January

Taking a half dead birthday balloon to the trash
I tie it to the porch and go to retrieve the can
When i come back it's gone
I look up at the black trees against the black sky
And think of all the friends that have gone

Being broke

I was raised poor. My parents were not raised rich.  For years i disliked rich people. First, i didn't know the difference between rich and poor, and then i realized that being an asshole was just as random as being rich, and both were distributed like leaves floating down in the fall-not all rich people were mean and selfish. I've always been lucky enough to not be flat broke generally until payday was close enough to survive. I've been fortunate to meet some really helpful people at crucial times, but money had rarely been in abundance. I never have put much importance on money, it's not something to accumulate in excess of my requirements I guess. My good friend died when we were young, a fairly freakish accident I felt not quite responsible but very near to, and his early departure left quite an impression. See, he didn't take anything with him. Maybe that's why I've never focused on accumulating much of anything. As soon as i have money i want to enjoy it, because just like when Jonathan died, he had no inclination death was near or imminent. However, to go out when you're fourteen is to avoid many of life's little letdowns. I've always thought he went out on top, before the wave crested and fell in upon itself. I was remarking to a good friend of mine the other day that we had both managed to be smart enough to pass through life with a strong B average grade with no great effort, and therefore hadn't developed the drive to achieve great things. I can get by with nothing, i know i can survive tough times, and while i enjoy having some savings of some kind, i know I'll get by if i have to. So, while i don't have any gut wenching tales of deep, prolonged financial woe, I do feel as if financial strife has lurked in the shadows nearby since birth. It's always right there next to running away from my problems, developing a drinking problem, being mean to everyone, and all the other dastardly grown-up issues we pretend don't hide in our shadows.

Weird like me

Weird like me

Vegan restaurant

By the hardware

Hairy armpits

Strange food

Upstairs apartment

Live plants

World Atlas

Weird like me

Downtown bar

Six dollar long islands

Quart jars

Limit two

She insults him

He leaves

They tell her to follow

I'm now with strangers

New friends

Bar closes

Rooftop

Charlie professes her love for Suzi

Suzi has ferrets

But no paper for a thank you note

Somehow I find the proper house in the morning

Weird like me

New town

New life

Don't fit in

New friend

Recognizes two similar spirits

Weeks later

Rolling down a hill

Hand in hand

Midnight

Years later

Random smiles

Weird like me

Black dog

Midnight

She waits

In the middle of the road

Just rained

Black trees line the way

Humid night in Georgia

Burned in my memory

Work

I listened to a podcast today with Owen Benjamin and Bert Kreischer wherein they discussed manual labor and the benefits thereof.  I've done manual labor my whole life.  I've been eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on a half hour lunch break for ten years now.  I have a bachelor's degree, my father has a masters in education, my mom's parents were both teachers, and her mother also had a masters in English.  All of my grandparents were also farmers, as has the family been (mostly) since we landed on this continent.  As far as I can tell, most of my family has been in manual labor for centuries, based on our countries of origin and religious association.  There is a small connection to some royalty and some outlaws, but mostly we're just normal people. 
I have come to enjoy manual labor more than my brief stints at desk work.  I have also discovered that the more a job pays, the worse it is.  I used to make "X" per month and that job was terrible.  The sacrifices I had to make were large.  So, I quit and got a job that netted me half the pay but was MUCH more tolerable.  Thanks to a bunch of people gambling on junk mortgages, that company went out of business and now that my profession life has seemed to have regained some stability, I'm now making a quarter of "X" but I have achieved a level of pleasantry in life that I enjoy greatly.  Now's the time to keep what I have gained and now try to grow the "X" factor.  However, I digress.
There is a certain and very solid appreciation for manual labor that those who haven't made a hobby of it can't recognize but I believe those who do other work have the same opportunity to feel it.  See, you have certain skills and abilities that people pay you to exercise that I don't.  I can do things you can't and for these skills I am compensated.  The pay may be different but the satisfaction in a job well done is the same. I can stand back at the end of the day and identify concrete objects I have created, tell you how I did it and why.  Manual labor is similar to meditation or doing menial chores or riding motorcycles in that it either requires all your concentration or very little, but you're doing something physically.  I always enjoyed a job that at one point requires total concentration and then at another, very little.  I once was discussing a holster I had made with a guy and he was impressed I had made it myself and said he could never do such a thing.  I later found out he was a retired heart surgeon.  Now clearly he is capable of many things I am not, but he respected my craft just as I do his.  All that to say, any job done well and with pure intentions is valid and valuable, no matter how manual it is.

Honesty and Perception, or, My Take on the Election and News Media

Here's what I think happened: People have generally lost trust in political figures.  For whatever reason, Hillary did not appear trustworthy.  Now, many will say Trump didn't/doesn't either.  They're both guilty of pandering to certain demographics in an effort to try to get votes.  The Democrats seem to have taken for granted they would get certain votes and therefore didn't have to work for them.  Granted, Hillary won the popular vote.  Obama has said several times since the election that the reason he won Iowa is he was there on the ground talking to people.  Trump had a tendency to change his position almost all the time, but it was easy to believe he stood behind each of his statements no matter how crazy or unfounded they sounded.  Hillary seemed as though she was trying to please everyone, and I think this may have been a downfall.  Americans just want simple honesty and to not feel tricked. 
This concept continues to news coverage and political ads.  I lump these together because the money and the motive behind both are unknown to common citizens.  It would be foolish to take at face value any information disseminated via political ad without some internet research, not only into the validity of the statements but also the source of the financial backing.  The same bleeds over into this rash of "fake news" that may have had a large impact on the election results.  Some folk say "fake news" is the new word for "conspiracy theory" but this is not quite accurate.  Fake news can be dispelled quite quickly via Google, but conspiracy theories usually have no defined debunking. All this to say, there is quite too much unreliable information spreading throughout.  We're all too busy staying paid and getting ahead to dig into the deeper information to see what's legitimate and what isn't.  Also, a person naturally accepts information that makes them feel right about their position and rejects that which doesn't.  Thanks to algorithms online, what we see can be tailored to match what we've looked at already, leading to a bubble of self-supporting information. 
All humans have ever wanted is to just not be lied to.  We want to be able to trust each other and those that give us the news.  Denzel was right when he said "If you don't read the newspapers you're uninformed.  If you do read the newspapers you're misinformed."  Every print and online publication has some known political leaning which can taint or twist not only the information they disseminate but how they portray it.  You just can't trust anything or any political figure anymore.  I'm not saying its the only reason Trump got elected but I do think he appeared more genuine, even if he flip flopped a lot.  Ok, flip flopped all the time. His tendency to spout off without thinking appeals to Americans because its totally different than our current crop of politicians who are extremely adept at answering a question and not saying anything whatsoever.  Even if Trump sounds like a loose cannon buffoon, we appreciate that he doesn't sound like what we're used to.  Politicians as a rule have been afraid to take a stand of any kind or lose a single vote for so long they've forgotten what they were elected to do in the first place, and the American public are so thirsty for a politician to actually do something that they're willing to overlook a large array of poor behavior to achieve it.

That's my two cents.  For full disclosure, I didn't vote this time around as I was unwilling to cast my lot with either candidate.  I am for lower taxes on the middle class, higher taxes on the top one percent, abortion rights for women, gun rights for everyone, spending on infrastructure, tax reform to help keep American companies earnings in America, continued climate change reform, and Sunday alcohol sales in Indiana!  Oh, and I believe you should be able to marry whomever you want, and pee in whatever bathroom you are legally recognized as.  LEGALLY. Not in your heart but on your driver's license.  Not necessarily what you were at birth, but what the state that issued your license recognizes you as.  That should clear things up.

Chapter four

Some things are too precious and personal to make public until years of life have offered the proper perspective and reflection into their impact.

Chapter three

The crushing disappointment with life is we don't receive any forward notice regarding the pivotal experiences before or while they're happening. It isn't until years later we  look back and identify exactly where things took an unwelcome turn. Sometimes events happen involving us at too young an age to understand or fully process its impact.
When I was fourteen I sleeve two days hanging out with a good friend of mine from church. We went canoeing with his dad and then I spent the night at his house. The next day we went to see the movie Twister and then they dropped me off at home. Five minutes later they were hit by a tractor in a freak accident and my friend died instantly. While I never felt it was my fault he died, it's hard to not feel responsible for them being where they were at the time. This event may have led to my not feeling like planning ahead or saving money was worth much thought. No matter the plans or large reserves you may have, sometimes a tractor with bad brakes comes down a steep blind driveway and crushes the side of your car and kills your son while he listens to a cassette of a comedy routine he hopes to perform at an upcoming talent show. Sometimes you sit at the dinner table for hours, spinning a nut back and forth on a bolt waiting for a phone call to find out which person died and which one lived. And every day you're glad you didn't drive to see why all the sirens were going down your normally quiet country road shortly after your friend and his dad left your house. Fourteen is just too young to learn about the realities of the world we live in. A person should be eased into reality slowly. Every three years after that event I lost someone-a friend at school in a drug and alcohol fueled car wreck, a Grandma, a co-worker, a grandpa that was very important to my formative years, then my parents divorced, then my last grandparent died. By this time I had grown crusty with defense mechanisms. I struggle to hold onto money of any large amount. I moved every year or less for ten years. I have few friends, though the ones I do have are very strong friendships. While these events may not be related its hard to think the first didn't affect the following.

Chapter two

Have you ever brought your head up from your normal plodding daily step as a horse harnessed to a plow and looked around accidentally? We're not supposed to do it, but when we do we recognize the absurdity of the situation. Weaker men than us have chained us to the machine in order to make more money for them. In much the same way do relationships work. Yesterday i realized again i have often been the strong shoulder for others to lean on, yet when i need the same there's no one around. Perhaps there is but i don't recognize them as such. Therefore, in times of need or stress, like always before, i turn to writing as a pressure relief valve. I've always felt i had a story to tell, but no way to fictionalize it and no way to tell the facts that would be of any interest. All I've done is ramble around, try to escape my inner demons and have a good time. I've done all three of those quite well. Even now, one of my favorite things in the world to do is drive around aimlessly with no direction other than ending up at home before i pass out. No high speed, no strong liquor, no particular place to go. Just going, and looking. I also enjoy having a task to achieve, especially if it doesn't require an inordinate amount of time. I don't think anyone will particularly enjoy reading my story because i didn't accomplish anything amazing or overcome any major shortcoming. All i did was live my life as i saw fit, doing what i wanted when i wanted to do it as much as possible. That's not much different from anyone else i don't think. Maybe what i did is a little different but it's not spectacular, at least by my estimation, but then again i was there.

Chapter One

We didn't have television so i grew up either entertaining myself with books or wandering around outside. I still spend most of my time looking around thinking "That's interesting" and moving along, never really investigating anything in depth but certainly kicking around in the leaves a bit.
My favorite author as a boy was Louis L'Amour. He wrote the same story repeatedly buy he was good at it. I grew especially enthralled with the brief biography on the rear cover of his books and accidentally mirrored in my own life. I didn't set out with any specific plan or goal, just a general desire to go somewhere i hadn't been and see some new things. Bruce Springsteen days there are two kinds of people, goers and stayers. I successfully avoided sedentary life for ten years after being awarded my freedom and have now surrendered to the inevitable. A vast majority of people stay the income bracket they were born into, and i believe the same holds true across all aspects of life. I'm raising a family, working a menial job, and trudging along just as hundreds of years of my ancestors did. It's acceptable given the history, yet completely terrible to reflect upon.

Missing Person

Last seen 5/26/2014

Hard to say when I was last seen in whole. Before Labor Day, 1994 I'd guess. I had a good childhood, a proper upbringing, enough religion to make me good, enough good family to make me secure. I'm not bad but I am missing. I'm a missing person. I look West and see mountains, north and see pine trees, south the Gulf and East, well the Massachusetts shore, or the Shenandoah Valley if I look southwest. I see almost every major interstate system. I catch glimpses of people, places, old buildings, gas stations in the middle of the night, living rooms, rooftops, and barrooms, lots of barrooms. But when I look up, or back, or inwards, I see all the people forgotten, lost, dead or missing. They're still here. I feel them, hear them, wonder what they're doing or what they would be doing. People told me things would get easier after a sudden loss. The pain is just as sharp, I've just developed some way to ignore it, not feel it, focus on other things. It sneaks up on me at the most random times like a brick to the skull and I have to fight back tears. I've been stolen from, by life, and I can't replace the faces after they're gone.

Daydreams get away

A quick daydream about sitting by a campfire reminded me of how the Sun looks when it just hits the top of Dallas divide. That somehow triggered a memory of driving to the trailhead of the Blue Lakes Trail. There were some hikers on the road with their fancy sticks and expensive boots that looks rather perturbed as I drove by in my old pickup truck. I had to laugh  as the random trash in the back bounced forward and backward as we went up and down the hills on the trail. That then reminded me of watching the rain storms backed up in Red Canyon or the snow storms slowly rolling down the valley toward Hell Creek. Of course snowstorms reminded me of roustabouting and watching the rig hands put up tarps as the snow came in sideways at 30 miles an hour. Also hard to forget are the late nights pumping water for the frack tanks. The valves on the semis had a tendency to freeze so sometimes we had to torch them open and then when they would blow out the water to clear the valve the area in front of the tanks would turn into a skating rink. It's interesting how easy it is to remember all the sights and sounds and details especially when it just comes from a line in a song. It makes me want to get in the car and go down the highway, not necessarily to get anywhere, just to feel again the motion of going. Even though staying put seems natural you can never quite shake the ghost of a life on the move. Sometimes you have to feed the demon in whichever little way you can.

Perception of place

You do realize you're in charge of your emotions right? I've been telling my coworkers this for a year now and I just heard Ronda Rousey say it in a two year old interview. You get to pick your emotions! You get to pick who has the power to affect your mood! It's not hard! While I'm on the stump, here are a couple more concepts:

1) "Can't" is a four letter word. I don't use it anymore except for example. Can't is a cop out for pussies lacking the intestinal fortitude to achieve at a higher level.

2) the concept of not having time is horseshit. You are in charge of every minute of your day. You choose your priorities and good you use your time, but you do have time.

John Hartup taught me in fifth grade I can do whatever I want to, I just have to realize there are consequences for everything.

I choose whose opinion I care about. This is a tactic I have recently developed that helps a lot. I was raised to be concerned with others opinions of me but lately I've discovered how freeing it is to say "Your opinion of me is of no importance."

I have also figured out that most of the time someone is grumpy with me or toward me it has little to do with me and almost everything to do with them. This helps me separate my actions and reactions from their personal situation.

I don't form opinions on many things that don't matter. As I discussed there are a finite amount of moments in the day, and I'm judicial about what I spend time thinking about. Along the same vein, many things can exist without me forming an opinion on the spot. I guess that's just called but giving a hoot.

I'm not saying these are good or productive ways to approach life or that in some kind of genius, but they have worked for me. Perhaps it'll start a train of thought that could be useful to you, I hope so!

Living mystery novels

I used to read a lot. Growing up, we didn't have television. We didn't live in town either, I grew up in the middle of dirty acres of woods. If you wanted entertainment you read a book, played a card or board game, or went outside and amused yourself any way you could. My two favorite authors were Louis L'Amour and, later, Clive Cussler. Both men wrote basically the same story-one man with a strong sense of morality that wins in the end against all odds, but does it quietly and with dignity. This man knows his ability but doesn't flaunt it, and rises to any challenge put before him.
Now, let's talk about old trucks. They're mystery novels. They have secrets both good and bad. These secrets aren't usually told outright, you have to dig and scratch to discover the true identity of the truck. You can see the trails of the previous owner, discover clues to the sort of life it lived, as you move around on your hunt for clues. I just traded away two old trucks. They had very different lives. I knew nothing of their history before they arrived at my house but when they left I knew a bit more. I may have made some money on the trade, I'm not sure. It's always a gamble. The real value, the true essence of the operation, is not the money made. I do have two reasons to make money but the real endeavor is the reading of the mystery novel. I'd rather live it than read it, and I do so each time I crawl under a new book.

Here's a direct chronology of a money trail:
1984 for f150. I'll spare you the redneck details or the importance or origin of the money, but it's important. Paid $2500. I know it's a lot but I told you I'd spare the details so just forget it and follow along.
Traded for 1989 Ford ranger. Better fuel mileage.
Trade for 1990 Jeep Cherokee. Tired of the five speed and needed a family vehicle, preferably four wheel drive. This truck quit running. Here's where it gets interesting. I spent a lot of money on that Jeep trying to resurrect it. We won't bother with all that. However, I learned a lot about those engines and basic diagnostics. Sold for 600. This is a strong loss.
Bought a ford pickup for 600. Put 200 in it, sold it for 900. Later found out it died a week later.
Bought a buck lesabre for 800. Spent 180 on it, sold it for 1800.
Bought two trucks for a total of 1300. Had 1600 in them and just traded for a truck and a four wheeler. Hopefully I can fix and sell these two for a total of $2500.

Now, if you had the choice to read a novel or live a mystery-solving hobby that increases your knowledge and grows your wallet, would you? I still don't have television and still don't need it.

Skype

I just did my first Skype last Friday and its still sticking with me a bit. The best reason I can come up with is it usually takes quite a bit of planning to see someone that lives twelve hours away and I prepare for it over the course of the travelling. The expectation and excitement of the build up culminate in the joy of seeing your friend after so much time apart. Skype, however, feels like the first person to hear someone's voice over a telephone. A long time ago a friend of mine suggested we Skype and I never acted on it but having just experienced it I most certainly think it could become addictive. It's the same old issue as ever though-my day starts at 345 and ends when I go to bed, around nine. In the meantime there's work, commuting, picking up Carson, dinner, dishes, and relaxing with my family for less than an hour, and then bed. There's no time to Skype, pursue hobbies, etc. I've always detested people saying they don't have time. You have time to do whatever you choose. However, my time is down to the nitty gritty, unless you want to Skype while I drive!

Combo platter

Guy who has supernatural experiences that he sometimes dreams about. People who die visit him on their way from this world to the next but he doesn't realize this is what's happening, just thinks it's dreams. A homeless guy says something weird to him and he discovers there are others like him. Then he finds out most mental illnesses are really just variations of people unknowingly helping spirits

Easy rider combined with Down Home Girl

Including people in death make dancing a slow waltz in classic square dance garb... Silently

And a crow following main characters in each scene showing linear movement

Travel on bikes in the Midwest searching for freedom, pure

freedom

Winter as a biker

You never know how things will affect you until they happen-birth, death, divorce, college, jobs, whatever. I didn't go into motorcycle ownership with any other reason than it looked cool and I knew I had to have one. That was thirteen years ago and I went from a trashed out Honda to a ruthless budget bobber sportster, just like the David Allen Coe song. I had no idea the mental and emotional places I'd go, or even the physical locations, but I am starting to understand why I felt such a need for that first bike.
This bike I have now, purchased after my college roommate convinced me I could afford the payments, has been all over the united States, both in the truck and under its own power. I transformed it slowly into the meanest, roughest, nastiest bike that none of my friends will ride. It used to be fairly comfortable. In stock trim I once rode from Payson to McPherson in a day and it only took two days to recover. Last labor day we rode two hundred miles and I was sore for a week.

It taught me, with the help of a shop manual, that I could tackle and accomplish tasks I thought out of my reach. It taught me how to pack a proper tool bag. I learned hitch hiking is still a viable means of transportation.

I'm currently driving an hour one way to work. It's a great way to decompress on the way home and an even better way to start out. Last summer when my truck was broken I learned to not fear thunderstorms but that fenders might be helpful regardless of how uncool they are. I remember other rides too though-to the airport with a loose headlight shining on the tire at 80 mph for an hour after I got the call about grandpa, riding at night with tears flying off behind me. I remember taking our helmets off at the Florida state line, just because we could, and how damn hot it was. Then, a week later, riding Trail Ridge Road at 10,000 feet and being pretty chilly! A high speed burn from eager Arizona to the new Mexico state line just to see what it looked like. A hundred miles with twelve bottles of beer in a backpack. The ride with dad that started out just ten minutes up the road for a root beer at the fruit stand and ended six hours later after we'd visited Michigan.

It's a real conversation starter too, mostly inquiries about it's age and if I built it. My favorite conversations are the nods from older bikers, or the guys that do a double take, then wave. They notice the time, love and effort. The stories Sportster Bob told me about Austin in the 70s and how they'd tear around on bloody Mary Sundays, or how I pulled into Stubby's yard to check out his chop and we ended up drinking whiskey from some old fifth he dug out, Sunday morning, first names only, war stories about bar fights and sharing women. I stopped once over north of Del Norte to look at a guys bike and we talked for three hours, about ABATE, helmet laws, and of course his righteous survivor chop.

I got into bikes because I thought they were manly, tough, American. I had no idea the whole world that was opened up for me. I pussed out and didn't ride to the Denver premier of Choppertown, thought it was too cold. Zach and Scott showed me I wasn't alone in this world. Now, in Indianapolis, whenever I buy or sell some random part, I met these kinda strange, hairy, wild eyed guys just like me that have the same urge to build, construct, stand back and smile quietly, and then go terrorize the squares. I don't have any catch phrase to close on, just that it's going to be a long damn time till springtime comes around again.

No title yet, just an idea

You ever just want to talk to someone that doesn't know you? Someone that genuinely wants to chit chat but doesn't know a thing about you. Everyone I know that I could call knows me from a certain part of history or another and I think I know how they would respond.

Accidental hipster

I was raised by parents on the fringe of being hippies. They were cool with the counter culture without being deeply immersed. They both had strong farming backgrounds, college educations and traditional careers. We lived in the country, didn't buy many new clothes, raised a garden, and didn't have television. We used our library cards heavily, played board and card games, and played outside. We went to church every Sunday and were taught to care for others as we care for ourselves, not be worldly or selfish, and help out when are where we could. We learned we should be thankful for what we have as there are many who have much less.
There is a wave of people in modern culture now who were raised similarly to me, apparently, and have been saddled with the moniker of hipster. I apparently am one, though I never aspired to be, and don't particularity care to wear the label. My politics are generally left, I enjoy music that's not mainstream, and I never did give a damn to wear the hot fashions. We couldn't afford to be fashionable, so we made our own way. It appears many other kids came up the same way, and now we're the cool ones. Those of us who were never cool by the measure of society have accidentally become the cool, and I for one would rather not attract attention. I don't need your approval, your label, your critique, or your little box in which to place me. I do what I do because that's the way I've always done it. I'm not trying to fit in, and I think that's what annoys me the most. Just because there is a group of people similar to me does not mean I'm part of that group, or want to be. Perhaps I am just by association, but I reject the name while acknowledging the similarity. Don't judge me by my appearance, my musical tastes, my bookshelf or my beer preference. Judge me on my character, how I treat others, and how I conduct myself in the face of adversity. Judge me on how I view the world and why I view it that way. Judge me on my ability to make the best of my situation. Don't call me a hipster unless I give you permission. I am an individual. There may be many like me, and I may be like many, but I am me and there is no one else exactly like me. I don't want to be in your hipster grouping for the sake of belonging. I don't need to belong. I want to associate with other individuals who are like minded and approach life in a similar manner but if there are none to be found, I will move forward on my own, and no worse off for doing so.

Clocks and time

A guy asked me what time it was the other day. I told him it was whatever time he wanted it to be. The measure of time is, after all, a creation of man. And, I add, the source of stress. Other than concerns regarding the procurement of essential life needs, stress is primarily created by watching the time. Consider your daily life if you weren't concerned about what time is was at any particular moment. I watch the clock from the moment I wake up, to when I wake up again, to when I reach the kitchen, leave for work, arrive at work, wait for breaks, get home, etc etc. Without the clock I would be more free!

Soft spot for morons

Well I went and did it again. I lost a bunch of money on a motorcycle deal. You'd think by now I'd learn I'll never make any money dabbling in old Japanese junk. I had about 500 bucks wrapped up in a pretty nice old Honda with no title. It was just taking up room in the garage and I wanted it gone. I took the first serious bite I got on a trade. First off, the kid drove an hour to get here. Second, he's a fairly broke country boy with a love for motorcycles. He was a harmless kid, lives at home, twenty years old, drives a beater s10 with a rebel flag painted on the roof. Well, I shouldn't have been in such a hurry but I didn't figure I'd get another bite on the bike so I went ahead with the deal and now I have a hundred year old Belgian double barrel shotgun that someone scotch-brited all the bluing off. Now if you spend a few moments online you'll discover this gun ain't worth shit. You can't shoot modern shotgun shells in it, there aren't any parts available, and a gun with the bluing removed isn't worth much regardless of age. The market was flooded with cheap Belgian shotguns around the turn of the century and they just don't have much of a value. But, the kid was so excited and reminded me of myself just a few short years ago, I couldn't help but go ahead. The enjoyment he'll get out of messing with that bike is payment enough. That's what I keep telling myself anyhow. I could use the money but the problem with money is you just spend it and then it's gone. Ahh, you only live once I suppose. I went through the hassle of getting a title on this bike and learned how confusing that process is. Tyler and I had a lot of fun messing with it and annoying the neighbors when he was here for the 500. It's good to have a bike around for times like that but I'd prefer it be a Triumph next time. Maybe I can pawn this old shotgun off on some bike owner with a soft spot for dumb, enthusiastic 32 year olds that like junk bikes, old guns, and used to be redneck farm boys.