Escúchela, la Ciudad Respirando

So, I was going through my posts and found this. I think it’s from mid December last year. It’s really disjointed; I’m not sure if I typed it all at once or tried to add more to it later.  I opted to post it instead of trash it—might as well. Fuck it, yea?

 

The title of this post is from an amazing song—easily in my top 1000 favorite songs—by Black Star, featuring Common, called Respiration. Black Star consists of Talib Kweli and Mos Def. Most of you reading this probably don’t know who Talib Kwel is, but you might know Mos Def from a few movies; my favorite being Be Kind Rewind with Jack Black. It’s a great flick, check it out. Common also does a lot of acting now, but the only one I can think of off-the-top is Smokin’ Aces. I haven’t gotten the chance to so see Black Star perform, or Common, but I did get to see Talib Kweli at a now-closed club in downtown San Jose. It was my second favorite club back in the day. I got jumped outside it one time for dancing with a pretty Viet girl who, unbeknownst to me, had a gangster boyfriend looking down from the balcony of the club as she happily grinded on me. Him and two other dudes crept up behind me while I was smoking in the alley next to the club. I got my ass beat, but it could’ve been worse. I managed to rock one of the dudes with a right hook as I got up from the initial punch to the back of my neck, before catching a mean punch to my temple, putting me back on the ground for them to stomp the fuck out of me. Temple shots are mean; a perfectly placed punch causes blindness for a few seconds—every fighter knows this. Temple, nose, jaw: those are the knockout points My Marine father taught me. Temple shots hurt like a bitch, but I rather that than nose or jaw. I’ll take a hard kick to my dick over a massive jaw shot. Even if it doesn’t dislocate or break it, a hard hit to the jaw will force you to eat applesauce for a few weeks. Luckily, the jumping didn’t cut or break anything, but it fucked up my ribs for a month. My bestfriend’s Norteno cousins offered to help me find the dudes who did it, but I said na. I was grinding on his girl, I would fight me too—though jumping is pussy shit. It was my third jumping, and fifth or sixth time getting my ass beat. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve lost fights—if you fight enough, you’re bound to lose some. I actually think it’s good for you. Geez, this makes me sound like some type of tough guy. I’m not. I’m stupid.

Fuck, I’m rambling again. I always fucking trail off, digress, fuck up the rhythm and intentions of my posts. I wish I was able to write structured posts or articles. The Do’s and Don’ts of Fucking Killing Yourself would be a good one.

Anyways, the title of the post…it roughly translate to: Listen to her, the city is breathing. It was nearly my first tattoo, but my dumb sixteen year old self was smart enough to decide it was a bad idea to have a homeboy, who just started tatting, attempt to blast the quote across my collar bone. Fuck, that would’ve been bad. I have a couple tats done by homeboys that came out fresh, but garage tattoos are a gamble. One of my nephews had a Oakland crip tat the San Jose Sharks logo on him; It’s a horrendous tattoo, and it’s huge—about  1′ x 1′—the type of shitty tattoo requiring an artist who charges $500 an hour to fix.

See, again, me digressing. How annoying. Fuck it, I’m just going to write everything on my mind…maybe it will somehow connect at the end.

On Friday night, my lover’s good friend put on a one man show at the Randall Museum of Science. It’s a pretty spot sitting on a hill in central SF—a short, though steep, walk up from Castro St., the gay capital of the world and perfect place for her friend’s show: Just a Gay Jewish Boy Living with His Parents.

We were thirty minutes late to the 8 o’clock show because she wasn’t dressed when I got to her place at 7:30…literally not dressed, unless you count the nipple clamps.

It was 8:01 by the time she swallowed my cum. We threw on our clothes in 93 seconds, and I ordered an Uber as we walked to her building’s elevator. On the ride down she lifted her skirt and told me “Whoops, I guess I forgot to put on panties.”

Fucking shit I’m being over-descriptive. My apologies, I’ll spare you the sordid two paragraphs about the 11 minute Uber ride I fingered her in, and the funny paragraph about how we couldn’t get into the museum because they lock the doors after a show begins to prevent people from interrupting it…like we did.

Alright, so we got into the place after security caught us on camera shaking locked doors. They laughed at us, then directed us towards the auditorium. We stopped by the mini bar and had a few glasses of complimentary wine. I left a twenty in one of the glasses. There’s a special place in hell next to murderers and boring people for those who don’t tip properly.

I was sloshed already, drinking nearly a pint of hundred proof on the thirty minute ride up to the city, and my lover was stoned, and slightly tipsy off wine and cum, so we literally stumbled into the packed auditorium filled with the worst type of SF art snobs—the type of fart huffers who’d spend a few grand on a canvas painted white. A few people scoffed at us as we loudly creeped down to the last two seats in the front row. Before sitting down, I scratched the corner of my eye with my middle finger, and stretched a bit, before being pulled down by my laughing lover.

I wish I remembered more of the show. It was truly amazing. The only performance art type of show I’ve ever liked. Not only did he have an amazing voice, he interacted with the crowed so naturally I forgot other people were there. It was mesmerizing. A few tears even dripped out of my normally desolate ducts when he spoke about his grandmother, and her surviving the holocaust, and the current discrimination of the economically efficient populous.

The only part I didn’t like regarded current politics. I don’t want to hear that shit. I know it’s important, but people seem to be exponentially more irrational these days when politics comes up. Everyone is hypocritical: for me but not for thee type of shit, if you know what I mean. And California has the worst types of these people. The people in that auditorium probably cry about racism and bigotry, yet think giving a few dollars to a homeless black guy makes them better, all while living in gated communities, never setting foot in the neighborhoods they act like they care for. Yea, that’s it—that’s the most political I’ll get.

After the show, we stayed long enough to tell her friend how good the show was. He was just as bubbly and personable and goofy in person as he was on stage.

It was still relatively early so my lover and I decided to take a walk down Castro. It’s a beautiful street, filled with beautiful people, all having fun. The clubs were filled with topless men and women grinding on each other to EDM, high off molly and coke. Neither of us wanted to party. “I’m too old for that shit,” I told my lover, which basically means “I’m not trying to do drugs tonight”.

Instead, we went back to her place to play with some of her new toys….I never finished this part, sorry. I’m sure our night was brimming with debauchery, but I can’t remember the specifics and don’t want to just make something up to fill in the gaps.

I hate sleeping with other people, in the literal sense, not fucking, but I enjoy sleeping and waking up next to my lover. She’s a beautiful, broken soul…my type of person. I let her sleep while I chopped up some veggies and fruits and beat some eggs for omelets. She still wasn’t awake after I got done prepping, so I sat down with my coffee and stared out her window. Her tenement is located in the asshole of the city, but the view out her window makes up for all of the junkies and gangbangers and dealers. I took the featured from this window. In the background, you can see the SF City hall.; it’s a pretty building filled with ugly people. People out-of-touch with the average citizen. Liars and charlatans, all of them, regardless the party they’re in—though some are worse than others. Politics represents another aspect of life that forces me to choose the lesser of two evils. Dog shit or cat shit. Place your vote. I’m apolitical now. Who cares. I read an article recently about how native San Franciscans are moving out in droves. Want to know the reason? The top two are: It costs too much and it’s too dangerous. How the fuck does that happen. Shouldn’t the city be safer if it costs more? SF is the most expensive city to live in the US. It overtook NY City in the last few years. I’ve never been to NY, but it looks terrible. My lover and I like sitting in the Civic Center Plaza. We chain-smoke and talk about movies, books and sex toys. Smoking ciggies in SF fucking sucks; most people look down at us living chimneys like we just got done punting a kitten, some still smoke because they think it makes them look cool, and the rest are homeless people who will collectively bum an entire pack in an hour unless you say no.  The best thing to do is keep an extra pack with a single smoke in it. “Sorry man, I only have one left,” I tell them. “Oh, can I still get it,” they respond. Fucking rude. We were sitting in Civic Plaza recently when a homeless man came up and asked us for one. I gave him my usual response, and you know how he fucking responded? “I hope one day you’re homeless and aren’t given a cigarette.” I wasn’t mad, well kind of, but I was more perplexed and annoyed at how fucking stupid that sounds. You asshole. You don’t need a smoke. Get a job. Haha.

Oh, and the title of the post. I love to sit down in front of my lover’s window and listen to the city breathe. The sirens, the yelling, the dealers barking offers for every drug in existence, the honks and horns from shitty drivers on their way to do something that doesn’t matter, the sounds of new apartments being built that my collective family couldn’t afford to live in. All of it. I love it. Though, I’m a masochist.

I think my life is boring, but whenever I talk about it to people living elsewhere, they think it’s exciting. I think I’m just desensitized. I’ve done everything. Now I’m living a life of mundane decadence.

 

This was a weird post. I wish I remembered more about what happened. Interesting though.

 

 

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Pretty Words for Ugly Thoughts

I'm the red-faced conductor of a mangled train of thought.

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