I summer in Russia
Saturday afternoon found me on the corner of 9th and Where Nightmares Are Made where my drinking and storytelling were interrupted by three car crashes and a girl too drunk to complete her Walk of Shame without falling down several times and taking a construction sign with her. The entertainment value was high but I was afraid to ride my cruiser home from the bar lest it, not I, suffer a similar fate at the hands of that intersection.
I went home, propped my feet up on the couch and finished a movie I’ve been watching for two weeks straight in ten minute increments. That small victory allotted, I prepared for an evening tour of suburban dive bars which climaxed as I sang along to some of my favorite karaoke songs and cheered a friend’s on-stage artistic interpretation of Like a Prayer (no words). The rollergirl anthem Hit Me With Your Best Shot was also performed though not by me (me and my imagination were busy rubbing the seat of a chopper parked outside of the bar, the owner of which was parked directly in my line of vision.).
When I got home and realized I had to set my alarm for a Sunday morning, my pleasantly tipsy nature departed. I resented having to set my alarm on a weekend more than I did waking up at 6 a.m. on a day off. I recently ended a relationship with an alarm clock that went off seven days a week for no other reason than out of habit and I've yet to romanticize its departure.
I hit snooze for only fifteen minutes before I got up, decided that my smoke-scented hair looked just fine, lathered up my entirety in SPF 40 leftover from Mexico, and laced up my skates. I met up with the rest of the rollergirls for coffee before heading to Cheesman Park to celebrate Pride. The wait was long, the sun hot, the port-a-potties unappealing, but eventually things got rolling. We were quick to find that rollergirls don't need a float to make an impact--we were just fine skating through the crowd with a pickup truck driving slowly in front of us, its tailgate open to catch any renegade skaters whose worn down stoppers might send them careening down condom-littered slopes in the street.
I only saw one person I knew in the crowd. What a disappointment. I thought my peeps would be out en masse to celebrate Gay Day. I was also mildly disappointed with how few of us showed up to represent (people who sacrifice experience for the [fill in the blank] upon which/whom they are dependent are the most boring people in the world.). But that feeling quickly diminished when I was reminded how much fun just a few of us can have.
Colfax and I have had a long and healthy relationship based on fun and drinking, but taking the saddest street on the world on eight wheels is equal to another tick mark on my list of things to do before I die.
We capped off the parade with a merch booth that drove far better business and attention than I think any of us expected. We happily made enough sales to ensure that the upcoming bout is well stocked with gear for the most discriminating of fans.
While I claim to long for the ol’ days when the mundane aspects of my life (paying bills, doing laundry, going to the grocery store) were efficiently taken care of, I’m calling bullshit. I’d much rather spend any day skating in the sun, eating funnel cake and people watching. I have plenty of time to be responsible. And bored.
I went home, propped my feet up on the couch and finished a movie I’ve been watching for two weeks straight in ten minute increments. That small victory allotted, I prepared for an evening tour of suburban dive bars which climaxed as I sang along to some of my favorite karaoke songs and cheered a friend’s on-stage artistic interpretation of Like a Prayer (no words). The rollergirl anthem Hit Me With Your Best Shot was also performed though not by me (me and my imagination were busy rubbing the seat of a chopper parked outside of the bar, the owner of which was parked directly in my line of vision.).
When I got home and realized I had to set my alarm for a Sunday morning, my pleasantly tipsy nature departed. I resented having to set my alarm on a weekend more than I did waking up at 6 a.m. on a day off. I recently ended a relationship with an alarm clock that went off seven days a week for no other reason than out of habit and I've yet to romanticize its departure.
I hit snooze for only fifteen minutes before I got up, decided that my smoke-scented hair looked just fine, lathered up my entirety in SPF 40 leftover from Mexico, and laced up my skates. I met up with the rest of the rollergirls for coffee before heading to Cheesman Park to celebrate Pride. The wait was long, the sun hot, the port-a-potties unappealing, but eventually things got rolling. We were quick to find that rollergirls don't need a float to make an impact--we were just fine skating through the crowd with a pickup truck driving slowly in front of us, its tailgate open to catch any renegade skaters whose worn down stoppers might send them careening down condom-littered slopes in the street.
I only saw one person I knew in the crowd. What a disappointment. I thought my peeps would be out en masse to celebrate Gay Day. I was also mildly disappointed with how few of us showed up to represent (people who sacrifice experience for the [fill in the blank] upon which/whom they are dependent are the most boring people in the world.). But that feeling quickly diminished when I was reminded how much fun just a few of us can have.
Colfax and I have had a long and healthy relationship based on fun and drinking, but taking the saddest street on the world on eight wheels is equal to another tick mark on my list of things to do before I die.
We capped off the parade with a merch booth that drove far better business and attention than I think any of us expected. We happily made enough sales to ensure that the upcoming bout is well stocked with gear for the most discriminating of fans.
While I claim to long for the ol’ days when the mundane aspects of my life (paying bills, doing laundry, going to the grocery store) were efficiently taken care of, I’m calling bullshit. I’d much rather spend any day skating in the sun, eating funnel cake and people watching. I have plenty of time to be responsible. And bored.