Lowrider Quotes

Unconsciousness is a teleporter. When the low-rider struck me on that winding road outside of Honaw and sent me flipping up into the air like a coin, heads over tails over heads over tails, I landed on a cotton-white mattress under starched-white sheets, my aunt asleep in a nearby chair.

You'll have free rein to neglect me. Strap me to a chair and give me a naughty striptease until I'm begging. Give me a hand job beneath the table in a restaurant and leave me on the verge of coming. Make me crazy. Make me pay for everything I've done. Everything you hate." He nipped at her earlobe. "Or simply prop your sweet arse up in the air and ask for a rough bang. I'll peel those little low-rider panties down to your ankles and orgasm you until you've finished on me - again and again - and I'm dripping with the evidence.

In fact, to the best of my knowledge, the only things he ever read growing up were pornographic comic books (we used to call them “Tijuana bibles,” but I’m sure that’s no longer considered polite, what with all these immigrants driving around everywhere in their lowriders, listening to raps and shooting all the jobs).

We emerge from prison bearing agonies that would crush a stone. How do we survive these? We transform them. We get a tattoo. We ink an entire sleeve. We cover our chest and back with swastikas, death’s-heads, and quotes in bogus Mandarin from Kill Bill, Volume Two. We blast our pecs. We pierce our flesh. We customize Harleys. We shave our skull. We craft an image of ourselves, even if it’s one—especially if it’s one—as predictable as low-ride jeans and chrome-link wallet chains. That’s art. That’s our novel. This is what the writer wrestles with. This is the passage. You pound keyboards until you wear the sonsofbitches out. Each page is trash. Unreadable. Unpublishable.

That’s a nice car you’ve got outside,” he remarked. “1979 Ford Thunderbird lowrider. It used to belong to Ice-T. I like my cars like my breasts,” Betty replied. “Low slung.