Tag Archives: bass

Hafner at El Rio

20170318 Hafner Continue reading

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Jewel City


airy, brazen invisible strings
vibrating, erratic, dimly squeezing
a constellation of city lights—
it’s San Francisco, the city
of bridges, visionary legions,
future-destined legends.

every day a moment
renewed by the pianoforte
fog creeping, sneaking—
a holy, wondrous, consecrated,
wet, beautiful thing
adhering to every home.

and the bass? bombastic and
silent and teeming, a mass crashing
against the cliff side, oceanic
connector of disparate worlds,
salty cell body binding wild lives,
eternal caution to us all:

we are triple blessed in the Jewel City. Continue reading

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what happens when you are the input and the output

what happens when you only have two states: drunk and hungover

what happens when you refuse to sip on anything but top-shelf lit

the obvious cognitive dissonance in selling your words but not your music while knowing full well that rhythm is rhythm

what happens when you decide to quit

what happens when the people you love think that’s a great idea

what happens when you think the people you love are a great idea

what happens when a work of fiction is not real fiction

what happens when the fruits of your entire consciousness are simply the back page scribbles of someone else’s story

a single glass of four-day-old $4 wine

what happens when you only dance and cuddle, no no fuck

what happens when wave

what happens when you want to be the pacifist shark in the tank

a dark, long-haired man kissing Israel, hugging Palestine

what happens when you crack an egg over bibimbop pizza

“this is happening,” concluded the stubbly subway sound engineer

what happens in the city does not stay in the city. Continue reading

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i me mine i me mine

i’m drunk right now.

i just wrote a poem. when was the last time i wrote a poem? if ronblog is my only indication, then the last time i wrote a poem was nearly three months ago. how sad. and what a bad poem that was. hopefully the latest is better. i believe it is. i hugged one of my loves recently, one of the greatest poets alive, aerienne. how could i not be infused with poetic sensibilities with her presence? also: i just finished reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce. how could i not be infused with poetic sensibilities through his presence? i do not know.

i don’t know much at the moment except that i’ve had one too few PBRs and two too many gin martinis.

i do know that i despise any author that begins more than two paragraphs in a row with the same word, particularly if that word happens to be the word used by a speaker to refer to himself or herself. i me mine i me mine.

i’m in a band. did i ever tell you that? who the fuck are you anyway and why do i tell you so many things about myself? perhaps you’re nobody, so i can trust you. i’ll trust myself and keep talking. i play bass in a band that has no name. the band–bassist, guitarist/singer/keyboardist, guitarist/singer, and drummer–met today, and we spent 50% of our time working through band names. the other 50% of the time we spent playing music. i wish we spent 0% of our time picking band names and 120% of our time becoming incredible magicians of rhythm. alas.

i almost died today. i cut into the freeway on my bike–there was a bike lane but i was stupid not to look first–and a car flew past me at 50 MPH… just a feet or two away. i reevaluated my life decisions. i still love my girlfriend.

my girlfriend is the most beautiful girl in the world. she’s also the most beautiful woman in the world. she’s also the most beautiful lady in the world. her hair smells so nice. her eyes are big and bright and dark like diamonds like black holes like perfection. when i look into her eyes i want to cry but instead i kiss her. i want to make her happy. i want to wash her feet. i want to kiss her feet and then wash them and then kiss them and then wash them and then. i love her neck and sometimes i grab it. sometimes i scratch her scalp. she cooks ambrosia. the gods are dead and yet ambrosia lives–in our mouths. that’s not all. she is a medium, of sorts. she smirks. she giggles. do not fuck with her; you will be fucked. when i wonder, i am in her heart. when i love, i am of her heart. when i think, i am her brain cells dripping like a chocolate waterfall of the crust. pie is her sky mind as am i.

where does love live? Continue reading

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All Delighted People

patterns, coincidences, joy, and passion? now i’m just making shit up. Continue reading

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love to love you 2013

feeling melancholy, feeling unsure about 2014. Continue reading

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Danksagung Fodderstompf

we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved
we only wanted to be loved.

last night i hosted a vinyl listening party, and it was one of the very best. Adam and Natalie whipped up caramelized onions, polenta, ground beef, and salad for pretty much everybody at the party. good beer flowed, weak beer flowed, bourbon flowed, water flowed. we all got down to “Dreams” like a bunch of middle-aged adults, a man and woman twerked their behinds together with the help of hip hop, and, past midnight, a Brit just repeatedly blunted us all.

and the music… oh, the music. from CCR to PiL to RJD2, Kanye to Crimson to Kendrick, my friends’ collective taste in music never ceased to amaze me. i felt grateful to easily trust Nick, Mark, and Dan on the wheels of steel… keeping good beats flowing all night long.-

in fact, this was one of my favorite weekends in a long while, thanks to all the love i shared with family and friends.

things kicked off wednesday night with a hell of a drinking session at bermuda with Madison and then, later on, Steve. we kicked backed beers while spotify-djing, and watched Pharrell’s homies get down to our tracks on Chris’ big screen. it synced up perfectly! Madison crashed, we danced with the devil, then the world traded us Sophia for Steve. i grew listless as the night grew long, so i bounced on my bike and journeyed into the night.

on the one day a year where we’re supposed to give thanks, i awoke with an achy thankfulness for medicinal herbs. i just lay in bed breathing support for my temples while reading everything i could about Bitcoin. it’s truly fascinating. the economy, in general, is a topic that intrigues me endlessly. like breathing oxygen or drinking h-two-oh, we support and base our entire lives around the ability to trade green bills and digital credits for pleasant things like donuts and warm bedrooms. and yet, to a far greater degree than respiration and hydration, economics appears to work like magic. its mysteries evade my grasp.

perfect recipe for a high me to fall in love with this shiny new “cryptocurrency,” and to arbitrarily decide to convert $1000 of my own savings into BTC. i haven’t done it yet, but i’ve downloaded software. this might actually happen.

eventually, after pulling myself from bed, i made the drive down to Daly City. i almost had a hissy fit because all the boys had decided they’d rather listen to football and an hour of commercials then hear music. the compromise was supposed to be music over the muted game, but the compromise became music over the non-muted game. oh, but i repeatedly begged for and was sometimes granted muted ads in between. how complicated.

in any case, my family was fun, my mom’s food was fantastic, and my Adam was a joy to have again.

oh, Adam. guest of guests. he reminds me of Cameron in that he explodes what it is to be a guest. you can’t feel burdened by a best friend. we made music, we went on walks, we fed on feasts, we stared at skies and evening stars, and we made music. he did, perhaps, make my Tina puke from too much fancy feast and also, perhaps, fuck up my bass guitar to the point where it’s now out of commission for 1-2 weeks and $75… but maybe those things would’ve happened anyway. and even if not, it was all worth it anyway.

i mean, Christ, on friday afternoon, Adam on drums, Chris on electric, and myself on bass… the house shook. we rocked and rocked and rocked as knickknacks rolled off tables and everything vibrated on edge. an empty champagne glass tipped over and ricocheted across a chair, shattering against the carpet. thinking i heard something, i looked over and laughed, “fuck!,” making sure Chris knew not to step there. we were mid-song and couldn’t stop. we wouldn’t stop.

in the evening, after a walk to Glen Park and picnic overlooking the canyon, Adam started drifting asleep to the warm tape recording of Caroline Rose. so i went downtown alone. three gin tonics for Steve’s birthday, one hot dog and two gin tonics for Tania’s. Alan, Chris, Chaz, Sophia, Zoe, Matt, Elise, Luca, Billy, Danny, Abe, Erika, Nina, Mared… hella people. and Natalie!

oh.. if i could say the fun Natalie and i have. maybe i should have a private blog. maybe i should write “cryptopoetry” that bares all behind a veil.

space is limited in heaven, but once
you arrive you learn how the walls
always sweat hot, wet “yes.” at sunset,
trace a line across the big december
sky, then dip your molten star behind her
perfect earth, sigh an eight minute bliss,
and love.

yes, she’s lying next to me right now. yes, she’s clicking around aimlessly on her computer. yes, her skin is the same perfect brown i love to kiss. yes, her flowery pajama pants sag to display her little plumber’s butt. no, i can’t do anything about how much she means.

so fortunate for my stunning, loving sweetheart. so fortunate for the man, Adam, my old best friend. so fortunate for my family–healthy, happy, wealthy in life and love. so fortunate for my friends, disciples of the world.

moondaze tomorrow? let’s do this. Continue reading

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panties in a brunch

yesterday, along with four other punks, i hosted a party. it took place during a sunday afternoon in the Mission and it consisted of two key elements: disco and champagne. here are some things i remember from Daft Brunch 2: Daft Bruncher.

–to make sure i didn’t completely lose my head after a couple glasses of juice, i started the day by scarfing down a greasy grilled cheese and fried egg sandwich with honey butter Brussels sprouts on the side.

–somehow, i was elected to be the first dj of the day, so i spun whatever the fuck i wanted–including Pink Floyd–for about 15 people. later on, a girl came up to me and thanked me for the Floyd, the only validation i needed, if any.

–Natalie, who was probably my first good friend to arrive, smiled her pretty face at me right before i pressed play on the last song in my first set, Boys.

–in the early party sun, under the slow-spinning disco ball, i sipped my mimosa in a lawn chair w Nick, Natalie, and James at my side, and things seemed pretty alright.

–these two or three guys were dancing like crazy, but it was so crazy that i was doubting how genuine they were. were they just trying to get a lot of attention (one of them was a tall ass white dude that didn’t need to throw his arms and legs around crazily in every direction to get attention) or were they genuinely moving their limbs because they music mad them do so? i couldn’t convince myself of the latter.

–my bro rolled up with my cuz and a mini crew with tons of beer in their arms. i laughed and welcomed them, and informed them of our $15 bottomless mimosas. they promptly returned their beer to the car and came back for mimosas and the rest of the party.

–Alison came. she looked pretty as always and her lipstick matched her dress, which i loved. her crew seemed… on edge. i simply hoped they’d drink their nerves away. i don’t think they did.

–while my mimosa was being refilled, a random girl said to me, “you have SUCH long hair. do girls like that?” “i don’t know,” i said, “do you?” though her friend laughed, she stood unfazed “actually, i know a girl who does,” she said with a winky smile. “see that blonde girl standing over there? she really loves guys w long hair… you should go talk to her.” i returned her smile and said, “you should tell her to talk to my girlfriend.” and that was that.

–my cuz passed me a much-needed blunt, so i blasted off minutes before starting my closing set w Mark.

–Deaf Goldblum dropped his favorite remix of “Freeki Motherfucker.” shit got freaky.

–Grayson came to say goodbye and then, right on cue but totally not intentionally, i dropped “Lose Yourself to Dance” as he was walking out. he was trapped for a few minutes.

–the closing set by bleego and myself creeped into darkness, and from the darkness creeped some raver kid with glowing orange poi. everyone made a circle around him and, in our large but not large enough space, that left no space for dancing. oh well. perfect time to drop some slow-starting Diana Ross, i suppose.

–Imagination, Patrice Rushen, Diana Ross, Melba Moore, Daft Punk, Carly Simon… maybe i need a new repertoire. maybe i should start spinning drum & bass… or metal.

–Sunflower phở made life worth living again.

so, what i’m trying to figure out is… why–out of six hours of partying–wasn’t there one moment more beautiful or sublime than the moment in the morning when i woke up next to my sweetheart and the moment at night where i fell asleep in her arms? Continue reading

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Metro Area

i love when the time is 01:23. i love dancing to “Dancing Queen.” i love when people don’t steal your shit. i love how a couple robots could tell a band of perfect professionals to just keep walking along the … 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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