"I have no idea... I have no idea where I am. Where am I? This, this place is just, just blank. Its like the sweetest symphony played through a car horn on the edge of town where the gasoline runs off the tarmac and finds its way into a putting green. I have no idea, no idea, NO idea, NO IDEA, NO, IDEA, NO IDEA, NO IDEA. NO IDEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA."
SYMBOLISM AND RECURRING THEMES:
one - FUCK COPS
two - INDEPENDENCE
three - THE GHOST OF BRUCE WILLIS
one - FUCK COPS
two - INDEPENDENCE
three - THE GHOST OF BRUCE WILLIS
I went to Nevada City sometime in the past. I think it was two weeks ago. All I have to do is click the upper right hand corner of my desktop to find out, but I'd rather keep on typing and just, like, rambling on and like talking about shit that happened, not this weekend but a couple weekends ago when I went to Nevada City and ate breakfast and stared at trees and roads and trees on roads, except whene we wemt t this tplace and dd I foujdn a suitcdfide and put itd aound myn nack loke a niusc..
I remember watching my friends swim in the foreground while a park ranger rushed some weekend warrior for cracking a Coors Light behind them. That happened. That is actually what happened. This is real life. NOBODY IS FUCKING AROUND.
Carlos and John got into a near fist fight about the future of swallows on private property. Christina considered the terrain to be "gay," and Sam and I drank whiskey at a post office at 4 in the morning. Sam also did this:
Sam looks like the Judge from "Blood Meridian." And just like the Judge's most famous scene in that book, Sam ordered a pornographic film right before dinner. Here is what a motel room full of people looks like when they're watching a pornographic adaptation of NBC's hit comedy "The Office." It was taken from the episode where Jim and Pam give each other rim jobs:
Actually, I was never sure if the "Jim" character was actually "Jim" or the guy that Steven Carrell plays. Either way, dude sure could reem a broad.
More shit happened in Nevada City. Carlos swam. I wrote this blog on a squirrels' chest, and John panned for gold. Eventually, after staring at each other for three hours in dead silence and absolute uncomfort, we came back to the soggy confines of our rented home of Oakland... WHERE I SAW FELL VOICES BLOW MY FUCKING EARDRUMS INTO THE NEXT HAMLETTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT.
Everybody head banged and hated their parents in unison. I saw a straight edge dude kick the shit out of some drunk asshole in a Budwisser shirt. Actually, THIS drunk asshole:
He kept running around at half mast, swinging his arms and ungracefully getting into the necks of dudes. If that had been me, I would have crouched in a corner and punched my dick for an hour before showing my face. Instead, he thought that jumping on Mike's drum kit was a better apology. I've never seen a burnout metal head play cannonball on human flesh and dig head first into drunken blast beats on someone else's kit. Then again, I've never seen the state of Idaho. Anything is possible if that's the case. Who knows what goes on there.
UHHHHHHHHHHH.
I couldn't hear the next day at work and almost got ran over by a caravan of studs at Aquatic Park. I don't have a picture of that.
Now, being aware that I have no idea of the sequence that these things happened in, you have to forgive me for putting things in that might not have happened in this exact order. I'm basically going by the timestamps of every email that says something like, "NO" or "AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!." I understand what they mean and they are perfectly in sequence. YOU HAVE TO TRUST ME.
Sam blew a glass boot for his birthday and drank beer he didn't like out of it. I drew a couple pictures of the whole night. Here are what the scans looks like:
BUT.
Hoodstock 2009 was happening that night around the, dynamic, area of 24th and MLK in Oakland. I was somewhere else, but what I grabbed that there were an amazing amount of cop cars and home made microphones involved. ALLIGATOR CLIPS AND BILLY CLUB HITS.
NOBODY IS FUCKING AROUND.
The second day of Hoodstock was made up of dudes with acoustic guitars. The only cops involved for this day were those who liked songs about trees and cheating women.
Miguel and Rosie played songs with Gram that were about cities and non-cites:
Ryan James played songs that made me hate America for its perfect teeth and dirty hair:
And Saigon Market maintained Fort Weirdo, with its head in the clouds and its back against the wall of a rehabilitation center. I do have pictures of this:
Bill manhandled some asshole who was chopping bike locks. Good job. I would have helped, but I was too busy flipping off newspaper kiosks and taking pictures of it.
But aside frooomm thhaaaaattttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT.
CAT ARMAGEDDON IS THE REAL LIFE.
AMERICA'S FACTORIES AND INDUSTRIAL CENTERS ARE STRONG AND DIVERSE.
THE FINAL EPISODE OF GUIDING LIGHT AIRED LAST FRIDAY TO FIVE PEOPLE IN THE EMERGENCY ROOM OF ALTA BATES HOSPITAL IN BERKELEY.
wait.
GET HEALTHY.
GET HEALTHY.
GET HEALTHY.
GELT HELTY.
GET HIFEE.
GERT HUBREY.
GONE HEARTY.
GOD HELPING.
GOD WILLING.
GOD DAMNIT.
B. Hamilton put out a cd known as "Because the laundry room is the only place god can't see me and steal my ideas." That communist known as Jonah Strauss is currently remixing 6 of the jams so that people, you, can actually hear it when it plays through your parent's desktop speakers. Adam Myatt mastered all of it, Miss Pip knew what was right, The Late, Great, Ryan James wrote about drunk women in dresses, Jefferson of Brea beats the shit out of shit. Email him at bananahamilton@gmail.com if you want him to mail you a copy, or download it for free and get on living.
www.myspace.com/bhamiltoncityilivein
bhamilton.bandcamp.com
-B. Hamilton, PhD.
