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March 31st, 2008
02:07 pm - Funny How The Mind Works
 The sun was still setting early, when this happened. I'd just finished up the first half of my day at work, and I hopped onto my bike and started my way down Doobie Alley. It's a decent enough descent through Berkeley's alleged Art District, maybe fifteen degrees at its steepest. I was just coasting along, down this little two-way street lined with failing businesses pretending to be culturally relevant. The sun had turned the sky into pink and orange, and the clouds seemed to drift toward it, like purple barges. The sunsets over Doobie Alley, that's one of the few perks to my job.
And all this isn't to say I wasn't paying attention when I struck the little Japanese girl. I wasn't pedaling, I was fanning the break, keeping it all on a nice straight line between the parked cars to my right and the idiots racing down to the stopsign to my left. There I was, midway past a stationary DHL truck, when she stepped right out in front of me.
She was taking in the sunset, herself. Her hair whipped away from me with the sound of my tires scraping along two feet of asphalt. She seemed to crumple with the impact. I know I hit her extra hard because, at one point, I could feel myself going over the bars. I pistoned myself back with my arms and sort of rolled off my seat, swinging a leg over the guy-bar, dropping to my feet and kind of catching my bike. I heard her whimpering as I pushed down the kickstand.
I'd heard this kind of whimpering before, working with kids back in Taipei. It sounded like the kind of whimpering that serves as a rev-up for a bawling. In fact, I initially thought I'd hit a kid. My joints were going stiff and my neck felt brittle, I was cold all over, anticipating a pair of parents--along with a horde of well-intentioned busybodies--screaming at me to take a look at what I'd done to the precious little tax write-off.
I was already asking if she was alright before I even turned to look at her. As I made that turn, to look at her, I noticed that the sidewalk was pretty much empty. And no vehicles had stopped. I went back and forth from inquiries regarding her condition, to apologies. The whimpering never crescendoed into the hoarse, sloppy wails I'd been fearing, and had in fact subsided a bit. She asked for help up, and stood there next to me for a few minutes.
She kept telling me it was all her fault, apologizing to me. She kept holding her arm. When I asked about it, she said it felt "Dizzy."
I wrote down my name and number and where I worked and told her she should call me if she's inclined to sue. She looked at the little piece of red and white paper I'd given her and said "Hadda-San," which always sounded kind of sprightly to me, in Japanese airports. On Doobie Alley, it sounded grievous and disconsolate. She looked over to my bike, asking if it was okay. I turned to take a look, as well, and it was pretty far from okay. The handle bars were twisted thirty degrees counterclockwise, from the fork, and the wheel itself had a thigh-sized dent in it. Some of the spokes were twisted. My bike had clearly lost a fight with an exchange student.
This happened months ago, she never called. Maybe I thought she would, for a day or so. Another day or two after that and I didn't think of her at all.
It occurred to me, a few days ago, that it really was her fault. She wasn't bullshitting me. In Japan, you drive on the left side of the road.
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March 28th, 2008
10:30 am - The Smooth Plastic Line Between Peace and Woe
I went over to a buddy's place, the other night. I brought the dog along. We were sitting around, listening to music. We must've hung out for an hour or so, talking about breasts, drug-related mishaps, and war. Topics for discussion that only seem important after eleven p.m. on a full stomach, with the prospect of a warm bed and someplace to go the next day secured. Idle talk, really. The kind of shit you shoot when there's an absence of want. Easy going and safe.
The dog and I left. The winter seemed long gone, the sky was clear. We waited on the corner of one of the town's larger roads. The dog watched for oncoming lights. I tried to find Orion over the treeline behind the park. The road grew dark and quiet, we crossed. A few miles away, at the marina, a bell rang every forty five seconds. That sound carries all the way to the Ashby BART on a clear night. That's the kind of peace that reigns, here. A lonely bell tolls and rolls over the streets, yards, rooftops and sleepy heads on a clear night.
I'm taking it easy. I hadn't rolled myself a cigarette, so I was able to enjoy the flowers and weeds and vegetation that was making its way into the planter boxes and gardens that line the street to my house. The night air, here, gets damp. So it's all kinds of fragrant on the better-cared-for stretches of town, but always a little chilly. I was soon trying to hurry up, the dog's claws clicked a little faster on the sidewalk.
It'll take about ten minutes walking to get home with the dog, assuming he stops to piss every thirty paces, or so. Maybe about five minutes into the walk, I spotted these red and blue lights up ahead of me. I see a lot of cops around my neighborhood. More often than not, they just creep along slowly with their lights off. Waiting for a reckless driver. An intoxicated homeless man. Someone who, to the cop-mind, seems out of place,
The flashers kept with their pulsing, and I realized there were more cars--cop cars--parked along the street. Some had their lights on, others didn't. As I got closer, I could see that they'd run tape across the street. And some flares had been lit, and set along the yellow line that divides the street. A sad and ghostly color, that. . . magnesium, I think, burning over asphalt. Sadder and ghostlier still are the reds and blues that appear on the fronts of houses and apartment buildings, rhythmically splashed against the dwellings by those cop-rides.
I pulled the dog closer, brought in the slack on his leash. Those yellow cop-ribbons seemed to be everywhere. . . streaming from the trees, even. On the other end of the block, two hundred meters on ahead, I could see two cop-mobiles kissing. A bumper to bumper barricade.
My chest was tight, the flowers smelled two strong, the air got colder, that bell from the marina seemed louder. I didn't see any cops for a few moments, I was nearly to the belly against the yellow "DO NOT CROSS" lone when one finally appeared.
He asked me if I lived on that block. I try my best to avoid talking to cops, and I don't like their questions. . . I don't like their modes of questioning. Do I live on that block? I told him no, then recited my address. My throat was dry. I did everything I could to keep my eyes on him, even though he probably couldn't tell what I was looking at from where he stood. He told me the block the cops were on was closed for another eight hours. I asked him if any of the neighboring blocks were in danger. "You mean, now? In danger NOW-now?" He saw me shake my head, I guess. "No," he said after a moment. And then the cop-speak seemed to soften a bit. Something like sadness, maybe, crept into his voice. "Anyone who was any kind of danger is in the hospital, now." I ran a short list of streets by the guy, and asked if that was an acceptable detour. He told me that it was.
So we made out way across the street, along the yellow plastic streamer, on our way home. "Hey," the officer called after us. "Is that a shiba inu, by any chance?" The dog looked over his shoulder, at the cop. He knows the word "Shiba." He knows it refers to him somehow. His side brushed up against my calf. His tail was down.
"Yes, sir," I mumbled. "Yes, sir, it is." And then a thank-you, when the cop told me how beautiful he thought the dog was.
I took my detour. Spinning and dizzy. Short of breath. Almost tripping balls. If I'd ingested a drug that brought on the ill body-buzz I was feeling, I'd be kind of scared. I'd be reaching for the goggles, crash helmet and diapers.
We made it back to the gate, the gate to our house. Those red and blue cop-lights were blooming, one after the other, on the little bulbs topping the bars to our gate. It's always a relief, when you return home, to find that that yellow, cop-tape isn't draped across your walkway.
I'm usually the type to spout off on how we live in a police-state. But, that night, I was grateful for the robotic cop-men that kept me away from the crying, the wounded, and the dead. And when I thought of this guy, whose job it is to keep the rest of us away from the sadness and madness of others, trying to make small talk about my little dog. . . he was trying to chill me out, trying to be human.
For the first time ever, I regretted calling that lonely, fat cop in front of The Dixieland Flea Market back in Michigan a pig, over ten years ago.
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December 4th, 2006
November 29th, 2006
01:53 am - What do they dream about?
Jim is home free. He's a drifter. I often see him on Shattuck. There's just a hint of the South in his voice, and it's prone to cracking. He has a mustache, his skin is weathered, he stands at five-eight. He's thin. Rugged. Wears a cowboy hat and flannel shirts. Dark colors, always. Blues and blacks, mostly. He smokes Marlboro Lights and usually has a twenty ouncer of Coca Cola or Dr. Pepper at hand. Don't know if the soda pop is spiked, or not.
I wouldn't hold it against him, if it was. He may very well be an alcoholic, but it isn't alcoholism that keeps him on the streets. The alcoholism, at the most, might be a symptom of what keeps him on the streets. What it is, exactly, I won't even bother to guess, right now. I reckon one day, sooner or later, I'll ask him. He isn't likely to blame anyone, so I don't fear putting the question to him.
Jim has a companion. Her name is Faraday. I thought she was a pitbull, but I was mistaken. She's actually an American Staffordshire Terrier. The breed is unique due to the bone-structure of its skull and the shoulder musculature. It's also larger than it's English cousin. In crueler times, this animal was set loose upon bulls and bears.
Bloodsports. That's how the crowds kept themselves ( entertained. )
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November 27th, 2006
11:28 pm - Porchlights
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November 26th, 2006
01:42 am - Working While High and Rocking
When we first moved in, it took awhile for me to get used to the lack of jackhammers, screaming women, and street musicians. This neighborhood is the quietest I've ever lived in, and I've come to appreciate the peace and ease inflated rent affords. The atmosphere is occasionally disrupted, sure, but most of the time it’s welcomed. You get trumpets, laughter, kids yelling.
Maybe it was the second or third night, around two or three in the morning, we heard a car roll up. Actually, we heard the car rolling up from the corner. Prince, circa *Purple Rain.* "Darling Nikki," it was. The rocksteady beat and preening, wiry synthesizer riffs lingered out in the street for a full two minutes. We heard our landlord, who lives RIGHT THE FUCK NEXT DOOR, stomp down the steps and throw the front door open. The music didn't go anywhere.
After awhile it did, though, and we heard the landlord's door close, and his feet mounting the staircase.
waswas This kind of thing happened five or six more times. Always in the earlier hours of morning, always the booming stereo (and the guy's got a tricked out system), always with something groove heavy. It was always music that I liked, so the volume and obnoxious spirit working the dial never bothered me so much. I'm all for playing Big Black at three a.m. and telling the neighbors they can all get fucked.
But the then, the other night, I was finishing up with a movie and stepping out for a cigarette. I hadn't checked any clocks, but it was well after the bars had closed. To my left, came a rumble.
The car pulled up. Looked like a late-model Grand Prix. The door opened and a man got out. A huge man. Taller than me. Must've had at least a hundred and fifty pounds on me. He had a bald head, and he wore a black apron. He was carrying a rolled up newspaper. I said hello to him, and he only nodded in return, leaving a sweet, weedy wake behind him. Somehow, the fact that he was earning a living changed something. I wanted him to play his music louder. He didn't even bother closing the door.
He climbed the steps to our building and stopped in front of the landlord's door. He brought his heavy arm over his head, and whipped the newspaper down onto the doormat at his feet.
With grace, confidence, and what must have been a sweet buzz-on, he strode past me and sat back down into his car. The chassis sunk down, closer to the road. He drove away, and after a minute or so, there was only silence.
And it gave me a moment to reflect on just how badass the baseline to Sade's Paradise is.
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November 23rd, 2006
November 5th, 2006
12:58 am - She's Too Much For My Mirror
Undoctored image of the moon at midnight. The ring was visible in the night sky. Someone pointed it out to me as Cindy and I were walking home with the dog. I give him my sincerest thanks.
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November 2nd, 2006
01:11 am - The Corner
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November 1st, 2006
11:28 pm - Because my Cuddy is in the shop
Current Music: AMT--Have You Seen the Other Side of the Sky?
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11:24 pm - Natural Inclinations
There's a woman who sometimes plays guitar on Shattuck, about a block down from the Wells Fargo bank. I've only her there on the weekends. She sets up in the doorway of some office front. She's on an acoustic guitar with one of those pickups you mount behind in the strings, runs it into a PA amp. The amp peppers her guitar with just a little distortion, it's a warm fuzz down by the machinehead, higher up on the neck, it'll shriek.
It sounds good.
She plays slide. None of that "Women can shred the blues, too," bullshit, either. She's actually *good.* The woman can ornament her riffs, well enough, so she's much better than she lets on. Most of what I've heard from her boils down to straight ahead boogies. Real stompers, too. None of that Johnny Winter crap. I've never heard her solo, thank Christ.
And she keeps it all at a walking pace. A good, swift walking pace.
She doesn't shy away from the low strings either; she fingerpicks, her basslines are solid. You could set a book on them.
I can't tell how old she is. Older than me, I guess. Her playing is confident, not that that means much, other than she's been at it for awhile. You can tell she smokes cigarettes, but her skin is still pretty tight. Her hair is really long. She's a blonde. It's got a few waves to it, you can't see any white in it. She wears these really loose dresses. Not the kind you'd expect her to put on for work. I think she's got a wardrobe set aside for her gigs. Floral prints. . . pink and orange and red. Her guitar's got a maple top, so with that, her clothes, and her hair, she's as pretty as a picture.
So I was walking by this woman, and the pedestrians were out in full force. The moneyed ones. There was a woman and her daughter to my right, heading the same way, up toward University. The mother kept her eyes forward. Her legs were long and firm, she was wearing a skirt cut below the knee. Dark hosiery. She was dressed like a mother who wishes she really had it in her to dress like she did before she was a mother.
The daughter was well dressed, too. But unlike her mother, whose legs moved like scissors, this child had bounce. Her head bobbed from side to side, she skipped. Pink tennis shoes. White corduroys. She dances. Her mother moves like an automaton set to "Bitchy."
"Mommy," she said. "Mommy, I want to give that girl money."
The mother kept moving. Her daughter knew the custom, somehow. She knew the thing to do was give the musician money and she knew they had money to give. Moreover, she referred to this woman as a "girl," not a "lady," nor "woman," but a "girl." She identified with that woman, somehow. She saw herself, standing there, playing guitar.
"Mommy," she said, again. "Mommy, I want to give that girl money."
Her mother didn't slow down, either time. But after the little girl repeated herself, the mother began speaking in French, without moving her head. She had on sunglasses. It was about seven thirty in the evening.
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October 30th, 2006
01:44 am - "God writes in exceedingly crooked lines."
Caesar E. Chavez was born in Yuma, Arizona on March 31st, 1927. He was born to a poor family of farmers. After graduating from the eighth grade, his father was involved in some kind of accident which prevented him from working. Not wanting to see his mother work the fields, he dropped out of school to support his family.
As time went on, Chavez founded and ran various labor movements. He was opposed to the racism and discriminatory practices common among many landowners. He encouraged laborers to register to vote, and advocated nonviolent resistance and boycotting. Usually, strikes he was involved in ended in bargaining agreements.
The City of Berkeley, California, has a park dedicated to Cesar E. Chavez, which features an off-leash dog park. It is a source of great pride for me to see Bowdu's ears perk up, and eyes narrow, and body stiffen at the very mention of "Cesar E. Chavez." Our trips there are the closest our pet comes to absolute freedom and are a cause for great joy in what passes for our family unit.
To think that the names of great labor organizers live on in the ears of pets!
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October 20th, 2006
01:19 am - The Floppy Boot Stomp
The fuckers down the street are partying tonight. Partying on a Thursday night, I've got a soft spot for that. You get back into drinking your rhythm on Thursday night. You don't overdo it. A few bottles of beer. Pint glasses of draught if you can afford it. Maybe a tumbler of bourbon, if you want to get a head start on a moderate buzz. You accomplish some shit on Friday night, and then you're ready to do some real damage come Saturday night.
Thursday nights are alright for drinking.
But these fuckers, they're going about it all wrong. The girls are out in the front yard. I can hear them clearly from a block away. They're not talking about anything important. Their heads hurt from being in class all day, most likely. They're old enough to drink, but young enough to still giggle. The boys they're with are just loud. Just loud. I can be loud. But usually I'm loud and offensive. At least. These jerks are just loud. Loud and stupid. Lots of the big laughs from the bellies. Much of it forced.
Our neighborhood is quiet enough, though. Its got enough quiet to drown these fuckers out.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to a party on my block. I was outside and I heard a trumpet playing. Very dark outside, the moon was hidden. You could feel the beginnings of an autumn chill. Faint beginnings. The trumpet cut through the air at just the right angle, and it me just right in the ear, and I couldn't help smiling. I went back inside, tucked a beer into my jacket and went to the house.
I play music with some of the house's inhabitants, sometimes.
I twisted my way through the trees, between the chainlink fences, and heeled and toed it over the dead leaves, broken concrete, and rotting wood into the backyard. It was fenced in by these planks that were infested with bugs and over six feet tall. Trees were somehow packed into this backyard, tall ones that spread their branches out, blotting out the murky-urky sky with leaves that reflected the bonfire in a wavering brown and, my God, it was so pretty. . . but how did they all grow so close together.
We all sang songs. A fireside singalong, with accoustic guitar and muffled trumpet. Like finding a little hippie oasis in the woods. About twenty people gathered in that little yard, sharing beers, joints, stories, music. And no one was raising a voice. The laughter was subdued, but there were more smiles than laughter. And the only thing I was able to catch as I was walking away, was the horn.
I can hear some music beneath the fuckers at the end of my street, this evening, and there's an appalling lack of slide-guitar in it. Fuckers.
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October 17th, 2006
September 26th, 2006
02:20 pm - One Speed Bike
 Cindy drove down into Oakland to pick this up. The owner insists this was a Burning Man touring bike. The gears were dropped down to one, to facilitate pedaling around flatlands on heroic doses of hallucinogens. It's a tall bike, and if you're shorter than me, you probably can't ride. I took it for a spin today. Berkeley has a series of interconnected Bicycle Boulevards. You can probably get from one end of town to another in less than a half an hour. Take that with a grain of salt, though, as I'm still getting acclimated to the lay of the land. I'm not too sure how I feel about the ram's horn handlebars, just yet. And the seat hurts the left ass-bone, a little. The ride's going to be a little wobbly for the next week, but I'm already getting to like my punk-rock bike.
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September 8th, 2006
10:55 pm - Last Saturday Night
 The Wash and Spin has three kinds of washers. Twenty of the ones you think of when you hear the word “washing machine” (i.e. the one in your utility room, or laundry room, or down in your basement). You open the lid, you drop your clothes in. You go off and chill for a half an hour. A buck fifty. They have about twenty of the laundromat washing machines; the ones that are stacked two high and open up from the side. Two bucks. And there are about six of the laundromat washing machines designed to accommodate a much larger load. Five dollars.
I separated our clothes, lights and darks, and dropped them in. Parted with three bucks and two caps full of detergent, and stepped out for a bit of that Turkish and domestic blend.
The Wash and Spin is located on Sacramento. It's about three and a half blocks from our apartment. Across the street, to either side, there are two or three storefronts that are still in business. It seems like a quiet stretch of Sacramento. I'm too new, here, to know if there's a noisy one.
( Outside the door, stood Forrest and Cliff. )
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