The All Time Lows

A few months back I broke one, possibly two, of my ribs in a boating accident, or maybe it was basketball, perhaps in a drunken wrestling match with one of my friends, but that's not important now. I was given a bandage thing that kind of looked like a tube top and a prescription for Flexeril, a muscle relaxant. After taking it a couple times, I noticed that it would knock me the fuck out without really doing anything for muscle spasms (a couple times my tongue couldn’t make words happen though). I put the bottle in my drawer and forgot about it.

Yesterday I made the mistake of taking it out.

I wasn’t feeling that well. My back kind of hurt and I had a headache. I don’t know what I thought a muscle relaxant would do for a headache, but hey, what the hell, Flexeril and forget it. It proceeded to knock me the fuck out at about 5PM. I woke up a couple hours later thinking it was the next day and that I’d slept through work. No wonder this shit is a Class A misdemeanor in Indiana!

Maybe I'm outta the loop, but I had no idea this existed:



and I sure as hell knew nothing about Avant Garde!:



Ha ha!

For those of you who have never rode mass transit (and those of you who do all the time), check out this blog, En Mass, from public transporters around the country. I especially like this entry, which captures Muni in all its glory.

PBS's Frontline is airing a show called "The Way the Music Died" (Thursday, May 27 at 9PM) about the decline of the music industry in the last decade. According to Billboard, sales have fallen $12 billion per year in just three years. The RIAA blames internet file swapping, but they ought to take a closer at the drek they've been releasing. Frontline will examine the effect of industry consolidation and "artistic drought," whatever the hell that means.

The blurb I read about it didn't mention anything about independent labels, where there is definitely no artistic drought. The show is even following Velvet Revolver, Scott Weiland and Slash's new band of wash-ups, in a bizarre look at today's music industry. The show sounds like it could be good. I'll be in New York, so tape it for me.

Weiland, looking like an alien zombie:

I headed out to see Loquat and The Cardigans on Saturday at 330 Ritch, home of Popscene. I arrived to witness big, no, gigantic dudes yelling, "It's sold out! If you don't have a ticket, don't go inside! Get out of the street! Get in the parking lot!," etc.

There must have been like 12 Balco-sized security guards at this club that maybe holds 300 people. Plus, I think there were a couple of "plain-clothed" security guys who were supposed to blend in with the crowd. And it was for a Cardigans show! I could maybe understand if it was an Eminem, Slayer, Insane Clown Posse or Hillary Duff show, those fans are crazy. Now, maybe Cardigans singer Nina Persson has a few stalkers and this was necessary, but I highly doubt it. My girlfriend could have beat up most of the guys at this show.

We head inside. The stage is about six inches off the ground, so pretty much you can't see anything. As Loquat is finishing up their set, we get kicked out of this area at the side of the stage. Now I really can't see anything and I want a cigarette. I try to go outside.

"There's no ins and outs," said the big dude.
"I'm going to have a cigarette," said me.
"No, you can't."
"What are you talking about? Where do I smoke?"
"You can't. You can't go outside til 11:30."

It was about 9:45 at this point. I'm fuming pissed, trying to figure out who's in charge of this place. Dozens of people are trying to go out to smoke and this guy won't let anybody out.

Finally, they realize how ridiculous they are being and let eveyone outside. So, I go outside. I smoke a cigarette. I smoke another cigarette—I was pissed.

I start to head inside with my camera (which I had been taking pictures of Loquat with) and Gigantic Dude #1 said to me, "No cameras, you need to put that in your car." Of course, I didn't have a car to put it in there.

"I was just inside with this camera."
"No cameras unless you have a press card."
"A press card? You mean my card?"
"Yeah."

I pull out my business card and hand it to Gigantic Dude #1 with my ID. He shows this to Gigantic Dude #2 who says, no it's got be a press card.

"What the hell is a press card? You mean a photo pass? I got one from Loquat on the list."

"Loquat's done playing," he said.

Finally, I track down Anthony from Loquat, a guy I'd never met before and he is nice enough to sneak my camera in for me.

I told my girlfriend, "I'm coming back to this place tomorrow, buying it and firing everybody."

That day is coming soon. When a hundred million men will celebrate the legalization of the Olsen twins. This date comes next month, and despite the fact that none of the bastards getting excited about it have a chance in hell, there it is.
Well, how about a shirt celebrating the occasion. One that lets the world know that you went down on Mary Kate, or was it...



You can buy the shirt here.

Staff Sgt. Camilo Mejia of the Florida National Guard was found guilty of desertion today. He went on leave after serving in Iraq and decided he didn't want to come back after witnessing the deaths of civilians. He said he didn't want to participate in an
"oil-driven war." He faces up to a year in jail.
Jeremy Sivits is facing a year for torturing Iraqis. Here we learn that objecting to a war built on lies and torturing people are equal crimes.

The BBC is reporting that the British government considered using kamikaze pigeons to fly into enemy targets carrying biological or explosive weapons. If they bring this idea back, they should recruit the pigeons that have moved onto my building. My roommate has been engaging in battles with them for the past couple months, and she ain't winning. Chicken wire, nails... doesn't matter, they're unstoppable. I think we should get a mountain lion to patrol along the ledges.

Whoever invented this should be awarded a congressional medal of honor:


Mmmm, Jack Daniels coffee...

House Speaker Dennis Hastert lectured Senator John McCain on the sacrifices of war. Hastert ditched out on Vietnam with a bad shoulder, which I mean, well, I wouldn't of been on that plane to Saigon either, but I wouldn’t start lecturing a guy that spent five years in a P.O.W. camp on the sacrifices of war.
These guys are such bastards. It’s amazing how the “bravest” among them, the ones pressing most for war, ditched out when they had their chance to serve, but they’re willing to send the poor off to the dying now. And they “support our men and women serving bravely overseas,” but apparently these men and women are fucked when they get back judging by the way the republicans treat veterans.
Example one: See above.
Example two: Senator Saxby Chambliss, republican scumbag from Georgia, won his seat with negative ads linking incumbent Max Cleland to Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussein and by attacking Cleland’s patriotism. Cleland lost an arm and both his legs in the Vietnam War. Chambliss, “had a bad knee” and missed out on the fun.
Example three: All the attacks on John Kerry’s war record.
These examples go on and on. It just goes to prove my theory: republicans are pigs.
Dennis Hastert:

Oink oink.

So I turned on MTV last night and was treated to videos by New Found Glory and some horrid band called Sugarcult. Grown men that sing like 12-year-old boys are not cool. Someone needs to punch New Found Glory singer Jordan Pundik in the vocal chords.
Happy day!

After our Mesh Issue 4 release party, I got an e-mail from some guy saying that it reminded him of Seattle in the early '90s (he meant that as a compliment for those of you wondering). Mainstream music has been pretty terrible for about 9 or 10 years nows and I've never been too sure whether that was a good or bad thing. I could almost always go to see my favorite bands at venues that are pretty small, without the frat-boy element that mainstream success brings.
After the whole, "rock is back" thing from a couple years ago, where trendy retro rock bands and emo bands (emo just being boy bands with guitars) got big and people who were not into rock at all would buy spikey belts and t-shirts that said "rocker" and "punk" on them, mainstream music actually seems to be getting much better. Maybe it's just this week, but MTV has been playing videos from Modest Mouse, Franz Ferdinand, The Von Bondies , Kanye West, Outkast and other decent to good groups. While I might think some of the people they're playing are overrated, or past their prime, they're sure a hell of a lot better than seeing and hearing Good Charlotte and Britney Spears all day. Even mainstream radio's been getting better. Over the last year and a half, Live 105 has actually been playing "cutting edge music." You can definitely find better music on stations like KUSF and KALX, but most people ain't gonna know about those. And for those poor kids being raised out in Concord and Walnut Creek, their radios don't even get those signals.

What the fuck is this? L Style Report . I just checked our "site statistics" and saw that we were linked to from this Web site. I can't do this topic justice right now, but this is crazy. I've read about companies like these, they go around and see what the kids on the street are wearing/talking about and sell reports on this info to big time companies. It says a subscription for a year is $250, but I read they produce reports that cost up to $15,000. I don't know if that's true, but whoever thought this is up is a genius. A sick, sick genius.

There's a sniper in San Francisco. How do I know? 'Cause the motherfucker shot me a couple weeks ago.
It all started a couple weeks before that, when my girlfriend were walking to Indian Oven on a Sunday evening. We were walking west on the south side of Oak Street, right about here:
I heard this noise, like pebbles hitting the building we were walking by. Then I heard the click of the gun coming from across the street. I pushed my girlfriend like we were getting shot with real bullets and we stopped around the corner. We weren't hit, but I called the cops and told my girlfriend to walk the other way around the block so the house the BBs were coming from wouldn't see her. This house ain't the friendliest in the neighborhood, having been involved in a real shooting (with a sawed-off shotgun) a few months ago.
So, the cops come and talk to me like I'm fucking crazy.
We don't want to get shot.
What are you still doing standing out here?
How do you know it came from that house?
A week later I'm walking by and ping. Right in the gut. I say, "motherfucker," and keep walking. I call the cops again. They come, much cooler this time, say they can't really do anything, but they file a report and go talk to the people at that house. They also said, "Someone points a bb gun at us, they're gettin' shot."

We're in talks with a local gallery/cafe/place to drink booze to do a release party every issue. Imagine, the magnificence of the first Mesh Issue Release party multiplied to occur every issue. Also, if anyone has pictures from the Mesh Issue 4 release party, let me know.

Apparently someone took my reference to the historical importance of duels in San Francisco too literally.

I ran in the 93rd annual Bay to Breakers today. Surprisingly, my legs are still working somewhat. Being the Boy Scout I am, I went to bed after 2AM last night, then woke up at 6:30AM. We headed down to Howard and Spear where there were about 70,000 people, most of whom were throwing tortillas, which is all well and good, but tortilla odor started infiltrating the air, making me want to vomit. It took another 20-25 minutes after the race officially started for me to reach the starting line, then another few blocks for there to be enough room to start jogging. My goal was to make it to the top of the Hayes Street Hill, a 230 foot monstrosity that tops off in Alamo Square. For some reason, when I got to the top I decided, "Well, I might as well run to the bottom." Then I decided, well, I might as well run to the Panhandle, then, well, I might as well run to Stanyan at the start of Golden Gate Park. Another thing that kept me going were the people I saw in front of me... "There's no way in hell I'm letting this guy in a cow suit beat me." This continued until I reached the finish line in one hour, 19 minutes and 20 seconds. While this time didn't beat the Kenyans, I did finish third in the pack-a-day smoker subseed behind a woman with an oxygen tank.
Pain set in at the park, where I started to feel the blisters in my toes. My leg started hurting in an area that could best be described as my groin. The encouragement shouted from the sidelines and other runners really kept me going at the end where I came very close to vomiting and yet sprinted to the finish.
Later in the day, my friend Mike Caso said "It's only 7 miles?" at which pont I slapped him across the face.

The Catholic Church has decided to delve head first into this year's local and national elections. Vatican Cardinal Francis Arinze said a few weeks back that politicians who support abortion should be denied communion. His comments were taken as a direct swipe a presidential candidate John Kerry, a Catholic, who proceeded to take communion anyway, as priests here refused to follow the Vatican's suggestion. Now, the church has upped the stakes.
Colorado Springs Bishop Michael Sheridan has issued a pastoral letter, informing all Catholics that they should not receive communion if they vote for a candidate that supports abortion rights, same-sex marriage, euthanasia or stem-cell research. So, if you don't vote for Bush, you're no longer a Catholic.
How 'bout if you vote for a candidate that supports the death penalty? I'm pretty sure the Catholic Church stands against the death penalty, what with the big JC being nailed to a cross and all. What about a candidate that gives tax breaks to the rich, while the poor and working class suffer with no healthcare and insufficient education?
"If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth." 1 John 3:17-18
Bush goin' to hell and shit.
Sorry to get all religious on you, because I'm defintely not religious.

So, for reasons my inner-self is still wrestling with, I decided a few months back to run the Bay to Breakers. For those of you who don't know, the Bay to Breakers is a 12K (yes, like you I don't really know how far that is, I don't understand that Canadian measurement system, but I think it's a little over 7 miles) race that takes place every year in San Francisco. The race starts on Howard Street, near the BAY, and ends at the Ocean (The BREAKERS). This being San Francisco, it's not so much a race as a travelling party where freaks of all natures dress up in costume (and some dirty hippies run nekkid), drink and dance to live music and DJs along the way. Not me, I'm running this bitch.
My decisision began as part of a ploy to convince my unsuspecting body that it was time to stop smoking, however my body disagrees (except for my lungs, which were strongly outvoted) and I continue my self abuse with a pack of Camel Lights every couple of days. The month of April was one of the toughest months of my life, so my burgeoning running career stopped dead in its tracks as I worked 12-hour days at my day job, put a magazine out and planned an Issue Release party. During this time, my acid reflux worsened, making every meal of the month a near vomitous experience.
Here we are two days till race day and I've only been running again for about a week. And I've only been running about 3 miles, which I think equals 3.141592653K, although maybe not. I'm nowhere near ready for this, but I hear it gets so crowded you have to walk the first mile or so. I'm seriously considering hopping in a cab at Mile 2, cruising to the finish in style, beatin' them Kenyans, collecting the mucho dinero prize money and buying a truckload of cigarettes to celebrate (or maybe a truckload of The Patch).

Last Friday, I went down to Bay Meadows Horsetrack for the first time this year. If you've never been to the races, let me just tell you, it's fuckin' brilliant. Once you learn that you shouldn't just bet on the horses with the cool names, you might actually win something. Last week with the help of the Fecal Face posse, who told me what to bet on in Race #7, I won $28.50 on a $6 dollar Trifecta Box (pick the top three horses in any order) bet.
I'm down to almost (we're talking double digits here) no money for the rest of the month and am seriously considering betting it all on the Preakness tomorrow. Smarty Jones' looking good. But maybe I should just say fuck it and go with the longshot, Little Math Man, at 50-1.