministry of Revenue – shall deal with the collection and imposition of taxes to generate revenue for the state. All locations under state control including Recreation Zones are taxable locations.
The Ministry of Transportation – shall deal with all aspects of travel by road, rail, air or water and shall be responsible for the regular upkeep of these systems with money gained through lawful means through the Ministry of Revenue.
The Ministry of Civic Planning – shall deal with all aspects of city life, rural life and suburban life. The placement of buildings, the preservation of artistic, and experimental buildings and structures and the construction of any new buildings sponsored by the state or owned by the state.

These departments shall control all aspects and the heads of each are publicly elected officials who have served in the “People's Body” or the Duma. The Duma will consist of one member for every district of 8000 people. Members of the Duma must serve six years before election to the Politiburo which is conducted by Duma members alone. Politiburo members serve as the head of the 10 ministries and may deputize any Duma member to act as a second if any problems occur in absentia (Ball & Dagger 22).

The social structure of life

Where our societies of the past and present have relied heavily on spiritualism to find release of thought, there shall be no religion to distract people from the regularity of life. Things that occur as a so-called miracle will be examined by the Ministry of Education's department and bureau of science to explain. Morality, the guide rod of life shall be deemed as acceptable and unacceptable behavior by the state. The state may only reach these conclusions through public consensus through a ballot initiative. From there, morality is placed in the charge of the Duma to examine it, moved to the Politiburo for further scrutiny, examined by the justice ministry and then signed into the book of morality. Any preset morality clauses may be revoked through the same due processes of the law.

The idea of beauty, truth shall be not controlled by the state, but allowing of the people to discover on their own. However, when the idea of beauty or truth begins to interfere with a persons normal functions or duties or even reason to cause distress to another person or persons, the parties involved shall be required to meet with a government evaluator to straighten out all issues.

Considering the function of marriage and interaction, these shall be made possible under the bureau of licensing. The state shall have no interference in the union of any two persons. Polygamy shall not be allowed by the state and stipulated in the book of morals. This interference on the rights of those who do believe in poly-amorous relationships is justified by the unequal rights. Persons disputing this claim may marry multiple persons in the zones, but these marriages will not be recognized outside of that particular zone and upon departure from the zone, the contract of union shall be dissolved thirty days after the marriage unless the contract is signed a second time before the thirty day expiration date. There is no case reported where this has successfully occurred.

The commerce of life

Material goods and commercial goods for production are regulated under the Ministry of Industry and Commerce. All workers shall receive an equal income and the tax rate shall be set at 60% nationwide. This high tax rate shall create a large revenue to allow people to still enjoy the niceties of life while still contribute to the vast majority of state run programs. Heads of private commerce shall be regulated at an 80% tax rate and heavily scrutinized under the government. The increase in tax should still allow for a comfortable life as well as to protect the workers rights in equality and payment. Competition amongst corporations shall be encouraged with state prizes to allow consumers the greatest freedom in choice of products (Ball & Dagger 62).

Corporations and companies (large, medium and small) shall start as an endeavor of the private citizen with monetary backing of the state. Once the capitalist is capable of buying the corporation or company from the state, he may do so and the taxation on the company drops from 90% to 70%.

The regulation of business and industry shall be conducted by the ministry of industry and commerce only to impede whether or not a business, corporation, company or industry have corrupted any members of government. Dual investigations from the Ministry of Justice will also concede whether or not any injustice was committed. Corruption shall not be tolerated lightly.

Conclusions

Compared to what we have discussed in Brem's classes and lectures, there are many social structures that could determine the shape of the world around us. Whether or not we choose to engage in all of these aspects, is determined by our behavior. Our world around us shapes our social understanding of society, how we want it to be, how it ought to be and how it should come to fruition. I realized in the creation of this nanny-esque state how quickly my personal vision suddenly became very authoritarian. The allowance of freedoms in select locations, the government interevening in every moment to eliminate any possibility of offensive behavior, art or literature and worst of all, exile for disputing views. Partially, this derived and sounded ideal in my head from reading Brave New World, Animal Farm and watching Equilibrium. These materials all conceptually deal with ideal societies, yet have their faults. In Animal Farm and Equilibrium, there was the oppressive nanny state, the drugging, lack of feeling, and someone profiteering. In Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, there are places where religion is free to exist amonst the so called “barbarians” while in the clean, modern worlds, again there is the drugging, lack of free religions and texts of a disputive nature, that engaged its readers other than in the whimsical pleasures of life.

Personally, this paper has made me more aware of how much control there is in life, both on the personal scale and by the government as well. There is an extremely delicate balance that is constantly being tipped one direction or the other in our world. Too much government or too little government will cause the social structure of life to fall apart. Personally, I like the idea of zones of free will, not regulated by excessive government control. But I think we do have something like that, only it is called Nevada. California is a great example of a growing nanny state. I really do question our purpose here, is it entirely necessary to put into law what the definition of marriage is? Are we that stupid that we need to say that this is the definition, and the only definition? The slow process of law and the weird acceptance that if law is passed, it cannot go away made me personally add the clause in the book of morals that any of them can be changed through due process.

So what do I see appealing about the world around me? I see elements that both scare and fascinate me. Things that seem like they would work on multiple levels and some things that wouldn't work at all in an entire nation. I see the bits and pieces that if the right combination presented itself at long last would become a very good combination and should we choose not to utilize this, there is a good chance that a state may fail in this or that way. What do I long to see in this world now? Does my ideal country sound appealing? Not really. But if I had absolutely no choice as to my gender, social standing, rank and race, would I live there? I would not mind.

Works Cited

Ball, Terrence & Richard Dagger. Political Ideologies and the Democratic Ideal 8^th Ed. New York, NY: Longman, 2011. Print.

Benevolo, Leonardo. The Origins of Modern Town Planning. Cambridge, MA: The M.I.T. Press, 1971. Print.

Brem, Robert [Professor of Political Theory at Cal State East Bay & College of Alameda]. Lecture. Alameda, CA. 26 Oct. 2011.

Brem, Robert. Speaking Reality into Existence: Political Philosophy and Democracy 9.3^rd Ed. Alameda, CA: Department of Politics, College of Alameda, 2010. Print.

Le Courbsier. Plan Voisign. Paris, France. Dover Press, 1991. Print.

Hayden, Dolores. Building Suburbia: Green Fields and Urban Growth, 1820-2000. New York, NY: Vintage Books, 2004. Print.

Huxley, Aldous. Brave New World. New York, NY: Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 2010. Print.

Jacobs, Jane. The Death and Life of Great American Cities. New York, NY: Modern Library, 1961. Print.

Kelling, George & Catherine Coles. Fixing Broken Windows: Restoring Order and Reducing Crime In our Communities. New York, NY: Free Press, 1998. Print

It's not what I got, but it's one model above.

2011-11-14T23:36:00.001-08:00

Social Change for the Better

2011-11-01T02:19:00.001-07:00

More and more each day, this country slips into a different direction, one day in one direction, another in some other direction. We are approaching the straining point, the critical mass that the country needs to achieve. Today, many people are sitting idly by as they face forclosure, piling debt, bankruptcy and so much more. Yet, there unwavering in the distance is something that everyone is clinging to, that thing everyone is so intent on holding on to. Their political ideologies.

But why? Why are these ideologies holding the attention of the majority of our public so well? Why are they shaping every single decision of a person without any prior knowledge? Why are they just existing in general? It gives citizens the sort of comfort of knowing how the world should be, that it ought to be more than just that. It plays no real role, other than a platform to yell from, and in this country, whoever can yell the loudest wins.

So what is it about an ideology that captivates our attention so well? If we look at some of the past events in news history, we can see why. The whole 99% movement that originated on Wall Street, it allowed the common classical liberal to stand up for himself, to stand and be heard by the governments. More and more each day, government institutions are found to be generally less and less connected to its public constituents, and no longer are the people in office a genuine Representative of the concerns of the people but for one of the two parties in power. That's another problem with our two party system, it does not allow for anyone else to gain power, and you end up with extremists on either side with no common ground to stand on. In foreign countries such as Norway and Sweden, their parliaments consist of representative democracies, allowing for the leading party to hold the control of the votes, while the other parties hold a percentage of seats relative to the percentage of the population.

Our Electoral College is not the best system period. The popular vote can only go so far during an election, merely showing "how" a country will vote for the next president, but in reality, the Electoral College controls the genuine voting power of our next leaders. But why does it prevail? How is it ineffective? Consider a large state like California. California has a number of Electoral College votes and during a presidential election, 51% votes Republican and 49% vote Democrat. Are those votes evenly portioned out? Not in the least, but in fact, 100% would go to the republican party. Now, as a member of the GOP for 4 years before re-registering as a democrat, I now am yet again considering switching to independent. Neither party works, and the system is fracked up enough as it is.

Now lets look at how an Ideology shapes a person's thoughts. When you thinking about doing something, you are basing it off of a personal experience. Every single thing you do is a resultant action from your upbringing and rearing. Shaped by your Belief Systems that were put in place by parents, friends, pastor, teachers and so on. Now, the ideology enjoys preying on people with the smallest belief systems (lets call it BS for short). People who limit themselves in the world with a tiny BS end up not understanding as much. I still find it difficult for some reason, when I meet people who have never heard of this or that, things that I thought were common in the world, but that is my BS, that there are these things in the world that need to be studied. Ok, back to our topic. Now, someone with a closed mind has a dangerous mind, they will prey, they will anger, they will do stupid things. Take the Tea Party for instance, or the Westboro Baptist Church, they refuse to open up the structure that is made up of their beliefs. That God is great, that there is one truth and that is it. Nothing else beyond that. Bring the nation back to its "great" days as a religious nation. I hate to disappoint, this country was never a religious nation.

Look at the intentions of the Bill of Rights, it was written to adapt to modern times, it is intended as this nation's chief laws that we have no right to control people the way we were. That here there is a freedom of religion, of speech, the right to bear arms, the right to a fair trial with a jury of your peers, not to be put into double jeopardy. These 10 basic laws are starting to disappear, pushed aside by the black baton of the policeman, defending the military republic of the individual states. Can we really expect the right to own a weapon? Yeah. Can we really expect our speech to go uninhibited? Yeah. Can we expect a free life, to pursue liberty and the pursuit of happiness? Yes. We should, and next time the lawmakers are on the books, they need to look at the first rules written, the amendments that protect the people, not govern the people.

Look at the spectacular failure of the 18th amendment, to what purpose did it run? It merely was the lovechild of the temperance movement and Wayne Wheeler who drafted the amendment. What this amendment did was ignore the rights of the people to drink. Ignored everything about liberty. Ignored everything about freedom. It slammed its fist into every home, every saloon, every club, every bar, and every restaurant saying No, you cannot drink because we said so. Where did the 18th amendment take the United States? Organized Crime. Running whisky from Canada, Rum from Cuba & the Caribbean, and numerous stills and illegal operations springing up in backyards and basements.

So what can we learn from this? Well for one thing, look at the instances of Proposition 8, the initiative that had hoped to make Homosexual marriage legal in the State of California. It did not win and through due process of the law, it was appealed to the state supreme court, now it is in the district supreme court (as far as I know). I still think Lewis Black the comedian best put it that when we are visited by Aliens from a far off time period and they uncover our civilization, they will say: look how stupid these guys were, they had to define marriage as between a man and a woman. They HAD TO FUCKING DEFINE MARRIAGE. There is too much controversy over what is legally right and what is ideologically right. We are beginning to see the unfortunate image of the ideologies beginning to hold precedent over what is legally right. *cough*Hermann Caine *cough*.

Ideologies are ideas, they are not laws, they are not a way of life. They are theories of the way things ought to be. Which is good, but it clouds the judgement of those we put in office. Are they fighting for the rights of Californians in district 13? Or are they fighting to make this legal or that legal? When people put too much emphasis on an ideology, they start to forget what the law looked like, what equality looked like, what tolerance looked like. They started to see everything in a white bread picture, suitable for all audiences and conforming to THEIR way of life. There is no you in an ideology, there is just becoming one of us.

So what can we learn from this? What can we do to prevent this from happening? Well, we need to stand for our rights, to make sure that we receive our equal share in society and that we return our equal share back to society. We are not the stupid minds that places the vast power into the hands of the few, we are the people who have the rights of every other man in our town, our county, our state, our nation, and when we are beaten down, it only helps increase the meaning of the cause, the cause of the people.

Thaïs Deep

2011-09-25T12:55:00.000-07:00

The fall season is a pretty wonderful time of the year, the skies start to cloud over, the winds pick up but at the same time, people start to put away the summer clothes, and the fall clothes come out. That's one of the parts I like the best, seeing people getting all togged up in heavier coats, and the girls sport big, wild scarves and the fellas start to wear their hats. Mind you, the smart ones sport fedoras and flat caps. The wild ones with baseball caps and beanies, and the weird ones with derbys and skull caps. The absolute strange ones are still wearing straw right now. But the best part about the fall, is that it just keeps getting better and better. From just a light coat or jacket, suddenly, the great double breasted coats emerge again from the closet or storage, like a magnificent ship slowly pulling out of a slip for the first time.

As you go one, the air begins to bite at your face, laden with scarves hats and high wing collars and you begin to see your breath in the air again. I just love that feeling, to see your breath emerge from your mouth, like the fiery smoke from a dragon's nostrils. No longer do you sport the flip flops, the sandals or the crocs (thank god) and then the shoes come out, the Ferragamos, the Oxfords, the wingtips, the clarks, the Martens, the Timberlands, the Uggs, the Sneakers and so much more. As the sun begins to go down, the mud rooms and the solariums are packed with muddy boots, the wicker furniture is covered in vinyl. Inside the kitchens, the scrubbed maple counters are agog with fresh picked apples, dug up mushrooms and canter glasses filled with steaming lemon tea with a stick of cinnamon suspended in the sacred fluid.

It's the time of year, you notice there seems to be more people over, the furniture is scooted around to let the fireplace become the master of the room, no longer does the television set hold the precedent of all inside. Carefully cleaned and resting pipes sit on the racks with the humidifier, the hall clock on the mantle still keeps good time, even though once in a while it does like to go off whenever it feels like. Low squatty couches no longer sit barren, now adorned with overstuffed pillows, warm fleece blankets and sheepskin slippers at the foot of each couch on a worn hearth rug. No longer are dinners lit through the blazing summer sunlight but instead the darkness of the sky is fought off only by several red bees wax tapers, and the smiles of the people you sit around and eat with.

Drinks no longer have ice in them, scotch on the rocks has gone simply to scotch neat. No longer does a mint julep sound as inviting as a hot toddy when you come home. There are noticeable signs of the impending seasons, as a ham sits curing on the counter and suddenly the cider press is pulled out of the garage. Come the Fall cold, cometh the Fall rains. The turning leaves leave crispy trails to punch out as you walk, and the slosh of rain is compounded with shlack of leaves as they are kicked aside. Further into fall, the convertible car retreats into the car house, and out rolls the heavy Buick or Ford. Classic cars for the win in this season, they seem to blend seamlessly into the classic time of the fall. Driving in the cold seems like a much more pleasurable activity, as you have a friend riding shotgun and your partner in the center of the bench, nothing could be better.

But the best part is the part when the lights go out, and the fire is nothing more than embers. You and that special someone have brushed your teeth, kicked aside the laundry around on the floor and pull the covers over. That doesn't sound any different from the usual business right? Wrong! The bed has become a plush pleasure palace of heavy blankets, down comforters, colorful duvets, and the pillows! Pillows as far as the eye can see, quilted, beaded, plain, plush. It's an impenetrable fortress of snuggles against the cold wind.

But the only thing about fall, is you get to look forward to the wintertime.

Misty Morning on the L Train

2011-07-22T15:13:00.000-07:00

It's the ticking of the clock when you wake up alone at seven AM
It's the thought of getting used to something so right and then just throw it away
It's a major minor detail
On a misty morning L train
And the fear of having to go back

Walking slowly and carefully on the wet sidewalk, you sort of pull your overcoat a little closer to yourself, adjusting the strap of your leather side bag, feeling it for its precious contents, the large rectangular shape of the laptop sitting snugly in its case, the empty travel mug of stale coffee and a dog eared paperback. You begin to ascend the stairs up to the L train platform and as you walk, your gloved hands runs over the painted cast iron railing. Stems of your breath waft before you, rising slowly like dragon's smoke. Several other passengers already are waiting, some engrossed in newspapers or smart phones, others lost in a trance of some sort of techno trance or dubstep guessing from their choice of clothing. In the mist, you manage to pick out the El's bright yellow fog lights, cutting through the mist. It still has a ways to get here, but you know from experience, it's at Wabash. You sort of ready yourself for the train. You dont know why, but you just do.

Late for Work from r/military

2011-07-06T20:21:00.000-07:00

Charley, a new retiree-greeter at Wal-Mart, just couldn't seem to get to work on time.

Every day he was 5, 10, 15 minutes late. But he was a good worker, really tidy, clean-shaven, sharp-minded and a real credit to the company and obviously demonstrating their "Older Person Friendly" policies.

One day the boss called him into the office for a talk.

"Charley, I have to tell you, I like your work ethic, you do a bang-up job when you finally get here; but your being late so often is quite bothersome."

"Yes, I know boss, and I am working on it."

"Well good, you are a team player. That's what I like to hear.

Yes sir, I understand your concern and Ill try harder.

Seeming puzzled, the manager went on to comment, It's odd though your coming in late. I know you're retired from the Armed Forces. What did they say to you there if you showed up in the morning so late and so often?"

The old man looked down at the floor, then smiled.

He chuckled quietly, then said with a grin, "They usually saluted and said, Good morning, Admiral, can I get your coffee, sir?”

Students of Higher Education vs. Parked Cars & Electronics

2011-06-05T07:10:00.000-07:00

There's a saying: the Irish need not apply

Times union article

Just felt like redoing it. AGAIN

2011-06-05T01:10:00.000-07:00

1. Put your iTunes (or any other media player you may have) on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS!

IF SOMEONE SAYS "IS THIS OKAY" YOU SAY?
It's all nice on Ice

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
'Taint no Sin

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
I wouldn't change you for the world

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE?
All my Loving

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Right or Wrong

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Monster

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Goose Pimples

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
You will be Waiting

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Before Departure

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Hurt Feelings

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
Lovin' You

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Call Me

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Sweet Darlin'

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Opening Doors

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
A Kiss A Week

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Dinah

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
A Call to Apathy

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Hold On

WHAT'S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN?
I Have a Dream

HOW WILL YOU DIE?
Take Ecstacy with Me

WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU REGRET?
Roll Jordan Roll

WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
Love or Confusion

WHAT MAKES YOU CRY?
International Travel

WILL YOU EVER GET MARRIED?
Red Haired Woman

WHAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?
One Evenin'

DOES ANYONE LIKE YOU?
Dont Cry

IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?
I'm Walkin'

WHAT HURTS RIGHT NOW?
Josie

San Francisco? Initiative to ban what now?

2011-06-05T00:58:00.000-07:00

From the Huffington Post

It's Ok to be Takei

2011-06-05T00:54:00.001-07:00

Apparently...

2011-06-05T00:42:00.001-07:00

The accusation is that people of the Islamic faith are shorting themselves of the intellectual capacity potential by "inbreeding" with first cousins. Now, if memory serves me right, most of the royal families of the world are all related. From all the sekxsy times with victoria and albert. As Blackadder put it, the bedchambers of buckingham must be copiously supplied with blindfolds for all the children she potters out. Here even in america, those who listen to this, chances are, they may have skipped the first cousin bit. Yeah, went straight for the sister.

Now... in the bible, in genesis in particular, there's no mention of a sister or any other female born with Cain and Able, so that means, either, they would have done it with a bastard sibiling unmentioned in the bible or with their mother. Now, that sounds far worse than first cousins. Especially all the men begatted from their line. Now, explain to me, all the men who are begat from Adam and Eve, and no women to birth them? Eve must have a pretty tired and stretched out vagina by the time you finish reading the bible.

Les décisions de faire

2011-05-31T02:09:00.000-07:00

A little smoke curled from a cigarette sitting on a shallow coffee saucer. It burned slowly, recieving no attention from the smoker himself as he sat before the table. His gaunt frame, clothed only in a pair of striped boxers and ragged undershirt seemed to just press into the worn chair. Bare, hairy legs wrapped around the legs of the chair and his arms lay before him on the table top with his palms upwards. The brass clock on the mantle in the room chimed a short song before resuming a monotonous ticking. His body expanded as he took a deep breath into his lungs, nearly swelling to twice his size. It happened suddenly as he sat meditating, dirty tools strewn around on the table, when the windows rattled suddenly. His attention momentarily shaken, his eyes darted towards the french windows. His blue eyes shaking nervously around showing the effects of caffeine. He stood and walked towards the windows, his feet padding and making a dull "thud" sound as he walked. Peering behind the faded damask curtain, he spotted the cause of the trouble, a small rubber ball with a note tied to it. He examined it through the window, before opening it and stepping out onto the small balcony.
The tile floor of the porch was warm, baking in the sun. He grabbed the black twisted metal railing, picked at a rust spot where the paint peeled before turning his full attention to the ball. It was a cracked old ball, split down the seam with a string run through it and a note tied to the half still in good condition. He picked it up tearing the note from it and tossing the ball off into the street below. He watched as it bounced off the hood of a car below before reentering his apartment. He read the note, looked at the clock and reread the note again. Seemingly satisfied, with it, he crumbled it into a ball and pitched it into the fireplace. He strode over to the bookcase on the other side of the room. It was piled with loose papers, tight bundles of documents held together with dirty string. He pulled down a pile it crashed onto the floor before him. Behind it was a small hole in the case, exposing a small knob and dial. He spun it quickly, a calculated careful mind reciting the numbers by heart before hearing it click and he opened it. A couple bundles of cash lay behind the door, a small album and a thin banking envelope. He grabbed the last item and shut the safe.
The envelope lay on the table surrounded by the tools. He paced back and forth on the worn hearth rug eying the envelope like some sort of bomb. He finally sat down and picked up the envelope and tore open the flap. The single leaf of paper was folded into quarters and as he unfolded it, smells of mold and mildew floated upwards. His eyes scanned the words quickly and once he finished the letter, he took it and lit it on fire. Placing it delicately onto the small hearth, he watched it burn and smolder. Once it finished, he poked it with the tip of his oxford scattering the remains across the tile. He pulled from the attache case on the chair an unfiltered cigarette, and lit it.

The bustling market below the apartment had hardly a hint of what was going on, as a thin wisp of smoke curled from the cracked terra-cotta chimney pots. Below, Marie was buying vegetables. Her thin face, accented by large designer sunglasses and dark hair tied up into a bun hidden from view in a sun hat still showed her youthful beauty. As she picked up an Algerian marrow, she looked up perplexed by the smell of smoke. It had a distinctive smell, compared to the charcoal braziers which market stall owners were cooking various food stuffs, or the heavy coke rich smell of the glaziers down the street working on pottery and glass. She looked up towards the apartment seeing the smoke and a man leaning on the balcony railing above with a cigarette sandwiched between his fingers.
She quickly paid for her purchases, and entered the building. The lobby was dirty, a rusting bicycle leaned against a wall opposite a row of broken post boxes. She stepped into the cage elevator pulling each door shut. When she stepped out, she didn't need to get her keys ready as the door opened before her. The man with the cigarette jerked his head back telling her to come in and she followed willingly. She looked around the small garotte, noting the smoke curling out of the fireplace and the papers scattered around the floor. She placed her shopping on the counter in the kitchen and came back into the room. The man had returned to the balcony for a second cigarette and muttered and pointed to a case in the center of the table. She opened the dusty case and inside revealed a enigma teleprinter. He began to mutter a bunch of codes and numbers, connectors and wheels. As she set them into order, he asked her about her day. She only remarked on the heat and the price of vegetables. She uttered "prêt!"
He slowly and clearly spoke, his voice trailing quietly through the air. The market below still provided an ambient background noise as he spoke. He reentered the room and walked past her, through the arch and into the bedroom. He continued to dictate clearly as he dressed into a pair of slacks and a button shirt. He pulled a drawer in the wardrobe and a flurry of multicolored ties flew out onto the bed. He turned to pick one out and began to tie it. He picked a light colored jacket and returned to the room where she remained at the device. He remarked that he finished and she entered the final codes. Looking at the thin ribbon of type that stuck out of the teleprinter, she ripped the ribbon off and rolled it into a film canister. "Il sera pris en charge, ce soir au consulat." He patted her on the shoulder and from the wall safe, this time he pulled out a second envelope. This time, padded thicker than the first. She tore the flap open revealing about 10,000 francs.
Marie picked up her groceries and tossed the film into the shopping bag with eggs and butter pats. She nodded to him expecting some sort of gesture of approval, but he merely picked up another cigarette from the box on the mantle and lit it. Back on the street, she replaced her hat and sunglasses on her head and continued down the narrow corridor with mopeds and market men shouting at passerbys. She reached the entrance of her own building and entering the front doors, she checked her mail and as she walked up, her land lady popped her head out of her door. "Louer! Vous me devez louer!" She stopped for a moment, pulled the envelope out of her purse and placed 150 francs on the bony hand. "Non non non, vous me devez trois mois." She forked over another hundred franc bill. Seemingly satisfied, the landlady retreated her head back into the door and it shut with a click.
Her apartment was decorated comfortably, a small sitting area with a cabinet and black and white television set sat on top. Low slung armchairs with saggy seats faced the little machine. A small scrubbed painted table sat near the windows overlooking a courtyard. The kitchenette was small with a tiny antique paraffin stove to one side and an ancient looking ice box underneath the window. She placed the vegetables on hooks and hangers and placed the meat and eggs into the box. Glancing into the courtyard, she looked down at the the palm fronds and the broken fountain below. She watched as a bicycle messenger screeched to a halt at the entrance and dismounted and entered her building. She continued putting groceries away and a moment later, a soft rapping came at the door. She opened the door poking her face into the crack. Before her, a smartly dressed, but obviously sweaty messenger stood before her. His brown uniform and askew tie hinted that he didn't care much for his job, but did it for the pay. She placed a 50 centime piece in his hand and he handed her the envelope. She opened it as she closed the door behind her, pulling out the papers.
The message was clear, it was printed on official consulate papers. France was giving up Algeria. Her position at the consulate would remain in place if she moved back to France. She placed the letter on the stove and continued to pull out groceries, lost in a haze. As she pulled out a small marrow, the film canister dropped out. She remembered her transaction with the man with the cigarette. It was a code to resistance members in the country to establish a coup to keep France as the parent country. The pieds-noirs would start a revolution to quell the liberation front. Torn between countries, Marie stared at the sinister little canister. Picking up the letter, it also mentioned a comfortable position and promotion in Nice. She looked at the canister, thinking of her country, growing up in Algiers during the war, living in a villa with her mother and father before they had passed away. She thought of the country the was a part of and loved. Her mind then turned to France. Back to Algeria, then back to France again. Frustrated, she set the two things down on the counter, and flopped onto her bed. She could not betray France, not like her older brother who was 10 years her senior. Hugo had joined the Vichy french and was later shot for being a traitor. She remembered him being dragged out of the house in 1946 when she was only 11, her mother and father on their knees begging for mercy from the French officer. She rose from the bed, looking at the walls down in the courtyard. She saw the bullet holes against the wall of the garage next door where her brother was shot. His last words were "Vive Pétain!" before he slumped over onto the ground. Tears began to form in her eyes, thinking of foolishly going against her country as Hugo had.
She set the canister onto the stove and lit it. As it burned, she watched it intently, imagining the difficulty getting forces together to fight. Algeria was no longer her country. She had to leave it, the people she loved and start new. When it finished burning, she tossed the melted lump into the rubbish heap in the courtyard below watching it fall satisfyingly fall into the garbage. She looked around her, grabbing photographs and packing them into a suitcase with several clothes. Everything else, she didn't need. In another suitcase, she packed her parent's wedding blanket and several other articles. She tossed a jewelry box into it, opening its carved wooden lid and removing 3000 francs from inside. She looked around her one last time before locking the door and leaving the key with the land lady.

The man with the cigarette waited outside the consulate, looking for Marie. He began to sweat nervously as she didn't begin to show. He saw the gendarme at the gate shut and lock the front door. Then, he locked the yard gate. The gendarme in his slender blue uniform shooed him away. Marie saw all this happen as she passed in a taxi bound for the Algiers dockyards. She had a ticket ready and had already called to the foreign office accepting the position immediately. Her ticket was for the SS Flandre which was in port, ready to depart for Nice by seven that evening. As she boarded after passing through customs, she looked back at the towers and minarets along the skyline. She muttered "Vive France."

"Stupid Orchestra"

2011-03-22T14:00:00.000-07:00

Blödes Orchester from white tube on Vimeo.

Waiting...

2011-02-23T02:54:00.000-08:00

I stood nervously waiting on the empty platform, the snow building up by my business shoes. I could feel the cold coming in, it wasn't pleasant and I shook them free of their freezing prison for a moment. My gloved hand wandered into the pocket of the camel hair jacket that kept me from freezing to death. As my fingers wrapped around a familiar shape, I knew my business today. I had to avenge someone, someone who was betrayed too easily, like a crumpled piece of paper, wantonly tossed aside. As my thoughts became more and more intense, the less I realized how hard I was squeezing the object in my hand.

Suddenly, I saw it in the distance. It was more like it had seen me. I quickly walked over to the signal box and pulled a lever back. Above my head, a wig-wag signal began to slowly rock back and forth, monotonously blinking its yellow light, seemingly trying to call for help in the pitch black of the snowy night. The interurban blew its whistle, acknowledging a stop for me. As it hissed to a stop, I saw him, sitting there in the smoking section of the car. A frozen look washed over my face as I imagined the past, the conductor looked at me at the top of the steps. "Come aboard sir." Momentarily, I was caught unaware and I boarded. As the door closed behind me, the heat of the car, my glasses fogged up forcing me to pull them from my face. My vision returned.

I meagerly walked down the aisle of the non smoking compartment, A large mother with her two sleeping children bundled in snow clothes. Their mittens on a long cord still hung over their necks. A navy officer sat behind her, his pristine black uniform highlighted the gold buttons and medal bars on his chest. I came to the frosted glass door, with the word "Smoking" etched into the foggy glass. Pulling it back, the smell of a few camel cigarettes and a pipe lingered. I sat in front of the quarry, a cigarette squeezed between his fingers, a curling wisp rose to the ceiling and the ash hung for dear life. His gaze was fixed on an advertisement screwed into the wall. It was for a new suburban development in Levittown. I pulled the seat in front of him to reverse, and momentarily, he was surprised at the new addition. I sat in front of him, his face screwed up in anguish, accentuating his old features, hardened from years of hard work. He drew his hands up to his overcoat lapels, and pulled them in, making him look almost like a wrapped up pug. He knew why I had come, he knew what I was going to tell him, and he most certainly knew what I was going to do.

Before I said anything, my hand fumbled around in my pocket for the hard object that had been waiting for him. As my fingers wrapped around it, he winced, expecting the worst. I drew it out and slowly cradled it in my hands. It was a small wooden case, about the size of a pencil case, and as I pulled back the catch to open it, I saw him breath a sigh of relief. Or as close as he could get to relief. The little brass hinges squealed a little as the lid opened, and I pulled out a dog tag, a small rosary and a photograph. "Mr. Clemson, I grew up with your son Bill. I knew you, and you knew me. But before you say anything, let me finish first. You wern't around much for Bill growing up. I saw how you hurt Mrs. Clemson that day you disappeared, Bill wasn't any better for it either. But the war rolled around, and he and I served our country, but for him, he served it fully to the end. When I came home, your wife, she's not here anymore. She's gone Frank. So is Bill."

His furrowed brow gave way, that expression of relief had turned upside down, as he realized the gravity of what I had just said to him. He looked at me, almost gasping the word, no. A thin, dirty tear rolled down, following each crease and crack in his face. I handed him the picture, rosary and tag and he couldn't contain himself. His head bowed over the objects now in his hands, a low sob came over him, and his body began to shake as he held the last items of what once was his family. The gnarled hand that held the rosary clenched it tightly and began to thumb each bead, and the sound of prayer began to fill my head. A bell clattered in the other compartment signalling that the train had stopped at a station. I gathered up myself, shut the box and left the old man alone.

Print

2011-02-22T04:38:00.000-08:00

Sam nervously looked at herself in the mirror, her silky white shirt hugged against her body around the waist and her eyes darted back down to her left hand where she adjusted her ring. She ran her hands over herself, edging over every single detail in her outfit. She looked around the loft seeing all the things that she and Rafe had put together. The stolen Barcelona chair that Rafe took out of the Yale architecture library for her, the rack of hockey sticks of stolen sticks that she took from various games they would go to when they would chase the Cornell Big Red. They always had to get one hockey stick from the opposing team and get the big red team to sign it. She carefully traced her hand delicately over the things on the dresser. She looked at them longingly and walked to the railing and looked down into the living room below. Rafe had a small little print shop in one corner and she had a small painting studio in the other. A couple of worn out brown leather couches arranged in a small sitting area with a flatscreen tv at the other end. Mugaboo, their wirehair terrier was snoozing on the sheepskin rug in the sunlight. She listened very carefully, she heard a record crackling on the turntable, the gentle breathing of the vacuum tubes as a slow voice slowly began to rise in a low crescendo over the gold wire speakers.

The shuffle of barefeet over wood and the sound of the old coffee boiler percolating in the kitchen area. Sam rested her elbows on the edge, counted under her breath, one... two... three... then from below her the shirtless form of Rafe walked out from the kitchen. A smile curled on her face as she watched his form walk over to the hot table and pick up a copper etching plate. As Rafe began to clean the plate, she carefully watched him dart from machine to machine finally running the plate through the itaglio press. Her hands clenched the rail nervously, anticipating the final result. Rafe pulled back the catch blanket, his face smiled as he pulled back the paper holding it against the light. She walked slowly down the stairs, her bare feet plodding down each step. Her hair, tied back in a little pony tail reflected against the large warehouse windows. She carefully walked down over to him, and she wrapped her arms around his torso and pressed her nose into his shoulder. Rafe dropped his arm and the print onto the table and grabbed her. He wheeled around, and looked at her.

You know, I gotta get these done for George.
I know babe, but I just want you.
Sush, you can help me if you want.
Well...

Sam leaned onto the press plate, she slid her bottom onto the platen, still kissing Rafe. His arms, wrapped around her. They kissed for awhile longer on the printing press. Before he stood back and realized what he had done.

Shit sweetie, look at your shirt.

Sam looked down at what once was her crisp, white satin blouse, now was pock marked with blotches of printing ink.

Rafe! I...

She blushed.

Regular Ordinary Swedish Meal Time - Special Episode & Cookie Cataclysm

2011-02-19T05:59:00.000-08:00

Ledsehwer

2011-02-09T03:25:00.000-08:00

Senseless
the bitter cold, tumbling
over the rail, cascading
ever gently over.

Covering
the gentle warmth, Protecting
what last is important, wondering
if it was all a dream.

Syntax
in this case, contemplating
how it fits in, observing
that it doesn't.

Reading
silently, rolling
over silent words, adding
their own vibrancy.

Thinking
it could be true, equating
the possibilities, formulating
the answer.

It
is
not.
But
can
be.
To
all
see.

Narrating
an ongoing battle, writing
the story, printing
only the words.

Atheists are Wrong and Evil!

2011-02-02T16:48:00.000-08:00

It's like Bobby Franklin wiped the law on his bottom

2011-02-02T16:22:00.000-08:00

Bobby Franklin, wtf are you doing? So, just as a quick summary for each one of this house bills he's attempting to pass in the Georgia House. I dont think they get more ridiculous as you go along, but merely, each one is ridiculously weird in its own unique way.

Crimes and Offenses: Prenatal murder: to provide
HB1: abortions and contraceptives are illegal & will undermine authority of the Supreme Court. It is no longer the authority of the state, college heads, and local and city governments to provide safe contraceptives and abortions.

Georgia Right to Grow Act; enact
HB2: Right to grow chickens and goats in the city. Cause you know, the last thing you want to do is to remain subservient to the market providers. Lets just return to the feudal system, raise chickens and trade pigs for female companionship. Or the other way round.

Constitutional Tender Act; enact
HB3: Separation from US Legal tender and shift to using gold and silver as legal tender. The motive? The US dollar is weak and tied to china! China is communist, therefore evil, and to avoid something or other, blah blah blah, I JUST WANT TO PAY MY GROCERIES IN GOOOOLD.

Life Liberty and Property Restoration act; enact
HB4: Defines all our rights are given from god and not the civil government. There are several things that we are given. Life, Liberty, NOT the pursuit of happiness, but! Propertah! Dont own propertah? Go git some propertah!

Freedom of Choice and Security Act
HB5: Guns aren't evil, People are! Let them people have guns! It goes as far as to define: People are evil within. Not because of material objects. Well now. Good to know, that although guns dont cause evil, but people do, people should be given the right to own a material object that doesn't cause evil.

Emergency Defense of the Home Act
HB6: Yeeehaw! Let's drive around with explosives and alcohol, it'll be legal thanks to this little doozie.

Right to Travel Act
HB7: Drivers licenses aren't in the constitution, hell, let's shit all over the Georgia DMV system.
HELLS YES. Woot woot, that means 12 year olds and 14 year olds can drive, to quote him: "What's stopping them?"

Due Process Restoration Act
HB8: Ban Security cameras because their intention to curb crime is an infringement on the privacy of the people who just happen to walk by

Kathryn Johnston's Law
HB9: A right to security from forced entry of the government when conducting a search, sting or raid. So... you mean, I can still keep my basement full of weed?

Child Protection Act
HB10: Fences! Fences! That's what will keep our children safe! FENCES.

Freedom from Compulsory Pandemic Act
HB11: You know, it's really our decision whether or not we wish to be subjugated to a pandemic, and even then, people still object to having needles and godless science injected into them. Vaccinations for all! Against typhus (yay), the flu (hooray), malaria (uhh...), Hungarian Potato fly Innocular dystrophy syndrome (what? Is that even real?). And ALL THE TIME
SHALL YOU BE INJECTED!

Georgia Food Freedom Act
HB12: Your peanuts shall never be mislabeled thanks to this puppy.

If you'd like to read the whole thing in context next time you're on the toilet, bring some of these printed out, read the toilet paper, and wipe your bottom with these bills.

http://www.legis.ga.gov/Legislation/en-US/Search.aspx (search for Franklin, in member name)

Just think of all the people standing up as sections of constitutional law, and the guy flying past is Bobby Franklin.

Trolling IRL

2010-12-14T22:06:00.000-08:00

A most extraordinary trial is going on in the High Court at the moment in which a man named Chrysler is accused of stealing more than 40,000 coat hangers from hotels round the world. He admits his guilt, but in his defence he claims that – well, perhaps it would be simpler just to bring you a brief extract from the trial. We join the case at the point where Chrysler has just taken the stand.

Counsel: What is your name?

Chrysler: Chrysler. Arnold Chrysler.

Counsel: Is that your own name?

Chrysler: Whose name do you think it is?

Counsel: I am just asking if it is your name.

Chrysler: And I have just told you it is. Why do you doubt it?

Counsel: It is not unknown for people to give a false name in court.

Chrysler: Which court?

Counsel: This court.

Chrysler: What is the name of this court?

Counsel: This is No 5 Court.

Chrysler: No, that is the number of this court. What is the name of this court?

Counsel: It is quite immaterial what the name of this court is!

Chrysler: Then perhaps it is immaterial if Chrysler is really my name.

Counsel: No, not really, you see because...

Judge: Mr Lovelace?

Counsel: Yes, m'lud?

Judge: I think Mr Chrysler is running rings round you already. I would try a new line of attack if I were you.

Counsel: Thank you, m'lud.

Chrysler: And thank you from ME, m'lud. It's nice to be appreciated.

Judge: Shut up, witness.

Chrysler: Willingly, m'lud. It is a pleasure to be told to shut up by you. For you, I would...

Judge: Shut up, witness. Carry on, Mr Lovelace.

Counsel: Now, Mr Chrysler – for let us assume that that is your name – you are accused of purloining in excess of 40,000 hotel coat hangers.

Chrysler: I am.

Counsel: Can you explain how this came about?

Chrysler: Yes. I had 40,000 coats which I needed to hang up.

Counsel: Is that true?

Chrysler: No.

Counsel: Then why did you say it?

Chrysler: To attempt to throw you off balance.

Counsel: Off balance?

Chrysler: Certainly. As you know, all barristers seek to undermine the confidence of any hostile witness, or defendant. Therefore it must be equally open to the witness, or defendant, to try to shake the confidence of a hostile barrister.

Counsel: On the contrary, you are not here to indulge in cut and thrust with me. You are only here to answer my questions.

Chrysler: Was that a question?

Counsel: No.

Chrysler: Then I can't answer it.

Judge: Come on, Mr Lovelace! I think you are still being given the run-around here. You can do better than that. At least, for the sake of the English bar, I hope you can.

Counsel: Yes, m'lud. Now, Mr Chrysler, perhaps you will describe what reason you had to steal 40,000 coat hangers?

Chrysler: Is that a question?

Counsel: Yes.

Chrysler: It doesn't sound like one. It sounds like a proposition which doesn't believe in itself. You know – "Perhaps I will describe the reason I had to steal 40,000 coat hangers... Perhaps I won't... Perhaps I'll sing a little song instead..."

Judge: In fairness to Mr Lovelace, Mr Chrysler, I should remind you that barristers have an innate reluctance to frame a question as a question. Where you and I would say, "Where were you on Tuesday?", they are more likely to say, "Perhaps you could now inform the court of your precise whereabouts on the day after that Monday?". It isn't, strictly, a question, and it is not graceful English but you must pretend that it is a question and then answer it, otherwise we will be here for ever. Do you understand?

Chrysler: Yes, m'lud.

Judge: Carry on, Mr Lovelace.

Counsel: Mr Chrysler, why did you steal 40,000 hotel coat hangers, knowing as you must have that hotel coat hangers are designed to be useless outside hotel wardrobes?

Chrysler: Because I build and sell wardrobes which are specially designed to take nothing but hotel coat hangers.

Sensation in court. More of this tomorrow, I hope

from: http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/columnists/miles-kington/high-court-hangups-747313.html

Her Relentless Pursuit

2010-09-26T15:26:00.000-07:00

In the first 24 hours after someone broke into my car in my own driveway, I was mostly mad at my husband. Who leaves a backpack with a BlackBerry and a wallet full of cash and credit cards in the car overnight, with a GPS visible on the dashboard and the freaking car doors unlocked? We might as well have hung a sign on the door that read: Suckers live here. Welcome!

The day before had been magical -- a beautiful, warm, sunny fall Sunday in San Francisco. We lingered in the city too long but still had to buy groceries on our way home from an exhibit of watercolors and drawings from "Where the Wild Things Are." As we pulled into our driveway, I said to my husband, "I'll run in and start dinner. You bring in the bags." And that's the last thing I remember. The next morning, the glove compartment was open, papers hanging out. The GPS was gone.

I canceled four credit cards and ordered a new BlackBerry before I thought to check Craigslist. I didn't know what I'd find, but it occurred to me that pawn shops were the domain of desperate crackheads and that the savvy modern thief would hock stolen wares online. I did a search in a 40-mile radius of my neighborhood. My GPS was the first thing that popped up.

To be honest, I wasn't certain that Garmin Nuvi 265w was my GPS; I didn't remember the model number. For all I knew this was some poor schmuck who'd fallen on hard times trying to get a little cash. Still, it was awfully suspicious. It was the only Garmin on Craigslist that morning. And the entire ad was written in capital letters, as if that particular seller were jumping up and down, trying to get my attention.

My hands shook as I tapped out what I hoped was a casual e-mail query: "Hi!! I could TOTALLY use a GPS. Is this one still available? Where are you located? Thanks!!! Jasmine."
from Salon.com

Paper

2010-09-13T17:56:00.000-07:00

http://vimeo.com/13836240

Tumblingerstraße from yo man on Vimeo.

From the LJ of Rene Engstrom

2010-08-15T17:12:00.000-07:00

1. Put your iTunes (or any other media player you may have) on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS!

IF SOMEONE SAYS "IS THIS OKAY" YOU SAY?
Stop Crying Your heart Out

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Thank You For the Music

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Elements

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE?
That Old Black Magic

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Photographs

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Luxury

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
I Jibe and Joke

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Whose Arms are You in Tonight?

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
The Flowers That Bloom in the Springtime

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Comin' and Goin'

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
The Belle of Chicago

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Stella D'Oro

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
When Yuba Plays the Rhuba On the Tuba

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Lovefool

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
I'm on a See-Saw

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
I Dont Feel Like Dancing

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Turtle Twist

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
My Best Wishes

WHAT'S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN?
Nice Weather For Ducks

HOW WILL YOU DIE?
Special

WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU REGRET?
How About Me?

WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
Touch Me, Touch Me

WHAT MAKES YOU CRY?
Sugalumps

WILL YOU EVER GET MARRIED?
Oh Yeah

WHAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?
Pennsylvania 6-5000

DOES ANYONE LIKE YOU?
Television Rules the Nation

IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?
Outsiders

WHAT HURTS RIGHT NOW?
Home in Pasadena

The Aniv

2010-07-31T20:35:00.000-07:00

Loosening his tie, he grazed his fingers over the tips of the keys of his keyboard as he entered the record of an order of 3000 test tubes and 200 flasks. He sighed as his eyes darted around the room, looking through the menagerie of glass ware. Everything seemed in right order. Nothing out of place. He spotted his assistant entering the room, cardboard boxes in his arms with more glasses, he thought. Rummaging through his bag, he pulled out a small blue racquetball and rolled it towards the unsuspecting lab assistant.
What happened next could only be described in most cartoon comics. The assistant stepped on the ball, realizing that his balance was suddenly compromised fell over sideways, but instead of glass shattering from the box, his box was full of large laboratory weights and heavy stone platforms. He fell throwing the boxes towards the first shelf full of delicate glassware. In turn, that one fell over onto the next, and so on until the University's dispensary was nothing more than a glass shard pile.
Rafe stirred from his nap as he heard the slap of a paper on windowed desk. Breaking as quickly from sleep, he looked at the order form. A magnetic stirring plate, three beakers and the magnet. What a strange order for these kids he thought. He stepped back and produced the desired items without even making eye contact with the requestee. It was easier to deal with undergraduates without having to look at them, explain anything or talk for that matter.
"Here is your equipment, have it back by six pm a month from today. Here is a sheet with the instructions. If you have any questions about equipment, call the office here with the number at the bottom of the sheet." Rafe said blandly. He turned to the calendar and saw the red circle marked around this upcoming saturday. In sharpie it read 'Sam's Aniv' Aniv? Aniversery! Of course, how could Rafe forget. It was six months since they first met, when he had slammed into a car door and she flew down to him in rescue. What to do... What to do... His assistant arrived, enhanded with cases of fresh, sterile glass tubing.
"Mitch, what should... I need your opinion on something."
"Chyeah, get larger volumetric pipets, these things suck in terms of capacity. If you're interested, i've got the number memorized as a mental note."
"No no, it's on something..."
"CHAAA KEEEE VOOOOO FFFFFFFF Eto! Eto! Nung! Kang! Doiiing!"
"What the fuck?"
"Oh, dont worry, it's the way i store all mental notes. It translates to CKVF 11930."
"No, these pipets are fine as is."
"Whatev broski."
"No, I wanted to ask you, what you should think I should do for Sam and my's 6 month anniversery."
"Dude!"
"What?"
"Order her this totally sick ass larger capacity volumetric pipets! Like thirty of them."
Rafe only could turn away and roll his eyes with contempt. 'What a weirdo' he thought.

Since Lucy bike was no more, Rafe had bought a truck off craigslist. It was a beautiful 1956 Chevy pickup with a gigantic back window, that could carry everything he needed at the lab. He sidled himself into the car, slipped the key into the ignition and the engine roared to life with a heavy rumble and kick. A thin smile plastered over his mouth feeling the engine running and throwing the car into gear. The car lurched forward, pulling out of the parking lot and down the street. As he scanned the road, Rafe's eyes slowly rolled back and forth, looking at the shops and stores in the area. "Hm... nothing seems all that good," he thought "There has to be some place I can find something really outstanding to get Sam." As he braked, the little picture tag on his mirror danced back and forth spinning around showing a picture of Kentucky, his old dog and a picture of him and Sam sitting on top of the roof at Georgia Road Fruit Market. His consciousness snapped and an idea materialized in his head.

Sam stared at her reflection in the medicine cabinet. She pulled the sides of her mouth with her fingers, baring a neat row of pearly teeth, her expression went from playful to laughter. She stepped out of the bathroom and looked down at the loft that she and Rafe now shared. Rafe's old roommate finally found a place next door and she moved into Rafe's place. It looked the same with a couple of exceptions of some girly objects, her old furniture arranged neatly around the bed loft. She looked around the comfortably furnished bedroom and saw on the dresser a small, leatherbound black book. She picked it up and realized it was Rafe's planner. He must have forgotten it. She flipped to today and saw that today was their six month anniversary. She'd forgotten! She ran to the bureau and started pulling out dresses and skirts. Rafe must have something planned and she didn't even have anything for him. "Oh shit. Everything here is for summer. I cant go out and buy a new dress, Rafe has the truck and, and, and..." she gasped. Written underneath the red circle was something. It was written in Rafe's cryptic scrawl. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to decipher. All she could make out was the word Diamond. The shocked expression on her face slowly melted away to form a large grin that plastered her face. A diamond!

Rafe had a grin plastered on his face as well. He remembered, there was something he'd ordered for Sam a couple months ago. He needed his diary, it would have it. He reached into his leather sack and the familiar leather book couldn't be found. Shit. It has to be at the loft he thought. Sam would be working from home today. How would he get by her? He pulled the truck outside the door of their building. He gingerly slipped out and walked in to the hallway. He silently opened the door to their loft. His head poked in and he peered around. The kitchen was empty, the living space seemed deserted. Wandering in stealthily, he scanned the room. All clear. All he had to do was go up the stairs to the loft and grab his book. With cat like tread, Rafe stole silently up the stairs and onto his prey. He looked around the seemingly empty loft, his eyes darting around in hopes of finding the journal. He saw it laying on his pillow, its weight pressing down into the down pillow. Grabbing it, it revealed underneath Sam's delicate hand. Rafe's heart stopped for a moment. Sam must have read whatever was in this. Shit shit shit...

Carefully backing away from what seemed like a lion's den, Rafe moved slowly, watching every step he took. One out, he ran to the truck, shutting the door behind him and breathing heavily. His head dropped back against the rear window and blinked several times. He reeled forward again looking at the book in his hands. Opening it almost like a treasure, he looked for the date and in his cryptic scrawl, it read: Be sure to pick up order at Diamond Heights. Bringing the truck to life, he pulled away and to safety. He pulled the truck in front a small narrow alleyway, and left the truck there. Walking gingerly amongst piles of trash bags and cans, Rafe came up to a stoop with a dreary looking painted door at the top. He knocked three times and a small slot opened, a hand reached out grasping a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. The arm handed it to Rafe and in return, Rafe shoved several bills into the extended hand. The little slot shut and the alleyway was as it was again.

Over dinner and cocktails, Rafe thought he was doing well. Sam sat across from him at the small table at the little restaurant where they first went out together. The fairly expensive one mentioned in a previous story but i'm too lazy to look up. The entire evening, Sam seemed to have a twinkle in her eye, every time she laughed, her curls bounced lightly. Rafe looked at her and began to melt in his seat. He felt happy. After dinner and the dessert and coffee was brought over, Rafe reached into his pocket and pulled out the little brown package. It was still tied up with waxy twine and he placed it on the small saucer that sat in front of her. She stared at it, not knowing what to think. It certainly was larger than a ring box, but not big enough to be a bracelet or necklace case. She gingerly undid the bow that held everything in place, and with a careful finger, she peeled back the paper revealing a small little silver box. She opened the lid and inside was a beautifully hand crafted silver ring set with several small stones and a diamond right in the center. She was stunned and shocked, her mouth hung open.

"Babe, I know we've been together for six months. I've loved every single minute of it. I would love to spend alot more of it with you later on. Will you marry me?" Sam looked at Rafe, her expression drooped and she nodded, obviously lost for words. She only could make a gutterance of uh-huh as she nodded.

Maori's Morning

2010-07-25T00:28:00.000-07:00

http://vimeo.com/12904463

ReSurveyed After 1.6 years

2010-06-26T23:25:00.000-07:00

Put an X in what you've done... (12.10.08)
Put a Y in what you've done... (6.26.10)

Info

[ ] I am shorter than 5'4.
[ ] I think I'm ugly sometimes.
[y] have many scars.
[xy] I tan easily.
[ ] I wish my hair was a different color.
[ ] I have friends who have never seen my natural hair color.
[ ] I have a tattoo.
[yx] I am self-conscious about my appearance.
[xy] I wear glasses.
[ ] I would get plastic surgery if it were 100% safe, free of cost, and scar-free.
[y] I've been told I'm attractive by a complete stranger.
[ ] I have more than 2 piercings.
[y] I have piercing in places besides my ears.
[ ] I have freckles.

Family/Home Life

[xy] I've sworn at my parents.
[ ] I've run away from home.
[ ] I've been kicked out of the house.
[xy] My biological parents are together.
[ ] I have a sibling less than one year old.
[xy] I want to have kids someday.
[ ] I've lost a child.

School/Work

[xy] I'm in school.
[y] I have a job.
[xy] I've fallen asleep at work/school.
[ ] I almost always do my homework.
[x] I've missed a week or more of school.
[x] I've been on the Honor Roll within the last 2 years.
[y] I failed more than 1 class last year.
[xy] I've stolen something from my job.
[ ] I've been fired.

Embarrassment

[xy] I've slipped out an "lol" in a spoken conversation.
[ ] Disney movies still make me cry.
[ ] I've peed from laughing.
[xy] I've snorted while laughing.
[xy] I've laughed so hard I've cried.
[xy] I've glued my hand to something. Three words, zap-a-gap
[xy] I've had my pants rip in public.

Health

[ ] I was born with a disease/impairment.
[y] I've gotten stitches/staples.
[ ] I've broken a bone.
[ ] I've had my tonsils removed.
[y] I've sat in a doctor’s office/emergency room with a friend.
[ ] I've had my wisdom teeth removed.
[ ] I had a serious surgery.
[x] I've had chicken pox
[ ] I've had measles.

Traveling

[y] I've driven over 200 miles in one day.
[xy] I've been on a plane.
[xy] I've been to Canada.
[xy] I've been to Mexico
[ ] I've been to Niagara Falls.
[ ] I've been to Japan.
[ ] I've celebrated Mardi Gras in New Orleans.
[ ] I've been to Europe.
[ ] I've been to Africa.

Experiences

[y] I've gotten lost in my city.
[xy] I've seen a shooting star.
[x] I've wished on a shooting star.
[xy] I've seen a meteor shower.
[y] I've gone out in public in my pajamas.
[xy] I've pushed all the buttons on an elevator.
[xy] I've kicked a guy where it hurts.
[xy] I've been to a casino.
[ ] I've been skydiving.
[xy] I've gone skinny dipping.
[xy] I've played spin the bottle.
[xy] I've drank a whole gallon of milk in one hour.
[ ] I've crashed a car.
[xy] I've been skiing.
[xy] I've been in a play.
[xy] I've met someone in person from MySpace.
[xy] I've caught a snowflake on my tongue.
[ ] I've seen the Northern lights.
[xy] I've sat on a roof top at night
[y] I've played chicken.
[xy] I've played a prank on someone.
[xy] I've ridden in a taxi.
[ ] I've seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show
[xy] I've eaten sushi.
[ ] I've been snowboarding.

Relationships

[y] I'm single.
[x] I'm in a relationship.
[ ] I'm engaged.
[ ] I'm married.
[ ] I've gone on a blind date.
[ ] I've been the dumped more than the dumper.
[y] I miss someone right now.
[ ] I have a fear of abandonment.
[ ] I've gotten divorced.
[y] I've had feelings for someone who didn't have them back.
[x] I've told someone I loved them when I didn't.
[xy] I've told someone I didn't love them when I did.
[xy] I've kept something from a past relationship.

Sexuality

[xy] I've had a crush on someone of the same sex.
[xy] I've had a crush on a teacher.
[xy] I am a cuddler.
[ ] I've been kissed in the rain.
[xy] I've hugged a stranger.
[y] I have kissed a stranger

Honesty/Crime

[xy] I've done something I promised someone else I wouldn't.
[xy] I've done something I promised myself I wouldn't.
[y] I've snuck out of my house.
[xy] I have lied to my parents about where I am.
[y] I am keeping a secret from the world.
[xy] I've cheated while playing a game.
[y] I've cheated on a test.
[y] I've run a red light.
[ ] I've been suspended from school.
[xy] I've witnessed a crime.
[xy] I've been in a fist fight.
[ ] I've been arrested.

Drugs/Alcohol

[xy] I've consumed alcohol.
[y] I regularly drink.
[xy] I've passed out from drinking.
[xy] I have passed out drunk at least once in the past 6 months.
[xy] I've smoked weed.
[y] I've taken painkillers when I didn't need them.
[ ] I've eaten shrooms.
[ ] I've popped E.
[ ] I've inhaled Nitrous.
[y] I've done hard drugs.
[xy] I have cough drops when I'm not sick.
[ ] I can't swallow pills.
[y] I can swallow about 5 pills at a time no problem.
[ ] I have been diagnosed with clinical depression.
[ ] I have been diagnosed with one or more anxiety disorder.
[ ] I shut others out when I'm depressed.
[ ] I take anti-depressants.
[ ] I'm anorexic or bulimic.
[xy] I've slept an entire day when I didn't need it.
[ ] I've hurt myself on purpose.
[xy] I've woken up crying. Death and Suicide
[ ] I'm afraid of dying.
[ ] I hate funerals.
[xy] I've seen someone dying.
[xy] Someone close to me has attempted suicide.
[xy] Someone close to me has committed suicide.
[xy] I've planned my own suicide.
[y] I've attempted suicide.
[ ] I've written a eulogy for myself.

Materialism

[ ] I own over 5 rap CDs.
[xy] I own an iPod or MP3 player.
[ ] I have an unhealthy obsession with anime/manga.
[ ] I own multiple designer purses, costing over $100 a piece.
[ ] I own something from Hot Topic.
[xy] I own something from Pac Sun.
[y] I collect comic books.
[xy] I own something from The Gap.
[xy] I own something I got on e-bay.
[xy] I own something from Abercrombie
[y] I can sing well.
[y] I've stolen a tray from a fast food restaurant.
[xy] I open up to others easily.
[xy] I watch the news.
[ ] I don't kill bugs.
[xy] I hate hearing songs that sacrifice meaning for the sake of being able to rhyme.
[xy] I curse regularly.
[xy] I sing in the shower.
[xy] I am a morning person.
[ ] I paid for my cell phone ring tone.
[ ] I'm a snob about grammar.
[ ] I am a sports fanatic.
[ ] I twirl my hair.
[ ] I have "x"s in my screen name.
[x] I love being neat.
[xy] I love Spam.
[x] I've copied more than 30 CD's in a day
[ ] I bake well.
[xy] My favorite color is either white, yellow, pink, red or blue
[y] I've worn pajamas to school.
[ ] I like Martha Stewart.
[xy] I know how to shoot a gun.
[y] I am in love with love.
[ ] I am guilty of tYpInG lIkE tHiS.
[x] I laugh at my own jokes.
[x] I eat fast food weekly.
[x] I believe in ghosts.
[ ] I am online 24/7, even as an away message.
[xy] I've not turned anything in and still got an A in a certain class.
[x] I can't sleep if there is a spider in the room.
[ ] I am really ticklish.
[xy] I love white chocolate.
[ ] I bite my nails.
[xy] I play video games.
[xy] I'm good at remembering faces.
[x] I'm good at remembering names.
[y] I'm good at remembering dates.
[xy] I have no idea what I want to do for the rest of my life.

Qui me Protegera

2010-06-20T01:22:00.000-07:00

It's been a year and a half now. Yet, I still seem to sink myself, deep and onto the verge of emotions with past letters, and journal entries. I dont know why, she's still sitting there, on a little bench in my brain, dangling a foot crossed over the other leg. What difference is there, from any other relationship I've ever had? Some reasons, just cant come forward and raise their hands. Yet, past loves, some have just left just like that. I cant explain it.

It doesn't keep me up at night, I dont lose anything over it. But for any multitude of reasons, my mind wanders back to her. Beautiful, intelligent, adorable, childish, artistic, talented, encouraging, and indefatigable. I dont know if my body wishes for her, to be mine once more, or just to see her one last time. My mind knows, she is but a spirit, unchainable, and unrestrictable. Unstill and heart, open to one and all. Just not me alone anymore.

Do what you do Best

2010-06-14T20:59:00.001-07:00

The Dog Who Was A Cat Inside from trunk animation on Vimeo.

Punchbowl

2010-06-08T20:44:00.000-07:00

Rafe laid in bed, his body, cradled by the feather mattress and the down comforter. Beside his naked head, a second head lay as well. Delicate features, slightly tan skin, and hair bun tied up. The bun bobbled back, gently smushing into his nose, stirred him, from gentle to a stark angry look. He rolled over, the only sound being of the rustling of fresh linens and a small groan as the turn took place. Like an animal, she sensed a change in the environment, her nimble body adapting and turning over to face Rafe's head, or at least the back of it. Her nose homed in and her body slid closer until the tip of her nose poked the back of his neck. His eyes stirred, brow furrowed until it clicked, the smug expression shaped itself into a smile, and he rolled over. His eyes slid open slowly to look at her sleeping face. He watched it for a moment, pensively examining all her features. Rafe leaned in and kissed her forehead. For a minute, the face manipulated itself into a smile, before it broke out into a giggle. Rafe leaned his head in, her eyes opened ever so slightly, the glassy green-blue eyes peered back at him, sparkling in the morning sunlight.
"Sam..." Rafe paused for a moment, "Hi."
Her face stretched back into a silly smile.
"Rafe?" Samantha asked.
"Hm?"
"Hi." He laughed and wrapping his arms around her body, then his legs until they were entangled in each other.

She was,

2010-06-08T20:26:00.000-07:00

I cant help but recall, the pull
it guides me near, tempting me
to a nearside fate, wishing and
wanting that, which forever
shall no longer be mine.

Ev'ry quark and thing, still sounds
deep resonations with me, haunting but
charming at the same.
To no end, I list
the ways, you've done
right or wrong, and I count
I've wronged you, more than
anyone deserves.

Spinning away at my insides
I tear at my hair, cursing
the mistakes I made, wishing and hoping
that by chance, no it would
not ever be so.
Inclusion
Sport
The Wild North
Tradition
Family
The Simplicity of Sincere
The Sincereness of the Simple
Every loving gesture, for this
mobile idiot, who spurs
and overlooks?

You've gone and done it.
Identity Lost
Paradise Lost
Love lingers, Lost but not Gone.

Subtext

2010-05-26T23:56:00.001-07:00

Leave Me

2010-05-26T23:42:00.001-07:00

Leave Me from Daros Films on Vimeo.

The Book of Jengasis

2010-05-25T22:42:00.000-07:00

Email me if you would like to add and contribute: craigwong810@gmail.com

Chapter 1
1. First there was nothing in the world and all was silent.
2. Then the hands of the creators descended from their realm.
3. They created a planet, and it was good.
4. The second day, they made the oceans and mountains and it was good.
5. The third day, they created trees and plants and all things living, and it was good.
6. The fourth day, they created man and he was good.
7. The fifth day, they created woman and she was good.
8. The sixth day, they created blocks, and a whole lot of them, and it was good.
9. On the seventh day, they sat, rested and it was good.
10. For the first time, the creator hands spoke to man and woman.
11. Thou shalt work and study like people
12. On the sabbath, thou shalt build a tower
13. And three blocks wid it shalt be and as high as the top of the trees
14. Once thy tower is complete, thou shalt enjoy it and play with it
15. And with that, the hands disappeared from sight.
16. The next day, man took on a name of Robert and it was good.
17. Woman also took a name and she was Sharon and it was good.
18. They lived in a beautiful garden paradise named Weeden.
19. The hands came down and forth again.
20. Thou shalt not touch the forbidden pomplemousse tree of Parcheesi
21. If thou does thoucheth iteth, thou willeth suffereth a stormeth of diceth.
22. After saying that, the great hands disappeared from sight.
23. They lived peacibly in the garden for a year and a half and never were angry.
24. One day, the serpent of temptation and discounts bit a thron and his tongue was forever forked
25. The serpent hissed at Sharon, hypnotizing her with the movements of his forked tongue.
26. "Thou shalt eat from the forbidden tree of Parcheesi, and thou shalt save 50% on all purchases over 20 dollars at the Pick and Pay."
27. Compelled by some unseen force, Sharon reached for the forbidden pomplemousse tree of Parcheesi.
28. Sharon did touch a pomplemousse, and her hand shriveled up and fell off.
29. The great hand of the creator came down and flicked Sharon and Robert out of the Garden of Weeden and were forever more banished.
30. Robert was still physically whole, having borne of sound mind and body.
31. But Sharon, disfigured and deformed was a gimp and an outcast of degenerate proportions
32. And they had nothing buch each other and ark loads of blocks. Sharon and Robert commenced to build towers, and they called this Jenga.
33. Sharon and Robert began removing blocks from the tower, symbolizing their removal from Weeden.
34. They then replaced the blocks on top of the tower to represent their new beginnings upon the worldly world of earth, and the more they built, the less stable it became.
35. Mary did move the blocks with much difficulty using her only hand.
36. In the equity of spirit, and in fairness of play, Robert did vow never to use his two blessed hands in the worship.
37. And that was how it came to be, that forever the revelers of Jenga, used but one hand to move the good blocks.

Chapter 2.
1. Although gone from Weedon, Robert and Sharon did liveth out the good life on the land that the great hands had created.
2. Although a gimp, Sharon begat two children, and they were raised well by the hardy spirit of Robert.
3. They were known to the worldly world as Drain and Unable, born and raiseth under the shade of a Pomplemousse tree.
4. They still lived the good life the great hands had laid out and their parents had raiseth them to accept.
5. At the begatting ceremony, one was destined for evil (like in all good books, movies and plays.)
6. While playing in the garden, Unable had wandered into the house, for want of lunchables and other play time snacks.
7. Pissed with lower than average performance reviews, the hands of creation had flicked the serpent out of weedon.
8. As it flew, it came upon the outside of the door of Robert and Sharon's modest two storey, three bedroom, two and a half bath with full kitchen and utilities house and worked its wayeth into the back enclosed garden.
9. The serpent slithered between the collard greens, tomatoes, beans, potatoes, onions, corn, heather, thyme, rosemary, dill, rhododendrons, cauliflowers, broccoli, spinach, celery, cabbage and lettuce.
10. The serpent of evil, commencedeth to wrapeth himselfeth around the baby Drain and commenced with its hypnotism of evil and half off deals.
11. "Baby Drain, thou shalt become the evil one in the family, thou shalt strayeth from the flock, and leadeth your people naught from pure and Jenga, but to the rotted flesh and general nastyness of Parcheesi."
12. "But why does thou want me to do so? Are my mother and father of great moral and mortal goodness? It is not the way of Jenga and I cannot follow that which topples the tower."
13. Then, the serpent replied to baby Drain and lieth to him, so boldly and with such great audacity, that the forces of destruction could have taken Drain instantly.
14. "You see young child, I have been around since the third days of creation, I came, I saw, and I really took advantage of some bargain fruit.
15. I saw the land emerge, I saw it rise from the ground and I witnessed the adoration of mankind and I can tell, just by the geomorphology and the shape of the worldly world, that it was destined to be that for Parcheesi and other dice related games."
16. Drain only could look on and reply "I shalt not have no doings against my mother and father, it shalt not shat upon the golden face of Jenga."
17. The serpent began to move its tongue about and baby Drain was led unto the dice cup of temptation and was forever transfixed in neutral until the age of 18 to suddenly embrace that which is not Jenga.
18. The serpent was clever in his wily ways, and made Drain that which is not Jenga only come out as an angsty teenager going through senior drama.
19. A great number of years had passed without event or change. Other than Sharon's missing hand growing back but only to the size of a small key lime.
20. It was seventeen years, to the date, and upon the kindly countenance of the young, pimply and angsty Drain, did the evil behest itself upon his behavior.
21. Drain snucketh into the kitchen's pantry and stole from his mother and father. He took the bread to last him, the water to sustain him, and his father's playboys to entertain him.
22. Under the cool darkness of night, then upon an escape did Drain make the leave from home for the time.
23. Drain walked for many days, seven days and nights to be exact, and soon upon the morn of the eighth day, did he finish the last of the sustenance, and could no longer open the playboys from being cemented together.
24. He collapsed onto the cold desert sands and before him, a light doth appeared.
25. There before him, just slightly to the left of where he lay sprung forth, growing at an accelerated rate, a gleaming pomplemousse tree, filled with Parcheesis.
26. Drain took what he could, and walked further yet, and came upon a settlement of people, these were those who had been expelled from the garden of Opoloy for cheating as banker.
27. Drain embraced these peoples, and they all embraced Parcheesi, and yet, Drain felt still a heavy burning in his heart.
28. Drain then took an antacid tablet.
29. Robert did feel the evil of Parcheesi grab at him and cut of his left in penitence for Jenga.

Chapter 3 (incomplete)
1. Many years had passed since the vow of penitence for Jenga did Robert take.
2. Robert and Sharon worked hard to till the land, and with enough begatting, they established a long standing community to build temples, shrines and two public libraries with a magazine section.
3. Man had spread himself to the far reaching corners of the earth, spreading the words of their gods as interpreted in their own ways.
4. The great creator, curious as to how his science project was going, came forth upon the people at midnight in their time zones to check how progress was going.
5. "Doth thou all respect and honor me?"
6. "Yes."
7. "Doth thou all respect and honor me with celebration?"
8. "Yes."
9. "Doth thou all respect and honor me with celebration by doing the old, you know, custom?"
10. "Yes."
11. "Doth thou all respect and honor me with celebration by doing the old, you know, custom of Jenga?"
12. And upon the utterance of Jenga, did several people look ashamed, bashful and confused. The creator looked unto these people and gave them the stink eye.
13. "What hath thou been doing with thy free time then?"
14. "Parcheesi"

Angsty High School Poetry - Part II

2010-05-25T22:17:00.000-07:00

I read this one, and I rather liked it.

The church rings,
A clattering stone.
A drunk pair of lovers,
see themselves as lovers,
streaked across the inky sky.
Yet the approaching officer,
sees only but two drunkards,
strewn across the filthy street.

A rousal, they wake.
No longer does their classical life exist.
Cats and dogs holler
like the belching of an uncle
the cries of a woman
fighting over a fish head
pierce the soft underbelly
of the morning calm.

The lovers sit,
covered in filth.
Wondering, whether or not,
if when they drank,
truly were they with the gods.

November 26th, 2006

Angsty High School Poetry - Part I

2010-05-25T22:10:00.001-07:00

I found a bunch of poems from my high school days when I was still dating Kim, and god were my poems and handwriting total shit.

Love, oh how she exists
In many way a shape or form
Like young lovers sitting
below the sading palmettos
under a rose red sky.
Or like the quiet carousel
standing silently in the park
once loved by all
and now,
paint peeling from the noses,
falled in flakes like show.
Or maybe like two ancient
gnarled trees
whose limbs grow knobbly
and old like the knuckles
of grandfather's hand
Althought weathered,
by time and the elements
but branches still embrace entangled
underneath the vast cloud of night.
What love may be,
I see it everywhere.
In life, in mind
and in you.

June 21st, 2006

Windmills of your Mind

2010-05-12T02:33:00.001-07:00

Round, like a circle in a spiral,
                       B7
 like a wheel within a wheel

 Never ending or beginning
                     Em
 on an ever spinning reel
                        E7
 Like a snowball down a mountain
                 Am7
 or a carnival balloon
                         D7
 Like a carousel that's turning,
                          Gmaj7
 running rings around the moon
                              Cmaj7
 Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
                         Am6
 past the minutes of its face
                          B7
 And the world is like an apple
                      Bbdim
 whirling silently in space
                           B7
 Like the circles that you find
                          Em
 in the windmills of your mind


 Like a tunnel that you follow
                    B7
 to a tunnel of its own

 Down a hollow to a cavern
                         Em
 where the sun has never shone
                            E7
 Like a door that keeps revolving
                     Am7
 in a half-forgotten dream
                       D7
 Or the ripples from a pebble
                     Gmaj7
 someone tosses in a stream
                              Cmaj7
 Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
                         Am6
 past the minutes of its face
                          B7
 And the world is like an apple
                      Bbdim
 whirling silently in space
                           B7
 Like the circles that you find
                          Em
 in the windmills of your mind


 Keys that jingle in your pocket,
                           Am7
 words that jangle in your head
                      D7
 Why did summer go so quickly?
                           Gmaj7
 Was it something that you said?
                       G7
 Lovers walk along the shore
                                   Cmaj7
 and leave their footprints in the sand
                         F#7
 Is the sound of distant drumming
                          Bm
 just the fingers of your hand?
                       E7
 Pictures hanging in a hallway
                       Am
 and the fragment of a song
                           D7
 Half-remembered names and faces,
                       Gmaj7
 but to whom do they belong?
                           Cmaj7
 When you knew that it was over,
                    Am6
 you were suddenly aware
                             B7
 That the autumn leaves were turning
                      Em
 to the colour of her hair

 A circle in a spiral,
                  B7
 a wheel within a wheel

 Never ending or beginning
                     Bbdim
 on an ever spinning reel
                 Em
 As the images unwind,
                           B7
 like the circles that you find
                          Em
 in the windmills of your mind

Celebrating the great life of George W. Beckham Jr.

2010-05-11T23:04:00.000-07:00

George William Beckam, Jr. May 10, 1921 - Mar. 11, 2010 Resident of Alameda George William Beckam, Jr. died peacefully on March 11, 2010 in Alameda. Mr. Beckam attended Fremont High school in Oakland and then the University of California at Berkeley, where he met his wife of 67 years, Virginia Arnold Lee. At UC Berkeley, he jointed the ROTC. He then interrupted his studies to enlist in the Army and was sent to Officer Training School. After his own training, he trained troops at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri before becoming the Post Engineer at Henry Barracks in Puerto Rico. He retired as Lieutenant Colonel from the Army Reserve where he was in charge of mobilization of the Western States in case of enemy attack on the mainland. At the conclusion of the war Mr. Beckam returned to UC Berkeley and completed a Bachelor of Science Degree in Civil Engineering while he worked full time. He was later hired by Alameda County as Traffic Engineer. He worked twenty years for the county before becoming a consultant to Highway safety projects around the state. He became California's first licensed Traffic Engineer (license No. 00001). He also wrote the protocols, interviewed applicants and made recommendations as to who was qualified to become a licensed Traffic Engineer. Mr. Beckam's expertise in the field of traffic was the basis of his successful bid for Alameda City Council. He served two terms, one as vice mayor. He was a major contributor in helping to pass measure A and greatly limit the density at Harbor Bay development and protect the quality of life in Alameda. George and Virginia were avid bridge players. As well, they shared a love of history and travel and wanted to see where history had happened and was happening. During their marriage, they visited most of the European, many of the South AMerican and African countries and the USA. They have been on most of the major rivers in the world. George also enjoyed the arts. For several years he and his family were involved with the Oakland Metropolitan Ballet Company where they enjoyed being stage manager and helped to produce ballet performances. His favorite was the Nutcracker Suite. George was preceded in death by his parents George and Francis Beckham and his brother Harold Beckam. He will be greatly missed by his wife Virginia Lee Beckam and his four children, Sydney Howard (Bob), George W. Beckam III, Karen Petersen (George), and Katherine Cato (Adam). He also leaves 9 grandchildren and 11 great grandchildren, his sister-in-law Helen Beckam and nephew David Beckam. There will be Memorial service to celebrate his life on Saturday, April 10, 2010, 1:00 pm, at Greer Family Mortuary, 2694 Blanding Ave., Alameda, CA. Greer Family Mortuary

Something's Missing

2010-05-07T23:15:00.001-07:00

I've got two wheels on my tricycle
and four toes on each foot
I've got six days in my week
and up with this I will not put
I'm a bath without a plug
and I'm a handle with no jug
I'm a kiss without a hug unless you're near me
I've got three strings on my violin
and I'm an only twin
Something's missing, something's missing, something's __-__-ing

Well, my cat has only got eight lives,
he chases two blind mice
On my birthday, when I get three cheers,
they only cheer me twice
I'm an oil well with no oil
and I'm a plant that has no soil
I'm a kettle that won't boil unless you're near me
Two and two make three when I add;
you're an orphan, says my dad
Something's missing, something's missing, something's __-__-ing

But, whenever you come close to me,
my life is all complete
No longer do I have four toes,
no longer two left feet
I'm a playground full of swings
and I'm an eagle with his wings
I'm a nightingale that sings because you're near me
Now, my love, I beg you stay 'cause,
when you stay, then I can say
Nothing's missing, nothing's missing, nothing's mi ... ... ssing

Street Signs Part Deux

2010-05-06T03:05:00.000-07:00

A sequel for a story writ two years ago...

I shuddered as a breeze caught around my ankles. Denise had left me after all, after that "hell" I went through when she had that family emergency. I still lived with Dwight, although he somewhat simmered down from the boiling hot lothario he was two years ago. The two of us moved out of our old place on Mason street and found a nice, decent double loft in the industrial part of the city. I was no longer studying at the university but I was working as a technician for the labs in the forestry department. When I say technician, I really mean something more like... well... the guy behind the counter at the dispensary for lab equipment. But I do know how to work all the stuff, and service it. Mostly since it was equipment from the 1930s.

I didn't care that I was single, I changed for a new lifestyle. Dwight had become a graduate student and was working as a TA earning a bit of money and I was pulling my part. Our place became a pretty chic place, like you know, those fancy looking apartments you see on television. We had a flat screen, and Barcelona chairs and big glass topped counters. To be fair, the flat screen is 24 inches and the reason we have so much modern furniture was because the guy who lived across the hall ran a furniture warehouse and couldn't move the damn things so he gave them to us. Pretty sick bachelor pad if I must say. Our double loft is a bit of an anomalie because there's two separate lofts. One over the entrance and one over the living space. It works, there's still tons of light and all, just less privacy. I can be in bed and sit up and then see the big D riding on some girl he met. Lately, it has been the same girl. I think he's finally settling down for a change. But every night those two were together, I wanted it just as much, so badly.

Mason st. and Delaware avenue

My old apartment was on my normal bike ride to work at the College of Forestry. Every morning, I'd pass by it and ring the bell on my road bike just to say hello to my old windows and front door. Sometimes, i'd check the mailbox to see if I still had any mail being sent there. I got most of it by then, but occasionally, a misinformed relative will send a check there and whoever moved in just leaves my mail in the box still.

On that morning, I did my usual routine, rode past it, and rung the bell. Suddenly, I heard the shuck of a window and I looked up to see a round tan face looking back at me. From my own old apartment for that matter. I was enthralled for a moment as her straight, blond hair drooped over her bare shoulders covered only by the straps of a worn looking undershirt. I forgot I was on my bicycle. Someone had opened the door of their car right in front of me and well, I went sailing for a brief second. I did a sort of half barrel roll over the handle bars and laid there on the street for a moment. The offending vehicle had closed the door and pulled away quickly, running over my bike in the process. She saw this and her head ducked out the window.

I dont know for how long I laid in the street but when I came to, my head was cradled in her arms and resting on her knees on the sidewalk. Up close, her face was sweet, and her eyes were greenish blue. If I didn't have to get to work, I could have laid there for a while longer. I staggered to my feet and she looked at me in surprise.

"I... I got to get to work..."
"Are you all right? You took a nasty hit and that person just kinda ran off."
"Where... where's my bike?"
"Well, you cant really ride it. It got run over."
"What? Lucy Bell? Run over?"
"That's a cute name for a bike."

I started to cry a little. She pointed to the wreckage of my bicycle leaning against the wall of my old building. The handle bars were bent, the frame wrecked and both wheels busted up pretty badly. The only thing that survived was the pannier rack on the back, the bell and my Brooks saddle.

"Why don't you come inside for a moment. You can use the telephone here to call your work place."
"Uh.. S-sure."

She was petite but she was strong enough to support me up the staircase. She kicked open the door to her place and placed me in a chair in the living room. I thought to myself, this used to be my living room... I looked around me, the place was rather bare. There was a simple scrubbed table on one side of the dining area, a couple Ikeaish chairs, a forlorn looking saggy couch and a few prints framed on the walls.

"My name's Samantha. Everyone calls me Sam."
"Well, my name's Rafe."
"Just want to know. Is it with an ie or a... hah. Oops."
"Easy mistake. It's fine. The telephone?"
"Ah, nearly forgot."

She walked over to the kitchen counter and picked up a black cordless phone and handed it to me. I called in my office, saying I wouldn't be in today since I was in an accident, etc. etc. As I spoke with my boss, I watched her walk around the apartment doing her things. She walked into her room and emerged wearing a sweatshirt with the letters Alpha Nu on the front. My mind raced a little.

"Finished."
"Cool. How're you feeling now?"
"A bit better. Say, can I ask you something sort of personal."
"That depends on what you're trying to find out."
"Do you buy groceries at Boles' Green Grocers?"
"Yeah, I do actually."
"Do you recall bumping into someone and slapping him there?"
"Slapping... let me think. Yeah, there was this perv there. Said he was reading the words on my ass and thinking of the Dean or something. I told him I was kinky and... oh my god. That's you. Like... how are you!"
"Fine thanks."
"Look, I didn't mean it when I said perv or anything. It's just, it's been pretty hard lately. I was dating some douche bag who wanted me to spray tan myself orange and he dumped me for some floozie at Chi O and I dont know why I'm telling you all this."
"I dont either. What are you doing here?"
"Well, I moved in here when the place came up. I graduated and needed a place to live since I started work for the admissions office."
"Believe it or not, this is my old place."
"That's like some sort of crazy coincidence."
"Sorry for kinda standing you up the last time we met."
"Well, I did come on to you a bit forward."
"I suppose. You're not dating this uh.. D bag still are you?"
"No. Single as a nun."
"Ahh. Well.."
"You're asking me out aren't you?"
"Possibly."
"Yes."
"What?"
"My answer to you is yes."
"You're not still kinky are you?"
"You have yet to see my good sir."
"Uh. Great. Pick you up at eight?"
"On what? Your Lucy Bell is reduced to a bike seat."
"Saddle. Bike saddle."
"Fine fine. But what do you intend to do?"
"Well, you have yet to see my good lady."

We exchanged numbers and parted ways. I took the remnants of my bike out of the lobby and carried them back to the loft. When I got back, Dwight looked at me and sprayed his drink all over the table.

"What the fuck dude? What happened to you?"
"It's a long story. But in the end, I got a date."
"What? No way. How long has it been since your dick's seen another woman's bits?"
"Not that long. Sheesh. It's been what? Seven months."
"Seven months! Oh my god. I'm surprised your balls haven't exploded unless you've been whacking off constantly since that Denise witch dumped you."
"I'll appreciate it if you dont call her a witch. Denise and I are still friends."
"Yeah look. I'm friends with my grandma. But I dont think about her like the way you think about Denise."
"Look, your grandmother..."
"Aww dude. I cant eat now. I'm thinking about my grandma in bad ways. Fuck."
"Dwight. You're sick."
"You're sick man. You're the one with the date now. The girl I've been bringing around, she says she wants to move some things in. Shit dude. What am I gonna do?"
"Fine with me."
"No. Not fine with you. You should be virulently opposed and get in her face."
"You dont know her name do you?"
"No fucking idea."
"Right. Well, we'll work on that. Not even a first name."
"Abby or Edie or Babby something with an ee sounding name."
"Babby?"
"I dated a girl by the name of Babbi all right?"
"When?"
"Back at the old place. The one I brought back a second time and never after."
"That was Bambi. We talked a little."
"Woah, total brain fuck right there man."
"Right. I'll help you figure out your girl's name for you if you help me."
"With what?"
"I need your truck for tonight."
"Fine. Take care of her. She needs a bit of gas."
"Fine by me."

Dwight's pickup rumbled to life as I put the keys in, and shifted it into gear. I loved driving, it's a warm feeling, feeling the warmth of the seat, the rumble of the car as it sat in gear. I pulled the car outside her place, got out and set off for her door. There was a familiar buzz of the doorbell and a warm, sassy sounding voice from the speaker.

"Hello?"
"Hey, it's me."
"Hey, come on up."

The door rattled with a buzz and I pushed my way in. I came up to her door on the third floor, and the same little bare room made itself present again.

"Hey you."
"How're you doing?"
"Fine, just give me a second to finish putting on makeup."
"Sure sure."

I sat in a small easy chair as she disappeared to the bathroom again. I looked around, there seemed to be a bit more furniture than when I was here earlier this morning.

"Is some of this furniture new?"
"Sorta."
"How is furniture 'sorta' new?"
"Well, college finished a couple of days ago, and students are just throwing all this stuff out."
"Did you look at it with a black light first?"
"I didn't want to think about that."
"Well, it comes with student used furniture."
"So.. where are we going?" She emerged from the doorway, wearing a black slinky dress, her face lightly touched up with makeup. "I mean, if we're going somewhere else, I need to change again."
I thought about it, one thing came up. "Twin Peaks."
"Twin peaks? The bar?"
"Yeah sure. C'mon it'll be fun. Look, I got my darts with me, I can teach you." She reluctantly looked at me with a cocked head and little pouted lips. "Or how about Swing."
"That sounds more like it." She grabbed me by the tie and we left her place. In the hall, there is an old alcove for the telephone, she pushed me into it. Her lips pressed against mine, this caught me by surprise, and I just let it happen.
"How 'bout dinner too?"
"That's better."

I took her for dinner at Oxygen 42, a considerable dig into my pocket and then we found ourselves dancing and grinding around the dance floor. Drinks flowed between me and her, more her than me. Before long, I found her crashing about, falling, flailing and generally, very drunk. After an hour's worth of dancing, I had to drag her back to the car.

"Where are your keys?"
"I dunno. They-they were n a scrunchie on my wrist." I looked at her wrists. Bare. "But uh oh. Looks like I lost them."
"How am I supposed to get you home?"
"Take me with you!"
"It's only our first date. Look... I"
"Shhhh. Just let me sleep. I promise I wont be bad."
"Allright I suppose."

I drove back to my loft and took her up to my room. She looked at me, a wide grin smashed itself over her face. She giggled and then pounced onto my bed. I looked at her, I cant do it I thought. She's drunk. She looked at me and crawled to the edge of the bed and grabbed my tie again and this time, with a weird amount of strength, she pulled me down on top of her. The rest is just history.

I woke up, the sun was streaming through the windows, and my head was still somewhat of a groggy mess. I looked around. The bedsheets were tangled around my legs and waist. A lump of pillows lay around, the comforter was thrown onto the chair and there were clothes everywhere. I looked to my side and splayed out on the sheets, arms enwrapt around a stuffed moose I had laying on the bed, was the naked figure of Samantha. Her hair was spread out and fanned over the pillows. I drew a finger and poked her side. Her eyes stirred, and I poked again. Her lips, parted revealing a small pink tongue that licked around.

Atlas and Kingman Sts.

I sat quietly at the cafe, sketchbook laid out flat in front of me. My cigarette still let little wisps out, showing resilience to dying out just yet. As I drew, the pen just seemed to flow over the pages, cutting loose all of my enslaved ideas and thoughts in picture form. It was a little while since I last saw Sam. That morning we had gone to bed together, she just disappeared and hadn't called since. The waiter brought along another coffee to the table. As I looked at the steaming cup, I heard the piercing ring of a cellphone. I looked around to find this strange source of noise and found myself making eyes with Sam again. She saw me and sprang up, knocking over her table and the things on it.

"Oh my god, so there you went."
"Yeah, here I went."
"Why didn't you call?" Her legs crossed, revealing a bit of a thigh. It was becoming irresistable.
"Well, you left in such a hurry, I almost thought you didn't want to be bothered."
"A girl would like to know a little bit at least..."
"Well, I apologize then."
"Do you want to make a girl's fancy again?"
"What?"
"You know..." Her skirt lifted a little.
"Aha, well... hum." I put my coffee down and looked her in the eyes. Her lashes batted over her light blue eyes. "I could.. Lets go how's that?"

I took her arm and she took mine and we walked back to my apartment.

California: Arbor and Bird Day Annual Update

2010-04-18T20:25:00.000-07:00

Update. I finished the whole thing at eight ten today. Finally!

I'm excited to watercolor this later tonight. All I have to do first is erase the blue lines first.

California: Arbor and Bird Day Annual

2010-04-18T20:12:00.001-07:00

I started this project on my own on Wednesday, April 14th, 2010. You can kinda see, it's on size C paper, 24 by 36. I like working with new sizes of paper and especially a new way of drawing. Before I used to use a pencil to outline everything and before that, I did everything free hand. I'm doing a lot less nowadays. I started using blue pencil, and I like the way it works out.

Here's a close up of some of the lettering. You can see some of the design outlined in the blue pencil. It doesn't show up in photocopies!

I haven't worked on this thing for four days. But now it's sunday. I've started working on the project again, and finally got to outlining everything.

I'm proud of this part most in particular.

Here are some of the tools I use. The Rapidograph #3, a Number 5 Ink Letterer, Rapidograph ink and a ruler.

Catchup

2010-04-13T23:26:00.001-07:00

So to catch up with reading this, I've got some things to let you know about.

I've been working hard at things in Berkeley. I've started to do art again, it's a really soothing, and I really love the Arts and Crafts posters of Will Bradley. Stay posted for the start of that project! :)

Sunday, I got my brow pierced.

Saturday, Coulter Woolf and I just had an adventure. St. Mary's college, Fruitvale, Alameda, NAS, The Kingfish and the Albatross!

Bach

2010-04-07T01:39:00.000-07:00

Hoegaarden part two

2010-03-22T22:35:00.000-07:00

I just met a girl, Cassie. Cassie god knows what her last name is, told me to met her here at this time. With a fist full of cash and an open mind. A really open mind. I stood there, thinking, this couldn't be possible, that everything that had just happened in my usual breakfast place was just a dream. Yet, here I was, standing by the Cable Car turnaround and in my jacket pocket, eight hundred dollars. I watched the masses of tourists line obediently around the concrete bollards, waiting for their chance to ride the world famous cable cars of the city. I jerked the pale keffyeh closer around my neck and looked around one last time. Five minutes i'll give her. Five.
I heard my name, pitched out through the cold air. "Max!" I spun on my heels to look around. I didn't see anything. People just kept milling about their businesses, togged up in cold weather clothes. "Max!" I heard Cassie, I just didn't see where she was. She finally pushed her way through a throng of tourists. "Max, there you are. Come on, i've been waiting forever. Come on silly."
She grabbed my arm, leading me through the crowd and down into the BART station towards the entrance to the mall. She gripped my arm with a strength I really didn't think she had. We wandered down, below Market street and we found ourselves immersed in the Westfield mall. Couples, groups of college students, all milling about looking and trying on things. I looked at my drab clothes, a pea coat, collared shirt and levis. Nothing exciting. She dragged me towards Nordstroms. All around me stood mannequins dressed sharply in plaid and checkered patterns, beautiful looking people with their noses in the air and old ladies, dressed in their best shopping. Cassie took me by the hands and looked me in the eyes.
"You need this. It's not too late to back out. Just say so, and i'll disappear like fries in front of a fat kid"
"Of course I do. Why else do you think i'm here?"
"Allright. Prepare to go from drab to dapper."
She skired off for a moment then returned with the floor walker.
"Yes I see ma'am. I'll see what I can do. Please."
The floor walker escorted me into a back room and suddenly, without warning, i'm covered and swamped in clothes. The sheer combinations and colors was overwhelming and soon, I found myself presented before Cassie. Wearing a pair of dark trousers, a plaid shirt, skinny tie, wool jacket and a small porkpie. Only one thing could come out of my mouth.
"What is the cost?"
"Sir, this entire combination runs for about fourhundred and seventy five."
I choked. "Come again?"
"four hundred and seventy five. Plus Tax might I add."
"Ah. Well."
Cassie poked me in the ribs again. "Do it."
I forked over the cash. "I'm wincing as I'm doing this as you know."
"You're doing good. I've got a kiss for you." She leaned into my face and placed a small kiss on my cheek.
"Whey hey hey."
"Thank you sir, here is your receipt."
I grumbled in my new outfit as we walked out of the store. Cassie held my hand. I couldn't help myself.
"Let's get a drink ok?"
"I guess."
"Allright, we'll go to The Peaks."
She pulled me onto an F car and we rumbled together into the Castro.

Hoegaarden part one

2010-03-21T21:59:00.000-07:00

A short story:

I'm not the sort of guy, to try something new. Hell, I'm afraid of trying a new beer. In high school, my friends called me Maxed out Max. Not cause I did things to the extremes, but more because I had exhausted out everyone from not wanting to try anything other than my usuals. In my first two years of college, I continued in this fashion until my third year, which is where this story begins.

My eyes tend to remain shut, they dont really open until well after I've emerged from my cocoon of comforters and blankets. It usually tends to happen, just about halfway through brushing my teeth, and shaving. As usual, my roommate is still fastened firmly to his mattress, his legs dangled limply over the edge in a pair of red basketball shorts. The little clock beside his head began to chirp a soft alarm and his hand, edged towards it like a snake and with a single, deft motion, chucked it at me. I just managed avoid being hit by morning missiles. His head ducked under the covers and I pulled the thick, linen curtains open. Light streamed through the large windows and he sat up. Blinked a couple times and covered his head with a pillow. I only stared at him contently and finished dressing and got out.

At the cafe, I ordered my usual breakfast and my usual coffee. I had it at my usual table with my usual newspaper section from my usual newspaper open.

I dont know what it was, but you know that feeling that some people get when something just clicks in their head, and they go flippin bananas? I kinda had that. I stared at my table and only one thing came into my mind. Disgust. I motioned for the waiter, and he came by.

"Mr. Max, good to see you. Is there something with your breakfast?"

"Yes, there is."

"But, what could it be? It is the exact same thing our cook Maurice has made for you for the past two years."

"But that's just it. Could I have something different?"

"But of course. Here is a menu, I'll be back."

I stared at the piece of paper. Although, there were 12 different breakfasts, it felt like staring down 1000 different entrees. My mouth began to pulsate with fear and excitement. Each option looked more liberating that the next and each one began to scare me like no other. I could only look at the next one down and almost feel my teeth chatter. The waiter came back.

"Mr. Max, are you ready?"

I looked at him, and then back to the menu. My mouth trembled in fear.

"I'll just stick with what I got."

"I see..."

Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me. It wasn't any voice I knew, none that was familiar to me at least. It was sweet, and sour at the same time. It rang in my ears but was pleasing. I turned around and saw a smiling, bubbly face. She sat there, in a calico print sun dress, her hair was clipped short and she sported a cycle cap and thick framed glasses.

"Could I get, a carafe of orange juice, a chicken fried steak, some home fries, no... let's have hashbrown patties today, and a fried egg on the side. Sunny side up. Something new this time."

I was in awe of how easily she just picked new things. I turned back towards my plate of eggs benedict and hashbrown pattie and looked back at her. Something in my gut said I needed her. I stood up and sat myself down at her table.

"I'm Max."

"Oh. Hello. That was rather forward. Well. Hello Max, welcome to my table." As she said this, she made a flowering gesture with her hands. "Now Max. What can I do for you?"

"Well, this might sound silly. But hear me out ok?"

"It's fine. Just tell me."

"Ok, well... I'm in a rut. I cant try anything new. I've been the same, straight laced guy for the past 20 years and I think you're the person to help me change that."

"Why would I want to help you?"
"I just feel it in my stomach. The way you ordered breakfast, I could never do that."

"Haha, silly. But that's just breakfast. It's what I feel like."

"But why do I always feel like eggs benedict and patties?" I jerked the dish from my table onto hers. The eggs landed with a rattle and bits of potato scattered about.

"Oh man. Are you some nutjob or something?"

"No, I'm honest. Look. There's no one in my life that's radical, different, etcetera. I want to live a little. I want to... I want to do things my mother would be angry at."

"That's not a problem. Ok first off, let's order breakfast."

"But I got breakfast right here." I motioned to the eggs benedict and patty.

"Not anymore." She spit on her palm and smacked the benedict. "You're ordering something new, and i'm helping you. What do you feel like?"

"Me? Uh. I dunno."

"Pick something."

"Ahh. phoo... um. Pigs in a blanket covered in gravy sound good actually. I've never noticed them before."

"Then Piggies you shall have! Waiter!" She motioned over my waiter. "This gentleman will have..."

"Uh... Can I get the pigs in a blanket covered in gravy."

He looked at me stunned. "Very good. Anything else?"

She looked at me. I looked at the menu.

"Champagne and orange juice. I'd like that please."

"Very good." A smile spread over his face as he walked off to put the order in.

"That's a great start. I'm proud of you."

"T-thanks. It's new."

"Cassie."

"Pardon?"

"Cassie Innsbruk"

"You?"

"Of course."

"huh" I nodded vigorously. The waiter came back with a plate of sausage gravy draped over a pair of piggies. I wolfed them down. They didn't taste like they should have been in my mouth at this hour, but it was invigorating. The Champagne came next and it washed it down with a bubble. I grinned at my new found ability.

"Turns out you do have free will"

"Heh, I guess so. Hey look, I know it's kinda out of the blue, but would you like to go out with me? Help me continue changing me? It'll be for the good of the world."

She looked at me stunned. "Ok. I'm not seeing anyone, and something like you might be a fun project. But we gotta do heavier shit than just bacon and eggs. Now. What other problems do you have?"

"Well, where should we start?"

"How about them threads. When did you last go shopping."

"On my own?"

"Sure."

"Never."

"Oh my god. Meet me at Powell station in 45 minutes. Bring a buttload of cash."

to be continued...

Movie Review: Paris (2008)

2010-03-17T02:27:00.000-07:00

Going through my netflix today, I stumbled upon a really beautiful film I had en-queued but since it was recently just released in the US, it was put on watch now. The cinematography is amazing and the choice of music and soundtracking is excellent. I highly recommend it.

It follows the stories of several people around the city of Paris. Though several of the story lines never interacts, some do come in contact with each other without even knowing it. Just to give you an idea, the main story follows Pierre and those around him. He's diagnosed with a disease and his miserable attitude just creates a wall of just interaction and I've never seen anything like it before. I mean, I've watched movies with just as many story lines but never interacting in the way that Cedric Klapisch had woven the movie.

On scene, the movie takes advantage of many parts of Paris, the beautiful architecture and all sorts of wonderful sets as far off as French Morocco and Cameroon.

if that doesn't interest you, you see Melanie Laurent in a bra for a few moments. That made me happy enough.

Whom Death hath bourne Away

2010-03-04T15:14:00.001-08:00

When Laurence Matheison died, his wife commissioned this sculpture as an expression,

of her love for him.

I wish I had a girl like that. Doesn't every girl want that too?

William Whyte: The Social Life of Small Urban Spaces

2010-02-25T23:16:00.000-08:00

Hahahhahahahaaa

2010-02-18T20:25:00.001-08:00

Funnies about Funnies

2010-02-17T00:59:00.001-08:00

February, I think a video month

2010-02-02T11:05:00.000-08:00

Foolishly Seeking True Love from Jarrett Lee Conaway on Vimeo.

Siphon Coffee and Espresso

2010-01-27T00:58:00.000-08:00

Espresso, Intelligentsia from Department of the 4th Dimension on Vimeo.

Syphon, Intelligentsia from Department of the 4th Dimension on Vimeo.

Remember why?

2010-01-20T16:08:00.000-08:00

I can still sort of recall when I first put the bicycle gadget up on my blog. I was actually, pretty excited to know that we were nearing a sort of, big day since it was a couple days until it would be 1200 days since any new bike lanes were installed. I thought: Yes. Change will happen. New bike lanes will be installed... etc, etc. Now, it's been 1310 days since. I'm still hopeful, but much more rather doubtful.

400th Post: New Years Resolution:

2010-01-02T01:44:00.000-08:00

New Years

2009-12-31T00:07:00.000-08:00

I've got a golf game tomorrow. Well, today at eleven with Marc. I haven't seen him in awhile. I still dont really know what I plan on doing for the festivities tomorrow.

I'm still trying to figure out what's going to happen.

Beat the Calendar

2009-12-26T12:55:00.000-08:00

Yes folks, remember how awhile ago I mentioned that I was nearing 400 posts? And at some time in the past year, that's when I had hit three hundred. That was about a year and four months ago. It's kinda died down, but i'm making up for that really bad last year.

So my goal. This will be the 398th post. 400 By New Years. It shouldn't be hard you say? Well, i'll have to clear and finish all the drafts left in my entries box.

Flights of Freedom

2009-12-26T00:35:00.000-08:00

I stood only dressed in a pair of warm ups, and a tshirt. The dark, and the cold had no meaning to me as I stood, breathing in the crisp cold air. My eyes shut for a moment, and my ears focused on the sounds of the world. The ringing in my ears from years of exposure to loud noises, the low whir and hum of the cars rushing home from Christmas celebrations and the whistle of the BART trains, speeding on their last trains for the night. Today is boxing day.

For a second, I hear, the sounds of a flock of Canadian Geese. The systematic honking, the berating of their wings and beaks. A smile pursed over my lips and I recalled when I was younger, wanting to be reincarnated as a duck. The thought teased me as I watched the silhouetted V fly above me. Darking out the stars as it passed, then the star reappearing as it passed. I thought, of all the things, the places those geese have been. Canada, the wild mountains of Montana, the rainforests of Washington, all the way to the southern climates of Southern California. I longed to fly with them, and to be free from the monotony of life on land.

I wanted to be mingling with Canadians, dancing over the Rockies, lounging on the fields of Los Angeles. My head jerked back and my eyes opened again. Slowly, my family's garden came into view, the tomato plants caressing the cages, the trees, barren and bereft of leaves and the flat tones of the flagstones beneath my feet. I was not a duck, but a man. Standing warm in out of the cold, and inspired.

I am, a wandering bird.

Morris, the Midget Moose

2009-12-25T13:12:00.001-08:00

Merry Christmas to All

2009-12-25T01:49:00.000-08:00

And to all, A good night.

May your yule log burn bright,

and your inlaws run with fright.

From the turkey that's undercooked,

and hotels that are overbooked.

Merry Christmas from Alameda, Burlingame, San Francisco, Victoria B.C. & My little desk in my room.

Ticket Stub

2009-12-19T20:22:00.000-08:00

I was pawing through my things, and harmlessly pulled out my magic drawing slate. Yeah, a 20 year old with a magic slate. Big deal. But moving it around, a ticket stub fell out. Castro theater, April 18, 2009. It doesn't say the date, I just remember that date.

It was the day I threw myself upon my senses, making sure to associate every memory I can hang onto with some sense. Sight, sound, smell, taste & feel. That's a great feeling, one I dont want to leave. It's too beautiful to let go.

Moped Diaries: Day 8 part one

2009-12-13T15:53:00.000-08:00

I struggled to fall asleep that night at the YMCA. Here's a synopsis of what happened that night:

10pm: German hiking group returns from wherever drunken and singing some nationalist song
11pm: Germans proceed to start dancing in hiking boots
12pm: The vomit chorus proceeds in the hallway
12:01am: Sounds of mirth and hilarity as the others start laughing at the unfortuntate fellow.
12:30am: Finally fall asleep
1:29am: Awoken by loud arguing between a Quebecois & German traveller
1:40am: Still trying to fall asleep to nationalist argument
2am: Finally fall asleep, again.
6am: Woken by sound of the Korean guy's alarm clock next door.
6:02am: Swear to take a hit on Korean guy's loved ones
6:15am: fall back asleep
10:12am: Wake up on own accord. Notices one of the Germans in the room is totally naked
10:15am: Wait for German to leave because of an erection
10:40am: Plans to take contract hits on Korean guy & German man's loved ones
11am: Ashton wakes up. Walks around with stiffy.

We redressed in our motorcycle clothes. With our bags in the main dining room, we sat for a quiet morning breakfast of sausages, carrots, mashed potatoes and couscous. We looked at each other in the hall, it seemed to just go on forever. Our faces showed signs of growth again, each of us sporting a bit of tussle under and above the lips. My fork scratched lightly against the porcelain plate. The brown ring around the edge spoke to me. I tried to imagine a time when the color brown was a popular color, let alone fashionable. The last time I could recall was either in the seventies or in the early nineties when the whole nature thing was popular again, pushing out that artificial era called the eighties.
Ashton was pushing the food around as well, except he was using a spoon. I watched lazily as he shaped his potatoes into a small mound and dropped a pile of peas into it. Then, he pressed the back of his spoon into them. The mound of potatoes looked like a beach ball covered in pimples or something. He snapped and looked up at me looking at him. Caught by surprise, my fork fell to a clatter on the plate.
Our bikes were reloaded with the canvas saddle bags, jerry cans and bags. Ashton took off first and then I followed him. The city of Vancouver was sleek and beautiful around us. The sun gleamed off the sky scrapers and we looped around several times through the downtown part of the city. Steam issued from the grates, the road was crisp and the white scarf trailing from ashton's helmet made the world feel carefree and senseless. I leaned over the gas tank, I could feel it rumbling below my chest as the engine chugged away. After several laps around the town, we drove south through Richmond, then finally arrived at Tsawassen.

The lanes at Tsawassen stretch for a mile out. Long columns of cars sit idle waiting for the next ferry and their contents mill about either going to the small kiosk for coffee or stood around chatting with one another. Ashton and I pulled behind a small minivan, the family inside was standing outside of it talking. The ticketer walked up to us and handed us two tickets as we exchanged with him twenty dollars.
The Spirit of British Columbia blew its horn, a loud shockwave resounded over the parked cars. Everyone piled into their vehicles. Ashton and I packed away our little hackey sack and remounted the bikes. The ship drew close, the doors opened and cars began to come out of the open doors. And once they were out, the cars slowly began to pull into the ships. Other ships followed after and slowly, all the lanes emptied out. We pulled into the ship and doors closed.

Living the Life of Lindsay

2009-12-02T11:10:00.001-08:00

This entry is dedicated to a very good friend of mine, she is a really amazing, wonderful and beautiful person and late one night on an IM client, she inspired me to write this little short story for you all to enjoy.

Do you know that feeling? The one where you wake up, the sun is streaming through the windows and the first thing you do is smile, squint your eyes a little and then raise your arms over your head to stretch? That's what my life is like every morning now. I graduated from Berkeley just a couple months ago and I found this job working in Paris as a researcher for some big professor at the Ecole de Beaux Arts. So I spend my mornings combing through the libraries looking at folios filled with drawings of buildings and paintings. I really couldn't get an even more cultured look into French life than this. After spending my mornings sifting, I stop by the school, present my findings for an hour or so then I have the rest of the day off. Normally, if I was still back home I would go straight back to all the libraries. But after the first few weeks of doing so, I'd forgotten about the world outside of the library and that I was in, of all places, Paris!
So that's what it's like to wake up in my life. Following my usual ritual of morning research, I made the presentation and was out at two. I returned to the little flat in the suburb of Belleville to drop my things off. Around me, people in the building were artists, writers, the poor and the thinkers. The first day, I made friends with most everyone in the building and the building certainly is a bit safer knowing who's who. On the ground floor, there is a small little grocers and every night, I would buy all my meal ingredients there. The man who runs it is a nice old chinese man who lives by himself in the back.
Up at the flat, I picked up the receiver of the telephone on my desk and called a taxi company. I felt like exploring some of the other suburbs of Paris today. Or maybe one by one. Within a few minutes, a small Citroen taxi was shaking underneath my window with the horn bleating, begging for my presence. I hopped in and the driver stared at me. "Montmarte, merci si vous plait." The cab sped through the narrow streets, passing street cafes and parks, by artists painting on canvases, musicians playing in circles. The narrow alleyways of Belleville were behind us soon and we entered Menilmontant, the steep part of town, and soon, the wide avenues of Montmarte became our raceway. The driver stopped in front of the Moulin Rouge and I paid him and he sped off looking for the next venerable fare.
Feeling a little hungry, I found a cafe and ordered a light salad. I placed my little side bag on the chair beside me and pulled out a copy of Fitzgerald. I started to read as the coffee was placed on the table with a jug of ice water and a warm glass, still steaming from a hot bath. As I continued, the world I sat in seemed to swirl in with the Paris in Fitzgerald's books. I was lost in a smile, and I didn't really notice the boy at the table across staring at me. It must have taken awhile for me to notice him because when I finally did look at him, his coffee cup fell from his hand onto his saucer. Snapping out of it, he realized his lap was full of cold coffee and rushed to grab the table linens to start blotting his lap. I laughed, as he did, he looked up at me again. His hair was greased back, his jaw firm and prominent and covered in stubble. His green eyes were hidden behind a pair of rimless glasses. Well dressed with the exception of the coffee stain, he stood, all six feet two of him and sat in the chair opposite mine. Somewhat shocked, I tried to compose myself and look further into the text. He sat there, then leaned forward, putting his chin on his hands.
The salad arrived, I put the book away and looked at him. I raised a finger, at him. He looked confused, he looked around, his locks of hair bouncing back. He then pointed at himself with a look of bewilderment. I shook the coco-nut. He didn't get I wanted him to go back to his seat. Finally, in French, «Please, go back to your seat, you're not going to find anything here.» Dejected, he sat down back at his table, now stained with coffee. I finished the salad, and left. But not without noticing him following me.
I stopped at every famous landmark, the Moulin de la Galette, The famous Moulin Rouge as well as Le Chat Noir. By now, the evening dusk was starting to envelope the city. I hailed a cab, and as I entered, he entered as well. He immediately ushered the cab driver to the VIII^e arrondissement. As we sped down the thoroughfares, I wondered if this man was going to kill me, or worse, take advantage of me. I tapped the driver to let him know I was going somewhere different. He realized the mistake and let me off. I merely waved the hand as he stared in surprise through the back window. I hailed another cab and this time, it went back to Belleville.
Living my life, I wouldn't know how to describe it for you. The boys are nice, but there are some days, I have to beat them away with a stick. Even if they're a handsome Parisian boy. As I got out, I saw another cab pull behind mine, and somehow, it was him. The cabs drove off, and as I tried to get the key in the lock, he swooned up to me. «You know, i've been following you all day. I think you are a gorgeous girl, please. I would like to get to know you.» I merely stared at him, and doing the typical American thing, I said no and walked through the door. I opened my windows to the street and he still stood there. I looked at him. «Go Away!»«At least tell me your name.» I finally caved in. "Lindsay." I saw him mouth the word in the streetlight. His heart seemed to just flutter.
I went to bed that night flustered.
Remember how I described mornings to you? Waking up with a smile, with the sun streaming through the shutters, and the birds chirping and pidgeons cooing on the gutters? Well, imagine that, but finding the room had been opened while I was asleep and then suddenly filled with flowers of ever kind. I frumpled my face and only could start to imagine what Ashley would do if she found out I was turning down a European man.

Tenner

2009-11-29T00:18:00.000-08:00

Nearly a half year ago, I remarked on the notion that I would be able to make it to four hundred posts by the end of this calendar year. And as I've just last checked, that's almost a reality. With irregular posting since that post, I have brought myself into the threshold of reality. I am a mere ten posts away. So readers, keep me motivated. Then again, I do believe I have only one or two of you left. I think I may have scared you off with my emotion, bad poetry that utilized the word refrigerator constantly.

So here's a new short story, and on the home mile stretch, look forward to another installment of the moped diaries as well as no more terrible haikus and lonely, depressing poetry. I intend, to make these next ten posts, the most upbeat, and wonderful things you'll have ever read. Apart from Peter Cottontail.

So, here, is a short story, entitled simply as, Tenner.
_______________________

What is life? Do things have life and do each and every little thing you interact with, do they think about you? I wondered that, my entire lifespan of several months to be exact. Who am I you may ask, well. I'll tell you simply. I come from Washington D.C. I'm flat, and covered in ink, and i'm worth exactly ten dollars. But you find me here right now, torn into little bits, on the sidewalk in the slush of winter, in the middle of Seattle, Washington.

My story begins at the mint. I dont remember which one, but It was warm, and I was surrounded by older and younger siblings. We all grew up on the same sheet of cotton paper, until we were separated by machine cutters and a bunch of my siblings and I, well, we found ourselves wrapped in paper, then bundled and then put into a bag. It was dark, but I was on top of the bunch and managed to peek through a small hole in the bag. I didn't see much else, other than other canvas bags. Some were marked "nickels $200" and "dimes $500". I didn't think much of it, no one else did. Maybe I am the only thing to have a mind of its own.

Finally, after several hours, we found ourselves opened and placed on a steel table, surrounded by rows upon rows of little drawer cabinets. Weird huh? What sort of place needs so many drawers? Suddenly, a well dressed man appeared and grabbed me and the rest of my bunch. We found ourselves broken apart, seperated into smaller stacks and I saw we entered some sort of banking hall. Now it made sense. We were in the safe deposits room and now, we're going on our own adventures! My brothers and I were eagerly slipped into a slot and then, the light of the world closed on us. But that was soon over. The drawer slipped open again and I was picked! Placed with a fifty and two twenties, I figured we were to make up one hundred dollars in cash. I glanced to my new owner. A little old lady with wizened features. Her little face held lines which could trace themselves far back in time, and her bony little hands shoveled us up carefully and placed us inside her purse. It smelled of hard candy.

It would be another while before I would see the light of day again. I and another twenty, were placed carefully on the old fashioned tabletop, then attached to a letter of sorts. Folded then shoved inside an envelope. Lady! You cant send money! Let us out! Ohhh, it's too late. I could, the entire time feel myself being mishandeled, roughly the entire. Light flashed before my eyes again and this time, a face that was not as creased with experience greeted me. A pair of sparkling blue eyes and golden locks of long blond hair bounced. This might be better than I thought. It spoke. "To Chelsea, be good, study hard and love yourself. Love, grandma. P.S. Fight on trojans!" It stared at me and the twenty with me. She plucked us out and we were shoved into a crowded wallet. Never have I felt so cramped being squashed between little squares of plastic and pictures of high school loves.

For the most of the time during this part of my life, I spent sitting in the wallet. The twenty who accompanied me was long spent on a double whip latte frappacino with soy cream and shots of torani. I did on occasions see her face again, but every time, it seemed to grow more fake, and covered in make up. The little squares of plastic certainly got good use, but not me. It seemed like there would be nothing in this world that seemed to cost less than ten dollars. Until one day...

Her usual routine of tossing her entire whore sack onto the bed after class, this time, the wallet scattered out. by now, I had made friends with the others. The visa, the mastercard, the chase card, the platinum card. We all stared in silence as to this "crude" so to say, throwing of us. Usually, we could tell she slung the bag over a bed post or something. A knock a the door. It was three silent rapts and one loud kick at the base. She answered it. Some large looking Hollister model, meat head wandered in. He planted himself in her office chair and she walked up to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and proceeded to kiss. She said something in his ear, and she walked out. He looked as she walked out, and looked in our direction. He grabbed the wallet! That bastard! Not being able to take a card, he grabbed me, and I found myself wedged into his side pocket with... dear lord, a condom and a small pen knife.

At some point, the condom disappeared, but the pen knife had a fairly bad attitude to me. I could feel he was putting on the pants again, but now, I was separated from my sweet master. A couple other things would join the pen knife and I. A small little baggie of weed, more condoms and receipts. But suddenly, I heard a loud, thumping sound, and the most astringent smell ever. He must have entered, because the smell was everywhere and the sound was deafening. I found myself pulled out, and placed on the counter. To the next of me, a woven sweater, above me, a gigantic moose head. At least, I think that is what it was in the dim light. I looked about, everywhere, there were large posters of naked young people. Where was I? Suddenly, the sweater was put into a bag and I knew, I was somewhere called, Abercrombie and Fitch. Then th darkness happened again as I was swept and put into a drawer again. But like my bank story, I would be pulled out as change.

The next person who'd get me was another girl, she was blond, but nothing like that last girl. She was smiling, her hair in a bun and her eyes framed behind glasses. She had bought a little camisole and it seemed her boyfriend was with her. Promptly, I was shoved into a wallet and I could just make out a blue leather purse. Chic.

Drifting about, I'm spent at the Ice Hockey rink in Anaheim. It must be, there's a blurry of black and orange before my eyes. Lo and behold, I dont sit for long, being tendered as change for a tshirt. But I hardly leave the stadium again, when I'm used for sodas! It goes on for hours, passing about in the hands of vendors and customers. I think they won that game too. They beat the blue jackets. A teenager got ahold of me. His blue jackets cap suggested I might be going back to the east coast. Ohio!

------------------
Story endeth there, I've lost the will to write this one.

I'm going to push:

2009-11-29T00:04:00.000-08:00

Like an advert from the fifties, I'm going to push for all of you, if and when you get a chance, to read one of my good friend's, as well as brother's blog of his escapades as he tears up the English countryside, (just as there's an englishman in Sigma Phi tearing up the American landscape).

http://durhamradiouk.blogspot.com/

Read it, I heartily recommend doing so in a large wood paneled library, with leather seats, and a glass of sherry. In fact, the Thorsen house is perfect for that.

Gryphon's End

2009-11-26T00:31:00.001-08:00

Like a corpse rising from a copse, the matted Matt ran runningly along the wide walk.

My dumb friends

2009-11-18T14:04:00.001-08:00

For several years, Billy, Kerry, Jimmy, Willy, and I used to meet up together and drink, play cards and laugh about things we did on a daily basis. We'd sit on a homemade bench which was made of several planks of two by fours on upturned buckets. We had one of those large manilla rope reels for a card table and an old bullhead lamp that we stole from one of the southern pacific owl cars. The ocean used to lap against a seawall that once stood here, the end of the road terminated in a half loop that would send cars around us. We never stayed out too late, the police tended to wander our direction late into the evening and depending on who was walking the beat, they would either join in on a beer and a hand of cards or we would have long disappeared.
By 1924, all five of us owned a house on the street that we lived in with our marital spouses. But although we didn't take dinner with each other anymore, we still met up afterwards to play cards, joke around and be jovial and drunk. Although prohibition changed the way we would supply the nightly supply of beer, the police still came to drink with us. When that law came around, the officers who used to crack down on us for public drinking softened up and even joined our little club. Within a few years, The membership went from five to twelve. Us, the originals, two of our neighbors who usually supplied better beers, and five police officers. We carried on in this way until the end of prohibition, when we no longer had to smuggle in our alcohol. But night after night, we sat on our rude benches watching the boats pass along in the evening tide.
In 1939, we celebrated Billy's 40th birthday, him being the youngest of our club. But within a few weeks, he caught a cold and died. This was a shock to us. He had long been a pillar of our club. In his memory, we erected a concrete chair. A simple one with low, sloped arms and his name and date of death inscribed in the front of the seat. We decided to elect a president and at our meetings, he would sit in the Billy chair. After the second world war, rationing had taken its toll when two of the officers had died as well as the two old neighbors who had died. So it was four out of the original five left and three of the old beat cops. In their memories, we extended the billy chair with similar looking chairs attached to the sides, but two wide, and a gentle arc of a semi-circle.
The fifties had proved fruitful with many G.I.s coming home, our club found three new members. PFC Egmont, Sgt. Willis and Captain Seneca. But we were oldies and less frequented the club, turning out only once a week and soon, we found ourselves in the funeral garb more than once before the end of 1954. Willy, Kerry and Jimmy passed away that year, the three cops and the three new members moved to Los Angeles. I was the only one left. Investments in IBM proved good and with a little bit of extra cash, I had a new bench built in memory of everyone. But I was 60, I couldn't even remember all their names being struck down with Alzheimers. The mason looked at me and asked. "Do you want me to put their names down? What should I put?" I only looked at him, and smiled and said: "My Dumb Friends"

My own story in dedication to the "My Dumb Friends" bench in Alameda.

again?

2009-11-04T11:42:00.000-08:00

How many times have I
finished my short haikus with
refridgerator

Hustead's

2009-11-03T22:56:00.000-08:00

You sit

Kurt you Asshole

2009-10-23T08:35:00.000-07:00

Jerome walked into the coffeehouse, up to the massive wooden counter, and ordered his coffee. He stood as the barista carefully measured out the coffee and portions for his morning jolt. As he watched, steam gushed from every direction of the machine and he stared with a morning blankness as if he had just awoken not too long ago. In fact, he did wake up just fifteen minutes ago, dressed and rushed out of his apartment. The barista placed the hot, steaming drink on the counter and he paid for it. Then, he tossed the change in the tip jar and walked over to the window and eased himself into one of the leather seats. He stared across the street enjoying the peace, when all of a sudden, he heard a tinkle of glass. His attention was stirred as his eyes darted to the brownbrick apartment across the street.
The front door flew open and a man wrapped in a sheet came rushing out. His muscular build suggested he was a good looking guy and probably got around a bit at the night clubs. Behind him came a flurry of objects being thrown through the darkness of the hall. A vase, several plates spun past him and one shattered against a parking meter. The door slammed shut and he stared upwards. In Brooklyn, no one paid attention, and merely walked around the hail of desetruction. Jerome eased back a little bit more and continued to watch. A window opened two stories up and a blonde head popped out. He heard an inaudiable scream and yelling, and a shower of objects followed. Clothes, shirts, golf clubs, all things of a merry bachelor's life.
Jerome finished and proceeded to leave the coffeehouse and when he was outside, he could hear all.
"Baby, please. Look, I promise you, nothing happened!"
"Yeah right you fucking asshole." A 10 gallon fishtank promptly landed next to him scattering glass everywhere.
"No! Not my fish. Baby girl, stop!"
"Dont call me that you condescending dickhead! How could you sleep with my sister!?" This time, she perched a large plasma screen tv onto the sill.
"No, stop! Not my tv!"
"That's all you are Kurt, one materialistic bastard!" The tv fell onto a car parked outside.
"Fuck! My beemer! Ok, Cassie, this is it. One last time. I said chill the fuck out, ok?"
"Chill out? Chill out? That's all you ever say to me when I'm going ballistic over cleaning up after you fucking mistakes Kurt. Which if I may remind you, are all the source of every one of my problems. If you want me to chill out, then here's this!" A white cube barely squeezed through the window and Jerome watched as it fell. When it hit the ground, it became apparent to him that it was a minibar.
"Cassie! What the fuck! There was top shelf shit in that!"
"Oh, there's so much more you bastard!" More things hailed down, people walked around until an hour and a half later, the sidewalk was covered in wet and broken furniture, electronics, clothes, shoes, sports equipment and bedding. "Dont ever call again you dick. You, you you.... Kurt you Asshole!" The window snapped shut. Kurt stood dejected and pissed off. He surveyed his pile of broken items and jumped into his car and drove off. Jerome walked over, across the street, to examine the pile of things. The window opened, and the head popped out again. "You forgot your stupid cactus asshole!" Jerome shouted stop and the head changed to a look of shock. "Ohmigosh, i'm sorry." the cactus dropped from her hand and landed with a smatter several feet away from him.
"Hi."
"Hello."
"Did you get ina fight?"
"Sort of."
"You're kind of cute."

Prose Schmose

2009-10-20T18:06:00.003-07:00

Like a laughing cow
She sees all in the market
refridgerator

Prose of an Ode to a Rose in a Bose store

2009-10-20T18:06:00.001-07:00

Why do all my poems
Mainly my Haikus end with
Refridgerator?

Saturday Morning Stretches

2009-10-14T21:55:00.001-07:00

Through a crack in the wooden shutters, a beam of light cast its golden bounty in a long thin line along the floor. It traced a narrow, razor sharp line across a pile of clothes, some magazines strewn on the floor and it raced up one leg of a bed post. It continued across the blankets and pillows tossed aside for the night and drew a line across the white, crisp linen pillowcase. As the morning continued to stand and shake off the last vestiges of darkness, long, thin golden strands of hair splayed themselves across the pillows. Soon, the thin beam began to grow in width, exposing more to the light. An ear, a cheek, an eye, a nose, and the other eye. Soon, a female shape began to stir beneath the covers. Her face would shuttle around, but in moments, the sun would catch up and catch the curve of her face.
A small brass alarm clock started to dance on the table with the same rhythm of the bell. Her eyes shot open and darted around to find the source of the blasted noise. She lifted a naked arm and slammed it on the top of the clock and it shut up immediately. A moment later, it started to go off again and this time, she sat up. Groggily, she leered at the clock and shut it off for good. Her blond hair was unkempt in a quick bun, it splayed out from underneath the elastic band. She was wearing a white wife beater that conformed fairly well but didn't suit her all too well. Her feet delicately traced around objects on the floor to a pair of short, tan Ugg boots and with one quick action of her hands, slipped them onto her feet. She stood. Her slender figure and form showed she was somewhat athletic, and her skin was tan on her fore arms, face and calves. She stared at the clock, it only looked back at her and replied 6:20 AM. Her eyes closed and her face plopped into her hand. She breathed in a heavy sigh and opened them again.
She washed up lazily, splashing water around. She looked into her reflection and did a pouty face for a moment, then winked at herself. She dressed and packed a small gym bag and slung it over her shoulder and picked up a cycle helmet and sunglasses. Locking the door behind her, she descended the stairway in the hall down to the basement. She switched the chicken switch and the lights in the garage hummed to life. Several cars revealed themselves under the dim light. Some were covered in dark tarps and their shapes left literally nothing to the imagination. The cars varied from new to rather old. She made her way over to the end of the garage where her car sat. It was her first car, it was also her parents first car, and her grandparents first car as well.
The blue Chevorlet Master six never ever seemed to break down. It had plenty of space in the back for four friends and two in front and the driver. Most of the guys she had been with were easily intimidated by her vehicle. It's partially what kept her single for the most part since alot of guys were afraid of her both on the track and in real life. She was fierce and she certainly embodied the spirit of competition.
She sidled through the narrow walk between the cars over to the storage room where before her, several tall and wide cabinet doors stretched from one end of the room to the other. Pulling a small, silver key from her pocket, it chirped as she pressed it into the lock on one of the doors. She opened the door gingerly and slowly and switched on the light inside the cabinet. Before her sat her pride and joy. It was her father's 1955 Bianchi pista, gleaming in its original mint green color, beckoning her to take it out. She pulled it off its stand and placed it in the back seat of the car. Going back to the storage room, she also pulled out a large metal toolbox and a canvas shoulder bag and also placed these in the car, but in her front seat. The car started with a renewed life as it did every saturday morning, and it rumbled backwards out of the garage. Pulling out, she then started off and drove away.
Her hands gripped the thin, wooden steering wheel with a delicacy. Her whole body seemed to melt into the carseat as she drove. She loved driving this car. In the mornings, heads would turn to watch the car rumble down with her at the wheel. Once, she had entered the car in a show and won the best preserved award. Then again, her town had only about 84 cars that regularly entered in the show. Half of which were convereted into rat rods. The car pulled into a space in at the track and she pulled the things out and locked the bike in the courtesy room. The tools and bag were place on a table in a long shed. As she set up her little repair station, other bikers soon were arriving. Some hung a brass tag on the columns by their tables to signify that they were of some note in the world of track bike racing. Not big, just of note. Carefully hanging the tools on the pegboard, a girl approached her, sporting a jersey, pants and a head of dishevelled bed hair. Looking away from the tools, she set down the meter wrench set and spoke.
"Sal."
"Jess."
"It's a good morning," she paused and breathed in, "I think I might make a personal best today."
"Oh yeah? Have your personal bests matched my personal worsts yet?"
"Yeah, funny you know. Always the big jokester you wern't you?"
"From time to time. In my spare time, I live a life."
"Hah."
Sal pulled up a bag and dumped it on the other side of the table and pegboard. Jess listened as she heard tools being clunked against the board.
"So what time were you making last week?" came from behind the board.
"Eh, I think around fifty nine seconds."
"Shit, I got to work a bit more. I'm pushing one minute one."
"Faster Sal."
The bullhorns in the long shed crackled to life with a demure voice. It spoke timidly and illegibly. The only thing that could be made out was the sound of a man's voice and whenever he said the word 'racers'. Jess walked back to the courtesy room and pulled her pista out. She walked it over to her work station and placed it up on the bike holder. She checked the tension on the chain, pressure on the tires, and made sure everything was aligned correctly.
"Jess. Jess. Jess."
"What is it Sal?"
"Look." Sal's arm stretched over the pegboard pointing in the direction of a lone cyclist warming up on the track.
"So?"
"That's Brutus Peerless over there. Don't you recgonize the red jersey?"
"So that's the great Brutus."
"Isn't he great?"
"What about him is?"
"He's the only guy here worthy of pro who refuses pro every time. Just look at him.
"Yeah so?"
"Christ Jess. Is there any girl left in you at all?"
"Yeah, the parts that work I suppose."
"Not that way. Dont you ever have... you know?"
"You mean that thing ditzy thing girls do over Zac Efron cardboard cutouts?"
"Precisely."
"Well I do."
"Who?"
"Brick."
"You like Brick? Seriously?" Sal stared over at Jess for a moment. She turned her head away and chuckled. "Who would have thought? The fastest girl at the track is in love with the slowest man at the track. Brick Tamarack! Ha!"
"You called me?" came a voice from behind Sal. Caught surprised, Sal turned around and blushed in embarassement.
Brick Tamarack isn't fast for several reasons. He's so muscular, he weighs down his bike with his mass. As well as being muscular, he doesn't have too many fast twitch muscles. Usually, the fastest track sprinters would lap him before he finished. But something about Brick was different from the small, thin skinny guys who usually won saturday morning stretches. He was charming, he never rubbed winning into anyone's face, mostly on account of that he never won. When asked why he kept going to stretches, he only would reply, 'I like the feeling of being on the track on a fixie. You should too.' You would never believe how many high school girls started fixed gear riding because of that little magic phrase. What bugged the hardcore bikers was he called everyone's bikes fixies rather than track or pursuit bikes. Jess didn't mind. She actually got a little enjoyment when Sal would blow up at Brick, chastising him and telling him to call it a 'track' bike.
"Uh. No Brick... why on earth would we call you?"
"Well, I thought I heard my name and laughing."
"Well, you'd better go and clean your ears then shouldn't you?
"Um. I suppose."
"Brick wait." Jess interrupted.
"Hi Jess. What's on your mind?"
"There's this thing. I've been meaning to ask you."
"I like the feeling of being on the track on a fixie. You should too. Well, I know you do at least."
"Pardon?"
"Oh, your question wasn't what I thought it was going to be was it?"
"Nope you big dope. What I wanted to ask you was if after stretches, would you want to get coffee?"
"With you?"
"No, with the prince of Nepal."
"Really?"
"No. Me."
"Gosh. I'd like that. Sure."
Brick turned in a semi-circle and stared at his foot for a moment. His large calves didn't really seem to suit his small feet squashed into clip shoes.
"Allright Brick, get on with getting ready."
"Sure thing." Brick turned back to his table to work on his bike.
"I can't believe you asked him out to coffee."
"Yeah? So?"
"Gah. You're crazy Jess."
The bullhorns came to life one more time. This time, the voice was clearer. Obviously someone with experience.
"Will the following racers please line up for stretch one: Amaraz, Colbern, Custin, Hornby and Leitmarte." Five bikers emerged from the long shed and with their bikes in tow, walked them over to the starting line. Each one of them pulled from the ground, a round bent bar and held their bikes in standing place. They clambered onto their machines. A resounding beep was heard and a small honda motorscooter appeared on the track from the center and the cycles were off in a line behind the scooter. They circled the track four times then the motorbike disappeared off the track and the racers were off. For sixty pulsing seconds, the bikers pursuited the leader and in the end, Leitmarte won. After finishing, he rolled the bike over to his staff who promptly began to work on it. He walked in his lycra one piece over to Jess.
"Impressive no?"
"No."
"Come on Jess. Fastest man? Fastest woman?"
"Pierre, what the hell are you at?"
"You know?"
"I have a slight incantation, and I'm slightly sick with it as well."
"Well, you know what to expect then."
"Yeah, fast on track, fast in bed. I'll pass."
"Don't pass on this." Pierre tried to flex. His arms didn't really change too much, but his legs nearly came through the material.
"Nope, you're right. There's nothing more irresistable than a man in a one piece lycra suit."
"What is it most irresistable about me then?"
"The nuts."
"What?" She kicked him and he doubled over in pain. Sal laughed.
"Nice one Jess."
"Thanks. Do you want Pierre?"
"Maybe. It sounds like a reasonable name to yell in bed."
"Yuck."
Again, the horn screeched to life and a voice was heard again. "Will the following please approach the starting line. Brennan, Moreschi, Olav, Tamarack and Tscherpin."
"Jess, looks like we're in the same stretch with Bricky-poo."
"Pipe it."
Jess, Sal, Brick and the two other bikers approached the lines. The stays were lifted and the bikes secured for take off. Brick was placed in front this time and Jess in back. The beep resounded, and they took off behind the little motorscooter. Three laps, down, the clock ticked. The bike disappeared and the pursuit began. Jess began to catch the lead, but for some reason, Brick was moving really fast! She pressed her legs harder against pedals, by now she was neck and neck with Brick, but she she was on the blue one and he was on the white. The turn came marking 600 yards. The bank would put Jess behind him but she caught up again, this time, wedging herself in front of him. A loud resounding beep was heard again. A voice came onto the bullhorns. "Brennan, fifty three seconds, Tamarack, fifty four point six seconds, Moreschi, fifty five point one, Olav, fifty five point three, Tscherpin, fifty six even."
Tired, Jess stared at Brick's sweating face. "What happened Brick? I didn't know you could move like that."
"It's... it's... I-I-I... I've been practicing." He panted and spit. "I'm going to be honest with you. I had a crush on you. But I didn't think the fastest girl in the 'drome would ever go with the slowest guy there."
"Brick, you big sweet thing."
"hy-eugh..."
"Brick, you dont need to impress me like that. You already impress me in other ways."
"Do I?"
They walked the bikes off the track and passed the next stretch as they walked in the opposite direction.
"So. Coffee eh?"
"Yes Brick. The liquid I've been drinking since I was twelve."
"Oh wow."
"Where's your car?"
"I rode here."
"On your *ahem* fixie?"
"Yeah."
Jess laughed a little. "Ok, grab my tools and we'll put the bikes in the back of my car."
They loaded the car and drove away.

Overheard and Misunderstood

2009-09-20T12:20:00.000-07:00

A while back, It was a little bit before September eleventh. I sat in math class near the back row. I overheard two girls. Their conversation was as follows.

"ohmigod! Look Ashley, friday is freedom day. That means we get the day off!"
"ooh, sweet. I'm so glad they put in that holiday."

As pretty as the two of them were, I just wanted to punch them each in the face. They probably remember the meaning of that day. If they're younger than me, then it happened when they were in the sixth grade. When I first saw the towers falling on the television, I didn't understand the meaning of it. I just wanted to watch my morning cartoons. I feel ashamed and to this day, I understand the true reality of that day.

People die for holidays. People forget sometimes. There's two holidays that people are consciously aware of the great sacrifice that people had given up. Memorial day and Veterans day. But then, only a small fraction of people recognize the things they sacrificed to keep parts of the world free from dictatorships. I suppose that last remark is a bit much, to say that America has kept this world free. In a sense, we're trapped in our own country by silly mentalities and whatnot.

Home

2009-08-27T23:05:00.001-07:00

On a walk, take it with me friend,
Enter a door, not like those found,
On the entryways of those common.

Walk with me, up the brick path,
beneath our feet, a feat of clinker,
Marvellous, stupendous, sound.

Through a threshold milled to perfection,
glass hiding secrets and others unknown,
Glass made to hide faces both firm yet calm.

Feel the wood creak, beneath your feet,
smell the work of craftsmen past,
Carefully place your hat and coat away.

See our great hall, inlaid with precious things,
feel the glass hiding tomes of years past,
Sit with me, and feel the aura of glory.

Upstairs a runner, this path we should take,
riding high and low and silent it should make,
More secrets lie here, behind closed doors and locks.

Beyond the building, beyond the work,
the men here certainly do take,
The work to work by which is our sake.

Sweep and dust
Mop and wash
Hoe and till
Cut and dig

No longer are we friends,
since this journey we did take,
Blood brothers we are for this house's sake.

Home to many, and still to them all,
from past to still active,
Our home, Sigma Phi.

-Zach Wong.

Gumpo Sardines

2009-08-09T18:01:00.000-07:00

Tonight was guys night out for me and the boys. We were going to get dinner over in north beach, and then head to south of market to find a club. Unless we would get sidetracked at Denza's Bar and grill for drinks. Which we always did. I looked at myself in the mirror, fixing the collar on my shirt and adjusting my hair just the way I always liked it. You know, I never had another barber touch my hair ever since I started going to Briggs over on fourth and mission. The guys, they didn't understand why I didn't get my hair done at a stylist like they did, but I didn't believe in them fancy things. I liked a haircut a man gets by a barber, not a stylist.

We all jumped on the 38L and alighted at Larkin. The four of us walked up Van Ness waiting for a long bus to come pick us up and whisk us away towards the north end of the city. As we stood waiting, the sun began to dimmer and the street began to light up. The long, articulated bus hissed as it stopped at the platform and we got on. It whirred to life with an electric sound, rushing us past apartment buildings, showrooms, and restaurants. There, we rumbled up bay street and got off again at Columbus. The sounds of North Beach were welcoming as we walked down the sidewalk. Jordan smelled of oil and cologne. We could catch a whiff of him as he walked before us. Jordan always was the looker, Italian parents, good school, lots of money, executive position. Only problem was, he wasn't good with the ladies. He'd have a girl one day then lose her the next cause he asked her something stupid. I ran into his last girl in the hallway of our building once. Macie was her name, she told me to tell that Jord-ass was a fuck face for asking her to participate in a threeway with another girl he had met on craigslist. I tried to apologize for him, explaning he's a caveman doing that ever since. Macie and I are friends now, every so often she comes over to share a bottle of wine and a cuddle if I provided a movie for us to watch.

Packie scooted himself in front of me as we filed past a street cafe. Packie or Patrick Ellis on his business cards, was a cool guy. He was pretty trendy, following every new hip thing that came out of Abercrombie and Fitch and all those other name brand stores. Ever two months, he would throw out his entire wardrobe and buy a new set of clothes. I never had to buy clothes for myself since I almost always ended up with his handmedowns. I wasn't complaining. This was the first time in three years that I managed to stay with current fashions as close as possible. Packie had good features, which was why he worked as a male model. He got clothes for free, but the things he wanted were beyond his means. How he managed to get them, I didn't ask for fear of risking free expensive clothes. One thing that Packie managed to do well in life was seduce people into doing things for him. I suppose that he had several sugar daddies and sugar mommas scattered throughout the city of San Francisco. He was damn charming, which was why I used to do his laundry for him for a month back in 2006.

Vijay Nahamatapul then scooted in front of me as we rounded another narrow pathway through a sidewalk cafe. Vijay is what the ladies describe as a "last call fuck". He usually wound up with average looking girls but once, we walked into a bar and this tall, leggy brunette came up to him, grabbed his crotch and then put her hand in front of her mouth in forced, fake shock. He gave her a sly look and the two of them then walked out. Just as we walked in! I swear, somewhere in his bloodline is a little bit of an African. Or at least some race known for large penises. I suppose where the other two get girls instantly, Vijay works by sowing the fields then reaping the wheat. Or in his case, raping the wheat.

We seated ourself at a small table with a white cloth, and four services. We ate, and had beers. The owner came by our table with a small metal tin on his platter. The four of us looked at it with some curiosity. The lid of the tin had been removed revealing four sardine fillets, glistening with oil and emitting a smell something like a rubber racing slick and a garlic bread stick. Packie, Jordan and Vijay all turned them down and then the owner looked at me. His round, balding head was rather happy looking as it beamed at me. I took the tin and thanked him. The guys looked at me with skepticism. Maybe they had smelled the racing slick as well. My silver fork glanced over them carefully, and speared a small chunk floating in oil near one of the rounded ends of the can. I raised it to my lips. It tasted good.

As we found ourselves in the club later, none of us seemed to have any luck. Jordan didn't seem to attract any girls. Packie was more interested in the lady bartender and she seemed more interested in draining Packie's wallet which she did quite well actually. Vijay also was striking out. Not even the last call girls would look at him. I laughed in my head at my friend's failures this evening. All of a sudden, I found myself surrounded by two brunettes, an asian and two blondes. They all looked and eyed me with suspucion. I was wondering what the hell was going on. I then noticed the asian's nose perking a little. The sardines! They must have been aprhodisiacs!

"You smell bad. Get out."
"Oh."

Moped Diaries: Day seven

2009-07-28T20:47:00.001-07:00

long awaited by me, probably not by you but what the hell!

A haze hung over my head as I woke up. I gasped at the air of the dark room trying to inhale something fresh at least. I looked around me and I could see nothing but pitch black. A white line traced itself across the ceiling, bumping into the smoke detector and overtaking it like nothing. That line continued across the ceiling running into another thing I couldn't make out. It then hit the wall and then ran down over the frame of a picture and then a canvas pannier. My pannier. I recgonized the initials Z W painted over the front flap. I pulled the sheet off and stood up. A pain ran down my entire spine as I stood and I bent forward from it. Nearly bashing my head into a sleeping lump next to me. I shuddered and stood. I walked to the source of the line and pulled it apart. The curtains squealed as I opened them. I looked before me. A sprawl of green and fog pierced my eye. I looked out beyond the balcony. I saw our two mopeds chained to a pole and ice machine. Strange. I shuffled back to the warm half of my bed and sat there for awhile. I looked around, hoping to perhaps understand what happened last night.

I felt a hand grab at my waistband of my underpants and I reeled back in shock. I looked back towards the bed and saw a slender wrist with a bracelet on it. Several bracelets actually. I looked back at it. I stared at it intently. Cursing it with a slight disgust. We were supposed to meet our girls in Victoria in three days and the last thing we needed was this. I poked Ashton, or at least what I thought was Ashton.

"G'ywer over!"

I was taken aback at the harshness and femineity of the voice. I poked the other lump and then Ashton stirred.

"Wha?"
"Dude! Look."

He turned onto his side and looked. It was a female. Sort of. She was wearing heavy black corset with black satin ribbons here and there. Ashton made up with a start.

"aaagh!"

The black lifeless mold sprung to life.

"Dear god! Where am I?"

Suddenly, the bangled hand sprung to life as well.

"Candy! Where are we?"
"W-who are you two?" I asked.
"I'm Candy Jean and this is Florence. We call her Flo. Only Flo."
"Uh heyeah...."
"Wait. Who are you two?"
"I dont know."
"What you mean you dont know. Aint you two... yous two?"
"I'm Reginald." Ashton made up in a thick British accent.
"Ah, and i'm uh Sid."
"Sure... sure. You guys got any Baileys?"

We both shook our heads. The two girls then exited the room. We stared at each other in complete fear. We searched every trash can for any condoms. The cans were empty. We pulled apart the room looking for evidence of sex. None. As far as we knew.

"How wasted did we get last night?"
"I dont know, enough to lock our bikes to a vending machine and a drain pipe and apparently take those two bats to bed."
"But we didnt.... did we?"
"I dont think either of us did. As far as I knew, I passed out."
"Jesus, Buddah and Holy Zombie Jesus with Joseph Smith on their majestic steed 'Brigham Young'"
"Ditto." I said.

As we checked out, we asked the check out desk if they knew who those girls were. It turns out they were occupants in the room two doors down. We must have accidentally left the door unlocked and they wandered in and slept. We hope.

We loaded our bags and made our way down to the bikes. I tightened the sheepskin collar on my leather jacket and helmet. Ashton had a limp handrolled cigarette in his mouth. I slapped the thing out of his mouth. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes before giving me a 'fuck you' look. We both unlocked our bikes and we soon found ourselves in line for the border crossing. As soon as we made it to the border, a guard in a blue shirt and black hat came up to us.

"Hello Gentlemen. Passports if you please."

We handed them over. He came back out in a minute and then passed them back to us. He told us to enjoy our visit to the great nation of Canada. We finally made it to Canada! It was all so confusing. The liters, the loonies and not seeing US flags everywhere. We dumped our things at the YMCA hotel in Vancouver and locked up the mopeds in the garage. We both looked at each other and couldn't believe we made out to Vancouver after seven days of biking and motoring. We took in the city as much as we could and then returned to the YMCA at 10. The next morning, we would board the ferries then meet our girls in Victoria.

Her Turn

2009-07-28T20:12:00.000-07:00

Her forehead touched the cold thick window slightly. Her light blue eyes remained transfixed in one position staring out the window. She wasn't looking at any one thing in particular since the outside was moving so quickly. The plate of food before her seemed to hang in time, neither cold nor warm, but still edible. She sat alone at the table for two with only a few things on her mind. She recalled this trip awhile ago. Years perhaps. She remembered she had taken it with someone she once knew but now rather faded away from her life.

The white-jacketed waiter approached her and the gaze was broken for a moment. She gave him a look of confusion, mixed with a string of apprehension. Then, with a wave of her hand, he took away the plate of food. He came back with a thin apertif menu. She looked it over. Campari, Kahlua, Cointreau, Mt. Gay Rhum. Her brow winced at the sight of these names. She saw one she could handle. He came back with a small schnapps glass with absolute inside it. It eased down her throat and could think of one thing. Caves. She shuddered and grabbed her timbuk2 bag.

Leaving the dining car, she entered her state room, and came out with a heavy sheepskin blanket. She carried the heavy thing with her to the observation car where she had many memories from before. She sat at the table and placed the blanket over her lap, fur side down. Her hand reached into her bag and produced a moleskine sketch book as well as a well worn moose. She pressed its nose to her lips and set it down onto the table. She started drawing, nothing in particular, just drawing. To her, she hadn't drawn in a long time. Her hands trembled as she drew for herself, not for any assignment or business job project. The porter came by at eight and placed a small charoal brazer onto the table. Warmth radiated from it and it was welcoming. The train lurched over a curve, passing over a trestle. The stuffed moose toy flopped onto its side, and the heat from the brazer began to warm it up. Soon, the car was filled with a brilliant, piercing smell of pink grapefruit. Several others in the car turned their heads around in an attempt to discover which of the ladies had walked in.

At ten, the lamps were extinguished. The orange glow from the brazer still spread a blanket of warmth over the booth. She leaned back, easing into her seat and pulled the moose up to her breast. The stars lazily hung overhead as the tips of the conifers rushed by. Her head remained gawking upwards, until it bounced forward. She looked around her. The car was empty except for herself and the porter. He announced the closing of the car and she returned back to her cabin. She climbed into her bunk, turned out the lights and kissed the stuffed moose goodnight.

Colonel Lysander's Improved India Ink

2009-07-27T21:04:00.000-07:00

Morning in Erie is like no other morning in the world. Every morning, I could hear from the windows, the rumbling of a parade of horse drawn milk carts headed out to the streetcar districts. We in the city called them streetcar districts only because the families who lived in them only were reachable by the streetcar. They were too far off to be considered a part of the city of Erie, but somehow, they still were. I laid on the feather mattress in the dirty bedroom of my little apartment overlooking Columbia avenue. The long double hung window was difficult to cover with a pull down shade so I ended up tacking a white sheet halfway up and then drawing it aside for light. In the next room was my drafting room and kitchen. Beyond that was a small parlor and bathroom. Small was the best way to put it. I sat up and slowly rubbed my eyes, inspecting the rough hairs that had grown on my face over the night. I pulled the striped robe over my shivering frame and shuffled into the bathroom.

I stared into my dirty reflection, presenting each cheek to see the amount of shave I would need. Either way, I would end up at the barbers on the ground floor and shave there. I dressed, and departed. Straw hat in hand, my jacket over my left arm and my vest unbuttoned. I descended the dark stairwell and found myself in the dim arcade of the first floor. I looked towards the end where the light from the street hurt my eyes. I turned into the first shop which was the barbers.

"Morning Jim.
"Morning.
"The usual then?
"You got it." I sat myself down into the morocco leather chair. The barber took several moments to raise the legs and recline the chair. "Today's gonna be another squelcher."
"Eh?
"You know, the weather being and all.
"Ah yeh. Well, it don't get too hot back here in the back of the Arcade.
"Lucky you. I bet those Hungarians who run that dry good shop in the front of the arcade must be jealous of your spot.
"They would be if they wern't doing so well. Dont forget, it's all about location.
"I suppose a dry goods store in the back of an arcade sounds strange." He began to brush the hot thick foam over my face. "But like I said, it's gonna be hot.
"Yeah, well... what can you do?

I shrugged and sat back contemplating as he started to take careful swipes off my face with that straight edged razor of his. His plump face twisted and tightened every so often to indicate how I should shape my face so he could get a clean cut. As he finished, his back was turned to me at the counter. His gleaming white coat was spotless and looked as if it was more fitting in a hospital theater. He came back with a comb and a tin of pomade. He took several slicks and combed my hair back. I figured to fix my tie and collar and thanked him. I fished out a dime and handed it to him and left. As soon as I exited the arcade, the heat had hit me and my hair seemed to melt. It was only 9 in the morning and the heat was unbearable. I decided to leave the coat off and wait for the streetcar. A moment later, a large open California type streetcar rumbled up and I got on.

The car rumbled and squelched as it turned on curves. The brakes would hiss and every so often, the motorman would stomp his foot and a beautiful resounding clang would come from the gong that seemed to be conspicuously absent every time I looked at the cars. I knew one day i'd find them. I arrived at my stop and walked down Hudson street to Ellsworth and Sons Technical Emporium. I always had to stop in here every morning to pick up supplies for work. Always a bottle of Kingston & Reeves brand of Ink and a box of hunt C-4 nibs. Every so often, a pen would break and that would mean I would get to choose a new pen from the hundreds of boxes of holders. I always ended up with the same Hunt wooden thing even though I had the chance to try maybe one of those Paris crooks or a Keuffel and Essel technical resovoir pen. But the same wooden holder and nibs.

I stared at the wall of ink bottles and just felt disgusted. I didn't want to do the same thing every day now. I didn't want to touch the bottle of Kingston and Reeves. I decided to change my life. Change something at least. I looked and scanned about, one bottle catching my eye in particular. It was called Col. Lysander's Improved India Ink. On the lable, there was a picture of some mustashed British toff with a tiger's head over his helmet. I figured, it wouldn't hurt to give it one shot. I grabbed the green glass bottle and paid for my things.

At the studios, I found myself unable to use the ink. I stared at it, and Col. Lysander mocked me back. I pulled a reserve bottle of Kingston and Reeves and worked. Later that evening when I was back safe at home, I pulled out the bottle of Lysander's Improved whatsit and cracked open the top. It was nothing but water mixed with black soot. Improved my derrier.

From Best of Craigslist

2009-07-07T21:40:00.001-07:00

Whoo-hoo Seattle, the sun is out! Let's discuss a few things before you fumble with swapping the unused ski rack for the unused bike rack on the Subaru.

So yes, you've noticed the sun is out, and hey!- maybe it would be cool to to some bike riding. Let's keep in mind that the sun came out of all 600,000 of us, so for the most part, you're not the only one who noticed. Please remember that when you walk into my shop on a bright, sunny Saturday morning. It will save you from looking like a complete twat that huffs "Why are there so many people here?"

Are we all on the same page now about it being sunny outside? Have we all figured out that we're not the only clever people that feel sunny days are good for bike riding? Great. I want to kiss all of you on your forehead for sharing this moment with me. Put your vitamin D starved fingers in mine, and we'll move on together to some pointers that will make life easier.

SOME POINTERS FOR THE PHONE:

- I don't know what size of bike you need. The only thing that I can tell over the phone is that you sound fat. I don't care how tall you are. I don't care how long your inseam is. Don't complain to me that you don't want to come ALL THE WAY down to the bike shop to get fitted for a bike. I have two hundred bikes in my inventory. I will find one that fits you. Whether you come from the north or the south, my shop is downhill. Pretend you're going to smell a fart, ball up, and roll your fat ass down here.

- Don't get high and call me. Write it down, call me later. When I have four phone lines ringing, and a herdlet
of people waiting for help, I can't deal with you sitting there "uuuuhhh"-ing and "uuummm"-ing while your brain tries to put together some cheeto-xbox-fixie conundrum. We didn't get disconnected, I left you on hold to figure your shit out.

-I really do need to see your bike to know what is wrong with it. You've already figured out that when you car makes a noise, the mechanic needs to see it. When your TV goes blank, a technician needs to see it. I can tell you, if there is one thing I've learned from you fucking squirrels, it's that "doesn't shift right" means your bike could need a slight cable adjustment, or you might just need to stop backing into it with the Subaru. Bring it in, I'll let you know for sure.

- No, I don't know how much a good bike costs. For some, spending $500 dollars is a kingly sum. For others, $500 won't buy you one good wheel. You really need to have an idea of what you want, because every one of you raccoons "doesn't want to spend too much".

FOR YOU INVENTIVE TYPES AND DO-IT-YOURSELFERS:

- Just because you think is should exist, doesn't mean that it does. I know that to you, a 14 inch quill stem makes perfect sense, but what makes more sense is buying a bike that fits you, not trying to make your mountain bike that was too small for you to begin with into a comfort bike.

- If some twat on some message board somewhere says that you can use the lockring from your bottom bracket as a lockring for a fixie conversion doesn't mean that A: you can, or B: you should. Please listen to me on this stuff, I really do have your best interests at heart.

- I love that you have the enthusiasm to build yourself a recumbent in the off season. That does not mean however, that I share your enthusiasm; ergo I won't do the "final tweaks" for you. You figure out why that Sram shifter and that Shimano rear derailleur don't work together. While we're at it, you recumbent people scare me a little. Don't bring that lumbering fucking thing anywhere near me.

A DEDICATION TO ALL THE HIPSTER DUCHEBAGS:

-If you shitheads had any money, you wouldn't NEED a vintage Poo-zhow to get laid. Go have an ironic mustache growing contest in front of American Apparel, so that I can continue selling $300 bikes to fatties, which is what keeps the lights on.

- Being made in the 80's may make something cool, but that doesn't automatically make something good. The reason that no one has ridden that "vintage" Murray is because it's shit. It was shit in the 80's, a trend it carried proudly through the 90's, and rallied with into the '00's. What I mean to say is, no, I can't make it work better. It's still shit, even with more air in the tires.

SO YOU'RE GONNA BUY A BIKE:

Good for you! Biking is awesome. It's easy, it's fun, it's good for you. I want you to bike, I really do. To that end, I am here to help you.

-Your co-worker that's "really into biking" knows fuck all. Stop asking for his advice. He could care less about you having the right bike. He wants to validate his bike purchase(s) through you. He also wants to sleep with you, and wear matching bike shorts with you.

- You're not a triathlete. You're not. If you were, you wouldn't be here, and we both know it.

- You're not a racer. If you were, I'd know you already, and you wouldn't be here, and we both know it.

- So you want a bike that you can ride to work, goes really fast, is good for that triathlon you're doing this summer (snicker), is good on trails and mud, and costs less than $300. Yeah. Listen, I want a car that can go 200 miles an hour, tow a boat, has room for five adults, is easy to parallel park but can carry plywood, gets 60mpg, and only costs $3,000. I also want a unicorn to blow me. What are we even talking about here? Oh yeah. Listen, bikes can be fast, light, cheap and comfortable. Pick two, and we're all good.

ABOUT YOUR KIDS:

Your kids are amazing. Sure are. No one else has kids as smart, able, funny or as good looking as you. Nope. Never see THAT around here.

- I have no idea how long you kid will be able to use this bike. As it seems to me, your precious is a little retarded, and can't even use the damn thing now. More likely, your budding genius is going to leave the bike in the driveway where you will Subaru the bike to death LONG before the nose picker outgrows the bike.

- Stop being so jumpy. I am not a molester. You people REALLY watch too much TV. When I hold the back of the bike while your kid is on it, it's not because I get a thrill from *almost* having my hand on kid butt, it's because kids are unpredictable, and generally take off whenever possible, usually not in the direction you think they might go. Listen, if I were going to do anything bad to your kids, I'd feed them to sharks, because sharks are FUCKING AWESOME.

I hope this helps, and have fun this summer riding your kick-ass bike!

Boredom

2009-07-07T21:01:00.000-07:00

I found myself standing at the edge of the ship with my hands clasped to the railing tightly. I drew in a deep breath of the cold night air and let out a scream. Behind me, passengers on their after dinner walks just ignored me and continued on and lights in the staterooms behind also lit up in confusion. No one talked to be for a good five minutes before an official looking person came up to me. I explained to him nothing was the matter and that I just needed to get a scream out was all. He hesitantly understood and walked off. The cool, dark air seemed to envelope me in a comfortable yet chilling blanket. The stars stood out and each one seemed to want to call my name but sat there in the sky, motionless. I plunked down onto an empty steamer chair, reclined and sighed. The varnished teak creaked under my weight as I shifted about endlessly. I stood again, and then untied my bowtie and loosened the vest underneath my jacket. Tweed isn't exactly a handsome look for the steamer Queen Alexandra.

My stateroom was near the front of B deck, right beneath the bridge, but behind the Samba room. In the evenings, I could hear the band playing, the gayeity, the couples laughing and the tigers on the prowl for mates. I dont think I came here to mate. Certainly not on a ship for now... It was later towards the night when I heard an odd thing from outside the cabin. It was a long howl, almost yelling. I switched on my lamp, pulled over a dressing gown and stepped outside. There it was again, that yell. I closed the door behind me, locking it and putting the key in my pocket. I climbed the staircase and found that same officer that looked at me when I was howling, he was now howling. I stood halfway between B and A decks watching, and trying in a sense, to be inconspicious. He looked at me and nodded.

"Does a body good you know."
"Yeah, I do." I responded.
"Sorry for giving you funny looks earlier, but you know how it is. Gotta keep up appearances."
"No no, by all means."

I retreated back to the B deck promenade when I hear a yell again. I looked at one of the clocks that stuck out from the wall. 103AM. Goodness, what a lark.

The next morning, I found myself again at the table that seemed to be unofficially and unceremoniously christened the single gentleman's table. I sat, cherrily with a white china plate piled with sliced pineapples, cooked ham, roasted king edward potatos and corned beef hash. I sat and ate in silence with my newspaper. Around me, there was the buzz of families and conversations in the dining room. Some of the other passengers were dressed in bathing suits and caps and had robes on. As if after eating, they would take a swim in the plunge room. I could imagine a few of them getting cramps half way through a lap of front crawl and then the lifeguard would drag them out and then they'd complain about having their lap interrupted by some underpaid lackey.

On board, things were boring and dull. One could only play so many frames of shuffleboard with Colonel Lysander, or so many rubbers of whist with the ladies who defiantly hung around the men's smoking lounge. Life at sea was like living in the country. This trip would mark the second time i've journeyed from New York to Southampton. Neither trip was as entertaining as the martini girl in the samba room at 8pm. She would walk in wearking only a dress made of balloons with a martini in each hand. Whatever lucky bloke paid enough for one of these martinis would get five seconds with a pin to pop as many balloons as possible. That's ship entertainment for you. The arcade was no better. The stores were mostly botiques for ladies and the one store that did appeal to mens was the ship's barbers. But inside, the usuals frequented their seats, waiting for juicy gossip to spread. In reality, the only thing they talked about was the last baseball game and the scores of college football games of colleges I never went to.

I stepped into the barbershop and the air of hair and musk hit me instantly. I sat in the deep, swinigng, moroccan leather chair and asked for a short back and sides. The barber began to cut my hair, slowly humming a dirge-like tune. His arms had more hair than his head did which was rather discerning, but the cut turned out fine. I paid him, and he handed me a pocket comb as a souviner. I examined the little piece of plastic in my hand carefully. There was a silhouette of the ship imprinted on the side in gold foil with the letters: R.M.S. Queen Alexandra. I thanked him and left.

I came back to my room, and the samba music started up. I walked out, yelled, then fell asleep.

Paaschendale

2009-07-06T19:05:00.000-07:00

Lars sat quietly, thinking of things to write and put into his sketchbook. The black moleskine sat in front of him, its pages open and bending in the wind from the doorway of the cafe. He sat with a glassy look in his eyes and tapped his pen slowly on the front of his teeth. He drew in a slow breath, allowing for it to linger for a little while inside his mouth, then letting it pass through a small hole between his lips. His eyes drew shut for a moment and he listened. All around him, people where jostling in and out of this cafe. Wannabe divas entered and exited in their large pink coats with matching, quilted leather handbags. Men in business suits had cell phones and large electronic bricks pressed against the side of their heads. Lars could hear them speaking, yelling at some poor lackey in an office basement without any windows. He tried to imagine what spineless little goons were being subjected to this harsh verbal treatment.

For another half hour or so, he listened, keyd into these little private conversations trying to shape a life in his head, then draw the person being talked to in his sketchbook. Faces, frowns, smiles and bodies all appeared in rapid succession of another. They danced across the thick pages, all telling a story before him. Lars sat up. Stared out the window and felt accomplished.

Nothingness.

2009-07-05T21:20:00.000-07:00

Moers stood underneath the dirty lamp, snowflakes passing underneath it's grimy rays and landing with a delicate touch on the ground around him. It had just started to snow as he stood on the concrete platform waiting for the South Shore interurban. Lackawana station lacked life and certainly a roof. He was returning home after a night out with the guys in town celebrating his friend Dawson's engagement to his childhood sweetheart Linda. Moers chuckled underneath his scarf, the heat of his breath freezing before his face. He waited for another ten minutes when the earth began to shake beneath him. The yellow interurban car appeared in the distance, the headlamp casting a harsh glow about the platform. It slid past Moers and the doors creaked open. He stepped on board and deposited his ticket. The doors closed and the car slid into the night.

He awoke to the sound of bells. Not like church bells, but like a harsh apartment doorbell sort of bell. It was the motorman's station signal waking passengers who needed to get off here. As it pulled into the station, Moers read the sign of the city and uttered out of nowhere, "Who the fuck lives here in Godawful, Minstone, Illinois?" A thin, young man wearing thick glasses stopped right by him, and stared at him. He sat down rather than continuing onto the exits. Moers could feel a sense of hatred radiating from this man as he stared at Moers intentely. He stood once again and started for the door. The light brown of his over coat was dirty around the hem, probably from walking through the streets of Chicago. But the doors shut too soon and he was stopped short of the door and the train lurched forwards again. Moers suddenly felt uncomfortable as the man walked back towards him. He sat right behind Moers and placed his leather case on the chair to his side. Moers peered in between the chairs and tried to glance at the man. His features were youthful and light, but seeming out of place with the thick plastic glasses and frumpled hair.

Moers sat up and turned around. "I take back what I said about Minstone." he said. The man looked back up at him and only uttered two words. "Fuck You." Moers turned back uncomfortably towards his seat. The lights hissed out for a second before flickering back on. Moers peered back again, but this time, the man was gone. The conductor walked past and Moers grabbed his arm. "Where did the guy go that was behind me?" "What man? There is only you and the lady on the train. No one else. No one's gotten on since you." Moers sat forward again and buried his head into his hands.

One Year ago:

2009-07-05T13:55:00.001-07:00

It's been a long time since i've last posted here, and there's alot of things I have suddenly become busy with. The last weeks of school of rolled past and right now, i'm putting off this damn paper I should in fact, be writing. But I wanted to look back on an entry from exactly one year ago. This post will mark 371. 71 posts in exactly one year. I should know. On July 4th of last year, I was sitting in a vacation home north of Yountville, writing my pining soul for an ex.

So much has changed since then. I was finishing up my first year of college, working full time at a swimming pool teaching children and lifeguarding, telecasting to Sweden every morning. Funny how life has changed since then. I'm no longer telecasting, I certainly am not swimming anymore, but most of all, my life has changed for myself. I'm no longer letting people rule my life.

I let it happen and I became miserable. I'm not letting the same mistake run me twice.

if there's some way I could just go back in time, I wouldn't. It's over, I have to learn that. But the memory is still there.

Nostalgia

2009-06-18T00:25:00.000-07:00

"Time machines do exist,
in the form of music.
So easily a song can take you to a time in your past, and make you feel like you're there again."

http://theerikho.blogspot.com/2009/06/unwanted-trip.html
I tried to come up with what made me nostalgic. What triggered feelings both unwanted, and warranted. I tried to live things, the way my body intended to remember them forever.

Whenever I look at a fixed gear bicycle-I suddenly remember the past five months. Struggling with parts, learning and crashing. Falling and then picking myself up again. Nowadays, I ride and could have no other care than going from place to place.

When I drink out of my Sigg bottle-I can't help but remember my birthday, but also where this bottle's been. If it could tell a story, I'd write it here.

Whenever I listen to Abba-I cry a little inside

When the smell of pink grapefruit hovers over a certain stuffed moose-I can only think of warm summer nights, and chlorine packed days

When I browse my CD collection-I can suddenly remember my awkwardness in high school

When I watch hockey-I suddenly feel lonely, but I still force myself to watch the game until the end.

Wherever there's a squelchd magazine-I think of welcome week of freshman year

Whenever I paint-the world's weight lifts itself from my bare shoulders

When a friend hugs me-I think of everything we've been through

When I play my clarinet-I can only start to remember the tales and journeys it has been on

Try it yourself. Find what things remind you of more things. Stimulate your senses and take a trip, both good and bad, and just write, remember and keep your chin up.

15:23:42: There'll be Some Changes Made

2009-06-18T00:18:00.000-07:00

They say don't change the old for the new
But I've found out that this will never do
When you grow old don't last long
You're here today and then tomorrow you're gone
I loved a man for many years gone by
I thought his love for me would never die
He made some changes that would never do
From now on I'm going to make some changes too
For there's a change in the weather
There's a change in the sea
So from now on there'll be in change in me
My walk will be different, my talk and my name
Nothin' about me is going to be the same
I'm goin' to change my wayof livin'
If that ain't enough
Then I'll change the way that I strut my stuff
[ Find more Lyrics on www.mp3lyrics.org/cPc ]
'Cause nobody wants you when you're old and gray
There'll be some changes made today
There'll be some changes made

The say the old time things are the best
That may be very good for all the rest
But I'm goin'g let the old things be
'Cause they are certainly not suited for me
There was a time when I thought that way
That's why I'm all alone here today
Since every one these days seeks something new
From now on I'm goin' to seek some new things too
For there's a change in the fashion
Ask the femine folks
Even Jack Benny has changed jokes
I must make some changes from old to new
I must do things just the same as others do
I'm goin' to change my long, tall
daddy for a little short fat
Goin' to change the number where I live at
I must have some lovin' or I'll fade away
There'll be some changes made today
There'll be some changes made today

On the Origin of Love

2009-06-17T22:06:00.000-07:00

I've never considered the issues, the relations, and the sorts of things that constitute love. To me, I'm still ignorant to many of the whines and calls that come from the other side of the room, but not to say I ignore them completely. These past three days, we've discussed the issue of gender and the role of society in the definition. As our class explored the world of Tintomara or Lazuli or a bevy of other names, we as a class, began to understand the problems with the definitions and guidelines that society has laid out.

Since the beginning, the world has always been a bureaucracy and shall remain so until the day it explodes into a million tiny pieces. Human kind has always checked the box indicating M or F, or writing that bold, brazen capital letter F or letter M. But what then, does it mean to those who are neither? Of both sexes? Or even of a sex not listed, being completely neutral in a sense. Do you check both boxes? Or do you check none and scrawl some strange symbol, portmaneaued from some other sex symbols? Can the problem be any clearer nowadays?

In the beginning, when the world was created, humans were whole, animals were different and in time, they began to grow ignorant to the gods and in turn, the legs were cut from the whale, and the dinosaurs cut into lizards. But most of all, Humans had two faces, to bodies, four legs and were joined as one. Half to a half. But we were split into individuals for our sins, for our insolence. These "whole" bodies were not created as male/females, but male/male, and female/female, and whatever/whatever else. As we split apart, we became jumbled, mixed and no longer held definition.

The lyrics from this youtube clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-YO9FpWX57E
I encourage you to watch.

When the earth was still flat,
And the clouds made of fire,
And mountains stretched up to the sky,
Sometimes higher,
Folks roamed the earth
Like big rolling kegs.
They had two sets of arms.
They had two sets of legs.
They had two faces peering
Out of one giant head
So they could watch all around them
As they talked; while they read.
And they never knew nothing of love.
It was before the origin of love.

The origin of love

And there were three sexes then,
One that looked like two men
Glued up back to back,
Called the children of the sun.
And similar in shape and girth
Were the children of the earth.
They looked like two girls
Rolled up in one.
And the children of the moon
Were like a fork shoved on a spoon.
They were part sun, part earth
Part daughter, part son.

The origin of love

Now the gods grew quite scared
Of our strength and defiance
And Thor said,
"I'm gonna kill them all
With my hammer,
Like I killed the giants."
And Zeus said, "No,
You better let me
Use my lightening, like scissors,
Like I cut the legs off the whales
And dinosaurs into lizards."
Then he grabbed up some bolts
And he let out a laugh,
Said, "I'll split them right down the middle.
Gonna cut them right up in half."
And then storm clouds gathered above
Into great balls of fire

And then fire shot down
From the sky in bolts
Like shining blades
Of a knife.
And it ripped
Right through the flesh
Of the children of the sun
And the moon
And the earth.
And some Indian god
Sewed the wound up into a hole,
Pulled it round to our belly
To remind us of the price we pay.
And Osiris and the gods of the Nile
Gathered up a big storm
To blow a hurricane,
To scatter us away,
In a flood of wind and rain,
And a sea of tidal waves,
To wash us all away,
And if we don't behave
They'll cut us down again
And we'll be hopping round on one foot
And looking through one eye.

Last time I saw you
We had just split in two.
You were looking at me.
I was looking at you.
You had a way so familiar,
But I could not recognize,
Cause you had blood on your face;
I had blood in my eyes.
But I could swear by your expression
That the pain down in your soul
Was the same as the one down in mine.
That's the pain,
Cuts a straight line
Down through the heart;
We called it love.
So we wrapped our arms around each other,
Trying to shove ourselves back together.
We were making love,
Making love.
It was a cold dark evening,
Such a long time ago,
When by the mighty hand of Jove,
It was the sad story
How we became
Lonely two-legged creatures,
It's the story of
The origin of love.
That's the origin of love.

From this, we come to the Swedish text by Carl Jonas Love Almqvist, concerning the multiple triangles of desire between Adolfine, Amanda, Ferdinand, Clas Henrik and Tintomara, the androgyne. All four of these characters seek out the last person, Tomara, who to all of these advances, remains ignorant. She remains so ignorant, that when confronted with the notion of taking the queen's tiara, she does, only too willingly, for her own mother and cannot grasp the concept of stealing, crime or even love. The character itself is criticized for being incapable of love, except for one instance to her mother. But rather, produce a self love, in that she has taken all that she fancies without considering the due consequences or the reprecussions of her actions.

Why do people get married? From the lyrics of the Origin of Love, do we seek to create that whole again? Do we really hope to make ourselves capable of being one and part of another? If you saw the clip towards the end, it showed three of these "bodies" m/m f/m f/f. Witholding the ideas presented by what people think is right, can it be said, that people, persons, were seperated from a great basin, and set upon the earth to find the other half of their body? But not drawing completely from the same bin, society has forced us to pick persons alone based on sex and gender rather than who they truly love.

The four characters Adolfine, Amanda, Ferdinand, and Clas Henrik all fall in love with this one person, but why? The whole story revolves around the double jealousy, with deceit and traits overflowing one another. Are they possibly jealous of the fact that Tintomara is a whole, complete person. The fact that through her ignorance, she need not find her other half, her other lover. But these others, seperated from their other half, not knowing whether or not their other half could have been male or female, all just leads stems to branches and branches to roots. Are we as humans, capable of erasing society's bounds, bounds created by religion, laws, social encoungers, and education? Can we really be whole again? Trying to search for our other half, in a world that imposes a barrier in the way. Can we really remain innocent? Innocence leads to ignorance and ignorance is bliss. Hear my way and my way only. Your way is wrong and everything needs to be done by A, B, and C.

Two things in this world are white, innocence and arsenic. You have the innocence and I have the arsenic.

To be a Man

2009-06-07T20:53:00.000-07:00

Webster's dictionary defines "Man" as: one possessing in high degree the qualities considered distinctive of manhood. Or: the quality or state of being manly. But what does that mean? Being a man has become diluted within the past twenty years and the two sexes have blended with each other to the extent that one can almost hardly tell the difference between the two. At Baker beach today, I was walking along with my father when we passed by a couple, typically in the emo style. But for a quick brief second, I could not tell who was the man in the relationship. Then it struck me, the one wearing pants and no top.

Unless I dare look at a flat chested female with an extraordinary liberty.

But staring at this grotesque person, his hair braided against the side of his head, and the rest tinted with blue and grown and tended to appear like a potted fern plant. I scoffed silently, not to show any desire at this male carbon unit that I was throwing up in my head.

But that brought up the ideas and the issue of what it means to be manly. Does it mean, when you wake up in the morning, you swallow three raw eggs and do a hundred push-ups with one arm behind your back? Does it mean wearing a perfectly tailored suit and appearing at work every morning promptly at 9am? Or how about being an all round good chum? We really love exaggeration, and that unfortunately has strapped binoculars permanently to our faces and we can't change that without allowing time and the natural process. The media, the art, the way we judge has afflicted us to imagine every "man" to be 12 feet tall, and chopping down trees for a living, wearing flannel and growing a beard. But nothing more than just an image.

I'm going to discuss some qualities every Man should possess and ones that men strive to possess but should not. We love to go for things that are unnecessary and for those of you reading who love the feminine aspects of being a man, stop reading here and do something else, or open your mind and see my side of the argument for now. You can fight and contest me later.

Things you ought to have

1. Character
Can you imagine, what sort of bull i'm talking about when it comes to character? I dont mean playing a role that you want to play like being an Egyptian tobacconist or a French peasant. Playing a part is different from doing the part that creates these qualities that we want. When I speak character, I think of good judgement, good personality, and above all a sense of duty and the difference between right and wrong. But surely, every man must make a mistake somewhere and they do, and no one holds it against them but considers it a lesson to be learned from. The ability to pick oneself up and dust themselves off and look at them and go, ok, I'm not doing that again in that fashion. He doesn't quit, but he doesn't forget lessons of the past. There are some things that my friends do that I cant say are the best things to do, but I cant hold them to do it or not to do it, but I encourage them to consider the results and to show good judgement and duty myself, to try to snub a dirty habit. But the effort shown, goes quite a long way.

2. Grooming
What is that look that is so popular with young men these days? It's more common to see a guy not visit a barber for months at a stretch and like wise to visit a razor. In all honesty, the look where you've rolled straight out of bed in pajamas and into class in the exact same things is something I take begrudgingly and really can't tolerate too much. I haven't the heart to tell these large strapping athletes that roam around campus in sweatpants and flip flops or ugg boots (once) to change the way they dress or take care of their face. They can say that clothes make a man, but you always remember the face. The way it grows, the way it creases as you get old. Anthony Quinn, Spencer Tracy, they all had such distinguished faces and in very few of their photos, they're hairy. Beards suddenly have become such a popular thing, I dont understand how it could have happened, but I actually am quite envious of those who can grow facial hair quickly. Maybe it's a blessing. I save a ton of cash on safety blades.

3. Intellect and Recptiveness
A man can spend hours, sometimes more time than some girls do working on their hair and on the outside can appear as something some girl would love to wrap her legs around, but when it comes time to talk and meet people at those cocktail parties and if the only thing that comes out is fart sounds and dirty jokes, there's nothing but shame in store. It's usually the job of the man to defend the honor, but that's rather difficult when he is dumb as a doorknob. I dont mean to say, you have to know about string theory or euclidian theory, but you should be able to carry on a conversation about sailing or politics or current events. Another quality that seems to be lost is the ability to listen and retain that sort of information. Many times, I have gone listing to a conversation and forgetting what was going on all of a sudden. But that only happens every so often, and I can listen and pick up from there.

4. Grace under Pressure
I am no exception. I have cracked under the pressure and as a cost consequence, my dignity has lain shattered before my feet several times. When an even turns dour, a Man responds calmly, cooly and with an intellect. To be able to decision make quickly and still retain your respect while doing so. So many of these young people you see, wearing gigantic tshirts with muscles rippling and hair gelled back. You offend these people with just one tiny thing, and they completely respond with an offense remark or even physical stupidity and violence. Example. I sat with my friend Ehren on the bus once. Some young black kids got into a fight with an old man just because he stepped on their shoes. I applauded the old man when he had to be restrained from knocking this kid in the head with a cane. The kid's only response is fuck you old man. Kids are too easily influenced and when their influence is this degenerate population, some future. There goes 40 years of hard work down the drain NAACP.

5. Respect and Culture for Things
Like with my previous criteria, kids dont know or learn to have this mutual and deep understanding for somethings. Art, music, dance, film, history, and so many more things. I try to converse with every I can, and learn from them. You woudln't believe the things I have learned and the things I wish I could have unlearned. You can take a group of inner city youths to the metropolatian museuem of art, and half of them will be texting, a third of them will be bored out of their minds, and a sixth will be genuinly interested. These people will grow up to be cultured, tolerant and curious and receptive to our changing world.

Qualities a Man should not Possess
1. Rude
You'll get farther along with honey than with vinegar. Especially when it comes to glazing a ham. The way you come out to other people generally give you the initial judgement. A group of black persons in their twenties was visiting at Bay Street in Emeryville. A young white couple with their child bumps into them. The following ensued:
"Yo fuck you man!"
"Watch your language plase!"
"Fuck yo child. Don't need to talk clean for no cracker kid"
*Walking away and to his wife* "Damn nigger kids"
I dont feel right using that last line, but that's the god to honest awful truth. Sometimes, the way one person for a stereotype responds and comes off as rude, there is only one way that comes out. They still wonder why the white man is opressing. It's because of a lack of tact.

2. Baggy Clothing
Clothing should fit closely and appear tailored yet be comfortable and reasonably priced. I've seen the football team come of the Cal bus on their way for saturday games and some of these guys that come off are quite well dressed, but the rest of them wear suit jackets that drape to the knees and pants that could fit two people and a god awful color coordination. Shop on a budget, yet shop well at the same time. H&M offers a really nice european cut in terms of clothing, but also at reasonably cheap prices. I tried mixing and matching a jacket and vest from there with a pair of dress pants from my dad. Did not work. The jacket was the slim european cut while the pants were too thick.

3. Lying
No one can tolerate that. Honest.

There are many more things I could possibly cover, but leave a comment and i'll add these in a further post.

29:7:35: The Joy of Self

2009-06-05T16:24:00.000-07:00

Until this past year, when I turned the venerable age of twenty, I never took the pleasure and joy in working by yourself and for yourself.These past two weeks, I have been spending my mornings moving out and away from my old home in Berkeley and back into my childhood home in Alameda. While at the same time, I worked on an old bicycle frame turning it into a fixed gear bicycle with a road bicycle geometry. It was a nice project to build, but now that i'm done with it, what now?

In Alameda, you see more and more, amongst the younger generation, a staggering amount of those fixed gear bikes and I would bet every reader, that not one of those kids built their bikes with their own hands. Stores can offer these bikes real cheap such as the Bianchi Pista for a thousand dollars, or many department store brands are offering them as well. But I bet you, not one of those single kids with their baseball caps, tight jeans and flannel shirts, not one of them hand picked the 200 dollar rear wheel set from Peter Rich's store. The man who turned cycling into what it is today. None of them snuck off into the night, to find abandoned bicycle skeletons, to see what could be saved to build on a budget and what it turned out was quite decent. I bet not one of them knows how to adjust the handlebars, pick out a comfortable leather seat let alone know the benefits of Brooks.

I built my beauty on my own, and with the help of others for much more difficult components such as the bottom bracket and setting up the rear wheelset. I sanded the old nasty blue paint off, I primed and coated the frame myself and painted it colors I like. These kids, they'll just ride whatever mom and dad buys them. I hand chose my frame from a backyard of bicycles in Berkeley. One that had long dropouts. Unfortunately, it was taiwanese made, but the marquee was the same of my treasured English Raleigh touring bicycle.

I helped Martin move out, but one thing I saw scrawled and scratched into the cover of an old leather journal, and I still can recall is:

A man who works with his hands is a laborer
A man who works with his hands and brain is a craftsman
A man who works with his hands and brain and heart is an artist.

None of these kids work with their hands, brains or heart. Not anymore these days.

34:1:00: Sleep

2009-05-30T23:00:00.000-07:00

I sat, I read, I slept.

36:2:28: track bicycle racing

2009-05-28T21:32:00.000-07:00

It's been creeping through my brains lately, it has controlled, regrown my ideas and thoughts on biking. Dont get me wrong, I love my 14 speed Raleigh to death. But the fascination, the idea of riding the simple, single speed bicycle. Its the way to race apparently. Plus, I think it'd be a great and good summer project. Since last year's project was getting the Raleigh running again. Turns out, the parts on my Raleigh may be worth more than the track bike i'm putting together!

I set out for some cool ideas and places to further the usage of track/fixed gear bicycles for that fixed gear purpose, rather than tricks. The polo grounds in Golden Gate Park is one of my absolutely, most favorite places in the entire park. Just the thought of people actually playing polo in America, let alone San Francisco still amuses me. But until 1963, I assume, the San Francisco Wheelmen (now the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition) used to host races. Track races, not touring and distance races. So apparently, that track, probably not the original track, but hopefully graded the same, was used for bike races from the 1880s until 1963 when the competition was last held. I really would like to see that come back.

Consider Hellyer Park Velodrome in San Jose. Strange place for a bike velodrome, but hey, apparently the city used to be pretty big on bicycles. The velodrome track there runs three hundred and thirty-three meters. That's about 1000 feet. The smalles velodrome in the world is in Canada at close to 158 meters. That's a distance of 465 feet. But wait, take into account the banking and the curvature of the track, that's a pretty steep bank there to make sure you dont fly into a wall. I cant imagine the curves at the polo ground being too big or too small. The entire track is approximately 1100 meters or 3300 feet. That's just about two thirds of a mile. Pretty intense. I'm pretty sure the ground there has been regraded several times, with ill regard to the curvature, but the turns are so big, and the long stretches are at least 1050 feet. So that's 2100 feet of straight, flat track and two turns that add up to 1200 feet in circumference. That will mean a 200 foot radius turn. You really dont need too much of a bank, but there is a chain link fence that surrounds the grass. That might be a bit of a cheese grater if you rub against it. Yuck.

Another perfect place to put a Velodrome. There is a cinder track and field on top of the Clark Kerr campus in Berkeley. The entire field is little used, and I know the track is just used by afternoon joggers and morning walkers. But I'd say it would be a pretty smart investment for UC Berkeley to build an outdoor velodrome there. People love using their track/fixie bikes in Berkeely and in the surrounding area, I dont see why the university cant capitalize on it. Make it similar to Hellyer Park. Charge five dollars per day per person, hold competitions, speed trials, regulate everything to make it legitimate. If they even felt like it, put a roof over it to prevent vandals from sneaking in at night to take advantage free rides. It could make up for failure to purchase the Berkeley Iceland. The cinder track surrounds the field, its about 400 meters.

Or even putting it in Iceland itself. That would produce a 200 meter track, not regulation, but hey, who's keeping track. I've however had hopes of seeing Iceland used for its original purpose. Ice Skating. Even an aircraft hangar at the Alameda Base, that'd be cool. I'm studying to be an architect, but I really love bicycles. I have this dream, a personal goal to be realized. I've often noted, the lack and difficulty to find a place to work on bicycles to have all the necessary tools on hand, and the expertise to help out. I want to design a place that would create a communal bike repair shop, rather than putting it completely in the hands of the experienced, getting the user involved rather than being a user. Going from User to utilizer.

One thing I think I ought to learn is the really cool way to get off a fixed gear:

"As the bicycle slows to near walking speed, disengage your left foot, then wait for the right pedal to get to the bottom of its circle. As the right pedal starts to rise, straighten your right leg and let the motion of the pedal lift you up. Let go of the handlebars, let the saddle move forward between your legs, and put your left foot on the ground. As the bike goes ahead, grab it by the saddle. It takes a bit of courage to try this, but it is actually very easy to do. It is also extremely impressive to watch. When executed properly, it is very smooth, and you can go from riding to walking in a single fluid motion, without ever coming to a stop"

I've gotten derision for my decision. I want to build to race, not to be foppish or hipstery. It's an experience I believe that should be taken to its fullest. Plus, I have friends and people who are always willing to help. Lucky me.

The Beer's Prayer

2009-05-28T18:06:00.000-07:00

Our lager,
Which art in barrels,
Hallowed be thy drink.

Thy will be drunk,
(I will be drunk)
At home as in the tavern.

Give us this day, our foamy head,
and forgive us of our spillages,
as we forgive those who spill against us.

And lead us not into incarceration,
but deliver us from hangovers.

For thine is the beer,
the bitter and the lager,
for ever, and ever.
Barman.

36:17:18: Paper Moon

2009-05-28T06:41:00.000-07:00

Say, its only a paper moon
Sailing over a cardboard sea
But it wouldn't be make-believe
If you believed in me

Yes, it's only a canvas sky
Hanging over a muslin tree
But it wouldn't be make-believe
If you believed in me

Without your love
It's a honky-tonk parade
Without your love
It's a melody played in a penny arcade

It's a Barnum and Bailey world
Just as phony as it can be
But it wouldn't be make-believe
If you believed in me

38 days, 10 hours, 20 minutes: Polka Dots and Moonbeams

2009-05-26T13:42:00.001-07:00

A country dance was being held in a garden
I felt a bump and heard an "Oh, beg your pardon"
Suddenly I saw polka dots and moonbeams
All around a pug-nosed dream

The music started and was I the perplexed one
I held my breath and said "May I have the next one?"
In my frightened arms, polka dots and moonbeams
Sparkled on a pug-nosed dream

There were questions in the eyes of other dancers
As we floated over the floor
There were questions but my heart knew all the answers
And perhaps a few things more

Now in a cottage built of lilacs and laughter
I know the meaning of the words "Ever after"
And I'll always see polka dots and moonbeams
When I kiss the pug-nosed dream

Thirty Nine Days, One hour, fifty minutes: Ain't Misbehavin'

2009-05-25T22:09:00.001-07:00

No one to talk with
All by myself
No one to walk with
But I'm happy on the shelf
Ain't misbehavin'
I'm savin' my love for you
I know for certain
The one I love
I'm through with flirtin'
It's just you I'm thinkin' of
Ain't misbehavin'
I'm savin' my love for you

Like Jack Horner
In the corner
Don't go nowhere
What do I care?
Your kisses are worth waitin' for
Believe me

I don't stay out late
Don't care to go
I'm home about eight
Just me and my radio
Ain't misbehavin'
Savin' my love for you

Like Jack Horner
In the corner
Don't go nowhere
What do I care?
Your kisses are worth waitin' for
Believe me

I don't stay out late
Don't care to go
I'm home about eight
Just me and my radio
Ain't misbehavin'
Savin' my love for you
Ain't misbehavin'
Savin' my love for you

Moped Diaries: Day Six

2009-05-25T00:08:00.000-07:00

Seattle at last.

It seemed like a luxury all of a sudden, to have slept in beds two nights in a row, rather than in my amazingly small sleeping bag and tent. I woke up at noon, while Ashton still slept. I sat up and nudged him a little and he only let out a fart. I laughed at his response and proceeded to the bathroom to take a look at myself. I looked at my beard. It didn't hang out like Ashton's did. It just sort of clung to my face, the way Hipsters used to grow their beards back in the late 2000's. It didn't seem epic, but this was the most facial hair I had ever had. I brushed my teeth and returned to the room to see Ashton spooning a pillow. Jokingly, I spoke in falsetto "Oh Ashiepoo, you know how to make a girl happy." With that, I saw a smile stretch over his face. In our iteneraries, we had decided to take the day we got to Seattle to visit everything we could before we would cross the border the next day. So far, a third of the day was over and we still were inside the hotel.

I pulled the pillow out from his claw like grip and his arms snapped around him like a bear trap. He shuddered awake instantly. He stared at me and went to the bathroom and shut the door. By the time he came out, it was two. But I laughed when I saw him. He shaved his epic beard to resemble the clingy hipster like beard I was sporting now.

"What?"
"Nothing. I thought your beard was epic."
"It still is."
"Nope."
"Fuck."
"C'mon, we got stuff to see in Seattle."
"Like what?"
I clawed the back of my head for things to do in Seattle. I could only muster a few, "We could see the world's first Starbucks, and go to the Pike's Market, and see the needle, and of course R.E.M. Koolhaus' library." I hoped that was sufficient.
"Sure."

This time, the cycles were lighter, not loaded with panniers, leathery oilskins and plastic cases. This time, just two riders and their cameras. We saw the sites, we ate the food, we did this and we did that, but we wanted a drink. The last beer we had was on our third day, a bottle of Moosehead lager I bought at the convience store. We found a pub, walked down into the basement and it almost felt like walking into Cheers.

We stumbled home, walking our Mopeds, and singing a song. We locked the bikes to the chain post and to the rain gutter, and to a vending machine for some reason unknown. We retired to our room, took off our heavy outer wear, and plopped down and fell asleep.

Moped Diaries: Day Five

2009-05-24T22:19:00.001-07:00

sorry it's been such a long time since the last post, but here goes!

A low rumble of thunder shook me awake. I sat, surprisingly upright, stiff in an old soccer jersey, groggy and trying to get a feel for my settings. The room was dark with the exception of a mottled, dirty brown rectangle of light to the side of me. This was a welcome change from the damp green tent we usually slept in. I rustled my naked legs under the sheets, feeling my leg hairs catch the threads. I rubbed my thin beard, still blinking unconciously, trying to fit the room and the things in it into focus and eventually it did. It smelled sterile, like a cleaned smoking room. The whole room seemed to blend into the sixties fairly nicely with the fabric wall paper, ceiling lamp suspended on a brass chain and decorative metal artwork. Shuffling to the bathroom, I faced the large mirror. My face was growing again since the first time I shaved outside of the Oregon coast. I brushed, washed and scrubbed, and performed two out of the three s's. I didn't shave.

I re-entered the room to find that the curtains now were drawn and Ashton was sitting in the pleather armchair by the radiator under the big window. He had the grimy looking coffee maker switched on to make some hot water. Another low rumble. This time, the window rattled a little. Curiously, I peered over to the clock by the bed and it said 7am. Ashton grabbed the remote and pointed it at the television set. It hummed to life and a faded out image of an Anchorperson showed up. The sound hadn't quite caught up just yet. Then, the sound crackled to life.

"Today's news forecast calls for thunder storms until one, and high winds starting at seven pm tonight. If you're going south, avoid the coast as we will be getting southerly winds mixing up with a cold front from Canada."
"That settles it," Ashton cried, "we'll have to stay here until two.
"We gotta check out though."
"Yeah, forgot about that. OK, new plan. We'll hang out at the market until two."

Packing up the mopeds, we loaded them up in silence, breaking it only once when I leand over to pass a fart. The clouds still mussled themselves overhead, playing like waves, breaking on an ocean, but above our heads. He rode out to the Portland market, sat and ate fried fish, picked out fresh fruit, a tomato here, an onion there. Closer to two, we would sit by the coffee trolley and sit and play backgammon. When two passed, we apparently decided it would be safe to go out. The bridge over the river seperating Portland and Vancouver in Washington state would be our final farewell to Oregon. We pedaled north, following the roads into the interior, and the clouds kept coming. We found a small little trap along side a lonely side road that we decided to stop and take a break at. Turns out the man sold beaver and otter pelts. Ashton was disgusted and walked out while I remaind inside touching the soft furs.

Washington is quite strange you could say with a grin. I read back in college that a large portion of the state was used to manufacture the materials necessary for nuclear research during the second world war. My how the values have changed within the past sixty years. We continued to ride, this time, rejoining the coast and following the road north. By nine in the evening, we reached the city of Seattle. Tired, cold and hungry, we parked at another motel, this time, one not from the sixties, and ate at the dive at the corner, plunked onto the beds, still in our jackets, helmets, goggles and boots.

At one, I shifted over, realizing I was still in full ride up gear, undressed, urinated in the bathroom and went to bed.

Like the boy who cried wolf...

2009-05-24T22:15:00.001-07:00

I slept that night, feeling sad, crying on the inside. I didn't think she was too, so when I woke up, I sent an asshat text and went back to sleep. It hurt her. I knew it did, and I was afraid for when she would call. When she did, I pushed it too far. I didn't intend to, she's a delicately balanced person and i'm a stump on the ground, I thought, unfallable and unmovable. Turns out, I let my emotions all over the street. I cried in front of 40 people walking and 400 people driving down University when she called.

I'm going through lent again. This time, I'm not going to let her get in the way like last time.

Starting at Midnight, in One Hour, and forty minutes, my lent begins.

Forty Days and 0 hours, 0 minutes

Say it so, A Man Needs a Woman

2009-05-22T20:59:00.000-07:00

Do you ever remember what life was like before you met her? I tried to remember, but it's starting to grow dim. These days, all I ever think about is her, and moving out, and my new fraternity, etc. etc. But just a couple days ago, I started to think about what was my life like before I met her? Before I became a sensual romantic. I certainly wasn't walking around in a flannel shirt chopping trees down and sticking my face on paper towels, but I was doing things that guys probably would do. I mean, yeah, I loved being there for someone, I loved the idea of waking up next to a great gal, and of course there are certain things a girl does for you that you yourself cannot do. Like cuddle.

No, but I thrust as far back as I could muster and tried to relive that past for the past week. Working around finals of course. Monday night, I had a final the next evening so I decided to fool around. I was pretty confident in the class and when the final did come around, there was one question I couldn't answer, but not without some form of logical explanation. I went out for a bike ride, going up hills, down streets, stopping every so often to browse shops and gaze into windows. I stopped into an antique shop, browsed around and had a chat with the owner. Small world, the boss is a friend of the grandmother of a friend of my own.

I finished that ride with a close. What I call a Leighna Lap. One of my first friends at University is for her namesake, Leighna. This past semester, she showed me how to use the Ohlone trail and the bay trail. Much easier than city riding for sure, but I still like the streets every so often. A Leighna Lap consists of using the Ohlone trail and doubling back from point Richmond, following the exact same way you came down. Mixing it with my own laps and jargon, the path I followed earlier is a transbay lap, then splicing it with a Leighna Lap. I frequently just go into places I probably shouldn't at night on my bicycle. I'm sick sometimes of the eggshell white-yellow walls of the apartment, I just want to get the hell out sometimes.

So far, my Laps include the Leighna, the Transbay, the Temascal, the Solano, the Bay Lap, and the Bay Farm lap. That last one is a particular favorite, I've been riding it since I was oh well, about 12. That's when my dad first thought I would be able to manage it. When I go home in the evenings with my bicycle, I usually like to take my bike out for a ride. That's what i've been doing too. I've been trying my hand at bike repair and it's turning out beneficial. My Raleigh touring bicycle is set up so that I could just sit for hours. Then again, if you gotta go, I wouldn't suggest using the long nose, or the short nose brooks saddle.

I've been getting into bicycles lately. I'm getting another bike soon, provided that Rico calls me to help me get the darn thing setup. I traded in an old banjo for a bike. I feel music falling away from my life. Recently, I haven't looked at my music collection, played an instrument in months and I gave away, well traded, the last tie I have left here. Apart from my clarinets. I mean, before, I could tweak and setup a guitar so well, you'd have thought you were playing amongst the cloud. I wont even let myself touch one anymore unless someone's looked over it first. But i'm just as clumsy with bicycles as I am with instruments. The other day, I pulled out the locking pin to hold the stem to the fork, but I couldn't fit it back in. I panicked. Obviously. I fixed it a couple hours later.

I'm thinking of going Fixie. I've been a strong proponent against them for the longest time, but I felt change was necessary. Sheldon Brown's website turned me over. Dont blame me.