Dear Gentleman with a Boss Hog:

November 21, 2008

A few months ago, I noticed a spike in my readership – and that this spike coincided with a lot of hits from some biker webforum.  Being a snoop, I followed the e-breadcrumbs to this site, and read as a series of gentlemen who (and this isn't a personal thing, just an inference based on 27 years of being alive), if they knew me, would probably throw acid in my face.

I have that effect on burly, manly men.  Maybe it's because they think I'm gay – which I'm not.  Maybe they think I'm a femme – which I am in certain ways, but I'm certainly not effeminate… just… fancy.  Maybe I'm a dick – which is totally possible. 

Or maybe it's because I'm just very self-conscious around guys like that.  I never know what to say.  I don't like sports, and don't know enough about it to feign enthusiasm when a conversation starts about which guy set which record in 1986 and blah blah blah. 

I went to a karaoke contest last night (again, not gay ladies and gentlemen) to support a friend of mine who had entered.  It was as most karaoke bars I've discovered are – horrifying.  Loud, crowded, swamped with cheap dance-club-lights… and swarming with terrifying older people.  Berugged men in vinyl shirts who give themselves names like, "Broadway Joe" and "Hollywood."  Peckers, essentially.

So I have my quick full of the peckers, and step outside to smoke a cigarette, where I'm met by two rather serious gentlemen.  One is flinty and good-looking… kindof a brawny guy… bouncerish – which was appropriate as, when I stepped outside, I interrupted his conversation about a time when he was a bouncer in Atlantic City.  He seemed like a nice guy – just… a bouncer.  Serious.  Tough.  No bullshit.

Beside him was another gentleman – scrappy and patchwork, with a ruddy complexion like he'd been drinking since July.  He was dressed entirely in black and wore a hoodie which, on its front, was emblazoned with skeletal letters spelling, "Fuck Rock," with a skull where the O goes.  Even now, I have no idea what it's supposed to mean.  Aren't skulls and bones and stuff totally metal?  And isn't metal a rock thing?  I don't see country stars with goth icons like this.  They usually go for tablecloth patterns and pants so tight you can tell their religion.

I lit my cigarette and smoked in silence while these two guys talked about the best way to incapacitate a guy.  The shorter guy, I learned, had been a Marine… and that he would be happy to, "…stab any of these faggot mother fuckers who gets in [his] motherfucking shit."

What do you say to a guy like that?  Not like that's necessarily bad – I'm just not really a part of knife-culture.  I don't want to judge the guy… I'm sure that whatever faggot he had met in the past had certainly earned his stabbing for having gotten into his motherfucking shit.  I don't want to make this a class or a cultural thing.  Different strokes for different faggots and motherfukers.

But when they turned to me – perhaps to hear my opinions on where best to insert a blade with the intention of murdering another human being – I just crumbled.  I babbled nervously, saying what I'm sure were inappropriate things (though, given the context, I have no idea what would have been appropriate other than, "So!  Howabout that Barack Obama!? Hell of a candidate, ey?")… only I don't remember them because my brain blacked out.  Big, tough guys scare me.  I've just got nothing in common with them… and so my id kicks in, I guess, and starts narrating its experience at 300 words/second.

So it's with a certain degree of relish (yum) that I bid a friendly and entirely non-stalkery howdy to the Gentleman with the Boss Hog (I don't really know what that means, other than the fact that it's vaguely motorcycley) who listed my blog as one of his favorite non-motor websites.  Assuming that he isn't your garden-variety, sensitive, poetry-writing biker guy (which, I'll admit is a large assumption on my part… the guy could be really sweet for all I know) – I seem to have connected with a man's man.  A guy.

He likes what I think, and he likes how I say it… and I think that's really cool. 

So if you're out there – howyadoin?  I like you, too.

Keep reading.  And nice bike, by the way.

That's all.  Back to work.


7 Responses to “Dear Gentleman with a Boss Hog:”

  1. guitargeek Says:

    That’s fucking funny!
    For what it’s worth, you’d fit right in with my friends in the UTMC (see link). We’ve got all kinds of quirky, geeky deviant types who’ll argue coffee vs. tea as quickly as we’ll discuss motor oil, politics, art, literature, or compare interesting x-rays. The one thing we aren’t is outlaw biker dickheads. Opinionated assholes to be sure, but no 1%er Hells Angels types.
    PS. You should buy a motorcycle, you’ll be glad you did.

  2. a. Says:

    How’s it going? Nice to kindof, sorta e-meet you.
    I was on a motorcycle once in my life – I was probably 15 or 16. It scared the living shit out of me.
    I’m way to much of a fussy old dandy to ride a motorcycle – though I’ll admit, there’s always been a part of me that’s wanted to ride a bike across the country and stuff peyote into my mouth in the middle of some desert.
    Get in a biker fight and strangle a guy with a bike chain.
    Stab a police officer to death with the ragged end of a broken Jack Daniels bottle.
    You know… the 1%er (don’t know what that means) Hells Angels thing.
    Though I doubt I’d EVER fit in. They’d probably shoot me in the guts at first sight. Your poetry-reading, x-ray comparing, political biker crew sounds pretty badass though.

  3. guitargeek Says:

    Yeah, ummm… we don’t do any of that stuff.
    Well, some of us might enjoy the peyote, but to the best of my knowledge, none of us has ever stabbed a guy.
    My point is that we’re not a plot device from a Tarantino movie.
    1%ers are the one percent of motorcyclists who give the rest of us a bad reputation. Our international disorganization is made up of people who eschew that image and lifestyle. We’re men & women of widely varied religious, political, racial, social and sexual proclivities.
    We’re not all burly.
    We have soldiers and sailors, firemen and mechanics, sure, but we also have bureaucrats and an attorney or two and several people who make art for a living. Most of us are college educated.
    We bathe regularly.
    Quite a number of us actually ride scooters rather than motorcycles. (Yes, like a Vespa or moped.)
    We often engage in effete snobbery.
    I guess you could say the UTMC is more of a mutual admiration society than a biker gang. A lot of us are fancy fuckers just like you, only we ride motorcycles. Some of us take epic transcontinental rides, some of us are racers, but most of us just commute to work on them and take the occasional pleasure ride through the countryside on the weekends.
    Hey, challenge your perceptions! Were you to meet one or more of us, you would NOT be shot, but we might buy you a cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich.
    But yeah, we’re pretty badass.

  4. Caliann Says:

    As yet another UTMCer, I have to say that not once in my life have I EVER strangled someone with a bike chain…nor have I stabbed any police officers. You would also have to have something much more threatening than an alternative opinion for me to be willing to deal with all the paperwork and headaches that shooting you on first sight would cause. I am simply too lazy to want to go through all of that.
    However, GG is right. You would fit right in with us. If motorcycles scare you, I have an Italjet Velocifero 50 cc step-through scooter sitting in my garage. It is about as frightening as a kitten.
    Come and check out our caffeinated, motorcycle-crazy crew. I hope you like bacon.

  5. guitargeek Says:

    By the way, I prefer strong coffee, Rotella 15w40, vote progressive, like Audrey Kawasaki and John Irving.
    I mean, you know, when I’m not raping grannies with a dildo made of methamphetamine.

  6. Ed Says:

    I’m another UTMC’er stopping by to read your blog. Good stuff. I actually just got back from 4 months on the road, taking the bike through 23 states and Canada, covering 18,500 miles in the process. No peyote or stabbing, but a lot of beautiful views precisely in the middle of Nowhere, USA and a whole bunch of encounters with random citizens who saw my NJ plate and asked the same question:
    “You ride that here? All the way? By yourself?”
    Yes, yes and yes.
    It was a wonderful experience.

  7. piccini9 Says:

    Come check us out. You’ll be glad you did.
    UTMC we are the good guys

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