Sub-Transportational Carsick Blues

By now everybody in the tri-state area knows about the fiery death of the Bricksmobile, that's old news. And really, big deal. It's something that happens to everybody at least once in their life, having their car blow up and tear the garage doors off of three of their neighbors' houses, and getting sued and all that. Just one of those trials of life things like having to waddle into the emergency room with a coke bottle stuck up your ass. No fun, for sure, but it's not like it's your own personal torment that nobody else can relate to. Just part of living la vida loca, like that Taco Bell commercial says.

But this latest wrinkle in the saga is just plain different. First, as I'm sure you've heard, I get banned from every taxi company in the city. Every one! Even the ones that don't speak English. Don't even ask me how that happens; the logistics of it are mind-blowing. I did learn a valuable lesson from this experience, though. If you're going to reenact the "throwing the flaming jack-o-lantern at the dude's head" scene from Sleepy Hollow to surprise one of your friends while he's on a blind date, don't do it from a taxi. Rent a car or something, I don't know. Because a lifetime citywide taxi ban is one hard motherfucking pill to swallow, that's all that can be said about that.

So now I've got no way of getting around, except for this shitty old Schwinn I found in the garage that only works in the highest gear. Believe me, I tried some pretty creative schemes to get out of having to ride that goddamned thing. Like ordering a pizza to be delivered, then riding back to Dominos with the delivery guy, then calling on their phone to order a pizza from another place closer to where I wanted to get to, and so on and so forth. Turns out that gets pretty expensive around the third or fourth leg of the trip, in retrospect I probably should have laid off ordering the hot wings and the extra 2-liters of Coke and whatnot. Not to mention that some of those guys get downright weird about you riding in their car with them back to the pizza place, trying to pull away when you're just grabbing the door handle and all kinds of rude shit like that.

So anyway, a couple hundred bucks later Omar Bricks is back to busting his ass on the goddamned garage sale bike. And let me tell you, if you ever want to work up a healthy hatred of your fellow man, try riding a bike to work. People expect you to ride over in the gutter like some kind of taxi-banned wino on his way to the wine factory or wherever the hell it is winos work. And they get all bent out of shape when you get off your bike to push it up a hill, like they've got somewhere to be all of a sudden. Christ, I wouldn't even be shlepping it up these hills at all if anybody respected the bike lane on the freeway like they're supposed to.

All I know is that this bike thing can't last long. It's all fine and good if you're eight and you don't know any better, but what in the world do they make adult-sized bikes for? I guess to give drivers something to laugh at on their morning commune, cut down on road rage or something. Sounds reasonable. But Omar Bricks is done being the rush-hour punch line; I'm clearly ready for a new set of wheels. Maybe a scooter or something, do they still make those? Those Devo guys sure seemed happy cruising around on those things. Not that I'm going to wear the lampshade hat or anything, I just want some kind of vehicle that does the peddling for me. If I've learned one thing from this whole ordeal, it's that peddling is for suckers.

That, and don't set your car on fire based on an infomercial. So two things. Maybe three, if you count the taxi ban. Shit, maybe I should look into getting some college credits out of this thing. Turning the whole situation on its head, to my advantage and all.

Now that's what they call finding the Kraut's silver linens.

Bricks Out.

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