If all else fails, I’m sure I can get a job riding one of these. In France, the job security of a motocrotte rider must rival that of the undertaker. It is an ordinary motorcycle or motorscooter, with an oversized vacuum cleaner mounted on the pillion. The rider sweeps through the streets of the city, and when he sees a crotte s/he sucks it up the pipes. But what is a crotte, you ask? A crotte is a form of shoe decoration left on the street by inconsiderate dog owners.
For the first time in what feels like months – and probably is – I rode my bike five miles to work and five miles back. I’d been starting to feel like a lardy, cranky bastard, but working up a sweat on the bike (mostly on the way back home) makes me think I’m back on the right track.
Other news: I’m currently reading a book that’s a collection of pages in a box. You assemble them in whatever order you want, except for the very first and the very last. It feels like inhabiting a very disorderly memory, which is likely the point. It’s called The Unfortunates and it was written by B. S. Johnson, no relation to London’s current head buffoon mayor.
This weekend was another orgy of video shooting. First off, most of Friday was spent preparing to shoot, and then shooting a Critical Mass of zombies and pirates. More will become apparent when it’s edited.
Saturday and Sunday were spent on a levee in Sacramento shooting a barbaric pinata massacre for my friend Stephanie. I’m quite pleased with how the footage looked when we played it back in the evenings. There was a distinct Tarantino-esque cruelty to a couple of shots.
Last weekend the missus and I headed to Monterey for a relaxing weekend on the Pacific coast. We took our bikes and locked them to the railing between our motel room and the car park. We figured nobody would steal our bikes, they’re not exactly top models. However, when we got home on Saturday evening, after snapping the sunset, a pleasant dinner and a couple of drinks, our bikes had disappeared. Just as the idea of our bikes being stolen was sinking in, we realised the railing was gone too, and the smell of diesel was hanging in the air. Then we found our bikes.
