--- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, "curtisdeltablues" <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote: > > I was in a strip club in Florida once...(sounds like a first > scene from a Tarantino flick) when I realized that I was > basically surrounded by members of the Pagan biker club. > Not pretty boy new Harley yuppies, but actual meth dealing > outlaws who NEVER washed their threads. I asked the bouncer > if they ever cause trouble. He told me that the bikers only > fight for real, never as play, so they don't cause random > trouble. If they have a good reason they just swarm you > and kill you, usually over business. There is no "fight".
That's it, exactly. Real violence, if it doesn't involve you, is over before you realize it's happening. All too often, it is over that quickly even when it *does* involve you. > The guys who start the trouble are the young military guys > fighting over women. When are guys going to figure out that chemically, alcohol and testosterone *really* don't mix well? > That fits my experience in clubs in D.C. with jar heads. > One pitcher of beer and if anyone looks at their "girl" > they start the windmill of punches. > > The biker's small talk with the strippers was fascinating > in a way that demented guys like you and I live for! Have you ever read "Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test?" The scene at Limekiln Creek where Kesey tells the story of some Hells Angels and what happened there on the beach? As weirdness would have it, I was there at Lime- kiln Creek for that particular Love-In. I was stoned out of my ever-lovin' gourd, the very model of this peace-lovin' college hippie who didn't really know his way around on the street very well. And so, after imbibing of several hits of something that came in a bottle still labeled 'Sandoz,' I found myself wandering around on the beach, late at night. I tripped on the ocean for a while, wading in it, digging the phosphorescence on the waves, all that normal acid stuff. And then I turned around and started walking back to the main campground area. But before I got there I noticed this buncha guys sittin' around a campfire on the beach, having what seemed to me in my stoned state to be a real rip-roarer of a Good Time. So I walked over in their direction and walked up to one of the guys and asked if I could join them. There was a pause, one that I should have paid more attention to, but then the guy said, "Sure," and passed me both a joint and a big gallon jug of Red Mountain wine. So we sat there passing the joints and the jugs for a while, havin' just a rockin' time with all these happy bearded fellows, and this guy walks past the group. To this day I don't know what set it off. He might have accidentally kicked sand on one of the Hells Angels I was sitting with, or he might have looked at one of them funny, or he might not have done anything at all. It was already going on before I could ponder any of those questions, and it was over before I could have come to any conclusion. For those of you who haven't read the book, what "it" was that happened is that in the middle of this Equinox Love-In at Limekiln Creek in Big Sur, on one of the loveliest beaches on the planet, a group of the Hells Angels I'd been sitting with, sharing joints and a big jug of Red Mountain with...grooving on and bonding with, ferchrissakes...jumped up and ran over to the guy and beat him to a bloody pulp. Ponder that. Bloody pulp. And then they came back to where I was sitting and passed me the jug. Violence isn't like the way they portray it in most movies. The action scenes in the movies are far too slow. Real life is much faster.
