Saturday, January 28, 2012


Lotta people might think it's weird that my dog drives a car...
What's even weirder is that he wears a hat.

Monday, January 16, 2012

No Exceptions

So I'd just worked a 60+ hour week. It was my first day off and in a damn while. I headed to SF General to see my buddy Toph One on my new SE PK Ripper single speed (freewheel, thank you very much). Toph was wrecked by a hit and run driver last Saturday night on the way to his house.

Still, it was cold but sunny, and there are taco trucks everywhere, like lost apostles of Jesus:
Love was in the air.And so was death, and general broken-ness. There were a few stuffies zip-tied to this fence--and a bunch of empty zip ties that once held flowers, I'm guessing. Drive by "oopsie" carnage? Shit's pretty real around 22 and Harrison.
Toph was in great spirits, though his pelvis was as broken up as a melting ice floe. You'll never have a baby again, Toph! Your childbearing years are behind you, sir.

Hardy har. He's got a couple benefits coming up--the one in the link above is the first. The second benefit is at Som bar on 16th Street this coming Sunday, January 22. I'll be there, so, clearly that's where you hot bitches wanna be seen.

Even if you don't know Toph--and everybody knows Toph--you should come through. Biker or not, show your love for a solid guy with solidly bad luck. Toph has an car magnet in his ass--he's already broken a collar bone and a hip on cars.

On the way back from General, I saw a 6'4" gay dude on rollerskates with furry legwarmers, a top hat, and two foot tall bunny ears.

Squint, and you can see him:
Donnie Darko got nothing on everyday SF.I got stuck between a gaggle of hippies on squeaky shit bikes on my way through the wiggle. Every time I passed them, I'd get caught at an intersection, stop, and they'd pass me back. Finally I just sat at a park bench and smoked a bowl. The smell of hippies and the sound of squeaky, neglected bikes is basically my description of the lowest circle of hell.

Newly lifted, I made my way into the park. As I approached the stop sign at the Conservatory of Flowers, a rabid pack of street shit rat kids coalesced out of the trees like spectres of extreme bunkness. They had a couple of unleashed brindle pit mutt hippie dogs (sorry you drew the short straw, buddies--at least you're not in China), and the scrawnier of the two decided two blaze across the street into my path at Mach 3. I didn't know if it wanted to play with me or eat me.

Immediate application of massive braking. I run the original Dia Compe MTB levers...they basically came off a 1973 Hodoka. Huge. OTB status, forthwith.
Right away, I wondered if this dog was going to start grubbing on my tender bits before I could get up. Fortunately, it was more about playing than anything else. A girl ran up to me, saying "Oh my God, are you okay?" while 6 or 7 other hippie shits fucked off into the treeline like spoiled American Yetis.

I stood up and stared at her for a few heavy seconds before I enquired:

"Have you heard of a fucking leash?"

"I have a leash!" she said, indignantly.

"Well why don't you put it on your fucking dog?" I retorted, before adding a none-too-poetic but all-too-true, "Fucking hippie shitbags!"

This is why my front door has this on it:
What Would Lemmy Do? I know he was in Hawkwind and all, but seriously: hippies ruin everything. If there's oatmeal, a hippie's going to shit in it. It's like they think their crap is brown sugar.