Sometimes keeping your positive mental attitude floating is a big pain in the ass.
The planet Saturn takes exactly 29.5 years to return to the same point it was the moment you were born. Astronomically speaking, this is simply the amount of time it takes Saturn to swing around its elliptical orbit before making another valiant go of it. The entire concept can be drawn out in logarithmic tables and charted out to within twelve decimals of exactness. Astrologically speaking, the Saturn Return is a sort of metaphysical puberty, that is, the point at which someone’s been around long enough to be completely called an adult.
Mike Culver’s one of those men you’d be incredibly lucky to resemble later on in life. He’s pushing 50, fit, good looking and brilliant in that way peculiar to old Southern radicals. He has a beautiful old house in Richmond’s Oregon Hill neighborhood, a fantastic little family and a wonderful analysis on the world as sharp as it is compassionate.
Punta Cabras has been a second home to me since puberty. It’s a small, semi-circular shaped point about 13 km north of Ejido Erendira. It faces dead West, picks up every swell that will hit this part of the North Pacific and is one of the few places in the world I can truly call home.
Cities are a long term sore spot in the analysis of most dirt worshipping tree huggers. On the one hand, we like to slander them with all varieties of nasty words, relying on colorful metaphors and hyperbole to further illustrate the depth of our resentment. We’ll say dumb shit like “industrial death trap,” “urbanified culture of lies” and that classic Old Testament hippie throwback, “Babylon.”
It’s good to thrust yourself through the links in the food chain every now and again.
When it comes down to it, there’s really very little funny about the FBI. Or cops in general.
It was one of those things that catches you completely off guard; like hitting a rock on your skateboard and getting tossed ass over tits. One minute I was thinking about staying up all night with Yvonne talkin’ about the revolutionary virtues of Siouxsie and the Banshees. The next, I was being dragged out of Dulles Airport in handcuffs.
It was a stormy morning when Ayang maneuvered his little red mini-bus up the single track mud road towards his ancestral village. My stomach was riding shotgun on my Adams Apple as we dodged boulders, bloated goats and the occasional poisonous snake. It was one of those mornings when it feels like the whole of Creation is coming unraveled in one natural disturbance after another and all you can do is sit back and wait for the apocalypse.
There's nowhere else in the world quite like the Northern Rockies. And it's not just because this is one big fuckin' mountain range that literally bisects most of the North American continent. Nope, there's something else to 'em; something far more mysterious and foreboding than my beloved Cascades or Klamaths. Perhaps it's the absolutely unfathomably steep terrain where mountains seem to have mountains growing upon them. Or the dark hollows where direct sunlight hasn't hit earth in 20 million years.
It's a blustery Saturday and I can't get Poison Idea out of my head, even as I bushwhack my way down a dying logging road. Last night, after a fifteen year wait, I finally got to see ol' Jerry A and Pig Champion play their greatest hits amidst clouds of flying Pabst cans.