Here’s how it always went down: I was a good kid, no problems, and every once and a while I got a bag of candy and a stack of books. My brother didn’t shove a kid into a school toilet headfirst more than once a month and he got a motorcycle. Seriously.

One I remember most vividly was a Honda Z-50, a small dirtbike. The other, several years later, was an Indian, a beautiful, sleek, spanking new machine. Around the same time, I got a pet rabbit, no fucking joke.

I was young still, because I remember never even thinking there was a remote possibility that he would ever let me touch it. But when he was out, on another of his goodwill tours of our neighborhood, I would sit with it and stare, like it were a beautiful woman speaking some exotic language. I was transfixed. For hours.

Fast forward to tonight, and I have been sitting here for hours checking out some amazing photographs of custom motorcycle builders, their work and their workspaces.

The photographs live in a hardcover book “GODSPEED 45/06—Document No 2” the second in a quarterly series of photography books— “collections” as the photographer, designer and creator Cicero deGuzman, Jr., refers to them.

They are artfully documentarian, in style and spirit, and, at 160 pages, the hard-bound book lingers on subjects long enough to give each a deeper resonance, at least in my own head. I really dig its gorgeous photographs and the hand-hewn look of its design and I think you will, too. After all, you’re on selectism.com; at this point we know that you think like us.

Anyway, this is the third in my gift guide series. To recap: 1) Diane Birch’s awesome Bible Belt, 2) a splendid Billykirk wallet; and now 3) “GODSPEED 45/06—Document No 2,” ($75—ships worldwide) and is available at godspeed4506.com.

This purchase supports independent art, rewards independent art and, whether you’re male or female, its presence on your coffee table may actually get you laid.

Yes, it’s that cool. Trust me.

Went to a sports bar today called the Village Pourhouse, because I wanted to watch my Minnesota Vikings. It was mobbed with fans from about a half-dozen NFL teams. They were loud and drunken and the mood was teetering between joyous and forlorn, depending upon whose team did what.

I sat at the bar with my stomach in knots, next to this cute young transplant from northern Minnesota named Darby, also wringing her hands while the Vikings were vikinging, which is to say, teetering on the edge of collapse. She was funny, and neurotic—characteristics of a true Vikings fan— and clearly enjoyed being able to watch a game she loved, in a room full of men without being hit on.

Early on, her boyfriend joined us, and he was a good bloke, but had to leave halfway through the third quarter. We were busy trading war stories of disappointment, when some yokel approached, wearing a Liverpool FC jersey, although he was a Yank. Sigh.

I had begun texting a friend, and he casually slid between us and began hitting on her. She was polite enough, but he was insistent. Where do you live? What do you do? How come the Vikings?

So she kept engaging me in conversation, trying to dilute his presence and, hell, I’d talk to virtually anyone about the Vikings. It was cringeworthy when she told him she had a boyfriend. (He looked over at me and nodded, for some unknown reason.) And then, with five minutes left in the game she stood up, shook our hands and left the bar.

For the next five minutes, as I tried to soak in another shocking Vikings win, he was extolling her looks and personality. I was thinking about how bad I felt for her. Came in wanting to sit among furiously intelligent, like-minded Vikings fans, and had been driven from the bar by a relentless gentlemen crawler.

How dumb are men? Who tries to pick a woman up in a sports bar? For a woman to subject herself to a sports bar she is either a devoted girlfriend or an actual sports fan. The bars themselves are cold, they smell and they are filled with guys clapping loudly. Can’t men just extend women the same courtesy that they are extended? To be left alone, when they clearly want to be? That was a rhetorical question. Of course men can’t.

Before Darby left she said, “See you next week” and, sadly, I had no doubt that she was lying.

The other day I purchased a bag of candy that tasted awful and I threw it away. That almost never happens. Okay, that never happens.

What was surprising was that it was from the Sour Patch family of awesome confections. They were called Chillerz and they were supposed to leave a cooling aftertaste. That was the plan anyway.

In reality, they tasted like a bag of Sour Patch kids that had been smoked through a Kool menthol cigarette. I was forced to assault a pack of Sweet Tarts, just to clear my palette.

I was dumbfounded. How could this have happened? SPK were like 356-0, in terms of releases. Exploderz, Fruits, Sour Patch Extreme, even Christmas Kidz—and in a whole bunch of flavors. All well received by my gullet.

And then…this? What a brick. Other than adding new flavors, I usually hate brand extensions in candy. Giant Nerds? Suck. Nerds Rope? Atrocious. There are about five too many kinds of M&M’s and, let’s face it: if anyone wanted a white chocolate Reese’s peanut butter cup, they would have asked for it decades ago.

I haven’t written an angry letter to a corporate entity in a bit, and this seems like a great opportunity to get back into the swing of things. Not because I think they care, but because it’s the right thing to do. And also because I’m, you know, me.

The 50LB Head has had a terrible season. Awful, dispiriting, disquieting, even. It’s been bad.

It pains me to write these words, because I have always taken great pride in the team. But this season, without two crucial draft picks, and a series of achingly close losses, the 50LB Head toppled and was unable to right itself. As one would expect.

I am, of course, referring to my fantasy football team. I have been playing fantasy football for 20 years, with my college friends, and I really enjoy it. I begin to look forward to our annual draft in South Jersey for about two months leading up to it.

The actual drafting is half of the fun, the rest is just to see everyone and laugh at each other’s relative misfortune. And 2009 was a misfortunate year for a lot of us, for sure.

Early on, after I moved to NYC, I think some of the guys thought I would drop out. Another guy who moved to the city did. It didn’t help that his replacement didn’t exactly fit in. When asked to choose a team name, Eric chose “Cancer.” Literally. He was gone after a year. But I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be there at end of days.

I came up with the name 50LB Head after watching what has since become my very favorite movie, “Withnail & I.” It’s the scene where Withnail is reading a newspaper story about a giant man on a rampage and imagining how much his head would weigh while fantasizing about what the man could do to a normal-sized person. He also then wondered rhetorically about the size of another part of said giant’s anatomy.

For a few years, at the beginning of this infernal decade, I did exceptionally well, winning three of four titles. I was a good champion, too, complimenting other teams and always falling on the side of “it’s only a game” whenever a rules dispute would arise. I had my designer friend design a logo for the league. Those were heady days, for sure. (I’m just foolin’.)

But, since then the 50LB Head has stumbled. Badly. And after two crap seasons, I am vowing here and now to come back stronger next season.

Hey, it’s called “fantasy football”. I can dream, can’t I?

Currently, GG is watching a movie that’s so boring, I’ve unsuccessfully tried to will myself into a coma. Twice. So dull that the TV keeps turning itself off and I’ve become increasingly concerned that the cable box will chew through its own cord, in an attempt to save humanity. Or at least mine eyes.

It’s starring Kenneth Branagh, and the best thing she can say about it is that, “he clearly hasn’t had any work done.” My standards, apparently, are slightly higher than that.

But only slightly. Next Thursday evening I am going to see “Until the Light Takes Us,” which is a documentary about the satanic Black Metal scene in Norway in the early 90s. I wrote about the scene a while ago—Mayhem’s live album “Live in Leipzig” heralded the true beginning of the end of the super raw non-commercial Black Metal. That has been replaced by the less raw but super non-commercial Black Metal of today. (No I’m not making this shit up.)

In the early 90s, Norway was rocked by church burnings, murder and cannibalism under more “corpse paint” than the Jackson Family wore at Mike’s bye-bye party. All kinds of interesting stuff and best of all, it’s a documentary, which I like, and it’s about music, which I lurrrve.

In that half of its key participants are either dead or in jail, I applaud the filmmakers for their perseverance in garnering enough usable content for a 90-minute film. Surviving a Norwegian winter, if you are used to living, you know, on Earth, isn’t easy either. And trying to talk to guys who are probably loath to link themselves to the criminal element especially after all these years, must’ve been like pulling teeth. Not to mention, the legion of former Black Metallers who are coherent is probably limited to those in the film. And some guy living in Ostmarkestra, whose wife is suspicious, especially considering his back tattoo, which consists of a church, in flames.

I know it’s so ass-backward way to discuss a movie before I’ve even seen it, but I already know what my review will be: Dark, suffocating and violent, “Until the Light Takes Us” is not for everyone. Just smart folks and Satanists, although not necessarily in that order.

(rubbing hands together)

Oh boy, I can’t wait.

Okay, so I’m just going to come out and say it: I have synesthesia. I’m not ashamed. For many years, I wasn’t aware what the disorder was called. I just knew that I had it. And now? Shit, if that old lady from Family Ties can come out of the closet, I can fess up to my big secret.

What does it mean to be a synesthesiac? Well, you see colors whenever someone mentions a letter or number. So, during my entire life, whenever I see or hear the number “5”, I see red. Literally. A “J” is purple and a “9” is green.

I assumed everyone was like me. Over my 19 (or so) years on this earth, I have broached the subject many times, unsuccessfully, which has led to my sinking feeling that I was the one that was not like the others. My mind has been racing and doubling-back since I was knee-high to a Shrek. I just deal with it by eating candy and typing.

It’s funny because I have always been a bigger fan of the mind, rather than the brain. To me, the brain is like a supercomputer, all wires and bleeps and blips. It’s how you remember directions, and people’s names, and how to operate an espresso maker.

But, in my eyes, the mind is like a vast evening sky filled with stars, and those are the uncommon thoughts just waiting to be plucked. Those are the things that pop into my head—and yours, believe me, you’re no picture of normalcy—when we are pretending to be paying attention to other citizens.

They are also what we usually suppress unless we are with like-minded people, when the meteor shower begins and all sorts of nuttiness manifest itself in any number of ways. Does this sound familiar to anyone? Anyone?

Hey, pay attention when I’m talking to you. Okay?

I was out with Carvalho last night and for about the tenth time we have spoken, emailed, IMed or whatever, he complimented the same past post of mine, which I called, “Greater Than”. Naturally, I took the hint.

This is what I think:

Cross-Checking > High-Sticking, however, Boarding > Cross-Checking

Strip > Filet, however, Rib-Eye > Strip

Methhead > Crackhead, however, Cokehead > Methhead

Betty > Peggy, however, > J-J-J-Joan > Betty

“Dugout” > “One Hitter”, however, “The Pinch” > “Dugout”

Drew Brees > Tom Brady, however, Peyton Manning > Drew Brees

‘B’ > ‘A’, however, ‘C’ > ‘B’ (Ahem.)

Honey Turkey > Turkey, however, Smoked Turkey > Honey Turkey

Marvin > Sam, however, Otis > Marvin

“Jackass” > “Douchebag”, however, “Dick” > “Jackass”

Dave > Conan, however, Craig > Dave

“Intervention” > “Celebrity Rehab”, however, “Hoarders” > “Intervention”

Shooter Jennings > Hank 3 however, Zac Brown > Shooter Jennings

H1N1 > Flu, however, SARS > H1N1

Pink Lady > Fuji, however, Honeycrisp > Pink Lady

When you talk incessantly, as I do, you sometimes forget what you spoke about with whom. And since I am too lazy to go back and read my past posts, I thought I cross my fingers and contradict my previous stance on Twitter debate, hoping that I haven’t done so before. As Tom Waits would say, “Stop me if you’ve heard this one…”

Early on, I ridiculed Twitter, as I found it to be too navel-gazey and filled with a bunch of people who posted tweets like “eating pizza with Rob.” But what has happened in the intervening months since then is a) I have found cool, new people to follow; and b) the people whose hearts were never really in it have quit filling my inbox with their nonsense.

Usually, I follow people in fits and spurts: trying to find the right balance of those who have a serious opinion and funny folks. But sometimes the velocity of their posts will go a long way toward me deciding whom to follow. If you are, say, “singer” Rob Thomas, I give you a few weeks of reading about your mundane life before punting. But if you are Rose McGowan? It’s 36 hours and don’t let the door hit you on the way out of my “Following” list.

I have a few favorites, both new friends and old, who know who they are, and I have developed a nice back-and-forth with them. And there are others that I can tolerate because they rarely pop up. That would be people like Crispin Glover and, say, Norah O’Donnell.

But, despite the naysayers, Twitter is only going to get bigger from here. Because the very fact that my fifteen year-old niece can know what Taylor Swift is doing at any given moment, and perhaps even interact with her on a “me too!” basis, will give this thing longer legs than Gisele.

Now if you will excuse me I am in the process of direct messaging with someone how foul Saturday Night Live was last night to make fun of domestic violence (with Rihanna as the musical guest). And also reading what the grand dame of Twitter, Alyssa Milano, has to say about the coming protests in Iran.

In 140 characters or less.

As we have discussed on numerous occasions, I am a consumerist in the best and worst senses of the words. I like stuff, sure, but only good stuff. GG calls me a secret snob. Watches, sunglasses, cashmere anything—I’ll take it. And now: my Billykirk wallet.

Now, I know Chris Bray, a co-founder of the company, reads this space (as his awesome column lives mere inches away from mine), and so very likely he will be reading this (unless the last cripple joke pushed him over the edge) but I have to say: the zippered leather wallet that I just got from his company is the best wallet I have ever had. Ever ever.

For fifteen years, my wife, a luxury goods maven, has been trying to find me a wallet that I won’t destroy. After a few misses, we had settled on an LV waxed whatever wallet because they are sturdy. One usually lasts me about three years. But I occasionally felt like self-consciousness pulling it out and would keep it close to me whenever I fished in it for money.

Yet I have always wanted a zippered wallet and so, the day before Thanksgiving, I was surfing the internet (it’s gonna be big, I tell you) and checked out the billykirk.com site. All kinds of good stuff there. All handmade by the Amish, so you know it’s legit. It’s not like they have anything to distract them from work.

And, in case you were wondering, it is beautiful hand-stitched leather and a big-boy zipper, not one of those crappy ones that bust. You know which zippers we mean.

So check out the site and upgrade your leather goods (and more) with these fine folks. Support small businesses run by cool people. Billykirk meets both standards. Not to mention, the stuff’s better and the money you pay goes into the craftsmanship and not marketing budgets.

As you may have guessed, I have decided to create a de facto Holiday gift guide, with something new every few days. First Diane Birch’s Bible Belt, now a Billykirk wallet. When I finish with you, you’ll be a secret snob too.

Congratulations, in advance.

All I wanted was a shot. It was a slim hope, I acknowledged last week when I met three friends from the UK in Minneapolis to watch the Vikings grave dance on the Chicago Bears, a team whose fans have apparently been eating whole cows bathed in barbecue sauce. These fuckers were so fat—and keep in mind that this is coming from me— that I was afraid critters were going to scamper out of their neck pooches and bite me. But I digress…

I had been awaiting today’s 32-team World Cup draw with a fervent hope (as my friends can attest): I wanted England. I wanted the United States to play England, before some insanely talented squad like Ivory Coast or Spain, snuffed the life from us.

Mostly, though, I just wanted to see my British friends sweat. I’m no fool. The US team heads into South Africa with two of its best players hobbled; and even at full strength, we’re not really a match for such a mighty nation playing its core sport. We split our best athletes seven ways and are no closer than three World Cups away from semi-finaling.

If you are an American playing collegiate soccer in the US you’re either gay or a rich kid. On the English squad, they have some rough customers who have probably killed people back behind pubs in their sooty little villages. I see Wayne Rooney and I picture him digging hole by flashlight. I look at Landon Donovan and I see him at day camp with the Feldman twins from Bel Air.

But the thing is: you never know with sports. Anything can happen and everything has. Soccer is an emotional endeavor. An early cheap goal and we could be looking at Portugal in 2002.

And then I get an all-access pass to the nerves of my British friends for the next thirty years.

Give or take.