Grapple

photo by joeball

All I ask is that I never get inured to this nonsense, that I never fail to be utterly gobsmacked by the over-the-top inanity of it all, and that I’m always giddy and gleeful a the gleeful giddiness glowing before me in rainbow Technicolor when Everclear is mixed, slides are slipped, and vegan Jell-O in a kiddie pool provides the perfect venue for what turns out to be some pretty serious rasslin’ when bike nerds in bathing suits go at it for real.

If you ever catch me yawning, rolling my eyes, or making comparisons to previous events when this crazy shit is going down, I respectfully ask for a kick in the pants or possibly a nutpunch just so I never forget that it’s unforgettable every time—even if many of the participants will have trouble remembering the details afterwards.

Any of it would be more than enough which is why all of it can almost seem insufficient, but only for an instant until you recall that nowhere else in the Universe is this commonplace or expected, much less unprecedented and unbelievable.

Those kids on skateboards flying down Second Avenue among the disco bike horde had their peak moment and that was only 2 minutes into things.

People come out of many a woodwork to witness for themselves that such hijinks exist, but it’s those sights you can’t unsee—like naked bowling balls hurtling down the plastic-coated lawn or headlocked hillbillies thrashing like alligators in chunky green goo—that are hardest to believe your eyes over.

Seattle has a long tradition of Seafair shenanigans, and I like to think such escapades as these fall squarely into that exalted history; we may not be pirates “kidnapping” beauty queens from local diners, but surely future archeologists unearthing plastic bits and bike grease will have to conclude that the local customs were certainly uncustomary, in spite of the fact that you can almost, over time, become accustomed to them.