feather2pixels

Abusin’ the rule-of-three:

I have been thinking a lot about posters lately.  If screen printing is the high calorie carbonated beverage of the printing world, then screen printed t-shirts are probably the Coke, screen printed posters are the Pepsi and mousepads are the R.C. Cola.  I was reminded of this during a recent visit to Mollusk Surf Shop, where every supply needed to construct an aesthetically harmonious surf lifestyle, from literature (coastal travel guides) to clothing (printed hoodies as far as the eye can see) to music (mostly Brightblack Morning Light), is all available within a perfectly designed 1500 square feet.  Anyway, the art gallery featured screen printed posters and they reminded me why I think screen printing is cool. Bold blocks of solid color, clever ways of doing more with less, a vague sense of incomprehensibility: bring on the rotten teeth.

I just came home from the Independent, which is a funny little club in the neighborhood that SF hipsters are shamelessly trying to rename NoPa (NOrth of the PAnhadle). “Western Addition” is apparently much too black. Anyways, I went to see John Darnielle, independent rock’s everyman, and it was a really excellent show.

He made me ponder the rarity of hearing lyrics at a rock show. Sometimes inaudible vocals are well and good (Brightblack Morning Light immediately comes to mind) and sometimes it’s a matter of poor acoustics, but I often get the impression that I can’t hear what performers are saying because they aren’t great performers. This dude knows how to play a show. He knows exactly when to sing loud, when to whisper, when to yell off-mic, and it’s fucking inspirational (So…many…similes….). And all I can think to do with all this inspiration is blog. Awesome show.

Two years after winning it, I finally replaced the chain and sprocket on my bicycle. A near death experience involving the disengagement of my transmission system on Valenica Street necessitated it. I would prefer to spend $60 on tacos, but this is for the best. Besides, there is something deeply satisfying about wearing out a piece of stainless steel under your own power over the course of several years. And although I am sad that I forgot keep my old wearied gear–it would have been great blog material–the thought of my bike dust scattered throughout San Francisco comforts me like a cup of black tea on a rainy day, mixed with milk and sugar. And look: The Mountain Goats have me talking in comparisons, which means it’s time for bed.