Siren's Secret Songs of All Split's Sin's: Patrick O' Mara Rooney O' Mara, Boomer's Drunk Utopias Left Us No Quaaludes

Rooney said when she takes cocaine it's literary, and it had to be just about funniest thing anyone has ever said in LA or in LA, Roon Doggg—trying to just sneak that little one in like we wouldn't notice, forcing her own when she even didn't have to and so unnecessarily, that's what was so hilarious.

Chapter One—But what the Bible leaves out is God has nothing to do with ever becoming God, or God ever being God—and if that was included there, the nihilism of such statement could cause it all to collapse into itself practically, as the Bible, along with everything else, would disappear like the family members in the photo in Back to the Future, 

Rooney jacks collect, came all the way out from PA, all I can say, she's a sharp little girl and as was was everybody's' darlin',

And all the stones erupting out for the stone crossing of Rooney, in this town, and in this town here, where I'm the leper with the most pinkie toes left.

But she was a Toy in blood slash-tongued bird though, a swooping black little finch—Rooney, I mean Rooney's knuckling take was—or Rooney's take at least, was was skateboard videos was worse than pornos she says, she said, because at least in pornos you got to see real live naked ladies at least, and then just about everything she said seemed true—a wispy, a raspy, that wisened eternal LA teenager attitude of knowingness about her, or like stil embedded within her, that she absorbed like a satellite, growing up.

You hear what she said in the telephone conversation, still rattling in my head. I always had to go to Roon Dawggg. I always had to go out to Rooney. I wanted to, or I did hear her, or Rooney, and it's all now just . . . What I'm saying is, she does what she want's and she wants what she sees, livin' her life life she's number one.

Joaquin though, was the only one to diagnose my condition very accurately, the condition I was in, or really in—Lacanian linguistic subjecthood Joaquin says, blown Santa winds split neon and fractured apart by advancing and expiring symbols and signs and language, left behind in grave ontological displacement, unable to communicate or identify, left all alone at edge of freeway incoherent— 

But this city, you know, runs on this magnetism that of imagining being next to people, being next to certain special people, like, should bring one luck—I was the opposite, people called me when they had a problem that had begun to get too big to continue to deny. It's not much a noble profession I suppose, but the two timing economy in this city was one of the very few things you could rely on, and someone's got to neuter the kitten. They don't call it L-A-X for nothing, it was a city of ex's. My name's Jake Belane, I'm a private detective.

I always suspected Neil Blender was dilettante. Suffice to say, I am pretty good or am pretty good at what I do or, what I do—sure, there have been a few snafus every now and then, here and there—that's just ontologically smoked into the vocation. I'm just saying, but I'm just saying, no one was or has ever really fooled me or ever really fooled me here, and that's something I do notice and reassures me that for once I'm maybe involved in something that kind of works. I mean, what reason would I have to exaggerate this, it's not like I really care that much.

I know that when two separate witnesses give accounts that agree on every detail, you are listening to a lie. A good detective, you know, also knows sins, true sins are neither ironed out by science or art, and they can be predicted. Co-dependents anonymous calls it D-day.  And it's of those churchkey stabbings I flick and flip pictures of, a painfully useful new pornography, that you can only show to one person.

And when you get to be as old as me, you get to see the point where you have met and exhausted all the possible variations of people.  

And there are three types of kittle cats: the ones that you can't keep off the street that come up to you and everyone else that are over friendly that it makes you feel cheap but you still don't care or do care, there are ones that are ceaselessly scaredy, and then there are the ones that look at you with old cold disdain for the imposition of you just happening to incidentally exist within their frame of view. 

Guess which one Rooney was.

But I always says being a detective is a lot like cheap trick hustling pro-am porno promo street tricks for cheaps—the more tricks you lands, the more tricks you's gonna lands, though, there is always certainly going to be some rough and tumble somewhere in between. Tricks a trick to it, every trick a mystery—you may have something locked loaded, but by the next day, it doesn't quite work, inoculated by the trick to the trick you had all but figured out yesterday, and tricks a language, and language is a virus and that's probably why I'm such a good detective.

West drowning down Hollywood boulevard rumbling in the late morning McDonalds playground light of old LA, the rusty '74 Porsche 914 grinds down from second to third the way she always does. People don't drive stick anymore. Driving stick keeps me sharp and in control, it's a reliable insurance precaution for all the drunk driving—my drunk driving—besides it's a whole lot cheaper than paying a monthly premium.

Los Angeles' Glen Danzig carrying a box of kitty litter in the supermarket parking lot form of governance, was Dictatorship of the Heart, juvie it is jammed, and then Los Angeles will always come sluttereing eventually, always eventually incriminating itself—like when a child smells alcohol on a grown up's breath—the smell of irresponsibility of authority, which had a certain commanding stateliness to it, like policeman's after shave—and that's just LA sometimes.

The part of West Hollywood I was in, I remembered I had forgotten where the opening Keenan Milton line from Mouse was and before heading towards my appointment, I drove around trying to find it, driving around in circles a couple of times and then gave up. 

The generic green metal city traffic sign Laurel Canyon Blvd North sends me up its wending way. An appointment with old Joaquin—we weren't never on the same teams, (We were both at that point taking Lennox though, but I guess that doesn't really count.) But a veritable lifetime ago I would bump into Joaquin out on the European summer circuit a couple times. 

Los Angeles has a real big problem with stray cats though—that street mating population catastrophe, causes real problems, especially with, or in regards to property damage—spiteful kittles pissing on the foundation of your house unsolicited and causing major long term, like structural damage. I didn't see any stray cats out here in Lauren Canyon though, or I mean Laurel Canyon.

Before I met Joaquin, I first saw Joaquin silver knighted in am check out in an old Penthouse Magazine. In sized mid page spread, one of the Murphy twins was tripping up one of the old green benches sideways in old Union Square in San 'Cisco like it was a gang bang with old Joaquin too horny grinding all up it—which, in the freshly thatched pre-Eastern Exposure Girl era, wasn't too stylish of a move in the then au courant (but was still sick, though)—it was all kinda too NorCAL, though. Anyways, the curious thing about the photo, or the thing was was was that the little funk hat that Joaquin had on, or it was a new kind of funk hat we had no yet seen, made out of a progressive new plastic foil like futurist Marin County camping material, framed by just the right length of hair peeping Tom out the striking edge of beanie's ledge, in a way kids these days still can't get right. We still think about that one. One of his quick strike answers for what he does, or did in his spare time was something like, "hang out with girls, lamp kill", which, at the time seemed kind of wild to see in a magazine or any magazine, if you think about it. I remember the entire checkout really made me feel I was missing out on something in the swinging porno industry of San Ran Risk Co.

But in Europe on our free time, Joaquin was the only one to decamp to accompany me going out to the precincts of the museums. Joaquin was more committed vivacious informed than me in such seemingly supplemental interest, any time he could very well be counted upon to even get me to see more than what otherwise went well beyond my satisfaction or museum fatigue—Joaquin really would go the distance. Like two hungover hobos resting on the riverbed, we had long protracted walking conversations about art, women, art and women, women and their relation to the landscape. We saw Asher, both didn't care, no brooding over Broodthaers—to me it all seemed mouldering dated, more related to the harmonica wheezing European art activity and history around when the work was made, that I could then-now not really ever relate to or really care about, honestly. We were repulsed by the blimey Guy Richie vogue of conjuring tattoo'd pigskins, but it was the large cube of hardened vaseline resting on the floor that had human bites chomped out of it, holding both out our overstimulated imagination when we reached for it.

Joaquin over inspecting the cube, If turnin Turin tricks could ever be so easy, we'd have it made Baby—Sweet Judas Iscariot, it's got to be five o'clock somewhere—I'm parched, could use refreshment,

Joaquin approach to riding, all background a blur of holy speed, brave and ambitious courageous in a slightly out of touch way, but loaded so much really heart—Joaquin was a robust stout pragmatic, tackled more into a tranny like basis of orientation how when he hit it mostly frontside, all which informing how he directly sieged the post postmodern props in the demo orgies. His massive hard giant rides, though almost kind of then-now outmoded, were always a crowd pleaser though, everything in the fight of flight, the climb towards, and they did point to something lacking in my then flashy ZOO assassin Boba Fett plastic tech corner formalism, which although more stylish and then-relevant (but trendy), always made me intuit that Joaquin may have continued to carry on something essential still, that in a way, although a bit boring then-now, was still grounded in some kind of front side fifty fifty guild-like workman integrity, which and that which, I avoided like the all very hoopla Nofuct I radio'd video three years prior.

Always label whore, another network actor just tweaking and tworking-making variations to miniature moves to tarry off early nines Bay Area tech giants—catching variations of variable varial moves maybe they didn't get around to filming quite yet or that never made no edit—my variants, loose change tokens, sops, that I could somehow scuttle around to try to capture before someone else inevitably filmed them all. Joaquin and I were both old Television kids, but Joaquin more retained the old mini ramp north tail-grab idealism of nine-one inside himself, and I remember having no room for it then-now.

By 1996-97, I was ultimately ready to march off the cliff of Babylon following princess Carroll (at the bottom of such gulch I am currently reporting from now), and although such MC Carroll sensibility was the only way to go back then, really, and to which is certainly a direction I ultimately will never really regret—walking with Joaquin in the arcade, I was now-then self conscious, I remember feeling ever so slightly decadent then, or real wan, like superficial—my practice was progressing unhealthily a too rapid a-pace in it's own cutting corners loss of resolution progression, cloned of self dictating operations and all unrealistic expectations (unlike Carroll, I didn't get to get groomed on tranny at home to get pump'd on everyday), so that whatever my practice was then-now seemed grounded on a foundation that was becoming more piss and anemic by each swiss mogo push—the direction I was headed was becoming straight jacketed, guaranteeing all my own self extinction. Too many randos getting too good too rapidly and so ceaselessly also too, invading my trick routine psyche, had deleterious effect on my practice. It seemed at the time, or, it was at the time, I didn't really ride anymore anyways, I was just interested in turning tricks with too tight axl without even turning, not loose as a drunk loose goose, and didn't never spend enough time on top of any available tranny for one. For two, the only thing I ever thought about at the time was finding kiss ledge, any ledge, I could kate without interruption for at least an hour (finding such a thing in the wild, impossible then, and still now even). And three, well three, 

Though I was always on lookout for some joint, some latest joint from juke to jammy, some for next am scram pro promo soundtrack orgy edit of it all, too gad about, and really, if you think about it, such was the very best thing probably going for me then.

Me being hipper than Joaquin then, clearly was only a somewhat accurate assessment, bc to my suprise two years later, he would write some warble screenplay for a quasi-documentary narrative film, More Bad Vert Days, where fucking in the graveyard angel headed hipsters, howling on their knees in apartments cooking spoons off West Hollywood dose, baked indy Thomas Lawson directed, when at that point advanced beaux arts artists were then making very pained forays into film—Longo did it, Schnabel too, Barney, Cindy smoking Sherm, whatever, but, Joaquin's script was pretty funny actually, but also kind of dumb, and also not that good, but the casting really was what carried this party movie trawmpling along— it immediately became quotable video store shelf fav. 

White teenagers posing on the streets in fashion that could make Peter Berlin look like innocent Dutch boy Puritan in comparison, so shocking flocked audiences in Telluride, spurring a writer or some writer in what now seem like such simpler times, that this was according to him 'A WAKE-UP CALL TO THE WORLD!', some cultural apocalypse now or whatever, which really what now in comparison, just seems like a quaint heroin chic street wear American Graffiti Indy. 

And remember lines,

Stab Valentine flipper, stop Money Grip—You gonna die shirred blood blender blood, wasted 2 eyeballs Money, all sideshow by seashore,

Or remember the dumb smart Mary Beth character before shooting up in the cataract blank of gen X glade, Where does all the electricity go, she laments before she sends it up, but it's not really the turning up that is so shocking, it's just the look of banal wonderment that comes across Mary Beth's face that seems so unexpectedly disarming and honestly, kind of cool still even now, how it just goes against the narrative expectations of what the audience was potty trained on at the time.

Though not able to appreciate it then, I will say in my professional opinion, Lawson's principal photography for the film stills have really aged quite well, or really good, in way maybe taken for granted back then, or at least by me—all but now all but bewilderingly totally lacking in the mire of Loews home improvement section styled LA now.

And when the young tender hooligan protagonist in Joaquin's film finally convinces the young girl and she resigns register, lusts herself further back, even though Lawson was the director, I intuited old Joaquin right there behind the central lense of cyclops eye—and that was the first time I had a sense of watching like a film through the director's eyes, or had some sense, or a real keen sense, at least now of what a director even like did. Before that, whatever it was a director did do, had all been just vague as hell—like whatever it was a comptroller or DA does. 

Suffice to say, antied up as I grinning in the swatch of fool now, I know real good what a DA does, 

But even before I first saw Vert Days in the theater, I devoured all the press, I imagined, had a sense of Joaquin finding himself now mired in what I imagine some triangulation of more advanced worlds. Joaquin running in other circles now. Or Joaquin even, if not yet tangled up in some dark Dionysiac LA of Arcadia, then eventually—Joaquin eventually getting caught up in the LA where Eros and Thanatos are sick-of-each-other bedfellows, Eros and Thantos slashing blood, spilling seamen in Bacchic blossom, Hollywood Babylon—Joaquin pretty much stopped skating all together a while back though, was now on a side of LA I rarely or never saw.

It's not that Joaquin was necessarily some sperg prodigy (like Carroll), and anyways, we were so late in the century that a hermetic practice asperger's prodigy could no longer capture the imagination of a nation that's attention span became more splintered by the nine milli. The audience no longer like cared about your 100,000 hours of guitar practice and alternate tuning neck mastery. Depth and elegant subtle, replaced by made for normie by normie novelty of all production contaminating and hogging the nation's entertainment psyche. Indy and DIY now wasn't even safe now from the pork barreled fingerprints of the hot dog finger'd, fingering of all what should have well been gate kept all along. Jason Lee lost his grip, Mike Vallely no longer in Kill Uncle T,  Templeton had sleep paralysis, and Jim Thiebaud's too many tattoos was a sign that something was definitely gone wrong now. 

And to think, it's funny, as much as they announced the apocalypse of painting with Warhol—Warhol still had to maintain a strict and disciplined full on studio practice of stretching sails and sails of perfectly taught canvases, and then all the rigorously mediated silkscreen images, that now all seemed so old timey and institutionally quaint.  

It's like Joaquin's funk hat in his check out—that's all culture really would have room for now. Joaquin didn't even have to trick or trick or make no videos. Joaquin just had to promise something intangible—that something hard to describe, and he was able to stumble into the right time and place and economize off it to the very fullest extent seemingly—which if you think about it, that's kind of what turning tricks is, or atleast was. It also helped that he had a superior intuitive aesthetic sense and sense of humor beyond most people—but he was hardly a genius, or maybe Joaquin was a genius. Chris Burden for his master's thesis, locked himself in a locker for five days with only two five gallon bottles—and it was really safe to assume that all the love songs that could ever possibly be written were all well written by now, for someone to have to do such a thing now. Maybe a genius now only had to project something abstract and intangible with novel superficiality to do whatever cultural work there was even left now to do.

But a little less than ten years ago old Joaquin began to work lot less frequently pretty much—not so originally going from over-successful pseudo artist, to not so original property administrator, or some sort of landowner designer—I could just imagine him blowing lines off an unwaxed never used surfboard sitting on a construction renovation horse for his private beach beach house. Joaquin, reduced a whole lot less production now, owing to time taken away by now managing architectural reconstruction projects, gutting and somewhat like rebuilding his Laurel Canyon digs right off the cliff apparently, remodeling his un-used music studio all the way out in Burbank, doing something with his barely functioning shell store clown down out off on Fairfax—superficially venerable labors of rearrangement so absorbing him, then cloistering him off for years now away with his now actress wife-boss, Rooney.

Joaquin lived on Outpost, starlings murmuration seemingly as is Rooney's want—I could see her pov gaze, actually I noticed what her gaze saw since stumbling upon the Dorito tortilla chip foothills and chille powder cost-a mesas. And to think Rooney, cool as Vandermint—and to think a girl like Rooney, the type to make one harder than quantum physics written in esperanto—skate videos was worse than pornos she says, for Chrissakes, and the photos I take now are much worse, no—even lower than that. Most of my clients, all my clients were men, and in my office I kept a box of Kleenex right next to the room temperature Muscatel, I maintained a superficial topical humor with the confiding frankness of bartender in fashion forward way that they well paid divvie extra for when I handed them the oversized glossy black and white murdering photos I printed out in my own office dark room—their woman, all our women, touching God with someone else.

The Porsche 914 seemed to be driving better now because she knew where she was and was going— driving on the speedway parallel to the deep brush and bramble canyons forged by plates and ocean thousands of years ago—the ages it took for all of this, not even the equivalent of one evening to day in geological time.

Rolling into their driveway I felt like I was intruding (nothing new), but I have to admit the 914 then looked at home sitting parked hissing out fluid over to the side.

The marvelous hiraeth house was set back from the street into naked shade, lousy with secrets. It was the kind of outsized undeserving Laurel Canyon house built off mediocre and catastrophically overrated boomer lyrics. Joaquin had taken it all back from them though, using just a package of Philly Blunts and some cut off Blind jeans—good for him. 

The blue front door had an old iron rapp latch, that I used instead of the doorbell—the button of the doorbell was broken and no longer had a front, exposing the light glowing in the inside—so you know it still worked if you rimmed the button's rim—but I'm Original Hollywood Old School and I just rather prefer doing things old fashioned, so I summoned rap-ing the hard iron on.

The help advanced the door looking aggressively confused, no one has ever once visited the house.

Hi Dear! Is, um Joaquin there, Joaquin . . .

The help not so much opened their mouth, usually a good thing, but she seemed to have no idea what was going on, when an answer now was what was needed most.

I'm looking for JOAQUIN, JOAQUIN. . .

The housekeeper's made useless lost in the translation gesture, eyes widening in situational flabbergasted, a surprised jolly perplexion connected to the Disneyland destination environs zanny mania that went with being out in this resort beach city Rock n' Roll waterslide, not bothering speaking a word, gave up eyes, as gesture as saying, I don't know what I could possibly do cuatro you.

Is, there perhaps, anyone, maybe who—

Joaquin surprises from behind in a splash, seconds way too late in intercepting the house worker—like it was some kind of SNL skit. It immediately apparent he was still nicest ever, an absolute prince, but I got the immediate impression nice became maybe somewhat enabling in the close affairs of how he may have conducted and managed his hacienda. He ushered her away in an it's all right Hon, don't worry, I got it, no necesitos aydamente right now, and I'm automatically envious the help got to see Joaquin this way every day. Although the way he is treating her reflects how he will in turn treat me, I still have little patience and am immediately annoyed.

Well, ring my friend, I said you'd call Doctor Robert,Jake old Boy! 

Joaquin looked as expected, as well worn in by years what would do, looking best forties, Joaquin still looking unmistakably Joaquin, though. He really looked good actually, and I'm not just saying that. His too busy doing nothing to shave beard face, long Cali freakout hair. Joaquin had some precisely random exotic swim trunks you just know he got from somewhere, which I didn't recognize, was also wearing a lame Crailtap shirt, like it was laundry day or he had simply quit trying. Though now he even looked more like from LA sky micro-dose talk soup of cosmos in riding rubber plant tubes on the river Styx permanent summer father-frame way, even though he wasn't dad. Joaquin, wild-eyed and over self actualized, like a sunflower grows wild and unaccounted for on its own ledger, made me feel like I was also on endless summer, which I kind of was.

Just think, I hadn't seen J in over a decade, Joaquin had demeanor of old hip priest now, did real well for himself since though, that is, while I was living off locusts and wild honey.

This place is really cool, Joaquin—

Yeah yeah yes, well I still got a lot of work to do man,

Really? Or yeah,

Jake, viga, every adobe casita on the coast you know gotta need a good retablo for his bóveda, a real fine one, but this retablo estas mas pequenas para el this ole bóveda.

There was a beat off silence, I searched around the room for a clue, anything, as if I would somehow now find a printed sign telling me now exactly what to say.

Remember, if you're retablo don't fit the mesa bóveda, then there's no way around it, you either godda build a bigger bóveda, or swap the retablo over, or just pony up and get a smaller retablo pakena.

No, totally,

Yeah, yeah, I know, I know, Joaquin looking around in resigned frustration like he's endlessly accessing the imagined ceaseless contractors behind schedule un-resolution of the space.

Second of air sick beats into my too late a comment, No, I could, could see that.

It was a big white empty room with a red metal loop like thing on the ceiling, something that I could not discern if it was an architectural component or art—maybe that was its point. The room was almost too big spare though, almost too white—but then again, in LA, there was no such thing as too white—fourth wall all finish fetish glass from seam over streaking seam, overlooking the content in itself canyon letting summery blue daylight all in. Housed on the wall to the right of view where three pristine aluminum box outlines, installed at chest height and spaced apart with measure. 

Joaquin defensively picked up some bound book on the floor that looked long overdue, scooped up the inky black blue jeans like it was the first time he did anything in a while, an LA Fitness tank top, an empty styrofoam cigarette cup all on the floor of otherwise pristine room converted into gay gallery. A rubber hair tie remained on the black runner floor, I picked it up for him helpfully.

Joaquin unoriginally looks out the window with a feeling of unmistakable unfulfillment, bites the window ledge, as if to say to someone desperately, give me your vowels, give me all your vowels but give them to me with all your consonants—Joaquin's eyes, like two used tire lots now, one would naturally think he with such the splendor and grandeur of his immediate surroundings, that Joaquin would have had to practically go well out of his way to find such disillusionment—I had a feeling that this was the aftermath of such going out of his way search.

The butter in the breadbox, I mean really, Joaquin scanning the floor, muttering to himself, annoyed by the small mess.

Want this? I proffering hair twisty band to Joaquin.

Oh, that's Roon Dawgg—you can have it if you want, or no, no—here, here, I''l take it . . .

A pair of dirty panties went seeping peeping like a dead dove senselessly out the jeans now, Joaquin hugging jeans against Joaquin's chest, looking like, as if he was otherwise responsibly walking family back from beer day at the private beach. 

That we with wisest sorrow should think of them, shroud of vortex, holy cloth,

Distracted, like all the wealthy on cue taking their paranoia all too seriously, Joaquin was looking at the room wearily again, as if it was prison gas torture chamber, when what I said registers him tinker's late, What, oh, no yeah— 

What or what can I say, bigamy, bigamy is is, like just having one wife too many, monogamy the same, I always says . . . My rehearsed line I always try to say like I just bounced it out.

Oh, stop—

I was just funnin' you . . . 

Well, it's not—or it's not that, that's not why or why I called you over . . .

Usually when someone needs my services—

No, no, no—I reassure you it's not that, old Chum—I just need, or I need you to—look, come over here, Jake—

The nickled and stained box frames smugly hugged the walls as if there was a giant magnet on the other side keeping them bucked up and bolted on.

Pray you undo this. Look on this, look there! Joaquim in regnant scorn.

Wha.

You see these—my babies . . .

Looks like window unit cages they used to use for . . .  old timey high rise apartments, rises—

They are—or were fabricated to resemble such—Henrietta Milljanks, and that's no accident.

What Henrietta or the art?

Jake, can you be serious for at least once in you're life—this is important . . .

My serious professional opinion Coach, you either need hire a real good head shrink or fire your interior designer, or maybe both possibly . . . 

Joaquin paces himself back all too serious like chess tournament prodigy, holding his chin in exercising whatever passes for patience in Laurel Canyon. Dear Mary Mother of Teenage Jesus, 

Okay, okay—Milljanks, yeah—No, I think I seen something like this or something about Jewish Museum, read about. You know hadn't actually like been to a museum since, well since old Dolores dragged me to Paris in—

Joaquin clearly wasn't listening, haunted by the metal box outlines as if he had just finished studying for some big oral exam.

I may use next video—or Jake, you see, these aren't just . . . minimal post minimal pieces of un-nicked stained aluminum that you just wanna lick with naked tongue—I mean they are, are—but it's more than, tha, see?—material forces that program the space—what's . . . that's what it is!, no, the notion, or the notion of artist, of artist not so much as, as, like, maker of things . . . per sae, no, no, no, but artist as shaper, shaper of discourses—though, in this case too too insufficient in a pluralized too many artist discourse of the overstuffed, over self assurance of the plump skin Gen Z artists the academy blurps out onto us like normie AM waves from sausage churn, that these boxes, or do express—and we are left with, we are, are these empty, these post historical window unit cages—shells really, but most exquisite window unit cages at least, that make Koons' vacuum cleaners now look like De Kooning now practically . . . They are . . . utopian . . . and also . . . dystopian . . .

Dystopian, right. So what's the problem.

Well I tell you's what's the problem, El Presidente . . . 

Joaquin gave me the low down. He wasn't seeking my services for no pictures of Rooney infidelity. You got the idea that in kingly way, he was all too resolved, all too aware in, used to knowing that dealing with the Queen of Diamonds takes a certain strength and resignation—something only a real sovern could ever really handle or pull off. I mean, just imagine trying to serve up regicide to Rooney with her infidelity photos—she'd scat the room leaving you fool losing doubly. Sure, the first loss, infidelity—that was not necessarily one's fault, but to then self incriminate yourself the fool because of lost composure, exposed weakness—cowardice—of that, was a sort of double indemnity one is left with alone into wallow eternity and forever, and I'm the bartender who's specialty is serving up that defeat so well . . .

The real problem apparently was the company Rooney now kept. Marco, from the artist commune, who she may or may not have taken to boudoir—which wasn't the point, but the point was was Marco—for Joaquin, Marco, he was always just making quips, or small quips, always playing tiny little cheap pranks and superficially undermining the otherwise default good faith largesse good Joaquin automatically bestowed unearned upon him. Joaquin said he knew some real peasants were born real peasants, beyond the circumstances on scorched earth they were bought in—some people were truly poor in spirit, he said out loud in confidence now.

Joaquin leads me to the third cage on the far right, puts his spectacles on, gets down on his knees and sits his face obnoxiously close to the piece, Ya sees right here . . .

I'm afraid I don't quite, old Boy . . .

The aluminum, the ever so slight isotropic discoloration,

I—it, I mean it looks the—same?

Joaquin again sore as hell, Trust me it clearly is nottt—

Do ya think, doyathink maybe the other two—they closer to the wall window, or that the other two are—blanched by the sun? It is like, like a greenhouse in here?

No Belane, that thought never occurred to me, Joaquin offended, as if my statement alluded to less desirable conditions of the very gallery space planned of his own design.

The light levels for the sculptures is perfectly fine, not scultures—objects. Joaquin correcting himself all needlessly and over informed, 

Right—objects.

Maybe I was unconsciously striking a drinking pose, because right then Joaquin takes me to follow him back to what passes as his director's office.

You know, Joaquin, they say it's the second tear that makes kitsch kitsch—

Joaquin not listening, And on that note whatcha' like a drink, Jake,

Usually don't start this—early—your my only appointment today though—oh well, it's got to be eleven thirty somewhere . . . 

Jake . . .

Whatcha got—

I got Zamora, I got Galliano, Strega, Peter Heering, Rocher, and this . . .

What's that this?

Ponche.

Is good?

Ponche is all I ever drink, my friend,

I'll take what your takeing . . .

Well god bless ya Belane, two Ponche comin' up—Francesca! Querres ver la ventana en el cielo. Francesca! She can't hear me . . . 

Set em' up Charlie, and we'll shoot em down, Lieutenant, 

That's the spirit, Jake,

Joaquin hands the drink to me, straightening himself out with overwrought formality, What shall we toast to?

To Roon Doggg?

No, no how about—'To the clouds we share. . .' 

Ooo, it's quite a bite.

Stuff so strong it will have ya liftin' shimmies out the the party host hamper even if you still your girl's at home—

Valhalla seems near at hand, Comanche Commander,

Yeah, and it goes down real slow, like a first thing in morning Tia Maria. There's no liquor in the land that can stop your brain from a bleedin', but at least we can try . . .

My insides a bleedin', we try,

Insects were our link to God but no one can see it, Joaquin was saying, you can come real hard if you scratch clusters of thousands of puss bubble ant bites on your crotch, he tossed off, like it was some so unoriginal monied Cali transcendentalist Lauren Canyon home spun. 

Joaquin well oiled up now and over exerting himself, No, no, no, no—new vidyas, new videos, lemme tell you, is these days are crass, crass, just dicksucking, dicksucking celebration edits, every last one of them—all dicksucking footy down to the very last . . . 

No dark parts yeah, or intentionally dark parts , at least—could be kinda cool—I know . . . 

Could kinda be cool?? Whatever, no, no, no,

Joaquin's tirade, now on a roll, he had his tinted spectacles on now looking like a mogul or semi retried gangster, Heaven forbid, podcast positivist frame of mind HD edit, the general post shoehead normie narrative—ordinary shmoes running co's, and the industry wonders why it can't seem to make cream now—Ha!

Oh, my god yes,

Joaquin was surprisingly in tune with current industry minutiae, at least more informed than he was back in the day. 

Jacking with your entire body compulsive onanism, the plot of every video—Johnny Plimsole doing cartwheels b-sides, yeah, yeah, yeah—Balls! Joaquin casually spitting something onto his thumb like it was cuspitor, punctuating the conversation now on a roll command.

Joaquin had late afternoon Sade playing off the ceiling speakers in his office, sucking my soul inside the moment, we stood looking out at the horny saxophone canyons, it was all rather terribly splendid.

Offering Joaquim a cigarette, he looks at the enticements of the pack, his hand up near his shoulder, dandyish pinkie in the air.

What you got there Belane . . .

Capital W's mediums. . . 

You must not want to live too long—death on the installment plan they call it—I'll take one . . .

I think that's what they call it in AA . . .

Those damn fools—all of them, the whole rot lot . . .

After all the Ponche was as drained as the Hetch Hechy, Joaquin said he was now going to take out his special reserves—hand choked mescalitos stored with dead snake at bottom of bottle, which he had in an old timey shoe shine kit that looked like a prop from an old western—for some reason probably hidden in there. Some ceramic nubby thumb made cups materialized, Joaquim says the ceramic paint is unsealed and definitely not safe for use of consumption, but once I take a bite of the mescals, the cup will indeed be the very last of my worries.

Joaquin regains himself from his own distraction, A video is about, you know what a video is about Jake, a video, a real video, a good video, a real fine video is about finding, discovering utopia—well, at least it should be—I want the Kasai fake orientalism, the charming Chinatown takeout box, even if just but a mirage—

Joaquin interrupting himself, Okay now, no toast! Let's do another toast!

Okay to what,

Killing girl films,

I'll drink to that—

I was thinking about Rooney the entire time, waiting for the right time to where it should seem incidental and casual I would ask about her without suspicion, she clearly was not around—I could feel her not at the house.

Hey Dudemiester, so where's Rooney at?

She not here, the question barely seeming to register to him, Joaquin onto his next point.

You know Jake, sometimes, I wish, or I wish, you know what I wish, I wish . . . I had become a lawyer,

Ofcourse, why wouldn't you—

Oh, now be serious—no, no,  I'm serious, Jake. 

An attorney.

Yeah, I mean, there's something, there's just something about law, there's a poetry in legal writing,

That's certainly one way, or one way of putting it . . . Studying the pulpy Rachel Harrison ceramic sake cup.

Well I suppose it makes very little damn difference, anyways, Joaquin woffing the drink as if reflexively drinking to his own self extinction.

I know I shoulda stayed making fucking movies anyways, Balls . . . Joaquin looking down nodding.

You or you should put me in one of your movies,

Oh, Jake you don't want to be in no pictures,

No, I do, I do!

Speaking of which, we haven't discussed your fee—

I drained my glass with seasoned professional finality.

Twenty now, twenty once the case is resolved—closed.

Howsabout, or how about, I just give you fifty right now, how does that work for you—

No, no . . .  fifty, fifty is good . . .

I thought so. I'm of, or just so happen to be of an extinct ilk, that knows you pay good, you pay good your collaborators well,

Joaquin lights up one of my cigs without asking, lights to punctuate, finishing his thought with his breath straining holding in the first drag, the smoke then greens from the sick evening light of the city, downtown glares at all like a dead god, the mirrors in the skull of skyscraper never blink, but glow in the night, I very well wish I could say that for the rest of this damn town now.

Joaquin, you know, or know, I would, I would do it for free. You generous offer tough, will make sure I really nail this case—I'm gonna nail their ass!

I know you will Jake—but it's more, it's more that that, you understand. I need you, I need you to just also hang around, but no one can know, you're here to help me figure this all out.

Okay so or what, what would any of this ultimately prove.

It would prove that little Marco is pulling a boner on me again, and with such knowledge I can act accordingly. If I accuse him of what I think he's guilty of—if he feigns and convinces plausible deniability, then, well, it just screws up everything and I do mean everything. 

Okay, okay, so let's get back on task—you think there's something fishy about this last sculpture.

Object, Jake! Object!

Object. Okay, are there any distinguishing features I should know about—like a stamp, or concealed artisinal's signature.

Bernstein brands the summer serial number usually, and if I do remember, it may or may not be on the box in question—

Bernstein Bears?

I says may or may not, Jake—

Okay . . . 

Yes, and to confuse matters it may read partial, but I don't really, or really remember now—

Unfilled space in too awkward one LA second, worse than third world witch-house sponsored by Converse, filled the lair.

I still need to call art services to deinstall off the wall, anyways . . . Joaquim as if saying to himself.

So your not sure if there's a serial number on the box frame in question, and if there is, you can't remember if it is a partial or full serial number—have you consulted with anyone else.

No! Your the first person I thought of!

Right, right, no you made the right choice. Okay, who's Bernstein.

The fabricators!

Right the fabricators, that's what I thought.

A calico cat peeped it's head through the crack of the office door. Joaquin drains his ceramic cup and heaves it in a wind up like a baseball, barely missing the cat's head, shards smashing so uncessesarly and the animal disappears.

I told you to stay out of here Muffy!!

Okay so why, so why then you need my help for this, you know I don't know nothing about no abstract art sculptures . . .

Objects! Because Belaine, I'm absolutely up to my ear lobes managing this suite of specific objects, and if Marco, and if Marco, or if Marco is tampering with it somehow, then then that very well puts a big wet banana not into just my, my professional life or what I am trying to establish, but then into my personal and other things as well—ya get me! 

Joaquin slumps onto the casting couch in his office, and for some reason it's a bit impressive.

I'm running on empty, I'm simply exhausted, just exhausted with all the administrative functions attendant to managing these estate objects, I need help also too Jake — 

Help.

I'm all, I'm all alone here, Jake!

You need my help calling Bernstein Bears—your contacts.

Better you than me—hell I'll call them if you want, but, and, also, better you being around too, also, also panty sniff out what exactly is going on around here, Belane, second sets of eyes. Take the temperatures, hell get creative!

You are talking to me about serial numbers on the backs of hanging air conditioner racks Joaquin—exactly what the hell is going on . . . 

Joaquin gets up for the war chest of liquor, right like right out of movie. 

Joaquin now as if he was Ted Kennedy drunk steering in the Oval Office, heroically sips from his glass, It don't matter that. Because it also doesn't matter weather—if he is or is not pulling a little prank on me sees—Marco is from or with the art communes out in Barstow, ya know. 

What, the Mmunes? 

Yeah, yeah, yeah, and they are a real nuisance to say the very least, but I hate to say it, and the things they are doing out there, are unfortunately worth noting, I'm so dreadfully very afraid.

You said this, this is Rooney, Rooney's friend—do you think she's in on it?

Joaquin patiently drains his glass like if it was a responsible cup of water from teacher's lounge water cooler. 

Rooney, as any woman of her magnitude has a madness of the heart and all the territorial pissings disloyalty and appetites, that also so unoriginally goes with the territory, see?—that I can handle. But no, no, no, I know she wouldn't be in on it, that's' not her, that's just not her style.

Well, lady shame a gangrene enthusiasm, but only in attitude, now? I say in skeptical affirmation.

No, no, no it's just. Rooney was married, Rooney was married when we first met, though soon to be divorced, that's all.

Joaquin lights up cigarette, I take it from his hand breathlessly.

Joaquin goes over to the black of window, looks away away from me at the black of dead of void as if he was far away on imperialism's death star.

Marco makes a fool of me, then I might be out of business in more ways than one if you catch my drift.

He turns his head back at me from the glass wall with knife plunger's smile,

If I can thwart, but, but, if WE can or can prove this fool, then it will be delicious Junior, real delicious.

 

 

Your Already Thinkin' About Someone Else, The Dash Story of San Francisco Is the Dash Story of My Heart, My Smoking Teem Has An Urban Street Dance Problem

 

fiona

If you ride the lines

To whatever talent determines,

My reckless and loving muse;

Character lovable and catacleuse

Slate, only to hands on purpose,

Who twine the cross and the rose.

— D . M . Thomas

Jo B.,   Intellectual comics, they've taken EVERYTHING there's nothing left -- jokes about Proust, Joyce, Zen Buddhism, it's the end of culture, the world . . .               

— Phillip Whalen, I Return To San Francisco, ca. 1960

For Ted

                                 TOKYO WITCHHUNTER 

I am a ghetto living departed markedly in a Mikey Taylor gentrified Menace and Mikey Taylor gentrified Alien Workshop pure slaughter value world. Like fifty dollar allen hardware and you lost the allen key, like a pair of panties left around that you keep in your sock drawer now and it just loses its scent, like a word remarked and no one can tell and they just think it’s a typo, and all the phones loser’s collective wind all bubbling up from smudged pushed likes on all the worst, most popular randos—my scowling aria love lives deracinated, for unfurling eternity in vain. And when you dream you will always be alone.

I always look at a picture of a poems for virgins girl I used to know who I desperately wanted to marry, a photo taken of her now at some corporate event in Pillsbury with her thuddy husband, shelved self satisfied spun onto the gaggling web and there's ugliness we seek in vain. I go back and catch myself ogling at it in a perverse relish, as sick evidence confirming all my most cynical expectations of the world. It was fascinating how both dumb and cruel the imprecation of the universe expressed itself out at me—if I'm not going to get what I want, at least do it in some impressive way I say. As prime as she thinks she is or was or once was, and she just ends up with this pug in brackish plaid Samsung blazer, his wavy greasy hair that was never meant to be grown long because its hair is ugly hair, and as whatever, whoever she thinks she is, you really in the end, are what you eat. It is that simple, but it's simple enough.

I'd rather hear about Gino drunk driving in Tribeca than get clips. There are exactly three ways a co can die, actually there were a myriad ways, and the definition of what could qualify death, elastic—such that no one is even able to really get a footing on the same page about—Toy Machine, perpetually orphaned out of Huntington Beach, or what about Carroll losing his mind out in the wilderness of LA, or Powell and Peralta been just neoconin' pomo all along, though Roger (s/o to my boy Langston and the homie Trashitt) was always Target maxxing Pee Wee's Twee Playhoused' DOA though, and DOA was actually DOA, and Stereo, Stereo was like watching Betty Page melt into, oh, nevermind—

But there was work to be done. A lot of work to be done. And that's fine by me. I like work, just good, hard, clean work. Even when I was a kid, I would just run and run and run around in the school yard everyday. I've always been that way, that's just how I am. If you worked non-stop from the second when you woke up to the second before you fell asleep, there would be more work left, and actually you would still be behind. There where things you will do tomorrow that should have been done years ago. But even when I sleep, I'm still working. Even in my dreams, figuring things out, learning, testing, conceptualizing. 

Or what it was was, it was the thing, or that thing, or about how the logic of the van really, if you think about it, could be wildly inaccurate, but also kind of accurate in its own inaccuracy, or in its own specific, like unassailable way, I'm saying—brazen attitude prevailing most times, or all the time, really—and to think, or if you think about it, a populism at play even within the machinations of a hyper niche specific club wear street surf merch vanguard hard and soft good co's hard blues traveler imprimatur, but it's not just like that, or it wasn't just about that, or the thing is was, is is it's gotten kind of bad, or much much worse by now at least. Whatever, okay.

What no one seems to know, or what I've never heard anyone really say or ever utter though was, was a co was like a band. Or more like a band. Or, no, that although a co, like a band, was predicated on some notion of competence, a co more than anything, vessels import of time and place it like—resides in, or like really kind of embodies, something Dorfman, Mcgillicutty, or even that midget Hosoi didn't never say or ever talk about.

Pietà. But here at this juncture were we now—Montezuma's Stitches reboot de retour!, A Year from Monday trip. When we were in hucklebucking pogging Industry now no better than blackleg practically, the destruction of the incomplete idea, riven in an ever increasing crisis of cultural authority, where most cos IPs were bought and traded promiscuously like thrice-colab' skeeball tokens—Montezuma's Stitches, after it aborted that is, had lain dormant like old contest event BMX street course flat packed in an old storage warehouse, never to be ridden again. But then years later, or recently actually, and totally like out of nowhere there, the licensing was too fast acquired by this guy, this real cool guy, Sergio, who was like now totally obsessed with skateboarding and supposedly really down with the Stitch apparently, but, and, or, he also wanted, like really actually wanted to resurrect the team also now too apparently—or what was left of the team, that is, and with some recruits of cast of some new miscreants as well. 

But don't think this would be your usual shark tossed zombie band resuscitation though, as really any co closely considered legitimate, should certainly bring some new zeal to screen. As the skate/snow goods industry, like a beautiful woman was always susceptible to spurious reasoning, we had to comeback come back and quik silver somehow in the clattering au courant, in a highly idiosyncratic and surprising way, and now we were with our new and hatched contribution to the field, hence, Brice and I's conception: A Year From Monday trip. 

I was lost for a while, but now I'm going back, returning, revisiting, even possibly revolutionizing where I started from, and now there's no going back. It was back to the basics. It was time to re-new old connections, it was time to forge new alliances, it was time to assuage all the doubters, quash the dissenters and above all mark up the score for once and for all! But what originally began as eponymous enterprise a one full lifetime ago, so casual and tossed off and so incidental and of the moment, just quickly unraveled into this too much too soon, over-stewed, vertiginously elaborate, hop headed heady from the too much attention we then now got, galloping us so too ahead of ourselves Frankenstein fanfaronade. We, so unoriginally became victims of our own American cult enough success, team members too predictably descending into over self-stylized treacly side hobbies incorporated into inane later edits that all well went against our own original deal: way besides the point guitar-work b-side growling clipping growing to subsuming into an oblivion of self erasure of our skateboarding practice altogether, the plying in the besides the point self indulgence trinquetes and tattoos and jet skis having absolutely nothing to do with Zuma Stitch, or like Zuma Stitch og aesthetics, and totally, and if you think about it, sometimes blanching our like entire vibe, or like our own thing. Or what about the og team splintering out into outsider cliques only to become warring tribes against each other practically, what about the talking about each other behind our backs, the too predictable betrayals, the vengeful videographer out of personal filmercel pettiness fateful edit that willfully sabotaged and castrated a couple of key parts in our crucial follow up promo Dizzy Stain, or what about the useless promises, the late night mirror glitter talk jabber jawing coke running out watching Mouse at 4am in Austin uselessly pontificating exactly what I'd say to Carroll now if I ever saw him and impressing exactly no one in my huffying, what about our money guy totally bouncing with a significant amount of the reinvestment capital, or what about the van's breaks failing outside of Manhuaçu and using some poor villager's shack as a buffer, saving our lives, but unfortunately killing someone's dog (shout out to the locals who helped us dislodge the van from the exterior wall), and then of course what about the untimely death of fellow doja soldier and Montezuma's Stitch triple og Max Sohn (Max Sohn Rest in Peace!)

I wonder what Max would have to say now though, I mean, I guess he'd be stoked—I mean, he would, he would definitely be stoked, I guess—Maxx was always stoked, even when something was particularly dreadful, he always would just kinda just roll with it, but then again it was surprising to see what he could and would go along with. Hashtag Max Sohn Forever!

A Year from Monday tour was my idea, but the featured component, the tour's précis was the chalk lines really, and such flourish of brilliance of invention was indeed more Brice's conception, though the new sqaud on the squad would not necessarily describe it as, gas exactly, as one would say. The new deal, or this new motif, or troupe, or what could reanimate the otherwise dead corpse of the Stitch, now was a working method, kinda classic, brilliant really, which Brice recently figured out for getting more steady makes, and makes for clips, achieved by chalking drawing on the pavement, and which was truly a miracle nbc new method to shake up a field, that is, a population catastrophe of a field which is already riven in too many makes. But Brice discovered if you drew a box on the concrete, like right next to a ledge you were gonna Kosten onto or Losi on, whatever, the way you hack the trick, is is to draw a logo box with chalk just the right size, and then all you have to do is ollie over the expanse of the scrawled box on the ground next to the ledge, to where you automatically know how much to ollie, as so to easily sail away onto the other side. The thing is was, is when you normally skate, the exercise of mangle amount of pop you have to pop is always a bit of a mystery, a never ending riddle really, but if you know exactly how to draw the box on the ground, the box lets you know what to aim for—not just how much to pop, but also even when and where to pop. You could even draw a line on the stairs to gap or handrail on, say, by drawing a line on the fifth step from the top, for instance—if you just focus on floating over that line over the fifth step, it guarantees you airing out enough, locking onto the rail or locking into the arms of the air so well to the other side so splendidly, that it almost seems like cheating. Anyways, the activity of making of the lines, and the documentation of the indexical traces they leave behind, was going to be like a leitmotif, ready made imagery featured in video, or the new video, or the tour's over all thematic imagery, and generated related soft goods, and whatever else supplemental materials were published, archived or maybe even exhibited.

The idea of The Year from Monday tour is that we mime clips on the streets of SF using this proprietary method for the promo (remember: promo is just porno without the r over there, n instead of m), the method of such thus quickening our process, and hey, even hastening us to maybe skate less even, weather getting heaters in Milpitas, or Japanin' in Japantown, now so that we'd maybe perhaps, I don't know, have extra time for say city trim trimin' fogtown-cold Sierra Nevadas post covid Victorian apartment dance parties with youngian local Sunday Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday Minna Street painter hipster colonists and graff heads and Giant Robot zinestas, local heads and pros— a bawdy Gary Smith, a hard to crack Stephan from the Pier, and Jilleen, Jilleen too, off in the heart of the night, all the way out in say, North Beach, Coit Tower view—the exploits of which will also thus totally be quickening to be documented with virtually no turn around time, and no sleep till promo'd.

Before the trip I heard someone say the state motto of California could be, Come for vacation, leave on probation—and the squad was breaking not just the spirit of law, but the very law itself from the moment we left the shop, all the way to the morning we rolled back into town (actually, we were breaking the law before we left—chopping slopes in the shop's back parking lot, rolling out traveling wilbury dispensary). But then again, who was it who says—someone said, I can't remember now, BUT—part of being a pro skater is ruthlessly imposing and manipulating one's will upon the world, and nothing else seems that the much more truer—like, you think it's just some accident when you see Matt Hensley flogging accordion out in public?

The landscape is motorized. Rolling out of the spearing sleek of Houston mediacy seven pm finally, the evening had been cloudless and the evening had been pleasant and the violet sinister Nakatomi Plaza 80's reflections of the Darth Vader 'vade skyscrapers glint and commercial buildings shed the clarity of otherwise scaries twilight, in a way that was reassuring and actually seemed like a fine sign for the beginning of the trip, as we move as breath upon water.

The eight deep chatter in the sprinter was chalet, multiple jolly conversations blooming, going on all at once.

I sat DASH shotgun shotgunning dash, looking out at a print out of the capsule they sent the shop, Brice driving able to tell the knowing passivity with which the catalog was open and read.

Should I run this jawn, Mitch, sweaty eye'd, he, sate up in back, breathless without pause, full in expectation.

Team work makes dream work,Vic counters with a slightly misleading optimistic fierceness, the underside of such statement, if looked at closer, could only but confirm the slum of his life.

Fulfillment markedly coming too soon upon its own curses, and some mock laughter already portending some preview of underside of the trip.

Hardball hard, what happened to sober October,

It's Opposite Day I thoughtg?

Get ya some.

Ready for this hurricane negroids.

ALL-ready.

Much preeshes players, ready for round two for sure.

Real sweat. Real money. Big bills. All hunnits.

Squa!

City bois. Some goodies.

We cookin'.

Slack.

That spot gone bucko.

AY AY AY.

Tuck knee.

Congratulations nigga you gay.

Let's get it kirk cousinz.

Real clips. Real money. Square bidness.

Cuz swacked the buzzer beater.

5 gallon black coffee.

'Ol modest asss. Smh we some hoes.

Cig time.

Zynbabwe.

Upper decky.

Brice was driving, because Brice always had to be in control, and that was fine by me because I dreaded the highway anyway, though I may have registered this was the beginning of enabling his task master captain instincts, which although not yet painfully visible, was without fail always going to come out in all the most possible, most predictable, kookiest ways.

 

Maybe that's why I could never film with Brice, or actually, that was why I couldn't film with Brice. Even something as simple as filming with you're homie, Brice would find a way to fuck that up too—Brice was such a colossal drip to say the very least.

I mean, I like, like Sergio, whatever, I mean he seems nice or he seems, or is not totally clueless, I mean . . .

Good heavens, if Brice would have grunted, it would have been more eloquent practically, but he responded nothing, holding back, and also it was his way of controlling the convo of the conversation.

Or, I mean he's not that clueless, or as worse as it could be, needlessly correcting myself against Brice's silent driving glare.

I was casual strategically lying, Sergio was a total normie-drip pedestrian with pubic hair head—he didn't know Michael Snow from Dash Snow, Dash Snow from Dash Nekrasova, Dasha Nekrasova from Dasha Shishkin.

Brice couldn't even think about how as well off Sergio was, at the end of the day he dressed exactly in the 'not quite' of traveling shoe rep, and even if he did wear something like say a Supreme X Hysteric Glamour zebra print long sleeve crew neck, Sergio's just-something-off physical stature combined with his physiognomy could never quite pull it off. I sat trying to imagine how too dress Sergio to make him look cool, but gave up.

The road was for rhapsodizing, but Brice was holding back already too early on the trip. If Brice filmed you, he looked at it as simply his clip, not you're clip, or you're 50/50 clip. In order to not let him ruin my mood though and take some control, I kept talking, but he still acted distracted, and totally noticeably cut me off in the convenient interruptions by whoever else sat behind us in the van.

The history of skateboarding is Rick Novak first dandling ball bearings to fit around truck axl, then next Mike Hernandez lampin' singing chorus in Kids in Washington Square Park with Jamie Story, Frank Natiello, Hamilton Harris, Gio,Casper and Telly, to now like me. . .

Brice shot me a quick glance in the don't even compare yourself bud, to any mid clean-era underperforming but still enigmatic Zoo York or Zoo York adjacent East Coast skater, even though I had put out many full parts by now that which by default he automatically undervalued. Still I kept going on defiantly.

And Muska, Muska was a populist Carroll, a poor consumer's Carroll—no wonder he was so popular,

Muska was the exact fin de siècle end of millenium break into the autonomous skateboard aesthetic becoming like, like, like pluralized—Shorty's, not a stitch tier above a skateboard that could be purchased at head shop in 90's . . .

Brice said nothing and just drove, self important, like he was doing all the crucial work he always did. Brice was always just working so hard.

I looked out the window towards the no where near there, Plains Bronco Tatum, 

Tracing lanes West, it was hard, but I was finally able to let myself sleep after staying up into the morning.  Away now from the everyday machine, the Bleak House, and into some semblance of possibility, or at the very least, a new change of scenery as to break away from the mundane.

Video was not so much dead, as exacerbated into a new hyper-bastardized state, where to survive I would have to shift my approach in a way that went completely against the impetus for even wanting to make video in the first place. The criteria, my sensibility, even if fully realized in an extraordinary and magical way even out of my control, even that best case now would not find a suitable audience, and if I did find an audience, it would be paultry—like sharing a recipe over Craig's List to no one I cared about. No one controlled culture, and the ones who did, were now able to simply because of the mechanism of blind chance and immediate post-talent superficiality.

Culture was like the over antagonistic human bite girl you dated, who was always just trying to find something to call you out on all the time, out of some misguided notion of feminine self protection and natural checks and balances—until you realize too late, you had been complicit in going along with it for too long in good faith as a dude, under her misguided wielding of her out of pocket soft belligerence and bullying you you did not deserve this time, and this, when you were only just trying to be a good sport. Maybe she wanted you to snap back, someone would tell you—but you did snap back, and she was gone seconds after you standing up for yourself hit the shallow air. Sure, you could be called out for something that was you're own damn fault, but the force by which they so mercilessly and tactlessly dispatched such casual heckliiing, now overshadowed what you where being criticized for in the first place, in a way they were not aware of or simply didn't care about, that there would never be sufficient empty air to ever point this out. The only thing worse worst than not getting what you want—is seeing who ends up with it, and that seeing who ends up with it, was also how culture works and also what happens in a similar way when you are an artist skin in the game.  

The fascism of women was the contradiction that they allowed for something that they otherwise made firm rules on setting a standard against, but which standards they so permitted to so easily be compromised in an in your face flaunting well within their own girl boss hoss rights, and-yet-but now dictated by blind chance of the situation, same-ing the same sames. The fascism of women was how they bragged about some guy with another girl infront of you, but they are bragging about something about him that's objectively totally wack—Oh, that's so cute he's a grown man that actually loves Taylor Swift, Oh, that's so cute he rides a motorized standing scooter to work, Oh, that's so cute he doesn't know how to swim. The fascism of skateboarding was the undeniability of the trick getting done, in a way that was democratic and also fascistic in its extant fascism dispersal, which is also what I liked about it and also what I hated about it.

As a soulmate-husband was symbolically the notion of author of discursivity—that ideal, seems more and more and more and more like myth now—and what has ascended into prevalence, is being a network actor in the movie of life of a girl or woman, in a world of interchangeable replaceable happenstance network actor extras—and such was was was what skateboarding has well advanced into also—Carroll birthed a billion mes (plural for me). As a man you not so much dated a woman, as you dated her chain of circumstance spots for slots. Some skater's excellence was not achieved through practice, but more out of circumstantial situation that encouraged and allowed some otherwise impossible wave tube-ride ride.

And why do we close our eyes when we sleep, when our ears are still open, I listened to television, interview bonus menus as ASMR to go to sleep, I once had a dream where I could hear Justin Case talk talking about his shoe deal with Plagen totally going south, transposed over the dream—thus proving the soul only goes nowhere when you sleep (well, at least for me that one time).

For years I've had recurring, haunting dreams of an unresolved San Francisco though, this like whole entire time since I've been gone. It took decades to realize I had been low key traumatized by leaving SF. Dreaming, I'm usually at the very end of trip, trying either to visit my old skatespot, Wash, last minute, or I just desperately want to go to Haight Street and just drink a beer like I did irl with my girlfriend when I first moved there—and in the dreams none is ever possible. Last visiting SF though, to counter this, the idea was implicit I make them drive me right up to Wash in the middle of a school day, I also went into a bar in the middle of the day on Haight and had a quick beer by myself to see how my subconscious eventually responds (since I left, the same bar was more run down now and had seemed to have turned into day gay bar for old Marys). 

I had another unresolved songe San Francisco twurdling dream. This, I dreamed leaving I couldn't find my flight info on my avalanched mail inbox search, the search field wasn't working, my alternate clogged mail account, being my subconscious' expression of my least preferred delivery system, to my haptic primary account I actually use irl. The dream would have been resolved, if I just decided to stay, which I wanted to, but there was the imperative in the dream I return home. Later in the dream, I was somehow caught up with some girl with short blond hair, and the apparition's scouring vacant glowing blue eyes zilling back at me, existing better before me and even in dream world, I knew she was a hopeless prospect. 

And it is impossible to fight for someone, it's impossible to convince anyone to fall in love with you. Even the ugly, even the mid—impossible. It's not like an ugly person is like, I'm ugly so I'll take whatever I can get. Even the ugly feel they deserve the best. 

And falling in love with someone is certainly no indicator that person is meant for you. And why or where did you get such an idea? And in fact it is always quite the opposite. If you are too in love with them, then you will most certainly never ever get them. Everyone is like a house, and everybody just takes what housing they can get, and it's not much more complicated than that, and it's never fair, and it will never be fair, and why would you ever think it should ever be so fair? I read everyone past forty is just a fire bombed out city, but I felt that way when I was in my late teens—or more precisely, I felt that way pretty much always since high school defeats and in the words of Gregory Corso, the farmer's famous daughter I will never screw. Everything happens no matter what we decide.

I've been pussy hungry since kindergarten. The crush of the muse twists one up so sick and demented—I discovered this as early as fourth grade, and even that young, even back then, I was so shorn torn up to where then even knowing the word 'crush' makes only but sufficient understatement.

I woke up thinking I was in a small room with no windows or door. Brice had pulled into the truck stop and turned off the sprinter in the stiff grave of life morning. Even with Brice, or especially with Brice, it was easy to still feel guilty falling asleep, even with him not even being so open to long road convo or even with him not offering to share his vyvanse with me—Brice was such a turbo negro normie control freak, he unimaginatively looked at his amphetamines as being 'medicine' and completely out of question to be shared out of the spirit of frivolity and festivity of travel, which if you think about it, such deficiency was related to what made him completely unqualified to make any aesthetic decisions for our co or any co for that matter. Brice had a talent for basic rudimentary and useful labor tasks though, and waking up now made me feel like I accomplished something.

Brice now uselessly sitting at the wheel as if waiting for something, that freak—you could tell he didn't get out to use the bathroom or even stretch his legs or go out and have a nice jazzy cigarette, you were talking, Brice saying as if I had committed some grave infraction while unconscious and out of control of my body.

I soporifically shifted in my seat to activate my body with an in the innocence of the all things sleep of it all, as if I was waking up in an airplane movie seat.

What, I snap back already annoyed into reality.

Talking, you were talking, Brice sore as hell for no reason.

Because Brice was sore, I was peaked into defensiveness, maybe in my sleep, I was going on about how stupid I really thought Brice was—Oh, what did I say, feigning a casual question innocently.

What, Brice in the syllable is only the first child of the incest of verse kind of way.

I says what did I say.

You kept saying bracelet, bracelet, you were saying bracelet,

Capitalism's advancing, pours equipment fragment team to supply side unfurling user network agent generating psycho social space conversion and purveying, rollercoastering skate tracks in the liminal entryways of towers of stored chunks of capital—in such an obscene way, that spending the night in Las Vegas is a practical working part of the promo's own self generating working logic. Which really, such activity now is not exactly too new in this future, but so far in the future are we now, that such production now contends against a phonebook's worth of exactly the same new users and pro and hobbyist user generated media, where instead of names and phone numbers in the phone book, there's competing agents with their entire video oeuvre being represented against everyone ceaselessly, in what originally used to be a small batch counterculturalism, now normie and non-normie and everybody else multiplied continuously like self generating soap bubbles that can't be rinsed out and just keep bubbling. Not partying in Vegas now becomes related to not fully committing to the logic of crux of the spirit necessary for approaching the entirety of the trip's potential full possibility and spirit. What's the use of getting clips, if your not open to the full night in the simulacral desert city maximalism and all its society of spectacle exaltation? The trip was a end of year write up for the shop basically, and the media for a shell company that we took too much pride in and put all of our network in.

It was a day of promiscuous symbols and shattered screens. Zombie Alien Workshop was what Ai would have come up with, if zombie Alien Workshop had not have already become self generated expression of it's own schizophrenic logic of operations already, pre Ai. Workshop had well been previously molested anyways, so this zombie AWS was not really seen so much as a travesty by now. I was already fatigued from running in front of the shadow since after 2004, I was fatigued by the stars in the sky telling us exactly about ourselves on a daily basis. There were no addendum disclaimers in the Bible, the Bible was never revised to properly address the discovery of linguistics—the information the Bible gave us implied, or was assumed a direct one-to-one correspondence between signifier and signified (e.g., God gave Adam language in order to name the beasts and plants in the garden). All of this puts us in a position of grasping schizophrenia as the break down of the relationship between signifiers. But man gave himself grammatology to prove God wasn't real, God was now a tapestry of text to be unraveled in reverse like pulling away on a thread, and I thought about that when I looked at the otherwise cool gasmask logo French flag AWS resistance reissue resting on the outdoor rack at the pop up shop on the panhandle. 

It's the feeling as if someone came into your household and wrote about your household, but you where never mentioned in the text, though you can see yourself inside the beyond of the text in a way that was not deliberately implied.

And I like you're horror maker. Better men are dead, we slip into their step shoes, and we need the vacant symbols, we all need dead symbols, everyone does, and so does every set need to be emblazoned with the same sham coat of arms logo accent—that's the business I ply in.

I remember Rio, the Rio hotel in it's heyday. Place was packed and wild. They had two kickass buffets. A really legendary seafood buffet too and the line was always a mile long. Nine six, nine eight, the place was always rockin'. Employees would hang out there on their off days. It was paradise. During it's peak days, I thought Rio was truly magical. I mean it was a real happening place. It had the first, or it was the first club casino. But it's all gone down since Ceasar's. No more All American Bar and Grill. The beach cafe had these Bailey's Chocolate Crème pies, we would buy an entire pie just to take home. But no more Rio beads show. No more Copacabana dinner show. No more float show in the sky. No masquerade tower, masquerade show in the sky. I know it's difficult, I mean it's depressing, but don't give up on the Rio just yet.

Quinine hungover in the depressing lobby of the casino hotel on our stopover in Vegas, too hungover to smoke or vape. I was staring back outside at the car port, the support column in the car pass tunnel, the car way port way pick up pass, decorated with this way too fat giant pornographic obscene blubber of overstacked doric base of column holding up right against the ceiling, and the cheap-cino misconstrued élan of it all made me blue—this must have been exactly where postmodern criticism was born, which you think would have made me somewhat enthusiastic and interested, and I well would have been, that is, if I wasn't so apocalyptically undulant with hungover from blackout. 

I mean right now, right now, now I feel low, and so low—I'm connected to that same wretched primordial doom feeling, like being shitfaced asleep, looking over at looming clock, with the hopelessness of having just an hour until having to get up. And now, or now, it's dark, I'm dark, I'm an old amphetamine tortuga tortoise, a back channel billabong, some drunk lieutenant who can't even be trusted to navigate his own troops to safety, I, less reliable than the Playboy bunny handler in Apocalypse now.

And I saw a dead boy. I am a hymen. I spent the nineties lying about liking Sunnyday Real Estate. I lied about liking the post Descendants band Milo. As snow is wet, as rain is cold, I had to dumb it down, I had to really dumb it down, while I was also looked at as a toddy fool by a few, and by many, by my contemporaries, by all my peers.

Being hungover made me randy as hell though, as if my body knew it was dying and cadaver instinct kicked in to reproduce before it was too late— it was already too late. I, in great futility started shuffling through an app pinghed up to SF wol, though. It was bewildering how even barely semi attractive jejune filles were allowed to be, and even allowed themselves to be—always too drunk on themselves on the online. One girl with the typical plain sagacious chawing face, had a renaissance festival Dickens in the Strand full on dove-coloured pelisse costume with some nosegay bodice corset and the barbarian ties up in the front, shit smile smiling at the photographer, all so self satisfied, as if living in the juice of ideal of this norm-mo single's life there out on the peninsula. There were 250,000 clueless men in the bay practically fighting each other to put it in, to put it on, to put up with it, willing to puttle up with her insisting on couple's halloween costumes, willing to put up with her self stylized proclivity of being just one of the guys (read: I can't get along with other women because they are a threat and I need all the oxygen in the room), putting up with her plot twist: exuding in SF Giants for christsakes, a real man's gal, a tossed off girlboss hoss fumble into weekend football culture, the taking of pictures of depressing looking mini BBQ grill ill tailgates, the doubly dreadful Sunday NBC watch parties she hosted and posted, willing to put up with her not being able to maintain hobbies so you have to hear about her useless volunteer work all the time. 

Mitch emerges out of nowhere up to me in the hyper-space of the hotel lobby, What's up Hoss, I thought they had a McDonald's up in here. I'm 'bout ready to get me a griddle.

You and your griddle. No, Mitch, there's no Donnels—come on, we're in Vegas for Christsakes—go, go have a Bloody Mary, I command, knowing Mitch is trying not to drink on tour, I give a sweeping ushering out of my way Mitch sway with arm, still looking down and swiping left with the flat of my hand uselessly with an immediate air of in the moment petty self importance.

Looking up from the saga of grim prospects, I see Fiskadoro also on the phone, but on the phone with his ear instead of how I was on the phone with finger and eye. Fiskadoro visibly distraught, though laying back lazen with his neck resting against the back of the couch in the jewel tone Bed Bath and Beyond cheap rustic austerity of the lounge—I certainly hope no one in his family died or was stabbed, I do hope everything is okay.

Fiskadoro gets up and paces in dismay on the new sickening carpet like my petty vomiter, standing as if on standby, shaking his head hopelessly, as if betwixt on layover, over alert in the breathless pause of expectation.

Genevieve.

Genevieve!

Look, your being crazy, Crazy . . .

Ok, Crazy.

No, no, I says—I said—

Oh, ok—great.

Great, well—well that's just great. Juust fine.

Oh ok, you do, you do that.

I'm . . . . . . . . . I'm not surprised!

No, I knew. I knew, well, I knew you would. Just. It's just.

Knew you. Yeah right, right . . . 

Yeah, well that's just too bad. And I'm out here, like out here . . . like,

Yeah the team, my team, with—my team . . . 

Fiskadoro hung up in grim paroxysm, falling back on the couch slunking back in the over plush of swollen sand Vegas, the weight of grief giving off tragically hip on tour.

Jim asked him some dumb question again, which Jim should have well known the answer to already practically, because they had like been talking about it so at length or earlier on the road that is, and Jim was so lackadaisical and never listened. 

Horvitz was on the boat, the boat, right? Jim brazen, pressing tongue to roof, completely unaware and out of step as usual.

Fiskadoro nodded with futile solemnity, Fiskadoro managing two realities at once in his head in the techno lust pulse of the casino complex. It was as if all this wild superficial technology existed, and the same old problems always just came up creeping in again like desert water bug on the carpet.

Fiskadoro looking like he had seen a ghost walking through the walls, Yeah, yeah.

Hey Jim! Yes, Estance was on the boat now, okayy? I intervene, like some responsible TM.

Oh, ok Blake, what you care? What's it to you. Victor clearly squaring up with this first thing in the morning truculent intonation that I really don't like or appreciate—and at me no less—such pertinacity he constantly displayed was astonishing. Clearly Vic demonstrating he has problems with authority, as we all well know, and as if he's even ever had to deal with any consequences of his actions with authority in his past.

Mellowing the vibe like a good TM, I change the subject, It's nothing—I was about to say, or hey— hey Jim, Jim, why don't you . . . go, why don't you go buy us a couple of nine dollar can cans for the road soda. Don't worry, I got it, Unc.

Yeah, whatever, Hemmy. Beetle browed Jim-Jim in misguided, unjustified indignance.

Oh, I'm the Hemmy, I'm the Hemmy—Well, I'd say that's particularly rich coming from the likes of you Victor!

Jim left with my card, like he was doing me a favor.

I want change! I command for the sake of command, even though what I said makes no sense.

Jim turns around in the Richie Rich sounds of the casino cashing, looks at me incredulously like I'm a fool, but also Jim has gotten way ahead of himself as usual, or more precisely, as scheduled. And he's lucky, real lucky he treacherously bashed his back wheel casing on the gap out on the Raya la Tunka sculpture in midtown in the Glizzy promo.

Seeing Fisk distraught gave me something to focus my drunk hangover on, distract myself from myself now. Besides, I may have been keenly interested in redeeming myself, or in at least being useful in fixing or helping out what if not just one problem in the world right now.

Hey Fiskco, you okay there bud.

Fisk didn't want to talk to nobody, he was lain absolutely scythed in tatters sitting in the couch in what remained of his own solitary dignity now, surely not wanting to rehash what just went down on the phone. 

Talk to me Fisk, I'm still—drunk—I feel the need to be usefulness. Ok, C'mon kid, spit it out. I command with attendant authority, that's becoming immediately xeroxed into oblivion.

When anyone besides me otherwise should tread silently around the couch of the poor prostrate soul, Fisk sat up responsively with whatever ad hoc professionalism was possible, or possible at least as new jack on zombie comeback tour in vacation resort setting in the desert, that is— Fiskadoro shaking himself out of daymare, now as if he was now on the clock, this was a work trip after all.

My girl buggin', Fiskadoro repining.

And why wouldn't she be? A tale as old as the sun, surely.

Yeah, whatever . . . , Fisk's jaw thrusting open and wiggling it from side to side as if checking his mouth.

No Fisk, not, yeah, whatever . . .

The digital money bag sounds of coins came crashing down chinking innocuously in the background as Fisk uttered nothing, and to think, Fisk brazenly in his ignorance addressing me as if I had never accomplished anything ever in the industry, or my métier, whatever—but he muttered nothing as if illustrating how other ams now would probably also not be under my spell of influence, and if you think about it, me, me, Blake The Kid Plummer, actually taking a real personal interest in them now on the trip too. No one cares. And alas, in this way now, I could also see, I actually could see how Fisk's logic mirrored the schizophrenia of late capitalism's illogic, the nowhere's ville we were now wandering in of lost connections, loss credit, where I never get credit a lot of the time, or most of the time anyways, or I never get credit. 

Pawing half empty beer, I ask officiously like a drunk lieutenant dealing directly hands on with the fallout of the sexual revolution, Is she pregnant, son.

What—No. Fisk with unconcealed look of disgust on his face.

Well, there ya go, chap—that's the worse thing that can ever happen, so there's that, or that at least. So how about, let's like get this party back on the road now, shall we! 

I skated for, I skate for her—she never happy, never happy.

Ah, I think I might see, looking over my shoulder in new tenuous distraction, my drunk attention of attentiveness swaying waning almost as fast as it had struck.

She been, or the thing was is, she's talking to her ex, like right now, her ex, practically since we left.

Well, Fisk, what can I say, I mean, what can I say—every rose has it's thorn . . . Ya know, knowing my sentiment not quite hitting right soon as it hits the air of the arcade exhaust.

What. Fiskadoro snapping, almost offended, nerves burning, losing his patience.

The song, that song, or you know the song, Every Rose Has It's . . . Thorn.

I smiled at Fisk, uselessly drunk, as if it was actually cheering him up—now descending in fully flinging my unreality upon him.

Fisk said nothing in combination of embarrassment, exasperation and being wholly unimpressed in his youth, but also still buckled off fresh from the new news from home.

Hey Fisk, did you know, did you know, Fisk, hey, look— Every Rose, Every Rose, Every Rose Has It's Thorn was like written by Bret Michaels, or by Bret Michaels while, remember?— like he was on tour with Poison? Or on tour. He called his girlfriend at the time or something from his hotel room, maybe he was even in Vegas, or you know, and when he calls, when he calls, he could hear, he just hears or he could just hear a guy, some guy, who's the guy in the background of the phone call at his chick's place, and that happening was—it, stirring him to write . . . Every Rose Has It's Thorn.

And what—

And what, what—that's, that's just like how the song was like written, I'm saying. Or just how it was written, that's all.

What you want me to get clips, clips to think about her, her ex.

Well, yeah, or no, no, no. Not necessarily. You could, I mean, you could use the muse—muse with dagger to your temple. But no, no, no—that could put a fire under you to get clips, I'm not saying not that. But what I'm saying is is, or I mean, what you could just come back with banger of a part, banger in the can, ya know?, but it's not like, I mean think about it, it's not like she'll suddenly, or suddenly care really, or it's not like that that will suddenly like make her re-interested—and if anything, you having the time of your life, as your best self, will only really, if you think about it, make her resent it more—and have her, her like, like then double, or double down or something on her running right back to this loser. 

Right, right, Fisk veering towards in his confusion almost flipping, striking into some notion of requisite, though misguided, optimistic, moving forward lotsa nothing clarity.

I'm just saying, all I'm saying is, is put on your big girl panties, jump in the van, and let's clip up—okay?? 

Fiskadoro says nothing, helplessly relapsing into his grief again, as if he just thought of something new to bring back his distress.

Or don't get clips? We can just party in SF. Whatever, it's okay, it's like okay, man . . . 

Fiskadoro slightly breaking down, cue to heart, It's neither fair, she got a monopoly on beauty, I didn't want anybody, every second has just been this—

Tommy Gunz shows up out of nowhere, coming off from his separate experience version of the hotel, Hey guys, where's the sprinter—we really should think about loading up.

Gamely pivoting around to Gunz like foosball figure, I'm reactivated into animated electric sheep game show host pinballing bells, feed me coins and watch me light up, now really fully engulfed in the sate of new meek distraction, I remember to lamely give him a late fist bump.

Tommy Gunz! No, no, I don't know—someone's or someone's getting it? I'm waiting for Vic—and you think he'd be back by now, really. Hey, have you like seen Vic?

It was dark by the time we reached Oakland, but even the blank spot of creation mirage of darkness dark outside of the city on the highway in California was sharper, cinematic, a phantom noir reminding us that California was indeed far better than stupid Texas, and I knew exactly what the highway said was true.

In the hum of the sprinter and in the mark of road, anticipating San Francisco, I felt a very specific meditative clarity. I very much sympathized with Fiskadoro, I really did, but the way the situation hovering around us lined up and played out, in the moment I wasn't really prepared to have my sympathy go as far as it should or could have, if being helpful was even possible, which it really probably wasn't—and despite I not even wanting to spend the night in Vegas, I was engulfed in the mania of Las Vegas myself, and even though I don't gamble, I was still left to all my own worst instincts—did I really want to find cocaine at the club?, the old Vegas club that made second rate Houston Barbarellas seem like the better Austin Barbarellas in comparison, and of all the hopelessness of a non existent old Vegas but old Vegas trying to too late to establish some local wannabe Casablancas leather scenester scene of the semiotically vacant Vegas club Oddfellows (there's also an Oddfellows right across the street from the new UN Plaza spot on Market). And despite having a pretty great time, I almost allowed myself to leave Vegas kinda ashamed, that is until I drank my beer waiting in the morning parking lot of the gas station, listening to Harder Quart and thankful, in tears streaming, texting my only contact in the city now: the story of San Francisco is the story of my heart, and in realizing such on the spot statement, feeling I reached a fresh peel of resolution in making heady step in now reconciling the traumatic loss of the city that I left now, before I was finally about to arrive at later today.

Once, not too long ago, young men had come to the city because they wanted to skate, and skate clips, and get montaged, shoot photos and even film full parts, not just because they wanted to be associated with the production and distribution of this activity that yielded into products which became major cultural artifacts of the West, but also too they wanted to find, to locate themselves, their best self—a best self not able to be realized without the city of San Francisco. For those who haunted the underutilized plazas, the under populated park lane, the derelict sidewalks, the end of land sadness, San Francisco was the shining island of shredding, total terrain destruction, a place of miracle moves: and it was printed right there on the masthead, San Francisco, home of two key and inimitable mags, Thrasher and Slap Magazine, San Francisco, where Pepper once clocked a loud mouthed Phelps in his office for awarding Bill an unfavorable Teddy Award, where Sarge learned to shoot junk, where McBride brothers Marcus and Lavar divorced themselves from each other thus dividing their time at the Pier never again to be seen together—the story of which that is utterly heartbreaking, and Kelch punched everybody, where—or so they imagined, ernest videographers and aspiring ams smoking cigarettes in bars and cafes, raising a glass, reciting Phelps' crazy poetry lingo generated of concentrated perpetual city movement, Phelps who had taken his last breath holding guitar neck in his hand—Roll in or get the fuck out. These dreamers where people of the magazine, but also of the marginalia: the romance and attendant mythology—the affairs and addictions, the feuds and the fist fights. Like everyone in highschool, I read Catcher in the Rye, but unlike anyone else there, I'd really felt it—it spoke to me in my own language—and it still conceived the idea still that I would move to San Francisco, and maybe write a novel there, Where The Ducks Go In The Winter, or maybe just The Ducks in Winter.

In Haight I was speaking out loud to no one in the gang in particular, Victor just been happened to be walking next to me, privy now to my over charmed relic-hunter musings now, and now no hope for the quarter hen, and on Haight now the fish store is closed.

Ruggedly shrugging my shoulders, Villains Vault has what permanently closed now? We have, we have to go to—

Positively Haight, Positively Haight—it's a tourist trap headshop, but they have, or used to have this like real cool rack of these cool vintage belts they used to keep—or I don't know where the hell they got them, but they, they just had all these great night belts—I got this one totally awesome woman's skinny red vinyl, Cat Club days ya know, that I still think about to this day—we need to go by there, I hope, god I hope, that rack of belts is still there . . . They also used to sell tambourines.

Victor could have been cool, but he of course made no motion to utter reply or even grunt my way—and the many hand in ceiling fan of small infractions that I would let by him be driven thither, and that which would increasingly begin to stack up and swamp up the trip. How come when I'm finally girl boss, I let personnel get away with such infraction!? 

As eyeballs never actually touch with eye contact, and Victor was a total maniac, though. But on the board, the braggart heathen instability of his severe and fraught deads man's approach was indeed c'est parfait in its untapped idiosyncrasy—Victor was pretty much put on this earth to articulate the wild style, and really not much else, and in life, he was left with nothing much else to offer, which in a way only reinforces his method in some majestic kamikaze authenticity. 

The Stüssy store, it used to be over, or no, it was, yeah, it was right or right here, damn—the Stüssies gone! I mean they have the tiny shoebox location in Honolulu still, but this, no here?! 

Flippant and overstimulated I like nervous untrained purse dog, The sign says Ready to Wear, ready to wear, as opposed to, to what—it hasn't been made yet, but when it is it will be what, Duh, ready-to-wear?

Brice making an unproductive sober correction to my hot take, Blake, ready to wear means off the rack, no alterations—I know that cause my girl, or like when I'm with her, 

With her? WHITHER? . . . THITHER!

At FTC, and all the sheer of memorabilia was over the squad's head, actually and figuratively. Ibaseda's fog town tugboat boy next to Carroll's brat and cheese, up near the ceiling. Tae's a-lampin' escape slave. If I could have any deck, it would be Carroll Wolverine barnstorming a turbulent foggy 1970's Golden Gate Bridge, which deck that wasn't there, but my second choice, my absolute second, would be Tae's lampin' tree escape slave, which was right sprack up near the raised rooftop high beams. A framed photo of Mouse Tae in costume fro—CLASSIC!, taken in 1995, and just think, when over-confident, not as hip as he thinks he is Vic, was like what, two years old??

Yo squad up, anyone seen Fisk. Eustace outside, noticing with delay, in a way that undermines the sudden concern he's suddenly displaying.

Fisko, no, I mean he was just with us, I state unconcerned, looking at the blanched video boxes in the window.

No, Fisk didn't walk out with us . . . Mitch stating soberly.

Yeah, he did. I turn seeking confirmation, looking around with an impression of given certainty.

No, no he didn't. Mitch over-stating, out of line in this emerging pattern of lowkey disrespectful tone he's been taking with me, as even though I never wanted him on the team, as he was placed upon Sergio's intrepid insipid insistence, Mitch still should be showing some gratitude. 

But I saw him.

Your tripping, blood, Fiskadoro was never with us, Mitch over pressing imperiously.

The hell we was wasn't.

No, Blake.

Fiskadoro been real quiet all the way since San Ramon, Tommy Gunz stating blankly.

No, no he's been quiet since practically Vegas, Eustace looking around in un-concern.

Goddam snob, Mitch states.

Who is. With what Mitch just said, snapping me out of my now withered delight of being out in the Haight.

You heard me.

He's not a snob.

Like hell he's not.

He's not!

Really, you don't know much about him, then then.

Oh, ok, whatever. . .

You don't. If you know plenty, well then tell me his last name.

Fiskadoro, Fiskadoro the snob, I counter flippantly.

 

Eustace inserts himself in, No, he's just down bad—I could kinda tell.

Yeah, Brice, he's been blue, that's all. I'm sure, I'm sure he's, he's just back at the rental, I remark still staring at the lindy window.

Demurely scotching in the sway of sidewalk, I think to add, And anyways, he's kinda tripping on his girl, or was tripping on his girl, that's all. I thought you guys knew, but I guess he's just kept it to himself. He told me in Vegas.

He told you in Vegas what. Brice rising up suddenly, now unjustifiably affronted.

Knowing Brice, I know where this is headed, but I defiantly keep my cool, playing dumb innocent, Oh, since he left, his girl been talking to her ex—typical.

And you didn't tell me this? You didn't say anything. Brice right on cue, making it about him now, jamming up the logic of the situation.

What do you mean I didn't tell you this?

That Fiskadoro was upset over his girlfriend.

Well, A) I talked to him already and B) maybe it's none of your damn business.

Oh, my god. Can you even hear yourself Blake! Yeah Blake, you talked to him and now, now he's gone. What did you say to him this time, what did you say. 

Wait, wait, wait, hold up, hangdog. Hold up. Your getting out of pocket.

Unbelievable, I mean, what—what did you tell him. Brice asking, as if any answer given to him now should even but make a difference in the situation.

I said, not to worry about getting clips, that's all . . . we can just party in SF.

You what.

I said don't sweat it.

And why Blake, why would you ever tell him not to get clips—when everything, everything now, is riding on this—

Yo, hey yo—he came to me. Came to me. I just counseled him, simply counseled him about girls. That's not really you're—

Oh, and on that surely your a real expert.

Shut the fuck up Brice!

No, I'm not going to shut the fuck up Brice—that would have been, or no, don't you think, don't you think maybe, perhaps, I don't know . . . 

Brice stood baffled mulling in all his own anemic pragmatism—god, he should have been a fulltime filmer, he was such a notorious bore.

Brice footing back, Is there anything else. Anything else, I should know. I mean why did you even tell him not to get clips. Did you even think maybe, giving him some advice to maybe, I don't know, focus himself, that that using the struggle to maybe, to, like or like actually get clips? It would have been a perfect—

Right, right Brice, that never occured to me. It simply astonishes me how well you always seem to catch the obvious. 

Brice pointed his finger at me, opening his mouth about to say something and then halted, he doubles back trying again and then still can't figure out what to say, pauses again, he does it one more time, perplexing even himself trying to concoct an argument.

I turned and fake calmly asked for a mentholated cigarette from Vic, he dutifully gives me one, Vic on alert like a child watching his parents arguing. I ask at no one in particular, someone, for a light, Eustace hands a bic.

Brice revealing himself hardly at all a real companion, certainly never a dog to keep the wolves off of me in the past, but a sheep dog now nonetheless, I struggle to explain logic in the face of all the volume of his misguided insistence, All I said was is—girls are petty as hell, that's all. Girls even resent you when you are coming up, especially traveling without them, living you're best life, while they sit-sit at home crocheting doilies, baking cakes, seething practically?? C'mon on man. Why you think she started talking to her ex just as soon as—

Girls aren't like that. I mean maybe the ones you end up with—

Don't get smug with me Larry, just because you been with Jennifer for what since the AOL Time Warner merger?—you wouldn't even last now, things have advanced pretty quickly bucko, and now your an expert just because you happen to own a house you're girl can conveniently live in rent free on you're head this whole entire time. You've had sex with ONE person for over a decade god, and suddenly your more of an expert than me on women. Okay. Yeah, you know a lot about women—sure, one woman. Jennifer. Your practically Ed and Deanna Templeton geriatrics dry sex—no skin in the game. Your civilians, and I've been getting my ass kicked in the field this whole entire time?? I mean, really. 

Brice in the gnatted pubic hair of his own resolve, after nodding twice or thrice patronizingly, Calm down Blake, we all know, I mean we all well know you have a warped sense of women.

I've been rejected by thousands of women—thousands, since you been with your little Jennifer. I know plenty about the nature of women, considerably.

Then if you knew, or knew so much, or so much, why don't you ever have a woman then Blake, huh? . . .

Oh, dear little lamb—because women are untamable wild nature you imbecile. Because women are predicated on fair weather situation of givens of the outside world, irregardless of your comportment and confidence. Simps like you say girls like, want confidence. Yeah that's really sweet, but girls don't know what the fuck they want most of the time, and are playing it by ear just like everyone else? I've been, I've been, even been excoriated by women for being too confident. It's all out of your control. And some, a lot just can't win. And if you think there's enough love to go around, if only one acted correctly, then you really are as stupid as you look.

Hardly mollified, Brice steadys back like he's taking the high road, but he's just considering what to say next, as if I can't plainly see this, so obvious.

Can you even hear yourself—look Blake, Fiskadoro's distraught, he uses that energy to start stacking, raises himself up, next chapter, next better, and girls will follow. Brice reiterating his sorry little point, as if me hearing it again even ever so makes a difference.

The rules with women are there are no rules, guidelines yes, but no stone set laws to follow, you simpleton—Alright, alright, I'll go back to the rental to check up on Fisk, if that makes you feel better okay?, or I'll go damn look for him—in the meantime, for all I do care, you can take the whole entire damn squad out to see the Full House house from Full House off on Steiner for all I care, because that's obvious where you get your outlook of the world  from, and again, fuck you for saying all that, and after all you know I gone through over Katie this whole entire time . . .

Walking down in the direction of lower Haight and I'm fuming, Fumes, Mike Range used to write Fumes and even in my huff, I don't fail to think about how he lived right this way on lower Haight.

Classic city Frisco though—being incidentally on the wrong end of the stick, from which to be on the receiving end of city over stimulated libidinal misdirected grievance and all its antagonism. It happened to me at the Pier once, I accidentally landed a trick, while Sanch just happened to be rolling right in front of me past the pad—I wasn't paying attention to him, but he heckle claps me, flinging his preposterous misperception that I was just ostensibly trying to impress him, which I was too occupied with my trick to even be but so concerned. He's burned so many bridges he can't even be supported now though, he got some so so clips on his IG to try to regain footing, and now no bait takers, Sanch erased them all and in some recuperative effort escaping to hard posting only his kids soccer games—great, Sanch, your such a good father, congradufuckinglations, while I'm here having to practically fret over that drip Fiskadoro now.

Or what about the time when my roommate had Nick Sutton crash at our pad for about a month, and I and we had shown him much hospitality—while he holed up and Nick went through all my tapes while we were all gone during the day. Where Sutton was too cool to actually go out and skate with me, even though I was gracious, though maybe cloying in being a Hokus Pokus devotee. Sutton indignant, refusing to even watch Hokus Pokus in the apartment because he was over it, nevermind he was an over extended guest, when you would think watching Hokus Pokus would be but a small tool courtesy to extend. My roommate tells us Sutton just needs to go, and then when I saw Sutton at a party, I said hello to him after having him crash at the apartment all this time, and Nick just mean mugs me and keeps walking, like it had been my idea to kick him out—when in fact it had been my roommate who was friends with him, it was his idea, but my roommate was such a two face, that very second I knew my roomate shifted all the blame onto me, nevermind if I had stayed at someone's house and they told me I had to go, no matter what, I'd still feel obliged to extend some gratitude out of a sense of decency that Brian Tucci just didn't have.

And right now, I can't think of one girl I was ever with who didn't sell me out at sometime or other—true story. A girl one ups you by going with another guy who has none of the standards your respect—even better if he aesthetically goes opposite against you in his anti-aesthetic. I had a girl leave me for a guy who wore a southie hat—true story. Even better if he can't chose plaid. Even better if his no where's-ville pants are so pedestrian, that his no sense of style posses no immediate threat to her sensibility while simultaneously being spit in the face to yours (which her's is actually exactly in line with yours—even better if she vamps your style). And how the fuck can I make that up. As women are muses, they also permit so much mediocrity in the world, it's not even funny, or no, it's hilarious really—this so that they can be with someone they can in turn one-up, just as that some-one can somehow provide all the basic shit they want. That's the ultimate power move, and I've seen it and maybe I've only seen it with me, and I'm only talking about me now, so relax. Liz Phair has the line, I'm gonna spend another year alone—well, great Liz, that's just fine, but I got Liz Phair beat by far plenty in that regard (that being said, I absolutely adore Liz Phair). All I'm saying is is break up with me with someone who has a white pair of denim. It's gone so damn far off the horizon by this point that my fantasies now just involve an imaginary woman leaving me for someone who's actually much more advanced. At least then I'll know I live in a better, richer, more sophisticated world than me—and I can plainly and would gladly accept that, because I am actually a good sport. The world wants to make the sub mediocre race hustler academic artists who's never actually even slightly improved the lives of anyone who ever looked at their pictures, stars, like Rashid Johnson millionaires who finally in middle age shaved their dumb greying dreads and how the shit can I make that up—true story. Curators pick artists that don't pose the slightest bit threat to them anyways too, plump skin privileged normies who go to school and learn to molest the rhetoric and advanced teleological aesthetics to confuse everyone and anyone else they are somehow avant garde. To make matters worse, is there's no visionaries waiting in the wings around anyways, so no one notices and that's why everything is so terrible now. And Dasha where the fuck are you????

Back at the rental Fiscko was not to be found. The San Francisco day-quiet painfully quaint of the work day shade with slight light trickling into the SF kitchen not escaping my longing admiration, even now in my anger. Where was Fiskadoro, where did Fiskadoro go?

I checked the room Fisk slept last night, and his suitcase and board where laying there like gutter text roundly on the floor.

It just as well figures he's not here, and despite attempting to give him my best advice in Vegas, despite defending him out on the sidewalk in front of FTC earlier, he had certainly disrupted my first day in the city—god, what a loser, no wonder his girl is hanging out with her last boyfriend.

I walked down two dark old fancy flights stairwell of 1940's deco railing, the charming but outmoded William-Morris wallpaper, and down the outside stairs—outside, I closed the crashing staircase black wrought iron gate behind me. It was a striking day out still—as if maybe I could find Fisk somewhere near, or locate him somewhere logical.

Steepped to top of the head of seated hill and looking out, I could now reclaim myself a bit in the glare of the rambling city. And since you won't come to me, I'll think about panhandle eucalyptus trees now, I'll think about majestic looming towers that reassure me and that I'm not allowed into now.

Gabeling dormers, bulging windows—forming like a rash on all the reassurance of the silent hills. The hills streamed waves and the runoff rideable architectural detritus and all its incidence formed like random rubble on mash edge of river bank. The antidote to the end of land sadness was hidden all over these ride hills, and was so vast as to be impossible for anyone to penetrate it all.

The history of skateboarding is Nathan Pratt saw a rust streak upon a stone, then he just knew iron ore was there in the earth, and then they made Venture Feedback Ted-dy bear trucks and now look—here we are.

Otherwise, I came back to the decibel of SF, fuck Fiskadoro, I am in search of SF again. I am in search of lost moments in the city, which I have forgotten about, which could react upon lost sight, connect me closer to my past self and the very margin's end of the mastery of my memory.

But now I'm alone, my new zombie squad coddled together by Sergio's insipid suburbia of the mind, Brice and his totally misdirected, misconstrued, acid antagonism towards me. I wanted, now needed an 80's gay guy bestie in SF—like Monroe on Too Close For Comfort. Surely I could talk to Monroe about my plight, he'd understand. Waspy Monroe, too polite for his own good, but a total sweetheart, but a confidant, a sympathetic listener—Monroe lived with two striking shimmies also too—a blond and brunette, that he could and should no doubt try to set me up with one of them sometime. And where is Monroe right now? But then there was the sisters' father I have to watch out for, and Monroe said their father was a total blowhard, to say the very least—and the girl's father was able to live in a five million dollar historic home near Pacific Heights drawing Cosmic Cow comic strips in the San Francisco Chronicle. I could strike an unlikely friendship with the girl's father though (while waiting for one of the sisters picking one of them up on a first date, where they still lived with him, ) but then, if you think about it, I could probably gain her father's confidence by telling him about my very own comic, Punk Pig. Are the cultural conditions available now, so that I might live in a one bedroom in Noe Valley off the newspaper syndication royalties of Punk Pig?

Nightingale House, I'm glad I got you in my missing pack of cigarettes, I wonder how many families are driven to roguery and to ruin in the practice of the owners of the cruel Victorian houses standing in all their unassailable majestic primacy—how many of these very pale and very agitated faced lupen bourgeois actually dark sleight slow hand contract workers in payment, slow rolling how many filched, how many halted, how many in payment to contractors too much already invested with the capital they had to front up to start such very projects, projects of the homeowner's very own bright idea, which the homeowner well went out of their way to seek out and proposition, but now with such workers they can only now skim from and over-scrutinize—and how many great noblemen rob their petty tradesmen, condescend to swindle their poor retainers out of wretched little sums, cheat for a few shillings. 

How many of these homeowners, slouching in their own mediocrity, in their crook of arms vocation only to data in type, running and maintaining a vast network, that like eighteenth-century pirates only so pilfer, only so consolidates, only so frickasses all retail, only so against all small independent business, soiling music and scuffing print, cropping everything else out, into social and political ruin of vastness of monopolizing of all of technological logic's own devlish and convenient (and devilishly convenient) devising. I wondered how many dollars going in there right now were simply sifted from someone's retired parent who slaved away driving for just a pittance of UBER bux, because their social security wasn't enough—and the network that went well out of it's way to manipulate and molest and three card monty-up the same people in going along with supporting what is otherwise very well going against their own direct interests.

And what lying epitaphs they so make on the corpse of love, I imagine even the occupants of the houses only to inevitably become fractured embittered warring sides against each other—to which the husband only has to fork over only one considerable sum of money in order to move out the house the other just gets to keep, and suddenly I find myself in a better mood, now thumbing through down the laned street with a bit of lightsome heart.

Reaching Market I see a couple holding hands, strolling in the direction of the Castro Safepay as the asphalt rubber rolls.

She thinks she's so hot shit, but look at the company that she so proudly keeps on the streets with . . .

Oh, Fiskadoro, oh his situation, oh his reason, oh how had he been shaken by the blow which has befallen on him, sure—it became very doubtful he would ever rally. And Fiskadoro, that bastard, that poor, sorry bastard, I, stupefied under pressure, muttering to myself, under my misplaced guilt and pressure—I, so willing walk about, and in supreme futility ostensibly trying to find him, despite such is a hopeless exercise, but it is something, something, news that at least I'll have to report back about in self petulant faux pained exasperation, feeling the need for reporting back in some unnecessary defensiveness on my part.

 

Market in middle of the day was not so bad though. My ears and eyes were open, my consciousness fully alive. A modest, over bumper sticker covered marathon Prius pragmatically taxis to direction towards Twin Peaks. Market past Octavia, West, towards Castro, always held it's own reassuring and vivacious yawn of charm. When I lived here, here in this city up in the clouds, I would ride the cable car up in that very direction in the middle of work day, would have to make an unbelievable amount of concerted effort not to fall asleep in the new to me altitude of Market Street cable car seat.

Walking towards the Truth mural painted on side of old building, my skeleton clanking like a stove, the mural which I confuse for promotional artifice of the long ago wackly hatched big tobacco paid anti tobacco psyop that also printed slick in ads in Thrasher, but it's not that, it's just the garden-variety twenty something artist obviously not hip to know this, and the mural is DOA. I approach with Halloween eyes, down many urchin avenues, a city hall ever fraught in it's own suspect implication of whatever goes down in there city hall, what dooms must do, holding my board on standby towards the precarious stretch of Tenderloin horde—god, it's gonna be another hard candy Christmas. 

Bank commune, self commune, anybody bank—unoccupied apartments, no women, no fly girls anywhere out on the street. The no-counter culture over-the-counter youth now were all just plump skin myself listers. There was no scene love-propelled and tangled glitteringly. Old Romance was draping dolors on a scarlet mound. I scoured party photos on Thrasher.com, there were never not no babes at the parties photos anywhere—good job you morons. No Susan George in Maritime chic. No Gillows and Bantings Chloes in bowl cut hair cuts. No girls from Larry Clark Kids cast caste. NO MARFA GIRL KAYLAN DRAKE BURNETT OUT THERE. No over looked shortys with shimmering scent short prince valium hair. No saucey raver girls with straight long hair and tight Xtra-Large-Girl ringer tees, drinking 20 oz. import foil bottles marching pound down upon the needle median. No community college girls larping Hitchcock femme, dressed in a specific deceptively simple retro drab on the way to their secretary job and not later are they having lunch alone at old sunny Union Square and in evening not they who go to the solitary room they rent on the fifth story apartment on Sutter and Larkin, and no room with glowing neon sign streaming right outside the widow window. No Mary Jane red hairs with bookish prescription glasses taking 1970's film photos on holy Golden Gate Bridge on banal SF weekday. No Northern Exposure Maggie. No ladies in hoops, no all-city Connecticut blond New England maxxers, but the SF version, or no LA versions escaping to SF driving up through roaring eternal San Louis Obispo in mordant Volkswagen fog. No bright yellow 80's rudder rubber Paddington raincoats worn by flat-chested thirtysomething aristocrat that she could get away wearing on her small frame. No straight short black hair Remies, Remy who went to SF State and lived in Hayes Valley—no Remy with blue parachute pant material Diesel skirt worn over classy blue blue jeans, Remy, an avatar reminding me that besides Kate, I've never had an actual hip girlfriend. Back in Houston, I saw a shocking current day photo of Brigid Fonda and I would keep going back to it again and again, to reassure myself I wasn't so crazy— 

No more room now for time for guiyar strumming of Ocean Beach campfire trilling songs with lightsome heart for Betty Bummers. No more room for clocking sometimes eyes and certainly no walking away thinking anything's still possible, or possible here. No more kind with fly. No fly Freshjive ads irl, because Hey!, we are on Haight Street on a weekday after all. No clubs in converted old theatres for Freshjive. No ecstasy pills that are so good they would surprise you, and no on kickass ecstasy pills are we walking, no more room for just the two of us talking and talking from Market all the winding way practically to the porter's lodge at Kezar. No local band nights at Elbo Room in the Mission.

I am from no love tough. If I could use that and harness it into some above it all resolve, some jadded defiant resolve, that which beauty tends to find one attractive to allow itself to be compromised colonized. But if that happens, I have to do the thing where I am unconscious that I turn myself towards not being aware of their beauty and I just act normal—defiantly autonomous almost, that can and shall lure girls in—this is the only strategy that seems to ever work for me, but it isn't really a strategy because I am never aware that I am dong it when it's going on—it is exactly unconscious tick. 

Guys for women are now just filler, everybody-guy is replaceable—the women I see, so lazily bound to the flow of situation, like women will take any music that comes clattering their way, and will watch any show, any tv show, and why would you think it would be different with partners they chose? Women I know surely aren't holdouts, women I know don't care about a man hipper than them, or talented or even better looking—all the women I like, I see with schlubby but resourceful betas all the time, I sense a luxuriation in themselves fetish of juxtaposition in such arrangement, especially gorgeous girls—gorgeous girls take mid men to play back up cast, second and third and even fourth fiddle, unpaid extras to their beauty. And women are the most practical people I know now, and I have not seen a woman be romantic in decades. Romance requires painful desire, imagination and a very heightened sense of delusion (well, that I've seen). And women are the most pragmatic I know. 

The story of San Francisco is the same old sorry SOS and it's all Carroll's fault. It's a story I've been through a quaddrillion times practically, and I don't even want to talk about it. But when I'm convinced one is the only girl for me, the universe seems to just go well out of it's way to wildly prove itself otherwise. I love everything she does, down to the last goddam sorry detail. I'm convinced we could share our lives as partners, but maybe I'm just an idiot and I really have to make adjustments to my true inner self. And if you must know, left to my own devices, my personality maybe is not too terribly attractive unfortunately I must say—I'm not saying I'm crazy or a total maniac or lunatic or anything, but maybe there's something unattractive about my voice and how my personality fits in in a harmless way that is hard to describe, but is nonetheless fatal for sustaining attraction. My problem is is, or you know what my problem is?—I'm just too codependent, I think, that's all. I think I rely on people I admire too much and that's part of the problem, or actually that may be the whole entire goddam dam problem, practically—no one finds that attractive. Maybe, perhaps, I don't know, I'm not as conscious in how my behaviour turns, or in my interactions I'm not quite exactly Han Solo or Decker from Blade Runner, which honestly, if you must know also, is sometimes how I see how I carry myself when I'm alone—I mean, and maybe I do, maybe I am that way, but, and, or—it's as if intimately, or upon closer contact, I turn into my true Roger Rabbit inner self, and instead of withholding, I let the whole dam enchilada out of the bag and into the open and let the full gale of my sibilant personality come torrenting out like some sickening annoying Indiana Jones cave tidal wave. I honestly think though, I should probably, or most definitely that is, maybe just sustain a sense of learning how to hold back sometimes, but then again, now that I think about it—I have done that, and those times it didn't work out too terribly hot either. And to add insult to grave injury, it seems not to matter much really anyways, because the object of my strongest desire, just ends up with the closest moron who comes orbit hovering around them. Though, for the most part, I need to just learn how to listen closer probably, maybe ask the right questions, and just for the most part keep my trap shut the whole entire goddamn time practically.

Trawling alone now though, I feel it like a ghost floating through humidity, I feel like a flockless frockless rook, x-ray crypto, a glue gunned staking horse, déclassé—indeterminately incomplete, like a website for a bar you visited when bored and there where never cool party photos ever to be found on the site.

SF seemed kind of vacant now, mired in the traffic of its own desolation, which also had its own certain grain of appeal. I longed for a scene long gone ago SF, that maybe probably or maybe not really used to ever exist—there was a point when the line was crossed when people became too cool, though—but still I longed for scenes with the junkie rare book seller, bluebloods with long tongues like elm switches, titled persons like crazy drunks leaning against the walls dragging themself through the gutter, the cosmopolitan upper crust realism of swinging couples getting their kicks, death set bon vivants, the jet set groupies who possessed a more sophisticated connoisseurship and immediacy of their in the know insights, the Butthole Surfer clone wasetoid geek Leather Tongue Video manager, charismatic actual hipster filmers, like Mike Range—but also, I am too terribly well aware that if these archetypes of characters had actually materialized, they would not only have nothing to do with me, but I could very well just as easily become a casualty from the knout of all their misdirected, misconstrued for-the-city ire—another border marker sheared, designating the veer in the elision field of too cool.

                       

The barkeep's savage beard framed his liver phish lips resting in indifference. I could smell his giant hands, they wafted of an old crayon from using a sponge without soap. The bar sat vacant at three pm, but I allowed myself to be optimistic for a drink like an overstimulated terrier.

But then the room was a lowroom, too many stickers everywhere that they were almost collectively an abstraction, every sticker competing against each other in the piss closets, in the urinals by the cakes, on the jukebox, all over the bar. Led Zeppelin became punk, punk became post punk, post punk became pop punk, pop punk became rockabilly revivalism, what happened after that, I know not (well, actually, I do, but I'm not getting into it here)—but this probably was the apocalypse fallout from covid and unaffordable rentals. I decide to immediately leave and try to find some historic bar off way out on the nob hills downtown somewhere, or maybe even out in North Beach. Also, I want to drink at a bar at exactly 7p.m. in the Mission, but it's in the opposite direction and there is no time.

But I am in search of a ghost of old SF. This last year, I had been getting drunk alone in my apartment watching Vertigo, rewinding and pausing scenes because I'm trying to climb into the background. I image searched the sleeping a.m. shot right right before the scorching scothing dream sequence of downtown from Lombard, which is the shot looking into the direction of Embarcadero, that shot of sleeping SF right before that Vertigo falling dream sequence, the opening falling title sequence which Mad Men paid homage. I am Jimmy Stewart in Vertigo, but definitely worse. Carlotta Valdez, Carlotta Valdez. I know I'm Jimmy Stewart, when he tries to innocently offer a just almost drowned Kim Novak a drink at his bachelor pad, come over and get warm by the fire.

I left my ranker heart in San Francisco is a facile though plunging lyric, but I cling too much, naked like a tablecloth, like when you let a girl wear you're t-shirt, but you know she's actually not youres and never will be. A d'entre les mortes part of me still exists in San Francisco though, and is still walking around blue Jasmine, and it took me years to concretize to this realization. There is a ghost of the old me still walking around the city still alone, an old Xerox of me, the old me, the I definitely do not like now when I look at old photos of myself and fixate first eye on what was visually wrong with me like I had the mumps. 

I have not promised blessing upon leaving Golden Gotham Gate. That I lived here for three years, and that I am only back for four days so cruel, connected to the underside of the general genteel cruelty of the city, beneath it's heartbreaking easy existing quaintness, and Kate your hand is too far from me.

And Carroll, Carroll, where the hell are you now??? You were there in the gay old bohemian days, juicy stories like who shot who at the Embarcadero—August 1879. I've always liked it here, but well, San Francisco's changed, things that spell San Francisco to me are disappearing fast.

Seneca Hotel, I forgot about that slum. Now Supreme is there on that same block, but they opened when I was already well gone. I enter and the security guards are very unpredictably actually really nice and super friendly. When I lived here, I was gutter snipe, I was wannabe magpie, I was a coward rook, at best a wren, some rare times, never a regal nightingale, never a posh sparrow surely, not then pheasant of phen, but at Supreme SF I feel so welcomed in now, I feel like the staff can tell, like they can see me, maybe I'm hallucinating their view of me, but that doesn't even matter now. I was politely invited to put my board up next to the board wall, as if to say, take a load off, bud. The giant hanging air screen inside plays black and white shots of gabeling historic SF, black and white retro PAN AM SF sky shot from old airplane vantage, but then I feel the soft blots from the skips in the film, I'm hallucinating sound like I'm hearing that analog dust muffle sound off a record right before the song sounds scumble needle drop, which is accompanying the test strip takes as the film goes crumbling off the screen in quasi early twentieth century filmic modernist abstraction. SF is still so cruel, but this imagery projects a warm, rustic, crackling somber beyond City College SF Vittorio De Sica B&W moody hillside outside the city warm blues rustle laundry Sunday, the inside of the shop reflecting the outside typology and majestic city so, this is the SF version of Supreme! Of course you would love it, the shop seemed to express so lovingly. What an unexpected surprise. I walked into Supreme SF and it was like the shop was radiating, I catch you, and not only that, it was like the shop consoled me, we know you and we are going to go well out of our way to give you exactly what you want and we can give you exactly what you want and you can get it nowhere else. It was like parts of my psyche were being communicated to by angels. I've gone to the Lafayette location when it was closed in the dark inky Dickensian NY night, blots of night I wanted and they are playing Goldfish right there in the window, fucking Goldfish, and I will never get over that. Now this, giving me exactly what I want, unlikely spiritual succor, immediately expressed through the Thomas Campbell b-sides to the 411 Industry section playing on the screen up near the bowl. That was the real, crack cocaine Supreme, which I've spent years trying to explain to skaters, but no one has ever seen it, no one understands. Supreme of Lafayette street city romance. Close up of Gio and a girl kissing, but here, all the outtakes, and there were delicious too many. I am Mission district Catholic sweater Ethan Fowler in Stereo ad with a rose in my mouth. I was raised by the Industry. I've been spiritually an East Coast skater since like '96. I became an adult with Supreme. I've been slightly obsessed by Supreme. I've disavowed Supreme. I've been indifferent to Supreme. I've been bewildered by Supreme. I've been disgusted by Supreme. I've been opportunistic about Supreme. I've spoke in front of full museum staff and casually denigrated Supreme in its incidence of telling. I've gotten three Supreme decks sent to me gifted from an agent of Supreme. When I worked at a gallery right when I got out of college, I had Supreme artist RAMMELLZEE (sp?) do some spray paint work on site, and I well went out of my way to express I was over it and didn't fucking care (true story). You can't explain Supreme to people. It is an aggregator, a center that miraculously still holds, a curatorial exercise that even trad normies, skaters not in the know, will never understand or ever get. My grievances have been de jure grievances of somebody following closely and well invested, and their grievances with Supreme mostly seem just superficial, at face value, wet behind the ears, school boy tin foil eye. This wasn't the Los Angeles location. The first time I made the pilgrimage to the Lafayette location, Gio verbally spit in my face, when I was going well out of my way only to be respectful. And now I am brought to tears on the floor in the SF Supreme. I am filled with accelerating gratitude. This whole time. I have been with Supreme this whole time. Or this is what happens with a Supreme waiting for me to return back to SF. It was mystifying it had taken this long to happen. It was like Back To The Future, skipping to return decades later, but even skipping over those decades, Supreme had been there with me, and maybe Supreme had changed with me, grown up a little bit too, embodied now in the Reese Forbes store, and I'm just so inspired now, radiated hypnotized. There was a missing person inside of myself, and I needed to find him, and I was so caught off guard by this unlikely re-connection, saying as if Supreme now is the indispensable map of fate. I want to reflect all my inspiration back, I want to ride for Supreme. Supreme, I love you so much.

Tonite the night is full in the lighted windows stealthy manor of the palatial apartments on Divis right close to Castro. The opiate of astonishment I had glowing in me, my mind in the moonlight from Supreme full faded as soon as I walked into the rental though. The monster you love is home again. Trying to share my experience with anyone would have been futile, would have sullied something too precious to explain. The vibe was visibly of collective stoke, though. The children got their little toy clippies, it was apparent. And how I glare so unsympathetic to their collective regaling and without me, they all well looking like all total hypocrites now from my vantage.

There was beer in the fridge no one had touched, even now after a rugged day on the streets. I grabbed two out, shot gunned the bottle in front of the bad bath and beyond normie reno granite counter, disposed of it stepping down on the toe press of the ash can flip, ready to chill on the second.

The vibe was was, since the squad got clips, maybe I could probably effortlessly assimilate myself back in because their revelry conveniently allowed enough, as if I could somehow permit myself to be charitable and psyched on whatever clips they now molested out of San Fran Risk Co. 

A couple of the boys walked passed me and smiled, Eustace said What's up, like nothing ever happened and the alcohol was making me comfortable in my reaggravating anger. The best thing about alcohol is the real power and real control and real strength it bestows.

Brice was noticeably keeping distance, but it was a tenuous distance, that you could kind of tell he would probably pressure flip possibly and forget about the altercation earlier on Haight. But now, I especially do not care. Brice could be the friend he was supposed to be when alone with me, but he's an air sign and Brice always goes along with whoever is around him—he acts different around groups, which illustrates a severe poverty of character.

There was something so sad seeing everyone's boards stacked up in the hallway, all the homogeneous Montezuma's Stitches reissues reveling in their luke bath futile self cannibalizing historicization, graphics that were once innovative for appropriating dead pan retro was just so Lakai and die now, especially after seeing the Tokyo Witchhunter decks on the board wall at Supreme. Back in the day also, pros used to even rep other labels they weren't sponsored by, and it even complemented their set up and kit, in a way now that millennial autistic Rain Man brained brand managers can't understand and would fire you for repping other stuff you liked and supported. Ads back in better times, would even have pros not on the team in photos, network actors from other teams, in a way that reinforces the sense of a robust and active scene, in a way DGK Spanish Mike normie semiotically illiterate TM's could never understand advertising is not just about advertising, but was about conjuring something more sophisticated and nuanced—you didn't have to rep the brand, to rep the brand you morons. Carroll Mad Circle, Stereo Carroll, whatever.

And this was all Brice's fault, and I had been going along with it in what is now my apparent naive good faith optimism. Supreme had revealed to me Montezuma's Stitches 2.0 was a total farce, it was now a team of uneducated teeming randos—not just uneducated uneducated, but uneducated illiterate with skateboarding too. No one deserved to be here, least not me.

The goon squad was gassed on some clip Victor got, and so fucking what? Big deal. I don't even have time to get into the clip, but it was Victor's usual working method of ofcourse putting everything at risk to the detriment of everyone, but Victor comes out lucky in the end, but it's a success not even worth celebrating because of the level of irresponsible risk it posed for everyone—physical, legal, ethical—but it just confuses everyone in it's shabby immediate success. Victor was such a colossal bore.

Jonkers Vic, imperious in how he assimilated himself into the team. His behavior now would immediately have gotten him booted out any van back in the day. But now because of Brice, Brice enabled him to be low key high key disrespectful to me and it was yet another insult to yet another injury in the perpetual pinwheeling slam section of my life of injuries—I was one of the founding heads. At first, out of spirit of generosity, I as elder statesman, was quite frankly very generous with Victor, but then it very quickly and very breathlessly shifted to my enabling him being just so casually out of pocket, and then Victor had the new people on his side now too, and now I’m the outcast. Victor had some catastrophically misguided view of himself and his competence and how he could fit himself into this world. He could just raw dog himself onto a team, any team, and ours, which he did not even align with aesthetically or spiritually, and this was all because of money man Meow Wolf Sergio wakeboard's outsized self perception, that besides having money in the business, Sergio had no business making decisions he was severely unqualified for. Its not like Vic had ever seen Carroll’s part in Virtual Reality and then experienced Carroll’s Goldfish part both back to back in order when they dropped temporally, Vic had never seen how such shift in approach marked a new teleological working progression of regression nbd that not only did Victor not experience, but that he did not even know about, and even if you showed and explained it to him, he probably would never fully understand (well, to be fair maybe he would be able to grasp such). Vic was the type who thought kickflip nose slide big spin out any hubba was automatically sick, and not only did he not know that he should have known better, on top of that, he carried with him an outsized unearned bullying attitude all in his fourth rate city ignorance. Try finding enough blank space in the air to explain that to Brice and Sergio.

Hey Blake, Jim got a fire clip, Horvitz informing me in a naive innocent optimism, clearly making aims at integrating me back into the group.

Intriguing, wiping my mouth, tracing dotted dash around Horvitz like he's a piece of cardboard.

Horvitz laughs an enabling laugh, like when you're boss tells a bad joke, I walk in slight rebuff to him, side walking to the other side of the living room, stealthily sipping my beer, as if I know something the others don't.

The crew were going on and on looking at their clips at the dinner table, God, they're worse than a glee club full of highschool girls.

Buzzed and growing bored, I finally wend over to look over at what you would have thought by the way they were acting, was a follow up to Impossible Conditions Vol. 3.

I kinda like how I did that, Tommy Gunz decrees, in a way that whatever his clip was is, is canceled out by the inanity of such statement, and I'm the only one who can see this.

Tommy Gunz got a truly apocalyptic clip at the Madame Tussaud's wax museum husk of what is now Pier 7, a whatever kickflip the sideways pad, troll-landing cocky in hunched knees like it's all just so easy, sloppy impromptu back tail the ledge on the way back after turn around, over-competent tre flip in front of the table selling fake Ray Bans, front tailpress to kickflip manual out on one of the grizzled pad ledges, a ledge that somebody didn't have enough humanity to put out of its misery, and Tommy Gunz manual maxxing way too long all the way out to the yellow zebra crossing's caution bumps.

In the glow of my buzz, I intuited how it was a monumental insult that now in the future a tattoo normie like Tommy Gunz would be seen by so many more, when obscure actual all city heads of past did considerably more realized, more disciplined, more severe and truly innovative lines, and under the weight and scrutiny of a scene of jaded vanguard Pier Crew baylarks: Kalis—front flip 180 nosegrind in proper old gold camo cargos when camo cargos actually kind of meant something and black Dyrdek 2's shoe rev, Kalis perveying the impossible master class and very rare ledge move, backside half cab front nosegrind, almost thirty years ago. And Tommy Gunz, Tommy Gunz wrest trifling a horrid color-up teck pack, no remit for babbling bibelots, and he could become quickened w/simple spare gutter text, C'est parfait.

Big deal. I belt out, brazen in a you can't fool a junkie knowingness.

What.

It's whatever Money, nothing.

No, Blake, I'm curious what you say, Eustace the inquisitive boy scout filmer, as if urging me to explain myself only to hang myself in front of everyone, justified as what he misperceived as my own impropriety.

Tommy Gunz, to get a trick you got to get inside its panties, but you got into the spot's panties before you even showed up, and you can tell, that's all,

Whatever, now your not even making sense . . . Tommy Gunz, not only ignorant in his general methodological approach to filming at spots that the city of San Francisco otherwise doesn't have the solicitude to euthanize, but ignorant enough to not even be prepared now to consider my words.

You can't rape a rock, but in this case, well, I guess you did . . .

Well, it's better than what you did all day, Blake, Brice now finally addressing me in a punch line he seemed so to be waiting for.

O.K. I quite doubt that . . .

And what's up with Fiskadoro, you never found Fiskadoro did you—you probably just went to a bar.

Well if you must know, I did go to a bar, but it was so abhorrent I didn't not so much stay—But no, no, Fisk is gone though, he not coming back.

His bags and boards stills here, Eustace adding in his ignorance, as if his well worn observation even but ever makes a difference.

No, he's gone for sure, I give a dysfunctional laugh as if the joke is all on them.

Well, his stuff is still in the room, Brice concluding, myopia bouncing off the glare of his glasses, echoing Eustace's filmer's specialty of so quickly being able to see what was otherwise too painfully obvious.

So what, Fiskadoro is a bit of a thick one, no no—he's gone, I walk luxurating to the fridge to get another beer in a it was the butler who did it reveal of knowing intonation.

Blake! What did you do. Brice breaking in railing, in a way you can tell someday he will make a terrible father.

Hey, does anyone have a bottle opener or—a lighter, I interrupt, draining out any immediacy of Brice's so late to get it bellowing. 

Popping the top of the counter with a few tries and finally getting it, the beer fizz sizzles out all over the counter and onto the floor, not quite the effect intended, I shake off the suds, whipping out a rope of liquid with my hand in an oh, well whatever sweeping flick, but I take a brave pull anyways of what's left, in a way that I can tell from the squad's vantage, that it just confirms to their collective misperception of the glare of their idea of my ineptitude, though I actually know the beer exploding is just a superficial accident that could happen to anyone, it's no big deal.

Going over, plopping onto the couch, I relax back as if I was John Goodman comfortable, as if there is no strained silence, Hey, did you know, did you know, that, that—that, Ted Nugent—Ted Nugent's first wife was Sandra Janowski?

The squad saying nothing in collective exasperated befuddlement.

No relation to Stephan, though, I look carefully, dishonestly studying the beer bottle's label.

Blake, where's Fiskadoro? Where's Fiskadoro! Blake! Brice all fizzed up rising.

How the hell should I know. Fiskadoros gone though, he left, Babes.

And how do you know that, his bags are still here.

I halt a burp, in pause of air of careful, considered introspection, finger to lips wickedly.

I know because, well, because I told him to go, that's all.

You told him, you told him what—I,

I says it's not worth it . . .

Brice does this thing where he looks like he's just making such colossal pains in keeping his indignancy at bay, and it makes him look like he's the more mature higher road, when in fact, he's actually the exact reactionary opposite, What's—what's not worth it . . .

The trip, you Dope—the trips not worth it, ya know . . .

And why Blake, why would, like why would you ever tell, tell him to leave, Brice rakes his hair with his fingers, as if he was just some sound foundational pilgrimage worthy stone of logic, poor Brice being constantly challenged by an ever ridiculous world just going ever out of its way to exert it's dumb will onto him—which, I must admit, his petulance he does comes across pretty convincingly well.

His girl, his girl, was leaving him, or maybe not, not leaving him—but she was, well, hanging out with her ex, or her ex-boyfriend or something, like when Fisk left, or as soon as Fisk left, I stammer words, in a way I can feel Brice considers it as direct proof of what he views as my de facto incrimination, which really it actually does not, but how so my stammering only seems to fulfill his case against me.

So what does that have to do with—Brice doing the lame thing he does, trying to force me to look into his eyes.

I told him to go, I told him to run,

Run . . .

Yeah, like run, run, run to your love—

The simplicity of my answer swerved Brice into the pit of chunky peanut butter mud of fuddy duddy befuddlement. He would approach concocting rejoinder, but clearly he didn't know where to begin, old Brice, just stumped again.

You know you—your, Brice, in a if a Wittgenstein zoo lion could actually talk, you would not understand what they were saying moment.

Yeah, yeah—I know, I know what you have to say—why not leave a zero right, and or like comeback, or comeback a hero, yeah whatever?—yeah, yeah—

Well—what's wrong with that!—we come out here, Hey, actually get good work done—MS maybe gets up again—and activity, coming up, would bring his girl back, or maybe someone else maybe, or better yet—who knows?—and why, why Blake, why would you ever think to self sabotage this—I mean of course you would, why wouldn't you??

In a theoretical world, I suppose it's true, old hound—but unfortunately, some of us, some of us, cannot so afford to not not to live in the real world—

And what, what does, or what the hell is that supposed to mean, Blake—

That means, you clearly know nothing about the heart of the contemporary woman. No, no, you know what?, you know, it means somethings, somethings are maybe just more important than blowing up,

Well, I do know women are attracted to success. Brice's stating in a late affirmative futility, cocked the plain of his chest, but such declaration did not only demonstrate to revel in it's own mediocrity, but Brice's own mediocrity, Brice's mediocrity that which seemed to allow Brice to get so far in this dopey world.

Oh, well there you go Brice, well there you go—can you hear this guy? Women are attracted to success. Women are like attracted, attracted to success! Good show Bob! Nevermind or nevermind quote un-quote, you're misperception of 'success' is no longer really even available in this populist economy of over production of video—Women are attracted to success, sure, sure man—women also hold out for convicts in prison also . . .

Yeah, that sounds—well, why not—why not then? Brice swiping at blank air, saying something just to say something.

Why not what. What are you even asking now.

I just don't understand why wouldn't Fisk being productive here not just be a good thing for him . . .

Because that's not exactly how like the sacher torte crumbles, babe—the sharing economy woman is highly superficial, highly vindictive, bewilderingly petty—not to mention, just so depressive and irrational. Do you imagine how, or no, could you even imagine now, how, how, how unjustifyingly resentful, self pitying an already icy woman becomes when, when your traveling even, or no, like without them and doing the best work of say, you're life. That your working, not but one difference does it so make. Or no, no, no, like how a certain type of bored, perpetually dissatisfied, all too commonly, needlessly competitive girl exacts revenge, or like a cheap dominance by hitting up your best friend in his DMs, while your gone, practically—happens all the time. Besides Fiskadoro, is a loser anyways—look, the idiot he even left his bags! That bum. No wonder she's feilding for her ex. She's a bad girl, let him go back the fuck to her, I don't want him on my teem . . .

The pastoral beauty of the picaresque West was receding way back by the time we hit Texas. The pigs was already pulling over cars on both sides of the highway on the way to Amarillo by morning. Now lingering down the highway, I was unaware I was holding my breath, and then right away of course we get pulled over and with Mitch behind the wheel. As was the disadvantage of this sloppy phase of marathon trek, everything was so brazenly splayed hanging out—we could have had someone better at the helm than Mitch, but by this time we were too exhausted to even attempt to exercise any preemptive sensible caution, and besides, all the more responsible drivers where total zorched.

Jumping forward I grab someones back pack and fling its contents all over the floor of the sprinter. The wrappers from juicy fruits gewgees, potato chips, chocolate granola bars, all that we bought in bulk on a stop, littered the withering conditions of the cabin at end of trip—the floor bore bb gun, an old porno mag, dried slashes of coke syrup caked onto the vinyl lining, fast food bags not thrown away, empty packs of Camel crushes, a sweat soaked tee shirt, the backing of a peeled roll of grip tape, a dumb block of bottled waters, boxers, sox—the interior looking like a Jason Rhodes installation, looking like it had chicken pox.

Everybody eat your roaches! Eustace, put the dispensary up inside the consule! Now! I grab another bag and barf all of it's contents everywhere. Even in a full emergency, it was bewildering how such extreme measures seem over the top to this teem of morons, and even in the panic I could sense the squad's blinkered passive stupidity still looking at me like I'm crazy.

The van reeked of sheets of grass. I lit a cig. Really the only saving grace imaginable would be that the cop was cool, despite the hopeless empirical truth that the cop was working in coördinated effort to target practically anyone driving three to four miles over, as well as anyone suspiciously driving exactly speed limit.

As we were halted paused pulled over, everyone stupefied under pressure to even try attempt to locate anything that was out or hide anything that may have been splayed out on the floor. Everyone was probably resigned to the hopelessness of exercising control because of the chaos of too many people to account for anyway, though a couple others sensibly lit cigarettes to lamely try to cover up the pot smoke, no time to throw the heater on the floor.

The highway patrolman came right out to Mitch's window, clearly giving us as little time as possible to compose ourselves, deliberately adhering to some direct working order to cause quite a stir.

The unc officer looked benign, like someone's dad in uniform, but it was aggressively ordinary people just like this that the world granted agency to so tussle up so many lives, and in fact, because people like this where so ordinary, so disarming, it put those at ease who granted power as so to bestow upon them such their outsized little power.

Mitch was pretty at ease though, as if inside a skit in Cheech and Chong record b-side. His demeanor signaling, reminding us, he had well been in this type of situation before.

It was obvious that just by how the cop gave a cursory look at the sprinter, it immediately confirmed the officer's instincts for pulling us over.

Mitch greeted the cop, Good afternoon officer, with a smile that only reinforced any skepticism of the person being smiled at, especially considering how much the cop surely encountered such on the spot conversational verisimilitude.

Good afternoon, the cop beaked back, in the false tone of being some impartial civil servant conducting business of the state. License and registration, Sir.

When Mitch handed both over to the officer immediately, it seemed miraculous that Victor sitting shotgun was even able to even locate the registration from glove box and pass it on to Mitch so quickly. I was so looped, that I remember thinking that this feat of engineering warranted just letting us go. 

Where are you all traveling from, the cop asked with procedural air, a specific legal line of questioning designed to make any answer official and thus potentially automatically incriminating.

We coming from Cali—traveling dance troupe, Mitch cheerily extrapolating uselessly in a clearly futile appeal towards personal relatability.

Have you or the passengers been smoking marijuana in vehicle, the cop not registering Mitch's answer, obvious he was waiting to ask this second question.

Mitch didn't reply, vaguely looked to the right side somewhere past the bug smattered windshield in his on display characteristic flaky evasiveness.

It's a felony to carry marijuana into the state, the officer soberingly counters back.

Melanie? Mitch counters back wanly, Mitch unfazed, exuding in playing dumb. 

A felony, the cop reinforcing his statement.

Melanie is a felony? Mitch dumbly projects back, flinging his willful stupidity onto any tenacity the cop is trying to maintain, and everyone in the van sniggers in delicious relief of collective solidarity.

A special suv unit arrived, with a drug dog named Raggles. Right when he got out of the cop branded suv, you could already tell Raggles was a good dog though—impossible not to like, even the walking on their knuckles pigs could admire and appreciate jolly Raggles, you could tell.

Not only did Raggles have an immediately likable demeanor, the cops didn't even have to tell him nothing, and they quickly dispatched him to find the goodies.

The squad out the sprinter stood in a line, they made us all face away from the vehicle, the imperious officer using the full extent of law psychological manipulation, though everyone remained in an everyone hauled into the principle's office revelry.

There was mocked laughter and sniggering among the boys, signaling they remained undaunted—it wasn't illegal to tell a joke now, and if it was in this spry little county, then might as well get hauled off to jail in style.

That shit ern,

Oh, yeah just wait,

Twenty five or so,

Gettin' jealous off this senior sparkway . . .

I need to asap shit here,

Per square inch neega—

I looked out into the prairie, distracting myself thinking about the dirt of the other stars off distant in space, infinity is real because there is no clear cut end anywhere—weather treking out in continuous line in space ceaselessly, or zooming in into an atom forever.

We stood on the side of the road for over an hour. We couldn't see what was going on, but we knew the disorder of the van must have confused poor Raggles, because they just kept sending him back in. He could smell something, but it was impossible to find anything amid the nectarine orange rinds, the toilet paper used as a leaf of Kleenex, the broken Madi Gras bead necklace, my thin Supreme bag that my shirt came with that they charged an extra ten cents for, withered french fries on the floor, tooth powder, everything piled up showing no ground, trash and garbage and trash and garbage stacked—they sent Raggles in again—Raggles knew something was there, everything confirmed that Raggles well knew, but his efforts yielded little nothing. After a long while dumb Raggles was too blinkered in an exhausted confusion and was so overworked, they finally had to put tired Raggles up.

They finally let us go, and then suddenly the cop who originally pulled us over started being pretty cool to Mitch. They now held us up with their jallowing pleasantry, it was slightly heartening seeing the two of them from such disparate backgrounds now shoot the knees of the breeze holding up the rest of our journey.

Skateboarding eh,

Yes Sir, yea we just got back from a heavy trip . . .

What exactly does a professional skateboarder have to do? 

We like solve answers, answers to riddles for riddles that don't exist yet . . .

Riding away, the inside of the sprinter was in the worst condition of disorder possible, as hopeless as a paint bomb from a bank robbery gone off inside duffel bag of cash money. The exacerbated disorder gave a wiff waile of apocalyptic air, but the best kind of apocalyptic, this kind of New Orleans French Quarter swampy burlesque troupe everyone waking up in the trampy pizza pie on the record player morning after the Madri Gras party blow out kind of vibe.  

Brice was back driving, as I sat shotgun, not minding being up front with him now. We were staring straight in the direction from which we came, right in the general direction of Old York.

Every spot looked so good, I sat back with my arms folded, like everything was in order, regalling in the opiate of relief.

Yeah, for sure—totally. Brice being his old self again.

But the run ups, the run ups sure where so chaotic, weren't they?

Like everything is chaotic,

Despite how perfect the obstacle was, the run up was always lousy, just real crumby,

That's SF, well that's life, I guess . . .

Yeah, yeah, the run up, the run up is always chaotic,