BPM Smith Blog: Archived Rants

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We need Vegas to post a line on next year's Pulitzers to hype it up!

They’re having quite a pissing contest out in the UK where the Booker Prize is surrounded by the usual "controversy" and the losers are calling John Banville a literary bum. Sure it was catty that he torched a competitor’s book in a review but his novel The Sea sounds haunting and nostalgic, and anything that drives more people to read literary fiction is all good. The British appreciate their authors more than Americans. Hell, they even bet on ‘em like we do boxing matches. Some landed underdog cash after Banville stomped 6/4 favorite Julian Barnes, which makes me picture Caesar’s Palace posting a line on the next Pulitzer Prize. Now that would hype this literary biz in America.

Meanwhile, the Quill Award is a nice concept, let the public vote, televise it like they do film awards and raise the profile of authors in America. But c’mon! They don’t even have a literary award among the many categories. Publishers deny left and right that they print "literary fiction" because it sells crappy and what’s the difference between literary and commercial, anyhow? Well for one, you’ve got style and remember the real craftsmen like Hemingway and Burroughs. Two, a literary author says something about the human condition. You can do that and still write an entertaining and gritty story. Unfortunately, too many "literary" novels have had Ivy League protagonists brooding in their Manhattan apartments with nothing happening in the plot. The public yawned and literary fiction got a bad rap.

Here’s an idea for the budding novelists of today and tomorrow. You can write something literary and set it in the Lower East Side among hustlers and junkies. Or in the Fillmore among dealers, boxers and house parties (hint, hint!). Give us an unusual setting and implement some unexpected plot turns in a character-driven novel. You gotta entertain today’s impatient reader or get the hell out! Maybe next year the Quill Award will add something literary to their list but in the meantime let’s hope the American audience will turn off the damn TVs after watching the awards and read something. Or better yet, hit Vegas and play some Texas Hold 'Em while laying down $500 at 9/1 odds that Bistro De Mars will land the Pulitzer. Roll with me there and we'll parlay the winnings into a round of roulette. Russian Roulette.
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The Knicks are back and North Beach is burned down like Carol Doda!

We interrupt this rant about music, literature and Paris Hilton to bring you big, big news. The New York Knicks’ training camp is in full swing! For the first time since the Millennium -- when management carted off my boys Marcus Camby and Latrell Sprewell -- there is cause for optimism. In case you forgot, the Knicks imploded last year like a wagon full of 90,000 worms cut adrift on the freeway. But Larry Brown’s at the helm, they've got Eddy Curry and Channing Frye in the paint and you can expect a return to NY Knicks signature heavy D!

They should have exported The Gimp to Chicago but I’ll bite my tongue, forgive the past five years of shit kicking and settle into a local sports bar to enjoy chicken wings, burgers and Anchor Steam beer. Crisis, and a local news angle for my Bay Area peeps who aren’t all about the Knicks: My man Dave says they closed down The Condor in North Beach and turned it into a "high end restaurant." That’s right, the biggest screen in San Francisco, where we watched the legendary first Marco Antonio Barrera vs. Erik Morales fight -- through a window in the rain ‘cause they refused to let my underage girlfriend-at-the-time chill. "She’ll just sit with us and drink milk!" No? "Give me a chili dog, extra onions while we find her ID!" Singing in the rain, baby.

Anyhow, changes happen, even at the Condor. The 1970s strip club with lit-up boobie sign and drugged up teenagers morphed into a fight and basketball venue and finally, upscale restaurant. So I’m on the hunt, kids. If you’re in the San Francisco Bay Area send me your favorite sports bar’s details. Keep in mind that Budweiser is not beer. Bratwurst beats hot dogs. Wood panels are nice. And no Raiders or 49ers games because football is for drunken bums. No, forget I said that. Premium beer, tasty food and big screens that show basketball and boxing, that’s all.
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Journalists and authors had better summon Hemingway!

Observing all these prominent author/journalists over the years, I’m guessing the bigwigs like Ernest Hemingway and William F. Buckley, Jr. found writing books an amusing contrast to news articles. Especially my man Hem, who was the master of efficient prose and rewrote page 1 of his short stories and novels no less than 20 times. Doing that’s called patience. Even though he worked before the media industry moved to "real time" news coverage, Hem had the starting pistol at his head -- wrong analogy, my bad -- and tight deadlines forced him to use a different methodology. So to demystify the writing process of Hem, I have channeled him like Captain Kirk to the Star Trek Enterprise.

Hemingway says to write news, first you drink a double cappuccino, then follow with a half pot of Peet’s Columbian. Drink and drive to the newsroom. Avoid plowing through jay walking pedestrians. If you haven't killed anybody while trying to wake up, check whether any announcements came overnight. Press releases are usually crap and nothing big gets announced until the smart guys already got it, so you drink another cup of French Roast and scatter 20 phone calls across America. The callbacks trickle in, often when you’re downstairs gossiping with the door man, smoking Marlboro Lights and ingesting your sixth cup of coffee/espresso. Since you've got three unrelated stories incubating at once, you watch caller I.D. and plan interviews based on area codes. When you get the who/what/when/why/how, write it up in the AP Style, fueled by coffee and Drum & Bass. Replace coffee with scotch, and Calculon with Benny Goodman to summon Hem’s process down pat.

Writing a novel’s different. First you cease guzzling coffee because prose is not an analytical race fueled by Q&As. It’s intuitive. Storytelling comes from deeper inside and that’s a hard place to find. Substitute coffee with Gatorade, exchange Drum & Bass with Trance and keep in mind that John Digweed serves as jet fuel. Cause-and-effect that drives news is replaced by motivation and empathy, which drives characters to do things in a novel. Even when a character like Benny the Bartender, an antagonist in Bistro De Mars, does something fukced up you’ve gotta feel his motives like they’re your own. Sometimes the Gatorade, Trance and moments of reflection fail to evoke your characters. That’s when you implement a new trick. A fellow author/journalist gave this priceless one, so please send chocolate chip cookies our way. She had me repeatedly chant: "I am relaxed in the body, I am relaxed in the mind." Five or 10 minutes straight. Then switch to Armin Van Buuren and you’ll take off like a rocket.
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What’s Kate Moss and coke have to do with writing? Glad you asked!

"It’ll take them at least a day or two before they find you." -- reader e-mail, commenting on vulture lawyers

Well, at least Kate Moss can humor me while I deal with a turntable that sounds like someone submerged it in honey and my mp3 software that jumped into the black hole created by that nerdy virus engineer (Manny the midget with his .45 and a shrunken skull is coming, my friend). I was hoping to post a Hard House mix by DJ Denise but it’ll have to wait yet another week. In lieu of Denise’s scientific beat matching y’all got a sniff of life with Kate, who remains adorable regardless of whether she burns off her septum. A fair tradeoff, right? Wrong! The vultures that claim "ownership" of the video are sending out threatening letters to anyone posting it:

"We are the UK Counsel for MGN Limited which owns the copyright in the video footage of Kate Moss… We demand that you take the (video) down immediately, remove the link and undertake not to use any part of the footage in future. (blah blah we’ll kick your ass, etc.)... We do not permit publication of any of my or my firm’s details on your website or any other website."

The rascally kids at What Would Tyler Do have lots of funny stuff, but no Kate Moss video. And they never did in the first place, I tell ya! What’s this have to do with DJs (cough), authors and the writing life? Everything! It’s common knowledge that all authors hang in recording studios with the world’s most gorgeous runway models, record execs who wear Ing Loro Piana & Co. suits, and five pounds of coke… Um, right?

Anyhow, I hear most authors blog about their books and shit because it’s supposed to be a marketing "platform" for their writing. What you blog should appeal to your reader demographics and what you say reflects your inner thoughts, like a hamster on a treadmill. Boring! In my blog I don’t wanna bore y’all about how Hemingway influenced me to become an author/journalist, how I apply Nietzsche’s philosophy to everyday life, or write anything that’s remotely similar to my literary style. This is just BPM Smith’s chill out zone where I take a break from serious literary biznis.

Well, okay, if you really want a connection, my WIP novel Bistro De Mars has some cocaine deals in it. And some boxing scenes where blood flies. And it’s set when this scene started up in the early 90s, when raves really were word-of-mouth events at San Francisco warehouses and not massively marketed productions at arenas across America. And there’s even some cars stolen, drunken debauchery and a lot of underage kids walking the streets with 40s in their hands. Regardless of what people try and say when Bistro gets published, it’s not a freaking biography. Nope.
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Producing is like cocaine, every track tells its own story!

"She killed her first boyfriend because she was so fucking drunk!" -- heard in Oakland on Monday, October 3

Observing my eight-hour sessions on the turntables, a friend once suggested I produce some Drum & Bass tracks. "There’s so much you can do with this new software, I think you’ll get into it," he said. You got that right, homeboy. And the next thing you know I’m dwelling in the lab producing tracks for eight hour stretches, on the turntables for a couple more, then there’s the backlog of four novels I'll never finish and a business nonfiction book for the day job that’s currently a thorn slashing my ass to ribbons. Ultimately, the clock runs out and time slips away like pigeons chased by hungry hobos in the Tenderloin.

I admire DJs like Photek and LTJ Bukem, who produce new tracks and then hit the decks at clubs worldwide. But these guys also make their living at this. How can a guy who’s always behind deadline add yet another project to the never-ending list? Cocaine is one solution. Do enough blow and you can skip those pesky nights spent sleeping! Do the math. Eight hours of sleep + eight or more hours of work + eating, transporting yourself around, domestic biz, exercise, a barely acceptable amount of socializing  = limited time for the arts. Lame! Become a cokehead and you’ll subtract sleep from the equation, raise productivity and finally, finally control time! Yeehaw!

There is a downside to the master plan. The adorable Kate Moss found this out after forgetting to guzzle margaritas while killing her boyfriend whatshisname. In the studio, music producers wear Italian suits and snort elephant-sized lines of blow. Shifty musicians collapse in chairs. Models chop lines, gossip, take it all in and then video of their antics are broadcast to the world. Strangely, in this video clip you hear all kinds of elephant noises but not one cord of music. Um, maybe we’ll cancel that cocaine-as-time-management-tool thing. Update: elephants have been replaced with eye candy. Don't whine for your dose of wildlife because I've made up for it by finally answering the question: "Which would win a fight, an aligator or a python?"
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Forget chickens and ambulance chasers, Paris Hilton’s on the market!

Jeez Louise, my fellow writers are getting more desperate and chickenshit by the day. No wonder the public views authors as pampered jackals and journalists are considered on par with lawyers. Maybe a pre-requisite to becoming a writer should be throw ‘em in a boxing ring, strand them in New Orleans at 3 am, make them climb the Transamerica building without a rope. Anything that’ll toughen their soft asses up!

First, these ambulance-chasing writers are running around New Orleans trying to cash in on floating corpses. Since the damn hurricane I read a bunch of deals in Publishers Lunch along the lines of Jed Horne’s, who got Random House to front some dough for his rendition of carnage, politics and a city overrun by crackhead zombies. He and R.H. are probably licking their chops after Katrina like they just won a boatfull of deep fried turkeys. Y’all must not have heard, by the time your book comes out we’ll be so overstuffed on Katrina that we’ve already hired a doctor to staple our stomachs.

If R.H. wanted to do something interesting with Katrina they should’ve made Horne hang with gangsters, junkies and looters in N.O. and give us a first-hand rendition of that scene. Gangstas are a human story as well, and they’re entertaining. For example, my man Steve at Slingshot Magazine reported on one group of young hoods, standing among floating corpses in shit-drenched rivers and watching helicopters roam the skies for hours without evacuating a single person. Gotta survey the carnage, not do something about it, ya know? Hoods did some SOS messages with flashlights to no avail and finally got so frustrated at these joy riding helicopters they did begin shooting at ’em. Don’t judge these guys. Because with a bit of imagination you might picture yourself in their position: Starving, dirty, the smell of vomit and death in the air while your family disappeared and you just got jumped by four thugs who took your last piece of KFC Extra Crispy.

Second, Judith Miller at the NY Times finally gave up her "confidential" source and testified before a federal weasel that’s investigating a media leak. Unlike a lot of journalists, I don’t consider her a martyr for a free press. That’s what I do every freaking week, collect "leaks" of information on a confidential basis and no, I wouldn’t give up a single contact if the Feds forced the issue with jail time. Doesn’t matter if your contact gives you permission while you’re stewing in the jug, the fact your contact is feeling guilty doesn’t change the fundamentals of how he became a confidential source: you promised to never name him, period.

But hey, at least Judith held off longer than those two weakling chumps Matthew Cooper and Robert Novak, who spilled the beans the first time a fed threatened to spank them with a paddle -- against a backdrop of jail. I see these pasty white, flabby, suit-wearing dudes quivering in the britches over the thought of sharing a jail cell with a Mr. T lookalike. Bottom line, when the government forces journalists to give up their sources there is no freedom of the press. And if you believe that then anything less than silence means you do not stand up for your beliefs.

OMG, is this rant political? Forgedaboudit, Paris Hilton is back on the market, kids! I knew this would happen, that’s why I didn’t bust a move on her sister Nikki when spotting her outside the Waldorf Astoria while en route to a press conference. Why shoot for the moon when you can live among the stars? Paris, please rest assured I am over that Lyndsay Lohan and you are back on my shortlist, baby girl!
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Workaholic journalist skips vacation to use clowns as punching bag!

I’m supposed to be on vacation Thursday, cruising up Highway 1 to one of Earth’s great decompression zones, Vichy Hot Springs. Instead, I’ll be in the office fielding calls from around the globe and finalizing a major news break that will show the clowns at Bloomberg and other wires that they will never catch up to me. I will not brood over the beautiful sunny California weather. Or how relaxed you get soaking in North America’s only naturally bubbly hot springs. And I will not miss hanging with those cute little black and red salamanders that line the creek leading to a fantastic, 60-foot-high waterfall. No.

Instead, I will celebrate that I am the only financial journalist who could crack that story and thumb my nose at the so-called competition, who got their asses kicked in yet again like they do every single week. Only this time their carnage is spread all over The Street like a bull that ate dynamite and shit 80 lbs. of flaming choriza sausage. If you’re a beat reporter you know exactly what I’m saying. The rest of you are no doubt thinking "what a workaholic fool." You’re probably right.
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Sleazy music producer biting my style -- and aviator shades!

"Therapy is good for some people, others not. I'm not going to pay some guy to talk to him." -- woman overheard Tuesday in downtown San Francisco.

The fashion whores of America are stalking me. Sure, it’s just clothes yada yada but this is annoying. In L.A. a few weeks ago I got a black Adidas Superstar sweatsuit, only to find that Samuel L. Jackson is flossing the same jacket an upcoming film. Also got a Hump shirt, designed and produced at a small local factory, and saw some agent in NYC flossing the exact same shirt at Fashion Week. He ain’t even West Coast! Finally we hit the Bungalo Club on Melrose Saturday night and I’m wearing my new school Rayban aviators. They got us a table right away, probably thinking since the guy is wearing shades at night and is a picky bastard about what table he gets, he must be a Hollywood "producer" of sorts, right?

Shades are important. It’s freaking required to mute the severity of the morning sun, press conferences, airport security, crackhead zombies and panhandlers. Wear ‘em day and night! Example: The other evening I’m leaving Zaa’s with a pizza in hand when a wino in frumpy clothes and dreadlocked hair under a manure hat staggered toward me. His hand was outstretched and he shouted, "Blagadeerooo!" Shielded behind my aviators, I strolled on out to the car and ignored him. Put ‘em on extinction, B.F. Skinner would say!

Anyhow, early this year I’d picked up these new futuristic Rayban aviators so they’re mine, y’all! One person isn't listening. Turns out music producer Scott Storch is not only hanging with my girl Paris Hilton, he’s been hitting Hollywood parties wearing my pair of freaking Raybans. Worst of all, he’s chubby little weirdo who wears f-ugly suits and pimp rings. Great, he produced tracks for Eminem and Fat Joe, but already I see a gallon of cologne under a pink striped shirt when these shades go on. Just wanted to let you know I had ’em first! I don't wanna hear anyone say, "Man, BPM Smith thinks he’s looking like that cheesy record dude who hangs with Paris Hilton." No, BPM does not look like him. Weird record dude is trying to look like me. But you knew that.
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Top of the world to rock bottom in 33 minutes: Ode to Leavander Johnson!

Tonight I'm bummed out, scouring for good news that isn't there about boxing world champion Leavander Johnson. The man died Thursday, Sept. 22, 2005, five days after getting knocked out in a Vegas fight and losing his title. Pain, fear, death, it all makes you think about life. And boxing is an analogy of life. Fighters ignore fear so they have a chance at the big dream. How many victories do we all experience in day-to-day life? You find them where you can: Graduate college, break a big news story, wake up after hitting 'snooze' eight times, us civilians take simple victories without much risk.

Boxers, they walk up those three steps into a ring where there’s a chance at triumph and also a possibility of death. Most of us aren’t willing to gamble with stakes that high. But these wiry, fantastic athletes take the biggest risk of all while becoming fodder for our base entertainment. So tonight I’m thinking about Leavander, who lost the biggest fight of his 35 years, one that the doctors said he was an 8/1 underdog to win. He was a natural warrior and fought hard  to make it through this. Initially they said his condition had improved. But in the end his brain wasn't as strong as his body.

In a photo taken when the referee stopped Leavander’s fight -- after he took 20 consecutive punches to the head in the eleventh round -- I saw two of my former trainers ringside. They had shocked expressions and at that moment I was glad I’d left boxing years ago. Remembered that time I blacked out a half hour after leaving the ring and awoke in my trainer’s lap with no idea of how much time had passed since going to sleep. Didn't want to know. Twenty seconds, twenty minutes, I never asked because boxers don’t ponder their weaknesses, they ignore them. Leavander spent the last 15 years ignoring his own human frailty to become a world champion. It took just 33 minutes for him to lose it all. But at least he kept chasing the big dream to the end. That's a lot more than most.
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See that DJ flailing at the turntables? Now picture him driving on the freeway!

I’ve been remixing producer/DJ High Contrast's tracks in my Drum & Bass sets the last couple years -- you know, blow $30 on two records, spin them at 45 rpm and rewind, add a sample here, drop the pitch there and it’s remixed. High Contrast gives a DJ lots of sweet spots to work off of, which is why he’s going into Wednesday night’s set, broadcast in a live Web stream at PulseRadio.net.

Get a High Contrast CD for the road and you’ve got some smoking hot beats! So hot that on Tuesday I carved through San Francisco Bay Bridge traffic, waving my hands and shouting "Woohoo!" at the breaks until a Marlboro Light went flying out of my mouth and somewhere in the cabin. Smoking hot, I said. Eventually found it underneath my lap and continued down the freeway, a sunset of fuschia in the rear view mirror. Yes, tonight I was in high spirits and the bass rumbled, so forget about that near-crash into an SUV.
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On feisty women, politics and spankings!

"I’ve always got bass going." -- a lesbian after making out in a minivan while blaring Juvenile at full volume with a toddler in the car seat.

You gotta love feisty women. There’s the girlfriend who, in retaliation to my constant spankings, decided to paddle me in front of her dad’s crew of auto mechanics in his garage. Then there’s the girl who said, "If you want quiet, go sleep in the living room! That’s the quiet room!" when I asked her to chill out amid machine gun questions first thing in the morning. Before coffee? The difference between feistiness and brutality is the time of day. I am a pacifist in the morning, kids!

In New York, they’re done with morning manners by the time us Californians are sucking down java and staggering into offices, travel mugs in hand. Many of you authors are happily submitting to the beatdowns of Miss Snark, a literary agent in NYC who answers your mind-numbing questions -- "How long do I wait before asking an agent if they wanna sign me? Does it matter if they’re in NYC? What genre is my novel about Big Bird and Ernie’s inter-species affair?" --  by putting a stiletto heel straight up your asses!

Which brings me to politics, a topic I know little about and care less. Typical BPM Smith political discussion:

Friend: "Would you vote for Hilary Clinton if she runs? We need someone to get W. out of office."

Me: "What’s that? I’ll tell you what they gotta do: Put George W. in a clown suit and boxing gloves and make him fight Mike Tyson. The Muslims in New Orleans will love it! Payback, baby!"

Others take this political biznis seriously. Who? Oh, our in-house book reviewer Michelle Simon, who happens to also be a political activist. She panned Nine Wives, a novel they’re calling "dick lit," in favor of Storming the Court by one Brandt Goldstein. Hmm, the ramblings of a guy who proposes marriage to three chicks in one day or law students who made the original George Bush stop jailing Haitian refugees at Guantanamo Bay without due process? Guess it’s time to return the paddle to the closet.
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Playing catch-up in the 415, 310 and lurpy losers better watch out!

Virus-creating nerds go back to high school where you’re miserable and ugly! A virus engineer’s mayhem is the reason WORD’N’BASS.com shuttered for a month. None of us kids did a goddamn thing during that time. Well, Sam "Supa" Arroyo continued DJing with his crew, Michelle Simon wrote a couple book reviews (on tap soon) and Candi Diaz cut real estate deals on her way to becoming a tycoon. They continued along. I did nothing except plot revenge: A horn rim glasses-wearing, tight pants-wearing, lurpy loser will pay because I have identified the source of this virus. Payback includes a brilliant lawyer, a suitcase of cash, a shrunken skull, a floating eyeball with microphone attached, and a gallon of cow’s blood.

I missed being able to rant about my little adventures juggling music, literature and journalism and hope that’s mutual. You know you missed me! Readers, you’re the ones I missed. It’s so fun checking e-mail and finding your online mixes, favorite movies and books, shout-outs, and whatever happened to that kid who sent his silly recipe for amphetamines? Yes, I even missed you young man, although I recommend switching to Peet’s Coffee. Same effects when drank by the gallon but healthier.

The music and book folks, they’ve kept me from being lonely. Some book deals came in that suggest young authors are moving on up (announced soon, Robyn!), my homies at NetAmp.com are the bomb, a couple new albums got released and something happened with Sasha’s residency in NYC. But kids, your queries about the false rumor that BPM Smith had OD’ed on Vicodin coctails during a trip to Los Angeles and went from chatting up a hot Brazilian bomb shell to kissing porcelain to nourishing daisies as fertilizer was false. Totally 100% false I tell ya! I’m back in the saddle, WORD’N’BASS.com is revived - "He’s alive!" says Igor - and your smiling faces are like sunshine.
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Cool, this will bring back road trips, Jack Kerouac and midgets!

It's time to hit the road! San Francisco’s own Francis Ford Coppola is producing the film version of Jack Kerouac’s benchmark novel, On The Road. Catch Jack’s passage as he works his way to Mexico and you’ll probably agree he was in the zone. That’s a place every author dreams of approaching, where you capture the emotional core of experience so they say, "Hells yes, that’s what I‘m saying!"

I can’t wait to see what Francis and The Motorcycle Diaries director Walter Salles come up with. Jack inspired a lot of us to travel highways in the great American West and beyond. My boys remember our annual Thanksgiving road trips, when we’d drive into Mexico fueled by tequila and um, other stuff. Today I drive to a hot springs in Nevada instead of the beach at Bahia de Los Angels and smoke Marlboros instead of red hair weed but it’s all the same: freedom of the open road.

But no fear kids, I haven’t outgrown the rambunctious side of road trips. Just wait ‘til my book and record deals drop accompanied with this week’s phat call in the stock market. I’m talking 50% capital return in nine months flat, motherfuckers! I’m talking Baja beach house, Padron and chorizo for breakfast, wake boarding in the Pacific Ocean until sunset, banging out novels after dinner and blowing up the turntables ’til 2 am. I’m talking the return of Manny The Midget and his .45! He will drive me to LA in his Lamborghini, where I’ll vomit on stage while spitting out Drum & Bass at The Staples Center and then retire to the Roosevelt Hotel, where I'll issue a major butt spanking on Lyndsay Lohan. That’s what she gets for reading that crackhead James Frey instead of BPM Smith!… So anyhow, read On The Road before watching the film.
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DJing and Bombed out Baghdad go together like DNB and Jungle!

Last night I DJed at a house that looked like someone had tossed a grenade over the fence. When my man Abdul called to say, "The neighborhood’s pretty sketchy," I didn’t trip because to a Drum & Bass-head "sketchy" is like "grimy" which is like home. When you wanna hit the decks you’ll roll anywhere, kids. I asked him, "The house is condemned, isn’t it?" He said no, probably not. Yeah right!

The house had no front door or working plumbing. Spray paint on the walls. Broken windows. To get a glass of water you had to make sure a bucket caught the spraying pipe, which nobody did judging by the small lake that spilled into a hall. People entered through a side "door" that swung open like a barn. No lock or door knob, just a swinging piece of wall. I pictured crackhead zombies arriving at dawn to pilfer Bic lighters, light bulbs and cold medication.

‘Condemned’ is a municipal phrase, ‘Bombed Out Baghdad’ is more accurate. One cool thing is I met a techno DJ from France named Alex, who’s been spinning since ‘94. Big ups, Alex! He commented that I was mixing Jungle with Drum & Bass, as though it’s a mismatch. Hmm. Interesting question. I hope you'll agree that Exhibit A shows they can fly together. Hit the May 27 mix, which now has the full set that was partly missing last month. And if my fellow DNB-heads have a take on this Jungle vs. DNB thing give me a shout-out at bpmsmith@wordnbass.com.
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‘Porn star’ Mike Tyson isn’t exactly a tough metaphor!

Metaphors can go stale when you’re writing novels. Time and current events tend to caricature a perfect image and unlike my news articles in the day job – which fly in "real time" and reflect quickly-changing markets – novels take eons to hit book shelves while the publishing industry moves like a drunken slug.

So when "Iron" Mike Tyson got knocked out a couple months ago I realized that using him as a simile for toughness and chaos was no longer relevant. I asked y’all for a substitute image and the best one was "just replace him with Sonny Liston." Thanks, that’s better except a damn good writer Brian DeVido already wrote a novel with Sonny all over it. Big ups, Brian.

Now San Francisco’s own Pedro Fernandez reports that Mike is negotiating to star in a live pay-per-view encounter with porn queen Jenna Jameson. Think about this, kids. Mike, a burned out boxer, fucking a drop-dead gorgeous blond for all the train wreck aficionados to gawk at. Wait a minute! That sounds like my novel South of a Daydream Wish! Ok, I give up. While Tyson exchanges his notoriety as "Baddest Man On The Planet" for "Biggest Freak Show On Earth" I’ll forget about it and finish the work-in-progress, Bistro De Mars. And trust me, I’m thinking twice about the rapid fire metaphors. Instead of public figures I'll work in slugs. Who drink. And represent sloth.
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Art, why you should never drop out, and those who did!

A visitor at my home once called me "artsy-fartsy" because I’ve dabbled in various arts since high school. Filmmaking, photography, writing, music, the medium changed but I always felt they were all the same: expression. A lot of us started out wanting to be an artist, saying we’d starve to preserve time to write, knock off banks to fund a feature film, dwell in the photography lab until 5 am putting together the perfect 20 prints for a show. Fact is, most of my friends dropped by the wayside because when Life started pushing them around after college they got tired.

I’ve got a ton of friends who dropped out -- the cinematographer who shot a film with me in Mexico, the author who talked about submitting fiction but who got more tattoos done than stories, the Break Beat producer who made a song out of my voicemails, the House DJ who moved ecstasy to buy records. What happened to them? Two answers. One, after slaving in an office all day they’re not feeling the love of art anymore because frankly, they’d rather watch Friends or whatever the fucking TV is showing. Two, they’re on crack, cocaine, ice or something new. Drugs fueled creativity until their minds ran out of ideas and then drugs became The Big Idea.

That’s why it was a thrill today hearing from Alida, an old school friend who was an awesome sketch artist when I was a high school punk driving golf balls at passing cars. Later, when I began making films, she acted in one of them. Then we lost contact. Until today. Turns out Alida is one of my few "artsy-fartsy" friends who never gave up on The Big Dream. She’s still painting and it’s some damn beautiful stuff. This is what happens after a decade of hard work, sacrifice and shaping your thoughts into art. Alida moved to Paris to follow her dream because the middle classes buy art with their disposable income instead of a new BMW. Keep it up, girl, I’m rooting you on in a big way.
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‘Evel Kneivel’ to jump motorcycle at author awards ceremony!

"I’ve been drinking all day and feel like shit." -- frat boy at the Reno Hilton bar, 2 am

There's an amusing uproar in the wake of last week’s RWA awards ceremony. Authors, you might have heard, are the most sensitive souls on earth. Since I was drunk and cigar ashes covered my Pierre Cardin suit I missed it. Bad journalist! But a couple girls who had more endurance or less Bombay Saphire than me said they ran film of Princess Di with that cheesy song Don’t Worry Be Happy. Cheese doesn’t always taste good. Rumor has it they considered running footage of the Twin Towers collapsing during 9/11 to the same horrid song. Now that would have been whacked, even for a campy location like Reno. Play Thunderball's Drum & Bass track Hijack to the proposed film montage and then you've got something really fucked up and hip all at the same time.

Since RWA organizers want to add some good old fashioned hype to their annual party -- and no, award winners approaching the stage in a limo is not hype, it’s more cheese -- I’ve got an offer. Next year, BPM Smith will dress as Evel Kneivel and jump a motorcycle onto stage while downing a glass of champagne. That’ll hype it up! And I’ll chug real champagne like Comtesse Marie de France or Veuve Clicquot. I’ll share a bottle with whomever wins the Golden Heart Award and then fire a midget out of a cannon. This will save the awards show from a debacle! Who’d possibly complain about midgets, motorcycles and champagne? Shit, that kind of entertainment will sell on pay-per-view for $29.95.
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RWA in Reno means it’s time for roulette and oh yeah, a conference!

"Everybody has a dark side but most of us control it." -- author, on serial killers and stalkers.

"What do we do now?" -- Asian girl, after losing $3,000 in 15 minutes at a roulette table

Girly stuff, schmirly stuff. I love women, books, the sun and roulette so when the Romance Writers of America said they’d hold their annual conference in Reno I was all over it. Sort of. While attendees schmoozed at a cocktail party I showered off minerals from a hot springs in Bridgeport, California. While debut authors begged agents to represent them I was drinking beer and watching Larry Brown announce that he’d coach my New York Knicks (Woohoo!). And during RWA’s workshop on Internet marketing Michelle pushed me out of bed saying, "Weren’t you going to a conference this morning?"

Yes, I was. After four cups of French Roast. I caught two sessions that I had targeted for WORD’N’BASS.com readers and spent the day circulating with some 2,000 women and here’s the rundown: 100 workshops over three days, 150-300 people in each session, and I was the only man in the room. Interviewed a ‘best selling author’ Carey but can’t remember it. Hanged with Terri from Texas who is the next big thing: A Latina who writes romantic suspense novels that break genre molds. The Press Room had a cute and helpful PR exec named Nicole but no liquor.

I solved that by hitting the roulette table and collecting free Bombay & Tonics. Charmed the dealer so she let me take cell phone calls against casino rules. My man Mike wanted to smoke a cigar later. Michelle seemed nervous when she found out my "covering the conference" now involved calling out, "Black 17, baby!" So I picked her up at Circus Circus, did a phat dinner with my man Eric and returned to the Hilton floor at 9 pm still wearing a suit and aviator shades. Told my fellow roulette players, "This table never hits red more than four times in a row." After a fourth consecutive red number everyone dumps their chips on black and we all cash in. I tell the waitress, "Another Bombay & Tonic, please."

Then madness happens. The dealer hits black nine times in a row. I put a stack of chips on red, plus numbers 1, 3, 7, 9 and Jordan 23, all red numbers. It’s black. A 40 year-old author with a fish neck sweater and bemused husband piles chips on 18 different red numbers. Black. The Asian girl next to me throws eight $100 bills on red. Black again. My wallet’s cleaned out and I’ve gotta hit the money machine for the third time in a day. Put all of my remaining chips on red. It’s black. Asian girl dumps another pile of Benjamins on red, a stack of chips from all directions go red, and the scrolling numbers say my black No. 17 had hit twice during this stretch. The casino took me out of my game, I realized. The dealer hits black 15 times in a row. Statistically each spin’s odds are 50-50 to be either red or black. That table was fucked. We decided hit the bar for a Rum & Coke and Arturo Fuente Churchill. It was time to change the pace.
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Summer continues with BBQ, bass and a .45!

Saturday I drank seven iced espressos because I was trying to figure out high-speed Internet issues while getting shit posted on this Web site. Normally I like my espresso hot and freshly brewed with a tan head. Not now. The City is burning. Heat brings out the freak in us all. Lois the iguana sucked down a plate of greens and then jogged all over the house, hurdling over beds and couches until finally trying to jump on my lap. I had three friends (a neighbor, a techie and Lois) trying to help me out of computer hell but we finally gave up.

Then I rolled over to my man Nick’s, where he was grilling pork chops and chicken and cooling down with beer. Turns out he spent the day racing around town on his so-not-street-legal Husky dirt bike while, "Yuppies from Vermont called the cops on their cell phone," causing him to hide the bike while pigs inched by with a spotlight. Inside, the girls were dancing to our latest Audio feature, a fantastic Drum & Bass set by Calculon that’s mean as hell on Nick’s computer/stereo/bazooka bass launcher. I could hear Calculon’s punchy bass lines from the sidewalk while Nick passed by on his motorcycle popping wheelies again.

Shout-outs: To Sarah and Jake, out-of-towners who visited with a bunch of us at a SOMA bar on Friday (House DJ was mediocre but we’ll ignore his butt mixing). Jake, I want the 411 on that Trance camp-out and no I don’t care if it’s "invite-only." Also remember to send your new tracks, my man. Sarah, you learned how to wake board in one day (months quicker than me?) and have a perceptive mind way beyond those LA girls. For some reason Scarface’s quote came to mind, "The world is yours." That’s right, and you can take it. With a .45. 
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Farts are not funny so keep ‘em out of my car!

Californians have a unique way of bypassing horridly congested freeway traffic: the casual car pool. If you drive in the San Francisco Bay Area you know what I’m talking about. Pick up two random people at a designated street corner, drive them downtown and you get to fly in a traffic-free lane. Blowing by thousands of executives who idle at a snail’s pace, furtively sucking down soy lattes and listening to KPFA. It sure as hell beats jumping on BART trains or a MUNI bus, where you burn hours waiting for a drunk driver to finish his 15 minute smoke break and then deal with a sardine can of smelly passengers.

I cannot deal with the public before I’ve had 30 oz. of Peet’s coffee. That’s why I drive, to blow by the public at double the speed limit. Today the stinkers caught up to me. For the second time in a week one of these car poolers farted while sitting in the passenger seat. While I’m drinking a mug of Brazilian dark roast! My first reaction was to vomit, second was to knock him out with a right cross and then throw him out the window. You can’t do that while speeding on the freeway. What’s a poor commuter who just wants 20 minutes of peace before grinding in the corporate world to do?

I’ve figured it out: Since rolling down my window would draw his smelly stench to the drivers’ side -- near my nose and coffee mug -- I’ll use my electric windows to open the passenger window all the way down. Rain or shine, 20 mph or 80 mph, the window goes all the way down. Next time one of these suckers dogs me like that I'm bringing the pain. And while we’re talking rudeness, who the hell would dare rip a gas bomb in someone’s car they don’t even know? Hold it in, cork it with a wine bottle, eat 50 prunes, I don’t care. Take BART before stepping up to my car, motherfuckers!
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Happy birthday Ernest Hemingway!

It’s Hemingway’s birthday, y’all! That’s right, on Thursday, July 21 old Hem would have been 106 years old. We can thank him for getting more writers to slash and burn long-winded sentences than any author of the last hundred years. Hem also rewrote the first page of his stories 20 times as a rule. A good example to follow. When you get into his great books like The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms and Death in the Afternoon you also remember that being an author doesn’t mean you should go pale at a decrepit old desk. Embrace life experience and the great outdoors instead.

Those are just a few reasons why Hemingway’s my original master. Another master, Louis Ferdinand Celine, died on the same day Hem blew his brains out in Idaho. The following day newspapers in France published grand articles on Hem while Celine got just a brief mention on page 69. Read Journey to the End of the Night to realize what a shame it is they forgot about my boy.

While we’re talking birthdays, I forgot to mention that my girl Nicoletta Pianta had a birthday on the Fourth of July. She’s in Italy, which is my excuse for being scatter brained. Happy birthday, Nico! Also forgot the adorable Lyndsay Lohan had a birthday. What better way to celebrate America than with a nod to youth and beauty and yummi Lyndsay. But if you’ll remember I was Fully Loaded that weekend, which explains why everything was a blur.
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Bump the music but don’t read my novel!

A coworker asked to read my novel South of a Daydream Wish this week. Since it’s not yet sold to a publisher and I’m not getting paid to share my blood-spattered paper, I’m not down with that. You see, authors are exactly the opposite of DJs. The DJ in me says let ‘em all hear this music, because it’s something you share on an intuitive level. Whenever a DJ pulls off sweet transitions in a tight ass set, the reaction is, "Hells yes!" The financial journalist in me wants the world to read my articles and realize that I break all the big news first.

The author in me, that’s different. He says wait a minute. You just performed surgery on yourself, the heart is torn out and beating on a piece of paper. Let every family member, friend, girlfriend and acquaintance read Daydream Wish who asked, and you’d already be a best seller. Without a single royalty. Better to wait for some pent up demand. But since I’m a romantic sucker at heart, the few who’ve read this thing are girlfriends. This scenario repeats itself enough that I’ve remembered the conversation:

Her:  "Can I read your book? Oh come on, don't give me that look. I want to read it!"

Me: "Alright. Don't read too deep into it though. Because I'm not Jesse (the protagonist). It's fiction."

Her: "Ooh, sweet! (then a few days later). "I break up."
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Yellow fever, running with bulls and the writer’s life!

It was after reading Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises that I decided to be a writer. Here’s a guy chilling in in the cafes of Paris and Pamplona, logging an occasional article as a foreign correspondent and churning out great novels. That’s the life I wanted. I’d run with the bulls, wouldn’t even trip on getting gored, and hang with my man F. Scott.

Once you’re there it’s a bit different. First, if you want to be a good journalist you don’t write an occasional article. You’re in the office four hours after your friends have already made Happy Hour. Later that night you're bumping Armin Van Buuren and bleeding your life experience into literature when everyone is enjoying braised lamb and Bordeaux. Last, you find that there’s no F. Scott Fitzgeralds today, drinking gin with beautiful Zeldas in tow. They say that sacrifice makes it all the more fulfilling when you become an 'author' ie. your novel is published rather than stewing on your computer. I believe, so I'm in this for the long haul, biaaaaatch!

Then your writers' resolve is tested by Yellow Fever. Yup, Lance Armstrong lost the yellow jersey last weekend and says he doesn’t care. I do, and so for the rest of July I‘m watching Tour de France coverage with the knowledge that most nights I should work on my second novel instead. It's kinda cool watchng TV analyst Bob Roll, whom I once raced against as a teenager too dumb to realize you should never attack a seasoned pro. At a criterium in Oakland, Calif., a teammate led me out of a corner as three of us tried making a breakaway. Less than a lap later someone shouts, "Watch out red!" and Bob tears by my skinny ass like I'm riding a tricycle. Guess that's the difference between these Tour de France riders and the young bucks. Guys in the Tour yell at you while flying like jets on $3,000 bicycles.  Update: He's back in yellow, kids!
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The drunk journalist stereotype doesn’t apply!

In the late 90’s when I started cutting my teeth in a newsroom, I often declined the offers of fellow reporters who hit local watering holes after a hard day in the media trenches. Instead, I’d drink milk with my brilliant and adorable girlfriend-at-the time, Kelly. I’ve continued that tradition past the Millennium because frankly, talking shop at night sucks ass. Better to simply pound a gallon of coffee, pummel your so-called competitors who couldn’t beat you on a story if you held a starting gun to their heads, and bond with your fellow writers during lunch.

Still, it’s clear I enjoy an occasional drink. Just ask my blue velour sweatsuit. After rolling through 12-hour days of interviewing "contacts" across the U.S., Europe and Asia, I decompressed this weekend with the perfect martini: Bombay Saphire Gin, Cinzano Dry Vermouth and an olive. That’s how they did it in the 1950’s, keeping it dry and very cold. No olive juice or vodka because that ‘wet vodka martini’ B.S. is a myth created by people like my man Jason in Reno, who tried unsuccessfully to convert me. No such luck, kids.
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Fourth of July means sun, BBQ, friends and DJ Dan!

While the suckers escaped San Francisco during the long Fourth of July weekend I stayed local. The Deep Impact party on Treasure Island was a reunion, since I was able to hang with my girl Deb. We once shared an island condo overlooking Alcatraz and the Golden Gate. Bonus fun was bouncing to eight DJs and getting a suntan with Sam "Supa" and Cannabass kids like Chris. For the occasion, I invented a BBQ sauce recipe that’s highly recommended for this season of sun and grilled meats.

BPM Smith’s Treasure Island BBQ sauce

½ cup extra virgin olive/canola oil blend
2 tsp. ketchup
1 tsp. mixed herbs
1 tsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. celery powder
½ tsp. seasoned salt
½ tsp. habanero sauce (can substitute with Tobasco)

Directions: whisk sauce ingredients. Evenly coat meat (this was enough for a half dozen pieces of chicken and several steaks). Ignite BBQ and hope you have a friend like Brad, who expertly grills away while you drink Coronas and completely flake on the cooking part.

Afterwards, we readied for a night of Progressive House with DJ Dan at Ruby Skye. Since Deb and Brad live just three blocks from the Downtown San Francisco club, it was no surprise to find pre-partying at their apartment: a plastic tarp on the living room floor, Ipod bumping New Zealand techno, and a large glass of vodka in my hand. Shots of something happened, during which our in-house tequila expert taught me that gold tequila is the prime stuff and clear tequila is second best. Mario, who’s from Mexico and knows these things, says gold is a first extraction that has more color and flavor -- kinda like a first-press extra virgin olive oil.

DJ Dan held down the decks like a majestic spinmeister, pushing us into that blissful plateau where the audience bounces like Ocean Beach waves and vodka and Red Bulls fly as though thrown by claw-handed gimps. My velour sweatsuit is so destined for the dry cleaners. Small price to pay for a fantastic night with old time friends, a few newbies including Cindy from Pleasanton, who remembers when DJ Garth was the phattest DJ in The City, and April, who knows what’s up with Cuban Hoyo de Monterrey cigars. Meanwhile, the 5 am bedtime (or floortime) means that BPM Smith slept through his neighbor’s Fourth of July BBQ. My bad! I mean my good. PS: Those Guidos who creep into Ruby Skye wearing a pint of cologne and imitation Armani shirts? Thankfully absent.
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How BPM Smith will save America from sharks!

Yes, I heard about the sharks chomping up swimmers in Florida. I monitor these things due to a phobia that began soon after the third grade, when I read a book called Sharks: Attacks On Man. Figuring now’s a good time to buy an updated version, I Googled the title. It brought up 173,000 results, so rather than searching for the book, I’ll take that as another way of saying 173,000 humans have made it to a shark’s dinner table so far in 2005.

They call sharks man-eaters because we’re human sushi rolls. Great whites off the coast of San Francisco eat "California Rolls" and Florida bull sharks snack on "Spicy Tuna Rolls." Due to Florida’s lack of sushi bars, bull sharks can expand their menu by actually living in fresh water. OMG we’re all gonna die! I mean, fear not, my little chicks. I’ve got a plan to save America’s beach-goers this summer while simultaneously making New York City aware of what a great "platform" I’ve got: Dump a bucket of cow’s blood on my head, swagger out to the sand banks with a pocket knife, and brawl these sharks mano a mano. Bring it on biatches!

Speaking of sharks, a zombie married the once adorable and currently junkiesque Kate Moss. Guess who’s rubbing off on whom? Also, guess how long before this Doherty scruff loses all of his teeth and has to gum his morning Danish? Light bulb! Get all sharks addicted to crack and heroin, then we won’t have to worry about ‘em. Let them eat jellyfish.
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Mom gets a personal robot for her birthday!

The Fam gathered last weekend to celebrate Mom’s birthday. Us California kids -- that includes my sister Lis, brother-in-law Nick, nephew Stormy Adams (future world heavyweight champion) and Michelle -- enjoy these occasional "trips to the country." And of course, I’m always late. I mean, what do you expect when you churn out Drum & Bass all night Friday and then must have eggs benedict on Saturday? Read: 2 pm breakfast. "We’ll be there in the mid-afternoon" becomes 6 pm.

Once at the shindig, it’s cool watching for jack rabbits and quail and step dad "Rob-isms." He’s the only guy capable of turning a discussion about Nick’s motorcycle into a thread on how "You married my daughter." A robot named Penelope performed surgery on Rob a few months ago and he’s now looking solid. Mom says she can get a rose garden out of the pink-and-red bouquet and decadent chocolate cake that I got her. The rose bush will yield chocolate carbon fiber petals that they’ll make tea out of, since all robots drink that. Last I heard, Mom and Rob had Penelope hunting for their Fourth of July BBQ meat with a .45 and a scalpel. The neighbors had better watch out.
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Lyndsay Lohan needs a different 'bad boy' author than that clown James Frey!

The adorable actress Lyndsay Lohan likes bad boy literature. Nice. Earlier this week in New York, she attended a reading for so-called bad boy author James Frey. "She's a huge fan," claims Lohan's publicist, Leslie Sloane, who probably arranged this thing after getting wrangled by some party promoter who offered Lyndsay fifty pairs of oversized Gucci sunglasses.

Frey you might remember was a drug-addicted loser who detailed what a crackhead zombie he’d become in A Million Little Pieces. How does this make him a "bad boy" author? There’s 20 million junkies in America who enter rehab like I hit Peet’s for a daily cup (or five) of Sumatra. Frey sounds more like a clown than a bad boy to me.

And judging by the early buzz on his "bland" follow-up novel with Penguin (purveyor of Gucci sunglasses), Frey’s stock is about to collapse like a chump crossing Telegraph Avenue while sucking on a crack pipe. PS: Have I mentioned that Lyndsay Lohan is adorable? And fine as fukc? And still hasn't returned my calls or e-mails from Valentines Day?
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The 5 greatest films you’ve gotta see!

Ok, I’ve implemented a new system because I keep running out of time. Juggling the responsibilities of being a full-time journalist with writing a novel, DJing and keeping this website fresh has shrunken the clock. To save time, one of the things I had to ditch is watching films. I’ll rent a DVD, a week goes by and I never watched it.

Man, back in the day (uh, last year?) we’d watch Scarface on a 20-foot big screen with the sound blowing through walls like you’re in a theatre. Which reminds me, if you haven’t seen any of these films you must. Your life is without meaning until you catch all five of ‘em.

1. Casablanca -- the best film ever. Bogart is stellar and Ingrid Bergman adorable. The first film ever to make me cry at like, age 12. I finally saw it on the big screen last year at the Stanford Theater. Amazing. "Play it again, Sam."

2. Scarface -- Al Pacino's greatest role. He and director Brian De Palma later reunited for Carlito’s Way, also a great one but it’s got nothing on this epic showcase. It bred a million wanna-be gangsters. "Say hello to my little friend!"

3. Wild at Heart -- This one always cheers me up. A road story that’s a modern day Wizard of Oz (you knew that, right?) with David Lynch helming yet another bizarre and grand story of violence and love.

4. Casino -- Scorcesi's the master, so is Deniro. And Sharon Stone's hot. "Can I trust you?"

5. Apocalypse Now -- damn, what a film. Martin Sheen has a heart attack during production but he knew this would define his career. Director Francis almost blows his brains out, proving that sometimes genius arrives just before insanity. "Charlie don't surf!"

Honorable mention: The Godfather Parts I-II. You know I love gangsters.

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"Iron" Mike is toast, so on this revision you’ve got my ear!

What did Mike Tyson say to Van Gogh? "You gonna eat that?"

The latest crash-and-burn excitement of "Iron" Mike Tyson shouldn’t surprise anyone. He fought a 6-6, 270 lb. Irishman Kevin McBride, got his ass beat and decided to foul out or luck into something weird happening. He punched McDrunk in the balls, tried breaking his arm, head butted, and even chomped a Guinness-marinated nipple. Biting boobs is good if it’s your girlfriend, bad if it’s a so-called boxing match. But we're talking Mike Tyson, who is always fun if your idea of entertainment is watching train wrecks.

The aftermath goes beyond Mike. My unpublished first novel South of a Daydream Wish is about a pro boxer and it references "Iron" Mike to garner visions of toughness and chaos. Now that Mike’s toast I’ll have to substitute him with a dicey replacement that can be living, dead or imaginary. E-mail your "Iron" Mike Replacement Image to bpmsmith@wordnbass.com and I’ll buy you a hot fudge sundae! Here’s the paragraph:

Then I swung the blade like an uppercut and it slipped through flesh like when you first enter a woman . . . hardly any resistance . . . with the smoothness of oil and vinegar dressing. Mitch heaved sharply and right away he let me go, walking backwards in slow motion, staring at me like I was a ghost or a god. His head sunk down as he pawed at his belly. That’s right. I could take on Mike Tyson with my stiletto! 
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A friend’s return sparks poker flame-out, naked streaker!

This month saw the return of Lisa Cooke from Los Angeles, where she just got a Master’s degree, so naturally my man Dave hosted a welcome-home crab cookout that turned into a drunken party. A few highlights: Rick aka Chongo aka The Naked DJ chugging something green, then stripping naked and running through the streets (streaming video to appear at WORD’N’BASS.com soon). A half dozen live crabs plus gallons of tequila and beer... something green. And me committing various poker etiquette gaffes, then flaming out of the game while screaming repeatedly, "All in!" and only holding a 2 and 3 of spades.

It was almost like the old school days (remember Y2K?) when Devin, Rick, Dave, Lantz and I all appeared at the same parties, a rarity nowadays. Also, I learned that my new school Rayban aviators are the bomb, because when Terra wore them she looked like Paris Hilton, while they make me look like a pimp, or so she says. About the only one who didn’t go dunce cap was Michelle, who helped me walk off Sunday’s hangover at Lake Merritt.

Saturday + my drum & bass show Friday night = blow off steam. It also provided reminders. First, always drink water with liquor. Second, never cue up "Yo Bitch" by Kutta when you’re going for ethereal. Third, never drive over the San Francisco Bay Bridge on Saturday when it’s 80 degrees. A migration of suburban apes from around California think they’re getting "culture" by visiting Pier 39 when in reality they’re just causing us "natives" to get stuck in gridlock. PS: No Rick, the streaming video won't run. But I will post that "Rent Money" thing soon. ;-)
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Bass to BPM Smith is like water to a midget in Death Valley!

Since my return from utopia AKA vacation it’s been a challenge squeezing my journalism-siphoned energy reserves so I can write Bistro De Mars, the next great American novel. Writing nights when I’d rather box against midgets or play basketball or simply rest is a tough one. A friend once shouted, "Nonsense!" when I said that authors only have so many hours of writing in them. He can talk with exclamation points after I see his work at Barnes & Nobel.

Meantime, my brain was like old machinery cranking out a novel in spurts until tonight. Yes, tonight my keyboard bounced like a drum & bass-head at a not-canceled-at-the-last-minute Goldie concert. Here’s the secret. Bump these chilled out beats and you will become the next Hemingway... If you try really, really hard and skip lunch for 185 years. If not then cheer up, you've earned a reprieve from those horrid Live365.com ads. PS: Lindsay Lohan is fine as fukc. And Paparazzis need to check themselves before Manny the Midget steps up with his mini Louisville Slugger.
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Working like a jerk after roulette victory!

As you may have guessed, I took down the Silver Legacy sportsbook when the Phoenix Suns bounced the Dallas Mavericks out of the NBA Playoffs, then went on a streak at the roulette tables of Reno. The wheel spins around, the ball hits black No. 17, red No. 23 and when I’m doubled up on thirds as well as the black and red you know my numbers are falling. I watch patterns. When I told the crazy Asian dude next to me, "The dealer is hitting black two times then red two times," he said, "You’re right!" and laid down huge stacks of chips. He made more money than I did.

Meanwhile, it’s 1 am on a "work night" -- for you office sloth losers! -- and my girl Michelle is asking for that hot fudge sundae I promised her three hours ago. I say, "Hold up, I’m hot. When you’re on a streak you’ve gotta hit ‘em hard." Make up for it the next day with some chill out time at Steamboat Villa Hot Springs and lounge around Lake Tahoe. Someone once said I’m a nice guy.

Last week’s a ways off now since I’m back at work as a financial beat reporter, blowing up the phone lines with calls across North America, Europe and Asia and monitoring the "world time server" so I can catch guys before breakfast and not after dinner. You vicariously travel the globe this way and end up with virtual jet lag. But it’s not like soaking in a hot springs 100 miles outside Tokyo. It’s more like stewing in a pressure cooker in downtown San Francisco.
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A run-in with immigration officials and trading escargot for Circus Circus!

I’m back in San Francisco, feeling shoddy like a zombie after a week in Montreal during which I never slept before 2 am and drank more than the last two months combined. Credit that to jet lag, a vibrant club and restaurant scene and well, everyone had a glass of wine or gin in their hands and it’s rude to turn down drink offers. I cannot remember the names of any Montreal club or restaurant but I do recall the Ritz-Carlton’s lobster bisque, the phat as hell mixer setup at one of the clubs and patio seating three stories above the city streets. Yes, Montreal is one fantastic city, that’s the good news.

Bad news is customs guys like to interrogate me, and I’m always loaded on Vicodin while flying. So my response when immigration officials led me (wearing Gucci sunglasses at night) to a dark interrogation room and asked, "Have you ever been arrested?" was "Why are you asking me questions?" and people laughed when I later exclaimed, "Back off, bitches." All said in that hazy you’re-busting-my-balls-but-I’m-on-Vicodin-and-don’t-really-give-a-damn way.

Luckily, the week away didn't result in too much neglect. My in-box had goodies waiting like Sam Supa’s excellent interview with Photek. Big up, Sam! My fellow drum & bass DJs no doubt have Photek AKA Special Force records in their boxes, I know I’ve got a half dozen. Oh yes, yesterday I almost died due to a Montreal-derived tropical illness. Wednesday I recovered and spent all day updating this Web site, and now I’m off to Reno. For some much needed routlette (see photo above), soaking at a hot springs resort, and hiking in the Sierra Nevadas. Vacation is beautiful.
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Montreal is the bomb, so is drum & fucking bass!

When it’s time to write I bump Internet radio. Mornings it’s all downtempo electronica and after lunch drum & bass. Your writing speed doubles when the BPMs approach 180. BBC Radio 1, which won an IDMA award for its electronica programming, has one of the sweetest drum & bass series XtraBass. Check them out for some high energy live sets if you want a reminder about how awesome the scene is in the UK.

Consider that heads-up a selfless present because this week I’m heading to another budding scene in Montreal and have no use for dot-com bass or anything San Francisco. Instead, it’s all about Beef Wellington, crepes, quadruple espressos, phat beats amid swimsuit models and a pimp ass hotel where I call the room service gimp for warm towels. Utopia? Yes. Will I return? Guess so. Listeners of my Friday night radio show on 104.1 FM benefit from this since I’m picking up a new stack of vinyl drum & bass. Ciao! Or whatever they say in French.
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Gwyneth Paltrow has left the building and lost her mind!

Gwyneth Paltrow and her husband, Coldplay singer Chris Martin, rolled out of a black Cadillac Escalade limousine and into my office building on Wednesday. Nobody noticed, including Gwyneth since she’s losing her mind. Well, nobody but me and the security guard who made Gwyneth sign in.

I pretend to ignore celebrities. Like the miscellaneous rock band that dragon-sucked cigarettes "five minutes before we’re on the air" last week. But my laser eyeballs, hidden behind Gucci sunglasses, observed that Gwyneth is not as fine as she appears on film and as for Chris – what the hell is Coldplay anyhow? Never heard a song.

The couple’s appearance in San Francisco came to the dismay of Apple Computers, which sued the couple last year for naming their kid Apple, according to some joker, and Coldplay bandmates, who are jealous that nobody remembers their stoned asses. My take? Player haters need to step back and 1. Beware the California Fruit Thugs (CFT) because your computers are ripping off the copyright of my state’s Macintosh apple farmers, and 2. Join a real band so you can become even more anonymous.
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Joey Gilbert shows courage on The Contender!

Back in the day Joey Gilbert and I hit Reno with the same dreams of making it big as a pro boxer. The same can be said about a lot of old friends like my boys Doug, Gartsu, Efren, Gary. I’ve got fond memories about them all but the only one to make it was Joey, who got eliminated Sunday night in boxing reality TV show The Contender.

Peter Manfredo head-butted Joey into the hospital with a cut that required 55 stitches, but Joey made a lot of people proud with his attacking style and refusal to give up. Few boxers are willing to die in the ring. Joey showed that he was. For that courage I dedicate this paragraph, from my upcoming novel Bistro de Mars. It is more fitting for him than myself:

There are fighters toiling in gyms all over America -- even some damn good ones -- who would never break into the pros. But one day, I could be that guy who beat terrible odds and became a world champion. Just a white boy from the suburbs who made good. As the ref held my hand high, I watched Doug holler from the third row and soaked up the crowd’s cheer, a perpetual, delightful clamor. I flexed my free bicep and winked. We were on our way to the big time.
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Manny the Midget: Translation, please!

Everyone likes to say they’re honest but let’s face it, we don’t often say what we mean. Manny the Midget -- my .45-packing butler/tech support/sidekick -- introduces a new blog feature to help clarify things: translations. Here's three statements run through Manny's honesty filter.

"IF YOU DO ANYTHING to disrespect my name I swear I’m gonna tie you to the truck and drag you across town." -- An Oakland woman overheard talking on the cell phone while shopping at the grocery store this morning. Or afternoon, depending on how you experience Saturdays.

Manny the Midget translation: "If you ho yourself for yet another dime bag of crack tonight I’m not sharing the government cheese for, like, a week."

"I WAS IN LINE and farted so loud the guy in front of me said next time I had to warn him beforehand." -- A stoned college student, to BPM Smith, in the restroom at last week's pre-release screening of It’s All Gone Pete Tong.

"Alright, dude," BPM Smith said.

Manny the Midget translation: "Farts stopped being funny in third grade so you need to get off the marijuana. It’s stunting your growth. And by the way, you are retarded."

"THE STORY IS ENTERTAINING but Jesse is too unlikable." -- A Simon & Schuster editor, on the protagonist of BPM Smith’s novel South of a Daydream Wish.

Manny the Midget translation: "BPM Smith writes a damn entertaining story but I'm looking for something so predictable and lame that the Wal-Mart clerk as well as the bored housewife will numb themselves reading this crap."
                               ___________________________

Party lockdown continues amid bikini wax, underdog cash bets!

Everyone thinks BPM Smith is a homebody since I’m skipping fun and games in favor of writing Bistro De Mars. Ditched last week’s 420 party, sushi with my sister Lis, a poker tournament with my man Dave and Elizabeth’s birthday party on Saturday night. Big up, girl. That’s the bad news. Good news: tore up the decks at Friday’s drum & bass show (new audio on tap soon) and laid down another six pages including this line: "Now she’s a woman, waxing her pussy into a neat pie slice and liquefying men like a protein shake." Proof that Bistro is about more than boxing, right?  Prediction: publishers will either run after this novel or tell me to go to hell.

Am still eying the outside world a bit. My former trainer once guided the irrepressible James Toney so I’ve watched his progress: world titles at middleweight, super middleweight, cruiserweight, and come Saturday, April 30, a piece of the heavyweight title. That is, unless his two daily buckets of KFC extra crispy ruins it. I hear Toney’s fat so you should lay down underdog cash only if he weighs in under 230 lbs. Michael Katz, the dean of boxing writers, told me, "If Toney is way overweight, he'll break down… At his age, and with his long refusal to get in shape, he can sprain something during the national anthem."

Crack-head lumberjack Ruiz is an 8-5 favorite. Under 230 lbs. take Toney, kids… BTW, we got paid 8/5 underdog cash Saturday when U.S. Olympian Calvin Brock beat Jameel "Big Time" McCline. Whom I recently saw in Manhattan, just before watching some European dude shoot up Demerol in our shuttle van while en route to JFK.

                               ___________________________

Happy 420 to Michelle, Elev8 and Elephants!

Big ups to my girl Michelle Simon whose birthday is today, April 20. She’s celebrating by doing a speech for the Campaign to End the Death Penalty. You know how political activists are, they celebrate with activism. Me, I celebrate with gin & tonic, a stoned, rampaging elephant, Kid Loco and a baked brie.

B’scrivin’, Kinetik, Colonel MC and the kids at Elev8 get props 'cause they’re doing this 420 thing with some righteous drum & bass. Wish I could join y’all but I'm sitting here writing a novel. A bloody great novel, you hear that, Penguin? They'd rather publish boarding school blowjobs than a road novel with beauty, love and murder. Meanwhile, authors miss out on fun and yes, life sucks ass like The Game sucks Purple Urkel blunts. Of course, if my entourage included a manager, A&R rep, publicist, jeweler and a "weed expert" then maybe I'd churn out a different Lottery ticket.
                      _____________________________

Job No. 13: coked up author!

My fellow authors, there’s two things publishers want you to have: a "funny" novel and a "platform." Say I’m a big-time publishing exec. Here’s a deal I'd propose: A $300,000 advance and an ambitious first-run print for your debut novel. With a slight catch. My guru publicist schedules a 30-city 30-day book tour, including various media interviews, parties and readings. By the way, these 30 days are also a pilot for a TV reality show that includes "celebrity encounters." Paris Hilton is game.

Problem: you won’t get much sleep. A zombie author sleepwalking through the party scene equals bad TV. That's like all TV but still, bad.

Solution: you must consume a huge bag of cocaine. That’ll create drama and besides, all the celebrities are doing it, kid. No sleep, a kilo of coke, 30 days. Chaos and comedy ensue. Now that’s good TV! So do you accept the deal? E-mail me your vote at bpmsmith@wordnbass.com... Update: Lies, all lies. If $300k was on a table you know you'd take it. Hypothetically, my fellow authors take a lukewarm approach to this deal:

"Look, to remain awake for 30 days in a row would likely kill your ass. I wouldn’t go for it, no matter what I may get. Seriously, you can't stay awake for a whole month, despite snorting coke. That's impossible!"

              ______________________________

Taxes and exercise in the name of Gucci!

It’s tax week. Rather than holding a .45 to my head and pulling the trigger, I decided to set up a reward system to ensure things get done. Here’s the deal: if I file this crap on time and exercise three times per week for the next two months, my reward is a Gucci velour sweat suit. Don’t ask why I get a reward for dealing with everyday horrors we all go through. It has to do with the fact I can ace the stock market much easier than filling out these idiotic forms that are meant to pummel Americans into docile, whimpering dogs.

As for exercise, that’s getting slipped in like a bill rider because when shit hits the fan it’s the first thing to go. I’m outta shape. The high school kids run circles around me on the basketball court. So yesterday I took a hike in the Oakland hills. Tonight High Contrast will get me through 300 push-ups and sit-ups. One more day and the first week’s in the books. No, don’t say "the books." Say Gucci.

                  __________________________________

Happy birthday, kids!

Big ups to my peeps who all had birthdays on April 5: Grandma Margaret, my man Dave Cresson, and Jody Silva. My grandparents spent the day watching the rabbits eat and the olive trees grow, then went out for fried chicken. Dave meanwhile spent his birthday -- surprise! -- courtside at the Warriors-Rockets game. Did I mention he's marrying long-time girlfriend Lisa Cooke on New Years? Meanwhile Jody was too busy rummaging in her new home in Reno to answer the cell last night. Guess once you're officially a thirty-something you've got big things like mortages, landscapers, midgets, and hitmen to deal with... Update: Jody was in London on her birthday. She's up to something, what I can't remember due to alzheimers.

          _____________________________________

How to procrastinate writing: Watch Knicks' flame-out!

Good news. I resumed writing this novel Bistro de Mars. Bad news. I was blocked like a Marcus Camby rejection, vintage 1999 when he and Latrell Sprewel led the N.Y. Knicks to the NBA Finals. Those were the good old days.

As for this writing thing, the good old days were January to February, when I stopped trying to figure out how to get in touch with Paris Hilton and hit auto-pilot. Ten new pages weekly, a bit of rewrites and voila: some of the best prose I ever wrote. Bistro de Mars passed the 50% completed mark a few weeks after the Knicks topped the Atlantic Eastern Conference. Playoffs on the horizon, baby.

I don’t know what the hell’s happening. The words are gone. My characters vaporized into air, the setting flushed down a toilet. So it’s only appropriate to be courtside at last week’s Golden State Warriors-N.Y. Knicks game in Oakland. Highlights: Stephon Marbury scattering points and assists, fans responding with chants of “The Knicks suck!” and Sanae Tomita, the NBA’s most adorable cheerleader who happens to represent the Warriors. I love courtside views.

Cheerleader viewing aside, we got our asses kicked. Troy Murphy belted the Knicks for 19 points and 19 rebounds as the Warriors won 108-100. Meanwhile, last weekend I chugged five double espressos, smoked five Marlboro Lights, bumped two trance CDs by Armann the Brain Child, and after four hours had written ¼ of one page. Beat-downs happen. The Knicks will continue being the NBA’s punching bag ‘cause they get paid for it. I’ll continue because authors are masochists.

On the bright side, I bought a Baron Davis jersey that’s perfect to wear while sweating these drum & bass waterfalls. Of course, my man Dave has to catch all of the details. Mr. Expert points out that my Davis #32 jersey is actually that of Dale Davis, a dinosaur gimp recently shipped to Siberia, I mean Indiana.

                   __________________________________              

Sly Stallone to hire midget butler after boxing novel’s debut!

Peeking into TV-and-film land and seeing the popularity of boxing stories Million Dollar Baby and The Contender, you might have guessed that I’m rubbing my hands with glee. Why? No, it’s not because Hilary Swank is adorable. My work in progress is a boxing novel, and they say timing is everything in book land. Like these better-known stories, Bistro de Mars is also about love, chasing your dreams, and finding life redemption in a boxing ring.

Unlike the other stories, Bistro is also about raves, drug deals, stealing cars, cheating on your girlfriend, and getting blasted with a .38 while trying to inhale an entire bag of cocaine. Simon & Schuster is on the cell phone, one sec while I take this call…

Hmm. They love my story but lead character Jesse Kellogg is too “mean.” At least, that’s something like what they said in rejecting my first novel South of a Daydream Wish. They are full of shit.

Boxing’s making a comeback and they’d better catch me while they can. Unlike 'roids-raging baseball players who deserve to have a bucket of pig’s blood dumped on their heads, boxers are not a bunch of meatheads. Boxing is the most “existential” sport there is and this boxing-ring-as-canvas-of-our-collective-psyche-premise is simply irresistible to film execs. The same will prove true with books.

Time to gamble: A stack of gold chips says book publishers are looking for a boxing novel now that TV and film have covered the bases. A decadent celebration is forthcoming. However, after my seven-figure deal pops in I promise to still keep y’all updated on drum & bass and book news… via my DSL connection at a Pacific Heights penthouse. After my daily two hour set of DNB in a big-amp, four-turntable, sound-proof studio overlooking the Pacific Ocean; after hosing down my white Cadillac Escalade’s custom chrome wheels; and after my midget butler does whatever tech support people do to post information online.

Football stadium of drum ‘n’ bass? That’s so UK!

Some of us San Francisco drum ‘n’ bass heads thought last week’s party at 1015 was a sign the local scene had blown up large. Hey, we got DJ Fresh and Dieselboy, about 500 of us to a room on Thursday night, and crystal clear sound system. I tended to agree. For about three days.

That’s when I happened to check out party photos from a show commemorating last year’s DNB awards from Accelerated Culture Republic of Bass. Holy shit.

Let’s see: football stadium jam packed with a DNB crowd, guys hitting florescent bongs, beautiful women in bikinis, and bronze trophies to the ACRB award winners. Maybe London truly is the promised land. Now I understand why former San Francisco DJ Alley Cat bailed to the UK.

On heavy bass!

The Friday night WORD 'N' BASS Show probably saves me from burnout. After a hard week in the salt mines, there's nothing like working off steam while mixing drum 'n' bass until 2am. Also, driving around Oakland with rolled down windows and the heavy bass lines of say Klute or Mos Def is also a nice release.

Couple Fridays ago I'm en route to the studio at 10pm, driving down Martin Luther King. Get caught at a red light where a car to my left is bumping bass in one of those Latrell Sprewell-spinning-chrome-wheel-cars. I'm listening to Juvenile and smoking a Marlboro Light, heavy bass rumbling up my back.

Then I notice the brothers looking from me to each other like, "What's up with the white boy?" This bass line story provided courtesy of Pioneer stereo equipment and Juvenile.

Props to Il Pirata; whatup Sylvia and DJ Krush!

Big ups go to San Francisco drum 'n' bass club Il Pirata in the Mission District. The good people donated all proceeds of their February 17 party to helping the American Red Cross' relief efforts in Asia after that tsunami havoc. This whole tsunami thing hit too close to home, what with my ex-girlfriend moving back to Malaysia and all.

Didn't get an update from Sylvia until five days after it was headline news here, meanwhile reading stories about people floating around the ocean on downed tree trunks. Turns out she's fine, her grandpa's yacht sank is all, but it reminds you that our California earthquakes have nothing on this.

Speaking of Malaysia, DJ Krush is on tour there. Y'all know this guru is who got me into Japanese hip hop back in '95. When my sister Lis hit Kawasaki, she brought me DJK's phat album KI-OKU a full year before all the U.S. bandwagon jumpers got it. And yes, I'm still working his beats into my downtempo sets that open the WORD 'N' BASS show broadcast on 104.1 FM in Oakland/Berkeley/San Francisco.

Three cures for potty mouth!

Like most DJ/author types, I've got a day job. Luckily it's fun being a journalist 'cause I get to talk on the phone all day and listen to the finacial schemes of rich people. Apparently, this day gig is supposed to reduce my skills as an accomplished potty mouth.

Yesterday, my boss asked me to "stop screaming the f-word," because he figures I'm not supposed to act like a volcano. So I realized it's time to get uh, civilized. That's right, trim my regular portfolio of "motherfucker," "bitch," and "fuuuuuuuuck!"

You probably face these issues while trying to self-edit at family gatherings or visiting your grandma. So I'm here to help. With a three-prong system. We'll use the office as an example, but feel free to apply this at family functions as well.

1. Have your boss or grandma hook an 80 pound punching bag to the ceiling (this is what my boss proposed, actually). When you get mad, no cursing! Hold your breath. Rise from seat. Throw five punch combination at heavy bag. Exhale. Repeat as necessary.

2. Clench your mouth shut, rise from seat, exit office, take elevator down to ground level, and smoke three cigarettes consecutively. Shout, "Bitch!" at passersby. (note: this is only appropriate when directed at men).

3. Apply packaging tape to mouth. Open personal e-mail, reply to all spam with as many curse words as needed. Attach an e-mail bomb if you have one.

Update on potty mouth!

"Fuck!" occurred two times today. While under heated deadlines. Since I've never before counted these incidents, a progress report is unavailable.