Famous motorcycle customizer Indian Larry died while performing a stunt on August 30, 2004. Here's something I wrote about the Open House he had at his shop in May of that same year.
Notes from The Professor
The following was found scrawled on a pile of cocktail napkins left next to a drunken bum in Times Square. Author unknown.
California crew arrived JFK airport 2:30pm. Thought about going out to meet them, but decided against due to fear of airplanes. Instead, sent instructions to take subway in to midtown Manhattan.
Sat in my headquarters (ed. note: apartment) and prepared instructional manuals for guests in 5 languages. I had been absent from California for one year and was afraid isolation may have reduced West Coast residents to talking in pig latin or possibly aramaic.
Crew arrived HQ 3:30. Much to my relief, english still spoken on West Coast. I noticed a disturbing fashion trend of wrist-bands appeared to have manifested itself in my absence, however. Suspicion: leg warmers had mutated and moved upwards. Appears harmless.
- The Revered Chop
- The Mysterious "B"
and of course myself as the professor.
Learned that Griff had arrived the previous day separate from the main group. He had spent the night in Washington Square park after becoming disoriented in the big city. Thus a full hosedown and de-lousing was required before he was allowed in the HQ. Griff was initially hesitant to undergo decontamination procedure. Several shots of the medicine were required to bring subject into compliance. (ed. note: crayon drawing on one of the napkins indicates medicine was actually Crown Royal whiskey).
Rest of crew enjoyed a meal at nearby restaurant while procedure was performed. Griff joined us for after-dinner coffee, looking no worse for his scrubbing (and sporting a bright pink baby-skin complexion).
For some reason Griff has stopped in a hospital and stolen a cane the previous night. I have a bad feeling about the cane.
Made initial reconnaissance of Indian Larry's in Brooklyn. Not much action as they were preparing for the big party the next day. Had a couple beers and burgers, then retired back to the safety of Manhattan, via the L subway line.
Still worried about that cane.
Found space in my tiny apartment for four bikers. Two on the futon, two on the floor. Good thing I have a dog so I'm used to the smell.
Sightseeing! Took the crew around the city as none of them had been here before. They enjoyed the colorful aspects of New York such as rats in the subway and dirty water dogs from the sidewalk vendors (ed. note: neither should be eaten). Took them to my office on 53rd floor of skyscraper downtown for panoramic views.
Continued trip in Chinatown as several of the boys expressed a desire to buy cheap junk while here. Ronaldo in particular went on a shopping spree, purchasing three pairs of "J-Lo" sunglasses and a belt-buckle that spelled "ROCKS" in 3 inch rhinestone letters. There's no accounting for taste, I guess.
Back to Indian Larry's for the party. Everything is in full swing by the time we arrive. Food is mostly gone by the time we arrive, as evidenced by the picked-clean pig carcass. Backup plan: drink dinner instead.
Large and active party, including several bands, many tattoos, and lots of leather. Much revelry down by the east river with beautiful views of Manhattan and the Empire State Building. Absolute highlight is a burnout performed by a JET POWERED PICKUP TRUCK. Truck is a 58 Chevy with a jet engine mounted in extended bed. I am only 10 feet away when they light up the truck and flames shoot out 25 FEET. Suffered permanent hearing loss, which was well worth the experience. 5 minutes after the performance, an FDNY ladder truck comes screaming by with the light on, looking for the fire. Truck circles back and firemen end up having pictures taken with Indian Larry. I notice the asphalt is visibly melted.
Leave the party for other engagements. Leave the boys in safekeeping of a nice woman who promises not to allow them any more liquor, as Chop has been offering free marriages to anyone who will listen, and Griff has been using the cane in a menacing manner (ed. note: Griff actually had foot surgery).
Receive a frantic call from the Reverend Chop that I am required back at the party. Arrive 30 minutes later to find party is over. Chop doesn't remember calling me, but is glad I arrived nonetheless. The nice woman didn't keep her promise and the crew is completely hammered. Decision made to go to Lower East Side of Manhattan for further carousing. 10 block walk back to subway is very slow indeed, due to frequent urination stops. The Mysterious B and I suffer as we have not kept up on the drinking and are thus ill-prepared for current shenanigans.
We succeed in husting the rest of the men into the subway for trip back to Manhattan. For unknown reasons, Chop and Ronaldo have sworn a blood-feud against each other which requires steel-cage no holds barred wrestling on the subway platform. Other riders not amused.
Ronaldo begins shouting "I SMOKE ROCKS" at random intervals for no discernible reason. Nobody pays attention as this is New York after all.
Once we are back in Manhattan, Griff goes home early. Danger of the cane is removed. B takes us to a bar called McSorley's for further drinking.
Ronaldo, displaying the the creativity for which he is known the world over, invents a new game called "concrete bobsled". He sits in a milk crate and Chop pushes him as fast as possible on the sidewalk. Game over when a small crack in the sidewalk results in a Ronaldo's-head-sized dent in a car. No bleeding, but for some reason the injury has given Ronaldo perfect rapping ability. He throws down phat rhymes for the rest of the evening involving smoking rocks, "beeyatches", and an analysis of Carter-era US government foreign policy. Every single passerby on the street is amazed. I also learn what really went wrong in the Iranian hostage rescue.
The Mysterious B leads us to McSorley's. After downing several shots, I realize the bar is not McSorley's at all, but some other random dive. In disgust, I lead Ronaldo and Chop out into the night. They complain about all the walking. "That's life in the big city, boys," I say as I steal a fresh pair of boots off a passed-out hipster on the street. I'm partial to lime-green Uggs. We never see B again.
Lead the remaining crew to a bar called 2x4 which happens to be on the corner of 2nd Ave. and 4th St. They are unconvinced of the need to go in until they spot the very attractive barmaids dancing on the bar. 2$ cans of PBR seal the deal.
We've been drinking non-stop for 11 hours. Getting hazy and my supply of fresh cocktail napkins is running out. I believe I may now be married to a beautiful Dominican girl named Juanita, thanks to the Reverend.
I SMOKE ROCKS
WHERE IS My CANE???
(ed. note: that's the end of the transcript. no further information is available.)