The Motorcycle Diaries

A quick update. I still can’t upload pictures. Not sure what that’s about. Also, an eagle-eyed reader pointed out to me that you had to be a member of Blogger to comment on my blog. I thought I changed that setting, but I guess it was one too many beers that night. All is fixed now, and you are free to comment away.


Ok. When last we left the story, I had just spent my first night in my new apartment. I wish I could say everything was smooth sailing after that. I know it was a huge transition to make, breaking up with Hal and leaving the city and so on, but I really was hoping that I would slide easily into my new life. I couldn’t wait for my home to feel like a sanctuary and a place of peace. While I can truthfully say I am happy when I look at the cute little home I’ve made for myself, it is not a peaceful place. I know I’ve already mentioned the curry, but I have to emphasize this point; it is absolutely overpowering when you walk into the building, and it is as ripe in my bedroom as it is in any middle eastern restaurant. I have nothing against curry dishes (or cookers for all you pc folks out there) but it is truly a horrible smell to wake up to every morning.


Of course, a smell alone does not destroy ones serenity. That is best left to what I call the “motorcycle brigade.” This is a crew of 15 to 20 guys of unknown European descent who own either souped up, big ass Harleys or tiny, raucous crotch rocket bikes. I’ve never been a huge fan of motorcycles ever since I rode one with our neighbor Rick when I was a kid and got a burn on my ankle from the muffler. (Come to think of it, Rick was a little more than helpful while tending to that wound. A conversation for my therapist I think.) Anyway, the motorcycle brigade drives up and down the streets of Astoria at insane speeds and decibels, leaving ear drums and car alarms in their wakes. Time of day is no matter to them, so I’m guessing they don’t have jobs. Sometimes they don’t even bother slowing down for pedestrians, they just weave in and out like little sperm aiming blindly for a target, any target, in which to drop their hazardous dna. One of the things I was most excited about when I first moved here was that a very cute, trendy little bar on my block called Avenue was opening. I welcome those types of places because everyone is safer when there are lots of people mulling about. What I didn’t know was that Avenue was going to become the destination for the motorcycle brigade. Every day when I come home from work, their motorcycles are lined up, one gleaming bike after another (there’s a waxing metaphor here somewhere), and I’m so tempted to just give the first one a nudge and watch them all tumble like dominoes (again, name that movie) and then run like hell before the brigade comes after me. But here’s the weird thing about the brigade. They are the biggest bunch of pussies I’ve ever seen. They’re all skinny Gotti-boy wannabes, complete with the shellacked hair, fake tans and skin-tight shirts over their scrawny frames. If they were walking in Chelsea you would say “hey gurl.” The closest I’ve ever come to being in a fight was 25 years ago when my brothers paid me to fight my neighbor’s cousin, and I could STILL take some of these guys. (By the way, I split Rodney’s lip and then he and I took my brothers’ money and went to the arcade. Good times.) This begs the question then; why do they really ride these motorcycles? Is it to feel the wind blowing through their gel? Or to take on the open road in a nod to their ancestors who bravely came to a foreign land? Or is it to flaunt their alpha-maleness like the insecure lions on a discovery channel show? I’ll leave you to your own conclusion, but I know which direction I’m leaning in.


In an attempt to block all this nonsense out, I decided it was time to use my new, improved bathtub. In April I went to see my good friend Frank in West Palm, and while I was gone the landlord had arranged to fix the wall behind the tub. (You’ll recall the wall was no longer there.) This apparently involved removing the tub, clearing out the debris, putting up some drywall and putting the tub back. I’m sure this was no easy feat, but I was thrilled that it was conveniently taking place while I would be gone for a few days. I prepped my apartment, knowing full well that whatever day laborers my landlord hired to fix the tub weren’t going to care too much about the mess they left behind. I moved most everything into my bedroom and shut the door and tried to cover everything else as best I could. Luckily there wasn’t much plaster left, so there wasn’t much dust to go around. As it turns out, I should have arranged to be here. Upon returning from sunny West Palm to rainy New York, on a flight that was a little stressful (I hate children), I could think of nothing better than lying in my newly repaired tub for a little respite to cap off my mini-vacation. When I take a bath, I like to sit in the tub while it fills so that there isn’t that drastic temperature change that causes your boys to scurry up to your intestines. I was especially looking forward to this because my old tub in Chelsea wasn’t large enough to accommodate even my petite frame, but this tub is mad long and there is room enough for two (albeit skinny) people. So I got comfy in the tub, found a decent temperature, squeezed out a healthy dose of Mr. Bubbles and reveled in anticipation of the glory to come. As the water level rose, I noticed something a little… off. The right side of my body was completely covered, but the left side of my body was dry as a bone. Hmm. Something was amiss. I leaned over the edge of the tub to confirm my fear… they had indeed reinstalled the tub crooked. How this is possible I have no idea, but I now have a tub that looks like there is an uneven stack of books holding it up. This creates two interesting dilemmas. The first is, obviously, that no two parts of my body are covered by the same amount of water at any given time. Secondly, the drain in the front of the tub that prevents over flowing is now dramatically lower than it should be. The glorious water and the delicious bubbles get just high enough to cover my aforementioned boys before the water starts heading out the emergency drain. So if you want a bath… a real, deep all encompassing bath, you have to turn the water on full blast and leave it on the entire time. I’m far too concerned about our planet to do that, so I have resigned myself to having no more baths while living in Astoria. I know you weep with me.


So there is no peace and quiet, no fresh air and no bathtub. It’s like living in the antithesis of suburban heaven, and I don’t even get a Target to compensate for all of it. And yet, dear readers, impossibly there is more. “More” you ask? Oh yes. The best is yet to come. Until then, be well and think of me every time you submerge yourself into a blissful pool of bubbly water. As if you didn’t already.