We rode motorcycles because you could fill up the tank for a buck eighty-nine, cut through L.A. traffic, and on the weekend carve up a canyon. All good reasons to purchase a motorcycle. Being seen, and especially being heard, were not part of the equation. That's because we weren't insecure narcissistic poseur douchebags. You fucksticks that pull the baffles out of your Harley exhaust so that people in surrounding neighborhoods, countries, and the unborn can celebrate the arrival of your preening ass and the Harley Softail it's perched on rank just beneath pedophile clown and Nazi prison guard on the cosmic cocksucker list. How many times have you been awoken from a nap because one of these peacocks had to throw out a couple revs as they were driving past your apartment? How many times have you had the shit scared out of you while walking back to your car after a satisfying dinner because one of these guys flew past you with the hammer down? It's called noise pollution, and the chickenshit cops that are busy handing out tickets for no front license plates or illegal window tints should for once focus on something we give a fuck about. My fantasy is to follow one of these guys home some night and hide in the pantry until he's finished beating off to a cardboard cutout of himself and fallen asleep. Then I would sneak into his bedroom - past the Lucite box housing the cheap vinyl boxing glove that may or may not have been signed by Muhammed Ali, past the Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man poster - stand at the foot of his bed, and fire off one of those air horns they use to start boat regattas. When he popped up, I'd yell, "How's it feel, bitch?"