I was driving from LA up to Northern California to visit my parents. About six hours in I came across the familiar and ever-enticing split on I-5 where you can either head north to the rice fields and Sacramento or west towards San Francisco. I hadn’t been to the city in a while and was in no hurry to get home and waste away on my parent’s couch, so at the last minute I swerved over in the direction of the Bay. I was driving a new car, so I stretched her out to 95 miles an hour while I called up Alan, a friend from college who I knew wouldn’t mind a surprise visit.
After swearing uncontrollably through an hour of traffic and wondering why drinking a martini while driving isn’t legal when you’re stuck at five miles an hour, I pulled up to Alan’s apartment, a swank rent-controlled place in North Beach. He knew how shitty the drive was, and thankfully whipped out refreshments quickly. We headed up to the roof of his building and relaxed in the crisp clear night. I hadn’t seen him in months, and it was good to catch up on the latest adventures we’d both had. Alan’s the type of guy that’s always excited to talk about interesting things and doesn’t shy away from drink. Usually a good man to have around for a long night.
After a pint or two of vodka tonics the glistening skyline ceased to be simply attractive and became a nagging reminder of our mutual desire to raise hell. We sat in his room trying to figure out where we’d head first. I’d been idly sending half-drunk texts when he burst up from behind his computer.
“Well there it is. I’ve got our destination.” His calm speech stood in stark contrast to the blazing excitement in his eyes. I stayed silent. “Let me break this down for you. There’s a band playing at a bar I really like kid of close to here. I’m looking at their picture right now.” He stopped again and started laughing uncontrollably. “Okay, so they’re called Barracuda. They say they play ‘rock and roll from the epic decades,’ but it seems they focus on the eighties. Holy god, they’re all over fifty, having jheri curls and are wearing leather pants. Oh, and their singer is a massive black dude who looks five feet tall.”
“Well, looks like we’re headed there.”
Photo note: My digital camera charger was stolen (why, I don’t know) and I’ve run out of batteries. At the same time, I can’t seem to find a place that can scan film slides onto CD in Sao Paulo. Until I sort it out, I’ll be pulling photos out of my archives. These are from Hermosa Beach, CA in July 2009.
We had been walking for a few blocks towards the subway when we noticed the flashing lights. A street corner in the middle of downtown was surrounded by a few ambulances and a bunch of small police sedans. They usually drove in caravans of three or four cars. It looked like at least three groups had shown up.
“What the fuck is that all about?”
“Oh, you know. Someone probably got shot.” Jeff left the humor implied. These things happen.
We continued meandering down the street, passing a bottle back and forth, when a guy with a hat pulled low and a new-looking, very large t-shirt brushed passed us, moving quickly without trying to look like it. He was fiddling with his pants. They were quite baggy. I assumed that he was just adjusting his belt until he got closer.
A half-block after he passed I had to ask.
“So, was that just me or was he shoving a handgun into his waistband?”
“Yeah, I think it was.”
There’s not much else you can say to that.
Photo note: My digital camera charger was stolen (why, I don’t know) and I’ve run out of batteries. At the same time, I can’t seem to find a place that can scan film slides onto CD in Sao Paulo. Until I resolve either problem, I’ll be pulling photos out of my archives. These are from Central Onomichi, Japan.
My senior year of college I was editing for our campus paper. As the work was uncomfortably slow, I usually had at least two handles of Black Velvet in my desk at all times, and spent most of my evening in my office getting drunk during production. Send an article to copy? Take a shot. Lay out a photo and write the cutline? Two shots. Send a page to the printers full of offensive headlines? Shit, time for handle pulls.
One of our news editors worked at a desk right outside my office. She’s six feet tall, blonde and has a serious addiction to Jameson. In essence, my dream girl. I’m pretty bad at openly hitting on women, so I usually just try to woo them with zaniness and wit until suddenly we’re naked. So it went at work.
