Well, Diary, I've been given the strong-arm. Management has come down
hard on me. I have been strapped to my chair at the library, and forced
to produce fresh, enlightening content for the website.
You see, after not so wisely volunteering to contribute to said site, I
find myself with an action item list resembling something not entirely
unlike John Tomac's race resume - long and redundant. Clysdale has issued
strict orders to devote all of my time to the chronicles of cycling. Little
does Fat Bastard know what I do in my spare time.
I have something to confess, Diary. I have been searching the web for Exotica...
that's with an "X". Martin Denny, Si Zetner, Les Baxter, all the greats. There's
something about the vibraphone that makes my blood run hot. The lush lyricism of
primitive Island tunes, heady sensuality of smoky jazz, exotic drumming of Bali - I
take my kitsch very seriously.
Although I have a soft spot for the hard-edged pop and punk that backs the stunts in
the better free-ride movies, I definitely feel in the flow when the sultry and swank
is playing on the cerebral Hi-Fi. I dream of secretly slipping an Esquivel CD
into the player at Rye Airfield.
It's lonely at the fringe.
There has been much a-buzz pertaining to my unconventional way of meeting new people
at Rye Airfield. It is, indeed, referring to the unlucky lady who was, most
unfortunately, situated in the very spot my substantial girth was descending upon.
In between siezures she quite genuinely weezed her acceptance of my apology. Tough
woman, that one.
There is something to be said about the increasing numbers of female free-riders.
"Bloody brilliant!" There, I said it.
Team 420 has been a tour de force on the website as well as at Rye and on the
trails. Their "stash" of stunts proved to be quite impressive, as are their
riding abilities. Although, that "Glennder" boy still eludes me.
The accounts of Team 420's video release party were very thumbs up! It seems more
than the number expected showed up for the movie, brews, and swag.
His Majesty Fat Bastard has levied a wager that I cannot clear the coping in
the super-pipe at Rye Airfield. I truly believe it is in direct retaliation for
trying to convert him and Le Dude Extreme to the ways of the Lounge at the Tweaky
Bar in Portsmouth. I almost had him singing the chorus to "Hawaii Tattoo".
I feel guilty for missing the Turkey Burner at FOMBA Friday. I had no excuse, Diary.
I blamed the cold and snow. Of course, nobody else seemed to mind. From all reports
it was a great success.
Well, tome, I think it is indeed time for another martini party. The urge to try on
my dinner jacket has been haunting me. That fantasy of recreating the party scene
from Breakfast at Tiffany's replays more frequently.
I can here the bossa nova drowned out by the delightful screams of revelers wielding
high-balls, and can taste the vodka-soaked olives. Some of our riding friends most
definitely fill out cocktail dresses as well as they fill out spandex shorts.
There is something about a martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow martini;
I wish I had one at present.
There is something about a martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth --
I think that perhaps it's the gin.
A Drink With Something In It
- Ogden Nash
Most quenching.
