Monday, September 26, 2011

My Ridiculously Picturesque City

Lately, while on various two-wheeled missions, I've been impressed with my ridiculously picturesque city. It's not anywhere you can walk down a (semi) major urban thoroughfare and see a hot girl shitting on a street corner toilet. Check dude's suspenders. And a belt? No slip grip for Uncle Charley.
Dolores Park beer and a bowl session:What you can't hear is the sound of dirty arrhythmic hippies trying to export the "drum circle" concept to every spare square inch of urban open space.

Ever wonder how hippies always manage to fuck up everything? Literally everything hippies touch turns to shit.

I spotted this while peeing in a strange new alley in the Mission. "Enjoy," indeed.
Reading "Happy Hour" by Denis Johnson at Thee Parkside whilst getting happy. Bonus points for inadvertent Olympic ring beer stains.
Found this ominously named corporation in China Basin, down by the stadium.
Check the Chihuly glass chandelier:
That wacky one-eyed glass-blowing pirate! Not pictured: perplexed corporate guard types, wondering why some biker scumbag was taking photos through their looking glass.

Rustbuckets by the Ramp:
I used to fish here sometimes. You can catch stripers, perch, and probably hepatitis if you step on the right syringe.A Minor Forest:
McCovey Cove:
The Bay Bridge is my favorite:
Giant bow and arrow:So this is weird. I just randomly rode out this pier and stopped in front of this light--one of probably around 50 or 100 lights. And my friend Tork had a tag on it, from before he lived here, he tells me. Shitty picture, but you know, small world (of vandals).
So there's a big, sheet metal '50s rocket on the Embarcadero now. If you look closely, you can see the random huswifes doing pilates on the railing.
(Some of the) sea lions have returned to Pier 39. Who's watching whom? And who's the herd animal?Maritime Museum is a great art deco building:
This guy's camera confused him:
Aquatic Park pier:
Not sure what this park is called. It's up on the hill above Fort Mason. Never really noticed this statue before:
WAY OUT!This quaint family flying a kite restored my faith in humanity after I was unfortunate enough to see an old man with his foot in an old woman's lap. She was cutting his toenails with a giant clipper that looked more like a fucking tin snips. People do this stuff. In public.
SF turns basically any asshole with an iPhone into some kind of goddamned Ansel Adams. It really is the great visual equalizer:
This is a photo of Chris Schramm working on a folding bike. What an unlucky bastard! Realize, if you ride this type of freakish circus contraption, bike mechanics think you're an asshole. Really.
I found this awesome sticker on a fork protector on a boxed Specialized. It says "DO NOT remove before installation of wheel." Which, unless you're MC Escher, is impossible.My post work smoke spot:
This is in the Presidio by the golf course. Usually foggy. It's part of my ride home trail:
This is the secret place in the Presidio where the Army plants cadavers for use in wars:
Truffula trees by Mountain Lake Park:
The old Carousel building out by the zoo. Used to be a Doggie Diner:
Typical San Francisco paranoid schizophrenic street genius shopping (c)art sign. When is someone going to curate a show of these:
They rebuilt the busted windmill in the park. Now the creeper midnight blow job spot is way more picturesque:
Hey Mickey, come on over, we're having a party:
I think this pleasant little stretch of middle-of-the-street trees is on 32nd and Fulton:
I took this shot while walking home with a flat. Had a tube, tire levers, and no pump. That's using the old bean:
Because you never know when you'll need to wash your mitts:Man down!
Early is missing. Check the Mission near the newly reopened Palace Family Steak House, I guess:
The view from Bernal Hill. Or, as my old roommate's dad used to call it, "Dogshit Hill":
Bo dog investigates the dog grave on the backside of Bernal:
SF is always going to be my favorite. If I don't have time to put a bike on the car and go to some "destination" riding spot, I can always ride a few blocks into the park and find some fun singletrack cuts:
And double wide dirt, next to the madness of heavy machinery:
Solo. One guy, one bike, no cups--moving through the trees:

Monday, September 19, 2011

Danny "Magoo" Chandler

Always at least one step over the edge.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Sorry Fellas

Sorry Jeff Carroll and Ron Wilkerson. Anthony Sewell was the first guy to do no handers.
May he rest in peace. Super radical peace.

Friday, September 16, 2011

Stu Who?

Stompin' Stu Thomsen, bitch!

Tuesday, September 06, 2011

Too Bad Life Just Ain't Fair

I'll tell you who Chris Collins is, bitches! It's this guy right here, with the thumbs. Or, rather, that guy, yonder, shirtless, with the thumbs, and the lacy ladypanties. Really, there's a little Chris Collins in all of us. Imagine of Jesus was a baldheaded lunatic from bumfuck Ohio who liked smokin' weed and eatin' pussy. You know, a salt of the earth bastard who might turn water into wine for the sake of a really bitchin' party; or knock a motherfucker out with one punch for being a classless, glass-throwing asshole. He'll smoke his last bowl of weed with you, and would give you the shirt off his back if he could remember where he put it.

And, not to put him on blast on these here interwebs, but this motherfucker has had even shittier luck than me this year. First, he got hit by a car, over the top, Starsky and Hutch style. Ripped all the tender bits up inside his knee: ACL, MCL, all that shit. Most of that shit. More than that shit--maybe some extra shit too. Meniscus? I don't know man, I'm not a fuckin' doctor. Things were rotten in Denmark.

Then, right before he was supposed to get surgery, he gets pneumonia.

Then, somewhere in the midst of all this nonsense, scabies. Yeah, scabies. I said it. No idea how or from who--just sat on the wrong chair or fucked the wrong crackhead on the wrong abandoned mattress--who knows where these things come from?--and itchy and scratchy are off to the races.

Things were not looking good for our hero.

Then this fella steps up out of the shadows:
[These last two images are by Miller Thomas]

His name is Colton and he won't pay for drugs, sex, office supplies, or hot dogs, so give it up smooth. He goes ahead and organizes some kinda punk rock shindig for the benefit of his cousin, to wit, Christopher Collins. (They're all cousins in Ohio, right?) The Buckshot--the bar where I work--hosts it, hot dogs are grilled, DJs Vinyl Hayride and Jonny Landmine show up, as do the bands Street Justice and the White Barons, and, well, shit gets a little loose. For once, the Buckshot looks like an actual punk rock bar inside, not a theme night at a USF dance.

I went bike riding that day and got stuck in traffic on the way home, so I missed Street Justice, but I did get to see the rock and roll juggernaut known as the White Barons, which is always a shot glass full of awesome sauce:
Which, in laymen's terms, means whiskey.
The rock? Consider it broughten:
Lately, Kenny G's hair has found an entirely cooler place to hang out:
Find a girl with faraway eyes:
Raw power I can feeeeeeel it:
Q: How far we goin' back?
A: Waaaaaaaaaaaaay back.

Colton had no fun. Too stressed out playing Johnny Organizer-of-charitable-events-guy. Here he is, grinding his teeth from stress:
This might be my favorite shot of the night. Enter the maelstrom:
The Devil's blood came seepin' through the walls:
And Miss Eva was not scared:
Some sort of man-ilingus went down:
Electric freakout ghosts started flying around the room:
Then Colton went into a trance:
In layman's terms, whiskey:
Singalongs were of the epic, NYHC variety:
Which, as we all know, invariably end in dudefests:
Somebody let in the riff raff. On the right is Sean Ramirez, of the eponymous principle:
The other guy is the Herculean Chilean, Rocky Lobos.

Joel, a.k.a. Jonny Landmine, lookin' like the ghost of Bobby Peru:
Josh, manned the door for a hot second:
And, lest we forget, the celebrity cripple, which is to say, the man of the hour, and his barbed wire birdcage full of loot:
Seriously, people, ones? He's moving back to Ohio, not Fresno. Give the motherfucker some gas money. Ones should go directly to the G string you know he's wearing.

Talk about beauty and the beast. I'm thinking we should use the donations to buy this pretty lady some contact lenses:
Gus from Fist Fam wildin' out:
Yeah, there were fuckin' hot dogs. You thought there weren't? Didn't see Colton paying for any, that's for goddamned sure:
Chris, you're a great guy with shit luck, and we're going to miss you in Fogtown.

When you're broken down and beat up...

When you're coughing up blood and your balls itch...

When you're stuck between a flatulent homeless dude and an old Chinese woman with a pillowcase full of live chickens on the Stockton bus...

Just thank God you're not French:

Which is to say, I could see you building a crazy contraption like that, but you'd ride it a lot faster.