To: Cyclecide Bike Rodeo
RE: report on Black Label Bike Club Ridin’ Dirty NYE’09
Miss you clowns. Even so, the new life in New Orleans is finally grinding into gear. There hasn’t been much time to ride bikes, which is the very saddest thing that has happened since moving here, which is good. But bad. We wanted to make a swing bike with J.T. from the Stinkin’ Linkin crew, but then work and house and yeah. You know how Capricorns are.
Here are some pictures from Black Label’s Ridin’ Dirty event, courtesy of the amazing Tod Seelie / Suckapants. He took a lot of winners, which is good, because this writer’s camera committed suicide the day after we went to the swamp with Momma.
The last dirtbag finally hopped on a plane today. Of course there are a couple Lazy Loser Leeches remaining on Sodapop’s couch in the St. Roch house where Mutt shot Soda’s Children of the Sun CD in the back yard with his shotgun, and that girl staying on the couch in the kitchen started crying, and Soda just smiled and said “yeeeah” and burned another one.
So anyways, for New Orleans New Year’s Eve 2009, after a long 9 months of solitude without any Cyclecide / bike club family (we are quite the co-dependent ones, aren’t we?), the cavalry flew in. Not everyone, of course, because if everyone came, New Orleans would blow up and we’d ALL go to jail. But enough of the fam-damly descended upon us to fill up our hangin’-out tank until summertime 2010 when we come to our senses and actually get OUT of the heat to visit someone somewhere. Probably SF when Linda and Jarico’s neener pops out, on July 4th, like a Mexi-Minnesotan firework.
Speaking of fireworks, there were uh… some of those.
Put it this way: We were reminded of our trip to the Tultepec firework festival, when all you could do was put your hood up, put your sunglasses on, wave your arms and dance back and forth, and try NOT to think about getting hit in the face with an errant rocket.
Which is exactly what happened to one unfortunate competitor in the Tricycle Race. It sucked, but at least it didn’t hit her in the eye. Honestly: It’s probably going to scar. Her face. Bad. But we all have our Cyclecide / Black Label show-day scars (and grafts, and pins, and fake teeth). Each one tells a story.
The other injury was when one of the tougher / 2-dum-2-die-er Bike Club boys caught it in the chin pretty bad during a tallbike joust. T.K.O. to the max, he broke the fall with his head, and the first responders among us kept him still, and when the ambulance came and he got strapped to the gurney, a cheer erupted (like when a hurt football player gets up and walks off the field) … and all we could see was the injured party’s one devil-horn rock’n’roll hand shooting up above a sea of Black Label colors.
He’s fine. He was seen at the bar later that night.
Also, we danced to Rusty Lazer and Dirty Finger’s soul-showering assfunk ALL day. Even the people you’d never think would dance were pretty much walking it out. This is a dancing town, yall — no standing around all record-store cool at the show like what happens in the Yay Area. We are relieved and happy to be back in Dixie, the birthplace of jazz and blues, the land of soul and funk. And BOUNCE MUSIC, fer cryin out loud. It’s even CALLED that. How could you NOT bounce to it?
Bikes? Oh yeah. They had tricycles and tallbikes and contraptions and monstrosities and this one thing which was low to the ground, a bicycle technically, but when you pedaled it, it felt like being tossed around in a giant teacup on that ride at the fair. This writer was married to it for the better part of an hour, until we were forced to disembark because we literally felt on the verge of hurling. Good times.
And of course there was drinking. My Goat Boat became the drunk taxi, and Doyle helped toss people in the car, then “helped” drive by making retching noises and trying to get the riffraff to puke. In the Goat Boat. Again: Good times.
We would go on, but are afraid if we mentioned anyone’s name, we might come home one day to find a decapitated front tire in our bed. Except one person who never minds if you mention him is Doyle. The big tizzy all weekend was the new Iphone app he created where you can tallbike joust. Sellout? Well, you know we can’t say much, being in that [soda company name redacted] commercial and all. We don’t have an iPhone ourself, but if we did, we can’t think of many games we’d want to play on it, except that one.
OK so back to the grind, time to keep pedaling etc. Mardi Gras season is upon us. Hopefully we’ll have a new camera by then.
Follow Summer Burkes on Twitter.