Dear car drivers who persist in trying to kill me:

I am sure that I don't know any of you personally, and as such I cannot determine at what point in my life I have managed to wrong you. But, as you have made it abundantly clear to me (no less than four times) that you wish to see me flattened like a bug under the tires of your car on South Division Street in down town Buffalo, I am forced to speculate: why?

Perhaps my running theory that the people of Buffalo are in fact pseudo-Canadians has upset some secret cabal. The evidence is clear to anyone who wants to think about it. Most of us drink Canadian Beer, and of course there is our obsession with Hockey, and I have to admit that while flipping the channels on my television I, like many of you, have stopped for an hour to watch Curling for no explainable reason. Yet, somehow, proffering a secret cabal as the central source of the four attempts on my life seems too far fetched.

Perhaps it's that girl I met on New Years four years ago. We hit it off fairly nice for two heavy drinkers. But then, sometime later, I just decided to never call her again. I couldn't afford a relationship that required a fifth of rum and a fifth of whiskey on every date. To this day, when she sees me walking down the street she will roll down her window and just scream at me - no words - just a blood chilling banshee scream of an addict that lost their free source of junk. It seems almost conceivable that she could escalate to attempting to run me down with her car, and her friends were crazy too...

Yet, no - that is not the reason I was nearly run over by four cars today.

The real reason is you, crazy car driver. You know who you are! You Sabres jersey wearing lunatic! You only come downtown when there is a game, so you're completely fucking lost down there in a rat maze of streets. Now you never bothered to invest in seasonal parking to go along with your season tickets, no you just drive around looking for something on the street - maybe, you think, the genie of cheap parking will materialize in front of me and grant my wish for something close to the dome. But there is no genie, and then you're running late, the game is about to start, and that incredible amount of money you spent on season tickets starts to itch at your conscience.

You and several hundred other cars are all trying to make their way to the dome down Washington Street, bumper to bumper, and you spot it. An open street, you could go around this Bull Shit. Why didn't anyone else see such an obvious short cut? So you slam on the accelerator and before you can sing LETS GO SABRES! you're heading west down South Division Street and nearly collide with a pedestrian.

Yes, crazy car driver, that was me in the gray wool coat with the tan scarf screaming, "WHAT THE FUCK!?" as you nearly ran me over. You see, South Division is what we metropolitan people like to call a one way street. And you, are what I like to call an Asshat. You and the other three idiots who followed right after you. Up South Division to a wall of confused traffic waiting at the Main Street and Church Street light. No doubt you were shitting bricks when you were almost side swiped by the train.

We look forward to having you all back in the metropolitan area soon!

Best Regards,

~EJTower.

P.S. Buy a tom-tom.

Anyone interested in studying the effects of absolute rule on the human psyche might do well to look to Bus Drivers. You can almost see the faces of every king and queen that ever lived in the eyes of these monarchs of the road. Each imposing tolls, monitoring immigration and emigration with the variability of every form of rule there could be: I have met bus drivers who would let you on if you flashed a gray napkin with a number on it, and others who would argue your right to ride the bus based on where the issuing driver chose to punch your day pass.

The Number fourteen is ruled from six until midnight by an insane time czar. The universe could not be as accurate as his arrival and departure schedules. A curb popping despot with terrifying accelerations and brakes, I have heard him screaming holy hell out his slide window at any car driving heretic in the way of his accurateness. "Come on you cocksucker! FUCK YOU!" I've seen him leave flag waving old women standing at the stop for being a minute behind. Once I swear I felt him bump a car in front of us out of the way, but none of us said anything and the car didn't chase us.

In the afternoon and late morning somewhere on The Number Twenty you may find yourself in the domain of Time Thief. A robber baron of a bus driver, who has learned to fold time out of his schedules to further his own ends. Driving from the bus station at North Division he floors the accelerator, only choosing to pick up those stops that have large crowds. Goodbye single business woman on Delaware and Huron, see you later chic marketing man, catch the next one in ten minutes - The Time Thief has just stolen your minutes. Rocketing up the street he eventually comes to the stop at Elmwood and Forrest, pulling to the side he turns off the bus, and as we watch in confusion he closes the doors and goes into the Mobil Quick Mart on stolen time. A piss and a coffee purchase later, we're back on the road and still on schedule.

What does it really mean to be "On Time"? It's open to interpretation, whose time really matters most in the monarchy of the bus driver? I will warn you this way: woe to those who argue with the keeper of the doors, for they will kick your ass back out onto the sidewalk even after you've deposited your fare.

Whilst I was out walking today I stoped to take a picture of a rose and look who is in the background.

In the past week I have biked a great many miles, and have learned some importaint things about biking and getting around our city in general.

Lesson One: Don't stop to talk to strangers on your bike. If you do, then don't let them get within reaching distance of you.

Now let me deflate the drama by saying that my material possessions and I are perfectly alright. I was on my way back home from south buffalo on bailey near clinton street when a guy on the side of the road whose car had broken down shouted to me.

He was a rather large white guy of about 230lbs and 5'9" his car had two flat tires. He asked me if I had seen a bus on my way out of South Buffalo, I said that I didn't. But as we were speaking he began to close in on the 15 feet I had left between him and I. His next question as he approached me on my bike was "can you give me a ride to Broadway?" My "oh shit" meter hit about 10 at that point and I peddled away from him a bit. Said that I couldn't and left him there.

I don't know if he was serious about riding my handle bars. I would think it would be clear to anyone who can see my skinny physique that it would have been impossible at best. But I was definately very serious about him not getting close enough to give himself a ride on my bike.

Lesson Two: I have more problems with the residents of south buffalo than I do the residents of the east side.

For some time now I have said that this is the case. In terms of people deliberately confronting me in a hostile manner, south buffalo wins for most number of times.

Those baggy jeaned kids in south buffalo have some terf ideas in their heads I think.

Lesson Three: If you make good time one trip, but pull a muscle, thats just the same as making bad time for two days.

Today I made it from SPoT down town to my house around the walden and harlem area in 30 minutes. But I pulled a muscle in my right knee. I am hoping I will be fine in a day or two. Being fine by morning would be nice though.

~E.

Out of this Kingdom of Rust
By: E.J. Tower

We live in the bones of our grandparents economy,
Worshipfully preserved; behold its corpse in gruesome detail!
Empty eye socket buildings staring out across this kingdom of rust,
All safely guarded against the arrival of change.

We people of no name,
Looking for identity in ruins of what was,
Seeing not the self-made self in what could be
If only our chains would rust away too.

We who dream with such hope,
Each day set out to build an empire out of vestiges,
Each day returning with bleeding dusty hands,
Our undertakings thwarted by clout unseen. Fret not!

We are the flames of life breathed into this dead blast furnace,
To smelt away the rusted impure.
We rise each day from ashes, and spread wide our fiery wings to fly.
They cannot stand each day in crucible for long.

I told myself that at $3.00/ Gal I would start riding my bike to anywhere that I could reach in 30 min or less. Well It hit $3.00/ gal and I have been riding my bike to everywhere but school (UB North Campus).

Its fucking awesome! I have found that I am in much better shape than I thought I was in, and now I am exploring buffalo because I am not taking the highways. When you aren't in a car you really notice the scenery.

I have been looking at some maps of the city recently and from my house on the east side, everything is pretty much 30 minutes from where I live by bike. When I say everything, I mean everything I do on Elmwood, on Allen Street, Everything Downtown, and Everything I do out on Transit Road.

Trips I have Planned For The Coming Week:

1.) SPoT DT by bike via Walden To Genesse

2.) Allen St by bike via Walden straight shot

3.) North of Elmwood Heights by bike via a very sketchy route I keep having second thoughts about.

Explore Buffalo Topic

I am also going to be doing some biking around sections of the city that most folks don't go to, mainly my neighborhood and the areas between south buffalo and the east side. I hope to get a camera to take pictures. I intend to post them under the above topic heading on this bloggy.