There's a Jarty in My Pants and Everyone's Coming

So I'm working the door at the Buckshot on Friday night. It's cold. It's San Francisco--it never gets all that warm. [Insert overplayed, possibly apocryphal, yet accurate Mark Twain quote here.] It's just God's way of trying to keep people from L.A. out. And yet, as usual for a weekend at the Buck, a good number of Marina fucktards and college brohams are wearing shorts and flip flops. Note: you're not in Goleta anymore, brah.

Three girls get out of a cab in short shorts and sandals. Pussy shorts, as in, the bottom of the pantleg is at pussy level. Being a smart ass, I say something like, "well, those are some sensible outfits to be wearing in the fog."

"We're jartying," one of the girls says as she hands me her I.D.

"You're journeying? Where to?"

"No, we're jartying."

"What's that?"

"A jarty. It's a jeans party."

This, my friends, is yet another reason why I hate the kids. You're having a jeans party? Oh, golly, what fucking fun. What a way out experience that must be...instead of hanging out at a bar where 75% of the people are wearing jeans, drinking some booze, and having fun, you're calling it a retarded name and wearing shit like overalls with sleeveless Hard Rock Cafe jackets.

If Turbonegro had a jarty, now that'd be worth going to:

"You know I'm feeling fine
'Cause I heard that denim's back in style."

--"F.T.W."

But when the squares reach for a facile theme to mask their blasé personalities, it's a guaranteed boner.
What next, a corduroy party? (A "carty"?) The whole concept reminds me of people who yell "whooooo!" when they're drunk so they can convince everyone else how much fun they're having. It's an agreement in advance to try too hard. Why not rent a limo and fist bump/flash your tits out the sunroof? Tit bump, hell...the night is young and so is the jarty.

Let's take a quick boat ride into my fashion pain, shall we?

"What is this, a freakout?"
--Violet Beauregarde

Yes, Violet, my dear: this is a freakout. I'm having a freakout.
First stop: North Face fleece jackets. They're always black, and they always appear in groups of at least two. Really, guys? You couldn't think up a Friday night outfit all by yourself, you had to be twinsies? Two bros, two black North Face fleeces. Husband and wife? Two black North Face fleeces. Five USF ragers? Three black North Face fleeces, one black North Face sleeveless fleece---that's daring--and one guy is swimming upstream with the navy blue Patagonia fleece. And who goes to the bar with FIVE FUCKING DUDES? You're allowed one wingman, Pancho, after that you're just scaring the women away with your obviously homoerotic gang rape fantasies and noted inability to do anything on your own.

But this is why I fuckin' hate seeing my favorite punk rock bar, one I happen to work at, usurped on weekends by swarms of cattle car cabs disgorging unstylish yuppie sheep. Right down to the fleece--open a North Face store in SF and all the yuppies line up to be black sheep. Baa baa!

"You cannot make a man by standing a sheep on its hind legs. But by standing a flock of sheep in that position you can make a crowd of men."
--Max Beerbohm

And, by dressing a crowd of sheep in North Face jackets and standing them on their hind legs, you can make a crowd of displaced Marina-ites, slumming it in my neighborhood.

I realize that jackets, especially of the North Face variety, have a utilitarian aspect. Are you camping? Are you at a bonfire on Ocean Beach? It's not that you're not allowed to relax in something comfy at the bar, but when you show up with five dudes and you're all wearing variations of the same fucking jacket, shouldn't that raise your hackles a bit? "Fuck...I look exactly like my friends...I have no identity of my own internally, therefore nothing manifests externally except what the herd agrees on. Wait...what was I thinking? Oh yeah--Whooooo! Party! Gimme five Tecates and a Black Superman!"

And what good does it do to wear a polar expedition jacket if you're also wearing bermuda shorts and flip flops?

I can't even go off on flip flops, 'cause I'd be here all fucking day. All I can say is: if it's not sunny and over 80 degrees, and you're not near a large body of water you are going to swim in, that shit is not fucking acceptable.

In a curious cross-pollination between the Marina types and the hipsters, the flip flop is being usurped as the most ubiquitous, annoying piece of footwear since Uggs, by the resurgence of '80s preppy in the form of topsiders. Or, as Laura called them, "Oh, like I'm from the Hamptons and I go sailing with my distant father and drunk mother shoes."
Do we really need to unearth every played out '80s cliché and parade it down the thoroughfare like a disgraced, soon to be beheaded dictator? Can't we let this shit die a quiet, ugly death all alone in the damp basement of memory? No, we cannot, in so far as street fashion is beholden to the truism, "Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it." During my 6 month preppy period at age 11, entranced by a big-assed new girl at school, Janelle Greget, I wore topsiders. Without socks. I got a pus-filled blister on my heel the size of a quarter. Lesson learned. People who aren't old enough to remember how lame this shit was during it's first incarnation are left with the feeling of being impossibly clever in their choice of retro kicks.

I can only wish 25 cent pus blisters on as many people as I see wearing these "Summer at the Cape" abominations. What next? White Thurston Howell III yachting caps?
Oh no, Lovey. Say it isn't so.

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."
--Henry David Thoreau

I know this is particularly shallow to apply to something as superficial as clothing, but please, Mother Theresa, don't act like you don't do it. Clothing acts as a shorthand. When you see a guy in a rhinestone-studded Ed Hardy shirt, do you think the conversation is going to be enlightening? You can always be pleasantly surprised, sure, but the mind processes people's clothing in the same way it does threat assessments: instantly and subconsciously. "Toothy, clawed animal running toward me. Fight or flight? Ed Hardy shirt at 10 o'clock high. Fight or flight?"

I see anywhere from 1400 to 2000 people each week working the door. I don't have the best memory on a good day. It amazes me when people say, "Dude, you don't remember me?" when I ask for their ID more than once. Really? How could I forget you, average white guy in jeans, flip flops, and North Face fleece? Didn't we share a foxhole in the 'Nam?

Not that I'm a fashion plate or anything: I'm generally a scumbag in a hoodie and jeans. Scumbags, however, have a certain innate, naturalistic sense of style:

As the Ramones say on "All's Quiet on the Eastern Front": "Watch the watch the way I walk/ Can't you think my movements talk?"

I recently picked up two enamel pins at the most boss Oriental Art Gallery: a death's head in a top hat, and a freaky fucking clown:
I placed them on either side of my collar, like military insignia. It wasn't supposed to mean anything, and mostly it doesn't, though it struck me that, you know, isn't that kind of like life? (I say that as a joke sometimes. Someone will say, "Fuck, I want a burrito," or "I hate topsiders," and I'll reply, "Isn't that kind of like Life?" Meaning nothing and everything at once.)

When I wear that jacket my head is between death and a quasi-demonic clown and death, and that's where my mind is stuck: not between life and death, but between death and absurdity. In Castaneda's books, Don Juan says that your death is always at your side, just out of view, stalking you. You've got to make friends with Death, use your death as an adviser for your life. The opposite of death, so seemingly heavy and fraught with meaning, is not life, but meaninglessness, absurdity. The notion that there is no pattern to recognize. Like love and hate, though, the spectrum between death and absurdity is circular--travel toward one pole far enough and you'll end up at the other. The continuum as a whole is Life: to embrace death and it's ultimate meaning--which includes the possibility of meaninglessness--is to be alive.

Mumbo fucking jumbo, y'all. I am now accepting applications for cult members. Spahn Ranch, Pt. II, circa 2010. Look at all the little piggies! There'll be a death's head on one side of the altar and a clown on the other, and I'll sit in the middle on a throne, surrounded by naked girls willing to do my bidding. Helter Skelter, let's go!

Speaking of absurdity, we come to this brilliant, surreptitiously shot drunken Irishman passed out on the toilet at the Buckshot:
This is what happens when you--a grown ass man--pass out on the shitter, buddy. First a stranger takes your photo. Then, his coworker dumps a glass of cold water on your head and kicks you out. Then, you're a star on the interweb.

Reminds me of a time when a guy--coincidentally a very Manson-looking fellow--passed out on the bathroom floor at the Lusty Lady. Right there on the piss-covered floor with his head under the urinal. Out. Cold. We had a megaphone with a siren in it, and it was fucking LOUD. Put it up to his ear full blast and he didn't even move. We poked him with rubber-gloved hands. We prodded him with steel-toed feet. Finally, I think it was Chuk who said, "Fuck it. I don't get paid enough for this." So we called 911. "Passed out. Yep. Right on the floor, under the pisser. Is he breathing? I don't know. Sure. Maybe." The fire department came--four or five guys and one woman, Nomex jackets and all, marching through the peep show at 4 AM to revive the dead.

We'd find people passed out fairly often. Once, another fresh out of prison type passed out in front of the double doors when it was still fairly busy. People kept opening the door into his head. He'd grumble and go back to sleep. We gathered around for a picture, thumbs up like triumphant Apollo astronauts around a space capsule, all grins, neon naked ladies flickering off to the side. He came back a few hours later with a vague memory that someone had taken his picture. Tattooed, musculature by San Quentin, long wild hair, maybe Mexican or Native American, he wasn't to be fucked with and he wasn't too pleased. "No man, that was someone else. Those guys took off hours ago."

Another time a guy passed out in a video booth with his pants around his ankles and his now limp winkie in his hand. His wallet was on the seat next to him, money strewn on the sticky plywood bench. We had knocked and knocked, but he was dead to the world. So we unlocked the door, took his cash, and took our pictures with him, "this is me in front of the Eiffel Tower" tourist style.

Oh, yeah, I'm sorry. Totally. Wait--fuck you. If you're a grown ass man who can't drink without falling asleep with your pants down around your ankles in a porn booth, well, how about fuck you and thanks for the cash, Champ? I've got to ask Tony if those photos are still kicking around the LL. It'd be hilarious to post them up.

Let's move on to things you notice while watching television at four in the morning. I can't help but wonder if the magical, Wonka-esque chemical that causes Axe "Twist" body spray to change from one intriguing scent to another (would that be from Guido to Ultra-Guido? Jager bombs!)...

is the same thing used to change Stride Shift from one flavor to the next? (Because really, who doesn't want their gum to change from citrus to mint? As one YouTuber put it: "It's like drinking orange juice after brushing your teeth.")

With GMOs in vogue, I'm looking forward to this revolutionary, shape-shifting technology being applied to more foodstuffs. Chick breasts that become New York strip steaks in mid-meal. What was that lyric by The Fluid? "I don't eat nothin' radioactive, can't you understand?"

I've wallowed, however briefly, in the fetid pit that is marketing. I haven't been to the mountain, quite yet, but I have done the backstroke in the cesspool. I'm not trying to turn this blog into Copyranter, but I notice this shit. I notice how you can lead people by the nose without even bothering to put a ring in it, like a steer.
Really, though, is anyone buying Kraft's attempt to make Miracle Whip hip(ster)? I guess fuckin' so, man, because their Facebook page has over 20 thousand "likers." And who can blame these Miracolytes, with awesome spots like this 2008 plug:

Which the ever-insightful Stephen Colbert countered with:

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
The Mayo-lution Will Not Be Televised
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor Fox News

As one blogger said: "I remember the days when I used to vibe out hard to this commercial, thinking about sweet rooftop parties where me and my bros would eat tons of mayo, and use it as a mixer in our ‘vodka + mayo’ drinks."

Of course, all this is old news, but for the fact that Miracle Whip has completed their rebranding by changing their logo to "MW," something you can more easily squeeze on a slice of Wonder Bread:

They've announced this monumental change with a billboard visible from the onramp onto I-80, and probably from space, as it's just slightly bigger than the statue of Christ the Redeemer overlooking Rio de Janeiro:
Giving the ultimate nod to their would-be hipster constituency, the new Miracle Whip TV spot features leather-clad "bikers" bucking the status quo on mopeds:

Mopeds--just like topsiders, man. Do you fuckers have to resurrect every uncool thing from the '80s and try to make it cutting edge? No one remembers the "what do fat girls and moped have in common?" joke? [A: They're both fun to ride until your friends see you.]

I love how they've made Miracle Whip versus Mayo into a basic personality test: "Are you up for some sandwich-kicking flavor? Are you Miracle Whip?" C'mon pussy! Are you Miracle Whip or are you mouse? The most miraculous thing about Miracle Whip is that it tastes exactly like mayonnaise. I remember my mom buying it on occasion when I was a kid. It's mayonnaise with a catchy name...and maybe a shot of high fructose corn syrup.

Don't get me wrong, mayo is crucial: it's sandwich lube. A sammy without mayo is like a jailhouse ass raping with no grape jelly. But it is hardly a definer of one's inner self, the way, say, a North Face fleece is.

We've come to that portion in our program known as "random photos." These were shot with the cell phone. Google Analytics tells me that the average amount of time spent on my blog is a whopping 2 minutes and 19 seconds, so it's safe to say I'm not sure who these bonus pics are for, unless you're a really fast scroller.

Because nothing says "fast car" like Bart Simpson with his asshole on fire:

You know you love Michael Jackson (and tender, young boys) when you've got a memorial sticker on your SUV. "No, Mr. Nelson, you can't take my son to soccer practice."

"Super G" in rainbow on a truck in San Francisco has to mean "Super Gay," right? Otherwise, this guy's in for a big surprise. "Why do they keep honking at me when I drive through the Castro?"

Puffy flowers:
I made a face out of my salad fixins:

Broke down and bought some Sambas:

Come alive in the house that screams:

51st sad chair for Bill Keaggy:

Giants vs. Padres, who are apparently kryptonite to the Giants this year:

Inside the Coca Cola bottle/slide at the ballpark:

Dolly at the giant glove:

Glove:

I was chillin' with two-time Cy Young award winner Tim Lincecum, talkin' baseball:
Trees in front of the park. Never been into palm trees in SF: too LA for me. These are okay, though, I guess:

Scary/space lighting Dolly:

Moths:

Laura and I at the Blue Danube:

Cash only, Champ:
Ceramic pooch:

At Chow Associates, we are not attorneys and do not give legal advice. Who are we? Associates of Chow. What do we do? Not sure. Perhaps give illegal advice.

The sidewalks of yesteryear are no longer:

De Young, fine spring day:

"Bearded Devon" is akin to "Shirtless Kirk," but not quite as evil.

Dolly, reverse Atlas:

In here you can draw beautifully. Everywhere else, your drawings are hideous:

Remastered Exile coming out. 10 new songs.

Thought this was Fruity Pebbles at first. Actually multicolored aquarium pebbles:

It's a dead baby alligator in a tuxedo. Duh:

Golf jokes:

Graff overload:

Nothing is quite as sad as a child's toy abandoned on the sidewalk:

With the exception of a lime with a pubic hair on it in the bottom of the urinal. The ignominy of bar fruit:

And lonely, street TVs:

Perhaps the saddest, most rock bottom moment is when you look down and realize you're in Jack in the Box way after midnight but shortly before dawn, waiting on something disgusting you'll only vaguely remember as "food" the next day:
Girl in a hat. My girl, in a fur hat:

Nephew Lucas:
Fuck yeah!:

This girl's pictures are on the outside of the photo booth at the Buckshot. Who is she? She hasn't been back, so far as anyone knows. Gorgeous. I'm a bit fascinated with her:
More flora:

I'll go out out on a couple videos. The first is an edit Australian Dane Searls did for Unit Riders, a somewhat dorky, Famous Stars and Straps style Aussie MX/BMX "lifestyle" company. They did come up with this most excellent old school BMX meets naked So Cal style booty broad shot:
Ironic she's on a Skyway "TA." Dane, like helium tits up there, is all about going big:

Here's the same type trip, but on street, from LA film collective (or something like that), The Bank. Kade Gates going nothing but HUGE: