August 12, 2003 Throwback blog post, with a hint of current events.

I don’t know when I’ll receive the new bike or whether I’ll have all the parts ready to build it once it arrives, but I thought it’d be fun to post my Masi for sale online and watch the fish nibble. I don’t see myself doing any major rides until the spring, and I’d still have my Ridley.

Unfortunately for potential buyers, bargaining with me is like bargaining with The Soup Nazi.

Why do people think I should lower my asking price because the bike isn’t exactly what they were looking for? Want a bike with disc brakes? Then you’re looking at the wrong ad! I don’t go to a coffee shop, buy a cookie and go, “Actually, I really wanted a donut. Could you give me a discount on this cookie to compensate for my disappointment?”

NO MASI FOR YOU!

This bike is more cultured than you.

I already need a break from those people, so I’ve deleted the ad. I’m personally using the “you get what you pay for” approach with a handbuilt frame, custom paint job, and individual components so that my bike will be exactly how I want it. The Horse will make the Masi redundant, but I still love the Masi enough that I’d sooner keep it than sell it below my asking price to some annoying tit.

When I sold a bong via Craigslist years ago, I had no qualms about selling it to a teenager as she was prompt and polite. I hope she’s had wonderful times with that bong and that it didn’t lead to a life of indecency or asthma. All that’s to say, I’m just not cash-hungry.

In further impending news, the landlord has requested entry to inspect the bedroom window, as the seals might’ve gotten damaged from the neighbouring fire. This means someone’s going to see the hunk of plastic (climbing training board) above the doorframe and think, “What the fuck?” Then they’ll paddle us, as landlords are wont to do, for Swiss cheesing their building.

I may provide distraction by placing nudes along the baseboard. Or does it matter? The melted window seals are the issue here.

To polish off today’s post, I have a Throwback post that was requested by Gator after she re-read the one I posted two weeks ago. Although I hadn’t edited any of the previous Throwback posts, this one made me feel embarrassed 17 years late. I don’t think I like who I was pre-2005, but I’m glad Gator did and that I didn’t die inside her gothy 1984 Grand Prix.

Prelude: Kevin was our boss who, at the time, was the only other person with who we worked at Auto Wizards. He wore white high tops and drove a blue Ford Bronco, which isn’t relevant to the post except that it does show how Gator still trusted him to help us. Also, I’m pretty sure this was around the time I had a mullet. Yeehaw! Where are the single cowboys at?!

August 12, 2003

Today, I almost had the pleasure of dying.
Die, all alone, in Gator’s car, which was parked right in the middle of an expressway.

After work, about three minutes onto Blackfoot Trail, Gator got this worried look on her face and went, “Something’s wrong with my car…”

Sure enough, the Crapmobile rolled to a stop while cars were speeding right past us right and left. Gator quickly fumbled for the emergency lights while I watched in horror as oncoming vehicles either braked and/or swerved to avoid hitting us. Within two minutes of being trapped inside the car with Gator, vehicles started lining up behind us, beginning with this woman in a van. I waved to the lady and signaled for a phone to which the woman responded with a nod.

Instead of getting the lady to make a call, Gator hopped into the van and pointed her in the direction of our workplace. I was now alone. The line up of cars was gone, and I was back to panicking every time I saw a vehicle come towards me at full speed. I couldn’t do anything but watch and hope Gator would be back soon with Kevin.

The next person that stopped behind me got out of his car and asked what the problem was. I wrote down quickly how the driver had left back to our work to get help and showed the note to him. Instead of leaving me there, he said “we’d better get this car off the road” and then asked me for the key. I showed him how it was still in the ignition. He took a glance at the road and saw how the traffic was held up by a red light a hundred meters or so away. He quickly put the car in neutral, pushed the thing into the inside lane, over the curb, and then onto the traffic island. He ran back to his truck before I could thank him.

About two minutes later, Kevin and Gator arrived. While Kevin was taking a look at the car, I told Gator how happy I was. She looked at me with a weird smirk, as if I had just made a sarcastic remark.

I wasn’t sarcastic. I was so happy to be off the road. That had to be one of the scariest moments of my life.

I did a celebratory dance.

*Insert two paragraphs talking about stuff I’m no longer shameless enough to post online.*

In the end, Kevin drove us back to work. I sat around in the garage reading Maxim magazines until Gator told me to take the bus home while she figured out what to do about her car. It’s not like I was helping much anyway, and the garage’s magazine selection was limited to just that.

All that was wrong with the Crapmobile was a few loose screws. So, tomorrow at 7:30am, I get to ride in it again.

Worse things could’ve happened, like:
-You get run over by a steamroller, from the feet up.
-You buy a brand new recliner, and your cat pees on it so much, and so frequently, that you can no longer clean it, the smell is intolerable, you leave it on the curb… Bye bye recliner, we miss you!
-You travel back in time and screw up the timeline so much that happiness ceases to exist. Life is tolerable at best.
-The Jon Stewart lookalike you picked up at the bar won’t screw around with you, no matter how drunk you get him, because HE REALLY, REALLY RESPECTS WOMEN.

Gator and I show the photographer sarcastic enthusiasm. Our coat hoods are up as it was a rainy day. There's a horse drawn carriage visible in the background.
Survivors of the 1984 Grand Prix incident of 2003, taken in 2007.

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