Rusty Trap of Wondrous Doom

Nothing like a funky traveling carnival in a far off land. This was in a little town by the Caribbean Sea. The carnival assembled itself in the dark of the night, after the lightning-rod salesman scouted the perfect spot. The rides were sparse: a carousel, this rusted metal contraption, and an old bull. We paid our one-dollar to get our bright blue ticket for the ferris-wheel. Thing was, it wasn't really a ferris-wheel, it was more of a rusty trap of doom. The Panamanian carney locked us in the metal cage and started heaving our car round and round like a demented schoolyard bully. Then a kid, no older than 11, started up the motor and got the big wheel moving. It groaned and shook and spun at a velocity I didn't think was possible. The engine whined and we sucked in gasoline fumes as we smashed around inside our little sardine can- no restraining bar, no pads, just us tumbling around like shoes in a dryer. No way could this be legal in the States. We were laughing and trying not to die and laughing and trying not to vomit. No one else was in line, so that little kid just kept us spinning and spinning, while the carney smoked a cigar and whistled at the girls.

Martini Hangovers

When my mother graduated from college in the mid-60s, she took an ocean liner from New York City to London. It took two weeks, and every night there was a formal dinner with tuxedos and cocktail dresses, dancing to live ballroom music, and plenty of intrigue. She'd sleep off the martini hangover the next day, read on wooden deck chairs in the afternoon and then have dinner all over again. She has never forgotten the friends and couples she met on that trans-Atlantic voyage almost 50 years ago. The art of travel has changed and lost much of its class and patience. I went on my first cruise a few years ago, the Princess Cruise Line (The Love Boat!), and the company I brought along was great fun, but the boat was filled with tacky people in Gap shorts and flip-flops dancing to cheesy pop music and eating cafeteria food. Similarly, my mother just returned from a long train ride through scenic southern Canada. While the views were great, she said it felt like a long, cramped airplane ride with TV dinners and mini-bottles of cheap wine. Perhaps this is just what budget travel has become, or perhaps I see the old style of travel through a nostalgic lens, but boy, I'd love to spend two weeks at sea in my tuxedo, reading for long uninterrupted stretches, ballroom dancing to a live orchestra, and recovering from a martini hangover.

Half a Decade in the Making

It's been half a decade in the writing, but a first print of the rough cut is currently on its way to the Inspiration Conspiracy headquarters. It's got a million typos, plenty of stories that will never make it to the next cut, and way too many pages (736), but it's a complete first draft. It's been 5 years! I now understand why I hear that books often take a decade to write. Hopefully it will see the light of day soon, and be available to the friendly folks who are interested. Hopefully. It'll be good to have a solid copy in my hands.

Extraordinary Bombardiers

We thought it would be fun to go to the thrift store and buy outfits for a night out on the town. Each fashion ensemble had to be under ten dollars, that was the challenge. We were quite successful, it's San Francisco after all, and homeless, rock 'n' roll chic is everywhere, including the Salvation Army. After we suited up, the test was to be admitted into a ritzy cocktail lounge (Top of the Mark) with our discount duds. We told the bouncer, and everybody else too, that we were in a band called Apache Dream. We explained that we were quite indie, and that no one had heard of us... yet. We went on to explain that our new album, The Extraordinary Bombardiers was coming out the next day and we were celebrating. A group of suited VCs (venture capitalists) offered to buy us a drink. We said we should buy them all drinks, laughed (hoping they wouldn't take us up on our offer), and then accepted their free drinks. After two complimentary rounds (I drank Vespers because that's what James Bond drinks) we left our new admirers, saying we were off to a private listening party. They said they'd look out for Apache Dream. We said we would too, and made our exit. 

North Beach

North Beach has become my new favorite neighborhood in San Francisco. There's this two block section that has everything I need for a night out on the town. An evening starts out at Francis Coppola's Zoetrope Cafe with his spaghetti and meatballs and house red. Then things move across the street to Tosca Cafe for Vespers and a jukebox that only plays opera. Then a stumble across the street again to City Lights Bookstore for an intoxicated reading in the upstairs poetry room, and by reading I mean me reading my favorite parts of books aloud to my friends. Then halfway down the block to the new steampunk bar Comstock, where fellows with curly mustaches and ladies in corsets serve Absinthe cocktails. Then, finally, to the corner doughnut shop for a nightcap- a freshly cooked glazed confection and a small carton of milk. And the best part of North Beach is they paint signs all over to point you on your merry way (pictured above). This is particularly helpful after imbibing the Green Fairy.

Sexy Magazines

I love magazines! They are so full of hope and dreams. And sexiness. And information, too. I miss the magazine stands on every corner in NYC. I miss those stores in Manhattan that carry every magazine that ever existed and lets you buy weird European fashion ones for big prices like 25 Euros. Those stores don't exist that much in San Francisco. San Francisco seems to only sell magazines in the Safeway checkout aisle, except in this photo, taken at Booksmith on the Haight. Speaking of magazines, I once applied for this cool staff writing job at Nerve.com and they said they were looking for someone who could write highbrow and lowbrow and everywhere in-between. They said an ideal candidate had a subscription to both The New Yorker and Hustler. I didn't get the job, but I subscribe to a lot of magazines these days: The Week, Rolling Stone, New Yorker, Juxtapose, Inked, Outside, The Surfer's Path, and Middle School Digest. I'm thinking about getting a magazine rack for my living room so I can remedy San Francisco's magazine problem.

Glamping

I was recently accused of being a "Glamper". This came after I described a camping trip I had just gone on to a friend. This friend often camps in the land surrounding Yosemite National Park, hiking in his gear, miles and miles, with a high-end 19oz tent, freeze dried food, minus 120 degree sleeping bag. This is not what I do. I drive my camping "gear" in, and by "in" I mean into music and art festivals in the woods and deserts. I roll out Persian rugs, light Moroccan lanterns, string LED light ropes through my two-family tent from Target. I blow up a queen-sized mattress (with an electric pump), lay down 400 count sheets and goose down comforters. I put up shade structures, assemble four burner stoves, and sometimes bring out a dusty couch. I lug in a crate or two of costumes and make-up and chilled champagne. So no, I guess this isn't traditional camping. It's glam camping. All my friends do it. It's great fun, like bringing a traveling circus into the woods. We're Glampers.

A Good Sign

Many of my friends around me are starting to publish books. I take this as a good sign, as friends can only lift us higher. I think about groups of friends, collaborators, collectives, tribes, rising together, supporting each other, eventually "hitting it" together. Dustin Hoffman and Gene Hackman were roommates in NYC when nobody knew them. Hemingway and Fitzgerald were buddies during the lean struggling years in Paris. I firmly believe it's good to surround yourself with friends who are doing things or going places or becoming people you want to be. I'm in a writer's collective called the Non-Fiction Novelists. We all have great books brewing and some are starting to come out. We take group photos, with the thought that down the line, young writers will look at those photos and say, damn, they all knew each other and hung out back before they took over the literary world. As for now, when I see my friends' books in bookstores, I turn them to face outward to encourage other people to buy them, like in this photo. Jaimal's book about running away to Hawaii and finding surfing and Buddhism is great. If you find it in a bookstore, turn it out, or better yet, buy it. Jaimal is reading at San Francisco's LitQuake Festival this Monday night (10/4/10) as part of Words and Waves: An Evening of Surf Lit http://litquake.org/events/surf-lit

What does my Trader Joe's shopping cart say about me?

What does my Trader Joe's shopping cart say about me? I consulted my inner therapist and this is her analysis: "The large amount of pre-prepared meals indicates his continual denial, that heating up meals does not equate to cooking meals. The Indian and Mexican food points to an appreciation of travel and an understanding of the dreams and aspirations of foreign cultures (perhaps too, that he has a secret fetish for Vishnu Piñatas). The box of assorted dinner crackers reveals that he still feels like a hapless child, but desires to appear to be a sophisticated adult who knows how to entertain. The bottles of booze (Coppola's Cabernet, Jameson's Irish Whiskey, and cheap Prosecco) indicate he wants to be prepared for any celebratory drinking occasion, or perhaps on the other hand, that he is depressed. Finally, the bouquet of flowers, is a clear indication of the sunshine in his soul and that he thinks, he's worth it."

Hot Naked Groupies Not Allowed

A colleague of mine took me to a death metal concert the other day. Maybe I shouldn't say death metal, but it was heavy, and the lead singer  seemed to be channeling some combination of Satan and a gorilla (funny, cause in this picture I snapped, he's channeling a bit of Jesus).  As I sipped my expensive plastic cup of Scotch on the outside of the mosh pit, well, quite on the outside, in fact, not even close and way back by the roped-off disabled seating-- well, I pondered the band's name, Dir En Grey. I figured it had to be a literary reference to Dorian Gray, but the band was Japanese and seemed to only be grunting like simians. But I liked the idea of a bunch of Satan worshipping rockers quietly reading the classics of literature on their tour bus. I could picture a sign outside the bus that saying, "Hot Naked Groupies Not Allowed- This is a Quiet Place for Reading."