I was heading to the store last night when I heard the crazy bellowing cyclist freak boy.

In case you don't live in downtown LA and haven't read my previous missives about this guy, he's some swarthy, racially indeterminate mutt who apparently does nothing all day except bicycle through several parts of LA (he's been spotted in East LA) and he does these tricks requiring incredible core and quad strength, leaning the bike over 45 degrees to one side and circling the street, shaking what is now his upper arm and leg and performing for the crowds of astonished and scared onlookers. And he's FUCKING LOUD. Like this guy has some opera background, has to, I'm sure of it because you can hear him three blocks away in this booming, dangerous baritone voice. To top it off, his screaming is context sensitive to the neighborhood he's in. In Little Tokyo it's Asian-sounding gibberish, and in East LA it's "ARRIIIIIBA!"

One time he was doing his thing outside my shop in Little Tokyo and I went outside to watch. I applauded, and then the fifth most frightening thing in my life happened. The guy rode up to the newspaper box on the curb, put his face to the thing so I could only see his eyes, and then started smacking the metal top hard enough to make his hand bleed while yelling "IDON'TNEEDYOURFUCKINGOPINION!" about five times before riding off.

You may also remember that I'm trying to get footage of him. I also call this guy my own personal Moby Dick.

So last night I hear him and think "Damn, I don't have my tablet." But then I realized that I was on my own bike.

Oh hell yes, I was going to ride with the psycho!

I've been on this kick for a bit where I try to do anything I can, say yes to experiences, because for the last year I've been a procrastinating shut-in. One exciting near-deal and then a creative slump from hell. Total lack of inertia. And it felt absolutely horrible. Recently I had started working out again, much to the chagrin of my elbow joints and the one knee with acute tendinosis, as well as spending all night humoring a drunk friend who was desperately trying to get me to move into some 2,000 square foot art loft with him and his prick roommate. Read between the lines, the opportunity to ride next to this nut for a stretch was right in line with what I wanted to be doing.

And I did. I stopped on the curb, waited for him to catch up, and then kicked off next to him BUT AT A RESPECTFUL DISTANCE. And he was doing his thing, circling through the brutal, crushing downtown traffic, almost getting creamed by a white Honda (he never heeds the traffic, often coming mere feet from city buses, and in five years how this hasn't killed him is a mystery).

Then he looks at me and I basically go through puberty backwards with panic.

And he throws me the devil horns and screams. Hell yes. I throw them back. Rock n' roll.

I only stayed with him for a few blocks before peeling off to head to the store. Whatever weird graces some greater power protects this freak with, I'm sure it doesn't extend to myself.