I park my bike in a basement. The bike rack I use is usually empty except for one other kinda-flesh-toned bike that looks like Eva should be riding it. And by that I mean it looks mildly Dutch. There are three or four other racks, not that many people in the building and no one is really expecting the guys from the gaming design joint to ride bikes, so space is far from limited. But lately there has been a lot more activity on my rack.
This increased activity has caused two disturbances in my day. First off, I feel this need to start locking up my bike. Yeah that’s right, for the past year I haven’t even been carrying a bike lock with me. Just rawdogging on the rack. Fuck it, you know. I knew the crowd that camped out down there. It was a risk I was willing to take. How much is it worth for me to not schlep a bike lock around. Or to spend 30 seconds locking up the rig. Apparently about $650. Or at least that is what I was willing to risk. It’s like how you drop the insurance on your cell phone after your contract is half over.
But now I’ve blown my spot. You guys wanna know where you can steal bikes? I got some insider info. Reminds me of the time The Times did a travel report on Bayfield. The reporter was reporting about the small town-ness. The folksy-ness. The old salt, seaside-ness coupled with midwesterly humbility. About how Bayfield is a place where people still wave at neighbors and don’t lock their doors. Then BOOM a week later, a mega-rash of petty robberies. I am to the Times as my bike parking zone is to Bayfield.
The other disturbance has been people parking in my spot. End of the rack, towards the west end of the building. That was my spot. The other day I was grabbing my bike, and I ran into the guy who was in my unofficial spot. So I dropped the small talk, “so you’re the one parked in my spot” on him.
His response in non-native English made me feel like an asshole. Then I had to explain to him that it was a joke.
Now I walk down there and see this:
Dude backed it in. He parked his bike getaway style. Juvenile. He calling me big daddy.
Methodology of this reminds me of those dudes who drove trucks during the grammar school days. I kind of grew up in the center of trucksterism. It’s certainly an -ism that has recently flared up in me. Dudes had trucks. These was dudes who came from some pretty brokedown shit, but they had some big trucks. Lift kits and chrome tips. Just the strait-up adolescent proxy of flopping your cock out and asking the art teacher to measure it. Dudes was always parked getaway style. And I had my Volkswagen station with trigger finger door handles that never worked right in the winter and the stereo that could be turned on without the keys or the cars being on, a fatal flaw for the battery, and given this you’d think I’d be parking getaway style more often. You know, for easier jumper cable access. But nope. Not my style.
I hope that dude’s bike tips over.
Disconnected:
Hey music industry you want people to pay for your product? Here’s one good way to do it:
How the fuck you gonna turn that down? It’s like dollar silos night.
