Bitch Seat

(reposted)

The lovely and talented Joanna called to see if we could go for a putt around the bay; her offer to buy the gumbo was an unnecessary enticement, but where I come from it’s a sin to turn down hospitality.  I mounted the big yella bike and was OTB (over the bridge) and at her door in short order.

How the lady had grown into the full flower of womanhood without having been exposed to bikes is anyone’s guess, but she was surely hooked after her first ride.  And she didn’t just want to be a passenger; she wanted to be a good passenger and that meant learning about every aspect of motorcycling.

Jo put her stuff in the saddlebag (“A girl needs her stuff.”) then grinned up at me and asked, “So, did you Armor All® the bitch seat, again?”

“I don’t have a bitch seat”, sez I.

She’s not the first woman I’ve ever known so it was no shock that she wouldn’t accept a mere fact as an answer.
“Well, Clarke told me the back seat is called a bitch seat and when you ride there you ride bitch.”

Clarke’s a RUB, a nice guy, but a RUB; that is, after his new Geezer Glide’s second oil change, Clarke still doesn’t know which side of the engine the drain plugs are on.

“Clarke’s a RUB,” I told her, “he probably doesn’t mean to speak like ghetto trash (putting it delicately), but he’s a product of a pop culture that marginalizes women.  Back in the day, we referred to riding two-up (as it’s called) as packing”.

“So, what did you call the, uh, passenger seat?”

I looked her in the eye and replied, “The snatch pad”.

After a couple of minutes she had regained some of her composure, dried her eyes, and asked for a description of said pad. Without going into detail, just let me say that her reaction cost us another couple of minutes.
(Yeah, some called it a “P pad” but I always figured it was probably a non-functional
accessory for anyone who couldn’t say “pussy”.)

“Since motorcycling has become more of a genteel sport, or lifestyle”, I told her, “ I usually just use the term, pillion, as they do in the British Isles.  The word is Irish, as am I, and can mean either passenger seat or passenger ”.

This talk of passengers and their seats brought me back to my purpose for being there.  I backed the bike out onto the parking lot and signaled Jo to mount up.
“So, you have a snatch pad, not a bitch seat; I can’t be a biker bitch, so does that mean…”
I lifted an eyebrow.
You got to love a gal who has the capacity to blush.

Next:  Jo renames my snatch pad “the coochie couch”.

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Checking out the Low Life

I don’t even remember how long it’s been since I unplugged my television, five years, maybe? Not unplugged, actually, just unplugged the cable; the television shows I watch, these days, orginate on the Internet, so I’m not exactly in touch with the cutting edge of pop culture.

While browsing Hulu dot COM, recently, I came across a series of shows from 2007 titled, “Livin’ The Low Life” which showcased several California low rider car clubs, their histories, as well as the history of low rider customizing.

I’ve always been a fan of low rider customs, not that I’m a “car guy”, but I like the vintage cars they use and appreciated the creativity of the builders. I find the wild custom paint jobs and dramatic murals appealing, as well, especially the fantasy art featuring sexy Aztecas or pin-up girls.

Glamorous women are very much a part of low rider car shows and photography and the host of “Living The Low Life” held true to form. I hadn’t heard of Vida Guerra, before, but I was entirely impressed with her easy,confident manner and sense of humor. She also matches my scoot, making her a possible subject for a fuel tank mural.

Texas Ren Fair

Click on photos for large view

The sexy granny and I have returned from another jaunt. Circumstances dictated that we truck, rather than motorcycle, far to the north of I-10, across US 290 and into the wild lands northwest of Houston, TX, where we attended Highland Fling weekend at the 35the annual Texas Renaissance Festival.

We arrived at the festival campgrounds, late, Friday night, but we're no rookies when it comes to pitching a tent in near dark and home away from home was soon established in the "quiet family area". The other campgrounds might be named the "rowdy revelers area", I'm not certain.

Saturday morning, we moseyed on down to New Market town. Of all the themed weekends at TRF, the Highland weekend is the best attended. As we entered, King Henry VIII and Katherine of Aragon officially opened the festival. That Henry is some snappy dresser, by the way.

We made our way over to the arena, where Highland games were scheduled and found this pipe and drum trio.

The games are a modern contest of strength and skills used in battle. Shown are examples of men "tossing the caber" (KAY-bur). Originally the caber was used to facilitate the scaling of English castle walls. The pole is flipped end over end (to clear the moat) and comes to rest leaning upright against a castle wall. Other games such as stone tossing (like shot put), hay bale tossing (originally burning bales tossed over English castle walls) and an event similar to the hammer throw originated as means to help kill the English. The contests are similar to the carburetor throw and beer keg toss seen at some biker rallies. You got to keep your hand in, you know?

A few hours later, we witnessed other games played by later warrior cultures in the form of the joust. The riders and horses are all accomplished Another element of fun is added by dividing the crowd into German, English, Spanish and French cheering sections who support their knight and boo the others.

Below, you see the English and Spanish knights going at it.

Of course, all over New Market there are musicians, dancers and other entertainment, such as the famous, Ded Bob Show.

and these Irish rouges.

For those who can't fling, there are dance lessons and then a contest.

This lad was having such a good time he didn't even notice when the music ended.

After the dancing, we wandered past the Executioner and his helper. And folks wonder why the Highland weekend is so popular.

Now, this was Highland Fling weekend, but there were still a good number of gypsies, barbarians, Cavaliers and, God bless them, belly dancers.

A Spaniard and an American head the Shunyata Bellydance troupe up. Their movements were very subtle and appealing and the music and choreography flawless.

Here, the each dancer balances a scimitar on her hip,

and, then, on her head.

Entertainment is only part of the attraction of the festival; craftsmen demonstrate pre-Industrial Age production.

These women make thread

and this woman uses it to make cloth.

This smith and his helper make tools.

The bellows on the forge is driven by this water wheel.

By this time I was developing a hankering for some gumbo in a bread bowl and we began our meander toward the vendor who vends such. On the way we were fortunate enough to catch a performance by the group, "Circa Paleo", featuring the beautiful gypsy violinist.

It's good to be a fiddler.

If you've never eaten gumbo in a bread bowl, you are missing out. We found a bench under a tree and people watched while we renewed our strength. This couple sat near us and I couldn't help but admire him and his girl who wore a wonderful leather choker with large dog collar spikes. They stood out in a crowd of traditionally garbed Highlanders but, at the same time, seemed a natural part of the scene.

Next stop was the "Agora", Greek for a "gathering place", where we gathered with other folk to enjoy another belly dance show. We'd seen these folks on a previous trip. The troupe is the baby of a talented Egyptian composer/musician/emcee and is a little more "cabaret" in nature, as opposed to the Shunyata group we'd seen earlier, and included skits and a 'battle of the belly dancers' between the new girl and a rival.

We had time before the close of the weekend's festivities, time well-spent having desert, ogling the fairy women and barbarian girls and admiring the mini kilts worn by some of the Highland womenfolk. Jill shopped.

As darkness fell we returned to the jousting arena to witness an amazing fireworks display accompanied by the music of the rockin' pipe and drum band, "Tartanic".

Now, that was the official close of the Festival, but certainly not the end of fun and games. The huge campground I characterized as the "rowdy revelers area" saw reveling into the wee hours. That hot granny and I wandered around till my hooves were sore.

One of the things that fun to watch is the fire breathers and fire whirlers (I guess you'd call them).

This fearless young woman breathed fire then took a turn at whirling fire, as well.

We watched some of the guys (who wore a whole lot more clothing on their upper bodies) and witnessed these tents going up, inflated by the heat of the fires placed beneath them.

Jill had carried her bodhrán, (a flat Irish drum), and wanted to join the drummers at a large bonfire. While they drummed, revelers dance around the fire, getting in touch with some basic self and blowing off the steam of the everyday. I sat on a big log, rested my feet and enjoyed the spectacle.

We're alive and in Texas.