Shame Train: Brawny Bikers & Future ex-Husbands

“MizBlitzed, you know there’s a biker rally today down on North 14th, right? You want to check it out with me? There’s sure to be a ton of guys with tattoos and beards there…”

“Hello? MizBlitzed, you there?”

I had already hung up and was putting on shoes to head down to the bike show.

As I mentioned in my last post, I recently found out about the Brooklyn Invitational Bike Show. It all started on an early Saturday afternoon when my friend called and told me about it.

I made it there at what I later found out was the start time, 4 pm, and, for me, it was heaven. I mean, literally heaven. As I walked up and down the two main blocks of the rally surrounded by hundreds of fully bearded tattooed monuments to mankind, I was in a daze and a feeling of serenity overcame my entire being. Or maybe just my pants, but the latter leads to the former, so whatever.

Never before had I seen that many future ex-husbands in a two block radius at one time. I was downright giddy, but seeing as how I didn’t know anyone I took in my version of Utopia and headed back to Bushwick. (By-the-by, ginger guy with a longish beard looking at his phone with the “Mad Men” hair cut sitting outside of Gutter: you were added to my ‘highlight reel’ and I think about you every time I need to knock one out…)

Of course, the moment I got back I called my best friend (with whom I’d had plans to hang in the Bush for the eve), “Hey girl, fuck whatever it is that we were going to do tonight – get your ass in the shower because we’re going to the bike show. There are more ex-husbands there than at a Zsa Zsa Gabor real estate convention.”

If that one went over your head a little: Zsa Zsa Gabor was a famous actress who (famously) divorced 8 times. She was quoted as saying, “I am a marvelous housekeeper: Every time I leave a man I keep his house.”

Okay, so I wasn’t really looking to make an ex-husband out of someone and take his house, but you get what I’m saying – I’ve been called a lot of things, but gold-digger ain’t one of them that is for damn sure (and I’ll get to what I think of those in my next post).

My friend “Constance” and I headed over around 9 to the “main event / party” for the rally. Naturally, we got on the train and the weather was fine – we got off and it was a downpour. You see, Readers, as you’ll come to know – this bitch can NEVER get a break. The most perfect way to meet the man of my dreams in the most perfect situation? Nope. The laws of the universe WILL NOT ALLOW IT.

After waiting about ten minutes, then sprinting to the nearest bodega and buying what seems like my 114th $3 umbrella, we finally made it to the main event party, hosted at Root Studios.

Photo by DesignJess

Inside, the bikes were put on display as works of art (which they were). In another room a band played. Constance & I ambled about and shortly we were approached by a guy wanting to take our picture. He was cute enough (although not my type) so we said yes and started chatting. One thing led to another and all of a sudden we were surrounded by him & all of his biker friends. I mean, not to boast, but we were two heavily tattooed girls looking pretty hot – it was bound to happen with a crowd like this (as I was hoping). I just didn’t know it would happen THAT fast.

And then the jar of moonshine appeared from one of their hands. I thought I almost heard an angelic choir sing and saw sunrays shooting across the mason jar, but that could have been the 5 beers I had already downed.

Photo by DesignJess

At this point Constance, who knows me all too well, is telling me to take it easy. The thing about me drinking, though, is that when I’m drunk “can’t nobody tell me nothing.” So was the case this night.

When Last Call went into effect, the whole group of us went to the bar, including the biker that guarded the back patio from anyone walking in so that I could take a piss in the gravel and air dry like the lady I am. The restrooms in the studio were locked and they only had disgusting porta pottys. I had to make the call and as far as I’m concerned the right call was made.

Once at the bar, the biker, who I’ll call Anarchy (because of his eerie semblance to a certain biker TV show) ordered me 4 beers at once. Now, I’m sure that this was meant to last until we decided to go – but it’s me – I took it as a challenge and downed one beer after another.

For the entire night after the beer pounding, Anarchy was introducing me to every single person he knew as his fiancée.

A text from Anarchy

To end this story, I’ll quickly say that Constance left, I ended up hanging out with the bikers and Anarchy until wee hours of the morning slamming more beers and drinking more homemade moonshine. It ended with me taking a cab home after going to our third bar, making out with Anarchy in front of everyone and having two unknown girls diss their dates for the night to hit on me (one of which gave me a table dance right in front of her man and in the middle of the bar).

Anarchy and I ended up texting wildly for about two weeks after which he just all of a sudden stopped responding (it happens all the time) and I stopped giving a shit. So you see, I, the “fiancée,” DID get an ex-husband out of the bike show after all.

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(Shame Train is a Bushwick-based column about dating and romance in NYC. Mizblitzed is a hard-drinking, heavily-tattooed southern gal with a heart of gold and libido of a 15-year old boy. She writes this column whenever she damn well pleases, bitches.)