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