Sideshow Riders, I Salute You

Imagine my surprise that, while sitting in my car eagerly awaiting a post-party-bad-idea-jeans Jack-in-the-Box-burger, I would be treated to the penultimate display of human bad-ass-ness: The drunken motorcycle sideshow.

Right in front of a bar, lined in front with rice rockets and pocket bikes and other unit-enhancing oddities. On an open public street. At midnight on a saturday. I found heaven that night. Not from said cheeseburger with curly fries, but from the spectacular ballet that is your roadshow. I sat transfixed, grease dripping from my craw, as you testosterone laden drunks danced a rodeo of tricks before my vary eyes.

We're not talking simple wheelies, mind you. That is so 80s. In order to get the REAL attention, and no doubt the finest women, one must:

3) Turn donuts into oncoming traffic. Cool, smelly smoke and the oncoming traffic element gives this trick some big-ups, although it is still beginner shit, yo. Rider gets a date with a local tweaker with a jean micromini and scorching case of herpes. -

2) Stand on the back pegs while doing a wheelie, going 90 with no lights. You're teetering awfully close to bad-ass level, my drunken friend. This trickster gets to make out with one of the drunken bartenders, and a free 40 ounce of your favorite Compton tap water.

1) Stand on the seat while the bike barrels down the street into oncoming traffic, without headlights, "look ma no hands." I'm a dude, and straight, but you are one jacked up pimp, homeboy. I salute you. YOU, my fearless leader, get your choice of either: the naughty school-girl wearing asian chick sprawled out across her homegirl's lowered Civic OR the bootylicious homegirl with perfect extensions and derriere that makes me think of the word "orb." I'm not sure if said girls were actually in attendance, but every movie I've ever seen with this kind a thing goin' down always has them lookin' all hot, so I'm sure they existed on Saturday on Gravois.

To the youngster that flipped his bike while trying to wheelie: keep at it, dude. You'll no doubt be the wayward comeback kid in future episodes that don't care about the local clique, or the generally accepted sideshow symposium (GASS). You will be trained by the Lawrence Fishburne character, and get to sleep with his high-breasted daughter/mechanic once your rebellious brand of riding is validated when you take down the opposing gang's much feared leader. He did kill yo poppa, afterall. 'Hope your tailbone isn't cracked and that your out of control motorcycle, having bucked you off, didn't careen into the gang of fawning highschool chicks that were no doubt in attendance as well.

Gentlemen, I salute you.

I Support Everything

In the parking lot of my office building there is a beat up old chevy that has no less than 19 ribbon-support-magnet-thingies. Sure a couple are duplicates, but isn't there a cap on how much one can truly support? I mean, isn't it simply EXHAUSTING to care so much?

I support the troops!
I support the NRA!
I support breast cancer! I mean, well, that came out wrong.

I have a headache just from thinking about caring so much, about supporting so many different concepts and people and warmongering profiteers.

After awhile doesn't all of this varying support actually hurt your different causes? I mean, if I really and truly support the war in Iraq, isn't the time I'm spending caring so much about it take away from the time I should be caring about my right to shoot shit, and thereby diminish that cause?

19 magnets. I didn't count all of the american flag: stickers, license plate holders, mud flaps, antenna balls and such. I didn't want to get shot by a redneck thinking I was casing his rolling shrine of care.

Missouri. "The Show Me State." I finally get what the hell that means. We SHOW that we CARE here. Whether it be with magnets or billboards (there's one by my house that simply says "JESUS" in 12-foot letters. Since when does Jesus need an outdoor advertising campaign? But I digress), we'll let you know just how concerned we really are.

Random MoFo

Try and pin me down, I dare you. Random playlist from hitting shuffle on the ipod:

• Rock Me, The Pills. Head-banging prog house.
• Epoca, Gotan Project. Trippy midtempo.

I know, switching from proggressive house to midtempo lounge music does not necessarily count as a shocking display of randomness. Just wait...

• Fuck the Police, NWA. Classic gangsta rap. I'm straight outta Hudson, yo. I can relate.
• Bubblehouse, MMW. Okay, maybe I'm not street. Maybe I'm a subruban hippie. Not to be confused by an actual hippie.
• Potholes in my Lawn, De La Sol. Okay, maybe I'm urban but still want peace and positivity?
• La Despendida, Manu Chau. Ah shit! "Oh no you did not," you're no doubt saying. "This guy isn't even singing in English, man!"
• Whipping Post, Allmans.
• Deep Elem Blues, JGB. Phew, I'm crunchy again.
• Hollywood Swinging, Kool & the Gang. Where did this come from, you genre-switching madman?
• Mosh, Eminem. No surpise here: Dubya is bad.
• Home, Talking Heads. Wha?
• Ingrid Bergman, Billy Bragg & Wilco. Stop the madness!

Okay, you get the point. My taste in music is alittle random.

The End Is Nigh

In the "I wish I was reading the Onion" category:

"DYLAN SIGNS DEAL WITH STARBUCKS
Rock superstar Bob Dylan has signed a new deal to allow an exclusive CD of his music to be sold in branches of Starbucks Coffee.
"Dylan: Live at the Gaslight 1962" will feature 10 previous unreleased tracks recorded at the beginning of his career in New York's famous Gaslight Cafe -- and will only be available to fans who visit a branch of Starbucks.
Dylan is the latest in a string of stars to sign deals with the company, which has become a massive force in the American music industry -- a quarter of sales of the late Ray Charles' recent album, Genius Loves Company, 775,000 copies, were sold at Starbucks."

The end cometh, my friends. The horsemen are saddling up, and the frogs are preparing to rain upon us. Grab the whiskey and hit the shelter: it's gonna be a long night.

Jason's Big Head

When I was born my head was so large that they thought I was retaining water and could possibly be brain damaged as a result. My nickname quickly became Bighead, a name my 91 year-old grandmother still refers to me as. It turns out that large craniums run in my family (I am actually Son of Very Big Head), and that the only thing retained in my head are random thoughts and observations.

Which I'll post here.

I'll try and keep it clean for the folks, and keep details of work out of it for fear of getting dooced (www.dooce.com).

A cast of characters in my life, and a basic bio, to follow. This is only a test. The revolution will not be televised.

Willow

My niece, Willow, lives with my brother Bryan and sister-in-law Megan in Santa Fe. She's not yet a year old, but already has a cooler haircut than me (natural blonde mohawk) and spent more days skiing last year than I did. She also gets to hang out with Bryan and Megan all day, who are really nice people.

I am envious of my 9-month old niece. That's just pitiful. I betcha I could kick her ass at Trivial Pursuit, though.

In this picture she's hitching a ride on Bridger's back. Bridger is the only dog in the world that is more neurotic than Payton. Ironically, they are each other's doppelgangers: they could be twins.