STEELANDGRISTLE.COM is a work of metafiction created and compiled by multimedia artist Gabriel Thy. The SAG Motorcycle club does not exist but is as ficticious as a pink cat with nine lives.*
Caught up in the same spirit, the basketball leagues are also ficticious, fantasy leagues, if you will, but most team names and team mascots may very well reflect or resemble real programs in their respective locales, although every one of the players’ names and statistics are generated by the writer himself and do not reflect any persons living or deceased, and while many of the stories contained on this website may mirror or describe real events, this writer claims himself to be that tell-tale star witness, trapped in the spirit of truth itself, knowing that truth itself has been fictionalized—for human memory is a tragedy and as such we peer into not the abyss but a fragile half-empty glass darkly whose contents are sweet but also bitter, pungent yet invariably tasteless for those who prefer to remain virgins and abortionists, for we are all pregnant now. Who knows where truth really begins in yesterday’s good news unless we also speak of its ending in the same stingy breath concerning tomorrow’s raw new beginning. Nothing on this site, we repeat, is to be considered real politik, unless otherwise noted, and even the most devoted literary sleuth will be hard pressed to find that particular conclusion in this code. But homebase is where the heart is, and as this fictional story is all heart, we must leave it to the ambitious reader to sort it all out for him or herself before we all find ourselves at that very moment when the SHTF…
We’re not saying that to double dribble the old Spalding during a fast break will lead to the biker lifestyle and straight into a loaded fist of a .40 caliber Smith & Wesson, but there are those who think that if you lead a horse to water he will automatically stoop to drink what is obvious to all the king’s horses and all the king’s men a poisoned stream. What are we supposed to do with those people and their many fine logics? Yes, they tell us the message is the medium, but then we can plainly see what happens when an EMP changes the way we look at molecular level human behavior, can we not? Suddenly, the rules and regulations, the encouragement and the enforcement each change to meet the needs of the strongest in completely different ways, but we should always look again, reminding ourselves, “Not so fast. Nothing has changed. Regulations have not vanished. The reading on the morality meter has hardly budged. But terror is upon us.”
“Up against the wall,” the sweaty man commanded. “We have your papers, and we expect you to write.”
And so in closing this opening salvo in somebody else’s game of war, this sentence on unspectacular death and secret resurrection, the feasibility study, the last testament of a masturbatory peace that leads to enslavement and too many Becketts in the mouth, the end all of all beginnings, the safety in squashing bugs sticking to numbers when names just aren’t enough to wring the juice from the last suffering electron still as inert as a hummingbird among flowers and the women who love them, please excuse me while I kiss the sky as part of my own imbedded standard operating procedure as I attempt to master this post-literary genre of the kriegspielwrites the aging invalid, former L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poet and foundational easter egg rejectionist Spalding Root, whose latest unclaimed ticket to fame were his regional and sectional strategies steering his squad of mostly underclassmen into a dynamic if unproven Sweet Sixteen:
Spoke scantily to the prophet:
“He who demoralizes another
“Can claim no morality for himself.”
To this the prophet said nothing, but
He knew in part the saint
For a shanty fool.
(And the unfed,
Left to perish among
The unwelcome, left to ravish
The beauty of beast, and the beast
Of beauty, established
Many fine logics.)
I fell blank at such a formula—
Asses built on caged numbers observed,
Deserved and dirty word reserved
For quaint molecules and family,
Where my occupation is a gift to anyone
Stroking along fishy fables,
Mentality tables, cradled
Images, daisies, nightsies,
I am the yellow sheep
I can’t earn my keep
Proving the fallibility of this text
World without maps
World without worldliness
My mind, an accurate page.
My head keeps to its own symbol,
There is no comfort.
I wonder what proof died in my mouth.
*Sons of Anarchy MC, Redwood Original or as it is better known, SAMCRO (Often spelled Sam Crow), is the original chapter of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club. It was founded in 1967 by John Teller, Piney Winston, and other members of the First 9. Its current president is Jax Teller, son of first president John Teller. Chibs Telford is the Vice President of the club.