strange commonalities

what do horror, fitness, and glen danzig have in common?

bill hype

as Bill makes it's way out of the Caribbean and up the eastern seaboard everyone from South Beach to Nova Scotia is freaking out in anticipation. there's some sort of mystique around hurricane swells that is probably based more in fiction than fact.

out of all the hurricane swells I've surfed in Florida and here in Nova Scotia over the years only one or two are memorable. most of the time the storms would be too close, or not close enough. howling onshore winds would ensure shit conditions and rip out all of the sandbars -trashing the bottoms for months to come.

I remember one year, working on a lawn crew with my friend Troy, we emerged out of the morning fog and a big four hour job to find the U.S.1 slammed with traffic and the gas stations with 100 yard line-ups. we phoned our boss Glenn to see what the deal was.

"Hey Glen it's Troy. Looks like they are evacuating."

"yep. Did you guys finish today's accounts?"

suddenly I see Troy's face twist in consternation.

"whatever man we're bringing the truck in now" he snapped in annoyance.

we grabbed our boards and paddled out in front of the old crab restaurant. I never made it out past the inside and by the time I got out of the water I'd drifted a mile south. it was victory at sea and you couldn't see how far out the back the sets were breaking. I think Troy snagged a wave but it's not like anyone would have seen him.

meantime the entire beach-side was evacuating. I went back to the Cape Canaveral house and I'm sure D$ and I made dinner as usual and watched Friday for 113th time -ignoring the evacuation warning.

there was one hurricane swell I remember well. and it was one of the few where the winds were favourable and the swell not so maxed out that it was closing out everywhere. I got home from a long day of mowing lawns and just headed out back with the old and yellowed 8'6" Natural Art single fin that T-Bone had left behind -no leash.

usually it never broke out back as we were north of the Cocoa Beach pier and it was either too deep or not in the swell window. but that afternoon I scored perfect glassy head high waves to myself. I'm sure it was quite bigger down at 2nd light or further south but I didn't want to drive. there are very few surfs that I remember clearly and that is definitely one of the best. perfect sunset nose rides and trimming with no one else on the beach except for a couple of old fishermen casting into the surf for their dinner.

most of the hurricane swells I've experienced here over the past three seasons have been much of the same. days of hype leading up to the storm -with the surf forecasting sites giving the swell a record reading (as I write this a certain site is giving the Sunday swell 5 stars -ooooohhhhh)and then post hype depression sets in.

surely there will be some spots with the right orientation to the wind somewhere on the coast. those who know where to go will return with tales of glory. for me, I'll stay close to home and see how it goes, maybe if the track stays true I'll score some clean surf but most likely I'll be reliving the old Florida days -padlding out in way overheard closeouts and paddling against the drift without gaining on it.

not to worry though winter's nor-eaters will be here soon and then we'll get what we're waiting for.

if you wanna keep track fo yoself click here

Rashoman

Rashoman is probably one of the best films in terms of examining the human condition and our inhumanity. Janus Films has just remastered it and apparently it's going to be making the rounds in theaters. For those of you in SF and NYC please take advantage as I very much doubt we'll get the pleasure here in Halifax. Kurosawa is by far my favourite film director (I'm not much of a film buff) and Toshiro Mifune never disappoints.

yesterday a friend told me that apathy wasn't a desirable world view. perhaps an absurdist view is more palatable and humorous.

here' a little quote from one the English language's best absurdist writers Mr. Vonnegut -"Beware of the man who works hard to learn something, learns it, and finds himself no wiser than before... He is full of murderous resentment of people who are ignorant without having come by their ignorance the hard way."

so in the spirit of narcissism and egocentric obsession I wish you all a grand day. may you smell the dog shit on the sidewalk and enjoy the gratuitous violence on TV. may you feel compelled to participate in compulsory consumption during this joyless holiday season and may you get all the things you didn't want or need. for life as we've made it is absurd and delirious and for that we should be shameful.

now where is the next swell?

Cyclists and motorists spat as fuel prices skyrocket

from the Associate Press

Bicycle shops all over Canada are experiencing a glut of business as fuel prices continue to rise. In the province of Nova Scotia, a litre of gasoline reached an all time high of $1.81 today. Residents from the city and neighbouring suburbs are feeling a heavy pinch as the prices of other goods increase due to rises in shipping costs. Legions of people have begun to ride bicycles instead of driving their cars.

Increasingly, consternation between drivers and the droves of new cyclists is causing ill feelings and tension on the roads and highways. The traffic bi-laws in the city of Halifax place the bicycle in the same category as motor vehicles. Many of the new cyclists complain of being run off the road by drivers who do not give them the right of way as decreed by the city’s bylaws. Furthermore, cyclists are running red lights and going the wrong way on one-way streets to cut down on their commuting time. A local cycling advocacy group claims that cyclists should have more rights than drivers and that they should not be treated the same, as they do not have the ability to accelerate as a motor vehicle does. The group, called Bikers for a Cleaner HRM, also claim that cyclist should have more rights do to the fact that they are not polluting the environment and do not take up as much real-estate in city centre as automobile parking.

One bike shop owner we talked to said that some of his employees were going home in tears do to the excessive demand for new bikes. Bike mechanics are working twelve-hour shifts assembling new bicycles and refurbishing old ones. Shelves generally stacked with accessories such as tires, inner tubes, and lights, are completely empty. Bob Derailleur of Bob’s Bikes told us that he hoped things would slow down soon but that he’d never made so much money in such a short time.

City officials have reacted by staying out of the heated public dilemma. Recently they overturned a request by a special interest group to subsidise fuel for certain industries. However, the city officials refuse to hear any proposals to change traffic bi-laws, which would give cyclists more rights to the road. One official was quoted as stating that “our roads are made for cars, not bikes! If you want to ride a bike you should go to the park but keep off the roads because people need to get to where their going and cyclists make the roads extremely dangerous for drivers.” Who will win the war of the roads between cyclists and cars remains to be seen, as tensions continue to rise with the rising fuel prices.


Cog Shimano reporting from Halifax for the World Absurdist Press

Current Authors

I've been reading some authors whom are new to me but definitely well read. A few are:

John Fante's The Brotherhood of the Grape.

















Niko Kazantzakis' Zorba the Greek. This title is famous for the movie featuring Anthony Quinn seen the the photo below. This is my father's favorite film of all time.

Space is the Place

Dig this -if you're into Sun Ra or like free jazz (aka Avant-garde, whateves) and shitty sci-fi flicks you'll dig this film. It's a 70's indie film shot in Oakland, CA and very cool.


Surf Update:

Surfed waist to chest wind chop Sat. and Sun. last weekend. Lots of fun was had by all. Two hour sessions with below freezing water temps are about as good as it gets.

Outlook for surf in the next few days is bleak. The good news is that with daylight savings changing next week, post work sessions are on 'till November.

Chester Himes

From Paris to Harlem. Himes is funny and he'll make you wanna cry.

Arigato

This may be a shameless re-post but it fills my need to exercise my cynicism.




Geronimo jumped out the way when he heard the horn blast. He needed to be more careful or one day he was gonna have an accident. He looked at the bus schedule posted in tiny letters on the blue sign.

“Man these homeless dudes drink some cheap ass shit. The least they could do is puke behind the bushes. Damn!”

““Boy you better watch yo mout!”

“Wha…” said Geronimo to the drunk leaning on his stolen shopping cart. He hadn’t even noticed the nasty bastard. You got used to seeing homeless guys in the city and you also got good at ignoring them.

“Shit …hey man why don’t you make yourself useful and tell me what time the 31 is coming?” he said to the drunk. The old man looked at him and laughed one of those crazy cockeyed red nosed laughs that you could imagine coming from a well-pickled bruto.

“Sheeeet boy. You Mexicans never wanna learn how to read in English do yuhz?”

Geronimo was ready to curse the drunk with some special curses invented for the occasion.

“C’mon man. I left my contacts at the house ‘n I can’t see these little fuckin letters.”

“Alright lemme see …18 to MLK, 51 to Hollywood, 31 to downtown at -2:26.”

The old man leaned into Geronimo with a big foul smelling smile.

“Spare some change to help me get something to eat?”

Geronimo looked him up and down. The guy reeked!

“You just gonna drink it up ‘ol timer” hissed Geronimo.
“You stinking Mexican son of a bitch, damn” he yelled back.

Geronimo had spent his entire life in North Portland. Hipsters called it NoPo. Everyone in Geronimo’s neighborhood was poor and he didn’t understand why the hell the gueros called it that. Man they loved living with all the blacks and Mexicans.
His mother wanted him to have a strong name since he weighed over ten pounds at birth. His full name was Geronimo Wilfredo Bosque Jr. and she was pleased when she saw it for the first time on his birth certificate. Her prima took her down to the welfare office and got her into the system.

Geronimo was witty from the start. He learned bad words when he could sound them out. Kindergarten went well, his teacher was pleased he could count to ten in Spanish and English. In first grade Geronimo pissed off the teacher by asking to go to the bathroom too often and talking to another kid in non-native tongues. She referred him for Special Ed. and English for Speakers of other Languages, known as ESL, or, Especially Slow Latinos. The school shrink asked him a few questions and filled in six pages on her legal pad. She shook her head in complete understanding of the situation. Jr.’s mom figured the lady was telling her that her boy was smart ‘cause the school offered ESL classes to adults too. Her son would be taking adult level classes!

One day in fifth grade Geronimo was in the bathroom with some other Mexican kids. One kid produced a Sharpie from his pocket and began scrawling a letter x and the number 3 on the wall. That afternoon Geronimo was called into the principal’s office. When he walked in he was face to face with the school cop.

“Son do you know who I am?”

“Simon!” replied Geronimo.

Next thing he knew he was being bussed to the special school for behaviorally challenged youth. After getting pushed through high school Geronimo looked for work. He couldn’t read and job applications were like mountains looming in the foreground. He spent most of his time between the arcade at the Mall and his job as bottom bun man at Big Burger. One day he was playing a first person shooter and racking-up a huge score when he suddenly noticed a Japanese kid standing behind him admiring his fast handiwork on the joystick.

“You like sushi?” asked the Japanese kid.

Seven yeas passed and now he was late to catch Max to the airport. He was on his way to Japan to become Itamae, a certified Sushi chef.

Tires screeched - and wham!

The bus slid to a stop. Its driver peered under the bumper. Geronimo’s hand laid motionless, passport clutched.

fiction

Straddling the top bar he surveyed the distance. The road was empty. Heat shimmers dizzied his vision. He stepped on the forward pedal and launched back into his seat as the bike moved forward. It had been thirteen days since he’d seen anyone. The place was completely deserted except for the lonely snake crossing the road in zig zag late afternoon motion. He still had enough water tablets and there was food to last for another few months. Infinite solitude was the immediate problem.

At first it hadn’t seemed so bad -talking to himself to pass the time and keep spirits high. But the heat and sweat stinging his bloodshot eyes reminded him that there was no one to see his state of desperation. Loneliness was like a hidden sin, a transgression so heinous that you never told anyone for fear that you’d be cast out. Loneliness proved that your thoughts and dreams meant little without a sounding board to send them back with wit or without.

The hills didn’t bother him anymore than the heat. It was good to have physical pain -it was tangible.

He parked the bike below a ledge of desert wall. The sun, just over the rim of the wall, cast shadows like long fingernails. Someone spoke. He turned and no one was there. Sitting down on the red ground he untied his shoes and cast them aside. He popped a water pill into his canteen and immediately felt liquid weight fill the inside. Taking a long pull, thoughts drifted to Em. Would she like it out here, in this heat, and those long hill climbs? Would she be angry that there was no real food? Would she miss her red wine?

The voices started to come often, and from different directions. The sun had been down for at least four hours. He sat holding his knees to his chest, eyes streaming salt tears, washing grime from his sunburned cheeks. Fear was like so much weight on his chest. Suddenly he leaned over and vomited. The voices were growing louder but he couldn’t make out the dialect. It was so dark. Where were the stars? Something moved about five yards in front. He held on tight to his knees and tried to stop shaking. Could there be anyone around or was it just madness taking over?

A shock like a wreck came upon him. When he woke the next morning his head mated in blood, there were footsteps around his campsite. His things were spread everywhere. Nothing was missing. He packed up and stepped on the upraised pedal. As the pedal cycled he lifted his other leg over the seat like many times before and started to spin. Miles unwound under the spoked wheels. His head ached. The voices were gone. Loneliness was better this way, without the voices.

Short Fiction

Beer Run

I hop on my bike and run into the back of a parked van about thirty meters from the bar. Don’t know how long I lay there, maybe twenty minutes or, two hours. The front wheel is out of true but not done. In the morning I can fix it. There is no blood but a heavy-head feeling.

Deciding that walking will get me home safer is out of the question. Jumped on the bike again and this time concentrated like when your scraping the bottom of the big mayonnaise jar with a butter knife tip. Speeding up on the corners as usual and keeping a good cadence gets me home after fifteen minutes, or thirty -I can’t remember really.

Inside, the dog is pissed. She hasn’t had any attention since I went on the beer run at about nine. Now it’s three thirty and she needs attention. My knuckles are raw from the fall, or maybe it was from something else. She starts to bark and I am not having it.

We go outside –no leash it’s late. She moves from bush to light post to hydrant and settles on the hydrant and relieves herself. Finally she starts to wag her tail again. My head is heavy still and I need to sleep. But dogs have their way with men and we continue walking until she is satisfied, now she is ready to listen again and love again and be less demanding.

Bed feels good after a hot shower. Before going into the bathroom I swallow some ibuprofen then pound two glasses of tap water. Tomorrow I’ll wake up around seven or eight, take a beer shit, pound a couple more glasses of water and go back to bed. Then around eleven I’ll roll out of bed with heavy head again. After a shower and clean black t-shirt and the usual jeans with right leg rolled up two times to keep the grease off, I’ll ride down to Jack’s Burger and get a greasy combo meal to settle the stomach. Best hangover procedure ever, works every time.

Next morning Less calls.

“What the fuck happened to you last night?
“I dunno”
“Where did you go, we were supposed to meet up at the Steel Bridge and go for a mystery ride, we thought you got yerself arrested.”
“What made ya think that?”
“Well first off you grabbed a pool stick and threatened to fight anyone in the bar”

A pause… “nope wasn’t me or I’d remember.”

He started again.

“Then you threw your beer on Molly while she was pouring us all a last round for the night. You thought it was funny.”

“Uh huh”

“You stupid fucker. You don’t remember anything do you?”

“And then what happened?”

“Well Molly told you to get the fuck out of the bar and not come back 'till you were dead. You punched the bar top with a twenty gripped, dropped the money on the bar and walked out. We thought you were gone to cool off and that we’d see you on the bridge.”

“Oh well. I had to go home and let the dog out before she stopped loving me.”

“So what are you doing now?”

“Truing my front wheel and having a beer out in the front yard with the dog. Why you wanna go for a ride later.”

“Yeah sure I’ll be over in a bit. What happened to your wheel?”

“I dunno”

bike fiction

How I came to be here



I never knew my folks. Somehow it seems funny to refer to my biological parents as folks, as if they were decent. All I can remember was moving from one foster home to the next. Sometimes I’d get moved because they had too many kids as it was. Foster parenting is a good business for those who like working from home. Other times I’d get moved for being a jerk.

I made it through several high schools and received a diploma. During senior year I was offered a learning opportunity at a bike shop. The idea was that I would work for a small stipend, while learning a trade, and become a productive citizen. Joe at the shop was one of the first good people I’d met. He convinced me to give up smoking. He claimed that real cyclists only drank beer, and only after a long ride. It wasn’t long before I moved from sweeping the shop and taking out the trash to building up the new stock. As time passed Joe taught me to build wheels and gave me lessons on the intricacies of the cycling world.

One day Joe gave me a new bike as gift for completing a year of loyal service. My first ride on the trails was less than inspiring. I went over the bars a dozen times and each time the bike came with me. But it didn’t take long. Joe imparted some important pointers like how to look ahead on the trail and not directly in front. His theory was that your eyes worked faster than your brain and that you must fix your gaze ahead at all times. In this way you could flow through the trail without thought, just keeping an eye on the present.

Within a few months I entered the first race of the season. When the horn blew I bolted out front and never looked back. The pain of pedaling at maximum potential erased all memories of being in a race and suddenly I was across the finish line ten minutes ahead of number two, heart in my throat. By the end of the season I was sponsored.

My racing career eventually came to an end after several years. I was never a true contender when it came to facing guys with lungs like beach balls and legs like Christmas hams. I was just angry. But my short-lived fame landed me a job with one of the big bike companies as a sales rep. Riding took a back seat to working. My nights were spent in cheap hotel rooms and my days were spent on the road or in suburban bike shops hawking three thousand dollar bikes to guys who would never leave the paved trail.

One night I bummed a cigarette from the guy next to me at the bar. After my first inhale I ordered a gin fizz. It wouldn’t be long before I was fired for poor job performance.

I sat in my one room basement apartment chain smoking and drinking straight gin All I could do was mope and collect unemployment checks.
Months passed me by in a state of drunken haze. My bike collection had dwindled to one old clunker that wouldn’t sell.

I had to do something with myself. I rummaged through my things and found the last few old bike tools I hadn’t yet pawned. My bike was leaning against the wall in the corner of the room. The tires were flat. I cleared the center of the room and leaned the bike against a chair. Slowly I started striping it down. With each piece that came off my focus and intention to get it back in running order became keener.

In my toolbox was a near empty tube of bike lube. I grabbed an old t-shirt from one my sponsors and began to clean and reassemble the old bike. Every piece that went back on was inspected and greased and tightened to perfection. Anything unnecessary was discarded.

By midnight the bike was finished. After setting the bike back against the wall I made a big pile in the middle of the room of all the things I wanted to strip from my life. In went racing jerseys and medals, empty bottles and cigarette packs, junk mail that had been collecting on the table by the door, old letters that I never mailed, magazines, empty pizza boxes, clothes I no longer wore, and finally my last bottle of gin and a half pack of smokes. I tossed it all into a couple of garbage bags and walked them out to the dumpster behind the convenience store by my apartment.

In the morning I rode over to Joe’s shop to see if I could get my old job back. Joe was gone but I got the job.

Geronimo

Arigato

Geronimo jumped out the way when he heard the horn blast. He needed to be more careful or one day he was gonna have an accident. He looked at the bus schedule posted in tiny letters on the blue sign.

“Man these homeless dudes drink some cheap ass shit. The least they could do is puke behind the bushes. Damn!”

“Boy you better watch yo mout!”

“Wha…” said Geronimo to the drunk leaning on his stolen shopping cart. He hadn’t even noticed the nasty bastard. You got used to seeing homeless guys in the city and you also got good at ignoring them.

“Shit …hey man why don’t you make yourself useful and tell me what time the 31 is coming?” he said to the drunk. The old man looked at him and laughed one of those crazy cockeyed red nosed laughs that you could imagine coming from a well-pickled bruto.

“Sheeeet boy. You Mexicans never wanna learn how to read in English do yuhz?”
Geronimo was ready to curse the drunk with some special curses invented for the occasion.

“C’mon man. I left my contacts at the house ‘n I can’t see these little fuckin letters.”

“Alright lemme see …18 to MLK, 51 to Hollywood, 31 to downtown at -2:26.” The old man leaned into Geronimo with a big foul smelling smile.

“Spare some change to help me get something to eat?”

Geronimo looked him up and down. The guy reeked! “You just gonna drink it up ‘ol timer” hissed Geronimo.

“You stinking Mexican son of a bitch, damn” he yelled back.

Geronimo had spent his entire life in North Portland. Hipsters called it NoPo. Everyone in Geronimo’s neighborhood was poor and he didn’t understand why the hell the gueros called it that. Man they loved living with all the blacks and Mexicans.
His mother wanted him to have a strong name since he weighed over ten pounds at birth. His full name was Geronimo Wilfredo Bosque Jr. and she was pleased when she saw it for the first time on his birth certificate. Her prima took her down to the welfare office and got her into the system.

Geronimo was witty from the start. He learned bad words when he could sound them out. Kindergarten went well, his teacher was pleased he could count to ten in Spanish and English. In first grade Geronimo pissed off the teacher by asking to go to the bathroom too often and talking to another kid in non-native tongues. She referred him for Special Ed. and English for Speakers of other Languages, known as ESL, or, Especially Slow Latinos. The school shrink asked him a few questions and filled in six pages on her legal pad. She shook her head in complete understanding of the situation. Jr.’s mom figured the lady was telling her that her boy was smart ‘cause the school offered ESL classes to adults too. Her son would be taking adult level classes!

One day in fifth grade Geronimo was in the bathroom with some other Mexican kids. One kid produced a Sharpie from his pocket and began scrawling a letter x and the number 3 on the wall. That afternoon Geronimo was called into the principal’s office. When he walked in he was face to face with the school cop.

“Son do you know who I am?”

“Simon!” replied Geronimo.

Next thing he knew he was being bussed to the special school for behaviorally challenged youth. After getting pushed through high school Geronimo looked for work. He couldn’t read and job applications were like mountains looming in the foreground. He spent most of his time between the arcade at the Mall and his job as bottom bun man at Big Burger. One day he was playing a first person shooter and racking-up a huge score when he suddenly noticed a Japanese kid standing behind him admiring his fast handiwork on the joystick.

“You like sushi?” asked the Japanese kid.

Seven years passed and now he was late to catch Max to the airport. He was on his way to Japan to become Itamae, a certified Sushi chef.

Tires screeched - and wham!

The bus slid to a stop. Its driver peered under the bumper. A hand laid motionless, passport clutched.