Tag Archives: goodness

selections from Benvenuto Cellini’s autobiography

I intend to tell the story of my life with a certain amount of pride Continue reading

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selections from The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark

“It’s only possible to betray where loyalty is due,” said Sandy. Continue reading

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amazing music: Joy Division, anything that skanks (reggae, ragga, dancehall, dub), “La Voz,” old-school acid techno (specifically, Adonis), The Cure (specifically, “Fascination Street”), things created on the Yamaha RM1X, Carly Simon when tripping disco balls, The Flirts (specifically, a super special future forecasting remix of “Passion”), Matthew Dear (Little People [Black City]), David Bowie dance hits, Elton John (“and the Jets”), anything with soul, rhythm, the blues.

two ungodly things dawned in the 21st century: rock & roll and the Internet. whose side are you on?

B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets.

today is fucking awesome. i’m not doing anything. slightly hungover, i’m lying on my bed, cuddling with a pair of bongos lent to me by a friend, and djing beautiful tunes for myself. 1973. 1979. 1990. nothing before 1930 and not a thing after 2011. when you have 81 years of depression/sex/madness/love/drugs/forlornness/desire/tears/heart to work with, it’s hard to imagine feeling like something’s missing.

this morning, for the second in a row, i woke up on Chris’ couch with more-than-a-little head/stomachache. a glass of water and Blues & Roots (thanks Stalker) mostly cleared those small grievances. we were in the act of making plans to get brunch in the marina with Billy and his flatmate, but i bailed as soon as i found out my mom was cooking up some nacatamales. praise the lord. while mine was cooking, i chopped a hundred lemons in half and my mom squeezed their guts out. within ten minutes, i was munching on a grandma-manufactured Nicaraguan delicacy, sucking down slightly overcooked, perfectly overpeppered fried eggs, and sipping on handsqueezed lemonade, all while listening to the classic jazz of the Dave Brubeck Quartet on Time Out.

besides spending an hour on the phone with the best ex-girlfriend short of a girlfriend, i’ve done nothing today but partake in aforementioned bongo cuddling, masterpiece djing.

welcome to the Good Life, where we like the girls who ain’t on tv ’cause they got more (ass than the models)

yesterday, Chris and i indulged in pure pleasure, disco decadence: scrambles, irish coffees, sake, PBR, fernet, taxis, hookah, Syrah, hummus, 80s classics, and afro reggae caribbean fusion dub funk from another world, my world. at the first place, Beauty Bar, i danced with… nobody really. but, like i said, it was all the classics: New Order, Tom Tom Club, Michael Jackson, Madonna, the kind of material you will never ever be able to resist. we were there early (9ish?), but danced and danced and danced until the entire place was actually getting down. then we went next door to Little Baobab. and the dancing gets a little lower, a little dirtier, and a little more delicious. sipping on ginger, tamarind, whiskey, slipping through the sweaty crowd, just stepping to the beat. the never-ending beat of a heart far transplanted from San Francisco. danced with some curvy Latina woman that i may or may not have charmed at the bar a little earlier. eventually she ran away, or i did, or we both did, but i somehow found myself dancing with a gorgeous girl whose name sounds like Lenin spelled backwards because her parents are from Russia and Lebanon. don’t ask me, but she had hair just like mine–but maybe better because she wasn’t afraid to leave it down in the sweaty rainforest–and the prettiest face in the world. and she moves, her body loves music. if you love music, i love you. like Prince says, it’s Automatic. like Half Pint says and Bradley repeated, Loving, it’s all i’ve got. like Yeezy says, Amazing.

a flash of dance, a glass of water, a spring for earring, a kiss, and a gleam, and Chris and i were on our merry way wandering the streets of San Francisco in search of some soul desperate enough to taxi us across the city. eventually we found one, but he was David Bowie. let’s not get into that.

the night before, i partied with strangers, acquaintances, and friends for Kate’s birthday. the girl had made a perfect playlist of classic Motown music, so i knew the night would go well. talked to a cool girl named Jordan with glorious rings strewn across her hands, played a highly sexual version of Jenga, got high, and witnessed Truji’s wise decision to purchase a porn dvd, among other awesomeness. also hijacked the music for a nearly thirty minute set (sorry Kate and Truji!) composed of the following three masterpieces:

Truji cut me off in the middle of my fourth song–“China Girl”–which means i played music for longer than i’d ever imagined, so i couldn’t really complain. i mean, it was pretty painful when he stopped it before the ten-second bass solo that makes me wet myself, but it’s ok. it’s HIS house and his flatmate’s party. i’m psychotic about choosing music at my parties.

i’m psychotic about music. Continue reading

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