Dj special Needs

cab

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FWD:ll

The Leathe gays of folsom

FWD:cc

My roomate
The leather gay

This sums up my gay prode weekend

Uh oh! No likey!

This is my secret stash of tastykakes

Sightings

Mushrooms and fashion trends

5am bowling and the fernet is falling faster then the pins. Its almost the middle of summer yet we've all got the sniffles.

The forearms of christ

This is my cousin Amir showcasing the Burrito Mojado at Taqueria Cancun. Its $6 and it washes away the booze

This is some grainy grainy from the annual easter big wheel race - 5,000 half naked and sobreity challenged adults go careening down soma hills balls out (somewhat literally)

Bare with me as I start mobile blogging

He still hasnt jumped but here's some video i took. The guy is in the window of the top floor. Note the crowd and emergency services presence

Easter skid vida

The video is grainy but this is the big wheel race held every easter in sf - note that its about 500 all half dressed fully drunken adults speeding balls out (somewhat literally) down the streets of the city

Ladies and gentelman - king george

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Saturday night, sunday morning i can see them there finding true religion in diesel - gossamer threads hanging from nose to lip waiting hungrily for the next fly to devour. One more night and it feels the same. Girls with smocks and long tube socks. Bongo drummers rotating the beats of an old DJ . Wondering what Axel Rose would say. Wishing, washing and waiting - another secret club introducing my Chinese to my Russian friends. Discussing Israel at 5 am with strangers at a place where you must know Luciano. Snap shots from a memory that's way to gone. Some what hazy recollections of a limo a cab an Italian car chase and Chinese being spoken better then I care to elaborate. The mustachioed man favors his left leg as he strolls the Avenue, humming Rolling Stones under his breath. Causing a commotion, starting something and finishing on the couch under the covers. Missing my dear sweet baby, paying homage to the King - all the while champagne in my hand, one man back against the wall, fighting tooth and nail against sobriety. It's all so elaborate. Know the doorman, don't know the bartender. Know the bartender but can't get in the club - shuffling to back doors and roof top fricassee. Combustible cosmic crazy kind of jive. Kaleidoscope of kooky late night machines. Bent, ripped, torn and definitely cut. Alive for alliteraion. Punished like Phaethon loosing control way before we had the chance. Soaking the best of our intentions in distilled fermented hazy attempts at outliving the moon for just one more night. Awash in anarchy - hiding in hazard, calm in the calamity our torches held high in arms way to tired to remember why. Longing for the last, trying harder with the new and vaporizing into Terry Richardson photos. Painfully aware that it doesn't exist if I don't have a crowd. Wishing I was Slash rising from the water playing guitar solo, cigarette dangling haphazardly from my lips. Strippers waiting in the green room. Tempestuous, tantalizing and titillating. Rock and Roll soundtrack to a silent movie type life. Trading in my mountains for a bay. Rehashing and rephrasing, can't believe that their buying it. Obnoxious, ignorant and blatantly stupid, sycophant of dark things and re-read complex issues. Climate controlled chaos on a Saturday night. Waking up wondering where I am and hoping she still loves me. Whistling to the pixies - where is my mind?

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Motorboat Madness at the Matador Santa Fe and its negative 45 and I'm in a tshirt, jeans and blazer. I can see my breath, its like steam rising from the sewers. Probably just as strong too. I've got my gold luchador mask tied tight, Georges is red and green and evil and beautiful and smells like burnt paper and spilled fernet. Barging past the bouncer, we are masked men intending to wreak havoc a sleepy little snow bound town. Eyes alive with artfully danger - thick tongues and thicker still. We eat danger and breathe fire, all encompassing acolytes of eunoterpsia, a walking disaster film of pleasures of the flesh. Like a beer that's been shaken way to long my friends rush up to greet us, spilling out onto the streets, on my clothes and on my shoes. Fleshed out and real, standing on their own volition, not just manifestations of images and memories that flow through my mind when I speak to them on a cell phone 10,000 light years away. The moon is smiling on its mercurial son as we swim past the sanguine silhouettes of half remembered and half cocked grins and stares and such, to inside, in to the back rooms of the bar, in the dim 5 watt bulbs I can point out all the stars, shinning ever so brightly in that grimy Santa Fe way. Mexicans, Indians and the Gays coagulating in a pool of pear presses and tecate, limes with valentina hot sauces. Surging forth suddenly, deadlocked in a posed question, breathing in nothing and explaining everything. Triumphant in my return, flagrant in our excess, seeking fame in the redundant and paying homage to the mountain gods, grey gooses and the snow that's kicked up in the wake of their feathers. 2 a.m. tremors and its out the doors again, braced against the cold by thoughts of the next night, George is Trans Am - I Rambo Villa leading our flock of high school aged girls, artists, anemic and abrogating the spiritual in search of more sinister goals. We sweep the streets of derelicts and drunks giving them solid refuge for the next few hours into Georges house, Long live the King as Diplo speeds up the danger of the stereo. Then its All Talk and simple thumbed smiles, revelations, cheers, jello shots and two billion dollars worth of sniffled out hugs. Crazy dance parties in my gold laced mask, breathing in deeply, exhaling slowly, savoring, smiling and letting it trickle down. Making booze runs with my novia, snapping at my rucca and making long distance eyes towards the one I love. Comfy in chaos, insulting in ecstasy, the forearms of Jesus are ablaze in new found glory, from the mouths of babes come ever fouler things. Scurrying from the sun like party monster vampires we have found our way going till we're gone, bloated but still beautiful epic renditions of lives gone awry in a sleepy little snow bound town. Home again, from which I've left for way too long.

Sunday, January 20, 2008

Another Saturday Cosmos, Fernets and bars I can't tell you about - sugar cafe, truck and mangerie parites, saddled with being the passive aggressive ringleader of a multi tiered circus. All of us our actors strolling by, practicing our lines. Leaving heavy references to light withdrawls. Tears for fears kind of 80's malaise. not worrying about the reason, just giving, and giving. Carictures of Eric pouring mustard on a baby seal being discussed amongst fag hags and east coast convulsions. Trying to reach the verge of forever. Wondering about hair, sourdough bread and sea shells. Fake tans, 24 hour fitness and even worse poetry. Forgetting Burroughs, wishing for Hemmingway and settling. Sloppy soma type lifestyle. The 505 blurring into the 415 in a weird Martinez tinged hazy daisy daze. Calling it abstract because we couldn't do better. Performance art. Mucho periods in a sea of grammatical errors. Envisioning poems about Van Ness. About the crack heads, lips white in froth, eyes toward heaven gazing for release that will never quite come, empty toothless smiles mouthing sorry. Grasping at and grabbing nothing - resolved in mediocrity. Reaching, straining, tongue out to the world, eyes squinting and still touching nothing. Even Evangelicals get the blues. Who would want to remember our names? Unicorns are shitting rainbows as peking ducks scavenge the bay for one last card game. Gods not in San Francisco this time of year.