We interrupt this program …
… to inform you that this blog sucks shit right now.
Seriously. When I’m not blogging, I come up with all sorts of great blog ideas. Sometimes I’ve wished that I had a little tape recorder with me so I could capture my brilliant streams-of-consciousness that flow out of me at the most inopportune times.
Then, I get in front of my computer, log in, and my brain farts. Literally, sometimes. What comes out is about as clumsy as teenagers making out for the first time - only the teenagers have some hormone-propelled instinct to guide them along.
I avoided blogging yesterday for two reasons: it’s getting cliché to blog about 9/11/2001 now, and (more importantly for me) it represented the 1 year anniversary of my separation from Carolyn.
Truth be told, it wasn’t the somber, reflective day I was expecting. Those who know me in person know that August was the “anger” month, in which I spat vitriol about various marriage-related topics to just about anyone who could listen. Now, I’m feeling more “at peace” with my station in the world, both as a single person and as an ex-spouse.
Sydney the wunderpup lapped up my attention last night, and she deserved it. She’s been my most stalwart companion over the past year, and I’m forever grateful to that little dog for teaching me so much about love, trust and happiness. Any potential suitress better get used to having a black-and-white English Springer Spaniel around.
In other matters … one of the unintended consequences of the increase in gas prices was my corresponding blogging slack. Why, you ask? In the past I enjoyed blogging about my various road trips, which have been seriously curbed by the price of gas and my adjustment to a one-income household. It’s been a few months since I’ve beaten the pavement in search of adventure … as September calms down and the temperature approaches something more human, I’ll correct that situation.
The last little tidbit worth mentioning is school. I’ve been working on my English degree part-time for three years now, but this is my first semester in with the teenaged masses (prior to this I was doing evening and weekend courses that tended to attract a more, ahem, mature crowd). Amplifying the feeling of being a really old fart is the fact that I go to classes directly from work during my lunch hour - which means that I’m attired in pants that fit properly, a buttoned shirt that isn’t emblazoned with frosh jokes, Greek letters or sports logos, and shoes that weren’t inspired by a basketball court. Of course, I’m envious of the kids who get to dress like they just rolled out of bed (probably because most of them did just roll out of bed), but I’m quickly tiring of the excuses and whining that comes with rolling out of bed at 11:30 in the morning.
The sad part is, I was just like that when I was 19. I can’t even blame ‘em, and not that many years ago I argued (and still largely agree with the idea) that being a slacker builds character.
On that note, there’s one funny story worth passing on. And to understand this story, you have to know that on most days, I ride my little red scooter to school ’cause I’m a cheap fucker and don’t want to pay for parking.
On my first day of English I walked in with helmet in hand, and one bright young man with several girls in tow ascertained that I may ride a motorcycle; I considered telling him that I always rode the city bus with a full-face helmet on, but that would have been too easy. He asked what kind of bike I was riding, and I pointed to the red Honda Spree scooter at the bicycle racks. He spat out a bunch of contempt and rage; something along the lines of “Bwah! I ride a SuperTwang NinjaSpeed 500 Firehawk Turbo Super Nitrokiller Roadrage SpeedFuckin’ BeastMachine …”.
(The motorcycle-fluent will note that he has a Ninja 500 with a bunch of aftermarket shit bolted onto it. For my non-motorcycle readers, that’s a piddly little starter bike that puts out about as much power as a stream of squirrel piss.)
Now, I’ve spent a lifetime around gearheads - and about the only way you’ll get me to raise an eyebrow is to take me for a ride in your prewar Bugatti, Rolls Royce Silver Ghost or ‘57 Ferrari Testa Rossa. Seeing this barrage of nonsense coming from a mile away, I stood my ground and let him brag without so much as twitching an eyelash.
The kid then decided to warn me that if he saw me on the road when he was riding on, the ensuing race would be decisive and absolutely unquestionable - his victory would strike me down like a bolt of lightning.
At this point, I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
“Dude. Anytime you want to go on Western Boulevard, just let me know.”
“OK, sure,” I replied with just enough of a cocksure smile to bait him.
Now, the kid can’t be a day over 18. Not fair for someone almost twice his age to entrap him, I know, but I also wasn’t going to let this kid use me for his latest ego-stroke. In other words - let the games begin.
One of the girls picked up on this and asked, “what kinda motorbike do you ride again?”
The kid was beaming. He thought he had a slam dunk. I could already feel him picking which girl was going to give him head after class, ’cause they were surely enamored with his aura of awesomeness.
“A Ducati Monster.”
With as much grace as a needle dragging across a record, his granite-wall-of-confidence caved in, and he blurted out, “HUH?”
“Before you asked me what I rode in - that’s a Honda scooter. She asked me what kind of motorbike I ride - a Ducati Monster.”
I happened to have the key to the Ducati in my pocket, and waved the little plastic “D” emblem delicately in the air.
For the record, this is why I prefer to ride a scooter on campus - the Ducati is too pretentious for that environment. I’m not a showoff and I’m certainly not interested in flaunting my worldly goods … but this kid asked for it.
Women - even 18-year old ones - aren’t stupid. Sensing Superman’s vulnerability to kryptonite, they left the poor lad and giggled their way to their seats. I smiled a bit crooked and said, “See you on Western Boulevard” before taking my own seat, and left the stunned sperm-generator to sulk away.
And so began what may be my most challenging semester.
