I don't know what it is about this city, but it seems that cars here cannot stand the reality that bikes are a quicker form of transportation.
"You didn't stop at that stop sign back there," this car yelled at me. The person driving was fairly overweight with her daughter in the car and had apparently been emotionally hurt by a bicycle at some point in the past.
Now, I had been going stir crazy in my house and that great feeling of confidence/anxiety that overtakes sometimes got me moving, to get tea and ice cream somewhere. There was a cream cutoff dress shirt in the free box and I sported my grandpa's blue and white hobo hat with some blue pinstripe pants my juggling partner had given me. It looked like I was off to a nude beach or something and I was feeling good.
"I'm not putting you in any danger," I yelled back. She tried to cut me off not completely overtly but only to the point where she knew she was wrong. At the next stop sign she started ranting at me about how if they had to obey the law then we had to too. I couldn't get a word in.
As she was driving off I yelled "that was a pretty one-sided dialogue, if you want to talk about this we can." Instead she yelled at me again at the next stop sign. Two stop signs I stopped at and was berated by this fairly unhealthy looking, non-cycling hard head.
I blew the next red light, fueled by anxiety drained of its confidence, wondering why my nice outfit would requisition such a negative approach from this somewhat buoyant and bike-traumatized mom.
My Thoughts: Bikes should not have to obey car laws. Car laws are for cars. Two cars crash into each other, car occupants die. A bike and a car crash into each other, there is very little chance that the car occupant will die, though I'm sure there are cases. Bikes take up a fifth the width a car takes up and are more maneuverable and do not travel as fast. Stop signs are often four-way on cycling routes, why the hell would I stop at them unless there's a cop around? Why would I wait at a red light if there are no cars coming? Who am I protecting? If anything, I think I am endangering myself. I've been swiped by cars, run over by cars, mirrored by cars, broadsided by cars. This isn't due to riding recklessly. I defer to them, I don't egg them on. They're bigger, they'll kill me. However, they'll kill me whether or not I carefully roll through a stop sign or go through a red light when there's no traffic. They'll kill me because they're playing a video game, they're living the dream, they're angry at me for not living their dream (apparently.)
Anyway, cardriver, I wish I could sit down and have words for a little while, before the apocalypse, while you're still in love with your pet dinosaur.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Bob Saget and Batboy
So it started off like my rendition of that show about the teacher dying and making meth. The teacher was swamped with kids trying to get their hands on "clean meth" which they called "cake." Eventually, the school held an assembly where everyone was tweaking adn the Principal had to make the statement "thank mr. blabla for making such a great performance enhancer, but remember students, not during class."
It then segued into those same characters watching a movie where me and Sara were going into a house with another lady. We were standing next to a window when batboy showed his head behind the curtain and immediately devoured the lady. Sara and i started running away through this giant house but were unable to escape until we found this creepy elevator going down.
We got into it and took it down. I opened up the top hatch of it and looked around, trying to finding as many escapes as possible. I came out into this spacious area with a bunch of furnishing junk...it looked like a carpeted and livable department store. i walked around, exploring.
In walks Bob Saget. He says "don't you recognize famed actor John Stamos," who I remember as the guy who south park makes fun of because he can't hit the note in "lovin you." Sarah runs in and she's terrified because bat boy is on his way down. Bob leads us into this little cubby tunnel with a door comprised of the bottom of a taffeta dress. We crawl through with bob bringing up the end.
After we get through, bob says "I'll show you how to deal with the monster." Bat boy comes through the tunnel and bob saget drops his trousers. Bat boy changes from ferocious to quizzical , pulls out his cock and starts fucking bob saget. A large penis grows out of Saget's pants, and bat boy pulls out his own and starts slapping bob in the face with it from behind. It's like a large rubbery sausage and bob makes an "ooh" face as the large head of it hits him. Sarah pulls up her skirt and backs herself onto bob saget's very large and erect, almost prehensile cock and starts grinding. they all come and i watch, relieved that there's a solution, finally, to being chased by this large vampire bat thing.
Bob says "see, that's all you have to do. and i really am bob saget." Bat boy chimes in very matter of factly, in a joe blow kind of voice, "yeah, i just kill people because i get so frustrated that they don't know what to do." we crawl back through the tunnel into the furnished room. I'm the first one out and when i look back, batboy is behind me and i get frightened so i assume the position, drop my pants and batboy starts getting that quizzical look again. His giant cock is waving around in preparation.
I put up my hand and say "wait, is it cool if i take a shit first" and batboy says "of course, no problem." then i realize that this whole thing has been a stage show put on by some avante comedy troupe with a band performing in a shower and me and sarah decide to ask them to perform at first friday in Denver.
Who wants to see that on stage?
It then segued into those same characters watching a movie where me and Sara were going into a house with another lady. We were standing next to a window when batboy showed his head behind the curtain and immediately devoured the lady. Sara and i started running away through this giant house but were unable to escape until we found this creepy elevator going down.
We got into it and took it down. I opened up the top hatch of it and looked around, trying to finding as many escapes as possible. I came out into this spacious area with a bunch of furnishing junk...it looked like a carpeted and livable department store. i walked around, exploring.
In walks Bob Saget. He says "don't you recognize famed actor John Stamos," who I remember as the guy who south park makes fun of because he can't hit the note in "lovin you." Sarah runs in and she's terrified because bat boy is on his way down. Bob leads us into this little cubby tunnel with a door comprised of the bottom of a taffeta dress. We crawl through with bob bringing up the end.
After we get through, bob says "I'll show you how to deal with the monster." Bat boy comes through the tunnel and bob saget drops his trousers. Bat boy changes from ferocious to quizzical , pulls out his cock and starts fucking bob saget. A large penis grows out of Saget's pants, and bat boy pulls out his own and starts slapping bob in the face with it from behind. It's like a large rubbery sausage and bob makes an "ooh" face as the large head of it hits him. Sarah pulls up her skirt and backs herself onto bob saget's very large and erect, almost prehensile cock and starts grinding. they all come and i watch, relieved that there's a solution, finally, to being chased by this large vampire bat thing.
Bob says "see, that's all you have to do. and i really am bob saget." Bat boy chimes in very matter of factly, in a joe blow kind of voice, "yeah, i just kill people because i get so frustrated that they don't know what to do." we crawl back through the tunnel into the furnished room. I'm the first one out and when i look back, batboy is behind me and i get frightened so i assume the position, drop my pants and batboy starts getting that quizzical look again. His giant cock is waving around in preparation.
I put up my hand and say "wait, is it cool if i take a shit first" and batboy says "of course, no problem." then i realize that this whole thing has been a stage show put on by some avante comedy troupe with a band performing in a shower and me and sarah decide to ask them to perform at first friday in Denver.
Who wants to see that on stage?
Saturday, May 29, 2010
My Family's Patron Demon
My latest fantasy involves terrorizing someone who hurt me. I have a super power to move at an incredible speed, like Mr. Spock in that episode of Star Trek where he fixes the ship in what appears to everyone but him to be 30 seconds. To him it is a few days, if I recall.
In the fantasy, someone has hurt me, someone in real life who threw me away as a friend and lover. We live in the same collective house and I speed up really fast and cut them with a short, sharp knife on the arm. It is so fast that the cut appears, they don't feel it at all. It frightens them but seems inconsequential until they notice within a few hours that "coward" has been carved into their arm. They begin having cuts on their face, one on each cheek and they're looking at a wall as a demon's face is painted in their own blood, emerging from the drywall and changing shape. This is my high-speed work of art, to manifest their terror and I'm waiting to fall asleep, the fantasy image terrifies me. In the waking dream, the person screams and I run in from the other room, in real time, coward's time.
I look at the wall and know exactly what to do. I grab a bucket of paint and put a large, un-Christian cross over it in white. I hold them and explain that it's my family demon. I tell them it has followed us for generations and forces us to face things directly or it terrorizes us. Then I show them scars on my body, my actual scars from things as mundane as bashing my head on a shelf when I was dodging a tennis ball thrown at me, cutting my arm on a really sharp blade that had been left in my bed by a childhood friend, from a dog that had jumped on me and sliced my thigh open accidentally with a jagged claw.
I tell them that when someone has acted toward me out of cowardice, the demon is attracted to them and terrorizes them until it kills them, unless they face their fears and act "bravely." This forces the person to face me, to tell me honestly what happened and what is happening.
In my version of fantasy and reality, "bravery" is non-avoidance. The Patron Demon may be a precursor to sleep or a dark groggy jaunt taken just after waking in a bed I don't want to get out of, but the dreams I have of late involve me trying to talk with people who I have hurt and who have hurt me. I carry a guilt for them and I secretly hope that every day I will receive an email or communication that is an acknowledgment that I have tried to apologize to them for the way that I wronged them. Beyond that, they will tell me that it wasn't entirely my fault, as I know none of my trespasses have been entirely my fault but the sheer silence of those who I have tried to come to resolution with seems to solidify their blame of me.
I have talked with some people I've hurt and have become good friends with them again, though my motivation to talk was for them to not believe that I thought of them in a way that is untrue, not necessarily for maintaining friendship. Some people have hurt me though I never wronged them, but I carry guilt for them as well because they believed, with no other evidence of my trespasses, that I would wrong them. I have even, in some way, apologized to them and have received that same blatant silence that stirs up my dreams.
We can always talk, though I am not pleading. I think it would be better for us, all of us, to work it out, to bore (in tedium and as a drill) each other with our ramblings of pride and ego, hurt and guilt and other tools than for us to let each other come to our own inaccurate conclusions. We can transcend our hurts the way children do. We can try not to do it again .
In the fantasy, someone has hurt me, someone in real life who threw me away as a friend and lover. We live in the same collective house and I speed up really fast and cut them with a short, sharp knife on the arm. It is so fast that the cut appears, they don't feel it at all. It frightens them but seems inconsequential until they notice within a few hours that "coward" has been carved into their arm. They begin having cuts on their face, one on each cheek and they're looking at a wall as a demon's face is painted in their own blood, emerging from the drywall and changing shape. This is my high-speed work of art, to manifest their terror and I'm waiting to fall asleep, the fantasy image terrifies me. In the waking dream, the person screams and I run in from the other room, in real time, coward's time.
I look at the wall and know exactly what to do. I grab a bucket of paint and put a large, un-Christian cross over it in white. I hold them and explain that it's my family demon. I tell them it has followed us for generations and forces us to face things directly or it terrorizes us. Then I show them scars on my body, my actual scars from things as mundane as bashing my head on a shelf when I was dodging a tennis ball thrown at me, cutting my arm on a really sharp blade that had been left in my bed by a childhood friend, from a dog that had jumped on me and sliced my thigh open accidentally with a jagged claw.
I tell them that when someone has acted toward me out of cowardice, the demon is attracted to them and terrorizes them until it kills them, unless they face their fears and act "bravely." This forces the person to face me, to tell me honestly what happened and what is happening.
In my version of fantasy and reality, "bravery" is non-avoidance. The Patron Demon may be a precursor to sleep or a dark groggy jaunt taken just after waking in a bed I don't want to get out of, but the dreams I have of late involve me trying to talk with people who I have hurt and who have hurt me. I carry a guilt for them and I secretly hope that every day I will receive an email or communication that is an acknowledgment that I have tried to apologize to them for the way that I wronged them. Beyond that, they will tell me that it wasn't entirely my fault, as I know none of my trespasses have been entirely my fault but the sheer silence of those who I have tried to come to resolution with seems to solidify their blame of me.
I have talked with some people I've hurt and have become good friends with them again, though my motivation to talk was for them to not believe that I thought of them in a way that is untrue, not necessarily for maintaining friendship. Some people have hurt me though I never wronged them, but I carry guilt for them as well because they believed, with no other evidence of my trespasses, that I would wrong them. I have even, in some way, apologized to them and have received that same blatant silence that stirs up my dreams.
We can always talk, though I am not pleading. I think it would be better for us, all of us, to work it out, to bore (in tedium and as a drill) each other with our ramblings of pride and ego, hurt and guilt and other tools than for us to let each other come to our own inaccurate conclusions. We can transcend our hurts the way children do. We can try not to do it again .
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