President Bush Adopts Ebonics During News Conference With Prime Minister Blair in Attempt to Seem "Cool" in Front of "Out of Towners."

If you didn't hear this press conference or think that I'm lying (which I completely understand), go here.

Q Prime Minister, this is possibly your last official visit to Washington as Prime Minister --

PRESIDENT BUSH: Wait a minute. (Laughter.) Back-to-back disses.

Yeah, that's right. Bush said "Back-to-back disses." Speculation suggests that he may have picked up this word after repeated visits to various jails across the country while bailing out his daughters on various drunk driving charges.



And for the President, what will you miss about Tony Blair, and what are you looking for in an eventual replacement?

PRESIDENT BUSH: Hmmm -- I'll miss those red ties, is what I'll miss. (Laughter.) I'll say one thing -- he can answer the question -- don't count him out. Let me tell it to you that way. I know a man of resolve and vision and courage. And my attitude is, I want him to be here so long as I'm the President.

PRIME MINISTER BLAIR: Well, what more can I say? (Laughter.) Probably not wise to say anything more at all. (Laughter.)

Here's something, too: Besides the awkward silence after Blair's last comment, and it was very awkward- seriously, he really did think it wise not to say anything more at all, and so he literally didn't, leaving the room full of reporters waiting blankly to see if he was being serious, a few twitters of nervous laughter here and there- there is an interesting omission from the above transcript, which did come directly from the White House site. I'm telling you- click on the above link and read the transcripts for yourself. It's amazing. In Bush's last sentence, what really aired was, "And my attitude is, I want him to be here so long as I'm the President, which is another 2 1/2 years." Oh, wait. No- the 2 1/2 year comment came from earlier in the press conference when he was talking about being Commander-in-Chief. Whatever. The point is that it's only 1 1/2 more years. Maybe Bush just slipped up again. He's certainly been known for his flubs during speeches, hasn't he, the little scamp?! But, I'll keep the conspiratorial side of me alive, too, and just say to not be surprised if there is some grand mal in the next election that causes Bush to stay in office until 2009 (or beyond!), and if/when that happens, I will gladly take your money, whether it be from a bet we made, or that you have taken me as your personal messiah and savior- either of which I will be glad to oblige you with. Now: go read those transcripts. And wait'll you get to the last two lines. I sense some fan fiction sites popping up after this open-endedness! Steamy!

San Francischronicles, Chapter ∞ .

On the last day of our trip, my camera was dying a slow and painful death. You see, I didn't bring the charger with us, because the charger is also a photo printer, and would have been quite a nuisance to lug around with us the entire time, not to mention the very likely possibility that I would drop and break it at any given point. So, we called Radio Shack to see if they had a charger for my particular model of camera. Of course they did- for only $50! When we got to Radio Shack, I explained to the young man working behind the counter the situation- we were only gonna be in town one more day, and just needed enough of a charge to make it home. I also played it real cool with the kid- let him know I was down. 'You into online gaming? Hell, I'm a 35th level Orc (I really hope I spelled that right.). You into weed? Fuck, let's get high, man! You into social activism? Shit, man, I'll form a picket line behind an "End Road Work" sign! Let's be pals!'

My ultimate coolness and Rebecca's friendly charm (pronounced: cleavage) eventually worked on the kid, who at first denied us due to his unfriendly, old, and uncool boss, but soon he said, "What the hell- I'll do it." Then- a problem. Turns out he didn't really have a charger for my particular model of camera. Turns out they're special order only. So much so, in fact, that not one Radio Shack in the whole of San Francisco had one. Then, an idea occurred to me. About technology. This is never a good sign, and yet I trusted myself again for some reason. I suppose I was simply in an affable mood.

"It says here that this just needs a 5 volt D/C cable. Don't you just have, like, a generic 5 volt plug we could use? That seems like it would work..." The Kid didn't seem too disagreeable with my idea, and so it was done. I knew it would take a while, so I told the Kid that we were going to eat, and we'd be back in about an hour or so to pick up the camera. The Kid said, "Word," we gave each other daps, and I moonwalked right the fuck outta there.

Upon our return from eating at The Yellow Submarine, The Kid played it cool, real cool, as we walked in. "Can I help you guys with anything?" Gulp. "Um...," I said, instantly betraying myself as so not down. We must've looked uncomfortable, because the next thing he said was, "...Or do you just want the camera back?" An audible sigh of relief crossed my lips, and soon he was behind the counter retrieving the camera. "Sweet," I said as he handed it to me. "Now to check the battery.. Huh. That's odd. It actually has less power than when we gave it to you."

The Kid shrugged, bored now with his act of rebellion. I knew it was over. The camera wouldn't even stay on long enough to snap one picture. It clicked on, flashed its red "battery drained- don't even think about it" icon and immediately turned itself right back off.

We walked out of the store, utterly dejected. The Era of Photographs had come to an end for this trip.

Or so we thought!

Now, dear reader, through the ironic use of the very technology that had so recently scorned us, YOU CAN STILL SEE PHOTOGRAPHS FROM THE REST OF OUR TRIP!

REAL PHOTOGRAPHS AWAIT!

DRIVING DOWN HWY 101 IN OUR RENTED DODGE NEON TO HALF MOON BAY!!


OUR FABULOUS HOTEL ROOM AT COMFORT INN IN HALF MOON BAY! THANK YOU, DEB!
PERCHED PRECARIOUSLY CLOSE TO THE EDGE OF A BREATHTAKING CLIFF AT HALF MOON BAY!

THIS COUPLE SENT ME A COPY OF THIS PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN AT A BEACH IN HALF MOON BAY! THEY UNDERSTOOD OUR DILEMMA, AND EVEN THOUGH THEY SPOKE VERY LITTLE ENGLISH, THE INTERNATIONAL LANGUAGE OF PHOTOGRAPHY WAS OUR BOND, AND THEY WERE MORE THAN HAPPY TO LET US SHARE A FRAME WITH THEM!

THEN WE WENT TO THE REAL MOON!!

A fitting end.

Note from the Editor: Due to the moratorium on doing any writing of any kind, especially as concerns blogging OR audioblogging (See "Ethics and Etiquette: An Author's Guide to Not Being Really, Really Lame and Embarrassing Oneself in front of One's Peers," Sec. 8, Par. 3, Clause 2, Subsection 6), while under the strange, cold, and careless hand of intoxication, whether intentional or not, this post has been forever removed from this blog, and all further conversation or thread-starting on other websites shall hereby cease forthwith. No questions or comments shall be directed toward the Author concerning this decision, as it was not his to make, and besides, any endeavor in this direction would only prove futile, as the Author has signed a sealed affidavit stating that he has absolutely no memory of posting the offending blog, even though the authoring of it spanned the course of 6 hours, not to mention 4 states.

Thank you.

San Francischronicles, Chapter 9.

Lombard Street. I drove our rental car down this stretch of madness to prove my worth as a San Franciscan driver, wondering all the while why it was that I felt nervous and inadequate in attempting to manipulate this crazy road. Then I realized that I should not be the one feeling weird and insecure about myself- it's the fucking engineer of this road that should! What kind of insecure city planner would put the residents of this particular street through the daily misery of having to navigate this monstrosity? I imagine it must have been some sort of personal vendetta- perhaps the person in question was beaten by his drunken father repeatedly on this street, and hoped to design a road that would eventually kill him in his state of inebriation. Either that, or some weird Oedipal thing that I haven't quite been able to surmise yet.

At Chrissy Fields. Rebecca's nonplussed look likely comes from the fact that I was probably complaining about something- the kite flyer's lack of form in the distance, the fact that I was really, really tired, or that "this picture would be so much cooler if the bridge was on fire."

SEE?!?

At Baker Beach. We're European!


"Zees art, zees life- ees stupid. Een my homelahnd, een Gearmany, we live life dat ees real. Zees- Zhees is all illusion. Fake American boolshit. Would that I hang myself with rope from zees picture."

At Seal Rock, where not one seal was to be found. Unless seals have wings and shit on your car while you're driving. Man, how awesome would that be...


Sleepytime at Seal Rock.

TELESCOPIC ART!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Another house Rebecca grew up in. The man in the top left corner of the photo was quite perturbed that someone was standing directly outside his front gate, and by the time we left, he had moved into the kitchen window directly above Rebecca with an economy sized jar of giffelte fish and was ready to hurl them at us loiterers had we been there much longer.. Our exuent was hasty. Though, if Shaw was here, Creed's "Arms Wide Open" might have blared from somewhere off in the distance and good times would likely have ensued.

Why I shouldn't be allowed to do anything, ever.

At The Mint Karaoke Bar in San Francisco. It's probably best that the video doesn't show much. I think the audio says enough. Kill me.

San Francischronicles, Chapter 8.

Sometimes people kiss other people on boats. So what? Why don't you lay off, man?

At the Mucky Duck in Inner Sunset with Mike the Awesome. The Mucky Duck is the best bar in San Francisco, for numerous reasons. Note the flagrant display of an ashtray in the lower left corner of the photo. Actually, that's pretty much it. And they have PBR on tap. And fully sanctioned giants for bartenders.

Click on this picture to fully understand what I stared at the entire ride home from the bar, and my subsequent dumbfoundedness. I'm still not sure what that lump is, and I'm not even drunk now. Oh, wait. Yes, I am.

BLURRY SUBWAY ART!!!!!!!!!!!

Horrible photograph of the Roxie Theatre, where we saw an awesome documentary about Bolerium Books as well as "As Smart as They Are," a documentary about the band One Ring Zero, who play at a lot of McSweeney's events. They have an entire album of music with lyrics written by a bunch of awesome authors: Paul Auster, Jonathan Lethem, Dave Eggers, to name but a few. I say "we saw," but in reality, Rebecca fell asleep through the entire film. It's okay. She was tired. As am I. So, so tired.


My Mecca: 826 Valencia. Only this time, at night.

At the Elbo Room in Mission District. As you can tell, we're serious. Serious about things. Namely that a 12 oz. can of PBR costs $3.50 here. Rebecca: "Are you fucking kidding?!" Me: " *sigh* No... I'm not. I'm really not this time."


Photograph from inside a photo booth. Whoah... I just blew my own mind.

The end result.

And thus ends my work week's worth of free internet at the hotel. I cannot promise anymore posts before I return home, for I know not what the future holds. We rented an automobile, and tomorrow we venture into the unknown, by which I mean the hotel we stay at may or may not have free internet access from our room. We're roughing it! Please stay tuned, however. I have something that, if I cannot get up tonight, will be up very soon that I am absolutely positive you will want to see, if for no other reason than to see how lame I really am. Trust me.

San Francischronicles, Chapter 7.

A Happy Ponderance. An Happy Ponderance? Whatever.


I believe that this will be my new mantra.


Action shot of me drinking! Rebecca's look of concern is well founded. Two nights previous, somehow I drank too much at The Mucky Duck(an awesome bar- great bartender and very friendly neighborhood "needy queers"- that's what the bartender called our new friend Ray, who got any number of free drinks from us. Also, I'm not sure if he was gay, seeing as how much he hit on Rebecca. Although he did tell me he'd marry me right now.) and remember very little of getting back to the hotel.


Um... I have, like, ten more pictures exactly like this.


On the ferry to Sausalito. If I look hard, it's because I am. Don't fuck with my gangsta stroll. Y'heard?

Lost m'teeth in a fishin' 'ccident. Y'can tell I'm still angry 'bout it, too. Death came slow to that damned sturgeon, and even slower for the albatross that caused all the trouble in the first place. Never leave shore without a welding iron, Mama used t'say. I'll take those words to m'grave.

MARITIME ART!!!!!!!!!

Staring down crabs in Sausalito. You'd be surprised at how easily they back down. They don't call them Cowards of the Sea for nothing.


Rebecca's twin sister, Carlita, The Russian Spy. Directly after this picture was taken, Carlita was discovered by the Port Authority taking photographs of the ship's hull with a small camera inside a ring on her finger. In a quick moment of indecision, she swallowed a cyanide pill given to her for this very instance. But then, she realized she had her rocket boots on. Perhaps she was not aware of the very devastating effects of cyanide, and believed she could fly to safety and rid her body of the deadly poison. Unfortunately, moments after she took flight, her body went limp and she sailed around the bay like a deflating balloon. The Port Authority immediately cordoned off the bay and began waiting for the boots to run out of fuel and bring Carlita down. They'll probably be there for a while. The boots were fueled by a highly concentrated mix of Uranium-238 and vodka.

Bad Punicles, Chapter 6.

We went to the Palace of Fine Arts today, after being kicked out of the Exploratorium at 3:00 p.m. for some schmaltzy private party they were having there. I muttered something to the effect of "inventing a perpetual motion machine that would continuously shove itself up your ass" to the attendant. He grunted, but I could see the glimmer of an idea sprouting up in his dead, dead eyes.

Sadly, naziism is not dead yet, even in as liberal and progressive a city as San Francisco. Shortly after I took this photograph, a recruiter from the local chapter of Hitler Youth approached me with some interesting looking fliers (they were printed on brightly colored paper!), but turned on his heel after he saw my unkempt beard- perhaps he thought I was Hacid. He saluted a weak Sieg Heil to the wall and disappeared into a nearby bush.

FUCKING ART!!!!!!!!!!!!

Illegally posing in front of the world's largest cement Faberge egg.

We happened upon a swan attempting suicide at a nearby pond. Sadly, minutes after we arrived, he succeeded. The reason for this swan's untimely demise is still unknown, but speculations suggest it could have been utter disillusionment with the realization that he had lived his entire life in a pond sponsored by a regime responsible for the deaths of millions of Jews.

In front of 826 Valencia, only the coolest fucking place in the entire world!!

So goddamn cool...


Rebecca outfitted in a lovely pirate's hat and official pirate handbook. You can't see it in this photo, but her pockets are filled to the brim with dubloons. And lard. Just two of the many pirate related items they sell at 826 Valencia. I bought six fake moustaches. No, wait. Seven. Seven fake moustaches.

View of an immigration protest from a trolley car. I took a photograph in solidarity.

INCIDENTAL ROMANTIC ART!!!!! (you may have to enlarge this photo to see the genius.)

San Francischronicles, Chapter 5.

And now, for the picture that you all knew was coming, but didn't think I'd actually go through with posting. You thought you knew me better. You were wrong.

I'm guessing this is art. I'm not sure.

Tree-sittin.' I think my facial expression conveys that.

Yancy's Bar. Rebecca's mom used to work here. Note the ancient cash register, which they actually use. For transactions. Of a financial nature.

Waiting for a bus that refused to come.

ART!!!!!!!!!!

San Francischronicles, Chapter 4.

Federal Penitentiaries and Instruments of Death: The centerpieces to any good vacation.

The house Rebecca grew up in.

ART!

ART!!!

It's nice to know that you can visit any anarchist bookstore in the country and be ensured to hear a conversation between the person that works there and a customer about how Ayn Rand had it so, so wrong, and that she was the prime reason they became anarchists in the first place. I bought a Dosteovsky book and got the fuck outta there.

There's always room for more awesome Shepard Fairey prints.