no, I don't just stand by it in front of Starbucks

I know, she's gorgeous. ~1978 Fuji Monterey conversion. I know it's a bit of a hipster bike, sue me. Gimmie credit, I've escaped having matching rims and chains. And don't get me started on bike pads.
I've wanted to try out fixed gear for a long time. And in a city like this, there isn't any reason for gears. No hills, stop signs every five feet, may as well shed the weight.
Also, it's harder, the difference between a manual and automatic transmission in a car. And I like making my life a little more difficult. Who needs a dad to build character when sheer self-loathing and a desire to figure shit out drives you to it?
So, this is my new toy, and I do ride it. As often as I can. With three bikes in the house, the car gets broken out on about a weekly basis, thereby allowing me to live my fourteen year-old fantasy of living in the midst of a city and traveling everywhere by bicycle. Yes, even when I was in junior high I was a self-consciously bohemian shit. It's amazing I sleep on something with a frame, really should trade up to an exposed

I've had this idea lately where I'd do a game show. I don't know what the game is, but I know I want to scale back on the prizes.
* * *

"You've won. . . a pretty good car!
"This is a 2008 Honda Civic with only forty-five thousand miles! It comes complete with power everything. . . except the rear passenger's side window."
* * *

"You're going to the Hampton. . . Inn & Suites in Cleaveland, Ohio!
"That's right, you're spending a week at the Hampton Inn & Suites in beautiful Cleaveland Ohio. You'll relax by the pool and enjoy a wonderful continental breakfast every morning until eleven. See the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame, from the outside!"
* * *

You've won a genuine factory reconditioned GE refrigerator. There's a little scratch by the handle, but I'm sure you can hide it with a little spray paint.

This is Sherman, he's my bike. He's an "All-Pro" (Pennies) by Huffy with a Shimano 3-speed hub. He's my buddy, although I think I need a new bike with a bigger frame. Or maybe I just want an excuse for a new bike.
I bought Sherman from some kind of shady dudes on 24th and Arlington, although about everybody around Arlington is kinda shady. His hub was slipping horribly, so on a recommendation from a coworker, I took him to D&G bikeworks in Nora. They fixed the dérailleur-- a simple adjustment--tightened the brakes, and gave me new brake pads. They didn't charge a penny for the work.
When a shitbag alchoholic gave me a set of aluminum drop bars, I needed a new stem, D&G sold me a used one for $5. But, they don't sell used bikes.
So, I decided to check the BikeWorks in Broad Ripple. I ask one employee about how they size people for bikes, because the internet will just give you a lot of contradictory opinions on the subject. He looks at me and says "you'd be about 56 or 57 inches." Ignoring that my question was not quite about how big of a bike I needed.
They had two old road bikes that were abandoned at the repair shop. Not worth the cost of repairs, but decent frames. While I'm looking at them, the owner walks by and says to the mechanic "hard to believe those things would be an upgrade, isn't it?"
Sherman isn't the best bike by a long shot, but he's still MY bike, and I still can't believe that a shop owner would just up and insult a customer out in the open like that. Damned spandexers.
* * *

My roommate's sister is going to beauty school, and her and a friend needed to do a men's haircut. So I went. Considering my last haircut was me standing in front of the bathroom mirror, it couldn't turn out too bad.
While I was receiving a scalp treatment (or was it a deep condition? I'm supposed to be doing these things? I thought I was doing pretty good conditioning in the first place), somebody made a joke about me getting a mohawk. When I sat down in front of the mirror, Sister's Friend commented, "actually, you'd look pretty cute with a faux-hawk." And now I have one, because. . . why not? I never thought I'd actually have a hairdo, but even Roommate, who was ready to make fun of me admits that I don't look like douche-bag.
* * *

I have a recurrant joke about writing a letter to my nephew, for when he turns fifteen or so. The idea is to tell him things I learned the hard way, such as:

-- if you're dating somebody, and they have a fucked-up family, don't assume you're dating the only sane member.
-- if you're at work, and you don't have something to do, find something to do. Anything the boss finds for you to do will be much less pleasant.
-- if a person will cheat with you, they will probably cheat on you as well.

and-- most recently:

-- if you want people to think you're seriously "with it," make up your own slang. It will almost always work, but only if you can define everything you're saying.

And I am serious. Which is also why I'm going to tell you I saw the gonest femme in Broad Ripple today. Where "femme" means an attractive female, but "gone" means that she was so unimpeachably cool that I'm actually kind of intimidated to talk to her.
For the record, femme does not mean pretty per se, it also indicates a person who looks like they have the right attitude--inasmuch as one can check out a great personality across the room.
Although, in my case, it tends to be tacked on to a majority of skinny brunettes with short haircuts. Because I'm not at all shallow and totally don't have a type.