Since we’re idiots, we often forget some of the radest dudes and dudettes that paved the stumbling path that came before us. This series of drunken remembrances is what I know of some of these prefatory semi-humans.
Dude, I think I’ve told you about this lady before. Seriously, check her out:
I’m a BMW enthusiast. I’m not really interested in anything they’ve created since 1994, but before then the company’s history is full of interesting stories. Originally an airplane engine manufacturer, BMW still retains its heritage, especially in its famous logo, which is an artistic rendition of a spinning propeller.
There have been many larger-than-life participants in BMW’s history; but probably the most interesting is Anke-Eve Goldman. You may think this choice is chauvinistic, since I was born with what many today consider a major defect…a penis; and because Anke was a stunning 6-foot tall beauty, but I assure you dear reader, my choice is only 85% sexual.
Anke-Eve Goldman wasn’t a BMW model, although she was photographed on their motorcycles often, Anke-Eve Goldman was a motorcycle racer, and a motorsport journalist. She couldn’t officially compete, because women weren’t allowed to race in sanctioned races, but she was regarded as a highly skilled racer, and the pros of the day would gladly grant interviews on the basis of her expertise, and probably a bit on the basis on her ass-pertise.
This bitch could ride. In her early days, she rode an R60, then the R69S. Those were the fastest machines in the world at the time. She wore a full, black, skin-tight riding suit as she put the machines through their paces. Every hetero dude gets a boner if a chick even just sits on a bike; imagine seeing a hot chick pushing a machine to its limits while wearing a cat suit. Just thinking about it…hold on…I gotta use the bathroom real quick.
Ok, I’m back. That was like Anke doing the quarter mile on a R69S…just over 16 seconds. Anyway, outside of motorsport enthusiasts, few people have ever heard of Anke-Eve Goldman, which is a shame. She eventually went on to adopt the Italian M.V. Agusta as her bike of choice. BMW didn’t keep up with the technology, and Anke was perpetually refining her skills and required more horsepower, and better handling.
The movie, “The Girl on a Motorcycle,” starring Marianne Faithfull was inspired by Anke-Eve Goldman. The character in the movie was a typical, “liberated” woman of the 60’s. It seems to me that Anke-Eve Goldman never had a “liberating” moment in her life. She was just a badass from the embryo. I wonder how she felt about being a woman, skilled in a man-only arena, to a higher level than the vast majority of men who participated in motorsport. This, along with an imposing beauty, and access to the best machines in the world must have made Anke’s life a real blast.
I don’t know what happened to Anke-Eve Goldman, and if anyone has any information, let me know. I’d fly anywhere, hike up any hill, cross any river, just to say, “Sie sind eine Inspiration Dame Goldman. Ich fühle mich geehrt,” and kiss her hand.
The Lady rules.
Just found out she died in 2004. Her coffin was mounted on a sidecar of a motorcycle when they took her to her final resting place. RIP beautiful lady.
Part Juan: Alfred Jarry: French satirist, cartoonist, playwright, cyclist, alcoholic, cyborg sex novelist.
Alfred Jarry was the kind of asshole that made people smile. Not only were his classmates amazed by his natural genius, they often fell victim to his pranks. What a loveable dick. While in school, this fucker gained fame by making fun of his fat ass, incompetent physics teacher. He made a play about the rotund professor. The character “Père Heb” surely crushed the jiggling soul of his lecturer and was a predecessor to his famous “Ubu Roi.”
Once Jarry moved to Paris (that’s old timey for New york) he hooked up with a bunch of poets, painters, writers and other useless people. He then was drafted into the French Army, but they let him leave because he was basically untrainable. Can you imagin how ridiculous this dude was?
Army Corporal: You have to get up at a reasonable hour so we can drink a gang of wine and prepare to retreat.
Jarry: (fart) uhhh, I’m sorry, I can’t understand pussy talk, could you repeat that?
Army Corporal: You’re not fit for the army.
Jarry: Suck my dick…not now though, it’s kinda flaccid, I’m super drunk…
Army Corporal: We should either kill you now or elect you president.
Jarry: Wait, wait, here we go…it’s ready now.
Army Corporal: You should go.
Jarry: I will! This shit is lame!
After all that Jarry just jammed around on his bike, drank Absinth, fucked hoes, and got famous. Obviously, a gang of haters tried to shut him down. He ended up in a shit-hole apartment filled with empty bottles that kept his manuscripts from blowing out of his window. When his shit blew up, all the dum-dums just killed it for sure, but before they did, he changed the world. Once Jarry gave up his last breath, Picasso bought all his drawings and writings. Why? Don’t you be a dummy now! Obviously, Jarry was the shit and Picasso knew a comrade when he read/saw one.
In the end, Jarry was a cyclist of the highest level (he believed the bike and man were the highest form of mechanics and humanity in harmony) and he was a brilliant artist (loser). That is why we salute his resoluteness (drunkenness) and his art (loser-bility).
So, when you go to bed tonight, and you wonder why you’re all alone…stop thinking that negative shit! You’re a special, inventive, important person! Who knows, your diary can be worth a grip of cash. You’re an artist and you live and breathe shadow and light. None have your insight. Your bike is sick. Your drunken escapades are revolutionary!
Jarry and you are two pee’s in a pod. I’ve seen two dudes peeing into the same pod. You know what happened? The pod exploded! That’s what about to happen to you. So get ready, drink some Absinth, call Picasso (that’s old timey for Gallo) and get those skeletons out of your closet…because you need room for the cash.
Next month: Baron Alexander von Falkenhausen (both of them).
I call it the “shit bag”. It holds things like bottles.
Check that shit(bag) out! It’s got a finger loop that goes around your middle finger, so you don’t have to waste time holding your bottle in between sips. It’s fucking ergbronomic. It can carry your Chardonnay and your cig, basically telling the world you have refined taste…..and that you’re drunk and carrying a gun out in the open, which means unlimited pussy. It has space for smokes and a lighter.