Last week was odd. I have a theory that the full moon and the high winds made things go kookie. I had one of the most frustrating weeks I can remember, as a cyclist. I missed legendary rides, bonked on the ones I attended, and was plagued by flats on my solo endeavors.
Easter Sunday, I rode with Big Worm, Darien, and Faust. We had a splendid time. Everyone was funny and in good spirits. Worm, fresh from his "Chairs" victory was in cruise mode: Not slow, not fast, but happy and chill. Someone beat Darien on an epic sprint for a yellow sign. It was a good day, and if there is a better way to spend three hours, I challenge you to find it.
Then it was off to Orlando to see the boys play for a record label. This is always happy, and relaxing. All the way there, I was settling local band disputes, acting as a relationship councilor, and trying to guarantee the appearance of said record business guy. In the winds of chaos, somehow the band pulled off a stellar set. Said record business guy was animated and throwing compliments around like dollars at a strip club.
It all ends well. How? I don't know it's a mystery!
I hopped back in my reasonably priced car, and drove through hallucinations, weird gas stations, and bad food, toward home. I took 27 which was delightfully empty and freshly paved. "Hearts of Space" (on NPR) serenaded me back to our fine locale. The story ends with me in my own bed, in a fitful night of tormented manager dreams.
I'm back at work, where everything is predictably boring and I thank (deity of choice) for it.
That's all I have for you Pumpkins. Don't fret, I am working on another homage' to Frank Zappa that will have you clicking over to the BRC before you can say: "Poor spelling, bad grammar, inept punctuation, and weak content!"