Monday, September 28, 2015
I have, of late, nearly divorced myself from the vast and ever-changing interwhebz, for I believe it to be the domain of Satan and his demonic influence, controlled by a small number of billionaire, homosexual socialists and their bought-and-paid-for politicians. This tiny frog, (pictured above) sad and perched petulantly upon a stack of plywood, its laminated members frayed and shopworn, represents the forlorn and distant hopes I have for final reconciliation in these dying hours. I fear if it were not for the continual re-runs of Sanford and Son and Charlies Angels I might become somewhat unhinged.
Mine is but a single voice crying out in the wilderness.
I pray the Reverend Chad Kroeger’s harvest is dripping with tetrahydrocannabinol and good cheer, and bountiful beyond measure. That the whiskey and Adderall flowing through my arteries will not be my undoing, and if so, be it quick and merciful.
The recent findings of water upon the Martian surface brings some meager hope that a small number of willing and succulent pilgrims may soon venture forth from our savaged and tawdry macrocosm and embark on a journey to its distant shores on mighty wings of eagles.
Monday, June 22, 2015
I'll move down to southern Indiana some day to hide out from creditors, ex-wives and the IRS. (Don't tell anyone.)
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
Isn’t that cute, Google knows my birthday and plasters some crap like this on my screen to wish me a happy day. I got news for you Google. That shit ain’t, cute it’s f@#kin’ creepy. You know my birth date. What the hell else do you know about me and everyone else you spy on?Next birthday I won’t be seeing your cute little birthday wishes CEO Larry Page, you wealthy, elitist, Big Brother mercenary voyeur. I’m switching my search engine preference to a small, twenty person operation that “emphasizes protecting searchers' privacy and avoiding the filter bubble of personalized search results.”
Hopefully I'll be spared seeing ads for the boots, leathers and other various motorcycle accessories I had been recently drooling over.
Monday, April 13, 2015
Came back and chilled with the pups for a while in the shop, then built some very basic fender struts for the rigid. I'm thinking this bike will look better with nothing obstructing the rear wheel and fender.
Other spring projects include planting the garden, cleaning out the dead 'possums from the crawlspace, splitting wood for next winter's fuel, and replacing the leaky seal in the Ratglide's fork.
Monday, April 6, 2015
Back to semi employment, and flush with a few extra coins in my pocket, I finally took the never-ending Sporty project off the lift. As soon as it hit the ground, I was not feeling the longish sissy bar. So, back up on the lift 'til I figure out what next. I want to mount the license plate bracket somewhere else but can't use any of the axle-mounted ones offered due to the way the axle plate is configured on the Kraft-Tech frame. Maybe a weld-on bracket.
The frame has been a bitch from the start. It seems to be well-built, but with 1 1/4" tubing it's heavy and nothing from the typical after-market world fits.
Memo to all bolt-on hacks like myself: Go with a Paugho frame, it will make life easier.
Disappointed, I did what any self-respecting young man would do. I got comfortably drunk 'til the wee hours while listening to "Southern Culture on the Skids" on the iPod.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Amërïkäns are instructed how to think by an ominous Media/Corporate/Government/Entertainment Industry cabal.
For some time now in Hollywood, a film’s level of achievement has no longer been measured by its ability to artfully convey a compelling story or to promote deep thought and introspection. A movie’s success is graded on its first weekend’s box-office earnings, spurred on by over-saturated promotion and hype. An otherwise unremarkable movie is considered a blockbuster if it was successfully promoted. No work of epic filmmaking stands a chance unless it’s accompanied by a set of molded action figures, wrapped in plastic, and wedged into a McDonald’s happy meal.
The commercial world is no different. The latest example is the newest “must have” electronic plaything. The “Smartwatch” is now being promoted by the Silicon Valley, corporate-elitist, puppet-masters in an effort to foist it upon the gullible Gen X & Millennial masses. All the beautiful and babbling network-news talking heads (all earning for their networks huge sums of money in advertisements by Apple, Sony and Samsung) tell us, with orgiastic glee, that it’s the next big thing and everyone simply must have one. How exciting!
Ask yourself this: How many times have you heard a friend or coworker lament that their Smartphone is nice, but they just wish it was really tiny and hard to use and could be strapped to their wrist like Dick Tracy? Never. NEVER!! Nonetheless, this worthless gizmo will rake in huge profits for the mega-corporate oligarchy which is incrementally taking control our lives.
I have to give these New-Age hucksters their due, though. They may have hit upon the Smartwatch’s attraction for the “Look-at-Me” generation. Unlike a smartphone or tablet, it is an externally-worn adornment and can be flashed and flaunted to impress other like-minded, materialistic dupes at the organic juice bar and Starbucks. The newest purveyors of corporate greed are pale-skinned, neurotic, ad agency hipsters.
It’s much easier to be a rich capitalist if you pay penitence by attending ten-thousand dollar a plate fund-raising events for powerful, San Francisco politicians and the exploited are tucked safely out of sight and mind, eight thousand miles across the Pacific Ocean. Wealthy Silicon Valley “progressives”, hiding behind their gated mansions and tax shelters grow steadily richer while haggard Chinese electronics industry workers reduce their fingers to nubs so they can go back to their crowded lean-tos and swallow a small bowl of rice and snake gizzards before falling into a few fitful hours of sleep. Only to rise once again and repeat in never-ending drudgery.
Things won’t change until it’s too late because, as Grandpa would say, we’re fat, dumb and happy. In today’s parlance Amërïkäns are literally becoming more and more obese, uneducated and happily medicated.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Yes, this valuable real estate is available at a discount price. Needs a few tweaks but, if you act now this desirable commercial property can be all yours!Yep, I’m back in beautiful downtown Jerkwater where last summer’s fire-damaged building languishes behind a chain link fence with little chance of ever being more than so much rubble.
I'm certain someone will get a great deal on a slightly damaged van though.
Monday, February 16, 2015
I did not come seeking the beach but stumbled into it by accident. Even as a child my heart rate quickened when I came upon the sea, topping that last rise and confronting the ocean, extending to touch the sky, then arching endlessly into a chartless and unknowable oblivion. ‘Neath it lie mysteries; the rusted hulls of battleships, pods of harried beluga whale, sunken Spanish Galleons, undersea cities, and the dispersed and digested remains of Amelia Earhart, Blackbeard and Osama Bin Laden.
I’m on a little spit of land jutting out from the "Forgotten Coast." It’s damn cold, 28 degrees last night and a high of 51 today, so I won’t be body surfing, sunbathing naked or parasailing.
Not that I ever intended to.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Sputnik has resumed her rightful place as the undisputed Queen of the Florida State Park system. She looks out over her realm with the quiet confidence of a benevolent ruler, lording over squirrels, common campground mongrels and endangered woodpeckers. The panthers and gators genuflect as they pass by. An awe-inspiring picture of aristocratic nobility. The locals tell me of a large and increasing black bear population in this area. I’ll never see them. Bears tremble in fear at the sound of Sputnik’s name.
My primary southern headquarters is an obscure little outpost located in the pine flatwoods of the vast Apalachicola National Forest. I find the pine flatwoods aesthetically pleasing due to their unique quality of being both open and wooded. The lack of thick canopy allows a pleasant view and the tall columns of Longleaf Pines add a sense of dimension, while low growing wiregrass and palmettos flourish underneath. The old adage, “you can’t see the forest for the trees” doesn’t apply here.
I finally found a grocery store within twenty-five miles. North Florida ain’t Miami, and that’s why I like it. The parking lot is filled with lifted pickups and ATV’s. Tank tops and camouflage are in fashion and the children respect their elders while they stab each other with scissors. The checkout clerk has a distant, half-witted look on her face, wipes her nose on her sleeve constantly and communicates with a series of simple, monosyllabic grunts. But they have semi-fresh bread products and kick-ass Cajun sausage.
Monday, February 2, 2015
Finally crossed over Alabama’s southern border and am nestled comfortably in one of Florida’s Fine State Parks. When crossing the border I notice the ground underfoot changes abruptly from Alabama’s sticky yellow clay to Florida’s soft white sand. The temperature rises as well, or so it seems.
It always takes me few days to shake off the self-imposed restraints of everyday life. The deadlines, phone calls, harsh weather and bills slowly fade away and are replaced with sublime contentment.
I can simply exist, serene and tranquil, like a drunken Buddhist in an all-night laundry-mat.
Of course, all this existing gets boring after five or six days, so I pull up stakes and move on.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Alabama is a long state north to south. I jumped off the superslab around Greenville and drove county roads the rest of the way. Woods and hills in the north give way to empty fields where cotton once grew, then further south to lumber plantations thinly dotted with corrugated shacks and decaying automobiles, the side ditches empty save the carcasses of sharp-boned roadkill dried and blackened on the rough pavement, eyes wide open, but seeing nothing.
Had to stop for a band of grim-faced men in rusted pickups probing the underbrush with sharpened sticks, and bloodlust. Their truck beds bore packs of caged hounds, red-eyed and ravenous, their slatted ribs showing through thin and scarred hides, eager for the hunt. I drove on.
Around dusk we pulled off into a nondescript hobo jungle. I entered a building marked “Campground Office” ringing one of those little bells on a coiled spring that hung over the doorframe. A man was seated behind the counter watching a fishing show on an old-school television. He was an older man, big-bellied with a mottled complexion, and greasy hair the color of tossed bathwater. He wore thick-lensed glasses with frames made from antelope bones.
He barely glanced as I entered, but continued to watch his fishing show. A small poodle at his feet, with a coat of dirty lamb’s wool, stared at me with pink and runny eyes. I cleared my throat and asked if he had a site available for the night. He peered out over his glasses at me with a look of vile contempt and turned back to the TV. After a long, awkward pause he finally said, “Twenty-fi’ dollah’s cash.”
I pulled out my wallet and laid my money on the counter like Doc Holliday and waited for him to raise or call. After another pause, and with great effort, he lifted himself from his chair and approached the counter. He quickly folded the cash into his dirty shirt pocket and pulled out a crude printed map of the campground and said, “Site eighteen, checkout at eleven.”
I quietly thanked him, and as I turned to leave, looked down at the dog who was sniffing my pant leg. He looked up and growled a soft disapproval, but allowed me to pass.
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
Sputnik knows long before I do that a journey is imminent with that unearthly canine intuition we mere mortals can never comprehend. Days before our departure she’d leap into the truck’s open door and stubbornly refuse to exit. She must be coerced and cajoled with veiled threats of violence and promises of dog biscuits and cheddar cheese. Hooked up and loaded the Gypsy Pod and was ready for takeoff Saturday morning. The weather was moderate, unlike the poor conditions during last year’s southern migration.
Trailing the Pod on my tiny pickup and traveling at interstate speed is similar to towing an obstinate, tethered parachute like the one used to stop the space shuttle during landing. Doesn’t do well up hills or into a headwind. Maybe a truck cap would help streamline its overall aerodynamic properties, but right now ten mpg is as good as I can get.
The landscape in Kentucky was frosted with a fresh coat of benign snow, but the roads were fine, and we made our way to a cold little campground of I-65 just north of Nashville. They placed me in the back row with the rear of the camper about one-hundred feet from the interstate. I fell asleep to the sound of the nightime highway, which is among the loneliest sounds on earth, and also a favorite of mine.
The siren song of the highway is the sound of restless movement, commerce and flight. Bleary-eyed, high-ballin’ truckers with doctored logbooks trying to avoid the twenty second nap that will end their run, or worse. Desperate families, their meager possessions piled high in the back seat of ancient Chevys, hoping the next town will bring them employment. Undocumented migrants and drug runners crowded into mini-vans and non-descript Buicks flying under the radar and hoping their secrets go unjudged before they make their destination.
After a decent night’s sleep I batten down the hatches, pull up the landing gear and power up the on-ramp as I join the others on Amërïkä’s endless, infrastructural, asphalt bloodstream as I move ever Southward.