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(Here is the original article I wrote for Urban Moto before they sanitized it.)
When I was first approached to test ride the new 2010 Aprilia RSV4 R my first thoughts were that it was an insurance scam. I imagined a nefarious plot of a new bike, somehow damaged by careless deeds, and me as a surefire way to write it off as a loss while keeping guilty hands clean.
Not that that would stop me. Everyone has to die someday, but not everyone gets to die with an obituary that reads, “he died as he wished he had lived, with 400lbs of Italian muscle hanging between his legs.”
The morning was quiet. Contemplative. I made peace with my bill collectors. I called my mom and confessed to the broken lamp when I was 10. While I made a cup of coffee I sent a few emails to Angelina Jolie informing her that, regrettably, our love would never be. I suited up, I then kissed my woman goodbye and said, “I have a 180hp stairway to heaven, remember to tell people how dangerously handsome and full of limbs I used to be.”
When I first saw the bike in person I was shocked by how deceptively small the bike is. It’s lean and predatory. The 65° V4 hides in a sleek twin spar frame. Its sharp nose and air intakes demand teeth painted on them like the old p-40 flying tiger, perfectly matched to the grunts and berserker screams you will be tempted to issue as you strafe past your foes at mind bending speeds. The wide seat and finned tail section jutting high in the air evokes images of a hawk diving down from the sun to eat your neighbor’s precious fucking Chihuahua. Beastlike is a suitable way to describe this machine. You turn it on and the first thing that hits you in the base of the spine is the guttural roar that emanates from the stock pipes. It makes your heart race, that sound, the growl of a dog about to eat your face.
The rundown I was given consisted mainly of, “fuel goes here, this is how you change the engine mapping, and for the love of god don’t hurt the bike. If you don't bring it back we know people. Bad people.” The engine mapping is selectable on the fly and has three settings; (R)oad, (S)port, and (T)rack but they could aptly be renamed to; (P)ansy, (G)row a pair, and (H)oly Jesus fuck this thing is fast.
Riding away on the bike the first things that I noticed is how manageable this thing is on city streets, and how superbly comfortable it is. Bikes this fast aren’t supposed to be this comfortable. It’s just wrong. Aprilia also managed to get an insane amount of torque into a 4 cylinder. Someone needs to tell Aprilia that torque is supposed to be the realm of big twins. I’m sending them hate mail for challenging my 2 cylinder dogmas.
The minute I hit the [secret test facility] I opened the bike up. Within milliseconds shift lights flashed almost faster than my foot could cycle through the gearbox, the exhaust detonated with the sound of the heavens splitting, reality blurred past me and before I knew it I was hitting 140mph and the horizon, which had previously been a good horizon-like distance away, was suddenly inches away from my face. Einstein would have called this bike a time-space displacement device.
Back in the age of steam locomotives engineers postulated that if one traveled faster that 50mph the air would get sucked out of your body and you would asphyxiate. It’s a good thing theory proved false, because at speed this thing would suck your skeleton out your ass and after few minutes on this machine and you defy the laws nature. You are evolution perverted through the eyes of twisted Italian mad scientists. I started daydreaming of flying the bike off the top of a mountain, punching God in the face, landing, and giving science a big high-five.
I was quickly snapped back into reality as I hit the exit for the [perfectly legal test facility.] The bike hungered for corners, and those tight twisty cliff-side roads are a perfect feeding ground. Every turn was devoured as the bike crabbed claw full after claw full of asphalt and spit it out behind us. I cut apexes so tight I was getting hit in the face with road weeds and the bike just pushed me to go faster. The throttle by wire and computer controlled 8 bank injectors were sublime. Screw what the analogue people say; I for one welcome our eventual robot overlords.
The twistys turned into long high speed sweepers, where I blasted past signposts and little houses and was able to get a little wobble out of the front end, but I tack that up to the fact that the suspension wasn’t set up for me, and I am about 50lbs heavier that most riders. Entering the long, downhill, radar proof straightaway of the [privately owned] tunnel I gave the bike one last chance to kill me. I stuck the throttle on 11, pounded through the gears and entered warp speed. At about 100 is when I hit the patch of water in the tunnel. Those 180hp, and no traction control broke the rear tire free and the rear end started fishtailing.
It’s a strange thing when you are about to die. You think the most inane thoughts. Mine was, “Oh shit, I hope I don’t land on my keys…because that will hurt.”
Fortunately my muscle memory knew what to do. My ass puckered up and grabbed on to the seat like a squid tentacle and my hand dumped power off the throttle. The bike is surprisingly forgiving and I managed to stay rubber side down.
I knew I had pushed my luck and if fate didn’t get me soon then the law would, so I headed back to drop the bike off.
Walking away if you listened carefully you could almost hear the clanking of the big brass balls I had just grown.
Model: The incomparable Brittany Bao
Clothes: Queen of the white wizards, Mother of London
Photography: Fuck you unicorn bear, addictedimage
It's not safe to shoot controversy anymore. Put yourself in the wrong room for 5 minutes and you will never be allowed on a plane again. Accept a call from the wrong person and you could end up in gitmo.
If I was a far crazier person I would think I was being paranoid. The fact that this actually happens just reveals a sad pathetic police state we live in.
And it's not the fault of the government, it's the fault of the people. The sad, spineless people that would sell their own mother for a snuggie and a flat screen tv.
The Dead Kennedys summed it up best. "Give me convenience or give me death."
Half the stuff I shoot never sees the light of day. It used to be important to get it out, but in this age of media saturation it goes unnoticed anyways. It's squirreled away for brighter days. Days of tolerance and reason...probably long after I'm dead.
Even then, I still find myself waking up to subpoenas under my door.
If you ever find yourself in that position of being true to your sources or tucking your tail between your legs in front of a judge remember;
Stay strong,
hold fast,
your word is your bond.
Honor is something that is only worth something if you have never sold it.
When those fuckers at the DA's office have your thumbs in a vice just be polite and smile.
I bet morocco is nice this time of year.
As you may or may not have noticed, Mischa took an extended break from modeling. Stress from work and health problems left her drained, downhearted and with a little bit of self doubt. With the American Apparel theme on Zivity we saw the perfect opportunity to break her out of her funk.
Snapshot aesthetic is a style of photography that is in vogue right now in the fashion/culture world. Just look at Vice magazine or The Face and you will understand the style I'm talking about. American apparel also champions this look characterized by real looking people in real locations, everyday subject matter and lack of emphasis on technical skill. Many of the photographs are taken with natural light or on camera flash. For a photographer its very freeing to be able to just shoot a picture and concentrate on the emotion and not the environment. Its liberating to be able to capture an moment and not worry about retouching it or cropping it.
Leaving a moment as it is; simple, honest, pure.
I believe it was Diane Arbus who said she aimed not "to reform life but to know it."
This is my tribute to the genre. Love the style or hate it, it has it place.
Shooting this made me remember why I love shooting this girl. She is so much fun it is ridiculous; and she makes even these shitty clothes look hot.
So without further ado, here is Mischa in all her un-retouched beauty.
http://www.zivity.com/models/Mischa/phot
Quite the doll even without photoshop.
If you would take a moment to stop by her profile and leave a nice note to welcome her back to modeling.
http://www.zivity.com/models/Mischa/
Peace love and chicken grease,
Conan
And in the immortal words of the ODB,
"Oh oh baby, this is dedicated to all the pretty girls. All the pretty girls in the world, and the ugly girls too cause to me you're pretty anyways."
..and can't afford it.
Then I find that someone has so succinctly summed up my life in a discarded cardboard sign.
Last night we picked up the latest issues of Urban Moto from the printers gloriously emblazoned with the Hells Angels colors filling the front.
And that's when the nerves set in.
You see, they had given us permission to interview them and take a few pictures but none of us had actually gotten permission to use the colors on the front of the magazine.
No one ever has.
Really, do an image search for "hells angels book cover." Nada.
They are kind of touchy about that. Even Hunter S. Thompson's book had its cover changed. Hells Angels also nearly beat him to death over book royalty issues, hence our apprehension.
When it comes time to make peace with your end, I suggest you do it. It actually calms and gives focus to the mind. What was normally a hive of drunken angry bees was now a high powered rifle focused on finishing the task at hand.
What that task was I don't really know, but it involved talking to the president of the San Francisco Hells Angels and possibly keeping my spleen.
We had to go for some face time. We needed bring them some issues and see what the fallout was going to be. It was unavoidable. Inevitable. I'd rather see it coming than have it crawl through my window, a hairy leather apparition come to steal my kneecaps away in the night.
Step 4 of the 7 stages of grief is bartering.
I believe that's what it had come to when the editor, the publisher and I decided to frame a portrait I had taken of the SFHA president and offer it up with the issue of the magazine that we would present to him. Couldn't hurt. That way I could play the eccentric artist. Artists just have to act slightly autistic and socially inept and they get away with murder.
Or maybe not. These guys looked like they would eat their own young if it was born with one arm shorter than the other.
Best not to show weakness.
Before the editor and I walked in I rolled up my sleeves to show off my scars and shitty jail tattoos so they would know that the blood that ran through these veins was just as rotten as theirs. You can always smell your own kind.
The first thing I noticed was his eyes widen as he looked at the cover. The first words out of the presidents mouth were, "what is this?"
"Who gave you permission to do this?"
"Ummm", we stammered. "Why? What's wrong?"
Playing dumb works for dumb people. Not these people.
"Well, this isn't ok," he said. "Someone's going to take the heat for this."
Someone? I really hoped "someone" wasn't us.
He picked up the phone and 45 minutes of heated conversation took place.
He glanced at us, at his friend, back to the cover, back to us.
Never once did he raise his voice. Not once did he show a temper.
It's that strange calm that makes you check under your car in the morning for a bomb.
After he put the receiver down he turned to us and said, "you haven't delivered any of these have you?"
"No," the editor said. We brought them to you first.
"Good," was his reply. "These can't go out."
That's when it dawned on me that the publisher and I probably should have told the editor about all those issues we dropped off on the way in.
Oh well I thought, the Angels probably don't have an Antarctica chapter. I can deal with penguins.
As we turned and started to walk out the door he picked up the portrait of himself that I had done and said to me,
"Hey, this is really good. Thank you."
Then he shook my hand and we left.
This morning we got a call that we have the official ok to distribute the magazine.
First time ever that they have allowed it, as far as they know.
Sometimes it feels good to wake up and make a little history.
For some reason the bills always get lost, and they don't really care if you pay them on time.
Also, since then come bi-monthly it's hard to keep track.
But then at some point around 6 months delinquent the hammer comes down.
I'm pretty sure with a well placed tiger pit near the mains shutoff and sharpened stick I could hold them off indefinitely.
But really, when it's raining this hard outside... it's not very threatening.
A hose, a funnel and some pipe straps and we'd be back in business in no time.
Haiti knocked to the ground, tornado warnings next door, the economy in shambles, Mischa falling ill from an undiagnosed problem causing her lungs to fail...
Some days you wake up and struggle to make it all work out in your mind.
When I was young I wanted to be an astronaut.
The calm of space seems attractive on days like this. To watch the world unfold from 200 miles up, blissfully unaware of the problems below.
Last week was tough for me, at the end of a month long illness Mischa ended up hospitalized. What went from waking up to go to a simple doctors checkup turned into a visit to the ER which ended in her being admitted to the hospital. A month of stress and no sleep and neglecting work left the bank account drained. It got so bad that when Mischa had to go to the ER I had trouble coming up with cab money to get her there. We had to pick which prescriptions were important enough to afford.
I felt so impotent. So powerless.
When the one you love is hurting, it's hard to not be scared.
All of this while the human drama in Haiti was unfolding on the hospital waiting room tv in front of me.
80,000+ dead. That's Berkley. Gone. All of East LA. Gone. I have friends who are 1st and second generation Haitian immigrants. It's hard to fathom what they are going through. It definitely put my problems in perspective.
One of the nurses at in the ER was requesting time off to go help and I was envious.
Envious that she could do something more than just watch.
When I was young I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to save people. To make them stop hurting.
What keeps us human is our desire to be more that human. To fix problems larger than ourselves, to end pain and suffering where pain and suffering exist. To galvanize in the face of adversity and horror.
To be superheroes.
When I got home I saw that Cyan had posted a contest on zivity to help out children in Haiti orphaned by the earthquake.
Zivity has promised to donate their portion of votes from sets entered in the contest.
Mischa and I have decided to match that with donating our percentage from the votes for our set as well.
That way 100% of the money spent on votes goes to charity.
I'm not normally a big fan of charities but this is different. This was not a failing of the government or inaction of the people, this was a catastrophe that even the wealthiest of governments would have a hard time dealing with.
We've all felt impotent and helpless at some point in our lives but this is one instance where we can do positive things.
Take a moment, log onto zivity (if you don't have an account you really should) and take a moment to vote.
http://www.zivity.com/models/Mischa/phot
I'm not a fan of asking for votes, so even if you don't want to vote please find some way to help. It'll make your soul a little stronger in the end.
Peace, Love, and Chicken grease.
Conan and Mischa.
http://www.google.com/relief/haitiearthq
SMS text “HAITI” to 90999 to donate $10 to Red Cross relief efforts
SMS text “YELE” to 501501 to Donate $5 to Yele Haiti’s Earthquake Relief efforts
SMS text "GIVE10" to 20222 to donate $10 to Direct Relief
....but apparently it turned into homo emo dress up.
I don't know who gives me something like this and says "here, have fun for a couple days" but god bless them.
I don't have any on bike vid yet, so this artist rendition will have to suffice.
Sweet zombie jesus.
Full report soon.
I shot the president of the SF hells angels today.
But since I am not allowed to post a picture of him with a statement saying "this is the president of the SF hells angels" I have decided instead to post a gratuitous booty shot from tonight.
I was about to go to the AVN's, but screw that. Sure, it has porn people...but not nearly as many guns and high powered motorcycles as my jobs this weekend.
Now I've been up all night, about to test ride/take pics/write article about an 182.5 HP Aprilia rsv4 and I've decided to forgo sleep and instead rig up a camera mount for the bike so my inevitable death will be well documented.
When I come back I'll tell you what time travel feels like.
Shurie and Meg are up for a visit. Last time we saw Meg was in london.
We went and watched the vintage porn show at the Red Vic, smoked hookas, drank too much turkish coffee and made taxicab pronography.
Tomorrow I am test driving a new Aprillia for Urban Moto.
If I don't manage to kill myself, there will be mayhem this weekend for sure.
If this works, then the internet is slightly worthwhile once more.
Chinese space babies. Fuck yeah.
Posted via email from addictedimage's blog of bloggy things.
