2008 predictions Pt. III

I will continue to eat and drink copiously of G-D's finest in the coming year.





This year's brewing will be better.

2008 predictions Pt. IV

Baby will buy us a goat farm up in the rugged hills of Carolina.



She'll be briefly be checked into a mental hospital following a run at modeling and the big lights of Los Angeles.



Balance will be regained and a life of love and leisure will resume.

Christmas came and went
A giraffe mug unwrapped on Tuesday morning
Santa in a sleigh overhead
And the Christ child rolling in his grave

Yesterday afternoon I traipsed home in a buzzed glee of Seahawks victory. Sound and defeating, similar to the destruction of the Pittsburgh Bumblebees, shells smashed, juices flowing, wings twitch legs are going, don't get sentimental, it all ends up drivel, a Radiohead song to sing. Disassembled at Foxborough in Masshole glory, earning me another well-won bottle of rum and a few bragging rights.

The afternoon light fading, Lake Merritt lighting up orangeyyellow and the days scant warmth leaving quickly. Reached home in time to kiss my girl, wash my face and run out to meet the buyers of Wheaton. Oh Wheaties, bless your heart, I sold you for five hundred bucks to a World of Warcraft-looking warlock named Oliver and his beautiful drunk redheaded girlfriend. They were sweet and I liked them from the first

To Wheaton: May you embrace your new family and live a long life across town in Alameda.

To Andrew: ... Payback's a motherfucker.


Happy hour on the patio...


Andrew's brain on Wild Turkey...


Socked in on the Golden Gate...

A conversation at the ballpark

In honor of Wheaton 1991-?

That's Wheaton back there behind us. A little four-door Nissan from 1991. That's Rebekah I have my arm around and a jade plant on the roof that she gave me. We're heading through the Canadian stretches in the Spring of 2005. Rebekah was struggling for sanity down in Antarctica working with a bunch of quasi-scientist frat student types on that big chunk of ice. That was the year Antarctica split in two, one big crack moving across the frozen continent. I guess the continent is a pair of gigantic islands shaped similar to two lungs alongside one another, though you'd never know land to be beneath except for the rocks showing on the peaks of the Transantarctic Mountains. I imagine the crack running that line of water beneath, separating the two. Nonetheless a significant occurence; certainly more interesting than Earnest Shackleton and his dummies, but maybe not as much as that baby Emperor penguin in Happy Feet dancing to his heart's content.

While all this was happening I was working three food service jobs in Portland, Maine... struggling with two somewhat undefinable relationships, smoking and drinking copiously yet running and otherwise exercising like a madman. There were unaccounted sleepovers, walking pneumonia, depression and confusion, longings like a lost student, and too many Japanese authors' words in my head (likened to the Germans or Russians if you ask me). Danger for the fragile soul mind you; rationalization of the morbid, beauty in sacrifice.

That's around the time I found Wheaton. She was abandoned for a year in this cleared space in the northern woods of Maine. A red Sentra left to the elements of rain and snow, the salty damp of the coastline. Beneath her hood a dead battery, the engine block rusted and flaked reminding me of barnacles on a pier or side of a humpback. The owner was an estranged adulterous husband; the seller was his wife. She signed over the paperwork and sold it for a steal, partially out of spite.

I wanted to get back out west and put together a plan with Rebekah (who had similar wishes) on some scratchy sat phone connection, maybe distorted by polar magnetism or some such thing. She flew in to Philly and connected to Portland and then we set out. Wheaton saw the provinces, almost every damn one, the Great Lakes. She came down into more G-D fearing country, ran the line of the Pacific and inland to the western states. My wheels, my salvation, my demise, my ridiculous car-love and growing superstitions. She never criticized my alcoholism, my compulsions, half-baked plans and erratic heartbeat... never put down my passengers, or refused a state of place or mind, only delivered me safe and sound and often confused, but otherwise cheaply traversed by high mpg. Oh bless that damn car.

I can only imagine her breaking heart now on the houseside curb, with her replacement just feet away. A 2003 Toyota Echo named Cubby with power-steering, unheard of to the likes of Wheaton.

Little surfer little one
Made my heart come all undone
Do you love me, do you surfer girl
Surfer girl my little surfer girl

I have watched you on the shore
Standing by the ocean's roar
Do you love me do you surfer girl
Surfer girl surfer girl

Wandering where the lions are.

This one starts in Oakland on a cool, damp evening. We're hitting flat tennis balls over the net to all stretches of the court. Only five o'clock and the sun's going down behind a thick blanket of clouds over San Francisco. And up in the hills the houselights are watery in a lighter haze of gray. I'm like a dog on my side of the net, the dog that's been waiting for his owner all fucking day long... eager and upset and frantic. I'm running after every ball, running it back to the fence ten armlengths away. There's something inside of me that's trying to get out; I'm trying to wear it down. I smile and sweat awaiting the next ball, as if to wag my tail. I've done this before.

I think this is the night I beat it, but I had to go through me to get there... face to face. And so I picked up a wicked cold, a night soon after four blankets over the bed and I'm shivering delirious and half-awake, at war with some invisible aspect. And in the day my skin burns as I walk down the street and this facetious National song in my head.

I'm put together beautifully
Big wet bottle in my fist, big wet rose in my teeth
I'm a perfect piece of ass
Like every Californian
So tall I take over the street, with highbeams shining on my back
A wingspan unbelievable
I'm a festival, I'm a parade
And all the wine is all for me

We had some happy obligations south of the city, I mean south like Mexico. Way down in the bottom of the American boot, the legging or whatever it is. The ash settling on Orange and Bernadino; some mansion policies cashed in Riverside, Los Angeles. The drive down this way unimaginative, God's cutouts of earth and vegetation the color of cardboard. I imagined the smog caught in valleys encouraging to the imagination, like the voids of whites and grays in a japanese silk painting, or multiple endings of a choose-your-own-adventure novel. But I was too cynical to imagine anything more than the already true dust and wasteland and stripmall lying beyond. I drank tea and listened to Dylan's Time Out of Mind, that nicotine voice somehow sweet. My baby took a nap and I passed a lot of cars.

Four-hundred and fifty miles into the six-lane freeway network of SoCal, weaving between fine driving machines recently rolled off the lot. Cathleen's sister had dinner waiting for us in her cozy apartment, a strange mix on the stereo and a couple dewey bottles of beer on the table. I dreamt of shallow darkness and street vendors. I saw dust-laden soldiers thick with gear tramping through Nasiriyah and Baghdad. Something didn't feel right, there was something unsaid in my life... an inability to do anything but feel or not feel the atrocities beyond the bubble. Somehow not in conflict with the love abundant in my life, but nonetheless real. The sleep of NyQuil and safe harbor.

Jack London was born to a lower-working class family and grew up here in Oakland. He wasn't a Niners nor Raiders fan, and certainly didn't root for the lowly mongering motherfuckers in Pittsburgh. But he did like booze and women, and apparently morphine... which was the death of him.

Cathleen takes a moment to reflect...

October bumbling

I looked kind of mean in the mirror. I took out an extra chunk when the clip fell off the razor. It took a minor tantrum to bring me around and the fact that without a job, nobody to really impress... and readying for a roadtrip in the Sierras, there'd be time for it to grow back. I made a couple tough faces at the glass and took a shower.



Puffy and i took a moment to remember what really matters and the people we wish to celebrate this ridiculous life with. A number of drinks in order, we sat down for a few cardgames, some smoking and star-gazing, followed by mid-morning reruns of X-Files accompanied by lewd peanut gallery chatter. I of course scandalized Mulder in lecherous comments; Erin chimed in superbly, waxing sickness with Scully.



Our first day on the road, northward through different shades of gold and brown... white salts flats bordered in sage. We stopped in Alturas, a small town near the border of Nevada and California and tossed a football in the city park. Further on we found a diner and ordered some shakes and fries to go. We ate on a strip of lawn outside an ominous Latter-Day Saints church. Some rednecks looked on from a porch down the street, beers and smokes burning away their afternoon.



Surprise Valley dazzled us with ghost towns and farmland out into an enormous dry lake. All habitations snug up against the foothills of the Sierras and its angled evening light stretching livestock and fencepost shadows. Surprise Valley you are the sweetest fucking valley i have ever seen and i'd like to see you again.

Stopped in at a tavern late at night with a few gaspumps out front. Went inside to find someone to pump some Oregon gas into the car, gotta love that mandatory statewide full-service. The two tables inside were filled with ranchers drinking regular and light beer out of mason jars. The walls were filled with animal heads and horns; i listened to some hunting conversation while the bartender ran the adjacent grocery store further down the counter. "I can't wait to get a buck on my arrow," one offered, which reminded the rest of the table about latest buck whereabouts and more suitable weaponries.



A few hours later into the night we found our destination, Hart Mountain Antelope Refuge. Had a few beers on the hood under a new moon astral sky, the Milky Way brighter than we'd ever seen, then climbed into our tent until morning. Bright light found us in a kind of paradise, autumn colors in the aspen and willow, smell of sage blowing through. A crossword and morning hotspring, couldn't think of anything better.



That's Cathleen fighting the wind for her pants...



Driving across the plains of eastern Oregon, white-knuckling the wheel against sudden bursts of wind... finding little groups of antelope out in the sage. Dark clouds on the horizon and Cathleen excitedly pointing at the sitting livestock as redneck meteorology of impending rain. Up in the mountains we found the most beautiful trail along the Deschutes River and walked until my hypoglycemia nearly drove me to eating my hand. Found a hotel room, cracked a bottle of wine, ordered a pizza and took our troubled selves to the jacuzzi.

Another thousand words...

A month in review

The month began with a solo train trip beneath the bay into the frenzied madness of downtown, rich with Asian tourists ogling trolley cars and storefronts that can also be found in their hometown. I went hither into this mayhem with the intent of birthday shopping for my baby. This is the ceiling of the downtown mall, a shout out to money and all that it can bring.



My girl came home dirtier than I've ever seen anyone who lives indoors. I scrubbed her twice in the shower and baked her a cake for her birthday. After all, twenty-five only comes once.



The beer gods were kind to us; we just barely had enough glass to bottle the hefeweizen and kölsch, a couple delightful summer sissy ales brewed fresh in my bathroom. My brother grabbed a few extra cold bottles from the fridge and downed them to complete the world's fastest recycling process documented.



I awoke one morning to note by the calendar's watch It'd been three months since I was employed. I celebrated with a bubble bath, a peek at the classifieds, and a margarita and some chips.



We pulled into camp, quickly packed anew and set off for North Dome. The trail meandered along a granite ridge alternately climbing steeply and falling away beside pine and spruce canopies. Upon reaching perhaps the most beautiful place ever, we crouched beside a boulder and ate lunch. To our right Yosemite Valley opening by guard of El Capitan and to our left Half-Dome taking the cake for pure granite sweetness. "You rock, rock!" I uttered in awed homage. Before long an east coast couple stumbled along and stood beside us, on this giant rock miles from anywhere. We watched with equal awe as the fellow pulled out his cellphone and made a call only feet away. We took a few pictures for them, they posed blissful and stupid together... and then took a few for us.

A night on the other town, San Francisco...

Joey has been waiting tables at Scoma's for thirty-one years, a decent seafood restaurant at Pier 47 in North Beach. He's cool and facile with a wine-key in hand, breathlessly explaining which fish are fresh today and what else comes on the plate. Joey is large, perhaps a 47 waistline and his lungs strain to fill. Maybe it's the white suitjacket strangling or the sharp Bogart bowtie. Though I wouldn't be qualified to say, I think he's a good man. I like him and I can appreciate his service, something I've struggled with since being a server. My self-consciousness sometimes rises to levels of mind-reading where I swear I can hear the waiter's thoughts, cursing our presence. But not Joey, he's calm and weathered, in no rush and half-asleep but still gentle about his ways.

We eat large and drink two bottles of chardonnay, washing down halibut, tuna and cioppino. The sourdough is fresh and good with an extra slab of butter. We look out on the harbour and silly Fisherman's Wharf skyline, the poor bastards over at Ghiradelli eating chocolate flavored wax and the bleach-white butchers stainless in garb selling farmed fish at the Cannery. Across the street a homeless man holds up a wall of limbs and leaves and crouches down by a garbage can; he's pretending to be a bush and pulls it off pretty well, scaring the shit out of tourists as they walk by.

We fill up and head out toward the street looking for a taxi. A junkshow bar pulls us in, up a flight of stairs to the sound of a blues-trio above. Warehouse style windows look out and we can see the helicopters hovering over downtown rush-hour, Coit Tower is looking particularly nice with the evening light glowing orange on its side. The musicians are bored professionals playing riffs without feeling, running down songs they've prolly played five hundred times. Cathleen and I sip a pint and amuse ourselves by watching the only dancer in the place, a surprisingly beautiful woman obviously alcohol lit gyrating in the corner enticing all the sorry male souls. Our company doubledate gets up for a song and dances at a friendly distance; they look pretty moving together, knowing each other's step so well.

Back on the street we hail and cab and race across town up that mother of a street hill overlooking Alcatraz, you know the touristy one with the streetcars, also the one I nearly burned my transmission out on trying to parallel park last year. Good times. Up over the hill. The girls are singing a classic rock song together in the back seat, the cabbie has the mic to his mouth most of the time speaking what sounds like Farsi in short emphatic sentences. I'm craning my neck out the window, rich pretty couples are strolling in rich pretty Nob Hill and our doubledate passes by in a bright yellow cab.

My baby towers over the main man Dennis...

This day to myself

I started running again and now it calls to me everyday. I'm a much happier person in this state, though there've been times when i ran out of sadness, ran for exhaustion and a subsequent weariness nearly incapable of thought. But even then it was the antidote and i knew it; i used the negativity as fuel.

The sun has been unobstructed for days. I'm over it. My shoulders and neck are pink and hold my fingerprints where i touch for a few seconds, the pink slowly filling the white. I've drank so much water today i'm afraid i'll overhydrate or some such thing. Cathleen was telling me she'd been to the hospital one time for drinking too much of Eve's ale. Seems i'm always recovering from some water-stealing episode afoot~ running the trail along the lake, the tennis courts, or more recently pacing about the house with a bottle of chardonnay to myself. This a.m. i questioned whether last night's drunk was worth this morning's bright welcome. Good god! The sun was so bright! And did i drink and dial? I did...

I climbed out to a quiet house, Cathleen gone for the weekend to play with 50 thousand Burning Man carousers testing the melanin content of their skin. I can see the leather-hided new-agers of Los Angeles drawing mandala in the sand, or Berkeley beats discussing their latest trip over maté. Just the thought makes me wanna go hug my pillow.

I walked around with two cups of water, one for me and one for the plants. Spent some quality time with the herbs building up a chopstick and twisty-tie support system for the basil, which has dumbly outgrown its stem capabilities and flopped over like a dejected sunflower.

It was a tough day for decisions but i managed a call to a potential employer and surprised myself by declining the job, despite desperately needing the income. Hanging up i had a great sense of relief and had to pat myself on the back, and i did quite literally. It's a thing i started doing a few years ago, usually when ending a long hike or run, a personal yet stupid self-congratulation.

I decided to go spend a few dollars to celebrate the fact that no paychecks would be coming for a while longer still. Walking into the bookstore i realized it would be one of those shy days where making eye contact with people plays on the nerves. A pretty common affair for a hangover day. I fidgeted at the counter as the lady ran about the shop finding my book. I grabbed the new Josh Ritter and fumbled for payment acting like an underage kid at a liquor store. Remember when Michael J. Fox got that keg of beer in Teen Wolf? His canine eyes burning red, he leaned over the counter to say,"Give me, a keg of beer!" He was my hero after that...

Valerie summons Astaire and Kelly to her kitchen

It was a curious Saturday night with improvised cocktail concoctions in hand, playing a board game while pizzas baked in the oven. And that's when Val made her move donning tapshoes on the kitchen linoleum... The beautiful art of tap, slight inebriation and an air of nonchalance.
*Link on title

Ano Nuevo State Reserve

Scientists posit that primordial landlubbers crawled from the sea 700 million years ago... After three months at sea, wallowing alone in search of food and the passage of time, an elephant seal finds shore.
*Link on title

Half moon glowing yellow over the Oakland city skyline
I can see it from my bathroom window
Wondering who else is looking at it now

Tonight we're sitting on the couch watching the tele...
and passing a pint of ice cream between us
For a moment there as I gazed out the window
I almost got it...

Megalomania strikes at Circuit City!

What seemed another above-average day in our normal, yet above-average happy lives... became something quite different. There was a sloppy sky overhead terribly uncertain of itself. Am i sunny? Am i cloudy? It was clueless. Our bedcovers looked quite the same, disheveled and lost over the edges. We could've powered our home were my night's nocturnal revolutions harnessed. I like a good toss from time to time.

Everything began quite the same... crossword and coffee in bed, finally beat that fucking Washington Post which had been testing our crossword abilities as of late. I made a slow uncomplicated meal of bacon and potatoes and eggs and melon, plenty helpings of coffee. Finally struggled out of the house after noon. Then began the mad escapade of boxstore hopping, staring up at riddled walls of tele screens looming in lens like umptagonal bug eyes. And the white noise surround sound began its number, and our eyes shifting like tweekers, and the pockmarked faces of salesboys in overwashed hand-me-down staff shirts. Emeryville almost ate us!

The day ended in epic fashion with a three-hour Circuit City stint where i bore witness to the amazing shopping strength of Cathleen. Pen and pad in hand chronicling the pros and cons and picking the minds of multimedia zombies. I couldn't believe her stamina and articulate grace when asking about analog v. digital and tuner types and contrast ratios, meanwhile weighing consumer reports on her handy laptop popups. Fucking amazing!

And as the sun set on the city of Emeryville, which should NOT have its own zipcode, we rode away with a 37'' inch flatscreen and somehow shining guiltless of the grand venture.