It turns out that even in Puritan (well, I guess technically Lutheran) Seattle, it’s not against the law to have fun, even when one might construe that a little casual vandalism is involved.
Apparently, the police don’t actually scramble a phalanx of cruisers with lights flashing and sirens blaring just to roust a gang of (putative) adults from the woods simply for talking loudly and sharing warmth.
But you do have to be impressed by the alacrity with which several dozen cyclists can stow the contraband and begin streaming from the site just to avoid what: a stern talking to and, at worst, a ticket? (Although as was pointed out to me, in this day and age, those seemingly benign interactions with the authorities do sometimes end up with the alleged perpetrator dead and the guy in uniform on paid administrative leave, so discretion—that is, getting the hell outta there—may be, after all, the better part of valor.)
Several of us with cooler heads coined a new word while we waited for the departed to return: “hisderrickal,” as in “I think it was the influence of the argle bargle and perhaps a little guilt over the melted plaque that made them all hisderrickal when they saw the bubblegum machine.”
The thing is, it’s perfectly understandable to imagine that so much attention would be paid to so little: I often have the feeling on a Thursday night that what I’m experiencing is at the apogee of human experience; it’s not surprising to conclude that a drove of PoPos would want in on the action.
More than a decade in, there’s still a path we’ve never taken, this one involving concrete stairs and a full-body workout up a freeway exit; blame my leadership skills for missing the intended turn that resulted in this serendipitous routing; I often don’t know where I’m going, but I have learned that if you stick around long enough, eventually you’ll get there.
Apparently, the police don’t actually scramble a phalanx of cruisers with lights flashing and sirens blaring just to roust a gang of (putative) adults from the woods simply for talking loudly and sharing warmth.
But you do have to be impressed by the alacrity with which several dozen cyclists can stow the contraband and begin streaming from the site just to avoid what: a stern talking to and, at worst, a ticket? (Although as was pointed out to me, in this day and age, those seemingly benign interactions with the authorities do sometimes end up with the alleged perpetrator dead and the guy in uniform on paid administrative leave, so discretion—that is, getting the hell outta there—may be, after all, the better part of valor.)
Several of us with cooler heads coined a new word while we waited for the departed to return: “hisderrickal,” as in “I think it was the influence of the argle bargle and perhaps a little guilt over the melted plaque that made them all hisderrickal when they saw the bubblegum machine.”
The thing is, it’s perfectly understandable to imagine that so much attention would be paid to so little: I often have the feeling on a Thursday night that what I’m experiencing is at the apogee of human experience; it’s not surprising to conclude that a drove of PoPos would want in on the action.
More than a decade in, there’s still a path we’ve never taken, this one involving concrete stairs and a full-body workout up a freeway exit; blame my leadership skills for missing the intended turn that resulted in this serendipitous routing; I often don’t know where I’m going, but I have learned that if you stick around long enough, eventually you’ll get there.
*hiccup*
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