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My Robot Is Pregnant theme song!

tough guy poetry and manly stories of loneliness
all contents copyright Jon Rolston 2004, 2005, 2006

April 29, 2010

meanwhile in the tenderloin

photo posted from my iPhone

Poor people love their vcrs. Movies for 50 cents at Goodwill. Tapes for free on the street corner. Technology that isn’t confusing. That’s why the poorest neighborhood in the city still has a VCR repair shop. And it has recently acknowledged computers.

April 27, 2010

sloppy math

I was working the door at an LA club, on the dirty spanish end of Sunset and Dave Reeves was often behind the bar pouring shots and serving beers and punching out anybody he felt like. Dave had an anger management problem, a southerner’s assumption people are making fun of him, and a little less than average height complex. Drugs, alcohol and the erratic schedule of a bartender combined into a volatile cocktail.

He mentioned in passing that he had designed the “Defend Brooklyn” logo and got a large check from royalties every once in a while. When I left LA and came back to SF I thought I’d take inspiration from him and design my own version of his idea.

Had I taken more time and broken out colored pencils you’d see how pretty the rainbow is. But you can fill in the blanks.

Dave writes for Arthur magazine and sends me a link when he publishes something new. Mr. Reeves writes like no other. Sometimes you’ll find a photocopied handwritten rant taped to a telephone pole that explains how the government is sending voices into peoples heads. This reminds me of Dave’s column, but the voices are real and it makes sense.

I hope to send him a t shirt with my design on it someday, and see if it sends him over the edge.

April 26, 2010


Great news! Photoshop has come to town! Thanks Chiraag!

photo posted from my iPhone

Looky here. Downloaded the Photoshop app which allows for cropping and color adjustment in the phone. You’re looking at Mantra onstage at Kimos in SF last Friday.

Apologies to Miller, who got cropped out, to illustrate the power of this app.

how you pack?

In Spanish it translates to the same thing. Market of fleas. The casual observer has no interest in anything beyond the display of goods. A trucker looks past the electric guitar, past the man, and into the truck.

April 25, 2010


photo posted from my iPhone

These are the people in your neighborhood.

April 24, 2010

just awesome

photo posted from my iPhone

April 23, 2010

photo posted from my iPhone
Nikki Stixx grips a pick! He’s moving in next month. Things are looking up!

April 22, 2010

this is what a dying format looks like

photo posted from my iPhone

1k of photo


photographic memory

photo posted from my iPhone

Does it need to be said again that the iPhone takes lousy ictures? Doesn’t that company understand it’s the second most important feature on a cell phone? Certainly isn’t the internet connection which is slow and spotty. It’s easier to call someone who is sitting at a computer and get your question googled. Taking a picture, well…you have your iPhone but most of the time you say to yourself, “Let the car burn, the picture won’t be any good with this stupid phone.”

That’s what you’d say to yourself if you were walking past a vehicle that had crashed into a small car in front of a clown college and clowns were running screaming on fire away from you as the little squeaky horns were blaring and a men on stilts were running at you with fire extinguishers to put it out. Because everyone knows the iPhone camera sucks.

Instead of talking about homeless people who wear safety vests so as to not draw attention to themselves as they sort through your garbage, it’s necessary to talk about how image quality is worse than just drawing a picture from memory. In fact, that’s what needs to be done. A hand drawn picture. A picture’s worth a thousand words, unless it’s an Apple product, in which case it’s worth one word: shitty.

April 21, 2010


I have spent many summers drinking myself into ignorance, but this summer looks to be different. Still, the old habits die hard, and I found myself looking around for the perfect summer cocktail for 2010.

I can’t say I’ve ever had a Vodka Collins, but those of you who like to define the different summers with memories like, “The summer I drank Bloody Mary’s every morning,” or “The summer of Gin and Tonics”, consider the oft overlooked VC this May.

April 20, 2010

youth play death games in hot rods


All the hole in the wall video stores are folding. Don’t you feel bad for not going out and renting movies? You, and you’re lazy neighbors, you’re the ones responsible. What’s a guy do when his business paradigm crumbles and he’s only 42? Whatever. Go back to school. City college or something. Open a nail salon.

The old Video Stop on 27th is now Happy Feet. A massage parlor.

Who doesn’t wonder?

It appears not to be a place for sex. The happy ending was similar to a sit com’s. First of all, it was a Chinese man built like a linebacker who told me to take off my socks and put my feet in a plastic mop bucket lined with a translucent 4 gallon trash bag. The water was hot enough to involuntarily adjust my testicles. They assumed it wouldn’t be long and they’d be underwater too, but that wasn’t true. I would remain in the same lazy boy style chair the whole time. It was lined with fleece and draped over with white towels.

At Happy Feet the floor plan consists of a front door that opens into a small desk with a telephone and an appointment book, two chairs and a hallway. The hallway is on the left and runs the length of the space with a series of small rooms on the right, unenclosed ceilings as per local fire code. Any sexual activity would have to be very discreet.

The linebacker put my feet in the bucket of hot water and I thought to myself, “This hurts.” But I decided to close my eyes and let whatever happened in Chinese culture happen. He left the room. I considered my feet. Mostly my toenails. I had peeled off the longer ones just last night, but I knew for sure the big toes had a lot of black stuff around the edges. Not around the edges, but under the edges. I don’t know about you, but on my feet the big toe nail is a lot tougher stuff than the other ones. That’s the only nail that needs the giant three inch clipper they sell at the drugstore. My fingers, I can bite those nails off, the little toes, they peel as though they had a serrated edge. That big toe is its own thing.

Chinese mood music played on hidden speakers. Perhaps the speakers weren’t hidden, but I had immediately closed my eyes and promised myself I wouldn’t open them again until it was over. The music was mostly a guitar type thing. The neck must have been really long. The notes were incredibly high. There was some type of whammy bar attached, and the notes would follow a pattern of whole note/slight whammy bar, whole note/slight whammy bar, whole note/slight whammy bar, followed up by intense triplet picking. I was paying so much attention to this music it wasn’t until after my foot massage was over that I noticed the ticking of the clock.

I didn’t mean to skip ahead. The man took my right foot out of the water and applied lotion to the bottom of it. Then, rather than massaging it, he searched for pressure points and jammed a very strong finger or thumb straight into the muscle. This hurt, but not nearly as much when he, after a slight pause to let the initial pain register and recede, dragged the finger or thumb down still jammed deep into the skin. Had he not done this before, he probably would have allowed some flex in my knee. As it was he had pulled my leg straight out as he sat on the small bench at my feet so my initial reaction to kick him was useless. Instead I drew my foot towards me. Quickly and instinctually. Still, I kept my eyes closed and tried to act like I hadn’t meant to react, releasing the tension in the muscles even though he did not let up the pressure. If only I had kicked him.

He dragged his knuckles across the tendons, he twisted my ankles, he pulled and pushed. I thought about the rising power of China, how this ancient culture had invented writing. I thought about how Chinese companies had invested so heavily in American companies. China owns our debt, and if they ask us to cough up, it’s gonna be our guts that come up. I thought, “I’d better lay back and take it.”

There’s a three inch scrape on my right shin, and it’s a grody yellow bruise all swollen around it. I fell through a box on top of a garbage pile at the dump a few weeks ago and scraped my way through a few layers of garbage. The man massaged the bruise and the scrape as though one should, for health, knead a scab that shares the same outline as a four inch night crawler.

The photo above is the back page of the local entertainment weekly. Almost every ad was for a medical marijuana dispensary. It’s condoned by state and local government and it pays to advertise, so why not? As I lay against the brown fleece cushions, I considered the concept of pain management. Self medication. Wanting to feel good. I thought about all the times people have said to me, “No pain no gain,” and I remembered those people talking were always on the sideline somewhere, saying that phrase with a smile as I was hurting myself to get a job done.

That night I went home and fell asleep and slept well. The next day I was able to move a little looser, I didn’t hold my breath before I bent over to tie my shoes. I don’t know how it relates to marijuana, and the title of this post was just an odd headline I saw in an old magazine, so you, dear reader, are left with the difficult task of making it all make sense. Even though it never really does. Good luck.

April 19, 2010


The mummified mouse absorbed the moisture from the spackle compound and bloomed into a green mold. It stunk. That’s art.

my most recent craigslist ad


I have a clean, smoke free, stain free, rip free couch with a hide a bed in it for free in the Richmond District of the CITY OF SAN FRANCISCO. I’m not talking about the city of Richmond. It’s like we don’t exist out here, no one’s heard of this neighborhood? You’ve heard of the Golden Gate Park right? The Presidio? The ocean they call The Pacific? What neighborhood lies in the middle of all that glory? The fucking Richmond. Sorry, but I hate people not understanding this and calling to say they’ll be over in ten minutes when they are in Albany. That’s more like a two hour drive. Anyway, because it has a hide-a-bed, I can’t donate it because they don’t take hide-a-beds. So I’m giving it away. If you want me to bring it to you, I will. It’s not insanely heavy. Two strong people can move it. I will charge a mere $25 dollar delivery fee. I will deliver in the city of SF, preferably The Richmond. This is a picture of the side. It is loaded on my truck and I can’t get a full picture of it. This is the side. It’s cream with tan pin stripes. Not gaudy, not over stuffed, just a simple square couch from the 1970’s? that never got much use and shouldn’t be thrown away.

NOTE: Please respond only if you can take delivery of this by 11 pm tonite! And that means helping me get it in your house, I can’t do it alone.

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