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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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Types Of Boys
Types of Women Took Frida out for a ride on Saturday, down to the farmer's market in order to stock up on fabulous produce (kale, chard, collard greens, tomatoes, peaches, plums, pears, green peppers, snap peas, okra, carrots, melons, basil, you name it, it jumped in my bag), and there I met a tall, soccer-mom-looking type woman who had a friendly chocolate laborador retriever on a leash. Since I am a lover of dogs, I asked her if I could pet her gorgeous dog. She agreed to this interaction, and while I was petting away, she eyed my red and black motorcycle jacket and asked, "What did you ride in on?" I told her that I had a Kawasaki Ninja 250, and then, surprise, she told me what kind of bike she had. We talked about tank bags and such and she gave me a fabulous tip on where to get tank bags. Max's mom, who met Frida yesterday, asked what kind of bikes you see women on, and I guess it was a strange question, but it did make me think about an answer. I don't think it's very common to see women on sports bikes. From my observations, women tend to ride classic-type bikes. Sports bike riders seem mostly to be boys of a certain age (I love that term: boys of a certain age), the kind of guy you look at and think, he's going to kill himself on that thing (usually because they're riding 90 mph down the highway wearing shorts and flip-flops, carrying a messenger bag, and, in one notable case, talking on a cell phone). Women tend, I think, to shy away from the kind of bikes that look, even when parked, as though they were going 90 mph. Boys Of A Certain Age And I was telling Paul the Physicist and my fabulous walking partner Judi that anymore the only books I read are about bodybuilding and motorcycles, and how I think therefore that I am turning into a teenaged boy. They laughed. I said, "So if you come over and lift up my mattress and find a Playboy, you'll know the transformation is complete." Paul said, "You need a guitar," which was the most brilliant thing to say ever. And it got me to thinking: If I were to become a teenaged boy, what flavor of boy would I be? Would I, for example, be the type of boy who listens to that lonely-boy music (electronica shit and The Smiths), or would I be the heavy metal flavored boy? I think it's six of one, half dozen of the other when you consider that either way I'd get to wear the black t-shirts and agonize over why the girl I'm pining for doesn't want me. Ride, Baby, Ride I took Frida out for what was supposed to be a short ride yesterday. It turned into a long ride because the nearby coffeeshop destination was closed for the holiday, which necessitated a longer ride to a more distant coffeeshop. It was great because I met up with San, the fabulous artist, and her new platonic roommate Mike (a woman). San had just returned from a few weeks in Corfu and had fabulous stories to tell. (She always has fabulous stories, including one of my favorites in which she, taking pity on a mouse she caught in her house, gave the mouse a bath and a raisin for a snack. It was such an "I'm an eight year old" thing to do, and San is actually probably in her late-40's at least.) We sat for hours and hours, and since the coffee shop has nothing but nothing I can eat, I ended up eating a side of dry wheat toast and a salad and drinking coffee until I couldn't see straight. Then I had to drive home. I was all shaky and my blood sugar plummeted and I looked as though I had been zombified. And put on the back of a bike and sent out to find and consume brains. I was so shaky that I had to stop and buy a Clif's bar and, for some inexplicable reason known only to the glucose-deprived Brain, celery. I sat in the parking lot of the grocery store and ate my Clif's bar and my celery and then jumped on my bike, vowing never to go hungry again--or at least to avoid riding Frida when my blood-sugar levels were in the basement. So now glucose enough for The Brain has been added to my list of protective gear. It's Official I think I'm in love with Valentino Rossi.
More lies:
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