Words and Thoughts — February 29, 2024
Hello again, alleged readers. A bit of a situation going on over here for your old friend, Stav. Here’s what’s up: last week, on my way to get shawarma, I found a motorcycle helmet, and put the helmet on. I had never worn a helmet before, and I wanted to try it out. Or try it on, rather. Both really. Similar to all of the videos I’ve seen of people inserting lightbulbs into their mouths, the helmet went on just fine. However, also similar to all of the videos I’ve seen of people inserting lightbulbs into their mouths, the helmet did not come off just fine. In fact, it still hasn’t come off. It is decidedly stuck. Or I am stuck inside it, rather.
Regardless of perspective on what is stuck within what specifically, at the core of the matter, there is a helmet on my head.
My immediate concern was how I would order shawarma. I obviously couldn’t let the folks down at Golden King Luck Shawarma Buffet (it’s a Chinese / Lebanese fusion restaurant where the Perkins used to be) know that I was stuck. They would think I was completely stupid. Obviously, to keep from raising any suspicion of my stupidity, when I walked into Golden King Luck Shawarma Buffet, I just made motorcycle noises while I ordered to make them think I was on a motorcycle. Thus, the helmet would make sense, and I would remain un-stupid in the eyes of the staff and patrons of Golden King Luck Shawarma Buffet. During the 15 minutes it took for the shawarma to be ready, I was already getting tired of making idling noises. As I walked out, verbally high revving second gear, it became clear that I wouldn’t be able to make motorcycle noises forever, which I had initially hoped I would be able to do.
I navigated to a secluded alley, where I could stop making motorcycle noises, and rammed my shawarma through the front of the helmet. It was a good shawarma. However the reality of my situation was setting in, much like the tzatziki sauce stain would be doing to my shirt if I was wearing one. I sat in the alley, and pondered my options:
- Move to a place where everyone always wears motorcycle helmets.
- Never leave my home.
- Accept being the recipient of points and stares on the street.
- Buy a motorcycle.
After a bit more alley sitting, and a bit more pondering, and one confrontation with a large rat, I concluded the following:
- I think the place where everyone always wears motorcycle helmets is just a myth.
- I don’t like my home that much. And I would need to leave, at the very least, once every couple of days to get shawarma. (Because up to that point, the only food that I knew for SURE would fit through the helmet was shawarma. Other foods also might work, but shawarma was the only sure thing, based on the empirical evidence I had gathered.)
- The lack of peripheral vision afforded by the helmet can only block out so many derisive points and stares. Plus, the inevitable nickname, “Helmet Doofus,” is a horrible nickname.
- Out of any other viable choices, I would simply need to buy a motorcycle.
On at least four occasions, I have almost been run over by a Harley. Honestly it was not the driver’s fault in each case. I just love laying down on roads at night. The warm feel of the asphalt in the cooling evening air. It’s magical. However, taking the hint from the universe, I ruled out Harleys as an option. Sportbikes seem to be more my style anyway. My aunt always used to say, usually while skeet shooting the origami cranes I’d made for her, “Stav, sweetie, you’re more of a ‘whhhhheeeeeeeeeerrrrrrr‘, and less of a ‘potato-potato-potato-potato-potato-potato‘”. Incredibly wise woman.
As such, the next morning around 9am I walked into the Kawasaki dealership and saw my dream machine. Around 9:10am I found out I don’t know how to use a clutch. By 9:15am, I found out I REALLY don’t know how to use a clutch. After a couple hours of haggling, and a few tense moments regarding “a shredded H2R gearbox”, Stav Knudsenen, master negotiator, became the proud owner of the Kawasaki salesman’s daughter’s Huffy. The way I see it, if the salesman trusted it for his six-year-old, there’s really no greater stamp of approval than that! No clutch on this mean machine. Just two pedals, the open sidewalk, and an ironclad excuse to always have this motorcycle helmet on my head. Now, anywhere I go — Golden King Luck, work, home, the trash dump, my other work that my first work doesn’t know about — all I have to do is nod at my sweet bike out front, and everyone thinks: Stav Knudsenen is one cool cat. Although, I’m not actually a cat.
This is kind of problematic. I really can’t have people thinking that I’m a cat.