Morninghater

Welcome little one

2007-11-06T15:02:00.001-08:00

Name: Scooter aka "Scoot tek" "Scooterino" "Scootbutt"

Affiliation: New member of the Tek Rebellion

Home: Portland, OR

Owners: Joetek & Sarak Ryckebosch

Loves: Balls (of the tennis variety, non human); dreaming of killing cats, squirrels, etc...; sitting on laps; much attention; tracking owners around the house; eating crusty spot on his back

Woven in fabric

2007-11-02T14:01:00.000-07:00

It has been some time, hasn't it? Anyone left out there still reading this from time to time? I was just looking at this blog and realized I've had it since 2004. But lately it has been quite inactive. Maybe I'll put some more work into it. If I get at least one response to this I'll post more often, if not, fuck it I guess. Need to go put some tape on dead wood, yet again.

For Yoni, from Morrissey

2007-05-30T21:09:00.000-07:00

I was looking for a job and then I found a job, and heaven knows I'm miserable now.

Here

2007-04-22T18:04:00.000-07:00

City fades background
giant grey recedes into memory.
Hey, we're back on the road
endless miles, seems too much
stretched out far, so damn far.
This is the last, absolute last time I do this.
Shipped goods, shipped hearts.
Sometimes I walked around that place and felt proud.
Temporarily satisfied that I was doing it, that I was there, living.
Romantic notions of a place best kept at a distance.
Yes, we existed there. Now like some old dream just slowly
forgetting the details.
Here, we are here. This Pacific Northwest with its green,
its wet, its mountains--jeweled city in the forest? Perhaps.
Some time will be taken to adjust. Another new place, more new faces,
new jobs, new hopes, new takes on life. A return to form? Perhaps.
At any rate,
we're here.

So that's that

2007-03-23T10:04:00.000-07:00

Hmmmm, so we are done. I mean no more 8917 69th Rd. Forest Hells, NY 11375. Interesting. When I usually leave a place I feel something, but leaving here I don't really feel anything. Good I guess. I didn't really want to feel anything other than relief. And at approx. 11:00 am this morning, I got a call from Sara saying that we indeed did get back a percentage of our deposit, which is good, but I honestly thought we were not getting anything.

It just seems weird not to have to make that long walk back out to the far reaches of Queens anymore. After today there is nothing there anymore; just an empty shell of an old, decaying, overpriced, tiny apartment situated above some of the most annoying neighbors we've had in a while. Worse than the old hippies who lived above us in Albany, way worse. I'll take hippies any day over sullen scallywags who get up to smoke at 8:00 every morning. Fucking sick shit.

Just like that its over, its over, its over, its over....wow, IT IS OVER! We kind of came full circle, really, 'cause now we are back in Astoria, the same place we were during or transitory period in between finding a place in Forest Hills. Kelly, our gracious host, has put us up again for a short time--a real short time this time 'round. After tonight we'll hit the road and then we'll be truly gone from NYC. The place will just recede into the background and it will remain, always, even though I think the entire city is in serious need of an overhaul. But hey, this place is gonna be here no matter what, and nothing I've done here will be of any consequence to anyone; no marks left behind, no one better or worse from my presence here. No amount of pass slapping cars, yelling at neighbors, writing in blogs, working at law firms, walking streets, breathing cold air, playing in parks, going on hikes, and drinking expensive beer will be of any substantial meaning to anybody. I was here, we were here, we lived here, we existed here. Like some film reel spilling out images in reverse all over a floor, there we lay, Sara and I, and little snapshots of our time here; little snippets of this surreal life that we've endured while in NYC.

All of these buildings here, all of these mad people, all of this superficiality will rise and fall, but we'll be far, yes, far gone and away from here. Like a dream, this place never existed. Can you remember it now? I can't, I just can't.

Haikus for exiting (previous NYC posts remixed)

2007-03-21T13:12:00.000-07:00

speak backdrop glass

someplace else running

half smile on my face

an oozing bum

somewhere in the recesses

anachronistic against the backdrop

dizzy and falling

visage in the city of 8 million

his presence remains

television set climate

in and out at every shaky stop

switched off and dormant

a river of beige and brown

creates a shimmering sound

hordes of euro trash

the wee hours of a tuesday night

steaming breezes of sweaty men

technology strapped to her expression

this dude's a total asshole

emerge lost and disoriented

upon the crusty floor

you in turn slap or kick

a fake, a fraudulent

friendly Californian

thinking or using

lost or confused

zombie like commute

dark quiet street

very beaten down

musky air of morning

all human, all warm, all shapes

I feel stealthy

can exist without falling

millions of people shitting

pressure every now and then

walk right by me, as I do them

my hand hurts and my knuckles are bloody

silly vocals to get in the way

bounce around up there, echoing

another 30 minute rumble

crumbling cityscape

unlike the unmagic magician

my stop approaches

sound gathering night

queens half asleep

caught a glimpse of myself

nobody there to say goodbye to

this city's fascination

eat like a human being

background image

days slipping

frozen pillars of salt

break free and walk

life a living hell

a man with baggage

ochre colored accent

screaming at some

unknown party

responsible for people

walked down the street

this is just the beginning

or end

westward

Heliotropes

2007-03-15T07:40:00.000-07:00

Weird reddish haze this morning as I drove Sara to the airport. She'll be in Portland, OR, our future home, scouting things out for a few days. I'm left behind alone here in the rotting apple. Drove back easily enough, though I was afraid I'd get lost like last time when I drove home from Laguardia Airport. Didn't want to be stuck cruising around Queens half asleep with my pajamas on. Strange morning, odd dreams still lingering and swishing around in my head.

Came back to our crappy little apartment and all was quiet there, 5:45 AM, probably the only time it is ever like that. Went back to bed to try and get some sleep before work. Set the alarm for 8:00 AM. All I need is just 1 hour more of solid sleep. Took forever to find it, but I finally did. Woke up to the buzzing alarm; its jarring sound resonating within one of my post waking dreams; real fast, quick images, and buzzzzzzzzz! I slowly rose from the lonely bed and headed for the shower. It looks so much nicer in there thanks to Sara's tireless work on it. Need to make this place look nice for our departure, need to get back as much security deposit money as we can, though we might not get anything. Breaking your lease does not necessarily grant you what you want.

Out of the shower and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, forgot I got a haircut yesterday, looks funny, maybe too short. Looks like they gave me one of those US Marine issue "high and tight" haircuts. I've always hated those moronic hair cuts and now I have one. Oh well, when you are partially bald the only way your hair looks any good is when it is short. Fuck it all, fuck the way people look.

I finally got dressed and took my time leaving the apartment. Nobody there to say goodbye to so I just easily walked out the door. Walked down the street and it was actually warm, almost humid. Seemed strange to be warm all of a sudden. The heliotropes are not here but somewhere they flourish radiantly.

Proustian Slumber Part II

2007-03-13T07:40:00.000-07:00

The smells and sights of my dreams

Sage brush and the rotting carcass--in the desert behind the juniper bush after a light rain.

Skateboarding with great ease.

Lost in a landscape, dark, no exit, wake up fast, heart beating...

The old backyard and mysteries hiding behind the fence.

Fragments of people I once knew, they come in and out of frame, some blurred together to create people slightly recognizable.

Talking too fast and not conveying what I want to, information lost in speech, inability to speak, nervous.

Catalina Island--summers spent there, fragments thereof, smells of greasy food, fishy pier, suntan lotion...

Sequential, short, "speed dreams". As if I'm fast forwarding through mindscapes in order to find the correct dream to dwell on for a while. Weird.

Are you prepared to save the...

2007-03-12T09:39:00.000-07:00

These strange and vivid "choking victim" posters appear at virtually every eatery in NYC. Some look a bit different than the one above, but they all basically convey the same thing: if somebody, anybody chokes in your presence, it is YOUR responsibility to save them. How fucked up is that? Talk about putting the pressure on going out to eat. Not only do you have to wait hours to sit in little cramped dining spaces, and spend exorbitant amounts of money on food that isn't even that great, you also just might have to save that big lard-ass sitting at the table next to you because he engulfed his steak too fast and started choking. I ask one question: should I be responsible for people who are in too much of a hurry to not chew their food properly? Answer: no.

I do not agree with this city's fascination in getting things done quickly. It is a major societal flaw in my book, and it extends into the population's eating habits. I've seen men crossing busy city streets trying to cram down a pizza slice while smoking, drinking coffee, and talking on their cell phones all at the same time. If he chokes, fuck 'em, he'll learn next time not to try and do a million things at once, if there is a next time.

So, I guess it makes sense why city officials would want to put these things up for all to see. Others cities in the nation don't have these ridiculous things posted everywhere. Only here in New York. New Yorker's pride themselves on being efficient, even if it means almost choking to death because you have no time to sit, relax, and eat like a human being.

I especially love the background image on the poster of what appears to be a pregnant belly with fish bones and a lemon wedged in there. Once again, NYC is one fucked up place, sheeesh. But you should still visit to see these things first hand. Truly unbelievable.

What a strange and surreal trip it has been

2007-03-04T15:19:00.000-08:00

leaving California, the West slowly vanishing in the rear view mirror

the long long road

more long road

driving for eternity

stops for fuel

stops for food

stops for sleep

the continued drive, forever

my past leaving me

what's to come?

lay ahead, many lies ahead

who knows

strange passing faces

terrain becomes unfamiliar

going further than ever before

worried, anxious, excited

old thoughts kept under check

don't want to ruin this

want to give this a chance

landscapes rush by

brown

green

brown

grey

days slip in and out

feel culture change rapidly

Chicago

Indiana

Ohio

NYC

Astoria, Queens

stinky

dirty

HOT as fuck

sweltering

these days pass

now memories

seems a lifetime ago

slow acclimation

too slow

FAST acclimation

more culture shock

days pass, days pass, days pass

a new job

some new friends

a new band

am I the same person I was...

3 months ago?

6 months ago?

seems forever

suddenly...

it is COLD as fuck

snow everywhere

end new band

long walks in the morning

longer walks home at night

learn to bear it

not learn to love it

wonder if I can ever truly love a place again?

feel like I don't belong anywhere anymore

so transient

(see all previous Morninghater posts regarding NYC)

see distant change

see a future

AWAY! YES, GET THE FUCK OUT!!!!

will do, will do

Westward again

plans are made

planning

waiting

still waiting

waiting

waiting

waiting

waiting

waiting...

Summoning

2007-03-02T14:47:00.000-08:00

Discontent breeds creativity

soon to change...

more on this later

This is why I'm Morninghater:

2007-02-08T10:33:00.000-08:00

rise from a detached dream
can't see the clock for the glare
Sara says, "get up!"
I'm up
cloudy eyes
sleep lingers
leave the warmth
for the shower
a slow trickle issues forth
try to fix
scorching hot water
scream and stomp
naked in the shower
scream some more
curse this morning
curse my life
hope people think I'm crazy
opt for the bathtub
water flows
squat to wash derf
wash hair at awkward angle
water everywhere
get up
get dressed
get out
another day
more arctic winds
sun don't warm
long walk ahead
somewhere a better life
far from here

Sordid Sentients

2007-01-30T08:59:00.000-08:00

It appears that with every new job I acquire there is endless opportunity to choose nicknames for co-workers. Who has time to actually work when there is bullshit corporate law firm time to waste with the name game? I did the same exact thing 4 years ago at a company in Oakland, CA. I did it again 2 years later at my prior law firm job in Berkeley, CA. And now I'll do the same exact thing here in the big rotten apple. Below is an ongoing list of the select people I seem to encounter on a daily basis. This list is open for interpretation and is subject to alteration/deletion at any time. It is highly biased, one dimensional, and exceptionally mean spirited. Let the good times roll.

Relics: Old lifers who are usually of the secretarial variety. They sit like frozen pillars of salt, eternally gazing into their computer monitors, wasting away year after year in a world that is quickly passing them by.

Sling: One of the many partners who has had his arm in a sling since I've started working here.

The Batwing: Insane, cracked out, hyper realistic secretary who speaks with an East coast accent and sounds like a squawking little child.

Legs yet: Paralegal with oddly skinny yet muscular legs

The Lump: Frat boy dickhead paralegal who seemed kinda nice at first but is ultimately a total douchebag. Called me a tourist one day. I should kick his fat ass.

Far Set: Extremely annoying paralegal with a pair of "far set" eyes. Like the singer from that band Garbage, but less attractive, if that is possible. One of the many overachieving, conceited, Ivy League paralegals who work here and make my life a living hell.

Lech: One of the cafeteria workers who constantly eyeballs all of the young women who come in to get their little sandwiches and sit to eat and gossip about superficial bullshit.

Screamer Sister: Annoying and immature paralegal who sits in the opposite room and talks loudly on the phone so that other can listen clearly to her screaming at some unknown party. Reminds me of my crazy sister.

The Uff: Strange and silent red headed attorney who always glares at me when I walk by his office. His last name is "Uff".

Skeletal Reception: Very irritable and mean skeleton-like receptionist whom I got into an argument with the first week on the job. Total bitch. The receptionists here are supposed to check everyone in when they first arrive in the morning. I do not agree with this rule and think that employees should be responsible for cheking themselves in. You can't really go anywhere in this place without having someone monitor your every move. Man, I gotta get the fuck outta this place.

More nicknames to come. This is just the beginning, or end. As always, NYC sucks and most of the people that live here can go to hell. Bye for now!

This morning (hater)

2007-01-23T07:29:00.000-08:00

Snow laden ground
East coast distance
two Queens women
gabbing on the corner
cars that do not stop
breath vaporous
cold hands
frozen ears
lame pants
cumbersome jacket
miss my West coast
never this cold

A man called Luis

2007-01-12T13:00:00.000-08:00

A day before the next day and thereafter. Always seems the same continues forth. Nothing becomes of some encounter made on the street, the bustling street, here in this decaying metropolis confined modern human zoo. Concrete paths with no real adventure--lead to where they may--may lead to edge of the city. Slimy grime and ochre colored water pools produce a stink like vomit on a rotten corpse--petrified, liquefied humanity.

Out to 43rd St. walk it like always up through the delusional faces, I pass so many. Who are all these people why are all these people? Stuck behind a man with baggage, not emotional baggage, real baggage. Wheeling it along I'm trapped in his wake flanked on all sides and nowhere to turn I must endure his slow gait for a while. Feeling frustrated I wanted to push him out of the way. In my mind he is already taken a beating from me.

I finally break free and walk around as he stares up at the sky. He's not fully aware of the situation here on this terrestrial plane--no time for star gazing in this city of un-imagination. I quickly ignore him and move along eventually ending up at the intersection of 43rd & 5th. A few seconds later and the baggage man is there standing next to me. I didn't know it was him until I saw his bags and then felt guilty for wanting to push him earlier.

I remain focused, ready to cross the street. But baggage man sees me and speaks, "Hi my name is Luis and I'm from Los Angeles I'm just here for work." Er...I didn't know what to say 'cause I didn't initiate this conversation. I'm reluctant but somehow the friendly Californian in me rears its inner voice and says, "hey, I'm Joe, I just moved out here recently from the West coast." Why must I always feel the need to give unnecessary information to strangers? I do this often without thinking or using my better judgment. I wish I could be stronger, more steadfast; blank look on face, say what I really want to say: "What, you talkin' to me? I don't give a shit where you are from I just want to get home!"

NO I cannot be like that and probably never will--some sort of internal firewall prevents it

unless really provoked, unless threatened, unless hopelessly lost and confused with a wild impulse to not give a shit at all. This man Luis talks friendly and I can see right away that he is a good person, an honest person. Just before the light turns green he pulls out his phone and asks for my number. Now, this is strange, and I don't know why he wants my phone number??

He says something about next time he's in town we should hang out. This is very weird but I can tell he means well and I sort of feel sorry for him; he seems like the kind of guy who just likes to know people from all over the place.

So just before crossing the street I give him my number--my real number. I could have easily given him a fake, a fraudulent number that would provide him nothing. Was I thinking clearly, what the hell did I just do? I'm not the type of person who randomly gives out his phone number to people on street in any city, anywhere. I tell nobody of this and proceed to extinguish it from my mind. As quickly as this happened it evaporates from my memory like some strange little dream--like it never really happened...

Fast forward to Thanksgiving eve in Ohio, 12 am in bed with Sara almost asleep:

My phone rings a strange little beep, the beep I recognize as somebody leaving a text message.

Wondering who this may be I get out of bed and go to check the message. It is there and it is surreal:

"Have a wonderful dinner today with your family...just remember same time next year it'll definitely be different!"

--Luis

Epilogue:

I explained the story to Sara and eventually fell asleep. I had the strangest most incongruous dreams I've ever had in my entire life that night. Everything from that point on was going to be foreign, but I believed I knew a little bit more about everybody just the same.

Gassed out

2007-01-08T10:50:00.000-08:00

This morning while riding the subway, half asleep, I entered Manhattan, and at around 42nd St. I smelled gas, not human gas, but city gas, like fuel or butane leaking out somewhere. It seemed strange at the time, but I quickly dismissed it and continued on with my zombie like commute through a sea of people and the crumbling cityscape. When I got to work I logged onto my computer and started reading the news. The top local story was about the strange gas smell I had just experienced. Intrigued, I read on to discover that nobody knew exactly what it was or where it was coming from; city officials and air quality control scientists could not figure it out. Nobody knew what was causing this mysterious gas.

But I knew, sure enough, that NYC had just let out a giant fart. Yes. This disgusting city with its overly populated streets, myriad subterranean tunnels, un-countable buildings, and millions of people shitting and pissing all over the place finally had enough of everyone else's gas and let out its own nice big smelly one. In a city this size you can't expect this to not happen sometimes. This place just has to release some pressure every now and then.

Today I experienced that. Call off the emergency, call off the National Guard, don't send in supplies, there are no terrorists, we'll be alright, just cover your noses and let the city slip out a few 'silent but violents'. It was bound to happen sometime.

Some things to come

2007-01-04T13:10:00.000-08:00

So anyone who has read this blog in the past or knows me is aware that I play drums. That is to say, I am a drummer. Seems strange to say that I am a drummer or any kind musician for that matter, but it is most certainly true; I am a drummer, I love to play drums, I love the feel and energy of playing drums. I think about drumming a lot, but I'm not one of those guys who wears his Zildjian hat and T-shirt and hangs out at the Guitar Center talking shop with the drum department dudes. Nothing against those types of people, but I think I'm just a little more unassuming than that.

Like the other day, here at this stale law firm, one of the annoying paralegals who I fortunately don't have to work with on a regular basis found out that I was a skateboarder. She said something like, "Oh I don't see that". What the fuck? What is there to see, you stupid little brat? I am me, and yes, I'm kinda balding and I wear glasses and I have to tuck in my shirt everyday. Sorry, I don't fit the 'mold' of some pre-determined skater stereotype that you've seen on the X-Games giving an interview and speaking in monosyllables. You see, this is the problem with the people around here; they want everyone to fit into some kind of easy little package so that they can figure them out, have them categorized and remove all unknown parts. The corporate world and the people who inhabit it want conformity. They don't want you to think outside the box, they want you inside the box and easily recognizable, digestible. Don't grow your hair too long, shave regularly, wear yer little slacks, and smile when the big douchebags and snobby rich bitches walk by. So what is my point? Oh yeah, drumming.

I want to continue drumming and I would love to drum again in a band. I will do this in time, maybe not right away, but it will continue. Just as skateboarding will continue in my heart and mind as well. These are a couple of major things in my life that I've had to cut back on since moving to NYC. Change is good, I know this, and I'm trying my hardest to accept it right now. I will not, however, change what I love and what ultimately makes up a large portion of my personality.

So this weekend I'm going to meet up with a band and give the drums another whirl. Not sure how it is going to work out, not even sure if these people will like me, but I'm gonna try it anyway. What the hell do I have to lose? I played in an active band for 6 years! We did more than your average little unknown indie band ever does. I'll report more on this next week, maybe.

Forward forever

2006-12-18T13:40:00.000-08:00

Man, what crazy action there is in here. Grand Central Station during the holiday rush. People stacked upon people. Faces become faceless. Rushing past. A few dozen 'shoulder checks' and nobody seems to care. For every one beating heart there are 1000 more to take its place. Walk into the magazine shop and and spot the old business men over in the porn section. Buy yer porn with pride. Everybody can see what you're doing. It takes a lot to shock people these days. A shop called Leper Kids, oh wait, that actually reads "Leeper Kids". No secrets are kept here--open for all to see, all the time, 24hrs. Even over in the Whispering Gallery, nobody is getting it right. The folks talk on cell phones instead of into the wall like they are supposed to. The fun little trick is lost to them, maybe forever. Glad I saw it when I could. Holiday laser light show in the Main Concourse minus the Floyd and weed. Families gaze up to see the kaleidoscopic walls moving in colorful patterns. Meanwhile, the operator actually is listening to Floyd through his headphones and just blazing away up there safe in his little heaven. Old men with disheveled comb-overs flapping off the sides of their heads. Nothing is gonna save you now, just cut that old clingy spider web off. Hundreds of voices converge in the echoing atmosphere and form some sort of incongruous language. Only the ghosts will understand/can interpret. Flanked on all sides are portals, portals leading to tracks leading to trains. These trains will transport these people to far away places. A quiet town, a small village, or another city. A place not here, but will make some sense to them nonetheless.

The Magic Magician

2006-12-12T07:18:00.000-08:00

Another day on the subway. Another 30 minute rumble on out to Forest Hills. This time listening to music with eyes closed. At around the Roosevelt stop I glance up and see a little Hispanic man get on the train toting what appears to be a modified shopping cart of some sort. Draped over the cart is a velvety red blanket with gold trim. I wonder what this guy is up to. He suddenly reaches into his cart and pulls out something that looks like a shoebox. This contraption he's holding has two open ends. He puts his hand through the whole thing showing that it is empty. He shakes it around a bit then taps it with his finger. He reaches in the box and pulls out a live rabbit. Hey, that was pretty good. I guess, once again, but not exactly like before, I've encountered another subway magician.

Unlike the Unmagic Magician, who was an intolerable asshole, this little guy seems rather pleasant and genuine. I like how he is not saying much, actually, he is not speaking at all. He puts his little rabbit away and reaches back into the cart. This time he performs a silly handkerchief trick. Each time he performs a trick he presents it to each side of the train, letting everyone see the outcome. I like the way he goes about his business. He stands in between the doors and does not rudely approach people. If you don't like what he has to offer you don't have to pay attention. But I was actually watching this guy because there was something kind of endearing about his whole act. Once again my stop is approaching and the Magic Magician appears to have one last trick in his cart of magic. He pulls out another handkerchief, this time wielding it around in the air. He snaps the handkerchief over his empty left hand and suddenly a small white bird appears there. Could've been a dove for all I know. He bows to the train audience and reveals a little sign that reads "Thank you". This guy was great and when he humbly walks around to collect money I give him all the change in my pockets. My stop approaches and I lift myself out of my seat to exit. I look around to see where the little man has gone. He is nowhere to be seen. Damn, real magic.

This half wrought thought

2006-12-11T13:41:00.000-08:00

My art gone like it never even began. Sorry not an artist, but liked the colors anyway. On a wall for a while. I miss the warm days rolling around. Quick up a curb and two wheels balanced across. Like nobody else. Too hard to find the similarities now. Behind a desk in a vacuum. Switched off and dormant until I'm triggered again. I can't speak what I want anymore. I can't express my expressions. Some friends made it better, always. I trust the past to know the future. Another job. Tuck in that shirt. Play nice to everyone I hate. Hate what I see coming. Love the fact that this is not permanent. Hopelessly unhip to the hip and much better now. Tape to dead wood. Dead wood to dead skin. Thwack! I loved the sound and feeling. Something I could do, a talent perhaps. Dead wood to metal to urethane to dirty concrete. Something I could do, a talent perhaps. Used to could. Dizzy and falling down sometimes. Getting thinner when I should be getting fatter. Maybe have some disease. I dunno, not crippled yet but a glance in reflective material casts back a weird visage that I do not recognize sometimes. Where'd that hair go? Why the long face? Getting old is strange. I know I can do what I did. No chances given here. Not the right look. The right voice. The right posture. The right sideways and multiple upsidedown perspective. Shadow cast on a windy street. What'd it say back to me? Maybe hid this winter somewhere in the recesses of a restless mind. Knowing it was going to be cold. Very cold.

Let the night roll in

2006-12-11T08:25:00.000-08:00

So I'm sitting here, in my truck, on a dark quiet street in Williamsburg. My wife was supposed to be here with me, but she opted to go to this sea shanties singalong gig in another part of town. We were supposed to both go and see this band called Maserati play tonight. I've seen Maserati once before in San Francisco and am familiar with their records. They are a very talented band in the post-rock, instrumental genre. I figure one of the few things keeping me alive out here is going to see some of my favorite bands play live when they come into town. Otherwise, it's usually just me, or me and Sara, or just me working at my boring law firm job with no friends and nothing to do every night of the week. I used to do all sorts of things back in California. I used to play drums in a band, I used to go skateboarding every day, I used to make art in our garage, I used to hang out with good friends during the week, I used to, I used to...

So for now I'm here, alone. I have a 32 oz. of Red Stripe between my legs and two cigarettes left. The Red Stripe was only $3 at the corner bodega, which is much better than paying $6 for a small plastic cup of it at the club. New York night clubs and bars charge exorbitant amounts for beer and liquor. I'm always perplexed by how these seemingly normal people, with normal jobs afford to eat, sleep, shit, and entertain themselves in this city. Everything is very unreasonably priced. On the average, I'd say that most of the food and drink is at least $2-$5 more than in California.

I drink most of the Red Stripe and have a smoke with the window down. I like this street right now. It is quiet and dark. A slight breeze pulses down the lane and rattles the naked branches of a tree nearby. I feel stealthy in a lame way. People walk by and I imitate them, mock their hipster flair. But look at me; I'm just some lonely guy sitting in his truck alone secretly smoking and drinking. I have to take a piss so I get out and go around to the back of the truck. Nobody is around and I lean up against a small tree to relieve myself. It is cold so I hurry and zip up then rush back to the warm interior of my truck. I figure now might be a good time to call some friends. The show doesn't start til 9:00 and it is only 8:00. I call Schuyler first and he doesn't answer. I leave a goofy message for him. It would have been nice to speak with him. I know if he were in New York right now he and I would be in my truck smoking and drinking and waiting to go to the show. We did this often back in California. Neither of us ever had much money to spend drinking all night at a show, so a cheap way to get a nice buzz would be to drink a few beers or whatever in my car before going in.

I call Yoni as well, he is not there so I leave a message for him too. Yoni is getting married next week in Chicago and Sara and I are very excited to witness this event and see all of our friends again. It seems so long since I've seen their faces, much too long. I have to piss again and get out to repeat the whole procedure. Come back in the truck and suck down the remaining Red Stripe. I look at my watch and think now is probably a good time to head down the street to the show. It is windy and cold as I walk down the sidewalk. Williamsburg is like something out of a 1920s depression era film, although every now and again I see little hipster boutiques, art galleries, and swanky little restaurants. If an area was ever gentrified to the maximum it is this place. I've been told that nobody set foot in Williamsburg 10 years ago, aside from bums and homeless squatters. Now, however, every dyed black hair listening Interpol fan from California to Ohio wants to live here.

I walk along with a strange little buzz in my head. I figure I might get one cheap-ish drink at the club and then I'll be set. I'm excited to see Maserati play, even though I know there will be tons of annoying hipsters present. I find the club down by the water. It is even colder down here. I look out across the water and see Manhattan glistening there in the stark night. I wonder for a second how this huge city can exist without falling apart on a daily basis. So many people crammed in there. Such little space and too many things in it. What is the attraction? Where is the payoff? I try not to let these things bother me as I walk into the club. While in there I enter the main room and it kind of reminds of Slim's in SF; big, open floor, long stage, warehouse style atmosphere, spacious. Not too bad, kind of how I envisioned this place might look like. I get a beer ($5 plastic cup of Stella Artois). I look around and notice people filing in, several. I wonder if they are here to see Maserati or the headlining band Zombi?

I find a litte area to sit at and warm up when all of a sudden my phone rings, I had forgotten it was in my pocket. It is Schuyler calling me back. Good to hear him. We talk for a bit and I tell him of my current whereabouts and what I've been up to all night. He laughs and tells me that if he were here he would probably be doing the same exact thing--drinking in the car and peeing on the sidewalk. We laugh and catch up on each other's lives. I notice battery power getting low so I cut conversation short, I also notice that the opening one man band is about to play. I say goodbye to Schuyler and tell him he should visit this strange city that I'm in someday.
One man band (can't recall name?) plays. Some dude with a cap pulled down low on his head. He is playing a looped/sequenced beat on a keyboard and layering guitar parts on top of it. Kind of cool sounding. At some point he starts shredding over all the layering and it sounds a little wanky to me. But the best thing about it is that he diffuses each layer on his way back down. By the time he gets past the last (or first) layer there is just a lone programmed beat playing. He presses a button and that's that...it all shuts down. I liked it. I go to the bathroom during the intermission and notice my phone ringing again. It's Yoni this time. I try to answer but notice the power very low and can't speak to him. I feel a sense of happiness that my good friends are returning my calls. Feel less alone in this city. Some ugly guy with long hair bursts into the bathroom because I didn't lock the door. "Oh sorry bro, didn't mean bust in on you!" I say it's no big deal and exit quickly.

I walk back to the stage area and see Maserati getting ready to play. I look around and notice even more people crowded into the club. Wow, I think to myself, maybe this band is more popular than I thought. Maserati set up with the drummer front and center. This is odd, but I remember them doing that before. I've seen A Minor Forest play and their drummer sets up right in front, but faces away from the audience. You get an interesting perspective from this viewpoint; all back, asscrack, and arms flailing about. The Maserati drummer disappears leaving the two guitarists and bassist on stage only. The guitars come to life and an interesting, building, echoing/delayed pattern is emerging. This goes on for a while as it gets louder and more intoxicating sounding. I'm really digging what is happening right now, just with the guitars. The drummer re-appears and takes his place behind his blue Ludwig see-through Vistalite kit. He starts with 16th notes on the hi-hat, keeps it steady, tapping away, building with the guitars. Suddenly, he snaps into a beat and the sound of snare, kick drum, and bass guitar fill the air. It was awesome. A perfect beginning to a set. They are much louder than I had remembered, but just as good, maybe even better now. The whole thing was mesmerizing. No silly vocals to get in the way, just pure instrumental bliss. Delay pedal fueled guitars head for the ceiling and bounce around up there echoing off all the walls of the club. Something about this is reminding me of early U2 songs, but much more dynamic and without Bono crooning over it all (nothing against early U2--they were good back then). The show was great, it was just what I needed at this time.

I walk out of the club and back into the cold, didn't even stick around for Zombi. It is only 11:00 pm when Sara calls me. I tell her that she missed a really good show, but was happy to know she was having fun with her friends. She asks what I'm going to do next, I say I don't know, maybe go home and eat some cereal and watch a recent Netflix arrival. And this is what I did, this is how I ended my night. The show was good, the cereal tasty, and the Netflix film very shitty. Goodnight.

Spoiled Brats in the Big Apple

2006-11-17T12:12:00.000-08:00

So I ended up getting another job at yet another law firm. But this is no ordinary law firm, or I should say unlike any other law firm I've ever worked at before. You see, this is New York, and in this city they like things all fucked up and ass-backward, i.e. the more difficult and challenging the better off . This firm specializes in corporate law, and when I'm here I don't really feel like I'm actually working for a "law firm" it feels more like some faceless business entity. So far I haven't heard anything uttered from the mouths of attorneys regarding court, judges, depositions, jurors, subpoenas, motions, trials, cases, etc...These are the things I am used to hearing at other firms I've worked for. Oh yeah, and another thing that differentiates this place from the rest is its penchant for hiring bratty, spoiled, conceited recent Ivy League graduates. Spoiled Brats in the Big Apple, if you will.

Damn, I truly hate these little snot nosed shitheads. They are all about the same age (median age is 22), and the majority of them went to some fancy college on the East Coast. "I went to Princeton" said one stupid little blonde brat to her friend. Another might exclaim, "I had soooo much fun at Harvard!" Oh my god, are these people for real?? Well, I went to Sonoma State! So look at you now, you little punk, how does it feel to work near a normal person who went to a regular ol' state university? I really do not know how much longer I can tolerate these brats. I don't even know why I'm working here. I got the job through a friend of a friend, and I really did not want to work at another law firm again. But due to certain unforeseen circumstances I leapt at the job offer and am now surrounded by a bunch of insolent twits.

Every corner I pass, every turn I make, there they are with their $600 pointy boots and flashy hair cuts. They gab away incessantly, gaze into their Blackberries, ready to make their mark, ready to prove that they can make it in New York City. They are so eager and so fake. Talking in circles about what they want to do, what they hope to become. I'd like for them to work in a dingy warehouse for six months with trashy 'real' folks who spit and curse and stomp and scream. I did this right after college; nobody handed me a $50,000/yr job. Ask me for a copy of Alstroemeria #2 for more details regarding my warehouse days. Fuck...fuck them and fuck the parents that spawned these wretched, vapid, insipid fools. I get so angry when I think about how my very talented wife is having such a difficult time finding a job, and these little fuckers graduate from an Ivy League school and are handed a well paying job on a platter. It sickens me to no end.

Hypocrite? YES! Perhaps I am a hypocrite because I actually work here with these people. BUT, there is no way in hell I would end up with this job if it weren't for my past law firm experience. I don't know....I don't even know what is happening anymore. All I can say at this point is avoid this city at all costs. It offers nothing and will give you NOTHING for all the hard work you put into it. There is no payoff here. This is hell each day. A new, vast, never ending hell. An eternal nightmare. No solace. No more quiet places. A constant rotation of anger, rage, sadness, and desperation. From the corporate lacky all the way down to the poor immigrant on the street trying desperately to hand you some flyer you don't want. It is grey, dark and cold. So inhuman that the people who inhabit it are just machines, just machines programmed to eat, sleep, shit, and work, work, work...

Pass Slapping

2006-11-10T07:34:00.000-08:00

Lately I've been into 'Pass Slapping' a term I made up for when you are walking through an intersection and suddenly a car pulls up to stop, but then doesn't and almost runs into you. You in turn slap or kick any part of the vehicle as it selfishly passes by.

In doing this I have thus far not gotten into a fight. I keep expecting to, and am always ready, but these people don't even stop after I've hit their car. I'm not talking about a light swat or an innocuous kick, I talking full on hard slaps (even punches sometimes) preferably on the rear windshield, or forceful kicks into the back end--enough to make a nice little dent : )

I know these drivers do not stop like they are supposed to because most New Yorkers are selfish, stupid, ignorant, careless assholes. But I also believe the reason they don't stop, even after I've hit their cars, is because they feel guilty. It is as if they know they deserve what happened. I think it takes something dramatic like that to make them reflect, to let them know that they are not the only people on the streets. I keep expecting somebody to react, stop, get out of the car, something, anything! But nothing really ever happens after a pass slap--the vehicle might slow down a bit, maybe to make sure they didn't run me over, and I know they see me standing there, but they continue on, apparently ashamed of what they've done.

I don't care what anyone says; these cars that do not stop for pedestrians are always at fault, no matter what, there is absolutely no doubt about it. When you own a car and drive it frequently you take on a huge responsibility. I think a lot of people, especially these East Coasters out here have lost sight of that. Their impestuous ways can equal an irreversible tragedy. Maybe they don't care, perhaps nobody cares anymore.

So I look at myself; what have I become? I've never been this aggressive before in my life. I'm just a skinny, balding, glasses wearing white guy trying to live each day in this place. It is so hard sometimes, so hard. I'm not a fighter, I'm not a tough talkin', tearin' shit up kind of guy. Most people just walk right by me, as I do them. This city is out of control and I will not allow it to tear me or my wife apart. I'm trying to make a stand, I'm standing up for myself for once in my life. And if that means slapping and punching and kicking cars for not behaving correctly, so be it. I know I am not a physically strong person, but I'm still a fucking PERSON. You stupid fucking New Yorkers.

As I write this my hand hurts, my knuckles are bloody and sore from punching a van's rear window this morning. I know, I should have just pass slapped it, but my vehemence was at an all time high and I just couldn't stop myself from connecting a nice solid punch to the big shiny window. I thought maybe I cracked it, but alas, no. The van actually slowed down for a minute, I thought the driver would get out, but nothing. It speedily took off into the musky air of morning. I went to work feeling a little empowered, but also very beaten down and disappointed with this place.

fall into

2006-11-03T07:28:00.000-08:00

my ailments
are common
yet
somehow
seem
too important
***
UN's narrow spires
like grey Lego blocks
echo jackhammer
back into
bustling streets
***
overpriced M food
for the hungry
mouths
$1 more
than I
knew before
***
giggly females
insipid
inane
$200 flip-flops
laugh their way
through
ivy leagues
***
I was "J. Douchebag"
once
at a Halloween party
a parody
but now
in this city
a frightening reality
all too apparent
the real 'douchebags'
exist
a plenty
***
a nice fall day
fucking harsh city
contrasted
conflicted
I hope to take
some of this
Eastern sunshine
albeit weak
into me
for dark will come
***
beyond these confines
Sara and sister
those whom I only
care about here
took a beautiful hike
through
blazing leaves
crisp air
on a Sunday
a day I normally revere as:
bleak
destitute
uneventful
trudging
but made much better
and needed
during these
complicated times
in dystopian city
***
my friends
please don't slip away
'cause I'm afraid
I will
never
see your
faces
again

Harness and Energy

2006-10-30T12:19:00.000-08:00

Walking around this city and seeing so many moving shapes, all human, all warm, all thinking, all cognizant, all hearts beating, all blood flowing, all minds on (well, most for that matter). What if someone was able to harness all of this energy, to capture it and make use of it? Imagine the limitless possibilities. I see a waste of energy everyday. There is so much potential here and nobody is taking advantage of it. I bet this city could run on pure people power alone, not from them actually working but from them working and not even knowing it. Wire all these fuckers up and let's see what they can do for us. I think old Bull Lee would be into it, and the Mugwumps as well.

Proustian Slumber

2006-10-24T13:20:00.000-07:00

My dreams as of late have smelled of this past:

3rd grade meals in the cafeteria--smells of creamy corn and chocolate milk

Perfume my grandmother wore--floral and powdery

The old garage--smells of dust and wood and benign chemistry set liquids

My sister's room--hairspray and saccharine perfumes

Ancient Christmas ornament box--dusty with old plastic and pine scents

My cousin's kitchen on a Sunday afternoon--the post roast simmers slowly, fills room

Buttermints on the table--in a glass vase, smells sweet and comforting

The hatchery--sulfuric eggs that have not hatched, but rather exploded during incubation

The plant--visiting with my father, smells of death and wash, ammonia and hot flesh

Home after a long summer vacation--a smell that can't be put into words

Tile bag in the Scrabble game--smells like old cupboards in a clean house

Patrick's Underwear

2006-10-16T18:27:00.000-07:00

My friend Patrick sent me his boxer shorts. They were "too tight" he said. Patrick lives in Berkeley and suffers from Asperger's syndrome, which is essentially a form of Autism. Patrick is a good guy, he lives independently and tries his best to fit into this demanding world. Hell, I don't suffer from Autism, and I have a hard enough time adapting to these confusing modern times.

So, Pat emailed me and said asked if I wanted his new boxer shorts. For a long time now Pat has been obsessed with underwear, T-shirts, shaving cream, after shave lotion, deodorant and Dr. Pepper. Pat can consume a 20 oz. DP in under 1 minute. I've seen him do this and it is insane. He does not drink water, ever, and never eats fruit. He hates onions as well. I do know that autistic people have very specific needs and preferences. Pat is no stranger to this. He has been known to randomly appear at our door (when we lived in CA) and thrust small samples packets of after shave lotion into our hands. It is such an odd offering, made even stranger by Pat's inability to properly greet someone. There is not so much a formal, "Hello, how are you guys?" as there is, "Hey, I have these things here, do you want them?" We might not see Pat for weeks, and he'll appear or call randomly, launching right into a speedily spat conversation about whatever new situation he's gotten himself into. I usually listen, but sometimes have to cut him off because it is very difficult to hear him talk only about shaving cream for ten minutes straight.

Anyway, yeah, in the above picture I am wearing Pat's underwear. They were clean and freshly laundered upon receipt. I think Pat would be proud of this, though I don't think he would approve of the photo of me in his chonies. Pat, if you're reading this, the boxers fit fine. Thanks. I think I'll keep 'em.

The Unmagic Magician

2006-10-13T10:25:00.000-07:00

Half asleep and drifting in and out at every shaky stop, I sit weary and hungry on the E train heading back to Forest Hills. In my intermittent slumber voices ebb and flow throughout the metal vessel. After yet another stop I slowly open my eyes to see the outline of some skinny character standing directly in front of me. He suddenly yells out, "Ok folks, it's showtime!" I'm instantly sucked out of some cozy inner world and placed right into the hands of the Unmagic Magician.

He launches right into some absurd shtick, I happen to be the unlucky fellow that he has randomly picked. I'd rather not have to deal with this fool, but what could I do? I'm not going to move because the train is too crowded, and make him believe that he got the best of me. I was here first and I'm not in the mood for buskers at the moment. No. I will stand my ground and sit here, with a sarcastic grin on my face, as if to say, "I don't give a shit about you and I will not give you any money". This guy, with his suspenders, white shirt, and little top hat does not care; I'm just another white face to him, another visage in the city of 8 million.

He pulls out a string and performs some sort of quick knot trick that becomes tiresome after a few minutes. He's looking at me the entire time while addressing the rest of the car. Why is he picking on me? Fuck this guy; I just want to get home. People are looking at me expecting some sort of reaction--fuck all of them too. The magician takes out a balloon and blows it up; he's talking about making animal shapes or something. I'm trying not to pay attention, but his skinny crotch is practically right in my face. I contemplate getting up and moving, but I want to stand my ground. I was here first. He blows up his pink balloon to the shape of a 3ft tube. He puts the damn thing in his mouth and swallows it whole--like the sword swallowers at Coney Island. This was slightly amusing, yet I let a blank expression come across my face. "Big deal" I think.

The busker then starts directly addressing me, asking me questions, wanting me to partake in his little act. I look around and ignore him with a half smile on my face. He's making jokes about me; he actually flips me off at one point, discreetly while describing his next trick. I can't believe he did that to me. Now I'm quite angry because I never asked for any of this. I should just stand up right now and punch him in his ugly little face. No. I can't be reduced to what he wants/needs. I'll just completely ignore him when he's finished and invariably asks for money.

The train is rumbling along and I know this can't last much longer. My stop is less than 3 minutes away. The Unmagic Magician is getting tired; I can see it in his eyes. He's getting no love from anyone on the train. Is there any wonder at all? This dude's a total asshole. How do you expect to earn someone's respect when you do shitty magic tricks and then flip people off? This city is all fucked up.

He pulls out a little bottle of bubble liquid. He announces something about his "final trick". Thank god. He whips out a little bubble wand and dips it into the liquid. He blows one small bubble and it gently floats to the top of the car. In an instant he snatches the bubble out of the air and reveals that instead of a bubble he now has a solid, clear, acrylic sphere in his hand. Okay, that was kind of a cool trick, I suppose. He then takes the small, hard ball and, to demonstrate its solidness, he violently tosses it up and it slams into the ceiling of the car, leaving a small but very noticeable dent. His show is over. My stop is here. I look down to grab my bag and when I get up the Unmagic Magician is gone, almost as quickly as he had appeared.

Riding on the E train, almost everyday, I sit and read or listen to music. There has since been no sign of the Unmagic Magician. But his presence remains. I occasionally look up and see several small dents on the ceiling. About the size of a small, clear hard ball. I look at those little dents, chuckle to myself, and think "What a fucking asshole". This magician--his magic, so very unmagical.

Down E. 42nd St.

2006-10-09T08:51:00.000-07:00

naked manikins

dirty handprints on the window

an oozing bum

hand on crotch mind in gutter

*****

porky pig like man

on his porky throne

ruddy faced and indignant

sitting high above the rest

getting his wingtips polished

*****

cigarette smoking bitch

too early in the morning

smokestack mouth

a blind 'flick'

a butt on my shoe

a curse to her being

*****

don't shove that

shit in my face

I'll take it if I want it

but never will

*****

a river of beige and brown

flows so awkward

my vessel unstable

but will make haste

to nowhere in particular

Short Takes on a Strange Place--Part 5

2006-10-05T09:51:00.000-07:00

Why you stop?

This question was asked one Sunday afternoon. Driving around Forest Hells (Hills), a place I have absolutely no connection to. A place so far removed from my life that I cannot possibly care what has happened here, or what may happen here in the future (1 year only and we are out the fucking door, or so we say now). The Ramones are from here, but big deal; they moved away before they became famous. It takes so long for a place to finally weave into your life. To settle into your bones, to become a part of you, and end up in your memories, your dreams. I see none of that happening here. This is just a temporary stop along a uncertain road being navigated by a half blind man.

So, yeah, I was driving my car around Forest Hills looking for this stupid mall where I was going to buy some "proper" clothing for my new job. I was about to cross an intersection when the light turned green. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, these two black kids on little scooters came flying out in front of me. I came to an abrupt stop, and both kids sort of stopped, not fully committing to the street, but still lurching out a bit. I panicked a little and thought, "What the fuck!?" I could have easily ran those kids over. But would it have been my fault? The light was green for me, and these kids were not supposed to cross yet. So my window was down, 'cause it's so damn hot here, and one of the kids bellows out, "Why you stop!?" What the hell? Was I supposed to keep moving and run them over? They surely didn't seem like they were going to stop. Somebody has to stop, right?

I finally got going again and took off slowly down the street. The lingering effects of a near accident floating around in my head. These kids may have had some sort of death wish. But then I thought about how most of the people living in New York City are conditioned to tolerate shitty driving. I was not driving shittily, on the contrary I was being careful and aware of everything around me. I think these kids were shocked that somebody actually stopped for them. These kids are used to almost being ran over daily by inconsiderate, selfish drivers, and here I am trying to be cautious and patient, and all I get is a bunch of lip from some little punks.

So when the kid said, "Why you stop?" In retrospect I really do have to stop and wonder why am I trying to be so careful when everyone around me is loosing control everyday? Perhaps it is just a matter of time before I'm running out into traffic and yelling at people for not hitting me. It doesn't make any sense, then again, a lot of things don't make sense here.

Short Takes on a Strange Place--Part 4

2006-09-27T13:04:00.000-07:00

Suck It In

suck in waking up

suck in the day

suck in the East

suck in heavy air

suck in stress

suck in people

suck in exhaust

suck in desperation

suck in sadness

suck in loss

suck in humanity

suck in pathos

suck in carcinogens

suck in fuel

suck in smog

suck in body odor

suck in stinky butts

suck in bums

suck in hipsters

suck in douchebags

suck in assholes

suck in rich bitches

suck in hurrying

suck in accents

suck in hallobosh

suck in trash

suck in pain

suck in light

suck in dark

suck in heat

suck in cold

suck in imperviousness

suck in potholes

suck in poorly maintained bridges

suck in bridge tolls

suck in cell phones

suck in stepping in shit (dog & human)

suck in steps

suck in claustrophobia

suck in agoraphobia

suck in OCD

suck in food

suck in grease

suck in floating hairs

suck in time

suck in taxis

suck in shitty drivers

suck in shallow people

suck in halal carts

suck in street meat

suck in hot dogs

suck in bulldogs

suck in buildings

suck in post 911 crap

suck in America

suck in Europe

suck in jackhammering

suck in dripping water

suck in pointy shoes

suck in big sunglasses

suck in having lit cigarettes thrown at you

suck in black

suck in white

suck in green

suck in yellow

suck in loud talkers

suck in loud televisions

suck in buskers

suck in bass levels

suck in artists

suck in posers

suck in gangstas

suck in baaada bing baaada boom

suck in bustin' my chops

suck in overused East Coast phrases

suck in lawyers

suck in Lexington Ave.

suck in snobs

suck in subways

suck in street vendors

suck in overpriced water

suck in tourists

suck in i Pods

suck in fashion

suck in United Nations

suck in dubya

suck in stoic faces

suck in no friends

suck in half thoughts

suck in repetition

suck in loneliness

suck in death

suck in alienation

suck in dissenting

suck in murder

suck in ghosts

suck in heartache

suck in earache

suck in sore feet

suck in haggard faces

suck in healthy faces

suck in coughs

suck in lines

suck in Brooklyn

suck in Queens

suck in Manhattan

suck in drugstores

suck in being elbowed

suck in religion

suck in faith

suck in quick fixes

suck in

suck in reality

suck in night

suck in half sleep

suck in troubled dreams

AND

suck in sucking in

Short Takes on a Strange Place--Part 3

2006-09-20T07:03:00.000-07:00

The Stink Bomb

The daily ritual,
the routine as it were.
Walk the 15 minutes passed
the same houses, the same trees
the same sounds of early morning.
Pretty much always the same,
with no deviation, no variables,
nothing extra to throw into the mix.
But today, oh yes, today you were there,
throwing the ultimate monkey wrench
into the mundane routine. You were
the stink bomb.

I got on the subway, like always, the E express
train heading downtown. I was shocked
to see that the car I got into was oddly
empty. But I soon found out why. You were there,
hunched over, grey, ragged clothing, bearded face, resembling
some kind of ancient miner or old prospector from the
early 1900s. I couldn't even believe that you were here on
this train in these modern times. You seemed so anachronistic
against the backdrop of modern advertisements and iPods.
But the way you looked was superflous, for the horrid wreak
coming off of you was intolerable. I noticed it right away, like walking
right through a piss waterfall. My god, it was foul.
You sat, not noticing the grimacing faces around you, the
people covering their noses and cowering on either end of
the packed car. I was one of them, and believe me, you were
the foulest smelling thing I had ever encountered.

I chuckled to myself when the train reached another stop, prepared
to take in a whole load of people standing on the platform. Upon entering
most of them took one look at you and exited immediately, some just
sucked it up and walked onboard with eyes watering, and no doubt
noses burning. You continued to sit there, hunched and wreaking
havoc by not even really moving. It was so strange how
I started to get used to the smell, but then all too soon another
wave of rotten stench came forth and all hope was lost. I noticed
one of your pant legs was tied up at the ankle, I could only assume
that you shat yerself and the excrement was settling comfortably
down there on your leg. I couldn't stare anymore, I couldn't breathe
anymore. But there was something fascinating by the way you took
over the train, it was as if you were a "stink terrorist".

Who would have thought that one person
could command so much attention by just smelling badly?

Perhaps you've cleaned yourself now, I really hope you have. I hope never to
encounter your overwhelming horrid odor ever again.
I end with one question, however; how the hell did you manage to get on that train?

Short takes on a strange place - Part 2

2006-08-18T08:00:00.000-07:00

Looking East out of our 3rd story apartment here in Astoria, one's eyes are almost instantly drawn to this place across the street, "Cafe Bar". Wow, what an ingenious name for a drinking establishment. You would think the proprietors of this place would have put a bit more thought into the name of their bar. But I bet they are big, fat, lazy shitheads whose only objective was to get a bar built quickly and try and make some money. We never go there. We just leave the tables available for the hordes of Euro Trash that seem to be the bar's only occupants. Any given Friday or Saturday night yields an insipid, smoking, lame-ass fashion jeans wearing crowd. Let them have their pretentious, boring, expensive drinks bar.

There is a bizarre opportunistic mindset here in Astoria, not just with bars, but with any available commercial/retail space. It seems dozens of them crop up every week. Where there once was a vacant, decaying storefront, now there is a brand new cell phone shop. Where there was once an old deserted bakery, now there is a brand new Greek night club. These places are so funny to me. Especially these so called "night clubs". They are all mostly Greek dominated, and are always packed, even into the wee hours of a Tuesday night. My roomates and I call them "Astoria Fancy". These places, like Cafe Bar, are generally filled with snarling, smoking people of unknown European race. These people do not seem especially friendly, they just shout at each other in the context of a seemingly normal conversation. I suppose that's just how they communicate. Seems/sounds frustrating to me.

Some people reading this might be thinking that I am a racist. I am no racist, just a little xenophobic and agoraphobic (I typically do not like being in the midst of too many people--they make me nervous and I get panicky. I can admit to that.) I hate racists and bigots. I'm just offering some social commentary about the area in which I live. I'm positive that if I lived in, say, Nashville, TN, then I would be writing right now and complaining about the overly large number of hick bars, real bigots, and Western music. It goes without saying that I'd probably be equally as miserable living in any heavily populated area of the world. Doesn't matter who lives there, it's just the fact that there might be too many of them crammed into one small space. I guess I just don't like people in general. It's a double edged sword, really. I can say that I don't enjoy being around too many people, but if they were suddenly gone, vanished like in a Twilight Zone episode, well then I would probably feel extremely lonely and even more depressed.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling positive and things are actually going my way, I might look around and feel very guilty for the way I normally view life. For instance, I might see an older woman, stooped over and walking down the street toting a big, cumbersome bag, or wheeling a heavy cart of some sort. I'll look at her and wonder what she's gone through, what she's seen in her own life. She seems to have led a life full of heavy burdens, and is now just trying to get by in this extremely fast paced and competitive world. There she is, just minding her own business, weaving around the traffic and loud cell phone talkers on the street. She has no idea what this world has become. It is enough to make me cry, and realize just how easy I have it.

J. Mascis (an extremely cynical man) of the great Dinosaur Jr. once sang, "I feel the pain of everyone, then I feel nothing." This couldn't be more true in my current situation and in my overall worldview.

Short takes on a strange place - Part 1

2006-08-11T13:08:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me that my previous post was written in a hasty fit of rage and aggression. Now, those feelings are certainly still in me (for as long as I'm in NYC, at least), but I'm going to try and take that negative energy and attempt to channel it into something a bit more constructive. I want to go back to the early days of my zinemaking stint, my Alstroemeria days.

I almost considered re-naming this blog Alstroemeria, just to keep the name alive and thriving. But, I think Morninghater befits this blog, and I've been doing this for a couple of years now anyway. So I'll just keep the same name, but I want to make it feel like an issue of Alstroemeria. Perhaps this, in a backwards therapeutic kinda way, will keep me alive a little longer.
Here we go:

Short takes on a strange place - Part 1

--Turnstile blues--

hip hop kid

trouble at the turnstile

looks around

feigns interest

struts away

--Clinky beach--

a million shards glistening

weak ochre waves lapping on a brown shore

creates a shimmering sound

remnants of a 2:00 am gathering

some saturday night

--East of nowhere in particular--

whiny accents

against impervious backdrop

steel, iron, concrete, mortar, glass

why do they speak this way?

--Almost around the block--

steaming carts in 90 degree weather

breezes of sizzling meat in every direction

sweaty men slaving over hot grills

the people line up, almost around the block

it's lunchtime in the concrete jungle

walking by, noticing the cook

he winces, tired of the heat, sick of the people

drops of sweat rain down into the meat

nobody cares

the people line up, almost around the block

--Pulled away--

everyone wants to be noticed

and I thought L.A. was bad

here they are outlandish

trying so hard

what will they accomplish?

too many has beens, done it all before

nothing stands out

nothing is original

yet they come in droves

leaving no marks

sad, wretched lives pulled away

away from where they should have stayed

--Blackberry bitch--

she had a Blackberry

technology gone too far

strapped to her side

like a leash

she was controlled from afar

some unseen entity

probably thought it was going to be cool

cool to have this "new thing"

it made her seem important, needed

until the day came for a break

she could not disengage

the Blackberry was now part of her

she wanders her limited world

no escape from the constant buzzing

of her new friend

--Voice in park--

ohhhhhhhh!

ahhhhhhhh!!

moooaannn! groooannnn!

blahhrgggahhhAHHHH!!!

--Poor dogs--

these poor dogs

my canine friends

I see them on the streets

I know they wish to be someplace else

a nice open field, running

but, alas, their owners have issues

they need the company

a million friends is not enough

paws on the surface of harsh ground

I can see their shiny eyes

normally beguiling, full of life

becoming duller

with each passing day

--Subway disconnect--

hard, plastic, orange colored seat

keep slipping down

my bony ass is not made for this

try to ignore, but can't help

keep noticing the sunken expressions

of fellow riders

if I slid all the way and layed upon the crusty floor

not one eye would bat

their minds have all been taken

stolen by this city which they love so much

--I love you, I hate you--

I'll end here, in a bi-polar fit

NYC daily activities, summer '06

2006-07-18T12:54:00.000-07:00

These days bring forth a pattern. It emerged a week after arriving here. Not sure if it is going to hold, I really hope it doesn't. But who am I to say? I feel like a visitor here most of the time, thinking that I will be back to familiar realms soon enough. But I know that won't happen, we've come too far now.

Progress is a such:

Awaken at 6 am to a searing sun barely hidden behind sheer curtains.

Feel the room boil and temperature rising upon first breath of new day.

Begin daily, never ending sweat.

Stumble out into kitchen area where it does not get any cooler.

Turn on room air conditioner and envision this as your little cell, a place you don't see yourself venturing beyond.

Turn on computer.

Check email with optimistic outlook. Outlook quickly turns bleak as soon as you've deleted all of your spam emails and assorted "bang women in your area!" type sexual solicitations.

Notice a few "real" emails from yet again more temporary/staffing agencies. Feel good for a moment, feel needed. Good feelings quickly fade once you realize that you've visited three of these places in one week and nobody has since called you for any type of work. Suddenly realize that this whole process is a BIG PILE OF BULLSHIT.

Eat cereal or other leftover food from the night before. Also, drink shitty Zabars brand acidic coffee. Mmmm, them intestines love it!

Continue to sweat profusely because you've left the realm of the air conditioner.

Think of new jobs to apply for, think of connections that you might have forgotten about, think of actual businesses that might hire you WITHOUT using the bureaucratic process of staffing agencies. Get frustrated.

Think of how you left a well paying job in a comfortable climate to live here. Wonder about this for several minutes. Finally snap out of it.

Listen to the fucking fat Greek landlords below with their television set blaring at 8:30 am. Curse them incessantly.

Plan something, anything, that will propel you through another day in the sweltering heat of the city.

Go into bathroom and look into the mirror. Realize that you are not getting any younger (see balding and gut rapidly growing), and you don't know how much more of this you can take. Remember the times in the past when you were looking for work and how much that really sucked and made you depressed.

Contemplate going out skateboarding for the day, but the weather is so horrible, and New York is not really a very skateboarding friendly city.

Wish you had your drums set up, or had a space to continue making your art. Get depressed 'cause you don't have any of that yet, and you don't know if you ever will again.

Finally, take a shower and get the fuck out of the apartment.

Take the subway into Manhattan. Emerge from the underground lost and disoriented. Get caught up in the sea of people. Feel very alone. Miss friends. Miss a steady job. Miss pleasant weather. Miss your old life.

After what seems an eternity, get lost finding your way back to the proper subway station.

Finally find the correct station after 30 minutes of taxing and unnecessary frustration.

Sit on the train exhausted (hopefully it has a/c) and notice all the people there with blank expressions on their faces.

Close eyes or read something (you brought a book, right?)

Get off the subway and walk into the impenetrable wall of heat that lingers on the platform.

Walk out fast and up while singing Ween's "Big fat fuck" just under your breath.

Exit the subway station and pass the steaming "Halal" meat carts, greasy Greeks, and fat, dopey teenagers with NY hats all flattened out on their rotund heads.

Smell weird hallway on the way up to the apartment. Reminds you of the used microwave you bought while in college.

Stop and listen to the the angry Greek landlords yelling at each other. Also, hear the mysterious bark of some huge, menacing dog that the landlords keep locked away all day in their apartment. Consider calling the SPCA and turn them in.

Turn on the a/c. Sit there. Maybe rest for a while. Curse current life. Figure out what to eat for dinner. Discuss life and woes with wife and roommates.

Sleep the sleep of the anxious, confused and sad.

Repeat from beginning.

A second chance - Pehrspace, June 24th, 2006

2006-06-15T14:37:00.000-07:00

Okay, as most of my friends know, and if you read this blog from time to time, you will know that I've spent countless hours last year and the present year assembling art pieces, which I have referred to as "OCD Art". Now, when I first started making these things I just did it for fun. I had no intent on trying to display them or show them in any way, aside from putting a few up on the walls of our apartment, there was not much to it, really. I made these things to keep myself busy, to keep my creative impulses engaged, as it were. However, I didn't stop making them, I kept going and going. Soon, they were everywhere and taking up way too much space in the apartment. My wife was excited for me to be doing something constructive, but at the same time, a little frustrated with pieces that were haphazardly hung all over the place. Something had to be done. And I took it upon myself to try and have them displayed somewhere other than our small-ish apartment.

Luck came my way by the name of a local Berkeley skateboard shop called 510. It is a great shop, one which specializes only in skateboarding gear and related paraphanalia. None of this "surf, skate, rollerbalde, bicycle" bullshit that you see so often at so called "skate shops". I appreciated and admired 510's courage to only be a skateboard shop. One of the great things about 510 is that it has this massive front window facing busy Telegraph Ave. Behind the window is a great white wall where art is hung each month by local skateboarding artists. The art is not always skateboard related, but the artists themselves are skateboarders. I truly enjoyed the fact that the shop embraced skateboarding and art so much; two of my favorite things in the world.

Anyway, I inquired at 510 about putting some of my art in the window space. It took a while before somebody got back to me, but they eventually did. The part owner of the shop told me to bring by a few pieces to check out, and to possibly plan a date to hang stuff in the space. I was excited. So I went down there, showed her and the other owner my art, they liked it, and we tentatively planned a date for June. This was about six months ago when I went there, during the shitty rainy season we had, where days were dark and streets soaked and flooded. Putting the art up a 510 gave me something to look forward too, I told my wife and all my friends. The next day I began work on newer pieces and scheming ideas for an installation. I now had something to work toward.

Fast forward to about a month ago. Since I had planned to hang the art in June, I went to 510 and inquired about the upcoming installation. But, while I was there, I noticed that somebody had just put up a new installation. It was okay, I thought, just more of the same birds and Polaroid photos and cartoon type drawing that make up so much of the "underground" art scene these days. I get so tired of seeing fucking bird tattoos and bird sketches, and scruffy little caricatures of people/things/animals. It is all becoming so contrived, to me, at least. So I asked the shop owner about the current installation and she said, "Oh, this guy just put up his stuff, so I think we're going to keep it up for another month. There is another person after him, and his stuff will be up for about two months as well. So that would put you in here at around, hmm...let's see...September." September!!?? What the fuck? I came in here during February, and you told me that the artists keep their work up for a month at a time? You never said anything about keeping work up for more than a month. And you said you booked all the artists to install works about three months in advance. My stuff should be up there right now!! Of course I didn't say all of that, just some of it. I was a little upset that I had waited all this time, only to be totally screwed out of finally showing my artwork. I told the owner that I was moving soon, and there wasn't enough time to show the art at the shop. She said, "Bummer". And I silently walked off while some grommet was asking her if the new DC shoes were in yet. Fuckers.

Fast forward, present. Okay, so it looks like I have a second chance to hang some of my OCD Art. This time it comes by way of dear friend Adam Hervey. Adam runs a small independent record label called Pehr Records in LA. Adam and I have known each other for years. We went to college together, and were also in a small drone-core group called Eucalyptus. Adam has been running the Pehr label for about 8 years now. He and his dedicated staff have recently found new digs in a performance/gallery/office space in Echo Park. Now, the Echo Park of today is not the gang infested, junkie hang-out it was years ago. It's actually quite nice up there. Sure, it has its share of problems, but what LA area doesn't? At any rate, Adam wants me to do an art show there, and also quite possibly resurrect Eucalyptus for a short set. This is all exciting news. Everything is in the works and it looks like it is really going to happen this time. If you are in the LA area on Sat., June 24th, come on by 325 Glendale Blvd., Los Angeles, CA at around 7:00 pm. The OCD art will be up and there will be bands playing at around 9:00ish. Below is a link to the Pehrspace calendar of events: http://www.pehrlabel.com/pehrspace/index.html

Of course, I am wary of anything happening until it actually happens. My pessimism gets the best of me sometimes. I need to work on that. But for whatever it's worth, I will finally have the opportunity to hang this art somewhere other than our apartment. Not too many people have seen this stuff, so I'm a little nervous. But what is any "art" worth unless you give people a chance to formulate their own opinions about it? I know I'm that way, at least.

Learning to ride, riding to learn

2006-05-02T13:16:00.000-07:00

From approx. 1985 to 1994 I was skateboarding every single day. In fact, I barely remember being in high school, I mean, I was certainly there, attending classes every day, taking the required tests, and enduring the fucked-up social order of that climate. I did okay in school, I even went on to get a college degree (but my mindstate was vastly different in college as opposed to when I was in high school).

During the high school days I only thought about one thing: skateboarding. It saved me, really. Where would I be without it? It provided a physical activity, and ultimately gave me confidence in not one, but numerous areas of my life. Sure, all of the standard anti-skateboarding fuckwads were present back then; the jocks, hicks, mini truckers, etc...but none of that mattered because as soon as school let out at 3:30, I was rolling around till 8:00 every night. And the weekends were entire days spent skating around town, meeting up with friends and sessioning every conceivable spot that was not a bust. Ironic how on the weekends we would usually break into school yards to skate, as opposed to during the week when we were always looking for a way out. Come Monday morning there was not a trace of our presence, say for a few grind marks on a nearby bench or ledge.

These were the youthful days of zero responsibility and carefree venturing. A time precious and treasured. They can only now be accessed in the old memory banks of my mind. But I'm trying to skate again, it's just too much fun. I'm old yet not broken. I can still roll, and it seems with the coming of warmer days, the best thing to do is to get out and skateboard. Soon, I will be gone, not "dead and gone" but moved on from California. More on this later. Anyway, wherever I go I will have a skateboard nearby. I might not be carrying it with me, but rest assured, when I get the itch to roll around, I'll know that my salvation is not too far away. Long live the days of the useless wooden toy.

Sudden End

2006-04-25T11:36:00.000-07:00

Well, it looks like my career as a poser drummer is over. The band I'm in -- The Rum Diary -- has been officially put into "hiatus" phase. Our practice space is no more and there is no forthcoming effort to find another one. Not sure what to think about all of this. I've been in the band about seven years now. We practiced twice a week for a good portion of those years. Wednesday nights and Sunday afternoons were our practice days. So much time was spent traveling up to Cotati to practice for just a few hours. We did this for so long that it became almost a mindless activity. Sure, it felt good, and it was a pleasant, creative release. It kept me busy and kept me focused. I really did enjoy it for the most part. But, the longer you do something, the same thing over and over again, the more it becomes a chore and eventually starts to lose it luster. This was beginning to happen to me, and I'm sure the other guys were feeling it too.
About 5 months ago we stopped practicing on Wednesday nights. It was just too much for me and Jon (bass player, lives in Marin, car-pooled to practice) to get up there after work. In the early days of the band Wednesday nights were fine, they were a welcome reprieve to the slow and trudging work week. We were excited to play and write new songs. I recall looking forward to Wednesday nights. It was a time to be with friends and let the worries of our lives slip by. I felt we could escape into glorious noise for a couple of hours. And this was true, for a good 4 years we did this, without hesitation, almost automatically.
I'm not sure what we set out to accomplish, I guess we were not too concerned with that; we just wanted to make music, to have fun, to do something a little different. None of us were accomplished musicians, but when we got together and played, we seemed to make something happen. Be it good, bad, or indifferent, we made some noise and packed it into a strange, kinda shaky, yet controlled package. I certainly didn't know what the fuck I was doing, I just love music and loved the feeling of playing drums. I took what I knew and made it work for me. Still, 7 years later, I sit and wonder how we did this for so long, with such limited knowledge of how to really "play" our instruments. I can't really speak for the other guys in the band, but I learned to play drums simply from listening to my favorite songs and paying attention to the way the parts were put together. I still don't consider myself a drummer, I'm just somebody who got away with drumming in an active band for a spell.
If we did accomplish anything, we were able to play numerous live shows (I lost count a couple of years ago), go on short tours, release three full length albums, one e.p., a split album, and a handful of 7" singles. Pretty good for a band whose objective was to become solid enough to play live about 5 years ago. Through it all we met friends in other bands, and fans who would frequently come to shows. I was happy with this, and it was much more than I had originally anticipated we would do as a group.
Our newest album just came out last month. My name is misspelled in the liner notes. I feel we could have all worked a bit more together as a band on the thing. But, the songs turned out nicely, and if anything, it was more of a DIY process than previous albums. Jon likes to call it the "album that was never there". We haven't been getting much help from the label in regards to promoting it, but it's out there, pretty much available everywhere to purchase, and I guess that is better than nothing. I think by the time it was finally released, we were already a bit burned out. This sounds like the end, but maybe it's not. If Sara and I move it'll surely be, for me at least. Seems strange, to end like this, but really, just as quietly as we crept in we will now quietly make our exit, almost as if we never existed at all. Does anybody really care? Probably not. There are Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and Franz Ferdinand shows to attend. I heard T-shirts only cost $20! Cool dude!!! Go get 'em while we die a slow and unforgettable death. See ya.

Bob

2006-04-04T15:42:00.000-07:00

Man, there is this attorney here at work named Bob Brown. He likes to refer to himself in the third person, e.g. "Bob has won a few cases in his time and Bob likes to win" or "Bob feels pretty good about today's trial" It is truly bizarre. Bob's an older man, probably in his late '60s. I would assume he is around the same age as my father. Bob swears a lot too. It kind of scares me because he seems like a fairly easy going man most of the time, but he'll suddenly blurt out something like, "You've gotta be fucked in the head if you want to serve on a jury for 6 weeks" I think of how my dad never swears and it makes him seem so much more above someone like Bob Brown. Don't get me wrong, Bob seems like an alright guy, a little loopy, but he also seems like he may have been a pompous prick (early term for douchebag) back when he was younger, and in his early law school days. I have zero tolerance and respect for douchebags, and alpha males. I would love to collectivey kick the assses of all the douchebags in the world, just to show them that they can be beaten by a freckled, glasses wearing, balding, OCD ridden, quiet man. Give me a ring (if you you're a douche) and we'll set something up.
Anyway, I bet Bob had a nickname like 'Bubba' when he was younger. I think he used to play football. Normally I would try not to have anything to do with somebody like Bob, but I kind of enjoy being entertained by Bob's naive ways. He's like an ancient and endangered creature, the last of his kind, and we are here to study it and try and glean some knowledge as to its origins, manners, ways of living, etc...
But, really, people like Bob are everywhere, they are just younger and worse. Just head on down to the trendy Berkeley bars on any given Saturday evening. There you'll find a collection of the worst frat boys and young B. Brown's in training. In 30 years they'll be the ones replacing the Bob's of today, they'll be the new Bush's, they'll be the ones making all the wrong decisions only to feed their massive egos. A very scary time it'll be. Better make alternate plans, or as Adam Frankin of the great Swervedriver once said, "Go take a stroll amongst the mines call yourself back in when it's time score your provisions score a smile hit the road for a million miles pack your vision and set your dials."

Time With Rabbit

2006-03-27T12:29:00.000-08:00

This past Saturday I ventured out once again to the Albany bulb. I hadn't been out there in a while, and I was curious to see what has been happening lately. This random visit to the bulb proved to be one of the more interesting trips I've taken out there, for I had met, sat down, and spoke with the elusive Robert "Rabbit" Barringer, star of the wonderful 2003 documentary Bums' Paradise.

After seeing Bums' Paradise a couple of years ago, I would go out to the bulb and look around for the encampments that were there during the filming. All of the large structures had been removed in the late '90s by the Albany police, but there were still little hidden camps, mainly consisting of a tent and a few personal affects. Not really knowing that I would actually see or speak to any of these people, I would sometimes call out the name "Rabbit". Of course, I was referring to the narrator and star of the film. Basing my knowledge of the film, and what had happened to the bulb residents in the end, I never expected Rabbit or any of the dudes from the film to still be out there. But this time, this random Saturday, my calls of Rabbit yielded the actual person. I met the man, the "Mayor of the bulb", if you will.

I was just walking around out on the Western edge of the bulb and enjoying the effects of the sun rays shooting out from behind distant clouds. Out of sheer habit, I called the name Rabbit. I didn't even realize I had said it, it is just something I do sometimes, almost like a turret's attack. As luck would have it, I started walking back down the path and a voice called out, "Hey!" I turned around and saw a man standing there, it wasn't Rabbit, but the guy said, "Are you looking for Rabbit?" Dumbfounded, I shyly replied, "Er...yeah, I guess". I never thought in a million years that anyone living out here would ever hear me, lest pay any attention to my aimless bulb wandering and schizo mumblings. The man said, "Okay, follow me, I'll take you to his camp." What the fuck? Rabbit still lives out here, and this guy, who introduced himself as Jessie, was going to take me to the legendary bulb leader? I was a little nervous.

We made our way through a thicket of overgrown thorn and fennel bushes. There in a small cleared out spot away from any of the trails was a little campsite. Jessie hollered out, "Hey bonehead, you in there?" There was some rustling around inside a tent, and a few seconds later a sleepy, just awakened Rabbit emerged. He looked pretty much like he did in the film, but that being a few years ago, and his transient lifestyle, Rabbit looked a bit haggard. His hair was a little longer and his face a little more wrinkled. But he sat right up and smiled and extended his hand for me to shake. I shook it without hesitation as he offered me a seat. I sat and smiled back at Rabbit. I told him right away that I was a big fan of the film, and thought that he did a great job as narrator and subject. He was very genuine and soft spoken, just like he was in the film. He seemed genuinely pleased that I was speaking to him and asking him all sorts of questions about the bulb and the film. I pulled out a pack of American Spirit Lights and he, Jessie, and I sat back and smoked. I listened to the two of them tell tales about the current bulb inhabitants (approx 8 camps are set up now, as opposed to about 50 when the film was made). They also talked about all of the sneaky little critters that run around at night trying to steal their food. It was surreal, to say the least. I couldn't believe that I was sitting here smoking and talking to Rabbit.

It was getting kind of late and the off shore cold breeze was biting through my thin jacket. The wind didn't really seem to affect Rabbit and Jessie. I suppose it is due to their resilient nature, and years of roughing it in the wild; a little cold wind is not going to make these guys go running for shelter. But I am not as tough as them, so I said my goodbyes and told Rabbit that I come out to the bulb on a regular basis, and that maybe if I saw him we could speak some more next time. He likes to read, even trashy stuff he said, so maybe next time I venture out there I'll bring him some books. I wrote in this blog a few months ago about how I thought the bulb was becoming too domesticated and not wild anymore. Looks like I was wrong, and I'm glad for it. Like Rabbit told me, "People have no idea what we are doing out here, how much fun we are having. If they knew we were having this much fun living out here, they'd come and kick us out for good." Words to live by, for now.

The War is Over?

2006-03-16T14:31:00.000-08:00

Wow, seems like it has been some time since I've put anything into this blog o' mine. Perhaps I've not been up to update? Yes, that is it; I have not been very diligent lately and have strayed from the blog flock. But I'm here now and am going to tell you the tale of the noisy neighbors; a sordid affair that began quietly enough, culminated to a fiery middle, came back down a bit, and now I think it might be over.

Let us begin. Me and Sarak's neighbors are old, baby-booming, burnt-out ex hippies. When I moved into my apartment in 1999 they were pretty much non-existent. They never made noises, and were generally friendly, if a bit spacey and loopy when I first met them. They became sorta friends with Leslie, an old roommate. It was actually Leslie and Tony who originally found the Albany dwelling in 1999. The upstairs neighbors, Mike and Jackie, were not around the apartment building much back then, and I never really saw or spoke to them on a regular basis, but I was friendly and respectful to them when I did see them. It always seemed weird that this couple lived right above us and we never heard or saw them much. But that was all just a matter of time.

We had our fair share of parties and gatherings at the apartment. Birthdays were celebrated that usually ended up with a few of us outside smoking and talking loudly, or jumping around inside the apartment wrestling chairs and letting out loud *Tek Calls. All the while the neighbors upstairs never complained, and I wasn't even sure they were around, because I never told them we were going to have a party and be sorta loud. I just didn't care, I guess. But one time when our band played at the apartment, I let the neighbors know beforehand, just because there was going to be drums and semi-loud guitars. They even showed up for a bit, and I'm pretty sure I saw them smiling and having fun. They didn't complain about the noises we made, and I know we were pretty noisy back then.

Life went on like this at the apartment for years. People moved out and new people moved in. At some point all the people, except myself, with original ties to the apartment were gone. Sarak moved in and a couple years later we were married. All the while the neighbors were upstairs, probably listening to all of the adventure and drama taking place downstairs. They remained somewhat quiet, except for the bumping around and occasional moving of things in their apartment. But, as time grew longer, they became louder; they suddenly went from being nothing to one of the all time greatest annoyances in my life.

It started with their moving around up there. They were (and still are) so loud when they walk around up above. I could sit on a chair and pinpoint where they were in their apartment at any given time. The floor would squeak and I'd here bump, bump, bump, bump and I'd know that Jackie just went over to the kitchen to get some water. Oh, what is that I hear? Just Mike walking over to the bathroom, taking a piss, flushing, and then slamming the toilet seat back down. I would hear this all evening. And there was also the mysterious sliding sound heard almost every night around dinner time. Sarak and I would always wonder, "what the hell is that sound?" Yeah, they were getting loud and then the wanker guitar playing started. Mike is some kind of Cal music grad, and he plays this awful shit on his guitar. It's so funny; he won't play during the day or any other reasonable, normal time, no, he decides to fire up his Wankmaster 3000 sharply at 9:30 pm on a Tuesday night when Sara and I are quietly reading or watching a film at normal volume. Man, it's a good thing we didn't hear them screwing each other up there, that would've put me in some sort catatonic shock.

So I'm stating all of this in a past tense form, which seems kind of weird since a lot of this is still happening. But it is the way the past and the present meld together, culminating into some kind of hybrid monster that eventually runs out of control leading to something really bad happening. And that bad thing was the final blow, the cu de tah, if you will. The upstairs neighbor's television set was slowly killing me, or driving me insane, which is worse than actually killing me. The damn thing was on all the time! Night and day, day and night. They would never shut it off, and the volume seemed to increase daily. Soon it was all I heard and focused on when I entered our apartment. I couldn't escape it. Even when it wasn't on I still listened for it. It was as if at any given time, BOOM, there it was; sinking into my head, rattling my nerves, making me obsess on the noise. Sara was getting upset with me, more than with them. And she is kind of right; she does not have to actually see them up close, but here I am going nuts down below, raging all the time and fat-tonguing my nights away. I feel badly for upsetting Sara, she's the very last person I want to make angry, or feel sad.

So what happened? The night before Sara left to the Greenbrier Resort in WV, the neighbors were blasting their shitty television. I couldn't take it anymore! I stomped and cursed up a storm around the apartment. This was really affecting me in a bad way. Sara came out of the room and yelled at me. I felt even worse then. So I finally marched outside and went up to the neighbor's apartment. I stood there at the door and tried to compose myself. Breath deep, act calm, and nicely tell them to turn down the television. So I knocked and waited. I knocked some more, rang the doorbell once, and continued to wait. No answer. I could hear the television blasting from outside the door. I knocked pretty damn loudly on the door. Still no answer. I finally yelled through the closed door, "PLEASE TURN DOWN YOUR TELEVISION!". Still no answer. Livid, I walked away while yelling, quite audibly, "FUCK YOU HIPPIES!!". Not sure if they heard that. But I didn't care, and it felt kind of like a nice cathartic release saying it. I stomped loudly back downstairs and slammed the door shut. The TV had been silenced, I could hear footsteps above, muffled voices. What did I just do? I don't know. Sara came rushing into the room and the terrible, stupid guilt began to set in.

I always feel guilty for things that I do, when at the time they feel justified and correct. Even if I do something good, there is still the nagging notion that I did it bad. Like my father used to say, "I can't win for losing". The neighbors were pretty quiet the next few days, but I know they heard me yelling and screaming the night before. It was they who are causing it! Not me, I'm not crazy! The hippies upstairs are crazy, old, loud burn-outs. They are driving me crazy. They didn't even open their door to speak with me. The next step would be to go and tell the landlord about them. But I wanted to see if they would actually turn the television off/down before I involved any other parties. It seemed to be working, but I needed to get rid of this guilty feeling from yelling and acting like an asshole. After all, they might not even know that they are making so much noise. But I feel like they are doing it to torture me, to spite me. I always think people are out to get me.

Sara and I decided to write a nice letter, to give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe this will work, maybe this is the right thing to do. I'm no good at face to face confrontations. My emotions take over and I just go wild, absolutely no self control. Just read the previous blog posting of mine about the fight with the homeless man in SF. It was an ugly scene. Writing a letter would be nice. I could say that I was sorry for the outburst the other night, and articulate to them that they really do need to turn down (not off) their TV set after 10:00 pm. Sara and I wrote the letter and I left it by their front door when nobody was home. I anticipated them reading it together and laughing in unison some sadistic hippie laugh. They couldn't stop the big war and now they were taking it all out on me. Or so I thought.

Ragged Jackie came down to our apartment shortly after I had delivered the letter to their door. I swear she always looks like she hasn't slept in the past 5 years. Big bags surround her dopey eyes sucked into her bobbing head. She is overweight and always wears big, flower print hippie dresses. When she speaks she is always stressed and exhausted sounding. I didn't expect to see her so soon. But here she was. She told me that she liked our letter and apologized for the television set being so loud. She said her and Mike had no idea that we could hear it so clearly. She said that she is pretty much deaf these days and can't even hear the kids at the school where she teaches (I can't believe she is a teacher. Those poor kids). I felt kinda bad for all of my past raging, but shit, that TV was fucking loud and even if you are deaf, you don't go blasting your TV at 12:00 am every night of the week. She should have known better, or her weird old husband Mike should have noticed it and said something to her. She said that they would be mindful of the TV volume from now on. And I told her that if Sara and I are ever too loud, just call us or come down and tell us to be quiet.

I still really don't like them, and I believe that Jackie was lying about her not hearing very well. She could hear me just fine at the door while I spoke to her. I still think they are out to get me for some bad thing I did to them, but I can't seem to recall what it was? I think that in a few months time the television will be back to the same annoying volume. I don't think these people are very smart, just dumb old burn-outs from a bygone era. The only thing left is to move, and move we will soon enough. I wonder if this pattern will follow me for the rest of my life? Anywhere we move there will be noise; whether it be the neighbors, cars passing on a highway, planes flying overhead, or strange bumps in the night. It's all noise, noise, noise...now I'm gonna make a little noise myself. The drum kit is idle and waiting, I can't wait to pound out a beat and make the hippies upstairs shake a bit. Ha!

Such an idiot

2006-02-10T14:29:00.000-08:00

See this piece here? Yeah, I know, another one of Joe's art pieces, blah, blah, blah...Anyway, I sold this piece on stinkin' eBay for $10 bucks. I am pissed. I started the auction at a low price ($10) just to encourage bids. Sometimes this works and sometimes you get royally fucked. I got royally fucked. I thought maybe it would go up to at least $50 and that would be fine, although that is still quite under the value of what I think this piece is worth. I don't know shit about selling art. This is the last time I sell any of my art pieces on Ebay. I hope the guy who bought this in Michigan is happy; he just got a nice piece of art for a really good price. All my fault. And to top if off, and add insult to injury, I didn't calculate the shipping costs correctly and ended up having to pay $5 out of my own pocket for the additional shipping charges. Man, I am truly stupid sometimes. I enjoy eBay for what it is worth, but maybe it isn't quite the right venue for selling original art? I spent at least a week making this piece and what do I get, $10 lousy bucks. Fuck this. Man, I'll just keep my stuff to myself from now on.

The Crazy Lady

2006-02-02T15:07:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went to Amoeba record store in Berkeley. I wanted to sell back a few unwanted media items. No use holding onto an unbearable HR Puff 'n Stuff dvd and an unopened Jerry Seinfeld stand-up comedy routine DVD. Don't get me wrong, I used to love watching ol' Puff 'n Stuff back when I was a kid, but try watching it in your early '30s--it'll fuck you up a little bit, in a bad way. Also I love Seinfeld the show, but I don't want to own a DVD of him doing his stand-up routine, boring. These items were gifts given to me from friends. I don't think they'll mind if I trade them for something that I'll actually watch/listen to.

While at Amoeba I ran into an old friend, Lane Brookshire. Lane is a really good artist and great all around guy. It would be difficult for me to imagine him being really mean to anyone. Lane works a Amoeba, and on quite a few occasions I've ran into him there and we've talked briefly. Last night we talked for a while, as I proceeded to ask him questions about his current art projects and he in turn listened to my explanation of my OCD art projects. It was a good exchange, and he even hooked me up with a little discount when I used my credit slip to get the Office Season 2 DVD (a great BBC TV show, which I will certainly watch!). Anyway, I noticed that Lane was wearing a pretty cool hat, and I asked him where he got it. He told me that he bought it from this place called Slash on College Ave in Berkeley. He said that if I went there to be prepared to talk to the crazy lady who runs the store. I laughed and told him I'd be careful.

So today, at lunch, I drove over to this Slash place across town. Upon entering, the shop is quite small and packed wall to wall with used Levis jeans and corduroys. Stacked on top of that were piles of blank colored t-shirts, sweatshirts, hoodies, thermal tops and jackets. The collection was quite impressive, if not a tad overwhelming (how is one to search through this mess??). Up above on the ceiling hung all sorts of hats, mostly the army/messenger style hats that I've recently become fond of because they actually look "ok" upon my gross old balding head (a bald man needs a few good hats, yes?). So I was mainly looking up there at the hats when the crazy lady approached me. Lane was right, this woman would not stop talking the entire time. She first asked me what I was looking for and I said "hats". But then, after about 10 minutes, she starts pulling off all these jeans that she thought I might like. I didn't want to seem rude so I said, "Oh those are nice, but I really don't need any jeans right now." She apparently didn't care and proceeded to pile the jeans around my feet. I sorta danced around them in an attempt to continue looking at the hats above. She then started pulling out all of these T-shirts and thermal tops that might interest me. I kind of laughed to myself, and eventually she sat down for a minute. Sitting down didn't stop her much, as she proceeded to tell me about how she acquires all of her used/vintage merchandise.

She told me about this guy in Reno who would pay the local thrift stores to hold clothing for him. He would then come around and collect these massive amounts of clothing and take them down to swap meets and flea markets to sell. I suppose his mark up was pretty good, considering he'd buy the stuff for a couple bucks each and then sell it for around $25. This lady here was selling jeans for $30 a pair. Yikes! Seems pretty pricey for a pair of used jeans. She went on to tell me that he recently suffered a heart attack and would not be doing his vintage clothing exchange for a while, or maybe ever. She told me that she knew the guy pretty well and said that he was always on the go, hardly ever stopping to relax, and eating shitty, greasy food all the time at truckstop diners. How sad it must be to live life like that; hauling around a bunch of stinky clothes, rushing to dirty flea-markets, stacking up your clothing, and hoping that hipster dorks like myself will maybe pay your asking price. Maybe the guy enjoyed doing this? Who knows?

So when I was finished looking around I ended up buying a hat that I thought looked alright on me. It was pretty cheap and I felt ok about paying the price. I was hungry and still hadn't eaten any lunch. I went across the street to a 7-11 store and bought a bottle of orange juice and a little fruit cup thing that had a surprisingly fresh collection of orange slices, apple slices, and grapes. I feld alright that I was eating something sorta healthy from a 7-11, especially after hearing the crazy lady's tale of the heart attack man. As I was leaving the lady came into the 7-11, she must've shut down her store for second to walk across the street. I felt kinda weird and said, "Oh, hi!" and she was friendly enough and smiled back. I think she bought an Almond Joy candy bar. I thought of her and her little shop and the story that she told me, and I hoped that her daily meals were not coming solely from the 7-11. I would hate to hear in a few years time about the crazy woman at Slash who died of a heart attack. I ate my fruit thing and felt slightly guilty for eating 7-11 food. I was in a rush to get back to work, always busy, always on the go, no time to stop and just relax for a minute. People aren't crazy, this life is crazy.

Suppose we never met

2006-01-26T16:11:00.000-08:00

Had some crazy dreams the other night. In one of them I dreamt that I was back in college, circa 1995, and I had the knowledge that I have now. But I was sad because I didn't have Sara there with me, and I knew she was out there somewhere, probably in Ohio, and I knew it would be a very long time before we met, if we even met at all. I was thinking that every little move I made, every step I took, and every person I met from that point would eventually lead me to her. And every decision that she made from that point would lead her to me. It is all too crazy, too delicate to mess with; this strange path of time that we live and follow in. What if I went to a different school? What if I had different friends, made different choices? I would certainly not be where I am now. I like where I am now, and the only reason I got here was because I made these inherent choices--I was carefully plotting out my life and didn't even know it!
I suppose this can be said about a great many thing in everyone's life. I mean, who the hell knows where they're going to end up in 20 years? Maybe some people out there knew where they were going to be, I can only think of one ambitious friend of mine, but really, what’s the fun it that? Knowing exactly where life will lead you?? I'm not a person who is obsessed with destiny and fate, but I can't ignore the fact that the smallest of choices and steps that you make will eventually lead you into a good, bad, or indifferent future.
I know I have not made the most perfect choices (who does, except for this one little feller I know who thinks he always makes the perfect choices) but I do know that I'm here now, relatively healthy, still somewhat young, and married to the person whom I plan to spend the rest of my life with. Sounds corny, yeah, but I like it and I love Sara. A life without her would have been a bad future. Small decisions sometimes lead to bigger events.

Further Bigfoot research

2006-01-12T10:21:00.000-08:00

Funny, the title I just gave this blog entry reminds me of an album by a Southern California band called Further. The band is long gone, and I don't think that you can even buy their albums in stores anymore. We're talking ancient times here, like 1994-1995! Ok, well, that was stupid, but I do believe that the band Further released and album called "Griptape" and on the cover was a fuzzy, blurred out image of a boy with a rifle confronting a Bigfoot type creature, which was sorta looming there in front of him. The photo looked like it was lifted from a video image. It occurred to me right when I saw it--I knew exactly where this image was taken from! It was from one of the greatest Sasquatch/Bigfoot films ever made: The Legend of Boggy Creek. There is a scene in the film where an unsuspecting, Opie-esque young boy takes off into the woods with a small caliber rifle to go do some rabbit hunting or something. Traveling deeper into the Faulk Arkansas woods, he is suddenly surprised when a hulking Bigfoot appears, seemingly out of nowhere, and towers menacingly in front of the kid. I think the kid managed to fire off a couple of shots as he ran, terrified, from the Bigfoot. I'm sure the feeble bullets just bounced off the creature's fur. You can't damage a Bigfoot with a puny .22 caliber rifle, Ha! Nonetheless, the creature let out a blood-curdling howl (for cinematic effect, I'm sure).
If I ever find that album again I going to buy it. Further was a decent band, very lo-fi, but with a sort of charming early Dino Jr./Sebadoh kind of feel. I already own a VHS copy of The Legend of Boggy Creek. On Feb 4, 2006 I along with good pal, Matt Pamatmat, and a host of friends will watch another '70s classic Bigfoot related film...er....TV show: The Six Million Dollar Man and the Secret of the Bigfoot. I recall seeing this a very loooong time ago on TV. I haven't seen it since, and I recently ordered a copy of it on DVD. Suffice to say, it will be extremely campy and goofy, complete with bionic sound effects and everything. I believe Steve Austin actually fights with a Bigfoot. I can't wait to see it. Just another stop along the long route to complete, campy, 1970s Bigfoot discovery. Alright then.

The grave thinker

2005-12-15T10:00:00.000-08:00

Some spirits peek around corners into past lives; looking for a bit of time, and a reprieve from the cold marble slabs which imprison them. Maybe I was there once, the wrong person visiting the stranger’s homes, staring through the stained glass, not knowing the lonely shapes were looking for someone else. Would I go back in time? Probably, but with a clearer sense of where I am and what I’m doing. These steps should not be taken in jest. The cynical world revolving nonstop. And I know some of these souls led bad lives and I know some led good lives. But here they are now, for whatever reason, all assuredly long gone, and the really old ones still cling to patchy yellowed grass. The headstones are collapsing and frail (like the old bones in earth there). Yeah, next time I’ll walk quietly and speak softly, for I’m on their turf, in their world. And no matter if I knew these people, I know they are resting now--thousands of them--and I will tread lightly on their ground. Some day I’ll be there too, maybe not exactly here, but in a place just the same.

Crowded

2005-12-13T10:25:00.000-08:00

This piece is called In Among the Tripwires. One reason being is that I feel there are too many wires connecting us to everyday life. Just step outside for a minute and take a stroll down the sidewalk, You are likely to see over a thousand wires, cables, lines, etc...Connected to just about everything, i.e. phone lines, cable lines, people, street signs, whatever. It seems to me we can easily lose our way in amongst these wires. What keeps these things tethered? What prevents them from crossing each other? So much opportunity for fucking up, and yet they retain a sort of harmonic balance strung precariously around the suburban neighborhoods. It amazes me that there is such a lack of activity. We created these things, we need these things to live a modern, comfortable life. But what happens when they do fail? We panic, and wait biting our nails for the lineman to come and fix the problem. Here's to our modern devices; the ones we can't live without.

Caught in the middle

2005-12-09T11:12:00.000-08:00

So last night I went to see this band called Autolux, which I had recently sorta discovered and became mildly intrigued by. I had read rave reviews regarding their live show, and based on their recordings (which are done quite well) I thought I'd take a chance and see them play at the long running SF scenester haven Popscene. I have no idea why this band was playing at Popscene, which is normally known for showcasing touring UK acts, and hosting odd little "after parties" and album release parties in which the bands don't even show up to. Anyway, I used to go to Popscene on a semi-regular basis back when I had more hair and was maybe a little bit cooler looking--whatever the fuck that means. But now, I'm a bit too old to be staying up 'till 2:30 am on a Thursday night dancing to some Pulp song or something. Don't get me wrong, I used to have fun doing this, but that luster wears off pretty quickly.
At any rate, Popscene sometimes invites one band to play for about 35 minutes amidst the club's UK posing and hair gazing. I went alone last night because nobody wanted to go with, and none of my friends wanted to see this Autolux band anyway. Sarak had heard the album and was not too into it, plus she stands on her feet at her job most of the day, so standing in some crowded club for a few hours is not very enjoyable for her, I can understand that. Autolux took the small Popscene stage and immediately began to make a ton of noise, sans drums or percussion. They are a three piece (guitar, bass, drums). They are from Los Angeles, but do not really have what I guess is an "LA" sound, which seems scary to me, because when I think of an LA sound I think of Hollywood actors in really shitty bands, i.e. Keanu "canoe" Reeves, and that scruffy dude that starred in Rushmore. But Autolux are quite good, however they don't do anything that hasn't already been done (see noisepop bands circa 1992-1994). Textured guitar, feedback, delay, whispery vocals, and a driving rhythm section are Autolux's forte. I like this stuff, and never seem to grow tired of it. It's just so weird to me that this band has been opening for huge acts like Nine Inch Nails, White Stripes, and Queens of the Stone Age. Autolux are good, but they aren't that good. I guess I'd like to see a band like Autolux receiving props for making nice sounding music as opposed to all of the other poser, new wave, electrotrash/clash whatever bands that are in overabundance these days. The Autolux drummer was quite impressive as she maintained a traditional drum stick grip with her snare hitting hand whilst making her kit sound incredible. Being a drummer, I always notice the little things other drummers do to get a specific sound, or just their overall style, timing, and control are fascinating to me. However, the entire time while watching Autolux in the constricted Popscene crowd, I felt as if I were at some high school all ages rock show. Most of the kids in the crowd looked so young and had a strange, never ending energy. Were they all on drugs? Maybe. But I didn't really care, because I used to have tons of energy too, and never took any drugs. These kids were just having fun, and listening to a new, emerging band that will hopefully not become bloated because of the attention they are receiving right now.
The band stopped playing and the Popscene crowd went right back to dancing to Joy Division's 'Love will tear us apart' blaring over the house system. It was as if the band didn't even play and the crowd never missed a beat while they transitioned into twisted, esoteric movements. It was getting late and I had to leave. I walked back to my car feeling pretty good for an 'old guy'.

What I did before going to see Echo & The Bunnymen

2005-12-06T14:28:00.000-08:00

Rock concerts can be fun, but so can the stuff you do before leaving the house for the night. Yes, Sara and I went to see the Bunnymen at the Fillmore in San Francisco. It was fun, sounded good too. It was even better when the two shit splats in front of us finally left after leaning over and talking loudly to eachother through the first half of the Bunnymen's set. I hate people like that; they're not even at the show to see the band. Stupid. Go to yr lame, cologne esconced bar and waste time, but don't do it in front of me while I'm watching one of my favorite bands play. But before any of that happened I decided to photograph a few more OCD pieces for your un-enjoyment, enjoy!

Steps to the sun

The progressive decline of physical attributes

Huh?!! 360 flip over the carpet gap

yet again...

Wild no more

2005-11-21T16:14:00.000-08:00

The Albany bulb is no longer wild. This is my latest observation and conclusion. For a time there, even though I knew the bulb was becoming more and more "domesticated", I still believed that it had retained its wild and untamed self, but after visiting the other day I realized that it has become far too well known and populated. First off, I drove down there and actually got yelled at for taking a parking space, which I guess this car load of whiny middle aged women were waiting for. I played ignorant and just walked right passed them as the driver called out from her open window, "Why did you do that, you saw that we were headed in that direction!" I replied, stupified, "What, huh?" and kept walking. But I should have just said, "Because I didn't feel like waiting in line for your fat saggy asses to find a spot." But I'm not that mean, and would never say something like that to someone's face, unless they really made me mad. I was already kind of upset at the fact that most of the parking spots were taken up down there, which would not have been the case 3 years ago. As I walked along, still sorta irritated at the uber PC Berkeley moms, I noticed a massive group of people down on the little beach with dogs and kids and grandmas and papas. It just seemed so odd that so many people would be down there that late in the day. People used to never go down there, but now here they were in mid November, gallivanting and swishing away with their kids and dogs along the dirty, foamy shoreline. I walked further out, along my usual path, and continued to notice strollers, families, dogs, and large groups of people talking loudly whilst snapping digital photos. So funny, and sad. I used to be able to walk out here and be virtually alone, now the place is just teeming with activity. I suppose some lame ass soccer field is probably in the works now too. It's just a matter of time. Since the bulb has been designated as an official "park" by the city of Albany, I guess people all of a sudden felt it safe to go down there. Before the masses just the bums and the artists occupied the bulb. We know this, I mean most people already knew this. But it still seems so strange to me that the bulb is now becoming a spot to bring the family. The bums lost, and the clean people won. I guess I'm a clean person, but I still wish that the bulb was crazy and dangerous like it was in its heyday (even though I sorta missed that era of the bulb due to me not living in Albany yet). I probably won't write too much about the bulb anymore, unless something newsworthy happens out there, like a bum uprising or something. For now it remains, still interesting, but benign and innocuous, like some fatty lump on the back of your head that may worry you from time to time, but you know it is not dangerous in the least bit.

A few more pieces of...

2005-11-16T15:17:00.000-08:00

Alpine Glow

Dizzy

Past/Present

Patterns Line the Walls

2005-11-14T15:42:00.000-08:00

adjustments across andulasia
tek-nik-colour
spatial
decisions
in every home a little sadness

Sudden Reality

2005-11-10T15:12:00.000-08:00

Repetition in the mind, keeping it locked like a broken groove on an LP. The cycle has an engine, add the fuel to make it move. This is what we’ve become; machines seeking nothing but the same everywhere. Morning rise and tumble from slumber. The same, the same, the same. Every morning you have a new thought, maybe recalled from your dream—that ever so soft dream that had you reveling in some distant wonderful place for a while. Had your unconscious travels led you somewhere you’ve never been before? Had you thinking like a genius? Had you making grand plans? Had you happier than you’ve ever been? But that ol’ sun shown through your cloudy window and cast another day upon your weary face—a face that used to be so fresh and beamed brightly with the innocence of not knowing and the anticipation of getting to know. And now you sit there, on the edge of a wrinkled bed, trying to recall just what was in your head a few hours ago. You believe that if you can remember every little detail your life can actually mean something. Some great-unsolved mystery put to rest. But that doesn’t happen here. Because this new day, like everyday, has already taken hold and your precious delicate thoughts are slowly vanishing from your head. You wish and hope to regain them but who are you fucking kidding?? They are long gone and you can only rehash little details, little images, little phrases, little stories, little genius. There are no mysteries in this new day, just another like the past two already experienced. You finally get up and take a shower. The water is like a brain cleanse and you now have completely forgotten everything from your slumber. You are feeling nothing, just the same basic thoughts that will carry you throughout another day. Life now is survival, we’re like wild animals; just trying to live, just trying to make it through a day, a day that will be tomorrow, and the next, and the next…

Long Since Before Yesterday

2005-10-26T12:09:00.000-07:00

So, I've not posted a damn thing here in a few weeks. Sara, the only one who reads this, will be surprised that something has been written on this now stagnant and neglected blog o' mine. I've got some new photos of art pieces coming soon, and maybe a few words to accompany them. Oh Joy! Ahhh, fuck it. Yeah. Still balding and still slightly misanthropic.
I guess the biggest news lately is that I almost quit that band that I'm in after a disastrous show in SF. I take things way too seriously most of the time, can't just let it slide off like most people. The OCD kicks in and there is no stopping it. So I didn't really quit, but my friends in the band (aside from Schuyler) will probably want to kick me out. I would if I was them. It seems every year or so one bad show really throws me off and I'm stuck thinking, "why do we do this??" We practice tonight and I'm going to feel embarrassed to have to face everyone again. Maybe I'm too old for this shit? Who wants to see some balding, freckle-faced half asset drummer pummeling away on stage anyway? I sure wouldn't. But again, the question remains, "why do we (I) do this?" I love my friends and playing music, but not sure if I should be playing live shows in front of a paying audience. I practice all the time too, maybe it makes no difference. I made a strange analogy the other day; it seems that I've gotten away with playing drums in an active band the same way a slacker student in high school gets away with reading Cliff's Notes instead of the actual book for a report. I thought that was kind of funny. So I'll meet the guys tonight and we'll talk, and maybe even play some music. But very soon we'll have to play live again. I only hope I can redeem myself the next time 'round.

1147 Hallway Gallery Part 2

2005-09-22T10:10:00.000-07:00

Bird & Diz 24 Hour Adventures, 24 Minutes too Long
Insubstantial Timeframe

Occupation S. Smoker

2005-09-16T08:59:00.000-07:00

So the other day I was rifling through a bunch of documents here at work, and I came across these gems from a source which shall remain anonymous. These "smoker studies" were done in the the mid 1950s, and were supposed to give the company in question some kind of feedback in regards to their demographic. Enjoy!

A gallery, of sorts

2005-09-15T09:19:00.000-07:00

phaser daysnew paths over old wreckage
tile sequence
marooned
nesting instincts no. 1

Failed Sales, Thrifty Tales

2005-09-07T15:32:00.000-07:00

So last week Sarak and I had a garage/art sale. I was actually trying to move some of my art pieces that are rapidly taking over our apartment. If you've been following this blog for the past year (certainly not) you would have seen a smattering of these pieces, which I had photographed and posted up for all to enjoy. I haven't put any new photographs on this blog for some time, but I plan on posting a "gallery" of sorts sometime this week -- shit! You're excited, I can tell. But not worries, in time, in time.
At any rate, yeah, this garage sale last week generated about $26 for Sarak and I, awesome! We were out there from 9:30 to about 3:30 and all we made was $26. Now I know how difficult it must be for a transient to make any money, and they don't even sell things, they just ask for $$$. But those homeless people work really hard, harder than us in front of our apartment at least, and I hope they make some money to get food. We always have plenty of food, so I guess I should be thankful for that. Anyway, I had most of my art splayed out there in the Albany sun, once the shroud finally evaporated. Most of the people that stopped by looked at it and seemed generally bemused/intrigued, probably the former. I almost sold one medium sized drumhead collage and panel design, but both potential buyers looked shocked and just walked away when I told them that the price for each was around $20. Oh God! $20!!!, oh my goodness, holy hell, how can I afford that! Fuckers. Anyway, they looked at it and liked it, I guess, but they just walked away without saying anything. I would explain to them that these pieces weren't just slapped together, and they took time and patience to build. I think $20 for a medium sized piece is a pretty good deal. I'm not gonna sell my stuff like some Haight St. fuckin' hippy; "trade for some grass, man" or "I'll give you two bucks for that one."
Funny, but at least some of my art was seen by an un-suspecting public for the first time. It made me feel good, or at least it gave me some confidence to get this stuff out into the world. Our garage sale day ended peacefully enough, and we packed up our remaining junk to be taken to the thrift shop, where I'm sure, in about a month or so, I'll be perusing the shelves and I'll come across something familiar and pretty nice. But would I buy it?

Fleas in the Market

2005-08-30T15:34:00.000-07:00

Flea Market Sunday, so bright, so dirty.
Walk around in half daze, thinking that just
maybe I'll find something this time, ha! Funny to
think that, 'cause there ain't nothing but shit here.
I recall, many years earlier, walking around the flea
market of my hometown. It was held at the fairgrounds back then.
Probably because it had the most space, and it seemed so
appropriate that it was there. The dirty, openness of the fairgrounds,
splayed out in the hot sun, not during actual "fair time", but
it might as well have been. Pass by myriad booths set up
seemingly straight out of some old Hispanic man's failing van.
Lots of junk for sale, nothing you need, but everything you think
you want. Just melting there in the hot sun, glistening, shiny, and bright.
Nothing much has changed, 20 years later, strolling along the old ruins
of somebody else's fortune, now trying to sell it off to strangers.
It's nothing I need, just everything I think I need. I pass on, buying nothing
but smiling inwardly at the fact that somethings really never change. The shiny
items will all be there next week; stacked and sorted and ready to be purchased.

Summer Shroud

2005-08-10T11:41:00.000-07:00

Slow my gait
for the shroud hangs
heavy in the Albany Sky
it comes every evening
hangs over us here
like a canopy
gray and thick
gauzy and wet
bend to look up
but walking too fast
slow the lurch forward
steady the pace into tomorrow
there's really no hurry
can't avoid this massive screen
impervious opaque
it'll be here all summer
so might as well walk with it

Nickels, Nickels, a Bunch of Frickin' Nickels!

2005-08-08T14:42:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I go on a 9:30 am coffee break with a few guys here at the office. When I first started working here I really never spoke to anyone, in a social context at least. I did my work, said "hi" to people while passing them in the halls, and generally kept to myself. But, within the past year I've branched out a bit and have opened my little, protected shell to allow a few people inside. It's not very exciting in there, and I keep certain things to myself most of the time. But, hey, I'm trying, and I'm attempting to be more friendly and accepting. I just don't believe in faking being friends with people just because I work with them. I've never liked those people who act like their workplace is their "social connection". At any rate, and to avoid lengthy, boring, blog entries, here is something quite strange that happened the other day at work:
We were on our break; Danny, Luc, the other Joe, and myself. We were walking down the street and talking about the latest, innocuous office gossip. We came upon the intersection of 4th and Virginia when all of a sudden a big, armored, money transport truck rounded the corner. It was going pretty fast and made a hasty left onto Virginia Street. As the truck turned, a small, square box seemed to magically lift-off the back and land squarely in the center of the intersection. We all looked at each other and said in unison, "What the hell is that?!" Cautiously, we approached the mysterious box. Danny, being the more curious of the group, gave the box a gentle kick with his shoe. It was solid, dense, and didn't even move. We all looked down at it and noticed what was written on the box; "Nickels, $50". We couldn't believe it, a box of $50 in nickels had just flown off the back of what is supposed to be one of the most "secure" vehicles on the highway.
The box was heavy, probably weighed around 15 pounds. And it was small too. But nickels are quite thick, and there were a lot of nickels in that little box. I didn't want the thing, seemed like some kind of bad karma to me, but I guess if I was alone and saw a box of nickels, and didn't know where they came from, I'd probably take them home with me. So Danny took them and we all had a big laugh about it. How often does a box full of money just jump out the back of an armored truck? Very weird.
Later, I couldn't help myself; I took a solo stroll down the road where the truck turned. There are some bumpy railroad tracks down there, and I thought that just maybe something "else" may have been deposited. Sure enough, just past the tracks, on the side of the road, and sort of in the gutter lay a bag with a big dollar sign on it, I ran up to it only to discover that it was certainly NOT a money bag, but rather an old, greasy, discarded McDonald's bag with a few nasty, rotten fries inside. I laughed to myself and walked back to the office. Danny was there with the box of nickels at his desk, he was debating whether or not to deposit them in a Coinstar machine and get paper currency. I'd do that, even if it does take something like 5% for each dollar. Not bad for a day's work, I suppose.

The Sights and the Sounds of Portland Avenue

2005-07-28T14:35:00.000-07:00

So I was working on this piece in the garage for a couple of weeks, it's frickin' huge, and heavy too! The biggest yet, by far, but who cares except for me, I guess. While working on this I had the garage door open most of the time. I could see, hear, feel, and smell everything on Portland avenue. The family of Bush backers across the street were constantly arguing with each other (nothing new here; the white trash family hasn't taken down their X-mas lights since 1999, the dad wears overalls and always yells at his over weight son. The mom came over one day and took Sarak's broken Kitchen Aid machine, funny.) Anyway, people would sometimes peak into the garage and see me laboring away in there. The little, old Asian man next door would come outside every night at about 12:00 and pour water on his car, he would then wave to me, smiling huge while smoking a cigarette. Random groups of Albany teenagers would walk by too, but they are so far out of touch with reality that they don't even bother looking around--rather, they stare stupidly into their cell phones, or dribble basketballs in an out-of-time rhythm pattern. Annoying.
But me, yeah, I was in the garage maybe doing no better than anyone else--just taping a bunch of shit onto an old board. I do hope that my time in there is productive, it feels productive, but what is the point if these pieces never see beyond 1147 Portland Ave.??? I need to grow some balls and start looking for a proper venue to display them. Alright then.

Modesto is Burning

2005-07-25T14:48:00.000-07:00

I was in Modesto the other day, in the heat, in hell. "Hell" used loosely sometimes, but this time for real. Living in Modesto must be like living in hell, or as close as one may want to be. So, yes, I was there, along with three other friends. We actually had to play music in this heat, and practically during the hottest part of the day. I should have been more used to the heat. I come from the desert, the high desert just North of Los Angeles. Modesto is about 4 hours North of Lancaster, my home town, but certainly not the town I call "home" anymore. Many days and many seasons have passed since my time in the desert, and though I've endured relentless summer heat in my youth, I can no longer handle it. I recall skateboarding for hours in the "dead" of summer. My friends and I were pretty much unfazed by the heat, occasionally taking a break in the shade or maybe going to someone's house to cool off a bit. But we were always back on the black-topped, and blistering streets. Hats were secured and we wore big, baggy pants. Trucks were wobbly and loose, heads dizzy and dehydrated, and if you were to fall the pain and torture of skin sticking to molten surface would assure future balance and articulation. There was no way around the heat, and we eventually became used to it. But now, no, I am not "used" to it. I am old and the sun kills old people. Playing music in Modesto was similar to skating in Lancaster. But this time I had a choice; I chose to leave at the end of the day, unlike the past; stuck in a basin, melting in the sun, searching for feeble shade, dry-heaves, slurred speech, wrinkles around the eyes, reddened skin, endless sweat, and unrelenting days in and out of some surreal landscape littered with the most peculiar people suffering from the hottest weather imaginable.

Mazes and Boxes

2005-07-20T09:47:00.000-07:00

This here is "Mazes and Boxes". A fairly uninspired name for the biggest piece I have done thus far (approx 25" x 25"). One big old square on the white wall. My parents were visiting when I mounted this. I think my mom liked some of my stuff, she is more into impressionistic art, like paintings of fruit baskets and rural landscapes. But, I think she can appreciate that her OCD'd son has a particular interest in complete abstraction. My dad helped me put this on the wall and leveled it nicely. My dad is the best, but his knees are rapidly going to the wayside. I feel badly because he used to always run faster than me when I was young. He was quick and lean. Although he certainly wasn't a jock, he could still hold his own at a slow-pitch softball game. I always enjoyed how he never watched football, fuck football. Football is the most pointless sport invented by man. I hope my father's knees start feeling better so that he can still feel the exhilaration of running. It's sad when our bodies start falling apart -- we are not meant to work perfectly forever. This piece is dedicated to my dad, David Victor Ryckebosch.

Wooden Man Thoughts

2005-07-15T16:40:00.000-07:00

Atrophied limbs
placed here
by the Gideons

The Bulb in Danger?

2005-07-13T09:48:00.000-07:00

I went to the bulb yesterday and saw a few interesting developments. First, I noticed three big, industrial waste-sized canisters at the entrance to the bulb. On one of them the following was scrawled: "No removal of art" so this scared me right away and I instantly thought that maybe the city was preparing to remove all of the art from the bulb. I peered into one of the canisters and there wasn't much in it, at least I didn't see any recognizable "bulb art". Then I strolled along the same path that I always take; up and down whoopty-do's on a very narrow and rocky trail. As I moved along I noticed that some of the trail had been cleared away. This must've been why the large canisters were at the entrance; to put the trail clippings in. It seemed odd, these big, wide paths now clear where before they were very small and flanked by large fennel plants. I walked over to the thunderdome area and saw that it was completely untouched, which was good. All of the art and debris that was there before remained. Except, I noticed that once again somebody had removed my striped drumhead from the old tire - who the hell would bother doing this? But I didn't care too much and smiled to myself and hoped that whomever had it enjoyed it. I went down to the bulb's edge, where most of the SNIFF art resides. The art was still there and intact, aside from the natural degradation of the work due to bulb elements. I walked through the big, orange foam arches and out toward the weird little shack the someone had built right along the bulb's rocky shoreline. I noticed a sign on there that stated, "Can you Preserve? Can you Contribute?" Fuck yes I can! So I proceeded to put up a piece called "Late Night Stripes". Hopefully this piece will remain here for a long while. I kind of like how it marks the horizon a bit.
I exited the bulb feeling pretty good, but not without a nagging notion that something is happening out there, something not good. I think that the city has plans for the area, and the trail widening is possibly just the beginning. Maybe they want to dig in deeper and start removing the art? Maybe they want to finally "clean up" the bulb to make if safer for all of the antispetisized families who venture out there more and more frequently? I only hope that these people who visit the bulb realize that it is a wild place, and that it cannot be changed. I truly hope that they are not the ones complaining to the city, telling them to clean up the bulb and make it safer. It is really not a "safe" place, but it can be as safe as you want it to be - you just need common sense while scrambling around out there.
Keep the bulb alive, keep the bulb wild!

Old Tire Meets OCD Art

2005-07-07T11:17:00.000-07:00

Here we have one of my pieces caught in an old, thick, dirty rubber tire. I placed this piece inside of this tire several months ago. I then came back to the bulb about a week later and somebody had taken the piece out of the tire and placed it not too far away, and in a less "effective" area. Normally I do not care what people do with my art once it is taken down to the bulb, it is all part of the transient nature of the place. However, this piece worked so well inside of this tire that I couldn't handle it not being in there. So I picked it up and scrambled upon the rusted re-bar to once again put it inside of the tire. Man, that tire is dirty too! My hands were pitch black after handling it. Who would go through the trouble of taking that damn thing out of the tire? It is wedged in there really well. Some people are nuts, I guess, they always gotta have things their way, oh wait, I think I just described myself. So be it.

A New Trait, Suddenly Lethal

2005-07-06T14:23:00.000-07:00

A New Trait, Suddenly Lethal:

Separate

the

altered

perception

On the Road, in the Heat

2005-07-05T12:23:00.000-07:00

So I was in Southern California for the past few days with these guys on the left here, and another good friend named Todd. We played at a few venues and drove around in our big, sweaty, white machine. I was able to fool Todd with the fake van cockroach at least once. I always try to get somebody with the damn thing, and sometimes it works. The shows were fun and I believe we played one of our consistently best sets of songs in a long while. I recall past shows with us lumbering about on stage, unsure and skittish about the songs and the transitions in between them. This time it felt "right" or as right as it can feel for us. Essentially, we try very hard not to be "rock poseurs". You know, the type of band that belittles people in the audience by forcing them to "Come up closer to the stage so that you will inspire us". Fuck that stupid bullshit, and fuck those misogynistic, megalomaniac LA based bands that try to pull that crap. I will kill for less. Your music should speak for itself, and if people watching want to come up closer to the stage they can. And if they are comfortable staying far back they can do that too. Who are bands trying to fool anyway? I believe in being comfortable at shows, and enjoying live music the way you want to enjoy it; sitting down, standing up, squatting, sleeping, smiling...whatever. Talking is rude too, you come to a live show to watch, observe, and most importantly to listen. Take your talking and your flirting with that slutty Southern California girl outside, because I don't want to hear it. Ahhh, very nice, quiet now, able to play music for the few who actually enjoy and appreciate it. As far as I'm concerned the only good, new bands to make honest, original music in the LA area are Autolux, Timonium, and longtime residents Idaho. Forget the rest, don't waste your time, your time is precious, and you will not live forever here on this thing called planet earth. Make the best of it. Be nice, smile, say "hello", and come to shows with an open mind and quiet mouth. And for god sakes, shut off that insipid cell phone! Nobody cares and nobody wants it. Cool.

Stuck in Spokes

2005-06-29T12:17:00.000-07:00

Here is just a quick pic of one of my striped boards caught in the spokes of this old bicycle tire rim. I think Rabbit tried to pull it out one day, but it is wedged in there pretty well and won't come out without a fight.

The "Real" Thunderdome

2005-06-28T15:42:00.000-07:00

Here is an overview of Thunderdome at the Albany Bulb. I like to refer to this as the "real" Thunderdome, and here's why: up in Sonoma County in a little, squalid suburb known as Rohnert Park, there exists a place that some people like to call Thunderdome. This place, basically just a house full of poor and stinky SSU students, has no real reason to have such a distinguished moniker. I think the people "living" there thought it pretty neat to name what is just your typical party-house Thunderome. They obviously have no reference point, and have never seen the M. Gibson vehicle Beyond Thunderdome. But when I think of it, there was a guy living at the place called Deli Platter, and another who was a dead ringer for Gareth Keenan from Office fame called "Luce". So what I'm saying is these people were already kind of loopy and self-absorbed. I have no idea how they came to call their home Thunderdome.
I think the bulb offers the most authentic Thunderdome, aside from the actual one in the film, of course. If you look closely, you will see pieces of OCD art in this picture. There is no Master Blaster governing this Thunderdome; just a few ragged bums and the occasional balding man bumping around in there putting his artwork up for none to see.

Big Jilm at the Bulb

2005-06-21T12:11:00.000-07:00

So this is "Big Jilm" at the Albany bulb. I go to the bulb often. I could write volumes about this place because it is so special to me. I started going down there on a regular basis about 2 years ago. The place is filled with mystery, and best exemplified and portrayed in the 2003 documentary Bums' Paradise. I suggest viewing it if you can find it. The bulb is named as such because it juts out into the bay and forms a light bulb sort of shape. The bulb is essentially a peninsula, but calling it the bulb is much better. The bulb is filled with junk, tons of thousands of pounds of junk; twisted and rusted rebar extent out of broken concrete chunks, and some just shoot straight out of the ground like ancient tentacles reaching for the sky. Natural vegetation has grown over most of the debris and has created this sort of urban garden. The place smells of fennel and dust. People like to walk their dogs at the bulb, and they claim it is one of the last places in California where you can walk your dog without a leash -- "Save off leash access" is what the fanatical dog walkers always proclaim. If I had a dog I'd walk it down there too, I guess. Anyway, the bulb is great and beautiful, and someday it won't be there anymore when the powers-that-be decide to finally renovate it and make it into a safe "park". I dread that day. For now I will enjoy the bulb as much as I can and add my two cents by taking some of my OCD art down there. There are very few places like the bulb anymore. Go down there and give it respect. And if you run into a man called Rabbit, ask him about Bums' Paradise and he'll give you the low-down.

The Goon Squad

2005-06-20T16:21:00.000-07:00

So the goon squad was in full effect yet again today. Per usual, I went out on my 3:30 pm break to walk up 4th Street and around the block. As I was exiting the office building I sensed that the goons were present. Sure enough, as I rounded the corner there they were in all of their moronic glory. This group never ceases to amaze me. They huddle together and laugh and giggle and whisper whenever anyone walks by then. Actually, they kind of remind me of a pack of teenage girls -- standing in formation as school lets out and gossiping amongst themselves while the lesser beings pass by. What a joke these guys are; hardly intimidating, like most gangsters when they are alone, but within this group they form some kind of lame power and mostly prompt annoyance rather than trepidation. I believe they would like to have the power to scare people, but they come across as goons and that is what they will remain.
I completed my walk and while heading back toward the office I noticed the goons were still there. I like to ignore them entirely, like they don't exist, and when I walk by they always laugh. But the joke is on them because they will never leave this place. When this place finally shuts down, and there is no more work to be done, each goon will cower in fear and loneliness and make his way out into the harsh light of the real world - it'll kind of be like a high school graduation for them. I wonder what goons do when they finally realize just how useless their lives are?

Controlled Substances

2005-06-09T11:40:00.000-07:00

This is Controlled Substances. This piece was made several years back, one of the first drum head collage endeavors that I embarked upon. I didn't know what this was going to start, and didn't even know of Chartpak graphic tape at the time. I was essentially cutting out images from mine and Sarak's vast collection of Time Life Science books. I'd paste them up on the old drumheads and apply a thin layer of Modge Podge on the top. Sometimes the images would warp and bubble due to the "Podge", I'd become really upset when this happened and would almost throw the entire thing in the trash and ask myself, "What the hell am I doing?" Anyway, I don't seem to have this problem when using Chartpak. Thanks, Tony, for bringing me my first ever batch of Chartpak - it started an obsession and keeps me very busy these days. More collage, and cut-out art coming soon too. I haven't completly abandoned that medium yet. Boognish.

Diffuser

2005-06-07T14:06:00.000-07:00

This is "Diffuser".
I can't seem remember my dreams these past few weeks, I know I'm having them, but upon waking, I can't recall one single detail from them. I used to always remember my dreams. Sometimes I'd remember them for years and years. To this day I recall a dream I had when I was very young. It involved some sort of Uncle Sam type figure and a large audience watching, he was performing tricks or something, and at the same time pointing to people in the crowd and saying, "I want you for the US Army" Fucking weird to say the least. So yes, a few weeks ago I woke up from a dead and dreamless sleep to construct the Diffuser. Even when I mounted it on the wall it still had some forgotten dream residue spilling all around its edges. Fuzzy, yet bright.

Memory Orb (Summer version)

2005-06-06T12:21:00.000-07:00

The Memory Orb serves the mist in a heated daylight hour on 22nd St. When evening hits the lingering dust will tell us, golden and diffused, that we'll sleep under buzzing insect trees this night and count endless stars 'cause it is so dark, and the eyes can focus on one single and ancient dead sun to block out the rest of the lights and make it just one, just one. The Memory Orb can do this, it does this.

Day of the Chicken

2005-06-03T09:55:00.000-07:00

The chicken is clean, the chicken is happy. This photo originally appeared in Alstroemeria issue #1. Shit, that was a long time ago, maybe around 1998?? This photo is even older, approx. circa 1996. My sister, Kari, was in 4-H at the time and she raised a sheep, pig, and a gaggle of chickens to show at the local fair. During a summer spent languishing in the 100 degree heat of Lancaster, CA I assisted my parents in this absurd endeavor of washing a few select chickens for the fair. I think one of these damn things even won something.
Where was Kari this day? Who knows? Probably hanging out with her friends, and ignoring the task of having to spend an afternoon washing chickens with ma and pa. Why the hell was I here? Must have been the heat warping my mind. Great days for the chicken element.

These Boots Were Made For Smokin'

2005-06-01T12:53:00.000-07:00

In the summer of 1997, I found these smoking boots in my backyard. I have no idea who or what inhabited these size 11 ropers, and furthermore, who "blew away" the wearer of these boots. Could have been Dirty Harry, could have been Josie Wales, could have been SHC. At any rate, it was a rare find indeed. I quickly ran into my house, grabbed my camera, and snapped a photo before the smoke subsided.

SS NEPENTHES

2005-05-31T12:05:00.000-07:00

Hi there, and welcome to yet another OCD piece. I forget the name of this piece, but will remember at some point in the ancient future. I might end up calling it the "SS NEPENTHES"

The other day I went sailing with my friend the Mauller. Todd, Selvi and their friend Chris were onboard as well. The last time I went sailing with the Mauller was in November and it was cold as fuck out in the ochre colored waters of the bay. We sailed way out past the Golden Gate bridge and almost sailed to the Farallon Islands. Kind of scary, considering that the Mauller's vessel is a bit old and not very well taken care of. He has one decaying flotation device on board, the sails are all ripped up, the small engine sometimes works, and the boat leaks a little bit every now and then. The Mauller performs "voyage repairs" only when in the midst of a voyage. When the boat is docked and when repairs should be made, the Mauller does not do it. He just takes the thing out every 3 months or so and discovers that something doesn't work right. He laughs a little bit and says, "I think we'll be alright." So much of the fun of sailing with the Mauller on his rickety craft is the uncertainty of what will happen. We made it back alive the other day and I didn't even get sunburned. Good. I hate being sunburned.

Timber

2005-05-27T10:36:00.000-07:00

Hello there, and welcome to this piece entitled "Timber".
Sometimes I like to walk up a nearby minor mound of earth called Albany Hill. It is located about a 1/4 of a mile to the West of my apartment. I've been going up there lately more than ever before. It feels good to walk up the gradual slope, I guess it could be considered a "workout", but any activity where I breathe heavily for longer than 5 minutes I consider a workout. Anyway, Albany Hill's proximity to my place makes it a great little post work adventure for me.
Once upon the hill, it is littered with hundreds of non-native eucalyptus trees. These trees always look so haggard; hanging and drooping, bark splintering off the trunks, leaves littering the ground, weird gaps in the spreading foliage. So I walk along this little path on the hill and just observe things. There's a big white 1970s looking cross on the hill that lights up during the holiday season. On it is incomprehensible graffiti scrawled with stuff like "John eats big cum wads this year of the monkey" ???? There are benches up there too, some face East and Some face west. They sit high and are also covered with graffiti and have names and dates carved into them. Sometimes I'll sit on a bench and smoke a cigarette, which subsequently makes me feel like vomiting after the heart-pumping climb to the top. There is also a crazy old swing on the hill, which somebody had configured by stringing rope around a thick eucalyptus branch, and then attached it to small plank of wood in which to rest yr butt. I swing on this every time I get to the top. The swing lunges me way out over the Western half of the hill and then snaps me back, almost ramming into the tree from which it hangs. It is scary indeed, but I feel the need to do it every time I go up there.
I always seem to be myself on the hill. There are hardly any people around when I go up there during the week. I like it for this reason; I can be alone for a short time amidst a teeming pool of life below. Even though the hill is far from being "beautiful", to me there is a certain kind of beauty in its wild and overgrown state. It seems forgotten, neglected, obsolete. I read somewhere that there used to be a dynamite plant on the Western side of the hill, and the eucalyptus were planted on the hill to provide sound dampening. Those days are long gone, but Albany Hill still remains.
This piece "Timber" is a monument to the hill. Without the hill, Albany would lose all of its character, it would just blend in with all of the other East Bay suburbs. I like to think of this town as special and unique, unlike anywhere else in California. And it is, so long as the hill stands strong and the eucalyptus trees waver and shed their messy leaves in the cool Pacific breeze.

2005-05-26T10:26:00.000-07:00

This is "Future in the World of 1 Million Yawns" I was thinking this morning, as I rose from a deep and medicated sleep, about the millions and billions of people in this world who rise from bed every morning to engage in yet another day's worth of repetition. It is amazing to me how we as people can do this every day, truly amazing. What is the motivation? Where is the reward? How do we condition ourselves to do this? Human beings are extremely versatile creatures; we can adapt to myriad situations very easily. And somewhere, deep within us all, there is a strange energy that seems to propel us through our days. I once heard that every life is made up of many very small victories, and very few large ones. This piece here is a compilation of those very small victories, hell, it is a small victory, for me at least.

12 am 5mg

2005-05-19T11:07:00.000-07:00

This is "12 am 5mg" Sarak had gone to NY for about a week, and my OCD started acting up pretty badly. I sat in our art room at 12 am on 5 mg of Paxil and constructed this piece. The kinetic and chaotic patterns soothed me a bit. It was a cathartic experience. I was able to vent some of my obsessive crap into making this. That's why I make this stuff -- it is soothing to focus my compulsions into something productive, even if they will just end up gathering dust in a room on Portland Ave. in Albany.

The Fabulous Mr. Happy!

2005-05-16T15:29:00.000-07:00

This is Mr. Happy, he seems content enough, though being shaved probably wasn't very pleasant. I found this photo on a link at Yoni's website. I have to show the good people this photo, it is too sick to not care.

2005-05-13T10:59:00.000-07:00

This is "Appearer" Sarak informed me that if this piece were reversed (right to left, insted of left to right) then it could be called "disappearer". It's all just a matter of perception anyway. Hey, didn't Sonic Youth have a song called disappearer on one of their earlier albums? Sarak, Ton Loc, do you know such things?

The Return of Yoniferous leviathan

2005-05-10T12:24:00.000-07:00

The above is "The Floyd Cam", alternate artwork for their Meddle album.
I had a nice conversation last night with my friend Yoni (aka Yoniferous L.) who lives in Chicago. He is a cook, and works late into the night. He used to live with me for a short time by sub-letting the room from another good friend of mine, Ton Loc (aka Lubener). During this time, we both developed a habit of hiding around the apartment a Michael Myers Halloween mask, a strange artifice that I had acquired several years back (I wore it at a party one time and it pissed some people off, funny). At any rate, we wouldn't see each other a whole lot throughout the weeks -- I had a normal 9 to 5 job and Yoni worked from about 3 pm to 1 am -- so to make up for these missing spaces, we would leave little things for each other to find when we came home. It was kind of like an absurdist play being shown over and over again. So with this big, white mask one of us would typically hide it someplace in the apartment in hopes to either frighten or amuse/bemuse the other. I put it in Yoni's closet one night and it kind of rolled out onto his chest when he opened the door, that scared him a bit. Another time, Yoni hung it from the ceiling by the front door and when I came home late one night the apartment was pitch black, and I felt this lumpy thing bounce off my face as I entered, I could barely make out the white starkness of Michael Myers -- just about scared the shit out of me. So those were fun days, absurd days, the Dadaists would be proud. Visit Yoni's website at www.drawingsbylight.com here he puts up his offerings and allows you to look into it for a while, sans Michael Myers mask.

Some Chaos...

2005-05-09T10:04:00.000-07:00

This is "Some Chaos" Kinda ugly, huh? Well, yes, and no, 'cause there is beauty in ugliness, defects in perfection, maybe. Once I saw a film called Julian Donkey Boy, where the main character Julian (played by Spud from Trainspotting) is schizophrenic, and in one scene he recites a poem at the dinner table while his dad (played by Werner Herzog) sits in a daze as he listens to Julian spewing his nonsense. The scene went something like this:
Julian: "Morning chaos, afternoon chaos, night chaos, morning chaos, afternoon chaos, night chaos..."
Dad (W. Herzog): "I don't like this artsy-fartsy stuff, your poem is boring, Julian. I know a great story, from the film Dirty Harry. It is the part where Dirty Harry is pointing his gun at the man in the end and says to him 'Make my day, punk' and he blows him away into the water. I truly like that."
This piece kind of reminds me of something that Julian might construct while reciting his poem over and over again to himself.

Journey Into the Heart of the Beast

2005-05-06T14:42:00.000-07:00

I was trapped in a world of make-believe for three days -- I was stuck there. I drove in the inky blackness of night across a vast highway teeming with boredom and repetition. Along the way I saw the endless brown landscape stretched for miles, the brown turned a muted orange as the sun finally set to bring in the lonely emptiness of dark. The dark came and that was that, just as black as you can imagine. The only thing hopeful was the red, flickering lights of the backs of vehicles scrambling for positions, and the occasional orange street light cutting through the musky night. A stop or two at commercial structures along the way allows the legs to stretch and the bladder to empty, but they always offer the dull nothingness and promise of nothing new; same faces, same vehicles, large families, feeding the mouths, same chain restaurants, nutrition at an all time low. Quickly jump back in to start 'er up and wonder why the fuck am I heading down this way.

Secrets Revealed at City Hall!

2005-05-04T16:42:00.000-07:00

Lately, my work has been sending me over to the SF City Hall to check voter party affiliations. Did you know that this information is public knowledge? Well, it is, and it is really easy to obtain. Chances are if you are one of my friends, and have lived in SF within the past 5 years, and were a registered voter, then your party affiliation is listed right there in the Dept. of Elections, and I have looked at it. You are found out! No hiding from me. Well, most of you live in the East Bay anyway, so you are safe. But there are a few of you who have lived in SF, and I looked up the political party which you side with. Don't worry, though, nothing was revealed that I already knew. And to make you feel at ease, they won't allow the public to access your address and telephone number -- that is confidential. Though I'm sure a little prodding and poking would reveal that stuff too. Everything is easy to obtain these days.
So why the hell was I doing this for work? Well, when a case goes to trial a jury is selected (duh!) and all sorts of random people get called in for jury duty. Y'all know the drill, it happens to everyone. At any rate, the prospective jurors are given questionnaires to fill out. In these questionnaires they ask all sorts of questions, but they don't ask what political party you side with. So the attorneys on the case want to know as much about the jurors as possible, and both parties (defense, and plaintiff) want to know this stuff really badly. However, there is only so much you can tell from a questionnaire -- some of these things are filled out falsely too. So in the firm where I work I think they've developed a sneaky little trick to determine how the prospective jurors might sway in a case, and that is by checking their political party affiliation. I have no idea if the attorneys on the opposite side do this, but we do here, and they make it out like it is some sort of little secret trick that nobody should know. In reality this shit is very easy to get, just go down to the city hall, dept. of elections, and tell them you want to check registered voter party affiliations. They'll set you up on this little computer and have you key in the names, and voila! In no time you have yr best or worst friend's political affiliation. I typed in my sister's name and her party affiliation popped up, and she moved from SF about 6 years ago! I guess this is really no big deal, but it just seems funny to me that this is public knowledge. Everyone always keeps these things secret, nobody goes around proclaiming they are a Republican or a Democrat, or Non-Partisan, Or Green Party. It always seemed to me that asking somebody what their political affiliation is would be like asking somebody if they were gay, bi, or straight. It is only a matter of time before we have our entire lives splayed out for the world to see. But some people may want this. With all of the cell phone use and reality-based TV action these days, people are just begging to be seen. Nothing is sacred anymore, nothing is private. Girls walk around half naked with their ass cracks hanging out, and men flaunt about talking loudly while being way too overly confident. People just need to calm the fuck down, get over themselves FAST! But what am I saying? I just checked out who you may have voted for in this last election. I guess I'm no better than anyone else. Tis true, nothing is sacred. We need the old days back again.

Automatic Manual

2005-04-29T12:27:00.000-07:00

This is "Automatic Manual" I once told my little friend in my little band that I wanted to try and manual* across the Golden Gate Bridge. He said it was impossible to do. My retort was that if I had enough speed (possibly towed by a car) and if I had a good sized skateboard, with REALLY good bearings, and like Bones 66 wheels, then it would certainly be possible. Wind and the natural arch of the bridge are factors too, of course. I would have to be going with the wind, and would need to account for the curveature/physics of the slope of the bridge. Many, many things to consider. I really want to try it someday, preferably before my old man back and knees are completely shot -- they are getting bad, I can feel it. So this would have to be done within the next couple of years.
At any rate, this piece here (part of the striped board series) has really nothing to do with actually "manualing" the GG bridge. Rather, when I was creating this piece, I was laughing to myself about how my little friend said that my stunt would be impossible -- sure, I'm old, bald, have freckles, wear glasses, make little money, have bad back, bad knees, flat-footed, bow-legged, etc...but Fuck a duck! I can still pull a goddamn fucking manual, and the day that I can't manual anything is the day that I expire, I mean really EXPIRE. Manuals were my very little claim to fame back in the day. And this stunt would sort of be my final "hurrah". Yeah, I am pathetic, I know. For now I will have to live with this piece, and use it for motivation when the time comes. That is, of course, unless somebody purchases it from me. Any takers?

*A manual is a trick performed on a skateboard wherein the rider jumps up (ollies) to an object and coasts across it on the front or back two wheels of the skateboard. Envision a "wheelie" on a bicycle. Manuals are a very satisfying stunt, they feel effortless when done correctly. They require good timing, balance, and patience. I have performed well over 1,000 manuals since 1989.

2005-04-27T10:47:00.000-07:00

This is "The Fun Machine" I once saw an awesome band play live called Macha, and they had onstage a big, bulky organ called the "fun machine" I loved the way it sounded. This striped and vinyl layered board does not remind me of the fun machine used by Macha. But, nonetheless, this is a fun and colorful piece. In reality, this piece is not as shiny as in the photo here, but still radiates a nice healthy glow. Fun.

Suck You In...

2005-04-26T09:14:00.000-07:00

This is "Suck You In" a 14" drum head collage, similar to "Separator" in construction, but the feel is quite different. This piece contains a subliminal element; under the first layer of Modpodge I sprinkled down some hallucinogenic dust from Interzone. If you are familiar with W. Burroughs' Naked Lunch you know that once you take a taste of the rare and exotic aquatic centipede dust, you find that there is no return from Interzone. I found myself there a number of times wondering if I'd ever get out. While in Interzone (for a short stay, luckily) I was able to construct this piece. Suck You In is dangerous, and if you decide to hang it on yr wall, be careful. To some it is nothing, to others it is hard to ignore. The dust, yeah, it's that little layer of dust in there that the fiends can sense, they want it, they need it. Come by and get it.

Points of Departure...

2005-04-25T12:01:00.000-07:00

This is "Points of Departure" a piece for Scott O. from the short lived band that we had in '96 called Droplet. I remember wanting to name a song Points of Departure, but Scott the shoegazer wouldn't have it. He said that it sounded too Jazzy, what?! Anyway, I name some of these pieces after rejected song titles by former and current bands that I'm in. You know the old addage: How do you make a drummer stop playing? Put a piece of sheet music in front of him! Hahahahaha...

2005-04-22T11:39:00.000-07:00

This is "Static Tension", approx. 3' tall by 2' long (looks small in photo, but is actually kinda big). It is not meant to make you actually feel tense, but I think it exudes some sort of tension from within. This is not the greatest photo of this piece, but it gives you a basic idea of this OCD art. Ingredients: Flat green spray paint, first layer of Mod Podge, chartpak solid color tape (mattes and glossy), second layer of Mod Podge, matte finish spray to diffuse glare. That's it!

Joe vs. The Old Farts

2005-04-18T13:41:00.000-07:00

So I found myself at the Albany Senior Center the other day for their annual "yard sale". It's funny 'cause there really isn't any yard at the senior center, just a few rooms inside of an old dilapidated building that was probably built at the turn of the century. The senior center is such a weird little place. The only other time that I had been there was to vote -- they are the local polling place in our community. I had voted in the past two elections at the senior center, and each time I went there were several seniors sitting around and assisting the voters, i.e., checking off names, handing people ballots, looking confused, making people confused, and scowling every time a younger person came in to vote. If all goes well, they hand you a little "I voted" sticker and then send you on your merry way.
So other than voting at this place and walking by it occasionally while noticing the now defunct shuffleboard area across the street, I really had no reason to go there, and frankly, the place radiates a kind of putrid decay, like something desperately trying to hold onto newer, faster times, even though that thing is old and antiquated itself, it still clings. It's kind of sad, really, because I can see it in the faces of the senior citizens when I have voted there before -- they look sorta desperate, like they are still "with it" but you know once they step out of those doors they seemingly fade right into the landscape. They are artifacts -- no longer needed and no longer viable in these modern times.
But I did manage to go to the senior sale, mainly out of curiosity, and also because Sarak once told me that senior sales and church estate type sales are some of the best places to find sweet deals on vintage clothing, records, and other little knick-knacks. I walked into the place and immediately noticed a big box full of bags and backpacks. I sifted through the pile and came across a nice messenger type bag. It was only $2 so I decided to buy it. I started walking into a different area with the bag when all of a sudden a little squeaky voice called out, "Sir, you can pay for that in here!" I looked around, kinda surprised, and then noticed a little hunched over lady speaking to me from a folding chair. I kind of laughed and said, "Well, I'm still looking around, but I do want to buy this before I leave". My first thought was that the lady thought I was going to steal the bag. I was certainly not going to steal it! I just wanted to hold onto it before somebody else grabbed it up. Some other people looking around glanced over when the old lady yelled at me, there was a mutual "I know that these old people can be a bit confused" look on their faces and mine. I was told by the hunched over lady that they didn't want different merchandise traveling into the other rooms, you had to pay for your stuff in each little section. So I sat my bag by the table and said I'd buy it before I left. The old lady frowned and said, "Alright then".
I proceeded to go into another room where there were bookshelves full of all sorts of interesting books. I began perusing them and eventually came upon a rather lare, hard-bound "Motorcycles of Britain" book. It looked really nice, and was in good condition. I instantly started to think how much bread I could get for it on eBay. I bet I could get at least $40!! I don't care about motorcycles, I just thought the book looked nice with full color photographs and what not. Some enthusiast out there would have easily paid good money for it. But again, seemingly out of nowhere, another barely audible, little, squeaky voice called to me "Sir, that isn't for sale!" I turned to find yet another hunched over senior sitting in a folding chair scowling at me. I thought to myself, "What the fuck is going on here?" The senior explained that the particular books that I was looking at belonged to the center. I was a bit confused, because these books were right out with all of the other stuff for sale. I could only think that maybe they could have put the stuff away that was not for sale, not left it out there for people to look at. I mumbled to the little lady, "Ok, no problem" and I put the book back on the shelf. Maybe coming into this place was a mistake.
I made my way into a large back room of the center and there were several folding tables with all kinds of junk displayed upon them. I was a bit perturbed because I noticed that a lot of the useless crap was way overpriced. I mumbled a little, "Tssk" and wandered around. I came upon a table that had a bunch of CD's stacked in several piles. As soon as I began sifting through one of the piles a middle-aged woman cut in front of me and rapidly started shuffling through another stack of CD's. She annoyed me from the start. I glanced over and saw that she had grabbed up the Nirvana box set CD, some Hole CD, and a Smashing Pumpkins CD -- all easy money on ol' eBay (don't get me wrong I like Nirvana and the Smashing Pumpkins, but I already have those CD's, and I know that I could get GOOD bread for them on eBay). But this fucking lady snatched them up. I thought, "What the fuck is she gonna do with a Nirvana CD??!!" I was a bit pissed, mainly just because I should have got those CD's, then I realized I was being a bit rash, and my many years experience with thrift store hunting and bargain shopping was getting in the way of my clear judgment. I just see deals and I HAVE TO HAVE them. Especially nowadays with the eBay factor, it is a very dangerous combination -- I'm constantly on the lookout for stuff that I can buy cheaply and then sell for triple the amount online. I have a problem, I think.
So I let that 50 year-old keep the Nirvana CD, big deal! As I was exiting the back room of the center, I happened to glance over at a big chalkboard on the wall. It read, "bake sale" and then had a listing of tasty treats and their prices. I noticed that they had egg salad sandwiches for sale, I love egg salad sandwiches! I almost contemplated buying one until I noticed the price, $4.80. Four dollars and eighty cents for some crappy, home made egg salad sandwich! What??
Who were these old farts trying to fool? I mean, that sandwich should be like $2. I then noticed that much of their food was way overpriced, and it wasn't going anywhere anytime soon as it sat there in the mid-afternoon, untouched, as small clusters of flies began swarming around it. Man, they could sell this shit much faster if they at least slashed the prices. What a waste. Old people are stubborn too, so I just assumed they would throw it all away if it didn't sell. I was kind of pissed at the way this whole place was ran, so to fuck with the seniors a little bit, as I was walking out of the room, I blurted out (quite audibly), "FOUR EIGHTY FOR AN EGG SALAD SANDWICH!?" Some old lady looked at me and said in a sassy sort of way, "Ahhh, but it's good stuff!" I responded with, "I hope so for that amount".
I had just about enough of these crazy old farts, I figured they had won this time, after all, I was on their turf. So as I made my way out I heard the same crackly, little voice from when I first entered the center call to me, "SIR, your bag, are you still going to buy it!?" With my head down, I whispered "yes" and walked over to the table and placed into the senior's weathered and arthritic hand my two dollars. Feeling defeated, I took my new/old bag and made my way out into the bright, bright, BRIGHT afternoon. It was going to be a long day...er...a long life.

A Series of Stupid Tests

2005-04-08T12:24:00.000-07:00

40 WPM, 45 WPM, what the fuck!? Typing tests. I hate 'em. I have considered myself a fairly decent typist for the past several years. I have no idea how fast I actually "punch the keys", but I manage to get things done, and put words to paper/blog. However, any company or prospective employer that is basing the hiring of myself on the speed of my typing can go straight to hell-in-a-handbasket. Fuck those people. Hey, you readin' this? How fast do you type, sucker? I bet you type about as fast as I do, huh? Ahh fuck it. Y'all got yr. $60,000/year jobs. Cool, yeah cool. I'm 33 (old bald man) and I bet I will never make more than $16 an hour.
I tried the other day to go out and get a new job, but both of the places I had interviews at had me do the same exact things -- take fucking stupid typist tesst, and spelling tests (which is easy, because I cannn speeeel reallies well. Yeah, yeah. So for instance, I bet if I get a job as a delivery driver they'll probably make me take a typing test. "So Joe, yes, we are interested in having you work for us as a driver, but why don't we go and set you up with a typing test first, and if you can type 80 WPM, we'll talk more." Do I look like a slow typist or something? Maybe I just look sorta slow, and people want to make sure that I'm not a complete idiot. Yeah, I'm losing my hair, and have a big forehead, but it does not say, "Insipid, slow man contained inside, please administer typing test before considering using." Fuck all.

MP's Mailart Chronology, In Real Time!

2005-04-06T14:44:00.000-07:00

Once again, my dear friend MP has sent me another one of his randomly filled envelopes via the US Postal Service. Not the god forsaken shitty WA band, but the real deal, the actual thing, the tangible vessel of package transit permeating our vacuum-like American landscape.
As I opened the envelope with the return address indicating Matt "mindless philosopher" Pamatmat, I took notes on exactly what I first pulled out. I normally sift through the pieces, then put together a short history of what MP has been up to in the past month or so. But this time, I "pull out" then "put up", so to speak. This is in real time, yeah, like when you first wake in the morn' and knock things around for a little while, maybe yr brain is knockin' around in yr head too. But somehow everything slowly comes into focus, and you begin your daily routine. This is real, this is the time that I speak of. From the moment you wake 'til the moment you fall asleep, time just goes, and you can't go back and you can't go ahead. You are there, in the moment, dealing with life, life dealing you, maybe? Good, bad, happy, sad, every moment is something, and you live it. This is happening right now.

Fast band, white and cut maybe from MP's arm at some point. It could be that MP was at a show or some event that required his wearing of the "fast band", but maybe later MP was sick of the thing, so he ripped it off. Jasper may have slobbered on it a bit too. Who knows? Photo of three cats sitting around in a non-descript back bedroom located at 1055 Avondala somewhere in America. The names appear to be Frodo, Bertie, and Farmer Giles of Ham aka VDK (Virginia Ditch Kitty). The latter cat seems prissy and pussy. MP took Jasper down to the Petaluma Regional Library on 3/21/05 and checked out some Elmo books (or videos?) I don't know, but I do know that Elmo is not Emo and Emo means dyed black hair, spiked belt, too-short pants, and bad skin. Maybe from a cereal box, or some other such Safeway product, a top was torn revealing R2D2 saying the same thing as MP's return address. C3PO is nowhere in site, but a little feller I know says that I remind him of the golden droid. Taiwanese stickers with clumsy monkeys trying to skateboard makes me high. Scientology is for losers, but I guess Beck sang about being a loser a long time ago, and maybe he was trying to tell us something? But nobody understood his cry and now the guero gets his negative energies eliminated by taking frequent e-meter tests. MP does not agree with Beck's easy route to be free, and nor do I. Grandma, I'm a man, and when I got glazed last night Celeste made some mac & cheese. MP feels soul eyes and a dick, a long skinny dick. Remember that shitty, poser, hair-metal band called Night Ranger? Well, one of the douchebag members lives in Marin, but I think the whole band was from Sonoma County at one point. MP found a little article about this NR guy called Jeff Watson, and I don't know if that is the singer or what -- "motorhead, feels like I'm on fire" Well, that's what I thought that dipshit sang on NR's only hit song "Sister Christian", but I think this guy here is the guitarist for the band, and the stupidest paper ever, the Pacific Sun, ran the story, go figure. Lastly and most certainly deservedly, I pull out The Hairy One, and boy is he a site for sore eyes. This Saturday we go to the Hairy One's namesake bar in SF to try and get an autistic man drunk, and then maybe have the bar set on fire. We'll invite The Hairy One for some s'mores, then sail bottles all over the crooked streets of SF. A glorious time to behold, indeed.

2005-04-04T14:51:00.000-07:00

This is "Separator" it kind of reminds me of the human cadavers that are plastecized and on display in science museums across the world (I think there may be currently in SF???). Anyway, I love this exhibit because all of these teachers take their classes to see it, and they think it is going to be some kind of really great discovery for the kids, but what ends up happening is that the kids get sick to their stomachs. They don't realize (and the teachers too) that these plastecized pieces are actually DEAD human beings, I mean real humans that have given their bodies over to science for study, etc... Kids need to get a little sick these days, too safe out there for them, danger is everywhere! Start by checking out the "Separator" one of these fine Saturday afternoons in the springtime. It's coming soon, or sooner than you want anything to come. Don't worry, though, no dead bodies will be found at my place. Hehehehe...

2005-04-01T10:18:00.000-08:00

Cocaine California it was called. And the many who viewed it would slowly succumb to its powers and feel the insatiable urge to delve into the white powdery granules. Like the hues of some California sunset melding with the stark, straight lines of the addictive undercurrents. This one is dangerous.

Cat's Got My Finger

2005-03-30T09:17:00.000-08:00

In the early morning hours, once again, dreams blend with the radio sounds.

Saying such strange things, melding with my subconscious, passing through.

I'm in a doctor's office, somewhere, the doctor is talking to me about being an "extreme runner" talking about how on his 30th birthday, late at night, he suddenly just ran for 30 miles until he was exhausted. Seems strange, 'cause in reality on the radio near my bed a man is being interviewed about the same thing, he is telling the same exact story. An orange cat appears, seemingly from nowhere, a pretty cat it is, so I begin to pet it. Suddenly the cat turns evil and bites my finger, I can feel its sharp little teeth and raspy tongue gripping down on my pinky. I yell for it to stop, I yell at the doctor and tell him to get it off, nobody is doing anything, the doctor is still talking about running. I'm freaking out, trying desperately to get the fucking cat to release my finger -- it won't. The radio hums, seeping into my head, where did this stupid cat come from!?

I awake, finally. What a terrible little dream. The radio is still on and the runner is still talking about his experiences. What the fuck? What is this called when reality blends with dreams? Feel like it is something out of a Gondry film. I look at my pinky, no bite marks, but it hurts.

2005-03-29T15:36:00.000-08:00

This is "Pachuco Corpse" a 16" drum head striped pattern, created by Joe in Albany, CA. He is going to have a sale for some of his artwork very soon. Come and see Pachuco Corpse and various other avant wall hanging devices. They look good in a cluster method, so buy multiples and you'll be the envy of everyone you thought you ever knew. Blank days are not so unwritten anymore.