The Twin Peaks Reader

Kitty At My Foot...

2011-09-22T08:57:00.000-07:00

...and I want to touch it, to quote the Presidents Of The United States of America. It's from a silly song simply titled "Kitty". Funny shit if you get the absurdity of it all.

This happy graffiti kitty was just across the street on the beginning of Haight Street from my fabulous barber dude whose nimble clippers always gets the job done right. This stenciled rendering is a fine representation of simple, fun, playful art on the sidewalk. It's not Banksy, but I think it has a similar kindred spirit. I find this kind of street art much more interesting and compelling than the usual giant squiggle autographs seen on the sides of warehouses. All that crap is so ego centric and comes across as a simple display of bragging rights that the artist can make a bigger giant and more unintelligible squiggle of their name than their competitors vying for the same warehouse wall space. I prefer the artistic statements of a Banksy or Shepard Fairey over any of that other stuff. Spray paint on rebel kiddies and perhaps one day a real picture will pop into your heads.

The Real San Francisco Summer..

2011-09-21T08:01:00.000-07:00

Finally, now that the rest of the country is about to hit the Fall Equinox this Friday, San Francisco is now finally hitting summer time. There's been no fog up here on Twin Peaks all week, and the temperature's been warm enough to leave the hoodie at home and one can dare to wear shorts without sprouting goosebumps all over. Another wonderful "plus" to this weather is that I can actually see the "million dollar view" off of my balcony. The city shimmers at night, and a I can see the planes lining up for landings across the bay in Oakland.

Of course, it won't last long and we'll be right on track for rainy season. I'll do my best to absorb as much vitamin D on the balcony and watch this beautiful city show its true colors.

Happy New Year....

2011-01-01T23:59:00.001-08:00

Here's to new adventures in 2011.

The Backpack Bash

2010-03-30T11:53:00.001-07:00

I wish this little story of a common daily struggle was really about the best party you could ever imagine, as you might have gleaned from its somewhat ambiguous title. Hey kids, stuff your backpack full of food and booze and come to a secret location and party!

Perhaps you were pondering a story about a blowout bash of epic proportions filled with interesting people, a sumptuous feast of exotic delights and a continuous flow of sublime cocktails containing ingredients you’ve never heard of, all topped off with a unique location that immediately falls into the “once in a lifetime” category where you have to pinch yourself just to make sure you’re not dreaming. But I’m sorry to inform you, it’s not. Instead, it’s about the modern day sufferings of one of many minor indignities in life that, like a whack a mole game, keep popping up no matter how hard you smack them down. While seemingly mankind supposedly continues to evolve, it’s clear to me some people don’t and never will.

Two to three days a week I leave my car at home and take San Francisco’s famed “Muni” Public Transit system to work, in a vain attempt to pretend to reduce my carbon footprint, or whatever I’m supposed to do to be a good “green” citizen. It’s really quite famous for it’s “Muni meltdown” that occurred in the late nineties, where train service became so bad and unreliable that it was said you could walk between some stops faster than the trains would travel during rush hour. It happened as a result of a perfect storm of an aging streetcar fleet and rapidly increased demand during the height of another infamous period in the city known as the “Dot Bomb.” I’ve managed to survive both catastrophic episodes with my sanity in check and cementing my San Francisco existence within the cities storied history. Pinch me so I know I’m not dreaming, or on second thought, don’t.

Despite Muni’s well publicized dark days, it’s not all that bad once you’ve ridden it a number of times. Repeated use quickly familiarizes one’s self with the various quirks and issues the system presents its loyal riders on a daily basis. Mechanical hiccups, stinky chatty homeless people, giddy graffiti producing school kids, and random, inexplicable delays become less of a major annoyance, and experienced patrons learn cope with a good book or a cool puzzle or game on their smart phone. My current favorite is a puzzle that challenges you try to come up with as many word combinations out of a single string of letters in a couple of minutes. It can be almost magical they way it engages me and quickly passes the time during such occurrences.

A weary traveler’s phone can also serve as a great information tool when one can access a great little Muni web site that is designed to estimate the arrival of your next bus or train by punching in the street location of the stop you’re waiting at, on the route you’re taking and what direction you’re traveling. Nine times out of ten it seems to be reasonably accurate, and takes most of guesswork out of wondering when the next damn bus or train is going to show up. As an aside, a well utilized survival tactic I’ve learned is that it doesn’t hurt to know of a few good bars in the neighborhoods your route takes you through in case you need to hunker down for an adult beverage or two when the next meltdown occurs.

For those of you who have not been initiated in this or a similar commute experience, rush hour on any public transit system can be quite the test in patience and civility. There is usually the “chaos” time window of anywhere between 7:30 am and 9:00 am where most transit riders try to get to work, despite the risk of larger crowds and associated longer waits to get on a train or bus. Through my own personal experience the time frame threshold of when traveling on Muni is noticeably more crowded and difficult can be in as little as fifteen minutes before the “chaos” time window begins, and suddenly gets better fifteen minutes afterwards. A perfect example of urban synchronization at its finest.

On the days I’m more lethargic, lazy and just can’t get the hell out of bed, I usually miss avoiding the “chaos” time window and fall prey to the unwashed masses. This is when taking public transit truly challenges one to struggle to feel like a civilized human being while being pushed, shoved and stepped on by others who really don’t have any regard for their fellow commuters. Enter the backpack-wearer.

The domestic urban animal a.k.a “the city dweller” must adapt to their surroundings by being somewhat prepared and organized in order to successful exist among the other thousands, and in a few cases, millions of urban dwellers also trying to live their lives in crowded and congested conditions. The workdays can be long, and meeting the hectic obligations of both a career and having a life outside of work requires that some must travel with not only stuff for work, but stuff for after work related activities as well. For some it would be books associated with a night class or two, others it would be gym clothes or perhaps the makings of a really memorable party at an undisclosed location. Whatever those contents might be, the common backpack seems to be the vessel of choice to carry any given amount of stuff needed for the day. Let the suffering and ignorant displays of inconsiderate behavior begin.

Let’s face it; people who wear large backpacks suck. Period. While I applaud their organization skills of being prepared for their busy little days by carrying everything they own on their person but the kitchen sink, the rest of us unfortunately suffer from the fact that most insist on wearing them when on overcrowded buses and trains. Some are so large and stuffed with crap that they take up space for two people and prevent others from being able to get on and off at will.

When I encounter these clueless, self-centered schlubs, I can’t help but envision some disgruntled thirteen year old who’s running away from home. Their parents just don’t understand them any more and they need to find others like them that they can identify with in a secret enclave of misunderstood kids deep in the woods of Oregon or hanging out with burned out hippies and surfers at Venice Beach or the still popular Haight-Ashbury district in San Francisco.

Other backpack monsters appear to me to be super-nerd overachievers with zero social graces, and simply exist with all the shit they need to do anything at anytime, buried under their iPods listening to audio versions of Star Trek books written by William Shatner and narrated by James Earl Jones. If it were not for my semi-vivid imagination allowing me to see some level of absurdity in their existence and rudeness, I’d probably try to throw them under a bus or train with unbounded glee witnessing a standing ovation from all the other riders faced with the same plight.

Being the highly adaptable creature that I am, I’ve learned to have some fun with them by employing several offensive tactics that let them know my feelings towards their lack of consideration for their fellow commuters. The first one is the straightforward, causal but stern bump when getting on or off a train or bus, even then they’re not crowded. It’s enough to say “nice backpack, but get the fuck out of my way, dork”.

Other times the stern bump is not enough, and when I’m feeling more annoyed and feisty, I perform a more complex, drawn out brush and drag move where I pretend there is just no space between their backpack and other patron standing behind them, (and usually there really isn’t any room….), and I just slowly walk right into them, accompanied with an insincere “excuse me”. More often than not the “excuse me” is not heard over the din of James Earl Jones and they don’t make any attempt to move out of the way, so I simply proceed to almost push them down. Usually they are forced to turn sideways to move out of the way while shooting me even more upset and annoyed glares than the ones who just receive the casual bump. Sunglasses protect me from having to make eye contact and I’ll just stare straight ahead, waiting for any comment they might have. To this date, without fail, not a single backpack wearing dweeb has said anything to me after the push and drag. I attribute the lack of verbal responses due to the fact they must realize it just comes with the territory of being a complete ass by not removing them when taking the public transit system and showing a shred of decency towards others. Perhaps this unspoken knowledge they possess comes in the form of a tag that’s attached to all backpacks which outlines a basic code of conduct to follow when wearing one and what to expect when they don’t. At the bottom of the tag is a

stern warning not to remove it under penalty of law.

Even after years of taking Muni, this situation never seems to change, regardless of shifts in the social climate, backpack and bag trends, designs and technologies; not that any of those factors would really make a difference in the first place, but one can be hopeful at times, right? The encounter is almost always the same and as time goes by, it does seem to get a bit harder each time not to get all ghetto on the offender and giving them a high decibel piece of my mind. However, the trusty tools of the casual bump and the push and drag are always

at the ready, and I always faithfully resort to those instead of verbal confrontation.

In the end I’m glad I don’t choose the route to go overboard with confrontation, and attribute that ever growing restraint to my ever expanding coping skills and the realization that it just won’t change the world and would cause needless stress in my life which I just don’t need. Besides, it’s simply more fun share with all of you and write about it instead.

The Pipe Cleaner Pony - A Training Class Ice-Breaker

2010-01-31T21:30:00.000-08:00

The wind was rushing across my face almost lifting the cowboy hat up off my head as as I guided my loyal steed up the mountain pass. The mission: to head off a group of cattle rustlers that had hit both my ranch and the neighbors' across the way. Enough was enough, and it was time to take the law into our own hands. With my posse in tow, an inner calm and confidence started to arise knowing justice will come to these prairie hardened, dusty remnants of law abiding men who once made an honest living as I currently fight for, each and every single day of my life. With the guiding touch of my spur, my pipe cleaner pony responded with a snort, a bray and a quickening of his pace so we could catch up with the bad guys as soon as possible. All of a sudden, the teacher's words instructing the late-comers of the task at hand brought my morning daydream to a faded end.

Placed at each group of desks were a pile of index cards and a random assortment of arts and crafts items to be used to construct our little morning assignment. We had to create name cards that were free standing and had to tell everyone in the class something about ourselves. A few clever ones emerged quickly as I scanned around the room, but then a growing sense of frustration emerged and many couldn't quite get a firm grasp on what to create and how to do it in the shortest amount of time possible. A chorus of eyes rolled as many just didn't care at all about being cutesy or clever and just wanted to get on with it all.

Just in case that first photo doesn't really showcase the meticulous artistry displayed in this pile of pipe cleaners, here's another shot for those skeptics in the crowd:

Boom! Sheer brilliance on half a cup of coffee on a Wednesday morning in downtown San Francisco on the 12th floor in a homogeneous beige colored class room. Not to sound too cocky, but I'm sure Alexander Calder wished he had constructed such a beast at the height of his wire circus period, before he had that little "mobile" phase. I didn't name the poor beast 'cause I just didn't think he'd be around long enough to really bond with. Such a fleeting moment of art imitating life.

After we completed our little "sculptures", we were then asked to stand up, and hand it to someone else in the room and wait for them to guess the personal quality the card was supposed to illustrate. Needless to say this broke the supposed "ice" in the room, and made for many awkward exchanges as most people couldn't guess what each others card was supposed to day about them. A few guessed mined correctly, but I certainly got a few strange looks in the process, like "that's supposed to be a horse??". Thank god I'll never see these people again.... I hope.

Those Cunning Credit Card Company Linguists

2010-01-20T21:21:00.001-08:00

I don't know if any of you have noticed, but doesn't it seem like credit card offers have gotten somewhat out of hand these days? Aside from the sheer numbers of offers that can flood one's mailbox, it's the creative marketing-speak used to try and persuade an individual to actually apply, that has recently caught my eye. With your average, run of the mill offers that promise all sorts of bonuses and perks, There seems to be few that effectively enter the rarified illusionary realm of perceived exclusivity. They seem to beg with the false promises like…"If you get this card, you'll be able to walk on water to get to the store to buy your stuff with a two thumbs up from the man upstairs." Then you can ask the almighty man, "does this make me look fat?"

Normally all my offer letters are submitted to the god of shredding, which does a great job of creating nice fluffy bedding fodder for small critters, like a hamster, for example. Of course, this is all hypothetical since I don't personally own one of these fuzzy things. Really, I don't. But, if I did, he'd be in hog-hamster heaven, inside his cage outfitted with the latest and greatest hamster wheel technology doing what hamsters do best, eating and pooping...oh and biting their owners too. Ouch! You little fuckers. Appropriately enough, all this Hamster activity would be happening on a soft fluffy bed of shredded credit card offers. That's all those stubborn bits of junk mail are really good for, to bring luxurious comfort for your small rodent-pet when has to go number two.

Last week, a trickle of offers arrived from the usual suspects, and as I routinely do, I open them up, remove the actual offer letters and shred them. I then take the empty envelopes and toss them into the recycling bin like the good little eco-conscious San Franciscan that I am. As I completed sorting and perusing all my mail, I grabbed the shred pile and proceeded to fire up the god of shredding when the letter on top worked it's magic and actually caught my eye. So Here we go… wait for it…. wait for it....

At the top of this particularly longish looking offer letter I clutched in my hand, a phrase leapt from the page which immediately put a giant, absurdist humor loving smile upon my face. There it was, the phrase that I couldn't believe I was reading:

"You're Pre-Approved to Apply".

The words hit me like a thousand Tsunamis, only I am still dry. I paused and re-read those words several more times, just so they'd sink in through my euphoric fog of giddy, child-like wonderment, like on Christmas day staring at a tree surrounded by presents, singing their siren song.

As my new reality shook me like a bartender making a dry martini, my mind immediately flooded with questions like, "I wonder what their pre-approval process is based on? Is it more of a brute force, number crunching deal using their secret, special super-fabulous credit card pre-approval supercomputer running Windows Vista, or is more like an Alien anal probe approach? How *do* they do it? I couldn't at that exact moment recall being recently visited by Aliens, so I had to assume it was the supercomputer approach. All I can say is it must be one expensive computer to pick the likes of me. And to my bottomless surprise, after all that number crunching, I still made it through the pre-approval gauntlet. But, the icing on this "pre-approval" cake…next to my name, is my own, special pre-approval code that's over twelve digits long! Whoa, that's a big, important number for such a big important guy like me. I don't know what to say as I briefly experience a state of flabbergastedness. Pinch my nipples, please?

As I come to, I start to wonder about all the others, the unwashed masses who are not lucky enough to be pre-approved. What will become of them? Will they live to see a new day dawning? Will they be allowed to apply for the same card even though they're not pre-approved? Will the bank's security team intercept them as they approach the bank with completed form in hand, walking up the the perpetually moving revolving door to their main branch lobby? I pray for them, and hope they can still get decent credit while being forced to live in their non-approved status. So many unknowns in a cruel, cruel world.

So I give a big shout out to those pompous and manipulative wordsmiths hunkered down in the deep dark depths of the underground offices of the credit card pre-approval, approval departments. Well done you English major refugees. You almost got me. But, I must readily admit, I did dodge this bullet without too much difficulty. Your sensibilities are very entertaining, and I pity those who can't see clearly though the bullishit message laced with arrogance and fake illusion of a better life with your little credit card. Oh, and I shouldn't forget to mention that the percentage rate listed on the back of that letter truly sucks. I already have a card that is 4 points less than what you're offering. Now you're pre-approved to fuck off.

Presenting: The Evolution of Stupidity In Modern Man - Part One

2010-01-19T20:24:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it happens as a guerilla assualt. Sometimes you can quietly observe from a safe distance. In either case you're caught off guard and completely unprepared for what is about to transpire. While you're in no danger, it just doesn't feel right, yet you are a front row witness.

The Bay Area has been in the midst of a series of powerful storms belting the coast for a long over due bought of rain. The credit goes to both God, for crying a lot, (a total wuss sometimes), and also to our local army of weathermen and weather-chicks warning us on the airwaves of the impending doom. Here comes a bunch 'o rain with a lot of wind and stuff. Mmmmm.... computer weather modeling.

So, I'm fresh off of Muni early this morning making my way in a comfortable stride clutching a fresh umbrella when I turn a corner on Mission near Third, and come across a sight I wasn't expecting to see in the morning rain. I didn't break my stride to observe, but the corners of my eye were burning with disbelief as I passed.

I saw a man, walking his dog in the pouring rain wearing a pair of flip flops. What the Fuck? I know, I said the exact same thing to myself. Bad parents? Lazy care free attitude? Stupid? Can't feel water? Didn't want to ruin his pair of Prada Pumps? I don't know either, but many of those explanations could very well apply. I'm convinced it's all the above. In any case, I guess this guy doesn't really think too much about getting dressed in the morning when it's pouring rain out. Fido needed to take a dump, I'm sure that's what was on his mind. Not wearing shoes was the path of least resistance, I'm guessing, to get the little critter walked before he had to clean up after it in his hi-rise overpriced, underwater condo.

"Hmmm... should I wear shoes since it's wet outside, or should I go with the flip flops? They make me feel like I'm still on vacation in Maui. I'll go with the flip flops". I'm in denial, and that's totally cool with me.

Wow dude. Really?

Stupid Man.

Poor, Poor dog. Who knows what you'll have to endure next.

Catching Fish From a Deep Gray Ocean

2010-01-18T22:46:00.000-08:00

Fish were never meant to exist out of water. Period. A non-debate at the very least. From learning all about them in elementary school, to the fishing shows on TV, we know that once on land, that's it. The specter of the Gorton's Fisherman looms large as they gasp for water. A dying breath that does not seek air.

Landing one is certainly the big trick for most of the amateur fishermen among us, so that's why we're given the luxury and saving grace of the Trader Joe's frozen food aisle where numerous fish choices abound. I, myself, tend to enjoy the various cuts of wild Salmon, or Mahi-Mahi, but I digress. So let's quickly revisit one of those fishing shows; the ones I admit I've never actually watched but my gut tells me what they're all like, and we see prime examples of the fish at it's best. Wild, elusive, and somewhat unpredictable. Programmed by Mother Nature. Oh, and hungry too.

Despite the fact that many avid fisherman have those high-tech radar thingies to help them locate where the little bastards are, it's never a guarantee that any fish will actually be caught. It's funny, 'cause one would think after all the high tech gear, science, time and money that goes behind any serious fisherman's endeavors, that they'd just say "fuck it" and join us at Trader Joe's. I would. I get exhausted just thinking about all that work for a simple end result. I think the path of least resistance is in order here, for maximum enjoyment of a nice fish dinner. Yum.

So there they are, in their boats with radar, poles, nets, beer and such, waiting and hoping the fish will do their bidding and just take the freaking' bait. Since the radar shows them where the fish are, they technically aren't hiding anymore, so it simply becomes a matter of coaxing, teasing and waiting. Simple enough, it would seem, and perish the thought if they run out of beer. It's a deep dark abyss out there that highlights the fact that the outcome of any fishing expedition is not a foregone conclusion. I'm pretty sure that can be a humbling fact that many fisherman to take into account. And then they run out of beer. Doh!

My recent epiphany is that I see the plight of the common fisherman as an appropriate analogy for the big black hole I created in 2009, with my Blog, "The Twin Peaks Reader". I hate to admit it, but the year flew by with nary a peep out of me. I'm sure a couple of readers noticed. I think… One major factor was the start of an important new job that pretty much sucked most of the creative bandwidth out of me, and rightfully so since my job is a top priority.

I've found that coming up with those ideas is so much like fishing. Ideas are fish swimming freely among the gray matter between my ears. I eschew the radar 'cause I know where they are, so finding them is not the problem when it comes to writing them down. But, I still face the exact same challenges the fisherman faces. Despite all my best intentions and attempts, it's just nearly impossible to get those ideas to take the bait, bite, and allow me the opportunity to set the hook, and with good luck, reel them in. If I get that far, then my final challenge is to try my hardest to prevent them from slipping through my hands and wriggling over the side of the boat, back into the gray matter ocean.

It was so apparent that my authorial rod and reel I had last year where grossly insufficient. You could say all I was equipped with was a Popeils Pocket Fisherman when a needed a full, ocean going fishing rig. But thankful a year has passed and there is more balance to my life which opens up the trap door allowing me to once again peer below into the ocean of my mind.

For the record, if you've ever visited the cobweb infested pages of the Twin Peaks Reader, I have successfully landed a few over the past few years. They may not be the biggest or tastiest fish that were swimming about, but fish never the less. If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, then it must be a ….. fish, idea, page in Mr. Bloggy Woggy. Ahem.

So here's to the new and improved tools of the trade, a shiny new rod and reel with a nice heavy line for 2010 and beyond. I know where to cast, let's just hope something happens. I hope there are some hungry folks out there. I know I am.

Wiper

2010-01-03T22:00:00.000-08:00

For those of us who choose the big city "lifestyle", (yes, that one *is* a choice), sometimes the simple acts performed by individuals can be profound statements of commitment that help make both the city and its environment a little bit better for all. Trust me on this one people.

(Stepping off my neophyte eco-soapbox) I try to do my part by taking San Francisco's lovely Public Transportation system, a.k.a. "Muni" several days a week to work which keeps my car off the road, preventing it from spewing forth that nasty carbon stuff we've been hearing a lot about lately. Additionally, it also allows me to save a few bucks on parking. Simple enough. Not spew carbon, save some dough. Class dismissed.

Much to my dismay, my public transportation sufferings and newly acquired "eco-karma" have not been affective in fending off the dreaded armies of GreenPeace and other "save-the-planet" street solicitors from flagging me down in an annoyingly well crafted message of "you're not doing enough to save our earth" guilt trip, trying to deprive me of the money I just saved by not driving. Can't they see the "I didn't drive a freaking' car to work, asshole" look on my face as I walk by them in a stoic attempt to evade their in your face persistence to get you to stop, hear their little lecture, and give them cash on the spot because you've been moved to tears. They're well trained in accepting any excuse you may possess and pounce on any valid point you make with the "…but you could do more" stock answer that always circles the conversation back to giving them money to make you feel better about yourself. I'm so over it. I do good things they seem to want to cast aside 'cause I'm not giving them money. I'm so over it. But I digress. I'm sure some of you will defend them, and rightly so. Just be sure to give them your hard earned money in this down economy and get back to me on how that went. Now back to our regularly scheduled story at hand.

When I embark on my morning commute down the Temple of Fog on those non-carbon spewing days, it luckily begins at the beginning of the Muni Bus Route I flirt death with. As a result, the bus is always empty upon arrival and the few of us early morning risers get first crack at actual seats. It's a simply luxury I cherish when I witness the fate of all the other commuters who board the bus a half dozen stops down along the route. Those poor souls have the wonderful privilege of having to try and stand, holding on for their dear lives with a white knuckled death grip, all the while the seemingly insane driver careens down the hill in a vain attempt to keep a somewhat on-time schedule. For all of us regulars, we're well aware of the fact that while the effort is appreciated, it is an exercise in futility. Never the less the driver tries to appease the clock, taking our lives into their hands.

When the bus finally appears and stops a seemingly half-block from where we're actually standing, well within the marked bus stop zone of course, it's captive audience breathes a collective sigh of relief that it has actually has shown up on time one more time. In the absence of an actual "mooing" soundtrack to this moment, we board this bio-diesel cattle car shuffling on in single file choosing our usual favorite seats. Mine is usually in the first row of the upper level, mid-way towards the back. It's a great vantage point to quickly exit from the side door when the bus is packed and makes it easy to observe all the goings on while we plummet down the hill.

On most mornings, after the early arrivals have grabbed their usual seats, more often than not a final passenger will briskly climb aboard at the very last minute clutching a somewhat discreet wad of paper towels. After a few repeated sightings and witnessed his little ritual, I've finally dubbed him, "The Wiper".

The Wiper looks to be in his early thirties, somewhat fashionably dressed and always sporting contemporary black rimmed glasses. His personal attention to fashion detail is fairly common in San Francisco, but in this particular case it just makes him look very uptight, fussy, and overall not well adjusted to the common realities of taking public transportation in a big city. He looks semi-fabulous at best. If he were truly fabulous, he wouldn't be taking the bus. Once he's made his brisk entrance, he walks to the mid-way point of the bus and quickly scans around to find a good seat candidate, carefully scrutinizing each one for a base level of cleanliness. However, regardless of how clean his choice actually is, enter the wad of paper towels. That little bundle of bleached paper joy comes to his rescue. Before he sits, he wipes down the entire seat in what appears to be loathsome contempt for the dirty, crappy bus he's forced to take to work. However, let the truth be told, is far, far cleaner than you would imagine based on this guy's behaviors.

The wiping process he employs is very thorough, and seems to last minutes on end. In actuality, it lasts about thirty seconds to a minute at the most. When observing this act, however, I can't help but see it in slow motion, making it seem like an eternity that yields no significant benefit, based on the overall effort. The Wiper usually wears a stern look of intent on his face while wiping, making sure he's covered ever inch of the seat that will come in contact with his precious body. This intensity usually produces soft shuffling and brushing sounds that can sometimes be heard above the din of the rear heater fan. To me, that's an impressive feat since the fan is really loud and can sometimes drown out regular conversations. I never get a good look of the wad of paper towels after he's done, but I swear it sometimes contains some of the red paint from the seat.

Once he's satisfied that there's no Swine Flu or Bubonic Plague residue lingering on it, he'll delicately pivot on one foot, positioning his precious tushy in proper alignment with the seat and slowly ease himself down with the care of a mother hen taking inventory of her eggs. Sometimes as he begins this seating process, he'll look from side to side behind him as if he's not sure it's completely clean, despite his best efforts, and give the seat a last once-over before finally sitting down. The whole scene sort of reminds me a small dog or cat that will circle a place on a couch or pet bed dozens of times trying to find the perfect spot while "nesting", not trusting their initial choice and repeating over and over again until it just feels right. Stupid critters. If they were smart, they'd get the Wiper to cleanse their nesting spot before going to sleep. Duh.

After finally completing the settling in and actually sitting down process, he usually produces a trendy fashion magazine or a vintage Tin Tin comic reprint of some sort and he'll sit staring straight ahead with an airy nonchalance while reading. My logical assumption is that he thinks his fastidious ritual of seat wiping is done by all patrons of Mr. Bus, and that it's a completely normal behavior and there's no way in hell he'd ever be singled out as an uptight anal-retentive precious little fashionista. I can't help but find the whole display very entertaining, especially when the seat looks perfectly clean with no visible signs of moisture, dirt or other "foreign objects" that would put his precious wardrobe in danger, yet he never fails to wipe never the less. It seems to simply be an auto-response to his environment.

Over time and after repeated viewings of his morning Muni ritual, I can't help but wonder the possibilities of what potentially happened in his past that now requires him to perform this amusing little act in public. Perhaps many years ago, when he first started taking Muni he had some horrible, encounter with seat schmutz that mentally scarred him for life. Oh the horror that I can imagine. Maybe he accidentally sat down in fresh bum vomit not noticing it in his seat of choice while yanking away on his iPhone. After pondering that theory, however, it seems to me to be implausible because he'd smell the festering pool of barf long before accidentally sitting in it. We all know the putrid smell of bum vomit hits you in the face like a few rolls of quarter swung at your face in a tube sock. My numerous other theories continue in great detail, but I won't bore you with them here. All I can figure it out it must have been really, really bad to leave such a profound mental scar.

When I ever encounter a seat that looks like I shouldn't sit in it, I simply move on to the next one and life goes on. I don't have the time or energy to carry around a heavy wad of paper towels trying to make the bus a better place to ride. I'm sure some of you champion his act of cleaning the seat thus bringing it back into circulation for the crowded trip down the hill benefiting the rest of the passengers, but I guess you must be a fellow brethren of the fellowship of the sacred wad of paper towels taking on the dirty burdens of the world. I hope you all sleep at night knowing that using up all those extra paper towels is causing rapid accelerated deforestation much sooner than anyone ever expected. Happy?

Happy New Year!

2009-12-31T20:03:00.001-08:00

I welcome the exit of 2009 for greener pastures to be found in 2010. I hope I find them....

A Tree for 2008

2008-12-08T20:29:00.001-08:00

Ah yes, it's that time of year when the siren song of Christmas calls some of us in to action to get out and do our best to stimulate this flaccid economy.

I hemmed and hawed, but in the end you see I did take the plunge. See exhibit "A" above. Not the best looking tree, but it still does what it's supposed to do. This year I decided to make my tree experience a little "greener", (pun intended) by swapping out all my older style lights and invest in the new LED lights. They take a while to get used to since they're a lot brighter, but knowing they consume a lot less power, that they last much, much longer than traditional lights, and that they are much cooler and perhaps won't dry out my tree as fast, I know it was the right switch to make. My old lights were donated to Goodwill, so hopefully they will help to make someone else's holiday a little bit better.

Here are a few more views of Mr. Tree as I experimented with my camera:

Blurry lighted version:

Dark version:

Motion Blur Version:

Life in Transition...

2008-10-13T19:08:00.001-07:00

Ya, I know....it's been a long time since the last post. First, my apologies to those of you out there who read the Twin Peaks Reader. I know there isn't many of you, but I appreciate the readership nevertheless.

After a long period of being adrift in the world of unemployment, some good things have recently happened. I was offered a great job with a small electronics firm in downtown San Francisco who has welcomed me with open arms. I can't speak enough about them as I'm grateful to have this opportunity as such a rocky time in the American Economy. I won't go into details about the company or job, but just know it did consume my time, thoughts and energy trying to find it, and put at ease my concerns of my fate. Many close friends and family have helped me through this rough time, and I'm more than grateful for their help.

With all that being said, and a few weeks at the new job under my belt, I'm now at the point where I can free up the mental, creative energy again to get the writing flowing again. I've got a pile of new notes to visit, review and use as a new creative muse for future writings. Thanks for being there, everyone and showing patience and support. Here we go....

The DJ Chronicles - A Tale Of The Vegas Guys

2008-08-21T12:43:00.000-07:00

Boredom and loneliness can be a few of the common foes many a Disc Jockey battles within the confines of their typically tiny booths when nights are slow and patrons are scarce. With the lack of people to casually observe or converse with, time seems to stand still, and the passing of minutes takes hours. The only saving grace during these excruciating times is when a DJ takes refuge in the arms of the music he plays. Each carefully selected song is an aural gem begging for deeper melodic appreciation and lyrical interpretation that inevitably takes them one more song closer to the end of a seemingly endless night.

Back in early June, I found myself locked in a fight to the death with boredom to my left and loneliness sneaking up on my right in a tag team assault on my sanity. I attempted to keep them at bay with a fictional threat of mock suicide wielding a gun consisting of my thumb and index finger pointed directly at my head. I called out to them, “Stop, or I’ll shoot!” Thank god boredom and loneliness had the sense to take a mindful step backwards, taking my thinly veiled threat seriously since they too, appreciate great music and didn’t want to suffer the consequences of silence. A standoff ensued as I continued to spin with one hand on the turntables and the other ready to shoot myself out of my mind numbingly bored apathy and sense of lack of purpose. They hovered just out of reach, ready for the right moment to pounce and grip my soul to its very core making the night last for eternity upon eternity. A “DJ hell”, if you will.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, two knights in shining armor appeared, inadvertently rescuing me from the oncoming clutches of boredom and loneliness, unwittingly stabbing them through their collective hearts in one fell swoop. Taking the unpredictable yet familiar form of the vacationing out of towners, two thirty-something, casually dressed guys walked into the bar, sizing it up with turning heads and wide opened eyes. They slowly strode over to the bar and each ordered a typical garden variety American beer. You know, the kind that really doesn’t have much taste even though these giant old school brewers club everyone over the head with advertising claiming the contrary. The suds primed their lips as they then proceeded to chat up the bartender attempting to find out hip places to go, what else they might do during their visit, and how busy the bar would be later that evening.

As I later found out, they were traveling together from sin city itself, Las Vegas and it was their first time visiting San Francisco. That fact struck me, as a quaint notion because my view is that everyone’s been to San Francisco, haven’t they? Before we continue, let me quickly point out that Las Vegas is not the only town that can lay claim to the title of “sin city”. San Francisco has it’s own, uniquely sinful reputation that can be quite intriguing and entertaining, depending what form your sin of choice takes. Fortunately, the city is not possessed by the presence of giant, garish hotels and that “gambling” thingy. I’d digress into more tawdry details, but we’ll just save them for another time.

As I watched their adventure quickly unfold, I immediately dubbed them “The Vegas Guys”. Considering the circumstances at that time, the way they behaved and seemed to function somewhat as a tourist “unit”, the title seemed all too appropriate.

When they were done collecting the somewhat useless and seemingly unsatisfactory information from the not too knowledgeable bartender, they smiled politely and used that moment as an excuse to take a scrutinizing lap around the bar. Chatting as they walked, they occasionally stopped to look at some of the posters on the wall, read all the various signs and notices, and watched what was playing on the large screen TV’s that covered the back wall. As the suds of their first beer started to fade, they ambled up to the front of the bar; digging and moving to the music as it played, and I saw them finally notice me in the darkened DJ booth. Their faces lit up as they realized it wasn’t an iPod providing the music, but an actual live human being. All of a sudden I felt a bull’s eye target forming on my forehead. Now the plot thickened.

They smiled as they walked back to the bar for a refill. As soon as they finished the first sip from the replenished beers, one of them slowly walked over to the side of the DJ booth. We’ll call him “Vegas Guy 1”. He paused upon his arrival as I had my headphones on cuing up a new song. I could see the look in his eye of semi – approval, but a restlessness inside seeking something different percolated up to the surface of his face. Obviously, he needed to make a request just to see what musical tricks I had up my sleeve.

“Dude, why you hiding in there? Said Vegas Guy 1 peering through the gray chain link fence with a wistful look on his face.

“This isn’t hiding. I’m working.” I deadpanned.

“I can barely see you. You look like you’re trying to hide or something.” He insisted.

“No, I’m just chillin’ here in the booth, trying to make your bar going experience as memorable as possible. Memorable that is, if you like music. It’s all-good, but sorry you can’t see me too well. The lighting in here sucks. Complain to the manager.” I quipped.

“I like music, but it would be better if you would play some Rock and Roll, dude” He said with an accusing smirk.

“This is rock and roll” I shot back. “AC/DC isn’t rock enough for you?”

“Ya, but do you have any Judas Priest?”

“I don’t. Sorry.”

“Aw man, you gotta have the Priest. What’s up with that? They totally rock.”

“I know, I just don’t have any with me. I love “You Gotta Another Thing Coming” and “Breakin’ The Law”. I said defending my knowledge of all things Priest.

“That’s cool. What about Van Halen? Got any tunes by them?”

“Vintage David Lee Roth era or Van Hagar?” I smartly inquired.

“Aw, dude, c’omon! David Lee all the way! Fuck Van Hagar.” Vegas Guy 1 exclaimed with an authoritative smile on his face.

“Sure, I have some vintage Van Halen. What self-respecting rock DJ wouldn’t? Just sit tightly for a few songs, I’ll dig it up for you.”

Just then Vegas Guy 2, sporting a tall tussle of wavy black hair, wandered over and jumped in on the rock and roll conversation.

“So is he going to play some real rock and roll?” Vegas Guy 2 asked Vegas Guy 1, making sure I heard him while smiling at me.

“We’ve been through this already. What part of AC/DC do you not understand?” I comically asserted. “Perhaps you need to look up rock and roll in the dictionary.”

“You don’t seem to like us.” Vegas Guy 1 said in mock accusation.

“What? I do. Just chill dudes. I’m just trying to concentrate on what you’re saying. It’s hard to hear in here sometimes. Besides, you keep telling me to play rock and I already am. Show the love to the DJ, ok?” I quipped.

“Ok, ok. I we’re just fuckin’ with ya.” Vegas Guy 2 explained.

“I figured that out already, but thanks for clarifying.” I replied, playing along. “So where you guys from?”

“Vegas.”

“Cool. Is this your first time to San Francisco?”

“Ya, actually. It is.” Vegas Guy 2 reluctantly admitted fondling his half empty beer.

“No way. What’s up with that? Everyone’s been to San Francisco.” I sarcastically replied.

“Well, we’re here and ready to have a great fuckin’ time, ok?” Vegas Guy 2 retorted as he looked at Vegas Guy 1 and they mutually let loose a big party “Wooo-Hooo” and clinked their beer bottles together in a self-congratulatory toast.

“I think you two will have a good time.” I supportively interjected at the tail end of the party yell.

“So where is everybody?” Vegas Guy 1 asked.

“It’s Thursday night. Not the busiest night of the week, I’m sorry to say.” I explained.

“Will more people be here later?” Vegas Guy 2 inquired.

“Hard to know for sure. You never know who will come out for a drink. I certainly hope more do come out since it’s more fun to play music for a crowd, ya know? In the meantime, I’m sure Van Halen will put you guys in the right mood.” I said as they walked away to get another beer.

It was like being in that movie Bill and Ted’s excellent adventure, except they didn’t use the words “whoa” and “Gnarly”. I just smiled at their funny party energy that they tried fill the bar up with.

As they walked back over to the bar, I suddenly understood what they were trying to accomplish. They were on a mission to create a somewhat familiar atmosphere during their travels and needed to hear the welcome strains of rock and roll as they were used to listening to back home. Certainly it was a concept I could easily identify and sympathize with.

A few minutes later, I put on Van Halen’s “Running with the Devil”, a classic David Lee Roth era song. As the opening guitar intro filled the bar, I looked over to the Vegas Guys by the front of the bar. They let out a huge “Wooo-Hoo”, clinked their fresh beer bottles together that subsequently oozed beer foam down the sides, and said, “Fuck ya”. It was funny as hell watching them act like two fresh off the boat fraternity brothers at their very first frat party.

Things got a lot more interesting about a minute into the song. Vegas Guy 2, obviously happily caught up in the music induced euphoria of the moment, decided to take off his shirt and started a rock inspired interpretive dance. It appeared to be a spontaneous celebration of the music that brought feelings of home to them a few hundred miles away in San Francisco.

He started with a wide stance leg split, shimmying his feet, carefully down to the point where it seemed he was going to try and touch the floor with his butt. All the while, he was moving his arms up and down, still holding onto his cheap American beer, like ex-Russian Olympian Olga Korbut in the middle of a graceful balance beam routine. Vegas Guy 1 watched and laughed as Vegas Guy 2 hammed it up for his meager audience. He jumped back up to a standing position, looking around seeking approval, and then made a few slow dance steps back and forth, punctuated with a ballerina like twirl exaggerating the move by sticking his butt out, accompanied by more arm gesturing. Vegas Guy 1 let out yet another party yelp, granting further approval to this semi-bizarre party dance. I tried to figure out what the hell was going on, and concluded that maybe Vegas Guy 2 was a male stripper-pole dancer and this was a Pavlovian response to hearing music he adored. His moves were somewhat artistic, though exaggerated, and sexual all at the same time, giving me the necessary fodder for my stripper pole dancer conclusion. Perhaps I should have revised that assessment to drunken stripper pole dancer. That would be even more appropriately descriptive.

Vegas Guy 2 continued his somewhat comical interpretive dancing until the end of the song, at which time Vegas Guy 1 clapped and then toasted his friends alcohol fueled bravado with yet another party yelp and subsequent beer bottle toast. I quietly chucked to myself as I cued up some more classic rock with growing curiosity as to where the music might take these two next. The few patrons hanging around seemed to be pleasantly entertained by this ongoing display.

As Led Zeppelin’s “Dancing Days” played, the Vegas Guys wandered back to the DJ booth with appreciative smiles on their faces.

“Ok dude, you rock. That was awesome.” Vegas Guy 1 proclaimed.

“We needed that.” Vegas Guy 2 proclaimed.

“Cool. Thanks.” I simply replied still processing in my mind the peculiar dance routine I had just been witness to.

All of a sudden, Vegas Guy 2 pulls a crumpled bill from his pocket tries to hand it to me through the booth.

“What’s that for?” I ask.

“Just take it, man”. He replied.

“No, that’s cool. This is my job and you don’t have to do it.” I dug in…

“Take it. Thanks for playing some real rock.” Vegas Guy 2 said insistently as he tried to shove the bill back through the chain link fence.

“Really, it’s ok. I appreciate the thought, but this is totally unnecessary.” I insisted back. “It’s my pleasure to make your vacation a bit more fun.”

“Come on, don’t be that way.” Vegas Guy 1 pleaded. “Take it!”

“Alright, alright. I’ll take it. No problem. Thanks.” I replied, taking the somewhat moist and crumpled ten-dollar bill from him. I felt things were starting to get a bit ridiculous and slightly ugly at that point, and that they’d easily be offended if I didn’t take their gracious tip. I strangely felt like a cheap whore who’ll do anything for money as I stuffed the bill in my jeans pocket, all the while acknowledging to myself the funny and absurd side to the whole encounter.

With devilish grins on their faces, they took a step back from the DJ booth and Vegas Guy 2 put his shirt back on and finished his beer. They lingered in the bar for a little bit longer while I continued to play carefully selected songs from the classic rock genre I thought the might appreciate. Despite their joking earlier in the evening, I wanted to continue to assert my in depth rock and roll knowledge and didn’t want them leaving the bar thinking it was musically lame in their minds. I love a good challenge from time to time, and this was one I thoroughly enjoyed.

Twelve o’clock rolled around and the Vegas Guys embarked for the next port of call, most likely another bar in the neighborhood. They thanked me on the way out, making funny faces in their now more slightly drunken state with Vegas Guy 2 doing a little ballerina twin with outstretched arms to make their exit as dramatic as possible. I thought to myself, “Mission Accomplished.

With their final bows, they were gone into the city-lit night. I continued playing more classic rock in a continuing homage to the Vegas Guys and their playful, although somewhat quirky energy. I was ten bucks up and boredom and loneliness had headed for the hills knowing full well continued assaults upon me from that point on were exercises in futility. My head was filled with the night’s adventure and the silly images of two guys on a vacation bender looking for some excitement on a slow Thursday night.

The following week was somewhat of a letdown since images of the Vegas Guys’ antics were still fresh in my mind. Boredom and loneliness were back, knocking on my door yet again, right on time.

Beijing Olympic Opening Ceremony Ironies: Ignore What We Do But Believe What We Say!

2008-08-14T07:00:00.000-07:00

For those of us in the minority, the ones who aren’t paying much attention to the Beijing Olympics, I just can’t seem to escape its clutches. Last Sunday night, I was pressured by my peers and cajoled into watching a recorded version of the Friday night opening ceremonies. I reluctantly admit it was filled with some amazing performances and technological feats of poignant story telling. As one TV commentator proclaimed, you might as well close the record book for the opening ceremonies. I found that to be an interesting comment that seemed both flattering and rude all at the same time. Flattering to the Chinese for a job well done, and rude to London, the hosts of the 2012 games. My impression was that it implied that Britain doesn’t have chance in hell of doing anything remotely as entertaining or inspiring as their Chinese predecessors. Yes he bar has been raised higher than anyone expected but hopefully four years is enough creative leeway for Britain to do an equal, if not better job than China. In the creative process, perhaps they’ll finally find a good use for the Millennium Dome, if it’s still standing by then.

My Sunday night dinner host fired up his TIVO DVR and started the show, quickly fast-forwarding to several key highlights of the ceremony. As we watched and listened to the narrative commentary provided for those of us who aren’t familiar with some of the foundations and achievements of the Chinese Culture at large, I couldn’t help but ponder several profound ironies that washed over me.

Please realize that these are just armchair ramblings of a Chinese culture neophyte, but I’ll bet I’m not the only one these ironies struck a chord with. When I first blurted out my observations while we watched the show, my Chinese American friend just rolled his eyes at me with amusement pointing out that my observations were futile and naively optimistic. I knew he was right when he informed me that the Chinese Government just doesn’t care, but I still couldn’t ignore the elephant in the room and had to capture my thoughts never the less.

One of the performance highlights was this wonderful scene where a very large mechanical scroll of electronic “paper” was slowly unrolled in the center of the stadium. Several Chinese dancers came out and started dancing on this “paper” drawing some characters as they moved around using electronic, hand held devices of some sort. It was quite clever and was fun to watch. As the performance continues, one of the TV commentators said that the Chinese had invented paper thus giving clarity to what was going on, and how it relates back to China’s history.

However, I was struck by the fact that while they invented paper, a fundamental brick in the foundation of human communication, China today still does not have a free press. So the Chinese people are given paper to record all types of written and visual expressions of self, yet they can’t do so without risk of persecution because they don’t live in a free society. Technological advances provide greater avenues for communications beyond the humble piece of paper, yet the profound irony still exists, although somewhat slightly diminished. An important step forward, without a doubt.

Continuing along with our fast forwarded viewing journey, there were several other stunning performances focused on another key philosophy of the Chinese people, the harmony between man and nature. Sure enough, a TV commenter mentioned that this was a core belief and its themes are common throughout their history.

Well, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to point out the fact that modern day China is far from being in harmony with nature. From devastated rivers and streams flowing with a toxic stew used to reclaim precious metals from old computer parts, to the overwhelming amounts of smog quite clearly visible in the air, the evidence is overwhelming. A modern day, industrial revolution that has pretty much thrown the baby out with the bathwater.

Who could, or would want to live in a place that will pretty much kill you? People will have all the latest stuff and modern conveniences, but won’t live past the age of thirty because the environment will poison them to death. Ya, I know it’s broad speculation, but seems quite possible to me. I’ll also readily admit that we’re no angels here in the United States as our environmental recorded history shows us. But, at least we have made huge inroads into cleaning things up, and more and more citizens seem to be taking up the fight for a better, greener future. It’s just sad to ponder how much worse it has to get for the Chinese people before things get better.

Of course, we’ve learned over the past few days of a situation where the Chinese had to deal directly with the profound effect smog has in order to make for a faux-perfect opening ceremony. Apparently some of the fireworks used in real time were digitally recreated for the television broadcast knowing that the smog would prevent them from being easily seen.

In the end, perhaps all the Olympic sized attention China has brought upon itself may prove to be a future catalyst for change. Perhaps an environmental Tienanmen Square revolution is in order to cast a greater light on the problem. Ya, right. The Chinese government will just squash that one too.

Google AdSense Does Not Always Compute

2008-08-10T07:00:00.000-07:00

“That does not compute!” Remember that famous quote? It was from the robot that was a main character on “Lost in Space”, a TV show that aired in the late sixties. That quote was his typical response when he didn’t understand what one of his human co-stars would say. Most of these conversational snippets were centered on human emotions and feelings. At the time I’m sure it was conceptually cutting edge material for a TV show, but now it just seems quaint. More often than not, along with this stock reply that he usually repeated over and over, he would flail his stubby robotic arms providing an extra level of comedic and dramatic effect. Brilliant acting, I must say.

Today, that ever-quotable quote from that beloved robot seems all too appropriate when encountering the latest over-hyped and purportedly easy to use technologies from a growing plethora of online startup and well-established high-tech firms. I can’t help but feel we’re in a new era of modern day, Snake Oil salesmen bearing promises that their wares cure all technological ills. The age old premise of these merchants of all things bogus had to first convince you that you were actually sick, before you’d buy their miracle cure seems to plague high tech as well.

I started the Twin Peaks reader primarily as a vehicle to further explore my creative writing endeavors and publish them for all to see. A writer without an audience is not a writer, in my opinion. Along with the writing portion of this journey, it was also a chance to explore website publishing and Blogging, while learning about social networking, and dabbling in Web 2.0.

One of those aforementioned technologies is called “Google AdSense”. Briefly, it’s an ad based module you integrate into your website or Blog that parses your site’s text and finds content relevant ads and serves them up to your devoted readers for perusal and potential purchases. For example, if a Blog posting on gardening was published about roses, then ads on gardening and roses would appear on that website. Just like magic!

On a quick side note, one funny realization I’ve come to when writing this piece is that AdSense is based on the grand assumption that just because you’re reading about some certain topic automatically means you want to buy that thing or things being written about. I personally, don’t want to be bombarded with ads to buy “My Little Pony” lunch boxes just because I want to read about them. I mean, they are kinda cute and all, but they never should be possessed by a grown man. Anyway, real important stuff, without a doubt. ;-)

This all seems simple enough, doesn’t it? Based upon my web surfing experiences and casual observations, AdSense does seem to deliver on its basic premise. However all is not what it seems. Apparently, in order to weed out sections or words a webmaster or author does not wish to be interpreted for ad matching, an in depth knowledge of HTML coding is needed to place tags around sections that should be ignored by the AdSense site crawlers. It’s not a pretty situation for all the creative Luddites out there like myself. When you look at the main AdSense page, the promise of ad-generated money seems all too easy to achieve. With just a few simple clicks of your mouse, viola, you are getting paid, my man! After being a bit too easily convinced of this pseudo snake oil promise with dollar signs dancing in my head, I signed up. (Well, not exactly dollar signs, it was more like cents signs. I had actually done some basic research to come to that realistic conclusion after reading about other user’s experiences.)

The funny thing is when I dug a bit deeper into their help section; I found that the HTML tags they provide to edit content for ad matching exclusion are not guaranteed to be one hundred percent accurate, and that they may not have the desired affect. Also, if they do work, it can take weeks for them to take affect since the web crawlers take time to crawl through all your sites content. Swallow the snake oil, kiddies.

So, the fun started when I posted a sarcastic piece about all the stinky men’s cologne ads that seem to choke, both aromatically and visually, many popular Men’s culture and lifestyle magazines like GQ, Esquire and Details. I just find the ads a huge nuisance and I usually rip them all out prior to reading the magazine making it much easier to flip through, and spares your olfactory senses. At one point, at the height of sarcasm, I used the phrase, “emasculated scented sissification.” I smiled to myself when I wrote it thinking it was snarky and funny.

I put up that post and didn’t think much of it afterwards, except hoping for a few fun comments to appear. Well, a week later while reading over some posts I found these off topic ads appearing in the AdSense section:

Excuse me? “Men Dressed as Women?” “Dresses for Men?” “Men Wearing Lingerie?” What the hell is going on here, I thought to myself. This is crazy. After a few minutes, I realized what happened; that AdSense jumped on those words, interpreted them with its own, non-sarcasm filtering logic, and decided that my posting was topically leaning towards drag queens, cross dressers and men of all related ilk in between. No Google AdSense. Wrong. Bad technology, no doughnut.

I laughed at the absurdity of the situation, which then melted into feelings that I was like Larry Flint or Bob Guccione. Bad porno blogger. Bad, dirty perverted blogger. No sushi for you. Awww…no fair!

In the end I had to put up with these ads for over a week or tow, which seemed to be an eternity. All the while, I wondered who stumbled across my blog thinking I was some weird pervert after seeing the ads. At least I know they weren’t that compelling, as AdSense provides statistical data as to whether someone actually clicked on an ad, and upon my investigation, no one did. I guess none of my paltry few readers are looking to either buy a man sized dressed or go out on the town looking for men dressed up like women.

In the final end, history will repeat itself since I’ve used these same words a second time, in the context of this post, and that those ads will undoubtedly reappear. In the words of Ren and Stimpy, “Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy.” I am the perverted porno blogger. Oh well, bring it on, AdSense bitches!

Unexpected Side Effects

2008-08-06T17:29:00.000-07:00

From time to time we just don’t notice the little unintentional side effects that often come as a result of our various personal indulgences. This one in particular is one I think most of us have never even given a second thought about or have even paid any attention to. Senses numb to the hum of overly busy-bodied and over-prescribed lives just can’t always perceive the obvious.

Rest assured, evidence shows us that Dionysus himself equally blesses practicing oenophiles from all walks of life by bestowing his disciples with something that resembles some sort of temporary, sympathetic birthmark that pays homage to his legacy of grapy delights. And regardless of the level of indulgence, the end result of this innocuous side effect, in varying degrees, is the same. Whether one has casually consumed several bottles of the local California phenomenon known as “Two Buck Chuck” while caught up in a marathon viewing session trying clear out your Tivo’s recorded TV show backlog, or imbibing a single glass of France’s finest red at a five star restaurant washing down that quail’s egg appetizer, the inevitable eventuality arrives with the sure predictability of Mick Jagger singing Jumpin’ Jack Flash at a Stones concert. This is one show you won’t need a back stage pass for because you’re on stage.

So putting a personal hypothetical scenario into action based upon one of the examples above, let’s get to the bottom of what I’m talking about. You’ve just watched six half-hour recorded episodes of various favorite TV shows on your Tivo DVR and it’s one o’clock in the morning. You’ve emptied a bottle and a half of Two Buck Chuck Cabernet Sauvignon and the alarm will go off at six o’clock to start another work day. Knowing you won't get a full eight hours of sleep, you decided to indulge anyway because escaping the thoughts of a hectic work day was essential to your sanity. With the Tivo show backlog cleared out, the remote beckons for you to shut down your evening bender and call it a night.

With a slight wobbly stagger you make it to the bedroom and strip down to your underwear. For some of you, it’s not a pretty sight. Thank God we're not there to witness it. But just before you crawl into bed, you realize through the wine induced fuzzyheaded feelings, it’s time to brush those not quite so pearly whites. After a one hundred and eighty degree about face, your slight stagger takes in you into the bathroom where your new fangled Oral B electric toothbrush awaits your every command. After squeezing a dollop of one of those toothpastes that promises to whiten your teeth two shades whiter by the end of the tube onto your toothbrush, you open your mouth and pause. Without warning, it hits you like a punch-down in a vat of Pinot Noir grapes in a Sonoma Winery during harvest season. My God, you exclaim to yourself. What is that? With a cold emotionless stare; it looks back at you in the mirror. There it is, a big red splotch sitting on your tongue. Is this the famed sympathetic birthmark that Dionysus bestows upon all his disciples, you ponder to yourself? Yes, it is! Self-congratulatory thoughts fill your head as you continue a curious stare thinking what kind of Rorschach blotch it reminds you of, and what could it be telling you.

Next, in a childlike experimentation as if you’ve just been granted super-hero powers, you summon up a nice blob of saliva and spit it into the sink. Whoa. Look at that! It’s really dark and thicker in its constancy than non-wine impregnated spit. This is very cool, as you think to yourself while spitting a second time. The same dark purple color and consistency persists despite this being a second time. Your powers have not been diminished at all, super-wine man! In a continued moment of fascination, you spit a third time. However, this time you turn on the water and watch it disperse and chase the now three thick blobs of purple spit down the drain in a chaotic trail of purple spit-ribbons. The coolest effect yet!

As the water finishes chasing all the purple saliva down the drain, your twisted mind conjures up other possible side affects this wine tongue syndrome could cause. What if you were to put your mouth someplace, ahem on someone else in an “intimately personal area”? Would there be a nice purple colored “region” left behind after you “finished”? Interesting indeed. You make a mental note about that scenario and stick the toothbrush in your mouth and let her rip.

The lull of the tooth brush vibrations start a tidal wave of relaxation and induces sleepiness. After the first minute, you pause the brush, open your mouth and spit. Whoa, now it’s a lighter purple shade, and obviously there is a whole lot more of it due to the expanding properties the toothpaste foam. You turn on the water to clear out the sink and fire back up the toothbrush. After another minute, you’re done. A final spit into the sink still yields a nice lighter purple color as enduring proof of the power of the wine and the tenacious remnants it leaves behind. As you watch the water chase the last of the toothpaste foam, you can’t help but think it reminds you of Mikhail Gorbachev’s Port wine stain on top of his head.

With that pleasant thought you stumble into bed as one of the devoted and blessed disciples of Dionysus, the God of Wine.

"Where's George" Five Dollar Bill Adventure...

2008-07-25T13:04:00.000-07:00

Be it rich or poor, most people possess some random amount of hard cash on their person at any given time. Bills bearing the likenesses of dead presidents such as George Washington, Abe Lincoln, and Benjamin Franklin, stuffed into a purse or wallet, continue the enduring legacy of one of the basic fabrics of society. Aside from those who heartily embrace the increasing convenience and benefits of ATM Debit cards and electronic commerce, we all need hard currency to survive in the modern day world. For those strictly cash oriented people such as myself, I think it would be reasonably safe to assume we don’t pay our money much attention, aside from those large, well placed numerical denominational representations of their value, so we can figure out how much of it we actually have in said purse or wallet.

I’ve recently found out that sometimes it does matter if you pay attention to those bills from time to time. In recent years, all of the U.S. bills have been redesigned, so that alone warrants one’s attention to check out the new colors and security features they now possess. Additionally, aside from redesigns, I’ve seen people’s names written on bills, political statements, profanity and recently a web site address.

Last week I was standing in line at my favorite Peet’s Coffee shop on Market street when I glanced down at a five dollar bill I was going to use to get a large cup of a robustly flavored dark roast coffee and an almond croissant. Not only was good old Abe Lincoln staring back at me, but also there was a hand written web site address written in black ink in the left side margin of the bill. I immediately recognized it as I had seen this before, a number of years ago, on a one-dollar bill.

For those of you who are uninitiated, it’s a web site called “Where’s George” which has been designed to track the circulation and movement of currency. By entering in a bill’s serial number, a new entry is created in the sites database. The bill is then cataloged and users can track its circulation when other interested individuals come across that same bill, log onto the site and update its tracking location. When it works, an interesting picture of the bill’s history slowly starts to emerge. However, as you first might imagine, this process doesn’t always happen. Not everyone notices the “Where’s George” web address on a registered bill and updates its record. Some bills just seem to end up in a single entry record limbo while the current, most tracked bill, has only fifteen entries spread across three years of travels.

I haven't come across a Where's George bill for quite some time. Now that I have the Twin Peaks Reader to channel such stories and events, I thought it would be fun to post that adventure here, and we can all collectively track how this five-dollar bill travels. Hopefully it won’t fall into limbo, and that we’ll see some story emerge over time. It's a complete social experiment, and could yield fun and telling adventures, or just end with my entry into this bills tracking database. We'll never know unless we try. So, here's the Bill:

Old Abe is in kinda rough shape, so who knows how much longer he'll be in circulation. Hopefully he'll be out there for a while, and we'll get some tracking updates in the coming months.

Here's his tracking page. Check it out from time to time and we'll see where he ends up.

Democratic Bumper Sticker Denial

2008-07-20T12:23:00.000-07:00

Recently, my casual day-to-day observations have given me a clear indication that there’s a bunch of you bleeding heart liberals still driving around in full denial of the fact that a little twelve-month romance known as the campaign of John Kerry for president is long over. Autopsies over highly suspicious election results and endless lamentation of the bumbling, ill-fated rule of the shrub won’t change the past and further fuels the denial. My last recollection of this controversial “election episode” was that it happened over four years ago. I know, it’s hard to accept, but time to wake up kiddies, there’s a brand new horse race and Mr. Kerry isn’t on the betting sheet.

So, let’s get right to the point. Peel those goddamned John Kerry for President bumper stickers off your cars. It’s over. He lost. Do not pass go; you cannot collect your two hundred dollars.

I’m so sick and tired of seeing these ancient, fading relics of hope randomly popping up on cars. To me, they cast a portrayal of the driver as something like a bitter and irrationally angry child who won’t come out of a sugar fueled temper tantrum, causing a chaotic scene at a local shopping mall food court. (For those of you who don’t have a John Kerry for President bumper sticker still residing on your car, please accept my humble apology, but please read on.)

Let’s pause for a moment and clarify one thought that might have crept into your head. I’m not anti-John Kerry in the least bit. I think he’s transcended the bitter rivalry of the 2004 race and still carries forth all of the principles and causes he fought for during his presidential race and carries them forward into his continued run as a senator representing the state of Massachusetts. What I’m against is carrying forth this notion of a man who “could have, should have, would have” as the President of the United States, and that by still showing that bumper sticker on your car, four years later, that somehow through sheer force of will this fantasy would still come true.

Moving on, things get a bit uglier when it comes to addressing those Kerry / Edwards bumper stickers. While it seemed to be a well-crafted Democratic ticket for a worthy assault on the Republican fear mongering smear machine, there was little love going on behind the scenes between the two. The only fact that I base this broad assumption on is that Kerry did not endorse John Edwards during the ’07 and ’08 Democratic primaries. It seems as if to continue to display those on one’s car is a strange act of self-humiliation, and shows an utter lack of knowledge of the current Democratic political landscape. Or maybe it reflects an act of complete apathetic laziness. Whatever the reason may truly be, let’s face one obvious fact that that’s just a wasted message wasting space on your bumper that would be better served towards a bigger cause. I’m sure you’re thinking that it can suck to try and peel those bastards off without having them tear into pieces making the task nearly impossible to remove every last sticker fragment. It’s a bumper sticker conspiracy worthy of an Oliver Stone documentary, without a doubt..

Fear not my friends, for now we’ve come to the part where I can help you redeem this political transgression. It’s time to harness all of that positive liberal “let’s change the world” energy and do the right thing. Something that could potentially bring that political romantic notion into reality. Just go down to the local Democratic Party HQ in your town and pick up an Obama 2008 bumper sticker. Simple. Now, while your car is not moving and parked in a safe, well lighted place, slowly and carefully peel off that Kerry sticker, wipe the area clean, and place the Obama one in it’s place. Nice job. Now close your eyes, think happy thoughts, and take a deep breath. In with the good air, out with the bad air. Tell yourself you’re fabulous. Be sure to vote for Barack Obama this November. When he wins the presidency, I’ll let you keep those bumper stickers on your cars for the next eight years hassle free. ;-)

Cool Things In The Land Of Geekdom.... A Unique Video

2008-07-20T10:50:00.000-07:00

Stumbled across this video mentioned on the New Yorker.

A cool Radiohead video.

You Just Gotta Love Mark Morford at the SF Chronicle...

2008-07-14T21:29:00.000-07:00

Here's his latest column. No further explanation necessary. Very funny.

Totally Gay Happy Meals...

Those Stinky Magazine Ads

2008-07-13T23:28:00.000-07:00

To indulge one’s self in the simple, and sometimes guilty pleasure of the occasional perusal of one of the various popular and trendy men’s magazines, the reader should possess the time honored skill, born from the farmer’s toil and sweat, of being able to separate the wheat from the chaff. The wheat being the articles, various self-help tidbits and fabulous fashion photo essays of what’s “in” this season, and the chaff, being those highly annoying, heavy papered rainforest killing watery eyed sneeze inducing men’s fragrance advertisements. See exhibit A, above.

In order to facilitate smooth page corner finger flipping and to ease random jumping around article searching and reading, they first must be torn out as gently as can be. I hate it when I’m trying to flip to page one hundred and eighteen to finish the last part of that article I’m reading, only to be forced to stop on those ads because they are not page flipping friendly. Ad bastards! They’re like little ticking olfactory time bombs. Accidentally open one or more of their poorly sealed sample scent pockets, and you’ll have to scrub yourself all over with a bar of Lava Soap to successfully remove all traces of the foul stew. Usually a twenty-four hour, stay at home quarantine is also highly recommended to ensure the avoidance of public ridicule and humiliation.

I know, the ads bring in badly needed revenue to these magazines. I don’t want to rain on their revenue parade; I just lament the fact that men are bombarded with such ridiculous notions that we have to wear this crap in order to somehow make ourselves more likeable, sophisticated and complete male creatures.

History tells us that a long time ago both men and women in upper class society would wear scents daily since they bathed infrequently and lacked today’s modern plumbing conveniences. Those crude circumstances alone would seem like a worthy excuse for men to wear cologne, without a doubt. However, unless some of them don’t grasp the basic requirements for personal hygiene, and I’m sure there are a few of them out there, that excuse really doesn’t apply today. Maybe one exception example where quelling a persistent man-stink might be helpful is on a camping trip. However, as somewhat of a near practical concept this might be to the minor few who think in such absurdist ways, I don’t imagine the stereotypical basic outdoorsy kind of guy taking a bottle of Prada or CK 1 cologne along with them on their macho adventures. This would seem like a highly unlikely choice since common sense would dictate the need for all available space and energy being utilized for basic goods like food and water. Leave the Dolce & Gabbana at home.

Obviously some men will completely disagree with me and actually enjoy buying and wearing the stuff, claiming it helps them get laid, make new friends and inexplicably grant them magical powers only to be used for the good of all mankind. Whatever dude. I don’t care if you buy that stuff or not. You live in a democracy with unbound capitalism and you’re free to spend your sometimes hard earned money on whatever you want. Go for it.

However, I must point out, one real dilemma this creates for the rest of us, is that few cologne wearing men seem to have any clue as to how much of this toxic stew to actually put on. Those of them, who subscribe to the “more is better” Neanderthalic school of thought, inadvertently force us non-cologne wearing men choke on their flowery wake as they walk by. Newsflash. This just pisses us off and unleashes a tidal wave of snarky, sometimes funny and seemingly all appropriate remarks as we observe them taking another step towards total emasculated scented sissification. In the words of Mr. T, “I pity the fools!”

So now, if you’re one of the sane and rational men like myself, you’re standing there with a bunch of torn out fragrance ads wondering what the hell to do with them. I send out a special acknowledgment of condolence to those of you who are monthly subscribers to such magazines, as you truly have a mountainous problem on your hands. Aside from doing the right thing and throwing them all into your recycling bins, I might have a better and more useful idea for you to consider.

Take your torn out ads and place them in a neat little pile on top of your toilet’s water tank. For more modern, low flow toilet owners whose toilets lack the large shelf-like tank top, gather them together using a small binder or paper clip and hang them by string in a near, convenient location. After you’ve done your “number two” business resulting in a less than pleasant smelling bathroom, fear not. Simple grab one of the cologne ads and open the little scent pocket flap. Once open, gently wipe it around the entire circumference of the toilet seat releasing that oh so pleasant, high-end fragrance that you were never really going to consider actually buying. But now that it’s released to cover up that stinky smell, it’s not so bad, is it? These things actually have a better use than for what they were originally intended for. Nice.

Just be careful not to get any on you.

Graffiti photo used in new story on Now Public...

2008-07-12T10:45:00.000-07:00

My street Graffiti photo used in the Drug War Article on Nowplublic.co m was also picked up and used for a piece on graffiti around the world.

You can view it here.

Just scroll down the page and you'll see the photo, then links to the stories it's used in.

It's nice to get a little more recognition.

One of my photos was published on Now Public Media...

2008-07-05T10:40:00.000-07:00

I got an email on Flickr yesterday asking if one of my photos could be used for a story on NowPublic.com. They are becoming the recognized leader in the emerging field of citizen journalism. To quote them directly from their site.

Here's the Story link: America Losing War, Drug Abuse

The photo is of a piece of stenciled graffiti I saw on the sidewalk when walking thorough SOMA last weekend.

Pretty cool, eh?

Finding Rye Whiskey: When You Can’t Always Get What You Want, Try Something New

2008-07-04T16:14:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life’s more simple pleasures require a tireless and unwavering pursuit of that which you love. One key ingredient for happiness that I have learned is adaptability, and embracing what life sometimes gives you. When you can’t always get what you want, try something new. In my case, that pursuit is attempting to find just the right Rye Whiskey that makes for a great, classic Manhattan cocktail.

I share my common pursuit with a small circle of rye Manhattan loving friends that has been ongoing now for a number of years. While success has greeted our search efforts by rewarding us with some quite tasty ryes, the problem we’ve encountered is that as soon as we proclaim our new favorite it almost immediately seems to disappear from store shelves.

After frequently commiserating our fate, we decided one day to conduct some basic research as to what might be the root cause of some ryes being in short supply. It didn’t take long to discover on the internet, that about three or four years ago, several cocktail and alcohol related websites and columnists touted rye, a somewhat forgotten and under appreciated whiskey, as making a popular comeback. These articles sung the praises of rye’s complexities, how it was made, how it differed from other common whiskies, and the history of the various cocktails it was used in. The articles were somewhat educational and served as validation of what we already discovered on our own.

However, much to our collective dismay, it appeared that these authors’ prophecies were somewhat true. Some of the medium and high-end ryes we discovered and mixed with on a regular basis, were starting to get harder and harder to find. Fewer bottles and fewer bottles appeared on store shelves until some could no longer be found. When we would inquire about future availability, most store clerks would remain non-committal about when more of any given rye we were trying to get would be available.

The interesting part to this story, especially regarding the various author’s claims that rye was coming back in vogue, was when we’d try to order a Rye Manhattan at many upscale bars and restaurants. The usual reactions to this simple question were a blank stare and or a reply of “what’s that”? This scenario repeated itself many times over the years, both to our collective amusement and disbelief. We’d ask ourselves the question; “How could someone call themselves a bartender when they didn’t even know what Rye Whiskey was”? Isn’t that their job, to know these things? Our obvious observation was that if rye was making as big a comeback as purported, then wouldn’t these bartenders know what it was, without batting an eyelid and asking questions?

Through it all, adaptability has kept us in a good supply of rye whiskey. The cycle of old favorites sporadically being replaced by new ones validates that adaptability has our best collective interest in mind, a great rye Manhattan. The pursuit lives on, to this day.

When the Cereal Mascots Age...

2008-07-02T08:00:00.000-07:00

I came across this artist's blog the other day. He has various postings of his work along with stories of how it's created and other related events.

One piece really stood out in my mind as being very playful and funny. It's called the "Cereal Mascot Reunion".

The artist describes it in this way:

"A reflection on melancholy nostalgia, and those awkward times when you try to get back together with old friends, only to find that the good ol' days are gone forever. Oh, and an excuse to draw Cap'n Crunch as a dirty old man."

He has two sized versions that can be downloaded as your computer's desktop wallpaper. I have installed it as my current wallpaper, perhaps you will too. Just click on the title above with the embedded link. You know what to do from there.

Enjoy.