I have a bike in Boston, but it's a big heavy clunker. I want to take it to Philadelphia to trade-in/sell and buy another used bike. However it costs a whopping $80 to check a bike on a plane! Insane. This for a bike that will probably net me under $50 in trade-in value. Now I have to go sell the bike in Somerville today.
Clearly, I have reverted to the American concept of "pain in the ass." I ask myself, why is it such a trial? There is no bureaucracy to wrangle, no monkeys, no breakdown on a dusty potholed "road" miles from anywhere. Just the inconvenience of thwarted consumption: an affront to American culture.
Maybe my nerves are just short from last night's nonsensical fury. A dear friend has gone off the deep end aright aright. I roar, I weep, I shake my fist, but I can't do nothin.
Thanksgiving was, in retrospect, a sweet and satisfying long (long) tour of family, geography, gastronomy, and leisure activities. I won a game of Scrabble, and lost a game of Anagrams; I went euphoric over Ellsworth Kelly at the Hirshhorn and teary-eyed over Armagnac to see Uncle Mark so giddily pacific; I inventoried the lives of many a sister, cousin, and aunt (and male relations too) and discovered again the joy of knowing these people.
Not since I came back to America have I felt so sure of who I am and where I come from. I wasn't upset over the question, not at all, but still it was lovely to find that there is this whole coherent social world and family history of which I am centrally a part. Plus, they all got my back, you know?
Off to spit-polish the handlebars and beg for a good resale value...