Apotheosis

photo by joeball

According to the St. Anselm’s so-called “Ontological Argument,” God’s existence is proven since, as “that which nothing greater can be conceived,” He necessarily exists, point being that if He didn’t, then He wouldn’t be the greatest conceivable thing (lacking the property of existence).

The seminal objection comes from the monk, Gaunilo, who argues that ironically, the Ontological Argument is too powerful.  By the same logic, says Gaunilo, we could prove the existence of the greatest conceivable island, but this is absurd, and so, by a reductio, Anselm’s proof fails.

Contemporary philosopher of religion, Alvin Plantinga, responds on behalf of Anselm and contends that Gaunilo’s analogy is faulty; while “the greatest conceivable thing” is a coherent concept, the “greatest conceivable island” is not; the former is an infinite Being; the latter is something finite to which attributes can be added infinitely; the concept, therefore, is self-contradictory; thus Gaunilo’s objection fails and Anselm’s proof carries the day.

I’m not so sure, though.  Consider a different finite something with the property of being unsurpassable, “the greatest conceivable .83 ride,” for example, “the .83 ride such that no greater ride could be conceived of.”

It would feature an unseasonably dry evening, a fair amount of miles on mostly car-less roads; an endless amount of surprisingly decent marijuana passed out freely by a non-partaking Derrick Ito; not one, but two outdoor drinking spots, the second of which at a fondly-remembered hidden hobo firepit with a conflagration hot enough to give rise to several SOC Pussies; a double-EntAndre in the tree overhead; so much beer that even the Angry Hippy felt compelled to turn unopened leftovers into coal-fired depth-charges; a couple mechanicals, but no broken bones; more than enough trash-scavenged dick pics; whiskey at a favored watering hole for a nightcap; and, to top it off, Daniel Featherhead navigating the whole goddamned trip on his home-built tall bike.

It doesn’t get better; it can’t get better, and yet, remarkably, dear Gaunilo, it exists.

Shiny

The Harvest Moon, I’m told by the internet, is the full moon closest to the autumnal equinox, but you didn’t even need a wireless connection to glean the extra-special luminosity of the evening’s celestial orb; all you had to do was admire the Mini-Me shadow puppets it cast on the sand as the fire burned to glowing coals and the conversations rose like bona-fide fireworks bursting into patterned roses overhead.

photo by joeball

Brother Botorff directed my attention to the western skyline where the fog nestled around the distant landmass like a scarf and I couldn’t help seeing Jay Gatsby’s green light blinking across the water.

My own perspective kept being drawn to our nearest celestial satellite and even though I showed up after water bottles and growlers had already been filled with and emptied of the homegrown cordial, it was all I could do to walk a straight line under its highlighting aura.

If you ever find yourself forgetting how unusual is this weekly confluence, just ask: when was the last time you stood around a bonfire that you got to by being outside the whole time; and if that’s not enough: free beer, friendly faces, and what meteorologists call an “Omega block” to keep things dryer than any Northwesterner in October has a right to even dream of.

As I pedaled in, a couple of early-exits passed by; I wondered whether I’d be too late to enjoy the mass conflagration; not to worry: from a quarter mile away whoops and hollers became audible; soon enough, bicycles everywhere, and sand in one’s shoes come morning.

A couple times I found myself in conversations that involved reminiscences, and one common theme was how long this has been happening; eight years, more or less, to my way of experience, but somehow, it keeps surprising.

The moon, after all, has been doing its thing every month for over four and a half billion years and that still has yet to get old.

Beer

photo by joeball

The important thing is that nobody wiped out on the wet grating of the Ballard Bridge as we headed to the brewery for Brewmaster Dave’s birthday bacchanalia.

Bear with me chillens: it doesn’t matter how much of a bad-ass biker you are, even how fat your tires may be; honest to God, stay off those damn bridge-gratings in the rain.  I never want to see another flapping forehead on any of you, even Joe, who probably still wouldn’t shut up if his eyebrows were dangling over his mouth.

It was one of those nights where cycling played second fiddle to quaffing, and why not?  After all, it’s rare you get to pedal to Peddlar on the occasion of your friendly local beer maker’s birthday and choose from among an array of tasty beverages served up by cheerful, smiling folks in a room into which you can wheel your bike from the drizzle and pile it on top of those ridden by old acquaintance to trap them into staying by the weight of your rig.

And why leave when not only are their plenty of grownups to lie to, but also, you have the unprecedented opportunity to make goo-goo eyes to an actual real-live second generation Angry Hippy, who—at three months—seems to have inherited little of his father’s legendary inclination, but rather, was remarkably sanguine about the whole proceedings, even when Derrick held him in his arms.

Eventually though, the promise of even better (well, freer, anyway) beer drew the hearty from the pub and out along a trail that usually seems more familiar, but which, eventually, led to the zip-lined park where more tales were spun and dyspepsia was cultivated by intrepid souls like Fancy Fred who twirled on the merry-go-round.

I left in time to miss further weirdness that may or may not have involved flaming pizza boxes; my bike brought me safely home by midnight, avoiding one more wet bridge-grating on the way.

Chase

(This space intentionally left blank.)