Towards the end of October, during an Indian summer heat-wave, at six o’clock one morning, on Sunset Boulevard between Beverly Hills and West Hollywood, a lime green 1973 Citroen SM was approaching the latter city at full speed. The morning was so damp and misty that it was only with great difficulty that the day succeeded in breaking; and it was impossible to distinguish anything more than a few yards away from the automobile windows.
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It was a cold October day in the city of lights and my nerves were shot to hell. My lovely and charming wife, Coverton, of whom we shall speak no more, was laid up with a severe case of hypochondria, which meant the country house was off limits and I was confined to the city.
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chaz bartok
So last week the weather was so sweet, I decided to jump in my ‘am, fire up the built-in bong, and drive a few ladies down to the turtle races and wet-t-shirt contests. The usual suspects were blasting in the high-fi, til one of the ladies (either Jenn or Kendall, can’t remember which one) starts whining that I listen to too much G ‘n’ R, Black Sabbath, Led Zep and other shit from the olden days, and that I was swerving all over the road. Well honey, I says, I can’t do nothin’ bout the swervin’ but I can play you the new GBV single, “My Kind of Soldier.” Shit ain’t even come out yet it’s so new…
You can listen too: Guided By Voices “My Kind of Solider” mp3
While a Buddhist such as myself prefers to abstain from the earthly pleasures that are so tempting to an ordinary man, occasional situations arise when such pleasures need to be explored, and indeed delighted in.
One such pleasure is the music of the wonderful French musician St. Germain. Life may be suffering, but to listen to the smooth, jazz inflected moderne sounds of St. Germain is to attain a small version of the sartori. The dance producer’s latest album, Tourist, transcends the often brilliant but occasionally gimmicky work of his first highly acclaimed record.
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I have told you many times that life is suffering. I have told you that the pleasures of cannabis sativa have no interest for a Buddhist monk such as myself, even if the fragrant odors of a Swiss white widow tingles the inside of my nose and sets me adrift on a sea of tranquility. I have told you many times that an American Buddhist has no need to “blaze the pipe” or take repeated bong hits from a smooth, glass 4-footer, even if it is full with “fluffy nodge”. I have told you that suffering lies in desire, and when I have no desire, I do not suffer.
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It was about a year ago when I first listened to the tunes of Jack Johnson’s Brushfire Fairytales. At the time, I was making a road trip from Boston to Maine and was in dire need of the right type of music for my journey.
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I’ve avoided Southern Spain for years now as it became infested with the lowest kind of British holiday-maker, but my advance scouts had told me about the most lovely young lady they had ever laid collective eyes on.
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