"On the other hand,", the gallant and not sad troubadour replied, brightening, "I did get a 1947 Indian to replace that Harley!". The young poet nods somewhat distractedly, bewitched in his own turn by the flying fiddle. A number of the Goddess' favored singers and players have gathered ad the door, shaling their heads in wonder and awe at the magical sight of a 1947 Indian, fully chromed and shining like moonlight itself in the dark evening outside, giving the faint magical greenish glow tothe world that is known to be the trademark of the Magic of the Gaelic Goddess. The troub prsses the ignition key to his lips in reverence, and bellies up to bar, asking in kindly tones for another Guinness with some royal coffee on the side. Sometimes, ya just have to know what's the right thing to do. If anyone ever woulda told me I'd kick off a Harley for the chance to ride in a mink covered limousine -- and been glad I did it! -- I'da tole them to go straight to h##L or London, whichever came first...wotta Goddess. (He stands awed, sipping his beer).