I biked to this park at the end of my street and sat on the bleachers behind the baseball diamond. I looked around and listened to the accordion oompa of ranchera music from a parked car and to the faint sound of traffic on the 5 behind the trees.
I admired Electra against the backdrop of Griffith Park and felt mighty pleased. With little things like halter tops and sunblock and later, at the bakery, by the lady in the bright purple eyeliner and big floppy hat. She gave her piroshkis back to the cashier with huge bites taken out and then turned to me, opened her eyes wide, and confided in stage whisper that THE BEEF IS SPICY. I've always liked crazy people.
At the park I noticed that I wasn't the only one feeling upbeat.
Someone else left some love for Jesus during their visit to the bleachers.
This may have been the same individual who drew a nun without considering the countless numbers of baseball fans who would, in the future, cover the nun's face with their asses which isn't very nice.
I tore myself away from this image by focusing on pressing matters like whether I need 8 SPF or 15 SPF for my shoulders, a good diversion until my eyes fixed on what is by far the most hallowed detail of my pimped-out bike, the silver bullet valve caps.
Silver bullet valve caps aren't prim like the granny bell, or practical like the rear rack, or pretty like the cream and tan frame.
Silver bullets are for movies from 1985 where Michael J. Fox did handstands atop the wolfmobile and crippled Corey Haim raced his hotrod wheelchair down the highway before killing the preacher-werewolf. Stuff that comes in really handy sometimes.