Wednesday, September 2, 2009

To the girl with the mustard shoes

Who are you girl, with shoes like the sun?
Are you more of the same, just like everyone?
Or are you interesting, exciting, intriguing and fun?
As vibrant as your shoes that look like the sun?

Do we listen to the same music and read the same books?
Do you notice in class when I give you those looks?
Do you think if we talked we would get along?
Maybe connect over a favorite song?

The reason I ask, is you seem very sweet;
the kind of girl I'd like to meet.
So I hope you don't mind, or think it too forward to ask
if I could meet you for coffee after class.

(written on a scrap torn from the back of a syllabus, awaiting its writer to grow a pair and pass it on.)

Tuesday, September 1, 2009


Today I saw the most beautiful girl,
and I let her pass without a word.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

On loneliness

The world is lonely, really fucking lonely. We are all just looking for some form of connection. We are like desperate little creatures extending long and numerous feelers in an attempt to just touch someone and be touched, to find some form of kindness or friendship or compassion. We put ourselves out there and get rejected and become self-conscious. Our self-esteem gets low, and we convince ourselves we're not good enough for one another; not pretty enough, not cool enough, not skinny enough, not fit enough, not interesting enough, not smart enough, not charming enough, not successful enough, not funny nor witty nor stylish enough. Eventually, we get so tired of trying to glean even a modicum of interest or love out of others, we become bitter. We are all just looking for love, and I think if everyone recognized that in each other, we would cease to get in each other's way, in our own way, and find that true connection we long for on a second to second basis. We're all just looking for love, and we're the only ones stopping ourselves from finding it.

Bohemian Dandy

On Love

I sit on the seventh story balcony, working out some outlines of several writing projects I hope to embark on, when I am suddenly distracted by a girl in the building across from me. She is changing out of her clothes into her sleepwear. She shut the blinds but from my angle, I can still see through. The female figure is a beautiful thing. A lot of people find nudity vulgar or somehow obscene. I've never shared this sentiment. I find it fascinating that you can get sensually aroused by the mere image of it. She turns off the light and forces my focus back to my writing. A few minutes pass and my eyes gaze downward to a couple by the bike racks, intertwined with each other, lip-locked and immersed in passion. The girl is straddling the guy and they are really going at it. They are weary of passersby, but from my aerial perch, I have an undetected bird's eye view of it all. The very cute girl behind her laptop on the balcony with me snidely mutters, "get a room." This is the typical response to such a public display of affection. It is so apparent on the passersby that do witness the couple, they may as well have though bubbles floating above their heads. This is a sentiment that I used to empathize with, and have often been conflicted about, but sitting here, watching these two go at each other with fiery passion, I can't help but feel happy for them. This is one of the happiest moments of this guy's life, and the girl seems hypnotized with lust. Now, I don't know if this is a one-night stand, the beginning of an epic romance, or if they have been in love for years. All I know is that they are overwhelmingly wrapped in bliss, and despite the slight tinge of jealousy for it not being me, (the same envy that I think drives people to so vehemently reject the sight) I can feel nothing but joy for these two lovers, because in this life, day to day, there are so few moments that take your breath away, so few experiences that blast you out of the mundane, how can you feel anything but happiness when you see it happening right in front of you?

Star Trekking

This city is vivid. It's alive in a way that no other place on Earth can match. San Francisco is a playground for artists, aristocrats, vagabonds, bohemians, refugees, and a wide assortment of only the most interesting people. Oscar Wilde once noted, "It's an odd thing, but anyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco. It must be a delightful city and possess all the attractions of the next world" And it's true, even to this day. If you have dream of art and love, sin and fun, culture and history, San Francisco is your final destination.

Intending to only stay a few hours, I was sucked into a wild weekend of adventure and true living, complete with twists and turns and rugged discomfort in true beatnik spirit.

Friday morning I woke, making modest plans of a quiet weekend in my Berkeley dorm, studying and reading Chaucer and Aristotle, and maybe even get started on a short story I've been playing in my head for a while. The day progressed and I planned to have a little jam session with my friend, Travis, and listen to some vinyls. It was shaping up to be a nice, low-key weekend of books and music.

Imagine my surprise when my old friend, Hank, gives me a ring and tells me that, no more that a few hours ago, he moved into his new dorm at the Academy of Art in San Francisco, and wants me to come visit. I'm obliged to ditch out of prior engagements and buy a ticket, round trip (planning on a short stay), for the next BART train to the City.

Once there, we shared a grand ol' huge fitting of reunited friends, and trekked around union square until we got a call from our friend Jenni, demanding we trek on over to the theater for a free screening of Star Trek. Afterward, we trekked (stopping now, by the way) about the city for a while, eventually stumbling into a hole in the wall call Pearl's Diner, which holds the honorary title of "best burger in San Francisco," and, by god, were they not kidding. The mini deluxe with blue cheese put me in a state of savory coma, only to be exacerbated by this original 50s style malt that I chased it with. The meal knocked me on my ass with a charbroiled 1-2 punch. We then headed to Union Square for a smoke; Bali Shags to be precise; damn good rolling tobacco. We smoked our freshly rolled cigarettes and shot electric speech at one another with that hip, young, art student vibe, that we all love so much. All potential and all future, and nothing stopping us; the night was ours. After some time, most of the gang called it quits and retired to their respective apartments, slowly branching off, one by one, from the collective group. Eventually, it was just Hank and me, and we trekked under the starry sky for another hour or so. We talked excitedly of plans for the year now that we were both in this most exciting of places. Finally, after miles of sidewalk passed, we arrived Hank's building. Visiting policy is strict, so I would have to play it smooth to get passed the security booth. I feigned panicked ignorance and naivete of a lowly freshman, confused and frightened by his first night in the city. They asked my floor, I guessed the safe number of three, and I was let pass. I somehow fell asleep despite my meager bed (a blanket and pillow, tossed to me out of pity, on the floor).

The next day, Hank and I woke up to a ringing phone with Jenni on the other end. She made plans to trek (am I still going on with that?) to the coast for a day under the sun. Her friend Anna would be joining us. Now, there are two things you have to know about Anna, the first is that she is here for a month on vacation from Germany, and the second is that she is very beautiful.

We caught a bus and paid two dollars each (for tickets we would use the rest of the day, well after expiration to get from one destination to the next) and we were on our way.

The beach was phenomenal; exponentially more beautiful than even the most pristine beach in southern California, that is, if you don't mind the ball-shrinkingly cold water that will simultaneously rape you of your manhood while dragging you out like a rag doll to the deep blue, all the while crashing wave after wave atop your sub-zero body. It had been quite some time sing I've been t the coast, and even longer (never) since I've been to this particular spot. I had the time of my life splashing around in the waves next to the majestic cliffs and charmingly out-of-place steampunk style windmill. Also, the only bath I had prior was in the sink of Hank's half-bathroom back at his dorm. After a few hours of soaking up the warm San Francisco rays, we trekked back to the street to catch a bus to Haight-Ashbury. We quickly flashed our tickets and hit that sweet spot of time (long enough for the driver to recognize that they were, indeed, tickets, yet short enough to elude his detection of the expiration time.) perfectly.

Once on Haight street, we immediately saw one of the notoriously interesting (hooray euphemisms!) people Haight has to offer. A staggeringly tall and intimidatingly large man emerged from the anarchist haven we like to call Golden Gate park. Oh yeah, and he was wearing body armor, head to toe. Clearly not about to just let such a thing go unquestioned, I held back from the group slightly and asked the gentlemen what exactly he's preparing for. The armored giant brushed his long black hair from his eyes, looked me straight in the eye and said with grave precision, "The end of your world," and then he walked away focused and ready to wage war against the four horsemen when they arrive. Laughing hysterically (mostly to cover that feeling in our gut that the end was nigh) we grabbed a slice from Escape From New York Pizza. Now, if you've never been to Escape From New York Pizza, I can not stress enough how much of a fool this makes you. Afterward we shopped around a bit, tried on ridiculous outfits, and grew bored and caught a bus back to union square.

We eventually reached Jenni's apartment, only after a fabulous dinner of Thai food at some hip place at around midnight, where we had a few friends over and chatted the night away. The best part was smoking on the fire escape watching the city's fog swirl all around me. It was an indescribably beautiful experience that I hope to have again very soon, and often after that. I planned to crash on the floor of the apartment, and ended up scoring a bed. And to make things better, I would rinse off in a shower, one lacking any form of visible soap, but it was nice all the same.

I would return to Berkeley the following morning, but not before grabbing a bagel with lox, and a coffee to drink, from this amazing cafe on Jones street. I would smell of where I've been (body odor), and my hair would shoot off in all directions, gelled by its own grease. I would be exhausted, unkempt, filthy, and in need of several day's sleep and a nice long shower, but it would be the result of an unforgettable weekend.

If this is any indication of how this year will continue, I can only express undying gratitude for the life I have, and all the living, the true living, that is to come.

Bohemian Dandy

What's your latest obsession?

Hank Moody: "Just the fact that people seem to be getting dumber and dumber. You know, I mean we have all this amazing technology and yet computers have turned into basically four figure wank machines. The internet was supposed to set us free, democratize us, but all it's really given us is Howard Dean's aborted candidacy and 24 hour a day access to kiddie porn. People... they don't write anymore, they blog. Instead of talking, they text, no punctuation, no grammar: LOL this and LMFAO that. You know, it just seems to me it's just a bunch of stupid people pseudo-communicating with a bunch of other stupid people at a proto-language that resembles more what cavemen used to speak than the King's English."

Radio show host: "Yet you're part of the problem."

Hank Moody: "Hence my self-loathing."

So, this blog has been dead for quite some time, mostly because I've taken the aforementioned little bit from Californication to heart, and I've actually been pressing pen to paper instead of worrying about keeping up this thing. It seemed superfluous and self-serving. But, after some deliberation, I figured there are some things I'd like to back-up and preserve, because who knows what could happen to my trusty moleskine. So, fuck it. As a good friend once said (which, I'm fairly certain she stole borrowed from Stefan Sagmeister: "Do it without thinking of critics."

So, the show will, nay, must go on. For memories sake, for writing's sake, and, goddammit, for my sake. I like this blog, premature as it may be, and I like getting my thoughts out there, for the few (if any) people that do read it. Thus far it's just a collection of random, largely unimportant thoughts or occurrences, but maybe they will be important one day. Maybe everything will start to make sense, and all these seemingly obscure and random entries will synthesize into a grand tale, and then again, maybe not. But for now, I keep going. I keep digging through this ugly little thing called life in search of sensation and meaning.

Much more to come,

Bohemian Dandy

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Life is...good?, I've found myself with very little to write lately. I've felt rather uninspired. This has actually been really bothering me lately. So, after much thought on the subject (primarily comprised of testing the durability of my wooden desk with my head) I figured out why my muse has sudden fluttered away.

Well, you see, my muse is less of a majestic, mythical creature as it is an evil, conniving adrenaline junkie who likes to inspire utter chaos and panic for her own amusement, and is essentially schadenfreude embodied. It's also apparently severely bipolar as it enjoys beauty about as much as that creepy kid in American Beauty..

Yes you, you weird fuck.

So, it seems that I can only write in the midst of extreme tragedy or euphoria. I've never been so good at minutiae. Maybe Virginia Woolf could teach me a thing or two...or perhaps I shouldn't take advice from someone who began to hear voices and consequently filled her coat with rocks and walked into the River Ouse.

I digress.

Anyway, as for my lack of inspiration, I think I'm going to try a more Woolf-esque approach. Stay tuned for possibly embarrassing attempts at elevating the mundane.

Still writing,

Bohemian Dandy