Friday, November 11, 2005

Yesteryear Bikes of CHUNK 666.

Inebriated Hanseatic mutant bicyclengineers by spring, and summer, the return to the Sump lends itself nicely to time for reflection and illumination. Left to one's own devices, devoid the luxury of ample dry, daylight hours, for hacking one's next bicyclical (and biblical) dreadnaught, CHUNK 666 slip dreamlike into the silky smooth vestments of shaman-warrior-poet of the creeping Apockyclipse. Retiring from the workshop and lab, to DiVinci's Watering Hole to sophistrate upon all manner of heretic and incites, the aforementioned Apockyclipse, and, of course, the great Project at hand, winter times is the times for reflections of times past.

The Dysfunctional Phenomena of Continuous Prolongating Deleterious Mutation dictates your mutant bicycle stands little to no chance of replacing the Known Quantity Bicycle (or "safety diamond") by means of natural selection anytime soon. The life of a Mutant Bicycle tends be short and awkward, painful, usually with violent and spasmodical demisery. Pendent opera interrupta, indeed, Mrs. Beasley.

Obvious extrapolation of the Mutant Bicycle Theorem of evidences three generalities in which a CHUNK 666 or similarly modified bicycle may fulfill their atavistic destiny.

1.
Stand and Deliver!


Where goes civilization, there will find highwaymen. Truly, the lowest of the low, and perhaps, the saddest of sad Fates to befall and beplunge our labors. A sad day, always, when a CHUNK bike is delivered unto the hands of these lawless brigands. A joyous reprieve, when one is recovered.

2.
The Folly of Man.


Catastrophe! Cataclysm! Welds are cracked! Steel crimped and bended! Hubris, broked! Worthy of repair, nevermore! No jury-rigging, here! Summarily trashed, bashed, and thrashed. To be relegated to the Pile, perhaps, in rust we trust.

3.
The Slow Demise… To Rise Again??


This twisted wretch that once was a bicycle, whole or in pieces, but nonetheless deemed "un-ridable" by the tribe, is laid to rest in the Pile, or perhaps under the Tree of Shame. Perhaps to be reincarnate. Not built to last but built to burn: the style of the CHUNK 666. Recycled for spare steel? Rust for years in the elements? Integer vitae scelerisque purus?


Mutant bicyclenginers and deconstructionists at large: record with photographication the fruits of your labors. Steeds come and go, as so many wicked hangovers. Succumbing to nauseous nostalgia, herein follows the surviving photographical historiography (in my possession, at the least) of choppers and other bikes I or others have built in the past. As you can see, they are not the best photographicals. Know this: Once these steeds patrolled the streets, and were the very Stewards of the Sump itself.

Yellow Bastard.
circa 1999 - circa 2000.

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A short life, this one. A BMX-Extendo chopper, accomplished much, in various stages, venturing as far as the first Bikesummer in San Francisco in 1999, the WTO Summit in Seattle, and one of those fortunate enough to escape the police dragnet on New Years Eve, 1999. It was catastrophically and categorically annihilated at a Chunkathalon in March of 2000.

Millenium Falcon.
circa 2000 - circa 2001.
image hosted by photobucket.


To date, my sole experimentation with reverse tricycles.

To the best of my recollection, I'm not quite sure what my original intent was when I began construction on this. A cargo/rickshaw type trike may have been the idea, but I ended up with what essentially became the only bike I've ever built specifically for Flaming Bikes of Death. The spacing of the two "nacelles" allowed an inordinate amount of ordnance on the front, minus the flaming inferno cascading directly into my admittedly beautiful face.

Loaned out, left out overnight, and subsequently lost in the winter of 2001.

That Bike Built at the '99 Bikesummer Workshop.
1999.

photobucket hosted this.


Thrown together out of boredom, mostly, at the Bikesummer Chopper-Building Workshop in 1999. Although this picture makes it look somewhat slick and fast, was actually a bitch to ride (raked wayyy the hell out, observe the trail on that there fork) and was terrible to ride more than a block. Fun novelty item, though.

Parted out back in Portland a few months later.

The Rusty Nail.
circa 199_?_ - circa 2001.

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Rusty Nail was the workhorse of the CHUNK 666 fleet in the mid to late '90s, and was the only chopper to ride in every major engagement in the years 1997-1999. The Nail (as her many, many lovers called her) was a solid, rugged, un-exciting chopper that performed its job faithfully. It was stable and forgiving to ride, with fairly responsive controls.

Being fairly maneuverable, Rusty Nail was occasionally pressed into service as a incendiary bike of death ordnance delivery device. And keg interceptor. It played this role well on many occasions, including an now legendary (possibly scientifically impossible) engagement wherein Krak covered his body (and most of the Nail) in Vaseline (or some type of heat retardant) and then COVERED the bike in newspapers (including the spokes) and fireworks, doused the works in lighter fluid, and set the whole thing alight. He and the Nail then proceeded to ride circle lazily on a major street whilst a crowd of 20-25 people sat on the ledge in front of a nearby house cheering and languidly taking pulls off 40 ouncers.

There is not a single mission in the late 90s in which the Nail did not play a part, and the above photo is from none other than the night of the December 31, 1999 arrests, on which I piloted the Nail myself, bearing a special Virgin Mary, Full of Fire.

Befell the same fate as the Falcon. They perished together.

Piglet.
circa 1999/2000.

photobucket, ibid.


This little chopper probably went on one ride from the Lab to the closet watering hole on a bitterly cold and windy night the winter 1999-2000. I think other CHUNKs began parting it out within a week. What a piece of shit.

Steve.
circa 2001 - current?

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Rino constructed this bike arounds the summer of 2001, before CHUNK 666's expedition to Vancouver, B.C., Canada that same year. Since then it put on tons of miles and was refurbished or repaired numerous times by Rino or Liberator, who loved Steve as a child comes to love an deformed, three-legged, one-eyed puppy whom yet remains capable of running ten miles without tiring or losing its fighting spirit. At the 2004 Downhill Race in Seattle, Big B. (unknowingly) took Steve for its final spin. Whilst on a beer run with Steve from our gratis hotel on Capitol Hill, Big B. exited the convenience store to find Steve had vanished. Stolen.

What a crappy fate. Lost in Seattle.

Saturday, November 5, 2005

CHUNK 666 vs. Brian Herbert

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Lo!! The Sumpification of this cow-town of a outpost of the hinterlands CHUNK 666 calls home momentarily intermissioned to make chunking around a not-nonpleasant experience. A handful of us loafed around The House of Lords (… And Ladies), and polished off the remainder of a bottle of cheap Thai whiskey, wherefor, properly lubricated, we rode.

The primary destination was a house party of a neighbor of a friend of Big B.'s. But firstly a detour was to a location perhaps best left unspecified. Thereon, this gaggle of CHVNK helped themselves summarily and generously to delicious pumpkin pie, negligently left to cool on an open window sill.

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From thence we went to said social kegger near-abouts.

After a good hour or so sipping some sort of colonial beverage claiming to be from India, and discussing, in various and sundry manners, Life in a Provincial Township, and CHUNK 666's niche in such hinterlands as this, and the interaction of the two, and namely the continuation of certain archaic, dated, near-feudal social customs relating to being a Genteelman (or Genteelwoman), Namely, the identification of certain negative traits (blood feud, inebriation, vendetta), as well as positive ones (blood feud, inebriation, vendetta).

Eventually Denk grew restless and bellicose of this line of conversation, and posited the pack hit the road. Namely, that we roll downtown and gatecrash Orycon 27.

Dance, cyberpuppy, dance!!
Plate I. Orycon27 program, obtained by our agents.


Orycon, for the uninitiated, is Oregon's largest science fiction (and gaming) convention (although I am informed attendance has been on the decline as of late due to chronic infighting). They essentially rent out an entire hotel for the weekend, sell and buy goods and stuffs, play games (rolepalying, board & card), speakers, etc., and so on and so on.

Oh yeah. Brian Herbert and his little hack writer friend were special guests this year.

Arriving downtown, we grilled an exiting participant for information. We had missed the costume ball, but apparently there was an on-going "dance hall." We secured the squadron and easily slipped through a door as some hotel employees were leaving. Down an escalator and a hallway and into the darkened dance party.

Wow! Let me tell you, Sci-Fi Convention people know HOW TO PARTY! Big B. got so excited during one the numerous impromptu occurances of circle dances that he busted out some breakdancing moves in the center of it. This was promptly followed by two ladies strutting their stuff with some celtic dance moves.

We hung out for about an hour before we began to feel we should split. We were tempted to locate ourselves to one the numerous "private parties" being held in individual hotel rooms, where, we assumed, more than a few Conventioneers were, probably, in all likelyhood, getting absolutely shithammered. But this seemed a difficult proposition to fulfill as it would require us to scope the halls floor by floor, calling attention to the fact we lacked the necessary badges identifiying us as having paid our registration fee(s).

Best then, to leave. We took the obligatory photographic evidence to record our presence (of Denk & Big B.on the dance floor), and bolted.

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The squadron made the quick flit to the apex of the Hawthorne Bridge and drank the lone remaining beer from Big B.'s kit. As the Sumping began once again, we headed our separate ways.