Hell’s Angels are the modern day equivalent of a survivor of the Great Society. Between guns and butter they are the discarded whey, the misshapen shells that don’t fit in chambers. Hells Angels fell out of the cracks, living a wild animalistic life, homeless and displaced, a product of social machinery railing against social machinery. In our processed lives, regulated by public policy, measured out in 9-5 work days, something called identity or ‘politically correctness’ is cultivated out of the uncarved block. When we see ourselves a kind of identity, homogenized so that our individual selves, what makes us human is left out, domesticated and breaded. Our vanilla is the creamy center, contained. Hells Angels no longer have a creamy center — they have an exploded middle — permeated chaos.