A train station prophet was wrong

It occurs to me that exactly five years ago, a train station prophet foretold the transmogrification of my two-wheeler into a German automobile. Truth be told, that bike was stolen and so while it is possible that the long-pilfered frame and wheels were (somewhere, somehow) melted down and folded into a new 3-series, I doubt this is the case.

Besides, this would be a needlessly literal interpretation of that Asian man's pronouncements. He meant that I would no longer be riding a bike, but instead be driving a BMW (and not to put too fine a point on it, my own BMW) though this has not come to pass. I still ride around the city on two wheels, and neither my vocation or lifestyle or income admit of a luxury sedan at this time.

It's hard not to interpret this as a failure. Even though I didn't know this strange Chinese man loitering around the train station at sunset, I took his prediction seriously. Possibly because it was unsolicited but probably because it was positive and so personal. Over the years, I have forgotten the many suggestions of my inevitable failure, but I have not forgot this. I can't help but feel that I have let him down somehow.

That said, he was probably shit-bombed when he said that. I wonder if he remembers my face or his prophecy of so many years ago? What would he think that it has entered my catalogue of remembered thoughts?

Religion reform #8

Sometimes, even I am brought down by the burden of free-thinking and the ennui of too-much-free-time-not-praying -- and it gets to me. It occurred to me that I went all yesterday without even once pondering the nature of my existence or whether my creator was satisfied with what I have been doing with it so far. Especially considering all I did instead was analyze clips on Redtube, and play with a whiffle ball and hair dryer for forty-five minutes.

So, know what? I'm diving in: I am going to join the flock of God's children in their drowsy march through Religion's glorious machinations. And damnit, I'm going to do it better than everybody else. I'm going to pray your fucking face off, God-lovers. Just try and stop me.

I will fast, I will light candles, I will pepper idols with appropriate gewgaws, I will make offerings, I will cry incantations, I shall get on my knees and pray -- and mostly -- I will pad my weekends with wholesome filler. And avoid Redtube. And drinking scotch with my Raisin Bran.

But let's face it, on the briefest inspection all the options out there suck donkeys. With the sole exception of Rastafarianism (Scientology of the Stoned) I'm not sure I could sign on to any of the Top 10 without succumbing to pangs of nausea or fits of awkward laughter or both.

So in classic hipster-douchebag DIY fashion, I will create my own religion.

Already code-named "Toucan", the new religion must and will include:

• a commitment to comfortable clothing.
• an inclusive attitude towards all peoples, beliefs, customs, lifestyles and political values. Except filthy Poles.
• a drink only adherents know how to make; its secret passed orally to the most ardent and senior followers. (For the record, it shall taste a lot like a long Island Ice tea, but I don't think there'll be as much rum in it.)
• the ability to pray from the comfort of your own computer.
• a kick ass logo. (I'm thinking sideways checkmark.)
• Fajita Fridays.
• an Esperanto dictionary and Dvorak keyboard.
• heavy censure on the miraculous bullshit.
• mandatory hugs/high-fives/low-fives/ass-slaps.
• The Toucan equivalent of X-ian rock: Toucan Rock.
• A holy land the size of Virginia. Perhaps even, Virginia.
  

I think that's a good start. I just need to flesh out my role as prophet, and sort out some tax things, and I'll be well on my way.

A train station prophet

Earlier this evening, while exiting the train station to recover my bike, I noticed a small Asian man reclining on the ground by the bike racks. And he didn't seem "street crazy" at all; he was fairly well-dressed (by my generous standards), and contentedly repose—in spite of the fierce and almost suffocating humidity. He watched me carefully as I undid the first bike lock, and then my other one, and then finally extricating my bike from the haphazard pile of cycles around me.

My bike freed, I straightened the wheel, threw up the kickstand, and adjusted my bag. That's when I heard him say,

"You know," he started, "in three years," then he pointed casually in my direction, but the rest was unintelligible.

Now, if this was the ramblings of a man that smelled like urine and was covered in soot, I probably would have smiled and said, "you said it, buster" and rode off with conviction. But tonight, this small man's collected appearance and sheer calmness intrigued me. I looked at him, puzzled.

"In three years, that," and he mumbled, his accent making it difficult to understand, "will be a bee," and after only the slightest pause, "em-dob-lo".

It took me a moment to understand what he was saying, but I figured it out.

'In three years, that will be a BMW.' He was talking about my bike.

I wasn't quite sure what to say, but I smiled.

"Thanks," and then, "I sure hope so." Though I'm actually not so sure that's true.

And I rode away with my prophecy in the hot and darkening evening.