Crown Lounge

Things I Hate: Quitting

2011-04-09T12:01:00.000-07:00

When I started it in 2007, this blog provided a cathartic place to wax nostalgic and vent my spleen. A home for stories about childhood, rants on thumb rings, that sort of thing.

When "social media" accelerated the pace and duration of my workday to light speed, my near-daily rants and raves ground to a halt.

I tried to resurrect this project's relevance and my attention to it last year, but new mediums for banal self-expression (Facebook) and quasi-informative journalism and editorializing (ChopCult) consume the majority of my time for typing.

Writing is a terribly vain pastime anyway, so the chance to step away from at least one bully pulpit is a good thing.

One thing I hope I've gleaned from the Facebook form is brevity. "Value" and "relevance?" Well, not so much. I reluctantly continue to embrace the tweet and blog and status update thanks to Hoot Suite, but that software has engaged my obsession with planning in a way that can't be good for the medium. Thanks to Hoot Suite's scheduling feature, most of my spontaneous updates are written days and sometimes weeks in advance.

"Just ate the best burrito ever!"

I pre-posted that jem last Thursday, and illustrated it with a photo I took at Jiliberto's last August.

Probably not what Zuckerberg had in mind.

My point? This is probably my last blog ever.

I have more I want to say, but how many more times can I expect my sliver of Facebook's 500 million citizens to listen?

Something tells me 24/7 connectivity has reached its zenith. I don't want to be here when it crashes back to earth.

Things I Hate: Text Slang

2011-02-26T08:35:00.001-08:00

Since when does "deff" = "definitely," as in, "I deff gotta get sum Ken Block DC Spy colab sunglasses."

For that matter, when did "they" coin "colab" to replace "colaboration?"

Are we so busy we've got to write short messages in shorthand?

And if so, can we make a new rule that "cunt" = "country," as in, "I wouldn't wash my feet in that cunt. Too dirty."

Ttys, HWM

Wild About Oscar

2011-02-19T07:11:00.001-08:00

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth.

Testing, Testing...

2011-02-19T07:03:00.001-08:00

This is a test of the Blogger plus app. If it works, you are reading a blog I posted from my iPhone, probably in Facebook on YOUR smartphone. We are so connected in every possible way, it's nuts. Speaking of nuts, have you seen Nutshell Mail? It's a social media aggregator for your email software. I haven't tried it yet, but I will. When I do, I'll share the experience here. After all, everyone gives a shit about everything everyone in the world is doing at all times, right?

Wild About Oscar

2011-02-10T12:37:00.000-08:00

I have no enemies, but I am intensely disliked by my friends.

Wild About Oscar

2011-02-09T12:36:00.000-08:00

If you pretend to be good, the world takes you very seriously. If you pretend to be bad, it doesn't. Such is the astounding stupidity of optimism.

Wild About Oscar

2011-02-08T12:34:00.000-08:00

If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.

Wild About Oscar

2011-02-07T12:33:00.000-08:00

I like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world.

Wild About Oscar

2011-02-06T12:33:00.000-08:00

Well bred people contradict others. The wise contradict themselves.

Wild About Oscar

2011-02-05T12:32:00.000-08:00

The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple.

Wild About Oscar

2011-02-04T12:31:00.000-08:00

The moment you think you understand a great work of art, it's dead for you.

Wild About Oscar

2011-02-03T12:30:00.000-08:00

The basis of optimism is sheer terror.

Wild About Oscar

2011-02-01T18:57:00.000-08:00

The world is divided into two classes: those who believe the incredible, and those who do the improbable.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-30T18:56:00.000-08:00

True friends stab you in the front.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-29T18:55:00.000-08:00

Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-28T18:53:00.000-08:00

Women begin by resisting a man's advances, then end by blocking his retreat.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-27T18:52:00.000-08:00

Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-26T18:50:00.000-08:00

Arguments are to be avoided, They are always vulgar and often convincing.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-18T08:38:00.000-08:00

Anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-17T17:02:00.000-08:00

There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating: those who know absolutely everything, and those who know absolutely nothing.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-16T08:36:00.000-08:00

America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between.

Tangled Webs

2011-01-15T11:00:00.000-08:00

Wild hairs are terrible things. One second you're watching 60 Minutes, the next you're buying broadway tickets for a cartoon musical in the Big Apple.

That's what happened last month when a Leslie Stahl piece on Bono, Edge and Julie Taymor caught my attention before Andy Rooney's soliloquy. Faster than you can say "Peter Parker," I booked a flight and orchestra pit seating for "Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark," the most expensive stage production in Broadway history.

Part musical and part stunt show, this Cirque du Soleil-style production has all the visual intensity and comic-book theatrics of the films, but the guy who plays Peter Parker is even more gay than Tobey Maguire. I wasn't a fan of the movies, so I'm not sure why this thespian romp has me so intrigued. If you don't count that old sex show on 42nd Street, I've never been to a Broadway performance. Maybe that's the appeal. I haven't bought a U2 album since "All That You Can't Leave Behind," so I can't blame the Irish rockers for pulling me in.

No, I think the reason Spider-Man caught this fly was because the show's on my birthday. I'll be 49 January 21, and watching a ripped guy in tights shoot sticky goo above my face for three hours seemed like a great way to squander what's left of my middle ages.

See you in the funny papers…

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-14T12:57:00.000-08:00

A man who does not think for himself does not think at all.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-13T08:30:00.000-08:00

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-12T09:00:00.000-08:00

A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-11T13:11:00.000-08:00

Work is the curse of the drinking class.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-10T17:03:00.000-08:00

True friends stab you in the front.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-09T08:37:00.000-08:00

Art is the most intense mode of individualism that the world has known.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-08T17:01:00.000-08:00

Books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-07T17:00:00.000-08:00

Only the shallow know themselves.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-06T16:59:00.000-08:00

Men marry because they are tired. Women, because they are curious. Both are disappointed.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-05T16:58:00.000-08:00

The young are always ready to give to those who are older than themselves the full benefits of their inexperience.

Sax and Violins

2011-01-05T07:48:00.000-08:00

In the pantheon of of musical hooks, "Baker Street's" sax line is as memorable as they come. Too bad you can't say the same thing for its author. Gerry Rafferty was a Scottish musician who had two hits, this one by far the most enduring. A cat named Ravenscroft played alto sax on the album, something I learned in 1978 after reading the liner notes that came with the vinyl I bought at Licorice Pizza in Pompano Beach.

Remember vinyl? Remember Gerry Rafferty? Probably not.

Gerry Rafferty, RIP.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-04T16:57:00.000-08:00

A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-03T16:55:00.000-08:00

Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.

Wild About Oscar

2011-01-02T16:54:00.000-08:00

Ambition is the last refuge of failure.

Good Information

2011-01-01T09:00:00.000-08:00

This video was created before Facebook conquered the world, but all other facts and figures it touches on seem rock solid:

If the first thing that rolled off Gutenberg's press was The Bible, I'll bet naked photos of Mrs. Gutenberg were second.

Bold Predictions

2011-01-01T07:57:00.001-08:00

I leave these notes here not to entertain my 17 readers, but to help me remember things I believe will come true. Call it soothsaying. I call it wistful thinking:

• Ford Motor Co. stock will reach $27 a share by 12/31/11
• I will tint the windows on my truck. Maybe some sick wheels and tires, too
• Willis will require surgery that tests my commitment to my $1,000 dog expense threshold
• I will burn in hell for no good reason, or for thousands of them. Take a number
• I will ride my CB450 to Mexico in May because the Spartankiller won't be finished
• I will lose my horn rimmed glasses in a drunk girl's purse on a cruise ship in Cabo San Lucas
• A skin biopsy in February will reveal an allergy to semi-sweet chocolate
• Regular irrigations will finally give me the clairvoyance my colon counselor has been promising
• The city of Murrieta won't sign off on our renovation plans until St. Patrick's Day
• Michelle Obama will get an elective appendectomy "just to be safe."
• Hair coloring will become part of my regular grooming routine, like bikini waxing for high-dollar hookers
• Old friends will start telling me I don't look a day over 50
• New technology will render my brand-new TV obsolete three months after I buy it
• Someone will get his ass kicked at the Slab City Riot
• Scientists will develop a procedure to cure for self-righteousness. Ironically, it will involve inserting an arthroscope in the patient's ass
• The new PlayStation 4 will feature a game that lets players download social ineptitude, lethargy and bad skin from the Internet

If any of these predictions come true, you'll read it first on Huffington Post.

Happy New Year.

Merry Christmas

2010-12-24T23:59:00.000-08:00

Chet's nuts roasting on an open fire…

The Year in Reverse

2010-12-18T08:19:00.000-08:00

When I dropped Willis off at Dogtopia and drove to Phoenix, AZ, last January, I had no idea how crazy 2010 was going to get. Five-and-a-half months still remains my high water mark for business travel, a personal record I set in 1990 as the product manager for Mongoose bicycles. In those days 7-8 trips to Taiwan every year were the norm, and my passport reflected that drudgery. Throw in three trade shows, a couple BMX races and a command performance at corporate HQ and you've got a round-trip itinerary to Burnout with extended layovers in Frustration due to weather.

At his boarding kennel two weeks ago, my dog's girlfriend informed me Willis's eighth 20-night package had expired while I was in Germany. That made it official: my current roommate spent 160 nights in a cage while I jetsetted around the planet for business and pleasure. This year's docket included five European distinations, three trips to Taiwan and two dozen weekends of bro downs and photo shoots with clients and friends. Throw in three trade shows, a couple bike rides and a trip to the dermatologist and you've got a pretty good year…

December

If you lived in a town with over 100,000 citizens in WWII Germany, Allied forces carpet bombed your home into oblivion. Sucks to be a Nazi. Bad Salzuflen in Bavaria survived the onslaught by supporting healthful luft, not the Luftwaffe. the German prefix "Bad" loosely translates to "spa town," but this little burg played host to Europe's biggest motorcycle show on my recent visit.

November

2010 was a good year for fun and productivity in Taiwan. On my third visit to the Flower Island I met a Chinese chopper builder named Winston Yeh, and wrapped up development on three new cast stainless-steel products in the Biltwell line.

In early November we hosted the Slab City Riot at The Range near Salton Sea. My friend Cindy DuLong visited Salvation Mountain, the man-made homage to zealotry and madness.

October

October marked the one year anniversary of my Spartankiller project. It's never taken me longer to be less far along on a motorcycle project. Strangely enough, I don't care. When it's done this bike is going to be a lot of fun to ride, and riding motorcycles—not merely trying to build them—is something I have promised to myself I will do more often in 2011.

September

Our SNAFU Crenshaw and Hawthorne completes made their debut at Interbike, and the guys at Sidewall did a great job showcasing these super-fun bikes to the world. I built one for myself, and it's the bike I've spent more time on this year than any other whip in my quiver. Not enough to lose weight, mind you, but enough to remember how bad my shoulders ache after an hour of bunnyhopping curbs. Next trick for this old dog: re-learning rollbacks.

August

Bill and I flew to the Big Apple on Virgin America to ride with 150 other Internet outlaws on the Gypsy Run 4. It was the first time I saw my friend Flatiron Mike in nearly three years, so the trip was special. I drove chase in Walt Gemeinhardt's raper van while Bill rode the wild thunder on a loaner bike. Good times.

July

It wouldn't be summer without a road trip, and this year our friend Joel Smith joined Billdozer and me on a caravan to the Corn Belt. ChopCult members from Oklahoma and Kansas hosted the Twine Ball Run, and it was a blast. No chase trucks, no greasy choppers: just booze and food and good times with new friends. I love being an Internet biker!

June

The Biltwell 500 was the trip that planted the seed for an EDR resurrection in 2011. On the Sunday after SoCal's Born Free II, 37 of the estimated 1,500 bikeriders who attended that event rode their freedom machines in lieu of merely standing next to them in a parking lot—a novel concept in modern bikerdom. Hell—I even rode my motorcycle through Mexico, something I hadn't done since 2007. Shakas and choppers for everyone.

May

Mild weather and cool vibes greeted me in May during a whistle stop through New England. On this trip I visited our client and friend Wayne Ahlquist at Acme Choppers in Laconia, New Hampshire, and Biltwell bro's AJ and Todd at Lick's Cycles in northwestern Massachusetts. Acme builds what are to my eye the coolest and most broadly influenced choppers in the game. Wayne's attention to detail and taste for old-school BMX aesthetic imbue Acme bikes with a style unmatched by show bike builders anywhere.

April

Mom treated us to a family vacation in Europe—her first—and it was awesome. Nuts don't fall far from their trees, so my style of hit-and-run sightseeing meshed perfectly with mom's personal taste for adventure. When it was over we visited five countries in 11 days by plane, by car and by train.

Dutch windmills, Buckingham Palace, Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower… we covered all the hot spots during our whirlwind adventure, with minimal bloodletting between us. Thanks for the great trip, mom. I hope it's one you'll remember. I know I will.

March

The Jin Pin is a slightly seedy but accommodating business hotel in Taichung that has been my home away from home for over ten years. I spent 30 days in the Jin Pin this year, starting with my first visit of 2010 in March. Say what you want about Taiwan; their IT and cell service kicks Europe's ass.

February

The Spartankiller really started taking shape in February, with the motor, primary components and polished Sportster mags all getting hung on the frame with care. That's when things ground to a halt. The year was less than 60 days old and already I'd visited Phoenix, Cincinnati and San Francisco. So much for my long winter's nap.

Cocktails and haircare products made strange bedfellows in Cincinnati the first weekend of February, when Mike D., Bill and I met Kyle and Tyler Malinky from Lowbrow Customs at Easyriders' V-Twin Expo. We hosted the first Biltwell Brodown at this cavalcade of chrome, and the whole drunken train wreck was so popular we chose to make it a yearly event.

January

My 2010 SX season started in Phoenix, Arizona. Before the race, Bill and I visited Foundry Moto for a ChopCult photo shoot. I followed up Phoenix two weeks later with a supercross sabbatical in San Francisco—my seventh year in a row. I guess you can say I live in a rut.

Wild About Oscar

2010-12-15T08:00:00.000-08:00

Writing has made me a better reader, probably like gardening makes some people more healthy eaters. I'm barely better at turning a phrase than I am at dragging a rake, but I plow through the process every day. I've heard writing described as the ultimate vanity of the self-absorbed, and I can see why that might be true. What possesses anyone to believe others might care to read what they think?

Perhaps the vainest English writer ever was Oscar Wilde. His turns of a phrase are legendary, and are so ingrained in the culture of communication most people don't realize when they are paraphrasing him.

My cut-and-paste exercise if 2011 is this:

Share the wit and wisdom of Oscar Wilde every day for a year. Why?

Because quotation, as Oscar himself once pointed out, is a serviceable substitute for wit.

Tres Cliché

2010-12-03T23:05:00.000-08:00

There's never time to do it right, but always time to do it twice.

Tres Cliché

2010-11-27T22:39:00.000-08:00

Lately I've been working harder than a one-legged ass kicker.

Purple is The New Stupid

2010-11-26T12:24:00.001-08:00

There's Different, and there's Unique. Then there's Fucking Ridiculous. I am all about freedom of expression and the assertion of one's individuality. I'm not sure what this guy is about. World of Warcraft 3D replicant, perhaps? Or maybe the founding father of some new Über Douche movement in Germany. Whatever it is, he's trying too hard. Relax, people. Life isn't that difficult. As a cab driver in Las Vegas once told me, every man has three basic responsibilities:

Get a job

Get a house

Get a gun

Where do you think Flamebrows falls on that checklist?

New Math

2010-11-21T14:00:00.000-08:00

My listening tastes gravitate toward female song stylists, so this one was a no-brainer:

Allison Moyet

+ Grace Slick

= Florence + The Machine

There's nothing new under the sun. Still, this is the newest music I like right now, and it's two years old. Better late than never.

Crowdsourcing?

2010-11-19T15:47:00.000-08:00

My friend Pete Kearney, a player in the Madison Avenue ad game, recently sent me this:

Congratulations, Harley. After getting the axe from your agency of record for three decades, you rebound with this claptrap, then follow up with more detailed follies in Forbes:

It has always been my opinion that Harley doesn't engage young consumers in an honest, meaningful way. Skulls and chrome masquerading as image and innovation seem silly—not the stuff two generations of brand- and performance-savvy 20- and 30-somethings are likely to embrace. But if what H-D CMO Mark-Hans Richer says is true, I was wrong:

Nine percent sales growth in a cynical niche like the one Richer highlights is outstanding, and speaks to what I've been saying for years: Harley should give up the fake badboy bullshit and just build stripped-down motorcycles for no-frills riders. Unfortunately, The Motor Company seems to have no problem screwing these young adults in the ass. Given conditions with employment and the economy, a 21% increase on the sticker price of a base model Sportster between '07 to '10 is egregious. I sell motorcycle stuff too, and we lowered our MSRP's nearly 15% on some items during the same period. Surely the PM's and CFO's at H-D are at as capable of cost cutting as a military vet, a middle-aged bike geek and a San Diego honey boy, right?

And while we're on the subject, what IS the shop rate for free creative services from Serbian single moms, anyway?

Victors & Spoils, indeed.

Tres Cliché

2010-11-13T22:38:00.000-08:00

Life is what happens when you're making other plans.

Tres Cliché

2010-11-05T22:36:00.000-07:00

If you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything.

Holiday Magic

2010-10-31T07:44:00.000-07:00

Seances have been held every October 31 since 1927 for Enrich (nee Ehrich) Weiss, a Jewish locksmith from Budapest, Hungary, who died from a ruptured appendix on Halloween. Enrich's widow, a Catholic girl from Brooklyn named Bess Rahner, hosted the most solemn of these spirit gatherings until 1936, after which the mantle for similar vigils was assumed by family members of the Weiss's heirs and friends.

In 1976, on the 50th anniversary of Enrich Weiss's death I hosted a seance in my mom's living room with a Ouija board and some neighborhood friends. We didn't conjure up the spirit of Harry Houdini that evening, but the single moms who witnessed our amateur ghost busting quaffed their fair share.

Dedication to the spirit of my childhood hero waned soon after my obsession with BMX peaked, so I threw away all my magic tricks and treats save one: a hardbound edition of Houdini's "A Magician Among the Spirits." In this clumsy tome Houdini chronicled his campaign to debunk the charlatans of his day who preyed on the will and the wallets of the weak.

Houdini's love for his own mother was Oedipal, and when she died her famous son went on a spiritual rampage. The $10,000 bounty Houdini offered to any medium or fakir who could deliver words from Mrs. Weiss in the afterlife was a king's ransom in the early 1900's, yet no one ever claimed the prize. Houdini's obsession with the hereafter never waned, and fueled his own commitment to speak to his wife Bess after his death. Bess indulged her dead husband, but only for a decade. Believers and charlatans alike have been indulging the egotistical and naive showman ever since.

Rest in Peace, HH.

All-Nighters and BIC lighters

2010-10-22T09:46:00.000-07:00

After lighting both ends of the candle last night, I burned the midnight oil 'til 5:00 a.m. The combination of rapid-fire dialogue on "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia," two Monster Javas and a fist-sized slab of fudge cake made me froggy, so I jumped up and started typing. Missions accomplished include one ChopCult feature, three personality profiles in the pipe, and a mini-rant on the state of chopper lameness on Facebook.

The whipping boy in the latter part of last night's bender is a man named Cyril Huze. On his blog the French chopper chef cooks press clippings from the big-twin trenches with poetically crafted lead-ins. Anything smart Cyril has to say about Lexan mag wheels, Sons of Anarchy autograph parties or vintage tit mice is usually followed by 20 addle-headed comments from the denim-and-leather peanut gallery. It's the same old thing, and it's lame.

If I were a Huge Chopper King, my proclamations would include these:

No more flame print polyester dress shirts

No more fringed leather chaps

No more stony straps

No more burnouts. Yes, even reverse burnouts, Bert Baker:

No more anvil tosses, roller derby demos or wet t-shirt contests

No more neon light kits

No more bagger/bobber/chopper debate—my new descriptor for ALL motorized two-wheeled machines would simply be "motorcycle"

I realize that being the editor of one web-based news resource and railing against another is chicken shit politics plain and simple, but I've already called caffeine and sugar to the stand in my defense.

Now that I've walked the dog and hit the jacuzzi, however, I stand by my original assertion:

Blogs like M. Huze's do nothing more than perpetuate the "brash biker" stereotype that painted Harley-Davidson into its shrinking corner in the first place.

What I'd say to Cyril is the same thing I say to all bloggers:

Anyone can make a statement. It takes real work to make a difference

Tres Cliché

2010-10-20T22:34:00.000-07:00

I'm not a mushroom. Stop keeping me in the dark and feeding me shit.

Call to Armor

2010-10-16T15:19:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine has taken a life-threatening digger on his 20-bike in front of TV cameras at a major sporting event this weekend. He was wearing a helmet, the kind skateboarders use to protect their haircuts. He was doing a simple trick over a set of jumps he's cleared at least 10,000 times, but the head trauma he suffered still landed him in a medically induced coma.

I'm going to say this because I'm tired of watching BMXers in pudding bowls getting chewed up and spit out: it's time for media, organizations and TV networks that profit from the exploits of bike riders as cannon fodder to demand the use of higher-standard safety gear from their entertainer/athletes.

MXers wear Leatt braces, full-face helmets, chest protectors, etc. "Haters" and "the hardcore" will say "That shit ain't BMX!" Neither is driving a wheelchair. X-men who dress like mannequins at Hot Topic instead of professional risk-takers are begging for the same heartbreaking misery that ended Stephen Murray's career. When will enough be enough?

I know everyone is pulling for TJ, but prayers and well-wishing won't stop other riders from suffering the same fate. Proper safety gear might, and that's why I'm appealing (again) for people in high places to make bike riders use safety gear that makes sense.

Get well soon, TJ. And when you do, PLEASE wear proper safety gear.

You Read it Here First

2010-10-15T19:21:00.001-07:00

Like the gun-toting tea baggers and god-fearing hockey moms who comprise her core constituency, Sarah Palin can't always be on top. This week for instance, Mitt Romney leads all hopefuls for the 2012 GOP nod. This is significant when you consider the Haircut from Motor City's reluctance to shill on Fox full-time like pundits Huckabee, Gingrich and Palin.

It's the latter's unrepentant hucksterism that right-thinking lefties like me find particularly galling. As if Sarah's Faux News gig weren't enough, next month The Learning Channel will air an 8-part miniseries on Being Sarah Palin:

Flipping awesome, indeed. My only question after watching the trailer:

What the fuck were the suits at TLC thinking?

Since the elephants in the Grand Old Party can't seem to find a challenger with the same otherworldly powers of communication, level-headedness and centrist vacillation as number 44, I'll throw a brainy, experienced woman's name in the hat for them:

Condoleezza Rice

W's Secretary of State and National Security Advisor during 9/11 is a a third-generation college-educated black person from the South, and a Republican lap dog of the highest pedigree. Her misguided sycophancy was wasted on a functionally illiterate recovering alcoholic born-again Christian draft evader, but if we can agree that kissing a President's ass for eight years is nearly tougher than being one, her curriculum vitae dwarfs even Obama's.

Until a foreign policy of Jimmy Carter's chaffed her own sensibilities in 1982, Ms. Rice was a Democrat. Classic cold war feminist move if ever there were one. If nothing else, her switch from equine to pachyderm at least proves she's a woman (insert flighty bitch cliché here.) The gap-toothed over-achiever and concert pianist has admitted her professional dreams include being the commissioner of the NFL, so I've always had my doubts.

If you know or even share my brand of bloodthirsty liberalism (pro-guns, pro-gay, pro-choice and pro-death: in war, by lethal injection, etc.), you might be wondering why I give a hamster's turd shooter about the 2012 GOP ticket. What can I say—I'm a pacifist who loves a good fight. If Fux News continues to pump Palin's corn pone brand of Republican sizzle instead of Rice's well-seasoned steak, who will spar with that other asexual poly-sci doctorate, Rachel Maddow?

Certainly not Sarah. She was reduced to cinders by colonoscopy spokesmodel Katie Couric.

Tres Cliché

2010-10-12T22:10:00.000-07:00

Opinions are like assholes. Everyone's got one, and most of them stink.

Old School BMX

2010-10-09T09:07:00.000-07:00

Social media has made it possible for point-six billion people to share every Starbucks moment, taco combo and high-school heyday with their friends, many of whom they either haven't met, or haven't seen in 25 years.

I'm as guilty of the former vanity as anyone ("Look—the cereal in my spoon spells N-A-R-C-I-S-S-I-S-T!"), but so far the urge to skip down memory lane with my '70s BMX friends and the freestyle bro's who came after them hasn't moved me.

It's not because I don't think David Clinton was rad. My old friend's cross-up on the Kawasaki is one of my favorite BMX photos of all time.

It certainly isn't because I don't cherish my days behind the gate and the steering wheel with my friend Greg Esser on the '79 NBL War of The Stars. Bryan's brother dominated the East Coast race scene that year, and both Esser boys were my summer tour co-pilots and best friends.

I still hear from Ceppie Maes from time to time, and the trick shows we did in the mid-'80s with his CW teammate Dizz Hicks and my young prodigy Gary Pollack remain a touchpoint in the annals of freestyle lore.

No, my disinterest in BMX nostalgia is based on one simple truth:

I never left the scene.

When my high-school friends were souping up muscle cars, I was assembling Schwinn Le Tours at Princeton Cycles in Lake Worth, Florida, to pay for entry fees and gas.

When BMX sidehack-racing legend Dennis Dain was delivering boxes in a UPS truck, I was unloading those same parcels in CW's warehouse.

When Scott Breithaupt was fighting addiction, I was fighting for thicker dropouts on Mongoose Hooligans.

While BMXers I knew or admired have moved on to build race cars, lay carpet, make movies, train cage fighters and bake pizzas, I have continued to design bike parts, shoot ads, build websites and write catalogs for 36 years.

A psychologist could argue that doing the same shit every day for four decades is the clinical definition of insanity.

From my current seat in the BMX foxhole, people who live in the past are the ones who seem crazy.

Dot Dot Dot, Dash Dash Dash…

2010-10-07T22:40:00.000-07:00

Lurking on the Innerweb has energized my appreciation for an essential basic in written communication.

Namely, punctuation.

IM's, PM's and texting have rendered periods, commas, and semicolons obsolete.

That's a shame, because without them clarity vanishes.

Don't believe it? Read 'em and weep:

A woman. Without her, man is nothing.

A woman without her man, is nothing.

A woman without. Her man is nothing.

Same words, three meanings.

Let's try another:

If you're bored, try screwing! Your sister—she's awesome.

If you're bored, try. Screwing your sister? She's awesome.

If you're bored, try screwing your sister. She's awesome.

My point? To eschew obfuscation, consider reintroducing capitalization and punctuation to your IT rants and raves.

Eschew obfuscation…?

It'll take more than ellipsis to make sense of that.

Google Me This

2010-10-05T11:00:00.000-07:00

Fashion Serial Rapist

Sexual Monkey Innovations

Urban Rubes

Metrosexual Hillbillies

Allan Funt's Colon

Pruning Dead Buds

2010-10-03T15:33:00.000-07:00

Have you looked at your Facebook friend count lately? I have. It's ridiculous. Try as I might, I can't recall meeting 90 percent of the 426 people who claim me as their cyber pal.

Don't get me wrong—Facebook has been a boon to many of the 0.6 billion people who live on it, myself included. It's replaced email between me and about six people whose company I enjoy, and it's my sole conduit to a dozen old connections I'd given up on decades ago. How many friends you knew 25 years ago are still in your life? For me the answer is seven, 10 max. They know who they are, and they know I enjoyed our time together. Is it necessary to swap photos of children, pets and motorcycle projects to ignite new memories? It isn't, but Facebook makes it so easy, I ruefully play the game.

Two people I've known since the early 1980's have recently pruned their friend list or turned off Facebook completely. One did so to spend more time with his family, the other to add some extra minutes to his Daily grind. I'd like to follow both gentlemen, but doing so might push me completely off the precipice of hermitdom I've been teetering on for years. Everyone in my life—even those who exist in html—is special, but that doesn't exempt them from pruning. My own OCD is much stronger than any cyber ties that bind.

To that end, I will now gingerly attempt to separate the wheat from the chaff, electronically speaking. If you find the FB connection between us has been severed, please don't take it personally. I pondered every click of the light grey "X" carefully, and tried valiantly to be consistent and fair.

My criteria for cutting was calculated, but no doubt several BFF's from BITD will become flotsam and jetsam during my Facebook waylay.

Thanks for the memories, and please accept my apology. If we meet again (or for the first time) in 3D, I will be happy to turn off my smart phone and catch up over a drink.

Gin and tonic with a twist, just like an old 3D friend I met in 1987 taught me to enjoy.

Congress: Fertile Ground for Pure BS

2010-09-26T08:22:00.000-07:00

The last hero of mine who rubbed his shit on Washington's nose was Larry Flynt. Thirty-five years later Steven Colbert stepped up to the mic at a Senate sub committee hearing on illegal immigrants taking US jobs. Colbert personally picked beans with the immigrants everyone is talking about to see if theirs was the kind of job any corn-fed American is likely to want.

Free speech is a valuable right that shouldn't be taken lightly nor wielded recklessly.

Colbert's comic folly is priceless.

Just in Case

2010-09-22T15:29:00.000-07:00

Last time I played blackjack I won. Last time I took playing blackjack seriously I lost. Counting cards is out. I'm too much of an exhibitionist at the tables to give this strategy the attention it requires. Instead, I follow the tips explained in the first half of this video, and fortify my attack with an aggressive money management principle called "chasing the loss." Yes, I know it's a loser's folly, but I can't resist. "Fast" Eddie Felson once said "Money won is twice as sweet as money earned," and I agree. I've often said if I could win $500 every day at a $10 blackjack table, I'd quit my day job and live in a casino. My personal strategy demands sitting down at that $10 table with a $500 stake (50x the table minimum is my preferred buy-in), and that's what stops me from trying. I don't have $500 to piss away on dumb fun, and if I did I'd buy another old motorcycle or perhaps a shifter cart. I like to gamble, but I'm also just a big kid.

Now, back to the tables…

ChopCult Call to Arms

2010-09-21T15:59:00.000-07:00

"Be careful what you wish for. It might come true."

No one who may have heard me whisper my dreams of being a writer as a teen had the courtesy to tell me this, but it would have spared me loads of stress if they had. Writing anything much heavier than a bicycle test or a road trip rehash has eluded me so far, but Internet publishing has become the tangled web from which I cannot escape.

It started on a couple blogs we launched the middle of last decade, but that was a one-way street: I wrote it, six people read it, and that was the end of it.

Then, in 2008 I cruised in low gear on the shoulder of Myspace and Facebook 1.0. That lasted less than a year, at which point I bid adieux to cyber naval gazing forever.

Or so I thought.

In a humble quest to satisfy our collective craving for all things visual and verbal, last year our micro agency launched ChopCult.com. What was initially intended to be a social network, tech resource and blog aggregate for today's low-buck chopper aficionado has blossomed into a bona fide online magazine with press junkets, photo sessions, original stories and all the daily deadlines that come with them.

When I was a teenager I wanted to write for a magazine.

I never dreamed I would help launch one.

As a business venture, ChopCult is awesome for reasons every publishing CFO and Sierra Club do-gooder knows all too well: no print bill or paper. HTML has been a boon to tree huggers, and a poison dart in the throat of old media. We didn't mean for it to be this way—and Bill and I still plow through more than 100 books and magazines per year—but the Innerweb seems here to stay. Whether any of today's hottest domains can say the same in five years depends on the tenacity of their publisher. And therein lies the rub…

Writing and editing 15 personality profiles, bike features and event stories for ChopCult every month is challenging. Throw in bookkeeping, advertising design, advertiser- and reader-relations and you've got damn near a full-time job.

Less important to us than the workload, however, are the pitfalls of presenting only one perspective in the chopper scene. Bill and I try to avoid this like a tuna sandwich in the sun, but geography and other commitments limit our success. To bridge this gap, I'm appealing for help.

ChopCult is looking for talented writers and photographers to expose our readers to new people and perspectives in today's scene. Interested applicants need to be good at what they do. This includes having at least a topical knowledge of the chopper scene, and better-than-average spelling, diction, syntax, storytelling and photography skills.

Things like capitalization, punctuation and knowing the different between a knucklehead and a CB750 are a must, as are passion beyond reason and the ability work for no money.

If all of this sounds too good to resist, send a story with at least seven 1200 x 900 x 72 d.p.i. photos to Harold@ChopCult.com.

If I like your work, we'll publish it on ChopCult and you'll be famous.

Hungry and overworked, but famous.

Enter The Dragon

2010-09-18T14:38:00.000-07:00

Next week marks the 30th Interbike I've attended since the bicycle trade show's inception in 1982. In three decades the cities of Anaheim, Long Beach, Las Vegas, Reno, New York, Philadelphia and Atlantic City have hosted this event, and I have attended every one. Sometimes as a dealer and one time as a journalist, but always with each year's version of a DayPlanner in my hand and a smile on my face.

This Monday I am driving to Las Vegas with my iCal loaded to the brim with breakfasts, bro downs and boozy dinners. It wouldn't be a business junket if I didn't get drunk with friends at least once, and this year's Interbike in Sin City—the event's last hurrah in the Nevada desert, we're told—promises to be a humdinger. I bitch about attending this schmoozing and losing marathon every year, but I can't honestly think of any place I'd rather be. To go out in style, I've reserved next Tuesday evening for dinner with friends from the worlds of BMX distribution and media. The venue for our night of high-class debauchery is this:

Bob Stupak's Stratosphere Hotel and Casino features a bar and restaurant on the 107th floor of its space needle, and my friend Gaby is its manager. Gaby and her husband Brent are friends from the chopper side of my double life, and I appreciate their efforts to make my business trip to their home a fun and memorable one.

On Wednesday I'm taking the riders on SNAFU's pro team to dinner. I've done something similarly uninspired and low-key with my riders in the past, but this year I'm trying to do something special. Nothing so outlandish as the time team SNAFU and I burned down the town in a disco bus with hookers on a stripper pole, but that was a different time in a different sport. Today's BMXers are young, media-savvy and hyper-sensitive to trends and fashion, so I don't want to do anything that might compromise their values or integrity in the modern game.

Speaking of the modern game, Thursday night is Ride magazine's famed NORA Cup Party. I've been to every other one of these soirees since their inception in the late '90s, and each glitzy, high-production event makes me feel less involved with today's game. Ten years ago I knew every double-A racer by name, and enjoyed a good working relationship with 50% of the sport's top freestyle pros. Today I only recognize one rider on the list of semifinalists for Number One Racer, and I haven't screened one of the over 40 videos that were in contention for Best DVD. Consequently, I'm going to skip NORA Cup and have a quiet dinner with my friends from the product-development and manufacturing sides of the bike business. That's where I've played for most of the last 25 years, and it's where my passions lie today. Thanks for the invitation Keith, but in the words of Beachboy Brian Wilson, I just wasn't made for these times.

Back from The Dead

2010-09-07T22:02:00.000-07:00

I haven't given up on the Lounge. I promise.

While my friends Blotto, Mel Bend, Deliveranter and The Fashion Serial Killer to name four have been churning out props, prophecy and propaganda on their respective feeds, I've been cranking out quasi-inspired photo features on ChopCult like a Ritalin-fueled 'zine geek with a hundred-dollar gift card from Kinko's.

To read my vapid ramblings in the chopper blogosphere, click the images.

None of these features are the biggest or the best, but you get the idea. See more here. I'm still not downright proud of my photos, but nor do I feel obligated to apologize for them. I'm growing more competent and confident, and Nikon's D5000 fixes nearly everything but my waning vision. Fortunately, PhotoShop makes a command for that. It's called "Sharpen," and I use it 50 times a day.

The pace at which Bill and I crank out coverage of our beloved lowbrow biker scene is daunting, so we've shifted blog responsibilities for Biltwell and SNAFU to friends and team riders to make time for our tasks. Thanks to Matt Bischoff and Matt Sparks for manning the quill on SNAFU's new site and Facebook page.

I'm calling on the kindness of friends and strangers to provide a broader range of editorial perspective for the ChopCult news feed. If you have a story with photos that speaks to our chopper nation, please send it to me for possible publication. ChopCult can't pay for original editorial or photography yet (and probably never will), but the 15 seconds of fame you might enjoy might almost be worth it.

Almost.

To everyone who availed their bikes to our cameras this year, thanks for your participation and support. I'm going to Las Vegas September 21-25, and I'd love to shoot more machines for ChopCult while I'm in town. Consider this blog your call to action. To arrange a photo session, please send me an email.

When I wrap up business in Vegas this later this month, I intend to make the CB450 a running entity, and to pick up where I left off four weeks ago on the SpartanKiller. Both projects grinded to a halt over our busy summer, but fall is upon us and garage season has never looked more promising.

When my bike project gains steam, you can read about it here.

Getting Fixed

2010-08-07T10:26:00.000-07:00

Google Search of The Week

2010-07-27T21:09:00.000-07:00

Mandarin edition:

Alphabet Soup

2010-07-25T20:27:00.000-07:00

R&D

MIC

MIT

The arcane language of product development across international borders is complex, and subtleties and subtext abound.

FOB

QC

ROI

ETD

OEM's that once calculated selling costs for goods based on absolutes like materials, labor, overhead and profit now simply Google the MSRP, adding enough mark-up, duties and freight to help buyers, trading agents, wholesalers, retailers and the government avoid choking on a bolus of their collective greed and red tape.

FUBAR?

Absolutely.

Is it likely to change?

NITL

New Toy

2010-07-25T07:06:00.000-07:00

In my absence last week Bill graciously set up and shook down my new welder. Miller's Diversion 165 is a 220v TIG system with all the bells and whistles. I scored it brand new for seven bucks more than the $1,700 I got for my four-years-new Synchrowave 200. The Synchrowave 200 is one step below that which a full-time pro needs to earn a living, so it was 10 times more welder than I needed for the 40 hours in four years I used it to build my last three motorcycles.

What sealed the deal for me on the Diversion 165 is the finger rheostat on the torch. This replaces the foot pedal that came on the Synchrowave, and it makes tacking a whole lot easier. No more shuffling the pedal, the torch and the ground around the work space to tack tabs and bungs. Since I'm left-handed, I'm also convinced it will let me control my heat much better than my club foot ever did. We shall see…

In other chopper news, I'm off to Sacred Steel August 4 to button down the copper tank Jason's been working on. The spy photos he's sent me look awesome, and I can't wait to wrap up the gas so Duane Ballard, Courtney Hallowell and I can move onto the stainless-steel oil bag/battery box combo. For more info on this project, please visit my build thread on ChopCult.

Five Perfect Things

2010-07-24T20:22:00.000-07:00

ScotchBrite Deburring Wheel

Monster Java Drinks

Oreo Cookies

Makita Cordless Drill

Fruit of The Loom Boxer 3-Pack

The Fourth of July

2010-07-04T21:55:00.000-07:00

This weekend I celebrated my independence by cleaning and organizing Sherry Shu's home. The upstairs bedroom is ready for furniture and decorating on her next visit, and I look forward to helping my business partner and generous friend turn my empty full-time house into her comfortable part-time home.

I put a new seatpost on the Ti bike and knocked out a surprisingly speedy seven miles through the neighborhoods surrounding Redhawk golf course. Plenty of false flats to keep my leaden legs and flaccid heart honest. I'm warming up to the bicycle-as-lifesaver slowly, and watching the Tour de France has certainly helped. If these juiced-up freaks can plow through 2,300 miles in three weeks, I've no excuse for failing to log the 12 hours per week Grant Peterson prescribes for men of my station. I've done it before and I can do it again.

Speaking of drugs, I re-read Andre Agassi's autobiography this weekend.

Agassi's revelations about meth, failed marriage and crippling quest for perfection come rapid fire and sound sincere, and his photographic memories of time on the court have inspired me to take my own weak game more seriously. I don't know what that means, but several friends have shown interest in playing, so I'm going to give it a shot. In a different lifetime I played 20 hours of tennis per week. If only Robbie Bacon were here right now… I might still have a backhand. As it stands, all I've got is a quiver of nice loaner rackets, a lackluster first serve and a mild case of tennis elbow. I'll take it.

Tomorrow I'm selling my Synchrowave 200 welder to my friend Jason at Sacred Steel. The man is a metal crafter without a welder, and I am a bike-building hack with more equipment than talent. The same situation I face on the tennis court. Jason has promised to finish the copper chopper tank he's building for my Spartankiller this month, and I can't wait to get back on this project.

After I deliver the welder tomorrow morning, I'm going to wrap up the three-day weekend with a trip to dog beach. Willis has earned it.

Happy birthday, America.

Loose Lips Sink Ships

2010-06-23T09:27:00.000-07:00

My mom was fond of saying I always let my alligator mouth write checks my hummingbird ass couldn't cash.

McCrystal's 4-star fuck-up in this week's Rolling Stone reminds me of the kind of loose-lipped hyperbole that has gotten me into trouble with clients over the years.

Don't be too harsh on your leader, Barry—this voter finds Stan's straight talk refreshing, if not completely respectful.

Cruising

2010-06-10T13:00:00.000-07:00

My favorite Al Pacino movie is not "The Godfather I or II."

"Godfather III" isn't even in the top 100.

It's not "Serpico."

It damn sure isn't "The Scent of a Woman" (mercy Oscar to apologize for overlooking Godfather II).

No, my favorite Al Pacino films of all time are "Dog Day Afternoon" and "Cruising."

Is it serendipity or dumb luck that Mr. Pacino played a homosexual bank robber in one, and a straight-shooting undercover cop-turned-homo in the other? My guess is, after his epic descent into murderous depravity in "Godfathers I & II," young Mr. Pacino immersed himself in every kooky role they handed him to avoid being cast as type. Michael Corleone or Officer Steve Burns? Screen "Cruising," then you decide.

The final scene in "Cruising" shows a mustachioed Mr. Pacino doffing a leather biker cap and hitting the Big Apple for a night of ass-filled fun. The case for which Steve Burns went undercover had been solved, so the screenplay wasn't leaving much room for doubt. Al's character loved "the lifestyle" so much, he remained undercover the rest of his life. Talk about character development.

In the most memorable scene of the movie, Officer Burns learns the secret color code for handkerchiefs. Every time I see a hotrodder, a biker or a James Dean wannabe rocking a bandana in his 501's I think of the red bandana in Al's right pocket.

Pass the mustard, please…

Going Places and Doing Things

2010-06-06T07:45:00.000-07:00

Since moving into my new place overlooking the Redhawk golf course in Temecula last March, I've enjoyed fewer than two weeks in my own bed. 2010's been a busy year for family and business travel, a fact made evident by my moribund blog entries. I'm not sure what happened to the snapshot retrospective I posted before last month's European vacation, but when eagle-eyed friends noticed the links were dead, I simply deleted my musing. After all, what's the point? Facebook makes telling everyone in the world about your last ham sandwich easier than ever, so blogging might be the new Lambada.

Speaking of common men, I read "Publish this Book" by Stephen Markley on my European holiday, and I've got to say, it was shit. two heartfelt chapters of critical introspection surrounded by another 20 about high-school basketball, bad jobs, hipsters, frat boy bullshit and Bruce Springsteen lyrics. Markley was only 24 when he wrote it, and his book's premise—"Check me out, I'm writing a book about the short, common life of a college journalist to see if anyone will publish it!"—was something even its author doubted could hold up in print. I appreciate Markley's trepidation, because I've written the fourth chapter of "Satin Hammers" five times and I still think the whole idea of an online novel about a closeted chopper newbie surrounded by a flamboyantly homosexual biker gang is a waste of time.

Everything these days seems like a waste of time.

Doing laundry

Buying groceries

Walking Willis

Getting haircuts

Cutting my toenails

Cooking dinner

One thing that does make sense is working on my Spartankiller project, and that's been put on the back burner while my friend finds a welder for his recently moved fab shop. Until that happens, my roller sits in a warehouse in downtown LA and I sit on my chartreuse couch writing about the futility of time management and the pressure of forward momentum.

It is sunny and warm in SoCal, so yesterday we rang in the new season at a vintage dirt-bike race at my old stomping grounds, the Lake Elsinore MX Park. I sold my YZ250F in 2002, a couple months before I bought my '03 Boxter. Remember the days of owning expensive toys like these? My quiver of luxury items is down to three bicycles, two motorcycles and an electric crockpot. The furniture in the 2,500-square-foot home I housesit for my business partner and friend features two end tables, a book shelf, three lamps, a king-sized bed, a queen-sized mattress and the aforementioned couch. Duane Ballard says my couch feels like it is covered with fiberglass. Bill says no one takes more pleasure from divesting themselves of "stuff" than I do. After taking inventory just now I see there's still a long way to go.

It's official: I enjoy taking photos. I say "taking photos" instead of "making them" like pros do because I'm still not confident in my skills as a technician. I have a basic brain for the rules of the game (small apertures increase depth of field, for instance) and a decent eye for composition, but the key commands for post-processing digital images in Photoshop still elude me. I get by, but if I barely have time to trim my toenails, I'm probably never going to take a Photoshop class at the local JuCo.

The jacuzzi's ready, so I'm going to put on some boardshorts and hit the tub. I'd wear a banana hammock if I had one, but that's probably a story I'll save for another time.

iPhone Post: Take 1

2010-05-12T06:56:00.000-07:00

How grand must one's ego be to endure the tedium of blogging from a cell phone? Apparently, not grand enough...

This is the first and last time I'll share my musings via smartphone.

NOTHING I'm capable of writing is worth the misery.

See you May 25...

Widget Word of The Week

2010-05-08T09:48:00.000-07:00

Widget Word of The Week

2010-05-01T09:47:00.000-07:00

Widget Word of The Week

2010-04-24T09:46:00.000-07:00

Widget Word of The Week

2010-04-17T09:44:00.000-07:00

Progress Report (or Lack Thereof…)

2010-04-14T09:18:00.000-07:00

I finished this bike a year ago. I've ridden it twice. The most recent failure was a broken battery. I'm going to pick up a new one this afternoon, and hopefully the Street Tracker will kick to life in time for some spring riding. Of course, I'm also trying to finish the Spartankiller in time for some summer riding, so I need to put down the Innerwebs and pick up the wrenches.

Speaking of self-indulgent horseshit, I haven't forgotten about the adventures of The Satin Hammers. It's riding season in SoCal, and this has meant more time writing C hopCult features and less time staring at my navel. Generating content for our humble media resource is a blast, and I find it very easy to sideline other projects to wax verbose on the old 33 news feed. To everyone who follows my musings, thanks for your enthusiasm and encouragement. As soon as we get some more stories in the queue, I'll get back to the greasy projects at hand: firing up my little green CB, and gaining some traction on the SpartanKiller.

Happy Birthday, GSH

2010-04-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

Gil Scott-Heron

Satin Hammers

2010-03-22T19:46:00.000-07:00

Chapter Three

“Is Dave still trying to stroke that old knuckle? I wish he’d let Cochise get his hands on it—the man’s been doing it for 40 years.”

“The vibration in my bottom end was a lot different when he shoved a fat one in the rear. I switched to skinny years ago and it’s never felt better.”

“Bruce and I were finishing a head job when the boss walked in. I thought he was gonna fire us on the spot, but instead he grabbed our tools and started humping. There was shit and blood everywhere, but watching that Fat Boy choke and sputter for the first time was great.”

The rapid-fire dialogue Gary and his buddies exchanged over panini and coffee was mystifying, and left Al totally in the dark.

Knuckles. Fat Boys. Head Jobs.

What the hell were these guys talking about?

“Hey Alpha, you look like a queen on the back of Gary’s chopper. When’s your husband gonna get you a bike of your own?”

“We ain’t married, fellas—just friends.”

“Never really thought about it ‘til today,” Al interrupted. “Always been more of a car guy, I guess. Most dudes I see on bikes look sort of… I don’t know… kinda gay.”

“What’s wrong with that? It’s just one man lovin’ another…”

“Not that horseshit again, Julian. Just sayin’ there’s no reason for the get-ups these clowns wear. Leather chaps, fringed denim vests, skin-tight black t-shirts? That shit looks stupid no matter who you’re fucking.”

“Don’t knock ‘em ‘til you tried ‘em,” Julian piped in.

“Chaps?” Al inquired.

“Men.” Julian deadpanned with a wink and a kiss.

“Come on, guys—let’s cut old “fringe Denham” some slack. He’s coming around.” No one in Gary’s tight-knit crew could disagree. Al Denham had indeed become one of the boys.

Al stared at the shiny chrome motorcycles parked in front of Johnny’s Velvet Spike, then sighed, “I guess I should face the facts. My days of driving the old lady to Sears Point in the ‘Vette are over. Gary’s right. You can NEVER go back.”

“That’s the spirit, my friend. Now finish that latté so we can get you on a bike.”

“Slow down, Gary—I don’t have a job, remember?

“Well, that’s something the guys and I wanted to talk about…

“There’s a dude in Nevada whose rich old man bought him a custom motorcycle factory. Name’s Gabriel.… real piece of work. Struts around in a porkpie hat with a guitar over his shoulder like some kind of fat, bald Elvis Costello. Apparently building bikes ain’t good enough for this guy, ‘cause last year he opened a diner in Reno called the Knuckle Sandwich Saloon. Named it after his chopper shop. That’s where we come in. Julian designed the Saloon’s interior, but never got paid. Dude never pays anyone. Guys in the club are tired of getting screwed with their pants on, and we need help from a pro to legitimize our game…”

“What club? What game?” Al asked, perplexed.

“The Satin Hammer MC. The “MC” stands for Motorcycle Club. Decades ago rival biker gangs gave clubs like ours a bad name, so we toned down our colors to avoid heat from the man. Now all you see on our vests are three patches: the club name and turf in rainbow-colored rockers, and our official insignia in the middle—a pink hammer. Our game covers a little bit of everything. Catering and decorating mostly, with a little entertainment and security on the side.”

“I still don’t get it. Until this morning I’d never ridden a motorcycle in my life. When it comes to food and style, I don’t know wallpaper from egg whites. What can an unemployed stockbroker do for a bunch of dudes on bikes?”

“You can start by doing our books,” Julian joked sarcastically.

“And if that works,” Gary chimed in, “you can talk to lawyers about making the club a non-profit corporation so the IRS will get off our ass.”

“SHMC is living proof that any queer can ride a motorcycle,” Julian joked. “Unfortunately, none of us knows how to play it straight. We’re asking you to be our straight man, Alpha Chino. Will you do it?”

Al scanned the wistful looks on his friends’ faces outside the Sausalito bistro, then glanced at Gary’s muscular, opened arms. His friend’s gesture made the decision easy.

“I’m in.”

“Then it’s settled!”

Gary gave Al a big hug and patted him on the ass, then stepped back so the rest of the Satin Hammers could welcome the newest brother to their family.

“Tonight we'll swear Alpha Chino in at the clubhouse. Next weekend we'll ride to Reno and get our new treasurer a free motorcycle. I’m sure Gabriel at Knuckle Sandwich won’t mind…”

Satin Hammers

2010-03-19T14:00:00.000-07:00

Chapter Two

If the feisty submariners who played shirts and skins with Albert and his banker buddies were annoying, the spectators at San Francisco’s Veteran’s Day parade were downright ruthless. Never had Al witnessed such vehement disrespect for a group of American servicemen as selfless and dedicated as the rainbow division of Gary Abraham’s Navy SEALs.

“Are you hearing this horseshit, Gary? These fuckin’ idiots are unbelievable! You risked your life for their goddamned country—why don’t you say something!”

“What do you suggest, Al? W’s war is a touchy subject with these hippies. I didn’t do myself any favors by wearing fatigues. Let’s fold up the flag and ride home. If one more wingnut throws a veggie wrap at my head I’ll get off this bike and rip out his thorax. Guys in our shoes don’t need that kind of grief.”

“Guys in our shoes.” Gary’s words resonated in Al’s ear with a reassuring ring. He knew Gary considered him his friend, but Al never assumed they were peers. Until now.

“I’m riding bitch, brother—where do you wanna go?”

“I’ve been givin’ that a lot of thought, man. Hold on…”

With a snap of his muscular right wrist, Gary, Albert, and the rest of their camouflaged comrades revved up their choppers and peeled away. With every upshift, another gust of brisk bay air whipped through Al Denham’s ebony mane. As Gary and the other members of his elite fighting force weaved their Harleys along San Francisco’s 49-mile scenic parkway, Al didn’t even have to close his eyes to imagine the exhilaration a fighter pilot must feel.

“I get it,” Al yelled into Gary’s ear. “Now I see why you love motorcycles.”

Failing to understand Al’s every word, Gary’s silent combat communication skills kicked in. With a flourish of hand signals, the wily vet jiggled two fingers in front of his eyeballs, then pointed at his ear. A horizontal shake of the head made Gary’s message clear: “I don’t hear you.”

“I LOVE BIKES!” Al repeated with a scream.

“I love boys, too,” the SEAL lip-synched with a wry smile.

Maybe this ride was going somewhere after all.

Satin Hammers

2010-03-16T01:19:00.000-07:00

Chapter One

Like every other patch holder who values his privacy, Alpha Chino took his women like his tequila: with a grain of salt. Being the Treasurer of San Francisco’s most notorious OMG had its privileges, and knowing how to avoid the gauntlet of trannies and crack whores that haunted the alley behind the SHMC clubhouse was one of them. After parking his blood red Street Bob in front of the Chinese laundry on Castro Street, Al peeled off his helmet, darted through a rack of pressed shirts and slipped down the narrow corridor behind Mr. Chang’s industrial steamer. The old man had a soft spot for the Bay Area’s more discrete outlaws, so the minor inconvenience of neighborly foot traffic was far outweighed by the steady work Al’s club sent his way. Motorcycle riding was a dirty business, and nobody rode dirtier than the men of the Satin Hammer MC.

Al wasn’t always a Hammer. Before Sean Pean made Harvey Milk a household name, Albert Eugene Denham was a broker on the Pacific Stock Exchange. When that institution closed in ‘02, “Blue Chip” Gene found himself unemployed. After her credit cards were revoked and tuition for his stepson’s boarding school evaporated, the soon-to-be-ex Mrs. Denham made sure Albert was homeless, too. With the deck stacked against him, Al played the last card in his hand: a lifetime membership at the Equinox Fitness Center. It was a parting gift from the VC firm that bought the building on Pike Street where the financial lion once prowled.

The first friend Albert made at EFC was a muscular, balding man named Gary Abrahams. A homeless stock trader and a retired Navy SEAL made an odd pair, but Al and Gary shared a bond beyond petty narcissism. Both men lived and loved life in the fast lane. In headier times, Al quenched his thirst for high velocity in vintage sports car races on the Monterrey peninsula. After leading 26 covert ops in Naval SpecOps, Gary blew his enlistment bonus on every vet’s wet dream: a brand-new Harley-Davidson. During their daily body-sculpting sessions at the gym, each friend regaled the other with tales of high-speed adventure between reps: legs and chest Monday, Wednesday and Friday, abs and arms Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.

It didn’t take long for the flaccid finance guru to become a chiseled gym rat like his rugged friend. Al’s metamorphosis wasn’t lost on the other male members at EFC, and several gentlemen offered him free room and board in exchange for diet and weight-lifting secrets. Ashamed to admit that “hungry and homeless” hardly qualified as good advice, Al declined every offer. Instead, he slept on a cot in the laundry room club managers provided in exchange for help on the company books.

Most Sundays Gary and Al played basketball with the other unemployed bankers and furloughed sailors at the San Francisco Y. It was Al’s aggressive play in the post, neatly groomed two-day shadow and cut-off khakis that earned him the nickname “Alpha Chino” with the trash-talking ballers on the Y’s parquet floor.
“Hey Gary—your girlfriend looks like ‘Serpico.’ Did you show her how to handle your balls like that?”
Albert recoiled. “What the hell is that s’posed to mean?”
“Don’t sweat it, Al—nobody ever blamed a seaman for having good taste.”
“Maybe not, Gary, but I’ve had plenty of semen that tasted good. What do you think about that, Alpha Chino?”
“Tell your cabin boys they're barking up the wrong tree. I’m straight as an arrow and everyone at the gym knows it.”
“I’m afraid it’s true, boys. Albert pitches for the other team.”
“Well, a girl can dream.”

After the ribbing he took from Gary’s old shipmates, Al skipped his shower after the game. Over frappes and biscotti in the sports lounge, Al Denham probed his friend for answers.
“What’s up with your buddies—they seem queer as a football bat.”
“They’re just fucking with you, Al. Besides, it can get pretty lonely on the high seas.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying real men stick together. If you belonged to a brotherhood that shared a common bond, you’d understand the game.”
“I was a Delta Theta in college—I know about brotherhoo…”
“You don’t know shit, my friend. I’m talking about REAL brotherhood, like living in a submarine with 150 men for six months, or riding in a motorcycle gang. They say there are no atheists in foxholes. Well I’m here to tell you, there ain’t no women, either. A real man will do whatever it takes to help his brother survive.”
“Save your gung-ho rants for the sailors. If you’re sayin’ guys like the Hell’s Angels are queer, I call bullshit.”
“All I’m saying is every man needs a crew he can lean on, and a place to call home. Think about that when you’re curled up with a sack of dirty jockstraps on the laundry room floor.”

Most evenings Al found the sound of the cleaning crew’s routine soothing—the kerplunk kerplunk of sneakers in the dryer, the vvrrrr rrrr rrrr of the industrial buffer on cold marble floors. Not that night. Gary’s ruminations on manhood and camaraderie had left Albert with more questions than answers, the obvious one being the most troubling.
“Is Gary a fag?” Every sign spoke to the contrary.
His dedication to fitness.
The mustache.
His tribal tats.
And last but not least, that goddamned motorcycle. Gary loved his Hog, and he showed it the way a schoolgirl wears her heart on her hand-drawn notebook: by festooning it with every outlandish decoration and accessory you could imagine. The embroidered rainbow flag on one fringed leather saddlebag seemed especially over the top. When Al called him on it, Gary’s response was swift and resolute.
“My niece in Des Moines made that patch for me, and I promised her I’d wear it with pride. Besides, her mom… my sister… is the only one who understands…”
“Understands what?”
“Understands why I joined the Navy. I had to get out of Hicksville, and Vicki never judged me for it. Wish I could say the same for Dad. I split 15 years ago, but the old man still hates me like it was yesterday. I’m dead to him, and Mom gave up trying to change his mind years ago. I’m here to tell you, brother—you can never go back. Anyone who says otherwise is full of shit.”

Al pondered the evidence long and hard that evening. After weighing the facts, his mind was clear. There was no way this Navy SEAL, leather-clad motorcycle enthusiast and best friend could consummate—let alone tolerate—sex with another man. Case closed.
After fluffing his laundry sack into a makeshift pillow, Al closed his eyes for a good night’s sleep. Gary was riding in San Francisco’s Veteran’s Day parade Monday morning, and he’d asked his friend to sit on the passenger seat and wave the flag behind him. Of course, Al agreed.

Who doesn’t love a parade?

Widget Word of The Week

2010-03-12T10:33:00.000-08:00

Widget Word of The Week

2010-03-05T10:32:00.000-08:00

Sick and Wrong

2010-03-04T12:00:00.000-08:00

Back in The (Wednes)Day…

2010-03-03T07:00:00.000-08:00

Gary Numan

Lotus Snowplows

2010-02-27T07:06:00.001-08:00

My love for motorsports historically has included at least a topical knowledge of the technology embodied by the machines on the track: engine size, chassis packages, mechanical output, that sort of thing. Details like these are what define the "formula" in my favorite motorsport of all: Formula One.

Until I switched allegiance to Prost's and Senna's Mclaren/Hondas in the early '90s, Lotus built my favorite car and team. What fan can deny the allure of Mario Andretti's Lotus 77?

I was excited by the prospect of Lotus' return to F1 in 2010. The formula of my youth was dipped in British Racing Green—Jimmy Clark's cigar-shaped Lotus, to be exact, which did battle with my hero Jackie Stewart's BRG Cosworth on the public slotcar tracks I haunted in the early '70s.

It is not mere coincidence that my interest in F1 tech began to shrink the same year F1 cars' silly silhouettes began to grow. The appendages were small and hardly noticeable at first—I wing here, a duct there—but when Lotus pulled the sheet off this monstrosity, my disdain for modern aerodynamics was complete:

The 2010 Lotus and every other wind-tunnel tested scythe on the F1 grid looks more like an intergalactic snowplow than a racecar. The slicks are a welcome site after a dozen years of ribbed rubber, but the rest of the crap lurking beneath Lotus's famed green and yellow paint reminds me of a John Deere tractor. The quest for slickness in the straights and downforce in the twisties is a basic racing premise I fully comprehend, but modern aero packages have taken this tech challenge from the sublime to the ridiculous.

Sadly, these technical innovations have done nothing to improve the quality of racing. Passing in F1 has all but disappeared, and the battles that used to occur on the racetrack are now happening during fuel stops. If I was dating my cousin, I'd probably take her to a NASCAR race.

Thank god for the return of Michael Schumacher…

Widget Word of The Week

2010-02-26T10:29:00.000-08:00

Back in The (Wednes)Day…

2010-02-24T06:31:00.000-08:00

Haircut 100

Widget Word of The Week

2010-02-22T08:11:00.000-08:00

My Sharona

2010-02-21T08:55:00.000-08:00

Doug Feiger died this week. Less wealthy than Gary Numan and less iconic than Sting, The Knack's frontman can rest in peace knowing he did something in the 1970's neither of his new wave contemporaries could match: he penned a Billboard #1 hit.

"My Sharona" was the #1 song in '79, and was in heavy rotation along with the Police's "Roxanne" and Gary Numan's "Cars" in my Pioneer in-dash cassette. America was still shaking off its disco hangover when Britain's New Wave splashed quietly onto Florida's shores. Before "My Sharona," Sunshine State hillbillies like me learned about new music from two sources: the musical guests on Saturday Night Live, or from the DJ at Ft. Lauderdale's New Wave Lounge.

Feiger's homage to teen lust proved to a nation and an industry that Punk and New Wave were viable alternatives to the disco and AOR that had dominated FM airwaves for the previous dozen years. I loved "My Sharona's" hypnotic hook and tortured white-boy whining, and so did the rest of teen-aged America. The Knack's #1 hit inspired record companies to sign hundreds of New Wave bands from England and Europe, the perceived birthplace of the sonic movement. I say "perceived" because Doug Feiger was born in The Motor City and moved to LA in the '70s to chase his dream of making music that made a difference. Doug's band didn't have a knack for long-term success, but the genre he popularized during my Summer of Love continues to prosper with bands like The Sounds and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

Rest in peace, Mr. Feiger.

Dymo Labels

2010-02-20T09:09:00.000-08:00

When I was seven or eight, my mom's Aunt Lillian gave me a Dymo label maker for Christmas. This plastic handheld device predated the Brother P-Touch by a generation, and was invented the same decade Steve Jobs was born. As stocking stuffers go, this contraption seemed as likely to engender Christmas cheer as the proverbial lump of coal. Not being like most kids my age, I loved it. Now I could label everything. GI Joe's footlocker. The transformer on my Aurora slotcar set. Socks and underwear drawers. My BB gun. My toothbrush. I plowed through the first roll of black plastic strip inside the Dymo gun before Uncle Joe could carve the holiday ham.

Finally! A typesetting device that made obsessive compulsion, anal retention and personal inventory ID easy! The Dymo label maker was my first introduction to the form and function of typesetting. With every turn of the wheel and click of the trigger another quarter inch of black tape flicked out of the Dymo's mouth like a bad cliché on a talking serpent's tongue:

H A R O L D M C G . . . .

Creating labels was painfully slow, and offered zero room for error.

H A R O D . . .

Fuck! Twist the wheel to "scissor," squeeze the trigger and start over.

One night around New Year's when mom was serving the last can of B E A N I E W E I N I E S in the house, she realized it was time to show me new ways to use my Dymo labeler. She'd used some version of my wondrous machine before, because her bony fingers spun and clicked out sentences I had never dreamed of:

S H E W A S O N L Y T H E M O O N S H I N E R ' S

D A U G H T E R , B U T T H E Y

L O V E D H E R S T I L L

"How did you do that?" I squealed.

"You've got to concentrate and think," she told me. "Stay focused on what you're trying to say, and make every word count."

Most boys who got Dymo label makers for Christmas that year used them like phasers in a game of extraterrestrial Cowboys and Indians, immobilizing the bad guys by setting their weapons on K I L L or S T U N.

Make every word count.

Thanks for the Dymo, Aunt Lillian, and thanks to mom for the good advice.

Widget Word of The Week

2010-02-19T10:28:00.000-08:00

Eye of The Tiger

2010-02-19T07:39:00.000-08:00

Today the world will hear Tiger Woods' explanation (Apology? Excuse?) for recent infidelities, and I'm sure the winner of 71 tour events and 14 Majors will do a fair amount of groveling at the feet of past, current and future sponsors to plug the holes in his billion-dollar endorsement dyke.

Personally, I don't think the world's #1 golfer owes an apology to anyone, save his wife and kids. Tiger's indiscretions shouldn't change the way fans or Madison Avenue measure the man, which was by birdies, bogies and eagles until he got caught losing his putter in one too many deep lies.

If I were a spin doctor on Tiger's media team, I would advise the multi-cultural sports icon to thank the wife who stood by him, the children that didn't judge him, the sponsors who remained loyal to him, and the fans who made playing the game so richly rewarding.

If I were Tiger I would say these things with all the contrition I could muster, announce my touring schedule then get back to what I do best…

Boning porn stars, cocktail waitresses, casino hostesses and bar hags.

Good Advice

2010-02-16T23:08:00.000-08:00

"Eliminate the word 'that' in your writing and conversation. It's usually superfluous."

- Bob Margevicius

Happy Valentine's Day

2010-02-14T09:03:00.000-08:00

Widget Word of The Week

2010-02-12T11:00:00.000-08:00

Five Perfect Things

2010-02-11T22:47:00.000-08:00

Chocolate Covered Coffee Beans

Pinaud Clubman Aftershave

Walkabout Retractable Dog Leash

Plain Black Zipper Hoodie

BMW G650 X-Challenge

Back in The (Wednes)Day…

2010-02-10T08:03:00.000-08:00

I bought my first mountain bike the summer of '85—damn near ground zero for this fledgling category's explosion on the scene. The machine that fueled my dreams of multi-speed cycling was a 1984 Rockhopper, the low-priced sibling of Specialized's iconic Stumpjumper. Four-ninety-nine was the sticker price on the red tri-moly 26er with Suntour components, but the shop's proprietor knocked a hundred bucks off because the CW Freestyle Team and I had just done a trick show in his tiny parking lot for 750 neon-clad teenagers. Never underestimate the motivational force of in-field promotions.

A couple stops down the road on CW's Stylin' The States Tour, our team's headliner ponied up for an MTB of his own. Mike Buff and I spent down days that summer riding our mountain bikes in places like Philly's Squirrel Hill, the fairgrounds in Flushing, Queens andGreenville, North Carolina's backwoods. For as much fun as we had dipping our toes into this new sport, the excitement didn't stick when we returned home. Freestyle newcomer Dizz Hicks stole the show that summer, so we gave Mike Buff the boot and picked up a new kid named Gary Pollack to fill his shoes. With no one on the program to share the MTB experience with me, my red Rockhopper collected dust beneath the staircase in my Fullerton apartment while Dizz, Ceppie, Pinky and I did two more US tours over the next 15 months.

By the time I left CW in late '86 for a product and marketing gig at GT, the fun I had in the summer of '85 on cherry-popping Rockhopper was a faint memory. I wouldn't get another mountain bike until the fall of '87—a GT Avalanche from my new employer's line of All-Terra machines. I wrote the copy for GT's first MTB catalog and TV commercial in those days, so I felt a special connection with the fillet-brazed Toyo-built Triple Triangle frame on that obscenely expensive bicycle. Friends in GT's art department and I rode our MT in Huntington Central Park on lunch breaks, and one of the more enthusiastic artists on staff even convinced me to enter my first off-road race—a 32-mile slog across sand washes from Ocotillo Wells to Anza Borrego, CA. My deskbound ass was ill prepared for the misery of that experience, and I punctured three times with only two tubes in my saddle pack. I bummed C02 cartridges from fellow competitors to fix the first two pinch flats, but when the third one occurred near an orange grove less than a mile from the finish, I threw my Avalanche beneath the trees and ate tangerines until Scott rolled up in the GT rig to save my sorry ass. That was the first and last time I raced a mountain bike, but I wouldn't trade the experience for all the inner tubes in Thailand. My early mountain bike adventures were packed with a sense of the unknown, and the GT people who dragged me into them were as gung-ho as I was. Good Times.

Bill Duehring was GT's recently hired adult line product manager in those days, and it was he who rekindled my passion for serious bicycle design and technology. I'd been to Taiwan on several occasions before I joined GT, but Duehring introduced me to people and technology at companies like Suntour and Shimano. It was an under-grad experience that Bob Margevicius elevated to honors level when I joined Mongoose in '89, but Duehring's eye for design and detail can not be denied. Thanks to both gentlemen for giving me the nuts and bolts and the dollars and sense you need to build a great bicycle.

Back in The (Wednes)Day…

2010-02-03T08:00:00.000-08:00

My first real BMX bike: a 1974 Littlejohn Murphy Monoshock…

Mine was red with a chrome shock, but you get the idea. Strictly caveman shit. Even at 12 I was smart enough to realize the pogo effect of that 6-pound coil sucked up every ounce of pedal power my spindleshanks could generate. To improve straight line acceleration, I replaced the shock with a 7/8-inch seatpost drilled on both ends. Mountain bikes wouldn't get rear suspension until 1990. Take that, Horst Leitner…