Do you know Lemme???

156861_10150102280591550_507776549_7879299_6264053_nMost call me Cole Lemme, and most call my brother Chad. Many people usually want to know who it is that sits at the typewriter, writing that shit that comes out, and my brother, humble in that way, or better, refused to write about himself, himself. I know most people better than they know themselves, and I know about my brother more than most other folks, because hey, we’re brothers that actually love each other, albeit I can’t get a good as read on him as I can on most folks I randomly run into. Irony? He hates that word.

I’m a writer too (if one defines that as a person that writes, and fuck you if you think a person needs to make money at writing to indeed be a writer), and thus, he commissioned me to do this for those select reasons. So I can sum up to you the man behind the keys, the man you’ve listened to via his words in ink; and thank heavens and everything I call good that you might want to know, because he’s worth knowing.

I once told him that I think he’s clichéd, and a piece of shit, and that he became all his friends, and that he’s a worthless fuck. He broke my nose over it. The lifeguards at the Colman, SD pool had to kick us out once because when we were 10 and 11 years old we punched each other so much that you could see blood in the water. Blood’s thicker than water, so I hear, but apparently they think water is more important.

I told Chad he’s wrong about shit. I told him I’m right. He’s told me the same. We’ve been running around together with his older friends since I was 1. One year old. We chewed tobacco together for the first time, and I threw it up. He kept going with it; don’t run into him if he doesn’t have Copenhagen long cut.

He put lumps on my head one day while we were watching t.v. and I called him a retard. I almost burned his shovelhead to the ground one night, gas can in hand, just to prove a point. And that point was that I was crazy.

You want the truth about him though, I assume, because you’re reading this article and made it this far. So here it is: my brother is what I call a Giant. That’s the highest honor I can bestow upon a person. I’m not worth a damn to you humans, I know that, and that’s why it’s all I possess: this ability to bestow my one truth upon someone. And that is that a person is a Giant. It means so much to me, and I hope, at least, it means a little bit to him. Chad is different than most people; you’re liking his words for a reason. I like him, hell, and I have a bit of bone protruding out of my nose from him.

Chad it inimitable. That word isn’t some pretentious word I use to coerce you into using the dictionary (but yes, please use it). The problem is that it’s very specific. Chad’s never cared about what people thought of him, truly, genuinely, and wholly, never cared; not like this 30 percent of idiots that actually think they’re “different.” He was apart from it all from the day I remember him. I emulated him, and thank god and all the saints for that, because it helped me, at least, begin a path to becoming something better than all the rest.

He grew up in Chester, SD, a bad start, something wherein you grow exponentially in reverse. Most everyone that lives there is still a child (don’t get me wrong, that happens many places you grow, but so it was as well with Chester, SD). You begin in these places, as an open-minded, innocent, care-free, intelligent, and expanding individual. But as you become sucked into Chester’s bullshit, you begin to find yourself dying slowly and turning into a child. You see, younger folks start out beautiful and without regard. Chester makes you gray and self-conscious. Oh, and the people that run the school system, weren’t as intelligent as I became in about 4th grade. So Chad fought back from it. It’s why he didn’t like anyone there (not that the world is much different, they just aren’t wearing the blinders), it’s why he almost failed English when he was a senior (a journalist now, I know, and he can define Gonzo journalism, and tell you more about grammar than any of the fuckin’ English teachers ever knew in that shit hole).

Chad broke a woman’s heart while doing that stint in Chester. She was from Madison, SD. I suppose we all end up doing what we were going to do, so I hold little blame. I give people my respect immediately upon meeting them nowadays, and it’s up to them if they take that away. And also, I allow people the fact that maybe none of us have choices as far as doing what we want to do, maybe we all just BE. Thus, Chad broke her heart. I know the story, and I know it to be true. He was sick of all the virtuous knights attempting to protect said woman’s honor.

Now I’ll tell you about honor: Chad went to drive out of town, cars following him, and hit the brakes and slammed it in park. He got out with a baseball bat and pulled the Wyatt Earp.

“Forty of you against me, for something you actually don’t care about,” he said, brandishing a red bat with a white stripe (yeah he actually painted it that color; call it fate), and he doesn’t know I remember that shit. I’m just that good. “Let’s fucking do this and stomp me if you think you’re dealing out justice. But fuck you if you don’t think I’m taking down four of you fucks with me,” he said.

And the first fuck he went at backed down and said, “Cheating!”

Cheating? 1 against 40?? They let him drive away.

That’s Giant shit to me. Not because he’s bigger or badder. Not because he was the ONE person against forty (though this all certainly helps) but because of the SAND. The gravel in Chad’s gut, the fire in his eye.

And that fire isn’t merely a courage. That courage is part of it. But that passion stems to so many facets of his life that wasn’t so much a diamond. You see his passion for writing, as do I, and that’s why you like to read his words. But I see much more, and we all should. We all should in everybody, but it’s difficult. I digress.

The truth is, I said those mean words about Chad because I was trying to push him, because it’s so great. I wouldn’t have said that to any random fuck because I know it would’ve fallen on def ears. Chad probably doesn’t need to hear it from me any more, but I like to know that we still hold enough respect for each other to test the limits, as we did in the swimming pool. We helped create each other, I like to think, and I would wish that all boys had brothers such as we had. I know that Chad is a Giant, and I love that he’s above most of it all. He’s so much more than I ever could be, and then he became a writer as well, which was what I had. It makes me smile knowing that I have even more competition and someone with the same affinity as I do to this day, from so long ago, and we still are attempting something together and doing something, we hope, for the betterment of ourselves and everybody. Oh, and I shouldn’t forget the times we’ve laughed our asses off at the dumb shit, because those times far outweigh, in merit and in number, the times we fought.

How many years, I’m not sure of to go on. I’ll begin to give you the last few so you have idea of what he’s been up to and the stories, and the lies, and the truths, anecdotes, and the muck and bullshit, and the knives, and whiskey, and guns, and blood, and tears, and love, and beauty, and unfamiliar ceilings, and stars, and bikes and bars, kindness and meanness, and lifestyle and words, words, words words, and whatever else you want to call it and fill in. So here you go.

Chad’s always gotten hurt, his whole fucking life. I laughed when I wrote that. People always give you the bullshit, “Well I know somebody that’s gotten hurt so many times,” blah blah, but in all sincerity, I know no one else that has experienced more pain than that bastard. His chest started caving in when he was younger, and he ate cereal out of it a few times before they had to give it a good second hand power thrust assist with a scalpel and fix it. He came home and I whacked it really hard. Fuck sake that was mean of me. He broke his tendons or ligaments or something in his knee skiing. I remember him screaming cuss words at the ski patrol and all that. He told me that he quit counting stitches at about 400. Much of the time he spent in the hospital, a near bursting appendix, (he kept asking if we could please find the dog that shit in his mouth after all the pain meds that they jacked into him; everyone’s like “what the fuck is he talking about?” I still don’t know). He survived Iraq, whatever. I hate fucking veterans. Hahaha. That’s a joke, please don’t come find me. Then he cut off his finger. I remember walking on campus at the time, and was almost to some entry level philosophy course when my cellular telephone rang. My mother left me a voicemail, as I didn’t answer because I had class, and all she said was, “Cole, call me as soon as you can; you’re brother’s been in an accident.” My eyes went wide and I thought, “Well, Chad finally died, fuck.” Then I ditched class and ran to my car and by that time I’d gotten a hold of our mother, and she said, “Chad cut off his finger in the table saw.” I sighed in relief and said, “Oh thank God.”

When we got back to the hospital, I walked in the room and saw him holding up his left index finger (what was left) and noticed that the top part seemed awfully splayed out and bloody. I walked back out. When this incident happened, when the damned saw pulled in his hand and severed his appendage, apparently Chad started screaming “fuck!” as any sane person might do. My father, in all his comforting ways, assured him, “I told you so, I fucking told you so.” I think he was supposed to have had the guard on maybe? A few years later, one of my buddies was across the way at a party and yelled over to Chad, “Hey, what time is it?” As it was ten o’clock, Chad held up all his fingers. My other friend, confusedly, replied, “8:45?? It seems later than that.” He’s crashed cars, had them run over his forearm, had his head bashed in, etc. and so forth. He had West Nile, pheumonia, and the flu all at once. I didn’t think he’d make it when I visited him in the hospital. I’ve forgotten lots of shit here but we don’t have all week. Or do we…

Fast forward, and Chad was on his way to Sturgis a few years back. He took off and slept in cornfield, ND for the first night. Then he decided to head back southwest, almost murdered about six antelope with his bike, and slept on the rocks that the sun had heated up during the day in the Badasslands. Then he went farther west and ended up sleeping on some logging trails, only to be greeted by the tip of a knife with an upstanding American Indian on the other end politely asking for every ounce of money Chad had on him.

When he finally arrived, he ended up drunk and remembered to call me, his dear brother. He said that he was staying with two hottie chicks that were the Flaunt Gals at the Full Throttle. He sent me a picture of them and after looking at it, I ran to the car with a boner and a six pack of Old Milwaukee Light. My friend Luke drove, and I shot him a text that said something along the lines of, “If you care to find me, look towards the eastern sky!” as we shot out of the driveway and to my destiny.

That was a fun couple of days, I can assure you. I showed up to Chad drunk-eyed and bushy-tailed, sipping a Bud heavy and conversing about no doubt important issues on life and love and the beyond with some crazed Mexican. I’m not sure how we avoided a few ass kicking’s, but by the end of it, we did, and on top of that highlight, we’d also done our best to impregnate two of the hottest women from the Full Throttle billboard.

Then it was an endless something for Chad. I remember going to Brookings, SD, as Chad and I both attended, and he still attends, that fine Land Grant University. He told me about two hotties in his English class (and yes girls like to be called “hotties”) that were eye-ballin’ his tattooed ass (literally, Chad has his whole ass tattooed). He took ’em home, and decided to bang ’em both at once. God bless the U.S.A. and everyone involved.

School dismissed for the summer, after Chad fucked some school teacher from Owensboro, KY, shit the bed, and stayed with his buddy Darren for two weeks to think about the implications that shitting the bed of a school teacher might have. They philosophized about the said matter, drinking fine wine, and smoking expensive cigars. They discussed matters, over the fireplace, about the empirical evidence that the teacher might have possessed for the shit, the bed, and even her own existence. They stayed late into the night, drinking moderately, legs crossed, bringing up subjects about her epistemological knowledge, and if the said teacher could actually knew that she knew that he shit the bed, and such.

Darren and Chad found that they think, therefore they were, and shitting the bed of a school teacher, isn’t necessarily and bad endeavor.

After that, Chad went Arkansas to build houses. He was there for that whole tornado mess and went and scoped it out, hanging out with airplane racers and such, who advised that he head to the Gulf. Thus, he went to Alabama. Ensued were the musical festivals and a crazy guy named Steve (imagine that). He said he didn’t want me to write about it all, because it was a story for later, a seed I’ll plant, and possibly a book.

Then on to St. Louis, where the car quit working; he stopped at Paul Wideman’s, from Bare Knuckle Choppers. That will come up later.

Then on back home, and immediately upon return, Chad and I met up again at a fine European restaurant. It had fake grass out front (I know, what in perfect hell??) and we ate shitty pasta. Now you might be wondering why this is important, but I assure you, you’ll soon discover that Chad and I found the answer to life and everything, and along with that the next presidential candidate for none other than the U.S.A. and this guy, we utterly promise, will bring about change. Not like the change Obama talked about, but like real, in your pants, change.

The waitress at the European restaurant was insane. I’m not sure how she acquired the job, but she was blonde, and had a sweet ass (oh, wait…). So Chad acquired her telephone number and we all decided to attend the Chester, SD street dance. We confirmed that she was insane after a few beers, and her endless rants to the wall (and sometimes to us) along with the fact that we lost her several times and somehow she always managed to find us (or someone brought her back to us and told us to leave again). Then we found him, the next presidential candidate for the free world: Monterio Busserio. He was the biggest bastard in the bar. He had a huge beer gut, epic, and covered it cleverly with bib overalls from the 1920s. He hat was sideways, but not because he was trying to be a 16 year old black rapper, but because it remains difficult to put on a trucker hat when you’re 350 pounds and have ingested approximately 38 Bud heavy beers. After the crazy blonde and Monterio Busserio began their lengthy discussions about how best to run the country (her mostly screaming to other folks and the walls, and her shitty childhood, and Monterio Busserio literally carrying her along) we all in the end, came up with Monterio Busserio’s slogan for when you all have to vote for him. And thus we proclaimed loudly into the night, “Monterio Busserio: What the fuck can he hurt?”

Then later Chad was banging the chick, our father out front of the house he was at in a boom truck with one of the other drunkest guys Chester has to offer. Nick and my old man started rocking the boom truck and put that fucker all the way up that it could go. Then Nick came in and had a discussion with Chad while he kept pounding away at her. And she was cool with it. I think she’s still uncertain to this day if anyone is ever really there when she talks, as this was testament to that. Monterio Busserio still remains pending for presidency.

Then there was Jason and Jamie’s wedding reception, which the philosopher Darren was also a part of. I don’t know this whole story, but I hear they picked up strippers the night before, whilst taking it easy of course, and brought them to the reception. They got the strippers, themselves, and even the rest of the wedding party (yeah, how the fuck? you might ask) kicked out for little things such as breaking things that were to remain intact, burning things that should have stayed unburnt, and unclothing people that should forever remain clothed. They left the strippers in the parking lot and peeled out of their like people running away from strippers. Exactly like that.

When they got to the strip club, they discovered two limos and the philosopher Darren, ever philosophizing, remarked, “Wouldn’t it be funny to run on top of those two limos?” and before he finished the sentiment, Chad was out the door. He landed on the windshield of one and kicked it in, driver inside. So then they bailed.

Next they went to Fryin’ Pan for food, but since all the staff was probably scared of their motley crew, they decided to best spend their time by Chad’s buddy, Shicky, snorting a line of Tabasco off his chest (as they were fresh out of strippers and coke). Some chick recorded that I heard. Chad fucked her. I bring up this story because Austin was asking for a ride to the airport at about this time, because he wanted to go fishing in Alaska. So Chad just gave him a ride to Seattle instead. That whole story is already on the Internet; look up “Trixy the Portland Cab Driver Stories” or something along those lines.

Some sort of revolution happened in all of this and another year of Sturgis was upon him. A few of his buddies, immediately upon arrival, shoved some cocaine in their noses and they all stole a golf cart. After they tested out the structural integrity of a fence (which failed miserably) they crashed it into the biggest cottonwood that the philosopher Darren had ever seen (of course he would notice).

The next day they got whacked again, and after an Outlaws concert, they went around putting Darren’s Slingin’ Ink stickers all over virtually everything. Expensive paint jobs on bikes, boobies, etc. Then, so I’ve heard, Chad fucked some chica in the ass in a 4×4 tent that smelled somewhere in between terrible and worse, due to the fact he’d been in it a year and the maid had yet to come around and clean. He came out, hard-on intact, smoked a pound of grass naked, and laughed his ass off about the story Kai, the hair farmer, told about seeing a pig and a cat fighting in Puerto Rico.

Next day it was a Cycle Source ride and Chadly’s bike fell apart. So naturally, he drank a bunch of moonshine and hopped on the fender of Darren’s bike and they did burnouts and wheelies through the Buffalo Chip. Then they took the clothes off some powder coater’s wife, did more wheelies, lost Toni, the usual. And since Kai did a burnout through the crowd of people diving out of the way, Darren followed suit doing so as well. The slight nuance between Kai’s story and Darren’s regarding the burnout, was that Darren managed to run over a guy and his gal after going airborne over a hill. The guy, angry, bashed in Darren’s head with some of his buddies. When Darren came back to the crowd, face messed up, his friend Teach grabbed a gun and a tire iron to go and find the guy that beat up Darren. Darren, in his infinite Taoist-like wisdom, advises Teach that perhaps he should not go and kill the guy that beat him up because it could have quite possibly, maybe, somewhat, in some universe and timeline, maybe been Darren’s fault after all. So they drank moonshine to ease the pain and passed out under the moon….shine.

Since Darren couldn’t sleep, due to the bubble wrap (why not, fuck I couldn’t make this up) he came in and slept with Chad, preferring the 180 degrees of stinking humidity to the bubble wrap of P.J.’s tent. He was wearing the one item of clothing they all had between them. They burned the tent to the ground after the final coffin nail of stink had been put into the faithful sheltering device. Chad did some shots for the mag, almost died, Chris finding hilarity in it, and finally went home.

After that escapade, Paul at Bare Knuckle Chopper begged for help long enough, and Chad wound up helping him. Then there was the holiday party, and they lit everything on fire, to wrap this up. Ask Chris about that tale.

That’s the best insight I can offer you. Nobody really ever knows anybody, but you can begin to make your assumptions and everything else the humans do, based on this little article. He walks and talks, he eats and drinks and rants and writes. He’s like me and he’s like you; he’s infinitely different and better than we should all hope to be. He’s my friend and my brother. Chad breathes oxygen, and smoke.

Saying I know anything about him would be saying that I know something, and I know, truly know, that I know nothing. So find him yourself, if you have the time. It’s life, and you’ll continue to live it, and so will he.

See you in the wild.

-Cole Lemme

380215_10150423842991118_814676117_8687444_1232836062_n

One thought on “Do you know Lemme???

  1. I just read Lemme’s wiring article in Cycle Source – an EXCELLENT article ‘splaining that stuff to non-electrically inclined people. It really does kinda sound impossible if ya start getting into the technical type explanation. And the wiring diagram was superb. Great job Mister Lemme, Sir!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *