Traction

Not sure, but I think this is an REO Speedwagon, and one would have to have enormous upper body strength to steer this behemoth, as the truck was designed well before power steering was a twinkle in some engineer's eye.
If I owned this beast I'd get drunk and run over wildlife with it. On my way home from the tavern I'd make crop circle doughnuts and shit in the fertile fields and green pastures of my bucolic, rural neighborhood.
Then I'd get home and throw up into a plastic trash can.

Paperback Classic

Hypodermic needles filled with tranquilizing drugs? Drowsy, naked women? A big-eared, sunburned freak peering longingly into a beaker filled with pre-menopausal urine? Undocumented Aliens?

Sounds like an Indiana trailer park on any given Saturday night.

Chicks in the Kitchen

Decisions, decisions....

Low quality B&W photo of a half nekid chick agonizing over cottage cheese or non-fat yogurt, while the spatula just hangs around trying to look useful.

Breakfast in Amërïkä

On Sundays I break from my isolated, hermetic lifestyle and eat a traditional Fat Man's Breakfast with some of my pre-recluse buddies. Last week this chick named Debbie showed up. She's an Iraq war vet and served for a time in Panama so we swapped Army stories over biscuits and gravy and coffee. Turns out we had other mutual interests such as motorcycles and eating pussy so we hit it off well.

Debbie rides a sweet '80 'Zuki 750. I remember, when in the eighties, these "Jap Bikes" were looked down upon by Harley riders, and if one was parked among the Milwaukee iron their owners would curl their noses and say with disdain, "I think I smell rice burning." But these pre-liquid bikes were cool as hell and would run circles around the big twins. Debbie did a simple, rear fender relocate and scrounged up some drag bars and some old headers giving her Ricer a cool look. Sounded badass too, like a nest of angry hornets with hemorrhoids.

Monday Badass

Sukiyaki Suzy was fast with an Uzi
She carried it most of the time

She was the knock-kneed Ninja Railroad cop
Who could break a man’s neck with a karate chop
On the Tokyo-Yokohama Line

She was quite the sensation on that small Island Nation
Her granddad marched the boys in Bataan

And though it rendered her infertile, she wore a tight Spandex girdle
And glasses just like Elton John

If a hobo should dare, hop a train with her there
He’d be beaten with a stout bamboo shoot

Suzy’d kick him and bruise him
Completely abuse him
With the toes of her black Go-Go boots

But Suzy was moody
Her demeanor quite gloomy
It seemed life had lost all its magic

She suffered and cried, feeling empty inside
And her demise was fitting yet tragic

With all her days filled with strife, Suzy took her own life
As she lay down on the tracks last September

When a fast moving freight, going ‘bout ninety-eight
Caused her head to be quickly dismembered.

A Day at the Beach

Just a couple of old school broads smoking cigarettes and droppin' tops against a backdrop of surf and sand.

Not sure what they're going to do with the basketball, but if it's a topless, impromptu game of motorcycle beach basketball, I'm down.

Chicks on the Countertop

This babe is obviously ready to start cooking something, but I'm not sure if Julia Child would approve of the thigh-high zebra socks, tats and a freaky, animatronic mannequin face.

The Old Man and the Bee

A Hemingway-esque study on man's eternal struggle with Nature

Carpenter Bees are plentiful and destructive around The Compound. These harmful pests bore holes in the unpainted surfaces of both hovel and chicken coop, causing untold damage and misery. These dangerous insects must be approached with extreme caution and cunning.

In this dramatic, never-before-seen video, with only the help of the staff cameraman, I combine the skills of ancient aboriginal blow-gun hunters with the stalwart, audacious bravery of Marlin Perkins to capture one of these elusive and insidious creatures alive and unharmed. All done at great peril with little regard for my own safety.

Monday Badass

By my estimation, John Wayne killed over 456 on-screen villains, outlaws, Viet Cong, bartenders and horses. All while banging Marlene Dietrich and huffing down four packs of Marlboros a day.

No mean feat for a guy named Marion.

Paperback Classic

This one appears to be a work of non-fiction. I'm a bit confused. Does the term Sin Strippers refer to the belief that those who would disrobe on stage to provide entertainment are of poor moral character? Or is a Sin Stripper a modern-day Carrie Nation attempting to strip society of sin through public awareness, axe wielding vandalism and bathing suit tops with mandatory nipple stars?



.

If this doesn't make you want to crack open a cold one, nothing will.

Rusty, Worn Out Old Hooker

I tend my small market garden here at the compound. Through the years I've stumbled upon several horseshoes and some arrowhead fragments (some friends of mine search the fields after harvest and have compiled pretty impressive collections of complete Indian arrowheads, spearheads and tomahawk heads.) My latest find, however is post-stone-age, a hand-forged hook that must date back to the middle 19th century.

The gold nugget I'm keeping an eye out for still eludes me.

Chicks in the Kitchen: Eisenhower Administration Edition

In the fifties, appliances were made from sturdy, heavy gauge steel right here in the good old USA by hard working Americans. As the men worked in efficient well-lit factories, their adoring wives spent the day darning socks, baking apple pies and dusting furniture in frilly June Cleaver aprons. As evening approached, lithe young housewives would shed their aprons and cumbersome tight-fitting blouses, slip into high-heeled shoes, and prepare flavorful hearty meals for their hungry, hard-working mates.

Harken back, if you will, to a time when Rock n' Roll was young, gas was thirty cents a gallon, breasts were made from real boobie flesh and the government was spying on the Soviets, not us.

Frankie and Johnny

Frankie and Johnny were sweethearts.

Frankie was a flower child who walked with a swinging gait in well-worn Earth Shoes, her unrestricted breasts left to sway to and fro with the tidal rhythm of a Moon Goddess as she searched for inner peace. She meditated daily, snorting Lucky Charms and the powdered wings of pre-migratory butterflies.

Johnny made a living stealing cars parked on poorly lit back streets, surreptitiously enticing current through the wires of venomous ignition switches, like a West Virginia preacher cajoles the Evil out of poisonous serpents.

Frankie was a vegan who drank only spring water and browsed on the leaves of freshly picked Romaine lettuce while delicately nibbling organic almonds for sustenance.

Johnny lived for months at a time on Jack Daniels, raw meat and deviled eggs.

Their dichotomous relationship was the Ying and the Yang of positive-negative polar opposition, but when they mounted Johnny’s bike their souls merged to work in perfect synchronicity.

Communicating through subtle, unspoken signals Johnny would twist the wick as Frankie threw back her head, finding the perfect symmetrical equilibrium to ride the rear wheel of Johnny’s Knucklehead through the barren, concrete streets of Bakersfield.

Monday Badass(es)

Colonel Kurtz's worst nightmare or Seal Team Six duck hunting?

You decide.

Steel Steeds Straddle the Stratosphere

Back on track.

A Tale of Two Flame Jobs

A well executed flame job is a truly beautiful thing and can make or break the look of a custom truck. This one is damn cool and close to perfection.



This one, not so much.

Chicks in the Kitchen

Oh, to be a cyber stalking time traveler and journey through the portals of time and space to April 2007 where I'd find this real world babe-next-door, and through transcendental astral projection, align myself with the tiny drops of perspiration which glisten like delicate cherry blossoms under her firm, bronzed, Country-Crock-I-can't-Believe- it's-Not-Buttercups and slowly descend down the treasure trail of her taught and supple Bisquick batter underbelly.

David Mann

When I was in the service (late-seventies) I got every issue of Easyriders magazine. For motorcyclists stuck overseas, under the constrictions of military life, reading Easyriders was something to look forward to each month, and marked the passing of time, bringing us one month closer to going home and riding again. I wish I would have saved them. Todays version of Easyriders is nothing more than a comparatively crappy soft porn rag, with an occasional decent bike feature. Too bad.

One of the best features of the mag was the David Mann centerfold. He was the Norman Rockwell of outlaw biker Americana. Those centerfolds decorated the walls of my room in the barracks. Mann's paintings always told a story that captured the essence of the free-spirited biker lifestyle of that era.

R.I.P. Brother, your paintings live on.

Monday Badass

English translation: "All my friends know the Low Rider..."