Fata Morgana...

There were cathedrals falling out of your eyes
And your arms were the handlebars
I held in an abbreviated dream of crushed petals
Strewn across the limpid avenues.

I said, “I have poems for you”
But my words were lost in the wind.
I said, “I love you"
And you drifted into sleep.

And so I said nothing and rode you in and out of the rooms
Where we had stretched the boundaries of the soul
Like an endless sheet
And I felt you waking up between my legs.
Noelle Kocot, "The Bicycle Poem"

"The beauty myth moves for men as a mirage; its power lies in its ever-receding nature. When the gap is closed, the lover embraces only his own disillusion."
—Herman Melville

Disillusion? Naw. Too harsh. Not even disappointment. When it's not there, accept it, adapt, move on. That, or die of melancholy. And really, what kind of a choice is that?

Wait, we're talking bikes here, right?

Sunday evening I came upon an abandoned bicycle in the underground parking lot of a government building in Clarendon. A Motobecane Super Mirage, to be exact, circa late 70s. A dark little number, a faded beauty, une reine sombre de la France, to use the appropriate language. Despite a kickstand protruding from her belly, she was leaning awkwardly against a support column, half-propped up on spavined tires that had long ago given in to decay. It was clear that she had been jilted.

Slowly I approached her, eyed her for size, for fit, noted her French pedigree, sensed an air of quiet confidence about her, as if she knew her dumpster destiny would be denied, that reprieve was imminent, that she would be rescued soon. I was being manipulated, and I played into it deeply, willingly. It was not the first time.

I promised myself—I promised her—that if, upon my return that evening, she should linger there still, in that clammy catacomb, I would take her in, I would accept Fate's bounty, she would be mine.

She kept her part of the bargain,¹ and I kept mine. Excited, I took her home. But in the days that followed, distracted by quotidian trifles, I put her down for a while, let her slip from my mind like a siren's promise. Until I began to forget what she looked like...

Now, this evening, I find myself standing in my yard on a grimy tarp spread out on the grass like a pauper's blanket. Tools—surgical instruments—litter its plastic surface. My hands are spotted (and Hell is murkier still). Nearby, a sweating bottle of Old Rasputin, lone witness, breathes silently in the dusk air, half empty.

What went wrong?

The sun is shining down with infinite clemency, but a sinister coldness stains the edges of a spring day that is giving in easily like a drunken lover to the lure of the night. At my feet lies her torso, rigid and cold. Around me, placed with the precision of a pathologist, are her many ravaged parts. Gone are my dreams of restoring her intact. I am no great re-animator, no bokor; the blood of Shelley's der gute doktor² runs not in my veins. She will live again, true. She will even begin to enjoy life anew. But in a different form; reborn like a steely Phoenix. We will tour the city streets together, she and I, for what age and abuse and neglect have wrought upon her fragile frame, I have sought to fix.³

1. That anything—even something as innocuous as an old bicycle—could remain unmolested longer than 10 minutes in the basement garage of a federal government building in this age of rampant paranoia and xenophobia is truly mind-boggling.
2. Alas, Wikipedia is quick to point out that Victor Frankenstein, as conceived by Mary Shelley (and in contradiction of the characterization in the eponymous 1931 classic film) was, in fact, not a doctor at all but a college drop-out with a cool idea and a ton of drive. Ah, the useful things one learns upon making a casual reference.
3. Paraphobics take note: all innuendos in this post should be taken with tongue in cheek.

Pedaling Pornography...

All of them milking with green fleshy flowers/While powerful pistons were sugary sweet machines...
—"Oh Comely," Neutral Milk Hotel, In the Aeroplane Over the Sea

Wednesday evening I managed to wend my way on two wheels to Asylum in Adams Morgan to take in The Pornography of the Bicycle, a flick billed as "a series of short films on the theme of Bike Porn" that has managed to travel across the country on a seemingly (but never seemly) miniscule budget.

The brainchild of one Reverend Phil—whose orange, devil's-horn wisps of hair belie his saintly pseudonym—and his cohorts from Portland, OR, along with (and this part's supposition) a handful of dudes from Vancouver, BC, and, perhaps, a few undisclosed enclaves betwixt the two regions, this collection of celluloid vignettes indirectly attempts to answer the Biblical question, Just what the hell is Bike Porn, anyway?

I showed up early at Nanny Obrien's, the one venue that had agreed to host the flick's opening here in DC¹. After hanging out for a few minutes and noticing no one whose ass looked as if it enjoyed the touch of leather (be it from saddle or riding crop), I inquired with the 'keep as to where the movie would be shown, only to learn that the venue had changed last minute. So, after putting my own ass back on the saddle, I was quickly off to Asylum in Adams Morgan.

Rolled up to the bar and, as I locked up at the racks outside along with a thousand other bikes, I was accosted by the Portland crew. They appeared to have been hovering about for a while, trying to decide where best to drink whatever was growing warm in a brown paper sack one of them clutched in the crook of his arm (silly me, I thought they were looking for a bar, and suggested The Reef across the street where, unbeknownst to any of us, a rare keg of Rogue Double Dead Guy—yum!—was on tap). I fell in with them, and we ambled around the back of the bar, settling into a relatively well-lit alley so the boys could shake down a few Schaeffers without fear of an interloping constable.

In between supping beer and talking in the vaguest of terms about the film, the crew passed out fliers for the event, trying to garner interest from passersby. A couple of crushed cans later, and we were inside, where a smaller than expected group had already gathered for the viewing. I headed up to the bar, where I was soon joined by none other than Anna K. just as my beer, a Bell's Double Cream Stout, met my waiting hand. Hung out chatting with Anna for a bit before the film started.

Not long after the flick began rolling, I got a poke in the back and turned around to see Susanna M., formerly of WABA fame and now gracing the halls of CCAN, standing there, beer in hand. I introduced the two ladies, and the three of us talked much of the time, pausing now and again for a sip of beer and to catch up on the film. I guess what I'm warming up to here is, I'm a bit of an unreliable narrator when it comes to describing the various scenes that flashed across the screen well into the night. Sure, I caught bits and pieces, but as for a review, well, the company and a few pints put the kibosh on any attempt at a real critique. Okay, full disclosure is done, here's what I got:

The Pornography of the Bicycle features all manner of bike footage, including a few loops of the infamous Portland Zoobombers. All of the clips are DIY, as they should be. Despite the lurid title, most of the scenes are unassociated with what I'm guessing most people think of when they think of pornography, which is a good thing (gratuity purely for the sake of being gratuitous has been done to death). The notable exception is the concluding clip, which features, ahem, a structurally-modified naked female bike-o-phile attempting a little paraphilia with a hapless road bike left alone in a backyard. In the end, after a bit of fruitless frottage, she hops aboard the bike and, olisbos dangling, pedals away from our leering eyes, off in search of more privacy. There, that's probably the bit you were looking for anyway, so all is not lost. While the film was entertaining enough, it's not likely to pedal away with a Palme d'Or (now there's a nice double entendre for you) anytime soon.

(Damn, I gotta get out on a real ride soon...)

1. Rumor has it that Gwadzilla was instrumental in arranging a DC venue for the film.