Robot Monkeys

So yesterday I was driving to campus and drove right pass a dead body. Second dead bicyclist at Bay and Mission in less than year. This one got run over by a cement truck. Last one got run over by the trailer of a semi. This one wasn’t even wearing a helmet, but really, it wouldn’t have mattered here. Who knows if anyone is fault with this accident, but with the last bicycle fatality there was a very real chance that the bicyclist tried to shoot pass the semi as it made the turn. (”WE ARE TRAFFIC!” Well then, obey the traffic laws, or become more collision resistant jackass. No. I have no sympathy for the bicyclists.)

I drove by the accident shortly after it happened. The police were on the scene, blocked off the lane and put a tent around the body. The guy was 50. There signs at The Perg saying who he was, the name is the same of some actor. I don’t remember who. Some militant bicyclists were having a funeral ride at 5pm, “wear black.” Well, at least it’s still light out. If only it was at dusk. Then maybe they could make it a 2 or 3fer.

The main reason why I’m writing about this, is that when I drove by the accident, the cops had the bike sitting out. It was black cruiser. The frame looked in good shape, but the back wheel was bent, but all in all it looked pretty good. Then I thought about how when you die, all your stuff gets divvied up among your friends and just random strangers, and how that bike was going to go somewhere. Then I thought about owning that bike. Not just owning it, but riding around town on a bike that a guy got killed on. I’d put “Dead Man” on the frame. Maybe put a plastic skull on the front the bike. Really morbid it up. Let everyone know I was riding a bike a was killed on.

Yeah. I’m going to hell.

Two things.

First up, we have from the blogosphere the guy in NYC who “bought” the most expensive drink at Starbuck’s. A 13 shot venti soy hazelnut vanilla cinnamon white mocha with extra white mocha and caramel, it rang up for, with tax, for $13.76. Then he used the comp card he got from a previous Starbuck’s visit.

Awesome. Awesome to the max.

Today’s other coffee related news is that today at the Perg I got an undertow. An undertow, if you don’t know is juice glass filled 1/3 (or a little less) with vanilla syrup, 1/3 (or until the glass would be full with a shot) cold milk, and a shot of espresso poured in over the back of a spoon. The drink is let to cool for about a minute and then you pound the drink. It’s divine. The warm bitter of the espresso, the cold milk, and then the sweet syurp. Mmmm.

When I was there earlier, I saw one of the better barristas make one last time I was there make one. He said they are considering selling them, but right now you have to ask. Since they’re not really selling them, the prices are kind of in flux. Probably will be about $2 or $2.50. Only two barristas make them, so you have to either orderit from the tall guy with the beard, or some other barrista-to-be-named-later. The best part of the whole undertow experience? Getting it for no charge, because as the barrista said, “It’s just like drugs. The first one is free.”

Bound to be THE social event of the quarter. (Sadly.)

So I moved.

I now live down by the beach instead of the base of campus. Essentially I moved from one end of the street, all the way to the other end of the street. That’s not the point of the story, but it does begin to set the scene. Today I was out walking in front of the apartment building right by my house, and there was this guy standing there talking to these two girls. In front of them was a python. The guy owned the python, and was letting it “run” (”slither”?) around on the ground for exercise or something. I stopped to watch the snake. Afterall, how often do you get to watch a snake? So the guy is there and chatting with girls about the snake. How long he’s had it. What he feeds it. (Rats. Originally frozen rats. Then he switched to live rats, but he stopped after his wife complained that one time one of the rats screamed as it was being killed, so now it’s back to dead rats.) He seemed friendly enough, but it was just small talk about his pet.

He had buzzed hair. Not off. Just short, but not really really short. Like 3/8 inch or so. It was brown, but it was turing grey. He had pierced nipples and tattoos all over his back and a couple on his front. Not all that unusual given Santa Cruz. They were a bit old, since they turned that green that tats do. They weren’t that high quality. Just run of the mill, mediocre tats. One of the tats on his back caught my eye. Across his shoulders was was an eagle, but with really wide and narrow outstretched wings. Was that the Nazi eagle? I looked again. No. It was too curvy. It was more like an American eagle, but kind of in that pose, and it didn’t have the wreath with the swastika in it. I chalked it up to just kind of a crappy eagle, that fit with his crappy flamethrowing motorcycle that dominated his back. Then I noticed the tattoo across the small of his back. That one was unmistakable. In gothic caligraphy, it said, “WHITE POWER SKINHEAD.”

Apparently it wasn’t a crappy American eagle, but a crappy Nazi eagle, or maybe a deliberate rendering of the American bald eagle as the Nazi eagle.

He seemed affable. The tattoos were old. He was going grey. Maybe he was a racist skinhead before, but then grew up. Like Edward Norton in American History X, but without the prison rape. I chalked it up to that, but somehow that wasn’t satisfying. I eventually walked on, and then another thought entered my head. Oh yeah! I’m white!