The Bum and The Bike

 

So now Manhattan is a lawless hell hole, especially by Times Square and The Port Authority — skell and weird bum city.

One evening I was on 41^st street and 8^th Avenue by Schnippers returning a CitiBike.  They never seem to click in the first time when you try to jam them back into the return spot. So as I’m fucking with that, a weird, fucked up, crazy bum approaches me.  I’d seen him just minutes before, wandering in the middle of the street, in his socks.  

“Some guys’s trying to shoot me, can I get a ride?”  Okay.  There’s really no one there but me and the crazy bum.  

“Nope.”  I’m thinking to myself, does this fucking creep really think I am really going to give him, this bike and incur the $1,200 penalty for doing so? 

So I keep trying to jam this bike back into the rack.  I’m hoping this nut job doesn’t have some type of knife or improvised cutting or slashing weapon.

“You really can’t buy me a bike?”  He’s not in closing distance, but too close for comfort as I can’t afford to run and leave $1,200 on the table and I would always prefer not to fight a crazy person, who is likely covered in Cholera.  

“Nope.”  Click.  I check the app, while keeping my eye on Crazy.  The bike is safely returned! “Not really, bro.”

I speed walk to the port authority, checking my six all the while.  He didn’t pursue. 

I went on with my life.  

Outdoor Users

 

I’m a MAMIL, middle aged man in lycra — a person who rides a road bike and looks like he’s in the Tour de France.  One of our supposed traditions is towave to each other when we pass going opposite ways.

The next relevant fact is I hate joggers.  What I hate most is that somebody told them to run against traffic in the bike lane with a zombified look on their face.  Everybody else in the world can move with the flow of traffic.  People who are of such limited intelligence, that they are unable to comply with simple traffic rules, should not be let outside.  

On a recent ride, I spied a young man jogging toward me.  He saw me and moved out of the bike lane.  He locked eyes on me and waved.  

I reflexively waved back.

I thought “God damn . . . A jogger acting intelligently.”  

I had to respect this guy.  This guy humanized himself by waving and acknowledging other outdoor users. I had an overwhelming sense of rightness with the world.  

If we can all view each other as fellow users of the outdoors, we may have more peaceful rides and better lives. 

Employee Appreciation Week

 

All I’ll say is this.  I noticed that right around the time of Employee Appreciation Week, they stopped refilling the complimentary mouth wash stations in the bathrooms.

Toys

 

Thinking about toys.  All the ones I’ve had.  All the ones I want.  Over the years they change and the price only goes up.  They never stop calling you.  

When you’re a child you can’t get anything for yourself.  You have to rely on your parents for everything and if they aren’t down, forget it.  In the 70’s I bought one Star Wars action figure.  It came with a catalog of other Star Wars action figures.  I would just lay on my stomach and turn the pages, looking at figures of Obi Wan Kenobi and Tuscan Raiders.  I’m sure at that point we had at least Han Solo and Luke Skywalker.  

Eventually every figure was acquired.  

Then it was the GI Joe figures.

Now it’s music equipment.  Specifically the Fender Jazzmaster American Professional. 

It will never be enough.  But maybe it can end.  

Things I Will Never Do Again: LightRail Version

I was watching a TV commercial which was saying something about one day will be the last day you pick up your child and you’ll never know it.  I don’t have children, but there are things I will probably never do again and won’t realize it at the time.  Thought this idea might make semi interesting posts.  

The first example is the ticket stamper at the Light Rail (https://www.njtransit.com/light-rail-to) that runs through Hoboken and Jersey City and probably other places too. This is really worth mentioning.  This is one of the most satisfying experiences in my life.  The whole operation is automated, except maybe the drivers.  You buy a ticket from the machine.  Before you board the train, it must be stamped.  And that stamping machine . . . That peaceful clunk.  Indescribably satisfying. 

I attempted to describe this feeling to a co worker who also lived in Hoboken.  He looked at me confused, and said, “Wait,  you have to stamp the light rail ticket?”  So not only had he never felt this glorious feeling, he had been using the light rail illegally for over ten years.  They rarely check if you have stamped your ticket.  Without stamping it you could potentially use a ticket forever.

Recently I had to go to Jersey City to register for a bike ride.  The Light Rail was the best option.  When I went to stamp my ticket, the stamper was gone, replaced with a QR code scanner.

So as stated, stamping my ticket at the Light Rail is something I will never do again.  What’s even worse I don’t even remember the last time I did it.  I think I may have filmed it with my iPhone, but can’t remember the specific time or place.     

The Australian Women

 

In my area there is a cycling hotspot known as River Road.  Officially it is the Henry Hudson parkway.  There are two ways to get there.  One is going south from the George Washington bridge and the other is approaching from the south along the actual River Road.  

If you are leaving River Road and heading up to the GW bridge, there is a path along side the actual road.  If you are going south, as I do, since I live in NJ south of the GW, you have to cross the road to get to the southward side.  It’s not a street and not a highway.  There is a light south of there, so if the north bound traffic stops, you can get across.  Most southbound drivers will let you pass.  If you do everything right you can lock in and have nice safe descent.  

It was at this intersection I met the weird Australian girls.

I don’t know what was so weird about them. They just seemed out of place.  

But they looked hip.  Their style and bikes were just a mishmash.  One of them carried a giant back pack that looked like a suitcase.  They all had short hair, and might have been lesbians.

They were trying to go to Jersey City, which is long way down the actual River Road, which is a 35 mph road and there are only intermittent bike lanes.  

Basically I told them to be careful and went on my merry way.  

A few weeks later I participated in the Jersey City Ward tour bike ride.  A slow as ride through jersey city with 2500 other bike riders.  It was great.

We came to a rest stop near Lincoln park in Jersey city, and there they were.  

I wasn’t sure it was them at first.  But I kept staring at them from behind my Oakley sunglasses and yes, it was them. 

I had to say hi.  Ultimately I was recognized as “That guy.”

“You made it!”  I said.

The leader, the one with the suitcase back pack, looked bemused an nodded.

Another one said, “A car actually touched me twice.”

The leader said, “Next time we’ll probably just go back the way we came.”

I agreed that heading south on that road was not that fun for causal cyclists.

And that was that.

Getting Mad

 

My goals in cycling are to make it home and not get mad. On Juneteenth I failed to achieve the latter. Most important was I made it home. But I did get mad and curse somebody out. 

I hate joggers. They are stupid and often run the wrong way in the bike lane. I really hate them.

I often ride mixed use trails. I’m a good bike rider so I can keep it moving without causing too much chaos.  I do go slower and am extra vigilant.  It doesn’t bother me to slow down — that is the expectation. 

The other day I was on one of these paths in Liberty State Park.  I was behind a tall male jogger.  This clown ass does a pirouette and starts running at me.  There’s very little road to my right because I was sticking to my right. Thankfully he broke left with his head down in humiliation. 

I called him a stupid ass motherfucker. Which was an accurate. 

Fortunately nobody got hurt and I didn’t stay mad long. 

A Different Kind of Heresy

 

My definition of heresy for the following purposes is doing something I don’t normally do, going against my own values or normal way of doing things.

I’ve never been a talk in the public bathroom kind of guy.  Let’s do what we came here to do and then leave.  This Friday, I broke that rule.

I rolled into the the restroom at my work.  There’s two urinals with ample dividers, then a row of toilets, then another set of two urinals.  If you’re facing the urinals, the lavatories are behind you and the in and out doors are on the side.

I step up the the urinal on the left to take a piss.  Moments later my boy from tech rolls in next to me.  Silence.  Seems we both can’t pee.  He says, “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Man I feel the same way,” I reply with a profound honesty.  

The pee finally starts.  Seems just standing there was making us pee shy.

I finish.  Wash my hands and go.  “Aight, have a good weekend,” I say.

“You too.”

And that was that.

The Beatles

 

The Beatles have probably been responsible for more mass murders than any other pop group. 

Would be curious to be proven wrong. 

The Backpack

 

Maybe I have a weird thing about backpacks.  I guess I notice bags, especially if there is something funny about them.  One day while walking through Times Square, I saw a young person wearing a Misfits backpack.  I resisted the urge to say, “Name three songs!”  Another time in The Village  I saw another young person sporting an Eyehategod tote bag of all things.  So stuff like this catches my eye.

  

On a recent walk from the bus station to the office, I spied an Eddie Bauer black backpack with Budweiser, Corona, and Busch patches on it.  

So I start wondering . . . .

Somebody clearly likes beer?

Did those patches come with the backpack?

I have to see who’s toting this thing.

Its a woman in her late 30’s or 40’s.  Kinda pale.  Skinny legs.  Maybe an alcoholic?  Like does this woman really love beer?  This thing looks more like something a teenager would wear, to show off, “Hey, I’m drinking now!”  Once you become a drunk you are less likely to advertise, and are probably concealing any links to you and alcohol.  

So likely this was a promotional item, that was received in a  bar?  

These questions will never be answered.

The Equalizer 2

 

This movie picks up where the last one left off.  Our dude, rescues girls and then he gets involved in a new mission and this time it’s personal.  Okay yeah we know.

So I got so sleepy that I turned it off during what I believe is the final fight scene.  

This morning I have no desire to find out what happens.  There is an Equalizer 3.  I’m assuming our dude didn’t die.  

Anyway, Denzel can carry a movie like this.  Try to imagine someone else in the lead role.  

Not his best.  A tolerable movie, but not B movie or cult status.  

All Kinds of Videos

 

New York used to have sex shops all over the Times Square area.  To clean things up, a law or ordinance was passed dictating that all stores selling porn videos must have a mix of non pornographic videos too.  The stores would stock a few karate videos and place them in the windows and there would be a sign which read, “All Kinds of Videos.”  Whenever you saw this sign, you knew it was a porno shop.  The creepy lingerie and dildos were also hints that it might just be a porno shop.

When people frustrate me by making decisions I don’t agree with, or enjoying things I don’t like, I tell myself, just like the porno stores of old, there are all kinds of videos, and there are all kinds of people.  Isn’t it great that we live in a world where everyone can find something to like?

Sometimes this makes me feel better.

Micro Aggressions

 

One thought about micro aggressions/reverse micro aggressions and the environment of paranoia all this newspeak doublethink can create. 

So I as a middle aged white man am walking down the street.  A young woman is approaching.  She overtly directs her gaze to the sidewalk.  

I know why she does this.  Countless men through her life have caught her eye and tried to hit on her.  This is a defensive move.  I understand this.  Pretty women must have guys approaching them all the time. Rather than get dragged into some creepy nonsense, this woman avoids interacting with me all together.  That’s fine.

But how is this not a micro aggression?  She just assumed I am a creepy jerk who wants to say perverted stuff to her.  Isn’t this assumption the exact thing that these supposed victims of micro aggressions are complaining about?

Threads

 

I’ve known about this movie for some time.  It was probably on some internet list of the the worlds most disturbing films.

So during my last battle with the deadly Covid 19, I watched Threads.  It is a 1984 movie produced by the BBC about nuclear war.

Wonderful 1984 patina.  It takes you right back to those good old Cold War days.

I really liked the obscure location of Sheffield and the characters’ accents. 

Remarkable results for a low budget film. 

It was almost like a documentary.   

It really makes you feel the horror of nuclear war, and even worse the horror of surviving nuclear war.  If you’re looking for a creepy 80’s throwback movie — This is it!

My Picture

 

When you know you’ve had an idea for a blog post twice, and twice didn’t write it down.  And now you’re trying to remember it.  

Now we never write anything down.  We just take notes on our iPhones.  The most annoying thing is you can’t take notes though the Apple Watch, so I couldn’t conveniently make an Apple note while walking.  

I just remembered!  Somebody took a picture of me.

I was on my bike stopped at an intersection.  I ride a road bike and was standing there with one foot on the pedal and the other on the street.  I was half seated on the top tube.  Handlebars were tilted to my right.

Some dude with a camera, dropped into a half squat and took my picture.  Maybe he was taking a picture of something behind me?  But I was definitely in it.  I hope I looked cool.  I’m hoping that my coolness inspired him to take the picture.  Maybe it was just a picture of a fat old bastard on a road bike.  I wonder if I’ll ever see it?

“Flumps into chair”

“Flumps into chair” the subtitles read.  I was watching Better Call Saul.

“Flump, is that a word?” I asked myself.  Even now autocorrect is putting a red underline beneath it.

According to the Internet, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/flump, “to move or fall suddenly and heavily.”

Suspicion said I could not trust the Internet.  I sought answers in my hard copy dictionary.  See photo below.  It confirmed that flump, is indeed an English word.

I guess a learned a new word from the subtitles in Better Call Saul.

You Never Forget Your First Concert

 

 

An 8 year old young man I know was taken to his first concert, Imagine Dragons.  This would not have been my first choice.  No surprises that there were many Instagram posts of him rocking out, or whatever one does at an Imagine Dragons Concert.  The caption was, “You never forget your first concert.”  It was mentioned in the comments a few times too.  

The funny thing is I forgot my first concert.

It was either, Rush, Black Sabbath, or Johnny Winter, all admirable choices for a first concert.  I think it was Rush.  They all took place around the same time.

We could go even deeper in my concert past.  My parents took us to classical music concerts as far back as I can remember.  No way I can remember which was the first one.

But even counting only Rock or Pop concerts, I don’t remember which was first.

The difference between this kid and I is that nobody was documenting anything in the 70s.  We just did things.  Maybe there were 12 or 24 shots on the Kodak Instamatic after a family vacation, but we weren’t taking flash photos at Alice Tully hall.  

The funniest thing is, while I don’t remember my first concert, I’ll always remember his.