the bike and the skirt

I spent Sunday sitting in the co-op booth at Version Fest. That's VERSH-UN. The gig is an arts festival for radical communication and activist artwork that has nothing to do with notches on your bed post, but is not well enough known to prevent raised eyebrows at the mention of my plans, accompanied by comments alluding to (at the tamest end of the comment spectrum) maidens in white for sacrifice to the gods.

The festival was a fascinating mezcla of prints, patterns and piercings. I browsed through the installations in the generous donated basement space of a gallery, attended a lecture on converting your diesel engine to run on vegetable oil, chatted with artists and chewed my first block of Bubblicious since grade school: WHY did we ever want that much gum in our mouths?? (Know the old saying about borrowing a cup of sugar from the neighbour? I think one might simply try wringing out one of these gum cubes. And after a few minutes of jaw-strengthening cud-churning, the stuff proved to lose its flavour without even being left on the bedpost overnight. Another patch of petina on the hallowed Temple to Nostalgia.)

By far the nicest element of the day was the bike ride there and back in the company of Lisa Junkin. The weather was ideally warm for two-wheeled adventures through South Chicago. I felt the urge to select layered skirts as I was dressing for the arts fest, and had already donned a summer dress when it occurred to me that my grand adventure might be hampered by fabric in spokes, or dramatic flashing of happy Latino children playing in the yards of Bridgeport.

I frequently biked wearing skirts during Rehoboth summers. I would double them up and tuck the hems into the waistline and this suited successful trips up the length of the boardwalk to work. But Chicago is a city where I'd never ventured off bike paths. I decided it would be prudent to ask Eli his opinion in case my wearing a dress on a bicycle (even with a precautionary pair of underwear) was an altogether foolish idea.

I stopped myself before I stepped next door to inquire. Wait, why should I ask Eli? Why was he the expert? Oh shit - was this some ridiculous stereotyping based on the fact that he occasionally wears dresses? Although "occasionally" still tops the dress-sporting frequency chart in Haymarket terms, it was probably unfair for me to saddle with Eli as the go-to guy for answers about riding bikes in skirts. Presumptuous on my part. A rude generalization. I'll not ask then, I decided.

"Good morning April," said Eli as I passed his door in our alcove. I looked over to nod greetings.

He was wearing a pink paisley dress.

BJ's Story (the Solemn Georgia Truth)

narrated in a gentle southern accent

I have a friend who's a med student. Once he was performing a check up on a large woman with sizeable and pendulous breasts. He needed to hear her heartbeat so he said kindly, "Ma'am, I'm gonna listen to your heart with my stethoscope. I just need you to lift up your breast for me."

So she did, and as he went to press his stethoscope to her chest, he noticed, stuck beneath her breast, was a slice of bread.

Naturally he wasn't sure what to say, so he went about his business as if the bread weren't there for a second before suggesting perhaps he could hear better from the other side.

Relieved as she let down one breast and lifted the other, he reached down -- only to find ANOTHER slice of bread slapped to the skin beneath the second breast.

At this point, he couldn't ignore the situation.

So he goes,"Eh hem, Ma'am, are you aware that there are... pieces of bread beneath your breasts?"

And she explanatorily exclaimed, "Child, you know I be sweatin!"