Too bad, so sad...

Nice work, Eli.

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XLVI

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1. Just Wrong #1
2. When I’m wrong, I’m really wrong.
3. The Motor Cyclist 2: The Wrong Reasons to Ride

Just Wrong #2

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“Fellow anons: we are pleased to bring you the dismantling of a major US-based white supremacist network known as the “American Third Position”(A3P). These racist losers have chapters across the US, operate several white power websites, forums and online stores, and are even running a candidate in the 2012 elections. Although they try hard to maintain a professional public image to camouflage their vile racism, we’re now airing all their dirty laundry all over the internet. Contained in this major dump are several thousand private forum messages, personal emails, internal organization notes, names, phone numbers, home addresses and other information on all of their members and supporters. It’s time for these cowardly suit and tie white supremacists to sleep with one
eye open. Scared much?

In addition to finding the usual racist rants and interactions with other white power groups, we also found a disturbingly high amount of members who are also involved in campaigning for Ron Paul. According to these messages, Ron Paul has regularly met with many A3P members, even engaging in conference calls with their board of directors. Ron Paul’s racist politics and affiliations are already well known, being viciously anti-immigrant, anti-abortion and against gay marriage — not to mention having authored the racist “Ron Paul Papers” and receiving financial support from other white power groups (pictured with Don Black from stormfront.org). Hard to believe Ron Paul draws some support from the left and the occupation movements, especially now that it is confirmed Ron Paul hangs out with straight up racist hate groups.

We put extra effort in ruining the life of A3P webmaster Jamie Kelso. On top of being on the board of directors of A3P, former $cientologist, and high ranking Ron Paul organizer, he also is the account owner of german nazi forums and store nsl-forum.org, rhs-versand.com. We went ahead and wiped those websites off the internet as well, dumping private messages and order information. Aside from us releasing his information such as his social security number, address, resume and private discussions, we also heard some folks went on a joyride with Kelso’s credit card and made some lulzy purchases, including sex toy purchases and making donations to the Anti Defamation League and many others. Oops.

We call upon not only other antifascists but all those opposed to white supremacy to utilize this information and make hell for these white nationalist scumbags. It is essential if we wish to live in a world free from oppression to
expose and confront racists at their jobs, their schools, at their homes and in the streets.

No Dialogue! No sympathy! Destroy White Supremacy!”

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Say it ain’t so, Ron. Say it ain’t so…

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But not this damn bike, nor the one I just traded Zooter for.  Neither of those motorcycles are even near my age.  There’s the perpetual youth of it.  I can buy new.  I can be new, assuming I can keep up with the bikes, which I cannot, rusty tin man that I am.

No loss.  Rebound adjustment fixes most of lost youth.  I love rebound adjustment so much I believe any bike which does not have this capability is below even a novice rider. Of all the lazy engineering. . .it is damn impolite not to offer rebound on Honda Rebels.  Shit.  Chivalry is dead.

Speaking of death, if ever there was a more pertinent quote about the fatal perils of these demon bikes, I defy anyone to top this:

“If I was dead, I wouldn’t know I was dead.  That’s the only thing I have against death.  I want to enjoy my death.” -Samuel Beckett, Eleutheria.

Well maybe not.  No.  I’m right about Beckett being right.  That about sums it all up if you read it a few times.  All this nonsense about the walking death sentence and its supposed sanctity can be defeated by that alone; at least the last of Beckett’s poetry.  (I know he’s talking about enjoying death after death, but I’m being goofy.)

“I want to enjoy my death.”

Is that really too much to ask of death?  Hell, we would most likely trade our lives for this pleasure.  It would be worth the faith to believe that a moment before we go we are allowed to stop time and direct our own passing.  You can’t argue, you can’t change your course because you’re already fucked, but the Grim Reaper will allow you to frame the final moment.   And adjust the contrast and hue.

Oh wait.  We can do that if we choose to.  If we put our risks in one basket, the eggs will probably break through what we wove.  Huh?  I think The Wiz said that already, and if he didn’t I don’t want to admit that I did.

It’s the machine.  The machine is broken.  This is not my damn fault.  Absurdity is to blame.

Camus won the Nobel with absurdity.  He used a typewriter as well.  Albert never had a motorcycle that I heard or read of.  A motorcycle seems absurd enough for Camus’ cause, even though Sartre would call him a nihilist.  They didn’t always get along.

Looking at the sparkly paint of the bike I traded the 1000cc single shot pistol for, I began to feel sleepy.  Finally.  When fatigue takes over, I know I will be okay.  Total exhaustion would set upon me by nightfall.  I hoped.

In the old days I’d drink myself to sleep, but these days it causes the dreams to occur and the cycle seems to take longer to stop when alcohol is involved.  A night on the town sends me directly to sweating nightmares and teeth gnashing days of anger of no tangible origin.  Even a nice evening with friends is connected to dreams which never die.  My hangovers go back to four years of age.

The problem with getting over the imagery of my past is that I feel owned by my subconscious.  Like a race where someone blocked me until the end, I cannot keep my line.  But unlike a race, I don’t have any chance of getting around this competitor in my life.  It would be easy to say, “you have the power to move on.”  But tell that shit to a Viet Nam vet who still wakes up with the memories, or injuries and who inside knows, even if he acts like the memories aren’t there, they are.

“Are you okay?”

The question snaps me out of a fatigue seizure of some sort.  Was I sleeping?  Here on the curb?

I open my eyes and look up to see my neighbor.  Smiling, but angry for some reason, I give the excuse I always give, which isn’t necessarily untrue, “I’m just tired.”

“Oh,” she says with a curious concern in her eyes, “I thought I heard you talking.”

Maybe I was.  I don’t know.  She continues into her apartment and I stand up to enter mine.  Almost falling over, I walk slowly into the dark apartment to make coffee, so that I will not fall asleep at 6PM.

A book I’ve been reading is sitting on the table, opened and annotated by my own hand.   I read.

“Well,” said Amory, “I simply state that I’m a product of a versatile mind in a restless generation-with every reason to throw my mind and pen in with the radicals.  Even if, deep in my heart, I thought we were all blind atoms in a world as limited as the stroke of a pendulum, I and my sort would struggle against tradition; try, at least, to displace old cants with new ones.”

Why can’t I enjoy my death?  If the answer isn’t a new cant, I don’t want to hear it.  I’m tired of these weepy old cants which say this life isn’t mine to take away.  Seems the platitudes about living with our choices end with the final choice.  If so, every hero who died in a war is a sinner, and those who sent him there are the hero.

This would be the last motorcycle I would ever own.  It was only a 600, only capable of 140, but that’ll do it.  Well, that and one dark night of screaming around the hills, and one mistake.  It would have to end that way.

One corner and one mistake.  Yep.  I’m going to enjoy my death.

A smirk appeared under my nose.  Shit, I was happy again.

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2. The Motor Cyclist

The Motor Cyclist III: Absurdity

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Logic

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Seig Heil

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Just Wrong #1

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“P.S. Please pirate the shit out of this animated GIF.”

- The Oatmeal

Thank you. We will…

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The Lighter Side of Sopa

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I know I never want to see that again, so…

As you may have heard, the Stop Online Privacy Act (SOPA) and Protect-IP Act (PIPA) threaten the many glorious freedoms of the web and the communities that have risen from it…

Both acts face serious opposition from all kinds of free-thinking people (including the President of the United States), but the fight isn’t over.

We need you to take action right now to make sure these censorship-enabling bills don’t pass.

http://sopastrike.com/

https://www.google.com/landing/takeaction/

http://www.fightforthefuture.org/pipa

PROTECT IP / SOPA Breaks The Internet from Fight for the Future on Vimeo.

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If SOPA passes:

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So I’m minding my own business watching ALIEN on TV and they cut to a commercial for the new TROJAN VIBRATOR!

Six or seven women are sitting somewhere private (I hope) handing out dildos wrapped up like Birthday presents!

The lucky ladies that had already used one of these devices all sported the same hairdo, (not unlike Alien.) I’d call it the swept-back Stutz Bearcat, Hood Ornament look.

Suddenly the commercial was over. I was STUNNED! I simply could not believe what I had seen. It must have been a joke! Nobody is going to believe it!

Then the Trojan Vibrator commercial came on again! I had NOT imagined it after all!

And this time I was determined to get every detail about the TROJANATOR right.

I grabbed a pencil and paper. Then I made sure I was not in contact with any remote controls or electronic devices. (There are usually three or four bewildering remotes lying around. From experience I know touching any button on any one of them will instantly change channels, languages or even the Universe as we know it. I pushed a red button on the remote last year and we’ve been watching television with Korean subtitles ever since.)

Not this time! This time I got ALL of the vibrator commercial’s details!

Precisely eight women, all young, all skinny and all incredibly beautiful (in other words the LAST eight women on Earth that might need a vibrator) are sitting on the same side of a large glass table (always a bad sign.)

Again I saw the women with their ALIEN HAIR STYLES, passing out dildos as if they were PARTY FAVORS.

However the most amazing thing about the Trojan commercial was something I had completely missed the first time, the end!

One of those women comes rushing into the room, presumably fresh from the mailbox. Her hair is not yet shaped like a Tour de France bicycle helmet so we know she did not open up the Trojanator and try it out in the front yard. But she sure looks like she’s is ready to give it a go!

The woman looks positively radiant! And with transcendent joy she informs her husband they are now the proud owners of three (count em’ three) Trojan Vibrators!

The husband, must not have been listening because he replies “SWEET!!!” I’m not so sure that’s a typical response for a man in a stable relationship in this situation.

I don’t want to sound prudish, but I think ONE vibrator goes a long long way, you know what I mean?

-30-

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ALIEN VIBRATORS

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Triple Red Dog Dare

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What is Rap?

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Tattoo

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Weird

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Misc Girls

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Assorted Hayek

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Stay Classy…

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Two years is a long time to wait for this kamikaze run.  The liter bike was a stupid idea.  I sent a text message to a friend with another 600 like my old one and offered to upgrade his ride, and let him pay it out however he wanted.  He was so excited about a new bike he called immediately.

“Are you on drugs?  That deal is cool with you?”

“Take it.  I’m scared of it.”  A lie, but the bike hardly mattered to me at all. As I often do during times of no smiles, I manufactured some humor, “A dog like me doesn’t need one of these big sport bikes. You’re from California dude, you have to ride a liter bike. Call me tonight.”

Throughout the morning routine, I kept seeing the face of a boy who didn’t have my good fortune to only have skin burnt off my arm at four years old.  This boy had no face.  His eyelids were made from skin from his genitals. A thought of someone laughing at that sad fact brings a jolt of vile anger aimed at a specter of my imagination.  I hate the memories, I hate the anger, and with all that and a bag of no peaceful sleep, I hate myself.  An internal scream begins from my chest which I often have to contain in normal life.  It is a scream I’ve only released in a motorcycle helmet.

It’s an hour before work, but I suit up and try what has worked before.  At 15,000 RPMs I find the note I hear inside and hold the throttle to keep it.  The sound is past all smooth vibrations, just beyond where the bike feels like music, sympathetic, and in tune.  The note beyond has some indication of music, but it is a note threatening to break; feeding back into itself and harsh on even the four Nikasil lined throats of my bike.  My lips curl down into a scowl as I hit 17K where there are no kind words for the sound ripping through a foggy Austin morning.  There is nothing kind in me.

“Fuck it.”

Full throttle, and this morning, I ignore yellow lines.  Yellow lines hardly matter because there is no one near me at this speed.  Most of all, I’m not near me.  No memories.  The bike has taken me past them.  If I fuck up, all is over.  One way or another.  Whatever.  This is my race.

Speeding past the past for even a couple of curved minutes is all I have.  There is nothing positive about it; I can find no other way to deal with myself.  It may come from the wrong place, a place you’ll never see in a motorcycle ad, but the shit works.  Never will you read, “The new GSXR1000, the only bike capable of running away from PTSD.  Also available with new electronic bipolar control.”

A slight laugh comes.  Some endorphin is released and I will be okay.  Rolling off the throttle, down to a mere 105, I feel the drug.  My eyes are like lasers, fingers and toes vibrating, and my scalp tingles above a sleep deprived brain awakening.  Ain’t no drug like this one, and I’ve done quite a few.  The memories return but the anger is gone.

Jesus Christ.  What the hell ever happened to that kid?  Or the girl with half a face?  

Sitting at a stoplight, my fingers are numb from the cold, but a single drop of sweat rolls into my eye.  Blinking it away, I notice a woman in a car looking at me.  She smiles. Every time I see an attractive woman I have a flash memory of the half burnt girl I saw as a child and ask myself, “Is she beautiful?”

The last time I saw that poor girl was in 1979 but if she appeared in front of me, half a perfect face and half Freddie Krueger, I would weep and beg for her love.  I want her to be beautiful.  I want all those kids to be beautiful.  It ain’t about me. . .And it is about me.  Quit whining.  Motorcyclists don’t whine.  Suck it up.  Be tough.  Fuck you.    I hear the 17K note again in my head, but now I have to go to work.  All I want to do is ride yet it isn’t always for the same reasons other people ride.   People blather about how our choices in life define us, but this wasn’t my choice to have nightmares where my skin melts away for the rest of my life, nor to think daily of kids who had it much worse than me; and to live in a world where those kids never had a fucking chance.  Fuck this.  I can’t take it.  I’m done.  Don’t give me those bullshit platitudes about strength and determination and will and, “FUCK YOU!”

How do you tell that story at bike night?  How do you relate to those whose reasons for riding aren’t from some twisted, lingering trauma which worsens with age?  Last time I tried I failed and people have never looked at me the same.  I didn’t even tell them I quit racing because the anger was so bad I could have hurt someone on the track, especially if they acted too tough in my opinion, or accused me of whining.

A dimwitted bastard once accused me of whining about cold weather at the starting line.  He was the typical tough guy racer type, like I was somewhat, but he wasn’t crazy.   He picked the wrong day to call me a wimp.  I hadn’t slept at all the night before and was edgy from it.

I’m a wimp?  You think you’re tough?  Neither of us is tough, but you need a lesson in humility.  You still have your god damned face motherfucker, but by the end of the day, you might not.  You die today.

When the gate dropped and we met in the first turn, I showed him how cold I could be even though I was dripping with sweat from adrenaline, and anger. I ran over his foot in the first turn then spent two motos ramming him, crowding him, pushing him into lines he didn’t want to race until he finally got so rattled he highsided and I left him in cloud of dust.  He never came close to me at a race again, even in the pits, but I had stopped racing that day.  Motocross had become something else.  I didn’t even care about winning; I only wanted to destroy what the racing world called tough.  Courage is waking up day after day and looking in the mirror to see a face like Freddie Krueger and not blowing your brains out.

Tough?  I’ll take us both out.  Random chaos.  Happens every day.  I’ll die today, and you may be going with me.

“That was the twofer I always wanted.”  Why?

The light turned green and I laughed slightly. Ride to live, live to ride.  If I don’t get some damned sleep tonight, it will be ride to avoid what I’ve lived, in hopes that I ride to die.  My helmet shakes a negative away.  The RPMs stay low.  I’m so tired it is all I can do to keep from nodding off as I ride to work.

“Didn’t someone say all life is a dream?”  I ask no one in particular as I turn off the key.

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The Motor Cyclist 2: The Wrong Reasons to Ride

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Off The Wall

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At the risk of sounding like one of those really grumpy guys you try to edge away from, We old-timers know this is not even a normal winter.

Back in the winter of 83’ it got down to 24 degrees below zero on Christmas Eve. That wasn’t the “wind chill” or “comfort index” either. That was what the temperature, -24 degrees!

And the Blizzard of 78? You sissies would all be hiding under your beds calling your mommies! Except you wouldn’t get a signal because there were NO CELL PHONES! The phone was attached to the wall and heavier than a bowling ball! I’d love to watch you try to text your BESTIE on that sucker!

And when the power came back on you’d go bat-shit crazy trying to find “The Dog Whisperer” or “Sixteen and Pregnant” on TV. (Dogs could go wherever they wanted back then without some idiot getting intense all up in their face, or snout or whatever. Also back then getting pregnant at 16 was frowned-on.)

Our TV only got four channels and what was on was “The Brady Bunch”, “I Love Lucy”, “The Tonight Show” and “Football Follies” (which ran on the local access station continuously for my entire childhood.) That was it! But we watched more TV then you do NOW anyway. I can STILL tell you what “Gilligan’s Island” episode it is at a glance!

Then right after midnight all four of those channels WENT OFF THE AIR.

Time to surf the net right? WRONG! You can forget that shit right now. Nobody had a home computer because the computers were bigger than the homes! You had to go to a ‘computer center’ and do ‘time-sharing’ whatever the hell THAT meant.

You’d sit down in front of the screen and all you’d see was “A>:___” So you’d start trying to type something to make it work like HELP or START and then hours later, but inevitably FUCK YOU. But it didn’t matter WHAT you wrote the screen still said “A>:___”

Meanwhile all the other weenies were laughing at you because THEY knew you had to type in “RUNuserLOGIN929executePARAMETERdefault” and the chances of you accidentally typing that was zero.

But my POINT, (let me go back and see what it was) Got it! My point was winter weather. We had it back then and what it did was snow. And the snow didn’t melt the next day but stayed until March!

Then it got COLD. Not, ‘Oh my gosh I can’t believe it’s 5 degrees cold,” I mean, ‘It’s 20 below and I’m waiting for the school bus and wondering if my nose will thaw enough to breathe through again’ cold.

Sometimes we’d get a really big snow storm and all the schools between Bloomington and the Crab Nebula would be closed but not MCCSC, no sir. Even on the VERY rare day OUR schools closed they’d wait until we were AT school to announce it!

So we had to walk five miles in the snow to get to school anyway! (Our school was less than a mile away but we had to walk back and forth because we forgot a pencil or something.) How does THAT sound whiners!

-30-

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Anyhoo! I’m feeling great, listening to Crosby Stills and Nash’s singing, “Love the One You’re With.”

That song includes the following lyrics, “And there’s a road? With a different drum? Mmm Mmm Eagle flies with the dove. So if you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with,” (or SOMETHING like that.)

I’m singing along and thinking, ‘What a great idea!’

Love the one YOU’RE WITH! That’s the PERFECT attitude to have!

Think about it! If everybody felt that way, life would be so much better. After all, you can’t ALWAYS be with the people you want to be with, (believe you me!) But you can just act like you are! EUREKA!

Then I think, I should point this out to my wife! I know she’s heard this song 5000 times (pretty much every time we get in the truck) but I bet she never really thought about the lyrics.

So I’m getting ready to suggest that we should officially ADOPT this attitude in our lives, make it our new lifestyle!

Then she said, “THIS SONG SHOULD BE THE NATIONAL ANTHEM FOR SLUTS.”

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Love The One You’re With

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Premature Upheaval

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Here’s another tip! If you plan to run the yellow light up ahead, make sure the guy in the car IN FRONT OF YOU has the same plan!

That’s just two of the things I’ve learned recently as a balls-to-the-wall, what-the-hell, white-knuckle driver.

Due to all the emergency-room runs I’ve had to make lately I’ve learned a whole new way to hit the road—like I don’t give a damn! It’s fun!

But learning to drive that way was not so fun since it involved loved-ones in distress (and displaying startling color changes.)

On the way to the ER my Mom was first red, then blue and then purple. Simultaneously she performed an UNCANNY imitation of a fish suddenly dragged up from 500 feet and unceremoniously flung on the deck.

I found all this rather disturbing and as a result and I couldn’t avoid breaking some traffic laws—actually pretty much all of them.

In my defense, I’d like to know exactly WHO got to decide which side of the pavement was “the wrong side”? I might add that a sign that merely says “STOP” is open to all kinds of interpretations.

Despite going very fast and paying little attention to trivial concepts like “lanes” and “signs” I didn’t get pulled over.

Nor was I stopped on my second or THIRD hospital sprints. So now I drive that way everywhere I go. They way I see it, I have three Hospital-Related, get-out-of-tickets-free cards and I’m using em’!

Nobody seems to care either, except OUR TRUCK. That is clearly one unhappy vehicle. And it’s “lashing out” via messages lit up on the dashboard.

Of course the “Service Engine Soon” light is always lit anyway, but now our truck is flashing EXTRA crazy new messages like “Tighten Gas Cap!” and “Check Wiper Fluid!”

Hey TRUCK! I’m running a stop sign doing 75 in a 20 in front of a school. Do you really think I give a fuck about wiper fluid?!?

If the truck wants to get MY attention it’s gonna’ take an “I WILL KILL YOU ALL!” light, or something similar.

But even with the wild lights, none of my new driving style is as dangerous as riding with my daughter Kathryn “Crash” Jones. If you have driven a car in Bloomington in 2011 there’s a statistical probability Katy has collided with you.

She’s hit FOUR cars in the past 12 months! Precisely three more than I’ve hit since 1978 (and that one car I hit was on purpose.)

Brandy suggested we affix pillows on the bumpers of Katy’s car. Her Aunt Christina advised bubble wrap.

Personally I’d like to see Katy’s car adorned with large flashing Klieg lights and surrounded by inflated tractor tire inter-tubes.

If you see either one of us coming down the road you might want to pull on over.

-30-

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Driving like somebody’s gonna die….

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He SAYS he’s been hunting before, but he also says he flew the Space Shuttle, climbed K2 and invented the IPad.

I know I frequently poke fun at hunters, but I’ll admit it, I like going myself. All the way up to the part when we see an actual animal, that is.

That’s when you can count on me to interpose myself between the hunters and the endangered critter.

My friends and relatives have accepted this behavior and have even come to enjoy the challenge of blasting rabbits etc. despite my interference. It’s now a TRADITION!

And I have shown courage under fire from a very early age. The very first time I was allowed to join the hunting party was Thanksgiving Day when I was 10 or 11. I didn’t actually get my own gun to carry, but I was thrilled to get to walk out in front of the grown-ups.

Little did I know that I was actually standing in FOR THE DOG (Ralph) and that I would somehow blunder upon a pheasant.

Since I had never SEEN a pheasant before (or since), my entire interaction with the species is having one blasted to bits just above my head.

But I remember thinking that it was HUGE and BEAUTIFUL, (at least for that second or so before it became a handful of smoking feathers floating towards the ground.)

When the smoke had cleared my Dad had a rather intense conversation with the other hunters, no doubt regarding fields of fire and the acceptable proximity of my head.

Now 40 years later LEO wants to go, and I have agreed with the following caveats:

We’re NOT going at 5:00 in the morning! For some reason, seasoned hunters seem to think you should set out in the middle of the night. Trust me the deer are still asleep and they don’t want to get up either.

We’re NOT wearing camouflage. Whenever I see someone in camo but sporting a bright orange hat or vest it takes all my concentration to keep from laughing out loud!

I want to shout, “Hey! Do you see that floating head?”

I usually don’t though. (They have guns.)

-30-

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We’re going hunting…

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Inspiration

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Address Is Approximate from The Theory on Vimeo.

Google Street View stop motion animation short made as a personal project by director Tom Jenkins.

Story: A lonely desk toy longs for escape from the dark confines of the office, so he takes a cross country road trip to the Pacific Coast in the only way he can – using a toy car and Google Maps Street View.

Music by the wonderful Cinematic Orchestra (www.cinematicorchestra.com) and the track is Arrival of the Birds – please buy the fantastic album: http://itunes.apple.com/gb/album/the-crimson-wing-mystery-flamingos/id297787201

All screen imagery was animated – there are no screen replacements.

Produced, animated, filmed, lit, edited & graded by Tom Jenkins (www.theoryfilms.co.uk / https://www.facebook.com/theoryfilms – !NEW MAKING OF PICS ON FB PAGE! / @thetheoryUK / http://twitter.com/#!/thetheoryUK).

Shot using Canon 5d MkII, Dragonframe Stop Motion software and customised slider.

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Address is Approximate

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Uncanny Resemblance

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Truth in Advertising

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Thanks, Dick.

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Faux

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Morning Glory

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(Not so) Old School

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"You're going to die on those things." Cool, but I'm no fool.

Fighting a strong urge to laugh, I said, “I always wanted a motorcycle.  They take walk-ins at the license test right?”

“You have to take the safety course,” he replied as he counted the money.  The sales man showed very little honest concern, but I’m sure the mention of the safety course would allow him to sleep on his commission.  I had told him, on a high whim, that I never owned a bike but I wanted a fast one. He directed me to the only sport bike in the shop, a late model Suzuki GSXR1000.

The floor was littered with expensive custom choppers, a couple of neat Ducati Monsters, two Japanese cruisers and one really cool KTM. The shop was one of these new, used bike shops selling bikes bought up during the recession from people who could no longer afford their toys, by people who should be dragged behind one of the uglier choppers on the showroom, by people like me.  This is the future of the industry, and of the world really, but that’s not my point.  Not at this point.

On the bike, maybe I’d consider this sales guy a motorcycle brother, but probably not.  If George Bush rode the same bike as me, he’d still be just another filthy cash sucker. The fact that this guy had a bike and just sold me one does not make him my fucking friend.   This motherfucker isn’t stopping for me on the side of the road anymore than I’d pull over to help him re-strap his Harley on the trailer.

I know some real bikers though, and I’d pull over for them any day, even loan them my damn bike.  They had the motorcycle spirit, yet I wouldn’t be truthful if I said they always knew why.  Put them on the bike though, no matter how loaded they were, and you will see The Face.  Real Outlaw bikers are good people, kinda violent after a certain time of the day, but respect usually met respect when I was with bikers.

But not this sales man.  It didn’t take an honorary psychology degree to see this sales man was about the Benjamins, which makes him Benjamin’s Bitch.  He wasn’t a rider.  

I already knew the answer from his Harley pocket protector, but I asked, “What kind of bike do you ride?”

“Oh I ride a Harley,” he replied, “A Big Twin.”

Giant Harleys were a surrender to straight lined boredom, but attracted titties and beer, as long as you never got tired of hearing George Thorogood.  “I’ve never ridden a real motorcycle, are Harleys fast?”

In the measured, FM DJ sales voice, he replied, “Well, a Harley is more of a cruiser or a touring model. They’ll get up and go, but not like your sport bike.  You’ve never ridden a bike at all?  That’s a really fast bike you have. Really fast. I figured you had ridden at least.”

“I rode on one of those little lawn mower engine things,” I shrugged, “same deal.  How fast is the bike I just bought?  It’ll do a hundred right?”

He couldn’t tell if I was serious, or perhaps he was wondering if he was libelous, “That bike does over 160 off the floor.  Hey, uh, we can deliver the bike to you.  Take the safety course.”

“I don’t have time for that shit.  I got a youtube video shoot today,” I said.

Snatching up the 300 dollar helmet he threw in as a kiss, (110 bucks dealer cost, but 300 bucks to us in The Motorcycle Brotherhood) I grabbed my bike; already gassed up by a kid in a flat brimmed Monster Energy hat.

“We’ve got a ramp on the side of the shop,” the kid said when I took the bars.  He was a mutant somewhat like me.  He was wearing a wrist brace under his Pro Circuit tee and eating protein bar, with a Hershey bar stacked on top of it, and in the other hand was a banana.  Motocrosser. Kinda used to be one myself, before I found myself.

He stared at me with the deceptively vacant eyes of a human with a resting heart rate of 12 BPM, and who adjusted his goggles while flying 70 feet through the air during races, “I’ll wheel it around for you dude.”

“I got it,” I said as I shoved the helmet on, unbuckled for theater’s sake.  The kid looked at me like I was a dead man walking, which I was, but if you wanted to get fussy about it, we all are.  That’s why I wanted a liter bike.  It was time.

Once past the entrance, I hopped on and started the Superbike, revved it for attention, but only slipped the clutch in first and crept down the steps; standing, never dabbing a foot, with a slight, but expressively stylish pause as I let my rear wheel ease over the last step.  Slipping it again toward the curb, I popped a small wheelie so both wheels landed simultaneously, then stopped, standing perfectly balanced for a count of “one-one thousand.”

No ugly motion, no ugly sounds.  Only enough RPM to keep the main gyro spinning, my type of showing off, and the bike did all the work.  I’m just a passenger.  Around 160 please, thank you James.

Being more experienced at riding puny little 600s and 650s as an adult (whichever skinned the cat) and tiny wee motocrossers when I was younger, I hadn’t spent much time over 140.   Liter bike guys tried to mock me about it, but after a couple of corners, I never heard it again.  I’m not a great rider, far fucking from it, but most spodes on liter bikes are flat stupid, and not just for popping wheelies on the freeway.

Riding is amazingly complex for an activity Evel Kneivel could do, and with the right eyes, can be an expressive and graceful art form to witness.  When I see too many wheelies, I see the dull guy at the party who somehow found a way to walk around with his shirt off to show us The Situation.  Like the sales man, the rockstar squids wanted The Image.  One and the same in my book.  Call me a dog. . .but the superbikers kept me away from the big sport bikes.

That said, I can lift the front end on any bike I ride.  I’m more practical about it because I learned it from a different angle.  After disclaiming the hammered stunt tank on my last 600 to an intelligent new riding buddy before we took a trip downtown, I instinctively popped a wheelie over chuck hole that was going to slam my nuts into the tank.  Because of The Situations out there now, I could have gone to jail for trying to keep my boys in the sack.   It was a good wheelie, didn’t even yank the chain hard, and the bike did all the work.  I didn’t need to express power.   

\

The only reason I wanted a liter bike was because Austin had secured F1 racing in Texas, in America, and just put a world class track in my damn backyard.  Track designers had written my retirement plan with a gorgeous, humped, long straight burn that was good for 200 MPH; a hard turn at the end would make or break me, one day, and I was hoping for sooner than later.  Other than that, I never wanted a fucking liter bike.  Before, I thought large sport bikes were for guys with small penises.  I’m a medium there, (grower not a shower.) Smaller bikes did all I needed, and what I read in literature class got me more love than any bike ever did, let alone the 1000cc motor I was straddling.

But I don’t ride bikes for the imagery used to market them, which probably why the imagery is so ridiculous to me.  When I started I was too young to have any preconceptions.  My father stuck me on the tank of a KX125 when I was four years old and it caused a mutation which I have never fully adapted to, but which constantly evolved in me until I find myself riding a ridiculously fast Suzuki, while believing I really should be above it.  I know my mother was right about motorcycles; she’s the smartest one in the family.  All my best decisions in life came from something I learned from my mother.  Dad taught me how to say, “Fuck it. I like bikes.”

And I like them fast.  I will not buy a Hyabusa though. I’d go with the ZX14, painted like my 1984 KX80, with the red KDX tank, White Lightning plastic, and a works bike blue seat cover; a tribute to my father, and the motorcycle industry ruining me forever.  I’d take that fucker straight to The Texas Mile and shoot for the 200MPH club, merely so I could smile when context allowed me to humbly tell the tale, because honestly, it would be hardly a victory to me.

“I don’t get it myself.”  Sure I do, but it’s hard to write honestly without alarming folks, unless you carefully choose your words.  Trained against anything short of stoicism by motorcycling, there were no victories to anything I did on the bike; no completion, no solace.  After motocross, bikes had to be about something in me.  It was personal.  Knowing this, I mocked things other riders held as a measuring stick but I mocked all my actions, and honestly felt that it is this bogus measuring stick that has become the barrier to spreading the motorcycle spirit.

Resentment? No. Purity.  My father gave me this gift.  I want riding to mean something, not something stupid.  This shit is deep to me.  It’s a life story.   It can’t be merely brave, and in no way stupid.  It’s timeless poetry.

All is an elusive epitaph,

the lives we all live.

Also elusive, but more modern, is why this external object creates such an internal reaction, that is entirely personal to the point of absolute mystery to even the rider who feels it.  Describing the sensation is like describing love.  I’ve never seen it written satisfactorily.

The road was clear now so I reached for it.  I don’t know what it is, but I cannot give it strictly to the motorcycle.  It has to be universal, unisexual, ultimately pure, and a beauty available to all people, yet it is particular to the individual. Perhaps the sensation is human motion.  Is it the giddy thrill we fools get when we go where we never were meant to go? That sensation is older than bikes, eternal, and entirely natural, despite the machine.  It is in all of us.

I was feeling it on this god damned GSXR, but I knew pursuit of It damned us all.  Oh yeah, I went there.  End of Times is coming; unless you convert to Islam because Jesus has run out of oil and the Axis of Evil has it.  Politics aside, they aren’t going to change anything anyway, combustion is dying.  I’m getting it while I can.

Under the winds, I’m the weatherman; 158, 165, 172. . .hello Evil, a number new.  Whatever It is, It was mine in this moment.  Damned to love it, destined to lose it; we all know it, but I couldn’t care when I felt It.  God damn It.

It is.  It is damned because it is a machine. 

I mean, shit, I’m reaching of course, but where the hell (the machine) can you go?  (rolled back to 155 and checking the mirrors for cops.) The motorcycle is rebellious not because of that photo of the drunk at Hollister, nor Marlon Brando, nor all those stupid biker movies I absolutely love.  The motorcycle, and listen here now damnit, the motorcycle is rebellious because it is a machine.

We had The Garden remember? Huh?  Hey all you EPA hating, conservative types of the moto world who bought the platitudes of the Fuel Creators. . . The combustion engine is a finger in the face of everything we were offered by George Bush’s God, just like most creations of humanity.  I know a bountiful garden wasn’t good enough for me.  I know if any god stood before me when I was 13 and said, “You can have heaven, or a KX80,” I would have ridden the bike straight to the inferno, doubling and tripling the rings straight to the finish line, even if I knew my friend Bob would later catch shrapnel in Iraq for my ridiculously shallow needs.

Paint it however you need to market it, the motorcycle is one of the Devil’s tools, but his favorite is the V8.  A Combustion Revelations is upon us.  Amen.  The Devil has beaten us with our one glorious, god given fuel.

Help me now!

Confess yourself to The Lord, reach for The Saviour and accept him now because, from below, we have fallen for the Devil, who come to us in a crude, oily form and hath lubricated our very souls until we are his own.  Help us Lord.  Help me.  Seriously, I just saw another cop and I’m doing, 161.  Forgive my sin, I was feeling it.  

It’s stupid.  I realize as much.  It’s stupid to go 160 or more on public roads too.  It’s stupid to feel cool because you can, and it’s stupid to absolutely need some product to make my life complete, especially one which is so tied to a substance which shapes world power.

What can I do?  Bent.  Absolutely bent.  Lord?  Are you listening?

I am forsaken.  I was alone.  My mind went blank.  But in my dreams, it’s always there, that evil face which twists my throttle and brings me to despair.

At a mere 166 now, I was still 500 mph away from the Speed of the Beast, but god damnit, I was going to get there.  I’m a missile of freedom with Jesus’ blessing.  Kill ‘em all and let The God sort ‘em out.  Sorry Christian Patriots, that’s the past. 

“Win some, you lose some, it’s all the same to me.”  Motorhead.

Who cares. . .these are just thoughts in a helmet, a dead man’s hand in a changing world with a personal definition dying like the cowboy.  But these god damn liter bikes are stupid fast.  Perfect.  I know motion is a joke of dull perception, but I sure like this fool’s sensation, and the faster the better until it kills me or the entire world.

Screw it to the stop.  It’s all a fool has got.  I’m just another hapless consumer here, a market for a few; a dog.

I laughed. . .   Born to die, nothing to lose; I don’t give a bitter fuck.  Honey Badger has nothing but stupidity on me.

Chapter One.

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The Motor Cyclist

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-Toby Keith, Lyrical Genius.

Duckfaced beach trollop, not associated with Toby Keith - but thinks he's amazing...

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Red Solo Cup

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Art of Illusion

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Apocolypse, Now.

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Cassette?

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and I don’t choose who I care about.

A five year curiosity closed recently,

a crescendo of bent pathology

finally expressed truth, finally removed care,

I understood the Leviathan.

Okay Miss Water;

Satan? Really?

A witch you said.  Take note here:

“I want what I want when I want it.”

Not youth as I once thought, flat selfishness.

So without a clue, you, (pardon my laugh, child) choose Satanism

And your career…

Shit.  That’s just funny.  Kinda Lebowski too.

Whatever, it matters not.  I don’t choose who I care about

and I don’t make the decision to stop caring.

That idea comes from the Monster, the sea monster who resides in the (smirk) Diaphanous Waters, or the Hopeful Waters, or whatever water a child like you decides to be after the real monsters broke you.  I cared for the witch’s mind, only, but that was more of a literary mystery I was trying to decipher.  I never liked my first thought about you, and because I was trying to be human, I searched for depth.

I found Leviathan.  You knew I would, you gave me the map.

No one loves monsters.  The Woodpecker was an Outlaw, not a predator, and you’re neither.

…witch hardly matters Devil Girl.  The mystery died.  You were right when you said, “I’m not a good person.”

But let me add, you’re not your own person in their world.

The Leviathan, from a witch’s bent perspective:

In Satanism, according to the author of The Satanic Bible, Anton Szandor LaVey, Leviathan represents the element of Water and the direction of West. The element of Water in Satanism is associated with life and creation, and may be represented by a Chalice during ritual. In The Satanic Bible, Leviathan is listed as one of theFour Crown Princes of Hell. This association was inspired by the demonic hierarchy from The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abra-Melin the Mage. The Church of Satan uses the Hebrew letters at each of the points of the Sigil of Baphomet to represent Leviathan. Starting from the lowest point of the pentagram, and reading counter-clockwise, the word reads “לִוְיָתָן”. Translated, this is (LVIThN) Leviathan.^[11]

I saw this in you immediately but I was too stubborn to go with my first thought: Hopeless.

I tried to show you what my experience had taught me,

it was a comedy, but you were so intent on having what you wanted

and the only mystery was why you had to crush everyone who gave it to you.

SO I didn’t.

I just hope I get the motorcycle book written before the Satanist Witch cuts my balls off.   Either way, I don’t care.

Empty

Hollow

Diaphanous

Nihilist

a laugh.

The Bar ate you.  The Mystery died.  Fred is dead.

Martin is fine however.  (Chortle…fucking Satan.  That’s ridiculous.  Kill me if you must Witchy Poo, you know I never valued this life.)

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Seems I knew a Satanist

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Danny McCaskill – Way Back Home

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