Next Time

Last night I rode through three different neighborhoods in Queens. It was as if someone flipped to the next slide on my Fisher Price View Master every couple of blocks. The 3-D images came with the smell of food, coffee and Shisha tobacco. I told my dad about it and the only thing he asked was, "Was it safe?" (I think he meant the bicycling but who knows? He probably meant the neighborhoods.) I reassured him, "Yes, of course it's safe. I wear a helmet and I've got blinky lights front and back and fenders and reflective clothing. It's safe as sitting at my desk at work."

I should've said, "HELLLL NO! Riding a bicycle in New York City is never safe. You'd be safer covering your body with honey and hugging a beehive, especially if you were allergic to bees! And the way I ride? Shit, last week I claimed to be a modern-day cowboy on Second Avenue. Cowboys aren't safe; they get shot up by the entire Mexican army at the end of the movie.

Next up, I mention the motorcycle I want and financing and procuring insurance for it. He asked, "Are you sure that now is a good time to invest in a motorcycle when you might be better off waiting a little bit?" I calmly replied, "Well, I'm going to wait a few months before I act on anything because I need the buzz of the new hobby to wear off."

Instead of my peepee kiddy pool response, I should've said, "When is it a good time to invest in a motorcycle?" I mean, it might as well be a bungee-jumping cord! Or better yet, I should've gone all out and asked him about parachute insurance.

Why oh why do I lie lie lie? Next time he drastically alters the conversation, ruining the journey towards bonding, I'm going to disarm him with a dollop of reality. Just slosh it on there, like I'm drinking hot chocolate. Hot chocolate can burn your mouth by the way - I mean, never mind if it tastes good or new or different, it'll burn your mouth.

Despite all this, it's a good thing when your parents are parents and not your buddies. After all, your buddies are the guys driving the party wagon. Your parents are the ones who bail you out of jail the next morning.