Crazy Horse here- This is what one of the walls of my office looks like. That gold mask is a Jon Kosmoski creation. The oil painting are originals of mine. Sitting here watching "Seinfeld" reruns. That was a such a silly show. After a long day of dealing with customers, planning my week by ordering things for jobs, making phone calls, and then there's always the very fun "planning out the rest of the year." Sara and I were planning our stratagy for the AMA Women's Conference in June. We went over what we will be doing ad far as events for the rest fo the year. Hell, why don;t we just turn 65 and get it over with? Ah, we'll be there soon enough, that is if we survive another 10 or 20 years in the MC business. And I have to write tonight for about 6 or so hours, so it was nice to take a break and laugh at people being silly.
Speaking of getting old, check out the issue of American Choppers on sale at any newstand. It's put out by the folks at American Iron. Our good buddy Margorie Kleiman edited this issue and it rocks. What loved about it, was looking at old pictures of Dave Perowitz and Donnie Smith. Brought back alot of memories.
My husband Jim is back from Daytona.
As for the any Daytona pictures, he didn't take many. He was staying at Destination Daytona, which is a great place to be but a nightmare to get in and out of. Daytona is always the same, unless I'm there, as drama follows me like a cloud. So in that spirit, I thought you all might want to read one of my crazier Daytona dramas. It happened during Daytona Bike Week 2002.
The email seemed harmless enough. Angie, an old friend of mine from CT would be in Tampa on vacation with her new musclely boyfriend, some tiger tamer-bounty hunter guy. She wanted to get together in Daytona during Bike Week. I didn't take it too seriously. After all she'd be too busy 'being in love', to waste any time with me playing 3rd wheel. Maybe a quick lunch and they'd be off counting the stars in each other's eyes. I emailed Angie my cell phone number.
Her first phone call on Thursday was something about frozen rats and monkey shit. " I gotta get outta here! I'm on my way! You would not believe this place. He picks me up at the Airport in his car he called the Jag. The window on my side didn’t role down and his window didn’t role up. There was dirt and rat shit on the seat and the air was too expensive to fix. It was all dented up. And his house! The whole house smells like monkey shit. Everything is covered with dust and shit. I open up the freezer and there are ziplock bags full of rats. Frozen rats! Oh my god, he's coming. I'll call you when I get close to Daytona."
This did not sound like true love. After several attempts directing Angie to the Ranch, where I was staying, she finally figured out, for a short time anyway, which way north was. She pulled up to the Ranch in her rental car and paced the yard while telling her horrific tale.
"He took me to his house, where there was the smell of dead rats and monkey shit. I started to laugh, saying your kidding me right!!! We had to go shopping. When he saw me get a few things, he got his own cart, so I paid for my own things. At home when I opened the freezer it was full of dead rats with their tails out of the zip lock bags. Didn’t fit. He feeds them to his snakes. I screamed. He called me Barbie and put a rat-tail on my arm and laughed. I put my sweatshirt on the radiator to dry cos it costs too much to run the dryer. Then he goes and put rats on my shirt so they can thaw out. He bought me these new towels at flea market and never washed them. They were full of dirt. I tried washing up and all this black stuff came out of them. He takes me to all-you-can-eat $5.99 buffets and doesn't pay for mine. Yelled at me for not shutting off the lights and told me to take short showers and to flush the toilet once a day because he has to pay for all the water going out of this dump he calls a house. Then he says to me this morning, ' just how much toilet paper do you use anyway? You've already gone through one roll.".…I called Delta and they wanted $658 to take me home so I cried. Then I caught him looking through my diary and he listened in to all my calls on an extension when I called my daughter!"
Geno, associate editor at The Horse had asked me to try and find Jesse James. So I tossed Angie on the back of my sporty and we rode down to his vendor display at The Wreck Bar and Grill on Main St. She had her reservations about riding bitch. She was convinced everyone was watching us. "They're gonna think we're dykes!" she cried. Her own sporty was 1200 miles away. At one point she screamed how people were staring. I looked around. No stares. So we're riding down the crowded streets and she's shouting, "We're not dykes! She's just giving me a ride!"
A number of people stopped us and asked to take pictures. One group of elderly ladies ran up and posed with us. They gushed about how great it was to see "two women out and about on their own, on a motorcycle. Doing just what they want." OK.
At the JJ display, Angie eagerly played Horse Maiden handing out copies of the Horse. I questioned her, when I noticed she wasn't handling many out. 'You said to hand then out to cute guys," she said. "I don't see any." No cute guys. No JJ. We decided to eat at the Wreck and Angie found a few cute guys. She found a few more down on Beach St. Tom the German, had hot chicks posing on his latest custom. I grabbed a few pics, while she grabbed Tom.
"Hey I know a cute guy here!" Angie suddenly remembered. She knows them everywhere. We tore up to the Broken Spoke. The german lady at the gate stopped us immediately.
"Where do you think you're going?" She challenged. " I wanna go with you! You girls look like trouble." She gave us a parking spot right near her post and we set out to find Angie's soon-to-be-boyfriend. Men began throwing themselves at her, but she held out until she found Jimmi Bell guitarist for the Diamondback Band. At that point she immediately began making out with him. He reluctantly tore himself away. The other members of the band were on stage playing, waiting for him to join them.
A phone call gave me a mission, so we headed south to the marina to find my buddy Bob. My paint fumed brain cells had forgotten Bob's instructions on finding him. So we went around to the biggest boats in the Marina, asking for Bob. Suddenly every guy's name was Bob. Some of these boats were pretty nice. I wanted to go aboard a few of them, but Angie wouldn't have it. "What if they kidnap us? They can just drive off into the ocean and we'll be toast!"
Meanwhile the Rat Tail Man was ringing Angie's phone every 4 seconds. She had driven him to a friend's home, halfway between his house and Daytona. She felt very bad for the people there, being stuck with Mr. Cheapskate. Plus her return trip ticket and all her clothes, including her leather bustier collection, were at Ratty's house. In her rush to leave, she had forgotten to bring everything with her.
"He'll burn all my stuff if he gets too pissed!" After a long session with the map, she fled back to Ocala.
Friday morning, after several lengthy phone seminars on how to find south by looking at the sun, Angie found the Ranch again. We flew down to the Boardwalk Bike Show, where the bikes glittered in the hot sun as scantily clad women crawled all over them, posing for the cameras.
As the sun set Saturday, I did a photoshoot on a rigid FXR for The Horse. Angie assisted.
Where to go next was an easy choice as Angie's "Hot Dude of the Moment" was at the Broken Spoke. Angie was perplexed. The Rat Man had effectively forced her to go back to Tampa by going along on her trip, then staying at a friend's. As much as everyone begged her to stay, the odds were against it. She wanted to stay and have hot evening fun with Jimmi Bell. I wanted to spend time with my best bud. She decided to stay in Daytona as long as she could. We tried to think up the perfect lie. Her rental car was parked in at the Ranch. That sounded plausable! She called the psycho and he wasn't there. So she happily left the message that she wouldn’t be there anytime soon. Shortly after, the phone rang ominously. It was Him! The nut was calling.
"I can't answer it here! The band's too loud. I'm supposed to be at your house!" We frantically searched for a quiet place. Next door at Smiley's by the fire in back was 'sorta' quiet. It would have to do. Angie spun her web, with Ratty not believing a word. "Well, get the asshole whose parking you in towed, I'll pay for it." Oh sure he'll pay for that but not even buy her a box of crackers? "With what, ya stupid cheap dick?" She fumed into the phone. We took off and spent the rest of the night dancing to Diamondback as people tossed beads to us. When the band was done playing, the drummer stood up and pointed to Angie. He tossed his drumsticks to her. Suddenly this big dude flew across the dance floor, shoved tiny Angie away and grabbed the sticks, holding his trophy aloft, very proud of his accomplishment. I wanted to pop him with a beer bottle, but I had an appointment with a couple of cute guys later. A night in the pokey did not fit into my plan. Angie disappeared with Jimmi and my cuties showed up for our date. Angie's phone continued it's angry ring, so she said goodbye to me after I pulled her out of a van.
I'll let Angie tell the rest of the story.
" Wow did we have a fight @#$%%$#@. He said 'I didn’t know you were such a Bitch.' I said 'No I’m a Crazy Bitch, don’t fuck with me again.' He got even by dumping Cobra shit down my toilet and splashing it everywhere on my things. I flipped out, hit him, and packed all my stuff called Delta. No way home. I stayed on the couch. Then he came into the room pined me down, held my arms, and farted on me for, I swear 5 minutes. gross. Smelled worse then the Cobra shit, and broke one of my nails. I took a Xanax, to knock myself out. The good things are I lost 8lbs from nerves, I’m nice and tan, and I think I’m seeing an almost rock star. He’s been calling every day since and I’m home in a clean house. Did I mention I had to ride bitch on Joann’s bike to get to town? Did I mention there was NO sex? I told him never touch me anywhere again. That I skive him. Sorry, but how much can a girl take? Joann is writing this in Bikernet. We're calling it “The Rat Tail man that gave No Tail.” This is all true."
