Each morning, after I lock up my bike, I detach its front wheel and carry it up to the office with me to prevent scallywags from running off with it. It draws looks as I saunter through the lobby, and occasionally people try to strike up a conversation in the elevator during the thirty seconds we share as passengers. Invariably, the wheel in my hand is their focal point.

Elderly man: “You ride to work, eh? Where’s the rest of it?”
Me: “I lock it up outside the parking garage. I take this wheel off to dissuade thieves.”
Elderly man: “Oh.”

Same elderly man, later that week: “Where’s the rest of your bike?”
Me: “Uh…outside?”

Suit: “You ride to work, or are you courier?”
Me: “I commute. Keeps the beer belly off. Har!”
Suit: “Or you could not drink beer. It’s a bad habit.” [He glares]
Me: [Startled, exiting] “Um…not an option.”

Wrinkled lady with horribly nicotine-stained teeth: “So, you ride to work or are you a messenger?”
Me: “Oh, I just commute. It’s only a few miles.”
Wrinkled lady: “Oh, wow, that’s great. I used to ride my bike a lot too. I use to be able to ride 50 miles in a go! I love riding bikes. It made me feel so healthy. Woo, bikes. So great! You know, the great thing about bikes is…”
Me: [Exiting elevator]

Balding, pot-bellied 40-year-old: “Heh, that looks pretty tough to ride.”
Me: “Yeah, it took some practice, but I could only afford the one. Har!”

Mousy office drone: “Where’s the rest of it?”
Me: “This is my floor.”

Slack-jawed custodian: “Unicycle, huh? That’s gotta be tough.”
Me: [Glaring]

Fat middle-aged woman: “You ride to work?”
Me: “A-yup.”
Fat middle-aged woman: “That’s so crazy! Why don’t you drive?”
Me: “Parking is expensive, gas is too, the ride only takes 15 minutes, and I appreciate the exercise.”
Fat middle-aged woman: “Whatever.”

I’m just going to quote Cory Doctorow because he said it better than I ever could:

In a chilling analysis of the PATRIOT Act, the ACLU points out that the new definition of “domestic terrorist” redefines any U.S. criminal as a terrorist, exempt from due process and an open trial. “Domestic terrorists” can have their assets seized without a hearing, have their educational records pulled, and a host of other nasties. “Terrorism” is now officially meaningless: as far as the PATRIOT Act is concerned, if you do anything the government doesn’t like, you’re a terrorist. When you put it that way, it seems even less likely that we’ll win the “war on terrorism.”

As I rode to work this morning, a homeless man across from Balboa Park shouted at me as he sat amongst his belongings, which were heaped into several large piles. He was holding up a magazine and ranting about Dick Cheney at the top of his lungs. About a mile further down Park Blvd, another transient leapt at me as I passed the bus stop he was waiting at. “Rawrrr!” he grumbled, as he flailed his arms and jumped across the sidewalk toward me. I gave him a quizzical look as I flew by.

Two vagrants in under five minutes? This could only mean one thing: I’m another year older.

Kimiko is whisking me away to Las Vegas in a few hours, and we’re both humming with excitement. Big thanks to her and Mike for the planning and financial backing. I’ll post photos in a few weeks (there’s a backlog, don’t whine).

At work, after lunch, my co-workers presented me with a banana-cream pie and a 24 oz. King Cobra. Apparently, there are also a couple Natty Ice forties and an Arrogant Bastard in the fridge for next week. It seems that people have ascertained that I am fairly easy to please.