I have a sincere appreciation for World Cup Soccer — on television. Sincerely for real really. An authentic appreciation for the beautiful simple game matching vastly differing styles from around the world. Matches between teams that would never ever ever ever ever play each other, outside this epic extravaganza. Good stuff. It is. Aside from the corrupt FIFA politics. That’s another story.
It’s all good. Until it isn’t. When the WORLD CUP comes to my back yard, it’s GODDAMN KIDS GET OFF MY TRAIN. This thing is throwing a WRENCH into my muscle-memory-zombie bike-train-bike commute. And it’s only just begun.
However, Gigo has it all dialed. He’s the one telling them how it is. Sitting on the couch for the next two weeks, recovering, he’ll be watching every single game on TV and not going anywhere near the lightrail fucked up shitshow.
Send your positive vibes Gigo’s way as you watch it all on TV.
Not Not In My Back Yard
My epic 15 mile bike ride home yesterday from the 98195 to the 98178 seemingly took forever. Because it did. Maybe because it was 90 fucking degrees. Maybe because it retraced and regurgitated so much history of so many past commutes from the Eileen Court, the 12th Ave apartment, the house on the hill, Bruce Lee’s grave, The Hop Vine, Kids Company, Shame Works, Elliott Bay, WA Legal, Seattle Legal, Perfect Wheels, Mad Fiber, Cool Guy, Six Arms, Bensons, Elysian, Chucks, and so on and so on
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