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Andrew M. Dalton Words and photos presented largely without context. curate: twitter | flickr | ask | about | archive | rss | 

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Guerneville, CA. June 2013

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Divisadero and Grove.

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Cleaning out abandoned desktop files. Here's something I forgot about called "nightmare.gif" 

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just txting @ the bttry

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"We've had quite a few emails from dads," he says, "divorced dads or single dads, that are like, 'Hey Batter Blaster, I can make heart-shaped pancakes for my girls on the weekends and I'm a hero.'"

I just found out Batter Blaster doesn't exist anymore and that is the saddest thing.

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"UNIQLO: Made For All"

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Reassuring, in a way, to know that there are profitable newspapers with zero editorial.

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de Young Museum. San Francisco, CA. August, 2012

Been sort of skulking lately. Skulking is the right word for it. A skulk is also the collective noun for a group of foxes. I've been skulking. Skulking with obstinacy. Which is also the name for a herd of buffalo.

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Ode to a babe (babeliness is next to godliness)

A babe! A babe. An implausible babe! A sneak! That babe. Somehow overlooked, this babe. In plaid. Babely in plaid. In plaid and cuffed sleeves. A babe. In dresses — those dresses! — breezy and flowing. A babe. And in her smile, a babe. A restrained smile, nearly imperceptible Tugging gently at the corners, Like she knows better than to laugh at you, this babe. Taunting bottom lip, this babe. Never believed in the adjective “beestung” before. But maybe you should put some ice on that, babe.

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Ayala Cove, Angel Island. Sometime in June.

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Angel Island, sometime in June.

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Embarcadero Four. Monolith.

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San Francisco: The City Of Yesterday's Tomorrow!

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Wonderful, under the flag people. Ferry people.

Angel Island to San Francisco. Sometime in June.

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All these people craning their necks. As if it were impossible to look straight ahead while riding a ferry. Like that need to contort yourself to look out a tiny airplane porthole during landing. Only it's bigger and it smells like diesel fuel and moldy rubber boots and sometimes there's a bar.

The redhead though. She can stare straight ahead. Cloaked in redheaded indifference that makes her seem genuinely interested and silently disgusted at the same time. (Catlike, those gingers.) Anyhow: it was a thrillingly pedestrian ferry ride.

San Francisco to Angel Island, sometime in June.

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David Cross does a new bit about couple's colonics beneath a giant purple butthole tent.

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A fairly representative sample of some portion of the Saturday crowd at Outside Lands.