Days of A Dude: Doldrums and Dissatisfaction

Oh, hello there. It’s A Dude here. Not THE Dude. Just A Dude. Obviously I’m not Jeff Bridges, the star of The Big Lebowski. I don’t bowl, drink White Russians, wear a robe with Jellies sandals, smoke herbal cigarettes, or say “man” all the time. So on this point we must be clear. At least that’s what the lawyers tell me, in order to keep a certain pair of famous movie mogul brothers off my kiester. or Tuchus. Buttocks. Ass. Back (as in “baby got…”). Behind. Bottom. Butt. Backside. Derriere. Fanny. Fundament. Pooter. OK, there sure are a lot of synonyms for the Gluteus Maximus, Medius, and Minimus aren’t there? Actually, I’d love it if they read my blog and hired me to be a screenwriter, to star in their films, or to work for them in some other capacity. Well, I guess it’s not clear where this post is going. You might say I’m dude-ling. (Get it? Like doodling?) I digress.

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Raining, Riding, Ruminating

The rain, absent for weeks, began slowly. Forecasts seemed unreal; the wishful thinking of bored meteorologists. Heat can be somewhat managed on a bicycle, but the rain is much trickier. I thought I could beat it before it began, but I couldn’t, so I joined it. With shoe covers, bib shorts, white t-shirt, dayglo orange safety vest I found under a cheap yellow poncho, my cell phone in a plastic bag ensconced in my hip pouch, and the willingness to get wet, I set out on my trusty Fairdale Weekender Archer. Just a short bike ride in the rain, not my first rodeo, y’all.

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