Laboring: A ramble in several acts
It never feels like labor, but I do wonder (and worry) sometimes that my life won’t feed The Tension properly.
And then I have things unfold around and – and to me – and I then have a hard time trying to pen it.
Or not.
A lot of what happens gets passed around the old-fashion way: Storytelling. Swapping stories by voice only.
“But you write this shit down, don’t you?” a buddy said over beers in my front yard on Sunday night.
Oh, yeah. I write it all down.
“’Cause you can’t make shit like that up.”
And unfortunately for loyal readers of The Tension, the really, really weird shit doesn’t get published (and for that I am very seriously sorry).
Certain stories are off-limits.
My family is pretty much off-limits now (it’s too easy, trust me. That’s why I avoid it. Because you think your family is fucked up? Every family is a dysfunctional mish-mash of fears, phobias and foibles - and mine is no different).
Work, even though there’s certainly a lot going on, is off-limits as well. This is by personal censorship, which pisses me off, but I don’t care to talk about it.
Deeply personal things, I (for the most part) avoid.
I told Boots that I sometimes fear that enough weirdness won't happen, so I can continue to try and be really witty and amusing. Boring is boring.
But then I just go about my life and marvel – marvel – at the chaos I create (or meander through and witness).
It’s after 10 p.m. Sunday and my buddy and I are just shooting the shit over a couple of cold Sierra Nevada Anniversary Ales. The field across the street, the one that is slowly becoming 54 homes, has an open trench across the front (street side) portion to run gas lines. Every five feet, there are these metal barricades with yellow flashy lights on them. Every fourth barricade has an “OPEN TRENCH” sign on it.
“WHAP, WHAP, WHAP, WHAP, WHAP”
We watched as a white Toyota pickup with a brush guard mowed down the barricades. The kid swerved, then plowed into another line of barricades.
“Did that just happen?” my buddy asked.
"Yep," I said. "Just another day in the life."
The reason the kid needed to swerve? He was avoiding – barely – all the mailboxes. Which, I am pretty sure, would have elevated his stupidity from a misdemeanor to a federal destruction of property charge.
I’m in Safeway this week, near where the meat department becomes the produce department, when I spot the teenager driving the handicapped cart through the meat department. There are six other teens hanging on, lying prone on their skateboards.
It looks like one of those giant, slow-moving nurse sharks, with a bunch of lampreys hooked to it. The driver is smiling and I bust out laughing and shoot them a thumbs up.
No one moves to stop or scold them. Everyone just looked on aghast. One of the meat cutters stoped to watch, but all he can see is the kid driving the cart; the cold cases block his view of the teens near the floor.
So much as I know, they never got in trouble. They drove though produce and put the cart back near the doors.
Then each of them made a purchase, which I though showed great forethought for a bit of harmless fun.
Took the Trek out for another spin with my best bud J-Zone (who also rides Trek - and was eager to hear a few yarns from the weekend).
So here's the deal.
I took the Giant out Sunday and did a ride that I had completed with the Trek. On the Giant, I felt like I was rolling a boulder up a hill.
I’m keeping the Trek.
Hell, I won it fair and square.
I deserve it, with all the shit I've had to deal with.
It is nimble.
And it’s the tits, as far as custom paint job and high-end components (I just need Schtevo to come over and help me swap out my pedals since I’m a bike mechanic’s worst nightmare).
(P.S., if you click on my photo, check out my nifty Visenka socks.)
So if anyone is interested, I have a gently worn Giant Warp for sale.
And then I have things unfold around and – and to me – and I then have a hard time trying to pen it.
Or not.
A lot of what happens gets passed around the old-fashion way: Storytelling. Swapping stories by voice only.
“But you write this shit down, don’t you?” a buddy said over beers in my front yard on Sunday night.
Oh, yeah. I write it all down.
“’Cause you can’t make shit like that up.”
And unfortunately for loyal readers of The Tension, the really, really weird shit doesn’t get published (and for that I am very seriously sorry).
Certain stories are off-limits.
My family is pretty much off-limits now (it’s too easy, trust me. That’s why I avoid it. Because you think your family is fucked up? Every family is a dysfunctional mish-mash of fears, phobias and foibles - and mine is no different).
Work, even though there’s certainly a lot going on, is off-limits as well. This is by personal censorship, which pisses me off, but I don’t care to talk about it.
Deeply personal things, I (for the most part) avoid.
I told Boots that I sometimes fear that enough weirdness won't happen, so I can continue to try and be really witty and amusing. Boring is boring.
But then I just go about my life and marvel – marvel – at the chaos I create (or meander through and witness).
It’s after 10 p.m. Sunday and my buddy and I are just shooting the shit over a couple of cold Sierra Nevada Anniversary Ales. The field across the street, the one that is slowly becoming 54 homes, has an open trench across the front (street side) portion to run gas lines. Every five feet, there are these metal barricades with yellow flashy lights on them. Every fourth barricade has an “OPEN TRENCH” sign on it.
“WHAP, WHAP, WHAP, WHAP, WHAP”
We watched as a white Toyota pickup with a brush guard mowed down the barricades. The kid swerved, then plowed into another line of barricades.
“Did that just happen?” my buddy asked.
"Yep," I said. "Just another day in the life."
The reason the kid needed to swerve? He was avoiding – barely – all the mailboxes. Which, I am pretty sure, would have elevated his stupidity from a misdemeanor to a federal destruction of property charge.
I’m in Safeway this week, near where the meat department becomes the produce department, when I spot the teenager driving the handicapped cart through the meat department. There are six other teens hanging on, lying prone on their skateboards.
It looks like one of those giant, slow-moving nurse sharks, with a bunch of lampreys hooked to it. The driver is smiling and I bust out laughing and shoot them a thumbs up.
No one moves to stop or scold them. Everyone just looked on aghast. One of the meat cutters stoped to watch, but all he can see is the kid driving the cart; the cold cases block his view of the teens near the floor.
So much as I know, they never got in trouble. They drove though produce and put the cart back near the doors.
Then each of them made a purchase, which I though showed great forethought for a bit of harmless fun.
Took the Trek out for another spin with my best bud J-Zone (who also rides Trek - and was eager to hear a few yarns from the weekend).So here's the deal.
I took the Giant out Sunday and did a ride that I had completed with the Trek. On the Giant, I felt like I was rolling a boulder up a hill.
I’m keeping the Trek.
Hell, I won it fair and square.
I deserve it, with all the shit I've had to deal with.
It is nimble.
And it’s the tits, as far as custom paint job and high-end components (I just need Schtevo to come over and help me swap out my pedals since I’m a bike mechanic’s worst nightmare).
(P.S., if you click on my photo, check out my nifty Visenka socks.)
So if anyone is interested, I have a gently worn Giant Warp for sale.
Comments
Great to see you and J out riding!