Monthly Archives: July 2012

calimari

[kal-uhmahr-ee, kah-luh-; It. kah-lah-mah-ree]

noun California cookery

squid. Continue reading

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The Raven and a sunflower

red American Jesus woke in the early hour just before noon free from the trouble of white boogers, so he used his unprecedented energy to do a wide variety of things, like cuddle with the pussy, wash the dishes, take the recycle down, take the compost down, microwave and gobble up a few day old veggie scramble, take the smallest of bong rips, bike downtown, buy a new pair of overpriced grey jeans, bike back, eat a couple dozen mild/hot/inferno wings with the boys, dodge a coma w Luomo and laundry, only to, at long last, find himself sitting atop two washers typing into a black and silver box while Pac-Man blips and bleeps and the radio announcers mention Kristin Stewart amidst funk/soul/r&b.

i like that kind of music. i mean, i am head over heels in love w most sounds in the universe, but lately this 24-year-old bag of flesh and blood and bones has been most attracted to 3-25 minute jaunts down the spine of a bassline… and it’s got to be funky.

in fact, the funk and soul have so overtaken my mind and life that i am djing TWICE tomorrow.

first, i’ll be headed to Gabe’s place in Berkeley in the early afternoon w my computer, hard drive, and the controller to mix some disco MP3s for his typical sunday brunch. then at night i’ll be lugging a box of 33s and 45s over to da da bar downtown to hopefully get the vinyl spinning and vaginas shaking.

the last couple weeks have been a whirlwind. i’ve been keeping myself busy day and night w not just work, but also girls and guys and games.

last night, for example, the boys, Amanda, and i saw the Giants get barely beat by those bastard dodgers in the 10th inning, but that’s not to say nothing good came of it. we drank a lot; twas fun; but that’s not all. we also experienced interesting visions, like of a thousand San Franciscans pounding corn on a spinning stadium record. okay maybe that was just me. but anyway afterward we sauntered over to my office so they could all see my sweet work digs. Fela Kuti jammed while we all played ping pong, keyboard, and drank some of my Flor de Cana. i only saw a couple co-workers, amazingly, and neither of them did any work either. the rest of the night was spent reminding my downstairs downstairs neighbor why they’re moving closer to Disneyland.

even when i’m not looking for a party, like the night before, i somehow find one. after weeks of going all out almost every night, i come home tired as a clam (do clams get tired?) and lay on my bed, enjoying the beauty of doing nothing but listening. Amanda calls and she brings beer over, surrounding my chill thursday night treasure with the warm glow of friendship. i really love that girl. she’s an astounding example of beautiful and brilliant in a single girl, and i’m perpetually impressed by the places her mind takes me. that said, we stayed up until nearly 0200, so a good night’s sleep was deferred yet again.

the 25th was (and still is) Billy’s birthday, so i bussed over to the inner richmond for an evening of sushi, sake, and “there shall be no want!” the beer flowed, the tea flowed, the water flowed, the soy sauce flowed, and so too did flow the crazy bitches, maniacally arguing diagonally across the eight person table as if anyone else wanted to listen to their shit. it was still a blast. and once we got rid of one of the two crazies, on the way to a bar in the marina, things mellowed out. i didn’t stay long, though, violently tempted by sex and sleep, both of which i sucked on with the greed of a beehive-busting grizzly bear.

and that wasn’t even my first over-the-top feast for the week. just the night before, i had met up with a few co-workers in the Mission for the inaugural night of the company “dining club.” we started with manhattans at Dr. Teeth (okay, we really started w whiskey at the office) and then made our way over to Delfina. and we did it hard. white wine, red wine, Chardonnay, Chianti; some alright calamari roasted? instead of fried, a perfect fucking glob of duck giblet pasta, and some damn juicy chicken topped with king trumpet mushrooms; and, finally, espresso with some buffalo milk cheese. twas ungodly. twas oddly perfect a night, i soon realized, as i lay lying in bed cuddling w two pretty girls while Donna Summer cooed her 70s songs sexy as the perfect pair of boobs.

the first day of the work week was a little weird because i didn’t have my bike. i went to sleep very late the night before and had intoxicatedly told myself i had plenty of time to get to the office in the morning. then as i was walking to the bus stop, i check my calendar: meeting w the boss and some analysts in 15 minutes. goddamnit. if only muni weren’t a piece of shit. so i hail a cab and bite the bullet for my stupidity, making the meeting on time with room to relax. later on, i felt a little loopy and in need of wandering, so wander i did. through San Francisco streets i wound a path, eventually arriving at Monarch on 6th and Mission for a very functional visit. i had to pick up my credit card. they retrieved for me and put it on the table, to which i replied, “let’s just keep the tab open.” i mean, it’s the day of the moon, the lady behind the bar’s a sexy, skinny tattooed freak dressed all in black (it’s her birthday!), and the world’s kind of running out of gin tonics. kind of. it only takes two to convince me to wander some more over to the Tenderloin, where Chels and i get what we so desperately need from each other: a little love, with a dash of Thai food. she goes back and i hop on a couple buses back to bermuda, where i’m locked out, but not for long. keeping things functional, i grab my keys and ditch bermuda for the outer Mission, where bryn awaits w my bike. credit cards, keys, bikes… apparently i can’t hold onto any of my shit. i leave her shortly and meet up w the boys at Buck for a game of pool, which i completely dominate (minus that stupid eight ball shot). oh well.

the weekend was a wonderful blur, the majority of which i spent with the silver dolls, as pictured here:

but not exclusively.

why can’t i kiss all the girls? why can’t i write all the goddamn time? what if i cloned myself and just lived life all the time while my clone chased me with a notepad and wrote down the way i would describe everything that happens to me? what if he carried around a notebook (computer) instead of a notepad and published to the Internet everything he typed in real-time in hopes that none of his friends, family, or co-workers would ever read it? what if the progress of your magnum opus in literature was 100% dependent on how long was left until your laundry dried? Continue reading

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you don’t know you’re having a good time

just because bourbon’s bubbling out of your tumblers under the Bay Bridge… and she chose the drink.

or just because donuts and deadly volcanoes make for a high volume kind of ding-dong night.

or just because the first dinner seriously features seriously barbecued pork ribs, the first breakfast ends with bacon potato pie, the second dinner boasts internally bleeding tri-tip, the second breakfast is as good as the first, and the last supper sure the fuck isn’t. but it is.

or just because of the “beach.”

or just because a seraph wakes you from your happily postlapsarian sleep by whispering into your ear, “you just made me come without even touching me.”

or just because you—without an ace of regret—can lose a century of dollars on blackjack, a game you haven’t done better at in almost 21 years.

or just because a sweet Colombiana quien se llama Tatiana gives you more than the time of day as the two of you ride the chrome bay slugs, slowly, smiling.

or just because the firecracker’s turning on its heels (lord knows it burns good to the end).

or just because femmes like your face.

or just because your blood is on top of the world, reclining in the sweet, juicy, dripping, award-winning pleasure of skipping stones.

no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, you know you’re having a good time because you have bloody Whiplash:

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a losing memory

i still remember the first time i listened to “Losing My Edge,” the epically ironic, endlessly tragic, and amazingly magical intro track to the second disc of LCD Soundsystem’s debut double album.

in high school, just as today, i honed OCD-esque methods of listening to music. my methods were religious–in stark contrast to the adolescent irreverence i puffed around the Catholic school ground, i practiced my musical rituals day in and day out: falling asleep and awaking to tabla prayers, patiently assembling a library of MP3s over the years, and–every time i went for a drive–pressing play before moving an inch and refusing to exit the vehicle until the song spilling out of my speakers breathed its final breath.

one particular morning, as i set out on my school commute, i hit play on “Losing My Edge.”

the chaotic spasms of the song’s first fifteen seconds instantly spit me out of my morning daze, in time with my 80s Delorean-lookalike flopping out of the crooked driveway. that initial explosion then left me bobbing to a spacey, sparse, but confidently bumpy beat as i rolled down the steep hill away from my childhood home.

then this guy starts talking. he starts talking about how he’s losing his edge. “to the kids,” or something. he “was there”… somewhere. everywhere? every year? in every important place?

trying to get a grasp of his point, i roll onto the freeway and run straight into traffic. stop and go, stop and go, as this creep keeps going on about his musical knowledge and experiences, as if someone is supposed to care. he uses overly self-conscious phrases like “Internet seekers” and “borrowed nostalgia,” more annoying than they are interesting.

stop and go, stop and go–my view starts changing–bass to snare, bass to snare. the beat is irresistible and his meaning is coming through. i’m just a young high school kid that loves designed-for-the-angsty bands like Nine Inch Nails and Tool, but that doesn’t stop me from recognizing names like “Beefheart” and “Daft Punk” and “Larry Levan.”

as James drones on about losing his edge, the sparse, timid beat in turn starts caving to blasts of crash cymbals and electric guitars, like a thin sheet pressed against flame–and it’s only getting hotter. and the more serious the sounds get, the less serious he becomes. (probably consciously, painstakingly) borrowing a page from Bob Dylan, he delivers deadpan the most hilarious lyrics ever spoken with a human voice, almost like a child ashamed to be sitting in confession. synths instead of computers, turntables instead of guitars, guitars instead of turntables… is he serious? is that what musicians are like?

later, that last question becomes “how is he describing all of my friends?” better yet… how does he manage to foreshadow the next near-decade of my musical development? Juan Atkins, Lou Reed, Joy Division, Soulsonic Force, Human League, Eric B. and Rakim, Basic Channel. jesus, the way the guy names great bands as fast as he can makes it seem like he almost WANTS us to help him lose his edge. like its his mission.

the song reaches its climax with crash cymbal after crash cymbal (“the Sonics… the Sonics…”) just as i start speeding out of traffic and along the tree-lined California freeway, devouring the final delicious minute remaining. and a voice begins to drone repetitively, “you don’t know what you really want.”

i end with this: yesterday, i swear to god, i finally got around to downloading “Here Are the Sonics!!!” dear god, that is good fucking rock & roll.

i don’t know what i really want, true. but at least someone does: LCD Soundsystem. Continue reading

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i do this for you

Give Up the Funk (Tear the Roof off the Sucker) Continue reading

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DONT TREAD ON ME

apostrophe banana chicken dog elephant first gun have i jolly koala log monkey neut Osiris penis quail ruckus silver tug Ufabulum veer while xylophone yellow zebra.

stream of consciousness. it’s just after 0500 on the day of rest, and Donna Summer is trying very hard to convince me of her love for me. i slept early after a long day of… buying and listening to Amoeba records, eating (burrito, ramen, pizza), and cleaning. a girl once said that i am better at being a primate, not only because i pressed her to say so.

lacking an apostrophe, i love food, i love animals, because it’s the first word you hear that starts with the letter “f” when you try to think of the first word you hear that starts with the letter “f,” god knows why, i don’t know, only i know, only i am, only i sleep, sunrise is afterlife, love it want it need it have it, cause it, it,

,

and your mind will be set free. Love to Love You Baby. Continue reading

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