As my friends and ‘constituents’ make the sojourn to the Nevada desert, I am sadly at home missing out on the fun that is Interbike. I decided not to go this year, and I am sad for that decision, but I figured since I’m heading to Denver this weekend, one long distance trip is plenty for one week. Alas, I am saddened that I will miss out on the booze, the boobs, the bikes, the beer, and the blackjack.
Instead, I am working.
I am recording a song for the first time in a few years.
I am heading into the final stretch of the novel I’m writing (number five…fantastically unpublished).
I am heading to Denver to scope the place out.
I am anticipating a bike ride sometime this week (if I’m lucky).
I am reading Dostoyevsky, for some reason…interspersed with Lovecraft. Not as strange a combo as you might think.
I am fixing bikes. And fixing bikes. And fixing bikes.
What I’m saying is, life is good, despite the fact that I have full-on realized a transition has taken place in my life. This transition essentially boils down to the fact that the almighty bicycle is no longer the dictator of my life, but rather a companion, an old friend, a guest sitting shotgun while I go about living my life. We love each other, me and my bike(s). But, dear Bicycle, you no longer tell me what to do, where to live, how to act…I am me now. It took a long time.
I say all this because I just spent eight hours at the bike shop and I never want to pull apart another goddamn suspension fork for the rest of my life, even though I know there are two overhauls on the docket for tomorrow. Makes a brotha think about shit, ya’ll know what I mean?
The hipsters are killing me, too. They’re always polite, but they seem to be forgetful.
HIPSTER: Bro, you guys got any fixie hubs/handlebars/pink tires/pink seats/pink anything?
ME: Of course. That’ll be twenty dollars.
HIPSTER: (smacks himself on gritty forehead just above ridiculously oversized glasses): Ah, weak, bro. I only have five bucks. Will that cover it?
ME: I hate you and everything you stand for. You’re fake, your glasses are fake, your cycling cap/top hat/chin hair/sweater vest are all fake. If you were genuine and unique, you wouldn’t be wasting your time at Goodwill looking for just the right tight pants to go with your lame ass pink saddle. Have an original thought, fucko. The world is changing, but you can’t see it because it’s all new to you. No need to look back. No need to read a book or do the research or work hard for something. T.V. and your enabling parents will take care of everything for you, you trust-fund dumpster-diving fartbox.
HIPSTER: I think I have five and change. Will that do?
ME: I think I hate myself now, too.
That exchange was dramatized for effect.
I bought some silkscreening supplies a few weeks ago to document my struggle with hipsters, and I note, without much irony, that I, too, rode a fixie for a long time and for a brief time thought it might be cool to have pink components and a goofy sweater vest. I have since graduated from high school and college, so now I make fun of hipsters, many of whom are my friends. I could be a politician with all this hypocrisy.
Anyway, like I said, I bought silkscreening supplies and I made up some t-shirts, one in favor of the ubiquitous hipsters here in Flagtard, AZ, and two poking slight fun. They are for sale for the low low price of $15 a shirt, should anyone want to purchase one from me. Just drop a comment in this here ol’ post.
Let’s start lighthearted:
The essentials of this graphic:
A) one gear, most likely fixed.
B) Tight pants showcasing tight butt crack.
C) Sweet oversized glasses stolen from unsuspecting granny.
D) Killer throwback hat yoinked from Goodwill for two dollars.
E) Lack of awareness of the road in front of him.
Next, we have a simple message for my hipster brethren across the aisle. I mean this in the most sincere and helpful way I can possibly convey the message. The t-shirt simply reads:
Haha, the joke’s on you, hipster! You ain’t got no derillas!
Now, I am not without my sympathy for the fixie hipster crowd. Thus, I have created a t-shirt that captures both the essence of a wicked pissah fixie (my own, in fact, though I have since parted ways with the old Raleigh), and the pithy dialogue of eighties teen movies:
I’m just bitter because I’m not in Vegas getting shitty drunk at the trade show, then taking a stretch hummer limousine to the Spearmint Rhino only to throw up in the bathroom (through the stripper’s legs) shortly before being kicked out and walking the several miles back to the strip where I rally, bet a hundred on black, lose, play three hands of blackjack and win it back, piss on something moving (preferably a person), stumble into the hotel room, pass out somewhere I shouldn’t be (your wife’s pants?) and wake up the next afternoon around three to sit by the pool long enough to rally for day/night two.
Or something like that.
Have fun at Interbike, all ye who attend. Drink some for me. Get me some free schwag. Grab an Azonic girl and take a photo of her promiscuous outfit. I’ll just represent here at home…by