Earlier this evening, someone put a condom on the handlebar of my bike, which was locked up right outside my apartment building. Upon discovering such a wonderful gift (the gift of latex [and it’s not even my anniversary]), which did not appear used, by the way, I did the only sensible thing possible: I carefully removed it with my housekey and gingerly deposited it in the nearest dumpster. This, 3 or 4 weeks after I find my (broken) bicycle seat (and [non-broken] post) stolen. Why me, people? Why me?
(Maybe it’s because I use nested parenthetical statements [multiple times, even].)
* * *
After the aforementioned condom removal, I rode my bike to the 7th St. Entry to see the Minders tonight. Damn good show. I spoke very briefly with the lead singer Martyn Leaper after the show and all I could really get out was, “I wish you guys could have played longer.” What I really meant to say was, “Your songs are beautiful, you are brilliant musicians, and you really know how to rock.”
Overheard at the concert (names are made up because I didn’t know them):
Tyler (introducing Greg to Frieda): [Greg] plays in a rock band.
Frieda (earnestly): Rock’n’roll?
Greg (deadpan, the bastard): No, just rock.
If it were fiction, my next line would have been:
Tyler: Yes, Greg says the rolling part can get tricky.
And the name of Greg’s band would be Chris Price and the Krackels.
If it were bad fiction, that is.
* * *
This coming Tuesday I find out whether I go on strike or not. Judging from the tenor of events, and the momentum that seems to be building, I’d be very surprised if we accept this contract. (If we reject it, I’ll probably canvass again, in addition to participating in job action activities [e.g., picketing], till the strike ends.)