Friday, July 4, 2014

The Aging Rebel

   The Aging Rebel is a blog devoted to waving the flag of "outlaw biker" sovereignty. And by outlaw biker I mean the groups called bike gangs by the FBI -  the Federal Bureau of Idiots -  and listed in their Most Wanted catalogues. Unlike Islam. Which is not. I told you they were idiots.
   Where was I.
   Oh, yeah. So The Aging Rebel blog is owned by a man named Donald Charles Davis. He's a pro-Mongols, pro-Hells Angels, etc, journalist, essayist, philosopher, reporter, etc devoted to defending what we will call bike gangs. Bike gangs are on a public relations mission lately to "not be called gangs." Because gangs are apparently illegal. Or the name gang is illegal. Or something. According to law enforcement, apparently, "gang" is something only a negro or a Mexican can be a part of apparently and get away with it. "Street gangs" are looked upon with a kind of quiet reverence and tolerance by law enforcement whereas "bike gangs"  are apparently targeted Enemies of the State working on domestic soil for the overthrow of the American way of life. Even though most bike gangs are inhabited by combat veterans who killed foreigners for a low pay rate for several years. Whereas the street gangs never left their filthy squalid neighborhoods and only fought with their girlfriends, and usually - the Mexican slash Aztec slash Central American aborigines certainly - detest America.
   So anyway on this blog there are a lot of followers and commenters who are law enforcement officers and psychopaths who were just too fucking crazy or lazy to become law enforcement officers and people who wish they were cops and people who are not cops but think they are or are free lance law enforcement officers…..anyway there are a lot of childish, psychotic, sadistic bullies who comment because - like most cops - they want to be "outlaw bikers in the Hells Angles." Because they see in these groups they are arresting but want to be a part of…….well, frankly it's complicated. The mind of a law enforcer and wannabe law enforcer is a writhing morass of seething contradictory frustrations. Ten thousand Freuds and ten hundred thousand L Ron Hubbards could not unravel it. So anyway these moronic mental patients want to be a part of this blog. Because the owner of the blog apparently mixes freely with these people -  these biker gangs wanted by the FBI -  and apparently these biker gangs are convinced he has their back. I myself have never seen an occasion that would contradict this conclusion. He does apparently from what I can see does have their back. In fact, if anything, from what i can see, they are the ones that should have his back. And for all i know they might. I dunno. It ain't my universe. I just observe it.
   So this blog is followed by tons and tons of law enforcement types and wannabe law enforcement types and the most preposterous of these are also frustrated writers. Bad frustrated writers. They are also - having cop brains - convinced that this blog is actually theirs. Not the blog owner's. They make great pronouncements on things the blog owner himself never pays any attention to. They relentlessly write long - badly written - treatises on whatever the post is that they are commenting about. They also unerringly drive off anyone who should actually be there who they think is not "manly" enough. To them "not manly" means not insane with mommy and daddy issues. The owner of the blog does not interfere or interact with comment items unless they are aimed at him personally or unless there is some huge disruptive nightmare in progress. Usually there are no huge disruptive nightmares in progress because the cadre of self-proclaimed blog cops patrol the area and dont allow innocent - to them completely alien - thoughts or observations or theories or sentiments….unless they are genuinely vapid, stupid, idiotic, have the word "bro" in them, and are filled with the word "respect." One of these blogger security agents actually has the hilariously ghastly pomposity and This Is My Dominion delusional narcissistic ridiculousness to close all of his remarks with "long may you ride. (those that deserve to)" His kids have to either all be in straight jackets or all on death row or all living under bridges in soul-sucked-dry despair. He is not only the blog's rent-a-cop he is the arbiter of worthiness to have or use a motorcycle. This is not only a cop, this might actually be a chief of police somewhere or perhaps even a congressman.
   There are also real Federal assholes who comment who make no pretense about being anything other than real Federal assholes. They dont pretend to be bikers. They make it clear that they dont like bikers and they dont like the blog. They are as delusional as the blog security guards but at least they have actual jobs in law enforcement and they do not pretend to like bikers - unlike the blog security guards who actually detest bikers but want to be one (remember i said it was convoluted?) At least the bonifide agents of the Feds admit they hate bikers - which they do - so on the sanity level at least they are closer to normal than "long may you ride those that deserve to." 'Cause in "those that deserve to"'s mind nobody actually deserves to. Other than him. Only he deserves to. For some odd reason. One probably having to do with his father.

Saturday, June 21, 2014

The Harley Wind-Up Toy

Regarding the Mattel Hasbro Milton Bradley Wham-O Brand electric bike that the Harley upper-management team of golfing aficionados is creating -  in soundbites, if not in actual fact ….. these executive juggernauts of industry are clearly convinced that something other than the deteriorating "Harley Mystique" is what is keeping their company in the black. Assuming that it actually is in the black. However, they are wrong in thinking that something other than the fading "Harley Mystique" is keeping them afloat. In fact it is only the deteriorating Harley Mystique, and not their actual products, that is keeping them from joining GM in Bailout Wonderland. Not that the Feds would grant Harley bailout- money, because Obama probably hates bikers as much as apparently Harley does, and for-sure as much the ATF and the cops do. Speaking of Harley executives: the internet announcement began with the important and deeply meaningful message, "Riders today. Define tomorrow." Apparently Pigeon English being used as the language-of-choice to announce this bike is a way of announcing to the Third World "Harley is for you, Joe. You like. You have good time on me!"  As the drooling knuckledraggers that created the internet announcement that cries out in boardroom brilliance "Riders Today. Define tomorrow." are going to find out in short order, it is only the Harley Mystique that is keeping the executive washroom staffers in offshore gambling invitations. Not the bikes themselves. In fact "short order" might be the two words they should think about adding to "Riders today. Define tomorrow." making it "Riders today. Define tomorrow. Short order." Because they might all be doing short orders at McDonald's pretty soon, based on the evidence presented via the electric bike announcement.   

For the information of the Harley Executive Squadroom Brainstormers  -  Harley Corp did not create the Harley Mystique. The Harley Mystique was not created by an ad campaign. The Harley Mystique was not created by a motorcycle. The Harley Mystique was not created by an overpaid buffoon executive in an untied tie walking around the office with coffee in a paper cup and a suit jacket across his arm looking as though he was just too anxious to get to work on time to worry about getting fully dressed. No: the Harley Mystique is something that exists only because of the existence of the 1950's-circa individuals in groups who had actual, genuine mystiques. And not Harley Mystiques either. Just mystiques. Just real actual mystiques. And who themselves CREATED the Harley Mystique. Groups like the Hells Angels, the Gypsy Jokers, the Galloping Gooses, the Satans Slaves, the Pissed Off Bastards, the Devils Disciples. the Boozefighters, the Mad Hatters; the uniquely American outcasts with the mind set that valued the individual and adventure and exploration over the government mandated lifestyle of school, neighborhood, two kids, a cocker spaniel, What's My Line, the Saturday Evening Post, the licensing of everything from your guns and your cars and your dynamite collection to the licensing of the jizz in your balls, of  time clocks, and working for someone else. No. If there were mystiques that accompanied these men that were genuine American individuals it was the mystiques of  beer, strip joints, dope, and riding alone through the western deserts. Those  were the actual mystiques. Harleys were the Hitchiking Aftermarket Mystiques that these individuals decided to adopt and bring along with them just because these bikes retained some semblance of devotion to the principles of liberty that allegedly this country was created on. Which i assume they assumed was more or less American. Which of course, regarding Harleys, has turned out to be another Hitchiking Hangaround Mystique. Not a real one. No, the men on the bikes are the original mystique. Not the brand of motorcycle they decided to adopt for one reason or another. And those men who are the real mystique are now looking at the skin of their once bulging biceps and watching them wrinkle and fall against the bones of their arms like curtains closing on a grand performance. And when they go so will be gone the mystique. And Harley-Davidson will return to the ash pit of buffoonery it was when it was being nestled like a helpless baby in the arms of a pin-spotting-machine maker. And that's where it would have stayed were it not for an upstart heralder of the dirty filthy riders of Harleys that focused on the men on the Harleys, not the Harleys themselves: rather the men who lived on their Harleys; Easyriders magazine. Say what you want to about it now, at the time it glorified the last of the Americans who bought up this magazine like starving exhausted warriors lapping up water. Men like Joe Teresi, Lou Kimzey, Mil Blair, Keith Ball, Madman Kelly, Billy Thornbury, Izzy Petty, Rip-aroo from San Berdoo, Wino Joe, Miraculous Muthuh, Spider, Hal Robinson, David Mann, and, by the grace and mercies of a gentle and loving jesus, even myself; all dedicated with enthusiasm toward proclaiming the feral, renegade riders of the Harleys, not the Harleys themselves, as the Last Americans. "This is not a nuts and bolts magazine," Lou said." This is an entertainment rag for adult bikers." The largess for Harley Corp from that relentless temporary burst of creative fire is all that Harley has left to hang on to and those men and those readers are fading fast, and when they are gone no one will be giving Harley Davidsons a second look except, especially in the case of the Livewire, to say "what in the name of Fucking Fuck is THAT."  All good things may or may not come to an end. But all stupid things certainly do. And Harley Davidson is one of those stupid things. And the end they have chosen for themselves - in typical fashion for the stupid - is by buffoonery.  And a fitting headstone, assuming they can even, or want to, find the body, would be a Livewire with a grinning Chinaman in a Mao jacket sitting on it shouting " Hi, Yankee swine! You tink me pditty???"

Friday, May 23, 2014

Left-Over Dialogue From A Fiction Story

the only time i would apologize for calling someone a nigger would be if it turned out they werent actually a nigger. then i would apologize. in fact i would consider it obligatory. what niggers need to do is to apologize to humanity for not getting with the fucking program and for holding everyone back, including in school, in the workplace, in politics, and in the advancement of mankind. YOURE HOLDING UP THE WORKS, ASSHOLES!! SHAPE UP!! WE'RE TIRED OF WATCHING YOUR BACK AND YOUR FUCKING FRONT AND YOUR SIDES AND YOUR ABOVE AND BELOWS!! DO SOMETHING ON YOUR OWN IF YOUR SO GODDAMN SUPERIOR TO EVERYONE ELSE LIKE YOU RACIST BASTARDS KEEP CLAIMING!! THANK YOU!! AND FUCK YOU!! and you mexicans need to evesdrop-in on all this and snap out of it, ya hear? cause you're next for deportation. you all need to get back to your own country. we're basically sick of your overly fertile asses. as for you muslims, we all hope to see you all in hell. thank you.

Monday, May 12, 2014

Epic Brand Food Bar

 I just ate something called an EPIC health bar. I havent been this angry since 9-11.
   Let me read to you the package: 
   "EPIC foods are inspired by the simple yet highly powerful diets of our ancestors. The same diets that have driven human innovation, inspired creativity, and fueled over 100,000 years of brilliant evolution. We specialize in creating conveniently packaged animal-based protein snacks that taste EPIC. Finally, a bar as intended by Mother Nature. Be EPIC, eat EPIC."
   The promises of politicians to better, not worsen, the world are more sanctified as lies and preposterous nonsense than the atrocity of flagrant and almost diabolical exaggeration and blubbering idiocy printed on every package of EPIC animal detritus disguised as packaged human hunting-targets. Hitler praising the Jews and the Bolsheviks as necessary adjuncts to progress is less of an affront to hypothetical utterances than the bloviating addled rhapsodies of the above-quoted packaging propaganda. The US Constitution is less sweeping in its delusional suppositions and imaginary goals and purposes than the boasting announcements of an EPIC-bar package.  
   How does it taste? It tastes like carrion. If you went to the savannahs of the Dark Continent and laid one of these things onto the surface of the veldt within minutes every scavenger in Africa would be trotting into view. The skies, like some mind-twisting sci-fi movie, would darken with wings approaching from all corners of the overhead blue dome, like a massive, coagulating high altitude black puddle from space. Jackals, hyenas, vultures, and every predator in the trees and high grasses would trot, not walk, toward the source of the rotted smell. An EPIC bar, unwrapped and waved overhead to allow the currents and breezes to catch the atoms of decay and waft them to the far oceans of the southern hemisphere would raise C'thulhu from the depths of his oceanic slumber. His dreaming mind would pop awake to full attention and he would rise in the moonlight of the quiet empty sea at midnight, in stench and steaming foulness, and begin to slosh in thousand-league plodding focused strides of determination toward where all the other eaters-of-offal were already gathered to devour the EPIC bar.  
    if zombies had a culture and a society they would have EPIC bars in their 7-11's. When they could not find the time to eat a proper meal of writhing screaming homo sapiens they could pop an EPIC bar into their mouths and get that same-taste satisfaction that eating warm steamy pulled-to-shreds human body parts brings.
   "EPIC foods are inspired by the simple yet highly powered diets of our ancestors."
   Our fucking ancestors ate crap. They didnt even have fire. They ate worse shit than what a deranged bum who lives inside a Chinese restaurant's dumpster eats. Half the food of "our ancestors" was filled with maggots. Most of the time they were eating each other. Killing and eating fellow-humans was certainly less problematic than trying to chase down a fucking eland.
   "The same diets that have driven human innovation, inspired creativity, and fueled over 100,000 years of brilliant evolution."
   Jesus fucking christ dead on the cross and laughed at by the flies feeding off the infections oozing through the scrotal flesh of the festering balls of Allah!…..human innovation didnt even start until alternating current. The previous hundred thousand years were pretty grim. And before the Sumerians human life was downright ridiculous. A hundred thousand years of eating each other's feces inspired creativity? What sort of creativity?… concepts of savagery? The same diets "that fueled a hundred thousand years of brilliant evolution"? Our food fueled our evolution? Not the conditions that needed adapting to? But rather the snatching of bananas from our neighbors or the yanking of a gazelle bone, festered and stinking, from the beak of a squawking vulture? This fueled our evolution? Eating tainted meat and hippo-beshatted tubers? Darwin kicked-in once we started burying our ape faces into piles of deceased-wildebeest mucus? 
   I still have the unpackaged EPIC bar on the table so that the undulating currents of stench emanating out from it and into my tortured nostrils will aid in my paen to its atrocities and my pain at the images it elicits in my now-totally-fevered imagination. So, fair to say, an EPIC bar does not lack certain virtues: it inspires creativity. Just like the label says, come to think of it. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe these are really really good. And of course I am being silly. They are not good. They are abominations called food. They are the Apocalypse in your backpack.

   Inside the package, along with the evolution insurance policy that is the bar itself is an additional packet, I see. It has printed all over it the words "do not eat."  The irony just never stops with this product.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Las Vegas Visit 3

   Across the street from the Trump are the two brown-glass thin sheets of curving elegance called the Wynn and something called Encore, which is a duplicate of the Wynn only facing the other way. I am saying brown but they are not really brown. They are more of a metallic watery chocolate copperish color that arc and curve against the sky like huge sculptured waves. Donald Trump and Steve Wynn are two of the more interesting men on the planet and seeing their buildings right next to each other gives a good synopsis of the both of them. The Trump building is an upright tall block of gold, like a fucking ingot, that says "I'm rich and I like talking about it." The Wynn buildings say "Won't you join me in an elegant moment on my property that I think you will appreciate?" Of the two men, Wynn, of course, is the more dangerous. I don't think Donald Trump could bring himself to push someone off the roof. I think Wynn would not only push someone off he'd go down and drag the body up to push off a second time if it suited him. And then if the cops asked him about it he'd say "That's none of your fucking business" and tell them to leave. Meanwhile Donald would charm his way out of any such incident, and if that failed he would use hypnosis, which he seems able to manipulate and throw around if it suits him. I think both men are cordial rivals who see in the other a viable partnership as long as Trump stays out of the gambling business. Which he apparently is content to do.
   Where Trump is an in-your-face flaunter of wealth and shiny surfaces, Wynn is an aesthetic maniac. There is an attention to detail that is exhausting: there are uniformed personnel hand-washing the leaves of the plants. There are Mexicans pushing carts with thousands of colored replacement tiles the size of square nickels for the floors when one or more of the millions of mosaic tiles gets punctured or broken. There are women in high heels all over the place and if one of them hooked a shoe in any of the craters that appear constantly there would be all kinds of maneuvering room for a "legitimate" lawsuit, so a lot of time is just spent on damage control keeping the broken mini-tiles in repair. This could all be easily avoided with a normal floor. And that just ain't in the cards. Steve Wynn wants tiled design motifs for people to walk on.
   I have watched Donald Trump and Steve Wynn in one venue or another and have concluded that Donald Trump is the sort of man who wants to get to the bottom of every incident and situation and hear every side and watch every witness before he comes to a fair conclusion about a matter: that's it's important to him to see and hear all he can about something before coming to a decision about another person's fate. Steve Wynn strikes me as someone who could give a flying fuck about the particulars, just do what I say and shut the fuck up about it or you'll find yourself out on your ass and probably with my foot still up it. Steve Wynn also seems oblivious to the horrific facework that is being eternally performed upon him, which makes little sense to me when I see the attention to detail and aesthetics that he puts into everything else. Then when his face is concerned he let's Methy Crackhead The Clown take over and gives him a bonus if he does an especially ridiculous job of things. Carrot Top has to be Steve Wynn's first number in his Rolodex when it comes to rounding-up a drinking buddy for the night so that he will be seen sporting-about with a kindred spirit in the horror department.

Las Vegas Visit 2

   Staying at Treasure Island, now called TI in an effort to change the name without actually changing the name, if you are facing west and are on the 18th floor what you see is a listless industrial expanse that goes from horizon to horizon, and the Trump building. Trump chose his lot of land with care, the Strip curves suddenly about 45 degrees to the east. If Trump had built his building along the Strip road itself instead of placing it way to the east of the highway - you never would be able to see the Trump letters that cross the top edge of the building if you were ten miles out in the desert to the south where the approach to Las Vegas exists. As it is, however, the word TRUMP is all you can see as you approach the Strip, it's the only word you can clearly see in the whole town and it gives you the distinct impression that you are actually entering the city of Trump. But it's not the city of Trump it's the city of Wynn. The only reason Trump is there at all - in my opinion - is because Wynn made him agree to never open a casino in any building he built or had built by the mob-run construction industry. Apparently - in my opinion - Trump is not good at running casinos. Or - in my opinion - at least someone thinks he is no good at it.
   Well, some accord was - in my opinion - reached and there the Trump building sets, the most noticeable thing in town from out of town.
   I have never entered the Trump because, like they did the Duck Dynasty dude, I would likely get kicked out. Unless I was in disguise, which means, unless I was in a suit. And I would have to make my entrance immediately after putting the suit on because I tend to look like I just wrestled a steer in an arena made of manure after I am dressed up for five minutes or more. I have been this way since childhood. I just cannot stay clean. It's like dressing a leopard in clothing: two minutes later the clothing is either hanging in the branch of a tree in shreds or still on the leopard and looking like the leopard took a machete to it. The first time Cecily stopped me from going into someplace - about 30 years ago - and started fixing how I looked she uttered "I swear, you need a valet." I responded - in all truthfulness - "My mother started saying that to me when I was eight!" Which is in fact factual. My mother could not believe what I would look like when I would come home from school or from play. I was also at that age and those years surrounding that age, in lots and lots of shows and recitals and this that and the other thing in which i had to perform, alone, and on stage and there were lots and lots of auditions for another pile of these those and other things. I had to be "in costume" for these performances, which usually consisted of some outfit cesar romero might wear at the club or desi arnaz might don while "hosteeng de cho." These duds had to be put on me mere instants before I was to perform or else they would look like the leopard's clothes up in the tree. If dressing me long-prior to the performance was the only alternative I had to be watched and monitored and ordered to sit and stay put. Otherwise I would come out on stage in the spotlights looking like Emmett Kelly when I was supposed to look like Cary Grant.
   This is why I didn't attempt to enter the Trump. Also I was approaching on foot from Industrial Blvd. Industrial Blvd is the next street to the west of the Strip. It is lined with strip joints. High end ones too, at least as high end as these things get: Deja Vue and Sapphire and a few others of renown. They are only high end by reputation, however, and not by real estate appearance. Especially during the day. You would be afraid to enter any of the places during the day: they look like vampire retreats from the sunlight. They look like buildings the apocalypse devastated first before moving on to more posh places to obliterate.
   To the immediate east of this industrial glut of wooden warehouses is a vast vacant lot, another vast lot on which something is being started made of steel and rising above it all is the Trump. The Trump reflects a golden light onto the huge mall immediately south of it because the Trump has golden glass all up and down it. The entrance, which I peeked at, is all golden with golden chandeliers and golden people and the usual thug wannabes and trainees in uniforms greeting the people and opening the doors of the cars and taxis and limos and moving racks on wheels around because god forbid you should have to lug your own luggage.

Friday, January 31, 2014

Las Vegas Visit

   I just spent 4 days at Treasure Island. Or the TI as they are now mysteriously calling it. Turning a product name into its initials is always a sign of an impending apocalypse of the entire enterprise. Not that the place is falling apart. Though they are apparently dismantling the pirate ship performance that used to occur on the sidewalk. Down at the south end of the Strip there is even more ruinous destruction happening where the foul stench of sewage used to roil through the streets.
   Making accommodations for pedestrians is at the very bottom of the priority list on the Strip. High on the priority list is wedging still another heinously "high end" fashion into a sprawling indoor walkway inside a hotel-casino combo or one of the proliferating mall environments.
   Having been born into a carnival family it is immediately apparent to me but probably not to anyone else that all of Las Vegas is basically an evolved carnival. I see the same scams in operation there that were in operation in the Checcini & Leveggi "Kraft's 20 Big Shows" that used to meander up and down Central California from Fresno to Bakersfield to Willows to San Fernando, wherever white trash and illegal Mexicans gathered together and near whatever railroad tracks harbored the most plush and lavish hobo jungles that my father worked in. As I walk down the Strip and look up at all the flashing lights I can still feel the dirt under my bare feet that I felt in the fields and empty lots that the carnival would set-up for a week or whatever to provide some surcease from the ennui caused by the exhaustion and meaninglessness of the United States entry onto WW2, the war that if left alone would have resulted in Europe becoming Advanced. Certainly at least more advanced than they are now as they sink into the oblivion of fruit stands and pastry shops on the cobbled 500 year old sidewalks of the cobbled 500 year old alleyways they call streets.
   Las Vegas is the only city where "liberty" has any actual existence at all in America. And the Mob created the city. The people who according to Law Enforcement are devoted to curtailing peoples' liberties. Law Enforcement I would remind you is in the business of kidnapping strangers into slave labor camps and looting all their property. The Good Citizenry calls this "maintaining order." I call it rampant anarchy. You can understand why I have such a low opinion of the good citizenry: they have everything 180 degrees 100% backwards.
   The members of "organized crime" or as I call it "the free market" created the happiest place on earth and didn't bat an eye when Walt Disney dared to use that expression for his silly little childrens' playground. His spirit did however inhabit Las Vegas during the bleak period when Whoever Was In Charge decided that "creating a family atmosphere" was a good idea. Even today the place is rife with children, but fortunately most of them are Chinese children who are very well behaved and seem to have a distinct yen for a carnival atmosphere which they all seem to quietly observe with interest.
   By about 8 PM all the casinos are alive with noise and drunks, none of whom I have ever seen become disorderly. I think all the racket keeps them in a stupor that can only be expressed properly by yelling at a craps table. Apparently my long-time insistence that the things you want to do the most when drunk is take off your clothes and or drive was not completely thorough. Apparently the urge to gamble is right up there with the other two because it's only after a few drinks have been guzzled that the conviction that losing all of one's money wagering is a good idea hits the brain hard. The fact that every casino and gambling hall encourages drinking would be enough - if you were raised in a carnival and automatically see-through veneers as a result - to show even a moron that something was afoot with gambling in general if the proprietors will get you drunk for free. But most people unlike myself were not raised in a carnival. A carnival owned and operated by Italians, I might add. Most people think that what's there is always what's actually there. In Las Vegas this is never the case. In Las Vegas what you think is there is actually hiding a pickpocket.