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It's Dr. Hunter S. Thompson's 76th birthday.

July 18th, 2013 by

take the ride

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson would have been 76 today.

In his honor, as is tradition, here are birthday words from Mr. Drew McKinney:

Has it been a year already? Of course it has, I can tell by simply gazing at a mirror. The hairline has, impossibly, receded even further back on my skull in a grand attempt to meet my neck. What little hair remains is a bit grayer, the creases in my face are a bit deeper, and the joints in my body make a bit more noise. And so much for aging gracefully. They lied to us about that part but what are we going to do about it? Those liars are already dead or dying and the energy we have left is better spent thinking about our own inevitable demise.

This time last year I was in the sticks of Georgia, sweltering in near triple-digit heat, watching the wells evaporate dry and wondering when it would all come to a fiery end as we inched our way to glorious spontaneous combustion. That fire never came though, we got through it and somehow between then and now I made my back to my favorite city, that fair maiden of the West, my old lover, San Francisco. The hellfire of Georgia has been replaced with a blanket of cold mist and I sit with a mug of green tea, bundled up in more layers than I have bones, contemplating the merits of powering up the space heater. Whatever happened to the July of my childhood?

318 Parnassus Avenue

318 Parnassus

San Francisco is an amazing city. It is somehow both inspiring and unpleasant, a place where the rich get richer and the dreams of peasants get crushed under thousand-dollar designer boots. The working class can no longer afford to live here and must be shuttled in by crowded bus or train to beg for pennies or the dregs of someone's Soy Latte. And yet... we all scratch and claw and bite and curse to stay here so there must be something about it.

The Good Doctor spent a fair amount of time here. His residence at 318 Parnassus isn't that far from where I am now and rumor has it that if you look closely you can still make out where the bullet holes were patched. From drunk stumbling in Haight Ashbury to drunk dancing in the Marina to drunk drinking South Of Market, Hunter had this town wired. He was equally at home writing in the offices of Rolling Stone or "managing" a gritty sex theater in the Tenderloin or partying with Hells Angels in Potrero Hill. It's said that Hunter knew the location of every motel ice machine in the city, the better to make his famous Chivas snowcones with, and I choose to believe it. The stories those ice machines must have.

Oh to have been in San Francisco during that time and with that man. I can totally imagine what it was like... roaring down Geary Boulevard to Point Lobos Avenue in a car with the top down, cold beers comfortably nestled between thighs, the remnants of a joint dangling from the ashtray, rock music blaring into the night. The ocean would come into view and Hunter would smile, flick his eyes to make sure I was cool with this and then he would floor the accelerator and we would be airborne, soaring through the air silent and weightless, flying off the cliff until we landed with a crashing thud on the beach below. He'd drain his beer and toss it into the waves, grab another from the six-pack and pop it open. "See," he would say, "nothing to worry about."

Happy Birthday, Doc.

take the ride

HST in the car via Aspen Post. 318 Parnassus photo via psychedelicsister.blogspot.com. Thank you, Drew. Thank you, Hunter.

About Grace and cancer.

March 4th, 2012 by


She's right here. She's in the room with me right now.

My small friend.

She's my friend. She's my comrade. She has comforted me gently when I was at my most distraught. I love her dearly.

Soon, she'll leave.

She's leaving. I don't want her to leave.

An elegant, brash, long-haired orange cat 14-years old, my small friend Grace has oral cancer. Squamous-cell carcinoma to be specific.

She was just diagnosed last week. Events have been moving chillingly fast.

There are tumors growing along the inside of her lower jaw, even now. Right now. I can't stop their growth. I couldn't stop how large they've become. She is slowly but surely losing the use of her tongue.

A few days ago she could barely eat her customary dry food. Yesterday she could not eat liquified wet food. Today we fed her wet food from a large plastic syringe.

There is no action I can take to stop what is happening. There is no throat I could grasp. There is no extreme thing I could do to parley away or to delay this story's coda. I am helpless.

I am not helpless. Writing this right now is my way of fighting back against cancer.

And here is why: Grace is the best cat I have ever known. She makes it all look so easy. And it's not even quite accurate to call her a cat. It almost talks down to her to call her a cat; I call her a creature. My creature. And I am hers. I live with two strange, singular creatures. I love them both dearly.

Let me tell you about Grace. Grace is contrary. Often are the times when she leaves a room strutting her hips away from appeals for her to make an appearance, her impeccably-kept tail sailing after her like a flag.

Grace is grace.

Grace is loud. There is no sound like it in the world. A demanding atonal honk of a voice: "Weghnr." she'll say, green eyes staring back with authoritative insistence. She'll demand your attention and get it. She declaims. She is calmly persistent. She is sure in her arguments. And when she likes you, she'll pursue with the most indirect maneuvers. First taking over your jacket cast over on the bed or chair, later making her way onto the couch with you. Next thing you know, she's asleep beside you with her chin atop your knee. Her indirect adoring leads over time into open full-fledged adoration. I see what you do now, Grace. Adorably devious.

Grace is comforting. In my time of greatest despair, when I almost lost the woman I love to a car accident, whenever I could be persuaded to leave the hospital, Grace would greet me when I returned home. I'd open the door to a acknowledging Whheghnr. At night, Grace slept at my hip, right near where my hands rest, so I could stroke her fur as we both drifted to sleep.

Grace on my hip.

Grace is insouciant. She knows that she isn't supposed to drink from the toilet and despite having both a water bowl and 60-ounce water mug, Grace makes it her mission to sup from the porcelain chalice as often as she can. When admonished, she doesn't slink from the bathroom -- no, she trots from her arena of infraction, tail held high and proud.

Grace is exacting. No feline has ever operated in such a well-adjusted way when navigating blankets with people under them. Grace isn't afraid of what legs or feet might be doing under sheets and comforters, no. She triangulates where and which lap or leg will grant her the most warmth, and then she moves calmly across the bed (no matter the turbulence), closing in on the chosen site to make muffins (kneading and kneading and kneading). Finally, when she is satisfied, she flumphs down and deigns close her eyes.

Grace is model-quality.

Grace is tough. When faced with a human's (farcical) challenge to her haughty authority, Grace will parade to her scratching post and scratch and scratch and scratch her claws in, all the while radiating defiant vigor. "You dare?" she seems to sneer at her audience.

Grace is unafraid. She's a queen. She appraises. She inspects. She fears nothing on two legs. She enters a room not by the side of the doorway, but coursing right through the middle of it, confident of her place in things. No enemies here, not in her domain, but things to be overseen.

Grace considers whether or not to disapprove.

My small friend is leaving soon, and there is nothing I can do to prevent that.

I can clean the blood and spittle from her muzzle. I can help hold her while she drinks from a plastic syringe. I can brush her still gorgeous fur that she can't bathe herself any more.

She is not in pain. She simply doesn't understand why her mouth doesn't work anymore. She's frustrated. She has gotten slower each day. More spittle around her mouth each day. The spittle slowly grew pinker, and now every so often, redder.

In the past several weeks, Grace took to strongly insisting on drinking from our plastic water cups that we put on the bedside tables when it's time to go to bed. She was getting thirstier and then we didn't know why. She might have been searching for the particular cup of water that would quench the thirst inside her that wasn't going away like it used to when she drank.

Yet even as she weakens, her sharp green eyes still shine with the same bright, brash unstinting love.

Grace loves.

It is among my worst nightmares to go the vet with three members of my family, returning home with only two.

Now, tonight, she sits on the hassock in front of the chair I sit on. As ever, her head is pointed away from me so if she opened her eyes, she could see whatever might be coming towards her. Her ears, though, are cocked back. She's listening to me breathe. She's listening to my fingers stroke her long soft warm orange fur. She's right here. I love her. I don't want her to leave.

Since her sickness has intensified in the last weeks, sometimes I catch a glimpse of her seemingly staring blithely off into the distance at nothing. This is unlike her. I recognize what she is doing. My childhood cat Bowdrie did the same as his organs began to stop working. We are near on towards the end. She seems to be looking at something off over an imagined horizon line, where I imagine that she imagines an oasis of water where she can drink as much as she could want, where she can finally feel as refreshed as she remembers water once made her, and rest.

I know that she's going to leave. I don't want her to leave. She's my friend. She's part of my family.

I can't take the cancer from her. Would that I could. I can't. So this is how I fight: I write about it, I write about her, and now I'm going to tell you what you can do to fight cancer.

Do as many of these as you can:

These are Lauren's awesome knuckles.

These are Lauren's knuckles. They are also awesome.

• 1.) My epic friend Lauren is going to shave her head again for charity to help kids with cancer. She's doing this with the St. Baldrick's Foundation in Chicago. Here is where the money goes to. Lauren is awesome. Fight cancer by pledging money to her charity drive. Do it now.

* Lauren Vega

Participant ID: P-502891 Role: Shavee

I've answered the call to be a hero! I'm having my head shaved to stand in solidarity with kids fighting cancer, but more importantly, to raise money to find cures.

Please support me with a donation to the St. Baldrick's Foundation. This volunteer-driven charity funds more in childhood cancer research grants than any organization except the U.S. government.

Your gift will give hope to infants, children, teens and young adults fighting childhood cancers. So when I ask for your support, I'm really asking you to support these kids. Thank you!

Click "Make a donation" to give online, or donate by phone or mail.

Make A Donation

• 2.) If you have a pet or pets or live with someone, stop smoking. Pets in homes with smokers at least two times more likely to develop cancer. Use this as your excuse to stop smoking. Do it.

• 3.) Tomorrow isn't a given. Today: Call or write someone you love that perhaps you'd been putting off contacting. Do it.


She left today.

Grace Kelly Blanche DuBois Hirschfeld Rogers, AKA GraceFace From Outer Space – 1997-2012. She won. You won, Grace.

Rest, my little friend.

Goodbye, Grace. I love you.

Goodbye, Grace. I love you.

Buzz likes the Giants.

August 19th, 2011 by


He does. Look:

Found inexplicably on the intro page of Hydrahead's website. Looks to be screencapped from Game Two of the 2010 World Series in SF between the Texas Rangers and the San Francisco Giants.

Go Buzz go. And let's go Giants.

Do you know what today is? It's Brickday.

October 15th, 2010 by

It's October 15.

That means it's Brickday.

It's Brickday.

Look, it's Brickday at West Portal Station in San Francisco.

Brickday? Yes. Or Brick Day if you like.

Here is how to celebrate this glorious holiday:

1.) On October 15, call in sick to work.
2.) Get a brick.
3.) Take the brick to a bar during the day. Ideally the Stork Club in Oakland.
4.) Set the brick gently on the bar or table.
5.) Drink.

Read the full coverage and listen to the podcast over at The M-OceanView Journal.

And make Brickday your own.

"With the San Francisco Giants, it’s バイ バイ 赤ちゃん!"

September 29th, 2010 by

Bye Bye Baby



From The M-OceanView Journal:

Found by TenAndFive.com's James Hutchinson, this work of unspeakable geekiness is inexorably awesome.

Clockwise from the top left, the players are: closer Brian Wilson, catcher Buster Posey, 1B/OF Aubrey Huff, SP Tim Lincecum, and SP Matt Cain.

Good work, n8dawg from DA. Nailed the details from Cain's post-pitch glare and high socks to Wilson's beard, wrist tattoo and fist-pump. Good work, indeed.

'Cause when the Giants come to town, it's バイ バイ 赤ちゃん!

Who would've thunk --

August 13th, 2010 by

"Who would've thunk
the thirteenth fell on Friday?"

Today is Friday the 13th. So, watch this live recording of the band Jawbreaker playing their song "In Sadding Around."

This shatterer of a song sums up many of the roiling doubt-stricken internal emotions of being young.

Or being any age.

Never before had the sentence "We make plans." held or hurt so much.

Lyrics on a cloudy day.

The video is by YouTube's boywithstars, who had this commentary on the clip:

Jawbreaker playing "In Sadding Around" live at Vino's in Little Rock, AR on 6/15/1993. This is from the tour that followed their recoding session with Steve Albini for 24 Hour Revenge Therapy. I've kept all the between song banter and whatnot so that you can view the whole show if you'd like, the quality of this one is a bit lacking. Go to my profile, and check out the playlists for the easiest way to watch the whole thing, or other shows. This is part 11 of 14

(Thank you to YouTube's boywithstars & the indispensable loosecharm.org. Hello LRRN! Hello LNZLLO! Hey, Hodge.)

It's a Warm Avocado Thursday here in The Mission.

July 15th, 2010 by


Warm. Summer-y. Delicious. Yes.

It's a Decycling Wednesday.

June 30th, 2010 by

What do you do on a Decycling Wednesday?

"de-stroy cycles and circles, not myself"

Here's the song "Decycling" by American Steel, one of the best punk rock bands The Bay Area has ever seen.

Listen now:  

The lyrics to American Steel's song Decycling held aloft in San Francisco.

They are an inspiration. Make this Decycling Wednesday your own.

Here's American Steel playing "Every New Morning," Maria," and "Rogue's March" at The Fest 8 in Gainesville, FL.

This one's for the girl with all the names.

A cheerless welcome to San Francisco.

June 16th, 2010 by
A cheerless welcome to San Francisco.

"Two of them cheerlessly welcomed the third to San Francisco, and then they ate their burritos in silence. Salesmen with their binders, binders filled with sadness."

We love Sexpigeon.org so, so much.

This is what he does: to a happenstance photo, some text is added to guide the reader. That's it. And this particular it is amazing.

He does this sort of thing constantly and consistently and we love him for doing so. Love.

(Can anyone figure out which burrito place this is? I don't recognize those chairs.)

Do not be scared of being eaten

June 9th, 2010 by

Paul Of Navarone explains what's inside the fox, tiger, rhino, and brown bear.

These come to us from Paul Of Navarone.

He took it upon himself to figure out how the insides of animals work, and we are all richer for his experience.

Paul Of Navarone explains what is inside a shark.

Paul Of Navarone explains what is inside a coyote.

Paul Of Navarone explains what is inside a hyena.

From Paul's notes on the hyena:

whilst travelling abroad, it has been my luck to be cornered and attacked by a wide variety of the worlds beasts. they see me as a tasty snack - my scrawny swimmers build and milky green complexion giving the illusion of good health food chow.

it has also been my experience at home, that small children, upon seeing my scars ask about these same beasts with a dread and fear in their little bodies entirely unhealthy for todays youth. and so. to dispel the foggy claptrap built up over years of wildlife documentary, bedside fairy tales and poor parental fearmongery, (it is no wonder bedwetting is the prevalent killer it is today) i bring you part 1, in a series of information graphics detailing my experience in the digestive flume of beasts.

there is nothing to be frightened of.

why if it teaches even one ignorant child, then it will have been worth getting eaten alive by all these different animals to find out whats inside. it still amazes me, that we can put a man on the moon, but we cant tell whats on the inside of a doberman. whichever political party has the guts to make this their key issue will get my vote. thats for damn sure.


the hyena.

this is one of a series of box frames i have made about whats inside animals(about 30 in total).

the box frame measures 256 x 256 x 45. so fairly close to the size of a piece of a4 paper (300x200). i took a photograph with admiral ackbar standing in front for scale. thats a small model of admiral ackbar and not the real 6ft tall admiral ackbar obviously. i made the illustration of the hyena on the front with the text. it is adhered directly to the glass. the illustration on the inside is not mine, its vintage and is ripped directly from an old 1970s childrens book - oh my!! - and is stuck down with coloured plumbers tape.

perhaps you could keep it on a shelf above your newborn so as to instill a fearless outlook in the nipper. perhaps youre a teacher and could keep it in your school classroom in the event of rabid hyenas sparking mob panic in the playground. perhaps you could keep it by your armchair and when your youngest comes home in a terror you can klunk him round the earhole with it, and warn him sternly of the dangers of cowardice in the face of clear science, which is what this is, i assure you.

hyenas have beaches inside. fact.

id really like to be able to send to america and beyond. but airmail rates are practically theft to do so. (it weighs 1.6kg). so its just for the uk i guess.

(Via LJ/randompictures via krushisabitch via Paul Of Navarone. This post goes out to Neko Case.)