Monthly Archives: June 2012




1. any of various forms of dance, often improvisational, performed in accord with rules of conduct; behavior and order maintained by complex electronic instrumentation, in which simple, repetitive lyrics are subordinated to a heavy, pulsating, rhythmic beat: good discopline in an army. Continue reading

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if it weren’t for the wickedly splendid wiccan chant suspended in my brain, i wouldn’t be able to bear this stupid doctor today.

on one hand, i’m exceedingly privileged to have undeniable access to a doctor practicing in San Francisco, California, USA. hundreds of millions people around the world would do all they can just to experience what it is to stand amidst this city’s golden glaze, let alone earn the 1% salary and benefits that it takes to even see such a doctor.

on the other hand, medicine in this land is shit.

i honestly don’t know enough about the health industry to say anything more than that. it wouldn’t be authoritative, it would be zombieistic rehashing of things i’ve heard said and things i’ve seen written.

what i can speak to, however, is personal experience.

a few months ago while suffering from an intense bout of toothaches and migraines, which i supposed to be related, i took a visit to my dentist in south city. in general, it’s a great dentist/office organization, but, as is often the case anytime i’m bombarded by tv screens, i’ve always harbored resentment for their giant lcd in the lobby, usually blaring some good morning today bullshit or something. even after the tech comes out, “ronny?”, they walk you into a hot seat perpetually facing a small tv constantly cycling through animations and staged videos of actors and their problematic teeth, miraculously replaced, cleaned up, and repaired. the running tape always focus on all the shit that could go wrong–never how to prevent such things–and that sets the stage for my meeting.

“so i’m told you’re suffering from some toothaches and migraines… that you think are related?”

“yes, they came around the same time. i think they might have to do with teeth grinding, which girls say i love doing all night.”

“ah.. let’s take a look.” *poking around* “yes, there appears to be some evidence of your teeth being worn down, and that would indeed be caused by teeth grinding, which has been known to also cause toothaches and migraines the next day. typically, teeth grinding is a result of stress in your life. let’s show you a video.”

they stop the running tape of every dental problem ever and zero in on a specific chapter on teeth grinding, fancily known as “bruxism.” this is the structure of the video:

1. teeth grinding happens to people, stressed out and otherwise.
2. look at all the fucking horrible shit that happens if you’re a teeth grinder.
3. god’s solution to teeth grinding: wear this plastic “mouth guard” all night, every night for the rest of your life.

the video stops and the doctor asks me what i think, specifically wondering whether i want to sign up for the mouth guard. through the window, it’s not even thirty feet to a short hill lined with ankle-high lilies and sparsely scattered trees, standing tall and proud, mouthguardless forever.

“i see the purpose of the mouth guard, but i have a question: before we get to that point, isn’t there something i can do to preempt the grinding altogether? as in, work at reducing my stress levels?”

when a pretty woman laughs at you, it’s maddening. when that pretty woman is a doctor, it’s depressing.

“unfortunately, it’s not so easy. our best recommendation is the mouth guard.”

whether it’s my mouth or my eyes, the medicine is always the same. here, chew on this PLASTIC thing. here, swallow these antibiotics. here, rub this cream all over your face. here here here here money money money money money things things things things things things.

doctor, what steps can i take to welcome death at my dinner table, not just feign neighborly love and put it up in the guest room? Continue reading

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you are nothing but bad for me

once, a long long time ago, i read that the qualities you perceive in others are merely reflections of how you see yourself. The Mirror Theory.

in essence, if you think someone is an evilly manipulative, cold-hearted son of a bitch, then you should probably look hard into your own insidious machinations and icy son of a bitchian tendencies. if you think someone is stupid, hopeless, and a supermassive black hole of insecurity, then it’s high time you evaluate your own self-worth, your planned path in life, and overall level of self-confidence. though the lesson was taken from a silly self-help book purchased from the library’s dead pile for a buck, it ended up being one of the most poignant philosophical teachings of my life.

right now, i see someone i love as a devil. i don’t know what that means for myself, but i hope dancing this weekend helps me out the monster deep inside. Continue reading

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whiskey isn’t poison

we all come from the goddess
and to her we shall return
like a drop of rain
flowing to the ocean Continue reading

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dusty fake dates

there are some things you can think that you think you’d never wanna think. just like there are several series of sounds that implode when they breach the point of impracticality. but, to the main point, brains are wayfarers and all wayfarers sometimes stray from even the least of tolerable roads:

i’m going to move to New York City and i’m going to marry the prettiest girl and i’m going to hate her and it’s going to be perfect.

jesus. what are you? a 24 hour party people? a Santo & Johnny? a time traveler? a Delorean deluder? a wordless liar? an Orange County rock & roll band’s fodder-stealing poetist:

she’s on ice and she’s gonna stay there until she goes back to her heartland, where the southern sun’ll melt her back into my heart but it won’t matter because even china doesn’t make 3,000 mile long straws.

conversations in my head and not. guitar playing duos and not.

“we’re both bad.”

“it’s really not that bad anymore.”
“that’s good.”

alessandra so nice, alessandra i make my wife.
alessandra so nice, alessandra saunters operatic.

in SF, everyone is beautiful. but in NYC, they’re all sex. Continue reading

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notes from 2012: The Return of Quetzacoatl by Daniel Pinchbeck

“Love never faileth; but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.” — 1 Corinthians 13:8 Continue reading

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the J diary

i am listening to a 1963 Sam Cooke LP w 12 tracks about heartbreak.

i am pondering my own medley of meaning, sound poetry, and logic.

i am doing 10-15 pushups here and there, when it feels right.

i’m about to floss, brush my teeth, and get in bed, all before 2000.


i am pondering jewelry. i wear clothes because they are necessary, i say.

circles, triangles.

i am relacing my repaired thrift store black dress shoes.

i am thinking of a lusty girl, listlessless. Continue reading

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fuck it

the Fender Deluxe Active Jazz Bass is a beautiful instrument. whether it’s made in Mexico or not.

oh, but you don’t know why that’s relevant because you’ve been out of my life for so long. it’s not for lack of trying. over two weeks ago, i drafted this short paragraph, which i had intended to be the introduction to a long post entitled “Adam,” all about life’s eccentricities and synchronicities, music, and the year of our lord two thousand and twelve:

it is the cruel suddenness of sunday evening that makes most obvious the futility of attempting–in 64 straight hours–conveying myself through the art of blogging, capturing the spirit of Vivaldi and Tolkien via vinyl, mastering the low frequencies with crude rosewood and maple, and ensuring the local and global family of my love for them, all while reading a book that, by way of Jung, Heisenberg, McKennan, and many more, strives in less than 400 pages to find the “essential nature of things,” or something.

i just yesterday finished reading the book referred to above, 2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl, authored by new age fuckhole daniel pinchbeck, who i apparently share three mutual facebook friends with. one of those is a girl i once almost made love to. another is a girl whose twin is a girl i made love to a million times or more. the third is a girl i once made love to.

all that loving aside, i didn’t really have much love for 2012 (the book). i mean, i devoured it. what with my busy busy busy busy San Francisco tech startupping and bass guitaring and disco djing and druggy partying, i haven’t had much room in my life for reading. (or writing for that matter, as we can all plainly see.) and so, to finish reading a real book in a pretty decent amount of time (a month?) says less about me than it does about pinchbeck’s great writing skills. there is no doubt: he is a great fucking writer. it’s his topic that sucks.

not that shamanism and consciousness and psychedelic drugs and love and ancient traditions and the future and technology and humanity and burning man and music and understanding and prying and trying to break through are shitty topics, because they’re obviously as interesting as it gets. you can’t go wrong if you talk about everything, because there’s nothing more interesting than everything. the problem is trying to synthesize any kind of coherent statement or understanding about human consciousness and its place in the universe from all those distant (though interconnected) nodes in less pages than Melville undertakes in writing about something so singular as the unerring sublimity of the whale. it’s not just hopeless, it’s annoying.

but it was entertaining, and i thank Adam for gifting it me.

of course, when you start reading and thinking synchronicity, you start seeing it everywhere. so it began with 2012.

it is the year 2012. and in june of that year i finished reading the book 2012, gifted to me by Adam, one of my best friends, a couple years ago. notably, he recently gifted me something much more precious: aforementioned bass. it wasn’t exactly a gift, as i doled out some cash for the thing, but it is so beautiful and black and sharp and shiny and tighter than the tightest pussy and happily packaged in a tan tweed case with red fur as interior… it is so many of these things and more (the sound!) that i will always see it as a gift.

there were other synchronized things, but i’ve forgotten them. i curse my memory when i think like a man, but when i think like a rock, i am content.

oh yeah… mere hours after finishing 2012 (THE BOOK!), i went to see Prometheus with Chris. high. ass. fuck. and thank god because that movie would have been a pretty shitty experience if i wasn’t just stoned enjoying the visuals. this is a snapshot from one of my favorite parts:

it’s not what you think.

but yeah, weird, right? 2012 and aliens and galactic communication and shit. far. out.

tonight is a Beethoven kind of night. first up was Symphony No. 1, because that was Side 1. now playing is Symphony No. 8… because it’s Side 2? i don’t know, people made strange decisions on Wilshire Blvd., Los Angeles in 1960, the time and place of this record’s pressing.

every time i play this box set of Beethoven symphonies, i get taken back to my junior year of college. specifically, it takes me to the night where i walked back kinda drunk, kinda high (but neither overwhelmingly so) to my room with Shannon and Allison to smoke one more bowl for the night. packed a bowl and handed it to the girls, who were chilling on my bed, and i proceeded to throw on the Beeth vinyl. then they started making out. outside ronny was like, oh that’s cool, while inside ronny was like holy fucking fuck shit oh god oh my god do i put it in where do i put it in can i put it in what about Meryl? oh god oh my god she’ll understand oh god i’m not even doing anything yet relax. they eventually pulled me in. and we fucked. all night. occasionally pausing to flip to a new symphony. and, like now, i don’t think i paid much attention to order.

i was a slut. and nothing’s changed.

i’ve been messing around w girls because Chelsea is on ice. we’re cooling it. things got a little heated a couple weeks ago, and we ended up spending an entire night fighting. over nothing. she was pawing at me all night like a wasted kitten and i just wanted to sleep. i spilled a glass of wine at one point, because i didn’t realize there was a glass of wine. that depressed me because it explained why my night was going so terribly. hours, hours this went on. as dawn approached, the girl wracked my nerves, and i was frightened to death that i could even imagine hitting her… to get her off me. to keep her from touching me. i tried to kick her out. i threatened calling 911. she kicked a crack in my wall.

unrelatedly, in the morning, a dentist replaced one of my bottom front teeth w a piece of porcelain.

i’ve been messing around w the idea of never spelling out the word “with.” it’s so needlessly long and endlessly useful that i figure i just replace it w a single letter and be done with it. tell me what you think. “what,” now there’s a word that deserves to be spelled out entirely.

i’ve been messing around, it’s true, and it feels good. messing around means ending one of the most stressful work weeks of your life with Mexican beer on the roof and weed smoking in your room to 80s Queen Latifah with an old friend. messing around means walking to the Mission for a classic super taco dinner, then dragging your ass across the street for a glass of gin tonic. it means getting your ass up and dancing to the best throwbacks from the 80s and 90s.

messing around means jaunting home pissed about leaving the bar right after all the real beauties walked in. better yet, it means running into an old fling and current love at the liquor store, and following her–with your crew of five friends–on a wild goose chase up San Fran hills to the best weird party ever. i mean that dj’s legs were like ten feet tall and he was spinning from the rafters. spinning motherfucking records from the rafters, like a true giant mouse thing. i don’t know what that party was, but i heard they were serving drinks tinged w opium, or something. the girls were pretty, the couches were elegant, and i was like, damn, i love messing around.

and you know what i did the next day? messed around. messed around w vinyl. messed around w weird trippy sounds. messed around w my bass. messed around w funky house at Monarch, voted by some already-forgotten blog as having the best sound system in the entire city. goddamn i love dancing. and i dig all the hair compliments, don’t ever let me tell you otherwise. i swear it’s that bumble&bumble shit. every time it’s like, boy, i don’t care if you got a flask of Jameson in your coat pocket, that hair is movie star status. every time… i walk downstairs and start dancing my ass off and twirling it around and it gets so hot, so i saunter through the sauna to the coat check, and the girl there’s all eyesy, and i’m like, look, i’m broke as fuck. i have $2, not $3. and she’s like, i’ll make an exception cause you have such pretty hair. goddamn little girl you’re so pretty that i’d probably ask for your number if i weren’t so superstitiously frightened of coat check girls. every time, every time.

messing around means biking an hour across town to drop near a couple hundo on four bags of wunderweed. it means biking some more to “the home of Mary Fernando Conrad” for an evening of drawing and drones, produced by Joshua Churchill:

and just when you think you have to go home to get some sleep, you get pulled into a pizza parlor for the finale of Matt Cain’s perfect game: ninth inning, two outs, we’re up 10-0, and everyone’s on the edge of their seats? why? who cares? it’s not like? wait, Cain is still pitching? what the… and then the place explodes. and you’re with two people who don’t care about sports so you brush it off and swallow slices while talking computability and logic, femininity and what have you.

messing around, messing around, messing around. messing around sometimes means being drunk in a living room with six guys and one girl and hating your life because you can’t have her and you don’t want her anyway. but then you step outside into the sun, you step inside the sweltering masses, and you run into an old friend. old friends are good for dragging you to the park, munching on street weed all the way, to indulge in beer and even more weed. sitting there you remember, ah this is real messing around, and the sun burns your face it’s so happy. messing around sometimes also means confronting exes because the city’s only so small, and it’s okay. until you wake up in the middle of the night, unsleepy and hungry for the one you love.

but you make it out okay.

because no matter how many skinny bitches you fuck, no matter how many nights you finger your four-stringed beast, no matter how many times you stroke your prisoner pussy, no matter how much clicking and flicking you do in the flickering undercover, you know that you can never ever ever ever stop loving the one you love. so you may as well get comfortable with the universe’s lack of perfection and the world’s lack of a sensible calendar and the self’s lack of any real science whatsoever.

it’s all fog and the sun’s nice and all but it’s all fog, so fuck y’all. Continue reading

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