The words Queen, Broadview and Village are embossed fancifully along the curbside planter. An evergreen shrub of some sort grows out of it and tall yellow grasses and bare twiggy branches not yet budded crowd around. A bicycle passes.

The sun beats down through the unmarked sky on the cars at the Toyota dealership across the street. The various types of SUV hybrids in tones of chrome reflect the midday sun like a mirror.

The asphalt rises slowly to my right past the concrete planter, past a streetcar shelter, past a red brick building and all the way up to the sturdy frame of a turquoise bridge. Somewhere beyond, somewhere further on, skyscrapers rise; they look deep blue right now -- docks to the heavens.

Past the Toyota dealership in front of me -- past the red baloons, flags and banners -- and even past the red crane -- smoke rises from some dark polygon. It emerges, floats past some glass and dissipates. It's soothing (it shouldn't be). Hypnotic.

Today the smoke looks more white than grey. It's a boquet of chrysanthemums. It's one flowing movement, like the rows of Canadian flags snaking forwards and backwards in front of the Toyota dealership.

The cream colour painted on above the chiropractic clinic across a sidestreat to my left is flecking off towards the top, exposing the red and orange bricks beneath. Beyond that I can see Pizza Pizza -- or at least a large sign with its phone number.

I sit here with my ass on the ledge of the Free Art Gallery and wait.

It's enjoyable. But Molle's forgotten.

Looking for the winning combination, the knock out blow? Well, if you're face looked like it just returned from rehab, from being pounded by a boxing glove several hundred times, you were in good shape. And I don't mean deformed. And I don't mean bloody. That would be nice, actually. I mean faceless. Hot shit you might say.

Girls: prance around and giggle for these prize fighters, these protectors, these rough-sloggers. You have nothing to live for anyways besides that typecast misogony of a culture you find security in.

The game is to play it. To drink it. Forget it.

Dance now on the dance square that's empty. Let red light coverup your plastic cheeks. Subjugate the enemy -- the ones who like meaning.

Underground here is using logic. Indie here is caring. Caring means not buying in. Withold your dollars now. Don't play those cards. Fold -- patience pays, right?

So sketch out your monsters in graphite behind glasses and toque. You'll be out of this shithole soon enough. Underachiever, even you can succeed. It doesn't take much...a brain maybe. Nah...just half a brain. The colours flow diagonally across the canvas, but think outside the frame. Don't waste your breath. Shut your fucking mouth. Calgary Jory. Calgary. Fuck yeh.

"That's right."

It'll catch on.

And their disease won't trap me. Thank you very much!

I have a promised return to life.

Friday, December 16, 2005 +++ DNA mutation accounts for white skin

The work suggests that the skin-whitening mutation occurred by chance in a single individual after the first human exodus from Africa, when all people were brown-skinned. That person's offspring apparently thrived as humans moved northward into what is now Europe, helping to give rise to the lightest of the world's races.

Leaders of the study, at Penn State University, warned against interpreting the finding as a discovery of "the race gene." Race is a vaguely defined biological, social and political concept, they noted, and skin color is only part of what race is -- and is not.

In fact, several scientists said, the new work shows just how small a biological difference is reflected by skin color. The newly found mutation involves a change of just one letter of DNA code out of the 3.1 billion letters in the human genome -- the complete instructions for making a human being.

"It's a major finding in a very sensitive area," said Stephen Oppenheimer, an expert in anthropological genetics at Oxford University, who was not involved in the work. "Almost all the differences used to differentiate populations from around the world really are skin deep."

November 6, 2005:

The Columbus Dispatch -- Q&A; ANDREW WEIL;
DOCTOR'S RX FOR AGING TAKES HOLISTIC APPROACH

By: Dennis Fiely

Ten books and numerous TV appearances have made Dr. Andrew Weil known nationwide.

And, with 76 million baby boomers storming into their twilight years during the next two decades, his latest release, Healthy Aging (Knopf, $27.95), promises to sell well, too. (...)

Q: If you were U.S. surgeon general, what would your priorities be?

A: First, I would improve nutrition. . . . I'd get fast food out of the schools and hospitals, and mandate nutritional education for physicians and other health-care professionals. I'd provide a free multivitamin and multimineral to all school kids.

I'd also work to get the FDA (Food and Drug Administration) to create a new division to regulate herbs, minerals and dietary supplements. Right now, it's a mess. We really need some regulation there. (...)

Q: My guess is that your book will soon be near the top of the best-seller list, with Natural Cures "They" Don't Want You To Know About by Kevin Trudeau. Is Trudeau stealing your thunder?

A. We're not competing for the same audience. But it is annoying to see him mix common-sense advice with nonsense. He appeals to people who dislike doctors and medicine, and want to believe that the powers that be are suppressing all these cures.

October 20, 2005:

The Boston Herald

If you believe the infomercial, Flex Protex might be the answer to arthritis sufferers' prayers.

The natural supplement works like a ``COX-2 Inhibitor'' relieving chronic arthritis pain without any of the nasty side effects of traditional drugs, such as Vioxx or Celebrex, says Donald Barrett, president and CEO of Beverly-based ITV Direct Inc. and Direct Marketing Inc.

But the Federal Trade Commission finds Barrett's supplements a bit hard to swallow.

In fact, the FTC is calling most of the ``natural remedies'' the infomercial producer touts bogus. And the agency has taken Barrett to court.

Now he's firing back with a lawsuit accusing the FTC of targeting his company and of being in cahoots with big drug manufacturers.

``We've been selectively prosecuted because (the FTC) is protecting the interest of the large pharmaceutical companies,'' Barrett said.

The agency has harassed employees, contacted media outlets to stop the company from advertising and violated free speech rights, ITV's suit claims.

The ugly battle started two years ago when Barrett began marketing two dietary supplements called ``Supreme Green with MSM'' and ``Coral Calcium Daily'' through infomercials on cable television.

The FTC claims ITV heralded the products as a cure for cancer or even the way to a slimmer figure.

Barrett denies branding the products as a cure for cancer.

ITV pulled the ``Supreme Green'' and ``Coral Calcium'' infomercials after the FTC won an injunction last year.

Three other figures named in the suit settled with the FTC, including Alejandro Guerrero of Healthy Solutions, who appeared with Barrett in past infomercials.

Guerrero agreed to pay the FTC $65,000 or surrender the keys to his 2004 Cadillac Escalade.

The FTC recently took aim again at Barrett and his company of 300 employees for airing new infomercials selling ``Flex Protex'' and a seaweed-based supplement called ``Sea Vegg.''

Barrett is not the first infomercial star pushing dietary cures to come under fire from the FTC.

Kevin Trudeau, a well-known natural cures guru, settled with the agency for $2 million in 2003 for claiming a product could cure cancer and relieve pain.

Barrett accused the agency of engaging in a witch hunt, attempting to take down natural remedies companies to protect the pharmaceutical industry.

A spokeswoman for the FTC declined to comment on the allegations.

October 16, 2005: Guardian Newspapers Limited: The Observer

WHAT LITTLE THERE is of the snooker season started last week in Preston. At present, only five ranking tournaments are scheduled, although one or two may be added. The sport continues to attract large television audiences - 7.8 million for this year's world championship final - but, despite these figures, it remains unattractive to sponsors.

It is little surprise, therefore, that the two most charismatic figures in the game, Ronnie O'Sullivan and Jimmy White, have decided to fill in the ample time between tournaments by signing up for the International Pool Tour, which is the brainchild/plaything of billionaire marketing man Kevin Trudeau. [is this the same dude?]

Trudeau's tour will have no problem with sponsors because one of his companies, NaturalCures.com, is stumping up the funds. He says: 'It is ridiculous to think that pool players are only interested in drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and taking erectile dysfunction drugs! Or eating at McDonalds!'

'Up until now all sports advertising has been for these things. This makes no sense to me. Pool players, like everyone else, are interested in eliminating their pain, curing arthritis, learning about natural ways to handle diabetes, acid reflux disease, obesity, constipation, headaches, back pain, etcetera.'

If you say so, Kevin, although I can't recall the last time someone placed me in a deep snooker and then tried to disrupt my game with a graphic description of his ongoing acid reflux problem.

O'Sullivan is certainly impressed. 'He wants to make pool like the Super Bowl,' he says, 'and I couldn't help but get excited about it. He said they had noticed in sports that don't go anywhere, everyone - from top to bottom - gets a fair cut and in sports that are successful the top ones get all the dough and the ones who aren't making it get nothing. And I thought: "There is a different mentality from snooker to pool."

'Snooker wants to keep 128 players all happy and they want the top players to carry dead meat. In America, if you are a loser and can't cut it you get out of it. Whether this is right or not I don't know but it makes sense.' Or, as Fast Eddie Felson puts it in The Color of Money : 'The trouble with shooting pool is that it's no good if you don't win.'

Trudeau, by guaranteeing prize money of more than $ 5 million a year, is seeking to establish a structure whereby the professionals can make a decent living from playing the game.

THE GAME PLAYED will be eight-ball rather than nine-ball, which is the version played by 90 per cent of amateurs and the British pub-going public.

In theory, it should be easier for a snooker player to turn to pool than vice versa, but O'Sullivan isn't expect ing to make an immediate impact. 'I'm an awful pool player,' he says. 'It is completely different from snooker and although it looks simple it isn't unless you know how to work the system. There is a diamond system to the table, which is simple if you know how to work it. If you don't it isn't.

'That's why snooker players get thrashed by American pool players. There is an art to it and a lot more tactics to the game of pool, which I need to learn. But I have got the time to do that - I have a lot of time.'

The danger for snooker is that without more tournaments many of their top players will have too much time on their hands to perfect their pool games and, if Trudeau's tour takes off, they will be well remunerated for doing so.

O'Sullivan feels that snooker 'needs a dictator - a Bernie Ecclestone. Someone to say, "Look, you are getting that, you are playing to these rules, you can do this and do that and you will all get loads of money. It will be fun and it will be exciting." But snooker hasn't got that. Snooker has got people saying, "You don't want to do this" or "You don't want to upset that."

'The game needs restructuring. We need to ask publicists and business people what is so unattractive about snooker.'

These comments drew this response from the world snooker chairman, Rodney Walker: 'Some of it I don't blame him for because we haven't announced our results for last year, nor have I announced a new broadcast contract, nor have we announced any new sponsors. Two of those announce ments are imminent. His timing is unfortunate when the sport is about to make some very positive statements.'

The problem is that snooker has been 'about to make some very positive statements' for the past decade or so. The news is not all gloomy: 400,000 people a day in Germany watch snooker on Eurosport; and more than 100 million watched live coverage of the China Open final when Ding Jun Hui came back from 1-4 to defeat Stephen Hendry 9-5 having beaten Ken Doherty 6-0 and Peter Ebdon 5-0.

Events in Preston might have been enlivened had Ding Jan Hui been given a wild card but that might have upset someone, which is something snooker doesn't seem prepared to do.

August 31, 2005: Rocky Mountain News

(...)

If you think Americans are overmedicated and too quick to invite the surgeon's scalpel, that's fine. You probably have a point. But spare us charges of conspiracy, cover-up and restraint of trade involving drug companies, the American Medical Association and the government when explaining why Americans so easily turn into pill-popping hypochondriacs.

KNUS has been running ads trumpeting Kevin Trudeau's blockbuster book Natural Cures "They" Don't Want You To Know About - the "they" of course being drug companies and other scoundrels of the medical Illuminati who spend every waking hour scheming to ensnare people with worthless but costly products.

And what of the tens of thousands of people working for the regulatory agencies, drug companies and other outposts of the medical establishment? Are they conscious collaborators or merely dupes of this conspiracy to keep Americans sick and ignorant? It has to be one or the other, doesn't it?

Such reasoning is contemptible. And yet if Trudeau's book sales are any indication, a great many people are lapping it up. (...)

August 29, 2005: The Guardian (London)

Title: For the sake of your health, avoid the snake-oil billionaire who has grown rich exploiting America's poor

America loves "how to" books. Typically they are about how to be a better American: richer, thinner, happier, sexier, and more beautiful. For the past few weeks the how-to charts have been headed by a book which has provoked more controversy than anything since The Anarchist's Cookbook instructed America's disaffected youth how to make Molotov cocktails.

Kevin Trudeau's book, Natural Cures "They" Don't Want You To Know About, offers, for a mere $ 25 (£14), "natural cures for more than 50 specific diseases" - including cancer, heart disease, bad breath, gout, male erectile dysfunction, obesity, dandruff, multiple sclerosis and gloom.

Buy this book, Trudeau promises, and "never get sick again". That's not quite accurate. Buy this book together with products that have included coral calcium on Trudeau's website, www.naturalcures.com, and subscribe to his email newsletter (lifetime subscription $ 499) and then enjoy eternal health. Just because it's natural, doesn't mean it's free.

Mr Trudeau has no medical, pharmaceutical or therapeutic qualifications. He did, however, spend two terms in Federal prison for credit-card fraud. In his book, he admits that "I have made major mistakes in my life. I have paid my price and I have turned my life around."

Before he turned around into bestsellerdom, Trudeau's most successful self-help publication offered a surefire remedy for snoring. Nowadays, he presents himself as "America's foremost consumer advocate". He is the lone voice speaking up against the all-powerful "they": regulatory government bodies, such as the Food and Drug Administration and the Federal Trade Commission in alliance with NGOs such as the American Medical Association and - behind them - the drug companies, the health insurers and the fast-food chains.

"Did you know," asks Trudeau, "that the medical profession, in partnership with the pharmaceutical industry, has a huge interest in keeping you sick rather than healing you? Do you realise the Federal government is doing everything in its power - and some things well beyond its stated power - to keep this a secret?" Now you know.

The problem faced by the authorities ("they", that is) is whether, even in the land of the free, the public should be allowed to buy snake oil. Some of Trudeau's "cures" are so harmful as to verge on the homicidal. "Pacemakers," he alleges, "cause heart failure." "Stop taking all non-prescription and prescription drugs," he urges. If you take them, "you absolutely will get sick and develop disease". Throw away the aspirin and live for ever.

Instead of popping the poisons prescribed by your family doctor, Trudeau recommends 15 colonic irrigations in 30 days, magnetic rings on the fingers (especially at night), and no alarm clocks ("they have profound effects on your body's pH"). And lots of coral calcium. That, not chemotherapy, was supposed to keep the big C at bay.

Last September, the FTC slapped a $ 2m fine on Trudeau for claiming that his magic powder, procured from the swirling depths of the barrier reef, could cure or prevent cancer. Since he has made a reported $ 2bn over the past few years the fine, as with others he has been obliged to pay, was small change. He admitted no wrongdoing, agreed to stop marketing the coral calcium, but kept on with his bestselling books (carefully "updated" to avoid any more irritating inroads into his royalties). He has a follow-up on the way: How to Lose 30 Pounds in 30 Days: the Weight Loss Secret "They" Don't Want You to Know About.

It would be easy to dismiss Trudeau's ability to separate the great American public from their hard-earned dollars as confirmation that there's one born every minute and somebody else eager to profit by it. But the runaway success of Natural Cures also bears witness to genuinely troubling aspects of the American healthcare system. It has been estimated that some 50 million citizens have no health insurance. For these desperate people, who fall sick like everybody else, "natural cures" are all they can afford. "Socialised medicine", as the Clintons learned the hardway, has no place in America. Capitalistic medicine does. What John le Carre calls "Big Pharma" has made America the most drugged nation in history. Big burgers, as the film-maker Morgan Spurlock amusingly suggests, has made it the fattest. The profits roll in, as Americans become more chemically zonked and unwell. Why don't "they" do something about it? Dig into your wallet, read Trudeau, and have your most paranoid suspicions confirmed.

Apr 18, 1996: Kevin Trudeau, has been accused by Illinois regulators of running an illegal pyramid scheme. Regulators in at least six other states are conducting similar inquiries. The accusation against Trudeau is that he violated Illinois law by recruiting thousands of Nutrition For Life distributors with a sales pitch that emphasized the rewards for bringing in new members instead of selling products to end users.

Jan 20/22, 1996: Apotex owner loses US$19m: Nutrition for Life shares plunge after report of pitchman's criminal past

[Barry Sherman], best known as the founder and owner of generic drug manufacturer Apotex Inc. of Toronto, holds 1.2 million shares obtained when he held stock in a predecessor company and helped Nutrition For Life out with a US$650,000 loan.

Nutrition For Life (NFLI/NASDAQ) stock fell after U.S. reports revealed that pitchman Kevin Trudeau, whose marketing company encouraged people to pay US$1,000 each for the right to distribute NFL's diet supplement products, had criminal convictions for larceny and fraud.

I stared at the flat surface -- spent all my  
energy focusing my eyeballs. It was digital blue.  
Bubbles. A moving cartoon. Artistic. Yes it was  
kind of like the animation on my cellphone. It was such a stunning representation of churning liquid -- like cotton candy, or Powerade -- I just wanted to touch it. I smiled. I got a giddy rush as I extended my index finger to graze the surface of that blue with my kinetic energy. The white  
spheres in the front of my face pinched into  
sharper focus. My arm shuddered. My ears heard the sharp intake of breath as my finger disappeared through the flat plane up to my first knuckle. My elbow flew back wards (with grace...). My torso remained hunched forwards as I peered at the waves of yellow and orange and green which appeared for the first time -- excited within the blue liquid. That image followed my finger outward, but then some law of continuum was breached in the digital mesh and unexpectedly the surface snapped backwards, wobbling, not unlike congealing Jello. I thought of Neo. This was different than in the Matrix. That was metallic and cold. It was more a pane of short silver ripples and less this personal sea of slippery waters. In front of me was this an intriguing video game. I stuck my hardened finger in that flowing face again and again with purpose. The rhythm of the liquid video game wobble was hypnotic. The colours spasmed upon every contact. It was as if I could hear a drifting breakbeat through the sonic sphere: reverberating from sharp bombastic pulses upon withdrawal and fading away along with the rippling digital wobble. The sensation was somehow enhanced as I added a bright pink film around the ridges of my fingers. I don't know what made me think of it...it was natural. The transparent pink looked like a condom, but I think it was bubblegum.

Friday we hit up a jungle show at the orange room. The bar was lined in squares of blue tile. The DJ spun from a bureau-wide podium. The MC was a background rhythm of complementing sound waves.  
The side wings were padded, dim and ornate. It was a good crowd. The up and down. The side to side flow. And of course...the drop. Repetitive  
infectious bass. The finger point. Don't forget  
the two-step dip. And then SHE was there. Wow.  
Astounded. Racing heart was in shock.
"I didn't know you liked jungle!" she said.
Fuck her black outfit was so hot. And her face  
beamed the way a drunk person's might -- but she  
didn't look drunk.
"For sure. I can't believe you're here! I was  
totally going to invite you to come but I didn't  
know if you'd be into this type of thing," I  
replied.
She did a subtle bounce. And smiled.
I brought her a plastic cup of Corona.
Too bad she had a boyfriend. But she accepted the  
beer.
With intricate foot patterns and waving arms, the  
night sped by. The last DJ, bleach-tipped fullhawk and all, had to do a half-hour encore set because no one wanted to leave. Once again the Drum and the Bass had started something new, like, woke up my energies, and took me to a place where I could breathe, where I could sleep...and where I could  
dream.

I'm about to get rejected at work over and over and over again. I wonder how I will take it.

I was assaulted verbally by her today. My ex-group member also agreed I was shut down. Just because she's such a hurt bitch doesn't mean she has to take it out on me again. It seems like my life is on repeat. This is the story of my life. From back in hide-and-go-seek days through truth-or-dare and now to read-on-camera, I put up with verbal torture from females.

I seriously was going to break out and cry at one point.

The way my jacket looked made me feel uncomfortable. It reminded me of that 80's Eddie Murphy standup shit from last night. Tacky, depressing and awkward.

"Is he a funny guy?" the teacher asked, asking my class about me after my serious fuck-up on-camera that made everyone laugh. My heart shot into my mouth.

Everyone laughed. But they seemed to indicated I was funny, with ya's.

"Is he a pretty well liked guy?" he asked.

Slight hesitation...the moment of truth...but then ya's. Amanda said ya, I think, a little louder than anyone else, and she meant it. Or at least she was trying to be supportive. I needed that. She remindes me of that woman from Medium (caring and smart). Actually it's the other way around. I saw that show for the first time the other day, and it had some decent scenes amid the mire of Prime Time TV bullshit. That star was the reason I liked the show because she reminded me of Amanda's heartfelt dialogue.

That made me feel a little better.

My black nailpolish is starting to flake off.

I may suck ass right now, but at least people think I'm funny and respect me for the fact that I'm not a cruel jaded suburban bitch.

Prime Timers: Geezer is offensive and so is senior citizen. Why would we want to remember these people are closer to death than they are to birth? That's not very polite now, is it. These people, who have loved and lost, partied and settled down decades ago already, are really just now heading into the best days of their lives. There is so much empty time on the horizon, where they will have nothing better to do anyways besides fritter away their time with brainless entertainment like a golf marathon. These people are not retirees; they are not wise elders; they are Prime Times.

Downsizing: People don't retire to simplified lifestyles, they downsize. Brought to you by the producers of Corporate America: A Nightmare We Ignore, starring the men and women who orchastrated the bureaucratic mire for their own glamour, comes a new release, Post-Corporate America: Slackers Downsize. "Downsizing often conjures up...more time for sports, recreation, travel, dining out, hobbies and simply enjoying life." Well geez, thanks for telling me what I often think. I'm a big fan of mental dictation like that. Self-righteous baby boomers can't imagine the spotlight shifting from them for a second. Greed is a wonderful way to fuel language development (or destruction).

Home-staging: Face it, no one wants to buy a house with your grandkids broken toys littered all over the floor or your daughter-in-law's bra hanging off the guest bedpost. How can you enter the mythical world of doing nothing if you can't sell your house? Not to fear, faking a perfect atmosphere in the home is a great way to entice buyers. "Selling your home is all about creating an ambience and establishing an emotional connection with prospects." And best of all, you don't have to do a thing. "Your agent will know what your home's best features are; a professional home stager will show you the best way to highlight them." Don't worry, based on the size of your house and the astronomical price you're probably asking for this probably won't cost you less than $4,000.

Home Inspection: If your home is "getting on in years" you better "be proactive". You need a home inspection. Don't know why you should do this? Well, you don't want any buyers thinking even though you're trying to move to a post-job world that you're getting old. That would be embarrassing. They might even think you were losing it. You better get a home inspection. "Your thoroughness will impress them."

(All quotes directly from the October 22, 2005 article).

-This mall was more like a twisted hallway from the 60s. Barbara noted it was actually a "plaza". Still fucked up, as far as I was concerned. Like imagine being in a brick alleyway. Then screw in a 40 watt bulb. That was how dismal it seemed. It was the perfect setting perfectly for the disastrous scene about to follow. Those being the events before the interview.

-That's right. You guessed it. One coffee that morning was apparently one coffee too many. I needed relief, and fast. But the maze of hallway wasn't easy to navigate. Finally I lunged at the door with the picture of my friend, the stick man named "MEN", on it. Safe and sound. Or so I thought. Calling out behind me was a short male janitor with a crinkly face.

"You can no go in there."

WTF?

"ITz Closed"

WHAT THE HELL???

I was dying out there...I was literally in pain. And this dude is trying to stop nature from running its course?!?

To make matters worse, I had to stand outside waiting for the girls to emerge out of their doorway.

Stand stand stand stand stand. Wait wait wait wait wait. Die die die die die.

By this time one women had exited the powder room and another had used her key to enter. As Carolina emerged, a kamikazee-desperate plan bounced into my head. I explained it to her: I would wait until the other woman came out and then make a dash for it.

So after that sorry excuse for a shopping mall worker exited the scene, we excecuted the strategeme. Carolina got the janitor to unlock the washroom again, saying she had forgotten something. The two girls then stood stand guard as I did what was required of me in my position of duty. I would then wait for the signal to hurry out again.

Unbeknownst to me, deeply undercover (I was practicing a swayed strut and everything) in the woman's washroom, the tight-ass janitor smelled a rat. He wondered where that guy that was freaking out earlier had disappeared to so magically.

I busted out on cue, but Mr. Crinkle-face whipped his head around quick enough to make my face turn the colour of my red shirt. The girls chimed in with explainations. The janitor grinned and shouted. But I knew I was caught...red handed.

I sped off down the spiraling corridor as the go-nowhere clean-up dude shouted some form of gibberish we were supposed to understand but couldn't decipher.

I escaped with my fast gait, and breathed a sigh of relief. The deed was done, and we were set to go. Once again I was relaxed.

This was a comfort I would revel in until eating McDonnald's later that afternoon...

(hopefully I won't get around to continuing the story)

No, he informed me. I had it wrong. He was actually offering a collection of choice nuts, and I tensed as he fumbled to remove the lid. Inside, the container was indeed ajumble with nuts. The two females said no. I said I just brushed my teeth.

Do you guys know each other? the drunk Afghani wondered, trying to give the scene some basis in his confused mind. The black girl with the labret that stuck out centimeters just stared at him. We go way back, I said. More laughter from the girls. I couldn’t tell if the dude behind and in front of me was now more perplexed or now more at ease. We’re the youth of the city, just fucking around on our way somewhere else. Of course we know each other.

Stop was requested.

“Woh, did you see that?...” The gentle inebriated one asked, mesmerized.

“Are you talking about her ass?” asked one of the girls. The girls were full of amused frenzy. The short haired guy continued the debate about the middle aged woman who was preparing to exit, not in his own mind, but quite vocally.

“I don’t like her ass,” he decided loud enough.

“Gotta love straight talk,” I said.

Rumbling along, he now offered unto us a Corona bottle. “No thanks,” said the girls. One added informatively: “We’re going out to get drunk.” The other wondered about the situation of the bent cap.

He pointed the neck my direction. I noticed the foamy surface tension and shade.

“It looks like piss,” I said.

“Ya. It does!” agreed the one with the labret.

“That’s because it’s wine,” said the Afghani. Apparently his relatives make it and bottle it in Corona bottles. “I just can’t get it open,” he said, more helpless than frustrated.

There was confusion as to how best to reopen open the bottle.

“How do you re-close a pop-top?” was a curiosity left hanging in the air by the homemade wine industry and its proponents’ lack of ability to explain it.

“I have a bottle opener in my purse,” said the black girl. But then she remembered she didn’t. Neither knew how to use a lighter to pop the top. I don’t actually remember how it was done, but in the end the bottle did get opened.

For the duration, the pale liquid sat horizontal, as the dude preferred to stare at it with glossy eyes than to drink it

It was his stop.

“Good luck – you’ll need it,” I said.

He got off. I thought he stumbled away. But he was still raving nearby, in some sort of row, as we rode on.