It all started pretty innocently... (That's what I say when I want to abdicate all responsibility from what follows.) I also have to remind you that I didn't search any of this out, but God (or the forces of evil, you choose) saw fit to radically alter the course of my Saturday and afford me experiences for which there is no cure. I see them when I sleep and when I wake. So, I offer you this warning: this story may impact you the way it did my friend before church this morning. She was fixated, and it was a struggle just to lead worship. Don't worry, Chrystal, I won't mention your name.
My wife, Mandy, and I were the musician and photographer (not respectively) at the wedding of my friend, Katy. Kind of a package deal. We also do quinceanera's and mitzvah's (both bar- and bat-). Anyway, I dropped Mandy off for her marathon day at about 11am, and that gave me until 3:30 on my own to paint the proverbial town the proverbial color. I decided that I wanted to eat something weird, as my wife is diametrically opposed to trying anything new, so I headed to State Street in Madison and an Afghani restaurant that I've always wanted to try
When I got there, I quickly realized that the Madison Farmer's Market had taken over the Capitol Square, which suited me just fine. I shuffled around with the crowd for a few minutes but very quickly got sick of touching everyone around me, so I headed for State Street.
Now, this is where things take a turn for the weird. As I got to the corner where State meets the capitol square, a small booth of knock-off t-shirts caught my eye (I'm a sucker for a great FUBO garment). As I was eyeing the high quality merchandise, I failed to notice a line of police officers setting up a human barricade 10 feet behind me. Then I heard a commotion slowly creeping up to my left. When I turned around to look, it began an episode that rooted me in shock for the next 5-10 minutes. Riding nonchalantly through the capitol square was a group of 20-30 naked bicyclists. Nope, you read it right, I said “naked.” (although for the sake of accuracy, not all were naked. Some had on what may be construed as underwear... not by me, but I'm sure by someone.)
Click here to watch the Channel 15 News Story
Within just a few seconds, this bicycle-gang-au-naturale, complete with hair, breasts, body paint, hair, underwear, butts, and did I mention hair?... ran headlong into the barrier formed by Madison's finest. What ensued was quite a spectacle, and I can never do it justice. There was a lot of shouting. There was a lot of parading. There were a lot of breasts. There were a LOT of breasts. The police sternly warned that anyone who failed to clothe themselves would be arrested for public indecency, and the response was less than enthusiastic. One rather, well... gifted... woman decided to make her stand and let her voice be heard, although I can't say I recall anything she said. It was then that the paddy wagon pulled up and the police began following through on their ultimatum.
I'm not sure when it happened, but the crowded Farmer's Market very quickly became a mob tightly encircling the police, the bicyclists... and me. That's right, it was at about this time that I finally took stock of my proximity to the players in this little drama and proceeded to panic. I was right in the middle of the “action,” and caught a glimpse of a video camera pointed right at us (“us” being myself and the naked people.) There was, however, no escape from the circle of doom. I would have to ride out the proceedings from the best (or worst) seat in the house.
The first click of a handcuff brought what can only be described as a deluge from the crowd. The cops had started off with the hot chick (stupid move if you ask me), and the crowd almost rioted. Boos rang out as the police escorted the free peep show down the street, and the men around me began to panic. But it wasn't just the men. One elderly woman behind me warbled out, “Leave her alone... it's just natural!” And an apparently “empowered” woman cried, “If the men can go without their shirts, why can't she?!” Why can't she, indeed?
One woman decided to make a run for it, which turned out to be a mistake. A large cop determined that this villain should not be allowed to escape to Mexico or wherever, so he ran at her full speed and tackled her right off her bike. It was, to say the least, not a thing of beauty as bicycle and nudist and law-enforcement-official tumbled down State Street.
Very soon, all cyclists were either arrested or partially clothed (although the body-painters somehow escaped the wrath of the fuzz), and the gang moved off down the street. There was a pregnant moment, however, when those of us in the mob realized what had just happened. It was a little like that moment in an elevator when it's full and you stop unexpectedly on a floor and somebody's got to say, “Sorry, we don't have any space,” but you all know that you could have made room, but you didn't want to. Yeah, it was a little like that. The awkwardness of a shared illicit experience settled over us like a heavy fog, and we slowly dispersed to wallow in our self-loathing.
Still shell-shocked, I ambled down the street deep in thought, although I wasn't going to let this ruin my chance at some weird Afghani food. And it was de-lish. Mashawa soup, flatbread with cilantro sauce, and lamb-kabobs... The Kabul Restaurant on State Street. I'll plug it if I want.
After lunch, I still had a couple of hours to kill, so I decided to make my way over to the lake at the park just south of Monona Terrace. I got out my guitar so I could go over my music for the wedding and maybe sit and play or write a little. It was just beautiful, with the breeze coming off the lake, sitting back about 20 feet under a big tree. I was there for a little over an hour, watching the boats go by, listening to the lap of the waves on the shore, and just coming to grips with what happened back in front of the Capitol building.
I was just writing a new riff that I thought might make a cool beginning to a song I've been working on when I spotted a woman in a kayak making her way toward the stairs that I was just noticing came up from the water in front of me. She jostled her way up the stairs with her kayak, followed by her friend, who made a nice comment about the wonderful guitar music serenading their exit of the water. Both women proceeded to sit down to catch their breath, and I went back to my excellent new riff.
I was really nailing it down when I noticed one of the middle-aged women rest her head on the shoulder of the other. I thought briefly that the wind must have been pretty rough and they must be pretty tired, but this chord progression is blowing my mind! Lost in my musical genius, I once again glanced up at my shore-mates and got my second shock of the day. I had unwittingly stumbled into becoming the soundtrack to what can only be called a crazy lesbian make-out session. Apparently my new little riff had sparked something in my new friends that was a little different than I had originally intended, and I was dumbstruck to say the least.
But in the course of two bars of music, I had this internal dialogue: “Holy crap, can they do that in public? Wait, am I a little homophobic about this right now? I hope not... But I can't just stop playing or else they'll know that I'm uncomfortable, and there's no fate worse than that. What if it were a guy and a girl? I'd still think it's weird, but the backs of my ears wouldn't be sweating. Wait, do I like this? I don't have to answer that... just keep playing... just keep playing... just keep playing...” And so I did. And they finished. And they walked off. And my genius riff walked off with them. It's a sad day for all music. It was that good.
I would like to make some pithy observation about life and love and nakedness, but I'm not sure there's one here. Just the craziest friggin' day I've ever lived.
No comments:
Post a Comment