Oh my god I just made a perfect cup of coffee for once in my life, I’m a grown ass woman finally. What next? Solving world hunger, stopping all wars, clean drinking water for everyone, cures for every illness and disease, peace in the Middle East? Better do it quick since this is my good hair day. Dylan is going to be so stoked when he gets home to see how much his goddamn wife has levelled up. I just washed and chopped up a pile of fresh vegetables, fried a duck egg and grilled some sausage. In other words I cooked for like the third time ever and it was actually pretty fucking good. Like who am I. I am the type of person that climbs up onto a chair to get at a hard to reach cupboard in order to use some rarely chosen cups and the dishes high up at the back so that they get their “day in the sun.” I actually worry about these things. God probably does a lot of rueful headshaking and sorrowful shrugging whenever he gets an eyeful of me. But maybe God now is just a little bit stoked to see that, despite it all, one of his dark horse experiments might actually be working.
Dylan called me urgently to the studio and so I rushed in. “Want to see a man doing manly things?” asked Dylan. “Sure,” I said. “Who wouldn’t.” And so we spent 20 minutes watching a time lapse of a handsome shirtless barefoot male individual alone in the woods doing everything for himself. He built a fire pit, made a fire, created special clay tiles in the flames and then baked them in a drying shed he had previously constructed. Later he used all the tiles to make a magnificent roof for his hut. This can-do man dazzled our eyes with all his calm capability. “I’d suck his cock,” said Dylan.
Later we were chuckling over how Cristiano Ronaldo’s shirt comes flying off with every opportunity, regardless if he actually just scored or not, or even if he left a match injured. “You’re not even gay if you fuck Ronaldo,” said Dylan. Meaning Ronaldo is such a specimen, who could blame anyone for the sex part, man, woman, young, old, Real Madrid fan or not, gay or straight.
While online shopping at one of my several Asian distribution sites, an ad featuring an enormous picture of David Beckham appeared. “The most handsome man on the planet,” the ad declared. “I love that Asia has decided that David Beckham is the world’s most handsome man,” I said. “He’s probably the most handsome man in the universe,” said Dylan. “I’d suck his cock,” Dylan added and I felt like the statement was becoming a mantra of sorts.
On my Instagram I follow an account featuring all things Bruce Lee. I showed Dylan a cute gif of Bruce Lee shimmying and Dylan gazed on approvingly. “You’re not even gay if you gave Bruce Lee a blowjob,” said Dylan. “You’d just be doing the right thing.” Indeed. One wonders if there’s not something about Dylan that his wife should maybe know.
I said, “When I reincarnate, I’m going full Mantis.” Dylan said, “You just want to eat men’s heads. “NO I DON’T,” I said. Neither of us had anything further to add, so we dove into dinner. Afterward, Dylan fucked with my vibe a bit, which he does sometimes, and we argued by what we did but didn’t say, until finally I shouted, “Stop being destructive with your actions!” Dylan said, “I’m NOT.” I said, “You’re a big pile of poo, that’s what you are.” I added, “You’re a dirty diaper that hasn’t been changed in MONTHS.” This is how we fight, this is how we argue. I could hear our roommate staying out of it, keeping to himself, and laughing cautiously in his room. Dylan after an offended pause commented, “I get you a bit of booze and now look at you.” For the record, I look goddamned beautiful.
It’s amazing how furious people get over Dylan’s haircut. Some people are head over heels in love with it and others want to murder him in order to properly express the depth of their hatred. The crux for most people is they want Dylan to look normal. They want Dylan to act normal. They want Dylan to be normal. But why would anyone want to be that? Why would you want to be lifeless, monotonous, forgettable and average? Fuck that shit, and fuck the people who don’t have the balls to be different. Fuck being normal. Normal is for chumps. Bend some goddamned rules, burn the envelope, destroy the box. No one will ever care about how safe you played it. Beauty lies in daring, and greatness takes risks. Live, or die boring. Fortune favours the bold and history celebrates men with special haircuts.
What my hair looked like half my life ago. Yes that’s a thousand million long black cables, wires, headphones and cords which didn’t make nightly for the world’s most comfortable sleeping. Actually it was like cozying up to a plane crash and having many jagged metal parts poke into my brain. Think besides being amazingly original, impressively difficult and incandescently cool, this hairstyle was meant to let everyone know how committed I was to technology and to sound, and how profound and deep if not downright holy was my connection to music. Think I even attached an antenna to my head. I have no idea how long I made this look work. Surely the excessive discomfort I enjoyed nightly put finally a stop to things. Kids right. But what is art if you don’t suffer for it a little bit.
No matter how autonomous and self-sufficient you think you are, life is too complicated to try to make a go of it alone. When things gets rough or hard, it’s essential to have someone there to help figure things out, and to do some of the heavy lifting. A life without the love and support of at least one person that you honour with both your affection and your trust is difficult to fully realize or conceive independently. It’s not just the tough times either, it’s not only misery that loves company, it’s happiness too. Goals achieved and good feelings felt are nothing if you’ve no one to smile at or to hold tightly, if there’s no one there to receive the words, “This is wonderful,” “I love you,” and “I am happy.” Joy is one of life’s rarer moments of pure beautiful human feeling. Sharing joy deepens it, and it’s the sharing that makes the happiness we feel both more meaningful and more real.
Once you get to a certain point in your life, people start trying to tell you that magic isn’t real. These people are trying to quell your sense of wonder at the majesty of the world, and you mustn’t let them. Because magic happens all the time. Whenever you see something utterly beautiful in nature, and you take the time to notice it, it’s magic. When you recognize the love you have to give and the love you receive, it’s magic. Magic is in the look and touch and nearness of someone who matters to you. It’s magic even when something sad or terrible happens, because there is magic in the very fact that you care, and that you’re still there. Magic happens when you stand up for what matters. Magic happens when you don’t let anything ever beat you, no matter what. Magic happens when you are part of the force of love. It’s magic, no matter how dim the hope, how slim the chances, how great the cost. Magic happens every time you give, every time you love, and every time that you are strong. The magic only stops when you let it. The magic is in you and it is all around you. Because the magic is you.
Jamaica is called “the most homophobic place on earth,” and Jamaican men from Kingston who listen to dancehall music are the most homophobic group, actually it’s some of our favourite dancehall artists who incite and encourage hatred and violence. The situation is both depressing and dangerous, because we love Jamaican men and Kingston and dancehall music, but we are not entirely loved back. These men might murder you if they even think you are gay, Dylan has already been threatened several times. The problem runs deep in the culture, it’s deplorable and sad. I wish we knew how to help or what to do, without either of us getting hurt or killed.
Yesterday Dylan wore a baseball hat, and everything changed. Suddenly everybody was warm and friendly and kind. The lesson it seems is do not underestimate the power of a ball cap. At the grocery store, I met a group of girls from California. They gave me vague and secret smiles. Their friend came running up holding aloft something big and green and wrapped in plastic. “Guess what I found,” she sang out as her girlfriends gathered around. “KALE!” she squealed. The California girls linked arms and cheered. An amusing and adorable small taste of home, life every day, everywhere, and in all moments, is filled with such strange contrasts.
One of the guys at the resort just got a dog and he was describing how it was all going. “Boy dog or girl dog?” I asked. “Boy,” he said. “Oh I love boy dogs,” I said, “but Christ are they ever a handful.” The new-dog man nodded knowingly. “They destroy virtually everything,” I said. “Tear shit apart, stop every five seconds to piss on poles or whatever, marking their territory, and they hump fucking anything, even the air. It’s kind of a bit much. It gets to a point where it’s sort of ridiculous. The expression on their faces when they’re doing it though, all their crazy instincts and little patterns. It’s like they can’t help it. And they’re kind of dumb sometimes, a bit dopey… But they’re so smart in other ways, and hilarious, and wonderful, they sort of get a free pass. You can’t not love them.” Everyone present nodded varying levels of assent and agreement. “Actually,” I remarked as an afterthought, “Boys are kind of like that too. They’re a mess. Totally clueless. Pissing everywhere, destroying things, and humping everything they see.” The swaggering lesbian seated next to me snorted, grinned, and leaned in. “I’ll drink to that,” she said, and we made our glasses clink.
I’m lying on my stomach upon an oversized couch in a darkened room with a little dog all snuggled into the diamond oval space created from vagina to crossed ankles between thighs and a slight bending of knees. There’s a quiet deep precarious joy felt from the warm small furry weight and heat that such a creature in such a position radiates, his tiny sighs and little rearrangings approach heartbreaking in their terrible levels of all that is vulnerable, diminutive, and sweet. Of course it’s very easy for me to dramatically enjoy such miniature moments and muted scenes as I’m so partial to dogs, I don’t really like all that many humans, if I had to choose between dogs and humans, I’d go with the dogs, I’m reading Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man while listening to music. I’m systematically going through all the Soundcloud pages for TroyBoi, Louis The Child, Flosstradamus, Tsunano, Odesza, DJ Ruskee, Beau Young Prince, Tinie Tempah, and Sweater Beats, I’m scanning for tracks to potentially play in my sets for Australia, I’m only halfway through foraging the first of these, TroyBoi is so awesome, I’ve already chosen 15 of his songs and counting. Also I couldn’t help but notice that TroyBoi beyond the talent is muscular, handsome, black, and tattooed, I know these things shouldn’t matter, but they do.
Buraka Som Sistema is my favourite band right now. They’re so badass. Every time one of their tracks comes on, I put it immediately into my favourites folder. Whatever tracks don’t make the favourites folder cut, it’s not because the track sucked, it’s because my favourites folder is overrun with tracks by Buraka Som Sistema. The videos for their songs are also great, fast-paced dance graffiti pieces, fresh, dynamic, and vivid. This band and I are on the exact same page, I’d love to see them. They seem so far only to play shows in Europe and South America, but if they ever come to San Francisco and I can attend, I’m gonna cry. Then I’ll dance and clap my hands.
Speaking of clapping, I’m sorry, but any man that claps his hands while dancing is a homosexual. Especially if the claps are above the head. If the claps occur succinctly twice, and are to the side, then there’s no going back. Nothing against homosexuals of course, “some of my best friends” et cetera. Next, it must be said, anything you do, someone will always be able to do it better, and that person invariably will be black, homosexual, Asian, or a Jew. Life on earth is enormously enriched by members of these four groups.
Anyway I wouldn’t ever want to live in a world that was purely homogenous, rigidly straight, and frighteningly white. Talk about purgatory, nightmarish, and wrong. Like sitting endlessly for hours in secondary screening at the American border facing off with a bunch of sour-faced stiff-spined border agents and customs officers, most of whom are as stupid as they are slow and smug. You’re left to do your best to conceal your irritation, you can never let a stupid person know that you think they’re stupid, because then you’re fucked.
More artists I must recommend include Louis the Child, Elliphant, Tarrus Riley, Damian Marley, Felix Laband, Shaggy, and DJ DSL. ill.Gates for the record is really wonderful too, he’s currently next to me writing a song. I am working on a dj set for my upcoming show in Australia, it’s as challenging eclectic tough as they come, Night Nurse gonna sound the alarm. We’re still in Tel Aviv, and we’re happy, healthy, and well. Before working, we enjoyed a very good stand up performance by Simon Amstell.
Everything is a choice between fear and love, and death is coming. Fear or love, my friends, at every moment, you must decide. Death is coming, so choose love.
The main reason I’m not an alcoholic is I’m too negligent, even with my drinks. I’m all like “oh” whenever I come across a drink that I poured and misplaced days ago and forgot to finish. This too is another reason it’s probably good I don’t have kids. I’d be all “whoops” and “shit” whenever I saw one of them languishing somewhere and was reminded I ever had them. Plus I’d likely never remember their motherfucking birthdays or even their goddamned names. If they were dogs though I’d remember everything. There’s just something about dogs that effortlessly captures the whole of my heart and my attention. I think about them even when there’s none around and when I see one, I fall into fits of baby talk and playfulness and coochy cooing delights, regardless of who they belong to, what they look like, and the fact that they’re not mine. Dogs. I wonder why I love them so much.
Whiling my life away at Dallas International Airport killing time at a restaurant bar and waiting for a flight that’s three hours delayed. On the wall is a large framed portrait of J.R. Ewing. This amuses me because a) this is a reality and b) I recognize him. I guess though that’s what happens when one of your nighttime soap opera reruns addicted stepmothers used the television in your formative years as a stand-in for parenting. Thank God for my previous television-as-parent care provider then. His viewing menu consisted solely of watching and rewatching all the greatest goals and moments of World Cup matches and exclaiming and explaining to me the essence of the greatness even though his passion-voiced wide-eyed gibberish meant likely to me not hugely a lot as I was by that point little more than teething. Said other parent also had a relentless viewing interest in the Japanese animation classic Akira, touchingly terrible Thai horror efforts and every deathless beautiful film that Bruce Lee ever graced and starred in. But back to J.R., interestingly, earlier, a friend managed to tap into the “secretly Texan” vibe apparently woven into the very fabric of my nature and being. Let’s hope Maradona, Der Kaiser, Platini, Messi, The Black Panther and Bruce Lee managed to save the rest and best of me.
I thought being on a bus and on the road with Husband would be kind of grueling and gnarly but actually it’s been very snazzy and a lot of fun. The best thing though is that we’re together and curling up tightly nightly in our Japanese capsule hotel like bunk is all cuteness and love. Spooning is mandatory for it to work. Shows have been unignorably interesting, the bass every time Excision takes the stage is so staggering and excessive, it startles and deranges my whole body and my mind every time. “I have never heard bass this loud before ever in my life” is something you hear spoken between persons at shows at least ten times. The others on the tour are good young men, entertaining and sweet each in their singular ways, everything so far has been really great. Except last night. One of the Dirty Phonics boys slipped and smashed his teeth in. Spent the rest of the evening in Emergency and will need some fairly serious dental surgery. Very unfortunate, no matter how sort of rock n roll and badass the broken teeth look. Now it’s sunny and hot and a brand new day, we’re at an amazing vegan organic place eating incredible food, this town we’re in is subtitled the San Francisco of the South and it shows. Tastes delicious, good fuel for further and more. See you out there.
Pink Floyd Wish You Were Here is the one song in my life that I actually approximately sung in a public karaoke setting. I gave an understated but passionate performance that amazed and confused my few friends present sober enough to notice and hear. I know. You wish you were there.
We just enjoyed a nice Chinese vegetarian lunch at a well-reviewed place. Properly fed and sufficiently satisfied, I opened my fortune cookie and there was no fortune inside! How unfortunate! I was so stricken the kind owner came running at me with a little plate teeming with much more fortunate cookies. After reading a couple confections containing cordial comforts and reassuring remarks, I relaxed. My heart beats anew.
What my hair was like in 2004. Yes that’s a thousand million long black cables and wires and headphones and cords which didn’t nightly make for the world’s most untroubled sleeping. Truthfully it was like snuggling my head into a plane crash and having many jagged metal parts poke into my brain. Think the look besides being pretty original and totally cool was meant to let everyone know how committed I was to technology and to sound, and how uniquely in love I was with The Music. I’ve no idea how long I made this look work. Surely the unbelievably terrible sleeps I enjoyed during that time put finally a stop to things. Kids right. But what is art if you don’t suffer for it a little bit.
Wifi should be free and jackable everywhere. Cell phones should have consistent reception and be the same rate for use no matter where you are. Bags, purses, suitcases and shoulder bags should be well-designed, attractive and comfortable. Public bathrooms should be Godlike in spotlessness. People should smile only when they mean it. Shoes should stay dry no matter what. Religion shouldn’t fuck people’s brains up, music should be memorable, art should be transcendent, friends should be fantastic, love should be luminous, life should not be hard!
This is from a spastic email I hectically wrote to Dylan, once I could find some wifi that would successfully properly allow me by international use of my mobile phone to finally freely send it. Everything now is fine, for those of you who were “worried.” For everyone else, shit still sucks. Kidding. Life is awesome, no motherfucking matter what.
During the physical activity section of our day yesterday, I ran very hard with great skillfulness and speed along our route with many hills to prove to ill.Gates and Bassnectar how strong and fast and awesome I am. I left everyone smoothly in the dust but managed also to fairly seriously fuck up the muscles in my calves. Now I’m hobbling around the house like a 90 year old cripple feeling quietly sorry for myself. Moral of the story: Ladies. Don’t show off. Especially not for boys.