Gramma,
That mid-morning moment when you reach in the beverage fridge for a coke, crack it open and it's not the sweet taste you were looking for. It's a Coors. Can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning. Note to self: Always buy the silo beer cans, aka pounders, to prevent this.
Monday, June 20, 2016
Saturday, June 18, 2016
True Colors
Gramma,
Bikers have a lot of stereotypes to live up to. When not tearing up the road on bikes, they are seen as hard drinking, tattooed tough guys who are plotting anarchy. They are seen as willing to tear apart a bar in the process of defending their good name against some other antagonistic faction. These guys have no hygiene interests. We are not those guys. Our guys are willing to take time to do crafts. There are times when it is important to be who you are and explore talent options other than martial arts.
After riding all day to participate in a distant Toys for Tots Ride with another club, we checked into our hotel. The following morning we found ourselves with several hours to kill before events began. A park, complete with a lake, pavilion, and ice cream stand presented itself. There was something else going on in the parking lot when we pulled in. Doors were stacked everywhere--inside doors, outside doors, industrial doors, smallish under the stairway doors--with and without knobs.
It was part of a summer art program intended to get people in touch with their inner Van Gough. There were doors with flowers and graphic designs. Some tried to be pretty, others were ugly, but interesting. Some people worked on their doors every weekend. The doors would eventually be covered with spar varnish and installed along a garden path. A woman in a sunhat and muumuu was overseeing the project. She was flustered when the men in black said they were in.
We chose an industrial, battleship grey door with a heavy window that looked unbreakable. We hoarded the orange, dark grey, and black paint and magic markers. The guys began to outline their bike colors in large letters. When it came to drawing the bike engine of their center patch, they found themselves artistically challenged. We had run out of our basic colors and the sunhat lady was off in her periwinkle bugmobile to fetch more.
We watched the industrious college art student making easy progress on his work. He was using all the colors available. One of the guys poked him out of his oblivion. He removed his ear buds. He was a hippie type and not intimidated. He accepted a fist full of dollars and was pretty soon drawing a nice engine replica on the center of our door.
While the guys were otherwise engaged, the girls worked on the window. Soon, a guy behind bars emerged. People gathered at a distance to watch. After our prison door was finished, we walked over to the ice cream stand. There were the usual side glances. How scary can bikers with ice cream cones be? The local paper took a group photo. The guys were recognized as a roving band of artist bikers doing a Toys for Tots Run. Sometimes you just have to show your true colors.
Bikers have a lot of stereotypes to live up to. When not tearing up the road on bikes, they are seen as hard drinking, tattooed tough guys who are plotting anarchy. They are seen as willing to tear apart a bar in the process of defending their good name against some other antagonistic faction. These guys have no hygiene interests. We are not those guys. Our guys are willing to take time to do crafts. There are times when it is important to be who you are and explore talent options other than martial arts.
After riding all day to participate in a distant Toys for Tots Ride with another club, we checked into our hotel. The following morning we found ourselves with several hours to kill before events began. A park, complete with a lake, pavilion, and ice cream stand presented itself. There was something else going on in the parking lot when we pulled in. Doors were stacked everywhere--inside doors, outside doors, industrial doors, smallish under the stairway doors--with and without knobs.
It was part of a summer art program intended to get people in touch with their inner Van Gough. There were doors with flowers and graphic designs. Some tried to be pretty, others were ugly, but interesting. Some people worked on their doors every weekend. The doors would eventually be covered with spar varnish and installed along a garden path. A woman in a sunhat and muumuu was overseeing the project. She was flustered when the men in black said they were in.
We chose an industrial, battleship grey door with a heavy window that looked unbreakable. We hoarded the orange, dark grey, and black paint and magic markers. The guys began to outline their bike colors in large letters. When it came to drawing the bike engine of their center patch, they found themselves artistically challenged. We had run out of our basic colors and the sunhat lady was off in her periwinkle bugmobile to fetch more.
We watched the industrious college art student making easy progress on his work. He was using all the colors available. One of the guys poked him out of his oblivion. He removed his ear buds. He was a hippie type and not intimidated. He accepted a fist full of dollars and was pretty soon drawing a nice engine replica on the center of our door.
While the guys were otherwise engaged, the girls worked on the window. Soon, a guy behind bars emerged. People gathered at a distance to watch. After our prison door was finished, we walked over to the ice cream stand. There were the usual side glances. How scary can bikers with ice cream cones be? The local paper took a group photo. The guys were recognized as a roving band of artist bikers doing a Toys for Tots Run. Sometimes you just have to show your true colors.
Friday, June 17, 2016
Chili Feed Day Hours
Gramma,
They guys taking money at the gate have plenty of time to eat, drink, and screw off. One of their adult kids is running naked through a nearby field. He has someone with a video camera documenting his life for him. I don't know what he's on, but I don't want some of that. I have enough behavioral issues of my own.
There is an outdoor shitter, a camper, and a picnic table at the gate. While Pus Gut was in the shitter, two club members tipped it over so the door was facing the ground. There sure was a lot of yelling and pounding. He emerged covered in blue toilet juice. Pus Gut's new name is Papa Smurf. Pus Tit and Pus Gut are not amused. He has no change of clothes. How stupid are you? Well then, it is their kid bounding naked through the weeds.
The local police keep close tabs on the party by driving through the campground several times a day. They step it up at night and like to make sure the wet t-shirt contest goes off without a hitch. Other more nefarious bike clubs show up looking for trouble. They are allowed in for the steep discount of free. It's just easier that way. They assess the fun quotient, eat chili, drink beer and leave, all without cracking a smile.
Mid afternoon is game time, fueled by alcohol, and sweetened by a money pot. Slow races involve riding your bike to the finish line with someone on the back. You may not stop or put your feet on the ground. The field is not flat, There are gopher mounds and rocks. The last person wins.
For the balloon toss, water filled balloons are lobbed over a bar that the bike rolls under. The person on the back is in charge of lobbing. Teams go one at a time. When you miss, you are out. Nothing quite like a couple of drunk guys on a bike trying to win. Men don't usually ride bitch at these events, but they are the crowd favorites. The guy throwing is facing backwards.
During the weenie bite, a hot dog is suspended from an overhead bar. The person on the back is supposed to bite off as much as possible. A lot of wieners meet the face, but not the mouth. The crowd is jeering and cheering. It's all fun and games until someone gets an eye is poked out.
I like to sneak off and get in a beer enhanced nap so I can stay up for the evening stunts. When I get in the car, the pet store box with the mice inside is chewed open and they are on the loose. Ugh. I have to catch the little fuckers before I can sleep. I took them to their intended destination--Junior's tent. I am one-upping him for something he has done to me, plus he is fun to fuck with. He hates mice.
They guys taking money at the gate have plenty of time to eat, drink, and screw off. One of their adult kids is running naked through a nearby field. He has someone with a video camera documenting his life for him. I don't know what he's on, but I don't want some of that. I have enough behavioral issues of my own.
There is an outdoor shitter, a camper, and a picnic table at the gate. While Pus Gut was in the shitter, two club members tipped it over so the door was facing the ground. There sure was a lot of yelling and pounding. He emerged covered in blue toilet juice. Pus Gut's new name is Papa Smurf. Pus Tit and Pus Gut are not amused. He has no change of clothes. How stupid are you? Well then, it is their kid bounding naked through the weeds.
The local police keep close tabs on the party by driving through the campground several times a day. They step it up at night and like to make sure the wet t-shirt contest goes off without a hitch. Other more nefarious bike clubs show up looking for trouble. They are allowed in for the steep discount of free. It's just easier that way. They assess the fun quotient, eat chili, drink beer and leave, all without cracking a smile.
Mid afternoon is game time, fueled by alcohol, and sweetened by a money pot. Slow races involve riding your bike to the finish line with someone on the back. You may not stop or put your feet on the ground. The field is not flat, There are gopher mounds and rocks. The last person wins.
For the balloon toss, water filled balloons are lobbed over a bar that the bike rolls under. The person on the back is in charge of lobbing. Teams go one at a time. When you miss, you are out. Nothing quite like a couple of drunk guys on a bike trying to win. Men don't usually ride bitch at these events, but they are the crowd favorites. The guy throwing is facing backwards.
During the weenie bite, a hot dog is suspended from an overhead bar. The person on the back is supposed to bite off as much as possible. A lot of wieners meet the face, but not the mouth. The crowd is jeering and cheering. It's all fun and games until someone gets an eye is poked out.
I like to sneak off and get in a beer enhanced nap so I can stay up for the evening stunts. When I get in the car, the pet store box with the mice inside is chewed open and they are on the loose. Ugh. I have to catch the little fuckers before I can sleep. I took them to their intended destination--Junior's tent. I am one-upping him for something he has done to me, plus he is fun to fuck with. He hates mice.
Thursday, June 16, 2016
Chili Feed Prelude
Gramma,
The night before the party, the club sets up. It is the party before the party. The beer tappers on the trucks are tested and retested. A leaf blower is used to clean the bat and mouse shit out of the chalet. The storage truck is unloaded; the chili is made. The bar is stocked. A circus tent arrives and the band stage is set up. Planks of wood are stacked like a teepee for the bonfire.
The usual suspects show up early to secure their prime real estate by the lake. Our closed camping area on the hill behind the Chalet is cordoned off with police tape. Club wives supply a spread of food. Some of us bring our dogs or grandkids. Only adults and three-legged dogs will be allowed tomorrow. Classic rock blares from the outside speakers. I bring ear plugs so I can sleep. I hate chili, so I have a cooler of cheese, water, and sandwich meat.
The girls sit outside and talk trash about the guys while they have their private meeting. No topic is taboo. We talk about our sex lives. Long ago, we refused the idea of wearing "Property Of" on our backs, but we have made aprons for tomorrow. They say "Chili Bitch" on them. There is grumbling over the schedule for who works at which location and when. Some of us are stuck for a shift with people or hours we don't like.
The prospects, new guys not yet patched in, are scheduled to work during the wet t-shirt contest. We women are expected to recruit girls from the audience for this. It is a skin to win event for a combined pot from the club and audience. There are three categories: Classic for "older" women; Sportster for small breasted women; V-Twin for above average girls. Some "professional" girls show up.
Tonight we are all drunk. The guys chant "Show Us Your Tits." Some of the girls are pretty shy, others not so much. Add alcohol , and clothes disintegrate. The shy girls are teased relentlessly. "Okay, show us your beavage." Our response is, "You guys line up behind a wood fence with holes strategically cut, so we can do some judging.
The night before the party, the club sets up. It is the party before the party. The beer tappers on the trucks are tested and retested. A leaf blower is used to clean the bat and mouse shit out of the chalet. The storage truck is unloaded; the chili is made. The bar is stocked. A circus tent arrives and the band stage is set up. Planks of wood are stacked like a teepee for the bonfire.
The usual suspects show up early to secure their prime real estate by the lake. Our closed camping area on the hill behind the Chalet is cordoned off with police tape. Club wives supply a spread of food. Some of us bring our dogs or grandkids. Only adults and three-legged dogs will be allowed tomorrow. Classic rock blares from the outside speakers. I bring ear plugs so I can sleep. I hate chili, so I have a cooler of cheese, water, and sandwich meat.
The girls sit outside and talk trash about the guys while they have their private meeting. No topic is taboo. We talk about our sex lives. Long ago, we refused the idea of wearing "Property Of" on our backs, but we have made aprons for tomorrow. They say "Chili Bitch" on them. There is grumbling over the schedule for who works at which location and when. Some of us are stuck for a shift with people or hours we don't like.
The prospects, new guys not yet patched in, are scheduled to work during the wet t-shirt contest. We women are expected to recruit girls from the audience for this. It is a skin to win event for a combined pot from the club and audience. There are three categories: Classic for "older" women; Sportster for small breasted women; V-Twin for above average girls. Some "professional" girls show up.
Tonight we are all drunk. The guys chant "Show Us Your Tits." Some of the girls are pretty shy, others not so much. Add alcohol , and clothes disintegrate. The shy girls are teased relentlessly. "Okay, show us your beavage." Our response is, "You guys line up behind a wood fence with holes strategically cut, so we can do some judging.
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Annual Chili Feed
Gramma,
Our annual Chili Feed is a biker camping event. We rent the whole park for the weekend, a beautiful wooded area with acres of camping available. No adults are banned from this event and some of the locals show up for the all inclusive price of unlimited free beer. They often stick out like a sore dick. More often than not, it is windy and rains, but that doesn't dampen the spirits.
It's never a good idea to fall asleep or pass out during anything involving alcohol. The guy nearest the lake had his tent stakes pulled out so that when he stood up in the morning, the wind blew his tent skyward. With vertigo and a hangover, the not-yet-awake man with no tent stakes battled his way out. The tent ballooned, flying across the lake like a tumbleweed. A guy wearing boots should not try to chase a tent across a lake.
My lipstick color inspired my friends to call me Boozo the Clown. If you are throwing this party, you should plan on not sleeping. A new club member violated this law, and woke up half naked with lipstick drawn arrows suggesting in and out orifices. He should not have engaged Tequila Girl to a drinking challenge. She has a reputation.
"If you're going to hang with the guys, you're going to drink like the guys," he said. "Okay," she said. "Let's go." When he pulled out a bottle of tequila, he thought he had her. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. Eventually, he was puking his guts out. When he finished, she took another shot for good measure, then sallied up to the bar.
A local, wearing a striped shirt and a bowtie, stalked her through his glasses. She was wearing a short skirt, spike heels, and a scant top. She had mastered the art of riding on the back of a bike in this attire. "Wow," he said hopefully. He asked if she would please let him talk to her. She said no. Bikers looked on in amusement. "Please," PeeWee begged.
"I'll buy you one if you talk to me while you drink it." She summoned Smitty, the bartender. He shook his head, knowing how this was going to go down. In one gulp, it was gone. She turned and walked away, pinching his ass on the way out.
Our annual Chili Feed is a biker camping event. We rent the whole park for the weekend, a beautiful wooded area with acres of camping available. No adults are banned from this event and some of the locals show up for the all inclusive price of unlimited free beer. They often stick out like a sore dick. More often than not, it is windy and rains, but that doesn't dampen the spirits.
It's never a good idea to fall asleep or pass out during anything involving alcohol. The guy nearest the lake had his tent stakes pulled out so that when he stood up in the morning, the wind blew his tent skyward. With vertigo and a hangover, the not-yet-awake man with no tent stakes battled his way out. The tent ballooned, flying across the lake like a tumbleweed. A guy wearing boots should not try to chase a tent across a lake.
My lipstick color inspired my friends to call me Boozo the Clown. If you are throwing this party, you should plan on not sleeping. A new club member violated this law, and woke up half naked with lipstick drawn arrows suggesting in and out orifices. He should not have engaged Tequila Girl to a drinking challenge. She has a reputation.
"If you're going to hang with the guys, you're going to drink like the guys," he said. "Okay," she said. "Let's go." When he pulled out a bottle of tequila, he thought he had her. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. Eventually, he was puking his guts out. When he finished, she took another shot for good measure, then sallied up to the bar.
A local, wearing a striped shirt and a bowtie, stalked her through his glasses. She was wearing a short skirt, spike heels, and a scant top. She had mastered the art of riding on the back of a bike in this attire. "Wow," he said hopefully. He asked if she would please let him talk to her. She said no. Bikers looked on in amusement. "Please," PeeWee begged.
"I'll buy you one if you talk to me while you drink it." She summoned Smitty, the bartender. He shook his head, knowing how this was going to go down. In one gulp, it was gone. She turned and walked away, pinching his ass on the way out.
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
Fear
It stormed last night. The Wicket was hiding under the stove when I got up. She wouldn't even come out for a meat stick. She snarled when one of the other dogs made off with it. Wicket is such a meatloaf that I was concerned about her being stuck. Fear can get you into places not easily escaped. There may have been tornado sirens. Dave and I sometimes hear them, but go back to sleep because we can't care.
Monday, June 13, 2016
Fuckitol Meds Not Working
Gramma
I don't think my meds are working. The pharmacy has been using another manufacturer to fill one of my prescriptions. Since then, things are less than. My daughter's insurance company is forcing her to take a generic form of Abilify. It gives her migraines, and the co-pay is astronomical, whereas the name brand provides a manufacturer subsidy that makes it affordable. We need our Fuckitol pills to work right.
Last week I did not blog. I sat in the driveway/patio area contemplating the hanging trees again. And I was incredibly crabby. My beer supply was exhausted, and didn't want to use my limited funds on more. It didn't help that my tractor was in the shop. If I don't hound them daily, it will be fall before I get it back. I spend a lot of time on hold. If I leave a message, they won't call back.
The neighbor stopped over with a beer in hand and a backup to put in the freezer. I told him I was out. He said he would give me one, but that will just agitate people like us. He was planning to drink himself stupid and suffer the hangover. After he left, I drank Dave's last Chelado with an old Hamm's chaser.
Dave was in union negotiations all week, which ramps up his blood pressure and puts him in irate overdrive. I was hoping he would bring home some calming fluids. When he showed up empty-handed, my inner bitch went silent treatment, which rarely happens.
I went to bed early to escape with an episode of Grace and Frankie. The gay guys were throwing temper tantrums and the women were making bad decisions. Next to my dearth of beer, this was ridiculous. Disgusted, I opted to listen to the frogs.
It is not like me to want to stay in bed when the weather is nice. On Friday, I couldn't overcome the gravitational pull of my mattress. I got out of bed at noon to pick up the grandkids. Having them around usually lifts me out of a fugue. Bubba and Veve were sitting in Dave's big man's chair when I overheard Bubba say, "Grampa's foot is bigger than your head." They make me laugh, the next best thing to Fuckitol.
I don't think my meds are working. The pharmacy has been using another manufacturer to fill one of my prescriptions. Since then, things are less than. My daughter's insurance company is forcing her to take a generic form of Abilify. It gives her migraines, and the co-pay is astronomical, whereas the name brand provides a manufacturer subsidy that makes it affordable. We need our Fuckitol pills to work right.
Last week I did not blog. I sat in the driveway/patio area contemplating the hanging trees again. And I was incredibly crabby. My beer supply was exhausted, and didn't want to use my limited funds on more. It didn't help that my tractor was in the shop. If I don't hound them daily, it will be fall before I get it back. I spend a lot of time on hold. If I leave a message, they won't call back.
The neighbor stopped over with a beer in hand and a backup to put in the freezer. I told him I was out. He said he would give me one, but that will just agitate people like us. He was planning to drink himself stupid and suffer the hangover. After he left, I drank Dave's last Chelado with an old Hamm's chaser.
Dave was in union negotiations all week, which ramps up his blood pressure and puts him in irate overdrive. I was hoping he would bring home some calming fluids. When he showed up empty-handed, my inner bitch went silent treatment, which rarely happens.
I went to bed early to escape with an episode of Grace and Frankie. The gay guys were throwing temper tantrums and the women were making bad decisions. Next to my dearth of beer, this was ridiculous. Disgusted, I opted to listen to the frogs.
It is not like me to want to stay in bed when the weather is nice. On Friday, I couldn't overcome the gravitational pull of my mattress. I got out of bed at noon to pick up the grandkids. Having them around usually lifts me out of a fugue. Bubba and Veve were sitting in Dave's big man's chair when I overheard Bubba say, "Grampa's foot is bigger than your head." They make me laugh, the next best thing to Fuckitol.
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