Three Bike Accidents

This past week, my nephew (Wendy's son Jude) had a pretty crappy bike accident.  I wanted to pass along my own bike disaster memories so that he could see he wasn't alone in his struggle to stay on two wheels.  Here is the email I sent to Wendy.  After re-reading it, I decided that I wanted it to share it for posterity.  It's cleaned up a bit.  In the first story, I actually racked myself severely, but figured there was not delicate way of saying that.  And in the last one I was at least a little drunk.  No need to share that. 

First, when I was his age, Chuck and I were jumping our bikes at the churchyards in Logansport.   We had a ramp set up, but I guess it was too close to a shed that was on the parking lot.  I had made the jump several times, but on my last jump, I struggled to land, and ran straight into the shed.  It threw me off my seat and into my handlebars.  I hopped up from the wreck, and ran straight home, I was so mad and embarrassed and hurt..  Bad day. 

But not the worst bike accident I ever had.  The one that hurt the most happened in New Orleans.  I was biking home from the grocery store in the street, when some lady opened her car door in front of me without looking.  The door took out my bike and I flew straight into the side of her door.  The main impact was on my shin.  It split the skin wide open, and my leg swelled up so it looked like a tennis ball was underneath.  So much swelling I could barely walk for the next week.  I had to have the welt lanced to relieve the pain and pressure.  When the sore finally healed (it took the whole summer) the scab that fell off was big and thick as a thin mint cookie.  It was incredible.  I still have a lump there on that shin.

Still not the worst.  The worst was actually pretty similar to Jude's.  I was biking home from my job on St. Charles Avenue late one night, and I must have hit something or something hit me.  It was very dark.  I don't really know what happened, because I lost consciousness.  When I came to, I woke to the feeling of my chin dragging along the road.  I had been knocked off my bike and basically landed on my face.  I got to my feet, and tried to ride home.  It felt like my face was on fire, and little drops of blood were accumulating on my shirt and bike on the way home.  By the time I got home, my whole front side was bloody.  I took a look at myself in the mirror that night, and I couldn't see any skin on my chin at all.  Just blood and scab.  I had a concussion from the accident, so I threw up after that.  Then I went to bed.  NEVER DO THIS.  I WAS LUCKY.  You aren't supposed to fall asleep after a concussion, but I was super-loopy from the crash.  The next day, I tried to go to school, but I was in a fog.  I got to class late, and everyone gasped when I opened the door.  But my fellow students were very kind.  They helped me get to the Medical Clinic on campus, where the staff diagnosed my concussion, and told me it was too late for stitches.  When I got home from school I discovered that I had gravel embedded in my chin.  I spent several excruciating minutes digging it out, but I did a lousy job.  I would find little pieces of concrete in my chin over the course of the next few months.  I had a very deep cut on my chin which took a log time to heal.  But I also had a great story.  Sometimes I would make things up when people would ask me about it.  And then, when I met Chelsey, we discovered that both of us had a scar in that same spot on our chins.  So maybe it was meant to be. 

A Story

Since this blog is dedicated to fixing my memory problems, I just had a memory that I need to write down. 

It was Lundi Gras in New Orleans.  As per usual my friends and I were going to take drugs and go down to Frenchmen street.  We did this every year.  I don't know why.  We just did it one year and kept doing it every year for like 5-6 years.  Which is why I don't know which year it occurred. 

But this is what would happen on those evenings.  We would get dressed up in some Uptown apartment.  Lots of glitter.  Lots of eyeliner.  Painful stuff.  Then we would take in a healthy amount of alcohol and marijuana and pile into the back of a truck or something.  The truck would stop at a spot on the St. Charles parade route where the interstate goes over the street.  This creates just the right reverberation to be awesome.  Especially if you are on drugs.  Which we were.  

Once the parade was over we would walk the rest of the way to Frenchmen.  The walk was my favorite part.  Going down through downtown, through the French Quarter, down Decatur street was something to do.   And I always like to have things to do. 

When we got to the Frenchmen area there were a lot of street drums and hippies.  I hated it.  And we would literally hang out there until like five in the morning, so it was always a long night.  Which brings me to my story. (So far this hasn't been the story).

What would happen on Lundi Gras nights on Frenchmen is this:  Dancing, Drum Circles, Rowdy Hippies, Rowdier Hippies, Stuff Gets Set on Fire, Fire Department Shows Up, We All Go Home.

This happened every year. 

So on the night in question, knowing that it was going to be a long night, I found a place to sit.  It was a couch in the middle of the street.  There were always couches in the street on Lundi Gras.  I don't know why, but they were always up in flames by the end of the night. 

So being on acid, I made it my mission to protect this couch this year.  I sat on the couch and drank my beer, and made sure that anyone who wanted to sit on the couch would not be setting it on fire anytime soon.  This was my night.  And as I mentioned before, I like to have something to do, so it brought be great joy.  No dancing.  No hippies.  Just Brent and a beer and a couch that was not on fire.

Over the course of the night, I began to identify my enemies:  people who would try to light my couch on fire.  There were a few hippies or gutter punks or whatever that were eyeballing my couch, and had already set some other shit on fire that night. 

Finally they approached.  They tried to be nice, but I just told, flat our "Look I know why you are here, but you can't set the couch on fire."

They agreed, and in less than five minutes half the couch was ablaze.  I ran over and dumped my beer all over it, and said "Look!  I thought you said you weren't going to set it on fire!"

Too late.  The rest of the couch was on fire.  I sat there.  Disgusted.  Smoking a cigarette. 

I went to tell my friends about it.  I was still worked up.  They didn't care.  It was a hard thing to explain, and all my friends were more the sort to set things on fire.

Soon after, the fire was out of control, and we all got sent home.

I have always thought of this story as a indictment of the hippies that night.  These tender fucking hippies who had no integrity whatsoever.  But while I was showering today, I realized that probably those fucking hippies hauled that couch out of some hippie apartment so that they could set it on fire.  And here some guy plops down on it, and tells them they can't light it on fire. 

I guess I'm trying to say that I was out of line.  And I'm sorry.

You Fool!

So today I was over at the Goodwill store that's connected to our offices.  I was taking a picture of some poorly installed graphics when a woman drove up in a SUV.  Being the enterprising employee that I am, I didn't stand on ceremony.  I greeted the woman, and started unloading her car.  This of course is not my job, but I didn't want to explain that fact.  Instead I grabbed the first thing she handed to me and went inside to find a donation attendant. 

I spotted one immediately and told him that there's a woman in the donation lane "with a lot of crap."  He grabbed a cart and ran out to help.  I followed him and finished taking pictures.  I even exchanged a friendly look with the lady on my way back out. 

So I go back to my desk, and email the pictures of the crappy graphic to our installer.  A moment later the store manager shows up and tells me the woman heard me call her donations "crap."  Which I totally did, but I meant "crap" as in "stuff".  And when I said it I was inside the store.  Like inside the doors, and around a little barrier behind the doors.  I have no idea how she even heard me. 

But I apologize to the manager, and offer to come apologize to the woman in person.  The manager laughs it off and says that the woman has already left, and that the donation attendant (whom the woman told of hearing me) had already smoothed it over.  (Apparently the woman said, "Well, maybe it is all crap" and left.)

I'm so dumb.

30 Day Music Challenge - Day 8

Song You Know All the Words To

I know all the words to a thousand million songs.  So I'm just going to pick one that makes me the most proud.  This one is really hard because there are so many words, and they are put together in such a clever manner, darn you Cole Porter. 

Also, Kent and Paul used to sing it to eachother, and it would make me jealous.  So now I know all the words.  Suck it, Kent and Paul. 



You guys should really see Chelsey do this thing live...



It turns out I know a surprising amount of these lyrics too, Chuck.



Wendy's song.  And yes, I believe the eight tracks burnt this into all our memories.



Kent's song. I used to say I knew all the words to this, until the internet came out and told me I didn't

Kent and Brent's Annual List De Magnifico

In case anyone is interested in seeing the post that Kent and I put together each year, giving our combined ranking of songs/albums, click here.

I think you will find that we pretty much only agreed on the Black Keys, The National, Vampire Weekend, and Sleigh Bells.  Which is to say it was a pretty lame year for music.  But whatever.  We can always get out our Antlers album from last year when we feel blue about it.