|Fucked Up and Wonderful|
|I slew (slayed? Have slain? All that!) 50k words!|
|Sat, 29 Nov 2014 20:05:00 +0000|
|For the first time since I signed up at nanowrimo.org (National Novel Writing Month) seven years ago, I succeeded in writing a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. And it's only November 29th.|
As of Tuesday, November 18th, I needed to write 2400 words per day to meet the goal. By last Saturday, November 22nd, that per day word count had eked its way up to more like 3000. I started to lose hope because I knew we would be traveling for Thanksgiving in just a couple days and I didn't want to travel with a laptop.
But such things as pen and paper exist and a three hour flight is a good opportunity to catch up on writing. I nearly met my goal on that travel day and knowing I could write that much by hand inspired me to keep going. And simply keeping going inspired me to meet my word count goals every day. Then getting so close to finishing inspired me to just finish. Having a supportive husband and in-laws helped. "No, we can't bother Stina--she's writing!" I'm thankful for that this Thanksgiving weekend.
There will be a lengthy editing process before what I wrote will be released for the general public, but I'm committed to doing that and sharing what I've been working on this month. I don't just write for myself, and for that reason I'm going to share the prologue and first chapter of my first novel at the end of this post.
I wrote The Good Message of the Hand Dryer in the spring of 2010 and edited it the following year. Ever since then, it's just been waiting for me to do something with it. I'd like to share it with the world, so I'm going to see about publishing it online. Until I do so, here's a bit to get you started:
Eleven was born on the eleventh of January. Her parents had been told by more than one expert that the baby was most certainly a boy, but after a 17 hour labor, it most certainly wasn't. Hank and Rebecca were exhausted and didn't know what to call her, so they flipped a coin over January or Eleven. Tails won, and Grandma Rose's name worked as well for a middle name as Grandpa Henry's would have. With that, Eleven Rose Wunsch joined the world.
Eleven's ten year old brother, Joe, had high hopes riding on the baby being a boy. He was going to teach his little brother everything he knew, and then some. He couldn't get over his disappointment, so he ignored his little sister for the next eight years, then went off to college and ignored her some more.
The summer before Joe left for college, the family took a road trip from San Diego up the coast and she annoyed him the whole way. By the end of the trip she realized the way to get close to him was not by annoying him, but by pretending to sleep leaning on his shoulder. They arrived home and she stayed there, fake-sleeping on his shoulder.
“I can't get out,” he whispered to their parents. She kept herself from smiling, though she was ecstatic. It was the longest amount of time she'd ever been this close to him, where she could smell his aftershave (it was overwhelming and gave her a headache), his deodorant (likewise) and his hair gel (triple whammy).
If only she'd figured this out sooner. How many hours could she have pretended to sleep on him, secretly reading whatever he was reading, listening to his phone conversations and music, feeling his shirt sleeve under her head? He flew to New York the next day with Dad and she stayed home with Mom.
The next year they took another road trip. Her brother got an internship at a law office in New York, so he didn't join them. They went from San Diego to Yuma, Yuma to Phoenix, Phoenix to Tucson, Tucson to Las Cruces, and from Las Cruces to Carlsbad to see the bats. Somewhere along the way between Phoenix and Tucson, everyone had to pee. They saw a sign for a gas station and took that exit. Eleven was excited because she saw signs for “Live Rattlesnakes!” and “Feed a Rattlesnake!” She'd never fed a rattlesnake before.
The toilets were on the outside of the gas station, a single one for women and a single one for men. Eleven's mom got the key and let her go first. When she was done, she washed her hands with soap, singing her ABCs as she scrubbed. Then she went to dry her hands. There was a hand dryer and there were paper towels. Eleven strictly used hand dryers or nothing at all when they weren't available. She pressed the button and started reciting what she liked to call The Good Message of the Hand Dryer.
“Dryers help protect the environment. They save trees from being used for paper towels. They eliminate paper towel waste. They are more sanitary to use than paper towels and help maintain cleaner facilities.”
She read it off the dryer first, then closed her eyes and said it from memory. She got the whole thing right in one try. Just before the dryer automatically shut off, she thought she heard a sound coming from it. Her hands weren't quite dry, so she pressed it again. There was a knock on the door.
“Eleven, are you done? I really have to go!”
“Hold your horses, Mom!”
She was listening to the hand dryer as she rubbed her hands together. There it was again. Music. She stopped rubbing her hands and moved her head closer. It was bagpipe music. She stepped back from the dryer and listened by the door. No, it was definitely coming from the dryer.
She opened the door for her mom.
“Mom, listen to this!”
The dryer had just turned off, so she pressed it again. Her mom rushed in, pulled her shorts down, and sat down on the toilet.
“Eleven, lock the door.”
“Do you hear it?”
“Lock the door, Eleven!”
Eleven stood like an Irish step-dancer and skipped over to the door and locked it. She continued skipping around the small bathroom.
“What are you doing, you little weirdo?” her mom asked.
“I'm dancing to the music!”
“The bagpipe music!”
“Ah. I see.”
Her mom finished, washed her hands at the sink, and grabbed a paper towel just as the dryer stopped again.
“Mom, nooooooooooooo!” Eleven marched over to the dryer and turned it on again. “Use this,” she said, pointing to the dryer.
“Oh, sorry. I forgot,” her mom said.
“And dance to the music!” Eleven started skipping around the bathroom again as her mom rubbed her hands under the dryer.
There was a knock on the door.
“You two about finished? Those rattlesnakes are getting hungry!” Eleven's dad said.
“To the rattlesnakes!” her mom said.
“To the rattlesnakes!” Eleven said.
Her mom opened the door and walked out, and Eleven followed her. Halfway through the door she stopped and turned around and bowed to the hand dryer.
“Thank you for the music.”
There were a bunch of snakes in a pit. A man poked a long stick with a red cloth tied to the end of it into the pile of writhing snakes, and several of them bit at the cloth. Then the man gave her a dead mouse to toss into the pit.
“Whoa,” she said and picked up the mouse by the tail.
“Brave little girl you got there, folks,” the man said to her parents as she tossed the mouse into the pit.
There was a frenzy of movement and then calm. Eleven could see that one snake had a lump inside it.
As they were passing the gas station on the way back to the freeway, Eleven asked if they could stop.
“Do you have to pee again?” her mom said.
“No, I just wanted to hear the music.”
“We can listen to the radio, honey.”
“I have to pee again!”
Eleven's mom turned around and looked at her with a very Mom look. “You just said you didn't have to pee. Do you or do you not have to pee?”
“No,” she said in a small voice.
“That's what I thought.” Her mom settled back into her seat.
It was December. Eleven was at the store, ready to greet the next customer. It was before 4pm and after the lunch crowd and she was in a bad mood. During her lunch break, she had called the guy she was kind of dating and told him she couldn't see him right now. When he'd asked why, she'd said, “It's too busy at the store during the holidays.” He'd given up without a fight, though she knew it was a lame excuse. That meant he hadn't been too interested and that put her in a bad mood. A customer walked in.
“Hello! Welcome to Bea Arthur's. Let me know if there's anything I help you with.” She flashed a bright smile that she hoped looked sincere.
The customer smiled back and said, “Thanks, just looking.”
Eleven scanned the store. She headed to the children's section in the back first. Nobody there. Then she went over to the greeting cards and journals. An old woman was perusing the cards and had a small stack of items on the floor near her.
“Would you like me take these things up to the counter, Mrs. Holgott?”
“Oh, yes, thank you, Eleven.”
She bent down and picked up three votive candles, a votive candle holder, and four cloth napkins. The red of the votives matched the holly design on the napkins.
“Is this a gift, Mrs. Holgott?”
“It is, for my granddaughter. She just bought a house, and I thought those would look nice in her dining room.”
“I'm sure they will. The candles match the napkins perfectly. Would you like me to gift wrap it for you?”
“Oh, yes, please. That would be wonderful. Could you do it in Christmas paper?”
“Of course. I'll have it ready and waiting for you whenever you're finished.”
Eleven smiled again, a real smile. She liked Mrs. Holgott. The woman came in nearly every day, often just to browse or pick up one little candy. She was nice, and patient.
As Eleven walked back to the counter, she looked around to see if anyone new had entered the store.
There was the same woman, Just Looking, but no one else. It was nice when it was this quiet. Bea would be back from her lunch break soon, in time for the after-work crowds.
Eleven pulled the price tags, then arranged the items neatly in a box with tissue paper. She took her time wrapping the gift, making the folds just so and losing herself a bit in the details. She imagined Mrs. Holgott's face when she saw the gift, then imagined Mrs. Holgott's granddaughter's face, and how she wouldn't want to open it because it looked so beautiful. The fantasy was building in her mind—the gift being passed unopened from generation to generation—when Eleven felt like someone was watching her. She looked up and saw Just Looking glancing her way, so she stepped out from behind the counter and approached her.
The woman pulled a washcloth from her purse. “Do you see this?”
Eleven looked at the washcloth. It was blue and looked used. “Yes, ma'am, I see the washcloth.”
“Well, do you see the spot?” The woman pointed to a corner of the washcloth.
Eleven looked closer. She thought she could make out a faint brown stain by the woman's finger. “I think I see a little stain.”
“Good. I'd like to exchange it for this one.” She picked up a dark blue washcloth.
Eleven took a deep breath. She hated customers like this. “Do you have a receipt for the washcloth, ma’am?”
“No, I don't have a receipt! I've never needed a receipt to exchange anything here before. Is Bea here?”
“She'll be back from her lunch break soon. I can help you, though. It's just that this washcloth is dirty and used, so you can't exchange it.”
Eleven tried to smile as if she understood the woman's problem, but it felt thin. She had no patience for this today.
The woman huffed. “I've never been treated this way here before. I want to talk to Bea right now.”
“By all means, let me interrupt her lunch break for your ever so important washcloth issue.”
Eleven smiled even bigger, then marched to the back of the store. As she passed Mrs. Holgott, she heard the woman humming along to the Celtic music playing over the speakers.
She stopped outside the office door, her fake smile crumbling from her face. She opened the door and peeked her head around and saw Bea sorting through the inventory pages from a recent order. She cleared her throat and Bea turned to look at her.
“What's wrong, Eleven?”
Eleven realized there were tears pooling in her eyes. “There's a customer who'd like to talk to you. She has a problem with a washcloth she says she bought here. I was kind of rude to her.”
Eleven's voice was trembling and she was having a hard time holding her mouth in a normal way. Her chin just wouldn't relax.
“Sit down here.” Bea got up and motioned to her chair. “I'll go and talk to her. I'm sure there's just a misunderstanding. I can't imagine your being rude to anyone.”
Bea walked out of the office and Eleven sat down and started crying. She'd never acted like that with a customer before. She was so sick of fake smiles and always having to be in a good mood and pandering to bitchy customers who treated her like it was her life's work to please them. She started crying harder and put her head down on the table in front of her. It was her life's work to please them and she hated it.
She took a couple sobbing breaths and sat up. She needed to pull it together. Just one unhappy woman facing another unhappy woman with unhappy results. Nothing to cry over. She got up and walked out of the office, checking to make sure the door was locked behind her. She turned to the right and into the small bathroom and locked herself in. She stood in front of the mirror.
No makeup on, so nothing for tears to smear. Her eyes were bloodshot, making the blue stand out in contrast. They were kind of puffy, too. She turned the cold water on, bent down, and splashed it onto her face.
She looked up at the water dripping off her face and snarled at herself. She was really good at lifting the left side of her lip, but couldn't lift the right side without taking her whole mouth with. She grabbed a paper towel and used it to dry off her face first, then her hands. She soaked the towel through but didn't take another.
She pulled the elastic off her ponytail and smoothed her long, light-brown hair back into a new ponytail. She took a deep breath and didn't smile. No more fake smiles. She turned off the light, opened the door, and headed back into the store.
|My Totally Subjective, Short Reviews of All The Movies I Saw In 2013|
|Sat, 04 Jan 2014 05:49:00 +0000|
|Have I mentioned I work at a movie theatre? It's just like what you'd expect--low pay, grubby work, and one awesome perk: free movies. I hereby present a list of all the movies Brendan and I saw in 2013, with some words or, shall we say, reviews.|
P.S. There will be spoilers. Beware.
69 films in total. Aw, yeah.
|Comic-Con: How to Avoid Waiting in Lines|
|Tue, 30 Jul 2013 05:57:00 +0000|
|It's pretty easy to avoid waiting in lines at Comic-Con. Just pick panels with titles like "All Shapes and Sizes Welcome: Body Image and Women's Issues in the Entertainment Industry." I'm being tongue-in-cheek, but it is true we didn't have to wait in line to attend this panel, whereas we had to wait an hour to attend "What's New with Magic: The Gathering." And even that was nothing compared to the hardcore Comic-Con attendees who wait overnight to get into Hall H.|
I wanted to attend the body image and women's issues panel because Brendan and I are interested in these things and I hoped the panel would offer some interesting new insights. I was overall disappointed with the panel. I felt like the panelists were too easily sidetracked by irrelevant points, case in point when panelist Adrianne Curry went off on a weird tirade about gay fashion designers. However, it did raise some good questions and when I further researched some of the panelists, I came to the conclusion that they are interesting and insightful women who are doing something really admirable simply by having a panel like this. The important thing that they're doing, and what I want to do, is raise a dialogue.
One of the panelists, Helenna Santos-Levy, talked about a debate she got into with her mother that was sparked by high heels. Her mom compared high heels to foot binding, but the panelist argued that she liked them. They made her feel sexy.
So my question whenever I hear that high heels or makeup or A, B, or C other thing that women wear or do to alter their bodies in some way, is why? Why does something that hurts, or that is annoyingly time-consuming to apply, make us feel sexy? It turned out Helenna Santos-Levy had already written a whole blog post of her own about this on her website (which I recommend checking out) Ms. In The Biz, titled Sex Pots, Strippers, and Lady Parts...Oh My!
In this blog, she asks, "Why do 3 inch heels that are hell to walk in or even stand in for that matter, make me feel sexy and powerful?" Her answer is simple: "Well, we still live in a male dominated culture."
Yes. And I would add that we live in an advertising dominated culture.These things combined wreak havoc not just on women's body image, but on our collective society's body image.
I spent my teenage years wanting little more than to be beautiful and have a boyfriend. I bought teen fashion and beauty magazines and read books about how to apply makeup. By the time I was in my twenties, I habitually wore makeup. Nothing too crazy. Just a little foundation, pressed powder, a touch of eyeliner, and some mascara. But eventually I realized something: "It was dictating my self-worth." I'm quoting another great Ms. In The Biz blog by Holly Elissa, titled My Social Experiment: Cosmetics and Women's Worth. She came to that conclusion about the makeup she wore, and the blog is about how she went to a Hollywood event with no makeup on.
When I came to that conclusion, it was in large part because a smart man who eventually became my husband asked me why. Why did I wear makeup? Why did I shave? The surface answer was that it made me feel attractive. But why did it make me feel attractive? Why didn't I feel attractive just as I was?
There's a quote I love, love, love from Crimethinc. Ex-Workers' Collective. "Beauty must be defined as what we are, or else the concept itself is our enemy."
I stopped wearing makeup and shaving when I realized I didn't have a good answer for why shaving and wearing makeup made me feel more attractive. I didn't like the answer I realized was true, which was that I'd bought into the lies advertisers and society were feeding me. That I needed to "enhance" my face. That hairless skin is normal and hair is gross. That society's idea of beauty is some sort of attainable ideal that I should be striving towards.
I often have to remind myself of that quote. I am still affected by advertising. I don't wear tank tops as often as I probably would if I shaved my pits. But then I go to the hairy pits club on Tumblr and read cool blogs like this one and I'm reminded that I'm not the only one trying to rebel against societal pressures.
I feel like this is where I often see disclaimers on other blogs that the authors are not judging other people who choose to do A, B, or C that the author is talking about. And I get that. I don't want to judge, either. We're all figuring this shit out as we go along. But I do want to question, and I want you to question. You shave? Ok. But why do shave? Why did you start shaving in the first place? I started because of my older sister, which I wrote about here. Do you think you would still want to shave if you weren't inundated by advertisements featuring beautiful hairless people? What about makeup? Hell, let's talk bras. Why do you wear one? You may come to different conclusions than I did. That's cool. Let's talk about it. I'd love to know why.
It's been a process, training myself not to see my armpit hair as gross and to not feel unattractive without makeup. But I think it's totally worth it. I want to live as if society were the way I want it to be. I want to contribute to changing the norm.
*It has just been pointed out to me that it's hard to see links in my blog. I've changed the color scheme a bit so hopefully that won't be a problem anymore, but just in case you missed them, here's a list of all the links provided in this blog post:
|Feminism on street corners, Part 2|
|Tue, 02 Jul 2013 05:08:00 +0000|
|After rereading my last blog post, I realized a couple things I should have made clearer. One, the post was inspired by this blog in The Guardian by Jinan Younis. Jinan Younis is a teenager in England and the blog post is titled "What happened when I started a feminist society at school." It's a good article, and what happened to her and her classmates is horrifying. Read it. Be informed.|
Two, this incident where the guy said "See you, baby" to me was not an anomaly. I'd estimate that I get some kind of comment, whistle, or hoot a couple times a week, usually when I'm bicycling, sometimes when I'm walking or taking public transit.
My friend Sebastian left an interesting comment on my previous post. Two of his female friends regularly deal with men they pass on the street telling them to smile. Sebastian lives in Magdeburg, Germany, and was our neighbor when we lived there for a year from 2009-2010. I recall this same thing occasionally happening to me during that time. It's wrapped in a less obvious package than a whistle or hoot, but it's still a man objectifying a woman. By not smiling, the woman is not fitting the man's fantasy Jinan Younis talks about in her blog, so he's trying to rectify that.
I've mentioned that I like making people feel good. One way I've traditionally done this is by smiling at people when I pass them in the street. Lately I've felt like I've been hollered at by men less frequently than in the past, and I wondered why. I realized that I've stopped making eye contact and smiling at people as often as I used to.
This pisses me off. I should not have to stop smiling in order to stop receiving sexist comments. And no woman should have to start smiling in order to fit a man's image of what she should be.
My friend Kashena also left a good comment on my previous post. My favorite part: "Point is - even if it's uncomfortable, even if you feel like you're doing it 'wrong' - say something, because it's unlikely too many others will."
The other day at work I was carrying a largeish ladder. I had just finished cleaning port glass windows (I work at a movie theatre) and was going to put the ladder away. A young male co-worker saw me and said, "You shouldn't be carrying that! You need a man" and came running to my "rescue." I said "No, thanks, I'm doing just fine" and continued on my way. He insisted. I insisted. We awkwardly carried the ladder together the rest of the way down the hallway.
With my own desires to be more outspoken and Kashena's words of wisdom in mind, when my co-worker said "You're the reason chivalry is dead!" I responded with something along the lines of, "You know, I do have a problem with chivalry. I have a problem with the idea that men can do something and women can't. What I would be fine with, however, is if you saw me carrying this ladder and said, 'Hey, that looks heavy, can I help you with it?'" He responded, "That's the same thing!" I said, "No, it's not. That's a co-worker helping a co-worker. Please remember that for next time, and thank you for your help."
I'll keep on carrying ladders and I'll probably continue to keep my guard up when I travel to and from work. It makes me angry that my smile is viewed as an invitation, but you know, if my lack of a smile helps to shatter some guy's fantasy that I'm just a pretty face, I guess that's one way I can communicate with total strangers on the street.
|Feminism on street corners|
|Sun, 23 Jun 2013 11:33:00 +0000|
|I was bicycling home from the Hollywood Fringe Festival the other day and I stopped at a red light. There were a guy and a gal pedestrian waiting at the crosswalk. They appeared to be together. The light turned green and as I was taking off, the man looked at me and said "See you, baby."|
A torrent of profanity-laced thoughts shouted through my lead, the gist being: Why the fuck are you talking to me? Am I your fucking baby? And if that woman with you is someone you whisper "baby" to in the middle of the night, then why the fuck are you looking at/talking to me? And just, why? Who do you think you are and who do you think I am?
I wanted to shout those things in his face. I would probably never actually do that. But what if I did? I imagine the response would be something like what happened to Jinan Younis when she responded to a group of men sexually harassing her and her friends. The men got pissed. As she says, "For those men we were just legs, breasts and pretty faces. Speaking up shattered their fantasy, and they responded violently to my voice."
How is a feminist to respond to the passing "hey baby"? Is there a way to respond that would promote healthy dialogue with the perpetrator? Usually I'm tempted to flip off the offending party and I don't do even that, but instead just ignore them and continue along my way. I don't feel it's my job to educate every jackass on the street, and I don't want to be met with violence.
But I do want to teach the masses that it's not okay to objectify women.
What a bold statement. Really, if I'm honest, I want the masses to be taught, and I'd like to lend my voice...but I'm afraid. I'm afraid I'll say the wrong thing. I'm afraid I'll sound stupid. I'm afraid I won't have an adequate response if I meet with opposition. I'm afraid of offending people or making them feel bad.
That last one is huge for me. I'm "nice." I get told how nice I am all the time. And I court that opinion by always being helpful, always listening, never offending. And a big part of me is happy to be this way. I like making people feel good. I feel like it's a small way I help make the world a better place. (Aren't I sanctimonious? Of course it strokes my ego to be told I'm nice. Whatever. I'm human.) But sometimes the person on the receiving end of my listening ear says something like, "Well of course we women expect men to treat to us to fancy dinners--do they know how much effort it takes to look like this?"
Too often I let it slide. I don't know exactly how to respond, so I just offer a "huh." In my head, "huh" means "I disagree with what you're saying but don't know how to phrase it or am afraid of offending you or making you feel bad for what you just said." I think in other people's heads "huh" is taken as affirmation of whatever they're saying. So I should probably work on that if I want to be a part of this dialogue.
I guess that's why I'm writing this.
I want to promote open and healthy dialogue about all the shit women face. I want to talk about body image and being a minimum wage worker and armpit hair and how to respond to undesired compliments and all kinds of fucked up and wonderful shit.
So let's do this.
|A few things I love about Los Angeles...|
|Thu, 13 Jun 2013 06:04:00 +0000|
|...as told through a mini photo diary entry. |
You know what's super cool? We live in a city where there are things most people consider "destinations." Like The Ellen DeGeneres show, and Universal Studios. We bought a day and got year passes, and that actually makes sense for us!
There's this cool thing called CicLAvia, where miles of streets are closed to vehicle traffic and open to pedestrian and bicycle traffic. Brendan and I rode Venice Boulevard all the way to the ocean, along with all these other bicyclists!
Sometimes I see people I recognize and I'm like, where do I know that person from? Then I'm like, BECAUSE THEY'RE FAMOUS. Like Stephnie Weir, who was performing an improv set at the same time Brendan was performing an improv set during the LA Improv Comedy Festival at iO West.
I've been watching the flower grow out of this plant for the past, oh, six months or so. It finally started blooming about a month ago, and it just continues its slow roll. How neat is that?
|Auto Vs Bicycle|
|Thu, 30 May 2013 05:18:00 +0000|
|I got hit by a car when riding my bike home from work Thursday night. And what with the way the planets collide, or align, or whatever, it just so happened that I got hit by a car shortly after losing my helmet. And that happened because I accepted a ride from a friend one night when I really should have just ridden my bike home. Ah, choices.|
That scary sounding fracture is just my cheekbone, which will heal on its own. Now that a few days have passed since the accident, the broken cheekbone is probably the most annoying of my injuries, because it means I can't chew as thoroughly as I like to. And if there's one thing you should know about me, it's that I like to chew (Interesting Stina Fact #1).
I went for a little bike ride today, the first one since I got hit. At first I was going to walk to the store, then I realized part of the reason I was going to walk was because I was a little bit askeered to ride my bike. So I decided to ride my bike. Brendan and I both got new helmets yesterday, so my tender noggin was protected, have no fear.
As I was riding, I thought about how accidents really suck. You can be doing everything right, riding safely, with headlight and taillight flashing, not running a single red light like all those other bicyclists you see, and out of the blue you get hit. And you can't even remember anything about it to know whether or not you could have done anything to avoid it.
I don't know who called 911. I don't know if someone had to pull me off the road or if I was able to move myself. The first thing I remember is a state of semi-consciousness in the ambulance. I was totally disoriented. Had no idea what day it was or what I had been doing or what was happening. An EMT asked me if I'd been drinking. (I hadn't. Remember? I was on my way home from work.)
By the time I was in the hospital, I remembered it was Thursday night/Friday morning and that I had been on my way home from work and that I had better call Brendan ASAP because he was probably freaking out. They scanned my head and X-rayed my arm (it's not broken) and I puked and worried about my glasses (they came through unscathed!). And then I got to go home and I spent the next two days sleeping. And now I'm mostly okay. I'm even picking at my scabs, that's how okay I am (okay, was picking at my scabs--I'm a good girl and I stopped because Brendan got really grossed out).
Moral of the story: Auto wins, but in a totally jerky way, so I'll still vote bicycle every time.