Archive for category B'yo Tales
I remember…
Posted by belmont yo in B'yo Tales on July 29, 2010
I remember speeding around that outside corner along the coast in the Presidio in SF at about 3am being chased by the military police. I knew they couldn’t do shit to a civilian even if they caught me and the pacific fog was shooting up the piney scraggly bluffs all lit up yellowish by the sodium lights they used as streetlights. My Lambretta SX200 was cutting through the mists that looked like yellow fire and my floor panels were a breath away from scraping asphalt. I knew that road home like the back of my hand and I knew I had Officer Friendly beat to the border of the base by a long shot. I was James Fucking Bond, high out of my mind and flying through the curves with a flow that can only be described as spiritual. Winding down the engine as I passed thru the stone gates at 25th was nothing less than being reborn.
I also remember when this site had content.
What do you remember?
Weekend Update: July 26th… wait, what?
Posted by belmont yo in B'yo Tales on July 26, 2010
Weekend schmeekend, I have been whacked out of my gourd on percocet for like 4 days now, so it doesn’t matter what day of the week it is. And no, before all you heads who think I just stumbled into a scrip and am taking a holiday from reality rush to judge me (god damn I hate that – will you guys please stop that), I must state unequivocally that there is medical need. Seems one of my choppers went horribly south last week. Some little infective agent snuck under a crown and started a pain party in my jaw. So I, with great trembling of spirit, dialed my dentist’s digits.
My Karma is Unbearable
Posted by belmont yo in Accidental Murder, B'yo Tales, Barnyard Follies!, Townie on May 5, 2010
It’s back by popular demand. I present to you all Belmont Yo’s famous bear story!
Shorty got Lowes Lowes Lowes….
Posted by belmont yo in B'yo Tales on April 9, 2010
Last Sunday, with an innocence that belies his 15 years, my son asked me “Dad, why is the ice maker in the freezer only making water?”, and I realized that my monthly $500 calamity had come early for April. You see, like some sort of financial menses, every month the uteral lining of my bank account must shed roughly five large owing to some sort of random unforeseen circumstance. Now this money would always, could always, be spent on something better, like a plane ticket to somewhere else, fun audio tech toys or something (perhaps even savings!), but alas no. It is destiny that it be spent on some mundane yet necessary accoutrement of life. Tis the joy of home ownership – it puts the “notso” in Rancho Notso Grande.
So after living in two feet of frozen matter for months, the weather turned near 80 and my fridge had gasped its last gasp. It was sad, but I knew what I had to do. Head to sears, or lowes, neither of which gave me a warm fuzzy as having dealt with both has nearly put me in the fifth floor of the old hospital on several occasions. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, so I went with lowes as they have a free delivery, free haul away policy. So tuesday after work, I headed up the ribbon of hurt that is 29 north, pulled into the skirt of the big box and strode tentatively, yet resolutely to the appliance section.
From Masturbation to Defenestration – a Love Story.
Posted by belmont yo in B'yo Tales on January 26, 2010
Ah the beautiful mysteries of sex. Of all the possible permutations of human interactions, none has been so little understood, and yet so utterly compelling. We are compelled to embark on a journey of understanding, yet the paths we take are dictated by a kaleidoscope of nature, nurture, circumstance and chance. For some the paths are short, narrow, flat and paved and yet for others they are long winding and forked at every damn blind turn. I must confess that I myself fall into the latter camp.
As evidence of this, I offer my very first step on the path to personal sexual self discovery, which, like many, was masturbation. I was about twelve, laying in my bed, absentmindedly scratching a primal itch when something magical happened – my penis erupted with a mystery substance, which I only noticed after the waves of seretonin and dopamine had cleared my shuddering brain. Amazing, this. And being twelve, and largely ignorant, I came to the only conclusion one could – that this phenomena could only happen at nine o’clock at night. I had stumbled upon the magic hour, and oh how I could not wait for bed time the following night! Of course, at nine the following night, it worked again and thus my theory was proven. And so I was born as a sexual being, taking my first steps in a bizarrely misguided yet harmless direction. And so it went.
Penultimate Decision
Posted by belmont yo in B'yo Tales on December 15, 2009
For a brief moment in my life I took a summer job as a bicycle messenger in San Francisco. In the days before pdf’s and email, large business districts of major urban areas relied on folks like us to deliver important documents of all sorts. The job was basically like being a cab driver for papers. I had a radio, and a dispatcher, a bag and a bike. The thing that distinguishes being a messenger in San Francisco from other cities like say New York is, you guessed it, the hills. And when I say hills, I mean hills with a capital H. Other than that, I think messenger culture was probably fairly similar in most cities.
Financial districts have a very distinct caste system, and of all the castes, messenger is the absolute lowest. It didn’t take long to realize this. Drivers on the road hated you for weaving in and out of traffic and generally causing a vehicular ruckus. Office building folks hated you because by and large most messengers look like they are extras from the movie road warrior. One fellow I met looked rather normal. He had a baseball hat with longish hair coming out of it. Thing was, his head was shaved shiny all around the top, right where the rim of the hat began. His thing was that every time he would make a delivery, as he was leaving, he would tip his hat to the receptionist and wish her a nice day, leaving always a rather stunned expression in his wake. He was also known to write obtuse messages on his dome from time to time. The sheer creativity expressed in the diversity of shenannigans lead me to believe that this might be a culture in which I could thrive. But it was a closed culture, and I needed I guide to show me the underside of these invisible people. That person turned out to be Mike Mowhawk. He was named such because well, his name was mike and he had a bright blue mowhawk. We hit it off immediately. And slowly over time, he revealed many secrets of the downtown pariah.