Month: July 2011

Strip Club Odyssey

The other night, Charlotte calls me up and suggests that we go out somewhere. I had not made any particular plans, and Charlotte being one of my favorite playmates, I got myself prepared for some sort of evening. I had no idea what she had in mind; she is not one for going out and being among the rabble. However, there was a certain eagerness in her voice that I could not afford to pass up.

When she arrived to the place, she parked her automotive counterpart and name-sharer in one of my garages and suggested that we cruise out in the hearse. She likes the keep the top down on her nineteen seventy-six Eldorado down, and she did not want any asses messing with her ride:

Me: You parked in the garage?

Charlotte: Yes. I think it would be better if we went in one of your cars, the hearse preferably. I don’t want any hooligans fucking with my shit. You know how they are out there.

Me: Out where?

Charlotte: The strip club. I thought it would be a good idea to go and see some boobs tonight.

Me: Sounds good, let me go in and set the alarms.

We drove out to the club and were greeted by the gaudy look of the place. Now, do not get me wrong, this club is not a seedy hole in the wall. It is a large, two-floored building. It is gaudy because it has a bunch of irregularly flashing neon lights lining the roof and they are simply atrocious. They flash like a traffic signal on a bad acid trip. We parked. We walked inside.

There is an entry fee to this place. An astronomical fee. This place is a piece of work. They charge up the ass to go in and see the ass that you have to pay more for if you want to see the ass dancing close to you. The gatekeeper informed us that if we paid for VIP cards, we could gain entry for free at this club and their other facilities. Since paying for the cards was a much better deal than simply paying for entry, we opted for the cards. Now, we are a bit obliged to go and look at boobs more often.

When we walked into the darkened place, we noticed the menagerie seated about the stage at the tip rail. We noticed that there seemed to be a lot of people there, but not too many strippers. We walked upstairs and took a seat in a balcony overlooking the main floor so that we could avoid having to deal with the frat boys, old perverts, and false-swinging couples with female members that want to give the appearance of kinkiness, bisexuality, and the mindset that they are so cool that they go look at naked ass with their men.

A waitress came and I got a soda while we watched the performer on the stage. For the amount of people and the volume of the place, it would seem that the place should have been noisy. Paradoxically, this was not the case, and Charlotte and I were able to hold a decent conversation while we watched the entertainment.

Charlotte: It is not as noisy in here as it seems that it should be. Oh my God! That old bastard keeps grabbing chicks’ boobs and asses. Dirty bastard!

Me: Naked boob absorbs soundwaves, the ambient noise level is lower because of the amounts of tit around. Where is this dirty bastard?

She pointed out an older fellow who was indeed grabbing onto whatever came near him that was not male, or near a large male that would beat the shit out of him. After awhile, some of the performers stopped coming near him and he sat there like a lonely bench sitting pervert in his tan-khaki shorts and pink shirt. However, he did not leave; he sat at the edge of the stage (the “Tip Rail”) and tipped the dancer on the stage a dollar (doing this attracts the girl to you where she rubs her boobs in your face; give her more and she will pick a dollar up from your face with her stuff while rubbing her face in your crotch). Since he had this girls attention, he could now get his grope on periodically. I am still wondering why a bouncer/security goon did not give him a beat down and then the bum’s rush.

Charlotte: Your explanation sounds like made up pseudoscience. Hey, are you going to get a lapdance?

Me: Oh! Goddess no! There is a germ issue there.

Charlotte: Germ issue? That’s wrong.

Me: I do not think that the girls themselves have germs (although they most certainly do have them, we all do). Rather my concern is the germs of the other people that may have gotten dances from these girls. You know half of the fuckers here did not wash their hands after going into that bathroom; who knows how many of them went into a stall to set free a few knuckle children after being titillated by these sexy minxes roaming about?

Charlotte: You’re so strange. Look at the floor, all of the strippers are coming out. It looks like some kind of invasion!

And she was more than correct. While we were talking, the club emcee came out onto the stage and introduced a special rate on lap dances: two for one, or half off a dance. After he made the announcement, this bouncy, techno music started and all of the dancers began to come out from backstage. And it looked like a fucking invasion.

The floor came alive with the movement of dozens of skantily clad pre-medical students and future attorneys, roaming about from table to table offering dances to everyone down on the floor. It looked like a swarm. The effect of the women coursing through the place like that was eerie in a half-naked ladies invading a place kind of way. After the parade of half-price lapdance offers ended, we went downstairs to sit at the tip rail.

While there, we tossed a few dollars out and the stage dancers did come to boobs in our faces. I had expected them to smell a bit gamey or sweaty from all of dancing and what have you, but they had sweet smells, probably some sort of perfume I surmised. One of these girls even took a peek at Charlotte’s goodies and gave her a little kiss. Definitely erotic.

To end the evening, we walked over into the club’s sex apparatus shop. The chick in attendance was nice enough, and was not hard on the eyes. However, I guess she had not been getting many customers because she ran over into the shop when we entered and made great effort to make us feel welcome to her wares. Unfortunately, we decided that in some form or other, we had some representation of most of the goods present and left without making any purchases. Hopefully, the shopkeep is not paid commission.

And that was the end of our strip club experience. Having come to appreciate that neither of us minded that place too much, we have made plans to use our VIP cards more often, perhaps. Maybe not. Either way, it was a wonderful evening, with wonderful company, and with wonderful background scenery.

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Soon, Florida. Soon…

The US Government has done it. They have finally declared war on the elderly. Really, it is about time. Our country has waged wars on drugs, poverty, terrorism, and who knows what else. Usually, when the US declares war on a “thing” the nation does not do well. Except for killing people, we do that with great skill. However, the war on drugs brought more drugs. The war on terrorism gave us Homeland Security. The war on poverty successfully brought more people to poverty. At least more voting people to poverty.

According to President Obama, the US may not be able to guarantee many Social Security checks after August third. The majority of articles I have read seem to placing the blame for this squarely on the shoulders of the Barak-meister General. It is a good thing that the US government consists only of one branch. If we had a Legislative Branch, and called it something like, hmmm…how about Congress?, that body could come up with some ideas for laws and then Mr. President could either approve the law or send it back to have it reconsidered. We could call this a Balance of Power or a Share-y Law Thingy! What? You mean that the gubbmint already works like that here? My bad, I thought this whole budget thing was the responsibility of one person.

However, that is of no consequence. Whether this is the President’s, Congress’, or Ali Sheedy’s fault, the end result is the same: War has finally been declared on the the elderly of the United States. This should come of no surprise. After Florida got such a bad rap from the elderly and the confused mental states when voting back during Bush v. Gore, the politcos have set their sites on the elderly. Not all of them, only the ones who are in need of Social Security. Independently wealth old folks and politicians are okay: the former factory workers, soldiers, and people who built this country are the ones who are the problem.

Not only does this segment eat up a lot of dough in government benefits, but they drive horribly, tell the same stories repeatedly, and address everyone as “young” something. Florida was the last straw. After retiring and moving to Florida, a state evolved that has next to no native residents (save the naked hotties in the South), and the current residents being confused, elderly voters. Indeed, the last steps leading to war was Florida. The Republicans wanted those old timers out because they had become election stealing, brandy-snifter-by-the-fire, carpet bagging, thieves, and the Democrats had become the put out victims of the right wing conspiracy, the whiny crybaby now martyred on the cross of political injustice. The Greatest Generation Must Go!

Wild-ish Cracker Cow

After the ascension of The Obam-a-nator, it was time to make the move. Instead of cutting funds on a war that should have started to be over when Osama was whacked, cap spending and cut those social programs to the elderly. If done when Barak is President, the last thing the elderly will do before they die off is vote a Republican in to replace to Mr. O because their suffering is his fault. He cut the programs. The Democrats can hold on if they can convince the suffering oldies that money would be available if the Republicans were insisting on sending their grandkids to fight over in that hot desert. With who is to blame thoroughly confused, the elderly will all finally be done in by the sudden shock and awe of disregard from the once faithful and protective government. The population of Florida will drop by seventy percent and there will be plenty of room for younger people to move, find jobs, and do things that do not involve shuffleboard or pill schedules. The voting irregularities of Florida will be replaced by the apathetic non-voting influx of misguided thirty somethings who spend too much time living in parents’ basements to realize that all of Florida is not beach and that by moving to central Florida, it does not mean that you will see a lot of semi-naked chicas (you will see a lot of wild-like cows and cowmen called “crackers.”

Be it Republican-led treachery or Democrat-fed do-nothing-ness, it works for me. At least it did work for me. All will be working fine as soon as the Foundation’s legal team has settled a small issue between the County and a ourselves. The problem all started when I was pulled over last week because I braked a little suddenly to avoid killing a squirrel. Apparently, the cop riding the ass of my Alpha Romeo hearse was not of a mind to save a squirrel from being squished by a hearse and he pulled me over.

People react funny to hearses, and even funnier to one that has been crafted out of an Alpha Romeo. When the officer came to the window of my vehicle, he asked for my information and walked back to his car. At that time, I noticed a little light on the dashboard. The light was indicating that there was a problem with the air circulation system in the coffin (read on, this will make sense). Swearing to myself, I got out of the car, walked around to the back and open the rear door. Of course, this made the officer nervous, ever more nervous when he noticed the coffin in the back. He was out of his car before I could reconnect the air flow tube that must have come disconnected during the squirrel evasion. I would need to address the faulty connections to my technical people.

Officer: Stop! Let me see your hands and step away from the vehicle.

Me: Here are my hands, but I need to reconnect this tube or else Ms. Gargula may suffocate.

Officer: What?!

Me: There! All connected. What can I do for you officer? My apologies if my coffin check made you anxious, but I wanted to make sure that my resident was comfortable and safe.

Officer: You funeral types are so weird. Do you know why I stopped you?

Me: I assume that my sudden braking almost caused you to sodomize my hearse with your cruiser, and you were able to stop suddenly because you are a bottom and I am a top and the wreck would not make sense.

Officer: Well, yes. I mean, no! I mean, you did brake suddenly. Have you had anything to drink this afternoon?

Me: Not yet. But I will be having some absinthe soon.

The conversation was then interrupted by a knock from inside the coffin in the hearse. In my haste to attend to the policeman, I did not attach the air connection properly and Ms. G. was signalling that she needed to breathe. I needed to securely attach that tube or else Ms. Gargula would be meeting her maker sooner than she expected.

Officer: Was that a knock?! Is there someone alive in there?

Me: Not for long if you do not let me re-attach that tube. By now, the indicator light informing Ms. Gargula that her oxygen is being depleted and will be exhausted in one hour has come on. Fortunately, the power systems are fine, at least she has light and some entertainment.

Officer: You open that and let her out of there! You can’t keep live people in coffins.

Me: There is only one person in the coffin and this is completely legal, consensual, and really none of your business. Now, if you would let me re-attach…

Officer: You stay right there. You say this is consensual?

Me: I have “Power of Inter-y” for Ms. Gargula.

Officer: You mean “Power of Attorney, correct? And what does that have to do with having a live human being trapped in a coffin?!

Me: No, I meant “Power of Inter-y.” I have a binding legal document stating that she is to be buried in that very coffin immediately after death. I have a clever team of lawyers. Man, this is the new Gold Rush. We can thank Washington for this situation, their holding Social Security ransom has unleashed a new commercial enterprise. That is exactly what is the destiny of this, poor thing: she is terrified and took solace in premature burial. That is the case with the elderly these days with the panic generated by the recent Social Security woes and all. The old folks are freaking out about not having any money, health care, or a place to live!

So, they have come to the Foundation and requested that they be able to live in a coffin as a part of our “Coffins and Burials for Homes Program.” It is a great deal, actually. The coffins are fully tricked out with telephones, cable television, feeding ports, and IV drips for their meds. The more technologically savvy have opted for WiFi so they can communicate with family over the Internet. As for that unpleasant bathroom issue, well a system of catheters and various “-ostomies” have under management. In exhange, they deed their properties and possessions over to The Foundation. Upon the death of the client/resident, we embalm, arrange the funeral, and provide the preferred means of internment.

Officer: This is outrageous! I have never heard of such a thing. Either you let that woman out of there, or I’ll do it myself under the pretense of investigating a crime in progress.

Me: I am sorry, but opening that coffin would be a violation of the residents contractual rights. I cannot violate that Client Privilege without just cause. What we need to do now, officer, is reconnect this air connection…

Officer: Step away from the vehicle.

Me: Okay, but I must inform you that I object to this illegal search.

Officer: You just keep quiet and stand there where I can see you, don’t make me handcuff you.

Saying that, the Officer began searching for a means to open the coffin. He tried the lid, but Ms. Gargula had locked it shut, fearing that someone would come and try to steal the items from her Precious Moments collection that she wanted to have buried with her.

Me: Please do not pull on those tubes, some of them are intravenous and you may cause the resident serious pain.

Officer: I told you to shut up! This is your last warning.

Then he noticed a series of buttons on the side. The drawings next to the button gave him an idea of what the buttons were for; there was one for food, one for waste retrieval, etc. He decided that since the red button isolated from all of the others must be the mechanism to open the coffin.

Me: Please, do not push that red button!

The officer sneered at me and pushed the button. He fell away from the car as he heard a pump start, one loud scream from the coffin, and a couple of knocks. He immediately noticed the sudden silence, except for the nearly perceptible humming of pumps and fluid. He looked at me and was about to draw his weapon, and noticed that I had not moved from my spot. Rather I looked from the coffin, to him, and to from him to the coffin again.

Me: Now, you have done it. You started the auto-embalming sequence.

Officer: Well, shut it down! We can save her?!

Me: No, not now. Ms. Gargula was deathly afraid of zombies. Moreso afraid of becoming a zombie. She requested that we install Anti-Zombie precautions in her coffin. As soon as that button was tripped, metal spikes were driven through the base of her skull and her pre-frontal cortex. That scream was more than likely caused by the entrance of orifice plugs immediately before the spiking. If it matters to you, I doubt she suffered…much.

Hearing that was enough for the copper and he decided to call the matter in and have my vehicle impounded, which my attorneys were able to prevent as the Habeas Corpus of the corpse was not at the leisure of the County…or some shit my lawyers were saying. So, while I was able to leave with my car, and my former resident, our rental program has been put on hiatus pending a review of the legality or ethics of the issue. The Foundation lawyers believe that we shall be successful in our case: the government has already declared war on the elderly, at least we are helping them find peace until the end…

Various

This past week has been a real roller coaster for me. I have been both busy and not busy, annoyed and not annoyed. For the most part, the days rolled by pretty swiftly, but I still had my random bouts of being annoyed and irritated.

Irritation Number One: There is nothing more annoying to me than to have someone talking over me. Apparently, others have discovered that this is a pet peeve of mine and are doing all that they can to get on my last frayed nerve. Really. Is it that hard to respect someone when they are trying to get out a few words? If you really do not care to hear what I have to say, then just quietly ignore me. There really is no reason to stop talking louder and louder because you want to be heard over everything and everyone else.

Irritation Number Two: My motorcycle.

Irritation Number Three: Casey Anthony. I am really tired of hearing about her over and over. We get it, there was allegedly a gross miscarriage of justice regarding her trial and non-conviction. Yet, this is the result one gets for holding a trial in the media and coming to a verdict before the trial is settled. If you were not present in the courtroom, how can you say what is guilty and what is not? The hating needs to be directed away from Anthony and towards the prosecution who must have botched this case if the chica is guilty of killing her daughter. Oops. Did I say “if she is guilty?” Apologies, C.A, there is no if, your peers declared you not guilty…

Irritation Number Four: My Ni Dan belt. It is supposed to be black. The problem: it has turned green from my tying and untying it. The makers of this particular brand of martial arts belt decided that it was a better idea to cover a green belt with a layer of black cloth. This was not a good idea. My belt has turned from black to green, with the only indication of my rank being the kanji embroidered on the belt. While this situation is annoying, it is not enough for me to order a new belt, I know my rank; the deal is that I am sick of explaining it to newbies.

Irritation Number Five: Internet shopping is anal rape. It really is! I needed to order a two dollar part to repair the oil leak in my motorcycle. The shipping for the part was three times the cost of the part. Am I the only person in the world who sees something horribly wrong with this? I went to a local motorcycle shop and was able to order the needed part, it cost about sixty cents more, but the shipping cost is no where near the astronomical numbers being asked for from the site I visited.

Irritation Number Six: Lately, I have come across several articles about proper behavior in threesomes. Why does this irritate me? Because the volume of articles may lead one to believe that there are a lot of hotties out there waiting to explore their bi-side in a naughty, naked romp with some lucky dude and his woman. Yet, these women are no where to be found. Is there some conspiracy generated by the writers of Penthouse that seeks to convince everyone that sexy fun with multiples simultaneously is just around the corner? I think that is the case.

Irritation Number Seven: The heat. It is hot, damn hot. Too hot to fuck. Hopefully it will cool off tonight…

New Toys and ADD: Part II

“Dear Board Members,

I have attached pictures of Charlotte’s new Caddy to this email. I think that she named it after herself. With that said, Charlotte is fully aware that Charlotte is in need of some cosmetic, and functional servicing. Indeed, the wonder of American ingenuity and chariot of old school pimpery does need some care. However, that is part of the reason for Charlotte’s acquisition of Charlotte.

It is with consideration that I have used my discretionary authority as Board President to instate a non-interference policy. Anyone interfering with Charlotte’s work, driving, or general attitude toward Charlotte will be severly reprimanded, possibly dismissed from employ, and definitely tazed. This policy applies ANYWHERE either Charlotte may happen to be at the time.

Thank you for you cooperation in this matter.

Sincerely,
X. Rothechilde”

"Charlotte"

I was forced to send out that email in regard to folks interfering with Charlotte’s new automobile. I thought that may have to send it out again, this time referencing myself. Then, I got the impression that my point had gotten across. Now, I have decided to send it out as soon as this blog entry has been completed.

You see, lately Samurai City has be overrun by zombies. Fortunately, these zombies do not eat your brain. They are contagious, if you are not careful, however. Instead of munching your gray matter, these zombies attempt to sap your joy, and make you into a mindless yes-man with no independent will. These zombies are repair zombies. They have shuffled loose their reruns of “Home Improvement” in favor of making those close to them feel as small as possible. Sure, most would call the effect these zombies have on a body the work of succubi or incubi. However, an incubus or succubus usually attacks in the night. If they caught you awake, maybe they would seduce you or at the least acknowledge your protests of their invasion. Zombies do not. The ignore you. The move on with only their goal in mind with no consideration of what the victim is feeling, thinking, screaming, shrieking…

Today, I decided it was time for me to take a break from “LA Noire” and do a little more work on my motorcycle. Actually, yesterday was when I made the decision. I went out and repaired a small problem with the ground wires in the bike’s rear turn signal. While it was a small, insignificant thing to accomplish, it felt good to be out there doing it on my own.

For those of you who did not read part one of my motorcycle tale, here is a little backstory. A friend of mine knows a fellow who was selling a motorcycle. I bought the thing for one hundred dollars. However,the whole deal was on the verge of becoming a tremendous regret and frustration for me. What was acquired as my first attempt at restoration, was rapidly being hijacked by some who seem as if the doubt my capabilities.

Today was the day that I was supposed to see what was going on with my killswitch. Only, I was thwarted. Someone shows up, starts dismantling my crank case to find an oil leak, and proceeds to start telling me what to do! I had an order, my order has been fucked. I am beyond pissed. I just walked away and went to smoke. He can have the motherfucker. I am just getting sick of the whole situation.

My new baby, before she was usurped and left for naked.

Eventually, I came out of hiding. When I did, I was being told that the screws that had been removed are now in the correct place. The crankcase cover that was removed is now just dangling, the gearshift and footpeg unconnected. The inside of the crankcase gathering dirt and grime. Since I did not do the assembly completely on my own and at the least, an angle where I could see, I am not sure exactly how it goes back together. All of this was done out of a hurry to get me out riding something that I want to take the time to learn about first. All of this was done with no consideration of how I may feel about what is going on after I made my feelings on the issue abundantly clear.

My poor bike is now sitting exposed and collecting dust. Having OCD, I am having a near impossible time letting it sit like that (why the fuck take something apart before you have all of the elements to repair it?!) and am on the brink of a major anxiety attack. I need a sedative.

Non-Spoiler Alert: “The Planet of the Apes”

I have to admit, the upcoming reboot of the Ape franchise has me a bit intrigued. However, I do not plan to go out to see it; the idea of sitting in a theater full of sweaty mouth-breathing proles does not appeal to me. Well, I should say that the movie does not appeal to me enough to drive me out to sit in a theater to see the show. The reason for this is that the Planet of the Apes may be a bit too far-fetched, even for a pseudo-SciFi fan such as myself, for me to take realistically.

On a warning note: this entry may contain spoilers. Not that you should not read on if you plan on seeing the movie. I mean, we all have known what to expect from this movie since, what, nineteen sixty-eight? The only real difference with this updated remake/redo/reboot/remix is that technology allows for cooler special effects now than the old-school people in costumes acting like uppity-monkeys from the Disco Days, to the Marky Mark apes that seemed like a Harvard fraternity party gone horribly wrong. So, please read on…

The problem with this upcoming film is the whole concept: scientist gets chimp, scientist genetically alters chimp, chimp develops mega-intelligence and language skills, money grubbing scientist decides to make big bucks and alters more chimps…oh, hell, let us say an assortment of apes, some asshole mistreats chimp (and other apes), chimp organizes rebellion, apes go ape and take over the world and subjugates humanity.

Okay, cool. Great. A moral lesson on the ethical ramifications of genetic research. I get that. Again, there are some things about the issue that just get to me. For one, chimpanzees and humans ninety-seven percent of our DNA in common. The other apes have, like, ninety-four percent genetic similarity. Basically, humans and chimps have more in common with each other than any of the other apes. With this knowledge, any clever scientist could change the flow of the rebellion of the lower primates by pointing this out to some gorillas or orangutans:

Apes: “Kill the humans! Kill the humans! Rebel! Ook!”

Scientist: “Hey! Why have you been listening to that shifty chimp? You know he’s genetically more similar to humans than he is the rest of you apes. After he and the other chimps finish exploiting your power and labor, that they won’t be just like us?”

Chimp Leader: “You fool! Now we have to fight all of the lower primates together, you have ruined my plans, but I would much rather enjoy the higher status that our genetic sameness can bestow over those monkeys.”

Apes: “Monkeys?! What the fuck, dude? At least the science-geeks never called us out of our species! Ape brethren and sistren, kill them all!!!”

Politician: “Excuse me.”

Apes and Chimp Leader: “Where the hell did you come from?”

Politician: “I was hiding under the table until a suitable negotiating position that would benefit me and glorify my flagging career arouse. Excuse me, my fellow non-chimpanzee Americans…”

Scientist: “Don’t listen to him! He’s a Republican or a Democrat!”

Politician: “I am a servant of non-chimp Americans regardless of party affiliation, economic status, or disability; I even think that the gays should be allowed to follow the traditional rules of marriage set forth in the Holy Bible like ever other American. But I digress, my fellow Ape-mericans, these chimpanzees are not offering anything of value to you. The wish to exploit you and subjugate you. However, if you side with us, and banish these horrible chimp aggressors, we can withstand their threat to liberty. In a show of gratitude, we’d let you all relocate to a suitable swatch of Federally Protected land in Hawaii where you can have all of the bananas and tasty fruits that an ape could desire.”

Apes: “Woohoo! The chimps never offered a trip to Hawaii. However, we could never afford the property costs, bro. We ain’t even wearing clothes now, besides, Hawaii is cool, but we like the Brazilian landscape and dat luscious Brazilian donk-a-donk that is up in there.”

Politician: “Then Brazil it is, or at least a rain forest in that area. However, we would have to sign a mutual non-aggression pact…”

Apes: “It’s a deal.”

And that is how humanity would quash the ape rebellion and not be dominated by lowered on the evolutionary ladder. At least that is one, far-fetched scenario. What makes this new Ape-movie especially hard for me to suspend reality is that everything happens so suddenly, there are so few apes, and most importantly, people kill things. A lot of things. We kill things well, and often. The apes do not stand a chance against a species that will destroy entire cities to kill one person. We’re a species that would shoot people trying to escape a hurricane after the time limit of evacuation had been passed. We’re a species that has probably spent more time on perfecting the art of killing than we have cooking.

A rampaging horde of apes would bring every hunter in Northern Michigan down from the Upper Peninsula, flannel-clad and cousin-kissing, down into the lower forty-eight to partake in a fiesta of ape carnage with the goal of a cool chimp head to place over the mantel, a nice set of gorilla pajamas (with feet!), and a winter’s supply of potential ape-jerky, ape fritters, fried ape, pickled ape, ape dumplings, etc.

On the slim chance that the Yoopers fall to the simians, then the military would gladly level a city to rid the population of apes. The politicians, wealthy, and status symbols of the area would already have been stripped bare. Given that this research would have taken place in some location like Rome, Wisconsin, then leveling the place would not be seen as a huge loss.

So, that is that. I really am not sure why I just went on and on like that. Maybe it is practice. I just took a couple of cool pictures of Charlotte’s new ride and my motorcycle. After editing them (you all really do not need to know our license numbers and shit, do you?), I will be posting them and writing about the pains we are dealing with on getting them restored to their wondrous glory.

TTFN

 

New Toys and ADD

Instead of taking the time to sit and write nearly daily as I promised myself, I allowed my ADD to get the best of me and have been distracted by a shiny: a motorcycle. But before I go into the motorcycle, a little detour, backstory, is needed. Originally, this post was supposed to be two separate posts. It is not because I got distracted. Instead, this will be a rather lengthy update, which is of no consequence as I can be a bit prone to blathering when putting my thoughts to “paper.” As a result, I apologize in advance for any distortion in logical presentation, or random jumping about. OCD and ADD are a dangerous combination. Right now, my brain is a jumble of thoughts, feelings, and impressions; they are reflected in my presentation below.

About a month ago, Charlotte was oddly late for the Foundation Board meeting. This was odd, as Charlotte is well known for her obsessive attentiveness to punctuality, and we were about to decide which of us was going to drive to Charlotte’s home to check in (if you call her, she most likely will not answer her phone). Before we could come to a decision, Charlotte strolls in with a smile on her face. She was late, and now grinning a large grin; I wondered if I needed to contact our legal people… We were all looking and wondering exactly what was to come when she informed us that if we wanted to know why she was late, then we could take a look in the parking lot. We knew that we may not want to look, but knowing that we simply had to know what caused this shift in Charlotte’s behavior, we stood and made for the door.

Exiting the Board Room and then the out of the door to the parking lot, we saw what was making Charlotte so pleased with the universe: it was a green, nineteen seventy-six Cadillac Eldorado. With a convertible top. She told us that she got it for a steal. Granted, it needs a bit of bodywork (and believe it or not, Charlotte used the term “TLC”), but it sounds great, runs well, and is an overall pretty pimp ride. Even more impressive than the car, was that Charlotte fully intends to do the restorative work on the vehicle herself. She did purchase new tires, that seemed more economical to her than buying the materials needed to change tires in order to do it herself. She also got a repair manual, air filter and spark plugs. All-in-all, she was learning what she needed to do. Good for her!

After a week or so, I dropped in on Charlotte to see how things were going. She had changed the air filter, and was currently in the process of solving her ride’s overheating issue. She left out the spark plugs. Before I could say anything, she thanked me for asking, and told me that she appreciated how I was staying out of her face. Then she further explained. Apparently, many of the friends that she shared her new car goodness and plans with, were discouraging. They were constantly telling her how difficult what she was going to attempt was, that it would be better to just pay someone else to do this or that, and she mentioned that someone even began the process of changing her spark plugs when she let him see the engine. She was annoyed and wanted to know why everyone was peeing in her lemonade. I told her that I had faith in her ability and that I stayed out of the way, because I respect her space. Then we had some coffee, veggie sandwiches, and some sex.

(Please forgive what may appear as distortions with the past/present tense in the previous paragraph, written strictly past tense read weird to me.)

There. Backstory complete. This backstory is relevant because it leads directly to my own recently acquired toy, which coincidentally, has a motor, and was produced in nineteen seventy-six. Shades of Charlotte. More than you can expect.

Last week, I had the fortune to acquire a motorcycle. Mind you, I have never ridden a motorcycle, but I have struggled with resisting their appeal. Many of my associates ride bikes, so I am surrounded by them in some sense. I had been planning to get one for some time now, and had decided that I would buy one in February or March of next year; then I would have time to learn to ride, get proper endorsement, and have almost six months of riding time versus two or three. However, an opportunity arose and I just had to seize the moment.

A friend of a friend was selling an old motorcycle. Cosmetically, the motorcycle was decent and it did not run at the time. Yet, whatever was causing the bike to not function was allegedly an easy fix. The fellow selling the motorcycle was asking one hundred dollars for it, and I could not pass up the opportunity, which had now become and awesome dual-opportunity: not only could I get a bike, I could learn how to repair it, restore it, and then roll around Samurai City and the hills of Old Mission in the open air on a vintage motorcycle. I could be Charlotte’s two-wheeled counterpart, kicking old school nineteen seventy-six style around Michigan.

And so, I purchased the motorcycle. The next day. I purchased a battery and spark plugs. However, I had discovered that my adventure would be the same as Charlotte’s. Almost identical to hers. I did get to put one of the spark plugs in and the battery. However, the rest of the work was taken from me. Apparently, there are things involved in the process that are easy to mess up and instead of walking me through a hands-on experience, someone else did the work. I appreciated the help greatly, but the feeling of satisfaction from my own creation was being sapped.

The new battery and the spark plugs, combined with draining the old gas from the tank (another procedure I watched rather than did, more sap-age), and refilling with new (which I did) and the motorcycle not only started, but it sounded awesome. It has an oil leak and will require new gaskets possibly. I was told where to get the gaskets (instead of being able to take a look and find them on my own). I was allowed to remove the headlamp to begin the process of changing the front signal lights out, but I was stopped at one and the work done by another. The flasher was not working and something was crossed in the signal wiring, however, I was fortunate in having someone else to solve that problem for me. All the while, I was being reminded of the need to change out some screws to replace with bolts, the changing of the gaskets, and how difficult this will all be to do and that it should not be taken lightly. Pretty soon, all of the “I” in my project became “we.”

I realize that I may be starting to sound like an ungrateful prick. Apparently, the main goal should be for me to get the bike road-ready and get riding. However, I do not appear to be understanding that. My main goal is the satisfaction of saying: “I did that.” There is a satisfaction in accomplishing something for the first time, something that you have never done. The joy of hard work. I fully accept that I could make some foolish error and be forced to get the bike to a mechanic to undo my mistake (if possible). Yet, is that not my mistake to make? Is that not part of learning? Getting the motorcycle running today is not going to make much benefit to me, I still have to get the endorsement for it on my license and learn how to ride the damn thing. I still need a helmet. I have not bought one yet so I do not foolishly tempt myself to hop on and ride the bike before I should be.

I understand that my approach may take me the rest of the summer to get on this motorcycle, but in the end, I will be more satisfied with the outcome. The time taken is not a problem for me, it took me at least three, maybe four years to become shodan in jujitsu. If I could do that in three or four years, I can fix a motorcycle in a month or two. Some may agree with me, but then, they do not understand jujitsu; if they did, they would understand my mindset.