Newest Rants 'n Raves

RANT!	RAVE!
Life, tha' Universe and Bikers (1/22/11) Steppin' in the Shit Again! (6/1/10) Crashing SUCKS (3/18/10) Where IS Everybody??? (11/9/09) Alton Mayor Declares War on Loud Bikes (10/24/09) Signs will urge motorcyclists to ride quietly (1/16/10) Coleman Memorial (8/1/09)	St. Clair County ABATE 20th Anniversary Party (5/22/11)  "No Angel" book Review (5/19/10) Shady Jack's Bi-state Biker Bash (10/20/09) Freeburg, IL "Moving Wall" Exhibition (8/6/09) Geo's Wings 'N More Bike Night (7/7/09) "Colors a' Plenty" at Bike Night (8/6/10)

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St. Clair County ABATE 20th Anniversary Party (5-22-11)

     Had the pleasure of attending the 20th anniversary party for my local ABATE chapter yesterday. The usual suspects showed up and all had a great time. Riding home from tha' party, I started to think about tha' chapter's history as I knew it. Back in '92, a biker activist and his wife saw tha' possiblity of expanding ABATE's mission in the metro- St. Louis area and instead of sittin' back and wishin' someone else would do tha' job, organized their friends and thus began St. Clair County ABATE.... A TRUE grass-roots campaign if there ever was one! 

     ANY grass roots, people-driven organization is only as strong as its membership and it's easy to forget tha' movers-n-shakers of past as we try to continue tha' mission today. In this light, it's good to reflect on those people who have passed and those who helped make the organization and chapter what it is who have moved on or moved away. Such is tha' nature of life. I could list individual names, but more importantly, their DEEDS when they were alive or active are what are important, for through their efforts, giving of their time and desire to see tha' chapter grow and continue its mission of informing bikers about motorcycle- related legislation, they gave a small part of themselves to tha' chapter which lives on today.

     Twenty years ago, ABATE of Illinois was re-emerging from a traumatic state-wide re-organization. Tha' original "A Brotherhood Against Totalitarian Enactments" was revamped into "A Brotherhood Aimed Toward Education". Tha' name, as first envisioned by tha' editors of Easyriders magazine, may have changed but tha' "brotherhood" remained. That "brotherhood" (and "sisterhood") continues to be tha' foundation on which ABATE is built.  Twenty years ago, the federal government was in overdrive in its attempt to blackmail states into adopting seat belt and helmet laws or risk losing much needed highway funds. Most states caved and are encased in seatbelt and helmet laws today, but the bikers of Illinois, showing true brotherhood, united to ensure that the efforts of bikers who had gone before them and battled all the way up to tha' Illinois Supreme Court to have Illinois' original helmet law (yes! we had one!), declared UNCONSTITUTIONAL would not be swept aside for tha' sake of greenbacks from Uncle Sugar. It took guts to stand against tha' U.S. Government, but those dedicated brothers and sisters not only stood tall, but beat back Uncle Sugar and sent him packin' back to D.C..

     Twenty years later, tha' faces have changed.  We who have been around for bit are older, sport more wrinkles, are hopefully wiser, but still determined to see that tha' mission of ABATE of Illinois continues to be to "preserve the universal right to a safe, un-restricted, motorcycling environment...". This mission cannot be done by computers or modern technologies. It remains tha' venue of the person.... Tha' individual, working within that BROTHERHOOD... That one soul who believes enough in a cause to get active, draw a line in tha' sand, and declare "NO MORE!".

     St. Clair County ABATE has literally changed my life and I am SO proud of what has been accomplished these past two decades. I am truly thankful to have been a minor part in tha' chapter's success and love and appreciate those who have stood tha' line all these years and who I am able to call "friend".  I am but a humble servant to tha' cause and am thankful for 20 years of good people, a righteous cause, and great friends.

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Life, tha' Universe, and Bikers (1-22-11)

      Another year has come and gone and I have been lamenting my personal  place in tha' universe and what the future may hold. Add to that the continuing encroachment on our personal liberties and I wonder what my remaining years will look like. Do I get to retire to the old biker's home knowing that the country I have served and love is on the right track? Or do I have to worry that by the time I am old enough for said biker's home, the country that I know and love will be around at all. 2010 brought renewed efforts by local, state and federal governments to limit freedoms we have taken for granted and I see no let up in 2011. Bikers always have issues like tha' helmet law, insurance discrimination, and motorcycle bans to contend with yearly, but some relatively new issues such as the "outlawing" of otherwise trademarked symbols (ala Mongols patch), using sealed indictments to detain individuals for long terms even before they are judged (ala Hermanos MC members) and at the local level, imposing unenforcable and discriminatory emissions (sound) legislation and the federal government's funding of motorcycle-only "safety" checkpoints round out some of the issues we face this year. Unfortunately, I don't see much positive happening anytime soon. I hope I am wrong, but here comes 2011, ready or not, and we'll see how things pan out a year from now.  

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 Colors a' Plenty at Bike Night (8-6-10)

     Like most folks, I tend to be "predictable" as I muddle my way through life... I get up at 5:30, feed the cats by 5:45 (after takin' a leak and before they mug me), make my coffee and yadda, yadda, yadda... Motorcycling for such a long time, I have gotten pretty predictable in my motorcycling habits, too. After work Monday through Wednesday, I ride around here and there, usually to one of the local VFW's, or spend some "quality time" with momma in front of the boob tube and on Thursday, check out the two local bike nights in the metro east. Friday is usually a prep evening with a Poker Run or some other "motorcycle-centric" activity on the weekends. Monday rolls around and... Well, you get the idea... There are little crises thrown in here and there for good measure, but I would bet MY routine is somewhat similar to most other folk's out there. This may sound like a gloomy scene, but don't get me wrong. There is a lot to be said for predictability. Predictablility is comfortable; Predictablilty allows life to "flow". Predictablity is, well, predictable... But predictability, I have found, can lead to complacency. Complacency is not a good thing. It leads to hurt and pain, whether it's from slidin' down the road on yer ass at 60mph after some cager decided they liked YOUR lane better than theirs or the pain, both psychological and/ or physical associated with sayin' the wrong thing at the wrong time. In our world, complacency can tear a person's reputation to shreds with one "unguarded" comment, word or gesture.

     So, what does predicatability and complacency have to do with "Colors 'a Plenty at Bike Night"? Bike night in our area is pretty laid back, I would say. Mostly Harley riders are in attendance, but we get a good smattering of "metric" (I prefer to use "Jap" since I ride one) bikes, and even a brave sportbike rider or two in attendance. It's pretty much the same ol' folks doin the same ol' thing. I mean, how many black t-shirts, middle aged spread and jean clad bikers can you handle? In the same regard, how many triple chromed full dressers with their bolt-on doo dads and long, fat tire "neuvo choppers" with their obligatory flame jobs can you look at before you've pretty much "been there, done that"? No offense, to those I've described (as while I may not have triple chrome or fat tires, I definitely have the black t-shirt and middle aged spread covered), but it makes for a fairly "predictable" time in the good ol' 618. HOWEVER, every once in awhile, a cool old bike will show up (like the '77 Silver Jubilee edition Triumph I spotted last night), or a "new" patch will show up. The latter is what struck me last night and why I pound on the keyboard today.

     I've been attending the bike nights for a few years off and on. I usually bee bop in for 15-20 minutes and unless somebody strikes up a conversation, I am back on the road and in the wind. Why waste a hot summer evening sweatin' yer balls off in a parking lot when you could be catchin' some breeze on the scoot? (I'll save that for a later rant). So a new group rolls into Geo's... Actually a few new (aligned) groups make an appearance at Geo's which is cool with me. The more the merrier I say, but the groups to whom I allude are not the Goldwingers club or the boyscouts. They're pretty high up on the MC ladder (as in "not yer momma's MC" if'n ya' get my drift). Predictablility and complacency are NOT two of the attributes I would associate with what I'll call the "heavy hitters". It's been my observation that they move with a purpose, whether we civilians know what that purpose may be or not. Guys from some of the local MC's present seemed visibly tense and while there was nothin' more than some "mean muggin'" while I was there, all seemed hunky dory in biker land.

     Regardless of their purpose, it was cool to see new faces and while my concern-o-meter is pinging just a li'l bit, I am hopeful that things in our little slice of the shit pie that is life will remain cool. Respects to all, ~Squirts

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 Steppin' in the Shit Again! (6-1-10)

Some 15 years ago or so, I was the President of the local ABATE chapter. At the time, ABATE of Illinois was hot and heavy into the Illinois helmet law fight and facing federal sanctions for not complyng with a federal directive to institute a helmet law. We had a lot on our plate. One of the newer involvements for members of ABATE of Illinois was the relatively new process of barring motorcyclists from establishments simply because they rode ("Colors" policies, see "COLORS" for more info).

We had our own version of a "lock out" in Belleville, IL when an establishment which use to be "biker friendly" suddenly and unexpectedly banned bikers from their premises, even going so far as to post signs onto the walls of the establishment declaring that Motorcycle Parking was prohibited on their grounds. Stories vary depending upon whom you talk to, but the most re-told story leading to the "lock out" was a drunken biker riding his scooter into the establishment and doing a burn out on the floor. That act, if it happened as told, would definitely be enough in my book to hand out some individual barrings and maybe even police involvement if the floor was damaged, but the response to ban ALL motorcyclists was, at least in my opinion, not only an over-reaction but a huge act of disrespect for the vast majority of riders who use to patronize the place.

My part in the aftermath was, at the bequest of the membership,  to send a letter to the owner asking him to reconsider the decision to ban all motorcycles from his lot. After the letter failed to garner any type of response, the membership directed our Public Relations officer and me to go to the establishment and attempt to talk with the owner. We went, and STILL got no response. The guy refused to meet with us....

Years later, the owner of the establishment evidently changed his mind and had the signs removed from the premises and allowed bikers to return. Since then, he has "re-invented" his establishment into a "biker friendly" place and is now pulling in money from riders who have no idea of what transpired there years before. 

Now, I'll be the first to admit that I am not always the most loved person in the world. I tend to speak what I think and some folks don't like what I have to say, which is OK with me as I am FAR from always "right" about anything.  Recently, I read about a new event being sponsored by a major midwest biker magazine which would be "anchored" at this establishment. The magazine does LOTS of good events and I have absolutely no beef with it or the people working for it. However, I posted my experience with the establishment all those years ago onto the net and in return got a fair amount of (personal) hurt feelings because I told the story. Basically, I proclaimed that in light of what had transpired I would not patronize that establishment. I don't think my personal decision to stay away rom the event was the problem as I am only one guy. I think, instead, that my bringing up "history" was seen as a personal attack on the people who put the event together. This wasn't my intent, but it happened.

SSSoooo, I am left to wonder if the decision to remind people of history was worth it. There is no denying that what happened, happened. It's on film and old timers like myself remember it. Should the establishment be given a "pass"? Am I digging up bones which nobody really cares about anymore? I dunno.... I DO know that "It Is What It Is". The place discriminated against bikers. That cannot be changed, and I (still) don't appreciate it.

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"NO ANGEL" book review (5-19-10)

Just finished reading the book "No Angel" authored by Jay Dobyns and Nils Johnson- Shelton. My wife bought the book on sale at our local book mart and brought it home for me to peruse. When she first pulled the book out of the bag and handed it to me, all smiles on her face, I really threw her for a loop when I took the book and launched into a ten minute tirade about how Jay Dobyns was a no good snitch who was such a dumbass as an undercover agent that he and his "posse" screwed up any chance the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms (ATF) wonks had of catching those mean ol" Hells Angels. My wife, upset because I was upset, promised that she would take the book back and get a refund and I said,"Good!".

            The wifey doesn't get to the book mart but once a week or so. In the meantime, "No Angel" sat on our nightstand waiting for its trip back to the shelf. A few days after my initial tirade, I found the book on the bedroom floor. One corner had been nibbled on, the obvious work of one of our carnivorous felines who either in desperation for some roughage or in a fit of kitty playdom had managed to get "No Angel" to the floor and chew on it. I picked up the book, realizing that "No Angel" was now "No refund"  thanks to the bite marks. I sat the book back on the nightstand and rolled on with life.

            That night, figuring the damn book wasn't going to go anywhere now that it was defaced, I picked it up and began thumbing through the pages. I gravitated to the middle of the book where the picture pages are located and looked upon bearded faces of the main "players" in the investigation. Hell, those guys looked like guys I knew! None had "Bad Guy" tattooed on their forehead and I decided that as much as I didn't like what I had heard about Agent Dobyns, I would see what the ATF wonk had written in the first few pages before throwing the book into the litterbox and encouraging the cats to offer their opinions.

            One page turned to two, which turned to five and before I knew it, I was ten pages deep (and enjoying myself) as I read about the background of Agent Dobyns and the events leading up to "Black Biscuit". While I had heard and read about BB, I never knew the operation was named after a hockey reference (I like detail shit like that). As I read deeper into the book I found the writing to be amateurish at best and I wondered to myself how much of what Dobyns had to say was written in his pen or manipulated by Nils.  

            The first few chapters detail the establishment of a "front" club called the "Solo Angels". The events leading to the establishment of the "Solo Angels" seemed far-fetched to me, but if they are even remotely true, then the Solo Angels have/ had issues, in my humble opinion. The thought of flying colors in a new area without the direct input/ oversight of the mother charter begs the question of how much control that club actually had over their members. As detailed in the book, Dobyns and crew just "slithered" on into the Solo Angels M/C simply because they wanted to. No vetting process, no background checks, nothing... They just found a patch holder, flipped him and became what they wanted.

     The book continues to detail the exploits of Dobyns, et al as they buy and sell "dubious" weapons from "dubious" people and how the Hells Angels become so infatuated with the Solo Angels (Hard to swallow, if you ask me) that the Angels are seemingly willing to drop to their knees to bring Dobyns and crew into the fold. (Also, hard to swallow... pun intended).

I'm not buying it... And, God forbid if it IS true, then shame on the Angels for being so eager to bring new blood into the fold that they would risk their own livelihoods. In the end, many guns are bought and sold, some confessions are made, a little meth is purchased and Dobyns "kills" a Mongol. As Dobyns tells it, he begins to lose his personal identity ala Dan Saxon (undercover agent portrayed in the movie "Beyond the Law') and actually enjoys hangin' with the Angels. That part of the story is easier for me to believe as I would think that a person with stones big enough to lie their way into an "outlaw" organization would almost HAVE to develop a split personality in order to survive.

I was surprised on a number of points throughout the book. First and foremost was the impression I got of otherwise bumbling "old timers" in the 81 who, so desperate for new blood, practically begged Dobyns to patch over. While I am no expert, I have met some Hells Angels who are older, but even then they were not/ are not "bumbling" by any stretch of the imagination. It has been my experience that these "silver backs" who have ridden with the club and lived the outlaw life for literally decades have ridden and survived because they do NOT bumble.

Other eye raising points in the book include the disorganized "Solo Angels" and their seeming lack of communication between the "mother" chapter, the California charter and what Dobyn,s crew was up to as well as the amount of time Dobyns and his compatriots spent away from the Hells Angels.

On a positive note, if half of the events written about in the book are real, then Dobyns deserves credit for truly having "balls that clank" (to take a saying from "Beyond the Law"). Dobyns IS a liar and a whole host of other nasty adjectives strung together. Then again, that is his job and I would suspect that he is good at it. I feel like I have a better understanding of Agent Dobyns after reading the book and found myself agreeing with some of his thoughts on subjects like Law Enforcement clubs playing "outlaw biker" and about how otherwise good men can find themselves deep into unsavory circumstances because of a few bad choices.

I find it ironic that, for better or worse, this man gave his best and then is shuttered away by the very people he is working for (ATF) af ter the case started to disintegrate. This "scapegoating" shows the level of cohesion, (or lack there of) within ATF ranks. The "big dick" issues within the ATF and subsequent lawsuits from Dobyns and Pops toward the ATF provide as much of a picture about "bumbling" bureaucrats as it does lazy or "dense" outlaws.

 After all is said and done, the book was a good read, in my opinion. Keep in mind that you are reading fiction with a smattering of non-fiction and not the other way around. The amount of insight from the perspective of being "inside" the Hells Angels is nothing new. The parties, drugs, and violence have been written about before. If anything, "No Angel" is a book which gives a decent look into the head of a man charged with infiltrating his "enemy" and his subsequent fall into personal/ professional oblivion.

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 Crashing SUCKS (3-18-10)

      After almost 30 years of on and off road riding, I had my first "real" motorcycle accident ("real" meaning one which required hospitalization). I' ve had my share of strains and sprains with about 200,000 miles of road riding under my belt, and a little old lady in a big old Chevy had the "honor" of hurting me to the point of hospitalization. This incident happened on a run a couple of weeks ago (March 6). I was last in a line of 4 trikes and two motorcycles out for a leisurely ride. In a nutshell. the lady either did not see me or was frustrated and said "the Hell with it" and attempted to "merge" on top of me as our little group motored by. I had wondered to myself before the incident what the lady would do with all of the scooters rolling past. Once she began coming over, I found an "out" using the outside shoulder and my plan was to hit the shoulder and gas on the throttle and boogy away from her... The fly in my ointment, however was a VERY deep pothole located directly ahead of me in the shoulder. Seems an odd place for a pot hole, but it was there and I was on a collision course with it. I hit the pot hole square on. My front tire dropped into the hole which shot me up away from the seat and forward. I run 19 inch ape hangers which I leave a little on the loose side. Anybody runnin' apes can tell you how it's nice to be able to pull 'em back or push 'em forward when ya' need to. In this case, I am convinced that the loose apes helped me stay on the bike, for as I was pitched forward, I was able to hang onto the apes until they hit a bump stop on the upper triple tree which caught the bars. Just as I was on my way down, the rear tire hit the pot hole and was coming up. The collision between my butt and the seat was an instant bolt of pain across my butt. While taking only a millisecond, the incident and resulting pot hole collision seemed to take forever. I was able to stay upright and kept on motorin', catching up to the rest of the pack and eventually completing the rest of our 100 mile ride. I knew I had hurt my butt, but didn't realize until Sunday that it was REALLY messed up. Instead of springing for the hundred buck co-pay, I had my hunny call our family doc for an x-ray of my butt and right shoulder first thing Monday morning. By the time I had the x-rays taken I was in a fair amount of pain and walkin' like Quasimodo. The xray and a subsequent CT scan for my right shoulder were completed that Monday and my doc reported a coccyx fracture and a dislocated scapula. The weird thing to me was that the doc reading the CT scan said that my scapula had been dislocated and RE-located. I am left to believe that the impact and subsequent shooting up against the apes dislocated the shoulder which somehow relocated itself. My family doc said there wasn't much to do about the fractured butt, prescribed me some oxycodone and sent me home to lay flat on my back for a few weeks

     Tuesday morning, week number two: I rolled over in bed and the most excruciating pain I have EVER felt shot through my left thigh. Trying to be the "tough guy" and not wanting to go to the hospital, I attempted to "walk off" the pain. Soon it was apparent that something else was going on and to the Emergency Room I went. Through triage and into a room I went for my first evaluation. Thankfully, there is this cool drug called Dilaudid which the male nurse shot into me via an IV. "Big D", from what the nurse said, is the synthetic equivalent to heroin and BROTHER if the high you get with "D" is similar to heroin, I can understand how folks get hooked on it! You could have cut my wiener off and I would not have cared. The emergency room doc had me recount the "motorcycle accident". I told the ER doc that it wasn't a motorcycle accident, but "a little old lady in a big car" accident. He then responded with, "Well, did you have your helmet on?"  Remember that I'm heading toward a nice high and not exactly ready for a helmet debate, so I replied "no". His response was  a shaking of his head and silence. Another set of x-rays and nothing shows up differently. ER doc decides to admit me so an MRI can be done.

     Finally pushed to a semi private room on "D" ward... My "cellie" is a 79 year old guy who has been hospitalized 13 times in the past 15 months... Oy Vay.... My ass hurts..... Take me away, Big D! aaaahhhhhhhhhh.....

     Rolled to the MRI room... I'm requested to stand up and walk the ONE step from the gurney to the MRI table... I'm drooling, hunched over and stumbling as Big D is having its way with me. The 98 pound technician finally gets my 330 pounds rolled onto the table. She straps a large "plate" over my abdomen and tells me that I am going to have two MRI sessions. One for the hip and the other for a pelvic study. I mumble something, she smiles down and as her face starts to melt off, the MRI table begins to move me inside a very little tube. Now, if you haven't had an MRI, you basically become the toothpaste in a toothpaste tube. The bigger YOU are, the smaller the tube becomes. I've had an MRI before, but never while Big D was coursing through my veins. This was a mistake.... Yep, a big mistake...

     Each MRI session takes 30 minutes... Remember that I now have become "toothpaste" and that Big D LOVES toothpaste. The MRI machine is very big, very loud, and the tube is very SMALL. Claustrophobia strolls up to Big D and asks if it can join in on a little three way... LET THE GAMES BEGIN! I am forced to lie on my back with my shoulders held above my head. Remember the DIS/ RE located scapula? Big D must have had his hands full messin' with my mind because in no time at all, my shoulder begins to scream at me. I'm tellin' myself "You're OK... You've done this before..You can handle the pain". Claustrophobia whispers, "Gee Tom, remember that DIET you were going to do? It SURE is tight in here, isn't it? Yeah, TOM, I'll bet you couldn't fit a flat dollar bill between the tube wall and your CHEST!". I concentrate on "good memories" to take my mind off of my shoulder pain and to shut out claustrophobia, but BIG D is there waitin' for me. No matter how many times I try to visualize good times, they all end in death and destruction. Claustrophobia notices this, pats Big D on the shoulder and continues the whispering. By the time both of the MRIs are done I am dripping wet and coming down from Big D's ride. Claustrophobia almost won, especially when thoughts of earthquakes welled up and my being trapped in the tube with no way out played through my altered mind.

     I am carted back to the room. My cellie is there, poor ol' guy has congestive heart failure and coughs and hacks almost incessantly but is never able to cough up the loogie... It stays just inside his chest and rattles and wheezes as he works on making just one more sunrise.... The floor nurse comes along and has brought that lovable galoot, "Big D' her.... Hey,' Big D', I know you didn't mean to make me watch faces melt or make me think the toothpaste tube was bein' squeezed. Gimme what ya' got... AAAaaaaaahhhhhh........

     I spend the rest of Tuesday in and out of consciousness. I get to the point that I can tell when it's time for a visit from Big D. I am blissfully numb as my cellie continues to wheez and rattle for his life...

     My family doc shows up bright and early Wednesday morning. I hear him before I see him as he is laughing and tellin someone the "Big dog love machine" is on the floor. I LOVE my Doc (insofar as a man can love another man and not be wonky about it). He literally saved my life a few years back and I'll never forget him for that. My doc comes in, shakes his head and asks "What's up?". I tell him the same story I've told so many times before and he turns all business and begins filing through the inch thick reports. Seems I CRUSHED my coccyx and it now looks like a big bone surrounded by lots of smaller bones. Thankfully, all are pointing in the right direction and will fuse together in 4 to 6 weeks. The horrendous pain I experienced was my tearing apart a small section of muscle which had already nearly been severed in the original incident. The muscle tore from bone leaving a void which allowed blood to fill in. It, too, should be fine and heal without surgery. My doc reverts back to humor mode, gives me a smile and boogies on out for the rest of his rounds.... My cellie, moved from the room in the night, is on his own path. I hope its the path of wheezing and rattling as opposed to the "other" path but I dunno. I DO know that I don't wanna' be 79, wearing diapers, struggling for every breath with the only change in scenery bein' the ceilings of different hospital rooms.... Oy vay (again). 

     Last on my "Medical adventure" is a CT scan to be performed in the morning to "double check" the x rays and MRIs already taken. Before that, however, is YEAH BABY! My "bro", Big D. Aside from bein' schlepped around like a side of pork to and from the CT room, the day is uneventful and a fuzzy blur. An orthopedist came in to tell me surgery was not needed, to make a snide remark about "Donorcycles" and to prescribe me about four different meds which all do the same damn thing. I could have easily reached out, ripped his ears from his head and eaten them while he stood there watching.... Easy, Bid D, easy.... Next up was the Physical Therapist guru complaining about how the PT department is in the basement and how I should consider joinin' them for some "fun in the dungeon". Followed soon after by a sweet enough physical therapist who rolls me on my side, applies some nice warm goo to my hip and uses a magic silver wand to send rays into the muscle of my upper thigh. It feels good... Gotta' watch it, though...Bev is watchin' and now would NOT be a good time to sprout wood... Think of melting faces, think of melting faces... The nice lady with the warm goo and love wand leaves as my hunny's eyes shoot waves of their own into the back of the nice lady's head... A drill sergeant of a floor nurse follows about and hour later with the TOO COOL FOR SCHOOL  discharge papers. An hour later and I'm home. Big D didn't make it with me, but he had the docs send prescriptions for some oral  Li'l D's with me... I liked Big D too much, so I think we'll suffer a little pain and keep the Li'l D's off the premises... Big or little, I don't wanna' tempt my admittedly weak constitution with too many happy pills. My coccyx is growing together, my ass hurts and I'm flat on my back.... HOME! Big D ain't got shit on THIS! =) Respects

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