All around black ink darkness

Yesterday I rode my bike to work. Then I rode my bike to the blues fest where I sat on the grass and did my reading for workshop while a ridiculously cute 3 year old bopped around dancing next to me. Then I biked to Buckingham Fountain to wait for DYA. Then we biked down to Northerly Island aka 12th Street Beach and laid down on a sheet in the grass and huddled up next to each other and listed to Stevie Nicks play live. We could have stood up and watched her on the big screen, which I did once or twice to see her costumes, but mostly we stared at the water and boats and the few stars and the dozens of circling planes. Then after the 12 minute jam version of "Edge of Seventeen", we rode along the lake path up to Neo. I mostly people watched and talked with vfc but I did dance for 15 minutes or so. And by "dance" I mean just throw my limbs around in a free syncopated fashion and occasionally emulating the moves of the people around me. Which is certainly a form of dancing, just not the one I'm most used to.

Around 2 am, DYA and I left, and as we're crossing the street, some drunk blond white asshole is kicking our bikes over as he walks by. I had spent a lot of time on that bike today, I was very attached. AND you kicked my partner's bike? Hell no. I immediately yell "hey" and jog over and get right in his face and demand an apology, in the midst of calling him a mtherfcker several times. Which, if you know me, this is not exactly My Way. Apparently I seemed pretty scary, because all of his friends immediately were doing damage control, apologizing, saying 'he's drunk', saying 'yes, he can apologize, it's the right thing to do', and they all crowd around him (though make no aggressive moves at me whatsoever, they are all exceedingly apologetic and worried). Drunk guy insists we're lying and so we both unlock our bikes and both contemplate using the bike lock as a weapon against his face, but instead I go back to his face and demand he say the words he's sorry. He doesn't, he does that drunk repeat thing where he keeps saying "what are the chances? no think about it, what are the chances those were your bikes?" as if I will somehow be so impressed that his assholeness defied statistics. Then he makes a fcked up racist comment to his Indian friend (who's trying to get him to apologize and move on). Then he says, I already said I'm sorry. I said, I didn't hear it: say it again. We all get quiet. He says, ok. "Fucky yourself yoooo ghahs stoiidfl...." slurred something. I roll my eyes. At this point, I am overwhelmed by how sad this cowardly privileged drunk white guy who just showed his true colors to the guys around him who are actually doing him favors. His friends begin literally dragging him away, though I've already turned around to walk to my bike. Except I pause to say, "hey, I'm the one getting laid tonight." This actually makes him mad, and he stutters some isht before landing on, "dude, your girlfriend looks like a dude!" to which she immediately says, "that's because I have more balls than you."

Then we biked home. There were a few other random aggressive/icky things happening around us on sidewalks and in cars as we passed by, before we could escape from boundaries of Lincoln Park, including being made fun of by another guy on a bike for using hand signals to turn left - wtf? Damn, that place gets scary on a weekend night. The situation is notable in part because of reversal of how we both usual are in situations involving anger: DYA got mad, yelled a little, then got completely calm and was ready to walk it off very quickly (she's usually the one ready to get in a fistfight). Normally, I'd swallow, seethe, but instead I expressed my anger immediately and directly and in a way I did not wholly regret, because although they didn't know I wasn't going to hit him, I knew I wasn't going to hit him. But I was pretty fcking direct and never wavered for a moment. I even thought for a second that he might try and make it violent, but the voice in my head just said, no, its fine. He was really drunk and a pitifully easy target for a fistfight. While biking home, I did have a few flashes of rage, wishing I had retaliated more, that I had never even spoken to him but just stepped up to the corner and surprise cold-cocked him. Which, while perhaps satisfying in a fantasy, is a ridiculously violent reaction to him kicking (and not damaging) my bike. Yet not surprising that I thought them, given the level of excessive retaliation that surrounds us as a culture. Besides, what would Stevie had said, that I left her show and ended up drawing blood?

In Other News, I'm eating Soul Vegetarian East leftovers for breakfast.