For this story, we will open by saying that I don’t own a motorized vehicle. Sometimes it’s a pain in the ass trying to load up on something, be it groceries, or if I wanted to buy a couch, and you can FORGET about moving. But otherwise, you can absolutely live in a city without a vehicle. Okay, so there’s that. I don’t own a car.

The weekend starts with Whitty calling me a few days prior, and asking me to give him and Seth a ride to the airport. Okay, I’m here to help, let’s hook you up. I can ride out to your pad, or if time is of the essence, I can catch a bus out there. So Friday rolls around and Dean ends up giving me a ride downtown where I wait for Whitty at a brewery. We head to the airport and he says, “Take the car back to your house. Tomorrow, go get my bike for the weekend and then go back and get the car again, and pick us up on Tuesday night.” What? I gotta go back and forth and down and back all weekend? Wait, did you say bike? Sure, I’m on that. So I put the car keys and the house keys and the keys to the CBR1000 on my lanyard-necklace-key-holder-thingy. Ooo, kinda heavy.

Next morning is the Fremont Fair. In ten+ years in Seattle, I’ve never been. So I went. I saw nude cyclists. I saw a killer death metal band playing on a float, with a crazy dancer who had boingy stilt things and she was jumping 4, 5 feet in the air. I saw crazy tree-people. I got a random hug from a parade participant. I almost got a stamp from another. Pretty zany parade…

Later that day I took Whit’s car back and swapped it for the crotch rocket. I went to a BBQ where Ruebel’s 2 yr old daughter couldn’t be separated from the motorcycle without crying. Sorry, buddy.

Sunday rolls around and Rosman calls and reminds me that I gotta take HIM to the airport? WHAT? Oh yeah, okay. So HE says, “Take the minivan back to your pad and take it back to my place tomorrow.” Oh shit, more automobile crap to deal with. Okay, lets get those minivan keys all up in my keychain-necklace-DAMN-this-crap-is-heavy-thingy. Alright, bon voyage dude.

I get home and park the minivan behind the crotch rocket and walk up to the bar to upload photos from my camera. And have a drink(s). That’s when a silly thought hits me. I don’t own a vehicle, but right now I have keys to 3 different ones, two of which are parked in front of my pad at this moment.

Just sort of a strange thought, that’s all.

And now it’s 2am, I’ve taken the bike back to Whit’s, taken the car and brought him and Seth back from the airport. AND I get to go get Rosman tomorrow night.

I need a nap. Don’t even get me started on the strange story Dave told about some dingdong who tried to get his full-size golden retriever onto the plane. As a carry-on.

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Anybody remember a post from April? One where I ended up foiling some drunk-ass’s hopes of getting the next-door-bartender busted for kicking him out of that bar? Officer Down 911 call? Anyone? …anyone? Bueller?

Well, Molly and I met up again here at Dad Watson’s to talk about her webpage in progress, and now she’s just left and I’m here posting, wondering if I’m gonna have another superhero incident. That would be pretty rock n roll.

At this point, the only superpowers that I have are going to revolve around getting my inebriated ass home.

The Conundrum: Do I ride straight up Fremont just cuz it’s straight up and my fat ass needs the sweaty action? Do I hit the bike path, which will take me home all the way on a flat trail AND away from traffic? I’ll have to climb up to home at the last bit, but it’s flat the whole way til that last bit. And if I do ride up Fremont, will I be sucked into the vortex of another bar along Phinney/Greenwood? And, of course, the answer to that is: Yes I will! The reason? Simple! I had the high score on a vintage cocktail-table Asteroids machine at El Chupacabra, and I wanna see if my score is intact. Who knows…

One question remains: Why am I into the colons tonight, and why all the links?

Uh oh, insert Capitol Hill joke here…

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Well, I got my brain fully wrapped around whatever it takes to get images uploaded and viewable. I’ve been kinda stagnant lately from the photo standpoint. This winter/spring/crappy weather period seemed to go on forever this year for some reason, and I never felt like riding around, taking pictures in the crappy weather. So here are some of the most recent photos I’ve taken. They were all taken in the last month.

We got a pic of me doing the Mobile Week Thing, where Dean and I set up a mobile bike repair place for a big corporation (who shall remain nameless, but computers running their software seem to crash a lot) and work on their employees’ bikes throughout the week.

Then there’s a couple pics of what went on at the Gelston Compound while I was up in JNU, followed by a couple images of various crap taken while running around at the glacier one day.

And then we have Crafts Weekend out at Dee and Bev’s pad. Kristi showed up in town and we got roped into building some artsy BS out on the back deck. “Alright I guess…as long as there’s beer…”

Okay then, I’ll post more photos when I take good ones.

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Okay people, I think I got it. This will be a sampler just to make sure I understand what’s going on here. I have a few pics that I took in JNU last month, and some work-related stuff, but I’m just going to recycle an old gallery just to make it easy for the moment. Bear with me…

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Folks, this is the real deal. This is big. HUGE! How huge? I bet that only 3 people take part. Me, Foss, and Justin. Now here’s the killer thing. Justin lives in Tokyo. He says that he and some of his Metal Ninja pals are going to get a ghetto blaster and their beach cruisers and blast Slayer on 10 and sing at the top of their lungs all over the Shuriken Prefect.

I KNOW Foss will be on board for this, and he’ll probably be screaming from his all-black-with-tinted-windows Subaru Impreza on I-5.

Me? I’m gonna be on Hwy 167 in shitty traffic in a blood-red 4×4, jamming Hell Awaits from the stock .4 watt speakers.

Wanna take part? All ya gotta do is play/listen to Slayer. LOUD. ANYWHERE. EVERYWHERE. It’s that simple. Now, go forth…

http://www.nationaldayofslayer.org/

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All I wanted to do last night was sleep, ya know? So I’m laying there, thinking warm happy thoughts, when some crap in the other room goes CRASH!

Jeezeezus!

So I get up and investigate. Of COURSE there are no cats in sight. Just the poor doggies, looking guilty, even though I know damn well that they had nothing to do with the destructo noise I just heard. This happens about 3 or 4 times throughout the night, and I’m just WANTING there to be a burglar, cuz I really wanna knock SOMEBODY’S lights out, but no…just the damn cat. I know which one too. Little Bastard…

It was the same cat who pissed on my computer bag in the night. OHHHH no you dint! Guess who ain’t getting no petting from me? But you know what? I know that won’t work. I know a LITTLE bit about cats. Cats are like the class bully who is a pussy (coincidental terminology? I think not…) and if you retaliate in response to him/her doing something to you, then he/she has to ‘get you back for doing something them’, even though they started it. So if I don’t pet the little shit-head, he’s going to piss on something else, or shit in my shoes in the middle of the night. Then I’ll retaliate by squirting him with water or something like that, and then he’ll piss on ME while I sleep. Of course, that will be AFTER he sleeps on my chest and purrs like a lawnmower cuz I’m so warm and comfy. In fact, he’ll probably give me a Cleveland Steamer before he walks off, all arrogant and poised.

And there’s Frank, up on the stairs. Just glaring at me. “Just so you got it straight, I do NOT want you here. I don’t NEED you here. You mean nothing to me.” Okay Frank, got it.

And then there’s the times like now. The cats and dogs are milling about, just walking from room to room and getting a drink of water and doing doggy and kitty things. It’s like I’m watching a cross-walk at lunch time. Sometimes they stop and regard each other for a moment as they pass. Sometimes they’re just too busy doing nothing to be bothered to notice that they aren’t alone in this house. HEY ASSHOLES! I’m here! I’m a human. You know, the asshole who’s feeding you this week!? Yeah, I’m right here. Only the Hog (Roscoe) gives a shit.

Fuck you, Frank.

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1. My buddy Jason asked me if I could housesit for him.  I said yes.  IDIOT!

2. I know that he lives 50 miles south of me, and I’d be in traffic for 2 hrs or so each day.  I still said yes.  IDIOT!

3. He’s got two big cattle-herding dogs who are pretty high-strung.  I said yes.  Damn, I’m an IDIOT!

4. In addition, there are 3, count em, 1-2-3 fukn PSYCHO cats who alternate between being WAY OVERLY needy in the HoldingPettingandRubbing Dept, and being pretty much terrified of all humans.  Open the door and walk into the room?  PSSSOOOOOMMMM!!!! There’s a puff of frikkn smoke where once there was a Siamese cat.  One cat, fine.  Two cats, okay.  3 damn cats – ALL psychos.  What an IDIOT!

However, there actually are perks to this whole scenario.  As I was making-and then eating-my dinner, I was able to hear the damn cat(s) out in the other room.  And they were clearly trying their damnedest to destroy the damn place, which was getting on my damn nerves, cuz all I wanted to do was eat my damn steak without any furry, four-legged intrusions, zeemdamnzane?  But the funny thing was the poor dogs.  They both knew I was getting pissed and the worried looks on their faces were frikn priceless!  One would look at me, as though to say, “Dude, I wish I could eat that damn cat so you could read, but I don’t think they’d like it if I did that, so believe that I’m sincere when I say that you’re on your own.”  The other would look at me and look away, like he was thinking, “I just KNOW that scheming cat is going to blame everything on us, and then we won’t get to eat bacon ever again DAMMIT!  I truly hope that doesn’t come to pass.”
I mean, seriously, these dogs are super-intelligent and completely in tune with their surroundings, so it’s both annoying and fascinating to watch them in action.  I’ll take photos so that you can see these mutts and their rakish good looks.

Who is writing this shit?

And the names of all these assholes?  The dogs are Roscoe and Picasso, while the damn cats are Little Baby (I think), Dudeman, and Frank.   Little Baby and Dudeman took a bit to warm up, but they’re fine now.  And Frank?  He glares at me.
Idiot…

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