SAN FRANCISCO ROUND-UP

Hopped aboard JetBlue this weekend for a mini-getaway. And by mini, I mean 24 hours. I've never been on JetBlue before, but now I understand why everyone loves that airline so much. I get on and the first quarter of the Raptors/Magic game was on. I watched and didn't even realize we took off or landed. In fact, I was kinda bummed when we hit Oakland because the game was at a crucial point. Flying three times since December has made me something of an expert. I used to be very afraid of flying. Not anymore. Now I'm one of those assholes who acts likes every step of the process is a burden because I'm so well traveled. But I gotta say this: The Long Beach Airport is the best in the nation. Get there an hour early? Hell no. Try 30 minutes. Of course, you'll wait for 20.

God bless public transportation in the Bay Area. I got on a bus that took me to the BART station near CENSORED (they can buy an ad if they want me to mention their name) Coliseum where the Raiders and A's play. I busted out the ol' digital camera and snapped a few shots. It was an absolutely beautiful day, much nicer and cooler than it was in Long Beach, aka the home of global warming. Fuck it's getting hot here.

The BART is something else. While waiting, I saw this beat up white guy wearing an old Jason Kidd jersey and a red shirt underneath. His pants were way too big, he had an out of control goatee and was rocking a beanie. I'm gonna call this the Oakland look because only people in this city dress like that.

Here people are very quiet and reserved on public transporation. Not up there. It's like a party on wheels, except the BART doesn't run on wheels. It's like a party on a track, how's that? I left my sunglasses on for most of the trek through Oakland because there was a family -- father, mother, daughter -- sitting across from me. Now, she looked at least 18, but however old she was, she was fucking gorgeous. So gorgeous I HAD to leave the glasses on. I knew her dad was hip to what was going on. I mean, how many times could I pretend to look out their window when I had the better view from where I was sitting? Hey pops, don't make 'em if you can't take it.

I exited Civic Center and walked up Hyde to my cousin's apartment. This part of town is a trip. There's an intersection three blocks from where she lives where a bunch of dudes lean against a chain link fence that surrounds an open field. These guys were selling bootlegg DVDs. One was drinking a large Colt 45, no brown bag, just chugging it. At 3 p.m. Gotta love this town.




My cousin lives in a killer building that probably used to be really cool. Now it's in the worst part of town I've ever seen in SF. Her place overlooks the intersection of Hyde and O'Farrell. Now don't go stalking her. For starters, she doesn't look anything like me, so you won't know it's her.

I got there and felt kinda bad because, as much as I wanted to catch up, the Lakers were on. Turns out she's a basketball fan and we watched as we shot the shit. That's what they call killing two birds with one stone.




We talked until the Lakers destroyed the Nuggets. Then I went around the corner to buy some medicine. Same as it is in Long Beach. Got some stuff called King Kush. Three js later, I was on my way.

I couldn't not get some. It's San Franfuckingcisco for Christ's sake. There was a guy puffing a doob near the entrance to the place. He wouldn't be the only public pot smoker I'd encounter that day.

Got back and talked some more. Then cousin needed to shower, so I took a walk around the city. I got lots of good ideas. I need to start bringing a notebook with me on these walks because shit just starts pouring out of my brain when I do things like this. It's been four days, so lemme try to rememer what I saw.

Old black guy yelling "Shoeshine. Shoeshine." I walked behind and saw him checking out my kicks. Sorry, winos don't get shined. They get vomited on, then you buy new ones. I talked to him and asked what was going on that I should check out. He told me he liked pussy and gave me directions on where I might be able to score some of that. Then he tried to sell me weed. Told him I was cool, then he asked for money. I lied and said I didn't have any. HA! I did.

Walked into a store called the Magazine. Hey, I like magazines. Why not? The front of the store was your average newsstand with Details, GQ, Sports Illustrated. Then I got deeper into the store and saw it was damn near packed to the rafters full of porn. Gay porn. Where's the exit?

Left the Magazine and started walking behind an art student carrying some sort of supplies under her right arm. Over her left was the obligatory bag that all hipsters must carry. If I could draw, and someone asked me to draw what I think of when someone asks me what women in San Francisco look like, I'd draw her. Hair dyed blue-black. Boyish haircut. Faded jeans. Tight striped shirt. Puma tennis shoes. People have to be aware when they walk in SF, especially women. She turned to see who the guy walking three steps behind her for eight blocks was. We exchanged glances and my heart melted. If I lived in the Bay Area, I'd date all sorts of girls just like her. Kerouac-ian thoughts of getting lost in San Francisco filled my brain. Ah, to be a young white hipster.

One cool thing about SF is how people cross intersections against the red. It makes sense. I do it here and people give me dirty looks. But not San Franciscans. They've got places to be.

Walked down Van Ness toward Washington. Three teenagers approached. They were passing a joint between them. More Kerouac-ian thoughts.

Got back to cousin's place. I watched the Celtics/Hawks while she got ready. Then we hit the bus to go to an Italian restaurant whose name I wouldn't remember if someone said it right now. Again, public transportation is odd. People are loud, they have no qualms stretching their legs into strangers' comfort zone amd plop down in unoccupied seats by bumping into the person they are now sitting next to.

Food was good, but having just been to Italy, it wasn't all that special. What was special was a vegan ice cream shop named MaggieMudd. Holy shit was the place heaven on Earth. We were the final customers of the night. I had no idea what to get, so naturally I got the largest, most expensive thing on the menu. It's called the TarMack Fan. Chocolate brownies covered in chocolate ice cream with peanut butter dressing, chocolate dressing and whipped cream. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was served in those cardboard boxes that used to come with taco boats in elementary school. Of course it was windy outside and the ice cream didn't help with that, but I was a trooper. I ate as much as I could, but I am sad to report that I finished only half. On our way back to the busstop, we went into a bookstore and discovered Neal Pollack read earlier that night. Bummer, that woulda been cool.

Cousin took me to the Mission, where the law states every tattooed, pierced, dreadlocked, cigarette smoking drunk (shit, I just described my friend Chris) must go out on Fridays and Saturdays. There are also a bunch of Mexican dance clubs with real long lines to get in. The hipster shit was cool, but I'd rather check out the oompah bands. We didn't actually go in any bars because it was midnight and we would have waited til last call to finally get a drink. I was thinking of Jawbreaker as we passed Valencia and headed toward Mission on 16th. This area is a clusterfuck of people, but it's exciting to see nonetheless. People sure love their booze in this part of the world.

Got back on the BART to get some rest. My legs were sore and I needed to be up early to get back home the next day. Plans are in motion to return a few times this summer. It's too cool of a city not to visit regularly. But I'll say this: That early 20s whiteboy hipster who romanticized the life I'd had if I lived in the city is dead. San Francisco, you're a great place to vacation, but I can't handle you full time. This is merely another unnecessary example of how I am getting old. Maybe I could be convinced otherwise. Anyone out there wanna give me a reason to move there?

I HATE TO SAY I TOLD YOU SO...

I'm pretty sure I said the Nuggets would be lucky to get one game against the Lakers. Well, luck was not on their side. Now before anyone goes and calls me a basketball playoff picking guru, I must say that was a fairly easy series to call. Next up for the Lakers is either Houston or Utah. This one's tricky. I'd prefer to see Utah because I don't want Houston or Tracy McGrady to ever get out of the first round, sorta like how I always root against Peyton Manning. But Houston would be an easier match-up for the Lakers, so I'm stuck. I won't make any predictions until we know who the Lakers are playing. And in case you were wondering, I'm still not convinced this is the Lakers year. Boston is pretty good. I don't see how anyone can beat them. I'd rather the Lakers lose in the Western Conference finals than the NBA Finals to the Celtics. I'm 28 and in my lifetime, the Lakers have owned the Celtics (excpet for '84, but if you do the math, you'll see how I don't remember that series). I don't want to rivalry to swing back in Boston's favor. So if the Lakers plan on losing at some point, how 'bout they not do it against the Celtics? Then they can re-tool for next year with a healthy Bynum and Gasol for a full season. That's a championship contender.

BURRITO FACTORY

One of my favorite things to do when I'm not sleeping is eating. More specifically, eating burritos. Here's a link to a story I wrote for the District. It's about a place in San Pedro called Burrito Factory.

http://thedistrictweekly.com/print/food-drink/the-sides/sides-7/

MERRY SECRETARYS DAY

Today we celebrate another unoffical holiday, National Secretarys Day. Or as my daily planner calls it, Administrative Professionals Day. So here's to you, secretarys of the world (or is this only a national honor? Either way...). Instead of wanting to put a bullet in your brain, today is the day when you should be proud of your job, that jerk boss of yours and all his ridiculous demands. Play an extra game of Tetris online today. You've earned it. Have that fourth cup of mass produced coffee that your company is oh so kind to provide. Let the phone ring three times before answering. And when you do decide to finally pick up, don't tell the caller what your name is. Make them guess. In fact, answer the phone like this. "Hello. National Secretarys Day. How much do you love me?" Check out fifteen minutes early. Get in the carpool lane even if you are alone. Speed down the 405, 110, 710 or wherever it is you drive. When you go home, kick up your heels and make someone else do the dishes. It's almost your birthday fer Chrissakes.

Me? I am my own personal secretary, so I am going to go easy on myself today. No slamming papers down in front of me (when I get mad, I take a stack and throw them over my shoulder to pretend like they come from someone standing behind me), no calling for myself from other rooms, no asking where the paper clips are or what time so and so is supposed to call. It'll be fun. I've been trying endlessly to train one of the cats to do some work around here, but they're so lazy. All they do is sleep all day. They nap so much they make me look like a go-getter.

HAPPY 4/20!!!

Today is April 20. Or 4/20. Or 420. Or Fourtwenty. However you want to spell it, it's a pot smokers Christmas, New Year's, birthday, Easter and Halloween rolled into one. Get it, rolled? Sometimes I can be funny.

Stoners usually smoke a ton of weed on this day. Truth be told, it's 4 p.m. (oh shit, almost 4:20. That changes what I'm about to write) and I haven't gotten high yet. I'm working on a killer coffee buzz and sometimes the two don't mix well. That, plus I've become somewhat of a nighttime smoker in my old age. I can't keep up with the young kids like I used to.

I was going to write a lot, but I gotta pack a bowl pretty soon. More to come after I've celebrated.

APRIL IS NATIONAL POETRY MONTH

The idea is enough to make me puke, but I changed my mind after reading Acres of Books' website. It reads "April is National Poetry Month! (take a poet to lunch)." I'm all in favor of free meals, so come on people. I'm a poet. Pony up and buy me some food.

Maybe I should try to earn that meal. So here's a new poem. I combed through my stacks of unpublished poems and found this nice ditty about religion. I thought it to be timely considering the pope, who by the way looks and sounds like a creep, is visiting the United States.

I hope you like it. If not, send hate mail to Tim Hull. He'll get right back to you.


I’M SPIRITUAL BUT NOT RELIGIOUS
dumber words have never been spoken
except for maybe those in the bible
but I wouldn’t know – I don’t read fairy tales
a person who says they are spiritual but not religious
is obviously a young adult looking for a way to comprehend
their growing feeling of apathy toward a belief that was shoved down their throats
beginning the second they popped out of their mother’s nether region
or a slightly older misguided wannabe intellectual who thinks
before they speak and gets through life by regurgitating tidbits of info
they’ve overheard from mouths attached to brains they assume are smarter than theirs
saying a person is spiritual but not religious is like me saying
I’m gay but I don’t fuck dudes –
you can’t have one without the other
religion is spirituality and spirituality is religion
they’re both just words that mean roughly the same thing
those who say this silly statement are too close to the fire to see the flames
because if they could, they’d realize how the influence of religious leaders worldwide
has created an environment where supposed spirituality can’t be outrun
so when you say you’re spiritual, you’ve already lost
because you’re speaking their language
the preachers, pastors, fathers, rabbis, shamans, popes, gods, sheiks and monks
succeeded in planting their vocabulary into our brains, whether we want to pretend to dislike it or not
because saying what they really mean could cause harm in all sorts of ways
funny looks from strangers
scoldings from parents
disapproval from co-workers
no Christmas gifts from friends
these people are afraid to offend a higher power
but they shouldn’t be
there is no higher power to offend
but the implication of I’m spiritual but not religious suggests otherwise
it’s the PC way of telling the world a person isn’t happy with organized religion,
the kind that wastes Sunday morning sleep-in time,
but who is?
the world would be a much better place if those who preached this hypocritical mantra
would ditch the act and join forces with those who aren’t afraid to say in explicit terms
what they believe
and what it is these people believe, you ask?
not sure, but my guess is it has something to do with the ability to see how thousand-year-old works of fiction continue to wreak havoc on daily life circa 2008
shouldn’t we be smarter than this? the educated ask
yes, we should
but we’re not
because a major percentage of the population is more than happy to go along for the ride, even if that means ruining the one shot we’ve all been given to make this life as exciting and entertaining as possible

UP LATE

It's 1:46 a.m. Still up. Not really doing much though. I wrote a bit, but I worked a lot today and my eyes are kinda blurry. But my mind seems to be awake. I could write about all sorts of world events, but that would require thinking and I don't want any of that right now.

I'm excited to announce I am going to San Francisco next week -- on someone else's dime! That's right, Jim Hall is taking this show on the road. I am meeting my cousin and we are gonna party. I hope to chow down on all sorts of vegan food and maybe smoke a lil SF herb. I hear their stuff is pretty good. I'll be the judge of that.

I caught some of that presidential debate last night. Boy, are we fucked.
"Who you gonna vote for?"
"Geez, I don't know. I'm thinking robot zombie number one."
"But robot zombie number two is just as good."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. They're both pretty good at being robot zombies. It's a tough call."
"Well, they are the cream of the crop. No one avoids answering questions like they do."
"Don't forget their near equal ability to have lots of words come out of their mouths without actually saying anything."
"Duh. That's my favorite part."

I gotta be honest...the Democractic candidates are boring, but their spouses are where it's at. First, we got Bill Clinton. He's a thump-pointing party on wheels. And then there's Michelle Obama. Pardon my French, but va va voom. For a potential first lady, she's pretty hot. So let's see...four more years of Bill of four years of presidential eye candy? Ugh. This isn't easy. I'm gonna flip a coin. Heads, Bill. Tails, Michelle.

Speaking of Obama (OBAMA! or Obama's a long legged mack daddy!), did anyone catch the video of World's Second Biggest Asshole (and the award for World's Biggest Asshole goes to...George W. Bush) William Dean Singleton calling Obama "Obama bin Laden." To his face? This guy's in charge of the Associated Press. Wow. Here's linky link if you are interested in seeing why the state of American journalism is as potent as my dead grandfather's dick. http://youtube.com/watch?v=7Zy08STIQwM

I almost never, ever, ever, ever re-read books. There are just far too many out there to waste my time reading something I've ever read. That being said, I picked up John Fante's West of Rome last night thinking it would be a good way to kill a few minutes. A few hours later and I was done. That's the second time this year I've re-read one of his books. The first was Ask the Dust. Reading Fante the first time changed my life. I know how lame that sounds, but it's true. Reading him a second time is just as exhilarating for different reasons. It gives me hope and the promise of a better future for my writing. He re-sets my meter, shows me which way is up and reminds me what real writing is. If anyone reading this wants to talk Fante, shoot me an email. I can go on for days.

When I started this blog, I posted some poems. They got zero response, so I stopped. But now I see people are searching the Internets for them. So I'm gonna throw so more back up and see what sticks. Maybe even a slice of a short story or two. I'm working hard on a few things at Casa de Hall. Perhaps it's high time to release some of these to the world. But only if you're good.

I've also got a killer interview with Greg Ginn that I'll be posting sooner than later. That's such a lame cliche. Who the hell invented sooner than later? I'd love to try to do something later than sooner. That'll be my thing. Jim Hall, the man who gets things done later than sooner. Maybe I'll print that on my business card.

Lakers in the playoffs! Number one seed! Here comes Denver! Too many exclamation points! Prediction...Lakers whoop on Denver real bad. Five games if the Nuggets are lucky.

This weekend is the Long Beach Grand Prix. That means lots of annoying "vrooooooom" noises for the next few days. I never understood the race until I saw it in person. It's actually much more exciting than I thought. Last year I went a week early to catch the trials. I didn't have time this year. Oh well. If anyone reading this is going down there, look for me. I'll be the guy standing at Pine and Ocean too cheap to buy a ticket looking down at the cars as they fly past me.

Scary news to report...There are talks of me teaching a few classes at Southern California community colleges. Maybe I shouldn't say that for fear of jinxing it. As frightening as that sounds, I will be very excited and honored if I get these positions. But I'm not holding my breath. For now, it's just talk.

Sunday is stoner Christmas. I'd better re-fill.

What else can I say? Oh, howzabout Italy Fuck Beach?

And I'm out.