Monday, January 30, 2006

The mutt finally found a cat that wouldn't spurn his affections. Maybe it's because they're kind of the same color. The wife thinks little Lucy is planning a household coupe. The sly tortoise shell gives love to all the major players, except for me, go figure. Needless to say, the dog's in hog heaven.  Posted by Picasa

Afrika Bambaataa at the Supperclub

Saturday night’s alright by me, best night of the week. I used to like Friday night better but Saturday took the lead some time ago, don’t know when. I and two thirds of my brothers agreed to do the clubbin’ thing. Matt hasn’t made a night out since getting married, which, no, I do not understand. Sam had free VIP passes for City Nights, an 18+ over hip-hop club, but having seen Bambaataa spin before, I coughed up the dough for the Supperclub. Sam and I hadn’t hit a 21+ club since he came of age last October, a landmark occasion I’d say.

I got there before them. The sociable in a non-annoying way doorman advised me that I could get $5 off if I went home and changed into my warm-up suit. Home was too far, but I appreciated the offer. While waiting outside the regulars’ arrivals proved quite entertaining, fun and flamboyant bunch. The brothers showed up but had no extra warm-up suits, so we paid full price and wandered inside. Found a bar with padded walls and twenty-something disco balls hanging from the ceiling. Padded walls convey much potential kinetic energy, great touch. I imagined what kind of pit you could get going if there were a stage where the circular bar stood. Still miss that HB Strut. The restaurant went until ~12:20, so we were stuck there for awhile, not bad. The bathroom shone to impress, black on black, so shiny the tiles mirrored everything.

The woman with the coolest dress in the place, looked like chain-linked gold coins but was fabric, walked up to Sam and tried to convince him to get us all to go to a different club with her and her friends, but it felt too weird and we wanted to see Bambaataa. We got bored and strolled outside, where the ever so friendly Michelle from Wisconsin graced us with her thoughts. She lectured the young men about how their sexuality (her choice of words) would just get better with age. Once our eyes met she acknowledged that I already knew. John asked her what state had the best cheese, laughs for all but no answer (Cali rules, any arguments?).

Next time outside we met Israel from Spain. Israel was experiencing his 1st night in the city on his 31st birthday. Some guy he’d met on the CalTrain had given him some mystery pills. John said “Don’t take them”, to which he bellowed “I took them”. The guy was golden, classic bumming cigarettes in the streetlight, with that distinctive accent in his big white button-down.

Libertine Dutch artists started the Supperclub, which brings a smile to my face. Based on a club that got popular over there in the late 20th century, this place = off the hook. When they let us on the dance floor the white on white with blue spotlights effect kicked in. White stairs, railings, white sheets on stainless beds that lined the edges of upstairs and down, a spilled glass of red here and there to added chaos. Breaks broke and wrists got re-sprained as some competition level break dancing dove off the deep end of the floor, soooooo sick. Crowd danced well too, including yours truly if I do smell so myself. I wore a green hat with red hearts on it that Aunt Penny made, bold as love. She decided to give it to me after realizing that only I have the cajones to wear such a thing. I sweated and it itched but the desired effect came in pipeline style waves, absolutely glorious. Maybe that Love Parade has more going on than I imagined.

Split at 2:20, just in time to avoid a street cleaning ticket on 3rd Street. Moon roof came in handy on the way home, because that moon talked in tongues as it spiraled into the car. Happy moonlight, playful and free, taunting and strong continues to refract down my abysmal cortex, versal caudate, etc.

Barkoink, Growlsnort, Maybe Too Many Hocks

The love of a pet = unbeatable. That Hurricane Katrina video of the little dog trying to get on the bus after the authorities made everyone leave their pets was about the saddest one for me. Dogs they teach so much, just when I think that I am unteachable.  Posted by Picasa

Monday, January 23, 2006

Jonathon Livingston, I Presume

Caught this gull giving me the eye down at Middle Harbor, back when winter still reigned, a couple weeks ago. Dig the translucency of the wings. Spent this morning listening to the sound of roofing gravel falling down a tube of what appear to be overlapping plastic garbage cans with their bottoms cut off. Sounds kind of like surf, but the timing's all off, inducing a kind of cubicle sea sickness. I could shut the window, but the fresh air mitigates the nausea. Monday Monday, too slow. Spring appears to have arrived early, with all the standard vernal phenomena except the blossoms. Go ahead, drive to the Cali coast and smell for yourself.  Posted by Picasa

Thursday, January 19, 2006

From A Deer To A Large Rabbit

Just another early morning commute along the dam road in another winter, but I take what I can get. Some days I even do it twice. This blog's 1st stated purpose is to share my good side, but the bad side keeps lobbying for everything. A short distance closer to Orinda, just before an island, betwixt the double double yellow lines, a sub-yearling has laid in a fetal position for about the past month, one more slow-smoldering roadkill sculpture on a list of plenty. Over the weeks bacteria & larvae transformed the carcass from a deer to a large rabbit with giant ears and a king-sized banana slug crawling out it's mouth. Fascinating but disturbing. My mom would often stop the car to clear such bodies from the asphalt; still does for all I know. Just yesterday she real-time relayed her rainstorm stranded earth worm saving activities to me. These behaviors used to embarass and disgust me, but the love in those simple road clearing, worm saving rituals hover over this car culture casualty. I know nothing.  Posted by Picasa

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Fresh Haircut

Here he is on the second day of the year, sporting a fresh haircut. He's seated in his beloved miniature chair at his equally beloved miniature table that Mama painted up all artsy for him. This is around the time that he walked up to his mother and said "I'm happy, I'm smart, I've got nice hair, and I have good eyes." His hair is actually quite short, but his head has swollen to an alarming degree. To attest to OM's universal appeal, he laid his head against my laptop while I worked last night, trying to feel the bass I think.  Posted by Picasa

Monday, January 16, 2006

Green Katrina Skies Promote Feeling Limitless Love

Dave sent me this shot of the sky taken as Katrina hit land. Have I mentioned that I love storms? I could contemplate this green sky for aeons. Maya is the phenomena by which a measureless and limitless universe appears to have measures and limits. Some call it maya delusion. Sometimes the delusion disintegrates long enough for me to touch that limitless truth, feel that love has no limit, get a hint that veils just keep lifting to reveal veils. Green skies like this, that extend past the expected range of hues, light me up with hope and wide-eyed daring. Last Friday my mom reminded my that I once wanted to change my name to Water Rainstorm Hailstorm Snowstorm Cloud, and after hearing it again I'm thinking it might work.  Posted by Picasa

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Sleepytime Gorilla Musuem of Natural History

Picked up tickets for the Sleepytime Gorilla Musuem show this Saturday 1/14. Consider checking out the show at the Great American if you're in the Bay Area, or the show in your town if you're somewhere else in the USSA. Sleepytime is one of Nyls Frykdal's projects. Nyls used to play in Acid Rain, the house band for my good old Cal co-op house Barrington Hall. Acid Rain became the now defunct Idiot Flesh, and Nyls currently works on a few projects/bands. Nyls' younger brother Per died last month and it brought a good number a folks I hadn't seen in years out of the wainscoating, jogged memories. Per was a hell of good artist. Drew wild wild things & creatures, sculpted puppets and stuff like that. We used to hang out once in awhile, but hadn't spoken since ~2003. We both liked that movie Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer a lot. I'm thinking this show will be special, but what do I know? I don't go to all Sleepytime's shows because they generally aren't danceable, but it's always impressive. Also, they have a new album out and I haven't heard the new stuff much. As a bonus, the remnants of Mr. Bungle are calling themselves Secret Chiefs 3 and opening up. Them I expect to be danceable, judging by how sweat soaked I left the pit at Mr. Bungle's NYE show at what's now the Independent, back in 1989-90. I'm sure Ya remembers. She was visiting from MA, and the pit sucked her jean jacket with her drivers license in it right off her back, never to be found again. Robin remembers too no doubt, that being the night we met Mr. Lougee and his vintage pick-up, barely making it to the last BART train at 3AM.

There's another good show the following weekend with a much different crowd that I hope to also attend:

Afrika Bambaataa spins Saturday 1/21; his shit is always off the hook.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006


Women In The Arts on KALX interviewed a somatics educator, Susan Bauer, today. She teaches a class called Experiential Anatomy and has written a couple books, including one titled A Body-Mind Approach to Movement Education for Adolescents. She led the audience through a couple simple exercises and I could tell right away there was something to it. It's supposed to especially benefit movement artists (a new term to me, but we were fast friends), which I officially became at age 14 while perfecting the Freewheelin' Franklin strut - center Freak Brothers magazine cover at lambiek. The next time I visited my ex-stepfather Mike he picked up on it right away and asked me why the hell I was walking so differently. I let him know that repression had got the best of him, but not of me, which brings us right back to somatics, body-mind relations, etc. At this point I should probably thank my mother for having a sit-down with me after I told her at the age of six that I only wanted blue or brown pants from then on, you know, like most all the other kids. She went off for a quite awhile about how rock stars wore orange pants, red pants with purple paisley vests, and how conformity was for fearful, bitter people leading cardboard flavored lives. Thanks Ma; true today as it was then. For a basic somatics diagnostic one often draws their own skeleton, which apparently can say a lot about one's psyche and culture. Anyone out there tried this stuff?

This site has some cool exercises:

Monday, January 09, 2006


Me as ABBAby. Thanks Bryn. Found out last Friday night that the first woman was not created from the rib of the first man. Turns out that the first man was created from the joining of the clitoris and vagina of the first woman, which makes a good deal more sense to me. Read all about it at Posted by Picasa

Sunday, January 08, 2006

Chabot until Dusk

Rode Anthony Chabot Regional Park just outside of San Leandro today. The recent storms had muddied up Lake Chabot pretty good, but it still had that good old body of water magnetism going. Three other guys rode with me, one of them for the first time in over a year because he had to have a few surgeries, so that in itself made it a landmark outing. Didn't get started until after 15:00, so we knew that the daylight would limit our riding window. Started by the marina, opting to head counterclockwise around the lake. Everytime I see those paddleboats I think of my boyhood plan to paddle one across the Atlantic, now I'm just waiting for someone else to do it. The large stream that is the main tributary still had strong flow towards the lake, full of sediment and over it's banks, flowing around trees. Meadows in the valley glowed green, almost unnatural, looking like lakes of green with giant oaks expertly placed and sculpted. The first two of the Seven Sisters were pretty much all we had time for, taking it kind of easy, but we did make it to the top of the ridge and see the other side. Savored the view for a hearty ten minutes, and then starting rolling back towards the lake. Mike and I took a little well travelled (super rutted) single-track shortcut to scratch that itch. He cleaned it nicely but I missed the last corner and ate into the chapparal, no physical injury though. Dusk I love, and we rode straight into it. The muddy lake still managed to reflect the pinks and oranges of the sky, and it all looked sublime through the fast passing branches. Temperature took a dive and the picnickers at the marina were all packing up or gone when we got there, just some college kids playing volleyball, looked fun. Damn these weekends go too fast, ought to write them up for speeding.

And here's a video of a night ride at Joaquin Miller Park, the park I wrote about in Storm Riding. It's a little slow starting, but the last third has some good shots of those treacherous railroad ties and rocky sections. I am sad to say that I did not join ride with them last Thursday night. My light needs more excercise.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

OM - 'Variations on a Theme'

Sure, I’ve heard it said several times over the years, 'You should check out Sleep'. Still haven’t checked out Sleep (1991-1997). Bongwater’s 'Too Much Sleep' album (1989) must be continuing to affect my subconscious. However, some recent Friday morning Pete loaned me OM’s “Variations on a Theme” CD (2005). Holy mother of crawdads OM exceeds expectations. Those expectations were minimal since I didn’t know that two ex-members of Sleep comprised OM when I hit play. Tell you what though, when OM comes to town I am so there. I promised myself no more dance-free shows but OM’d be worth it. The next time a band this good makes the scene don’t just tell me I should check them out - play their music for me over the phone, lend me a disc, send me the link, drag me to the show, something. I hear “they” call the genre “stoner doom rock”, a marriage of doom metal and stoner rock, but that feels a little confining and incriminating to me, what with so many adjectives available. “You call it rain but the human name doesn’t mean shit to a tree” --from Eskimo Blue Day off Jefferson Airplane’s Volunteers (1969) album.,,55220,00.html