Ring of Fire

Here’s one for the books.

So I hike up to my mountain cabin with my good friend Jessica last night. We both were happy to get away from the rat race for a day, and were looking forward to a night out in Dream Canyon. After running up and down the stream, and exploring bits and pieces of the property, we decided to settle in for the night. Struck with a bit of post supper munchies, we grabbed a pack of Ritz Southwestern Chips and started chowing down. A few minutes later, as we were sitting and talking in the loft, we both were struck by a strong burning sensation on our lips. Out of no where, Jessica suddenly screamed and grabbed her face with her hands. Something from the chips had gotten in her eyes. She started to freak out, and tried desperately to grope for the ladder leading down from the loft. I was taken aback by her hysterics, but helped her get outside and pour water into her eyes. She continued, for a good twenty minutes, to cry and scream and grab her face. I didn’t understand why she was freaking out the way she was and didn’t know what to do.

About fifteen minutes later, after things had calmed down, I too suddenly started to notice a burning sensation on my hands, my face, and in my eyes. I felt, almost instantly, that someone had hit me in the face with a bat. I suddenly lost my vision, couldn’t open my eyes because of the searing blinding pain, and grasped desperately trying to find my way outside. For twenty minutes, I poured over a gallon of water in my eyes. I literally was unable to see, and was panting from shortness of breath. The pain calmed down a bit, and we both sat back wondering what the hell had just happened. But before long, another round hit us and we ran outside again. This second burn was even worse from the first, and we both were incapacitated.

Finally, after a good 30 minutes, we decided to try and drive home and get in the shower. Waiting until I could see somewhat properly, we got in the car and whisked our asses back into Boulder. Parts of our body – our faces, hands, arms – continued to burn. Anywhere my hands had made contact with my skin started to turn red and swell up. When I got in the shower, the oil or whatever the substance was continued to spread and I fought another fitful round of burning and pain.

So yeah, true story. I woke up this morning with a nasty headache and parts of my body stilled burned. I have no idea what was in those chips, but it was certainly something beyond your everyday pepper. I wrote the company a quick email explaining our reaction to their product. Hopefully they will look into the matter. I can’t begin to imagine how a child would respond to this material.

And really, while I’m on the subject…

I swear to god, something is in the air this week. I got rejected by graduate school, got ousted by my soulless boss in trying to get Rockies tickets, and got seared and burned by a bag of chips. I’m starting to think that maybe I shouldn’t go outside.

Devil Chips -- "They're to die for!"

Whiplash

So wow. Yeah. Happy day. I just found out that my application to graduate school was rejected. After dropping a thousand in cash, and working my ass off for the last three months, all of my efforts were for not. I was stunned when I read the email today. I didn’t know what to think. I grabbed the phone and called the admissions director, and she proceeded to look through my materials. Oh, yes, she said, you have a much higher GPA than our other applicants. Oh, yes, your résumé looks nice with good recommendation letters. But, you are about 10 points short on your entrance exam score. Ten points. Ten points. If I had gotten like two more questions right, that would equal ten points. I mean, I knew that my GMAT score wasn’t stellar. I scored almost perfect on the essays, and high in verbal, but the math was for shit. That’s what happens when you ignore the subject for a decade. But still, yeah a low score, I still thought my other materials would balance it out. You know, the whole Magna Cum Laude bit, and top of the class thing. I was wrong.

So now. Now what. My plans are scattered. I could take the GMAT again, could reapply in April, but do I have the cash, the patience? I am going to Brazil, this I know, but minus the structure? Without school. I am already second guessing this whole business thing. An mba is quite useful in the corporate world, but will I ever go corporate. Is it more practical to learn this knowledge on my own, to apply my energies toward a money making enterprise, instead of dropping 3 years and 50 grand.

I don’t know. This one fucking hurt. Time to reevaluate. I’m so confused.

A Cold and Quiet Day

Not much to say here. Not today. Just enjoying the
quiet of the first snowy day. Been stuck inside
watching movies, working on my next tattoo,
relishing the energy storage of all things sedentary.
Many announcements coming soon. Michy trip, move
to Brazil, all of it. And until then, here are some random
pics from my central hub.

Scruffy Me.

Somehow, me and J trying to be socially potent with ab shots and obscene gestures.

Not sure how you made it onto my blog Lisa.

Gotcha Steph. (Yes, I realize I am not supplying context)

Sophistication. Wine, Europe, and Me.

Happy 80th gramps!!!!

Eric. Yeah. You too. Somehow slid into the blog. Don't we feel proud.

Summing it Up

Work......GMAT......Work.......GMAT......Essay
....GMAT....Work....BOO!

But who needs fun or sanity anyway. I mean really.

Eurolicious

Europe is old. Europe is a place full of layers and full of people. It is a rat maze of contrasting nationalities, born from the sweat of mediation, the ding of hammer and broadsword. During the summer season, it is a place swarming with tourists—at a glance wayfarer’s looking for the new and fresh piled on the old. From the stolen Egyptian monoliths of a Roman square, to the shiny steel glass fortresses of the post war city, it is a place worthy of wander, easy glances on hard stone, and reverent…restless…study.

My inner circle of dad, mom, and two brothers spent the last two weeks in this place of places. Now, upon my return, with graduate entrance exams now looming, I am hard pressed for time. Guilt reduces my free moments to a smoking pile of rubble, as all leisurely activities diminish into study.

As I adopt the creed “I cram therefore I am” (wow that’s terribly corny), this entry will have to follow the minimal labor clause (less words more pictures). So here then is a snippet of my trip, told through film, a thousand words packed into few, of heart and mind and all the rest.

* * *

Putt putting around in our lil' villa da Charmey

The family gathers to celebrate my grand parent's 80th birthdays.
All manner of nationalities are represented. French, Dutch, Portuguese,
and English--all battered around like the table helpings.

The secret to the magnificence of Swiss chocolate
and cream? Flowers. We pamper our high alpine cows
with fresh greenery and many of these little pretties.

The final product is a milk rich with taste, a real
taste bonanza reproduced by no other.

Consuming the consumables. A little smile pre-mealtime.

My god the beauty. What inspiration a hike through the Swiss
Alps can bring.

Small town Swiss German cemetery just a few miles
up the road from our village.The grave markers were all hand
carved and were designed to communicate the profession/hobby
of the deceased. Twas quite a beautiful patchwork of local color.

Jumped out to Scion for lunch with friends who
were staying at this mountain chalet, a deceivingly old structure
that dated back to the 1600's. Every piece and plank
of the house was hand wrought, and luminous with age.

I can honestly say I ate the most delicious tomatoes of my
life for lunch. There's something about good food and wine
which vaults one most contentedly into a little
explorative craziness.

My dad. Upside down cake.

My lovely white European family.

Even the second time around, Prague was freakin' awesome.
The city is cheap ($1.20 1000ml beers!) even during the
high season. A monument to what Europe would look like
if not for World War I & II, the city boasts an astonishing
array of medieval and renaissance structures. Shem and I
happened to stumble on a Tai massage place near the end of
our stay. I can honestly say there are few things more
stimulating than having a little Tai women crack my
bones and rub me down with oil. Much recommended
if anyone hasn't tried it.

This is the old Jewish cemetery in the Jewish Quarter.
Many of the headstones, allwritten in Hebrew, date back
to the 1200's. It is said that in most areas of the cemetery,
bodies are buried 12 deep.

Charles Bridge, Prague, Night Crawl.

Much of Europe consisted of meeting fellow hostelites
and breaking out into the city. Apparentlty, the sun never sets

on badass.

Ah yes, and maps. Walking. And lots of maps.

In my opinion the St. Vitus cathedral in Prague is one of
the most stunning churches in all of Europe. It took over
six centuries to build and exhibits the very pinnacle of my favored
Gothic style. Truly, words cannot describe.

Tower view.

When in Rome, do as the Leo's do. This includes walking
around for hours in the oppressive summer heat, eating
ridiculous amounts of pizza, and staring oh so lovingly at
the beautiful olive skinned women. Maybe throw in a few
unofficial pub crawls, hanging out with some Aussies, an Indian girl,
and hordes of roaming brits. All so much fun.

The Parthenon. Incredibly well preserved.

To drink and to think. Hard won glories at the Alessandro bar.

Some day companions.

And then there was Ireland and lots of Guinness. Frothy,
thick, and milky smooth. With a dash of danger of course.
Somehow we managed to land in podank Ireland, one
of the most notoriously criminal of cities, known as
Limerick or "stab city", because of all the knife fights.
I mostly ran into alcoholics, and a surprising amount of
unattractive overweight people. But what the hoo,
the beer was good.

Did I mention they have good beer.

This ends the dinner theater with Eurolicioius.
I hope you have enjoyed our little journey.

Ghostly Visitation

I had a bit of an unwelcome visitor last night, as I lay tossing in turning in my bed. Hit the hay around 10:30, falling asleep rather quickly despite the oppressive heat. Perhaps it was the pre-dusk movie premier of Anne Rice's Interview with the Vampire that did it. The movie is a wash of dark and dramatic imagery, and tends to fill one's head with similar fictions.

Around midnight, I woke up dreary and disoriented by a sharp rapping at my door. Pulling my head off the mattress, I peered groggily towards the sound, watching to my confusion someone come in my room and sit at the chair by my desk. I couldn't see who it was, the figure appeared as a white haze in the darkness. I remember feeling no fear, thinking that it was my roommate Jeff wanting to use my computer.

Slightly annoyed by the intrusion I mumbled a rough and sleepy, "And who might you be?", as I slowly climbed out of bed--heading towards the light switch. There was no reply, and the seconds seemed to crawl, as I stumbled around in the dark.

Just as my fingers found the switch, the figure turned it's head and looked at me. And it was then that it suddenly dawned on me that this....thing was not my roommate. Feeling the tendrils of fear start to consume me, I hastily grabbed the switch and flipped it on. To my utter horror, no one sat in the chair at the far end of my bed. The figure that, but a moment before, was staring at me with greedy eyes, all but vanished.

I got up, stupefied and amazed, and went up stairs to tell one of my roommates. Slightly raddled, I realized that it was past midnight and that everyone in the house was asleep. Reluctantly, I returned to my bed downstairs and tried fitfully to get some shuteye--feeling all the while that I was being watched by someone...something.

Could of been the heat, a trick of the mind perhaps, but either way it freaked me the hell out.

A Little Change In The Air

Inside you may hear it, that earthly drawl, a weightless noise of space being filled, the din of leaf hitting leaf on a summer breeze. In its unseen complexity, a myriad of spirals crashing through the air, a dandelion seed will move. Birthed into the sky off its perch, it dances, stirs, brimming with the possibility of its newfound life as it sails through the air.

It is on this wind that the promise of change is fulfilled. Old hard won familiarities die off, leaving room for the green of a new season, and the sowing of a fresh and brilliant pasture.

* * *

I remember when I first came to Colorado, I wanted an escape from structure. I was a good seven months out of school at that point, a good seven months away from early morning classes, lengthy history exams, and the strict bureaucratic obstacle course of higher education. After four plus years of being in the system, it was nice to get out and breathe a little fresh air.

Brazil was a bit of that. Colorado, even more so. Landing in my little mountain town, I wanted to create that which alluded my not so single self in college—a rich and expansive social scene, with friends and parties, and parties and friends. An endless parade of human connectivity.

Well. With a few smiles, and trials, and shaking of hands, this was accomplished. My circle of self-affirming popularity has grown, extending ever deeper into the tendrils of Capoeira, motorcycle groups, Latin panoramas, work friends, dance friends, and so on. New people and new faces continue to announce themselves, rapping on the door like old “visitors, well wishers, or distant relations”.

All and all, this thick and diverse environment has kept me happy. I enjoy the company of others and love to play Caesar in my own little Rome. But as time progresses, I begin to pang for other things. The type A side of my personality continues to show its face, and the ever so meaningful job of delivering groceries can only keep a Caesar smiling for so long. While I certainly have filled my time here with many fun and interesting experiences, it has begun to feel like not enough. While my social world is off the charts my professional energies remain unused and wasted. I find myself trapped in a small little box, an underling foot snare with little chance of an occupational future. Despite my efforts to use my degree, working for the National Trust, and the local museum, few steps forward have been taken. This leaves me with chalk in hand finally ready to draft a new plan, and take a proactive stance on furthering my education.

So back to structure it is. Being in the “real world” outside of academia, I have come to realize a few important things about myself and the format of it all. First, I have come to realize that I, above all else, am a true dabbler. I enjoy the diversity of the human condition, loving to touch and play with many things in my field of vision. Focusing on one thing – be it a hobby, a place, an activity – is just not my style. While I think that I am settling down a bit with age, I still prefer to grab hold of something, study it, then move on to the next thing.

This has led me to the conclusion that, if I was to return to school, I should study something that opens the range of my vocational possibilities rather than defining and therefore limiting them. If I was to go back to school for anthropology, for example, I would be in essence digging in. I would be spending lots of money on an education that only provides a handful of directions for me to head into. The box would be too small and so to my entrapment within it.

So, [cue drum roll please] I have finally decided to return to school and pursue a Masters in Business Administration. Now, before people cry “sell out”, let me explain myself properly. I have been working in the non-profit world for sometime now. While I enjoy many of its rough corners, I kind of came to an epiphany one day realizing that if I was to work for non-profits, I would never really make a profit. Genius, I know.

Now, I wouldn’t consider myself the most materialistically centered individual, but money indeed is a factor in my future. Sounds traditional, but I want to have a family one day, and be the major bread winner of it. I don’t like the idea of being supported by other people, as it’s not very appropriate for a Caesar to do so. Best, in my opinion, to find a way to join my skills and passions with a bit of profit making, to have my cake and eat it too where possible.

Does this mean giving up my undergraduate training and love for exploring people and culture. Hell no. I see this as quite an asset despite where I end up in the working world. This is why I have decided to try my luck at attaining an online MBA, through a local well accredited university, and to do so in my oh-so-favorite foreign environment. I have decided to pick up and move to Brazil for a time, maybe 6 months or a year as I start my schooling.

There has been a very small constituency who has chided this idea, saying that a Brazil move is impractical and would be full of distractions. While there is something to be said for this, I know myself and my limitations. And I know that with focus I can make this happen.

To do so could be beneficial for so many reasons. First, I could work toward attaining my Portuguese fluency. This has been a major life goal of mine for some time. I truly desire to make my connections with this country a big part of my life, and not just an occasional holiday. Living in Brazil would provide me with many opportunities to make connections, to make business contacts, perhaps even to attain citizenship. My current academic focus is the Tourism and Hospitality industry, the third most profitable industry in the world mind you. I am interested in international business as it relates to adventure and cultural/heritage travel. I can see myself opening up my own travel/tour business someday, or perhaps working for a specialized niche-travel or tourism company (I have been in contact with just such a company already, and am hoping to make progress with them as I go along). With a degree in business, undergraduate training in anthropology, and an English and Portuguese fluency, I would be highly marketable. It would be great to end up working for an American company doing business in Brazil, with an American salary. If the dollar doesn’t keep dropping (thanks you friggin monkey of a president!), I could live like a king down there. And while staying here to get my degree would be easier, the road less traveled has the potential to be more fruitful for me in the end.

And saints be praised, the ball has already started moving. I have been in contact with the business school professors, and we are considering a specialized international business track for me. I have three separate people looking for cheap housing for me in Salvador, where I would like to move. Studying and taking the GMAT comes next, then there is readying for my trip and ohhhh so much else.

All and all, I am already starting to enjoy the shift back into structure, the preparation of new challenges, and the excitement that comes with a glimpse into the unknown. Clearly, the winds have begun to pick up, the dandelions remain perched, and I can feel the air bristling with change.

Yeah, birthday's.

Yes. I know. Currently I have the desire to write but lack the will.

In lue of more scribbles, here is another video.



My 2007 birthday bash went off without a hitch. Yes indeed, the soiree had it all. Two d-jays, two kegs, afro-brazilian drum beats, and a rediculous amount of socializing. There were many familiar and unfamiliar faces present, and a glorious lock down by the night stick Federalies (so fun those silly little sound ordinance thingies).

In the end, yes we had a good time, and no you may not ask me what my birth age is.

Either way, yeah birthdays!

Buddy Down

Some moments are wow moments. Some draw you in. Some breathe in the quiet, or stir with the rapture of being alive.

Motorcycles are an odd embrace of such things. They fill one with this sense of being alive, full, animated, but constantly remind you that sure…

…you are alive

…but not by much.

My riding buddy took a spill on his R6 yesterday. This came on the heel of a series of accidents just this last week – one buddy down at the track, me witnessing a fatal motorcycle crash involving a blind S.U.V driver, and four car accidents at work. Yikes.

In my short time jumping around in the sport bike culture, I have realized two very important things. First, sport bike riders like to go FAST. Very Fast. It becomes a point of machismo pride to hold down that throttle. I went out riding with a bunch of guys on R1’s and GSX’s. They were pretty experienced riders, insisting that their road activities took a back seat to the agro-maneuvers of the track. Surprising, indeed, as I sweated bullets trying to keep up with them through the CO back canyon roads, speeds exceeding 90 – 100 mph.

The second thing that I have learned is that no matter your experience level, this shit will kill you. Half of those guys ended up destroying their machines within a few weeks. My riding buddy did just the same, careening into a field of rocks off HWY 59. I trailed behind him and documented the whole thing.

Our ride started off pretty tame, with a tad bit of traffic weaving to get the blood flowing. We headed off into one of the many canyon routes, jumping around hairpin curves, riding at modest speed levels (40-50 mph). These little human physics experiments always seem to happen fast. My buddy somehow got off alignment on one of the curves. He compensated incorrectly by down shifting, maybe a little too much back brake, I’m not sure. All I saw was rider separating from machine, an explosion of plastic and dust, both disappearing off a sharp embankment on the roadside. I was expecting carnage. Messiness. The unpleasant irreversible vicissitudes of a really bad day.

No such thing.

Before I had even turned off my bike at the side of the road, up jumps my friend giving me the thumbs up. Somehow, flying backwards, he had managed to flip over the rock bed off the road and land in a very small fortuitously placed patch of grass. I surveyed the damage, both his and the bike. And came to one of those wow moments. A “dude, you really should be dead” sort of thing.

Witness the resulting chaos. The swarm of police, ambulances, and curious passerby’s. We moved his bike up into a drive way beside the ditch. The mood was light, considering no one got hurt. A kind of ‘yeah that really sucks but doesn’t the air smell sweet’ sensation.

I tried to save him a ride in the ambulance, pretty certain he was in good health, but the authorities insisted on making him poor. As we waited, the ambulance driver filled me with horror stories of local gun shot victims, canyon crashes, and the motorcyclist as organ donor equation.

Looks like the riding days for my buddy are over. Too much damage and points on the license. And he knows he was one of the lucky few…to find his grassy knoll. Me, well, I continue to ride. Knowing full well the dangers. Toning down the machismo, and picking carefully the groups I’ll go riding with. I want to be old and graying before the flights of angels wing me to my rest.

Springly Warmth

One step and you will see, the brilliance of a born again sun.

One measure and you will know, the flutter of life in branch and tepid sky.

Bustle fills the emptiness of winter past.

Water melts, deluge runs.

Spring breaths and fills us anew.

* * *

Few things make me happier than a sunny day. There is something chemical about it. My blood seems to run quick, my eyes alight, my heart flutters with the anticipation of a dynamic sway. Singing, dancing, movement—these things are all part of it. The sun bristles with volume and fills matter with the desire to come alive. It animates the winter constricted, fills and flourishes, and leaves me wondering how I survived those long snowy months (Cry freedom cry, oh Michigan, I do not lament your passing).

But oh, my beautiful village here. It stands as something all together different, where the high elevation sun shines radiantly on a warm spring day. Last Sunday was exactly this. I had just returned from an overnight stay at the DeSouchet miners cabin—a small rental property that I escape to in Dream Canyon, about a 50 min drive West of Boulder. Rustic and inviting, the small log structure sits parallel to a flowing mountain brook, where the air smells sweet of pine and wood smoke, and is the perfect place for a profound mental getaway.

On the return home, the sky was generously void of clouds and a slight warm breeze moved through town. My brother Shem sat with his girlfriend behind our house, methodically seeding summer vegetables into little plastic cups. The grill was on, sizzling, smoking, inviting long dopey stares from our overweight dog resting languidly in the grass.

A bit worn down from a night of running through the woods, I also took the lazy route, spending the early evening hours stretched out in my Brazilian hammock under the sun.

Swinging rhythmically…slowly…my face warm with the heat of direct light, I thought of all the new changes and births in my own life, as if my own path somehow mirrored the genesis of spring.

First comes a change in work. I continue to slave away at Aspen Grove. The pay remains dismal, the labor uninspiring, and my bills barely, just barely get paid. I see my presence there as a means to an end—but only just. How much bottom feeding can one do as a degree holder? I mean seriously!?

It is with these frustrations in mind that I continue to root out a career. I discovered, months back, an adolescent field known as ‘Cultural Heritage Tourism’. Essentially, it boils down to traveling to a place to experience the authentic past and contemporary life ways of a people. It emphasizes sustainability, balanced economic development, and all of the professional angles that I love—anthropology, history, travel, the poetics of people and place. It is only about a decade old, ecotourism and geotourism now falling under the umbrella term. I see so much potential for growth here. I see visions of myself - in the States and in Brazil – working to develop rich cultural programs. I feel travel and stories brimming on the surface. I see academic programs on the rise, and me in the middle of it all.

Who knows where the winds will take me. I may end up a toothless old man, tilling the soil of a back country farm plot in Brazil. Or a masquerade Chinese acrobat. Yes, who really knows?

I have started an internship, however, a small seed of a job in the Cultural Tourism field. Every Friday morning I ride the express bus into Denver, making my way down the bustling 16^th street mall. There, on the seventh floor of a large red stone Masonic building, I work in a little windowless office. I begin with the National Trust for Historic Preservation, dabbling in website changes and networking issues for the CHT program. From there, after months of payless effort, I’m hoping to grab an internship with the CHT program out of the Denver office of Tourism. This one promises part time pay, and perhaps some shining acknowledgement of my university degree.

After this…..perhaps grad school in D.C. at George Washington University (only CHT program in the whole country)…..then on into mid life crisis….kids....house….and eventually that dark unknown we like to call buzz kill. Somewhere in there I’d to stick in a bit of adventure travel, Brazilian Portuguese, and aqua maroon reef dives. Maybe some beer. We will see.

On the romance side of things, I have had tasty little development of late. Her name is hmmm….private, and the rest of her so classy. A good friend of mine in Capoeira directed my fiery mass of a universe towards hers, and I am happy to report that the blessed zingy little sparks have begun to fly. She is 34, thought probably about 22 in appearance, and one of the most intelligent and confident women I have ever known. Her demeanor is one of cool delicious power, slightly aloof, with heavy dashes of playful femininity. A life long dancer and yoga guru, she resides remarkably present and comfortable in her body, knowing full well the power of her magnetism. More palpable than this physical grace, she is delightfully skilled at making me feel like a man, challenging me to be authentic in my personality and masculinity. So refreshing after the underdeveloped bubble heads that have been sucking up to me of late.

And so it is, in both work and love do the renewals of spring come. Much is going to happen, I feel, with the advent of this warmer weather. I’ve been down and out with a back injury, and hope to heal and get back to the Capoeira. I am rigidly setting myself on a more tattoos/more muscle diet, and hope to generate further growth in these areas soon. July brings adventure in Europe, and a month long Brazilian vaca later in the year. My good friend Sheila is coming to visit and Eric is beginning to ready himself for a Denver move (I operate under the principle that if you blog it, they will come).

All of this. The job, the romance, the car washes, and tree blossoms, the motorcycle rides and campouts, will bud, and bristle, and in their spring breathe life anew.

(Messin' around at work.)

(Taking the big lumox out for a walk.)

(Girl's like guys that have good skills. Computer hacking skills. Beer Pong skills.)

(My basement.)

(And the Dream Canyon Cabin stream.)

(The cabin sauna....so much brrr.)

(Visit by my boy Jonathon. Enjoying much expensive but insanely good Brazilian food.)

Play Me

F*@k the man!!!

Just got back from the Title & Registration Office, also known as the 3rd level of hell. I was a bit tentative upon entering the place, not because of the fiery read décor or the fat bellied little imps poking patrons with sticks, but more for the fact of the little noticed sign hanging by the door that read: “We f*@k you because we can.”

So there I was, happy as a clam (please note that clam rhymes with sham), ready to grab my license plate and head out the door. I had done everything right. I had saved, and saved, and saved, resolutely sacrificing to buy my used FZ1. The paper work was there, proof of insurance, title, and delightfully honest sales receipt filled out by yours truly. I had jumped through the hoops, a blissfully ignorant lap dog, ready to grab my plates and head out on my first ride.

Bam…crunch….slap to the face. The attendant, wearing a strangely bemused grin, slides my plates across the table. Ready to head out the door, a voice, from the red she-devil pulls me back with a, “That will be 565 dollars sir”.

“Wait. What?” My heart sinks in horror.

“You see” she continues, “the money that you earned at your low wage job….well that is taxed. Suck from the government nipple and you pay. Then, we let you take that money, dream, and dream, and scheme, and buy high priced items that ultimately convince you that you are happy. We take that money that was just taxed, and then we tax you again. We call it the ‘F*@k you’ tax. Live in a high income town, and we assume that you are rich, so we tax you more. Then, we let you earn more money until you die….so that we can tax you again.”

Me, well, I stood breathless. I was about to cry. I had hopes of escaping my low income mind numbing job for a brief series of moments (in Europe they call them “vacations”), but now, having been taxed for paying my taxes, I was pretty much screwed.

Red tinged and hasty footed, I walked out the door. They let me leave the not so pearly gates of hell with a smile, knowing full well, that I wasn’t going anywhere. That my freedom was tied to their taxes, and that my soul, monetary or otherwise, would return.

Grrrrrrrr…….

Pretty but expensive.

Delicious. She's finally mine!

Ahahahahahahah! Oh sweet lordy lord she’s mine. Finally mine.

From the earliest of my adolescent days, I have had a love affair with motorcycles. I can remember passionate yearnings for a Buell X1 Lightening before high school, and many a crush and love affair thereafter. My dad’s into trials & BMW’s, my brother into dual sports, my uncle owns a Harley, and me—well let’s just say I’m a sport bike kind of guy. I like shiny objects and voluptuous motors, something that will scream and peal when I want it to. Something fast, phallic, and delightfully sizzling to the touch.

Blame it on the Italian in me…I dunno…but for me a bike is like a beautiful women. It embodies all that I love in romance. It has to burn, steal away concentration. It has to be mysterious, and diminish all other flames. It has to entice me with its power, yet roll over when I turn the key.

Speed, danger, and the union of it all. These are all part of it. Two connected bodies entwined in that thing called passion, that reminds you what it means to be alive.

Oooooh….don’t let me get carried away.

The bike that I have been dreaming of for years has been a Yamaha FZ1. I was hooked the first time I took my uncle’s FZ out for a spin. For me, it is the perfect union of things. It is sleek, fast, and designed with the curvy figure of the sport bike class. But it also pays homage to the practicality of a tour bike, with more of an upright stance than say the R1. It is a naked bike, without all of the frilly plastic around the body. Comfortable, yet dangerous…a true mix for a lover like me.

And now with much hard work, patience, and Santa blessings. She is mine.

1000cc’s of pure bliss. Completely moded out by a bike technician.

Buying used is smart in the bike world, as now I have low mileage well maintained beast at almost half the price.

The extra’s include:

Yosh Slip - On
Ivan's Jet Kit
AIS Removed (Ivan's kit)
Penske 8981 W 600# spring - Rear Shock
Full build front forks - Racetech Gold Valves/.95 springs/fluid
16/48 gearing - new chain and sprockets @ 3500miles
Double Bubble light smoke windscreen
Speedo Healer w/ Top Speed Memory Function
Temp Gauge - lighted w LED indicator, and manual fan switch
New EBC Racing Brake pads (front only)
Tobe Steering Damper
Intuitive Frame Sliders
Pilot Powers - Nearly New
Tank Slapper Protective Clear Film on Tank

Damn! I’m so friggin excited to ride this lady it hurts!

My down payment is gonna hit the mail soon, and I should have her delivered in a few months. Come spring I will be hitting the roads, enjoying the wind through my face, and living up the passion of a lovely new ride. If your lucky, I’ll even let you ride with me….heh.

So yummy. And so finally mine. That’s all I have to say.

Leo out.