Two Wheel Transporting and a Red Bridge

Well slap my ass and call me John Steinbeck I rode to Sausalito. Got on a bike and rode the rolling hills and grassed countryside the great American novelist so aptly versed us on: Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, Travels With Charlie.

We left from home (San Fran’s notoriously cold and foggy inner Sunset) and crossed over the Golden Gate Bridge into a different universe. We left and it was July. We arrived in Sausalito – just across the bridge – and it was, well, July. But I mean real July. The sun was out and people were outside eating ice cream and throwing things. James – my riding partner – says that when you cross the bridge it’s like transporting to a different universe. Sausalito is Norman Rockwell. San Francisco is Hobo-ville. Transportation complete.

Our ultimate destination was Tiburon, a contrived albeit gorgeous and homey town with epic cross bay views of The City. James and I actually acquired directions from a man claiming to “live” in Tiburon. Bullshit. Clearly a hired actor. No one actually lives in places like that. Dreams don’t come true kids.

My apologies for that cynicism. Unhealthy.

Tiburon was unbelievably (yes, unbelievably) gorgeous. We refueled at one of the many delightful eating establishments, then carried on. As we were transporting back across the bridge, we were treated to a San Francisco treat: a bridge jumper.

Someone was attempting – or had – jumped from the world’s foremost jumping bridge. It was a surreal scene filled with traffic, cops, and a huge audience. Not to mention frightening wind, ghostly fog, and the moans and groans of the big red suspension bridge. Surreal indeed. Cold as shit, too.

All-in-all it was a 5 hour adventure covering 45+ miles and innumerable micro-climates. And to make this whole thing come full, Steinbeck circle, I maintain that I will attend and own any open audition for the role of Lenny.

Bring on the rabbits.

The Monday Roast: Budgets

1. Just like rules, you're made to be broken. Boom, roasted.
2. How serious can you be with a "miscellaneous" category? Boom, roasted.
3. I'm still going to buy the next round. Boom, roasted.
4. We have a "National Debt Clock." Boom, roasted.
5. If you're so helpful, why is it so easy to get a credit card then? Boom, roasted.
   

The Monday Roast: Adolf Hitler

1.  Lance only has one nut, but he chose to live strong not crazy.  Boom, roasted.

2.  No one will ever be comfortable around a German accent. Ever.  Boom, roasted.

3.  Napoleon complex.  Boom, roasted.

4.  You were so mean!   Boom, roasted.

5.  You just had to ruin a perfectly respectable facial hair piece for the rest of us.  Boom, roasted.

A Stranger and Her Journal on the Train

A recent jaunt on the San Francisco Municipal railway (MUNI) at rush hour on a Thursday provided a little peek into a stranger’s life.

Tardy for dinner, I awaited the MUNI at 16^th and Church; restlessly updating the train status page on my phone as if it would somehow speed things up. I finally boarded the train and crammed myself between some hipsters and business fellows. I knew it was indeed a rush hour voyage as I had human contact on every side. Standing there, I recognized how fortunate I was to be able to see and breathe above the masses.

From my vantage point I noticed, squeezed into the front window seat with extraordinarily limited leg space and an American sized passenger in the accompanying aisle seat, a journaler. A young lady impressively and carefully writing in a journal while packed into a herky, jerky cesspool of grumpy nine-to-fivers, loud talkers, hobos, and the rest of us.

I couldn’t read what she was writing in her pint size journal and she was using a mechanical pencil; the softness of which made distance reading impossible (Aside: hotter commodity: the mechanical pencil market circa 6^th grade or real estate circa ’05? Tough). My appetite for hot gossip on the stranger’s life was clearly not going to be satiated due to the limiting factor of pencil. However, atop her journal page, distinctly written in black ink, was the only legible piece of this entry:

I’m Happy

This incredibly basic header – a conjugate and infant-level adjective – declared everything I could ever need to know about this stranger. In ink, at the top of her blank and open page – as if daring the empty page and ensuing pencil writing to change that permanent fact – the proverbial decision to be happy had been made.

What else really matters?

The Monday Roast: Hangovers

1.  So now I'm $60 poorer, 1000 CAL richer...until I yak. Boom, roasted.

2.  Everyone knows what you are, so why am I still expected to be productive Friday AM? Boom, roasted.

3.  The definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result.  Boom, roasted.

4.  Yes, I will pay $6 a pint for this. Boom, roasted

5.  Excuse miss, what's your name again?  Oh, well I almost guessed right, but I have to get going now.  Boom, roasted.

The Monday (Night) Roast: Protein Powder

1. Myo-Xplode-gene-andro-tek-muscle-rip-Juice. Translation = condensed milk in a colorful, oversized can. Boom, roasted.

2. You still shouldn't flex in the gym mirror. Boom, roasted.

3. Does it come with a tan and a V-neck? Boom, roasted.

4. If you can't pronounce it, don't drink - actually, drink up in that case. Boom, roasted.

5. Grrrrrrrrrrrrruuuuuuuuunnnnnnntttttt!!!!!! Boom, roasted.