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.

Witch in the Kitchen

Not sure if she's in the kitchen. She can't seem to get off the ground, so she obviously has the wrong kind of broom. Not really feelin' this one. No cat or cauldron. I'm not even sure which witch is which.

It's Halloween, so someone's gobblin' that goblin.

Let's Roll!

After saving my nickels and dimes, and a thorough exhaustive search, I finally found a unit small enough to be pulled comfortably. A compact and mobile domicile, lightweight and nimble, yet with all the creature comforts to meet my humble needs. Now, when Winter’s gnarled, arthritic fingers throttle me with its long-suffering frigid tedium, I’ve an escape pod. I shall travel to strange and exotic places such as Bowling Green, Memphis and Jacksonville, an itinerant ambassador, spreading Hope, Joy and holding tank effluence all across the Southeastern United States.

And, any skeptics who think my ride inadequately powered for this type of service, I say you are vastly underestimating its capabilities. For it is not a “Weak Glide” or an “Average Glide” or even a “Pretty Damn Good Glide,” it is after all, a SUPER Glide!

Chick in the Kitchen

Shredded f@%kin' Wheat.

A balanced diet should contain a proper mix of carbohydrates, fats, protein and fiber.

Love Beads

I can make sparks and stick metal together, but I’m no welder. My welds, performed with a hardware store wire-feed MIG, is like an old East German hooker. Hairy armpits and ugly, and may need some covering up with Soviet-era pancake makeup, but they get the job done.

The gentleman pictured is an old redneck hippy I’ve known since the days we spent smoking surreptitious joints in the high school parking lot, between mind-numbing indoctrination sessions in the Jerkwater Central Public School System. Here he’s puzzling out some electrical demons plaguing his ‘70 Honda 750 four (never did get it figured out.) He is a rum-drinking eater of fish heads and spends his weekends scraping the scales off of mud carp with the edge of hubcaps and riding quads at a retired meth lab in the scenic southern hills of our great state.

On top of all these accomplishments, he’s also a fine welder of titanium bicycle frames and top secret government aircraft parts. I finally got all the pieces tacked on to the river rat rigid and brought it to this wild man for some proper, tender loving TIG beads.

Alarm Cocks

Wake the hell up!

Many don't realize that beside being a wealthy venture capitalist, an amateur paleontologist and a two-time champion Ballroom Dancer I am a breeder of some of the finest Blue-leg Jungle Fowl in Jerkwater County. These birds date back to pre-history. In fact, all domestic poultry that ends up betwixt a piece of Styrofoam and plastic at the local Piggly Wiggly can trace their lineage back to the steamy, tropical jungles of Indonesia and Southeast Asia. You can thank the descendants of these birds the next time you dig into a greasy bucket of Colonel Sander's best. Some fascinating food for thought.
(Like my other enthralling YouTube videos, this will go absolute viral and become an instant internet sensation.)

Hats Off to this Guy

Not so much to the trusting fellows 'neath his flying scoot.

Chicks in the Kitchen

                                                                          Certified!

Studs

Ice racing!


You have to hand it to a bunch of guys who race each other around frozen ponds with no brakes and angry stump grinders two inches under their seats.

Sanity in my Wheelhouse

As the winds of autumn begin to blow through the quickly changing leaves the inevitability of winter is indisputable. Having lived for a time in a tropical environment, I’ve come to appreciate the changing of the seasons, but the long, drawn-out Midwestern winter is something which I dread more and more with each passing year. My seasonal work means Winter’s depressing cold and discomfort is amplified through the gnawing prism of boredom and cabin fever. I can work on projects in the shop, but the rest of the dismal season is spent reading books I‘ve already read, listening to the radio and perusing the increasingly redundant internet. Finally, I sit drooling, shitting small calcium pellets into a bowl of warm goat’s milk, staring at the sinister, oversized clock hanging on the hovel wall which marks the passing of time by taunting me with its unrelenting second hand. Mocking my plight by driving its ticking madness deep into my troubled psyche.

I’ve taken winter bike trips before, but like last year’s ill-fated journey, they can be sometime less than pleasant. So next week I will go in search of a small camper that can be pulled behind my tiny Ranger pickup. With luck I can stick my V-strom in the truck bed and go where the weather suits my clothes with some type of semi-comfortable headquarters.

Chicks in the Kitchen

Though the cheap paneling and sloppy trim paint doesn't bode well for good housekeeping, the nutritious apple, Irish Whiskey and silhouette shadow tracing of Thomas Jefferson gets her a pass.

And by pass I mean nice ass.