The Amscray photo shoot this morning was actually a lot of fun. I never would have thought that wandering around the Mission District with your own personal photographer would 'cause a number of memorable situations. I took a reflective picture in some guy's rear view mirror, and he yelled at me to stop taking pictures of his truck. Sheesh, it was just a photo, I wasn't even touching the thing.

After that we got a stylish haircut and headed up over the Golden Gate bridge and up the curving, windy Pacific Coast Highway to Stinson beach, where we walked up the coast in the sun and wind and wrote words in the sand with my pen. Sang Beatles songs and just kept driving. Somehow, we ended up back at home.

Driving around the Oakland hills today, I realized that I wished I was rich, if only because I could offer a large monetary prize to entice bands to come up with covers of Christopher Cross' "Sailing." That song screams "cover me with your hefty big muff distortion pedals indie-bands!" I could be the producer, I've got so many ideas for that song.

Coming back towards my big warehouse in the truck, the gates at the railroad crossing went down, but some idiot in a big black tinted SUV decided that it didn't apply to him, so he pulled out into the other lane to go around the gate. All of a sudden he slams on his brakes and this Amtrak train goes speeding by, narrowly missing his shiny front grill. Yuppies.

So now that it's February, I'm thinking about our yearly trip to the Oregon coast pretty often. I'm also thinking about possible ways to smoosh a futon into my car, since the cabin we're staying in sleeps 7, but there are something like 16 people going. Maybe I should just pretend i'm in my seventies and buy a big Winnebago or something. I'm excited about he trip though, it seems like every year I get older, the more time away from work means to me. Got to get me out of this place.

It's a busy weekend again, but, for once, I wish it was a weekend of sitting at home and petting the cat. I'm getting rid of a ton of t-shirts that I never wear, and they're stacked up in the middle of my floor about seven inches high, all spread out full, and Bunny has taken to sleeping on them nonstop. Perhaps I should make him a little bed out of old t-shirts in the corner.

Even though it premiered less than a week ago, I think I've seen the Hall & Oates Behind The Music three times. I couldn't get "Rich Girl" out of my head, so I went and downloaded it. Short and sweet.

So I get Son Volt's Trace and now all of a sudden all of this other country stuff I've had sitting around the house seems to make sense. It's amazing how these things work sometimes.

Now I can switch off Lucinda Williams with the first Husker Du album, and nothing feels funny.

Cold, yes. Snow, no.

My day has come down to hiding out in the back of the warehouse and dancing to "Train In Vain" by The Clash while pretending I'm John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever. I did this twice, and, luckily, nobody caught me. I've got the moves, just like Leland Palmer from Twin Peaks.

Lunch was tasty. I like me some green curry and bamboo shoots.

It's snowing in many areas around here, and everyone is freaking out. At least, that's the impression I get from the radio news reports. Of course, it's not actually snowing *here*, but near here is close enough. Sonoma County, where I do my deliveries every Wednesday seems to have gotten the most snow, so I'm a bit bummed it's not Wednesday and I can't be taking pictures of the white landscape. It's a rarity in these parts.

Although it didn't snow in Oakland, I was woken up last night to the sound of hail hitting the windows rather hard. Bunny was scared and hid under the bed most of the night.

My coffee is making me jittery, the computers have been down at work most of the day, but I'm looking forward to our lunch with Kyle this afternoon at the yummiest Thai restaurant in Berkeley. Maybe it will snow in Oakland tonight, then I can call in sick to work and take pictures all day long.

In other news, the laundromat third closes to my house (I know, it's a laundry hierarchy) burned down on Saturday night. They got the placed boarded up pretty well before I could take some pictures of the burned out windows, it looked like a bomb went off in the place.

It's a very sunny day here in the East Bay, but we're going to head over to SF yet again to get our drink on. A friend of ours is moving back to Portland, Oregon in a few days, so we get to tell him to get the hell out, then ask whether his apartment is for rent yet. The record store was a hoot, and I picked up a copy of the "Take The Skinheads Bowling" EP so that I could play it in the kitchen while I cook. The sunglasses were out all over the hippie neighborhood.

MP3 of the week: So, yah. Steve Earle is pretty much straight up modern country, but he *was* on the cover of the first issue of Magnet I bought, so that's got to give him some sort of indie-cred. Over the holidays, my brother gave me a couple mix CDs that have become regulars in ye olde CD wallet. One was of Gram Parsons stuff, the other was an assortment of "modern" country songs, including great bands like Son Volt, Whiskeytown, and My Morning Jacket. I really dug "More Than I Can Do" for its harmonica work and general chipper attitude, and it's quickly become one of the most played songs inside my head. Aren't brothers wonderful sometimes? I think so. Now if I could only convince him not to move to Los Angeles.

So, on Friday when I mentioned that the punk girl at my work reminded me of myself, I didn't mean to imply that I ever was or have pretended to be straightedge. I have never scrawled black Xs on my hands, never, ever. Not even as a joke. I swear, I'm just about the *opposite* of straightedge sometimes. I just had to clear that up.

My Amoeba records gift certificate is burning a big fat yellow hole in my pocket, so I'm off to get it out of there. It's going to be a busy afternoon.