"Boyd, take over!"

A long time ago, in a childhood far, far away,
there was a time when I played football.

Seize the Dog

Boomer has seizures. I first noticed them when, at age five, he suddenly appeared possessed. Daddy’s Special Buddy, my golden mutt, was having a heart attack, or about to see a little alien burst from his gut, like in the Sigourney Weaver movie.

To the vet, we went, my friend Linda driving, me in the backseat with Boomer, singing, “Nothing’s gonna harm you (Not While I’m Around)” from Sweeney Todd. His song.

A few hours—and one hefty vet bill—later, Boomer was back to normal, as if nothing had happened, as if Daddy hadn’t been traumatized out of his mind.

Football Player or Cheerleader?

Back in the 80s, I was on a college football field many a Saturday afternoons come autumn. Now in the 21st century, I'm here to tell the world: College Football Players: Lighten Up on Your Gay Teammates!

Blissful Ignorance

How do I tell my dog that his best buddy Max is no longer with us?

Do I look at him with a sad face and say, "Max. Gone."

Do I let him go on in blissful ignorance?

I suppose he'll know soon enough. The moment we step inside my mother's house, he'll go sniffing around for her dog, wondering why Max wasn't waiting on the other side of the door, barking up a storm.

Boomer's tail will be wagging in circles, happy to see his Granny, but he's bound to be confused why he's not seeing "Granny and Max," as he's heard me say countless times.

Down But Not Out

"America can do whatever we set our mind to. That is the story of our history ..."

—President Barack Obama
May, 2011

Yell Leader Splits Pants Before Season Opener

September 12, 1981. I’m a sophomore at USC, warming up in the end zone of the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum before the season opener, Tennessee vs. USC, my first-ever football game as a USC yell leader.

Although I had been a yell leader for the basketball team during freshman year, football at the University of Southern California was something different altogether. This was the biggest stage, the school’s raison d’etre, so it seemed at times. For goodness sake, this was Marcus Allen’s Heisman Trophy year!

God: All in the Mind

"God is like a mind. A great, powerful, super-intelligent mind.

The mind is the only thing that exists in the entire universe. There is nothing else outside this mind. The mind is all there is and knows it is All There Is, therefore the mind knows it is all-powerful and can be anything.

But what is there to be? There is nothing because there is nothing else. There is only the mind and the darkness inside.

"Go make something of yourselves, so that I may know what my mind is capable of."

But the mind wants to know more about itself than the mere fact that it is All There Is, so the mind summons up all its power and explodes into an infinite number of pieces that are off in search of whatever the mind can think of and create, all so that the mind may know itself and what it is capable of.

The mind called these pieces energy. And the mind told the energies:

‘Go make something of yourselves, so that I may know what my mind is capable of; and what I am capable of, so that, by separating myself into pieces, I may know myself, and myself in relation to another form of me, which is merely a reflection of myself, the mind, God.’"

—from Walt Loves the Bearcat
by Randy Boyd
A Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Best Romance

"Warm-spirited ... resonates with soulful queries into the nature of love and life." Bay Area Reporter

Of Men and Earrings

My 22-year-old cousin wears an earring. His grandmother asked him why.

“I dunno,” was his response.

Why, men wear earrings to feel pretty, I could have told him.

In the latter part of the last century, women began taking more control over their lives and men began doing things previously reserved for young ladies out to catch a man: earrings, getting one’s hair-did, fancy jells and perfumes, excuse me, colognes.

Cover boys acting like Covergirls. Fashion statements that state: somebody declared this fashionable and I’m into fashion! Don’t I look pretty? Don’t I smell pretty?

Men who are man enough to admit to having sex with other men need to come up with new terms to describe themselves because heterosexual-identified men who wear earrings and cover up the scent of a man with fancy concoctions in a bottle have given new meaning to words like “gay” and “queer.”

Yes, you all look pretty. Very, very pretty.

The Emperor Has No Debt Crisis

What if this summer’s blockbuster event—the Debt Ceiling Debate—was the crisis that wasn’t? What if the threat of weapons of mass debt are just as non-existent as Saddam's weapons of mass destruction?

Why do most economists say another stimulus is needed, not spending cuts? Makes you wonder, especially after checking out two stories from Time Magazine and the PBS Newshour.

The Five-Year Plan

When my dog Boomer turned ten years of age in 2008, we made a deal.

Negotiations were tough but fair. We both had demands; we both made concessions. It was all about finding common ground, focusing on the things we agreed on, our similarities rather than our differences.

When it was all over, a deal was struck between myself and the golden mutt I’d raised since he was a six-month-old puppy.

The deal was rather simple: Been together ten years, so far. Another five years, then we’ll re-access and re-up our relationship, providing, of course, we can come to terms again.

Most likely, those future negotiations will once again focus on the type of food I feed him (mine vs. his), the amount of treats he gets, and the number of times “it’s playtime!”

Those are the things that cause our differences of opinion and therefore, stress in our relationship. Mind you, that stress in minimal, compared to the rest of our lives; but the experts say: communication is the most crucial thing in a relationship.

Which is exactly why we came up with the five-year plan. It helps us know where we’re going, where we’ve been, and best of all, it helps us realize: although we may not be around one another forever, we’ve still got a few more years together, as long as we stick to the plan.

The White Stuff

Confused by today's political rhetoric? Check out the New American Dictionary for Angry White People.

Keeping Up with Randy Boyd's Blocks

If you love Randy Boyd's Blocks like I do, you'll want to make sure you read every single post.

To do that, you can get the Blocks via email, or you can subscribe in your favorite news reader.

Or you can just keep on coming back to Randy Boyd's Blocks every day for the rest of your life. Your choice. I'm cool like that. :)

Rule No. 26

Attention, fans of Randy Boyd’s novels, all five or six of you, lol:

My fifth novel is still a work-in-progress, but rest assured, I intend to continue the saga of two boys dreaming in a sandbox, as first dreamt in my fourth novel, Walt Loves the Bearcat, a story of love, football and some very potent daydreams, as well as a Lambda Literary Finalist for Best Romance.

A story I dreamt up nearly 30 years ago while in college, Walt Loves the Bearcat is a 700-page epic that pretty much represents Randy @ 21-42, give or take.

It’s also a dream that spawned another dream: my next novel, The Bearcat Boyz on the Road of Life.

Who are the Bearcat Boyz? What are they all about? Find out in the latter third of Walt Loves the Bearcat.

What happens to the Bearcat Boyz in their own four-book series? Find out when I finish the blessed thing. What happens at the end of Road of Life, aka Book One? As a gift to my patient readers, all five or six of you, I now present: a slice of the next dream I’m dreaming.

In Book One, the Bearcat Boyz learn the rules on the Road of Life. There’s 26 of them, just like the number of letters in the alphabet; and although all 26 rules are very important, the last rule, Rule No. 26, is perhaps the most important, that is, if you want your deepest dreams to come true.

Why, Rule No. 26 is so good, if by chance you happened to forget the other 25 rules, you still have a shot at all your dreams coming true, if and only if, you remember and abide by Rule No. 26.

It takes the Bearcat Boyz seemingly a lifetime to learn Rule No. 26. After all, they are teenagers, and if they learned all the rules right away, I'd have no story to tell. However, since the five or six fans of my books have been waiting so long, I hereby present Rule No. 26 on the Road of Life:

The more you’re at your best,
The better your odds of success.

Thank you for your patience.
Sincerely,
Randy Boyd

Triple Trikke Triumph

It’s official: three different Trikke events in three different locales have made these past three weeks the most amazing three weeks in the history of trikking in Southern California.

Saturday, May 28: Forty-five trikkers carve up the scenic coast of Long Beach at the Last Saturday of the Month Ride, setting a new attendance record for a group ride in Southern Cal.

Sunday, June 5: Twenty trikkers carve up 26 miles of mountainous trail at the 5th annual Aliso Creek Endurance Ride, setting a new attendance record for a group ride in Orange County.

Saturday, June 11: Twenty-one trikkers carve up the beach trails and backroads of Ventura County at the 3rd annual Trikkenut 100K, an event that drew trikkers from as far away as the Bay Area.

Three events staged by three different groups in three different counties, each of them fledgling hotbeds of trikking in Southern California. Fortunately, I was there for all three events and had the most amazing time at each and every one, each ride surpassing the one before it in terms of superlatives. Total miles trikked: circa 100.

Two years ago, I saw an infomercial that changed my life. I didn’t just buy a Trikke. I bought a whole new way of life! The best part of all: it’s only getting better.

• Photo by Douglass Weymouth

Someone Like Me

"We live in an age where we are inundated with countless images from countless sources, from TV to movies to pop-up ads. A huge percentage of those images deal with love, sex and romance.

"Still, rare or nonexistent is the occasion where I encounter an image that reflects who I am and what I dream of. Even rarer and more nonexistent is the occasion where I encounter an image that might encourage another soul to dream of loving someone just like me."

—from Walt Loves the Bearcat
by Randy Boyd
A Lambda Literary Finalist for Best Romance
Available wherever books are sold

Dear Cops, Thank You for Your Service

To the officers of law enforcement in the United States of America:

Thank you for your service.

Thank you for fighting for my freedom. Each and every day I live and breathe in these United States of America.

For without the freedoms you fight for, life would not be worth living. Life would be uncivilized. Life would be a whole lot different in the land of the free.

You are the brave—men and women who sacrifice countless hours, and sometimes their lives, upholding, enforcing, protecting the very rules that govern our society.

Parents, Have You Done Your Chores Today?

I'm guessing a study would show: kids who are put on punishment for bad behavior are less likely to end up behind bars. That's because thinking twice is the kind of learned behavior best embedded in childhood.

I'm also guessing a study would show: kids who have chores are more likely to have better work habits--as well as better housekeeping habits--as adults. What's more, they make better roommates!

And I bet a study would show: kids who do charity work are more likely to be giving, compassionate adults. And make better spouses!

Need more proof? Check out the Best Reality Show About Raising Kids.

Black Man Declares Love for America

This is the greatest country on earth. The best democracy. The most freedom. America is the greatest place in the entire universe!

That's what I've heard from the mouths of white people my whole life. That's what I read in school books. That's what I hear in the national anthem. That's what I see on television and in the movies.

All my life, the assumption that America is the Greatest Country Ever has permeated my world as if it were another element in the air we breath.

Now I get it! All those white people were right!

How to Survive Voice Mail Hell

One simple tweak of your voice mail system could help change the world.

How much collective time could we all save without having to wait for an automated voice constantly telling us:

"To leave a voice mail, press one, or just wait for the tone, or just..."

Save yourself and everyone who calls you the pain and misery of voice mail hell.

How? Find out in We Interrupt This Interruption!, a humorous take on our modern mobile world that could be subtitled: How to Survive in a World Where the Cell Phone Is Always Ringing.

Trikking with Trikke Europe

Do what you love and fulfillment will follow, so says what amounts to an urban legend, allegedly spoken by the wisest among us. Lately I'm starting to think: they might be onto something.

I love trikking and a whole lotta fulfillment has followed.

First, the joyride of the 21st century whipped my body into the best shape of my life (as I approach age 50!).

Then joy came from being part of the group rides on the So Cal Trikke Circuit, where I’m able to meet and commune with my fellow Trikke nuts.

Next came the joy of creation with my good friend Jeri Thompson. For Jeri and I, it was love at first Trikke, er, sight.

I fell in love with the three-wheel wonder upon seeing an infomercial. Jeri fell in love with the three-wheel wonder upon seeing my first Trikke.

Our first creation was Long Beach Trikkers, the local club responsible for the Labor Day Ride of Long Beach and the MLK, Jr. Trikke Ride, co-sponsored by SouthBay Trikke, the local dealer we rely on like a good mechanic.

Then we gave birth to TrikkeWorld Magazine, to chronicle the carving revolution we love being part of. True to urban legend form, more fulfillment has followed.

Food Services Is Closed for the Night

Boomer's a beggar. Whenever there's food, he's there with those big, brown eyes, giving me that look, the one he hopes earns him a piece of ... something, anything.

I guess I can't blame my twelve-year-old golden mutt. Aren't all dogs beggars?

Some historians theorize it was young wolf cubs begging around early man's campfires that led to the creation of man's best friend.

Still, you'd think two squares a day, plus treats, would be enough for my best friend.

"Some days, I feel like a treat machine."

Not so. Boomer wants a piece of everything, even though I rarely give him anything. Anything that is, except his food and the occasional bit of people food.

Did I mention the chicken breast treat he gets each and every time we come in the house after he's done his business? Or something good?

Some days, I feel like a treat machine, or a dorm cafeteria worker, which has to explain the phrase I came up with to give myself a respite from my dog's begging.

I say it as I'm tidying up the kitchen before going to bed. Naturally, Boomer joins me with that hungry face that says, pretty please?

That's when I look directly into those big, brown eyes and utter the one thing that puts an end to the begging:

"Food services is closed for the night."

At which point Boomer lowers his head in resignation, exits the kitchen and goes to sleep. At which point I exhale with relief to know the stalking, excuse me, begging, is over, at least for another day.

Keeping Up with Randy Boyd's Blocks

To the millions upon millions of fans of my books--who don't know it yet--did you know that there's a way to keep up with Randy Boyd's Blocks?

That's right, if you love Randy Boyd's Blocks like I do, you'll want to make sure to get every single post.

All you have to do is prescribe yourself a subscription to Randy Boyd's Blocks. There are two ways do get 'er done. You can subscribe by email and get the Blocks via email, or you can subscribe to the Blocks in your favorite news reader.

The choice is yours, but I were you, I'd wouldn't want to miss out on a single Randy Boyd Block. Then again, if I were you, that would mean that you're me and ... I still wouldn't want you to miss out on a single block! So subscribe! Please?

Pacer Crazy

Yes! Yes, Your Honor, I admit it: I’m in love with the Indiana Pacers and I hate everyone and anyone who gets in their way.

The love affair started in childhood (what doesn’t?). Daddy was a perplexing man (whose wasn’t?), but on many occasions, he took my brother Stephen and me to the Fairgrounds Coliseum in Indianapolis to see black men with big Afros and white men with long sideburns, all of them wearing short shorts and playing ball for the Indiana Pacers.

The league was called the American Basketball Association, but they might as well have put Ringling Brothers somewhere on the logo. They used a red, white and blue basketball and came up with kooky innovations like a 3-point shot and a slam dunk contest at the all-star game.

The Pacers squared off against teams like the Virginia Squires, Utah Stars, Miami Floridians, and the dreaded Kentucky Colonels, almost as hated as those dreaded Kentucky Wildcats, who (along with Purdue, who broke Scott May’s arm late in the regular season), cheated the unbeaten Hoosiers outta an NCAA title in 1975.

He's No Fool, No, Siree!

He rides a trike with one K, but clearly, if his wife let him, 103-year old Octavio Orduño would also be carving it up on a Trikke with two K's.

For quite some time, the oldest living cyclist in Long Beach, CA, couldn't keep his eyes off my black Trikke Tribred Pon-e at the grand opening of the new downtown bikeways on Saturday, April 23, 2011.

"He wants to swap," said a pretty lady named Helene. My Trikke for his trike, the three-wheel bike he rides around the city. Saturday, he stood atop the Pon-e like a happy young boy, then asked me to show him how its ridden, looking on with the wonderment of someone a fraction of his age.

The Trikke brings out the kid in all of us, no matter who we are and how old we get. Octavio Orduño is living proof.

Randy Boyd's Trikke Blocks

Trikke Randy was the name of my first column on the Blocks about my amazing journey with the joyride of the 21st century.

Now, the journey continues with Randy Boyd's Trikke Blocks, which also includes my previous posts as Trikke Randy.

But wait, there's more! In addition to my Trikke Blocks on my author blog, you can also find me carving up Long Beach Trikkers, the local hub and club for trikkers in Long Beach, California, and TrikkeWorld Magazine, the chronicle of the carving revolution, both co-creations of myself and my good friend and fellow trikker Jeri Thompson.

What will we think of next? Stick around and find out on Trikke Blocks, now and forever at Randy Boyd's Blocks.

Lucky to Live in Long Beach

When I first moved to California from Indianapolis, where I was born and raised, I never imagined living in Long Beach. Now, some thirty years later, I can't imagine not living in Long Beach.

As a college freshman at USC in 1980, I'd barely heard of Long Beach, let alone dreamt of living in the mid-size burg 25 miles south of downtown Los Angeles. After all, my California dreaming had been fueled by Three's Company, Starsky and Hutch, CHiPs and countless other Hollywood depictions of life in LA. To my knowledge, no shows beamed like sunlight from the golden, star-studded streets of Long Beach (little did I know).

Biography

Randy who? Click here for Randy Boyd's bio.
Author of what? Click here for Randy Boyd's novels.

Good News

Once upon a time, television news gave us important information, thoughtful opinions and intelligent analysis.

Then came the modern, 24-hour-cable-news-era, with its "breaking news" about car chases, celebrity breakups and "tonight's special episode of Dancing with the Stars."

Believe it or not, there still exists one newscast that gives us important information, thoughtful opinions and intelligent analysis.

It's newest name is the PBS Newshour, but their game is the same as it ever was: simply the best news on TV with the least amount of celebrity hype and hyperbole.

Want better TV journalism? Check out the Best News on Television.

What Makes a Man a Fag?

Men fuck around with other men. I know because I'm one of them. And I will not take this "fag" rap alone.

What is a fag? A man who only fucks around with men? A man who admits to fucking around with men? A man who walks, talks and acts like a sissy? How many blow jobs from another man does it take to make you a fag?

Men fuck around with other men. What makes a man straight? Marriage? Kids? A manly voice? Talking about pussy all the time? Your preconceived notions about men and fags?

If baseball heroes can smile on camera and lie about steroids, is it possible that baseball heroes can smile on camera and lie about fucking around with other men?

What makes a man a fag? What makes him a man? Who's doing what to whom on what night? What year? What reality?

Men fuck around with other men. I know because I'm one of them; and I'm living to tell.

Debbie Done Good

One of the neatest things about being a trikker is connecting with other trikkers at group rides and local events here in Southern California.

After all, the three-wheel "bike" known as the Trikke is still a newfangled invention in the world, sort of like the bicycle ten years after it first surfaced on the planet.

Ergo, we trikkers are a passionate breed, but we're a breed with a relatively small population. That's changing, though, thanks to the Internet and a growing global community of trikkers and Trikke skkiers.

In California, newbies are continually finding out about and joining what I like to call the So Cal Trikke Circuit. In January, 2011, Debbie Bumgardner was such a newbie.

A trikker from the San Fernando Valley, Debbie heard about the fledgling circuit on the net and joined Long Beach Trikkers and SouthBay Trikke for the MLK Trikke Ride in Long Beach, CA.

She's been a regular at group rides ever since, and now her "weight loss by trikking" story is the subject of a very cool LA Times article by fitness columnist Roy M. Wallack.

One of the things not revealed in the article: Debbie kicks ass on the Trikke path. We're talking head of the pack! Bumgardner's got skills!

Congrats on the Times story, Debbie. So glad to have you in our TrikkeWorld.

Clancy

When I was age seven, our family got its first-ever family dog. We had just moved into our new home in suburban Indianapolis. The four kids were attending new schools in Washington Township, which still has a great reputation among public school systems. Like the Jeffersons, we had moved on up. The excitement within our family was palpable. We had arrived.

Naturally, we needed a family dog. Being the youngest, I had the least amount of say in our canine of choice, a black Scottish beagle that one of my older brothers named Clancy (after a schoolmate's dog).

Dare I say--I had the closest relationship with Clancy. After all, it was me he leaned on that first scary night in his new home. He came to my bed, whimpering. I gently carried him back to his brand new dog bed in the family room.

"My father's beating up on my mother and it's not getting any better.”

Clancy bit me once. I tried to pick him up after he broke his leg when sleeping underneath my father's soon-not-to-be-parked car. The adults assured me the bite was Clancy's natural reaction to the pain in his leg. I never doubted them or Clancy.

It was Clancy who first taught me: when nervous, anxious or full of doubt, pet the dog. The lesson occurred when my parents were arguing, my mother with words and tears, my father with brutality.

“Should we call the police?” I asked my older sister, the only other sibling home at the time.

“Let's wait and see if it gets any better,” said my sister. We were both scared of my father's anger and what that anger made him capable of.

A short time later, my mom tried escaping by locking herself in her bathroom. Didn't work. What's a flimsy wooden door to a man who hits the mother of his children? I decided to call the police on my own.

“My father's beating up on my mother and it's not getting any better,” I told the emergency operator. She promised to send someone out, something I knew would make my father even angrier.

Clancy was a barker. He barked at any stranger coming up our driveway. I knew this would tip off my father that the police had arrived, so I joined Clancy in the backyard, sat on the back porch and held him in my lap, stroking him. I told Clancy I was doing this to avoid alerting my father, but in reality, I was holding onto my dog out of sheer fright. I had no idea what else to do except pet the dog.

A short time later, a burly white cop knocked on the front door. My father answered, talked his way out trouble, then told me and my sister: “If you ever call the police again, I'll kill you.”

The law let me, my mom and my sister down that day. But Clancy didn't. Not only did he not bark at the officer, he provided me a good deal of comfort during the whole ordeal.

Clancy died when I was age eleven. He chased after a car that didn't bother to stop after hitting him. The owner of the car, a female, had driven down our street daily, usually after 5 pm, but never again. It would be another 25 years before I had another dog, Boomer, whom I found at the exact same location we had found Clancy, the Humane Society of Indianapolis, not far from the family home.

I'll never stop loving Clancy and I'll always be grateful for what that little black beagle taught me: when in doubt, pet the dog. A measure of calm will come to you, and no matter the challenge, life won't seem so bad.

• When In Doubt, Pet the Dog, a periodic memoir or blog feature or journal thingy, now and forever at Randy Boyd's Blocks (.com).

Boy Me

1965. Indianapolis, Indiana.

Happy Daze

Winter of 1981. Freshman year, USC.

Big, Black ... Cheerleader?

"You used to be a cheerleader for UCLA, but before that you were a yell leader for USC!"

The words of a woman who once approached me at an airport.

"Weren't you that cheerleader for UCLA?"

A question I was asked, wherever I went, for a good fifteen years after college.

"Didn't you used to be a yell leader for USC?"

Another question that followed me for years after college.

"Hey, it's the traitor! He used to be a USC yell leader, but he transferred and became a UCLA cheerleader. He's a traitor! It's the traitor! Look everybody, it's the traitor!"

The loud accusations of a handful of black kids as I escorted my mother to a LA Clippers game at the old Sports Arena in 1986. The kids lived in South Central, hung around the Coliseum and USC football. For years in the 80s, whenever they saw me in public: "There's the traitor. He's a traitor. First he went to USC, then he ..."

My young black hecklers served as inspiration for a similar bit in Walt Loves the Bearcat, my fourth novel about the life of a black male cheerleader (and his QB hubby who comes out and shocks the world).

But what inspired me to become a cheerleader? And why did I do it at two major universities who are bitter crosstown rivals? And what was cheerleading like for this big-assed, six-foot-three, athlete-looking ni ... nice black man?

Find out in the blocks labeled Cheer Up, now and forever at Randy Boyd's Blocks:

So I Thought I Could Dance
USC Yell Leader Has Love Hangover at Fiesta Bowl
UCLA Cheerleader Sacked by Rose Bowl

What Would James Bond Do?

He did it! What no other black man before him had accomplished. He achieved the unthinkable. He became president of the United States of America.

He did it again! What no other president before him had accomplished. He achieved the unthinkable. He made universal healthcare the law of the land of the free.

He was brave enough to stick with his convictions and face his oppressors. It's done. They'll try to undo it, but it's done. It's done.

"Obama has something few men possess."

In less than two years, Barack Obama has achieved the impossible twice. One can just imagine (or see on television) the spinning heads of the scared white racists, er, rebels, er, republicans, decrying: where has our 'whites only' America gone?

When the white man mandated auto insurance, home owner's insurance, driver's licenses, social security, Medicare, some protested, but they got over it. That's because it wasn't personal.

When a black man mandates anything, it's personal. It's personal. It's personal.

So how does this black man, whose middle name is Hussein, keep defying the odds and doing crazy things like winning the presidency and achieving healthcare reform in the blink of an historic eye?

"The president's secret weapon is so innate, it's invisible."

Barack Hussein Obama has a secret that's more like a secret weapon. He has something few men possess, a trait that allows him to outlast the blowhards and remain calm amidst the yelling, screaming and temper tantrums.

It's not his brain, albeit he's one smart man. It's not his charm, although he's quite charming. The president's secret weapon is so innate, it's invisible, so ingrained, it's in his nature, so elusive, it would take Jedi-like training from an early age for an ordinary man to grasp and master.

Barack Obama's secret weapon is patience. He has the patience to pause before reacting, the patience to listen before speaking, the patience to give his brain some perspective. Got an insult? A lie? A spin? An epithet? An accusation? Give it your best shot.

President Obama has the patience to let other reveal themselves for who they are, then reply with a well-thought-out response. By not letting his testosterone run the show, his highly talented brain is better prepared to spring into action. You might say, our president is a James Bond of the mind.

In this day and age, Obama's patience is not only a virtue, it's a must for the survival of America and the world.

Dealer or No Dealer?

"Having a local Trikke dealer--and a great one in SouthBay Trikke--saved my Trikke, and thus, my passion for trikking. Twice.

"Based on my experience, the best way to buy a Trikke is through a local dealer, if you're fortunate enough to have one in your area."

—from So You Think You Can Trikke