Ka-Boom

Apparently, this was the theme of the theme of the night.

I missed the human version, but I was there when we all got to experience a moment that we all got to experience simultaneously.

Somebody—teh Jobies, I think—threw the Heineken mini-keg onto the fire.

The irony, of course, is that it took all night to get the fucking flames hot enough to boil water, what with the wood that was wet and the part about nobody being able to leave it alone long enough to really catch, but anyway, by then, the tipi-shaped conflagration was putting out enough heat to make it worthwhile to stand by.

And that’s why it’s so amazing that nobody got decapitated or at least had an eye put out.

The moment was kind of hilarious, actually: all of a sudden, ka-boom! And I mean it! We were all drowned out. Nobody wasn’t called to attention.

Loud.

And then, in the following seconds as people regained their hearing and composure, there was nothing but laughter, both the ha-ha and “I can’t believe I’m still in one piece” kinds.

I showed up late and left early, but still got to have that burst; all set to make it to Westlake on time, I was called away unexpectedly to responsibilities I’m responsible for, which wasn’t so bad, all things considered. At least I didn’t have to have some software fixed before 5:30 in the morning.

The exploded projectile was found a good fifteen yards down the hill and looked like a giant spinach can opened by Popeye’s mighty grip; later, its power was mocked, as at least one person wore it like a hat that looked like the hairdo of Kid n’ Play, but when it was first discovered how far the thing had gone, I know that I, at least, was thankful I hadn’t been clobbered by something that just came out of nowhere before I could see it.

Same as everyone.

Backwards

My impressions of the evening are like a deck of cards that I can shuffle through backwards, in the vein of one of those plotless movies like “Memento,” in which the director compensates for the paucity of the storyline by running things from finish to start, so a “mystery” unfolds where there wouldn't be should you have rolled things in the normal direction.

So, there I am locking up my bike at home and coming inside, but before that, I’m sure I had a pleasant ride back from 9 Million in Unmarked Bills where we’d gone after the abortive attempt to reanimate the most traditional of fire pit choices, albeit, apparently, too early in the evening.

But all that was missing from that trifecta of emergency services was an ambulance; both the police and the fire department managed to show up, the former even pulling off the requisite “good cop/bad cop” schtick—admittedly sorta half-heartedly once they realized we weren’t going to push back too hard and were even willing to engage in a clean-up of our mess while they watched; the firefighters, by contrast, were all business, dumping two huge buckets of water on the tiny conflagration we’d only just gotten going, boo-hoo.

Before that I’m sure there was the Nickerson Tavern, filled up, by the time we were ready to depart, pretty much entirely by cyclists—no wonder there was such a hurry to leave.

A lovely evening for a ride: lost in conversation with the Major, Esquire, along the waterfront and then, surprisingly, east towards Fremont rather than straight to the Boxcar.

The preceding shuffle has me seeing and smelling the fabric dumpster experience; I keep thinking we must have been there longer than we were, although apparently, the whole thing lasted but a moment.

Then, look: here’s Westlake Center, can that be all? And how, I still wonder, did things manage to arrive at the end with no one arrested or even fined?

Theater

Tickets to “The Lion King” on Broadway are like 300 bucks for an orchestra seat and you’re not nearly as close to the performers as I got to be to the star of the show last night; I mean you’re never in nut-punching range of the actors on stage, are you?

So, it was money well-spent to see Derrick in such rare (but not unusual) form; you’d have thought it was all over after we realized the bar at the airport Holiday Inn isn’t that glowing orb on top, but when 10 shots of Maker’s appeared, it was obvious things were just beginning and when he rode away straight into the parking lot gate, you knew your entertainment dollar was going to go a long way.

And although it kinda burns my mind’s eye to recall it, I can still see the upright dog pile on the dance floor at the joint I will refer to fondly now as The Trud where the bartender, at least, so loved us that she raced outside for photos as we were leaving.

It sure makes the ride to the airport a lot shorter when you take the train out there and International Boulevard isn’t nearly as steep if you only ride it downhill, so we were on Fourth Avenue and at the Orient Express before anyone could even sober up which meant that whatever promises were made were unlikely to be kept, although there’s no question that the costs on all sides were higher than expected.

Still, it was money well-spent and if you think of it as a kind of local disaster relief, maybe even justified, even if we never go back there—as if they’d ever let us.

I finished up with a nightcap at Waid’s where I commiserated with my friend, the owner, about his family and loved ones in Haiti; his night was dealing with a real catastrophe; mine, a traveling roadshow of what that’s like.

Fuego

It was a night of firsts:

• First time I ever had a guy in a car heckle me on my bike as he drove by with the exclamation, “Smells nice!”

• First time I ever affixed the top of a noble fir to my trailer flag and first time I ever carried more than one—make it three!—Christmas trees in the Haulin’ Colin trailer, (and I probably could have done one more if I’d have had more bungees).

• First time I’ve ever seen a parade of trees on bikes stretched out before me for hundreds of yards, pointy tops swaying, branches fluttering, and trunks, on at least one occasion, sounding a bass drum on a car mirror extending too far into the road.

• First time I ever got to see in person the conflagration that ensues when the dried remnants of the holiday season are piled together and set aflame and first time, from what I hear, that Lee refrained from restraining the pyromaniacal impulses of the Jobies so that it all went hotter and higher than ever before.

• First time the kid ever got to toss a dry pine onto an outdoor fire and stand back as the flames shot up into the air, igniting a showering plume of sparks to descend like ochre snowflakes against the backdrop of charcoal sky.

• First time I ever got to mingle not only with the bike gang but the family, too—and later fellow teachers—on a Thursday night mayhem; such abundance is rare.

• First time I’ve ever had anybody ask for my autograph on a photo of me—something I could sort of get used to, although I’d draw the line at carrying my own Sharpies.

And a night of nonsense of which I’m quite familiar but just never tire of:

• Douchecock sonzabitches pedaling like mad, drinking too much, wreaking havoc (to themselves, mostly), burning brighter and brighter, on fire.