This is why I speed.

Linda — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 11:41:00 +0000

Tom says it’s a testicular pleasure. And while, as a woman, I can’t quite get on board with that reason, I cannot deny the sexual reference, nor my need for speed. Maybe it’s the pleasure it brings me, when the driving fast is combined with the illegality of it. It’s like sex- but not like this kind of sex. It’s like all the best parts of sex: the power, the control, the excitement, the pleasure, the adrenaline rush, the possibility of getting caught, the newness every time, the rise in blood pressure, the release, the chance to do it all over again.
Just please don’t tell the 15 yr old who is vying for his learner’s permit this week.

On my FACEBOOK page, I linked an small speeding article written by the talented and amazing Tom Chiarella from Esquire in a section about minor violations… why we do them and what’s the cost? Read it, read the whole magazine, for good ness sake and sure, if you want? Friend me.

Frankly, I know I speed more than is necessary. I’m usually not doing it because I’m late, except for that time my pedicure ran over and I almost missed my plane to London, and then I compounded the speeding indiscretion with driving solo in the HOV lane. What the hell.. in for a dime, in for a dozen, I say. I wasn’t stopped for either. And they held the plane for me.

I used to drive according to whatever was on the radio. Even now, I find myself cruising along minding all regulations when the Spa channel is on, but when I twist the dial to garage rock or alternative and hair band satellite stations.. all bets are off.

I have my favorite speed spots. I know where the potholes are and where the Sheriff tucks his long white car in the bushes. I know a nice long stretch of smooth blacktop from Atlanta to Myrtle Beach where 110 feels like 40 and a curving road on the way south where I can pass car after car after car even if the lines look like doubled yellow.
I have learned to turn the music down and appreciate instead the growl of the engine, the whine and shudder of downshifting gears, the blast of air in my face and the whipping of hair against bare shoulders as I’m slammed back in my seat.

Heineken=Idiodem in T9 texting

Linda — Tue, 14 Aug 2007 13:21:00 +0000

There’s a place in Amsterdam where you’re encouraged to drink as much as you can in thirty minutes, at 11 Am on a Sunday.
But that’s not the story.
The story is why I never made it there.
Years ago, I was in Amsterdam, staying at a hostel that was an old monastery converted into dorms and common bathrooms.
I met a few girls when I checked in, totally misunderstood their warning about roaches under the beds, but followed their directions to a place where I could get something to eat. How tough could it be to find a coffeehouse?
So, yeah. I’m sitting there just minding my own business reading the menu- a story in itself- when the door jangles open.
Now, my mother says I have a way about me that attracts odd people, no matter where I go. Author John Berendt calls it his “weirdo magnet.” I prefer to think of it as an open-armed welcoming to INTERESTING.
And that’s how I’d describe the Parisian button factory owners and their friend from Vanuatu.

We ended up hanging out together for three days, eating pizza, strolling the canals, sitting out the rain in galleries and telling stories, watching a yellow boat shaped like a shoe float by every day at noon, dancing in discos, shopping for scarves and sweets then buying tickets to the Heineken Experience, but never making it there, because the train to Munich was leaving.

Linda Sands » Europe

This is why I speed.

Heineken=Idiodem in T9 texting