Author: Mischa

One For The Shoeshine Man

It doesn’t always have to be about bikes…

One For The Shoeshine Man

The balance is preserved by the snails climbing the
Santa Monica cliffs;
the luck is in walking down Western Avenue
and having the girls in a massage
parlor holler at you, “Hello Sweetie!”
the miracle is having 5 women in love
with you at the age of 55,
and the goodness is that you are only able
to love one of them.
the gift is having a daughter more gentle
than you are, whose laughter is finer
than yours.
the peace comes from driving a
blue 1967 Volks through the streets like a
teenager, radio tuned to The Host Who Loves You
Most, feeling the sun, feeling the solid hum
of the rebuilt motor
as you needle through traffic.
the grace is being able to like rock music,
symphony music, jazz . . .
anything that contains the original energy of
joy.

and the probability that returns
is the deep blue low
yourself flat upon yourself
within the guillotine walls
angry at the sound of the phone
or anybody’s footsteps passing;
but the other probability–
the lilting high that always follows–
makes the girl at the checkstand in the
supermarket look like
Marilyn
like Jackie before they got her Harvard lover
like the girl in high school that we
all followed home.

there is that which helps you believe
in something else besides death:
somebody in a car approaching
on a street too narrow,
and he or she pulls aside to let you
by, or the old fighter Beau Jack
shining shoes
after blowing the entire bankroll
on parties
on women
on parasites,
humming, breathing on the leather,
working the rag
looking up and saying:
“what the hell, I had it for
while. that beats the
other.”

I am bitter sometimes
but the taste has often been
sweet. it’s only that I’ve
feared to say it. it’s like
when your woman says,
“tell me you love me,” and
you can’t.

if you see me grinning from
my blue Volks
running a yellow light
driving straight into the sun
I will be locked in the
arms of a
crazy life
thinking of trapeze artists
of midgets with big cigars
of a Russian winter in the early 40’s
of Chopin with his bag of Polish soil
of an old waitress bringing me an extra
cup of coffee and laughing
as she does so.

the best of you
I like more than you think.
the others don’t count
except that they have fingers and heads
and some of them eyes
and most of them legs
and all of them
good and bad dreams
and way to go.

justice is everywhere and it’s working
and the machine guns and frogs
and the hedges will tell you
so.

Charles Bukowski

Silo Run! – Thursday April 9

drunk-cyclist

Good Friday’s a public holiday, so I figure we should probably go for a ride the night before, and maybe have a meal and a couple of pints at the pub afterwards.

Meet on the Salamanca lawns, opposite Knopwoods. Get there around 6pm to depart at 6:30. Bring your mates, ride anything you want. We’ll pick a destination on the night.

You’ll probably need lights, so make sure you at least have a front and rear flasher. Getting run over sucks. If anyone has a stereo they can strap to their bike, do that.

Probably a mountain bike run the next day, we’ll organise something on the night.

Don’t be a slack cunt, show up.

Sick.

I’m So ANGRY!

Ok, so I’m just ripping off content from Bill, (and a few days late none the less, despite being a few hours ahead) but this is an interesting column piece from the Times over in bad teeth land (England). Ignore the random tripe in the bottom half, it’s the top stuff that you might find interesting. I love a good, angry, pro-cyclist rant, especially one that tackles the ol’ red light issue. After taking part in a university study regarding the attitudes and opinions of cyclists and motorists (towards cyclists), I was left fairly bloody shit scared. Reading the end result and the quotes from motorists, I finally realised how much bloody danger we are in when we’re out there. People actually want to kill us. They fantasise about swerving into us, or deliberately dooring us, or using actual weapons to gun us down. What the fuck? How can a simple form of transport inspire such hatred? I’ve always been an aggressive rider when I’m on the street. I’m sure I’ve documented it here, but I’d rather have someone aware of me and angry, than completely oblivious to my existence. I’d also rather stay as far ahead of cars as possible, where I’m visible and obvious, and hopefully not slowing anyone down. Apparently this just makes me an object of rage though, so it’s obvious you can’t win. The solution? Ride like a mad fucker, take your life into your own hands, and do what it takes to stay alive on your bike.

Sure, it’s important that we have well mannered, hi-vis clad cycling advocates who are doing their best to make things better for us (I honestly salute you guys, you do good!), but it ain’t going to stop some angry redneck bogan fuckwit with a small dick and a big car from taking it personally when I overtake him and retaliating by putting me under when wheels of his truck. Similarly, it’s not going to stop the middle aged family man who’s heading to work and gets sick of being passed by someone on a vehicle that costs 1/30th of what his car loan is worth, and looks like they’re having a lot more fun than him, and as such decideds that a love-tap is what’s deserved. And it sure as hell isn’t going to stop the fucked up, angst-ridden, sexually confused and over-homeworked P plater from thinking the ultimate display of superiority is to rev their engine and speed past an inch away from my bars travelling at twice the legal limit.

The fact is, nothing’s going to stop that, no matter what we do. Motorists hate us and there is no rhyme or reason to it. We can do no right, and when we try, it’s wrong. Our existence is a bane to the egos of motorists across the world, and we’re not going anywhere. So as far as I’m concerned, getting there alive is priority number one.

But I’ll try and be polite about it along the way.