Mike, Utako, Abe and I spent Saturday traversing the San Diego Convention Center amidst the usual horde of freaks and geeks that assembles there each summer for the world’s largest comic convention. It was quite fun. The extraordinarily hot weather meant people were sweatier than usual, and one of the worst odors I encountered came from a thirty-something fellow who was broiling inside his homemade PVC storm trooper armor. His helmet was off and streams of sweat were marching down his face. He was far from alone in his dedication.

I took some photos, and so did Mike.

On Friday, as I walked to the con to fetch my press pass, I bumped into Lewis Black while we crossed N. Harbor Dr from opposing sides. On Saturday we caught Don Hertzfeldt, Mike Judge and Bill Plympton giving a talk, and we swung by the Dumbrella and White Ninja booths. Those were my celebrity sightings. Mike recognized some tart from The Real World, and I also got a sketch done by Keith Knight. The White Ninja guys recognized us from last year, which was pretty cool. People-watching was excellent, as always—the photos might attest to this fact.

After an uneventful Friday evening, Mike and I set out for Scolari’s Office shortly after midnight. We arrived as the previous band tore down and the next set up; a couple minutes later we were settled in with a pitcher against the standing bar that faces the stage. As the band did their sound check, I noted “He Tried 2” scrawled on the drums with metallic sharpie, but I couldn’t tell you if that was their name or not.

When the singer ambled up to join his band-mates, he wasn’t wearing pants. “Oh, cute,” I thought, “He’s got a shtick.” Then he pulled his t-shirt over his head and started screaming into the mic, standing in nothing but a girl’s thong several sizes too small for his chubby ass. The price tag, still attached, danced gleefully about his offensive little package.

“Fuck you and your quiet Friday night,” said Scolari’s. “It’s time to bring the pain.”

Let me get this out of the way: the music was awful. The guitar was simple and repetitive and the vocals, which, mercifully, were drowned out by the instruments, were a noxious fog of meaningless screams and yells. The one lyric I remember (probably because it was repeated thirty or forty times in a row) was “Walking Jesus like a dog.” How original.

It became obvious that the singer believed himself to be a reincarnation of GG Allin, and he flailed about with much gusto. At times, the thong was pulled down while he threw himself on top of people seated at the bar, and when someone tucked a dollar in his panties he took the opportunity to rub the bill all over his asshole and face (in that order). Grabbing a pitcher (not ours, thankfully), he sprayed the audience with beer from his mouth, then fell to the floor and spilled the Budweiser over and around himself. The liquid, combined with the dirt from the filthy carpet, became a muddy slick in which he writhed and wallowed.

In between songs, he propositioned a homely, pudgy blonde seated on a bar stool. “Let me lick your pussy, girl. I bet it smells awful.” She grabbed her crotch in jest, and a few minutes later (after a bit more thrashing and screaming) he jumped on top of her and they began horsing around. Both parties were incredibly drunk, however, and the roughhousing soon devolved into a legitimate physical battle. He pinned her on her stomach and sat on her shoulders; she gamely bobbed her ass in air like a good sport. After some more sparring, he pinned her on her back and seated his grimy ass cheeks on (and around) her face. She became angry at this point and summoned enough strength to overpower GG Jr. Upon being pinned to the floor he became upset and began to scream, “Get off me you fat whore! Let me go! Get the fuck off meeeee!” The crowd separated the pair and she sulked near the door for a minute before running back into the fray, attempting to shove him down on top of the drum kit. They fought in earnest now, and this time the doorman had to help pry them apart. The girl was kicked out, and the show ended early (a whole five songs) after the singer decided he didn’t like how the doorman had handled things and became abusive. They almost came to blows, and thong boy kept screaming, “I’ve been playing here long before you ever showed up!” and “I’ll have [bartender] Donny fuckin’ kick your ass! You don’t know what rock and roll is!” This display, along with his pitiful squeals while pinned to the ground, painted a most unimpressive picture. Allin would have kicked his head in (then shat in it).

After things settled down, the cops strolled in with the drunken blonde in tow. They questioned the bartenders but left shortly after; it appears the staff may have covered for the band, which is disheartening, really. That singer was a little bitch. We walked home, still shaking our heads in disbelief.

I have something to mail. Post office. I walk there because its only 4 blocks away. While paying to ship the tiny package I decide I need to refill my wallet, so I take a detour on the way home to stop by the ATM. As I start across the street to the ATM on the other side I glance at a man approaching the opposite corner. He unzips his pants, pulls out his dick and proceeds to cover the sidewalk with piss. This man was standing in the middle of the sidewalk in broad daylight 20 feet from University Avenue drawing on the sidewalk with urine.

What gives, North Park?

Saturday nights at the Livewire are generally hit or miss. This past Saturday was a definite hit.

We finally make our way out there around 12:45am and meet Fonty and Kalin at the end of the bar. We join them and I fill my glass with a Reaper. While Fonty enlightens us about her recent foot injury and how it has affected her life, an over-the-hill skater turns to me and asks me for my autograph. I have never been asked this before and without a second thought deny his accusations. He continues to insist that I am a famed moto-cross rider that has been in magazines and am “the ma-fuckin-chine”. Then he leans close and says in a not so quiet whisper that he’s doing this for the girls, and motions towards Fonty and Kalin. Finally understanding what the fuck is going on I try to explain that his actions aren’t neccessary and that I am already friends with both of the cuties on the other side of Andy. That stopped him for about two minutes. Upon his return he insists that I lay my shit down on Kalin. I repeat my previous excuse that she is an old friend of mine, but he has none of it. He pushes me off my stool telling me that I better go before he does. For a short moment I pictured what the quiet girl texting on her phone would do when my biggest fan delivered his best pickup line in his loud, slurred version of english. I sat next to Kalin and told her how I had saved her life.

On our way out the man tried to give me a hug and convince Fonty and Kalin that I had a million dollars and was featured on an episode of MTV Cribs.

Maybe that night was a miss.

I finally cleaned up and uploaded the rest of my doodles. Mike’s have been done for awhile now. Click ‘em to see the whole set. Three cheers for getting ish done while pre-gaming.

Now to walk over to Livewire.

For the 4th I flew up to join my brother and parents in Santa Cruz and we had a fun, frantic time. Ian and his friends showed me around to their favorite bars the night I flew in and I was shocked to discover that all the dive bars we visited allowed smoking despite the risk of fines from state authorities. They weren’t just turning a blind eye, either—waitresses and bartenders would hand out ashtrays as needed. Who would have thought that sort of thing would fly in the granola capital of the world?

The next day we spent several hours at Panther Beach while Ian and Christine stuffed us with wave after wave of grilled delectables. I took the opportunity to break in my new d50, the results of which you can see here. I’m incredibly glad I picked up a 1A filter before I went up; the ocean air was so moist and salty that a layer of dried salt would build up on the glass within an hour of cleaning and I would have lost my shit had that sort of wear been inflicted on my actual lens so early in the game. Anyway, the SLR has kept my photo-boner turgid, but with work and everything else I can’t find enough time to go feed my cravings. In due time, I suppose.

Sad story of the day: I went and checked out this bike yesterday and it was super sweet. Exactly what I needed for the commute downtown, and mega-sexy to boot. When I called the owner back tonight he’d sold it out from under me less than two hours prior. Goddamnit. The hunt continues.

On a cheerier note, I flew out of San Jose the evening of the 4th and saw my share of fireworks displays as the plane circled and gained altitude over the city. Large, municipal displays (of which I spotted maybe a dozen or so) would pop like pea-sized bubbles and the entire city was covered with small, rapid, backyard strobes that combined to form a twinkling blanket that covered miles and miles of metropolis. It reminded me of a stadium filled with camera flashes, only multiplied a hundred-fold across the landscape.