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Am I writing an article about biker gangs to give me an excuse to post another old Brando photo? It’s entirely possible. But I also read a most unfortunate story this morning, and wanted to point out a few things that may just end up saving a life one day. I’m no expert on the subject of motorcycle culture, but I do claim to be a big proponent of common sense – so I feel almost obliged to offer my $0.02.

You see – hipsters love cheeky little t-shirts. Not the “I’m With Stupid ->” or “Grandpa’s Little Fishing Buddy” variety, but rather the obscure pop culture reference sort. If you want to walk around in Arthur Fonzarelli or Mork From Ork gear, that’s perfectly fine. But if you plan on wearing one of these bad boys outside of your own home, slap yourself silly – because you’re no longer simply “with” stupid.

The story I’m referencing took place in New Jersey, but out there such gangs are greatly overshadowed by traditional goombas. Now in Canada, biker gangs eclipse even the mafia in terms of power and brutality. They’re an ultra-violent, ruthless faction who in the last 20 years have come to completely embody organized crime in the Great White North. Keeping an eye on alliances and squashing turf wars between Hell’s Angels, Satan’s Choice and the Rock Machine keep the RCMP far busier than any seal-clubber or escaped polar bear. And just try catching up to a Harley Fatboy on horseback.

Any Canuck with the street savvyness of a fruitfly, knows better than to even discuss the gangs in mixed company, much less fly their colors in an affiliated bar. That would be tantamount to strolling through Brooklyn with Sammy Gravano’s face on the front of your mock turtleneck – with the phrase “Squealers Kick Ass” emblazoned beneath. So be forewarned, skinny Allston emo boys and the like – stick to the Atari apparel.

Have a look at this timeline if you need a quick refresher on the extent to which Michael Jackson has had an influence on popular culture. It’s easily forgotten, but still astounding. I’ve been teetering back and forth as to whether or not the latest round of child abuse allegations have any merit. I’m sure we’re all thinking to ourselves “If this many people have come forward over the years, there must be some truth to it, right?” It’s a tough call. But I learned a few things last night while watching Hannity and Colmes that really got me swinging over to Mike’s side a little bit. Perhaps I’ll share…

No one who’s ever accused Jackson of molestation has gone directly to the police, ever. They go to tabloids or right to Jackson himself. Ask yourself why. When the maid and bodyguard who’ve recently testified against Jackson were in his employ, they had media brokers on call at all times. That’s someone you pay to sell your story to the highest bidding tabloid. That would make sense if you had said juicy story first, but these people got jobs at Neverland, hired the brokers and then sat around waiting to see/manufacture something scandalous to share with the world. You can’t tell me that level of premeditation scores well on the credibility scale. And none of the kids have ever taken the stand – unless they’re now in their early 20’s and addicted to heroin. It’s always the parents who do all the talking and then, of course, all the subsequent spending. Mike is a mark.

Michael Jackson is a strange man. In fact, he’s a complete whackadoo. But I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt for a while longer. Corey Feldman and MacCauley Culkin both refused to testify against him when asked by the current prosecution. As a founding member of both of their fanclubs (culkfeld.com), I have to stand behind their good judgement – like some sort of sad, 31-yr-old wannabee Goonie.

If I were to ever let this blog digress into a whiny, moany whinge-fest – it’d be no different from 99.9% of the rest of them. Most blogs are fucking horrible. And it’s no accident that most blogs also involve a droll sadsack with the personality of a meadow cricket sharing their long laundry list of why they rule and the rest of humanity ‘just doesn’t get it’. Chirp, chirp, chirp.

Rhetorical questions (“Why does my boss always ask me to do something right as I’m about to leave work?!”) always seem to punctuate the mess at every given turn. And as much as I yearn to reply “because they want to wrong-hole you in the copier room after everyone else leaves”, I refrain – as that would denote interest and truthfully I wouldn’t piss on them were they on fire. So I try to keep the uninteresting, psuedo-intellectual rambling to a minimum. Better allowing me to make fun of those that do not. I then, in the process, become guilty of it myself. But I add lots of pretty pictures and people keep reading me anyway.

But someone left a band-aid in the shower at my gym today, and my aforementioned attempt at whinge-restraint has just come to a shrieking halt. You filthy bastard. You uncouth heathen fucktard. Here’s the worst part: It wasn’t swirling around in the drain as you’d expect. No – it had been placed neatly in a groove at my eye level where the tile ends and the normal wall begins. And as I stood there shaking my head in disbelief, the “guy-who-never-actually-uses-the-gym-but-works-on-the-same-floor-and-just-comes-in-to-take-craps” arrived. Usually leisurely, my remaining time toweling off and getting dressed then became about as enjoyable as shovelling out a month old, newly discovered bathtub crime scene in July.

Where am I going with this? Quite crazy.

You may remember Dr. Taz’s eloquent ranting abilities from this previous posting – but nothing could prepare me for his thoughts, emailed to me only this morning, regarding the just-announced lineup of this year’s legendary Glastonbury Festival. The quick synopsis is that legends like New Order, Elvis Costello and Echo and the Bunnymen are being demoted so that Kylie fucking Minogue can have the coveted Sunday closing time slot. But there’s no need to get my panties in a bunch when Taz, who actually has tickets, already has his drawers tied securely around his neck:

Ok, in my opinion it’s been dogsh*te for years but surely even you diehard gluttons for punsihment who like to wallow in pikey’s piss and watch overrrated bands and 60 year old has-beens in a large sodden field (withmost of Islington and Battersea’s 30-somethings going all ‘rock’) SURELY cannot stump up any more of your hard-earned on this tripe?!

Next year, move over Coldplay and White Stripes, Sat night headlining on The OK Magazine Chav Stage will be Charlotte Church giving a soapy tit-wank to Aled Jones while exclusively showcasing their duet Xmassingle in Welsh… an ‘Unplugged’ set by The Krankies and the exhumed carcass of Benny Hill will do ‘Ernie the Fastest Milkman in the West’ with a full 68 piece orchestra and laser show. Tickets will be 450 GBP plus VAT. Fantastic.

Don’t sugarcoat it.

I’ve successfully migrated the site over to a new server. The result? Faster load times and, hopefully, much faster post times. What this means to you, dear reader, is that if you’ve had trouble posting comments in the past due to slow speeds (which I’ve heard many of you have) give it another try. It should now smoke like Tom Cruise were he locked inside the RamRod.

I slid through a pile of something unspeakable on the sidewalk across from the Orpheum this morning. And as I looked down upon a foul-smelling mix of partially digested soup kitchen ziti and broken whiskey bottle glass, a realization hit me like the scent of stomach acid in August – they’re baaaaaack.

Those of you who’ve been reading Pye In The Face for a while know where I stand on the homeless. Have a look at those two links if you need a refresher or another reason to dislike me. I honestly feel bad for people who’ve lost their way and have ended up living rough due to mental illness or addiction. But the line has to be drawn somewhere. Boston has, what seems to me, a disproportionate number of vagrants, drunks and hobos. And to make it worse, a good number of them are super-aggressive, foul-mouthed and even violent.

I traverse the majority of downtown twice every single day on my way to and from work. So before you bite my head off for being cold-hearted, ask yourself if you’ve got a good working knowledge of our local rabble. And imagine what tourists, senior citizens, children, etc. are exposed to when they come to visit this great historic city. Walking through the Common in another couple of weeks will make Calcutta look like Boca Raton.