SEYMOUR'S PROMISE

by

Alexin Tenefrancia

Characters:

SEYMOUR: A 61 year old, homeless war veteran

MANDY: A seven year old school girl, blonde hair, blue eyes

MOTHER: A middle aged brunette working class mother

OFFICER: A male local law enforcer

Location:

In an alley, behind McDonalds

Time:

Present

SCENE I

On a small stage. Center stage, spotlight is on SEYMOUR. He is dressed in dirty rags; next to him are a cardboard box, a sleeping bag, and a tin can. He is sitting on the floor.

SEYMOUR: (talking to invisible passer-byes) Good day! Can you spare some change? (reaching out his palms) Please? Spare some change for the old man? Ahh, forget it. Hey! Excuse me, sir. How ya doing? Can I..? No. Hmmm. Right. (scratches his head and looks at tin can) Any change? Oh, thank you.  Thank you. (crawls on the floor and picks up a coin) Ahh, a quarter. What can ya do with a quarter? (empties out tin can) Ahh, a mere one dollar and three cents I earned in nine hours. Piece of shit. This is not the life out here. (starts speaking to the audience) I said, this ain’t the life. You don’t want to be like me. A bum, what all of you call it, what you call me. Hah, I’m an old fool to all of you. Look at you all, with your dollies and your riches, drivin round big shiny automobiles crashin ‘em. This ain't the life here. I’m dead to all of you fools. (knocks down the tin can with foot) Ahh!! What can buy ya with a goddamn dollar nowadays, one of those chicken mgnugget thingies round the corner. What happened to this world? I get nothing. Now look at me. I’m gonna die out here in the streets, hear me? I’m gonna die out here, cold in the streets, in the dirt, alone. Then, I’m gonna get picked up by those street cleaners and be trashed in those recycling bins. None of you won’t ever know it. Alone I say. Dead. I’m 61 years old. I fought for all of you. I wanted to. And now look at me, you give me a quarter. Twenty five cents for the old man, Seymour.

While SEYMOUR is saying his monologue, MANDY slowly walks in from downstage left. She is wearing school uniform, tap shoes, a backpack, and a locket necklace.  MANDY seems scared also, but she slowly walks toward him. MANDY and SEYMOUR stare at each other.

SEYMOUR: Hello! Ya scared, lil girl?

            MANDY shakes head no.

SEYMOUR: Then, whatdya want?

            MANDY shrugs her shoulders.

SEYMOUR: Then shoot!

MANDY stares at Seymour for about 5 seconds and then runs away exiting downstage right

SEYMOUR: See. Even those lil girls are scared of me. I probably smell anyway. Cute lil girl though, innocent face. Probably from that school down there. Eh. Used to have a lil cute blonde girl like that. Probably all grown.

MANDY comes running from downstage left, drops three coins in Seymour’s can, and runs back exiting to downstage right

SEYMOUR: Well, whatdya know? (shouting) Thank ya, lil girl. Hmm. Seventy cents. Those innocent school children are the nice ones. Cute girl. Will grow up to be just lovely. Let me tell ya, it sure does feel nice when ya see them lil one drop a penny in here. Wonder if they even care.

Light begins to dim.

SEYMOUR: Ahh, shoot. Night again. Another shit hole in the mornin. Better Luck.

SEYMOUR slowly tucks himself in the sleeping bag to sleep

Light fades to black.

END SCENE

SCENE II

Lights up. It is early morning.  MANDY and SEYMOUR are already on stage. SEYMOUR is asleep in sleeping bag while MANDY is on her knees. MANDY is in her school uniform, her backpack, and her lunch sack. SEYMOUR is snoring asleep in his sleeping bag.           

MANDY: Psst. Wakeup. Psst. Psst. I said, wake-up.

SEYMOUR: Aahh!! Huh, what!!

MANDY: Why do the kids at school make fun of you, Mister?

SEYMOUR: Ohh, hey! It’s you lil girl. You gave me the coins yesterday. Now whatdya want?

MANDY: Well? Why do they?

SEYMOUR: What’s your name lil girl, how old are you? (getting  up from sleeping bag)

MANDY: My name is Mandy. I’m seven.

SEYMOUR: Now, do you go to school down the street?

MANDY: Mm-hmm. Just on my way there actually, I asked you a question Mister.

SEYMOUR: Please, lil girl, call me Grandpa Seymour.

MANDY: Grandpa Seymour? That’s funny.

SEYMOUR: Why, lil girl?

MANDY: My cat’s name is Seymour. But, that’s not why. The kids at school make fun of you. They tell me you stink. And, you kinda do.

SEYMOUR: I don’t smell. I live here. Got a problem?

MANDY: Out here? With all the bugs. Gross. I hate bugs. Eeewww

SEYMOUR: Hah. Bugs. They’re my best friends. Come look.

Seymour looks around for an invisible bug and grabs it.

SEYMOUR: See, come look. It won’t bite. Promise.

MANDY: Promise?

SEYMOUR: Promise.

MANDY: Ahh. Grandpa Seymour?!?!?!?!?!?!?! That was disgusting.

SEYMOUR: No no, Mandy. That’s how it is. My daughter used to be scared of grasshoppers. But now, she’s a brave lil one. Her daddy taught her best.

MANDY: How old is your daughter Grandpa Seymour? Can I play with her sometime?

SEYMOUR: She’s all grown up now, lil girl. She probably has a family of her own now. Don’t know where she is. She reminds me of you, a lil bit. That was the past. Where are your parents Mandy? Shouldn’t you be at school right now?

MANDY: I took the bus, Grandpa Seymour, and then I walk to school.
SEYMOUR: Alone? Aren’t you scared?

MANDY: Why be scared? I’m a big girl. (walking away from SEYMOUR)

SEYMOUR: That’s right, you are. Hey!! Mandy, where are you going?

MANDY: To school. Remember?

SEYMOUR: Wait!! Wait!! Don’t go just yet. I have a magic trick for ya.

MANDY: (walking towards SEYMOUR) A magic trick?

SEYMOUR: Oh, this is gonna be the best magic trick you’ve ever seen. Ready? Ok.

            SEYMOUR takes a coin from his pocket and does a magic trick; sticks the coin on his arm and pretends to shoot is out of his mouth.

MANDY: Hey! How’d you do that? (looks around Seymour’s area) Hey, open your mouth. Do it again. I’m gonna watch ya closely now.

SEYMOUR: What? You don’t believe me. Here, I’ll do it again (does the same magic trick) See, Mandy, it’s all magic.  Now it’s your turn.

MANDY: Now it’s my turn to what?

SEYMOUR: Show me something. A magic trick. A talent. Can you sing? Dance?

MANDY: Dance? Well? I can dance a lil. But, you have to promise not to laugh ok.

SEYMOUR: Promise not to laugh. Ok.

MANDY: Ok, one, two, and three.

            MANDY starts to tap dance.

SEYMOUR: Ahh, the beauty of tap dancing.

            SEYMOUR gets up and joins MANDY tap dancing.

MANDY: I didn’t know you could dance Grandpa Seymour?

SEYMOUR: I used to, in the earlier days when I joined the army.

MANDY: (stops tap dancing) What? You were in the army. My daddy was in the army too, maybe you knew him!

SEYMOUR: (stops dancing) No, your grandpa Seymour’s too old to know a young man like your father. I fought in the 50’s my child.

MANDY: No, no. Here look. (grabs and opens her locket which shows a picture of her father) That’s my father, and that’s my mother. Except, these are old pictures.

SEYMOUR: My, your parents are beautiful folks. Your mother is just as beautiful as you, Mandy. Soft blonde hair, and baby blue eyes, just like my daughter. Hey…. why the down face Mandy?

MANDY: Is there anything weird about me Grandpa Seymour?

SEYMOUR: What? What are ya talking about, Mandy?

MANDY: The kids at school make fun of me too, and you see, that’s why I came here to ask you why they make fun of you. I don’t like it. Do I look like you? They say mean mean things about me. I don’t have real parents, Grandpa Seymour. And, the kids, they make faces at me because I don’t look like my parents. All I want to do is find my real parents. And, I don’t think I smell like you, and I don’t live outside. And you like bugs, and I don’t. So I don’t know why they make fun of me like they make fun of you too, because I am not like you Grandpa Seymour. I’m not. I promise. (starts sobbing subtly)

SEYMOUR: Now now, don’t cry Mandy. It’s not me they’re making fun, and it’s not you they’re making fun of. And besides, being us is not so bad. Ok look at you, the kids at school laugh at ya because they’re jealous. Next time, you show them that you’re not scared of those grasshoppers and bugs, show them that you’re a brave big girl.

MANDY: That’s weird, how can they be jealous? They hate me. Nobody ever treats me nice at school. Tell ya the truth; I don’t even like my parents. I want my real parents and I want to find them. I know they’re out there, Grandpa Seymour. All the kids call me losers, and when I find them, I won’t be one anymore. I know I won’t.

SEYMOUR: Mandy, you’re beautiful. And your parents, you’ll find them. And, they make fun of me because they’re jealous that I’m best friends with all these bugs. Mandy, you and me, we both want to be with our real families. Like you, I want to find my daughter; I have to find her someday, otherwise… I’ll......,I will help you find your folks. I’ll help you Mandy.

MANDY: Really? You will?

SEYMOUR: Of course, my lil girl. Of course.

MANDY: Grandpa Seymour? Do you promise me with all your heart and do you swear?

SEYMOUR: I, Grandpa Seymour, solemnly swear to help, you, lil brave girl, Mandy, to find her folks so the kids at school won’t call her losers no more.

MANDY: (jumps up and gives him a hug) Oh, Grandpa Seymour, you’re the greatest and bestest!

SEYMOUR: Now, Ya hungry? You want some of those chicken mcnuggets things?

MANDY: Ya mean, Mcdonalds?

SEYMOUR: Ya, that.

MANDY: (opens her lunch sack and takes out an apple, a sandwich, and bottled water) Apple, eew, PB & J, and yuck, water. I get the same stuff everyday. I hate it.

SEYMOUR: (laughs) No Mcdonalds for you?

MANDY: Of course, I want McDonalds. That’s my fave. Ummm, ooh, ooh, I want the new Happy meal!!!

SEYMOUR: Happy what?

MANDY: Don’t be silly, it’s the new doll toy, it’s the greatest.

SEYMOUR: You’re not gonna eat your PB&J sandwich your mom made just for you, it sure looks delish.

MANDY: Grandpa Seymour? I think I’ll be good with the Kid’s Meal. Please!!!!!

SEYMOUR: (hesitant) Umm, ok Mandy, I’ll see what I can do. (rummages around for coins)

MANDY: Yaay!! Thank you!!!

SEYMOUR: Now you stay put here Mandy, I’ll be back in flash, count to one hundred and seventy one, and I’ll be back before ya know it. Don’t talk to anyone ya don’t know.

            SEYMOUR exits downstage right.

MANDY: Ok. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirte--

An OFFICER and the MOTHER, dressed in office clothes rush in from stage left. They both see Mandy.

MOTHER: Mandy! (rushes to embrace her) Where on earth have you been young child? I’ve been looking all over for you.  Thank god you’re alive! Where have you been? Are you ok? Do you know how worried I was? To get a phone call saying you weren’t at school. A million thoughts rushed into my mind. I thought you were kidnapped or even worse, killed! Oh baby, why did you wander off? Why didn’t you go to school? What? Are you crazy? What have you been thinking? I am so angry at you young lady? MANDY!

MANDY: Mother? Don’t be so worried? Please don’t be mad. I’m alright

The OFFICER is looking through the sleeping bag and cardboard box.

MOTHER: Mandy, what’s going on? Why are you here? Mandy, why didn’t you go straight to school? Why are you here?

MANDY: Umm, Grandpa Sey—

MOTHER: Grandpa? What grandpa? Honey, you know that you’re grandparents are no longer here. Ok. Tell me, why are you here? Why didn’t you go to school? You had me worried sick. I called for the whole city to look for you.

SEYMOUR enters from downstage right whistling a tune, carrying a McDonalds bag.

SEYMOUR: () Mandy!! I got a Happy Me—

MANDY: Grandpa Seymour!!!

MOTHER: Who???

            MANDY pulls MOTHER toward SEYMOUR, but MOTHER resists.

MANDY: Mother, come meet—

MOTHER: What’s going on? Do you know this man?

OFFICER:) Excuse me sir, are these your belongings? Now, I’m going to have to ask you to—

SEYMOUR: Mandy, I—

MOTHER: Mandy? You know my daughter? You kidnapped my daughter!!! Who are you? Officer, please, what is going on? Mandy? Please tell me you don’t know this man.

MANDY: Mother!! No, Grandpa Seymour, Nooooo

OFFICER: Sir, please back away from the child and the mother.

SEYMOUR: What’s going on? I didn’t do nothin. What is this. Tell them Mandy. I bought one of those Happy Meal thingies. Mandy!!!!

MANDY: (crying)Grandpa Seymour!!!

MOTHER: Oh, Mandy did he hurt you? Oh, if I should’ve known. Oh Mandy, are you alright. I should’ve never let you walk by yourself in the morning. Shame on you, you worthless bum. Live out here on the streets, talking to my little girl letting her leave school. Shame.

            MANDY runs toward SEYMOUR, but is caught by her MOTHER.

MANDY: Grandpa Seymour!!!!! Find my parents for me. Promise.

            While exiting stage left, MANDY turns back and throws her locket to SEYMOUR. SEYMOUR catches it.

SEYMOUR: I promise, lil girl. I promise.

            The OFFICER arrests SEYMOUR.

            Light fades out.

END SCENE

****

One of my stories, Troy and Me, has just been featured on the Untitled Books website. Untitled Books was recently chosen as a website of the week by the Guardian. Also this month is an interview with Will Self and Ali Smith talking about ‘How I Write’.

Currently reading - Seeing, by Jose Saramago
Currently listening to - Happiness is the Road, Marillion

snosberries taste like...

booger.

trying to find detour...tried to sneak a camera in..denied on the TMZ name drop.

I've been trying to come up with the right words to say how I feel about the $700B giveaway to Wall Street.  It is clear that measures to increase confidence in the markets are necessary and that the alternative - hanging all those Wall Street dealers by their balls - would not be civil (although it might make for good reality TV).  It is unclear to me that a monetary bailout is either prudent or effective.

What bothers me greatly is that the issue of a housing market and lending bubble has been obvious for years, yet nothing was done to oversee or regulate those that were taking advantage of it.  Even a television show was created to profit from the hysteria surrounding unsustainable home price escalation.

Wall Street and personal greed notwithstanding, this was a preventable calamity had Congress chosen not to look the other way until the crisis was upon us.  Indeed, it appears that that the U.S. governs by crisis, that politicians have only enough political will to hope the problems away - until they are, too late, already in the belly of the beast (and us along with them).

To make it worse, bailouts create the expectation of future bailouts.  This is an ever-tightening spiral that has us already circling the drain.  We saw it in the 80's with the S&L bailout and the creation of Resolution Trust; we see it today with Fannie Mae, Freddie Mac and AIG.  Tomorrow it will be the airlines and automotive industries, and then the medical system.

I am so steamed about this because the people who are supposed to be leading this country have contorted the definition of leadership to the very exclusion of it.  They bloviate whenever a camera is rolling, bicker about the other party throwing up roadblocks, pass pork-filled budgets and then have the gall to run for office based on proven leadership.

It's time to throw the bums out.  All of them.  Every. Single. Incumbent.  Maybe, just maybe, the next group of politicians will get the message that we're fed up and just won't take it anymore.

Drew Gummerson’s latest novel, Me and Mickie James, was published by Jonathan Cape in July 2008.
Reviewed here: Guardian, Time Out, Morning Star, Gaydarnation, Pulp, ABCTales, BookMarks, Chroma, and others that aren’t online.


Read interviews with Drew here: Dazed and Confused, Gaydarnation, Chroma.


Check out his website for forthcoming events and publications.

Currently reading: The Amber Spyglass, Philip Pullman


Currently listening to: The Wind Up Bird Chronicle (audiobook), Haruki Murakami

Sam Jordison reads from his new book

Garrison Keillor, The Baltimore Sun, September 19, 2008

So the Republicans have decided to run against themselves. The bums have tiptoed out the back door and circled around to the front and started yelling, "Throw the bums out!" They've been running Washington like a well-oiled machine, to the point of inviting lobbyists into the back rooms to write the legislation, and now they are anti-establishment reformers dedicated to delivering us from themselves. And Giuliani is an advocate for small-town America. Bravo.

They are coming out for Small Efficient Government the very week that the feds are taking over Fannie and Freddie, those old cash cows, and in the course of a weekend 20 or 50 or (pick a number) billion go floating out the Treasury door.

It is a bold move on the Republicans' part - forget about the past, it's only history, so write a new narrative and be who you want to be - and if they succeed, I think I might declare myself a 24-year-old virgin named Lance and see what that might lead to. Paste a new face on my Facebook page, maybe become the Dauphin Louie the 32nd, the rightful heir to the Throne of France, put on silk tights and pantaloons and a plumed hat and go on the sawdust circuit and sell souvenir hankies imprinted with the royal fleur-de-lis.

John McCain has decided to run as a former POW and a maverick, a maverick's maverick, rather than Mr. Bush's best friend, and that's understandable - but how can he not address the $3 trillion that got burned up in Iraq so far? It's real money; it could've paid for a lot of windmills, a high-speed rail line in Ohio, some serious research and development. The Chinese, who have avoided foreign wars for 50 years, are taking enormous leaps forward, investing in their economy, and we are falling behind. We're wasting our chances.

And a former mayor of a town of 7,000 who hired a lobbyist to get $26 million in federal earmarks is now running against the old-boy network in Washington who gave her that money to build the teen rec center and other good things so she could keep taxes low in Wasilla. Stunning. And if you question her qualifications to be the leader of the free world, you are an elitist. This is a beautiful maneuver. I wish I had thought of it back in school when I was forced to subject myself to a final exam in higher algebra. I could have told Miss Mortenson, "I am a Christian, and when you gave me a D you only showed your contempt for the Lord and for the godly, hard-working people from whom I have sprung, you elitist battleax, you."

Read More Here

Found via Constant Siege

To get there I managed to get a lift with my Mum. She thought she would try to avoid the traffic by going a different route but it didn't really do much difference as we clashed with the school run. However, I was one of the first people to arrive at the meeting point. It was raining lightly which was a pain but it didn't stop me not diving for cover. I am manly dammit! The market was there and it was selling some real crap that you normally see in charity shops. Also there was these random dull coloured stones on sale which was pointless.

Once every media student from each of the college campuses arrived (some I never saw before in my life but they wasn't that social to us), we walked to the cinema to the displeasure to some vechiles on the road which had to wait for a whole crowd to cross the road because we could. Go us! It wasn't a complicated walk as it was a straight line but some of the paths was narrow which sucks when you are in a massive crowd.

There wasn't any waiting outside when we arrived at the Phoenix cinema and went straight to the seating as the college rented it out. We was there to see a movie called 'The Wackeness' that had lots of scenes of drug use, boobies and bare bums. Mmm, It was alright I suppose but it could of moved faster in parts as it felt really long. I felt like I entered the place as a 16 year old and left as a 50. It didn't help that I had a piece of paper stuffed in my back pocket that I forgotten about that made sitting on uncomfortable and that the room was stuffy.

I left with the shock of sun light, walking back to the city centre with some people I met and some mates managing to go a different route to the main group of students. We laughed at the market again when we saw this cowboy jacket and some lame dresses. I stared at some movie posters but it ended up with me leaving them to it as I got fed up with their slow speed.

I decided to skip lunch in Oxford but should of brought a drink when I dashed to the bus stop. I couldn't make my mind up with what bus I should catched. I know which two I wanted but it ended up with me going on the slow one as the express bus wouldn't take my tenner as she already gave change for a tenner. Dam her.

I got in Abingdon for late lunch at Dominos which I ate on the jounary walk home. I had great pleasure eating the pizza whilst walking and staring at the traffic. I'm multi talented.. what can I say? I couldn't eat my dinner which consisted of fish and chips as I was feeling sick again. I'm hungry now though so I think its a case of microwaving it. How yummy is that.. Not! :[

I have tomorrow off but it will be a case of slumping around the house feeling unwell yet again feeling starving as I don't feel like eating as I hate being sick. I need to eat something though as I'm slim currently.

Sad i bussen på vej hjem fra endnu en grotesk shoppingtur. Har snakket lidt med buschaufføren, der åbenbart har været i Danmark, hvor vi jo "har den bedste kinesiske mad i hele verden!". Mælk, ja, brød og korn-produkter, jaja, men kinesermad? Den har jeg ikke hørt før!

Ind i bussen træder så den største mest stereotype og ucharmerende amerikaner ind i bussen. Han er tyk. Eller vil faktisk ikke engang sige tyk, for han har tynde, tynde stankelben med lange hår på, og selvfølgelig hvide sokker trukket halvvejs op ad benene i 30 graders varme. Hans bodegabyld er så velvoksen at han knapt kan få sig mast igennem døren. Den er simpelthen ikke kun stor fortil, men er begyndt at brede sig ud til siderne også. Hans store t-shirt har adskillige pletter foran, (men det må også være svært at styre udenom det store frontparti, når bigmac'en skal fortæres) og hans shorts er kun lidt hullede omme bagpå (lige under hans selvfølgeligt synlige ass crack) Med sit lange, grå og fedtede, halvkrøllede hår får han sig så placeret på den anden side af gangen, lige overfor mit sæde selvfølgelig.

Eftersom pladsen er trang, og hans øloppustede vom trykker på hans indre organer - plus lunger - minder hans vejrtrækning i frekvens mere om en hamsters end om et egentligt menneskes. Og i denne salige tilstand er det så, at han får øje på mig...

Først glor han lidt på mig, hvilket jeg af gode grunde prøver at ignorere. SÅ begynder han at snakke til mig. Først om hvordan vejret er, jamen jo da, det er varmt og alt det der small talk. Så begynder han af uransaglige årsager at beskrive sit privatliv. Først starter han med at spørge mig, om jeg kan gætte hvilket dyr han skal hjem og fodre. Mine tanker strejfer muligheden for, at der måske lever et større pattedyr inde i hans mave, men når dog alligevel at komme med det passende "jamen det ved jeg da sørme ikke". Her tvinger han mig så til at gætte alligevel, for det har han jo sagt at jeg skulle! Jeg gætter så på det mest neutrale jeg kan finde på, en hund. Nejnej da, det er skam hans skildpadde! (Jamen det skulle jeg da have gættet med det samme!?) Hans skildpadde, ved jeg nu, lever af skildpadde-piller, den er en vandskildpadde med adgang til vand, klippeland og varmelampe og den hedder fast-Eddie. ("Men det er ikke fordi den er hurtig forstås! Det er bare for sjov..." No shit?) Bagefter får jeg en lang forklaring om hans kat, Alley Cat, og at han gerne vi holde akvariefisk, men er bange for at katten vil spise dem.

Jeg begynder som turen nærmer sig Green Meadow Drive, at blive bange for at den snakkesaglige bums skal af samme sted som mig. Heldigvis står han af lige stoppestedet før mig! Havde egentlig lidt ondt af ham, han var jo tydeligvis bare en ensom gammel mand, der havde brug for en eller anden form for menneske-kontakt, men for fa'en kan man da ikke bare holde sig til small talk? Hvad er der nu galt med vejret, vejene og udsmykningerne i parken? Håber i det mindste at han gik hjem og havde det lidt bedre... Jeg gik hjem og holdt lidt ekstra øje med vejen bag mig.

Lying with us when we sleep.  The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.  That and shitting in a box in our homes, and making us clean it up.  Fork-tongued proprietors of false love, purrs are the softened legato of the death rattle.

The most important thing you can do is convince yourself that you’re over it – whatever it may be.  Obviously, that depends on what the meaning of the word “is” is.  But focus on the manifest content of your dream and not that which is obfuscated.  Happiness lies in the perception of your current circumstances.  This is precisely why I ride the bus.

You’d think that after dipping my toe into today’s climate I’d say it was to be “green”, but personally, I think I look like shit in green.  Earth tones do my hazel eyes no justice.  Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Stop. Go.  Rhythmic gymnasts wish they had this kind of precision.  I wish rhythmic gymnasts had less smelly bums inside of them, but I digress.  The bus is a Petri dish on which to base the current state of society.

Where else can you find corporate bankers, students, day laborers, bums, nuns, musicians, pederasts, and the like, all in such an intimate space?  Well, besides church. Given the choice, I’d rather wake up early and ride the bus for two hours every Sunday.  Amazingly, all these people follow the bus rules: move to the back, give up your seat to the elderly, don’t talk loudly, etc.  When the buses go to shit, so shall society.

But while society is alive and kicking, so shall I be.  Butterflies-in-stomach, heart racing alive.

My eyes fall all over you.  You move and its fire.  This room turns to flames.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall in a house of cards.

Unfortunately, and due in part to the aforementioned climate, much of that money goes towards alcohol, and not the many affordable nightly hotels and food programs.

Perhaps it is too strong to call them a blight on the city, but scenes like this are not only sad, but unsettling.

The writer was describing his recent experiences he had while he was waiting for a friend of his down town, at Helsinki’s Central Railway Station. What we Helsinkians already know is that in this area there are a lot of bums. The bums gather here like flies on shit, and sometimes they come up to you and ask you for a cigarette, or for a couple of euros... for “the bus ticket back home”.

The writer of this article made a very interesting point, and I thought that was very observant of him to notice it. He told his friend about how so many bums came up to him during the ten minutes he waited there, and his friend said he has the very same problem. Later, while meeting another friend they discussed this issue, and this third person had no idea what they were on about. No bums ever come up to him to bother or harass him.

Now we come to the interesting part. This writer said he always dresses nice, and so does his friend, the one he waited for at the Railway Station, but this third person always looks angry and “seems to have got his clothes from a less than empathic motorcycle club.”

So apparently the bums choose you for their target based on how you look, and the writer argues that, sadly, the clothes does make the man and he continues: “Maybe I should switch my T-shirt with the Pikku Kakkonen (a children’s television show) logo to an Impaled Nazarene band shirt that says Smoke Crack and Worship Satan?”

Do you have problems with bums harassing you? Tired of them asking you to pay their bus fare back home, or for that last bottle of beer? Don’t dress so nice!

Technorati Tags: Bums, Clothes, Helsinki, Life, Observation

He pedaled with trepidation down 27th avenue trying desperately to pick up speed in order  to get through the yellow light on Telegraph.  He heard a car brake hard and somebody swearing behind him as he pushed himself up the hill  and darted through the intersection just as the light turned red. Luckily for him, traffic had been uncharacteristically slow at reacting  that morning, and the Police officer in the OPD cruiser had other things on his mind other than dealing  asshole bicyclists.

He shot down the rest of 27th, getting lucky again at the freeway on ramp, cruising underneath the 580 overpass and through the second set of lights. He jumped briefly into the bike lane that ran down 27th and then veered a quick right at the red light on West  A short jog down West, then a quick left at  30th Street which then led him back to San Pablo. This was his super secret zig zag short cut which he took to avoid the wait at MLK.  Sometimes it saved time, other times it really did not make much of a difference.   He cruised down 30th towards San Pablo. He looked ahead of taking note of the parked truck and forklift  up ahead and cussed. There was always a fifty fifty chance of him running into a truck being unloaded on this street. Today he had been unlucky.   He swung around the forklift and hit the corner without really looking for cars. He was so fucking late.

He felt traffic on his ass, and saw yet another obstacle in the form of a parked UPS truck up hahead at the battery outlet store. A quick peek over his left shoulder showed him that a blue camry was  gaining on him fast, but he took a chance  and jumped in front of it. He was greeted with another sharp horn blast  as he glided around the big brown truck and jumped back into the right lane. The Camry then roared past and its  driver, a Korean girl with a blue tooth, gave him the finger as she gunned her car. He fingered back with authority then kept on riding.  No time to chase after her. He was never going to make it at this pace

Feeling the wind at his back, he  shifted into high gear and pushed himself down San Pablo, cutting through the nonsensical red light  on Market, past the quiet Taco Stand and busy carwash towards the BQQ Rib shack/ night club.    He cut across the lanes by the the BQQ shack and then hugged the left lane for a bit as two trucks full of sub contractors rolled by him. The drivers seemed only mildly perturbed by his antics. He eased into the turning lane and checked for oncoming traffic. Down the road, a bus was coming, but he knew it there was a bus stop just before the  People's park that stood on the corner of San Pablo and 32nd avenue.  he went for it.

An old bum was crossing the street, making his way from the corner liqour store back to the dirty little park.  He limped halfway across the road then paused to take a little slip of his brown bag breakfast. He swallowed down the malt beverage and then gently burped, feeling a small trickle of pee leek out, further soiling his filthy pants. Having long since given up, the bum ignored the incident, and continued on his way. Although he did see the bike coming at him, he figured that it was not his job to get out of the way and paid no attention to the glare of the rider.  He continue to meander on the way  as the rider, a big angry looking white guy, was forced to hit his brakes real hard. The big guy then flew over the handlebars and landed on top of the bum spilling the rest of the malt liquor all over the street.

He had never gotten the back brakes fixed and figured that he would never really need them anyway, since he never really went fast enough or was forced to brake too hard. He also figured  bike was just to old and his brakes were just to worn to accomplish this. He was wrong on both counts. The damn bum came out from nowhere and, in a panic, he squeezed hard on the brakes. He then went superman, sailing through the air and smashing cap first into the bum. He and the bum tumbled onto the road together and his  head sans helmet smacked down hard onto the black top. He smelled urine and felt the woosh of the passing bus, which had not so much as paused at the bus stop, and had now, just ran over his bike. Now he was never going to get there on time...

to be continued.

Have lots of pictures from the formal classes I watched today including Draft Singles Driving and a Series of Saddlebred classes.  Until then, here's a peek of the petuties seen in the Horse Barn.  I think the Belgians have the best bums of the bunch.

We couldn't do that to her, now could we?

I decided to wait until Olga was fast asleep before I set out to do the post, because...well... she seems to be such a good sleuth, turning up information like long lost twin brothers and stuff, that I didn't want to chance it. I've had enough family additions this week. Next thing you know she'd be finding some juicy little bit like this wacky fellow is my cousin or something.

Having my mind so focused on excusing my lateness, all I could seem to find were derrierre-type images. Imagine that!

So I decided to just grin and bare it... and offer you up another mushroom recipe to go along with my butt-ing about.

Tulio Restaurant's Mushroom Bruschetta Recipe

4 slices of crusty Italian bread
olive oil (for bread)
12 medium mushrooms sliced
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon chopped lemon zest
1 tablespoon chopped parsley
salt and pepper to taste

Brush bread lightly with olive oil and grill both sides until lightly toasted. Quickly saute mushroom in preheated pan with the 1 T. olive oil until lightly browned.

Remove from heat and stir in remaining ingredients. Spoon mushrooms over slices of bread

Serves 2

[Recipe Source]

(I sure hope Olga's Blog Mistress isn't too upset about all the goings on over here. I really am taking good care of her... honest.)

I think this is definetely the place I need to move to escape Tampa. I understand the winters are wicked but I think I can endure this. Also the sales tax is rediculous... But I can deal with this as well.

My only complaint about the city is the multitude of vagrants. Some are agressive and I see the same ones all the time. They really should do something to clean that up... Especially given the crazy sales and hotel tax revenues they are bringing in.

I don't get to come back for atleast four weeks for work (unfortunately). I am Definetely coming in October to participate in the Men's Health Urbanathlon. Maybe I'll be moved in by then.

Some of my stories from this week would be very entertaining but I know I can't tell any of them. Some of my readership cannot be privy to such personal details. Maybe it's time for a new secret blog. Anonymous even?

I am returning to Tampa for the weekend and then heading back to Newport News on Monday.

Pictured: view from my desk looking down Wacker.

Hmmm. I wonder why the networks (NBC and CBC) are showing so much beach volleyball. Any ideas? Anyone? Is Men's beach volleyball as popular as women's? It doesn't seem to be on tv as much. I'm not sure why.

Even President Bush likes beach volleyball. But some women don't want to play beach volleyball.

OMG. Beach volleyball continues through the first 14 days of the Olympics (which only last 16 days total). Non-beach volleyball games are being played everyday as well but I haven't seen any of them on television. I wonder why.

How will the networks fit in the other sports around all of those women's beach volleyball games?

Maybe they can just use the running ticker at the bottom of the screen and maybe a "picture in picture" to show highlights.

Before the start of the race, the event volunteers wrote our bib numbers on our legs and arms.  They also wrote our ages on the back of our calves.  "Can you write 29 on one leg and plus 8 on the other leg?" I asked, however the very youthful female volunteer did not appreciate my wit so early in the morning.  She will understand my joke 20 years from now.

My division (females under 40) started at 7:15.  As soon as we began our 5K run, the skies open and buckets of rain poured down on us.  A sheet of heavy rain made it difficult to see, and the puddles were unavoidable.  The dense humid air made it difficult to breathe, but I trudged along not concerned with my time, but more with conserving my energy.  In the end, my running time was 29:10.

Unaware and unprepared for the quick transitioning between events, I thought my chip would pause once I crossed the finish line after each leg of the triathlon.  Undoubtedly, a huge misunderstanding on my part, so when I finished running, I slowly meandered to my bike.  I noticed my friend, Julie, pedaling away and thought to myself "Wow.  She's doing great.  Darn.  I wanted to get a picture of her during transition."  I then proceeded to lift my bike off the bike rack, strolled to the bike start line and pedaled away.  I felt pretty confident at this point, until a swarn of speed racers flew past me.  Another friend, Leslie, giggled as she rode past me and called out "On your left!" 

"On your left!" became the chant I heard over and over and I felt like the fat kid in the schooyard picked last for the team.  "It's the bike," I told myself as I tried to pedal faster.  "You can do this!  Come on!"   

As I began my 10.5 mile journey, the heavy rain returned.  Unable to see again only with the added problem of my feet constantly slipping off the pedals, I cussed myself for not renting a racing bike, like Leslie.  The heavy and not aerodynamic bike required me to pedal the entire time, while other athletes continued whizzing past me on their racing bikes.  I could hear their chains spin as each rider rested once maneuvering around me.  With the sound of their spinning chains taunting, I remembered a conversation with a friend who told me that racing on mountain bikes can be discouraging when others start passing you.  With that, I stayed focus and continued pedaling.  On this stretch, they were a lot of twists and bends and hills, but I hugged the right while athletes still constantly sped passed me.

Since it rained so heavy twice during the race, the massive rain puddles were unavoidable.  Nasty, mucky puddle water as well as the spray from others' bikes splashed at my face.  I felt a droplet hit my eye and I thought, "Great.  Not only will I come in last place, but I will get ringworm, too!"

Then, I spotted Julie on her return trek.  "Come on, Denise!"  She smiled as she called out and she looked great.  I could tell she was really proud of herself.  Julie had worked so hard for this day and deserved this moment with all recent problems with her poor hip.

As Julie blurred past me, an older gentleman scooted along side me.  He hollered out his words of comfort to me, "It's all right.  You'll pass me in a little bit."  But, I never saw him again.  I assume he made it back to the finish line and didn't pass out on the side of the road somewhere.  As the older gentleman passed me, I thought, "It's a good thing they write our ages on the back of our legs.  It makes it so much less embarrassing when you're in last place and a 78 year old man races past you." 

Apparently, I also missed the briefing about the number of cars that would drive along side us of during the race.  That made me really nervous.  Some drivers were incredibly rude and did not give way to the cyclists.  With each passing car, I said a little prayer to make it back safely. 

While finishing last past place and longing for my iPod, I realized I wasn't quite last.  I managed to speed past a woman walking her bike back to the finish line.  HA!  Eat my puddle water flat tire, lady!

On my return trek, the hills were not a welcomed sight even though I knew I was close to the end.  As I rode along the last stretch, I heard a volunteer call out, "YAY!  Good for you!  You did it! Well done!"  That made me smile until I heard her say, "O.K. I think that's the last of them." 

Distracted by the cheers from the crowd, I misread the signals from the volunteers who were guiding everyone back to transition.  As I cruised back to the dsimount area, I became confused as where to stop.  I then lost to control and fell off the bike.  How humiliating!  In my mind, I debated telling people that I rode the short bus to the race.  It would be the only reasonable explanation for riding a mountain bike in a race and then falling off of it.  My bike time was 56:12.

Shrugging off my pathetic biking performance, I dodged off to transition.  Again, not aware that I was supposed to move quickly during transition, I leisurely drank my water and racked my bike.  Then, I noticed other women running to the pool.  At that moment, it dawned on me that this was a race and I needed to move faster.    With that, I quickly grabbed my towel and goggles and headed off to swim.  My chip beeped and I began to run, but then I noticed the girl in front of me was not wearing her shoes.  Was I supposed to take my shoes off in transition?  Humiliated once again, I quickly ripped off my shoes and tossed them into the grass.

Once at the pool, I slipped on my goggles and walked into the water.  Surprisingly, I swam the distance with agility.  Julie and Leslie waited for me at the end and cheered as I swap my laps.  Just before I finished, Allan and the girls came to the race to show their love and support.  I gave my family a huge wet hug.  My swim time was 5:25.

Final time: 1:38:07

Given the silly mistakes I made, my time could have been better, but it's a goal to strive for the next triathlon.  Despite the mistakes, I was impressed by my endurance and overall athletic performance, which will only improve with more training and a proper racing bike.  However, my friend, Lori, did warn me about the bike when she lent it to me.  Regardless, I absolutely loved the experience and I can't wait for the next challenge: the Chaotic Cotee in September.

Thanks to everyone who posted such wonderful and encouraging words!  Your support and love really means the world to me!  Also, thanks to Lori for lending her bike to me and thanks to Julie for creating such a cute Moms on the Go: Marathon Mom racing uniform for us to wear.