I have a good friend. Sort of a Harley guy -- about my age (early 50s), beard & pony tail, has a Harley ElectraGlide AND a Buell. He is the supervisor of the gov't thing that runs our local transit buses. Like many biker-types, he is a genuinely nice, gentle guy, very intelligent, well employed, and anything but a RUB. (Ask if you don't know what a RUB is.) I would have no problem letting him babysit my grandchildren for a weekend, for a week, for a year. He is gentle and soft-spoken.
He brought me some digital camera shots (still on the camera) yesterday of his recently finished garage. I think it is a one-car but it looks like a six-car. Alternating black and white floor tiles. Motorcycle lift. Bar. Stocked bar. Tools. Recliner. Furnace (remember, this is Iowa). Television (with satellite dish). In one corner, two motorcycles. No car, no wife-storage-unit crap like my garage. He refers to it as his Wife Avoidance Unit. But ... just in case you think this is Mr. Macho, guess again. His wife heads the dietary dept of the local hospital. His cholesterol is high. Guess what Mr. Biker is having for supper these days? Steak? I don't think so, say hello to your new friend Mr. Broccoli. On 3/27/07, Tom Hargrave <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote:
Oh, you mean the nerve connection that runs between our ass & our mouth? The one that should be connected to our brains but somehow was left disconnected?
-- I'm a man but I can change if I have to ... I guess.
