
Wow, I think I broke my wrist today. I've had, lets see, 5 glasses of wine, 2 scotches, and a shot of vodka, and I can still barely type. A good thing, you may say to yourself, and I might agree with you. Last break I had from blogging was during my
pink eye episode last year when I couldn't see for six months. Hell, it might give me a chance to finish the Fifth Business and Night Watch.
If you think about it though, living in an urban environment is probably as statistically dangerous as climbing. Rock, not mountains that is. Evidence? Purely anecdotal. But take for instance, my hood. The Mission. It's gotten so bad evidently, that our philandering alcoholic of a mayor has sued the gangs in court so he can arrest anyone that looks gang related. Which is basically an excuse to throw anyone under 21 in jail who looks suspiciously Hispanic. And a lot of good it's doing. My neighbor's nephew is up from L.A. for a visit and watched some guy's brains spill out of his head a block away from us last week. That's right, this 17 year old was describing the color of the guy's brains over dinner tonight. And any of us could have been caught in the cross fire. My wife walks over there evey day at the same time the shooting happened. You never know.
Like today. I'm riding home in traffic. In what can only be described as Seinfieldesque, my pants (very similar to George's puffy shirt, only pants) somehow caught in my chain. Since I ride a fixie, once it locked up, my back wheel skidded. I flew over the handlebars, life flashing in front of me. The 10 ton Muni bus beside me swerved ever so slightly, missing my head by a good five inches. The irony is that I was teaching the boy to ride a two wheeler yesterday. He fell off of course. My words of wisdom were, "Boy, everyone falls off their bike. You'll fall again. Believe me. Get used to it."
Wow, my wrist hurts. I think I need to go hug some people. Night.