Motherfuckers stole my bike. No, not my scooter, thank god, although at least I have insurance on that. Nope, this was my crap-ass 30-year-old Huffy with a rusty kickstand. It was a piece of shit, but the fucker got me around. And it was stylin'. Stylin' like a hot girl wearing a skinny tie. So I finally manage to hail a cab and the driver tells me that it was surely "those young guys who ride around here, those rowdy Puerto Ricans and the blacks too. The steal bikes and then I see them late at night under the el selling them for five or ten dollars. Nice bikes, those real nice, what's the word, those sport bikes. They sell 'em for ten dollars." So I chuckled and said, "Well, I guess I'll have to go over there tonight and try to buy my bike back." Then I thought about it, and thought, what if my bike isn't there? Maybe I'd just get a different one, one without a rusty kickstand. But what happens when I'm riding around and so other poor little indie rock kid who got his bike stolen sees me and says "Hey, fucker, that's my bike!"? I guess I'd just give it back, right?
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It was a mellower trip than usual though -- usually I go out there and party my ass off the whole time and come back with wild stories to tell. This time, I did go out and party, but not as much as usual, and nothing really wild happened.
But it was still fun!