Tag Archives: Motorcycle

Life without Braces…Run Forrest Run!

Like most awkward teenagers, I had braces and made sport of popping off the ones glued to my molars by eating candies that were harder and unhealthier than gravel and I had to get them replaced by the dentist who, to lure kids into his drill bin, had a barrel of toys so I was excited to visit while putting ceramic and metals inside the holes in my teeth from drinking too much Kool Aid for lunch.  When we moved from Indiana, he said they could come off as I had them because I had the rare lack of overbite; that was the excuse to metallicize my chompers which today would probably get me on the TSA terrorist watch list for setting off detectors in airports.

After he took them off and we moved it took me a while to realize it; I’d look at kids with no braces and still get jealous until I ran my tongue across the front of my teeth and realized hey, I can be jealous of me.  It took a while for me to sink into organic looking teeth.  And for the jealousy to fade.

Friday I picked up my new bike! I fulfilled the prophecies set down in the Book of Longing, Ch 19, vers 1-6, and rode over the Brooklyn Bridge and headed to Long Beach and listened to waves of the Atlantic in the dark.  When you do something you haven’t done in ten years that you’ve wanted to do, there’s fifty five different feelings that swell with it; for me, the first time I heard the whistle in my  helmet almost made me cry as it was a sound I took comfort in while distracting me from my burgeoning sink hole of a life scenario in San Francisco. I didn’t think I’d hear it so soon here.  So beautiful.

Yesterday I left her idle as it was like half of America shoved up Satan’s unshaved armpit with the weather and I dislike hot hot weather. Go to Venus for this kind of climate.  But i looked around and seeing people on their bikes I got a pang of jealousy and realized hey, wait, my braces are off my teeth, baby.  It’s funny how long emotional habits have to scrub themselves out before they finally dissipate.

The other portion of this is that I don’t have to get on the subway nearly as often.  That’s like being released from prison and put on parole.  Like Morgan Freeman’s emotional prep for his speech to the Parole Board in Shawshank Redemption was him pretending it was the MTA executive board he was talking to and he just bought a Hummer or Nissan Stanza or whatever he drives.   But like Tim Robbins character, the moment I escaped it’s head for the beach, sand down boats and hire my ex inmate friends, escaped or paroled, as helpers for my projects. I guess that’s life.

The last other portion of this is the last time I rode a motorcycle was in 2002 when I left San Francisco in moderate to heavy disarray, selling my Honda. So a little scar tissue floats around but like athletes when they get some of their knee fluid drained or cleaning out bone fragments and that sort of jazz it will all clear out.

One thing for sure is that I own the finest bike every assembled by man for me.

Now, onto the business of striking down the next in the hit line of jealousies. Getting back on stage.  Now I’m going to do that. Let’s do that.  Some parts of life have dragged on too damn long. This lack of performance is one of them. When that happens, other than mass mood swerves comes practicing material on whatever animate or inanimate object can not escape.

By the way, donate to my Frenemies campaign if you have the money and you want to see distinct filmmaking get quickly into the 3rd dimension and you were going to donate it to cancer research.  This film will do more to cure cancer than the American Cancer Society. If you don’t believe me, ask cancer. One goal is to have it dubbed in dramatically heightened fake German. All the more reason to give….



Besides everything. what really puts me in the mood is organizing my stuff. I’m a hoarder, especially of memories, which every so often I have what I call a ‘memory dumping’,  garbage day for my neurotransmitters; they leave old memories by the curb and the blood of life washes them to the recycling center on Plaxar V or whatever planet they handle those sort of energetic redistributions;     When cleaning out my boxes I counted seven highlighters; I haven’t used a highlighter in years but they come to me, deep in the night harboring wishes to be with their kind in an IKEA box; I oblige.  But, as CEO and janitor of my production company I need to keep a skyline of papers from forming and different projects crossing paths where they shouldn’t.  I just spent two hours getting hot and bothered with getting on top of my projects and now I’m hot and bothered or warm and slightly itchy.  Making lists is also an aphrodisiac; I love lists.  Ones with numbers are like pleasure cream.

It makes me think of another turn on and that’s riding my motorcycle when I had one in San Francisco years ago. I had a 1987 Honda Magna 700, a gorgeous and perfect bike and anyone who knows the city knows, living out at Ocean Beach, the fog was a staple about 80% of the time, this damp mist that I found soothing, like a winter sauna;  and when on my bike heading home I would sometimes wind through Gold Gate Park and even though I had a full helmet the wind would whistle and the moisture would tap my neck in some kind of mystical Morse and by the time I got home I sometimes forgot whatever problem I’m sure I had and I had plenty the last couple of years there.  I miss having that bike and have toyed with getting one out here in New York but the energy driving is like the difference between tantric sex and a one off in an alley somewhere drunk with a maiden of your liquor’s choice and some trash can lids; I don’t trust myself on a bike here as I tend to get drifty; that’s why, as much as I wanted to fly planes when I was a teenager, knew that one out of every three flights I’d forget to lower the landing gear because I was thinking about mint green cadillacs and if God got the idea for humans while driving around in one.  BUt looking back, being on a motorcycle is like sex; you can’t replicate the feeling.  Too many unused orgasms floating in the air; like highlighters I gather them in and let them loiter and hum around until they find someone to land.

One more turn on is wandering around Staples;  buying office supplies makes me moon crazy.  I must be part werewolf;  but not the part that Taylor Lautner is;

12:30am, damn.  Later than I’d like.

“The slowness of life thrilled Lona more than thrills. That’s when a touch became sacred, when moments toured her body like argyle, leaving a perfect exhaust of pleasure and joy falling on her flesh and fogging her bones until she felt warm, perfect and lit into the sky, tumbled to the earth, pulled back upward and then dumped into the soil, every thrust an awareness that promised that somewhere in flesh was the universe in a thimble.: