Never before have I visited two bike riders’ homes on a single night out, although perhaps the second stop, at Joe’s apartment, only counts for half since I just partly recall being there.
Bob Ross onscreen, though, seemed like a reasonable cap to the evening, lovely as it was with nary a happy little cloud in sight.
There was a modicum of pedaling beforehand, washed down with lots of beer and other eye-openers and although no one stood around a fire (at least on my watch) there was plenty of warmth of both the metaphorical and literal kind to spare on what might have been the coldest night of the year so far.
My Joeball-endorsed hardware store gloves performed admirably, however, so I got to avoid the traditional cold hands component of the warm heart duo; in fact, as the night went on, the weather seemed less and less of issue; happily, in any case, I did make it home with all my accouterments intact.
The problem with internet jukeboxes, like the one at our newest watering hole, is that they offer too many choices. Sure, it sucks to be limited to Dave Matthews and Toby Keith like at the first joint we rolled into, but when you can choose from everything from Abba to ZZ Top with fIREHOSE and Jethro Tull thrown in for good measure, it’s hard to decide.
That’s why it’s often a relief to simply follow the blinkies in front of you and give yourself over to whatever happens to show up. If this involves invading someone’s condominium—at their invitation—to raid the liquor cabinet and test the weight limits of their rooftop deck area, so be it.
And if later in the night, it means you circle around someone else’s apartment yelling their name before shamelessly invading the premises, then that’s fine, too.
You don’t always have to make choices; sometimes what happens is the ride chooses you:
Whee! Whee! Whee!
All the way home.
Bob Ross onscreen, though, seemed like a reasonable cap to the evening, lovely as it was with nary a happy little cloud in sight.
There was a modicum of pedaling beforehand, washed down with lots of beer and other eye-openers and although no one stood around a fire (at least on my watch) there was plenty of warmth of both the metaphorical and literal kind to spare on what might have been the coldest night of the year so far.
My Joeball-endorsed hardware store gloves performed admirably, however, so I got to avoid the traditional cold hands component of the warm heart duo; in fact, as the night went on, the weather seemed less and less of issue; happily, in any case, I did make it home with all my accouterments intact.
The problem with internet jukeboxes, like the one at our newest watering hole, is that they offer too many choices. Sure, it sucks to be limited to Dave Matthews and Toby Keith like at the first joint we rolled into, but when you can choose from everything from Abba to ZZ Top with fIREHOSE and Jethro Tull thrown in for good measure, it’s hard to decide.
That’s why it’s often a relief to simply follow the blinkies in front of you and give yourself over to whatever happens to show up. If this involves invading someone’s condominium—at their invitation—to raid the liquor cabinet and test the weight limits of their rooftop deck area, so be it.
And if later in the night, it means you circle around someone else’s apartment yelling their name before shamelessly invading the premises, then that’s fine, too.
You don’t always have to make choices; sometimes what happens is the ride chooses you:
Whee! Whee! Whee!
All the way home.
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