Friday, October 15, 2004

Motorcycle Dreamin'. Em's mom bought a Harley this week! Too bitchin', as it really is a cool looking bike. She asked if I wanted to take the Texas State Motorcycle license test. I said maybe, but with this house coming up, it might be missappropriated time.

I looked at the current crop of crotch rockets from Honda, Suzuki and Yamaha but I Em believes I'll kill myself on one. There's a bit of truth to that, but you ride the same roads as a cruiser and could run into the same risks of injury and decapitations.

I was telling Dave at work all this and he said I'd need to start out with a lower powered bike, like a Vespa or a motorized razor scooter. I thought to myself, how lame would it be that my Mother-in-Law has a more powerful bike than I do. Oh well, that's at least a year off until this dream materializes. Heck, I might be riding bitch with Sue for longer than that.

Speaking of hogs, I talked to the General to see if I could pique his interest in reclaiming his glory days with a cruiser. His excuse was that he was having a baby soon, but it might be a possibility since his P-O-S mini-van thing is about to die any minute. I'm sure his car has wanted to die many times, but he keeps reviving it with some South Texas automotive tricks he picks up on.

It reminds me of a time when my old Integra had a radiator leak and he told me to put $0.99 chili pepper in the radiator to 'plug' up the hole. I took one look at his car (black smoke, squealing tires and all) and opted not too. Here's an ode to the General's car (past and present):

Twice on one summer's eve,
came The General's iron steed.
Twice reminded on this clear day,
how negligence makes it's way.
"The oil is black, the transmission shot.
The brake pads could not be bought."

The smell of sulfur fills my nostrils,
the drip of leaky coolant; a mouthful.
The squeal of the tires send me reeling,
the blue paint, from the sun, is peeling.
What life does this automobile to live?
Why does the owner refuse to give?

The inside is a coffin of dismay,
laid bare from years of decay.
Power windows, a gift of the bourgeois,
and the upholstry stinks of old Drakkar.
(Yet the radio plays one channel of piano,
the other 8 hours, it's Tejano)

I said, "Why do you drive this car so?"
Quickly, "Me? I just need it to go."
Rusted, holes litter the frame all over,
"The wheels--the wheels, they have no covers."
"That's because they are costly to mount,
and I have very little in my bank account."

He left me that very summer's dusk,
in fogs of smoke and gasoline musk.
Before he went, I asked him frantic,
to take the beast to an ASE mechanic.
"I know not of anyone to repair these,
because they charge extra for Mitsubishi's."

You know what, to be fair, The Gimp has a ragged out truck and Wally's car ain't a looker either. Maybe i'll write an ode to these junkers too. I had an 86' Accord that I put more than $1,500.00 to get to working again, but it didn't matter--it still didn't pick up the chicks. In the end though, as long as it get's you there, it doesn't matter.
posted by HZA | 11:46 AM | email | archive