Sad i bussen på vej hjem fra endnu en grotesk shoppingtur. Har snakket lidt med buschaufføren, der åbenbart har været i Danmark, hvor vi jo "har den bedste kinesiske mad i hele verden!". Mælk, ja, brød og korn-produkter, jaja, men kinesermad? Den har jeg ikke hørt før!

Ind i bussen træder så den største mest stereotype og ucharmerende amerikaner ind i bussen. Han er tyk. Eller vil faktisk ikke engang sige tyk, for han har tynde, tynde stankelben med lange hår på, og selvfølgelig hvide sokker trukket halvvejs op ad benene i 30 graders varme. Hans bodegabyld er så velvoksen at han knapt kan få sig mast igennem døren. Den er simpelthen ikke kun stor fortil, men er begyndt at brede sig ud til siderne også. Hans store t-shirt har adskillige pletter foran, (men det må også være svært at styre udenom det store frontparti, når bigmac'en skal fortæres) og hans shorts er kun lidt hullede omme bagpå (lige under hans selvfølgeligt synlige ass crack) Med sit lange, grå og fedtede, halvkrøllede hår får han sig så placeret på den anden side af gangen, lige overfor mit sæde selvfølgelig.

Eftersom pladsen er trang, og hans øloppustede vom trykker på hans indre organer - plus lunger - minder hans vejrtrækning i frekvens mere om en hamsters end om et egentligt menneskes. Og i denne salige tilstand er det så, at han får øje på mig...

Først glor han lidt på mig, hvilket jeg af gode grunde prøver at ignorere. SÅ begynder han at snakke til mig. Først om hvordan vejret er, jamen jo da, det er varmt og alt det der small talk. Så begynder han af uransaglige årsager at beskrive sit privatliv. Først starter han med at spørge mig, om jeg kan gætte hvilket dyr han skal hjem og fodre. Mine tanker strejfer muligheden for, at der måske lever et større pattedyr inde i hans mave, men når dog alligevel at komme med det passende "jamen det ved jeg da sørme ikke". Her tvinger han mig så til at gætte alligevel, for det har han jo sagt at jeg skulle! Jeg gætter så på det mest neutrale jeg kan finde på, en hund. Nejnej da, det er skam hans skildpadde! (Jamen det skulle jeg da have gættet med det samme!?) Hans skildpadde, ved jeg nu, lever af skildpadde-piller, den er en vandskildpadde med adgang til vand, klippeland og varmelampe og den hedder fast-Eddie. ("Men det er ikke fordi den er hurtig forstås! Det er bare for sjov..." No shit?) Bagefter får jeg en lang forklaring om hans kat, Alley Cat, og at han gerne vi holde akvariefisk, men er bange for at katten vil spise dem.

Jeg begynder som turen nærmer sig Green Meadow Drive, at blive bange for at den snakkesaglige bums skal af samme sted som mig. Heldigvis står han af lige stoppestedet før mig! Havde egentlig lidt ondt af ham, han var jo tydeligvis bare en ensom gammel mand, der havde brug for en eller anden form for menneske-kontakt, men for fa'en kan man da ikke bare holde sig til small talk? Hvad er der nu galt med vejret, vejene og udsmykningerne i parken? Håber i det mindste at han gik hjem og havde det lidt bedre... Jeg gik hjem og holdt lidt ekstra øje med vejen bag mig.

Lying with us when we sleep.  The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.  That and shitting in a box in our homes, and making us clean it up.  Fork-tongued proprietors of false love, purrs are the softened legato of the death rattle.

The most important thing you can do is convince yourself that you’re over it – whatever it may be.  Obviously, that depends on what the meaning of the word “is” is.  But focus on the manifest content of your dream and not that which is obfuscated.  Happiness lies in the perception of your current circumstances.  This is precisely why I ride the bus.

You’d think that after dipping my toe into today’s climate I’d say it was to be “green”, but personally, I think I look like shit in green.  Earth tones do my hazel eyes no justice.  Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Stop. Go.  Rhythmic gymnasts wish they had this kind of precision.  I wish rhythmic gymnasts had less smelly bums inside of them, but I digress.  The bus is a Petri dish on which to base the current state of society.

Where else can you find corporate bankers, students, day laborers, bums, nuns, musicians, pederasts, and the like, all in such an intimate space?  Well, besides church. Given the choice, I’d rather wake up early and ride the bus for two hours every Sunday.  Amazingly, all these people follow the bus rules: move to the back, give up your seat to the elderly, don’t talk loudly, etc.  When the buses go to shit, so shall society.

But while society is alive and kicking, so shall I be.  Butterflies-in-stomach, heart racing alive.

My eyes fall all over you.  You move and its fire.  This room turns to flames.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall in a house of cards.

Unfortunately, and due in part to the aforementioned climate, much of that money goes towards alcohol, and not the many affordable nightly hotels and food programs.

Perhaps it is too strong to call them a blight on the city, but scenes like this are not only sad, but unsettling.

The writer was describing his recent experiences he had while he was waiting for a friend of his down town, at Helsinki’s Central Railway Station. What we Helsinkians already know is that in this area there are a lot of bums. The bums gather here like flies on shit, and sometimes they come up to you and ask you for a cigarette, or for a couple of euros... for “the bus ticket back home”.

The writer of this article made a very interesting point, and I thought that was very observant of him to notice it. He told his friend about how so many bums came up to him during the ten minutes he waited there, and his friend said he has the very same problem. Later, while meeting another friend they discussed this issue, and this third person had no idea what they were on about. No bums ever come up to him to bother or harass him.

Now we come to the interesting part. This writer said he always dresses nice, and so does his friend, the one he waited for at the Railway Station, but this third person always looks angry and “seems to have got his clothes from a less than empathic motorcycle club.”

So apparently the bums choose you for their target based on how you look, and the writer argues that, sadly, the clothes does make the man and he continues: “Maybe I should switch my T-shirt with the Pikku Kakkonen (a children’s television show) logo to an Impaled Nazarene band shirt that says Smoke Crack and Worship Satan?”

Do you have problems with bums harassing you? Tired of them asking you to pay their bus fare back home, or for that last bottle of beer? Don’t dress so nice!

Technorati Tags: Bums, Clothes, Helsinki, Life, Observation

He pedaled with trepidation down 27th avenue trying desperately to pick up speed in order  to get through the yellow light on Telegraph.  He heard a car brake hard and somebody swearing behind him as he pushed himself up the hill  and darted through the intersection just as the light turned red. Luckily for him, traffic had been uncharacteristically slow at reacting  that morning, and the Police officer in the OPD cruiser had other things on his mind other than dealing  asshole bicyclists.

He shot down the rest of 27th, getting lucky again at the freeway on ramp, cruising underneath the 580 overpass and through the second set of lights. He jumped briefly into the bike lane that ran down 27th and then veered a quick right at the red light on MLK.  A short jog down MLK, then a quick left at  30th Street which then led him back to San Pablo. This was his super secret zig zag short cut which he took to avoid the wait at MLK.  Sometimes it saved time, other times it really did not make much of a difference.   He cruised down 30th towards San Pablo. He looked ahead of taking note of the parked truck and forklift  up ahead and cussed. There was always a fifty fifty chance of him running into a truck being unloaded on this street. Today he had been unlucky.   He swung around the forklift and hit the corner without really looking for cars. He was so fucking late.

He felt traffic on his ass, and saw yet another obstacle in the form of a parked UPS truck up hahead at the battery outlet store. A quick peek over his left shoulder showed him that a blue camry was  gaining on him fast, but he took a chance  and jumped in front of it. He was greeted with another sharp horn blast  as he glided around the big brown truck and jumped back into the right lane. The Camry then roared past and its  driver, a Korean girl with a blue tooth, gave him the finger as she gunned her car. He fingered back with authority then kept on riding.  No time to chase after her. He was never going to make it at this pace

Feeling the wind at his back, he  shifted into high gear and pushed himself down San Pablo, cutting through the nonsensical red light  on Market, past the quiet Taco Stand and busy carwash towards the BQQ Rib shack/ night club.    He cut across the lanes by the the BQQ shack and then hugged the left lane for a bit as two trucks full of sub contractors rolled by him. The drivers seemed only mildly perturbed by his antics. He eased into the turning lane and checked for oncoming traffic. Down the road, a bus was coming, but he knew it there was a bus stop just before the  People's park that stood on the corner of San Pablo and 32nd avenue.  he went for it.

An old bum was crossing the street, making his way from the corner liqour store back to the dirty little park.  He limped halfway across the road then paused to take a little slip of his brown bag breakfast. He swallowed down the malt beverage and then gently burped, feeling a small trickle of pee leek out, further soiling his filthy pants. Having long since given up, the bum ignored the incident, and continued on his way. Although he did see the bike coming at him, he figured that it was not his job to get out of the way and paid no attention to the glare of the rider.  He continue to meander on the way  as the rider, a big angry looking white guy, was forced to hit his brakes real hard. The big guy then flew over the handlebars and landed on top of the bum spilling the rest of the malt liquor all over the street.

He had never gotten the back brakes fixed and figured that he would never really need them anyway, since he never really went fast enough or was forced to brake too hard. He also figured  bike was just to old and his brakes were just to worn to accomplish this. He was wrong on both counts. The damn bum came out from nowhere and, in a panic, he squeezed hard on the brakes. He then went superman, sailing through the air and smashing cap first into the bum. He and the bum tumbled onto the road together and his  head sans helmet smacked down hard onto the black top. He smelled urine and felt the woosh of the passing bus, which had not so much as paused at the bus stop, and had now, just ran over his bike. Now he was never going to get there on time...

to be continued.

Have lots of pictures from the formal classes I watched today including Draft Singles Driving and a Series of Saddlebred classes.  Until then, here's a peek of the petuties seen in the Horse Barn.  I think the Belgians have the best bums of the bunch.

We couldn't do that to her, now could we?

I decided to wait until Olga was fast asleep before I set out to do the post, because...well... she seems to be such a good sleuth, turning up information like long lost twin brothers and stuff, that I didn't want to chance it. I've had enough family additions this week. Next thing you know she'd be finding some juicy little bit like this wacky fellow is my cousin or something.

Having my mind so focused on excusing my lateness, all I could seem to find were derrierre-type images. Imagine that!

So I decided to just grin and bare it... and offer you up another mushroom recipe to go along with my butt-ing about.

Tulio Restaurant's Mushroom Bruschetta Recipe

4 slices of crusty Italian bread
olive oil (for bread)
12 medium mushrooms sliced
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon chopped lemon zest
1 tablespoon chopped parsley
salt and pepper to taste

Brush bread lightly with olive oil and grill both sides until lightly toasted. Quickly saute mushroom in preheated pan with the 1 T. olive oil until lightly browned.

Remove from heat and stir in remaining ingredients. Spoon mushrooms over slices of bread

Serves 2

[Recipe Source]

(I sure hope Olga's Blog Mistress isn't too upset about all the goings on over here. I really am taking good care of her... honest.)

I think this is definetely the place I need to move to escape Tampa. I understand the winters are wicked but I think I can endure this. Also the sales tax is rediculous... But I can deal with this as well.

My only complaint about the city is the multitude of vagrants. Some are agressive and I see the same ones all the time. They really should do something to clean that up... Especially given the crazy sales and hotel tax revenues they are bringing in.

I don't get to come back for atleast four weeks for work (unfortunately). I am Definetely coming in October to participate in the Men's Health Urbanathlon. Maybe I'll be moved in by then.

Some of my stories from this week would be very entertaining but I know I can't tell any of them. Some of my readership cannot be privy to such personal details. Maybe it's time for a new secret blog. Anonymous even?

I am returning to Tampa for the weekend and then heading back to Newport News on Monday.

Pictured: view from my desk looking down Wacker.

Stepping in gum is a bummer. It's a bummer because you have deal with it right away, unless you want to attract other detritus. If you even go one block before stopping to scrape your shoe on the curb, you will discover your foot has become an electro-magnet for all kinds of old receipts and discarded love letters. Plus, if it's a really serious case and you have to take off your shoe, things quickly escalate from "minor inconvenience" to "being mistaken for a bum." Also a bummer: Barefoot on the sidewalk. Sartorial un-bummer: jazz era two-tone wing tips (above).

Hmmm. I wonder why the networks (NBC and CBC) are showing so much beach volleyball. Any ideas? Anyone? Is Men's beach volleyball as popular as women's? It doesn't seem to be on tv as much. I'm not sure why.

Even President Bush likes beach volleyball. But some women don't want to play beach volleyball.

OMG. Beach volleyball continues through the first 14 days of the Olympics (which only last 16 days total). Non-beach volleyball games are being played everyday as well but I haven't seen any of them on television. I wonder why.

How will the networks fit in the other sports around all of those women's beach volleyball games?

Maybe they can just use the running ticker at the bottom of the screen and maybe a "picture in picture" to show highlights.

Before the start of the race, the event volunteers wrote our bib numbers on our legs and arms.  They also wrote our ages on the back of our calves.  "Can you write 29 on one leg and plus 8 on the other leg?" I asked, however the very youthful female volunteer did not appreciate my wit so early in the morning.  She will understand my joke 20 years from now.

My division (females under 40) started at 7:15.  As soon as we began our 5K run, the skies open and buckets of rain poured down on us.  A sheet of heavy rain made it difficult to see, and the puddles were unavoidable.  The dense humid air made it difficult to breathe, but I trudged along not concerned with my time, but more with conserving my energy.  In the end, my running time was 29:10.

Unaware and unprepared for the quick transitioning between events, I thought my chip would pause once I crossed the finish line after each leg of the triathlon.  Undoubtedly, a huge misunderstanding on my part, so when I finished running, I slowly meandered to my bike.  I noticed my friend, Julie, pedaling away and thought to myself "Wow.  She's doing great.  Darn.  I wanted to get a picture of her during transition."  I then proceeded to lift my bike off the bike rack, strolled to the bike start line and pedaled away.  I felt pretty confident at this point, until a swarn of speed racers flew past me.  Another friend, Leslie, giggled as she rode past me and called out "On your left!" 

"On your left!" became the chant I heard over and over and I felt like the fat kid in the schooyard picked last for the team.  "It's the bike," I told myself as I tried to pedal faster.  "You can do this!  Come on!"   

As I began my 10.5 mile journey, the heavy rain returned.  Unable to see again only with the added problem of my feet constantly slipping off the pedals, I cussed myself for not renting a racing bike, like Leslie.  The heavy and not aerodynamic bike required me to pedal the entire time, while other athletes continued whizzing past me on their racing bikes.  I could hear their chains spin as each rider rested once maneuvering around me.  With the sound of their spinning chains taunting, I remembered a conversation with a friend who told me that racing on mountain bikes can be discouraging when others start passing you.  With that, I stayed focus and continued pedaling.  On this stretch, they were a lot of twists and bends and hills, but I hugged the right while athletes still constantly sped passed me.

Since it rained so heavy twice during the race, the massive rain puddles were unavoidable.  Nasty, mucky puddle water as well as the spray from others' bikes splashed at my face.  I felt a droplet hit my eye and I thought, "Great.  Not only will I come in last place, but I will get ringworm, too!"

Then, I spotted Julie on her return trek.  "Come on, Denise!"  She smiled as she called out and she looked great.  I could tell she was really proud of herself.  Julie had worked so hard for this day and deserved this moment with all recent problems with her poor hip.

As Julie blurred past me, an older gentleman scooted along side me.  He hollered out his words of comfort to me, "It's all right.  You'll pass me in a little bit."  But, I never saw him again.  I assume he made it back to the finish line and didn't pass out on the side of the road somewhere.  As the older gentleman passed me, I thought, "It's a good thing they write our ages on the back of our legs.  It makes it so much less embarrassing when you're in last place and a 78 year old man races past you." 

Apparently, I also missed the briefing about the number of cars that would drive along side us of during the race.  That made me really nervous.  Some drivers were incredibly rude and did not give way to the cyclists.  With each passing car, I said a little prayer to make it back safely. 

While finishing last past place and longing for my iPod, I realized I wasn't quite last.  I managed to speed past a woman walking her bike back to the finish line.  HA!  Eat my puddle water flat tire, lady!

On my return trek, the hills were not a welcomed sight even though I knew I was close to the end.  As I rode along the last stretch, I heard a volunteer call out, "YAY!  Good for you!  You did it! Well done!"  That made me smile until I heard her say, "O.K. I think that's the last of them." 

Distracted by the cheers from the crowd, I misread the signals from the volunteers who were guiding everyone back to transition.  As I cruised back to the dsimount area, I became confused as where to stop.  I then lost to control and fell off the bike.  How humiliating!  In my mind, I debated telling people that I rode the short bus to the race.  It would be the only reasonable explanation for riding a mountain bike in a race and then falling off of it.  My bike time was 56:12.

Shrugging off my pathetic biking performance, I dodged off to transition.  Again, not aware that I was supposed to move quickly during transition, I leisurely drank my water and racked my bike.  Then, I noticed other women running to the pool.  At that moment, it dawned on me that this was a race and I needed to move faster.    With that, I quickly grabbed my towel and goggles and headed off to swim.  My chip beeped and I began to run, but then I noticed the girl in front of me was not wearing her shoes.  Was I supposed to take my shoes off in transition?  Humiliated once again, I quickly ripped off my shoes and tossed them into the grass.

Once at the pool, I slipped on my goggles and walked into the water.  Surprisingly, I swam the distance with agility.  Julie and Leslie waited for me at the end and cheered as I swap my laps.  Just before I finished, Allan and the girls came to the race to show their love and support.  I gave my family a huge wet hug.  My swim time was 5:25.

Final time: 1:38:07

Given the silly mistakes I made, my time could have been better, but it's a goal to strive for the next triathlon.  Despite the mistakes, I was impressed by my endurance and overall athletic performance, which will only improve with more training and a proper racing bike.  However, my friend, Lori, did warn me about the bike when she lent it to me.  Regardless, I absolutely loved the experience and I can't wait for the next challenge: the Chaotic Cotee in September.

Thanks to everyone who posted such wonderful and encouraging words!  Your support and love really means the world to me!  Also, thanks to Lori for lending her bike to me and thanks to Julie for creating such a cute Moms on the Go: Marathon Mom racing uniform for us to wear.

I'm not advocating that people be mean to the homeless but for Christ's sake (though I don't think Jesus would approve of my disparaging attitude towards the needy) I wish they'd leave me the hell alone. They're everywhere. To be fair, they're not marginally as bad as this episode conveys: when you say no or indicate that you're not interested, they leave you alone. But holy cow are they all over the place.

This episode raises a funny point about homeless guilt: the "God bless you, sir" even when you don't give anything. They're never mad or rude but they say God bless you. Well, I didn't sneeze and honestly, they need God's blessings a lot more than I do so I refuse to feel guilty and just wish that they would stop waiting for God's blessings and get off their asses (do I sound like Ayn Rand yet?).

One thing that is nice about San Francisco bums is that a lot of them try to sell a street paper to get change. I haven't looked into it but I think that these papers are made for the homeless to sell so that they can do something with themselves. Do you know more about this? I also think it's cool when a bum reads the paper aloud, hoping that he's providing a service that someone is willing to pay for. I'm always happier contributing to someone trying to earn a living because it's not contributing - it's paying.

When I lived in West Philly one bum would always open the door at the grocery store. I always gave him my change because he was providing a service and not just asking for money. Maybe that outlook is evil since I don't want to just give bums money but I condone charity and give charity - I just don't know where the money's going if I give it to some bum. Booze? Crack? However, if he's provided a service then it's like a paycheck and if you're making a paycheck then you're entitled to spend your money however you want. Like on booze or crack.

What's your attitude towards the homeless? Did you like this episode?

To read about tonight's other episode, "My Future Self n' Me," click HERE. To read about homeless people signs that persuade me to give them money, click HERE.

If you'd like to check out today's Quran reading post, click HERE.

The Wake n’ Bacon gently wakes you up with the mouthwatering aroma of bacon, just like waking up on a Sunday morning to the smell of Mom cooking breakfast.

A frozen strip of bacon is placed in the night before. Because there is a 10 minute cooking time, the clock is set to go off 10 minutes before the desired waking time.

Once the alarm goes off, the clock sends a signal to a small speaker to generate the alarm sound.

The signal is re-routed by a microchip that responds by sending a signal to a relay that throws the switch to power two halogen lamps that slow-cook the bacon in about 10 minutes.

`lush;-

That’s the beauty of live radio! Anything can happen.


Two days after that I am at Leicester’s Summer Sundae festival. You can catch me 2:50pm being interviewed with Welsh poet and novelist Joe Dunthorne on the ‘deckchairs’.
Thing I am most looking forward to. This is the ‘deckchairs’. Will they be like deckchairs? Or are ‘deckchairs’ very different.


Joe is doing some poetry earlier so I’m also looking forward to that. And also Fish is doing some poetry too. And I’m also looking forward to that.


Last week I had my ears syringed. I will be able to hear this poetry.


This week there was a really nice review of Me and Mickie James over on Gaydarnation, and I’ve seen a couple of other nice ones too. I’ve put up a list on my website. And I was also interviewed for Chroma, and found that you can read my interview for Dazed and Confused here.


Oh, and the cover for The Global Village in which I have a story is up and running.
I wonder what I’ll do when all this is over the phone stops ringing. Actually my phone almost never rings.


So, I wonder what I’ll do when the metaphorical phone stops ringing. Maybe I’ll get back to reading. I bought 8 books today. In the style of Nick Hornby I’ll tell you what they are:

1. Lovers and Losers - Paul Burston


2. The Oxford Murders - Guillermo Martinez


3. The Beach - Alex Garland (I’ve read this before when I was in Australia but a friend of mine was talking about it to me last week and then today I found myself in a second hand bookshop and there it was.


There was some comedy dialogue in the bookshop. Geezer comes in. Plonks down plastic bag on counter. ‘Do you buy old books?’
‘Depends what they are.’
Geezer looking round like a geezer. ‘It’s by a don.’
‘Ah John Donne, the poet.’
‘No a don.’
‘Adon?’
This goes on for a while.
Geezer ‘It’s from 1890. Some poetry. Got a Latin name but it’s not in Latin. Written by an MP. He went mad. Wrote the poetry first, of course.’
‘Of course.’)


4. The Sea, The Sea - Iris Murdoch. (I read quite a lot of her when I was in America. She was on a course. Her writing. Not her. She’s quite mad.)


5. What I Talk About When I Talk About Running - Haruki Murakami (a new book by my favourite writer. The title is a play on a Raymond Carver title. Yeah!)


6. Show Me the Sky - Nicholas Hogg (he is a fellow, along with me, ‘Win A Book’ choice on Pulp.net. So marketing does work!)


7. City of Thieves - David Benioff (I read his short story collection ‘When The Nines Roll Over. Fab)


8. The Good Angel of Death - Andrey Kurkov. (By the man who wrote about the penguins.)

And I’m also writing a new short story for the Time Travel Opportunists who I met at my launch. Actually I’m more thinking about it than writing it. But it’s there in my head. Wacky Races.

Ciao.

The beach was great this weekend. It was lovely to get out of this polluted hellhole and sit by a littered, dirty beach. Somehow I thought the air would be clean out there. (If you haven't been following the story, the drastic measures the government has been taking to clean up the air aren't working at all, and they may pull 90% of the cars off the road soon, among other emergency measures. The pollution is squatting on the city like a sumo wrestler right now. Supposedly at a presser about the pollution today, when asked by a journalist about the decreased visibility in the city, an official said it was just his eyes playing tricks on him and if he wanted to see the buildings better, he should move closer.) Beidaihe used to be a retreat for party leaders and diplomats back in the day and the Diplomatic Guesthouse complex that we stayed in (well, everyone but me, as I had to work on Sunday) had beautifully landscaped yards - huge lilies, lavender fields, bamboo, etc - and the buildings were those sturdy, dingy Communist-era buildings painted in atrocious shades of mustard that are harder and harder to find in Beijing anymore. We were remarking that in the 1980's a place like that would have seemed like paradise. Now most of the renters are Russian.

We rented beach chairs and sat by the ocean watching people frolic about videotaping their babies (Chinese) and wrestling (Russian) and floating on inflatable air mattresses (both), etc. The Chinese women were in very demure swimsuits with skirts while the Russians were in G-strings! I love the cheap and cheerful feeling of seaside towns, where you can walk a bit and then sit on some plastic chairs by the ocean and have a beer. There were tandem bikes for rent, as well as bikes for three, perfect for a Chinese nuclear family. We ate at an insanely gaudy restaurant high above the sea – lining the deck were giant colorful umbrellas and even more giant fake umbrella-shaped trees laced with flashing florescent lights. The food came in "Heilongjiang portions" (in FF's words) but unfortunately wasn't very good. As the light drained out of the day, more florescent lights came on, a soft breeze blew in and the town seemed to come alive. Unfortunately, I had to hustle for my train. All in all, it was nice to get out of Beijing, and I even got to do the run for the last subway in Beijing, a first for me. Imagine the running of the bulls, at midnight, inside. The bull is time. The people are Chinese. The result is pandemonium.

Mood  2.5

Irritability  .5

Anxiety .5

Energy    3.5

I was caffiene free and gluten and dairy free, aside from running out of g/f baking powder in the pikelets.  I've only had 2 cans of coke this week, which is somewhat miraculous.
I do however have runny bum syndrome this morning. :lol:

xxx Anna

Sitting in the stuffy hospital room I got to hear my brother tell of Vegas in the dead still heat of July. Like being inside a mouth. He’s an idiot for going this time of year. And all he did was drink and gamble and get real sick sitting next to the wave pool. He did go to Madam Tussaud’s Wax Museum which was aiiight…but the real fun came when he went to the haunted house. They make you stand single file and hold the person in front of you by the shoulders—like a load of POWs. My brother was the last one in line behind his girlfriend and some of her extended family. One of her family friends has this daughter with no bones in her hands. Just cartilage. I guess she can’t really make a very good fist. Anyhow, this haunted house sounds super scary. People chase you and jump out at you and scream in your face. The girlfriend’s uncle got so scared he picked up and threw one of the scary guys. The girlfriend kept her eyes closed and pinched her boy cousin’s nipple. My brother spent the whole time looking over his shoulder and pushing the people in front of him as the scary guys chased him and screamed at him. I’m super jealous.

I got to tell of the weird cryptic email I got from my coworker that read:

Hi,

A friend of mine in North Dakota is sending me the skull of a cow.  For some reason he had to send it to my place of work rather than my residence, and it's due to arrive on or about July 9.  If a package arrives for me, that's what it is.  Thank you.

SG

The skull arrived the day I walked down Bum Piss Alley and saw a man pick a pair of shorts up off the ground, hold them up to his waist and then sniff the crotch. He watched me watch him do it, too, the dirty bum.

My dad told some funny story about his father. My grandfather is a lunatic. He’s a very dangerous guy, actually. I guess some time ago he saw a plastic bag in the middle of the freeway and thought to himself, “I wonder if there’s some money in that bag.” He pulled over on the shoulder, got out of the car and quickly hopped—Frogger-style—across lanes of traffic only to open a plastic sack full of cat shit and litter. He has a very active imagination.

Old people tend to. My grandparents—I’ve said this many times—are a source of endless hilarity. I’ve been spending my Mondays with my mom’s mom and while she drives me ten kinds of crazy, I am always entertained. I could write book—Mondays with Kimi. And I could tell you what she might say at any given moment. Her phrases are on rotation: “Oh, the sun feels good on my back,” “Don’t get old, Katherine—getting old sucks,” “I hate hearing ambulances—it means someone is in trouble,” or “Where are we? I don’t recognize this town anymore.” She’s as sweet as can be and is always trying to stuff money down my shirt or give me See’s candy certificates. It gives me hope that old age won’t be as crappy as some make it seem. I’m telling humor can make your life way less awful. I just need to re-funny.

Before this weekend I never had a problem with that question. I would drop some coins in the hand of whoever was asking and keep it moving. On those days I had an extra bop in my step I would drop a single if I had one handy and if I liked the gentlemen that posed the question. But for some reason, after hearing “Can You Help a Brother Out…?” again this past week; something changed in me. I tweaked. I was smacked in the face with a revelation that was always there, gnawing at my subconscious, and all it took was hearing that one question for the billionth time to push it to the forefront.

On this particular occasion, I was walking down the sidewalk on a balmy summer day and a middle-aged gentlemen was standing next to his 90’s Nissan SUV, searching his pockets for change to feed to the meter.  Once he saw me, he quickly approached and asked, "Hey man, do you have change for a dollar?  Can you help a Brother out?"  Unfortunately, no balloons dropped from the sky, no streamers were thrown and no one ran out with an oversized cardboard check to celebrate the billionth time someone uttered that question to me.  The only thing I was awarded with frustration, confusion and the immediate thought of “Why the fuck do I need to be reminded that I am a Brother in order to help you?”

So like a whorish girlfriend, that guy has ruined me for future experiences. I now am immediately turned off when I hear that particular question. Sorry guy in need, but that blatant reminder that we are of the same race is not really urging me to do anything for you, even if I do have 50 cents in my pocket. And just to clarify, I have no problem helping people in need. Actually, I’m often criticized because I’m that somewhat optimistic dude who gives money to homeless people. I also help blind people when they stray off path, rescue cats from trees, walk old ladies across the street and stop thugs from stealing women’s purses. One of those is actually true, but I’ll leave that to your imagination. So it’s not the asking, it’s the delivery. Why do I need to be reminded that I’m also Black to help you out? Man if you need change for a dollar, for a brew, a blunt or to catch that bus, just ask me. Keep it funky.

From what I know, African Americans are the only people to ask that question to each other. I highly doubt that in Africa, when two men see each other and one needs something he asks “Hey, can you help a brother out?” And maybe they do it behind closed doors, but I’ve never heard a White, Hispanic or Asian guy ask another dude of their race, “Can you help a [insert colloquial term for their race here] out?” Shoot, I know we’re always on the forefront for culture, but I don’t think America is going to pick this term up. Although I would’ve rather heard white suburban kids saying this than “nigga”, but that’s a different conversation.

So as of July 21^st, 2008 I’m instituting a new rule, let's call it "Seattle's Law of Blackness, No. 1". And it states, the “help a brother out…” question will from here on out be stricken from the Black man’s vocabulary. Why? Well, for a couple of reasons. First, if you’re truly a Black man you won’t need to ask me in that way, remind me that we're both Black and guilt me into giving you something. Only pathetic men, of any race, do that. In addition, all shaming when it comes to race or ethnicity should be saved for the White man. You can say that’s "Seattle's Law of Blackness, No. 2". Second, if the man you’re asking has any moral character and is truly a Brother, he won’t need to be reminded.

A real Black man will help a Brother out because he is his one.

Would you like to read a sad story.  Well here it is.  One day, it rained. My cardboard house, got destroyed.  It's so sad.  But How will I live, well I have to find some place that will have a cardboard box.