bg/ag publishing

bg/ish: "Suck it bitch, I'm outtie!"

I recently came across this comic over at Fart Party aptly titled "brain vacation"...

(click to enlarge)

...and that's when things started making sense.

On a side note, if you haven't read Fart Party before, you really should. A couple of other favs of mine are here, and here.

At any rate, I'd mentioned on this blog that I'd mentally checked out a couple weeks ago. In essence, my brain had told me to "suck it" and bailed. In the meantime, I've managed to muster enough reserve power to pass myself off as a functional member of society, but just barely. So when I found myself wide awake at 5 a.m. this morning, contrary to all my desires, I was left to confront the mystery...

"What the hell is wrong with me!?!"

I looked to Chewie for an answer. Only, unlike me, she had no notions of being awake at 5 a.m....


...so it was back to the drawing board, well, actually, the Internet. I searched google, to no avail. Only the logical thing was left. When wondering how one has arrived at a certain destination, it's best to retrace one's steps. Let's start with last Friday...

It started like any other Friday. Actually, it started like every other Friday. Payday. Morale +10. Level up. HP +5. Feeling good. Lunch at The Chieftan. Walking back up 5th towards Market. Saw a family. Father, Mother, Son. The son was pissing in the street. Couldn't have been more than 7 years old. Funny, these things used to surprise me.

Got back to work. Broke a sweat. Got things done. Accomplished. 5 o'clock. Time to quit. We used to play "Sweet Home Alabama" around this time everyday. That was a lifetime ago. Only I wouldn't be going home on this day. No, it was straight to Medici. With gusto!

Let's go with a beer. Racer 5. Might as well do it right. Shot of Fernet? Sure, why not. Drink. Shoot. Repeat. Out the door. The talk was of staying in. The talk was of keeping it mellow. But the talk is often just that... talk.

Ran into my buddy on the street. Or maybe I called him cuz I heard he was around the 'hood. Either way, he ended up at the house. Couple of tall cans of Mickey's in hand. Uh-oh. This is a slippery slope.

He's out. G.O. arrives. We're definitely sliding downhill now, but nowhere near the bottom. What's on tap? Dubstep. Grime City. "No cova!" 4 year anniversary. But first, back to Medici. We can walk from there...

Forgive me as things get foggy from there. More drinks. A short walk/stumble to Anu. "What is this, Bourbon?" Damn G.O. It doesn't matter. The dubstep is hittin'. MC Childs is spittin'. It's a dark, gloomy haze, and our bodies are caught up in the wobble. We dance. Or stumble. We see old friends. The dead walk amongst us. Zombies. I get bit...

Fade to black.

Saturday. Or, "How to waste a beautiful day rotting in bed and vomiting". I wake up on my couch. This makes no sense. It's two feet from my bed. Last night doesn't make any sense, until I realize, I never ate dinner. What is wrong with me. I used to make better decisions than this. Speaking of bad decisions, frozen burritos. Those last about an hour before they too seek to evacuate. More sleep. Then, a savior...

5 Hour Energy and a Jay's cheese steak. I get on the bike to push. Gotta sweat out these toxins. To the water...


Back home for more rest. After all, with Sunday would come Bay To Breakers...

Sunday morning. Mash down to 9th and Market. I stand there for 90 minutes. 90 minutes of madness. It's amazing. See photos here, and here.

This guy won the "race", but nobody but him cared. Look how lonely he is.


We ended up on a roof deck on Ashbury and Waller. Only slightly removed from the madness. The sun beats down. 90 degrees. My body roasts. I grow delirious. Sun + Beer = Reckless Mash to Dolores Park. I lay out. Sleep. Roast more. Evening brings a cool breeze. And relief.

The plan after that was for Dub Mission, but it all goes to shit. And so Monday comes, and I am no better for it.

But wait. None of this explains where my head is at. It only serves as proof. Case in point...

Last night I was the featured speaker at a meeting of the San Francisco Legal Professionals Association. Scheduled start time, 6:15 p.m. Time I started preparing my presentation? 3:00 p.m. Sure, it went over well. But could it have been better? I certainly work better under the pressure of "fucking has to be done now!", but I'm supposed to be a professional, and I'm just not pulling it off.

So what is it? Is it the comforts of Spring time? The approaching carelessness of Summer? Is it my rapidly approaching birthday? Or is it just this place, this City, San Francisco? People are known to leave their hearts here, and perhaps mine indeed abandoned me long ago. Has my brain went in search of it?

How long can I expect this to last? I can only rely on 5-Hour Energy for focus for so long. Eventually I have to get my shit together.

"Paging Dr. West. Dr. Herbert West..."