SPARE TIRE HOLD DOWN - SPARE TIRE

Spare tire hold down - Dunlop motorcycle tires.

Spare Tire Hold Down


spare tire hold down
    spare tire
  • An extra tire carried in a motor vehicle for emergencies
  • A roll of fat around a person's waist
  • A spare tire is an additional tire (or tyre - see spelling differences) carried in a motor vehicle as a replacement for one that goes flat, a blowout, or other emergency.
  • Abdominal obesity, colloquially known as belly fat or clinically as central obesity, is the accumulation of abdominal fat resulting in an increase in waist size. There is a strong correlation between central obesity and cardiovascular disease.
  • excess fat around the waistline
    hold down
  • keep; "She manages to hold down two jobs"
  • restrain; "please hold down the noise so that the neighbors can sleep"
  • a limitation or constraint; "taxpayers want a hold-down on government spending"

Mosquito Bay
Mosquito Bay
This story actually happened two nights ago, but it's taken us awhile to write it out; also, we don't have a proper photo for it, so I'm using this map of the bay instead. Mosquito Bay is on the south side of the island of Vieques. It's a really long story, too, but I hope it's interesting. In any case, 7:45 Monday night found Katy and I sitting on kayaks in the middle of Mosquito Bay under a cloud-dappled night sky, splashing our hands through warm waters which glowed brightly through our fingers. This bay is one of a handful around the world which are home to permanent colonies of phosphorescent dynoflagellates, microorganisms which bioluminesce when agitated; Mosquito Bay is said to have the largest concentration in the world, creating swirling maelstroms of pale blue light around any disturbance in the water, and we were taking an organized night tour of the bay. Our paddle strokes flashed and sparked, and at one point a fish skimmed past our kayak, leaving a fizzing contrail of light behind it. Later, when our tour group was anchored to a buoy, Katy even joined the rest of the tour in plunging into the bay, becoming instantly enveloped in a shimmering cloud, her slightest motion transcribed in light. Needless to say, it was an extraordinarily memorable, sublime experience, but I don't believe it would be an exaggeration to say that it pales to insignificance beside the story of the magnificently sketchy process which brought us to the middle of that bay. The evening began innocently enough, when we asked our hostess at the hotel, a truly wonderful woman with wild white hair and a distracted disposition, how we would go about touring the bioluminescent bay. She graciously leapt to our assistance and made the arrangements for our tour by phone, all while repeatedly trying and failing to pour herself a cup of coffee from an empty carafe. She told us we'd be picked up by the tour operator, Anastasio, at six pm, and indeed, at 6:20 on the dot, a dilapidated blue van rumbled to a stop in front of the hotel. The girl in the passenger seat was unable to slide the side door open from the inside, however, and directed Katy to help by prying at the far edge of the door while she pushed from her side. When this also failed to work she got out of the car and tried again, unsuccessfully, to open the door. At this point the driver, a teenage girl whom Anastasio would later fondly refer to as his son, came around the van and, deftly placing a hand in either side of the door, expertly levered it open. Made nervous by the awkward delay, Katy and I quickly climbed into the van, and so it was not until we were fully inside that we paused to take stock of its contents. As our eyes adjusted to the gloom we saw two bucket seats, each of which had originally graced the interiors of entirely different vehicles, arranged in a kind of loose curve facing toward the sliding door, their yellow foam bulging proudly through threadbare upholstery. These were followed closely behind by a small red bench seat at the back of the van, whose springs would later prove to have long since lost their buoyancy. This relatively conventional seating was augmented by an upturned plastic crate squeezed behind the driver's seat and a rusty spare tire with a cushion on it which sat on the floor by the door. As for the rest of the interior, the van looked more or less as though someone had rubbed a steak over the walls, then locked a bear inside. The console against the right wall was entirely destroyed, with only a few pieces of particleboard and vinyl remaining as a grisly reminder. The walls had at some point been covered with a light brown fabric the texture of burlap, which was now stained and tattered; entire portions were supported solely by strips of lathe screwed into the sheet metal. Similar strips were used to hold up the distended brown ceiling fabric, which had separated entirely from the ceiling and now hung in voluptuous folds across the width of the car, rubbing our heads affectionately. We took our seats at the back as the engine roared to life, filling the van with the overwhelming smell of exhaust fumes, and we bounced across the length Vieques to the upscale end of the island. The van stopped beside a small knot of spandexed tourists and we were finally introduced to Anastasio, who exuberantly flung open the door and greeted us warmly; behind him the tourists' bored expressions were turning to horrified disbelief. Anastasio quickly ushered most of the group into the van, filling it to its improvised capacity of 8 (the cushioned tire accommodated two), and we continued on. Introductions were hastily made all around, and we all laughed nervously about the van's decrepit condition, joking, when we turned down a narrow, densely wooded dirt track, about this being one of those movies where no one comes back alive. There was a thoughtful pause at this, followed by an uneasy silence while our young driver maneu
Untitled
Untitled
A three legged chair and a garbage can full of snow recently staged a play in an empty parking space. Most residents of the neighborhood saw the gathering as a mere claiming of a snow shoveled space. Unfortunate, since the performance may have been one play of an unfinished, presumed lost Samuel Beckett trilogy. Though no script of the play is known to exist, the idea for the work is mentioned in letters, predates Waiting for Godot, and has long been the subject of debate among theater historians. Local anthropomorphologists have inspected the can and link it stylistically to props from Beckett’s play Endgame. It’s also similar in construction to garbage bins manufactured in Paris during his time there. Research into the chair's origins has been inconclusive. A tenant whose apartment overlooks the parking area recalls odd activity. While washing his windows, he noticed the chair teetering in the wind. A man pushing a grocery cart stopped abruptly beside the space. He watched for five minutes, possibly the length of the performance. During a long pause which may have signaled the end of the play, he suddenly rushed toward the two parallel yellow lines. Just as he was about to enter the space, a pedestrian turned the corner. The man hesitated, then returned to his cart and continued down the drive. The day after the performance, the chair was missing and likely stolen. The snow had melted and the garbage can was on the curb, now half filled with garbage. When Eric Bartlett returned to his shoveled space, the sight of the missing chair sent him into a rage about thievery, neighborliness, parking, and global injustice. He lifted the can to return it to the space, and so reassert his rightful ownership. As he did, he slipped on a patch of ice, tumbled onto the asphalt, and rolled with the can into the center of the parking space. The same spot the chair and garbage can had occupied the day before. From the belly of the courtyard came a disembodied voice, “Squatter’s rights.” Laughter from an apartment window merely rekindled his outrage. Bartlett resumed his rant from the ground. It was this scene that first triggered the connections to Beckett’s play. Early in his career, Beckett saw a neighbor’s possessions hauled out of his building and left the sidewalk. Given that he was on the verge of eviction himself, this incident and a line from a letter has led to much conjecture: “Such a fine space for parking.” It could reveal concerns about his own living situation. Not owning a car at the time, it’s unlikely the comment was automotive in nature. The line composes its own paragraph. It rests uneasily between a long paragraph about the frustrations of publishing and an exceedingly longer one about a rashers and bangers breakfast where the bangers were knocked on the floor. Given its free floating context, the line lends itself to wide interpretations. It may be a non sequitor or, as one armchair psychologist suggested, “an artistic land grab.” Since Beckett’s precarious finances kept him a renter and pedestrian, “through the work, he was claiming a small piece of land as his own.” Draw your own conclusions. Join the debates at the counter of the Parking Bureau. But walk distractedly through neighborhoods at the risk of missed cultural opportunities. Rumor has it that a spare tire, a blown out carburetor, and an Eldorado chassis are staging a hip-hopped up Camus play. Possibly in a west side abandoned car park. If these performances prove true, Beckett may have posthumously spawned a theatrical movement. If it takes hold, he will have stripped the play of not just words, but actors, and a theater as well. Set the space and life will circulate. Artistic viability may just be a matter of raiding your living room and garage of its clutter. Already anticipating the legislatablity of such a trend, the city council is considering a special session. The topic would be the zoning legitimacy and taxability of “performance based parking space occupancy.” One alderman claims his candor on the proposal --- “What a friggin’ waste of time.” --- has lost his district funding. Word of the Beckett staging, or spacing, has spread quickly. When asked if he’d heard of the performance, a desk clerk at the auto pound observed, “All the city’s a parking space, all the furniture and garbage receptacles merely players.” Asked about the prospect of a new Beckett play, a man outside a Parisian resale shop put his Age of Reason on the curb, thought for a moment, and in a cloud of cigarette smoke said, “What furniture has wrought, no man can undo.” In a Dublin pub, a man sat reading a newspaper. At the mention of the topic, he shook his head, “This again.” He then transferred a fish from the bar to his newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and left behind a two-word summation, “Fuckin’ Tossers.”

spare tire hold down
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