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.
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.
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.
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.
Played Like a Fucking Fiddle
After twelve-hour workdays, all I want is to spend time with Dawna. Unfortunately, she's trying to squeeze two households into one, and apparently my constant presence isn't particularly conducive to concentration. So she came up with a brilliant solution: send my annoying ass on errands. One light bulb, a pack of cigarettes, several hours riding Nyx and Aurora, and an overcooked swordfish dinner later, I discovered on Facebook that my future wife had played me like a fucking fiddle. And you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way.
I Don't Need Any Fucking Help Shopping
Two Le Pera motorcycle seats. Nearly $1,400 spent. Two failures at roughly 20,000 miles apiece. So naturally, I found myself shopping for yet another fucking motorcycle seat. And just when I thought the morning couldn't get more irritating, Microsoft Copilot decided I needed help shopping. Seriously? Ask my wife. The last fucking thing I need is help spending money on motorcycles.
The Reaper’s Kiss
There’s a difference between watching somebody face death and being the person staring through the fucking door. Once you’ve crossed that threshold and somehow come back, mortality stops being an idea. Tomorrow isn’t promised. You know that in your fucking bones.
We Wanted R2-D2. We Built Fucking C-3PO.
We spent decades imagining artificial intelligence as R2-D2: the competent little machine that quietly rolls over, plugs into the problem, saves everybody’s ass, and shuts the fuck up. Instead, we built C-3PO, a know-it-all that desperately wants to explain everything. George tried to fucking warn us.
Thanks for the Material, Asshole
The danger of putting your work into the world is that everybody has a fucking mouth, and the internet gave everybody balls. One anonymous asshole decided to make fun of a tooth I’m still dealing with after nearly dying in a motorcycle crash. Unfortunately for him, he picked on a fucking writer.
Get the Fuck Out of the Left Lane
The left lane isn't the “I'm going 68 in a 65, so I deserve to be here” lane. It isn't even the fucking speeding lane. It's the passing lane. Pass somebody, move the fuck over, and stop turning an incredibly simple traffic pattern into a clusterfuck for everyone behind you.
Dear MS Copilot, I Can Fucking Write
I’m fucking Gen X. I learned to write by hand, type on an actual typewriter, build an outline, stare at a blank page, fuck it up, crumple it up, and start again. AI can be an incredibly useful tool, but I’m not convinced we should outsource the basic human ability to take a thought out of our own heads and turn it into a fucking sentence.
The Free Fucking Bacon Problem
Maybe the free fucking bacon isn't really about bacon. Maybe it's about entitlement, responsibility, and what happens when people become so accustomed to somebody else solving every inconvenience that carrying the weight of liberty starts feeling like too much fucking work.
There’s a Special Place in Hell for Speakerphone People
I was just trying to eat breakfast and write in peace when one asshole decided the entire hotel needed to hear his speakerphone conversation. Then another one joined in. Somewhere between the tinny voices and my rapidly deteriorating sanity, I started wondering about entitlement, social awareness, and why the fuck people do this.
Service Dogs and Weak Chins
I went out for Sunday breakfast intending to work on Undertow. Instead, while waiting for a table, I found myself contemplating two completely unrelated observations about humanity: fake fucking service animals and weak chins. So much for the best-laid plans.
The Algorithm Was Clearly Written by Men
ChatGPT keeps trying to murder the American paragraph. When I finally called it out, the resulting conversation was fucking hilarious, and inadvertently proved that artificial intelligence has mastered another distinctly human skill: admitting you’re right without ever actually apologizing.
Holding Pattern
You can be excited about where you're going and still grieve what you're leaving. Both things can be true. Right now, we're somewhere between what was and what comes next, surrounded by hotel coffee, storage units, trucks, and shitty Wi-Fi. The emergency has passed. The rebuilding is beginning. And we're doing it together.
Apparently, Talking Isn't Always Helping
I fucking love this woman, and when she's frustrated, every instinct inside me wants to fix things. Turns out, sometimes helping isn't solving. Sometimes helping isn't talking. Sometimes helping is finding some shade, drinking some fucking water, and shutting the hell up. Apparently, loving someone means learning that too.
The Responsible Thing
I went to look at a used Indian expecting to find the dependable backup bike I need. What I found was something worse: a perfectly sensible motorcycle. It ran well, the price was right, and it was comfortable enough to do the job. It just didn’t try to rip my arms off when I twisted the throttle. Apparently, this is what responsibility feels like.
What a Fucking Ride
Sometimes the ride sucks. Not because of the rain. Not because of the miles. But because Murphy decides today's the day your comfortable bike is broken, your GPS loses its damn mind, your backpack weighs a hundred pounds, and your body files a formal complaint with every mile. Then your wife smiles at you across a hotel parking lot, and somehow none of it matters anymore.
I'm Next
A slow grocery-store checkout line shouldn’t become a test of human decency, but apparently that’s where we are. One woman thought I looked intimidating. Another thought she could maneuver around me and jump ahead. She was wrong.
Sometimes fairness is simple: if you were there first, you’re next.