Books Can Be Fun

As a writer, and one that is trying to write a classic, is not easy. It takes moments of great solitude. It takes a butt made of lead. Fingers that are not as addled as the brains. It takes putting words to a page and then making sure that each one has meter and rhythm. It takes research like reading classics and knowing what those authors wrote in order to grasp how a neo-classic is written.
Which bring us to our story:
I am the co-owner of a cafe and bakery in the suburbs of Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. We are busy people, especially now with our beautiful daughter who is entering the "twos" with gusto and a will that I can only describe as angsty. in our minimal time, I write, exercise and make humble attempts to hop on the motorcycle for a romp into the windy roads.
One fine weathery day, I had to forgo a more lengthy ride into the hills of West Virginia for one closer, and to kill two birds with one stone - seeing as how I had just finished reading a book on hiking the Appalachian Trails and needed another, I adorned my black leather jacket, my "brain-bucket", goggles, boots and red bandanna, which fit snugly below my nose.
My wife asked in her winsome and cautiously caring way that I stick to the byways and not the main thoroughfare, as drivers today tend to be ignorant of other drivers - especially motorcyclists. I love the country roads and proceeded to swoop and careen precariously through the valleys and hills, enjoying my romp.
I managed to find my way to a distant and well-stocked used-bookstore and found what I was looking for and proceeded to leave. I do not possess a carrier on my motorcycle to carry such things - at times I wish that I did, so I stuffed the book and bag down the back of my trousers.
Nothing unusual.
My return trip had started off a ripping good time, sweeping in and out of turns and then finally finding myself stuck behind slow moving technofruits, who endanger everyone surrounding them. I decided to take a familiar and usually barren steel-belt, riding parallel to the Ohio River. There are rarely any uniforms on this particular stretch so I allowed the machine to pull hard.
I passed several vehicles and noticed two miles ahead the white spectacle of a white car in uniform and proceeded to slow to what now was a very legal crawl. Alone in front and behind, I watched as the officer's vehicle pulled onto the roadway directly behind me.
I monitored my speed very carefully as I entered my hometown's limits.
35 miles per hour.
Dragging.
I pulled up to a traffic light and then was accosted by three more uniforms. With lights flashing they blocked the road - both ways. I raised my hands. One stocky fellow stepped quickly out of his tan police sedan and pulled his revolver, and another with his hands on his holster approached.
"Turn off the bike!"
I did.
"Turn the key!
I did that too.
"Now - keep your hands where I can see them."
How fast was I going?
"Put you hands on the hood of the car! And I'll explain!"
Isn't this a little extreme for speeding.
"Where are you coming from?"
"Robinson."
They removed the book from my pants. They grabbed my wallet and reached in my jacket for my phone.
And then I "patted" down.
Can they do this for speeding?
"There was a holdup in Aliquippa. The guy was on a motorcycle wearing a black leather jacket, a helmet and a mask."
They opened the pages of my book - flipping through it in haste.
"Sorry, I'm an avid reader."
"Hey, your Rock's brother-in-law! Coffee business must be tough."
Ensuing laughter.
Pre-deficant in my trousers.
"Ah - he's a good guy."
Laughter continues.
"Sorry about the mix-up, sir."
No problem - seriously!
My mother-in-law always tells us that we seem to always have these inexplicable adventures. Not that I recommend this particular one to anyone,but if there is one thing I can tell you it is that stories are not recounted by people who sit and watch TV, proselytizing the end of the world, or by people who need to satisfy a narcissistic urge to tell others about their every excretion, or by sadistic "game players" - they are written by doers with smooth rear-ends and calloused feet.

A Franc for your Nothing

Those moviephiles who enjoy viewing the classics, will no doubt remember the dialogue between Ric and Ilsa:

A franc for your thoughts.
In America they'd bring only a penny, and, huh, I guess that's about all they're worth.

More than likely Humphrey Bogart was thinking nothing, and that sounds like a bargain that might be too good to be true. Get a penny for doing and thinking absolutely nothing.
Men are often asked this question when there are those remote and welcomed silences between partners.

What are you thinking?

No stereotyping about either sex; however, ladies can not wrap their minds around the concept of "nothing".

Nothing.
What do you mean "nothing"?

One would not call the man's mind, at this point, a black hole - after all a black hole is something.

You must be thinking something.

As if coming out of a trance:

uh-uh.

It has been said that Buddha searched for nothingness or emptiness. Guys have been doing this forever. Perhaps Buddha was raised by women who could not allow him to embrace this ideological behavior pattern exclusive to men - along with others like autogenitaliodisplasia, rancid hyper-dyspepsia, and belching, and quite probably all three at the same time.
To allay any fears or suspicion, let it be said that 99.9% of the time that a man states that he is thinking nothing, you may rest with a great deal of certainty that nothing is exactly what he mauling over, but even that is thinking something.
Never mind.
Have you ever heard yourself blink? Isn't it glorious?