Measured Extravagance

21 April 2002 - 11:30 p.m.

More than ever, I'm convinced that motorcyclists who eschew wearing helmets are complete fools. As we rode through Alabama tonight, my visor got splatted twice with birdshit. It was gross enough wiping it off the helmet; the thought of having to comb bird-squirt out of one's eyelashes will definitely give me pause the next time I consider leaving my visor up.

Avian excrement aside, it was a good weekend for riding - the weather was dry and not too hot. We rode down to a crawfish boil in McComb, Mississippi - 350 bikers and 700 pounds of mudbugs, I'm told (plus gallons of gumbo and a mess of catfish and barbeque). I was embraced heartily by the boys from Texas and received fresh enlightenment about SEC football from some of my other dinner companions ("I have one daughter who went to Ole Miss and another who went to LSU, and I tell you, they are sore losers at LSU").

After the festivities, we rode on to Saz and Erac's, where they opened a bottle of Buena Vista zinfandel. I crashed out well before midnight, but, judging from the falls of wax, the BYM stayed up chatting with them until the candles guttered out.

This morning: a BLT and a slice of pecan pie at the Bluebird Cafe in the Garden District. Then the many miles back up north until we reached Huntsville seven hours later, where we stopped for pork, ribs and lemonade at the Greenbrier Restaurant and listened in on a very Southern conversation being carried on in the next booth that included directions to church, the ages of "girls" over 60, who died when, and grudges to be made good: [condensed version - I cannot do the real thing justice:] "I called her from the hospital to let her know that he was in intensive care and she never did call me back. Not once. When his obituary is printed, you aren't going to see ______ and ______ listed in it. They can look all they want, but they won't be in there, not if I have any say in it."


One year ago, I listened to a visiting speaker suggest "that the body of the historical Jesus rotted after entombment, but that the dreams and visions and hallucinations of the grieving Apostles and other admirers then became the story of Christ..."

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