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, a Hessian from So Cal, 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 in 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 1996 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
More Then a Feeling

Chicken Town

Stairway to Heaven
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
DDMC Patch and Dice Retired October 1996
Red and White patch