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Issue 31

Next issue is on the street with over 10,000 free copies by December 15th.

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Say Hello, folks, To the Most Must-Have, Excellent, Independent News and Reviews Journal Ever.

In issue 30:

Brian Jonestown Massacre
Guttermouth at Hard Rock Cafe 2005
Hot Ladies
Fine Women
Hollywood Celebrity
Great Music Reviews
Reviews of Great Music
Shameless Puffery
Rock Art
Avant Gaurd Photography
Film and Literature
Extreme Archetecture
Totally Free Titty Bar Passes

Find issue 30 Of Reviewer magazine at all your finer music venues, cigar shoppes and boudoirs in your part of town.

Or else order it by emailing me at, and/or clicking here:

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Well, isn't THAT a FINE How do ya do?

On Sunday morning, shortly after logging this post:

I recieved a call from the SDPD saying that “officers” would like to “talk” with me. The female dispatch caller left a referance number. I called, thinking that this was about a tagger that had been in the neighborhood a couple of months ago. A male voice answered the phone, one with a thick latin accent, who said his name was Mario. I gave him my name and said that I was returning a call and read the ref number.

There was a long pause as he looked it up. He eventually asked me where I lived. But there was something wrong with the way he asked. It was almost a threatening snear.

“SDPD should have my address,” I said. “Look what is this call regarding?”

Another long pause.

“I need to read more into the call,” he said, as I waited.

He finally came back to me with “Some of your neighbors hadn’t seen you for a while and your mail was piling up. They were worried.”

“Oh, well, I’m on vacation…” I laughed, relieved. I’d been away for almost two weeks.

It was only tonight when I got home from the airport that I found out that FOUR SDPD OFFICERS had broken into my apartment on Sunday because a downstairs neighbor had called the landlord or someone about leaking water coming into their apt from mine, and the landlord didn’t have a key!

Why couldn’t Mario just tell me that?

Now my floor is covered in asbestos mud and I am walking around in there with a dust mask on.

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Satan's Zip Code

[Backposted from the same date in Reviewer Rob’s Sporadic Journal.]

I’m still in Portland. I can get back in time to catch the swell if I leave on Tuesday.

I have been meeting with people despite my hellacious head cold, which I think I caught in Medford. Or maybe in Marin, on the north side of the Golden Gate bridge. I had been checking out the Presidio and area around the Golden Gate and said what the hell and drove across it. On the other side there was a lookout point with a statue of a solitary sailor in the middle of it and lots of Japanese tourists acting all excited to be there. There was a fierce cold wind blowing. I mean, it was like you’d expect to feel on a ship in the arctic. This was still the first week in September and I was suddenly very aware of not being in Southern California any more. I put on a sweatshirt and it was still cold. On the water directly in front of the observation deck, down slightly to the right, there was a large rock sticking out of the water, a small shoreless island shaped like half a football jutting vertically out of the water. Plumes of the wind could be seen making small waves in the bay as blasts of air came over the Marin headland and struck the water at what must have been a sharp angle since the ripple pattern fanned out in all directions from a large central location near the rock. I went into a Sausalito dockside restaurant for a large plate of some excellent blackened catfish, beans, rice, salad and a pint of beer. The salad was better than any I’ve ever tasted. I ate every single morsel of this dish as well as the basket of bread while reading the local paper and was full. There was a TV over the bar and the weather man was at the chart. The sound was off but the unmistakable schematic of the Jet Stream could be seen making a high arc up by Alaska, curving down the Canadian Coast, and then going slightly out to sea before making a hard left and entering California right at the mouth of the San Francisco Bay. I know the Jet Stream is a high-altitude phenomenon, but it’s no wonder I imagined I could smell icebergs in that wind.

Berkeley was cold too, didn’t stop there for long. Drove up into the central valley and on for a couple of hundred miles before stopping to sleep.

I went to Medford, Oregon, the next day, and stopped in at a Starbucks to log on where there was a customer coughing. Maybe he’s the one who had something that I didn’t yet have any antibodies for… Or maybe it was the strippers at that one titty bar Medford has. They, like many Oregon erotic dancers, get up close and personal with their marks.

Since it’s a novelty for this California dude to be in a bar where nude girls dance I eagerly went in to this one place of live, erotic entertainment. The girls on stage were rubbing faces, clothed asses and crotches on customer’s faces, bare legs on faces… I was thinking like, “OK, how do I know that last guy on the other side of the stage you were rubbing your twat into his face on didn’t have fuckin pink eye?!”

But the girls were hot, so, I tipped well and drank my beer. I even bought a lap dance from a bright young lady who spent a few minutes before hitting me up for going private to tell me how nice Medford is, how it reminds her of her hometown in Minnesota, and about all the money she’s made over the last couple of years first buying a condo in Sacramento for 90K with her boyfriend and how they sold it a year later for over 100K in profit. Now she lives in Yreka and is a dental assistant. She was short, small breasted and 22, with braces on her teeth and a killer little rockin ass and figure…

Lap dance: $15.

So, anyways…

Here I am now with a huge head cold in Portland, with all these new bugs swirling around me, money in my pocket and time on my hands. The people here are friendly and I’ve met a few I’d like to spend some time with before I make my drive back.

I’ll let you know though if I come down with a case of the Portland Whooping Cough or conjunctivitis.

Oh, by the way, almost forgot, one of the things I like to do in every town I stop in is buy the local Thomas Guide. The only complaint I have about it is that they don’t yet have GPS coordinates on the pages. Other than that the things are invaluable and a great street finding resource even if you have a really good onboard or pocket computer. They come with a CD and every year they update with new streets and the pages correspond year after year so places are easy to find in each edition.

In the Thomas Guide for San Francisco the map for North Beach is on page 666.

Coincidence, you say?

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I was driving through the Mt. Shasta area today on I5 and stopped for some stuff at a gas station. I saw on the front page of the local paper that their little community is expecting about 50 Katrina evacuee families for the area soon. Wow, now that’s a long way to go in a pinch to find food and a roof over your head. The same article was saying that this is predicted to be the largest mass-refugee evacuation in the US since the Civil War.

On NPR they were describing all the cash and emergency services support coming in from countries all over the world. From about $6000 that Bosnia Hertznegovia in kicking down all the way up to billions coming from the good people of Kuwait, not to mention all kinds of oil that courageous little tribal state is pitching in, along with several other Middle Eastern countries.

Maybe the humanitarian aid the US has always been doing all over the world hasn’t been wasted on the ungrateful? Makes me all misty.