Slippery

photo by fatasian

I’ll tell you, Officer, that Cascade Bike Club sure knows how to throw a party, don’t they?

The term “Felliniesque” comes to mind (or maybe Kafkaesque), but if we’re in the business of neologisms based on people’s names, then perhaps we should add Jobyesque to the list.  This would refer to an event whose carnival-like imagery is something out of the Parisian demi-monde of the Belle Epoque as performed by Cirque du Soleil on mushrooms; you’d see a lot of things that you could never believe were happening and even more that you could never unsee no matter how hard you tried.  And it would all happen pretty much on two wheels.

When I was a rambunctious adolescent, my mom used to counsel me as I headed out the door on my latest adventure to first, not break my neck, and second, refrain from getting arrested.  Some of her acquaintances, I’m told, reproached her for setting the bar so low, but, when you consider all the kind of trouble that such joyful boyful energy can get into, it’s not so obvious that this isn’t a fairly conservative admonition after all.  It’s clear, in any case, that when one pushes right up against the boundary of those two limits, that nonsense can expand to fill all the available space.

It was a spring-loaded visual feast as one more pale body would disappear down the slippery slide and suddenly detonate an exploding rainbow of multi-colored wands being launched skywards; the leftover ordnance from our nation’s birthday celebration was hardly warranted, but why the hell not, in the name of Seafair and all—relatively speaking, 'tis barely a whisper compared to the afternoon’s Blue Angels and hydroplane races.

And while the campsite rule was probably violated, it’s hard to feel too terribly guilty given how lovely the hemlocks and Doug Firs looked with their glowing adornments.

Maybe Cascade can send out someone in a kayak to pick up the pieces.