She calls me the Danger Boy.
And here's why ...
She says I'm the Danger Boy because I have a book under my arm, because I know where the flat is and have the keys but won't tell, because I thumb my nose at The Man. I am Danger Boy. James Bond movies and rock 'n' roll parties, and isn't it really just all about Octopussy? I say. She says my kiss is dangerous, says the world "just doesn't work that way" but then says why not? Then again ... says that I'm outta the box, but I retort that that means, then, that the Universe is a "box," imagine - square like a brick, isn't that strange, and that cannot be - no, how can the Universe be so square! (as we imagine it) and there must be a better way to Understand it. She concurrs, and let's fly a wild, beautiful giggle. Danger Boy.
Fuck conformity - let's move into something new. "I really believe in all that happy horse-shit like World Peace, and all the other stuff," I say, "and we gonna fight like mad to get it!"
"Das schaffen wir auch ..." she says. ("We gonna do it ...") Wow. She DARES me to fly to Paris, now.
What's life without a little danger? she says. I like that. She's dangerous, too. Oooo. Beautiful, she's wild and impulsive. She brings wanna-be heroes to their knees (sayeth I). Let's walk that line, Danger Boy, but we don't need no atomic bombs or faked elections. We just are ... Danger. We ride the tube under the radar (schwarz fahren - they'll never catch us!) and contemplate stealing a police car. To keep her on her toes, I tell her that I'm her "kick." She says that I'm her "delimma," (yeah!) that I'm a black magic man (maybe) with wicked intentions. Who's more dangerous? Who knows?
So many reasons, so many ways to be dangerous!
But ya know, Love is the most dangerous thing in the Universe.
Stay dangerous ... -Todd
We decided that everything in this world is faux. So this piece is "all about faux." Faux living is catching on, sweeping across the nation, the world ... what's real, anyway? What's it all faux? We got a-rolling, we did, discussing this on a tangent, you see. Examples: What is better than a faux beau? One who let's you do what you want and come home when ya want. How about a faux stroll? One that doesn't really take place, only in your mind. (going nowhere!) Faux hoax, faux coke, faux ho's, faux homos. Took a dump in a faux klo whilst wearing a faux kimono. Took a trip in a faux boat with faux friends, who all they do is boast-faux. So faux. Faux what?? Remember that band called the Faux Go-Go's? They were in the faux flow. This cool guitar player played on my record, so I sent him some faux dough. Met this guy with faux intentions, on a faux adventure, in a faux skirmish where he ended up dead from faux-ly fire. Just faux. I used to play in this band with a guy named Taco (long story) and he would occasionally spout out, "You've just won these beautiful FAUX DIAMONDS!" King Diamond - that guy was faux. (Heavy metal reference.) He was so faux, he gotta go! One time I met the faux Jay Leno. Eric Clapton: "Ol' Faux-Hand." I still haven't found what I'm looking faux. And faux on and faux on. Yeah, so on that faux note, I end my piece by saying that I'm a faux Hobo with serious faux-like know-how. Ya know? You're "sooo faux ..." PEACE. -Todd
"If all the world refuses to fall, then how can I possibly fall for you ..." -Another one by Todd
"Are you mad?" he asks me.
"No," I say politely, "I'm not mad, I'm MAD." (Like those writers in the 20's, I suppose. Beats the hell outta being 'normal.' Indeed.)
"Yeah," he says, "you're the Mad Hatter ..."
Today's true story takes place at about 4 in the mourn, on the Reeperbahn. It's the "Las Vegas of Europe." (OK, I just made that up.) But it's true. All the seedy elements are there: crooked cops, prostitutes, drugs, clubs, yes - the Beatles played here in the beginning - yes, we all know, bad coffee and good local beer (Astra!), St. Pauli fans, anti-swank chinese restaurants, a turkish communist (?!) who's selling döner kababs and every other freak and beautiful outsider(s) you can imagine. Talk about "the fringe." Seems like home, heh, heh. Rock 'n' roll. Some guy asked me if I wanted to buy some hash, and I just went, "Oh, jesus ..." But there we were in that pub that's famous for being open all night and all the punks sleep in the corner until that perfect song comes on (AC/DC usually) and then it's on their feet and table rumble-rumble hand slappin', and well ... let's just say WE WERE THERE. Oh, yes. (I shan't say the name.) And the lights were low on the Reeperbahn as we crawled out, and we hopped in a taxi, which was cool except that we'd just bought a round of drinks for the 69 year-old guy from Poland (in the bar) who was celebrating his birthday! So first we hit the cash machine, and hit it we did. I waited in the cab, my buddy hopped out, and MAN! that guy was on him like a fly on shit. This would-be thief appeared outta the shadows, and stood there right next to my friend at the bank machine, much too close in fact. He was gonna roll him. My buddy, being salt of the earth and a sweetheart to boot (but a bit naive) just stuck his card in and started chatting wasted-ly with the looker-on. "Fuck," I said and hopped outta the cab, "I'll be right back." My pal was clueless, but the other guy knew immediately what was going on, and backed up just enough to let me through the two of them. "Hey!" is all I said with my best Clint Eastwood glare, and it worked, even though he hung right in there ... he saw the machine spitting out that cash and had one eye on me and one on the wad in my friend's hand. (Not a sexual reference.) I put the crux of my elbow right in his chest - he felt it. He said, "Am I allowed to be next?" (playing innocent) and I retorted, "NO, you're NOT." And the signal was clear, if not so subtle. Had he been a "normal" bank-goer, a law-abiding citizen, he woulda stepped in line, but it was clear that he wanted the money. A thief, no doubt, but apparently not a very good one. My friend was attempting to put the money back in his wallet, and I heard a voice directly behind me ask politely, "Um - are you guys finished?" - an honest question from a college-type fellow, out on the town with a couple of his almost-old-enough-to-drink buddies. "Yes, we are," I said and we split, stumbling back to the a-waiting cab. Got outta there just in time. College was left standing there alone with the Thief, and as we drove away I saw out the window that he'd moved in right next to him as well. Moving in for the kill.
"What was that all about?" the taxi driver asked. He'd seen the whole thing.
"Drive ..." I said.
This is the story of a friend of mine with a strange tale, and I know that she's really just trying to get on the Blog, but I'm gonna tell it anyway. OK, ya made it! But ya never fooled me, ok! Yeah, she told me that two days ago she discovered the magic and beauty of Phil Collins, even though up to now she only listens to Goa music. (Too many mushrooms, perhaps?) OK - um, I am completely OPEN to any and all types of music, um, and as ya know - it happens to be my job and my life and inspiration. But, c'mon - Phil Collins? Are you taking the mickey, girrl?? I mean, she's 25, and he's been around for about 125 years, so why now? (Sorry, Phil.) She swore to me that she's serious, but I think she's just trying to get on the Blog. Heh. But it's probably all her boyfriend's fault, 'cuz he showers her with praise and adoration, and it's driving her crazy. That guy's such a pussy. So here's a brief description of the illustrious career of Phil Collins: Started out in the 70's as the drummer for the band Genesis. (OK, I admit, he IS a great drummer.) They were pretty avant-garde at the time. Then the singer quit, and became a solo superstar, and actually ended up nailing Sinead O'Connor, so I heard, (which is HARD to do) and when the singer quit, Phil stepped in and took over the lead vocal duties. (Oh, shit - he DOES have a good voice ...) In the eighties, Genesis, with Sir Phil at the helm, wrote lots of pop ditties and scored many radio hits and made a shit-load of money. (Gee, it IS kinda cool to be rich ...) Then Phil's solo career took off as well. (See: "No Jacket Required," a good fucking record - oh SHIT!) He starred in the movie, "Buster," a flop - but it actually was a good movie (arrrgh!) about a cool bank robber. Phil wore a really sweet burlap hat in that one. He went on to write songs for many Disney movies (wank, wank) which REALLY sucks, except that kids around the world love "The Lion King" and all that other happy shit, and it's kind of peaceful and loving. Thoroughly disgusting. (And happy kids are cool, too - as long as they're not mine - heh!) But as we in "the biz" know all too well, Walt Disney was a fuckin' bastard with anti-semetic tendencies who over-worked his employees and had a nickname in the company: Little Hitler. So maybe Walt was the prick that gave Phil Collins a hard time. (Last night, I was in an underground club, and they didn't play any Phil Collins but they did play, "Sympathy For the Devil" hint, hint, which is starting to sound like this article.) One of Phil's songs appeared a couple of years ago in the movie "American Psycho," as the killer-hero was hacking up one of his employees to death, while Mr. Collins crooned in the background. Now, if that isn't cool, then nothing is. (Brutal!) But the best part of Phil Collins' multi-talented career is the swing band he put together, and they've been touring around Europe for the past few years, with Phil singing and drumming, and ... OH, FUCK! She's right! I'm a closet Phil Collins fan, so help me jesus, and he's actually pretty good! I'll probably meet him some day, and he'll be really nice. We've all got a dark secret - now ya know mine ...
Tony Blair was my love-child, my bitch for seven years. I kept the dress. We used to order pizza with sextra cheese, drink homemade schnapps and hum, "Anarchy In The U.K." by the Sex Pistols. I'm ecstatic to see my secret ex-mistress re-elected ...
Or better said, East Berlin ... Sitting in a pub that looks like a living room, on couches straight outta the 20's. It's 3 am. I'm with two cute girls from Montreal, and we discuss whether kissing is "cheating." We watch two boys over on the next couch making out. They're into it.
She says in a smokey whisper, "That turns me onnnn ..."
Hi all. Slipped into the wilderness for a few days. It's something I tend to do ... from time to time. A must. Greetings from Berlin on the 1st of May, ("May day, may day!") ok, maybe a couple o' days later. This date has serious meaning and rammifications for the working class of Europe, but none for America, I'm afraid ... Ho hum.
Thanks for all your messages and concern. The best one was, "We thought you were dead ..." from a musical companion. But it lives.
Walking around Kreuzberg at six in the morning on the night after the first of May is a trip, I tell you. Ghost town, sleeping gracefully, torn up from police and squander-wanderers clad in black. Not to mention the extreme smell of whiplash in the air. But who cares about globalization, anyway? No, it's just the haze-trail leftover by a ghost, and then the mass-classes go back to the grindstone, back to work, secretly ready to devour "the boss," if they could ever figure out who that is, that is. And the people at the top, where it's lonely, I tell ya, are crimping and cramping and primping and pimping to keep things the way they are. (Like a rich music producer said to me one time in his million dollar studio, "I hope there's no revolution today.") But sorry, my friend, the revolution is coming anyway ... and this is something that the ghosts of May Day tell us. And no the fucking CD isn't fucking finished yet, so quit askin' me, no wait - keep on askin' me and it will soon be so. Here's a need read: some Paul Coehlo. He pushes the limits, indeed. But me, I was checking out another sound studio, then moving and grooving, calling no-one "on the map" for a couple of days, to listen within, cleanse the soul and ask thyself, showed a german rockstar my vinyl record of "Amahl and the Night Visitors," the first opera I was in at the age of ten, then sitting in a park (where The Wall used to be) watching thousands of cops try to create a snafu with all the leftist kids, roust 'em out, catching an interesting discussion - "Was Nietzsche really a nihilist?" and then visiting another musician buddy who wrote a great song, and won a free weekend in a 4 star hotel as a result, a coupon in fact, which he gave to me. (As if some kind of reward?) Free room for two with continental breakfast, and a candle-light dinner. 'Tis great, but the only problem is that the hotel is in Stuttgart. Hmm, should I go to Stuttgart? Wanna be my guest?