Tag Archives: shower

Jamaica

~ 0 ~
SFO in the early morning
MtVC
sleep
triple couple brunch date
SFO in the afternoon
work
packing
eating
yellow fever film
SFO late at night
Japanese, Mexican, American, or Chinese?

~ 1 ~
Hank Williams on the
turbulent red-eye
flashlights in the early morning
United Club at IAD
hella babies on the
flight to Jamaica
the first Jamaican woman to speak to/about me:
“it’s not fair. he’s not even using it,”
referencing my hair
all customs agents are the same stern
accosted by taxi drivers
one is hella chill so we go w him ($15)
he walks slow as hell
“we grow up w weed”
tried to sell me some but his guy is out
Caribic House
gentleman clerk
third floor balcony view of the sea
buy weed from souvenir shop ($20 for crap)
Pork Pit
buy weed from random vagrant (J$200 for crap)

~ 2 ~
breakfast at the Mocha Cafe
Knutsford Express to Negril
buy Blue Cheese from taxi driver ($5 for quality)
Yoga Centre
stroll and smoke along the beach
the German dude
yoga in the evening
shower and drinks
Alfred’s Ocean Palace
couple drinks and cricket at the Sunrise

~ 3 ~
smoothies and breakfast at the YC
chillin on the beach
spring rolls and papaya salad
Natalie naps / Americanah
drinks at One Love bar
curried conch w rice & peas at sweet spot

~ 4 ~
goodbye YC & Negril
KE to Kingston
wild winding ride east
the big city
the Spanish Court,
free rum punch on arrival
walking in the rain to
Devon House
coffee for her, coffee i-scream for me
walking in the lightening rain
Natalie goes chic in the city
divine Indian at Nirvanna

~ 5 ~
free breakfast: eggs, platanos, festival, bacon, fruit, coffee, water
taxi drive with a former yam farmer to
the National Gallery of Jamaica
walk through saturday downtown market
taxi to the grocery
Tashanna the angel
Natalie runs on the treadmill, i walk to KE
sunset swimming in the freezing infinity pool
hot bath w love
shower the hair
dress and small dinner
last home drink
up up up the hill to
dub club
smoky dub music in the clouds
danced
saw fireworks
and popcorn
and dancing
circles, circling back to a
champagne glass next to the drivers seat
flask of herb wine next to mine
slowly, slithering back to New Kingston
in the nighttime of a new day

~ 6 ~
free breakfast: kitchen sink omelet, fruit, coffee, water, festival, platanos, and a complimentary mimosa
walking to the banks, several failed withdrawals
packing up
waiting for Robert
red shirt, tan truck, big smile
cash out
ride up
the treehouse
the tour
the pool and trail
dinner at 6?
acki and shellfish, peas and rice, greens not calaloo
reading and drinking
scrabble in bed under the net
never ending music for a wake, then an end

~ 7 ~
wake up puffy eyed a little before 9
shirtless on the balcony
big rainbow across the sky
Chef says breakfast is on the way
coffee, scrambled eggs w veggies, fried plantains, breadfruit (looked like dry pineapple slices), slices of mango, a peeled orange, everything fresh, juicy, lovely
more coffee, Bobby and Chef smoking
prep
driving to Holywell
the waterfall hike
smoke at the falls
kiss on the hills
walk to David’s coffee plantation
the Chinese crew, little kids giggling and playing games, the two big dogs loafing and eyeing everyone, the coffee man deeply darkened by the sun yet profoundly lightened by endless cups of coffee
walking back home
Natalie’s forgotten R1: the run
gap cafe too fancy
walk thru the military yard
flask of clear rum, water, cheese puffs, and chocolates at the bubbles stop
walk home
cold shower (Ginger on drums)
wifi, soup, and dinner (more Fela)
seafish, fried carrots and greens, potato, yams, plantains
greasy spliff
drinks and reading

~ 8 ~
up a little earlier, round 830
coffee and breakfast on the taller balcony
acki and fish, breadfruit, fried plantains, papaya, orange
reading reading reading
the ride to Craighton
the $25 tour w Jerome
280,000 coffee plants—arabica not robusta—the latter 52% of the world coffee, the former 48%—though like the #1 most traded good (oil), the #2 (coffee) is often adulterated as there’s no standard nor authority—and Blue Mountain arabica is something special, with 70% of its sales going to wealthy Japanese—Jamaicans themselves drink instant coffee—unless they’re like Robert—usually Arabica ripens in 5-7 months, in Blue Mountains it takes 9-11—juicier, sweeter—Twyman and other north side farmers get less sun so their harvest is shorter
three cups of coffee after the lesson
walk to red light
bananas and coconut snack from the roadside rasta
walk from red light
Natalie loses her shades
hitching a ride w the 33 year old who spent 20 years living in Kingston before moving to London, comes back to visit family every xmas, warned us of the dangers of hitch hiking
eits cafe
walking up and a ride w David, bobby’s coz
walking to prince valley
glasses for a drink and phone
meeting, laughing, smoking w omero from Oakland and Tazia from near Kingston
drinks and dinner: beans, greens, and pumpkin rice, perfection
sunset
beer and adieu
reading, reading, hearts, reading

~ 9 ~
up a little earlier, around 815
Ovid on the balcony
coffee and breakfast in the usual spot
acki and fish, plantains, coco bread
packing up and paying
peace
dj dale down the mountain
bob Marley museum
best dinner (fried chicken, beef stew, pork stew, or curried goat?) plus rum
two wedding episodes of friends

~ 10 ~
coffee, toast, and fruit on the balcony
Mahogany Beach
food and drink on James (same menu)
crazy dance boat party TV
Turtle Beach
souvenir shopping i
drinks on James
moms restaurant (fish stew)

~ 11 ~
coffee, toast, and fruit on the balcony
souvenir shopping ii
passage to passage to India (naan, South Indian chicken, chicken tikka masala)
chilling at KE
KE to Mo Bay
El Greco, cocktail on arrival
cocktails and joint on the balcony (Half Pint)
bellboy escort to room, J$400
atm, the old walk
1/2 lb ribs at pork pit
the walk back
another round

~ 12 ~
up around 8
finished Herzog
breakfast: one American, one Jamaican (mine is fried fish, greens, small banana, yucca, dumpling, and Nat’s French toast)
old white retired everywhere
blacks go J, whites go A
down to the street, rum up
packing, Brilliant Corners, checking out
smoke on the cliff side
delayed flight
walk down to the park shade
bk fries
taxi to airport
lines, lines, food court, hearts
exit row flight
chaos at CLT Continue reading

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my friends have marvelous taste in music, which they sometimes demonstrate via pay-what-you-want demos

i once had an uncle who firmly believed that any bodily ailment could be cured with a little hot water. cut yourself? no alcohol, no hydrogen peroxide, no antibacterial nothing… just rub it under some hot water for however long you can stand, and you’ll be just fine. inflated lids? aching tummy? broken bones? hot hot hot!!! fucking water. his fascination with the miraculous effects of steaming fluids flew far beyond the even relatively acceptable realms of reason. suffering from heartbreak? get in the shower, and don’t come out until you’ve stopped crying.

oh wait… it wasn’t my uncle that believed that stuff. it was me!

god all i ever do on this fucking thing is write about myself.

Christ. i just did a fucking search (lord why the fuck do i swear so fucking much?) of my entire blog, and found zero instances of the phrase “Radio Lily.” how the hell did i get to like post 4,073 and never mention Radio motherfucking Lily. Radio Lily, which broadcasts live daily from a small spot in New York City, does this exact thing 24 hours a day, seven days a week:

that is, it spins curvy reggaeish music.

a girl named Sara introduced me to Radio Lily. i am eternally grateful to her for the gift… so much so that i often think about her and wonder whether she’ll actually visit me in SF like she’s promised on several occasions. i just want to pull a blunt w her again and blast Lily on Lily. that’d be nice.

i write the strangest things on my phone’s notepad, like this: “nobody’s whiter than Jack White, no matter the clothes he wears nor the grow he hairs.” i was high on white and weed watching the very man wank around onstage when i wrote the lines, so i have very little insight into what the fuck i was actually trying to say. maybe you can guess?

outside lands was so good. extra sweet because of the free vip pass for the entire weekend. sheesh. here are some other amazing acts i caught:





huh? what? there were all these, like, legendary dudes gripping their legendary weapons, and then, like, you break the pattern with some legendary dudes gripping their weapons too far in the distance for me to notice and some horse banner thing. some crazy horse banner thing. and then i’m just, like, standing here holding this harmonica, listening to pretty aery girl pick her banjo like a badass, and i’m like, what? huh?

what makes me so sure that any of this is worth publishing on the Internet?

here’s another note from my phone: “how is a string of hair a dj?” see, the funniest thing to me about all these notes is how nonsensical they are even to me, the supposed author. the vast majority of the time i’m compelled to pull my phone out of my pocket, tap ‘Notes’, and scrawl down some craziness like “how is a string of hair a dj,” i am pretty fucked up on at least one thing. and every one of those times, without fail, i convince myself that i can get away with writing something like eight words to convey the thousand page manuscript of an idea exploding inside my head. i convince myself that, with just those eight words, i will be able to reconstruct the manuscript at a later date. this is rarely, if ever, the case. how is a string of hair a dj? only god knows now.

just below that nonsense, however, is something that makes sense to me. it’s the name of a song i started singing one night:

it came directly from the heart. crawled out of my bloody valves, climbed up my esophagus, and collapsed a spineless critter on the span of my tongue, the song. i had spent the entire day, evening, and night w a girl and her friends, but i couldn’t be w them anymore. they were drunk and couldn’t stop singing songs. it wasn’t about pounding corn to the rhythm of the sun or strumming strings to the pleasing of our guts, no no no. it was all about hitting a note at the proper time and coming up with clever lyrics to match the proper rhyme. i was bored and/or lazy. so i retreated into the stranger’s house, being house sat by a bunch of irresponsible vagrants like us, and scraped the critter off my tongue w my iphone. the operation, to this day, has resulted in zero complications.

“baboon
beneficial ape”

i have no idea what that’s about either. i thought it may have been an artist and album, but i can’t find anything of the sort.

201206241522. i’m listening to the original version of “Blue Monday” as performed by the illustrious New Order. i am rocking and dancing and shaking my head, as i am apt to do when listening to a single considered to be the best-selling 12″ of all time, when i hear the line “those who came before me.” i then have a thought. an idea. specifically, the development of an idea. you know how the catholic church used to have everybody at mass, including the pastor leading the fucking thing, facing the same direction? and then they changed it to the priest facing the congregation. well, the next step is everyone facing each other. OH WAIT THAT’S ALREADY EVERY DANCE PARTY EVER. okay, i get it; i think a little too catholic. so stab me.

Itty Bitty Nitty Gritty Heart. Continue reading

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Happy Birthday!

i’ve been having some weird dreams, and remembering them. i guess it comes with the whole <8 hours/night thing because i’m a M-F hardworking man now. not a motherfucking hardworking man, just a monday-friday hardworking man.

for example, last night i had a dream that was way too easy to peel from my brain and transpose to some real-life events from the past week. actually, exactly a week ago tonight. girls, hair, etc. i liked the dream i had night before last because it was much more abstract and out in left field. i don’t remember the details or much of the surrounding storyline (and i know something elaborate was going on), but what i remember was a close friend’s girlfriend serving baklava at lunchtime costco, except it was kind of like a professional wrestling arena at the same time.

(i’m stoned and listening to Modeselektor. i’ve never heard this guy before. it’s okay.)

want to see things i wrote as notes in my phone? here’s one:

honey

weekly girl
Greek music ruins

the first word was the first line ever written in this note. it was the saddened beginnings of a grocery list, sad not because of the shortness of the list, but rather because of the quality. it’s ok, i settled for just peanut butter and banana. the second line is blank. the third line refers to the fact that for each of the past five weekends, a different (and individually fantastic) female friend has found her way to San Francisco Bay. in the beginning of the month, aerienne drove up for Hardly Strictly Bluegrass (stones/blues/fog/shoes). the next weekend, Shannon flew from the east to see her sister married (sits/doodles/Thai/noodles). next, Allison also drove up for a music festival, this one with real tickets and on a fake island, (treasure/music/ecstasy/do it). last weekend, Rachel flew up with work as an excuse and play as fuel (Monopoly/playoffs/aches/eggs). and finally, halloween weekend, Anna Maria flew up to scare the city shitless (hugs/baseball/beer/birdtales). so so awesome. i don’t know what i’m going to do with this november thing, but i can’t wait to fly to New Yorsey (that’s gotta be sacrilege) to see moon madness in the shape of the sea.

the fourth line represents a stoned idea i formed last night when i was not stoned at all. i was taking a piss and, ok slight divergence here. is the bathroom not such a spiritual place? people love singing in the shower or while shaving in front of the mirror. the mirrors! the water! flowing water everywhere! it’s not even normal to go in there with someone else (unless maybe you’re a girl and you’re at a dirty club or some shit). you go in alone. it’s a tiled sanctuary of sitting and robotic muscle movements and cleansing, a place where you are forced into thinking all alone in your own dome. with running water and mirrors. ok enough of that, so i was taking a piss thinking about some future (age-darkened) world where the contemporary “ruins” are remnants of recorded rock & roll from the 20th and 21st centuries. imagine something like the Winged Victory of Samothrace, except it’s Prince’s Purple Rain without the title track. or maybe the Venus de Milo as 69 Love Songs missing the first and last discs. or all the different versions of Athena/Minerva (bless Her, eternal light), something like all those wildly different Miles Davis records (where’s that owl, that trumpet? bright eyes, bright eyes!). and Quicksilver Messenger Service’s 25-minute psychedelic version of “Who Do You Love,” originally by Bo Diddley the Man? lost to time.

oh, but that’ll never happen. we have the Internet and the Internet is Immortal. perhaps needless to say, the note is back to its original one-line form: “honey.”

did you ever realize that chicken kind of sounds like “chick” “hen”? or was it the other way around? which came first?

do you realize that the sentence “Nine Inch Nails scored the Facebook movie” would have sounded a little silly five years ago, would have been nonsense ten years ago, and could have been grounds for submission to a mental institution two decades ago? Nine Inch Nails scored the Facebook movie. Daft Punk scored the Tron movie. that one might have passed as poetry in 1982. Daft Punk scored the Tron movie.

do you pray? neither do i, but maybe we should sometimes. i mean, music is kind of like prayer. in fact, a month ago i attended a feverish worship of the cosmos led by the great guru Patti Smith and she taught me and my congregation a new prayer. well, an old prayer, one written by Francis of Assisi, the one who somehow persuaded animals to chill with him all the time. here’s his prayer:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love.
Where there is injury, pardon.
Where there is doubt, faith.
Where there is despair, hope.
Where there is darkness, light.
Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive.
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Amen.

beautiful. here’s something i wrote on my phone:

leaky rainbow clinging desperate to my back pocket, multicolored water faucet dripping dripping dripping, and i think of nothing but the silly things i posit.

verbs whir with a beer
above my ceiling eyed by girl

add “the best” to the list
of words hat describe this it:
everything all god universe

tugging at the ends of your dress,
you’re making me jealous.

boats going by left and right,
painting just for me,
clouds keep coming, painting
just for me

bench fly high, transparent
radiation stuck in my head, go
away spacemen, this is my trip,
painting just for me

remember your first time
remember your third time
remember your eleventh time
remember be here now
remember birth is a death
sentence.

the waves just roll
the robots just dance
the bamboo surrenders
the sand sucks you in
the dry lakebed cracks at dawn
the parties are always spontaneous
the ice can feel like a fury
steam in a hole can be a comfort
walk from trees to sea, believe
slow down, slow down
everyone is painting just for me

ask me about and i’ll tell you. i want to tell you about it.

f. Continue reading

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