Born To Ride News

The things I like about Christmas. …

I suppose that when I was a little kid, I like most other people of that tender age looked forward to the Christmas Holiday with great expectation. There was always something exciting about the possibility of receiving some sort of toy or game or other item that I really wanted; and the gratification of displaying that item to my peers was the ultimate feeling of satisfaction. But I soon found out that my friends and peers really didn’t get much thrill at looking at my socks and underwear – especially when I would drop my pants just to show em off. Damn, I should have been born a girl! Then everyone would want to see my socks and underwear. That statement is based upon some of the magazines that I have seen at the local 7-Eleven. I was there the other day, talking to my friend Habib who works there. He was showing me a series of photos in one of those magazines that featured a very attractive girl posing in her underwear. She was even wearing socks. Ok, well I guess they were stockings, but it didn’t matter because she was simply captivating. She was also sporting a Santa hat but I don’t believe that anyone (including myself) would have ever noticed that hat. Not with that beautiful set of large perfectly rounded uh – eyes – staring back at me. I started thinking that, not only is it cool to look that good in your skivvies, but it must be really nice to get paid for it! I came to the conclusion that models get paid when I tried to remove the magazine from the store without paying for it. Habib said “No you stinky biker bum – you pay, you pay! Book not leave store without you pay for it loser!!” I just put it back on the counter, because I had already spent all my cash on a pack of smokes, a 16oz Bud and a lotto ticket.

Ahhh those memories! As my thoughts journeyed back to when I was a kid, I lit a smoke and savored the aroma of the toxic materials I was exhaling. I took a swallow of the ice-cold beer, and leaned back against the glass on the front of the store. Man, it was cool to be young and have expectations and dreams, and every day was a new adventure. Sometimes you got what you wanted, and sometimes you didn’t, but you always woke up with wide-eyed expectation. I heard the door open and out walks my pal Habib. He lights up a smoke and sits on the ledge next to me. He says “Ohhh man look at that filthy motorcycle you bum, you should wash! And them clothes you wear, man you stinky Craven, you dirty stinky, you should wash!” “Shaddup buttwipe” I replied. “What makes you think you are so much better than me?” “Ohhh Craven I got job, I make money, you just stinky biker bum, but I still like you!” “You don’t like me Habib; you just wish you were free like I am! I got nowhere to go, nothing to do, and nothing to prove!” He doesn’t reply but stares off into space for a few minutes, tosses his cigarette into the parking lot and walks inside. As I swigged down the last of my beer, I thought that perhaps my friend was thinking about what I said. Maybe he had some sort of expectation or some dream in a way off desert tent or something. I don’t know, maybe he didn’t have a Christmas tree or presents to open – heck he probably doesn’t even celebrate Christmas in whatever place he originally came from. Or maybe he, just like me, really has no place to go or nothing to do after he gets off work. Maybe he has nothing to prove and no expectation of happiness. Either way, it didn’t really matter at that particular moment. I just got up, threw the empty can into the trash and walked over to my motorcycle. I had a funny thought when I threw my leg over the bike – you know, what would it be like to throw your leg over a camel, and drive it home from work. Or worse, maybe one of them stinky braying jackasses like they ride around on in Mexico. I actually rode one of those smelly things when I was down there, and my pal Habib thinks I’m stinky – HA!! Anyhow, I just fired up the bike, and I was getting ready to leave when Habib runs out the door. He’s waving a bag at me and he comes up and says “Here Craven, I want you to have this magazine, you like it so I make present to you for it. You still a bum but you are my friend!” “Thanks man, I appreciate that!” I replied, as I rolled up the book and stuffed it into my jacket. Then, I dug around in my other pocket and found a pass to the gentleman’s club down the highway. I handed it to him and said “Here man, you may enjoy this!” His eyes got sorta wide, and said “Ohhh man, Showgirls club, I go there, I like! You a good friend Craven even though you bike bum!” “Yeah you’re a good friend too, so Merry Christmas Habib!” “Merry Christmas!” he hollers as he runs back inside.

As I ride down the road, I started thinking that maybe even though we’re not young anymore there are still some things that we can expect that still please us. Things that are bright and shiny, whether new or old, dusty or dirty, probably dreams, possibly fantasies, maybe even the simplest of rewards or gifts could never replace the basic art of friendship. It’s a good thing to exchange this Christmas.

The things I don’t like about Christmas. …

I don’t like those little antler things that you put on your dog. I don’t like those little Santa hat things for your dog either. Your dog doesn’t like it I don’t like it, and I will come to your trailer and teach your dog to bite you if you don’t quit doing it! No, it’s not even cute for that one photo that you want to put on the front of your Christmas card. If I was your dog and you did that to me, I would eat your favorite slippers and crap them out all over your shag carpet. Your dog is supposed to be your best friend. Why would you do that to your dog? Just stop it!

Now that we have that straight, I do want to say thanks and Merry Christmas to ALL my dedicated readers who endure my rants and raves month after month. I enjoy writing for this magazine, and really do appreciate all of you that come up to me and say “I like your articles!” Or “I hate your articles” or whatever. I really sincerely do appreciate it. Thanks again my friends, and speed safely out there!
Oh yeah, Hey Santa! I do need some new socks this year, but forget the underwear, I’m goin commando!

DIXIE BIKER MONK PASSED AWAY SATURDAY NIGHT.  HE HAD BEEN FIGHTING CANCER STAGE FOUR FOR A WHILE. WE JUST LOST ANOTHER PATRIOT AND FREEDOM FIGHTER AMERICAN. MONK SUPPORTED THE CONSTITUTION AND THIS GREAT COUNTRY AND CONSERVATIVE VALUES HE WAS A TRUE FRIEND. OUR PRAYERS GO OUT TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS WHO LOVED THE GUY. GOD BLESS.
                                    

RESPECT,
                                     

WILLIE

Why? Why do they say that? I must be missing something here or there … or, perhaps not. I’m just not sure at the moment. I was simply sitting on the side of the road, next to my inoperative motorcycle. While you are just sitting, many miles from a shop or a cold beer, you think about a lot of crap. Like why did I buy the thing in the first place? Yeah, it was my typical ride of choice – a nice little FLH Police Special thing, with a lot of dealer added toys, which do not in any sense of the word improve the ride – but certainly increase the bottom line at signing. But nothing I could have purchased at the time could have guaranteed that the final drive belt wouldn’t break in the middle of nowhere on a really nice 100 degree-day. (Remember when I said miles from a cold beer?) Well it gets worse. … It seems that I had already spent my cell phone payment money on a good night at the Gentleman’s club so there was no way that I could call anyone to come way the hell out here to get me. Most of the people I had numbers saved for, in the now useless piece of plastic I had stashed in the tour pack, wouldn’t have had the truck or trailer or even the fuel money for a charity rescue. So needless to say I was stuck … for a while anyway. …

It must have been an hour or so, but it felt like longer than that, when a friendly redneck girl who happened by was kind enough to stop and see why I was just sitting on the side of old Hwy 17 in the middle of the afternoon. After a few minutes of conversation she called her uncle, who has one of them roll-back wrecker things, to come out and get me. At the time, I knew that I only had fourteen dollars in my pocket, which probably exceeded her tooth count by ten, so to say the least I was skeptical. It was truly a mystery. First of all, why would this well worn trailer park breeder even stop to see why I was just sitting here on the side of the road, especially after me seeing her drive by in her dilapidated ’72 Camaro three times? Then, why would a person of her obviously (or similarly) drained financial status even offer to help an old broken down scooter tramp in the first place? Of course I was looking for a free ride, but there was no way I was going to cop-out to the fact that I didn’t have any money! And thirdly, where the heck did she get one of those fancy cell phones that have pictures and stuff on them looking like she did? Ahhh but the mystery is not yet revealed, and I doubt that it ever will be. …

“Heck, it’s only Once in a Blue Moon that I seen one of them belts break” he said as he climbed out of the cab of the wrecker. Evidently her ‘uncle’ was at one time in his life, perhaps even now, a biker. A rather large and ruddy looking man, he stood about six two with tattoos covering the better part of both of his tree-trunk sized arms and at 300 sweaty pounds, I was thinking that even at his apparent sixty plus years, I may have a bit of a problem explaining to him that I wouldn’t have enough cash to pay for the tow charge. But, for some reason the issue of payment never came up. At the time, I just wanted to get off the side of the road. As the antique hydraulics screamed in agony, and with an unsung   miracle, “Uncle” slowly lowered the bed of the rather worn and greasy wrecker.   “Now get over here and hep-us get this thing loaded up April eh?” he yelled at his niece. She complied by doing a shuffle up the oil covered bed, and grabbed the cable that would help us get the bike up on the bed. It was easy enough, and in just a few minutes we had the bagger loaded up and strapped down on the back of the aging rig. I started thinking that she really didn’t look all that bad from the rear as she bent over to get the straps connected up. But that mouth. … Oh well – anything’s better than the side of the road. … “Look here boy, why don’t you jus ride with little April here, and we will get you back to town and see if we can get you fixed up.” “Uh well, OK” I replied, but with some reservation. “You wanna drive?” April said as she tossed me the keys, and as I watched the bagger disappear into the dust on the back of that old wrecker, I said “Hell yeah!”

Once in a Blue Moon my butt, I thought as I fired the old Camaro up. I looked over at April as she flashed me a checkerboard grin, and thought about my plight, and – wait a minute – this worn out old car runs like a scaled-ass ape! “Hey Craven, crank up the AC.” “What??? Hey, how’d you know my name?” “Well you know yer kinda famous around these parts” I fumbled with the controls and in seconds had the air conditioner blowing cold, and the windows were rolled up. “Well that don’t explain anything, I’m not exactly from around here!” “All of us over here know about you from that BornTo Ride thing you are in. It’s the only biker news we get out here.” At this moment I’m in clear view of the uncle’s wrecker, and my bagger still sitting perfectly upright on the back. I had to take a moment to think. This is still a mystery. Once in a blue moon, No, I heard about that a few months ago, I even took a picture of it. The news said it was a Blue Moon. That friggin’ moon wasn’t even close to blue, it was as full and white as those dudes that I met that wear them white sheets. But that’s another story. Then I remembered when the Ol Lady got a gift certificate from the Outback Steakhouse near our trailer park. She ordered our stuff to go, and my filet was supposed to have Bleu Cheese crust on it. When I got back to the trailer, the crap on my steak was GREEN not BLUE! So, I called the restaurant and asked the woman that worked there if the OL Lady had paid her to give me some poison stuff on my steak – you know – so I would die. She assured me that she didn’t know the OL Lady, and sometimes Bleu Cheese was Green. I remember that I was confused and that alone is still a mystery. At this particular time however, I figured it was time to quit thinking and keep driving.

April had propped one of her legs up on the dash, and I was trying to rack my mind as to how I was going to get out of this situation. She was still looking my way suggestively, and I was still amazed at how this completely depleted automobile ran so much better then anything I had ever driven before. It was incredible. That is until we approached a small town. “Oh Craven, you know, you don’t have to worry about anything. Uncle Billy is a real big fan of yours too, but I didn’t tell him it was you on the side of the road. I jus told him it was another broke dick-biker he could make a dollar off of.”  “Oh yeah, that’s real reassuring – thanks! And while we’re on the subject, how’d you know I’m broke???” “That’s easy, over here we all follow your life through the magazine, and it isn’t everyday that we get to actually see people like you in person.”  It’s still a mystery to me. I may never figure it out. …

I’m now in Podunk, and after a quick right turn, we follow the bike into a fairly large industrial looking complex. I shut down the car, and jump out. Uncle is getting out and beginning the same agonizing song of lowering the roll-back bed. Before he gets it all the way down, he yells at April to “Open the door.” She complies, and I swear to you, when I saw the facility, I could not believe that it was even real. Remember now, I wasn’t drinking or partaking in recreational pharmaceuticals, so I just could not believe my own eyes! This was a shop like you would see in a major town like L.A. (Lutz Area), or maybe downtown St. Petersburg, or maybe even Seattle. (I don’t know, I ain’t never been to Seattle, but they say it’s a big town.) Needless to say, this was going to be one of those days or possibly weeks. … Perhaps next month, the mystery will be solved, but I doubt it.

Until then, speed safely, and stay tuned to Born to Ride.

So here I am again sitting on the redwood deck in the trailer park, with a pen and an old grocery sack in hand, wondering which humorous episode of my life I will expose to my readers this month. But then, all of a sudden, I draw a blank. I can’t think about anything humorous and some of my recent escapades wouldn’t make it to print anyway. The magazine I write for seems to have an aversion to things that are in the ‘gray’ area concerning human (and animal) sexuality, or the exposure of certain body parts, or possibly some unpleasant excretions or other unsavory behavior, so I kinda hit a wall here. “Oh crap! I’ve got writers block!” I holler out as I get up to find a beer. The ol lady, always there with some smartass remark for me, hears my fraught comment and says “Naw, you ain’t got writers block, you’re just suffering from the writers recession.” “Writers recession – what the heck is that? I ain’t never heard of such crap!”  “Well you know Craven, everybody’s talkin about it – you know the recession?? That’s why I said it. It must be affecting you too, you know, writers recession!” “I don’t think so witch! I ain’t suffering form nuthin’ so just stay out of it!” She flashes me an evil look as I head back out the door, forgetting that she hates me calling her witch, and return to my milk crate on the deck. I took a swallow of beer and thought about getting on the bike and heading back down to the gentlemen’s club, but a quick check of my wallet indicated that I wasn’t going much of anywhere. $#/T, no dough I thought to myself.  That reminded me of my current plight. Hell, it’s the first of the year, I’m un-employed, there’s nothing around here I can sell to anybody, and I really don’t wanna pull a felony charge for tryin to rob the liquor store, so what do I do? I remembered that we had a really great time having all the family and friends over for Christmas, and I recall that I was running low on money, but I never realized that all that really cool partying would leave me on the porch without a dime to throw at a cockroach.

My thoughts became worse and worse, I haven’t got credit at the bar, so when I run out of beer, I’m gonna have to listen to all the bad things the ol lady says about me sober! Lucky for me, a lot of people gave me some 12 packs for Christmas, and they may last till the 30th or so – maybe. I could go raid the sugar bowl where the ol lady keeps the spare change, but no, I forgot – I already raided that thing to get some gas money. No where to go and no way to get there. Crap – she was right again! I’m in the middle of a writer’s recession. Now… How do I get outta here? I got it! I’ll apply for Social Security, and live for free! Yeah, that’s a great idea, but ummmm crap, I ain’t 60 years old. Oh I got it! I’ll get welfare, and live for free! Yeah, that’s the ticket! It should be easy, but awwww crap, I gotta problem with lines. Oh yeah! I got an idea! I’ll shoot myself and collect my life insurance – oh wait – that ain’t gonna work either! Oh yeah! I’ll shoot the ol lady and collect her life insurance, and then – well never mind – she ain’t got no insurance and see felony charge (above). Getting a job – out of the question!

Dammit boy! You know I hate to admit it when she’s right, but this time I concede defeat. I got the damn writers recession.

With no apparent way out I once again at great risk of bodily harm, return back to the inside of the trailer where the ol lady is lounging, and try to find out what the hell I can do to get outta this mess. I know that even though she hates me on the outside, somewhere deep down in her evil, conniving, unforgiving soul, she still loves me or one of my body parts. So I go back inside where she’s propped up on the couch watching TV and I ask “Hey baby, so would you have a moment in your busy schedule to tell me more about this recession thing?” “No a$$#ole, I ain’t telling you nuthin!” “Oh come on honey, you know I love it when you use that computer to give me useless information about stuff that I don’t really wanna know about! You are so smart, and cute too!”  “Get outta here Craven! Can’t you see that I’m watchin Desperate Housewives?” I thought about shooting the screen outta the TV, but then I remembered that NASCAR will be back on next month. “OK honey, well, if you change your mind, and decide that you want to help me, I’ll just be out on my porch like a good little redneck.” I walked out and slammed the door. Good little redneck my ass! I got a plan to get even with her, I thought, but just at the moment I was putting together the perfect revenge, she opens the door and throws some papers out and says “Here read this!” I look at the stack of papers and after 30 minutes of reading, I realized that I wasn’t the only one in a recession, and what’s worse, there’s this health care thing that has everybody in an uproar. “I can’t believe it!” I hollered out, just about the time she came back outside. “Yeah Craven, you’re a genius now aren’t you?” “Well no, but I can’t believe that if I don’t pay the government for healthcare of some sort that they’ll put me in jail!” “Well that’s the plan.” She replies. I thought for a moment and then the reality sank in. “There’s no way out!” I scream, but she just slams the door and goes back inside.

I don’t think she heard me, but the thought came to mind that some things are wrong, a virtual plethora of things that seemingly have no resolution. However on the other hand, since I can’t afford to buy any kind of healthcare insurance, I will get locked up. But while in jail, I get free healthcare! Now that’s a plan!! Whoops wait a minute. … How long can they keep me in there for such a ridiculous crime? Not too long I suppose, but on the upside, I can walk out of jail all healthy and necessary repairs completed until they stuff me back in there again. But wait! There’s more! I wasn’t planning on needing healthcare anyhow, so why should the government make me pay for it? I always thought that if you had a job, your employer would simply provide that coverage by removing the costs from the paycheck. Oh crap! Once again I messed up by being unemployed and there ain’t no way in hell that anyone would hire me to do anything. Back to square one. I suppose that the bottom line here is that the economy is not really improving, and unemployment and foreclosures are at an all time high, and before you know it, you – like me – won’t be able to pay your way out of the pokey, much less get a lap dance on credit. So what do we do? I got it! We all just put on our fish costumes and cover ourselves with Vaseline and try to slide by the authorities that have set up a roadblock on the way out of town!

Wait a minute! I reach for the phone and dial 1-800-666-SATAN. “Hello, Beelzebub? Yo dude, can you open up the gates of Hell, cause there’s a few million folks heading down that way right now!” Until next month, speed safely!

Man, it’s hot outside! Well, of course! It’s summertime in Florida and there is no relief from the heat until you are bombarded by golf ball sized hail from the inevitable afternoon thunderstorm. When I feel it’s getting really unbearable from either weather condition, I will leave the sanctity of my redwood deck and retreat back inside the trailer with my dog and beer. It was on one recent retreat that I learned that none of us would be here too long. Or so it seemed to one particular person.

I have heard of the internet, but I’m not one of those computer literate sort of folks, so when the ol’ lady got one of these “Laptop computer” things I paid little attention to it. “Hey look at this” she hollers from across the room. “It’s this website for the “Institute for Human Continuity.” “What’s that?” I replied. “It’s this thing about the end of the world, and you can apply for a chance to be a survivor!” After a brief examination I determined that the image on the computer screen was impressive. It appears to be a real site which warns people of the ‘end of the world.’ I dunno, I remember that once I wrote about the internet being only useful for Porn, and that assumption was based on a statement being made by a ‘wise’ man that I met, so I approached the vision of the website with great skepticism. Wow! It did look real, and the ol’ lady was enthusiastic about the impending doom, and was showing me how you could join a lottery to be included as a “survivor.” It was at this point that I went from skepticism to disbelief. I mean, how can a stupid computer save you, as a person from the end of the world? I just didn’t make sense. But she was adamant that this was real, and went into great detail about what she had read. As little as I know about the computer or the end of the world for that matter, I decided that it was time to do a little ‘research’ of my own. Nothing will cool you off like quick blast on a motorcycle, so I hollered “see ya!” and fired up the bagger and headed down the road to the Gentlemen’s club for some more alcohol, and some ‘in-depth’ investigation! Here’s what I learned…

According to the Mayan Indians, ‘doomsday’ will happen on December 21, 2012. It seems that the Mayans constructed a calendar that ends on that exact date. … Hmm, all the strange things happening around the world right now, and then some long dead people from the other side of nowhere mess my day up even worse! Just my luck! Then there’s this dude named Nostradamus who seemed to predict the same thing, but wait, he says it going to happen on the 22nd not the 21st which is not surprising to me!

There are other ancient predictors and methods used to calculate such events, but I prefer to use the ‘count the boobies’ method. It’s a simple calculation involving counting the number of boobies you see at the Gentlemen’s club, multiplying by the number of beers you’ve consumed, adding 1,655 (the amount of dollars it typically costs to pay the fine and costs for DUI) and subtracting 2. My calculation revealed that the world would not actually end in 2012 but somewhere in the area of 2029. This number was based on my unique ability of retroactive clairvoyance, and the probable existence of unobvious boobies being hidden from natural view. I am an expert at predicting things after they already happened, and appear to be a Seer when I approach those that have not already ‘heard the news.’

Postdiction aside, there was a level of disappointment in the ol’ lady’s eyes when I told her that the Institute for Human Continuity was actually not a predictor of the end of the world, but merely a very well constructed website advertisement for the movie ‘2012’ which is supposed to come out sometime in November. I also told her that continuous use of the computer could make her anti-social, and just like that tee-vee, it can make you go blind! She called me a colorful name and said she was going to throw me out of the house. I can’t predict the exact date, because it hasn’t happened yet! Until next month, speed safely and stay tuned for more. ….

Editor’s note: Gullibility notwithstanding, more than 11,000,000 people have already signed up for a chance to survive the end of the world. Are they true believers like Craven’s ol’ lady, or are they merely being duped by the entertainment industry? Make your decision by reviewing www.theinstituteforhumancontinuity.org

Even if you ride a box-stock motorcycle, you cannot possibly deny the fact that you enjoy gazing at those custom jobs. Whether it’s a billet laden radical chopper, a bobber or a vintage old school knucklehead chop, each custom motorcycle is an expression of the owners love of the lifestyle and the machine. Lately, sport bikes have undergone tremendous modifications and in the custom world, there is no limitation to what a fertile mind can produce. Extended front ends, stretched swing arms and flashing LED systems aside, one of the more popular accessories out there is the vertical license plate mount. Who knew that after spending several hundred dollars on this popular modification, it would be the one item that keeps on costing?

I saw it with my own eyes. A biker was issued a ticket carrying a heavy monetary penalty for displaying his license plate vertically instead of horizontally (to the ground). I have also overheard a series of similar stories where bikers riding custom motorcycles with this mod have experienced the very same thing. Here, insult is added to injury because persons who desire to customize their motorcycles spend heavily on accessories such as the vertical license plate mount. Sadly, some of you have paid twice.

I’m not a Cop or a Lawyer, but I never remembered having a problem reading a license plate that was not mounted horizontally. I’m not suggesting that I am better than anyone, but I have actually been capable of deciphering the plates when they were mounted upside down and covered with mud. I further am not suggesting that I try to read every license plate, but I do enjoy seeing those ‘vanity’ plates (you know like; HWG WYLD or VIBR8TR or EZ LAY etc.) which by the way cost the owner a little extra, just like their custom parts.

This law was not only ubiquitous to every law enforcement officer (looking to use an equipment violation for probable cause to stop or detain) but it was also deleterious to individuals that enjoy the sleek look a vertical plate mount provides. Customization of a motorcycle is akin to freedom of expression, and in my humble opinion persons desiring to modify their machine shouldn’t be singled out, fined or otherwise beleaguered for their artistic creations. Laws such as this one do nothing to enhance personal safety or protection of the general public and are a prime example of bureaucratic profligacy. Haven’t we seen enough?

Someone somewhere, must have agreed with me and thought that this particular law was just plain stupid, and lobbied the DHSMV and the Senate to get the statute reviewed. For once, I bring you good news! The law has been changed. …

Here then are the facts, as available on the Florida Legislature’s website at www.leg.state.fl.us:

The law was changed by a Committee Amendment sometime back in April of this year. It became effective on July 01, 2009. The Florida Statute appearing at TITLE XXIII Chapter 316 “STATE UNIFORM TRAFFIC CONTROL” More specifically Chapter 316.2085 “Riding on Motorcycles or Mopeds” was modified. I am showing the original and the modified version here:

The original Statute (at 316.2085 (3)) read:

(3) The license tag of a motorcycle or moped must be permanently affixed horizontally to the vehicle ground and may not be adjusted or capable of being flipped up. No device for or method of concealing or obscuring the legibility of the license tag of a motorcycle shall be installed or used.

Upon review by the Florida Senate the words ‘horizontally’ and ‘ground’ were removed from the vernacular by being struck through, at line 71 on page 4 of 20 in (the) Florida Senate – 2009 Bill No. CS for SB 1100.

The amended statute now reads:

(3) The license tag of a motorcycle or moped must be permanently affixed to the vehicle and may not be adjusted or capable of being flipped up. No device for or method of concealing or obscuring the legibility of the license tag of a motorcycle shall be installed or used.

I wonder if all Florida Law Enforcement Officers are aware of this change. It seems unimaginable that something so significant to bikers would be a topic at the shift meeting, or even casual conversation at the doughnut shop. I guess we will see how it goes, as now we once again have regained just a little bit more of our freedom to express ourselves in chrome and steel.

But just in case, always remember that the informed biker is a vigilant one whom armed with the correct information has the ability to enlighten Officers that are not aware of such changes. State and local Law Enforcement Officers are required to carry Florida Statute books, or have the capability to peruse the Statutes whether in paper format or on the handy computer mounted in their vehicle. If for some reason you are stopped for a vertical plate, remind Officer Friendly that Craven said that the law has been changed. After they let you out of the cuffs for mentioning my name, ask them to look up FS 316.2085(3) to verify that it is now legal for you to fly your plate in a perpendicular fashion.

Until next month – SPEED SAFELY!

It’s always a good reason to fight. Thanksgiving that is. I remember how I was raised, and taught the real meaning of thanksgiving was to celebrate the Pilgrim’s moratorium on eliminating Indians. In the old days, it was prophesized that the original celebration involved sharing food between long-standing adversaries. This tradition, in my life has never changed.

I awoke that morning with a pounding in my head. When I shook off the alcohol induced sleep, I remembered that the ol’ lady had intentionally struck me in the back of my skull with an iron skillet the night before. This painful memory was becoming more and more prominent as I walked down the narrow hall to visit the 5 gallon joint compound bucket that we call a toilet. But before I got to the door that used to house our fancy “indoor plumbing” bathroom (including a stand-up shower) I was again met with the rage of a woman. This time the ol’ lady was unarmed, with the exception of an extremely loud voice. This voice however was as painful to my aching head as the 5 pounds of steel that had bid me sweet dreams the night before. Evidently she was still pissed, but I couldn’t understand why.

After a seemingly unending barrage of verbal abuse, I learned that I had once again not lived up to her expectations. She had invited no less than 10 of her family members to our trailer for the holiday to enjoy a Thanksgiving feast with us. At that time I reminded her that we didn’t even have 10 chairs or milk crates, much less a table to seat all of her expected dignitaries in the manner that they were accustomed to. While she raced to the bedroom to retrieve the baseball bat, I stumbled down the steps out of the front door, and ran across the yard to my motorcycle. I should have attempted my escape in the pick-up truck, but I knew that it was cold-natured, and the cool November weather would make it even harder to get started, and running.

I heard a loud crack as the bat came down on the back of the tour pack. But for her it was too late. I covered her with dirt and gravel, as I dumped the clutch at full throttle and hauled ass down the cow path that the owners of the park call a ‘road.’ Once free of the threat of bodily harm, I quickly remembered that I still needed to take a leak, so I pulled off the side of the road a mile or so later to relieve myself. It was at this time that I realized that most of this confrontation could possibly have been my own fault!

You see, the night before I remembered that she gave me her monthly government check. I had initially intended to spend the entire $213.11 on groceries for the Thanksgiving dinner that she had been planning for the last year. But you my dedicated readers, as well as I, know the difference between fantasy and reality. Instead of going to get the groceries, I did what I normally do, and went to visit all my friends at the local taverns and gentleman’s clubs. Around midnight, I remembered my original mission, and spent the remaining $42.00 on a gourmet take-out from someplace called the Jerk Hut. (It was the only joint open at that late hour.) I also remembered that she was somewhat dissatisfied when I arrived back at the trailer with the several Styrofoam containers of burned chicken and mystery meat. It had all the sides you would expect – baked beans, cole slaw, and some un-identifiable liquid that resembled regurgitated sea snakes or something like that. Even though there was enough to feed everyone she was not impressed. I did my best to explain to her the burned looking chicken was really turkey, and the sea snake sauce mixture was really gravy. I also explained to her that we could dig enough potatoes out of the yard to feed her flock. I later learned that “Jerk” food was some kind of really foul tasting Jamaican stuff, and the “potatoes” growing around the park were a variety of poison gourds that were only there to ward off the raccoons and possums. I actually would have enjoyed a dinner of raccoons and possums, but her family would not stand for it. I then went to the fruit stand on the main road and bargained for a sack of potatoes on credit.

Around noon, the hungry hoard began to arrive. I had returned only an hour earlier, greeted with the shouting of my name (expletives deleted for the sake of the kids). A near miss from a small hatchet reminded me that she was still pissed over my menu selection. The already blackened chicken and mystery meat was being warmed over our “redneck fireplace” in the front yard. The sack of potatoes was boiling in our turkey deep fryer bucket. A sharp stench of un-identified spices wafted through the air. At this time I‘m figuring “life is good” But the worst was yet to come.

Go to www.borntoride.com for the rest of the story … Craven Moorehead … good day!

I suppose that when I was a little kid, I like most other people of that tender age looked forward to the Christmas Holiday with great expectation. There was always something exciting about the possibility of receiving some sort of toy or game or other item that I really wanted; and the gratification of displaying that item to my peers was the ultimate feeling of satisfaction. But I soon found out that my friends and peers really didn’t get much thrill at looking at my socks and underwear – especially when I would drop my pants just to show em off. Damn, I should have been born a girl! Then everyone would want to see my socks and underwear. That statement is based upon some of the magazines that I have seen at the local 7-Eleven. I was there the other day, talking to my friend Habib who works there. He was showing me a series of photos in one of those magazines that featured a very attractive girl posing in her underwear. She was even wearing socks. Ok, well I guess they were stockings, but it didn’t matter because she was simply captivating. She was also sporting a Santa hat but I don’t believe that anyone (including myself) would have ever noticed that hat. Not with that beautiful set of large perfectly rounded uh – eyes – staring back at me. I started thinking that, not only is it cool to look that good in your skivvies, but it must be really nice to get paid for it! I came to the conclusion that models get paid when I tried to remove the magazine from the store without paying for it. Habib said “No you stinky biker bum – you pay, you pay! Book not leave store without you pay for it loser!!” I just put it back on the counter, because I had already spent all my cash on a pack of smokes, a 16oz Bud and a lotto ticket.

Ahhh those memories! As my thoughts journeyed back to when I was a kid, I lit a smoke and savored the aroma of the toxic materials I was exhaling. I took a swallow of the ice-cold beer, and leaned back against the glass on the front of the store. Man, it was cool to be young and have expectations and dreams, and every day was a new adventure. Sometimes you got what you wanted, and sometimes you didn’t, but you always woke up with wide-eyed expectation. I heard the door open and out walks my pal Habib. He lights up a smoke and sits on the ledge next to me. He says “Ohhh man look at that filthy motorcycle you bum, you should wash! And them clothes you wear, man you stinky Craven, you dirty stinky, you should wash!” “Shaddup buttwipe” I replied. “What makes you think you are so much better than me?” “Ohhh Craven I got job, I make money, you just stinky biker bum, but I still like you!” “You don’t like me Habib; you just wish you were free like I am! I got nowhere to go, nothing to do, and nothing to prove!” He doesn’t reply but stares off into space for a few minutes, tosses his cigarette into the parking lot and walks inside. As I swigged down the last of my beer, I thought that perhaps my friend was thinking about what I said. Maybe he had some sort of expectation or some dream in a way off desert tent or something. I don’t know, maybe he didn’t have a Christmas tree or presents to open – heck he probably doesn’t even celebrate Christmas in whatever place he originally came from. Or maybe he, just like me, really has no place to go or nothing to do after he gets off work. Maybe he has nothing to prove and no expectation of happiness. Either way, it didn’t really matter at that particular moment. I just got up, threw the empty can into the trash and walked over to my motorcycle. I had a funny thought when I threw my leg over the bike – you know, what would it be like to throw your leg over a camel, and drive it home from work. Or worse, maybe one of them stinky braying jackasses like they ride around on in Mexico. I actually rode one of those smelly things when I was down there, and my pal Habib thinks I’m stinky – HA!! Anyhow, I just fired up the bike, and I was getting ready to leave when Habib runs out the door. He’s waving a bag at me and he comes up and says “Here Craven, I want you to have this magazine, you like it so I make present to you for it. You still a bum but you are my friend!” “Thanks man, I appreciate that!” I replied, as I rolled up the book and stuffed it into my jacket. Then, I dug around in my other pocket and found a pass to the gentleman’s club down the highway. I handed it to him and said “Here man, you may enjoy this!” His eyes got sorta wide, and said “Ohhh man, Showgirls club, I go there, I like! You a good friend Craven even though you bike bum!” “Yeah you’re a good friend too, so Merry Christmas Habib!” “Merry Christmas!” he hollers as he runs back inside.

As I ride down the road, I started thinking that maybe even though we’re not young anymore there are still some things that we can expect that still please us. Things that are bright and shiny, whether new or old, dusty or dirty, probably dreams, possibly fantasies, maybe even the simplest of rewards or gifts could never replace the basic art of friendship. It’s a good thing to exchange this Christmas.

The things I don’t like about Christmas. …

I don’t like those little antler things that you put on your dog. I don’t like those little Santa hat things for your dog either. Your dog doesn’t like it I don’t like it, and I will come to your trailer and teach your dog to bite you if you don’t quit doing it! No, it’s not even cute for that one photo that you want to put on the front of your Christmas card. If I was your dog and you did that to me, I would eat your favorite slippers and crap them out all over your shag carpet. Your dog is supposed to be your best friend. Why would you do that to your dog? Just stop it!

Now that we have that straight, I do want to say thanks and Merry Christmas to ALL my dedicated readers who endure my rants and raves month after month. I enjoy writing for this magazine, and really do appreciate all of you that come up to me and say “I like your articles!” Or “I hate your articles” or whatever. I really sincerely do appreciate it. Thanks again my friends, and speed safely out there!
Oh yeah, Hey Santa! I do need some new socks this year, but forget the underwear, I’m goin commando!