Harley guys. Or, as a Moto Guzzi rider I chatted with in a parking lot once called them, "Hell's Dentists." One of the more interesting things I got to watch in LA was the tectonic shift in Harley riders after Wild Hogs; prior to that movie it was all white guys of various states of ill repute (Seattle has a number of "one percenters"). After, though, LA was wall-to-wall affluent black men on dialed-to-the-nines Harleys of positively impeccable build.

But I can't really get behind the Harley stuff. They're an embarrassment to engineering. And I can't get behind the Ducati fucks; Ducati is Italian for 'Harley Davidson.' And I can't get behind the crotch rocket fuckers, either and pretty much everybody else rides alone.

It's the same problem I have with bicyclists - Critical Mass has made me hate the lot of you, and I say that having logged over 3,000 miles last year. I also rode through this catastrophe about 10 minutes after it happened and it was basically a horde of entitled dipshits in lycra howling in pain and yelling at me to slow down (like I was the one who ran over Mrs. Yun, who was always on the bike path, who was always moving slow, and was impossibly easy to avoid running over).

In my abject flailing to find an aspirational car to lust over, I've learned an embarrassing amount about Porsche 911s. Them guys are chummy.

Thus I'm left where I'm always left - any group that would have me is deficient simply for having me.