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I was busily staring at a blank Word document today (willing this column to write itself before tomorrow's deadline) when one
of my myriad instant messengers chimed. It was my friend James, known by his IM user name as THROTTLEFACE21.
THROTTLEFACE21: Dude, I'm about to swallow a goldfish.
Now, let's stop right here for a minute.
First of all, I get these kinds of messages every day. They might involve the ingestion of small household pets, or maybe other random foodstuffs, (bacon-wrapped Peeps, anyone?) but their true purpose is to simply provide a plethora of distractions for me.
I need distractions because they keep me from getting too stressed out with all of my important deadlines. Too much time at my desk means too much time to think. Too much time to think about all those important deadlines and I get stressed. Stress is bad for writing. It kinks up my creative Feng Shui.
Nonetheless, I can't just go breezing out the door every time I'm notified of some kind of impending foolishness. It would be irresponsible of me and I'd never meet any of my important deadlines. Besides, I still had no topic for my column, nor did I have time to write it.
I had to focus. It was time for me to really buckle down and write some brilliantly spectacular epic about motorcycles or motorcycling or motorcyclists or motorcycle seat foam...
ME: I'm on my way.
I hopped on my FZ6 and sped toward Goldfish Festival 2009. On the way, I decided to stop in at Cooper Tennis Complex and see about getting some lessons. I've been dying to learn how to play. Not for the game itself really (I'll probably suck at tennis) but I'm excited about wearing all those sweet tennis clothes. I don't want to play like Roger Federer; I just want it to be okay for me to wear short shorts and sweatbands.
I entered the main building of the sprawling tennis complex thinking: How about "Saddlebags" for this month's column title? Sort of a "how-to: article on better biker fitness; and I could close out the piece with my Famous MOTOburger recipe.*
"It's so unhealthy it would give Michael Phelps a coronary," I said out loud, still thinking about my Famous MOTOburger.
"Pardon me?" said the sinewy tennis expert seated behind the counter. "Can I help you?: he said.
The smell of tennis ball fuzz and exercise ricocheted around inside my nostrils.
"Yes," I said, "I'm looking to get some tennees lessons." I emphasized the end of the word, like a French tennis expert. I wanted to be taken seriously. "Beginner?" he asked, blandly.
"Intermediate," I lied.
He wrote my name down in the Beginner column.
"How much is this going to cost?" I asked.
"Fifty-nine bucks per one-hour lesson."
"How about fifteen minutes? How much would that cost?"
"We don't do fifteen-minute lessons," he said.
"I bet Rowdy's Tennis Ranch down the road does fifteen-minute lessons," I said. It was a lie, I had already checked and they didn't.
"One hour pal," he said. "Take it or leave it."
"Fine," I said. "Does it at least come with a free shirt or something?"
"No, sorry," he said.
"How about an Andy Roddick hat?"
"Sorry."
Then I asked him: "Do you think my column this month should be about those idiotic stunt riders who pull wheelies at 80 miles-per-hour in rush-hour traffic?"
He stared at me strangely for a moment and I had a feeling he might lunge for the phone, but he didn't.
I decided I would have to think about the lessons. Besides, I didn't have an hour to spare. I had to go see James chug a goldfish, and then I'd have to rush home just in time to write a deeply meaningful column.
But what was I going to write it about? Didn't I know anything about motorcycles anymore? Why couldn't I think? What did they do to me in those secret government laboratories? What really happened to Gary Busey? My mind was a hurricane of important questions.
I finally pulled up to James's house and made my way through the minefield of beer cans in his yard. I passed a happy couple spooning on the front porch. They were nude, and I'm pretty sure they were okay with it.
I walked in and James was standing on a chair holding a pitcher of water above his head. A small goldfish circled inside the pitcher. A large goldfish turd swayed brownly at the bottom. James scolded me for making him wait so long, but then I informed him of my important deadlines and everything was okay.
In the meantime, however, he had decided that he was feeling sorry for the fish. He’d had time to get to know the little guy and he didn't think had the heart to do it anymore. We argued about this for a minute, but he eventually pardoned the little aquarium-dweller, much to my chagrin.
Despite my disappointment about the goldfish fiasco, I had to make a keen dash home and get cracking on my column. I had decided on a title: "Seven Foods NOT to Eat Before an All-Day Ride."
I was real pumped about that title. And I really know my stuff when it comes to the food/butt relationship. Anyway, during that long ride home, I envisioned myself working furiously and passionately on the "Opus of All Motorcycle Columns," late into the wee hours. I could hear my keyboard
clattering, and I could almost feel the sweat dripping from my withered brow as I imagined my witty prose flowing like hot Yamalube...
Then, when I got home and walked into my office, I remembered that those movie rentals were due back in a couple of days and they weren't going to take themselves back to the store. I decided to take them back right then, just in case. Hey, I can't very well afford any late fees on a writer's budget, you know.
*Famous MOTOburger Recipe: (MOTO stands for "Meat On Top.") Make a cheeseburger, stack sliced fried potatoes on top of the hamburger patty, and top it off with a slab of steak.
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