Tuesday, April 18

Mo Better . . . Street Corners



NE corner of Fairfax and Pico. For over a year I passed by this Mo Better Meatty Meat Burgers place on my bicycle commute home from work. A vegetarian for 12 years, this was at once disgusting to me and at the same time reassuring because it was boarded up and locked behind gates, graffitied and clearly not . . . serving dead cows. Anymore. Of course, the McDonald's down the street still is, but that's another story.

Anyways, two months ago I actually had my camera with me because I had needed it at work, so I stopped at various points of my commute to document some oddities. This was one of them. Today, on my commute, I stopped at my usual corner, one foot on the curb, the other on my pedal, scanning the lights to anticipate the perfect moment between cars and photons that I could safely jump my light and be on my way, when my eyes picked up a certain emptiness . . . on the NE corner of Fairfax and Pico . . . and my jaw dropped as I realized that the entire Mo Better Meatty Meat Burgers building was GONE, some broken pieces of urbanite and a bulldozer in its stead.

Tonight I will pray to the infinite goof and to the goddess of cosmic irony that Mo Better is not going to be replaced by a McDonald's. Please feel free to do the same . . .

Monday, April 17

Spring Fevered Glaze, No Haze

Last Wednesday I had a beautiful spring bike ride home. It started when I was rolling west down Jefferson along through Culver City at the industrial part just before it heads north. The sun was casting a honey glow from behind me—my bike shadow stretched out long and lean in front and my knees pump pumping and I thought, “This light reminds me of an Alaskan summer late evening twilight glow.” Then I looked up into the full moon hanging there in the clear blue sun and I remembered ah that’s where it’s at. The full moon has a way of pulling the energy to the front of my skin. Propelling me forward. Suspending my stress and exhaustion for this instant. Then I’m heading north on Redondo and I hear “grrr!” “GRR!” and “scamper, scamper,” and the shouts of kids behind. Aware suddenly of an impending ankle clamp, I look down to see this small brown dog veering off like his job was done, heading back to the arm waving shouting kids and I yell “Tough dog!” And go on. At Washington I decide to head east as I wish to continue riding into the full moon and away from the sun—I like being between this energy, and not my usual route up to Pico. At the stoplight at LaBrea, this dude crosses the street with a peculiar drug addict posture: just his clothes, a cigarette in one hand, lighter in the other and a destination in his eyes. He sees me and says, “You only got one brake?” “Yeah,” I say. “It’s a fixed gear so I only need a front brake.” He nods his head and tells me how a few days ago he rode the marathon. Then looks sideways and says, “Well, I joined up with it.” I say, “Yeah, I’d like to do it. I just can’t get up that early.” The light changes—“take care, man.”

Later on down Washington near western maybe, on the north side of the street there’s a semi-circle huddle of folks on the corner. Could be a tour group or Jesus proselytizers, but as I pass I notice they are huddled around burning candles and one of those flower-covered crosses. To my right coming out of what has always struck me as a promising “thrift” store is this elderly black couple out to see what the fuss is about—possibly the owners and I say, “What happened over there? Somebody get killed?” “Beg your pardon,” he says. And she of the oversized black frame glasses waves her hand dismissively and says, “Shot. Last week.” “That’s terrible.” And I keep riding. The sun lowering now. I pass that really amazing old brown Victorian haunted house with the two scraggly trees at the front porch on the southside of Wasington. Its got a big lot and i want to live there. Then I head north up Alvarado. I need a donut for phase four, the climb home. So, I stop at yum yum just before Pico and pant, “Donut with sugar.”

“What?”

“Sugar, coated in sugar.”

“You mean glazed.”

“Yeah, that’s the word I’m looking for. Glazed.”

I stand outside watching the pink of the sun edge towards dark and all this activity passing by and I think, “Man, I love this town.” Home.

Monday, April 10

The Eternal Infernal Question



What part of BIKES ONLY are you falsely entitled, egregiously ignorant, doesn't-apply-to-me shmucktards having trouble with?

Saturday, April 8

g for Punk not D.

it might not be entirely bicycle related, but here we go:

so last night i went to see my friend scott aka vladimir play with his band glassel park 3. first time i heard them was through a cd scott gave me at the kitchen. scott is cook, wich is the way we call volunteers at the kitchen. the first time i heard scott was when he was playing the banjo on this old timey band he and other two cooks have called triple chicken foot. anyway. GP3 is cool to the point of dancing. three dudes: bass player, tricked up six string banjo through almost distorted amp, and wooden box-snare-two cymbals for percussion. bluesy-old timey-punk filling the place with the energy, with the energy, let me say one more time, with the energy of a train going through the dessert as its being robbed by the reincarnation of some sex pistol with a fake water gun, riding a bicycle.
so i get there with my friend Kirlian who is out of breath after the rushed 7 mile ride. and GP3 and friends are sitting there sipping beers. Scott aka vladimir is pretty buzzed, or so he says. we have another beer and then they jump on stage. and they JUMP on stage. banjo flyes and bass kicks ass from the hands of slick looking dude wearing johnny ramone t-shirt and the box (cajon) thumps in the empty glendale night through electrosensitive microphone and scott aka vladimir SINGS and screams. and there is no name for this music and do i like things for wich there are no names.
so when S. comes down he's sober as a legal code and we give thaks and hurrays. and kirlian and i go through the avenue of car dealers to L.A on our bikes. and it makes me sad to think that he's leaving to the northwest in a few months. may GP3 play again, and again.