My small tribute tothe once and future, King of Pop:

The day the Elvis died
Was like a mercy killing
America breathed
A sigh of relief
We knew all about the drugs
And the Vegas shows
And there wasn't much of anything
That looked like grief

And I guess he shoulda done
Like James Dean did
'Stead of putting on weight
And sinking down, down, down
Easier to take
If he had just skidded straight
To souvenir city
And T-shirt town

And sometimes I wish
I was smarter that I am
But I'm on my 3rd city
And I'm on my 4th car
And I'm on my 5th apartment
And so many of my days have sprung

And now it's too late to crash
Too late to burn
Too late to die young

If Pete Rose had exploded
Like Roberto Clemente
He'd be hanging in the Hall of Fame
Without fail
Can you name the last good film
Marlon Brando made
While trying to keep his kid
From going to jail
And the old people
On the street are telling you
"Don't become like me"
But every day
You creep a little bit closer

And I guess we shoulda done
Like James Dean did
'Stead of putting on weight
And sinking down, down, down
Easier to take
If he had just skidded straight
To souvenir city
And T-shirt town

And sometimes I wish
I was smarter that I am
But I'm on my 3rd city
And I'm on my 4th car
And I'm on my 5th apartment
And so many of my days have sprung

And now it's too late to crash
Too late to burn
Too late to die young
-Dan Bern

Night Spider

The annual self-portrait in petals.

Ready for my closeup, as always.

Do geeks dream of electric sheep?

My subconsciousness is arguably more geeky than my real-life self. I dreamed last night that I went to Disney World, but experienced it as a text adventure. The only part I remember with any real clarity is the following exchange:

You are at Space Mountain.
>enter space mountain
You are in Space Mountain, it is very dark, you are likely to be eaten by a Pooh.
>

So not only am I dreaming in interactive fiction, I'm making geeky references to Zork. I'm not sure if that's awesome or sad.

Golden Hour

Don't forget to read the manual...

"Return from orbit is simply the reverse of takeoff procedure."

Strange addictions for strange times.

Being a bit of a denim aficionado, there are certain words that catch my ear. Much the same way a foodie might perk up at the mention of a new restaurant, or a sports fan at the mention of a promising new recruit, I can hear the words "redline selvage" from across a crowded room.

Theoretically you could lure me into a James Bond style trap with the right combination of words. Or, if not a trap, at least an eBay auction, which is very similar. So when I see the words "deadstock" "big-e Levi's" and "Talon zipper" all jumbled up, I'll hit the bid button so fast, you'll get a whiff of burning pixels.

Usually the object of my desire is snatched away from me, by deeper pockets than mine, but occasionally I'll find something only a truly sick aficionado could love. An object so odd that my adoration will cause others to question my sanity and fashion sense. And so it came to be that I won these vintage 60's Levi's 646 deadstock pants:







Yes, I'm fully aware that I look like a rodeo clown in them, but they fit so well it's uncanny. They must have been waiting in a dark attic for forty years for the right person to find them, and now I have. You think your mocking hides your jealousy, but oh no, I see through it.

Dark and oily corners of the psyche.

"The service manual is the true, dark soul of the otherwise innocent looking project car..." - Peter Egan

Above is the current (to the best of my knowledge, anyway) electric diagram for the motorcycle. Every time I took something apart or rewired it, I made the appropriate notations, corrections and verifications to the way it should have come fresh from the factory. I've got a pretty good idea how the electrons dash around the bike when it's in service now, but there are several spots where magic happens.

Every notation you see, every added line or symbol was a hard-earned lesson. Many were learned easily when the bike merely refused to start, but others were bathed in the cold sweat of a dimming headlight followed by the hot sweat of a fallen wrench warrior, walking home carrying his helmet.