In the world of motorcycle clubs, nicknames often paint vivid pictures, and “Crazy Richard” was one that piqued curiosity. Richard, despite the moniker, seemed far from unhinged, especially when compared to some of the other characters orbiting Funny Sonny. Sure, Richard carried a formidable cane, crafted from steel and rebar, but necessity, born from a past motorcycle accident, seemed a more likely explanation than aggression. When questioned about the nickname, Mississippi Charlie simply stated, “Because of the way he killed that guy,” and that was the end of that discussion.
My introduction to Funny Sonny, or Leonard Martin Selig to those less acquainted, was anything but ordinary. Working at a radio station, answering request lines was part of the daily routine. One call began with a casual, “Hang on a second, Bro., the cops are here.” It was Sonny, requesting his usual anthems, “Gimme Shelter” and “Magic Bus,” a weekly ritual. The detail about police presence, however, was a new layer to the usual request.
It turned out the police visit was for someone else, a “Doc,” allowing Sonny to return to his musical preferences and, more importantly, extend an invitation. “Hey, what’re you doing for the 4th of July?” he boomed through the phone. Hosting a beach party, I spontaneously invited Sonny, unaware of the entourage that would soon follow.
July 5th arrived, and with it, an impressive convoy. Funny Sonny, Pork Chop, Mississippi Charlie, Crazy Richard, Freaky Fred, Bear, Doc, their partners, and a collection of gleaming choppers descended upon my beach house. My 4th of July party was still going strong, a fortunate coincidence for the newly arrived biker gang.
Sonny, upon our first face-to-face meeting, seemed slightly taken aback. The booming voice on the radio didn’t quite match the 5’6” person in front of him. Yet, a connection was instant, a silent acknowledgment of brotherhood that transcended physical stature.
Sonny was a man of many marriages, and his weddings were legendary events, meticulously planned. The year after our first meeting, my beach house became the venue for his eighth wedding. While traditional wedding photos of the bride were abundant, the photographic focus also extended to the lavish food spread, the well-stocked bar, and, of course, the bikes, each captured from every conceivable angle.
The bachelor party, the night before this particular wedding, was set to take place at a bar a few miles down the beach. A small group of us, the inner circle, arrived first to gauge the atmosphere. Bikers weren’t always welcomed with open arms, so a preliminary assessment was necessary before the main group arrived.
Crazy Richard, Pork Chop, Sonny, and I were the advance party. The bar had a good vibe, friendly faces, but one table was occupied by what seemed to be college athletes, already well into their drinks. Trying to assert their masculinity, they started with the typical taunts, “Biker this,” “Biker that,” escalating to threats. We ignored them, wanting to avoid confrontation, occupying ourselves with the video game, waiting for reinforcements.
Richard’s patience finally snapped. A swift backhand sent one of the athletes sprawling. Three more stood up, ready to escalate, but Richard grabbed a nearby table, hoisted it above his head, and brought it crashing down, splitting it in two. The athletes, reconsidering their bravado in the face of Richard’s unexpected strength and the looming presence of Pork Chop and Sonny, quickly apologized and carried their teammate out. We apologized for the damage, offering to pay for the table, but the bartender simply smiled, “Happens all the time! Not a problem!”
By closing time, the curb outside was lined with forty bikes. We had significantly contributed to the bar’s profits that night. Leaving the bar turned into a spectacle.
As Sonny stepped out, a tractor pulling a hay-filled trailer, packed with Christian youth on a hayride, was slowly passing by. Sonny, with mock dramatic tears streaming down his face, pleaded with the driver to let him join, claiming he’d never experienced an authentic hayride. The driver, seeing forty bikers cheering Sonny on, readily agreed. Sonny’s bike, never having been on a hayride either, was hoisted onto the trailer, joining him for the three-mile journey back to my place.
The next morning brought two mysteries for Sonny: how hay had infiltrated his motorcycle, and how it ended up in my living room. I, myself, was puzzled about the logistics of getting the bike off the hayride trailer.
Regardless, the wedding was that evening!
My graveyard shift at the radio station meant I couldn’t stay for the entire wedding celebration. Returning home later, I found guests asleep in every room. In my own bed, I discovered my girlfriend and a harmless fellow nicknamed Hobbit, sharing the space.
At Sonny’s ninth wedding, I was bestowed the honor of ring bearer. I performed my duties with flair, riding a child’s tricycle in a floor-length leather coat, mimicking a comedic fall from Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In before presenting the rings.
With thirty Harleys encircling the swimming pool, as the officiant pronounced them married, all the bikes roared to life in a thunderous salute, announcing the union to the heavens.
On one memorable occasion, seeking pure amusement, I brought Funny Sonny, wife number eight, and Freaky Fred to a party in an upscale neighborhood, hosted by advertising executives. It wasn’t long before Sonny, in his element, began disrobing, revealing a large, flaming Harley Davidson tattoo across his back. Freaky Fred, lacking indoor manners, not only removed his pants but also detached a section of the bar countertop. We were politely asked to leave early, but the media attendees had a story to recount for years.
True friendship, however, is tested in adversity, not celebrations. Diagnosed with a serious brain tumor requiring three surgeries, two at the Mayo Clinic, I faced a daunting period.
After the first surgery, Sonny visited me daily in the hospital. His visits weren’t long or intrusive, but his consistent presence was a powerful message of support. When I went to the Mayo Clinic, daily calls from Sonny ensured I knew I wasn’t forgotten. These calls were brief, just enough to check in and offer reassurance.
Following the third, successful surgery, Sonny confided in me about a surprise party for wife number nine. True to Sonny’s nature, every detail was meticulously planned. He’d pick me up at 2:30 pm in his “cage” (biker slang for a car), with the party commencing at 3:00 pm at Glynns Cove Tavern.
Arriving from a side street, the first sight was impressive: three barrel barbecues, crafted from halved 55-gallon drums, welded with hinges and iron legs, filled with roasting whole chickens. Inside the tavern, tables were joined together, draped, and laden with food. As I entered, greeted by at least thirty bikers and their partners, the room erupted in cheers. Sonny, a gifted orator, presented me with a case of beer, declaring, “This party is to celebrate a life! That’s why this party is for you, Owl!” Tears welled up as more cheers and hugs followed. By 4:30 pm, still weak from surgery, I needed to nap before my radio shift. Sonny drove me home, another hug marking his departure.
Barely five minutes before airtime, I woke up, dashed across the street to the radio station, grabbed the news script, and ran into the studio. Opening the mic, I launched into the top headline: “A shootout between rival biker gangs has left two injured. The Glynns Cove tavern…” The rest of the newscast became a blur. Before the first record started playing, I was already dialing Sonny’s number.
Wife number nine answered, informing me Sonny was at a safe house with his Winchester rifle. Doc had been shot but was okay, already home. When I finally connected with Sonny, he recounted the events.
The party was in full swing when two strangers in rival club colors arrived. Sonny and Pork Chop, extending biker hospitality, welcomed them but requested they remove their “cuts” (club vests), a matter of biker etiquette at a private event. The two refused, escalating the situation to the point where Sonny and Pork Chop escorted them out.
Minutes later, Doc burst in, yelling, “GUNS! EVERYBODY DOWN!” Doc had been shot in the back with a .22 rifle; the jukebox also took a bullet. Police apprehended the two assailants quickly. Doc, thankfully, was fine, and the pain medication was a welcome relief, as he was out of methadone. No one else was injured.
This incident underscored a fundamental truth. There are two types of people: decent and indecent. My colleagues, who offered no support during my serious illness, contrasted sharply with Sonny, who was consistently there. My family, except for my mother, offered no welcome back after surgery, while Sonny threw a party celebrating my life. Friends from years past were absent, but thirty bikers and their partners embraced me in my time of need.
Sonny, for whom I would gladly risk my life, would do the same for me. My wife at the time, failing to understand this bond, forbade me from seeing him, hurting us both. He respected her wishes, and we lost contact for twenty-four years. I never blamed him.
Learning of Sonny’s death in July 2010 brought profound sadness. There was no chance for a final goodbye. Even in death, Funny Sunny Biker taught me about true values, the best in people, and who to trust.
Gerry Garcia once observed that bikers are transparent. Their image is clear, and the potential for danger is acknowledged. In contrast, those in suits can deceive, earning trust only to betray it.
When the world ends, I hope to be surrounded by bikers. When my time comes, I hope to reunite with Sonny, climb onto the back of that cream-colored Harley, and finally ride, balance maintained, ride free.
