Tag Archives: shit

selections from Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America by Barbara Ehrenreich

No one ever said that you could work hard—harder even than you ever thought possible—and still find yourself sinking ever deeper into poverty and debt. Continue reading

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to sit at the typewriter and transcribe the thoughts
that had occurred to you moments ago while
defecating into a porcelain bowl
wondering how many of the great minds stared into the distance
of space and time and how many times they looked down
and saw what i was looking at now. Continue reading

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shitty roller disco

yesterday i stepped in dog shit. i realize this isn’t the most uncommon experience in the world. and being a San Francisco resident, i should have appreciated that it was shit of the canine variety, at least, as opposed to … Continue reading

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selections from George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion (1912)

LIZA. Every girl has a right to be loved. (102) Continue reading

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on futility and fire

i’m not afraid of creating things of inferior quality. just look at my “Burning Man” blog post.

sometimes it’s hard to express experiences through language. lots of people are really good at it, like this guy. i admire people who can write really well. i really admire people who can write well about the topic of how hard it is to write. same reason Federico Fellini is one of my favorite filmmakers.

one thing i love about Black Rock City, besides the fact that it is truly a city, is how it trains you to focus on basic survival needs. even before camping in the desert for a week, i loved bandannas. i carry one everywhere i go, just in case i forget to grab a napkin while eating greasy, messy hot dogs… or in case the bathroom only has those useless air dryers… or in case i’m sweating bullets in the club. in Black Rock City, when clouds of white dust would encircle me and my friends at a moment’s notice… those big pretty handkerchiefs let me breathe.

i almost feel like i wouldn’t be completely useless if our cities went Arab Spring.

i have reached a point in my life where i think that one of the greatest powers a human being can possess is the power of shining bright light from the forehead. rings and other jewelry do imbue magical abilities, but you will never understand those abilities in full.

why do i still write about Black Rock City? don’t i owe you Aristotle, Longinus, and Demetrius? why do i still dream about Black Rock City? do i really miss the red light glow of feces-infested portapotties? Continue reading

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Dorian mode

when i was around 13 years old, my parents gifted me a drum set for Christmas. even today, i can confidently say it was the single greatest physical present i’ve ever received from anyone. it officially made me a musician.

a decade later, a man now bound for Boulder urged me in the moment to strum guitar with him. though it may have been a bit premature, it (within a few months time) urged me down the path to the bass guitar, the more carefully footed step up from drums. so now, over a decade into my drumming career and only a couple years into my bass, i wonder whether i’ll pick up guitar when i turn 33 and then eventually drop all material things and simply croon when i’m 43.

one can dream. even in linear mathematical dimensions. but let’s be honest, exponential probably makes more sense, so i’ll probably play guitar when i’m 36 and sing when i’m 53. not too different. what the hell am i talking about? well, i can’t explain the math stuff, because i’m no Randall Munroe, but i will explain this theory i’ve been thinking about in regards to music and the body.

consider dance. in its simplest form, dance is simply the act of feet striking the earth. indeed, in truly transcendent dance, the mind is shut off entirely, and the human hops and heaves and swings and swirls like a dizzy flower, often to the rhythm of a beat… but this last part is unnecessary. all that is required for dance are feet striking the earth. that is, percussion. drums. by virtue of this, i consider drums not only the root of rhythm but also the thing that roots us to the earth–our feet and legs.

next comes the sister of percussion, harmony. that is, bass. and what comes after our legs but before our vitals? the genitals. consider: striking of the snares and booming of the kick raise us from our seats and urge us to stamp the ground beneath our feet, but what is that part, that irresistible, sinewy part that prevents our hips from staying still? the bassline curves through the air like a fire-breathing dragon, charring the asses of those who are free.

sidling up the human body, we next reach all those vitals but the brain. among others, this includes stomach, lungs, and, most importantly, heart. here we find melody, for is it not in our heart where we feel the joyous springing of the major scale as much as the miserable lament of the minor? heartbreak can kill a man, and it feels like suffocation… perfectly conscious suffocation. so too, love can induce the growth of wings, and so too can the guitar.

finally, we come to the head. inside one’s skull, chemical electrical thunderstorms rage producing the most unmusical and yet most human aspect of all: lyric. with the aid of a thinking brain and a humming nose, singers let leak through their gaping mouths their words of confusion, fear, and wonder, striving to know and for others to know… themselves.

just because you just read over a hundred pages of criticism on Sophocles Oedipus Rex doesn’t mean you know a goddamn thing about writing criticism yourself. you’re out practice. go to bed, you’re drunk.

truthfully enough, i’ve been reading some heavy shit. besides aforementioned criticism and the single perfect play upon which said criticism is based, i’ve also recently devoured John Locke’s Second Treatise of Government and almost all the works of Oscar Wilde. (i’ve yet to tackle his poetry. in general, i’ve been reading poetry more slowly because i can’t read it on muni because i refuse to read poetry without reading it aloud and i don’t think people on morning/evening commutes to and from the city would necessarily enjoy my twice daily poetry readings.) next up on the list? The Ananga-Ranga, “an Indian sex manual written in the 15th or 16th century,” according to Wikipedia. maybe i’ll learn something.

maybe, by the time saturday comes, i’ll be able to put into practice whatever reading i get in tomorrow, friday. i can probably knock out a good chunk in tomorrow’s two hours, sleep on it, and then awaken in the weekend yellow sun streaming through my bedroom window and flag, rise to shower, dress in cool clothes, descend the stairs to the gray pantyflasher–back in action–to speed just a bit north to scoop my half-Indian love to speed even further north to spill our completely exploding hearts.

i’m not actually drunk. i’m completely sober. i’m listening to my body.

check out my melody: my thorax and abdomen as of late have been complaining of acid. ’twas a sensation i had only felt momentarily on a couple occasions in the past, but lately it’s been an ever-present pang, heightened especially by my partaking in the most pleasantest of life’s servings: alcohol and spice. so, for as much of the month of may as possible, i am, as much is possible, cutting the two lifeless loves out entirely. i’m a couple days sober and i’m feeling good. it’s hard to avoid acid in food (tonight i made up some sloppy joe), but i think cutting out two intense variables should suffice.

what a mysterious wholesome. abstaining from alcohol. learning to cook. taking bass lessons. riding public transportation, hardly driving. consuming literature like a lava. and i’m about to sleep before midnight.

peace and love to you, universe. Continue reading

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Twitter potty humor

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Facebook is so shitty

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The term is generally applied to alcohol, barbiturates, amphetamines, THC, PCP, cocaine, and heroin but also includes caffeine in coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee

why yes, i did just let a man stick a needle in my eyelid and inject steroids. why, you ask? oh, because i trust him.

now, with a swollen lower right lid, i barely sit up—almost lie—in my bed, watching the curtains blow wild and green over my turntables like big ship sails, listening to the Who belt out covers of blues songs that could pass for hardcore sonic pornography, chewing on week-old pistachios, sipping on plastic water, and typing up a vacuous storm. it’s monday and i’m blogging.

i went to a baseball game last week and saw a pitcher end an inning. innings end about 17 or 18 times per baseball game, and pitchers are often the reason for those endings, seeing as how they throw the balls that cause strikes and home runs. anyway, this particular time, the pitcher walked off the mound with a little cross on his face and a little point to the heavens, as if he were thanking the Greek deities for their graciousness in allowing him to end that very inning. what a crock of shit! i don’t end every single paragraph i write with a prayer to Allah. i don’t even do so after each blog post is published! although, Christ, maybe i should…

what other things have i done lately? what other thoughts have i had? after all, what is a blog post but a description of sights and sounds, as mundane, murky, magical, or obsolescent they may be.

today, i went to a television studio. i don’t really have much more to say about that except that i saw lots of monitors and a pretty girl (or two) and important people.

i’ve had two amazing weekends back to back and—coincidentally—my girlfriend has been sober for two whole weekends. this most recent one was spent doing and eating and feeling many things, but it started with my limbs actually assembling a delicious spinach mushroom pasta for Chelsea and myself, followed by the spectacle of spectacles, ballet:

all the critics seem to love the San Francisco Ballet’s 2012 closing-production of Don Quixote and, this time around, i’m not one to disagree with critics. not only did i take my beautiful girl to a beautiful ballet, but i finally closed the loop on something i should have done almost two years ago: mixed marijuana and high art! yup yup yup, during the intermissions, Chelsea and i slipped to the City Hall-facing balcony—the very same one where i was offered a smoke so long ago—and took a toke from my own magic flute. and, as if the universe wasn’t content with closing a single loop, it sent an old man wandering to our balcony, who awkwardly conversed with us until i killed the awkwardness by offering him a smoke. his response: “far out!” i love ballet, i love San Francisco.

i also love girls.

these are the girls that are the waitresses that are the angels at It’s Tops Coffee Shop that i love that i yes that i love more coffee more smiles more eyes bright wide-opened white cream in my coffee, the girls that i love, the coffee that i love, the ballet spins music into my misty ears. coffee.

the rest of the weekend was spent sleeping in super late, loving friends, drinking beers, eating wings, eating omelettes, eating trout, eating salmon, celebrating Rachel, and hating my disgusting eye. oh well, there are worse things, i suppose.

do you ever read a blog post and think to yourself, “i wonder if this blogger stopped mid-post to take a gigantic shit.” not all who wonder are lost.

the weekend prior was just as—if not more—outstanding. if you assume that thursday and the first seventeen and a half hours of friday are not the weekend, that is. but if you somehow take thursday night to be part of the weekend, well then, good reader, i’ll have you know that just about the only good thing that happened to me that night was a small cup of tomato basil soup, a bit of grilled cheese, and a portion of water. the rest was hell and teeth-grating, dreaming of my sweetness pinned down of her own volition, writhing, unsmiling, drowning. and i knew not of her freedom until friday evening, when i threw all care to the wind and descended into Daly City, the land of beer and music.

everything will be okay in the end. if things aren’t okay, then it’s not the end. Continue reading

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Black Friday

the good news: i got my brain scanned today for $100.
the bad news: i lost my car keys.
the really good news: i’m flying East to see Merylisk (not for work).

i’m sitting in a bar in San Francisco right now, sipping Racer 5, avoiding that 1am i have to publish, digesting about six pieces of steak four cups of rice and two slices of cherry pie, trying to hang out with Alicia and failing because i’m too transparently self-deprecating just because i’m fucking stupid and lazy for not leaving those fucking keys in my back pocket like always–ass comfort be damned–instead of in my stupid fucking coat pocket.

so fucking stupid. all weekend, i’ve been wondering who the fuck is an asshole enough to steal a stupid motherfucking Banana Republic coat from a bar with a $5 cover. no wallet in the coat. just my car keys. granted, their keys to a Porsche, but don’t you think the asshole thief would have the fucking decency to return the fucking keys to the bar once he walked all around the Mission and found no such car to match the keys? fucking piece of shit.

then i remember: Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady stole coats to make money. fucking Jack Kerouac stole my coat and he’s going to sell it so he can make it as far as Tennessee maybe, but if Neal Cassady had been with him, they would have scrambled all over the whole goddamn city in search of my car. and when the sun started coming up and their drunkenness started wearing off, one of them would have “accidentally” tossed the keys into the bay out of pure frustration, not even recalling where the keys came from.

Jack Kerouac, Buddhist Thief. Augustine of Hippo, Christian Scholar. ronny, Pantheist Lover.

i lost my car keys, but i met a cute girl. ironically enough, she was the coat check girl. i was dancing with everyone–Christian, Erin, Chris, Alejandro, Tania, all the cousins, everyone–and after trading some smiles with some blonde girl, i started noticing some girl in the corner of the bar. she was acting really weirdly, kept getting out of her chair, pacing around, sitting down, getting back up, she looked really antsy, like she was waiting for someone. so i did nothing. but after waiting a little while, which in my drunkenness might have been either 30 seconds or 30 minutes, i decided to go say hi to her. turns out she wasn’t waiting for anyone, she was just tired. she claimed to have been up for 48 hours. still, i wanted to know why she wasn’t dancing, and i think she asked, “are you drunk?” not sure why that was a question (i didn’t even notice until a little bit later that the table she was sitting at had a little sign that advertised $2 coat checks, alongside a tip jar with $1 in it [to match the one coat in the closet]). no wonder she wasn’t dancing. no matter, i got her dancing. we tried some ballroom dancing and some salsa dancing and even some experimental head banging i-don’t-know-how-to-dance dancing. her name’s Melissa and i think she’s rad, i hope we hang out soon.

1. my super cool friend Taryne thinks getting replacement keys for my car will only cost $50, in spite of how RARE my PORSCHE 924 might be.
2. ???
3. Merylisk Continue reading

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