10/21
Today is the first snow. Yesterday it was a perfect 70 degrees and within a half hour, it dropped down to 50 with a strong wind without warning. Time to dig out the thermal undies, those old L.L. Bean arctic survival boots that belonged to my father, the hooded parka, the really BIG sweater, the fleece-lined hat with the ear flaps. This morning someone very close to me sent a photo of herself to my cel phone. I could tell she was wrapped from head to toe and all you could see of her were these amazing eyes.



I am heating water in the kettle for hot chocolate. I like the really big marshmallows. The radiator is starting to hiss and burble, much to my relief. I have placed a pot of water on top. The building where I lived for two school years was old and antiquated. Each room had a radiator and would often run full blast in order to fend-off the harsh, New England winter that would freeze my hair solid if I failed to cover-up properly before walking from swim practice to the dining hall for dinner. Radiators give off a very dry heat so a simple trick that got passed around was to place a pot of water onto the radiator so that some moisture would permeate the air. It still works.

Today a friend of mine is photographing me for something and all he has asked is that I bring lots of underwear of different varieties, so lord knows what this will yield.

10/24
Saw Henry Rollins last night at the Paramount Theater. I've been watching, reading and listening to that guy since I was 13, way more than half my life ago. Musically, his material stopped packing a punch for me some time ago, but he still delivers the goods behind the mic. He spoke for 190 minutes straight. In that time period he covered the topics of misspellings in the hate mail he receives, democracy, war, British punk band: The Rutts, a six-year crush of his, traveling to far off places for the sole experience of it, people being eaten by alligators and the importance of voting. I went with with a friend and we laughed our asses off.

Today I took a walk along the canal that runs along Speer while listening to Mozart's requiem mass. Good times. I think people, and by "people" I mean, "I" might spend too much time in units of containment... be it where we live, the modes of transport we take from one place to another, etc. You pass by things too fast while trying to get the next unit of containment. People seem to avoid having to put their feet on the ground and pass through a place at a speed where you can really drink it in... look at things and participate in the environment.

As far as cities go, I have my doubts as to whether or not humans were meant to live in such close proximity to one another. If you observe nature, the only time we see dense communities of the same species, is when the entire population is working towards a collective and common goal: ant and termite colonies and the like... even then, some colonies will mobilize to subdue and enslave other colonies. Locusts start out as nothing more than simple grasshoppers, but when too many eggs hatch, they become agitated due to overcrowding and become a swarm, yet still act with a single purpose. Whereas, we humans, are constantly struggling to be able to pursue our own agenda, whatever that may be. And it usually involves a lot of "alone time."

When humans exist in small villages as hunter/gatherers, you don't see this. They also don't surf the net, watch reality television on Tivo, go through any sort of identity crisis or blog incessantly on myspace. (Or Live Journal, for that matter.)* And the reasons for this I would think are easy to figure out: None of these things have anything to do with surviving one's conditions in such a context. I would think you would be too busy having to work to ensure food, clothing, water and shelter, not only for yourself, but for your neighbor because you all really do depend on one another in a very tangible way. It's not a hypothetical or conjectural thing. Have you noticed that these folks in remote parts of the world tend not to suffer from things like Bullemia? Could it be that cable television, advertizing and celebrity magazines might be more than a little irrelevent and down-right boring as far as subject matter goes when there's a cold winter approaching and you may not have enough food to eat lest everyone tows the line?

I know other people have spent a lot more time earning Phd's on this sort of thing and have stated it in much more elloquent, or at least more academic and analytical language. Apparently it's called, "Anthropology."

Later tonight I attended a friend's burlesque performance. I watched cute girls disrobe on stage and shake it. The crowd wasn't that large. Tiger Army played tonight. Psychobilly is for children... who are gay. The Cramps laugh at you. There are black sheep and then there are just sheep who wear black. Spoke briefly with a former lover. Saw a few friends. Had a few laughs. Rode my purple, Schwinn Stingwray back home. It was a bit cold at first, but the body kicked-in after about ten minutes. The days are getting shorter and the nights are getting colder. Fuck it. Meet the moments.

Now I am home safely, watching "Blood of Dracula" and I teach class tomorrow afternoon.

FOOTNOTE
*I feel like a hypocrite when I do this because I am utilizing a medium of which I'm niether fond of, nor trust. The driving motivation behind any online "community" would appear to be uniform: to present oneself without having to "be" oneself. There is no one to contradict the claims, check the facts or confirm one's alibis. And you can omit only so much about your short-comings, character flaws and your mistakes before resorting to abject fraud.

I dated a girl whom I would classify as a "compulsive blogger." She would mention things on them such as constantly striving to improve herself, not wanting or needing protection from predicaments that, though difficult, would help her "grow as a person", etc. All that turned out to be utter rubbish. At the first sign of trouble she would seek to blame everyone else and skipped town for weeks so she wouldn't have to be around anyone who knew more than her side of the story. She also claimed to be a Satanist, but after observing her behavior in comparrison to actual Satanic ethos and philosophy, it became apparent that she was no different from those claiming to be "Christian" just because they have read the Bible without having absorbed its content or those who mistake a complete inability to translate metaphor as "belief." She had video blogs as well; either consisting of nothing more than footage of her incessantly smoking cigarettes in a vain attempt at depth, overdubbed with music by a gifted songwriter for whom she would claim ardent fandome in spite of being totally unaware of his suicide until I had informed her of the event four years after-the-fact... or her paraphrasing insights I shared with her in conversation, as though she were the one to whom MY ideas occurred. Have you ever watched a chicken try to fly? You want it to stop or to somehow turn into a dove or finally just stop trying so hard. One more strong indicator that we will not be seeing a viable cure for banality in our lifetime.

Long after she became my favorite person to ignore she sought to solicit an audience with me. I respectfully declined her request and the next day she's posting about how "shitty people" have been trying to "re-enter" HER life. You see what I mean? Beware anyone who has more "close" friends online than in their own town, esspecially if they have lived in one place their whole life. It is a red flag... a really big one and should be heeded if you wish to save yourself a heap of time. However, if you happen to enjoy reading very poorly written, nuance-impaired poetry about yourself, then disregard my advice and go forth.

Not just that. Have you ever heard someone claim to "have" a website, when in reality they went "to" a website that provides links to cheap host sites and simply set-up a profile, select the wallpaper and the color and size of the font with which they blog about themsleves and post photos from their camera phone? Yeah? Me, too. Too often. Or how about those who claim to be writers, when in reality they are just one more person who's "posted" on "their website." Right. Um... geigh.

While we're at it, how 'bout I tear pages from my notebook, pin them to a community bulliten board and declare myself "published?" After all, there is more to being a public speaker than the mere act of simply speaking in public.

10/29
Saturday was very busy. I rose at 8:30. I taught class at the academia and oversaw the conditioning class afterwards.

My shoulder is still knotted up and prohibits me from doing a lot of the exercises. I really need to find a masseuse who is able to get in there and break it all up. After that, haircut followed by my tattoo appointment with Fish.

We got 3 hours of work in on the left calf. I kind of played a joke on my friend. I deliberately wore jeans, knowing I would have to take them off so that he could work, so I wore these minty green briefs that would seem to have been designed specifically to make heterosexual men feel uncomfortable around one another. SO, basically I was making Fish look at my goods for 3 hours.

He may have exacted his revenge by really digging into me. Ouch!

The piece is halfway done and the shot is blurry, but it's the body of a broken fiddle with a tattered, 2nd place ribbon. There are arteries worked into it and the center has a bleeding keyhole and the banners read: THEY CAN HAVE YOU. I'll let you figure out the rest.

10/31
Enlist yourself...

in the armies...

OF THE NIIIIIGGGHHHHT!!!!!!







Piper drinks with her pinky out... because she is just fancy like that.




Paris was DJ-ing the party I attended LAST year. Now we are skating close to the province of tradition.


The girl in the painting on the right is a friend of mine. She's really quite nice in person. Really.


These two guys showed-up in this amazing costume of them as a PHOTO of two vatos!


Did you know that DEVO got those hats by performing at a venue that had these lamps with these unique lamp shades. Apparently no one liked them and began pelting them with objects, so, they each grabbed a lamp shade and placed them on their heads for protection against projectiles. And that's the story of the hats. You're welcome.

Baltimore is fucking hot and humid. I got in several hours before the rest of he crew had arrived and called Audra to let her know I had landed safely. She and Spike were still at the house and apparently, the folks from whom she arranged to rent the ring, fucked her at the last minute, so she had spent an entire morning trying to locate a ring in the area that could be transported to the location and assembled, which she was somehow able to achieve. She assured me she would tell me all about it once I saw her. I was half-tempted to go out and explore the town or maybe rent a car and go hit-up my friend Melissa, who pleaded with me to make the drive from Baltimore to Camden, NJ where the Vans Warped Tour was underway that day and where she would be partying-down this evening if I cared to join her. The drive was at least a two hour affair each way and since I really didn't know the streets of either city all that well, I opted to just stay put, read, drink coffee and listen to music to pass the time, which turned out to be a good 7 hours and some change before the rest of the bunch had arrived from San Francisco.

The hotel wasn't really anything to write home about, but all I really cared about was a soft place to lay my head. It was so hot and humid that we immediately kicked-on the AC. Little did I know that it would cool the moisture in the air so affectively that I would contract a cold from it.

Morning van call wasn't too demanding and the vans were there again to take us to the venue. We had to make a slight stp because we had one straggler to pick-up, who was catching a local rail-car into the closest stop on the way.

Once at the venue I could hear Cheap Trick playing and was instantly excited. We were fortnunate enough to tilt a glass back with Rick Nielson ten years ago when we played Minneapolis with the Mr. T Experience and the Grouvie Ghoulies. Cheap Trick was opening-up for Motley Crue at the venue across the street and he happened to wander over to investigate what all the ruckus was about. Apparently he liked the show and we bonded. I still have the photo somewhere.

Anyway, we were able to procure our passes, credentials and meal tickets easily enough, much thanks to Audra and the wrestling ring was easy enough to locate, though the event staff had yet to outfit us with the sound-system agreed upon in our contract. I'm just another hired hand and I wanted to see Amy Winehous, so I took my leave once her set started.



She looked rather palid and skinny, but the voice is still the voice...



And I became fast friends with the humungous video screens that provided much better angles as well as this weird texture and tone to the shots...





The venue was a large track for horse racing. Our agenda was to put in 3 sets of two matches each for the day, starting a little after 4. This is another reason why I don't like festivals... there is so much going on, you have to coordinate a time-table so that no one of the smaller acts is stuggling to be heard over one of the bigger acts on the main-stage. There is only so much time in so many intervals to do this and if something goes wrong or some need goes unmet, then that window does not get refunded.

Such was the case with us when we were still waiting not only for a sound-sytem with which our announcers could commentate on the matches as well as see to them-music of each wrestler... but also short on an area for all of us to change. We were able to comandere a small structure not far from the ring that was not being used and had about 8 layers of dust on every, possible surface... oh, well, better than nothing. Come ime for our first set and we are still stuck with our dicks in our hands, still haggling with production over equipment that was guaranteed to us as per our technical rider in our contract.

I don't know why it is like this for us, but it always is. Shane was the first to point it out and express it rather accurately: no matter where we go or how cordial we are with everyone with whom we come into contact, we are regarded as some sort of freak-show and are usually treated accordingly. We may as well be geeking live mice and chickens. And "wrestling" has and probably will always be one of those things around which people cannot reconcile themselves. You either "get it" or you don't. Unfortunately, most people do not, and yet we always pack a crowd of these same people. It's almost like some morbid crowd, waiting at a hazardous intersection in hopes that they'll get to see someone get splattered all over the pavement, so they can go home and talk about what an outrage it is. It is very easy for most to hate us. And we have quickly acclimated to this.

Case in point, during our last set I had entered the ring and felt sharp points upon my skin, I turned and noticed a middle-aged fellow scooping together handfuls of gravel to hurl at ME, of all people. Event security were even allowing him to breach the barricade, walking right past them and get right-up to ringside to do this. I pointed him to security and shouted,
"Do you see that man wearing any sort of laminate?! Then why are you allowing him past the barricade?!"

The guy shouted some very drunken, unintelligible shit to the affect that he would kill me and such... Mind you, I've never seen this guy in my life, he's just some very angry, drunken person in his early 40's who probably should have chosen pants over shorts for the sake of eveyone else having to be around him.

Security narry move a muscle and TELL him, "Um... you need to get back behind the barricade..."

What are you? On a DATE with this guy? Don't TELL him what he SHOULD do. MAKE HIM. It's actually in your job description. Again, this is why festivals are a headache, often time their security detail are nothing more than warm-bodied scarecrows with radios and matching outfits.

So, the whole set I have to keep one eye on the matches and the other on angry, drunk stranger. Lovely. Luckily, the set ends without much incident, or so I thought. As I was making my way to the dressing area I see Mr. angry-and-drunk right in front of me and I'm thinking, "Jesus, HERE we GO..." But he stared half-vacantly and asked in a small voice,
"Where is your merch tent."
"That would be the blue tent right next to the ring right THERE," I said, pointing ten feet away to my right and he stumbled off without really looking me in the face.

So, I went back to the dressing area to towel off a bit and get into the freshest clothes I had on-hand. Right as I was back outside again, the first thing I see is 5 of our guys, Spike included, running at top speed past me. I have no idea what happened, but I knew EXACTLY who it had to do with. Can you guess? So, I immediately joined the pursuit only to have my suspicions confirmed. I asked on of the guys what he did and they answered that he had sucker-punched Audra in the FACE. I turned to look at a very irate Audra bringing up the rear. Our guys held him to prevent him from running-off. Audra faced him and asked, "You like to hit WOMEN, you MOTHERFUCKER!?", unleashing a right cross that you could literally HEAR it when it met its mark. So much that eveyone within a twenty foot radious jerked their necks to see what had caused such a sound. (Audra's been training boxing for the last year and it really showed.) The man ducked his head downward to protect himself futiley as Audra delivered two more uppercuts. From there he was released, stumbling, visibly bleeding from the head...

As it turns out this guy used to work at The Fillmore in San Francisco. (You know, the REAL one where Hendrix and Miles Davis had performed?) We have done numerous shows there in the past. Aparently he and Audra butted-heads over some issue years ago during one of those shows. So when he heard that we were coming to town, he actively sought out Audra to confront her and solicit an apology from her. He didn't get it. So, he turned as though he were demuring from the conversation only to spin on his heel and sucker-punch her. Thanks largely in part to her training, Audra faded back as the blow came and it only glanced her. That is when the pursuit ensued. Nice, no?



Over by the artists tent I ran into my friend, Andrew Black. Andrew and I met on the Vans Warped Tour in 2001. He plays drums in a band called, The Explosion. They became one of my favorite bands of all time and by the time you read this, they will be no more. I met his girl and got to catch up with him some. He told me he would be focusing his efforts on a new band called, Georgie James. Keep an ear out.



















Soemtimes being a regular, run-of-the-mill douche-bag just doesn't cut it. You have to really do something that sets you apart from the rest of the popped-collars and white ball caps... and if that means getting 311, the band that practically pioneered douche-rock, to tag your back, then SO BE IT!



Seriously, nothing says: Spring Break-Lake Havisu-Housboat-kegger-date-rape MORE than a 311 record.

I slept in the van as best I could. It was a five hour drive to this massive ampitheatre located in this enourmas gorge and campground.

Last time I was here it was the Summer of 2001 on the Vans Warped Tour. The view was gorgrous and I watched the sun set over the landscape by myself while listening to the Bouncing Souls play their set.




Now, keep in mind, I DON'T like working festivals, though they do DO tend to pay better. ISW is best experienced indoors. The environment is much easier to manipulate and control, not to mention protection from the elements and a much more reliable "buffer-zone" from the crowd.

It's almost a given that if we are working an outdoor festival, that at some point we are going to have to deal with some one and/or their buddies who take it upon themselves to get in the ring, either during a set or between takes. It's a real pain in the ass. Everytime we have to make some sort of sign that says, "NO. YOU CAN'T GET IN THE RING" and even then there will be 10 to 20 fools who apparently can't read who have to ask,

"Hey! Can I get in the ring?"

"Do I happen to wander into your annual family picnic and ask if I can fuck YOUR sister in the back of YOUR car? ....No."



One of the finer moments I was able to grab for myself was watching Neko Case. I had seen her over 2 years ago when she performed at the Blue Bird. Some of her lyrics are incredible expressions of sorrow and longing, coupled with the voice with which she delivers them breaks your heart without hesitation or mercy. She had a second female vocalist accompanying her, which provided the perfect layer of counter-harmony and penertrating dissonance. She also knows exactly how to manipulate the distance she is from the mic. I'm also fond of her steel guitarist, Ben Peeler. My eyes welled-up without warning when she sang "I Wish I Was the Moon"



As I was walking around, I saw this girl kissing this guy's feet! I explained to them that I had to ask and they told me that whenever one person is found to be in the wrong, they engage in this ritual they have coined as "The Apology Dance" where the apologizer will dance around the other person and make some grand gesture of attrition... the catch is that it is constantly escalating. So, as you can see from the photograph, this fella had best not ever get caught fucking-up AGAIN, because if he does, he has to really bring it to top this.



Festivals also mean revelers. This usually appears in the form a group of young women brandishing some form of costumery, body and/or face paint and, of course, hula-hoops. (Fire dancing just isn't all that during the daylight hours.) This girl was quite fit, but her face was very "weiner-dog" which might explain why she feels compelled to put herself out there in such a way. What really makes this shot is the dude in the corner. Just look at him. His expression says it all. It says,

"Yeah, I know the band is behind me, but I'd just as soon roll over and imagine you sucking on lollypops whilst I burrow my engorged member into the dirt here. Now all I have to do is figure out a way to entice you into my VAN."



The second day the wind really picked-up something fierce.



You really can't tell from this pic, but the wind had all these booms and light rigs swinging to the point where they had to shut things down until they could secure the gear safely.



In addition to this, I also so Manu Chau as well as an instrumental set by the Beastie Boys, Interpol and Bad Brains, all of which made all the pot smoke, heat, dirt, really bad tattoos, shitty beer, crappy dance-beat acts, flaccid musicianship, poor hygiene, hackey sacks, white people with no rhythm, men in exposed toe shoes, WASP-afarians and college douche-bags somewhat bearable.



Also: Blag Dhalia from The Dwarves has been our MC and announcer for this tour and today his commentary had me cracking up in the middle of the matches, causing HIM to crack up and then the whole thing falling apart from there.

I'm in the hotel and all I want is to shower, shave and go down to the pool to see how long I can stay on the bottom before I am forced to come up.

Blag and I were talking over lunch about watching certain bands perform and though they aren't "bad", per se (which is Latin for, "so to speak"), you get the eerie feeling that though you haven't actually seen them before, YOU HAVE... because they are one of "those" bands.

And I couldn't help apply the idea to just people in general. It's appearances that differ... body types, voices, hair styles, eye color, etc. It's BEHAVIORS that don't. You hang out with someone for a bit until you realize, "Wait. I have encountered THIS behavioral pattern before."

I came back to the hotel to grab some stuff and decompress a little. There's a strip club across the street from the motel where we are staying... apparently they are as numerous here as pharmecias are in Tiajuanna, Mexico. This one in particular was very laid-back. I think one dancer had implants and the rest were very small and perky. The girls there tended to be very LEGGY and were damn-near acrobats when it came to working the pole. I struck-up conversation with the odd one (of course.) Short, a bit thicker than the other girls. But she was a better dancer. You could tell she had traditional dance training in contmporary and tap. She was a total dork and fun to talk to and she was very strong... as in: holds herself in a full split between two banisters. And she would kick the panties in the air and catch them in her teeth. Lots of personality. She has a pug, too! So it's dirty, but in a very unpretentious way... but I have yet to really nail it down.

It's 2:30 now and I'm about to go for a long walk and throw some stencils up where I can. I'd like to sleep and could use it since there is a 6:45 van call tomorrow morning, but I'm in one of those moods where I get to feeling like people aren't worth the time or trouble... do you ever get like that?

Like feeling as though constantly volleying between expecting too much from folks or just getting too little. Sometimes it's just really hard to believe that anyone is ever really going to give a shit about me, so why even bother looking or hoping for it? At the end of the day who really has your back? And when people say they do, you're really just a fool for not regarding it in the same way you would a child when they talk about being a fire fighter or an astronaut when they grow-up. Sure, it sounds sweet hearing it, but personal experience should have taught you that people just aren't built to follow through. You're expecting masterpieces from monkeys.

It's times like these when the compulsion to delibreately place myself at personal risk is really high. I want to drop bombs and watch bodies burn and be gone before the echoes of their shrieks fade in the bright, yellow glare of the blaze. I want to erase people like you would any drawing or design you started poorly, make it a clean slate with enough pressure and motion and a final swipe of the hand before you start again (just like any chump would.)

Yeah, I need to walk this off and try to take my mind of this stuff. They are nothing more than the stupid feelings of a stupid man.

I walked all the way to the otherside of the river over this drawbridge. On my way there I saw two, young lovers embracing and kissing on a street corner underneath a lamp post and I wanted to incinerate them. Not in any literal sense, but just looking at them made me feel ugly and utterly foreign, like I had no business being on that block... something like the black kid who wonders accidentally into the rich, white neighborhood and having the local cops ask him what he was doing in the area...



At the end of the bridge was a small encampment of homeless folk and it felt best detour and I hit the waterfront where I was able to hit-up a few spots with very little worry of being surprised by anyone.



I saw some ducks and watched as the barges lumbered by. On my way back across the bridge two guys were walking and I pretended to be dialing through my phone. The short one says, "You look like you would be interested in buying some weed." Right, because that's where I go when I want to buy weed: on a flippin' drawbridge at 4:30 in the morning from the first two strangers who I come across. I told him that I didn't want any weed and they went on their merry way.







I continued to to hit-up opportune spots on my way back to the motel as it started to get faintly brighter.







No point in going to sleep now. Van call will be in an hour. I don't want to "go to" sleep. I want to run myself to the point where I lose conciousness and be enveloped by total blackness. I want to sink to the bottom where time has no meaning and sound is swallowed up, never to be heard from again... like the Titanic... far from the eyes of everyone, save for a handful of "experts" with access to the proper machinery built to withstand the temperature and pressure... and hopefully even they will grow tired of trying. Then I can just go back to being just another shipwreck in a port that has no shore.

We made Portland sometime in the early afternoon. The landscape on the way in was beautiful and looks like few other places in the world. Apparently there was a mistake made with our hotel reservations, so on short notice we were reserved room and board at a Motel across the street from the hotel we were originally meant to stay. One place is noteably more upscale than the other, you guess which.

We took in a much needed meal at the hotel where we were SUPPOSED to lodge and then most of us went back to our rooms to sleep it off before load-in at 4:00.

The venue was apparently an old country/western bar that kept its name and most of it's original decor. Suspended above the main floor was not a mirror BALL, but an entire gigantic cowboy hat of tiny mirrors... an item, of which I was told by management, that was the only of its kind. Indeed!



I had time and no real obligations so I stepped outside to look about a bit. I have been wanting to see Portland for a few years now. Last time I was here, it was ten years ago and on tour... North By North West Fest. Our ref got bit, security didn't do dick and we all wound up running out of the dressing room -- fully masked and armed with whatever we could put hand to -- and beating back the crowd. One kid got a ball of flame in his face and then clocked across the dome with a torch for good measure. Of course the cops showed-up. Not the best first impression.

Yet, everyone I've known who's lived here loved it. It has more house-boats per capita than any other city in the U.S. (a small fixation of mine.) It also boasts one of the the highest unemployment rates in the entire country. Apparently, few people have a full-time vocation, but divide their hours between 2 or 3 jobs and that's how you keep your feed and clothe yourself in this town.

I couldn't stray away all that far, but I was able to run into a few places along Burnside.



Toys!



and MORE toys! Yay!



Stenciled stuff!



I puchased this album and a little, Kubrick-esque Karate guy...



Three Inches of Blood were the headliner. Very metal. Amazing.

CALIFORNIA DREAMIN'

I saw to it that I would have at least 24 hours to spend in San Francisco before van call. I had my friend, Sarah, pick me up from the airport. She lives close to Alamo Square, so I wanted to stroll around while it was still light out.





This is Sarah.



On the west end of the park, someone had discarded this lovely sofa, so it seemed a waste not to take a load off and watch all the folks and traffic roll by...



We strolled over across Divisadero and up to the Upper Haight. I dropped by Amoeba Records to pick up a few things...



It had gotten dark and the Anarchist Bookstore was closed.



There was also some great stencils on Divisadero that we came across on the walk home...



From there, Sarah gave me a ride down to the Mission District to Roxy's place. When I was dropped-off, I spied this nice little number. My roommate, John, has an old mini Cooper and I wanted to get a photo of this for him because I knew he would like it even more than me!



Roxy showed me the rooftop of her building, completely accessable from her room via the fire escape... from there you can see a good portion of San Francisco, all the way up to the church that crowns Japan Town and it had this nice skylight that I liked a lot...





Roxy lives right off of 16th, between Guererro and Valencia, right aound the corner from two of my favorite S.F. eateries, so we awoke and got ourselves some SERIOUS BREAKFAST!!!



San Francisco is a town where you will see a lot of old motorcycles and even in their beat-up state, they are about 10 times more tuff and cool than any crotch-rocket or chopper you see being built on the Discovery Channel... like this Moto Guzzi.



I went into this hardware store off of Market St. to get some cans of spray paint and they had this clock displaying Transylvanian time underneath this visage of none other than Vlad the Impaler. I think this goes to show that vampires might exist and might be using hardware stores as a front for their blood orgies...



We went up to Twenty54SF Gallery to look at their wares and they were displaying some work by photogrpaher, Esteban Oriole.



That little section of Fillmore and Haight is a nice spot to see some good stuff and it's all just right there in front of you...



like this amazing piece by Miss Van:



We braved the ascention on foot and dropped by Mom's Body Shop to see if my friend, Barnaby, was in. He was and was working on a client who has having a time trying to negotiate a rather tender area.



My friend and shop proprietor, Dave, was also there. It's always good to catch-up with him and trade stories which we did...



After skirting through shops and the like, Roxy retreated back to her place so I could double check my gear and get in a good spooning session before van call.

When I got to Audra's place, a good portion of the crew had already assembled. Audra was feeling under the weather and her husband, Spike, just bicycled in from his catering gig where his South American co-workers have apparently given him the affectionate nick-name of, "Barabas" (you know, the guy who got spared?)



Before long we are all assembled, truck loaded, van packed and we're off. Next stop, Portland.