Get out of here.
Come again some other year.
This normally robust master of the blogosphere is sick again, due to wet weather, playing spin the bottle with black rats, and some poorly timed bike rides.
J has finished all of her exams, and in celebration we went to a tacky Polynesian thumbed bar in the basement of the Fairmont Hotel called the Tonga Room. The night prior, we meet and old friend from high school for an unusual, adults-only night at the California Academy of Sciences Museum.
I continue to rack up miles on my bike, despite an annoying clunking that has developed with my cheap freewheel. Since I got the odometer in December, I’ve gone 292 miles. My weight loss now seems to have tapered off as my legs are growing heavier.
No single wire can stop me from the ocean.
Guano or white paint: only a lick can tell for sure.
Stairs to troubled waters.
A lone glove signals hobo wanking in the reeds.
Preparing the pipes to the underworld.
Electric wall technology still has its kinks.
Gutter trash where little Italy and Chinatown collide.
His platform’s as rickety as his faith.
Lotus root and Chinese cabbage.
Purple lady and oranges against a turquoise wall.
Left or right.
Thai dinner ingredients.
Patiently talking to drunks about ocean life.
The Tonga Room house band plays from upon their majestic sea barge.
Three discarded cocks.
Oysters with funny names.
Fiona’s apples in Alamo Square Park.
Time to get ready for March.