Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Banana Flavored Enlightenment


The day I realized that Print is Dead. I was walking through a grocery store and there amongst the glossy cover sport bike magazines was probably the three leading chopper magazines. True, they all had glossy cover shots some with hot babes and so did the patina hot rod magazines (they had daisy dukes and polka tops)... hell, you know I'm talking about the Horse, Cycle Source and Street Chopper anyway. Cover prices at $5.99 and higher. Should I get some of these? Content is the same as the magazines I have stacked in my bathroom consisting of cool bikes and too many ads already. Same ol' same ol'. Nothing against those mags, Cycle Source in my opinion has hit the nail on the head regarding their expose Made In USA! Their subscription price is $20 a year and that's beyond a deal probably near tilting the cool meter. The Horse must be an East Coast Thang cause I just don't understand it? and Street Chopper is a Meat Loaf on the table of an Ethiopian Feast of All Saints. Hoy~O! Not to mention the trash I littered unintentionally by merely opening any page and postcards fell out (I read once (no pun intended) that those were inserted with the intention to fall out upon opening the magazine so people would steal them if they chose not to buy the magazine, they would still take them home and subscribe).

Any hoot, I've now let all my many many (2) subscription expire. I can't see spending the money on new books either, I do however do the used paperback thing at the Saliva Army and sometimes you find a ripe old biker tale amongst the Harly David~Quinn romance novels. I'm not helping our pathetic economy any by losing interest in print, it's just a state of fundage v. funage (as I'm fond of versing). The truth came when I thumbed through one of the magazines and realized the content was so dramatically limiting that the exposure was nothing I cared to engage. Warp engines are off line Captain Obvious! Yes, they're good, don't go tire iron on my balls. In addition to a slew of sludge I actually leave the house on the weekends and attend motorcycle enthusiastic orgasmatic adventures. I'm a red-shirt away party crewman weekend warrior (that's a giggle) with ivory tassels so to fart for the sake of an entertaining thought while shopping for bananas (which is where I came up with the idea for this post). For the same cost of any one of those magazines, you can fill up your gas tank and forget how to read for a couple hours.

Going Full Retard without an Instruction Manual. Go to the Zoo and make fun of the Tiger (you wont get eaten, trust me). Take your own damn pictures. Pass out drunk on a Mexican beach and relieve yourself into unconsciousness. Commune with fire ants in the middle of the desert while Vultures pass by thinking you've lost your marbles (like that episode of Twilight Zone where dude was God for the wee people on the alien planet and they made a statue to him). Explore the alleys surrounding downtown and record the variety of odors not likely to inspire greatness in a little Boy Scout notebook. And if you don't have a bike, spend that same amount of money on a ceramic piggy bank you can start adding to every month to save for a (what else?) Craigslist $cheap cheap$ Sportster!

Now if you happen to be unable to ride, ever again, for any reason, there's still nothing like having a bike in the garage or in the backyard either. I'd rather sit on a tireless Ironhead up on cinder blocks growing weeds in my backyard with my eyes closed using the power of imagination to blow by your rubber mounted metric cruiser. I left you in the dust of dehydration intoxication ripping the water from your mutated cellular structure as I passed by ~ the Sportster is so turbonicly bad ass! How many times have you seen kids playing in old cars? Would you rather play cops and robbers on a old busted bike or play Stone Man inside an abandoned refrigerator? The key is to play, not read about playing. But that's just me, you might not have a imagination as vivid and lucid as some and maybe a magazine is the thing for you to live in? Hell, it got millions of high school boys to think of themselves as Don Juan didn't it? You're not Brad Pitt but you still see yourself holding hands with Octomom. (And when I say holding hands I mean slapping uglies) Gross. Relax Don't Do It. Start by fingerpainting. Dont think you're going to paint a Picaso the first go round. You could barely find the hole with your round peg when you were 16.

So I'm going to take my bananas and go for a ride. How about you? Check the sidebar bean pot for upcoming dates and set your profile on "likes meeting new and interesting people, long walks on the beach, and romantic odysseys" for this starships about to blast off with some rocket boots, think you can handle one of these?

1 comment:

Time To Fly said...

Hey man I'm glad to hear I'm not alone in this. For $40 I can log ALLOT of miles and see the world around me on roads that will take me back in time! good write up!