So I took the Camry of Love out on a joyride. Going north on Davis (Davis Blvd, the one in NRH) I followed a guy on a Harley, so loud I couldn't hear the Avalanches album on its second time looping. So Harley and I go past a gas station where there's another guy on a Harley looking to turn out. The two Harley riders friendly wave to each other as the one passes.
That struck me as interesting. Southern hospitality taken to extremes, one could say. On the other hand, here were two guys who didn't know each other's names, but they picked each other out of a crowd of motorists because they rode Harleys. They were both fairly decked out in the leather and the jeans and black t-shirts, but they weren't your typical bearded Bubbas you see at Christmastime riding down the highway with teddybears in their arms and their wives sitting behind. No, these were two ordinary fellas who just happened to ride their Harleys around. They probably had decent day jobs and lives outside their bikes. And still, each rider waved to the other because he knew that there were qualities in that guy that were prerequisite to having one of those bikes. The two riders waved to each other like brothers from the same fraternity, like two men who had grown up as Scouts, like ... they knew each could trust the other.
Sometimes people ask me *why* I'm a game-lover, why I keep doing what seems like such a monumental waste of time. I can't help but think to myself because I couldn't get a Harley.