Sunday, July 4, 2010

Biked over to watch the Hold Steady play outdoors at Cabooze/Whiskey Junction last night. Hot all day, humid with devil's breath blowing hard. I'd ridden for a couple hours late afternoon, and it didn't feel super hot, until I realized that my breath was hot on my face as I exhaled.

The show was good. I was in the equivalent of Wrigley Field's cheap seats, against light-rail track bike path with a dozen other cyclists and a couple drifters/drunks. The population of the biker bar on this fine summer eve was heavy on recreational bikers, I'd have to say. Lots of hog porn in parking lot; lots of standard issue Sturgis shirts (few more than three years old); lots of biker babes/bitches/whatever. The sheer intensity of posturing and preening gave me psychic Botox.

All subcultures have their own customs, hangers-on, etc, and it's endearing/nauseating to witness. I may be a dork in lycra, sweating and puffing along the roads/paths of Mpls/St Paul, but/and I any different than the dudes strutting tough in ironed denim?

Ah, foibles. Vanity of vanities.

Dog world, too, gives me pause. So many people love their dogs, but what does that matter, or, does that matter above all? The dudes who posture in the parking lots of dog events, stacking their 'brutes' and talking about how game each is, or their instinctive habits--are they really less legit than the Sch folks who spend umpteen hours making marginal dogs scrape past club-level tests? To what end is it all?

Two firefighters got caught in a third floor room when there was a flashover or explosion of some sort. One received bad, bad burns to his hands and arms. News and officials keep stating the injuries are non-life-threatening, that both men are all right. Possible loss of both hands? Not all right. My thoughts are with them.

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