Arizona

Desert

Until the end of April this year, I had never been to Arizona. I spent some time in a couple deserts in the service (not combat), but it was cold. It was to be my first time in the hot desert, the type of climate every cracked-lip, sweaty thirsty cowboy I saw on TV or the movies suffered through. Two months ago I was very anxious to see if it was hype. Was it really that unforgiving? I’m going to use a bunch more words, but if I could only pick one, it would be “yes”. It is that hot and unforgiving here. But, it’s cool too.

I like to sit outside in the evening here at my hotel in Phoenix, and I’ve noticed something unique about this place. The birds chirp and sing all night. In fact, I hear them more at midnight than at noon. Yeah, I know, that’s because it’s probably too damn hot to chirp at noon, but it’s still something I’ve never heard before. The crickets sing here too, but they don’t look like Midwest crickets. They’re tan, almost invisible against the dirt, and they move much faster than crickets usually do. I have not gotten one mosquito bite since I got here. I saw some rattlesnakes in a pen at a desert museum near Tucson, and an amazing hummingbird display too, and was very impressed at how different the wildlife is here. But, before you think I’m going to sing the praises of the desert fauna, let me tell you about the flora.

Hell is a different thing for each person, and I don’t pretend to speak for everyone, but in my personal vision, even something as benign as a plant would be a horror. I thought I had a good imagination, but after seeing how many different kinds of cacti are out here, I realized that nature has a much better one, and her creations are far more sinister than anything I could dream up. Cacti of all kinds, with spines longer and thicker than your fingers wait in patiently in the heat, waiting for you to fall down. For whatever reason, falling down is the first thing I thought of, which was bad, but of course it had to progress to falling down on a hill, rolling ass-over-teakettle. It really was the stuff nightmares are made of. One cactus in particular struck me as unusually malevolent. It is the Ferocactus wislizeni, or “fishhook barrel cactus”. Here’s a picture of it. The spines on this plant feel like they’re made of the same stuff as fingernails…or claws. They are sharper than you think (yes, I touched them), and if you were unlucky enough to roll over one, I don’t believe it could be extracted without a bazillion stitches and pints of morphine. Never, never fall down a hill in the desert. But, if you get the chance, ride your hawg in the desert during a full moon. Words cannot describe it.

Scum of the Earth

I got out of my hotel in the (relative) cool of the evening this past weekend. It was about 8pm and the sun was going down; it was only 102 degrees, so riding my motorcycle wasn’t like flying through a blast furnace. I could breathe without my nostrils burning, and that’s a good thing. So I was tooling around a strange city, not knowing where I was going, but glad to be out in the saddle. I rode around until I found what I was looking for: a bar with a bunch of motorcycles parked outside. I pulled in, got off, and walked inside.

It never fails to amaze me that there are people who think that walking into a biker bar is akin to wearing a sign that says “stab me”. I remember working with a guy once in another traveling job, and we were looking for a place to eat. I saw a somewhat dilapidated place under a viaduct that had two neon signs, one of a burger and one of a Budweiser logo. I said, “Let’s try that place,” and he said, “Hell no! You’ll get stabbed in there.” I looked at him and said, “No. You’ll get stabbed in there. I won’t.” Because I wasn’t driving, we didn’t eat there, but the point is, if you walk into a blue-collar or biker bar, you won’t have any trouble if you don’t act like you’re better than everyone there.

So anyway, I walked into the bar. It was called the Maverick, on 19th Street in Phoenix. It was like the countless other biker bars I’ve been in. You had your drunks, your bar sluts, your grandma types who knew everyone there, and of course, bikers. Not yuppie dorks riding brand new bikes and wanting to talk ONLY about their chrome doo-dads, but guys (like me) who ride not because it’s the “in” thing, but because we love it. There were some club guys (“gang” members, for those of you who stuck in the 70’s), but no one was even near menacing. Again, if you’re not an asshole, you’ll be alright. Everyone was having a good time. Drinks were cheap, you could smoke, and there was a live band. I don’t know what else you could ask for.

I bellied up to the bar and eventually struck up a conversation with the guy next to me. I had noticed an older bike in the parking lot (the one I parked next to), and it turned out it was his. We talked bikes for a bit, exchanging stories and having a couple beers and laughs. He called himself “Dirty”. I don’t have a cool biker name, but I know a lot who do. So after bike stories, he said his band was playing at the Maverick the next night, and I should check it out. Having absolutely nothing else to do, I readily agreed.

I’ve heard some unbelievably crappy bar bands in my day, and I fully expected Dirty’s band to be at least capable, but not stellar. Everyone who knows me knows my brother has been playing in bar bands since the 70’s, so it’s not like I haven’t been around that scene. To my surprise, I was wrong about Dirty’s band. They were extraordinarily good. They called themselves “Cactus Chainsaw”, and if I had to describe them, I’d say their sound was a very heavy blues rock. Think Pantera and old Black Sabbath, “Satan fingers” and head banging, but not too fast. I believe Robert Johnson himself would be proud. Dirty was the singer, and I’ll be damned if that guy and his band didn’t impress me. After a little internet poking about, I saw that they’ve played the Whiskey-A-Go-Go in Los Angeles, a bastion of 70’s and 80’s hard rock bars. Every hard rock hair band has played there. Very impressive! I told them I would write a plug, so there it is. If you’re ever in Phoenix and see “Cactus Chainsaw” on a flyer or marquis, check them out. They rock. They really do. They got You Tube. Google them and see for yourself.

I wrote that little review because I said I would (and I think they deserve it), but my bigger point is that many people do themselves a huge disservice by dismissing those who exist on the fringes of society (bikers) as the scum of the earth, almost less than human. Yes, they’re crude, and they don’t make tons of money. They (I) ride around on loud motorcycles, they drink and smoke and don’t really care what anyone else thinks about them. I know so many people like Dirty who spend their days struggling through life, yet fully enjoying every single minute of it at the same time. They do what they like. They drink and make music the way they want to make it; they are beholden to no one, and that, my friends, is what makes bikers (and biker bars) so appealing. They smile and cry like every person on the planet, but their smiles don’t belie a hidden agenda. Like everyone, they hope for good fortune, but they don’t crawl over their friends to get it. They know that life is too short to spend it worrying about things they can’t control. If you are looking down your nose at people like that, I feel sorry for you. To paraphrase a Harley bumper sticker, “If I have to explain it, you won’t understand.”