Art Happens: Faster Pussy Bird, Kill! . . . Eat!

—Paul Malcolm

Biker Life: Ride, He Said

Biker Butch Morin found Jesus eight years ago, and it wasn’t in a monastery. “My stepdad said something to my mom I didn’t like, so I shot up my house. I had two Mac 10s,” he says matter-of-factly. A Perris, California, judge diverted Morin to a Christian jail unit, and after 90 days, he joined other parolees as a caretaker at a Fullerton church.

“Before, it would have been about hurting you and stealing from you,” the burly, leather-clad heavy-equipment operator says. “Now it is about brotherly love. Remember: The dog will always return to his vomit. Jesus won’t let me return to my vomit as long as I stay right with him . . . Let’s pray.”

Morin is one of five bikers representing Soldiers for Jesus, a Christian motorcycle club with 10 chapters worldwide, at the 18th Annual Love Ride last Sunday. The all-day charity event, hosted by comedian Jay Leno, brings together 20,000 bikers from clubs across the U.S. for a 50-mile ride from the Glendale Harley-Davidson store to Castaic Lake. It’s a day of drinking, carousing and live music. The money made from the event goes to the L.A. TimesReading by 9 literacy initiative and, this year, also to the New York Firefighters Disaster Relief Fund and the Port Authority Police WTC Disaster Survivors Fund.

A few feet from where we pray, Walter (a.k.a. Soldier) Martin, founder of the Ghost Riders motorcycle group, browses through the knickknacks at one of the Love Ride booths. Martin, a member of the Altadena City Council, founded the small and somewhat secretive Pasadena-based biker club to give Vietnam vets like himself a place of their own. “We had a gang problem on our street in Altadena,” says Martin, a rather large and formidable-looking former Green Beret. “We calmed it down. We do things that law enforcement can’t do.”

“Excuse me?” I say.

“We are all law-abiding citizens,” he quickly adds. “There is a very thin line between police and bikers.”

“Do the other City Council members know you are a biker?” I ask.

“Not all of them,” he says. Martin’s wife, Anita (a.k.a. Mrs. Soldier), cannot join the men’s-only club, nor can she ride on the back of a bike at a member’s funeral. “It’s tradition,” Martin explains.

“Does that bother you?” I ask Anita, a short, middle-aged Latina who wears a thick American-flag bandanna across her forehead.

“No, I am going to start my own biker group for women,” she says with a grin.

Other bikers are from more family-oriented clubs like the American Cruisers, or clean-and-sober groups such as the Messengers of Recovery. But a smaller number are from the “one percenters,” or outlaw biker gangs.

I spot another outlaw biker, David “Teacher” Rodarte, passing out fliers for a future charity ride sponsored by an anti-helmet motorcycle lobbying group. Rodarte, an LAUSD schoolteacher and former Vietnam vet, is a member of Solo Angeles, a Tijuana-based biker group. You can tell the members’ outlaw status by the three-piece patches on the backs of their jackets, Rodarte explains. Family and religious biker groups have only one- or two-piece patches, he says.

“What about the Soldiers for Jesus?” I ask. “They wear a three-piece patch. Are they outlaws?”

“They are Outlaws for God,” says Rodarte.

Later, I spot more three-piece patches, this time in the VIP area adjacent to the front of the stage where Joe Walsh is playing. “They probably won’t talk to you,” my friend warns. She is right. “We don’t talk to the press,” says the mustachioed Latino member of Hell’s Angels. “Not even about the weather?” I persist to his redheaded biker cohort who sports a ski hat with 666 emblazoned across the front. “What does SFV mean?” I continue, gesturing toward the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Searching for Virgins,” he says. “I haven’t found one in a long time. Maybe you can be my virgin?”

My friend and I look at each other. “It means San Fernando Valley,” he laughs.

Close to the stage, Weasels motorcycle club members T and Bill are enjoying their view of six biker girls drunkenly shedding their shirts and bras. “We are a drinking club with a motorcycle problem,” T says. “We only have two rules. Number one is we don’t have no rules. Number two: Refer to rule number one.”

“Are you an all-male group?” I ask.

“Hell no. We are a drinking club. We like to drink with women,” pipes in Bill, the lone member of the Connecticut chapter of the Weasels. “Want to be a member?” he inquires, pulling out his flask of whiskey and offering me a belt.

—Christine Pelisek