Au Jus

--bike stories, part 1--

i've had so much bike trouble over the past few months. it would be funny if only i could get over my anger and disgust. so first, someone steals my back wheel in broad daylight right in front of work. who would have thought anyone would bother with my little clunker? but as some wise chicken advertisement once said, "parts is parts!" i realized it would cost over a hundred dollars to replace the wheel and cassette gears. oof. i could buy a couple of clunkers for that. no wonder people like to steal rear wheels. do bike theives keep stuff for themselves? do they have their own bike part business? do they sell hot parts to crooked bike shops? do they feel guilt? bike part theivery is so petty on the grand scheme of things; why not cars? too hard? you know that saying, "like stealing candy from babies." it typically means something is really easy to take, but further, why would you want to take something from a baby; it's just cruel.

i gave dixon's on union street a ring and they managed to find me used parts and replaced everything that was stolen for about 50 bucks. oh, joy! dixon's has definitely become my favorite bike store in this area. their prices are reasonable, they know what they're doing, i never feel like they are shafting me, and they take care of me when i go there. i trust them. they're just nice people. they have bible verses taped up on the walls. normally i don't go for that kind of thing, but in this instance it seems so reassuring. like they're telling me, "child, don't you worry none, we didn't buy your stolen bike parts from some street punk and then just sold them back to you for a profit."


"When I was a kid I used to pray every night for a new bicycle. Then I realised that the Lord doesn't work that way so I stole one and asked Him to forgive me." -Emo Philips

--memory lame--

i was reading a story the other day and the old people in it were asked to think about their happiest memories from childhood. i've been thinking about that incessantly. i can't think of a single moment that sticks out. and it's not that i had an awful childhood. i think my childhood was fine; no better or worse than any other. i think my memory is just kinda gray-washed. everything is just blanded out, like using the draft option on a printer program - it's just a bit faded looking with blurry details and sketchy contrasts - and pushed back to some dusty corner in my head.

i remember weird or bittersweet moments. like the newly paved road, the burning blackness of the new tar in front of my new home when my mom first brought me to live with her when i was 7. zoning out while dusting the furniture listening to magic man by heart on lp. boy, i could dust that dark, old weirldy ornate (in the style only the 1970s could manufacture) coffee table for hours if i were in the right mood! my mom, impatient with my whining about dinner, inciting me to make chef boyardee pizza from a box. our dog named toad eating all my easter candy and throwing up everywhere. practicing my bowling for the mother/daughter league down the hallway of our trailer. wow, i just outlined the childhood of a redneck.

my mom has old senior pictures taken from the late 60s that are retouched with tints. i wonder how much of memory is real and how much of it made of just a few details - a line here, a shape here - and colored in later at whim with sensory input. sometimes i worry that i'm not really paying attention, maybe i'm sleepwalking through life, maybe i'm not noting carefully enough when the good memories are being made. or even worse i don't even know when those things happen.

--towards home on a slushy evening--

i walk thru red hook, past resilient red brick rectangles. i put an eye on a snowman, silent sentinel where angels fear to tread. snow and newer slush cover the boundaries of sidewalks, sidewalks i share with the occasional wary male. some smile carefully, cautiously. i hurry by.

the best remedy for a rainy, dreary afternoon is lunch at cubana cafe on smith street, brooklyn. the decor is genius! it's all light blue walls, white tile, yellow and dark pink accents. jarritos bottles lined the shelves and glowed with light. and oh, yes, the food was pretty good, too.

i am a thrift store junky. i think that thrifting is my vocation. i have to hold myself back a lot of times from buying things i don't need or want. especially when i see a designer item or a something really cool but i know is not my style. there's a part of me that wants to stock the imaginary vintage resale store in my head. but my innate practicality (and low funds and lack of space) usually holds out.

i love secondhand books as well. i don't have as strong of an impulse control when it comes to books. sometimes i'm sold just on the handwritten inscriptions inside. i thinks it's pretty ironic too how these book-gifts, chosen so carefully with a special little note inside, are found in a thrift store discarded and forgotten. then i wonder at the choice of book and the message and the relationship between giver and receiver. some inscriptions are fairly straight forward, but still makes you wonder, and some are just scoffingly ironically funny-sweet-sad .

I'm loving you every step of the way. -baby girl [found in Vanity Fair by w.m. thackeray]

Dear Beth, This book sounded perfect. I hope you enjoy it. Regardless, you wll reap/eat the benefits. Love, Davey - Valentine's Day '96 [found in Domesticity: A Gastronomical Interpretation of Love by Bob Shacochis]

and this is my favorite one:
A Very Happy Anniversary My Love! My Love, well, let this book be symbolic of the life we are about to embark on together. Functional, bizarre, helpful, frightening & tons of fun. I love you deeply & impatiently await our life together. Only two more weeks!! -DeeAnn (It's our first mutual owned piece of property!!) [found in Herbs & Things: Jeanne Rose's Herbal]

i don't know. i might be weird. these don't look as darkly ironic or even prophetically sad anymore. i guess i got caught up in thrift store greed. maybe what seems to sparkle in a room full of dross is not that sparkly after all. maybe you just had to be there.

the thing about living in a loft studio with your significant other is that arguing is really hard. i can no longer stomp off, slam a door, and lock myself in my own room when i want. turning your back and putting on headphones is about the best you can do and it's really not that satisfying.

i can't really bitch too much about my relationship woes here either like i see other bloggers do. it just doesn't seem fair. plus, joseph is probably one of my most faithful readers. it would be like pretending to talk to someone but really directing your verbal darts towards the person behind him. you know what i mean. we've all done it. talking to jill loudly enough about proper hygiene so that jack who just happens to be in the same room who has really disturbing b.o. will take heed and wear deodorant once in a while.

i just read someone's blog dedicated to all the shit his flatmate does to piss him off. very passive aggressive but super funny and it probably does a lot too alleviate the person's anger about his living situation. now if his flatmate could just read the blog and adjust her behavior accordingly, they might have a working relationship. but then there wouldn't be a funny blog about it, would there?

i wish i could spend more time on the toilet. i seem to come up with the best thoughts on the john. it's too bad i'm such a, how should i put it? - fast producer in the necessary. there's just something elemental, vulnerable, and honest when your pants are down around your ankles that let your thoughts whirl around without being distracted by anything else. maybe it's the inward focus or the solitude.