Beans for Breakfast

The girl in black is trying to get the tiny flies off the zine she’s reading without injuring them. But they’re firmly attached. One of the zine-guys says she should flick it, anyone else would. They’re unfazed when she blows at them. Finally one of them flies away, the other lands on her hand. I get in close and try to coax the fly onto a chunk of gravel. It holds fast for a few more seconds and only flies away of its own volition.

Well, I went to the Clowes & Ware signing at Confounded Books earlier. I stood in line for awhile talking to a few zine/art school people. When I got to their table, they were pretty friendly. Chris Ware was especially gracious when he finished signing my book & shook my hand, thanking me for waiting in the long line.

The opening for their show yesterday was pretty crowded with people drinking red wine & not looking at the artwork. The two of them hiding in a corner by the bar. The artwork on display was just about the tightest originals that you’ll ever see. Chris Ware’s originals are much larger than they’re reproduced in his comics. Seeing them in that size next to Clowes’ pages made me see some similiarities in their line that I hadn’t caught before.

I’m pretty worn out and in a bit of a weird state of mind. Standing with my heavy backpack for an hour, just enough walking downtown & riding the bus to Fremont, not enough sleep, and it’s pretty surprising to hear that Douglas Adams died.

Walking to Broadway past the reservoir. Some skater kids are milling about on the sidewalk. I maneuver myself through the group, pass a mohawked fellow as he’s turning to step into the street. I catch his eye. “Hey, man.”

“Hey,” I nod to him and continue walking.

In response to my dismissivness, my backpack, or maybe my simple presence, he yells out, “Do you want to go to school? You going to college? Fuck you, you fuckin’ jock! Motherfucker!”

This is in sharp relief to the events chronicled here. I suppose my days of passing are over, it’s time for me to settle down and start watching professional sports. Too bad I’m too late for the XFL.

Despite my declarations against the practice, I am by nature a list-maker.

(This here web-journal-thing is just another example. Whatever web-content management tool I’m using this week insures that there is some sort of structure. Whatever I throw against the screen is promptly filed away, protected from judgment of merit or foolish design decision.)

I am ambivalent of all of this though. And over the course of a list-making activity, I will purposely sabotage it. I will choose to exclude a key element of the list, include things that don’t belong, or turn the whole package into a self-referential jumble. The project will consume itself.

Coming soon: a list of my broken lists

I picked up the new David Byrne album today. I specifically went down to Orpheum for it, stopped at Bleu Bistro for a Chai Super Big Gulp afterwards & sat figuring out how to open the packaging. I’m home now, still chewing on it. It’s not as crazy & immediately striking as Feelings. I don’t really have any preliminary thoughts on it other than that it’s good enough, I’m listening to it for a second time right now. Nice packaging, the portrait & color scheme comment on the Ken doll & color scheme of the last album.

I guess I haven’t anticipated a new CD this much since They Might Be Giants – John Henry (back in my art school years). See I’ve decided to start describing periods of a few months like this, The x Years. For example the November – early April portion of this journal’s archives will henceforth be known as “The Blogger Years” (which then can be abbreviated as TBY – see how that works?).

That is all.

Today* I:

was propositioned with the words, “Hey, how you doing? . . . Wanna get it on?” Not paraphrased – weird.

found it within myself to offer an “Alright!” to the guy who said to me, “The Mariners are ahead. I saw it in the window of the bar. Six to three!”

caused an imbalance in a seating arrangement & provided a belated correction by moving to a more anonymous area.

walked by as professional promo-CD hander-outers were preparing to hand out promo-CDs to the crowd that would soon leave the Crocodile. The first was quick enough to offerme one, slowing me down long enough to be available for those slower than him.

With the exception of the third of these points, none of this is of any consequence. There is a bit more to the third, but those details will not be made clear presently.

*Yesterday

Details from a receipt found between pages 56 & 57 of Journey Without Maps by Graham Greene, bought at Twice Sold Tales in Seattle:

Denny’s
727 E. Palm Canyon Drive
Palm Springs CA, 92262-0000

Table # 006
ORD# 0063 PTY#01
Name : VICTORIA (4)

1 BBQ WINGS SKLLT 6.59
1 BEER-DOMESTIC 2.08
1 MILLSTONE COFFEE 1.30

SUB 9.97
TAX 0.77
GRATUITY 2.00

TOTAL 12.74

VISA 12.74
Exp: 0801

20:14 1/29/2000

Walking home from late night grocery shopping, What I first see as someone riding a 6-foot unicycle in the dark, turns out to be a man riding a tricked-out bicycle. Part of the frame of one bike is welded to another bike frame, making it twice the height of a normal bike. Adjustments have been made to the pedals and handlebars so that he can control pedal and steer from that unwieldy height.

Another in a series of films I only saw the end of:

In a gas station, Mary Steenburgen is talking crazy talk at a bunch of country bumpkins. Frustrated, she steps outside into the desert and sees the kid from the Sixth Sense drive by really fast in a convertible. A man is stuck upside down in the back seat, yelling and waving his legs around. Mary Steenburgen panics, jumps into her car, and chases after them.

Quotes from the first moon landing are cut in throughout these scenes, “Tranquillity base, the Eagle has landed.” It’s not clear if the characters are hearing this over the car radio, or if these are dubbed in for dramatic purposes.

The kid approaches the end of the road and we see a sign that says, “Crater National Monument”. “I can do this,” he says, as he presses down on the gas and makes other non-specific adjustments.

Meanwhile, the man in the backseat has righted himself. It is Ted Danson (Mary Steenburgen’s real life husband). He has picked-out curly hair. He looks up and sees that they’re approaching the crater. We know it’s not simply a crater because he yells out “Oh no, the crater!”.

“We can do it,” the kid yells.

It becomes clear that they’re going to try to jump the crater. Ted Danson pulls the kid into the back seat and hugs him. The car lands inside the crater with a crash.

Mary Steenburgen pulls up and the three of them are reunited. There’s some awkwardness between Ted Danson and Mary Steenburgen. The kid says something cute though, and they tentatively decide to stick together. They speed away.

We cut to a half dozen police cars, sirens wailing, tearing along the desert highway. The sheriff says something to underscore that he’s a backwater hick.

Now a few more words from Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin.

Back to our heroes: Ted Danson is driving, Mary Steenburgen keeps calling him “Washington”. They stop when they reach a big body of water.

“Washington, what’s on the other side of that lake?” We get the impression that she already knows the answer to the question.

“Canada,” he says.

They discuss among themselves whether or not they should do something. They’re not sure if it’ll work, but they decide to give it a try. Ted Danson pulls off the road. (A few more moon landing samples.)

They drive through the dust and slow down a little as they reach the edge of the lake. They drive along on top of the water. Ted Danson and Mary Steenburgen smile broadly at each other.

Neil Armstrong climbing out of his spacecraft (this time with visuals) onto the surface of the moon, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

About halfway across, Ted Danson reaches over the edge and splashes a little water. The kid from the Sixth Sense looks straight up and cups his ears listening, listening to the sky.

We get a long shot of the lake. Our heroes are driving their car on the lake. The flashing lights of the police cars are just arriving.

At the coffee shop, a single serving of jelly beans sealed in a little plastic bag inside a clear plastic egg.

At Westlake Center:

Kids are break dancing. People are holding giant crosses aloft. A stage is set up where a man is singing. Someone mans a booth with a sign that says, “Are you going to heaven? Two question test will tell you.” The busker with the truckload of supplies – stereo equipment, several umbrellas, two or three saxes, a group of teddy bears, and the signs declaring his religious and/or political affiliations – is there (but he’s always there). People hand out flyers & tracts.

Other people are handing out plastic eggs. These people have a mischievous spark in their eyes, and I think the eggs must contain something designed to strike a different impact than that of the others. A tract-person and an egg-person are having a restrained conversation with a cop. No one hits me up with an egg, so I’ll never be sure what exactly was going on.