Chopper Hostel

I went back and read an article I had previously written to fill the spot that this one replaces and that’s when it hit me, I was turning into a big ol’ pussy and everyone but me knew it. Feelin’ sorry for yourself is for pansies, faggots and apparently …me.

Motherfucker, life has made me soft or at least my attitude towards it has and here I am blathering about it like some bitch defending Emo music. It ain’t me and if it is time to man up, pull your shoulders back and store yur disappointment deep inside like any mass shooter usually does. Violence is always more attractive than spinelessness.

Nothing brings you out of the depths self-pity like sudden adversity. When the weather eventually turned fridged it kicked me in the dick when my complicity in preparation came to bite me in the proverbial ass.

It was 13 degrees in the holler and just above 20 in the room I’m sleepin’ in. The dog and I are huddled together under a significant weight of blankets knowing the only way it’s gonna get any warmer is if I get my ass up and start choppin’ wood. Two hours later the house is 40 but it’s a fight to keep the fire up.

The wood I was felling was damp and just not something I was going to be able to keep up for the entire cold season. I broke down and had a level truck load of hardwood delivered the other day. I woke to a 50-degree morning, but it took more wood than I could process to do it. It’s worth the 60 bucks to have a load delivered every week or so. I’m gonna get spoiled.

The plumbing froze solid about a week ago and that was the last time I was able to shower, conveninetly brush my teeth or take a shit in anything other than an outside bucket.

Ive been brushin’ my teeth and makin’ coffee with snow for a few days but recently filled a few gallon jugs with spring water that I keep dethawed by the wood stove. Still haven’t showered but I was able to scrape the barnacles off my tongue and splash my face in the morning. Coffee’s easier too, it’s amazing how much snow it takes to make a decent cup.

I gave in to hope and tried to start the truck and get supplies. A flick of the wrist confirmed what I had expected, it was as dead as the printed word, my hope was the resurrection of both. The dead battery won’t take as long so I’ll start there.

A few days on the charger and in the warmth of my kitchen and it accepted a charge. I dug the truck out from under 10″ of packed white stuff and removed any ice from the bed as to keep my battery from freezing again.

I threw the cables on the battery and shuffled my frozen ass to what I expected would be a process before the motor spooled up for me. I sat on the cold, crackly, vinyl seat and swung the key into the GO position and it fired right up on the third revolution. Well, sheeeeeit!

I can gauge my days progress when I find myself doin’ a little soft shoe and hip wiggle when the mood strikes me. It’s just random and it’s usually something I just find myself doin’. Things can’t be that bad if OMC’s How Bazar or some ditty from Meshuggah got you shakin’ your ass to the dog’s perpetual confusion. This was one of those times. Things were lookin’ up already.

My little truck was running surprisingly well but ain’t goin’ nowhere until some kind of a great thaw. It’s a two-wheel drive minitruck with too much power and absolutely no traction. There’s 30 yards of 10″ deep snow before I even get off the property and to the unplowed dirt roads that never get plowed even before I hit a secondary roads that might get plowed in a few days.

The only place that truck’s going is in a ditch if I try my luck drivin’ it. I have supplies to keep me and the doggo fed at least for another day or two. I’m no stranger to hoofin’ it, overpriced groceries are only a cold hike away. I’m livin’ that hardscrabble life and I ain’t got no complaints.

I’m at my best when the chips are down and livin’ gets feral. Livin’ in the dirt and just makin’ it through the day by any means possible is my skill set. I’m good at living just above that homeless moniker that people never really find themselves facing. I seem to face it every few years or so but this time I have a home, make that a cabin. That shitty house makes a great cabin, serial killer stuff but it’s where I hang my hat, park my bike and make my way.

I think it may be simplicity of just makin’ it that I find so attractive. Attractive is probably the wrong word but when I’m snowed in, washed out or whatever, your goal is always clear. Get the things done that will keep you up and runnin’, make sure there’s supplies for you and the dog and get out of the elements if at all possible.

If all else fails, make sure there’s weed in the mix just to keep it all from seeming too serious. You can get through damn near anything if you approach it with a light heart, a quick joke and the ability to not take it all too seriously. Sure, things are serious but it ain’t gonna help anybody if you get your panties in a bunch and the first signs of difficulty. Things are always easier if you can spread some laughs in with your troubles.

I do have to remind myself that it’s not that bad even when things seem their darkest or at least on the brink of collapse. Lookin’ at any of these situations from the wrong angle can really make things seem a lot worse than they really are. When things are getting really squirrelly it’s easy to lose your footing and fall into a path of self-pity. That is nothing but unproductive and an anchor that will drag you right down into a sea of depression. This is no time for knee jerk decisions and quick fixes that do nothing but postpone your options in making it further than the next couple of minutes. Sometimes you need a reminder of that backbone that has apparently left the chat and left you a boneless fish that can’t see past your immediate troubles.

Recently I found myself on the brink of falling down that sour path that always leaves me locked up and feeling helpless. I threw a spare canvas up on the rack and figured if I have the time I might as well paingt. If Ii am goin’ to be stuck in these fourwalls I better have something to keep me occupied while I’m waiting for spring to arrive.

Painting in the cold is, like everything else, less than enjoyable. The paint desn’t dry, my glasses fog up and my busted-up hands ache from years of punchin’ immovable objects that needed punchin’ at that moment.

Paint is NOT going to dry with the studio temperatures well below freezing but standing around waiting to do something isn’t goin’ to help things, so I just went for it, knowing that I’ve been doing this long enough to know how far I can push it.

I never really had a plan when I started this piece, but I guess I took that time to push past my current wave of self-pity under the watchful eye from the King of Balls. Evel don’t like a pussy or communists and I’m not on this earth to warrant the scorn of the all mighty Knievel. I’m manning up and keepin’ in the good graces of that Sultan of Send! It’s Gods work.

( 11×14″ signed prints only available here at Chopperhostel.com. Info below)

I woke up this mornin’ to a warmish house, stoked the fire and warmed a cup of coffee looking at the sun shining over the winter hellscape blanketing the holler. There’s a window of favorable weather and I was goin’ to spend a bit of it diggin’ the truck out and seein’ what’s what with the roads beyond my little crack in the rocks.

Traction is still an issue, but it was improved with a few hundred pounds of split red oak. I’m still runnin’ street tires and traction is now based on how much throttle I feel like using. Momentum is key and if you plan ahead for severe understeer and throttle for the hills there’s few places I’ve found myself stuck in and only once did I have to dig myself out. Oh sure, it ain’t safe, none of it but it sure is fun and I’m pretty good at it.

Everybody is scrambling to resupply and get anything that might be needed for when the next freeze hits in the next few days. The roads are packed Ford Rangers packed with groceries, wood and three generations of unwashed hillbillies in pajama pants and trucker hats. There’s only a few hours before the weather closes the hollers again so folks are loading up on cheap beer and unrolled smokin’ tobacco. With the days supplies secured the local hill folk make their way back to whatever hole in the mountain they came from, stoke the fire box and settle in for a few more days of weather-imposed house arrest. Nobodies passing judgement, we’re all in it together just makin’ our way, in a shitty pick up, usually with half a buzz on. Winters in Appalachia, ain’t nothin’ like it.

I woke up this morning and it was -3 outside and about 30 in the Danger Hut. I restoked the wood stove with some dry oak and in an hour I had the southern side of the old shack up to 70. Sweatshirts and warm socks with my first cup of coffee in record time and with this cold weather I’m sure I can improve those numbers.

That’s all that really matters, the immediate needs that directly affect your life is all you need, the rest is mostly garnish. I often make the mistake of comparing my life to others. It’s impossible, in the moment of comparison, to not feel envious of a much more pampered life. My life of unfettered small adventures fills my soul with a sense of accomplishment that some good payin’ 9-5 would never allow me. My lack of a net makes it an actual dance with disaster and that is the entire payoff…the gamble.

Im here, in my shitty little shack, with a few acres of land I’ve cleared of diapers, Toyota parts and tweekers. I’ve been working on it for years and it has recently improved to ‘barely livable’ condition too show for all my troubles. The pipes freeze, the roof leaks and you could throw a cat through the holes in the walls. I have a pickup, an old bike and a meager income that barely covers the bills. I’m deeply invested in the southern poverty that plagues this region and am completely poor, white trash and that will never change.

Compared to:

I live in a 120-year-old cabin and a few acres of land I have reclaimed and has come a long way to get here. With another truckload or two to the junkyard I will have completely turned the grounds around from the ruin it was destined for. Recently I have upgraded its condition to primitive living with power, natural gas, water and an operational septic system. I was able to afford it with my income as an artist and a lot of hard work. The area I live in is isolated from the outside world and very affordable. People around these parts don’t pass judgment and there is no race to keep up with the neighbors. I drive a 16 valve Might Max and I ride an old Shovelhead chopper. I can and have shot a shotgun out my living room. I haven’t woken up to an alarm clock in a couple of decades and my dog will eat you if you come on the property uninvited.

It’s all a matter of your point of view and how you process that information. Self-reflection can be a good thing but dwelling on it is a waste of time. I gotta keep it light and realize the simplicity I have chosen is only possible if I avoid being jealous of others that haven’t chosen the no holds barred life I am so invested.

This spring is gonna be amazing as all things are after a lot of work just to make it. The riding is that much sweeter after a long cold winter, and I look forward too but am not rushing the warm weather a few months away.

“Dont be a Bitch” 11x 14′ PRINTS only available here, info below

I’m doing a short run of the latest Evel painting that is only available here at Chopperhostel.com. 11x 14″ signed giclee fine art prints are $22 a piece and $13 shipping in the lower 48 per total order. PayPal or Cashapp. Place your order amount, shipping and email addresses in the message section. A confirmation email will be sent to the email address you provide.

Paypal to hamsteakdawg@gmail.com

Cashapp to $georgethepainter1340

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