I just came across a music video (of sorts) for a song by Great Lake Swimmers that I’ve been in love with ever since it arrived at my doorstep on a Vice compilation this summer. Let me know if these embedded YouTube videos get to be a nuisance.

Via Jorn Barger, one of the internet’s most influential yet quiet ascetics.

The weekend of the 20th was epic. Troy’s presence in San Diego had a lot to do with it, of course, but so did the annual Live Wire Bike Bar Tour on the 21st. It was the perfect way to spend a Sunday.

This past weekend was hilarious too—Saturday night was spent wandering around Hillcrest gawking at disheveled trannies and all the rest that Hillcrest has to offer on the weekend preceding Halloween. People get pretty excited about it over there.

And a random video of an awesome art piece that I’d kill to have for my next house party:

San Diego is on fire again and, although the TV has been completely monopolized by news of the disaster, those infuriating talking heads in front of the cameras say less and less with each passing hour despite their efforts to talk more and more. Here are the two best information sources I’ve found so far, both maintained by the local PBS affiliate.

Frequently updated, detailed map

Short, factual, frequent updates via Twitter

Meanwhile, the Union Tribune is trying to maintain some disorganized excuse of a blog that won’t even load half the time you try and check it. I just tried now and their entire site is MIA.

Good luck to everyone.

After driving home from our place late Friday night (well, technically Saturday morning), Fonty sent a news bulletin via SMS: “Just saw a guy outside Pecs getting a hand job.”

Earlier this week someone with a great sense of juxtaposition discarded two items in one of the parking spaces across the street from our front door: a single, half-inverted latex glove and a pulverized bottle of Jim Beam.

Thank you, Facebook, for providing me today with this insightful and nuanced audit of San Diego’s musical taste:

To be fair, perhaps the blame lies with the people of San Diego and not Facebook’s summary of the given data. Regardless, the Jack Johnson/Sublime thing is pretty spot-on. The Oktoberfest in Ocean Beach that we briefly visited on Saturday was downright rotten with Reggae music. Guh.

Time flies when you’re having fun, and the rapid progression of these past few months startles me when I pause to reflect on them. The workweek—a temporal miasma occasionally punctuated by irresponsibly late nights—often feels like the slow, snaking queue at an amusement park ride, with the fun at the end symbolizing the weekend we look towards to keep ourselves sane.

Paintball’s last bruise has faded into a morbid, mottled watercolor of blues and yellows on my thigh. On Friday night, as a few of us holed up inside the house sipping hot cider, the skies opened up and we watched from our minuscule porch as the neighborhood got a much-needed rinse. The next evening the rest of us lost a lengthy poker game to Kati and her beginner’s luck, and we realized that our neighborhood gang has become so familial now that we cannot have an extended conversation without somehow alighting on the topic of bowel movements.

And now, after a hearty day of pumpkin carving, the house smells of roasting pumpkin seeds and the porch has a half dozen new tenants, all hollowed out and grinning ghoulishly.

Patton Oswalt, Brian Posehn and Maria Bamford were hilarious last night. We actually ran into Posehn on the street before the show, but he had his earbuds mega-jammed into his head and actually side-stepped my attempt at a greeting. Damn celebrities. Still, it was an awesome show.

Thanks to a last place finish, our team concluded music trivia night at Whistle Stop with a free round of Maker’s Mark—quite the door prize. How were we supposed to know the contest was focused on obscure local bands from twenty years ago?

Friday night, after watching Trapped in the Closet with a Brass Monkey in hand and a visit to Live Wire to top things off, I walked home from Georgia St around 3:00 a.m. and found an extremely drunk lady passed out on our front steps. She was pushing 40, sobbing, couldn’t stand upright, string together a coherent sentence, nor keep her eyes from dancing side to side. Apparently, she thought the best solution to her predicament was to convince me to take her to bed for the night. Gross. It took ten minutes of shaking her by the shoulders and threatening to call the police before I could get something resembling a street name out of her, but a quick check of Google Maps indicated she was only about five blocks from home.

So, despite her halitosis and disgusting come-ons (imagine a leathery, tobacco-cured tongue slowly scraping its way across a hairy, wrinkled upper lip), I decided to be a good Boy Scout—official slogan: ‘Do a good turn daily’—and spare her a night in the drunk tank. That’s right, I carried the old, gross lush five blocks through North Park even though she was too drunk to pronounce her own name or recall what bar she’d been at before her friends abandoned her on my doorstep.

Anyway, after a few blocks she eventually pointed at a small, two-story dual unit building behind a charming craftsman and I pushed her up the rickety stairs to what I assumed was her front door. Unfortunately, the only key she produced from her pocket belonged to a car, and she slurred something about leaving her house keys inside said car back on 30th St. Anxious to end my time with the Retard Queen, I impulsively grabbed the car key from her hand and used it to jimmy the screen off the open living room window adjacent the front door. Then, in what felt like a single, prolonged motion, I squeezed through the window (as she clumsily pawed at my ass), unlocked and opened the door from the inside, stepped out onto the porch, pushed her inside and then secured the door behind her. I quickly left before events would determine whether or not the apartment was actually hers, so if you woke up on Saturday morning with a strange, crusty woman passed out in your living room, please accept my sincerest apologies.

On Sunday, after talking about it all summer, Jordan, Brian, Mike and I drove into the hills east of Escondido to play paintball. It was awesome, and we all came away with our requisite welts and bruises. It’s great how a day that leaves you filthy and sore can be so satisfying. (Double-entendre totally intentional.)

Addendum: There were some adventures on the Friday night prior to Brian’s departure which I didn’t mention. The only thing I’d like to commit to this repository is this: you racist, nouveau riche, white trash motherfuckers can take that yacht and dock it in your assholes. Sideways. I’ve never met a more dysfunctional, decrepit family in my entire life. I hope your ill-gotten real estate money brings you nothing but agony throughout the remainder of your pathetic lives. Cat, here’s to hoping you made it off that boat un-raped.

I’ve logged more than 2,100 miles on my bike since purchasing it in August 2006. I started using it to commute to and from work beginning in October, which was a year ago this week. So, aside from a couple short, recreational rides when I first got it, I’ve pedaled 2,100 miles in the last 12 months. By my rough calculations, that distance translates into around 105 gallons of gasoline (equal, in dollars, to a low ballpark of $336, given an invented average of $3.20/gal for 91 octane), which actually isn’t as impressive as I’d hoped. 2,100 miles is also two-fifths of an oil change. 12 months of parking would have cost me $1800. If I weren’t riding, my thighs wouldn’t be what they are now, and I imagine that my gut would be far tubbier.

As of late, I’ve started to fantasize more and more about fixies. Somebody stop me.