g for Punk not D.

it might not be entirely bicycle related, but here we go:

so last night i went to see my friend scott aka vladimir play with his band glassel park 3. first time i heard them was through a cd scott gave me at the kitchen. scott is cook, wich is the way we call volunteers at the kitchen. the first time i heard scott was when he was playing the banjo on this old timey band he and other two cooks have called triple chicken foot. anyway. GP3 is cool to the point of dancing. three dudes: bass player, tricked up six string banjo through almost distorted amp, and wooden box-snare-two cymbals for percussion. bluesy-old timey-punk filling the place with the energy, with the energy, let me say one more time, with the energy of a train going through the dessert as its being robbed by the reincarnation of some sex pistol with a fake water gun, riding a bicycle.
so i get there with my friend Kirlian who is out of breath after the rushed 7 mile ride. and GP3 and friends are sitting there sipping beers. Scott aka vladimir is pretty buzzed, or so he says. we have another beer and then they jump on stage. and they JUMP on stage. banjo flyes and bass kicks ass from the hands of slick looking dude wearing johnny ramone t-shirt and the box (cajon) thumps in the empty glendale night through electrosensitive microphone and scott aka vladimir SINGS and screams. and there is no name for this music and do i like things for wich there are no names.
so when S. comes down he's sober as a legal code and we give thaks and hurrays. and kirlian and i go through the avenue of car dealers to L.A on our bikes. and it makes me sad to think that he's leaving to the northwest in a few months. may GP3 play again, and again.