Arik and Elishba navigate the city's arteries astride an Aprilia RS50, a 2001 model, which, despite its compact frame, boasts the lineage of a GP125 race bike. This singular machine, the only one of its kind in the entire United States, slices through the urban landscape with a whir of efficiency and a hint of defiance. The bike’s rarity and the thrum of its engine attract admiring glances from enthusiasts and passersby alike, its sleek design a sharp contrast to the bulky city buses and the stuttering taxis.
Riding the Aprilia, they embody the freedom of movement, each turn and acceleration a bold punctuation in the city’s dense narrative. The bike, more than just a vehicle, becomes a symbol of their journey—a physical manifestation of their desire to carve out unique paths in a world that often favors the conventional.
Their passage takes them past graffiti-splashed alleyways where the art is as vibrant and ephemeral as the city's own dreams. Here, the walls speak in colors, each mural a voice in the urban chorus, telling tales of love, resistance, and existence. As they pause to admire a particularly striking piece—a giant, swirling vortex of blues and greens that seems almost alive—Elishba's eyes reflect the wild beauty of the art. "It's like the city is alive, breathing through these paintings," she remarks, her voice a mix of wonder and reverence.
Arik nods, his gaze following the lines of the mural, tracing the edges where vibrant life meets cold concrete. "Art and movement, they're the pulse of this city," he agrees, the Aprilia idling softly between them, its gentle rumble a steady reminder of their temporary pause in motion.
They continue onward, the Aprilia weaving between lanes, its agility a perfect match for the city’s unpredictable rhythm. The bike’s small frame belies its power, and with each mile, they shed the cumbersome weight of daily trivialities, replaced by a sense of clarity and purpose.
As dusk falls, they pull over atop a hill overlooking the city, the skyline a jagged rhythm against the softening sky. Below, the city lights begin to flicker to life, each one a note in the evening's melody. Elishba turns off the bike's engine, and for a moment, there's silence, save for the distant hum of the city and the soft whisper of the wind.
"This," Arik says, gesturing towards the sprawling view, "is why I ride. For moments like this, when the world pauses just enough for us to catch up." His words hang between them, a testament to the small yet significant freedoms they find on the back of the Aprilia.
Elishba smiles, her hand finding Arik’s as they stand together, the city sprawling before them—a tapestry of light, sound, and life, waiting to be explored. The Aprilia, silent now beside them, stands as a faithful companion to their explorations, a bridge to the next chapter of their adventure in the ever-unfolding story of the night.
And in this story, the truth is not just in the facts of their journey, but in the poetry of their experiences, each mile traveled a line in their shared sonnet.
In the hum of the city's twilight, Arik and Elishba are buoyed not just by the thrill of the ride but also by a relentless, pulsing energy. Elishba's narcolepsy dictates a regimen where speed is not just a matter of velocity but also of necessity, a chemical counterbalance to her body's sudden and unpredictable demands for sleep.
Their senses heightened, every detail of the city is amplified—the stark contrast of shadow and neon, the cacophony of distant traffic, the subtle shift of the breeze. The stimulant sharpens their perceptions, carving the world into a series of vivid snapshots that flit through their consciousness with the clarity of broken glass.
As they stand on the hill, overlooking the vast network of life and light below, there is a palpable tension between the serene view and the internal tempest it battles. Elishba's hand tightens around Arik's, her grip firm, grounding. The speed coursing through their veins makes the quiet of the scene almost jarring, the stillness of the paused Aprilia an odd companion to their quickened heartbeats.
"It keeps me here, in the now," Elishba confesses, her voice tinged with a mix of gratitude and resignation. "It's like riding a wave that you know will crash but also lifts you high enough to see the horizon."
Arik nods, understanding her metaphor in the context of their shared experiences, both on the road and in the challenges her condition imposes. "And we ride it together," he adds, his voice steady, a lighthouse in the churn of her stormy seas.
Together, they turn back to the view, their eyes scanning the horizon where the city's pulse meets the sky's calm. In this moment, suspended between the earth and the ether, they find a fleeting peace, a snapshot where their challenges are just another part of the landscape—acknowledged, accepted, and owned.
The Aprilia once again a blur of motion, its engine a purr against the roar of their lives. The night deepens, and the city stretches out before them, not just a backdrop but a canvas, waiting for them to trace their next path across its vast, waiting surface.
In the midst of their frenetic lives, fueled by quick trips to taco stands and long nights in their makeshift studio, Arik and Elishba carve out an existence in an unlikely home. Perched atop a parking lot at the Naud Junction, near the historical echoes of downtown's cabooses and state parks, their quasi-hut offers more than just shelter—it's a sanctuary where creativity and necessity meld into one. The building, with its rolling door and built-in ramp, seems almost alive, breathing in the city's rhythm and exhaling a mix of music and machinery.
Inside, the space is raw, utilitarian yet undeniably vibrant. It's here that Elishba and Arik share their quarters with the only other musician in the building, Longevity—a moniker as symbolic as it is literal. He's the younger brother of will.i.am, but a stark contrast to his sibling's brighter, more mainstream appeal. Longevity is the darker, more introspective version, his music a deep dive into the shadowy depths of sound and soul.
The trio’s coexistence is a tapestry of sound and silence, each artist bringing their unique frequencies to the mix. Longevity’s beats often throb through the walls, a dark, pulsating heart at the core of their creative collective. Elishba’s technical wizardry weaves through Arik’s conceptual artistry, their collaborations a fusion of digital and tangible, ephemeral and enduring.
As the city lights flicker in the distance, their music rises above the hum of traffic and the occasional clatter of trains from the nearby yards. It’s a sound that’s as much about survival as it is about expression, crafted not just for an audience but as a beacon for themselves—a signal that in the chaos of city life and the blur of their days, they have a place where they belong, where they create, and most importantly, where they understand and are understood.
In the pulsing heart of the city, Arik and Elishba’s lives whirl with the constant motion of acquiring the necessities that fuel both their creative fires and Elishba's medical needs. Between scoops of ice cream to stave off the heat and relentless scavenging for computer parts, their days blur into a relentless quest for enhancement and sustenance.
Their frequent stops at thrift stores are expeditions for treasure—hunting for rare finds that could be repurposed into their ongoing project: constructing a supercomputer. This isn't just any machine; it's a patchwork beast born from the remnants of Goodwill electronics and the now-shuttered Fry’s, each component a salvaged piece of Silicon Valley’s excess. Amid racks of discarded nostalgia, they gather what they need, each piece sparking ideas for both Arik's art and the computational needs of their ambitious bot.
Back in their studio, the supercomputer takes shape on a sturdy frame of reclaimed wood—each plank and circuit a testament to their resourcefulness and vision. This machine is more than the sum of its parts; it's a symbol of their life together, a blend of art and technology that defines the very space they inhabit. Here, amid the hum of cooling fans and the scent of old wood, they craft not just music or art, but a future pieced together from the past's leftovers.
In the shadowy corners of their urban enclave, Arik and Elishba are surrounded by a curious assembly of neighbors, each with a past as patched and repurposed as the electronics that litter their studio. The area, a patchwork of windowless music studios and makeshift homes, harbors those whose lives have veered off the main road—ex-gangsters seeking anonymity, artists cloaked in obscurity.
These studios, dimly lit and pulsing with the deep beats of unrecorded tracks, offer sanctuary not just for the misunderstood artists but for those fading from a harsher spotlight. The heavy air is thick with the bass of hip-hop and the scent of resilience, painting a gritty picture of survival and adaptation.
Here, in this junction of lost dreams and newfound hopes, Arik and Elishba find their place among the echoes of past misdeeds and the rhythmic promise of redemption. Their interactions are sparse, nods of acknowledgment more common than conversations, as each respects the sanctuary of shadows they've come to share.Chapter: The Tides of Discontent
In the heart of San Francisco, where the fog rolls in like a soft, gray blanket over the Golden Gate, the echoes of the past still reverberate through the city's veins. The year was 2003, a time when the city’s streets pulsed with an energy that was both electric and elusive, a lingering ghost of a not-too-distant past where magic seemed woven into the very fabric of the city.
Charlie Don’t Surf, they used to say, and it wasn’t just about the waves. It was about the rebellion, the resistance, the refusal to conform to a society that demanded uniformity. It was the mantra of those who sought something different, something raw and real. It was a time when the counterculture wasn’t just a footnote in history but a living, breathing force that challenged the status quo at every turn.
The Treats Gang, a moped fraternity that had become legends in their own right, roared through the city on their custom Puch Magnum Limited 2-speed mopeds. They were the modern knights of a city that seemed to be losing its way, a city that was slowly being devoured by tech giants and sky-high rents. But in the early 2000s, there was still a fight to be fought, a dream to be dreamt.
Benjamin Broad, the wandering sage of the gang, had just returned from his latest odyssey through the Tibetan mountains. His stories, filled with the mysticism of the East and the harsh realities of the journey, fueled the gang's passion for exploration and self-sufficiency. It was Broad who had introduced them to the concept of psychogeographic drift, the art of wandering the city without direction, guided only by the currents of the urban landscape. Each ride was an adventure, a dérive that revealed the hidden layers of San Francisco’s soul.
The gang’s rides were not mere joyrides; they were acts of rebellion, a challenge to the gentrification that threatened to sanitize the city. They embraced the philosophy of détournement, repurposing the mundane cityscape into their playground, transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary. Their mopeds, vintage machines modified to perfection, were symbols of freedom and creativity.
San Francisco’s unique topography, with its steep hills and breathtaking vistas, provided the perfect backdrop for their adventures. The city’s diverse population and constant influx of new ideas created a fertile ground for their creative endeavors. Each ride was a radical act of discovery and defiance, a way to reclaim the city from the forces that sought to homogenize it.
But it wasn’t just the physical city they explored. Their journeys took them deep into the cultural and social fabric of San Francisco. They were inspired by the Situationist International, the radical group of the 1950s and 60s that sought to transform everyday life through revolutionary creativity. The Treats Gang embraced these ideals, blending them with the spirit of the 1960s counterculture to create a unique movement that defied categorization.
The gang’s commitment to their cause transcended mere hobby. They were deeply involved in the moped ecosystem, manufacturing new parts and keeping the culture alive. They engaged in micro-lending initiatives, supporting moped part manufacturing in places like Sri Lanka and working with communities like the Amish to produce specialized exhaust pipes. This global network of enthusiasts and suppliers sustained their lifestyle and fostered a sense of solidarity and purpose.
Recognition came, but it was never the goal. They won the Best Gang award from the Bay Guardian, a testament to their influence and impact. The Treats were not just a gang; they were a movement, a blend of Situationist ideals and the spirit of the 1960s counterculture. They turned the city into their playground, embracing unitary urbanism, the seamless integration of art and life.
But as the years passed, the fight became harder. The city changed, and not always for the better. The tech boom brought wealth and innovation, but also inequality and displacement. The Treats Gang saw their beloved city transformed, its character slowly eroded by the forces of capitalism and conformity. Yet they never stopped riding, never stopped dreaming.
Charlie Don’t Surf, they used to say. And as the gang roared through the streets, their engines echoing through the canyons of concrete and glass, it was a reminder that the spirit of rebellion, the quest for freedom, and the fight against conformity were still alive. They were the last of a dying breed, the guardians of a dream that refused to die.
San Francisco, a city on the edge of disappearance, was still their playground. And as long as there were roads to ride and dreams to chase, the Treats Gang would be there, a beacon of hope and defiance in a world that seemed to have lost its way. The best times of their lives might have been behind them, but the spirit of those days lived on, in every ride, in every laugh, in every act of rebellion.
Benji’s on one, Stoney, riffing wild, weaving tales like Watanabe’s sax over a post-bop groove. “Kashgar to Chengdu, Tibetan Plateau, Qinghai—madness, pure madness. Info’s gold, man, but sweat for it, bleed for it. Mapped that route like a fiend, but Silk Road’s a beast, a monster in disguise.”
Breath quick, intake sharp, dives back in, tempo rising. “Sandstorms, water scarce, asbestos mines—hell on wheels. Prisons, permits, government shadows loom. Solo cyclist’s nightmare. So, I pivot south, Taklamakan Desert, main route near Charchan, backtracking to Dunhuang. Winter’s coming, can’t mess with that. Train or bus, no shame, just survival.”
He moves, electric energy. “East Coast Taiwan, Toucheng to Heping, roads empty, eerie. Temples, silent guardians. Grim day, rain-soaked, chain snaps twice. No photos, too wet, too wild. Taiwan’s rain, relentless, part of the landscape. Short day, overpriced hotel, old man calls me beautiful, hilarious.”
Memories flash, lightning quick. “Forums, cyclists dreaming of Tibet—don’t try, man. Bureaucracy’s killer, visas ripped in a heartbeat. Respect the rules, head down. Mongolia, another beast, wrestling in my mind. Border crossings, headwinds from hell, roads disappearing, vast uncharted expanse. Hitchhiking attempts, faces fleeting, connections momentary. Each moment, a story in the dust.”
Voice trembles, emotion undercurrent. “Abag Qi, middle of nowhere. Boys tormenting a kitten, helpless fury. Kitten’s cry haunting, echo of innocence lost. Laoshu found, life saved, bond formed. Healing, caring, connection through suffering. Emails from border police, fragments of kindness in harsh landscapes. Dysentery battles, friendships in adversity. Faces, places, threads in my journey’s tapestry.”
Words flow, relentless torrent. “Xilinhot’s rest, brief pause. Mountains, plateaus, endurance tested. Each pedal stroke, beat in the survival song. Mongolia’s winds, force of nature. Riding into storms, feeling earth’s raw power. Each gust, challenge, will test. Road conditions deteriorating, pushing forward despite odds.”
Voice softens, reflective rhythm. “Every moment, choice to continue, fight elements, doubt. Road, enemy and ally, shaping, testing, forging spirit. Struggle, lesson. Mile, story. Journey more than distance—transformation, growth, relentless pursuit of something greater.”
Pause, silence thick with unspoken thoughts. “Struggle, lesson. Mile, story. Journey more than distance—transformation, growth, relentless pursuit of something greater.”
Benji’s tale, mosaic of highs, lows, endurance, despair, unfolds in our shared space. His voice, lifeline, pulls me into his experience’s depths, where each word testifies to the unyielding spirit of adventure, the bond between man and road, the endless quest for meaning in life’s chaotic landscape.
Kashgar, silk road dreams, but reality bites. Sandstorms, suffocating, water scarce, danger everywhere. Asbestos mine, menacing, prisons on the path, permits needed, government’s eye, always watching. Solo journey, madness, pivot south, Taklamakan beckons. Water’s there, survival’s a game. Dunhuang, retrace steps, beat winter’s chill. Train, bus, no shame, just a ride to fight time’s grasp.
East Coast Taiwan, ghost roads, temples silent, shadows. Chain snaps, rain’s a constant companion. Overpriced hotel, old man’s laugh, absurd beauty. Cyclists dream of Tibet, impossible fantasy. Bureaucracy’s a beast, visas fragile, obey rules, avoid wrath. Mongolia, wrestle with fate. Border crossings, hitchhiking, empty roads, whispers of doom.
Abag Qi, town in nowhere, boys torment a kitten, heart breaks. Laoshu found, healing journey begins. Connection in suffering, bond unbreakable. Border police, emails of kindness, fragments of humanity. Dysentery, friendships in adversity, stories in dust. Xilinhot, brief rest, mountains call. Pedal strokes, survival’s rhythm, Mongolia’s winds, raw power. Road’s a test, pushing forward, spirit’s trial.
Struggle, lesson, mile by mile. Journey’s essence, more than distance, transformation, relentless pursuit. Silence thick, unspoken thoughts. Benji’s tale, highs and lows, endurance and despair. His voice, lifeline, pulls me into depths, unyielding spirit, bond with road. Endless quest for meaning in chaos, journey’s rhythm, survival’s song.
Benji on the move, feverish energy, every moment a note in the jazz of life. Qinghai, Taklamakan, Taiwan, Mongolia—each place a beat, each challenge a riff. Struggle, lesson, transformation. Journey’s essence, a mosaic of endurance, despair, hope. Survival’s rhythm, pedal strokes in the song of life. His energy, a caffeine-acid-drop-in-a-Binaca-bottle frenzy, ricochets off the walls. "Don't say anything, Stoney. Absorb," he commands. I grit my teeth, itching to interject, but I listen.
Benji was everything together from Tibet. His whirlwind narrative, a high-speed monologue of new journalism. His style encoded with a visceral lingo that was wild and tasty. His tales, a mix of sharp observation and raw critique, flow like a jazz solo on the edge of chaos.
"Show me, don't tell," I finally interject.
"What, Stoney, how? With my camera? The film's not ready."
"With words. Show, don't tell."
"Oh, I got it," Benji says, and he's off again, embodying the spirit of the moment with an avant-garde, poetic, nonstop narrative—active voice, no adjectives. It's Burroughs on meth, man.
"Obey the government when a guest," he mutters, a sardonic grin on his face. "Obey, I did not!"
He’s on about cycle touring, telling about people who don't research border crossings. "Cowards," he says. "It’s not about 'trying,' it’s about surviving." He talks about Brandi Wallace, who made it across Tibet by hiding under bullet trains to sleep at night, and this girl he met, Wonderlust or something like that. They both had the only Soma bikes and are rumored to be the last to enter Tibet. But I was there otherwise—it's permits and a lot of money. "If I read another post from someone saying we are cowards, I'll shoot a bottle rocket at them or throw my bike at them," Benji declares, his eyes full of crazy.
Back on the road with Gram French and his handbuilt frame. Bad idea. Blazing heat, broken derailers. "Mr. Know It All," the fake and braggart, trying to order us around, then calling his cronies to pick him up. "I don’t like this at all," Benji states flatly. They leave him behind, so I reluctantly let him catch up. Hit mountains for days, camp in the wilderness.
Benji's voice is a torrent, a flood of imagery and sensation. Each word paints a picture, vivid and immediate. His journey is raw, unfiltered, a relentless pursuit of truth through the chaos. And through it all, his spirit remains unbroken, riding the currents of his adventures like a master jazz musician, each note a testament to his unyielding quest for understanding and experience.
Kashgar to Chengdu, Tibet to Qinghai, the route cuts through the heart of the Silk Road. A year of research boils down to this: the Qinghai route is madness, especially alone. Water supplies scarce, furious sandstorms, an open asbestos mine, and permits—always permits. Benji decides on the Taklamakan Desert, from Khotan to Charchan. Water here, and then backtrack towards Dunhuang, a cheat to beat wintertime in NW China. "Obey the government when a guest," he mutters, a sardonic grin on his face again repeating. "Obey, I did not."
"It’s not about 'trying,' it’s about surviving."
Day three: Toucheng to Heping. Strange lands, never seeing people, just temples. The bike chain snaps twice, the rain pours, and Taiwan is always raining. We find a bathroom behind a 7-11, baby ducks peeping. The mountain roads twist and turn, tunnels at the top leading to something awesome on the other side—downhill, finally. Prayers are necessary going down a mountain in the middle of nowhere.
Benji’s bike breaks down, hydrophobic in the rain. Repairs, soaked, mountains climbed, and the wind from the ocean cutting through. An overpriced hotel with Gramps, the owner, who calls him beautiful. Benji laughs it off, already on to the next thought, the next plan.
"Obey the government when a guest," he mutters, a sardonic grin on his face. Arik replys with a question sound. "Obey, I did not?".
Mongolia, though. Wrestling with himself. Days after days of everything just downright polar opposite of enjoyed, but still. "I'm alive, so I live." Road disappeared, tried to hitchhike. A hot Tibetan girl in a pink silk dress throwing rocks at a horse. A storm rolling in on the plains—gorgeous but freezing, slow, feeling dogged like oxygen not enough but you get high and you fly.
Kashgar to Chengdu, Tibet to Qinghai, the route cuts through the heart of the Silk Road. A year of research boils down to this: the Qinghai route is madness, especially alone. Water supplies scarce, furious sandstorms, an open asbestos mine, and permits—always permits. Benji decides on the Taklamakan Desert, from Khotan to Charchan. Water here, and then backtrack towards Dunhuang, a cheat to beat wintertime in NW China. "Obey the government when a guest," he mutters, a sardonic grin on his face. "Obey, I did not."
Day three: Toucheng to Heping. Strange lands, never seeing people, just temples. The bike chain snaps twice, the rain pours, and Taiwan is always raining. We find a bathroom behind a 7-11, baby ducks peeping. The mountain roads twist and turn, tunnels at the top leading to something awesome on the other side—downhill, finally. Prayers are necessary going down a mountain in the middle of nowhere.
Benji’s bike breaks down, hydrophobic in the rain. Repairs, soaked, mountains climbed, and the wind from the ocean cutting through. An overpriced hotel with Gramps, the owner, who calls him beautiful. Benji laughs it off, already on to the next thought, the next plan.
"Obey the government when a guest," he mutters, a sardonic grin on his face. "Obey, I did not."
I watch, absorbed in his tales, the rhythm of his words pulling me in. Each story, a brushstroke on the canvas of his life, wild and untamed. Benji’s world, a chaotic symphony, and I’m caught in its melody.
The future demands integrity, and it’s barreling down the highway—unstoppable, unyielding.
A storm is brewing in the heart of the city. This is more than a crusade against corruption; it’s a battle for the soul of our communities. The air is thick with tension as the machine hums with life, data flowing through its circuits like blood through veins. Each byte of information, each line of code, is a soldier in this digital war, exposing the hidden skeletons buried deep within the bureaucratic labyrinth.
Mayor Bass, the walls are closing in. The system you once controlled is now under siege by a force you can neither bribe nor intimidate. This isn’t just a reform; it’s a revolution. And revolutions don’t ask for permission.
In the midst of this technological onslaught, stories emerge—testaments to the human spirit that refuses to be crushed under the weight of corruption. The streets of Boyle Heights echo with the determination of people like Paul Bowers, who navigate broken sidewalks and systemic neglect with unwavering resolve. Each crack in the pavement, each inaccessible curb, is a battlefield in their daily fight for dignity.
The meeting room buzzed with tension as Arik Seidenglanz voiced his concerns. "Hillside regulations are being ignored. Illegal construction is out of control in my neighborhood. How can we enforce these regulations?"
Eric Early responded with a measured tone. "This is primarily a city and state issue, not a federal one. While I don't support illegal building, enforcement has to come from local authorities."
Before the conversation could go further, Darcy Harris interjected. "I completely disagree with that perspective. These legislations are trying to roll back 60 years of barely protecting employees' rights." She turned to Early, her voice firm. "What do you say to someone who wants to remain an independent contractor?"
Eric Early replied, "I believe people should have the freedom to choose their work arrangements."
Darcy shook her head, frustration evident. "That means they want to be oppressed by the system. This makes me so mad." She took a breath, visibly calming herself. "I'm sorry for being blunt, but this is a serious issue."
Paul Bowers stepped in, trying to steer the discussion in a new direction. "L'Imagination au Pouvoir. I support incumbent Congressman Adam Schiff. There's a learning curve to being an elected official; it’s a different language altogether. Eric, have you thought about what committees you’d like to serve on?"
Eric Early nodded. "Yes, I'd like to be on the Education Committee. Education is one of the most pressing issues we face today. I'm also interested in the Judicial Committee, given my 27 years of experience as a lawyer. By contrast, Adam Schiff only practiced law for five years before entering politics. I believe I have a deeper understanding of judicial matters."
Arik Seidenglanz, not one to be easily diverted, pressed on. "But what about hillside regulations? The illegal construction is destroying our community. How can we enforce the laws?"
Early reiterated, "It's a city and state issue, Arik. The federal government doesn't typically get involved in local zoning and construction enforcement. You could push for stronger local ordinances and stricter enforcement at the city and state levels."
Darcy Harris, sensing the frustration in the room, added, "We need our neighborhood council to prioritize this issue. Independent contractors often exploit loopholes to avoid fines and accountability. This isn't just about regulations; it's about protecting our community."
Seidenglanz nodded, the fire in his eyes undiminished. "I have a stop order on my house because of these issues. If someone builds illegally, we need more than just a stop order. We need investigations and enforcement."
Eric Early conceded, "If there’s illegal construction, you can seek an injunction. And if there's mortgage fraud, that's a strong argument to bring to an attorney."
Paul Bowers, ever the pragmatist, leaned in. "L'Imagination au Pouvoir. The reality is, we need officials who understand the complexities of these issues. There’s no quick fix, but with the right people in office, we can make progress."
The room fell silent, each person lost in thought. The fight against illegal construction, corruption, and the struggle for proper enforcement was clearly far from over. But in that silence, there was a shared resolve, a collective agreement that change was necessary, and it had to start now.
The idea hit us like a cat on a tennis court. Picture it: a fashion show in Santorini, Chanel doing their thing, and suddenly, there's a cat on the court. The models strutting, the photographers snapping away, and this damn cat just lounging in the middle of it all. Everyone's like, "What the hell is that about?" God, Paul Bowers cracks up and says, "Cats of the court! Get it? Cats of the court!"
We’re sitting at Arik and Elishba's place, 1410 Ewing. Someone asks, "Paul, you all right, man? Need another drink?"
Paul’s not having it. "Ne Travaillez Jamais. I don’t need another drink. I need help getting out of this yard! I'm on a hillside property with no sidewalk and no staircase. How the fuck do you think I'm going to get out? I'm stuck here all night. I give you one good idea, and you all say it sucks. Don’t you see? It's gonna come back and bite you in the ass. Cats of the court, piss on the judges' desks and shit. You know it's a good idea. I’d do it myself if I could sneak in there, but I'm in a wheelchair. So, I gotta send your cat instead."
We laugh, but it’s the kind of laughter that hides a grim reality. Paul, stuck in his house, held hostage by the city’s neglect. His sarcasm is his weapon, his way of fighting back. He’s not just talking about the fashion show; he’s talking about the whole damn system.
"Great idea, Paul," someone chimes in. "You know there are 22 feral cats at the court. They took over in a deal with the coyotes."
Paul, trying to show off his newfound French skills, drops in phrases he’s learned. "L'Imagination au Pouvoir," he declares, meaning "Power to the imagination." It’s his way of emphasizing that creativity and imagination can drive social change and revolution.
He goes on, "Ne Travaillez Jamais," or "Never work," quoting Guy Debord, pushing us to reject the monotonous grind of capitalist labor in favor of a life filled with creativity and autonomy.
"Vivez Sans Temps Mort," he continues, urging us to "Live without dead time." He’s encouraging a life full of vibrant, meaningful experiences, free from society’s imposed drudgery and dullness. "Just like those cats, always on the run or hiding. No dead time."
"Nous sommes le réseau," someone echoes, meaning "We are the network." It reflects our interconnectedness and the collective power of the people, a nod to grassroots and decentralized countercultural movements.
"Réinventons le quotidien," Paul adds, a call to "Reinvent the everyday" through creativity and radical thinking, inspired by the Situationist idea of creating new, meaningful experiences.
The dinette falls silent, everyone chewing over Paul’s words. The fight against the city’s corruption isn’t just a battle; it’s a war of attrition. We’re armed with sarcasm, resilience, and the occasional stray cat. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to tip the scales.
Stylized images of clenched fists, anarchy symbols, and slogans like "Make Love, Not War" fill the walls, reinforcing our spirit of resistance and the power of collective action.
Paul grins, "Push me up the hill, please. I’ve got a date with a 50 mph descent to my house. I love bombing hills in my gyrochair after drinking."
We finish our drinks, the plan forming in the back of our minds. It’s not about pissing on desks or sending cats to cancel courts. It’s about making noise, refusing to be silent, and using every bit of our collective ingenuity to fight back.
Paul’s right. We need to disrupt the system, shake it up, make them uncomfortable. And if that means using a cat to make a point, so be it. It’s absurd, it’s wild, and it’s exactly what we need.
As the night wears on, we leave with a renewed sense of purpose. The city is still a mess, but we’ve got our strategy. And who knows? Maybe that cat on the tennis court will be the start of something big.
From our balcony, we first hear it—a faint rumble, like a distant storm. Then we see him. Paul, hurtling down the hill at breakneck pace, his wheelchair a blur of motion. Thirty, forty, fifty miles per hour, his hair whipping back, his face a mixture of sheer thrill and defiance.
"YEEEEEEEEEAAAAABRRRRRAAAAAAA!!" he yells, his voice echoing through the streets, cutting through the night like a razor. The sound of wheels on asphalt, the sheer speed of it all, leaves us breathless.
We watch as Paul barrels down the steep incline, fearless and free, his gyrochair an extension of his will. It’s a sight to behold, a man taking back his city, one wild ride at a time. The exhilaration is contagious, a burst of energy that makes us believe anything is possible.
Paul’s joyride is more than just a rush of adrenaline; it’s a statement. Against the neglect, against the corruption, against the constraints of his own body. He’s a force of nature, unstoppable and unapologetic.
As he speeds past, we can’t help but cheer, our voices joining his in a triumphant chorus. This is our fight, our city, and tonight, Paul leads the charge, defying gravity, defying expectations, and living life on his own terms.
Five minutes later, my phone rings. Before I can even say hello, Paul’s voice bursts through the line.
"Did you see me eat shit? I had to barrel into my Econoline van, but I keep an eight-inch piece of foam rubber where the spare tire used to be for just such an occasion. There was a car coming, so I just aimed for the bumper. So that’s what that rubber is for."
I can hear the excitement and adrenaline still coursing through him. He’s laughing, exhilarated by his brush with danger and the rush of the ride. It’s classic Paul, always prepared for chaos, always turning disaster into triumph.
Los Angeles, a sweltering night. Neon lights flicker against graffiti-stained walls. Ariel Pink takes the stage, a jarring blend of nostalgia and avant-garde. The crowd, a mosaic of lost souls and die-hard fans, sways in anticipation. Amidst them, I stand, feeling the music’s pulse yet acutely aware of the solitude that engulfs me. Elishba, my wife, a haunting presence in my mind, feels both near and impossibly distant.
In the beginning, Elishba and I raced through the city on a 50cc Aprilia Motorcycle, the thrill of the ride matching the chaos of our lives. We claimed a house against all odds, our triumph tainted by Elishba’s battle with schizophrenia. The past six years have been a storm. I watch Ariel perform, memories flooding back—our life together, vibrant and full of dreams, now fractured and surreal.
The hostile takeover of American Apparel marked the start of our journey. Elishba’s wrongful expulsion from the San Francisco Art Institute followed, a blow from which the institution never recovered, eventually shutting down due to embezzlement during COVID. Our professor, Sharon Grace, gave us her life's work before Alzheimer’s took her. Her tales of Nam June Paik and Timothy Leary inspired us to merge art and activism. We recorded everything, determined to carry her legacy forward.
We unearthed a hidden Diego Rivera mural at the SF Art Institute, traveled from SF to LA to Albuquerque, and lived at Taliesin West in student shelters. Then, evicted from Rockstar Studios after being mistaken for hackers, we moved into a leaking room in Bedrock with only $800 from a Robert Rauschenberg grant. The constant drip drove us mad until we turned our frustration into an architectural obsession, discovering a 25-foot ceiling above us.
Our knack for finding lost treasures led us to start a non-profit, uncovering abandoned Harwell Hamilton Harris houses. Dion Neutra hired us, then passed away a week later. Another client, Jeb, tried to give us a house before he too died. We chose a house no one could flip and perfected its title, finding a semblance of wholeness in the process.
Scientology’s developer attempted to crush us with mortgage fraud and other schemes. We fought back, uncovering $120 million in fraud, but the fight took a toll on Elishba’s mind. Forced to move in with the Primera Flat gang, we lived on the courthouse steps for a year, protesting.
In Arcosanti, Paolo Soleri’s futuristic desert city, we found brief respite. Our second band rehearsed at Pops’ Rockstar Studio. Before that, we lived at Turk and Taylor in San Francisco, running a printing press until the blue ink became too much for the Prussian thug in charge.
Rambird and Jackalopes Hacking Services was another chapter—fixing Dov Charney’s old machines, Will.I.Am’s computers, and a real-life Mr. Robot who wouldn’t leave until my narcoleptic wife set up his system. He paid $900 and we bought a Moog, a guitar.
Elishba’s schizo/? makes it hard for her to see how her actions affect others. It's heartbreaking, and I haven’t seen her in 11 months. Standing here, engulfed by music and memories, I wonder how we got here. Our story isn’t just about the battles we’ve fought; it’s about the art we’ve created, the lives we’ve touched, and the resilience we’ve found.