Stop it, Klaus!

(birthday boy)

The sun is coming up, but I don't feel like getting out of bed yet. I will go for a ride today. I skipped yesterday, though I had intended not to. 

Are we still discouraged from ending sentences with prepositions. Is it bad form? ... though that was not my intention. 

I came home from the boy's birthday party and started watching My Best Fiend, Herzog's documentary on his relationship with Klaus Kinski. After that, I stayed in bed and ordered lasagna delivery and read from the endless stream of articles online. Klaus, it turns out, might not have been the best dad. His daughter Pola Kinski claims that he had sex with her for about 14 years. She broke off all ties with him when she was 19, shortly after the relationship became legal.

I should not make jokes. It is all saddening. She described her experience as being trapped in a prison of her own body. A hackneyed phrase, though apt I presume. He told her that it was all very natural, and that many fathers do the same. He was sadly correct, or rather factual in his statement. Many fathers do. There is no denying the naturalness of the impulse and the act, also. Though the word "natural" seems out of place there, mostly because it has been ruined by advertisers as a word. It is the correct word to describe incest as something that does occur in nature. The Brazilian wandering spider is natural, also.

It is difficult to imagine the relationship, unpleasant scenes emerge from nearly every angle. It is not beyond me, how some people give in to their unorthodox cravings, though I am no longer entertained as much by humanity as I once was. 

The couple whose house we were at to celebrate the boy's birthday had stayed in Kinski's cabin in Lagunitas and had told me how peaceful and secluded it was. I don't think that they mentioned that he had also died in the cabin. Perhaps they did not know. It would not have mattered much if they did. People die places. Speaking of, I will watch Nosferatu the Vampyr tonight. I don't ever remember seeing it, though increasingly I remember having seen something after I start to re-watch it. So, there is that to aging, the ability to re-watch films without 

When Rachel and I were in Paris celebrating our future divorce, we were walking near the hotel where Oscar Wilde died and we found a snapshot of Kinski in a shop window. I remember taking a picture of us together with it, then a passer-by offered to taker a picture of us.

Today will be an incest-free day. I will go for a long bike ride, then to the gym. I have an appointment in Santa Rosa to get some help with sleep. Fatal Familial Insomnia is also quite natural, though there are only 28 families known to carry the gene mutation that causes it. Some people have lived up to 36 months after the first signs appear, which eventually results in the complete inability to fall asleep, though most only live a few months. There are no known drugs to cure it. They can not be put under by the soft hands of Somnus and Morpheus. 

It ends in delusion, hysteria, and death. All things which are also quite natural.

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2.7 million seconds

A night in the city last night. There was wine, sake, a blur, then morning.

Today, it is the boy's buddy's birthday. The Big 5. When I was young I would calculate how many seconds I had lived up until the current one, and would marvel at the magnitude of the number that somehow represented me. 

I have decided to do nothing at all with my weekend. I will go for a long bike ride later, 40-50 miles. I never thought that I would be one of those people that replaced drinking with some other activity, something healthy, but it appears that I am. There must be some little drop of Jesus's blood left in my heart, trying to escape. 

Life is vaguely boring without drinking. Fewer mistakes are made.

When not drinking, I rarely need to apologize and sometimes know when to shut up.

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Terminal Tower

The sun has beaten some of the life out of me; borderline delirious some days. Appetite has growled and pounced and purred again. Question is whether it is good to ride during the heat of the day, which is all of the day, save a sliver in its onset. 

The good feeling, then something else, also. 

That pain to love. What is it. 

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Is bukaki still safe for work?

Few things make me as happy as does getting a new bike. Most of my energy for writing posts has been diverted into my inner-riding-monologue, while working an entire series of petty grumblings out of my system. I must have thought of at least four good post-worthy sentences yesterday, now all gone.

I had forgotten how great mountain bike tires are. They're more work on the road - getting up hills, and much slower gliding back down them. But fuck... they feel so much better. A bike should grip whatever exists below it, like leather gloves do throats. I am taking sharp turns again and going off road more frequently. I thought that it would take some getting used to, adjusting to 29" tires, but nope. One day of riding, maybe two, and they are the new normal. Now, the problem will be ever getting back on my old bike. Somebody's going to have to ride it to the landfill.

I have stripped the old bike of all of its dignity and rewards. The water bottle cage and seat bag have been transferred to the new bike, even though their color patterns conflict terribly with the blue and gold, my high school colors. Or rather, the colors of the high school that I dropped out of when I turned sweet sixteen.

I started wearing a bike helmet, not sure if I've already mentioned that. I rode for 40+ years without one, and then the boy asked me why I wasn't wearing one. He has to wear one, etc.

So, now I am finally an adult. I wear the helmet everywhere. I went to a titty bar and kept it on the entire time, because you just never know when you're going to want to feel safe. I also had my lycra shirt and skin tight black padded riding spanx on. I don't use shoe clips, so they lucked out that I didn't click and clack all the way to one of the easily moved cocktail tables that circled the stage. 

Have you ever seen what some women will do for a dollar? It all seems so glamorous and tantalizing until you realize that this is how some young female hobos live.

Now, there would be some that might assume that the above statement would mean that I am against it. But no, I just think that it should be less regulated. I think that they should be allowed to also panhandle on the street like everybody else, so that we can better empathize with their plight. Can you imagine young nubile bummesses showing some random pedestrian a stray pussy lip, or the circle of their tender pink butt-hole, for a dollar. 

I can imagine this. 

A block party dj every now and then coming over the mic encouraging you, Don't forget to tip the ladies! Watered down drinks, $20 each, all of it. I mean, what genius decided all those years ago to round up all of the would-be prostitutes and created a business model in which we could get all of these hot beggars off the street?

No, I kid. I think it's all very wonderful, how women continue to liberate themselves. The republicans are sorting all of this stuff out, because it is a genuine crisis. Nothing quite says rectitude as do politicians. 

Where was I? I became sidetracked with thoughts of perfectly licit street pussy. Fuck, I would demand that spotlights were installed in every alley, a disco ball at every intersection!

So Yes, Yes, yes... I was thinking of the new mountain bike tires. I had replaced the trail tires on my Marin for road tires sometime back, to make riding the bike as I do to be a more comfortable and less strenuous experience. The result was that it robbed me of riding confidence. I started taking turns more widely, rarely ever leaving the road, even sometimes when it made sense to do so. I was using my brakes rather than using my bike as it was meant to be used.

After a couple years of riding those sissy city tires I even started to ride sitting down, like a girl. I was often afraid that my friends would see me. I began masturbating with mostly one finger, and another arranged on top of it as a supporting finger, for strength. It's almost like masturbating with chopsticks. That tender spot is both elusive and cunning. One has to mash around that entire area to get started, then move in on the slippery spot. Sometimes I feel as if a magic bean stalk has grown out of my clitoris.

Well, if I had a clitoris. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in being a feminist that I forget.

Speaking of sissies... One time, years ago, I was happening down the avenue in the quiet, quaint city that sits just outside the bigger and less quaint city that I grew up near, and CS was rollerblading down the avenue... in front of everybody, loosely following some chick that was much better at it than he. I called out his name. His wobbly response was immediate: You tell anybody and I'll kill you!

His secret is safe with me, of course. I used to rollerblade with a girlfriend, also. It's like bukaki. It's only gay if the girl somehow disappears. Then, you're left rolling down the avenue in the fiercist shoes ever made, surrounded by a bunch of dudes jerking off towards each other. 

My computer wants me to correct the term bukaki. It is underlined in red, as if I am not familiar enough with its delicacies to know if I've spelled it correctly or not. I do not wish to search for it on a work computer, for reasons that HR might best understand.

But wait, wait! I genuinely thought that it was a type of technology, not a deviant sexual practice for the many disaffected lovers of heavy metal. 

Bukaki is the heavy metal of porn. Take that one girl's smiling face-target away and suddenly it becomes the gayest, sado-leather-fest you've ever seen. Metal is comprised of "musicians" who didn't quite make it all the way to Broadway, so they turned to the dark side of drama. How did heavy metal ever get the nearly free pass that it did in the 80s? It's a way of saying that both women and punk rock are too scary, but I just can't stop believing in the devil. 

Well, I had meant to meditate a bit on the joys of biking, but instead I have discovered the mysterious maletoris and have again affirmed that bukaki is the straight man's way of being gay for five minutes, or an afternoon. 

I'm going to start telling people that I am a Taurus, with a Clit rising. 

Somebody out there must have edited some porn to remove the woman, or womans, from the various bukaki scenes. It must be hilarious, just dudes descending on a central spot, all agreeing in pleased mumbles what the slut that has magically appeared before them really deserves. Physical and sexual dominance being expressed through the receptiveness of the invisible lucky lady that just happens to be uniting all of the major plot points.

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Politics will make you go blind

FUCk. . I . WrOTe . a . PoiSONOUS . SCreed . yESteRday. . i'M . GLaD .i . dIDn't . posT . It. . i . sHoUlD . do . that .With . All . OF . My . Political . poStS, . letthem . Sit . FOR . A . DAy. . My . thErapiSt . says . That . it . is . sImPLy . besT . to . WRiTe . these . leTters,NOt . TO . sEnd . thEM.

Corruption Fatigue

(Undecided Voter)

Had I been an enormous Bernie fan then I'd be getting pretty fucking pissed right about now. I've heard the arguments for why anyone with sensibilities should be voting for Hillary - to keep Trump out - but finding that the DNC crafted the nomination to be Hillary's, actively seeking to keep Sanders removed from the democratic process, depriving his supporters of what may have rightfully been theirs.... I mean, is nothing sacred in America any more. 

The democrats weren't playing by the rules.... Who would have ever guessed. They've spent so much time reminding us how noble they are. We've all known about democratic moral superiority for some time now, but to actively remove the choice that the people have made only because those people simply can't see that Hillary will be good for them... Great for them. 

Great, Great, GREAT!

Well, that would just be wrong. It's not the peaceful transference of power, it's just substitution term at tyrant ranch - changing of the guards at the ol' despocratic party.

None of the people that I have seen debate so far deserve to be the president. Neither of the two major political parties deserve to be involved in the process at all. This country is within striking range of putting all of our politicians in jail and there being a full scale revolution of some kind. The only problem is that the revolution will be warped by the civil war that will result from those otherwise good intentions.

Okay, why can't I just keep a promise to myself. Is a conversation still political if it's about a crime that has been committed, or is that simply the prerequisite to any discussion of politics. There really should be a private prison for politicians. Debbie Wasserman Shultz should be tried as a traitor, and any president that was helped in his election by her actions should not be allowed to pardon her. 

Though, had she been more involved in the 2000 election I might look the other way. 

The Clintons are to blame for Bush. People act as if it's a mystery why Al Gore won't endorse Hillary.  It's not, at all. Gore was hobbled by Bill to help pave the way for Hillary. Bill Clinton is partially to blame for the second Bush presidency and everything that resulted from it, including its logical result: Trump. They thought that they would get Hillary in after 4 or 8 years, but Obama fucked that up for them. Now, this seven-headed ten-horned Revelations-era sea monster is what we are told that we must vote for to defeat the very monster that they helped create. 

Why can't I stop writing about politics. 

The sky has fallen! The sky has fallen!

I have become an old man, screaming at inadequacies and perceived corruptions. When Trump wins we will have democracy to thank for it. Nobody will be able to claim that he didn't take the popular vote. 

Democra-gate, 2016.

Okay, so I rode my brand new bike up the side of a mountain yesterday, somehow the rear derailleur guard cracked and fell off, rendering the bike useless. I had to walk home with greasy hands, having tried to ride with the chain on for a bit, which was useless. I might have even broken the part accidentally by allowing the chain to pop off so many times, but something was wrong with it before all that happened. It wasn't changing gears properly, or cleanly. There was audible friction between the mechanism and the chain on most gear changes, though every now and then it would shift cleanly and smoothly. 

It was in need of an adjustment, no question about it.

Well, it's all fixed now. The shop replaced the part. I had first wanted to return the bike, but they convinced me that it is just a component, the very argument I had used to be so pro-bike earlier this weekend. I was trapped by my own desire to describe. My reasoning had pinned me. I tapped out.

I will ride it again today and see how I feel. I have a week to return it, though I am hopeful that it was just a bad setup and an unlucky mishap with a valuable component. 

The bike is still beautiful, and I'm happy with my choice.

Here I am in my au naturel riding gear, old gym clothes:

(Helmets are for pussies)

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Biking in the Rain

I feel like a kid that can't play with his toys on Christmas morning. The bike is an unused object of beauty sitting in the back patio. I had the boy yesterday, so a ride was not possible. I tried to get him interested in riding his bike, also. I had thought that we could go on a fun little bike ride together and that would at least let me be on my new bike for an hour or so, get a feel for how it handles at very low speeds, with sudden turns. I am beginning to question if my older Marin even had 27.5" tires. When next to the new Kona they look more like 26", though I didn't bother to measure them.

There is something comforting in a bike's simplicity. Things can go wrong, or can break, but those things can be easily fixed, usually by the bike's owner. Almost everything else in the world, if it breaks then replacement is required, or a specialist to repair it. One is left helpless when a watch dies, or a computer fails, or even if a toaster's heating element goes bad. Almost everything in life renders one helpless in failure. You are victorious at the point of purchase alone, all else is a lubricated downhill slide towards your next purchase. There is an ultimate uselessness to all things purchased. 

Though, a bike can be easily fixed at almost any bike shop, usually, or at home by anybody with moderate mechanical skills. A bike is one of the few things that has kept the promise of the industrial revolution. Everyone should own and use one.

That concludes my Cyclist Manifesto. 

It's true, though. Even if your frame cracks, you can just swap it out and move all of your components to the new bike. It's not a total loss. 

That should conclude my Marxist dispatch on bikes for the time being. I am hoping that the boy's mother can watch him this morning so that I can go on a ride. I am happy with my purchase. It will bring me years of pleasure and pain.

Today, there will be other things that we hope to do, also. There will be a photo shoot, if we can corral the boys together towards a common purpose long enough. We had discussed a few different sites for shooting, but I think the square is going to be the best, it offers the most "scenes" from which to choose. There is a duck pond with an arched brick bridge, the horseshoe lane around the center fountain and koi pond, the four-sided city hall, a performance stage and theater, lots of trees and open areas of grass, a playground, etc. All of which are very close to each other, and there is shade as well. The only thing missing at the square are the rolling hills that the place is famous for. 

Today is meant to be a scorcher, in the 90s. Yesterday was the same, though there was a light breeze blowing through the valley, which reduces suffering greatly. It is not like a Florida 90, most people barely notice here, they just try to stand in the shade whenever possible. Florida will survive the approaching doom, they have all been living under water for decades.

I have a friend that insists that he will never live somewhere hot again. I feel the same about humidity. The heat doesn't bother me so much. It is the choking influence of the south's sultriness that ruins life there. I remember that there were a few cases of malaria in the Sunburn State about twenty years ago.

I'm not kidding. This is not a place to live. It is where cockroaches go to find their spiritual center. 

Okay, that represents the totality of my insight into bikes and weather. Do not cling to them, they will have evaporated once a new morning has appeared before each of us.

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