OK drunk people, listen up. No, no, over here. Hey! Free beer! yeah you got it, free beer, I’ll let you know where it is after these few words.
Now that I have your ever fleeting attention, I have a request.
You love drinking. I mean, really love it. You love it so much your passion for intoxication is hard pressed to stay within the confines of your home or favorite licenced drinking establishment. You want to drink in the street.
The law, well the law says you shouldn’t, but fuck the law, right? You’re the iconoclast! You’re standing up for freedom! You are a rebel!
Well, as much of an iconoclast or rebel that you could consider yourself, being an American, a member of the statistically drunkest country in the world. But I digress.
Where was I? Oh yes, getting to the point before you wander off to go laugh at a crippled duck down on lake Meritt as you finish your flask of Old Grandad whiskey.
When you finish that bottle of hooch, your sense of victory and accomplishment will only be matched in vigor with your appreciation for your fellow man, I'm sure. You’ll be a new man, the world’s problems behind you. You’ll want to celebrate this new found confidence and pride. You’ll want to holler to god, let him know you’re that much closer to him at that beautiful and serene pinnacle of inexorable elation.
You’ll want to signal to the world that you are in fact drunk, and you are in fact here, for good or ill.
You’ll want to hear the sound of breaking glass, a noise so distinctly associated with drunkenness that, being equipped with the necessary equipment to produce such a sound, you’ll want to create it.
Please, please, people. This isn’t necessary. When you feel that urge to break some glass, and your hooch bottle is just empty enough for you to part with it, don’t. Just wait until you get home.
You see, when you break that glass, toss it in the street, and gain that immediate satisfaction of its utter destruction, that seminal sacrifice to your boozy gods, it’s an inspiring moment of self indulgence, which you are living for, but think, as difficult as that may be, about those who are affected by your actions.
As surprising as it may sound, as you read this, you are not the only one who loves that drunken validation of the ability to destroy something in a moment’s notice. That’s right, you, the iconoclast, the rebel, the revolutionary drunk person, are not alone.
As startling as that may be, I do have proof of your existential connection to your community. You are not alone, and this is why.
The proof is in my tires, it’s in the street, whose sparkling splendor looks eye catching at night, but only to those pedestrians who have no concern for the treacherous threat they present to the bike riding community.
Yes, those people who ride bikes, the ones who choose not to, or just can’t afford, or have been legally mandated not to drive. They see your glassy streets differently than your glassy eyes do. And yes, I’m sure, fuck em, right? You don’t ride a bike, and if you did, you would just avoid the glass, right?
There can’t be that much, right?
Yes, drunk person, there can.
On an average ride to the local BART station, for lets say, five or ten blocks, one will encounter upwards of forty of your sacrifices to the gods of glaziery.
Add a steady and malicious flow of auto traffic to this minefield, and you’d find yourself having less of an easy time avoiding flat tires. Often, you’ll find that taking a shatter field of glass head on, praying one of the shards doesn’t find a sweet spot is a better option than being run down like the cyclist dog you are.
You might even find yourself, the cyclist, pulling these tiny shards from your tires as you cruise towards work on the BART train, dreading with each careful pluck the inevitable hiss of a twenty minute delay to your commute, making you late to work, potentially costing you your job.
You see, this is the result of your elated declarations of vicissitude. A six dollar tube and twenty minutes late every time one of the thousands of shards each bottle leaves in the road finds its home in the thin rubber of a bike tire.
Perhaps the solution here is simpler than giving up your lust for the sound of breaking glass. Maybe you just love Blondie that much, and I'm asking too much by trying to end your favorite pass time.
Alright, here's a compromise. You don't have to stop breaking glass, and we cyclists can rest assured that our tires won't be shredded to ribbons. Next time you finish off your fifth of Taaka Vodka, save the glass, take it home, and play that wonderful Blondie song, "I Love the Sound of Breaking Glass" up at full volume, then throw the bottle at the wall over your bed, or pile of laundry, or wherever you sleep at night. This way, you can truly experience the full breadth of benefit that your mildly destructive hobby brings.
At the very least, your body probably won't deflate from a few small holes, and you can just avoid the glass, right?
