Blake, the original fucker of the west, raises his hand with the fury and confidence of a double dog dragon. With two fingers extended into the air, and two connected to the thumb—the image of Satan emerges. Even though Blake is in his mid thirties, jobless, and without any hope of achieving a stable life (what the fuck is a “stable” life anyway?), the nectar of the gods, the mighty coffee extract, takes over his soul. The coffee masks his fears and his inadequacies, providing him with a sense of life anew, reminiscent of a time when anything was still possible. But, there is no escaping the equilibrium of despair—for as the warmth of the coffee mug fades, so his helplessness returns.
Blake walks down Market Street, pissed about something that he can’t quite articulate. The frail cries of panhandlers, the metallic buzzing of streetcars, and a thousand useless voices pierce his skull like a true San Francisco symphony – only of the darker sort. An empty plastic soda bottle in the gutter, wet, crushed, and covered with city scum, catches his eye. The voice of reason, buzzing inside his head like a horny and wise little fly, urges him to pick it up and cash it in. Reason, however, is a virtue that Blake has little time for.
Who is Blake? Do you really give a fuck? If you do, well then, read on.
To the everyday observer, Blake may appear to be somewhat of a slacker. Although long since abandoned by youth, he continues to swim in a youthful abyss. Worn out jeans, zip up sweaters with occasional coffee stains, and converse all stars are his uniform of choice. Do I need to say more?
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