TIRE STORE SAN FRANCISCO. TIRE STORE

Tire Store San Francisco. 4 Day Tire Stores. Tire Barn Indianapolis In

Tire Store San Francisco


tire store san francisco
    san francisco
  • a port in western California near the Golden Gate that is one of the major industrial and transportation centers; it has one of the world's finest harbors; site of the Golden Gate Bridge
  • San Francisco is an album by jazz vibraphonist Bobby Hutcherson and saxophonist Harold Land, released on the Blue Note label. The album features a shift away from the usual hard bop / post-bop style pursued previously by Hutcherson and Land, and shifts towards a jazz fusion style.
  • A city and seaport in western California, on the coast, on a peninsula between the Pacific Ocean and San Francisco Bay; pop. 776,733. The city suffered severe damage from earthquakes in 1906 and in 1989
  • San Francisco, officially the City and County of San Francisco, is the fourth most populous city in California and the 12th most populous city in the United States, with a 2009 estimated population of 815,358.
    tire store
  • retail outlet selling tires and offering vehicle repair services.

all the music , all the love
all the music , all the love
when i was a child, i hated my grandfather. but i didn't know why. i didn't like my other grandfather. but i knew why. he had removed himself from this world long before i was born and placed himself in a locked away place where his mind was safe and protected from harm. he had had very bad luck with his first family. my father was from his second family... but there was no obvious reason for me not to love my other grandfather. he was funny and handsome and his eyes lit up like blood diamonds. he had more energy than eight people and moved with grace and elegance. he could talk rocket science and jet propulsion and metallurgy and geometry and clouds and he would make graphs and charts and read science magazines and travel the world and meet people everywhere with friends everywhere. but i still hated him. i avoided him with stealth and cunning. i exited rooms and places where he was. i got so good, i could disappear in front of him while he was lecturing me about dams and super highways. and i was already good at being invisible, so no one really noticed or knew that, in avoiding him, i was roaming their large house and studying my grandparents' acquisitions. my grandmother had fantastic interests and i know this was the backbone of my own pursuits into the art world. i developed a genuine love in art that goes beyond money or anything. i just love diving into the stories... so they had paintings and art works. statuary and plants. their home smelled ancient in the new way of america -- it smelled of europe and the wood creaked beneath my feet in a way that made me wonder how many footsteps had touched down over time. but i didn't know europe. i was far too young for that. their house was surrounded by the smell of eucalyptus and i remember the crunching sound that the debris from the trees would make under the sound of car tires coming up their incredibly steep driveway. and there were always cars coming and going. it was a hub, a place of great and constant action, like a river that pulls apart at the land bank, taking more than its share of withdrawals. eventually, the house was literally swept away by a community groundswell to preserve it. it now stands proudly in its hometown as a historic property and public display of san diego. and a gigantic road runs over the old property where my grandparents once lived. and so i wandered their property, like a visitor in a jane austen novel. the visitor that is barely mentioned, seated at the table, two sentences in the entire book. my hate for him changed the way that the whole circus appeared to me. the whole circus was built on something i couldn't understand. i watched as the people who knew him and surrounded him, his immediate family, dealt with this invisible presence that apparently, only i was seeing as an actuality. for me, it was like a giant ghost sitting on top of everything like a sad cloud. or, like the singer, in the limelight, lit up, playing his instrument. he has not turned around to see that death is the music. in high school, during a senior year psychology "exercise", the teacher asked the class to say one thing about themselves that they would change if they could or had to change (i fell into the latter category). the question went around the room with each student answering until it came to me. i had never thought of myself as needing to change anything about me, so if i was going to get to change something, i wanted a big and complete change, not some kind of miniature upgrade. i said that if i had to change one thing about me, i thought i would become japanese. the teacher was not happy with this answer. no one was. i didn't understand their unhappiness. it seemed racist. they pummeled me with questions and outrage. i was baffled. what seemed obvious to me was anathema to them. i shrugged and i told them that i thought i would fit in better. like i would somehow belong. it was one of the few times i'd ever said anything in high school in class. i was a quiet kid who did what it took to get by but not much more. and i'd only said it because i couldn't get out of answering the question. well, i don't remember exactly how old i was when i found out that my grandfather was one of the men who had worked on the shell casing of the nuclear bombs used to destroy the japanese people of hiroshima and nagasaki. and though it didn't come as a surprise -- i think everyone in my family already knew for years and years and further, because of my absences and exits from my grandfather's presence, they knew a whole lot more about his past than i did -- i understood why i will always have sadness. it wasn't karma so much as dogma. westerners would benefit from understanding what dogma means. no one in my family has understood why i hated my grandfather. i myself do not understand physical loathing or what it means to shrink from the presence of mass murderers. i am old en
Allo Montreal
Allo Montreal
Another day, another country. I've never been to Canada before - Montreal looks like America (same restaurant/coffee/store chains, same roadsigns) except things are in French (and boy, is that a sentence which'll piss off a few Canadians...) I have no idea where I am. We took a bewildering, post-flight jetlaggy taxi ride to the hotel, I don't have a map and I'm too tired to make sense of a new city right now. This is weird - I keep wanting to leave the hotel to go find stuff, but the disorientation is causing a kind of temporary agoraphobia. Only getting 4 hours' sleep a night in 3 different timezones officially sucks. And this picture is from the N73's crapcam because my SLR was stolen out of my baggage sometime during the 3 days that BA ("the world's most annoying airline") misplaced it. Being in London was okay, after the pickpocketing of my credit card heralded the end of the hourly disasters which plagued us for several days. It was nice to see people, and I know London well so I felt... almost at home. Now I just feel very very tired and incredibly homesick for San Francisco, my apartment (even if 6 weeks of flat-out work meant I left it in a horrible mess) and the girlfriend I've hardly seen in weeks. But... new country, new city... and the prospect of at least 6 hours' sleep this time around. Last Wednesday was the suckiest day of the year (not least because I was awake for 40 hours, so Wednesday was also Thursday); a week later things are a tiny bit better... so I guess that means I'm out of the trough and back on up towards the next peak... slowly. Yay!

tire store san francisco
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