More Thinly Disguised Bile
12 July 1999
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More Thinly Disguised Bile
12 July 1999
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Weekend Report: Missed the final game of the women's World Cup Saturday. Damn it. Picked up new Bruce Sterling anthology, A Good Old-Fashioned Future, have not read much yet. Re-read rest of the Reality Dysfunction books. Did laundry, at sockpoint.
5:48 PM: I'm hestitant to say it for fear of attracting the notice of bored and spiteful deities, but oh heck, that's just silly. I'm finally back on my bike, after - wow, more than a year? must be, by the time I had started this it was already in the past. Lame, huh? Yeah.
It's just that after a while it got so covered in mail and papers and bills that it became an integral structural unit of the apartment. How could I move it? Easily as it turned out, I just did what I always do: I took everything I didn't want Right Now and threw it on the floor.
I had been afraid that the bike was damaged from the falling-over incident, but it turned out to just need a bit of bending and air in the tires. So here I is, dork helmet in hand. Made-to-order weather for it, too, this is the second morning in a row that I woke up at 7:30 just from the heat and the sun. Yes, actual sunlight, in San Francisco. Of course everyone is saying it's global warming, which is kind of melodramatic. It does get hot sometimes, peeps, even here.
I am going to hurt tomorrow, how ow. Just riding my bike back the whole 3 blocks from the bike shop to my apartment, I could feel muscles I thought I had sloughed off awhile ago. That's OK, though. Gives me something new to bitch about. That, and the blind idiocy of automobile drivers, who in the classic American style react to nearly killing you by yelling at you to stop being such a damn nuisance. This is the one reflex whose weakness is the most telling in my lack of success in, oh, everything: the I-Am-Not-At-Fault Reflex. Cannot-Be-At-Fault. MUST-NOT-Be-At-Fault-And-Fuck-You-Charley.
Funny, too, how that's inversely proportional to the consequences of being at fault. Many people will step right up to something heinous like bumping into someone, "Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry, my fault, I'm so clumsy." "Oh no no no, it's all right, it was me, really." Bumping into someone with their own bodies, I should say. Watch a person bump into someone with a car, now.... "Hey! Watch where you're going, dumbshit!" "Fuck you asshole, you hit me!" "Oh yeah?" "Yeah!" And there they go, off to the sandpit behind the school at 3 PM to, um, exchange insurance information.
In a sense it's a pretty surefire strategy. If you keep passing the buck long enough, you're bound to hit some foolish neurotic like me who can't wait to take the blame for anything in the general neighborhood. "Oh crikey! If I had just worn cleaner socks today, those people might still be alive!" Problem solved. Well, for you. But aren't you all that matters?
Hey, these posters are pretty keen, you should take a look.
Willfully blind self-indulgent nebbish or amusingly quirky old coot? And how bout that local sports team? Discuss among yourselves.
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All names are fake, most places are real, the
author is definitely
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© 1998-1999 Lighthouse for the Deaf. All rights reserved and stuff. The motto at the top of the page is a graffito I saw on Brunswick Street in Melbourne. | ||||
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