Too Bad Life Just Ain't Fair

I'll tell you who Chris Collins is, bitches! It's this guy right here, with the thumbs. Or, rather, that guy, yonder, shirtless, with the thumbs, and the lacy ladypanties. Really, there's a little Chris Collins in all of us. Imagine of Jesus was a baldheaded lunatic from bumfuck Ohio who liked smokin' weed and eatin' pussy. You know, a salt of the earth bastard who might turn water into wine for the sake of a really bitchin' party; or knock a motherfucker out with one punch for being a classless, glass-throwing asshole. He'll smoke his last bowl of weed with you, and would give you the shirt off his back if he could remember where he put it.

And, not to put him on blast on these here interwebs, but this motherfucker has had even shittier luck than me this year. First, he got hit by a car, over the top, Starsky and Hutch style. Ripped all the tender bits up inside his knee: ACL, MCL, all that shit. Most of that shit. More than that shit--maybe some extra shit too. Meniscus? I don't know man, I'm not a fuckin' doctor. Things were rotten in Denmark.

Then, right before he was supposed to get surgery, he gets pneumonia.

Then, somewhere in the midst of all this nonsense, scabies. Yeah, scabies. I said it. No idea how or from who--just sat on the wrong chair or fucked the wrong crackhead on the wrong abandoned mattress--who knows where these things come from?--and itchy and scratchy are off to the races.

Things were not looking good for our hero.

Then this fella steps up out of the shadows:

[These last two images are by Miller Thomas]

His name is Colton and he won't pay for drugs, sex, office supplies, or hot dogs, so give it up smooth. He goes ahead and organizes some kinda punk rock shindig for the benefit of his cousin, to wit, Christopher Collins. (They're all cousins in Ohio, right?) The Buckshot--the bar where I work--hosts it, hot dogs are grilled, DJs Vinyl Hayride and Jonny Landmine show up, as do the bands Street Justice and the White Barons, and, well, shit gets a little loose. For once, the Buckshot looks like an actual punk rock bar inside, not a theme night at a USF dance.

I went bike riding that day and got stuck in traffic on the way home, so I missed Street Justice, but I did get to see the rock and roll juggernaut known as the White Barons, which is always a shot glass full of awesome sauce:
Which, in laymen's terms, means whiskey.
The rock? Consider it broughten:
Lately, Kenny G's hair has found an entirely cooler place to hang out:
Find a girl with faraway eyes:
Raw power I can feeeeeeel it:
Q: How far we goin' back?
A: Waaaaaaaaaaaaay back.

Colton had no fun. Too stressed out playing Johnny Organizer-of-charitable-events-guy. Here he is, grinding his teeth from stress:
This might be my favorite shot of the night. Enter the maelstrom:
The Devil's blood came seepin' through the walls:
And Miss Eva was not scared:
Some sort of man-ilingus went down:
Electric freakout ghosts started flying around the room:
Then Colton went into a trance:
In layman's terms, whiskey:
Singalongs were of the epic, NYHC variety:
Which, as we all know, invariably end in dudefests:
Somebody let in the riff raff. On the right is Sean Ramirez, of the eponymous principle:
The other guy is the Herculean Chilean, Rocky Lobos.

Joel, a.k.a. Jonny Landmine, lookin' like the ghost of Bobby Peru:
Josh, manned the door for a hot second:
And, lest we forget, the celebrity cripple, which is to say, the man of the hour, and his barbed wire birdcage full of loot:
Seriously, people, ones? He's moving back to Ohio, not Fresno. Give the motherfucker some gas money. Ones should go directly to the G string you know he's wearing.

Talk about beauty and the beast. I'm thinking we should use the donations to buy this pretty lady some contact lenses:
Gus from Fist Fam wildin' out:
Yeah, there were fuckin' hot dogs. You thought there weren't? Didn't see Colton paying for any, that's for goddamned sure:
Chris, you're a great guy with shit luck, and we're going to miss you in Fogtown.

When you're broken down and beat up...

When you're coughing up blood and your balls itch...

When you're stuck between a flatulent homeless dude and an old Chinese woman with a pillowcase full of live chickens on the Stockton bus...

Just thank God you're not French:

Which is to say, I could see you building a crazy contraption like that, but you'd ride it a lot faster.

I Shall Return

"Age wrinkles the body. Quitting wrinkles the soul."

--General Douglass MacArthur

Ride It Like You Stole It

Sometimes I fancy myself a bike mechanic. Of sorts. After a fashion.

But I'm not a bike mechanic. This guy's a bike mechanic:
That, in the words of a certain Chris "Mad Dog" Moeller, is what you call "bicycle soul riding." Which, in addition to Sammy Sandals above, also looks looks like this:
Which brings me to what I call the Sean Ramirez Principle, after my McMexican coworker at the bike shop. One day I was putting a new 11 speed Campagnolo Super Record groupset on some rich guy's custom titanium Seven. His "old" parts that were currently on that bike were going on his custom carbon Calfee.

"If I had a bike that cost this much, I sure as shit would work on it myself," I said.

"That's the thing though," Sean replied. "Guys that can afford bikes like this spent their time learning how to make money and guys like us spent our time learning how to work on bikes."

Ouch, that is some true ass shit. The mechanics I work with ride everything from high end Intense downhill bikes--expensive, but hooked up on the cheap because he knows the guys--to lovingly restored old Raleighs, to impeccably-tuned second tier brands like Fuji and Jamis. They know how to work on their own machines, which we all have between 5 and 15 of. There are precious few custom frames between us because we know precious little about the stock market. Or dentistry. And, since we are immersed in the ass-end of industry hype--fancy new titanium derailleurs that don't shift, drivetrain designs that are intentionally obsolete two years after they come out, custom Ti frames that flex like wet noodles--we don't waste our paltry paychecks on the emperor's new clothes. We're smart. We have skills.

Yet we've made horrible life choices.

Quite clearly.

This isn't Sean Ramirez. Matter of fact, this wasted youth somehow owns his own business.
Yeah: it's a bar. But Sean Ramirez was in the room when this photo was taken.

I put together shit like this all day:

Specialized S-Works Venge. $8300 out of the fuckin' box.
Hint: someone here didn't major in Creative Writing, and it wasn't me.

Where have I been? That's always the question. I either haven't felt like checking or haven't had the time since I was about 7 years old. This post was going to be my "What I Did On My Summer Vacation" post, a Freak Magnet summertime classic, but it's getting late, I've got to go to work, and I've made a vow to make these shorter and more frequent.

I've been broke, I've been broken, and I've been broken up with. I've been camping, hiking, riding, and sleeping in the literal and metaphorical dirt. I've been working.

Here's the bottom of my foot, fresh out of the cast:
And here's an 8 1/2 x 11" sheet of paper covered in dead skin:
I'm still here, motherfuckers. Others have fallen harder, and with greater frequency:

"A man can fall many times in life, but he's never a failure until he refuses to get back up." --E.K.

Hoffman at Woodward West, killing his ankle on a lazy Saturday.

Until next time, I love you, I hate you, fuck you, fuck me. Hugs? And, if you see Kaye, can you tell her...

[Whatever it is you need to tell her.]

Sometimes I think all the magic is gone from the world. Then I look at my rainbow unicorn toenail clipper, undoubtedly made by the delicate fingers of a not-long-for-this-world Malaysian angel child, and I think the magic can never end.
Keep on riding it like you stole it from some motherfucker who had more money than balls.

Thanks

You left me your Newport butts.
Out on the patio, covered in dog piss.
That's the last I've got left of you.
So, you know...thanks for that.

Greg Ginn You Tired Old Cunt

You tried so hard to destroy the man you became him.
82,200 results in less than half a second. Negativeland, Dave Markey...you fucked everybody. YOU KICKED CHUCK DUKOWSKI OUT OF BLACK FLAG! Everyone wants Henry to be the dick, but you've played this tortured genius shit to the hilt. You and Lars Ulrich should make a Black Keys-like blues duo called Take the Money and Run.

Sonic Reducer

I don't need anyone
Don't need no mom and dad
Don't need no pretty face
Don't need no human race
I got some news for you
Don't even need you too

I got my devil machine
Got my electronic dream
Sonic reducer
Ain't no loser
I'm a sonic reducer
Ain't no loser

People out on the streets
They don't know who I am
I watch them from my room
They all just pass me by
But I'm not just anyone
Said I'm not just anyone

I got my devil machine
Got my electronic dream
Sonic reducer
Ain't no loser
I'm a sonic reducer
Ain't no loser

I'll be a pharaoh soon
Rule from some golden tomb
Things will be different then
The sun will rise from here
Then I'll be ten feet tall
And you'll be nothing at all

--Dead Boys

Fuckin' Nazis

And their goddamned UFOs.

R.I.P. Eagle Tavern

Punker supergroup OFF! features Keith Morris (Black Flag, Circle Jerks), Dimitri Coates (Burning Brides) on guitar, Steven McDonald (Redd Kross) on bass, and Mario Rubalcaba (Earthless, Hot Snakes, Rocket from the Crypt) on drums. They played the second to last live show at the (unfortunately) historic Eagle Tavern. The Eagle--featured in the very first post of this blog--has been ousted from their spot by a greedy landlord who wants to get rid of a landmark in favor of condos or some silly straight club that will probably tank in three months.

Anyhow, went to the show with my lady, got in a weird argument on the patio with her during the opening band, who's name I can't remember (they didn't sound too compelling from the patio), made up, went in, punked out, took some photos.

Culture Kids came on before OFF! and fucking killed it. They've got a raw-boned early Bad Brains DGF type attitude. It was refreshing to see a new punk band that wasn't formulaic or cutesy pop.OFF! hit the stage with a vengeance. Keith immediately started his celebrated "I'm in a Box" Marcel Marceau mime act. Great fuckin' shirt:
This was followed hard upon by his "Surfin' Tsunami Claw." Anyone who knows Josh from the Buckshot think there's a similarity here?All up in yo grill:
Dimitri:
Steven McDonald, lookin' hella sexy. I think dude behind him might be rubbing one out:
Good times were had by all. The Eagle was no stranger to hot man on man action:
OFF! proved themselves to be greater than than the sum of their celebrated pedigrees and brought the noise with fury. Thank you, gentlemen.

In other news, I've zip-tied a piece of tire to the bottom of my cast and am hobbling around crutch free against my better judgment:
The idea was to be able to ride around the neighborhood, but if my girlfriend were to find out I was doing this, she'd go ahead and chop my foot off, so I probably won't. I want to get on this bad boy a.s.a.p:
Traitor Ruben with Hayes Stroker Ryde hydraulic discs, DMR chromo wing bars, Wellgo MG-1 magnesium pedals, 9 speed cassette with single front ring, Ultegra derailleur, and XT shifter. This tits. Got eight days left before I'm in a walking cast and I can't wait.