That first evening in middle August, where the air is just a touch crisper and cooler, and the sunlight slants in from an angle just a couple more degrees acute, always reminds me of this song and, specifically, this video. The brief sequence from .56 to .59 always made me wanna get a drum set, pack it out to some glen somewhere, and whale on the things as the moon came up and the critters came out. Yeah – weird, but I was 16 at the time. Weirder is that I still get that. And how could I not? It’s a great image – breath coalescing with air as the moon sits high in the ink of the night. So good. The best stuff goes down when the sun does. We all know this.
Anyway – a great song for any season, but especially one for the onset of Autumn, when you take a look around and go, ‘Is this really what I want to be doing? What’s the plan? What’s the point? Where does that highway lead to? This is not my beautiful house, this is not my beautiful wife!’
I think its a hallmark ingrained from that collective experience where we all used to head back to school every September. When you’re there, it sure sucks, but years later you might look back and actually miss the simplicity and the ease of it all. You just went to school. Now? Betterment is in your own hands. No one is going to make you learn something new, or motivate you to run some laps, or read an extra chapter.
We’re now each our own blame for lost chances or that gradual slide to ‘not bad’. There’s a weight in that and a responsibility. But also a pretty tremendous opportunity, even if it’s not the easiest thing in the world to take action about.
So, yeah, Talk Talk. The vid is disabled for embedding, but a click away. And worth it.
Said Jamie, after soccer, when we were driving up and down 4th Ave in Kitsilano, dodging the elderly and infirm, as well as flocks of families with buggies of children, while looking for a place to park my freaking land-yacht Subaru wagon. It was tense. I had missed a couple of juicy spots and Jamie was getting grouchy, hilariously.
“This is embarrassing.”
But, in the end, it all worked out o.k. We parked. No people got run over. We bought beer. And, previously, my knees held up, both of them. I made a couple of decent – and quite polite – tackles, and also tactfully refrained from sweeping my right leg, scythe-like, through the 3-foot tall midget guy that came out to play. I thought that was decent of me. One ballsy fellow though, that’s for sure, so hats off to him to getting stuck in.
Will there be more soccer in the future? There might. There just might.
What is zing? Well, an old courier buddy, who stuck with the skinny tires and didnt venture off to play soccer like I did, used to always use the word ‘zing’ to describe riding his bike.
This guy, a 7 year bike messenger vet, CAT 2 roadie extraordinaire, and a former Alberta Provincial Road Race Champ, would do this thing to animate any story about messengering or riding.
He would hold his fists out in front of him, the bottoms parallel to the floor with the backs of his hands outward, and a slight 3 degree bend to his wrists, like he was holding the hoods of a road bike, and he’d rock his hands back and forth and go ‘zing-zing-zing-zing-zing’ to describe the sound of pedaling. He also kind of rocked his shoulders a bit. It was him, or this other courier I worked with, rode with, and raced the local Tuesday Night Crit scene with, long lost Big-Bri Blakely, that pioneered this around 12 years ago, and anyway, I always remembered it and imitated it myself for awhile.
So that’s ZING. Get yours on. I’m bringing it back.
Read these words:
Now Tom said; “Mom, wherever there’s a cop beatin’ a guy
Wherever a hungry new born baby cries
Where there’s a fight ‘gainst the blood and hatred in the air
Look for me mom I’ll be there
Wherever there’s somebody fightin’ for a place to stand
Or decent job or a helpin’ hand
Wherever somebody’s strugglin’ to be free
Look in their eyes mom you’ll see me.”
Holllleeeee hell that is just gorgeous.
I walk and reminisce. I’m transported, seven years old again. I’m jumping in puddles with my brother. We are laughing and wet, saving worms to the grass, the hand of God unlikely to the task but our own small hands eager to it. Popsicle stick boats jostle each other on their way down the gutter, prevented from the sewer by the eroding damn we have pushed together from branches and leaves. There is the sound of cars zooming in the distance and the pitter-patter of the rain on the nylon hood over my head.
A booming thunderclap brings me back to the present and I turn my face to the wind and welcome its wet. Good for the farmers, the thought tugging a reluctant smile from the corner of my mouth, but brutal for the homeless, as I step over a man sprawled under the awning, his legs akimbo and soaked. Two bucks go into his cup to maybe buy him some warmth, if not dryness. The smile on my lips spreads to the other corner of my mouth as I half grimace and reflect – that guy probably was a farmer. A shake of the head and I keep walking.