What's been spinning around the office:
Junip - Fields
Shearwater - The Golden Archipelago
DDMMYYY - Black Square
Death - Individual Thought Patterns
Mugstar - Lime
Lento - Earthen
Deathspell Omega - Paracletus
Golden Panda - Lucky Shiner
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Borders can finally compete
Thirsty, biking on my way to work, I rode by the heretofore closing Borders Books, on 3rd Street and King, right by the NL West Champion Giants' Stadium. What to my wondering mind should appear, but massive CLOSING!! EVERYTHING MUST GO, FUCKFACE!!! signs, littering the visage of the friendly sidewalk. Ladies and Gentlemen, Borders is done and down.
Now, I don't know if all Borders are done, but this one certainly is. The one nearest to my house; the one that didn't carry Gurdjieff's Beezlebub's Tales to His Grandson when I wanted it; the one that didn't have Christopher Hitchen's The Missionary Position: Mother Theresa in Theory and Practice when I wanted it; the one that had plenty of books I did want, but didn't feel like paying retail price when a quick surf over to Amazon.com got me the same book (which, truth be told, my stack at home doesn't require an instant acquisition) for Ford-damn-half-off.
But this Borders, with the boards slowly being posted up over the windows covering their 40% OFF MOTHERFUCKERS!!! signs, can finally compete with that online Behemoth of Better Buys, by settling the clearance, dumping their racks and consigning to miserably going out of business.
So I walked right into that there Borders store, plunked down some cold hard cucumbers, and walked out, in person, that day, with the new Franzen novel 'Freedom', and 'House of Leaves' by Mark Z. Danielewski for the exact same price I'd get it at Amazon! Finally, Border's can compete!
Pity they had to go out of business to do so.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Ike's is back!
Hungry, biking back from from Dolores Park, I rode by the heretofore closed down grave site of Ike's Place, the vanguard of the delectable deli sandwich in San Francisco, evicted well before their time due to incessant douchebaggery of some entitled couple living on the same block. You see, Ike's is so good that people are willing to wait sometimes up to an hour on line outside their little bodega, 
for a session with that sweet dirty sauce on grilled dutch crunch, and these twatnuggets think that the line is a nuisance. So no more Ike's.
As the blessed little shop had officially closed down a week before, my bike-by was purely nostalgic, still lingering wafts of sammy dancing freshly in my soul. This Banksy-like tag, printed on the boarded up windows, further pulled at the heart strings.
BUT WAIT. Because I'm a total tool, I had to check my Verizon Google Motorola Droid X for social updates, and noticed that my friend and fellow follower Eli M Glad had updated his twit-feeder with an article proclaiming Ike's risen from the dead, relocated in the Lime building around the street (2247 Market St @ Sanchez), and this was DAY ONE.
Ladies and Gentleyouse, Ike's is back. I placed an order for a Hot Mama Huda, and if I can have a moment of your time, let me tell you what this sandwich is like.
Imagine walking through old Paris on a warm autumn evening, the cobblestones tickling the soles of your shoes as the whirring by of Renault and Fiat hatchbacks zip around the crowded streets. Every block is an olefactory delight, your hard won-empty stomach rumbling, the mustardy smells of sandwich shops titilating your tastebuds, wetting and setting your mouth ready for your delicious meal to come.
You turn a corner into an alley as the shade of a lampost cools your hot brow, and suddenly your path is stopped by the cool, freshly shaven leg of a voluptious vixen draped in flowing red, auburn hair falling lasciviously over her supple breasts. She puts a finger over your already moistened lips and whispers "Shhhhh," and you say not a word. She pulls your arm around her supple waist where your hand rests upon her backside, feathers falling over your forearm as you realize this is no ordinary Justine, this is an honest-to-harlot Angel in your arms.
She pulls you closer, and in a warm breathly whimper, sighs "have at me." She spreads her legs apart, her golden juices flowing like a Bacchanal symposium of love as you lap, invigorating your soul with the highest vitality; the throbbing ecstacy of angelic gyrations, pulsating in supreme divinity blowing away your entire earthly presence into one massive momentous explosion.
That's what the sandwich was like.
for a session with that sweet dirty sauce on grilled dutch crunch, and these twatnuggets think that the line is a nuisance. So no more Ike's.As the blessed little shop had officially closed down a week before, my bike-by was purely nostalgic, still lingering wafts of sammy dancing freshly in my soul. This Banksy-like tag, printed on the boarded up windows, further pulled at the heart strings.
BUT WAIT. Because I'm a total tool, I had to check my Verizon Google Motorola Droid X for social updates, and noticed that my friend and fellow follower Eli M Glad had updated his twit-feeder with an article proclaiming Ike's risen from the dead, relocated in the Lime building around the street (2247 Market St @ Sanchez), and this was DAY ONE.
Ladies and Gentleyouse, Ike's is back. I placed an order for a Hot Mama Huda, and if I can have a moment of your time, let me tell you what this sandwich is like.
Imagine walking through old Paris on a warm autumn evening, the cobblestones tickling the soles of your shoes as the whirring by of Renault and Fiat hatchbacks zip around the crowded streets. Every block is an olefactory delight, your hard won-empty stomach rumbling, the mustardy smells of sandwich shops titilating your tastebuds, wetting and setting your mouth ready for your delicious meal to come.
You turn a corner into an alley as the shade of a lampost cools your hot brow, and suddenly your path is stopped by the cool, freshly shaven leg of a voluptious vixen draped in flowing red, auburn hair falling lasciviously over her supple breasts. She puts a finger over your already moistened lips and whispers "Shhhhh," and you say not a word. She pulls your arm around her supple waist where your hand rests upon her backside, feathers falling over your forearm as you realize this is no ordinary Justine, this is an honest-to-harlot Angel in your arms.
She pulls you closer, and in a warm breathly whimper, sighs "have at me." She spreads her legs apart, her golden juices flowing like a Bacchanal symposium of love as you lap, invigorating your soul with the highest vitality; the throbbing ecstacy of angelic gyrations, pulsating in supreme divinity blowing away your entire earthly presence into one massive momentous explosion.
That's what the sandwich was like.
Monday, August 23, 2010
PLAYLIST - 8/23
What's been spinning around the office:
BEAK> - BEAK>
Darker My Love - Alive As You Are
Harvey Milk - A Small Turn of Human Kindness
Headhunters - Survival of the Fittest
Henry Fool - Henry Fool
Immolation - Majesty and Decay
A Place to Bury Strangers - Exploding Head
The Time and Space Machine - Set Phazer to Stun
Ufomammut - Eve
Monday, March 29, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
There Are Too Many Chihuahuas.
"California has too many chihuahuas" reads a one of the latest findings from the latest issue of Harper's Magazine, a liberal compendium of interesting, astute, esoteric, or just darned nutty facts and articles from around the literary globe. Findings is their science corner; a carefully collected consortium of the latest, er, findings from leading scientists. And apparently, California has too many chihuahuas.
But I already knew this, living in California. I often see these little intelligently designed rat dogs in the clutches of moderately attractive females, as if the little accessory acts to draw attention away from whatever flawed feature said girl desires to draw attention away from. Fortunately, it seems as if the trend is dying off a bit, as it's less frequent every day that I see pooches on hooches, completing their ensemble de grace.
But today, I saw something that really did boil my mind chihuahua. A woman, a plain woman, plain as could be, walking down the street pushing a frilly pink baby carriage, carrying what to my wondering eyes should appear to be a French Bulldog, wearing an equally frilly pink blouse. Without even thinking, I found not only my fist clenching, but my brain clenching as well, and as I had no idea how to express my rage at such a stupid stupid America, I just kept walking.
This has got to stop.
Dogs are not accessories. In addition to the fact that these sorts of dogs often come as the result of horrible cruelty and trafficking they make you look like a self loathing strumpet.
Dogs are some of the best pets one could ever ask for, apart from a good woman - maybe even better if they're house trained. But please - enough with the purse-chihuahuas, the bulldogs in blouses, and any 'pet' more meant to make you look good than to make you feel good. It's 2010. Let's get real.
By the way, I've learned from Harper's Findings that we've successfully captured and released a nothing.
Wait, what?
But I already knew this, living in California. I often see these little intelligently designed rat dogs in the clutches of moderately attractive females, as if the little accessory acts to draw attention away from whatever flawed feature said girl desires to draw attention away from. Fortunately, it seems as if the trend is dying off a bit, as it's less frequent every day that I see pooches on hooches, completing their ensemble de grace.
But today, I saw something that really did boil my mind chihuahua. A woman, a plain woman, plain as could be, walking down the street pushing a frilly pink baby carriage, carrying what to my wondering eyes should appear to be a French Bulldog, wearing an equally frilly pink blouse. Without even thinking, I found not only my fist clenching, but my brain clenching as well, and as I had no idea how to express my rage at such a stupid stupid America, I just kept walking.
This has got to stop.
Dogs are not accessories. In addition to the fact that these sorts of dogs often come as the result of horrible cruelty and trafficking they make you look like a self loathing strumpet.
Dogs are some of the best pets one could ever ask for, apart from a good woman - maybe even better if they're house trained. But please - enough with the purse-chihuahuas, the bulldogs in blouses, and any 'pet' more meant to make you look good than to make you feel good. It's 2010. Let's get real.
By the way, I've learned from Harper's Findings that we've successfully captured and released a nothing.
Wait, what?
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