Shit kickin speed takin truck drivin neighbors downstairs

Behold, the return.

It’s late, much later than it should be. Through some kind of karmic shitstorm, The Man closed the Bay Bridge right before my compatriots and I headed back from S.F. We spent what may have amounted to several lifetimes sitting in traffic, desperate to pee and frustrated with the world. One of those nights. I dunno.

Sometimes you eat the bear, and well, sometimes the bear eats you.

I’ve discovered an important phenomenon: the Royale With Cheese effect does not seem to function at sea level. I’m convinced that San Francisco’s altitude, and thus air density etc., are to blame for the failure of this marvelous alcoholic quandary. Ignore the naysayers, the cowards who claim the RWC effect to be nothing but psychosemantic nonsense; some of us have seen, have experienced, it’s full power. Trust me, it does indeed work. At least in the proper circumstances.

Another night at the bars. The Marina… not my favorite district, but it has it’s upsides. The Marina functions as a sort of refuge, a reservation, for 100% mainstream trendy heterosexual white people in San Francisco. As one might imagine, such folks are in the minority, but down there along Union and Filmore there’s a little slice of the world that bland & indistinguishable Gap honkeys can call home, in the midst of so much freewheeling Californian deviance. One of the benefits of the place is something which a dear friend of mine referred to as the Critical San Francisco Boyfriend Shortage. Men are by no means in short supply in The City; it just so happens that a significant portion of them are A) Gay or B) Worthless. That really beefs up the odds for the rest of us, friends. Indeed, the Marina does have a very reservation sensibility to it. A few blocks, partitioned off from San Francisco proper, where 24 year old post-graduate girls with Economics degrees can go to be hit on by 29 year old douchemugs whose desperate, needy eyes grow more desperate and needy with every inch of hairline lost. A place where those without any real sense of individuality or purpose can go to really be themselves. There’s only so much one can hate a place, though, where the beer is cold and the girls are cute.

Not that any serious Magic happened. The bars are still the bars. However, the place at least gives one the sense of potential, of possibility, a feeling which doesn’t seem to occur often sitting in my room reading. Random, scattered conversation with members of the fairer sex, no matter how pointless, still appeals to me in some base and inescapable way. It helps, however, that such potentialities are crushed utterly under the weight of Circumstance; poverty and my atrocious living situation make even the most harmless liaison almost completely out of the question.

It’s the Early Twenties Golden Era, kids. Anything can happen. Even coed naked Duck Duck Goose with a tazer. Long story.

For the record, the 510 Connect continues to dominate my life with an almost divine ruthlessness. There is no escaping your past, in the Bay.

My descent as a worthwhile human being continues unabated. Back in my college days, my refrigerator provided an ideal breeding ground for all sorts of decay and disease, an environ where entropy seemed almost tangible. You could almost… no I take that back, you could smell the dissolution of molecular order, and it fuckin stank. Now, that environ has expanded to a spiritual level in Home. Despite the relative cleanliness and propriety of my situation, the rot continues. New lows may be achieved before we Turn This Thing Around, boys and girls.

Oh christ and now I have the hiccups. There goes my decade.

A moment of abject nerdiness, if you’ll permit me.

World of Warcraft is a game of social interaction. What makes it truly interesting is that, predominantly speaking, only those people too socially inept to interact in the Real World play this game. What this leaves you with, essentially, is an entire populous of people completely incapable of relating or cooperating on even the most basic level. It’s a game whose most basic tenets rely completely upon large groups of people, a world whose economy and structure are all modeled in parallel with the Real Universe, and yet every tool who plays the thing with any regularity is almost guaranteed to be a blithering virgin idiot. What this translates to is that while I’m minding my own business massacring dwarves and cleaning purple Elven blood from the end of my spear I’m almost sure to get completely fucking obliterated by some level 60 assclown who has spent so much time playing WoW that his character has become, in essence, an invincible godling. I’ve got a secret to share with you, purple-geared Pallys who fucking corpse camp me in Felwood: you might kill me on the internet, but when the day is done you still suck at life. So lick a ball.

I hate the god damn hiccups.

At least… at least I have something to look forward to. Not hard drugs or fabulous wealth or beautiful sandy beaches, but something better.

What’s better than that, you ask?

Coolio starring in the Sci Fi channel’s Made for TV Movie “Pterodactyl”

If seeing Coolio, Coolio of Gangster’s Paradise and Fantastic Voyage fame, fighting dinosaurs alongside secondrate actors who couldn’t hack it as extras on Angel doesn’t make your day, I don’t know what will.

Christ, it’s almost 5 AM.

Soon, friends, I will have become completely 100% feral. I can nearly guarantee it. The thin and tenuous ropes which moor me to the world of social normality are fraying rapidly. Seizures, violent tendencies, and a complete loss of spoken English is probably only a week or so away. After that, kids, it’s all long fingernails and bloodshot eyeballs in the dark. My main homestank Frank Herbert speeds the way. His every word is a golden treasure to be worshiped and studied like a Dead Sea Scroll.

Hi ho.


We are plagued by a corrupt polity which promotes immoral and/or unlawful behavior. Public interest has no practical significance in everyday behavior among the ruling factions. The real problems of our world are not being confronted by those in power. In the guise of public service, they use whatever comes to hand for personal gain. They are insane with and for power. -Bureau of Sabotage


One Response to “Shit kickin speed takin truck drivin neighbors downstairs”

  1. HA. I feel you man. After a night at arguably the white-trashiest bar in SF (Butter? They have Pabst blue ribbon on tap?!?!) and my friend’s friend’s new bar/club (god knows the name) and a lovely twilight breakfast at “Lucky Penny” we dragged our asses over to the bay bridge and sat in aforementioned traffic for 1/2 hour before I cut up 3rd street, down Folsom and jammed my ass into the one entrance these construction fuckers keep open on a FRIDAY NIGHT. 50 minutes to travel about 8.5 miles. Wish I’d known you were in SF last night…

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