The Wrench That Stole Christmas

Wrench, pedal, zip tie. Like Pavlov's dog-- I was writing the receipt before I came to a stop. 9010 bikes, yours will go to Uganda, thanks for the donation, tell your friends!

It's not that I want Americans to give up their bikes-- but I would prefer if they rode ones that didn't shed parts all over the bike path. I'm just saying. And they wonder why I ride in the street....?

But the little fellow was doing so good, I was just thinking that very thing. Until....KERCLUNK...his pedal, befeddled (fell off). You see son, that's why us big guys attach 'em to our shoes; then they don't get lost!

So I picked up his pedal and took it to him. It's true. I had visions of compacting his bike, zip tying the pedals, and leaving him with a carbonless slip of paper. But it was Christmas. I'll send his present on an exotic Caribbean vacation eventually, you watch.

Grinch, I was not. I threaded the pedal back onto the crank and showed his mom where to tighten it with a wrench at home. THEN, Dad appears for the 'rescue'. I'm thinking he's why we all had a pedal party on the CCT to begin with.

Shoot, I should have had him do it himself. Keith, is 4 too young to recruit volunteers?

Tis the Reason

Well who shoved a chunk of coal up your tailpipe?

Never mind Lillian Leadfoot came barrelling by a playground in a residential neighborhood. She also launched her 'cedes off the asphalt traffic mesa meant to slow Naughty Nancy to a trot.

Intersecting with me, menacing the bike trail, Gunnin' Granny grinded to a halt. There she was straddling the anti-speed butte, preCARiously teetering above Whoville, thistletoe swinging from her dashboard.

She was a dead giveaway, but she could have stuck a peppermint stick in my bike wheel...I was oblivious. I took it as goodwill. Godspeed Biker Girl.

HO, HO, HOnk!

Really? You invite me to pass then blast a horn in my ear as I go? GrannyGopherGuts! That was mean. You could put an ear out!

Then all of a sudden, piercing the bustling holiday air, there arose such a clatter...again with the horn? SCREECHING....SKIDDING....CRUNCHO!

I peered 'round my shoulder to find Kris Crinkle in the middle of a Santa Jam about a block back. Thank the blue haired biddy for spreading her holiday jeer...or a second later and I would have been a flattened hood ornament.

Happy Christmas

Can You See Me NOW?

Salt Assault

Why I like a fixed gear

Don't Ask, Do Tell

What a surprise. The land still celebrates Christmas...openly. Solely. I thought we had put it in the closet.

It's true, in the middle of Hanukkah, the MVA was adorned in trees, wreaths, and colorful glass balls. Every station. Even the apparent Muslim (yes I am assuming).

And yet, don't we bitch about a separation of church and state? Church as in CHRISTmas and State as in MARYLAND? I'm just saying.

Then again, we were at the MVA EXPRESS and my girlfriend thought it would be a great time for a bathroom break. 94...anyone?anyone?anyone? 8O)

Naughty Not Nice

There I was in the little town of Elizabethtown, 90 miles from Bethleham, the shadow of my childhood steeple looking down in disgrace.

My father was pacing in anger around the traffic cop holding us at bay. I chose the calm, mature approach and listened to the man with the badge. I stayed in the car with my foot on the brake.

Meanwhile, a street away, Santa came to town. Children giggled with glee passing around peppermint sticks and sugar plums. On Park, this child, shivered beneath the threat of night sticks, hand guns and prison.

Unexpectedly, Mr. Police Officer approached, obviously having his fill of her irrational father. He passed by the window without saying a word, pen to paper: THIS IS ABSURD!

I arose with a clatter, "what the fuck is the matter?" You know what they say: you can take the girl out of the trailer park, but ...

And then it was done. The die had been cast. With a shake of the fist...I was on the bad list!

Here we are 22 days from Christmas and I ruined it! HE ruined it! 337 days of nice down the toilet. Thanks a lot DAD.

Oh wait...HE is Santa, we're all good here.

Behave New World

When I was but a tater tot, I would yell to my mom in the kitchen from my spot in front of the TV: "can you make me a sandwich?" To which she always replied, "POOF, you're a sandwich!"

It bears no relevance, I just thought it was cute. Now, not then. Just a spin down memory lane. Back to a time when we did stuff. Played with things. Read books. Used paper. Breathed fresh air and drank real water.

It's true. We tagged merchandise, read newspapers, played outdoors, kept dairies (in books!), did math...in...our...heads. CahRAzY, I know! I actually used a thesaurus.

I knew how to find the square root of a number that wasn't a perfect square. Without a calculator. Google it! (did I just say that?) I dare you. Google square root. I can tell you what it says without looking: push this button.

Have you seen the new 360?!? You ARE the controller. Imagine, actually moving your body to manipulate a ball, bike, or racket! REVOLUTIONARY! A must Christmas have.

When I was that wee tater tot we got real balls, paper books, and drums you could pound. With your hand! Now it's all wiis, kindles, and guitar hero. And yes, I walked to school...in the snow, uphill, both ways.

And reporters checked sources. Writers were creative. Receptionists made appointments. You could order ala carte at McDonalds.

We didn't need a Cheeseburger Button. And we didn't have the internet to know if something was right or not! You're reading this here now, so it must be true!