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My, but I've been a mercurial little son-of-a-bitch, today. What the hell is it, some mornings, when the slightest obstacles are met with a blistering hail of curses? Let's just say that I was wilting the houseplants with the foul air. It wasn't much better when I punched in, either. Wednesdays suck, as a rule, to begin with. Seoul Man's in my spot, his special mission, to eliminate all of my usual work before he leaves. High and Dry... that's how the evening progresses, ordinarily. Drumming my fingers on the desktop, clockwatching mercilessly. One day, I'm going to have to get a real job. O' course, the numbing cold isn't helping my attitude. Yeah, I know... this is what winter's supposed to be like. They've been so mild, of late, that it's easy to take for granted that you can actually get things done, outside, in January. All about, the threat of "significant" snowfall looms for Friday... show day, naturally. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, so Nietzsche said. Considering the impending frigid drive, and the Boddington's on the back seat, I'm more inclined towards the contemplations of M0nty Pyth0n's Australian Philosophers Drinking song: Immanuel Kant was a real pissant Who was very rarely stable. Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar Who could think you under the table. David Hume could out-consume Wilhelm Freidrich Hegel, And Wittgenstein was a beery swine Who was just as schloshed as Schlegel. There's nothing Nietszche couldn't teach ya 'Bout the raising of the wrist. Socrates, himself, was permanently pissed. John Stuart Mill, of his own free will, On half a pint of shandy was particularly ill. Plato, they say, could stick it away-- Half a crate of whiskey every day. Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle. Hobbes was fond of his dram, And Ren� Descartes was a drunken fart. 'I drink, therefore I am.' Yes, Socrates, himself, is particularly missed, A lovely little thinker, But a bugger when he's pissed -Eric Idle ...that's going to have to be the antidote, tonight. ...................................................................................................................................... Hostel Environment (Cape Lookout to Devil's Lake) The journal's very skimpy on this one... lots of scratchy handwriting, precious few words. I think this was more about joint pain than anything... and unpleasant circumstances. Broken toe clip, the beginning of a rash of broken spokes. Strange feeling, that. First the "ping" (like a pellet gun ricochet), then the bike would slew from the imbalance. Nothing like adding insult to injury. As there is no entry about the evening, it might be a good time to recap the first impressions about the people sharing the road with me. It has never been terribly easy for me to forge fast friendships, immediately, but my pace line was beginning to include Brian, Luke, Steve and Cor. Similar skills, similar bullshit, similar approach to touring--actually seeing what we passed through, rather than running a race from coast-to-coast. Luke, by virtue of sharing the same tent, I hung with a lot at first... but he was one of those guys who's sole intent was to reel off joke after joke, until you felt like throttling him. Brian was a bit more standoffish and elite... on a different personal wavelength. Likewise, Steve, but his southernness made up for it. Cor... well, Cor didn't speak much english, but he knew a good bunch to get into mischief with, regardless of the language. As for the others, Henk and Jeanny must've been carrying moneybags, as they never seemed to eat our camp meals, opting for restaurants, instead. Doris...her mission was to channel the goddess Diana, and blow our doors off with her biking skills... and be the first one at what ever the destination. Anita, aka "Cranks," never appeared before dark, no matter where we arrived... always exhausted, always missing camp chores, consequently. Dudley, therefore, had to follow behind, so's not to lose any of us. Still with a most dark sense of humor, being stuck with a bunch of amateurs... turns out, he'd done this several times before. Possessing a poet's soul, it turned out. Though you'd have to scrape away a lot of rust to get to it. This little wayside, midway down the Oregon coast, was a good place to rest, and reconnoiter. |
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