SF Gate says, “Mark “Papa” Guardado, 45, was shot at 10:30 p.m. Tuesday near 24th Street and Treat Avenue, about a mile from the group’s clubhouse where he lived. He died at San Francisco General Hospital.”
I was at the bar a few nights later and took this crappy iphone photo of the makeshift memorial to “Papa”. It’s interesting to note only Hell’s Angels call SF “Frisco”.
You can read the article here
I’m selling this folding bike on Craigslist. I love the triangular reflectors.
you are looking into the future. Santa Claus rides a flying wheelchair because the reindeer are extinct.
I did a little moving job today with an old pal, Jesse. We drove over to the homeowners in the big white truck and as we wound our way up Lincoln Ave along the cliffs overlooking the ocean in The Presidio, he got to talking about being an old man.
“It’s a natural fact we’re gonna get grumpier earlier. I’m already pissed off at young kids and I’m just thirty. I didn’t have the internet when I was a kid. I went to the library and used the god damn dewey decimel system. The faster technology evolves, the quicker we turn into old men.”
It sounded like the truth to me.
Of course B.M.’s are a polite way of saying bowel movements, and bowel movements are a polite way of saying…well, you know what it means. There was a stack of letters written to a little girl who went away from home for the first time to camp, and while sometimes we say scary things “scare the shit out of us”, in her case she was so afraid she couldn’t poop at all.
Slow day at work, Rosie made a tobacco pipe. Felt like high school – which reminds me of Sass. He got a job at a powder coat factory. Sean and I spent a few minutes calling out items we’d like to powder coat if we had a guy on the inside. For instance, powder coat your teeth gold, the under- carriage of Grampa’s wheelchair, your favorite pencil so no one chews on it. Take a minute and ask yourself what you don’t want to chip and rust in your life. Tell a friend to powder coat it. Start that conversation.
Remember when you used to come home from work and go directly to your computer and open up your email account? It was so nice to see how full your inbox had become since the day before. Now you work at a computer all day long and the inbox never has more than three new messages. Those are spam. Everyone is sending you text messages and you never get to read a nice long email written with care and containing links to funny kitty photos.
I thought I’d illustrate the latest text from Ravi, give us a sense of what’s missing in this digital age.
This cultural phenomenon of the 1980′s has made a semi-comeback around here. You used to go into any store at the Fox Run Mall and be able to choose from a bunch of these things. “Baby on Board”, “Asshole on Board”, “Drunk at the Wheel”, “Moose in Trunk”, man, they had everything. I drew this one up today, if anyone wants to hang it in their car window, I’ll mail it to you.
At the last yard sale my girlfriend and I hit on Saturday we met a scientist. A young guy who didn’t look like a scientist. My girl had an immediate crush on him, because she likes science so much and tells me not-awkward scientists are rarer than hen’s teeth. They stood and talked about pharmaceutical companies going bankrupt when their drugs didn’t work, and how other companies buy them up. I was digging around through a box of books and half listening to them.
Apparently, from my eavesdropping, there is a lot of research going on about sickle cell, but since the Africans who are affected aren’t wealthy, it doesn’t make business sense to try and develop treatments. Also, all this money we donate to AIDS research goes towards therapies targeting the strain in Europe, not the Asian and African strains.
So that was a pretty good day at the yard sales. I got an OJ Simpson book, and a Harlem Stride Piano record, and another angle on race relations.
Picked this up at a yard sale yesterday, it’s for sale in Robotique for those who are interested in learning about the path of a murderer.
Finally got around to building walls for my truck. “The Bearded Lady” we call her. She’s been mine longer than any vehicle. Going on four years of friendship.
Bavin picked us up. An older gentleman, but not yet “distinguished”. Forty or more. Balding on top. Tan skin, an accent when he spoke that was very soft and hard to place because he nailed some words like a redneck. “County” was one of them. Obviously a word he’d heard spoken in a cowboy bar by a ranch hand and enjoyed unfurling from his tongue every time now because it brought him back there. Turned out he was Indian. Hindu. Lapsed Hindu, or Hindon’t, according to some.
Bavin was classed as a big time gambler. Triple Diamond level in the Player’s Club at Harrah’s.
They gave him limo’s from the airport to the casino. They gave him suites with a butler on hand. He could order down for a tooth pick and some camel toe and they’d bring it right up sir.
“I didn’t look like this. I was always dressed immaculate. Sport coat, nice shoes. I had to give back my $40,000 Jeep. I didn’t drive this,” he said, waving at his little Toyota with a rattle under the speaker grill on the dash. Bavin had lost everything not too long ago. He needed our lucky fifty bucks. He told a long story about a rather quick fall.
“I didn’t change tables. That was what did it. You gotta set a time limit and keep changing tables.” It was dark and we drove on into the desert and I could see more stars in the sky than I’d counted in a long time. There was nothing out here but us. He put in a cd and sang along with “Hotel California”.
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