A LITTLE Faster, Not THAT Fucking Fast
Yesterday, I was challenging a police officer's interpretation of careless driving. Today, I was thanking another officer for giving me a speeding ticket. One hundred miles per hour in a sixty-five. Yep, he got me. And I'll pay the $207 because I knowingly broke the law. But accepting responsibility doesn't mean agreeing with the law, and it sure as fuck doesn't mean apologizing for riding fast. Besides, I think the officer should have thanked me. Ten minutes earlier, I'd been doing 118.
The Power of Love. Or Some Shit Like That.
I've spent years celebrating my independence. I love my motorcycles, my freedom, and the ability to disappear into my own head for a while. But when Dawna came home after being away for a couple of weeks, a friend at work asked why I was suddenly in such a good mood. Apparently, I'd been wearing my loneliness on my sleeve without even realizing it. Somewhere along the way, this woman became my new normal. And now I'm discovering there's a big fucking difference between being able to live alone and wanting to.
Government Isn’t a Fucking Dragon
Government isn't some magnificent dragon circling overhead, breathing fire on anyone who dares question its authority. It exists because we fucking say it exists. I learned that growing up in a town of 356 people, where the community simply eliminated the town cop when it could no longer afford him. Forty years later, I'm still trying to understand why so many people treat government authority as something sacred. Especially when a police officer can interrupt your life, accuse you of breaking the law, and then fail to show up when it's time to defend that accusation.
Crash and Burn
More than a year after a motorcycle accident nearly killed me, I finally got the answers I'd spent months demanding. The driver was cited, went to court, and received a deferred sentence. Case closed, apparently. Except my life didn't just go on. There were weeks in the hospital, months of recovery, and a hole in my memory where the accident should be. I thought getting answers might bring closure. Instead, I'm sitting here wondering how the fuck you let go of a version of justice that's never going to materialize.
You Have the Right to Say it. I Have the Right to Walk Away.
Freedom of speech means defending someone's right to say things you find absolutely fucking ridiculous. But it doesn't mean you're obligated to stand beside them while they say it. When a Facebook post appears to take aim at my identity and the woman I'm going to marry, the abstract principles of liberty suddenly become personal. You don't have to agree with me, understand me, or even like me. But don't confuse your right to speak with my obligation to stand there and take it.
The Constitution Doesn’t Protect You From Being a Fucking Idiot
You have the right to be an asshole. You have the right to question authority, record the police, and challenge government overreach. But somewhere along the way, people started confusing constitutional liberty with a license to act like complete fucking idiots. Now every traffic stop is a potential viral video, every consequence is somebody else's fault, and everybody's threatening to sue. The Constitution protects your freedom. It doesn't absolve you of personal responsibility.
The Great Facebook Echo Chamber Circle Jerk
Somewhere on Facebook, Aunt Marlyce is sharing an eighteen-paragraph political manifesto between inspirational coffee memes and pictures of her fucking cat. Her friends are applauding, nobody's changing their mind, and everyone thinks they're saving democracy. We've confused political grandstanding with meaningful conversation, and we're sacrificing relationships with our neighbors for a handful of likes. Maybe it's time to stop looking for applause and start actually fucking talking to each other.
When Did Liberty Become a Handout?
We went from demanding liberty to demanding that government take care of us. Somewhere along the way, Americans stopped asking whether government had the right to control our lives and started arguing over which political party should hold the leash. I don't want a better king, a kinder king, or a king who promises me free shit while building a bigger cage. I want my fucking liberty back.
The Miles Between
A year ago, somebody nearly took my life. Yesterday, I was riding my motorcycle to work, bitching about the cold, and going about my day. I didn't even remember what day it was until somebody pointed at the tattoo on my arm.
Please Buy a Motorcycle. Just Don’t Fucking Ride It.
Should you take up motorcycling after fifty? One older rider says absolutely not. I happen to agree, but for entirely different fucking reasons. If riding is in your blood, you don't need anybody's permission. But if you're looking for a shiny new motorcycle to ride twice a year and keep spotless in your garage, I wholeheartedly encourage you. Somebody has to keep the rest of us supplied with beautiful, low-mileage used bikes. Just don't fucking wreck mine before I get to buy it.
The Political Machine Is Working Exactly as Fucking Intended
It's midterm election season, and the political bullshit is flowing freely. Everybody's screaming, everybody's an expert, and everybody's convinced their preferred political party is going to save the fucking country. Meanwhile, we're fighting over ICE, immigration, and whatever outrage dominates the news cycle while the government keeps taking our money and chipping away at our liberties. The political machine is working exactly as intended, and we're the idiots keeping it running.
Full Throttle Kate
My brain never shuts the fuck up. Between work, writing, money worries, imaginary arguments, and a thousand responsibilities competing for attention, there's always something demanding another piece of me. Riding and the woman I love are the only things that quiet the noise. But somewhere in the chaos of Full Throttle Kate, I'm realizing that being capable of carrying everything doesn't mean I fucking should.
Deathbed Regrets Can’t Be Fucking Fixed
Missing the woman I love has me questioning something far bigger than a few lonely nights. Have I spent so much time chasing professional success and taking care of responsibilities that I've forgotten to cherish the moments right in front of me? I've died three fucking times, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that time isn't guaranteed. Deathbed regrets can't be fucking fixed, and I refuse to waste the life I've been given.
Everybody’s Got an Opinion. Yet, Nobody Knows a Fucking Thing
Everybody has an opinion about politics, immigration, the economy, and people they've never bothered to get to know. But somewhere along the way, we started confusing opinions with actual knowledge. From a frustrating conversation with my father to someone questioning my engagement to Dawna, I've had about enough of people who would rather judge, label, and repeat whatever bullshit they've been fed than think for themselves.
When Fiction Gets Too Fucking Real
I started revising a story in Undertow because I'd written something that was a little too close to reality and not nearly fictional enough. So I decided to explore what could have happened instead of what actually did. That led me down a rabbit hole researching what happens to transgender women in New Mexico's criminal justice system. And holy fucking hell. What started as an exercise in creative writing turned into something deeply personal, frightening, and infuriating. Sometimes fiction forces you to confront realities you'd rather not think about.
Just Fucking Saying
A Facebook meme claims no child ever feels born in the wrong body unless some creepy adult puts the idea in their head. Well, that's fucking news to me, because I knew something was wrong when I was three or four years old, long before the internet or anyone had explained what transgender meant. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't be asking some hard fucking questions about diagnosing children and administering life-altering treatments. Parents need to parent, doctors need to practice medicine, and politicians need to get the fuck out of the examination room.
Luckily, I’m Not in Jail
All I wanted to do was get my wife's Dodge Challenger registered so she could leave on her road trip. Instead, I spent forty-five fucking minutes waiting for a bureaucrat to tell me one missing signature made the impossible impossible, drove across town to another MVD office that somehow figured it out, and then nearly got into a roadside fight with some douchebag in a white SUV who was riding my wife's ass. By the end of the day, Dawna was safely on the road, the car was legal, and I wasn't in handcuffs. I'm calling that a fucking win.
The Sound of Her Being Here
Eight months ago, I loved living alone. I loved making my own decisions, setting the thermostat wherever the fuck I wanted, and answering to nobody. Then Dawna moved in, and somewhere along the way, my house became our home. Now she's away visiting her mom, and for the first time in months, I'm sitting here alone, discovering that the silence I used to treasure is suddenly too fucking loud. Turns out, love isn't always about grand gestures. Sometimes it's just the sound of someone you love being there.
A Trail of Lipstick Smears and Corporate Mediocrity
Corporate America has a fucking problem. We've gotten remarkably good at promoting people who look successful without ever accomplishing a goddamned thing. A trail of lipstick smears and political connections has replaced competence, integrity, and accountability. Meanwhile, the people actually doing the work are left wondering how the fuck we're supposed to accomplish the mission. Is the workforce getting worse, or have I finally climbed high enough to see the corporate bullshit that's always been there?
You Can Take Us Out of the Military …
Three former military people show up fifteen minutes early to a meeting, immediately look for seats facing the door, and somehow end up comparing photographs of horrific motorcycle injuries. And none of us thinks there's anything particularly unusual about it. Military service leaves its mark long after you take off the uniform. It shapes how you communicate, how you approach responsibility, and how you understand accountability. We show up early, we tell the fucking truth, and we don't waste time dressing things up in pretty language.