Monthly Archives: October 2013

on the eve of all hallows’ evening, hate

in the past two weeks, two friends have called me a “curmudgeon” and “lame.” i care because i think they’re right.

exhibit a: i don’t like dressing up at prescribed events and times

tomorrow is that spooky holiday where i either have to come up with some “clever” costume or go to work in plainclothes ready to suffer the slings and arrows of my oh-so-spirited coworker. though she’ll be the most vocal, she won’t be the only judging me for preferring jeans and a shirt to a costume. this very same thing was (truly) the only thing giving me anxiety leading up to my first Burning Man. luckily, my love of loves convinced me that it didn’t matter, and that i should bring whatever clothes i wanted, and so i did, and so i mostly just wore boxers and long hair and had the time of my life. i love that girl.

exhibit b: i’m so particular about music

not one… not two… but at least three different friends all insisted in a 24-hour period that i absolutely must listen to the reflektors because oh my god it kind of sounds like disco. it does. it really does. i don’t care. i really don’t. resistance was futile, however, because today a coworker played the album on our office speakers, which made me cringe a bit underneath the skin. first of all, you should know that i’m a contrarian (thanks, Shannon) asshole that will never like something if it’s forced upon me. if you want me to like something, let me discover it on my own. second of all, for the love of god, for my first listen, let me hear the album in full and on a decent soundsystem. not randomly cutting in and out, paused and skipped, plucked and muted in an office setting on a shitty sonos speaker. you’re just asking for me to hate it. these feelings only surfaced a tiny bit, and even the fraction was enough to make another one of my coworkers grimace. “you guys just don’t understand!” cried the audiophile… or did i mean adolescent?

exhibit c: i’m so. goddamn. particular. about music.

yesterday, a friend invited me to go see the Flaming Lips’ Halloween show. it costs $50 and i’ve seen ’em before, sorry, but no thanks. then he proceeded to invite me to see an lcd soundsystem cover band. pay for a cover band? sorry, but no thanks. then he proceeded to invite me to see a new order cover band. dude, sorry, but no thanks! then he asked me if i’d listened to aforementioned reflektors album good god i don’t like the goddamn arcade fire, no, thanks. NO NO NO NO since when was i the most negative person on the planet? i suddenly felt compelled to travel as the crow flies to Natalie or the ocean or the sun so i could just speak in the affirmative for a few minutes. it’s like the music festivals and the street fairs. it’s basically something i have to deal with every summer at this point when festival season rolls around. “are you going to coachella?” no. “are you going to outside lands?” no. “are you going to treasure island?” no. no. no. no. no. no. i don’t like paying a shitton of money to add a bunch of bands to the list of bands i’ve seen. i like to do that one at a time, thank you very much. why? because it sounds way fucking better, they get more time and creative license, and because it sounds way fucking better.

exhibit d: fuck street fairs

this is kind of related to the above but that paragraph was getting way too big and sometimes i become attached to style choices that make no sense. but seriously, i do not give a shit about street fairs. folsom, howard, haight, market, mission, i don’t give a fuck where you’re throwing it, it sucks. same drunkass people, same (granted, delicious) street vendors, and–most important to me–same shitty sound. howweird confirmed this for me: they had like eight stages within one block of each other. guys, that doesn’t sound good. dirtybird + happy house + New Orleans brass… sounds like the sonic equivalent of vomit. it actually gives me a headache. it gives me Burning Man flashbacks. it reminds me how many egos exist. i do not like street fairs, i do not.

exhibit e: this blog post

i’m going to go write about stuff i love. Continue reading

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Yeezus Continue reading

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possible reasons i got an ocular migraine today

started while eating minestrone soup
typical stressful bike ride home
hair tied back too tight?
not enough water?
garden salsa sun chips
salmon, asparagus, salad
honey nut cheerios w banana
shitload of Swiss cheese night before
mushroom spinach pasta night before
powerful bourbon and wine night before Continue reading

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love to love the stark reality of you, baby

the canvas is revealed, and instantly my own words come to haunt me:

i think writers love writing way too much sometimes.

do i stand by it? Booker’s bourbon deep within me or not, i do.

pasta sauce is on the stove, Tina’s yowling for dinner eleven whole minutes early, and here i sit, listening to strange jazz funk for those who were children in 1970. perhaps i was a child in 1970. perhaps i am a child in 2013.

immediately, my mind races to Natalie. lover, mother, sister, daughter. lover, liver, other, udder. lover, liver, killer, wanted. dead or alive, the love of my life.

i spent the past weekend not just with her but with my whole family. wedding #3. the best wedding, i would argue, but i’m biased because i love beaches. there we sat, taking up five of the nearly 40 chairs, on the beach in Avila, watching the two lovers dedicate the rest of their lives to each other. meanwhile, girls in bikinis, young girls, young boys, older boys, men, women, couples, swimmers, bros, volleyball voyeurs, everyone… looked on. it was us and it was them, and i certainly felt like them.

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the night before, Natalie and i had stared at our beautiful naked bodies in a giant mirror that took up the entire wall. while doing so, it dawned on me that narcissism was not reserved merely for individuals.

consider: a boy staring at his beautiful body in the reflected pool is narcissism. granted. likewise, a girl staring at her beautiful body in the reflected pool is narcissism. granted. however, the boy looks up and sees the girl across the pond, and he dies. struck with such immense beauty, an infinity times greater than his own, he stares and stares and stares and, at just the right moment when she felt his gaze, he looks away, only to look back and see her locking eyes with him. lust, granted. they edge the pond to share a conversation. the conversation leads to love leads to a later meeting leads to love leads to more meetings leads to love leads to… their becoming something of a unity. with or without marriage, granted, they become something of a one. this one finds themselves lying naked staring at themselves in a giant mirror… is narcissism. granted?

alas, as with the crashing waves parallel to my pupils, the tides do turn.

in the wake of the rainbow sand ceremony we had just witnessed, full of love and hope and happiness, i found myself plunged into the darkness of a quarrel with my love, who had found fault with some stupid words i spoke in the morning. i had apologized then, legitimately, but through my own prodding about some other subject after the wedding, had dug a hole that opened up the very same cavern of despair that i thought had been buried earlier.

but did this cavern really need to be so big? need the flames lick so high? need the darkness pitch so deep? i didn’t think so, but she did. but this writer had had enough of words. hopeless, stupid, careless, useless words. meaningless, pointless, hopeless. impossible.

so i stared at the ocean.

i stared.

and i stared.

and i gazed.

and i loved.

and i breathed.

and the mind wandered as it does but without words.

just breathing.

and loving.



the waves crashed as they have for all time and as they will for all time. beautiful Avila Beach waves. beautiful.

stunning. impossibly perfect, gorgeous, crashing, perfect waves.

starry. star-struck, i was.

in love, i was.

i was.

i was, when my lover–now relegated to my periphery–caressed my face.

and at that very moment, i walked into my living room and threw Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby” on the turntable. if you turn it up real loud, i realized then, you hear breathe in deeply before she starts sexily singing, “ohhh… love to love you baby.” Continue reading

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i confess to be the deputy of love

“ah! so you’re sticking with the old sword and shield, eh?” the guy said, pointing to my turntables.

“no, you fuckface. if computers are AK-47s, in your idiotic analogy, then turntables are merely the primitive form… perhaps muskets. the sword and shield would be my bass and amp back home. thankfully, music isn’t war, so having the most powerful, most technologically advanced equipment does not necessarily make you the winner. so go get another fucking drink and leave me the fuck alone.”

of course i didn’t say any of that. i am, however, cleaning out notes on my phone. like this one, written only eight hours into the eleventh day of the ninth month:

bronze lioness on my bart
long, dark, wavy bleached hair
self-loving eyes
dark olive skin, soft lips
delicate diamond collar
perky black cotton hug
tight grey heaven waist
sheer black tights
does she even touch the ground?

you’ve probably wondered whether that stranger on the train is snapping a photo of you, but have you ever wondered whether that stranger on the train is writing lines about you? he is.

you probably consider yourself an amazing lover. one night while i was djing her bar downtown, Courtney the bartender asked me, “do you think you’re an amazing lover?” and i said, “yeah, doesn’t everybody?” to which she replied, “exactly!” as she proceeded to verify by asking every other man and woman in the bar. who could ever judge their sexual performances negatively? after all, it’s always the best time, isn’t it? and that’s at least half YOUR doing, isn’t it? well done, ladies and gentleman.

on the twelfth day of the seventh month, however, after completing one such grand sexual performance, i gazed upon my woman’s face and had an epiphany: not only am i a great lover, but i’m also a savvy hair stylist. but i looked away from her beautiful face because, as i had realized just nine days prior, if you stare at something too long, it’s hard to see. Continue reading

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a Wallace Stevens dictionary

argentine (adj.)
of or resembling silver.
An argentine abstraction approaching form
And suddenly denying itself away.
(167) Continue reading

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holy Nat!

holy nat! Continue reading

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who was he?

walking uphill from the gay district, classic disco sounds caressing my inner ear, my mind meanders.

pyramids. the shape and spirituality of pyramids attracts me. the way you can see the quiet parts on a record just by looking at its grooves. “why are you wearing girls’ sunglasses?” “that’s a very good question.” Alison, my best Internet friend and one of my favorite people, strolls across my synapses, making me wonder why the blood flows through my body the way it does. why does it flow to make me angry when, why does it flow to make me horny when

i look up into the eyes of a beautiful young woman, gone in a flash.

without turning around, i realize that she had been walking w her boyfriend. arms interlocked, they walked down the hill on their way to a date or dinner or whatever it is lovers do these days, but it was certain: there were two of them.

why did my eyes instantly, instinctively race to hers for that split second when we crossed paths? deaf to all but disco, i had not heard heels. eyes to the ground, i had no warning. i simply saw an approaching blur and, reacting, lifted my eyes to the face that pleases me as much as the heavenly sky and the departing ocean: the female’s face.

i hadn’t been disappointed, and yet i wondered, “who was he?” Continue reading

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facebook: it’s what’s for breakfast

Screen Shot 2013-10-07 at 9.10.43 PM Continue reading

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hip hop and not

Screen Shot 2013-10-07 at 8.58.26 PM Continue reading

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