36:2:28: track bicycle racing

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

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

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

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'

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

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

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...

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

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.

Allnächtlich im Traume

Nightly I see you in dreams - you speak,

With kindliness sincerest,

I throw myself, weeping aloud and weak

At your sweet feet, my dearest.

You look at me with wistful woe,

And shake your golden curls;

And stealing from your eyes there flow

The teardrops like to pearls.

You breathe in my ear a secret word,

A garland of cypress for token.

I wake; it is gone; the dream is blurred,

And forgotten the word that was spoken.

-Heinrich Heine 1827

Wild Yonder Calls Me Canada

I never imagined the day when I finished my last final, got my papers turned in, etc, etc, etc. But what is coming up became so readily, and frightfully apparent, I almost flinched. If I can get this trip in with my high school buddies, it'll definitely get my mind off her. Nothing spells reprieve than Canada. Legally, I'm not one, but by heart, I feel like one. Not one of those standard issue stereotypes that everyone associates with the country, but like the Californian Canadian. British Columbian to be exact.

I really should see what the rest of Canada is like. But then again, I dont know what the rest of America is like at times. Sure, I have been to places like Minnesota, New York, Chicago, Orlando. But I never saw the nitty gritty of it. Like how things work in the Nation's capital, or the refugees pulling onto the sand in Miami for the first time. But in a sense, I'm kinda trying to escape that nitty gritty. What ground me, and wore me down the most in this past relationship was the crying, the obsessing, the lonelyness and the downward spiral into my own personal dementia. But that's going to change now. I just gotta get on my feet.

I miss Vancouver, and I miss Victoria. I really would like to see my Grand-Aunt one last time before she Passes. Same with Grand Uncle Leo in Los Angeles, but I dont know him too well. I remember pouring tea into his Son's pocket at my cousin's wedding once. We were fooling that he'd steal a teapot. I didn't realize it was still full of cold tea. But why Victoria? Why Vancouver you ask? A question I still ask myself. Its still close to the Pacific ocean, so the temperatures dont get to crazy. Last time I was there, I was walking around in a tshirt and shorts. I didn't expect it to be so nice. I'd just would like to get out of the Bay for a week, then i'd be golden.

Just once, before I graduate, I'd love to get that college road trip in. I had talked about it with Jeff Stallman once, but that kinda faded off when he went to the my second choice of school. But I was talking with some of my younger friends, and they seemed really into the idea of going to Canada for the heck of it. Maybe what i'm looking for sits around what you'd expect from movies like Harold and Kumar go to white castle, Road trip, Animal House. All that good stuff. But I guess to say in the least, we just want to have fun in another country, not ours.

Here's to goals, and here's to dreams.

Music of Your Life

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions. Pass it on to a gazillion people and include me. Try not to repeat a song title. It's harder than you think...

Pick Your Artist: The Decemberists

Are you male or female:
California one Youth and Beauty

Describe yourself:
Billy Liar

How do you feel about yourself:
A Cautionary Song

Describe where you currently live:
On the Bus Mall

If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
Oceanside

Your best friend is:
Eli, The Barrow Boy

Your favorite color is:
Red Right Ankle

What's the weather like:
July, July!

If your life was a tv show, what would it be called?:
The Perfect Crime

What is life to you:
Of Angels and Angles

What is the best advice you have to give:
Los Angeles, I'm Yours

If you could change your name, what would it be:
The Infanta

Your favorite food is:
Clementine

Your Profession:
Here I dreamt I was an Architect

counting down the days

Hello all, Hejhej, and Welcome back

CP110 paper - 1 day, 13 hours

Architecture 170B - 2 days, 19 hours

Moving out - 8 days

Going back to school, 10 days

Canada - unknown.

s'matter?

I sat quietly, listening to the voices outside the window. They were a modge-podge of boys and girls voices, all clambering over each other, trying to gain a dominance of some sort. Some were yelling, others were just drunken slur, and others were giggles, floating over the fields of dead grass, strewn with empty natty cans. But somehow, they always seem to find their way right into my window. I sat, still, listening intently, like I was spying on someone's life, listening to every single intent and personal remark.

I closed the windows, leaving the world to itself, and sat back at the desk, facing the wall. I stared at the tan colored typewriter, scowling at me with its alfalfa-like paper back sticking out and mocking me. I grabbed a sheet of paper, stuck it in, and began to write. It didn't matter what, I just wrote. I now created my own world, away from the world.

(Customer walks up and beings speaking in Spanish.)

Me: “Umm, I don’t speak Spanish.”

Customer: “Oh, ah…” *continues speaking Spanish*

Me: “I don’t understand.”

Customer: *speaks Spanish*

Me, in Swedish: “Jag pratar inte Spanska sa jag!”

*customer runs away*

Americans...

American customer: “Your flag is just so pretty. I love maple leaves. Does it come in blue?”

Me: “Um, no, sorry, only red.”

American customer: “That’s a shame. My kitchen is blue, and it would look so pretty on the wall. You should make them in other colours.”

Me: “…”

Canadian customer behind her: “That’s a good point. I’ve always thought the stars-and-stripes would look great in earth tones.”

American customer: “Our flag is ALWAYS red, white and blue! Honestly, Canadians are so stupid sometimes.”

On the tip of my frontal lobe

What am I thinking about? There's certainly something that's been scratching at the back of my head the entire time, I've been thinking and there's really one thing I can think of.

Sex. Sex sex sex sex sex. No matter how you put it, it's still sex. That and Bri. I just keep thinking of her. Waking up in the mornings, cold and alone, brushing my teeth, walking to class in the morning, it's all a painful slap in the face. I wish I had done something differently. She just came out with it on my birthday, we didn't even really attempt to try to fix the relationship. It just went *phut* She gave me two options, those two options were just as bad, and I didn't know what to pick. In a moment of blindness, I chose for us to break it off. I wish I hadn't. I hate my birthday. Each day, I look with less and less enthauism to turning the next age. Even though I turn twenty one in 10 months, I dont want to. I'm still hung up on twenty.

I cant listen to Abba anymore. That's ruined. I cant watch ballroom dancing. My parents insist on dancing now. That's all they talk about now. My life changed for her. Hers changed for mine. She wants to go back to who she was, before me, before Billy, before everyone else. It's not possible. You meet people along the way, and you either take them for the ride or you dont. I caught on, captivated by her. I loved every minute of it, but I saw she was sad, she was frustrated, she was getting sick. I tried, I didn't notice. Work was catching up with me and her, and she just had to shed something. The one thing that brought me joy, the one thing that seperated me from the rest of the guys, that was her. Now I'm just like every single one of my single friends. I liked having someone. There's that thing. That past tense. I just cant bring myself to let go.

She wrote on my wall once. "I believe in you". She still does, or at least she tells me, but I like to think she does. I've never known her to quit on anything except for us. That's the one thing. Maybe she isn't, maybe she is. I believed in her, I helped her through tough and through sadness. When we first started, she wrote, "I'm falling, will you be there to catch me?" I said I was. I still am. But when I fell, I fell onto the sharp shards, rocks sticking out of the ground, my body pounded into a grotesque shape and form. I just wish...

But that feeling, I hope is temporary. She taught me not to quit, I'm not quitting. I hope she sees, if anyone can be so dedicated, for a little glimmer of joy, to have faith and hope for those who need it most, I just hope she can see with open eyes. One summer isn't enough. It's going to be a fucking long 2 years at Berkeley.

I love her. I just cant seem to get through anymore. Its like i'm some other radio station. Everyone tells me its my fault, everyone points fingers, that's what leads to thoughts, that's what leads me to open the window looking over the 8th floor, that's what nearly pushed me. I came close to falling, with no one to catch me. I remain sitting on this branch.

I love you Zachary. You've got too much love, that's the scary bit. Keep hope, maybe she hasn't quit just quite yet. Maybe she hasn't completely given up on you. Keep that chin up, and give a flower time to bloom before you can pick it.

Is there any truth to this?

Rejection lines women use, plus translations.

10. I think of you as a brother. (You remind me of that inbred banjo-playing kid in 'Deliverance.')

9. There's a slight difference in our ages. (I don't want to do my dad.)

8. I'm not attracted to you in 'that' way. (You are the ugliest dork I've ever laid eyes on.)

7. My life is too complicated right now. (I don't want you spending the whole night or else you may hear phone calls from all the other guys I'm seeing.)

6. I've got a boyfriend. (I prefer my male cat and a half gallon of Ben and Jerry's.)

5. I don't date men where I work. (I wouldn't date you if you were in the same 'solar system', much less the same building.)

4. It's not you, it's me. (It's you.)

3. I'm concentrating on my career. (Even something as boring and unfulfilling as my job is better than dating you.)

2. I'm celibate. (I've sworn off only the men like you.)

1. Let's be friends. (I want you to stay around so I can tell you in excruciating detail about all the other men I meet and have sex with. It's the male perspective thing.)

Dracula

Here,

The book Dracula by Bram Stoker begins today on May 3rd. Follow it live on this website which will "live feed"

http://dracula-feed.blogspot.com/

350: Love Was...

I've spent a long time trying to get post 350 out...

You sit there, in the back of the Cafe, watching people come in and out, buying coffee and then going. Occasionally, there's a girl who walks in and sits with another and you look at them a little green. You look back to your bare table, covered only in rough knife marks and the dried rings staining the multicolored surface. You sit and you work, noticing everyone who walks in, and you note them. Build, hair, eyes, who they sit with, where they sit, stuff your analytical mind just cant shrink away from.

Then she enters. Your ex. With another man. He's tall, handsome, slightly scruffy around the face. Everything you tried to do, but you failed at. You drop your face into your hands, feeling absolutely crushed. You want to die right then and there. Then you realize, they sit seperately, they're not together! Your eyes wander over the tops of your fingers to see this, and you perk up. If there is one thing girls want to do, its to keep you as a friend, and tell you about their amazing sex life. But that's not what she does. She apparently left you, and went gallavanting off to some foreign clime. You race, try to look distracting to her. She doesn't see you, and you slink away, in complete failure. You work, occasionally watching her out of the corner of your eye. You grumble. It was a long time ago, but you still cant get over her. She ruined your birthday, she really did. You wanted to kill yourself on your own birthday, but you cried. She wanted to be friends, so you stayed that way. That's all it was, life just kept going downhill. You failed somewhere, you really did.

She packs up, and she walks over. You sit back, aghast, and stunned. "Dont think I didn't see you over there. I just didn't want to bother you." You just shiver, and shake your head. "It wouldn't have been." "How have you been? Have you been taking care of yourself?" You shake your head. You pull up your right sleeve. She stares, and you can tell, her heart is twisting inside of her. Dried scabs, lines running across your arm, some still caked, fresh with blood. She starts to cry. You quickly roll up that sleeve and you try to comfort her. "Was life that hard afterwards?" You start to think, you can only mutter "yes." "I'm sorry then." She gets up, leaves and you sit back against the wall. Still dejected.

Grabbing your bag, you rush out, leaving the tip as well as your pen. You look left and right, she isn't around. You can only yell out something that can be best described as uncouth. You take your bag, punt it across the street and just collapse onto your knees and start to weep. It's all your fault. Again.

I dreamt of her

Last night, or this early morning, I made a pretty sleepy, dreamy post that was short and for some reason, fairly cryptic when I go back to read it. But I think I can explain. Last night, I was contemplating why I wanted to go back into a relationship with Bri. The more I thought about it, the more I tried to reason why I wanted to recess back to before my birthday. I guess the reasons are companionship, love, a feeling of security, and the hugs. I've been pretty horny the past 9 weeks since I broke up with her, but that's only passing. I've lived 19 years unsexed, now that i'm twenty, I need it for some reason.

But I dreamed last night, lying restless in bed at 5am. I dreamed I was lying next to her, we're both under the covers, and she's sad. I wrap my arms around her, and she starts to smile, and giggle and be happy. She hasn't been happy around me since my birthday. Its hard to since I keep bringing up the same topic over and over again. I shouldn't, I know. But it was so weird, this dream, we weren't even doing anything, but just being silly, happy and giggling. I woke up, alone in bed except for my moosie flip flop.

Reasoning Behind Why

Its been established, I hate being single. I miss the feeling of having someone to hold and to nuzzle and kiss. What is it that I want? Why do I pine after her?

So what if I get her? What do I want? I dont know. I'm so sappy.

Spraktopina

The morning dew kissed its heavy breath over the country side. Leaves, blades of grass, crumpled sheets from an ancient newspaper, yellowed by the sun and the weather. A confusing jumble of Cyrillic characters covers the front page, the words blending and mashing into one another like a train of cars bumping into a barrier. A photograph of a pudgy official yelling into a podium microphone covers the rest of the yellow newsprint.

The figure of a man lays sprawled underneath a dying tree. His body is covered in a muddied, torn and stained mackintosh which looks as if it came out of a catalog from thirty years ago. His face is not covered in wrinkles, but there is a youthful bounce to his skin. His eyes remain shut, though they waver, restless against his dreams. Over the barren grassy plain, the first rays of the sun begin to reach his body. Still partially shaded in the tall grass, it first touch his side, then his midsection, then his entire body. He stirs, rubbing his eyes with grimy fists and sits up. Standing, he shakes off the coat of dew on his body. His name is Anton. Just Anton, no last name. The people in the village call him the dummy, and no one seems to know where he came from.

The local official in his reports state he first appeared in town on April 18, 1972. That was six years ago, his files are still locked in the tarnished steel cabinet in the local police station. No one wanted to adopt him, Khrushchev forbade any sort of adoption of local runaways. But one largehearted man decided to travel to Moscow to argue a case since no one knew if he was a runaway or not. He just emerged from nowhere. That man had never returned, his house still stands empty, the door locked, paint peeling from the front and the inside. Some local teenagers had broken into it once and in the village, it became notorious as a place to engage in bad activities. But one day, the Police chief entered, kicked people out, boarded up the windows and padlocked the door.

Anton didn't have a home. Or a family. Everyday, he did the same thing, he would wake up, eat a few leaves as well as a loaf of bread usually left outside the church. Then he would do exercises by running around the entire village two or three times. Then he would play along the railway tracks, nearly getting hit by a State Railways train carrying pig iron once, he was caught in the front fender then thrown aside. He didn't seem to sustain any injuries, but the villagers remarked not seeing him for a week or so, then he reappeared completely healed, no bruises or scratches.

But it was winter in 1978, the area had not seen snow in several years since it was close to the Caspian. From the factories in Odessa trains would rumble by with cars filled with toys to be sold in Moscow, Leningrad, Stalingrad and Volgograd. On this day, Anton was sitting alongside the tracks when he felt the ground begin to shake. He understood this as a train coming and he sat on a discarded tie alongside. The steam engine rumbled by and wooshed steam into his face. He liked the warmth. But as the boxcars started passing by, there was one with an open door and several vagrants inside. They spotted him and threw something out at him. It landed with a clunk a few feet in front of him. He peered at the mysterious shape with curiosity and continued to watch the train rumble by with his eye. As soon as the red lamp was out of sight in the horizion, Anton stood up and walked over to it. He stood in front of it, dumbfounded. It was a wooden sled with iron runners and a iron back. He didn't know that though. He picked it up, it felt remarkably light. He took it back to his tree where he slept and placed it in the grass.

That night, he laid on the ground on his side, watching the thing with some mysticism as well as caution. But he only could compete in this contest for another hour before he fell asleep. The next morning, he did his usual routine, but cutting down his second lap short to run back to his tree. He squatted in front of the sled, poked it with curiosity, and he straddled it. Then he sat down in it. He leaned back in the iron railing seat back, suddenly, he imagined he was flying through the air. The little village was retreating fast behind as he soared in his magical machine. He sailed above the clouds, riding the pressure currents with the geese and then he reemerged below the clouds, this time, flying over a great vast ocean. He saw a beautiful red and yellow fishing boat with its sails full of wind. He zoomed by it, then circled it twice.

Night slid its blanket over the plains, he eagerly placed his new machine under the tree. He took his mackintosh and covered it up. The cold plains wind chilled him but he slept soundly. The morning came and he stood up, jumped around making a grunting sound. He whipped off the mackintosh and grabbed the sled and he ran to the train tracks. He had a rusted milk pail and he placed it on top of his like a helmet. The tracks stretched into infinity before him. He closed his eyes and he began fly again. The 12pm express to Volgograd materialized before him. His eyes still shut tight. He began to shake violently, if it was the train or him, it could not be determined. The steam engine's front grew, it started getting bigger and bigger. The earth subsided before him, the gravel falling away from the rails. The rusted cowcatcher smashed the sled, throwing Anton a few feet forward before the point of the catcher dragged his body along the rails. His body lay there for two days before the village people noticed he was gone. The men searched with their battery torches and found the smashed pieces of wood alongside the rails. They ran up and with their torches they scanned the immediate area. The circles of light converged onto a bloodied mass. They ran over and looked at the poor body of Anton.

Anton was given a burial, the coffin provided by the local carpenter. The priest led the ceremony, the ladies in the village were dressed in somber black, the men in town wore black, the teenagers didn't even show up. They didn't want to appear at the funeral for what they thought was a social retard. They lowered the pine coffin into the earth and everyone threw a splash of dirt into the hole. As the workmen filled in the hole, the priest read the last rites. As the hole was soon filled, they realized there was no headstone. The men who had found his body walked to the tracks and grabbed the largest plank that was still left from the remains of the sled. A policeman produced a marker from his pocket and wrote Anton above the company logo. He asked the villagers what his last name was. He looked around only to be rebutted with blank, vacant faces. He shrugged and stabbed the plank into the loose earth mound. He lived as Anton. He was remembered as Anton Spraktopina. After the wooden toy company.

The Mutt

You picked him out, or more like he picked you. You were at the puppy counter when you couldn't decide which one to get. All of them seemed so cute and fuzzy but this one, he looked at you. Right into your eyes while all the other ones didn't pay attention. You looked at him, slightly embarrassed to be gazing at puppies longingly but he still tries to grab your attention. You take him out to the play pen, he pulls you down on top of you and licks your face and you dont know how to respond.

Hesitantly, you buy him. You and him, you go through training and all sorts of things, there are certainly habits he has that you dont want him to continue. So you teach him new tricks and he does them. He loves you, he still is fascinated by you and you love him. You think. Then you think about a cat. You throw him out. He paws at the door, he whimpers, he cries, he howls. You sit alone in your place, you read a book, but he sits there at the window, watching with big puppy dog eyes but you close the curtains, he still tries. He makes effort to get back into your life. He misses the feeling of love. You dont know if you can handle the responsibility.

You brought him up, but you've left him, still growing.

Orual

1 - Go to "wikipedia." Hit “random”
or click http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first random wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2 - Go to "Random quotations"
or click http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four or five words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.

3 - Go to flickr and click on “explore the last seven days”
or click http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days
Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4 - Use Photoshop to put it all together. (yay practice! :) )

5 - Post it to Facebook as a note and tag the friends you want to join in - be sure to include me so I can see your work!

5a - Put the person who tagged you at the top of the list.

Through the Rockies on my own.

I had made the journey once before, under different circumstances though. I found myself making this journey once again. My Raleigh reliant road bike is stowed in the bicycle room in the baggage car, my cabin, though small seems like a vast empty music hall. I leave for dinner as the four chime sounds and I see in the corner of my eye the porter entering and turning down the bed for the night.

The dining car is filled with groups and couples, occasionally here and there, there are businessmen sitting alone eating dinner by themselves, but after putting down their flatware, they'd shift over to the bar car for joviality. I remained planted. My business bag in the chair next to me, a few books peer out from the opening, their covers reaching out their arms asking me to pick one. I dont pay any attention to any of them, instead, I'm peering at a familiar face looking back at me. I look into his little brown eyes, his antlers peek out like a set of rabbit ears. His big brown nose is mottled from months of nuzzling and falling asleep. That flip floppy moose never left my side since college. Now I'm on a Canadian Pacific dining car, racing through the Rockies on my way to a Canadian Timberwoods conference in Ottawa. I had to leave my cushy little apartment in Vancouver for this at the request of my foreman at the furniture workshop.

I've been to Ottawa once or twice. I think it was twice. The last time, I went with a special someone. I pulled the sliding door to the observation car, hearing it hiss behind me as it closed. I looked ahead of me, the stairway climbing up to the observation platform. I sushed my feet over the faded carpet, my sperry topsiders illuminated by the ground guiders. I take a seat at a familiar booth, the porter comes by with the small iron brazer to keep the booth warm. I pull out moosie, set him onto the table. The heat of the brazer starts to warm him up, the smell of pink grapefruit starts to fill the car, a few couples heads turn to find the source of the smell, the look but turn back.

At ten, the lights are extinguished, the waiter made his rounds, I order a pot of earl grey and he brings it around and places it on top of the brazer. His white mess jacket disappears at the end of the car and descends to the lower half of the car. I sit quietly, the orange glow from the coils dimly illuminate the table top. Moosie rolls over as the train turns over a large curve. I pull the heavy sheepskin blanket up higher over my lap and my head drops back. The stars drift slowly through the clear ceiling. The cold mountain air laps up against the window, occasionally tangoing with the warm air making little foggy spots. The snow capped peaks rush by, the tall pines fall over behind me. I cock my head forward again realizing i'm the only person in the car left. The slow shlucking of the wheels makes me shiver. The moonlight illuminates the car dimly and the pale white light makes the car seem to be lonely. The porter comes up, his white jacket is dazzling in the light he makes a small comment, that the car is closing. I bundle up the blanket, tuck moosie into my arm and I walk out. I look back one more time, I can feel her under my arm as I walk out, funny thing is, she's not there anymore.

I change into an undershirt and basketball shorts. I click out the light I lay in the top bunk. She would have been in the bottom and joined me, but I laid there like a log, my arms outreached, embracing the extra pillow just with one thing on my mind.

50 Things to do in an Elevator

1. Make race car noises when anyone gets on or off.

2. Blow your nose and offer to show the contents of your Kleenex to other passengers.

3. Grimace painfully while smacking your forehead and muttering: Shut up, dammit, all of you just shut UP!

4. Whistle the first seven notes of It's a Small World incessantly.

5. Sell Girl Scout cookies.

6. On a long ride, sway side to side at the natural frequency of the elevator.

7. Shave.

8. Crack open your briefcase or purse, and while peering inside ask: Got enough air in there?

9. Offer name tags to everyone getting on the elevator. Wear yours upside-down.

10. Stand silent and motionless in the corner, facing the wall, without getting off.

11. When arriving at your floor, grunt and strain to yank the doors open, then act embarrassed when they open by themselves.

12. Lean over to another passenger and whisper: Noogie patrol coming!

13. Greet everyone getting on the elevator with a warm handshake and ask them to call you Admiral.

14. Censored by your son.

15. On the highest floor, hold the door open and demand that it stay open until you hear the penny you dropped down the shaft go plink at the bottom.

16. Do Tai Chi exercises.

17. Stare, grinning, at another passenger for a while, and then announce: I've got new socks on!

18. When at least 8 people have boarded, moan from the back: Oh, not now, damn motion sickness!

19. Give religious tracts to each passenger.

20. Meow occasionally.

21. Bet the other passengers you can fit a quarter in your nose.

22. Frown and mutter gotta go, gotta go then sigh and say oops!

23. Show other passengers a wound and ask if it looks infected.

24. Sing Mary had a little lamb while continually pushing buttons.

25. Holler Chutes away! whenever the elevator descends.

26. Walk on with a cooler that says human head on the side.

27. Stare at another passenger for a while, then announce You're one of THEM! and move to the far corner of the elevator.

28. Burp, and then say mmmm...tasty!

29. Leave a box between the doors.

30. Ask each passenger getting on if you can push the button for them.

31. Wear a puppet on your hand and talk to other passengers through it.

32. Start a sing-along.

33. When the elevator is silent, look around and ask is that your beeper?

34. Play the harmonica.

35. Shadow box.

36. Say Ding! at each floor.

37. Lean against the button panel.

38. Say I wonder what all these do and push the red buttons.

39. Listen to the elevator walls with a stethoscope.

40. Draw a little square on the floor with chalk and announce to the other passengers that this is your personal space.

41. Bring a chair along.

42. Take a bite of a sandwich and ask another passenger: Wanna see wha in muh mouf?

43. Blow spit bubbles.

44. Pull your gum out of your mouth in long strings.

45. Announce in a demonic voice: I must find a more suitable host body.

46. Carry a blanket and clutch it protectively.

47. Make explosion noises when anyone presses a button.

48. Wear X-Ray Specs and leer suggestively at other passengers.

49. Stare at your thumb and say I think it's getting larger.

50. If anyone brushes against you, recoil and holler Bad touch!

Nothing

Its been two months since i've been forced into singledom.

Moped Diaries: Day Four

Finally, I got the acheies to write again!

Our stint just across the Oregon border didn't last long, the place by far was the most beautiful leg of our journey, yet the journey wasn't half over. My hands held onto the cork and leather handlebars tightly, feeling the vibrations of the little two stroke, hearing the gasoline sloshing. I revved the engine again, lurching forward, faster, over the small hill, and up into the sky. I twisted the handle yet further, the moped roared into the sky, leaving the ground, floating or being pulled up by strings as if some great being desired to meet me in my bike. Suddenly, before me, the clouds amassed themselves, to form a great greek temple, and sitting was a great, white stony face of Zeus himself. Where his pupils should have been, only was a great distance of white, like in those ancient roman statues. His mouth opened, lightning seem to flash into it, and began to suck me into his mouth, darkness enveloped me. Shutting out all light, the world closing thick in, there was a terrible ringing. It didn't cease. It was like the sound of a million hammer heads falling onto one single anvil.

My eyes popped open. It was Ashton's fucking alarm clock going off. What a weird dream, I hadn't had a dream in years, taking careful note to orient my bed in a way in which dreams wouldn't filter into my head. But I guess, in the wilderness, that doesn't matter whichever fucking way you slept. Today marks our fourth day, four days since I last showered, since I last shaved, shitted in a porcelain god, eaten in a restaurant with leather bound menus and since I last remember sleeping on a mattress between clean bed linens. I looked around me, a low misty rumble kept me constant companion, other than Ashton of course. The tent seemed to sag with a bit moisture, the entire thing in itself wanted to suffocate the two of us. Ashton had thrown the clock out of the tent and resumed his face plant into his small bundled up jacket, now an improvised pillow. I leaned back again, closing my eyes, squeezing the lids as tight as possible and opened them. That bleak green color of the tent burned as I stared. I sat up, grabbing my fountain pen and the weather-all journal. I wrote a few lines and tossed them aside again.

The past three days, I had been wearing a ratty pair of old Abercrombie and Fitch jeans, and once, a pair of Columbia waterproof pants. I looked at the old jeans. There was a hole where the seat would be, the threads were stretched bare thin. I chuckled at them, reached into a side pocket of my backpack and pulled out a small silver case and an old paisley bandanna. I ripped it into two, sewed it into the seat and replaced the items into the little pockets here and there. I retrieved a silver pin from the case and gave Ashton a quick prod.

"Oi!
"Morning sexy pants
"Oh hello. Me breakfast in thirty?
"Sure sure. Cook it yourself mkay?
"Lol, Of course.

I pulled on a thick pair of corduroy pants, I wrapped the thick pea coat around me, placing the cashmere scarf she had given me between my neck and the rough wool. I stepped out, pulling on my heavy, sheepskin lined boots. I chunked around the campsite, nudging the remanants of the fire pit from last night and trying to stoke some life into it. I threw a few dead branches, a few wodges of newspaper and a little splash of fluid. I dropped a match onto the papers and they sprung to life. Opening up and crisping again as the newsprint faded into obscurity. I placed another log on top, then arranging the cooking platform on the side and placed the kettle with a small amount of water into it.

Ashton stepped out, walked to the bikes and pulled a smallish rectangular box from a rear side pannier and a small blue enamel bowl. He poured several handfuls of Cheerios into the bowl and commenced eating. I took a tin of sardines and a slice of bread and speared it with a sharpened stick, held it over the fire for a few moments and removed it and placed the little sardine fillets onto it and rolled it up. We both looked at our watches, mine said 9:30am, ashton's for some reason said 10:10. We looked at each other, puzzled, and grabbing each a section from the newspaper, we walked off to defecate. The newspaper served purpose twofold. Literally.

We put out the fire, loaded the panniers, buried the trash and unlocked the bikes. Portland, here we come!

I read a book somewhere about the amazing and beautiful bridges of the Oregon Highways once. The pictures in the book certainly did no justice to the genuine articles. They simply were amazing as our little motors hummed peacefully over them. The graceful arch of concrete, design celebrated and oriented carried our loads so carefully over the span, Ashton and I were compelled to take pictures of each and I remembered again to remount the camera on the front pannier rack. Ashton took the lead and we were chugging it north, further north. We arrived in Florence around lunch time, only a third of the way there. We refilled on gas, stocked up on provisions and treated ourselves to lunch in the diner. I had ordered a small pork chop with onions and mashed potatos on the side, Ashton ordered himself a salad with a side of tuna. We left the diner, our tummies and our gas tanks full and we roared off again.

By three PM, we arrived in Tillamook, this was our farewell to the 101, We now had to turn up onto the five and continue into Portland. Portland would be the first city where we would treat ourselves to a night in a motel. As a chance for the tent to dry in the shower and for once, enjoy sleep in a spring mattress and with clean white bed sheets. By five, we arrived in the outskirts and we checked into a Super 8 motel in the north part of town. We parked our bikes in one parking space, locked them and took our bags off. We checked in, then placed the panniers and bags all over the room. Then took out the tent, shook it and hung it to dry in the shower. We exchanged looks and stepped outside again, and unlocked the bikes.

We rode into the downtown, grabbed a few drinks at a local bar and rode back to the motel. We pulled a map out and stared at it. We literally could now walk right into the state of Washington. We covered the majority or Oregon within one day and dash it all, it was fucking amazing. Tomorrow morning, we would follow the five up into the city of Vancouver and enter the State of Washington. We each took turns using the shower for the first time as well as making use of the washing machine facilities in the building. Soon we both looked decent again, with the exception of our fairly scraggly looking beards we both now sported. Ashton's fully fledged and possibly hiding a bird, mine only covered my cheeks and my chin and upper lip. It didn't hang, it looked like lichen clinging to a tree. Our clothes cleaned and packed into the leather and canvas and nylon bags, we each climbed into our beds and turned out the light.

Sensory Registration

Mankind is with but five senses. Sight, smell, touch, taste and sound. No doubt, one cannot help but remember the joy involved with the flooding of memories coming back the moment that sense is triggered in the right way. In my life, I never noticed how prevalent that was until these past two months of the single life.

I was moping as usual, I stared on my shelf and picked up the little vaporizer bottle of Bath and Body works Pink Grapefruit. Unfortunate that they dont make it anymore, but I was afraid to spray it, for fear of wasting it all. I popped off the cap, took a little breather and it took me back. It brought back so many happy thoughts and memories. Helping Bri pack, nuzzling Moosie in my arms for the first time, coming home from work, exhausted and hopeless. The lobby smelled so familiar. It just hit me that moment and I couldn't place it. I opened my mail box to find a perfumed letter just for me! That is one my favorite moments in the past two years here at Cal.

I was enjoying my April 18th by taking in a flick dedicated to the 103rd anniversary of the 1906 earthquake. But after the banjo minstrel band left the stage, I sat, sunk into my seat moping. Again. But all of a sudden, the Castro theater was filled with the most extraordinary sound. The sound of the mighty Wurlitzer is a sound I could never forget. Especially played in an old jazzy way. The organ rose with a bald man at the console. The hall filled with sound and my head was abuzz with memories of ice skating in Paramount. I thought instantly of the Wurlitzer organ at that ice rink and memories of just trying to get around the rink just once. Warren as his name was played beautifully, his ability to control so many sounds at once as well as play with his feet was simply a gift. I sunk deep into the velvet chair, in a trance as it were, thinking of a simpler time. When I was ice skating, not looking at my feet, but into someone's eyes.

Castro Theatre

On Cal Day, I found myself wanting to get away from it all. What better than to enjoy a nice day in San Francisco. In an hour, I was pushing my way through throngs of tourists as a local. I knew what I wanted to do and I did it. I walked through the Castro, enjoying lunch at a local establishment, went to fisherman's wharf and bought cheap stuff. Granted, what I did was the pinnacle of what every tourist did but that was for that brief moment.

It was getting late and I had to be back in the Castro for a performance by the Peninsula Banjo Band. This, I could not miss. The band played, the organ played then I watched the film. It felt amazing to be in a motion picture palace once again. You dont know the thrill when you see the MGM lion roar on a screen the size of your house, or the fact that of all places, this movie theater had a balcony, and corinthian columns and murals on the walls.

So I say, enjoy a film, support your local motion picture palace. Not cineplex. Palace.

Heat

I sat in the shade of the bus kiosk. I stood, leaning against the frame of a wall and enjoying the muted light that penetrated through the scratched and opaque ceiling. There was a hot gust of wind, the street rippled for a second under the monotony of the weather. You could feel it, the moment you stepped out from under the shade, you felt like melting, you felt like dying.

The infernal bus never came. I started to walk. I cursed myself silently for choosing to walk on the sunny side but with that, came a reprieve when I walked changed directions and found myself on the shady side. I leaned my back against the cool granite walls of the city college. Now, I arrived again at another bus kiosk. Serviced by more reliable buses but I had not escaped that dratted weather. I looked across the street, staring calmly at the walgreens across the way. I thought for a moment, ran across, made a purchase and again found myself on the shade of the kiosk. When I had came back, there seemed to be thirty more people than when I had left. That's the bus for you.

The bus came, I walked to studio, and secluded myself in a bathroom stall. Whipped out my purchase, gave myself a good dusting and I was free of wet and heat. Thank you Goldbond Medicated Body Powder

Used to

There are alot of things I used to do. Things I did that made my regular life, well, my regular life. Little things you'd never notice yourself doing when you were happy, say for instance, tying your shoes on one foot then the other, the exact same way over and over. But once there is that impact, that event that changes your life, changes the way you live, you notice everything you've lost.

Change happens both ways. For good and for bad, and some people can never let go of their habits but at some point change has got to give. Man and woman are not made from granite, we are not made from iron and we are not made from wood. If we were made from granite, we would be hard and stern. Changing only to the elements and to human force. If we were made of iron, we would be cast and be brittle, and the only change we would see is the corrosion from neglect. If we were wood, we would be flexible yet rigid, many yet easily destroyed and changing to any means possible. I think we are clay. Soft, malleable to any form, possible to make rigid permanently but still, with time to mold and work and play with. If you look at people around the world if they were clay, the only ones who have been fired in the kilns are those who are six feet under.

My head used to be filled with music. Operas, librettos, scores, orchestras, symphonies, songs, melodies, jazz bands. Nary was there a night I could fall asleep without difficulty as my own head sang me to sleep. Then what happened? Where has the music gone? I lay in bed, gaping at the ceiling in a fish sort of way, trying to breathe, thinking of all my bodily functions trying to shut down. No more jazz, no more Shostakovich, no more Gilbert & Sullivan, just silence. Plain as day silence. Even throughout my daily life, the music isn't there or isn't as strong as it used to be. I wonder where the pit has gone?

Mold a statue's arm of clay over another statue, then remove the other statue, the arm begins to sag under its own weight. It cannot support its own. Unless you fired it or made it rigid. But where is this rigidity? Where is this "backbone" so to speak? She tells me it comes from touching your bases. Finding that root element that can define all. That's all fine and dandy but how on earth do you stick a skeleton into a clay statue that's already made? It's impossible unless you start from scratch. As a student, there is no time. If I were an artist, I would have plenty time to do whatever I felt like. Quite.

But even now, I feel the pressure, I feel the problems bearing an ungodly weight upon me. The pains in my lame arm start to become apparent and I suffocate. Where is air? Where is feeling? Where is my skeleton, on which I can build my life on?

I dont know.

Out of the Dust

Move it Buddy!

The soldier turned, he looked back into the eyes of a stumpy, irate Manhattan cabbie. His tweed cap sat squashed like a flat persimmon on his head and his mustashe twitched from side to side. The soldier stepped back in between the safety of the parked cars and the driver returned to his cab. He sighed watching the cab just inch past him at a crawling pace. He returned to the sidewalk with his bag and and swung it over his shoulder.

Watch it you jerk!

He turned once more this time, facing a woman in her mid twenties wearing dark sunglasses, holding a coffee and the leash of a small dog in one hand and in the other pressing the phone up to her head.
You almost made me spill my triple mocha frappacino!
He stood aside, apologized and walked.

He served in Iraq, that damn war. All guts, no glory, it's all for this? To be disrespected in your own home? He came back from a place where people shot at him, to defend the so-called rights of the people there. The same people who are like our people. The same jerks and shits. Here, he felt alienated. Here, it was no better than in Iraq.

Zen Biking

A Zen Teacher saw five of his students return from the market, riding their bicycles. When they had dismounted, the teacher asked the students, "Why are you riding your bicycles?" The first student replied, "The bicycle is carrying this sack of potatoes. I am glad that I do not have to carry them on my back!" The teacher praised the student, saying, "You are a smart boy. When you grow old, you will not walk hunched over, as I do." The second student replied, "I love to watch the trees and fields pass by as I roll down the path." The teacher commended the student, "Your eyes are open and you see the world." The third student replied, "When I ride my bicycle, I am content to chant, nam myoho renge kyo." The teacher gave praise to the third student, "Your mind will roll with the ease of a newly trued wheel." The fourth student answered, "Riding my bicycle, I live in harmony with all beings." The teacher was pleased and said, "You are riding on the golden path of non-harming." The fifth student replied, "I ride my bicycle to ride my bicycle." The teacher went and sat at the feet of the fifth student, and said, "I am your disciple."

Moped Diaries: Day Three

A familiar feeling stirred me awake this morning. I sat up again, this time, I felt unaware of what was going on. I stared around, taking in the green nylon walls, the large purple mass besides me. The walls of the tent were pushing and pulling, the wind battling against the human element. Every of often, it sounded as if the tent was being pummeled with peppercorns and I realized it was rain. I nudged Ashton to stir him and he turned over and sniffed. I nudged him again but this time, he farted in retaliation. Giving up, I tried to cozy myself back into the position I was sleeping in. My eyes couldn't put the darkness before them again, the flashing green nylon kept my eyes open. Suddenly, I hear a buzz. It sounds like a small gong going off. I realize Ashton brought an alarm clock. He sits up instantly, clicks it off and runs out the tent.

"ASHTON! IT'S RAINING!"

He doesn't hear me. He's too busy frolicking in the tempest. The rain is coming down hard and fast, Ashton starts to disappear into the rain and through the thick of it and the fog, you cant see him. I pull out the church key and open a tin of milk. I sit watching the grey figure shuffle through the rain jumping over logs and running through the grass. A few minutes later, he reappears in the tent sopping wet. I hold out the can for him to have a sip of milk. He takes it and finishes it. I pull on compression leggings for warmth, and a pair of waterproof pants. Heavy woolen socks and I replace the boots on my feet. I pull on the heavy pea coat and the rain slicker.

We climb onto our bikes and start to ride. The world immersed in rain is different, gray figures muscle around us as we continue riding. We are soaked, the headlights barely cast into the gray fog. We ride, our cyclometers read 130 miles. My tank is running a little dry and Ashton switches his motor off. We pedal, we keep moving. We are in Oregon.

There are hardly changes in scenery from when we left California to when we arrived in Oregon, the trees are just as majestic as ever and the only noticeable difference was the lack of sales tax when we filled up our tanks at a small roadside gas station. This was truly a paradise as we kept riding up the coast.

Evening seems to come faster when you are in Oregon, no sooner had we crossed the border did the sun begin to set and run. We pitched our tent in a dry spot under a fallen tree in a gully, parked and set up the stove and a small fire. The orange sky turned to a madder lake deep red into a convulsing purple then into the cold, clear darkness of the heavens. The clouds had parted, the rain stopped and the stars vivid. I felt as if we were camping beneath the tip of the world. I pulled a small square frying pan, placed two sausages in it, and let it roast over the campfire. Ashton on the other hand was trying to cook a small pot of rice over the campstove and it had a little trouble, but in the end, with some ketchup, we were fine. We washed the dishes, placed them aside, away from the tents and we pulled out our instruments again. I started strumming out, picking "Little Brown Church in the Vale and Ashton took up the harmony. We sat and sang until our little fire went out. Into the tent, into our sleeping bags and lights out.

Moped Diaries: Day Two

A low moan rattled my sleep. I shuddered waking up and sitting up in my sleeping bag. I rubbed my arms in the heavy woolen sweater, blinking without my glasses and taking in my surroundings. The light green nylon fabric of the tent walls glowed eerily as I sat. Ashton still was rumbling with sleep in his sleeping bag and I gently rocked him to stir.

"Wha? Huh?"
"Morning sleeping beauty."
"Oh. Hello."
"Is that all you have to say to me?"
"Yep"
"Come on. Lets get washed up."

I drew the narrow silver canteen from the front pannier and poured it into a small wash pan and set it on top of the propane burner. I set up a mirror on a fence post and set up my shaving kit, carefully setting the badger brush on the post by the mirror and setting up the razor. The water began to steam and I poured half into the mug and set the rest aside for Ashton to wash his face. Slowly stirring the cream into a foam, I wrestled it onto my face and carefully shaved off the growth from the last two nights.

"Dude, this water is hot."
"What? You dont wash up with hot water?"
"No. Duh."
"Just do it. It'll feel better."
"You ought to keep your beard. It might keep you warm on the road."

Suddenly, that thought hit me. Warm face. I wiped off the cream and packed up the shaving things. We sat on our camp stools and as breakfast was cooking over the stove, we talked about where we were. While I was shaving, Ashton had taken a location with the lensatic compass and plotted our position on the map. Thirty miles out of Fort Bragg. We decided to fill up on gas there and one of us would move one of our panniers to the other person's bike and would hold a jerry can instead. I volunteered my front canvas pannier. Ashton stared at it, and clipped it behind my rear pannier.

"Hey!"
"Problem solved!"
"Fine. But you're carrying your own gasoline too."
"Fine!"

We pedaled to Fort Bragg and made it there by lunch time. We bought and filled to jerry cans and hooked them to our panniers. We stopped in town for an hour or two, to replace the things we had used up last night. A new tin of beans, a tin of beef, a loaf of sourdough bread and a pack of extra socks. I stopped outside the hardware store to pick up a small hatchet. We might need firewood at some point I thought. My moped was staring to look like a carry-all on wheels. The nice thing about it all was it looked rugged. The classic looks and lines of the derringer bike, the old school seat and panniers, it was meant for this. Ashton rolled by, his panniers and carriers filled with sketchbook paper, pencils, cans of lighter fluid, some old newspapers and a small bag of charcoals. We pulled out of Fort Bragg at three and continued up old highway one.

We rode, the wind pushing against our helmets and faces. It made me wish I had bought pilots goggles from the surplus store. As we rode, the flat rolling landscape soon became a harsh, rough, terrifying yet subtle landscape. It undulated but it fought back sometimes. Highway one was truly a road built to the world. It didn't plow through the landscape like most interstates did. This truly was second to god. We rode and rode. Our tanks not seeming to grow empty. Every so often, we'd stop and stretch, enjoy the land. Ashton would pull the sketchbook out and draw. I realized then, I forgot to use the camcorder. I quickly pulled out the small powershot and set up a rig on the handlebar to record us as we went.

Winding through steep and curving road, we rode over gigantic, beautiful concrete arch bridges, walked through forests now and then and stopped for a hot dog for dinner. This time, night caught up before our tanks were empty. This time, we settled camp away from road. We drove down a small path and parked in a clearing. We pitched the tent up, locked the bikes together and started a small fire. The darkness seemed like a cold blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I missed that feeling of someone wrapped up besides you. Ashton and I certainly were missing our better halves. The girls were going on a trip with each other to Florida. Ashton had scoffed at the idea and said it was only helping the industry. He could be like that sometimes, but it was fine. We balanced each other out. I had managed to strap my mandolin to the front pannier and I pulled it out. Ashton pulled his uke out and we started to jam into the night. Our two bodies, illuminated by the slowly dying fire, our fingers jangling around, pulling out a tune as best as possible. We laughed, shared a can of beer and turned in.

Yet more to come!

Moped Diaries: Day One

The start of a new series

http://www.derringercycles.com/slideshow/gallery.htm
That site should give you an idea of what I want to ride.

The cold gray fog still shrouded San Francisco, wrapping its misty arms around the towers and pooling in between the buildings. In the narrow back alleyways of the Western Addition, I woke up, I looked at the big ben clock on the nightstand. Six thirty four. The slow whirring ticking sound resonated on the table. I sat up in bed, rubbing my thighs briskly through a pair of old basketball shorts, blinking in the cold sunlight streaming through the shutters.

The hot tap rumbled as the steaming water emerged out of the tap into the dirty porcelain basin. I washed my rough face and brushed my teeth and packed my toothbrush. The canvas leather saddle bags sit by the door, ready and waiting to be mounted. One final check around the apartment, it will be a long time before I see this place. I grab the pairs of saddle bags and sling them over my shoulders. With my free hand, I grab the square leather case with smaller things, and the small camera case. The door behind me clicked, I locked the deadbolt and walked downstairs, nearly stumbling down the narrow flight of stairs.

Outside, the cars rush by on Hayes street, not noticing me or even giving a second thought as I begin to strap the saddles onto the pannier carriers on my new Derringer moped. I stand back and admire the handiwork, the craft of how everything just fell into place with each other. The drop head handle bars, the chrome plated twin vee engine, the heavy sprung Brooks saddle, I was ready to go. Ashton is supposed to meet me at the corner of California and Arguello and I take off, setting the chronometer as I go to keep track of how much time I would spend on the road. The pedaling part would come later as I speed up hills, through Golden gate park and arriving at California and Arguello.

Around ten minutes later, I hear the whinny of a 1972 Pierce engine with Ashton in the seat. We shake hands, we grab a coffee in the gas station, and stop one last time at the bicycle shop. We wait outside for a few minutes until a skinny girl in flannel and tight jeans opens up the shop. We wander in, pick up a set of ten extra tubes, several extra tires and an extra pannier basket. This one is going on Ashton's moped since one fell off on the way over. We fill up the last time before we leave San Francisco for our journey north. I pulled the heavy pea coat up close, tightening the crash helmet and adjusted my mirrors. It's time to go and make the pilgrimage.

Sailing down Park Presidio with the traffic is exhilirating, coasting down the road through tunnels and up slopes, we find ourselves crossing the golden gate bridge, north into Sausalito and the rest of Marin county. Our engines pumping warmly between our legs, we cruise at a comfortable 30mph through on side roads, winding up on narrow coastal roads, finding log cabin like buildings nestled into the network of trees. Minutes turn into hours and there never seems to be an end to the ceaseless forests and windswept beaches. Here and there, our bikes emerge from the woods in a road cut into a mound, the sand blowing from dunes over our heads. Crooked slat fences undulate into the landscape. Falling and rising and collapsing and in some places gone. Cattle here and there dot the cold fields. Grey clouds moving only so still as if a statue in a museum were moving in the corners of your eyes. We run out of juice 8 hours into the trip. We are now halfway between the border of California and San Francisco.

We pedaled for another few hours, until the weaning hours of darkness began to settle. We pulled off into the side of the road, locking the bicycles to a fallen tree and to each other in opposite directions. I pull out the old pup tent my father gave me as well as a tin of beef and a tin of mixed vegetables. For the longest time, I knew Ashton to be vegetarian. I knew for this trip, he would have to at least eat some meat and he obliged. The tins sit under the burning propane flame. He lights his hurricane lamp and darkness begins to envelope us all around. We pitched along a fence along highway one. The only people who would bother us were the CHP and I doubted that they would really bother with a lonely stretch of road alongside the ocean.

We shared stories, dreams, hopes and what we were expecting. our sleeping bags unravelled into the tent and the light out, we began to fall asleep. We lay there for a little while before we broke into conversation again. We just couldn't believe what we were doing was actually, finally happening. We had been planning this trip since the second year in college when I was at Berkeley and he was at SF state. He had an obsession with the moped since high school and I was and still am into fixing up my 1970 Raleigh Imperial road bicycle. He would laugh, I would too. Sleep caught our better sides and we were out for the night.

more later! Stay tuned.

Cenotaph

"A small paddock-like enclosure surrounded the large gray rectangle that used to sit right here," the man would point out, "it was a popular place to meet back in my day."

Before you, sits a large wet rectangle, seemingly forever etched into the hewn granite blocks beneath your feet. As the man walks off, you follow the line of the rectangle with your feet. Delicately balancing between light gray and dark, as if you stood upon a wire. You start to search the area for evidence of what was once here, but no more.

1919-Harvey Kulloum dedicates memorial cenotaph to the fallen soldiers of the great war.
1921-The cenotaph is rotated 23 degrees as a prank by members of chi phi
1929-The university lovingly calls it the coffin's turnpoint.
1941-War breaks out over campus
1945-Second cenotaph erected adjacent to turned cenotaph
1955-The first cenotaph is replaced with a new marble one
1968-Both cenotaphs are destroyed in a Vietnam war protest
1970-University officially decides to not to replace the two damaged cenotaphs
1972-All remains of the cenotaphs have been removed and placed in storage
1979-dark spot appears on quad where the cenotaph once stood. Exactly 60 years to date.
1980-University powerwashes quad in an attempt to clean the square off
1981-Rectangle re-appears
1982-Paranormal researchers appear on campus, then leave when nothing interesting happens

But all this still is oblivious to you, as you stand on that dark graying rectangle. As you stand in the center, you stare at all four sides around you. There's only one phrase that comes to mind, as the hands and the faces of the fallen grab at your legs. "The Glorious Dead"

alone in place

Glenn knew it would happen. He just longed for it not to happen, and every time, it would get him. His alarm clock would ring signaling the start of another day. The little metal wire holding back the plastic number would let go and the number would come down with a crash and the alarm would blast a scratched, fadey kind of radio sound. He cracked open one eye over his pillow to peek at the clock. The old plastic faux-wood machine stood on the end table a few feet from the bed. Its leering stare indicated 7:39am. One more minute until that damn sound...

The plastic plate came crashing down and it now read 7:40 and the noise began. Like a bad techno song, it came thumping out a steady rhythm and Glenn turned over sinking his into the overstuffed down pillow. "You know... it does sound a bit like a techno club in here". A banging on the wall behind his bed meant that Mr. Himiachi would like to sleep. He slapped the relentless machine and pulled himself out. The bright sun leaked through the white shutters and pooled onto the floor covered in the bedsheets, magazines and several dirty plates with forks still on them. He lumbered over to the bathroom, his feet leaving a heavy thump over the hardwood floors.

The bathroom mirror was no better than that alarm radio he though. He looked like he rolled out of bed. Hah, what's new. He combed his hair, ran his face once over with the electric razor and he looked in the cluttered medicine cabinet for his tooth brush. He brushed, and replaced the things and stared again into the mirror. He used to share this mirror. Just like he shared that giant Ikea bed with all the big pillows and fluffy comforter. He slammed it shut and turned out the light and went back into the bedroom. He pulled open the wardrobe and threw on a striped shirt that seemed to fit a bit too tight and a pair of skinny jeans. Picking from a pile of dress shoes, boots and sneakers, he grabbed a pair of Converse chucks.

Glenn went through the hall, kicking the door of his roommates, his roommate's way of being signaled to wake up. He picked up the arm on the record player and switched on the machine and the sound began to fill the kitchen and breakfast room with a quiet sort of vanity. Seth emerged from his room, looking groggy half shaven with his hair every which direction. He dragged his sock covered feet to the table where Glenn placed a bowl of dry cereal in front of him.

"No milk?"
"We're all out dude. Its your turn to buy groceries. I wrote what we need on this list. Go pick it up when you got time ok?"
"yeah yeah yeah"

Glenn didn't feel comfortable with that response. He knew Seth. He knew Seth since their undergrad days at Tulane. School at Armaugh University certainly was different. They always seemed to be stuck to research of some sort. Massachusetts was a strange sort of place. Much more different than what life was like back home in St. Louis or growing up as a kid in West Germany with a father in the military. Seth was the one thing Glenn could count on always being the same or at least bring some sort of "comfort" into knowing what the day was like or at least going to be like.

Glenn closed the door behind him and walked down the hall. He used to do this with someone he recalled. He remembered holding someone's hand when he did this. He retracted his hand from his side and massaged it with the other. It felt weird, like it was going to fall asleep or something. He locked the front door of the building and began to walk to the trolley stop. His routine was regimented every day, Get up, get out, get food, get to class. The trolley arrived with a hiss and he stepped on and it trudged forward under its heavy load of undergrads living off campus for the first time as well as disturbed looking locals finding that their once empty tram car now would be filled with stinking students on a daily basis.

He got off at Battery St. walking over to the fogged up windows of the coffee hut and he entered. The hustle and bustle of graduate students laid itself before him, pimply looking high schoolers working behind the counter trying to earn a bit of cash while they were on their spring break. He plunked down three quarters and a dime. Enough for a small black coffee and a meager looking croissant filled with cheese.

"My Usual please." He loved to say during this time.
A panicked look washed over the high schooler's face. "Uh... what would that be sir?"
"What seems to be the problem?"
"Nothing nothing! So that's one uh. Espresso and a raspberry toa..."
"Small black and a cheese croissant."
Reddened but wiser, he lurched into the back and brought his things. When he turned his back to the cashier to walk out, he grinned. At least one thing still made him smile.

He plunked into the lab, sat at his office space and stared. Papers were needing to be graded, he did that. The professor needed someone to fill in, he lectured. 5pm. Time to go. The tramcar slid through Cavanaugh street filled with students on their way home. Glenn sat at the station stop, just missing the car by that much. He recalled sitting at this stop with someone. He would play games with that someone, fool around whenever they had missed the packed cars. But he sat there quietly thinking about work. The MBTA car rumbled into the stop and he boarded and stood the entire ride back home to his apartment.

The apartment was dark and he switched on the lamp on the table by the door. Seth was passed out on the couch, a bag of groceries sitting on the table and a bottle of vodka sitting with a few shot glasses on the table besides Seth. Glenn looked in puzzlement at the glasses, knowing Seth never pulls out glasses for himself unless he had someone over. He ignored it, walking down the hall to his room. He began to undress, tossing his clothes over towards the closet, throwing his shoes back into the pile from where it had come from and crawled under the heavy comforter.

His figure lay with his arms outstretched to one side, as if he still were holding someone. He imagined days from when he was very happy, from when he still had her. He felt someone slide into the bed and take up his arm and place it over their midsection. He felt that someone crouch into position to fit in as the little spoon and Glenn felt whole again. He moved his hand up the torso and began to squeeze the breasts of the unknown person. He began to realize how lifelike it strangely felt. He sat up instantly in darkness. Only the moonlight was visible, casting an eerie shadow on the pile of dirty shirts on the chair bathed in light. He looked to his side where he was spooning. He stared at the dark massy looking lump and wondered who it was. He poked whoever it was.

"Hey babe... I know you're drunk, but lets do it."
"Seth! Get out of here."

Seth wheeled around, parts of his beard bathed in light from the window.

"Shit dude, my bad. Just give my boxers tomorrow."

Glenn wiped his knees with his gym towel and threw it into the laundry pile. He climbed back into bed this time, unable to sleep. He stared at the ceiling. The lamp seemed like the moon floating, half of its body in the light, the other half shadowed by darkness. He only could think of her, it didn't help. He thought she was happy. Apparently not.

Clack. The alarm clock passed another minute.

Glenn rolled over onto his side, this time, spooning the pillow to make sure Seth didn't come back. He breathed in the pillow's aroma. It still sort of smelled like her, but really faintly. He fell asleep. The battle would begin again at 7:39am.

Suspension of Darkness

Darkness enveloped my surroundings as I sat motionless, staring out of the window, my forehead pressed against the rear pillar of the car. My eyes did not wander, nor were they transfixed upon one thing, but instead, as we sped down the San Mateo bridge, my eyes only could look out one direction and wander around watching the horizon burn with a dark tinge as the lights of the city created the glow behind the mountains. I breathed a heavy sigh realizing my own heavy life.

Wires came into view. I passed them watching them grow with life and then sink back into depression, grow again, and die. The darkness made the wires seem almost suspended in midair, the only parts visible are the reflection of the silver in the faint, unearthly glow of the bay and the headlamps rushing by. A think like this, you hardly ever seem to notice if you've ever made this crossing as many times as I have at this time of night I so know and am so acquainted with. The moon is about. It hides from the world tonight making everything seem more eerie.

Just then, a 170 foot pylon swishes by marking the end of the steeplechase and now began the footrace. The steady rumbling and shluck of the tires underfoot begin their monotonous song as I began to drift somewhere else. My eyes now turned forward to watch the carbon arc lamps rush by and yet still race to the horizon and into the darkness. The thumping continues. The wires alongside the bridge still grow and die, the lights briefly giving life to the interior of the car every few seconds, illuminating every hair in the back of the driver's head, or the meshy fabric of the coat of the person next to me. The thumping stops.

We are on land.

Berkeley Resturant Review: Norikino

Hello Readers! I'm starting today, a new series. I'm going to be, a restaurant review. A food critic. So here's my first review:

Category: Japanese
Address: Telegraph Ave. Between Parker Ave. and Blake Ave. Berkeley, CA

Date: 3/20/09

Ordered: Daikon Salad, Norikino's Special Curry

When entering through an authentic feeling sliding door, the resturant presented itself as quaint and slightly tacky with its little japanese toy things placed here and there. The entire staff was friendly, greeting you upon entry and it was fairly pleasant. I had noted outside, taped to their front window, a copy of their Zagat's review. Looking at the menu and prices, I realized then the review got to their heads and caused prices to inflate pretty high.

The Daikon salad arrived by hand from the elderly looking chef behind the counter where I sat. At first, its puzzling look mystefied me. It was shredded daikon radishes with a tart japanese type sauce and garnished with butter fried baby fish. The cool, crisp, salty yet tart Daikon made this a really appetizing and refreshing appetizer course.

The standard staple at most Japanese resturants came next, a warm bowl of Miso soup. Its really nothing special to write home about, but it has a warm, more traditional taste. Its cooked very homey. Although the meal was a bit on the pricey side for its location, the meal was very complete in that it almost felt like I was eating in Japan. Before me sat a plate of picklings, soup, rice and curry.

The "special" pork curry was subtle in hinting at its spicy nature. At first, I did not believe at all that the curry was spicy until the end where the undertones of the chili powder began to show themselves to my taste buds. This truly is a house special as they call it.

A plate of pickling, a wedge of orange carefully cut, and a sip of green tea sum up a very delicious meal.

decor: 20 food: 23 service: 22

If ever there was

You've probably always assumed that everything that happens in the world is for the "greater good". I feel like the old circle of elders from Hot Fuzz. But everything that happens, happens for a reason, its not that I think it is the ways and the prophecy. I couldn't believe or swallow anything like that. I'm led to believe that actions happen with consequences. Never without. The dynamics and the though behind quantum physics always seem to affect me the most dramatically.

We say we do things for the best but sometimes our actions hurt others and sometimes, there just is no avoiding hurt, harm and the like. Like any wise decision, pick wisely, think long, think hard.

That's what she said.

Why it is so

You ever wonder why of all people in the world to be born without hair until age 4 or why of all people do you get partnered up with the idiot jock in science lab or why you never can find socks that match? Karma. It could be as simple as that or maybe i'm overlooking something I never saw before.

Just recently, everything in my world came crashing down upon me. All sorts of drama and missing bodyparts. Ok, maybe i'm not missing big body parts, but i'm missing some none the less. Each day, it gets harder and harder to motivate yourself. It gets harder to push, to go for the gold as they say.

What drags me down like that? Sanders. Fucking sanders. I'm missing two fingernails because of those damn things. I mean, I've had no big trouble with before, but the past three days, i've sanded off an eighth of a fingernail and finger as well as ripped off a chunk on the same hand about a quarter of my fingernail.

Go on, come and complain to me about your little problems. Bitch and moan to me. Midterms dont seem so hard anymore when you're missing little parts of you.

Karma. Wow. Just wow.



Hey, Revival World, I wanna go there. Oh, it's just furniture.
-Greg Weldon

Album Art

1 - Go to "wikipedia." Hit “random”
or click http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first random wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2 - Go to "Random quotations"
or click http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four or five words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.

3 - Go to flickr and click on “explore the last seven days”
or click http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days
Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4 - Use Photoshop to put it all together. (yay practice! :) )

5 - Post it to Facebook as a note and tag the friends you want to join in - be sure to include me so I can see your work!

5a - Put the person who tagged you at the top of the list.

(Albanian National Army is an ethnic terrorist group in Albania, "See Inside of you" is from a Famous Amos quote)