Fun

As we were wobbling out of Ye Olde Zipline Park in Ravenna, K-Sep asked me what I was laughing about and I replied that I was superstoned and kinda tipsy while riding my bike on a warm summer evening and he immediately saw my point and started laughing himself, further evidence that I was not the only one enjoying the opportunity to enjoy such an opportunity for such enjoyable hijinks out on the first post-eclipse ride of the season.

Moistra had a plan from the beginning, which featured a circuitous and unsurprisingly vertical route to familiar locations and an unbridled descent to a roundabout where the first disgruntled driver of the evening reminded us over and over that bikes have stop signs, too—a bit of unsolicited advice that induced lots of merrymaking and mocking, just for the fun of it.

Soon afterwards, more fun was to be had when additional testosterone spilled over as a driver of a small penis took umbrage at the line of bicycles making him wait three seconds to floor it to the red light but cooler heads prevailed in spite of missing a real opportunity to slam his car door and lock it when he exited the vehicle spoiling for a fight.

And who didn’t have fun killing time outside the least efficient Safeway in captivity as Derrick papered the area with “For Rectal Use Only” stickers and shared beers with hobos who spread the word about his largesse with impressive efficiency?

I was reminded that you can’t ride the zipline without cracking up, that’s just how fun it is, especially after you’ve been having fun two-fisting joints and blunts in a small circle of acquaintances.

And it’s always fun to navigate the paths, bridges, and tunnels of Woodland Park even though, I must say, I miss the elephant smell of the elephant trails.

But the fun didn’t stop there, did it?  Dancing, drinking, and welcoming home ensued; fun times indeed.

Solace

If President Donald Trumps ends up calling for a pre-emptive nuclear strike on North Korea and World War III begins, at least we will have had one more perfect summer evening out on two wheels to savor before we kiss our asses goodbye.

As the bombs rain down, at least we’ll be able to recall, (fleetingly), how swell it was to careen wildly atop the Chief Sealth Trail as a tangerine moon rose before us.  We’ll be able to savor the thrilling sensation of flying over hill and dale and under powerlines even as we duck and cover after the initial atomic blast.

While nuclear winter dawns, at least we’ll have in our memories (until they are extinguished) the feel of night swimming in lake water so warm that it’s warmer to stay in than sit on the dock, although the air is so mild you hardly even need a towel to dry off, even after dark.

In the last few moments of civilization as we know it, at least we’ll be able to reflect upon how grand it was to live in a world where a city park accommodates several dozen happy human-powered travelers, reclining on the grass, sitting in lifeguard chairs, standing in lively groups, drinking beer, sipping leftover vodka, and dining al fresco on Dreamsicles and candy.

When it’s all over and only cockroaches are left to skittle about, perhaps they will enjoy the Blattodean version of the characteristically homo sapien pleasures we were able to enjoy: conversing with friends and acquaintances, sharing libations among like-minded revelers, swimming way out into the lake, far enough into the deep, as did Topher with his steady crawl, that the milfoil no longer tickles your arms and legs with each stroke.

As the Doomsday Clock strikes midnight, perhaps we can take some measure of comfort in knowing that there was time when such simple joys were available, simply by launching the atomic energy of bikes, not bombs.

Phenomenal

Some philosophers of mind, notably Australian cognitive scientist David Chalmers, wonder about what they refer to as “the hard problem of consciousness.”  Basically, as I understand it (and frankly, I don’t really), this is the puzzle of how human beings (and perhaps other sentient creatures) have subjective experience, how, in other words it is that we experience phenomena in terms of sensory perceptions like taste, smell, sight, sound and touch.

The science fiction writer, Terry Bisson, captured this idea in a humorous piece he wrote years ago entitled “They’re Made Out of Meat” in which a couple of disembodied consciousnesses are confounded (and somewhat disgusted by) the existence of humanoids, who, although made out of meat, manage to have mental states.

And it is confounding (and probably a bit disgusting, too) that sacks of meat like us are conscious and experience the physical world in terms of non-physical mental experiences; we taste, smell, see, hear, and are touched—all of that from the inside of our minds.

But it’s phenomenal, in the normative sense of the term, because otherwise, how could we get to overload our senses with the phenomenon of another annual Slip n’ Slide Ride whose sights, sounds, smells (sorta), and, (new addition) tastes! touched all who had the good fortune to experience it.

The “easy problem of consciousness,” in Chalmers' terms, is to explain the mechanisms by which our senses work.  It’s no big deal to specify, for instance, how our eyes render the image of five score humans bedecked in multi-colored glowsticks and phosphorescent paint hurling themselves down a giant plastic sheet or grappling in a kiddie pool filled with jellied goo, or to scientifically determine the way our tastebuds work when we consume grain alcohol mixed with cranberry juice or homemade tacos served up by subsequent generations.

What this leaves out, though, is what it’s like: the delightful, joyful, and totally unexplainable experience that makes being a day-glow sack of meat so phenomenal.