it's all theory until the bus shows up

  halloween, quite a few of my family also got the blues...which tends to kinda happen with us. Me, I gotta get out of the passive thing, but that's not what I wanted to add a note to the previous journal entry about.

I don't really 'believe' in astrology, but there is one astrologist I really really like-for his poetry, and sometimes a certain amount of accuracy. Here's what his Piscean entry said; well, parts of it, anyways-"I hope you won't merely wander around the frontier. I hope you'll undertake a meticulous yet expansive exploration of the that virgin territory. Here are some tips on how to proceed: 1. formulate specific questions about what you are looking for. 2. Develop a hypothesis for the experiments you want to carry out. 3. Ignore what doesn't interest you, and pounce only on what stirs your fascination."

Neat.

 but it will have to do, seeing as how it's the day I decided-gonna try and turn this one over slooow, though. Greg's out, and the place is quieter-which means I gotta keep myself busy, painting, editing a movie (finally), looking for some sort of job-anyone know of some sort of menial thing? A painter would be neat. Or, I could decide I'm going slowly somewhat more nuts, and go get psych tests done. Uh, maybe not that. Could be that I haven't had any coffee for a few days.

Anyways.

Thought I'dd add some more. Why not? Perhaps it will please the many reader to see more words here. And so-tripped, and yanked my big toe under, which is a fine way to bruise the poop out of it. That was before coffee. Now the nail, and part of the last joint are pretty much black and blue. And under ice. Well, until the veggies thaw...

Thing is, I've been doing the couch thing for several, or more [!] years now, and had gotten quite used to it. Don't have much stuff, and might consider reducing that amount even more, something I've been gradually doing for awhile now. Take it down to art and art related stuff, clothes, instruments, bikes, computer. So I've realized I make a shitty introvert. Probably because I've had to do the introvert thing since I was about 10ish or so. And I kinda don't like it much. To be more specific: effing can't stand it. done enough navel fucking gazing for way too many years. Sure, I have some small understanding, but I could easily have a lot more, by getting active.

Weird-roomie moves out, and there's all this energy, but it's roiled in anger issues, and just plain depresso. Entirely possible that toe banging wasn't exactly an accident-even though it was [?]-that's a thing that many have debated on, for hundreds of years. My take is that what the concious mind reads as random, because it functions on what it thinks is logic (although it isn't. The alpha state is best described as random connections hitting hither and thither, in a fuzzy logic that's trying, and not really succeeding very well, in decoding the rest of the shit in the mind.) at deeper levels, may well be considered as less than reandom. I though it was just clumsiness, but with all this negativity suddenly roiling around inside me, who's to say the subconcious simply obliged, with a little stumble?

"Sad is to live in solitude"-Triste, sung by ol' blue eyes-seriously, that's what's on the internet radio right now. Heh. Kind of a message right there, aint it? Funky coincidence. Aint whether coincidence are 'real', or not 'real', so much as one decides what to take from any particular moment-it's deeper resonances and meanings. The objective materialists have a massive problem with this-so intent and almost OCD focussed on proving, on defining and analyzing what 'is, or 'isn't', that they lose sight of this simple thing: random or meaningful, the universe is too complex to wait around for you to define, prove, or decide what is real. Perhaps one has a 'supernatural' experience. Sceptic or otherwise, perhaps one might want to ponder not whether the experience was actually real, in any sense of the word, but what any larger meaning might be made of the experience.

Something I'm attempting-with currently limited, but hopefully improving success. To shift from why I'm feeling this way, and what were the causes, into 'what direction might this suggest'? So far, I've made it about 10%ish [very ish] of the way to that. might even turn out to be one of those hidden silver lining kinda things-even if I have to make the dang silver lining myself!

 All my roomate has left to do, is pick up his bike, and one small picture. All I have left to do, is try and get my life together. I wrote down some goals, and I'm thinking I'm gonna do a repeating said goals, each morning. It's been 20 + years of poverty. Grinding, brutal poverty. And there's only one way out. I'm the one that has to do it. I know what i'm up against-myself. After so long, feeling like a complete piece of shit failure is nearly ingrained in me, and to amazing depths. Cause I started out from the ol' broken home, and just kept on going. Sure, learned how to hang on, but not to thrive, and any will and get to itness was pounded out of me, with a one-two combo of dad, and the city.

Want to escape, want to lay down and ignore it, surrender, travel, run wild and utterly stupid and shriek it out of my system. Want to surge ahead, but mostly, want to work my way out of this. Scared. But more scared of more endless poverty, of more not doing shit. I know why I get excited about anything that smacks of doing something, whether there's money or succeess involved or not. Fucking depserate to get out of the shithole.  And having to say to myself " Hey, gotta drop the desperation. Gotta drop the panic, and the fear, all that. Time is now, always now. Twenty plus years of fuck all to say for myself, to prove I did something? Screw it. Yeah, I'm a failure, yeah, feel like I sat on my butt. Speak the truth of what I did. didn't do, or how I feel, and then get a fucking move on. Grind away at that fucker. Hold your head up, put your shoulder to it, like you never have." Punchdrunk? Betcher ass. Fuck, I feel like I've been in the ring with Ali, Foreman and Liston, for way past 15 rounds. Yeah? So? Reach inside, go deep, find that extra bit. Gotta. No one else to do that for ya.

Some people know my story, but not too many. Way I carry myself, way I look, few know. Same as so many people around the world. You wonder about their story, what they've been through. And so many have been through far more than most can imagine.

I feel like I've gotta just get behind the plow, and give'r. Shit, and that'll be just to break the ground. Then there's gonna be removing all them rocks. Then, maybe, I can actually see some results.

 Probably because I haven't been on here for awhile...Greg's moving out, so I get his room, and will finally have four walls I can stare at in absolute boredom...Probably building a desk...here's a note-found a huge old whiteboard-gonna be drawing table, the kind set at an angle. Big enough that I can put the illo board on one side, and use the remainder to do my thumbnails and sketches.

Pretty sweet, that.

Autumn now, all them lervely orange and brown leaves and shit and all that moody crap because Canuckians love being moody and glowery. Pretty famous for that, in certain areas. well, Vancouver for one. I've noticed though, that cultures where people's are fairly comfortable and well off, tend to be a little conservative in the attitude and social mores. In spite of, or following along quite nicely with that whole 'noble peasant' shit.. Either that, or I've been hanging around nerds too much. All opinion anyways.

Announcement thing: came up with a simple, really neat little idea, on october 23rd, fer a webcomic.. Sketching and shit right now. Wanna get a fewpages ahead before I find a site. Don't worry none-once it's all offcial like, everyone will friggin know. will it make me money? Probably not. Being a webcomic and all. Will it get me fame? Huh? what's fame? Okay, will it get me laid? Dunno, it aint up yet. Will I feel a sense of accomplishment that I'm actually doing something? well, I can guarantee the 'doing something' part. 

Some notes about the comic: Yes, it has a name-at the moment, there's only three main characters, more to be added as time goes  on. The structure kind of fascinates me, as there's a distinct story, while at the same time being wide open for just about anything. I haven't plotted the arc for the characters, I've mostly plotted their character type, and the problems facing them. I've actually roughed out a storyline, while at the same time, fully willing to ignore it. Basically, it's simultaneously plotted, and stream of concious, which follows the way it came to me. The idea came to me in a kind of morning reverie, those dreams you have where you're almost kinda half awake. The characters, while nameless, where distinct, and the dream/daydream/idle mental wandering came to me as a question. scene and such set up, now go.

My old band used to work this way-mostly because back then, I was a bit of a fuck up. We'd hash out a basic set of parameters for each song, something resembling a chorus, a few phrases I could always resort to, if I ran out of stream of unconciousness, and needed a break while my brain thought up more crap, and we'd depend on Steve to sort of lead the way. And then we'd just go off, improv it, and the resulting mess usually (though not always. It's a risk) worked out pretty cool. That's the approach I'm taking with this. Oh, there is likely going to be a defintie story arc-I'll want to end this at some point.

Towards this end, I'm currently looking into webcomic sites that offer freehosting, cause I'se poor, y'know. Once the durned thing is up, and going (possibly a page or two a week-gotta nail down a specific schedule), I'll make with the title of the thing. And anything written in here will likely be about the webcomic. Probably direct people who are interested to here. Not that I'll be revealing storyline or anything.

I haven't done comics in a long time, so it might be a tad rough to get myself back in it, and up to speed, but I'm gonna hack away at it, and get some results.

 Hokay, here goes-

Neil DeGrasse Tyson-"That's a stupid design. That's not how I'd design the universe." Stupid design compared to, oh say, what other universe? Oh, never mind, a tiny speck of flotsam, on a tiny planet, who can only see but a minute portion of said universe, possessed of monumental ignorance and stupidity, such as, thinking he knows some shit. Hey, Neil, here's a challenge-make an atom, but a single atom, all by yerself-out of nothing, I might add. Until then? shut the fuck up.

Sam Harris-the less said, the better-even other athiests are starting to turn against him.

Hitchens-back row joker turned rich arsed alkie. Oh, while we're at it, while wit wins the popular vote-the very plebes you probably hate, it don't win a true debate. And a question-if you hate religion so much, for perpetrating evil, why did you align yourself, and support, religious types who where perpetrating evil? Kind of fucking undermines you're 'message', ya fucking moron!

Dennett-talk about arrogant. Oh, professing a non-belief in whatever someone else doesn't believe, hey, fine, as you were-everybody has a right to believe whatever the hell they want to believe-but calling Islam names, hey, that's a right you don't have. Well, actually, according to free speech, yeah, you do have a right-fine, so you're just an opinionated blowhard. And hey, I could have just said "Shit, you actually look like a philosopher-and that would have been insult enough.

Dawkins-the amazing thing about this shitty little pile of stupid-is how piles of otherwise intelligent people somehow have convinced themselves he's all smart and witty. It doesn't take long to figure out he can't handle the tough questions, he's a crappy writer, and he's, well, stupid-that's an observation, by the way. Dawkin's, yer fifteen minutes are up, too bad.

five reasons why I'm not an athiest. Oh, that, and an athiest put forth a moral code, which was simply the ten commandments slightly rewritten. Original! Athiesm? That's just an excuse to be a fratboy-drink, kill, get stoned, and get laid.

Shit...been down in the trenches way too long...sometimes even coffee doesn't seem to be much of a help...when it hits, it hits hard, and stays for awhile. so far, this lovely downswing has hung around for a couple of weeks, with no signs of abating. Not even any 'low hihgs', just gnawing feeling, and down, down. Not so much melancholy, as anxiety and knitted brow-kind of low burning anger, more than anything.

Not that my life is like the worstest ever-shit, compared to about anyone, anywhere, my life is a fucking paradise of ooey gooey goodness. It's that the same old stresses are still flailing away at me-massive artistic failure and stagnation, poverty, extreme poverty, that has ground away at me for the better part of twenty years. To the point where I'm surprised I'm even able to maintain a reasonably decent social appearance. These days, I want to bite everyone's head off, and shove their id down their throats. Good way to make friends that. And no outlet, no way to release all this. Such activities aren't sanctioned in cold North America. We're paranoid about snapping back to our savage white-ass roots, with all that killing and smallpox infected blanket thieving off of everyone else that we were so good at, couple hundred years ago. I have this ridiculous theory that Scandahoovians, in particular, are given to morose tendencies unless they have a claymore or club in hand. Not a great cultural legacy. I think Scandahoovians have contributed ugly sweaters to the world. I can't think of much else.

The current situation is pretty similar to my childhood-being crushed, trapped in a corner, and not allowed to fight. Don't want to fight to win, just want to fight to work out some issues, shit, just wanna randomly smash and scream for awhile. No no, can't do that, that's we were good at, long time ago.

In case the many reader doesn't know: severe physical and mental abuse, starting at 5, and continuing until 15 or so, give or take a few years. Let's throw some other stuff into the pot, and see what kind of a picture we come up with: well, we'll have to throw in the whole outsider at elementary and high school-if I wasn't get beat on, and thrown downstairs at home, I was always an outsider, and fighting quite regularly during school-from about Grade 6 on up. Forgot the mental stuff, Dad was good at that, too. Kind of forgotten in the family. Oh, and moving every two or three years, always great fun.

Still a bit of the picture to go: after a few years of poverty and bullshit in Saskatoon, I stuck my thumb out, and got here. Where, of course, I ran into 20 years of the roomies from hell (and a few landlords), extreme poverty, quasi-homelessness, and lack of a decent relationship, for now onto 20 years-had a couple girlfriends long ago. Some of it caused by blocked memories, that was fun, discovering why I was/am a fuckup. The rest caused by everything else.

On top of that, let's throw in intelligence and some promise, neither of which seem to get me anywhere. Now, at least something of a picture forms. And not a pretty one. Now I'm in my late forties, with fuck all to show for it, whatever looks I never had probably gone, and a whole lot of bitterness. If nothing else, I know what the fuck it's like. Down here, where the view is a brick wall outside yer window. Funny, cause I roll with some fairly well established folks-oh, the know of what's 'down there', they 'get' poverty, but do they really know? No. Until they lose everything, or are ground down, for at least ten years, they aint gonna have a clue. And living in some shitty house for a few months, fresh from mommy and daddies place, don't cut it.

I'm amazed I can even get up some days.

Like I said, others have it worse-but I aint talkin' about them. I can still chow on mouldy lettuce and ramen noodles. But hey, I know that game, who's had it worse. I can play that one too, and there will always be someone who can beat me. Shit, members of my own family can kick my ass on that score.

Doesn't make the internal nastiness any better, though.

On that sour note, fuck this. Maybe I'll write some crappy poetry about my shitty life.

 Stopped briefly by the usual wednesday night crowd-big meeting, something about the cover...Scott, I think that's his name, seems to like holding a lot of meetings. A lot  of meetings. And of course, the artists just draw right through, probably paying a third attention, at most. I find it really difficult to draw, and hang out with people-my focus and attention usually goes pretty heavy on either activity, and since I tend to be pretty social, and like to yak a lot, drawing gets ditched. Often in favour of dumping on some graphic novel, or movie, cause I know it'll get a rise out of the nerds. Okay, so I'm a meanie.


Hey, going to a real live hockey game, Saturday! Gettin' a Rick Rypien jersey for christmas. I like hockey, so there! Suck it up! Suck part: ten dollars for piss water Kokanee? Kokanee tastes like wet hay-shit, believe it or not, PBR, foulest shit on the planet, tastes slightly better. Only slightly. Oncet, I sawer this a hear hipster walkin' up Main, with a six pack of PBR in one hand, sucking on a piss brew on the other. Once asked an American, one of the Portland chopper gals, what it tasted like, before having a taste, she said "Like angels dancing on your tongue." I disagree-them aint no angels. Warm PBR,versus a cold Kokanee...shit, neither...okay, if forced, under duress-goin' with the warm PBR, and I aint no hipster.

Bored-so adding some stuff-media things I ust can't stand-with some life things that drive me nuts...

TedTalks. I fucking cannot stand that lukewarm putrid shit. First, all so polite, second, everybody gets the Warhol, so there isn't time for more than a sketch. I've seen nothing, but nothing that smacks of anything that isn't ten years old. Plus, the audience sucks-when Dan Dennett (can't stand the pompous ass) comes on, with his retarded 'Memes as infection' crap, an idea so stupid, so unutterably uinformed, misguided, as to offend the sensibilities and intellect of a meth head on Hastings, he includes, in his 'dangerous/bad ideas section, Islam-racist on top of...words fail me. And the audience? Politely clapping. "OH that Dennett! Isn't that nice senile bearded fellow quite the intelligent one?" Fuck, someone should have hollered "get off the stage, you racist bastard!"

Ted Talks is the height of "Aren't we ust sooo (hugging self and squealingt in delight) smart ? Yuck.

Tv Tropes-two reasons-gives you, in many cases very little indication of what the media they're yarkin' about is actually like. And hey, you can't quantify everything. These are the guys, who, at a sporting event, would be taking laborious notes, and critiquing the event like so: 'that goal was such and such a trope.' You know, instead of fucking enjoying the thing. Hey, I know what a trope is, and sometimes, I could really give a fuck. Go away, you idiots, yer no fun.

cyclists-of virtually every stripe. Listen up, assholes-a monkey can ride a bike-yer on something that's but a fraction of a step above pedestrian-you're not important. You don't exist. This includes beachside cruisers, spandex superheoes, those godawful 'fixters', critical massers (possibly the worst of the worst) and everyone else except for commuters-cause they're actually using the bike for what it was intended for: cheap transportation, and because they choose utility over style. Yeah, I know, I ride a bike-if it can be called that. And you know what? I wear a helmet, I have lights, I don't ride against a pedestrian mask on the sidewalk and expect them to get out of my way, or weave through traffic like those fucktards on fixies who constantly make a diagonal cut across the road through, and often against traffic. Cars may have a weight advantage, but cyclists have, at least some of the time, a manouverability advantage. Yeah, sure cars are dangerous-but one thing you don't get in the 'cyclists killed or injured by vehicles' data set is all the baboons of low intelligence who did it to themselves, by doing stupid shit, without a helmet.

Lest I forget-all those critical mass shits who keep fighting for more and more infrastructure-more bike paths, more bike programs, valet poop, means more attention, and more bureacracy. Thank you, CMers, thank you ever so much. Some fridays, I actually wish the cops would just taser the idiots, and I don't have a car!

Gotta include myself, except I'm too good for self-loathing, but hey, don't I look fine on my non-e4ssential non-commuter chopper freakbike? aint I an awesome peacock? Yes, I am, I can do no wrong. Punk points for those who can detect at least a note of something possibly resembling humour in there.

 Nirve, Felt (makers of future classics) Phat cycles, Schwinn, and the list goes on-but there is one lone ride in the long list of coveted bikes, that stands out, kind of sorta vaguely, to me.

The lowly Varsity. The varsity isn't really a brand name (I might be wrong on that-but like, did I even bother to research this piece? Not really.)-it's more of a bike type. Almost always the classic safety bike, D-back,meaning straight top bar, and either a tenspeed,or, as in the 60's, more along the lines of of a five speed. Very often the dreaded cotter pin crank, which actually is a pretty decent crank, if you know how to deal with the pin (it's simple-loosen off the nut a bit, tap down, with a rubber hammer, continue until pin and crap comes out.) and hey, you don't need a crank puller to deal with-a wrench and a hammer will do just fine. (I forgot the part with swearing and cursing a lot, when you fuck up the cotter pin.)

Schwinn made a bunch of varsities (unless I forgot, I think they may have been branded 'varsity'-but I could be fantasizing and hallucinating again) in jaunty bright colours-most often a deliriously drunken pea-picker green, but I've seen a resto that was an eye-orb melting yellow. Styling was pretty much low-key-after all, these are bikes for students and perfessers and stuff-and were meant for getting across campus. That, and the dependable, if not too styley toyota corolla of bikes was also reasonably decent for getting to and from frat parties.

Sometimes, the colleger would come with nifty shit like, a basket, and like, totally rad white brake cables! Ooh! Sexy! Okay, mine does, anyways. So there, nyah. Wheel preference seems to be in the 700C range-bigger than yer trad 26ers. And skinny widdle tireses. Feck on that-I'm gonna gets me something a little more 'hybrid', when those are done. They were made in the sixties and seventies, well before the MTBthing started. Not too many varsity styled uglies sported the drop bars, preferring instead, a more stately, dignified pull back. Damn it-you're a university student and or perfesser-not some uniform sportin' racer! Plus, when you're totally stoned and hammered, dropbars are kinda uncomfortable.

The varsity was, and ccontinues to be, a basic frame with few styling points-check out the rides at UBC-sure, there are MTBs, but those are usually outnumbered by the generic ten speeds. And oddly enough, retro ten speeds and varsities are almost a subculture fringe in the fixie community. I've yet tosee a pea picker green Schwinn in the hipster crowd. Or how about the mighty Crescent? Known also as La Pepita? You know the one-ugly bright orange, checkerboard pinstriping, weirdo parts, mild and heavy steel, that the swedish racing team of 71 used to bring on victory-they have no real resale retro value, and are kinda hard to find, but would be mildly cool as a fixie.

There's a guy who rides with the cruisers once in awhile, who has a real fixie-bike's from the 20's! and the fixie hub is original to that era. Cool. Anyways, back to the mighty college bike: my Targa (say it with me-Targa! Targa! Targa!) is, of course, oh so typical of a mid seventies college rider-only the nifty stripey crap, and faded metallic blue, and art deco notes are kinda actually cool-in a really rather ugly sorta way. Plus the dimensions are all stupid. Hey, bike only came in one shape, one colour, and one type of styling. The cotterpin crank is still working just dandy. I feel the varsity oh so styley neato keener college dorm get me to my fucking classes, often locked with cheap cable lock type ride, is an overlooked and undervalued piece of ugly mass manufactured crap. But hey, you can really mess with it, cut it up, redo it, however you want to, without losing too much sleep, which might be a minor point in it's favour.

So there. Maybe in a couple days I'll piss on folding bikes. Ooh-how about a fixie folder? What would that be? A folxer? Filxer?

Bleh.

 So yeah, I seem to be known as 'the conspiracy guy'-and man I aint as bad as some. Seriously there are some paranoid kooks out there.

But there is the opposite, a possibly peculiar to north america p.o.v., where the tinfoil hat of denial based optimism reigns supreme. It was when someone turned to me, and in utter seriousness, said "The CIA doesn't kill people."

What. The. Fucking FUCK? Interestingly, where conspiracy belief often uses emotional, non-factual arguments, so does the happy happy joy brigade. As in "That can't possibly happen here." Based on what, exactly? The faint hope that things are better than they apparently seem?

Because hey, it's ridiculuosly provable that the CIA has indeed, killed people. Many thousands, possibly many hundreds of thousands. Oh, but hey, if THEY do killing and torture, that's bad. But if we do...well, same as it ever was.

One of my favourite conspiracy denials: "How could they possibly hide that kind of whatever massive nastiness?" Oh, hey, how about 400 black men, infected with syphillus? To give you a persepective-this was done in a time when all the fucking science was in, man, the need to know what the syph does, wasn't there. Also, it was done in a time when there were cures and treatments. And syph aint like chlamydia-this shit in the tertiary stages fucking rots your face and body off. Plus you go nicely insane. (Neechy wrote a lot of his shit while infected with the syph and the mania stages hit when they hit-sometimes sooner sometimes later. This causes me to laugh my ass off at the athiests because he's one of their heroes. So was Darwin who turned away from God, cause God, according to him, took his daughter at an early age, and the weak little shit couldn't get with that). That's a way of saying the disease is, oh let's just say 'highly visual'. 

Oh, and a lot of girlfriends had to be re-directed, a few wives, and a bunch of doctors told to shut the crap up. And no one knew until Clintron gave them a posthumurous medal for service to their country-service to country or some shit. Oh, and this was done, just because they fucking could.

Shit, Hoover when he formed the FBI to hunt down Dillinger killed more innocent people than Dillinger did. 

There were a lot of Germans who were in denial as to what Adolf was up to.

There's little difference between now and medieval times-or even earlier-we've always been trying to screw each other over. It's just that now, our methods are a tad more developed.

But hey, the CIA never kills people.

Another denial not factually based is Sept 11th-"Our government couldn't possibly be THAT purely evil." Hey, even the deniers admitted that probably Bush looked the other way. Yeah? Okay, and that one is actually provable-and exactly how is looking the other way while so and so kills your people somehow 'less' evil than actually doing it? It isn't. If anything, complicity is potentially worse than balls out kill the fuck out of thatness.

Denying the potential for evil in anyone, pretty much as retarded, naive, and generally fuck-assed stupid as denying the possibility of good. And easily as purely dumbpoop batshit insane, and at best, very deeply misinformed, as the belief that not only are they all evil, they're in control of everything, down to the last detail.

In defense of that idiot, Icke: hey, you ever notice that Bush's resting pulse is 40 bpm? Means he's of a lower fucking temperature than a normal mammal. That, and H.S.T. used to refer to Nixon as a 'bloodless lizard'. No, they probably aren't shape shifting lizards-but considering their actions, they may as well be reptiles.

So yeah king and country, except when the king's like, killing all the peasants and shit. Oh, wait, I forgot-there are no conspiracies.

Sigh. Same as it ever was.

 hey, here's an open letter to Micheal Fucking Moore (Moore fat, please)-hey yup, listen up, you shitbag of macfries: right, you 'write' a love letter, oops, a hate spew "You never fucked me like I wanted you to" or "We'll ust pretend to hate each other" wink wink pseudo docu crap about of all things-capitalism? Yo, lissen up-I left your fat ass behind at Columbine, okay? The lies, and the lies, oh and the shit way you treated a legend-fuc k who cares what his politics are-all I can say is that there you are sittingt in you're McMansion chowing down on some greasy fucking fries, laughing your loaded ass off-"Holee sheeit-are these lefties stoopid!" And the best or rather, the least nasty shit that the crits can come up with? Oh not that he's a disgusting hypocritical piece of total offal and should be shredded at earliest opportunity-no, that his piece of utterly vile feces allegedly somewhat similar to a docu (in the way that barf is somewhat similar to a nice abstract painting) is a bit similar to his other 'offerings'. In that it lacks a certain imagination.

How about calling it what it is? Vile shite so repulsive even the media attention makes me sick. I really hate the fat fuck. I really would love to see him curb stomped-or forced to sleep in a mouldy blanket oln the streets for about fifteen years...shit I hate corporations as much as anyone, and I would love to see General Electric simply curb stomp his cauliflowered body into the mud.

let me put it this way: I think Bill Maher, Rush Limbaugh and Obama are a bunch of sarcastic back row pieces of pure and almost total crapola (to date Obama's big prezzie move? To agree with RJ Reynolds, and ban flavoured ciggies cause they aint made by RJ), but damn it would be so cool to see them all shit throw in on Stewart just cause, literal, and I mean fucking literal, boot, to that piece of hell, known as Moore.

Nuff said. Oh currently, my roomie, whom I agree not at all, on ninety percent of what he believes, and thinks of current events, is using Moore's face to line his bird cage.

I aim to find some more pics to help in that regard. Okay bird-get busy shitting. It's the least that reulsive piece of infected fast food deserves.

 Half an hour before the game, couldn't work on bike anymore-oh yeah, I work under the porch, lacking a garage, so I'm limited by temperature, wetness, and light...Clark tells me Targa is a shield thing, or the thing that holds the shield on yer arm...which makes me think that's a weird and stupid name for a bike...I should be listening to old punk whiles I builds this bastard...I ust have no idea why I'm in love with the ugly brute-it's like really really digging on a pacer, or worse, those ugly shitbox Trans-Ams with the Firebird on the hood. They were legendary for being, well, shitboxes. and ugly. Nostalgia? Well, maybe-although more like notstalgia, mebbe...as I said, them there mid '70's weren't nowhere near what the tv, and fashion industry presents. Attitudes, thoughts, personalities, ideas were about as ugly as the decade itself. And the colour pallette had shifted from the psychedelic everything goes, to anything ugly. wasn't enough to have a nice forest green-no, greens had to be the kind that, were you to live in a room with the shades what were popular, you'd want to slit yer wrists, or kill someone...worse than hospital green.

And the whole era, being a massive, decades long come down from the sixties, was a coked up monstrosity. Really, declare the '70's daid, done, and overcooked like fondue chocolate, and kill it, never bring it back, in any shape or form. Hmn...now I sorta want to get into a rant about how utterly shitty the seventies were...but, in about fifteen, there's the game. 

 'It Came From The Stoned Depths Of The Puff Shop'

       At least that's where I figure it came from-as it has 'Puff' stickers on it. The beast had been sitting in a lost lagoon of Donald's bike /swamp pile wreckage heap of everything bike, and all of it rusty, nasty, tetanustastic. Except for this faded metallic blue '76 CCM Targa. A big 'ol' ten speed, that apparently had about a year of production. You still occasionally see them around. The idea for losing weight, back then, was an uncomfortable smallish seat and plastic fenders. Total attention to design principles! I b'lieve it might have been meant as a road / racing bike. Har!

      Beautiful monster. I'd unknowingly fallen in love with it. Having seen it there for maybe four or five years? I think...complete with Puff decals, just above the ubiquitous common wealth representin' stripey decal things, in red and white. I was sort of wondering, why would CCM do those colours, aint that american, until I remembered the orignal flag, which I believe was the old commonwealth flag, and if I'm wrong who the flap cares. Spirit of '76-punk! Or maybe '77-I can imagine some New York punk riding one of these to CBGB's. Look at that frame, with it's semi-ornate lugs and shitty metalwork, a sort of seventies style nod to some stoned up memory of Art Deco. Made of 'Acusteel'-because steel is accurate! Only came in one colour-fucking blue, and fucking blue. So far as I know.

     And just because choppers were around in the seventies-I've seen pictures, y'know, I have-the only way to do right by this monster, is to do hammer-ons-back in the day, you'd hack off the drop-outs on the original forks, then you'd grab a spare set of junkyard forks, and lo! Chop the ends off, just below the crown, with a hacksaw. Hammer onto the forks on the bike, and sometimes even weld 'em! Groovy punk ass stupid looking retardo-bike! Whee! I has me a chopper! So in that spirit, I has done did me some hammer -ons. Throw on some truss rods, from the fifties I think, some crap from a few other rides, oh, and a honkin' big shifter I'm cobbling out of crap I have laying around, and I might even throw a nod at the old school punk rockers, with a spray painted / ripped and torn / safety pinned suitcoat. just onna accounta cause.

      Gotta keep in mind, though, that the seventies was one ugly-assed era. And that the young 'uns probably don't know that, nor what the crap hammer-ons are. I'se happy as shit, cause this bike is just barely funky enough (meaning: it's original brutal ugliness reads well, and is less painful on the eye-orbs, thirty some years later) to enjoy, and plus I can really go to town on this nasty ol'  ride, and fuck it up as much as I want. Plus, for the price of five measly bucks, hey. I coulda got it for free, even, but I figured.

      Yeah, it's obvious I love this thing. Go you sodding old punk, go! Oh yeah and given the 'pedigree' of this thing, it's perfect for hockey season-I aint too terrible concerned about locking it and leaving it, other than it's sedimental value...har har. If nothing else, I saved It from a fate worse than the scrapyard-becoming a fixie. On second thought turning it into a chopper might be a fate worse than the junkyard. Oh well.

     I'd sure like to know what the hell a Targa is. 

 Since my current existance seems utterly bereft of fun and excitement, time to bore yer brainbone wit sum artfullofit crap.

First on the block-Jung's private 'Red Book' is agonna be in der bookstores soon-me want get! Lotsa ruminati' on stuff and things, with twee widdle drawlings of critters and mythic stuff. Nice. Wisht they'd someday put out a buncha volumes on PKD's private writings-hmn, 5000 pages worth, so that'd have to be a multi volume set. Wondering if anybody nowadays is doing anything similar. It'd probably include a buncha crap about quantum hyperdimensional computer poops...

A collage method, somewhat similar to a Burroughsian cutup (oh Bill yer such a cutup! Ouchie.) only easier to do, not requiring any generators, or scissors-simply write down a sentence any sentence like this: the second                   generation             mastadons         had   adjusted             well          to their        new       environment. Then fill it in, like so:   the second new wave generation humped like mastodons trying to fuck their music into some revisionist adjusted history. Much to their satisfaction, the aural blast destroyed the environment.

Not the greatest but sometimes really cool stuff comes out. I like to jot down random lines in a notebook, let 'em sit and stew for awhile, then come back to them and fill them in. The idea is to try and make them at least reasonably grammatically correct.. Occasionally I also like to contemplate acronyms-from RAM came 'Random Access Moron'. 

Making new words up can also be fun-the english language can be fucked around with like a lego set. Use prefixes, suffixes and such. 'Prefecundistic' for instance. Then come up with a meaning. Or, look up profanity-a word for shit in Russian is 'blin'-let's put the blin back in bling! 

Currently, I'm still farting around with haikus, but I'm kinda punking them out and bluesing them up...or maybe that's bloozing them up...I take a moment in the environment around me and then personify it-like a languid summer evening that seems to just be hanging indifferently on the corner not really into what's all going down-and then de-personify it to make a nice metaphor. More interested in the feeling and atmosphere then the actual 'rules', of course. The other thing I'm doing is, and I'm sorta stuck, writing down a story idea whether novel, short story, graphic novel, as a haiku that i one or two 'kus, gets the entire idea across. That one's tough. Especially since I haven't been too creative lately.

You might have gathered that a few of these things, I've been pursuing for a few years now.

Another thing I like doing came about one night after seeing a particularly gone past his shelf-life junkie-the phrase "Their eyes were holes" popped into my head. Biked on home, and thrashed out variations on the phrase. Threw in other words, images, just had a page list of variations. Kinda similar to something Steve Vai once said in an interview that he likes to pick one note, on the guitar, sometimes two and then just play it, for about 40 miutes or so. The mind gets bored, and starts to fiddle around. Same with words. Sometimes, this technique brings up nothing better the yesterday's lunch, other times, it brings up some good stuff.

Yet another thang I likes to do: I write down journal entries in a simple text edit program, and often focus on fairly boring material. 'I did this today' 'this guy did this thing', and then just let 'em sit there. Later, whenever I feel like it I go back into it, and just throw whatever writing I feel like in there, with an emphasis on an utter lack of anything 'truthful' or anything similar to a journal style. Make it science fictiony or phantasmic.

Where I'm stuck creatively, is that I tend to stick close to home far far too much. I'm jealous of people like Rowan, who seem to always be out and about stumbling into the coolest shit. Something I used to do, long ago. And then I got ito that 'I'm getting old' crap, and realized that instead of sitting here whining and being jealous, hey, get out there ad build a friggin life! Cause sittin' at home aint agonna gits me nowhere...and while I dig riding with the cruisers, well there aint too much in the way of handmade music, writing spoken word, and that kinda stuff going on. Gotta get back in the loop, and re-ispire myself.

 oh hah, oh yes....the may reader may laugh at that lovely bon mot whilst I sitteth here, hurlig bon mots like some deranged chimp-speaking of which, I heard of a protest wherein soiled diapers were thrown at the 'protestee' (sometimes, the 'protesteee' is an acutal person, not just some concept)...hmn...I keep saying "Darwin was wrong-we haven't evolved yet. You there! Pick your knuckles off the ground! Can you manage that?" Another sordid bon mot was that I was goig to call this shitscape, but that's just seasonally maladjusted fuckheadedness...uh, guess that would be SMF? Throw a 'Royal' in there, and you gots yerself an acronym....oh, it is to laughing....

ayhoosandwhich, today was a day where I decided to actually preach what I practice badly about, to wit (sic itended): 'Fuck it whatever', as my usual zen meditation-well, there's a problem with that-while the saying is nice, and quite flexible, when it comes to pretending to be illuminated, in the traditional sense, and not under an incandescent light bulb, one automatically says FIW, rendering it a rather quick, and ineffective meditation. In terms of dealig with the grindingness of the daily usual isn't society yucky, it does seem to work nicely, which I have repeated often enough. I have been thinking of adding a few extras to this zen-punk crapola, such as "Fuck yeah!" and possibly "Ooooh!" whenever I see something particularly cool. Plus, it's pretty close to yer basic AUHM or OHM thingy, which I think aint zennish at all...and maybe, on the occasion, a perversio of 'truthiess', which would be 'zenniness'...catch the pun. Ouch. I should probably inform the many dear reader that I really gotta work up to a decent mood...by kicking 'life' in the metaphors...not very graceful, but fun nonetheless.

Me old dad used to say, when I was pissed at someone "Go punch a tree and work it out." Some probs with that-"Fuck no, I wanna hit the asshole who pissed me off!" That and the quick realization that trees are pretty good at taking blows, and returning skinned knuckles.

I was dissatisfied with many forms of positive thinking, and polite spiritual whatsits, because hey, I was a prairie kid, and a lotta problems were solved by punching the problem repeatedly in the head ad/or soft bits. Lost a lotta fights won a few but hopefully delivered at least a reasonable amount of pain. The problem I saw, with most of the shit I saw, (wot a beautifically redundant sentece)  of the many and varied ways of approaching one's personal mental or metaphysical dimensions, is that none of them really took the other hairless apes into account-well they have, to a degree, but I'm talking stuff like Tony Powers crap-yeah, you can alter yer own neural pathways, and that's cool, but what do you do about the asshole that wants you neutered all to fuck? Like what was rumoured to have occurred to Orson Welles when he pissed of a certai newspaper mogul? Yeah, you're busy doig yer metal whatsits, and feeling pretty good and someone comes along and fucks your stuff up just because they can or they hate you.


it's a matter of "Oh, wait, sure I'm rearranging my neural paths, and that's all well and good but are the rest of the hairless apes doing that?" Hell no, they're looking for openings and opportunities...

on to other stuff:getting really quite good at this music thing, though I've lost my touch with the spoken word, and am kinda thinking of just hauling ass out there and doing it...there's at least one old 'band' that I would love to sort of throw back together-I'd love to do something rather psychedelic in that certain song structures would be loosely worked on but instead of stops and starts there would be sort of improv middle bits in between-well, some stops and starts but there might be three or four songs with lot's of noodley bits, or mebbe even driving thumpy thumpy tunage inbetween. I'd love to have my old Moog back-why in popp did I sell that thing? For a monophonic, it were great-and portable, sort of, too! 

I've learned diligence from doing bikes ad from doing something til it's done-with no discernible reward, other than a finished bike, and the 'big' lesson I've gathered from that is, I can easily use the same approach to just about anything. Wow, I am sooo smart. Only took me a few hundred years to realize such a basic fact of life. Hey, after all, that's how they did it, back then. 

Oh, I guess I was gonna write about junk I am doing, but got sidetracked, so...I'm arting, slowly putting some sort of resume together, and finding it necessary to get some winter wear, like rubber boots, as I done don't got none not even a decent rainjacket. Also writing drinking coffee, picking my nose, ad generally 'more of the same'.

Now I gotta review this, and type in any missing N's-this keyboard picks random letters to not type, so it's kind of a weird bit of fun.

 Haven't been here in awhile-too busy doin' tha summery thang-weirdish, how yesterday, on the Poco trails ride, so bright, and hot, even heatwavey, and then today, like summer got switched off...I'm mostly on facebook, so the one or two people that actually read this thing can go over there-though facebook does have it's limitations-it allows a bout a paragraph. Advantages are thaqt more people there read my tuff than anyone here. Makes this like a sketchpad of my thoughts. I find it a bit frustrating, because often when I get on here, I sort ofr shut down...currently, that's something I'm trying to figure out. In my mind, lot's of things can go through, at any given time-philosophical rantings, meditations on vast moments in the universe, or on just exactly why that particular hue of sky is so amazing, entire spoken word performances, beautifully improvved, storylines, general sketches, any number of ideas, that when attempt made to release occur, get bunched up, chopped, messed around. There's a feeling that the distance twixt mind and expression of at least some of the contents therein, with at least a modicum of the gestalt and feeling coming through, is fairly short. Time to shake loose those fetters. Throw something down, see what it looks like.

When painting, that's what I do. I have more failures than I thought, and a few paintovers, because of my approach-regardles of how secure an image is in my mind, or loose, or not there at all, ev erything gets tossed around and deliberately mixed, in the moment. As well, there's a strong visual orientation, so holding onto an image, and producing something that is pretty close to the image, is pretty easy.

Spoken word-wise, or in writing prose in general, I am thinking that the ame process might be best to consider-that a facility with words is kinda a granted thing, so I should concentrate on an image-some of my best improv moments, came from that well-having an image in my head, and then trusting my mind to whip up the words to it.

I often get snippets of words, language, in my dreams, but have the usual Kubla-kahnesque trouble in the remembering of...and of course, the delicate hypnagogic state can be easily shattered by a casual sound.

Lately, there's been a bit of a metaphysic to this, in that I think that a creative surge forward might be just the thing, and was always the direction I was headed for, anyways. I might, for instance, put together a show, and simply hold it somewhere. Sort of arrange a space to accomodate the work. Or realizing, on a friday night bikew ride around the seawall, with a particular light, that even before Vancouver, paintings reflected a certain type of light that fascinated me, and that this is omething I should emphasize-I'm usually too obsessed getting a figure just right, and forgetting atmosphere and such. A master of light, Rembrandt-and in modern times, Frazetta. 

I'm frustrated with artists like Todd Schorr, Anthony Ausgang, and ewven the might Robert Williamss, too name a few, because in their zeal for pop culture artifacts and their representation, they've apparently forgotten light altogether. Mark Ryden, for intance, consistantly uses the same soft focussed non light, in nearly all of his paintings. So too, do the others. Mostly an afternoon indirect sunlight look-in other words, no light at all. Just representaion of cultural artifiacts. And of all things, in a movie I consider definitely low-brow, Toy Story, Pixar totally kicks the collective ass of many lowbrow artists, in terms of light. Sure, there's an over-emphasis on sunny afternoon light, but there are night scenes, and scenes with artificial light, all done utterly masterly. In terms of composition, light, pop-culture artifacts, any single Toy Story frame could easily be conidered the best of low-brow art.

Course, I'm a bit frustrated with my own art. I want to paint like Frazetta! Not barbarian, no-but the incredible fluid style, the amaing use of atmosphere and light, the way he can suggest a shadowed face with a few brushstrokes...aah, that would be the thing...

 Apparently, Gallery Gachet asked me if I would like to do another show sometime, to which I responded why yes, of course. I'm thinking of shifting my painting style a bit, or a fair amount-probably use a bit more acrylic. This time around, more originals-maybe two pawnshop grabs, but mostly originals. Haven't decide between some giant canvases I found at Welk's, or mounted Bristol board...maybe a mix.

The number of paintings will likely be twelve, possibly more-maybe I'll see if I can take over the whole space.

Got a title, and an idea, fleshing it out...far more psychedelic, this time...and more into the movement of figures...there was a stiffness to some of the works, and the composition wasn't fleshed out to my satisfaction. I felt that I was more painting for the show, then just painting. 

Now all I need to do, is take that obsessive energy I have for bikes, and move it over a little, and start painting. Oh, I'm finally gonna have a painting ready for the pirate show! Whee!

It'll be a yearish, maybe several months, before I get another at Gachet-I may post a couple selected works on my Facebook. Look for my name.

 I must be one of the very few who didn't like the new star trek-pure crap, and fun don't cut it with me-man, have the trekkies ever fallen-for they liked it. It was an episode of designer magazine white apartment inhabited by snotty college kids in space. Only far less intelligent than that. Snippet of mild argument had with some nerds: 'they didn't convince me of the characters they were portraying.'
       "Bryce, that's because they were in an alternate universe.'
       'Okay, fine. They didn't convince me they were actors. "

Okay, so I didn't like Transformers 2, revenge of the idiots, either. Barely decent effects, for obvious CG-man, how can you tell they wasted 200 mil on the actors, and the boom booms?

I'm saying this even though I also said I like everything. Amend that to I like a whole buncha stuff, but not everything.

I'm on facebook these days, and lj is not cutting it so much, with me. Probably be less entries in here.

 Saturday's ride was an interesting little eye opener in the North American mannef of acculturated attitudes. It's all about control, folks, especially if you look like you're having a good time. I suspect we're one of the few cultures where people panic and become paranoid, if someone is smiling. The need to control serves no purpose other than the act of control itself. It certainly isn't logical.

So anyways, there we were, at Dix's, around a hundred strong. We were in the alley behind, because dix, while once happy to serve us, decided that they didn't like the bikes, and so when they said bikes not allowed, they lost a whole lot of business-at, say, three or four pints per person, and a ride can number 150, with ease, at least 1500 dollars, in about a half hour, will potentially turn over. But with their edict, maybe ten people will sit inside. Wow, what great business sense. Like I said, it's all about control.

So there we were, hanging out-Jim Cummins came out and yakked with us, he had no problems with us, but soon after, some very young, confused, or perhaps overly excited rookie cops showed up-guess they got the easy beat. The concensus was that someone in the apartments complained, which is possible-it's also possible that Dix themselves complained, because few were inside. Jim certainly didn't. The cops say half an hour, no open liquor. Oh, right, it's June, bike month, the signal for the cops to get it all wrong, and harass people for riding bikes. Tickets and whatnot. And really stupid rules-109.00$ dollar fine for not having a bell, or a red reflector in the back, and a white one in the front. They almost never hit you with that one, because of paperwork, and no one will pay it. Did you know that if you get a ticket for some bike infraction, that goes on your driver's licence? especially if you ignore the ticket. which for me, means, oh wow, nothing.

I realized, as soon as the hall monitors showed up, that we would be tailed, all the way. And sure enough, we were. At every stop, save one, as acess was limited, a cop car showed up, or drove by. They sent rookies to Dix, because a cop with some years in the force, is going to know that the cruiser folk are very easy going, and, being on bikes, leave the scene easily. At one point, near Jericho, a bike cop started rolling up. We just grinned and mounted up. I observed, to my amusement, along the bike trail, from Kits to Jericho, that there was much open beer, not at all hidden, and much open drinking of said beverages-generally at park tables and designated barbecues. Not one person was being visited by the local constabulary, who could have made tons of money, simply by walking up and down, or sending a couple of beat cops. But it isn't about money, it's ab out control. And control exists soleyl for the purposes of control, and ego.

That, and I couldn't help but notice the number of individuals, all done up in spandex and helmets and all the consumer gee gaws, rding past, or through us, with deep frowns on their mugs. At one point, we had sort of blocked a bit of a path, and a couple of people had to sort of meander their way through, gifted with the sight of a hundred beautiful bikes-and even the chance to chat with someone-"Say, that's a cool ride there-what make is that?" and such things. But no, this being a saturday, and obstensibly their day off, means that frustration and stress are paramount, and hey, look at me, I got all done up in this epxensive spandex and a bike helmet, how dare you ride MY trail with a stupid ol' grin on your mug, like nothing's wrong in the world at all.  Bastards! I shall vex!

A favourite moment came at the rowing club, where we suddenly starred in a 1950's B-movie, where we cause mayhem and concern, merely by dancing or cavorting. I show up at the gate earlyish, and a couple guys come out, and look worried. They ask me if there more ocming, and their not really set up for that-they don't have any beer, and, well, their not prepared. I find it interesting that they seemed to know that there were more, and am amused that their expression  of concern was pretty useless. well, okay, I was in a good mood, too bad for them. Turns out Pappy had phoned ahead, we were supposed to be there, so they were somewhat lying, they should have known. again, bad business sense, all about control. 

From the moment we arrived, I could sense we were not wanted-this is Kits, or Point Grey, or whatever, how dare we bring business, and buy food and drink! Worse, about half of us stayed down on the ground, instead of up on the upper dceck. Naughty! Oh, and man, it's location-cause the rowing clubm, or sailing club looks like a high school cafeteria. so there we are, hanging out, when a certain someone we'll call J- decides to push the envelope. Well, he's a big boy, and hungry, and anyways, those big ol' stainless steel food containers were chock full of pork rib skewers. cool by now, and still tasty. so, we had a few-I counted maybe a half dozen skewers worth-at current food prices. Meanwhile, we're dropping an easy thousand on the upper deck. Fella comes out, says no open liquor with a wink-usually the workers will turn a blind eye-shit, their looking for an opportunity to do so. shortly after, angry guy, obviously boss man, comes out, and tells us to get away from them food bins-it's a private party, and how dare we eat food that is going to be thrown out! Cause it will be-private party is nowhere in sight, either on the grounds, or upstairs. So, the way I look at it, is, in beer alone, we dropped a thousand-probably another few hundred in food-so a few bucks in food destined for the garbage? Hey, I'd let it pass. So anyways, still laughing and having a good time, we slowly split. How awful! Rowdy, unkempt bastards!

The lack of business sense comes in with this-places that usually tolerate our mildly raucous behaviour, get revisits, and thus, business, from us. Some of the more ignored, eastside bars may not love us, but certainly don't mind our presence. Because tolerating our behaviour, and understanding that we're smart enough to know what the line is, and will happily comply with reasonable demands, means beacuop bucks. Places that get all uppity? Well, we generally don't do repeat business. I kinda wonder how long Dix is gonna be considered a viable spot. It's all about control. For instance-Pet Cetera, the wal mart of pet suppliers, is shutting down a bunch of stores in Vancouver. Why? The onwer apparently refuses§ to pay bills, and doesn't see himself as a problem. And his business people/partners are trying to get it through his head that he's the problem-except that he's a control freak, and doesn't see his incompetence as the problem. So, the busness will die, choke it's own life out of itself, the smart ones will move on, and he still won't get it. His business failed because of others, damnit.

Or in the case of the rowing club-it aint about making a decent chunk of cash on a saturday afternoon, it's about the privileged exerting their right to said privileges, and apparently, having no fun whatsoever, in exerting their control. Try it sometime-try being in a really good mood, and getting all poopy, and wanting to control some aspect-it can  be done, and there those who do it, but generally, one has to work oneself into a state, in order to pull the control option. Or be continually in a paranoid and feeling vulnerable state.

"We just wanna party, and have fun!" From some half forgotten b-movie...

 So I didn't get to any parties, nor, this year did I volunteer...but it was excellent being able to just walk out the door, and there you were, in the middle of car free day. Plus I found out that some poeple I know live in the area. People are starting to say Main Street is the new Drive. Not quite-Main street is laid out different-where the Drive is one small street, a two lane, and not a main vein, with storefronts along it, and a mian park in the middle, with lot's of houses on either side, and loads of coffee places to hang out at, which develops a fairly neighbourly feel, like a little village, Main street is a main throughway, that ambulances and cop cars use regularly, with fairly divided neighborhoods that comprise little several block sections with distinct character. And is much more indutrial, spread out. While still a sort of neighborhood, is sprawled alongside the throughway, with high density traffic, and while pleasant enough, has a bit of a different demographic than The Drive.

And I like it better than The Drive. So, car free day, I hung out mostly along Main street, and realized, at around fourish, that I wasn't going to make it to any other after party-nor even the after party at the Heritage Hall. Cool thing was that this one was spread all the way from 25th and Main, down to 12th. Pretty huge, and very decently filled with stuff. No stilt walkers, that's more the Drive, and anyways, that heel would probably mess them up. The hipster fixters were pretty small in number, and mostly hung out near the beer and wine store to maintain easy drinking distance. Was very cool being at the top of the hill, around 14th, and seeing the huge crowd stretching out below. And while lot's of people, Main street is great, because it iswn't squishy crowded, so it's an ease of walking, riding, whatever thing. Lot's of beautiful cruisers, both old and new, lot's of strange wheeled oddities, and while a bit thin, a solid effort was put out by everyone. I might even volunteer again, next year. Hey Ocean played, capoeira was out, there was some freestyling, and one one sidestreet, CITR radio. 

In Neptune records, there was a cool band doing something that sounded liek a mix between thrash and psychobilly. They had this keyboardist playing an old keyboard, the kind with those big old switches you have to hit, and those chord buttons on the side, that alow you to play notes, and a chord at the same time. Really classic analog sound, dunno where he got it. The sound was wonderfully terrible-big mix of mud, which was even better, kinda like a big wall of sonic mud, with this high wailing keyboard mixed in, and unidentifiable vocals. Not a clue who the band was, but I'd check them out in a club.

It was all awesome, all the way through, especially the part, where, later in the afternoon, as the other carfrees shutdown (Mainstreet shuts down at eight pm), more and more people showed up, that I knew, and so getting ten feet further than wherever you were, was next to impossible. For most of the day, I walked up and down the street, honking away on the mouth harp, pausing in front of whatever music struck me as nifty-which was all of it. Up and down the street, to many and much smiles. Maybe more people will just do that next year? Would be cool. I might do that myself...

Dang great day, dang great fujn, and the three days prior, I rode the sheer hell out of my old '37-to the point where I flatted the rear tire, and had to switch to chopper!

 yeah, I'm on facebook-under the name Bryce Rasmussen (last name pronounced 'Rasmyoosen', although that y is kinda silentish. Pretty much a u as in queue. But I aint crazy hard ass on it. Pronounceify it however yase wants). Oh, and there are only five males in the united of states, with the name 'Bryce Rasmussen'. Woot.

Not much on facebook-is like twitter wit pics. But stuff from art show, and at least I can scan pages when I gots them.