Guest Blogger: Nic Westlake on A Day in Los Angeles

Alright, welcome back... I've had the pleasure of 
hanging out with my friend Nic for the last few weeks 
while he's been in the LA area.  He's an excellent 
writer, and right now he's working on taking his band, 
"The Blinking Project", to the next level.  

Like I said, he's an excellent writer, and you should 
check out his music if you're interested in good 
writing instead as opposed to what's simply popular 
or mass produced. (In particular, Zack and Alan need 
to hear his new stuff.)

Enjoy.

Robert and I are on an evening’s trek to the farthest coffee shop that we dared to travel too. We, for the sake of experiencing something new… decided to cover as much of the journey as possible on the Los Angeles Metro system.

My first note about the LA metro is as follows: It seems to function entirely on the honor system. Robert and I arrived at our stop on our bikes to find two digital pay stations that proudly displayed the message, “No TAP’s (the pay method for metro regulars) or credit card’s accepted”. We primarily deal in plastic (as goes with the “poor, but in denial about it” crowd I run with) but we had been warned of this condition due to the previous day’s failed attempt to ride the metro. Rob dropped six bucks for two “day passes” for the metro (fan-bloody-tastic, I know).
We shouldered our bikes (the beautiful Italian pieces of steel), and scampered down the stairs…

…Where we found a train leaving (great). Thirty minutes later, when we finally boarded our first train of the evening, I expected to find a metro attendant of sorts with a flashlight in one hand and a pincer in the other romping about the train car screening for freeloaders. In response to this expectation I had kept my metro pass dangling out of my rear pocket like a revolver poking out of it’s holster.

Over the course of our four train rides, we didn’t even see any attendees, much less the aforementioned “mooch-tossers”. I dare say the LA metro is run by a collection of stealthy robots, whose very existence is designed to remain controversial.

We reached the Wilshire-Western station (where you will find the “Wiltern,” an adequately named venue). We pedaled in a cardinal direction (I believe west) until we got hungry enough to break down and buy burgers, fries, and shakes (a much shorter distance than you might expect). We ate at “Fatburger”, a restaurant that I’d never met before. The food was delicious and everything was on the up and up, except for an unexplained discount on Robert’s receipt. Perhaps I am old fashioned, but I don’t believe it is customary to reduce a customer’s cost by $1.39 and label the discount “Police”. I don’t even know what that means.

Rob completed a particularly sapid chocolate shake and we hit the road. We arrived at the boba shop we had been seeking to find it quite closed. At this moment, Rob the boy scout dived into his particularly deep pocket to retrieve his note card of backup coffee shops (designed for just this occasion. Way to be prepared Robby!). We proceeded to visit all of the backup plans to find none of them open.

Terrific. We try so hard to avoid Starbucks (because we are men of principle), but if the world doesn’t help you out, you’ve got to make some compromises (like buying coffee from a man with horns named Lucifer).

Two hours and 44 ounces of coffee drinks later, we were back to the Wiltern metro terminal. I, having mastered the concept of “rear wheel parking” my bike, insisted that we make an effective “Italian bike yin yang” right then and there, whilst waiting for our third train.

Having successfully erected our bike sculpture, we proceeded to pose with it for a series of pictures (that Rob will, no doubt, plaster all over his Facebook page). Just as we were stepping back to reflect on the eternal implications that radiate from such a perfect arrangement of bicycles, a strange man with a strange hat and a ridiculous accent exited the elevator.

In quite a jovial voice, he complimented our bicycles, and us in turn. He told us that he had recently designed a bicycle that would make our sweet rides obsolete. Rob asked, “…So you’re an inventor…?” The strange man cut off Rob, assuring us that he was, in fact, an inventor. He dug into his fat, dingy, rolling briefcase and pulled out one of many collections of papers. Each of which was ineffectively bound by the same clear covered plastic “report clasp” that I got so much use out of in the third grade. Opening the bundle of documents at hand, he began on a rant that went something like this (keep in mind that this is spoken very loudly, with a very thick accent):

“On my bike, you don’t push down with just one weak foot, you push down with BOTH FEET. When you’re feet work together you go MUCH faster.”

Seeing our confusion, he referred to a poorly proportioned sketch.

“It’s propelled by hydraulics! Every time you extend your legs 20 inches, it rotates two pistons, each five inches long, four times! That’s one, two, three, four times!”

As he counted, he made a giddy skip away from us that was accompanied by a swirling motion with his free hand. His genuine enthusiasm with his own apparent intelligence became more and more obvious.

“The Cheetah Superbike can accelerate from a dead stop to 60 miles per hour in a matter of two seconds! Next week, the four prototypes will be raced on CNN against a regular bike and a four door sedan.”

He referenced a section of his glob of papers that, on one page, showed a diagram of four “magic hydraulic bikes” (as they appeared to be) reaching an arbitrarily place finish line twice as quickly as the poorly drawn sedan, and four times more quickly than the poorly drawn bicycle. I’d also like to insert that he seemed to have paid careful attention to the background images that formed the setting of the race. The fictional race was quite clearly being held in a busy city street that was surrounded by skyscrapers and banners hailing the wonder of the “Cheetah Superbike”. On the opposing page of this section were the call letters for several major television stations written sloppily and quite large in a red pen.

He continued by saying “In one week, your bikes will be obsolete. When this airs on CNN and all of the other stations…” Take note that he only said, “CNN” before. “…One billion people in China will see my bikes and they’ll all call in with there credit cards and, at $300 dollars a piece, my bank account will go, ‘shhewp!’ through the roof: 300 BILLION DOLLARS!”

At the “shhewp!” moment, he made a sound rather comparable to a bottle rocket launching from the inside of a dumpster to another location inside the same dumpster. The sound was also accompanied by a hand gesture that involved his free hand digging from down below his belt and shooting up above his head in a sort of motion that, alone, would have said, “This is how I pick up a tray that has nine plates of food on it!”

Moments later, our train arrived, which happened to be his train as well. It only gets more ridiculous from here on out. So I’ll give you the general idea, while including less detail.

He had begun reciting an endless poem with an, “AA, BB, CC, etc.” rhyme scheme that expounded upon just how clearly superior the “Cheetah Superbike” was.

He went on and on and ON! Entire nations had formed and collapsed numerous times during his choruses of, “While just one leg is weak and slow, Push down with both feet and you’ll really go!”

We interrupted by trivializing the mathematics required to live up to the claims he was making. At which point, he told us he liked us, and would like our phone numbers, so we could be part of the Superbike time trials in one week. Rob responded curtly with, “I’m not giving you my phone number.” Which I thought was a perfectly due response. This guy was creepy as all get out (especially after his recitation of poetry that glorified his own alleged genius).

Joe Fox got offended saying, “Fine, you don’t want to be part of the Superbike!” and stormed off out of our train car. Moments passed. He then reentered our car and said, “Sorry, I needed to be on this train. I’ll give you another chance.”

Our train finally got moving. We didn’t really want to talk to crazy Joe Fox, but he didn’t seem to mind that we were trying to get rid of him. He expounded upon other inventions that he had been working on. In particular, a microwave chamber that he claims cures ALL diseases by inducing a fever. At this point we’re sure he is crazy. He stumbled off at his stop explaining one last invention, “TELAMEROSE” (he spelled it for me as he exited). Look that up, it is certainly not something he invented, but it is certainly an experimental piece of science.

I, personally, was thoroughly exhausted when that man finally left. We did the Jumbles and Sudoku puzzles from the day old newspapers we found lying around on the metro.

There’s only so much attention you can pay a crazy stranger before it starts to wear on you.

We made it home safely.
I completed the Sudoku puzzle a day later (it was rather difficult).

All is right with the world again…
…Except Rob is a bit sick.

…I keep telling him that we should drop in on Joe Fox for a refreshing dip in the “Micro-Sauna”. He seems reluctant.

I don’t know why.

More as it develops,
-NRW