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| DANCING BOB |
Walking to
work on the north shore of Wascana Lake this morning, for ten or so
minutes I was in lockstep alongside this huffing heavyweight adult woman who
was puffing a lit cigarette held in her right hand, whilst guzzling a Big Gulp held
in her left.
“Really?!”
I thought to myself. But is it any of my business that she smokes? Only if I am
puffing second-hand smoke, I suppose, but this was not the case. We were
outdoors in the wind. And who am I to be commenting on that giant 300 calorie
fountain drink she was quaffing? Just because I never indulge, does not mean
Big Gulps are not good (for her).
Wascana Lake
is the spectacular heartbeat of my city, Regina, in Saskatchewan, Canada. Factoid:
I am a thrice-daily consumer of the paved path surrounding the lake, which is
also shared by cyclists, runners, skateboarders, and even dancers. In
summertime I run ‘round the lake on the path in the morning, I cycle ‘round the
lake on the path over the noon hour, and I walk ‘round the lake on the path every
evening. My point in this essay will not be how much exercise I get on that
path, but rather, how many familiar strangers I meet and judge on these exploits.
And I shall write how they physically appear, and what I imagine them to be thinking.
Pathetic huh (pun intended)!
Could it be
that my inductive slice-of-life thumbnail sketches represent anything
substantial? Or will they just simply project some of my shallow biases? With the
latter notion being the more likely, I shall even attach subjectively corny
nicknames to add to such superficiality! Notez bien, dear readers, that all
the undermentioned peoples acknowledged in this essay are real, and any
likeness to any of them is by design, and not by coincidence.
Practically
every occasion I am at the lake, a Paul Bunyan look-a-like rides by on his
ten-speed. I am thinking he must ride this circuit a hundred times a day. He is
a giant of a man, riding full-out on his Tour de Wascana, donning ‘neath his flashy
helmet and over-size goggles, a colorful garb of a cycle jersey, bib, shorts,
long socks, and clip-in shoes. Bunyan’s riding costume girdles and yet at the
same time draws direct attention to his broad bulge bursting through his tight-fitting
attire. What I see is a blur of obesity swooshing by on his skinny ten-speed, frantically
pedaling in a hope to lose a very large number of belly pounds.
And there is
Eric Von Zipper, of ‘60s beach party movies fame, on his green electric bike.
Eric has that hog-rider look, a Nazi helmet on his noggin, while donning a
black leather biker jacket, cut-off blue jeans, and leather work boots. Von
Zipper, having always a lit cigarette hanging on his lower lip, hence the
nickname, is quite the auditory spectacle as he glides around in the country
music blast emitting from a boombox attached to the back fender of his bike. Whenever
I see Eric Von Zipper, I imagine him to be a delusional Easy Rider cosplay. By
his dress and demeanor, I do believe that Von Zipper cannot afford a Harley,
but despite this economic deficiency, fancies himself to be this hell-on-wheels,
electrifying badass.
The Dingalings
on their fat bikes are frequent riders of the park. With their matching
bicycles and matching costumes, prompt me to believe they are a married couple.
But coupled or not, this middle-aged hard-to-like duo is truly a couple of dingle-bells,
literally. They ring their bicycle bells continually when they are pedaling
behind pedestrians strolling along the path. Rather than ride around people, they
ding-a-ling-a-ling until those in front step off the path to let them pass. Decked
out in their gaudy garments, these Dingalings treadle about with unbound entitlement.
Immortan
Joe, the inline skater, is straight out of a Mad Max movie! Cap-a-pie, he sports
a Mohawk hairdo, shirtless with a tattooed upper torso, and wears only bikini
briefs. In zig-zag fashion, he towers over everyone on the path. This skeletal
Immortan Joe is well over six feet tall, and on his roller blades, he is close
to seven feet. Immortan Joe never slows down. Every time he passes by is like a
brush with death. When I see Immortan Joe I see an exhibitionist plying and
crying for attention.
Most
everyone in Regina is familiar with Dancing Bob, who is pictured atop
this blog entry. A celebrity in his own right, Dancing Bob has run (and lost)
for Mayor in the civic election four years ago and is running again for the
mayors this year. (Dancing Bob’s main platform was that Wi-Fi was the product
of an international deep-state collusion of distress created to profit
pharmaceuticals everywhere on the planet.) Wherever there is a crowd, there
will be Dancing Bob. Bob and his entourage of conspiracy-theory rounders are a
summer evening constant, an ever entertainment party, grooving and jiving and
banging to the many passers-by. But belie the clamorous beats of canned music
is Dancing Bob’s group-think propaganda of fake news, solar geoengineering,
weather modification, poison jabs, chemtrails, and a host of other conspiracy
theories.
And then we
have Karaoke Elvis, my last character to mock. Every evening Karaoke
Elvis parks his creamy Chrysler 300 at Legislative Landing, right in front of the
Queen’s Gardens, at Wascana Lake. Seemingly to match his creamy colored
Chrysler, Elvis wears a puffy cream shirt, bell-bottomed cream pants, and
cream-colored cowboy boots. On his head he wraps a cream-colored bandana, and
atop that, a cream-color cowboy hat. Karaoke Elvis attempts to emulate the real
king of rock and roll via his megaphone broadcast, complete with curbside vocals
and Elvis the Pelvis dance routines. As extroverted as this seems, Karaoke
Elvis talks to no one. In fact, whenever people do approach him, as they often
do, Karaoke Elvis clams up, jumps into his creamy Chrysler, and rolls up the
windows until they go away. I believe Elvis to be truly disturbed egomaniac.
“Comparison
is the thief of joy”
(Teddy Roosevelt). But not in my case. When I compare myself to those I
caricaturize, rather than to those I commend, I do experience some personal joy,
if even for a nanosecond. Yikes! Which mental disorder am I suffering?! (I
cannot find this malady in my DSM.)
In this
concatenation of “crazies,” I have besmirched regular consumers of my favorite
lake. This is so uncool, and yet I could not help myself. To express some
remorse, I feel compelled to offer this retraction: These crazies I have
chronicled are not peerless.
IN THE WIND AND THE SUN ON THAT WASCANA PATH, I AM ONE OF THEM!
Marching in
my CHAUCERIAN PARADE today is my all-time favorite neighbor’s
daughter and her doggo.
After my martial arts class last night, I took a couple of pictures in the same neighborhood where my gym is located (ASCENDANT MARTIAL ARTS).
HAPPY HALLOWE'EN, FELLOW CRAZIES!
