Predictable
Life is full of surprises, which is why the predictable can be such a comfort.
Even before I arrived at the Little Red Hen, after watching the all-but-scripted Vice-Presidential debate, and following a route from school could practically do in my sleep, I knew that the night would include more drinking than pedaling, somebody starting up “Livin’ on a Prayer" while riding and others joining in on the chorus , at least one instance where wrestlers would be pulled apart from each other, and eventually, a fire that at some point would get jumped over and/or into.
And events did not disappoint.
Were I, like Spealunker Sean, only in town for a brief period before heading out for who-knows-what-might-happen, nothing would make me feel better than to see how the wheels and cranks keep turning with some regularity and that the Thursday night checklist gets checked off, including, but not limited to: pretty much taking over some divey tavern with beer-swilling cyclists, arriving en masse at some mini-mart to load up on PBR cans, inviting some random stranger—this one, who of all things, played the saw—to join us in our revels, and as another long-time-no-see familiar face, the speedy Jillita points out, some banked-upon opportunity for Henry to be down to his skivvies before the night is out.
Much is made, of course, of novelty and indeed, the new and different is to be cultivated as we grow, but, still, there’s something to be said for knowing more or less how things will transpire, the unspooling of events like pages in a flip book animation which, when recalled with a few gaps the next morning, nevertheless has scenes one has seen and enjoyed before.
Which isn’t to say that all of it was old hat: for instance, I’d never witnessed anybody in .83 slow-dance to Patsy Cline before and I can never recall a Thursday night in early October being so warm and dry, ever.
Even before I arrived at the Little Red Hen, after watching the all-but-scripted Vice-Presidential debate, and following a route from school could practically do in my sleep, I knew that the night would include more drinking than pedaling, somebody starting up “Livin’ on a Prayer" while riding and others joining in on the chorus , at least one instance where wrestlers would be pulled apart from each other, and eventually, a fire that at some point would get jumped over and/or into.
And events did not disappoint.
Were I, like Spealunker Sean, only in town for a brief period before heading out for who-knows-what-might-happen, nothing would make me feel better than to see how the wheels and cranks keep turning with some regularity and that the Thursday night checklist gets checked off, including, but not limited to: pretty much taking over some divey tavern with beer-swilling cyclists, arriving en masse at some mini-mart to load up on PBR cans, inviting some random stranger—this one, who of all things, played the saw—to join us in our revels, and as another long-time-no-see familiar face, the speedy Jillita points out, some banked-upon opportunity for Henry to be down to his skivvies before the night is out.
Much is made, of course, of novelty and indeed, the new and different is to be cultivated as we grow, but, still, there’s something to be said for knowing more or less how things will transpire, the unspooling of events like pages in a flip book animation which, when recalled with a few gaps the next morning, nevertheless has scenes one has seen and enjoyed before.
Which isn’t to say that all of it was old hat: for instance, I’d never witnessed anybody in .83 slow-dance to Patsy Cline before and I can never recall a Thursday night in early October being so warm and dry, ever.
posted by Professor Dave at 10:48 AM
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