Filthy Few Dirty Dozen
I am writing this so the District Attorney of San Diego and others who don't get
it, hopefully will. It began for myself, and about 6 or 7 others in the late
summer of 1968. We had gone on a run with a heavy California club, who
also had been around since the early 60's and still is around today. The run
was a 3 day, either in the Camp Verde or Cottonwood area. As of a lot of
things, because it was almost 45 years ago, and as messed up as our young
minds could be at that time, I can't be exactly sure where we were. But I can
remember the setting. We were near a mountain creek, it was dry as hell with
scrub cedars and jack pines everywhere. Hot as Hell in the day, cold as a
Montana winter's morning at night. Must have been 60 or 70 of us, counting
women, a couple of locals and a few of our hippy friends. These were typical
runs of the 60's, like Bass Lake, Big Bear and others. No shinny new chain
owned hotels, or a nice perfect little camp ground. We were where no one
bothered us. Really rough country where even on our scoots, we hoped for a
cool afternoon mountain shower.
The women were in tight jeans and shirts, who became a friend in a short time.
They had strong legs from riding a pee pad on a narrow 30inch Ford rear
fender; their legs up to their chest; jammed against a hard sissy bar, never
once complaining as they were among very few in the middle 60's who
experienced that joy and fear. Choppers everywhere, tucked in a bush for
cover, your tools on a blanket with the red dry dirt as a floor to sit or sleep on.
See it in your mind, picture it, long haired scarey Viking looking type people, in
a day where a buzz flat top or fresh weekly clean cut haircuts were needed to
land a job. No long hairs wanted, whether a surfer from California, a hippy
from New Mexico or Washington, or a person who rode a Harley-Davidson
chopper, be it a Pan, Shovel, or any modified H-D. We were all connected and
we had a lot of love for each other. We were real outcasts. The good news is
nobody knew what was going on; we just called it a "Happening". Our pals
from the West Coast like us, were outlaws. One of these guys was a 1%er. (I
talked a little of him on Page 3) Though we were outlaws in our club, we had
no 1%er. In 1968, that was very new and it really meant something else to us.
Myself and a few others without a doubt knew that. 1%er then meant
something most do not understand today. So how did Filthy Few happen. (At
least that day in our lives) About 9:00 PM a big gathering in a small clearing
among the cedars and pines, real dry and dusty, the dirt covered our boots.
Clear and fucking cold. Choppers every where, Arizona and California
licenses, Knuckleheads to Pans and new Shovels. Food is still out on the
tables we made when we arrived, tons of beer from a local Mom & Pop
grocery. They hit the jackpot, as all the local business people did and enjoyed,
from us showing up. Around 10:30 PM, after the beer, whiskey, and grass
kicked in, guys who'd been wrestling and slap fighting wore out, a incredible
thing happened between us and the other club as around 35 of us gathered in
a huge circle. Full patch holders and prospects alike. There was a lot of love
and respect going on; Hard core brother love.
Today, that's rarely found, hugging a brother from another club without fear or
tension. I met Goat, who had become a friend in a short time. Everything he
said ended with the word "tic", like: "wait a tic"; or "we'll be there in a tic"; or
"move that, just a tic". In the two weeks I'd spent around him, I was saying it
also, pretty crazy but all the other club guys were calling me Nicatic.( Goat was
killed that fall near Ventura on the freeway ). Guys who were firing off their
guns just quit, and almost at once this huge circle formed, with the Dozen and
the California club. The only light was from a big fire in the center. The guns
were holstered, some guys had their rifles strapped on their backs, and a few
guys had sawed off shot guns strung on their shoulders or stuck in their pants
like myself. I remember one guy with a full banderole across from me and
most of all no tension, no fear - instead, respect and love. It's a shame you
can't experience that today with clubs you don't go around too much, cause
you're really missing something - tension and fear sucks. Back then, we were
so new, ex service men, college drop outs, local blue collar city working guys
and a bunch of red neck farm kids. All who had a love for a harley, a wild long
hair look that was as different today if you were to walk naked painted orange
in Mississippi . We were back then, so different that cops and Feds didn't
know what to do or how to react, a lot of them were scared shitless. Once I
fought two in my driveway; try that today. Now, 35 or 40 guys are locked arm
and arm and in the center were two full Patches, throwing pills in each
member's open mouth, when the wild-eyed crazy fun lovin' brother came up to
me with Goat and Hog Jimmy (my compadre) on my right and left, and said,
"open up Brother and take a swig". So I did, and chugged a big drink of Jack
Daniels he held. And he was gone to the next guy. Goat said, "Fuck! I gotta
think a tic, but I'm sure it was acid (LSD) but I reminded him there were more
then 4 or 5 pills brother and some were reds and white crosses. I knew this
neighborhood we were in was going to go nuts. Whiskey and more pills kept
coming with endless grass. Some said later there was peyote buttons too. The
only way you could stand up was the two brothers on each side of you.
About midnight, I noticed about 15 or 20 had dropped off the circle. Some
crawling off to their bikes and some just fell crashed in the dirt. The guys left
hollered and hung on to each other tighter. Our minds completely blown. If you
tried this over 50, you'd surely die today. With Hog Jimmy to my left and Goat
to my right, I made up my mind I was going to commit this thing or die trying.
But because us left the circle had love for each other we held on somehow.
There had been other parties the Dirty Dozen held earlier that summer with a
new Texas club at the South rim of the Grand Canyon and had a great time but
not like this one. We suggested to them, we keep Arizona as our state and
they keep Texas, and that today is still the way it is. Around 2:00 AM, there
were fewer of us left, maybe 10 to 12; the circle was small now, we were
fucking filthy, dirty, dust had turned to dirt, our boots were covered with grime
and piss, (We pissed as we hollered and yelled) some guys now pulled their
guns and held them to there pals head and than to their own, laughing their
heads off, it was one crazy trip. My head was down and I was in a stupor
when I looked up, as the drugs and whiskey kept coming and the circle was
down to 6 or 7. Hog Jimmy (who and myself had been in certain altercations
with others) in one crazed moment yelled out, "We are the fucking Filthy
Few". A year or so later, I was with some of those same people in a certain
situation, when FFDD meant something new and more to us. Our patch in
1968 was black and white as well as our tabs, never any other color. We
were a club often accused of violence and crime, while most clubs than scared
the straight community, ours scared other clubs. Some "writers" knew for sure,
we were the dominant club in Arizona in that time in history and say, the Dirty
Dozen was excessive even by biker standards, and though based only in
Arizona, the Dozen had a national reputation and the number one reason for
the Dirty Dozen Motorcycle Club to end up behind bars was assault, followed
closely by weapons violations. We only cared to live or die each day and
actually, quite a Few did. In our day the Dirty Dozen had beaten off all the
rival clubs like the Vagos, Devil Disciples, and the Mongols to keep Arizona
ours. We did party with them from time to time but it was always understood
no could set up there. Our allegiance was always to the HAMC, and in
October of 1997 our club did patch over to the Hells Angels. A few of us from
1966 had campaigned for 31 years for this. I personally have always liked
other clubs and felt for our best interest, was to get along, just as we did that
crazy night by a creek in the mountains in old Arizona. Its my hope today that
could happen with all 1%er clubs, the bad guys aren't each other, we're all
pretty much alike. I had a Mongol write the web site, he was in a wheelchair for
over twenty years, put there by a bullet in a shootout. He mentioned one of the
nicest people he'd ever met was Sonny Barger when he was on tour. When
they quit talkin they hugged and parted and wished each other well. I thanked
him for that. I think he must be a good man. Tic
I am writing this so the District Attorney of San Diego and others who don't get
it, hopefully will. It began for myself, and about 6 or 7 others in the late
summer of 1968. We had gone on a run with a heavy California club, who
also had been around since the early 60's and still is around today. The run
was a 3 day, either in the Camp Verde or Cottonwood area. As of a lot of
things, because it was almost 45 years ago, and as messed up as our young
minds could be at that time, I can't be exactly sure where we were. But I can
remember the setting. We were near a mountain creek, it was dry as hell with
scrub cedars and jack pines everywhere. Hot as Hell in the day, cold as a
Montana winter's morning at night. Must have been 60 or 70 of us, counting
women, a couple of locals and a few of our hippy friends. These were typical
runs of the 60's, like Bass Lake, Big Bear and others. No shinny new chain
owned hotels, or a nice perfect little camp ground. We were where no one
bothered us. Really rough country where even on our scoots, we hoped for a
cool afternoon mountain shower.
The women were in tight jeans and shirts, who became a friend in a short time.
They had strong legs from riding a pee pad on a narrow 30inch Ford rear
fender; their legs up to their chest; jammed against a hard sissy bar, never
once complaining as they were among very few in the middle 60's who
experienced that joy and fear. Choppers everywhere, tucked in a bush for
cover, your tools on a blanket with the red dry dirt as a floor to sit or sleep on.
See it in your mind, picture it, long haired scarey Viking looking type people, in
a day where a buzz flat top or fresh weekly clean cut haircuts were needed to
land a job. No long hairs wanted, whether a surfer from California, a hippy
from New Mexico or Washington, or a person who rode a Harley-Davidson
chopper, be it a Pan, Shovel, or any modified H-D. We were all connected and
we had a lot of love for each other. We were real outcasts. The good news is
nobody knew what was going on; we just called it a "Happening". Our pals
from the West Coast like us, were outlaws. One of these guys was a 1%er. (I
talked a little of him on Page 3) Though we were outlaws in our club, we had
no 1%er. In 1968, that was very new and it really meant something else to us.
Myself and a few others without a doubt knew that. 1%er then meant
something most do not understand today. So how did Filthy Few happen. (At
least that day in our lives) About 9:00 PM a big gathering in a small clearing
among the cedars and pines, real dry and dusty, the dirt covered our boots.
Clear and fucking cold. Choppers every where, Arizona and California
licenses, Knuckleheads to Pans and new Shovels. Food is still out on the
tables we made when we arrived, tons of beer from a local Mom & Pop
grocery. They hit the jackpot, as all the local business people did and enjoyed,
from us showing up. Around 10:30 PM, after the beer, whiskey, and grass
kicked in, guys who'd been wrestling and slap fighting wore out, a incredible
thing happened between us and the other club as around 35 of us gathered in
a huge circle. Full patch holders and prospects alike. There was a lot of love
and respect going on; Hard core brother love.
Today, that's rarely found, hugging a brother from another club without fear or
tension. I met Goat, who had become a friend in a short time. Everything he
said ended with the word "tic", like: "wait a tic"; or "we'll be there in a tic"; or
"move that, just a tic". In the two weeks I'd spent around him, I was saying it
also, pretty crazy but all the other club guys were calling me Nicatic.( Goat was
killed that fall near Ventura on the freeway ). Guys who were firing off their
guns just quit, and almost at once this huge circle formed, with the Dozen and
the California club. The only light was from a big fire in the center. The guns
were holstered, some guys had their rifles strapped on their backs, and a few
guys had sawed off shot guns strung on their shoulders or stuck in their pants
like myself. I remember one guy with a full banderole across from me and
most of all no tension, no fear - instead, respect and love. It's a shame you
can't experience that today with clubs you don't go around too much, cause
you're really missing something - tension and fear sucks. Back then, we were
so new, ex service men, college drop outs, local blue collar city working guys
and a bunch of red neck farm kids. All who had a love for a harley, a wild long
hair look that was as different today if you were to walk naked painted orange
in Mississippi . We were back then, so different that cops and Feds didn't
know what to do or how to react, a lot of them were scared shitless. Once I
fought two in my driveway; try that today. Now, 35 or 40 guys are locked arm
and arm and in the center were two full Patches, throwing pills in each
member's open mouth, when the wild-eyed crazy fun lovin' brother came up to
me with Goat and Hog Jimmy (my compadre) on my right and left, and said,
"open up Brother and take a swig". So I did, and chugged a big drink of Jack
Daniels he held. And he was gone to the next guy. Goat said, "Fuck! I gotta
think a tic, but I'm sure it was acid (LSD) but I reminded him there were more
then 4 or 5 pills brother and some were reds and white crosses. I knew this
neighborhood we were in was going to go nuts. Whiskey and more pills kept
coming with endless grass. Some said later there was peyote buttons too. The
only way you could stand up was the two brothers on each side of you.
About midnight, I noticed about 15 or 20 had dropped off the circle. Some
crawling off to their bikes and some just fell crashed in the dirt. The guys left
hollered and hung on to each other tighter. Our minds completely blown. If you
tried this over 50, you'd surely die today. With Hog Jimmy to my left and Goat
to my right, I made up my mind I was going to commit this thing or die trying.
But because us left the circle had love for each other we held on somehow.
There had been other parties the Dirty Dozen held earlier that summer with a
new Texas club at the South rim of the Grand Canyon and had a great time but
not like this one. We suggested to them, we keep Arizona as our state and
they keep Texas, and that today is still the way it is. Around 2:00 AM, there
were fewer of us left, maybe 10 to 12; the circle was small now, we were
fucking filthy, dirty, dust had turned to dirt, our boots were covered with grime
and piss, (We pissed as we hollered and yelled) some guys now pulled their
guns and held them to there pals head and than to their own, laughing their
heads off, it was one crazy trip. My head was down and I was in a stupor
when I looked up, as the drugs and whiskey kept coming and the circle was
down to 6 or 7. Hog Jimmy (who and myself had been in certain altercations
with others) in one crazed moment yelled out, "We are the fucking Filthy
Few". A year or so later, I was with some of those same people in a certain
situation, when FFDD meant something new and more to us. Our patch in
1968 was black and white as well as our tabs, never any other color. We
were a club often accused of violence and crime, while most clubs than scared
the straight community, ours scared other clubs. Some "writers" knew for sure,
we were the dominant club in Arizona in that time in history and say, the Dirty
Dozen was excessive even by biker standards, and though based only in
Arizona, the Dozen had a national reputation and the number one reason for
the Dirty Dozen Motorcycle Club to end up behind bars was assault, followed
closely by weapons violations. We only cared to live or die each day and
actually, quite a Few did. In our day the Dirty Dozen had beaten off all the
rival clubs like the Vagos, Devil Disciples, and the Mongols to keep Arizona
ours. We did party with them from time to time but it was always understood
no could set up there. Our allegiance was always to the HAMC, and in
October of 1997 our club did patch over to the Hells Angels. A few of us from
1966 had campaigned for 31 years for this. I personally have always liked
other clubs and felt for our best interest, was to get along, just as we did that
crazy night by a creek in the mountains in old Arizona. Its my hope today that
could happen with all 1%er clubs, the bad guys aren't each other, we're all
pretty much alike. I had a Mongol write the web site, he was in a wheelchair for
over twenty years, put there by a bullet in a shootout. He mentioned one of the
nicest people he'd ever met was Sonny Barger when he was on tour. When
they quit talkin they hugged and parted and wished each other well. I thanked
him for that. I think he must be a good man. Tic
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| Chicken Town Stairway to Heaven |
| "CHICKEN TOWN" lyrics |
| Early Days Dozen video Link to U-tube video. featuring my old brothers: special tribute to Billy "Burr" Bridell, Pres. also Kenny Dunn "Bombo", and Jimmy Simpson "Hog Jimmy" and the rest of the boys Look for Billy on Video 2 "Good Old 8mm from Way Back" at 7:50 seconds |
| Top left to right: Rooster, Fat Al, JB, Woody, Ride Off, Myron, far right Stick with son Middle: Chef, Bush, Buffalo, Perfect, Drifty, Fast Bob, Greasy Middle - 2nd row starting in front of Myron: Rusty, Fly, Flash, Smitty (fucking rat piece of shit) Bottom: RB, Forehead, Smiley, Dick, Snooz, Little Jimmy, Wrong Way, Freddie, Joanie, Grumpy Bikes: Drifty, Rooster, JB, Little Jimmy, Stick |
| "TIC" |