When I was around preschool age, I was obsessed with the television show, CHiPs, much like all the other kids I knew. As far as I was concerned, the coolest motherfucker in the world was California Highway Patrol officer Frank Poncharello aka “Ponch“. With a cool uniform, a motorcycle and proficient in a wide variety of skills such as skate boarding, street and roller hockey, handball, racquetball, basketball, flying, singing, jet-skiing, hang-gliding, sky-diving, wind-surfing, demolition derby driving, square dancing, drag racing, volleyball, chess, and Karate—Ponch was cool. Ponch got bitches a-plenty. I wanted to be exactly like him. His partner, Jon Baker was a fucking hick tool.

One day, I watched an episode where Ponch, having returned to his apartment from exercising, pours a glass of milk, cracks two raw eggs into it and drinks the mix. Supposedly, this is Ponch’s secret recipe for starting the day off right. I became fixated on this raw concoction. It was the magic potion of coolness. If I were to drink this elixir of milk and egg, I would instantly become cool like Ponch. If I managed to drink it every day, I’d surely get a motorcycle and roller-skating bitches would just flock to me like a pint-sized porn magnet. I was a big kid now. I didn’t need diapers anymore and I sort of knew what a vagina was. I needed this.

(more…)

While I was in San Francisco last week, I started noticing that in that city people talk to strangers, even when they’re sober. I found this experience to be seriously evil as several times I found myself assaulted with casual conversation by persons completely unknown to me, commenting on this, that and the weather. I’d hiss threateningly and scurry off, making an inverted sign of the cross, shocked and scandelized at this invasion of my little bubble of dudeness.

People in New York do not chat. There’s nothing to share and if there was, we wouldn’t care to hear it. You can smile if you want, but there’s not a damn thing funny. If you come up to me while I’m putting sugar in my coffee and remark how you never have a second cup, but today you decided to break the rules, I immediately know one or more of two things:

1. You are fucking insane.
2. You are from someplace that lacks spitting crackheads, mad subway masturbators, gang-bangers, muggers and stanky-ass homeless dudes rubbing themselves less than discreetly. This means that you do not deserve to breath my air, much less accost me because I have to suffer through all this shit and you don’t.

If you fit either or all of these descriptions, I don’t want to be anywhere near you. You’re sick and you need help, but not from me.

It boggles my mind why people would make small-talk with strangers. What’s the point of commenting on the weather? I know it’s cold. I know you know it’s cold. I don’t see any reason why it needs to be validated further. Why am I supposed to respond to “Sure is cold, isn’t it?” with “Oh geez, it sure is!”? If I were to answer by discreetly mentioning that I enjoy duct-taping my balls to the inside of my thigh for that “sporty and aerobic testicle-taping look”, just to get people to leave me alone, would any sane person really fault me? Would it be any less blasphemous than if I were to willingly give in and “shoot the shit” with Billy Dee from Denver on his first trip to NYC with the family?

The problem isn’t just that as a defining rule, I dislike people. It also has a lot to do with the fact that in New York, when some stranger talks to you, you’re either going to get mugged, murdered or latched on to by an insane person and/or tourist. You learn this pretty quick. It only took a couple hours of listening to some crackhead’s life story and his unddying love for “fishscale” as he and his cardboard box parked themselves on the ground next to my table at an outdoor bar during my first visit to NYC. Deserved payment for making the error of responding to his chatter. I’ve not made that mistake since.

I have spent the last week visiting all over Northern California. I went to Sacramento, Santa Cruz, Napa, San Francisco, Monterey and a mess of other places in-between.

I toured such places as The Mystery Spot, just outside of Santa Cruz where supposedly, the laws of gravity are slightly twisted. There was all sorts of nausea-inducing vertigo, complete with yourself and other’s bodies leaning at an angle. You can see some photos I took on my Flickr account. Sorry, but there’s not too many.

I visited Alcatraz, the ex prison-island in the San Francisco bay and browsed empty inmate cells and spent a few moments contemplating extreme isolation while standing in “The Hole”- the tank they throw the misbehaving inmates into when they’re bad. No light, no sounds, nothing but you and darkness. I saw Al Capone’s supposed prison cell and saw the evidence remaining of a major hostage taking, prison escape attempt, resulting in a bunch of people killed. There were scars in the floor from hand-grenades, tossing into the cell-block by F.B.I. agents. It was a pretty fucking cool tour. Here’s some images of it. Here’s a link to some of the history of the island prison.

On Cannery Row, I went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I’d have to say that it’s the single best aquarium that I’ve ever been to. I molested a sea cucumber and ogled scores of penguins, sea otters, sharks, tuna and jellyfish. That place is one seriously major aquarium. I was really impressed. More photos here.

I even spent the night in a supposedly haunted house. A Victorian B&B in San Francisco, according to it’s manager was the residence of a little girl and at least one adult male, both deceased. the girl’s screams and weeping could be heard on the third floors as well as many unusual noises and apparitions. Over the years, testimony from guests, having bizarre experiences in the bedrooms had cemented the house as being haunted by those who worked there. The house isn’t advertised as such, so I’ll refrain from naming it. I spent the night there, alone except for one guest on the floor above me, having the entire second floor to myself. While I didn’t spy the undead, creeping through the the halls, I did hear some questionable noises and was sufficiently scared so that I didn’t sleep a single minute the entire time I was there. It was damn freaky shit and I was glad to leave. I took multiple photos of all twenty-two rooms with the idea that I might catch something odd. No such luck, but you can still see them here. Let me know if you see the face of Satan or anything I might have missed.