For Sale

For Sale

1971 VW Beetle. “Hatch” back, "Coop." Must sell due to illness,(chicken pox.) This car is grade “A.”
Only down once but was over-easy. Now sunny side up. Real chick magnet.

Engine: egg-cellent
Transmission: scrambled
Body: fair
Interior: fowl

No reasonable offer refused.

Call: BR-549




Sorry

Bike Night

Takes a lot to get my reclusive ass outside the house for any kind of socializing, but I reluctantly rode to a “Bike Night’ when invited by old friends to meet up for a few beers. After fortifying myself with shots of whiskey against the summer’s heat, I took off from The Compound feeling the buzz creeping in. Arrived late and parked my rig in the very heart of Small Town Amërïkä, only to find my buddy and his old lady had already left. Inside, his twenty-something kid, on ankle-bracelet-house arrest was throwing down an impromptu party. Young neighborhood girls, in the throes of white-trash estrus, were gyrating to the beat of hillbilly rap. Sweat beads rolled from ‘neath their neon tube tops and followed the ridges of stretch-marked shame into their tight-fitting, tattered Daisy Dukes. Despite the heat and stifling humidity they danced, frenetic and overactive, hoping the unrestrained movement and perspiration would wash away the confusion, rejection and pain.

After being sworn to secrecy, I walked over, fired up the bike, pulled out and rolled through town dodging bare-footed toddlers in drooping diapers and a feral cat, slunk low to the ground, and glaring at me from under a disabled Buick with eyes of burning hatred. As I pulled out on to the State Highway tiny drops of dissolved poison began coursing through my veins, fueling tattered neurons as it mixed with fermented grains and the remnants of Arby‘s.

Got to the bar and found my friends finishing their meal of fried root and decaying fish. A cover band was playing in the parking lot. They played loud, under the mistaken notion that it would compensate for lack of talent and execution. It wasn’t working. The Frito Bandito showed me what was left of his arm, withered and misshapen, pieced together with bolts and steel cable. The rest of it lay on a hot patch of uneven pavement somewhere in Tennessee under a cloud of swirling bot flies

We talked of old times and drank crappy, domestic beer as the local town fuzz made his presence known by eyeballing us suspiciously as he drove by in the fading July light. With no turn signals and way over the legal limit, I made my exit after he made a pass and tiptoed out of town back on the State Highway. I blasted home under the cover of darkness, shirtsleeves and bare headed, comfortable in the heavy night air. My headlights picked up some deer lurking on the side of the road, but I feared not, as a man under the influence, I knew I could cut a deer in half without the slightest wobble of my terrible front-end cycle- sickle.
F^@k you Grim Reaper, not this time.

Woke up Saturday with a terrible headache, bleary and dehydrated. Coors Light is poorly- processed, watered down piss-water, it is the evil brew of demons and unfit for human consumption. Never again.

Truckin'

If I had a truck like this I'd be the Mack Daddy of Jerkwater Junction, Indiana. I'd head into town, pick up the hotties and take them to the Dairy Queen for all-you-can-eat chili dogs and  banana splits. We'd get all fucked up on cheap whiskey and Xanax and I'd show them the scars from my bone marrow transplant then impress them with stimulating conversation and tales of my misspent youth.
 Most of the chicks in town are on public assistance and meth, so they can stay up much later than I can, 'cause I have to work in the morning. I'd fall asleep and they'd rifle through my pockets for cash and prizes.
But, It's all good. I'd stumble out of the trailer in the morning, fire up the dually and head to work hung over and broke, but none the worse for wear.

But alas, I haven't got a cool ride like the one pictured above, so it'll be another dull and uneventful Friday night.

Monday Badass

"The story you are about to see is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent."

Sergeant Joe Friday was the ultimate, stiff-armed, monotone TV Cop badass of the sixties. He was Robocop before Robocop was cool. Ridiculed by hippies and loved by saintly grandmothers, Friday never wavered in his relentless fight to rid the Los Angeles streets of dope , goofballs, pep pills and the evils of marijuana. He was the king of long-winded, condescending speeches. Hyperbole and pleasant conversation just wasn't his bag, Joe Friday was interested only in the facts. Arrogant hippy chicks with bad attitudes and funky glasses just pissed him off.

Click Here--------------->Friday takes no shit!!

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.

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.

Mysterious Hippie Van, Broke Down South of Burlington

I spotted this hippie wagon, seemingly abandoned in the sleepy village of Burlington, Indiana. Located in the very heart of Redstate Amërïkä.

They don't smoke marijuana in Burlington.

But the meth labs and bootleg food stampers thrive on subsidized agriculture and addiction. Between hookworm treatments, the local unwed mothers lounge on crudely fashioned plywood porches watching the barefoot children play in the mud and discarded beer cans. New spring grasses struggle to grow in trash-strewn yards among the brightly-colored dandelions and last winter's dog shit.

In front of decrepit houses, once proud old men sit on buckets and lawn chairs, cigarettes clenched between grim teeth, as they watch the livestock trucks rumble through town carrying the undead swine to their final destination. Shrieking indignation, pink skin pressed against vent holes, urine and vomit oozing through floor drains, leaving a faint trail of trichinosis on the crumbling pavement of highway 39.

And there, on the edge of town tucked in beside the rail tracks, a broke-down purple microbus sits lonely and out of place, still smelling of residual patchouli, body odor and hemp, its owners unseen. Hopped a freight on The Santa Fe line no doubt, headed for Woodstock, like wandering, psychedelic ghosts.

Paperback Classic

Some people look at the glass as being half-full, others see it as half-stoned.
I guess it depends what's in the glass.

Chick needs to quit crying over spilled wine and find her car keys.

The Invincible V-Strom

The venerable Suzuki DL 650 is a bike which "neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night" can possibly "stay from its appointed rounds." As a longtime Harley rider, I bought mine in '08 just to keep the miles off my FLH, and as a economical commuter/errand runner. I came to appreciate its sheer ugliness, relatively awesome performance, agile quickness and ability to take short sojourns off-road.


I believe this bike to be invincible.........well, almost!

Easyrider

First time I saw Easyrider was on the big screen in the seventies. I was living under the constrictions of life in the US Army and a bunch of us dropped some microdot , bought our tickets, went inside and enjoyed the ride.

The plot is simple and pretty much straightforward. The two protagonists, Wyatt (Peter Fonda) and Billy (Dennis Hopper) are itinerant Home Depot sales reps who trade a truckload of vinyl siding to some Mexicans for a kilo of bath salts. They then sell the bath salts to record producer Phil Spector, who goes all Zombie and kills a young actress, eats part of her face, and hides her remains behind a Wall of Sound.
The boys head east and meet up in the desert with a bunch of communists who like to smoke chronic and put on lavish Off-Broadway musicals, which really freaks Billy out. They meet a couple of hippy chicks with all-natural, organic shrubbery and swim naked in a cobblestone horse trough, splashing and frolicking like a bunch of playful sea otters.
They continue their odyssey and get busted in Texas for loud pipes, are thrown in jail with George, (Jack Nicholson) who claims to be a lawyer but is actually an alien from Venus who must wear a football helmet and guzzle pints of Jim Beam to compensate for the unfamiliar gravitational pull of planet Earth. They are released and George joins them, hopping on the back of Billy’s scoot, steering it with his feet, with Jimi Hendrix and Steppenwolf blasting through loud, Dolby Surround Sound. They stop at a diner in Louisiana and have a disagreement with some of the locals. Later that night George dies, stricken with a bad case of axe-handle food poisoning.
I forget a large portion of the movie, but I do recall that in the end some dudes in a pickup truck with poor dental work shoot Wyatt with a grenade launcher, igniting all seventy-five gallons of the aircraft fuel stored on board the Captain America bike causing a large brush fire that cancels the Mardis Gras and ends the Viet Nam War.

Chopper Charlie meets Johnny Law

I’m diggin’ the juxtaposition in this classic photo.

The officer sits tall in the saddle, sworn to protect and to serve, upright, and virtuous. Looking ahead, stoic, noble and ever-vigilant. Searching the horizon for pickpockets and purse snatchers, bank robbers and bunco artists. The epitome of morality, the enforcer of law and order.
Behind him lurks the skulking heathen. The leather-clad outlaw, riding through an intoxicated haze of reefer smoke and bad intentions. Searching furtively through dark glasses for the helpless and the vulnerable.

A simpler time before revolvers were replaced by autoloaders, tazers supplanted nightsticks and Panheads gave way to Erik Estrada and four cylinder Kawasakis.

Old School NyQuil®

I've always had a healthy respect for over-the-counter cold remedies, NyQuil being my drug of choice. It's pleasant syrupy flavor seeps deep down into frayed nerves and its sweet nectar provides a soothing balm to life's harsh reality.



But, it ain't shit compared to the original good stuff!

This is the precursor to modern NyQuil and obviously a superior product. Judging by the ingredients, I can't help but feeling that we're being short-changed. Unlike the watered-down swill masquerading as cough tonic in today's modern pharmacy, this shit would really kick your ass. Sold by hard working snake-oil salesmen, traveling from town to town in festive painted wagons, this stuff cured all ills and brought joy, bliss, euphoria and drug addiction to insomniac mule skinners and little old ladies with rickets all across this once-great nation.

Alcohol, Cannabis, Chloroform, Morphine (skillfully combined with other ingredients)

Sounds like Friday night at my house.

I was born a hundred years too late.




Oh, Sweet NyQuil^®, giver of life, merciful elixir of Angels, nectar of hummingbirds, release me from the surly bonds of this troubled place and deliver me into the waiting arms of Peaceful Slumber………

Fifties Era Soft Porn

This must be an elaborate tale, along with Nictzin Dyalhis, it took four other collaborators to produce this epic.

After school I would come home, get real stoned and watch the old Popeye cartoons. I was always fascinated and horrified by the Sea Hag.

Confessions of a Seafaring Nyquil Abuser

I sometime see mice crawling across the floor where there are no mice
and smoke drifting along walls of painted flowers.

I feel the hot breath of wounded bison at my feet
and grieve for their unborn offspring.



Frequent urination has left me confused and ambivalent.

Rented Love

Some years ago I spent a bittersweet night with a lactating Panamanian hooker in her tiny rented room. We had lustful, sweaty sex illuminated by the blinking neon sign hanging on the cantina across the street. Her newborn child lay swaddled in a banana crate, stirring occasionally to cough through a restricted wind pipe. Later we lay together, the linen sheets sticking to our tangled bodies, as the sound of street vendors and traffic drifted up from the sidewalk below. A warm bay breeze came through the open window and played gently with the thin curtains.
I woke at dawn, bloodshot eyes and dehydrated, and watched the ceiling fan rotate lazily above. Across the room my temporal lover suckled the child, her lilting Spanish soft and reassuring. I rose and dressed quickly then gave her a perfunctory nod good bye as I opened the door to leave. She looked at me with pleading eyes, the infant still fastened to her breast. I made my exit and caught the bus home.

Monday Mornin' Badass

I believe this is Aussie stunt rider and all-around badass Robbie Madison.

I plan to reenact this stunt by hoisting my Super glide to the top of the tallest structure at the Hermit Compound Complex and ride it straight down into a twenty yard dumpster full of discarded shipping cartons and construction debris.

If that doesn't work, I plan to get tanked up on whiskey and bath salts and jump the White River in a late model Chrysler mini-van.

Rats Rule!

I met the rider of this awesome sled somewhere outside of Rapid City shortly before Sturgis Bike Week. Daytime temperatures were 110 F in South Dakota that year so we talked for a while over coffee and Slim Jims at &;00 am, before it got too damn hot.
Rat Bikes are cool.
A brand new FLHCU Custom Ultra Electra Glide, with its GPS, AM , FM, XM, CD, iPod-ready stereo and lumbar air-ride saddle is like a gleaming glass and chrome office building. Shiny, comfortable and functional, but without a soul.
Rat Bikes are more like a graffiti-covered, inner-city, ghetto warehouse. Ugly, rusted and dangerous, oozing a mysterious and sadistic history of botched drug deals, spent 9mm shells and sex crimes.

The bike was an oil-spewing, greenhouse-gas-emitting shovel which featured a melted plastic rat on the rear cylinder air scoop, an auxiliary fuel cell and rubber dildo grips. The rider looked like the quintessential biker, pushing sixty, who was traveling with some younger dude from Denmark riding a purple Evo Softail who spoke almost no English. An unevenly-yoked pair if there ever was!

Best part was, I asked him where he was from, and he just laughed.

Hump Day Honey

Janis Joplin

Screw the Power Company

If you want something done right, you'd better do it yourself.

Happy Groundhog Day

Though their weather predicting ability has been greatly exaggerated, a fat young groundhog, fed on succulent clover, is very good fare. I find its delicate, gluten-free flesh superior to that of rabbit, squirrel and even some of the widely touted, wild-caught marsupial species.

Don’t overindulge, and remember; if you plan to celebrate with wine or spirits, appoint a designated driver. Groundhog Day weekend is the second deadliest Holiday on our Nation's highways and byways.