Filthy

spoke card by Claudia

As the Buddha reminds us, life is suffering, and the source of that suffering is desire; we are liberated from suffering by the cessation of desire, which we achieve by following the Eightfold Path of right intention, conduct, livelihood, and so on.

Sure, that’s one way to do it.

But you can also overcome the inescapable pain of all existence by riding bikes in a group of more-or-less formally dressed miscreants, ingesting and quaffing a variety of mood-altering ingestables and quaffables,  and then dancing in a public park to the absolutely magical sounds of Seattle’s primary all women and non-binary street band, the inestimable Filthy Femcorps, whose sonic stylings inspire even the most buttoned-up of high-school guidance counselors and D&D role-playing nerds to get up offa their things and shake some booty or other relevant body parts.

“It’s never too late to have a happy childhood,” goes that old self-help chestnut, but more to the point, it’s also clearly never too late to have an awesome high-school prom, courtesy of the aforementioned all women and non-binary street band, led by their tireless musical director and tenor saxophone goddess on the eve of the anniversary of her birth.

I guess one of the downsides of being so damn entertaining is that you end up being the entertainment for your very own parties, but that hardly seemed to put a damper on things and even led to an encore much to the delight of the assembled and somewhat disassembled, as well.

I had a hard time understanding what all the rush was by those pedaling in the front of the pack on the way there and it confused me that the guest of honor was getting dropped, but what the hell, it all worked out in the end and, in fact, was kind of delightful to see the sprinters come rolling into the park just in time for the show to begin.

Suffering overcome, liberation attained, Filthy Femcorps, huzzah!

Jaanipäev

My colleague, who married a woman from Estonia, told me that summer solstice marks the beginning of Jaanipäev, the biggest holiday in the Estonian calendar.  The way he described it, “Everyone flees to the countryside, builds big bonfires, and stays drunk for 2 days.”

Sounds to me like we’re all Estonians.

And while I can’t vouch for the sobriety, or lack thereof, of my fellow cyclists over the next 48 hours or so, I’m pretty sure that the assembled managed to do a fairly good approximation of Jaanipäev revelers for the better part of the shortest night of the year, complete with what Wikipedia tells is the best-known ritual of the evening: the lighting of the bonfire and then jumping over it.

According to Estonian folklore, this is seen as a way of guaranteeing prosperity and avoiding bad luck.  Who knows?  But one thing’s for sure: the bad luck of falling into the fire and burning one’s private parts was at least avoided, so let’s take that as a propitious omen, shall we?

It must be a deep-seated human impulse, something we’re essentially hard-wired by evolution and genetics to do; otherwise, how are we to explain this confluence of behaviors across thousands of miles and hundreds of years?

Well, it could be the staying drunk part, of course.

But still.

The festivities were also enhanced by the last installment of several year-old remains of vintage Farmer Ito brand cannabis which, while admittedly, just as dry and stale as the eponymous cultivator’s sense of “humor,” still did the trick when consumed in mass quantities and enhanced by gluten-free space cookies courtesy of L. Choi Bakeries, Inc.

There’s no doubt these are trying times; as I’m sure your average Estonian knows, we live in a world where the Balkans are Balkanized, where Finland, is Finlanized, and where people still get Shanghaied by forces far beyond their control.

Fortunately, we can still come together and get Estoniaed out of our minds.

Holistic

I choose to believe it was auspicious serendipity, rather than satellite telecommunications, that brought together the two contingents—one sweatier, one cuter—of the bike gang atop the far western heights of our fair city in the appropriately-named park at sunset, (or at least civil twilight), in the long lingering crepescule of a late spring evening in the Pacific Northwest.

Half of us—although who knew it was a fraction at the time—had done our best impression of responsible citizens, following nearly all the rules on the legally-mandated stroll through the local wonder of civil engineering, and, after visiting what might be the very first spot I’d ever ridden to of a Thursday night, exited just in time not to be locked in the Locks; reckoning, then, it being too early to decamp for singing, (and still possessed of at least a case of beer in bucket panniers on ice), we followed uphill to the western-facing viewpoint, only to be treated, in moments, to the southern exposure of nearly just as many riders approaching, familiar faces, one and all.

Of the very few things every human being on the planet has in common is that they were born, and while other nearly ubiquitous traits—such as liking deviled eggs and early Michael Jackson—might be more compelling, that’s surely no reason not to celebrate the occasion; and  if you can do so by pedaling somewhere lovely, drinking beer outside with comrades, and then assembling at a festive water(wheel)ing hole for singing and dancing with acquaintances and strangers, by all means, that’s reason to celebrate.

For this reason, and others, including their musical skills and wry insightfulness, I’m awful glad the event coordinator, Rza, was born, and it makes me glad to have come into this existence myself, because, after all, if I didn’t share this one trait in common with everyone else, then I’d have missed out on both halves of the whole damn wonderful thing.