This past weekend I got to see the sun go down as Jeff Tweedy sang his suicidal little heart out. Bless his soul for not being able to cope with life. I love people like that.

I got a gig renovating the tralf, so be sure to go when it opens by the way. My arms feel like they will explode again. This time it's from sawing and having a crush on a non-suspecting painter.

So yeah, this weekend. Newport Folk festival folks. One of the best things on God's brownfield earth. And can we start a petition to get rid of this fucking helmet law in NY state? Jesus.

I rode around all morning Saturday feeling like I was crossing the prairy desperately trying to reach El Paso, before the bad guys kill my sweet heart.

It was that kind of moment.

And why aren't hippy lesbians/experimental college girls attractive anymore? What gives? I won't say anything about the guys because if I see one more gut without a shirt I'm gonna puke.

Lucinda WIlliams was hot as ever.
As were the girls from Ollabelle.

Rufus Wainwright played and I don't know if any of you know him, but he is quite possibly the funniest entertainer I have seen. People were bell laughing.

The bike is red, I repeat, the bike is red. It's not bad. I put it on with the idea that I'll eventually paint it, but fuck it. It's meant to be.

I need a new tat but don't know where to put it besides up my ass.

I'm contemplating modeling for UB's art dept. Any ideas why I should not make the 15 an hour standing still, please let me know. I am horribly unattractive and disfigured so it will make for some nice drawings.

Robin, those pictures belong in a mini-series about the city boy who decides to raise chickens. Very cool.

There was a guy I once knew. He always started every story with those words. Can I go now. I thought you were going to tell a . . . well yeah, that's what I mean.

Fine. Go on.

After what seemed like three months of pure irrationality, he finally decided to let go and see what would happen.

But then, do you decide to let go? Not at all. It happens. Sort of like that last mushroom disappearing making your salad as plain as you are. I hear you. Please continue.

He let go. That's it. Why, no one really knows, except of course me. Of course. But you can figure it out.

He walked down the street as cars beeped feebly. He must have known that they wouldn't hit him, not that he cared. He came across one guy beating another. One was smaller and so he decided to assist.

What if the little guy deserved it?

The little guy never deserves it, shut up. So he took the big one down having God on his side.

We all have God on our side.

Shut the fuck up. So you know what happened? Why so silent good monsieur? He helped him out. The big guy lay still, half dead. The cops came, but he was gone already. A modern day Batman he was. But then.

Then?

Then.

Then?

Then he met up with a beggar who needed change. He screamed at him, said to leave him alone. ALONE he said. And he walked away.

So.

As he walked away he felt a warmth in his body and fell to his knees. The man had stabbed him.

The moral?

What's the moral? There's no fucking moral. I knew a guy who was stabbed. He got out easy s'what I say. We still have to endure. God chose him, or Buddha, or Zeus. Someone chose him.

Maybe he chose.

Can you please walk that a way? Yep that's it . . . thanks . . .

Be honest with me

- you sure

oh yes, please go on.

- you're one in a million

Oh god, you're sweet

-no, I mean, there has to be at least a million more out there exactly like you. And I mean exactly.

Uh . . .

-What's wrong?

Let's curb the honesty

- want to know what I was thinking while you climaxed?

please, no I . . .

- I was-

(SLAP, followed by grossly exagerated crying)

sorry, I was just being honest

The hottest places in hell are reserved for those, who at the time of great moral crisis, remain neutral.

All right, my turn.

Vote for Bush. This is why . . . quickly because I have to watch Kill Bill.

Nothing will change in this country unless it is hopeless. Until we have nothing, people will be complacent. If Bush gets re-elected, which is entirely plausible, things will happen. People will quote the D of I. They will read Marx. They will be more unhappy than they already are. The dust storm will come and those who did not need water before will ache to have something to quench their thirst.

Then a Woody Guthrie will come, or a new Dylan, or Zorro. But someone will make a stand and things will get bad in this country, which in turn, will cause things to change.

The Bastille needs to fall people.

I will vote for Kerry because I agree with Chris, but YOU should vote for Bush if you care about America. I'm just afraid of, and look forward to, what will happen if he gets back in. I want nothing to do with putting him there, but you should.

I thank you.

Okay Uma, I'm ready.

I thought everyone had a tank bra? What the hell?

Definitely get a tank bra. Make sure it supports your tank though. There is also the tank g-string and tank douche which is not the most comfortable thing but useful when you're camping.

I used the tank condom before, but it fell off. I would not suggest such a thing.

Goddamnit, is anyone listening to what's going on in Boston! It's a bit fucking exciting I have to say.

Hell I might even get some hope back . . . but let's not jump into that boiling water too soon.

The place is always different, but in the end it doesn’t matter anyway; it’s always the same.

I’m on a beach with what looks like dozens of other people, which has never happened before. From the very start, the sky is that layer of blue-black atop that layer of tan sunset that tells you it’s going to be very bad, very soon.

The water picks up. The water always picks up. Now it's because of the wind.

The beach has lifted and is now on an angle of around 45 degrees, as if it’s just turned into the side of a mountain. It’s still sand though, so people are slipping into the water which is now crashing to the sand with the intent of peril. The wind picks up causing a sandstorm that you could still see through. Everyone is screaming.

Except me. I know about this already.

Gusts of wind come and knock me over when I try to walk. I look up. To my left is midnight at noon. To my right is the hint of the sun on the horizon. But then I see it coming towards and all I can think is well, that’s new.

A tornado is in a direct line to me, picking up bodies like they were tin roof tops. I could dive into the water, but there’s no reason to rush into that. I could climb up, just missing it, but when I look . . . I almost said love . . . when I look up again, the sand is now a cliff that won’t let me go.

So I take my arms. I say fuck you then, and bury them into the sand up to my shoulders, gripping and clawing, face now on the ground. If it’s going to hit me, it’s going to hit me. But it won’t take me with it.

When it passes over me, as I hear the screams and the crying, I think, please God, don’t let a body hit me in the ribs. I’m too vulnerable. Don’t add that variable. Please God.

When the tornado goes, the water comes. That wave. That monster forty foot wave hits me and drags me out with it. Bodies are everywhere. This is the end of the world.

I’m floating in a tall structure that one could call a house. I am alive. I prop open the doors and see the waves. They’re not too bad, but once I decide to leave the house, they turn. It knows. I’m going any way. If I die . . . well at least it’ll all be over.

I swim away and a house falls on me, but the stairway just misses. It rolls along like it has somewhere it needs to be. I finally make it to a camp, a refuge for everyone still living. The waves give us some time. Half the people are dead, floating in the water and half are scrambling to a structure, to get out of the water. It’s not over, and the tragedy is that they don’t know it.

Or is the tragedy that I do.

I try to tell them and no one listens. There are people in charge. I want to warn them. I want to tell them that we need to go north. The waves will return.

There they are.

I close my eyes and wait it out. That’s all you really can do when the inevitable is coming.

Aren't you all excited by the socialist rhetoric flying throughout Boston this evening?

By the way, young Ron . . . if you're at the democratic national convention, you are making a political statement.

It's about goddamn time.

I need some addddvice, whoever wants to offer it. My landlord tried to move my bike and dropped in on a jack, denting my tank. It's noticeable. I'm still paying for the bike, but the shitty thing is that I fixed the same spot two years ago when that car hit me. I almost did something terrible to said asshole who dropped my bike, but instead I have let it go. He's paying for it though . . .

Here's the thing. This is my bike if it were new, save the dent on the left side.



I don't want to make him pay for a new tank but there is one online I could get for a lot cheaper with the understanding that I will one day return it to black. Here's what it would look like. I just don't know if it'll look like ass.



Here's option B, with a black tank bra.



So. It is a big deal to me, first of all because it'll rust if I don't do something. And the thing represents all that's good in the world, as sad as that is.
so should I
a) live with a dent and just touch it up seeing as though it makes the bike have character.
b)get a red tank and slap it on with the idea that I could paint it black one day
c)Red tank, black bra (that's funny in't it)
d)I like olives

Please, anyone who wants to contribute would be much appreciated. Y'all could even email me if you're so inclined.

I thank you.