Yesterday I went to the alternative car expo at Santa Monica airport. It was well worth the trip out there. I rode the motorcycle because I know that on a sunday in L.A. seven million people may be trying to drive from one side of town to the other. That's simply not a net I wish to be caught in. The bike can always be manuevered out of the worst traffic. Nevertheless I've long felt that the transportation activism crowd is down on motorcycles. Perhaps because bikes are often loud and ostentatious. You could add to that: too fast and foul-smelling, too macho. Too guido. Bad boy.

It may be worth noting that the electric car expo had no alternatively-powered motorcycles on disply. There were scooters and electric bikes, but no motorcycles. Forvere eternal combustion, VARROOOOMM.

Electric cars are great. I find that in the present time they make the most sense as little city fleet trucks. I got that imprsession from the vehicles which were on display. There were one or two companies which had cool little trucks. There was a stakebed rancher model, and a utility body with diamond -plated boxes built on the bed for plumber tools or such. Great vehicle for an anarhcist collective. But don't go too far out of town!

After walking around the airplane hangar for 15 minutes or so, I finally get to a table occupied by rapid transit advocates. Four guys sitting there had lietrature promoting the completion of LA 's subway line to the beach; The Exposition Line. (I decided to try my kung fu on them). I've had ideas brewing on LA rail for awhile. I mean a long while. I had a feeling it would be easy to get the guys lit up, so I was as self deprecating as could be. But I started criticizing the proposed line they support. It's too many stops I say. It will take forever. LA needs a system like the RER in Paris. An expanded metro which can attain relatively high speeds out to the far-flung banlieus and prefectures. And like the RER in Paris it can run inderneath existing subway lines, or on aerial structures, or surface tracks. In the case of rail lines criss-crossing Los Angeles, the stops should not be LESS than three or four miles apart. And then communities can develop smaller neigborhood rail systems. Such as the Griffith Park an Silverlake Railroad which I'm proposing for my neighborhood.

The guys at the LA transit advocacy table were not hearing a word of what i was saying. What was I to expect. they've already got their consensus. A little tincan fucking subway clickety-clacking making a million stops on the milk run. It would get you ou to Venice and Snata Monica eventually. After all the good times were gone. Enjoyed by the car drivers.

All the ideas I put out on mass transit and trains seem far-fetched, but California should be able to do this stuff. Or at least put money aside for it. Every ten years another little subway line is built. But they are not part of any larger scheme from what I can tell.

"SIR, THERE ARE NO DOGS ALLOWED IN THE SCHOOL"

"I know." I yelled back at the young teacher. "It's kind of an emergency."
She looked irritated as she began to walk down the hallway towards me.
"What is your emergency?" She asked me again, walking towards me, but still a good 75 feet away. I sighed.
"I don't want to yell it down the hall." I called out to her. She finally got to right in front of me. She was cute too. A Latina. I was struck suddenly by the smell of oil paint, and the late afternoon light glowing the ceiling of Micheltorena School. How familiar it seemed to my own schooldays.
The young teacher stood before me. She looked skeptical. Her eyebrows arched with the question.
"There's a kid in the schoolyard with a gun." I told her finally.
"Really?" She asked me. Her eyes had widened.
"Really." I said. "I saw them with it, over there in the corner of the yard when I walked by with my dog on Sunset."

It's one of those funny things. Was it a real gun? They didn't get to the kid in time to snatch it from him. He handed it off to another kid when the coach was yelling across the schoolyard at him. HEY YOU, YEAH YOU the coach was saying. They braced him, and he even admnitted that he brought a toy gun to school that day, but gave it to one of his friends to take home.

Beautiful excuse. It's simple. It's old school. It can't be proved or disproved. The teachers and the coach seemd pretty doubtful about it, when they reported back to me after confronting the kid I'd fingered. But it wasn't a toy gun. I saw it with my own eyes. I know toy guns and I know real guns. I know what a real gun sounds like when you pull the slide or move the action. And this wasn't a toy gun. I wondered if they'd tell the kids parents that a citizen saw him with a pistol in the schoolyard. Would the parents even believe it? Or care?

Whatever. I was on my way out of there. Fucking L.A. sucks. It's so ghetto it just makes me mad. I'm looking for my own way out of here. Someone else can try to solve the problems here. I hate gangster kids so much. I think they should be sent to camps in the desert or something.

I've noticed that some things have begun to change here in Los Angeles. With respect to the immigration reform movement. If you want to call it that. I would say that here in Los is where the immigration rights movement is strongest. And this is where the debate runs hottest.

I think I can say that I live right in the heart of the movement. I mean - SoCal right? L.A. county. The east side of Hollywood. I live right smack in it. And then the fault lines run right across my property. Or really the tectonic plates abutt my prpoperty line. Three feet from my head when I lay down to sleep.

Sometimes I think the lines really do run right through my head. Here in my neigborhood I speak Castillian almost as much as I do English. I get along really well with mexcians. And everyone knows I like to jive in Spanish. I can easily say that Mexicans are one of the things I like best about L.A. But then as a yank I got my differences with them too. But everyone experiences that in L.A. This city is an awesome example of racial harmony. But then again there are too many people to all be gotten along with in L.A. You're going to get a certain amount of mean, racist talk from everybody. About everybody.

I began by saying I'd noticed something changing around here. This whole debate about immigrant's rights and the future of the undocumented/illegals (mojados as the Mexicans call them). I would say that people notice now that something is going on. The day to day interactions I experience with L.A.'s poblacion imigrante suddenly seem self-conscious. I would not say there's any showing of hostility between peoples. L.A. is its cool self. But they know now - the Mexicans know - that this thing is going to go down. And I think I can feel the hurt coming on.
As the saying goes: America is a land of laws. And now they are starting to engage. Like gear wheels and teeth.

I thought that the protests and immigrant strikes where impressive. But at the same time I saw for the first time that I do not relate to demonstrations and large groups meeting in order to advance whatever aims. It's just something I never really felt comfortable with. In the past when walked in marches and protests, I always wondered if I shouldn't be doing more. I felt like I needed to be more physical - more expressive. I would always hope no one took my picture. I just didn't feel convinced enough of anything.

Marching in a mass in such a mannner, I believe now, runs counter to the North American way of interacting. It's simply too expressive - marching in a group and chanting slogans. It's not cool. It's hot.
Of course there have been exceptions to this. The 60s and the old school labor battles in Chicago and San Francsico. I don't think that public protest is wrong. It just feels too hot. I think it must be a Mediterranean Roman Catholic trait. This taking it to the streets with banners, or manning the barricades. It's all about a big showing. I don't believe that public marching is intrinsic to this part of the world. Maybe because were afraid that while we protest in the street someone else is taking our gig. Moving in on the the litte numbers racket we getting over on. Show me the money dude.

America is very masculine in character. It's got this whole put your money where your mouth is - red state, materialist alienation. Let's just say they don't like goddamn fancy-pants city slickers trying to get over on 'em. On the othe hand Mexico is a senorita. She loves to be flirted with. Anyone will tell you that Mexicans love a storytellor. Or any kind of impresario. Down there you can pull stunts that would get your ass kicked in, here in the states. Mexico is very sociable. Like a woman. The American archetype is more like a strapping, salt and pepper, crewcut hardnose. He's a guy with a flat stomach and a white T-shirt tucked in. Doing situps with his feet jammed under the bed.
Mexico is romantic and sexual. The essence of her is the smell of the sea and perfume. Mexico's richness is intangible compared to the states. She's a hot chick with an empty pocket book

And the senorita comes to the stoic, ex-marine every night. No one ever mentions it, but everyone knows about it. They should just get married. But instead it appears they are headed for a break up.

Now it's hot.

I'm smokeless. Hanging out in mid-air. Grinning and then vibrating at turns. It's hard to believe I finally got through one night without walking down to Lee's Liquors and saying Gimme a Goddman pack of Winston Lights! To my friends at the store this is how I am. They know me and they know what fiend I am.

Cigarettes made me cool. It was like I'd rewired myself and bypassed everyone goddamn else. As a smoker you can easily blow everyone off. I'd just be off in a puff of smoke. Like an octopus and to fuck with you! And then not smoking is just so completely other. Now I'm red hot. Everything is hot. I'm hot when I sleep. I'm hot when I wake up. I'm hot to trot. I could burn through a sheet of plywood just by yelling at it. And life won't leave me alone when I'm like this. It's something to do with the eyes. I just stare and ogle at everything. I take it all in. I engage people with my eyes. The way I've always done, and historically gotten into so much trouble for.

And of course I'm full of desire.

This damn cabin’s cold.
It’s four drafty walls.
It’s home for a miner
Who’s panning for gold

A few sticks and planks,
is all it consists,
but from cold it protects me
‘gainst bears it resists.

There are mountains around.
Cause I like being alone.
The sun goes down early,
As the critters surround.

Would you mine these streams,
If you didn’t like that?
At night all you see,
Is the gal in your dreams.

Not much to read around here.
At night the earth spins all upside down.
And hell has its gears stuck in reverse,

Dogs don’t remember how to walk or lie down.
The bears are all mad from sunstroke.
They’ll come round the cabin too.

We’re going to see everyone this winter.
You’ll like the yellow color of the light.
As it bounces off the glaciers.

As you bounce off of the glaciers

I didn't manage to wake up on time. I lay for a long time in the warmth undercovers. I was listening to the radio. Watching the time I'd set aside for the morning go away. I show such an undeniable aversion to beginning my day. I must have known something. I was the flower that did not open today. I never managed to be me. I didn't know what to do.

I didn't have enough time. It was like I needed to think everything through. I didn't know what I was going to do about breakfast. I wondered if I had enough time. There was nowhere to go except the McDonals drive-thru. I kept thinkingf about how the intercom service system never detects a motorcycle.

I didn't have any idea what the hell I wanted. I thought about buying cigarettes. I wished I wouldn't.

I have many times thought that the chatter in my head was the very best of my ideas spilling out a hole in me.

Tonight I took a laborer's bath. Sat up and dripped water over me with my fingers. I didn't mind the way it ran down my face. It was a soft tickling. And I liked the way the water looked like my tears in a stream.

I thought about the girl's I've ever loved, but for whom I was not able to summon the courage. Those for whom I was absent upon the day they encountered me. There's not enough water.

And I let my head hang real low in my shoulders. There it was finally. I kept breathing evenly and low. I didn't look at anything but the water. And my legs. My feet hurt so much I drew them under me and rubbed at them. I crossed my arms so my hands grasped their opposite feet. And it was like I'd closed a circuit on myself.

THE GRIFFITH PARK AND SILVERLAKE RAILROAD

I got the idea to write an opinion for the local resident’s association newsletter. I’d thought about doing something like this before. I figured I could contact the editor of the little two page community mailbox stuffer. I’d tell him I wanted to write a story about the old guy who lives next door. I saw a story that would tell something about all the years he’s lived in the area. I could mention his military service in World war II. But that idea just passed by. I remember getting as far as taking pictures of him one morning when we went to the swap meet together.
This time I think my idea is more interesting. I want to propose the creation of an inner-urbain rail/tram system for Silverlake and Los Feliz. I’ve got it all planned out. I was lying in the bathtub, massaging my hand that I tore open in the garage the other day. I was in such a relaxed state that I could imagine amazing possibilities. I decided I was going to build a little train system around the neigbourhood.
I see this railroad as a loop. The next thing I have to do is take a drive in my car, and set the odometer at the beginning of my proposed route. And then I just take a drive. Starting from the terminus I envision at the Vermont/Sunset redline stop, I motor leisurely around silverlake via fountain, Hyperion, Rowena, Glendale and Sunset boulevards. And then back to the redline station. This is an important first step. I will need to know the trackage, if I am to give reliable estimates of construction costs to the people of LA. Not to get ahead of myself. There are many other steps to take before we actually break ground. But I think the point I make about trackage is quite clear. If I’m going to get my day in front of the big men. And if I’m going to get to make my pitch, for my little railroad, then I’d better have accurate numbers on track-miles.
The drive around the area will assist me in planning this undertaking on many levels. I can start to take into account the possible impact on traffic flow my railroad would create around the area. And I’m seeing already that some automobiles are going to have to be displaced. For this railroad to work I will need raised trackways to ensure a clear right-of-way. If the trams just sit in traffic, then they won’t be any improvement over vehicle the congestion we suffer now. And no one is going to want to ride it.
So there will certainly be some engineering issues. There will have to be a tunnel which gets my trains to make the same platform stop as the Redline subway. I think the connection would only work if passengers could step off the redline trains, and get right onto the Silverlake and Griffith Park trams on the other side of the platform.
And along the route there will also have to be cuts, embankments, aerial caternary wiring from which the tram’s electric motors can draw current. There will be a need for pedestrian islands on which passengers can step safely onto and off of the cars. But that can all be worked out. I’m going to take serious notes when I drive the route. I can also look for spots to build a barn for the cars to be housed as well as a shop to service electric motors. I have some very interesting ideas for the construction of these utilitarian structures. I plan to submit photos I’ve taken of abandoned railroad buildings around California. I think those simple wooden dwellings would look smashing. But I’m open to others ideas! The mission style is also very nice, and appropriate to the area’s Spanish heritage.
The trams themselves I see being designed and built by area artists. We will have semi-open cars. The trams will have an open gallery on the stern, such as found on Parisian busses before the war. The mechanical stuff such as motors and wheels could be supplied from somewhere like China or Russia, where they still make relatively simple electric trams. We would just take delivery of the rolling chassis and build the coaches to suit. I think open-air Hollywood convertible cars would bring people from far and wide, just to take in the area from our breezy open trams.

The Border.

There was a goddamn disturbance out the back window a few nights ago. It sure made me mad. Yes it sure as hell did. A dog was barking forever. Tirelessly. And I needed sleep so badly. Like it was going to save my life. And I should say here that it wasn't really that late. Only about 9:30 in the evening. When does the so-called right to quiet begin?

I had tried to crash an hour before. I just simply needed to reset. In that way. Because I had decided not to smoke. That was the third day. Just like that. I won't say more about quitting smoking. Because that does not come close to describing my relationship to tobacco. To just say quitting smoking does nothing to relate to my deep nicotine addiction. I'm even addicted to the removal of nicotine. Iactually get off on the feeling of quitting. But unfortunately, more so than that, I like the feeling of relapse on Nicky Teeny (the bopper). I love picking up the phone and calling her. I can't even go into right now, because I have to say something about this goddamn dog that was barking in the neigbour's patio. The other night.

Fuck. I woke up after only half an hour. I felt like shit. I was naked and white and cold. Hunched over. I didn't feel much like being alive at that moment, in my cold house. So I'd simply tried to go to sleep. But that goddamn dog. He'd woken me up. Had he been in my dream? What the hell. A barking dog echoing around these hills is like a screen door slamming shut in a shanty in Chicago. There are always dogs barking here.

Earlier he'd gone one like that for a short while. Just as I was undressing and lying down. I heard him out there. I chose not to let it register. And he'd stopped long enough for me to finally doze off. I had relaxed and was even forgetting the day. But now he was going at it. At what? Fucking stupid dogs. There are so many dogs in LA that bark for nothing. Every yard, if you're walking has an uber-territorial mutt. And barking. Dogs like that should be made into shoes and gloves I feel sometimes.

I was wide-awake and rivetted. Like I'd just received an injection in my spine. I muscled myself out of bed stiffly, against the cold. It was rough. In the instant it took for me to quit that warm spot under the sheets and make to the window. I realized I did not recognize the bark of that dog. I thought I knew all the dogs around the back of my pad. I'd never heard this dog before. I made him for at least 45 lbs. Just by the sound.

My bedroom has the worst window looking out on the most forgotten, never examined or maintained 10 foot by 2 foot alley of the whole property. It's the very back of the lot: Just a dirt strip enclosed on one side by a five foot high peeling wooden fence, and on the other side by my bedroom wall. I have rusty old bars across the bedroom window, keeping anyone or anything from even thinking about getting in. And that's the one good thing I can say about that window.

It pained me to be awake, naked, and searching through the louvers for the source of a maddening dog's bark. It's so damn dirty back there. It's barren and desolate. There's just my hot water heater enclosed in a steel cabinet. It's a gas-fired tank and always hisses in the middle of the night. Racoons and cats sometimes rumble back there. It's a place I never go . Because there's been trouble with my neigbour on that, my western border.

Years back. When I was first living here in the hacienda. A friend of ours named Munzi was living here in 1321 . He was originally from New Jersey and had come out to be an actor. But he ended up being a grip. Still he was something of a charming Italian tough guy. He had one night gone off on the neigbour-to-the-rear's dog. Same exact scenario I was suddenly going through. He was trying to get some shut-eye. A big dog was barking only five feet from his head. Man and dog are separated only by a cheesy little stucco wall and a jalousie window which doesn't close properly becasue the house has sunk too much. In outrageous desperation Munzi finally yells something at the neigbhour. Tells him to shut up his fucking dog.

Only this neigbhour is a hardnose mexican dude. He wears a rodeo belt buckle and aviator shades. He's very ranchero in an edgy way. Like a coyote gangster out of a movie. And he didn't like Munzi yelling at him and his dog. Hostilities were declared when El Bruto cemented a 4" drain pipe, which historically had drained the rear of this property during the winter flash rains. It had been an easement of sorts. Obviously taken totally for granted by all parties. The same week all that shit went down, a truck backed into our front driveway on Sanborn. Took out five feet of the ugly white painted steel fence. And took out Raf's motorcycle too. A hit and run accident against our house.

There was nothing anybody could say about anything. And it was just the beginning. The guy sue then-owner Lisette Bustelo for property infringement. He accused her of having built illegal dwellings in her backyard and that they infringed on his real property. A bunch of bullshit. But it turns out she had to hire a surveyor to prove him wrong. Which he was, and it was obvious. But he was just playing a game. The guy was a real viper. Not the type you want to step on.

The report about illegal and sub-standard dwellings put us on L.A. Dept. of Building and Safety's radar. They sent an inspector around, who managed to weasle his way into our court, on the pretext of needing to see a gas meter or something. Next thing we know I am locked out of my great little $300/month hacienda. And the structure itself is possibly condemned. All kinds more shit is going down. There are 27 violations on the property, from illegal buildings to unsafe rooves. Lisette, the previous owner; a Cuban broad who was marired to a cop. She just folded her tents and sold the place. To me. She didn't want anything to do with the place anymore. Bad memories?

Fast forward now. I'm living in the little back house. Same bedroom Munzi had when he was driven to the brink by a barking dog. And I've just been woken up by some no-good hound. Barking without any reason.

It wasn't the same neigbour. It was one house over. It was a yard I never even consider. So far back there. And such a troublesome area too. I stand there at the window. I'm naked and freezing. My heart is beating like mad. The windows in my bedroom are all three on one wall. They are jalousie windows. The louvered kind. Very Desi Arnez in South Beach Miami style. Inappropriate as hell to a desert during winter. And these windows are filthy too. I've never seen them cleaned the whole time I've lived here.

Outside the dog kept barking on and on at this weird irregular rate. Breaking the otherwise perfect quiet of the hills around me. I cussed in frustration, under my breath. it had something of a whimper in it. My breaths were short and clipped. The quick rise and fall breath of defeat. Of powerlessness. The dog stopped barking for a moment, as if he'd heard me. He was listening to me just as I was to him. And then he started barking harder and more rapidly.

I screamed louder than I've ever screamed in my life. The words I screamed were in Spanish. As loud and mean as I could make them.

CALLETE PERRO!!!!!!!!

I bellowed it from the very bottom of my lungs.

Shut up dog was what I had screamed. Goddamn it felt good. I said it so fast, and so hot and hard. It was one part hiss, like a steam locomotive blasting off from a safety valve. But as a sound it was a brown, meat eating crunch . Like a large carnivorous animal driven mad from rotting teeth. It was partly the bluish black and violet sound of a madman screaming from the darkest most terrifyng basement cell of a psychiatric ward. In 1911 New Jesersey. The scream was all of that. And yet it still managed to be kind of spoken word.

Shut up dog. And no comebacks.

I watched a scene tonight on the street which goddamned pissed me off. Closing time at this bar. Shitty-British themed pub in Santa Monica. Yes bad. But anyway. I was outside, having a puff on a Bali-Shag, and I see this kid come out the bar, stretch his arms up high. There's something about him which separates the boy, from the scene around him. A soccer shirt. An adidas jacket. Skinny. Big eyes. Intelligent, angry face.
He's Irish. Of course. So that registered, and then more life happened. A couple more hours went by. I found myself back outside. Puffing again. Thinking. Our whole gang was leaving the stupid theme bar. Amidst themed conversations. Coming from the people around us. Stupid hugs and yelling. Jock, sports bar shit. I'm just taking it in. I can do that. Cause I'm old-schooling. I have my good gentleman clothes on. I'm like your grandfather. I can just float through everything like that.

So everyone is spilling out onto the sidewalk of Wilshire blvd. The Irish dude is with his crew. One or two more young guys. I noticed them too. I see that shit. Single guys. Soccer gear. Hmm. I just watch. One of his friends is chunky monkey. Diesel built up strong with mno neck like a rugby player. I know it's crazy, but I see this shit. I watch guys like that. Cause you never know. Going out can be hazardous to your health.

The skinny, long curly-haired Irish kid is exchanging mindless banter with a group of L.A. looking metro sexual guys. One of the well-dressed group is a Latino, with a nice shirt and Armani glasses. And the blond kid walks a ways down the sidewalk and throws a bag back at Latino guy. A plastic bag, which has it turns out, a pie in it. He hits the Armani guy right in the head. Like a slap. And the dude went right at the kid. I saw it all too. I felt like his cornerman. Are we gonna do this thing dude. I related to this guy. He was being dragged down, but he'd been whacked in the head, apparently for nothing. I love this shit when it happens in the street. As long as it's not happening to me. But to see honor questioned in front of a bar in Santa Monica, well who's not going to stop and watch? I was bored.

The Latin guy went right up and got in front of the kid's face. They were close. I was surprised they held that long without a shove or something, lighting up all hell and who knows what else. The Irish kid was such a yob. He had pulled out a dollar bill and licked it, pasting it to his forehead. I'll throw whatever the fuck I like and what have you. He was so balls-out and young. Seriously violent version of manhood. I was just like - please level this guy. For everyone. But the Armani glasses had strayed far from his friends. I was watching him. I stayed nearish. But he was basically alone. And the other Irish kid had got in it too. He looked really tough. Not tall, but stout. He was wearing shorts and a baseball cap backwards. The kind of guy who'd break your thumb backwards. As quick as he'd give you a thumbs up. There were words, but not more. I felt so hot watching it. It's dumb to engage with street stuff. But I don't give a fuck. I wished he'd shot that kid through his eye. Mean eh? You get mean.

They were talking too. Minutes before. Stupid intimacies in a bar at closing time. See ya in hell mate! In a pub at closing time. I was wathcing them like digital cable. The stealth. I hate all these wild bushmen.

Some time, someone's got to speak up for this place. The people I know from L.A. and California in general are very mellow. But a lot of people come out here to run wild. I've heard guys say. Some father or uncle back in Boston, Florida... Said to them, if you're going to get in any shit, go do it out in California. Cali cali caliente. Killafornia. They're all a bunch of freaks and nuts anyway.

Back home some day, those guys will brag how they punked some phony L.A. guy, and how he didn't even throw a punch. The guy should have. From what I saw. It would cost him his nice shirt. And his Armani glasses. And his self-esteem in the short term. Cause he would have rolled against the chunky monkey. Maybe even got hurt on a little bit. Fought and possibly lost. That's why. But he should have just nailed the skinny kid right off the bat. He was the one who threw the bag at him in the first place. I mean. If you're going to stride up the sidewalk like a matador, you may as well finish the job. Words mean shit. In that instance. Armani had the time, before the other hooligan made his way back. He could have hit the kid hard and walked away. It doesn't have to be clockwork orange. It's just a question of knocking the individual to the pavement. Or else don't react at all when some kid throws a bag of pie across the bar and it hit you in the chops. But to take that shitty affront to your countenance, and then end up in a standoff, scared and trying to rationalize with the guy?

Just work on one single devastating move. You walk up all nice like. O hey man, I didn't mean any disrespe... POW. BAM. WHACK. Danny Boy, the pipes are calling...

What else would a gentleman do?

I don't know what is up with this blog. Why the text only begins a page down from the header. That is lame. Everything is lame. DSL is the fucking lamest thing out there. Or else the service I have is just particularly unsatisfying. It goes in and out all the time. For days at a time. I'll check my messages at night, and O whoops- page won't load. O never mind the messages. I don't want to deal with these bastards. Have to call them. Voice-activated response system. The worst thing of all is this. Whenever I call SBC internet services, the DSL starts working again. While I'm on the phone. When i first pick up there's lots of DSL hiss and crackle. Those filters don't work for shit. And I go through all the menus, and then then the hissing subsides, and my laptop computer starts farting and clicking again. And then the home page loads. I guess that's better than not being able to log on at all. It's depressing to hear oneself rail against the big instituions. You end up sounding like Willy Loman, complaining about the fridge being on the Fritz.

I'm sad to be parting with my bike. It's so hard. I don't know how I'll get around without it. I'm thinking I'll start riding the ten-speed around, for the close trips. But I'm going to sure miss that 1000 twin. It's a perfectly suited machine to LA. It was the skinniest motorcycle I could find for splitting-lanes. It can get through anything. And like I said in the ad. It's big and heavy and sure-footed. I love making slow turns at intersections and laying the bike down low, at low speed. I could get it at such an extreme lean. And then shoot out quick. Pop the front wheel up. So fucking rad.

Well. Some other guy will get it I suppose. And maybe it will teach him what it taught me. The superhawk is for mature audiences only. It's an extremely powerful bike. Hi-ass performance. My friend Kyle once said it was like I had a Ferrari. And I pushed it to the limit. And then I learned to cool off, and not ride so fast and aggressively. When you first start out riding a bike, it can make you really really angry. A couple of close calls with distracted drivers, or worst still malicious ones, and you start take a mad max approach. But that's not the way. It's the way to the cemetery. And not much else. I had to learn to relate to the others drivers. Not come up on people too quick in traffic. I make a big show of hand signalling. I even went out and bought a flip-front helmet, so as to have interaction with drivers around me at red lights. It's all about slowing down, cooling out. Looking way ahead down the road, and seeing trouble long ways off. Taking fewer chances. Having a close call and learning from it. I finally got it. I love riding now. I no longer have frightening and negative experineces. It's like heaven.

That's why I'm selling. Cash out while I got a bunch of chips on the table. It just has to go. I don't want to think about it anymore. About the maintenamce schedule. the fucking tire pressure. Paying the insurance. And the other thing is. It's too badass. Too young. Too Guido. Too weird.

It's not gentlemanly to ride a rice rocket. It makes your balls too big. I'm tired of being that guy.

98 VTR 1000 Superhawk - unusual and fast V-twin. - $3800 (Silverlake)

Date: 2006-01-22, 12:58AM PST

I hate having to do this, but I'm parting with my 1998 Superhawk. It has 27,500 miles on it, 19,000 of which I put on. It's a sweet city bike. Lots of torque and power. This is a motorcyle for a relatively experienced and confident rider. Definitely not a first bike. But a great street machine and freeway flyer. Long and heavy (420lbs) the superhawk can travel over anything. It's got big simple carbs, and a seriously strong starter. It is 100% reliable. Trustworthy in all conditions. This bike has been a lifesaver for me. I had to learn a lot of discipline and restraint with that big motor. But the controls are benign. The braking is phenomenal. It's fast and fun and real head turner. Everyone checks it out.

Notice in pics: M4 titanium hi-mount dual exhausts. I'v never seen another Superhawk set up like this. The bike rumbles into town. You can make flames come out the back. It also has an unusual blue/yellow side by side German headlight. Very autobahn and slick. The unusual plastics are a mix of '98 reds and '99 yellows. Very snappy and Italian-looking. No one can figure out what it is. Everybody likes it. Even cops.

Highly contrasting colors and the bass rumble give it a lot of presence. Especially on the freeway. V-twin is slender in design. Handles like a Ducati. Speedo cluster is 1/3 again as narrow as CBR. The thing is like a bicycle. It flyyyyyyyyyyys.

There are a couple of cosmetic issues. Driveway dings, not at all glaring. And it's always been garaged. Very clean. Salvage title, came with it when I got it. Previous owner rebuilt the bike after it was crashed. But I've put it through the paces and I ain't lying. I'll stake my life on it. New brake pads six months ago. Always used synthetic oil.

this is in or around Silverlake

no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests127417401

I'm just preparing things here. Just getting everything lined up nicely. That's what it's all about.

Because I don't know what the next move is. It's not my move. I don't think it is. Shit. Now I don't remember whose move it is. I'd best not let on.

I have to tend to my wigwam these-a-days. There's a serious backlog of things to do. This house is distressed. That is not an exaggeration. And I can't be in the middle of an improvemnet project if things start kicking. Getting interesting or busy. Renovation is the devil. Improvement is sin. Let it rot I say.

I don't like this feeling. Of not having a fucking clue what's going on. The energies are too quiet. It's like I've fallen asleep with my radio off. Not knowing all the shit going on the other end. I wake up and I know it's hot out there. But I'm not having any part of it.

I organized and reorganized the garage. Throwing tons of crap away. Wiping down the stuff I wanted to keep. Oiling rusty toolboxes with WD 4o. Trying not to mutter to myself. It's cold as hell in there. All that crap is mine. What a terrible sight. I want to have a fire sale. All I need is acclelerant.

I'm short on gumption these-a-days. Failed to bring enough for the whole trip. I'm clipping the treetops now. Something's got to give way. I'm like two fat men stuck in a door. It's late and it's cold out, but i don't want to stay inside. It's mean out. And unpredictable. And I don't even have the dog with me. Maybe I'll just drive. Take in that American road. Yeah right. Tune in some Bob Seeger on the radio. Take the 101 up to Star Gardens.

Last time I went to a strip bar, it was full of bikers. They were wearing their colors. The Sundowners (San Fernando Valley). The place was lousy with them. I put two bucks on the stage for the girl dancing. As gentlemen do. And one big biker dude came up in front our table. He pulled out a huge roll of singles, and started peeling them off and laying them down in a neat row in front of the gyrating chick. he stood right between us and the girl, so we were looking at his colors ( looking at his ass) for the whole song. And he puts 50 singles down on the linoleum. How do you like that?

Everyone is a maddog here. I don't know what it's about. Wieners and maddogs. And women with voices much too deep. And bad boys in trucks with tires that screech. I try to stay 'bove it somehow. I try yes I do.

San Francisco Supervisors Propose Gun Ban

Wed Dec 15, 8:30 PM ET U.S. National - AP
By LISA LEFF, Associated Press Writer

SAN FRANCISCO - City residents will vote next year on a proposed weapons ban that would deny handguns to everyone except law enforcement officers, members of the military and security guards.

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So what happened with this anyway? I find it contradicts the supposed rebel character of S.F., that they would vote to give exclusive rights to the State to own handguns. Cops, soldiers and security guards.

And what happened with the guy who tried to blow up Starbucks. Did they catch him? Has anyone claimed responsibility? I wonder if Starbucks has seen a decline in its Frisco sales charts. Sounds just like the kooky kids who tried to go untergrund in 1968.

Five to one (baby)
One in Five
No one here gets out alive

I wonderif the Coffee Bean And Tea Leaf (CBTL) will be targeted here in Los Angeles? That's where I usually go. When I'm nodding out and the money's burning a hole in my pocket.