I am counting down like crazy: Rolling Thunder is coming to town, and the bikes will start roaring in this afternoon. The Hogs hang out in the common area between the two churches across the street, and the sound of the big V-twin engines is a lot like living in the landing pattern of a Master Jet Base: it is the sound of Freedom booming out.
The pool opens tomorrow, so if you were expecting some commentary on the various follies de jour this morning, you are going to be wrong. It is tempting, but I have decided to personally adopt what has become a formulaic Washington masterpiece for handling unfortunate things. I wish I had known how to do this a long time ago. It would have saved an enormous amount of trouble:
First, I announce that whatever it was I did was a complete surprise until I saw it on the television.
Second, I am mad as hell about it, and if it happened, there will be consequences.
Third, I have commissioned a thorough investigation, and as soon as it is complete, I will release the results late on a pre-holiday Friday. Sorry, though, you completely understand that I can’t comment on a matter under investigation, right?
Fourth: “Dude, that is like, you know, really old news.”
It is worth a try. It has been a hell of a week- it even featured one of those Kodak moments. If you live in DC, it goes like this: you get to the airport in plenty of time, get through the indignity of Security, have your shoes back on and are threading your belt, and look at the board for what gate the airplane is waiting…to discover the ticket reads “IAD” instead of “DCA.” And there is exactly fifty minutes to get from the one to the other.
Oops. Something happened to us in Shanghai that was a lot like that- they have two airports in that town, too, but the one that happened this week didn’t involve airplanes, just packages. But still the adrenaline flowed, rapidly re-locating from the District where I was told to delver the thing and Reston, where it was actually supposed to go, with the clock ticking.
Maybe everyone had the same sort of week. They are starting to flee the city for the first festival of Summer. The winter was brutal- the Gold Cup race reflected the first libations of liberation from its icy claws- and this is the first opportunity to actually get into shorts and flip-flops and fire up the barbeque.
At the farm, anyway. I am still working on that aspect, but I assume it is all going to come together at some point once I have The Streak nailed down for the 12th iteration of the First Splash.
So, there is the exhilaration that will come after meeting this Summer’s crop of Mittleurope Life Guards, some of whom are going to be pals for a long time, and the shock of the still-cold unfamiliar water.
Here is how the pool looks this morning:
I feel like climbing the fence and getting the plunge out of the way. Count down!
Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303