Conversation

 What’s been missed, among a million other things, is just hanging out and shooting the shit with people; seeing their whole faces, and being able to interrupt with timely asides, no lag.

So, it was especially rewarding to stand underneath an engineering marvel at whose precision to the eighth of an inch the Angry Hippie marveled at and share stories of teaching and biking and the relative efficacy of cuss words as adjectives.  Combined with beer and a nautical twilight that lasted long enough for the nearly-full moon to rise overhead, casting a circular moonbow, I guess you’d call it, on the clouds encircling it, there was naught to want on this first Thursday night of the new season.

Oh, sure, we could have assayed another parking lot and, of course, Seward Park remained out there untouched, but what more do you want, really, than a waterfront spin towards the setting sun, a relatively unusual waterfront destination, plenty to talk about, and then onward and upwards to short steep way to another reasonably unfamiliar public gem, surprisingly empty of those in need of a place to sleep outside.

Softcare pointed out how the baseball stadium with its light-up pink octuple-XXX graphics made the joint look like the world’s largest strip club and you had to agree.  Still, the vista was hardly marred by this revelation; our fair city looks pretty swell from such an angle; who knows how things will shake out (literally) when the big earthquake hits, but for now, the insatiable human lust for making more things looks pretty good from on high.

Spring break, such as it is, was referred to obliquely; no shirts were cast off and there wasn’t a single piña colada in sight.  Nevertheless, the spirit of the equinox was certainly celebrated, not only in words but in deeds, indeed, as well.

Every bike ride is a conversation between rider and machine; every conversation a kind of ride, too; say what?