Itinerary.

48 hours from now I'll be in San Diego, California, enjoying the first leg of a trip up and down the Golden State (or, as Erik Davis would put it, the Visionary State) with my girlfriend.

Twelve and a half hours from now I have a Chinese midterm.

Right now I'm not studying. Right now I'm enjoying some DCPD Bangerz, sipping tequila with Peychaud's bitters, Controy, and water, and daydreaming about skateparks and other assorted things.

I'll try to write from Cali-forn-eye-ay. Failing that, I'll drop whatever verbiage I concoct out west here when I get back to H-Town. (I'll also try not to use ridiculous nomenclature, though that's a dodgy proposition.)

Zaijian, pengyou.

"this is my curb"

"this is my curb"



"Skate curbs, smoke cigarettes."
...say hi to groms, moms, dads,
ice cream man.

That ain't wax,
that's aluminum. Months and months of Trackers and Indies
laid down on these curbs, mere yards from 35,000 square feet
of high-grade Grindline concrete.
It's easier out here, if you don't count pedestrians
and the occasional Parks and Recreation vehicle
rumbling through.
Stoge sessions sometimes, bitching about work
or just the rough concrete,
but mostly just Sk8-His and a set of 160somethings:
remember to lean back
and soon you'll be showing axle and
blowing the fuck out of some orange Khiros.

"Drink coffee, skate curbs."
snapshot: coffee grind
(backside 50/50, joe in hand).

Book it: only way to go. Remember to lean back
or you'll never enter the kingdom,
'cause bails don't count.
"how's it going, man?"
It's going, man.
It's
going. Let me see if I can nail this
feeble,
dig this fenceposted sunset and crank up the Rockboxed
metal before I have to go back in
and do what I'm gettin' paid to do.

Be back in an hour
for ten minutes of Tom Knox action. This
is my curb.