Bikers Play Kickball Just off of 7th Street and Park Avenue a group consisting of members from four different biker gangs converge on a park in this quiet, peaceful neighborhood. While they look intimidating as any gang come to rumble with their arms sleeved in tattoos, sporting cut-off jackets with gang affiliations emblazed on the back, these men and women enter the park this day with a score to settle. The bikes they ride make no sound save that of jostling springs, rattling chains and the occasional high-pitched pinging of bells mounted on their handlebars. These metal steeds that deliver them into the park are not of the motor driven variety, but those of the pedal propelled sort. They have come here to pit their battle-honed skills against one another in that classic school era playground competition called kickball. “Okay, now, you can get a person out by throwing the ball at them as they run between the base paths! Is everybody getting this?” the leader of the ‘Cyclone Coasters’ yells in a desperate attempt to get his gang member’s attention away from the cooler of beer and the women who gathered there, dressed in shorts, halter tops and mini-dresses. “I’m not going to repeat myself!” he threatens. But, of course, he does. Many times as it turns out. The game of kickball is very similar to baseball, but with little nuances that separate the two sports. You kick the ball (a basketball-sized rubber ball) rather than bat it as the ball is rolled (pitched) along the ground to the kicker (batter) at home plate. Also, you may deliver a stinging “out” through the force of throwing the ball at the base runner rather than, as in baseball, to the gloved players at the bases. “Where’s my team?” Eric Von Brinkley, leader of ‘City Nuisance’ yells, eager to get the game started. It is determined that the Cyclone Coasters will take to the field first which leaves City Nuisance at the “bat.” This leaves a problem for a man named “Cheeseburger” who is the sole representative from his gang, the ‘Santa Ana Womb Stretchers’ out of Orange County, on this glorious early September afternoon. “Who’s team am I on?” the lonely man with a namesake tattoo on his leg yells. The few members of ‘On Your Right’ that have arrived at this event are similarly dispersed between the two teams. The competition is soon under way with frequent breaks to discuss vaguely remembered rules of a game that most haven’t played since their schoolyard days. With much laughter and occasional shouts for another iced down beer, more than a few of which are lost in the outfield when a decision must be made whether to save one’s beer or catch the ball, a decision made easier by the abundance of beer in the coolers, the game is finally played to an 8 to 5 victory in favor of the home team, City Nuisance. Afterwards they gather the remaining beers, dispose of their trash and ride off into the sunset which is the direction of the bar where both teams will gather to recount the memories of plays both made and botched, of the kick that flew over the tallest trees in the park and of the catch made while cradling a beer of which not a drop was spilled from the Labor Day game that will become the stuff of legends.

I've always wanted to make a shirt that said on the front "Therapist" and on the back it said "I'm listening" w/ a stick figure plugging her ears singing "la la lala la la" so as I turn my back to remember the orders and ring in the money.. people would soon to realize my brain was elsewhere. I'm always opening to listening to my good friends, and best acquaintances bitch about their life.. and I'm down for that. However, some Joe Schmo comes in and I don't give a damn shit about their same sob story.. it's the same all the time. We have a sticker at the bar on one of our beer coolers that says "My bartender can beat up your therapist" - wow - is THAT appropriate. I'm so jaded. I can't listen to your sob story, bad tipper, about your insane nonsense that doesn't interest me. I can't listen to you, pathetic guy, who insists on hitting on the girl just trying to make a buck.. I can't listen to guy/girl who lost job but has Mommy&Daddy making up for your $9 job, paying for your apartment.. and you're pissed cause you're in college and you can't afford to go out and drink anymore, but you do anyways (and you flirt w/ guys to scam drinks off innocent decent men) you f*cking wh*res. Just Jaded. I absolutely adore this picture. It's my lil piece of heaven, outburst, and just plain expression from my being. Dude, back off, Bob Newheart is on Conan. I love Bob Newheart. Don't bother me. xoxo you lovely wonderful people. You have yourself a great weekend damnit. July ABC's The Letter J!!!! ...and when I say Jaded.. I am Jaded in all aspects of life.. jobs, love, the industry..... I'm lucky to have great parents and good friends.. or I might be known as the SUPER LONER!