Monday, January 28, 2013

Harley Davidson Owners Are Just Looking for a Buddy

Jamal is 1 of 33 black
men that own a Harley in the US.
The small-talk begins as I purchase my fuel from the cashier. Then our conversation is interrupted as we look out near the pumps. What caught our attention was a man on a Harley lurching forward into a pylon and stalling his bike.

Of course he's on a Harley. The American standard of cool has been transformed into a mid-life crisis that's a blatant statement of form over function. If riding a German Shepard became the trend this man would abide without question. 

The rebel is no more, Tattoos are no longer taboo and the quest for acceptance picks right back up where it left off in high school. The man stalling his Harley, desperately chasing his youth, will never catch it. He'll most likely be crippled on the road, because wrecking on a bike is inevitable. I always thought ignoring the inevitable is a young man's sport, but times are changing.

He's definitely not alone in the pointless pursuit of cool.

A Super Gay and Super lame movie.
In fact, the Harley rule of the road: "If you're on a bike, you better talk to me. And if you're too far away, you sure as hell better wave. Make me feel special because I'm not driving a car."

I never knew a common ground demanded so much work. I guess folks that ride motorcycles are just looking for a friend. I watched as two "bad ass" bikers sat next to each other at the red light. The two strangers sought each other out as they zigzagged perilously through traffic to share a moment together. Don't get me wrong, motorcycles are sort of cool, but I just don't want an arranged marriage with a man in order to own one.

I know there's other cults of machinery and clubs centered around vehicles. Where the Harley cult differs is they seem to be posers. I honestly think most of them think there's a camera crew making a digital record of their bad-assery 24/7. Being a master of your machine comes second for most Harley owners. The primary focus of finding the elusive jacket ,that matches their chaps, is paramount.

The father of this family owns 3 Harleys.
While I'm on the topic of chaps. I understand chaps serve a practical use, but wearing them when purchasing a slice of pie ,inside a restaurant, sort of says "LOOK AT ME!!!" Look, the helmet you're currently carrying tells us all we need to know. Don't worry, we see you and we're still laughing from when you stalled your hog earlier.

Wearing chaps for fun is also super gay. I've seen some graphic things on the interweb that confirm the above statement. A buddy of mine often emails me attachments titled "Fishing Trip", "Vacation Photos" or "Pics of My Kids." Then when I open it I get a lesson on what it takes to be a power-bottom. In 4 out 5 of these nefarious emails chaps are involved. Blindly opening email attachments is how I live on the edge.

Maybe I should start walking up to every person that drives a truck and hug them. I could put a patch on my jacket. I can see it now, my truck gang shall be called THE TRUCK PHAWKS and our rivals could be Hybrid owners, they'd be THE PHAWK TRUCKS.

I'm not above talking to someone just on the guise of a common ground, but I draw the line at toe jobs at the red light. What's a toe job? I don't know, but I assume only Harley brand oil goes on that toe. "It's got to match the jacket!" said the effeminate dance choreographer doing Jazz Hands.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

A Eulogy for Lance Armstrong

Everyone be seated, the service is about to start. Afterwards there will be sandwiches and party-liquor for the bored and bereaved. Then Oprah will gently stroke Lance's temple and pull the trigger to finish him off. Thanks for coming. Please turn off your cell phones.

(Amazing Grace fades out)

All of us will be destroyed. The cartilage in our joints will wear thin and tear. The memory will fade and for some it will be totally lost. The confidence that preceded decisions will be yanked back like a dog on a leash by self-doubt. As we all stumble through this experience ,with the world as our stage, we hope for happiness and success. Sadly, the two can sometimes oppose each other dramatically.

If you convinced yourself a human being was capable of "bouncing back" to the level of a world-class athlete, after undergoing cancer treatment to the point of total remission, win the Tour de France without the aid of fantastic performance enhancing drugs that may be deemed illegal, in a sport that is nothing but corrupt, raise your hand. It's okay, my hand is up too. The bogus scenario was as blatant as the previous run-on sentence. Who doesn't love a good a story? A story where the beaten and bruised conquer the realm of the evil, but the above plot wouldn't even fly in Middle Earth.

Everyday the statistics slap us in the face and the people we love are dying at Holocaustic numbers. Bitching about a single man's actions is pathetic. We are up against it and people are focused on one self-absorbed athlete. Being honest is a challenge when the lies become one's entire reality. One can only hope he regrets misleading the world over the regret of getting caught.

The fact that no one's weeping at this funeral is message enough. Instead of a rose, throw a dog turd on the coffin and move on. Stop caring about yellow jerseys and trophies. There's countless people wearing orange that must be cured. They need us on the front line. If we're not kill'in, we're dy'in.

Sorry kids, the legend out lived the man. It happens everyday, yet we act surprised when we get kicked in the teeth. (Cliche Alert) We are the human race and there is no finish line. We will chase the horizon to the vanishing point because we have no other choice. We can't give up and pretend to be a victim.

The existence of god will always spark debate, but the existence of false idols is proven on a daily basis.