Friday, July 22, 2005
(8:41 PM) | Anonymous:
The bike and his boy.
I'm in traffic, just trying to get somewhere without hurting anyone, weaving through the stopped cars when an asshole cuts me off in his asshole SUV to grab the parking spot. One of the bigger ones, some name like Ford Dicknormous or Mitsubishi Mountain Man, I forget. After recovering from my quick stop, I calmly reach behind me into the milk carton I use to tote my stuff around and grab the most explosive thing I can find. As I watch the asshole walk with his unhappy wife and his boring child I toss it under his car and ride off.At this point I always imagine a smile on my face as I ride into the wind, the sound of the asshole's car bursting into flames covering over the normal street sounds. This is a fantasy that I usually have when riding my bike. It's a fantasy fueled by my moral superiority, a superiority I feel even though I know no one, not even one, is consistent and can do it all. But, hell, it feels good and it helps me get through the day. I'd have the same fantasies on public transportation but there's no way to open up the window and get away with blowing up the car that just cut off the bus driver. Further, I'm too distracted as I'm usually checking out everyone on the bus. I check out guys to see if they are more attractive than me, they usually are after Western after which I check them out for fashion tips and just because. I check out girls not because I'm attracted to them or want any kind of relationship but because I want them to be attracted to me. I check out kids to see if they are freaked out by my tattoos, this is a habit I developed in Paris after une juene fille turned to her mother and said, in English, "Scary." I figure it is my tattoos because I'm not really all that scary. I also check them out wondering how bad a parent I will eventually make. The point is that there is not time to commit acts of violence against those on the road when I'm on the bus of earthly delights. This may also explain why I never talk to anyone on the bus. That, or the fear of getting my ass kicked.
A young professor of mine, who is an avid cyclist and proud Jeep owner, once asked me why I had to separate people into cyclists and drivers. I don't really, only because it would harsh on my morally superiority since I don't bike everywhere and sometimes drive since I'm too chicken to ride at night. I don't judge in my heart of hearts, but I do have fantasies of being a rogue member of ELF, one who wears red instead of green, when I ride my bike. Instead, I'll probably just publish this blog post and stay inside as much as possible.
