STREET ART

Bad boy of the streets

Cloaked in darkness, scrawls message;

OBEY artistry.

I like Shepard Fairey's work. Yes, he

started out as a skater, bad boy, street

artist; pumping out stickers of Andre the

Giant, scrawling out unwelcome and

uninvited messages and images throughout

our urban landscapes; the mark of a gen "X,"

determined, gritty, defiant. At some point

he found himself a necktie, cinched it up

and made a sweeping turn toward main-

stream; the Hope poster of the Obama

campaign put him in the spotlight and

didn't hurt Obama either. He has a style

that attracts me but I'm not sure how I

would classify it. Much of his imagery

reminds me of old Soviet propaganda

posters, which I have always loved. He has

repeatedly been accused of "stealing" others'

work and is in the midst of a lawsuit for

using an AP image of Obama and stylizing

it for the famous poster. He claims it is

fair use. Despite all of this, I like him.

He recently showed up in Hill-

crest to slap a mural on the side of the

local Urban Outfitters; he has a line of

clothing that is sold there.

Hmm, even street artists need to scrape

together a living.

BUEN CAMINO

Wrote this following a particularly

challenging day of uphill climbing

with my vintage Raleigh mountain

bike sin shocks and shlepping way

more material goods in my panniers

than necessary. The up's never seemed

to be followed by an equal and well

deserved down. Guess the physics of

hill topography is unpredictable. The

travel on the Camino was somewhat

indescribable. It was both a challenging

piece of mountain biking and a memorable

journey through astonishingly beautiful

countryside. I am now an official "Peregrino"

having received my document in Santiago,Sp.

along with thousands of others. All walks of life

trudged along on this 800km path that took

us through river valleys, meadows,

steep mountains, rocky hillsides, pine forests,

charming cobblestoned villages, bustling cities.

As we passed weary but determined travelers

from all over the world we would all share a nod

and a collective "Buen Camino". This area of

Spain, known as Galicia, is compelling and

powerful offering hints of Celtic wizardry, copious

amounts of rioja (red table wine), cerveza San

Miguel and Estrella Galicia in every bar and cafe,

cathedrals, castles and the constant chanting

of Viva Espana as the World Cup came home to Spain.

A pilgrim, of sorts

Freewheeling the St. James Way

Longs for hills' refrains.

CAMINO

Hope that Spain's rain

Does stay mainly in the plain

For weary pilgrims.

The El Camino de Santiago (The Way of St.

James) is the pilgrimage to the Cathedral of

Santiago de Compostela in Galicia in north-

western Spain, where tradition has it that the

remains of the apostle Saint James are buried.

I'm no real pilgrim and have no interest in St.

James (although I'm sure he was a nice man

if he even existed) or his remains, bless his

soul, but the 500 mile route along dirt paths,

cobblestones, winding through small Spanish

towns and ducking in to cathedrals to go back

through centuries, drinking plenty of Sangria

and Cerveza all while balancing overstuffed

panniers on the 23-year old Raleigh mountain

bike, does appeal to me. So, off I go for

three weeks. If I make it I will become an

officially credentialed pilgrim and perhaps

return to my homeland much more

righteous. Nos vemos

DUNCAN, THE HORSE

Wide-eyed thoroughbred

Looks past shutterbug antics

Carrot charisma.

Yes, that's me in the eye's

reflection. Took a drive out

Jamul way with my friend

Jan, the painter and benefactor

of Duncan, the horse. He and

his horse buddies have a great

life at this remote horse ranch.

Fresh air, great scenery, plenty

of hay, nice digs and lots of open

space to roam. It was a nice

and relaxing change from all

things oily. I like watching

horses and feeding them carrots.

The trick is to lay your palm out

flat with the carrot across it and

the horse with gently snag it avoiding

taking off a few fingers with their

giant teeth. They are herbivores, so

am I. We are kindred spirits.

FUCK

FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK

FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK

FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK

Do something! Give generously. Change

your habits.   http://www.ibrrc.org/

Rewind and reload,

All things vintage define hip.

Genuine cliche.

I'm unclear what "vintage" really

means but it sure is being bandied

about recently. How old is something

before it is officially "vintage"? Can

any, tacky piece of crap morph into

a genuine example of vintageness simply

because of its age? Kind of like

antiques? Perhaps we need a Vintage

Roadshow, where Vintage specialists

can assess our treasures from days gone

by but not too far gone. It's comforting

to know that my 23 year old Raleigh

mountain bike, named the Seneca, once

known for its tacky color and cheap

demeanor has now taken on the pateen

of "Vintage". I de-mothballed it and

am now riding it proudly knowing that

not only is it a cutting edge representative

of "Vintage" but the person pedaling it,

namely me, is also "Vintage". Great to

know that wrinkles and white spots on

arms are super cool and hip. They are

certainly genuine.

ROSE

The lovely hybrid
Is bewildered by nature’s
Lack of discipline.

While lovely and fragrant and symbolic

of everlasting love and romance,

especially when delivered a dozen at a

time, the rose is really the hybrid in

the garden. It has been tinkered with, fussed

with, tempered and tamed, pampered with

pesticides until it bends to our will; giving

us the perfect, blue-ribbon blush. Wildness

clings on as we continue to ravage and

trample and dissect and subdue and plunder.

We are the machine in the garden.

Check out one of my favorite poems that

picks up on this theme.

http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88v/wilbur-toad.html