Was mir damals verboten wurde, und Heute erlaubt ist, hat mit dem "wollen" kaum zu tun
September 18, 2007 | 2:05 PM

Sensuous bricks...sinuous conrete...the first emerging sun, beats down on a cobbled lane--the smell of last evenings beer mingles with the damp earth.

There's an ionized freshness in the air, as ozone-spouting busses pass noisily by, their cargoes staring out of clean windows.

Bavaria sands tall above us all, her proud breasts giving suck to all the city west of her, but protected from ravening maws by the Isar...and shrugging to the South where poor Valentine sits in the Isartor, awaiting some sort of love.

There's a train pulling into the tunnel at Muenchener Freiheit, there's another one emerging--each one donning a new blue in the lights down here, madding crowds are busting for the escalators, escalating their urgency onto the street.

Now it is fall, a cold snap has sent the bricks of these grand houses in Lehel shivering, the trees protest, but it suits Lenbach just fine, even the frozen Stacchus can't but help to revel in the hope of a spill of gluhwein, or two.

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Rund Um München und Umgebung
June 10, 2007 | 12:40 AM

The street is black with recent rain, empty of other cars too, likely for the same reason. Am I a car because I am driving in one?

A late flight makes its way to Riem, the neon lights and container traffic at Leuchtenbergring describe an alien reality. I am in the city now, from suburban ring road to imperial promenade, each mood takes me in short segments, and in each, I am the mood.

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American Franchise, Korea
December 13, 2006 | 11:12 PM

The scrabble for livelihood isn't really different anywhere. Yes, there different methods and forms of expression, but those would appear to be different mostly in success, rather than the drive to get there. This city is an ultimate expression of that mentality--workaholic but not really producing anything, unless the administration of reality is a production.

I really enjoy the department stores, with their hordes of salespeople for every offering. At each new aisle of the shoe section I was greeted and dogged by a new salesboy, eager and yet all too ready to be disappointed--did he take it personally that I declined to purchase the proffered shoe? I hope not, but am I to not take it personally that the shoe, with its toe overly polished and made in China, had a French 'designer's' name despite the Asian hostility to feet evidenced in its shoddy construction?

Watch that escalator, even though driving is on the right here, walking is on the left, as are the escalator pairs--but not in the higher end hotels, where they revert to right-hand sides for the benefit of the very few westerners here. I mentioned how few westerners I had seen to my hosts, and they did not agree that there were few, which makes me wonder how they'd scream if there really were a lot of "roundeyes" invading this venerable kingdom.

The food is good, so far the best part of Seoul has been the food hall at LotteWorld. You can order by number at the cashier and then proceed to the individual little counter for your individual order. There's a huge selection of regional Korean styles, as well as the obligatory Japanese cuisine. They haven't discovered "Western" fare in a big way yet, though when you see the filthy Outback Steak House and Pizza Hut franchises all becomes clear. I had a funny adventure today. The normally flirty cooks at the counters were doing their usual come-hitherish fun when some girl ran over and snatched my tray of food...you should have seen the cook go running after, but to no avail. She, the cook, was quick to prepare a new helping, and of course I got double, which meant another struggle to haul my carcase out of the subway going back to the Shilla.

Let me tell you about the Shilla. Supposedly this is a five-star joint. I don't know what demented penguin from the French antarctic claim was critic of the day, but if this is five stars, I would seriously hate to enjoy four or less...but I'm getting off track.

I learned something else, that wealthier Seoullites prefer the areas south of the Han, while the less well-to-do are located generally in the north. This is odd, because the South is characterized by 'project' style tower blocks and grid roads, while the north has the interesting alleys and the proximity to 'town.' It would seem that the projects have a cleaner aspect, with more access to convenience. Convenience too seems to be ruling the day, and I see a lot of evidence of Americanization at work. Mind you, it still reminds me of 1980's Germany, but the forces are at work, and there's much to remind me of the stultifying sameness that is America the franchise.

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Soul to Seoul
December 11, 2006 | 9:38 AM

Well I am off today, on my first Asian adventure. I am excited, and of course, the style is entirely suitable (I'm writing this from the first class lounge). I am intimidated as well. The stakes are high, and the cultural adjustment is without reference or prior experience--something a little more discomfiting in my older age.

I will land in Tokyo's Narita airport, which I understand is somewhere near Sapporo. A few hours there, and then its off to Seoul, whose Incheon airport is equally far away from town, but lucky me, they're sending a hotel car to pick me up--what luxury!

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An Odd City Feeling
December 9, 2006 | 9:41 PM

I had forgotten that when a mood takes this city, it has the oddest propensity to take the whole city...be it anger, frolic, or anxiety--if one person exhibits it, then more people are bound to follow, to the point of a mass consciousness.

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Fast
November 20, 2006 | 10:43 AM

Fast, fast, faster, speeding through the howling air
The shrieking winds protest too late to reach my supersonic ear

I am man, I am machine, I fly, I swim, I perambulate--state is meaningless
I conjoin with metal, interact with gas, mix with liquid

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North Bay, Again...Again
September 29, 2006 | 1:44 PM

I have been working so hard over the last two years to get back to where I was three years ago. Where did I go in my mind to be tired of my Sausalito dreams? How did I end up following such a convoluted course? Now I find myself appreciating the San Rafael countryside, and thinking nostalgically of my little adventure.

Am I a New Yorker, does the hurly and burly of this great concrete jungle on a narrow island have some special magnetism that really is more fulfilling than the quietude of the North Bay, or is it my concept of fulfillment that seems to change so regularly?

But what was the purpose of this great circle...I still haven't figured that one. There's a woman in Palo Alto who will understand.

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Mauna Loa is Big
August 18, 2006 | 3:28 PM

There's no way to do any justice to the enormity of Mauna Loa. Even seeing it, somehow, is simply not enough sensation to allow for the vastness, the weight, the patience, the permanence of this gentle whale of a rock. And yet it is neither gentle, nor permanent...

Quzzical too, are the shapes of land here on Hawai'i. From the heights above Hawi, the land seems to tilt into the sky, the ocean falling under it in some Escher-eque impossibility. The dance of hula could be loosely seen to reflect this tortuous seeming reality...

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A Tirade on Track
July 10, 2006 | 2:45 PM

There are many things I can't believe about California. First and foremost is the wild, wild west atmosphere that prevails even today. The Bay Area is a big, urban sprawl, and has no call to resemble a western town in some dismal film--yet all too often, it does.

Initially I rate a city by its skyline. The more big buildings, the bigger, and by extension, better, the city is. Secondly I rate a city by its transport infrastructure. A city is all about getting around to its various components, and good city will not ask a person to drive a car, park a car, and sit in a car to do it.

San Francisco has a passable skyline. Taken in combination with its neighbors, Oakland and San Jose, there is quite an impressive array of skyline indeed--so impressive that one has to be in an airplane on a clear day to take it all in. Since I was recently on an airplane landing at Oakland on a clear day, I took it all in, and was impressed.

That feeling of awe is moderated by the fact that it took me as long to get from Oakland airport to Palo Alto as it did from Hawaii to Oakland--a ridiculous and nerve-wracking waste. Why should this be? Why don't the disparate transit systems interact well together, and why would one part of the bay be so divided from another, integral part of that same conurbation?

Our Bay Area is served by several systems, and I have say upfront that there is actually quite a lot of options, but I have also to say that the transit options are better for the excursion of riding them, than actually using them to get anywhere. From ferries, to trains, to streetcars, and of course, busses. Of the various available modalities, non connect in any way farewise, many have entirely dissimlar payment systems, for example one may pay with a card for BART transport, but one may only pay with coins to ride MUNI.

Of the regional rail options, CalTrain, Amtrak, and ACE offer limited but feasible services. The suburban system offered by BART is great for suburban commuters, but don't dare go shopping for anything and try to use BART to do it--the lengths between stations and their connections (including parking lots) is on an inhuman scale. MUNI is the closest thing to an urban system, and is a mishmash of underground streetcars, streetcars, cable cars, busses, and walking. MUNI is also synonymous with breathtakingly rude, but well paid agents, smelly, deshabilled cars, and even smelly patrons, many of whom seem to feel that their dollar-fifty fare is cost for toilet facilties, 'showers,' and dormitory combined.

If I were half the god I think I am, I would arrange matters somewhat differently.

1. I would nationalize the rail rights-of-way in the immediate region, certainly for areas that would be obvious commute and transport destinations. For cargo operations, I would want to ensure that cargo could continue to travel as freely as possible, but without impeding the rail operations of any designated right of way.

2. I would redevelop and sanitize the rights-of-way, making sure that there were no grade crossings, that bridges and tunnels were up to code, and that signals and communications were operational. Where necessary I would reduce curves and grades. I would identify trunk lines and significant branches and sell of other lands to help pay for the rehab.

3. I would prepare a unified service code, that employees would use to interact in a predicatable way with customers. Stations would be outfitted with convenient services and revamped to offer seamless connexions, whether to waiting cars, sidewalks, or other modalities.

4. I would extend local rail as far as possible without exceeding regional rail usefulness, this would have the dual benefit of providing 'express' service, and providing overlap in the even of service disruptions.

5. Bart would circle the Bay, become a truly Bay Area system. The CalTrain trackbeds would be reconditioned for BART stock, and stations would be upgraded--this would occur as fast as possible to make up for thirty years (actually 100) of mismanagement and poor planning. The 'branch' created by this measure from Milbrae to 4th and King would be refurbished to carry an alternate BART line, from Union City, across the Dumbarton Bridge, along existing trackway and from Milbrae as an express to the Transbay terminal, going underground from 7th and Townsend to the new Transbay. Longer-term planning would have this tunnel extended to Treasure Island and potentially rejoining BART at MacArthur via Emeryville.

6. CalTrain would become a service feeding from Monterrey, Hollister, and San Joaquin to San Jose--the capitol corridor would be massively increased to carry this traffic through Oakland to Sacramento and with Reno service.

7. BART would be extended from Richmond to San Rafael underwater.

8. Lightrail vehicles would serve Ukiah/Cloverdale/Novato to San Rafael BART.

9. Southern Marin would continue to be served by Busses, with an emphasis placed on getting people to the Ferry at San Rafael (Larkspur) and Sausalito.

10. I would adopt Ferry service from Foster City and Redwood Shores to Jack London, with clear pathways from the landing to the Railway depot. 2nd Street would be closed to traffic to ease railcar passage--with a greenway replacing the asphalt lanes.

11. True high speed catamaran/hydrofoil service between Los Angeles and San Francisco.

12. Translink would serve the entirety of transport operators, allowing people to make easy transfers between agencies, and for cost-effective customer service--reducing the nerve-wracking process of adapting to each agency and of producing cash, cards, transfers, and such like.

13. MUNI would be dramatically overhauled, with the institution of true subway service between West Portal and Embarcadero--multi-unit trains with fair frequency would operate automatically. Tram lines would feed into the system, and also reduce by two the number of lines needed to serve the same area. [MAP]

14. AC Transit would operate light rail services along Broadway and into Alameda Island.

15. Oakland airport would be closed. A new airport would be built on Treasure Island instead of housing--eventually SFO would also be phased-out in favour of the new field. BART II would serve this station and reconnect with BART I.

16. San Jose airport would be closed, or relocated to Moffet Field. Hayward Executive airport would offer hop services to the new field on Treasure Island. The new airport would retain SFO as its call sign, representing San Francisco-Oakland.

17. Oakland would retain air cargo capacity, and the cargo rail byway would be improved to connect its operations with the region. A "FedEX" cargo line would bring containers from OAK to a sorting facility in the Transbay Terminal.

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Big Island
July 10, 2006 | 7:44 AM

There's a gecko on the wall. As my eyes adjust to the miniscule light, I see more geckos--moving fast, to snap up the feast of flying things attracted to this smallest of illuminated spaces.

In the grey morning light I hear the twittering of myriad life, birds, frogs, insects--many of which I have no name for, having never encountered them previously. To describe the light as grey seems a blasphemy in this vigorous place. Under the cold shower I look up to see the green bananas in the tree. The scent of plumeria overrides the scent of me, washing away into the green.

I tread the crunching lava, so glassine and brittle, so dark and ubiquitous, some brown, some red, most overcome with the vegetation that is so strong here, so willing to grow in impossible places--watching for a falling coconut, I stumble into a pasture of avocado, slipping on their moist, ruddy flesh and sending up nutty scents. I stumble further and fall into the papaya and pineapple--those weeds with their delectable fruits so rampant and fragrant.

The sun lofts its rays above the endless horizon and waxes on an ocean so blue it seems not water at all, though the crash of its progress on lava ledges and cliff faces belies any other substance--some might flow, but few roar with the same Poseidonaic voice.

I stand constantly on the verge of some greater life, either by dying in a fall or molten floe, or by discovering some essential to life that my material successes have sheltered from me. I tread no more enlightened to the pool, limpid and fresh in any air, where, I am treated to the sight of naked humanity. The voluptuous housewives of Australia's finest suburbs are here, seeking Gaia, and a deeper womanhood. Their shrieks on atonal disqualification and their heady hauteur conspire to keep them both alone and lonely--states I so well recognize through my own balanced eyes.

The sheer magnitude of a mountain seen on its own, rising from oceanic depths to atmospheric heights, and all the while describing some hyperactive arc of the world's own bent, this tilted earth is a monument beyond description. Mauna Loa...words best suited by their sound to say what I see.

Kiluaea, a caldera, smoking with poisonous fumes, spraying life-giving death onto this pathetic crust we crustaceans find ourselves wilfully grovelling upon.

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South Baying at the Moonscape
May 1, 2006 | 7:53 AM

My first actual visit to San Jose, or "San Ho" as it is affectionately known by the locals, was occasioned by the sudden realization that I had a relative in relative proximity. It was nice, as I boarded the KilTrain this past Sunday, to look out and see the endless suburbia whipping by at not less than 45 miles per hour. There's something soothing about moving quickly through human settlements that one would never for one instant want to be 'stuck' in. It occured to me (though without any pleasurable sensation) that the train actually travels 77 miles from San Francisco to Gilroy, and as far as I know, there is no break in the urban built-up areas--that is 77 miles of continuous 'city.' A frightening concept indeed, but one which is appropos to the arrival of a traveler in San Jose, since there's no indication that one has reached the center of anything, other than the end of the train's progress.

The layout of the city is distinctly Los Angeleno. Low slung housing sit side by side and share lots with ugly office blocks. Every corner is plastered with shopping strips sporting some of the most implausible abuses of SBA funding in the nation, from Vietnamese video rental shops, to Russian sausage distributors--mind you this is totally charming, except that there are horrific distance between each, perforated by parking lots, highways, onramps, and suchlike. There is a tram system, and it must have cost a fortune to put in--the trackage is utterly modern, with switches, points, signals and infrastructural gluttony to the max, plus the stations are almost opulent, with sensored platform strips, announcements, clocks, and information kiosks. The trams seem to travel in some pretty good directions, despite only being two lines, but as I waited on the platform, it became evident that they were running in thrity-minute increments...thirty minutes between trains!

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Augsburg
April 29, 2006 | 2:15 PM

Cosmopolitan Munich holds many advantages over its smaller, provincial neighbor, Augsburg. Due to its importance as a center of trade, art, and commerce, Munich can offer all of the amenities of much larger metropolitan areas without the problems associated with big cities.

Munich's prestige dates all the way back to the early thirteenth century. Since that time a steady level of growth combined with good planning has made Munich not only the fourth wealthiest city In the world, but also a city of European élan. Roads developed first for the salt trade and later widened by the American armies do not lend themselves to easy navigation, but do present a constantly interesting network of plazas and boulevards. A new subway begun in 1971 and still under construction allows for easy movement throughout Munich and Its environs. Augsburg's smaller stature within the scale of cities gives it some of the small town effect sought after by the older generations.

Established as a post-town by the Romans, it has since showed a continuous trend toward growth. In many sectors, such as theater, sports, and shopping, Augsburg carries its own weight. Municipally, Augsburg covers a large area filled with sports arenas, tracks, rivers, and forests, providing the space for many pursuits. It can boast of a university. Among its other good points, public amenities such as a zoo, botanic garden, a network of bicycle paths as well as swimming pools, and a well-served railway station rank roughly.

Augsburg has a great deal of industry. Even though this may be considered by some to be a measure of a city's importance, the fact is that it lends mostly to a great deal of air pollution. During the war years Augsburg's Importance as an industrial center was not overlooked by the bombers. That left a great deal of space for rebuilding, which was done very hastily. Thus hasty remodeling leaves Augsburg with a sparse and defiled look. In spite of the city's small size it does operate a feasible transportation system. Augsburg’s polluted air is coupled with polluted water from its two rivers; the Lech and the Wertach. To create a swamp-like atmosphere that remains in the rivers valleys. It is endurable only by the hardy or Augsburg-born.

Munich, in spite of its history also remains a small town. Sometimes the roughly conservative atmosphere of the predominantly Catholic town can be overbearing. Due to Its positive architectural heritage, Munich attracts many tourists. This can be a nuisance.

Although Augsburg maintains a smaller population and a lower rate of city-type problems, Munich remains the area's leader in the realms of culture, business, entertainment parks, transportation, and education, making It a much more likely candidate for the pursuit of life and happiness.

If we were to seriously consider a "best" city, we would need to take into account the politics and demographics of German cities as a whole. Only three cities exist that have reported a population of over one million people. The large amount of cities falling into the category of 100,000-900,000 inhabitants is astounding and each has a similar program of development and services, making them rather generic.

Those cities that had already established their position as cultural centers before the war tend to be the present-day leaders in the refinement of German culture.

Berlin, famous before the war as the center of liberal thinking In Central Europe, once again is the terminus of Bohemians, Gypsies, and alternative types of people from all parts of the world.
Hamburg, a relatively quiet city, is still a leader in the shipping and business industry. Munich, having missed the mainstream of North German culture, retains those few quaint aspects of Bavarians found so darling by tourists from allover. Munich also continues to grow and develop faster than any other city in Germany. New history and a new status in the world are the results of Munich's intrepid sojourn through post-war European Cosmopolitanism. Politics, economics, and artistic thought.

Augsburg, September 12th, 1992

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Growing Up American, in Germany
April 25, 2006 | 9:51 AM

The melancholy of an exile from a land never home is an awkward sensation.

See more progress on: Germany

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O Brazil E Ao Vivo!
April 25, 2006 | 9:47 AM

The vibrancy of this place takes my breath. It has an African hugeness to it, and a European control. The people have taken a route that America would have benefitted from, in that they are all mixed up racially—it is an amazing rainbow of people and a singular fusion of African and European culture that has enriched the gestalt populace to an extent that America, with its impoverished and segregated culture, can never hope to even understand the loss of. Saudade is the operative word for Brazilian people, and to be Brazilian is not a matter of bloodline, but rather, of blood—how potent is its essence pumping in your veins? Does the beat make you quiver?

The cities horrify me, they are huge in a way that makes New York feel very small. The grinding poverty and brilliant wealth come together to create a strain on the people who live at either end. I visited areas in the Northeast that were simply poor…even the ‘wealthy’ were poor by American standards. With this in mind, I felt no insecurity—people were kind and happy with the fact of their life. I don’t mean to suggest that people who live on almost nothing are content, but there was an undeniable suggestion in the air that living was its own reward, and that happiness had less to do with the accoutrements appertaining thereunto.

See more progress on: Brazil

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Subway to Freedom
April 21, 2006 | 1:31 PM

Have I ever mentioned how much freedom subterranian trains have brought me? These urban solutions allow people from any point of view to get from one place to another in reasonable comfort and speed. Generally one can get from someplace one is to someplace one wants to be, cheaply. The mark of a great city is the ability of a person to get from one place to another without overdue hassle.

My nine favorite places (that I have been) based on this standard:

1. Munich
2. London
3. Paris
4. New York City
5. Berlin
6. Lyon
7. Barcelona
8. Chicago
9. Vienna

Nine places rumored to have great subways that I haven't ridden (that I'd like to):

1. Moscow
2. Tokio
3. Buenos Aires
4. Madrid
5. Mexico City
6. Seoul
7. Osaka
8. Lisbon
9. Brussels

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Now Polk and Bush
April 10, 2006 | 7:23 AM

The fogs have flown in, at first racing to snag themselves on the Bank of America tower, then thickening--no longer seeming to race, but no less velocitous.

I've lent my weight to the press of bourgeoisie in this dumpy ghetto-equeness. Sitting in a stained cafe with wireless connectivity...a man walks by wearing short overalls with white hose and an orange plaid blouse. He's an albino, but that is the last aspect which I notice. The clothes have accomplished something significant.

Another man walks by. His hair is red like deep fire. He's pretty, and has interrupted my daydream about being straight. Suddenly the visions of companionship get dinged by the makeup, the moods, the fat, the fakery...

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A Rant on Tobacco and Dry Humping Manholes
July 12, 2005 | 6:45 AM

Walking to work in the mornings has a different significance in the city, obviously. San Francisco has its own sort of "walking to work" experiences. On my own way, stepping over excrement from a source potentially human, I was amused to watch a homeless biker flashing his naff new briefcase to his co-homeless at the their morning coffee--at Starbucks, where else?

I like trains. I especially enjoy streetcars, and as such, I tend to ride our "F" line, which is a stretch between Castratto and Fisherman's Wharf run using vintage trams, among which the little orange boxes from Milan are my favorite. So despite the longer travel time, I am afforded a view onto the street scenes as they develop any given morning. By the time we rolled into Van Ness platform, I had my fill of homelessness, the crowning achievement being the sight of some man lying flat on the sidwalk and screwing the hell out of the griphole of a manhole cover.

Yes folks, once you've had your eyes inadvertently rest and then become impossibly fixated on that sight, nothing else will really phase you.

But I am not everybody. I am an especially sensitive guy, so there are always things that perturb me, like smoking. Now I am not the one to tell people they shouldn't smoke. Even I can enjoy tabacco from time to time. But my beef is with smoking in public, and smoking nasty crap quality cigarettes. I'm sure there's an issue of rights here, but it strikes me as an egregious affront to my rights not to have to inhale poison. Whether or not cigarettes are truly unhealthful is immaterial to me. My point is, they stink, and I should not have to smell them by dint of someone's invasiveness. The simple impolitesse of smokers is pretty damning--and the sight of butts all over the sidewalk is a good indication of what sort of person smokes.

So why ban it from bars? I can't think of a better place for it--people choose to drink, and can choose to smoke, and the bar provides ashtrays and a place to go. Now that its banned, one can't hardly walk a block through this alchoholic town without passing a gaggle of suicidal, orally-fixated folks busily puffing charred dirt into my personal space.

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Harrisburg
June 17, 2005 | 7:25 PM

Here’s a weird city. A state capitol, that reads like a small village. Truly provincial, set in its valley, and peopled by the direct descendants of the early germanic settlers—and I do mean descended.

The city boasts some tall buildings, and historically correct neighborhoods. Last time I was here I found that it also could boast of a rather large ghetto, but what american city can’t? these things seem to depend on the antiquity and poverty of a city, where once it might have provided a draw for the tired and huddled masses, it now can barely maintain its tired and huddled masses.

What expectations can one have of a city? And why does a city feel the expectations of its visitors over those of its inhabitants? How does a city poll those expectations? How does a city decide the level of legitimacy and importance to ‘ascribe’ to each one. They must be ascibed, for what value in this situation can be fundamental?

Its small ‘federalist’ zone is more a reminiscence of berlin than of washington, and has the texture of age that is missing washington. There’s a certain amount of ‘gilt’ here that demonstrates the wealth that Pennsylvania enjoyed in previous eras.

What population is it? I would hazard to call it, invisible, for people are seldom seen. It feeld like a ghost-town, these cars passing by consistently cannot count as living things.

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Selinsgrove
June 17, 2005 | 7:25 PM

A waypoint, invoking the memory of toll collectors on paths, practically waylaying travelers. The strip involves the grandiose mediocrity that is modern america—a corporate and franchised hell.

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Ithaca, Uncommon
June 17, 2005 | 7:23 PM

That strange place titled 'common ground' is certainly common, and quite earthy enough to be confused with gound, or perhaps its patrons are 'ground down' by the weight of being different in Ithaca. I at least am unsure, yet I am certain that the phrase is meant to represent something else, something other than what is practice in this lodge.

(Cities so small and confined to such a small area, countrified, and living in a valley—even the television finds it difficult to invade this region)

And it is a lodge, located far down the highway in wooded seclusion south of the so-called city. It’s a big place, but so far away one has to worry about being bombed.

What with all the woodchucks and sundry that could roam unobserved here. Conversely the amount of debauchery that could take place at this distance from society is a thought. But there’s not much interesting here. As with most smaller towns, anyone with something going on has moved already to a larger metropole.

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Plying Plymouths, that Pimp
May 25, 2005 | 8:27 AM

Casual carpooling is one of those oddities of the Bay Area that inspires me enough to make fun...

What it is this:

"Casual car pools" are informal car pools that form when drivers and passengers meet at designated locations. There are a number of East Bay pickup locations, which are listed on the previous page. Drivers drop passengers off at Fremont and Mission Streets (or nearby) in downtown San Francisco. Sometimes the driver will indicate where they are going after that (north of Market, for example, or even to Civic Center) and offer to take passengers further. Casual car pools are quick and convenient. They are quick because in the morning car pools are able to bypass the long delays at the Bay Bridge toll plaza. In the evenings you can take advantage of the car pool-only on-ramp to the Bridge, and car pool lanes on I-80 and I-880. Car pools also do not pay tolls on either the Bay Bridge or the Carquinez Bridge during commute hours. Casual car pools are convenient because no pre-arrangement or fixed schedule is necessary. There are usually sufficient numbers of drivers and riders so that you can get a car pool within a matter of minutes. Casual car pool sites for rides to downtown San Francisco have been in existence in the East Bay for more than 20 years. Casual car pools are not "run" by any organization or authority. They have worked well for over 20 years based on a few simple rules that have evolved among drivers and passengers. Regular car pools on the Bay Bridge and I-80 are required to have three or more people in a car. An exception is made for cars and trucks that have only two seats. Such vehicles may use the car pool lanes when there are two people in the vehicle. People are usually careful to form as many car pools as possible. This means no more than three people per car. People are quite mindful of the "first-come, first-served" aspect of the lines. Avoid the ire of your fellow commuters: don't "line-jump." Also, please be mindful of business and residential neighbors. Drivers should avoid blocking driveways and side streets while waiting for passengers. Never stop in a bus zone. The fine is now more than $250! As far as anyone seems to know, over the history of East Bay casual carpooling, there have been no untoward incidents. The "three-per-car" requirement has helped. A little caution and common sense also have helped. Passengers can always decline a ride. For example, female passengers have been known to decline rides in two-seat cars. They simply let another passenger go first, and wait for a larger vehicle. Car pool etiquette seems to be that passengers remain silent unless the driver initiates conversation. Enjoy the ride!

Source: http://www.ridenow.org/carpool/

What so funny? I thought how useful it might be to pimp out my bitches at the carpool, they can jump in and with traffic, have enough time to ply their trade with up to all four potential and captive customers.

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Sausalito had been good to me
April 20, 2005 | 8:23 AM

For this year past Sausalito has provided me with a safe space. Somewhere to sit back and worry about retail therapy and the weather. A nice respite from the horror of DC and the pain of NC.

Now, finally, after a year's convalescence, I am again a city boy. I will be starting up the creative juice again--presumably.

Now is the time for the Mason Street Atelier.

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Mahalo Aloha
April 11, 2005 | 10:31 AM

A few days in Hawai'i and I am feeling decidedly less stressed. It is an amazing example of how the accoutrements of life become a burden. Granted the kame'aina tire of white beaches and brilliant sunshine, but for those whose lives are filled with coupons, advertisements, and the grinding sounds of machines, it is a relief.

It is shocking to travel 2,500 miles over open ocean and arrive in a tiny place that has the same spread and wanton garbola as the rest of the continental US, but I am told that this is Oahu...not necessarily the rest of malnourished Hawai'i.

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Happy Sad
March 10, 2005 | 11:05 AM

A morning of urbane complexity and pastoral simplicity--with the bright dawn shining on the hills of Southern Marin, and my self, surrounded by the less bright denizens of that same rocky shelf...I sit on this fast-moving behemoth and wonder silently about what I am.

California is the state of reinvention. A state whose millions can collectively come together and deliver the most sophisticated insults to a poor governor, and selfishly sit and endure the poverty of their choice of replacement.

This city is big in a big-city way, and yet somehow so small, so confining on at least three sides, with some grand promontory of suburban disma stretching southwards as a bulwark against the loathsome conurbations to the south...

But where am I? Travelling at 45 miles per hour in the second story of a caltrain carriage, dreaming of some encounter that would never bring me more than 6 minutes of happiness? Dreaming of wealth enough to afford not to live anywhere, but to remain aloof from reality. I never bothered to accept anything as true. This might have its drawbacks, but it has made me free of common constraints--somehow the freedom is more constraining than being constrained.

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Are You In Yet?
March 9, 2005 | 8:32 AM

This morning's bus ride from the car rental on Bush Street was odd. When someone talks about something odd involving a MUNI modality, it is really odd. Among the odd things I noticed were these two girls, trying desperately hard to seem aloof and diva-esque. The were dressed in that late-nineties chic that seems to be the 2005 mantra of SF...glossy and well groomed, they sat with heads held straight and purses grappled.

From the corner of my eye I noticed a street-type guy walking alongside the bus. In SF the busses are slower than walking, and are only used if one is tired of walking. Anyway this street guy was scruffy, and dressed in pseudo hip-hop whiteboy trying to be a nigga style...and he was cute, noticeably. So these chicks are there holding there composure, and checking him out in a way that suggested they were experiencing a little puffiness in thier love caves. It was all too amsuing when they exited at powell--a sure sign at 8am of the retail worker, probably selling smart things at Macy's or Sak's, but earning ten dollars an hour doing it.

So in my own judgmentalism I was checking out this guy sitting a few seats forward. he had that financial district haircut and sharp chin that said "I have been making 45 grand for two years since college and I'm sick of eating ramen." He was kind of attractive, but I noticed he had black pants with a blue blazer, and in my mind I said, "oh god, I could never esteem someone wearing black and blue..." until I noticed I had blue pants on with a black pleather jacket. I snorted quite loudly--loud enough that I think he expected me to share a line with him. Anyway I was amused at the irony of my thoughts, and definitely whistled the rest of the way to work.

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To take, to have
January 25, 2005 | 3:34 AM

Waking from a slumber unencumbered, I dream of being Roberto Carvalli. I ride silently in a noisy bus to the city of my dreams, whose streets are busy way before dawn.

Splash!

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So Long, Seagull Infested Shore
January 21, 2005 | 3:22 PM

Herring are apparently unable to avoid fucking in the same place every year. Granted, predictability is a mantra of a herring's life, but with all the nets, the gulls, and the sea lions, one would think that the school would teach some lessons about location, location, location.

Speaking of location, I am here to tell you that a mass of seagulls overhead is more likely to have some dire consequence than just a few perched on a railing.

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So Long, Golden Shores
December 29, 2004 | 10:18 AM

A year in the life of a Sausalitan, and I have gone from dizzying estimation of life in this villagio, to contempt for its inbred denizens and their fear of reality. I will be heaving my bulk into the city finally, and though I am excited and trepidatious, I know that it will be a good move...but without the car, so now to add to the frustration is waiting for the silly thing to sell.

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Dominate the Waves
September 21, 2004 | 11:12 AM

Dear Swimmer, you might very well be strong, even fast, in the water. What you are not is graceful. The force with which you beat the water to propel yourself makes the water your slave, and it will do your will, but it will not assist you. In refusing to cleanly slice and feel the currents of stillness, you are not aided by nature, but are relegated to domination. Domination is not a measure of success, but rather a symbol of fear and insecurity.

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Pleasure Finite in Pleasure Found
September 15, 2004 | 11:19 AM

Its funny how companionship can bring a wholly invigorated perspective to the everyday. Sailing the ferry, sharing coffee and laughter, viewing the hillside village, smelling the briny waters--was all renewed in its pleasure to me, and magnified in the sharing. Sappy thing that I am, taking gusto in the temporal as if it were set in finity.

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Perseid Obscured
August 13, 2004 | 6:47 AM

Last night I drove into the northern portion of Marin County, looking for a nice dark place from which to view the perseid meteor shower--after a bit of winding and some scary intersections, I started to drive upwards. Mind you, I have absolutely no idea where I am, or where I am going.

So I drive. Even with my usual aggressive style, the hairpins and precipices have me on the edge of my seat. I start to reach some peaks, but despite the elevation and seclusion, the fogs that have rolled in make the sky a remembered, rather than sensed thing.

I grow reliant on the German engineering of my car, and I am grateful it is a newer model. Eventually I see signs again, and know that I am somewhere near Point Reyes. There are occasional villages--old gold rush joints with a saloon and a couple of large inns. They are really quite gorgeous, and in the night fogs, look very glamourous as well.

After some winding drive, I find that I am on the top of a part of Mount Tamalpais--our local focal point. There is no view upward, but the whole bay lies beneath me like some glittering beryl--a yellow shimmer of ozone and carbon. It is beautiful. It is beautiful, and though I have missed the meteors, I have at least encountered a thing new and heretofor unimagined.

Back into the car, and downhill, through twists and turns which put rollercoasters to shame. I am beginning to really value the performance of my GTI, and use it to the max. Downshifting and using the 4-wheel traction control, I still feel that 30mph is too fast. Soon I find myself driving through a redwood forest--the smells are magical, cedar, juniper, and pine. My open windows admit fogs and scents to the point where I am almost overburdened by the pleasure.

After a few minutes I reach ground level, and drive alongside some loch of the bay, seemingly no where near my destination, but suddenly a village appears, and the road smoothes, and there is my 101, the highway of my imagination.

What an odd evening, but magical, and after my walk home from San Francisco yesterday, a part of my newfound mania for local journeys.

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Just A Small-Town Boy
August 11, 2004 | 10:30 AM

I will be going to Los Angeles this weekend--I am scared...little small-town boy in the big city.

To fly, or not to fly, that is the question.

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On The One-Oh-One
July 21, 2004 | 9:52 AM

I was born a ramblin' man.

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Barely Made the Boat to My Sunlit Cove
July 6, 2004 | 12:53 PM

In the City of Saint Francis, I will create work relevant to:

Cables
cable cars
cable bridges
telecommunications

Light
fast fogs of lightest to pitchest grey
orange-hued blues and greens
brilliance, shine, glitter
insanity and the hugeness of the pacific rim

Surf
deterioration
blondness and bodies

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Pretty as an Airport, in Pink
June 15, 2004 | 1:11 AM

In the timeless eloquence of Douglas Adams, no language has evolved a phrase "as pretty as an airport." I think this is true, and his essay on the matter is a sublime piece of satire.

But just to be the contrarian I most undoubtedly am, I present my list of ten favorite airports. Those in bold I have actually been to.

01. Munich - Franz Josef Strauss
02. Osaka/Kobe - Kansai International Airport
03. Washington - Ronald Reagan National Airport
04. Paris (Roissy) - Charles DeGaulle
05. Salvador (Bahia) - Dois de Julho
06. Atlanta - Hartsfield International
07. Nurnberg - Flughafen Nuernberg
08. Bilbao - Aeropuerto de Bilbao
09. Athens - Athens International Airport "Eleftherios Venizelos"
10. Dubai (UAE) - Dubai International Airport

But what opinion piece (and top-ten list) would be complete without a worst-of? Especially where airports are concerned...

01. Moscow - Sheremetyevo-2
02. London - Heathrow
03. Washington - John Foster Dulles Int'l Airport
04. Medinah - Mohammad Bin Abdulaziz Airport
05. Bombay - Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport
06. San Francisco - San Francisco International Airport
07. Dallas/Ft. Worth - Dallas-Fort Worth Int'l Airport
08. Miami - Miami International
09. Sao Paulo - Aeroporto Int'l de Sao Paulo/Guarulhos
10. Berlin - Tegel

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TripTick
June 10, 2004 | 7:18 AM

Things to remember to bring when visiting the Bay Area:

comfortable walking shoes
a windproof jacket
sunglasses
aspirin
cellular phone
lots of cash
an appetite

Things to leave behind when visiting the Bay Area:

men
man-like apparatuses
inhibitions
self-doubt
new york wines

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From A Height (Speed That Is)
May 13, 2004 | 11:39 AM

I did actually sit down in a coffee shop in Kingman, Arizona and try to hash out a blog entry on my recent cross-country roadtrip. The problem, aside from my perennial impatience, is that it wasn't so much a roadtrip, but more of a flight on the ground--I have seldom driven so fast, for so long.

I saw almost all of interstate 40, from its convergence with 85 at Burlington, North Carolina, to its inglorious end at Barstow.

I found a new friend in the 100mp/h traffic on the 'five.' From outside Bakersfield to the Westley exit, it runs in a direct line from nowhere to nowhere through nothing, and is the perfect runway for racing Californians.

After Westley, Bay Area travellers are routed along the 580, which enters Alameda county above Livermore, of laboratory fame, and one is greeted, after 2,000 miles of brownlands, by lush golden grasses and earthquake riven hillocks, topped by spinning windlasses generating enough electricity to power a whole household.

What a relief to see the Bay Area again, even dismal Oakland--knowing that I am little distance from my beautiful enclave.

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Roadtrip, A Trip
May 11, 2004 | 10:35 AM

Kingman, Arizona, and only now am I taking a moment out to blog about this cross-country drive…miles, miles, and more. I’ve done 2,300 already, and seen much, and yet none of it somehow stays in my mind, what with the dulling aggregation of roadways, vibrations, lights, and passing vehicles.

To begin, the winding roads up the Appalachians above Asheville, North Carolina set a mood of adventure and healthy airs, after the conclusion of a relationship I never wanted to conclude. The flat swampy land leading to Memphis, and I fly along without pausing to acknowledge the majesty of G-d’s creation. Arriving in the redneck wilderness of grandma’s house—where the men are impossibly beautiful, and equally limited. I was shocked to drive by a roadside stand selling Aryan nation flags, but then again I wasn’t overly surprised, really.

The first day of real driving, Monday, and I fly along the Oklahoma megalopolis of Tulsa and the eponymous City, seeing them only from a distance—as the luxury of American development is brought home once again by the vast and pointless ring roads. The smell of cattle rendering yards, and cement storage pervades the still air, and I cross into Texas.

Texas is really a weird place…and its people even weirder. Rude on the road, and ruder off it, I hurried past anything that smacked in the least of civilization, dreaming of an arrival in California replete with heraldry.

Night falls as I arrive in Albuquerque, possibly one of the world’s ugliest cities situated in the most impossibly beautiful landscape. The mountains end suddenly in a great plain, abutting these is this city of poverty and dung, but further and further from it, even unto the casinos, it shimmers like some jeweled glory in the empty desert.

An overnight in Gallup, after repeated disappointments in the intervening cities, in a tenement of the lost tribal peoples, where I watch a disconsolate young man shoot bottles with a BB gun in the back and a family roasting chicken in the forecourt. After a particularly voluminous and forceful orgasm, I feel drowsy enough to sleep—doing kegels on the road is an excellent use of the freetime.

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Frightened and Feminine, Not I
May 6, 2004 | 8:36 AM

While sipping some seriously nasty coffee this morning, I take stock of a man standing on the railings of the ferry--someone new on this ferry of friends--he is older, and suddenly that is so much the better for me, and his blond hair and hairy face are somehow attractive to me in wasy I must examine.

Why am I motivated to trust an unshaven man? What measure of masculinity is the beard?

The ferry has its own cliques, and its funny to begin to recognize them. They seem to be roughly divided by sailing times, and within these are the barflies, the outdoorsmen, the bikers, the business geeks, and the matrons. There are others, but these are the main ones.

One of the bikers in the table before me is wearing an O'Neill cap. I find him inexplicably more attractive for it. Its strange that the bikers tend to fat, where the business geeks are the more aquiline figures. The barflies are heavy, but the distribution is somehow different, and looks less like fat.

The matrons are rarely on this 7.10 sailing that I take, but the afternoons will see them onboard, replete with naff bags and shopping galore. The 7.10 tends to be the early-to-rise set, obviously, and has its share of the business geeks, and those office types that enjoy leaving at 4. I would love to leave at 4, but despite my early arrival, I tend to catch the 6.40 sailing, or even the 7.45. I'm glad they offer a 7.45, but sad there isn't one late boat, that would allow for a drink or dinner in town.

Regina, the bartender on the morning boats (mind you bar doesn't mean alcohol necessarily) is sweet on me, and chatted me up mercilessly yesterday, mind you she's a dear and quite pretty too, but I haven't the heart to make what would be a non-sequitur by yelling out that I love big purple Tellitubbies with matching handbags. She accuses me of hiding from her this morning, and maybe I am, sitting below deck and typing blog entries instead of my usual occupation of sitting on the forecastle and watching (cruising) the bay.

I thought yesterday that calling someone the San Francisco Bay might be a cute offensive way of naming a slut, but then again, it might be so clichee that it is meaningless. Were I a bottom, it could apply to me. I feel like I have explored all the nooks and crannies that the area has to offer, and am requiring a respite from my efforts?the lack of sleep is making me crazy, and yesterday at work I had a tantrum over some bureaucratic wrangling (not my idea of a stylish employee).

My poor boss is trying so hard to keep everyone happy, and I've added stress to his life, which is exactly what I am here not to do--so I have some effort now to remove the burden and create a positive balance.

Closer to the water, and the appearance of speed is enhanced. The joys of parallax. Already the bay bridge appears portside, and I feel the onset of a busy day already. Time to steel myself for my first meeting with our CFO, and see this personality we are all scrambling about in support of.

Because sleeping your way to the top shouldn't kill you...

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Morning Commution
April 30, 2004 | 11:58 AM

Every morning presents the city in a different light. I am so bebothered not to have my camera, so there's no visual to share. Imagine the city of San Francisco spread onto a hilly peninsula jutting into the bay. This is the view I have from one of my windows. Each morning, as the sun shines in, I look out into the foggy grey of the city, and see some spellbinding tableau.

This morning it looked as if the buildings were pillars, holding aloft a giant roof of dun coloured marshmellow fluff. The golden sun jumped over the Oakland hills, and set the harbour machinery into quintillion sparkles, and the giant cargo ships that somehow move much faster than the other floating traffic (but without any hint of spray) trudge along in massif, remaining grey withal the sunshine.

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Swill
April 24, 2004 | 7:06 AM

Sausalito boasts some pretty, quaint little places, and even some coffee shops of pretension—among which the Trieste ranks as my first trial.

Entering, one is greeted by a line of impatient rich folks, and the smell of six-hundred dollar cotton shirts.

The pastries are arranged with definite inattention to taste, as are the customers. The barista allows the espresso to flow from the top of the pressuriser, and re-foams the warmish milk—when challenged he responds with aggrieved tones and protests the coldness of his produce.

The conversation (and I don’t know why I expect something different) ranges from the pathetic liberalism of Marin County, to the materialist German of tourists impressed with the value of their currency. Bombarded by self-interest, I don’t find any ambiente worth staying for, and am relegated to this den of offal wealth and latent isms by the arrangement made a day prior to meet a new artist/friend who isn’t answering my cellular entreaties to change the venue.

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Golden Cake Bridge
April 21, 2004 | 9:40 AM

Physically driving across the Golden Gate Bridge is one of the most empowering feelings in the world. Having seen the act on television and film, and having the conscious knowledge that people who do this are somehow set apart (by virtue of their place in film and tv) lends creedence to the feeling of exultation. It could be simply early morning endorphins, lost somewhere in my miopaea...I hope my readers recognize my deadpan delivery, and aren't again up-in-arms at my psycho-babble.

At almost no time can one see the bridge in its entirety. Fog shrouds the incredible pillars that hold the incredible cables, that lift the incredible span. It is a truly beatiful creation, and when one looks at the photography of the time, it is possible to sense the pure wonderment that it was then--and recognize its power to hold that awe into today.

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Painful Bus Blisters
April 5, 2004 | 10:06 AM

Yesterday was quite a day. The Transit 'system' is one of the main reasons I have decided not to locate in the so-called 'East Bay.' The busses are an atrocious non-system designed to bring working class folks to working class places--this is fine, but the obvious prejudice of leaving everyone else out of the 'loop' is so un-Californian, as I have understood it. So the stupid trashy larouchie asks me if I am checking my stock portfolio, judged me by my clothing--as so many do; there's a story involved with a faux fur and a Saturday afternoon, but that is forthcoming...

...The kindness of friends has given me a place to stay in Oakland, and I am grateful, but getting to where things are happening is a pain, and yesterday was exemple pur. The transbay bus got lost, and couldn't find his SF terminal. It was cute, and no one was worried. Coming home was another matter, when I take the ferry, a singularly delightful experience, I have to walk several blocks to catch the 12 bus to take me anywhere near (and by far not near enough) the house. The 12 seems to run about once an hour, and downtown Oakland, while not bad, is not the sort of place one enjoys 'hanging around' in. The best part is to find after an hour that the 12 stops running at a certain, early time of day, and that one has been waiting for nothing, being subjected to racist jibes for nothing, and that one must now pay the extraordinary sum of $1.50 for a bus that goes only vaguely near one's destination...

...frustrating, at best.

Needless to say, my preferences are trending toward somewhere near a ferry terminal, in the city itself, or with a regular commute--getting from O-town isn't too difficult, but getting back is such a pain.

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Jealousy on Bicycle Tyres
April 5, 2004 | 5:53 AM

Those shoes, so crafty and wittiy designed, deigned to be a hundred and thirty, or more
what could I begin to afford, who find BOGO too much of an expense?

Did Gaudi speak to me, easily, like finding a bar to smoke in an American city moderne...
...or was I flauting a taqueria's matronly scullion for her wide hips and wider variance from recipe books?

Willow trees don't shade dolorous missions, and I, on my mission, not to dolores, find a park shaded by cool palms, and a grey breeze.

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N Judah
April 4, 2004 | 12:32 PM

I think it rather sad that my 1,000th comment was a spammer posting...

I have been considering the fact that there are so many transport modalities in the Bay Area. With so many lines, its funny that actually getting anywhere seems to be near impossible.

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Doing A BART Dance
March 23, 2004 | 10:51 AM

I am getting over the newness of it enough to be stunned by the largeness of the 'bay area.' Today I went to Walnut Creek, which is one of the more powerhouse-type of suburbs. The BART trains really fly out here, and the progression of highways, developments, and new urban concourses is seemingly endless.

I am beginning to feel fear, and a scared rabbit that is so alone in this wierd planet California.

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Service bei 10km Hohe
March 19, 2004 | 1:28 AM

Nichts wird genauso wie das fliegen in der ersten Klasse. Nicht aus grunden der hochnaesigkeit, sondern eine gewisse bequemlichkeit was in der Hauptkabine mangelhaft ist.

Warum wird das fliegen immer weniger genussvoll? Ich kann es gut verstanden das die Fluggesellschaften unter hauefiger druck um einkommen zu vergrossern stehen, aber das einkommen arrangiert sich selbst bei service. Kein wunder das das Publikum auf grundpreise steht, wenn fuer mehr Geld immer weniger Service geleistet wird.

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Arrived at the Wrong Airport
March 18, 2004 | 3:31 AM

Flying over the dusty brown that is America's west at 450 miles per hour, I sat in comfort in seat 1A. Landing at Phoenix along the way, we passed into the brown layercake of air that comforts the public to point of carelessness. An hour later, burning 10 gallons a mile, we lifted into the sky and spent another hour over brown and red lands until the murk of San Bernadino came into the view of my portside windowhole. From San Bernardino it is an endless procession of humanity to the ends of imagination and horizon--the horizon here being a lot closer than imagination would believe.

With great relief the beautiful coast of Monterrey evidenced itself, and with a graceful swoop we descended into the ancient terminal of San Francisco International. Nominally there is a train from the airport into the city, but after travelling up and down stairs, escalators, and elevators to get there, I arrived at the 'sky-train' which revolves around the airport, and finally drops the traveller several hundred meters from the BART platform. Heaven forbid a traveller arrive with baggage or tired legs.

BART trains seem to stop running once a traveller reaches a platform, and after a while I was beginning to consider a taxi, when the metallic screech of train wheels announced the train. The ride was reasonably comfortable, and after half an hour, I found myself climbing out of the Embarcadero platforms into the full glare of Market Street, San Francisco's main thoroughfare.

It was odd to be surrounded by gleaming boxes and not be in New York.

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Rice A Roni
March 18, 2004 | 2:05 AM

So many 'first' impressions of my first 'new' locale in so very long. Have I outgrown the ability to be flexible, or have I been so rural that the presence of a city leaves me shell-shocked.

San Francisco is quite a place, and as a place new to me, leaves me reeling with the newness of it all.

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Saxapahaw
March 12, 2004 | 11:42 AM

Having been named by Carter, the American malaise didn稚 end at the recognition, nor did the energetic, but unethical administration of Reagan by any dint carve away the chancre of the more dismal of American values.

There are these places預 majority of locales, all 双ut-of-the-way,� where life has never risen from the Great Depression.

Saxapahaw remains the fief of the Jordan family, whose name remains the most prominent in the village affairs. This once textile-oriented village has fragmented enough to match its river, the Haw, which folds into several muddy channels on its course to the ocean. It is obvious that some power resides in this place, some leftover magic of an earlier, happier age. This is a cozy dell in the Carolina piedmont, but all the virtue of commerce is long gone. What money remains is the suburban working class, whose paycheck originates in Chapel Hill, but never suffices to afford residence in the same.

The trailers that wind in the hollows evidence a less-than-successful populace�was I meant to come here as an artist; to enjoy fresh air and starvation? My pastime evinces the passing of harvests, and while tied to the land so directly, has no value in the land.

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Sprawl and Control
March 4, 2004 | 11:17 AM

The underlying assumption in historic preservation belies the insistence of economic deprivations, those factors which allow decay to flourish, and make no cause for the arrest of decline.

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Variegated Unimpressions
February 16, 2004 | 3:19 AM

Although I would avoid the issue of whether the government controls the people or the reverse, I do wish to lift one aspect of the inverse relationship for examination, and that is the existence and enforcement of speed limits.

While I understand fully the reasons for their existence, I cannot agree that there is any moral basis for speed limits. Equally difficult is the rationalization of a limitation with the expectation of a population for mobility. If the mass chooses to consistently ignore the laws, then some alternative arrangement needs to be made either in the law, or in the mechanism that neccessitated said law.

I imagine special toll roads with special engineering (banking, safety barriers, markings) for those who would wish to travel at rather faster than the general limitations. These highways would carry requirements for special licensed training, high tolls for revenue, and insurance supplements for the eventuality of accidents. Additionally a safety feature could be argued to be the lack of need to monitor the speed of the vehicle in travel, and the lack of rubbernecking for hidden police.

I think the police have some ethical issues when they stash their vehicles in hidden locations and pick one speeder for arrest and fine. If a law is to be effective in enforcement and observance, it needs to be generally applicable, and not single out 'inlucky' individuals for application. Additionally off-duty and retired police should be forced to observe it, rather than leading a pack of 80mp/h vehicles down the road--following their FOP stickers.

Another difficulty is for those who do observe the rules--me for example. If I drive at the stated 55mp/h limit on interstate 95 in Virginia, I am passed violently, hooted at, bumper-ridden, and generally abused as a moron--so where are the police? But if I travel at 70, like the rest of traffic, then I am subject to heavy fines, police misbehaviour, and insurance penalties. There is some disconnection between purpose and execution here.

And what of people without mudflaps? Especially annoying are the big trucks hauling dirt with "not responsible for broken windshields" painted on them that speed by at 70mp/h and send myriad pebbles to pock your windshield--and what regulation do our road taxes pay for?

And what of the people with the little Christ fishes on the back of their cars?

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States I've Visited
February 14, 2004 | 5:12 AM

create your own visited states map
or write about it on the open travel guide

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Desiring Cuban Haters
February 9, 2004 | 11:31 AM

An amazing red dawn over the flats of Brunswick Georgia brought my mind to the outrage over the marsh arabs' situation in Iraq, which generates so much indignation. Who remembers the way Georgia's salt flats were, and the native tribes that plied them? Now there is a monstrous factory and towering conveyor belts and a highway a mile wide.

But on I drive, and the traffic--horrible in Georgia, improves with proximity to Florida, until, we are all traveling at around a hundred miles an hour, and doing it well, which gets Floridians a vote from me as the best drivers in the US. Jacksonville, an ultramodern city of no importance is surprisingly large, and navigating its rush-hour is a serious affair, but one which I have managed easily enough to land me at nine in the morning in St Augustine, Florida.

What a beatiful city, with its whispering magnolias and rotten mangroves--the mediterannean feel of the stuccoed buildings and their discreet foyer. Its a magic place, and has an air of mystery that almost dispells the trashy redneckia that surrounds it. I have never seen so many confederate flags--and just this minute a guido passed me, full-on Travolta strutting. What a parody! But I am off, on my way to Palm Beach for the blue rinse, and without time to simmer in southern decay. The music in my car is Muddy Waters with Alberta Hunter, and he is belting out his Floridian musing.

Now Florida, that very real, very bright, and unbearably exciting center of touristm as a mass art-form.

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Traffic in Miami, Antmound.
February 6, 2004 | 7:47 AM

With the astonishing extemporameity for which I am infamous, I have launched myself, avec voiture into the heated paradise of the Gold Coast, Miami's seemingly endless suburban sprawl...and though I enjoy it thoroughly, it does take my whole energy to keep my head herein.

The traffic is awesome, almost unmanageable, but the roadways are wide, endless, and fast, fast, fast! Except during the afternoon rush hour, in which time they are stagnant completely. I managed to find the best secondary roads today to travel from Miami to Palm Beach, but strangely the local railway system crosses even the most major roads 'at grade.' This afternoon I was caught by an outbound, and wouldn't you know it, a minute later the inbound arrived and departed. What frust.

I have some more on the sensations of being here, but I'll share later, for now the paranoïa of short-term parking has taken its hold.

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In One Place, Thinking of Another
January 17, 2004 | 1:59 AM

Another trip to DC, one less eventful than others, so far. Sitting again in cyberstop, and relaying the usual verbosities.

And again Ikea, that most Swedish of hell-holes, but this time I knew the plan, and followed it, but thirty-minutes wait for refunds is just appaling. It is damn cold up here, really bitter, and after 5 minutes of it, I am sickened. I am so not a cold weather person. Give me Miami!

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Ikea Satt
January 4, 2004 | 4:14 AM

Anyday involving Ikea can easily become a day of misery, and that was the carma I enjoyed yesterday. Without going into the tawdry details, the day left me exhausted and drained, and the 300 mile ride home was punctuated by the inadvertent witnessing of two ugly accidents. There's nothing like seeing a man get spread on the pavement like butter (with raspberry jam) to lighten the heart.

Now I am back in my millieu, and despite Don's bitter rejection of my desperate advances, I am happy to be here.

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Siberstop
January 2, 2004 | 3:03 AM

There's something familiar about coffee that tastes of cigarette butts, yes, I am back in DC. What fun to be here (safe in the knowledge that I am leaving again soon). The search for meaning (and a bed) drives me driving around, and now, after four hours of vibrating german engineering, I sit in this little coffee place where I so often sat before.

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Ladies of Coffee and Their Cups
December 27, 2003 | 9:52 AM

A while ago I wrote about a woman, apparently homeless, or at least with loneness, who haunted the better streets of DC, and had an apparent affinity for coffee, or at least cups.

Here to there is a woman who, no matter what coffee shop I frequent, is in evidence. Perhaps it is more a statement of my own indolence that I am so often in coffee shops that I see the smae people, but it is odd anyway that she should be in the same stream of c o n s c i o u s n e s s.

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Wandering in Search of Meaning
December 3, 2003 | 3:53 AM

Today I find myself in Chapel Hill. It has a downtownish street of some 50 shops (spelled shoppes) offering naff garbage to the students. I sit in a coffee shop I’ve found, Strong’s coffee, on Franklin Street, and listen to the youngsters discuss the ramifications of house music, and give each other tips on the latest X-box games. I feel old. I feel like there might not be a place for me in any milieu I can reach in decent time. Durham is too small, Chapel Hill is too pseudo-superior, Raleigh isn’t anything at all, and the smaller towns, though cute, resent the intrusion of a man like me.

These resentments don’t end with Cletus, but extend to the better classes of the area too, who have decided that considering the piedmont the apex of culture on this good earth, is the same as its being the apex of culture on this good earth.

I seem to see that the women here tend to dress either ultra-frump, or hunter. I half expect to see one carrying a deer in one hand and a fembot in the other. But they aren’t dykes. The guys dress like little pansies, and make ridiculous body gestures, but talk of pussy with the aplomb of consummate incestuousness.

Now I am in Raliegh, at the Port City Java Café, which, though a bit Fartsucks [Starbucks] is still pretty decent and reasonable, and I seem to have warchalked my way online, which is also damn nice, considering the ridiculous non-availability of the internet outside of Megalopoli.

I'm having trouble drawing anything coherent today. Between my exasperation at the gorgeous rednecks and the Artspace, I am fraught. We all know what rednecks are, bu to define the artspace requires a short dip in the pool of colloquily, namely it is a converted warehouse used as cooperative artist space. It isn't unlikely that I am just bitter, but it struck me that the artists were pretty bland, and why does it take so much politicking with fascist fembots to get 'in?' An artist can't make money without exposure, and it seems hard to get exposure without money--and the fembots have vaunted and pushed their ideas of good (feminine, representational) art to the point where their covey of friends and ass-licking men are the clique. What a heap of the mediocre, when I sit in this uncritiqued, unaware café, looking at art a thousand times more interesting, but he doesn't have a wall with newsclippings and one glossy write-up.

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Invested in the Lurid (Norfolk)
December 3, 2003 | 3:32 AM

It is all-too-often the case, that once I finally set down to write (anything), my mind is so impatient, that only the barest dribble appears to evidence the thoughts that I wrangle with constantly.

In the manner of an impatient soul, I again found myself on the road early this morning. The bright blue of the winter sky boded cool warmth for my presence, and racing along a shimmering black-top, my eyes glittering in the incandescence of those opposed.

I am passed on all sides, and meanly, by sour-faced rich girls with FOP (Fraternal Order of Police) stickers on their beamers and bugs. Funny irony, this fraternal order of law breakers.

I mused on the common mass of humanity, at whose feet blame for Britney and Bush is laid…yet I haven’t ever spoken to anyone who likes Britney, nor anyone who supports Bush. Is my circle so small, or is this mass of people somehow overrated by the ‘powers that be’ for the sake of appearances?

Rather than make my way to Richmond, I wandered to the east, and ended in Norfolk. For those who don’t know it, Norfolk sits on the confluence of several inlets, in what is referred to as a tidewater region. For some reason elusive to me, it also called “Hampton Roads,” and I’ll be grateful to whomever can explain this for us all.

For some oddly hypocritical reason, I love driving. I hate cars, and their attendant effects, I hate long trips spent sitting, and I hate having my attention capitalized by steering—yet some perverse irony has me seated in this fuel-burning metal box tearing across green country over a black-topped strip, view defiled by billboards and strip malls. But the irony doesn’t end there, but I am seated in an Arby’s, inundated in greasy vileness, and desperately trying to recapture those brilliant thoughts that will sadly never seemingly make their way into this blog.

In Norfolk I met up with Thomas, who gave me some pointers on the town and life therein. While he worked diligently, I embarked the USS Wisconsin, a battleship of the venerable Iowa class. Its funny to have a class of ships, and ships themselves similarly named after states.

The boat is enormous, and on viewing the stateroom, I had a momentary vision of painting while on the high seas, calling at ports exotic and industrial, and sailing the empty blue (with 16” cannon, of course). The dream ended abruptly when I saw the crew quarters, which are made for midgets at best. Crew are apparently expected not to read, write, or pursue other creative endeavours whilst onboard.

On to Virginia Beach, where I learned about the drama surrounding a pier destroyed by one of the tropical ladies of recent landfall. It seesm the owner has no intention of rebuilding it, despite the apparent desire of the local folk.

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Putting The Raleigh in Raleigh-Durham
November 28, 2003 | 8:11 AM

Bored already of Durham, I find myself wandering further afield; seeking? Perhaps acclaim, or acceptance, at the least. I am feeling troubled, having no outlet to share my art, and no rewards therefrom...

...painting forever for myself, and feeling that it is somehow inferior to the loose crap I see vaunted on gallery walls--what game I didn't play?

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Did I Dream, or Am I...
November 28, 2003 | 7:58 AM

Wandering along a pitched way, did I dream of a wayward man
Seeking repose in a prosaïc pose, a way to find meaning?

And flying along, at some illegal velocity, such audacious behaviour from one
so inherently conforming, to a pitched way--this wayward man.

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Today
November 13, 2003 | 10:16 AM

It is the precognition of the return that prevents me from making the journey.

I find myself insistent on traveling, moving, somehow altering my environment through the last expedient left to me, which is to move my person. But I am simultaneously paralyzed by the fear of needing to back-track, to return.

These days I am seldom to be found in any new form publicly. Though I am feeling internal shifting, my faculty for externalizing the stresses of coping with my environment with my inadequate tools leaves me with concepts, but no vision.

A three-hour drive to the sea beckons indeed, but after a day of waves, wind, and pines, how can I conscience the dark road home? What purpose will I fulfill in satiating a need for stimulus, if my paradigm allows me only to return to the state which brings me the need in the first place?

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Kiss and Ride
October 31, 2003 | 9:54 AM

Waiting, waiting, waiting...kiss and ride is a designation just rife for playing. I await my compatriot here, and heaven knows, it is a weird experience for one so used to going it alone. I see the look of those who wait for a bas to take them to lonely apartments, or the ones (singular) who treat themselves to a cab-ride, perhaps feeling in that luxury some sense of companionship, the cabbie notwithstanding.

And as the darkness deepens, and the ozone lights throw their sodium patterns in increasingly stark lines, the shadows come alive and gain a sense of purpose. The trickle of travelers ebbs and changes, less office folk, and more nightcrawlers. Metro does indeed amalgamate a wide cross section of humankind.

Kiss and ride. I wonder what the lines of differentiation and meaning are; who kisses, and who rides. What cause underlies this apparent duality?

Much later and we're on the road. Its kind of odd, to watch the trucks with their red lights as they move along the highway--at some point they seem to be moving all at the same speed, so that if I let my eyes unfocus, it seems as though the surroundings are moving, and we are part of some immobile chain...

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Movement and its Affect on my Brain
October 30, 2003 | 3:34 AM

Literatti does not become gliteratti, though I find myself again in the bowels of our nation's capitol. I always enjoy the feel of pulling up 14th street, on the way to the urban regions, but my love affair lasts just as far as Franklin Square, by which time I am already raw at that which defines the character of the humanity here.

Travelling spur of the moment is always exciting, and satisfies my need for stimulants greatly.

The drawback is that I seldom manage to meet anyone under those conditions--some unexpected people perhaps, but that is oftener undesirable.

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Speeding South
September 30, 2003 | 7:25 AM

Speeding south again, though speed remain relative…

This blur from my newfound window, of orange, yellow, some green presages winter, but the blue sky belies movement, both of me in my window seat, and that winter aforementioned…
The occasional red of a signal adds mystery to the swampy quagmire I see.

My relief to be away from Washington is palpable, though there’s no point in using the word, I hear it so often I have come to make it a phrase.

So much wrong with our railways, it is a microcosmic example of the state of the federation as a whole. I dream of creating a real, working railroad, that would be a symbol of progress, unity, and efficiency. It is evident from the crowds that people will use it, so the bankruptcy of its function lies not in the passengers…

…and Durham awaits, a quiet, dull little suburb of nowhere, unless LA, or NY.

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Adventures in the Usual
September 26, 2003 | 1:54 AM

Heading to Union Station this morning to pick up my ticket instantly reminded me of why I hated DC so much. My god but DC is rife with racists, assholes, and freaks. Good riddance, and no regrets.


After getting my ticket to ride I walked through the capitol grounds...


...and garnered a whole range of frustrations from the nazi-esque secutrity gurds, the concrete barriers to accessible government, and the freakout paranoia that pervades the area, as if the squirrels were successfully consulting on behaviours. With that depressing image I decided to bypass the James Hoffa building and hit the National Gallery of Art for some soul-uplifting. The fa軋de is truly beautiful, and I remember that the interior is also a lovely space...


...but I only got as far as the door, the guards who smashed my computer and asked me insulting questions about my art books wouldn't let me take my bag through the building. This isn't itself so terrible, or rare, but I was in no mood for it, and walking all the way back to the entry point to retrieve my bag after wandering the gallery hallways wasn't in my plans. Fuck me.

By now I am a bit peckish, so I headed to Chinatown for a bite...


Chinatown is a crowded amalgam of tourists and welfare parasites, and has sprouted a wad of chain restaurants and black-oriented exploitation venues. Thankfully my favorite Triad-run greasy spoon is still there, and I had a great sweet and sour fish, and the best hot and sour soup in the East Coast. I wonder how much cocaine they season it with.

What a difference a day makes, no one could help me get over DC better than DC-ites. If we're friends please don't mistake this for a criticism of you, obviously I found my enclave of humanity here.

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Returned, Part Six
September 25, 2003 | 6:25 AM

For the weekend, I arrived today, in the city, along the 14th Street, and it looked so grand--granted I have resolved into calmness in Durham, but the city is vibrant...

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Maybe a Lame Entry, but Hey!
September 9, 2003 | 9:24 AM

So I'm already beginning to adapt to the local millieu. I've found the internet and a decent coffee--and more surprisingly a lot of liberal people. Durham would appear to be an enclave in Baptistland.

Getting around is fine, because despite my diatribes, I've gotten this:

So now its a question of fixing the endless bugs of a used car with limited funds, and finding an honest garage (something I have more fear of).

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North Carolina
September 8, 2003 | 1:01 AM

Presenting another chapter in this compendious tome I might call life. Having driven what seems to be forever, I am in the metropolis of Durham. Things are slow here, really slow.

Stop, and smell the pine trees

There's a surprisingly liberal bent here. I'm pretty sure it ends at the city limits, but there it is, and I am not generally given to leaving the city. Though lately I have been pining for some open space, without people. Something about the city gives a man a craving for the empty spaces. I fear that once found, the open spaces will freak me out.

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Our Ability to Move between Points
September 5, 2003 | 3:48 AM

Are they points where we want to be? What speed do we require for traversing, and what affects our perception of rate of travel? Is point A different than point B? What about points between? What effect does the travel between A and B have on point C and what effect does the existence of point C have on travel between A and B? On the perception that A and B have of each other?

The action of moving gives a sense of purpose, as if, in transiting, I am affecting something. Certainly I am myself kinetic in some sense, though I could be said to be personally static, after what movement is involved in sitting in a seat while the conveyance is what is active?

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Remembering the S-Bahn
September 4, 2003 | 9:20 AM

Dan reminded me of that wonderous development of human mobility, the S-Bahn. When I first visited Munich it was by car, and it took a while before I became aware of the railway network that existed. To my joy I found a station near the school, called Fasangarten, where I could catch a train every 10 minutes bound for downtown, or connect in the downtown area to any other train anywhere, every ten minutes, or so.

It was fantastic! To be 16 and be able to go anywhere. There were issues with ticketing; Munich's transport runs on the honour system, and I was reasonably dishonourable... Getting caught was awful, I had a ticket to Petuelring, but I wanted to go to the then-terminus of U2/U3 at Scheidplatz, and then catch the tram back one stop to Petuelring (also a subway stop) just for the sake of seeing a new station. I was going to a girlfriend's house. Of course I got caught without the korrekt ticket, and had to undergo the humiliation of it all--not to mention paying a DM40 fine, which was a lot of money (I had a $10 a week allowance, which translated to DM15).

As you read, I used to go to the Hofbrauhaus rather often, which meant boarding the S2 at Fasangarten, and riding to Isartor, or Marienplatz. The platform was built on one side (the other side) only, and to get on the train, on had to climb the tracks and the platform, which was rather dangerous! I remember one day I was heading out and had reached the platform just as the train arrived at Fasanenpark (you could see the train's lights at that station from mine). At that moment a 300-pound black woman was trying to get up the platform (with little success). She implored me to pull her up, which I attempted to do, but it was an inglorious undertaking, and I stretched, and she stretched, and the train hooted at us--finally she gave up and stood on the grass verge. Wierd.

Many wierd adventures occured while riding the S-Bahn. About a month after I learned the S-Bahn existed, I took a wrong turn in the pedestrian tunnel at Marienplatz, and came upon an enormous and deep escalator...that's when I discovered the existence of the U-Bahn, a connected, but wholly different railway that served the urbanization of Munich.

Americans have poorer public transit than they realise. It is made to get the coloureds to their jobs serving the white folk. In Germany it is a social necessity, and serves as many people as it can.

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Returned to DC
August 29, 2003 | 1:00 AM

Early September, 1997

A frantic return, a busy street corner. People hurriedly pursuing their business, and dawdlers passing nobody bring the song to mind--"look at all the lonely people," and I ask myself the question, where do they all go?

...a blip on a human radar screen. Senses heightened by too much coffee, and a will to survive; not as a simpleton, but still with simplicity, making some sensations especially sensitive.

Addendum:

And this is a big park. It doesn't have to be orderly, the power of the unorganized organic formality is reaped through dynamic harmonies-but the same denizens inhabit it. Here it is, in small capsules that the raged desperation peruse. I at my ripening, am still the energized buck at which the does spout their estris--but deriving comfort from my experience, I sit here upon a raised dais.

Certainly it is not for the sake of presumption that I carry-on in this manner, but my respect for simplicity gives me the force of the ascetic, for of a certainty it is that which I desire without which I must make do. The nullity of the object of my desire does not disallow pain. Where in one place the passing of ships counts time, here the roar of planes counts a faster beat.

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Road Trip
August 6, 2003 | 12:28 PM

As many of you already know, I am planning a road-trip in October. I am heading to San Francisco to help open a friend's new art gallery, and to slough off some of the corporate filth that has become embedded in my soul. I am planning to head through Tennessee, with a stop in Arkansas to see the family, then on through Oklahoma, North Texas, then down through Alamagordo to Las Crusces, New Mexico, and then Yuma to San Diego, thence up through LA to Frisco. I guess only people outside of California call 'Frisco, 'Frisco, but there you have it, I haven't been there since 1976.

I've been across country on various latitudes many, many times--but this will be the first time doing it independently.

The upshot is, I'd love to visit with some of my blogging connexions, and invite you to drop me a line if you've got a place I can crash along the way! I am considering going north on the way home, swinging through Minneapolis, Chicago, and Upstate New York; before doing New York and the DC revanche on the way home.

Then again, I could just fly...

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Washington, DC - Amalgam
June 30, 2003 | 9:00 AM

• The Potomac Steps: 15.08.97

So long, as YOU are happy: I sit with my thoughts, some heinous, some