transfers, lost men, and other subjects

Admittedly, a subway transfer is a fairly banal object to lose/find, but this particular one at least managed to wind up propped against the stage at the El Mocambo, where roommate Ghalib and I trekked last night to see San Franciscan John Vanderslice play. And were you, oh were you there?

Actually, the first opener was so aurally intolerable that G and I paid the $7 each to get into the upstairs show for an hour and a half, where our pal Matthew was earning himself the hard-act-to-follow designation on the songwriter stage. (Photo to left is of the 'slice, not of Matthew.) The three of us plus Vanderslice's bassist later carried on a charming conversation in the rain outside the Elmo about the last time we defecated in our trousers. Salt of the earth, these people.

The photo below was kindly donated by Paul Q., taken on Hamilton's Garth Street near the escarpment, and I've been wondering for some time about how best to present it. I find it exceedingly terrific. Though the rights to naming are not mine, I call it "This Sand Is Quick, or, Not Waving but Drowning." Or so I would call it, were the rights to naming mine.