Local Color

   Today I rode the bike to the rock gym and back -- fifteen miles round trip. My knee surgeon and the physical therapists have all warned me about over-doing it while I'm recovering from the new knee surgery. But what's the fun in that? By Wednesday I hope to be able to move again.
   However I was reminded of the pleasures of bike riding: In addition to the wonderful aromas wafting about the Williams Avenue restaurant row, today one of the cafes had a quartet (piano, bass, drums and sax) entertaining their breakfast / brunch crowd with some jazz /swing music. I stopped for awhile to listen.

   Later I saw a very odd tandem bike -- the riders were back to back -- a pushmi-pullyu / Janus arrangement. It seems to me that it would be unpleasant for the person moving backwards and I couldn't see any advantage to the arrangement (the bike was nearly as long as an ordinary tandem) It seems like a pointless curiosity.

   Further along on the ride home, I saw this event. It was a neighborhood event, like a block party only they were painting the intersection. A lady involved in the project told me it was part of a week-long event that would see several intersections painted. There's a non-profit organization -- started in Portland -- that helps neighborhoods paint intersections as well as build various sorts of "earth buildings" and establish neighborhood gardens (vbc.cityrepair.org)

   Oddities:  This creation was at a bike shop. I think the rider stands on the pedals and uses the curved silver bar as handlebars. The convoluted pipe bendings seem to have an aesthetic aim. Note the red tail light and the skate-board rear wheels. I didn't see it ridden. The arrangement seems impractical for a cross-country bike tour.

   And the fellow below was sitting on a curb eating a sandwich, drinking his Pepsi and feeding his parrot. It was curious. They were clearly BFF's -- The guy was talking to the parrot and the parrot was chirping, chattering and squawking back in a very conversational manner. The guy was complaining to the bird that it had shat on his shoulder. The bird didn't care but was willing to talk about it. After a bit the guy said: "Let's go." and with a lot of chatter, the parrot walked up to his shoulder (and probably shat again).  And the guy picked up his stuff and left.
   

Bicycling is much more interesting than driving a car, and in a few more weeks I trust a couple of miles on the bike won't be such an epic struggle. DA

Leaving On A Jet Plane

   Ordinarily boarding an airplane is an unexceptional event. I get in line, shuffle along with everyone else, wait with everyone while those ahead try to stuff their steamer trunk into the overhead bin, accept whoever my seat mates are (sometimes with dread) and settle in for a few hours of unpleasantness.  My last few flights, however, have been post knee surgery and as I have been somewhat gimpy and slow I've taken advantage of early boarding. This has made boarding a different experience. I go down the aisle without the crowding and rush, put my bag in the bin, and sit down to enjoy (temporarily) the expanse of vacant seats. And once seated we early boarders assess the rest of the passengers as they come in -- rating them as suitable seat mates.
   It's a complex area of hope and dread. Not to offend anyone, but I certainly don't want to sit next to someone fat. I'm not a small person myself, but I do fit in an airline seat. I fit, but there's no room left over for another person to share -- so when a corn-fed beef comes down the aisle there's  a time of fear and dread followed with a nearly audible sigh of relief when they pass by. A woman on the small size (such as dw) is ideal. Too young and they might be a gum popper who would need to be dealt with but normally a small woman is perfect -- better than a small man since the woman is less likely to have B.O. If I happen to be in the mood for conversation (rarely -- I usually read) an older man or woman is better since they're more likely to have interesting things to talk about.

   (The exception proves the rule. On a train ride to San Francisco a couple of years ago my seat mate was a 20-something man. Due to two accidents (vehicles on the track -- what the hell is wrong with people that they can't see a damn railroad train coming) the journey took many hours more than I had planned so I ran out of reading material. The young man, it turned out, was a WWII reenactor - something new for me. I knew of Revolutionary War reenactors: Usually on the East Coast where a bunch of (mostly) men don their spiffy red and blue and white uniforms with their tri-corner hats and then march around shooting blanks with their flintlocks. Afterwards they drink corn liquor and lie and sneer at the farbs*.
   And Civil War reenactors -- they're all over the country, even here in Oregon where the nearest Civil War Battle was 2000 miles away. The Civil War reenactors march around in their drab blue and grey uniforms with ill-fitting shoes (there wasn't a distinction between left and right feet, shoe wise) shoot blanks with their percussion rifles, then they drink whiskey or moonshine and lie and sneer at the farbs.
   I've never heard of WWI reenactors. I guess they'd have to dig two facing ditches and fill them with water so they'd be muddy. Then they could crouch in the ditches and each side would take a turn jumping out of the ditch, running to the mid-point and then everybody would fall down and pretend to be dead. To be authentic they'd have to take turns for several days. Then they could drink red wine or schnapps and lie and sneer at the farbs.
   The WWII guys though. They had the guns and the machine guns. The jeeps and the howitzers and they even had REAL TANKS. I could get into that. Charging around in a jeep (or much better) a tank without worrying about bombs or cannons. It would be even better than driving a Cat where I just pushed around a pile of dirt (though that was pretty great). Then everyone would drink beer or red-wine or schnapps and lie and sneer at the farbs. )

   And the young man didn't even stink, so seat-mate assessment is an inexact science. On the last flight from Wisconsin though my luck ran out. I rolled snake-eyes. I drew to an inside straight and missed. I put in my last dollar and the slot machine came up lemons.
   My seat mates were a couple: I'll call them Ken and Kollie. The plane was  medium sized with five seats per row: ABCDE. Seat A was filled with Dollie, a friend of Kollie. B was a woman a few years older than I. She was nicely dressed and looked as if she belonged to a book club and enjoyed an occasional glass of sherry in the evening. During the flight we would exchange glances and figuratively pat each other's hand and murmur "There, there. This too shall pass."
   Then the aisle. C was me. D was Ken and E was Kollie.  (here I must stress: NONE of the following is an exaggeration)
   Ken and Kollie were among the last few to board so there was a fair amount of fussing finding space in the overhead bins and stuffing packs under the seat. No sooner were they seated when Kollie sprang up and shouted: "Fuck, it's Dollie! Hi Dollie!" Ken murmured something and Kollie (with an outside voice -- her normal volume) said "F--- You. You're always tellin' me what to do." Then Kollie got out her cell phone: "It's my f----- sister. I'm not going to hang up, asshole." And then the steward came by and told her to turn off her phone. Ken murmured something. "F--- you a--h---" and she punched him.
   (At this point I should mention that Ken seemed to be a decent sort. He was clearly a laborer and pretty big -- bigger and sturdier than I am -- and throughout the flight he tried to keep a lid on Kollie. Kollie was 5 feet or so, over weight with a very modest bust line and straggly hair )
   Then Kollie draped her legs over Ken's leg. "F--- you. I can put my F------ seat belt on." and she punched him (Pow! right in the kisser!) Then she grabbed his hair and pulled him in for some mouth to mouth tongue action. They both sat back, then she reached over and fondled his crotch. Then she punched him again. Then she frantically waved at Dollie who frantically waved back. "Hi, Dollie." "F--- you, a--h---. Dollie's my friend." (Pow! right in the kisser!) And she grabbed Ken's hand and rubbed it against her boob -- moaning with faux sexual excitement and (Pow! right in the kisser!) and grabbed his crotch again. Ken murmured something. "F--- you. I want something to drink. When do we f------ get something to drink?-- ( she ended up with four airline bottles) And it went on and on, without letup, throughout the flight.
   I considered speaking up but decided it would doubtless escalate the situation. And besides, while Ken seemed to be a decent sort he might take offence at a stranger telling his wife to shut up and he could have easily pounded me flat. I asked the steward if there was a seat I could move to. There wasn't. I had a credit card, could I upgrade to first class. It was full.
   I tried meditating -- didn't work. Considered getting drunk -- no way would I pay $7 for a tiny airline whiskey drink. Read the airline stuff-for-sale catalogue with (Pow! right in the kisser!) and moaning and crotch grabbing in the background.
    Eventually the flight ended.
   Leaving the terminal I saw Dollie leaving -- she was supported by a man and woman as she was too drunk to walk without assistance. I saw Kollie leaving -- marching out like a hog going to war (as my father used to say) followed -- with seeming reluctance -- by her husband Ken. And my ride (Bob D.), picked me up and drove me home. Earning my eternal gratitude because the ride (Bob is civilized) ended my journey in the twilight zone.    DA

   * Farb: a reenactor who is insufficiently authentic.