Eskewpades

  Fame, Fortune and Fudging Myself Contrary to popular myth, I’m neither gay nor a Hells Angel. But I sheepishly suspect that the first thing that crosses anyone’s mind when they first meet me is “Wow! Now there’s a Hells Angel, if ever I saw one.” Truth be told, some of my metrosexual biker buddies actually do ride bicycles, and those longer in the tooth mount senior tricycles. But, indeedy I do have a few authentic Hells Angels in my circle of friends.   Hanging loose with the rough and ready became a necessity eons ago when I worked on an article about the fallacies of Hells Angels. I lounged around biker bars for the same reason I graced gay bars, you know? Research, research, research. Call me crazy but those are the two groups of men with whom I feel the most comfortable. The bikers admire my professed literary expertise and what sometimes passes for wit.   Dissimilarly, the gays, most of whom are way wittier than I’ll ever be, admire my unmitigated virility. Sneer ...