Saturday, June 17, 2006

Biker rash

Oh, what an emolicious treat! I've arrived just in time for tomorrow night's free Bright Eyes show at Memorial Park. Maybe I should bike down there right now and camp out in front of the stage, so I can personally shake Conor Oberst's amphetamine-palsied hand for recording the most sublimely political (and not at all whiny) country poseur album of 2005. Or maybe I will tell him he's Dylanesque. Please, somebody tell Conor he's Dylanesque! Or perhaps I will ask him to spot me ten bucks for the show I saw four years ago, where he was so utterly mindfucked on coke and Quaaludes that he babbled into the microphone for five minutes before smashing his guitar and tramping off stage.

I haven't been this excited since The Pointer Sisters were in town.


To the Curbsmiths of the City of Omaha,

Thank you for rendering intracity travel nigh impossible for anyone who isn't driving a car, hovering on a hoverboard, or riding a bicycle furnished with an Ikea chaise lounge for a seat. The next time my back tire hits the pavement and my prostate gland drops out the bottom of my pantleg, rather than caterwauling miserably and screaming several nonsensical profanities at the thirty-foot plateau at the end of the last sidewalk, I will instead quietly pay homage to the cement-laying drone who put down an additional strip of rock to ensure that no bicyclist will cross Saddle Creek without compromising his or her ability to have children, and that the handicapped will traverse Dodge Street in a hot air balloon or not at all.

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