In my experience, it’s more typical for a Thursday evening to start out at South Lake Union and end up in Georgetown, but these days, in the heady times of the Anthropocene era, where everything is topsy-turvey, it’s hardly a surprise when backwards is the new forwards.
Things have gotten so weird that, apparently, some bars—at least those that used to be familiar final destinations but are now early-closing restaurants serving barbecued cow—prefer that you just come in to use the facilities rather than ingratiating yourself by doing the traditional shot n’ pee, (although after a moment’s reflection, they figure “what the hell” and permit you to enter, forgoing the ten dollar cover, as long as you drink up and get the hell out—which was what you had in mind all along.)
Moreover, how odd is it that a person can ride all the way from Bothell to South Park, stop for a beer with a long lost gang member at a watering hole in which you’ve never seen the light of day before, and still arrive at the county airport picnic area only just as the mass of riders is preparing to depart that first stop?
The night air, as Joeball pointed out during our backwards motion towards the urban swimming hole, felt remarkable on one’s skin and made me reflect on how anthropogenic climate change isn’t going to be all bad for everyone all the time, so we might as well enjoy it while we can.
May 28 strikes me as pretty early in the season for an initial moonlit lake swim, especially one in which the water felt just as warm as the night air. Nakedness and screaming abounded and it’s not even Midsummer night’s eve yet. Old Puck had it right when he opined, “Lord, what fools these mortals be,” and that was even before it all went hulu-hula-ing with flaming drinks and foot-long straws: heading forward in reverse fantastically.
Things have gotten so weird that, apparently, some bars—at least those that used to be familiar final destinations but are now early-closing restaurants serving barbecued cow—prefer that you just come in to use the facilities rather than ingratiating yourself by doing the traditional shot n’ pee, (although after a moment’s reflection, they figure “what the hell” and permit you to enter, forgoing the ten dollar cover, as long as you drink up and get the hell out—which was what you had in mind all along.)
Moreover, how odd is it that a person can ride all the way from Bothell to South Park, stop for a beer with a long lost gang member at a watering hole in which you’ve never seen the light of day before, and still arrive at the county airport picnic area only just as the mass of riders is preparing to depart that first stop?
The night air, as Joeball pointed out during our backwards motion towards the urban swimming hole, felt remarkable on one’s skin and made me reflect on how anthropogenic climate change isn’t going to be all bad for everyone all the time, so we might as well enjoy it while we can.
May 28 strikes me as pretty early in the season for an initial moonlit lake swim, especially one in which the water felt just as warm as the night air. Nakedness and screaming abounded and it’s not even Midsummer night’s eve yet. Old Puck had it right when he opined, “Lord, what fools these mortals be,” and that was even before it all went hulu-hula-ing with flaming drinks and foot-long straws: heading forward in reverse fantastically.
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