Friday, March 27, 2015

Ingredients

photo by Adam S.
It takes a village—a really strange village.

But if you get all the components together, then everything goes more easily and what had been remembered as awful turns out to be as pleasant an experience as you’ve ever had.

There is magic associated with climbing early and it means that all those stories you can tell yourself about the way things are get to be re-examined under the light of two dimensions.   If you tip the Space Needle over twenty times, downtown is navigated—which suggests that bullshit remains alive even in the era of devices with all the answers.

More importantly, there’s no way that the eminently rideable isn’t still a bit more surprising than anticipated; and since, as physics shows, unless we can move at many times the current rate of speed, we’ll inevitably clog up while focusing the stream, it follows that the emergence around some sort of warmth is always in store.

But talk about gilding the lily! 

If a simple combination of fun is good, then clearly, more of that is even better.

This is not, however, an effective strategy in every instance, or so, anyway, I have heard.

Consequently, getting to admire a view usually privy only to those who choose to ignore it in lieu of each other, is not to be missed, although when you have the opportunity to watch intrepid souls teeter-tottering over the fire, you know that all the fun has been earned, not that the cost per unit of it is even noticeable.

“I remember when all we needed for a good time was a firepit and a length of burning driftwood,” is a claim which assures me there will always be something slightly more amazing, the experience of which has pretty much been my experience so far.

No doubt there are neighborhoods yet to be shared, but at this point why worry since all the ingredients for a strange tomorrow are already in store?

Friday, March 20, 2015

Best

photo by Altercator
The idea that this is the best of all possible worlds is usually ridiculed. 

Generally attributed, in the Western canon, to the 18th century German philosopher, Leibniz, it was famously parodied by his French contemporary, Voltaire, who created, in his novella, Candide, the character, Dr. Pangloss, who went around espousing the view at every opportunity. 

Hence the term “panglossian,” which is usually used as a pejorative, as in, “Professor Dave is so stoned he has a panglossian attitude on things; doesn’t he realize that this can’t be the best of all possible worlds, what with so much needless suffering, pointless violence, and country-rock music?”

Yes I do, and have been certainly, but that still doesn’t convince me that things couldn’t possibly be better than they were, even if the mist kept turning to drizzle and in spite of not getting to follow Fancy Fred out of the park in the most unusual way. 

In the first place, the fire got hot enough that you could continually dry yourself by rotating slowly (and in doing so, manage to actually launder away some of the waffle batter crust from last week on one’s vest) and in the second, it’s probably just was well the evening out ended at the point it did given that it’s only the very first day of spring break and there will be plenty of other opportunities to go shirtless and yelling over the next couple of weeks.

We did without a moon on the Thursday closest to the equinox, what with it being the night before the day of the new one, but there was plenty of lunacy abounding nonetheless. 

The Angry Hippy remarked that pretty much everyone standing around the fire is the weirdo at their work, which means that the weirdoes among the assembled are the weirdoes squared.

You know who you are (but, of course, if you do, then you’re not—just like the world which is best isn’t but is.)

Friday, March 13, 2015

Current

The older you get, the more you repeat yourself, (as was pointed out to me), but as long as it’s during the rare kind of event where you see everyone you know and more in not one, but two, separate outdoor breakfast kitchens, then, sure, okay.

Paradoxically, the more people there are, the fewer you actually talk to but it’s still remarkable to be among such a horde, especially when pretty much all of them have arrived on two wheels, even, miraculously, on a set without pedals but a dynamo instead.

Electricity is a marvelous phenomenon; all those excited electrons harnessed just for our pleasure; so what if they spill over and things go dark; there’s another bucket of them just across the way and these ones fulfill their promise to behave all through the rest of the evening.

Joby definitely undersold the second location when exhorting us to migrate: once the doors were closed, it wasn’t a restroom at all, but rather a pavilion.  Fewer tables, maybe, but cozier, all things considered; once we were resettled, it felt like home all over again.

Surprisingly, although the nearby millionaires kept their second-story lights blazing, no one complained officially.  It’s hard to imagine that was a direct result of our efforts to dampen the din, (given that the waves of whispers would inevitably rise to everyone shouting at once) so maybe it was just a solid appreciation of shared intent and a healthy regard for the miraculous nature of the event itself.

Ten years running—or, riding, that is—you’d think it would get old, but even if you do (as evidenced by the aforementioned repetition), the experience doesn’t.  When you stand back and survey the landscape, it’s utterly mind-boggling.  Sure, there are moments where adjustments must be made, but as long as there’s enough momentum to keep rolling and sufficient current to allow all those charged particles to continue flowing, then why stop repeating yourself and repeating yourself?

Friday, March 6, 2015

Howl

The chances of the full moon falling on a Thursday can’t be any better than one in seven, but I’d swear it happens more than that; maybe even our planet’s satellite arranges its schedule to be a part of the weekly bicycling shenanigans—and unlike most of the riding revelers, it doesn’t have to get up in the morning!

It was 2009 all over again, as far-flung correspondents and the local embedded returned to the fold for a night, at least, in order to savor the delights of lake-level circumnavigation culminating in our own private railroad apartment bridge-barge party complete with VIP room just around the corner.

Muskrats masqueraded as nutria or vice-versa and surprisingly, no one fell in the lake, although more than one person regretted stepping off the bark-lined path into the marsh; you wouldn’t call it quicksand, exactly, but your shoes might have some explaining to do the next morning to all the others in your closet or to your co-worker’s kicks one cubicle over.

Upon leaving, it seemed that there were those who ignored Joeball’s standard admonition to avoid out-and-backs, thereby passing up an opportunity for more arbors in the etum (an outcome which will, however, be made available to all those who show up for the Heritage (Tree) Time Trial) and resulting, at least temporarily, in a minor schism.

Fortunately, moon shadows guided us all back together for the beloved indoor-outdoor fireplace where, for nearly an hour, I’m sure, inebriated footballers relentlessly attempted to dropkick plastic balls into the rooftop chimney.  It seemed futile, if not impossible, until, wonder of wonders, the kicker among us you might expect to more excel at cricket, not soccer, launched his orb right down the pipe, where it fell into the fire like a flattened plastic pizza to the roars of the crowd and the amazement of all.

Talk about a moon shot, just one more celestial sphere to howl at, Mr. Werewolf, woo-woo-woo, woo-oo. 

Whew.