A Thousand Times No

Bikewise, we have a little something for everyone right inside the city limits of Philadelphia. We have bike lanes, paved trails, gravel trails, singletrack, flats, hills, itty-bitty narrow streets, huge cordoned boulevards, and more.

During my morning spin yesterday, I had the unexpected opportunity to sample some of the “more” that Philly has to offer. The main artery for road cyclists heading westward out of the city is Main Street in the Manayunk district, part of the route for the annual US Pro race here in town. Main Street itself is a flat passage with one lane of traffic moving in each direction next to a row of parked cars. Think “small, historic, Eastern, congested,” and you get the idea.

Now, add tents. I rode along Main Street, only to be brought to a halt by the annual Manayunk Arts Festival. Pedestrians. Wares. Tents. Covering the entire road, as far as the eye could see. Continue biking on Main Street? Not a chance.

I had no choice but to turn off Main Street and look for an alternate route. I climbed for a short block and began riding on Cresson, the next parallel street. Managing to dodge all the wayward suburban SUVs trawling for street parking, I was fine until Cresson Street began to run under a set of elevated train tracks. Think “small, historic, Eastern, congested, dark…and cobbled.”

Aw, come on, if I had really wanted a taste of Paris-Roubaix, I would have brushed up on my French. Who rides a road bike on cobblestones for free, especially when there are all kinds of gaping holes in the grout? And you need to dodge people with strollers and loosely leashed dogs?

The answer is everyone, apparently, when the alternative is climbing smoothly paved streets with a 12% grade. Given the choice between rocks and a hard place, most riders seemed to opt for the cobbles of Cresson Street — because I sure as hill didn’t see anyone else on a bike when I took the steep detour route on my return trip.

I suppose this means I have an extreme aversion to flat tires, particularly considering the fact that I was equipped with everything necessary to deal with one (spare tube, tire levers, CO2 inflator, and a patch kit, to boot). Or maybe I just don’t like the idea of getting my wheel caught in a groove on the road, as my unlucky sister did before getting thrown by a freakish, elbow-breaking wheelie.

Regardless, I’ll leave it to those of you with no bike sins to cast the first cobblestone.

This month has been a marathon. It began not with a bang, not even with a whimper, but the quiet rustle of me standing up from my chair.

The Philadelphia Sheriff’s Office put the house I was hoping buy on the block in early June. The winning bidder in a Philly mortgage foreclosure auction must pay 10% of the winning bid on the spot as a deposit fee — in cash, or a cash equivalent like a bank check or a money order. That’s where it gets interesting.

If you’re trying to bid on a single property, a cashier’s check is not a viable option. You have no idea what your winning bid might be, and you’re left with no out if your bid is unsuccessful. (Trying to redeposit funds from an unused cashier’s check after it has already been made out to someone else? You’d probably have an easier time putting a newborn baby back where it came from.)

Walking through the city with a five-figure sum of cash tucked in my pocket? Terrifying and ridiculous on too many levels to contemplate.

This leaves money orders, which you can obtain at your neighborhood post office for an economical price. After spending a good long time in line, with about 60 minutes left before the onset of the auction, I was in for a surprise from our friends at USPS. If you want to obtain more than $2,999.99 in money orders, you need to fill out a form that lists your date of birth and your Social Security number. “Can’t you do this without my SSN? You’re not checking it against anything,” I said. No, they told me, I’d have to complete the walking identity-theft worksheet or stop just shy of $3K.

At this point, one of my contact lenses was causing my eye to water uncontrollably. I’ve never had that type of problem before or since, but I’m sure I was the picture of credibility as my hand continuously fiddled with my left eye.

With the clock ticking down, I returned to my own bank. Of course, they would issue me money orders — for over three times the price charged by the Post Office. And they would do it slowly. Really slowly. After they filled forms. Lots of forms. A thousand dollars at a time. Tick, tick, tick.

And no, throughout the entire branch, there was not a single box of Kleenex for my eye, which at this point was going haywire. A teller brought me a giant wad of toilet paper to daub my eye while I waited for the money orders to be drafted. Of course, I worked my way through the TP long before the bank worked its way through the MOs.

I eventually got out of the bank branch with money orders in hand, walking several blocks to the site of the auction. By the time I arrived, the auction had started, but they still needed to move through dozens of other lots before reaching mine. It was a strangely muted affair that day, with an unusually high number of properties being pulled off the block before bidding began. There was also relatively light bidding over the properties that did go up for sale.

Shortly before the auctioneer reached the property I was waiting for, a 10-minute recess was called. By then, my left eye had morphed into a natural spring. I walked into the bathroom, pulled out both disposable contact lenses, and tossed them into the trash. I had neglected to bring along a pair of glasses as backup, so I wandered back to the auction room in a nervous, myopic haze.

The auction itself passed in a blur, but not because of my eyes. When the writ number for my desired property was called, I stood up, as all bidders are expected to do. Moments after I rose, over a half-dozen other people stood up from their chairs as well. Developers all, circllng like sharks. Within mere seconds, the bidding had blown past the maximum amount I was prepared to pay — and kept going strong until it was a full 70% beyond the absolute limit I had set for myself, posting one of the highest prices of the day.

To summarize: No USPS money orders, no Kleenex, no contact lenses, no house.

There are also no words for the relief I felt once the whole business was over. Having a month’s cool-off time since I originally prepared to bid on the house made me realize just how much I enjoy living right where I am. Kansas it ain’t, but so what? There’s no place like…

There’s nothing like coming home after a long Friday at work and discovering an envelope from the Internal Revenue Service waiting for you.

Ignorance may be bliss, but bad arithmetic, well…

This was going to be the year I went over to the other side and finally used tax preparation software. The year when I would let automation erase my tax worries. The year of turbocutting, web enabling, and fast filing. In the end, I succumbed to my annual routine of mechanical pencils and quality photocopier time, concluding that my paperwork was still manageable.

Hmmm…Brain not werk so gud.

On the bright side, I overpaid, so Uncle Sam will be sending me a little gift. Maybe I should apply it towards an oil change for my noggin.

And now, a small snippet of urban life:

The scene: Trader Joe’s, less than 30 minutes to closing. I’m walking to the checkout aisle with a basket full of this-n-that. As I approach the line, a young guy is close on my heels — so close, he’s almost bumping into me. While we wait in line, he remains justthisclose, clutching a bundle of flowers in his hand.

As a courtesy, I gesture for him to go ahead of me when it’s my turn at the register. Without a word or any gesture of acknowledgment, he quickly moves around me to the cashier. While using a credit card to pay for the flowers, he refrains from saying a word to the characteristically friendly TJ’s cashier, leaving us all standing around in silence while the transaction is being electronically processed.

Okay, Flower Boy, a few pointers:

• Don’t buy flowers for a woman only when you’re in the doghouse. This turns flowers into a Pavlovian ringer for unpleasant things — like funerals, and “Whoops, I did it again.”
• If you do buy flowers in order to get in someone’s good graces, try to spring for something more than a cluster of alstroemeria. The label may say “Peruvian lilies,” but buying the most inexpensive, uncreative clump of filler flora in a grocery store says “I’m cheap…AND thoughtless.”
• Try this on for size: “Thanks.” If you learn to use that word a little more often, you won’t need to rush into shops late at night searching for a relationship shovel made out of chlorophyll.

Exeunt doghouse, pursued by a bear (and flowers) from deepest Peru.