The First Thanksgiving

Found this wadded up in he shredder.

The Boat People decided to leave the oppression and slavery of European Totalitarianism where they were forced to live in dank, miserable hovels, watching Monty Python re-runs on 19” black and white televisions and spending their days in piss-drenched Monarchial squalor. They braved the icy chill of the North Atlantic with it’s hurricane winds and sea serpents out of the basic human yearning to be free. Against all odds, they landed hard on Plymouth Rock and scrambled up its sheer, hard surface. They stood atop and looked back eastward, upon the injustice and tyranny. The first months were difficult, nights spent sleeping in flea-ridden sacks, their days filled with toil, smoking hardscrabble reefer.

The powerful costal savages had been living an idyllic existence eating organic vegetables, constructing canoes out of fifty-five gallon oil drums and brutalizing the weaker, Hindu Indians with primitive stone weaponry and sharp, collectivist dogma which the used to eviscerate and cripple. They decorated their huts with the scalps and dried genitals of vanquished foes and turned their women and young boys into sex-slaves.

When the hazy days of summer gave way to November‘s chill the Pilgrims decided it was time to show the heathens how to party. The celebration began. Dead deer and diseased birds were piled high on picnic tables while beer and Nyquil flowed freely from birch bark vessels hung high in the trees. Young lads and savages played Frisbee and touch football in woodland clearings while a Polka band played dance music deep into the moonlit night. Young, fat squaws were fed Frosted Flakes and buttermilk, then dragged giggling and kicking into the forest to be courted, cajoled and injected with semen and syphilis. Small pox and intravenous engine coolant. A good time was had by all.

That small Jamestown settlement soon became a great and prosperous nation, complete with a mighty industrial base, interstate highways, political scandals, bungee jumping, Coldplay, breast enlargement, vaginal mesh lawsuits and clinical depression.

The Indians fared much better as they were pushed ever westward at the point of muskets and artillery shells, until finally coming to rest in Government reservations complete with house trailers and health clinics. There they made a living selling rubber tomahawks, plastic trinkets and tobacco products to fat, indifferent tourists in Chevrolets, and went on to find marginal employment in the glamorous, fast-paced world of the Casino Gambling Industry..

Coffee Break

Caffeine is always better with a little sweetner.

I Love the Smell of Kerosene in the Morning

Fourteen lonely little Fahrenheits last night, (-10 Celsius) with a howling wind and snow flurries was brutal proof that the long Midwest winter is upon us. The tiny shoots of spring, with all their short-lived promise, lay brown and shriveled on the cold hard ground of discontent. Summer’s wine is nothing more than a slushy, oozing pool and the delicate songbirds have all fled south in a mad exodus.

But winter has its bright spots. I burnt the dust off the shop heaters and sipped some Jim Beam while mating the 1200 with the nekkid, oxidizing frame, the whiskey and kerosene fumes created a warm internal glow as I cussed and stripped threads under the watchful eyes of Shopcat the Eighth.

Should be able to pick up a rear wheel this week. Need to fab a top motor mount, coil mount and a plate for some switches. I still need handlebars, controls and a headlight. I’m still not sure if I’ll have someone do some flames on the tank, or just rattle can the sheet metal myself.

I have all winter……….

R.I.P. President Kennedy

A sad day. I was five and don't remember the assassination,  (I think my parents shielded it from me) but I do remember my dad stayed home from work and I stayed home from school to watch the funeral on our old black and white TV.

Sadly, our current president's ideology differs from Kennedy's and is more in line with Oswald's.

I weep for my country.

Cluttered

Winter is coming and it's about time to start putting this shit together.

Kitchen Chick

Tomatoes

Wind Surfing in Small Town Amërïkä

 

Was kind of breezy over the weekend. After the storms passed and the sun came out The Wild Child jumped on her scooter and did some wind surfing on the concrete drive. Also some whitecaps breaking on shoreline gave the ducks a hard time.

Some day I'll learn to hold the smartphone sideways while making a video.

B.A.D. (big ass drill)

Couldn't find a manufacturer's date on this beast but I'm told it was probably built in the early fifties. I'm also told it's for sale.

Gothic Sissy Bar

This bike HAS to have a stained glass windshield and gargoyles.

Kitchen Chick

Nothing beats the boundless beauty of lightly-breaded bouncing butt-cheeks........baby.

Sleeping Giants

I am working in the "Big City" on a project at a former machine shop which finally gave up the ghost and shut down in '08 at the outbreak of The Great Recession. I walked alone in this silent cathedral and snapped this pic as the late afternoon sun slanted through the dirt-smudged windows, casting light upon the sleeping behemoths of bygone industry. Everything was still just as it was when the last worker vacated the shop and chained the doors shut.

Located just south of Indianapolis’ downtown, with its gleaming high rise office buildings, the soft industrial underbelly is crumbling and empty. It is slowly being replaced by billion dollar sports venues, trendy bars and expensive restaurants.



Not far away, down by the river, is a homeless shanty town, its inhabitants the alcoholic sons of the former workers who lost their jobs in the seventies and eighties, living in tarp-covered pallet skids and sipping wine from discarded lunch sacks, rendering it into staggering gratification and street vomit. Around the fringes the dependent class are caged and policed by government baby-sitters who mend the overpass fences to keep debris from being thrown on the cars passing on the interstate below, as the rats and lemmings rush to their downtown cubicles in a frenzied, stress-fueled madness.

I'm glad to live in the equally artificial, yet bucolic agricultural hinterlands, where at least I can shoot my guns out the back door and no one cares, and pee off the front porch and no one sees.

Veterans Day

I don't know the full story on this hottie, but I salute her and all those who've left parts of themselves in some hot, dusty shithole far from home, so the rest of us can remain relatively comfortable as we cling to our diminishing freedoms.

Back Door

A room with a view.

The Legend of Jerkwater Hollow

A chilly 32 degrees F, but If it ain’t raining or iced over, I’m riding to breakfast on Sunday morning. I left plenty of room for the other degenerates I eat with, but as you can see, the bunch of chicken shits couldn’t man up and ride. I chalk it up to my superior mental toughness, and steely resolve in the face of adversity. (tall windshield, Firstgear^® heated vest and gloves)

But, I was really freaked out on this first Sunday after Halloween. I snapped a picture of my bike on what appeared to be an empty Jerkwater Main Street. However, when I checked my phone, a mysterious, blue apparition showed up in the form of a ‘51 Chevy pickup. Could it be the spectral image of Jerkwater's ghoulish past?

Old folks around here tell the tale of Clem Bodine, who was decapitated in a tragic combine accident during the fall harvest of November, 1951. The story goes that Clem had just bought a brand new Cheverolet pickup that very afternoon. After the blood and bone fragments were cleaned off the thresher and the funeral was over, Clem's grieving widow could never bring herself to sell the truck. It has sat in the old Bodine barn ever since. According to Jerkwater Hollow legend, every November the headless ghost of Clem Bodine climbs into the old truck and cruises the back roads and small towns of Jerkwater County looking for soul food and a place to eat....and his head.


I still managed to choke down a hearty breakfast and several cups of coffee. Takes more than some paranormal shit to kill my appetite.

Firetruck?

Don't know what this is, but anything with chains, rust and axes is cool shit.