I've been out skating at night. I went last night and another night about a week ago. Before I settled on my present skate spot I spent a long time looking for a place suitable for my particular brand of *shredding*. It had to be sufficiently close to the house that I didn't need to drive there, but it also had to be private enough that i could work out without feeling self-conscious.
The biggest condition of all for a skating area is that no one gives a shit that i'm there. If they're going to call the cops then it's not a good spot. I would walk all around the neigbhorhood with baby, trying to find a place that would make me feel comfortable to strap on my wheels. I finally settled on the Discount Tire Center on Hyperion Blvd where I can go to blow off steam and work on in-line tricks.
Quitting smoking is what set this off. I've simply got too much energy. So I skate.
I'm working on jumping. That's the basis of all in-line skating tricks. You have to be able to jump - and land - on-wheels. It's sketchy because I'm top-heavy like only a human can be. I get tired too. Skating is hard work. It's hard on the lega.
But the best thing of all is the time spent outside on the streets of LA. Skating in the city is very showy at any time. At night, hauling ass down city sidewalks all dressed in black, with a dog running behind is downright edgy. The city appears different when one relatres to it in such a way. Last night me and the dog were over on Sunset boulevard and we had the sidewalk to ourselves. I could skate backwatds down hills with baby galloping along behind me. There are little concrete ramps and culverts to jump and grind off. No one bothers us.
Last night I couldn't concentrate too well. I was busy thinking about the job I'm starting in Mexico. There's is so much at stake here for me. Each day as I talk to friends who have no work, I realize I was damn lucky to get this gig in Acapulco, keying a network show. My stock is shooting way up from this - after 10 months of having nothing. I've been doing AFI films just to keep my skills up, and now I'm making $2000/week cash, living in a *****hotel on the beach, overlooking Acapulco bay.
There is so much that could go wrong. I've been up nights reading books on stage rigging and large scale electrical rigs for television. I know this shit but i feel like I've kind of gotten out of it. Two very important friends in this business plugged me for this job. I have to rock them down there, and there will be many more high paying TV shows.
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Friday, March 26, 2004
I've got this idea to recreate my oldsmobile as an Italian rallye vehicle. It all started with yellow striped tires. A sporty old American car pretty much has to have a white wall. That's what everyone says. But then I thought to myself, what's the matter with a yellow band on the tire wall, to offset the racey green paint job.
No one does that. It's awesome. My buddy Mike Gonzalez out in College Point, texas drives a black '66 Ford Galaxy. The thing's a John Birch mobile, except that Mike had the tires installed with the markings on the inside, so that all you see is no-name tirewall. That's very cop; I like it. A nice small subtle touch.
Janie says the Cutlass's green paint is a stock ferrari color. *Medio-verde* she says, echoing the bodyshop guys who did the paint job 15 years ago. But who's ever seen green ferrari? I asked an italian guy about it and he said there was never a green ferrari, anymore than there was ever a green Ducati. Italian cars and bikes are red, black, yellow or silver.
IL CUTLASS DI CORSA - EN MEDIO VERDE - i'm seeing my Cutty, the all-american grocery-getter with yellow striped racing tires, and a set of foglights racked on the two intakes of the grill. That would give the Cutlass six eyes total - that's enough to see everything - and look like a mean motherfucker at the same time. The fibnal touch would be a European licence plate - one of the square ones with two rows of letters. No one does that. It's fucking badass.
No one does that. It's awesome. My buddy Mike Gonzalez out in College Point, texas drives a black '66 Ford Galaxy. The thing's a John Birch mobile, except that Mike had the tires installed with the markings on the inside, so that all you see is no-name tirewall. That's very cop; I like it. A nice small subtle touch.
Janie says the Cutlass's green paint is a stock ferrari color. *Medio-verde* she says, echoing the bodyshop guys who did the paint job 15 years ago. But who's ever seen green ferrari? I asked an italian guy about it and he said there was never a green ferrari, anymore than there was ever a green Ducati. Italian cars and bikes are red, black, yellow or silver.
IL CUTLASS DI CORSA - EN MEDIO VERDE - i'm seeing my Cutty, the all-american grocery-getter with yellow striped racing tires, and a set of foglights racked on the two intakes of the grill. That would give the Cutlass six eyes total - that's enough to see everything - and look like a mean motherfucker at the same time. The fibnal touch would be a European licence plate - one of the square ones with two rows of letters. No one does that. It's fucking badass.
Sunday, March 14, 2004
I worked the whole damn weekend in my garage (the hacienda) trying to get some of my stuff in there organized. jesus how boring can a weekend be? My little 22 year old roomate went galivanting around the town with her friends. Would I switch with her - and feel fabulous? Talking, hanging out, going to bars and clubs? Hell no, of course I wouldn't. It's fucking boring and there's nothing out on those streets.
But working at cleaning up the garage all weekend..?
This terrible bombing in Spain has really held my attention for days. i keep going back to the news, looking for signs of where the story is leading. I find all of this unsettling - yet fascinating. The most recent item was that the Spanish had tossed their government and elected a socialist one in its place - who then promised to extract all the Spanish forces from iraq by June.
Well, the people have spoken, and they want no part of the American/British war in the middle east. Nevertheless I find it surprising that this one attack managed to back them off so much. It's like walking up to someone and slapping them across the face... And they say: "whoah, okay man whatever."
I got to thinking that the real distinction between people's views on the iraq war comes down to whether one hopes that the thing works out. You can NOT support the war, but also hope and pray that it succeeds in its stated objectives. I guess that's the closest thing to a postion that I have.
But working at cleaning up the garage all weekend..?
This terrible bombing in Spain has really held my attention for days. i keep going back to the news, looking for signs of where the story is leading. I find all of this unsettling - yet fascinating. The most recent item was that the Spanish had tossed their government and elected a socialist one in its place - who then promised to extract all the Spanish forces from iraq by June.
Well, the people have spoken, and they want no part of the American/British war in the middle east. Nevertheless I find it surprising that this one attack managed to back them off so much. It's like walking up to someone and slapping them across the face... And they say: "whoah, okay man whatever."
I got to thinking that the real distinction between people's views on the iraq war comes down to whether one hopes that the thing works out. You can NOT support the war, but also hope and pray that it succeeds in its stated objectives. I guess that's the closest thing to a postion that I have.
Saturday, February 21, 2004
So I learned I’m still stuck in my own head. I’ve always been stuck in my own head, except for a few hours of escape I achieved via sex or hallucinogens.
The pilot house of this vehicle, if you could call me that, is my upper palate. You can sit right on down there
In the captain’s chair, and take me for a spin. Look through my eyes – they’re a split windshield.
My septum is the dash board. It has leopard skin on it. Feel free to put your feet up. You can take me off road if you want.
When I was about ten years old I spent a lot of time alone, walking and hiking on my own adventures. I can often remember this feeling of a benevolent stranger sitting behind the windshield of my eyes, maneuvering the vessel.
He was a little man about 1” tall. He had the physical attitude of a super-keen 1950s gas station attendant.
I was always fascinated by mechanized creatures such as the Imperial walkers from Empire Strikes Back. Walkers were these big slow-moving metallic beasts of four legs, with long-barreled laser cannon on the sides of their head. Their drivers and gunners were inperial soldiers who sat behind armor plating in the walker’s head as it swung from side to side blowing the shit out of everything. I thought those things were bitchin’. I liked them so much I was probably a little self-conscious to even discuss it. That is how powerful I felt about manned animal-like machines.
How weird is that? It makes me think there’s something more to it than simple little boy truck fascination. There’s something funny and a little strange I recall from that age between nine and 12. Not to suggest that any age is more normal than another - but i seem to remember something unique about 10 years of age. It could be something to do with the development of consciousness. Maybe not the setting up of it, but the curing – where things really get hard, like Portland cement.
But what is it about trhe idea of sitting behind the controls of another creature that seems so far away from the adult thoughts people take on.It seems like a vestige of early consciousness from the hidden archives of inheirited memory. WhateverI gotta go to bed.
goodnight imperial walkers
Don't jump up and sleep on the couch
The pilot house of this vehicle, if you could call me that, is my upper palate. You can sit right on down there
In the captain’s chair, and take me for a spin. Look through my eyes – they’re a split windshield.
My septum is the dash board. It has leopard skin on it. Feel free to put your feet up. You can take me off road if you want.
When I was about ten years old I spent a lot of time alone, walking and hiking on my own adventures. I can often remember this feeling of a benevolent stranger sitting behind the windshield of my eyes, maneuvering the vessel.
He was a little man about 1” tall. He had the physical attitude of a super-keen 1950s gas station attendant.
I was always fascinated by mechanized creatures such as the Imperial walkers from Empire Strikes Back. Walkers were these big slow-moving metallic beasts of four legs, with long-barreled laser cannon on the sides of their head. Their drivers and gunners were inperial soldiers who sat behind armor plating in the walker’s head as it swung from side to side blowing the shit out of everything. I thought those things were bitchin’. I liked them so much I was probably a little self-conscious to even discuss it. That is how powerful I felt about manned animal-like machines.
How weird is that? It makes me think there’s something more to it than simple little boy truck fascination. There’s something funny and a little strange I recall from that age between nine and 12. Not to suggest that any age is more normal than another - but i seem to remember something unique about 10 years of age. It could be something to do with the development of consciousness. Maybe not the setting up of it, but the curing – where things really get hard, like Portland cement.
But what is it about trhe idea of sitting behind the controls of another creature that seems so far away from the adult thoughts people take on.It seems like a vestige of early consciousness from the hidden archives of inheirited memory. WhateverI gotta go to bed.
goodnight imperial walkers
Don't jump up and sleep on the couch
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
MONTREAL EXPOS TO MOVE TO MONTERREY, MEX
That's what I'm hearing in these parts. Sunday afternoon I was bored as usual and so I walked next door to mooch some barbequed meat from my neighbor Manuel. There were a few geezers over there, drinking beer in manuel's backyard. These guys are serious norteno cowboys. They're all related - suegros and cunados. They hail from Jalisco. They're pretty good neigbours i have to say.
Anyway they were talking about baseball and got to saying that the agreement was all but made which would see the Montreal expos ball club, players, real estate, Dominican farm teams - relocated to Monterrey, Mexico. Now that's a hell of a thing. With a mexican ball club the majors would really become a North American league. It's only a matter of time before there's a Dominican club, because that's where all the players seem to come from. Baseball could make a HUGE comeback, if there were japanese and Korean, Mexcan and Cuban teams in the world series.
And I predict that montreal will regret losing the Expos. The hapless ball club for Montreal will be like the old car they finally have towed off the property - which turns out to be worth $50,000. Relocating the expos will give them IMMEADIATE street cred. 80 million mexicans, not to mention Central America, will fall in behind the Los Expocisiones.
The Expos will be down and brown.
That's what I'm hearing in these parts. Sunday afternoon I was bored as usual and so I walked next door to mooch some barbequed meat from my neighbor Manuel. There were a few geezers over there, drinking beer in manuel's backyard. These guys are serious norteno cowboys. They're all related - suegros and cunados. They hail from Jalisco. They're pretty good neigbours i have to say.
Anyway they were talking about baseball and got to saying that the agreement was all but made which would see the Montreal expos ball club, players, real estate, Dominican farm teams - relocated to Monterrey, Mexico. Now that's a hell of a thing. With a mexican ball club the majors would really become a North American league. It's only a matter of time before there's a Dominican club, because that's where all the players seem to come from. Baseball could make a HUGE comeback, if there were japanese and Korean, Mexcan and Cuban teams in the world series.
And I predict that montreal will regret losing the Expos. The hapless ball club for Montreal will be like the old car they finally have towed off the property - which turns out to be worth $50,000. Relocating the expos will give them IMMEADIATE street cred. 80 million mexicans, not to mention Central America, will fall in behind the Los Expocisiones.
The Expos will be down and brown.
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
It's witheringly hot in Los Angeles this week. The heat has brought ants. I left a couple of water-logged dog food kibbles in the bottom of the sink this morning, and when I went to make lunch there was a dense black line of ants in the process of disassembling them and carrying them off. I can't deal with this kind of heat. Evenings are nice though; sultry, but cooled by gusty desert winds.
When will the rains come? We need it to rain. Everyone says it will be any day now, but the sky is void of clouds. I spent the morning yesterday cleaning out drainage sumps and ditches. i checked gutters, and tried to be ready for the deluge. The ground outside is hardpack, brown earth. Even the cactii look thirsty.
I got a call yesterday to work two low budget music videos. In the circumstance of my career drought, that call was like the rumble of distant thunder. Rain can take so many forms. Here in the desert when it rains, the first droplets only kick up the dust. That's what these videos will do. They'll make a muddy mess of my life, but the wildflowers will blossom. later the great rains will come and soak everything.
I hope the roof does not leak. Walter Mosely once wrote that when it rains in L.A., it falls straight down. I just want to stand on the porch and smell the water as it soaks into the ground.
When will the rains come? We need it to rain. Everyone says it will be any day now, but the sky is void of clouds. I spent the morning yesterday cleaning out drainage sumps and ditches. i checked gutters, and tried to be ready for the deluge. The ground outside is hardpack, brown earth. Even the cactii look thirsty.
I got a call yesterday to work two low budget music videos. In the circumstance of my career drought, that call was like the rumble of distant thunder. Rain can take so many forms. Here in the desert when it rains, the first droplets only kick up the dust. That's what these videos will do. They'll make a muddy mess of my life, but the wildflowers will blossom. later the great rains will come and soak everything.
I hope the roof does not leak. Walter Mosely once wrote that when it rains in L.A., it falls straight down. I just want to stand on the porch and smell the water as it soaks into the ground.
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Today I got a very slick package in the mail from Nissan Motor company. It was delivered in a hardback boxset type of jacket, of material of such uncertain origin that I was not sure whether to trash it or recycle it. It turns out this is a presentation of Nissan's new line of automobiles, in case I care to buy another one. Those guys...
Inside the *boxset* there are six or seven fold out brochures that each depict one of the Nissan family of cars. Well these brochures are so slick and colorful that the stench of ink could make you fall down. It smells like those old crank-out printing presses they had in my grade school.
Now each one of these brochures depicts some rich scene, more often than not completely unrelated to driving. In the lower right hand corner is the Nissan sales pitch SHIFT. So the first one in the smelly stack depicts a family rafting down some white water lined on its shores with tall verdant pines. The two little girls of the family (well, the kids they hired for the shoot) are in the foreground, splashed by the cold fresh water. They smile ecstatically with their crooked 12 year old teeth. Mom and dad are sitting further back in the raft. It sure looks like one hell of an unforgettable day. The caption in the corner?
SHIFT_bonding
Buy the 8000 lb. S.U.V. depicted inside this brochure, and you can have family experiences like this as well. Hey, it's even rated for 9,100 lbs. towing capacity, in case you come across a broken Freightliner on the way home, you can tow the poor bastard to a dealership.
"And because Pathfinder Armada is built on a rugged truckframe, it can confidently take you to the most remote, unspoiled spots to enjoy your outdoor toys."
One of the other brochures depicts a diver hitching a ride on the back of a Manta Ray! That one says:
SHIFT_sensation
More likely they'll be looking at the exhaust pipes of my bike, when i leave behind in unmoving traffic on the 405.
Later dude.
Inside the *boxset* there are six or seven fold out brochures that each depict one of the Nissan family of cars. Well these brochures are so slick and colorful that the stench of ink could make you fall down. It smells like those old crank-out printing presses they had in my grade school.
Now each one of these brochures depicts some rich scene, more often than not completely unrelated to driving. In the lower right hand corner is the Nissan sales pitch SHIFT. So the first one in the smelly stack depicts a family rafting down some white water lined on its shores with tall verdant pines. The two little girls of the family (well, the kids they hired for the shoot) are in the foreground, splashed by the cold fresh water. They smile ecstatically with their crooked 12 year old teeth. Mom and dad are sitting further back in the raft. It sure looks like one hell of an unforgettable day. The caption in the corner?
SHIFT_bonding
Buy the 8000 lb. S.U.V. depicted inside this brochure, and you can have family experiences like this as well. Hey, it's even rated for 9,100 lbs. towing capacity, in case you come across a broken Freightliner on the way home, you can tow the poor bastard to a dealership.
"And because Pathfinder Armada is built on a rugged truckframe, it can confidently take you to the most remote, unspoiled spots to enjoy your outdoor toys."
One of the other brochures depicts a diver hitching a ride on the back of a Manta Ray! That one says:
SHIFT_sensation
More likely they'll be looking at the exhaust pipes of my bike, when i leave behind in unmoving traffic on the 405.
Later dude.
Saturday, September 13, 2003
I really could not believe I made it. Today at 11am, with an hour to spare I rolled into the chainlink encircled compound of Dependable Auto Shipping in Linden, New Jersey. The last hour and a half of the drive was the most nerve-wracking I'd ever spent in a car. It was the rain that made things so crazy.
Yesterday after the wedding ceremony, mathew (the groom) and I went swimming in the choppy grey-green waters off Montauk. For days the forecasters said that Hurricane Isabel would come ashore somewhere off the east coast, and that prediction was made very real by the growing swells we encountered. The waves crashed hard on the steep beach, and then retreated at such a pace we were both easily upended by the surging waters. The afternoon light was hazy and wind blew the sand hard against the friends and family who watched us two kooks from lounge chairs on the sand.
I managed to swim past the bone crushing breakers so that I was bobbing up and down in the swell. I felt very intimidated to realize that I was in 12' deep waters, rising no less than 8' with each passing swell. It was indeed a hurricane coming ashore.
But the hurricane really hit back in the city, when i exited the lincoln Tunnel on the Union City side. After fighting my way across Manhattan, continually plagued by engine stalls and leaks in the weatherproofing, I found myself in rain so hard i couldn't exceed 20mph on the NJ Turnpike. I put on the hazards. wiped my brow and said "Goodness gracious!" It was not clear the Cutlass would make it home, oh on my friend, it was not.
Tonight i'm going to meet Cache (like hidden) the most beautiful girl I've ever met, who became my date at the wedding, and spent the night at my room (though nothing happened). She's a vetrrnarian from Trinidad, and she needed her sleep, she explained, becasue she had to spay two cats and neuter a dog today.
Yesterday after the wedding ceremony, mathew (the groom) and I went swimming in the choppy grey-green waters off Montauk. For days the forecasters said that Hurricane Isabel would come ashore somewhere off the east coast, and that prediction was made very real by the growing swells we encountered. The waves crashed hard on the steep beach, and then retreated at such a pace we were both easily upended by the surging waters. The afternoon light was hazy and wind blew the sand hard against the friends and family who watched us two kooks from lounge chairs on the sand.
I managed to swim past the bone crushing breakers so that I was bobbing up and down in the swell. I felt very intimidated to realize that I was in 12' deep waters, rising no less than 8' with each passing swell. It was indeed a hurricane coming ashore.
But the hurricane really hit back in the city, when i exited the lincoln Tunnel on the Union City side. After fighting my way across Manhattan, continually plagued by engine stalls and leaks in the weatherproofing, I found myself in rain so hard i couldn't exceed 20mph on the NJ Turnpike. I put on the hazards. wiped my brow and said "Goodness gracious!" It was not clear the Cutlass would make it home, oh on my friend, it was not.
Tonight i'm going to meet Cache (like hidden) the most beautiful girl I've ever met, who became my date at the wedding, and spent the night at my room (though nothing happened). She's a vetrrnarian from Trinidad, and she needed her sleep, she explained, becasue she had to spay two cats and neuter a dog today.
I really could not believe I made it. Today at 11am, with an hour to spare I rolled into the chainlink encircled compound of Dependable Auto Shipping in Linden, New Jersey. The last hour and a half of the drive was the most nerve-wracking I'd ever spent in a car. It was the rain that made things so crazy.
Yesterday after the wedding ceremony, mathew (the groom) and I went swimming in the choppy grey-green waters off Montauk. For days the forecasters said that Hurricane Isabel would come ashore somewhere off the east coast, and that prediction was made very real by the growing swells we encountered. The waves crashed hard on the steep beach, and then retreated at such a pace we were both easily upended by the surging waters. The afternoon light was hazy and wind blew the sand hard against the friends and family who watched us two kooks from lounge chairs on the sand.
I managed to swim past the bone crushing breakers so that I was bobbing up and down in the swell. I felt very intimidated to realize that I was in 12' deep waters, rising no less than 8' with each passing swell. It was indeed a hurricane coming ashore.
But the hurricane really hit me when i exited the lincoln Tunnel on the Union City side. After fighting my way across Manhattan, continually plagued by engine stalls and leaks in the weatherproofing, I found myself in rain so hard i couldn't exceed 20mph on the NJ Turnpike. I put on the hazards. wiped my brow and said "Goodness gracious!"
Tonight i'm going to meet Cache (like hidden) the most beautiful girl I've ever met, who became my date at the wedding, and spent the night at my room (though nothing happened). She's a vetrrnarian from Trinidad, and she needed her sleep, she explained, becasue she had to spay two cats and neuter a dog today.
Yesterday after the wedding ceremony, mathew (the groom) and I went swimming in the choppy grey-green waters off Montauk. For days the forecasters said that Hurricane Isabel would come ashore somewhere off the east coast, and that prediction was made very real by the growing swells we encountered. The waves crashed hard on the steep beach, and then retreated at such a pace we were both easily upended by the surging waters. The afternoon light was hazy and wind blew the sand hard against the friends and family who watched us two kooks from lounge chairs on the sand.
I managed to swim past the bone crushing breakers so that I was bobbing up and down in the swell. I felt very intimidated to realize that I was in 12' deep waters, rising no less than 8' with each passing swell. It was indeed a hurricane coming ashore.
But the hurricane really hit me when i exited the lincoln Tunnel on the Union City side. After fighting my way across Manhattan, continually plagued by engine stalls and leaks in the weatherproofing, I found myself in rain so hard i couldn't exceed 20mph on the NJ Turnpike. I put on the hazards. wiped my brow and said "Goodness gracious!"
Tonight i'm going to meet Cache (like hidden) the most beautiful girl I've ever met, who became my date at the wedding, and spent the night at my room (though nothing happened). She's a vetrrnarian from Trinidad, and she needed her sleep, she explained, becasue she had to spay two cats and neuter a dog today.
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
I'm just sitting not believing that I made it here.
Today I left montreal, Waverly St. and the neighbours who always sit out smoking and juicing and shooting the shit. Behind me are those trees with little round green leaves that always seem to shimmer in the breeze, which comes all the way from the north pole.
We made it to the American border, where the men carry live guns, and they will mess with you, and into the state of New York we rolled in the old car, and every mile I couldn't believe that it still rolled along.
We got a flat, but a guy fixed it for twenty bucks, and mile after mile we made it into new York city, where everything demands that you engage with it, and yet friends were waiting, and it was warm and all was well, and i smelled like sweat and sun all the way from my head down to my socks.
I knew at night the old car would have to sleep inside, and i felt terrified to leave it in the garege, where the guys said they'd have to move it every hour, and i tried to explain how startying it can be a biot of a headache, but no matter, for i finally gave the guys a sawbuck and said try to take care, that car's been in my family since i was a little kid, and I just want to get it back to California.
Behind me, I could weep, for my friends on those familiar streets, on their stoops and around the town, where you're never forgotten, laughing over food, or canoing across the lake. Grace was visited upon me today, and for a time there is no sorrow, but only pleasure at still, by some goddmaned fluke, being fucking alive.
Today I left montreal, Waverly St. and the neighbours who always sit out smoking and juicing and shooting the shit. Behind me are those trees with little round green leaves that always seem to shimmer in the breeze, which comes all the way from the north pole.
We made it to the American border, where the men carry live guns, and they will mess with you, and into the state of New York we rolled in the old car, and every mile I couldn't believe that it still rolled along.
We got a flat, but a guy fixed it for twenty bucks, and mile after mile we made it into new York city, where everything demands that you engage with it, and yet friends were waiting, and it was warm and all was well, and i smelled like sweat and sun all the way from my head down to my socks.
I knew at night the old car would have to sleep inside, and i felt terrified to leave it in the garege, where the guys said they'd have to move it every hour, and i tried to explain how startying it can be a biot of a headache, but no matter, for i finally gave the guys a sawbuck and said try to take care, that car's been in my family since i was a little kid, and I just want to get it back to California.
Behind me, I could weep, for my friends on those familiar streets, on their stoops and around the town, where you're never forgotten, laughing over food, or canoing across the lake. Grace was visited upon me today, and for a time there is no sorrow, but only pleasure at still, by some goddmaned fluke, being fucking alive.
Monday, July 21, 2003
IS ENVIRONMENTALISM THE NEW RELIGION?
I was talking with a friend yesterday about such matters, and I was struck by the extent to which she sounded like a doomsayer. Concerning the ozone layer, she stressed that if we did not repent (stop burning fossil fuels) then we would live to see fire come down from the heavens (global warming) and the seas would rise to drown all but the faithful (actually, they're going to get it too).
It's all probably true, but it still seems straight out of the Book of Revelations. The sin here is materialism and greed: Avarice.
I had more weird dreams last night. In the first one, my room began to collapse around me, and I could hear studs snapping and rusty old nails screaming as they're wrenched from dry wood. I sprang from my bed and out the back door, like as if I'd accidentaly spooned a cobra... But as I regained consciousness, the room seemed to be its old crooked self. Still, I searched the walls for new cracks; it would be another hour before I could get back to sleep after that.
In round II I dreamed that Brad had come down from oakland to help me form out the foundation, only he'd brought with him this real asshole of a guy wo he called his "helper". He said I'd be billed $75/hr for the guy's work, which I wanted to protest, but it seemed to make more sense to just play it cool and get the foundation finished.
Then the two of them started randomly pouring cement slabs all over the backyard. That's when I told them to get the fuck out. In the dream I coul;dn't believe Brad would do such a number on me... But then i was also struck with the sense that nothing is so surprising anymore. That must have been real life bleeding into the dreamworld, instead of the other way around - which is how it usually goes.
I have to finish this project and get the house rebolted. It's driving me nuts to have my place resting on a stack of railroad ties I bought at Home Depot. Sometimes I walk into a room and do a sudden double-take at the weird intersecting angles of floor vs. ceiling vs. window casing... And I start to thinking that the house has moved again - while I wasn't looking!
Tonight I had cleaned up everything, but then I walked into my office, and it looked so completely catty-wompus that I hurriedly crawled back under the house and pumped the jacks a couple more times, adding lumber... Hoping for the best. What I'm seeing is that all the mouldings were added after the house had settled, so now the floor is level but the mouldings are off - instead of the other way around. It can really fuck with you.
L.A. is sure hot this time of year. It's been awhile since i've felt anything like this. It always makes me want to jump into a dark, cold lake up in canada.
I was talking with a friend yesterday about such matters, and I was struck by the extent to which she sounded like a doomsayer. Concerning the ozone layer, she stressed that if we did not repent (stop burning fossil fuels) then we would live to see fire come down from the heavens (global warming) and the seas would rise to drown all but the faithful (actually, they're going to get it too).
It's all probably true, but it still seems straight out of the Book of Revelations. The sin here is materialism and greed: Avarice.
I had more weird dreams last night. In the first one, my room began to collapse around me, and I could hear studs snapping and rusty old nails screaming as they're wrenched from dry wood. I sprang from my bed and out the back door, like as if I'd accidentaly spooned a cobra... But as I regained consciousness, the room seemed to be its old crooked self. Still, I searched the walls for new cracks; it would be another hour before I could get back to sleep after that.
In round II I dreamed that Brad had come down from oakland to help me form out the foundation, only he'd brought with him this real asshole of a guy wo he called his "helper". He said I'd be billed $75/hr for the guy's work, which I wanted to protest, but it seemed to make more sense to just play it cool and get the foundation finished.
Then the two of them started randomly pouring cement slabs all over the backyard. That's when I told them to get the fuck out. In the dream I coul;dn't believe Brad would do such a number on me... But then i was also struck with the sense that nothing is so surprising anymore. That must have been real life bleeding into the dreamworld, instead of the other way around - which is how it usually goes.
I have to finish this project and get the house rebolted. It's driving me nuts to have my place resting on a stack of railroad ties I bought at Home Depot. Sometimes I walk into a room and do a sudden double-take at the weird intersecting angles of floor vs. ceiling vs. window casing... And I start to thinking that the house has moved again - while I wasn't looking!
Tonight I had cleaned up everything, but then I walked into my office, and it looked so completely catty-wompus that I hurriedly crawled back under the house and pumped the jacks a couple more times, adding lumber... Hoping for the best. What I'm seeing is that all the mouldings were added after the house had settled, so now the floor is level but the mouldings are off - instead of the other way around. It can really fuck with you.
L.A. is sure hot this time of year. It's been awhile since i've felt anything like this. It always makes me want to jump into a dark, cold lake up in canada.
Sunday, July 20, 2003
Last night I had this dream I was in Montreal.
It was snowing - wet and sloppy - and there were people everywhere out in the streets and on the corners.
On what dreamily resembled the corner of Villeneuve and Jeanne Mance there was a little American-style diner that seemed to have a hip scene gravitating to it, and I decided to drop in.
I felt somewhat self-conscious and out of sorts, and I wasn't sure whom exactly I was going to visit up in the old neigbhurhood. I ordered a cheeseburger from the counterman.
"Fallen on hard times have you?" He asked me, as he began to set up the burger on a stainless steel grill.
"No." I replied. "I just like cheeseburgers.
I was trying to remember if anyone I knew still lived at my old apartment at 5969 Park ave. I was having strange visions - as if from previous dreams - of a large additional apartment at the back of that flat, which Mike K. and I had never discovered.
I realized it was Vali I wanted to see, and so I set out again towards the Mile-End. As I stepped out of the greasy spoon, a black Volkswagen squareback passed by in the wet slush - fishtailing left and right.
Outside on the corner, as big wet snowflaes fell, a crowd was gathered as some incident had occurred. A little slow moving old lady was trying to throw rocks at someone else, and everyone laughed at the pair of them cruely and exagerratedly. At first her throws were impotent and off-mark, but then I heard one of the stones striking a body with some power. A few people in the crowd turned to me with gay smiles, and silently mouthed the words "OW"...
The scene changed and I was in a warm, unfurnished house with Hanford Woods. He was pulling on wrist-bands in preparation to go play soccer at the Redpath resevoir. The moment was fleetingly poingnant and precious to me, as it was lifted straight out of childhood's most irretrievable moments. Hanford complimented me on my writing, but I wished he would invite me to play soccer.
And then just as suddenly I was back in California on a beach. There was an enormous aircraft carrier anchored just beyond the surf. Hanford was there, set to begin his soccer game. he explained to me that I had to ride out to the ship in a little remote control dinghy. It wasn't so much a dinghy as an inflatable - but a big, red floppy amorphous raft with a powerful outboard motor.
As I set off towards the massive warship, I was barely clinging to the gunwales of the raft. A woman appeared in the water behind me swimming fast in a breast-stroke. To my disbelief, she overtook the motorized raft to which I was clinging.
It was snowing - wet and sloppy - and there were people everywhere out in the streets and on the corners.
On what dreamily resembled the corner of Villeneuve and Jeanne Mance there was a little American-style diner that seemed to have a hip scene gravitating to it, and I decided to drop in.
I felt somewhat self-conscious and out of sorts, and I wasn't sure whom exactly I was going to visit up in the old neigbhurhood. I ordered a cheeseburger from the counterman.
"Fallen on hard times have you?" He asked me, as he began to set up the burger on a stainless steel grill.
"No." I replied. "I just like cheeseburgers.
I was trying to remember if anyone I knew still lived at my old apartment at 5969 Park ave. I was having strange visions - as if from previous dreams - of a large additional apartment at the back of that flat, which Mike K. and I had never discovered.
I realized it was Vali I wanted to see, and so I set out again towards the Mile-End. As I stepped out of the greasy spoon, a black Volkswagen squareback passed by in the wet slush - fishtailing left and right.
Outside on the corner, as big wet snowflaes fell, a crowd was gathered as some incident had occurred. A little slow moving old lady was trying to throw rocks at someone else, and everyone laughed at the pair of them cruely and exagerratedly. At first her throws were impotent and off-mark, but then I heard one of the stones striking a body with some power. A few people in the crowd turned to me with gay smiles, and silently mouthed the words "OW"...
The scene changed and I was in a warm, unfurnished house with Hanford Woods. He was pulling on wrist-bands in preparation to go play soccer at the Redpath resevoir. The moment was fleetingly poingnant and precious to me, as it was lifted straight out of childhood's most irretrievable moments. Hanford complimented me on my writing, but I wished he would invite me to play soccer.
And then just as suddenly I was back in California on a beach. There was an enormous aircraft carrier anchored just beyond the surf. Hanford was there, set to begin his soccer game. he explained to me that I had to ride out to the ship in a little remote control dinghy. It wasn't so much a dinghy as an inflatable - but a big, red floppy amorphous raft with a powerful outboard motor.
As I set off towards the massive warship, I was barely clinging to the gunwales of the raft. A woman appeared in the water behind me swimming fast in a breast-stroke. To my disbelief, she overtook the motorized raft to which I was clinging.
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
These are some of the things I see in my day..
There is a pair of Mourning Doves that come everyday and pick grubs from the little garden in front of Raf's place. I'm pretty sure they're a husband and wife team; I really appreciate them a lot, even though they take flight when ever I come around. They're a nice young couple - just starting out as I see it.
The problem is a couple of Tom-cats from the 'hood that I've actually seen stalking them. I fear it's only a matter of time before they take out the slower flying female. I'll kill those cats if they harm one single bird. I might kill them anyways because they keep going into Raf's place to eat L'il Mao's food - and they've sprayed it too.
The other day I found a lizard they wasted. It was eviscerated. I don't get the cat thing. People will "adopt" two or three cats - which means leaving a little food out now and again. They're still animals out of control in the city, and they eat everything.
Today a new avian friend came around, which I identified as a California Thrasher. He's about the size of a jay, with long spindly legs, an almost hook-like long beak, and tail feathers the shape of an axe-head. He really is a little thrasher too. He scampers through bushes and says: GAK! GAK! I dig him.
Next door to me is a decent old geezer named Ruben Ponce. He's a retired sprinkler fitter who fought in WWII and actually landed at Utah Beach on D-Day. He always tells the story about the mite-boat ahead of his getting hit by a mortar round, and the rain of helmets, canteens and human limbs that landed on him and his guys. Ponce was actually born on the same property next door where he's presently living. Back then there was just a little shack (like mine) way at the back of the lot. In 1962 he tore it down and built a massive stucco suburban number for him and his girl Jackie. She died sometime in the '80s, so I guess he's pretty lonely over there now.
On the other side of my house lives a Mexican dude named Manuel, and his crazy son Enrique. They're actually alright, but the kid is a little nuts. He's a hardcore gangster and always brags about "being up in the pen dawg!" He's got the L.A. Dodgers logo tatooed on the side of his head in 5" tall letters, and then some other huge gothic letters on the back of his head. His neck... Everyting. That kid has some mad ink, but I think like everyone else he just wants to be liked. I never know how far to go with people like that, cause I've had it backfire on me.
I'm lucky to live here man. It's never boring.
There is a pair of Mourning Doves that come everyday and pick grubs from the little garden in front of Raf's place. I'm pretty sure they're a husband and wife team; I really appreciate them a lot, even though they take flight when ever I come around. They're a nice young couple - just starting out as I see it.
The problem is a couple of Tom-cats from the 'hood that I've actually seen stalking them. I fear it's only a matter of time before they take out the slower flying female. I'll kill those cats if they harm one single bird. I might kill them anyways because they keep going into Raf's place to eat L'il Mao's food - and they've sprayed it too.
The other day I found a lizard they wasted. It was eviscerated. I don't get the cat thing. People will "adopt" two or three cats - which means leaving a little food out now and again. They're still animals out of control in the city, and they eat everything.
Today a new avian friend came around, which I identified as a California Thrasher. He's about the size of a jay, with long spindly legs, an almost hook-like long beak, and tail feathers the shape of an axe-head. He really is a little thrasher too. He scampers through bushes and says: GAK! GAK! I dig him.
Next door to me is a decent old geezer named Ruben Ponce. He's a retired sprinkler fitter who fought in WWII and actually landed at Utah Beach on D-Day. He always tells the story about the mite-boat ahead of his getting hit by a mortar round, and the rain of helmets, canteens and human limbs that landed on him and his guys. Ponce was actually born on the same property next door where he's presently living. Back then there was just a little shack (like mine) way at the back of the lot. In 1962 he tore it down and built a massive stucco suburban number for him and his girl Jackie. She died sometime in the '80s, so I guess he's pretty lonely over there now.
On the other side of my house lives a Mexican dude named Manuel, and his crazy son Enrique. They're actually alright, but the kid is a little nuts. He's a hardcore gangster and always brags about "being up in the pen dawg!" He's got the L.A. Dodgers logo tatooed on the side of his head in 5" tall letters, and then some other huge gothic letters on the back of his head. His neck... Everyting. That kid has some mad ink, but I think like everyone else he just wants to be liked. I never know how far to go with people like that, cause I've had it backfire on me.
I'm lucky to live here man. It's never boring.
Monday, July 07, 2003
THE SONG OF THE FOUNDATION DIGGER
I'm wishing tonight I could just dissapear,
and vanish from everyone's sight.
I simply too proud to crumble before them,
and seeing that I'm wretched and useless- Well dammit,
Turns out all this time they were right.
I show up for life, as I've done in the past,
It's a habit one can't put away.
But inside there's a feeling which aches in my soul,
a pain I'll cast out - as sure as my shadow!
By means which I'd rather not say.
I ask o'er and o'er how it came to be,
That I landed in such a bad place.
Once laughter and love filled the rooms of my heart,
but like the poor children on so many milk-crates,
they've now dissapeared without trace.
So I'm under the house with a pick and a spade,
How fitting this ghoul I've become.
The company's good in the land of the dead,
with spiders and mold in my ears and my mouth,
In this cool ground I wish to be laid.
I'm wishing tonight I could just dissapear,
and vanish from everyone's sight.
I simply too proud to crumble before them,
and seeing that I'm wretched and useless- Well dammit,
Turns out all this time they were right.
I show up for life, as I've done in the past,
It's a habit one can't put away.
But inside there's a feeling which aches in my soul,
a pain I'll cast out - as sure as my shadow!
By means which I'd rather not say.
I ask o'er and o'er how it came to be,
That I landed in such a bad place.
Once laughter and love filled the rooms of my heart,
but like the poor children on so many milk-crates,
they've now dissapeared without trace.
So I'm under the house with a pick and a spade,
How fitting this ghoul I've become.
The company's good in the land of the dead,
with spiders and mold in my ears and my mouth,
In this cool ground I wish to be laid.
Sunday, June 29, 2003
Sunday, June 15, 2003
Thursday, June 12, 2003
CRAZY. I got swept up into a massive, hooligan motorycle rally last night.
I'd just made a big yawn inside my helmet, as I rode north on LaBrea, when all of a sudden there are hundreds of roaring, smoking, tuned-up, tricked-out Jap sportbikes passing by in the opposite direction. I hesitated, watching the massive pool of riders dominate every lane, like a school of Piranas. Some of the riders beckoned me to turn around and fall in with them. I should not have done it, but I did it.
Suddenly I was a motorcycle rebel.
The mass of superbikers stopped at a gas station on Sunset, as more and more dedicated two-wheel *fuck you* types pulled up, coming from all directions, in squads of three to five riders. I rode very slowly and carefully around the pumps, conscious of keeping my balance good and my feet on the pegs. Stuff like that matters when you're on *a run*. It was cool, because I could pretend to be looking for "my set", when really I was just marvelling at the faces of the riders, most of whom had pushed their helmets back and whipped out spliffs and cell phones.
I gathered that despite the few lone wolves like myself, most of the other riders came with their local bike clubs. There were a lot of black guys (easily half the crowd), but also many Asians and Latinos, which is not so common in the superbike crowd. There even seemed to be some smaller outfits composed entirely of chicks... But all that was no matter, becasue it was a straight up motorcycle fest. No one was judging anone else - It was very cool.
A guy on a Suzuki started doing a standing burn-out in the middle of the service station. With both of his feet up on the pegs and the engine screaming at 10,000rpm, he crabbed his bike in circles, as it smoked and burned and screamed.
Suddenly all the bikes were roaring, and we were off down Venice Blvd, headed for the 710 freeway to Long Beach. There were 400 bikes in the mass at that point, and not ONE observed a single traffic regulation. I saw guys going through city streets at 100 to 110 mph... Inches of separation between them and other bikes. A guy at the gas station had told me to stay near the front, so I could see the hardcore guys doing tricks on the freeway - and I was not dissapointed.
So it's like 11:30pm at this point, but instead of being cosy at home, I'm hauling ass down the 710 freeway to L.B.C., trying my damndest to keep up with what I realized to be an honor guard of southern California trick riders.
The riders at the front of the pack doing all this insane shit were these types who sport German-styled helmets and black bandanas over their faces bank-robber style. They all seemed to be wearing black football jerseys, and I realized later, this is to cover the body-armor they wear underneath.
These are the same guys who do the stunts on shows such as BIKER BOYZ and FATS AND THE FURIOUS.
As these are the guys who do the stunts for movies, I'd say they are the hottest, extreme-superbike riders in the world, which I believe puts them among the most extreme anything in the world... Or at least anything I've ever encountered - and i've seen some insane shit.
The most beautiful thing you can do on a bike is a *12 o'clock-wheelie*. That's what they call a wheelie in which the bike is perfectly vertical, and the rider stands up straight on the pegs with his stomach pressed against the gauges. In that position, the rider is effectively 8' tall, riding a unicycle down the freeway at 90mph. To see it from up close - from another bike two car lengths back - is really unforgettable. They can hold those wheelies for a long time. Sometimes two or three guys would do them side by side, within a single lane. That had to be the wickedest thing I have ever seen.
Being the artsy-fartsy guy that I am, I found myself wondering later why those wheelies created such a response in me. Because I was near enough to the trick riders, I was able to see something in those moves that was never visible to me before. A superbike standing up straight on its back tire, when see from the rear, has the silhouette of a voluptuous, hourglass figure. Literally, it looks like a woman. If you imagine the bike pointing skyward, you can trace the outline of that hourglass shape - the wide tank, which tapers inward to the seat, which then flares back out in the tail piece.
Next time you see a superbike parked, imagine how a 12 year old boy would make that hourglass form with his open hands, and you'll see what I mean.
But to see a guy holding onto this 350 lb. female effigy... Controlling it, despite the obvious disparity in power... It's like a Tango with booster rockets.
I'd just made a big yawn inside my helmet, as I rode north on LaBrea, when all of a sudden there are hundreds of roaring, smoking, tuned-up, tricked-out Jap sportbikes passing by in the opposite direction. I hesitated, watching the massive pool of riders dominate every lane, like a school of Piranas. Some of the riders beckoned me to turn around and fall in with them. I should not have done it, but I did it.
Suddenly I was a motorcycle rebel.
The mass of superbikers stopped at a gas station on Sunset, as more and more dedicated two-wheel *fuck you* types pulled up, coming from all directions, in squads of three to five riders. I rode very slowly and carefully around the pumps, conscious of keeping my balance good and my feet on the pegs. Stuff like that matters when you're on *a run*. It was cool, because I could pretend to be looking for "my set", when really I was just marvelling at the faces of the riders, most of whom had pushed their helmets back and whipped out spliffs and cell phones.
I gathered that despite the few lone wolves like myself, most of the other riders came with their local bike clubs. There were a lot of black guys (easily half the crowd), but also many Asians and Latinos, which is not so common in the superbike crowd. There even seemed to be some smaller outfits composed entirely of chicks... But all that was no matter, becasue it was a straight up motorcycle fest. No one was judging anone else - It was very cool.
A guy on a Suzuki started doing a standing burn-out in the middle of the service station. With both of his feet up on the pegs and the engine screaming at 10,000rpm, he crabbed his bike in circles, as it smoked and burned and screamed.
Suddenly all the bikes were roaring, and we were off down Venice Blvd, headed for the 710 freeway to Long Beach. There were 400 bikes in the mass at that point, and not ONE observed a single traffic regulation. I saw guys going through city streets at 100 to 110 mph... Inches of separation between them and other bikes. A guy at the gas station had told me to stay near the front, so I could see the hardcore guys doing tricks on the freeway - and I was not dissapointed.
So it's like 11:30pm at this point, but instead of being cosy at home, I'm hauling ass down the 710 freeway to L.B.C., trying my damndest to keep up with what I realized to be an honor guard of southern California trick riders.
The riders at the front of the pack doing all this insane shit were these types who sport German-styled helmets and black bandanas over their faces bank-robber style. They all seemed to be wearing black football jerseys, and I realized later, this is to cover the body-armor they wear underneath.
These are the same guys who do the stunts on shows such as BIKER BOYZ and FATS AND THE FURIOUS.
As these are the guys who do the stunts for movies, I'd say they are the hottest, extreme-superbike riders in the world, which I believe puts them among the most extreme anything in the world... Or at least anything I've ever encountered - and i've seen some insane shit.
The most beautiful thing you can do on a bike is a *12 o'clock-wheelie*. That's what they call a wheelie in which the bike is perfectly vertical, and the rider stands up straight on the pegs with his stomach pressed against the gauges. In that position, the rider is effectively 8' tall, riding a unicycle down the freeway at 90mph. To see it from up close - from another bike two car lengths back - is really unforgettable. They can hold those wheelies for a long time. Sometimes two or three guys would do them side by side, within a single lane. That had to be the wickedest thing I have ever seen.
Being the artsy-fartsy guy that I am, I found myself wondering later why those wheelies created such a response in me. Because I was near enough to the trick riders, I was able to see something in those moves that was never visible to me before. A superbike standing up straight on its back tire, when see from the rear, has the silhouette of a voluptuous, hourglass figure. Literally, it looks like a woman. If you imagine the bike pointing skyward, you can trace the outline of that hourglass shape - the wide tank, which tapers inward to the seat, which then flares back out in the tail piece.
Next time you see a superbike parked, imagine how a 12 year old boy would make that hourglass form with his open hands, and you'll see what I mean.
But to see a guy holding onto this 350 lb. female effigy... Controlling it, despite the obvious disparity in power... It's like a Tango with booster rockets.
Tuesday, June 10, 2003
I'm getting crushed by Yahoo right now. Two weeks ago I was slightly dismayed to find that my old password would not get me into my e-mail account. Since then I have become more anxious about it. I have not been able to pick up mail for two weeks. I have no idea wha's going on in there.
And the worst thing is that it feels a bit too much like this was no accidental screw up. I suspect there is a *mano neri* at work here.
Could someone really be in there? Doing whatever ill she chooses? I'm trying to visualize all the possibilities for mischief that two weeks in a stranger's (assumption) e-mail would provide.
It may be a simple Yahoo screw up, but that's not the feeling I'm getting.
It's as if someone has changed all the locks... No, it's more like someone has welded steel plates over the doors and windows. That's not quite right, becasue there is only one entrance to one's yahoo. It's more like a tiny condo within an unmagniably large complex. It's very futuristic when you visualize it.
And it's getting worse. Last night I discovered that my e-bay password no longer works.
Anyway, I sure could use some help if anyone has experience with this. The yahoo support system is the mother of all automatic routing systems to nowhere. It's all e-mail based, so there is a painfully long turn-around time for *solutions* - which are shite in any case.
Anna has been my angel in all of this - by the way. Like Rose of No man's land, tending to the fallen boys left in the mud of Flanders and Verdun, so Anzo has swooped in and set me up a temp e-mail account: vincent_dow@yahoo.com
I'm curious to see how this thing turns out. I hope it's a big nothing. I'll still never feel the same way about e-mail again.
And the worst thing is that it feels a bit too much like this was no accidental screw up. I suspect there is a *mano neri* at work here.
Could someone really be in there? Doing whatever ill she chooses? I'm trying to visualize all the possibilities for mischief that two weeks in a stranger's (assumption) e-mail would provide.
It may be a simple Yahoo screw up, but that's not the feeling I'm getting.
It's as if someone has changed all the locks... No, it's more like someone has welded steel plates over the doors and windows. That's not quite right, becasue there is only one entrance to one's yahoo. It's more like a tiny condo within an unmagniably large complex. It's very futuristic when you visualize it.
And it's getting worse. Last night I discovered that my e-bay password no longer works.
Anyway, I sure could use some help if anyone has experience with this. The yahoo support system is the mother of all automatic routing systems to nowhere. It's all e-mail based, so there is a painfully long turn-around time for *solutions* - which are shite in any case.
Anna has been my angel in all of this - by the way. Like Rose of No man's land, tending to the fallen boys left in the mud of Flanders and Verdun, so Anzo has swooped in and set me up a temp e-mail account: vincent_dow@yahoo.com
I'm curious to see how this thing turns out. I hope it's a big nothing. I'll still never feel the same way about e-mail again.
Monday, June 02, 2003
QUITTING SMOKING AGAIN
Why do I fucking do it?
Now I've got a habit built up, and I can feel the tingle inside me, of all the cells reworking themselves into non-smoking mode. Agh, it sucks: It sucks and yet I like it. I like anything that's different.
Yesterday I got it in my head to take the dog for a run on the beach. That's something I was doing often, just before I left the Bay Area. By my account it's the best environment for running, because you have the option of firm or soft sand on which to run. It's just a question of how close you get to the water.
So I drove out to Santa Monica on the 10, but ran into huge traffic when I got off at the beach. There was not a single parking spot to be found in Santa Monica, because of all the touruists and resident parking restrcirtions.
The thing about resident parking permits that really gets to me, is that not everyone has them. I'm not able to park on your street, but you can park on mine anytime right? I wondered to myself how they'd like to have their cars vandalized, when I remembered quitting smoking, and why I'd come to the beach in the first place.
I finally managed to park down in Venice.
Using my tailgate as a bench I got my jogging rig together, and then walked the five blocks to the beach. It was crowded as hell in Venice, like St. mark's place on a Saturday night. With all the foot, bike and rollerblade traffic, I knew I couldn't run with the dog off-leash. There are no dogs allowed on the beach in L.A. county anyways- with or without leash. I was stumped, stymied... Sphinctered. I wanted a cigarette.
No. I wanted revenge. I wanted to see the destruction of a system that allowed one group of people to park wherever they wanted, while another group is forced to drive endlessly around the block. I wanted to sadistically punish those who had gotten dogs banned from L.A. beaches. My cells continued to sizzle and crackle.
I decided to head home and settle for a walk around my own neigbhourhood. I knew I couldn't run with the dog on the leash, as he invariably pulls ahead, or stops to smell the trace of some other dog.
Hours later, as I rode slwoly along Effie st. on my 12 speed, with the dog accompanying me unhastily, I allowed myself to relax. I hadn't smoked, and I wasn't freaking out. I had forgotten about my earlier disgust with the L.A. motorized approach to leisure. It was what it was.
A passing dog walker had just finished lecturing me about having my dog off-leash, when two strange dogs bolted from a house right at me and Baby. I could hear their owner yelling frantically from inside the house, so I knew the animal's escape was not a good thing. Baby, since he got his ass kicked one or two months ago, didn't wait around to see if they were friendly. He bolted up the steep hill, on a course that would bring him into perilous traffic if he went far enough. The two dogs, a brindled boxer and collie sheperd, gave a ferocious chase but couldn't get near Baby. Within seconds all three dogs were over the top of the hill and out of sight.
The woman who had come out chasing the dogs seemed to be almost on the verge of tears. She could have been quitting smoking too for all I know. There were two other people in her yard, who seemed to be in the midst of a move.
You just can't walk your dog off leash in L.A. At least every other house in this area has dogs in its yard. They're all pumped up and territorial. Anyone who's been chased by a farm dog knows this: A dog's territory begins and ends where HE says it does - unless you can persuade him otherwise - with a stick, a rock a fucking hand grenade - whatever. They never know their own property line. And sometimes they're going to slip out and cause all kinds of mischief.
I went at it with the dog's owners, once we'd all gotten our animals rounded up. They were fucking imbeciles. I really let them have it too - no mercy homes. A neigbhour who watched the altercation told me afterwards that theirs was the house where trouble always managed to show up. There's always one.
But I didn't smoke. Typical first day of quitting smoking that was!
Why do I fucking do it?
Now I've got a habit built up, and I can feel the tingle inside me, of all the cells reworking themselves into non-smoking mode. Agh, it sucks: It sucks and yet I like it. I like anything that's different.
Yesterday I got it in my head to take the dog for a run on the beach. That's something I was doing often, just before I left the Bay Area. By my account it's the best environment for running, because you have the option of firm or soft sand on which to run. It's just a question of how close you get to the water.
So I drove out to Santa Monica on the 10, but ran into huge traffic when I got off at the beach. There was not a single parking spot to be found in Santa Monica, because of all the touruists and resident parking restrcirtions.
The thing about resident parking permits that really gets to me, is that not everyone has them. I'm not able to park on your street, but you can park on mine anytime right? I wondered to myself how they'd like to have their cars vandalized, when I remembered quitting smoking, and why I'd come to the beach in the first place.
I finally managed to park down in Venice.
Using my tailgate as a bench I got my jogging rig together, and then walked the five blocks to the beach. It was crowded as hell in Venice, like St. mark's place on a Saturday night. With all the foot, bike and rollerblade traffic, I knew I couldn't run with the dog off-leash. There are no dogs allowed on the beach in L.A. county anyways- with or without leash. I was stumped, stymied... Sphinctered. I wanted a cigarette.
No. I wanted revenge. I wanted to see the destruction of a system that allowed one group of people to park wherever they wanted, while another group is forced to drive endlessly around the block. I wanted to sadistically punish those who had gotten dogs banned from L.A. beaches. My cells continued to sizzle and crackle.
I decided to head home and settle for a walk around my own neigbhourhood. I knew I couldn't run with the dog on the leash, as he invariably pulls ahead, or stops to smell the trace of some other dog.
Hours later, as I rode slwoly along Effie st. on my 12 speed, with the dog accompanying me unhastily, I allowed myself to relax. I hadn't smoked, and I wasn't freaking out. I had forgotten about my earlier disgust with the L.A. motorized approach to leisure. It was what it was.
A passing dog walker had just finished lecturing me about having my dog off-leash, when two strange dogs bolted from a house right at me and Baby. I could hear their owner yelling frantically from inside the house, so I knew the animal's escape was not a good thing. Baby, since he got his ass kicked one or two months ago, didn't wait around to see if they were friendly. He bolted up the steep hill, on a course that would bring him into perilous traffic if he went far enough. The two dogs, a brindled boxer and collie sheperd, gave a ferocious chase but couldn't get near Baby. Within seconds all three dogs were over the top of the hill and out of sight.
The woman who had come out chasing the dogs seemed to be almost on the verge of tears. She could have been quitting smoking too for all I know. There were two other people in her yard, who seemed to be in the midst of a move.
You just can't walk your dog off leash in L.A. At least every other house in this area has dogs in its yard. They're all pumped up and territorial. Anyone who's been chased by a farm dog knows this: A dog's territory begins and ends where HE says it does - unless you can persuade him otherwise - with a stick, a rock a fucking hand grenade - whatever. They never know their own property line. And sometimes they're going to slip out and cause all kinds of mischief.
I went at it with the dog's owners, once we'd all gotten our animals rounded up. They were fucking imbeciles. I really let them have it too - no mercy homes. A neigbhour who watched the altercation told me afterwards that theirs was the house where trouble always managed to show up. There's always one.
But I didn't smoke. Typical first day of quitting smoking that was!
Thursday, May 29, 2003
I just saw a serious motorcycle accident at the Silverlake reservoir. It wasn't but 40 minutes ago.
I managed to actually see the mishap because of a distinct crunch sound from behind a stand of trees. The sound was obviouisly motorcycle plastics impacting - it was obvious to me - but then I found that odd, as I've never heard motorcycle plastics breaking. Perhaps I'd heard the bike from a ways off, but did not process it consciously, amidst the drone of L.A. traffic.
Though not loud, the sound was *hot* and everyone including myself turned to look in the direction of Silverlake Blvd. Then the motorcyclist came into view from the point at which the trees ended. He appeared to be powering through the curve, from the angle at which he was leaning. Then he leaned the bike upright, and seemed to be having difficulty with it, as one would who couldn't find a gear. The bike was losing speed, and was by then doing no more than 20mph. The rider still worked to get the bike under control. He was braking hard, which was evident from the way in which the bike and rider pressed down the front shocks.
Suddenly a shimmy went through the motorcycle's frame, from front to back. What began as a shake in his handlebars became the rear tire bouncing from side to side - higher and higher.
I realized later what the guy did was a hi-side. What we saw was the bike shimmying - and then he was flung off, like a ravioli is flung with a spoon. The speed at which he flew across the street was like a cartoon. And he stopped just as suddenly - against a fire plug. He took off and landed from one point to the other like a cricket. It was unnatural. I saw three of the other dog owners shoot their hands into the air.
The bike he rode was a Kawasaki Ninja 900. After it threw him across the street, the thing slid another fifty feet and came to a rest on a sidewalk wheelchair ramp. A Ninja 9000 is a serious fucking suicide machine. Though the Suzuki GSXR 750 holds the title as the most fatal bike. It's a little cheaper so that 18 years olds can afford it.
The Silverlake dog run lies in the epicenter of a cellular phone dead zone. It's almost impossible for me to get service there. Still, someone managed to summon an ambulance - which came with a firetruck. They cut his helmet and clothes off, and then loaded him into the meat wagon. Somebody who stood nearby told us that he was conscious but in shock. Great day right?
It turns out the guy had been hammering around the resevoir, passing cars in the bike lane on the right shoulder. He hit a patch of gravel, which sent him out of control. That's when he hit the first car. Why he was speeding away in a superbike corner lean, I do not know. I suspect that he was trying to get away from the car he'd hit, and he didn't know that he'd damaged his own bike.
The worst thing about such an accident, in my opinion, is that you bring it on yourself. Not only are you torn up, but you're an idiot: You've proven it with concrete actions.
I managed to actually see the mishap because of a distinct crunch sound from behind a stand of trees. The sound was obviouisly motorcycle plastics impacting - it was obvious to me - but then I found that odd, as I've never heard motorcycle plastics breaking. Perhaps I'd heard the bike from a ways off, but did not process it consciously, amidst the drone of L.A. traffic.
Though not loud, the sound was *hot* and everyone including myself turned to look in the direction of Silverlake Blvd. Then the motorcyclist came into view from the point at which the trees ended. He appeared to be powering through the curve, from the angle at which he was leaning. Then he leaned the bike upright, and seemed to be having difficulty with it, as one would who couldn't find a gear. The bike was losing speed, and was by then doing no more than 20mph. The rider still worked to get the bike under control. He was braking hard, which was evident from the way in which the bike and rider pressed down the front shocks.
Suddenly a shimmy went through the motorcycle's frame, from front to back. What began as a shake in his handlebars became the rear tire bouncing from side to side - higher and higher.
I realized later what the guy did was a hi-side. What we saw was the bike shimmying - and then he was flung off, like a ravioli is flung with a spoon. The speed at which he flew across the street was like a cartoon. And he stopped just as suddenly - against a fire plug. He took off and landed from one point to the other like a cricket. It was unnatural. I saw three of the other dog owners shoot their hands into the air.
The bike he rode was a Kawasaki Ninja 900. After it threw him across the street, the thing slid another fifty feet and came to a rest on a sidewalk wheelchair ramp. A Ninja 9000 is a serious fucking suicide machine. Though the Suzuki GSXR 750 holds the title as the most fatal bike. It's a little cheaper so that 18 years olds can afford it.
The Silverlake dog run lies in the epicenter of a cellular phone dead zone. It's almost impossible for me to get service there. Still, someone managed to summon an ambulance - which came with a firetruck. They cut his helmet and clothes off, and then loaded him into the meat wagon. Somebody who stood nearby told us that he was conscious but in shock. Great day right?
It turns out the guy had been hammering around the resevoir, passing cars in the bike lane on the right shoulder. He hit a patch of gravel, which sent him out of control. That's when he hit the first car. Why he was speeding away in a superbike corner lean, I do not know. I suspect that he was trying to get away from the car he'd hit, and he didn't know that he'd damaged his own bike.
The worst thing about such an accident, in my opinion, is that you bring it on yourself. Not only are you torn up, but you're an idiot: You've proven it with concrete actions.
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