Year 2008

Great, I fucked up my right pinkie. With a brand new 8" kitchen knife. Not a mere cut, actually slicing off part of the fingertip like an escalope. Never saw where it went (down the drain, maybe). Nothing left to reattach. Buh-bye cherished nerve endings. Oh, this fucking sucks.

And it's on my good hand too, the one that likes to play delightfully with delicate parts, bringing smiles and good vibrations to smart, fun-loving ladies. Damn. The hand used for handshakes. Double damn. My pinkie-swears won't be the same either. Double-fucking-damn. :-(

Ok, it happend. It must never happen again. 2 lessons I learned through this mess:

1. Never handle dangerous objects when dead tired.
2. Become filthy rich, fucking soon, so as to never have to prepare my own meals ever again.

That's it, no more delays; I'm getting organized. I'll pursue my own business endeavors, and will make it this time.

Saturday, early evening. I find this photo montage taped to the belvedere on Jacques-Cartier Bridge. Rain has spread the colors all over, but the text is clear: a woman by the shore was watching this crouched man, perched on the side of the bridge. Unsure, hesitant, curled up with his head between his knees, he sits there for a few minutes. Then, he looks up, rises to his feet ...and jumps. The faded pictures are of his last fall. 10 minutes of routine police work later the search is over. A human life is gone, wasted, forgotten. Almost.

When crossing back on Sunday evening, I stop at the same spot again. The poster is gone, ripped away by the fireworks-watching crowd; likely this ephemeral paper went to join his unfortunate body. God have mercy on his soul.

Thank you Sandra Gordon, whoever you are for posting this paper up.

The Man on the Bridge — july 2008

Maybe I shouldn't have driven my bike during the winter. Snow, salt, rock, ice and other substance abuse make her look sad and older than she is and in retrospect I feel like I mistreated her somewhat. She's been with me for many years now; it's true, we've had our ups and downs, some shaky and thrilling times alike. She's been faithful to me all these years even when I was seeing other rides. I shouldn't keep neglecting her needs; I know she can be very dirty sometimes. Indeed, after weeks of leaving her untouched, cobwebs had accumulated; she was pretty rusty now I suppose and in dire need of getting some action.

This was a warm and sunny spring day. I picked her up and took her out, laid her down in the grass, gave her sporty frame a nice orange scented bubble bath, sponged her slowly, spent a long time letting my hands expertly handle her most delicate parts, connecting with her. Then when she was all fresh and primed I introduced a few fun accessories I bought lately, prepared the rubbers and applied generous amounts of lube. I started slow, increased the tension, flipped her up, tried different speeds, repositioned her seat, built up the pressure, shifted into high gear, explored her limits, felt her losing control, brought her to new horizons. We rode well into the afterglow of sunset. In the morning, she was gleaming and ready to take on the world!