Epiphany

I sat along the springtime banks of the pond, listening as the wild redwings sang sanguine songs of Sacagawea and contemplated the meaning of life. I pondered, ‘just what is my purpose in this swirling cosmic mass of lactating, celestial orbs?’ I left the pond, unsatisfied and perplexed, and went into the house to watch TV.  Finally it occurred to me while watching a re-run of that old nineties-era TV program “Renegade.” As you may recall it was a poorly written, entirely forgettable drama starring Lorenzo Lamas, as an unjustly accused cop who traveled around incognito on a very gay Heritage Softail, saving attractive babes from evil and eventually bangin’ them.

This was just the epiphany I needed, and all of life’s purpose came suddenly into perfect focus! I’ll lengthen the sissy bar on the rigid project, sell all my worldly possessions, change my identity, and ride it across Amërïkä, living on processed lunch meat and Little Debbie snack cakes. I will search and find all unrighteousness, seeking injustice in all its aspects, righting wrongs and promoting truth, justice and the Amërïkän way. I will concentrate, primarily on hott damsels in distress who’ve run into trouble with evil organized crime figures.

I'll become a modern-day Reno Raines. A little more body fat, much less hair, and far fewer sexual encounters with distressed single women, who despite looking like supermodels, are living in poverty and in dire need of heroic salvation.

The Early years: 1960's New Jersey

A mostly true retrospective recycled from the shredder.

I haven't always lived in Jerkwater, in fact I spent most of my early childhood in the much-maligned state of New Jersey. I would like to take this time to share some of my early recollections of this wonderful but misunderstood region.

New Jersey is built upon a swamp, teeming with disease and parasitic insects. I grew up on a dead-end street, which was bordered by deep, weed-choked ditches, their bottoms containing stagnant, foul-smelling water where mosquitoes and malaria flourished despite the industrial runoff. At night the sewer rats would emerge, wet and covered in grease to skin their teeth at the unwashed and frightened children.
My first memories were of that dead end street, lined with tiny houses, each one with a front stoop, where the wives of factory workers would gather to smoke cigarettes and gossip, telling lurid tales about the unfaithful whores who lived on the next block, and speaking in hushed tones of birth control and vaginal discomfort through nicotine-stained teeth. It’s where I first learned to ride my bicycle, careening up and down the street, gaining speed and confidence, while the Catholic children would hurl epitaphs and rocks at me as I raced by the front lawn flamingoes and plastic Virgin Marys.

To combat the summertime mosquitoes, the city periodically sprayed DDT from tank trucks, the Negro driver would smile and wave to the children as we ran into the street to play and dance in the misty vapor. Later, while Sinatra serenaded us from the AM radio, our lips would turn blue and our gums would bleed. Mother would rub liniment on our chests against the racking cough and worry over the listless, distant look in little brother‘s eyes. Nikita Khrushchev always glared at us from behind the bushes and newspaper headlines, his face fierce and monochromatic. Uncle Vankey visited from across the ocean, his face gaunt and drawn from stark Collectivism, and the little girl next door died in her sleep from a mysterious illness.

In the evening, the day-shift men would return from the factories in their Fords and Pontiacs, their blank faces empty as their lunch pails. They’d read the newspaper then get quietly drunk while watching the ball game as the purple sun, filtered through a haze of factory smoke, sank low in the western sky. The sewer rats stirred in the ditches and rubbed their whiskers, preparing for the night shift.

After the children were put to bed, husbands would grunt and sweat as they dutifully mounted their reluctant, consecrated wives, engaging in the brief and passionless sex of fenced livestock, then promptly fall asleep, drooling beer-laden saliva on the white sheets. As Ed Sullivan’s muted voice droned on from living room television sets, the sleepless wives would clutch their rosary beads and weep silently.

Don't Try This at Home

A brief treatise on this wild roller coaster ride we call life. (And why is there a Pringles can mounted on his handlebars?)

The intrepid rider is sized up and strapped in for the long pull upward through the dark tunnel. Nine cogs on each gear click loudly and echo off the blood-moistened walls ‘til he breaks through into the light and is sent plummeting between electrically charged steel rails on decomposing cross ties of dubious character. Time and space collide into a singular, spinning cyclone of swirling colors, like a box of Fruit Loops in a cosmic food processor.

As he nears the bottom, time slows and the cross ties become soggy with moss and wood rot. Needles pierce his liver and spleen and rust creeps into his joints. The steel rail serpents rise up and spray their electric venom, laced with toxic reproof and barbiturates, causing stomach-cramps and blindness. He slumps over the tank and topples to the ground, coming to rest on the dirty carnival floor amongst discarded cotton candy and empty boxes of circus peanuts.

Uniformed officers and stretcher bearers arrive, their skin scraped pink with the jagged lids of pickle jars, to haul him away on a flat bed ambulance. He’s cited for improper eye protection, loud pipes and failure to use turn signals. After a summary trial, he’s sent to the State Mental Hospital where he spends sixty days in a windowless room, lying on a piss-drenched mattress, staring at the claw marks etched into the plaster walls. Wondering where it all went wrong.

The Rags to Riches Adventures of Shaniqua of the Kalahari

Shaniqua grew up in a tiny village on the edge of the vast Kalahari desert. Life was primitive, yet simple. She spent her days gathering roots and pounding them into a starchy pulp which was then baked and served as a nutritious bread-like cake. Beetles and goat milk supplemented the diet of her simple nomadic family who faced little adversity beyond the harsh climate and an occasional squabble with neighboring tribesmen.

Shaniqua was unsatisfied however. She had heard whispers of a place far away where gleaming structures of steel and glass housed people who were whisked around in air-conditioned cars. The inhabitants of this mystical place spent their days counting their vast wealth and sucking the pimentos out of manzanilla olives.

Longing to acquire a ticket out of the African plains, Shaniqua soon found herself involved in the only profitable endeavor available on the Kalahari. To satisfy the hunger of millions of impotent Chinese men she was soon immersed in the lucrative trade of illegal rhinoceros horn. She was a midnight poacher who could down a rhino with poison darts fashioned from the bones of dehydrated hyenas, hack off the valuable horn while the unfortunate beast was in its death throes, and still make it back to the village in time for morning coffee.

With the proceeds from her nefarious activities Shaniqua was soon able to secure the means of her deliverance from a traveling Bedouin spice trader in the form of a fine Royal Enfield scrambler.

So, as father and little brother are left holding the family camel and wishing her a tearful adieu, Shaniqua motors off to a world where people spend their days in meaningless repetition. Walking in hard concrete circles with their heads bowed down to tiny lighted screens and totalitarian governments, gathering dog shit in Ziploc bags. A brand new life of strip malls, deadlines, reality TV, traffic jams, fast food and corn gluten.

Hope she finds something to cover her ample bosoms before she gets to Nairobi, the nights can be long and cold.

Risks and Benefits of Restrictive Dress Codes in Small Town Amërïkä

The grocery store in Jerkwater Junction has a strict code of ethics and conduct which doesn’t extend to out-of -date milk and the shelf life of meats and meat byproducts. A malodorous place with small, narrow aisles and a surly, nine-fingered butcher who spews out profanity from behind his blood-strewn counter as he wields a vicious meat cleaver with total autonomy.

I recently made my monthly sojourn into this establishment to stock up on Fig Newtons and Nyquil. I saw the sign pictured above and registered a complaint with the clerk, as I often go shirtless and barefoot while grocery shopping. I paid for my purchase and explained to her, as clearly as I could, that the human body is a beautiful thing and should be displayed and celebrated.

As we spoke, I was soon aware that she knew my thoughts before I did. She stood there dissecting my words with a straight razor, her unblinking eyes bored holes into my soul as she lazily leafed through the latest edition of The National Enquirer. Without a word, she pointed outside to a group of misshapen women standing on the cracked and broken sidewalks of Hometown Amërïkä, and shot me an expression which made me feel small and insignificant and utterly defeated.

Now I understand fully why bikinis are not allowed in the Jerkwater Junction grocery store, and from here forward, will try to remember my shirt and shoes.

Fence Sitters

While traipsing along a county road in Small Town Amërïkä, searching the ditches for aluminum cans and scraps of enlightenment, I encountered The Reaper and The Executioner perched upon a fence, discussing the grisly business of life, death and gourmet roadkill. Like a couple of small town lawyers waiting for a drunk driving case, a custody battle or a personal injury accident, they're drawn to the sight of blood and the pungent smell of radiator fluid on hot asphalt. They scour the back roads searching for hose clamps and the mangled corpses of careless night wanderers.

 

Death is a usurper, the ethereal absence of life. Death is a portal. Death is a coward. As I approached them they took flight on large, cumbersome wings, their grimacing faces flecked with dried blood.

"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?"

  

King of Beasts?

I took this picture, at great risk, in the Jerkwater Junction Municipal Park and Recreation Center. This park has been the play place for local children for many decades and is equipped with a sad collection of broken-down playground equipment dating back to the fifties . Under the stately oaks and beechnut trees the ground is littered with hypodermic needles, beer cans, broken teeth and disappointment.

Among the rusted jungle jims, monkey bars and other relics stands a plastic, yellow Merry-go-Round Lion which has withstood years of abuse from generations of white trash children and drunken teenagers. He is bolted to a base of paint-worn tread plate, forlorn and decrepit, gazing out across the dismal park with hollow, vacant eyes, a steel rod driven through his skull in a kind of blunt force lobotomy and polished by untold years of grubby fingers and runny noses.

Things worsened for the lion 1984, when a thirteen year old ruffian kicked the poor, inanimate beast’s left flank with the vengeance of pre-pubescent frustration. The blow shattered his thin, outer shell letting his very essence bleed out on to the dusty ground of Small Town Amërïkä, leaving a hollow, soulless vacuum. So here he sits to this day, like some sad figure in a Greek tragedy, his face weary and tortured. A wretched inmate, trapped forever in existential misery.

What’s up with those eyebrows?

The assembled moms watching their children at play were becoming uneasy with the bearded stranger, sitting on a park bench sipping Nyquil cloaked in a brown paper bag, like some malevolent character from a Jethro Tull tune. I figured my time spent contemplating the plight of this regal carnivorous caricature was up. I returned home to ponder my own existence.

Monday Badass

OK, I'll admit it, I've pretty much run out of badasses.

There has been a decreasing number of badasses in Amërïkä beginning in the 1950's when the government mandated that fluoride be added to our drinking water and it became culturally acceptable to withhold breast milk from the Nation's infants.

That and Ryan Seacrest.

Snapping Turtle

Snapping turtles are the scourge of the open waters, and by open waters I mean mosquito infested brackish ponds, and prey upon ducklings and full grown ducks alike.

If you see a one-legged duck or goose, it is most likely the work of a snapping turtle.
When I noticed my resident ducks were fearful of going into the pond I suspected a snapper had them spooked. Sure enough, I caught the culprit making his way across dry land one morning, and with lightning quickness and agility, was able to capture it for removal. Of course my son and I had to harass him with a length of PVC pipe after I got it into the bed of the truck and caused me to reflect upon this behavior, and ponder its causation.

What is it about a snapping turtle that brings out the imbecilic twelve-year-old in all men, regardless of age?
For it is true, that when caught, a snapper must be prodded, poked, harassed and humiliated. It is instinctual and crosses all economic, societal and cultural boundaries.
I believe it is the hissing, lumbering prehistoric nature of a snapping turtle that excites a primeval instinct in all men and boys to prove their mettle by fucking with something that, no matter how remote the chance, might hurt them.
In fact, Greek mythology tells the tale of Orion, God of Turtle Prodding, being placed by Zuess among the stars as a constellation.


Deep down we're all just imbecilic twelve year olds.

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.

Off the Deep End

Into every life some rain must fall, but when we insulate ourselves from adversity we only grow frail like the sheltered marigold or the pale and sallow buttocks thrust into the heat of a searing summer sun. Embrace the biting winds and walk without dread through the worsening deluge. Seat yourselves among friends and make a joyous noise with vim and vigor.

Our goals are separated from us only by fear.

Earth Day on Hermit Pond

In a former life I would have posted a profanity-laced tirade and rant about the absurdity of the pagan, high-holy ritual that is the celebration of “earth day.” I am, however reformed, and will join in the celebration in praise of mother earth and the majestic, natural beauty of my pond, which was dug a few years ago, by drunken men, with diesel-belching earth-moving equipment.

This is the largest body of water at the complex, (the second largest being the septic tank,) and it is finally showing signs of spring. It is no Walden, but I believe Thoreau would have been proud to wash his dirty socks at its edge or unleash his manhood and pee, unfettered and recklessly, from its slippery banks sending a long, golden stream of philosophical wee-wee into its murky waters.

The bullfrogs are beginning to croak, (must be the pesticides) and are emerging from the muck and mire, still dark from their long winter spent buried deep in the rich mud and dead car batteries. These splendid amphibians are stirring in the cattails, preparing for their months-long festival of orgiastic dry-humping, unleashing an infinite horde of fertile tadpoles, eager to wiggle their way through the tepid waters, seeking to penetrate the elusive ovum of romance and biological imperative.

I will now go out back and set fire to some vinyl siding and old tires, sending a fragrant burnt offering up to Al Gore in celebration, then I shall eat a box of Grape Nuts ^® in memory of Euell Gibbons.

Spearing Mastodons and Self-Inflicted Cutting

Well I made it home, safe and sound and I asked myself, why in the hell would I voluntarily do something like that? These rides, whether it’s around the block or around the world always have their moments of horror ranging from, “Oh shit, I forgot my sunglasses,” to being taken hostage by cruel Columbian rebels, like Glen Haggstad, author of the book, Two Wheels Through Terror.

Do bikers, (along with rock-climbers, base-jumpers and those dudes who get the shit stomped out of them by bulls in Pamplona) punish ourselves, in perverse self-hatred, for some deep, unexpressed guilt? Or, is taking risk a manifestation of something built into our psyche?
The answer may be both and lies at the very root of our existence. Mankind was originally designed to live, half-naked, in unheated mud huts, engaging in bloody, territorial battles with murderous, neighboring tribes and securing dinner by killing large, pissed-off, prehistoric beasts using sticks and sharp stones.

Modern Western Culture has turned us from nomadic, savage, hunter-gatherers into a bunch of pasty, timid, well-groomed sheep. Seat belts, air bags and warning labels all mandated in the name of “Safety.” Hell, we even have Nanny-State assholes trying to tell us how big a soft drink we’re allowed to have! We’ve been programmed to avoid danger while, deep down, in the primal cavities of our selves, in the very depths of our Neanderthalic depravity, we crave it! We lust for the taste of mastodon blood!

I’m no badass, and I’ve never killed a mastodon with a stick, and in the years I’ve been riding I’ve had some scary shit happen, including going down hard on asphalt and even going over the trunk of a Buick that ran a stop sign, and I realize there are guys in hospital beds and wheel chairs who went through far worse shit, but those moments of blind terror while crossing the Ohio River, in heavy traffic and icy rain scared the f@#k out of me worse than anything else ever had.

That said, the worst part of the trip was getting sick and having to come home early. But, now that it’s all over, I have no regrets and I’d do it all again ‘cause I’m a dumb ass and I love this shit.


There is a macabre practice among emotionally troubled teenage girls called “cutting” where they periodically use razors to slice their skin. They often report that, though painful, they feel a sense of euphoria after it’s all over. I guess I can kinda’ relate.

Old School Porn Rags

Of course they should.

For the reasonable price of just ninety five cents, this magazine will answer the age old philosophical question we've all asked, "What must life be like for an Easy-Loving Cootch Dancer?"

Kerosene, Sardines, Jim Beam and the Great Bettendorf Flood of 2008

Friday night I started piecing together the mottled and tragic history of the donor bike which had come into my possession. It had every conceivable chrome doo-dad that Harley Davidson ever devised installed on it. I removed them one by one, stacking them on the work bench, destined for the swap meet circuit. After pulling the gas tank and removing the petcock a foul stream of rust, old gas and what looked like a school of minnows and a crayfish spilled out onto the gravel lot behind the Monastery. Removed the air cleaner and found the filter plugged with vegetation. Perplexing.
I chugged some bourbon and NyQuil, scratched my head and pondered the history of this wretched orphan. I bought the bike on a used car lot, the guy knew only that it had a rebuilt title and was sold through an insurance company. The bike didn't look like it had ever been wrecked, so I was never sure what the story was.

The night wore on, the weed and kerosene burned and the bottle slowly drained. While dining on crackers and canned Dollar Store sardines, I looked down through the haze and noticed the inscription on the oil cap. It read, Weiblers Harley-Davidson Bettendorf Iowa. I vaguely remembered something about Bettendorf Iowa in the news. After a quick Google search, I had my eureka moment. There was a huge flood in Bettendorf in 2008. That's why this bike was sold by the insurance company, it had been drowned like a rat!

Sardines, Saltines, Kerosene and Jim Beam:

 Food to nourish the soul and open the mind to life's mysteries.

Level 5 Badass

The Pawnee were truly badass. They hunted twelve hundred pound bison from the backs of half-wild horses with primitive, stone-tipped arrows. The Pawnee were a matriarchal society and therefore more ruthless than neighboring tribes. Stoic yet dogmatic, they often enhanced their sexual encounters with sarcastic witticism, bull whips and rubber fishing boots. They suffered in their thin-skinned hovels during drought and high winds, but in good times they danced under the scalps of vanquished invaders, blood dripping from their chins, and cooking pots filled with European gall bladders, pasta and roasted mule meat.


This Pawnee warrior gazes serenely into the distance with a peace pipe in one hand and a Colt revolver in the other, depicting our constant struggle between good and evil.

Love and Hate
Life and Death
God and Devil
Lysol and Vomit

Man’s insoluble duality

How Much is that Monkey in the Window?

....... the one with the insulated ski jacket.

Little Cheetah looks out forlornly at the passing shoppers, contemplating his destiny.

Restricted and smothered, a mere shadow of his former self.

Once, swinging recklessly through the trees high above the jungle floor, careless and freewheeling.

Now a pitiful spectacle to be gawked at by mindless half-witted sheep looking for bargains amongst the shrink-wrapped tedium of strip mall purgatory.

Snug and warm in his insulated vesture, sheltered and well-fed, yet yearning to be free.

We are that monkey in the window, constricted by the trappings of modern life, with its false security and conformity, yet singularly miserable and without purpose.