Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Nothing against Brooklyn (Baja Bash, day one).

Voyage to Baja Bash

Driving from San Diego to Salsipuedes, Mexico, one must traverse the bastard child of Gomorrah, Tijuana. Thusly, I took only one photo of that blightful brethren of Brooklyn.

The drive down the highway through Baja parallels the ocean, a veritable route one reversal of Malibuic proportions, yielding visions such as these.

En route we stopped at an abandoned rest stop.

Smiled upon the relics of generations past..

And anointed the waters.. with our own mandate.

Baja bash campgrounds were actually located on the jutting peninsula to which Pat points...

.. upon which protrusion of land we embark, lay down our tents, bask in the sun..

.. And embrace the local color.

"Wait! I'll take a picture of you, taking a picture of me! It'll be HILARIOUS!"

In the evening the planet tilts, and asparagii distend from her earthen womb.

Some battle the scourgetable vertically...

Others zoom out, vainly seeking the greature picture..

...whose solemn gaze whispers the sweet name dusk...

.. and heralds the beckoning call of dawn.

"They say it never rains in Southern California.."

.. But it did this day.. Afternoon showers happened to breed quite beautiful sunsets. And, thusly, I thee present, gratuitous sunset pictures, taken from the rooftop.

Pat and Abby pose devant un ciel ... red.

Saturday, September 17, 2005

Birthday, Besmirchday, Rebirthnight. El Conclusion.

.. and if Batman had the Batmobile, Spiderman would, of course, drive Spiderman 2502.

Arriving at the party, I play air guitar. Or simulate something disgusting... to the delight of the audience.

"You're gonna die I swear it's so funny - You're gonna die. What? Tuh Huh Huh. No, I don't like marshmallows. They make-a-me sick. They make-a-me queeeeasy. Eric? Al? Robert? You got any marshmallows?"

Not many pictures at the party.. camera quickly forgotten. Certainly no evidence destroyed, or anything like that. That thought should definitely.. what thought? Exactly. Arriving home, disrobing, we meet up with T.J... and Corey gives himself a hand.

(the model in use in the above photo - front and center)

Turning 29 causes large wrinkles to appear on one's outer cheek areas. Facial cheeks. Especially when holding small animals. Ones that appear to be extremely pleased by being held.

... (Meanwhile.. earlier that same day...)

Pat eats birthday brownie while Corey urinates on an invisible Fire hydrant.

Who eats Brownie? Pat.

And fittingly, under the watchful office of a sombreroed San Diego chicken (who raising his arms, emphatically, gazes proudly heavenward in praise of the moment), a monkey rides a hen.

Birthday, Besmirchday.. (Part 1)

The key to starting off a birthday on the good foot is having a shirtless hippie prepare grape salad.

As Julia Child would say, well, maybe at least do, were she at my house, "Go out and get the relatively ripe but strange looking grapes off the vine in the backyard."

Then squeeze the soft, tasty interiors out from within the callous shell and put in a bowl. Then, smile, and recognize that you, a mortal being, have created Grape Salad (tm).

Even Shitler, the Kitten, was feeling a little cocky - and it wasn't even her birthday.

Methinks the goat has a bit o' sleep on his mind. Shitler pounces.

Not too sleepy to lay out a little sumthin'-something for his erstwhile sister.

Fuck that - I'm outta here, spaketh Apollo.

Unable to figure out how to delete one picture from the blog without deleting them all, el Blogmaster posts a sideways picture of spectacular color and integrity. A veritable orgy of ocular stimuli.

It being my birthday, I get the middle slice of the cake, bitch!

And it being MY cake, it's actually just a giant pot brownie.

And now, we leave the house, to walk to the party down the street.

Some of us, berobed, walking on concrete walls..

Others, smiling, slowly striding, savoring the solemn stroll in nightime's majesty...

.. Beholding the purloined flowers of yesteryear.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, timrus.. Gumby.

It being a sunny day and all, Gumby walked out of the back door and slowly approached the sledgehammer.

"What's up, my bitches?"

In the distance, porno music could be heard..

.. Maybe a little smooth jazz..

"Made it, bitches."

(accompanied by a Wagnerian, triumphant classical movement.)

"Damn. May as well hammer down this fucking shed."

"Let's see Pokey take down a barn." Slightly smiling, he continued, "Horse Bitch."

"Mr. DeMille?," queried Gumby. "Close-up? Now?"

"Down, Bitch!"

Pour yourself a beer, Gumby. You've earned it.......

.... Unlike the lawn people.