May 9, 2008
So this is going to blow your mind, if you know what this picture means… The Dada had a larger than life poster of this very graphic hanging on the wall of his garage. Garages are slightly foreign matter for daughters. Unless of course, you’re a daughter like me. There was a method to all of the mayhem in Dada’s little world. Our garage was cluttered to the Nth degree but the chrome and rusted bolt litter was always laid so meticulously on a piece of cardboard from a sliced up box. The bicycle Mama D always promised she’d ride but would inevitably end up as our loaner to whatever friend crashed our basement over the weekend, hung from the rafters with the assortment of Christmas decorations balanced over the beams. …and The Harley. Perpetually torn down and assorted colors over the years, The Harley was The Dada’s last ditch effort of holding on to his youth and some semblence of identity over the years. I would lurk around the cold floor begging for some reason to hang ‘round the cussing and cigar smoke while he socially wrenched and rigged. Eventually The Dada would break down and give me some random part to polish or something to organize. Despite how necessary it might’ve been, he never told me to go chase a parked car or watch tv. He always gave me a piece of this window into his world. Years later, I learned there was another reason for bored tweens to mill around the kitty litter and saw dust floor… On a tequila drunk evening in my early 20’s, a couple of relics from my past joined me to reminisce about growing up ‘round Windriver Drive in the 90’s. “First set of boobs I ever saw was in an Easy Rider mag I jacked from your Dad’s garage.” Easy Riders, usually with waving and faded covers from being left in the sun on the back porch. I never paid more than a “Well, I guess that’s sitting there” while I was in the garage. The leather babes with their bleached blonde and crusty bangs, leaned oh-so-sex across the seat of newly restored pan head. The box of them squished under the workbench was the ultimate Biker Spank Bank. The story goes that there wasn’t a pre-teen boy in the neighborhood that hadn’t nicked one of the NC-17 mags from my Dad’s garage. For a while, I wondered if The Dada was ever hip to the swindle. One evening a few years ago, I asked him point blank if he realized he’d kept the boys from the ‘hood in porn throughout their early adolescents. His reply? “Hey! Those little jerks! They don’t make those things anymore!”

So this is going to blow your mind, if you know what this picture means…

The Dada had a larger than life poster of this very graphic hanging on the wall of his garage.

Garages are slightly foreign matter for daughters. Unless of course, you’re a daughter like me.

There was a method to all of the mayhem in Dada’s little world. Our garage was cluttered to the Nth degree but the chrome and rusted bolt litter was always laid so meticulously on a piece of cardboard from a sliced up box. The bicycle Mama D always promised she’d ride but would inevitably end up as our loaner to whatever friend crashed our basement over the weekend, hung from the rafters with the assortment of Christmas decorations balanced over the beams.

…and The Harley.

Perpetually torn down and assorted colors over the years, The Harley was The Dada’s last ditch effort of holding on to his youth and some semblence of identity over the years.

I would lurk around the cold floor begging for some reason to hang ‘round the cussing and cigar smoke while he socially wrenched and rigged. Eventually The Dada would break down and give me some random part to polish or something to organize. Despite how necessary it might’ve been, he never told me to go chase a parked car or watch tv. He always gave me a piece of this window into his world.

Years later, I learned there was another reason for bored tweens to mill around the kitty litter and saw dust floor…

On a tequila drunk evening in my early 20’s, a couple of relics from my past joined me to reminisce about growing up ‘round Windriver Drive in the 90’s.

“First set of boobs I ever saw was in an Easy Rider mag I jacked from your Dad’s garage.”

Easy Riders, usually with waving and faded covers from being left in the sun on the back porch. I never paid more than a “Well, I guess that’s sitting there” while I was in the garage. The leather babes with their bleached blonde and crusty bangs, leaned oh-so-sex across the seat of newly restored pan head. The box of them squished under the workbench was the ultimate Biker Spank Bank.

The story goes that there wasn’t a pre-teen boy in the neighborhood that hadn’t nicked one of the NC-17 mags from my Dad’s garage.

For a while, I wondered if The Dada was ever hip to the swindle. One evening a few years ago, I asked him point blank if he realized he’d kept the boys from the ‘hood in porn throughout their early adolescents.

His reply?

“Hey! Those little jerks! They don’t make those things anymore!”