SITAWRMB III: The Revenge of Stuff I Think About While Riding My Bike

A few weeks ago, my car was out of commission, and now that the ser-vice light is coming on, I've "decided" to ride my bike more. So it's time once again for my only recurring type of post: Stuff I Think About While Riding My Bike! *(Now with noses!)

Revengence.

1. Making a Face

I have a problem. Not a serious one, but a problem nevertheless.  This problem is an inability to maintain a normal face.  This problem usually manifests itself whenever I think, so I try to avoid thinking all together. But anyone who has ever ridden a bike will tell you that you probably should be thinking while riding. And since this post is specifically called " Stuff I THINK About While Riding My Bike" it will be impossible to keep a face that doesn't look like a mouth-breathing moron.



I believe the proper word for that face is "Derp"

 2. Proper Attire

Did I miss the memo where it's not permissable to wear jeans and sandals whilst operating a bicycle?  Sorry I don't own a pair of those fancy shoes that clip onto the pedals. Sorry I don't wear form fitting bike shorts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.  Sorry I only own normal people clothes.  If I'm going to commit a fashion faux pas, I'd prefer it be during my brief transportation sessions, rather than spend all day in in spandex.  I've mentioned bike attire in the past, but now that it's summer and they're out in hordes, I feel that because I'm using my bike for transportation rather than hardcore recreation, I've somehow offended the entire population of the city just because I was too lazy to put socks on.  Seriously. Stop looking at me. I'm not changing.

Leaves nothing to the imagination. NOTHING.

3. Getting Shanked

To my knowledge, throughout the entire park, there is only one trash can.  It is a metal barrel next to a sign about picking up your dog's poo.  This recepticle serves two purposes. The first is for the obvious purpose of containing refuse. The second is to make me think there is a person in the dark, at night, waiting to stab me.  Granted it's a small barrell, but it is roughly the size of a crouched man with a shiv in hand.  All I can think as I pass the barrel at night is how much I wouldn't enjoy getting stabbed. Especially by someone hiding behind a trash can, in a park, at night, while riding my bike.




Looks like the barrell is going to shank me. Oh great,  now I have to worry about the barrel gaining sentience.


4. How Stupid Recumbent Bikes Are

I mean, come on. Just look at them! They look like Dr. Seuss bikes!

I can't tell where the bike begins and the man ends....

The Most Awkward of Concerts

My social life at the moment consists of two things: playing video games with people online and playing video games with people in person.  So when a co-worker gave me some free tickets to a concert, I jumped at the opportunity to do something that didn't involve sitting down.  Little did I know, free would be too expensive.

But before I went to the concert, I had to find someone, or someones, to go with.  Since all 5 of my friends were out of town, and imaginary friends don't need a ticket, I concluded that the best people to invite would be my siblings.  My sister and bro-law were "busy" with "work"(pffft whatever), but my brother Ross was somehow available. I silently threw a little party in my head.

The only band on the roster that I liked was Neon Trees, the other three I had never heard or heard of, but I'm not usually one to complain about free things. Usually. 

After some froyo with my bro (yo), we headed to Loveland for the concert. Our first reaction was that of confusion. Were we at the right place? "Thunder Mountain Amphitheater?" We're pretty far from the foothills, so where is this "Thunder Mountain?" And what was supposedly an amphitheater was really just a stage in front of a building, and a hill. No part of the title was particularly true, but I didn't want to nitpick.

When we caught a glimpse of the line out of the front, neither of us was shocked by the length; we were shocked that we'd be the tallest two people in the line. Middle schoolers!



The only exaggeration in this picture is the ponytail.



We'd come too far to back down. With tickets in hand, we strode through the gate, pondering what was in store for us within the "amphitheater."  I often forget that stereotypes actually exist in the real world, but was soon reminded when we saw gaggles of girls and boys living the stereotypes.  Ross and I both commented that we never did that stuff, but probably only out of a sense of smug superiority.

Luckily, we both agreed to sit in the back and make fun of everything.  There's that smugness again. The first three acts came and went, and we could never remember the name of the second guy. Yazflute? Iphone? Something along those lines.  As I was only really there for the Neon Trees, we used  the first three acts for quality time together as brothers.



Quality. Time.



Meanwhile, we commented on the tweens and their "drama," as well as their inability to sit still or watch where they were stepping. Seriously, when I was lying down on the grass, someone stepped on my hair. MY HAIR. It's literally 2 inches long. Their foot was like, right there. Seriously. And then there was this one kid that Ross and I just couldn't determine the gender of! The ambiguity! It haunts me still!  *Ahem* Sorry. I guess those kids got to me more than I'd have liked.

At that point, I started to complain about how "free" was too much of a price to pay for those tickets. Man, I'm hilarious, I thought. Through the course of the evening I was hungry, hot, sweaty, blinded by the sun and, if I'm being honest, a bit of a curmudgeon.  As the sun finally set, Neon Trees was about to get on stage.  Ross, in what was simultaneously the smartest and dumbest idea of the night, suggested we move to the front.

It was smart because we actually could see the band. It was dumb because we were heading into the beast's lair. A beast so awkward and adolescent-y. I knew I wouldn't escape without scuffed shoes and bruised toes, not to mention ruptured ear drums (from the shrieking, not the band).

For what seemed like an eternity, we waited.  My spirits fell. I started thinking about the two worst years of my primary education and the horrors I'd repressed, when suddenly the lights went out. A roar came from the crowd. Well, I say "roar," but it was more like a shrill scream. Something you'd expect from harpies. Then the band started playing.

Instantly, I forgot my surroundings. My brother and I joined the jumping and screaming. Finally, it was like a real concert.  We lost ourselves in the songs, though were periodically brought back to reality because the stupid tweens just could not sit still. On many of the call and response crowd participation moments, Ross and I felt like the only people actually participating, but we had a blast. Ross more than me, probably.

We sadly didn't stick around for the encore, but we both agreed we needed to get out of there before the rush of parents came in to pick up their "darlings." In the end, the fun outweighed the awkwardness.  And really, isn't that what it's all about....? Hmmm.... no.

How the DMV Made A Fool Of Me



Everyone hates the DMV. That's a given. But I have come to the conclusion that the DMV, somehow, as an entity, hates me. Perhaps I pissed off Dmvitrys, the god of Bureaucracy, in some sort of past life. Or maybe some sort of bureaucrat cursed an ancestor of mine for not filling out the right form. Whatever the reason, every time I visit the Department of Motor Vehicles, I end up looking like a fool.

Before each dreaded visit, I research what I need and mentally prepare myself for the inevitable psychological torment. Knowing that a bureaucracy is a fickle beast, I always make sure to get the best paper work that I can. Very official and such. And, much like Sisyphus, whenever I actually accomplish something required by the DMV, I spend so much time waiting to find out if I did it right, that the proverbial boulder has rolled back down and I have to do something else that I foolishly overlooked.



Symbolism!


So, I looked up what I documents I required to register the fantastic Swedish automobile I just purchased. I had a title, bill of sale and proof of insurance, so all I needed was my emissions test. So, after finally freeing time in my "busy" "schedule" to get my emissions test, I went in early yesterday to get it over with. I failed quickly. The gas cap didn't have enough of a seal on it. It wasn't expensive, but I still had to pay for a failed test and the cap. At least I could get it tested for free again within the next 10 days.

Fast forward to today. Oversleeping didn't deter me from desperately attempting to complete the emissions and registration in one day. At promptly 11:04, I rolled out of bed, threw some clothes on and Volvo'd my way over to the emissions testing station. An evil place for sure, but the lesser of two evils in this case. Those waiting booths are like coffins and the people who work there always seem disappointed in you. Not angry, disappointed. Like how your parents get when it's been a month you haven't registered your car yet.



How can you stay disappointed when I went to all this trouble to draw this face...?

 Let me just say right here, that I empathize with the emissions test people.  It's loud and smelly and you have to deal with people's crappy cars. I get it. But no matter how environmentally sound your car is, or how well the test is going, every single emissions test technician-person gives me a look like "Why would you even bother bringing this in? You're clearly going to fail." If the concept of disdain were to ever personify, it would be as someone who works at an emissions testing station.







Hint: they're all disappointment.



Anyways, back to the DMV.  I triumphantly, but cautiously drove back into town to the courthouse that housed the den of evil. Getting my paperwork in order, double checking that my insurance had indeed kicked in and the bill of sale was filled out, I steeled my will and crossed the threshold.

Already crowed, but that's to be expected. It was noon thirty and I had two hours before work, so I prayed I'd get out of there on time. Took a number. 242. It was on 193. This could be a while.  I called work to let them know I might be a bit late, but that I'd leave by 2:20 if my number hadn't been called. I kept trying to come up with a coherent joke about purgatory, but none seemed to work. This place was draining me. Looking back, the next hour and a half of my life wasn't necessarily the longest or the most painful, but perhaps it was the most wasted. 

I waste time so much that you wouldn't think it'd bother me, but that time is specifically wasted on purpose. I need to waste some of my precious time to relax and deal with the "stresses" of my "life." But when I am forced to waste time? Well, that's different. I do not like to be coerced. However, even if I had known it would have been a waste, what would I do? Fight the "man"? Only fools try to fight the system and as I would soon learn, I had already made enough of a fool of myself.




90% of looking foolish is a vacant expression. I've already got that down.


I strolled on up to the desk of a deceptively pleasant looking lady and set my paperwork down. The following is a paraphrasing, but essentially what happened.  I don't care to recall the exact conversation because I was such a fool.

 "Registering a vehicle? Colorado title? Do you have everything?" she said, disturbingly polite. "Yep. Bill of sale, proof of insurance, emissions, title. I've got it all!" I foolishly said like a foolish fool. "What are these marks on the title? If there are any erasures or changes on the title it's void!" "Oh, sorry," I said "that was me. I started to sign my name where I was supposed to print it." She pursed her lips in disappointment, "I'll see what I can do. Where is the other signature?"  "What? What other signature?"  "Well," she started, condescendingly I might add, "the vehicle had joint ownership on the title so both sellers are required to sign."  "But..." "Do you know the sellers?" "Not really, I bought the car off of Craigslist..." "Well, try and find them. Have a nice day."

After all that time! I had forgotten something so simple! I was so stupid, so dumb, so.....foolish. Defeated, I sulked back to the Volvo. I drove it back home angrily, yet carefully, and parked it. Searching through my phone's call log, I called the guy I bought the Volvo from and left a message. I grumbled and cursed my misfortune as I unlocked my bike and pedaled to work.  On the way, I developed the theory that the universe does not want me to legally own a car. By the time I got to work I debunked my own theory and came up with a new one: I may be relatively smart and well prepared sometimes, but I'm basically an inattentive fool. Fooly fooly fool.



I'm mainly just sad because it's covering my hair.



At least I'll have more time to think about stuff while riding my bike.

"Dealing" with "People"

On my first day back this semester I was filled with hope. Hope for a fresh start. Hope for personal growth. Hope for a car.  Hope for a lot of things.  But then, after less then a minute on the main walkway through campus, I encountered some "people." That's right, "people." And all hope was lost. Forever.

I use the quotes because 90% of human beings that I randomly encounter in my life are fine and make no impact on me one way or another. But the other 10% necessitate the quotes. The quotes indicate their uniqueness and this "uniqueness" is what makes me displeased to be near them. Today I will describe one brand of "people": the oft-encountered (on campus), ever-persistent, Clipboards.

I characterize anyone as a Clipboard by the following: standing in a high-traffic area, wearing some sort of organization's apparel, "opinions," vacant, soulless eyes, and clutching their most defining characteristic: clipboards.



"People" don't merit fancier drawings. Also I'm lazy.



This is an actual thing that happened to me today.  I dismounted my bike as per the large "DISMOUNT ZONE" sign painted on the ground. As I walked my bike through the plaza area to my class I put my headphones on to indicate to the world that I couldn't hear it and was doing my best to ignore it. As I resisted the urge to sing along aloud to "Don't Stop Believin'," I caught a glimpse of plastic with a bit of metal holding paper to it. 

In a panic, I tried to find some fellow Clipboard-avoiders to mesh with and slip by, but I was alone and I stood out with my bike.  Easy prey.  I lamented not putting in my contacts and wearing sunglasses to round out the "I'm Ignoring You" look.  Because without sunglasses, I was still vulnerable. They could make eye contact and all would be lost. Forever.

And that's just what happened.  Being the (regrettably) nice guy I am, once eye contact was made, he said something and, in an uncontrollable reflex I've developed, I took one side of my headphones off to hear what it was. "Stupid move, Glenn," chided my internal monologue.

Here is where the story becomes an atypical interaction with "people." He said, and I'm not making any of this up, "Hey is that your dog?" indicating to my bike.  Dumbfounded, my verbal reaction reassured me that I could be mean when I need to be. I condescendingly said  "Does it look like a dog?" I know, not an award-winning comeback, but dammit, I'm just happy I didn't stumble over some half-words and foam at the mouth, so no judging. I didn't even wait for him to finish asking if he could talk to me about some.... cause or whatever, so I just said, "No. I have class," indicating that I was both busy and better than him.

Triumphantly, I locked up my bike and victoriously hummed along to the rest of "Don't Stop Believin.'"  Now I didn't actually have class for another 45 minutes, but I wasn't technically lying. At least not this time. Any other Clipboard encounter and I'll say whatever I have to to get away. In fact, I recall one Greenpeace Clipboard asking if I loved my family to hook me into a conversation. I replied "No, I hate my family" (I don't really) and briskly walked away, with no particular place to go other than away.

Despite Clipboards, and indeed anyone else who I would consider "people," cause all hope to be lost forever,  I find that all hope is easily found once again by defeating them. And, with that, I add another hope to my list. Hope to never have to "deal" with those particular "people" again. Forever. Or at least for a week or so.