06-10-2013, 09:04 AM
Seems like this be the right place to put this. Goes to the core of the meaning of "mutt" in a human sense, (posted elsewhere), by no means calling anybody a "dog"
Perhaps a bit long, I've tried to keep it short, without embellishment, bear with me.
A Mutt’s tale..
30 odd years ago, there was this biker-boy. 22, ripped, lean & hard assed. Crew cut, full leathers, boots and packing a .38 with a 4” barrel, his constant companion.
Kicked out of house and home at 15, he had survived the streets by sheer tenacity and aggression.
At some point he put it together enough to get himself a bike, won his colours & rode posse with a small but rough crowd, which was connected to both the Angles and the Lebanese.
His pride & joy was his ride, and his collection of rally badges and other insignia including a swastika that where displayed all over his denim colors jacket. Little else mattered.
His gang name was slender, and for his initiation was given a custom made fighting knife. A wicked double edged / double sided weapon who’s ridges fitted inside his clenched fist, the blades protruding on either side of his fist by no more than 10mm. You thought you where squaring up for a fist-fight? You never saw it coming, and in three “missed” strikes your face was slashed to pieces.
More than once he got himself into a dark spot. Once smashing a guy’s face to pieces with his full-face helmet.. Hell, the fuck was sitting on his ride WTF
At some point, through a mutual acquaintance, he was introduced to a guy called Mervyn . For some odd reason, there was chemistry and biker boy “clicked”.
Long story short, biker boy gave up his prized Swastika for the partnership.
Mervyn
At 40, he had no skills, had studied a pharmaceutical a bit, that lead no-where, and finally landed up eking out an existence working in his father’s butchery serving the customers.. The family gopher, a dead end.
Mervyn was short. Around 5ft 5/6 or so. Myopic (that means he wore glasses thicker than Coca-cola bottle bottoms, which he was constantly loosing and unable to find).
He was flat-footed and had no shape to his body. Whatever his measurement was around his chest so it was around his waist and around his hips. Mervyn couldn’t keep a pair of trousers up around his waist, no matter how tight he made his belt.
Mervyn was Jewish. Mervyn was your archetypical gay mutt. At 43 he existed in the mist of gay society, a glance was all he was ever afforded.
Over the next 17 years Mervyn gentled that biker-boy…
After a couple of months he stopped wearing his colours… The gang began to dissipate.. Stinky, (because for his initiation everyone pissed on this colours jacket & he refused to wash it) was wiped out, one or two went the “correctional” route, and so on…
The knife got lost, he stopped packing the .38 all the time, settled down, had a house built. Never lost the yen for bikes, but instead of speeders, bought a Gold-wing..
Then Merv developed cancer. Took 4 years for it to finally take him. The last time biker-boy held Mervyn, was to lift him on and then off the bedside commode in hospice, Mervyn's thighs shriveled to no more than the thickness of the biker-boy’s arms..
Just a couple of days later, Merv passed over. Buried in the Jewish section of West-park cemetery, oddly within a stone’s throw of biker-boy’s Mum & brother....
Strange thing is, Merv’s still gentling me… A simple question long ago asked, “What’s the meaning of your life?” Was the seed planted that led to me fostering my son, Chris.
When Chris walked out at 16 to find fame and fortune, and I wanted out, it was Merv who asked, “How many times did you just fuck off? How much patience did I not have”? He’ll be back. And so it was. Twice more to boot.
And so it’s been for 30 odd years.
Now I’m a grandfather & Merv’s still gentling that biker-boy.
Biker-boy, he don’t ride no more, just too darn dangerous, "Think about the kids", Merv says…
My beloved, beloved mutt, OH how I miss you so….
Trial by error
Perhaps a bit long, I've tried to keep it short, without embellishment, bear with me.
A Mutt’s tale..
30 odd years ago, there was this biker-boy. 22, ripped, lean & hard assed. Crew cut, full leathers, boots and packing a .38 with a 4” barrel, his constant companion.
Kicked out of house and home at 15, he had survived the streets by sheer tenacity and aggression.
At some point he put it together enough to get himself a bike, won his colours & rode posse with a small but rough crowd, which was connected to both the Angles and the Lebanese.
His pride & joy was his ride, and his collection of rally badges and other insignia including a swastika that where displayed all over his denim colors jacket. Little else mattered.
His gang name was slender, and for his initiation was given a custom made fighting knife. A wicked double edged / double sided weapon who’s ridges fitted inside his clenched fist, the blades protruding on either side of his fist by no more than 10mm. You thought you where squaring up for a fist-fight? You never saw it coming, and in three “missed” strikes your face was slashed to pieces.
More than once he got himself into a dark spot. Once smashing a guy’s face to pieces with his full-face helmet.. Hell, the fuck was sitting on his ride WTF
At some point, through a mutual acquaintance, he was introduced to a guy called Mervyn . For some odd reason, there was chemistry and biker boy “clicked”.
Long story short, biker boy gave up his prized Swastika for the partnership.
Mervyn
At 40, he had no skills, had studied a pharmaceutical a bit, that lead no-where, and finally landed up eking out an existence working in his father’s butchery serving the customers.. The family gopher, a dead end.
Mervyn was short. Around 5ft 5/6 or so. Myopic (that means he wore glasses thicker than Coca-cola bottle bottoms, which he was constantly loosing and unable to find).
He was flat-footed and had no shape to his body. Whatever his measurement was around his chest so it was around his waist and around his hips. Mervyn couldn’t keep a pair of trousers up around his waist, no matter how tight he made his belt.
Mervyn was Jewish. Mervyn was your archetypical gay mutt. At 43 he existed in the mist of gay society, a glance was all he was ever afforded.
Over the next 17 years Mervyn gentled that biker-boy…
After a couple of months he stopped wearing his colours… The gang began to dissipate.. Stinky, (because for his initiation everyone pissed on this colours jacket & he refused to wash it) was wiped out, one or two went the “correctional” route, and so on…
The knife got lost, he stopped packing the .38 all the time, settled down, had a house built. Never lost the yen for bikes, but instead of speeders, bought a Gold-wing..
Then Merv developed cancer. Took 4 years for it to finally take him. The last time biker-boy held Mervyn, was to lift him on and then off the bedside commode in hospice, Mervyn's thighs shriveled to no more than the thickness of the biker-boy’s arms..
Just a couple of days later, Merv passed over. Buried in the Jewish section of West-park cemetery, oddly within a stone’s throw of biker-boy’s Mum & brother....
Strange thing is, Merv’s still gentling me… A simple question long ago asked, “What’s the meaning of your life?” Was the seed planted that led to me fostering my son, Chris.
When Chris walked out at 16 to find fame and fortune, and I wanted out, it was Merv who asked, “How many times did you just fuck off? How much patience did I not have”? He’ll be back. And so it was. Twice more to boot.
And so it’s been for 30 odd years.
Now I’m a grandfather & Merv’s still gentling that biker-boy.
Biker-boy, he don’t ride no more, just too darn dangerous, "Think about the kids", Merv says…
My beloved, beloved mutt, OH how I miss you so….
Trial by error
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