In Which Our Quietude is Shattered

 

For the most part, I have always been fairly neutral about motorcycles.  I will admit they look cool, sort of, and are an effective prop for gay porn.  

Aside from that, I could take them or leave them.  No hard feelings, you guys go your way and I'll go mine was what I would have thought about them if I had thought about them at all.  All that changed once I moved into this apartment on San Francisco's enormous main drag.  Traffic and its accompanying noise is just part of big city life.  Six lanes of traffic right outside my bedroom window?  Oh well.  Think how easy it is to get an Uber.   A firehouse half a block away just means fire trucks roaring by with sirens blaring at all times of the day and night because people are so inconsiderate about when they burn their house down.

But I will never become accustomed to the racket of motorcycles, the bane of my existence.  It is hard enough sleeping with two cats who have staked out their territories in bed right where I want to sleep (I cannot understand how an animal less than a tenth of my size can take up twice the space I do.  Move over dammit), but then I have to contend with the thunderous roar of somebody's hog rumbling up the street to god knows where.  There I will be, tucked in my bed, in the sweet twilight of not quite awake, forced into a z formation by the cats when suddenly, VAROOM, some queer accountant making up for his lost youth and his inadequate penis revs his engine and scares me awake.  I swear when that happens, I actually levitate slightly up off the surface of the bed. 

Ever since early fall, the streets here have been flooded by gangs of dirt bike riders, the only thing noisier and worse than a regular motorcycle since dirt bikes sound very much like a blender with its volume cranked up to 11.  Any holiday or long weekend is guaranteed to see some biker group on a run come thundering past my building, but those bikers tend to coordinate their invasions with cops.  The dirt bike dirt bags on the other hand revel in their outlaw status (dirt bikes are not street legal here) and since they're much more nimble than the cops, there's not much the police can do.  As usual, I am not 100% on John Law's side, but I would like to have my snoozing only impaired by a couple of insolent kitties, if that's not too much to ask. 

Insolent nude guys: 

Daylight Savings Time begins (or ends, I'm never sure which) this weekend.

It's just one more sign that we have turned the calendar corner and are headed for summer.

I am pretty sure I have featured this guy sort of recently, but, as usual, I don't care.

The Boys of Summer and their adorable buttchops.

I certainly do appreciate a well-filled speedo.

I was going to ask if you can spot this week's AI, but it is pretty obvious.

Daniel Montoya and his superior ass.