Last month, as I was speeding up Broadway on my bike, there it was: my first car-door flying open into my path, milliseconds before I was destined to hit it. I remember the absurdly loud crunching noise, landing in a not good way, and feeling profoundly depressed. Two weeks before, I made a conscious decision to stop wearing my helmet -- it was cumbersome, I felt confident in my skills as a veteran city cyclist. But as I lay on my back, a crowd gathering over me yelling things like "call an ambulance," "don't move" and "are you okay?" I thought, this must be a sign. Luckily, the only thing seriously damaged was my derailleur, which fell off completely on my way to work the next morning. I escaped death/coma/concussion, but I wasn't going to take any more chances. From then on, before I'd even leave wherever I was, I'd have that sucker strapped on like Jenny Shimizu's thigh dildo.
A few weeks later, I was vigilantly pedaling up 1st Ave, in the shoulder, carefully giving myself a 4-foot buffer between parked cars on my right and traffic on my left, when suddenly I heard that crazy crunching noise again. I'd been doored, again. As my head snapped back against the asphalt, all I could think was, I'd so be dead if I wasn't wearing this helmet. I got ten stitches in my hand, whiplash, crazy hip pains, a nightmare insurance situation and blood all over my nice white shirt, but life has never been so good -- it is not uncommon for a biker to die in an accident like this. There are two obvious points here: 1. Always wear a helmet while biking, and 2) Will the car-consumers of this universe please be so kind as to look before throwing their doors open and possibly killing/maiming/emotionally-crippling another innocent being? Thanks.

This is my L.A.






Buses, subways, artsy chainlink fences.

I almost never have a car when I go back to California, so the last time I came through town, after checking out real Picassos at the Hammer museum, I hopped on the bus across the street to meet Betty at her downtown office. Actually, that's a lie. There were so many people in line, I decided to walk to the next stop, having no idea that in L.A. they're about a mile apart from each other.(Here at home in Manhattan, they're every other block.) The upside is, you can get all the way from the west side to the east side during Friday rush hour in 45 minutes for $1.25, and pack some good reading in, too. Plus, did you know the buses have special sensors that keep the lights green when approaching major intersections? Anyhow, I don't live in L.A., but if you do:



(bottom photo courtesy of www.davidchoe.com)

human rocket


And then there's this. No words.

Butterfly Lovers

My parents sent this to me, adding that it would be nice to blog about. All I have to say it that it could've been named anything but what it is: "She's got legs," "Gumby Returns," "The String Cheese Incident." Check out 2:42, 3:56 and 4:24.

I stopped by the Nathan's hot dog eating contest in Coney Island on Tuesday to squish through 20,000 sweaty fans along the hot and humid corner of Stillwell and Surf. I know a bunch of the crew who competed, so it was particularly exciting. Patrick Bertoletti placed 4th with 34 1/2 dogs in the 12-minute race. Sonya Thomas missed her personal best of 38 by one. Joey Chestnut gave muscle-chicken Takeru Kobayashi some tough competition, but in the end, his 52 was edged out by the Tsunami's record-breaking 54. Though they feign a rivalry, I know those two dudes are cool with each other. In fact, all the competitive eaters I know are pretty awesome people.

The best conversation of the day was the couple mooshing up behind me.
Perspiring dude in tank top: "I wanna see these fat bastards eat some hot dogs."
Amply-chested girlfriend: "They're skinnier than you are."

Anyway, I have pictures from the contest, but no way to download right now. For now, I have this mutant cherry which looks like Keroppi. Wish him a happy birthday on Monday.