100 Words - Bob's Bike

Switchblade Bob had the baddest ass bike in town. It was born of his dad's crazy drunken though mechanically gifted vision. It had a moped engine cranked up beyond belief. The tach duct-taped to the handle bars only went to 9000 RPM and the motor easily buried the needle. The gas tank strapped to the top bar looked like it came off a shrunken copy of the devil's Harley. It was black. Not a shiny black. It was black hole black. Even the red dots of laser pointers failed to appear on it. Bob rode that thing proud and fast.

100 Words - Writing Again

I'm writing in my head again. I sat down to think of an idea for a new novel. The first I came up with was a great idea too horrible to write. It would probably be a great book but it would damage my psyche beyond repair. Then I rifled through every bad idea I ever had. Not for serious consideration but as a nostalgic courtesy. Then it came to me. A page of ideas and notes was quickly populated. As cruel as the first idea actually but with a buffer that should allow the truth without any permanent damage.

100 Words - Builders

I imagined that when I found the perfect music I would become the cool guy that was always my potential. Now, on the far side of fifty, I see that it was supposed to be the other way around. All that time wasted wandering dark alleys in search of answers when it was the questions that were actually missing.

"Build it and they will come." It was true. If anyone built it we would have come. We didn't know that we were the builders. Builders with no blueprints. Players with no games. Dancers with no tunes. Writers with no stories.

100 Words - Wacky

The park was weird. It seemed like just a short while ago it was very nice but the care stopped maybe a month or so ago. The pool was surrounded by crack-free pavement yet the water was covered with leaves. The sprinklers watered green lawns in desperate need of mowing. The clubhouse was closed for repairs. The lounge was closed for the season. The tracks of the advertised miniature train were missing. The BMX track was tire tread free. We parked among latent serial killers who lived in forty year old motor homes and drove ex-police cars. We had fun.

100 Words - Downhill

Woods. A hill running away. Downward slipping. A trail. My wheels spin slowly at first then speed up as fear recedes. Zigs zags dips ducks a jump...landing perfect momentum maintained. Long sweeping left through a field of sheep-mown grass. Rocks nip at my tires but the morning is too glorious for falling today. Sharp drop through more trees, the ground more rock than dirt but rock worn smooth by a million feet, hooves, tires and treads. Deadly in the wet but fast and sure in the dry. The trees become birch. Across the stream the checkered flag waves. I've lost.

100 Words - Conspiracy

Beware the flash fiction product placement conspiracy. They're trying to win the hearts and minds of the short attention-spanned. We must stop them. We must not be fooled by brand name non-sequiturs. Budweiser with clam juice may sound like innocent nonsense but it's real. They sell it at Safeway and this week it's on sale. Who knows what horrors lay in the pretentious prose of the famous unknown? Unscrupulous marketeers ramming hands up literary asses. Puppet pens scripting weird texts with hidden agendas read by hipsters who'll never realize why they think it's OK to pay five dollars for coffee.

100 Words - Magic

The Dutch writer learned to write in Africa. You'd know that if you'd read his book. It has the magic in it. The magic that is nothing surprising or amazing. It's just there, part of everything.

In South America they have magic but it's always scary and special, out of the ordinary. Something to be avoided unless you yourself are scary and special.

In America we will not acknowledge the magic. It lurks in the dark corners. America is not a young land. We fled the old magic and tried to kill the magic we found here, but it lives.

100 Words - Training

The man in the tie was watching me. The sun was setting over the polo fields. I rode round and round the bike track training for the 10K. I didn't notice him the first few laps. I was too busy getting my cadence right, checking my speed, counting heartbeats. Then I realized that he was there, had been there when all along, watching me. I had the track to myself. There was no one else in the stands. The next lap he was gone. Maybe he got bored watching me go in circles. I did the last three laps alone.

Review: A Drizzle of Zombies - Joshua Price

Captain Rescue's latest adventure can best be described with one word used several time in the book itself, Audacity. To write a full length book starring a do-nothing hero takes a combination of cluelessness and courage equal to the hero of such a book, and that's a good thing. Only someone with their inner critic well under lock and key could have produced this epic of the genre.

While many writers create a do-nothing hero as a lark or divergence it takes dedication to produce more than one attempt and down-right commitment, or commitability, to to create a series of works. The old saying goes, "It takes a tough man to make a tender chicken." In this case it takes a weird man to make a useless hero.

Of course you can't just have a do-nothing hero wandering about, especially when zombies are everywhere. So Mr. Price gives our non-hero a wonderful cast of supporting characters. Each of these characters makes up for one or more of Captain Rescue's many character flaws.

I have to admit something embarrassing here. I grew up and matured into puberty watching bad science fiction and horror movies on late-night television. In that time I gained a perhaps overly active affection for evil females. The character of Dr. Malevolent stirs well the longings of my youth. A powerful, intelligent woman dressed in leather and carrying a big stick...I need a moment alone.

So, to the details, they're not important. The book is silly, some stuff makes no sense, but it is thoroughly enjoyable. If you are not a fan of do-nothing heroes this book will not win you over to the genre, but if you're looking for a pile of silliness this is your book.

Tom at Critical Mass

So after 15 plus years living in San Francisco I finally made it to Critical Mass, sort of. I wasn't part of the actual ride for reasons to be explained below, but I was there for just about everything else.

I got there early, having rushed through my cheeseburger and beer because I was worried about my poor bike chained up on the sidewalk outside. This was the first time I've ever left the bike anywhere downtown other than the very secure underground garage at work. I have two locks and it's such a cheap bike that no serious thief would want it but I worry none-the-less.

The crowd came and came, though I think the cold and damp kept many people away. At first we all milled about together but as more people arrived the crowd started dividing itself into smaller packs. The similarities to a dog park dynamic were really driven home when two guys with vintage springer fork bikes came upon each other. It was remarkably like watch two cockers finding each other and sniffing the hell out of each other's butts.

Outside of the small groups of friends there formed four distinct cliques.

1. The exhibitionists – These were the people in weird costumes and on weird bikes roaming around dying for people to notice and acknowledge them.
2. The pot smokers – Hippies, yuppies and young ones. Surprisingly only about half the pot smokers rode fixies. Another myth shattered.
3. The beer drinkers – This is where you found the other half of the fixies. The rest were cruiser type bikes. Which, if you ask me, is the correct bike for a beer drinker. Fixies take too much concentration to be ridden under the influence.
4. The protein bar eaters – I'm almost ashamed to admit that this is into the category I fell. Who knew I'd be among the healthy ones. Though I did avoid the spandex for this occasion. (Much to my testicle's dismay.)

So as the crowd gathered so did my apprehension. You see for most of the participants this is a social occasion and I am not a social person. I try to be, as evidenced by my attendance, but once again I failed to connect with people.

That's not entirely true. Out of the crowd of thousands I did manage to talk to two people. The first was a woman who when told that the secret target of tonight's ride was the bay bridge got to point out to the sharer of that secret the news copters hovering over the bay bridge. We had a good laugh over his embarrassment and a brief chat about the cold weather.

The second was a beer-drinking Mexican man who was visibly that people wearing Mexican wrestling masks knew nothing of Mexican wrestling. When the first one wondered by was unable to name the wrestler whose mask he was wearing my acquaintance screamed, "Then take it off!" When I correctly named the wrestler I got a playful but painful slap on the shoulder. When a second masked rider failed the identity test, and I was able to provide the answer, my new friend said, "Hey, lets go kill them."

All this went wrong at 6:15. Both the people I had spoken to decided they had waited long enough and left. The lateness alone wasn't the real problem. It was that the organizers were busy kissing up to the media. It looked like a slacker wedding receiving line.

Unfortunately, left to my own devices, I got to thinking, and what I was thinking was that we were little more than lemmings waiting to lead off the cliff. Anarchist lemming perhaps, but lemmings none-the-less. Like all political shows we were the puppets and meant nothing to the leaders till they fulfilled their need for media exposure. You see I get cynical and spiteful when left alone in the boring cold. So at 6:30 I decided I'd had enough and headed for home.

On the ride home I saw waves of police ready to keep people off the bridge. I asked a reported on a corner on Market street if he knew they were planning on storming the bridge. He told me that the organizers had told the media and the police that was going to happen. Just a stunt to try to fire up the crowd.

Fortunately the lemming analogy fell apart later in the evening as groups started shooting off in their own directions. That's the anarchy I was looking for. Maybe I'll try again when it isn't a big anniversary when they'll be fewer posers such as myself gumming up the works.

Random Thoughts

I'm not jealous of my successful friends. I could be just as famous if I had some luck, wasn't so lazy and had more talent.

Last night I had my moment in the spotlight. OK, it was a police car spotlight, but that still counts!

Wishing I hadn't heard Smashing Pumpkins on the classic rock station.

Is siring something the opposite of desiring something?

A Grave Journey

Charlie set out on the day of his eviction to visit the graves of his dead heroes. He made a map using Google and Wikipedia to find their graves. He plotted the most efficient course from one to the other. Surprisingly this wasn't difficult. Fate had saved him from the traveling salesman problem. There was only one clear path to follow. No crossroads to ponder.

Several days were spent in preparation. Three piles were made; stuff he needed, stuff he wanted and stuff he couldn't figure out why he had in the first place which turned out to a very large pile indeed. In the end the definition of need was reduced to what would fit in Charlie's father's old backpack.

In addition Charlie composed and memorized tributes to his fallen heroes. Each was special to him for one reason or another, though a few he couldn't quite remember why. He wasn't sure if was the people themselves he idolized or the myths about them that caught his fancy. Of course it didn't matter. Heroism and idolism are rarely anchored in reason.

Eviction day came. Charlie strapped the backpack to his bike and sat on the floor waiting for the sheriff

to come and kick him out. At three in the afternoon the police cars finally showed up. Charlie handed them the keys and warned them of the voodoo curse that was out on the place by Papa Carl, a local used car parts dealer that Charlie had crossed. The cop thanked him for the keys and for the warning.

Charlie climbed on his bike and peddled away. Twenty-five minutes later he was at his first destination, the initial resting place of his home-town hero. A once but no longer famous athlete who died penniless due to racism, bad investments and poor grammar. The man's remains were actually no longer there in what was once the pauper's field. He had been moved far away but this is where he first was laid down so this is where Charlie came.

Charlie tried to say the little prayer he had rehearsed to Ghisallo, the sacred shrine of cycling, but he forgot the words and hadn't packed the notebook he'd written it in because he thought he had memorized it. He improvised some nonsense about holy wheels turning but gave up mid-verse. He climbed back on his bike hoping that the coming storm wouldn't be as bad as the news said.

Two days later, soaking wet and very tired, Charlie rolled into the ornate southern Connecticut cemetery containing the remains of a writer of many mysteries, of which only one was Charlie able to solve before the detectives in the book. This time he remembered his speech. Saint Edgar's own words of fear and darkness.

Charlie loved good mysteries. His mother had a huge collection of old paperbacks but after reading a half dozen or so Charlie found that he could guess the murderer after only a few chapters. Book after book were tossed across the room in frustration at the stupidity of the paper detectives. Till one day, just one chapter from the end, Charlie realized that he didn't know whodunit. His assumption was that the writer was lying or hiding something but when the solution was revealed Charlie saw how he missed a vital clue. He was impressed and a marathon of reading the writer's work began.

The next day the weather improved greatly. Sunshine and gentle breezes. Charlie peddled in ecstasy, successfully forgetting what the end of the day would bring. The day's route would end at Grand Central Station, but before that it passed two more graves, both women. Charlie puzzled on that as he rode. The only two women on his heroes list were buried ten miles from each other. One a writer of odd fiction. The other a teller of odd truths. At both graves his words once again escaped him but he managed to pull together some nice sentiments from the words of Saint Hermann and Flip Wilson.

Evening was falling as Charlie stood looking at his poor bike chained to a "No Parking" sign. He pretended to wonder if it would survive intact until he got back. He knew it wouldn't. It's only hope of survival was to be set free. He unlocked the chain and left it laying on the ground. He saw a young man watching him from across the street. Charlie waved him over but the boy wouldn't budge, so he turned his back and walked into the station. He never saw the boy ride his bike away whooping with joy.

Charlie boarded a series of trains heading west. One of the reasons he rode a bike in the first place was because he couldn't stand being in motion when he wasn't in control. Fortunately his quack back in Wormtown gave him the meds that would help him make the trip. The next few days were a blur of light and dark rushing past windows with vague recollections of animated conversations with two very ugly men and one very beautiful woman.

The sunrise glinting off the giant arch alerted Charlie that it was time to detrain. Another rich man's cemetery with an ornate marker welcoming home in death the prodigal son. A writer of so-called fiction unfortunately played out in the pain of reality before commitment to paper. Somehow Charlie's prayer to Saint Christina came to him perfectly without effort. It pleased him.

The funds diminishing Charlie boarded a bus heading further west. Increased doses kept him asleep for long stretches of road. Every time he woke there was a new person sitting beside him. Once a young Amish man with a wooden box in his lap. Another a man in an orange jumpsuit. Mostly they were dark blobs of humanity who didn't care who Charlie was other than that he was quiet and they could get some reading, sleeping, thinking done.

Waking up on a bench in a bus station in Los Angeles is like eating stale bread with good cheese. Los Angeles holds every promise and every sadness. It was just a short walk to the sun-bleach resting place of the penultimate hero. A writer of fiction and of truth, the two often getting confused for art's sake. Charlie had no prayer for this man. He wouldn't have wanted one.

One last bus over the hills and into the valley. One last stop. One last hero. The heat beat down on Charlie's balding head. His backpack seemed to carry the weight of the sun. There was his first, best and last hero lying six feet below him. A giant of both the silver screen and the canvas. The man who's greatest success was his lack of skill. Forging a path only he could follow. Others tried but always came up short. Charlie had hoped that inspiration would hit him at this point. His hero would want him to commune with the spirit of the wolf but he didn't know how to do that.

Charlie stood staring at the simple headstone for hours waiting for some sign or clue till a shadow swept across the stone removing his hero's name from view. Charlie turned and faced the sunset. There were no more heroes. There was no more west. There was no bike to climb on and ride home. There was no home. He sat down and watched the sunset with no thought in his head but the beauty of the moment. As darkness fell, his backpack for a pillow, he fell into dreamless sleep.

100 Words - Trance

It was like some sort of a trance dance. A coma within a beat. Colors, lights and human forms moved in and out of my perception. I stood in one place, slowly turning, not moving my arms or head. Scanning the room. I was the only one not dancing but that didn't make me weird or different or an outcast. I was special. The dancers worshiped me. I was here to lead them out of the darkness and into the night. They danced, watched and waited for my move. It never came. I woke up alone on the dance floor.

100 Words -Woodman

Pat decided that the man across the road had read a booklet on camping and was doing everything he could to follow its directives. He spent the entire weekend, day and night, hot and cold, in a white t-shirt and khaki shorts. He labored over his fire pit for hours on end in search of the perfect flame. He used a full can of lighter each day. He had to send his sons off on their electric scooters to obtain an axe. When they returned with one he chopped firewood as recklessly as I've ever seen but escaped fingers intact.

No Jury Duty For Tom

It took all day and I was only one lawyer rejection away from having my named called from the random list but it was not to be. The jury box filled up and we few remaining stragglers were dismissed.

The morning was interesting, especially the watching the check-in process. So many angry people and confused people who expected the clerk/receptionist to solve all their problems despite her constant attempts to explain that she did not have the power of a judge. The most amazing thing was how many had failed to read and/or understand their summons letters.

Then we got to watch the orientation video. It wasn't so much informational as inspirational. Mostly it had recent jurors explaining how much they enjoyed the experience. It should have been titled THE HAPPY JUROR.

Pretty soon we were all called up to the courtroom. It was funny because the clerk had to call each of our names even though the lust included everyone in the room. We all filed into the courtroom and quickly discovered there weren't nearly enough chairs. The bailiff had to go steal chairs from other courtrooms.

The judge came out and thanked us for coming then explained that the trial would take about a week. People freaked! Then he explained the legal concept of impossibility, and how only people with genuine impossibilities would be excused. He had people raise their hands if they believed the should be excused or if they didn't understand English very well. Those of us who didn't raise our hands were given an hour out of the courtroom.

When we got back most of the hand raisers were still there. Also there were the lawyers and the defendant, who was dressed almost identically to me. Creepy.

Then the jury selection began and things bogged down considerably. The same questions were asked over-and-over again. The removals started pretty quickly and consistently. At first it seemed like the lawyers and the judge were going after the blandest jury possible but if you paid attention you saw the patterns in their questions and how it weeded out people who would be biased one way or the other.

This brings out an interesting point. The people who claimed at first to have a biased were all revealed through the questioning to be fair-minded people. It was the people who most loudly proclaimed their lack of bias that were revealed to be the more closed-minded.

Watching all this it was pretty easy to tell who was trying to get out of jury duty by answering in a way that they thought that would lead to the lawyers rejecting them. Unfortunately for most of them the cross-questioning exposed their true intent. Though I did see at least one woman whose answers, if they weren't genuine, caused just the right amount of doubt in the prosecutor’s mind.

Through all this there was an occasional diversion that caused some laughter by all involved. Apparently asking someone if they don't understand English, in English, isn't going to get you full results. Several people who were questioned were not native speakers and did their best to keep up but ultimately had to raise their hands in surrender.

So at 4:30 there were only a few of left unquestioned and each of the lawyers had two more jurors to dismiss, but all of a sudden it was done. Both lawyers passed on their last two refusals and the jury selection was finished. We were dismissed. Ah well, maybe next year.

100 Words - Her Valley Pt. 1

The valley was quiet. Then the machines came. The men in machines. The noise and smoke drove the birds from the sky.

When it's dark like this I like to sit quietly and think of nothing. In order to properly think of nothing I must have my eyes open. To close them invites dreams and sleep. To open them in daylight invites perception and perception leads always to
thought.

She was beautiful in body and soul but was as dumb as a skunk on Tuesday. She chased the men and their machines from the valley.

100 Words - Stupid Humans

Colors beyond perception tease the dogs in the window. They bark at the things that linger just outside appearance. The people in the house yell for the dogs to be quiet. The dogs stare at their humans in disbelief. How can they not sense the danger that lurks out there. It could be anything making those colors almost be there. A multi-dimensional cat bent on world domination? A demon from hell in the guise of an old woman with a shopping cart? Or maybe something worse and more outrageous. Stupid humans, they will never understand. The world is dangerous.

Highlight of my day

Today I got to scrape a half-eaten pigeon carcass off the fence in our back yard.

It was actually kind of a freaky sight. One does not expect to see such a thing draped over the top of a fence. We have a gopher problem, but couldn't imagine a gopher taking down a pigeon let alone drag it up a wooden fence.

Feral cats and raccoons use our back yard as a route to the apple tree in the neighbor's yard. Again it seemed likely that either would leave their prey in such a manner.

A quick internet search revealed that it was probably either an owl or a hawk. Both like to devour their victims on fence tops. The weird thing is that my parents on the other side of the country witnessed this very thing outside their window. A hawk in the process of killing a pigeon landed on their chainlink fence but it could get solid footing so it took with it's kill.
So I've never heard of hawks eating pigeons on fences and now it's happened to my parents and me, 3000 miles apart, both in the same month. Weird.

100 words - Norman

Two weeks after Norman flunked out of college he came to the realization that he would never be a mechanical engineer. He went to the pawn shop and bought an electric guitar. He spent the next year locked in his parent's attic learning how to play it. When he emerged back into the world he had long hair and a long scraggly beard but he kept on wearing the bow ties. That would be his hook throughout his music career. He would be famous as the rock-and-roller who wore the bow ties. It might have worked if was any good.

100 Words - Empty Shelves

Logan bought the last Pepsi. He drank it straight down right there in front of everyone. Didn't share a drop. There was some talk of beating him to a pulp but the crowd was more sad than angry so Logan was able to walk away unharmed.

Larry surveyed his nearly empty shelves. He sat down by the big picture window and stared out across the plain, hoping once again that a delivery truck would appear with fresh supplies, or maybe even a car with some news. No radio. No TV. No deliveries. No traffic. What was going on out there?

NOSTALGIA AND REGRETS

I regret nothing I did and only a quarter of what I didn't.

I was a traitor to the immortality of youth.

I failed to comprehend the true pathos of sex.

I drove too fast in cars alone.

I learned to dance too young and forgot how till I was too old.

I rebelled against the wrong people.

I drank puzzling beers on rainy days while women waited somewhere.

I never found out where.

100 Word - Problem reality

The problem with reality is that nobody lets you get away with delivering soliloquies. The brilliant speeches composed under bed covers never see the light of day. Just try it sometime. Odds are you'll be tased before you get to the climax. Bar patrons just aren't that interested in your well-argued ruminations on the plight of man. They don't see that you are there to give them the answers they seek. People think that they're looking for answers but most of them just want to ask the questions. It gives them the illusion of seeking without the responsibility of knowing.

100 Words - Lego Life

Life's experiences are like Lego blocks. The longer you live and the more you do the more blocks you collect. Some people wind up with enough pieces to build elaborate castles, others so few that they can build nothing beyond a small brick wall. Then there's me. After half a century I have lots of pieces but they are those weird little pieces that come with the specialty building sets that don't translate well to other purposes. Pretty much everything I build looks like what they thought space ships would look like in the eighteen-hundreds, but occasionally they're race cars.

Review: THE SOUND OF MURDER by Rex Stout

This is one of those rare non-Nero Wolfe mysteries. It is the one and only appearance of Alphabet Hicks. After reading the book you'll know why this was the only one. Despite it's many flaws it got me to thinking about Stout's creative process.

The premise relies on whether or not a voice on a recording is proof or not. What I believe posed a problem for Stout was that Nero Wolfe would have dismissed the evidence without even needing to listen to it. The other problem was that the villain in the story would have been spotted by Archie almost immediately as the square peg in the round society of the rich folks, despite the distraction of the lovely damsel in distress.

Stout needed a new detective. Someone who existed outside New York's elite society. Someone intelligent but inexperienced at detective work. So he created Hicks. So far, so good. Hicks is a nice start on a character though not as sympathetic or endearing as Stout's other creations.

The problem comes not from the characters, but from their presentation to us. Stout seems uncomfortable with the omniscient point-of-view and commits the crime of omission in several places. Archie as narrator is a much more satisfying experience.

While the book is a must-read for Stout fans, if this was your first Stout book it would not encourage you to read more of his works. Which would be unfortunate.

Phrases are not stories

A hint of white cotton hiding in the shadows of her thighs.

 I wish I could write like that. Well, I did write that, but it's just a sentence hanging in the void. There is no context. It's just an image in search of a scene in search of a story. A non sequitur longing for a sequence. An orphan dreaming of a parent's hug.

 Seeing the words of an image, turning a phrase, this isn't writing. Writing is taking these bits and pieces that come your way and weaving them together to form the whole. This is where I am currently failing. The images come fast and furious. They overwhelm and some of them are good and beautiful but they are images and phrases living on virtual 3x5 cards in my mind lacking the thumbtacks and twine to give them life.

Bike Rage

It happened to me. Again. This van on Stanyan street decided that I shouldn't be able to take up a whole lane, even though I was going above the speed limit and there was another, completely empty lane right next to me. He pulled up next to me, not past me, and pulled over on me. I had to brake hard to avoid being pushed into the parked cars. This has happened before and will happen again.

It's funny because when I'm behind the wheel of a car I take offense at nothing. It all just rolls off my back, or perhaps wheels. When I'm riding my bike however I take every offense as personal and I yell and bang on fenders and act pretty much like a total ass. Maybe it's the adrenaline and heart pumping away. Maybe it's because on the bike I'm much more exposed to the dangers going on around me.

Whatever the reason, I need to learn to let it go. Reacting the way I do does nobody any good. The people who do these things are either completely clueless or total assholes. Yelling at them will not help. As for me, why let these jerks ruin my day? I ride for exercise and relaxation. Anger assists neither.

No promises, but I'll try.

100 Words - Butter

"Yeah, that's right, butter!" Marvin was not happy with the service his waitress was providing. This was not an unusual situation. Marvin was unhappy with almost everything in his life. If it wasn't for the reruns of The Wonder Years his life would be completely unbearable.

"Yeah, that's right, butter!" Carol had to summon all her discipline not to break her look of disinterest. First to restrain the urge to laugh out loud then to suppress the guilt of deriving so much joy from torturing the angry man.

Marvin left no tip. Carol retrieved the butter from its hiding place.

100 Words - Unknown

Piles of music unfolding in sheets of rhythm. Memories spent tree-lined drives at colleges of envy. Sitting in the jeep not wanting to go, not wanting to stay. Afraid of another late night rejection. Need meets fear torn by silence. A long ride home on roads built for dogs. Children throwing flowers and cookies in the path of the heroes they'll never know. The famous unknown, an unknown legend, famed in song, story and fable, passing through the shadows, never the spotlight. The trees give way to fields of brown grass, then a lake, then a hill, finally the ocean.

Random thoughts for a new age

Embrace the crossroads.

Every ocean exists in every rain drop but that won't save the rhubarb – Alfred Saint Jerome

Those are waves. These are babies. That is hair. This is sand. - Myunee Buscheck "12/17"

Wandering the woods in search of metal tents, warm beer and dark lullabies.

Welcome to my soul. Please deposit 35 cents for another four minutes.

Bike Project Updates - 4/29/12

eBaby - Took the first successful longer ride. Eleven miles in under an hour with only minor technical issues. It won't stay in the two lowest rear gears without me holding the shifter level. Should be an easy fix. The good news is that those two low gears make steep hills much easier. The only other issue was my aching back. Apparently the handlebars are just too low. Fortunately I was able to find a high-rise stem for cheap on eBay. It should be here next week.

Twins - So it seems that the twins will be more work than expected. I thought it odd the way that the paint came off in big chips. A little research revealed that they are probably covered in lead paint. Now I have to build a virtual hazmat suit to work on the things. I'll strip off the old paint an cover them with something safer.


Collie - I found a Columbia 10-speed frame and fork on the sidewalk. I don't need another project but I had a columbia when I was a kid so I have a soft spot.

100 Words - Adab

Adab ruled the darkness. They say that in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king, but that argument falls apart when the sun goes down. Adab moved swiftly and fearlessly through the familiar landscape. The one-eyed man stumbled and fell and was dispatched with a silent stroke of Adab's blade. She tasted his blood and laughed into the night. The travelers found the headless corpse propped up against the tree at the crossroads. Even the dullest among them understood and wished to head the warning. After much discussion they went back the way they came. Wise move.

100 words - Max's Revenge

Max stepped out of the store into the evening mist. Half rain, half fog, all discomforting. The clerk hesitated at the door. She replayed the scene in her head searching for the moment of offense but found none. Why had he suddenly scowled, turned and walked out the door?

A limo pulled up and Max got in. On the floor, wrapped in bloody rags, was the man who sold his nephew the heroin. Carlson, the driver, turned to Max smiling the smile that Max so disliked but so depended upon. They left the city in search of some place dark.

Writing update

Last night I actually finally started rewriting my second novel, UNREALISTIC EXPECTATIONS. It needs tons-o-work but it doesn't suck, which is a good start.

100 Words - Man Enough

Noise and light. Power and glory. Wheel and road. Nightmare visions. Doom is coming for your daughters. Hide them in the basement, no the attic. Get your weapons. Stand your ground. Be the hero of your dreams. Protect the loved ones. Be worthy of their faith. None of your failures matter now. All or nothing. Sainthood or damnation. The razor's edge of fate. The book of life waits to be written. Will children sing your name? Will old women spit on your grave? Only failure can lift this burden from you. What is your comfort worth? Are you man enough?

A Book Worth Reading

A MIND NOT WORTH CONTROLLING, by Joshua Price

OK, I need to say it, this is a stupid book, and I mean that in the best possible way. I don't think there's a humor writer who didn't write at least one story featuring a silly, incompetent but somehow successful crime fighter. My own attempts featured the oddly-named Captain Calypso who I say humbly never had the gusto or outrageousness of A MIND NOT WORTH CONTROLLING's hero Captain Rescue.

"Where are the bad guys?!" Captain Rescue bellowed. "I will kill them!"

To a fan of stupid heroes, as I am, this is poetry. The plot, the characters and especially the conclusion are audacious and ridiculous. For people unfamiliar with the stupid hero genre, forget it, you won't get it. Though the story may be short enough to survive the average reader's suspension of expectation of seriousness.

Book Review: 101 Puzzle Quizes

This book is very frustrating. Not because the puzzles are too easy or too difficult, but because many of the puzzles have multiple correct answers and only the author's intended answer is accepted. This shows a lack of attention to detail, or at least a lack of imagination.

For example: Puzzle number 25 shows three unfolded shapes made up of attached triangles and asks which does not belong. There are four correct answers.

Shape A is the only one where the triangles laid flat form a larger triangle.

Shape A is also the only one where one triangle is completely surrounded by other triangles.

Shape B is the only parallelogram.

Shape C, when folded, does not form a solid object. (the "correct" answer)

This lack of a singular correct answer is a shame because the book contains a nice variety of difficulty and puzzle types.

100 Words - Nuns and Lizards

Will I ever live up to the poetry of nuns and their dead lizards? Will Sears ever send me the back-ordered instruction manual for the lathe of my imagination? Did my fictional character really kill a woman in the real world in 1987? Will I always envy the mentally disfigured for their VIP status in the barroom of the doomed? The drunk I never became giving me the finger from behind iron bars. Charlie B. spits on my shoes and threatens to kill me but he is old and feeble and can not harm me. The fourth enemy wins again.

100 words - Blood

I feel it slipping away, becoming aware too late. Past the point of correctability. The numbers fall. Double digits when triple are required. The brain slows. The lightness invades the shoulders. The neck bobs. The sweat comes. Oh God, I'm sweating. I know what's happening. I know how to fix it, but some morbid need stops me. First I have to see just how close I am to falling over the edge. How many points above coma am I? Has the bungee cord snapped? Can I climb back out of the hole my body has dug? The failure of blood.

Book Review: Buddha in Blue Jeans

I love this book. I don't know if it will really help me to make meditation part of my life, but I feel like it will. It is short. It is simple. Both of the those can be both good and bad. I tend to be a bulk snob when it comes to information. The more information, and the more complex that information is, the more likely I am to trust in that information as truthful and useful. I have to throw those out for Buddha in Blue Jeans. My first reaction that it couldn't be this simple has been dissuaded by some rather successful meditation sessions. Of course I've had many more attempts than successes. I'm so used to trying to analyze and understand every thought that it's hard to trust and let go. But I'm trying, and every time I reread the book I get some new insight or trick to try.

Having said all that, I should state that if you are looking for a self-help book with lots of helpful hints and guidance, you may be disappointed. It leaves a lot up to the reader, which is the point, but still, some of us like being led by the leash into new experiences.

Bike Project Updates

Here's what I've been up to:

ebaby - Tried the Easton wheels but I don't think the low spoke count is compatible with a rider that weighs ten times what the bike weighs. The new rear gears make peddling easier but I need to adjust the limit screws on the rear derailleur to get access to all the gears.

MiniB - still trying to get the rear rim trued. I may have to break down and buy a truing stand. The sledgehammer just isn't accurate enough.

Glam Puss - I found a seat post that fits. I also finally gave in and admitted that the crunchy tires needed replacing. I'm watching some auctions on eBay for some new rubber.

Rocky - All that's left to get is a rear wheel/tube/tire and cassette. I've started assembling what I have. A rat bike all the way. What could be cooler than a Brooks saddle held together with duct tape?

Rolling Thunder - I finally found some brake pads cheap enough to suit my penny pinching. It should be ready for Craigslist in a week or so.

Parts - I found a pair of 700c bike rims on the street a couple nights ago. One is totally mangled and crunched beyond usability, but the other is a Mavic MA3 in great condition. It looks like someone used bolt cutters to remove the hub so it has 32 stubby spoke ends held on by the rim tape alone. Fortunately I have a set of black DT spokes and a brand new in box Shimano hub. My first from scratch wheel. Oh boy!

100 Words - Meditation Anxiety

My attempts at meditation are without discipline. I've got the sitting quietly part down pretty good and I'm very good at breathing. Then comes the clearing your head part. I start off good, letting thoughts enter my head and float away like clouds, passing through my consciousness barely acknowledged. Then a thought will catch my attention. An epiphany? Some great truth revealed? No, some trivial idea burlesqued into a story idea. The next twenty minutes spent pursuing the idea to usually unsatisfactory results. Then I realize what I've done, return to my breathing, but the moment for reflection has passed.

Book Review - Passion Play by Jerzy Kosinski

In this 1979 novel Jerzy projects himself into the role of errant knight polo player Fabian. Aging seducer of young girls, wandering the country in his camper/stable on wheels, looking for polo matches or a short teaching gig, with occasional diversions into sex clubs and pre-op transsexuals.

Fabian's main problem is that he's too good at the game for his own good. So good in fact that no one will play with him or against him. Kosinski repeats this theme in 1982's PINBALL, only in that case it's an aging composer who was too good for his own good. It might be argued that Kosinski considered his writing to be too good, or at least too far over the heads of most readers. I think most writers feel that at some point in their careers, though almost none of them can back that sentiment up with a masterpieces like THE PAINTED BIRD or BEING THERE.

That is of course the problem with most of Kosinski's books; They are only very good. Always people look back to his crowning glories and ask, "why isn't this new book that great?"

I enjoyed this book. It was at points more cynical and conversely more romantic than I expected. I like being surprised. One difficulty I imagine some readers would have is not knowing, or at least not believing, that a polo player would illicit such lust in the hearts of women. Well, then you've never known a young female equestrian. I lost more than one object of desire to the visiting polo scoundrel, so no suspension of disbelief was required on my part.

One of the things I did not like were some of the more tediously drawn out sex scenes. I think Kosinski was aware of this and worked on it because his next book PINBALL has several of the hottest sex scenes I've ever read.

100 words - Another Dance

Hello June. Teach me to waltz and I'll buy you a rose. Then we'll sit in the balcony, you smelling your new flower and me eating chocolate Pez from Winnie the Pooh's goiter. The dancers below will twirl and swirl and unfurl. You'll laugh at my silly alliterations. Then we'll sit quietly for a while, both dreading what will happen next. You, for the rejection you must give. Me, knowing of the impending rejection but driven by needs unrelenting. Sex always gets in the way, especially when there isn't any. I try to lose myself in distraction. You're crying again.

100 Words - Spit

I try to write. I'm hesitant, Afraid. That's the key word isn't it, afraid? Not of failure. Not of criticism. Fear of indifference. Sometimes I want to spit in people's faces. Sure they'll hate me for it, but they'll acknowledge me. They'll scream that my writing is foul and worthless and I'll smile because they are talking about my writing. I will stand on a pedestal of their hatred and and pity them. So easy they are to manipulate. The howling masses feeding my ego. Hating me. I am important. I matter. Hey, someone has to wear the black hat.

100 Words - Wounded

There is a wounded bike out there somewhere. It calls to me. I try not to listen. I have too many strays already. They clutter up the cottage in various states of assembly. Some need wheels. Some need gears. Others just need some love and attention. They wait. Wait for me to make them whole again so they can go off and be abused by some new kid somewhere. Muddy sneakers on pristine pedals. Peanut butter stains on the handlebars. The stuff of kid bike dreams. They must wait. A bent and broken bike calls me. Somewhere in the dark.