My bike is locked to a pole across town, I pray it's still there, I'm sorry bike (I have yet to name you, waiting for inspiration). I'm sure I'll be back in your saddle soon, but at the moment I'm very fortunate to have use of a car, a cream-colored Acura named Roxy, with tinted-just-enough windows, I'm holding auditions for a posse, we'll scream at the top our lungs the song I'm writing for the Beastie Boys, "Check Your Email."
I parked it on a hill in Echo Park before heading into a house that I sometimes imagine is like the one I'll live in one day — with bright patches of art, animal prints, art books, and Oscars screeners. And gilded Nike high-tops. And a leather wall phone. And Elvis sheets. And two beautiful outdoor areas littered with sunlight and Birds of Paradise and cordless phones.
So I was sitting in the driver's seat and I spotted a skunk just milling about by this fence, right in the daylight. And right after that I saw a Dalmatian. Ah, my black-and-white-furred brethren. What would happen if you bred? Could you? Would you? We could have a Skulmation Nation! And get our own line of skateboards! Because that would be a good name for a line of skateboards.
P.S. Click on that photo
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