Part of me wants to write, the rest of me just wants to unplug from this shitpile of a world. Why am I so down? Because the 2010 BP Gulf of Mexico Oil Catastrophe (R) is simply the latest amazingly depressing news story that only breaks through my toughened bad news hide because of the scale. If the government is estimating x, the reality is 5-10x, if not more, in terms of the volume of oil in the water. We’ll never know of the damage, really, to the oceans. If reefs start dying that much faster, what will be the reaction? ONE. GIANT. COLLECTIVE. YAWN.

Biodiversity, it seems, is overrated. So is human existence, in my opinion. What a waste. Other than being a hedonist, is there any real way to get through your week without burying your head in either the blessed calm of ignorance or the burning repulsion of unending shame? Really, how do people do it? I’m beginning to understand, if not admire, addicts of all stripes. Find a place to shelve your sorrows and push everything else out of the way to get there.

I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be such a downer. But I’m just tired of all the shitty news, endless stories of powerful pricks who are fucking with the odds of the survival of human civilization, to the extent we ever really were civilized. To the extent that there are many, many, amazing people out there doing incredible things, I want them to win. I want the people on the side of love, of peace, of humor, of free will, of knowledge, of openness, of allowance, of progress to fucking win this seemingly endless shitfest power struggle that is reality at this juncture. Let it be known.

“Pelada” is a portuguese word which means two things: ‘naked’, literally, as in ‘a mulher do vizinho está pelada.’ (The neighbor’s wife is naked ). Idiomatically, it means a pick-up game of soccer, with the interpretation being that it is played barefoot, or at least informally. The filmmakers picked up on the more subtle sense of the word in terms of the naked game of soccer - raw, uncovered, in pure form. The trailer looks very appetizing, I will not miss it.

NEW Pelada Trailer from Rebekah Fergusson on Vimeo.

I was biking over the Williamsburg bridge from the city towards Brooklyn this evening around 6:30pm, when I heard some kids say something about a body. Sure enough, right about halfway up the bridge in the outermost traffic lane on the Manhattan-bound side,  several police officers stood over a recently laid white sheet covering a man’s body lying in the road. He wore white sneakers and cutoff jean shorts. I didn’t shy away from the scene. On the contrary, I wanted to see the details, to feel what had happened. I gazed at the sheet, making out the outline of his body. His smashed, red Vespa-type scooter was on its side a few feet away. A black sedan was parked a few yards behind the scooter, it’s windscreen and hood smashed in. The CS photographer looked up and saw the group of us watching, and pointed it out to the other cops who immediately yelled “you better keep moving!”, so I continued along the bike path.

I kept thinking about all the near misses I’d had riding my bike in New York City over the past nine years. Every time I come upon an accident or a ghost bike, it makes me very pensive. As I write this, most of the people that knew him are still oblivious to the fact that he is dead. An hour and a half ago, he was alive. Did the driver of the car not see him? Did he lose his balance, and hit the wall before he hit the car? Why was it his time to die? What determines the near miss, the hospital stay, maybe a lost limb or use of a sense, from the complete break from life that is death? Why didn’t he make it? Why him? Was it his time? Or is that nonsense - life is Russian Roulette, and sooner or later, the ‘click’ we all take for granted is replaced with a swift push into the next world, whatever that is.

Why is this affecting me so much, anyway? It happens everyday, thousands of times a minute around the world. Violently, peacefully, intentionally, accidentally, quietly, loudly, inevitably, unexpectedly, or self inflicted. Maybe it’s because that kid could have been me or any of my friends who ride in traffic.

Who were you, man? To the dude who recently died on the Williamsburg bridge this evening: may your transition to whatever comes next be peaceful, and may those who knew you feel joy again soon.

*update*  From Gothamist, his name is Josh Link, he was a DJ. RIP brother.

It was my rent money. I had it in the breast pocket of my hoodie on Wednesday night, but now I can’t find it anywhere. It was a citibank deposit envelope, with 7 $100 bills inside. As of right now, I have another two days to come up with the money before having to stall my landlord and figure something out. It’s times like these I wish I had a steady job… Freelancing has its charms, being able to cope with unexpected losses like these are not among them.

If anyone has come across that envelope, would you let me know? I’ll give you a reward and be your fan for life.
Thanks Internet.

**Update** Envelope found!! How does the saying go? You’ll always find it in the last place you look.

I can’t decide if he’s acting or not. If he is a troll, get this man an Oscar.

I found a series of closeups of the human iris, and they are pretty cool to look at.