Suicidal Ideation ...
... which is the title I attach to every post that contains a photo of a motorcycle I covet.
I used to be hot to trot for a Harley Davidson V-Rod that was frequently parked in front of my house this summer. But now I'm all gaga over this assassin-black Ducati.
I mean, honestly. Is this too much by half? Three quarters? The photo stinks -- iPhone at night with flash. I may go out tomorrow to see if it's still there and capture a better image -- but surely half the people who own such motorcycles are actually employed ninja warriors. What else could they do?
A friend of mine, perhaps a decade older than me, recently purchased an Indian Chief for purposes of motoring about Woodstock, where he's just bought a house. The Indian is something to see, even if only in pictures. It's got this very interesting full-cover front fender, and it's a fuller, richer motorcycle experience than the Ducati.
That isn't accurate at all. But it's a cruising bike, not an F-16 analog. So fuller and richer in that sense, as opposed to, say, when they melt razor blades into the handles of their toothbrushes at Riker's Island. The Ducatti is more like the razor blade business.
Anyway, I asked him to leave the Indian to me in his will, as it surely feels like the next time he gets on it will be his last.
And speaking of near-death experiences, I almost got into a fight at the Peter McManus Cafe -- an unusual event for me given that I'm a placid sort -- because I jocularly called a guy a snowflake. My point was that we are all snowflakes, but he didn't quite latch onto it in the same way.
Just for the record, I could totally have taken the guy. He drops his right hand when he jabs and over the course of ten or so rounds there was surely hay to be made with the left hook. First to the ribs (several times, just to imprint the notion of the hook going to the ribs), and then, when Jupiter aligns with Mars and the Moon is in the Seventh House -- if you're getting the gist of the thing -- and you see that jab coming and that other hand starting to drop ... bingo, it's Christmas in August!
Spittle and teeth on the bar.
But honestly, who's got time for that? Besides, the whole idea of bar fights is to get in the first shot. But if I did that I risked getting a life-time ban from my favorite bar (they don't care for fighting). So I was experiencing some anxiety about being on the receiving end of the initial salvo.
Which is odd, since I like playing black in chess. The whole thing was a conundrum.
I used to be hot to trot for a Harley Davidson V-Rod that was frequently parked in front of my house this summer. But now I'm all gaga over this assassin-black Ducati.
A friend of mine, perhaps a decade older than me, recently purchased an Indian Chief for purposes of motoring about Woodstock, where he's just bought a house. The Indian is something to see, even if only in pictures. It's got this very interesting full-cover front fender, and it's a fuller, richer motorcycle experience than the Ducati.
That isn't accurate at all. But it's a cruising bike, not an F-16 analog. So fuller and richer in that sense, as opposed to, say, when they melt razor blades into the handles of their toothbrushes at Riker's Island. The Ducatti is more like the razor blade business.
Anyway, I asked him to leave the Indian to me in his will, as it surely feels like the next time he gets on it will be his last.
And speaking of near-death experiences, I almost got into a fight at the Peter McManus Cafe -- an unusual event for me given that I'm a placid sort -- because I jocularly called a guy a snowflake. My point was that we are all snowflakes, but he didn't quite latch onto it in the same way.
Just for the record, I could totally have taken the guy. He drops his right hand when he jabs and over the course of ten or so rounds there was surely hay to be made with the left hook. First to the ribs (several times, just to imprint the notion of the hook going to the ribs), and then, when Jupiter aligns with Mars and the Moon is in the Seventh House -- if you're getting the gist of the thing -- and you see that jab coming and that other hand starting to drop ... bingo, it's Christmas in August!
Spittle and teeth on the bar.
But honestly, who's got time for that? Besides, the whole idea of bar fights is to get in the first shot. But if I did that I risked getting a life-time ban from my favorite bar (they don't care for fighting). So I was experiencing some anxiety about being on the receiving end of the initial salvo.
Which is odd, since I like playing black in chess. The whole thing was a conundrum.
posted by Geoffrey at 5:44 PM
1 Comments:
We ARE all snowflakes. At least that guy has a new nickname. Can't wait to see him and call him snowflake!
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