Curiosity on Mars

I just watched Curiosity land on Mars. Did you? The excitement in the Jet Propulsion Lab at NASA was contagious. Mars is a long way away, by Earth standards, and it appears everything went as hoped.

As usual, I was thinking too much as I watched. All my life my mom has told me I think too much, so this is no exception.

Curiosity. What a perfect name for a vehicle that travels through space to another planet, manages to land in spite of great odds, and starts sending back photos of its own shadow almost immediately. That's our little space rover.

It's just one example of the really fucking amazing things humans have done. We are seriously smart, capable, persistent, courageous beings. The progress we've made in the past 100 years is almost unbelievable. Doctors do surgery on babies in utero and take gall bladders out through a straw. Scientists find particles so tiny we can't see them -- only where they've been. We've cloned a sheep. The entire planet is connected through the internet. Some guy carves sculptures in pencil leads. Walking on the moon is old news. I could sit here all night and list the impossible things humans have done and will probably do in the future.

Dalton Ghetti pencil-lead sculptures

We are amazing.

And yet also this week I read that the ice sheets in Greenland suddenly turned to slush in only 4 days. The polar ice caps are in the same shape. That scares me. I saw Waterworld at least 3 times. It wasn't pretty. And we watch in sorrow as many species that share the planet with us either pass into extinction or hover on the brink. AIDS continues to ravage populations all over the world. We still smoke cigarettes, eat high fructose corn syrup, and watch Kim Kardashian on TV. We argue about whether gay people should be allowed to marry and whether to eat fast food chicken while children starve right under our noses. I could sit here all night and list all the fucked up things humans have done and will probably do in the future.

I can't tell where we're headed, how the scales will tip: utopia or dystopia. We're like little kids playing with a magnifying glass: sometimes our curiosity leads us to an impossibly tiny world that's beyond the perception of our eyes. And sometimes we just sit around and fry ants on the sidewalk.

So we're looking for life on Mars. I have to wonder: What if our looking affects the outcome? How much junk have we left up there so far? Will anything we find there save our polar ice caps? What if there really are martians?

From Mars Attack

I don't have answers. I rarely do. This shit gives me existential angst, so I focus on whining about rude people on the bike path instead of the sheet of slush that is now Greenland. The size of the universe and the relative smallness -- no, the relative insignificance-- of our lovely blue planet ..... of us ... It all makes these things seem unimportant. And yet, at the same time, it makes us seem so very important.

What if we really are the only ones out there in all that vastness? What do you think? Are we?

Dear People of the Bike Path

The one particular segment of the bike path that I ride most frequently is also the segment where I see by far the rudest and most unusual behavior. In fact, I've come to think of it as the Walmart of the bike path and the people on it as the People of the Bike Path.

Sunday nights are the worst time for running into the People of the Bike Path -- and I'm afraid I'm going to mean that literally someday. Last Sunday as I rode along, I realized I writing a letter in my head to the People of the Bike Path I met just that night. It went something like this.

 Dear People of the Bike Path (insert this phrase before each bullet):

•  Blowing up a boat in the middle of the bike path is stupid. Why? Because it's unnecessary. There's an entire fucking field of grass on both sides of the path. You can blow it up there. Or you can do it down by the actual river. The middle of the bike path though? No. And don't yell "hi" to me as I hit my brakes and slowly roll by and then, with your cigarette hanging from your bottom lip, ask your buddy, "What's wrong with her?" when I don't answer. Fuck you and your boat. You belong on the river, not on the bike path.
• That 12-foot penis and balls you drew on the bike path with chalk was neither original nor true to size. You have a small penis or you wouldn't have to draw a large one on the path. Also, next time use darker chalk so I can get a good photo of it for my blog. The pastels colors you used kind of make you look like a sissy.
•  If you and your children walk 7 abreast across the path and I come around a curve going 15 mph, I might run you over like a line of BoBo dolls. I'm not that worried about you. Bo Bo dolls are meant to bounce back up and they're not the smartest toy in the nursery. I'm worried about wrecking my bike and hurting both it and myself. I doubt you could afford to pay for the damages.

 

• Florescent yellow Lycra is not meant to stretch that far. When that shit snaps back, somebody is going to get hurt. You could put an eye out.
• No text message is so important that you have to put your giant backpack in the dead center of the path and then pace in circles around it punching the keys on your phone. You aren't that important in anybody's life. And you're a fucking idiot.
• Put your pitbull on a leash. Dogs like to chase moving objects. I am a moving object. I'm sure there's a corollary there somewhere. You may feel safe with your dog walking 10 feet ahead of you, but I sure as hell don't. I hope your dog rolls on that dead cat that gagged me with its ripe odor just ahead of you.
• Riding with no hands while smoking a big, fat cigar makes you look like an asshole. That smirk on your face leaves no room for argument.
• Your lawn chairs and coolers go on the bank of the river, not on the bike path. I would kick them over as I ride by, but I understand Newton's third law of physics.
• If you are responsible for this

and this,

then I'm glad to share the path with you. In fact, I kinda love you. I don't know how happy other people are about your artwork, but this doesn't seem to be a geographic area where people give a shit about other people.

• Finally, there are a lot of Canada geese along the river and they poop. A lot. I hope you step in it.

Sincerely,

Someone who actually rides a bicycle on the bike path

A city night

It's late. I've been out all night,  hanging out with friends, wandering around the city, dancing, reconnecting with old friends and a couple of new ones. I'm too tired and it's too late to write anything coherent, so I'm glad I took my camera out and shot some photos to share.

One night a year the city keeps the lights on in the buildings downtown during one of our monthly First Friday celebrations so we can take some amazing photos. Alex (who is a real professional photographer with a real business at Alex Carmichal Photography .... please like him) texted me and said he was taking his gear downtown tonight. So I grabbed my camera too. (I am not a photographer, and I don't even play one on TV.)

Of course he had a tripod and he knew how to set the timer on his camera and all that professional shit. I just clicked away, although Alex showed me how to brace my camera against a tree so my shots wouldn't be so grainy.

Tonight I'm not going to post my usual brilliant, clever, poignant, goofy post. Instead I've got a few photos of the night -- random, grainy, blown-out photos of the streets of this city I love .... this city that could be any city.

  Millions of  bubbles cover the street.

A guy who made the mistake of taking to me. I didn't get a chance to ask about the black eye.

Edna St. Vincent Millay on the toilet paper holder of the bar where we go for karaoke every Wednesday night.

The skyline near the river.

First Friday.

Steel drums, a couple of jazz trumpets, and random guys dancing

See why I love this city? Do you love your city? Do you take photos? Take some photos and post them, either here or on your blog. I'd love to see them.

In which A Man Called Horse ruins my life

I'm not very happy with my cycling buddy A Man Called Horse* right now. He broke the "if something isn't broken, don't fix it" rule. In fact, I'd go so far as to say he willfully messed with the order of the Universe, and now he’s I'm going to suffer the consequences. I warned him, and he did it anyway, and I'm not happy.

Last summer A Man Called Horse and I rode the bike trails together a lot. He said I was the only one crazy enough to ride with him in the 100-degree temperatures the Midwest enjoyed much of the summer. We'd ride 25 or more miles in the blistering heat, soaked through with sweat, a layer of bugs stuck to our skin. We were a perfect match, and not just because we both like riding when the weather man tells us to stay in at the risk of heat stroke.

The real reason we rode so well together is because my bike is amazing -- light, responsive, fast, built for a woman's body -- and A Man Called Horse's bike was a serious piece of shit. He rode an old mountain bike, too small for him, with gears that only rarely worked. He probably could have gotten a little more out of it, but he doesn't think to pump up his tires. I'm just going to say it: I kicked his ass every time we rode.

Or I would have, except I rode slower so he could keep up. Sometimes he had to ask me to slow down, but for the most part, I didn't ride ahead of him ..... OK, a few times I might have mocked him and said something slightly snarky clever like, "Why can't you keep up with me, old man?" Or, during his crazy vegan period, "How about I put a piece of bacon on a stick and hold it out in front of your face while I ride ahead of you? Would that make you ride faster?" Witty, but not insulting.

See, A Man Called Horse isn't an old man. He's younger than I am (fuck no, I'm not saying how much younger) and he's in much better shape. In fact, he does all kinds of crazy shit to challenge himself. Like, he'll go out and live in the woods for several weeks with nothing more than a clothespin and a piece of string in his pocket. In the winter. Or he'll rappel off bridges at night in the city, and run away from the cops through drainage ditches and creeks. And the reason I call him A Man Called Horse? Watch the movie. He's got the scars to prove it.

So for me to kick his ass in any physical activity is ridiculous. Ludicrous. Impossible. And yet, I really did kick his ass all summer and on into the fall on the bike trail -- all because of my fine, fast bike. But not because I could ever really kick his ass at any physical activity.

It drove him nuts. He had to stand up on his pedals half the time, even as he knew I was riding slower than I needed to. I can't count how many times he wheezed groaned said, "I hate your fucking bike." But he'd rationalize it by saying if he rode a shitty bike in the hardest gear, he'd be in that much better shape when he finally bought a good bike. And I supported him.

I told him not to buy a good bike or he'd get fat and lazy. I told him his bike was just fine, and it suited him. He's not a guy who cares about owning lots of fancy things. I strongly encouraged him to just keep his crappy bike and try to keep up with me so he could build stamina, lose weight, and maintain humility. I supported him in every way I could.

See, I am a good riding buddy even when I'm kicking ass. And I thought A Man Called Horse was too. I thought he was a man who enjoyed challenging himself. I thought he was a man who wanted to push his physical limits to the max. I thought he was a humble man who could tolerate getting his ass kicked by a woman .... but no. I was so wrong.

On our first ride this year he showed up on a new bike $50 bike he’d bought at a flea market. He probably paid too much. It was better than his old mountain bike, but it was still a piece of crap with gears that slipped. Once he filled the tires though, he could really tell a difference. I still kicked his ass, but he rode faster and easier. And he could still tell himself he was working out way harder than I was, so technically I wasn’t really kicking his ass. All was well. Until he went rogue.

A few weeks ago he showed up uncharacteristically early to pick me up for a ride. He was acting funny. Eager and even more energetic than usual. Giddy even. Until he noticed I was crying.

I’d just read that Rollo had died about 20 minutes earlier. We commiserated for a while, remembered the jazz and poetry service we’d all done together in church once, and then A Man Called Horse was back to his weird giddiness again. “This ride is for Rollo then,” he said.

He grabbed my bike and took off out the front door before I even had my shoes on. I had to chase after him to get my key out of my bike bag to lock the door, and he barely slowed down to let me do that.

When we got to the car, he said, “Go ahead and get in the car. I’ll put your bike on the rack.” I guess I didn’t move fast enough because as he lifted my bike he ordered, “Just get in the car and wait so we can get going.” Jeez. OK!

We drove to a street near our starting point on the trail, although we could just as easily have ridden from my house. A Man Called Horse parked and jumped out of the car, almost before it had stopped. He hurried to the rack to get my bike off.

I grabbed my helmet and gloves, got out and walked around the car to join him, but he walked about 15 feet from the back of the car, stood on the far side of my bike and said, “Here you go.” I have to admit, my mind was on Rollo. I noted A Man Called Horse’s odd behavior, but I didn’t really try to make sense of it.

I got busy putting on my helmet and gloves (unlike A Man Called Horse who rides in nothing but shorts and shoes), with my back to the car just as he'd positioned me. As I threw my leg over my bike, he took off ahead of me down the street. I followed, but he stayed pretty far ahead, talking back over his shoulder, across a major street and through a park to the levy.

He shot down the ramp to the path, zooming ahead of me. I followed at a more normal pace, but he was rocketing away down the path. I looked down at my computer: 18 mph and I still wasn’t catching up to him. WTF, I thought. He’s going to kill himself in the first five miles.

I backed off to a more reasonable cruising speed of about 15 mph , and eventually he slowed down to let me catch up. Almost.

It had rained earlier, and I remember making some remark about getting goose poop up my back because I don’t have fenders. As he replied from a couple of bike’s lengths ahead of me, I glanced at his back tire to see if he had fenders on his new piece of crap bike.  Hmmm. That tire looked brand new, and like it cost more than the bike. I didn’t remember that from when we stopped so he could put air in his tires.

Then he slowed a little bit more and made a comment that I don’t remember to this day … You know how people who suffer a trauma, like an accident or a horrible shooting, don’t remember what happened just before? Like that.

Because as I pulled up on the right side of him, I looked over at his bike and saw 4 big, bold letters running along his down tube. I can hardly write this because I felt like my head had exploded. Those 4 letters spelled TREK.

“What the fuck did you do?” I screamed. The geese scattered ahead of us on the path. “What the fuck are you doing on a Trek? Where did you get that bike?”

He just grinned at me. From a flat-bar Trek so new the little tags on the tires weren’t worn off yet he just grinned.

“Tell me you did not buy a Trek. Tell me right now you did not buy a Trek bicycle after all the times I told you to stick with the piece of shit bike you had. I ride a Trek! Tell me you did not go out and buy yourself a fucking Trek.”

He laughed. The fucker laughed. “It’s mine! I bought it for $200 from a guy who had only ridden it around the block once. I couldn’t believe it when I picked up your bike and realized you rode a Trek too. I never noticed before.”

“Of course you didn’t notice! You don’t give a shit about whether a bike is good or bad. You want to ride a piece of shit so you can work out harder, remember? How could you do this to me? To us? What the fuck were you thinking?”

I berated him for the next 10 miles, but he didn’t repent. In fact, he just wanted to ride faster. And faster. Eventually we came to a hill, and instead of changing gears he …. I can’t believe I’m going to tell this …. he stood up on his peddles. To go up a little hill.

I glared at him and hissed, “Sit down. Sit down!”

“What?” He peddled harder, still standing.

“Sit your ass down on your seat immediately, before somebody sees you. You’re riding a Trek now. A Trek! You can’t be standing up on your peddles like somebody who rides a piece of shit bike. Sit down right now!”

“Oh, I guess I should just use my gears, huh?”

“Yes, you should use your gears. If you’re going to ride a Trek and break your promise to me, at least don’t embarrass me out here on the trail. Keep your butt on your seat.”

Well, he didn’t, at least not on that ride. I had to call his butt down at least six more times. It was humiliating on that first ride. But on the next ride he only did it a couple of times, and now he’s shifting like a pro. A fucking pro who had to go out and buy himself a Trek.

(Oh, fine. I might as well show you what it looks like. He’s so proud of it [and I don't blame him].)

The first ride.

And as I suspected, his new bike turned him into a beast. Now when we ride, he rides ahead of me, and if he stays close enough, talks back over his shoulder. What I mean is, I no longer kick his ass, OK? He can kick mine.

And he’s bought all kinds of accoutrements for his bike: lights, a computer, fancy hand grips, and an entire pannier system for the back. He still only rides in shorts and shoes, but his bike is as decked out as a bike can get without looking like a big sissy. In other words, he’s got everything but the pom poms shooting out the end of his handlebars.

And now he notices other people's bikes. What brand they are. How much they cost. Shit he never paid attention to before. He's obsessed now that he's a Trek rider.

I’m so happy for him. Really, I am. He's kicking my ass now having so much fun with his new toy.

I only made one mistake after he bought his new bike. That first ride we were only a few miles from the end when he said, “How much different do you think our bikes are now?”

I lied said, “Oh, I’m sure they’re about the same.”

“But you paid more for yours, and it’s a road bike. Lighter, thinner tires,” he persisted.

“Yeah, but they’re both Treks….”

“Trade for a sec.”

“Why? You just got your bike. Besides your seat is too tall for me and …”

“Trade.” A Man Called Horse was already off his bike and reaching for mine.

“Fine.” I traded with him and he took off on my bike. I followed more slowly on his. After a mile or so, he turned around and zoomed back.

“Oh, man, I don't believe it. Your bike still kicks ass. If I’m going to be a real cyclist, I’m going to need one of these next ……”

It never fucking ends.

I have to admit, they look pretty sexy together on the back of the car.

I'm gonna do it again

I've had a shitty week, so I shouldn't have been surprised that I had 3/4 of this post written and when I opened People of Walmart, because one of those fuckers stole my debit card number, Firefox crashed and lost the entire post. It should have autosaved, yes, but that's how my fucking week has gone. And I'm not going to get into that because it's too late now and Firefox is still running about as slow as a Commodore 128, which means anything I type is showing up after about a 4-second delay. This is exactly the kind of week I've had. If I started whining writing about it, I'd be here until noon.

So fuck it. You won't be reading about the meter-reader with the big beehive hairdo or the People of Walmart or the cheese I made today or the play I was in or the first black Playboy bunny (at least not tonight) or any of the other reasons why I've been such a lazy blogger this summer.

I will say that I'm going to do one more month of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Post Month), which is a commitment to post every day in August. When I did the first one last November (go ahead and skip back there and read. I'll wait) I decided I could probably do this every third month, or four times in a year. This is the fourth, but not necessarily the last. It surprises me, but a lot of readers seem to like it.

While NaBloPoMo does force me to post regularly, I always end up writing too late at night … like now, when it’s 4:00 am. On the other hand, I tend to let words spin around in my head all day and then choose to sleep instead of writing them if I don’t have a commitment to meet. So in an effort to actually write and post, here I go again.

On the list for this month are stories about the bike trail (which has gotten crazier this summer), more Melvin stories (now that he’s out of jail and the restraining order has been lifted), adventure tales from the city, 50 Shades of Grey, and …. oh god, I hate to put this in writing ….. dating. Which I don’t ever do for many good reasons. But which I might do, mostly to shut people up so I can write about it here. I’m still too chicken to go forward working out the process I might use for doing this dating thing. If I do it.

Oh, and I’ll be writing about vaginas, of course. A few weeks ago a new reader expressed disappointment because she had to go back to May to find a reference to a vagina, and she’d been promised lots of vagina. Not to make the vagina synonymous with the cowbell, but expect more vagina. (I also had to promise a couple of people I’d write more about penises. It’s odd that the only people who think I write too much about vaginas, and not enough about penises, are men. I mean, think about that. Seriously, I'm not sure I even remember what a penis looks like ... Hmmmm. I don't imagine that's the sort of thing I'd want to put in a dating site profile, huh?)

Well, fuck it. I'm having serious issues with Firefox tonight this morning. It's time for bed. See you tomorrow. And the next day....and the next....  and the next ....

Is there anything you'd like to see me write about this month? Put it in the comments section and I'll try to fulfill your heart's desire.