A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.
-Robert A. Heinlein

I need to butcher a hog, set a bone, and die gallantly. I have also in the last month: laid sod, built a chicken coop, hung art, wired and installed lighting, put in irrigation, moved houses. I've made prints for a gallery show, read on Pirate Radio. And I did laundry, twice.

 

Sunday's dream

My boat was somehow disabled and I was with a younger brother who sensed something and wanted to leave this weird village where we had moored.
A priest stood on the water a dozen yards away.
We were then in some oak hall, with a central large room and office doors all around the rectangular area, maybe with a couple of steps, a sort of assembly place.
Kind of a courthouse, customs house(?) I imagine as there was a judge who had the front office by the main entry.
There was some delay in getting the boat fixed, but I sensed that they were working on it or actively seeming to, that they wanted us to stay but were uncertain of some authorization and were therefore 'putting us off,' but reticent themselves in how to proceed. Very tenuous, but mildly welcoming. We were not nervous at first, felt only mild discomfort, which I attributed to being disabled in an unknown port.

The court secretary was efficient but overworked and could only check with those she had already consulted about our predicament. We were sometimes back in the boat - there were odd visitations, but no one entered our space. All in the village were aware of us, but we were being left alone. For someone or something...to be determined.
The priest still stood on the water and people still occasionally came by our vessel, which was becoming less of a boat on the water than a room in a field. People would show up at the window, ask how we were. Darrell the town drunk was fiddling with something out at the curb.

I had had enough; the inactivity and village creepiness had gotten to me. I sensed they were too meek to make a bold gesture, but given the opportunity to bite, they would. "Let's get out of here," I said to brother. We took nothing, leaving everything and the town drunk playing with his shoes and the priest still standing out in the brackish water.

One last trip by the courthouse revealed that the judge was actually a rock, about the size of a roll of sourdough bread with a face painted crudely on it. The court reporter made no acknowledgement or apology, and continued to move around on some unspecific duty.

There was going to be a performance and we were above tiers of seats in some sort of outside, grassy amphitheater with bleacher seating. I guess brother had gotten the hang of this place, and went down a couple of rows and sat down. The person next to him and he chatted, then while the other person extended his neck to look down below, brother bit in and sucked. This seemed as natural as a handshake, and I decided to move on, hunching my shoulders and lifting my collar as I just wasn't comfortable being bitten myself, just then.

Rrawr!!

I'll be a rugged bruin. Go Bs! A vile and gnarly toothed vagabond scavenger brigand. Or a gentleman with tophat and opera glasses. I forget which. It matters not. So I'll hold the door but grab your ass. Cold and desperate I'll never be. One or the other perhaps, but never both. So hide your women from my pheromones. I go Rrawr! and make other animal sounds that are intimidating because being a Badass is a full time job. And I'm dead by the time you read this, in a sense, and the other reason you'll never guess.

For I'll still be captain of the ship: Destiny. The sun melts my aching parts and the water soothes my soul. The salted air makes lungs vital and gets on my lips. So I sail the ship. I built. No Cabin Boy on a freight. To the edge and over.

For Jean-Arthur

Once if memory serves Life was a Feast where all wines flowed. I took Beauty on my knees and as the cock crowed I chased her laughing down the quays. I laid quiet and searchful , a mere mammal waiting for the Reptiles to die out. With little ears and eyes and the little brain I was born with. Please to forgive but I and mine will fucking Rule. I am of the Earth. Am it in fact, its marrow, but with fur, so I will live on well til Spring, the cruelest month as you may know. But let the world while away its whittlesome ways. Ye shall know me Ozymandias though I be, I shall persevere. And if you ask why I'll give you the same refrain: Cuz I said so. With no lands to conquer, a couple of worlds though to explore. This firmament I tread is God's gift. To a nobleman, may else but to me it's a curse when I forget. The gift. So it may be written as we shall receive. The life we have. That is the gift, but gifts must be accepted and the gratitude repaid. Or it is no gift but simple Pity. Which no man can receive. So I lie in wait, a creature on a limb do say, looking for my mate. Wind, rain, malice of elements pursue me somewhat. But God, my Shepherd I have no fear of such small things. They shall perish and I shall Thrive. And so God help me shall You!

It means Life

Eyes of sky, electric blue. Could I look up at the heavens, and not see you?
Or gaze at the bottomless sea, at azure waves of infinity?
Soft beauty.
  In dolphin mind and speech of whales, a message true,
  I'll chant, whine it, moan:
The name of Life they sing - Zoe!

The spectrum of light is Order, art made manifest in Nature,
Wavelengths long like a summer day, a kite on a string in a park by the Bay
That vibrate
  Color so pure, distilled as it were
  They play the organ, these waves, for me alone
This song of Life which goes - Zoe!

Olympic Circles of Hell

If I were to say: Kill the Queen! I would be considered a bad person, maybe even a terrorist. But in 1776 it would be fashionably anti-monarchic. I'm always late. And off the mark, because then it was Kill the King.

But being early doesn't help either, because a hero of mine, Bill Bailey, was declared a Premature Antifascist when he tore the nazi flag from the SS Bremen in the NY Harbor in 1935.

How about Kill the Fascist!, but these days, as ever, the definition is subject to interpretation. Enjoy the games.

Cicero: De Officiis

{150} XLII.

Now in regard to trades and other means of livelihood, which ones are to be considered becoming to a gentleman and which ones are vulgar, we have been taught, in general, as follows. First, those means of livelihood are rejected as undesirable which incur people's ill-will, as those of tax-gatherers and usurers. Unbecoming to a gentleman, too, and vulgar are the means of livelihood of all hired workmen whom we pay for mere manual labour, not for artistic skill; for in their case the very wage they receive is a pledge of their slavery. Vulgar we must consider those also who buy from wholesale merchants to retail immediately; for they would get no profits without a great deal of downright lying; and verily, there is no action that is meaner than misrepresentation. And all mechanics are engaged in vulgar trades; for no workshop can have anything liberal about it. Least respectable of all are those trades which cater for sensual pleasures:

Fishmongers, butchers, cooks, and poulterers,
And fishermen,

as Terence says. Add to these, if you please, the perfumers, dancers, and the whole corps de ballet./a
{151} But the professions in which either a higher degree of intelligence is required or from which no small benefit to society is derived — medicine and architecture, for example, and teaching — these are proper for those whose social position they become. Trade, if it is on a small scale, is to be considered vulgar; but if wholesale and on a large scale, importing large quantities from all parts of the world and distributing to many without misrepresentation, it is not to be greatly disparaged. Nay, it even seems to deserve the highest respect, if those who are engaged in it, satiated, or rather, I should say, satisfied with the fortunes they have made, make their way from the port to a country estate, as they have often made it from the sea into port. But of all the occupations by which gain is secured, none is better than agriculture, none more profitable, none more delightful, none more becoming to a freeman. But since I have discussed this quite fully in my Cato Major, you will find there the material that applies to this point.

Circle A Ranch Now Recruiting Underage Runaways

The collective is sure, sustainable. It has all the amenities...of the last century: water from a tap, but nothing that flushes. No hot means you don't shower as much on cold days. But then you don't perspire as much anyway, so it's pretty much between you and the animal you sleep with. I like women. Except in the morning. But I generally prefer them for lovers. Over farm animals definitely.

What do we grow? What do we do? We grow grapes. Lord Bacchus must be served. And Dion can come. But that elitist jerkoff Apollo who rents us his truck? Nah.

Potheads can grow their shit here, but don't smoke it anywhere but the backwoods. Otherwise it just looks like another stupid habit, something you should do everyday. And it smells bad. You think skunk farts smell good you inbred fucking Dead fan? Nay there, brah.

We have bands: Six almost dead punkers that all play guitar fighting over the Telecaster. Fun shit: throw 'em a pick and say 'Oi!' Like that premillenial joke about throwing Jews a coin. I can't remember.

Get it yet? It's the Capital A Circle A muthahfocking ranch. Where I do what I do and you do whatever the fuck you want but just do it over there. And make it quick. Five-Ohs and shit. And make it a double.

And mind-deafening pussy for days. We got that. Runamay home for underage chix. We rehabilitate them. Get 'em back on pharmies. Crack. Ecstasy. Whatever they want. Meth lab's by the 7-11. Satan in a jar-o. Run from your daddy-o. Go fool. Just go. We're waiting for you, jackass fool. Merde. Hendrix posters burning like that stupid ass guitar Monterey thing.

I walk in beauty like the night. And fuck you, Lenny Bruce died for my right to say that. Onstage, under the limelights. So, in His name, fuck you. You cock-hiding slag. Blast your venomous death-rays and mild innuendoes. Impale you on the rod of justice. Fuck poetry.

How do you tell someone who asks you, hey how was your weekend? Well, I avoided suicide. They're taken aback. They simply are. I was between making a molotov for the bank and stealing some bread when it came to me. She came to me. My hard-on was bouncing off my trousers like a dog I wouldn't let in. And I'm like 'no'. No. Just no. You that li'l girl Serene who 'oh no'. Li'l mulatta cute as fuck niece/sister whatever the fuck of my connex? Oh no stop knocking on my door. Stop knocking. Serious as that heart attack you give out. You want a penis buttend sandwich? Get lost girl and when you do come come of age. I won't be here. Go to the Circle A ranch. They'll take you in.

I'm gonna rent a sawzall , take it into the BofA and start chopping up their marble counter tops with my pants down so I can be defecting as I do so. Then, to the airport to hijack a plane to Rio. Always wanted to blow up that big fucking Jesus. And with a plane in my hands I can just fly, I mean program to fly cuz I'm not going down in that bird. Fuck that noise. Ain't no jihaadist shit. Just another random anarchist trying not to get out of this life without achieving a grandiose, for the record books, manifestation of the flying eagle middle-finger double-fisted 'fuck you' that society truly deserves. I think the Vatican has a lot of guards, so...Rio.

I saw the light at Occupy

Seriously. It was on or about my birthday. I was delirious from lack of sleep, proto-pneumonia, and eating poorly (lost 10 pounds of ugly fat there, btw). I saw a tunnel of light growing larger, like those stories about near-death experiences, an emanation towards which you gravitate, losing thoughts of perspective (is it coming towards me, or am I...never mind), time (I sense the end is the beginning...), reason (difference is unity...). It was shaped like a vagina. At least I'm not heading towards the other, dark hole, Hadesphinctum, Hellanus, Bungatory.

I shook myself from this vision: "I'm not ready!". "Not here!". "I have dirty underwear on!"

I thank Occupy for removing from me those worldly possessions I really don't need, or can easily replace: laptop, work clothes, tools. I thank the SFPD for doing the rest: tent, sleeping bag, mistaken ideas of human rights.

The bear is hibernating, motherfuckers.

I tied off to that big concrete ball

In the 50 mph winds that blew our kitchen away. Little tents were blowing by like tumbleweeds. At one point I was literally 'holding down the fort'. Boots in one corner, other stuff in the other 3. Ah, good times.

Mid-Market Art Project: "Do the Strand"

The Strand is a vacant movie theatre at 1127 Market Street. I have many fond memories of its years as a repertory movie house, having seen such shows as a triple-bill of the Evil Dead series (I, II, and Army of Darkness), a double-bill of Ken Russell, showing Lair of the White Worm and Gothic, and also a rather esoteric Spanish film entitled Tras el Crystal (In a Glass Cage), which involved a Nazi pedophile rendered helpless in an iron lung(!). Given the films I saw there, I associate the Strand with the darker elements, while for a time afterwards it became a haven for an even seedier class of film, the XXX.

In the late eighties and early nineties, their calendar lived on our refrigerator and determined the activities of certain evenings each month. Films that were not shown at the art school where we went, as they were in fact commercial (sometimes barely) and feature length, not at all the fare of the art-for-art's-sake purists who comprised the avant-garde.

Thus the Strand represented an alternative to Alternative film. Films not of Hollywood and not mainstream, nor of the art school canon. And for this I always appreciated the Strand.

In truth, it was sadder to see the Strand operating as a smut house than to see it shut down. Imagine perhaps seeing a friend turning tricks. And then they die, Which is sadder?

I would like to remember the Strand as a grande dame, a bit down on her luck, but full of fire, and life, and culture. One that is not the multiplex monoculture.

I propose to project trailers and B-movie reels of the era, with sync audio, popcorn and refreshments. Anything of this sort may border on nostalgia, but this will be no maudlin exercise (a funeral), but an appreciation of the life. I seem to prefer these when someone who I know, especially in the arts, has died.

Presently I am seeking permission from the owner to unboard the frontage in order to show rear-projected (from inside) 16mm films on a frosted glass, the audience invited to stand or sit nearby on the sidewalk (permits, yes). There will be a hot popcorn maker and should the owner wish to make a little pocket money he/she is invited to reprint old playbills, memorabilia for purchase.

No telling when the building itself will be destroyed and some grand vision built there in the shadow of that attrocity the Federal Building which stands behind. http://sf.curbed.com/tags/strand-theater


Artist's Statement

One manner in which this project fulfills the ideal goals of the Mid Market Art Project is that the audience, the public, is drawn into the movie-going experience in a non-standard but more engaging fashion: on the street. Normally one goes to the theater, and enters a solitary space, while surrounded by others, paradoxically. There is no social element, once the movie starts, one hopes in order to retain the almighty suspension of disbelief necessary for true escape. In our premise "Do the Strand" operates as an outdoor screening, unique and attractive for the social interaction, which is primary to the experience. Also, at the 7th/Market location, the screening will be subject to the randomness of the area, and will interest and attract those who are simply wandering by.

As a sort of touchstone, I see the screenings operating on a number of levels:
A) The owner wants to sell or lease the theater. The screenings could only assist his efforts.
B) A collective is forming to do just that - We, "Do the Strand" are a group of professionals intending to amass our expertise and form a coherent group wishing to rent space at the Strand with the intention to purchase.
--i) as artists and craftsmen we are able to transform the space in a meaningful and aesthetic fashion.
--ii)offices open to non-profits and groups of artists wanting to have legitimate office space for business and also a space for public performances.
C) In preserving the Strand there would remain a landmark of Mid-Market's past transformed into a viable update, centered on filmmaking and other performance art, music, etc. as a type of social media (the new catch-phrase), but redefined as media which is social, i.e. gets people out of the house to rub elbows with one another, and engage in dialogue that's not transmitted via internet.

The artist's role is to provoke thoughtful discussion. See "Defenestration" at 6th/Howard by Brian Goggin, predating my move to SOMA in 1992 by a few years. It has some longevity for one thing. It engages you such that you immediately ask "What does it mean?" but in the context of an abandoned building which is integral to any discussion. An artist asks the pragmatic question "How are these things attached," and other DIY thoughts which come to mind. A cynic may ask "Is it safe?" Mr. Goggin is welcome to join our collective, unlikely though it be.

All in all I see "Do the Strand" as a petri dish in which all manner of life forms may arise. In our era of accelerated technological evolution, I see a great opportunity for intelligent and beautiful lifeforms to be created. They just need the conducive environment.

"Rhododendron is a nice flower, but it can't beat...Strand power."
-Roxy Music, "Do the Strand"



Primary Personnel

Bruce Miller, Stagehand Local 16 IATSE, and filmmaker
BFA, 1990, SFAI, Film, with Spring Show Award
Sometimes resident of SOMA, 49A Moss St., 94103, (3 years)
Screenings at Rotterdam International, Bay Area Now II, dadafest (SomArts), see http://millerbruce.blogspot.com/
imdb: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0588007/

Ian Sundahl, Filmmaker, painter, film archivist
MFA, 1997, SFAI, Painting
imdb: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1935079/

Zoe Merideth, Graduate student, Harvard School of Design, Urban Planning
BA, 2009, UC Berkeley, Geography

S. Fey Epling, Esq.
U.C. Hastings College of the Law 1997
AB Oberlin College 1987

Ramon Churruca, Performance artist, actor
BFA, 2001, SFAI, Performance (New Genres)
imdb: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0161523/

Waiting for Kitten

My Christmas present is a hotel. The Sagrada Familia didn't have one. They had the manger. I have a 2 br in Berkeley but it doesn't have electricity or running water. A little clandestine locksmithing and a by-the-book approach: in after dark, out by daylight. No lights, wear black, no visitors. The door was wide open, seriously. I'll take a lie detector on this one. Cleaner when I leave than when I got there, except I am not cleaning up the eggs someone threw at the wall in the other bedroom. I thought raccoons as the window was open, but probably not. They would have eaten them, and not plastered the walls with them.

A dose of bureaucracy today as I forgot my wallet in a locker at the Y, and when I got back, after realizing this when the 7th tradition was called at a meeting, it was gone. No one turned it in at the desk either. What do they get? $23, a bankcard for an overdrawn account, a library card, an EBT card w/ $56 on it they can't use, and my ID. So, I get to go to the DMV, after getting a voucher for reduced rate at NBC (thank you), and borrowing money from a very good friend (thank you Stella). I was all set to 'spange' (spare change contracted). Had cardboard and all, was gonna make a sign. Never done it, nothing against those who do, but it's a step in the wrong direction, I felt. Made a call instead. And then a guy in a work truck saw me walking down to Shattuck with the cardboard I no longer had to use, and said 'Hey, I'll give you money.' Out of the blue. Didn't even make eye contact w/ the guy, I was already past him. So, I didn't have to stile hurdle BART on the way in. The way out is no sweat. Prefer to pay, but in dire circumstances...

Happy Holy Days.

Occupy Berkeley is the shit

When I lived here, I really did not like Berkeley. 4 flavors of cops: UC, BPD, BART, and AC transit (true: they gave my gf a $250 ticket for pulling over in a bus zone just long enough to let me out). The buses are strict as hell, as opposed to MUNI that I can ride all day on one paper xfer or hop on via backdoor. And Berkeley is laid-back/uptight: PC Nazis enforcing their aroma-free vegan free-trade Birkenstock patchouli oil manifestos written on repurposed hemp paper. And I sometimes hate the smell of ganj. Not my D.O.C.

But Occupy has an SF refugee tent where I recognize and know a growing number of true Occupiers. There's sunshine. All day long, not 9:30 to 11 am. No prob w/ an open flame. Thus coffee. Running water at the fountain. Grass where you can pound in your tent stakes. Get it, Justin Herman aka Bradley Manning aka Occupy SF? You're defending a Bocce ball court from its proper use. You're two blocks away from the real enemy the Fed at 101 Market. You cockblocked us on the Mission space, which is only 20 blocks away. A 10-minute 14 bus ride away or a half hour walk. Sunny Mish. Cute chix, coffee shops. It's the barrio? You gotta be kidding. It's gentrified. A base of operations...nevermind. So done with the General Assembly which has the vote what direction Occupy takes, because only they can sit through their interminable meetings where nothing gets accomplished in 5 hours of infighting and backstabbing.

I support Occupy, but it's hard enough being on the streets without being a hunger artist/petri dish for contagion of the week. I need amenities: sunshine, coffee, place to leave my shit where it doesn't walk.

Berkeley Occupy. It's the shit.

Why I bother

I was not at Occupy (still am because Occupy is of the mind) because I wanted to get arrested and earn my Liberal Scout merit badge, nor to get beat up by the fuzz and thus alleviate my white guilt. I was there because I got evicted when I told the No. Beach Italian mafia fuck what to do with his cockroach-infested hotel. He called the cops. I was 'threatening'.

A better reason would have been that I was disgusted when I see that moneys that should be spent on my children's education, and in preserving decent and affordable homes for myself and for them (not one and the same, alas) is used to bail out a corrupt banking system and to fund wars over shit I really do not give a rat's ass about (fighting a war over the WTC is about as useful as fighting the cause of Katrina. Less perhaps, because a bulldozer building levees is tangible, not pseudo-ideological masking cultural/religious conflict). And the other motive, oil; well, let's not go there, Texan. I refused to put oil in my car the last 10K miles because I wanted it to die, die. They built some stout MFing beasts in the late 60s - it was a V7 at the end, smoking like a shithouse on fire when I sold it for 5 times what my dad paid when I was 15. (Want a good investment? Classic cars, fivefold profit in 30 years. No, nevermind, won't be gas in 30 years, n'shallah). Infernal combustion engine. Hitler admired Ford's assembly line process for volume production and adopted his methodologies for his own nefarious ways. The feelings were mutual if you read the Deerborn Gazette between the wars.

But back to the bailout. Someone in the sauna at the Y was saying 'The banks will pay back the money, if they haven't already.' "Um," I chimed in finally, ""but what about the wreckage?" I saw a family of five yesterday carrying their belongings, the youngest theirs in pillow-cases that must have come from their beds. When they had beds. I am beyond crying. I am pissed.

Too big to fail - was that the catchphrase for a minute? Why not - utter chaos? The iceberg vs. the ship of fools aka the System? I'm for the iceberg, which broke off due to climate change, btw. I'm fine with chaos; I live in its offal everyday. Our hopes are that chaos will lead to Anarchy, which is, in fact, Order. Without rule. Who said anything about disorder? Interdependent collectives organized loosely around skills and interests, a free interchange of commodities, values precipitated upon local supply and demand, without currency other than intrinsic value determined in a bartering dynamic. Your paper ain't shit, unless I like the pictures on it or need to wipe my ass.

To continue with the paradox that Anarchy is Order, Proudhon's enigmatic statement: I deny myself the benefits of the coosh life - is that not an almost ascetic self-discipline? If you've read thus far, you realize my intelligence, perhaps to the conclusions you are averse, but nonetheless recognize the empirical and salient points. Capitalism, on the other hand, is the real clustrus fornicatus, everyone reaching hand-over-fist to rake in as much from the pot that they can get - it's a dog-eat-dog world and a rat race to boot. The rats won, haha. (Darwin was misinterpreted and one should read P. Kropotkin's "Mutual Aid" as a eupeptic.)

And my fellow Merkins, we are a role model to the world, Hollywood showing how sexy a stretch limo Hum-V is pulling up to the pat-ourselves-on-the-back awards for producing monoculture.

If I speak in the terms of an overeducated liberal, I apologize, but I do believe that one should speak to one's audience in their own language, as did that ponce Baudelaire when he said, at the end of To the Reader
, "You know him, reader, this exquisite monster,
-Hypocrite reader,-my likeness,-my brother!"

Suss the sitch

"An unsecured vacant building can be a hazard to the community, and it is important that as a member of the community one takes the time to check out these buildings to make sure that everything is fine. While some people say that one should contact the police to check out such buildings, I believe that they should not be bothered with such small matters when they have so many important things to worry about."

I concur. While the writer, homesnotjailssf.org advises that doors can sometimes get 'stuck' and to use appropriate tools to free up that bothersome door as well. I carry a Gator socket and wrench, a pair of channel locks, a C-wrench, and a two-in-one screwdriver. One should also verify the integrity of the security by means of a simple window check, and it may also be necessary to assure proper fire escape functioning with a lasso-type pull-down method. I use a 1 1/2" nut tied to climbing rope for these purposes. So as not to disturb any neighbors, the pull-down is usually accompanied at a time when other noises are more prevalent, say when a rush of traffic is passing by or, depending on the neighborhood, when the bars are closing and rowdies are busy being rude, loud and attracting their own attention.

Luckilly, my job is training me this week on fall-protection and rigging. I am now comfortable on a truss 30' in the air and in tieing knots while 'at height'. Bowline sure, trucker's hitch, figure eight and clove. I always wear black, not because I went to art school, but that it is mandatory in my profession. We want to 'blend in,' not be seen. I like how my profession and my hobbies dovetail.

All the best,
Brujo

Bruku

Adam, you my main man.
Got my back in yo silly ass hat.

2 Horses, we never got there.
Did we? Truck never came. Fuck.

Stan, you a magician brother,
Made my bike disappear.

Spike, mon frer
Vous avez une certain chouet a quoi

Jonny just go do what you do, do.
Fockin retadded.

Jim you you punk ass punk ass
Punk. You were there.

Shale those books grow legs,
Restless they are, I guess.

Timmy's got crabs! Ah ha!
Hauled some rock reds too.

Dena girl take a break.
I know, I know.

JD. Well you tried.
Can't change them. You tried.

Bo and Harvey. Eternal.
Fedora hat and dog.

Positively 6th Street

Slept in a bed for the first time in a month last night. Thank you Christie and North Beach Citizens. Woke up sweating. Odd, but ok. Soft mattress, good for my injuries. Coccyx, etc. The woods upstairs jamming to Ozzy. Also ok. Got my phone back from Luxor. Got an alarm clock. Thank you Zoe.

My itinerary today - report availability for work to Union. Write Union rep email explaining absence for last month. Apply for GA/EBT since I did the EDD thing yesterday. A trip to Tom Waddell or another clinic to see if I can knock out this pre-pneumonic bronchitis aka walking pneumonia. The warm bed made me feel like I am healing, rather than worsening. The woods upstairs (you can tell in their choice of 107.7 - the Bone) cut the volume down around 11 in a very civilized manner. Pink Floyd, of course. As opposed to the wingnuts at Justin Herman Plaza.

I might go on another march but that's it. Or try to get that workgroup going on Anarchist Lit. Except the second survey book I was given walked from the bartering table while I was talking to John.

Took a hotel room on 6th for the week - much gratitude to NBC. Was noticing how clean it is compared to JHP. 6th Street. That's right. Much cleaner than OccupySF. I suppose one could draw out a metaphor that the putrid filth and squalor there are an expression of the disgust they (formerly we) feel regarding the inequities of the System. But I think that would be more than generous.

I do in fact understand the Trash and Burn feelings: imagine living with the thought of being washed out at any time by a huge rain storm, or blown away like the kitchen in the 50mph windstorm (Nature did what the SFPD and the DPW could not). ---A guy, nicely dressed, comes up to me during a lull in the winds, and asks if I have heard of Weather Modification. Indeed I have and I believe it is powered by a massive ELF transmission plant in Alaska and tracked by way of chemtrails. A few bugs to work out, and the Chinese have a certain advantage in the prevailing windstream position...

Then there is the constant threat of being herded in with barricades like cattle. Sometime since my last post, I was still hoping for that Mission space (cockblocked by the G.A. who don't even live there, held hostage by 'interested parties in the Occupy movement'). I did like the tower that was built out of the SFPD barricades in the center, and the golden cow they put on top. So I do understand, and I do forgive. But nonetheless: Hey, hippies, pick up your Goddamn shit. (to the tune of Pink Floyd).

Coupla things I need anyone is reading this: baby powder, crab nets, gack chicken for bait. And socks, and a pack of Camels. Off the booze, for real this time. Might have to attend some meetings. Not kicking and screaming this time - the cold nights and that effing wind have humbled me. More like bitching and moaning.

Thanks for reading.

Last day at JHP

More barricades, an offer from the City to relocate at 16th/Mission in an old schoolyard. Looks pretty compound-like from the satellite. A lot of resistance in the camp about going/staying the course. No drugs, no alcohol. No minors. Fine by me. But all the weedheads said they won't go if they don't get to puff. Fine, don't go. Wait for the batons.
I have so little in common with Occupy regulars. Don't smoke pot, hate badly played acoustic, not much for dogs. Slept best as I could through the GA meeting last night. No need to go, see people with their goofy little hand-signs. My mind's made up. I'm going to to the Mission, unless the Adamant ones raise a stink again and force another delay/cancellation. It's a trap. Definitely a FEMA camp next to cheap vegetable stands, used clothing, decent coffee shops instead of Noah's, Starbucks. If you don't want to go, hey don't go. I would like some structure. I would love the 10pm no music. 1950 Mission. Occupy is of the Mind anyway. Decentralized is fine by me. Virtual even.
JHP is squalor. Trash the place. Pee anywhere you like. Fetid. I hope they hose the eff out of the place, but not in the Bay. Bury it in Nevada.
People mistake anarchy for chaos. Anarchy is, in fact, order. Self-denial in a way. Capitalism is the mess. Dog-eat-dog, grab everything you can...

Fat Mike Check!

I was serving food last night and heard 'NOFX is playing'. and I figured this announcement was full of shit, but then it sounded kind of cool by the main part, so I drop my towel, and go over. Just in time to see Fat Mike getting his picture taken with whatever yahoo asked him to stand there with him. Damn. Shook his hand, thanked him for coming by nonetheless. Lives here, did not know that. Half the band's in LA. Invited him over to the tents, but he had sushi on his mind. ---a 'mic check' is what someone yells when they want the entire camp's attention - what the speaker says, in small phrases, is then repeated, by whomever, chooses to repeat.

My folding knife was absconded with from the cutting table, along with every other knife the kitchen has possessed. We're armed with kitchen knives, so watch out. Flak-jacket piercing rusty serrated knives, you bad guys in SWAT gear. Oy vey. I'm sure my fingerprints will be on whatever knife Billy Bob uses to hurt that lyin' slut Sharlene or whatever. The site is overfull - they got people off the strip of grass next to Herb Caen Way in order to reseed it, everyone who had to move bitching 'No Compromises!' Yeah right. You want the entire camp to move it, or do you want to move it yourself. It's not just the GA. That's where the tweakers hung out and man filthy ain't the word to describe. Fetid.

I am making myself available for work again finally. I have attire issues and tools to acquire. At least a Goddamn c-wrench. Have my ID. Have sobriety. Alright, holding my nose as I reenter the workplace. Wish me luck.

The winds of change are blowin but it won't be a breeze

A bit of history: the 'bridge' as it was known was the Occupy area between 101 Market (the Federal Reserve) and the much larger Justin Herman Plaza, which is crammed to capacity. The bridge was in front of the Bank of America building which apparently was built for the Southern Pacific Railroad, which in 1886 won the case which set the precedent that a corporation can and should be treated the same as an individual person. Legalese is not my thing, but the verdict included this statement:

"The Court does not wish to hear argument on the question whether the provision in the Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution which forbids a state to deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws applies to these corporations. We are all of the opinion that it does."

As I understand it, this when extrapolated, interpreted whatever, means that a corporation has the same rights as an individual. I remember something on Colbert about this but I don't have the time or inclination to research this further. I have to return to camp with rumors about an amassing of riot police in the parking garage of the Embarcadero Hyatt. 101 is gone now, they ripped backpacks off peoples' backs, took their belongings, took their pictures, cited and released them. Dude shivering under the Nic at Nite had no socks. Nic at Nite is the barter table where you can go for a free rolly most of the time.

I am soon to defy the open-flame law, as I was given a propane Coleman cannister, and found a burner apparatus. Hot water, instant Medaglia d'Oro, a rolly from Nic at Nite. Read my homework, Demanding the Impossible available at http://www.4shared.com/document/c44apGZ5/Peter_Marshall_Demanding_the_I.html

Have a good day everyone, and support OCCUPY however you may see fit.