Oakland; Anarchy, Folk, and Bats!

So lacking any photographic evidence, and without the companionship of my trusty point and shoot video camera, I have only words to spin you this yarn, dear followers. (2 of you, fucking all fucking two of you)

Straight outta that Oakland spirit ^^

A sunny day in downtown San Francisco turned into a foggy night in Oakland, where, at the "unfurnished" corner of 24th and Broadway - in the residentially zoned ground floor loft belonging to some very cool old school Oakland folk lovers and anarchists-   Kimya Dawson, on tour with eclectic folk and punk acts, took a seat with her fellow animals and made children out of us industrial sinners, schooling and soothing us with messages of unity and courage.


After a long and slightly confusing trip on the BART  Sam and I rode over to the squat of some good folk he had met a long the way.In the spirit of alarming coincidences, the main contact to this house of miscreants was a girl named Monica, whom Sam and I both recognized as a consistent cast member in Kensington park, with no doubt a few mutual friends in Toronto.


"Oakland is cool, it's sort of like the wire, but it's cool"


"Of course there's a liquor store on San Pablo, it's the fucking ghetto"
two overheard quotes that serve as descriptions for the brief Oakland experience I had.


So, $5.00 allowed us into the show which was only down the street at the otherwise desolate corner which seemed to be leaking punks for a solid block around the venue, giving the impression that the show had not begun yet. On the contrary there were twice as many people inside and the a vibrant feeling  of excitement tookhold. These kids were either all on to something or just stupid and desiring the collection basket style of mooching one can achieve in large groups of smokers and drinkers. Perhaps a little of both is more accurate. 


As one tours the facilities the mood may strike to utilize the vending machine for the purchase of a beer: Pabst, MIller or Bud for $4.00
You may also notice the posters of past concerts from "The Coup" or "Minor Threat" reminding everyone the history of music, violence, and anarchy sprung from Oakland in the past, and judging by the composite crowd here tonight, the spirit is still alive.


I would be a bad blogger if I didn't give a proper lineup, and so it appears that title fits me well, as I have a bad memory and most of the groups who played were never listed on the bill. An amazing all girl punk band captured most of my praise for the evening as their spiraling melodies and raw energy fueled a mosh-pit so big you didn't have a choice but join. The beat goes on...
The bulk of excitement seemed to be generated for Kimya (obviously) and Defience Ohio who played last in drew arguably the biggest crowd. (listen to that shit)


Over by the Merch booth LP's sold for eight dollars and stickers were free.
Being the economically challenged traveller I am, I opted for the stickers, adding to what I believe to be an envelope containing a sticker or two from every city I've been in.


The sticker which caught my eye most was for 900 bats, the boredom inspred blog of poet extraordinaire Aesop Rock, for creative output in between albums.


This was hardly the environment one would expect to find advertisement for obscure hip-hop inspired blogs, so I asked the guy-dude behind the table if he could tell me anything about the stickers.


"Take as many as you want, I think Kimya knows the guy who runs it... they're working on an album together so..."


Kimya Dawson, Aesop Rock album coming soon? I don't know if I would have believed it past rumor had it not een for what happned next.


A moment of akward awareness took place and realising how much time I had spent at the table not buying anything I held up the stickers proudly and said, "I love this site, it's just what we need" Or something like that, to which a surprisingly tall and familiar  looking dude previously engaged with his Itouch, looked up at me and said "Thanks"


The guy had looked familiar but given the amount of cities, scenes and music cultures I have passed through in the last few months it didn't dawn on me that it was in fact Aesop Rock, until that moment, and then it came very easy, like, "Oh that's right, you're fucking Aesop Rock."


Gathering composure from a brief outside chat with Sam I approached the man for a brain picking, talking first and foremost about Bat's.
The following is an accurate although paraphrased conversation between me and Aesop Rock.


"Did you read about this virus wiping out entire colonies of bat's in North America?"


AR "yea, I did. It's awful."


"How does that make you feel?"


AR "how do you feel about that? I dunno, bad. I mean it sucks, it's like bat aids. What can you do? I read the article in National geographic and then another one my friend sent me so..."


"it's sad, have you seen the bats in Austin"

AR "Yea, Congress street. "


"I've been travelling and it gets disorienting. I gotta say, I'm really surprised and excited to see you here. Are you preforming at all tonight?"


"nah, nah, just along for the ride. I love Oakland, you know, any excuse to get out. Love Kimya and just came for support."


"I actually really enjoy your blog, was the concept always to have an open source for creativity?"


AR, yea thanks it's good to hear. You know, I'm working on an album, and I go into the studio and it's like, puttin down work and you know, in a month or two I can listen to that. But I'm all about, like, what am I doing right now. So the main thing with the blog was like, when I started was like, do something every day, you know? just, no matter what it is, try and put something up every day."


"and your friends, acquaintances whoever..."


"anyone."
I restrained from explaining he idea behind Cuzz Im Tuff an instead asked him for contact.
"Do you take submissions."


AR"yea yea, all the time, here. I'm Ian by the way."
  
We shook hands and he told me where to mail him at before I did the fanboy thing and told him what I thought of his music, saying someshit like:


"Honestly, I don't always tell musicians what I think of thier music but your one of those cats where it's like: Some shit you say feels like it comes from the deepest darkest part of my brain that I can't access. Your music had been with me in some of the wierdest and best times in my life as well as the worst and shittiest and its always made me feel better about what I'm doing. "


I really did say all that, though it was muddled by nervous interjections and pauses.


Ian was most gracious and even a bit shy talking to me after that so instead of asking him to kick beets and free's with me I told him to enjoy the show.


I doubt it if one other person at that show even knew who he was. He played with his iphone for the rest of the night and then stood quietly in the back for the second half of Kimya's set.


It took me two hours of cycling to get home, accross the East Bay Bridge into Downtown SF, south on Mission street to Camino real  and all the way past Daly City, and Colma to So San Francisco city.
The fog was thick and silver and when I got home I was drenched, but the stickers were intact.


Folk rock hip-hop and punk rock remind me of why I am alive as I write this all down.

Stories from the road to Austin PART: 2

About fifty miles east of the Texas border there is a town, hardly wider then the freeway which passes over it, marked at the beginning and it`s end by a church; where, down a winding First Penticostle Rd. the Richleys quite comfortably reside.

Billie and Glen have lived a charmed life and now, climbing through thier seventies, they collect eagles, and eagerly await a surprise visit from thier constantly travelling grandaughter Jess; whom, living and travelling in her Van, had reached the city of New Orleans from which we had recently departed.

The night, infact, before we left ol NOLA, Jess sat with Sam and I over some bourbon during the midst of an underwhelming party to share with us the details of Louisiana`s roads and the address of her grandparents: one Billie and Glen Richley.

`they would for sure love you guys``

Easy enough to believe.

So four days, two flat tires, and a couple hundred bourbonless miles later, it was exactly that conversation that I was perhaps most greatful for. For after evading a tornado warning during nightfall,we arrived into one of the most comforting environments a human being could in good logic ask for.

Glen was an electrical engineer who did some work over in Canada and told stories of good ol foolhearty pranks in a power station in the Utica Valley of New York State which renered half the county lightless.

He built his house with his hands and continues to make improvements including his most recent addition; a treehouse for his youngest grandchildren.

It was a good night to have shelter and we slept under a tin roof in the unfinished portion of the attic, where, loud as it dared the rain kept us awake.

They exchanged mailing address`with us and made us promise to write them postcards when we got to California. They also told us if we saw Jess again to tell her not to travel into Mexico, they heard it was dangerous.

0700 Hrs. The sun was making
its first appearance over the
 tall Jackpines and rain fell
 softly on the forest floor...

We were barley east of the
Texas Boarder. Bog
Country
was far behind us
and the forest

was dark and

 silent reminding

 me of Algonquin

 park back

home in Ontario.

I thought about how Glen

 had said he had laid ever

nail in this house and what

that meant.

When we had arrived, they had a meal prepared and I ate beef for the first time in months; a hot shower went over like a second dessert and we  

were asleep before

midnight.

Sam slept, he rarley woke up when we needed too, not that I was in any condition to complain,

 I got up and took the laundry out

 of the dryer, checked the

weather.

The tornado watch had past,

the storm had blown east of

here and it was rainy and a 

little chilly but altogether

 to our liking.

Glen gave usa a Texas travel map and we marked

our route, the closest spot to camp being sixty

miles west of Jasper Texas, we had a 100

mile day ahead of us.

Glen made Bacon and eggs- a treat for him as much as for us- a deviation from the regular heart healthy diet.

Time to go time to go...Though I knew we would be slow, Sam went back to sleep and I followed suit...

 0900 Hrs.                                                               

It was still raining, Glen said he was willing to    

 drive us a few miles and I accepted in order to

equalise our slumber time.

Pick up, time to go time to go...

STORIES FROM THE ROAD: Dead dogs lyin in Louisiana and the road to Texas (pre-Austin)

Being on any road in the south (pronounced souf) you might encounter a dead dog lyin' with his guts all spilled, oozing maggots out of what's left of his intestine.

Armadillos too for that matter, stupid creatures which don't have sense enough to get from out the path of a moving vehicle.


You will also encounter more litter then even really seems probable and if you're these two travellers you might encounter even stranger sights; like a french Canadian cyclist riding the wrong way on a two lane highway trying to find his tent.


Mark was from Montreal and touring by his loneseome headed west (like all good Canadian geese)when he shockingly discovered he had been without his Tent for sometime now.
He had been riding against traffic for five miles and was determined -despite the dimming light from the sun- to retrace his steps all the way back to Baton Rouge if he had to.


"take our number"
We said,
"Call us when your headed back this way, or if you can't find your tent, we'll help you out. "
He never called, jerk. Bon Voyage Marc.


Where's the best place to find three Canadian cyclists during winter?
On a roadside in Louisiana of course.

Onwards and upwards we discovered the many and rarely differing diners of the rural south.
White gravy, chicken-fried steak, beef tips, dirty rice and the saddest strangest little waitress' you ever did see.

Charlene removed herself twice from view of customers to vomit in the bathroom and cried severel times while speaking on her cell phone around the corner. *sigh

She also brought incorrect food for the other table twice, and would not let us nar.


We camped in a somewhat disagreeable town on a more or less agreeable plot of land owned by someone named Ray; rented the space out to mobile home owners.


It was in the morning that we awoke to a strange little dog, and an even stranger owner promising us breakfast from her mobile home kitchen.

"no, it's okay. My husband tole me to cook y'all breakfast so I'm gonna make y'all some biscuits and gravy" 

More accurately we ate, Pillsbury toaster oven biscuits and Louisiana fig jam making the list of strangest yet oddly comforting breakfast food.

Ray and his wife drove us down the road another few clicks and Sam talked to them about french Acadian and Creole culture.
Ray Bajou, had a healthy Cajun ancestorage with Acadian relatives in Nova Scotia.
Thanks y'all for everything.


When I leave this place I will remember the cool piney breeze, the hot sweet smell, and people who are sad and sweet, like the smell of a dead dog on a highway.

Hell A! merry christmas.

Sin is rebellion against, or resistance to, the direction of supremacy , and enmity toward, avoidance of, or hatred of the good. ^{Originally in Spanish sin means more accurately to miss the mark; I have no following point.}


Los Angeles, HellA, city of angels, city of [broken] dreams...
so much to say...


I've been writing, please know that I have. 
It's been hard to secure consistant computer time and as a result I have neglected posting although it is a constant wish of mine to be more active.


This blog could be a really great scrapbook of my travels and I have oodles of video ready to be uploaded when I have the time.


All I can say is soon, soon...
Soon there will be more stories from Texas and Louisiana, road life, and an attempt at something accurate to describe the people of LA who have been so great to international folk, and tons of videos which may just have to wait until I am at home on my macbook pro.


And now it's Christmas...


There is no snow here... yet somehow it is Christmas.


As it has been explained to me, most people who are still in town this time of year are transplants from other places, and have decided not to return home for the holidays; thus there is always a sort of lonely Christmas vibe from those around here and the sense of love and community is strong to say the least.


It is 3 AM on Chrismas eve and we have cleaned the house on Hyperion pretty well in preperation for tomorrow's festive meal. A potluck involving the volunteers from bicycle kitchen and extended family will include: Swedish meatballs, homemade pretzels, latkes, mushroom barley soup, chicken tikki masalla, salad, potatoes and some more shit.
We'll all get pissed and entertain each other, talk aout where we're from, who knows...


And on the subject of home (a certain Edward sharpe and the magnetic zeroes song comes to mind - feel free to listen while you   read)   
           
The smell of snow
Whiskey with the boys
The Ried-Moran Brothers
Dan golden boy and Jewmass
My family, the usual shit
Ben being funny and not enjoying himself
Gaberella
Winter fixed gear riding, slipin and slidin
Sauce...


Christmas has been somewhat spirited nonetheless
We went bike caroling a few nights ago, singing classics such as "oh single speed" and hitting locations such as L Ron Hubbards Scientology headquarters and other prominent houses in Hollywood, and believe I got some video of that.


Speaking of video, I have one small one that I was able to upload.
A short little video showcasing something I can't do at home, something much more important then tradition; freedom:



Yes, I was winking at you.
Merry fucking Christmas, I love y'all.

Not that anybody reads this shit...

It's therapeutic, you know, like working out all day and stretching in the eve, or eating free Indian buffet all day with incredibly nice Hare Krishna volunteers before going home to defecate promptly and several times in a bathroom shared by a dozen or so people.

Writing that is.

Not in the hopes of winding an elaborate or interesting tale, or creating a whole imaginary world with wizards and fucking quiddich to validate your previous lifestyle choice as a crack whore- or even worse to make money- but for the sheer and simple process of recounting the days or weeks events, phrasing them as eloquently as you believe to be within your grasp and calming an overwhelming amount of feeling this writer seems to have these days.

So after six days and nights of travel we have arrived in Austin Texas.
Sam is asleep in a bed we will share, in a house which is shared by friends who seem altogether exactly the type of folk I would hope to meet in a town which has yet to manifest into everything everybody tells me it is (although the mexican food we ate for dinner was cheap and promising of things to come).


Yes Austin, home of Lance Armstrong, Sandra Bullock, a fuckload of sprawly highways and apparantly some cool artists and bike enthusiasts.

One girl who lives in this house with her boyfriend (appearing to be the foundation of this household) told us of her trip by bike to Mexico with 31 other people.
Part of a program called "bikes over boarders", which makes Toronto DIY efforts seem almost silly by comparison.
It's pretty simple really:
step 1: find a trashed bike
step 2: build
step 3: ride your bike over the boarder with an insane amount of other retarded individuals to really dangerous parts of Mexico and give your bikes away once you get there.


She (I forget her name and I'm staying in her house, I'm a fucker) also works a program she created called "bread by bikes" or someshit like that.
Again, simple: bake bread, deliver it by bikes, don't worry, be happy.

And on that note!


We have lost our Amtrak tickets taking us from here to El Paso, TX, and Amtrak refuses to refund us although if we buy them again, and mail in our stubs, I am told I will get a voucher for $150.00 for travel on Amtrak anywhere in USA.
Further more, the destination (El Paso) is currently irrelevant!
Our plan of biking north from El Paso, through New Mexico to Albuquerque before heading across the top of Arizona into Flagstaff to see the grand canyon, has been mutually abandoned. 

Instead a train to LA seems in order, a decision I own a tumult of emotions over.
What and who lies in LA? Do I even want to be in such a superficial wasteland of concrete avoiding even further contact with those I love to, what, spend Christmas alone, see the ocean?
It all just seems so ridiculous, really.


Sam and I have different ideas of what will happen when we get there and I believe we will bike up the coast independently.
San Fran, Portland, Seattle, Vancouver? Home?
I am broke and  lonely (despite Sam's inherently good natured company) , and fixed in the cadence of my own momentum, unable (or unwilling) to dismount.


I have encountered great moments of personal triumph, and overcome surprising obstacles, yet, it is the deeper I go, the more humans I meet, the further I feel isolated.

This is not exciting, it is happening.
This is not an adventure, it's a ritual, it's fucking religion.
It's not rewarding, it's humbling.
It does not give, it displays...
and takes, so much.

At the end of the day this, what some might consider despair, is what this journey is all about.
Not the bringing of joy and happiness, n'or the removal of it, but the fucking momentum.




So not that anybody reads this shit, but that's what happened today.

Highway 61 North and the Emancipation of Bumpis Millss

Bob Dylan may just be the best songwriter to ever live, maybe, but he sure as shit never road a bicycle down route 61 or he may have included- amongst his vast repertoire- a song about it's lack of maintenance lighting or signage.


And if he did, ride a bike along the shoulder, he might have included a lyric (now I'm no song writer here) or two about bringing protections against flats, cuz if you ever attempt the same, you will get one.
If not on the incredibly rocky shoulder littered with debris ( I think I saw an alligator carcass, definitely exploded a possum like a pizza pocket) then by accident when you inevitably, roll onto the caution strip of grooves dug two inches deep into the asphalt to protect Louisiana's frequently drunk motorists from veering into the bordering swamp.


Did I mention there are no lights?


So in the pitch black changing a flat was relatively effortless and a nice man driving with his daughter stopped to let us borrow the light from his high beams.
A former cyclist, Dave offered to take us to Baton Rouge (about thirty miles out) in his pickup or to come and have some food at his abode, less than 8 miles up the road.
Too focused on completing the days goal on our own two legs, We politely declined.
He gave us his card and informed us that the address we were going to in Baton Rouge was about 15 miles west of where the town began, totaling our travel at around 45 miles.


It got damn cold  damn quick, and being stopped we could feel it.


Biking, singing songs, good to have company.


A monstrous skyline in the distance so bright and wide it looked like El Derodo, made fools of us both as we attempted to explain its meaning.


Sam said it looked odd, and I agreed, Partial, somehow the buildings looked destroyed or decaying.
They weren't buildings at all, but part of a gigantic industrial mess of towers and smoke stacks, not quite El Derodo. Damn it was depressing.


I should point out that the real bogs and swamps of Louisiana are beautiful and despite the undesirable condition of the roads and other slight un-pleasantries, the ride itself was enjoyable and I worked off that hangover good.


Sam went from "Hero to Zero" near the last twenty miles and we inched a mile or so  into Baton Rouge when we decided to call our sponsor.


Jovial Alex, a friend of a very good friend we met n New Orleans, lived n Baton Rouge and was more than happy to give us a ride to his house from the edge of town where we waited patiently in the Parking lot of a 'Jack in the box' Gnarsing on peanut butter and bread.


A good guitar player and lover of soul music, Alex graciously shared his warm apartment with us and with his roommate suddenly removed from the equation there was even an extra room.
We talked about motorcycles (he plans to buy an 53 Indian and travel the country with it)and his future tattoos; a full sleeve Marvel vs. DC comic in the works coming soon.
Thanks Alex!

It accidentally became 2 in the AM and I was left remembering Ben and the triumphant goodbye we shared this afternoon. Possibly the worst morning person I have ever shared close quarters with, "Bumpiss Benjamn Bunny Hills", arose at 8AM after a hefty night filled with Admiral Horatio Nelson's finest rum or rum flavored alcoholic beverage, and accompanied us two hours along the levy path to our bridging street on to highway 61 before returning, most likely to a warm Kamp Katrina bed.


The occasion was all together warm and it was agreeable to watch him go, back to New Orleans to do what he please.
I know Ill see that mother-fucker, one way or the other. A perfect goodbye has no tears, only smiles... and shameless brotherly singing.
Travel well friend, let the gnars find you and the big blessin's pop.

New Orleans in my dreams

It's been beautiful, to collapse into a lull, float down stream in that louisanna bayou, but like all good things I must leave behind this city I have come to love so deeply.
Ninty miles to Baton Rouge where we will stay at a friend of a friends before continuing along the long road to Austin Texas, about 550 Miles from here.
I've garnished Sam to accompany me and we might go all the way to California together.

Leaving New Orleans  minus one special pen, my cycling gloves, $75.00 that was stole from me, Many pairs of socks and my water bottle, plus a whole lot of new friends, contact info for folk all along the road ahead and two shirts and a bunch of footage.


In the kind words of many before me," I love ya baby, but I can't stomach the chicken no mo." 

What a town! N'awlins I shall return, but for now, the road...