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Ride, Nelly, Ride.
Written on 2002-03-01, at 1:37 a.m.
dizboy's disturbing daily diet...

4 Powdered Donuts

2 Cokes

1 Bag Sour Gummi Worms

1 Turkey, Ham, and Roast Beef Sub

¼ Chicken White

2 Orders Macaroni and Cheese

John Live*

Hi, remember me?

*Not at all live

Oh, hello...

How has everyone been?



I'm back, no fanfare, no pomp and circumstance, no procession of vestal virgins...

Just a new layout.

As the sun rises over the great state of Florida, the city of Orlando awakes, mothers rouse the children for school, business people have their power breakfasts, and Hell’s Angels Local 304 from Milwaukee stagger back toward their hotels.

The birds chirp, the clouds part, and the motorcycle exhaust suffocates.

Yes, once again, it’s that magical time of year in Central Florida…

Bike Week.

Thousands upon thousands of tattooed miscreants gather in Daytona Beach, spreading a cloud of surly drunkenness from one coast to the other.

This used to be something that was solely in Daytona, and we here in the civilized part of the region have in the past, been spared.

But now, much like the Vikings, they now find the resources of one small village too quickly tapped, and sail on their chrome plated ships to larger and more bountiful destinations.

Also, they have big beards.

So on they ride, to Orlando, men to who’s faces the elements have not been kind to, and women to who’s breasts gravity has not been kind to.

They zoom into town, hitting all the local biker hotspots…

The bars, the tattoo parlors…

The 33rd Street Jail.

But here in the land of 2002, there is a new stop on the “Tour de Chaps”, and it’s called “Orlando Harley-Davidson”.

Of course there have been places in town that have sold the Harley brand motorcycle for years, but it wasn’t until less than a month ago that this corporate entity rose from the ashes of a ne’er used paintball forest on the banks of Interstate 4.

There is an enormous Harley-Davidson logo as their sign.

There is a giant tent for the “Biker Bar-B-Q” on Saturday, as announced by aforementioned sign.

There is a vehicle representative of a 25-foot hot dog, complete with bun, condiments, and large sign reading “Hot Dogs” in the parking lot, selling it’s namesake.

There is less than one mile separating my residence and this establishment.

Harley-Davidson of Orlando has opened just one stoplight away from me, and while under different circumstances the congregation of men in leather would be reason to celebrate, these are not those circumstances.

And though I’ve actually been tempted to stop by and take a spin on a “hog”, I doubt that I’d be taken too seriously…

“Yes, but do you have a pink helmet?”

“Which one of these has a vanity mirror?”

“Do you have one that vibrates just a little more?”

The road running past my complex is now clogged with everyone from hardcore bikers coming to take a peek at their new Mecca, to thirty-something accountants with “Born to Itemize” tattoos, test-driving their newest plaything.

The Interstate hasn’t fared too well either…Drivers slow and gawk at what surely must be the road company of “Easy Rider: The Musical!”. The building itself is a large squared warehouse, painted a gaudy metallic red. The service doors are towering glass bays, garishly lit to display the multi-colored interior, with rows and rows of shimmering cruisers. On the roof stands a water tower, shaped like a silo, and adorned with the symbol which adds the final touch of class to the site…

A giant eagle, majestic and airbrushed, swooping out of the clouds, enormous talons outstretched, diving for it’s prey.

Which, may or may not be the giant hot dog.

Be well…


Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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