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 VIIIe 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.
SF Bike Coalition Widget
December 02, 2009
November 29, 2009
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.
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.
November 26, 2009
November 18, 2009
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.
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.
November 04, 2009
October 23, 2009
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."
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."
October 20, 2009
October 14, 2009
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.
September 20, 2009
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.
"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.
August 27, 2009
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.
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.
August 09, 2009
Gumpo Sardines
Tonight was guys night out for me and the boys. We were going to get dinner over in north beach, and then head to south of market to find a club. Unless we would get sidetracked at Denza's Bar and grill for drinks. Which we always did. I looked at myself in the mirror, fixing the collar on my shirt and adjusting my hair just the way I always liked it. You know, I never had another barber touch my hair ever since I started going to Briggs over on fourth and mission. The guys, they didn't understand why I didn't get my hair done at a stylist like they did, but I didn't believe in them fancy things. I liked a haircut a man gets by a barber, not a stylist.
We all jumped on the 38L and alighted at Larkin. The four of us walked up Van Ness waiting for a long bus to come pick us up and whisk us away towards the north end of the city. As we stood waiting, the sun began to dimmer and the street began to light up. The long, articulated bus hissed as it stopped at the platform and we got on. It whirred to life with an electric sound, rushing us past apartment buildings, showrooms, and restaurants. There, we rumbled up bay street and got off again at Columbus. The sounds of North Beach were welcoming as we walked down the sidewalk. Jordan smelled of oil and cologne. We could catch a whiff of him as he walked before us. Jordan always was the looker, Italian parents, good school, lots of money, executive position. Only problem was, he wasn't good with the ladies. He'd have a girl one day then lose her the next cause he asked her something stupid. I ran into his last girl in the hallway of our building once. Macie was her name, she told me to tell that Jord-ass was a fuck face for asking her to participate in a threeway with another girl he had met on craigslist. I tried to apologize for him, explaning he's a caveman doing that ever since. Macie and I are friends now, every so often she comes over to share a bottle of wine and a cuddle if I provided a movie for us to watch.
Packie scooted himself in front of me as we filed past a street cafe. Packie or Patrick Ellis on his business cards, was a cool guy. He was pretty trendy, following every new hip thing that came out of Abercrombie and Fitch and all those other name brand stores. Ever two months, he would throw out his entire wardrobe and buy a new set of clothes. I never had to buy clothes for myself since I almost always ended up with his handmedowns. I wasn't complaining. This was the first time in three years that I managed to stay with current fashions as close as possible. Packie had good features, which was why he worked as a male model. He got clothes for free, but the things he wanted were beyond his means. How he managed to get them, I didn't ask for fear of risking free expensive clothes. One thing that Packie managed to do well in life was seduce people into doing things for him. I suppose that he had several sugar daddies and sugar mommas scattered throughout the city of San Francisco. He was damn charming, which was why I used to do his laundry for him for a month back in 2006.
Vijay Nahamatapul then scooted in front of me as we rounded another narrow pathway through a sidewalk cafe. Vijay is what the ladies describe as a "last call fuck". He usually wound up with average looking girls but once, we walked into a bar and this tall, leggy brunette came up to him, grabbed his crotch and then put her hand in front of her mouth in forced, fake shock. He gave her a sly look and the two of them then walked out. Just as we walked in! I swear, somewhere in his bloodline is a little bit of an African. Or at least some race known for large penises. I suppose where the other two get girls instantly, Vijay works by sowing the fields then reaping the wheat. Or in his case, raping the wheat.
We seated ourself at a small table with a white cloth, and four services. We ate, and had beers. The owner came by our table with a small metal tin on his platter. The four of us looked at it with some curiosity. The lid of the tin had been removed revealing four sardine fillets, glistening with oil and emitting a smell something like a rubber racing slick and a garlic bread stick. Packie, Jordan and Vijay all turned them down and then the owner looked at me. His round, balding head was rather happy looking as it beamed at me. I took the tin and thanked him. The guys looked at me with skepticism. Maybe they had smelled the racing slick as well. My silver fork glanced over them carefully, and speared a small chunk floating in oil near one of the rounded ends of the can. I raised it to my lips. It tasted good.
As we found ourselves in the club later, none of us seemed to have any luck. Jordan didn't seem to attract any girls. Packie was more interested in the lady bartender and she seemed more interested in draining Packie's wallet which she did quite well actually. Vijay also was striking out. Not even the last call girls would look at him. I laughed in my head at my friend's failures this evening. All of a sudden, I found myself surrounded by two brunettes, an asian and two blondes. They all looked and eyed me with suspucion. I was wondering what the hell was going on. I then noticed the asian's nose perking a little. The sardines! They must have been aprhodisiacs!
"You smell bad. Get out."
"Oh."
We all jumped on the 38L and alighted at Larkin. The four of us walked up Van Ness waiting for a long bus to come pick us up and whisk us away towards the north end of the city. As we stood waiting, the sun began to dimmer and the street began to light up. The long, articulated bus hissed as it stopped at the platform and we got on. It whirred to life with an electric sound, rushing us past apartment buildings, showrooms, and restaurants. There, we rumbled up bay street and got off again at Columbus. The sounds of North Beach were welcoming as we walked down the sidewalk. Jordan smelled of oil and cologne. We could catch a whiff of him as he walked before us. Jordan always was the looker, Italian parents, good school, lots of money, executive position. Only problem was, he wasn't good with the ladies. He'd have a girl one day then lose her the next cause he asked her something stupid. I ran into his last girl in the hallway of our building once. Macie was her name, she told me to tell that Jord-ass was a fuck face for asking her to participate in a threeway with another girl he had met on craigslist. I tried to apologize for him, explaning he's a caveman doing that ever since. Macie and I are friends now, every so often she comes over to share a bottle of wine and a cuddle if I provided a movie for us to watch.
Packie scooted himself in front of me as we filed past a street cafe. Packie or Patrick Ellis on his business cards, was a cool guy. He was pretty trendy, following every new hip thing that came out of Abercrombie and Fitch and all those other name brand stores. Ever two months, he would throw out his entire wardrobe and buy a new set of clothes. I never had to buy clothes for myself since I almost always ended up with his handmedowns. I wasn't complaining. This was the first time in three years that I managed to stay with current fashions as close as possible. Packie had good features, which was why he worked as a male model. He got clothes for free, but the things he wanted were beyond his means. How he managed to get them, I didn't ask for fear of risking free expensive clothes. One thing that Packie managed to do well in life was seduce people into doing things for him. I suppose that he had several sugar daddies and sugar mommas scattered throughout the city of San Francisco. He was damn charming, which was why I used to do his laundry for him for a month back in 2006.
Vijay Nahamatapul then scooted in front of me as we rounded another narrow pathway through a sidewalk cafe. Vijay is what the ladies describe as a "last call fuck". He usually wound up with average looking girls but once, we walked into a bar and this tall, leggy brunette came up to him, grabbed his crotch and then put her hand in front of her mouth in forced, fake shock. He gave her a sly look and the two of them then walked out. Just as we walked in! I swear, somewhere in his bloodline is a little bit of an African. Or at least some race known for large penises. I suppose where the other two get girls instantly, Vijay works by sowing the fields then reaping the wheat. Or in his case, raping the wheat.
We seated ourself at a small table with a white cloth, and four services. We ate, and had beers. The owner came by our table with a small metal tin on his platter. The four of us looked at it with some curiosity. The lid of the tin had been removed revealing four sardine fillets, glistening with oil and emitting a smell something like a rubber racing slick and a garlic bread stick. Packie, Jordan and Vijay all turned them down and then the owner looked at me. His round, balding head was rather happy looking as it beamed at me. I took the tin and thanked him. The guys looked at me with skepticism. Maybe they had smelled the racing slick as well. My silver fork glanced over them carefully, and speared a small chunk floating in oil near one of the rounded ends of the can. I raised it to my lips. It tasted good.
As we found ourselves in the club later, none of us seemed to have any luck. Jordan didn't seem to attract any girls. Packie was more interested in the lady bartender and she seemed more interested in draining Packie's wallet which she did quite well actually. Vijay also was striking out. Not even the last call girls would look at him. I laughed in my head at my friend's failures this evening. All of a sudden, I found myself surrounded by two brunettes, an asian and two blondes. They all looked and eyed me with suspucion. I was wondering what the hell was going on. I then noticed the asian's nose perking a little. The sardines! They must have been aprhodisiacs!
"You smell bad. Get out."
"Oh."
July 28, 2009
Moped Diaries: Day seven
long awaited by me, probably not by you but what the hell!
A haze hung over my head as I woke up. I gasped at the air of the dark room trying to inhale something fresh at least. I looked around me and I could see nothing but pitch black. A white line traced itself across the ceiling, bumping into the smoke detector and overtaking it like nothing. That line continued across the ceiling running into another thing I couldn't make out. It then hit the wall and then ran down over the frame of a picture and then a canvas pannier. My pannier. I recgonized the initials Z W painted over the front flap. I pulled the sheet off and stood up. A pain ran down my entire spine as I stood and I bent forward from it. Nearly bashing my head into a sleeping lump next to me. I shuddered and stood. I walked to the source of the line and pulled it apart. The curtains squealed as I opened them. I looked before me. A sprawl of green and fog pierced my eye. I looked out beyond the balcony. I saw our two mopeds chained to a pole and ice machine. Strange. I shuffled back to the warm half of my bed and sat there for awhile. I looked around, hoping to perhaps understand what happened last night.
I felt a hand grab at my waistband of my underpants and I reeled back in shock. I looked back towards the bed and saw a slender wrist with a bracelet on it. Several bracelets actually. I looked back at it. I stared at it intently. Cursing it with a slight disgust. We were supposed to meet our girls in Victoria in three days and the last thing we needed was this. I poked Ashton, or at least what I thought was Ashton.
"G'ywer over!"
I was taken aback at the harshness and femineity of the voice. I poked the other lump and then Ashton stirred.
"Wha?"
"Dude! Look."
He turned onto his side and looked. It was a female. Sort of. She was wearing heavy black corset with black satin ribbons here and there. Ashton made up with a start.
"aaagh!"
The black lifeless mold sprung to life.
"Dear god! Where am I?"
Suddenly, the bangled hand sprung to life as well.
"Candy! Where are we?"
"W-who are you two?" I asked.
"I'm Candy Jean and this is Florence. We call her Flo. Only Flo."
"Uh heyeah...."
"Wait. Who are you two?"
"I dont know."
"What you mean you dont know. Aint you two... yous two?"
"I'm Reginald." Ashton made up in a thick British accent.
"Ah, and i'm uh Sid."
"Sure... sure. You guys got any Baileys?"
We both shook our heads. The two girls then exited the room. We stared at each other in complete fear. We searched every trash can for any condoms. The cans were empty. We pulled apart the room looking for evidence of sex. None. As far as we knew.
"How wasted did we get last night?"
"I dont know, enough to lock our bikes to a vending machine and a drain pipe and apparently take those two bats to bed."
"But we didnt.... did we?"
"I dont think either of us did. As far as I knew, I passed out."
"Jesus, Buddah and Holy Zombie Jesus with Joseph Smith on their majestic steed 'Brigham Young'"
"Ditto." I said.
As we checked out, we asked the check out desk if they knew who those girls were. It turns out they were occupants in the room two doors down. We must have accidentally left the door unlocked and they wandered in and slept. We hope.
We loaded our bags and made our way down to the bikes. I tightened the sheepskin collar on my leather jacket and helmet. Ashton had a limp handrolled cigarette in his mouth. I slapped the thing out of his mouth. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes before giving me a 'fuck you' look. We both unlocked our bikes and we soon found ourselves in line for the border crossing. As soon as we made it to the border, a guard in a blue shirt and black hat came up to us.
"Hello Gentlemen. Passports if you please."
We handed them over. He came back out in a minute and then passed them back to us. He told us to enjoy our visit to the great nation of Canada. We finally made it to Canada! It was all so confusing. The liters, the loonies and not seeing US flags everywhere. We dumped our things at the YMCA hotel in Vancouver and locked up the mopeds in the garage. We both looked at each other and couldn't believe we made out to Vancouver after seven days of biking and motoring. We took in the city as much as we could and then returned to the YMCA at 10. The next morning, we would board the ferries then meet our girls in Victoria.
A haze hung over my head as I woke up. I gasped at the air of the dark room trying to inhale something fresh at least. I looked around me and I could see nothing but pitch black. A white line traced itself across the ceiling, bumping into the smoke detector and overtaking it like nothing. That line continued across the ceiling running into another thing I couldn't make out. It then hit the wall and then ran down over the frame of a picture and then a canvas pannier. My pannier. I recgonized the initials Z W painted over the front flap. I pulled the sheet off and stood up. A pain ran down my entire spine as I stood and I bent forward from it. Nearly bashing my head into a sleeping lump next to me. I shuddered and stood. I walked to the source of the line and pulled it apart. The curtains squealed as I opened them. I looked before me. A sprawl of green and fog pierced my eye. I looked out beyond the balcony. I saw our two mopeds chained to a pole and ice machine. Strange. I shuffled back to the warm half of my bed and sat there for awhile. I looked around, hoping to perhaps understand what happened last night.
I felt a hand grab at my waistband of my underpants and I reeled back in shock. I looked back towards the bed and saw a slender wrist with a bracelet on it. Several bracelets actually. I looked back at it. I stared at it intently. Cursing it with a slight disgust. We were supposed to meet our girls in Victoria in three days and the last thing we needed was this. I poked Ashton, or at least what I thought was Ashton.
"G'ywer over!"
I was taken aback at the harshness and femineity of the voice. I poked the other lump and then Ashton stirred.
"Wha?"
"Dude! Look."
He turned onto his side and looked. It was a female. Sort of. She was wearing heavy black corset with black satin ribbons here and there. Ashton made up with a start.
"aaagh!"
The black lifeless mold sprung to life.
"Dear god! Where am I?"
Suddenly, the bangled hand sprung to life as well.
"Candy! Where are we?"
"W-who are you two?" I asked.
"I'm Candy Jean and this is Florence. We call her Flo. Only Flo."
"Uh heyeah...."
"Wait. Who are you two?"
"I dont know."
"What you mean you dont know. Aint you two... yous two?"
"I'm Reginald." Ashton made up in a thick British accent.
"Ah, and i'm uh Sid."
"Sure... sure. You guys got any Baileys?"
We both shook our heads. The two girls then exited the room. We stared at each other in complete fear. We searched every trash can for any condoms. The cans were empty. We pulled apart the room looking for evidence of sex. None. As far as we knew.
"How wasted did we get last night?"
"I dont know, enough to lock our bikes to a vending machine and a drain pipe and apparently take those two bats to bed."
"But we didnt.... did we?"
"I dont think either of us did. As far as I knew, I passed out."
"Jesus, Buddah and Holy Zombie Jesus with Joseph Smith on their majestic steed 'Brigham Young'"
"Ditto." I said.
As we checked out, we asked the check out desk if they knew who those girls were. It turns out they were occupants in the room two doors down. We must have accidentally left the door unlocked and they wandered in and slept. We hope.
We loaded our bags and made our way down to the bikes. I tightened the sheepskin collar on my leather jacket and helmet. Ashton had a limp handrolled cigarette in his mouth. I slapped the thing out of his mouth. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes before giving me a 'fuck you' look. We both unlocked our bikes and we soon found ourselves in line for the border crossing. As soon as we made it to the border, a guard in a blue shirt and black hat came up to us.
"Hello Gentlemen. Passports if you please."
We handed them over. He came back out in a minute and then passed them back to us. He told us to enjoy our visit to the great nation of Canada. We finally made it to Canada! It was all so confusing. The liters, the loonies and not seeing US flags everywhere. We dumped our things at the YMCA hotel in Vancouver and locked up the mopeds in the garage. We both looked at each other and couldn't believe we made out to Vancouver after seven days of biking and motoring. We took in the city as much as we could and then returned to the YMCA at 10. The next morning, we would board the ferries then meet our girls in Victoria.
Her Turn
Her forehead touched the cold thick window slightly. Her light blue eyes remained transfixed in one position staring out the window. She wasn't looking at any one thing in particular since the outside was moving so quickly. The plate of food before her seemed to hang in time, neither cold nor warm, but still edible. She sat alone at the table for two with only a few things on her mind. She recalled this trip awhile ago. Years perhaps. She remembered she had taken it with someone she once knew but now rather faded away from her life.
The white-jacketed waiter approached her and the gaze was broken for a moment. She gave him a look of confusion, mixed with a string of apprehension. Then, with a wave of her hand, he took away the plate of food. He came back with a thin apertif menu. She looked it over. Campari, Kahlua, Cointreau, Mt. Gay Rhum. Her brow winced at the sight of these names. She saw one she could handle. He came back with a small schnapps glass with absolute inside it. It eased down her throat and could think of one thing. Caves. She shuddered and grabbed her timbuk2 bag.
Leaving the dining car, she entered her state room, and came out with a heavy sheepskin blanket. She carried the heavy thing with her to the observation car where she had many memories from before. She sat at the table and placed the blanket over her lap, fur side down. Her hand reached into her bag and produced a moleskine sketch book as well as a well worn moose. She pressed its nose to her lips and set it down onto the table. She started drawing, nothing in particular, just drawing. To her, she hadn't drawn in a long time. Her hands trembled as she drew for herself, not for any assignment or business job project. The porter came by at eight and placed a small charoal brazer onto the table. Warmth radiated from it and it was welcoming. The train lurched over a curve, passing over a trestle. The stuffed moose toy flopped onto its side, and the heat from the brazer began to warm it up. Soon, the car was filled with a brilliant, piercing smell of pink grapefruit. Several others in the car turned their heads around in an attempt to discover which of the ladies had walked in.
At ten, the lamps were extinguished. The orange glow from the brazer still spread a blanket of warmth over the booth. She leaned back, easing into her seat and pulled the moose up to her breast. The stars lazily hung overhead as the tips of the conifers rushed by. Her head remained gawking upwards, until it bounced forward. She looked around her. The car was empty except for herself and the porter. He announced the closing of the car and she returned back to her cabin. She climbed into her bunk, turned out the lights and kissed the stuffed moose goodnight.
The white-jacketed waiter approached her and the gaze was broken for a moment. She gave him a look of confusion, mixed with a string of apprehension. Then, with a wave of her hand, he took away the plate of food. He came back with a thin apertif menu. She looked it over. Campari, Kahlua, Cointreau, Mt. Gay Rhum. Her brow winced at the sight of these names. She saw one she could handle. He came back with a small schnapps glass with absolute inside it. It eased down her throat and could think of one thing. Caves. She shuddered and grabbed her timbuk2 bag.
Leaving the dining car, she entered her state room, and came out with a heavy sheepskin blanket. She carried the heavy thing with her to the observation car where she had many memories from before. She sat at the table and placed the blanket over her lap, fur side down. Her hand reached into her bag and produced a moleskine sketch book as well as a well worn moose. She pressed its nose to her lips and set it down onto the table. She started drawing, nothing in particular, just drawing. To her, she hadn't drawn in a long time. Her hands trembled as she drew for herself, not for any assignment or business job project. The porter came by at eight and placed a small charoal brazer onto the table. Warmth radiated from it and it was welcoming. The train lurched over a curve, passing over a trestle. The stuffed moose toy flopped onto its side, and the heat from the brazer began to warm it up. Soon, the car was filled with a brilliant, piercing smell of pink grapefruit. Several others in the car turned their heads around in an attempt to discover which of the ladies had walked in.
At ten, the lamps were extinguished. The orange glow from the brazer still spread a blanket of warmth over the booth. She leaned back, easing into her seat and pulled the moose up to her breast. The stars lazily hung overhead as the tips of the conifers rushed by. Her head remained gawking upwards, until it bounced forward. She looked around her. The car was empty except for herself and the porter. He announced the closing of the car and she returned back to her cabin. She climbed into her bunk, turned out the lights and kissed the stuffed moose goodnight.
July 27, 2009
Colonel Lysander's Improved India Ink
Morning in Erie is like no other morning in the world. Every morning, I could hear from the windows, the rumbling of a parade of horse drawn milk carts headed out to the streetcar districts. We in the city called them streetcar districts only because the families who lived in them only were reachable by the streetcar. They were too far off to be considered a part of the city of Erie, but somehow, they still were. I laid on the feather mattress in the dirty bedroom of my little apartment overlooking Columbia avenue. The long double hung window was difficult to cover with a pull down shade so I ended up tacking a white sheet halfway up and then drawing it aside for light. In the next room was my drafting room and kitchen. Beyond that was a small parlor and bathroom. Small was the best way to put it. I sat up and slowly rubbed my eyes, inspecting the rough hairs that had grown on my face over the night. I pulled the striped robe over my shivering frame and shuffled into the bathroom.
I stared into my dirty reflection, presenting each cheek to see the amount of shave I would need. Either way, I would end up at the barbers on the ground floor and shave there. I dressed, and departed. Straw hat in hand, my jacket over my left arm and my vest unbuttoned. I descended the dark stairwell and found myself in the dim arcade of the first floor. I looked towards the end where the light from the street hurt my eyes. I turned into the first shop which was the barbers.
"Morning Jim.
"Morning.
"The usual then?
"You got it." I sat myself down into the morocco leather chair. The barber took several moments to raise the legs and recline the chair. "Today's gonna be another squelcher."
"Eh?
"You know, the weather being and all.
"Ah yeh. Well, it don't get too hot back here in the back of the Arcade.
"Lucky you. I bet those Hungarians who run that dry good shop in the front of the arcade must be jealous of your spot.
"They would be if they wern't doing so well. Dont forget, it's all about location.
"I suppose a dry goods store in the back of an arcade sounds strange." He began to brush the hot thick foam over my face. "But like I said, it's gonna be hot.
"Yeah, well... what can you do?
I shrugged and sat back contemplating as he started to take careful swipes off my face with that straight edged razor of his. His plump face twisted and tightened every so often to indicate how I should shape my face so he could get a clean cut. As he finished, his back was turned to me at the counter. His gleaming white coat was spotless and looked as if it was more fitting in a hospital theater. He came back with a comb and a tin of pomade. He took several slicks and combed my hair back. I figured to fix my tie and collar and thanked him. I fished out a dime and handed it to him and left. As soon as I exited the arcade, the heat had hit me and my hair seemed to melt. It was only 9 in the morning and the heat was unbearable. I decided to leave the coat off and wait for the streetcar. A moment later, a large open California type streetcar rumbled up and I got on.
The car rumbled and squelched as it turned on curves. The brakes would hiss and every so often, the motorman would stomp his foot and a beautiful resounding clang would come from the gong that seemed to be conspicuously absent every time I looked at the cars. I knew one day i'd find them. I arrived at my stop and walked down Hudson street to Ellsworth and Sons Technical Emporium. I always had to stop in here every morning to pick up supplies for work. Always a bottle of Kingston & Reeves brand of Ink and a box of hunt C-4 nibs. Every so often, a pen would break and that would mean I would get to choose a new pen from the hundreds of boxes of holders. I always ended up with the same Hunt wooden thing even though I had the chance to try maybe one of those Paris crooks or a Keuffel and Essel technical resovoir pen. But the same wooden holder and nibs.
I stared at the wall of ink bottles and just felt disgusted. I didn't want to do the same thing every day now. I didn't want to touch the bottle of Kingston and Reeves. I decided to change my life. Change something at least. I looked and scanned about, one bottle catching my eye in particular. It was called Col. Lysander's Improved India Ink. On the lable, there was a picture of some mustashed British toff with a tiger's head over his helmet. I figured, it wouldn't hurt to give it one shot. I grabbed the green glass bottle and paid for my things.
At the studios, I found myself unable to use the ink. I stared at it, and Col. Lysander mocked me back. I pulled a reserve bottle of Kingston and Reeves and worked. Later that evening when I was back safe at home, I pulled out the bottle of Lysander's Improved whatsit and cracked open the top. It was nothing but water mixed with black soot. Improved my derrier.
I stared into my dirty reflection, presenting each cheek to see the amount of shave I would need. Either way, I would end up at the barbers on the ground floor and shave there. I dressed, and departed. Straw hat in hand, my jacket over my left arm and my vest unbuttoned. I descended the dark stairwell and found myself in the dim arcade of the first floor. I looked towards the end where the light from the street hurt my eyes. I turned into the first shop which was the barbers.
"Morning Jim.
"Morning.
"The usual then?
"You got it." I sat myself down into the morocco leather chair. The barber took several moments to raise the legs and recline the chair. "Today's gonna be another squelcher."
"Eh?
"You know, the weather being and all.
"Ah yeh. Well, it don't get too hot back here in the back of the Arcade.
"Lucky you. I bet those Hungarians who run that dry good shop in the front of the arcade must be jealous of your spot.
"They would be if they wern't doing so well. Dont forget, it's all about location.
"I suppose a dry goods store in the back of an arcade sounds strange." He began to brush the hot thick foam over my face. "But like I said, it's gonna be hot.
"Yeah, well... what can you do?
I shrugged and sat back contemplating as he started to take careful swipes off my face with that straight edged razor of his. His plump face twisted and tightened every so often to indicate how I should shape my face so he could get a clean cut. As he finished, his back was turned to me at the counter. His gleaming white coat was spotless and looked as if it was more fitting in a hospital theater. He came back with a comb and a tin of pomade. He took several slicks and combed my hair back. I figured to fix my tie and collar and thanked him. I fished out a dime and handed it to him and left. As soon as I exited the arcade, the heat had hit me and my hair seemed to melt. It was only 9 in the morning and the heat was unbearable. I decided to leave the coat off and wait for the streetcar. A moment later, a large open California type streetcar rumbled up and I got on.
The car rumbled and squelched as it turned on curves. The brakes would hiss and every so often, the motorman would stomp his foot and a beautiful resounding clang would come from the gong that seemed to be conspicuously absent every time I looked at the cars. I knew one day i'd find them. I arrived at my stop and walked down Hudson street to Ellsworth and Sons Technical Emporium. I always had to stop in here every morning to pick up supplies for work. Always a bottle of Kingston & Reeves brand of Ink and a box of hunt C-4 nibs. Every so often, a pen would break and that would mean I would get to choose a new pen from the hundreds of boxes of holders. I always ended up with the same Hunt wooden thing even though I had the chance to try maybe one of those Paris crooks or a Keuffel and Essel technical resovoir pen. But the same wooden holder and nibs.
I stared at the wall of ink bottles and just felt disgusted. I didn't want to do the same thing every day now. I didn't want to touch the bottle of Kingston and Reeves. I decided to change my life. Change something at least. I looked and scanned about, one bottle catching my eye in particular. It was called Col. Lysander's Improved India Ink. On the lable, there was a picture of some mustashed British toff with a tiger's head over his helmet. I figured, it wouldn't hurt to give it one shot. I grabbed the green glass bottle and paid for my things.
At the studios, I found myself unable to use the ink. I stared at it, and Col. Lysander mocked me back. I pulled a reserve bottle of Kingston and Reeves and worked. Later that evening when I was back safe at home, I pulled out the bottle of Lysander's Improved whatsit and cracked open the top. It was nothing but water mixed with black soot. Improved my derrier.
July 07, 2009
From Best of Craigslist
Whoo-hoo Seattle, the sun is out! Let's discuss a few things before you fumble with swapping the unused ski rack for the unused bike rack on the Subaru.
So yes, you've noticed the sun is out, and hey!- maybe it would be cool to to some bike riding. Let's keep in mind that the sun came out of all 600,000 of us, so for the most part, you're not the only one who noticed. Please remember that when you walk into my shop on a bright, sunny Saturday morning. It will save you from looking like a complete twat that huffs "Why are there so many people here?"
Are we all on the same page now about it being sunny outside? Have we all figured out that we're not the only clever people that feel sunny days are good for bike riding? Great. I want to kiss all of you on your forehead for sharing this moment with me. Put your vitamin D starved fingers in mine, and we'll move on together to some pointers that will make life easier.
SOME POINTERS FOR THE PHONE:
- I don't know what size of bike you need. The only thing that I can tell over the phone is that you sound fat. I don't care how tall you are. I don't care how long your inseam is. Don't complain to me that you don't want to come ALL THE WAY down to the bike shop to get fitted for a bike. I have two hundred bikes in my inventory. I will find one that fits you. Whether you come from the north or the south, my shop is downhill. Pretend you're going to smell a fart, ball up, and roll your fat ass down here.
- Don't get high and call me. Write it down, call me later. When I have four phone lines ringing, and a herdlet
of people waiting for help, I can't deal with you sitting there "uuuuhhh"-ing and "uuummm"-ing while your brain tries to put together some cheeto-xbox-fixie conundrum. We didn't get disconnected, I left you on hold to figure your shit out.
-I really do need to see your bike to know what is wrong with it. You've already figured out that when you car makes a noise, the mechanic needs to see it. When your TV goes blank, a technician needs to see it. I can tell you, if there is one thing I've learned from you fucking squirrels, it's that "doesn't shift right" means your bike could need a slight cable adjustment, or you might just need to stop backing into it with the Subaru. Bring it in, I'll let you know for sure.
- No, I don't know how much a good bike costs. For some, spending $500 dollars is a kingly sum. For others, $500 won't buy you one good wheel. You really need to have an idea of what you want, because every one of you raccoons "doesn't want to spend too much".
FOR YOU INVENTIVE TYPES AND DO-IT-YOURSELFERS:
- Just because you think is should exist, doesn't mean that it does. I know that to you, a 14 inch quill stem makes perfect sense, but what makes more sense is buying a bike that fits you, not trying to make your mountain bike that was too small for you to begin with into a comfort bike.
- If some twat on some message board somewhere says that you can use the lockring from your bottom bracket as a lockring for a fixie conversion doesn't mean that A: you can, or B: you should. Please listen to me on this stuff, I really do have your best interests at heart.
- I love that you have the enthusiasm to build yourself a recumbent in the off season. That does not mean however, that I share your enthusiasm; ergo I won't do the "final tweaks" for you. You figure out why that Sram shifter and that Shimano rear derailleur don't work together. While we're at it, you recumbent people scare me a little. Don't bring that lumbering fucking thing anywhere near me.
A DEDICATION TO ALL THE HIPSTER DUCHEBAGS:
-If you shitheads had any money, you wouldn't NEED a vintage Poo-zhow to get laid. Go have an ironic mustache growing contest in front of American Apparel, so that I can continue selling $300 bikes to fatties, which is what keeps the lights on.
- Being made in the 80's may make something cool, but that doesn't automatically make something good. The reason that no one has ridden that "vintage" Murray is because it's shit. It was shit in the 80's, a trend it carried proudly through the 90's, and rallied with into the '00's. What I mean to say is, no, I can't make it work better. It's still shit, even with more air in the tires.
SO YOU'RE GONNA BUY A BIKE:
Good for you! Biking is awesome. It's easy, it's fun, it's good for you. I want you to bike, I really do. To that end, I am here to help you.
-Your co-worker that's "really into biking" knows fuck all. Stop asking for his advice. He could care less about you having the right bike. He wants to validate his bike purchase(s) through you. He also wants to sleep with you, and wear matching bike shorts with you.
- You're not a triathlete. You're not. If you were, you wouldn't be here, and we both know it.
- You're not a racer. If you were, I'd know you already, and you wouldn't be here, and we both know it.
- So you want a bike that you can ride to work, goes really fast, is good for that triathlon you're doing this summer (snicker), is good on trails and mud, and costs less than $300. Yeah. Listen, I want a car that can go 200 miles an hour, tow a boat, has room for five adults, is easy to parallel park but can carry plywood, gets 60mpg, and only costs $3,000. I also want a unicorn to blow me. What are we even talking about here? Oh yeah. Listen, bikes can be fast, light, cheap and comfortable. Pick two, and we're all good.
ABOUT YOUR KIDS:
Your kids are amazing. Sure are. No one else has kids as smart, able, funny or as good looking as you. Nope. Never see THAT around here.
- I have no idea how long you kid will be able to use this bike. As it seems to me, your precious is a little retarded, and can't even use the damn thing now. More likely, your budding genius is going to leave the bike in the driveway where you will Subaru the bike to death LONG before the nose picker outgrows the bike.
- Stop being so jumpy. I am not a molester. You people REALLY watch too much TV. When I hold the back of the bike while your kid is on it, it's not because I get a thrill from *almost* having my hand on kid butt, it's because kids are unpredictable, and generally take off whenever possible, usually not in the direction you think they might go. Listen, if I were going to do anything bad to your kids, I'd feed them to sharks, because sharks are FUCKING AWESOME.
I hope this helps, and have fun this summer riding your kick-ass bike!
So yes, you've noticed the sun is out, and hey!- maybe it would be cool to to some bike riding. Let's keep in mind that the sun came out of all 600,000 of us, so for the most part, you're not the only one who noticed. Please remember that when you walk into my shop on a bright, sunny Saturday morning. It will save you from looking like a complete twat that huffs "Why are there so many people here?"
Are we all on the same page now about it being sunny outside? Have we all figured out that we're not the only clever people that feel sunny days are good for bike riding? Great. I want to kiss all of you on your forehead for sharing this moment with me. Put your vitamin D starved fingers in mine, and we'll move on together to some pointers that will make life easier.
SOME POINTERS FOR THE PHONE:
- I don't know what size of bike you need. The only thing that I can tell over the phone is that you sound fat. I don't care how tall you are. I don't care how long your inseam is. Don't complain to me that you don't want to come ALL THE WAY down to the bike shop to get fitted for a bike. I have two hundred bikes in my inventory. I will find one that fits you. Whether you come from the north or the south, my shop is downhill. Pretend you're going to smell a fart, ball up, and roll your fat ass down here.
- Don't get high and call me. Write it down, call me later. When I have four phone lines ringing, and a herdlet
of people waiting for help, I can't deal with you sitting there "uuuuhhh"-ing and "uuummm"-ing while your brain tries to put together some cheeto-xbox-fixie conundrum. We didn't get disconnected, I left you on hold to figure your shit out.
-I really do need to see your bike to know what is wrong with it. You've already figured out that when you car makes a noise, the mechanic needs to see it. When your TV goes blank, a technician needs to see it. I can tell you, if there is one thing I've learned from you fucking squirrels, it's that "doesn't shift right" means your bike could need a slight cable adjustment, or you might just need to stop backing into it with the Subaru. Bring it in, I'll let you know for sure.
- No, I don't know how much a good bike costs. For some, spending $500 dollars is a kingly sum. For others, $500 won't buy you one good wheel. You really need to have an idea of what you want, because every one of you raccoons "doesn't want to spend too much".
FOR YOU INVENTIVE TYPES AND DO-IT-YOURSELFERS:
- Just because you think is should exist, doesn't mean that it does. I know that to you, a 14 inch quill stem makes perfect sense, but what makes more sense is buying a bike that fits you, not trying to make your mountain bike that was too small for you to begin with into a comfort bike.
- If some twat on some message board somewhere says that you can use the lockring from your bottom bracket as a lockring for a fixie conversion doesn't mean that A: you can, or B: you should. Please listen to me on this stuff, I really do have your best interests at heart.
- I love that you have the enthusiasm to build yourself a recumbent in the off season. That does not mean however, that I share your enthusiasm; ergo I won't do the "final tweaks" for you. You figure out why that Sram shifter and that Shimano rear derailleur don't work together. While we're at it, you recumbent people scare me a little. Don't bring that lumbering fucking thing anywhere near me.
A DEDICATION TO ALL THE HIPSTER DUCHEBAGS:
-If you shitheads had any money, you wouldn't NEED a vintage Poo-zhow to get laid. Go have an ironic mustache growing contest in front of American Apparel, so that I can continue selling $300 bikes to fatties, which is what keeps the lights on.
- Being made in the 80's may make something cool, but that doesn't automatically make something good. The reason that no one has ridden that "vintage" Murray is because it's shit. It was shit in the 80's, a trend it carried proudly through the 90's, and rallied with into the '00's. What I mean to say is, no, I can't make it work better. It's still shit, even with more air in the tires.
SO YOU'RE GONNA BUY A BIKE:
Good for you! Biking is awesome. It's easy, it's fun, it's good for you. I want you to bike, I really do. To that end, I am here to help you.
-Your co-worker that's "really into biking" knows fuck all. Stop asking for his advice. He could care less about you having the right bike. He wants to validate his bike purchase(s) through you. He also wants to sleep with you, and wear matching bike shorts with you.
- You're not a triathlete. You're not. If you were, you wouldn't be here, and we both know it.
- You're not a racer. If you were, I'd know you already, and you wouldn't be here, and we both know it.
- So you want a bike that you can ride to work, goes really fast, is good for that triathlon you're doing this summer (snicker), is good on trails and mud, and costs less than $300. Yeah. Listen, I want a car that can go 200 miles an hour, tow a boat, has room for five adults, is easy to parallel park but can carry plywood, gets 60mpg, and only costs $3,000. I also want a unicorn to blow me. What are we even talking about here? Oh yeah. Listen, bikes can be fast, light, cheap and comfortable. Pick two, and we're all good.
ABOUT YOUR KIDS:
Your kids are amazing. Sure are. No one else has kids as smart, able, funny or as good looking as you. Nope. Never see THAT around here.
- I have no idea how long you kid will be able to use this bike. As it seems to me, your precious is a little retarded, and can't even use the damn thing now. More likely, your budding genius is going to leave the bike in the driveway where you will Subaru the bike to death LONG before the nose picker outgrows the bike.
- Stop being so jumpy. I am not a molester. You people REALLY watch too much TV. When I hold the back of the bike while your kid is on it, it's not because I get a thrill from *almost* having my hand on kid butt, it's because kids are unpredictable, and generally take off whenever possible, usually not in the direction you think they might go. Listen, if I were going to do anything bad to your kids, I'd feed them to sharks, because sharks are FUCKING AWESOME.
I hope this helps, and have fun this summer riding your kick-ass bike!
Boredom
I found myself standing at the edge of the ship with my hands clasped to the railing tightly. I drew in a deep breath of the cold night air and let out a scream. Behind me, passengers on their after dinner walks just ignored me and continued on and lights in the staterooms behind also lit up in confusion. No one talked to be for a good five minutes before an official looking person came up to me. I explained to him nothing was the matter and that I just needed to get a scream out was all. He hesitantly understood and walked off. The cool, dark air seemed to envelope me in a comfortable yet chilling blanket. The stars stood out and each one seemed to want to call my name but sat there in the sky, motionless. I plunked down onto an empty steamer chair, reclined and sighed. The varnished teak creaked under my weight as I shifted about endlessly. I stood again, and then untied my bowtie and loosened the vest underneath my jacket. Tweed isn't exactly a handsome look for the steamer Queen Alexandra.
My stateroom was near the front of B deck, right beneath the bridge, but behind the Samba room. In the evenings, I could hear the band playing, the gayeity, the couples laughing and the tigers on the prowl for mates. I dont think I came here to mate. Certainly not on a ship for now... It was later towards the night when I heard an odd thing from outside the cabin. It was a long howl, almost yelling. I switched on my lamp, pulled over a dressing gown and stepped outside. There it was again, that yell. I closed the door behind me, locking it and putting the key in my pocket. I climbed the staircase and found that same officer that looked at me when I was howling, he was now howling. I stood halfway between B and A decks watching, and trying in a sense, to be inconspicious. He looked at me and nodded.
"Does a body good you know."
"Yeah, I do." I responded.
"Sorry for giving you funny looks earlier, but you know how it is. Gotta keep up appearances."
"No no, by all means."
I retreated back to the B deck promenade when I hear a yell again. I looked at one of the clocks that stuck out from the wall. 103AM. Goodness, what a lark.
The next morning, I found myself again at the table that seemed to be unofficially and unceremoniously christened the single gentleman's table. I sat, cherrily with a white china plate piled with sliced pineapples, cooked ham, roasted king edward potatos and corned beef hash. I sat and ate in silence with my newspaper. Around me, there was the buzz of families and conversations in the dining room. Some of the other passengers were dressed in bathing suits and caps and had robes on. As if after eating, they would take a swim in the plunge room. I could imagine a few of them getting cramps half way through a lap of front crawl and then the lifeguard would drag them out and then they'd complain about having their lap interrupted by some underpaid lackey.
On board, things were boring and dull. One could only play so many frames of shuffleboard with Colonel Lysander, or so many rubbers of whist with the ladies who defiantly hung around the men's smoking lounge. Life at sea was like living in the country. This trip would mark the second time i've journeyed from New York to Southampton. Neither trip was as entertaining as the martini girl in the samba room at 8pm. She would walk in wearking only a dress made of balloons with a martini in each hand. Whatever lucky bloke paid enough for one of these martinis would get five seconds with a pin to pop as many balloons as possible. That's ship entertainment for you. The arcade was no better. The stores were mostly botiques for ladies and the one store that did appeal to mens was the ship's barbers. But inside, the usuals frequented their seats, waiting for juicy gossip to spread. In reality, the only thing they talked about was the last baseball game and the scores of college football games of colleges I never went to.
I stepped into the barbershop and the air of hair and musk hit me instantly. I sat in the deep, swinigng, moroccan leather chair and asked for a short back and sides. The barber began to cut my hair, slowly humming a dirge-like tune. His arms had more hair than his head did which was rather discerning, but the cut turned out fine. I paid him, and he handed me a pocket comb as a souviner. I examined the little piece of plastic in my hand carefully. There was a silhouette of the ship imprinted on the side in gold foil with the letters: R.M.S. Queen Alexandra. I thanked him and left.
I came back to my room, and the samba music started up. I walked out, yelled, then fell asleep.
My stateroom was near the front of B deck, right beneath the bridge, but behind the Samba room. In the evenings, I could hear the band playing, the gayeity, the couples laughing and the tigers on the prowl for mates. I dont think I came here to mate. Certainly not on a ship for now... It was later towards the night when I heard an odd thing from outside the cabin. It was a long howl, almost yelling. I switched on my lamp, pulled over a dressing gown and stepped outside. There it was again, that yell. I closed the door behind me, locking it and putting the key in my pocket. I climbed the staircase and found that same officer that looked at me when I was howling, he was now howling. I stood halfway between B and A decks watching, and trying in a sense, to be inconspicious. He looked at me and nodded.
"Does a body good you know."
"Yeah, I do." I responded.
"Sorry for giving you funny looks earlier, but you know how it is. Gotta keep up appearances."
"No no, by all means."
I retreated back to the B deck promenade when I hear a yell again. I looked at one of the clocks that stuck out from the wall. 103AM. Goodness, what a lark.
The next morning, I found myself again at the table that seemed to be unofficially and unceremoniously christened the single gentleman's table. I sat, cherrily with a white china plate piled with sliced pineapples, cooked ham, roasted king edward potatos and corned beef hash. I sat and ate in silence with my newspaper. Around me, there was the buzz of families and conversations in the dining room. Some of the other passengers were dressed in bathing suits and caps and had robes on. As if after eating, they would take a swim in the plunge room. I could imagine a few of them getting cramps half way through a lap of front crawl and then the lifeguard would drag them out and then they'd complain about having their lap interrupted by some underpaid lackey.
On board, things were boring and dull. One could only play so many frames of shuffleboard with Colonel Lysander, or so many rubbers of whist with the ladies who defiantly hung around the men's smoking lounge. Life at sea was like living in the country. This trip would mark the second time i've journeyed from New York to Southampton. Neither trip was as entertaining as the martini girl in the samba room at 8pm. She would walk in wearking only a dress made of balloons with a martini in each hand. Whatever lucky bloke paid enough for one of these martinis would get five seconds with a pin to pop as many balloons as possible. That's ship entertainment for you. The arcade was no better. The stores were mostly botiques for ladies and the one store that did appeal to mens was the ship's barbers. But inside, the usuals frequented their seats, waiting for juicy gossip to spread. In reality, the only thing they talked about was the last baseball game and the scores of college football games of colleges I never went to.
I stepped into the barbershop and the air of hair and musk hit me instantly. I sat in the deep, swinigng, moroccan leather chair and asked for a short back and sides. The barber began to cut my hair, slowly humming a dirge-like tune. His arms had more hair than his head did which was rather discerning, but the cut turned out fine. I paid him, and he handed me a pocket comb as a souviner. I examined the little piece of plastic in my hand carefully. There was a silhouette of the ship imprinted on the side in gold foil with the letters: R.M.S. Queen Alexandra. I thanked him and left.
I came back to my room, and the samba music started up. I walked out, yelled, then fell asleep.
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