In case you haven't been following the saga here are parts one and two (This is sloppy as hell, but I don't feel like edittititing, so fuck off; just kidding of course) life apparently still has some brutal lessons to teach me part two In case you didn't get a chance to read part one, here it is: It was absolutley fantastic: my first long distance bike trip. I rode from my house by Santa Monica and Western to Leo Carillo state park 46 miles from my house, a few hours north from Venice. I'm drunk so this might not make much sense. It was beautiful though. I gopt there, drank a bunch of beer, chain smoked a pack of cigarettes on a high rock cliff overlooking the ocean under a full moon all by myself listening to King Crimson, Epitaph over and over and over. Later I went back to my camp site locked up my bike to a picnic table. and slept in the dirt. i hadn't felt so great in months. The next morning I awoke, shook a little bit of the dust off, drank a beer, and started back towards LA. Much to my dismay, I had involuntarily joined the Ride to Promote Aids on the final stretch of road from San Francisco to LA, . . . I was awash in a Spandex nightmare. This is the end of part one of my brutal lesson. I have a three day weekend this weekend, so stay tuned for part two, but just to give you an idea, I am 100% AIDS (because it kills people) and 100% pro-gay (because they don't make more people), and yes, I was that asshole that was involuntarily inculded in the AIDS ride that all the styrofoam hat people hated So, here's the conclusion, and this shit gets very comical: (actually, never mind i didn't get a chance to finish, but read on) I was going up and down all these big hills whith these people. They were creaming me going downhill since I only have coaster brakes, and that shit scares me because if you need to stop in a hurry going really fast you eat shit. You may be asking why I use them then, and the reply to that is because I have a stubborn loyalty to simplicity and I can't stand having all these wires and knick nacks all over my bike. It just bugs me is all. Anyway, I beat them going uphill though because I only have one gear and what else can I do but pump real hard to get up? It didn't necesarrily make me feel better though seeing as how all these people had been riding since San Francisco. Anyway, there were all these people on the side of the road cheering them on with pom poms and shit, and it started bugging me. I started cheering too: "GO AIDS!!!!" "GO POPULATION CONTROL!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I think people were cussing at me, but I couldn't hear anything, blowing my ears out with headphones. I stopped at a Sav-ON to buy a beer, but they were only selling six packs, and I didn't want to be weighed down, so I bought a fifth of this stuff called "Seagram's Extra Smooth Vodka". I don't know if you've ever heard of this stuff, but let me give you some advice: it's bad news. It tastes like water. I was mixing it with orange juice and drinking it just as I would beer, or water for that matter. I stopped at various beaches to drink all along the way, it was so beautiful besides the steady stream of neon spandex encasing throat-gag-inducing human bodies who also coincidentally have throats too. Fully able to be gagged as well. I recently got a different view on the AIDS thing. Before I was like, "What's the big deal? They got a deadly disease being sluts and having fun." But the bad part of it isn't the U.S. sluts. They don't even die from it anymore. When I thought about this factor, I was gravely dissapointed. If anybody should die, it's people in this country. But, noooooooo. It's women in Africa that get raped who get it. And they don't die right away either. They get pregnant and then have a kid who suffers through it too. And they weren't being sluts either. Not like there's anything wrong with being a slut, but still, you were asking for it where these women in South Africa or whatever weren't. Anyway, maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. I'm just trying to shit out a blog entry before my time runs out here at the internet cafe. This whole story has a very funny plot twist at the end that just manifested itself a couple of nights ago. You still don't even know what the brutal lesson is. You'll just have to wait. Part three of life's brutal lesson: I went to Venice beach and finished off the fifth of vodka. It had only been a couple of hours since I purchased it, but I'm not used to drinking shit like that. It tastes like water. I don't even realize that I'm consuming alcohol after a while. It's a dangerous situation I must say. I was just there drinking on the beach with my beautiful bicycle thinking about how much I loved her. My shoes were filled with sand, but nothing mattered except for me and my bicycle, Euthanasia. About all of the happy times we had had together. About every morning and evening coming to and from work. My favorite part of the day. About my obsession with mounting her. About how unsavory it is to feel that way about an inaminate object, but fuck it. " It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle.It's OK to be in love with my bicycle." I kept repeating this as some kind of inane bullshit 70's new age self help healing mantra for people like me with real bad paraphilia for their bikes. I was really wasted I must say. I had to piss. I dragged my bike across the sand towards the bathrooms. It was in the middle of the day on a Saturday I think it was. Lots of people all around. I thought my bike would be OK outside for just thirty seconds or so. However long it takes one to piss. but no, I came outside and it was gone nowhere to be found. And I left Sarah Anne's sleeping bag in the basket. Some lucky bum took off with my black and beautiful bike and even got a sleeping bag too. I was heart broken to say the least. I couldn't believe it. And I had just put on a new rear rim with coaster brakes (50$), a new chain at the bike kitchen (only like five dollars but still, . . . ), new hand grips (5$), and I had just completed my first long distance trip on a bike cruiser, well on any bike for that matter, and a bike that I truly, truly loved. I was calling people. I don't remember this part, but I was reminded later of my moronic behaviour later. There was some cops there, and I was asking them how come they didn't catch the theif. "Don't you have a bike lock?" "Well, yeah," I responded. "Well why didn't you lock it up? It's not our job to watch people's unsupervised bicycles while the're using the bathroom." The pig made a good point. I had nothing more to say. I dropped my jaw and made my way towards the bus stop. I had to take a million buses to get home. I barely remember it. All I remember was the shitty feeling, and all the while the internal dialogue, "Tomatoes, get a hold of yourself. You'll get through it. It can't be any worse than a break up, and you've been through plenty of those. It can't be the end of the world." I got home, went to sleep, got up and prepared myself to deal with the seperation anxiety through copious amounts of Steel Reserve. "We had great times together. Nothing lasts forever. It's better to have loved and lost, yadda yadda yadda." All that bullshit. I took my girlfrioend's bike. The one that she doesn't use because she's had a cast on for months. I took it to the bike kitchen, tore all the rickity ass bullshit off of it. literally tore most of it off. I trued my old coaster brake rim, put it on there. It rides like a dream, so smooth. nice nice nice bike. It's just like I always say, After a break up, go out and fuck someone else as quickly as possible. That's the best way to deal with it. To make yourslef realize that other people can make you feel that good. that other bikes can make you feel that good. OK, well here''s the highly amusing plot twist: I did in fact lock up my bike. Laurie found it locked to a post right near those bathrooms about a week later. No wheels. no basket. That brand new chain completely rusted from sitting out on the beach for a week. I had already moved on. It did a funny little number on me. I did a tune-up on Laurie's truck in exchange for a ride to go retreive the skelton of my ex-bike, Euthanasia. It was very pathetic I must say. Now I have it chained up on the street on Santa Monica awaiting parts to get her up and running again. just THE FRAME, grips, and a rusty chain. So, that's a very brutal lesson indeed. well, it's a few different brutal lessons all wrapped up in one. How do you like that? i just gotta keep in mind, at least I'm not getting raped by men with AIDS. Everything will be OK.