Well I had some nugget of universal wisdom to impart, but stumbled across this today.
God Bless Lainey Gossip. Truly. I love this woman. Her blog has insightful, funny as all hell writing, without the nastiness of Perez or the "a snark too far" quality of many other gossip blogs.
For those of you unfamiliar, Jordan is a VERY popular celebrity in the U.K. Her main claim to fame is that she has ginormous breasts. Yes, it's hard to believe I know Dear Reader, but there it is.
Or should I say, there they are.
At any rate, this little ditty was recorded with her husband, whoever he is. I don't even know what this dude does other than working hair gel. Ragdoll, this puts that Aladdin poster you got me in a whole new light n'est pas?
Wait til the second verse kicks in. It goes to a whole new level.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Poop Poop Bee Doo
The end is nothing. The road is all. - Willa Cather
Today is my 36th birthday. Funny, but this birthday has always had a magical quality for me. It’s the age that Marilyn Monroe and Princess Diana were when they died. I shared a youthful fascination with them both, and because of this, I suppose 36 struck me as either a mystical milestone of insight, or the last youthful pit stop before you get on the highway of true adulthood.
But now that I’m here I can’t really say I feel either way. It basically feels, well, like a birthday and I still feel like me.
But I’ve always wondered what it was like to be here. 36 was always something I was heading towards. It’s now something that I’m heading away from. I’ve been mentally thrashing through the concept about how I’m always looking to the future. I suppose it’s a result of my childhood. The one thing that made me get through the daily interaction [I use the term loosely] with my peers was the thought of something better.
One day, I’ll leave all this behind.
One day, my dreams will come true.
One day, I’ll show every last one of you.
The trouble with “one day” thinking is that you damn well better have an alternate plan in case one day arrives in ways you had never expected. I’m trying to apply more mental energy to focusing on the present, breaking my life down into bit sized chunks. Despite my best efforts, however, if I’m totally honest it’s just not good enough.
I vacillate between thinking that some things are just silly to be doing “at my age” and the fact that if I don’t do them, I’ll be unhappy so I might as well do them anyway. I can’t seem to stop raging at the dying of the light, the fact that I still want the things that I don’t have.
Yet.
It’s immature I’ll grant you, but I’m just trying to be honest here.
I suppose my efforts to be in the present need to start focusing on not being so mad at the past. It’s over. It’s done. I did the best I could. Now I want to look at what I have learned from it all.
Here are some insights so far:
Despite paying regular premiums, assume that the only payout you will ever get from an insurance company is a death benefit.
Everybody else is pretty much as scared and insecure as you are, if not more so.
If you love doing something so much you’d do it for free, that’s where you should focus your efforts.
You can have all the discipline, drive, ambition and talent in the world. It means nothing without the physical energy to apply any of these aspects.
The 30’s is your decade of major slaps upside the head. Generally speaking, all those things you thought were so important at 25 become about as significant as lint on your coat by the time you hit 35.
Sometimes you’ll be the only one who believes in you. You’ll have some long dry spells when that needs to be enough.
My one consolation is that I’m not having a total nervous breakdown like I did last year. I’m more settled, more comfortable in my own skin now, and I sense more possibility in my life.
Today is my 36th birthday. Funny, but this birthday has always had a magical quality for me. It’s the age that Marilyn Monroe and Princess Diana were when they died. I shared a youthful fascination with them both, and because of this, I suppose 36 struck me as either a mystical milestone of insight, or the last youthful pit stop before you get on the highway of true adulthood.
But now that I’m here I can’t really say I feel either way. It basically feels, well, like a birthday and I still feel like me.
But I’ve always wondered what it was like to be here. 36 was always something I was heading towards. It’s now something that I’m heading away from. I’ve been mentally thrashing through the concept about how I’m always looking to the future. I suppose it’s a result of my childhood. The one thing that made me get through the daily interaction [I use the term loosely] with my peers was the thought of something better.
One day, I’ll leave all this behind.
One day, my dreams will come true.
One day, I’ll show every last one of you.
The trouble with “one day” thinking is that you damn well better have an alternate plan in case one day arrives in ways you had never expected. I’m trying to apply more mental energy to focusing on the present, breaking my life down into bit sized chunks. Despite my best efforts, however, if I’m totally honest it’s just not good enough.
I vacillate between thinking that some things are just silly to be doing “at my age” and the fact that if I don’t do them, I’ll be unhappy so I might as well do them anyway. I can’t seem to stop raging at the dying of the light, the fact that I still want the things that I don’t have.
Yet.
It’s immature I’ll grant you, but I’m just trying to be honest here.
I suppose my efforts to be in the present need to start focusing on not being so mad at the past. It’s over. It’s done. I did the best I could. Now I want to look at what I have learned from it all.
Here are some insights so far:
Despite paying regular premiums, assume that the only payout you will ever get from an insurance company is a death benefit.
Everybody else is pretty much as scared and insecure as you are, if not more so.
If you love doing something so much you’d do it for free, that’s where you should focus your efforts.
You can have all the discipline, drive, ambition and talent in the world. It means nothing without the physical energy to apply any of these aspects.
The 30’s is your decade of major slaps upside the head. Generally speaking, all those things you thought were so important at 25 become about as significant as lint on your coat by the time you hit 35.
Sometimes you’ll be the only one who believes in you. You’ll have some long dry spells when that needs to be enough.
My one consolation is that I’m not having a total nervous breakdown like I did last year. I’m more settled, more comfortable in my own skin now, and I sense more possibility in my life.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Musings
I must apologize Dear Reader. I truly don't know what's gotten into me as of late, but for whatever reason, I just haven't felt like writing much the past while. It seems that when I get home, my brain is too tired or too restless, but never in that place in between that is conducive to putting things on a page.
Currently I can tell you that:
DAHYUM! I am hurting after my pilates class on Saturday. Still. Hurting. In my stomach. And sneezing a lot this week to boot. Greeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaat. My teacher says she is deliberately pushing me hard to get me to the next level. She's planning on making me use weights. WEIGHTS! Good God! But I like the idea of "the next level". I sometimes suspect she sees more potential in me than I see in myself right now.
My cats are happy as the Magic Bwankey of Prophecy has returned. The Marine cracked it out the other night. Don't ask me to explain it, but this comforter is the most snuggalicious, sleep inducing thing I've ever experienced. Before I met him, the Marine rescued the Magic Bwankey from the garbage, or a Goodwill run. I can't quite remember which, but suffice it to say that whoever got rid of this thing was a damn fool.
My niece Rosy has retired my father from living room soccer games and now has The Marine in regular play because "he's more funner." That's life in the pros Pop. Sorry.
I have been harbouring a dangerous obsession with Pepsi Cola lately. I never drink carbonated beverages other than club soda. All of a sudden, I can't get enough Pepsi. Perhaps I'm making up for a deprived youth. Perhaps I'm sugar addicted. Perhaps, it really does taste better than Coke.
Currently I can tell you that:
DAHYUM! I am hurting after my pilates class on Saturday. Still. Hurting. In my stomach. And sneezing a lot this week to boot. Greeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaat. My teacher says she is deliberately pushing me hard to get me to the next level. She's planning on making me use weights. WEIGHTS! Good God! But I like the idea of "the next level". I sometimes suspect she sees more potential in me than I see in myself right now.
My cats are happy as the Magic Bwankey of Prophecy has returned. The Marine cracked it out the other night. Don't ask me to explain it, but this comforter is the most snuggalicious, sleep inducing thing I've ever experienced. Before I met him, the Marine rescued the Magic Bwankey from the garbage, or a Goodwill run. I can't quite remember which, but suffice it to say that whoever got rid of this thing was a damn fool.
My niece Rosy has retired my father from living room soccer games and now has The Marine in regular play because "he's more funner." That's life in the pros Pop. Sorry.
I have been harbouring a dangerous obsession with Pepsi Cola lately. I never drink carbonated beverages other than club soda. All of a sudden, I can't get enough Pepsi. Perhaps I'm making up for a deprived youth. Perhaps I'm sugar addicted. Perhaps, it really does taste better than Coke.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
IFOA: Farah & Gowdy
In which our fearless heroines Zesty and Ragdoll, ponder renovation and pasta overload, only to battle biting cold, flagrant line budders and a driveway crying fit.
Last Wednesday, I attended the IFOA at Harbourfront. I can admit it. I’m an addict.
Ragdoll and I met at Il Fornello for a long overdue dinner out. Having suitably noshed and talked, we then headed across the ice filled parking lot to York Quay’s Brigantine Room. Damn you March. Damn you and your incessant wintering to hell.
I had to line up and get a ticket, however, when we inquired at the desk, we had to go to the other side because the agent’s printer wasn’t working. At some point, a woman ended up standing next to Ragdoll and of course budded in front of me. I would have said something, but I had the sense that she really just wouldn’t have “gotten it” if I had.
Sigh.
Now to be frank, I must note at this point that the Brigantine Room leaves a lot to be desired. It’s a nice space, but the chairs are awful. I know that Harbourfront is on a budget but plastic chairs? C’mon y’all. My ischials were screamin’ for mercy by night’s end.
The first reader of the night was Somalian author Nuruddin Farah. He read from his most recent novel Knots, which is apparently the second novel of a trilogy that began with a previous book entitled Links. He read a passage that featured a central female character returning to her home, only to find that in post war Somalia it has been invaded by strangers.
Farah’s reading style is very measured and completely in tandem with how he writes. The excerpt was deceptively simple at first, but it would seem that Farah is a prosaic bricklayer of sorts, deliberately creating his scenes with measured precision. By the end, I was anxious to hear more and find how his protagonist was going to reclaim her home.
The second author of the night was Barbara Gowdy who read from her latest book, Helpless. Helpless is the story of a nine year old girl’s abduction and the harrowing experience of her single mother who has to contend with it. But this novel has the added element of presenting the viewpoint of the abductor, Ron. In fact, the segment Gowdy read pertained to an episode from Ron’s childhood. It was a segment rife with great dialogue, humour and piercing observations of familial dynamics. Having not read the book, I was shocked to find that I’d been sympathetic towards a pedophile, that in fact he had been humanized for me. I had at first, assumed the excerpt was a flashback pertaining to the abducted girl’s father.
In fact, the second part of the evening consisted of Ms. Gowdy being interviewed by the always exceptional Susan G. Cole, and Gowdy mentioned that male reviewers seem to be uncomfortable with such a humanizing characterization of Ron. They want those with a sexual interest in children to be monsters, and they are uncomfortable when they’re not presented as such.
Having done some additional research since last Wednesday, however, I find the interview ever more disappointing. We seemed to get a lot of the same lines Gowdy used in her Maclean’s interview [which to her credit she acknowledged at the time] and one discomforting point she made was that essentially in her childhood days, there were always “funny” men in the neighbourhood and that essentially the difference between then and now is that more than likely the girl would live.
Pardon my language, but that’s bollocks.
Ragdoll sent me an article by one of my favourite columnists, Heather Mallick, which essentially sums up my feelings on the issue. To Mallick’s point, kids have been raped and killed in the past as they are now, you just didn’t always read about it in the papers. I tend to agree. Frankly, if the “funny” men only fondled little girls and boys, it’s because that’s all they were interested in doing.
In fairness to Gowdy, I should say that I’ve never read one of her books. But from what I have surmised, her work seems to focus on the more macabre and isolationist aspects of life. That’s not my cup of tea and I’ll freely admit that I admire the bravery of writers like Gowdy who “go there”. I don’t want to. To my mind, there’s more than enough horror in every day life such that I feel no need in my writing to investigate it further.
But I think that what I found somewhat disingenouus was that Gowdy said she essentially had to make Ron more human to make the book bearable. She also referenced Lewis Caroll’s pedophilia and that he was “heroic” because he never acted upon his feelings.
Uh, excuse me but since when is not being a totally selfish a**hole an act of heroism? I find this kind of reasoning symptomatic of society’s discomfort in dealing with the subject of pedophila in general.
And this reasoning is essentially the inverse of Chris Rock’s killer riff about people who pump themselves up and make it a point of pride to proclaim that they do the things that, well, you ARE SUPPOSED TO DO, as in “I pay my child support.”
It’s pretty simple. If you’re an alcoholic, don’t drink. If you’re a pedophile, don’t mess with children. Why? Because the damage you do in engaging is such acts is immeasureable, to put it politely. Gowdy had to humanize a pedophile for the simple reason that pedophilia itself is inhumane.
Maybe it was the mood I was in, but between this and Gowdy’s proclamation that she found writing to be “torturous”, I basically had had enough by the time Ragdoll and I left. I’d trade places with Gowdy any day. “Torturous” is working in a coal mine. “Torturous” is going to work day in and day out, year in and year out, getting your intelligence insulted for the privilege and despite all your efforts to enact the contrary, seeing no change in your situation.
I ended up walking out of the reading quite shell shocked. That’s what good writing and challenging subjects should do I suppose and I’ll give Gowdy her props on those counts. But it’s probably why I’ve put off posting this blog entry for a week. I had to let things settle, because I have little threshold for anything having to do with child abuse in any way, shape or form. Neither does Barbara Gowdy by her own account.
I dropped Ragdoll off that night and headed home. As I pulled into the driveway, the song “If” by Bread was playing. I don’t know if you know this song, but part of the lyrics are as follows:
“If a picture paints a thousand words,
Then why can’t I paint you?
The words will never show the you I've come to know.
If a face could launch a thousand ships, Then where am I to go?
There's no one home but you,
You're all that's left me too.”
I just burst into tears when I heard this because the song reminds me of a winter walk I had with my Dad and our dog Gussie when I was about 12 years old. This walk has always stayed with me. We were talking about many things, but my Dad brought up this song at the time and sang it to me, mentioning how nice he thought the lyrics were.
And after an evening’s discussion about such a horrible topic, it hit me with full force how vulnerable I was as a child and how much my father has always been there for me, how he has always loved me and protected me and how I have never once, as a child or adult, questioned my safety with him at any time.
I’d like to say I’m going to read Helpless, but frankly, I just don’t know.
Last Wednesday, I attended the IFOA at Harbourfront. I can admit it. I’m an addict.
Ragdoll and I met at Il Fornello for a long overdue dinner out. Having suitably noshed and talked, we then headed across the ice filled parking lot to York Quay’s Brigantine Room. Damn you March. Damn you and your incessant wintering to hell.
I had to line up and get a ticket, however, when we inquired at the desk, we had to go to the other side because the agent’s printer wasn’t working. At some point, a woman ended up standing next to Ragdoll and of course budded in front of me. I would have said something, but I had the sense that she really just wouldn’t have “gotten it” if I had.
Sigh.
Now to be frank, I must note at this point that the Brigantine Room leaves a lot to be desired. It’s a nice space, but the chairs are awful. I know that Harbourfront is on a budget but plastic chairs? C’mon y’all. My ischials were screamin’ for mercy by night’s end.
The first reader of the night was Somalian author Nuruddin Farah. He read from his most recent novel Knots, which is apparently the second novel of a trilogy that began with a previous book entitled Links. He read a passage that featured a central female character returning to her home, only to find that in post war Somalia it has been invaded by strangers.
Farah’s reading style is very measured and completely in tandem with how he writes. The excerpt was deceptively simple at first, but it would seem that Farah is a prosaic bricklayer of sorts, deliberately creating his scenes with measured precision. By the end, I was anxious to hear more and find how his protagonist was going to reclaim her home.
The second author of the night was Barbara Gowdy who read from her latest book, Helpless. Helpless is the story of a nine year old girl’s abduction and the harrowing experience of her single mother who has to contend with it. But this novel has the added element of presenting the viewpoint of the abductor, Ron. In fact, the segment Gowdy read pertained to an episode from Ron’s childhood. It was a segment rife with great dialogue, humour and piercing observations of familial dynamics. Having not read the book, I was shocked to find that I’d been sympathetic towards a pedophile, that in fact he had been humanized for me. I had at first, assumed the excerpt was a flashback pertaining to the abducted girl’s father.
In fact, the second part of the evening consisted of Ms. Gowdy being interviewed by the always exceptional Susan G. Cole, and Gowdy mentioned that male reviewers seem to be uncomfortable with such a humanizing characterization of Ron. They want those with a sexual interest in children to be monsters, and they are uncomfortable when they’re not presented as such.
Having done some additional research since last Wednesday, however, I find the interview ever more disappointing. We seemed to get a lot of the same lines Gowdy used in her Maclean’s interview [which to her credit she acknowledged at the time] and one discomforting point she made was that essentially in her childhood days, there were always “funny” men in the neighbourhood and that essentially the difference between then and now is that more than likely the girl would live.
Pardon my language, but that’s bollocks.
Ragdoll sent me an article by one of my favourite columnists, Heather Mallick, which essentially sums up my feelings on the issue. To Mallick’s point, kids have been raped and killed in the past as they are now, you just didn’t always read about it in the papers. I tend to agree. Frankly, if the “funny” men only fondled little girls and boys, it’s because that’s all they were interested in doing.
In fairness to Gowdy, I should say that I’ve never read one of her books. But from what I have surmised, her work seems to focus on the more macabre and isolationist aspects of life. That’s not my cup of tea and I’ll freely admit that I admire the bravery of writers like Gowdy who “go there”. I don’t want to. To my mind, there’s more than enough horror in every day life such that I feel no need in my writing to investigate it further.
But I think that what I found somewhat disingenouus was that Gowdy said she essentially had to make Ron more human to make the book bearable. She also referenced Lewis Caroll’s pedophilia and that he was “heroic” because he never acted upon his feelings.
Uh, excuse me but since when is not being a totally selfish a**hole an act of heroism? I find this kind of reasoning symptomatic of society’s discomfort in dealing with the subject of pedophila in general.
And this reasoning is essentially the inverse of Chris Rock’s killer riff about people who pump themselves up and make it a point of pride to proclaim that they do the things that, well, you ARE SUPPOSED TO DO, as in “I pay my child support.”
It’s pretty simple. If you’re an alcoholic, don’t drink. If you’re a pedophile, don’t mess with children. Why? Because the damage you do in engaging is such acts is immeasureable, to put it politely. Gowdy had to humanize a pedophile for the simple reason that pedophilia itself is inhumane.
Maybe it was the mood I was in, but between this and Gowdy’s proclamation that she found writing to be “torturous”, I basically had had enough by the time Ragdoll and I left. I’d trade places with Gowdy any day. “Torturous” is working in a coal mine. “Torturous” is going to work day in and day out, year in and year out, getting your intelligence insulted for the privilege and despite all your efforts to enact the contrary, seeing no change in your situation.
I ended up walking out of the reading quite shell shocked. That’s what good writing and challenging subjects should do I suppose and I’ll give Gowdy her props on those counts. But it’s probably why I’ve put off posting this blog entry for a week. I had to let things settle, because I have little threshold for anything having to do with child abuse in any way, shape or form. Neither does Barbara Gowdy by her own account.
I dropped Ragdoll off that night and headed home. As I pulled into the driveway, the song “If” by Bread was playing. I don’t know if you know this song, but part of the lyrics are as follows:
“If a picture paints a thousand words,
Then why can’t I paint you?
The words will never show the you I've come to know.
If a face could launch a thousand ships, Then where am I to go?
There's no one home but you,
You're all that's left me too.”
I just burst into tears when I heard this because the song reminds me of a winter walk I had with my Dad and our dog Gussie when I was about 12 years old. This walk has always stayed with me. We were talking about many things, but my Dad brought up this song at the time and sang it to me, mentioning how nice he thought the lyrics were.
And after an evening’s discussion about such a horrible topic, it hit me with full force how vulnerable I was as a child and how much my father has always been there for me, how he has always loved me and protected me and how I have never once, as a child or adult, questioned my safety with him at any time.
I’d like to say I’m going to read Helpless, but frankly, I just don’t know.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Dream, Dream, Dream
It’s dream analysis time again folks!
You’ll recall what has become known in Zesty lore as the “freak-a-doodle period”. I did some research. Turned out I was REALLY stressed.
I’m finding my dreams are now going to another level altogether. Here are two recent additions to the Zesty Dream Canon.
Dream 1 – I can remember looking out on a greenish grey stormy sea. Poking out of the water were the top of what I knew to be mountains, but these mountains were the colour of solid black granite. One of the edifices was the same black granite, but was in the shape of a cross.
Dream 2 – I’m standing on a beach in the middle of winter. Trapped in the ice are all these huge bright blue fish and there are also fish skulls lying around. In the dream, I’m taking the fish out of the ice.
I did some online research on the above. The weird thing is that all these symbols – the sea/cross/fish/blue/black/mountains/rock/ice etc. all speak to essentially the same things: Christianity, the unearthing of the subconcious and dealing with difficult feelings, obstacles to be overcome.
Why can’t I have dreams about Brad Pitt?
You’ll recall what has become known in Zesty lore as the “freak-a-doodle period”. I did some research. Turned out I was REALLY stressed.
I’m finding my dreams are now going to another level altogether. Here are two recent additions to the Zesty Dream Canon.
Dream 1 – I can remember looking out on a greenish grey stormy sea. Poking out of the water were the top of what I knew to be mountains, but these mountains were the colour of solid black granite. One of the edifices was the same black granite, but was in the shape of a cross.
Dream 2 – I’m standing on a beach in the middle of winter. Trapped in the ice are all these huge bright blue fish and there are also fish skulls lying around. In the dream, I’m taking the fish out of the ice.
I did some online research on the above. The weird thing is that all these symbols – the sea/cross/fish/blue/black/mountains/rock/ice etc. all speak to essentially the same things: Christianity, the unearthing of the subconcious and dealing with difficult feelings, obstacles to be overcome.
Why can’t I have dreams about Brad Pitt?
Monday, March 05, 2007
Adventures In Fashion
A design studio in New York City. Present day.
DESIGNER 1: We’ve got a new film to costume.
DESIGNER 2: Yeah?
DESIGNER 1: Yah. I thought this chair leg stub would make a guhrate hat. What do you think?
DESIGNER 2: [making spirit fingers] Totally fab.
DESIGNER 1. And we’ve got extra material from the costumes for that Christmas film we worked on right?
DESIGNER 2: What one was that? Jingle Balls?
DESIGNER 1: Nope.
DESIGNER 2: Candy’s Cane?
DESIGNER 1: I don’t think so.
DESIGNER 2: Santa’s Sac!
DESIGNER 1: Oh that’s totally it! [He pulls out a roll of material]
DESIGNER 2: Oh. Yes. YES. YES. YES!!!!
DESIGNER 1: We’ve got a new film to costume.
DESIGNER 2: Yeah?
DESIGNER 1: Yah. I thought this chair leg stub would make a guhrate hat. What do you think?
DESIGNER 2: [making spirit fingers] Totally fab.
DESIGNER 1. And we’ve got extra material from the costumes for that Christmas film we worked on right?
DESIGNER 2: What one was that? Jingle Balls?
DESIGNER 1: Nope.
DESIGNER 2: Candy’s Cane?
DESIGNER 1: I don’t think so.
DESIGNER 2: Santa’s Sac!
DESIGNER 1: Oh that’s totally it! [He pulls out a roll of material]
DESIGNER 2: Oh. Yes. YES. YES. YES!!!!
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Famous Last Thoughts
We had a snowstorm of mammoth proportions slam into Toronto today. Snow and ice pellets arrived about 2 pm. We've got freezing rain as of now. I decided to wait until 6:15 to leave work because the streets were a parking lot.
I made reasonable time considering I was in second gear the whole way home.
As I approached the last major intersection before the turn off for my house, I thought to myself "Hey. That wasn't a bad drive at all." I proceeded through the intersection and having no cars on my right, still did a quick shoulder check and moved into the right lane.
I'm driving for about five seconds when all of a sudden I hear some pounding noise. My first thought was that I'd run over something, until I realized it was coming from the back right of my car. I turn around and it was some dude on a bike.
Yes, it's a major winter storm and IT'S SOME DUDE ON HIS BIKE.
My next thought was "Where the heck did you come from?"
I think he was alright though. I observed in my rearview that he certainly had enough wherewithal to give me the finger while he continued riding.
I'm ranging between feeling bad I scared him [I certainly don't blame him for the pounding. I would have done the same thing.] and feeling profoundly annoyed that he was
1. Stupid enough to be on a bike at night in the middle of a raging snow storm
2. Had no lights on his bike at all
3. Was wearing all dark outer gear.
That being said, he was at least one up on the other guy I passed. He had all the above AND headphones on.
He was moving at a fair clip. It was no mamby pamby bike, so I suspect what happened was that as I moved into the next lane, he sped up and ended up in my blind spot.
The Marine was a bike courier for several years, rain or shine. I asked him what he thought about this. He said that frankly this guy's an adult. If he doesn't get that biking in a snow storm at night with no lights and dark clothes is a bad idea, that's his problem.
Well said Marine.
And at least there's always The Hoff to help ease the pain.
I made reasonable time considering I was in second gear the whole way home.
As I approached the last major intersection before the turn off for my house, I thought to myself "Hey. That wasn't a bad drive at all." I proceeded through the intersection and having no cars on my right, still did a quick shoulder check and moved into the right lane.
I'm driving for about five seconds when all of a sudden I hear some pounding noise. My first thought was that I'd run over something, until I realized it was coming from the back right of my car. I turn around and it was some dude on a bike.
Yes, it's a major winter storm and IT'S SOME DUDE ON HIS BIKE.
My next thought was "Where the heck did you come from?"
I think he was alright though. I observed in my rearview that he certainly had enough wherewithal to give me the finger while he continued riding.
I'm ranging between feeling bad I scared him [I certainly don't blame him for the pounding. I would have done the same thing.] and feeling profoundly annoyed that he was
1. Stupid enough to be on a bike at night in the middle of a raging snow storm
2. Had no lights on his bike at all
3. Was wearing all dark outer gear.
That being said, he was at least one up on the other guy I passed. He had all the above AND headphones on.
He was moving at a fair clip. It was no mamby pamby bike, so I suspect what happened was that as I moved into the next lane, he sped up and ended up in my blind spot.
The Marine was a bike courier for several years, rain or shine. I asked him what he thought about this. He said that frankly this guy's an adult. If he doesn't get that biking in a snow storm at night with no lights and dark clothes is a bad idea, that's his problem.
Well said Marine.
And at least there's always The Hoff to help ease the pain.
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