The Parable of the Prodigal Poop and Other Tales of Biblical Proportions

Let's start with a parable, shall we? You know, a down to earth "sit down and let me tell you a story" story, something to draw in the knuckle draggers in the cheap seats, touching upon the heavy issues in layman's terms. The part of Jesus will be played by poop. No, wait--that's not right. Jesus is the storyteller, so I guess I'm playing Jesus. Sorry, Jesus. If we ever meet you can suckerpunch me in the gut for that one. I'm also playing the main character in the story, because it actually happened to me, and, well, I don't have that great of an imagination. The poop--long since returned to the earth, as this happened around 1976--will be played by poop.

Chill with me for a bit. Let me tell you a parable, brah.

So there's a five-year-old kid walking to the grocery store in a suburban Southern California town with his two older sisters. All three kids are barefoot, because junk hadn't hit the 'burbs quite yet and the worst thing they had to worry about sans footwear was a stubbed toe--or so the little boy thought.

It's a fine summer day and as they're walking down a grass path next to the Lucky's, the fresh-faced, golden-haired lad steps square on a pile of fresh dog shit, shoeless as the day he was born. It's warm. The Prodigal Poop squishes up between his innocent young toes. [Prodigal: "Giving or given in abundance; lavish or profuse." This pile is both lavish and profuse.] There is much wailing and gnashing of teeth. He wipes his foot furiously on the non-sullied grass. Maybe he runs home and washes it, maybe he finds a piece of newsprint drifting by and wipes it, maybe he tracks it through the dairy aisle on the way to pick up some milk for his moms. Doesn't particularly matter.

What does matter is this: the boy does not turn around and step in it again. He does not walk around the block and step in it again. He doesn't take it home in a shoebox and step in it when he feels lonely. In his life, he will step in many turds, but never the same one twice. That is the lesson: never step in the same pile twice. (Proper footwear is an adjunct lesson. Our hero will become a firm believer in securely laced, closed toe shoes from here on out.)

The over-arching moral of the story fades, however, and although he never dances on the same dog doo repeatedly, he will spend years of his adult life trying to polish a turd, defining insanity by trying to do the same thing over and over and get a different result. I'm talking relationships here, people: the boy will try to convince himself that the filth oozing between his foot phalanges is somehow Scharffen Berger chocolate. Give it another chance, you know? Things will look up. Right.

This continues until somewhere around his 30th year, when this guy:
gives him some sound advice. After much listening to much wailing and gnashing of teeth over a romantic liason gone awry, the above gentlemen (thankfully not accompanied by Laughing Sal) tells our overgrown boy man the following: "You need to lose that bitch's number." Crass, perhaps, but wise beyond his years.

Don't step in the same pile twice. Second chances are great, especially if you're Jesus. The whores and the publicans will make it into the kingdom of heaven, but that doesn't mean you should date one. Know when to say when. Know your shit from your Scharffen Berger, jerk.

If it smells like shit...

Why do I bring this up? Well, because when someone texts you that she misses you, and then shows up at your job three days in a row with her "ex," the same ex who ass-dialed her whilst fucking someone else, you get contemplative. Didn't you just call this guy an unmitigated, unconscionable "douchebag" last week, when we were hanging out? Didn't you say he was not your type and was never going to be your type but you were lonely and he was around? And wasn't I the one who kept saying what a nice guy he seemed to be? Huh. And then you two got in a physical altercation on a public street corner, for which he apologized drunkenly and profusely, each time remembering to add that he "fucked the shit out of" you later that evening. As you crossed him off your douche list, I added him to mine. And you've got the nerve to ask me what's wrong when you show up with him? What the fuck do you think is wrong?

I never got my chance to go there, but that's fine. You're a full grown woman. When I think of that squirrelly little weasel climbing on top of you, I can't help but imagine the Marines raising the flag on top of Mount Suribachi after a hard fought battle: outgunned but victorious. In this case, by default.
Eh. Clearly, I am bummed out, put out, butt hurt. But as the Soul Asylum lyric goes: "there ain't nothin' I can't live without." Maybe you're meant for each other. When you're getting into someone, it really sucks to see shit work out, you know? Can't say as I haven't been the shit between someone else's toes. Done some shady shit, and not all of it is ancient history. Your lesson may turn out to be "don't step in the same pile twice," where mine is, once again, "you need to lose that bitch's number." Or, perhaps, don't step in someone else's pile: clearly when we started hanging out, you weren't done wiggling your toes in it. Which is why this shit sounds like the fucking 8th grade. Low rent drama. Low level fever. I'm out of town the next two weekends in a row, and that should be enough to forget all about it. I've got a girl, I've got a romantic connection, I got a new pair of Adidas at Ross for $20:
Lord, I've done crossed the Jordan and entered the Promised Land. With clean feet.

Yeah, last week had its fuckin' moments. One girl I was interested in flew back home to roost, and another fell asleep on me when we were supposed to hang out...turned out not to be too huge a problem, but it did make for a moment of stark realization at the Jack in the Crack:
Own your alone. It only stings for a bit.

Then I spent $1221 to get this bitchin' piece of footwear off my truck:
To wrap it all up, I got hit with a jury duty summons. Sweet!

Good things occurred as well. Speaking of surreal moments of self-realization, what about seeing your nine-year-old progeny sing a song by your absolute favorite artist when you were twelve:

Look out all you rock and rollers--pretty soon now you're gonna get older.

Got to hang out with my homies Alberto and Kelly at Thee Parkside on Thursday for the Jucifer, Grayceon, Serpent Crown at Thee Parkside. Here's a picture from inside the men's shitter, to keep with our scatological theme:
Minutemen cover band? What took you so long? I'm in!

Brought my new Nikon D60, didn't really break it out until Grayceon, though here's a test shot of Dara from Serpent Crown:
I used to work with her back in the day, so it was good to see her again, rockin' the fuck out.

Here's some shots of Grayceon, who were plutonium heavy:
Who knew a cello could be so heavy? Mozart, probably. That particular instrument, a "rock cello" of some sort, is particularly hideous. Reminds me of Lou Reed and his latter day penchant for stuff like Steinberger guitars:
I guess you can't play a Country Gentleman forever:
But wouldn't it be nice to think so?

Finally, Jucifer came on. Their backline was ridiculous: never seen so many amps on the Parkside's tiny stage--and that includes Duane Peters Gunfight, who had three guitars and a bass. And it was only half the gear they brought! Don't let the pop sensibilities of their albums and videos fool you: live, Jucifer brings the fucking noise.

Not all of these photos are artistically viable, or even technically proficient, but I enjoyed taking them, and to me they're all interesting experiments with the new camera. Never had a digital SLR before. Despite having cut my teeth on film, I've got to say I love it. You can look at the exposure right away and use it to figure out how the shots are turning out. You can rattle off a hundred photos without opening the camera. I've never been a National Geographic quality snapper, or that great in the darkroom, so it's ideal for me. Very forgiving medium. I do have to look into changing the layout of this blog, however...not into the long, columnar nature of the stock layout. Turns everything into a thumbnail photo.

When one drumstick is not enough.

Dig the stuffed birdie.

When one drumstick is too much.

Wig out!

I love this one.

Amber's knuckles say "ROCK STAR." Awesome.

Trying to wangle a photo pass for Pentagram, Ludicra, and Orchid at DNA on Wednesday, which will be epic.

I'll leave you with a legit parable from Franz Kafka--"Before the Law" (which would make an awesome metal song or band name). Here's Orson Welles rendition:

And a short film by Alon Levi:

And, finally, the text:

Before the law sits a gatekeeper. To this gatekeeper comes a man from the country who asks to gain entry into the law. But the gatekeeper says that he cannot grant him entry at the moment. The man thinks about it and then asks if he will be allowed to come in sometime later on. “It is possible,” says the gatekeeper, “but not now.” The gate to the law stands open, as always, and the gatekeeper walks to the side, so the man bends over in order to see through the gate into the inside. When the gatekeeper notices that, he laughs and says: “If it tempts you so much, try going inside in spite of my prohibition. But take note. I am powerful. And I am only the most lowly gatekeeper. But from room to room stand gatekeepers, each more powerful than the other. I cannot endure even one glimpse of the third.” The man from the country has not expected such difficulties: the law should always be accessible for everyone, he thinks, but as he now looks more closely at the gatekeeper in his fur coat, at his large pointed nose and his long, thin, black Tartar’s beard, he decides that it would be better to wait until he gets permission to go inside. The gatekeeper gives him a stool and allows him to sit down at the side in front of the gate. There he sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be let in, and he wears the gatekeeper out with his requests. The gatekeeper often interrogates him briefly, questioning him about his homeland and many other things, but they are indifferent questions, the kind great men put, and at the end he always tells him once more that he cannot let him inside yet. The man, who has equipped himself with many things for his journey, spends everything, no matter how valuable, to win over the gatekeeper. The latter takes it all but, as he does so, says, “I am taking this only so that you do not think you have failed to do anything.” During the many years the man observes the gatekeeper almost continuously. He forgets the other gatekeepers, and this first one seems to him the only obstacle for entry into the law. He curses the unlucky circumstance, in the first years thoughtlessly and out loud; later, as he grows old, he only mumbles to himself. He becomes childish and, since in the long years studying the gatekeeper he has also come to know the fleas in his fur collar, he even asks the fleas to help him persuade the gatekeeper. Finally his eyesight grows weak, and he does not know whether things are really darker around him or whether his eyes are merely deceiving him. But he recognizes now in the darkness an illumination which breaks inextinguishably out of the gateway to the law. Now he no longer has much time to live. Before his death he gathers in his head all his experiences of the entire time up into one question which he has not yet put to the gatekeeper. He waves to him, since he can no longer lift up his stiffening body. The gatekeeper has to bend way down to him, for the great difference has changed things considerably to the disadvantage of the man. “What do you still want to know now?” asks the gatekeeper. “You are insatiable.” “Everyone strives after the law,” says the man, “so how is that in these many years no one except me has requested entry?” The gatekeeper sees that the man is already dying and, in order to reach his diminishing sense of hearing, he shouts at him, “Here no one else can gain entry, since this entrance was assigned only to you. I’m going now to close it.”

E.T.: The Extra Testicle

That's right, sister: 33% more. Nothing is more virile and sexy than a man with a third testicle--or extra bottom bracket bearings, I guess. And women dig that, yo.

Speaking of demeaning sexist stereotypes, the weather's been tits in the city lately--fucking finally. I was about to hang myself from Seasonal Affective Disorder. (How rad is a depressive disorder with the acronym S.A.D.?) Fuck you, El Niño. If I wanted to live in Seattle, I'd move there. I'd buy some more flannels first, because I'm old school like that.

Weather finally permitting, I took out the road bike and the new Nikon and fucked about for a bit.
When you're out riding around with your camera in your bag, but you don't really feel like taking photos, life will present you with a junkie nodding out in a wheelchair while suckling a Curious George stuffie in front of a NO PARKING-painted garage door, and your brain will scream, "ART!" Well, mine did. Which explains why I'm on unemployment, huh? I don't know my ass from a hole in the ground with this camera, which is why the exposure is all fucked up on this pic--George's face is whited out. I need to figure out the selective metering get down.

Here are few I took in my backyard, enticed by the green patina on the back fence:

Not sure if cutting the petal on this was a fuck-up or genius. I'll go with the latter--why not?

Once again, something is terribly wrong here: the flowers in the foreground are out of focus, while the background is in focus. I could just say I left the AF on and focused on the wrong thing, but, really, I think it makes it a little less corny to have the foreground blurry. A little.

Fucking with the macro setting. In the expected attempt to justify my failures, I kind of dig the extremely short depth of field and the wavering focus throughout the image.

The mossy fence thing got to me when I was out walking in the rain a few days ago. Here are some cell phone snaps of a wall by the library:
Love the texture and the unnatural/hypernatural color.

More random phone photos:

This is my road bike. I'm supposed to ride it from Portland to SF in April.
Good luck to me and my hopelessly raw taint.

Chris in the office of the Buck, picking up a Franklin with some kind of garbage grabber whilst drinking a Campari and soda. That looks like a jumbo bag of dirty brown weed on the desk, but since no one there would smoke dirty brown weed, I'm venturing a guess it's a bag of cornflakes that we use for the fried chicken batter.

Bo chilling during our run in the park.

This one threw me. I thought someone drew the head on there with a Sharpie. Nope. Part of the decal. Didn't know hair drying/styling was the main purpose of these machines in restrooms. I feel kind of left out, since I don't have hair. I suppose they would've been golden in the years of Knox gelatin liberty spikes.

You know spring is here when the turtles are sunning on the turtle sculpture.

I started doing P90X. Yeah, yeah--laugh it up, fuzzball. I trained to run a marathon around 2003 and I was down to 175--lean like a motherfucker. I weighed 195 when I graduated high school in 1989. Now, seven years after my marathon, and a year after I rediscovered beer after a 20 year hiatus, I'm up to a strapping 225 or so--with 33% body fat (though I don't know if I can trust my Walgreen's digital body fat reading scale on that one). I fell for the infomercial--after checking some testimonial vids on YouTube.

I've got to tell you, this shit is incredibly hard. When Tony Horton crosses his forearms, a la Big Daddy's X Factor, and says "EXTREME!," you'd best believe him. I've spent the last week as sore as I've ever been. Here's my ridiculous "before" video, filmed horribly on my Flip after my second workout, the gut-wrenching cardio clusterfuck known as "Plyometrics." I'm clearly gassed and daffy as shit, hence the Big Daddy-isms like "Barry Bonds triple testicle." (More Balls!):

I'll keep you posted with more magical updates of my soon-to-be amazing physique. I need to go get a tape measure before I get too amazingly ripped, as I was supposed to measure my biceps and all that before hand. Yeah, it's silly.

Speaking of silly, D Block dropped a new web edit. It's packed full of good shit--Nor Cal is still reppin' all these years after the Curb Dogs put Bay freestyle on the map. And we've still got guys with great nicknames like Cheese, Squeaks, and Virus. And, well, D-Block. "And we still smokin'." And, apparently huffing some serious WD40.

Yum, yum, delish.

Speaking of insanity, Sean Burns has dropped a new web vid for Metal:

Burns is one of the few reasons to even bother watching BMX vids. He's got a well-known anti-web video stance, saving his best stuff for legit DVD releases. And he says that any new parts will have to top Dead Bang, so you can only imagine how completely epic his parts in Anthem 2 and Surfing for the Ugly Broads are going to be.

Surfing for the Ugly Broads premiers in Portland on April 22 at the Clinton Street Theater, so by all means, if you're in the western hemisphere, you should get to that shit.
Defgrip has a collaboration going with the Bicycle Film Festival to curate the BMX portion of the fest, which means all us big kids on little bikes will be stoked, unlike when Joe Kid on a Stingray played at the SF festival and the DVD took a shit midway through.

"I don't know, Betamax?" Did Mat Hoffman die in vain?

For those of us who won't be pushing 25 feet on a mega quarterpipe, the SF Urban Riders are trying to get a bike park in McLaren Park, and they've got an online petition going. They're mostly mountain bikers, so the plan is a jump park with consecutively bigger and gnarlier sections, starting with kiddie and, hopefully, going to mega. If you live in SF and don't know where McLaren Park is, it's that giant green swath on the map between one hood and the next (Excelsior, Portola, Visitacion Valley, Sunnydale, etc.) Not necessarily all horrible neighborhoods, though I'd say Sunnydale leaves something to be desired unless you like getting shot with AK-47s. I can't wait till the bike park opens and the hood rats discover people are jumping around on $2,000 bikes. (Much like they did at the Chili Bowl, where rumor has it they'd corner bikers against the back fence and jack them.) Sessioning with a .45 in your waistband has never seemed so practical.

In more BMX related news, Ramp Rats owner Mike Krnaich is putting on a King of California series with events at The Compound, Fresno Bike Park, Ramp Rats, and Woodward West. Should be awesome--especially the Fresno leg, as that place is fucking insane. Prizes include cash for pros, a week at Woodward for ams, and a free night at Centerfolds for the old timers in the OG class. But, as any old timer will tell you, "strippers" and "free" are words that seldom go together.

The Yerba Buena Center for the Arts is holding a contest of a completely different sort. In addition to a Prius and a Smart Car (hey--it's San Francisco, what'd you expect? A GTO?), they're giving away a fucking incredible palace in Noe Valley, complete with panoramic views, a hot tub, intercom/speaker system, and a separate apartment. The raffle will cost you $150, but the house costs 3 million. Winners also have the option of taking a cool million and a half in cash. Sounds like $150 well spent to me.


So this guy Conan Neutron (that might be an even better moniker than Virus) put out an awesome compilation called Karl Rove: Courage and Consequence. The title is a piss take on Rove's modestly titled Courage and Consequence: My Life as a Conservative in the Fight. The fight against what? Common human decency? The fight against peace? Anyhow, Neutron showed up at a Rove book signing in Lancaster, PA with a copy of the LP in his hand. Karl, not having his pulse on the post-punk underground, was shocked to see his cartoon likeness on the cover, and even more bummed at song titles like "The Biggest Asshole in the World." (Talk about winning a contest!) Anyhow, you can read all about the culture-jamming hijinks on the Daily Kos. And, if you've got plans for bumming out King Karl when he comes to your town, don't forget to pick up a copy of the album. Neutron will express mail you a slab if you plan on documenting your own "Operation Razz Karl" at a local Border's. It's only available on vinyl, in terms of hard copies, but you can get a free download at the above link. I'm listening to it now, as a matter of fact, and it's damned good. Check these lyrics from Cartographer: "I was born on Christmas day in the great state of Colorado/ In the vagina of a goat and the seed of pure evil/ And every day since my plan has unfurled/ A militaristic nation state and the biggest asshole in the world."

I don't know how many of you have been exposed to the interweb sensation Die Antwoord, but the South African rap crew is poised to take over the world, so you'd better expose yourself now...or they'll expose you. I've been writing a lot about the fine line between self-esteem and believing your own bullshit, but they've clearly taken it to another level:

To quote the Ninja himself: "Fuck all of you who said I wouldn't make it. They said I was a loser. They said I was a no one. They said I was a fuckin' psycho. But look at me now: all up in the interweb. Worldwide!" I'm not a hater here, for once--I think it's amazing. One day dude woke up in a Cape Flats ghetto and decided he was a fucking ninja. He went back to bed and the next time he woke up, his site had 2.2 million hits. That's some PMA right there, friends. I know nothing about zef, which is the type of SA hip-hop they indulge in and has a meaning loosely akin to "redneck" in the states (dirty South Africa?), but their music is an intriguing mix of drama and comedy, English and Afrikaans, the über intense cutting verses of Ninja juxtaposed with the airy-fairy counter phrasing of Yo-landi Vi$$er.

Visually, Die Antwoord (Afrikaans for "The Answer") are just as compelling as they are musically--maybe more so. The video for "Enter the Ninja" is like Keith Haring as a Cape Flats ghetto kid directing a speed-addled version of "Parents Just Don't Understand." Here's a photo of the pair in a spif NYC hotel room, taken by Clayton Cubitt:
What were they doing in New York? Getting signed to Interscope, it seems. To top that, their next video will be produced by District 9 mastermind Neill Blomkamp. I like to think I don't bite on every meme that gets crammed down the internet thoughtpipe, but that should be positively epic.

While checking out Cubitt's blog, I came across this documentary on jihadist vigilantes PAGAD, or People Against Gangsterism and Drugs. They're a cross between a Charles Bronson movie and Al Qaeda. But when you kill and maim children while terrorizing gangsters, what makes you any different than they are? You're just a gang that doesn't make any money. I was also intrigued by a Cape Flats gang called the Americans, who plaster themselves in red, white, and blue and venerate the Statue of Liberty and the White House. Bizarre.

Clearly, Africa, like Wu Tang, ain't nothin' to fuck with.

While on the subject of Bizzaro World, check this out:
I stole this from my homie Sam's Facebook page. And while I love skateboarding and would never personally choose to vibe out a skater for skating a "bike spot," I have to admit I find it hilarious. It's a perfect mirror image of "hey, you're going to fuck up the coping." Sorry, fellas, 101 duro urethane is just too danged hard for tender Quikrete. You'll have to go to another spot...like that half million dollar park two blocks away. I have to think that whoever painted this knew full well it was bullshit, but just wanted to turn the screw a bit. 98% of the skaters at parks are cool, and if they have a beef with me riding at least they shut up about it. (Maybe if I was a skinny 14-year-old some of them would be more vocal.) The skaters that are the loudest are usually teenage kids who've never been kicked out of a fuckin' spot in their lives. I think if the haters woke up in Bizarro World where bikes were allowed everywhere and boards almost nowhere, they'd show some humility and learn how to share. If we can walk together, why can't we rock together?

Before I disappear into the ether of the interweb for another week, I'll leave you with the newest in street sculpture, Australia's Crate Man, seen here climbing up a wall:
And having a cold one:
And, while I'm no enemy of graf, so much of it is just worthless tagging, desperate attempts at self-aggrandizement by talentless nobodies (who will on day, no doubt, be all up in the interweb). Crate Man, on the other hand, really is grand.

Now, for the random:

Vic Murphy, King of Tabletops.

Flight of the Bumble Bee

Dream girlfriend?

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. Well, mostly it was the raddest of times.

And getting rad is a thirsty business, as shown here by Scot "O.M." Breithaupt, Jeff Kosmala, and Perry Kramer, who know that after pulling the tab off a steel can of Schlitz, it's best to keep it cold, and hide the label from track officials and little kids with uptight parents. Too bad O.M. didn't stick to brewskies, eh?

Mmm...Golden Gaytime is treat time, any time.

Here's an incongruous thought: imagine this super psycho Salvatrucha slowly slurping on a Golden Gaytime. I'm not trying to insinuate anything--he clearly loves the putas. Says so right on his chest.

Keep Rippin'.