Damn. It’s true. Trust me. I’m not making light of suicide. A few people in my family, closely related and otherwise, have chosen that path. But, well, so much for guns making us safe. (For the record, no; none of them used a gun.)
Oh, shit. I’m gonna need to get a gun to protect my bike and myself from gun nuts now, once they get all armed. Read this. I don’t mean to totally insult fans of guns. A large portion of the heirlooms in my family are, in fact, firearms. Most haven’t been loaded in a generation or two. But there you go. I won’t scheeve guns outright, either. I think I’ve mentioned that I’m somewhat proud of how well I can shoot pistols, even inaccurate monsters like .45s. Still, this is scary. Somehow.
I mentioned a few weeks ago that my grandmother was staying with my parents in Hampden this spring. She went home to Canton three weeks ago. Everything was fine, and then she could not move yesterday. So my mother, her twin brother, her older brother and I spent yesterday at the hospital. We were there pretty much the whole day. They X-rayed my grandmother’s hip; couldn’t see anything. We sat around for an hour and half waiting for someone to get her and take her to get a CAT scan. Finally, the nurse got fed up and took her down herself. Nothing was broken. All day in the hospital for them to tell her to take Tylenol.
But what’s very weird to me is seeing her re-arranged rowhouse. While the couch, chairs and TV set have been replaced a few times, the arrangement of the furniture in my grandmother’s house has remained unchanged since I was born. Seriously. Even before my parents were married, according to photos I’ve seen. Now, the dining room table is gone, and there’s a bed there. Large wooden things have been moved around, and the plasma TV my least favorite uncle bought has been ignored in favor of a smaller TV closer to the bed. It looks like a different house, and it signals something sinister to me.
That my grandmother is on her way out, not a pleasant thought. Nor what that means for my mother, her brothers, the ton of grandkids and greatgrandkids. Not a pleasant thought at all. I don’t really know what/how I think or feel about the downwardly-sliding situation. I am really trying not to do either of them.
I do know that it’s frustration to be able to do nothing.
Geez, with the bike blog and with my free time being tied up in bikes right now, I’ve been neglecting this blog. Sorry. Go on over to NBBB for more on Ikea bikes.
But I won’t do something jerky like make that my “this weekend I spent hours fixing bikes” blog. That’s this one! My pal needed work done on his front derailer (Sheldon’s spelling), and Mrs. P. needed both of hers attended to. Thing is, I forgot about the moving sun where I was working, and I got a bit of a sunburn. I’ve gotten a few of those this year. That’s not going to help the fact that I already look older than I am and have reached the age where that’s not good news anymore, just news.
But fixing things is always fun, and when you’re helping people to keep biking, that’s awesome, too. Sunburn be damned. A liter of water, an energy coffee drink dealy and Chinese food, and I was ready to face the world.
Which I did that evening, and Mr. Dan and I blasted all over North Baltimore, in search of a milestone on his new cyclometer. We celebrated with cold drinks and chocolate, Mr. Dan’s treat.
I recently watched all six Star Wars films, too, in chronological order. That is, in the order of The Force, not The Box Office. Mrs. P. had never seen them, and I tried to keep my mouth shut. I really did. I hate how they changed the song at the end of Return of the Jedi, one of the most [musically] triumphant movie endings ever. The other CGI stuff, I don’t know. Whatever. I’m pissed about that song!
Where are all these frikkin storms?
Damn.
Early morning on a camping trip this past fall. It was warm under that tarp, and there was abundant coffee, hot and good. Appalachian Mountains, Western Maryland.
Photo Friday: Great Outdoors.
When people are ragging on the Hon thing and Hon Fest, I hope they’re not crapping on Hampden entirely. There’s much more to this cool little neighborhood than the big-haired tourist trappings. I’m not saying that I hate Hon Fest or anything. Certainly not that I hate Hampden, where I grew up.
Hon Fest this year was kind of boring for me, though. It was the same thing as last year. Even more ignorant county yuppies, too. Not all people from the county and not all yuppies/buffies. It’s a special brand of white asshole who walks with zero awareness of other people (just how they drive, which is scary as hell); wears special boring white people clothing that you can only find outside the city limits; displays a sense of entitlement to own Hampden because they went to Cafe’ Hon once — at night! “Look, Chahllles, the city’s not so frightening!”
I think that a large part of Hon Fest’s popularity is that it’s an excuse for white people who fled the city to come back to it in a way that they feel is safe. Hampden is still mostly white, and most of the people at the festival are white, too. Don’t think pointing out a minority you saw this weekend proves me wrong. I said “large” and “most”! And I’m only half kidding.
Personally, I don’t enjoy celebrating Hampden’s “heritage” in itself. The Hon stereotype comes from a lack of money, education (if you say “lack of class” I’ll kick your nuts!) and exposure to other cultures. If you’re actually from Hampden, you know that the neighborhood’s non-Hon heritage involves racism, punks and blandness, underneath all the things Cafe’ Hon allegedly celebrates. The only thing to celebrate about Hampden’s past is that it’s gone.
Instead, when I celebrate anything about Hampden, I celebrate what’s new and better about it and about The Avenue. Places like Atomic Books and Atomic Pop, Salamander Books, Common Ground, Dogwood, Golden West, bike racks, a night life, people who aren’t all white — these are things worth celebrating. This is all much preferable to the shithole Hampden was in the 80s and early 90s.
Yes, it was a shithole. If you don’t know that, that’s not my fault. You weren’t here. But it’s true. What’s also true is that Cafe’ Hon didn’t save anything on its own, no matter how much that gets repeated. It took a lot of people and a lot of business owners to make that happen. I’m sick of seeing one person get all the credit, and someone who lives in the frikkin county at that.
Man, I’m tired and caffeinated. This is my favorite camp cup, over a small fire, full of my favorite black liquid. On a mountain not far from the C&O Canal this October.
Photo Friday: Movement. Because, you know, nothing gets you moving like half a pot of camp coffee consumed rapidly.
Dear. Mr. Buick SUV Dick,
You should be aware that you broke two laws this morning.
First, in Maryland, pedestrians have the right of way. That is why there is a big fucking white walkway that you can even see from the vast heights of your SUV seat. There was even a sign there to remind really really stupid people of this fact. There’s even a picture on it in case you can’t fucking read. You are not allowed to drive through a crosswalk with a pedestrian in it, especially not gunning the engine because little pedestrian guy made you slow down. I am well aware that I walked right in front of you as you turned into the driveway by ten or twenty yards. That’s my right, wanker.
Also, in Maryland, it is illegal to blow your horn at pedestrians. People turn around, look at you, and walk into more assholes who ignore people on foot. Even though you did wait until after you passed and even though all you managed was a pussy little horn pump. (SUV, sissy little horn pump, guess you’re compensating in a way so classical it makes me sick…)
I thought about going to find your car on the back lot where you were headed and leaving you a nasty note. Then I saw your Assholemobile out front, where you found a nice spot near the door. I even thought about waiting for you to come out so that I could tell you that you are, in fact, an asshole. But, nah, too many nice folks milling around for me to ruin their mornings making a scene. You did look small in that vehicle. I’ll bet I could take you. Besides, salmon colored polo shirts don’t make you look very tough.
And in case you were wondering, yes, that gesture was me giving you the finger in front of old people. I hope you get a fucking ticket twelve times today, even though the PoPos can’t ticket you for being a douchebag, in which case you’d probably lose your license.
Love and kisses,
This Dude
About this. All I said was, “Kiss my ass.” In my defense, I was on a bike, and there were kids around. You know who you are!
Already. It’s just the first little part of June. I know; last year, we didn’t use them, didn’t even put them in. Yes. Well, that experiment taught us to not be brats. So I don’t crank the AC now such that I need a sweater. Just for nice, non-humid comfort.
Besides, it was nasty at 8 this morning when I hit the grocery store. I’m glad to be shut-in today.
And I have a nasty sunburn from swimming at my uncle’s house yesterday. Ouch.
I learned to use a machine, but I suck at it. I keep screwing it up. It could be the machine. But it’s likely just me. Inspired by two things, I pulled out the sewing machine and worked on stuff until I broke the second from last needle in the apartment.
Like I said, I was put into motion by two things. One, a good thing. Matt’s awesome bike bag. Two, a bad thing. I am going to leave out the name of the manufacturer. But I have a new messenger bag that was a month coming, and it’s Okay and all. But in addition to outsourcing and an obviously second-rate production job, my frikkin strap is fraying because its’ cheaper than my old ones by the same company. It gets bound up with the cross strap, and it jams in the cam buckle. But, of course, they cost more now. Unfrikkinbelievable.
I think I might do what I’ve been flirting with doing for a year. I might put a frikkin milk crate on my rack. I did think about taking my rack off last week, since I would never use it with a large messenger bag. And I love bike racks and milk crates and all things Fred. I mean, I never say, “Hey, look! That chick has one of them there messenger bags!” I do, however, shout when I see an awesome milk crate or otherwise something good happening on a bike rack. I hope it would not get in the way of my seat, since I’ve had loads do that. And those 700s leave my rack riding very high. But it might be worth a try. I think I have occasion to hit a store to buy hose clamps tomorrow. And a family member, ahem, who, ahem, reads this blog, ahem, is in possession of a sweet Greenspring Dairy crate in green that would look frikkin sweet on my rack. Sweet rack. Frikkin sweet rack.
Can I say FRIKKIN anymore in a post?
Dudes, you gotta check out North Baltimore Bike Brigade site. It’s getting written on, yo. It’s here.
