Last night started out with the potential to be a fun filled, interesting evening. I had done my hair, planned an outfit with heels, and was even wearing lipstick and mascara. I had purchased tickets to a performance at a small local theatre, a Neil Simon work, my man was willing to come with me, and there was the possibility of friends showing up to share the evening with us. I was hoping to go for drinks afterwards.
We left an hour before the performance was to start. Traffic was light on the way into town, and then it wasn't. As we approached Virginia Street, it became more congested, then detoured. I heard the rumbling sound of ten thousand motorcycle engines as I tried, now pointlessly, to beat the clock.
After a bit of calculated meandering, I was able to line up the car with the entrance to one of the Cal-Neva parking garages. We drove up 5 levels to the roof and back down without finding a parking spot. After reaching level 5 of the second parking garage a half hour after the performance was to start, we secured a spot between four tricked out bikes and a green suburban. Halfway down the elevator, I realized I was still in my flip flops. My cute little heels were still in the car. Oh well, f*#& it anyway, the shoes don't make the night. Right? Right. It turned out to be a good thing, because with the theater closed, and all the gleaming motorcycles around, we decided to take a walk. I would've been crippled in those things before we'd gone more than two blocks.
We traversed the line of booths, ogling the leathers and sunglasses and occasionally scantily clad biker -ahem- ladies. We had a grand time perusing fantastic creations on two wheels that cost more than some houses. We heard at least 3 versions of AC/DC wannabes, and had a fantastic view of an awesome fireworks show. As a side note, if I ever wanted to become a pickpocket, I would hit fireworks shows. People are so entranced, they don't even notice it when you bump into them.
Bikes can be some damn sexy machines. Don't get me wrong, a flat black '49 Merc will get me every time, and I'm still holding out for that black and orange '67 4x4 Dodge pickup with the built 426 Hemi, and I'll always have time for a '23 T-bucket (what girl wouldn't?), and I'll positively swoon for a '38 Caddy, and I just might sell my soul for a chance to drive a Bugatti Veyron or a Koenigsegg-CCXR, but bikes are different. They are like the wiry Irish boxer types that are sexy, not the bodybuilders (4x4's that never see mud) or the workin' guys ( the 4x4's covered in mud) or sleek debonair types (30's and 40's luxury cars). They're a breed of their own. Definitely intriguing.
We stayed until they rolled up the sidewalks, tried to figure out what to do with the rest of the evening ( my honey doesn't like dancing or bars) gave up and headed for Denny's. Why Denny's? Because, as evey REAL night owl knows, they have breakfast for dinner at midnight plus, and when conversation lags, you can shoot frilled toothpicks at the ceiling using drinking straws as launching apparatus... We missed the exit, and after about three turns trying to get back in sight of the restaurant, some jackass decided it was OK to go 15 mph in a 35 right in front of me. The brakes popped.
I'd been meaning to do the brakes for like almost a month, even had the parts in the car. Fortunately I had tools in the trunk, so I did the brakes at like 1 in the morning in a Wally World parking lot.in the lowest cut shirt I've worn in a while. Not my idea of a great Saturday night.
We finally made it to Denny's, met a friend there, hung out and had good times til like 4. So yeah, it didn't go anything like I had planned.
One heck of a Saturday night.
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