Got To Blow

So I was like, “Hey, who’s a guy got to blow to get a taxi around here?”—I know, it’s sort of my stock line and I don’t generally like stock lines, but this one keeps working, plus it’s sort of subtly third-wave post-modern something or other, what with me doing the blowing. It’s making the world a better place to live in, is what I mean. Plus, I can make fun of guys giving blow jobs, because one of my best friends is an undocumented immigrant.

It’s like how I’ll be in an auto parts store and I’ll see a white guy in a suit and I’ll ask him where the windshield wiper blades are. Watch him get all huffy and “Hrmph, well I, gahhh, I don’t work here.” Shit like that just kills me. The bottom line is this, and I’ve said it before: some people just need you to fuck with them a little bit. It helps them.

So I’m in a bicycle bar. That’s when all this happens, the who-do-I-blow-for-a-taxi thing. Place called Deep Gears. A bicycle bar ought to be fantastic, a home away from home, right? With all the comforts and amenities, all the chains and pedals that a guy could dream of. Well, no.

There’s bikes hanging from the ceiling, like upside down, and there are drinks at Deep Gears called Rusty Chain and The Great Race and New Tube. And that’s cool enough. That made me laugh.

But I’m telling you, the looks I received upon referencing an automobile in this place—even a neutral automobile, because everyone can agree on taxis, right?—you’d be blown away.

Did you ever imagine that you could be at a bar, drunk as shit, mention getting a taxi, and have the bartender look at you with disgust and disappointment? Well I certainly didn’t ever imagine it. But that’s maybe just me.

Oh, bicycle bar. Oh, Deep Gears, let’s be clear: you have not heard the last of me. Your skinny little tight-jeaned ass is going to get spanked on these pages again, and soon, too. Right now I have to go—you know, to work, to ride my bike and make a dollar and bring the bright into people’s lives—so I don’t have the time to fully inform the world of your vagaries. And I can call them vagaries, too, because one of my best friends is gay.

Different kind of bicycle bar