…style over substance in New New York, exemplified by esto Esquire ad spied whilst waiting for the G-train. Television for gentlemen
…style over substance in New New York, exemplified by esto Esquire ad spied whilst waiting for the G-train. Television for gentlemen
it was fucking freezing again this morning after a teasingly warm sun-drenched sunday…and we remember that Guadalajara is dubbed the city of eternal spring
More to come re: the new-to-me TL1000s streetfighta roamin’ the backstreets of BK; and so far our hooliganry has been mostly just high speed maneuvers on Ocean Parkway, squirting between cars on the Belt, and shameful nervous gut-to-tank wheelies on Coney Island Ave but long hours social working and cold rainy days yield more time spent in rented rooms, watching wheelie videos. Enter tha DMV and the dude on blue ninja(?) at the 2:10 mark performing some real motorcycle magic!
Anyone know where these guys are from?
Ah, tostones…the ubiquitous latino treat!
Tostones are everywhere in Latin America and just another way to prepare the banana-like plantain, or platano (so dubbed en castellano).
Mashed into little disks and fried in oil unto a crispy goldenrod brown, los tostones are a definitive comfort food and go tits with nearly everything.
Dubbed patacones in Argentina and other parts south, tostones run the gamut from Mexico down to Tierra del Fuego and now at the corner of Farragut and E. 24th St in Flatbush. Brooklyn.
To prep your patacones, select only the choicest green platanos, slicing lengthwise along the husk, removing the skin, and cutting into cube sized morsels. Drop the morsels in hot oil and fry for a few minutes until lightly browned and soft. Out of the oil and into the patacone machine where they will be crushed into little discs. In a pinch, a couple of hipster skulls can be used to crush the patacones into the aforementioned discs. Discs are now shuffled back into the oil to be fried once more unto a golden brown. Season with salt. Delicious.
Chimichurri! Chimichuri! Chimichurri!
Don’t forget the chimichurri, dog, a delightful dipping sauce and revelation unto itself.
6 cloves garlic
1/2 Hot ass fresh pepper
1/4 Red bell pepper
1/4 tsp Salt
1/2 tsp Red Pepper Flakes
3/4 Olive oil stolen from housemate
1/4 cup vinegar
Put all that shit in a blender or just chop it up real fine if you don’t have one and mix it up. Dip away dog!
In all the thousands and thousands of miles covered in our most recent intercontinental motorbike journey, and of all the thousands and thousands of eyes we’ve peered into during our time on the road we can still count the number of true individuals, outcasts, and iconoclasts on our fingers and toes.
A surprising delight it was this morn when received it was an email from lil’ Paul Naragon, met so long ago in Vilcabamba at the end of Ecuador on the way to Peru…sometimes thought about and almost forgotten.
By feedlot I mean to say that we are constantly being fed ideas that “fatten” us to specific beliefs. We, by blindly accepting their worldview are building their prison of confinement for us. Certainly there are many who are content with this confinement without realizing it for what it is. In so doing, their opportunity to become aware of their nature as ‘creator of their own existence’ is almost guaranteed not to happen. This may not seem so important, but those who run the Feedlot are afraid of one important thing that could unravel the tapèstry they have woven for us. That is, self-control. When you are aware of your creative power YOU have given over to others and THAT IS what confines you—–that is, you confine you by believing THEIR ideas. The point is: No matter how things appear you’ve created them.
Is it not like going to a restaurant and ordering something to eat. You put in an order and expect the order as requested—right? Well, if you give the creation of social order a similar consideration you see that someone has put in an order for society to be the way it is. Who? Are you getting the kind of world that you want?
If you are honest, you surely may be getting a life filled with the ideas you think about—or maybe not—but the question is always there to be asked: WHO’s ideas are these? You can’t claim they are your ideas. You have been taught these ideas or you listened to someone else just as you are reading this. We live in a feedlot of ideas and are grazing quite regularly rather than questioning what we think about. And I am not talking about questioning someone else’s ideas with yet another person’s ideas.
There’s much to be discerned from the SILENCE. Strangely as it may seem the silence is indeed an integral part of our world. Without silence there would be no ability to express different sounds, different words, different sentences. Silence is what separates sounds! On another note, as I implied, there is much in SILENCE but its a foreign language to thinking and we know how distorted translations can be and often are.
Happy Easter y’all
It’s been a while and I’m sorry about that. Cousin Tommy said I left everyone hanging and indeed, it’s true. One minute we’re in Patagonia and the next…well we’re back in old New York sleeping in our childhood bed, parents yelling from beneath the stairs.
It’s all a bit too much and sometimes the mind drifts. One easter ago Quito was our home, a whole hemisphere away. Good times they were but that was then…
Right now we’re social working it up in ol’ Brooklyntown and assisting the people of Flatbush and Coney Island in reaching their goals, commuting on the century-old LIRR to our quaint lil’ office in Manhattan to type our notes, and getting up close and personal with the big apple.
“It’s gonna be a Brooklyn summer!!” said the hipster to the fly, gliding past in skin-tight jeans and little boots, talking loudly on an iPhone and droning on about all the different types of craft brews he’d be offering at his bday party.
Look, everyone knows that hipsters are garbage and that they’ll do anything to be cool, but this is the kind of shit that would bring out the inner bully in anyone.
Ah but let us not forget that you are a light, that you are a sun. Drift within. This is your body. Did you get lost on the trip? Did you get trapped in memory? Did you forget? What did you do? Virtual mindgame…trivial paranoia… You had to make it a bad trip. Don’t see the light…Do not see right…
In this mirror of confession, what do you see? Your personality… all your goals and your fears? Your ambitions? The chess game of your life; got to check that, you can’t take it on the trip. All those animal impulses that you hide, and keep down below, all this baggage must be checked. You can’t take that on the billion year voyage.
Are you ready?
Then take this chalice, the elixir of life.
Damn son, thank the Gods for Magic Hat and all the hipster nerd beer bullies who sling the Magic Hate at our most favorite brews. More for us to doff and the much maligned Saint Saltan is a veritable treat. The beer police might have you believe that every exceptional brew has to be the equivalent of a fucking carbonated wine with an 8+% alcohol content but this is not the case and a case of Magical Hat Spring Fever offered up this tasty beauty, weighing in at a svelte 4.6% abv. The Manboy motto, more or less, is that a great beer should taste like drinking a glass of delicious bread. Brewed with coriander and sea salt, Saltan is brewed in the “Gose” style (whatever that means) but reads like a pilsner and is indeed delicious. It’s one of the best beers I’ve ever had. An adorable label adds to the charm and Saint Saltan is more God than saint. Bien impresionante…straw colored..remembrances dreampt of Cerveza Austral and the Patagonian hinterlands. In Hat we trust.
Included along with the saint are a couple of other decent offerings from the Magical Hat spring collection:
Pistil: Pistil dandelion ale at 4.5%. Label states that such is brewed with dandelion. Indeed, it is possible but taste it me nots. Regardless, it is a tasty enough brew and does not dissapoint. Epa Epa! Wey IPAish. Nothing to write home about but it is Magic Hat man and we do love this shit.
Ticket to Rye: 7.1% All access tour ticket to Rye. Part of MH’s “Tour of IPA’s” ticket is a darkish brew with an alcoholic bite. An outstanding ale. The taste is strong, powerful even. A powerful brew. Goes well with green corduroy pants on St. Patricks day, but don’t spill it on them. Be careful!
Just remember that the light that glows so bright glows half the night and stay tuned fans for more entertainment! Soon to come are tales of new bikes and dark nights!
…keepin’ it real in the big bad apple, Cine Meccanica screens moto or auto inspired flicks every Wednesday eve out in the ol’ Brooklyn hipsterlands, dishing out a little car culture along with some barbequed meats and free popcorn. This week’s joint serves up the 90′s biker classic Stone Cold, feautring footballin’ badboy Brian Bosworth in his cinematic debut and legendary robot Lance Henricksen slummin’ it as Chains Cooper, a Barger-esque figure. Come one cum all!
Stone Cold is what a 60′s biker movie would be if it was made in the early 90′s. Channeling into the psyche of a post cold war recession era America, Director Craig R. Baxley was somehow able to both resurrect the bikeploitation genre amid a violence-saturated 90′s media landscape and deliver us all from evil amen with exactly what we needed as a nation at the time: Brian Bosworth as an action hero playing undercover biker-cop Joe Huff from Alabama.
Of course, the reality is that Stone Cold the movie has long since been relegated to the dusty VHS video collections of history, surviving just barely as a cult favorite of a small chosen few bike and Bosworth aficionados alike with the only real irony being that Stone Cold actually pulls off what Tarrantino and Co. tried to do with the Grindhouse movies and Hell Ride: 90 minutes of non-stop action taking itself just seriously enough so that you don’t have to. There were two movies in 1991 that crashed a motorcycle into a flying helicopter and only one of them starred Lance Henricksen.
Enter the Dragon: SC begins with a delightful homage to the iconoclast rogue cop stereotype as Alabama officer Joe Huff, played by the Boz in all of his ill-fitting 90′s jeans glory, singlehandedly dismantles a multiracial gang of thugs hell-bent on robbing a supermarket somewhere in the hinterlands of early 90′s Alabama; an almost shot-by-shot tamed down remake of Stallone’s brilliant entrance in Cobra. Marion Cobretti Joe Huff is not but the Boz gets the job done with an equivalent style and grace and is promptly suspended from the force for his efforts.
Things heat up as next we’re treated to a glimpse of the Boz serving his suspensionin in a chic sun drenched mansion, post-workout and prepping what appears to be a power shake. Eggs, egg shells…a snickers bar? The joke’s(yoke’s) on you and this shake is not fit for cop consumption. Stone slides a dog dish of the stuff towards Fido, his pet dragon, and the whole ritual is interrupted by the nerdy Lance and the gruff officer Cunningham, G-men calling on Huff to get off his suspended ass and help the FBI infiltrate the Brotherhood, a dangerous and exotic gang of motorcycle madmen roaming the bayous down ole Mississippi way. Huff reluctantly accepts the invite, becoming John Stone in the process and the stage is set for one of the greatest motorcycle action movies ever made.
Baxley really bashes a body over the head with all the cliches. It’s all good though and the only thing missing is a clip of the Boz ordering something in fluent French at a snooty restaurant in a sports jacket with the sleeves ripped off.
Look, the Boz is alright but the Brotherhood is where SC shines. Led by Lance Henricksen in the guise of Chains Cooper and carving out their own little corner of hell in the swamps of the south, the Brotherhood and it’s members are the driving force behind all the motorcycle madness and character driven glory.
Ice: Sergeant at Arms and resident Brotherhood enforcer, the Iceman is played by one William Forsythe and is a total and complete and absolute badass. Ice is ice cold indeed and never loses his cool not even for a second; he is the ultimate brother and loyal to the bitter end. He is the most loveable character in Stone Cold and utters more than a few chosen lines. He laughably refers to Stone as a “grown-up version of Bam Bam” and delights with one of the greatest death rattles in the history of cinema. “Fuck you cop,” are the Iceman’s last words, slipping from his charred lips as he dies in the street following a high speed machine gun driven motorcycle chase and spectacular fiery crash. Ice is immortalized in a viking-style funeral as the Brotherhood somehow get a hold of his dead body and set him ablaze atop his prized hog as a tribute to the fallen.
The black-haired beauty: Played by one Arabella Holzbog, Nancy is Chain’s ol’ lady and sole property of the Brotherhood. Inevitably, Stone shows some interest in her and her hopes are piqued as the reality of smoothly exiting the brotherhood with head attached becomes a possibility. Nancy bears the poorly etched GFBD tat which brands her as property of the Brotherhood for all time lest she forget the adage: God Fogives, the Brotherhood Doesn’t. Treated like complete garbage by the Brotherhood throughout the entire film and constantly referred to as a bitch, Chains eventually shoots her in the head without so much as the blink of an eye just to anger Stone. A cursory glance at IMDB and one wonders whether the bullet was really a blank.
Gut: Gut is the Brotherhood’s whipping boy and is the only member of the Brotherhood that receives less respest than Nancy. Gut has a clear man-crush on Stone and follows him around like a puppy throughout the entire film. Despite being a seemingly upstanding member of the Brotherhood Gut is constantly being ripped apart by Chains and other seemingly lesser Brothers. One wonders what Gut did to deserve such foul treatment and while he does not befall the same fate as Nancy per se, Chains disrespects(loves?) him enough to chop off his fingers on a whim before the end of the movie.
Chains: Leader of the Brotherhood, Chains Cooper is played to a sociopathic T by Lance Henricksen. It’s hard to imagine anyone else in the role of Chains and the image of Henricksen, clad in priest frock and firing a machine gun from the back of a Harley blasting through the halls of justice, is seared into the back of the brain forever. Chains has charm and is actually believable as a top-dog in the motorcycling underground. One imagines Chains to be a thoughtful leader and lover, both tough and tender, but in Baxley’s world of one dimensional charactermanship we are treated to only the former, with Chains serving the role as the turn-on-a-dime violent psychopath leader of the Brotherhood. In one of the greatest scenes in cinematic history Chains slowly forces Gut’s extended fingers through the spinning spokes of his Harley wheel. Gut’s crime? Protesting Chains’ cold-blooded murder of two immobilized and unarmed men.
Unbeknownst to the Feds, who are only into the Brotherhood for drug trafficking, extortion, etc…mickey mouse stuff, Chains has something else up his sleeve entirely and is a much more ambitious man than Baxley had led us to believe. Chain’s top-secret plan is mysteriously referred to as D-Day throughout the latter half of the film and Baxley chooses to regale us with a late reveal as Stone Cold finishes strong in an orgy of cartoonish violence and explosions. Bent on “cracking the Whip” and murdering state District Attorney Brent “the Whip” Whipperton for pushing for the death penalty for one of their incarcerated brethren, the Brotherhood manage to take over the Mississippi state courthouse. They even steal a helicopter. They are successful in what appears to be their sole mission of murdering the wholly unlikeable Whipperton but the question remains: what next? With hundreds of lawmen awaiting outside ready to shoot to kill, one imagines that no sane member of the Brotherhood could have believed that D-day would end well. While Stone is imprisoned inside the helicopter, the true extent of the insanity of the Brotherhood comes to light: First the court house, then the White House.
Of course, the Boz and company eventually wrest control of the courthouse and Chains is killed…but questions remain and thoughts are stirred. What if Chains and the Brotherhood has actually succeeded in their ultimate mission? What if they had indeed made it all way to the White House and Washington? Would the Brotherhood have been able to capture the hearts and minds of the people in a post cold war recession era America? We remember the times and note that stranger things have happened.
President Chains has a nice ring to it.
Stone Cold (1991)
Wednesday, March 20th
Film starts at 8:00pm
at Lady Jay’s: 633 Grand St, between Manhattan & Leonard, Bklyn, NY 11211
Free popcorn, Juke Box Meccanica, $2 Bingo for Prizes. PRIZES!
When you’re out there in the Big Country, alone and surviving by your wits on a vintage Honda twin you wind up reading a lot and the books that you do read wind up taking on a whole new level of importance. You can’t always read whatever you want so one winds up reading a weird assortment of whatever happens to be available. Bulky hardcovers are out and small paperbacks, easily stuffable into a saddlebag, are in. You take what you can get.
Drums on the Mohawk: Gather round young Turks and bear witness to lives unfolding on the American frontier during a young nation’s fight for independence from its overbearing British overlords. Supposedly a classic piece of American literature(I picked it out of the classics section at a used English-language book store in Ecuador), Drums reads like a pulp novel, though a good one at that. The book is well written and sets a good pace, with interesting and great descriptions of the peoples and places of the old New York hinterlands and beyond during the Revolutionary War. What a weird world it was back then when the realm of the Catskills was considered to be a frontier and greasy ol’ Indians trolled the woods for German scalps. A different place and time indeed, yet descriptions of olden tyme towns that still exist to this very day serve to rouse the misty-eyed wistfulness of even the most hardened of lonesome adventurers that occasionally pine for their old Catskillian haunts. Best read with a sack lunch atop Kaaterskill Falls, feet dangling lazily over the edge on a late-summer’s afternoon.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn: Mark Twain is the name of a knot a boatswain makes when he’s tying knots on the Mississippi. It also happens to be the pen name of one Samuel T. Clemens, considered to be one of the greatest American writers ever. I know this because I saw it explained on an episode of Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventures Saturday morning cartoon show when I was a kid and I’ve never forgotten it. Imagine that…a road trip through time! But, we’re getting off topic here. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is one of Twain’s most well-known works and it reads pretty well, although I might think twice about letting my black son read it because Twain uses the n-word a lot. A good travel-adventure tome for travelling adventurers. Borrows a lot from Heyerdahl’s mystical Kon-Tiki as we follow the young Huck and his manservant Jim as they float, sometimes lazily and sometimes not, on a raft down the mighty Mississippi. Rest assured that all ends well and there’s even a brief appearance by the loveable Tom Sawyer. A must read for any real Amurican.
Looking for History: Dispatches from Latin America: Plucked from the shelves of a weird roadside motel in Costa Rica, this waterlogged, moldy tome was a good primer on Latin American history and served as a nice distraction while recovering from leishmaniasis in a hammock in Panama. Basically just a compilation of magazine articles touching on various latino topics such as Che, FARC, Subcommandante Marcos, and Evita, Looking for History reads pretty well and pretty quickly at that as each chapter is a different article. I became an expert on Latin America overnight and I really liked the picture on the front.
The Ra Expeditions: Thor Heyerdahl: The story of a boy with gumption. The Ra Expeditions was picked up when Looking for History was put down as we dangled lazily, languidly in our tropical Panamanian hammock. The Ra Expeditions follows Heyerdahl and his multinational team as they pilot a papyrus boat across the atlantic to prove that transoceanic travel was indeed possible, and possibly probable, in the times of ancient man. A paper boat across the Atlantic? Really? Really dog, it’s true. Look, Kon-Tiki it is not but Heyerdahl is still a God to be worshipped.
The Good ol’ Boys: Written by one Elmer Kelton, The Good Ol’ Boys is clearly a Louis L’amour rip off designed to cash in on the good sir’s popularity (well earned) and make a quick buck. All travelers looking to exchange books at Cafe Good in Baños, Ecuador read this review and ten cuidado! Look, we all knew before diving in to The Good Ol’ Boys that it wasn’t going to be as good as a L’amour book but we needed something to read in Nantar and all the other books on the shelf were in German or Spanish-language college textbooks (people should be lashed for that shit). Anyway, there’s not much of a story here. The main protagonist is Hewey, an aging bachelor cowboy who is off to visit his homesteading brother and fam when he runs afoul of the law by punching out a corrupt cop. Ok, so there’s some conflict there but then get this, there’s also an evil banker trying to run Hewey’s bro out of town and gobble up the farm for his own selfish interests. Real run of the mill stuff. There’s even a crappy romance as Kelton regales us with an awkward courtship from the manly, yet timid, Hewey Calloway and plain-Jane school marm Spring Renfro. Spring is referred to as being plain and, at first glance, not much to look at, but someone that’ll grow on you. C’mon, give us something we can work with, Elmer. The Good ol’ Boys is so terrible that at one point Hewey is referred to as ‘Henry’ and the book was ruined for me after that. One can imagine the Good ol’ Boys being passed around a barracks in Vietnam and guys teasing each other about how their girlfriend back home is uglier than Spring Renfro (the two-penny whore).
Fair Blows the Wind: Hands down the best Louis L’amour tome to date I’ve deigned to read on this magnificent voyage and it’s not even set in the wastelands of the old tyme American West. Unthoughtfully tossed in the throwaway section of a book exchange at a cafe in Baños(a different cafe than where The Good Ol’ Boys was sourced) by its pretentious gringo owner, Fair Blows was rescued and read almost in one sitting; an epic tale that was devoured by candlelight in the abandoned refugio slapped upon the slopes of the mighty Tungurahua volcano in the Ecuadorian andes. Swashbuckling, babes, adventures on not one but two continents, shipwrecks, and the possibility of a sequel make Fair Blows the Wind a worthy travel buddy that fits in your pocket! Order it now on Amazon for one penny!
Last of the Breed: Yet another Louis L’amour read! These things are like gold when you’re out there in the wilderness, surviving by your wits and popping your adventure zits! Running out of ammo and on the brink of Patagonia, Last of the Breed was discovered in the book exchange at Posta del Viajero in Azul, Argentina. Typical formulaic stuff and not one of Louis’ greatest, LotB was nevertheless a fun read. A western that takes place in the 1980′s in Siberia, LotB follows the adventures of Joe Mack, a half-breed American Injun who’s plane is shot down and is captured by the Russians and thrown into a prison camp in the middle of Siberia. Joe Mack escapes and we follow his exploits through the Siberian wilderness. In the dead of winter no less! Escape is impossible!! Right!? Isn’t it!? Well, maybe not for Joe Mack!
Alive: One of the weirdest tales of the twentieth century, Alive chronicles the hideous account of a Uruguayan rugby team whose plane crashes in the Andes and whose survivors are forced to eat the flesh of their dead brethren to survive. Would you eat your dead buddie’s balls? Seriously, that’s a legitimate question because that’s what these guys did. They ate everything. Genitals, brains, intestines…everything. A lot of people know this story from the movie of the same name starring a young Ethan Hawke, but the movie doesn’t show our heroes fashioning bowls out of the hallowed out skulls of the fallen, sumptuously supping stews made of brain matter and awful offal. On the chance occasion that they could scrounge some wood or flammable material from somewhere within what remained of the plane, they were able to cook the meat but they were mostly eating this stuff raw. A weird scene no doubt with the sucking of marrow out of broken bones and the fashioning of gaucho socks out of forearm skins peeled from corpses. As far as books go, Alive is not a great one but it is the story that shines and it doesn’t really matter how well it is written. What is weird is how the boys took to their meals with such relish, savoring every single part of the fallen. Weird enough that they’re eating the dead but even weirder that they’re eating their dicks and shit. To understand all this you’ve got to get into the mind of the carnivorous Argentine (or in this case Uruguayan) where the asado reigns supreme. Alive is a an interesting book indeed, and one that should be found slipped into the seatbacks of all trans-Andean flights.
Survivor: Not one of Pahlaniuk’s best, but not a bad read in and of itself. Devoured in Patagonia along with Last of the Breed, Survivor was a welcome companion to the cold and hungry lonesome traveler reading tentside in the barrenlands of Americas’ south. Fight Club it is not but Survivor is serviceable. Here we follow the exploits of an awkward survivor of one of America’s last religious death cults who send their young ones out into society to become indentured servants. All the members of the cult decide to kill themselves in a mass suicide but our hero is spared and he is now faced with living out the rest of a life that now has little meaning. His brother also survives and is trying to kill him and there’s a girl in it that can see the future, which is all too convenient and the plot leans on that a little too much. It’s not fair. The best part of the book is the opening salvo, and everything sort of gets a little boring from there. The pages count down instead of up.
Beyond the Sky and the Earth: A Journey into Bhutan by Jamie Zeppa: Travel narrative?Memoir? I’m not sure how to classify this book. Travel narrative I guess because you would probably find this in the travel section at a book store. A better place would be in the garbage pail. You know what this book is going to be like even before you open it, or at least I did. I don’t know why I traded Survivor for it, maybe I was just desperate to read something in the English tongue I was, but even then I knew. Beyond the Sky and the Earth is the account of a Canadian girl who lands a job teaching English in Bhutan. It is utterly predictable right down to the last page which I didn’t bother to read. Finding yourself(as in self discovery) in another country is the theme and milquetoast adventures are the game. Look, I could read Louis L’amour books and pulp fiction all day. That shit is predictable to a “T” but you know that the characters aren’t real, even the bad ones. The worst thing about Beyond the Sky and the Earth is that Jamie Zeppa is a real person.
Dance Hall of the Dead: “Go on take it, c’mon it’s a good book. Just go ahead and take it. It’s a good book, if you like Louis L’amour books you’ll like Dance Hall of the Dead,” said the enterprising used-book sales-bot in the same used-book store in Vilcabamba where we sourced Drums Along the Mohawk. Fine, alright, I’ll fucking take it. Jesus, you’re breath stinks, just get the fuck away from me. Right away I knew that the guy wanted me to buy it because there were three copies and he wanted to pare them down but I figured that if there were three copies of it then at least three people had read it and thought it worthy enough to lug it along with them all the way to Ecuador. All this went through my mind in a split second. So I took it and never looked back. Dance Hall is not bad. It’s pulp man, but we love pulp. A delightful romp into the Navajo criminal underbelly with striking scenes of the American southwest, and you know how we feel about the west and the southwest especially here at Manboy. While I didn’t care for the raised metallic lettering on the cover, Dance Hall is a worthy read.
Motorcycle Diaries: Or, Diarios de Motocicleta. Sourced on the mean streets of La Paz, Diarios follows the adventures of a young Che Guevarito and his buddy as they travel the South American continent in search of adventure. Beyond the Sky and the Earth it is not, The Motorcycle Diaries is not a bad read at all and is relatively easy to read in spanish, albeit with plenty of Argentinianisms. Reading the author’s thoughts about riding a motorcycle through the Atacama while riding a motorcycle through the Atacama was an interesting touch and Che’s descriptions of the landscapes, the food, and the people he encountered throughout the book were interesting, honest, and insightful. A treat indeed, as such seems to be a rarity these days. Perceptive readers may glance glimmers of an aspiring and ambitious sociopath. Can a million t-shirts be wrong?