Biker Personal (1990-ish)

Hello, my name is Hoody and I like Harleys. 

Big, cop-bike Harleys, choppers, hogs -- the whole lot of 'em. I love 'em all. I am currently planning an invasion of the 48 Continental United States with my buddy and roommate, Brian. We plan to save up enough money to purchase said motorcycles from a police auction, with enough money to get to New Orleans. This we refer to as the pilgrimage. After the money runs out we plan to work our way from town to town washing dishes, digging ditches, picking corn, slopping pigs, playing guitars on street-corners and in bars. We will take in as much of the local color as possible along the way and make as many friends as we can, sowing the seeds of hemp and happiness wherever we go.

So much for the future.

Right now I am looking for a woman, or should I say "a nice girl" who will be my friend to the end and upon whom I can feast my eyes as well as my hands. When I am old(er) I plan to settle down, marry and have children, not necessarily in that order. Hell, if my damsel wants to come along, I'll strap the wench to the back and take 'er with. We won't be stayin' at no Hiltons or Holiday Inns, though, and we will be bathing nude in mountain streams (whenever possible). This whole trip will be a mile-stone in my life and could take up to a year (or more). So, sure, I'd want my woman to come with. Or else I might meet her on the road, in some "Gas Food" stop outside of bum-fuck Alabama. I just don't know. But, hey, in the mean time I am going to need as the silly old song says "Somebody to Love."  Jefferson Airplane, not Queen.

So, here I am, my name is Hoody. Did you get that? Not Andrew, as my parents named me (after a Russian film student named Andrew Yablonski). Not Drew, as my uncle Steve calls me or Andy as just about every employer and supervisory asshole figure in my life has called me—but Hoody. Don't ask why. It doesn't matter.

So, do you want to?

Let's Party!