a letter to jesse james:

jesse;

i liked you when you built choppers for a living. i liked you because it seemed you didn’t give a f*** what anybody thought even as you lied to discovery channel cameras about how you didn’t f*** anything that would give you a moment of fame in front of a camera.

i wanted to believe you. you were all i wanted to be. creative. free. you owned yourself and rode your new myth with a pride i see differently today.

you were 100% american and made a point of it on television but didn’t care as your name was plastered on s**tty plastic toys and cheap t-shirts made in china and mexico on walmart shelves and redneck shoulders. what suckers, those rednecks. they’ll buy anything.

i began to wonder about you.

i liked you and then you whined in front of america on tv and acted like you cared about a woman who married you. you were embarrassed. you were embarrassing. i was ashamed for you. you seem to feel the need to drag some woman in, lie to them, and f*** chicks all over like you don’t care, even as you look at millions on camera and say you do.

you are a tough guy but you only make women, and yourself, cry.

i liked you before you pretended to be a *** addict. there is no such thing as too many BJs and too much *** f***ing. just as there is no such thing as alcoholics. there are only emotionally challenged babies who won’t stand up for who they are and be who they want to be.

we don’t have to like it but to pretend to be something and be discovered to be something completely other?

man the f*** up and be who you are. but no. you went to *** addict crybaby class and quit when it didn’t convince a woman you cheated on to return to your fake tough guy persona and fast-fading celebrity.

who are your friends? more who feed off your “fame?” do any tell you how you’ve been a f***ing idiot for about a decade? where’s chopper douche and **** mc sculptor when you need ’em?

meanwhile, i’m writing about everything i can about custom motorcycles. i even wrote for a “publisher” who posted a photo of you and sandra bullock on his website with a caption – written by a woman – disparaging you for riding some wide glide suspension because sandra was riding b*tch. the female writer was jealous. besides, who wants to f*** a **** that’s spent much time on a hardtail, anyway?

all the “gotta be a bad ***” **** made it easy for me to leave that “job” as i tattooed my neck with FREEDOM OR DEATH and screwed with most everybody i met, as if i wasn’t a reflection of what i was rebelling against.

a rebel against rebels who sold out to what was already a cute commercial.

as i grew this measurement of dream and nightmare, i kept my mouth shut about what i thought of you. you were a big shot motorcycle builder. i got drunk a thousand times and wanted to write something like this, right here, while some dips**t who thought i’d edit his magazine for free told me i should interview you. “maybe i could…” i’d ride back to austin for a weekend and we’d meet in a dark corner of a bar. i’d call the owner and we’d meet before they opened. you and i would drink beers, tell stories, have fun, and i’d discover something i didn’t know that would make all of the bulls**t surrounding you okay.

i realized a while ago that would never happen. tonight, i know why.

you are going to appear on the same television show as the hemorrhoid rage dude from orange county choppers and the copyright-violating b*tch spawn metrosexual of that “chopper” company.

i don’t like you any more and nothing will change my mind. you are a corporate w****, a thief of hearts, a hypocrite, and you wouldn’t know who you really are if you found yourself with the ghost of christmas past in a room built of mirrors while on acid.

just because you singlehandedly keep rogaine in drugstore shelves, it doesn’t mean fat, balding men will continue to look up to you.

as of today, this is your epitaph:

when i started this piece, i thought i’d make the tombstone engraving look real instead of half-assed but because of you, jesse, i realized how the moment you put yourself in a place where others look up to you, one should be honest and true to the words and deeds one holds up as worthy of adoration and inspection. the former does not come without the latter. i don’t care about how i can make you look foolish with a photoshopped image. i am a writer.

the waaambulance can’t save you now. you have cast yourself in with the cake decorators. it will be interesting to see you eat it.

T

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