Dating was not meant for bananas, and here is why (Part 4)

Who will come out victorious?

The Purple Banana ripe too easily. If you squeeze me the wrong way, I will bruise. Take whatever double entendre from this you will.

One of the commonly held beliefs about banana-like people is that they are head-strong, sometimes foolish, creatures who act first and think later; who can dish out honesty and prefer a heapin’ helpin’ of the same; who don’t take crap from people; who suffer from chronic verbal diarrhea; and, who have impenetrable armours that hardly come down. Let me take this opportunity to set the record straight about bananas: we are like panda bears in that we appear very simply monochromatic on the outside, but inside is rich gooey vulnerability that once revealed leaves us very exposed. We love to fight yes, but that’s only because we are easily incensed. We feel too much. And we are worse when in a bunch.

Dating was not meant for bananas, and here is why (Part 3)

Dating for a banana is painful, not the other kind but physically I mean. The whole process is worse than getting a bikini wax, which by the way is one of those maintenance things that one apparently must keep because the chances of falling into a tango under the sheets situation is exponentially higher when dating. 

Forget bikini and Brazilian, try the Banana wax

Dating was not meant for bananas, and here is why (Part 2)

Check out Part 1! 

Playing games to the Purple Banana means hopscotch and Tetris, NOT the sexual bee dance. Have you ever played the game? It’s the one where you say something which has a hidden meaning, and he says something which has a hidden meaning, than you, than him, than you again until both have no idea what either one actually means. Possible side effect: you end up with a ton of BBM or text messages that make no sense when re-read weeks later, and nothing came of it except an occasional “Hey, what ya doin?” But on the other hand your thumbs get a good workout. 

I don’t like playing the game, probably because I hate waiting around till finally he tells me what’s really on his mind. If it’s a quickie you want then for god’s sake man why don’t you say so! 

Dating was not meant for bananas, and here is why:

I will be publishing mini-posts here and there, as part of a continuing series capturing The Purple Banana’s whacky and often embarrassing dating life. They’re kind of like short bursts of sweet sweet goo not unlike fruit gushers. Remember fruit gushers? Yeah, *sigh* me too…

Part 1 – Dating is meant for those who really know how to enjoy the moment/like dragging things out. This is NOT for banana-like people who become frazzled waiting 5 minutes for the streetcar. I have always known that I am much too impatient for things to happen so the subtleties of dating, such as exchanging pleasantries and those dreaded small talks, make my stomach feel like I ate one too many bean burritos, which by the way should not be consumed on a date.

I call this "If burritos be the toot of life"

 

Farewell to Hank

After a year and half of tumbling over speed bumps and pot holes, of deflated tires and burst tires, of spongy brakes and no brakes (!), of curb sides and sidewalks, my dear bicycle Hank has finally thrown in the towel out of sheer exhaustion. And rightly so! I had abused poor Hank shamelessly while knowing full well that he was a vintage bike. He’s been around since the 1970s so naturally when bikes age, like people, their parts become rusty and worn. But I, still so naïve in many ways, had dismissed his ailments as superficial. When Hank’s wheels hiccuped, I feigned interest. When his original brakes stopped working, I replaced them with flashy new ones without giving it a second thought as to whether or not they would cheapen Hank. After a while those brakes just didn’t feel like Hank and they now stopped working.  

The list of abuse continued with repeated careless abandonment tied to bike posts, overnight, in sketchy neighbourhoods, and often in the rain and snow. By the end, Hank was covered in more rust and more grime than he was when I first bought him from the kind old man with the pony tail.

The glorious pony tail of wisdom and virtue

According to this gentleman, he kept the bicycle in nearly mint condition for over thirty years. It was made by a company called Ross that decided to diverge from the sporty, straight framed road bikes which were becoming the trend in the late ‘60s, and instead started to manufacture compact, curved frames. The gamble inevitably backfired and the company went out of business a decade later. The American Dream right?

The origin of Hank’s name can be traced back to a very bizarre conversation between a friend and I when both of us were extremely drunk. Bits of that night are still a little hazy but I think we were semi-arguing, semi-joking about Hank’s rusty weird shaped frame, which thinking back now is a completely idiotic thing for two grown adults to be fighting over. Nevertheless I was self-conscious about my new bicycle’s appearance next to the other sleek, straight framed road bikes parked nearby, thus we decided to create a back story for my new bike to toughen up its image. 

This is what we came up with. First, that he was definitely a he, and a very masculine he with capital “H”! A war veteran of not just one but two wars, he had dents and rust all over his curvy frame as well as a missing kickstand but by darn it he was still a man! He was also not ashamed to be sporting a basket tied to his handlebars – a human equivalent look would be a grown man wearing a fanny pack. When it came to name him, I decided that he should have a very lumber-jack/plumber/construction worker/tough guy name and Hank immediately popped into my mind.

Last week, I donated Hank to the local community bike shop to be used as a refurbished rental. The decision was not an easy one, but he will be carefully looked after by people who know how to attend to his needs as well as be enjoyed by various city commuters like myself who can’t afford cars. I shall pour a 40 on the sidewalk tonight for my homie Hank, he will be dearly missed. 

A picture of me and Hank. That was a good day.