Free speech at Moto Liberty

Owning even a smaller, cheaper motorcycle - like the Suzuki I bought - doesn't mean that you're not going to spend a lot of money on related items. It's beginning to remind me of when I lived in Hong Kong and we owned a boat. Every time you turn around, the boat needed something, or you needed something to take on the boat.

Ever since I saw Ryan's dreadfully skinned knee (he slid and fell while riding a motorcycle through loose gravel), I have been thinking I needed to buy some motorcycle pants with knee protection. So last Saturday I visited Moto Liberty, one of the bigger motorcycle shops.

After trying on about six pair of pants, I finally found a pair I liked. When I went to the front counter to pay, I noticed that  my check was not welcome:

Haunted by my cyber-past

Sometimes I think the Internet is just too fucking smart for its own good.

Recently I've been doing some cyber-shopping for things I can't find in local stores: stuff like Falke brand hosiery and Simone Perele lingerie.  I can only assume that my materialistic Web searches are stored for eternity in my browser's memory, as the same items I shopped for are now popping up on other Web pages.

It's kind of embarrassing to try and look at an innocuous site like Yahoo, only to be deluged with banner ads that will take me directly to the shiny Falke stockings I was looking at three days ago.

If I go ahead and order, will the curse be lifted? I'm going to try clearing my browser's history first as I'm saving up for various car and motorcycle repairs.

Jobs for haters?

I spotted a link to this at Yahoo earlier today:

Jobs for People Who Don't Like People

Yes, the article is rubbish like about everything else Yahoo links to, but I never thought to myself "I want to be a writer when I grow up because I don't like people".

A happy heifer

Although Ian* has told me nothing about his time at the therapist last night, he sent some flowers to my office together with a note congratulating me on my shaolin exam results.

It's too bad I don't have my camera here at work. It's not a large or pricey bouquet, but it's still very pretty. And every time I look at it, a mushy twinge of romanticism goes through me. I don't describe myself as Ferdinand the Heifer - the female counterpart of Ferdinand the Bull - for nothing.

I suppose that the tradition of men sending flowers to women could be described as an unimaginative cliche, but I don't care. It's a gesture I really like. So there.

* See Key to Characters at right.

Did I really say that?

Ian* called me this afternoon while I was waiting for my car (I'd taken it in for repairs). It eventually turned into a rather strange conversation.

Since his wife began to suspect him of considering adultery, he's been kept on an extremely tight leash. So I don't see him much any more. Nor do I quiz him about his home life since technically it's none of my business, although I never mind discussing it with him when he wants to talk about it.

But this afternoon he handed me a truly odd surprise: his wife's latest was to insist he see a therapist, and that's where he was headed.  Does she really think psychotherapy will cure him of - well - wanting what we want? She might as well start spiking his orange juice with Thorazine.

I almost asked him why he was putting up with it, but then I decided not to. There wasn't a good answer in store. Whatever he said, I would feel sorry for him. All he's trying to do is to get his daughter through college. And I didn't want him to think I would ever start tossing my own ultimatums around, as I have no interest in controlling anyone.

So all I said is that if he wanted to talk about the therapy, or anything else that was on his mind, he could still call me. He seemed grateful for this, and insisted he was going to the therapist just a couple of times.

What made me want to bite off my tongue is that I described myself as not having much to offer a relationship, and that's why I was okay with his marital status. It sounded like I was running myself down when I wasn't. Let's put it this way: how many men tell their departing ex-wives that "during the 12 years we were together, you never once nagged me"?

But what I was really thinking is that I would probably turn the most smitten man into a terrified wreck the first time he saw me on the Suzuki at 3:00am, going up I-75** at 90 mph.  (I recently discovered that 3:00 am is the safest time I can do this. Sometimes I see more fellow motorcyclists than cars.) And I can't see myself slowing down for anyone. Not this week, anyway.

* See Key to Characters at right.

** A main north-south thoroughfare.