Tuning your gears are crucial for your skiing and snowboarding experience on the terrains. Without proper tuning, your equipment won’t perform well; therefore, you won’t enjoy your time on the trails.

Nevertheless, you don’t need to break your bank to get your gears ready for your trip to the slopes. My rate is 50% less than the ski shops’ rate.

I will try to finish the job within a day or two. I have been tuning skis and snowboards for over 5 years.

Ski and snowboard tuning include:

• Base fixes with P-Text
• Edge sharpen and bevel
• Custom hand wax

I am located near George Mason University in Fairfax, Virginia. If you need tuning services, contact me.

Here are the gears I have tuned.

I hadn’t heard of Ledisi before, but I sure had heard of Dinah. When I first got into jazz many years ago, I spent a great deal of time listening to Dinah Washington. Listening to Ledisi pay tribute to the Queen of the Blues, I get nostalgic. She kicks off the album with Dinah’s 1957 signature, “What a Difference a Day Makes,” with an intoxicating blues vibe. Ledisi has a big, soulful, smoky voice. She can scat like hell too—check out her bluesy rendition of “If I Never Get to Heaven.” Of course, she can also swing and her duet with Gregory Porter on “You’ve Got What It Takes” is a beautiful collaboration. With Christian McBride anchoring the double bass, Ledisi declares, “You don’t know what love is / Until you’ve learned the meaning of the blues.” For Dinah is a short and sweet tribute that is filled with the blues.

The days I don’t want to kill myself
are extraordinary. Deep bass. All the people
in the streets waiting for their high fives
and leaping, I mean leaping,
when they see me. I am the sun-filled
god of love. Or at least an optimistic
under-secretary. There should be a word for it.
The days you wake up and do not want
to slit your throat. Money in the bank.
Enough for an iced green tea every weekday
and Saturday and Sunday! It’s like being
in the armpit of a Hammond B3 organ.
Just reeks of gratitude and funk.
The funk of ages. I am not going to ruin
my love’s life today. It’s like the time I said yes
to gray sneakers but then the salesman said
Wait. And there, out of the back room,
like the bakery’s first biscuits: bright-blue kicks.
Iridescent. Like a scarab! Oh, who am I kidding,
it was nothing like a scarab! It was like
bright. blue. fucking. sneakers! I did not
want to die that day. Oh, my God.
Why don’t we talk about it? How good it feels.
And if you don’t know then you’re lucky
but also you poor thing. Bring the band out on the stoop.
Let the whole neighborhood hear. Come on, Everybody.
Say it with me nice and slow
no pills no cliff no brains on the floor
Bring the bass back. no rope no hose not today, Satan.
Every day I wake up with my good fortune
and news of my demise. Don’t keep it from me.
Why don’t we have a name for it?
Bring the bass back. Bring the band out on the stoop.
Hallelujah!

Gabrielle Calvocoressi

I don’t want to die in a poem
the words burning in eulogy
the sun howling why
the moon sighing why not

I don’t want to die in bed
which is a poem gone wrong
a world turned in on itself
a floating navel of dreams

I won’t meet death in a field
like a dot punctuating a page
it’s too vast yet too tiny
everyone will say it’s a bit cinematic

I don’t want to pass away in your arms
those gentle parentheses
nor expire outside of their swoon
self-propelled determined shouting

Let the end come
as the best parts of living have come
unsought and undeserved
inconvenient

now that’s a good death

what nonsense you say
that’s not even worth
writing down

Rita Dove

Not the pleasure of lovers but the pleasure of letters, a pleasure like weather, delayed and prepared for, not the pleasure of lessons but the pleasure of errors, of nightmares, of actors in the black box of a theatre, not the pleasure of present but the pleasure of later, the pleasure of letters and weather and terror, asleep by the lake, unable to answer, the pleasure of candles, their wax on the table, not the pleasure of saviors but the pleasure of errors, not the pleasure of marriage but the pleasure of failure, the pleasure of characters like family members, their failures and errors, their laughter and weather, the pleasure of water, terrible rivers, not the pleasure of empire but the pleasure of after, our failure to keep an accurate record, not the pleasure of tethers but the pleasure of strangers, the terrible strangers who will become your lovers, not the pleasure of novels but the pleasure of anger, your failure to answer all of my letters, the pleasure of daughters, the pleasure of daughters writing letters in April, the failure of orchards, the terror of mothers, not the pleasure of planners but the pleasure of errors.

Madeleine Cravens

I bought myself a Quanta R4.16 so I can play pickleball with other parents. I am not good at it, but it gives me a good workout. Many Vietnamese folks are now into this game. They play almost everyday at the park near my house.

I worked from home yesterday and decided to go to the park to skateboard at the court. When I arrived, there were a handful of Vietnamese adults playing pickleball. They asked me to join so I ditched my skateboard and played pickleball.

Yes, I started skateboard on Monday for the first time. On Sunday, one of the parents at Vovinam gave away his kids’ old skateboards and scooters. I picked up a Kryptonis cruiser skateboard. I started to use the skateboard to practice my snowboard carving. I could do heel and toe turns, but I couldn’t connect them together yet. I found this video from Home Daddy to be useful. I will try to follow his instructions.

Wednesday will be the LDVH dad volleyball night. I have been doing quite a bit of sports to keep myself active. I still rollerblade for a bit. I can’t wait to get back to skiing and snowboarding though.

Yesterday, I sold a pair of used skis for $100. I took my family to a Korean restaurant yesterday and spent $200. The food was good though.

Inhabitant of earth for fortysomething years
I once found myself in a peaceful country. I watch neighbors open

their phones to watch
a cop demanding a man’s driver’s license. When a man reaches for his wallet, the cop
shoots. In the car window. Shoots.

It is a peaceful country.

We pocket our phones and go.
To the dentist,
to pick up the kids from school,
to buy shampoo
and basil.

Ours is a country in which a boy shot by police lies on the pavement for hours.

We see in his open mouth
the nakedness
of the whole nation.

We watch. Watch
others watch.

The body of a boy lies on the pavement exactly like the body of a boy—

It is a peaceful country.

And it clips our citizens’ bodies
effortlessly, the way the President’s wife trims her toenails.

All of us
still have to do the hard work of dentist appointments,
of remembering to make
a summer salad: basil, tomatoes, it is a joy, tomatoes, add a little salt.

This is a time of peace.

I do not hear gunshots,
but watch birds splash over the back yards of the suburbs. How bright is the sky
as the avenue springs on its axis.
How bright is the sky (forgive me) how bright.

Ilya Kaminsky

I must confess. I don’t know jack shit about Taylor Swift. Up until her latest release, I had not listened to any of her albums from start to finish. In fact, I didn’t even know that she used curse words in her songs.

After picking up my nine- and seven-year-old sons from school today, I played The Life of a Showgirl and my nine-year-old was in shock when we listened to “Father Figure.” He asked me, “Daddy, did you hear that?” Of course, I did, but I asked him back, “What did you hear?” He replied, “She said the d-word.” It was not obvious to a nine-year-old that she was using the d-word as a vivid metaphor when she sang over the bouncy beats: “I can make deals with the devil because my dick’s bigger.”

Her reference to the male genital piqued my interest and I wanted to know what else she got. “Eldest Daughter” started off with a piano intro then her voice came in, “Everybody’s so punk on the internet / Everyone’s unbothered ’til they’re not.” She continued to sing about the web with “Everybody’s cutthroat in the comments.” She then confessed that she’s “not a bad bitch.” Of course, Taylor Swift is not a bad bitch. She’s a billionaire, bitch.

Again, I didn’t know much about Taylor Swift, but I assumed that most of her songs were about bad relationships and breakups—innocent stuff. In “Actually Romantic,” she sang about sex, “I mind my business, God’s my witness that I don’t provoke it / It’s kind of making me wet.” I found her sex references kind of weird, especially when she put God into it. “Wood” cracked me the fuck up when she revealed, “Redwood tree, it ain’t hard to see / His love was the key that opened my thighs.” That was just too much for my imagination.

The Life of a Showgirl is my very first review of a Tylor Swift album. Swifties, please don’t come at me. I am just playing with her.

David Jonathan Ross launched a lovely microsite for Megazoid, a stunning display typeface. Jason Santa Maria has done an excellent job of showcasing what Megazoid can do. Furthermore, he gives the webpage a soul, which is missing in today’s web design. We need more unique designs and less templated systems that kill the beauty of the web.

By the way, I had the opportunity to provide David feedback on Vietnamese diacritics for Megazoid.

My friend and I had a cat we called Mother.
I took the couch; my friend got the one bedroom
because he often had sex and needed
that private darkness. I had not yet had sex
of my own volition. No one knew
I had been raped. I was so unknowing
I barely knew it myself, how lost I was
to myself. I was maybe twenty. We loved that cat
that had wandered into our lives, rubbing our legs,
needing love and milk and a safe place
to sleep like any creature arriving on this earth
from God knows where and God knows why.
One hot August day I was sitting outside
when Mother joined me and sat on my lap,
a thing she had never done before.
And that was where she died. I called Jeff,
who had gone to a motel somewhere
with his girl of the moment. “Mother died,”
I said. There was a long silence, then
he whispered quietly, “Oh, no,”
as if he wanted to keep his sorrow to himself.
Many years later I told my actual mother
about the rape. She cried a little and was angry
on my behalf. I was calm. Relieved.
Then life went on, as it does,
without much of a pause. I was not healed
by telling her, I am sorry to say.
I am still not, at seventy-nine. The beautiful gray sky
of a rainy May day, and the lindens
coming into flower. That smell!
You and I both love it. (Did you know
all along I was writing this poem to you?)
Often at night we walk to the river
and stare down into the black current
which has reached flood stage
and carries everything before it.

Jim Moore