Crazy rich

Bourn Mansion, 2550 Webster

Something to love about San Francisco are the kooks and weirdos whose stories litter the hills, often in the form of mansions.

One google search under the term: San Francisco Mansions, unearths endless stories of the insane, the wealthy and the insanely wealthy. They built this city. The entertainment value is vast.

Here, a few images from such a google search and this, the most recent story of an insane and wealthy person. And a lucky look inside Arden Van Upp's old home, the Bourn Mansion. And more here and here.

San Franciscans are also likely to build ridiculously ornate and sizable buildings such as the Mark Hopkins mansion.

Mark Hopkins Mansion, before it burned in 1906

George Crocker's mansion with his 40' high "spite fence". It completely surrounded a smaller house. He was pretty angry not to have the whole block to himself. (!)

How about Banksy for President?

Guy is so smart...

People are taking the piss out of you everyday. They butt into your life, take a cheap shot at you, then disappear. They leer at you from tall buildings and make you feel small. They make flippant comments from buses that imply you're not sexy enough and that the fun is happening somewhere else. They are on TV making your girlfriend feel inadequate. They have access to the most sophisticated technology the world has ever seen and they bully you with it. They are "The Advertisers" and they are laughing at you.


You, however, are forbidden to touch them. Trademarks, intellectual property rights and copyright law mean advertisers can say what they like whenever they like with total impunity. 


Fuck that. Any advert in a public space that gives you no choice whether you see it or not is yours. It's yours to take, rearrange and reuse. You can do whatever you like with it. Asking for permission is like asking to keep a rock someone just threw at your head.


You owe companies nothing. Less than nothing, you especially don't owe them any courtesy. They owe ou. They have rearranged the world to put themselves in front of you. They never asked your permission, don't even start asking for theirs.

-Banksy

thanks to LA correspondent JE for bringing this to my attention.

Kiss and Tell

Can I get a FUCK YEAH?!

Blah blah blah all you want about Obama's missteps. He got rid of the appalling "Don't Ask Don't Tell" rule.

Tell tell tell!! Tell away, kids!

Because when you're married 70 YEARS, you learn a thing or two. *

*have tissues ready.

Funny Game

I've been on the Words With Friends bandwagon for quite some time now, but that's no excuse.

This game is kind of a joke. I mean, it accepts faux-words like "Ti" and "Ae" but not real ones like you see below. Still, it's a fun way to pass the time. Because of the wonky word rules of this game, I'll try anything at this point. My own constitution won't let me get too ridiculous, so it's kind of appalling when real words—even those of questionable nature—are rejected.

The rejection screens make the effort worth it.

Sweet Spot

This picture is so delicious, I can't decide if I want to be Kate Moss or if I just wish I was standing next to this version of Johnny Depp.

Ahhh, the '90s.

Identified

I lost my name when I was two years old.

My mom had divorced my dad due to his excessive and unrelenting party lifestyle, and married a man who couldn't be more opposite. This man, in a sweeping show of generosity—what I've been led to believe—asked my dad if he could adopt me so that he and my mom could construct a solid family unit sporting the same last name. My mom thought this would "fix" the fact that I would be different from the future family. What she failed to realize is that nothing could change the fact that I would be different from the future family. She only succeeded in offering me the knowledge that my dad was able to "give me up". She very effectively eliminated a non-problem and replaced it with a hugely painful problem.

And then I actually started to grow up and actually became a person very much like my dad, which made me the opposite of the future family in every way imaginable. But hey, I had the same last name so it was all ok.

When I got to college my dad and I began to build a relationship. He was partying less, and I was partying more, but nothing could erase the fact that we were very alike and had a lot of catching up to do. I did not fault him for "giving me up." Who could think straight with that kind of blood-alcohol level? No, I appreciated finally knowing that I came from someone on Earth. That I was not dropped out of the sky by an alien race. Knowing my dad meant accepting myself. No one else in the family did. I was a grade-A weirdo; a social artist raised in a family of anti-social personalities; a writer and a friend in a house of friendless, wordless people.

Today is a great day. Not because I finally have the family I always needed. No, they remain the same and will die the way they are. Today I reversed that mistake my mom made taking my identity away and pretending nothing bad ever happend.

Today I chose my own name and it's not theirs anymore. I shed the rough, uneven skin that was placed on my face at age two. 40 years later, I am me again. The name I have is not the one I was born with, but the one my daughter has.

I have my own family now and they're just as weird as me.

The World According to San Francisco

Click to enlarge.

Punk Rock Museum, Los Angeles, California

From my LA contingent, TC, some photos from the newly opened Punk Rock Museum.

Can't wait to take my daughter when she's old enough. Like 5 years old. And yeah, I'll let her see paintings of naked punk rockers as long as they're done as well as these.

It'll be a part of Mommy Education Time. We'll be taking lots of trips to learn about Art in real life, and its many applications. More valuable than an AP education, in my book.

TRI Studios Special Guest...Louisiana Jones! And other news...

 It's a funny thing...this resurgence of Grateful Dead interest between some friends and myself. We didn't start listening to them again together, but discovered the oddity of tuning back in separately at the same time, after the same amount of time passing since we last flew high with the Dead. And that number is 20 years.

And I suddenly had the good fortune of being invited to a super special RatDog reunion show at Bob Weir's new studio, TRIstudios (not "try" but T.R.I.!) near my home, in San Rafael. Got a pass at the door, although they didn't need ID. The vibe was casual and fun. Lots of hot food and free drinks were served in a comfortable lounge. Along the wall of the lounge, I found a pretty cool painting on metal in the shape of pick:

(thank you, Jerry, for a real good time).

The show was fantastic; Mark Karan was there shredding on guitar. I filmed a highlight...it was a searing moment that lifted me up and gave me that undeniably excitable feeling...I held my breath, I was on the precipice of losing myself, the goal at all shows.

After the show I was invited to hang outside with the musicians. There was the irrepressible Kenny Brooks who played saxophone and a few crew members with great stories. Like Zach, who introduced himself to me in such a friendly manner, including me in the circle of doobie smoking and tale swapping. He talked of George Clinton teaching him the magic of the Funk. He said he learned that pausing the music at just the right moment can be nearly painful for the audience, in a good way, and puts the Funk in the music like nothing else. It's the secret of the Funk. (George Clinton's advice first-hand, right here, wtf...!) (Am I one degree removed from George Clinton right now?)

(thank you, Mark, for a real good time).

The next morning I contacted my old Deadhead friend who now lives in Minnesota, far from our past as barefoot, high-as-hell 19-year-olds in California. She attended most of my 42 Grateful Dead shows with me. Always there, my right-hand girl. She told me we used to "talk and dream" about getting invited to shows that put us 6 feet in front of Bob Weir at eye level. I don't remember that, but she's probably right. We're in our early 40s now and it's still an exciting concept. And for me, an awesome experience. 

The show was webcast live...not sure how much if any is available for viewing at this point in time. Get yourself to tristudios.com to poke around. In the meantime, here's another snippet.

More Marin County news: Both Bob Weir and Phil Lesh have opened clubs. In Bob's case, it's a reopening—of the iconic Sweetwater in Mill Valley. For Phil, this means buying out an old seafood restaurant (where guy and I had our rehearsal dinner) and calling it "Terrapin Crossroads" (what was wrong with "Station"? Irked.). The greatest thing about the Sweetwater re-opening is getting to catch Mark Karan tear it up twice in February. His show on the 8th is sold out, but the 22nd is still available, an insane bargain at $8 advance. I'll be there!

Buy Vincent Gallo's Ass, or Sperm

The undeniably egomaniac, and massively...talented Vincent Gallo, is offering himself for sale. The highest priced item would be, $1million for sperm, although he does suggest the resulting child find his own surname. He requests that the mother is jewish, so that there's a, "...slim chance that his child will move into the profession of motion picture acting or became a musical performer, this connection to the Jewish faith would guarantee his offspring a better chance at good reviews and maybe even a prize at the Sundance Film Festival or an Oscar."

If you can't afford his sperm, you can buy his ass for $50k. Also notable: handmade t-shirts for $160. I want one.