Monday, October 29, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
sweedish fish and the death of the voidgasm
From the point of conception, upward and onward, a shared feeling of joy has encapsulated and rallied around me and the friends. I'm omitting incredible, indelible hues of orange awesomeness, a glow that stimulates and unites, the peril and deception lost, downtrodden current of self loathing stymied, the hatred boiled over into furled eyebrows looks and the whispers beneath their breath now silenced, a significant sigh of relief, now measured and counted I call this catharsis a validation, the return of a self unknown to the gleaming limelight and the heat that radiates off my skin is warming me without the sun.
phew isn't the right word, but its the first word that comes to mind.*
I would like to write this blog like I'm receiving an award;
"There are so many people to thank I don't know where to begin. I would like to thank the Sweedish fish for their diligence and mesmerizing pirate attire. I would like to thank Elvis impersonating Djs plastered on stage throwing down bangers to get sweedish fish to jump into the water. I would like to thank the nice people at Norelco or Gillete or Nair Legs for shaving the incredlibly, silky, soft legs that wrapped around my body. I would like to thank Kieran for his blatant inquiry, because before he asked so publicly, I couldn't remember her name. I would like to thank drugs and alcohol, without which, none of this would be possible. I would like to thank myself, for taking the chance publishing the voidgasm and then eradicating the truth of it within the week. I would like to thank J Nougat outright for his planning and effort to get the party on wheels and even more for enlivening in me a grave feeling of humiliation for having posted the voidgasm. His determination and articulated insensitivity's made me feel horrible about expressing myself, effectively forcing me [by atrition] to dive right into the first willing participant i could find, and as luck would have it, let me just say, I could've done a lot worse.
Most importantly, I would like to thank Hope as it springs eternal in even in the autumn months. 96 hours ago I was jaded and repellent, looking at myself in the mirror ready to make my knuckles bleed to destroy the image before me. The power of intimacy to transform is uncanny.
And lastly I would like to thank the karmic spinning wheel that ended the darkness with a magnificent blinding light. As with all things I knew that it too shall pass."
The best part of all of this is that now I can make my private life, private once again and alleviate your disgust in hearing the gruesome details of my rollercoaster sex life. I would hope that most of you that took the voidgasm as a platform to draw unneccesary attention to myself could put it into perspective. There are real aspects of my life that I'm attempting to breathe life into. My self deprecating tone and hopless romanticism is meant to be entertaining and light not compelling and melodramatic. I see the foil relationship between these two paradigms, but I would encourage those of you that find yourself enjoying or disliking this blog to not take it seriously, because I'm certainly not. Making a satire of my life takes away a nice chunk of the pain of actually living it, that is untill I get to write something like this.
by the way hard crack was off the hinges. if you'd like to hear the sample and/or pick one up click here
*thanks chuck p...
phew isn't the right word, but its the first word that comes to mind.*
I would like to write this blog like I'm receiving an award;
"There are so many people to thank I don't know where to begin. I would like to thank the Sweedish fish for their diligence and mesmerizing pirate attire. I would like to thank Elvis impersonating Djs plastered on stage throwing down bangers to get sweedish fish to jump into the water. I would like to thank the nice people at Norelco or Gillete or Nair Legs for shaving the incredlibly, silky, soft legs that wrapped around my body. I would like to thank Kieran for his blatant inquiry, because before he asked so publicly, I couldn't remember her name. I would like to thank drugs and alcohol, without which, none of this would be possible. I would like to thank myself, for taking the chance publishing the voidgasm and then eradicating the truth of it within the week. I would like to thank J Nougat outright for his planning and effort to get the party on wheels and even more for enlivening in me a grave feeling of humiliation for having posted the voidgasm. His determination and articulated insensitivity's made me feel horrible about expressing myself, effectively forcing me [by atrition] to dive right into the first willing participant i could find, and as luck would have it, let me just say, I could've done a lot worse.
Most importantly, I would like to thank Hope as it springs eternal in even in the autumn months. 96 hours ago I was jaded and repellent, looking at myself in the mirror ready to make my knuckles bleed to destroy the image before me. The power of intimacy to transform is uncanny.
And lastly I would like to thank the karmic spinning wheel that ended the darkness with a magnificent blinding light. As with all things I knew that it too shall pass."
The best part of all of this is that now I can make my private life, private once again and alleviate your disgust in hearing the gruesome details of my rollercoaster sex life. I would hope that most of you that took the voidgasm as a platform to draw unneccesary attention to myself could put it into perspective. There are real aspects of my life that I'm attempting to breathe life into. My self deprecating tone and hopless romanticism is meant to be entertaining and light not compelling and melodramatic. I see the foil relationship between these two paradigms, but I would encourage those of you that find yourself enjoying or disliking this blog to not take it seriously, because I'm certainly not. Making a satire of my life takes away a nice chunk of the pain of actually living it, that is untill I get to write something like this.
by the way hard crack was off the hinges. if you'd like to hear the sample and/or pick one up click here
*thanks chuck p...
Monday, October 22, 2007
cocktail onion breath
I believe the first person I ever saw visibly inebriated was my father. I remember I was probably nine or ten and it was after midnight on a Thursday night. My mother was distraught and furious because my father had neglected to call to tell her he'd be out late. She kept me up all night calling to his friend's houses asking where he was. She'd been crying and finally had a family friend go looking for him. I couldn't sleep a wink and when my father finally showed, I knew I was in for some fireworks.
My dad was humming this little ditty about somebody named Suzy Q, but her name sounded more like he was saying "SWOOZEE KWOO." My mother sprung from her bed ready to give my dad a good once over when my older brother came to her door, latching it behind him. I peered my head out and saw my dad woozy, doing what i thought was his impersonation of a clown's walk. I chuckled at his hulking mass bouncing from one side of the hallway to the other trying to keep his body upright, bouncing from his shoulders to his belly, to and fro.
"Hi daddy," I said as he bounced his big tummy off the linen closet right in front of me picking me up by my elbows throwing me up over his shoulder and back down again.
"How's tigger?" My dad always called me tiger when I was little. I loved it. 'Tigger' was close enough. Before I had a chance to answer, my mother broke through the threshold of the door having heard my giggling knowing that one of her beautiful, innocent children was being exposed to an intoxicated hobo, for all intents and purposes.
"Where the fuck were you," my mother said gnashing her teeth and tongue, twisting them into foreign, unlikely knots and grabbing my arms shielding me from my father's cocktail onion breath. I liked that smell. It reminded me of the smell of my grandma from England and the way her house smelled; like bourbon and Dunhill cigarettes.
"Iwuz houtwif Baab."
"Bob, who?"
"Gellam."
"Bob Gillim?"
"Yup."
I was confused and scared because my mother was so angry. My older brother interceeded again and told dad to go pass out on the couch, but mom wouldn't let it lay.
"You smell like perfume," my mother said rage still spewing out her eyes.
"I think he smells like nana," I said tugging at my mom's robe.
"We were at the Gentlemen's Club," my father said clearly, admidst a moment of pure clarity.
The fury of my mother began to make the floor tremble and crack. An earthquake split the floor in two and the fires of hell began to spit from jagged rocks. Backdrafting flames shot from between my mother's teeth.
"You went where," she asked sounding like the princess of darkness, deep and hollow as horns pierced through her golden hair. At this point I felt that my mother's anger might just boil over and instead of murdering just my father, she might unleash it upon me as well, so I ran back to my bed sticking my head under my pillow like an Ostritch burrowing his head in the sand. I was worried that my parents were going to fight all night until I heard my older brother reasoning with my mother.
"Just let him pass out. There's no point in fighting about it anymore because he's not going to remember anyway."
My mother seemed to take some small consolation in this and went and got my dad a blanket and told him to come back to the bedroom. The last thing I heard was my mother saying blankly, "you're sleeping on the floor," and my Dad replying "m'okey."
When I got home from school the next day my father was wrapped in a blanket like it was his cocoon, on the floor of my parents bedroom. The venetian blinds were shut and the room was dark and dreary.
"Dad," I said creeping around the bed.
"Shhhhh, daddy doesn't feel well, tiger."
"Okay," I said tiptoeing around the bed.
When my mom came home and saw how much pain he was in, how much he had already suffered, she dropped it. The hangover was apparently punishment enough.
My dad was humming this little ditty about somebody named Suzy Q, but her name sounded more like he was saying "SWOOZEE KWOO." My mother sprung from her bed ready to give my dad a good once over when my older brother came to her door, latching it behind him. I peered my head out and saw my dad woozy, doing what i thought was his impersonation of a clown's walk. I chuckled at his hulking mass bouncing from one side of the hallway to the other trying to keep his body upright, bouncing from his shoulders to his belly, to and fro.
"Hi daddy," I said as he bounced his big tummy off the linen closet right in front of me picking me up by my elbows throwing me up over his shoulder and back down again.
"How's tigger?" My dad always called me tiger when I was little. I loved it. 'Tigger' was close enough. Before I had a chance to answer, my mother broke through the threshold of the door having heard my giggling knowing that one of her beautiful, innocent children was being exposed to an intoxicated hobo, for all intents and purposes.
"Where the fuck were you," my mother said gnashing her teeth and tongue, twisting them into foreign, unlikely knots and grabbing my arms shielding me from my father's cocktail onion breath. I liked that smell. It reminded me of the smell of my grandma from England and the way her house smelled; like bourbon and Dunhill cigarettes.
"Iwuz houtwif Baab."
"Bob, who?"
"Gellam."
"Bob Gillim?"
"Yup."
I was confused and scared because my mother was so angry. My older brother interceeded again and told dad to go pass out on the couch, but mom wouldn't let it lay.
"You smell like perfume," my mother said rage still spewing out her eyes.
"I think he smells like nana," I said tugging at my mom's robe.
"We were at the Gentlemen's Club," my father said clearly, admidst a moment of pure clarity.
The fury of my mother began to make the floor tremble and crack. An earthquake split the floor in two and the fires of hell began to spit from jagged rocks. Backdrafting flames shot from between my mother's teeth.
"You went where," she asked sounding like the princess of darkness, deep and hollow as horns pierced through her golden hair. At this point I felt that my mother's anger might just boil over and instead of murdering just my father, she might unleash it upon me as well, so I ran back to my bed sticking my head under my pillow like an Ostritch burrowing his head in the sand. I was worried that my parents were going to fight all night until I heard my older brother reasoning with my mother.
"Just let him pass out. There's no point in fighting about it anymore because he's not going to remember anyway."
My mother seemed to take some small consolation in this and went and got my dad a blanket and told him to come back to the bedroom. The last thing I heard was my mother saying blankly, "you're sleeping on the floor," and my Dad replying "m'okey."
When I got home from school the next day my father was wrapped in a blanket like it was his cocoon, on the floor of my parents bedroom. The venetian blinds were shut and the room was dark and dreary.
"Dad," I said creeping around the bed.
"Shhhhh, daddy doesn't feel well, tiger."
"Okay," I said tiptoeing around the bed.
When my mom came home and saw how much pain he was in, how much he had already suffered, she dropped it. The hangover was apparently punishment enough.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
the voidgasm
My friend Raya asked me a very probing and earthshaking question the other day:
"When was the last time you had an orgasm from sex?"
My dick and mind simultaneously went scanning through the minuscule populous of women I had slept with, my eyes fixed, flashing through every pleasure less, lustful unsatisfying session of blueballs that befell me and I realized it had been awhile since I'd gotten my rocks off post intercourse.
"Its been well over a year," i said pathetically, feeling very dejected by the sad truth.
"I don't get it, it's not like your ugly."
"Its the Jameson," my other friend Patrick said attempting to explain, "he only gets laid when he's drunk."
Then almost immediately, Patrick and Raya got into a cab and left me without any consolation, any advice, nothing. Let's be real here though, what the fuck are they going to say?
So questions began to flood my mind; do I need Viagra? Viagra at my age? Fuck me! Is my dick broken? Am I repellent? Will my rocks ever drop off?
I want to articulate the travesty that is my libido. Some of this has to do with the devices that must be placed upon my member. We all agree that the days of casual, unprotected sex are over, ruined by some sick fuck that thought jamming his dick into a monkey would be good for a few laughs. I also think that it might be that my failing to achieve an orgasm may result in a feeling of inadequacy for the women I slept with, thinking it had something to do with them. The alcohol obviously plays the double edged sword here. On one side it propels the woman in to bed with me [woo-hooo!] and on the other side makes me about as useful as a leaky water balloon once the jimmy hat application is complete.
In recalling the random various evenings which a fuck befell me, there were nights I made them get off [or so they said] and then my body falls flat against their bare breast, I kiss them and tell them, "sorry, I'm drunk" or "I'm good" or "I'm mad tired."
These girls aren't ugly, dirty or outside their peak sexually both in appetite and performance. My problem, my explanation, my excuse for this conundrum is that I need more time, more hours to familiarize myself with their bodies, to find their rhythm and match it with mine. To summarize, a one time fuck is never going to get me off. The last girlfriend I had was a very cute Cuban girl I had known for a few years. We slept together about ten times before I was finally able to get off. I'd been out of practice, no doubt and my inability to achieve was of little importance to her as long as she got off. Now, this is my type of woman, the one that treats me like I'm the stereotype of the forlorn housewife whose husband gets off in five minutes leaving her empty and unsatisfied. I'm reversing this for all of you ladies out there. The normal protocol is that sex is over after the man finishes and I say enough! If you have a little left over for your boy and want to help him unload over a year of strain, disabled grief of limpid struggling manhood then by all means, help me. Otherwise, I want to stick to this plan, "to know" them.
"When was the last time you had an orgasm from sex?"
My dick and mind simultaneously went scanning through the minuscule populous of women I had slept with, my eyes fixed, flashing through every pleasure less, lustful unsatisfying session of blueballs that befell me and I realized it had been awhile since I'd gotten my rocks off post intercourse.
"Its been well over a year," i said pathetically, feeling very dejected by the sad truth.
"I don't get it, it's not like your ugly."
"Its the Jameson," my other friend Patrick said attempting to explain, "he only gets laid when he's drunk."
Then almost immediately, Patrick and Raya got into a cab and left me without any consolation, any advice, nothing. Let's be real here though, what the fuck are they going to say?
So questions began to flood my mind; do I need Viagra? Viagra at my age? Fuck me! Is my dick broken? Am I repellent? Will my rocks ever drop off?
I want to articulate the travesty that is my libido. Some of this has to do with the devices that must be placed upon my member. We all agree that the days of casual, unprotected sex are over, ruined by some sick fuck that thought jamming his dick into a monkey would be good for a few laughs. I also think that it might be that my failing to achieve an orgasm may result in a feeling of inadequacy for the women I slept with, thinking it had something to do with them. The alcohol obviously plays the double edged sword here. On one side it propels the woman in to bed with me [woo-hooo!] and on the other side makes me about as useful as a leaky water balloon once the jimmy hat application is complete.
In recalling the random various evenings which a fuck befell me, there were nights I made them get off [or so they said] and then my body falls flat against their bare breast, I kiss them and tell them, "sorry, I'm drunk" or "I'm good" or "I'm mad tired."
These girls aren't ugly, dirty or outside their peak sexually both in appetite and performance. My problem, my explanation, my excuse for this conundrum is that I need more time, more hours to familiarize myself with their bodies, to find their rhythm and match it with mine. To summarize, a one time fuck is never going to get me off. The last girlfriend I had was a very cute Cuban girl I had known for a few years. We slept together about ten times before I was finally able to get off. I'd been out of practice, no doubt and my inability to achieve was of little importance to her as long as she got off. Now, this is my type of woman, the one that treats me like I'm the stereotype of the forlorn housewife whose husband gets off in five minutes leaving her empty and unsatisfied. I'm reversing this for all of you ladies out there. The normal protocol is that sex is over after the man finishes and I say enough! If you have a little left over for your boy and want to help him unload over a year of strain, disabled grief of limpid struggling manhood then by all means, help me. Otherwise, I want to stick to this plan, "to know" them.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Timmy and the piglets
Saturday evening after mashing around in search of cheap, strong drink I found myself hungry and anxious. A word on pizza in San Francisco; everyone feels like the pizza here is so god awful and compared to a slice in Brooklyn that's been cooked in the same oven for a century you are probably right. I'm not quite ready to say that ALL pizza in SF is garbage though. Case in point is Arinell's Pizza on Valencia and 16th. I don't think I've ever been there when they weren't playing one of the Slayer albums which is a feat in itself. The pizza is the closest you're going to get to a genuine east coast slice so if you've never been check it out. Its quick, cheap and filling.
After my drunken romance with my pepperoni slice i called around looking for somewhere to go before i hung them up for the evening. I decided to head towards Hayes valley to a tiny annoying bar called Jade on my skateboard.
I was about two blocks from the bar when i popped a lite little ollie onto the sidewalk and then flashing lights, a beam of white light in my eyes and the voice of some bored cop over the monitor;
"STOP."
Out the window this cop with an 80 pound says, "hey Timmy."
Rising slowly non chalant out the car he aims his flashlight in my face "what's going on?"
"Ugh nothing."
"You know you can't skate on the sidewalk?"
"No, i didn't know that."
The design of a law like no skating on the sidewalk seems practical enough. You don't want people getting run over and that makes sense. I believe that a law like that should be enforced when appropriate but I'm looking down the block in either direction and there isn't a soul to be seen.
"So if I had been skating in the street you wouldn't have pulled me over?"
"That's right, Timmy."
"Why do you keep calling me that?"
"Have you done any drugs tonight," he says casually beaming my eyes with his flashlight.
"No," i lied, "but i did have a few beers. Is that a drug?"
"No that's alcohol. Maybe you're too old to be riding around drunk on a skateboard."
I look into the police car and see that the other officer is writing me a ticket.
"She's writing me a ticket?"
"That's right, Timmy."
"Aren't there actual crimes you could be preventing right now, instead of hassling me? This is a great use of valuable police resources."
Policeman alpha male and his small dick looks me up and down, nods slightly left and winces, "You should probably stop talking, Timmy."
The other officer approaches me and asks me to sign.
"What am I signing?"
At that point officer small dick, grabs my arm and puts me down to my knees.
"Put your hands over your head!"
"Okay."
"Run his ID and call for backup."
"You need backup," I say half smiling.
"One more word and you're under arrest. Have you ever been arrested?"
"Yup."
"For what?"
"Disturbing the peace and..umm...minor in possession."
"Are you on parole?"
I don't answer.
"All right Timmy, are you going to sign this?"
"Sure."
"You can contest this if you like."
"Rest assured, I will."
This is why people get shot and die in major cities in America. While some poor soul's stomach lining is being ripped open by a 9mm glock, the piglets are stopping me for skating on an empty sidewalk. FTC!
As the cops remounted their harassment vehicle, everyone's favorite local policeman, Officer Baby Dick, calls out to me, "goodnight, Timmy."
"Look at the ticket you just wrote me, my name is Elliott."
I feel sorry for guys named Timmy. It was really degrading to be called that.
After my drunken romance with my pepperoni slice i called around looking for somewhere to go before i hung them up for the evening. I decided to head towards Hayes valley to a tiny annoying bar called Jade on my skateboard.
I was about two blocks from the bar when i popped a lite little ollie onto the sidewalk and then flashing lights, a beam of white light in my eyes and the voice of some bored cop over the monitor;
"STOP."
Out the window this cop with an 80 pound says, "hey Timmy."
Rising slowly non chalant out the car he aims his flashlight in my face "what's going on?"
"Ugh nothing."
"You know you can't skate on the sidewalk?"
"No, i didn't know that."
The design of a law like no skating on the sidewalk seems practical enough. You don't want people getting run over and that makes sense. I believe that a law like that should be enforced when appropriate but I'm looking down the block in either direction and there isn't a soul to be seen.
"So if I had been skating in the street you wouldn't have pulled me over?"
"That's right, Timmy."
"Why do you keep calling me that?"
"Have you done any drugs tonight," he says casually beaming my eyes with his flashlight.
"No," i lied, "but i did have a few beers. Is that a drug?"
"No that's alcohol. Maybe you're too old to be riding around drunk on a skateboard."
I look into the police car and see that the other officer is writing me a ticket.
"She's writing me a ticket?"
"That's right, Timmy."
"Aren't there actual crimes you could be preventing right now, instead of hassling me? This is a great use of valuable police resources."
Policeman alpha male and his small dick looks me up and down, nods slightly left and winces, "You should probably stop talking, Timmy."
The other officer approaches me and asks me to sign.
"What am I signing?"
At that point officer small dick, grabs my arm and puts me down to my knees.
"Put your hands over your head!"
"Okay."
"Run his ID and call for backup."
"You need backup," I say half smiling.
"One more word and you're under arrest. Have you ever been arrested?"
"Yup."
"For what?"
"Disturbing the peace and..umm...minor in possession."
"Are you on parole?"
I don't answer.
"All right Timmy, are you going to sign this?"
"Sure."
"You can contest this if you like."
"Rest assured, I will."
This is why people get shot and die in major cities in America. While some poor soul's stomach lining is being ripped open by a 9mm glock, the piglets are stopping me for skating on an empty sidewalk. FTC!
As the cops remounted their harassment vehicle, everyone's favorite local policeman, Officer Baby Dick, calls out to me, "goodnight, Timmy."
"Look at the ticket you just wrote me, my name is Elliott."
I feel sorry for guys named Timmy. It was really degrading to be called that.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
weekend alluvion part ii
Saturday was a further exercise in useless time wasting mismanagement of precious people, namely me. After forcing myself back to sleep, restless i rose to the calling of a friend that had sold me out the evening prior to recover from his lack of sleep. He infused and conjured up various pathetic apologies and offered to make it up to me by buying me breakfast at any place i like.
Zazie is baby stroller, random-local-fucking-tourist, yuppy heaven. Located in the pert and bustling Cole Valley, Zazie always has the most crucial line. The wait is worth it most times, because the brunch in phenom. We stood outside, baked and shaky, from boulangerie du Cole Valley coffee, which is only second in my mind to Tartine bakery for baked goods and Blue Bottle for stimulants. I burned through my cup in less than five and I went to throw it in the trash. As i stood leaning against a mailbox an oddly dressed girl came strolling up yapping to someone on her phone about how the envelope she was sending them was the most beautiful envelope in the world. she sought verbal and visual approval from me and my friend.
"Isn't this the most beautiful envelope in the whole world?"
To which i replied, "You're the most beautiful envelope in the whole world."
She stayed on the phone blushing and giggling, giddy that i called her a beautiful piece of paper, looking back and posing. I got a good chuckle out of that and it kinda made my dick hard that i could simultaneously exude that confidence to make a girl blush and insult her. maybe i was getting somewhere with this whole "act". being a nice guy never got me anywhere but treated like shit and hurt and i have recent wounds to prove this.
Karl, another close friend, and his girlfriend Gillian both joined Nat and I for breakfast. Snaking his way in without having to wait nearly as long as us was Vince, a dj friend of Nat's that would surely steer the majority of the breakfast conversation to the world of the dj, i.e; records, promoters, other competing djs and clubs. I love Nat, he's a very dear friend and Vince is a good guy deep down, but listening to them talk about this shit is mad boring. i like it when the whole table can engage in the conversation. its a much more satisfying environment for everyone. instead, karl, gil and i are laughing while they talk shop. i don't let it get to me, but i do take note, another inconsideration, not with malice intended, but one none-the-less.
after breakfast we all split ways and i headed home to wait for company to join me at the bluegrass festival. though i have no desire to listen or take part in bluegrass music culture or the huddled masses that inevitably converge on such an event, i have to say that i'm impressed by their organization, and the fact that its free; it makes me sad that the people that enjoy indie rock, electroclash and rap can't organize such an event that would be free. given that most of my favorite bands would never play for free, promoters would never do something just for the fans and the city would never grant a permit to hear bands i actually like it will have to stay a pipe dream. nat and i met up, casually following this girl with a perfect ass into the festival then broke away hoping to find a smokey clime with a cold beer to wash it down. my complaint begins here; they weren't selling beer at this event! what the fuck? nat and i walked five blocks up to balboa and bought a twelve pack. we came back, finished the beer and listened to los lobos. listening to them made me crave a burrito and we made that happen. after we ate, nat was frantic about getting to some art show at stussy on haight. we tried hailing a cab to no avail. we ended up jogging, stomachs filled with beer and burritos, singing terrible songs about trees through the richmond district, the public haughtily bemused at our intoxication.
I went from my house to the mission for a birthday party for an aquaintance. I went back home after a couple beers and adequate supply of blank stares in my direction then headed downtown to go to some bourgeois club to let the temptation creep. I was saved by a good friend who abstains from all substances named Douggie Tats and his cousin Sasha. Doug's an inspiration. He doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, nothing. He's totally sober and he uses it to his advantage. Doug doesn't find the sloppiest girl in the bar and peel her, no, he finds the hottest one within reason and breaks her down a little at a time. Doug has what Harmony Korine might call a "marvelous persona".
The rest of the night i drank more, got real tired and then went home in a cab and sobbed into my hands because i'm alone.
a shit weekend, again.
Zazie is baby stroller, random-local-fucking-tourist, yuppy heaven. Located in the pert and bustling Cole Valley, Zazie always has the most crucial line. The wait is worth it most times, because the brunch in phenom. We stood outside, baked and shaky, from boulangerie du Cole Valley coffee, which is only second in my mind to Tartine bakery for baked goods and Blue Bottle for stimulants. I burned through my cup in less than five and I went to throw it in the trash. As i stood leaning against a mailbox an oddly dressed girl came strolling up yapping to someone on her phone about how the envelope she was sending them was the most beautiful envelope in the world. she sought verbal and visual approval from me and my friend.
"Isn't this the most beautiful envelope in the whole world?"
To which i replied, "You're the most beautiful envelope in the whole world."
She stayed on the phone blushing and giggling, giddy that i called her a beautiful piece of paper, looking back and posing. I got a good chuckle out of that and it kinda made my dick hard that i could simultaneously exude that confidence to make a girl blush and insult her. maybe i was getting somewhere with this whole "act". being a nice guy never got me anywhere but treated like shit and hurt and i have recent wounds to prove this.
Karl, another close friend, and his girlfriend Gillian both joined Nat and I for breakfast. Snaking his way in without having to wait nearly as long as us was Vince, a dj friend of Nat's that would surely steer the majority of the breakfast conversation to the world of the dj, i.e; records, promoters, other competing djs and clubs. I love Nat, he's a very dear friend and Vince is a good guy deep down, but listening to them talk about this shit is mad boring. i like it when the whole table can engage in the conversation. its a much more satisfying environment for everyone. instead, karl, gil and i are laughing while they talk shop. i don't let it get to me, but i do take note, another inconsideration, not with malice intended, but one none-the-less.
after breakfast we all split ways and i headed home to wait for company to join me at the bluegrass festival. though i have no desire to listen or take part in bluegrass music culture or the huddled masses that inevitably converge on such an event, i have to say that i'm impressed by their organization, and the fact that its free; it makes me sad that the people that enjoy indie rock, electroclash and rap can't organize such an event that would be free. given that most of my favorite bands would never play for free, promoters would never do something just for the fans and the city would never grant a permit to hear bands i actually like it will have to stay a pipe dream. nat and i met up, casually following this girl with a perfect ass into the festival then broke away hoping to find a smokey clime with a cold beer to wash it down. my complaint begins here; they weren't selling beer at this event! what the fuck? nat and i walked five blocks up to balboa and bought a twelve pack. we came back, finished the beer and listened to los lobos. listening to them made me crave a burrito and we made that happen. after we ate, nat was frantic about getting to some art show at stussy on haight. we tried hailing a cab to no avail. we ended up jogging, stomachs filled with beer and burritos, singing terrible songs about trees through the richmond district, the public haughtily bemused at our intoxication.
I went from my house to the mission for a birthday party for an aquaintance. I went back home after a couple beers and adequate supply of blank stares in my direction then headed downtown to go to some bourgeois club to let the temptation creep. I was saved by a good friend who abstains from all substances named Douggie Tats and his cousin Sasha. Doug's an inspiration. He doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, nothing. He's totally sober and he uses it to his advantage. Doug doesn't find the sloppiest girl in the bar and peel her, no, he finds the hottest one within reason and breaks her down a little at a time. Doug has what Harmony Korine might call a "marvelous persona".
The rest of the night i drank more, got real tired and then went home in a cab and sobbed into my hands because i'm alone.
a shit weekend, again.
Monday, October 8, 2007
weekend alluvion
this past weekend was painfully uneventful. when you are broke, you tell yourself that you're just going to take it easy, sit at home, maybe get stoned, make some mac and cheese and watch a movie. fat chance. i got home, in dire need of a nap. the beginning of my short slumber, my recharge of the batteries if you will, was interrupted by an onslaught of phone calls;
"Let's get a drink!"
"What are you doing tonight?"
"Happy hour at wherever..."
Finally after the fourth call, I turned off the ringer on my phone and decided i would nap, come hell or high water. Whenever i nap i have the most deranged repetitious dreams. the one i had that day involved cobras. I'm walking out by this small pond in the middle of a forest. as i walk around the pond all the water begins to dry. Then the trees start shrivel and die into the ground and as the pond dries, it turns into dust and sand. Seeping out of ground come a family of cobras surrounding me in all different colors, hissing, ready to spit their venom. I'm surrounded and ready to piss myself then i wake up, sweaty and lucid.
I rub my eyes and turned my phone back on. five voice mails, all the same shit;
"Let's get drunk."
"Thinking' bout drinking? There is no god!"
"Alcohol this, cocaine that."
Boredom is evil and breeds contempt for oneself. what a shitty fate, to be stuck with nothing but these shitty options. I'm so done with this same bullshit. I'm so bored that now I'm lying to myself.
So i get up, i take a shower, i skate to the mission waiting to meet up with my friend Nat. Nat's eating dinner with his parents and he calls me when he finishes. I can hear a faint exhaustion in his voice. Motherfucker makes me come all the way down here so that he can fall asleep as soon as I arrive? Very inconsiderate.
So i grab a bite, annoyed and flustered, then make my way over toward Delirium, my precious sanctum. I watched Manny Ramirez hit a walk off home run against the angels which helped me perk up slightly. Then the deluge of alcohol ingestion begun again. i drank, four tecates at delirium, two shots of fernett and two Jameson neat. i wasn't fucked up yet, but i was well on my way.
At the bar, some obnoxious, lightweight hipster pogue bitch comes up to me and asks me why I'm in a bad mood and if i want to fuck. she says that my jacket is very colorful.
"So you like it," I say attempting to engage her.
"I didn't say that."
I'm all for that type of brutal honesty but this woman was trying to get me in bed with her. she was one of those mediocre looking girls that came to the city to go to USF and in the process discovers she's different somehow, dyes her hair, switches from shopping at the Gap to shopping at Diesel, from wine coolers to Pabst, from Marlboro lights to cocaine hangover Sundays.
for the health of this blog i continue my dialogue with her.
"do you ride a fixie?"
"You'd like that wouldn't you?"
fashion, purely fashionable, in the moment, flash in the panhandle, fashion. form over function. i don't get the attraction of it. you put one guy with rolled up pants, a dirty tshirt, tattooed sleeves, and you put him on a bike with a front brake and he's just another filthy hipster. you put the same guy, same scenario but you take away the brake and suddenly he's every girl's random wetdream.
"no i ride a skateboard."
"well, that's hot," she tells me, "that'll always be hot."
she really started getting on my nerves at this point and i kept looking for an exit from the conversation, a minor lull in the action so i could slip away, a misplaced glance that takes her attention from me, if even momentarily. it seemed nothing could assuage her. she was vehement that i give her my undivided attention. while in repose i can rip this girl to shreds, in the moment i don't have the gumption to be that mean. its a weakness, i know. miraculously one of her girlfriends comes over, drunk and loud and distracts her. i turn around to see if she's spotted me and she's pointing at me and scowling because i didn't say goodbye.
The rest of my night was in constant motion skating from one end of the mission to the other seeking out strong drink, rolled spliffs and avoiding coke. its incredible to me that the mere presence of an individual carries with it an aura of substances to be ingested. a phone call from one guy means a cocaine dudefest, while from another means pothead potluck! what a bevy of randoms i know in this city and scattered across the board, they bring with them pockets full of vice, hollow conversation, best intentions and zero follow through, myself included. we're under a dome, a random functionless dome that protects from nothing and everything at once.
I landed finally on a couch in the mission waking early to the passive aggressive sound of my best friends roommate clattering her organic breakfast and the ding ding of the chat box on her computer.
i get on the bus at 8:15 and go home to the foul smell of mildew in the hallways. nobody gives a shit about where i live but me. another discussion all together. i took a pull off a stale old joint and went to bed.
"Let's get a drink!"
"What are you doing tonight?"
"Happy hour at wherever..."
Finally after the fourth call, I turned off the ringer on my phone and decided i would nap, come hell or high water. Whenever i nap i have the most deranged repetitious dreams. the one i had that day involved cobras. I'm walking out by this small pond in the middle of a forest. as i walk around the pond all the water begins to dry. Then the trees start shrivel and die into the ground and as the pond dries, it turns into dust and sand. Seeping out of ground come a family of cobras surrounding me in all different colors, hissing, ready to spit their venom. I'm surrounded and ready to piss myself then i wake up, sweaty and lucid.
I rub my eyes and turned my phone back on. five voice mails, all the same shit;
"Let's get drunk."
"Thinking' bout drinking? There is no god!"
"Alcohol this, cocaine that."
Boredom is evil and breeds contempt for oneself. what a shitty fate, to be stuck with nothing but these shitty options. I'm so done with this same bullshit. I'm so bored that now I'm lying to myself.
So i get up, i take a shower, i skate to the mission waiting to meet up with my friend Nat. Nat's eating dinner with his parents and he calls me when he finishes. I can hear a faint exhaustion in his voice. Motherfucker makes me come all the way down here so that he can fall asleep as soon as I arrive? Very inconsiderate.
So i grab a bite, annoyed and flustered, then make my way over toward Delirium, my precious sanctum. I watched Manny Ramirez hit a walk off home run against the angels which helped me perk up slightly. Then the deluge of alcohol ingestion begun again. i drank, four tecates at delirium, two shots of fernett and two Jameson neat. i wasn't fucked up yet, but i was well on my way.
At the bar, some obnoxious, lightweight hipster pogue bitch comes up to me and asks me why I'm in a bad mood and if i want to fuck. she says that my jacket is very colorful.
"So you like it," I say attempting to engage her.
"I didn't say that."
I'm all for that type of brutal honesty but this woman was trying to get me in bed with her. she was one of those mediocre looking girls that came to the city to go to USF and in the process discovers she's different somehow, dyes her hair, switches from shopping at the Gap to shopping at Diesel, from wine coolers to Pabst, from Marlboro lights to cocaine hangover Sundays.
for the health of this blog i continue my dialogue with her.
"do you ride a fixie?"
"You'd like that wouldn't you?"
fashion, purely fashionable, in the moment, flash in the panhandle, fashion. form over function. i don't get the attraction of it. you put one guy with rolled up pants, a dirty tshirt, tattooed sleeves, and you put him on a bike with a front brake and he's just another filthy hipster. you put the same guy, same scenario but you take away the brake and suddenly he's every girl's random wetdream.
"no i ride a skateboard."
"well, that's hot," she tells me, "that'll always be hot."
she really started getting on my nerves at this point and i kept looking for an exit from the conversation, a minor lull in the action so i could slip away, a misplaced glance that takes her attention from me, if even momentarily. it seemed nothing could assuage her. she was vehement that i give her my undivided attention. while in repose i can rip this girl to shreds, in the moment i don't have the gumption to be that mean. its a weakness, i know. miraculously one of her girlfriends comes over, drunk and loud and distracts her. i turn around to see if she's spotted me and she's pointing at me and scowling because i didn't say goodbye.
The rest of my night was in constant motion skating from one end of the mission to the other seeking out strong drink, rolled spliffs and avoiding coke. its incredible to me that the mere presence of an individual carries with it an aura of substances to be ingested. a phone call from one guy means a cocaine dudefest, while from another means pothead potluck! what a bevy of randoms i know in this city and scattered across the board, they bring with them pockets full of vice, hollow conversation, best intentions and zero follow through, myself included. we're under a dome, a random functionless dome that protects from nothing and everything at once.
I landed finally on a couch in the mission waking early to the passive aggressive sound of my best friends roommate clattering her organic breakfast and the ding ding of the chat box on her computer.
i get on the bus at 8:15 and go home to the foul smell of mildew in the hallways. nobody gives a shit about where i live but me. another discussion all together. i took a pull off a stale old joint and went to bed.
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