Sleep When Your Dead

3/5/2011

2011-03-05T17:11:00.001-08:00

Jamestown-Copperopolis-Murphys-Columbia-Jamestown.

Update.

2011-02-16T01:04:00.000-08:00

fender on. relocated license plate. seat. MAJOR changes coming soon.

Days

2011-01-22T20:05:00.001-08:00

It's been awhile hasn't it? No one knows, no one even reads this shit... haha. Well i've been eating, drinking, and sleeping custom motorcycles for the past 8 months and wrenchin on my own for the past 3. I've been itchin to play music with the guys but it's too difficult to get together nowa days. Motorcycles in Sonora unite. winter riding is the best.... NOT REALLY. But blasting 80 mph bundled up evokes some great fuckin feelings. Keep the rubber on the road.

Stumble Bums MC?

2010-07-29T00:19:00.001-07:00

SBMC. 150 miles. 7/27

huh yeah......that happened.?

2010-07-25T03:46:00.000-07:00

WE travel time. We are time travelers. We created time. What is time really about.. When you travel at the speed of light for one earth year your body ages five earth years. And what is an earth year to begin with.

Aces and Eights, the Tale of the Dead Mans Hand.

2010-07-23T18:04:00.000-07:00

He heard the sound of wood creaking as he approached the old Masonic Cemetery late one night. “The dead are uneasy”, he thought to himself jokingly and continued up the road. He felt a pull on his insides. Something, more so “someone” was enticing his desire to walk through that dark cemetery as he had done many times before as a young boy but even later as a teen. He felt as if an old friend down the street was calling his name motioning for him to come down there and say hello. But there was no one down the street, no one was calling his name, yet this same feeling hung around.

The iron rod gate had not been opened for quite some time, he could tell by the cobwebs and debris plastered to each upright, but the shrill ungreased scream of a squeak which came from the gates’ hinges was the tell tale sign. He was seemingly alone surrounded by hundreds maybe thousands of bodies buried beneath him. Buried all around him, marked and unmarked. Dead and undead.

The hand that reached out of the earth and grabbed him first he saw from ten feet away. The mere fact that an ancient decayed fist was protruding from the ground intrigued his core. The rotted bony remains of the hand was motionless. He could see the rest of the wrist and arm in the dirt as if a Human Bonzai Tree had been planted above the grave.

The Grave site was marked:

Marcel Macgregor

Seventeen Years Old

Died the Year 1879.

The tombstone was old, worn from decades of elemental abuse.

The dates spelt out so neatly in a font which emphasized such regality.

He wondered about her life. Where she had lived: Where she had died?

He stepped into the darkness following an unknown sensation that where he would be going life would be better. He would feel peace and tranquility, a connection with his surroundings, the world around him. For a short moment as he was half way in and halfway out a complete serenity took over his senses; physically and mentally he was nothing, but at the same time he was everything. It lasted just that though, a short moment, for the next would seem an endless eternity.

The night had evoked so many emotions already, that in his mind, he was in for the long haul. Ride out the storm and hope for a happy ending. But you see, his vision of a happy ending may differ from your own.

THIS AND THAT

2010-07-13T20:03:00.000-07:00

Oil Spill Benefit

2010-07-12T00:08:00.001-07:00

This weekend come out and sip some beers and dunk this drunk motherfucker.

Came on Vacation: Left on Probation.

2010-07-09T12:20:00.000-07:00

It was morning dawn and I was drunk... Being the mountain man that I am it dawned on me that a crackling fire was needed to warm my cold bones and entertain my weary eyes. The meadow christened with golden first light was a beautiful scene. So breathtaking in fact I decided a nap was in order. The fire was bustling and I was relaxed. The sun had just crested the mountain range surrounding my serene meadow and I was relaxed. Yeah relaxed twice, even. The 12 oz water bottle that had once held such succulent Jagermeister was now empty as was the prescribed bowl of such sweet cannabis.
Jail was next. A week of smashing in faces.

Finally some news

2010-07-02T09:50:00.000-07:00

So last night in a drunken rage I decided it was time to start updating again and letting all you boozehounds know how real people party. So first of all, I want to mention that James Fox is back on a bike after what seems like a year and prior to getting his bike stolen a few months ago. Good to have you back James. On a second note, word from the cell mates is that Luke Kidd has been in El Dorado County Jail for the last week (i think). Rumor has it arsonry was the cause to his arrest but I can't be sure. Well, thats it for now, time to hit the bottle and the streets on the 20. BOTTOMS UP! Cheers.

2010-04-04T14:28:00.001-07:00

Those select individuals that make it into Stumble Bum stardom know who they are. We're not ones to discriminate, hell we're often discriminated against ourselves, so our ranks waiver night to night day by day. Some move on, some grow up, but deep down we will always be Stumble Bums. It's in our blood. A decree of the brown paper bag, drinking on roof tops, and passing out in the most of awkward places. An alley or soft lawn are no strangers to the weathered ranks of Stumble Bums. No pillow? Use a brick.

This chick, she's with us.

When the keg has been tapped and you're the first to pour a cup, you're with us.

When there's a sip left in the bottle and no one is touching it but you gulp it down, you're with us.

It's 1:59am and you're banging on the liquor store window, you're with us.

HOBOS WIFE

2010-01-14T22:09:00.000-08:00

Drunk Rambling

2010-01-12T19:44:00.000-08:00

Found this on my computer and can barley remember my fingers pounding the keys between 5 and 7 in the morning... Some time between summer and fall.

A few edits, shown, i tried to clean this up but you get the idea. Proudly I present you, titled perfectly,

"DRUNK ON THE PORCH"

He was an old warn out man. A true product of his environment. His hand were warn black from the constant fuery (fury) of rock. They war over his hands like the guns of the navaron (Navarone). The constant pound. The unrelentless (relentless) pound. It beat through every one of us. We were at a one with life. Every piece of everything had connected. It was as if we had connected trulky (truly)with one each toher (other)on a level tatr (that) we could all understand. Even tough I was as drunk as a a skunk I visualize the bond that was taking place. These two nbeings (beings) understainding (understanding) different lifestyles could experience simil;iar (similar) experiences and relate to one another. Fro0m thousands of miles away to the expantiopno (expansion) of just as little as 15 miles, the wonders are magnificent

With each breath I drag in the blackness of death.

A suicide witch froths from the breath. Shallow graves dug for pure flesh.

You will see us rising from the crypts of true believers. The masons,

diggers of the dead, reveal the dreams of obscure dreamers.

Shallow graves that soon come true.

Death has a promise for you.

I think the second section of writing may have a crude metal song emerging from it.

Art of the Alleyway

2010-01-12T18:33:00.000-08:00

Alleyway
Pronunciation: \ˈa-lē-ˌwā\
Function: noun
Date: 1788

1 : a narrow passageway.

Full story coming soon.