Sunday, May 17, 2009
This may be gonzo at its finest. 6 am, thrust into the back of a beat up Mazda, wedged between an enormous crockpot of meaty soup and an old woman, completely unknown. An hour of stifling smog, the stench of pork, somewhere the sun rising behind the lounging veil of exhaust. The red Mazda pulls into a bank parking lot - surely not here? - but the soup unloads itself and soon is pouring down the nicotine-charred throats of men. Wheels of pick up trucks somehow gleam without the sun but soon fade beside the chrome and spokes of the bikes whose motors growl and slowly turn the bank into a cacophonous riot. Not to be outdone by the smog from the engines, their men breathe forth signals of Camel and LP and Winston. As they mount their metal mares, with the swagger of brackish cowboys, the swirls of smoke dissipate and the wheels begin to whirl. The motors and their men vanish, slurped up by the horizon, much like the soup now lying in dregs in the parking lot.