Musical Skids II

But what, you might ask, have I been thinking about there in the grey dust and peircing sunlight of the skid factory? I think about philosophical questions. Such as: if God is all powerful, and all good, then why do so many evil things befall us in the world?

The goodness of God is absolute and hidden. It is not a goodness that can be comprehended by the limited, self-interested vision of our egos, but it is a goodness that has our best interest at heart.

Does this mean that all of the evil that befalls us is actually good in disguise? No. But the goodness of God is stronger than any evil that might come about.

Musical Skids

There is meditational element to my new job (cutting two-by-fours in the making of skids). Now that I have become proficient at the various tasks involved I find the time passes fairly quickly. In the morning, the sun shines through the bay door that opens unto my lumber pile, and the outside air helps counteract the sawdust. In the afternoon, there is lunch, and then a break, and then it's time to go home.

I am also responsible for securing the tall stacks of finished skids with strips of nylon banding. The forklifts bring me piles of wood or pallets, and I thread them through with banding, or wrap them with plastic when they are irregularly shaped. It sounds boring, and it is, but it keeps me occupied just enough that my brain slips into a state of reflection.

When I was completely idle, my thoughts were sort of frozen; now that I'm moving, doing something and nothing at the same time, I can better listen to the music of things.

Me and Lennie

I feel a little closer to superstar poet/novelist/songwriter Leonard Cohen now that he's broke. There must be all kinds of irony in this gifted genius, "the patron saint of envy and the grocer of despair", now being in a less than enviable financial situation, having been swindled, by some of his closest advisors, out of the fortune he made from selling the rights to his songs and writing to Sony.

Cohen, at age 70, seems to be taking it all in stride, having apparently deepened his already philosophical outlook toward life in his several years of study at the Zen monastery on Mt. Baldy.

Though I feel bad for Cohen's loss, I am also selfishly glad that his destitution may make it necessary for him to go out on tour once again. I've never seen this Canadian legend perform live, and I would very much like to.

Pussy Galore in "Indian Sunburn"

"Well, hello! Is this a knee cap I see before me?
Hold still...there's a bug crawling on you!"




"Oooh...I like it when you stroke my triceps. "




"Whoa! Take it easy there. Ouch! Hey! Ok! Mercy!
I'll pay for dinner tonight...Why do I always fall
for the kinky chicks?"

Movin' on Down the Line

The morning sun, as it appeared on my 33rd birthday.

True Blue

Working out at the edge of the yard, by the derelict train tracks, stacks of rusty metal and a toppled over 30' silo that looks temptingly skatable, I sing songs to myself while securing large pallets of wood with steel banding. You crank the metal band with a ratchet device, and hope that it doesn't snap and recoil into your face (safety goggles are a must). The patented Flatlander method involves keeping the banding attached to the spool until it is firmly crimped in place, thus minimizing sharp, jutting edges. The wood I am sorting has been sitting there for a while, and many organisms have made it their home: centipedes, wasps, beetles, snails and potato bugs all scurry haplessly when I dislodge a beam. There was no warning given that their home was about to be disrupted; no public works notices that their woodpile was slated for dismantling. Somehow, these homeless creatures will find a way to start anew. Such is the mysterious energy of life.

Myself and the three other guys I'm working with are released precisely at two, after spending the better part of the last hour trying to look busy while chewing the fat and kicking sticks around the newly cleaned yard. Walking home is when my steel-toed shoes feel heaviest. But my heart was light; it was Saturday afternoon and working was through for the week! I went skating in the later afternoon, at the ol' Bease fishbowl/park. The sun was relentlessly warm, but nice. Now that I'm old I sweat. I sweat profusely, the same way my father used to sweat--the way that used to gross me out back when I was young and dry. I didn't fall while skating the park. I had fun and busted a few moves. But I could use some new terrain. It's also time to trade in my 7 1/2 incher for a full 8 inch wide model. I need some extra wood under my feet to feel secure these days.

On my way home I tried something stupid: skating down the sidewalk while carrying a twelve of beer. Brewed in the north end--just down the street from the house, in fact--my case of beer took a tumble when my skateboard hung up on a pebble. I rolled it out, scraping my knee and elbow, trying to cradle the bottles, which landed upside down on the sidewalk, all twelve beers miraculously unbroken. I took this as a sign that despite all my foolishness, my years of avoiding work, my resentment now that I actually have a job, my inability to stop skateboarding and dreaming about making rap music at the age of 33--despite all these things, God still loves me. Walking down the street, my twelver under one arm, my skate under the other, I felt a kind of grace. Working, skateboarding, beer--is there more to life than this? Most likely there is, but it's not necessarily a better kind of more.

Sawdust

Today, one of the floor managers--a nice guy named Dan--asked me how I liked my new job. I said it was fine, I liked it, etc. He said, "Forgive me for saying so, but you seem like you should be working at, say, Future Shop or something." I said that I'd tried retail and didn't like it, but that I liked working with wood. "Maybe next week we'll try to get you working at one of the construction stations, so you can try something different." This made me sad, since I like the position I'm at.

The shop I've been at all week makes wooden skids of all different sizes. I work an automated, remote control saw that cuts two-by-fours to various lengths. As far as I can see, it's the best job in the place: not repetitive enough to be painfully dull, not complicated enough to require all my brain. I get to move around, adjust bolts, load wood--and I have a neath control board with video-game levers. The guys working outside have lift and stack heavy pallets all day, as well as dealing with the elements. My station requires little heavy lifting, and I get to stay inside.

The saw is a great disk of quarter-inch serrated steel alloy that whirls inside of a mesh cage a few feet from my control panel. I pretend it's a shark in a tank. Make sure that shark tank is bolted shut! There are all sorts of steel loading arms as well, outside of the cage, which I pretend are crocodiles. My mission each day, as I see it, is to keep all my fingers attached.

Yesterday, Dan came to me and said, "It's kind of strange. You've only been with us two days, but you're the only one here who knows how to operate this machine...So don't go quitting or anything." I should have taken the opportunity to ask for a raise. I guess they are going through some sort of personnel turnover, and their old saw operator retired. Soon I probably will quit, once I've investigated further into the workings of the place. Outside my loading door is a huge labyrinthine yard full of stacks of skids. I volunteered to work tomorrow, even though it's Saturday, because I wanted to see the yard. The first couple of days I was nervous, worried that I wasn't doing a good enough job. Now I just try not to get hurt.

This kind of work, though sometimes romanticized, always seems like a prison sentence to me. When I close my eyes at night I see rivers of two-by-fours rolling by on a conveyor, and my body twitches from physical strains, and the terrors of the job that I try to suppress all day. Just down the street from my workplace are the docks, with great metal ships reminding me of the wider world. These kinds of jobs never pay enough money that you could escape. It's probably better to be broke but free. It's rediculous to sell the best part of your time for three hundred bucks a week.

Giant Slug Ravages Steeltown!

Here is the slug that almost ate my house,
as caught on special infrared "ghostbuster" film.

Sometimes Jimmy Z from Mission Control pays a visit to Fakiegrind Central--to keep me updated on news from our shareholders and other higher-ups, and to make sure everything is running smoothly. Today he wasn't his usual chipper self.

"Why the long face?" I asked.

"Return hits are down almost 50%. Seems the majority of Fakiegrind viewers read it once and move on. It's pretty much like having no readers at all."

"We're still getting one person who checks us out at least once a day, usually more."

"That's your mom."

"So it is. Hi mom!" I tried to change the subject. "The spyware you installed is working nicely. Now we can tell what country our readers are living in, what kind of car they drive, which movies they watch, favourite breakfast cereals, etc."

"So why don't you pander more to the masses? Talk about current events and entertainment."

"I don't make enough money to see current movies. I wouldn't know where to start. Now that the Star Wars saga is finished, I'm really at a loss for what to write about."

"You need to do something to boost readership or the shareholders will shut us down."

"I put the Fancy Links in alphabetical order."

"Not good enough. We need something with kick."

"Maybe I could do a piece about my new job."

"See whether you can keep it for longer than three days first."

"Well, how about a piece on the sex life of garden slugs? I found a large one in the yard yesterday."

"Did you have sex with it?"

"Of course not!"

"You have to find an edge. Something that hasn't been done before. Sex with slugs might turn some heads."

"Uhhh...I dunno. The SPCA might close us down. I did get some photos of the thing."

"Did it eat half your house, dissolving it with radioactive slugslime?"

"No."

"Wrong answer."

"Err...maybe?"

"Better. Post some pictures of the slug. Say it was ten feet high, singing Blondie songs and terrorizing the neighbourhood. Say that Gary Larson showed up to draw the thing in his sketch book, then the army brought a giant salt shaker on a crane to neutralize the beast. Say it was the most amazing thing you've ever seen. Do it now!"

"Ok Ok, take it easy."

Fakiegrind Celebrates...

The Ghetto Blaster

Nowadays, what with MP3 players cramming thousands of song flies into tiny little cigarette case-size accessories, it seems that nobody wants to be seen cruising the street with a righteous boom box in tow. Sure, it may be a little unwieldy, but the base is in your face when you sport one of these suckers. And with all the graphic equalizers and flashing lights, these monstrosities of sound are like a portable disco party. The particular model shown above is broken, but I'm trying to figure out a way to turn it into an attractive flower pot holder.


Michael Franti loves blastin'
and we love Michael Franti.

I'm having trouble keeping up with technology these days. For traveling I still like to use the cassette walkman I picked up last summer for five bucks. It may not hold a thousand songs, and sometimes it eats my tapes, but it has a little "superbass" button on the side that makes me happy.

More Mistaken Lyrics

Big lizard in my backyard
Can't afford to feed him anymore
Big lizard in my backyard
Bustin' down my neighbour's door

I bought a big lizard
Only a dollar fifty
Well, that's pretty neat
Yeah it's fuckin' nifty
But I just can't afford to feed it
And you should see the way it shits!

I've got a big lizard in my backyard
Can't afford to feed it anymore
Big lizard in my backyard
Bustin' down my neighbour's door

I was knocked outta bed
Late last night
I was woken up by the sound of dynamite
I ran downstairs to find an army man
He said "We gotta blow up those things we don't understand!"

There's no more big lizard in my backyard
I won't have to feed him anymore
No more lizard in my backyard
They shipped his ass to El Salvador!

from, Big Lizard by The Dead Milkmen

Here is another example of lyrics that I have long cherished, sung and reflected upon turning out to be different than I had thought they were. This title song from the Dead Milkmen's first album (1985) is about a boy and his pet lizard. When the army man shows up, I always thought he said,

"We gotta grow up; there's things we don't understand"

I'll admit, the actual version is more in keeping with the Milkmen's ironic commentary on the world, but I had always saw the song as a kind of melancholy reflection on getting older. The giant lizard is like Puff the Magic Dragon; he is the boy's imaginary friend, until the army man shows up and takes him away because we all "gotta grow up".

That the Milkmen should have such a sentimental song on this otherwise raucous album had always puzzled me, and now the mystery is solved. The line about blowing up what we don't understand seems more pertinent than ever, and my sympathy goes out to big lizards everywhere, but in my own private lyrical world, the song will remain a coming of age story.

Approaching Fakiegrind Host Planet Earth!

Arm comment infiltrator beams! Ready... Aim... Post Comment!

Dizzy II

About a week ago I fell while skating a mini ramp, and hit the back of my head, ever so gently, against the flat. I didn't black out or see spots--didn't even have a bump or bruise. But I've had a mild headache for a few days now, expescially when I bend over or stand up rapidly. I think maybe it's from the killer allegies, the useless medication, and from blowing my honker twice a minute, but maybe it's progressive dain brammage from the wipe-out.

At any rate, I'm using it as a good excuse not to do any work around heavy equiptment. Maybe I'll take the whole week off, seeing as it's my birthday coming up. I'm thinking of retiring my wheels altogether, getting grounded, maybe buying a suit jacket or something. I don't want to end up like Steve Alba or Mick Jagger: pushing the envelope way too far.

Demolition

Wouldn't it be fun to work in demolition?


When you were a kid, which did you enjoy more;
building forts or destroying them?


I'm going to miss the view of this place
from my favourite flatland b-ball court.


Out with the old, in with the new!

Skateboard Timeline

The word "oldschool" gets thrown around quite a bit these days, but in the skateboard world, where the impetus is towards constant progression and mutation, it is sometimes hard to know just where one stands in the greater scheme of skaterdom.

To help clarify the situation, Fakie Scholars have been working on a Skateboarding Timeline. It is quite hastily researched, I'm afraid, due to a funding shortage here at Fakie U, so we apologize in advance for any and all glaring distortions of fact.

Early 1960's ----Prehistorical Era

Surfers carve the waves, but begin to feel a strange impulse towards land-locked activity. Some try mounting their surfboard atop a car or flatbed dolly, but the results are largely unsatisfactory.

Late 1960's -----Time of the Ancients

Certain prophetic but uncelebrated souls begin affixing roller skate wheels to planks of wood, creating the first wheelieboards. The activity is greatly limited by the primitive technology, but the urge to roll proves irrepressible.

1970's -----Demigods of Skate

The sport sees its first great wave of influence. Banana boards with little or no kick, clay or metal wheels, non-sealed bearings, fiberglass, plastic, wood, sidewalk surfing, barefoot, hang-ten, powerslides, slalom, pools, parks, Peralta.

This era could respectfully be called "oldschool" , but perhaps "Antiquated School" might be a better term.

Early 1980's----Legends of Skate

Bigger boards, wheels, trucks, rails, lappers, skid plates, converse, half pipes, grabbing air, boneless, fastplant, wall ride, McTwist, freestylin', Future Primitive, Bonite (TM), Hosoi, Hawk, Blender.

This is the era that should properly be called "Oldschool". While the ollie was known and utilized, it was still cool to grab the board with your hands.

Late 1980's----Heros of Skate

Street skating begins to eclipse both ramp and freestyle as the dominant form. Kickflips become the dividing line between new and old school. Gonz, Natas, Hensley, first handrails, ollie-to-everything, Hawk's 720.

Skaters from this era are also called oldschool, though here at Fakiegrind, we prefer the term "Intermediate School".

Early 1990's----Clowns of Skate

Street skating really takes off, but somehow the sense of skateboard fashion gets grossly distorted by the influence of the rave scene. Super wide pant legs, tiny wheels, the first double kicktail boards, noseblunts, pressure flips, Mullen goes street, pros from the Legend and Hero era start their own companies, end up in jail, or fade into the woodwork.

Most skaters who harken from this period can pass themselves off as newschool. The heelflip and 360 flip replace the kickflip as the standard initiatory manouever.

Late 1990's----The Dark Age of Skate

Skating hits an all time low. Once prosperous companies go belly up. Riders renounce their vocations and take up ping-pong or video games. A small, underground remnant remains, but it is hard to find new equipment, so die-hards resort to home made substitutes that are difficult and dangerous to use. Many skaters go insane or join the Scientologists.

Skaters don't like to remember this period of their history, so there isn't a term for riders from this time. If any actually surface, they tend to be avoided at all cost.

2000 and beyond

Skating becomes popular once again, but what more is to be done? Learn everything backwards or go home. All skatable terrain is capped and patrolled. Skaters corralled into parks built in every town and city. "Urban youth", including skateboarders, now a major marketing category. Skating no longer subversive but still better than football.

Repetition

The end of summer is drawing nigh, and I'm feeling skated out. As my buddy Bo said, "You have all winter to let your knees and ankle heal". This is true, but some wounds never heal. I've surprised myself by learning some new moves over the past year, but I feel that I've hit a ceiling of some sort. I've experienced optimal skating conditions this summer in terms of time, equipment and facilities, but there are several tricks that continue to elude me:

heelflips
fingerflips (I've landed two all summer)
half-cab to casper on the hip
540 shove-it

It might be that these will simply be the tricks that got away. Skating is about fun and rolling, right? Not about how many tricks you can do. And only a select few can tell the difference between a 360 and a 540 shove-it. It takes hundreds, maybe thousands of repetitions to make a trick look natural, to really own it. I can bust a smooth kickflip 75% of the time, should the need arise, but to master the heelflip with the same fluency I would have to turn back the clock about a decade and spend a goodly amount of time out on the b-ball court, alone, working out the nuances of the trick.

I never even expected to make it this far, so the tricks that got away shouldn't bother me too much.

Fakie U Remembers...

Decorative Grip Tape

This movie still, from the 1986 fiasco Thrashin' depicts the film's hero, Corey, in a moment of agony. But what might be of interest to Fakie Scholars is his deck; apparently an example of the now-legendary Hosoi Hammerhead design.

Notice the stylin' griptape? These days, most riders opt for the conservative full-black griptape job, with perhaps some painted-on grafitti as the adornment of choice.

In the 80's, the decade of neon and acid-wash, things were different. Corey's spiderweb design depicted above is pretty neat, but might even have been considered tame by 80's standards. The larger deck sizes, and myriad deck styles of this decade made skateboards a canvas upon which one could express the carnal pagan chaos of one's soul in grip tape icons, lovingly cut out and arranged atop one's deck.

And the colours! Red, green, neon pink, yellow--did I say neon pink?--blue, purple, and neon pink! It was like a rainbow had fallen from the sky and the fragments were gliding down the street atop our skateboards.

I call for a return to righteous and flamboyant griptape adornment! Skaters should pay the extra two bucks for coloured tape, and go the extra distance to make the top of their decks truly unique. We could even start a little griptape art gallery here at Fakiegrind. It would be totally radical, man.

Trust No One

In an underhanded attempt to shut us down, the National Security Agency (I suspect Department H) has flooded the Steeltown area with hyper-aggressive airborne allergens. The strain is particularly virulent, and seems immune to all known varieties of anti-allergy medicine. I have had to take cover in climate controlled environments, such as libraries and donut stores, but am almost finished the construction of an inflatable bubble chamber in which to take refuge until the attacks subside. If they subside. Fear not Fakiegrinders! The truth shall not be silenced. We will continue to keep the paths of communication open, and to broadcast more online seminars from the vault of skate wisdom that is Fakie U.

As a sidebar, this afternoon I took the Fakiegrind mascot, Tiger, to the vet to have his anatomy...altered. While trying to prevent the frightened cat from carving my shoulder to shreds in the waiting room, I was asked by the receptionist if I would like any additional procedures for Tiger, such as a tattoo or the insertion of a microchip. Microchip? What, and give the techno-corps another method by which to spy on me thus turning my feline companion into an unwitting accomplice to evil? No thank you. As for the tattoo, what could a cat possibly want in that department? "I love kibble" or some such thing? And the fur would obscure the design anyways. Bad idea, all around.

Pop Quiz

As the first school day at Fakie U grinds to a close (with nary a comment in sight), I thought a little quiz might be in order. Allan "Ollie" Gelfand did the first "no handed air" on the transitions of the old concrete parks in the seventies, but the trick has become the foundation of modern street and flatland skating. Lay-folk often wonder how skaters manage to keep the board stuck to their feet while practicing their feats of daring-do.

How is it done?

a) Tiny suction cups on the bottom of their specially designed shoes.

b) A potent spray adhesive applied to the top of the deck.

c) Voodoo.

d) A sharp application of force to the tail of the deck, rapidly followed by a dragging of the front foot up towards the board's nose.

Write down your answers on a piece of foolscap, and mail them to: Fakiegrind, care of The Internet. Our Fakie scholars will collect your answers and tabulate a grade at the end of the semester.

Dizzy

I like skating
even when lame
even when reeling
from yesterday's fall

Out on the fringe
out in the margins
between the pebbles
and the shards
in the corner of
the Maker's eye
I bust a move

Fakie U

The day is pregnant with that delicious feeling of insipid autumn. The sun has lost something of its summer edge, and the breeze is cooler. The cicada are singing, and the rustling leaves are making preparations in the secret language of trees. September: the best of all months, the month I was born.

Today, kids are returning to school, waiting by the curbside for yellow buses, or deciphering timetables and room locations at the higher institutes of learning. I must say, I was happily keeping warm in bed this morning, celebrating the fact that I have no teachers to meet, books to buy or facts to memorize.

And yet, the ritual of returning to school is deeply imprinted on my psyche, and I feel that there are likely other souls out there who, without having the desire--or, perhaps, the wherewithal--to pursue a course of study, yet feel a slight longing for new pencils, erasers, notebooks, and the lovely smell of fresh textbooks.

So, this morning, thanks to a sizable grant from the Skaterblog's Union, I am opening the cyber doors of Fakiegrind U, inviting students young and old, genius and fool, dilettantes and dilly-dalliers to participate in this online investigation into the issues that truly affect our lives.

Questions such as the difference between Fakie and Switch on a skateboard, the history of ramp construction, gravity vectors and sneaker design, mosh pit etiquette, and the philosophical implications of the "no-handed air" or ollie, will be touched upon by our panel of experts, including the ever-sagacious Dr. Flavour, the nirvana-steeped Em, and the hard rockin' Rock-Steady.

So, sharpen your pencils and wit, set your thinking caps to a stylish B-boy slant upon your cranimum, send us your questions and comments on these and other issues, and let's get this institute of lower learning off to an erudite start!

fallettin me be mice elf

Today was they type of day that I wished would never end. I met a friend, ate a cheeseburger, and skateboarded through the wide, tidy streets of my old Toronto neighbourhoods. The sun was warm, the air was good, and my skateboard was perfectly broken-in beneath my feet. Garage sales were blossoming like late summer flowers, and stunt planes were soaring overhead in formation for the air show.

I know that people are suffering all over the world, and I wish that I really did have super powers so that I could rescue all the starving dogs from the roofs of the houses in New Orleans. I must be some sort of monster to feel so happy, but today my old soul felt good in its skin, and I was grateful to be alive, once again.

Super Power Registration Form

click to enlarge

This advertisement was discovered in the back of a 1993 comic book. Readers are encouraged to fill out the form if they, or someone they know, has super-human powers. The graphic at the top of the page depicts, amongst other known super heroes, the founding members of the Canadian super hero team Alpha Flight .

While the whole program seems innocuous enough, I object to the mandatory registration of people with super human powers. Obviously, such information could be put to ill use were public opinion to turn against those amongst us who are "different" or "special". I think this ad was placed in the back of a comic book to catch young super humans unawares, much in the way that narratives about good citizens turning in suspected communists were discretely planted in spy novels in the fifties to encourage such behaviour in the populace.

Even if I knew someone with super powers--and I'm not saying that I do--I wouldn't report them to the authorities. In this age of DNA research what's to stop some bio-corp from tracking down and abducting potentially "gifted" humans in a scramble to isolate and patent super-power genomes?

So, Fakiegrind advises any and all of our genetically para-normal readers out there; be wary of Department H!

Happy Birthday Mom!

Sweet Lethargy

Well, we're heading into a long week-end and I've run out of things to write about. I have a cold and haven't felt like skateboarding lately, and I haven't been out on any undercover temp-work missions either. The cats have been catching a lot of mice and shrews. Every night it seems I get woken up by a feline excitedly parading his latest catch through my room. At night, the crickets chirp in the grass, and by day the cicada are buzzing in the trees.

I've been reading sci-fi novels, relaxing with the cats in the back yard. Aliens and other worlds, space ships and pioneers; it's all so romantic. As I kid I lapped these tales up like literary ice cream, and I still like to pay a visit to the land of speculative fiction from time to time (isn't all fiction speculative? That's what makes it fiction!). I still believe that there must be other forms of life in the universe besides the earth-born variety, and sooner or later we are bound to cross paths with at least one of them.

Maybe they will be like E.T., maybe like the monsters from some bad movie, or maybe they will resemble toasters with octopus legs. Maybe they will appear to us as reflections of our own unrecognized selves. Perhaps we won't even notice them at first--heck, they could be here already!

Keep your eyes peeled this long week-end for anything unusual, and remember the lesson of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, that music is the universal language. If in doubt about how to greet a stranger from another world, just whistle or hum a cheerful ditty.


Alien Identification Chart

Out of the Blue

I was staindin' in the jungle
I was feelin' alright
I was wanderin' in the darkness
In the middle of the night
The moon began to shine
I saw a clearing ahead
But what's that goin' on
I think I'm out of my head

Chooka chooka hoo la ley
Looka looka koo la ley

A hundred animals were
Gathered round this night
And they were singin' out
A lovely song under
The pale moonlight

mmhmm, mmhmm

I stood and stared for quite a while
Then a lion sang to me and smiled
'Come and join us if you so desire

Chooka chooka hoo la ley
Looka looka koo la ley

I said now please explain
The meaning of this song you sing.

mmhmm, mmhmm

Wondrous is our great blue ship
That sails around the mighty sun
And joy to everyone that rides along.

Pretty soon I knew the tune
And we sat and sang under the moon
And the jungle rang
In joyful harmony

Wondrous is our great blue ship
That sails around the mighty sun
And joy to everyone that rides along.

--Jungle, Electric Light Orchestra

The seventies were the decade when the suffix "ing" was magically shortin'd. It was also the age of the rock opera and the concept album. Amongst the musical epics of this era, the great, juke-box shaped spaceship of ELO's Out of the Blue sits like a majestic monolith to the art of LP packaging.

You have two records, with lyrics on the inserts, a fold-out poster of the band, the spectacular inner sleeve graphic (pictured above), and a die-cut cardboard insert that can be assembled into a 3-D model of the ELO flying saucer; all of which I picked up for fifty cents at the thrift shop!

The songs are about journeys, adventures and visions. Someday, when the Fakiegrind sound system is no longer stationed in an unbearably moldy unfinished basement, I'll listen to the whole double album in one sitting. For now, I wanted to celebrate the funky rhythm and Jungle Book lyrics of the song cited above. Where would we be without the animals? Lonely, impoverished and on the brink of extinction, I think.

The plants and animals are our sage companions and fellow travelers on this spaceship Earth, even if we aren't always wise enough to listen to their language. They have as a native inheritance the knowledge of eternal life, an understanding that we too will share when we finally make our way, as Joni Mitchell foretells, back to the Garden.

We might tamper with genetic structures in laboratories in an attempt to bend creatures according to human needs, but our always incomplete knowledge will never be able to replace the wisdom that the earth has cultivated through slow eons, and deposited in the complex structures and relationships that support life on our planet. Let's hope and pray that we learn to respect and value our natural heritage before it is laid to waste by careless human shortsightedness.

Endtime Blues

With considerable difficulty, and no small risk to the Fakiegrind agents involved, we have managed to recover the Metallica, ...And Justice for All tape from the Adjuster's mountaintop survival bunker...Ok, more accurately, the cassette was mailed to us, already opened, with the following note attached:

Dear Fakiegrind;

Thank you for lending me this musical gem. I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty to break the seal, thus unleashing the unmitigated force of Justice upon the world, but the ensuing chaos has increased my Endtime Insurance business greatly.

With war, flood and famine mounting, more people than ever are convinced that the apocalypse is upon us, and are willing to buy into my policies in the hopes of securing a seat on one of my Escape Pods. Sure, you still have your fundamentalists, who are convinced that Jesus will carry them away to a better world after reducing this one to ash. But there are others, less certain about their eschatological standing, who would just as soon not risk it, and are hoping to leave planet Earth by other means--means that I claim to supply in the form of my pan-galactic Space Ark.

But I have said too much already. I hope you enjoy listening to the tape. Metallica's classical training really shines through on this one. I was particularly moved by the plight of the invalid war veteran in the song One.

Yours 'till the end,

The Adjuster

It seems that the Adjuster has outflanked us once again. But we would like to clarify the official Fakiegrind position on all matters otherworldly, in the hopes of staving off the madness that only fuels parasites like the Endtime Adjuster. Do not be fooled by apocalyptic scenarios that offer hopes of another world as an escape from the difficulties of this life!

We have it on good authority that the next world appears much the same as this one, and that what is wrought here is manifest there as well. In the Gospel of Thomas (a collection of sayings that some scholars believe to be akin to the original record of Jesus' words utilized in the construction of the canonical Gospels) Jesus himself says,

The Kingdom of Heaven is spread upon the earth, but men do not see it.

We at Fakiegrind believe that God really does love the world, and doesn't intend to see it destroyed, despite the environmental and political difficulties that seem to be mounting all around. Things may get a little rough, but hang tight. The Kingdom of Love shall be established here, on the sacred soil of Earth, where the Radiance of Eternity will reveal all beings to be holy, according to the particular genius of each.

Message in a Bauble

Where Are They Now?

I so liked Devo and Ninjas in my youth; what has become of them? The members of Devo make soundtracks for television shows, and the ninja are hyped by every manic children's TV cartoon, but understood by none. My childhood friends and I studied the ninja assiduously, though materials were scarce. Devo were mutant weirdo heros, to be admired without emulation. Maybe Devo were ninjas, and those strange, conical plastic hats they wore were actually a sophisticated and deadly projectile. Or maybe the secret ninja clans are replenishing their numbers as we speak, performing their ancient training rituals in mountaintop bunkers to a Best of Devo soundtrack...

The Devolutionary Oath Revisited

#4. "The Strong Shall Survive Yet The Unfit May Also Live"

#2. "Lay A Million Eggs Or Give Birth To One."

#5. "We Must Repeat."

Retirement of the Ninja

It's not so easy being an aging ninja. Sure, I can still walk over water, but last week while crossing Lake Guchiyami to assassinate the Counsellor of Nug, I tripped on a goldfish and sprained my ankle. I had to limp my way through the rest of the mission, but suffice it to say that the Counsellor won't be skimming profits from the Luin highway construction project any longer. I can still slip into a crowded banquet hall, dispatch my victim, and melt back into the night again before anyone even realizes what has happened. And I'll snatch a few sushi rolls for a snack on my way out.

I must say, the ninja diet doesn't do much for me. I've never really enjoyed the rice and vegetable regime, with a little raw steak or fish thrown in from time to time. And now my belly is starting to show; it hangs out ever so slightly when I turn invisible, like a phantom gut just suspended there, and all the other ninja have taken to calling me "Pots". Yes, the younger ninja laugh at me. I know they do. But let me see them do a double back flip off the pontoon bridge and land on a passing rice skiff while being pursued by a gang of deadly samurai. These days it's all poisonings and evasions, and nobody wants to get their gi dirty, or impersonate a demon possession to intimidate the townsfolk.

They say I've grown old and soft, but I don't see them hanging upside down from the Tree of Woe for three days straight just to prove that physical pain and deprivation mean nothing to a ninja. And that was on my vacation time, too, while everyone else was off in the capitol playing video games or whatever they do in this age of lawlessness and hedonism. No, it's not easy being an assassin for hire today. It used to be we bumped off corrupt officials and rival clansmen and other scum of the earth who tried to erode traditional values. Now it's all corporate jobs and character defamation--covering up for big money so as to avoid some costly lawsuit or other. Oh well, you take work where you can find it, I guess. I don't know what I'll do when the lawyers finally replace our kind. Will the ninja clan cease to exist, or will they keep one or two of us around as curiosities to entertain foreign investors with smoke and swordplay? PFFAT! I'd rather cut my own jugular than stoop to such antics.

I guess there's always the movies. But even there ninja seldom appear in anything more than peripheral roles; as hapless targets for the machine gun of some big American star with a phony accent. It's not like the eighties, when the ninja was respected in cinema. The royalties from Enter the Ninja alone kept my master clothed and fed to the end of his days. After that, he only took the occasional job, for the interest factor. Nowadays, having a ninja on the set is old hat; we're treated like common stuntmen. The indignity of it! I'd just as soon ingest my own nerve toxin than prostitute myself in such a manner.

Give me the political intrigue of the old clan wars, when loyalties could shift with the simple unfolding of a fan; when a falling cherry petal, improperly celebrated in a clumsy haiku, was enough to topple great, noble lineages. Bah! Those days are gone. To be replaced with what? Pokemon, palm pilots and affordable automobiles for the masses. Moving swift and silent as the wind means nothing to these people. I will mount an assault on all that is modern and easy! I will reinstate the ninja as a force to be reckoned with in this jaded epoch. Once again, the faceless warrior will be feared and respected, our names whispered quietly in shadow to avoid summoning our kind by a word carelessly spoken, and paid for in blood. Or maybe, on second thought, I'll just boil another one of these Ramen noodle packets. They're pretty tasty if you chop up some radishes and tofu, and add a bit of soya sauce.

Keepin' On

The only board Jamie will ride these days is a big, fat Gonz. He does feebles to fakie on the quarter-pipe they call "The Widow Maker". The sucker goes zero-to-vert in under five feet, and serves as canvas for the weekly graffiti report. Terry's ankle has repaired enough to make an appearance, and he works the lip like a pro. Then he moves the crowd by doing a frontisde nosepicker on the quarter-pipe barefoot, ushering in a new age of gorilla grip gnarl-itude. Oldschool shows up, and the crowds clear a path in anticipation of his massive attack upon the Beasley park infrastructure. The tricks he does should be compulsory learning for anyone aspiring to skaterliness, but most kids these days couldn't do a frontside air to save their souls. They cruise around with MP3 players stuffed in their ears, seemingly oblivious to annals of skateboard history that have conspired to make fronside noseslides, shove-it out possible. But all is as it should be. Everything old is still old, but glowing with all the radical dignity afforded by the tides of time that have washed these precious skateboard survivors up on the shores of present-day tomflippery. And you can see it all here in Steeltown, if you keep your eyes peeled like a couple of old potatoes from the bottom drawer of the fridge; the ones with the little green rootlets growing out of the side.

Beers, Cheers and Braziers

Working for the temp agency is like being a secret agent. The dispatcher tells you as little as possible about the nature of the job she is sending you on. Yesterday, I was told to wear black pants, black shoes and a white, yellow or red t-shirt, and to show up at The Stadium at four o'clock.

There is a certain amount of stress involved in not knowing what you will be asked to do, and it makes it difficult to plan ahead: should I bring a lunch? Will there be a place for me to stash a backpack? What time is the shift over? Even the rate of pay was a mystery for this one. When I arrived at the specified gate, I looked around for my contact, Isaac. He was nowhere to be found, so I sat down and waited. A large group of workers from my agency was gathering, and I talked to a few of them. It seemed that we were to be working as "beer runners".

Steeltown's football team, the Tigerhearts, has been on a seven game losing streak. I don't really follow football, hardly even know the rules, but it seemed like it would be an interesting gig. Eventually, Isaac arrived. Like many of the other people one saw busily walking around, he had one of those headsets with a microphone attached to it. He was very polite to everyone, apologizing for keeping us waiting. It was a strange thing to apologize for, since we were getting paid to wait, but it was nice.

My group of about thirty workers started following Isaac through the concession stands situated around the base of the stadium. At each beer or liquor kiosk, he would ask for one or two volunteers to remain and help. It felt like one of those scenes from the movies where the bigwig of some firm is being followed by a scrum of underlings. Isaac would veer left or right to say something to someone, and the whole mob of temp workers would follow, like a swarm of insects jostling for position.

I was wearing black dress shoes: not entirely comfortable for climbing around in the stands, so I worked my way to the head of the group. I wanted to work at one of the kiosks, rather than hoofing it in the bleachers. We passed booth after booth, and he kept picking other people. Finally, after covering the circumference of the stadium, we reached the last booth. "Anyone? Anyone? " Isaac asked. I jumped from out the mob, and was given the station. "Good luck," he said as he signed the yellow slip that I needed to hand back in at the agency for my pay. That was the last I saw of the fellow.

My kiosk sold beer: Budwiser or Bud Lite in two different sizes. We were flanked by two snack vendors, with two more beer booths within shouting distance. I was working with three other people, one of whom had just started there that day. For some reason, they had myself and the new girl up front working the cash, while the two veterans stood behind, pouring the beer into plastic cups. "It's the law: we have to decant," explained Michelle, who had just completed an online bartender course. I think the stadium was worried that if they served the beer in cans, disgruntled fans might start using them as projectiles.

I don't like working cash. I'm always second guessing myself and worrying that I've given out the wrong change. However, as we had only one product, after the first hour or so I got used to the calculations involved in making change from tens and twenties. Something of a rivalry existed between our kiosk and our neighbour. It seemed that the other booth always made more in tips and sales than our station. George, a fellow from P.E.I. who had worked there for a while, hypothesized that it was due to our being located between two concession stands, though I couldn't see the logic in this. Inspired by the loud-mouthed hot dog hawker who passed by every so often, I started calling out to customers: "Ice cold beer! Get your ice cold beer!" in an attempt to attract thirsty patrons.

At one point, a customer claimed that I shortchanged him ten dollars. He showed me a fold of bills, claiming that he had given me a twenty, when I had only given him change for a ten. I almost caved and gave him the money. However, I was told that if our booth was short at the end of the night, the difference would come out of the tips. I didn't want my other three coworkers to suffer for my mistake, so I held my ground. I might very well have given the wrong change, but decided to give myself the benefit of the doubt. Normally, I'm the guy to get suckered in such situations, so I felt good about my decision even if I was actually in the wrong.

As it turns out, the Tigerhearts won their first game of the season last night, though the score was close. It was also the 75th anniversary of the stadium, as I learned when a large birthday cake was carried past our booth on the way to some sort of ceremony. I had a pretty good time serving beer, making change and talking to the customers. At the end of the night, once the cash had been counted and some arcane calculations performed, we were about forty dollars short; so there was no way to tell whether I had really shortchanged the customer or not. I might have actually given too much change to some of the other patrons. I like to give away money to strangers, especially when it isn't my own. But it turns out we didn't have to pay for the deficit from the tip jar, and each of us walked away with twenty bucks extra or so.

I talked to one of the other temp workers who had been stationed in the stands as a beer hawker. She told me I had missed out, that she had made over a hundred dollars in tips. Apparently, the hawkers had to buy the special T-shirts they wore, and so twenty dollars was deducted from their pay. She also said that two of the temp workers couldn't take the stresses of the job, and had walked off half way through the game. This didn't surprise me, and I think that if I had had to climb through the stands carrying 48 beer around my neck, and dealing with drunken patrons for five hours, I would have likely walked away as well. As it is, I only had to deal with the customers who were sober enough to get out of their seats and make it down the stairs to the kiosks. The real yahoos were probably bombed out of their skulls, immobilized in the stands.

What did I gain from the evening for my troubles, besides a little pocket money and a complimentary hot dog? I faced and got over my fear of working cash and dealing with the public. So what if I came up a little short, or short-changed a customer or two? Our booth moved a lot of tall boys, and somebody even complimented us on our upbeat attitude and friendly manner. Walking home through the gritty east end, the road jammed full of honking cars with excited fans screaming out of the windows, I had the satisfied feeling of bringing yet another Fakiegrind covert investigation to satisfactory conclusion.

3000 Hits!

"Hey Betty, I was wondering if you wanted
to go to the sock-hop with me on Friday."

"Sorry Johnny. I'd love to go, but I'm staying home
and posting non-spam comments on Fakiegrind."

Butter Fingers

Today I worked eight hours, moving trays of homestyle pecan tarts from one conveyor belt onto another. In the morning I dropped several trays; first from ineptitude, then because of a couple of faulty cardboard inserts that couldn't hold the weight of the trays. Of course, the foreman was passing by just as I dropped them, and he told me that if they took the cost of the tarts out of my pay, I would have to work longer than eight hours just to cover it. Happily, I'm working for temp agency that pays me the same measly sum regardless of how many tarts I drop.

In the afternoon we ran out of cardboard inserts, thus changing the schematics of the job, and I only dropped six pastries. I estimate that I moved between twenty and thirty thousand tarts today, but it wasn't until just as before leaving that I asked one of the ladies the purpose of putting the tarts on a second conveyor belt. The extra process passes the tarts through a metal detector, to guard against foreign bodies in the mix, and lawsuits in the news. I hope I don't now have a radioactive butt from standing in front of the thing all day. So, bon appetite! You can thank me for making the baked goods aisle of your grocer that much more reassuring to frequent.

Stolen Moments

Skating shirtless at the Bease
Airing my gut in the breeze
Carve the graffiti
Grind the curb
Slightly stiff in the knees

Little kids tell me I'm good
Locals with 'tude from the hood
Should be out looking
For some kind of work
Instead I'm pushing the wood

Summers, once gone, don't return
Got some skate karma to burn
Bust a spinoza
Dance in the air
One with the earth as I turn

More Mold

Whilst attempting to air out some moldy boxes from the mildew-vault of the basement, I came across another cache of cartoons. Many of them feature a strange, skateboarding character named "Ventman" who wares a frightening mask and has an oddly mutated physiogomy.

Spin!

What I failed to mention in the previous post was that last night at the Bease, I naviagated a perfect spinoza on the little embankment skirting the pool. I did the G-turn-to-body varial part, then caught the board perfectly with the nose still suspended in the air, and just kind of hung there, balanced on my back wheels. It was a moment of suspension that seemed like an eternity, and it felt like the trick could go either way: I could pivot back into the slope and ride it out, or throw it in the wrong direction and bail. But after that endless, precarious moment, the board tipped back in--it was the moment steering it, not me--and I rode away with a big smile on my face.

The younger fellow with the fakie moves saw the trick and cheered, and it was this that inspired him to go for the gold with his fakiegrind-bigspin shenanigans.

Out-Fakied

All summer I've been working on a little move called the fakiegrind, 180 fakie shove-it out. I can land them on little curbs and such. Tonight at the Bease, however, a fellow busted out a 180-ollie-to-fakiegrind, bigspin out, and this was on the oversize box! I can hardly even do a boring old 50-50 on the oversize box. Ah, to be young again. But no, you can't go back, only fakie.

Stripper

I rotated the wheels on my skate today, to counteract the coning that occurs from doing kick-turns and such. The problem is--and all you closet freestylers out there will surely relate--the problem is, the axels of my trucks are ground down from doing rail stands (what the heck is a "rail stand"? --It's called a "Primo" these days!). Ok, my truck axels are ground down from doing Primos; not the super-gnar Primo slides, but rather the R2-D2, walk-on-the-board-on-it's-side-to-keep-my-balance-while-setting-up-a-railflip kind of thing.

So, when I went to put the bolt back onto one of my trucks, I stripped the sucker, and now it's at a precarious angle vis-a-vis my bearing casing. It's still holding tight, but I'm saddened that my axel will likely never be the same. Once it's gnarled beyond all threadability, one has no recourse but to replace the whole darn truck. And that's expensive. So I hope the bolt/axel hold on for at least a few more wheel rotations.

These trucks I'm riding--neon Tensors--are the best mounting devices I have ever experienced on a skateboard. I've always been an Indy man, until I won the Tensors in a magazine contest last year. And boy have I been enjoying them! Yessireebob, dem's some fine trucks. Yes indeed. Nice trucks. Yep.

So the other day I was on my way back from somewhere or other, and I stopped by the Bease to do a little sesh. I was all alone there, and the rain was just starting to come down, but I kept to my relatively dry, smooth patch to do a little flatland routine, when suddenly my neck started to tense up. I could feel someone's eyes drilling into me. I looked up and, sure enough, there was a fellow in shiny green track pants, the ones with the racing stripes down the side. He had no shirt on, and his belly kind of rolled a little bit over the waist of his pants. He was watching me from a ways off, under the cover of some trees, so I kept on skating for a bit, but I felt a little awkward about it.

Soon, the rain started pissing down. I would have just left, but my side-pouch-thingy was up under the trees, right behind where this fellow was loitering. So I went up there and retrieved my accoutrement. Being a considerate human being, I didn't just ignore the fellow, but echanged a few words. Common, predictable words as two strangers might be exptected to exchange. Our pleasantries soon came around to the weather, which was rapidly taking a turn for the worse. The rain had, in fact, suddenly started crashing down with a fury that was uncommon. I would even say it was spectacular. It fell just short of Kant's concept of the sublime. Were a tornado to have suddenly touched down upon the hydro transformer across the way, sending a cascade of sparks and flame into the surrounding foiliage, that would have been sublime. But I also wouldn't likely be here to write this account. So let us pause to thank the Great Artificer for staying His fury, or at least allocating it to a local more removed from where I happened to be stationed at that moment.

At any rate, I was stuck under a tree with this fellow, whom I could now see was drinking beer from a can. "Things are always better with a little beer to swish around a can," he said. I made a mental note to test out this theory, having rarely had the experience of drinking beer from a can, being more of a bottle man when it comes to such refreshments.

"I noticed you skating," he said. "You're like one of those seventies guys or something. You don't see that much 'round here."

I was curious to hear the effect my display had had on this stranger, who was obviously not unschooled in skaterly history.

"You looked like Stacey Peralta or something," he said.

I was taken aback. Stacey Peralta? The legendary 70's skatechamp-turned-industry magnate? It was flattering, really, to be party to such a comparison. "I guess I've got some of those oldschool moves," I said, the rain still pounding down.

"I used to skate here," the fellow said, "until life got all messed up." I was suddenly curious as to the manner of disaster that had befallen the chap. "There used to be some crazy shit that went down at this place."

And the man proceeded to describe a list of the crazy shit that the skaters of yor would perform at the very location that was currently experiencing a hose-down from mother nature. I was impressed by this window into the past, into a generation of Beasely skaters that I had never known. "But there's always the crazy stuff," the guy went on. "This is a bad neighbourhood. You hang around here long enough and you'll see what I mean."

I actaully frequent the park quite a bit, but my activities there are generally confined to skating until I'm tired, then going home. The fellow seemed a little demoralized to me, like he could use a good cheering up. But I was at a loss as to just what I might say to this effect. So I listened a little more to his stories; about the guy who could ollie over the iron fence, or another guy who would park his convertable and launch right over it, out of the bowl. And then I bid the fellow good day, and headed from the cover of the trees, out into the rain.

"You're leaving?" he asked, a little dejectedly.

"I gotta get to the grocery store," I explained. "Nice meeting you, though." I shook his hand and that was that. On my way to the store I got drenched, but I didn't really mind. It was a little like swimming, but with cloths on. In the grocery store I almost froze to death--they keep the air conditoner so low--but I picked up the commodities I required and headed back out into the rain, towards home.

Blog-stronomer

Blog light, blog bright
First blog I see tonight
I think I may, I think I might
Leave a comment out of spite

The Jerk

I'm still thinking about my confrontation with my neighbour. The fact that it's bothering me so much indicates that there must have been something to what she said to me. Sometimes, even unpleasant people can speak the truth, especially when they're drunk.

So maybe I am a jerk in some ways. I'm kind of a parasite in that I don't work. I pretty much hate the environment in which I live in that I no longer have a place for my stuff, or a quiet spot to reflect or listen to music. I stubbornly refuse to join the rest of the human race in the day-to-day struggle for existence. It's not really that I'm lazy. Maybe I just feel that I'm too good for working, that I have much better things to do with my time. But then, I don't have any money or space to do any of those much better things.

My neighbour may leave her dog's turds out to rot, but at least she pays the rent on the yard in which she leaves them. She works nights, and sometimes our renovations on the other half of the house keep her from sleeping during the day. She seems to have felt that it was her right to throw an all-nighter and keep us up for a change. I'm not sure if the rest of the neighbourhood would share her idea of entitlement, but I understand her feelings on the matter.

And the fact is, my cat hasn't been fixed, so he might very well be spraying her porch, hence evoking her harsh words against the beast. I don't have any money to take him to the vet, so it's my own slackerly attitude that makes my cat a nuisance. What it comes down to is that I need to make some money. I might be willing to put up with being broke, but I owe it to my cat to get him the professional attention he needs to curtail his spraying habit. But don't worry, avid Fakiefans; I won't let employment get in the way of blogging. Radio free Fakiegrind will continue to broadcast come what may, even if the jerk goes to work.

Mistaken Identity

Welcome to the new, somewhat improved Fakiegrind temporary title banner! If it looks a little crooked, it's because I'm running on almost zero sleep today. The tenants who rent out the front half of the house decided to have an all-night party last night. They were being pretty loud on the front porch, so at about one A.M. I went out and asked them to keep it down. This is a neighbourhood with lots of families, and I'm sure I was not the only one who was suffering.

The young woman who rents the place is strange. She has a pet dog--a large, energetic puppy--whom she rarely takes out for walks. Sometimes you can hear him barking for hours through the wall. She likes to leave his droppings on the front lawn, perhaps as some form of fertilizer or Daliesque decoration. We must constantly navigate past them to get to the gate leading to our section of the house. Ah, the smell of dog turds in the morning!

Last night on the porch, when I pointed out how loud the party was, this person insulted my cat, Tiger, and then called me an asshole! I don't like confrontations with people, so I've been thinking about it all day, wondering if I should have handled it differently. I'm a polite and non-aggressive sort of guy, and I don't think I said or did anything wrong in going over there. I shouldn't even be wasting time thinking about it.

The happy aspect of this story is that even though the north end has a reputation for being rough and dangerous, our neighbours are actually the best people you would want to meet. Incidents like last night are actually the exception to the rule around here. And if there's some sort of problem, people tend to band together and support one another.

Life must be so hard for some people, when everywhere they turn they run into assholes!

TV Star

Last night, while watching the television coverage of the 13th annual Beasley Skate Jam, I heard a funny joke:

Q: How many skateboarders does it take to change a light bulb?

A: Only one, but you need to give him about fifteen trys.

HAHAHAHA! O THAT'S RICH!

But seriously, the announcer for this TV special was way out in the stoke zone (or maybe the "toke" zone). It would be great if we could somehow stream the transmission for the enlightenment of the other four Fakiegrinders out there.

(I even make a cameo as a board chaser).

Night Skating

Full moon over factories
Streets empty and smooth
like the siver light

The Day After

Due to the lack of carnage, you might have already guessed that I fell asleep before the witching hour of midnight and failed to unleash the awesome power of Metallica's Justice. I had a strange dream, in which a skateboarding angel came to me and said that Justice, untempered by Mercy, was too potent a force for human consciousness to assimilate. She said I must take the unopened cassette to one of the three remaining Sam the Record Man locations and drop it in the Bottomless Bargain Bin of Remainder Tapes, where it will safely remain until the time of the Great Undulations is upon us.

I awoke much astounded by my vision, but was even more perplexed to find that the Metallica tape was missing. Thinking one of the cats must have knocked it off my desk, I searched high and low, but found only a single red paperclip...the calling card of my arch nemesis The Adjuster!

If the cassette has fallen into malevolent hands, I can only shudder to think what horrible days may be upon us as this genetic terrorist holds humanity hostage, twisting us according to his chaotic will. Be vigilant Fakiegrinders! We must regain this lost artifact before the unmentionable happens.

Countdown to Justice

Well, the time that nobody has been waiting for is quickly drawing nigh. In about two hours it will be twelve midnight, eastern daylight time, and Friday will be upon us. I received several bids for the Metallica ...And Justice for All unopened cassette tape, but none of them even came close to the minimum $50 000 (Can) reserve price. The Smithstonian was just on the horn, trying to hammer out a last minute firesale deal, but Fakiegrind declined. Due to the apocalyptic implications attending upon this item, we don't want it falling into the wrong hands. In just under two hours, if I can stay awake that long, I will be breaking the celo-wrap seal, thus unleashing unforetold devestation as the forces of unmitigated Justice sweep across the globe. The scene at the end of the Raiders of the Lost Ark with the melting Nazis will be small potatoes compared to the carnage that will unfold once I hit the "play" button and unleash the Hammett Power Chords of Doom.

We Love Feedback

Immortalize your non-spam comments on Fakiegrind.

The Truth is Out There

The documentary The Corporation is a critical examination of the role corporate entities play in shaping our world. One portion of this thought provoking film might be of particular interest to Fakiegrind readers.



Bovine Growth Hormone (BGH) is a synthetic substance that has been secretly injected to dairy cows to increase milk production. The hormone, apart from causing metabolic damage to cows injected with it, is a suspected carcinogen in humans. It was approved for use in the U.S. in 1993. In 1996 two award-winning journalists, Steve Wilson and Jane Akre, put together a story on the hormone for the Fox television network. Due to pressure from Monsanto, the company that produces the BGH product, Fox tried to suppress the information and refused to air the segment.

Wilson and Akre, who refused several offers from Fox to buy them out, were fired by the network in 1997 for their refusal to let the story go. In the various editorial reviews the reporter's work was put through, there were never found to be any factual errors in their reporting, and both sides of the story were well represented.

The journalists subsequently took Fox to court on a whistle-blower's charge, saying that they were fired by their employer because they refused to do something illegal, i.e. distort the facts of their investigation in revisions of the story they were required to make by their management. In August, 2000, Wilson and Akre won their case with a ruling stating that Fox "acted intentionally and deliberately to falsify or distort the plaintiffs' news reporting on BGH".

In 2003, Fox, and a group of other major television broadcasters, appealed the case and the ruling was reversed. Fox news claimed that the reversal was a vindication for the station. However, the decision was reached not because flaws were found in the journalists' story, but because the court ruled that it was not an illegal act to broadcast misinformation and distortions of truth on the news.

You can learn more about this story at Wilson and Akre's website.

While Europe and Canada have outlawed the use of BGH, U.S milk continues to contain the substance.

We expect this kind of thing to happen in big, bad U.S.A., but it would never fly in modest, self-satisfied Canada...right?

Endangered Movie Site

A fellow in France has started a petition to save the site of the creature cantina scene in the original Star Wars movie. He has managed to convince the government of Tunisia not to tear the building down, but still needs to sequester funds for the site's maintainance and the installation of a plaque.

If you would like to do your part to help save this piece of sci-fi movie history, click on the above link and add your handle to the list. (If you don't understand French, just click the link and let the Force guide you).

My Neighbourhood

I live in a modest brownstone in one of the larger north American urban centres. My buddy, Walrus Man, has webbed toes.




The kitchen ceiling is a little low, but Mr. Fantastic likes it just fine!




We rent out the upstairs room.




The short, green fellow at the corner store doesn't give refunds.




An unobtrusive ninja warrior gaurds the door.




Mostly, I just like to sit on the stoop with my friends.

Reminder

When a Man Lies He Murders
Some Part of the World
These Are the Pale Deaths Which
Men Miscall Their Lives
All this I Cannot Bear
to Witness Any Longer
Cannot the Kingdom of Salvation
Take Me Home?

Metallica, To Live is to Die

Just a freindly reminder that you only have two more days to place a bid for an UNOPENED CASSETTE of Metallica's ...And Justice for All. This is the last album the legendary band made before they were kidnapped by their record label and replaced with androids. Bidding starts at $50 000 (CAN), but you can own the item outright for a mere $96 000 (CAN). Simply make the cheque payable to Fakiegrind, care of the Internet, and place it under your keyboard. We'll send one of our Agents through the wires to pick it up.

Down Time

While skateboarding this summer, I repeatedly hyper-extended one of my big toes. This, in turn, pulled or tore a tendon on the instep of my foot that has been sore for months now. This is what the little sports doctor in my head says. The voodoo witch doctor in my head says I have an evil spirit trapped in my foot, and I should do a special dance every night before going to bed. He also says I need to find my animal spirit guide to lead me to the Healing Crystal Lake wherein the Submarine of Renewal will take me to the lost city of Atlantis and their famous Video Arcades of Endlessness.

I also have a sizable bump on my shin bone from where I bruised it at the Bease Skate Jam. At least that's what the little Flatlander in my head says. The Peyote Scarfing Wolfchild in my head says that the bump is caused by the evil spirit in my foot knocking his head against the inside of my leg. He suggests that I go on a vision quest to find a Computer that Floats on the Water, whereat I will begin the Blog to End all Blogging, bringing on the Great Tribulation where all Spam Commentators will be banished forever to the Outer Void and renegade internet journalists will unite to destroy the Red Beast of Br'aggglzzd definitively, forever.

Yesterday I tried to skateboard again on the sidewalk outside my house. I did two 360s, then spun right off the curb, at which point the board jumped up and cut a gash into my upper leg. It is now a long, raw patch flanked by bruised flesh, and I am reminded of the makeshift womb that Zeus cut into his thigh to house the prematurely born Dionysus. I am also reminded of the Tuan-taun that Han Solo sliced open to save Luke from freezing in the frigid wastes of Hoth; but, on second thought, I bear no resemblance to a Taun-taun. So I guess I am mostly reminded of Zeus. But then the little witch doctor in my head tells me to stop being rediculous--there is no way I am gestating any sort of divine being in my upper leg. Well, I supose he would know, but it's nice to fantasize.


Just a flesh womb.

Fakiegrind's Metallica Fundraiser Challenge

My friend found a box of tapes by the curbside--a veritable treasure trove of tunes--in amongst which was this factory-sealed Metallica cassette, ...And Justice for All. Released in 1988, this was Metallica's biggest selling record up to that time, with classic songs like Blackened and Harvester of Sorrow. I am more partial to the Ride the Lightning, Master of Puppets and Garage Days Re-revisited albums, and looked upon Justice as the point at which the masters of metal started repeating themselves. And yet, for some reason, the universe brought this pristine, unopened, unplayed copy of the album into my possession, so I've had it up on the shelf as an article of wonder for several weeks now.

The cover graphic is pretty gnarley, with a boob exposure on the part of the statue of Justice that pre-dates MAMERY ALERT Janet Jackson's slippage by about fifteen years.



Maybe I never gave ...And Justice for All a fair chance. I've certainly never owned a copy. Therefore, I'm going to wait until Friday before unwrapping this vintage casette and poping it in the Fakiegrind sound system. Unless, of course, some die-hard Metallica fan and/or Fakiegrind benefactor would like to pay $96 000 (Canadian) to own this rare piece of music history.

Four Brothers

Tonight the cat is curled in shadow on the kitchen floor, and the crickets are chirping over the catcalls of the noisy drunks across the street. I'm a little drunk myself, but more quiet about it, having polished off a bottle of my neighbour's hommade Portuegese wine while he and I chatted over the back fence. Without his shirt, I could see the long scar, with a cross at the top, bisecting my neighbour's chest, from the open heart surgery that saved his life when he was twelve. I played guitar a little for him, and he told me stories of crooked Catholic priests.

Then my housemate and I went for a walk through the placid north end of Steeltown, and I was appreciating anew the giant trees that have survived, here and there, in the neighbourhood. A few days ago, I heard an Irish botanist on the radio talk about the medicinal aerosol emissions of various indiginous trees, and made a mental note to plant Black Walnut someday, in my future yard, to ease asthma. Then my housemate pointed out that her autistic two-and-a-half year old son was a true North Ender, having been born here. She said that even if we moved out tomorrow, the neighbourhood would be imprinted on his young brain as the best thing in the world--his metaphorical template for heaven--from all of the walks I have taken him on through these tree studded streets.

This thought made me happy. Even though when I arrived here, in the middle of winter a few years ago, the area looked like a hostile alien planet to me, the simple charm of the place has grown on me since. Look for my neighbourhood in the recently released blockbuster movie Four Brothers. The house and street on which they shot much of this film is just blocks away. I never got to see Markie Mark, but I met a cute security guard who gave me all the info about the habits of the stars.

Members Only

Due to the recent onslaught of spam comments, I had to rig Fakiegrind to accept comments only from official Fakie Agents. This makes me sad, since I really enjoy the comments that trickled in from disparate regions of the web. We'll have to get our Fakiegrind programming specialists working on some anti-spam firewall strategies. Until then, practice writing Fakie comments on scraps of paper, bathroom walls, your partner's bum--anywhere that you think other people might read them, and we'll all just keep our eyes open as the Fakiegrind comments page hits the streets!

Sneaky Critters

Don't mistake this for an actual Fakiegrind posting. We're just trying to lure out some more spam commentary, to study and better understand the nature of the beast. We may or may not return to regularly scheduled blogumentary once this little matter is cleared up.

Post Spam Comments Here

Speed Bump

This past year-and-a-half has been a real skateboard adventure. It started with me being stranded on the west coast, skatin' a discount deck with drifting trucks, hanging out with the likes of Kill-Joy and playing his grandmother's version of gin rummy over a single cup of tea (one bag for two cups) which was all that we could afford at the local java joint. Then I took a three day, non-stop bus ride across two-thirds of this enormous country, and landed here in Steeltown in time for the twelfth annual Beasley Skate Jam; an event for which I had no skateboard, so I rolled around on a crub-side special until an old high school friend appeared and lent me his wheels for a run or two. Then I made it through the long Canadian winter and almost gave up all hope of skating again until a little voice through the internet encouraged me to clear off the local basketball court with a snow shovel and carve some lines to help thrash away the blues. Somewhere in-between now and then, I won a free Rodney Mullen skateboard and some shoes (which didn't fit), broke up with my girlfriend, got back together with my girlfriend (?), re-learned all my old tricks and then some, taught skateboard camp for a week, and made a fool of myself at the thirteenth annual Beasley Skateboard Jam.

Through all these adventures I had a heck of a lot of fun rolling around like a maniac (a cautious, calculating maniac, mind you), but now I'm a little tired from all that frenetic, kinetic activity. Every skateboarder gets old, sooner or later. Their ollies get a little less poppy, their kickflips have less kick, and their bonelesses become slightly more boney (in the arthritic sense). They start appreciating the more placid, rolling aspects of the sport over the technical, trick-busting side of skating, and perhaps they even start to feel a hankering for a touring-style longboard. For myself, riding the transitions and bowls of the various parks we visited during the week of skate camp gave me a taste of a kind of skating that was never very accessible to me in the heyday of the 80s, before skateparks started popping up every which way one turns. Carving the bowls is very pleasant, and perhaps slightly more gentle on the ol' fakieknees, providing you wear pads and don't wipe-out too often.

Yes, it's been fun freewheelin' around town, fakiegrinding through the days like a four-wheeled fiend of fury, but I think it's time for a little fakie vacation. Maybe eventually, when my knees feel better and the goose-eggs on my shins have healed, I'll graduate to a wider board, bigger wheels, and a smoother ride. Maybe I'll even do the Fakiegrind Canadian skatepark tour, as planned. If it ever comes about, I'll let you know. Till then, I might take a little blog hiatus. It's been fun bloggin' wit y'all, and our specially trained team of Fakie contributors have really made the site something special. Blogging is something like the old days of radio, when any fool with access to the proper technology could grab a wavelength and start broadcasting. And just like with radio, there is sure to be some sort of clamp-down eventually. Already, spam commentators have started infiltrating the free marketplace of ideas with their spamazoid spermospores. Soon you'll probably need some sort of license to freely express yourself online. 'Till then, I hope there are still some renegade bloggers out there to carry on the torch of dissension, expression and proper verb declension.

The Flatlander isn't one to pander to the Panda bear, mess around with anti-matter, or scatter women's underwear. He's just rocking it on to the break of dawn, keeping the beat strong and the orbits oblong. Tracking rebel satellites. Waiting 'till the morning light comes creeping over Steeltown streets. Looking out for new recruits and using tofu substitutes in place of certain meats. Like Rakim, his favourite dish is fish. In search of treats del-ish, why not wish for a knish?

Church bells tolling, I feel like bowling, my achy-breaky parts don't gather no mold. In thrift shops strolling, for beats I'm trolling, so keep it rolling, keep it fakie, and keep it old.

Two Turntables & a Microphone

Mr. Sore

Despite sunstroke, and the fact that I can barely move now, the 13th annual Beasely Skate Jam was a whole lot of fun. The oldschool division was moved ahead to today, so I actually got to enter. My run was crappy. I should have busted out some old, fun bonelesses and airs. Instead I attempted some freestyle moves and ended up looking like a dork. But the rest of the day was fantastic. There was a whole lot of amazing skating going on--and the only thing better than busting it out with a critical mass of other skateboard enthusiasts is doing the same, but to music. Oldschool hooked his I-pod up to an amp system and broadcast his specially tailored playlist while the events got run through: longboard, olschool, 18 and over, best trick out of the bowl, best trick on the box and quarter pipe, and the heated $400 game of SKATE. The whole thing was filmed and will be airing as a two hour special next friday on the local cable station.

There were so many cool tricks that got laid down. My favourites were a couple of 360 ollies. One guy did a nice one out of the bowl; it's amazing that you can spin around 360 degrees on a skateboard in mid air without grabbing it. Another fellow did this trick in the game of SKATE--on flatground--which was even more amazing to see. He did it a couple of times, just spinning through the air like a frisbee, and I thought he would take the prize on the strength of that trick alone. But the winner ended up being another fellow who seemingly had his board attached to his feet with little srings. He was brave enought to wear cords in the killer heat, and he walked away as winner of the 18 and over division too. It was a rockin' time: a real skateboard jamboree instead of the lame contest framework the industry tries to squeeze skateboarding into. Seeing as the whole thing is run by skaters, for skaters, using real, live skaters it makes it a very special and rare kind of event. Expected recovery time: one to two weeks.

Skate Jam!

This is it: day two of the 13th annual Beasely Park Skate Jam! I missed yesterday's proceedings, which included the oldschool, girls, 12 and under and longboard events; but today is when the big guns come out, and all the punks try to land the flip tricks that everybody else is also trying to land. I stopped by the park this morning on my bike. The local television station was already there with their van, and there were about three kids flopping around on the flat. In just a couple of hours, the small park will be stuffed full of skaterly dudes and dudettes from all over Ontario. The rap music will be blaring, the sun beating down, and the skaters will be getting radical! And I'll be there too, despite my broken foot and tired knees. Provided my wrists remain intact, I'll give you the full skinny later today.

Brought to You by the Letter F and the Number 0

I wish I had had a tape recorded last night when I woke up at about 3 AM to the sound of the neighbours across the street in all their drunken splendor. The place has about five appartments in it, and it doesn't seem to matter who moves in or out, they always end up being the loudest house on the street.

Last night they were partying hard. My brain was all cloudy when I woke up, and I thought I must have been dreaming as I tried to make sense of the drunken screeching that was broadcasting loud and clear through the open crack of my window.

Sometimes I wish that I could get drunk like that and wallow majestically in my own ignorance for the enjoyment of the entire neighbourhood. Not that it was really an enjoyable spectacle to witness, but there was a kind of sublime fascination about the whole scene. And of course, the liberally employed showcase adjective of the evening--the only really intelligible component of the entire discourse--started with the letter "f".

Long Shadows

Where has the summer gone? Cicadas are chirping in the trees and the tall grass is getting all nostalgic in the sunset. It seems like summer just began, and it's almost over. All the heat waves we've been having have kept us pent up inside, clutching our air conditioner units. I hope there is still time for some kind of Fakiegrind road trip before the summer of 05 is out. I had big plans for a Canadian skatepark tour video to be released some time next year, but I'm not sure the project will come together now.

Skated Out

I went to the Bease yesterday and skated around without any socks on. The reduction in weight made board manipulation easier, and I did a nice no-comply out of the bowl. It was mighty hot out, let me tell you. By the time I got home, my t-shirt had a higher salt content than the Dead Sea.

Repeated ankle sprains have pulled a muscle in my foot and it's not healing. I think I need to take some time off, despite the big Skate Jam this week-end. Being an unsponsored pro has it's plus sides: nobody calling me up for photo shoots at all hours, no demos to do with screaming kids, no pressure to learn handrails--I don't even have to skate if I don't want to.

I've been reading a book from the seventies about primal scream therapy. The main idea is that we carry around in our bodies all of the pain and trauma we experienced in childhood but were unable to deal with at that time. Until we face the experiences that caused the hurt in the first place we act it all out symbolically in the form of neurosis and physical ailment.

This idea puts a new light on the thousand and one aches and pains that plague me. I wonder if skateboarding itself is just a habit I latched on to to manage psychological trauma--in the same way that other people turn to drinking, drugs, overwork, or what have you. According to scream therapy, the path to liberation begins when one turns from the coping mechanims we have adopted and own up to the original hurts in our lives. In other words: feel the pain, baby.

Clone Zone

Logan 6, Steve Austin, Jamie Sommers, Obi Wan and Doctor Who all agree: The Island is one kick-ass sci-fi film.

Public Domain Revisited

Getting out of bed--I sleep on the floor, so it's more like picking myself up--was difficult this morning. In yesterday's heat I gave my legs a real work-out. Today it's strained muscles every which way I turn.

I've been watching the old Powell video "Public Domain" and realize that almost all of my tricks harken back to 1989. Mike Vallely does most of them in his sloppy but stylin' New York segment in this video: step-offs (now called "no comply"), fakie flips, 360 shoves and airwalks.

Ray Barbee's smooth footwork at the beginning of this film are one of my all-time favourite video parts. The opening segment of the four Powell amateurs cruising down the sidewalk doing crazy tricks signaled the birth of street skating as we know it today, and the legendary Craig Stecyk captured the moment brilliantly.

Then there are the mind-blowing, slow motion sequences of Mullen doing insane airwalk combos in front a fountain, on his tiny freestyle board.

Watching Mullen and the then-young Danny Way in this video made me realize that some people are just genetically gifted with superior reflexes and agility. In my time, I don't think I have practiced any less than the top pros, but I can never land such complex tricks with the seemingly effortless consistency that they muster.

Mike V's sloppy slouching towards radicality is more my style. In the short interviews with Tony Hawk and Rodney Mullen, arguably two of the best skaters in the world to this day, one is struck by another odd fact: they both come across as slightly nerdy.

Chimes of Freedom

I'm trying to make a mixed CD for a girl I met who works at a record store. I don't want to get involved in a relationship with her, but we've spent some time together, and she's an interesting person.

We went to a punk show together that brought back a lot of memories from adolescence for me. I was so dark and negative back then, and the music I listened to reflected these psychological tendencies.

I've spent the evening searching for songs that have the punk sound without the nihilistic despair that often accompanies this kind of music. A certain sense of humor partially redeems many of these songs, but some of them were still difficult to listen to. Songs like "Fade to Black" by Metallica reminded me of just how depressed I was growing up.

But I have stumbled upon a cover version of Dylan's "Chimes of Freedom" that might make it into the mix. I used to know all the lyrics to this song. The images of the "city's blasted furnace" and the sheets of lightning are fitting for the current summer weather, and I like the closing lines that end with the chimes of freedom sounding for "every hung-up person in the whole wide universe".

I guess that could include just about everybody.

Wimperless Bang

Return of the sweltering heat. Elder skatesman sets fire to the street. Kid on bike counts the times I fall: four. Gnar levels rising, watching skate vids of yor. Study foot placement. Practice beats in the basement. In summer time riding the lines like Tarzan in the vines. Steeped in illusion, deep confusion unwinds. Scatter the zombie mob with words to lob like granades of thought. Inspiration--a neglected station between one and zero. Worship of heros: a human predilection. Point your nose in a random direction. The compass moves and I go through shoes, looking for ankle protection. Heel of Achilies. Some people eat chiles for fun and profit. Hand me a hat and I'll doff it at the first person who happens by because God is everywhere, like an echoing cry.

Countdown to Gnar

After a couple days of R&R my muscles are somewhat recovered from five straight days of skateboarding last week. Riding bowls and ramps utilizes different muscles from the flatlanding to which I am accustomed, but I think I could get used to it if there were a facility available. The Steeltown skatepark likely won't get built for another year, if they can even settle upon a location for the place.

Today I think I'll go out skating. The Bease skatejam/contest is next week, and I want to keep in shape for this event. Last year I attended but I didn't have a board, so I ended up riding an old discount beast that I found in the garbage. The thing hardly rolled, and there were a very limited number of tricks you could do on it. But diehard skaters know that even a popsicle stick on wheels is better than having nothing to ride at all, so we make do.

This year, however, I'm in good shape. By next week, barring any anomalous board destruction, my deck should be in the perfect state of broken-inedness for the skatejam. I guess I'll enter the oldschool division, and maybe the 18 and over. I might have a shot at the highest flatground ollie as well, if there is such an event.

Yadda Yadda

Blah Blah Blah Skateboarding Story Blah Blah Spiritual Grandstanding Blah Blah Blah Half-Baked Philosophical Speculation Blah Blah Rap Song Blah Blah Blah Guest Contributor Blah Blah Unintelligible Cartoon Blah Blah Blah Sporadic Commentary Blah Blah Irony Blah Blah Blah Remorseful Personal Confession Blah Blah Blah Lighthearted Observations Blah Blah Blah Insomnia Due To Perpetual Voiceover Blah Blah Blah Complaining About Steeltown Or The Weather Blah Blah Jokes About The Aging Process Blah Blah Blah Subliminal Christian Propoganda Blah Blah Blah Renegade Koans Blah Blah Blah Message-less Bottle Blah Blah Blah Voted Best Blog Of 2005 By NASA (North American Skateblog Association) Blah Blah Blah Running Out Of Desire To Expose Self To Multitudes Online Blah Blah Blah Blah Don't Leave A Comment Saying "Blah" Blah.

Return to Bladzig Revisited

Not entirely surprisingly, last week's Return to Bladzig Challenge! Challenge! got absolutely no responses. Not one brave soul stepped forward to supply a punchline to the two cryptic pannels of Blikdom. Maybe we need better prizes; appearing on the Fakiegrind comments page just isn't enough for some people. Even though you don't deserve it, here is the complete cartoon in all its puzzling glory.

Dog(town) Days

Skate camp finished up yesterday without any major incidents. One of the instructors, Terry, rolled his ankle, but still did some skating. We went to Niagara Falls, where they have just installed a new skate park. The place is in a new development, surrounded by dirt and boulders and very little else. We had about a fifteen minute walk to the nearest gas station to fill water bottles and buy snacks. With the sun beating down and the wasteland all around, it felt like we were out in the desert.

The park was pretty nice. Some of the Bease locals drove down and were skating with us. It's hard to skate in the morning, and I was tired from the other four days of shredding. I think I hit my peak on Wednesday afternoon, surrounded by the fertile farmland and mud at the little Milton skate park. On Thursday and Friday we hit some larger parks, and I was too worn out to try anything major. I discovered that I enjoy carving bowls. Without pads I don't try any lip tricks, but I love surfing the walls. At night, in bed, I could still feel the undulating motions of riding the transitions, like phantom gravity waves breaking in my skull.

I think the kids had a really great time, and one of the instructors told me that I did a good job inspiring them to skate and getting some of the more difficult kids to participate. It's not that hard to get kids enthusiatic about skateboarding; all you need is a little patience and a can of powdered Gatoraide. So far, the skate camp has been the highlight of my summer, and it really didn't feel like work at all. Next week is the thirteenth annual Beasley Skate Jam: a two day, homegrown skate-out that is like a big neighbourhood block party. People come from all over Ontario to bust it out. This year I should actually have my own skateboard to ride, unless I somehow break mine in the next week.

Skate Camp: Days 3 & 4

The camp is going well, but I'm so tired from all the physical activity that it's all I can do to stay awake right now. Yesterday morning it rained, so we stayed indoors and skated the dry arena at the recreation centre. The surface was incredibly smooth, like skating on ice--a flatlander's paradise. Everyone was going around in a circle as if it were a big roller rink, with perhaps a little more chaos than one usually finds in such places.

Yesterday afternoon, the weather cleared, so we went to an outdoor park that I found to be a lot of fun. On the way back, the noise in the bus was deafening. The kid sitting next to me decided to take a tour of the floor of the bus, and he resurfaced with may trophies: gum, pennies, life savers and a drinking straw, all stuck to his T-shirt as if it were some kind of modern art canvas.

Today we had great weather: sunny and cool. We went to a large park in Mississauga where the Zed team had a good time "riding the lines" as Spade-zz likes to say. Just like a little kid, I spent my bus money on ice cream, so after returning with the others to the rec centre, I ended up skating back downtown with one of the other instructors. He's a really good skater, and thought nothing about navigating the giant hill that links upper and lower Steeltown. He just jumped off the sidewalk and into one of the traffic lanes and sped down the hill while the cars whizzed by beside him.

I was much too frightened to take the hill, so I walked it until the very bottom, where a stoplight gave me the run of the road for a few moments. Part of my brain says that I could have done the hill, if only I hadn't been such a chicken, but the other part of my brain knows that I could have also easily gotten killed trying, and thrills like that just aren't my cup of tea. Still, it was impressive to see the other instructor do it, and I think he was pretty much in control the whole time, while I would have been flying by the seat of my pants.