A Fan Is A Fan

I went to see about a fan. A motor really. I found a motor and I am not a fan.

HONK! Oh no you didn’t, honk me in a car?!? Big mistake. Big. Huge. I don’t need to go shopping now, but this wasn’t Rodeo Drive, and I am not a Pretty Woman.

Truly, maybe it was a Rodeo driving up my ass. I couldn't quite tell.

I stopped at the marked crosswalk, clearly signed, between the bumps, for a young mother with a stroller. I mean really. Young Mother With Stroller!

Then, I heard the horn, looked up and saw a vehicle lift up my bumper. Not actually, but I bet his paint scared itself onto my bumper.

Did I mention, NOT a pretty woman? I am covered in grease, filth, and sweat. I have spent the last few hours unable to sit up in a 185 degree attic fighting bolts that won’t turn when I want them to and do when I don’t with tools that don’t quite fit in the space I have to work. I am frustrated. Dehydrated. Obsessed. OH Please, fuck with me. Give me a reason to drive slower than I bike, just because I CAN.

I am not a fan of cars. I am not a fan of assholes. I am really not a fan of assholes in cars.

I am a huge fan of attic fans. Attic fans that work. Attic fans that I am the boss of. Uh-huh yeah.

Curiosity Saved Socks

Ah yeah hi, Amazon? About that package you just sent....

My name is Parker, and this is my story.

It got hot. Hotter than it’s been. And I pant, like a dog. I don't like it here anymore.

I’ve been stalking the tree line, ducking bushes, wiggling in ivy. I’m too cute for this shit.

I overheard some bipeds talking and apparently today is National Lollipop day. I have no idea what a lollipop is but they seemed giddy about it.

So there I was stalking the tree line when the most curious biped cruised by, more of a bi- pedaler as the case were. I pounced. MEW MEW. Here, aqui, ici. Take me home please!

I was hungry and she was cute. She stopped, can you believe it. And she said, Come here, so I did. She scooped me up and I purred and purred and it worked!

I didn’t even mind the kitty death grip she put on me when she pulled up her bike and hopped on. She was taking me home. This cutie girl on the bike was taking ME home. Lucky me! I stopped squirming and enjoyed the ride.

Lick lick. Happy Lollipop Day. Sucker!

I Am Not My Bicycle

Two things are great for bicycling. Iron and Oxygen. Lack of Iron and you are weak. Lack of Oxygen and you are, well, dead.

Adversely, the contrary is true for the actual bicycle. Oxygen and Iron make RUST. Amber, red, orange, yellow: rust.

Rust is bad. Rust is embarrassing. Rust wins the cement medal. Rust invaded every bitty mm of my bicycle. Nuts, bolts, chain, sprockets, cogs, freakin' frozen derailleur. RUST met-all and held all tight.

I rode my bike in a blizzard. Not your typical snowy white, peaceful snowfall. I'm talking mid-east coast blizzard. You know, the kind we throw white salt on to make up for what Mother Nature is lacking.

Salt in an open wound I say. I committed the most egregious of sins; I must be destroyed. For seven months, that is to say 1,2,3,4,5,6,SEVEN, months passed and not one brush. No water, no rag, no degreaser, no nothing. Just salt on metal, for 200 days.

Roll ahead to Schaeffer. Rust beaten, bike cleaned, cyclist hammering down single track. Until the brakes seemed slightly weaker. The chain a little slack. The wheel....no longer ahh..ttached?

This is not 'my wheel just doesn't spin'. This is: bike stalls. Pony throws rider. Cyclist sterilized by headset. Wheel rolls backward. Uni- no -Cycle.

I neglected my bicycle. I let her down, and she repaid me, the fool.

Inkth!

3 is half of 8.

The brainiacs will argue without so much as thinking.

The Go Go Google Gadgeteers will surf the solution as 4.

I say it is 3.

You Choose

Studying your telescope,

Squinting through one eye.

Enamored by romantic hope,

I melt into the sky

My diamonds, pillows charm the night,

The moon slips through the haze.

Cirrus, stratus, satellites;

Your Crescent just a phase.

Good For Life

You expect your ob/gyn to have heard it all, seen it all. I mean you never really want someone between your legs exclaiming, "Wow, I've never seen anything like that before!" Well, at least girls don't really so much, boys probably get off on it.

Your first time, like all things sexual in nature, is a little awkward, a little scary, a little uncomfortable. You are young, shy, and not really looking forward to cold metal objects approaching you from that angle.

The day before my first appointment, the man I waited months to see, fell off his horse and destroyed his knee. In his place, sauntered in Cowboy Ben, “Well, howdy little lady” or at least that’s how I remember it. Maybe he wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat and chaps, but there were definitely spurs or stirrups or something. And flannel, I think there was definitely flannel. Panic set in.

But Cowboy Ben was calming and reassuring. It never really made the experience any more enjoyable, but he was nice enough in his pre-historic practice. I could have done without the casual conversation between my legs, however. "Nice weather, eh? So, have you tried the new Cherry Dr Pepper?"

Speaking of Dr Pepper…All was well and good for years and years, until they found IT. “Excuse me, but what exactly is the IT to which you keep referring?” “We’ll let you know if we find IT.” Well, they never told me what IT was, but they found IT at 10, 2, and 4 and I don’t think it was Dr Pepper.

The whole experience felt like an abortion with a wire hanger. I won’t go into specifics, but I vowed never to have sex with a man again. Perhaps that was a little extreme. What I really needed was a second opinion and a new gynecologist.

What I got was a cancer scare and a puppy. “Hi, Honey, I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, and I’m really sorry for my part in it; here’s a big plush puppy.” I get cancer and he gives me a stuffed animal? Really, the cancer would be plenty.

The good news: no cancer. And I love my new gynecologist, even when she asks me awkward questions about my ‘adventurous’ sex life. She’s a hoot. And thanks to her post-historic testing never found IT or anything else for that matter. I'm still not into puppies, jury remains out on boys.

EBS Monthly Test

This is a test of Emergency Biker Survival. In the event that this was a true biker emergency this message would be followed by detailed instructions on how to retrieve your stranded, incapacitated, or completed exhausted biker. I repeat, this is only a test.

You may now resume your regularly scheduled projects. No, really. Stand down men! Don’t leave your sneakers in the buff. It was merely a test. I’ll be fine. "My wheel just doesn’t spin."

Well now even the uncyclistest of folk knows that ain’t right. Wheel doesn’t SPIN? Did I say that out loud?!? That certainly SOUNDS essential. A non-rotating wheel falls...down, no?

Hmmm…yes, I guess the hub by definition is the single most important, central part of well, anything, so it’s spoke. And if you don’t take care of your cones, well your ride will suffer. It is indeed true, lube can make even a bad ride feel much better. I’m just saying….

And well, the ride home, although slow and arduous, was spectacular. The distant roar of fireworks, the amazing show of fireflies, the exaggerated fire drill. Even when life sucks, it is still quite a show.

1-800-YOU-SUCK

Metrobus has earned the nation’s top bus safety award because of its safety record and aggressive safety programs. Bus operators receive refresher training, focusing primarily on safety, every two years.

Well one word in there is right on point. It’s smack dab in the middle of the gobbly goo. It rhymes with imustlive. Imustlive is a synonym of the word, but in stark contrast with the statement’s sentiment as a whole.

Oh, and I haven’t consulted any Metro documents, but I’m gonna go out on a proverbial limb, tuck in close to protect a limb, and say bus #6413 is due for review. Just a guess. But a stab. A mere hypothesis.

There was some honking. More than necessary I might add. Some aggressive driving. Some cutting off. Following too close. Pulling out too soon. You know, a regular day in the city playing chicken with an award winning Metrobus. Swerving Ass, Flooring it, Edging off the road, Toot tooting, Yv.

Beep, Beep, Yeah! Look at you! Loud, toxic, obnoxious. I hear you, I smell you, sometimes I even feel you. God knows I can see you over and over and over. Quiet your horn you Professional Gashole. Toot de suite!

But here you are out and about on July 4th weekend. It’s a holiday I know. It's what you do. Celebrating your oil dependence, while I roll around pedaling independence. Some how my mere existence a thorn in your tire.

It’s Washington DC, you have every right to protest. Toot. Toot. PEDAL YOUR FEET OUTTA OUR STREET. WE’RE HERE, WE STEER, GET USED TO IT…OR GET HIT.

Original-ish. Rhythmic-ish. Boldly American. Shazizzle.