05.09.08 - 11:24 am

the biker bar.
hidden away on the side of the road, just beyond the town is the harley davidson biker bar. most places when advertising their location and significance would have signs or business cards that read as follows:

such and such
1245 yes right here way
city, state
clever slogan

this place simply had the name, and "somewhere in carefree arizona". i found that fascinating, and privileged that i was there. that i had found a special elite place. however, embarassment, intimidation and inferiority nearly crippled me as i sat my ridiculous helmet on my ridiculous scooter in a dusty gravel parking lot filled with confidently parked harleys and road bikes. poorly dressed in trendy shorts and fancy shoes, my father and i walked onto the porch, surrounded by mustaches, pony tails and cigars. completely out of place here. the burgers and fries glisten with grease. the beer comes in frosty bottles. the single waitress is young, barely dressed and knows most of the patrons by their first name. no one recycles bottles in arizona and a man hardly recognizable as a caucasian would continually collect the noisy bags of garbage and walk off with them. his skin was living jerky. his beard was not well trimmed and not well managed. years of perspiration had changed the very nature of the fabric he wore as a hat. the bill of this was set low, downward over his nose, with tape blinders on the sides; thus hiding all of his facial features except for the beard. he didnt speak. he walked with purpose. he could have been in his fifties. he could have been a homeless transient. but he fit in nicely at this biker bar in the desert.