When I pop into your head at random times, as must happen now and again, do you think of me as:
- That beer brewer who bicycles?
- That cyclist who brews beer? Or
- That writer who brings home brewing supplies on his bike?
“Ha! Writer Don't make me laugh." Fine, but the fact is I used to get up every morning and write something, anything, even if it was just a grocery list, but now that the internet has total control over my every waking moment, feeding me fascinating pictures of former Hollywood starlets who are now near death and tales of how most problems can be solved with this one weird trick, I almost don’t write at all. But I do brew beer and ride a bike.
Which brings me to my gripe du jour: I can’t get the front brakes on my touring bike to stop squealing. I don’t mean that these brakes peep a little, I mean they squeal like a pig coming to grips with its fate. “Toe them in, for crying out loud!” Yes, I know. I’ve toed these brakes inside out and upside down. I’ve cleaned the front rim. I’ve replaced perfectly good pads with more expensive ones that I scuffed up, all to no avail. “Sometimes, you just need to get a new rim,” they tell me at Broadway Bicycle School in Cambridge, MA.
At fifty or sixty bucks for a machine-made rim, I think I’ll just let them squeal.
Where will the clothes I’m currently wearing be found some 10 or 20 years from now, you must wonder. What portion of my current wardrobe will still be in my closet? What will have been given away, or simply trashed? And which articles or shreds of articles will I frame in glass cases to be shown in museums as part of the “Regular Guy-2016” touring exhibit, when it inevitably comes to fruition?
I can tell you that my Big Shoes will certainly be in the touring exhibit, as they are already famous at rock venues across the city and will bust into the museum shows on their own with a swift kick if they’re not invited. I also have a hat from when I visited Sanibel that was worn and washed to death, but it still exists somewhere in this house and is so perfectly tattered (a metaphor for my tattered life?) that denying it space in the exhibit would border on travesty.
I have some sweaters that are – what – 15 years old already? What’s to say they won’t live to see another 15 years? What about 20, or even 40 years!? Just as we humans are expected to live longer and longer lives, our clothing will expect to be there with us, through all the intergalactic wars and ensuing intergalactic political shenanegans.
And yes, some things will have to be tossed (sorry, ladies!).
What, do you suppose, is the future of your clothing?
Today, I will let the rest of the world blog about Prince. Most people on the other side of your computer screen know a lot more about him than I do anyway, so why eat up your valuable time saying things on this site that you haven’t already heard elsewhere? (In fact, shouldn’t you be doing something more productive right now?)
One thing before you go: I believe that somewhere down in my basement, where I play the few vinyl records I still have, is the Prince album 1999. Moreover, it turns out I was around in 1999 as a full-fledged member of the adult community, and had the opportunity to party that year like Prince expected me to.
But what hasn’t been fully investigated is this: who partied harder, Prince or me? I would guess me, since I was given two weeks of unexpected paid vacation as the final days of 1999 wound down and would certainly have taken the opportunity to party. Meanwhile, Prince was a notoriously hard working musical genius who might not have had an unexpected two weeks off during which to party like it was 1999 even though it was, at last, 1999.
Another question: who hoarded more water, soap, and toilet paper in preparation for the huge meltdown that was to come via the Y2K bug, Prince or me? I would guess Prince, as he had a rather large estate and needed more of all that stuff than I did.
OK, I think it’s time for you to leave now and learn something new and interesting about Prince. Report back, please.
I hear you calling, American voter, and I’m sorry to say that I have let this one go through to voice-mail. Just because we citizens of a nation that produces excellent fighter jet flyovers – the greatest flyovers before sporting events in the world! – can’t seem to decide on which candidates to nominate for the position that will ultimately authorize more flyovers doesn’t mean I have to step in and fix the mess.
Do you have any idea how many little league games I have to attend each spring? And how long each game lasts? These aren’t youth soccer matches that are contained within an hour. Little League games can go on for days, and keep in mind that there’s no beer served at Little League games. Plus I have a Red Sox 10th man plan this year. How can I have a meaningful run for the most awesome job in the world if I’m spending 10 games a year in the bleachers, where they do serve beer? (Also, note that I have a backlog of about 25 issues of the New Yorker to get through).
So for the good of my kids, Major League Baseball, and The New Yorker magazine, the answer is no, I’m not going to accept the nomination for either of the two main political parties – the greatest political parties in the world!
However, I hear Paul Ryan may be free.