I was thinking about what Hunter S Thompson would say about the modern motorcycle culture, and well, this might not sound so nice, and I probably could be subjectively just in a bad mood tonight, I mean I am just getting through a breakup, but huh, I don’t feel that down. Anyway, so this is what I wrote about this festival that is going on in our downtown, and it’s called Bike Time. (Link After my venom)
Being sophisticated, even if you’re poor, well not here, not in Muskegon. No helmets and bent from hell, really, from Ohio or any of the swamps scattered all over the Midwest, and oh they’re here, and these humans stir-up the polluted lake and feast on mutated swans with implanted double-ds, just people-people, people-things with absolutely no working knowledge of what being alive actually means. Fuck, and as the fireworks have at last all been used up from the apocalyptic downtown you don’t need no seashell to hear these echoes of all these displaced suburban sounds, and it resembles the vibe that you get when you watch that movie “from dusk til dawn.” Still, I get bored, and so, I might venture down to this thing, just to see how long I’m allowed to mingle with the people before I get a black eye while being black out drunk, and well, sure, I could piss anyone off for any number of reasons. This ain’t the Great Gatsby, fuck, Fitzgerald is Leo in our time, and if Hemingway was alive today he’d probably do the same as me; actually, he probably never would have existed, he wouldn’t have even thought and tapped and became that old bull of a writer. He’d probably just ride some bike and talk shit to me. So I might go down here, for a good ol’ sociological investigation, but well, I’ll probably just end up in some beer tent pounding canisters in order to curb the anxiety that further causes my essential tremor disorder to send neurotic signals from my spine to my shaking fingers . And when drunk I become bored, say fuck it, become the embodiment of pure anarchy, and yeah, as some Harley Davidson republican loses his cool as I’m hitting on some biker chick that when she’s not down with the easy riders she’s working as the youth coordinator at some grand rapids church, well then, yeah, I’ll stick up for myself, and not for a fair fight, nope, rather, just for a good time. I don’t get how motorcycles are considered bad ass, because here, in this town, well I’ve got the statistical information to map out who these insects that are riding these hogs , for the most part, are. Yeah, they’re cops and poor lunatics that believe that they’re rich white people. Sit tight and write a novel and hide in the backyards as the bikers are all booked-in at the Holiday-INN and breeding after the only good day of rain all summer, as if they’re mosquitoes buzzing all these snorting human yelling noises while listening to some racist nudget. Fuck, and what you’ll find, is a bunch of out of shape people with idiotic children whom all just need to walk around a bit and think about something other than how to cover up the fact that they’re as aimlessly confused as any lemming-like society has ever been. Forget Rome, never mind the what have you of history, because in our own visceral time we’ve got visions of the declining of an empire that never even wanted to be great, but still, we shall see…
I mean, we’re all actors, so after writing a page I’m going to go have me a lil ol’ literary adventure, and It starts with me cracking a beer and playing the part of the wandering fool. Oh, huh? I’m not supposed to be here? How did I get in? The door.