Thursday, December 30, 2010

Family Tree

These guys used to be one of my favs.....
If you want a song I probably have it...on CD though. 
Still holding it down.

I want Poetry and Music and some laughs
And I don't think it's an awful lot to ask

Monday, December 20, 2010

Theme Song for the Day

Just looking out for the day
When you're close to me

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

A Toast

To Nearest
To Dearest
To The Crew
To Cahoots
To The Ones Who've Been There
To The Ones Who'll Be There
To Dropping Everything
To Saying Anything
To No Judgements
To No Doubts
To Loyalty
To Trust
To Favors
To Lifelongs
To Been Too Long
To Nothing's Changed
To Having History
To Having Your Back
To Moving Away
To Never Too Far
To Growing Up
To Settling Down
To Your Second Family
To Friends

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Chinese Translation

 Old M. Ward video.

See I once was a young fool like you
afraid to do the things
that I knew I had to do

Wednesday, November 17, 2010



by Allen Ginsberg
Allen Ginsberg
For Carl Solomon

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,   
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,   
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blur floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time—
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.


What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!


Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland
   where you’re madder than I am
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you must feel very strange
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you imitate the shade of my mother
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you laugh at this invisible humor
I’m with you in Rockland
   where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I’m with you in Rockland
   where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio
I’m with you in Rockland
   where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses
with you in Rockland
   where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse
I’m with you in Rockland
   where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb
I’m with you in Rockland
   where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I’m with you in Rockland
   where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won’t let us sleep
I’m with you in Rockland
   where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself    imaginary walls collapse    O skinny legions run outside    O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here    O victory forget your underwear we’re free
I’m with you in Rockland
   in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night

San Francisco, 1955—1956

Monday, November 8, 2010

A Typical Sunday....Maybe

November 7, 2010

Early Morning:
Went dancing at a New Wave club for Sarahs Birthday. Haven't done that in a long time. Years. So much fun. Love the 80s and dancing.

Raining. Parked my car on the street next to a prostitute. Commented on how she was working on a rainy day. Brought her a large bag of leftover Halloween candy, spoke to her briefly. Went to church for service and to do the announcements. Following service talked to a few people then attended Marks class.

Still raining. Drove to Berkeley for counseling class. Took personality tests, my results were 2 types that are diametrically opposed, basically I'm lying to myself or I don't know myself - doing something called masking. I'm deeply disturbed. I have to take it over again and discover the real me. Ask my mom perhaps.

Late Afternoon:
Met with a young guy I'm discipling, his learning disability makes conversation challenging but I've learned to grow patient. Trying to convince him to take steps towards independence and personal growth. He agrees but can't get past the barriers. I can relate.

Exhausted. Evening service. Did my rambling announcements, hopefully it was halfway coherent. It's on video, I'll need to check it later. Dreadful. My friend visited for the first time. Talked to her for a bit. Went out as a large group to In and Out for Nates birthday. The entire restaurant sang to him.

Found out my uncle passed. Cancer. Lived longer than the predicted 1 month. Double that.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Everything is Breaking Everything

I have to friend who each time he sees me likes to quote me and ask, before giving me a pat on the back or a hug

"Is everything breaking everything?"

I never know what to say. I don't even remember why I ever said that in the first place. I think it was on an occasion when I was really stressed over something and loudly proclaimed in frustration.

"Everything is breaking everything!"

That sounds right. Something I could've easily done. Fits.

But today or these days in general I really feel like they are.

Everything really is breaking everything. All the most important things in my life are crumbling. The things I hold dearest to me. It seems like a chain reaction, one leading to the next. Sequential. Like a tsunami creating a path of destruction. Or maybe it's not that orderly. More like an earthquake. Everything just comes crashing down..........

Oakland - Today I got in an argument with my friend and founder of CRP, he might not let me paint anymore, demote me to a buffer. Rollers only, no spray cans for a year.

Haiti - The non-profit, I was really looking forward to starting after I got back from Haiti, is still going to happen but mostly likely without me.

Work - I've forgotten what I'm doing here in Oakland. I've lost the passion and love for the people and the city. My fire may be out or flickering, teasing like it will at any moment.

Art - I've not completed any of the art projects I've planned on doing. Or kept with the schedule I've given myself.

Relationship - I haven't heard back from a really important friend of mine.

The most difficult part about all of this is; it makes me wonder

What's wrong with me?

Because the only common denominator is ......well; me.

So don't ask me how I'm doing. Unless you want to sit there for an hour and hear the details of all the things I'm losing in my life. But even then you may not get the entire story. I may tell you "it's complicated." Or I might just say

"everything is breaking everything!" and leave it at that.

It sucks but I'm not depressed. And I have yet to descend into the pit of despair.

And as best I can I always try to remember that

It's all part of the journey.....

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Bus Ride

I met a man one time, he was sleeping on our back porch, I had to wake him and tell him to clean up his feces before leaving. But we talked for a while and he told us his entire story, all of it - starting from his grandparents, then he went into the plight of the poor and the black man, how everywhere you went you can't escape what's out there, you're surrounded by reality. He said many profound things but one thing struck, he talked about riding the bus and how on the bus you encounter the grit of life here in Oakland.

I was on the 1R today riding back from Berkeley to my place. Behind me was a young black man, he got up all of sudden and yelled something through the shut window.

"Did you hear about Ferg?"

He saw an acquaintance outside, waved him down and wanted to tell him.

"About Ferg? Did you hear? They killed him!"

"Ferg! Ferguson!"

Then he pulled down the window.

"They got Ferg this morning!"

The other guy nodded, he already knew.

And that was it, he got off the bus like nothing. Like 'did you hear the A's won today?' It's everyday, common. This is Oakland. It wasn't even shocking to me. I just kept on reading my book.

This morning I saw helicopters flying overhead making circles for a while. Maybe that was Ferg.

Erin McCarley - Gotta Figure this Out

I've gotta figure it out
I need a story to tell
Where's the feeling I long for
I've gotta figure it out
Before I lose you love

The Last Time

A few days later we decided to get lunch before she caught her train back to Baltimore. It was a Sunday, a hot day, we spent the entire day together. We went to church together in the morning then headed down the street with a friend of hers to get Japanese noodles. Afterwards we got dessert.  I wanted to talk to her but the presence of her friend made having intimate conversation difficult. So it was all small talk up to that point. Then as the three of us were walking towards Grand Central Station, we got far enough away to start to have private dialogue. I still didn’t understand completely or maybe I did. I had a few days to think about the last time. It’s not that I didn’t care, I couldn’t. I couldn’t get out the words. I missed her so much, I loved her, I’d do anything to make it work but my brain didn’t know what my heart was thinking. I had disconnected my heart from my head. The pain would have been too much to bear otherwise. I was numb. I didn’t know my thoughts. She was standing there, pleading with her sad eyes for me to say something. She said some things, but I didn’t hear. I was distracted, trying, wanting so bad to evoke emotion, to reconnect but I couldn’t. I had no response

“I’m going to go soon, this is your last chance, don't you have anything to say?” 

I wanted so bad to say something, to answer her petition but - nothing. I could only repeat over and over 

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” 

Her friend faded away unnoticed. A man came to solicit comedy show tickets 

“Can’t you see we’re having an argument here” I said to him angrily. 

He retreated apologetically. 

She pulled off my sunglasses, and looked deep into my eyes. Searching. There were tears but nothing else. Her own tears burst in to weeping then she turned and ran down the long set of stairs into the station below. I watched her go, unable to move. After a few moments I broke free from the paralysis and ran down after her but it was too late, she was gone, lost in the labyrinth of the cavernous station. I watched a train pull out and leave; I pretended that she was on that one, hoping it would give me some semblance of closure....

That was the last time I ever saw her. 

Monday, October 25, 2010

Danse Russe

If I when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,--
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
again the yellow drawn shades,--
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?

 -William Carlos Williams

Monday, October 18, 2010


My aunt is a social worker, she threatened to report me to Child Protective Services. I was like "What? What are you talking about I'll throw this kid at you!!"

The Price

"No matter how much you change you still have to pay the price for what you've done. I got a long road ahead of me."
-Doug MacRay, Ben Afflecks character from the movie The Town

This quote at the end of the movie struck me. Only because it's true; we make these choices in life and even if we don't get caught it does come back to haunt you. And I'm not talking massive revenge or karma, I talking the way that experiences mold you and affect how you make choices and respond or even react to things. That, I feel like, is worse than revenge because it doesn't end with one event it moves with you, it becomes a part of you. Inescapeable. It made me think of my own life and of the people I've hurt along the way. Even though they may have moved on I sit here remembering them and know that some of my entire thought processes have shifted because of those experiences. See and that's the thing, they've probably forgotten and moved on to brighter places in life and so it might not matter much for them anymore but it continues in my life. And I'm not saying I sit here and cry over the past, that's not it, it's more subtle - like baggage. The stuff you carry with you and really don't even know what's in them. The bags are just heavy and for some reason you know they're important to keep.

In the movie because he's on the run Afflecks character will never get to be with the woman he loves. That's one of the prices he's had to pay but the experiences through his life: abandoned by his mother, imprisoned father, drugs, violence, death of all his closest friends, murder..all the ways he was hurt and the ways he hurt others will mold his character for the rest of his life. The "long road" he talks about is just him and the memories of things he gone through. He says this as he's standing on his porch in the middle of nowhere, with no one else around for as far as the eye can see. Just him and his memories.

The other thing that struck me was that love when it's real is compelling. Even if it's from a violent criminal who once lied to you.

The heart is soft.

Friday, October 15, 2010

The Greatest Radio Station that Ever Lived!

It's been confirmed once again. KOST 103.5 is hands down the greatest radio station ever! KOIT doesn't even come close. This is affirmed each time I get back of the best things about L.A. in my opinion. I don't even know why I question the dominance. I'll hop in the car and drive just so I could listen to the radio and then when I get to my pretend destination I'll sit there in the car getting my fix of Love Songs on the KOST.....and you get the weather too. "It's 74 degrees along(pause)the KOST."

I grew up on this stuff. My "heart music" I think is what it's called. Some of the songs are my story as if I wrote them myself. I can relate to these guys, and they to me. They have been with me through the good times and the bad; they cried with me in times of heartbreak, kept me company in hours of traffic, guided me through puberty, brought excitement to long roadtrips, helped ease the pain of moving...they've journeyed with me through much of my life. They're like family.

Here's a little taste. Be forewarned you might not be able to take it all in in one sitting. It's powerful stuff:

This right here is quality music. Classics.
Could be a dope mix tape....

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Mind Your Own Damn Business Campaign

Let me tell you a little story. So this past weekend I was on my way down to a wedding and I was running late. I needed to get there early so I could set up the sound equipment for the ceremony portion. Now I encountered near standstill traffic at 3 different points along the way. Being from L.A. I was once very accustomed to traffic. You develop ways to cope; learn words to lots of songs so you can sing along to them out loud, plan ahead by at least an hour and just plain understand that built into L.A. is a need for 3 rush hours: one for the morning, the afternoon and then for lunch but you can't forget the 2 bonus traffic sessions that are thrown just for the hell of it. Anyways I digress, so the reason traffic pisses me off so much is that there is no reason for it. For example at the first point, the accident was on the opposite end of the freeway all the way on the other side of the center divider, why does it need to slow down the flow of the cars going the opposite direction? People slow down to see what happened. Curiousity causes traffic. It was the same for the 2 other points. The path was completely cleared yet there was traffic because people have to press the brakes to catch a glimpse. The thing is no one likes traffic and they all know what causes it because it's the same thing everytime. Curiousity. Knowing this every driver has the opportunity to counter this culture of traffic as they approach the now cleared accident site, to look straight ahead and continue at ther current speed, yet every single person fails miserably. Why? Come on! There is no need for traffic. It simply shouldn't exist. Please, focus, don't look at the sidelined scene as you pass even though you're slowed by the curious fellow in front of you. It'll be on the news when you get home an hour earlier because you didn't look now. Do your part. If everyone does their part we can eliminate this pest. Think of all the hours we'd add to our lives if we just minded our own damned business. So please help me combat the cancerous effects of traffic by joining in the Mind Your Own Damned Business Campaign.

Curiosity killed the cat because the driver was so damned busy looking at the sidelined accident scene instead of the road ahead that he ran over it.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Decoder Ring - Serac

What's not dope about this? I needed this nice dose of "how things work" today.

Music by Decoder Ring
Video Camera invented by John Logie Baird
Wonders of Life created by God

Friday, October 8, 2010

At 93

I got the message today....
Yeah david your grandma passed away today at 4:20 this afternoon on Friday okay so we may have some kind of funeral service early next week okay you call daddy or mom when you have time. okay bye
...from my dad, about his mother.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Friday, September 17, 2010

A Typical Day...Maybe

 September 16, 2010

Had to sit there and have the hard talk, told a homeless lady that after multiple chances it just wasn't working out; she wouldn't be able to stay on our front porch anymore.

Spent 3 and a half hours talking to Condodyne (pronounced Kun So) Buzado, one of only 4 woman artists in Uganda. We didn't even get to what we initially met to talk about.

Late Afternoon:
Had long overdue art meeting about the future of Regen Art. Drove my friend Steph home and sat on her porch for an hour waiting for our friends who never showed. I walked away having had good conversation and owning a new painting.

Went to the studio, finished the sketch for Sarah's tattoo and started 4 new paintings.
 Found out my uncle has 6 months to live.

Saturday, September 11, 2010


...and since we're at it:


As I was looking for the William Fitzsimmons vid I happened upon this, that's how I find all the good stuff - randomly:

what if i went and lost myself
would you know where to find me
if i forgot who i am
would you please remind me
cause without you things go hazy


My cousin just told me that she's a part of a club at Berkeley that brings artists on to the campus for free concerts in front of the library.... last Friday they had William Fitzsimmons there. And she didn't even tell me (of course she didnt know I had a not so secret crush on his beard).
Damn! Damn! (as I think about it more) Damn!

we're holding out for you
covered in snow
we'll keep the lights on low

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Poor Rudy

The other day I was house sitting for a friend, he asked that I run their dog just once. So come Wednesday, I look for the leash I finally find it buried under a pile of shoes, which would've been a clear indication of the amount of exercise Rudy normally gets. The moment Rudy sees the leash in my hand he gets super juiced, running circles, tail wagging ready to roll. I put the leash on and we go, about half a mile to the lake, around the 3.3 mile circumference and back. He does fine, he sounds a little winded but so am I. I was going slow too so the fastest Rudy had to go was no better than a trot. We get home, the moment we step in he collapses on the floor, tongue out, breath fast and heavy, thick saliva frothing at his mouth. I fill his bowl and tell him to "come, get water." He attempts to get up, is successful for a few steps then falls again, gives up and lies there, beat. I have to leave for a bit so I go. When I get back I see soggy dog food in a huge puddle of water in the middle of the living room floor. Rudy puked! Hilarious, a dog so out of shape that he puked. It's especially funny because I could relate. In the letter I leave them; I blame his mom and dad for cultivating a lifestyle of laziness. Poor Rudy, I'll take you out every time I house sit.

Thursday, September 2, 2010


Take these shoes
Click clacking down some dead end street
Take these shoes
And make them fit
Take this shirt
Polyester white trash made in nowhere
Take this shirt
And make it clean, clean
Take this soul
Stranded in some skin and bones
Take this soul
And make it sing

Yahweh, Yahweh
Always pain before a child is born
Yahweh, Yahweh
Still I'm waiting for the dawn

Take these hands
Teach them what to carry
Take these hands
Don't make a fist no
Take this mouth
So quick to critisize
Take this mouth
Give it a kiss

Yahweh, Yahweh
Always pain before a child is born
Yahweh, Yahweh
Still I'm waiting for the dawn

Still waiting for the dawn, the sun is coming up
The sun is coming up on the ocean
His love is like a drop in the ocean
His love is like a drop in the ocean

Yahweh, Yahweh
Always pain before a child is born
Yahweh, tell me now
Why the dark before the dawn?

Take this city
A city should be shining on a hill
Take this city
If it be your will
What no man can own, no man can take
Take this heart
Take this heart
Take this heart
And make it brave

Tuesday, August 31, 2010


 Be on the look out, this monster showed up down the block from Lois the Pie Queen in North Oakland a few days ago.

Friday, August 27, 2010

Kenneth Yoshizaki

Have you seen this man?

It was during my sophomore year in college, I remember because I was in my bedroom at the Amar Court house, when I got a phone call on my land line, the only line I had. I picked up my cordless:
Short pause and then a timid voice asks, "Hi, is this David?"
"Yup, Dave speaking."
"Oh, hi this is Eric."
"I'm sorry, Eric who? I know a few Erics so..."
"Oh, yeah uh this is Eric from West High."
"What West High?" My brain starts working double time trying to recollect who this might no avail.

So the conversation continues and slowly everything starts to unveil. Eric was a freshman when I was a senior in high school. One random lunch period, I apparently walked up to him when he was sitting alone on a grassy field and struck up a conversation with him, opening with "hey, are you okay?" I honestly didn't remember any of this but it wasn't surprising to me that I would do something like that, I was gregarious then.... more for survival than anything altruistic.  And even though I couldn't recall, he did and told me the entire story without leaving out a single detail. So that was the thing; that conversation which was so insignificant to me meant something to him. That one moment impacted him enough to inspire, 2 years later, the hire of a service to track me down to the point where he could call me at my Davis house.

We kept in touch at least for a little while. I even visited him at his apartment once when I was home for one of the holidays. I remember the gate I had to get through, and his nice, young, attractive Korean mom who really loved her only son, you could just tell. We sat there in his bedroom as he was sharing about the upcoming West High talent show and the beat boxing he was going to do. I was amused as he gave me an exclusive preview of his performance, it was funny at first but dear as he continued. He wasn't half bad. That's the last interaction I remember having with him. It makes sense, given I was drunk half the time, I'm almost certain that I wanted to keep in touch but like much of the things I desired to do at that point in my life, I'm sure it fell to the way side coming in a far 235th to my first love - boozing.

And when I think back I wish that I took the opportunity to be an even bigger part of his life, maybe a big brother to a fatherless loner, guide him from afar. I've been thinking about him for a while now. Wondering whatever became of him. Last I heard he was going to UC Riverside,  he's certainly graduated by now. I've made a small impact on his life and he's made one on mine. He once sought me and now I wish to find him. I'd be willing to pay as he once did but with the advent of technology and virtual networking I'm sure it could be done without. His name was Eric Yoshizaki, but it's Kenneth in the yearbook. And he must be between 26-28 years old now. Korean/Japanese. Attended West High in Torrance class of 2000 and maybe UC Riverside.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Journey for Grace

The issue was I started the poster about 2 years ago almost to completion, completed it maybe 6 months before now but wanted to have it documented professionally before losing it forever. The photography belatedly happened last weekend. So I finally mailed it out the other day, after having it sit and collect dust for so long in my studio I'm glad to get rid of it. Almost 2 years late. Better late than never right? Right? I don't know, I just don't like breaking promises and I gave my word that a piece of art would be coming to her. There are definitely situations when keeping the said promise becomes inappropriate. Like say for example the girl was now married and you no longer maintained a friendship or she became a nun or the past was so hurtful that the painting or the act of receiving it would bring back painful memories that just needed to be forgotten. But this situation was none of those. We simply got busy with our own lives and lost interest in the life of the other, it wasn't bad, it just naturally dissipated.....which is perfectly fine. I think that's what happens when the relationship is romantic before there was ever a friendship and the romantic part doesn't last long enough for a friendship to develop. I still believe good relationships build from good friendships.

So I just titled it and mailed it with no note, although I did put my name so that she would know who it's from and my address is on the return for the packaging. I'm not expecting a response. "No response required". I hope she enjoys it. It was a good piece, one I would've liked to keep, the only reason I was glad to see it go was because I'd already let it go. Someone even offered to buy it for a pretty reasonable price, I honestly deliberated just for a moment but the work was too specific so I couldn't. Just didn't seem right.

Friday, August 20, 2010

Punch Myself in the Face

Have you ever wanted to punch yourself?
The other day, I was punching the bag with a new pair of gloves, and then I started wondering how much it would hurt if I got hit with someone wearing that particular set of gloves. So I punched myself in the face, lightly at first then I got brave and really went for it. Hurt like hell. Immediately following I was wondering why I would inflict such pain on myself as I stood for a moment seriously moaning. Mouth open moaning. But this isn't even what I'm talking about.

I'm working on a graphic novel, really a small zine for the upcoming SF zinefest in September. Something I've been wanting to do for a long time, but now that I have a deadline I think I'll actually get it done unless I just can't get past the story. See once I get the story down I'll be free to illustrate and do the imagery, but I'm stuck right now with the story. I'm just as excited with the writing but it definitely isn't my strong suite. I have a nice intro, good scenes, but no end, and no real overarching theme and there aren't details about the just kind of starts and then ends. It's a story that's supposed to be loosely based on my life and a particular relationship but it's completely that very story to the T. I can't seem to separate myself from it enough to fictionalize any of it. The other part is I don't exactly remember all the very specific details so I'd have to go back and revisit physical documents to get those. Anytime you do that, it's a little scary. You never know what will happen. Although I'm pretty confident I've completely healed from that particular past, there are the things that still affect you even after the healing, the things that are peripheral to the relationship. There's always the unexpected, as much as you try to consider every possible thing that could happen, you never think of the one that does.

So last night I ventured to that place. I went down to the basement and dug up all the old journals, mementos, photos and letters. Then I went to my email account and searched for all the emails that were exchanged over the 6 years, so many at the beginning only a handful in the end. I sat there reading them, initially unaffected, not surprised that I wasn't. Then I got into the long break up emails the ones that described in detail why things didn't work. The ones that gave detailed descriptions of how wonderful we were as people yet not compatible. The ones that told of how sorry we were for all the pressures and wrongful expectations we placed on each other. And then the story started to unfold even further... in the details, in the snapshot of everyday life that was captured in g-chat email records. I was still trying to figure out life and my passions, I couldn't promise a future I didn't know but I wanted to so bad.

There was one chat string in particular that broke me. She started humming, in the youngest child-like way she did and I ignored that completely, instead pressing her about plane tickets, she continued humming.. punching out beautiful words to this song, I kept pressing between those words until she responded to me. Then I told her I was
If I could heal your words
leaving to eat and she inquired about the food and who I was eating
Shelter me
with and I simply said "spaghetti" and the string you could
Comfort me
see additional questions and the multiple hellos? Hellos? David?
You will live
You there? and then a sad face :( . And I could hear her voice and I was
If I could show you how
cringing, helpless, unable to go back in time. All I could do was pinch
I won't desert you now
the skin on top of my forearms. I was so insensitive, so mean.
The rain can't hurt me now
Who was that guy? How dare he, how dare I. And at that moment I
This rain will wash away what's past
wanted to punch him in the face, punch myself in the face.
And you will keep me safe
And you will keep me close
I'll sleep in your embrace at last

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Pemex Strikes Again

Right by the Lake.

Kero One

Mike Kim from the City, I never knew this guy did hip hop he always just told me he did mixes, I always thought it was dance music. I'm just now listening to his stuff, he's pretty dope though, has his own label, produces, Djs....I love entrepreneurship, always so inspiring. Oh and he just got married:

This one sounds cool too but I can't find the music video. It all comes together in the end:

Tuesday, August 17, 2010


My friend Joey left to go live at a Buddhist monastery for the second time. His first Halloween in Oakland was mine also, that's the night we met. He bequeathed to me his entire wardrobe before he left, too bad he's six inches taller than me. Don't know when he'll be back.....for the second time.

I'm feel'n this and it fits as I think of him. Joey would feel this too. Oh and he gave me a grip of music, I haven't even started to scratch the surface.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Just One of those Days

You ever have one of those days where you have to catch your breath every so often because so much is going on, it's rough and you just forget. I've had one of those today. Even now as I type this out I'm finding myself having to stop for a moment to remember to breathe, not a short quick one but a long slow one..... and it feels like that breath is the only moment away from the hard day. And sometimes when I have those days I feel like my diaphragm contracts and stays that way and it almost hurts to take that deep breath. And sometimes I mistake the diaphragm for my heart.

Explosions in the Sky is helping me breathe.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

I Like Stupid Songs

I like stupid songs I realized. I was talking to friend about a video she was doing and she turned me unto an artist named Bon Iver. I 've never heard of him before, I've not heard of a lot of people before. I'm one of those that would walk right past really big celebrities. Anyhow so I looked him up on youtube and damn his stuff is good. And then I started listening to the other similar stuff and dang theirs is just as good or much more than the stuff I like. I only hear things on the radio, randomly hap upon them, a friend turns me on to them or pandora tells me the artist I should like if I tell them ones to already do. Speaking of pandora I ran out of the free monthly credits so I'm booted until next month. I initially resorted to Myspace because the artists put out a stream of tracks so I could let them run on auto without messing with it for a bit which is what I need my music to be..self sufficient. And today just as the 24 minute Myspace show was coming to a close my friend sent me 3 full albums, because 24 mins is definitely not self sufficient enough I need hours. Anyhow so with my limited exposure to music I end up liking dumb songs, but I really like them so that's where I camp in life, I'm content and once in a while a friend or some other how I'm turned on to really good stuff and for a moment I'm reminded that I like dumb songs. The thing is I used to really be into music, knowing the latest and greatest but at some point in my life I came to the realization that it was way too time consuming because it does take tons of time to follow that stuff and not to mention the many CDs. It just wasn't and isn't a big enough priority in my life although I love music. Music and art.

And the other thing I discovered recently on this amazing journey of music discovery were these cool things called "take away shows". This was what my friend was doing, being filmed for one of these; they come in all shapes and sizes, but they're basically high quality street footage of artists playing music in super small venues like apartments, on the streets, subways even in elevators with no one really but the people on streets as their audience. They are street level. Free and accessible to everybody. They're just walking through the streets, right in between the crowds, even having to make way so people can make their way through, there's background noise, it's raw that way...there's even one where this old man comes and sings his own song with the guys. The people in the background are just as important as the performer. The band's just having fun...I don't know how popular these guys are in France but it seems no one even knows who the hell they are. So even fame is out the window. This stuff is dope. Makes me want to do something equivelant with visual art but what?

Dude to the left is feel'n it!

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Wut Metaphysical - "Empathy Was a Liar"

My boy Wut Metaphysical's music video for Empathy Was a Liar featuring lots of good footage from our trip to Haiti in May.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Love Vigilantes

Love Vigilantes by Iron and Wine.
The original done by New Order (of Bizarre Love Triangle fame), which may very well be my all time favorite band. Nothing like the 80s for good music.

Too bad there's no dope video to go with it but there's a dope beard you can stare at for 3 and a half minutes. That's what I've been doing trying to figure out how I could get mine to look that way.

Here's the original....You'd think somewhere in the 30 years they've been around someone would've come up with a good video to be coupled with the song but oh montage works I guess.

Oh, I've just come from the land of the sun
From a war that must be won in the name of truth
With our soldiers so brave, your freedom we will save
With our rifles and grenades and some help from God

I want to see my family
My wife and child are waiting for me
I've got to go home
I've been so alone, you see

You just can't believe the joy I did receive
When I finally got my leave and I was going home
Oh, I flew through the sky and my convictions could not lie
For my country I would die and I will see it soon

And I want to see my family
My wife and child are waiting for me
I've got to go home
I've been so alone, you see

When I walked through the door my wife she laid upon the floor
And with tears her eyes did soar, I did not know why
Then I looked into her hand and I saw the telegram
Said that I was a brave, brave man but that I was dead

I want to see my family
My wife and child are waiting for me
Got to go home
I've been so alone, you see

I want to see my family
My wife and child are waiting for me
I've got to go home
I've been so alone, you see

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Body Damage in Haiti

Here's the game. See how much damage one can do to his body over a 2 and a half week period in Haiti.

Haiti Injury Count:

-Cuts in shoulder from my heavy backpack. Painless but pretty clearly there when I finally notice them.
-Really bad sunburn all over my entire back, pretty early on my second day out there from the beach expedition. I could've sworn I covered myself with sunblock but practically that doesnt make sense if I applied it myself. Painful.
-Mosquito bites like mad. Covered. So itchy, especially my feet. The first few nights I slept outside I didn't use any repellent or even have a net so I suffered, got very little sleep.
-Cement Burn. Dude cement burns. Did you know that? I didn't. Apparently the lime in the concrete mix does something chemically that causes it to be acidic or basic, on eof those two, it eats flesh. So you get open wounds and then your foot swells. Oh and the cement binds to your skin so it gets rashy and irritated.
-Swollen Hands. It's either what naturally happens when your body tries to retain heat or the cement again.
-Diarrhea. I introduced bacteria into my digestive system I think when I first ate the Haitian BBQ from a street vendor. And then again when I had the fish and fried plantains at the beach. Again from the corn. Again with the calamari. All of which were delicious and well worth the uncomfortable bathroom situation. Plus I had prescribed Ciphro (antibiotics - oh the wonders of med technology).
-Got a cut about 2 inches below my right knee I forget exactly how but during the construction process somewhere.
-One of the mosquito bites on my elbow got infected.
-Got my big toe smashed during a game of soccer. Came home to find my sock bloody and a cut beneath a broken toe nail.
-Bloody blisters on both of my palms from bashing walls with a sledgehammer without gloves.
-Massive migrane that put me down for an hour. Probably from dehydration or a mild case of food poisoning.