12 years ago
Monday, November 30, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Zine Material
Short.
I really wanted a cigarette. I couldnt find a re-fry that hadn't been re-fried since that night before i'd fried em all. It was vicious cold out there, all the streetlights were as vacant as the shadows underneath them. Diggin around in the bottom of my bag I found evidence of that night past, butts and crushed beer can stinking in a goodway since smell takes you back in memories. Lucky me about four dollars worth of shiny Abes. So I wrapped myself deep in as many layers as one can without limiting his ability to ride. Rollin my bike down the stairs into that aweful biting November night I cursed my adiction and loneliness for perhaps a fellow head would have a butt to send my way and stay warm. Pedaling wasnt keeping me that way with the wind cuttin into me like the words of alota girls I never wanted to hear. That shops only a mile I think, a long frosty mile thats scaring me to stare down. Down the empty boulevard because most cats with cars are sitting pretty with plenty of smokes by the fire. Not me jangling down the way shivering and ringin with a pocket full o coins gunna get traded real soon. I got my head wrapped like an Arab so I dont hear the hissin snake beneath me. But godamn I feel it front wheel gettin all wonky and wont steer straight. I round that corner and she almost washes out right like that, but the shops here basking in cold dead neon. I know I got enough coins for a pack o checkers so I lock the deflated steed and head in like a new man not a care in the world. He woulda given me a packa Checkers and matches had he had em but I wasnt first. Ho no I was dead last there aint a pack I can afford in the buildin and this man aint no saint cuz he dont care about me at all. Back through that auto glass door with a ding and i spot a little bit o glory right there like its gunna snow any second and shes keepin it back. Walks right up to lookin round like its the last thing im gunna see, and she wants some help. Gone little girl I aint got no help to give ya dig? But shes tryin to keep warm too just aint old enough to get that fire water. You get a pack o them smokes little one and i'll be your fiery saint right here. And so I still got that four dollars wortha pennys ringin and janglin away right next to a packamatches and a little orange fire in my hand. Ya see she got her warmpth and I got mine cept i'm still cold as the moon. Least I got my smokes, no filters and fresh. Not a crumpled beatemup box like I always do. I dont even care when I walk that frozen mile right up the stairs and under the sheets. Slap on another record and watch those big snowflakes drift right on down past the empty streetlight keepin no fool warm but me.
Threat.
Foul Loach!
Not with the rock,
you smoke
Pave stone
colliding with skull bones
Take my bike?
A ruined man
you shall be
Dirt nap.
I really wanted a cigarette. I couldnt find a re-fry that hadn't been re-fried since that night before i'd fried em all. It was vicious cold out there, all the streetlights were as vacant as the shadows underneath them. Diggin around in the bottom of my bag I found evidence of that night past, butts and crushed beer can stinking in a goodway since smell takes you back in memories. Lucky me about four dollars worth of shiny Abes. So I wrapped myself deep in as many layers as one can without limiting his ability to ride. Rollin my bike down the stairs into that aweful biting November night I cursed my adiction and loneliness for perhaps a fellow head would have a butt to send my way and stay warm. Pedaling wasnt keeping me that way with the wind cuttin into me like the words of alota girls I never wanted to hear. That shops only a mile I think, a long frosty mile thats scaring me to stare down. Down the empty boulevard because most cats with cars are sitting pretty with plenty of smokes by the fire. Not me jangling down the way shivering and ringin with a pocket full o coins gunna get traded real soon. I got my head wrapped like an Arab so I dont hear the hissin snake beneath me. But godamn I feel it front wheel gettin all wonky and wont steer straight. I round that corner and she almost washes out right like that, but the shops here basking in cold dead neon. I know I got enough coins for a pack o checkers so I lock the deflated steed and head in like a new man not a care in the world. He woulda given me a packa Checkers and matches had he had em but I wasnt first. Ho no I was dead last there aint a pack I can afford in the buildin and this man aint no saint cuz he dont care about me at all. Back through that auto glass door with a ding and i spot a little bit o glory right there like its gunna snow any second and shes keepin it back. Walks right up to lookin round like its the last thing im gunna see, and she wants some help. Gone little girl I aint got no help to give ya dig? But shes tryin to keep warm too just aint old enough to get that fire water. You get a pack o them smokes little one and i'll be your fiery saint right here. And so I still got that four dollars wortha pennys ringin and janglin away right next to a packamatches and a little orange fire in my hand. Ya see she got her warmpth and I got mine cept i'm still cold as the moon. Least I got my smokes, no filters and fresh. Not a crumpled beatemup box like I always do. I dont even care when I walk that frozen mile right up the stairs and under the sheets. Slap on another record and watch those big snowflakes drift right on down past the empty streetlight keepin no fool warm but me.
Threat.
Foul Loach!
Not with the rock,
you smoke
Pave stone
colliding with skull bones
Take my bike?
A ruined man
you shall be
Dirt nap.
Bike Cult
Alright. Its been 16 days. Thats it, just 16 beer soaked days hanging heavy with cigarette smoke. A collective has been formed. 33rpm records have been spun at 45. Hunred of miles have dissapeared under 700c strips of rubber. Girls have gone missing and bromances have been solidified. There was a craft fair, and somewhere in those hungover days the blackened fetus called Bike Cult wormed its way into our brains and consumed the section that allowes logical thinking.
What is Bike Cult? Its DIY. Bikes and Beer. Comradie and creativity.
It is existing bicycle.
Bike Cult also wants you to come ride your bike with us. We, and you, play bike tag every Saturday night at 9pm in Smith Plaza. Thats at UNM. Its easy and everyone can play, on anykind of bike. Proof? Last game we had Fixed Gears, Comfort Bikes, Commuters, Cruisers and Stingrays. Diversity is key, Bike Tag is all inclusive. YOU can play. There are no fancy prizes or trendy schwag. Theres beer and bikes and fun. I sure dont need any thing else.
Keep your Aerospoke, give me friends who love to ride as much as me.
Maybe you've seen the Who Is Bike Cult? flyers. Maybe you havent, but you will. Anyone who rides bikes and wants to come promote bike tag, hit us up!
So there was this thing that happened at Dennys....
Anna and I decided after riding with Carbon Zack and Kervin that we wanted Dennys. More or less because of my hallucinations of golden pancakes, and Anna doing shots out of a rusty BMX peg (PUNK). 3am. We rolled down there and got seated after being stared at. Atleast 5 sober minuts (15 drunk) I got pissed. I stood behind an Amazon waiting for service. The manager finally realizes my presense and asks if I want to pay. No, I want coffee and menus. He is concerned. Where are you seated? Were going to be seated in a different resturant in three minuts if we dont get coffee an menus. So, we got coffee and menus. All the while someone in the stratosphere felt like Anna and I would be better off listening to the most obnoxious radio personality in the history of total shit. He was very proud of hhimself, and made sure to say so to his entourage of English Hookers. Our orders are taken by a very tall Boondock Saints quoting weirdo named Charles. The eggs come wrong, very wrong. Those eggs stay, and the right eggs come. Its a massacre. A fetal genocide. Chickens do not worry about over population. The manager comps our check for being an ass. The gangster leave, and we slaughter. Charles would like to join us for a smoke. We do, I do. Anna encounters strange friends of hers. 4am. The hessian bussboy materializes a joint, with myself Charles, Anna and the cancer patient. Shes fres outta chemo suckin down that cigarette because possibly its her last. It goes around and around, the world does too. We want to leave after the near drive by that went down, very very slowly. The cancer patient wants to know about our bike lights. A 2 minut conversation puts bike lights into "bike lights". (brackets? Apostrophes? I do no know) Bike Lights have become meth. This night is over. No, no it isnt. We listen to Russian Circles untill the sun beats us to the finish. 6am. We sleep.
And this other thing happened, and something else too. But I want another cigarette and am pretty sure I dont have one. Can I continue this thing without my addiction hacing been fed first?
No.
Bike Cult.
Wow... I dont think I can even write down whats gone down within limits...
We (see further) started a cult. A bike cult. We (Anna, Kevin, David, Chris, Elle and I) are also printing a zine. Called Bike Cult ... obviously. We also hosted the first weekly game of Bike Tag at UNM. It was awesome, lots of people came and hopefully lots more will come.
I really ought to get into detail here and I will after I go find a re-fry.
We (see further) started a cult. A bike cult. We (Anna, Kevin, David, Chris, Elle and I) are also printing a zine. Called Bike Cult ... obviously. We also hosted the first weekly game of Bike Tag at UNM. It was awesome, lots of people came and hopefully lots more will come.
I really ought to get into detail here and I will after I go find a re-fry.
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