Saturday, December 26, 2015

Jilted on a Lonely Creekbank

I first saw her along the bank of some unnamed tributary digging up mollusks with a flat-bladed screwdriver. I watched her, mesmerized, from behind a screen of willow branches as she bent to her task, grunting contentedly, her breasts swinging bralessly ‘neath a threadbare Metallica T-shirt. Small beads of perspiration dripped steadily off her heavy brow ridges, falling harmlessly to the sand below and evaporating like leaking coolant on hot asphalt.
I disrobed, and moved quietly toward her through the willows. Her ears twitched as those of a frightened mule deer. Her head turned quickly in my direction. She rose abruptly from her position on squatty, muscular legs, dropping the mollusks but firmly clutching the screwdriver. Her dull, expressionless face framed a pair of yellow eyes that sparkled like Listerine™ in a Dixie Cup™. We stood there, suspended in time, staring at each other for what seemed an eternity. Finally, I offered her some cattail root and grub worms. She disappeared quickly into the bushes, leaving me standing there with a handful of grub worms and a broken heart.

Thursday, December 10, 2015


Captured this image last week while working in the crumbling city of Anderson, home to urban blight, pawn shops and the sons and daughters of disenfranchised factory workers. I once rode through the wrong part of this fine community and was nearly dislodged from my ‘Glide as disgruntled residents hurled abandoned furniture at me as I passed by.
This long-deceased eating establishment once presented potential customers with an alternative: Does one choose the scaly creature pulled from its watery environment with net and hook or the plucked and gutted carcass of barnyard fowl? Each one, no doubt, battered, floured and fried in weeks-old rancid grease.
The building is an architectural wonder in its near symmetry, buttressed with inexplicable cubes soaring high above the crumbling asphalt.

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Monday, September 28, 2015

Sad Frog on Weathered Plywood

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

Corn Gluten, Cold Steel and Roughage

 Been a busy month here at the hovel. Tacked on my license plate bracket and bought an outrageously expensive clutch lever from our friends at Low-brow. This thing will never be finished, but I'm finally coming to grips with this fact and am learning to embrace full-on procrastination.
 Been eating well at my own personal salad bar. Binging and purging. Alternating between a healthy diet of leafy greens, then binging on Jim Beam and White Castle. Wallowing in corn gluten and trans fats before the Gub'ment decides I can't have them.
 Went down to the southern part of my fair state, where the hills are steep and the taxes are low, to form up a footing for a friend......
 .....then pouring it.
 I'll move down to southern Indiana some day to hide out from creditors, ex-wives and the IRS. (Don't tell anyone.)
Bought a new truck, got it home, and found out it wouldn't fit in my garage. After seething and fuming, and not wanting my new baby to sit out in the rain, hail and tornadoes, I grabbed the Sawzall and raised the header to accommodate an eight foot garage door. (Now I just have to get a door installed.)

Thursday, May 14, 2015

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Go to Hell Google

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

Springtime in Jerkwater

 After a week of rain, the sun came out and the temperature cracked seventy degrees, so I fired up the Ricer and sped off to my favorite diner, dodging daffodils, springtime robins and pedestrians. There, I met with friends for the traditional Sunday breakfast of green eggs and lard.
 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

Burning the Midnight Oil

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


                              Sweet ride in front of the ole carriage house as Dad looks on. Always wondered how those old tires fared on wet roads.

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 3, 2015

Handyman Special

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

Forest Queen

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.