I have a buddy who sold Porsche cars to the “who’s who” down here for thirty years. Before ‘Ian hit around 4:00 p.m., as a precaution, he moved his twenty year old Corrolla (typical car sales pro transportation) across the street to his neighbor’s driveway on higher ground.


Shining the light across the street he saw his car, but then his light caught a seven foot python gliding through the water in his path. As he entered the street in thigh high water, he shined his flashlight up and down the street when about twenty yards away, he saw what we Floridian’s know well.


My pal said he hurriedly crossed the street as stealthily as possible. When he reached his car, he opened the door not realizing there was water up to the dashboard. Once the water drained, he tried to start the car and in his words, the motor turned over but it sounded like a motorboat, “glub, glub, glub…”

Then, it died.


Next thing their living room wall exploded as storm surge from Charlotte Harbor a couple miles away came down their street.

They’re slugging it out with their insurance company and FEMA since their home needs extensive repairs, including mold remediation.


Back to us. Debbie sold the massive motor-coach on the first phone call back in April and the bike and car trailer went bye-bye a month later. Perfect timing considering the price of fuel and RV part supply chain problems.

I don’t miss the maintenance but we miss traveling this way. Debbie is urging me to get a B+ van so we can resume summer/fall travels. They’re more nimble and the Mercedes powertrain has plenty of torque and fuel economy is pretty good, so we’ll see.


Our new community a few miles east was not badly affected by the storm and we’re hoping to move in to our new home on a lake this spring.

You and Allison, Debbie and I, couldn’t be in better States at this time in our nation’s history. Healthcare in Florida is terrific. I whip out my Medicare card at doctors offices and it is like the American Express Black card. Ha!

All for now,

I for one like saddlebag guards on my motorcycle. I recently got a 2022 Harley Ultra Limited and it did not have side guards on the bags as standard equipment.

 I decided to rectify that by installing Harley’s kit Part Number 90201902.

https://www.harley-davidson.com/us/en/shop/saddlebag-guard-rails/p/90201902

 These Guards surround and protect the lower portion while providing a traditional look for Touring Motorcycles.

 They are made of thick wall tubing and include cast mount clamps that secure the front part to the original saddlebag guards. They come pre-assembled so installing them is very easy.

My kit is Black to match my motorcycle. They are also available in Chrome.

The kit does come with instructions and I always suggest reading them even for a job this simple.

There is a right and left side rail, which is very obvious. The clamps also are designated right and left.

 

TOOLS NEEDED

 

 

 

INSTALLATION

Do One Side At A Time

Using the T-40 Torx and the ½ deep socket remove the inside bolt that secures the bottom rail to the motorcycle. It is a lock nut and will be tight coming off. Discard bolt and nut.

Using the T-47 Torx and 9/16 deep socket remove the nut on the outer bolt and discard the nut. It will also be hard coming off.

Install the new guard rail on the saddlebag support using new hardware. DO NOT FULLY TIGHTEN.

The front of the side rail will now be in place against the front saddle bag support.

Torque outside rear bolt to 30-37 Foot-Pounds.

Torque inside rear bolt to 15-20 Foot-Pounds.

Repeat the operation on the other side of the motorcycle.

 

 

 

 

Wyoming winter was tough on two young girls running a bar in a podunk town of Sundance, Wyoming. Inflation and soaring gas prices didn’t help. Jennifer itched to use her investigative talents with her Chopper Chronicles web site designed to help riders retrieve their stolen motorcycles, but she felt trapped. The old jute box in the corner blared out, “Just ask the Lonely,” by the Four Tops. She was not only lonely but depressed while staring at her computer screen.

If a brother or a sister reported a motorcycle stolen, Jennifer worked hard spreading the news, and she had a modicum of success. She posted vehicles on her site and did a bang-up job spreading the word on social media and to local authorities. Just sharing the news drew attention to stolen rides. From time to time someone reported seeing a bike and the location. A police sergeant from New Orleans called her, “Your site helped. Someone spotted that bike and called it in. We got it and the thief.”

As a blizzard struck, the snow piled up against the Dime Horseshoe Saloon front door and the -5 degrees wind whistled down the street, Randi, the hot younger sister, polished the barroom glasses once more and repaired sketchy wooden chairs with new epoxy glue and brass screws.

Jennifer stared at the dark wooden interior walls and her computer. She hosted over 500 stolen motorcycle listings and just seven were found. She turned to a rickety drawer full of lost-and-found keys and sunglasses. Digging around for her aspirin jar, she found it and took two. She had a headache and was depressed.

“Are we going to make it,” Randi said wiping the single small rectangular window and peering out at the wind-swept street and waves of snow piled against frosty vehicles and buildings.

“Sure,” Jennifer said. “We always do. Better clear the sidewalk. It’s almost noon. Can you make it to the gym, you’ll feel better?”

“Like we’re going to get a bunch of lunch customers,” Randi said sarcastically and grabbed the container of homemade chili out of their short barroom fridge. She pulled a fresh loaf of local bakery-made sourdough bread onto the counter. “Have you been in touch with our guys?”

“Don’t go there,” Jennifer spat. “You know that’s extremely unlikely, especially now.” She wanted love bad. She felt a connection to one of the brothers who helped last year prior to the rally. If only he was closer…

“I’m not sure how much longer I can take this,” Randi said heading to the back for a snow shovel. The two sisters interrupted their lives to help their sickly mom with the bar, back when they could have traveled, expanded their lives, you name it. Almost 7 years behind the bar locked-down their abilities to seek adventure.

Jennifer heard her computer talking behind the bar, a new email arrived. The first one in a couple of weeks aside from spam and news reports. She looked at her athletic sister and thought she should be in Sedona, Arizona running a spa or jogging along the coast of France. Her scrambled thoughts made her even more desperate.

A flat track racer image came into view. The 450cc Honda sparkled with life and speed housed in a polished chrome-moly frame with red, white, and blue pearl painted graphics on the tank and fender. The owner explained that the bike and his pickup truck were stolen a year ago at an event. The owner, an older veteran loved to race. He raced since he was old enough to ride. He stopped when he joined the service in 2000 and was wounded in Afghanistan. As soon as he was back on his feet and stateside, he raced again. At over 50 he was heartbroken at the loss. Jennifer was doubtful she could help. The theft was too old.

Jennifer responded to him anyway and immediately started her social media campaign. The owner Dick Jones lived in Cave Creek, Arizona and Bryan wasn’t far away. “Randi,” Jennifer said, “Bryan could help with this one. Would you like to reach out to him?”

“Hell yes,” she agreed and snatched her cell phone out of her dark apron pocket and dialed.

“Yeah,” Bryan snapped into the phone. “I’m working out.”

“Too bad,” Randi returned. “I’m shoveling snow.”

“You got me,” Bryan’s tone softened. “How’re you?”

“We are good,” Randi said, “but we have a case in your area, Cave Creek.”

“What can I do?” Bryan said setting a 50-pound dumbbell on the steel rack in the gym with a loud clank, while Marty Robbin’s classic El Paso played in the background.

“I will text you the info and maybe you can talk to the owner.”

“Why don’t you fly down here, we’ll go see him together, and I can take you to a spa and dinner and…”

“Knock it off,” Randi said. “I wish.”

“Okay,” Bryan said. “I’ll report back.”

A couple of days passed until Bryan was able to reach the disabled veteran on a dusty desert road in Cave Creek, not far from where Sonny Barger had a ranch. Dick lived in his 1500 square foot metal shop complete with an office, shitter and shower. He’d created a bench with an electric cook-top next to a moderate refrigerator and a cupboard with cooking supplies. He made mostly noodle bowls with vegetables, shrimp or chicken. At 54, the Afghan Vet raced since he was 16. He started working in a bike shop at the age of 13, fixing bicycles and motorbikes. He never stopped tinkering with motorcycles and racing, even in the service.

His truck, a ’72 Ford F-150 with an automatic transmission, power steering and original paint, faded white with a taste of rusting metal seams, had showed up but the motorcycle was gone. Bryan looked around the sheet metal shop at the trophies, old race posters, motorcycle parts and racing supplies. The guy was despondent. His whole reason for living was gone.

“Can’t you buy or build another bike?” Bryan asked.

“I have a crappy disability payment and social security,” Dick said. “I’m looking, but my bike was special, and I poured a ton of money into the suspension and handling. That’s why I won.”

“Any clues, enemies, competitors, drug dealers?” Bryan pressed.

“Could be one or all of the above,” Dick said. “Every spare dime went into that bike.” It was an XR450 Honda single dirt bike from 1980 converted to a flat track racer and now raced in the seniors vintage class.

“When’s the next race,” Bryan asked.

“Not until March,” Dick said. “In Florida.”

“Will you go to that race?” Bryan asked.

“I usually do,” Dick said while sitting on a Snap-On rolling shop stool. He stared at the dusty concrete floor and kicked a nut and bolt under his motorcycle lift. “But no reason to go without my bike. Without the bike I can’t get a sponsor to cover travel expenses. I’m up shit creek.”

“Gimme some photos of the bike,” Bryan said. “I’ll see if I can have someone check out that race.”

Enjoying the warm weather, just north of Phoenix, compared to plunging temps in eastern Wyoming, Bryan slid into his jet-black two-door Bentley. He backed out of the dusty sand coated driveway and hit the winding road back into Scottsdale. He made a call to the Colonel, an old biker in the Black Hills. “You know plenty of folks in Florida, right?”

“Of course, god-damn-it,” the former Colonel replied. “Toby’s planning to attend the races in Volusia County during bike week anyway. Send me the photos.”

March rolled around and the jammed bike week gave Toby plenty of spots to visit during the Rally in Daytona Beach. A longtime freelance photographer, he fought traffic on his black bagger to the Volusia county raceway, then hustled to get his pit pass.

Toby made his way to the top of the bleachers. The smell of fuel and roar of open-pipe race bikes vibrated the stands. He pulled a set of binoculars out of his back pack. In the perfect position to study the vehicles leaving the raceway, he finally spotted a couple of young characters loading the red, white, and blue Honda racer into a grungy black van.

He pushed and shoved his way down the bleacher steps to the bottom of the stands, through the crowd meandering in and out of the pits to the heads, food vendors and race track. As he flashed his pit pass and ran into the center of the pits, he spotted the van rumbling out of the gate.

He immediately yanked his phone out of his vest and called the Colonel. “Just missed them,” Toby said, “but they were here.”

The Colonel called Bryan and he called Randi to report in. “Yep, the bike was spotted at the Bike Week races,” he said. “Need to check the next race. I will let Dick know we spotted it.”

Excitedly, Randi reported to Jennifer, who dashed to her computer. Although she didn’t hold any hopes for hooking up with Dr. Karl, she loved connecting with him. He exuded an air of calm and thoughtfulness she rarely encountered in local Sundance cowboys.

The good doctor didn’t get back to Jennifer, whose anxiety level peaked. She had less than three weeks until the next race in Texas. Always busy, Dr. Karl made personal calls while driving from one Santa Monica chiropractic practice to his desert office two hours from the coast.

“Good to hear from you Jenn,” he said in his calming voice. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m driving.”

The driving notion told Jennifer, no pleasantries, cut to the chase. “We have another stolen motorcycle case,” Jennifer started. “A wounded Afghan vet’s flat track race bike was stolen. It’s all he had, and it was spotted in Daytona, probably headed to a race in Texas. Can you help?”

“Can you text me the specifics,” the doctor said. “I will be driving a ’52 Lincoln through Texas on the way to Mexico for a vintage road race.

“Of course,” Jennifer said. He seemed to want to be chatty about his car and the La Carrera Vintage Road Race, but she needed answers. It bugged her that he was driving. She wanted him to stay focused on busy SoCal freeways. She was getting busy as the sun and the warming weather drove lunch customers inside for chili and beers. She hung up, but her anxiety wasn’t allayed.

She called Markus. “I need help?”

“What’s the deal?” Markus asked always direct with a taste of sarcasm. He was in his shop below his mountain house, tuning and prepping a bow for an archery competition.

Jennifer blurted out her issue with the stolen flat track bike and the Afghan vet owner. She mentioned the race outside Fort Worth, Texas, the doctor’s vintage road race in Mexico and the delicate timing issue.

Markus could be as cool as an assassin sizing up an Al Qaeda leader in the Afghan mountains. He’d spent 10 years in Afghanistan immediately after 9/11, working with and against various warlords and terrorists.

“The timing for Christian, and the La Carrera is from the 14-20 of October,” Markus said. The Texas half-mile is coming right up, so the good doctor can’t help.”

Jennifer liked the analytic nature of Markus’s response. “Well?” she asked.

“Send me what you have. I’ll call you back in an hour,” Markus responded and hung up. He flipped open a laptop on his bench to look up the half-mile race event near Fort Worth, Texas. It was titled the Mission Texas Half-Mile Flat Track Race.

Jennifer scrambled to text Markus photos and info about the bike and the wounded vet. Markus called an old rider who lived in Deadwood, S.D. He was still in the motorcycle industry, after 50 years, and knew everyone.

He dialed the Colonel. All three of the brothers knew the Colonel and had ridden to the Badlands with him more than once. Within an hour Markus spoke to Rick Fairless, the famous builder and Strokers Dallas owner. He spoke to tattoo artists in Houston, who planned to attend the race. He dialed Kent, a Houston bike builder, who never missed a race. He spoke to a girl, who always planned to marry the Colonel since she was a kid, but her dad and the Colonel’s evil ways prevented it. She lived near the race track and all her pals would attend. That’s where a problem surfaced. One of Shelly’s pals posted something on her modeling Facebook page.

Everyone who attended the race that day checked in with Markus as they arrived. The sun was a glistening ball of fire but the March winds kept Texas temps at bay. Dirt flew into the stands from the riders spinning knobby tires. Each rider dreaming about riding the perfect lap around the half-mile track.

The 25-lap races flew by. The initial launch always seemed to seal the outcome of the race, but spectators held their breaths hoping for miracle moves propelling their racer to the front of the pack. It was like pulling the arm on a massive, half-mile slot machine hoping for an unexpected move to 4-aces and checkered flag jackpot results.

The father-son tattoo artists had pals who raced and bought pit passes to visit and inspect the asphalt pits, but they found nothing except friends with their motorcycles caked in sandy dirt sporting glistening smiles after a successful race.

The thieves spotted the Facebook post and dodged the Texas half-mile.

It had been over a year since Dick’s rig was stolen and the frustration grew. He’d survived two heart attacks, a stroke and cancer, but wasn’t giving up. Bryan called to check in, “I’m sorry I don’t have better news.”

“I’m in pain most of the time,” Dick said. “But when I’m on dirt tracks, I don’t feel a thing. Everything goes away.”

“We’re on it,” Bryan said noting Dick’s obvious depression and checked the flat-track web site for the next race.

Everyone was keyed up for the next race and just maybe luck would be on their side. The next race was scheduled for 23 April – the 1-70 Half-Mile presented by Indian Motorcycle of Kansas City, in Odessa, Missouri. Jennifer checked out the race program and reported to Bryan. Dick wanted to go. Markus was training for a traditional bow national competition and couldn’t help.

Randi called Bryan, “Have you ever been to Odessa?”

“No,” Bryan said. “As much as I would like to hang out with you, I can’t make this one.”

“We’re going,” Jennifer snapped from across the room. “It’s only 11.5 hours from here. We’ve got a month to plan.”

The Wyoming and South Dakota weather brightened and the two sisters were anxious to hit the road. Markus spoke to them weekly about weapons, security and law enforcement data. He called the Odessa police and found the detective responsible for vehicle theft. They spoke at length about the crime and options.

Randi relayed any info to Bryan who kept Dick in the loop. She also started to pack their Ford Ranger pickup for the trip. Her optimism drove her to buy some tie-down straps and she crawled under the truck bed so she could tighten down a bike chalk? after Jennifer drilled the holes in the bed and fed her the bolts.

Markus turned over the Odessa police contact to Jennifer.

“This is a big deal for the local riders,” Lt. Randall said. “I have a cousin who will be racing. I’m going to be one of his pit team along with another officer. You and Randi can have pit passes. We need spotters if we hope to nail these guys.”

Jennifer bit her nails waiting for the day they would jump into the Dime Horseshoe Saloon pickup and haul ass to Missouri for the races. The girls argued whether to peel out in the middle of the night and shoot for a one-day blast or to leave a day early.

They needed to arrive by noon on Saturday when the pits opened for the riders and their teams to set up. They decided to cut a frosty trail at 6:00 in the morning on Friday and get as close as possible that evening. They could crash for the night and hit the road in plenty of time to make it to the track by noon.

In the early morning light, they loaded final backpacks of clothing and hit the road. Driving in silence they steered out of Wyoming and through a good chunk of South Dakota. Once through Rapid City the State flattened out and Randi’s cell phone rang. “Hello,” Randi said.

“How’re you doing?” Markus asked directly as if she was a soldier on a mission.

“We’re anxious,” Randi said.

“Do you have weapons?” Markus inquired.

“Yes, sorta,” Randi said.

“They aren’t for the jackasses with the bike. They are for your self-protection,” Markus said. “You should know this. You are two hotties running a bar.”

“We have a shotgun and a baseball bat behind the bar,” Randi started to get feisty. “We’ve delt with more than our share of drunks and jealous cowboys.”

“Never mind,” Markus said sarcastically. “I’ll kick your ass later.” He hung up.

“Was he really pissed off,” Jennifer said as she drove at just over 75 mph on the wide, clean interstate 90 heading due east.

“Don’t think so,” Randi said, “just concerned.” She opened her leather purse and made sure she had her folding knife, another knife in the glove box and a small baseball bat behind her seat, just as Markus had suggested. She made sure each item was accessible.

They rumbled through the flatlands and made it to Sioux Falls by noon, where they searched for I-29 heading south along the Nebraska border into Iowa and Missouri. “Let’s eat,” Randi said.

They rolled off the interstate near the airport and found Josiah’s Coffee House. As they pulled into the asphalt parking area, they noticed a black van that looked like shit with rusted wheel wells and bumpers. It was parked diagonally across two spots.

“Can’t park or keep their van from crumbling,” Jennifer commented slipping out her door and locking the pickup.

As they approached the door to Josiah’s, two young guys burst out of the wide glass coffee shop doors with their take-outs. Both were blonde, one with long hair and taller than the other. “Suppose you want us to hold the door for you,” he said and spat on the sidewalk pushing the girls back as they burst into the parking lot.

“Bet that’s their piece of shit,” Jennifer said loud enough for them to hear. Randi noticed, the smaller of the two wore leather racing boots. He looked back at her, but his big partner grabbed his shoulder and pulled him toward the van.

“What do you think?” Randi said after they’d ordered and sat at a table looking out the window as the Van pulled out of the parking lot.

“I got the license plate number,” Jennifer said. They enjoyed cheesy spinach omelets, hot coffee lattes and hit the road onto the I-29 south toward Sioux City, Iowa.

Jennifer planned to drive as far as a small interstate intersection outside Lincoln, Nebraska and spend the night. The next day they could easily roll into Odessa, which was slightly east of Kansas City, Missouri. The total route would take 11.5 hours, and she hoped to cut it to 3 hours for the second leg.

Randi took the wheel after their coffee break and they refueled, then continued down highway 29 passed Sioux City.

The two punks in the van also refueled. The driver, the longhaired hippy looking douche, scratched his 4-day beard after refueling and hitting the road. “Those girls wouldn’t be the ones from that Chopper Chronicles web site, would they?” He lit another cigarette. His center console was a mess of empties, trash and cigarette butts.

“You’re paranoid,” his brother said wiping down his leather racing suit with some leather treatment to remove the mud from the last race.

“Maybe we should dodge this race,” Joey said and puffed on his cigarette.

“We can’t,” Ricky said. “I’ll lose my points standing. We missed the Texas race and I’ve got to score big at this one to stay in the running.”

Joey was a loser and his younger brother even worse. Their folks were drug addicts who decided to ditch them and move to San Francisco for the free drugs. They knew the city would give them food, shelter and drugs. What could be better. The kids would just hang them up.

Joey dealt weed since it was still illegal in Wyoming. He stole cars, pickups and even the van they were driving. His folks peeled out before he graduated from High School and he never had the opportunity to learn a trade. He needed to make enough to feed the two, and Ricky, at the time, couldn’t fathom what was happening. Joey seemed to make ends meet and Ricky could tinker with motorcycles and race. Life couldn’t be better, no school and motorcycles 24/7.

The I-70 Motorsports Park outside Odessa, a town of just over 5,000, had a short Saturday schedule with the pits opening at noon and fans were allowed in at 3:00 p.m. Opening ceremonies didn’t start until after all the classes took trial test runs on the watered-down dirt track surface. After the venue staff prepped the track, opening ceremonies kicked-off at 5:00 pm.

Some 14 contestants were sponsored for this event which was also sponsored by Indian of Kansas City.

The event would move along quickly with the pits being in constant motion. Everyone needed to be on their toes. The tarmac was a wide stretch of blacktop and dirt surrounding the race track with parting of the pits at the center of the oval to allow the spectators entrance into the race track. There were two entrances into and out of the pits, one on the east and one on the west.

The cops set up near the east entrance with their family and friends. News came in from dispatch with the license plate number from the stolen van. Detective Randall wandered around the pit lanes, a little over a half-mile hike checking teams and looking for the battered black van.

He returned unsuccessful to his designated area with their tent, gear and pickup. The girls parked in the spectator parking area and wandered to the line of wooden ticket booths and inquired about the pit passes at the will-call booth. There was a note with the passes indicating the location of the family of racers including two cops. They were granted access and passes. They made their way into a tunnel leading to the center of the track where the half-time band set up. A guarded gate in the tunnel under the stands provided spectator access into the pit area.

Jennifer and Randi showed their passes and were allowed access into the pit area. They hustled to the east entrance and introduced themselves to Detective Randall who was busy cleaning up their SuperTwin which had just completed their practice passes. Big Officer Randall was on his knees in the dirt cleaning, adjusting and oiling the drive chain.

“Officer Randall,” Jennifer said. “I’m Jennifer and this is Randi.”

Randall scrambled to his tall feet and attempted to offer his hand but thought better and pulled it back. His hands were covered in sticky chain fluid and dirt. “Good to meet you,” Randall said. He was big, burly and sported a massive bushy mustache. “I’ve been around the track once, but as you can see, I’m sorta busy. The pit area is jammed and there are a herd of competitors, all with rigs and crews.

“That van?” Jennifer asked. She was tall, and her natural beauty glistened when the sun warmed her features. Even without much makeup and just a touch of lipstick she glowed and Randall noticed.

“You’re right,” Detective Randall shook his head. “Could be our guys. The van was stolen about six months ago.”

The detective noticed their cooler with light jackets draped over it barely covering the aluminum alloy baseball bat.

“What’s with the bat?” Randall asked.

“We were coached on personal safety,” Randi said and puffed herself up. She wasn’t going to be ignored.

“I’d rather you called me, if you spot something,” the detective said. “I hope you’re not packing guns – are you?”

“No,” Randi said, “but we signed up for concealed carry training.”

“I don’t need a shootout here,” Randall added. “Too many innocent bystanders.

The Parts Unlimited AFT singles were making their way to the track for practice. Jennifer, nervous as hell, meandered around the dirt pit lane in the center being used for traffic. As they wandered, looking surreptitiously at all the trucks and folks, Randi’s frustration surfaced, “I can’t stand this. We can’t see the exit and Randall’s guys are too preoccupied to watch the gate all the time.”

Suddenly a thunderous roar of a big twin filled the air and the sisters turned as Markus slid sideways to a stop in front of them spraying them with dirt. “Had to be here for this and a fellow veteran,” Markus chuckled. He’d ridden round the clock from the coast.
“What the hell?” Jennifer spat, swatting the mud from the front of her denims.

“They haven’t shown?” Markus asked, still covered in road grime. He moved his bike out of the dirt road and kicked the FXR kickstand down.

“No, we can’t find them,” Randi said, tickled to see Markus.

“I need to get to the announcers booth,” Markus said. “Quick. If they are signed up, the track announcer will know. Singles are practicing. They need to be here.”

“Randi, can you watch the west gate?” Markus said. “I need Jennifer’s pass to get near the announcers.”

“You got it,” Randi said, took the baseball bat and jogged in the direction of the gate.

Jennifer straddled Markus’ chopped FXR as he fired it to life and peeled in the dirt to the center of the track and into the tunnel under the bleachers. They parked and ran up the internal wooden-slat stairs to the announcer’s booth above the stands and knocked on the door.

A staff member opened the door. A young man with a brisk demeanor. “No one is allowed in here until after…”

“Just need to know if all the singles racers have checked in,” Markus asked.

And older gentlemen wearing official attire and an announcers pumpkin-colored sport coat turned in their direction. “There’s always a no-show,” he said. “What’s up?”

“A van is due to arrive with a stolen race bike,” Markus explained. “If everyone checked in, he’s here.”

A hot looking blonde made up like a trophy girl, complete with a Miss Odessa sash and a glittery white bathing suit, turned from her portion of the counter scattered with class listing sheets. ?“The last singles competitor just checked in,” she said with big concerned blue eyes.

Markus pushed his way into the booth and turned toward the exterior windows looking out over the pits. The sun was beginning to drift into the West and shown directly into his eyes. He used his right hand to block the brilliance until he could focus but couldn’t see much except a hot looking brunette jumping up and down in the center of the pit road waving her hands at the announcer’s booth.

“They’re here,” Markus turned to Jennifer. “let’s go.”

They jammed down the shaky wooden stairs to the dirt path leading into the pit row, but Randi wasn’t in sight. The sun was playing games with their vision, darting between the rigs and flashy motorcycles. Markus suspected the worst as they jumped on his stretched FXR. They jammed away from where the cops stood guard toward the east entrance, then spun in the dirt heading behind the track to the north side.

The tall blonde thug had Randi by the arm and pulled her toward their van. He had the baseball bat and was threatening Randi with it. “Just one last race for my brother,” Joey said puffing on a cigarette.

Randi tried to pull away as Markus slid to a stop. Jennifer jumped off his bike. “You take the back; I’ll get in front.” He nailed the throttle and peeled in the direction of the van and slid to a stop between the vehicle and Joey holding tight to Randi and the aluminum bat. As he stopped the hippy let go of Randi’s arm and prepared to take a swing with the light but dangerous metallic bat.

“Hey,” Jennifer hollered and Joey turned distracted. He starred directly into the slivers of sunlight and couldn’t see. She grabbed Randi and threw a fist full of sand into his face, blinding him. When he turned back, Markus blocked the bat easily and struck the tall, disheveled man in the throat with a short, sharp strike. Joey grabbed his neck, grunted and dropped to his knees gasping for air in the dirt.

Markus pulled the right rear van door open wider as Ricky charged with a ballpeen hammer. Markus nailed him with the van door and he dropped stunned to the ground. “You’re racing days are over pal,” Markus said as the officers arrived, cuffed the bad guys and helped to remove the Honda racer from the van.

Markus helped the girls load the racer into their Ford Ranger. “You’re learning close quarters combat,” Markus said to both of them. “Use whatever you have at your disposal, but don’t ever let the enemy get ahold of your weapon. Now you owe me a steak.”

Though the rear lighting on my 2022 Ultra Limited was good I felt that it could use a little more. I am one of those guys who wants folks behind me to see me and also know when I am stopping or turning.

 There are panels between the saddlebags and the fender that have cutouts for these lights. The lamps are mounted in a sealed housing that slips into the opening and are held in place with the saddlebag hardware and an adhesive pad. They would give me the additional lighting I was looking for.

There is a choice of a smoke lens. https://www.harley-davidson.com/us/en/shop/keystone-auxiliary-led-run-brake-turn-lamp/p/67801082 which I decided to use.

There is also the traditional red lens model https://www.harley-davidson.com/us/en/shop/keystone-auxiliary-led-run-brake-turn-lamp/p/67801080

A nice function to using these links is that there is a place on the page you can put in your motorcycle information and it will let you know if it fits your motorcycle and if any other parts are necessary for proper installation.

The installation of these lights is something that most people who work on their own motorcycle should be able to do. The kit does come with a detailed instruction sheet and it should be read prior to installing these lights.

NOTE

The temperature should be between 70 and 100 degrees for proper drying of adhesive pad and at least 24 hours should pass before exposing to water. Maximum Strength after 72 hours.

TOOLS

3/8 Drive foot pounds Torque Wrench

3/8 Drive Ratchet

3/8 Breaker Bar

3/8 drive 1/2-inch-deep socket

3/8 drive 40 Torx

Phillips Screw Driver

Diagonal cutter

 

INSTALLATION 

Remove Saddlebags, Seat and Main Fuse. (Main Fuse is under left side cover)

Using 40 Torx, breaker bar, ratchet and ½ inch socket remove the nut from the inside bolt of the saddlebag mount. Do Not Remove Bolt.

There are right and left lenses.

With Adhesive still on backing plate Test Fit the light.

Remove light and clean the area that the adhesive backing touched. Wipe the casting with a mixture of Equal Parts of Isopropyl Alcohol and Distilled Water.

Allow To Dry Completely

Remove adhesive tape backing

Position bracket over screw and apply firm sliding pressure in tape area.

Install LED light and torque Screws to 8 Inch Pounds. Caution Over Tightening Will Crack The LED Light.

Repeat procedure on other side of motorcycle.

 Easy plug and play means no wiring splicing. Route wiring from each light up along frame rails securing with plastic wire ties and connect to supplied Y-harness. Separate factory taillight connector and insert harness.

Insert fuse and check operation of lights.

Install seat and pull up on front to make sure it is secure.

Install saddlebags. Done deal, go for a ride. 

 

 

 

 

 

It is only the prescient premonitions of Sheriff Patrick Withrow, fabled and mighty guardian of the public peace in the Ca. County of San Joaquin and his promise of rapid deployment of an army of warriors, no doubt summoned up from the very earth, bursting through the surface, fully grown and fully armored, like Myrmidons, should he sense or detect or hear about or get wind of or read a text concerning or perhaps by telepathy acquire even the hint of an instigating of the menacing, city-destroying behavior that clubbed-up bikers are relentlessly determined to manifest……that saved America from an overthrow of our sacred democracy that threatened to be even more catastrophic than the armed and torch-hurling attack by insurgent terrorists on Jan 6th when the Capitol Building in Washington DC was destroyed.

San Joaquin County, and in fact all of the world, can now, the crisis averted, pay homage and respect and perhaps small pastry desserts and maybe bits of shiny tinfoil to the Chesty Puller of our time: Sheriff Gwyneth Paltrow. Correction. Sheriff Patrick Withrow.

I confuse the two because they are almost identical icons of meaningfulness and accomplishment: I see them as one unified entity of insight and perspicacity-unrelenting in the pursuit of greatness.

The Hells Angels, determined destroyers of Nations and notorious eradicators of cities and intruding marauders into communities of peace and calm and turning all into pyres of heavens-scorching infernos wherein all perish…. clearly thought they could do to Stockton what they did to Poland and 90% of Europe in WW2. They did not count on the resolve of Field Marshall Sheriff Patrick Withrow.

It did not matter to the ever-resourceful Withrow that the Hells Angels had bolstered their heinous numbers with allies-in-mayhem from dozens of other nefarious warlord biker tribes, this bringing the estimated number of miscreants prepared to overrun the land to 8,000 plus.

Withrow laughed at this. It could have been 80,000 and this gifted warrior from On High would have greeted them with one foot atop a felled rum barrel, his fists against his hips and a hearty “Ha-HAAAAA!” booming from his countenance; the message in this lusty ha-haaa being, clearly, “Bring your scurvy slime essences into my domain and it is there that you shall learn defeat, O squalid ones.”

Needless to say, there was no trouble. The bikers, mindful of the consequences of defeat in an all-out strategic battle with the author of the fearless warnings and even goading dares of the Mighty Withrow juggernaut of power, they stayed within their emotional dens of miserable pack-mentality, terrified of an encounter with the unrelenting resolve of Withrow The Merciless, whose fame and praises are already sung in books and articles regarding the event and in some church hymnals.

Today the citizens of Stockton and San Joaquin County and the State of California and all of America owe to Sheriff Patrick Withrow….their very lives. Will Sheriff Withrow go to the Ukraine to confront the warring parties there and demand they cease hostilities lest he take measures to cease their hostilities FOR them? The world awaits. No less an international phenom than Joe Biden has said regarding the Withrow Doctrine regarding the Ukraine as it is now called, “So fraught with alumni when I was a boy in the Ukrainian schoolhouse of departure. I could not retreat into the forest of the domain. For that was my hairy leg.”

What is the response of Sheriff Patrick Withrow to this outpouring of gratitude for his caring and protection and selfless devotion to the preservation of our sacred democracy that is forever in danger from renegade devotees of the rampant and unfettered and unrestricted “Do whatever you like” irresponsible attitude and mantra of the sex and violence crazed mockers of law and order? You ask?

His response is a smile of calm and assuredness that the gentle citizenry, not just of San Joaquin County, but of all the earth can sleep in quietude and safety because He Who Loves And Cares For Us All, Sheriff Patrick Withrow, watches over us, and like an extra two or three surgical masks, keeps us safe. God bless you Sheriff Withrow.

We are forever rejoiceful at your selfless sacrifices on our behalf. The Hells Angels, the Mongols, the Bandidos, the Pagans, the Sons of Silence, and, yes, the Mothers of Invention, all have been, at least for now, corralled and penned into cages of fear and despair at the thwarting of their crazed need to empty into the streets with the hooligan lifestyles of swung chains and hurled beer bottles: for alcohol makes them lose control. As Sheriff Paltrow duly suggested in his forewarning press conference regarding the mongrel mountebanks who sought to destroy us with their beer and their lust and their words on the backs of their clothing.

These highway ruffians will always remember their day of shame when Sheriff Withrow closed-down their diabolical plans to ruin our beautifully running State of California that Gavin Newsom has orchestrated into a symphony of symmetry and sophistication. Never again will this horde of
filth and foulness be a threat to the borders and boundary lines of the Withrow Protectorate.

They came; they saw; they fled. And all returned to calm without a shot being fired and without a blow being thrown and without an arrest being made. Because bikers learned at long last the meaning of FEAR. Because of Sheriff Patrick Paltrow….Master of intelligence over feral interlopers. Like Cesar Milan with chihuahuas, he showed the pack animals of America who the real pack leader is. And that is the County Sheriff of San Joaquin County Place Area Location Spot Map Section Terrain no one ever heard of. Now known worldwide as the one place where trouble thinks twice about even contemplating the trouble that trouble first thought of the first time before it thought twice about it: Withrow County!

–J.J. Solari, Hackmeister General and lover of all things law enforcement.

https://www.motorcycleprofilingproject.com/law-enforcement/san-joaquin-sheriff-attacks-hells-angels-icon-sonny-bargers-memorial-service/?fbclid=IwAR0t4br7QSjx7wjtwJMFjq0-0Hb3ZyASEdCHg-Jn3JNsZ-QLfib3gBaquws

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1rMMCtow_jQ

 

https://www.harley-davidson.com/us/en/shop/harley-hammock-heated-cooled-seat/p/52000462

 I have also been running a heated seat for years and again wanted to continue doing so. Well, Harley just happens to have one and it also cools, something I have not tried before even though there had been plenty of times, I would like to have had one.

 I was impressed with the design and construction as well as the ease of installation. It turned out to be a vast improvement over other seats I have used in the past.

 Okay, for those of you thinking you do not need one of these seats. No, you do not need one to ride year-round and all over the country when others have stopped riding. But it is sure nice to have one.  The thing is, once you use heated equipment, you’re not going to want to give it up. So, Spoil Yourself and join us who are already enjoying heated equipment.

 I do not think this was a difficult install at all and if you do work on your ride you should be able to do this.

After all you just have to remove the screw holding the original seat down and slide it back. Plug the new seat in using the Deutsch weather resistant connector and re-install. Well that is if you already have an Electrical Connection Harness on your motorcycle. Some motorcycles do. Mine did not.

https://www.harley-davidson.com/us/en/shop/electrical-connection-update-kit/p/69201599A

TOOLS

Phillips Screwdriver

3/8 Ratchet

10 MM Socket

Small Common Screwdriver

PROCEDURE

Start off by removing the Seat, Saddlebags and Side Covers.

Ok, I keep saying READ THE INSTRUCTIONS– I do and did.

Found out a couple things had changed from my previous motorcycle. On the older one I just removed the main fuse with the key in the off position. Now the instructions say to turn the ignition (Key Switch) on before removing the fuse.

 The main fuse is under the left side cover.

 Turn Ignition Switch to the OFF Position

 Remove the Engine Control Module (ECM) from the electrical caddy on top of the battery.

Using the #40 Torx remove the electrical caddy

Remove the fuse from the Ringed Wire Harness

Locate the accessory connector, a black 3-way Molex pin housing with a weather cap under the right-side cover. (On a Softail, it is on the left side). See why I read the instructions.

Route the ring end of the cable to the positive terminal making sure the fuse holder is accessible.

Using the 10 MM Socket Carefully remove the + Positive Battery Cable

Re-install the electrical caddy and ECM

Re-install fuse in adapter cable.

Check that seat controls are in the Off Position

Connect the seat to the adapter harness

Confirm That The Key Switch Is In the OFF Position.

Install the Main Fuse.

Turn Key Switch on and with the seat in Cooling Mode Turn On. Listen for Fan.

Turn Key Off, make sure wires are not rubbing on anything. Plastic wire tie if necessary.

Install seat and pull up on the front of it to verify it is secure.

The day after the install the temperature dropped 20 degrees. Doesn’t much matter where you live your body adjusts to the weather and it notices that kind of change.

 On the test ride, the seat was Very Comfortable. It has Dual Zone Control for Rider and Passenger and both must use the same mode like heat or cool though each can control the level. Using just the Rider Position it warmed up rather quickly. After riding for awhile I even turned it down a little.

 May have to wait a bit to see how well the cooling part works. But I suspect I will be pleased with that too.

I also liked how it is wired so that it shuts off when the key is off.

 

 

 

 Though my 2022 Harley Ultra Limited is a very comfortable motorcycle, past experience has taught me that being able to change my position from time to time is definitely important.

I have used this same set up for over 100,000 miles and it was an easy decision to put them on this motorcycle.

https://www.harley-davidson.com/us/en/shop/long-angled-adjustable-highway-peg-mount-kit/p/50500167

Description:

Stretch out for added comfort. This Adjustable Highway Peg Mounting Kit can be set for shorter riders, and it can be reversed to reach far forward for those with long legs.

• 5-inch angled peg mounting kit in gloss black finish

• Angled design allows the arm to reach back and around to clear fairing lowers

• Arm can be raised and lowered for a custom fit

• Mounting clamp firmly grips the engine guard, and the locking design secures the peg at the desired angle

 

 There are two versions of the Angled Highway Peg Mounting. A short and a long version. I am using the long version.

 They are available in Black which I am using and Chrome.

 There are numerous styles of foot pegs that can be used with this set up and they can be found on Harley’s web site.

https://www.harley-davidson.com/us/en/shop/kahuna-footpegs/p/50501225

Description:

Understated but powerful, the Kahuna Collection’s rich gloss black surface is surrounded by deeply grooved, rich black rubber that provides grip and traction where needed.

• Gloss Black finish.

 

 Installation:

 If you work on your own motorcycle and have some basic tools this should be an easy install.

 

Tools:

 3/8 Drive Ratchet

3/8 Drive 5/16 Allen Socket

3/8 Drive 1/4 Allen Socket

 You will also need Blue Thread-locker (243)

 

 Position the Mounting Clamp Halves around the engine guard. The head pin should be upward. The cogged face of the clamp should face the extension arm.

 

 

During The Following Steps I Suggest Tightening Parts Tight Enough So That They Do Not Move But Can Be Adjusted Before Final Torque.

  Position the arm so that when footpeg is installed it will not interfere with the foot controls or hit the ground when cornering.

 

 

  Sit on upright motorcycle and test position of assembly. Adjust as necessary.

  Repeat procedure on opposite side of motorcycle.

 

Measure both arms are the same height from the ground and pegs rotated to a comfortable position. Put Blue Thread-locker on footpeg bolt and Torque to 21 Foot Pounds

 

Install the setscrew into the lower of the two holes on the back side of the arm and adjust until the angle of the footpeg is comfortable for you.

 

 Torque assembly to 55-60 Foot Pounds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Deus Ex Machina was built upon the development and creation of custom motorcycles. A clothing line got added for those fans of the brand who found it more satisfactory to order a Deus tee-shirt. This motorbike brand is now a luxury apparel handling the biggest names in fashion, peddling dreams to people, nay, to the masses.
‍

Timeline of all that kickstarts….

2006: Dare Jennings founded Deus Ex Machina with the money raised by selling his surfwear brand ‘Manbo’. Lifestyle and culture inspired the art & design.

Jennings and co-creator Carby Tuckwell (ex-Creative Director of Moondesign) began on an uncharted territory blazing a new trail, heading onto unknown tides. A new fashion identity that became popular worldwide.

Pen-peddling authors such as myself know the literary device called ‘Deus Ex Machina’. It is oft-used in desperation to break out of the corner one has written themselves into.

Thus, any unexpected power or event or ‘agent’ saving a seemingly hopeless situation, especially as a contrived plot device in a play or novel is termed ‘Deus Ex Machina’.

Irony of the whole thing is, the founder/s of this brand themselves had driven themselves into a corner where no ‘device’ they could design would save their world of beautiful soulful art & craft.

A culture was now available with genuine label price tags around the globe. Fashion range of bikes and minimal clothing lines was expanded to include variations such as boardshorts, bike jackets, wetsuits and casual wear.

2010: ‘Bike Buildoff’ was launched after Dues was firmly established. It showcased non-professional motorcycle enthusiasts and their creations. Its fashion empire enrolled many more footfalls. The annual bike building challenge grew to involve many more locations with the competition increasing and increment in number of new store outlets.

2012: Deus Ex Machina comes to USA biting into the Big Apple. Its New York stay expands to LA, near famed Venice Beach.

2014: A store opens in Milan for promoting bicycles in ‘gear’ with De Marchi who are known as the world’s oldest cyclewear company. Another store props up in Tokyo with unique custom motorcycles and of course the clothing and many other collaborations.

2015: Custom cafe racers are offered, a fast-paced move that may lead to abrupt brakes on festivities. Form and function of the customized German BMW R100 marks a happy checkered flag in the press.

2016: ‘MA-1 Flight Jacket’, an original American Navy & Airforce bomber jacket drapes the canopy as Deus teams up with Alpha who had been making military jackets for over 50 years.

2017: In ten years, this shooting star, the fast moving, brightly burning, prodigious comet called Deus Ex Machina changes its leadership. Dare Jennings sold his stake in Deus. This tumultuous event is barely mentioned in business news, as if the hushed change of hands at Deus was indeed concealing a big deal.

Federico Minoli is revealed as CEO. A new ‘Zeus of the Deus Machina’ He has been chief of Italian motorcycle maker, Ducatti in the past, and also had been at the head of fashion houses Bally, Benetton and Woolrich, Minoli in his career.

2019: Deus is now in South Africa as well.

2021: Why not South America? Brazil store is size of a mansion, one of their largest flagship outlets to date. This Sao Paulo location is appropriately branded  ‘Mansion of Munificence.’ The floor space includes entertainment.

‍

WHAT COULD HAVE GONE WRONG

Even LA Times carried the news with the headline, in 2015, well before the exit of Dare Jennings.

“Deus Ex Machina makes high-end motorcycles and loses money on each one”

“That’s why we make clothing,” said Deus founder and owner Dare Jennings in that news report. “Otherwise, we’d go broke.”

Top-end Harley-Davidson motorcycles, without customization cost $40,000. Bikernet.com sponsor, the truly unique ARCH Motorcycle, had its very first bike priced at $78,000. They are more than cool, not dependent on brand-image for a sale. ARCH motorcycles are one-of-a-kind and their 2022 model-1s retails at $128,000.

Sometimes art can cost more than sweat and blood though. This was certainly true for the founders of Deus Ex Machina. Their customers didn’t sweat at the great deal they got, while all the time, they were bleeding the brand dry.

To give you their secret for losing money, they earned pennies per hour they spent building a magnificent custom motorcycle.

Yes! That much hated subject of minimum wage! Considering man-hours per dollar on every bike project.

INSPIRATION:

“The worst thing you can do is go to another country and do what they’re doing already, because they’ll laugh at you.” ~ Dare Jennings

“If you don’t take that risk then you’ll just end up with something that’s the same. Take the risk, you have to take the risk, and back yourself.” ~ Dare Jennings

READY REFERENCE:

When it began: in 2006 in Sydney, Australia

Founding members: Carby Tuckwell and Dare Jennings

(you grubby greasy bikers, refer: “LVMH Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton, commonly known as LVMH, is a French holding multinational corporation and conglomerate specializing in luxury goods, headquartered in Paris.”)

Current boss: Federico Minoli, CEO

Company vision: Core values are inclusiveness, authenticity, enthusiasm

Staff strength: The estimated number of employees is 75

HQ: Company headquarters is located at 98-104 Parramatta Rd Camperdown NSW 2050, Australia

Products: Specializes in lifestlye products, custom motorcycles and clothing (mostly just clothing now)

Website: https://us.deuscustoms.com

It’s when you really enjoy your work that such great things materialize. If you get into something only to make money, it will lead to misery and degradation of your talents.

It’s all started on a Sunny winter day when I met with old friend Randy Simpson and he declared, “I want to buy the Dicey Knucklehead.”

I didn’t want to let it go, but I also wanted to honor Randy’s wish. His co-builder, Gary Woodford, passed away and he wanted a tribute to him.

For the first time in 20 years, I didn’t have a shop. I had to do something or chase women and drink whiskey. Irish Rich, from Shamrocks just moved to Sturgis from Denver and had a couple of rusting VL frames. At least I could find parts and start planning. I reached out to Matt Olsen. The last time I saw him he mentioned coming into some stock springers.

His score hadn’t arrived but he did have a slightly modified stock XA front end, 2 inches longer. I jumped on it and ordered a set of stock styled rockers from Paughco and an axle. I discussed wheels with Steve Massicote from Paughco.

What I had in the shop was a 19-front capable of dual discs. It has an aluminum rim, race style with an aluminum hub. The rear is an 18-inch Metal Sport wheel with a brand-new Avon tire. Steve and I discussed, and I liked the spoked classic Paughco wheels, probably black rims, stainless spokes and star hubs. I’m thinking about a 21 up front.

That brings up brakes. On one hand I would like to go all class and mechanical brakes. One the other, this could be a mountain hard-riding fast bike and maybe disc brakes would do the trick. Or, I could go disc in the rear and mechanical in the front. These decisions will impact the wheel order. Let me know your thoughts.

Then there came the next challenge, a Knucklehead engine. My first source said, “A rebuilt Knucklehead engine goes for $17,000.” Holy shit. My next conversation with Domenic went like this, “I just bought a rebuilt Knucklehead engine for my girlfriend. It cost $19,000.” WTF, over?

Since those conversations the price elevated to $20,000. You know those adages like, “What is meant to be, is meant to be,” and, “Keep an open mind.”

I did and ordered a new Knucklehead engine from S&S for several reasons. Sure, the price played a major part, but then this engine is upgraded significantly, and 93-inches. Plus, I could order it with an alternator left case, splined shaft so I could run a belt drive, a 5-speed trans and an Evo styled starter. Finally, the S&S Knucklehead engine comes with an electronic ignition system, intake manifold, S&S super E carb, air cleaner and a spin-on oil filter bracket, which fits into the generator hole, beautiful.

In addition, there’s a choice of finishes and the list goes on with S&S, but there is a wait list…

In the meantime, while the shop was being built, I had to make shit happen. In the corner of my upstairs garage, I created a welding bench and Laban from Legendary Electric was kind enough to wire the upstairs garage with a 220 outlet. I could weld. I mounted a vice to the wooden bench, and I didn’t stop collecting parts and working with Irish Rich of Shamrock Customs to see what the puppy would look like as a roller.

Irish Rich is a pro and builds bikes for customers all over the country, plus modifies frames. We took a look at the wild 5/8-inch coarse studs sticking out of the rear legs on the front end. I went to Clausen’s machine shop in Spearfish and ordered two varieties of extensions. I ordered some riser clamps for 1-inch bars online, which I might modify in the future.

Rich ordered neck Timken bearings, developed a sleeve so both Timkens could be the same size. He also had a fork-lock system which he made work with the front-end neck and the forks.

I still needed to machine a shorter crown nut. Matt sent a top crown with risers carefully built in. It’s cool but I faced a number of questions. If I use it, I will need to shave off the riser studs. I didn’t know the welder who did the work or whether I should trust the welds on the crown. I needed a set of stock dog bones and clamps and I didn’t like that swept back style. They would likely smack the tank.

I kept my mind wide open, since the source of antique shops in the Sturgis and Black Hills area are amazing. You can find wild shit and the historic elements are still strong in this outlaw region. I found this foot warmer from the early 1900s. It was used to keep you warm with hot water on cold winter nights. I am going to train myself in copper-pipe soldering and try to make this my oil bag with brass fittings soldered to the body and leather straps made to hold it in place.

I also found these cranks for operating old equipment. At first, I considered using them for foot pegs and foot controls, but if it’s going to be a solid canyon rider I will need rubber Harley pegs. We will see. I also though about Louie Falcigno in Florida. I hope he’s still around. He built amazing classic chopper in his tradition. They were narrow and light. I’ll try to find a photo. He was a big Hells Angel fan and lived in the center of Outlaw MC land. I met an Outlaw leader who went to visit Louie as one time and asked him to tone it down a notch.

So, the Bikernet Sturgis, or Black Hills, or Boulder Canyon shop was finally finished just before the rally by Jason Alexander Construction. His crew helped move crates and position equipment. I went to work, organizing and making the shop work. I purchased a Smithy Lathe and we positioned it, but I had electrical issues to deal with.

Of course, the rally hit, then relatives came to visit and I bought a ’48 UL in Carson City, but it needed modifications. My goal was to free up a lift, then I could start the VL. It’s November and I finally pulled the UL off the lift. I was free to start my winter project, sorta. I still had plumbing, electrical and organizational issues.

Actually, there are always projects surfacing around the new digs. So, between snow, resource hunting, parts, and deadlines I was able to cut some time loose to start to make it a roller. A brother, John, came over who lives is Sturgis, his wife is a city commissioner and he is on the zoning and planning commission. But he also owns two 45 trikes, I believe a ’46 and a ’47. He also drives a ’47 Willies Jeep and his wife rides an Evo bagger from the ‘90s.

I had attached the front end to the 19-inch wheel, worked the frame into position without dinging the tank, dug through the spacer drawer and set up the rear mag wheel. With the redhead we were able to muscle the S&S 93-inch Knucklehead into place. That’s where it stood when John arrived.

The Redhead and I were able to position two of the engine mounting bolts in the rear but the front ones didn’t come close to alignment. When John arrived, we discussed the problem. Rich told me to run a drill up from under the frame through the engine cases. I thought John could help with that operation, but something bothered me. With the engine loose in the rear it slipped left and right almost 3/8 of an inch. I didn’t want to guess where to start drilling.

Plan B called for installing a primary system and ultimately a transmission and rear sprocket, align them all, then drill. Sounded like a plan. I recently bought a Crazy horse engine, and an Evil primary system. I usually work with BDL and have a lot of confidence in their products.

I had the Evil, so I decided to give it a shot. John and I discussed the peg position, foot controls, rear brakes and shifting. We found a piece of thick wall tubing and positioned it in what was the crossover tube for brake linkage. This frame has no forward footboard or peg mounting tabs. Generally, that would have been handled from the front motor-mounts.

Okay, so we decided to give the bike a shot with low, mid controls and see how it might fit me. We ran the tubing through the frame and then tried to position the thick aluminum Evil primary and pray the foot positioning wouldn’t clash with the belt, it didn’t. We were golden from that perspective. Cornering will be another issue since these pegs will be low and won’t fold.

That was another vote for a 21-inch wheel up front. John and I bored the primary, ground one of the tabs on the inside rear to clear the frame and it bolted right up. During the build process, I use never-cease on the bolts into the new engine cases to prevent any wear or damage to the threads.

I’m working with Randy Cramer at Dakota V-Twin in Spearfish, SD for my tranny case. JIMS builds a 4-speed mounting trans case that will house a 5-speed transmission. Hope to have it in three weeks.

Plus, I hope to have all the components to build a 5-speed trans. We will see. More and more I think I’m going to go with a 21-inch front wheel for better ground clearance. Rich said it’s 26.5 inches in diameter with a tire. I need to keep discussing the front brake. If I go with a star hub and a mechanical brake, I need to change the left rocker, spacer and axle. It’s already set up for a disc brake system. Would that eliminate the Star Hub?

Next, we will cover the trans build, the oil tank soldering. I need to order some fittings from McMaster Carr. I was looking for a 4-wheel-drive truck, but I would rather buy fittings from McMaster Carr and stay focused on the VL, XA, S&S FL build…

Wait, there’s more. Most of my shit stayed outside in crates last winter and there were some rust issues. We started a process of dealing with rush, including a Paughco oil bag. This was our first attempt as dealing with corrosion. We took a glass container, lined it with tinfoil and soaked some shafts. It did the trick in a couple of days. You’ll see more in the next report.

Hang on, still working on a name.

Atomic Dice

PRE-PREFACE-THING PART

This is called the non-Mafia-crime-family-member’s guide because Mafia dudes don’t need to read this shit. They already know this shit. They live in reality. Not in the mystical world of magical events and wondrous “representatives” and “the wisdom of the law” and the worship of “our sacred democracy” garden of delights that you live in and that Nancy Pelosi, who probably can’t even spell democracy, prattles on about.

Mafia members know government is a con. They know it’s a superstition. They know it’s a bunch of snakeoil salesmen selling “liberty,” “rights.” “justice,” “happiness,” “equality” and all the things inhabiting a fairy tale all wrapped up in promises of magical powers at the end of the “journey” if you just place your “faith” in government.

They know It’s incompetent people running things under the guise of “wise leadership.” Unlike the Mafia which is actually competent people running things under profit and loss leadership. The Mafia deals with people and reality. The government deals with magical, supernatural abilities and noble achievements of fucking spirit and holiness and sanctity like some fucking psycho cult filled with selfless leaders who only care about you. And yet the only people they actually deal with is each other: other members of government. They don’t deal with you. Once they get into office it’s screw you, you lazy assholes, you can’t figure out life so you need us to tell you what to do? Haha, ok, here’s what to do: do everything we say.

You deal with a Mafia guy?….. you gotta actually deal with a Mafia guy. You deal with a bureaucrat he says thank you for your campaign donation for which you will get nothing in return, goodbye, behave yourself. At least with the Mafia guy you get your narcotics or your hijacked load or your tax-free cigarettes, or protection, or that gun you need. The elected guy? He arrests you for even having narcotics or a gun or a hijacked load then he takes them and sells them to a Mafia guy. And I’m just gettin’ started here.

On this planet only members of a Mafia crime family would have absolutely no argument or problem or disagreement or upset or “troublings” or “concernings” with anything that is contained in this book. Believe me, Mafia guys are a billion times smarter than you. At least when it comes to knowing when they’re bein’ fucked with. So nuthin’ in here is gonna be a problem for ‘em emotionally. Nothing in here is gonna cause them emotional upset. They will not panic and seek out a safe space readin’ this. Not that they’re gonna read this. Cause they ain’t. They have fucking lives.

Everyone else who actually does read this, however, is going to, guaranteed, find something, probably tons of things, that are going to send them flying, like stench in a shitstorm, into pearl-clutching-mode hysteria. Right Wing, Left Wing, don’t matter, it’s gonna fucking happen.

 Mafia guys don’t need this. Everyone else does. Still, at best, only half of “everyone else” is going to find it 60 to 70 percent enlightening. Cause they’re going to find it also 30 to 40 percent aggravating.

The other half, however, they’re gonna go total fucking apefire batshit berserk readin’ this shit. They not going to just get pissed, they’re going to go fucking blue-faced, red-faced, fucking polkadot-faced hyperbaric bottom of the sea vacuum-of-space fucking swollen-up explosionary pinwheels of hysteria over this. Hey: fuck them: they’re the fucking problem.

The Purpose Of This Dictionary

Journalists and bureaucrats are working together with vigor and enthusiasm to turn you into even more of an idiot than you already are. This interpretive guide to their language – which you think is the same language you are speaking – which it is not – will at least give you the opportunity, or at least hopefully show you that it is possible, for you to actually get a fucking clue and maybe self-install a fucking brain into your head. I know what you’re saying: “That’s kinda rude.” Actually it’s more than just “kinda” rude. It’s basically right there over the plate rude. So, yeah. You’re right. That was kinda rude. I’m sorry.

Vulgarity Warning Pro’bly A Little Late

I wrote comedy fiction and snarky essays at Easyriders Magazine during its initial heyday, a magazine targeting marginally civilized Harley Addicts as its audience. I was deemed suitable for the slot because…..I arrived draped in the social graces? No. I was deemed suitable for the slot because I was able to meet if not greatly exceed their editorial lack of societal propriety.___jjs

INTRODUCTION AND ACTUAL PREFACE-THING PART: WHY YOU’RE STUPID

Only through me can you learn the degree and the extent of your political ignorance and suckertivityness. To say “I AM ZOD!!!” would be an exaggeration. However I have been an American cultural Icon twice: once following someone else’s path and once following my own path. Ya know, now that we’re on the subject, I should say world cultural icon. Or at least English-speaking-world cultural icon. Not just cultural icon. Global cultural icon. Yeah, that’s better.

Global cultural icon. And not just once but twice. Twice times global cultural icon, my fren. I could say that. But I think that would be, I don’t know: gilding the radiant sunrise upon the Himalayas. Or putting car lot triangular-banners along the roof of Abu-Simbel. Garish gewgaws upon already-perfect edifices. Or, so not-like-me, in other words.

I was a cultural-icon Mouseketeer J.J., misspelled by corporate executives into “Jay-Jay,” at 12 years old in 1955 and that’s, ya know, something. Because, ya know, Annette. I had Annette for a coworker. To say that that did not go to my head would be an understatement. I didn’t even really want to be there. But I was there. And I moved-up in capacity and experience and, of course, tap-dancing ability since then and became – once again – a cultural-icon at the early versions of Easyriders Magazine, from Mickey Mouse Club to outlaw biker clubs, and which magazine, singlehandedly ushered in the current age of trying to “make America great again.” And because of the paths that took me to both places I can assure you that I now know more about how this political planet “works” than you do. No offense. No, never mind, you can be offended. Not a problem.

Now, you might say “Well you can call yourself an icon but that doesn’t mean you’re a fuckin’ icon.” I can understand legitimate criticism. But I don’t see any reason to be rude or to take what I consider to be a civilized conversation down into the level of gutter-sweepings. There’s no need for that. I can actually prove I’m – to bring it down to your rather crude level – a fuckin’ icon, as you put it.

The August 1997 issue of ICON magazine has an article about me in it. Do you see any articles about Annette in there? No. In fact a quote of mine from the article is contained within the O of the name of the magazine on the cover with Vince McMahon looking right at it. I mean, ya know, his picture is lookin’ at it. In fact I basically co-wrote the article under the name of Stuart Podacjol. I’m such a ”fuckin’” icon as you so crudely put it, I had to step-in on my own interview to keep it up to my sky-high standards of excellence. Which you are getting a glimpse of right here. But it was not a problem, I was glad to do it. They were journalists. I felt the need to help. That was then.

I realize none of this proves to you, not that I could prove anything to you based on your rudeness, why I am the Final Authority on the sewer-level nature of the global press and the sewer-level nature of global politicians and why journalists, who actually own and operate bureaucrats, are smugly pulling everyones’ strings and laughing about it. Don’t get me wrong: journalists don’t want power. They have it.

However, to prove it to you, that I am more politically savvy than you, even if you are Ayn Rand or – another even – even if you are William Randolph Hearst, I am going to explain to you why all the things you think you know are in error. That is, regarding politics.

I am the political supreme being on this planet, meaning, I have more understanding of politics and government than you do. This is not boasting. Me talking about getting to personally attend an Easyriders photo shoot of Summer Knight, which you did not get to attend…..that’s boasting. Me proclaiming vast, far more lofty positioning in the hierarchy of political acumen than you have is not boasting. It’s drawing a line in the sand that I’m on the other side of and you are not. If you cross over it you will not get threatened or beat up. You will be over here where I am. And I could use the fuckin’ company.

I am also the Arbiter of Aesthetics for planet earth but that is way outside the scope of this subject matter. But you will get some inkling of it as you read my prose. Which exceeds all normal current parameters for American hacks. Of which I am one. However, aesthetics-wise…… there is nothing remotely aesthetic about politics or journalism. They’re anti aesthetics. They’re pig stys of grunts, ugly shapes, and foul odors.

But this is not a treatise on aesthetics and why I own this subject. It is a small encyclopedia of political and journalistic words and expressions and how what they – journalists and bureaucrats – mean by them is a whopping lot different from what the dictionary says they mean and from what you probably think they mean.

In other words, journalists and bureaucrats are working together to turn you into even more of an idiot than you probably already are. For instance, you probably already think that humans actually affect the climate. You didn’t think that once. It would never occur to you. You would call yourself stupid and so would everyone else if you thought that. But now you do think it. You probably now actually worry about it. You likely now get actually angry if anyone says different. Because you’ve been turned into an idiot. Or I should say – in your language – a idiot. Because you believe dedicated liars. No matter what they lie about. The more idiotic the better. You drink it up.

So let’s talk about the nature of bureaucrats – people in authority in government – and journalists…..news “reporters” and “political analysts” and “according to sources close to” stenographers…..and why they, even though they are more stupid than you, are running your life to the extent that you routinely look to these two moldering cisterns of stupidity, duplicity and cunning for advice and information. As to why I am the only person – at least as far as EYE know – who is competent-enough to straighten you out on these matters? I’ll explain that farther on down. You’ll notice I said farther and not further. You wouldn’t have said that. You would have said further. I hear you saying “No I wouldnt.” So typical. Yeah, you would.

THE NATURE OF GOVERNMENT AND “THE PRESS”

Government – or, people who can’t do anything and who have jobs that have no actual function or job description – cannot keep up with private enterprise individuals – whose job is to make life better and easier for people and who either continually succeed at this or disappear and are replaced by someone more successful at it. Government never succeeds in anything productive. Ever. It only succeeds at failure. So government has to impede private enterprise into non-existence otherwise government will become obsolete due to people simply not using it or not needing to use it. Apparently only me and bureaucrats realize this.

The industrial revolution and American free enterprise, for the short time it, the latter, to some extent actually existed, made the State, and overall bureaucratic incompetence, obsolete. That’s why Marx created Communism: to make Industrialism and free enterprise capitalism obsolete, and in fact, declare it inherently villainous “and uncaring,” and who has put the State and incompetence back in control. If control is the right word for systemic collapse via “the law.”

Journalists and bureaucrats – or scribes and pharisees as I like to call them – determine how words and concepts will be re-defined into their opposite, or, “new-and-improved,” definitions and meanings in the hopes of maintaining chaos. We’re actually at the moment in the chaos the pro-government people insist we’ll be in….without government. This is the chaos. This is what actual anarchy actually looks like. What we’re in. Right now. This is anarchy: bewilderment, stupidity and out of control criminal – not illegal – behavior from governed and governing alike. This is the anarchy the pro-government devotees think will happen…..without government. You’re saying “Well that’s crazy.” Yeah. I know. Wow! We’ve achieved common ground! Already! I’m optimistic!

Journalists and bureaucrats revere government – or anarchy – because journalism and public office are the two lowest levels of human failure short of living on the sidewalk. In fact most sidewalk vagrants have more sterling and admirable qualities than any office holder or journalist.

Journalists and bureaucrats also know something you don’t: they have no idea what the fuck they’re doing but they know you think they do. Why do you think this? EYE think it’s because you’re an idiot. But it could be you think this because your parents and grandparents thought this, they being every bit as stupid as you are.

As a result, if you like government you pro’bly think bureaucrats are wondrous miracle workers who can make everything euphorically functional. If you don’t like government you pro’bly think it’s a cabal of evil magicians capable of turning jet-aircraft water vapor into mind-controlling insidious behavioral modification atoms via cellular reconstruction as it rains down upon you without your noticing and penetrating your hide. Either way, like government or fear it, you think it’s supernatural at its core. It’s not. It’s a hive of lazy pompous blowhard idiots who – with a lot of justification outside the scope of this book – are convinced you’re a gullible moron.

The purpose for this deception-via-vocabulary bureaucrats and journalists energetically endorse is to further a New Pagan Anti-Christian-In-Particular Cult Agenda of Global Herd Control Such That Individual Fulfillment At All Imaginable Levels Is Rendered Impossible. And Eventually Unimaginable. So that everyone remains stupid.

You’ll notice I didn’t say so that everyone becomes stupid. No. Everyone is already there. Now it’s just guiding the herds into the ever narrowing corridors leading toward the actual pens. Except they’re psychological pens. And this is done by cooperatively altering the traditional meanings of “items-of-vocabulary” – meaning words – and thus gradually eradicating the American cultural mandate of Individualism and replacing it with the new cultural mandate of a collective We’re All In This Together shithole of stagnation and universal misery….via “concept warping.”

The Covid 19 hoax and its ongoing not-actually-a-vaccine vaccination horror of blind obedience being a pretty good example of what to expect now that these two entities of the government and the “press” know that you’re ready for roundup. They got a ton of compliance via this carnival nonsense, backed up by threat of licensing deprivation.

If you think when I said “anti-Christian” back there that I mean I am promoting Christianity here, I am not. I am promoting the idea that anti-Christianity as opposed to anti any other religion in existence, is the driving impetus for these two scoundrel entities, journalism and politics.

Because – as opposed to Christian preachers and Christian “members” – I am convinced bureaucrats and journalists actually understand the fundamental essence of Christianity, unlike whatever the fuck it is Christians think Christianity is, and they know that political extinction in all it’s forms, be it government politics (or office politics, the adopted son of government politics) is what lies at the heart of the Human part of Jesus’ two-part job on earth.

I told you you would have problems with this. However a Mob guy? If he could read this he’d be saying, “Oh, really? How do you figure?” He’d want some details. You? You’re fucking freaking out. Hey, I warned you, asshole. Mob guy though?…. they hear something weird? They want to get to the bottom of it. It’s a fucking obsession.

You? You fucking shit your pants and start renting your garments. Because you’re a fuckin’ idiot. Hey, nothing personal, it’s almost – almost – not your fault. You don’t want the truth. The truth pisses you off. You want reinforcement of your long-time erroneous assumed-assessments of things. Most of which are batshit. I did say you are stupid, right? Hey, I get it, no one wants to hear that. Especially coming from me. Where the fuck was I.

For the record, this is not an epistemology essay on how words, ideas, definitions, and concepts are related inside your head and what happens to your behavior and convictions when you are not paying attention to what someone is actually telling you. Unlike what lawyers do automatically. Which would be to “actually pay attention to” what people are saying to them. So you’re going to have to do some research on your own. You might have to learn how to listen and think like a lawyer. God forbid.

People in government are usually terrible communicators because they’re sociopaths: they worship lies. They talk in lies, usually random, meandering, off-topic, imbecilic word-concoctions which is easier than constructing a focused lie, which is why you don’t actually pay attention to them, they’re babbling.

You just react to their position: namely, they have some government title; they’re talking in your direction so you think they’re actually talking to you; they sound like a school civics preachers, so they must be saying something ok. Some very small sane pathway of your crumbling brain, however, knows that what the bureaucrat is saying is not addressed to you personally but rather to some steamcloud of hazy ineptitude called the public.

You don’t work in the public government sector of “employment” unless you’re a sociopath and have no awareness of actual individuals. Except in Joe Biden’s case when he spots an eight year old. Bureaucrat sociopaths are not good at winning over a crowd unless promising them free money because on some level the crowd knows that the bureaucrat is 1: taking money and property from them without permission and 2: threatening to jail them at any time for any one of ten million legal reasons. And the bureaucrat is always wondering when the crowd is actually going to realize this to the point of not having bureaucrats. My guess is never.

Bureaucrats can relax. Nonetheless, bureaucrats, therefore, not being communicators, rely on “the press” – failed novelists – to send their message of despair-touted-as-happiness to all who can read or who can at least stare at Rachel Maddow for long periods of time without wondering if they’ve been marooned on the ugly side of the Island of Sappho.

These definitions are not in set-order or category. They are randomly presented and with no underlying pattern or structure. Each stands alone and does so unalphabetically. Goodbye.

3: HEAT DOME……High pressure system: a sign of impending “climate catastrophe.”

4: BOMB CYCLONE……Low pressure system: a sign of impending “climate catastrophe.”

5: ARCTIC VORTEX……Low pressure system: considered too mild and uncatastrophic; changed to bomb cyclone: a sign of impending “climate catastrophe”

5a: ATMOSPHERIC RIVER……Rain: a sign of impending “climate catastrophe.”

12: GRAY SWAN CLIMATE CHANGE EVENT……At the moment I have no idea what this is. It’s that fucking nebulous. I never claimed to be perfect. Just this-far short of it.

A routine internet exploration of whatever this is, after visiting many many sites in the manner of my usual employment of data searches, being a practitioner of Gestalt Learning Theory, what I have seen as being the common overarching thread is that a gray swan climate change event is a massive hugely disastrous freak anomalous “perfect storm times one thousand” ruinous weather occurrence that probably won’t ever happen.

What I have surmised from all this is that, politically, it will be used routinely in all future weather discussions to further bend the malleable listless mind of the listener into associating all weather all the time anywhere on earth with potentially horrific possibilities of bulging without warning into the word-of-the-age which would be a “catastrophic” somethingorother.

Gray swan climate change event is the only entry in this remarkable dictionary regarding which the compiler admits to being totally adrift regarding spotting landfall wherein a complete understanding of this strangely-poetic gibberish expression lies exposed and revealed upon the glistening white sands of a shoreline.

13: CLIMATE-CAUSED WILDFIRES……Things that don’t actually ever happen on this planet. Do not confuse “climate-caused wildfires” with lightning-caused wildfires. Which actually exist. Climate-caused wildfires is part of the “new science of politically-decreed atmospheric reality,” touted by such titans of learning as Ocasio Cortez and Greta Thunberg.

Air temperature has never sparked a fire in the history of humanity. Or in the history of air. Or in the history of fire. But according to journalists and bureaucrats that is what is now sparking all of them. In addition, and this is new, increased air temperature caused by human-instigated-climate-change, even of a fraction of a degree, causes forest fires to burn hundreds if not thousands of degrees hotter.

According to experts and sources close to a report based on studies from someone close to the issue who spoke on conditions of anonymity.

27: HUMAN-CAUSED GLOBAL WARMING (JOURNALIST/BUREAUCRAT DEFINITION)……A reality. (ACTUAL DEFINITION)……A fabricated imaginary meteorological scapegoat created by bureaucrats who are unable, or more likely unwilling, to provide the utilities and roadways and water supplies – the most important aspects of modern life – their respective citizenries have for some imbecilic reason entrusted them with providing…… and enthusiastically endorsed as fact by journalists because it amuses them to see ruination and spiritually excites them to write about it.

This sort of thing – that humans control the weather – used to be called “rain dancing.” At least when the Apaches were controlling the weather. Academically it was referred to as “paganism,” or “Pantheism” or “Animism” whereat primitive superstitious people such as lived in Ancient Persia and Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome attributed self-awareness and infallibly-wise willful motivation to plants and animals and terrain and sea and sky, and to anything else that doesn’t actually have these things.

Today these notions are mandatory as belief systems whether you ascribe to them or not. Incidentally, from an American Constitution standpoint, not that it matters, these notions violate the “establishment of religion” clause in the Bill of alleged Rights. In fact the Constitution itself violates the establishment of religion clause and every Supreme Court Justice and Constitutional Law student in history knows that. Good luck getting them to admit it, they’d have to take a drastic cut in pay via an actual job.

32: HUMAN-CAUSED GLOBAL WARMING (CONT)……a technologically impossible achievement, even if intended, and proclaimed by journalists and bureaucrats and below-amateur unschooled meteorologists like Greta Thunberg and Al Gore to be actually in operation by accident!

Only the most primitive and/or the most narcissistic minds imaginable can manage to convince themselves that the planetary atmosphere of Earth is affected in any way by human activity. The sun and the earth’s atmosphere do not care what we do, especially since they both played a major role in the creation of humans, and did it without any bureaucratic or journalistic or ecological oversight.

42: ATTRIBUTION SCIENCE……This goes into Biden-Ocasio-Harris levels of Pretend-Chicken-Little Hysteria so let’s get on board. Attribution science is a new “science” created basically overnight by a committee of UN doctrinaires and devoured by journalists and bureaucrats as further proof that their commands must be obeyed.

It’s a lie-bolstering “proof” that the insistent proclamations by Marxists in government and journalism that human progress – in America – and improvements of standards of living for humans – in America and Europe – is heating the earth up……are now “proven to be true” by an additional non-science of attribution science bolstering the original non-science of human-caused climate change science. Attribution Science now gives validity to “climate science.”

Formerly meteorology. Attribution Science is now an addendum, “added proof” variation of “climate science.” So it’s one propaganda creation reinforcing another propaganda creation. This sort of thing is called childish make-believe under normal circumstances.

It’s called demonic possession when adults do it in total seriousness. Attribution science is a word combination that has no actual definition or even a reality. It has, rather, a function: to condition the mind more firmly to the fiction that humans affect the atmosphere and the sun.

Specifically: this new overnight science – actually created by a “climate committee” – measures, via make-believe, or “modeling” as it’s called, how much any particular storm has been magnified from its normal energy to a higher energy via human activity. Which is not a science. It’s a proclamation. Actually it’s lunacy. On purpose.

To see just how fucking stupid you are. So, there is not now just Climate Science, thus replacing meteorology, an emotionally neutral word being replaced with an expression rife with emotional charge, but there is also now “attribution science” added to “climate science” thus creating two new sciences to “study” (meaning “to create edicts for you to obey”) thus giving “human caused global warming” a reality so firm and unquestioned that it requires two entire “sciences” to fully unravel it’s catastrophic potential should you fail to obey the very non-scientific commands and regimentations being prepared for dumpage onto your head by “health advisors.”

43: CLIMATE SCIENCE……The political left-wing progressive socialistic/Marxist, and now Islamic, version of meteorology. It’s most fundamental axiom or tenet is that your use of a car and an air conditioner, and exhaling CO2 from your lungs, and using electricity, except for powering your non-“fossil”-powered car…. are warming the earth; the assumption being that a warmer earth is a catastrophe of enough import to warrant you living like a Tanganyikan veldt-inhabitant circa 25,000 BC courtesy of whoever is giving the orders at the moment.

At THIS moment it’s “health experts” in the UN: which is the current world government, currently being run – according to the Muslims, who quite proudly admit it – by Muslims.

THE major declaration, pronouncement, edict, threat, whatever you want to call it, is that the earth is a greenhouse. The earth is 4+ billion years old and has never been a greenhouse before. But now it is. And it took a bureaucrat to discover this. Probably Al Gore, famous Cal Tech-Level atmospheric scientist bureaucrat Jabba the Hutt look-alike. In fact, as it turns out, Al Gore is wrong, the earth is not a greenhouse, nor is it a giraffe. (see greenhouse gas)

45: FOSSIL FUEL……An imaginary – but proclaimed as real – fuel that does not actually exist. Coal and oil and methane, which do exist, are natural hydrocarbons found in the earth and probably on the moon where no fossils ever existed. That does not mean that any coal or oil eventually found on the moon will not be declared fossil fuel. Because there seems to be no cure for this delusion.

83:GRETA THUNBERG (PRESS/BUREAUCRAT DEFINITION)……Child meteorological prodigy steeped in advanced preternatural understanding of the human threat to world atmospheric temperatures, yet fortunately blessed with a clear and infallible plan of action incumbent upon all humanity to follow if we are to survive as a species.

(ACTUAL DEFINITION)……Self-proclaimed teenage major climate and atmospheric super scientist and Fahrenheit and centigrade monitor/analyst who has probably never taken her own temperature due to ineptitude.

How she has come by her expertise in meteorology no one knows so apparently the assumption is she is an atmospheric mystic of sublime insight. Her face seems to be devoid of skin muscles with the exception of the eternal wrestling match that seems to always be going on in the writhing flesh of her forehead.

Her emotional wrath regarding the refusal of “leaders” to obey her is unabating. When she is not screaming her demands of compliance to her wishes and commands and edicts – which are basically “Do something about this!!!” – she glares silently with what apparently is a scowl, though it could be delight, there is no way of knowing, her face is very similar everywhere in its absence of contrasting features, much like a large plate is.

To date no one has asked her where she comes by her certainties about how terrestrial climate and weather can be “reversed,” whatever reversing the weather could actually mean.

She seems to want less heat although many of the “major” news and journalistic entities are insisting that “climate change” is now heating formerly cold areas and freezing formerly hot ones, which, it would seem to me is not climate change but merely climate relocation, which no one has yet explained why THAT would be a problem.

No one also ever explains why climate CHANGE is a problem either but the suggested hint is that without an abandonment of the industrial revolution the earth will burst into flame.

Greta Thunberg, for all her fulminations and demands for obedience seems to possess not even one item of scholarly qualification for her monomania. Therefore she is more than qualified to be the global-press’s go-to gal for global temperature prognostication. Idiots always know their own.

86: THE DELICATE BALANCE OF NATURE……The only “science” myth bigger than the ones about fossil fuels actually coming from fossils and humans affecting weather and being presumed innocent until proven guilty and the bill of rights actually being a bill of rights and covid 19 being an actual human-species health threat and killing children being a “right.”

The “balance of Nature” is not delicate. It’s pulverizingly relentless. If you outwit Nature, you’re fine. At least for a while. You screw up you’re history. Sometimes paleontological history. Sometimes recent history.

Nature doesn’t care. Only hacks living with their moms think Nature cares. Only hacks living with their moms think we matter to Nature. They also think the weather obeys us.

One thing the hacks do teach us about Nature however is that Nature will just as easily make 8 billion blithering human idiots as it will 800 trillion totally-focused ants. And then let time decide who is here for the long run. ‘Cause Nature’s like honey badger. In fact Nature created honey badger. And honey badger just don’t give a shit. And neither does Nature. Despite what the people praying to it think. Which is why it’s given female synonyms. Because it doesn’t listen.

93: THE NEW NORMAL……..Go-to expression used by journalists and bureaucrats to inform that you must obey them, especially regarding weather and climate tyrannies as each one is dreamed up and declared the new normal and immediately replacing the old new normal. The new normal is always a sub-par, sub-standard, sub-previous condition. The new normal is never an improvement.

The new normal is always ABnormal and worse than what the new normal is replacing. Journalists and bureaucrats are always more comfortable with new normals because they can relate to them since the new normals are always a step backwards in standards of living, and journalists and bureaucrats are a step backwards in a zoological sense, so backward movement relaxes them and makes them feel a part of things rather than confused outliers.

99: DENIER (DENY-ER)….…Having an opinion or evidence or reasoned argument against an organized lie. The word “deny” is used strategically for psychological reasons, and of course used incorrectly and with a brand new meaning, the brand new meaning being “deny” now means “insane.”

For instance, a “climate denier” does not really deny the existence of climate. Nor does he deny the existence of a cabal insisting that “A” ‘s behavior is affecting the weather. He’s not actually denying anything. He’s asserting. He’s asserting a counter position, namely that humans are not on a scale large enough to affect the global juggernaut called ” the weather” and certainly not global long range climate, which is like saying humans are gods.

Pagan societies routinely, having no industrial technology, insist that their ritualistic actions will alter reality, such as creating, healing, wish-fulfillment, and rain for the crops. The world is now being run by Mesopotamian shamanists called “health advisors.” Or witch doctors, in normal historic language, or “rain dancers” to put it in the language of the Western American Palefaces, as the Indigenous North American Aborigines used to call the American Government invaders.

102: ATMOSPHERIC RIVER (CONT)………Rain. Atmospheric river is more menacing and ominous a word for rain than is, just, rain, the effort being to make all normal earth weather into something heinously monstrous thanks to the Industrial Revolution making life easier for humans and thus endangering the planet that put them here. Nature is apparently suicidal. So humans must save Nature from itself by the humans ceasing to exist, for this is the moral thing to do.

107: THE ENVIRONMENT.…..In journalese and governmentese and also according to unkempt, infertile, insufferable, astoundingly unattractive lesbians, anything anywhere that isn’t human. Especially that isn’t human male.

Liberals are convinced they can “protect” the environment even though the environment created THEM and not only doesn’t require their protection, it can, in an instant and under the right circumstances, eradicate, without any human assistance, thank you, all life on earth. And Libs are worried about IT being harmed.

112: DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME.…… An early pre-emptive experiment by DC to convince “the governed” that humans can control the sun and the earth. Now we are being told that we are SO powerful that we have started a heating process on the very planet itself and that we have to pull-back our mighty powers, as though we are Jedi who have assumed too much control via our mighty connection with the Force. And this science fiction approach to mass-obedience seems to be actually working.

114: ATMOSPHERIC RIVER (cont)………..A more menacing, ominous word for rain, the effort being to make all normal earth weather into something heinously monstrous thanks to the Industrial Revolution and your air conditioner now destroying the earth.

125: CLIMATE SCIENCE……. Not actually one of the sciences. Meteorology is one of the sciences. “Climate science” is a government/journalist vocabulary-creation that has no actual texts or data or experiments or tested theories or examined hypotheses or anything else remotely scientific gathered together in anything that could be called collected research. It’s just two words created by, probably Al Gore, who now looks like a Bantha, that you – probably being stupid – are supposed to think is something that is declaring that you personally “are causing the earth to heat up.”

167: HUMAN-CAUSED GLOBAL WARMING.…..A Kabbalah-indoctrination process designed to convince idiots that they are gods. It has nothing to do with meteorology or atmospheric science or trees or CO2 or cars or boats or batteries or light bulbs or the Amazon or anything else being tossed your way other than Kabbalists who have no actual jobs who are for some reason called “The Government” decreeing that we are mighty beings filled with powerful spiritual potential and weather-controlling superpowers who need to reclaim our rightful ascendence to godhood.

Via obedience to perverse, very low IQ’d idiots on the public payroll who want you to not have air conditioning, swimming pools, lights, or food delivered by diesel. Which would be most food if not all of it.

184: GREENHOUSE GAS…….Two words assembled together in such a way as to put it into your head via relentless repetition by infinite human parrots including suddenly-genius first-graders, that earth is a man-made greenhouse, not a 4 billion year old mammoth amalgam of the entire periodic table.

The earth is not a green house. Nor is it a Popsicle. The expression “greenhouse gas” has one function: to put the idea of rising earth temperature into your head and associate it with you using an air conditioner or hair spray because your personal conveniences are killing others less fortunate.

That’s right, it’s just more fucking Marxism. The expression “greenhouse gasses” has been selected solely for the bizarre imagery that the phrase conjures: that the earth is not a successfully-self-operating monster of life-out-of dirt, winding and wending its way through a galaxy of a billion stars and a trillion planets, no, it’s fucking a greenhouse: a big glass building with its already hot, wet, humid essence being further compromised by your car which is turning the earth into more of a place for lizards and spiders and plants that eat animals than it already is, and you are at fault because of your selfish need for “modern conveniences” while others die.

The expression “greenhouse gas” has also been selected via some random bureaucratic catastrophe-generator to be associated with the sudden newly-appearing mysterious version of meteorology called “climate science.” Meaning “the science you created and made necessary for us to investigate so that you don’t kill everybody.” Climate science. Greenhouse effect.

Greenhouse gasses. Global warming. Attribution science. Gray swan climate event, Hotter. And hotter. Wetter. Droughtier. It’s a fucking mess. Do you care??? No. You have electricity. So YOU don’t care. (You’ll notice there is a worldwide sudden electricity problem in all the white countries.)

You won’t stop stop using your air conditioner? We’ll shut off the power. You won’t stop driving your gas and diesel vehicles? We’ll outlaw oil. You’ll use our mandatory electricity vehicles. Which don’t work. We don’t care. We need you dead before you realize you don’t actually need us.

Eventually there will be something called “terrain science” that will explain why walking on the ground rather than just lying six feet beneath it is causing warts on the moon. Just like all the other things declared out of nowhere, claimed as fact and always suspiciously designed to handcuff human life, human happiness, human progress and discourage more cool stuff and to keep people glued to one spot. Ya know, like Covid-19 successfully did.

190: EARTH (Journalist/Bureaucrat Definition)……A fragile, delicately-balanced surface upon which we walk, sufficiently content to be a provider of endless arrays of life and pleasantness until humans intervened and who now threaten its very existence due to our voracious power and might and indifference to the effects and ruin we are imparting to it.

(Real Definition)……A roaring engine of self-balancing physical laws which turned inanimate matter into self-reproducing life forms which multiply so fast and in more numbers than necessary in order to guarantee the continuance of life via random possibilities often pre-adapted to conditions that don’t yet exist should conditions change, in which we humans are one of the life forms.

We did not put Nature here. Nature put us here. Nature sets the rules. Not us. We discover the rules and use them to alleviate the threats Nature relentlessly presents in order to live more comfortably within Nature. We are not a threat to the earth. The earth is a potential, ongoing, indifferent, “doing its own thing” threat to us. Human who are convinced they can affect or alter Nature are normally called “insane people.”

192: UTILITIES……Actual services that have been entrusted to the exclusive control of government – an entity that has nothing to lose if it decides to focus on housing bums rather than keeping your lights, gas, and water supplies on, or by using these three necessities as bargaining chips to get you to believe that 1: flu is a global pandemic (get your shots or we’ll turn off your lights) and that 2: while you are not powerful enough to ever outrun the flu and thus require eternal booster shots never proven to be effective, you are still powerful enough to alter the global climate to catastrophic levels via your relentless addiction to not living like a neanderthal in a frosty cave and traveling by goat.

206: THE GREAT RESET (as yet #ff0000 politically or journalistically)……An attempted planned and peaceful and ongoing takeover of the UN – currently run and managed by Communists and Islamists – by Klaus Schwab, head of something called The World Economic Forum, which is the only “secret society” that is at the moment right out there on stage and shining a bright light on itself.

Mr Schwab apparently is presenting himself as a wise guidance counsellor for humanity, as do all “public servants,” but for some reason he has acquired the clout to make it known to all the “leaders” of the world, especially the most imbecilic ones, like Justin Trudeau, King Charles, Angela Merkle, probably Gavin Newsom, and probably the crypt keeper running New Zealand, Joe Biden and the usual cast of especially-stupid world “leaders.”

According to Darth Klaus, who has been known to attire himself in Aleister Crowley-like apparel as though a transfer-point of information from the mystical realm into our maudlin human one as provided by the celestial overlords, according to Klaus, C-19 has emphasized the need for a control center of the earth’s businesses lest a future pandemic unprecedented, as was this past make-believe one, paralyze the money supply.

What exactly Klaus’s plan is for saving the earth is not clear but it does involve a major focus on “green” shit. Meaning the nationalizing, or in his case the globalizing, of industry into non existence. He’s a typical insane normal everyday historical-type sociopath tyrant convinced, or at least trying to convince you, he has mystical, science-fiction abilities in other words. He’s like Jim Jones but in better and plusher surroundings than a remote dustpile in a jungle.

The Great Reset is not a part of the normal everyday collection of journalist and bureaucrat “go to” bag of crap yet, but it should be making its formal appearance in day-to-day bullshit sessions aimed at you by both parties very soon.

215: CLIMATE (BUREAUCRAT/JOURNALIST DEFINITION)……Ten trillion cubic miles of atmospheric gasses encircling an entire planet that is controlled in movement and temperature by errant or conscientious behavior of a species of primate scattered randomly over a minute percentage of the surface, most of which members can’t control their dogs, much less the atmophere.

(ACTUAL DEFINITION)……Invisible, transparent floating molecules and atoms circling the earth 100 miles thick, influenced entirely by the sun and gravity and planetary rotation and used as a respiratory agent by life forms on the planet surface, which in humans cannot be halted for more then two minutes or death occurs, leading one to conclude, if the concluder is not a fucking moron, that the climate controls us. Rather than us controlling it.

220: ENVIRONMENTALISM (JOURNALISM/BUREAUCRAT DEFINITION)……The effort to save the earth from humanity. (ACTUAL DEFINITION)…… A combined, unified, concerted, focused, unrelenting, dogged, determined effort to overrule the deity calling itself I Am’s directive to humanity to “subdue the earth.” The route toward this end is engined by Marxism which will automatically bring human progress to a stop.

“Saving the earth” in a non-bureaucratic, non-journalism world would be symptomatic of delusionist psychosis of a major intensity of lunacy activators within the brain. In this present world however saving the earth is well within the powers of all of us if we but unite in concert and Gaia-Consciousness to the exclusion of every other single-minded activity of interest in the realm of existence.

–jj solari

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