HOLD THE HABANEROS
The Ham Jam II story
The other night, Jose and I were yakking with some 66 year-old guy at Famous Sam’s that was trying to unload his automated pay-karaoke machine on us. He wanted six grand for it, the brand new price being 12 G’s. The dude’s gray, flowey chest hair kept butting into the bargaining process due to 4 unsecured buttons on his silky shirt, so Jose took it upon himself to yank on said chest hair to convince homie to come down to 5 grand. What does that have to do with a dirt jam that featured fools stuffing ham sandwiches in their faces and a killer party afterwards? Not a gott-damn thing, but you should have seen how quick that silver-domed sexagenarian moved to get Jose to relinquish his death grip on the offending fur.
KC Badger. Nigga done almost popped outta the frame of my camera.
I got ready to go on Friday, whistled for the Chuck Dogg, and we were off like a dirty shirt. On the way down to Tucson, the thunderheads tried to rain on our shit in the back of my truck, but the air flow characteristics of my vehicle prevented any unwanted wetness of baggage.
Not so much threatening, as really, genuinely disturbing. Chuck Dogg.
The skatepark formerly known as Celestial is pretty much the same since the 5 churches took it over, minus the 8’ extension on the mini, the 3’ micro ramp and the weird grind pyramid that was chillin’ next to the wooden bleachers. It only took about 5 minutes of watching everybody jam from the bleachers for me to remember why I don’t go to skateparks when I’m too injured to ride. I could have simply squeezed freshly-picked habaneros into my eyes at home and saved myself a trip.
Will Bissell, all assholes and elbows.
Right here I could say that a lot of groovy riding went down, and I’d be right. Prescott made its presence known with Adam Baker pissing all over the mini, and Prescott Brian rocking a big transfer from a quarter into the transition wall at the end of the rhythm. The proof is all in my GL-1.
Here's Brian with a smooth floating 360. He's from Prescott.
I noticed some guy doing some good nose stuff and was surprised to see anyone from Tucson busting out like that. Come to think of it, I wasn’t all that surprised. It turns out this dude wasn’t from Tucson, after all. This rider, with a few others, journeyed out from San Fran. Out-of-staters coming all this way just to jam their ham….now that’s what I likes to see.
After the park session, we followed Mike to his abode in downtown Tucson, where we were to lay our weary heads that night. I liked Mike’s neighborhood quite a bit. Just ghetto enough, with a coffee house across the street and some dance club where burly shit constantly goes down just across from it. You rarely see that kind of zoning in Phoenix, with night clubs in neighborhoods.
Master Sergeant B. Rabbit did not approve of the illegal explosive demolitions that took place sporadically throughout the day.
The Dogg and I bugged out to Del Taco with plans to meet the crew at The Buffet (Will Bissell’s favorite bar) afterwards. We didn’t see anyone we knew when we got to the Buff, so I figured something must’ve gone awry to damage the plans. I didn’t have anyone’s cell # to find out where everyone was at, so we were stuck with our thumbs directly up our asses, wondering what to do in Tucson until closing time. It was then that I remembered the Loft. The Loft is one of those art house movie theatres that shows Rocky Horror at midnight every Saturday, complete with a cast performing on stage in the foreground as the movie plays. But this wasn’t Saturday, this was Friday.
'T'wouldn't be a jam without a twain, now would it?
We hopped over there to see what was cracking and it turns out they had a couple of movies going: Taxi Driver (which I had just seen for the first time a few weeks before), and some movie that somewhat documented the forming and success of the band Joy Division, which later morphed into New Order. I opted for the movie I hadn’t just seen, and of course Mister Dogg, with little to no will of his own, followed suit.
Back at the house everybody was chillin’, throwing back some brews when we got
there. Turns out the Bean couldn’t get his out-of-state license past the
Door Nazi at the Buff, so they had to take their business elsewhere. It
was all good. I had a whole jam and a party to go still to hang out with
everyone anyway. Before long it was time to sleep the sleep on.
Although the couch did right by me, I sure wished I hadn't forgotten my sleeping
bag.
I don't know if Lurch comes on this site, but if he was writing this caption, he would be like, "KC BLAST HIP LOOKBACK! HIP LOOKBACK GOOD! LURCHUM HUNGRY!" Yeah, that's definitely what he'd write.
Next morning we all made for the trails. It turned out that the dirt gods had bestowed their blessing on the second of the Hamm Jams by raining down upon the thirsty earth just enough to dispel the poof, but not too much to make standing water. A good few riders got their dig on because the packing possibilities of the dirt were just too funky to pass up. Many started warming up on the smaller sets, but before too long the big ’uns became the staple of most of the riders. A few different announcers rocked the megaphone, the most entertaining of whom being Bean and Mike D.
"We're all glad to see Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen were able to make an appearance at the jam today."-Mike D. on megaphone
Over the course of the day, I almost had my legs taken out from under me three times, which was a little unsettling considering I’ve still got a good way to go before my leg is fully healed. Look what I go through to get you the spectacular angles!
Megabean.
Guess who’s got a curved wallride at their trails? Well it’s not actually curved. It goes around like a curved wallride and it’s kinked as hell. Niggas was still ridin’ that shit alls the way around.
CURVED WILLRIDE.
Uhhh........yeeeeaaaah. These two dudes had twin color-coordinated lace rigs on their kicks. I made damn sure not to turn my back on them the whole rest of the jam.
Ham Jam II founder, organizer, HMFIC--Mike Hines. I'm stoked on his trash 'stache. Obviously not as stoked as he is.
Rigo, a split second after his no-footer.
Jumps were jumped, prizes were handed out, and it was time to eat and get ready to boogie. Over a hundred fools showed up at the trails for the Ham Jam II, and there was no bust. I’ve got to hand it to those neighbors, they’re cool as shit. Now if we can just get the scientists to clone them and sprinkle them throughout the U.S. and its territories…
The cold, black, expressionless eyes of the vegan shark show no mercy for its victim-- a celery and hummus sandwich.
While the Flag guys went to kill some chickens, or at least find some that were already dead, Chuck and I followed the Bean and Mike to a vegan eatery for dinner. It was there amongst the mystical far-eastern interior décor that I realized two things about vegan food: It’s healthy as shit , and it ain’t cheap. Now I’m not vegan, I’ll eat the shit out a cow! Well, I won’t really eat the shit out of a cow, but a good slab of steak has continued to be one of my favorite sources of nourishment since childhood. And ice cream…well, suffice it to say I go into convulsions and spasms and foam profusely at the mouth if I don’t get my daily I.C. fix. But those vegans eat healthy. Plenty of organically grown green vegetables and green tea don’t hurt nobody one bit, no sir. Just make sure you’re working 2 jobs if you get a hankerin’ to join that weird little religion, cause it’s not easy on the billfold. And you’ve also got to find shit to eat that wasn’t cooked in animal fat, has no eggs in its ingredients, didn’t just have a dog sit on it 20 minutes ago….too big of a pain in the but-tocks for me.
Ridiculous. Tuba Mike.
Tubaggan.
What the hell is that thing? Oh, I know what that is.....that's one of those.......................... what the hell IS that thing?
After vegan dinner, Mike and Bean tended to the procurement of the keg, whilst myself and Chuck Dogg made copies of the contact list of Tucson riders we had been compiling since our arrival the night before. I gave Mike Hines the list when we got back to his house, so if anyone in Tucson needs to get riders out to a city meeting, you know who you need to catch ‘holt of.
Superman seatgrab.....as seen on TV. Chris Miracle.
As the band was setting up, most everybody was chillin’ in the kitchen. I was leaning up against the clothes dryer, and I could tell by the way my stomach was boiling that gaseous vapor with stenches untold were making a run for my colon’s border. I had been blowing nasties all day, and this was destined to be the mother of them all. My first instinct was to go outside to release the hounds like a polite young gentleman, but then I said to myself, “Self, why not see if you can clear out the whole gott-damn food preparatory area?”
I felt up to my little challenge, so I let my aromas fly
where I stood , then inconspicuously slipped out of the kitchen and into the
adjoining room. Blood curdling screams and gasps of horror issued from
innocent revelers’ mouths as they ran for cover from the biological weapon of
mass destruction just released in their midst.
What's up with that Thomas kid? He's damn good, that's what! Shit! Quit bugging me dude! Three look in the middle.
Mission accomplished. Mike, I’m the responsible party for that sizeable brownish burn mark atop your dryer, even though you were the one that referred me to Del Taco the night before. If you wish, I can put a little touch-up paint on it and it will be good as new.
THE END
Of that part.
Will Mike’s abode recover from Jason’s ass blast in time to have a party?
How did the protest in Marana go the next day?
Will Bean ever eat a hunk of cheese? Just one, tiny hunk of formunda cheese?
Find out all this and more when I post the second half of the Ham Jam II story
coming soon…..
