Math, "Hello, Pretty Bird"

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... at the far end of the Paradox there was a stage set up with a cover band playing. Front man, drums, electronics, hawaiian shirts, jeans, beaded necklaces. The front man looked to her to be one who would always be refilling his gin glass and never really focusing on thoughts outside of his own grey boufont. The stage was an indoor outdoor concept covered in potted plants with bright lights set everywhere and barstools at it's base on the outdoor part. Even though this city is two hundred miles from the nearest coast line men and women sat sipping bright purple drinks wearing swimwear. The band, called Prom Dress she noticed from the banner tacked up behind the drummer, was playing Jimi Hendrix. "A Vietnam vet," she thought as she looked around the already crowded bar/lounge full of happy hour's finest. People who live a few floors above these places, a few blocks this way, in stacks and towers who are mostly the same age. "A Vietnam vet," she repeated in her head, feeling obviously out of place with her sweat stained t-shirt and dusty, unwashed hair. She wasn't going to go any further, was ready to bail on the whole napkin chasing fantasy. "Shit," she thought, "this is dumb. I could be walking into a trap." The napkin had blown into her lap earlier that morning and it had scribbled on it directions to this place, a child-like line drawing of a man wearing a beret and striped shirt swinging a golf club, and her name. Not the name she was known by but her real name, a name she was pretty sure only one other person knew, and that person was very, very far from this financial mecca.
Just as she turned to leave a familiar sound caught her ear. When she spun back around she saw a dark-skinned man with one or two pearly round teeth hanging into his open smile from gums the shade of a sharks liver looking directly into her eyes as he pressed the keys and pumped the lung of a harmonium. The front man of the band was sipping Gin out of a plastic cup and smiling at some older women in the front row. As the girl leaned over the bar to hear what the Indian man with the pretty tooth was saying the band started up again, an Allman Bro's tune. She leanded closer and smelled the mans breath, like that of clorophyl and roots. He pushed half a coconut to her full of a powdery green liquid. He shot one back himself, he had been saying something to her. She leaned in closer saying, "I can't hear you." "It is not goo-od at all if your mother and father are crying..." he said, and looked down at the juice. She picked it up and took it down in one swallow. He laughed and began to pump the harmonium louder, drowing out the southern rock top 30 in the background....

Climbing the Corporate Ladder

When I was a kid in Oklahoma somewhere around the years of 1987 and 1988 we talked a lot about early non-productivity based society peoples who now get called Indians even though that's kinda goof. They also get called native Americans but that too is a wee spit cart before the muley. It was EarthPeople if anything, and they're still alive. I suspect I am one on some leve, moonlighting in cities but stretching my spirit towards open space and non-reliance on corporate middle people to provide my needs. Fighting my way out of this wet paper bag is harder than one who is not even trying or imagining would think. My friend called me yesterday crackin out because he was staring at a McD's billboard that had an "aig" (ya'll prolly say "egg") in the bottom corner with a thought bubble over it's head and the thought was that the aig was aspiring to become an aig muck muffin. We agreed that what he was seeing was the spreading of the myth and lie that all things share a human view and that all human views aspire for the same things, therefore enforcing the emotional feeling that becoming a product (or obtaining products) is the only satisfying path. People often comment when I talk to em that "you can't take it with you," implying that upon death when yer pumped full of chemicals and placed in a nonbiodegradable box to one last time pollute the environment you cant take the stuff along. What? What kind of logic is that??? Seriously, I'm on a logic hunt people, that's my official job title, Jordy Moore, Logic Hunter. How about this for a change... You can hardley take it with you anywhere, while yer still alive! Forget dying and the implications of life/death good/bad/ heaven/hell/ girl/boy haves/havenot etc/etc... the stuffs heavy and unnecessary and really only there to try to reenforce that in a meaningless world objects or posessions can have meaning. They Cant. Thats why people are locking everything down, they have to leave it alone and hope some individual they deem criminal won't want the same stuff they wanted at one time too and go in and take it. People do, I know, im no hippy about that fact. In FACT I know that out of the entire population of persons behind bars on the planet 25%!!! are locked up in the U S A. Thats 2.2 million individual warehoused. Like the rest of the stuff that the rest of society is concerned with getting... in a legal way? Really, how legal is the manner in which were getting the stuff were getting. Were mowing down trees left and right to build homes, but the trees are the lungs of the planet. Were building those same homes on the homes of what used to be another species home, which violates awareness. Were driving millions of cars a day going on millions of errends when really we could be networking to meet our own needs in an efficient way. Were telling the rest of the world were a democracy when in all actuality we are a corpocracy that is violating the individual rights set forth in the Constitution of the United States of America and spreading the lie that the world has always existed the way it looks right now and that we should all tow the line to keep it that way. Really? Two generations of humans living the life-is-good life is enough. This is just starting, and were going to take it in the direction of justice and evolution, peace and true freedom.

So at Harvest Hills Grammer School we would make outfits out of paper bags from grocery stores (in those days there was no good/evil option at the check out line) and make them look like vests and we would make feathers to and put on plays about these mysterious people who only left a trace of their existence in the form of a rounded spot on the earth or an arrowhead, and select writings and infinate amounts of cultural insight into THE REAL NATURE OF LIFE. I remember loving these people, imagining how their families stayed warm together and sat by fires and smiled under the sun. I remember being one. One of the songs that we would sing has always stuck in my head, (along with that song "Love in Any Language" that had hand signing with it... i digress), and this song in particular didn't sound too "indian" but we played it over simple little hand drums and sang it in a kind of chant that we deemed reverent. I paraphrase:

Go my son, go and earn your feather
Reach my son, go and climb your ladder
Lead my son, make yer people proud of you (ooww-oooww)

From the ladder of an education
You can speak to and reach entire nations
Believe my son, watching all the dreams come true (ooow-ooow)

... and so on.

That song was in my head yesterday as I climbed 55 feet into a tree and wrapped steel rope around its branches so that it can be pulled out by the root... It creates too much shade and its wood can be used to grow mushrooms in. With each spike-step going into the tree I got higher and higher and breathed into my awareness and remained where I was, because I didn't even want to think of where I would be or how I would feel if I didnt, just bodily. Err. But up at the top I sat for a second and closed my eyes and remembered those songs taught to me by The Teacher's back in the day, and it was a good and happy moment, of knowing I am climbing in the right direction.

Math, "BurmADeltA"

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Swimming under the shallow waves on a populated beach by the legs of law enforcement, having no problem holding my breath, trying to remain hidden as they troll the shore looking for me. The last one reaches down and pulls me up out of the water and with the mirror glasses asks me if I know where im going.

When will you not take em anymore?

The world is on fast-foward, the tape reelin WHEEEEEEEEE! This is a crucial lifetime, for every single one, and the value can not be counted, but can be recognized only in silence and knowing. The paradox...

... She walked into the Paradox and looked around, the napkin had said to be here at 7:30pm est, and it was five minutes past. She had stood outside around the corner smoking a Nat Sherman Hint of Mint and staring at a line of taxi's that could get her out of here; this city, this state, this country. But she didn't take one and now she was standing inside the brand new Bistro and Kava Bar that was taking this banker's metropolis like a Tsunami and turning ties into coral and khaki into kiwi... or Kava.

Math

This another variation of that one moment. . . I like the guitar w the harmonics better though. May as well post it while its relevant cause the obsolete is just that. Love one and one love. ABHA! AB HA!

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Math, "Just That One Example"

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Memorial day celebration got me new looks out of the drivers, looks of amazement and solidarity, though the reason i wore the flag was personal. But i won't kid around with you, on that day, with that flag, i was treated with a reverence on the road that ive not experienced in the JAR before. Seeing peoples thoughts stop at anger and frustration and back up to the moment they are in is bizarre, especially because of an icon that we see prolly 43,000 times a day within the "borders" of this nation. Defenders of the Constitution of the United States of America, unite and raise yer weary heads!

24 inches of stick, Soup's favorite 08 plan.

This song, "Just That One Example" is not about realizing that there was a sign to follow and avoiding it, IT IS not following that indication. It feels horrible, low, dark, piggish, and rude. I'm thankful that i realized my phone was a recording studio so i can do something with that feeling and turn it into art to share rather than internalize it and let it build a home of meaningless in my body.

When i took all my clothes off and stood in the mirror is was just me staring back, and when i had my coffee this morning i was looking at myself from the shiny top of the french press. . . My talent is sharing, talking, provoking, encouraging, connecting, laughing, breathing. That is my place in this world. There is a keyhole, that we are peeking through to the other side of the universe, and under our feet are the materials of success. Sand, stone, water, wood, rubber, aluminum, glass, love.

Math, "Lake Placid"

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Analytics (aka, that photo of a crimescene)

eyes like oceans

i had studied

envision but

so so so unaware

blind anger
past
sided
ambition
mice

so so so

so cool

almost

cold

elevation
steppes
bent blood cells
crevase
axis mundee
14trillionyearoldlightfragments
so what is now
because the sides of my mind

like the dog-faced ray locked in low tide

flap up and down in a watery home

and ask about providence
mystery

forgiveness

coffee

ea t he roo t

will we see any patterns

now eye only love the

sky

Hi

Hi

WWOOF'n: The JAR?!?!

One and one-half bucket gravel, one third bucket water, one half bucket kwikrete, and one bucket four shovels full sand makes a happy mezcla.


Farmin' 1/8ths a mile off South Boully, you gotta keep the chickens quiet somehow.


A view of the pond with one hot house and multiple veggies growing in the background.


Two is better than one.

Aloha math addicts!
I want to point out again the addition of Lucy Gooch to my freinds and family plan. She is a blogger in the twin cities right now, but she has been all over the globe. As a matter of fact I met her when I was WWOOFing. WWOOF is an acronym, yep, and it stands for Willing Workers On Organic Farms. Or World Wide Opportunities On Organic Farms. Or anything that fits the letters WWOOF. Still, it's a global organization with no real HQ that can be a great way to get around foreign countryside and still have a roof over your head and food in your belly, Dude. You also pick up a skills set that is quickly being forgotton because of sugar, Mr. George W. Bush and blogs.

Any who, I'm WWOOF'n in the QC! Yeah. Back in February I was attending a shittake mushroom innoculation at Grateful Growers Farm and met Boris and Djanna. They have taken their measly half acre located betwixt South Boully and Archdale and turned it into a fully functioning homestead. They have tomatos carrots cucumbers strawberrys mushrooms onions potatos beets orchids lettuce 10 other kinds of veggies and chickens... Chickens! City rules state that you can have up to 20 chickens on an acre of property in the Jar. That means that these guys get to have 10 since technically their half acre is just that. They do get plenty of complaints from neighbors who would rather the world look like a tucked in homogynized cardboard cutout of life. In fact, thats why Boris uses the pellet gun to pop the chickens if they start squakin. I wanted to take the gun and pop the guy running the leaf blower, the guy running the jack hammer, the guy with the muffler on his auto, and all the other noise polluters in Meck. Co. who aren't chickens.

Just goes to show that no matter where you are you can start making the world look like the change you'd like to see in it, just like Ghandi said. Thanks to Boris and Djanna for the urban WWOOF opportunity.

Whats the trade off? If you have to ask, you can't afford it.

'Mergency Mid-day Uppage!

***HI READERS AND MATH ADDICTS! JUST WANTED TO CALL ATTENTION TO THE NEWEST MEMBER OF MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY PLAN. SHE'S A GIRL, SHE'S CREATIVE AND SHES RECENTLY BEEN TRAVELING IN ITALY! READ ALL ABOUT IT, THE PANINNIS AND THE TOMATO SAUCE-A! I PROUDLY PRESENT, LUCY GOOCH! THIS BLONDE EYEBALL AND I MET IN A 4 STORY SOLAR-POWERED TREEHOUSE IN AN ANCIENT MANGO GROVE IN THE LATE 1960'S IN HAWAII. SHE'S DUBBED ME SLOW JAM/GHANJA BISCUIT MASTER. I DON'T KNOW WHAT SHES TALKING ABOUT. SHE MAY BE OFF THE BLOG RIGHT NOW BUT THERES PLENTY OF BACKSTOCK AND ITS THE PERFECT TIME TO TELL HER WE WANT MORE! GOOCH, GOOCH, GOOCH!!!***

ALSO, THIS BLOG WOULD LIKE TO TELL WILLIAM BILLY P FEHR HAPPY THREE GOES INTO NINE THREE TIMES DAY! WE'VE LAUNCHED A BALLOON SKYWARD FOR YA, BUDDY, IT'S ON IT'S WAY TO THAT BIG PLASTIC ISLAND IN THE SEA WITH YOUR NAME ON IT! HIP HIP! HOOOORAYY!

Fiddy Pence

You all may of heard of the pop-hipster-hop entity 50 Cents? Good. He got shot about nine times, rumor has it. Well, meet 50 Pence:






Andrew Daily resides in Greenville, North Carolina, a small town towards the coast that has contributed the brothers Flythe to our Jar, one in the form of cycle courrier and dad, one in the form of visiting rock star. This past Saturday the latter brohams band was playing at the RTA annex, a house show that eventually ruined his keyboard due to the amount of BEER being thrown in the air in a post-scavanger-hunt hoopla. Like SpeedStreet for track bikes. Either way, among the crowd of thighs and brims was the outstanding individual 50 Pence. You see, he is like 50 Cents in that he's been shot a bunch, but he's way more ol' timey.

Some time ago in the quiet American Ville of Green, NC, a local gang composed of six or seven 15 and 16 year olds decided it was time to validate their status as a collective menace to society. What better way to initiate a life of crime than a full on spree including weapons and everything? On this night 50 Pence was hanging in the backyard of the latter broham Flythe's condo. A bonfire was snapping and from what I can tell it was the same as any other brew-ha-ha that some of us have been to. Enter Pirates, stage left. From around the house the gang of ganksters emerged guns drawn demanding all things deemed valuable that the unassuming party-goers had on their persons. Yes, a full on bandito attack in our collective backyard. Young 50 backed into the shaddows. He watched as anger and confusion led its march into the field of friends and fun that had been fine without such uninvited guests. In self-preservation, for what else can we do, he was able to exit the scene without being noticed. He made his way to the front of the house.

On the front porch he attempted to contact the younger, keyboard playing Flythe brother. His call went unanswered. Alone under a burning 60 watt he stood while armed teens roamed the property taking what was not theirs. Suddenly one of the gunmen is approaching him, double-barrel aimed towards his face. Closer and closer the gunman...

50 Pence is no joke. Built like a Greco-Roman with a healthy mop of dark spirit on his dome he exudes a power that would not like to be attacked...

Gun in his face, demands being made. Something snaps. That something that says, "You know, this isn't right, and curse putting up with it." In one move one hand grasped the barrel of the gun and the other removed the action from the attackers grip. One more move and he was shucking back the pump and aiming at the young banditos knees. He didn't want to kill him, he didn't want that on his conscience. That didn't matter. No slug in the hold. Not loaded. Empty. Click.

He slammed the butt of the gun against the head of it's previous owner. That sent the guy to the ground, but he got up quickly, faster than one would expect. This is the point where the power of positive thinking kinda went out the proverbial window. With the one goon getting up another was approaching fast from behind and before anybody knew what was happening a shiv was shoved deep into 50 Pence's sweet meat. That's right, he got stabbed in the ass. He felt his index and middle finger go knuckle deep into the wound and his first thoughts were, "I can tape that up and be in class tomorrow," and, "That's all you got?" He even said aloud at that moment, "That's all you got?" It wasn't. From the reserves of the b-team depths came goomba number three. A classy fellow brandishing a .357 Magnum. Four shots. One in and through the left shoulder, pivoting young 50's body 180 degrees, exposing the back, then one in through the back and lung eventually stopping midway up his spine. Four shots from a .357 at point-blank range and no kill. Total amatuers.

50 fell to the ground laughing, the power of positive thinking kicking back in full swing. Not for one second did he think he was going to die. He crawled in some random direction and then eventually a sheriff with a dip in his lip was standing over him saying, "Damn boy, you got shot." A screaming lady was in his face shouting demands and not helping. He called the sheriff closer and closer and with one lung's breath told him to please get the screaming b@&ch out of his face. Another person was doing their best to hold his blood in, though it was pouring out of three holes in his body and covering one simply made the others pump harder. He knew he would survive, was surviving, and would walk away from such nonsense. He did, within 4 days to be exact. Today his lung works fine, fine enough to puff a grit and tell the story of what happend that night that destiny brought the likes of goofballs to his experience. You can still feel the bullet lodged next to his spine. Youn can move it around and stuff.

Nobody else got shot that night, though 3 weeks earlier the same mobile goonies had used the same .357 to shoot a 15 year old girl. She lived, too. Of course.

Eventually the same evening that young 50's blood got to venture into the material world the car-full of speeding teens got pulled for blowing red lights, or like energy draws like energy, whatever you gotta say. Anywho, the bag full of wallets with photo ID's made it pretty easy to put the kids at the scene and eventually in the place where your told, "No talking! That means, keep the conversation to a minimum!" The place where you cant choose when and where you'll go.

50 Pence and I sat on cinder blocks and talked while the party raged on and on. Mosh pits full of transvestites ruined keyboards with BEER throwing dance moves and fool-hearted hipsters climbed the tree of death built by this man (so please be careful) and took in the view of the Jar through PBR'd vision. 50 and I got to the point and it was agreed upon that there is no real world and spiritual world. They are one in the same. The real is spiritual and the spiritual is real. We talked about using our hands for work and the value of silence, the pleasure in making things better and the party, how it serves to distract for a while, and for that we can be greatful, but that it's noisiness and ignorance are not stopping the rain from falling on our heads.

50, meeting people like you in the Jar makes me feel alive and sentient. You are a fine artist and one of a guild that's comprised of a few. Thanks.

Photo credits as follows,
Dark and blurry - Jordy
Clear shot 1 - 50
Clear shot 2 - 50

On So Many Levels

I wanted to share this, it just came my way via nothing major or drastic, terrifying or beautiful.

When there is no goal, there is still pulse and growth.
When intention enters, there are moments and photos.

Enjoy the damn movie without me talking...

Yau Haus-Pitality!

Hospitality, like destiny, is waiting for you to show up.

Thank you Davey (we used to date) and Bo and all whose energy was welcoming to the girl with the rig no man could ride.

Two orange tents and a back yard. . .
Mouth singing over fire and to a gigantic broccoli. . .

Fuck being room and bored.

Im Proud of You, Too

A thousand tornaders spinning around TV antennas and blocking out commercial contracts like the decisions in my heart are too currents involved in atmosphere. The truth is so clear.

Ride straight at your own destiny, with courage. Its out there looking for you.

Its a Career Path (If You Please)

Tuck in your pants,

Hula yer dance,

And show a lil' faith,

This is a lil more than chance,

And when you see me. . .

Waves.

I love you all.

Arkansas Family Survives, Minus Ben

These photos just in from Becky Hall, my fathers twin sister who lives in Damascus, Arkansas. Im not sure if it was big news or not but an f-3 tornado made its way across three states without lifting off of the ground. Much damage, as you can see, was done. My relatives farm was not left untouched; many barns down, fences crushed by trees, roads washed out. My aunt and uncle's property turned into the property of their two sons as well, Chase and Andy, who are both married with one kid each and they and their homes all made it out ok. The only soul who didn't was Ben.

Quite possibly the sweetest dog ever, I got to meet Ben this past summer. He had a nervous habit or a tick (not so sure what to call it in dogs) that was terrifying. Namely, when excited, he would curl and snarl his lips up exposing his teeth. So upon meeting him you would run into a 75 pound black-lipped mountain hound that looked like he was going to eat you alive. Really he was just happy and couldn't help that he was perhaps the world's only dog to actively grin in a human manner. He was grey with black lining his paws, lips and eyes. He was fast, too, following behind the pickup as my uncle Charles gave us a tour of the once-largest-dairy-cattle-operation in Arkansas. Then he would break off only to return to my cortex off in the far distance across a large field chasing white tails out of the woods. Later he would show back up and get his dinner, which was everything that wasn't eaten that night by his human friends. Soup, my own hound, sat outside with him into the star scattered night on thier quiet farm and they made fast friends. Two hounds, one city one country, sharing thier perspectives on gnawing and chewing, digging, running and sleeping.

Ben did not die in the high winds of the tornado, he died in the high waters that followed. While surveying the damage to their propery he jumped into the above pictured water called Brickey Creek, a place he had crossed many times before, and was unable to make it out of the current. He got confused and swam back for the dock instead of the bank and, like other dogs before him in the same spot, didn't make it out alive. Ben, tonight my heart is with you on your hilarious soul's journey into the bigger picture.

To my family in Damascus, I am delighted that you are all OK and wish I could be there to help you clean up.

Productivity Based Society: Commentary, Scene1, Act 1

"Productivity is simply the quantity of living material an ecosystem can generate in a given period of time. This is just as important for agricultural systems as it is for natural ecosystems. Michael Swift, a biologist at the United Nations Tropical Soil Biology and Fertility Program in Kenya, has demonstrated convincingly the benefit of species diversityin agricultural systems. The best way to increse productivity in a maize field is by adding melons, trees, and nitrogen-fixing beans, not by squeezing in more maize. In their experiments at Imperial College's field station in England, John Lawton and his colleagues also found that productivity is boosted by species diversity. The result makes immediate sense, once you see it. Individuals of a single species will compete for the same resources, particulary space. Individuals of different species-some small in height, some meduim, some tall-can take advantage of different spatial territory. More of the available space is used, so more individuals are supported, giving higher productivity." - Richard Leaky

Where I live was once country. I remember how the end of the road behind our home narrowed slowly to one lane and then to gravel and then to dirt and opened into a field full of flowers and blackberrys, honeysuckle and white-tailed deer and sunsets. There was a pond full of fish that and frogs, ducks and geese and snakes that was one of the first places I learned to sit quietly and listen to the inner voice, to let the clouds roll by with my own thoughts. Even in the late 90's when I was into playing football and making my musculars bigger I can remember running through those patures with a log on my shoulders like I had seen on the TV. So much has changed in a decade. Exatctly where the pond used to be is an EarthFare, that is the heart of a shopping center with a dry cleaners, Quiznos, RedRobin, Sticky Fingers, Hickory Tavern, and all surrounded by three story buildings and parking decks that are connected to the Toringdon Business Complexy where humans, one singular species, works. Rather, labels what they do with their time during M-F 6am-6pm as work. Now the road behind our home that used to lead to sunrise and wild strawberrys is a major corridor for people attempting to save time by avoiding traffic by creating traffic. They put in those speed humps and I can't tell you how consistantly I hear peoples gear boxes on their transmissions cut into the asphalt as they blow over it around 35mph.

Productivity based society has an alarm clock nation rising and shining in unison. All autos started, pushing for the same points, competing for the same resources in the same space, chugging into the building in the morning and and out in the afternoon, before the Freaks come out. With one big puff out smoke daily wooshing up, up, as our contribution to the rest of the planet. Theres a sign on the temporary chainlink fence they've set up around the job site of the new Marriot being built across from the EarthFare. It reads as follows: "It's not worth your life." An allusion to the required hard had that must be worn if you chose to enter. The graphitti artist in me wants to make an addition that says, "Just the life of an Owl, Rat, Fox, Deer, and Pond."

No longer will I believe that I'm not productive. I am alive and well. And whole.

Let your hair shine against the sun, and contrast your flesh against the sillouettes.

Thank God for the bacteria on the roots and the fungus on your eyelashes.

G'dmarnin.

I'd like to be able to put these videos right up here on my page but about 15 min. worth of trying to do that has been a fruitless endeavor. I have internet scurvy. Any who, this is a number by Jose Gonzalez, and artist that my friend Irish turned me on to. "Killing for Love".

The above photo was last night on East Boully-vard. The emergency rescue vehicle has been in my line of vision any time I go out the door lately. Though these peoples lives are seemingly unconnected to my own I know better than that. I agree with Dr. Bronner. And every time I come across one im compelled to photograph it. Im sure its just a phenomenon of a growing urban metropolis but its odd to think about the number of times a day these vehicles must be responding to individuals needs. Will rural America be affected first and how would we ever hear about cases of fire engines and ambulances running out of petrol if people don't blog. CNN ain't gonna touch that.

Last night I pulled off a sucessful toon-ta-jar-via-mr. osbourne's-crazy-train-ta-toon-transfer. My destination was the International House, an amazingly cool place that a total 283 has introduced me to. Its where one can go to practice foreign languages with all levels of speakers. I sat amongst 20-25 Francophiles as we discussed everything from how to rid your attic of pests to how saying you're excited in French carries heavy sexual meaning to urban sprawl and the price of petrol. It was 4+ Euro a litre when I was there in 04, so I cant imagine what todays prices are, but its all relative and oranges and apples when it comes to our little do-mes-teek problem. Never the less, if you're looking to make your hippocampus thump spend an evening there getting to know some pretty hilarious individuals. Weds @ 7 is the French session for those who are so inclined. Did I mention it was free?

I gotta admit, putting a bike on the train and only having to burn 8 miles worth of gasoline is a very positive feeling.

Bon Jour!