Remember

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.

Baby on Board

Had to post this.

Unwelcomed Guest

A big-boned gal from my distant past stopped by, uninvited, and before I could shut down the lights and feign absence, she let herself in without even a courtesy knock. She was always a brash and vulgar woman, loud and self-centered, obscene. The kind who’d fit right in on the set of The Jerry Springer Show.
After the usual catching up on who was dead or in jail, she started going on about her failed relationships, how much she hated her work, the foul weather, bad traffic and her struggles with depression and foot odor. My thoughts drifted as she spoke and I pretended to listen, noting her enormous girth and remembering how annoying her non-stop prattle was. She droned on, me nodding my head occasionally and noticing that, without missing a beat, she was ripping open the box of Triscuits^® I had carelessly left, unprotected and vulnerable, on the kitchen counter. On and on she went, throwing down mouthfuls of Triscuits^® between whining about inconsiderate boyfriends, broken washing machines and her latest existential crisis.
For kicks, I mentioned that I’d just finished up some undercover work for the Bulgarian Secret Police, and was considering a sex change operation. She paused briefly, then asked, “You got anything to put on these crackers?” I smiled as she went on about her old car and new shoes, and silently wondered how Liquid Drano might work as a condiment.
She looked at the clock, said, "Oh shit!" and left the house hurriedly, muttering something about picking up her kids. For a few horrifying moments it sounded as if her car wouldn’t start, but mercifully it coughed to life and she sped off down the drive.
I sat for a few moments after she left, feeling used and dejected, shaking the crumbs of a once-full box, and wondering what the hell I was going to do with two tins of sardines and a full jar of olives with no damn Triscuits^®.

Can't a Brother get a Break?

Painted the frame "Dark Machine Gray" 'cause I liked the name, fully aware that a black frame would have been the safe bet, 'cause black is beautiful. Mudflap and Sputnik have no complaints, but I think it looks like shit with a black tank. However, with the motor mounted and lock-tighted it ain't coming back out of the frame 'til at least next winter. I'll try painting the tins the same color, and hope for the best. Coming so close to completion and riding season is coming soon........I think.

Hump Day Honey

Everyone needs a little happy, gratuitous rump to get through the week.



Well, almost everyone.

Blockhead

Coolest Evo ever?

Laundry Day

Nice stainless steel front-loader.
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Despite the poorly placed window and scattered clothing, she gets the seal.

Tender Moments in a Plastic Pool

From a now semi-defunct site I infrequently frequented <---------click here


At a party, long ago, somewhere in an impoverished part of my imagination, just east of suburban Omaha Nebraska I dropped some powerful acid with an obese, but thoughtful, Native American woman who looked just like the woman pictured above, except much fatter and uglier. We shared several bottles of strawberry wine while waiting for the drugs to take effect. We parted company, but later I went outside to piss and found her squatted in the prone position in plastic kiddie pool with about two inches of stagnant rainwater sloshing lazily on the bottom wearing nothing but a pair of yellow, rubber boots and a look of deep confusion. Not wishing to alarm her, I went back into the house and found a bottle of Dawn dish soap and a longhandled scrub brush, the kind often used to wash busses and large trucks. I began scrubbing her shoulders while applying long green stripes of the dish soap, creating a fine lather which pooled in the dirty water about her knees and elbows. She would voluntarily raise her arms, first right then left, so I could scrub the stubble ‘neath her underarms, as she moaned with pleasure.
I asked her to flip over, which she did obediently, soapy water sloshing over the sides of the pool like the Orca exhibit at Sea World. She lay there, looking up at me with those dark, pleading eyes, black and deep as puddled motor oil. Out front on the darkening road cars sped past, distressed drivers returning home from their toil, unaware.
I continued to work her torso with gentle, scrubbing motions, her large brown breasts swaying, nipples glistening. I deftly scrubbed her round generous belly in gentle, circular motions, moving slowly down to her cavernous gash. She had a protruding set of vaginal lips, the color and consistency of calf liver, which pulsated regularly to the rhythm of her beating heart. At the slightest touch of the brush bristles, these protrusions would suddenly retract like a pair of frightened eels, emerging again, however tentatively, only after several minutes of persuasive coaxing.
At this point I went behind the bushes and vomited a purple stream of strawberry wine into some freshly placed mulch, held my hands to my head and wept.

Très

Shiloh's thoughts slip across the sky like a flight of migratory birds in a delivery truck. When spring beckons, with bird calls and the greening banks of babbling brooks, a young girl's fancy soon turns to corn starch and Nyquil 'neath the warmth of satin sheets in the darkened recesses of apartment number three.

Rust always Creeps

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As I tarried down south, my neglected rigid project sat idle, the frame developing a coat of rust. So, with the engine hanging like a convicted horse thief, shrouded in mystery and greasy shop rags, I fabbed a small kickstand extension and wire-wheeled the frame back to bare metal. Then gave everything a coat of rattle-can primer to stop the bleeding. Not wishing to waste precious shop heat, I gave the 'Zuke a much needed oil change and sorted maintenance, hoping for some decent weather.
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Soon... maybe?????

Truckin'

Don't know the asking price, but I'd give my left nut for this badass antique. It would be perfect for trips to the nail salon or pulling stumps.

Grinding Again

The Cold was still waiting for me when I got back home. This has been one long, cold, badass winter. Nighttime temps still in the single digits, but hope springs eternal. Unlike the ineffective sun of January, the sun of midday March shines in earnest. Snowmelt trickling icy liquid through the downspouts, the music of early spring.
Glad to be back I suppose. The walls of my tiny camper began to close in on me as I bounced from park to park moving northward. It became increasingly difficult to find weekend campsites as the warm weather brought the Panhandle locals out of their brief hibernation. One morning, as I sat in a crappy, Mississippi asphalt lot, prepared to wait out a couple more weeks, it occurred to me that I may as well return to my beloved Jerkwater, and wait it out there. It was a relatively quick drive up I-65, running the southern Indiana I-65 gauntlet without incident this time in cool, but sunny weather.
So, here I am back to the daily grind, but fortunate to have screwed off for a few weeks.

Back

Old abandoned phone booth, some kind of green donor box*, overflowing trash can, R2D2 air compressor, inexplicable concrete cube, $5.47 smokes and huge three-month-old hard-as-rock snow piles can only mean one thing.

Back in Jerkwater, baby! Broke, sunburned, and looking forward to ten more inches of snow predicted for Sunday.





*That green clothing donation box in Jerkwater is like putting a tip jar in a homeless shelter.

Hauling Ass

By mid-Monday morning all the locals had left, leaving me with the place to myself and a few park rangers who wave to me like I’m an inhabitant of the neighborhood.
The area I now inhabit is not the flat, sandy tropical place one might expect of Florida. The terrain is hilly with a mix of tall pines and hardwoods, more like The Smoky Mountains. The park’s only redeeming features are its hiking trails and an old plantation house the CCC dismantled and moved across the Apalachicola River back in the thirties, (as one who’s worked in the construction trade a long time, I find that incredible). With only one radio station, no TV reception and little else to do, I started hiking small sections of the trails at a time walking through the flat bottom land with its palmettos, swamps and standing water, then climbing the steep switchbacks, crawling uphill using tree roots for steps.
Sputnik, with terrier blood coursing through her veins, is a bundle of pent-up energy. She not only requires, but demands she get vigorous exercise every day. I could walk thirty miles with her and it would do her no good, she needs more than that or she drives me nuts. At my last stop I started to let her run beside my bicycle on lead. No matter how fast I rode, she always wanted to go faster, tongue lolling to the side, straining against her collar like a sled dog. I would finally quit pedaling and let her tow me along. She pulls way harder than should be physically possible for her twenty-four pounds. Fearing her neck would become bruised I bought her a harness to fulfill her insatiable need for strenuous activity. Since there are few places to ride the bike at this park, I decided to hook her to my belt with a d-ring and adopt her talent as a beast of burden to the hiking trails.
Yesterday, we walked about seven miles including the western loop of the Torreya trail, up and down steep hills, through longleaf pines and thick wooded jungle, (this place must be hell in the summer with heat and mosquitoes). I ran out of my two quarts of water and the hills kicked my old, flatlander ass. Today my legs and back are sore despite the fact that Sputnik towed me up the steepest hills, fulfilling her role, much like the Sherpa guide who short-ropes rich women up Everest. All in the name of vanity, so they can go home and tell all their rich friends they’ve summited.
Today I pack up once again, and move westward.