a cyclical stack for TRICS, anyone?

One thing about me: If I’m not tearing down some twisty backroad on two wheels, plummeting toward the Earth at 120 miles per hour with my reserve parachute on standby, or watching the bars on my scuba tank tick down beneath the ocean’s surface, I don’t feel alive.

We live in a world full of soft snowflakes who can’t stomach a reality without someone to blame. So, go ahead and blame my bad habits on my upbringing.

Though I'd like to simply think I'm the unknown Superman.

I didn’t ask for the chaos, the violence, or the heartbreak—life just handed it to me, and I had no choice but to play the hand I was dealt. I say it all the time: I feel hand-picked for the task.

Most people couldn't handle the weight, but I’d rather bear it than let someone less capable crumble under the pressure. I can go tit for tat with the best of them, and right now, I’m keeping it real with you—here it is:

I still feel the weight of that moment in high school when I watched a group of goons jump on a young man's head like it was a trampoline, just another afternoon on the Milwaukee city bus. Last I heard, he was on life support. It did something to my soul.

Or the time I was overseas, hearing the thundering roar of Apache helicopters, feeling the ground shake with pure destruction, like the gates of hell had opened above me. Thankfully they were there in my defense. But I also know someone was on the other side of the hill wishing the same. That shit changes you. It makes you hungry for a different kind of life—something raw, something that makes you feel alive.

And then, I stood beside my little nephew as they closed the casket on his little brother. Hearing his blood-curdling screams, “Don’t close that box! Don’t close that box! My brother’s in there! My brother’s in there!”—God, it felt like someone ripped my heart out while it was still recovering from all the pain of the past.

I thought it couldn’t get worse, but then his mother died in April. Ten kids left motherless, each one carrying a burden too heavy to bear. And now, that same nephew, who was just a kid himself, is the oldest. He’s bearing the weight of generational trauma, carrying it for all nine of his younger siblings who’ll never fully understand why their mom is gone.

I went to my mother’s funeral when I was just 18 years old.

It was the result of a gunshot wound to the head—my first encounter with a bloody mess, the first time I saw brain matter. There was no love. No hope. No backup plan. Instead, the homicide detectives asked me to strip down, get naked, give them my clothes for testing, and treated me like I wasn’t grieving the loss of my best friend. There are no words to explain the anguish my sister’s kids must be carrying.

I remember when my jaw got broken during an attempted robbery in Wauwatosa. My parents had to decide whether to wire my mouth shut or let it heal naturally and hope for the best. The physical pain? That was nothing compared to the emotional torment of watching my sister cry when we were shot at in middle school. We were just two innocent kids walking to the gas station for a candy bar, with our dog, like it was any normal day. The gun jammed during the indiscriminate drive-by shooting and we live to see another day.

But seeing my big sister cry? It wasn't normal.

So, when the Tail of the Dragon in North Carolina calls my name, I listen.

It’s my escape.

It’s my scuba tank, my passport, and my lifeline when I can’t outrun the ghosts of my past or the borders of my country on two wheels.

The Tail of the Dragon is a motorcyclist’s dream: 318 curves packed into 11 glorious miles. It’s where bikers test their skills, face their fears, and maybe even get a little too close to God when they misjudge a lean angle. And if your bike’s built to leave the pavement? It’s a whole different beast.

So, fuck anyone who has a problem with the Dirty Deck Club.

Tell em I said it.

I usually try to believe in the goodness of life—not because life’s always been good to me, but because life’s allowed me to experience the beauty of magic by being good to others.

This is the side of me born in darkness, raised in light, and shaped in a world that doesn’t owe anyone a damn thing.

You wouldn’t believe how many people used to send me nosy, intrusive questions back when I was being the good guy. They came at me like the human version of the IRS—rattling off a hundred questions no sane person would ask a stranger.

Hell, they asked me questions you wouldn't even ask a friend.

But I answered them.

Why?

Because I respected their audacity, even if it was rude as hell. They know my passports are overflowing with stamps, and just assumed it was handed to me on some shiny silver spoon. Never mind the blood, sweat, and sacrifices I continuously make—the kind they'd never dream of making themselves.

Most of these people?

POOF!

Gone.

They wanted the answers, I gave them the answer, and $3 a month is too much to ask. That's how I know I was dealin with a bunch of blood-sucking leeches.

If you wanna roll with me, tell your people when you see something in here that's worth the price of admission. 

Join. Learn something. Be offended. Find something real. Hell, drop the fear of people who are no better than you. Learn what it feels like to read something that challenges you. Me? I’m offended every time I glance at my calendar and see I’ve been to more funerals than weddings. Life’s raw like that—so why not embrace it?

I don't fear the unknown.

That’s life.

I'm damn glad my mother raised me to be a real warrior—someone who isn't afraid to show where he stands. And for my North Carolina friends that live out there near the dragon, this is for you...

A Tar Heel Cyclical Stack

This is mostly useful for performers in North Carolina. The stack shares the same features as my previous Lexicon-style ones: no repeating letters, and the last letter of each word links to the first letter of the next.

I tried to make it scream “North Carolina” with local references, but stuff like Asheville Reiki and Iredell Rescue Club had me scraping the bottom of the barrel to close the cyclical loop of the first and last letters.

Would I recommend this over the original Lexicon stack or one of my other custom builds? Probably not. But if you ever find yourself bombing down the Tail of the Dragon on two wheels with some die-hard North Carolinians, it might just come in handy.

The Stack -

Greensboro, Old Salem, Mount Mitchell, Linville Falls, Salem College, Elizabeth City, Yadkin River, Raleigh, High Point, Tanglewood Park, Kings Mountain, Nags Head, Durham Glow, Watauga, Asheville Reiki, Iredell Rescue Club, Beech Bluff, Fort Bragg...and the pattern goes back to Greensboro.

Deuces.