Poor Man's Speedball

This is my drug of choice. The street name is poor man's speedball. It's legal, for now at least. There are different methods to mix this drug. In this photo it's 16 fluid ounces coffee, cut with a few tablespoons of half-and-half. This is carefully ensconced in a 6mm, double enforced pint beaker and insulated with a cardboard hand-protector. The other beaker contains 16 fluid ounces of Stella Artois, chilled to 7 degrees celsius. Here's the trick that your average street dealer wouldn't know: the mixing of these substances does not occur in pyrex pitcher, no. The powerful narcotic is administered through the mouth, through alternating sips, and mixed in the stomach. The high comes on fairly quickly; it's a rushing-Zen, a speedy-calm, a passionate-relax, followed by a bathroom run. The PMS (not to be confused with the other one) is perfect for writing that first draft of a kick ass memoir, or grading student essays, or as I ended up doing tonight, playing pinball in a laundromat.

Apocalypse

Three years ago I had a bit of a family reunion up at the EarthDance Festival in Laytonville, California. It's kind of like a smaller Burning Man, but instead of methamphetamine Road Warriors on the moon, it's more like stoned wizards in the forest. Well late one night, while tromping through the brambles, I stumbled across the most charismatic and debauched bunch of carnival folk- a band called The Yard Dogs Road Show. It was steam punk, sword swallowing, burlesque, voodoo, sex and danger. The gang leader was this cat named Leighton Kelly- he of the skull rings, tattoos, striped socks, and yes, the curly mustache. I was mesmerized, and I abused my press pass to basically stalk this crew. In the year that followed, I got to throw sliced turkey around Juliette Lewis' dressing room, drink whiskey out of a shoe, and blow my nose on an American flag--all with these glorious hoodlums! Leighton even had me over to his house to take some old typewriters, clapboard suitcases, and finger-less gloves off his hands, because he had just returned from India and had the epiphany to "get rid of all my excess baggage!" Well long story short, he drew this cool picture of me (at the lovely Sonia's request). He's got this amazing blog that actually inspired this blog, and it features an original drawing a day and some hilarious musings. I cannot recommend it enough. Click back through the hundreds of drawings for inspiration overload. Here it is: http://dayone2012.tumblr.com/

Swamp Trailer

I thought it was cool back in the 90's when Sean Penn's house in the Hollywood Hills burned down and instead of rebuilding, he lived for a year in an Airstream trailer on his charred property. I thought it was even cooler when my dad bought a school bus (well, let's be honest, a short bus) and renovated the interior to be his new house, and then took us in it to Burning Man. But this thing, parked across from my front door, is another story. This trailer looks like it fell in a swamp, stayed there for a decade or so, and then was recently fished out. And some dude is living in there! I haven't seen him yet, but I see the light on at night. I imagine he's some sort of swamp thing, or a guy with no teeth named Cleatus, or maybe, he's an eccentric millionaire getting back to his Deliverance roots. It's ugly and blocking my view of the bums in the park. I'm paying a nutty amount of rent to look at this. Maybe I should stop paying rent, give in, and just move in with Cleatus. Maybe then, I can finish writing my book.

This dock makes me want to do things...

I have a magic camera that takes pictures of beautiful things and makes them even more beautiful. But a dock like this is beautiful even without my magic camera. Beautiful because of what this view conjures in your heart and mind. Well at least in my mind. It was nearing sunset and we were on Catalina Island and everything felt so pure again, so much so, that I wanted to take off my shoes, well all my clothes actually, and run full speed, launching into a cannonball at the end, sailing through the magical dusky air and kerplashing into the refreshing sea, gasping at the chill and the beauty and the purity. The two dudes at the end made me think twice, but the thought brought a smile to my spirit.

crotch-rocket

Harper rides a crotch-rocket. It's cherry red and currently sitting in my garage collecting dust. It's got a bad spark plug or something. Harper is thinking about trading it in for a car (maybe this one pictured here!). He often says, it's not a matter of "if", it's a matter of "when" in relation to laying it down. And by that he means skidding his body along pavement at an extreme speed. We often dream of being Evil Kanevil; Harper on his steel horse, me on my surfboard, but we're also getting older, and learning to find thrills without risking it all. I currently enjoy scrapbooking while drinking fine scotch, and Harper is "enjoying nice bicycle rides around Lake Merrit", while also drinking fine scotch.

Swinger

I like to think of myself as a swinger. But a bunch of foolios have tarnished that moniker, made it relate to hot-tubbin' in Marin and growing 80's mustaches and having "open relationships". That's not the kind of swinger I am. I go to county fairs and drop hard earned dollars at the ticket booth (or "booth-o boleto" in Mexico, where the carnivals are broken down and brilliant) and I ride the swings. It's a dying art form, but a noble one. I'm a swinger, and I'm taking back that word!

The General

I'm considering trading in the dented Mazda 323 for this two-wheeled General. But only if Sonia Q. wears cut-off shorts and calls me Luke. And only if my dad lets me call him Uncle Jesse. And Pasha lets me call him Rascoe. And Dr. Cahn lets me call him Enis. And Harper lets me call him Cooter. And, mostly, only if I can shoot flaming arrows at bad guys.

Siamese Dream

Well, the circus sideshow came through town. I paid to see the tiniest man and the bearded lady and I had a great time cracking jokes with the lobster boy, but the Siamese twins took my breath away. I offered to buy them a drink (two drinks that is) but these two beauties, connected since birth, wanted me to win them a black velvet Elvis in a game of skill and chance. After spending my paycheck trying to dart a balloon that never popped, they sent me off with this picture postcard (25 cents) and a kiss on the cheek- well both cheeks, that is.