Routine weirdness

Blog being swamped by those seeking the “meaning of Tribeca,” or some variation thereof. I mentioned this a long time ago. Just for convenience, I’ll mention it again: Triangle Below Canal. There. Satisfied? Now scoot! Jeez. I even know the reason for this sudden interest: the Tribeca film festival started last weekend. Big shout out to Bobby D., Bobby da Horse as the boys out in Ozone Park know him. They wouldn’t say why.

Just got hit for “burl ives down hill skiing,” which is just too disturbing to deal with, so I posted it at Disturbing Search Requests, where mine is really only mildly disturbing by comparison. “Finger Will Not Open” is my current favorite.

If you don’t know, the stripers are running. If you don’t know what that means, it involves striped bass and their annual run up the Hudson, and the convergence of fishermen and their bass attack boats on the Corning Preserve boat launch for a couple of weeks. Used to that, no big deal, though when the bikes and the blades and the boats and the high school crew teams are all converging on one little area, things get a little confusing. But to add to the circus tonight, for reasons that I can only imagine, there were several bagpipers standing around under the highway overpass, blasting out odes to Robbie Burns on their goats’ bladders. Pipers and stripers? I can’t even guess the meaning.

Got in a ride in the rain this afternoon. Snuck out of work early, completely pissed with myself for not getting out this morning (stayed up too late last night), and nailed about 17 miles, along the bike path and then to the top of Green Island and back. I love how city teenagers feel compelled to yell things at cyclists. What is that?