Yes, it was a bit cool yesterday, but it was a beautiful day and it was fantastic to be out on the bike. There is nothing that clears my head better than being on the bike. I stop over-analyzing everything and start just being.

When we’re on the bike, everything that has been on my mind, bothering me or getting on my nerves just seems to disappear. It’s me, my boyfriend and the bike. That’s all that matters and that’s all I care about in those moments.

Riding is always better when you’re with friends. We had a great breakfast at Butterfield’s in Scottsdale; however, if you don’t want your food the way they decide to prepare it…you’re SOL. I have to say that I’ve never heard someone put a waitress in their place in a more simple, honest manner than I did yesterday. Bed service, good food.

After the restaurant experience, we headed down through the Central Corridor to South Mountain, rode to the summit then hit the 51 and beat the rain back home. Curling up by a fire with hot cocoa, we ended the day watching a movie.

It just doesn’t get better than that. Hope you all had a great holiday.

หากคุณกำลังมองหาของขวัญที่แถลงข่าวแล้วพิจารณาเครื่องประดับ Harley Davidson อาจเป็นหนึ่งในทางเลือกที่ดีที่สุด. สำหรับบุคคลที่ต้องการแสดงความเป็นอิสระและเสรีภาพเป็นความสามารถในการใช้อุปกรณ์เหล่านี้ได้เหมาะสมดีต่อวัฒนธรรมนี้. เครื่องประดับต่างๆที่สำหรับชายและหญิงนั้นจะช่วยให้คุณเพลิดเพลินไปกับลักษณะเฉพาะที่ได้ช่วยกำหนดวัฒนธรรมนัก.

บ่อยเครื่องประดับ Harley Davidson กำหนดโดยโลโก้หลักที่ใช้สำหรับ bikes. นี้รวมทั้งในสไตล์หรูหราและไม่เป็นทางการสำหรับชายและหญิงสำหรับโอกาสใด. ด้วยรูปแบบที่มีที่มีโลโก้นี้มีความสามารถในการรับการแสดงออกในเกือบทุกสถานการณ์. สำหรับรูปแบบสบายๆมากขึ้นคุณสามารถพิจารณาสร้อยคอ, กำไลและต่างหูที่มีสัญลักษณ์หลักในขณะที่ช่วยให้คุณเพลิดเพลินไปกับการแสดงออกของเสรีภาพ.

เครื่องประดับอื่นๆ Harley Davidson ที่มีสามารถใช้อื่นๆสภาพแวดล้อมและโอกาสในขณะที่การรักษารูปแบบง่ายๆในการแสดงออกในเสรีภาพในการ Harley. ชายและหญิงสามารถหาทุกอย่างตั้งแต่สร้อยคอให้นาฬิกาต่างหูและกำไล. เหล่านี้ไม่ได้มาเฉพาะกับโลโก้หลักแต่จะยังอยู่ในประเภทที่ระบุเครื่องประดับ. เช่นเงินหรือเครื่องประดับชุบทองกับสัญลักษณ์ Harley ออกแบบทั่วไปสำหรับผู้ที่ต้องการสนุกกับรูปลักษณ์ที่แตกต่างกันเป็น.

หากคุณกำลังมองหาวิธีการแสดงเสรีภาพหรือเพื่อให้คนอื่นๆของขวัญที่แสดงวัฒนธรรมนักแล้วพิจารณาเครื่องประดับ Harley Davidson เป็นหนึ่งในทางเลือก. นี้สามารถให้คุณตั้งค่าที่แตกต่างของลักษณะในขณะที่ช่วยให้คุณตั้งค่าการแสดงออกของวัฒนธรรมในโอกาสใด.

Friends Link : hepa-vacuum-cleaners Cheap Jbl Speakers

If you buy a new Harley, you’re a mug. Why bother when there’s beauties like this on the market? Go on, email and make an offer. Fly to oz and buy it, kick it, bomb it, stop it, admire it, kick it, bomb it. Then make the long, long ride home. Over land and water. It would be hard, loud, long and epic. If it’s not sold real soon I might just do it my self.

machineshed@bigpond.com

These are Trish and John’s lovely dogs doing their little handshake trick. Oh and AJ, Bryan and John are in here too somewhere. =P

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJoO9grPXnE&hl=en

Few companies are as iconic as Harely-Davidson. Since its humble beginnings over 100 years ago, Harley-Davidson has been producing quality, high-performance motorcycles that are distinct in design and construction.

In 1903, William S. Harley and Arthur Davidson, from a wooden shed no bigger than 10 x 15 feet, assembled the first Harley-Davidson motorcycle after labouring over William’s original engine plans for two years. By 1904, the first Harley-Davidson dealer opened for business and the company was on its way to achieving unparalleled  success.

As an interesting historical tidbit, Harley-Davidson motorcycles are affectionately known as “hogs” and received the nickname from their earlier racing days. During the 1920’s, Harley-Davidson’s professional riders, a team of farm boys known as the “hog boys”, consistently won races. The group had a pig as their mascot, and following each win put the pig on their Harley for their victory lap. 

It’s a rare to find long-standing and storied companies, such as Harley-Davidson, but even more  rare to find them still operating in North America. At Antonio Valente, we salute Harley-Davidson’s committment to quality, innovation and the community.

The 1907 Harley-Davidson model

His door window had vanished, Harley noticed when he walked back to his cab.

“I don’t suppose you ripped out the roof lining as well?”

“Duct tape is a marvellous thing,” Sharkey grinned, “but not even you can see through it.”

Harley nodded.

“It’ll do for a bit. I’ve got a mate’ll fix it up, good as new. And fit you a new window. I’ll give him a hoy tomorrow”

Harley nodded again, settling down behind the wheel. He took a sip of his cold HeartBake coffee and grimaced at the taste of fresh bullet, spitting the acrid liquid through the empty space to his right.

“Hey, Sharkey. You want to hear a good joke?”

“Sure.”

“So do I. You know any?”

Sharkey chuckled. “Knew we could cheer you up!”

Harley drove through Fyshwick’s deserted streets. One thing about the nightshift, there were never any traffic problems.

Cold Canberra winter nights, on the other hand…

He pushed the heater up to the maximum, but realistically there was no hope of countering the cold air pouring in through the empty window. Much more of this and his ear would freeze and snap off. As they accelerated onto the 80 km/h stretch along the Monaro Highway heading back to Campbell, the breeze became a blast. This trip would have to be his last for the night.

And fair enough, too. He worked insane hours to begin with, and tonight had been stressful in several ways.

The massage had worked to reduce the immediate tension of being shot at and having his cab damaged, but when the soothing hands had finished their work on his body, and it had become obvious to all parties that some body areas were anything but relaxed, he had balked at the range of solutions offered.

Not a prude, not inexperienced in any of the proposals – well, one or two, maybe, and he’d wonder about the sort of pressure that could be brought to bear by those magnificent breasts for some time – but the whole thing had seemed wrong.

It wasn’t as if he had a girlfriend to be faithful to, either. Just himself.

Sharkey sat beside him, perhaps privy to the problem, perhaps not.

Harley’s phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mrgble whssssh?”

Too much noise in the cab for speakerphone. Harley pulled the handset out of its cradle and held it to his ear. No cops around this time of night.

“Hello?”

“Harley, this is Olivia here. Are you anywhere close?”

“Five minutes.”

Bugger. He didn’t really want to do another job and risk his brain freezing. But he couldn’t refuse Olivia.

“I’ll be at King O’Malley’s. I’ll be the one freezing her tits off.”

Harley laughed. “Always ready to help a damsel in distress! See you soon.”

Harley turned up Blamey Crescent instead of Monash Drive, dropped Sharkey off just around the corner from Erstwhile Garden, waving aside the proffered twenty, and headed into Civic.

The King O’Malley Irish Pub was inside the Civic bus interchange, and until midnight, off limits to taxis except from the Bunda Street cab rank. But it was far more convenient to make the right turn into the interchange from London circuit, rather than wade through the turns and traffic lights to get in legally. Besides, there were never any police there this time of night.

Harley pulled up outside the pub. Olivia and a companion detached themselves from an alcove and bundled into the back seat. Harley got a glimpse of a skinny young woman with short blonde hair – another officer cadet, obviously – before the door closed and the light went off.

“Turn the heat up, would you, Harley? It’s a fridge in here!”

“Sorry. My window’s broken.” He turned the cab and took the easy but illegal way back out onto London Circuit.

“How’d you do that?”

“Stuck my elbow though it.”

Olivia giggled. “Right.”

London Circuit to Constitution Avenue, turn onto Parkes Way at Coranderrk Street. As they passed the Convention Centre, the zebra crossing lights shone into the back seat and Harley automatically checked the mirror, wondering why Olivia wasn’t riding her usual shotgun beside him.

“Eyes front, driver!” The other cadet was glaring at him, before returning her attention to Olivia, who hadn’t been distracted.

“Don’t worry, Rose, he’s a darling.” Harley heard Olivia’s sigh.

Silence from the back seat, apart from the soft embracing sounds that every night cabbie hears. Harley kept his eyes front and his eyebrows raised.

Flashing red and blue lights on Parkes Way beside the ASIO site. Half a dozen police cars, officers in reflective vests, orange wands. Random breath test. They never pulled cabbies over – a taxidriver would have to be insane to drink on a shift.

But a policeman was waving him to the side.

“Random breath test. Just turning the meter off,” Harley informed his passengers. He always did this if a delay was his fault or outside the limits of normal traffic.

Both cadets were sitting upright now, he noticed. Seatbelts buckled, two respectable young women at opposite ends of a wide back seat.

“Taxi 377?” A policeman leaned in through the empty window. Gold badges and a fancy cap.

“That’s me.” As if it wasn’t visible on the number plate.

“Mister Barnardo?”

“Right.”

“Did you leave a parcel at Canberra International Airport this morning?”

“No.” Oh, hang on. Maybe he had.

“Sure about that? A book with a picture of a bomb on the cover?”

“Uh, yeah. Forgot about that. You found my book, then?”

“There’s a few people would like to speak to you about that, Mister Barnardo. I’ve been asked to request that you attend the Civic police station tomorrow at nine AM. Be there. These are the kind of people you don’t want to upset even more.”

The officer rapped the roof of the cab twice and Harley indicated, pulling back out onto Parkes Way.

“Your pet cabbie’s a terrorist, Liv!”

Harley sniffed. There was a new fragrance in the cold cab. Warm and musky and penetrating directly into the bit of him that had wanted to say yes to the suggestions made to him in Fyshwick.

“Sorry about that.”

Harley reached down to the console and took another automatic sip of his coffee. He gagged at the taste and launched the whole cup out of the window.

“And a litterbug!”

“Home, Harley, and step on it!” Olivia was holding the hand of her slender blonde companion, sliding back across the seat.

“Eyes front, Osama bin!”

Copyright © 2009 Peter Mackay

Harley still couldn’t remember where he lived, although we’d stood on the end of a street for a while as he stared at several houses. He said, “Ah, I’ll just keep walking, I’ll find my way home in the end. I really appreciate it.”

You can’t leave someone on their own, in the cold, with nowhere to go, although I realise I’ve left people sitting on street corners many times before. So me, Chris and Harley trudge unsteadily back to the train station to get him a taxi with Harley still insisting that we must be religious.

The station looks definitively closed – the last sleepy commuter probably stumbling out about an hour ago with a crumpled up copy of the London Standard and some other relic of travel – a multipack of fruit pastels bought to keep her from getting lonely waiting for a connecting train at Crewe. £3.49 but she had to have them.

Out of nowhere Harley starts a monologue.

“I’d like to be like you. I’m in a bad place. I haven’t got anyone.

“I’d like to do it but I can’t. I hate it – all of it. I can’t go back. I do believe it though.”

I look at him and I can see that he’s crying although he’s trying facing the pavement, still slightly hunched over under the weight of all the alcohol and God-knows-what-else that he’s taken tonight.

“It’s alright Harley. You’ll feel better about it in the morning. Look, I’ll give you my phone number.”

I hand him a screwed up little contact card – one of the ones left over from my course last year. Helen Perkins. Nottingham Freelance Journalist. My email. My mobile number. I wonder if he’ll hate me in the morning. Maybe he’ll think I’m some evil hack from the Daily Mail touring the North West to collect people’s sad stories for some dramatic two page spread on waifs and strays. He takes the card and stuffs it into his pocket.

“It makes me so angry. So angry. Do you understand? I’m so angry right now. I can’t tell you.”

Unable to console him and aware that he’s too drunk to be fully reasoned with, Chris goes and asks a nearby taxi driver if he can take our man to the street Harley has mentioned. The taxi driver looks less than impressed at me and an alcoholic with a bleeding head. He points about 200 yards away.

“It’s up there.”

Before we leave Harley on his street, determined to go through his front door alone, maybe still just sober enough to consider that we could be thieves or worse – Catholics – the three of us sit on the end of the wall of some memorial garden, on one end of the street which may or may not include Harley’s house, opposite a derelict pub and some sort of scout hut.

The stars are out; my hands have gone numb, it’s very quiet. Harley is still clinging to his bag of knock-off alcohol but he looks happy now and keeps telling me thank you – though I’m not really sure if what I’ve done this evening amounts to a good deed. I think of the hundreds of others wandering drunk and stigmatised in Manchester, Liverpool, Leeds, Nottingham, London, York. All without anyone to look out for them and labelled as crazy.

Harley talks about his family and he tells me he would like to meet up again and go for a coffee in town but he’s not sure if he can. He looks happy. He gives me a hug and I’m not sure if he’s shorter than me because he’s short or if he’s still struggling to balance. We talk about his brothers, his family in Leeds, his life in Lancaster. His hair is short and black and curly. He has a kind face and he laughs a lot. He doesn’t seem to feel the cold.

He makes a move to go and as my final motherly gesture I tell him in a stern voice that I won’t leave until I’ve seen him walk to the next lamppost without falling over in the road. The potential Lancaster Guardian headline still frightens me.

He laughs out. “I’m scared of you!” And then he goes, slowly into the dark still unsteady but sober enough to get home – if that’s where he’s heading to.

The drunk man tells me his name is Harley, and also that he is really drunk. He smells of cheap alcohol and keeps falling into me or towards the cars. If I let him go he can’t walk more than two paces before falling into the road again and I worry he’ll end up frozen to death under a hedge or taken out by another taxi. I imagine reading his death in the Lancaster Guardian.  I decide me and Chris have to walk him home and Chris looks at me and I know he’s got the same idea.

Harley’s pretty friendly. He keeps saying thank you. He’s surprisingly articulate but he can’t manage to walk three feet by himself. So Chris holds one of his arms and I grab the other and we make slow but steady progress towards his house.

“What religion are you then?” Harley asks. He stares at me with big bloodshot brown eyes. He has a kind face.

“Um, I’m not really.”

“Then why do you do this? I’m so sorry, I’m really drunk.”

“To be honest Harley my main reason is that I don’t want to see you fall in front of a car.”

He laughs. “That’s really good that is. That’s really good. You two are really good. You’re really good. I like how people do that, because you know not everyone… are you a Catholic then?”

Our conversation circles around the issue of whether I’m a Christian of Catholic or Anglican – although he’s drunk so he pronounces Anglican ‘angling’ and it takes me five minutes to realise he’s not just raving about fishing. He’s had religious parents, he tells me and Chris, staring at each of us in turn. A big family. A strict upbringing. He’s one of several brothers and they’re still religious; he’s the black sheep.

The pubs are closing and several people eye us cautiously as we stagger past; our linked three make up an unusually mixed demographic – one manager, one PhD and one drunk. But it turns out me and Harley have quite a bit in common and he’s a good talker, despite the beer.

“I was brought up to be religious – a Catholic,” he says.

“Me too. I was raised a Jehovah’s Witness,” I say.

He stops and looks at me. “Is that why you do this?”

He keeps accusing me of being religious and I’m not. I guess I’m still an agnostic, or maybe now I’m just tired of the question. I remember saying to my mother, in a horrible moment, that I would look back into religion – but later and in my own space. It seems like a strange time for the issue to come up this evening, hundreds of miles from Derby in a backstreet with an alcoholic. Do you think this is how God does it – through the drunks, the homeless and the dispossessed? Maybe he uses them as a goad towards religious fervour and righteousness because they seem to give a fairly independent review of religion.

“I’m not religious. I just didn’t want to leave you by the road. Are we nearly at your place now?”

It’s freezing cold and Harley stops walking and stares across the street.

“I don’t know,” he starts to laugh, “I can’t remember.”

Harley had two regular customers call that evening. The first was Olivia, phoning for a pickup from the Australian Defence Force Academy.

She and Harley went back years, starting with an act of charity to a drunk, penniless, cold and emotional officer cadet walking back along Constitution Avenue one rainy night.

Olivia repaid Harley’s initial kindness with loyalty, and whenever the cadets scored a night away from their studies, she would call him up, usually with a few mates, and they’d split the fifteen dollar fare, exchanging news on the five minute ride into Mooseheads, where the cadets did their off-base drinking.

“Five months until graduation, Harley!” Olivia exclaimed as she thumped into the passenger seat beside him. She wasn’t heavy, but she was tall and well-built and red-headed, and if Harley spotted her in a taxi queue late at night, he’d pull up beside her instead of taking the passengers at the head of the line.

Two other cadets took the back seat. Once the cab was outside the academy grounds, they leaned in closer, holding hands, swapping a quick kiss. Olivia looked back and rolled her eyes at Harley. They shared a smile.

Sometimes it had been Olivia in the back seat. Cadet affairs tended to be short and intense, and five minutes in a taxi could seem like a whole passionate night. Harley kept his eyes on the road at such times, turning up the radio to give his passengers some cover.

“You’ll be over the hill next year, Officer Cadet Price,” Harley observed.

Olivia groaned. “Over the hill” meant transferring to Royal Military College on the other side of Mount Pleasant. Another year of study, another graduation, this time as a junior army officer.

“Another year of late cabs and nosey taxidrivers and awful jokes, hey, Mister Barnardo?”

“You’ll miss me out in the real world. You’ll wish you were back in Canberra.”

“I’ll be doing what I’ve always dreamed of doing. I’ll miss you, and I’ll miss Canberra, but I’ll be getting on with my life.”

Harley looked across at her. “There’s a war on in Afghanistan. You want to be out there, instead of here?”

Olivia looked out over Lake Burley Griffin. The big roundabout at the bottom of Anzac Parade. Parliament House, National Library, Questacon, floodlit in the night. And a fleeting glimpse past Harley’s nose of the pearl lights in their graceful curve leading up to the Australian War Memorial, where the memories of those who served and those who died were kept fresh.

“If life was easy, it wouldn’t be so sweet. There’s got to be a contrast. Hard and soft. Service and reward. You know what I’m saying?”

“I know you’re someone special and I don’t want to see you hurt. Or in danger.”

“I’m a big girl now, Harley. I can look after myself.”

Harley smiled again. “You need me for a lift home, I’m here.”

They drove in silence, swinging onto Constitution Avenue, onto London Circuit, making an illegal u-turn and parking in a bus bay.

“Here’s twenty, Harley. These two are buying the first drinks.”

“Might see you later, Olivia?”

“Might. Might come home early. Wednesday’s not a big night.”

The second call was from Sharkey. Not far from Mooseheads to Erstwhile Garden. Not in terms of distance, anyway.

The bullet came in through the top of Harley’s window, scored a hot crease along the roof lining, hit the roof with a clang, and wedged itself behind the passenger side visor.

“Holy fuck, Batman!” yelled Harley, who had had the benefit of a classical education. He stood hard on the brakes.

“Just keep driving, Harl,” said Sharkey, whose education had been more practical. “That was the second shot, and most guns have more.”

“Bloody hell! Was someone shooting at us?”

“Yeah.” Sharkey was twisted in his seat, looking out through the rear window. “I think we’re okay now.”

“Fuck!” said Harley, looking at his window. The glass had shattered into a classic bullet-hole surrounded by a web of splinters. As he watched, a shard wobbled loose and dropped into his lap.

“You all right, Harl? You’ve got a cut on your forehead.”

“Fuck.”

He held his hand up to his head. He felt a wetness. No gaping wounds, apparently, but when he looked at his palm in the changing light of the passing streetlights, it was covered in blood. He blinked.

“Fuck it.”

He reached under his seat for a cleaning cloth. Microfibre for the windows, but it would keep the blood off his seat covers.

“You got any enemies, Harley?”

“About half of my passengers.”

Sharkey’s gaze was aimed at him like a rifle.

“Um, no. Just joking. I get along fine with everyone.”

“Let’s just keep this quiet, eh? I’ll ask around.”

“Shouldn’t we tell the police? I mean, this is serious.”

“You get the police involved, they’ll have you making statements for the rest of the night, they’ll keep your taxi for evidence, they’ll stuff you around, and they’ll ask questions that I don’t want answered.”

Sharkey sniffed and looked up at the sun visor. He plucked Harley’s coffee – HeartBake coffee, now well cold, but still good for a caffeine jolt – from the centre cupholder, held it in front of him and tilted the visor down. A little metal ball rolled out and plopped into the coffee.

“Still hot. Burnin’ the plastic.”

“Fuck. This is going to cost hundreds to fix.”

“Coulda been worse, mate.”

Harley considered this. “Yeah. Could have been me.”

“And me.”

“Fuck.”

Harley was over “red-light district” jokes when they hit Fyshwick. The neon signs were mostly pink, anyway, and stood out amongst the dark warehouses and caryards. “Northside Studios”, “Butterfly Girls”, “Bordello’s” and Sharkey’s preferred establishment, “Golden Hands”.

“Just a massage parlour, Harl,” Sharkey winked as they drew up. “Let me have a word with the management and we’ll get that cut looked after.”

“Um, I dunno, Sharkey.”

“Well, whattya gunna do? Go home to clean up? This’ll be quick and you can get back on the road.”

Harley looked dubious. “I’ve never been inside before.”

Sharkey rolled his eyes. “You’ll be fine. Come on. You want, you can get a coffee and relax until I’m done. Or something stronger…”

Harley sighed. He was too frazzled to drive, anyway. And he’d have to inspect the damage to the car as well as clean up.

“Good man.”

They made a fuss over Harley. Sat him down in front of a marble basin while a blonde with the biggest breasts Harley had ever seen leaned low in front of him, gently sponging his cheek clean of blood.

“Just a scratch, honey,” she purred. “Let me dry it off and put something on it.”

Harley had no objection to a lotion being soothed into his skin, a bandaid applied, and a cup of tea being offered, but when coaxing fingers began unbuttoning his uniform shirt, he felt uneasy.

“There’s blood on it, babe,” his new and buxom friend said. “We’ll clean that out before it sets. We get rid of all sorts of stains, you know.”

“Relax, Harl!” Sharkey said. He was leaning in the doorway, a glass in his hand. “They’ll have it back in five minutes, good as new.”

Harley let his shirt disappear. But the blonde remained.

“Ooh, you’re so tense, darling,” she sighed, her hands moving over his shoulderblades.

Harley had to agree. The touch of her fingers kneading into his taut muscles was relaxing. And pleasant. Even more pleasant when the skin on his back informed him that whatever scant top the blonde had been wearing was no longer present. Her hands moved forwards, gliding through his chest hair.

“On the house,” Sharkey chuckled, closing the door.

Copyright © 2009 Peter Mackay

International Association of Machinists and Aerospace Workers

The York Daily Record reported that union workers at the Harley-Davidson Springettsbury Township operations got their first look at a proposed contract that if approved will stop the motor company from relocating the York Vehicle Operations to an alternative site in Kentucky.

You can read the detailed contract highlights HERE.  Briefly, it’s a 58 page document that covers the next 7 years.  H-D will commit to investing up to $90 million to restructure the operations and stop efforts to relocate to Kentucky.  For those workers who lose their job as part of the restructuring there are a number of alternatives from lump-sum payout to volunteering for the reduction and receiving benefits if they lose their job.  Workers received copies of the contract today at the Toyota Arena where members met. They will vote to ratify or turn down the deal on December 2nd.  The company has until December 12th to approve.

Reading the “tea leaves,” I anticipate the International Association of Machinists and Aerospace Workers (District 98) will ratify the new contract.  Do they have any other choice?  The company has worked all angles during this down economy to their advantage and will obtain significant concessions from the workers who need a job.

Photo courtesy of IAMAW

All Rights Reserved © Northwest Harley Blog

Ludacris

“When you dine with the devil, bring a long spoon.” — Machiavelli

Having a ‘thug’ like Ludacris anywhere near your marketing campaign may not be a good thing.  Yet, Harley-Davidson has decided having a pitchman who glamorizes a life of guns, violence, drugs and is disrespectful of women is EXACTLY what’s needed to turn around motorcycle sales.

The “hoes in different area codes” rapper has released many songs that convey and represent his morals.  Even President Obama said he wouldn’t let his daughters listen to his rap, but did admit Ludacris was a ‘great businessman’.  Political pandering is not my point here.

Recently H-D collaborated with RIDES Magazine to create custom bikes for recording artists Ludacris and Shawnna.  This promotion was in part to gear up for the release of their album “Battle of the Sexes”, where the artists worked with RIDES and “New York Nick” Genender, shop owner of NYC Choppers, to create bikes that reflect their individual personalities.  There is a behind-the-scenes video of the build HERE and more videos/photos can be viewed at RIDES.  In addition, they’re giving away a motorcycle to one lucky winner: a customized 2010 Harley-Davidson Road Glide Custom, created in part with suggestions by RIDES readers. Learn more about the bike or enter for a chance to win HERE.

Is this a shrewd advertising move to use a pitchman who’s going to draw attention to a community that H-D wants to sell motorcycles to or is this a mistake to promote and associate the H-D trademarks with a person that espouses violence, degrading sex and substance abuse?

Does anyone remember how fast Pepsi pulled the ‘musician’ from its soft-drink advertisements in 2002?

Photo courtesy of H-D and RIDE.

All Rights Reserved © Northwest Harley Blog

As Thanksgiving approaches and families prepare to gather around the table to share turkey and stuffing, the Northwest Harley blog editorial team (me), decided it was time to look back at the announcements and decisions from the motor company that made news this past year for all of the wrong reasons.

This is my list of the top H-D turkeys over the last 18 months – clearly the ideas and business strategies didn’t live up to expectations or were so poorly executed that they flopped with the consumers. Between the economy, the shutdown of Buell, cuts in production, the credit crunch, a transition to a new non-motorcycle-riding CEO, management departures, adding a new CFO and Mango’s for distribution rights in India, to an abrupt about-face on MV Augusta… it’s been an ugly, yet busy year-and-a-half!  Here is a recap with a couple winning moments highlighted (Bold):

Harley-Davidson to cut jobs, ship fewer motorcycles (April 17, 2008)

Harley getting burned by loan crash (May 2, 2008)

Harley-Davidson to buy Italian motorcycle maker (July 11, 2008)

With acetylene, Harley-Davidson opens museum (July 14, 2008)

Harley-Davidson profits down 23 percent (July 17, 2008)

Harley-Davidson officially kick starts celebration (August 28, 2008)

Harley-Davidson profit down 37 percent (October 16, 2008)

Harley CEO Ziemer to retire in 2009 (December 15, 2008)

Harley-Davidson to cut 1,100 jobs, most in Milwaukee area (January 23, 2009)

Harley-Davidson sets $600M debt sale to fund finance arm (February 3, 2009)

Harley-Davidson sales down 13 percent in 2009 (March 5, 2009)

Harley-Davidson names Johnson Controls’ Wandell as next CEO (April 6, 2009)

Harley-Davidson reports sales, profit declines (April 16, 2009)

Harley-Davidson completes funding plans (May 1, 2009)

Harley-Davidson’s CFO resigns (May 4, 2009)

Buell plans to consolidate operations in East Troy (May 12, 2009)

Buell scraps East Troy consolidation plan (May 19, 2009)

Pennsylvania may offer aid to keep Harley in York (May 22, 2009)

Harley-Davidson to cut 1,000 more jobs; 480 in Milwaukee area (July 16, 2009)

Harley scouting four sites for new factory (August 19, 2009)

Buell to temporarily shut down East Troy plant (September 8, 2009)

Harley names Olin permanent CFO (September 18)

Harley-Davidson to end Buell line, cut 180 jobs (October 15, 2009)

In general it was a tough year for the motorcycle industry. H-D has made some pretty large missteps. They ranged from products that simply did not take off, to entire business plans that went awry. Clearly, some of the turkeys are bigger than others. In the face of this adversity, H-D management decided the future of the company is based in large part on cost takeouts.  I think the company should shift away from that thinking or  obtaining large union concessions and to focus on innovation and growth initiatives.  Mr. Wandell has to know the Strategic Inflection Point is real and that you cannot save your way out of a recession.  Growth based on innovation, new products and the emotional connection with customers will help turnaround the company.

I know it’s never nice to point out the faults and failures of others, but I’m hopeful by bringing a spotlight on these H-D management will learn from the struggles. While this list is by no means exhaustive, it does include some of what I believe are the bigger flops.  As always, I welcome your comments.

Photo courtesy of Exploratorium

All Rights Reserved © Northwest Harley Blog

Typical Wednesday morning queue on the airport rank – about a hundred people shivering in the winter chill waiting for a cab. Mondays when Parliament was sitting, you’d get two or three times as many. Passengers, when they finally got a cab, would complain about the nation’s capital being unable to organise a decent taxi service.

What passengers didn’t see was the flip side of the long queues – the hours that cabbies put in idling on deserted ranks, including at the airport. There would often be a hundred cabs waiting, two lines winding through the boomgates, through the cabyard, and spilling out onto Nomad Drive.

“I had to wait twenty minutes for a taxi!” a passenger would complain, not knowing that his driver had spent an hour or more waiting for a passenger.

This passenger was a first for Harley. “The ASIO building site,” he said to Harley, adding, “Do you know it? It’s on Constitution Avenue.”

He got into the front seat and two companions sat in the back. No luggage – just briefcases or small backpacks.

Engineers, thought Harley. He’d seen plenty when the new National Portrait Gallery was under construction. They’d be employed by one of the major contractors, and they’d spend their lives flying between several projects scattered around Australia, doing day trips to Canberra, overnights in Perth or Darwin, back to Melbourne or Sydney for the weekend, repeating the process the next week.

Mostly young – in their late twenties or early thirties – and full of the energy and enthusiasm they would lose within five years. But for the moment, they were nation-builders.

They talked amongst themselves of basements and heating plants. The hole in the ground for the main building wasn’t more than an outline on the muddy grass yet, but it had to be excavated just right.

Harley let them out at the site offices. The Portrait Gallery had been an open site, with taxis able to drive in, but here there was a sliding metal gate and a guard checking documents.

They paid with a corporate credit card, but that was par for the course – daytime work rarely involved cash. Some cabbies got so desperate that they pretended the card terminal was broken. They needed actual money for gas. Or a meal. They couldn’t wait seven days for the bank to make a deposit – they needed it immediately.

Harley wasn’t up for such shenanigans. Well, not unless he was desperate. Which he wasn’t at the moment.

He had the price of a coffee and a rock cake in his pocket, the Campbell shops were close at hand and it must be morning tea time, the Statistics page on the despatch screen showing vacant cab numbers rising everywhere as the morning rush dropped away.

The ASIO site would be a good source of work. Those engineers he’d dropped off would be looking for a ride back to the airport in the afternoon. Or maybe a hotel. There would be others, day after day, week after week. Public servants, consultants, visitors, all needing cabs there and back.

Heartbake’s barista with the film star looks must have taken some time off. He had been replaced by a young woman. Skinny, short black hair, big smile for Harley, about fifteen years old by the look of her.

The world was being run by children. Or at least the important bits.

“Flat white, please. Family size!”

She smiled as his hands outlined a coffee cup about the size of the America’s Cup. Harley liked making people smile, and this one had a smile that would melt any man’s heart.

“Sugar?”

“Two. And one of your happiest rock cakes, please.”

Her smile could have floodlit Telstra Tower for a night. That was one of the benefits of being a cabbie. You could use the same jokes over and over.

Too cold this morning for a place outside. Harley took his coffee and cake to a table beside Ann’s Official BookCrossing Zone shelf. His previous book was now out in the wild, released at the airport rank this morning, Who knew where in the world it would go?

This was fun. He’d signed up as Bookcabbie, not a brilliant name, but the best he could come up with when confronted by a sign-up screen and a blinking cursor. Nobody had found the books he’d read and released, but it was early days yet.

The BookCrossing shelf was looking sadly depleted. He’d have to hunt up a new batch from Ann. Or add some himself. He had any number of old books gathering dust at home. He’d never read them again, so why not pass them on to others, and maybe see if they had some adventures?

The website indicated that labels and stickers could be bought online, though obviously it would take a few days to airmail them from the USA. In the meantime, there were free labels to download and print out at home.

Harley finished his coffee, wrapped the uneaten half of his rockcake away in a napkin for future consumption, nodded to the barista – received another dazzling smile for a pudgy cabbie rapidly running into middle age – and went to Ounce Books.

Closed.

He checked the opening hours, on a discreet sign beside the door, and though Ann kept long hours, Wednesday morning wasn’t among them.

Hmmm. Perhaps she visited her elderly mother on Wednesdays. Perhaps she did her banking and other chores during these few business hours. Perhaps she had a lover, and they spent the mornings rolling around in sweaty lust and heavy breathing.

Harley liked that last thought, inserting himself into the fantasy, kissing Ann between her bookshelves, embracing her in the romance section, leading her into the backroom where they disrobed amongst boxes of unsorted books…

He caught himself, smiling. Sharkey was right. He had sex on the brain.

How long had it been? Too bloody long. Cabbies might brag about lady passengers paying in kind, but it had never happened to him. Just a kiss on the cheek now and then from passengers happy with his line of chat. And twice now a male passenger, coming home alone late at night, had laid a hand on his thigh. He’d gently brushed them aside, saying he didn’t swing that way, but took no offence.

Maybe he should follow up on that fantasy. He’d not seen any significant rings on Ann’s fingers, not that meant much nowadays. Perhaps a little innocent internet stalking. The shop’s website, Facebook.

“Make Google your friend, Harl!” he thought, smiling at his lonely reflection in the shop window.

Copyright © 2009 Peter Mackay

Well, with 2009 approaching the ol’ finish line, you’ll start seeing lots of year-end wrap-up lists and things. And since it’s the end of the Double-0 Decade, you’ll be seeing lots of decade recap lists as well. (Some early spoilers: Pitchfork has crowned Radiohead’s Kid A the best album of the Double-0s, while the NME favors Is This It by the Strokes.)

But you won’t find that here, and not now. No, here you will find a year-end recap that dares to be somewhat different. This is the first-ever Listen Up! Year-End Awards ceremony – or you can just name them the Harleys after the adorable little trophy I’m giving out to the winners.

Let's see the Academy beat THIS one.

The fun begins after the jump!

All right, let’s get this show on the road! Bring on the first award!

Most Ridiculous Album Art of the Year

First, let’s have a look at the runner-ups…

Brooke Hogan, The Redemption

Um, wow. This looks like the kind of thing that some Dungeons & Dragons nerd might have airbrushed on the hood of his car back in 1987. I don’t even think people do that anymore. Also, that album title… don’t you have to screw up a successful singing career before you can make a comeback album called The Redemption? Quick, name the last time you heard a Brooke Hogan song. And VH1 doesn’t count.

Adam Lambert, For Your Entertainment

If Aladdin Sane went to the neighborhood mall, got some Glamour Shots photos taken, and then scanned the most ridiculous pose into his computer so he could Photoshop it poorly and add ugly ‘80s hair-metal logo fonts… well, the result still wouldn’t look as stupid as this album cover.

I must give this guy props for letting FYE sponsor his album title, though. If I ever get a record deal, I’m changing my name to Sam Goody and recording an album of techno-pop called Circuit City. The critics will call it a “best buy” even though it will basically sound like a cheesy ripoff of MGMT. Or Weezer’s “Can’t Stop Partying.” You decide.

Chris Brown, Graffiti

What’s the worst crime he commits with this thing? Carrying a guitar even though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t play? Borrowing Adam Lambert’s cheesy-looking font? The pseudo-outer-space scene in the background? The robot hand holding a spray can? No… it’s those ridiculous cartoon characters in the corner that earn this one its WTF status.

And the Harley goes to…

Shwayze, Let It Beat

What the hell is going on here? It looks like they tried to spoof the famous shot of the Statue of Liberty at the end of Planet Of The Apes. Only here, the statue’s been decapitated and dismembered. And she’s wearing a bikini. And she has speakers where her boobs are supposed to be. And her iPod is plugged into her belly button. And she’s apparently visiting the set of Miami Vice.

Most Awesomely Ridiculous Album Art of the Year

And the Harley goes to…

Weezer, Raditude

Just look at it. I mean, what else could you expect for an album that got its title from the guy who plays Dwight on The Office and called Ellen Page “homeskillet” in Juno?

Funniest Song of the Year

And the Harley goes to…

Theory Of A Deadman, “Hate My Life”

I still can’t figure out what to make of this song. On one hand, these lyrics are hilarious: “I hate that I can’t tell/When a girl’s underage/You know, I tell her she’s a nice piece of ass,/Then her daddy punches me in the face.” On the other hand, the singer sounds so sincere that it’s like he really wanted people to relate to this.

If it’s meant to be funny, then it’s a clever parody of angst-ridden post-grunge radio rock – you know, like Theory Of A Deadman’s other songs. If it’s not meant to be funny… well, that just makes it funnier, doesn’t it? And the acoustic version of this song, believe it or not, is even funnier. Unintentionally funny things are always funnier than things that are supposed to be funny. That’s why The Number 23 is the funniest movie Jim Carrey’s made this entire decade. Even with some strong competition from Weird Al, there was no way this wasn’t going to Theory Of A Deadman.

Plus, is it just me, or does the lead singer kind of sound like the guy who sings the songs in Team America?

Biggest Pop Star of the Year That I’ve Still Never Heard Of

And the Harley goes to…

Justin Bieber

I don’t have a clue who this guy is. I don’t know where he came from, and I have no idea whether or not he’s connected to the Disney Channel (the most likely cause for such a meteoric rise to fame). All I know is that he’s suddenly everywhere, I am clueless as to why, and I don’t really care either.

Most Inexplicable Attempt At A Singing Career

And the Harley goes to…

Heidi Montag

Apparently this girl from The Hills has been trying to get a music career off the ground for a while now. So far it has been greeted with the same enthusiasm people reserve for trees falling in the forest that they aren’t around to hear. But bless her heart, she keeps on trucking.

And hey, if this singing thing doesn’t work out, she could always pose for Play… oh, wait. She did that already. Never mind.

Runner-Up: That woman from Real Housewives who sang “Tardy For The Party”

Most Shocking Musical Controversy of the Year

And the Harley goes to…

Britney Spears vs. Australia

What do you mean Britney Spears doesn’t sing live? I for one am absolutely appalled that she lip-syncs! We made Ashlee Simpson a freaking pariah for pulling the same stunt on Saturday Night Live; now people wouldn’t buy her albums if you gave them away for free! You mean to tell me people will actually pay their hard-earned money to watch a singer who pretends to sing?

“If you’re shocked that Britney was lip-syncing at her concert and want your money back, life may continue to be hard for you.”

– John Mayer

For me, the controversy is not about Britney lip-syncing. Much like Mr. Mayer, I’m shocked that people are still shocked about this. Have the Aussies not been paying attention for the last ten years? Come on, Australia. Britney’s been lip-syncing since day one. I don’t even think that’s her real speaking voice. There’s probably someone sitting outside in an RV talking into a headset microphone or something.

Best Supergroup of the Year

And the Harley goes to…

Them Crooked Vultures

And in a stunning upset, Them Crooked Vultures takes home the Harley over… well, how many supergroups actually came out this year? There was Chickenfoot, Monsters Of Folk, and… uh…

I’m only half-kidding about this. Maybe I’m kind of biased since this band features Josh Homme (Kyuss, Queens Of The Stone Age) on guitar and vocals, Dave Grohl (Nirvana, Foo Fighters, lots of other bands) on drums, and John Paul Jones (Led Zeppelin) on bass. It’s kind of hard to go wrong with a lineup like that. If you like classic rock like Zeppelin or Cream, or if QOTSA’s Songs For The Deaf ranks among your favorite albums, or if you play an instrument, or if you like rock music in general, you’ll probably like this band.

Runner-Up: Monsters Of Folk

Most Baffling Music Video Trend of the Year

And the Harley goes to…

NSFW VIDEOS

I’ve never been a fan of censorship, really. That’s why if I ever come up with an idea for a TV show, I’d want it to be on HBO – because they let you do pretty much anything you want. Yet for some reason, this recent trend of NSFW music videos has taken me by surprise. Truly, Rule 34 of the Internet (“If it exists, there is porn of it – no exceptions”) continues to reign supreme.

Would you like to watch Rammstein porn (“Pussy”)? Do you think it would be funny to pretend another person’s penis is a microphone (Girls, “Lust For Life”)? Have you ever wanted to see Wayne Coyne naked (the Flaming Lips, “Watching The Planets”)? Well, guess what? All of these videos have been made just for you. But be warned – what has been seen… cannot be unseen.

Runner-Up: Everything Lady Gaga has ever worn. EVER.

Best Non-Existent Album of the Year

And the Harley goes to…

Radiohead, Wall Of Ice

It must have been interesting to be a member of Radiohead in the days leading up to August 17, 2009. Someone had recently leaked a new song called “These Are My Twisted Words” and the Internet was suddenly all abuzz about a mysterious new EP called Wall Of Ice. This despite the fact that nobody in the band had ever said anything about the leak, the new song, or anything they were planning for August 17. No blog posts on Dead Air Space, no news updates on At Ease Web, no interviews, no press releases, no nothing.

Yet all of a sudden everyone was convinced that Wall Of Ice was coming. After all, this was the band who released In Rainbows pretty much out of nowhere nearly two years earlier. Were they about to pull the same trick again?

Well, no. As it turns out, the Wall Of Ice EP existed only in Internet rumors. And the mysterious event set for August 17? The official release of “These Are My Twisted Words.” Somehow, without even doing anything at all, Radiohead had managed to pull off perhaps the biggest hoax since Orson Welles’ War Of The Worlds broadcast. But if “These Are My Twisted Words” is any indication, Wall Of Ice would have been pretty kickass. And Pitchfork would have given it at least an 8.5 out of 10.

One last Harley award to give out, and then we can all go home! Now, this one may be the last, but it’s certainly not the least. And anyone who’s paid attention to any award shows over the past few years will agree that this is a pretty big award.

The Kanye West Award, for excellence in the field of being Kanye West

And the Harley goes to…

Kanye West

Well, duh. At least now he won’t be throwing any fits backstage (or onstage) about how he should have won something.

Harley was having himself a good Tuesday in his taxi. Of course, every day spent driving around Canberra was a good day, and he gave heartfelt thanks that he was not a cabbie in Sydney or Melbourne or Brisbane, where the traffic was fierce and the drivers more so.

Cabbing in Canberra was a delight. There were morning and afternoon peaks, of course, but rarely did they last more than half an hour, and if you spent five minutes in stop-start motoring, it was usually because of something extraordinary, such as roadworks or an accident.

And in the evenings, when Harley preferred to work, the roads were all but empty. Just set the cruise control and drive, Nat King Cole telling you where he got his kicks.

Public servants coming home late from work, paying with a Cabcharge voucher. When the new government had taken over, there was a lot of midnight oil burning, and Harley had had more than one mid-level manager fall asleep in the passenger seat. Two years on, and the government had decided that it didn’t need a press release prepared for every possible contingency, and those late night jobs dried up.

People going to and from dinner. These were always nice. They paid in cash, they were well-behaved and after a bottle or two and a pleasant cab ride home, there was the chance of a good tip.

Airport work. Sure, there were a million cabs lined up on the feeder rank – unless three flights came in together, in which case there were none – but it was guaranteed work and for every passenger who said “Campbell” (a short fare) there was one who said “Banks” or “Dunlop” and that was an easy fifty dollars, empty motorway cruising there and back.

And then there were the drunks coming home from nightclubs in Civic. After late-week midnights the city centre changed its character, becoming more colourful and rowdier when the young folk came in to enjoy themselves and hunt up partners. But by three in the morning, all the sensible drunks had gone home, and those left were getting ratty, with every chance of throwing up in the cab or running off without paying because they had spent all their money on alcohol. Harley didn’t work that late unless he was desperate.

Harley got the call about eight, a quiet spot in a cabbie’s night. He pulled up at the shops, and soon Sharkey came walking briskly from the direction of Erstwhile Garden.

They headed off, down Blamey, left past Russell Offices and the front gate of Duntroon, before turning right at the roundabout for the Monaro Highway across Dairy Flats, Fyshwick ahead. They were caught by the lights at the Ipswich Street corner.  Harley stared at the grey bulk of The Canberra Times building ahead. Something running through his mind.

Bloody traffic lights. He inched forward, hoping to trip the road sensor again, give it a hurry-up.

“Must be the red light district,” he said without thinking.

Sharkey gave him a look. “Sex on the brain, mate. Was there much in X-Wing when you were there?”

The lights changed and Harley took off smoothly, taking the slip lane into Gladstone Street.

“The only screws I ever heard about were wearing blue uniforms,” he said, remembering the prison officers and their petty corruptions. “If there was any action, it was kept bloody quiet. Mind you mate, I didn’t think that way when I first came in. Thought I was going to be gang-banged stupid, and I was real careful about not dropping the soap in the showers.”

“Yeah. Everyone reckons that. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I wouldn’t take you the wrong way. You ain’t no oil painting.”

“That’s why I’m a cabbie,” Harley smiled.

“There was one bloke that I took advantage of,” Sharkey said. “I forget what I was in for. Nothing bad, just a short one. Six months and most of that in minimum. There was a young jockey came in near the end. He’d been in some race-fixing rort and he was about the only bastard who wasn’t guilty, so of course he wore it. He’d been watching too much television – like you, Harley – and he was scared shitless. He was young and small and quiet.”

They had arrived, and Harley turned the meter off, but Sharkey kept talking.

“He kept a low profile the first days, and when I saw him taking a shower after lunch, all by himself, I knew what was what. So I went in, stripped off, and stood there facing him when he came out to get changed. Cute little thing, he was, and there might have been a few old lags who’d of been tempted.

“He stopped and looked at me, and he bloody near shat himself. ‘Sonnie,’ I said, ‘there’s men on this wing, hard men, who would root you ragged. And give you to their mates. But if they think you’re spoken for, you’ll be safe. I don’t swing that way, but I do like me coffee.’”

Harley grinned. “And you did okay for coffee after that, I bet!”

“I had the lot. Coffee, bananas, half his weekly buy-up went on chocolate for me. Ice cream slices, yoghurts. He couldn’t give me enough.”

Each inmate had had a ration of five coffee sachets a week in Harley’s wing. They were an unofficial currency. The really rich inmates had been able to buy jars of instant coffee, but with prison wages running at ten dollars a week and everyone smoking rollies, who could afford coffee? Let alone chocolate.

“Right-oh,” said Sharkey, handing Harley a twenty. “I’ll be done here in about an hour. You’ll be right to give me a lift home?”

“Too right!” Harley agreed. He was enjoying the old coot’s yarns. Better an old crim than a young drunk in his cab. And, to tell the truth, he was wondering where Sharkey got his energy.

Copyright © 2009 Peter Mackay

Entrada eviada por Pepe.

…y los demás el “aparatito” animaos a copiarlo.

South Park Episode 12 - Harley Hatin'

Life imitates art or is it the other way round?  It turns out the “inconsiderate douche bag’s on Harley’s” are creating noise as they ride up and down the street wrecking everyone’s quite time on South Park.

It’s a protest movement in Season 13, episode 1312, where Cartman calls out a pack of bikers whose loud Harleys prove most irritating for the height challenged, truth-blurting, foul-mouthed characters. As the motorcycle noise escalates, the so-called “kids” take the matter into their own hands with graffiti and lobbying to have the dictionary definition of the term “f*g” changed to “annoying, inconsiderate Harley riders.”

There’s been plenty of Harley hatin’ on this blog comments section about raucous exhausts and loud bikes.  And regardless of your stance on the noise debate as to whether or not loud pipes do anything for safety, you’ll likely find humor (or irritation) in this episode that’s become rather controversial.  So much controversy in fact, that the New York Times has reported a gay advocacy group is protesting the episode.

Watch the 22-minute show here.  The show adds a new dimension to the anti H-D stance and I’m sure someone in the motor company is reevaluating advertisement placements.

UPDATE: 12.18.09 — Viacom has pulled down the YouTube versions of the episode under copyright issues and now the South Park site states “Due to pre-existing contractual obligations, we cannot stream this episode until 12.05.09″… It’s all about $$.  If you can’t wait then do a Google search as there are versions of it out on the internet.

Photo courtesy of Comedy Central/South Park.

All Rights Reserved © Northwest Harley Blog

Bikers and bike culture have been instrumental to what is cool in the world of style since the first piston pumped and the first knitted sweater was raced in. Not that Hell’s Angels are the most stylish of bikers but this set of shots from Bill Ray are some of the coolest Angels I’ve seen. Biking with a stobey like you just don’t care and being frisked by the fuzz (who really just want to check out your rather dapper hat), very cool.

¿Quién es este wey?: Tiene 26 años, es originario de Estados Unidos y también es conocido como Harley, que es el nombre que usó en algunos videos para Sean Cody.

Click en leer más para ver todas las imágenes. Click en las miniaturas para verlas en tamaño completo.

Organizing your schedule shouldn’t be a burden.

I use a number of calendars both paper and electronic as I suspect many of you do the same.  Personally I think paper is easier, always available and generally more portable.  I was looking around for a new calendar and ran across the 2010 Big Dog Biker Calendar.  Should be no problem keeping track of important dates as the calendar has oversized date boxes providing plenty of room to write in important events as well as 12 months of inspiring images. However, don’t be fooled because most of these ladies aren’t the ‘gas chick’ on the back seat type… they ride motorcycles for personal enjoyment.  Go figure!

That’s what impressed me about this calendar.  I must be getting old(er) as many of the models are “real” women! Mature women who ride their own bike.  There is real beauty in maturity versus the plastified bimbo’s with platform shoes that are too fake, too overdone.  To each his own… I suppose.  I’ve made every effort to avoid sleazy and keep it classy.  It’s a challenge, but someone’s got to do it.

Photo courtesy of Big Dog Biker.

All Rights Reserved © Northwest Harley Blog

My sweet girl snuggling while Im studying!

Ok, so we’ve all seen batman as a grownup: incredibly awesome and guaranteed box office GOLD. Batman as a kid would be boring: boohoo dead parents and all that. But what about batman as a TEEN?!
BOOMPOW!
Enter Gotham High,
Wait, what is that?
Is that success I smell a-brewin’?
Before I lay it all out, I’ll ease your mind by saying we already have a sequel in the works: Gotham University! (and a threequel: Gotham post-grad!)
Now, strap into your pampers because this movie is going to shit money. Literally.
Batman and Joker: two seniors in high school. They both have built their reputations or the past three years, and now they’re the top dawgs of Gotham High. This means one thing of course: RIVALRY!
They’re totally rivals!
We see them pass each other in the hall and Batman’s like “something smells poor. Joker must be nearby!” Then he and his snob friends chuckle and Batman’s monocle falls out of his face from laughing so hard and he almost spills his martini. Also Catwoman is his girlfriend and she’s the head cheerleader.
Then Joker punches him and the teacher, who is the Green Lantern, breaks them up and is like “superheroes aren’t supposed to fight! Get back to class you knuckleheads before I send you to principal Spiderman!” and they’re both like shrugging their shoulders and looking cool and like “whatever.” They both know mean old principal Spiderman is mad at them for always being rivals and tearing the school spirit in half instead of acting like the brothers they are. Also Catwoman is the joker’s girlfriend and she’s head of the spirit squad.
All of a sudden, this rivalry is about to explode!!! why?
Because Samantha Campbell is a new transfer student who just moved from New York out here to California to attend Gotham High School. And she is totally mind-blowingly hot! You’d better believe it!
So they’re in chemistry class throwing insult-notes at each other and then, in walks Samantha Campbell, and BAM! jaws=on floor. heads=turned.
Batman’s all like “you can sit here Samantha!” and joker’s like “i got you flowers Samantha!” and Batman’s like “you can wear my varsity jacket Samantha!” And the teacher, who is the Punisher is like “everyone settle down! There are two things I know about: Chemistry and punishing!”
so they all sit down, and Batman and Joker make angry eyes at each other so it’s clear to the audience that it’s ON!
So we see Joker at home and hes family’s all mean and his dad’s a gambler-drunk and he’s like “no one understands me!” and he runs into the yard and gets into his purple camaro and peels rubber outta there! Then we see Batman at home and his mom’s like “why don’t you buy her things? That’s how your father and I met.” and his dad’s like “she’s not good enough for you son. We need a family that’s fat with mutual funds and banking! I raised you better than this!” And Batman cries a single tear because he’s rich and rich people don’t know how to cry properly. Then he leaves on his harley, and puts on his leather jacket, which has a skull on the back (skulls are scarier than bats).
Then Batman pulls up to the red light and who should be there but the joker in his purple camaro. And they both look at each other all sad, and we can just tell that they used to be best friends because of family stuff. Then before they can be best friends again, or say a word, Samantha pulls up to the light in her daddy’s ferrari, which is candy red, like Samantha’s blonde hair, which is dyed black now to match the car. Batman sees her black hair and he winks at joker like she dyed it black to match his batman suit. Joker revs his engine and batman revs his motorbike and the light turns green and they’re off! We blast Sammy Hagar’s “Heavy Metal” as loud as the theatre speakers can go, BLASTO!
They race all through town, and Samantha is following to see which one will win her heart, and they both have gadgets in their vehicles like james bond, but the joker’s are all krappy like with duct tape and milk jugs, but they’re still powerful (he’s poor, but scrappy!).
This race signifies that snobs will always be versus slobs in life and teenagers should get used to it and find out who they really are inside, so it’s kind of a feel-good life lesson movie too.
Then they both crash into fireballs in the side of a building that ironically is owned by the evil Daredevil corporation.
And Iron Man comes out of the building in a tuxedo and he’s like “you’ll pay for this damage, you knuckleheads!”
They both look at Samantha, who is eating a popsicle, and they realize they can’t run away like cowards. It’s time to team up and fight together! So Batman uses his gadgets and Joker uses his laughing and they both are winning the fight against Iron Man, but then he turns into the HULK and says “it’s clobberin’ time!!!” they both get their noses bloodied, but after a sweet 45-minute cgi battle, they emerge victorious. They look at Samantha, but she is eating a banana with her throat and isn’t impressed with either of them yet.
So they look at each other and they’re like “i guess now it’s time to fight each other for her love.”
they are both bloody and broken-nosed and batman’s cape is all beat up and then professor Punisher shows up and he’s like Samantha, you’re causing all of this?!”
Samantha says “Mr. Punisher, I really need straight A’s if you catch my drift.” (the audience is like “Oh ho-HO! It’s an erection thing!)
and the Punisher and Samantha walk away arm in arm and Batman and Joker learn a valuable lesson about women and vow never to fight each other again. But then another hot girl comes into the screen (EVEN HOTTER than Samantha!!!), and she’s like “I’m Nadia, the new exchange student from Norway.” Then Batman and the Joker look at each other and make angry eyes and the credits roll as we kick in with ACDC’s “Back in Black”.