E-mail: Brian7Morris "at" hotmail.com

Archives

March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
September 2002
October 2002
November 2002
December 2002
January 2003
February 2003
March 2003
April 2003
May 2003
June 2003
July 2003
August 2003
September 2003
October 2003
November 2003
December 2003
January 2004
February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
current

Blogs

Mandapants
farkleberries
Uranium City Records
The C.M. Sienko Foundation
Storyteller Musings
Solotarian Views
Lynne Wiora
Tek
Poker News Blog
Some Biscuits
Evil Eye Emporium
Niggling Doubts
Pressure Release
Sara as Mommy
runswithscissors
Defective Yeti
Afternoon Delight
trancejen
The Terrarium
Bird Nird
Slipperily
Tofu Hut
Stereo Gum

Links

Fixed Gear Gallery
Get Crafty
This is Grand
Featherproof Books
Gapers Block
Chicago Bird Watching
Thieves Jargon



No one must know my terrible secret...

House of Noh!


Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Yesterday I was riding my sweet new coaster brake bike, which is mostly made up of the remants of an 1959 Hornet bicycle, the kind some people call a "kick bike" I guess, that has lots of extra curving steel tubing, apparently with no function whatsoever , 'cept looking cool. I bought the Hornet in kind of rough condition, all old and rusty, just the way I like my bicycles, and I had to carry the old, oversized, rusty fenders home on the bike slung over my shoulder. I bought the bike from that guy who runs the bicycle store in the storefront below the Chateau Hotel on Broadway a block or two south from Irving Park (little-known-but-hands-down the BEST BICYCLE SHOP IN CHICAGO). I don't know the name of his bicycle shop, or even if it has a name. The proprietor chains some bicycles outside to parking meters when he's open, with very tiny signs on them that say "for sale" and have arrows pointing toward his shop door.

So yesterday I was riding my sweet new bike, pedalling all gleefully and carefree, when some hipsters who looked like they could be from commercials advertising Taco Bell's new Crunch Wrap Supreme started giving me shit. And, BTW, how I loathe you, crunch-wrap supreme red-headed, hipster spokesperson (defined term: Taco Bell Spokesperson). I spent a lot of time thinking about this today, and if Taco Bell Spokesperson was matched up in a pit-fight with Jared, I would have a really hard time deciding who I'd want all beat up and bruised and uttering the pathetic lamentations of those defeated in honorable pit-style gladiator combat in an oil-changing pit at an old abandoned Uncle Ed's Oilshop franchise. I'm not making up the Uncle Ed's oil-change pit thing - this is how executives at Pepsi Corporation and the one that owns Subway entertain themselves: by matching the fighting skills of their mascots. It's clearly a lowbrow sort of activity, especially when compared to the elegant, classic sports enjoyed by vice presidents. Nothing is so majestic and filled with natural beauty as walking a harvested corn-field in late February behind high-bred and impeccably trained English Pointers, when all of a sudden one dog goes to point and a covey of medical malpractice plaintiff's attorneys stand up out of the corn stubble and run off toward cover. And it probably was a great moment for the VP when he picked a lawyer out of the fleeing covey, followed it, and successfully blasted it in the face with his 28 gauge shotgun. Although what with the Ranch he was hunting at reporting the shooting to the press, and sending the lawyer to the hospital instead of sending the VP home with laywer fillets, all neatly butchered and wrapped up in labeled white butcher paper, I'd be surprised if he ever goes back to THAT ranch again.

So I was riding my sweet new bike, and these hipsters standing out in front of their hipster place watched me pedal by, and I heard one say, "what is that?" to which the other responded, "an abomination!" and I think they were talking about the bike.

Actually, I consider this high praise, but, for effect, I displayed great umbrage, stood up on my old tyme pedals, and sped past the hipsters on squishy balloon tires as if to say, "eat my rust flakes hipsters!!"


Brian 1:24 PM

Comments:
Dude...the Hornet is an awesome bike. Don't let anyone tyell you different. Indeed, with thaty sweet Schwinn "cantilever" frame, it is probably a nice match for the equally awesom 1961 Schwinn American I have hanging in my basement. Rusty as hell, plucked from a wagon of rusty crap for sale in some guy's front yard for $10, but has the awesome, three stripe Bendix TWO-SPEED kickback hub. That's right, buddy...just give a soft backpedal and feel that baby click up into high gear. A
 
Oh! I am so jealous! I had, in my possession, an April-of-1953 Schwinn Meteor which is, apparently, just a rebadged Hornet. I scored this beauty from my mother-in-law's garage, it having previously belonged to her husband and he never took it after their divorce 20+ years prior.

Well, unfortunately he saw my pretty one day and his eyes flashed feelings of nostalgia. Worst of all my wife was right there! When I tell you this was shortly before Father's Day I think you can guess what happened to it after I restored this creature to cruising condition.

And I was planning to get all Alien-Ray on its ass, too!

I now know that, while it was "all that" it did not come with a "bag of chips" -- it was a simple single-speed. I feel a little better...

Peace!
 
Post a Comment
This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours? << chicago blogs >> Site Meter