Tag Archives: weed

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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SAS 9

IMG_7531 Continue reading

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selections from The San Francisco Poets by David Meltzer

The DNA molecule is the memory. It is the memory of the meat. Four billion years of memory telling you to be a mammal. (274) Continue reading

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honey, he’s a friend of mine

four Mexican beers down the hatch and not a single BART train left to catch.

on the long bus and walk home, stoned inspiration strikes my skull. it’s already 0300, but nothing can stop me. up and down the stairs, skulking through the hallways, dragging black monolith speakers, assembling the altar, feeding cables electricity, executing my addled genius silent as a mouse.

i jerk off and pass out.

in the morning, i check my phone in a bleary panic. 0900. i fall back asleep for a couple minutes and then check my phone again. 1100.

blended black tea dressed with a teaspoon of orange blossom honey and the slightest splash of half and half. that’s real fancy talk for a little drug called caffeine. my roommate partakes, and the music starts. breakfast consists of defrosted hash browns, fried eggs, and pork so good it must’ve come from the devil’s factory. Xanthe and i clink our mimosa flutes and chow down while watching Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise take turns playing Thalia and Melpomene.

Cameron arrives looking hungover or depressed or both. i think nothing of it. the music goes on, the champagne flows. Ted is dead.

i never met Ted. i hug Cameron. i hold him. i don’t know what to say. i never met Ted even though Cameron insisted a hundred times that it needed to happen. i don’t know what to say. i wait for Cameron to say something, but he is stunned. he is a cauldron of emotion. i turn the music down or let it stop or something. i don’t know what to do or say. there is nothing to do or say. we drink.

the music returns. Cameron requests a dirge, so i let Entrance sing them Grim Reaper Blues. but i’m left by myself, so i scream and jump and play air guitar oblivious to the fact and consequence of death. i am dust.

Shannon. Lizz. Nico. Neko? Niko? Nico. Chris. Mark. Natalie. old friends, newer friends, lovers, sometime-lovers, one-time-lovers, all-time-lovers, all family, all drunk fucks.

my cousin hops on the decks and starts slinging cocaine funk delivered straight from the Rick James estate. it is 1980something, the snares reverberate, and disillusion is making itself incredibly comfortable. you can hear it in their voices. you can hear JoJo and Cheri and Candi and Maxi and Prince Rogers and Trent and Dave and Martin and Joshua and Charles, they all sound so coked up and dead. death. there’s that grim reaper again. where the fuck is Cameron? sobbing on the edge of my bed, locked up in my bedroom. on and off the phone. who is he talking to? margarita. big beer. drinking, so much drinking.

let the Golden Age begin. bleego hops on the decks and sonically programs artificial intelligence. it’s weird. on tv, Ziggy Stardust says good night mere moments before a bunch of space cadet apes wake up in the middle of bone-dry Africa. ladies and gentlemen we are floating in space.

how many pop culture references can i make before my writing becomes as worthless as the tobacco in a swisher sweet?

as the sun sets, i continue force-feeding everyone pop muzik, and then suddenly turn the music down low on a couple of whacked out loops to ask nobody in particular how long i could leave the loops loopingly looping looping looping looping looping looping looping looping until we all went crazy. somebody said something. something drinking something. and so i blast Kylie Minogue for a swan song.

power everything off! with tons of friends still partying, i say a thousand goodbyes and then fly away. best way to end a house party.

K to the Castro, two double illy espressos, and my love and i are back in the game. first up: dinner and drinks for her sister’s 21st birthday. Abigail rolls in wearing a sash like she’s in a beauty pageant and a face guaranteed to win it. radiant beauty of a birthday girl, she flutters around her long table of friends chatting about nothing and deflecting as many fireballs as she can.

sushi sake sushi sake sushi sake sushi sake sushi. that’s five sushi for every letter in the word “sushi” and four sake for every letter in the word “sake.” words words words words words.

the several hundred dollar bill settled, the crew bubbles around Kim “Abi” Kardashian as we make our way up Market toward extensive tracts of heavily eroded, uncultivable land with little vegetation. just kidding, we went to badlands. i withdrew $60 only to spend $50 instantly at the club on three entries (Abi, Natalie, me), three drinks (adios motherfucker for Abi and whiskey for Natalie and me), and then three more drinks (long island ice teas for the three of us). obviously we had not been drinking enough yet.

goodbye Castro, hello Cameron. he wanted love. Ted is dead. to Oakland then. goodbye Natalie. she storms off in a drunk, silent fit. i shrug.

down down Market.

stumbling drunk ass fuck into It’s Tops Coffee Shop, completely deserted except for the token pretty white girl waitress in her stupid 50s pink waitress dress. i drunkenly foam at the mouth some incoherence that amounts to “may i please just have a cup of coffee?” to which she responds by swinging ’round the counter and pouring out dregs of mud from both pitchers—the caffeinated and non caffeinated. in between drunken swallows, i murmur some philosophical question at her, but she’s tired and wants to go home, and that’s exactly how she answers. i understand, down the rest of the mud, and fly out the door.

down down Market.

i convince a cabbie to drive me to Civic Center so i can catch the last train east. so aware, so alive, i bolt out the doors onto 12th St. in Oakland, drunkenly rushing up the escalator and eating shit, scraping my stomach and foot (i discover later). i look around to see how embarrassed i should feel, but the lady behind me wears a face that says, “i’m just tired and want to go home,” so i shrug, pick myself up, and bolt anew. i race the two and whatever miles to Cameron’s house with cool Miles jazz billowing from the phone in my front pocket; i’m like a man on the run in a black & white French New Wave film from the 60s.

at the house, hugs and laughter and death and comfort and… guess what? more drinking! because, i must repeat myself, again, obviously: we had not been drinking enough. fernet and coke and tequila and non-vegetarian Chinese food and Courtney on guitar and sleep.

in the drunken haze of morning, i squeeze Courtney’s boob and immediately pull my hand back while apologizing. she laugh. i don’t feel too good about it. but then i wash a household of dishes and sweep the floor while Cameron details the stove. and when i fail to find a dustpan, i simply crouch down, scoop the pile of dust and kitchen debris with my hands, and throw it away. Cameron laughs, calling it the most humble thing he’s seen in years. i feel good about it.

a few moments later, we’re suspended like the helicopter string quartet between peace, humility, suffering, and passion.

“this is the worst one,” he says, “the worst death. i like nothing about this one.”

he wants to cry so badly but has already sobbed so much and the sobbing had solved nothing. i fight back laughter because the minute leading before we’d been saying some really silly, funny things and just roaring laughing. the giggles honor not even death. Continue reading

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Live!

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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walking birds in stereo

two channels of life’s transmission traveling
3000 miles across America in stereophonic sound—

two of hearts, one infinitesimal diamond
walking along the country’s deep black grooves

dreaming, “rhythm is rhythm—rhythm is life—
music is zen—systems, strife.” day

and night, sometimes skipping, sometimes
losing the beat but losing it together

and then finding it together on the b-side
of the same thought, not a measure too soon. 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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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.

tight,
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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10 Year, 107 Proof, Rated 94 by the Beverage Tasting Institute

it feels good to be productive. today i’ve:

  • invented a garlic broccoli chicken broth w grilled cheddar cheese sandwich,
  • steamed my eyes and grated my thumb,
  • enjoyed the pleasures of Duke Ellington & John Coltrane,
  • powered through some poetry by Wallace Stevens,
  • recorded a couple strange covers with bass guitar and vocals,
  • penned this post,
  • taken my first ever sip of Old Rip Van Winkle 10yr and munched on a few almonds,
  • half cleaned off half the playa dust caked all over my bike,
  • transcribed my latest Greek notes,
  • smoked weed and sipped water,
  • accepted (Joni Mitchell, Jeff Beck) and rejected (Willie Nelson, Santana, Cat Stevens) vinyl from the Cameron J. Windham collection,
  • cleaned my new official favorite blanket,
  • wrote more words about Burning Man,
  • done the dishes,
  • made a strawberry and vanilla kefir breakfast in bed,
  • folded laundry,
  • and made some love with my lady.

what have you done today? Continue reading

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