New Years

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

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

Beat the Calendar

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

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

Flights of Freedom

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

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

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

I am, a wandering bird.

Morris, the Midget Moose

Merry Christmas to All

And to all, A good night.

May your yule log burn bright,

and your inlaws run with fright.

From the turkey that's undercooked,

and hotels that are overbooked.

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

Ticket Stub

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

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

Moped Diaries: Day 8 part one

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

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

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

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

Living the Life of Lindsay

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

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

Tenner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm going to push:

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

http://durhamradiouk.blogspot.com/

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

Gryphon's End

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

My dumb friends

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

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

again?

How many times have I
finished my short haikus with
refridgerator

Hustead's

You sit

Kurt you Asshole

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

Prose Schmose

Like a laughing cow
She sees all in the market
refridgerator

Prose of an Ode to a Rose in a Bose store

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

Saturday Morning Stretches

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

Overheard and Misunderstood

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

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

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

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

Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Zach Wong.