go ride a bike, punk

Thats the last time I ever post something after drinking a 6-pack. Jesus H. Christ, most of the crap my fat fingers pound out is incomprehensible enough; I really don't know what I was on about in that last one.

So the last past year I've been mostly asleep. Not really awake, kind of dreaming but kind of not, almost like that state of being one experiences on a Saturday morning where you have to decide whether to get up, or sleep for another hour. I suppose there are reasons for this; there are reasons for most everything, but in this case I think they are entirely uninteresting. The most important piece of the riddle is the part which is now clear: mountain biking is fun again. I say 'again' with qualification: it was never not fun, but when you are in that fugue state I mentioned previously nothing is really very outstanding. But now I remember why I work and look forward to weekends: riding. That solemn activity has regained the belt of 'most important activity' via submission over apathy in the second round of a 5 round title bout. Long live the champion.

6-pack post, a tribute

There is a lucidity the mind achieves by the 4th beer, especially when alone. You see, beer makes you earn your good times; you have to commit to the job, no goddamn shortcuts allowed. You either man up and roll with the ounces or you give up and call it a night. Maybe this is why beer is the drink of man; it takes a man to commit to a sixer on an empty stomach. Yeah, thats right, leave the pot for the skinny armed hippy pussies, I'll take my beer. Argh. Bench press and whatnot. Man stuff, testosterone, and high octante thoughts.

As I was saying, 5 beers in you start to feel good. The monitor in front of your face glows green for the bottles that have started to pile up like trophies, each a memory drowned if only temporarily. Beer of course makes other people interesting, that is a reason in and of itself to drink it. When you live in a liberal hotbed of sheepish idiots you need a stimulant to make things interesting every now and then; thin-lipped white chicks with subarus and organic food shops on every corner, how boring can you possibly get. These people, with their earth colored clothes and retarted ideals lack aspiration and motivation, they are like the moss that grows between the cracks of the sidewalk: easy to classify and know, always the same, never surprising, never dynamic. We drink so that we are able to imagine them speaking politically incorrect things. Right. Like that would ever happen. Ok, one more, almost there, almost enlightened.

Gotta pee.

do the evolution

The other day I was driving home from work on a 5 lane street (two in each direction, one in the middle for turning) and I noticed that traffic was slowing in the outer left lane for no particular reason. Because I suffer from hyper-vigilism I immediatley started looking for a way out of the debacle. After switching lanes and regaining speed I witnessed the cause of the left-lane slow down; a cyclist. My verbal response came as an appeal to the Almighty: "Oh god, come on." I've spent a long time as a cyclist and thus one might assume I have some patience for my two-wheeled bretheren but one would be wrong. I have NONE. Because I am a cyclist, I know more than anyone else that this jerkwad should not be taking up an entire lane of rush hour traffic. I'm no saint, but would never do that on my bike; I hate to inconvienence other people way too much to exercise a symbolic right. Just because you 'can' do something doesn't mean you 'should'. We would all be pissed if a car was doing 12mph in a 35 mph zone, so why should the spandex clad nutbag get a pass? Equal treatment bro, equal treament.

Yes, yes, I know all the benefits of bike commuting Mr. Spandex Dude: you don't have to pay road taxes, you don't have to register your bike, don't have to obey any traffic rules, and best of all you get to harbour a pious attitude towards any one not biking. Its great, I've been there and I still visit occasionally. I've indulged that self serving spirit thousands of times as I pulled up to a store or building and scoffed at all the fat asses waddling from their vehicles. Now I don't care. I'm a nihilist who discovered the door to self-awareness but was too apathetic to open it. I'm an idealist who read Hume and had second thoughts. I'm a blowhard who got punched in the stomach and lost his breath. I'm a blues singer who won the lottery and lost his spirit. I'm a hackneyed blogger who has reached his limits of attempted hyperbole.

Inspired by true events

The following is a story which has half its foundation in truth, and the other half in reality.

I'll never tailgate a driver who is doing the speed limit, but I'll tailgate the life out of someone doing 29 in a 35. The other day I was heading home, and making damn good time until I got lodged behind a late model Subaru Forester driven by a chick with short hair and thin lips who was cruising just above 25 (in a 35mph zone). My response was immediate: TAILGATE TIME! so I assumed my position 2 microns off her rear bumper. After getting settled behind her, about 9 dogs which had been previously laying down in the Subaru's back seats plastered themselves to the rear window like a gaggle of retarded sticky-pawed Garfield toys all interested in their new buddy: me. This really set me off: 'why' I asked my silent interlocutor, do people have to fit stereotypes so perfectly? Why are all Forester drivers chicks with thin lips and no interest in dudes? Why do they all have that same tired "end(less) this war" bumper sticker? And seriously, whats with all the dogs? Why do women who don't like men really like dogs? I was finally able to downshift and fly past her once I got an opening, but the damage was already done. Now I was seeing stereotypes everywhere: soccer moms in SUVs using no turn signals, angsty looking emo kids leaving their highschools, grumpy looking white dudes driving trucks and keeping an eye out for minorities, the Energy-Drink-type-guys in Evo 8s and WRXs revving their engines next to me at the stoplights...

Then it hit me... all the while I'd been picturing myself a moral crusader, a vigilante fighting the good fight against the slow and inconsiderate, but really I was just one of them! A brick in the wall, a dingleberry hanging off the ass-hair of this grand ridiculous world. Far from being the toilet paper, I was really no different than anyone else! Instantly I was awash in regret for how I had treated my lesbian sister in the Subaru. I wanted to go tell her that I supported her decision to cause a 15 car train behind her, and that while the lifestyle isn't for me, I would defend her right to do strange things with wheatgrass and enjoy 'alternative' medicines. I smiled as I cranked up the 'Mofro' on the radio and edged off the bumper of the Civic in front of me. It suddenly all made sense to me, 'hey man' I thought, 'live and let live'. 'Who am I to judge if you want to drive 10mph under the speed limit or own more dogs than an Iditarod musher.' This feeling, is this what they call love? The Mofro song was really hitting the chorus now, "...the higher you climb the further you fall" mmm, hmmm, I thought, so true. 'Aspiration is the quickest way to the top, but the fastest way to crash' I said to myself. Being a dingleberry isn't so bad... I should turn around and find that lesbian so I can apologize for my tailgating.

Just as I was about to pull into a parking lot to turn around the Civic in front of me changed lanes without signalling. At first nothing happened, I continued to stare straight ahead. But then my head started to twitch, the left corner of my mouth started to pull back towards my neck, and like that scene in "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" my hippy heart suddenly grew 10x its normal size... and burst. I slammed the throttle and peeled away from the parking lot and within seconds was microns off the bumper of the civic; eyes bloodshot and Red Bull once again circulating through my veins, the Toilet Paper is back I growled!