spooky bikes

Words… Too many

Posted in Random by Mickey/SpookyBikes on August 13, 2009

The following are emails written in between phone calls from customers asking where their very late bike frames are;

I made the compromise to live “like an artist”. No heating oil in the summer= no hot water. No car= extra few thousand dollars a year… Living within 300% of the poverty line gives me really awesome free health insurance here in Mass… Make friends with the local bartenders, barista’s and drug dealers- Trade them things you make for things you want. Only spend money on things you NEED.

Staying “real” and “true” and all that sort of shit to my ideals, and being vocal about it has given me a whole lot of credit and good-will in the bike biz. People know that when I say something, or when we make something, there’s no bullshit. I’ve always been irascible and outspoken, absolutely, to a fault. That means that I have rarely ever compromised. The Proud Highway is lonely.   It’s madness(or suicide) to think that it’s not worth the struggle.

For a little bit I lost myself inside “the company”… became my own art, or perhaps the canvas. That was driving a wedge between my head and reality…. It didn’t work for me. I sell an ideology about supporting “the scene”. The scene isn’t just one dude with a few milling machines and a bootleg copy of Adobe Illustrator… The art has to be bigger than my intentions of it for it to be successful, to make me happy. People need to enjoy it as well… On their own terms. We all, as artists in a consumer/object-fetish society need to find ways to come to terms with the cognitive dissonance of the intentions we have for art, and the interpretations the finished product has. Finding the fine line there, without coming off as a pretentious douche is the real demarcation line of something that smells like success, or so it seems. Bullshit runs deep inside us all. It comes from every corner, seeping in according to Boyle’s law.. Manufactured by schools, Proctor and Gamble and The Complex;
It’s navigating the bullshit with some sort of purity of vision; giving people the space to have their own vision, and language to express their vision, that’s what I try to do.

Well, that or build some bikes that go fast.

Portland is great. I’ve lost many friends to that moist city of hair and hard coffee and polyamorous bike love. I refuse to live on that side of the great divide though, and in true Mickey fashion, I’ll explain why:

If you ever find yourself in Denver driving west, stop and ride from the Coors Brewery to Bufallo Bill’s grave. Do it good and drunk, under a full moon. Look across the prairie, and just fucking bawl your eyes out seeing the landmass you are leaving behind, knowing good and well how fucking gigantic the distance is between Chicago and Denver. Turn to the west, smell the hops that came in on the trains from the Canadian prairie being turned into swill behind you. Look at the purplish silhouette of Mt Evans and take whatever pill anyone will offer you to keep your brain screwed together. Once you cross those mountains, with your possessions and hopes packed up for delivery on the other side, to that huge dark pacific shore, there is no coming back.

As an emotionally-neutered man-child, I can’t hack it on the other side of the Western Continental Divide. The dull horrible expanses of the Prarie are at least arable. Once; it was a vast grass sea full of exotic meat creatures… The failure of the prairie ecosystem, seen through the prism of the failure of midwestern society is a sort of hopelessness that I can deal with. The inter-mountain and desert west sucks every last bit of familiarity out of a cripple like me. The people all seem to be made of volcanic glass and scorpion flesh, and are all clearly sociopaths, with the ways they smile and pretend to be interested in your troubles. The women are all clearly syphilitic whores, and the very earth out there, Nature, the planet entirely, will well and truly crush you to death under the weight of what feels like freedom, but is truly just the ability to fill a gas tank.

Go to Rifle CO, and find the site where they exploded a nuclear bomb in a coal mine in an attempt to access a natural gas deposit… In those mountains, there is a division.
The West will kill me. .. Probably in a leg shaving-related shower accident in the middle of a desert. Have you ever seen human blood spill directly onto white desert sand? I have nightmares, still, about the blood oozing out of the desert floor in an abandoned hotel tennis court in the Salton Sea.

Look out for bigfoot.


Game on.


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