He was singing something about smoking a lot of grass and popping a lot of pills. John Kay’s intoxicated, weary voice was pumped loudly through speakers that sounded as if they had been blown a long time ago. Hell, someone had even put a nickel in the jukebox and played a Steppenwolf tune. All the rumors about insanely wild biker parties? They’re true! That place was ALIVE with foul talk, the smell of burnt weed and rancid breath, ugly chicks with their shirts off, more Harley Davidson paraphernalia than I’ve ever seen in my life. I had no choice but to agree as I opened the door and stepped in. A lecherous smile as I’ve ever seen, and says one word: ‘JACKPOT!’” We could hear the sounds of drunken debauchery at least 50 yards from the building, parked in the car, splashing liberal doses of Hai Karate on our chests to make a good, solid impression on the ladies. “Apparently Harley Charlie was a very popular individual because his den was packed to the gills. He pulled the car into the drive and shut down the engine. “‘I think we’ve just found the place,’ I said to my tush-challenged friend. Big black tile letters spelling ‘WELCOME’ and the name of the establishment that owns it…This one said, ‘HARLEY CHARLIE’S DEN OF INIQUITY: BIKERS WELCOME’. “So we found us a broke down pre-fabricated building with one of those hoaky yellow signs in front…You know, the kind with the light bulbs and pointing arrow? I know you’ve seen ‘em - they’re everywhere. When I filled him in on the details he became extremely excited and put the pedal to the metal. He thought it had something to do with bacon and eggs. I think he must have lived behind a rock somewhere most of his life, because he had no idea what ‘tush’ even was. It wasn’t too difficult tracking him down and, as I suspected, he was open to my suggestion that we find a biker bar where we might be able to hook up with a little ‘tush’. “I’d just got paid and had a lot of extra pocket change, so I decided to look up an old friend in Austin. The pay sucked and I had a frightening suspicion that my boss had it in for me. I’d recently quite my job as a carpenter. “Well, you see, it was some time in the early or mid seventies when I left Chicago for a joy ride. He bent toward me and whispered, in an almost conspiratorial tone. He took a look to the left…then he took a look to the right…making sure no one would be able to hear him. “Well…uh…I suppose that IS a pretty good reason to show no love for the Piano Man. I mean, I can tell you exactly why I hate Billy Joel in five short words: ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’. You’ve piqued my curiosity now, and I don’t intend to let you leave until you’ve spilled the beans. But there has to be a crazy explanation behind such malevolence. “It’s no big deal! I don’t think anyone here cares all that much. He turned to walk away, but I grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket, pulling him back towards me before he had a chance to get even three steps. He shuffled and shirked, then tried to change the subject. When I asked him why he detested that particular band so much, he was hesitant with a reply. More than a Macintosh devotee hates a PC. More than a cook at McDonalds hates his job. One evening, while enjoying the company and hospitality of friends, I was introduced to an old man who claimed to loathe ZZ Top with a passion unrivaled.