Sunny Sunday

You have to count your blessings. After a big, restful night's sleep, it's not so bad waking to the alarm at 6:00 am on a Sunday morning. Really, it's okay.

It was a beautiful morning, the humidity in the "I can handle this" range and I have an airport transfer to do. Shower, shave, put on the white shirt I ironed last night, a once-over with a lint-roller, check in the mirror, and I'm out the door. In a suit.

What I'd rather be doing is heading to the beach for a swim. In my boardies. After that, a lie in the sun, then I'd take coffee. But here I am, driving to The Boss's warehouse to collect a towncar; someone needs a ride to Tampa airport.

An older guy, it turns out, around eighty, needs that ride. A couple of odd details stand out. One, he's not listed as a resident on the intercom system, and the concierge doesn't know him. Two, I know his residential address is not in this downtown high-rise. His real house is in a gated community on a golf course out in the 'burbs.

Five before eight, my people arrive in the lobby from upstairs. The gentleman and a lady, a decades-younger lady. She's in her fifties, over-tanned, over-skinny, not quite certain of how to deal with a towncar chauffeur.

It's not that difficult. When I ask you if you'd like me to take your bag, you accept my offer. I roll your bag to the rear of the car, then I open the door for you. I then attend to the gentleman in the same way. You both sit in the air-conditioned car while I load your bags in the trunk. When that's done, we go.

Simple. Or so you'd think.

Anyway, my over-riding thought is that if you're on your way to Amsterdam (First Class), constantly blowing and popping bubble-gum won't endear you to anyone. That shit should have ended during the Nixon administration.



Olds roadster from here [link]

Harley Sunday

The milder autumn air brings out the Peter Fonda in Harley owners, especially when it's Sunday. Sunday's the day that men with a gut and a dream fire up the iron horse and join a few buddies for a drive around, just for the hell of it. And why not? The sound of that slow-revving vee-twin, the feel of the air through one's bald spot, the companionship - what better way to celebrate the land of liberty than to exercise one's freedoms and drink some beer.

Unfortunately, the land of liberty also houses the dark side of freedom, which is entitlement. In the case of Harleyistas, they all think they're entitled to disregard generally accepted rules of the road, and do whatever the fuck they feel like.

Groups of them chug along in the fast lane at 30 mph. Larger groups chug along blocking all the lanes. Pairs of them flip bitches (do U-turns) wherever and whenever they choose. Bunches of them have long, tedious conversations at stop lights, then take ten minutes to acknowledge the green, pull the clutch, find first, rev a little, gently ease the clutch....oh, and look, the sodding light's red again.

The ubiquity of bumper stickers urging us to "watch for motorcycles" evidences either their popularity or the fact that cars run them over. A lot. My money's on the latter. It's dangerous to be out there in anything but an automobile, and emergency rooms and graveyards are full of individuals proving it. But these latter-day Easy Riders don't help themselves by behaving so poorly. I applaud them having a fun day out, if that constitutes their pursuit of freedom. Their disregard of everyone else, however, dissipates the goodwill from people like me who use the road to make a living.

So, my dear two-wheel enthusiast, when you and your mates are cruising down the Skyway Bridge, ten abreast at twenty under the minimum, don't be surprised if I exercise a little of my own freedom and rub your back tire with my bumper. It's all good, right? And if the thought of that doesn't please you, move over and let me through. The thought of having to clean pieces of your pancreas outta my tread doesn't make me that happy either.

Hit a Hog Day. That's what Sunday should be called.



Also published here.