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2. Zoom

3. All I wanna do is zooma-zoom-zoom…

Hurray! I’m on at 5:30 am, a-gain, and the race is on…

No, I’m not going to speed that fast, only 50 or so, but I’m stoked because I bought two new tires for the rear. No more checking the pressure/filling up every couple of days, battle of ass-crack hanging out/tugging shirt, hiking my pants. Aaa-nd air costs a dollar, thank you-very-much, Scumbags, who used to snip the ends off to the point where they got a law passed so they can charge you... but apparently not any more, all that snipping... still an excuse for the little gauge of the pocket, lord knows they learned from the best, these independents, gasoline vendors, their suppliers being the biggest a-holes on the planet since J.Paul Getty began sucking it from right beneath our very feet.

Today, I’m going to go retro/nostalgic, and hit the ol’ donuteria, Cambodian run (I know there’s no more Cambodia…). I haven’t been going there much as I had decided that I like fancy coffee/dark roast that they don’t sell at these little mom’n’pops, but today I decided, what the heck. Aaa-nd… everything costs about 50 percent less, so why not un-splurge?

First, I have to get around the pokies that frequent this boulevard at such an early hour (bunch a working class…) Geesus… I was talking about my tires… You know, those Fuckers cost me three hundred-fifty bucks!? I had them look up my record and I got two years worth out of them (same model) so I guess that’s not so bad, shit-I-wish-I-made-more-money.

I pull into the parking lot and see the usual faces (Hey, my peeps! I love Lah-tee-nosss…everyone should have one. Fuck you, that means I love you. Como’tamos, Todos?) One guy is sitting outside and is giving me the hard stare. Maybe he’s not sure if he knows me (fukkin’A… we all look alike… pinchis gabachos) and I almost say something. Only the workers are up, but you never know…

I order my old usual, muffin (real nuts on top) and a coffee, pay the man (who today, has his forearm with the huge, premature varicosities, covered—a treatment?) dump the sugar, blah…yeah, moving on…

Okay, so up and out of the valley, I hit the straightaway, uphill, at full… first curve and no squeals. I pass three cars on the downhill (after the crest) and make it all the way to downtown Topanga without another car in sight, * oof ! * a line of cars right where the last business is on the right.

Bit of a letdown, but what-the-hell, what-the-hell—it was a good run and what’s the difference? I get myself into this ‘acceptance’ sort of mode (which we must, so often, do…) and the radio is playing some of that Ferry music (yeah, I’m such a dick…), Kiss and tell, which has maybe put me in, or helped with my (pussy-ass) acceptance mode, and I crank it up.

There’s three cars in front of me (stuck behind ‘Pokey’—okay, so four total) and then one pulls off to let me pass (thanks) right at the ‘buddha-imports’ store (yard, whatever…) while I’m thinking about car number, a little Honda sedan I had first mistaken for a Beemer. Probably someone’s daughter, going off to school so early in the morning, College-girl, first-year, she’s hitting the brakes at every curve like her father would wish the boys would, trying to make her (…kill the little bastards, if I get my hands…) ever since Junior High or Prom Night, so I try not to vibe—mellow, mellow—as we all drive much slower than safety requires, and I think about how if I had a daughter, she’d be learning about not-breaking on curves, fluidity, aaa-nd… some fast-Boy, wrist-snapping, Ju Jitsu.

Ahh… Topanga, her names probably Star, or Patchouli-Bong-water, Pet or Bong for short. No, it is ‘Star’, and her dad’s an attorney; Mom’s got a Peace-sign tattoo hidden somewhere, or Celtic-swirl on her wrist.

Finally… we reach P.C.H. and I give a very-quick glance at lil' Muf-kins— Wrong! It’s a woman, a little old lady with huge, bug-eye glasses, 1960’s Mr. Limpet… Miss Limpet, a twin to that annoying-voiced, pregnant woman-secretary from the movie Mame (geez, don’t ask how I’d remember that). Hello, Agnes. Drive carefully, sweetness...

I see the light is red and cut the lot, right, do-a-hard-left—quick-as-I-look, across all lanes—and am heading south now, on P.C.H., full speed ahead.

A mile down and some yahoo is pulling a u-turn (totally illegal) slowing way down—oh crap, it’s a cop—so I slow way down. Hmm. He saw me but he ain’t doin’ nuthin’—as everyone around me (except the clueless) are thinking the same thing: when is this guy going to bail so we can drive like we want to drive, be free, like we want to be free?

It doesn’t matter as there’s my exit, Moomat Ahiko (no lie..) and I decide to get an expensive cup of coffee before pulling up to the job.


I'm going to find myself a sombrero, get a Ford truck with loud exhaust, and tail you early in the morning playing super loud accordion music. I think you'd like that.

Also, gotta commend you on your style, Kevin. No matter what you write, the voice is true and pure, and all you. I really like reading your fiction; blog posts will have to do in the interim. :)

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