Monday, November 4, 2013

The Pirates Are Robbing the Ship

So I jog a little now. For about twenty minutes at a time, maybe three days a week. The endorphins start jumping and I can be satisfied free and easy by most things.  

I feel pretty special about that. Podcasts are really slow to listen to, so I listen to Dear You, which is pretty slow, too, but I know the words real good so I can rock, rock until my feet fuck up the rhythm of my jog and I throw my breathing off.   

The other day, I was signing a check at Handlebar the restaurant. I think it might be my favorite place to eat. Brianna and I go there and eye up the posters. I'd just had my first car bomb. There have been times when twenty dollars for a meal and a drink would be unthinkable for me, but now it's not. What happened there. The way I spend my money makes me think about how I earn it. I had just finished posting six letters of recommendation. They turned out fine, but I would have liked more time to review them. Which is why I ordered the car bomb. I drank it quickly but felt no effect, though I was reminded of living with my old roomie and at the start of winter break with May Linn and her fiancĂ© drinking Bailey's and watching Eat Pray Love, a long movie.

When I left the school building I saw that my front wheel had been taken from my bike. Here we go, I said, for my benefit. I asked the two homeless men across the street if they had seen anything, which I'm sure they had not, and which I'm sure they found a little annoying -- who is this idiot from the big school asking for things -- but I thought in movies and stories people tell asking is helpful. 

I heard Myley Cyrus on the radio last night for the first time while Brianna was driving. She  wanted to change the station but I had not heard it yet. Myley Cyrus' got these stadium songs. You came at me like a wrecking ball. I see her faces in the grocery line and I believe she is a child out of time. Myley Cyrus  you make a nice Egyptian creature goddess. But pop musician, I don't know. 

Still, I'm thinking about it. Some cunning child slipped my front wheel away from the rest of my bike near 5:15pm. The cameras caught his blurriness on fuzz film, he was hipping himself over the rail, wrench out, taking the wheel, bolts and all, another wheel for the collection. 

Back at the base on 2024 S. Allport, I am reviewing my options. I am listening to the Everly Brothers and drinking Mole Stout, which tastes like spicy dirt. The chain on my one bike. I can get that fixed by Thursday for about forty bucks. A new wheel and tire and tire and inner tube will empty out the nickel jar for sure, that'll take longer. The week will proceed like this:
  1. The frustration instigated by dudes in bike shops. 
  2. The light anxiety of asking them something. 

                   - I say do you have one of these things? 
                   - They say did you mean one of these things? 
                   - I say yes. 
                   - They say, Yes, hundred dollars. 
                   - OK. 

I would like to know the journey of the objects I have lost. Not have them back, just have some thoughts on them. Was grading on the bus with a red marker. Two women across from me were arguing about their no-good guys, and when I got off one of them handed me two pens and said they were for me. Figured if I lost a wheel I should come out on top with two pens, thanked her graciously and hunted out the Cermak bus.