Tag Archives: partying

sex with me… sex with me… sex with me…

the drive
six-dollar garbage
L. A.
Micah’s little lab
dropping by Federal
sunset cruise to Santa Monica
sir, this is valet only
the motel, Steve, Thai curry, the cockroach

Vator Splash
walk for oil
chillin w Tram
goodbye Santa Monica

sunrise to LAX
the literati
trader joes shopping
gal palace
aerienne’s curry
rise of the jack o lanterns
staples center
the pantry
sex with me, sex with me
film shoot
martinis at Clifton

sweating, parking
Meryl the blonde tart
Clara the effortlessly beautiful
Travis the sexy handyman
back at the chicken shack
raw silk
maximum laughter, minimal consequence
scene queen
80s club (wreck 86?) speakeasy
overpass popup
gig rig piss
spurned the hip hop breeze
hot dog, malt liquor, blow

video chat w love
high as fuck w Fitzcarraldo


piece of shit
part one of Anna Karenina
the Ivy
over the garden wall
finished Fitzcarraldo

fragment of shit
cacao coffee
barneys beanery
little dieter needs to fly

bagels n coffee
work, work
laundry out
car wash
seat belt ticket
laundry home
yoga nap
chicken kebab election
bye aerienne

moving the car asleep
cafe 50s
el matador
shower and jojoba
long lyft
a novel Thai feast
double double rye, straight
bye Meryl
bye Virgil
hello j
from sleep

early morning car move again
waiting for the call
toilet call
pack fast and peace
selected ambient drive
peter gabriel
fresh fruit
surprise! Continue reading

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spent the night fueling. drinking water. cooked a salmon w Xanthe’s guidance, raw segments of flesh lining the thicker bits. soft orzo mixed in w onion, garlic, and mushrooms on the side. very filling. tons of water. whiskey. laughter, a shower, and confidence.

walked to BART. into the Mission. above to the streets.

the drugged and the homeless on their wayward trips. a few blocks to Public Works, and there i was, for the first time in a year, encircled by youth, liquor, and deeply throbbing bass. church.

i ordered a whiskey ginger, which i sipped while swaying to the sultry beats alongside Mark and Marie. Mark disappeared but Marie and i continued dancing; the music like a phoenix burned into grey ashes and rose again within moments to thumping New York City leftfield disco, fat w bass, happy w horns, alive w love. perfect. dance. music. so we danced.

then we stepped outside for a brief smoke, awaiting the arrival of our much beloved Norwegian prince, Todd Terje. when we went back in, “Delorean Dynamite.”

Mark and Marie edged into an unfortunate section so i ditched them for something more suitable, sonically speaking. as i pushed in from the back left corner of the crowd, a pretty girl nudged me and, when i turned, said, “you have the most incredible aura.”

and so i danced.


worked all day, dressed so sharp. same blue levi’s but the deer print tee has been replaced by a blue pinstripe button down. hair ain’t down, it’s all the way up. dreadbun.

Cab Calloway’s big band’s banging away in my headphones as i step onto the BART car, as the pretty girl sitting there eyes me and smiles. i smile back, standing near her. she glances up at me (or tries not to) one too many times, so i pull an earphone off and ask, “should i remember your name?”

“no.. i just like your energy.”

“ah.. i see. well, thanks, but shouldn’t you be up in the desert with all those other energy-reading folk?”

she laughs, then asks, “what are you listening to?”

i laugh too, and hand her the headphones. 1930s jazz strikes her eardrums, and from the very first moment she’s surprised, but i’m not.

“wasn’t expecting that,” she says.

“i know,” i laugh.

some silence.

“you know,” i say, “this is really funny because it’s the second time it’s happened to me in the past few days.”

i tell her something about the girl at Public Works. i proceed to pontificate about how i’m more freaked out about someone commenting on aura because it implies that they’re literally seeing colors in the air around my body like i’m the bloody virgin mary, but then i think about Meryl and realize that it might not be so farfetched. i say all of this, minus mentioning Meryl, plus all the added doubting and philosophy. i also, during this time, notice her hairy armpits.

and she never stops smiling. i got on at Montgomery, she bounces at Civic Center, and that’s that. Continue reading

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ramblin’ ron

tonight? tonight i’m going to a cave party. Continue reading

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possible reasons i got an ocular migraine in the desert today

partying too hard 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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Good Times

in which the Hero thinks writing about a three day music weekend in blank verse is a good idea. Continue reading

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Arrival at Elmira

in which the Hero goes to Oregon! Continue reading

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there *will* be bubbles

if your heart is still beating, then you couldn’t have possibly left it anywhere. STAGE ONE: ROOSTER you’re not even alive. you have to drink multiple caffeinated beverages, you have to say a questionable amount of silly things to your … 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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fall texts

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