You know you are getting old when:

[Rmccamey]

As with humanity in general, you can't fix stupid. Street racing and burnout parties seems to be the larest stupid craze with young people and vehicles these days, and more girls are behind the wheel.

Wheelies. On a public street in moderate traffic. I don’t get it. I went 18 years without seeing an idiot popping a wheelie… and I’ve now seen it twice in the last week.

 

[Rmccamey]

Like the title of the thread, you know your getting old when even leaning on the couch is risky and done only with great caution

Okay guys, fess up. How many of you watched that video, sitting at home or maybe in your office, and still leaned into each and every turn?

 

[GHT]

That was how I started. As a teenager. I needed transportation.
Unless it is perfectly legal to share lanes and change lanes. "Lane Splitting" is legal in some states. And there is nothing illegal about a signaled lane change. Speed. Motorcycles and fast cars. Strip clubs too. A lot of young people. Then there are people who are a little older. Maybe under 25 and over 50. There's the perception of danger because you are on 2 wheels. Some bike manufacturers are now selling 3 wheel models. Most people that I know, do not ride a motorcycle.

As a kid, the police department had Harley trikes. Mostly for parking control and traffic control. But there were the occasional regular patrols where they rode a trike instead of a patrol car. I see them on the road more.

Have you seen the 2021 Triumph Rocket?

 

[tonyb]

A guy I’ve known since I was 15 recently bought a Harley trike. He had a two-wheeler for several years but in his dotage he is experiencing balance problems.

He was party to a recent conversation about how the adults who put together the organization that put us in one another’s company back then had their poop grouped in ways our generation never did.

Another way of knowing you’re getting old is recognizing how much you owe those who came before, and questioning what you’ve done for those who come after.

 

[tonyb]

…

Polaris Slingshot is more like a car, and you still get the open air feel of the road. Cost less than a car, is sold as a motorcycle, but you don't need a motorcycle license. If I had a place to park it, I would buy a Slingshot. It just looks like fun. Leather jacket, jeans, boots, and a backpack with your toothbrush and extra underwear. I could put some miles on this.

A nephew owns one. It’s big fun, but I can’t say I like the styling.
It might be fun to put retro-style bodywork on it.

 

[Zombie_61]

Wheelies. On a public street in moderate traffic. I don’t get it. I went 18 years without seeing an idiot popping a wheelie… and I’ve now seen it twice in the last week.

I've seen it on local freeways at freeway speeds, whether it's a single rider or one or three out of a group. I can only imagine they're seeking a thrill I've never had an interest in.

As with humanity in general, you can't fix stupid. Street racing and burnout parties seems to be the larest stupid craze with young people and vehicles these days, and more girls are behind the wheel.

Approximately 500 feet south of our house there is an intersection--two streets with one lane of traffic in each direction and space for parallel parking at the curbs. For some reason the local nitwits have singled out this specific intersection to use for what I assume are practice burnouts because there's really only enough space for one car at a time to do this. And I've actually seen these clowns drive past our house, reach the intersection, do their burnout, and leave heading in the direction they came from, so it's pretty clear that this intersection was their destination. I was young once so I kinda' get the whole "showing off" thing, but... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

 

[tonyb]

^^^^^
Our district is a destination for street racers throughout the metropolitan area. There was a double fatality wreck a week or so ago about a mile and a half from here. Investigators figure the vehicle was traveling in excess of 120 mph when the driver apparently lost control.

Two or three hundred feet from our house is a T-intersection of two residential streets, neither one an arterial.

Speed limit is 25, with those pole-mounted, solar-powered radar gizmos at all three entrances to this subdivision off of arterials. It seems that some people regard those speed displays as a challenge.

At the above mentioned intersection a few months back one such Waltrip wannabe knocked over the streetlight standard. I was kinda surprised that the city replaced it with a dead-on match, seeing how this area was built out in 1977 and how the streetlights are very much of that era — tapered fiberglass poles, George Jetson tops. I don’t know if they happened to have some originals in inventory or if the things are still being produced.

 

[Turnip]

Okay guys, fess up. How many of you watched that video, sitting at home or maybe in your office, and still leaned into each and every turn?

Now you caught me!
Have to confess it almost smashed me from the wurst press, keeping balance is not that easy anymore.

 

[Bushman]

That’s not a fair description of most motorcyclists, but we all see it often enough. Around here it’s the guys doing wheelies on their street-legal road racers that have me worried for their mothers, who stand waaay too great a chance of having to identify their boys down at the morgue.

Seriously, doing wheelies while speeding through intersections is borderline suicidal. There’s just no room for error.

I suppose you're right. The crotch rocketeers who I see zipping in and out of traffic on the expressway seem to be far more reckless than your typical Harley rider.

Unless it is perfectly legal to share lanes and change lanes. "Lane Splitting" is legal in some states. And there is nothing illegal about a signaled lane change.

Excessive speed
Passing in a "No Passing Zone"
Passing in an intersection (which did not have a passing lane)
Passing on the shoulder
Passing without signaling

Just last Friday I saw a single motorcyclist doing all of these within a single half-mile stretch of road in the middle of rush-hour traffic. And that's not even bringing up the motorcyclists that do all of these on expressways at expressway speeds. It's like they WANT to die.

 

[Fifty150]

Street racing, spinning donuts, popping wheelies......none of that is new. Kids did that back in the old days. Even movies were made about cruising and racing in the 60's. American Graffiti? Wasn't Fonzie doing stunts on that Triumph? James Dean? Steve McQueen? And that old guy selling bottled salad dressing?

 

[GHT]

 

[Fifty150]

If someone wanted to kill me, I'm not hard to find. I've been eating in the same restaurants since I was a kid and my dad took me there. The lunch counter was taller than me. But I managed to kneel on the stool, which made it possible for me to eat. They didn't have high chairs and booster seats back then. I've been drinking in the same bar since I was in school. By then, I was tall enough to reach the bar, and sit on the stool. The bartender used to give me a glass of milk - on the rocks.

I know I'm getting old. I've seen the bar change hands and go through several owners. The current owners call me, when they can't figure out something about the plumbing or electrical. I have been around long enough to know how things are wired up to the breakers, and the building's owner told them to ask me first, before calling in a plumber. Not that I would do any of the repairs, or do it for free. I usually tell them just enough, so that they know that they can't fix it on their own. Then I tell them to call the electrician or call the plumber. But still, when the pro comes, they hear the same thing. So they feel good that they aren't getting ripped off, and getting their money's worth with the repair bill.

More than once, the landlord has mentioned that I should buy the place. It's turn-key. A neighborhood bar. Everything is already running itself. Regular bartenders have worked there for years and know the regular customers. Beer company and liquor company salespeople come in, do inventory, and restock the supply room twice a week. Bartenders have keys to open and lock up. Day shift bartender pays off the vendors. All that an owner has to do there is collect the cash, and hand out paychecks.

A woman sticks her head in the door, swivels it from corner to corner, and then locks her eyes with mine. She marches over purposely, with her index finger positioned to pick my nose for me.

"5150! What are your intentions?"

What? Is? She? Talking? About? Who was she?

She looked vaguely familiar. But then again, she could have been a walking stereotype for a girl of a certain age. Still dressed like a print ad, for Macy's White Flower Day Sale in nineteen-eighty-something. Bangs. A ponytail. An Esprit crop top. High waisted Guess? Jeans that tapered at the ankles, with little zippers in the back. High top Reeboks. I know that they don't make those clothes anymore. So she is still dressed like when she was in high school.

Vaguely familiar could mean a lot of things. I drink. A lot. Maybe my beeper battery died, and I didn't return her calls for the last 40 years. I should at least pretend that I recognize her, or know why she was fuming mad. But this isn't a first for me. Women get pissed at me all the time. Usually, women I know.

I'll just tilt my head to the side, and look stupid. Maybe shift my weight a little, so that I can evade if she tries to slap me.

"My niece was in here last week. You were flirting with her. How can you do that? Is this some sort of sick game to you? First you played with my heart. Then betrayed me by fooling around with my sister. Now you have to have her daughter too? Are you some kind of pervert?"

Whoa! Hold on. I'm looking at her, and I honestly don't know who she is. I confess...... "How come I don't remember you? Who are you?"

She took a swing. Just like that. Tried to slap me. Lucky for me, I was expecting it, and shifted my weight so that her hand swooshed and got nothing but air. I gathered her into a tight embrace. I could smell the sweet odor of marijuana and cheap body spray. She sort of jerked and pushed against my chest. Okay, some might say that I placed her into a control hold, i.e. bear hug, so that she was not able to continue her assault. Then I felt her relax, and she actually dropped her hands down towards my hips, and leaned into me as if she were returning the hug. Her head rested on my shoulder. Weird. She started sobbing. I whisper into her ear, "calm down, and tell me who you are".

No. I actually don't remember her. Allegedly, she was in the 7th grade, I was in the 8th grade, and we kissed at a party. Then when I went to the 9th grade, her sister was in the 11th grade, and the same thing happened. How am I suppose to remember that? And what about the niece? The sister's daughter? Supposedly, the girl was in the bar a few weeks ago, and we talked. Nothing else. But the girl was asking her mom and her aunt if they knew a guy about their age, who went to the same school, and hangs out at the bar in Chinatown.

So our heroine drank up the courage, then smoked some pot to calm herself, and came to confront me. For what? I'm just the guy at the bar, who buys a couple of rounds, and sometimes I make a new friend. I didn't do anything. Who am I? Not a POTUS with an intern in the oval office.

"My niece said she did the Monica Lewinsky, and now all she does is think about coming back down here to look for you again!"

Whoa! "Oh yeah. That girl. Go home. Tell her I've been busy, and that the battery in my beeper died."

"What beeper? It's almost 2022. You son of a *!***".

 

[tonyb]

… the guy hawking Medicare supplement plans on TV is younger than you.

 

[Trenchfriend]

When your shoulders got more and more vital hair growing.

 

[Monitor]

If someone wanted to kill me, I'm not hard to find. I've been eating in the same restaurants since I was a kid and my dad took me there. The lunch counter was taller than me. But I managed to kneel on the stool, which made it possible for me to eat. They didn't have high chairs and booster seats back then. I've been drinking in the same bar since I was in school. By then, I was tall enough to reach the bar, and sit on the stool. The bartender used to give me a glass of milk - on the rocks.

I know I'm getting old. I've seen the bar change hands and go through several owners. The current owners call me, when they can't figure out something about the plumbing or electrical. I have been around long enough to know how things are wired up to the breakers, and the building's owner told them to ask me first, before calling in a plumber. Not that I would do any of the repairs, or do it for free. I usually tell them just enough, so that they know that they can't fix it on their own. Then I tell them to call the electrician or call the plumber. But still, when the pro comes, they hear the same thing. So they feel good that they aren't getting ripped off, and getting their money's worth with the repair bill.

More than once, the landlord has mentioned that I should buy the place. It's turn-key. A neighborhood bar. Everything is already running itself. Regular bartenders have worked there for years and know the regular customers. Beer company and liquor company salespeople come in, do inventory, and restock the supply room twice a week. Bartenders have keys to open and lock up. Day shift bartender pays off the vendors. All that an owner has to do there is collect the cash, and hand out paychecks.

A woman sticks her head in the door, swivels it from corner to corner, and then locks her eyes with mine. She marches over purposely, with her index finger positioned to pick my nose for me.

"5150! What are your intentions?"

What? Is? She? Talking? About? Who was she?

She looked vaguely familiar. But then again, she could have been a walking stereotype for a girl of a certain age. Still dressed like a print ad, for Macy's White Flower Day Sale in nineteen-eighty-something. Bangs. A ponytail. An Esprit crop top. High waisted Guess? Jeans that tapered at the ankles, with little zippers in the back. High top Reeboks. I know that they don't make those clothes anymore. So she is still dressed like when she was in high school.

Vaguely familiar could mean a lot of things. I drink. A lot. Maybe my beeper battery died, and I didn't return her calls for the last 40 years. I should at least pretend that I recognize her, or know why she was fuming mad. But this isn't a first for me. Women get pissed at me all the time. Usually, women I know.

I'll just tilt my head to the side, and look stupid. Maybe shift my weight a little, so that I can evade if she tries to slap me.

"My niece was in here last week. You were flirting with her. How can you do that? Is this some sort of sick game to you? First you played with my heart. Then betrayed me by fooling around with my sister. Now you have to have her daughter too? Are you some kind of pervert?"

Whoa! Hold on. I'm looking at her, and I honestly don't know who she is. I confess...... "How come I don't remember you? Who are you?"

She took a swing. Just like that. Tried to slap me. Lucky for me, I was expecting it, and shifted my weight so that her hand swooshed and got nothing but air. I gathered her into a tight embrace. I could smell the sweet odor of marijuana and cheap body spray. She sort of jerked and pushed against my chest. Okay, some might say that I placed her into a control hold, i.e. bear hug, so that she was not able to continue her assault. Then I felt her relax, and she actually dropped her hands down towards my hips, and leaned into me as if she were returning the hug. Her head rested on my shoulder. Weird. She started sobbing. I whisper into her ear, "calm down, and tell me who you are".

No. I actually don't remember her. Allegedly, she was in the 7th grade, I was in the 8th grade, and we kissed at a party. Then when I went to the 9th grade, her sister was in the 11th grade, and the same thing happened. How am I suppose to remember that? And what about the niece? The sister's daughter? Supposedly, the girl was in the bar a few weeks ago, and we talked. Nothing else. But the girl was asking her mom and her aunt if they knew a guy about their age, who went to the same school, and hangs out at the bar in Chinatown.

So our heroine drank up the courage, then smoked some pot to calm herself, and came to confront me. For what? I'm just the guy at the bar, who buys a couple of rounds, and sometimes I make a new friend. I didn't do anything. Who am I? Not a POTUS with an intern in the oval office.

"My niece said she did the Monica Lewinsky, and now all she does is think about coming back down here to look for you again!"

Whoa! "Oh yeah. That girl. Go home. Tell her I've been busy, and that the battery in my beeper died."

"What beeper? It's almost 2022. You son of a *!***".

Found your post by mere chance, enjoyed every word!

 

[Hercule]

I must admit (sheepishly so) that several times in as many weeks I've caught myself driving with my turn signal on. Heavy sigh. . . .

 

[tonyb]

My Dear Old Ma — married at 17, widowed with three babies at 21 — has strongly identified as a person who has done for herself all her adult life and even before that.

So she’s more than a little prideful, which is creating a challenge for my sister and me in getting her to accept the help she’s increasingly needing to stay in her own little house. She has good insurance, and ever since her second husband died (he who squandered her money for decades), she’s put away more than she will likely live long enough to spend, and she continues sending more to Charles Schwab every month. Yet she thinks that the housekeeper who now comes in once a month is more than she needs and is a waste of her resources.

Mom, we want you to live to 100 and beyond. We want you to stay in your house. We want you to spend every last dime you’ve socked away.

 

[Trenchfriend]

When you immediately know, who "Miss Ellie" was.

I often watched Dallas together with my Grandma on Sunday mornings in the 90s.

 

[Zombie_61]

When you immediately know, who "Miss Ellie" was.

I often watched Dallas together with my Grandma on Sunday mornings in the 90s.

For my generation "Miss Ellie" was Ellie May Clampett:

 

[Trenchfriend]

For my generation "Miss Ellie" was Ellie May Clampett:

Um, was she Titanic era star?