August 1, 2001
garlic ice cream

I try to pack too much into my journal entries, that's the primary problem. I start writing one one day, then leave it unfinished until a week passes; then I'm left to decide whether or not to finish writing for the day I began, or to fill in the gaps between initiation and publication.

My mother is stark raving mad. That was where I left off.

Binky has been in and out of town over the past two weeks, -- more "in" than "out" -- and crashing on my floor. She wears cashmere socks, much to the dismay of my vacuum cleaner; other than that, it was a fairly good visit, wherein I attempted as much as possible not to talk about The Guy and failed miserably, every time. Her cousin lives in Sunnyvale, not too far away; he's a nice guy and a motorcyclist, thereby guaranteeing himself an entry in the "good guy" record book of The Guy. By definition, almost any decent motorcyclist (excepting Harley-Davidson riders, for some intangible sport bike rider elitist reason) qualifies as a "good guy." Binky's cousin, being a fanatic who also teaches motorcycle safety courses, more than qualifies. Also, he doesn't own a Harley, which only elevates him in The Guy's eyes.

The four of us, me and The Guy on his Honda Superhawk, and Binky and her cousin on his cruiser tank, biked down to Gilroy just in time to join the milling crowd at the Garlic Festival. I've always considered myself a fan of garlic; of all the stinky spices in my life, garlic is the one that's nearest and dearest to my heart. This is just as well, since my roommate is Korean and has a fondness for that culinary freak called 'kim-chee.' I have a particular fondness for the same schlop myself; otherwise, cohabitation would be literally impossible. I have been a frequent patron of that legendary garlic restaurant in San Francisco, "The Stinking Rose," and there are entire generations of vampires who have developed genetic allergies to my presence.

Thus, the four hours I spent at Gilroy were entertaining enough to be worthwhile. Food stands set up around the perimeter coaxed us into spending a good half-hour on a relatively grassy patch, where we set up camp and occasionally sent out foray parties for more food. We went through six bottles of water in under ten minutes, all told; The Guy, (dressed in black leathers and an equally black t-shirt), and I in my tank top and jeans, didn't pass a single stand bearing the words "frozen" or "ice" in its title without leaving behind some money. Binky and her cousin, who had changes of clothing in the tank the Cousin drives, got by more comfortably in shorts.

And, let me add, in SPF.

I learned some interesting things at Gilroy. I learned that I do not look good in a garlic bulb hat. I learned that police tend to check people wearing leather at a festival in 95 degree weather. I learned that sunblock is a good thing, and was invented for universal use, not just for the Irish. I also learned, after having a taste of Binky's pistachio-garlic ice cream and being threatened with a chocolate-garlic-peanut-butter-cup, that it is possible to have too much garlic in one's life.

We motorcycled home, lane-splitting the entire way.

Now, some of you might not know what lane-splitting is. You know when you're sitting in a car through busy traffic, waiting for the person in front of you to move, wishing that someone would have the decency to invent a helicar, and are suddenly confronted with the offensive sight of a motorcyclist zipping down the median between lanes? You know that sudden epiphany you get, that burst of hatred for the motorcyclist that he can do that, a sudden, insane urge to swing the wheel and follow him, followed by stark envy at his freedom and then the thought, "I wonder if that's legal?"

It is legal, (mostly), but so much fun -- and think of the time that gets saved. The Guy, impatient with traffic at the best of times, zipped down the middle for about six or seven miles, at least. Probably more. I'm not sure, because I fell asleep on the back of his bike, and there's an expression of trust if there ever were any.

Binky was a little white-faced in the aftermath of the ride home. Lane-splitting, then zooming to 90 mph on the back of a motorcycle is one of those experiences that require increasing levels of numbness. Me, I love it. That's part of the reason The Guy and I are together.

It turns out that Binky wants to work in Antarctica.

"Why?" I asked her.

"Just because?" she replied.

Wrong answer. bzzzzzzzzz! Thank you for playing.

It's a six-month sojourn in nowhereland; they have positions for administrative assistants, cooks, accountants, engineers -- all sorts. They even have a website. It was inevitable that my sister, when she heard of it, would think that this was a great idea and want to apply herself.

"You already have a job," I objected, "and a boyfriend, and you have to finish school."

"But it would be fun," my sister declared.

Never argue with the terminally insane.

On my return home, I discovered a telephone message on my phone from Tara, who had seen fit to return from her ten week South Pacific honeymoon. Ffffft. What I want to know is, why?

It turns out that Binky and her Cousin are related by marriage, not blood. They're first cousins, but their mutual relatives have lived in Arkansas, which opens up a whole wealth of possibilities, you realize.

(I'd be worried about her hunting me down and hurting me for saying this, but she's up in Oregon, so what do I care? Nyah nyah!) In the interests of friendship, I'm not going to say anything further besides, um.

"If you think a family reunion is a great place to pick up chicks, you mah-te be a redneck."

I don't think the redneck, down South, wife-swappin', sister-lovin' community would be particularly keen on claiming Binky as one of their own. For one thing, she jogs. Without being chased.

Ho hum. Grandia is done, finally -- I had The Guy kill off the last bad guy, which he did and gloated tiresomely about -- and now I've started some new game called Final Fantasy VII. It's done by the same people who came out with the Final Fantasy movie; apparently there are at least ten Final Fantasy games, none of which have any relationship to each other beyond the manufacturers being the same. This leads me to believe that they have some serious deficit of imagination when it comes to titles. Personally, I loved the Final Fantasy movie. We'll have to see about the game.