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Viewing 51 - 75 out of 76 Blogs.
When I was a lad, motorcycling in my town was pretty much confined to cops on their Duo Glides, paperboys on their Cushman Eagles, and our eccentric neighbor whose fringed jacket matched the fringed saddlebags on his Indian Chief.  Honda put the world on wheels, then longhairs put ape hangers on Hondas that were to be replace by loud, fast Harley-Davidsons stripped of every ounce of fat. In the 60s, things were happening in the town where I lived and I was close enough to them to get a look. Bikers lived in my neighborhood.
What a great mixed bag of characters those bikers were, too, each as individual as the bike he rode. When the old Harley dealer folded his tent and the new guy offered ready-made do-daddery, lots of the chopper jockeys turned their noses up figuring that if it wasn’t hand-made, it wasn’t worth having. Perhaps that was because of their independent natures.
Forty years later one of those men remembered the princely sum paid for a quart of pearl paint laid on his beloved Sportster. Still, cool paint was less important than a hot engine, an engine kept in fine trim by talented wrenches more reliable than any tiny bell. While they pretty much lived and breathed motorcycles, they also had other pursuits, such as moving weapons into Mexico or going knuckle and skull with the shit kickers down at the barbecue and beer joint on a Saturday night. I don’t recall any women participating in that; most had used the men’s business connections to land cushy weekend jobs in the recently legalized topless bars.
Some of the women were locally famous for their beauty and style, too. It’s too bad they didn’t make Harleys to fit them in those days; I only saw them riding the snatch pads.
At some point a very small percentage of those bikers became affiliated with a motorcycle aficionados group and time and circumstances made them remote. That’s too bad, too; there were things I could have learned from them. For instance, while they told me that they were the people their parents warned them about, they neglected to tell me about the Bikers Code. People didn’t write just anything down at that place and time so it wasn’t till I got on-line, all these years and miles later, that I heard about it. That’s why I’m a little behind the learning curve, I guess. There are people I’ll eat with but won’t ride with, for example, and I don’t consider every swinging dick on two wheels to be a brother. At any rate, the motorcycling scene in my town was changed forever in the seventies when the oil barons decided to extort America and every pimply youth and blue haired granny became a biker. At least we have the legacy left us by our forerunners.
I've been a Biker for Boobs, Biker for Baija, Biker Against Child Abuse, a Biker Defending Children, and I don't know what all else. So today I blew off the rally against the Westoboro Baptist bunch and the ride for Head Start. One was in my end of town and the other ended at a Mexican cafe' in a sleazy oilpatch town.
Today I went on a ride that brought a more immediate benefit.
A friend needed wind therapy so I packed up my psychiatric kit and put her on the big yella bike. The day was cloudy, cool and humid, and after we cleared town and twisted the wick, we knew it was fortunate we had worn clothes.
We cruised a secondary, checking out the livestock, the cows and cowlets, noticing that some of the ranchers have really nice asses, too. I like riding in the country during the winter, and there just happens to be a restaurant out there that makes the best Cajun food you'll find on this side of the Sabine. We rode through the historic town of Goliad, and on to Raisin. At Raisin, I turned around. I'd gone too far, but what's a ride without a missed turn? I had a great lunch with an agreeable companion and by the time we got back to the city we both had a better outlook.
It dont' get no better. I'm alive and in Texas.
While watching the movie, “Doors”, I realized, at some point, that Jim Morrison was not on a five year acid trip, but that my TV’s color was outta whack. That was the second time in about a year.
As I live within shouting distance of a military base, the truth was deduced easily enough. The tall, domed building they have been passing off as a whirl tower actually houses a particle beam projector.
I’d been informed of their use by the military to manipulate the weather up north, with unexpected side effects. Its clear that the effects of “greenhouse gases” is a cover story. Since I live so close to a projector I devised this custom shield to counter its effects. Its coating is a special blend that includes Kevlar flakes, ground glass, and lead-rich paint.
A test run yielded promising results.
Tags: Honda Shadow Windshield
One Saturday, I had a bad case of ennui (that’s French for, the funk). The sun was out in my neck of the woods, even though there was some flooding rain a few miles inland, but then, I was stricken with the ennui and didn’t much give a flip. My road bike was on the lift so I snagged a few small parts to clean and paint. While they were safely baking in the toaster oven, the cigar box caught my eye.
It’s a small cigar box, but then, it only contains hat pins (“vest pins”, for you non-shit kickers). I’ve always like obtaining the pins more than wearing them.A few years ago, one of the ladies in my owners association had a mastectomy. Because the prosthesis (“my fake boob”) was so expensive, she and her husband quit wearing rally pins on their vests, so as not to damage it. Because I like hugging her, I did the same.
With the exception of a few on a vest not worn to the association meetings, the pins ended up in the box.
These first pins are rally pins. I paid my five-to-fifty US dollars at registration and I, along with hundreds-to-thousands of other participants, received a beautiful and unique commemorative souvenir. Well, the ROT Rally pin is pretty generic, you can order them, on-line, going back to the first year but I actually like the others. Some thought was put into their designs. I like the ‘Dawg Days’ pin because it’s understated. More on that.
Now, the next bunch I think of as “ride pins”. You can’t order them on-line; you have to ride out and get them yourself, like pins for club rallies, only someone else is not responsible for the success of the ride. Some, like the Grand Canyon pin, are eye catchers. I looked into the canyon and knew I couldn't bring it back in a camera. The pin reflects the awe I felt, there.
I like the simplicity of these two. The Grand Teton pin says, “I was at this park”. If you’ve looked up at those mountains, no other explanation is necessary, if not, then the only explanation is one you have to find, yourself. The same is true of the Stone Mountain carving.
Ride pins are ones that speak for themselves, ones that another rider can look at and say, “I was on that ride”, or “Ah been'ere”. I wear a small one that says simply, “Jackson Hole”. It causes more conversations with long riders who want to know when, what route, what time of year and “did you see…? "Gimme pins”, I call this last bunch, pins given to me by friends and associates. They are my favorites and some of them live in the box for safekeeping.
My great aunt gave the lapel pin on the left to me. Her husband donated to the fledgling ASCAP music association and Minnie Pearl sent it and a thank you note. It has seen the band stands of some honky tonks.
A Canadian rider sent the custom made pin in middle as a gesture of solidarity after I’d outraged the tight ass faction on a cruiser club's message board. It identifies me as a “Fingerteer”, one who engages in the insensitive practice of flipping off riders who won’t return a wave. A photograph cannot capture the beautiful detail of the piece. Its twin is on that vest I mentioned.
The round pin on the right is, obviously, a Narcotics Anonymous pin and was given to me by someone who will remain anonymous. I know how much that fellowship means to him, so the pin has beauty beyond its elegant simplicity, for me. These little chingaderas are like that; they can become more important than themselves.
A few years ago, I was riding with a friend and we stopped in a tiny adult store, in Austin (A "tiny adult" store? No. A small, sexually oriented, place of business.). Oddly enough, they had hatpins at the sales counter. I suggested we get a couple as mementos of our jaunt and she picked this little skeleton on a chopper, the only one left and the only one she'd have. I checked out the others and came up with an obscene little pin that looked like a woman with her knees in the air and her ankles apart. It also looked like a variation of Kawasaki's "Vulcan " logo, and it passed as such until folks got to wondering why a Honda rider would wear it.
Five years later, more or less: I'd become friendly with one of the younger men in the neighborhood, so when he bought a new motorcycle he brought her down to my house to show her off. She was a beauty, too, an 800 cc Kawasaki Vulcan. The pin in my little cigar box leapt to mind and I passed it, and its tale, on to him. Both our grins got bigger when he told me his wife, "hates biker shit". If she ever figures it out she's going to flip. I filled her sister-in-law in on it, too, so now there are two riders and a pedestrian who have their lives enriched (granted, in a small way) by an, otherwise, worthless bit of pot metal.
I guess I've been preaching to the choir. I should go try to be productive.
I may be back. Maybe I'll tell you how I became a Grope Leader
( Gropin' Führer).
Tags: Culture
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Wheels
Posted On 01/21/2008 14:56:27
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Back, what must be years but seems only to be days ago, I took a college course called, "Pre-Columbian Art History". It dealt with the artifacts of the advanced indian civilizations in Mexico, and points south.
Since much of their history is unknown, the wildly speculative term paper I wrote about their origins had to be considered as valid as any other theory.
There are many un-answered questons about the people who live then.
For instance, reckon how the Aztecs, who built lasting monumetal stone edifices out in the swamp, did so without using the wheel?
Not just, "how", but, "why"?
They were advanced people, they knew about the wheel, but for some reason, they used the wheel only for toys.
Go figger.
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Nights
Posted On 12/31/2007 02:12:32
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Ever had a song stuck in your head, not just for a couple of hours, but for weeks? Usually, I can pick up my instrument and play it out, unless, of course, it’s something really annoying like, “I’m A Redneck Woman”. “I Got My Mojo Working” has been playing in my head, sometimes by that O’Connor boy from Corpus, but mostly by Muddy Waters, himself.
I decide that it’s not merely a mental tic, but a sign. Muddy wants me to go to Louisiana.  Now, I don’t have much use for the mojo hand, but I have had a hankerin’ for alligator tail. I figure the Cajun kingdom is only a day away and I know folks who own a hotel near the state line, and the Voice of Muddy has been insistent. My O.L, planning a ride, says we’re headed to Sonora to see the caves.
I tell her, "No, Muddy wants me to go to Lafayette and get some tail". She doesn't hold back her true feelings. Not wanting to ignore the Voice of Muddy Waters, but certainly not ready to ignore the voice of the luckiest woman in Flour Bluff, I schedule a consultation with my bud, sometimes guru, and all-around good ol’ boy, Weird Bernie. “Brother Weird”, I ask, “what are the voices telling you?" “Well, Fiddle”, he says, “three of them are telling me to go on ahead and squeeze the trigger, but one says to be more creative." You just don't fly into the face of advice like that.
Notes on Thanksgiving an the LINK as well as a bold fashion statement.
My friends, I appreciate that you have cruised my page and left comments the past few days while i have been sick. I'm a little better, can at least read without getting that 'being hit in the face with a hammer' feeling.
Y'all ride safe and have a good Thanksgiving. Hear?
It was a red letter day. Follow THIS LINK to find out why.
My friends, I have eaten of the Gumbo of Life, which not only cured myfever, but also mystically transputed to me another time. My skill with an ethereal calsinator has enabled me to relate that transputation to you through: Observations From Behind Bars.
I passed a large time, Saturday, in the East Texas piney woods, at the Texas Renaissance Festival. If you follow the link to
Obervations From Behind Bars,
you will see that I have tried to capture the some of the moment.
Tags: Fantasy
A couple of months ago, the most talented woman in Flour Bluff was given the opportunity to paint a mural for her employers.
Observations From Behind Bars
So there I was, there I was... in the jungle...
No, actually I was over in town, doing my rat killin'. It happened that I needed a different kind of screwdriver than I had in my tool box so I stopped in a national auto parts store to pick one up.
While I'm waiting in the check out I looked at the back of the little chingaso they use to hang the tool on the display rack and read, "Made/fabrique/hecho en China".
Now, I've had just about enough of buying what I consider to be crap from China, so I thought, "Reckon how much more would I have to pay Sears for a Craftsman screwdriver , 'made', not 'hecho' not 'fabrique' in USA?"
A buck. I paid one US dollar more for the same screwdriver.
So, I bought another one, as well.
 "Two plugs up" to Sears.
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