Ha! If it's not clear from what I just wrote, you're in good company vis a vis memory lacunae. I almost think we might have met at some point? But I honestly I can't remember, so maybe not? This one goes in my unknown unknowns basket. I'd kind of like it if were didn't -- adds to the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead effect.
Man, what a blast, this piece. But I have to admit I was of two minds hearing you revisit these heady exploits. One says, ‘No! You and Donna were PERFECT together!” The other says, "Thank Christ you’re done with that psycho." This is also another of your pieces where I can almost place myself as an extra in a few of the scenes described. (Though likely among the fuckstruck onlookers when you and Donna/her predecessor pulled up at a Lower Haight sidewalk or wherever.) I too was owner/operator of a motorcycle for my whole late-80s-mid-90s Berkeley/Oakland/SF experience, from my late teens to mid-late 20s, and someone who by rights shouldn’t be alive today. I’m thinking of not just the thousand near-daily close calls I had on South Van Ness, Broadway, the 101, the Bay Bridge -- plus one in Emeryville where a hustling freight train made a surprise intersection appearance on a warehouse delivery lane I happened to be using -- but also the truly stupid pairing of motorcycle and various substances. All of this w/o helmet, of course. (In pure actuary terms, this is like a drunk getting a liver-transplant then climbing back up on the horse, with a vodka back.) That said, I can’t imagine a better US motorcycle city. I sold mine about a week before moving to New York and remember the dislocating feeling of suddenly being in that city as a a mere earthbound, snail-paced pedestrian. Also: I love how the photo you posted is a thirst trap for both Cintra and motociclo fiends. Excellent work, as always.
Oh my. I feel your pain of riding the razor's edge of moral duplicity. Being a Bay Arean (who is devoted to changing existing institutions and mind-prints that simply do not serve anymore) my Stanford pediatrician introduced the two-wheeled motorized device as a "donor-bike". Hence I felt compelled to bond with a moped at the age of 11 (given to me by my law practicing father) who encouraged me to go as fast as I could (a helmet or protective gear never discussed) and as far as I could, when no one was watching. Again, sage advice to any female who finds herself in the dilemma similar to certain predicaments that if male, would be outlets and portals to freedom of expression and power. (the Ducati restaurant in Rome is more of a museum than an eatery - fyi).
It's a great pleasure to read your words, savor your unique, irreverent, self-effacing target-shooting style on the page, and, better still, to hear your voice. A Massive Swelling has long been a favorite, and I wish you would again address the topic of corrosive celebrity in similar depth, perhaps starting with Will Smith's Defense of the Family.
Ha! If it's not clear from what I just wrote, you're in good company vis a vis memory lacunae. I almost think we might have met at some point? But I honestly I can't remember, so maybe not? This one goes in my unknown unknowns basket. I'd kind of like it if were didn't -- adds to the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead effect.
Man, what a blast, this piece. But I have to admit I was of two minds hearing you revisit these heady exploits. One says, ‘No! You and Donna were PERFECT together!” The other says, "Thank Christ you’re done with that psycho." This is also another of your pieces where I can almost place myself as an extra in a few of the scenes described. (Though likely among the fuckstruck onlookers when you and Donna/her predecessor pulled up at a Lower Haight sidewalk or wherever.) I too was owner/operator of a motorcycle for my whole late-80s-mid-90s Berkeley/Oakland/SF experience, from my late teens to mid-late 20s, and someone who by rights shouldn’t be alive today. I’m thinking of not just the thousand near-daily close calls I had on South Van Ness, Broadway, the 101, the Bay Bridge -- plus one in Emeryville where a hustling freight train made a surprise intersection appearance on a warehouse delivery lane I happened to be using -- but also the truly stupid pairing of motorcycle and various substances. All of this w/o helmet, of course. (In pure actuary terms, this is like a drunk getting a liver-transplant then climbing back up on the horse, with a vodka back.) That said, I can’t imagine a better US motorcycle city. I sold mine about a week before moving to New York and remember the dislocating feeling of suddenly being in that city as a a mere earthbound, snail-paced pedestrian. Also: I love how the photo you posted is a thirst trap for both Cintra and motociclo fiends. Excellent work, as always.
Oh my. I feel your pain of riding the razor's edge of moral duplicity. Being a Bay Arean (who is devoted to changing existing institutions and mind-prints that simply do not serve anymore) my Stanford pediatrician introduced the two-wheeled motorized device as a "donor-bike". Hence I felt compelled to bond with a moped at the age of 11 (given to me by my law practicing father) who encouraged me to go as fast as I could (a helmet or protective gear never discussed) and as far as I could, when no one was watching. Again, sage advice to any female who finds herself in the dilemma similar to certain predicaments that if male, would be outlets and portals to freedom of expression and power. (the Ducati restaurant in Rome is more of a museum than an eatery - fyi).
Even fairies sound badass in your story. I’m having hard time giving up my Vespa (which is probably like a third nerdy cousin to a Ducati)
ducati
It's a great pleasure to read your words, savor your unique, irreverent, self-effacing target-shooting style on the page, and, better still, to hear your voice. A Massive Swelling has long been a favorite, and I wish you would again address the topic of corrosive celebrity in similar depth, perhaps starting with Will Smith's Defense of the Family.