Fully Alive

I still skate at least a few times a year to justify wearing Vans. Pretty Good style ....no?

W.B.Z.N.

Aqualung

I remember it well. The knife in the back, the struggle for air, the low grade fever that hung on for weeks. The coughing fits and sleepless hours. The last time this plague was visited upon me, was after a short recording stint at John Kurzweg's legendary Pensacola Street, Kitchen Studio. His place had a penchant for flooding and on more than one occasion, I found him knee deep in water, living his life like a Bangladesh local in typhoon season. Everything he owned was on stilts made of milk crates. The rent was cheap and he wasn't fussy, plus the place was haunted and sounded great. You can't put a price tag on that. The mold from that unholy Petri dish crawled into my Irish lungs, scared and weakened from many a lost bout, with all things bronchial. I went to the doctor, had two courses of steroids, and antibiotics, but I just couldn't shake it. Through it all I had to sing forty songs a night, four nights a week, in the smoke, for my supper.

One blue Monday night, I told (local legend) "Mississippi" James Stanton about my plight and symptoms. He listened and stared through me, as smoke spiraled out of him, like an incense wizard from the seventies. His prescription? Brew and drink a pot of special Red Zinger Tea from the health food store. Take a clove of garlic and quarter it. Swallow it like a pill every six hours, drink the tea, plus a gallon of water. I stunk like a grease trap from a Jamaican restaurant for days. Just like he promised the pleurisy, and the infection it rode in on, left town on a rail. Mississippi James was in my "Hall Of Fame" for life.

This recent thing I had, felt just like that. It has been a two week beat down that keeps re morphing into new forms and tormenting me like a six year old on Cuban coffee. Still, I mustered onto the chariot at the behest of Red Dragon, and sauntered out to Cadillac. It was a great ride and when I got home, ate and passed out, happy to be back...finally. Now it's around one A.M. and the fever has returned. Tomorrow I am going to the New Leaf Market. I am going to call James and have him play the intro to "Gimmie Shelter" while I take the first dose. I need the Voodoo only his stained fingers can provide, while I summon the power of his cure. One of us is going to tap out: me, or the lung funk.

Two will enter, but only one will leave. This time........It's personal.

W.B.Z.N.

57 Channels (And Nothin' On)

I was sitting in my Snuggie watching the styling DVD for my Magic Combs and I spilled my water. No prob, I get out the Sham Wow and clean it with Oxiclean....... then it hits me. I have been sick and off the bike for a really long time.

I want my life back. I swear if Billy May screams at me one more time, I gonna freakin loose it.

There is never anything on T.V.

Fuuuuuuuucccccccckkkkkkkk!



W.B.Z.N.

Let It Roll

I am fairly cruel when it comes to R.D.'s bouts with windmills. I suppose it's because I have traveled down so many (lost cause) roads that when I see the streak in another, my anger makes me lash out. All our bad traits are attached to bad memories.

When Red Dragon and Frog Legs (sorry, I just can't call him Bike Diet with a straight face) brought up the idea of a race, I launched into my sarcastic trifecta. The rolling eyes, the wise ass comment, the list of other ideas in the scrap heap. A verbal combo only Rocky and R.D. could take with a smile. I give him a lot of shit, but I think he would agree when push comes to shove, I don't mind handing him a sword and pointing at the next turbine.

You see, you have to watch those guys with big ideas. Especially the ones that aren't afraid to hang their balls in the wind. Guys like that have a tendency to hit bulls eyes. People with safe warm balls, tucked away in pleated trousers, mostly just stare out windows from cubicles, dreaming of what it would be like to put it all on RED 27 and spin.

If you made it out to the race today, I bet you had fun. If you didn't come out, I'll bet after hearing some stories, you'll wish you had. It was just organized enough to be fair, and just chaotic enough to be cool. Don't feel bad, someones got to wear the pleated pants...might as well be you.


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W.B.Z.N.

Dear God

W.B.Z.N.

Start A Fire

This is what happens when you don't agree with Worm's route! Slade just asked where we were going and well......the picture pretty much tells the story.

W.B.Z.N.

The Chain

Searching for answers on solo rides somewhere between dog attacks, angry, stink eyed hikers, and heated ten second debates. Smelling the clay, the diesel, the dying trees and the teeth grind inside the head. The anger wants to be in the front of the brain. It resents being repressed. Riding faster makes it lay down and sleep.

Leisure time is another luxury given up in this new era of conservation and frugality. There is not as much of anything as there was before, and the necessities take precedence. Soccer. Band. Rain. Work. School. They chew away at the account. They are the new obstacles that are at once disturbing the rhythm, and being added into the memory banks. Soon they will be after thoughts and will blend into the ride, as though they have always been on the trail. The new default settings are being loaded. (Please stand by this could take a few minutes)

The transition to acceptance, is the painful part of the process.

Chains keep us together.

W.B.Z.N.