ITEM! The Heavy Pedal Cyclecide Bike Rodeo’s annual PEDAL MONSTER has been confirmed!
July 13-15, 2007, at locations throughout San Francisco, expect a mutant bicyclist gathering of epic and idiotic proportions.
Black Label Bike Club (everywhere), Dead Baby Bikes (Seattle), C.H.U.N.K. 666 (Portland / NYC), Rat Patrol (Chicago), Chaingang (San Fernando Valley), Skidmarxxx (lotsa places), Choppercabras (LA), Banana Bike Brigade (St. Louis), Chopaderos (San Diego), Sprockettes (Portland), Cutthroats (Richmond VA) …
We’re talkin’ to all yall. Time to buy plane tickets (or ride yer bike) to SAN FRANCYCLE for some ILLEGAL MAYHEM SO DANGEROUS AND MAYHEM-TASTIC WE CAN’T EVEN TALK ABOUT IT ON THE PAGES OF THE INTERNETS WITHOUT BEING SUED BY EVERYONE ELSE WHO WON’T HAVE AS KICKASS OF A TIME AS WE WILL.
And if we forgot any mutant bike clubs we’re sure yall won’t hesitate to let us know.
ITEM! Cyclecide and the Mousetrap and the Disgusting Spectacle all appeared on the Jimmy Kimmel Show as part of his taped segment on the Maker Faire! Takes a while to load the page but it’s worth it. (P.S. CRAP, WE HAD NO IDEA THE EEPYBIRD MENTOS AND DIET COKE GUYS WERE THERE. That’s how slammed we are during shows. Who wants to join Cyclecide? We need some interns so we can wander around and look at stuff occasionally.)
So. This past weekend? Naaaa.
We didn’t go to Simone and Dave’s RoboGames/Combots (a.k.a. “Robot Wars” even though we’re not supposed to call it that because of some copyright issue but that’s what they are) — even though we had free passes because last year members of Cyclecide clowned for the robots and their masters in between battles, clattering around in cardboard robot costumes (the boys) and Beer Can Can-Can ™ skirts made of repurposed barley-soda aluminum. And Dannygirl went all the way, painting herself silver and walking around like a robot all day in a silver helmet and go-go skirt. Last year. This year, we were too overextended from all the see above.
A friend in the Vau de Vire Society / Xeno could’ve gotten us into a special Scion show on Alcatraz, in which they opened up a portion of the world-famous prison that had never been seen before, not even on private tours — the porcelain hose-down-the-crazy-prisoners room and the meds room.
Our friend played a junkied-out inmate trying to get his meds while a hula hooper went off in the background, ostensibly symbolizing his brain on drugs. And shit! The A’z were there. Yadadamean? That song gets stuck in our heads about as often as the Trunk Boiz’ Scraper Bike track currently blowing up cyclists’ email lists.
So. The weekend? Naaaaa.
So that meant breast-themed art, breast-themed food, breast-themed erotica readings, breast-themed history, and local rock’n’roll bands who very probably enjoy breasts and looking at breasts.
(This is the part where our dad, barely able even to listen to the events we’re recounting so far without rolling his eyes, would shake his head and bemusedly mutter: “San Francisco … the Land of Fruits and Nuts.”)
Even though we’re already a fan of Tora’s wife Trinity Cross’s Field Day Fashion brand clothing line, we only just made friends with Tora Thursday night, when riding in the back of the Waaahmbulance with a bunch of goons, going to the noise metal show on some bus somewhere in Potrero hill.
We showed him the Urban Cowboy method of staying upright while sitting on the floor in the back of a van that’s speeding through the hills of San Francisco like the chase scene in Bullitt: Lean in the opposite direction your body’s trying to lean, and stretch at least one arm out for leverage. Just like riding a mechanical bull.
See? We went out. Thursday night. Another atypical punk rock slash crusty event, complete with secret meeting spots and repurposed vehicles and oogles sitting around on the sidewalk with 40s in paper sacks. The bus — was it a MUNI bus with a loft built up on the back of it? … whatever it was, it was awesomely ghetto — pulled up and everyone swarmed it. Short attention spans and the threat of a cover charge determined that we didn’t stick around for the bands to set up. Not when Lowtech was appearing at 5lowershop‘s monthly jungle night at UndergroundSF for free.
That’s when the magic happened.
It’s always entertaining when a crowd of well-adjusted partygoers befuddles the Asshole In The Room into spinning out early. It reminds us of electrons and protons and neutrons all colliding with each other — the thing with the negative charge gets pushed away with equal force, bounces off something else, which also pushes it away, so it bounces harder…
One of the gals in our party fell victim to this asshole neutron’s masochistic attention-getting ploys.
“STOP GRABBING MY BOOB,” she thundered, standing safe amid a patio full of peaceful people smoking peaceful plants. Asshole neutron then drunkenly boinged over to us. Puffing on a Camel, he glared at her from across the way.
“He was grabbing my ass earlier,” another Amazonian hollered from a corner. Big girl. Brave dude.
He looked at us. We looked at him. We smiled.
“You’re That Guy, aren’t you?,” we asked him. “You just can’t wait to get your head kicked in.”
He smiled back, stubbed out his cigarette, and went inside. Ostensibly in search of other body parts to fondle on the countdown to the ambulance ride.
Sure enough, half an hour later, we were standing again in the same place, and so was he, and some girl’s boyfriend smashed a pint glass upside his head.
And rather than lunge for the smasher, Asshole Neutron acted as if nothing happened. While the boyfriend yelled, and boyfriend’s friends held him back, and the electron tornado swirled and grew, Asshole Neutron’s countenance morphed from surprise to ecstasy.
Fewer things are more surreal than a zombie lurching next to you, strafed and bloody, casually smoking a cigarette with pieces of broken glass pointing out of his face.
Sure, yeah, we feel for the guy, really. We’ve all been wasted. But seriously? He kinda got off easy. If any of our male friends had been up in the club, they would’ve dragged him outside and used the sidewalk to ground the glass down into his skull.
But this way … it was sort of … poetic. Never have we seen a man be such a willing slave to his own self-loathing. Also: GO TEAM ALCOHOL.
What’s the point in going out for the weekend when the finale already happened on Thursday?
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