Monday, October 04, 2010

Why Dost Thou Kick Against the Pricks?

So I'm walking the dog. He's already taken a shit, which I've cleaned up, and he's looking around like he needs to take another. Which is fine--I mean, I'm not going to stop him or anything. It's just that I don't have another poop bag. We're two houses down from my place, so I'm planning on letting him squeeze one out then going back in the house, getting a bag, and picking it up. No sooner does he finish crapping than this woman stopped at the stop sign in a Jaguar honks at me. I look at her like, "What?" She points at the shit and gives me this "tsk tsk" look.

Really, lady? Really? Since when is what comes out of my dog's ass your fucking concern? Could you not keep fucking driving without trying to run my business? I started walking toward her car so as I could explain that, yes, I am going to clean this poop up, but not with my bare hands. And, since you are so goddamned concerned about a poop-free environment, I will go grab a bag and let you do the honors if you'd like. But she drove off. Imagine that.

Imagine all the people, living life in peace. You know, that's never going to be a possibility if people never learn how to mind their own fucking business. Don't steer my bus, bitch. Fucking busybody poop police need to back the fuck up. I wish I recognized the car and the woman, because I'd find it and smear shit all over the windshield. I'd save that particular greasy dog shit and frost her windshield with it, corner to corner. Hey--at least it's not on the street, huh?

I'm a bad man--but I'm still too good for you.

Anyone been by this spot in the Mission? With all the Lucha Libre masks?
The masks are all fitted onto blown up black balloons, giving the display a kind of technicolor bondage store blow up doll vibe.
Superman meets Dr. Doom:
This one was my favorite. I guess I'm just a rainbow warrior.
C'mon in. Really. I dare you.
Just a bright yellow building.
So this kid comes into the bar on Thursday. He's been 21 for a few months, tops. He asks how I got the job. "Don't know man--just knew somebody, I guess."

"That's cool, man. Hey--what should I order?"

"What do you mean, what should you order? You mean food, or a drink, or what?"

"Drink. What should I drink?"

I can definitely make food recommendations, but you're going to have to figure out what you drink on your own. It's not like we're the Alembic or something, where you can go in and say, "Can I get something with St. Germain and Benedictine?" and it'll taste good. It's a shot and beer bar, basically. I mean, if you walk into a bar, you should have an idea of what type of alcoholic beverages you like to drink, or you'd like to try. Just an idea.

"I don't know, man."

"Seriously, I'll drink anything you say. What should I get?" Here's where I fucked up. I was caught off guard. I should've said, "You want Drambuie, sloe gin, and pineapple juice. With a floater of Fernet. It's delicious. We call it the 'Go Home USF Kid.'" Or I could've ordered him our signature drink, the Ike Turner: a shot of Hennessey and a slap in the face. But I was, inadvertently, a nice guy.

"Well, if I were drinking, I'd get a shot and a beer."

"What kind of beer should I get?"

Do you feel my pain? "I don't know man." You should get any beer that will give you enough internal strength to make a fuckin' decision on your own.

"What's the cheapest?"

"PBR and Tecate are two bucks a can."

"Oh, you have PBR? I'll get a PBR then."

Are you fucking kidding me? You needed a ten minute consultation to arrive at the life-changing crossroads of ordering the cheapest can of beer that we sell hundreds of every day? The kids are not all right.

I missed the opportunity to fuck with that kid's digestion, but I seized the day when Gavin, a regular, came in wearing Quicksilver board shorts and flip-flops, looking all brah-ed out. Before he had a chance to sit down, I told Devin: "Dev--Gavin will have a SoCo Lime and a Bud Light." We make fun of SoCo Lime a lot, because really--who the fuck would order that?

Without missing a beat or even saying hello to Gavin, Dev said, "Sure" and poured him a shot of the miserable citrus candy with a crap beer back:
And he wouldn't pour him a real drink until he killed it. It's the little comedic moments that get you through five nights in a row at the Buckshot.

Bellflower BMX in SoCal is having a "40 Years of BMX", "cyclebration," with old school races, screenings of Rad and BMX Bandits, an bike show, freestyle, bunnyhop, and quarter pipe high air comps, and a ride that goes by the site of the legendary B.U.M.S. BMX track, among other things. Should be a doozie, if they could ever get a functioning website up.

40 years...a conservative estimate, one that clearly doesn't take into account the Dutch riding in the '50s.I couldn't figure out how to embed it, buy you should check this video out. Motocross! It's funny to see people in the comments cling to the American BMX myth by calling the Dutch riding cyclocross.

In any case, it's been around a long time...check out this young feller's OG Bubba scrub table:
Turbo Harry:
Been getting into cruisers lately, and ran across the Rat Rod Bikes site. They're sort of the Billetproof, traditional rod element of custom cruiser bikes, and a quick browse turns up some mind-blowing creativity. They just had a build off with some wild ass creations. Here's the Widowmaker IV by site member Texasbigjohn:
And a personal favorite built by board member Icyuod2 using old Schwinn exercycle parts, including a fucking enormous sprocket and a Suntour 3 speed hub with an 8 ball suicide shifter:
Not so into the bare springs on the seat, but it's not my ride, so I guess I can STFU.

On another subject entirely--one with motors--there's the following video straight out of crabcake central, Baltimore MD:

I know life in the ghetto is supposed to be miserable, but after seeing this video, I'll have to take your word for it. That shit looks like a ton of fun.

Finally, my lady and I were driving in the car and I happened to be listening to Kicking Against the Pricks by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. The song "Black Betty" came on:

To which my baby said, "Isn't there a '70s version of this song by a band called Ram Jam?"

I have to tell you, I couldn't even allow for the possibility of a band called Ram Jam. Ram Jam? What? That's fucking ridiculous. No one names a band Ram Jam, not even in the '70s. I mean, wasn't that Randy "The Ram" Robinson's signature move in The Wrestler? It just sounded too silly.

And yet, nothing is too silly for the '70s, apparently. And no argument goes longer than 15 seconds without being solved by the internet. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the testimonial, the world renown Ram Jam doing "Black Betty." As the the YouTube description says, "relish in the burn-out bearded idiocy of Ram Jam!":

And what the fuck is the story with the tambourine dude in the background? Was he just too good a pal to say, "Hey, uh, Joe--you can't be in our band--you don't play an instrument"? Fuck it, Joe's a good dancer, let's give him a tambourine. With the singer looking like Mark Borchardt from American Movie, I guess they figured they needed to amp up the sex appeal. Thing is, the whole backyard BBQ Ram Jam rockout looks like it was filmed at Borchardt's parents' house in Wisconsin.

I'll close out with a few random bits, as usual, starting with my newly bike-commuting homey Keith's Facebook quote:
Ah, those sexy execs at BP...what will they do with all that junk being literally and metaphorically being waved at them?

How 'bout we with one of my favorite skate photos of all time, Dave Hackett frontside slasher grind by the one and only Glen E. Friedman:
Fuck you heroes!


Anonymous said...

Two weird tie-ins. 1) I tried to get All You Can Eat to cover "Black Betty" in like 1992. They didn't go for it. 2) Comparing dude in Ram Jam to American Movie star Mark Borchardt threw me for a loop because there is an AYCE shirt featured in that movie near the end when the director interviews some kid in Milwaukee outside of the premier of the movie and the shit is all BAM! I freaked out when I was watching this in the theatre. Make yourself available the weekend of Nov 19th/20th cuz it's my 40th and I'll be up in the city with a crew getting stupid on bikes.

-Danny B.

phyte club katie said...

Another thing that really pisses me off about the nosy Jag lady is she's exemplary of not looking at your own shit. If you're driving a gas-guzzling, space-hogging car, you really have no recourse to wag a finger at anyone for not being conscious of the shit -- literal or figurative -- they're dumping into the commons, be it on the sidewalk or in the atmosphere. It's like how people and policy-makers are fucking obsessed with not allowing anyone to smoke cigarettes anywhere, because they care soooo much about public health, but limitless cars belching carcinogens 24/7 is unquestioned.
Makes the woods look better and better all the time....