Jake Rides

Strolling the fabled streets of Fort Worth's tourist-geared Historic Stockyards I was made graphically aware of what a fashion accessory motorcycles have become for the uppwardly mobile and penile disadvantaged.

I've long ago written off my unmasked hostility to the costumed and coiffed psuedo-bikers as simply being the manifestations of my own hate and discontent sewn and grown by the grace of God via my associations with people who do not suck. (Run-on sentences RULE!) Others may claim jealousy and fractured id, but those people are oedipal asshats clouding obvious reality with imagined underlying forces.

But back to why everyone sucks but us: there I was, sans motorsickle, on a beautiful 85 degree severe clear kind of day. Cold Shiner in one hand and a wide-eyed 1st grader at the other. Yes, the literal model of domesticity gone horribly awry. I even had a camera in my pocket and plans to buy the boy a balloon hat from the clown on the corner. All was well, and I was doing a very good job supressing the urge to bitch about my lack of two-wheeled conveyance. I had nothing, really, to bitch about. I'd flown to Ft. Worthless in a high performance aerobatic aircraft, and would be headed back in the relative comfort and status stigma of a minivan. But as those who ride know; if it's not raining like a bastard with occasional piston sized hail we'd rather have the motorsickle. Sometimes even if it is. I did not. Both kids, the wife, and the assorted baby support gear won't fit - even if I had a sidecar. Damnit.

Somewhere between Riscky's BBQ and the Cattlepen maze we heard him coming: the badass. That irritating sound we've all grown to know - and some to hate. Straight pipes lacking any sort of proper back pressure attached to a high-compression engine wed to a Baker six speed, and mounted in a frame of questionable lineage. The Chopper BadAss rode our way.

As I turned to catch the formulaic profile of the late-in-life assbag aboard a horribly overpriced 'chopper' parading his fat ass down the brick streets my 1st grade protege, unprompted, turned to me and said, "I wonder where the no-riding punk parked his trailer."

YES! He is my kid! Cancel the paternity test.

Much like when he knows the next line on The Simpsons our maternal unit fails to be impressed with these moments of pure clarity from Young Jacob. She is female, however, and we know their sense of humor tends to be deficient.

Watching this punk idle through the stockyards a few things came to mind. Some pointers you boomers on cookie-cutter psuedo choppers should keep in mind:

• When pretending to be a hoodlum leave the dockers at home.
• Ditto on the loafers, dipshit.
• Neither go with the chaps, especially when it's 90 degrees.
• We know you're hiding Rogaine's progress with the do-rag.
• Ratling windows with shitty exhaust is no substitute for actually riding.
• Real bikers are not scared of u-turns.
• We're laughing AT you, not 'with' you.

I think there's some confusion with the last one. When you step off the sparkling clean IronHorse in front of Gunner's on Thursday of Sturgis when it's been rainng for the past two days we're not admiring you're housekeeping skills. We're laughing at the costume.

When those stickers show up on trailers with the help number 1-800-NO-COJONES it's not a bonding experience or invitation to haul with us. We're laughing at your lack of balls.

And when you hear from the back of the bar, "Choppers 'til Prom!" and "Choppers 'til It Ain't Cool Anymore!" we're not forming alliances. We're laughing at your wardrobe.

When the graffiti on the pisser wall says 'Fuck The Toweds,' 'U-Haul U-Suck,' and 'Trailered Harleys Suck' this is not friendly chiding and hazing. We're endorsing a thinning of the herd through wholesale slaughter of the costumed and cowardly. Oh, and we're laughing at you.

I'm not really all that old but I actually remember when choppers were bikes that had been chopped and tv shows had white people in them. Damn ... I'm turning into one of those guys.

Global warming is disappointing me. Sparks Halloween gig may be a bag-shriveling hypothermic mess. But we're going anyway.

And The Lizard is coming home to visit next week. Bet that wrecks my liver ...

You Get What You Pay For

"Get off your ass and write something!"
"You haven't posted in forever, get on it!"
"I need something to read!"

Yeah yeah yeah ... if you're not satisfied with the quantity, much less quality, of this blog cancel your subscription and eat a bag of dicks. I've been busy (drunk) and haven't had the time (desire) to pound anything out for a while. Here, I'll give you double your money back. Jackass ...

Wouldn't it be great to make one's living as a writer, say as a columnist of some sort - pick a topic, any topic - and depend on the fawning minions for your bread and butter? Then, just as you're establishing yourself as a known quantity and a voice to be reckoned with, BAM! Blogs. Free editorials and prosletyzing right there on everyone's computer screen. (Blogs are nearly as ubiquitous as porn, they're just harder to rub one out to.) New media. Everyone is a pundit. No one needs a publisher. And legitimate writers are drowned out by stoned pool boys and poli sci majors moonlighting at Kinko's.

Good thing I've got a job. Because if I was depending on the three people who read this piece of shit for my per diem I'd be dead broke, drunk, and bitter. Wait a minute ...

A recap ... Well. To say I was 'sort of a drunken asshole' in Sturgis would be like labeling New Orleans a city where 'it rained a little and the natives got testy.'

I was a drunken asshole Monday night in Sturgis. Suffice to say the longstanding rule "No Whiskey For Jeff" is a tattoo we will soon commission for my partner Spot. The tat wouldn't be necessary if he'd remained cognizant enough to have nightmares over our collective behavior on the dreaded evening. But it seems the partnership of evil has erased much of the night festive debauchery via the magic of mass quantities. Thankfully I have excellent friends who (somehow) kept me out of jail and have been so kind as to recall the missing pieces. Reality tv remains a far cry from the reality we live. Survivor ... p'shaw! I piss on your tribes. And main street. And a vendor tent. And probably myself.

Hey, it's not like we set out on a regular basis with the intention of drinking ourselves to a stupor. Sometimes it just happens. To some more often than others. Regardless, Spot is more fun than throwing a wet, burning dog into a 55 gallon barrel of kerosene-soaked monkeys then kicking the entire mess off the top of a tall building into the middle of a Shriner parade. And Killer, that's some fun.

Just great weather the entire week we were in Sturgis. Much better than 04's chilly evenings and ball-shriveling morns. Sunshine and lollipops. Even the rain on Wednesday night just drove us in a bar to wait it out. Imagine that. (Sorry, Elvis. I honestly didn't mean to splash you in the Broken Spoke. Hey, did I mention I'm an asshole?)

The Road King performed like a champ and I honestly believe I like it more now than I did when it was new. That rumbling Thunderheader increased power as well as gas mileage. Plus, it just sounds so damned cool ...

Made it to Fayetteville a couple weekends ago as well. The Propeht Paul's annual birthday party was moved this year from the traditional Manchester Mecca to scenic NWA. (That's Northwest Arkansas, not the nubian rap group.)

It's been probably three years or so since we made Bikes, Blues, and BBQ. When last I cursed the college town with my coed lust and multiple sins of wont and deprivation BBBB (how many fucking B's are there?) BBQ was a relatively small gig. This year it was nuts. A good kind of nuts: like when your date turns out to be just a little bit kinkier than you. Not the bad kind of nuts: like when your date turns out to have a pair.

300,000 wasw the total we read through bloodshot eyes Sunday morning. That's definitely possible, as 4-lane highways were basically parking lots for large blocks of time. Regardless the crowds, a good time was had by all. Minimal drama, just a few lost souls. Good cold beer. Excellent food. Damned nice bars. Beautiful women. And without a doubt the most decent and reasonable law enforcement I've ever seen associated with a run. Rather than throwing their weight around with the typical 'badge and a gun' asshole mentality the constables of Fayetteville, at least as far as we observed, protected and served with a great deal of common sense. Cops who aren't pricks, friendly locals, college girls, and damned fine scenery will help this run grow.

Some great riding in the area, or so I heard. The trip took a predictable Iron Liver bend and had us swilling beer and swapping laughs in the copious pubs of dickson street. George's Majestic Lounge is still the bar I would build if I could build a bar. And Jose's never fails to supply a healthy crop of beauty queens. Cassidy, you make me want to take Kindergarten art. Mmmm ...

Despite the fact half of Enid, OK seemed to be in Fayetteville for the weekend a good time was had by all. Most all the town knows it was Paul's birthday, Marty saved a marraige, we found an outstandng new band; The Groove Hogs, long lost hoodlums were found, and Bad News Jimmy let us all ogle some Bad Candy. She's so damned cool.

Indian Summer, global warming, whatever it is I want more of it. Let all your freon loose. More volcanoes! Open up that damend hole in the ozone. I want an 80 degree average through December.

In the meantime I will waste this weekend in Fort Worth watching a lifelong friend make the ultimate mistake: marraige. Poor kid. Idealistic fool. It looks so easy. You'd think she'd have learned a lesson from the hell I've put my wife through. Hey, we're men. We're pricks. Stay away from us ...

Vaya Con Dos Equis