I’m surprised this guitar didn’t sell for more than it did on ebay, but either way whatever it did make is going to charity to give kids nice working wheelchairs. Pretty badass looking. Some dude in Brohio is stoked.
So we finally go HD in our house and I buy my first ever expensive television. Shits going nice and then a blue vertical line appears on the screen. According to the Best Buy girl on the phone, “Oh, that can’t be good.” Uh, duh. So now I gotta disconnect this bad boy, take it back and get a replacement. I’m gonna be that guy now walking in with an open item that everybody looks at and whispers, “Muthafucka probably broke that shit on purpose. I know their kind.” Chingue su madre. I miss the old school televisions man. The old meaning to HD, Heavy Devices.
You’re a tongueless talker
You don’t care what you say
You’re a jaywalker and you just just walk away
And that’s all you do.
HO HO HO, MEEEEEEERRRRRY CHRISTMAS!!!
The nephew is in full blown xmas spirit and my brother in tough economic times is using his Canon’s color features to save skrill on taking the lil’ guy to a studio. That’s how we roll.
[video]
[video]
If you go to a party where there are a bunch of Señoras, then you are bound to see one of these floating around. And usually you’ll hear something like “Oh, este sta bonito. Huele tan rico. Aver, le voy a ordenar una dozena. Los voy a mandar para El Salvador. Es que aya todo esta caro.” Every damn time.
Pandora this muthafuckas. Or last.fm it. Or blip it. Or whatever the hell you guys are using nowadays.
I turn into some kind of toxic substance.
“Avoid all contact with eyes, skin…fuck it, with people in general.”
Last week of work. Party.
Downtown Los Angeles. Pershing Square. Large coffee. Headphones. Sufjan Stevens. Vibin.
For a while back in the day, Coca Cola was down with El Salvador.
“Spoken words like moonlight.
You’re the voice that I like.”
— Iron and Wine
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I started and, in what seemed like a blink of an eye, finished this book. Ask the Dust by John Fante. I enjoyed it a lot. And I think I might have triggered another Bukowski type trip in which I’m gonna wanna read all of Fante’s work back to back to back. I’m not good at describing a book and how great it was and yada yada yada. I’m just not that clever. So I’ll simply share two of my favorite excerpts. It goes without saying that I highly recommend it.
But there was a tinge of darkness in the back of my mind. I walked down the street, past the Ferris Wheel and canvassed concessions, and it seemed to come stronger; some disturbance of peace, something vague and nameless seeping into my mind. At a hamburger stand I stopped and ordered coffee. It crept upon me—the restlessness, the loneliness. What was the matter? I felt my pulse. It was good. I blew on the coffee and drank it: good coffee. I searched, felt the fingers of my mind reaching out but not quite touching whatever it was back there that bothered me. Then it came to me like crashing and thunder, like death and destruction. I got up from the counter and walked away in fear, walking fast down the boardwalk, passing people who seemed strange and ghostly; the world seemed a myth, a transparent plane, and all things upon it were here for only a little while; all of us, Bandini, and Hackmuth and Camilla and Vera, all of us were here for a little while, and then we were somewhere else; we were not alive at all; we approached living, but we never achieved it. We were going to die. Everybody was going to die. Even you, Arturo, even you must die.
We lay there. She was forcing it with her scorn, the kiss she gave me, the hard curl of her lips, the mockery of her eyes, until I was like a man made of wood and there was no feeling within me except terror and fear of her, a sense that her beauty was too much, that she was so much more beautiful than I, deeper rooted than I. She made me a stranger unto myself, she was all of those calm nights and tall eucalyptus trees, the desert stars, that land and sky, that fog outside, and I had come there with no purpose save to be a mere writer, to get money, to make name for myself and all that piffle. She was so much finer than I, so much more honest, that I was sick of myself and I could not look at her warm eyes, I suppressed the shiver brought on by her brown arms around my neck and the long fingers in my hair. I did not kiss her. She kissed me, author of The Little Dog Laughed. Then she took my wrist with her two hands. She pressed her lips into the palm of my hand. She placed my hand upon her bosom between her breasts. She turned her lips toward my face and waited. And Arturo Bandini, the great author dipped deep into his colorful imagination, romantic Arturo Bandini, just chock-full of clever phrases, and he said, weakly, kittenishly, “Hello.”
“Hello?” she answered, making a question of it. “Hello?”And she laughed. “Well, how are you?”
Oh that Arturo! That spinner of tales.
“Swell,” he said.