Go Kart-ing

Howdy from the hills of San Fran, Bay City USA.
And there's no better place to be in this whole fucking place than strapped into a rented go kart with Freaktown at the wheel, slingin' and slangin' all over the place, screaming up and down hills, cruisin' the financial district and thumbs-uppin' every sucker out there.
It was like a movie, this entire day of near-reality. We were gettin' away with a scam, really sending the normal folks a message: We Are the Shit.
Endless laughter. Nearly every damn sucker out there obligingly threw a thumbs up back, smiling at our adventurousness. Untold thousands of people went home last night in San Francisco, saying "Honey, I saw these two jackasses on a go kart, speeding all over the damn place and laughing like escaped lunatics. Man, I wish I could do that."
We started in the tourist area, where I was little different from the other vacationers. But I quickly diverged, took special status, had the city at my disposal on a seven-hour go kart adventure (for the price of three hours!).
Freaktown took the wheel and we sped north along the waterfront, honking, smiling, waving, peace-signing, A-OKing and thumbs-upping people the whole way.
We hit the Golden Gate area, snapping pictures of the Landmark shrouded in fog. (And wouldn't ya know, I forgot my usb cable and I can't share any of the pictures until I return to the desert.)
Then all around the Presidio, by the golf course and the rich folks' homes. Then down toward the beach, where fellow tourists actually told us we were lucky - and they didn't know the half of it. Heading toward Golden Gate Park, we blew a fellow go kart team off the line. They disparaged their car, and were wearing dorky helmets. No helmets for us, we were the hell-raisers.
I took the wheel in the park, somehow becoming turned around and nearly hitting the freeway. Oops. Turn back around and let's cruise the park again. One kid in particulary, probably about 10 or 11, looked at us with pure envy. We waved special to him, beeping the horn to say "Remember this, kid. It is absolutely even more fun than it looks like to you now. And one day you'll grow up and get to it yourself. Keep the faith, my young brother, keep the faith."
From there, we cruised to hippie-ville, where the line outside the free clinic made a better picture than the Haight-Asbury sign. Then down the Haight, where we had to stop at Mad Dog in the Fog for a pint. The sign was obscured so it read: Mad Dog he Fog. A crazed bum was dancing on the sidewalk right behind where we parked the go kart.
On and on then, taking to the hills: that funny crooked street, where we became a momentary distraction, an oddity to exceed the funny crooked street itself. Then we drove by the Full House house, god bless Lori Laughlin and the now-of-age twins.
That go kart owned the hills (it topped out at 50 mph, but that's later in the story). We cruised right on up to Coit Tower, paid the extra $3.75 and took the ancient elevator all the way up for a miraculous set of 360 degree views of the city. Then we posed in front of the Christopher Columbus statue so it looked like Freaktown was poking his crotch and I was cupping the balls.
Then down the hill, visiting the Azul and the financial district, turning ourselves into the Spectacles of the City. Then off to a fancy dinner, parking the go kart half on the street and locking it to a post. The construction worker said it was going to be OK.
With little time to spare, Freaktown swung past the Giants park, then opened the throttle up on the Embarcadero, passing several cars on the way to return the go kart at 9:57 p.m., just ahead of the gun.
In all, one hell of an adventure, elevated to superhuman status by a 340 cc engine. We must've put 25 miles on the thing and discovered the ideal way to travel in San Francisco.

Godfuckingdammit where are y'all motherfuckers?

So, godfuckingdammit where are y'all motherfuckers?

Anyway, excuse the outburst. I'm just hanging out. You know... My head feels a bit irritated. I think I have developped an allergy to alcohol, tobacco, and coffee. I experience a pain in my already painful throat each time I bring one of the aforementioned products to my lips. I don't get any sensation out of these products except a dry painful throat, headache, and sensitivity to light. I am currently wearing sunglasses in front of the computer, I am so sensitive to light. My body repulses in front of each of these products. Beer tastes like a superfizzy painful drink in my mouth. And I don't get drunk really, just kind of discombobulated, disjointed, and wishing I hadn't drinkened.

So I think I'm going to straight-edge it for a week. No alcohol. No cigarettes. No coffee. One week. Can I make it? I know I'll feel better. Every day I don't drink I feel fine and as soon as I take my first sip though, the good feeling of the day is ruined.

In the meanwhile, here I am. I'm about to write chapter 12 of the bike trip. It's a sunny but cold days in Paris. I am inside with sunglasses on and a blanket over my legs.

Garth's mom's out of town, so I'm living with her for a week. In November, I'm full-on homeless again, but I should be able to divvy up my month a couple nights here and there with different friends. By mid-December I can get my own place again.

I'm going to Ireland for three days in November. Got a 35 euro round trip. I'm flying to Shannon. I can stay with a friend in Cork the second and third night, but that first night, I'll have to try and get lucky. I'm going to bring a very warm jacket just in case.

Rock out with yer cock out.

Final Cut

After a few more hours of work, I have made a final cut, cleaning up the sound and streamlining the editing. If you click on the link from the post below, you'll find a slightly improved version of the film, though I still can't seem to upgrade the image quality for internet viewing. Hope you enjoy it.

The film

Alright. I believe you can check out the film here. The first 30 seconds is frames I had to put up for the competition. The image quality has been compressed, so it probably will look quite fuzzy, but at least you have a glimpse of the movie. It's in French, but you should probably be able to follow along anyway. I'll post a translation soon.


And now our feature presentation:
Pale by Comparison

64 hours

This weekend, I participated in a film-making competition. On Friday evening, 50 teams of filmmakers were told three things they must use in their film. A specific character named N. Raynal who is a former contestant on a French show similar to American Idol, a corkscrew, and the line of dialogue, "Je n'aime pas ca," meaning "I don't like that."

And every team got a different genre in which they must make the film. There were genres like action, horror, comedy, sci-fi, mockumentary. I pulled the notoriously difficult: Western. Which is hard enough for Amercians to put together. Try doing it in Paris.

At 7pm they rang a bell. Finished films must be back by 7pm Sunday.

I got to work that evening with the script. As I came up with characters, I called friends to do the parts. I asked a diner permission to shoot. I had some early ideas for footage I wanted and shot a few things around Montmartre at night. I went out on my bike with the camera. I kept working on and on until I was to meet my actors for the first scene, at the diner, at 8 in the morning. Shooting continued until 8 at night. I went home to eat, then got back on a train to my girlfriend's house to edit at 11pm. I edited all night long. Meanwhile, I was back and forth on email with my sound guy, who I never saw the whole weekend. He was mixing a few sounds for me. A cold wind, diner background noise, a carnival song, gunshots, a lonesome whistle. At 8, my girlfriend and her family woke up. I hadn't gone to bed for a second continuous night. They left for a day in the country to leave me the house vacant so I could work. I met up with two of my actors again at noon cause I had to get about five more shots. I loaded the shots into the computer and continued editing. I finalized the cut of the image. I fixed the sound. My friend read out the voice-over narration. I fit it over the image. The film was done at 6:15.

We went to load it onto the mini-DV but the computer refused. I tried again. It was 6:20. This wasn't happening. Because not only was the film finished. It was good. Really fucking good. We were all astounded that we could work together to make such a nice short film and it seemed impossible that we did it all in 48 hours. All of it, including writing and editing. Fantastic performances, striking images, nice sound, deliberate use of color, and a good story that gets your heart racing and shocks you. We really did it. And with a thousand euro prize hanging in the balance, the film would not print with 40 minutes to go. I searched for a rewritable DVD. I only found CDs. I tore my girlfriend's house apart looking for DVDs. I finally found one and rushed it to the computer and began to print. It took forever. Burning to disc. Finishing burn. Veryifying disc. As the last process slowly trudged on., we all packed our bags. We figured out the best possible plan. I was to run to the metro as fast as I'd ever run before. Take it to Place d'Italie, transfer, and take the line 5 to Oberkampf. And then run to the bar where I was to turn in the film by 7. At last the disc came out. I put it in its case and ran. Ran like I'd never run before. I made it to the metro. Got the train. Ran through the transferring station jumping around people like I was in the Matrix. I did one move where I flew over a guy by jumping over a bench, bending beneath the curved ceiling, my chest rubbing barely against the top of his bald head. I got the next train. Got out at Oberkampf. I found rue Oberkampf where the bar was. I ran as hard as I could. Stopped for no traffic. Weaved between cars and bicycles. The road went uphill. I pushed and pushed. Couldn't stop running. I didn't know precisely what time it was but I knew it was close. A lost second could mean these last 60 hours I hadn't slept, all the beautiful things we did with the film, it would all be useless in terms of the competition. If I was one second late after the bell rang, I was out. So I pushed uphill. I couldn't feel anything. Just my brain sending signals to my exhausted body. Don't stop. Don't stop. I ran and ran, out of breath. Heaving, I pushed through the door, saw the organizer, handed in the disc with my body bent double, sweat pouring down. She handed me a time card. My film arrived on time. At 6:59.


So there was a little reception. Sangria, wine, little tiny breads with little tiny spreads. I heard that out of 50 teams, 14 didn't make it on time. I talked to one guy I know. Said, how was your weekend. He smiled and said, it was fun, it was fun. Don't think our film is that great but we had a good time. You? Our film is great, I said, sweat still pouring down. It's unbelievable. We made a Western that takes place in Paris and it rocks. We really fucking did it.

My friend who played the lead role and his girlfriend who was in the film too came to the reception, having pushed me out the door running. We drank until there was no drink left and went out to the bar we always go on Sunday nights. Where our friend Barry plays. A big bald 46 year old black man. Barry was in the film, too. He visits the prostitute. I was delirious with having been up more than 60 hours and then that surge of energy from finishing the film and running like a missile. I was hallucinating, saying things nobody understood. I finally went home after midnight. Called my mom to tell her how much it all rocked. And got to bed at 2 after an amazing sleepless 64 hours.

The week in Nature

13-foot python tries to eat 6-foot gator

Are you kidding? Some stupid fucking snake tried to eat an alligator whole?
What in the munchies was going through that snake's mind? That's like Mr. Chair trying to eat Hondo. Or Face devouring a genetically freaky Colfax. I ate 83 shrimp, a steak, salad and toast once. Boy that was a bad idea. Imagine the shit that would've come out the other end of that snake if it'd succeeded.


Chimp kicks smoking habit

There's hope for everybody. Of course, the fact the chimp started smoking in the first place just proves how cool smoking is. I would totally give a monkey a cigarette. Or a joint! That'd crack me up. Drunk dogs are one thing, but stoned chimps would be priceless. Unless they got the munchies and tried chowing down on an alligator.


Holy Squid! Photos Offer First Glimpse of Live Deep-Sea Giant

Now let's really get crackin' on the Lock Ness Monster.


Researchers Reconstruct 1918 Pandemic Influenza Virus

Isn't this Michael Crichton territory? Cue heroic scientist Jeff Goldblum character. Cue morally ambiguous lab boss. Cue some Bill Paxon like jackass as president. Cue all-too sexy mid-level whistleblower. Cue shrieking masses. Cue massive unintended consequences and insipid moral to close it all out. Cue a rabidly infected python trying to eat an alligator.

Rock

Motley Crue. That’s right, I went to see Motley Fucking Crue. And they brought the rock. Fueled by Preston’s unholy devotion to the rock, last night was one hell of a good time, pure fun. We started drinking beer in the parking lot, car windows rolled down and the Crue on the stereo.

The Crue could walk dangerously close to the line of being a parody of themselves and the whole 1980s scene they ruled if the whole thing wasn’t so balls out. Sure, it’s a greatest hits reunion tour from a band that was known more for living wild than for making anything but loud party music, but the intensity and the seriousness of the performance were incredible.

The show – part of the Carnival of Sins tour – started with the lights down and a midget in a clown suit shouting out a welcome. Then out of a box came two of the gorgeous set of backup-dancing trapeze strippers, making out. Then the drum beat… and the “Shout!” “Shout!” opening to “Shout at the Devil,” and it was on.

The Crue played every song of theirs I knew, and me being nowhere near an actual fan, tons I didn’t. Song-wise the highlights were the fist-pumping “Girls Girls Girls,” the fist-pumping “Dr. Feelgood” and the fist-pumping “Wild Side.” Atmosphere-wise, the highlights were the tremendous light show, the motorcycles, the trapeze lesbian dancers, the flying drumming, the tittie-cam, and of course the ubiquitous fist pumping. For all their theatrics, their noise and the overall bravado, it’s easy to forget the Crue is nothing more than a drum-bass-guitar-vocal combo. Rock’s three instruments and a singer. In a strange sense they’re stripped down, and the low personnel is in such contrast with everything else.

The costumes, the swagger and the crunch of the attitude sold the whole show. The crowd was rowdy, drunk, sketchy and skeezy, but absolutely devoted to getting rocked by the Crue.

Devotion to rock is quite a simple pursuit – and incredibly fulfilling. Go see the rock if you can. Don’t worry if it’s not the real thing in an arena. Go catch your local butt rock cover band. But get your rock on. Get rocked and get your fucking rock on.