Gov., Need a Sidekick for That Sidecar?

Among the many questions that come to mind, this one tops my list:

Who the heck has a motorcycle with a sidecar?

I hadn’t seen or heard about one since Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale of “Rocky and Bullwinkle” fame. But there was Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger the other day, tooling along like an overgrown kid and not properly licensed, with his 12-year-old son in the sidecar.

Up in the hills of Brentwood, he kissed a car backing out of a driveway and ended up with a fat lip and stitches.

Geez, I got into trouble with my wife this week for buying our daughter a creampuff. Imagine if I’d sported her around town in a sidecar plowing into Volvos.

The Schwarzenegger administration trotted out some cockamamie story about him not needing a motorcycle license because the sidecar means he’s exempt.

“I just never really applied for it,” Schwarzenegger, who broke six ribs in a previous bike accident, said of the motorcycle license. “It was just one of those things that I never really did.”

What are the other things?

Is the family dog licensed? Have the kids been vaccinated? Is Arnold really a legal immigrant?

Important questions, sure, and I’ve got others. Does Maria sometimes ride in the sidecar?

Could I?

All right, look, I’m going to admit something here: For all the batting practice I’ve taken on this guy, I’m beginning to think there’s a certain renegade appeal to Schwarzenegger’s utter lack of discipline and grounding.

If you’re a columnist, it’s hard not to love a Reagan-loving Republican who swung to the right last fall, then hired a lesbian Democrat to run his office, and last week delivered a speech that might have been written by FDR.

Besides, Arnold and I actually have a lot in common.

When I moved to Philadelphia, people made fun of my California accent.

I, too, once got a ticket for riding a motorcycle sans motorcycle license. In fact, I didn’t have any license at all. I was 14.

And I was Mr. Universe the year after he was.

(OK, but I could have been if I’d reached for the steroids like someone I know.)

So today, right here, right now, I’m offering to reinvent myself, just as Arnold has on countless occasions. From now on, Arnold can count on S. Lo.

What do Phil Angelides or Steve Westly have to offer, anyway, those weasels?

Having Schwarzenegger is almost like having Dennis Rodman, the ex-NBA star and professional goofball, as governor. You don’t know what to expect next, but it’s bound to be entertaining and make headlines.

Take the developments of the past week. While Republicans and Democrats alike scratched their heads over the calculus of his massive, debt-generating infrastructure plan, what was Arnold doing?

Ripping one-liners about his spill.

No speaking for three days, the doctor told him after sewing his mouth.

“My wife said, ‘Make it seven!’ ”

It’s almost like vaudeville.

Give me a call, Big Boy. Let’s get together, bury the hatchet, and hoist a few energy drinks.

I take back all the things I said about your hypocrisy on special interests and whatnot. And who knows? Maybe you’ll still locate all the waste, fraud and abuse you promised to uncover.

I can’t guarantee the fawning adulation you get from the likes of Oprah and Larry King, not to mention a few nose-picking members of the Sacramento press corps.

But I won’t rough you up too badly, and I know I can offer keener advice than the geniuses you’ve got on the payroll. I’ll get you down the center of the aisle without it looking as if you took six wrong turns, got lost, and just stumbled into the room.

At your suggestion, by the way, guess what I’ve been looking into lately:

Public employee pensions.

You made a ham-handed mess of the subject last year, but you were onto something. I’ve been zeroing in on the way Gray Davis and other pencil-necks sold us down the river with sweetheart deals that are going to cost us dearly for years.

And did I mention that I smoke an occasional cigar?

If you’re up for it, I see us starting down a new path together. You on the Harley, me in the sidecar, smoking a couple of illegals the size of Cuban missiles.

License, officer? We don’t have to show you no stinking license.

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Reach the columnist at steve.lopez@latimes.com and read previous columns at latimes.com/lopez.