A Gypsy Poem From Wango Tango

“There's a race of men that don't fit in,  a race that can't sit still; so they break the hearts of kith and kin, and they roam the world at will. They range the field and rove the flood,  and they climb the mountain's crest; theirs is the curse of the Gypsy blood,  and they don't know how to rest.” 

Phillip "Little Phil" King

As the web master I get all kinds of emails and guest book entries. Some of the inquiries are interested in how to become a member while others are former members who reminisce about the old times and ask about members they knew decades ago. In March I received an email from a fellow named “Aceman”. It seems his wife’s uncle was an early member of the Gypsy Motorcycle Club. I began communicating with Aceman and learned some very interesting things about his wife’s uncle and the early history of the Gypsy MC. If you’ve got an interest, like I do, in Gypsy MC history, you may find this an intriguing story.

The member in question was Phillip “Little Phil” King. Aceman told me that Phil was killed in June 1976 while riding his bike in Ingleside, near the VFW. A drunk driver pulled out in front of him and Phil wasn’t able to avoid the collision. He sent me a photo of Phil’s colors that piqued my interest (insert pic of black rockers). The colors had an early Gypsy patch and, to my surprise, the Gypsy, MC and USA patches were all black. This signified that Little Phil was a member of our founder, Papa Jack’s Chapter that was established in 1972. I sent Aceman a return email giving him some basic information about the Club and the status of “black rocker”. Aceman returned my email with a photo of the front of Phil’s colors. By current standards Phil’s colors were sparse. There was a Harley Davidson #1 patch on the right side of his colors and, on the left was an AMA patch and two officer’s patches: a “National Sgt at Arms” and an “International Sgt at Arms” patch. The plot certainly started to thicken for me at this point. The early patch, the black rockers and now the national and international sgt at arms patches began to tell a very interesting story.

I Am Fallen Brother by Gyspy Truck

I Am Fallen Brother
I was sitting on a concrete table outside the dealership when Mouthpiece called. "You goin' on a run this weekend?" he asked. I told him that I was not planning on it, but what did he have in mind? After we hashed out a couple of ideas and options, we settled on making a 24-hour turnaround to the Pickle Party, which is exactly what we did.

I went to work after the oil change at the dealership, finished what I had to get done, and then went home to pack my little tail bag with the essentials: pillow, blanket, t-shirt, toothbrush, and cigars. The excitement built as I anticipated the road, and eventually being with my Gypsy family that night. You know exactly what I mean, right? If you go on runs, O faithful reader, you know that feeling. A mini-vacation. A family reunion with family you actually like. A party with non-judgmental people. Those feelings were still fresh from the previous run.

Just a few weeks before the Pickle Party, a pack of us left from Big EZ's house to ride to Fallen Brother. Another fast turnaround trip. But that ride was for much different reasons than most of the others. This year's Fallen Brother was specific for me, and the rest of my chapter for that matter.

As many members of the Gypsy nation know, our Houston Prospect J2 went down at the end of 2012 in an accident that came very close to killing him. As I sit here writing at the beginning of springtime, he is still in the hospital, slowly healing day by day. I go see him, and every time I have this fantasy about him being all better and back out on the road. Some days I imagine that the accident never happened. He should still be riding with us. And that hurts.


Gypsy MC Good Samaritans

2013-02-09 Massacre FNNB
I received the following letter written by Ron Andersen from Gypsy MC Int'l Secretary Elite. Elite had received the email from Ron who had sent it to the Alamo City Chapter. I did a little checking and found that a former New Braunfels member and then Alamo City prospect, Joshua (tragically killed on his bike in March) had been our guys who had initially stopped to assist. They called Area C SA Zero, his wife PowWow and Parachute who brought a trailer to the scene of the crash and rescued the bikes. Although we never like to hear a story of an injury accident involving a motorcycle it's great to know that our members are always ready to help with "Good Samaritan" actions.

What follows is Ron Andersen's email of gratitude to members of the Gypsy Motorcycle Club (the photo is of me, Raoul, with several New Braunfels members at Alamo City's Massacre):

On September 28, 2012, in Selma on IH35 I was behind my son. We were on a bike ride to Temple and back. Nearly home the traffic started to slow. One car cut in front of another etc. My son washed out his bike at 60 MPH. This was a very serious accident. 


Gypsy Holiday Wind Therapy by Wango Tango

So the holiday season is here again with all its activities for Christmas, Hanuka, Kwanzaa, Mayan calendar planning, etc. This time of the year also brings about undue stress in people causing an assortment of maladies such as melancholy, depression, Mad Hatters syndrome, and football game addiction that usually result in you having low feelings of self-worth or thinking that somewhere there is a Gypsy dartboard with your picture on it.

This is totally not true…Only the Big D Chapter plays darts. Just kidding… Hey come on Gypsy brothers and sisters and really cool independent people who are enjoying this article, you are loved; always remember that you are loved. I don’t care who you are: Someone somewhere loves you. Thank You Mom I promise I’ll call you Sunday… Ahem… Okay if you ride you know the best thing for the blues is “Wind Therapy”… Can I hear it again brothers and sisters? Feeling blue and wanna feel brand new? “WIND THERAPY.” That’s right. Nothing clears the head better than a two lane back road on two wheels at cruising speed. Breathing in that fresh air, wind blowing through your hair, farm animals everywhere… BUG! BAM! Ewww… squishy… tastes like Grandma’s boiled squash.