When I was a scrawny four-eyed geek of a teenager, I got called “homo” all the time; not because I wanted to have sex with males—except my social studies teacher, Brother Bernard, but that was to get an “A" in the class—but because, I think, I simply loved my friends too much and was just geeky enough to let them know in inappropriate ways for an adolescent boy: like giggling and waving my hands about saying something like, “Aw jeez, guys, aren’t we all like the best friends ever?!”
So that’s kinda how I felt like a big homo on the bike ride last night; pedaling along behind the dozens of blinkies winking at me from cyclists up ahead, eavesdropping on conversations of riders behind, shouting “wheee” as we poured down a winding hill to a secluded beachfront in Magnolia; I was all “Awww, ain’t these guys the greatest?" especially after the pre-funked stink butter kicked in—coincidentally, same as last time along the Myrtle Edwards trail, and even before we ended up at Gasworks Park overlooking a hilariously charming skyline view of Seattle, so picturesque that it seemed like a model put together in a Tokyo film studio to be stepped on by Godzilla at the movie’s climax and well before getting all smashed and bleary-eyed sentimental at the Knarr.
In between, I got to talk to the magical Daniel Featherhead at this pizzashop in Ballard about his epic bicycle trip to a piece of land he inherited in New Mexico; I love the idea of setting forth on two wheels to end up at a place whose location you’re unsure of until you get there—which was kind of last night, full of surprises, but none as unexpected as seeing Henry crash sideways on a concrete seam and then DJ Strokey go endo-ver him but fortunately, no broken bones for anyone which I’m glad about because aw man, I just love those pointy-threes, all of them.
So that’s kinda how I felt like a big homo on the bike ride last night; pedaling along behind the dozens of blinkies winking at me from cyclists up ahead, eavesdropping on conversations of riders behind, shouting “wheee” as we poured down a winding hill to a secluded beachfront in Magnolia; I was all “Awww, ain’t these guys the greatest?" especially after the pre-funked stink butter kicked in—coincidentally, same as last time along the Myrtle Edwards trail, and even before we ended up at Gasworks Park overlooking a hilariously charming skyline view of Seattle, so picturesque that it seemed like a model put together in a Tokyo film studio to be stepped on by Godzilla at the movie’s climax and well before getting all smashed and bleary-eyed sentimental at the Knarr.
In between, I got to talk to the magical Daniel Featherhead at this pizzashop in Ballard about his epic bicycle trip to a piece of land he inherited in New Mexico; I love the idea of setting forth on two wheels to end up at a place whose location you’re unsure of until you get there—which was kind of last night, full of surprises, but none as unexpected as seeing Henry crash sideways on a concrete seam and then DJ Strokey go endo-ver him but fortunately, no broken bones for anyone which I’m glad about because aw man, I just love those pointy-threes, all of them.
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