I sing to myself as I bike to and from work. It's improvisational, generally a verbalization of what I see along the way. I like to think of it as a feed-back loop of the now, though it may not be as present-centric as all that.

This is nothing new. I believe I initiated the practice as a way to relieve stress when I commuted from the east side along John Nolen, which tended to be hairier, more bike revolutionaries (of which I am not one) facing off against the motor tide. Singing about the antics and the idiocy somehow kept them from getting tangled in my muscles and moods.

And, I developed such songs as the homopunk masterpiece chik-in hol.

I've kept it up. Witness a July 2 tweet--

BalletArthritiq: Yesterday's pm bike commute, I rode behind a guy with the most amazing ass. I sang to it all the way home.

Today, in-bound lyrics, similarly unapologetically objectifying, included "Delicate neck," "Nice underwear band: the fit of the jean," and "No socks: sexy." Just now, I'm focused, rather inexplicably, on the male ankle.

From the UW Archives:
Summer Music Clinic, c. 1950s


What's Happening In Your Book Now?

One of the pleasures of Gissing's The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft is its index, which appeared in the original 1903 edition. For example,
Battersea Bridge, old, 129
Beer, 78
Blackberries, a meal of, 118
Books, love of, 28-33, 37, 99, 160
Botanizing, 14, 99
British Museum, 25, 28
Silence, 49
Sixpence, the lost, 15
Snob, the English, 87
Social characteristics of the English, 80
Somerset, 56
Spinoza, 113
Spring, thoughts of, 18, 19, 35, 50
Steamboats, advertisements of, 76 

My penciled-in additions:
Automaton, 118
Balance of mind and body, 121
Carrots, 92
Cycling, 77
Reading, forgotten, 38, 44, 160
Roundheads, 165
Weather, bad, 139, 144