Hyoobs log 1

Notes from the front seat Sacramento-style:

1/24 Fire Escape Bar and Grill, Citrus Heights:
First, confessional time: Smoked my first cigarette in the van after we decided not to smoke in the van. Macked some fried chicken that wuz cleaned at 5 am by tombo's grandma. Met a bunch of roller girls from Sactown. Gave me the nickname 'fuzzy.' Better than my previous 'puber.' Candy Krusha with the golfers' cap sends me spinning on the rock lobster dance floor. Turns out she's married and just likes to drive boys crazy. She's talking with a miserably-toothed ghost of a mang (clearly blap'd and confrontational). I just wanna know why the cocks are crooning in the middle of the night. He points to the moon and calls it 'the sun.' "Figure it out your fucking self" he croaks, eyes half-closed.

1/25 Java Lounge, Sacramento:
Punk as a Doornail is a hilarious duo we lurked with at the Java Cafe: shooting each other with capguns, guitars made out of old skateboards, garbage cans for donations, flipping the bird and chucking drumsticks at each other. Funny self-depricating songs written on the spot such as 'sad and horny' and 'you break you buy' (mosh pit song). Manic woman pacing up and down the sidewalk, ranting about the 'greatest orgasm ever!,' humping street posts, raving to the heavens, trying to snatch grant's leg. Shark tooth'd punk rokker offers some crystal, moshes violently then passes out on the couch during a young hardcore band's set. Got to see Tets again. It's been years. Rolled some claydough with a girl from Ben's job at the old folks home. Senior citizens just want some company. Yellow checkerboard tiles in the diner. Awesome art by a local (Skinner): Quetzalcoatl slithers cunningly above the doorway. Werecats and vampire bats stare intently at the cartoon of a girl getting her ass licked. Mad respect for illustrators who draw attractive figures with the most minimal lines. Todd's neighbor works on his Harley all day long. Two generators and a 45 over the mantelpiece. He knows how to take care of himself. Tom's grandma has a fruit basket scene made up of seashells. Spent the night in the van in front of the Battlepad. Dreamt of destitude badlands of mahogany and navy blue, the land drying out before my eyes. So far, this trip is anything but dry. The news shows giant whorls of twirling white across the whole state, tracking our itinerary perfectly. Storm is raging. Will the tempest continue to build? Could this be the final Biblical judgement time?