My Robot Is Pregnant theme song!

img id=”image1860″ src=”http://myrobotispregnant.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/05/0508menu.jpg” alt=”0508menu.jpg” />

Here’s a nice piece found at the S.F. Farmer’s Market. If you look closely you’ll notice they painted over an old menu that was done with stick-on letters. That’s a touch of authenticity an artist couldn’t capture. Note too the letter “T” is always capitalized. Hmmm….

Since the topic of the farmer’s market has been broached, let’s take a look around. In-flight and automobile club magazines and any other magazine that “takes a look” at fun things to do in a city will always go to the Farmer’s Market and get some local color. Like this kid:

Totally stoned as he lords over the produce, what the photo doesn’t reveal is this fresh air market is nearly underneath the intersections of Highway 101 and 280. There are tribute pieces graffitied on a cement retaining wall behind him. A notorious housing project further up the hillside. And this young field hand just wants to sit up on Dad’s new orchard mower and think about his girlfriend, but no, he has to come to the city and deal with stupid idiots all day.

That part of the story isn’t in your monthly Triple A magazine. Neither is this next photo, where I looked for phallic references in the vegetables. (Not particularly hard) ((No pun intended))

These travel articles are so predictable. How many times do you think the baker below has had to put on the rectal exam gloves and hold that loaf up? The thing is bigger than his torso. It looks like it’s fresh out of an elephants ass. But he’s trying to make a living and some asshole, (me) wants a picture of the giant loaf of bread. Let’s do it again.

So there it is. 100 Alemany Street in San Francisco, if you want to check it out. I’d rather be at a weapons market in Afghanistan handling shoulder mount rocket launchers, but it’s not that kind of city here. I’m trying to make the best of it.

My web host, ipower.com, has kinked up the chute to my internet . Don’t know where the homepage went or how we ended up back in June of ’06. They said it’d be better tomorrow…

---

---

Taking the Jesus Pill

Shell

Polly

---

Roller Rink Photos

(It was senior skate day, but the bus broke down)

---

Film Shoot photos

---

---

---

There was a party, and I wasn’t into it. People I didn’t know, but didn’t necessarily want to know. That kind of thing. It was like a day job, I was watching the clock waiting for it all to end and my friend to drive me home.

I had stolen some expired Codeine from the upstairs bathroom and was looking in the bedrooms when I saw her. She was laying on the bed with the lights on, her eyes wide open. She lifted her head and looked at me, but otherwise stayed where she was.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I’m bored”, she said.

“Me too,” I said. I went in and stood by the window. We talked a little more. I wasn’t interested in her physically. She was pretty enough: auburn hair, green eyes, and a shirt that was knit so that you could see the skin beneath it, except for a white strapless bra thing. We talked a little more about the people we knew at the party, and neither of us knew anyone in common.

“That’s quite a shirt,” I said, growing bored again, and thinking I could spice things up. “Why don’t you take the bra off?”

“It’s a tube top, not a bra, Mr. Fashion,” she said. But to my surprise she slipped it down. I saw the white skin and the freckles, but I couldn’t see her nipples. I looked again, taking a step away from the window, towards the bed, where she had sat up earlier.

She could read the perplexed look on my face. “I had my breasts chopped off last year,” she said, making a chopping motion with her hand, a guilletine coming down. “Cancer. These are fake.” She lifted her shirt and showed them to me. The nipple had no differentiation in color. There was no areola. It was all the same skin with just a little lump surgically implanted to give the impression of a working breast beneath a swimsuit or thin t-shirt.

Boredom and disinterest in people had me feeling superior until she did that. While she sat there with her tube top down and her shirt lifted up, her breasts exposed to me, a stranger, I was reduced to a meaningless idiot with no understanding of the world.

June 26th, 2006

When the time came to transport the prisoner to the gallows, Big Crow began singing his death song. When they arrived at the scaffold, chains were placed about his neck and his hands tied with rope in front of him. When the wagon pulled away, Big Crow was able to grab the chain, and with his great strength hoist himself up to the cross piece. There he sat, while his captors decided what to do. Some wanted to shoot him, but the orders said hanging. Finally, a powerfully built young soldier climbed up the chain and grabbed the Indian, both falling to the ground. This time there was no reprieve. Big Crow was hanged with the ball and chain that had manacled him still attached to his leg, and it was not long before the body decayed sufficiently so that the weight of the ball pulled off the limb, and there the grisly remains stayed as a warning to others.

Page 57 Circle of Fire, the Indian war of 1865 John McDermott

My mother bought me a Huffy Desperado from the hardware store in Stratham. The year was probably 1983. It’s been too many years since I lived in New England to recall the name of the store, but it was a Frenchman’s place.

The Desperado had a cream frame with a brown banana seat. The chain guard had a desert scene on it, featuring cactus and sand spreading out to the horizon. Ape-hanger handlebars and a kickstand my mother wouldn’t let me remove made this an incredibly uncool bike to have in the early years of BMXing.

Nathan Slocum was two years older than me, the youngest of eight boys. He was fearless of adults by seventh grade, drinking and smoking both cigerettes and pot. He was the best BMXer in school, able to do the highest bunny hop and even table-top off ramps.

My mother caught Nathan pushing my Desperado over, because I had used the kickstand. BMX bikes didn’t have kickstands because of the added weight they carried. I was inside the house getting drinks and Nathan was standing over the fallen bike in the dirt driveway. She asked him why he did it. He said, “Because kick stands are stupid.”

I don’t think my mother ever fully understood that.

The room behind this had no windows. A heavy door labeled “Chemical Store Room” was ajar. A halogen light lit the space. Shelf after shelf of Pyrex test tubes, bunsen burners, distilling flasks, specimen jars, every conceiveable meth lab accoutrament was sitting under dust.

“Take whatever you want, just don’t tell’em I gave it to you”, said the guy in charge of the clean out.

The joy of under employment is the free time to hunt in dumpsters, and when the big prize arrives, to spend four or five hours loading up the truck and hauling it away.

demolition excites me