Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Small Movements: A Sprockettes documentary.
Nicky Robaire put this short film together and you can catch it through the Bicycle Film Festival.
I cried.
Small Movements
approx 7min.
http://vimeo.com/1663322?pg=embed&sec=1663322
Small Movements from Nickey Robo on Vimeo.
I cried.
Small Movements
approx 7min.
http://vimeo.com/1663322?pg=embed&sec=1663322
Small Movements from Nickey Robo on Vimeo.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
What did you do this weekend?
This sat. I was expecting an overnight package from LA that cost 63$. We left a note for the mailperson to knock loud or call me. I thought that would work. We set the alarms for 10. they should be there around 11 we heard. We go downstairs at 10:30 and there is a blasted pinkslip.
"Package avail. for pickup on Tues. Sept. 2nd."
We needed that afternoon.
Not good enough.
Called the number on the back.
Sob story deadline didn't work.
Unless we knew the mailguys route.
"Can you give us his route?" Hell no.
OK. Are you sure? ok. Really? Bye.
I work in mail on a daily so I went for some more numbers. I found the local team where our package would finally reside.
I think her name was Yvonne.
I know the time was 11:11 because I kissed Jamie bond on the cheek for good luck.
Yvonne came through. She gave us Larry's route. Within minutes we are on our bikes. Jamie Bond finds the truck and will stake it out on a hinch, while I triangulate his possible whereabouts. I was told the 1300 block of Hampshire, right close to us. I thought it was on 13th and Hampshire so I took of at high speed, full of coffee. As I get to twentieth from twnty-fourth I see that the address is like 824 already. Oh! The street outside the house we were on was the 1300 block! Duh. I go back and see a lady fixing her motorcycle.
"Have you seen the mailman? Huhhuuu.. Larry?"
Yeah like 45 seconds ago. Down that way.
"Larry!!!!! Do you have our package?"
Nope. No not at all. Not if it was bigger than a shoebox. A bigger truck whom he doesn't know.
Yvonne doesn't know who it was either.
"I guess if you go outside and look for a bog mailtruck, you might find him. Otherwise we can leave him a note for 5pm when he get back and he might be able to get you the package then. We needed the package before 2pm to take to the Slow Food Festival. Our ticket money was in that bag too! Alright, I can't sit around and face defeat. I jam on my bike and search for my package cosmically. A mile down the road I turn around. This is silly.
Then as I am crossing a street, I see a bigger mail truck down the block, heading the same direction. I follow one block and cut right. There the truck is parking and going in to the other post office where our package was not going. The light was red and there was traffic pouring across Van Ness. I see the man knock on the side door and wait. then someone comes. I dart in front of a truck and he stops.
I catch the door just before it closes and yell, "Excuse me, excuse me, huuu huuu, I am huuu looking for a mailman. huuu huu."
It turns out that his guys was the man who left the note!!!!!!
I have to call Jamie because she has the slip and it's in her name. He is nice enough to wait 4 minutes. It was timed. We got the package!!
Off on the bus adventure to Fort Mason to pass out 2012 flyers and watch Ozolmaltli and Gnarles Barkley. On our eay home we talked about grilling.
I get a call from a friend who is grilling two minutes later and we jam over there. Bacon cheddar burgers on a french roll with a hot tub session afterwards.
What a great night!
"Package avail. for pickup on Tues. Sept. 2nd."
We needed that afternoon.
Not good enough.
Called the number on the back.
Sob story deadline didn't work.
Unless we knew the mailguys route.
"Can you give us his route?" Hell no.
OK. Are you sure? ok. Really? Bye.
I work in mail on a daily so I went for some more numbers. I found the local team where our package would finally reside.
I think her name was Yvonne.
I know the time was 11:11 because I kissed Jamie bond on the cheek for good luck.
Yvonne came through. She gave us Larry's route. Within minutes we are on our bikes. Jamie Bond finds the truck and will stake it out on a hinch, while I triangulate his possible whereabouts. I was told the 1300 block of Hampshire, right close to us. I thought it was on 13th and Hampshire so I took of at high speed, full of coffee. As I get to twentieth from twnty-fourth I see that the address is like 824 already. Oh! The street outside the house we were on was the 1300 block! Duh. I go back and see a lady fixing her motorcycle.
"Have you seen the mailman? Huhhuuu.. Larry?"
Yeah like 45 seconds ago. Down that way.
"Larry!!!!! Do you have our package?"
Nope. No not at all. Not if it was bigger than a shoebox. A bigger truck whom he doesn't know.
Yvonne doesn't know who it was either.
"I guess if you go outside and look for a bog mailtruck, you might find him. Otherwise we can leave him a note for 5pm when he get back and he might be able to get you the package then. We needed the package before 2pm to take to the Slow Food Festival. Our ticket money was in that bag too! Alright, I can't sit around and face defeat. I jam on my bike and search for my package cosmically. A mile down the road I turn around. This is silly.
Then as I am crossing a street, I see a bigger mail truck down the block, heading the same direction. I follow one block and cut right. There the truck is parking and going in to the other post office where our package was not going. The light was red and there was traffic pouring across Van Ness. I see the man knock on the side door and wait. then someone comes. I dart in front of a truck and he stops.
I catch the door just before it closes and yell, "Excuse me, excuse me, huuu huuu, I am huuu looking for a mailman. huuu huu."
It turns out that his guys was the man who left the note!!!!!!
I have to call Jamie because she has the slip and it's in her name. He is nice enough to wait 4 minutes. It was timed. We got the package!!
Off on the bus adventure to Fort Mason to pass out 2012 flyers and watch Ozolmaltli and Gnarles Barkley. On our eay home we talked about grilling.
I get a call from a friend who is grilling two minutes later and we jam over there. Bacon cheddar burgers on a french roll with a hot tub session afterwards.
What a great night!
Sweet things...
There are cool things about every day.
I spend most of my nights at a friend's house, and she has three alarms she sets.
She's like me. It takes forever to pry me from dreamland.
She has this one alarm like the cartoons, skull sized with two bells. When we stay up late she turns it on. It's the last resort. The saving grace.
The thing about it is that device is from a forgotten generation these days with digisnoozers.
I can't turn it off without re-enacting the classic mouse cartoons, with my hair sticking up, struggling then slamming.
Treat Street.
I love you. 24th to 20th, on the way to work. The morning sun and a coffee in my hand.
My pink skateboard sings your name.
We dance, those four blocks.
I practice my kung fu stance.
I truss you up with laces from my wheels.
I can't stop smiling.
You might have seen me, at Broderick and Haight, halfway there.
I had a huge smile this time too.
It feels so good to kick my legs on my bike up those slopes.
I get off on it.
Literally.
Halfway through you can tell I've gotten myself into something good and haven't finished.
I reach Buena Vista park and switch up gears. A block for ultimate climax.
Up to waller, dead on like an arrow until I've reached maximum velocity. Then I slink up the hill, embodying the sidewinding snake.
I slither up the hill rapidly, one step back two slinks up.
Then one block downhill to the granite steps of the stoop.
I felt on top of the world.
The Skatepark.
Oh how I love sitting on the hill and watching all walk of life ride the concrete waves and dance upon its fray.
The little buttboarding kids, the helmetkneepadelbowpad kids. The old men rejuvinating their childhood. The sexy bearded booksmart boarders who I have a crush on. The random generator shows on the labrynth. Little black kids playing their skateboards like guitars.
Each kid that wanders up tries it. Only a few get it realistically and the others look to them for leadership.
The skateboarding family. Mama MissShelley, her son and man who all skate to and from the park with their pitt as a team. The kid can rip it on the pavement.
What a great melting pot.
Everyone's united in the pursuit of hurting oneself.
A couple of times I have slept on the job. There are these 72 gallon bags that we put in recycled packaging. Empty they are perfect for sleeping. It's like a plastic nest. You need a protective layer of soft stuff that will pad the stringy plastic parts. I am lucky to have my sleepingbag from traveling still there. I have curled up behind the old backstock magazines on my lunch break, waking myself up with my own snoring. I took some awesome "myspace" photos laying in a pile of magazines. My mind is allowed to wander at work. It rules.
One time I curled up in the shelves next to my nearest co-corker before he had arrived. He came in and I was right at his ankles and he had no idea. I stayed there, in silent sleep-like motions. He didn't notice me and it had been ten minutes. I was in!
I make a small breathing sound. Kind of ghost like.
I see him look around and then shake it off.
I am choking my laughter.
I make it again and this time go for his ankles.
He jumps so high I can't believe it.
I get out, dust off, and go back to work.
Don't tell my boss, if you know what's good for you.
I spend most of my nights at a friend's house, and she has three alarms she sets.
She's like me. It takes forever to pry me from dreamland.
She has this one alarm like the cartoons, skull sized with two bells. When we stay up late she turns it on. It's the last resort. The saving grace.
The thing about it is that device is from a forgotten generation these days with digisnoozers.
I can't turn it off without re-enacting the classic mouse cartoons, with my hair sticking up, struggling then slamming.
Treat Street.
I love you. 24th to 20th, on the way to work. The morning sun and a coffee in my hand.
My pink skateboard sings your name.
We dance, those four blocks.
I practice my kung fu stance.
I truss you up with laces from my wheels.
I can't stop smiling.
You might have seen me, at Broderick and Haight, halfway there.
I had a huge smile this time too.
It feels so good to kick my legs on my bike up those slopes.
I get off on it.
Literally.
Halfway through you can tell I've gotten myself into something good and haven't finished.
I reach Buena Vista park and switch up gears. A block for ultimate climax.
Up to waller, dead on like an arrow until I've reached maximum velocity. Then I slink up the hill, embodying the sidewinding snake.
I slither up the hill rapidly, one step back two slinks up.
Then one block downhill to the granite steps of the stoop.
I felt on top of the world.
The Skatepark.
Oh how I love sitting on the hill and watching all walk of life ride the concrete waves and dance upon its fray.
The little buttboarding kids, the helmetkneepadelbowpad kids. The old men rejuvinating their childhood. The sexy bearded booksmart boarders who I have a crush on. The random generator shows on the labrynth. Little black kids playing their skateboards like guitars.
Each kid that wanders up tries it. Only a few get it realistically and the others look to them for leadership.
The skateboarding family. Mama MissShelley, her son and man who all skate to and from the park with their pitt as a team. The kid can rip it on the pavement.
What a great melting pot.
Everyone's united in the pursuit of hurting oneself.
A couple of times I have slept on the job. There are these 72 gallon bags that we put in recycled packaging. Empty they are perfect for sleeping. It's like a plastic nest. You need a protective layer of soft stuff that will pad the stringy plastic parts. I am lucky to have my sleepingbag from traveling still there. I have curled up behind the old backstock magazines on my lunch break, waking myself up with my own snoring. I took some awesome "myspace" photos laying in a pile of magazines. My mind is allowed to wander at work. It rules.
One time I curled up in the shelves next to my nearest co-corker before he had arrived. He came in and I was right at his ankles and he had no idea. I stayed there, in silent sleep-like motions. He didn't notice me and it had been ten minutes. I was in!
I make a small breathing sound. Kind of ghost like.
I see him look around and then shake it off.
I am choking my laughter.
I make it again and this time go for his ankles.
He jumps so high I can't believe it.
I get out, dust off, and go back to work.
Don't tell my boss, if you know what's good for you.
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