Morning in America

Independence Day

screwdriver - and not the good kind

basements are fun, until you have to rip up the carpet (after a flood).

out of towners / cliffside wedding

people watching parades are interesting to watch

Dean Wareham does a Galaxie 500 set in a parking lot

Beer is free, water is a buck, and living here continues to make a
great deal of sense.

the leprechaun's cousin inspects some scrolls

even william burroughs has an iphone. why don't you?

three buildings i've been in over 10 years. as seen from a chair on broadway where cabs used to be. and another reason i don't mind bloomberg.

this banker lad spent 20 minutes talking to a friend about bonuses

(for those in search of examples of wall street's pr problem)

the light here

grass is always greener

plywood/tarp

an afternoon at the museum [without ben stiller]

one of these things is not like the other

though unrelated to the baskervilles, i was reminded of this today

The rich landowner Sir Charles Baskerville is found dead in the park of his manor, surrounded by the moorland of Dartmoor, in the county of Devon. He appears to have died from a heart attack, but the victim's best friend, Dr Mortimer, is convinced that the strike was due to a supernatural creature, which haunts the moor in the shape of an enormous hound with blazing eyes and jaws. Fearing for the safety of Baskerville's heir, his nephew Sir Henry, coming to London from Canada, Dr Mortimer appeals for help from Sherlock Holmes. The doctor also reveals that he found the footprints of a gigantic hound near Sir Charles' dead body but did not report it, certain it would be dismissed by the police as a figment of his imagination.

Dr Mortimer tells Holmes and Watson of the so-called Baskervilles' curse that has, he believes, been killing the family males for centuries, in revenge for the misdeeds of one Sir Hugo Baskerville, who lived at the time of Oliver Cromwell. According to the legend, Hugo Baskerville was an evil man with a sadistic streak. He liked to hunt for sport, in this case humans. It was also hinted he was a sexual sadist. One night a local barmaid who had been imprisoned in his bedchamber for his pleasure managed to escape while he was carousing with his friends. A furious Hugo rode after her with his friends soon following into the Moors. Some hours later they heard some bloodcurdling screams at which they found Hugo and the girl. She was dead from fright while a giant hound stood over Sir Hugo's body. It had ripped Hugo's neck apart.

Staging

Melted

Marathon Spectating

yard

hazard two

plywood

They Lost

Sno-cones

hazard

archives

from the vault, yo.

Hannity & Colmes (and Nancy Grace)

Pittsburgh Style

encountering the poet laureate (and her grandson) in SF

merits a bit of text:

A Hundred Bolts of Satin

by Kay Ryan

All you
have to lose
is one
connection
and the mind
uncouples
all the way back.
It seems
to have been
a train.
There seems
to have been
a track.
The things
that you
unpack
from the
abandoned cars
cannot sustain
life: a crate of
tractor axles,
for example,
a dozen dozen
clasp knives,
a hundred
bolts of satin—
perhaps you
specialized
more than
you imagined.


Years ago, this poem got it all started for me. A dear friend pointed out that it's a bit dark, and he may be right, but there's always something to see even then. She was very nice. Her grandson, too.

San Francisco in color

San Francisco by car

The Joys of Travel