Bikeforums.net is a forum about nothing but bikes. Our community can help you find information about hard-to-find and localized information like bicycle tours, specialties like where in your area to have your recumbent bike serviced, or what are the best bicycle tires and seats for the activities you use your bike for.Mayonnaise
06-02-04, 01:02 AM
Hangovers make me irritable and cranky. So does a ***** of a north east wind coming off the lake and into my face when I’m heading into work and going to be late for sure. A Flood Brothers garbage truck is heading my direction, and although the smell isn’t great, I’m hanging on as best I can to stay out of that wind. At a stop light the street derelict that usually only mumbles and grunts seems to be looking right at me today saying over and over again, “got a lot to learn, got a cock to burn.” Like a bad song, it gets stuck in my head and I repeat it rhythmically without choice. It annoys the **** out of me and won’t go away. I’m hanging tough back there when the truck hits his brakes and I ease left to see what’s up, ready to pass. Driver sees me in his rearview as I ease back behind, out of the wind. Gotta have faith in the world to sit behind a garbage truck towing you into work, you can’t see what’s in front anymore than about 3 feet and your reaction time is minimal, if a busted tired appears underneath that truck you’re either an artful dodger or ****ed. On a day like today don’t go asking my prediction. Suddenly the truck downshifts then bucks which causes what feels like five gallons of fresh trash juice out of the back of the truck, drenching me. Like getting tossed into a cold swimming pool, I can’t exhaling . We slow at the stop light and I see the two guys in the truck laughing their asses off. I am soaked and smell like Limburger. The light changes and I let the truck go. My kind of day.
I slog through the wind and stink alone and finally make it to the corner of Rush and Oak (this part of Oak street, with it’s posh shops and boutiques is honorarily named “Marilyn Miglin Way”. You may know Marilyn from her infomercials where she sells her personal line of skin care products, you certainly know Marilyn as the wife of Lee Miglin, the real estate tycoon killed in his garage early one morning by the Raging Queen, Andrew Cunanan. Cops and Papers say killer and victim were strangers but Mayonnaise ain’t buying it). I’m right at the Prada store when my front tire pinches a good size peddle on the street and sends it flying (normally I love when this happens) right into the driver’s door panel of a shiny midnight blue brand new BMW. It smacks the car good and I start that combination smile of pride and embarrassment, like I just farted a doozie in public when this lady gets out of the car in a hurry and is screaming at me like crazy. She thinks I intentionally hit her car with something. I swing around, dismount and try to find a way to apologize, but she won’t hear any of it. She’s on a tirade and is inches from my face *****ing me out. It was at this moment I fell in love. The first thing that hit me was her smell, man did she smell good, like she just finished buying perfume after having her hair done. She was wearing this great outfit that combined equal parts cute and sexy. She was thin, but more in a fit, curvy way than due to any freaky food hangups (“I’m allergic to salt”). I felt warm all over and didn’t hear a word she was saying anymore. Instead I was in the passenger seat of her car as she was driving us back to her place. Her trust fund allows for this great condo on the Inner Drive, Queer Eye chic with a terrific view of the lake. We listen to Rod Stewart together, and I hear myself saying, “I like listening to Rod Stewart with you”, then I’m taking a shower in her bathroom and she’s got all these shampoos and soaps and treatments to try and giant fluffy clean towels to dry myself and I want to take a nap and her bed is so soft with 300 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and she wakes me up gently and says whenever I’m ready we can eat and she opened a bottle of Plumpjack and maybe we could just stay in tonight and watch movies and over dinner she won’t stop looking at me and smiling and it makes me shy but the happiest guy in the world; I see my bike parked in the foyer while fingering a bruise and think of all the patchouli oil wearing, armpit haired bike chick pseudo lesbians I want no part of, instead I’m never leaving this soft place I’ve found where I’m finally one in the world with another, where we’ll listen to Rod Stewart over and over and over and never get tired. I’m fading away when, smack I hear it , and am back in reality. She had paused in her rant for a second, inhaled through her nose and finally smelled me. Her face screwed like she just ate something bitter and said it loud and clear, “You disgust me.” I felt a fist in my stomach as the fantasy crumbled, the warmth vanished and was now sour, the sunlight too bright. I’d never propose to her over dinner with her at NoMI, the way I was planning. I wanted to disappear. My bike, the tool I built my world with, the one that made me strong and sexy and charming and smart and masculine, the one that rocked me to sleep, excited me, satisfied my wanderlust, lay at my feet, an embarrassment.
She got back in her precious BMW and drove off, I guess she ran out of things to yell. I stood for a moment feeling filthy, emasculated, and disgusting. I slowly bent down, picked up my bike, and with it I picked myself up, and I as stood erect, I felt the anger rising, as if Iggy leapt off my scratchy old vinyl copy of Fun House and leapt into my skin, the bantam classic, smeared in peanut butter: Got a lot to learn, got a cock to burn, got a lot to learn, got a cock burn. I reached for a puddle of mud in the gutter and smeared my face like an aborigine, mounted and charged after that BMW. She’s disgusted by me, ha, I’m going to violate her. Nothing was going to stop me, not the cops, not the cars, not the crowds, I was in the zone and she was my meat. I spotted her at Michigan and Chicago waiting at the stop light. In a fluid motion I can’t duplicate I leapt full speed from the bike and put my head in her window, my face easily less than an inch from hers, and screamed. I screamed pure violence, I screamed not words because words meant nothing, I screamed sounds guttural and pure,I screamed so loud everyone looked, I screamed so loud the earth rocked on it’s axis, I screamed with the power of a 5000 mile a year habit, I screamed out tar and soot and dung beetles, I screamed until her eardrums bled, I screamed myself hoarse. In slow motion I watched her recoil in fear, drop her cell phone, and gasp; ***** won’t be listening to Rod Stewart anytime soon.
I slog through the wind and stink alone and finally make it to the corner of Rush and Oak (this part of Oak street, with it’s posh shops and boutiques is honorarily named “Marilyn Miglin Way”. You may know Marilyn from her infomercials where she sells her personal line of skin care products, you certainly know Marilyn as the wife of Lee Miglin, the real estate tycoon killed in his garage early one morning by the Raging Queen, Andrew Cunanan. Cops and Papers say killer and victim were strangers but Mayonnaise ain’t buying it). I’m right at the Prada store when my front tire pinches a good size peddle on the street and sends it flying (normally I love when this happens) right into the driver’s door panel of a shiny midnight blue brand new BMW. It smacks the car good and I start that combination smile of pride and embarrassment, like I just farted a doozie in public when this lady gets out of the car in a hurry and is screaming at me like crazy. She thinks I intentionally hit her car with something. I swing around, dismount and try to find a way to apologize, but she won’t hear any of it. She’s on a tirade and is inches from my face *****ing me out. It was at this moment I fell in love. The first thing that hit me was her smell, man did she smell good, like she just finished buying perfume after having her hair done. She was wearing this great outfit that combined equal parts cute and sexy. She was thin, but more in a fit, curvy way than due to any freaky food hangups (“I’m allergic to salt”). I felt warm all over and didn’t hear a word she was saying anymore. Instead I was in the passenger seat of her car as she was driving us back to her place. Her trust fund allows for this great condo on the Inner Drive, Queer Eye chic with a terrific view of the lake. We listen to Rod Stewart together, and I hear myself saying, “I like listening to Rod Stewart with you”, then I’m taking a shower in her bathroom and she’s got all these shampoos and soaps and treatments to try and giant fluffy clean towels to dry myself and I want to take a nap and her bed is so soft with 300 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and she wakes me up gently and says whenever I’m ready we can eat and she opened a bottle of Plumpjack and maybe we could just stay in tonight and watch movies and over dinner she won’t stop looking at me and smiling and it makes me shy but the happiest guy in the world; I see my bike parked in the foyer while fingering a bruise and think of all the patchouli oil wearing, armpit haired bike chick pseudo lesbians I want no part of, instead I’m never leaving this soft place I’ve found where I’m finally one in the world with another, where we’ll listen to Rod Stewart over and over and over and never get tired. I’m fading away when, smack I hear it , and am back in reality. She had paused in her rant for a second, inhaled through her nose and finally smelled me. Her face screwed like she just ate something bitter and said it loud and clear, “You disgust me.” I felt a fist in my stomach as the fantasy crumbled, the warmth vanished and was now sour, the sunlight too bright. I’d never propose to her over dinner with her at NoMI, the way I was planning. I wanted to disappear. My bike, the tool I built my world with, the one that made me strong and sexy and charming and smart and masculine, the one that rocked me to sleep, excited me, satisfied my wanderlust, lay at my feet, an embarrassment.
She got back in her precious BMW and drove off, I guess she ran out of things to yell. I stood for a moment feeling filthy, emasculated, and disgusting. I slowly bent down, picked up my bike, and with it I picked myself up, and I as stood erect, I felt the anger rising, as if Iggy leapt off my scratchy old vinyl copy of Fun House and leapt into my skin, the bantam classic, smeared in peanut butter: Got a lot to learn, got a cock to burn, got a lot to learn, got a cock burn. I reached for a puddle of mud in the gutter and smeared my face like an aborigine, mounted and charged after that BMW. She’s disgusted by me, ha, I’m going to violate her. Nothing was going to stop me, not the cops, not the cars, not the crowds, I was in the zone and she was my meat. I spotted her at Michigan and Chicago waiting at the stop light. In a fluid motion I can’t duplicate I leapt full speed from the bike and put my head in her window, my face easily less than an inch from hers, and screamed. I screamed pure violence, I screamed not words because words meant nothing, I screamed sounds guttural and pure,I screamed so loud everyone looked, I screamed so loud the earth rocked on it’s axis, I screamed with the power of a 5000 mile a year habit, I screamed out tar and soot and dung beetles, I screamed until her eardrums bled, I screamed myself hoarse. In slow motion I watched her recoil in fear, drop her cell phone, and gasp; ***** won’t be listening to Rod Stewart anytime soon.