Great tale here to be told, of two young lads, me and that kid from Santa Barbara (we think of ourselves as the modern day Keruoac and Japhy) and I swear that it's all true, and most of it occurred within a 48 hour time period! Two days straddling Thanksgiving, seemed like a month of pure party madness. Ok, here goes ...
This is for you, my man, in the spirit of adventurous souls who yearn to be like Robert Redford! (add phoney british accent) and praising you for your madcap visit. Had a fab time, Dirty! Good shit like what we cooked up is sumpin' real, sumpin' spezial! So here's a brief explanation of what we done did: (deep breath) crooning out-loud train-bound the song "We're in Bohemian Heaven!" (a place where Tom Petty gets boo-ed off the staged every Friday night, for kicks, and The Cure time-travel back to when they were still cool and do a shocking set to roaring Bohemians) yes, 'tis a song we'd spontaneously created on the train, and yes, one can do such (whiskey-motivated) things on trains in Europe, and then the sexy one getting off (whoa!) the train and giving us those eyes, as if to say, and we turn right around and ask for directions even though we know EXACTLY where we're going, and she sets the tone for many phoney direction-asking stunts actually, then we all disappear into the midnight mist in different directions with erections when she says that ugly word "boyfriend," and somewhere in there at one of those water-holes we met that outrageous english bird who said that "Leonard Cohen is the only man who I would PAY money to give a blowjob to!" good gawd and if THAT doesn't get the ol' gizmo juice goin'! and we kept going and then just laughing right past it all, as if hit by laughing gas, you see, and we don't even know why we're laughing but we just know that it's so fucking FUNNY! and the guy across from us on said train cracks a grin at us 'cuz well how can he not? and we zipp on down those run(a)way tracks and realize that the hunt is on and we've found inzanity party brethren in each other ... Words.
And then you cook up some tall-tale whackey story about flying in from Turkey (or was it Amsterdam?) and everyone believes but no-one gives a (Amster)damn, but I believed you skipper and dug it and we all universal anyhow, except for maybe the King of Holland who shows up to greet you at the airport with a royal smile (passing out cookies - I did NOT organize that one!) and he turns to his coloured assistant in garb from the 1700's and gestures to ME (as I wait for YOU) saying, "Hey - give some cookies to the guy with the costume!" Very funny, lads, and yeah, I'll eat 'em ... and as you spout about that you are in hot travel-mode I go "OK! In THAT case ..." and suggest that we hitch-hike together to that town 300 kilometers away, which we did, and it was your Autobahn-dance that made it happen, my friend - I just held the sign, you made 'em smile, and yes it was cold, but we're wild and funky and alive! THAT'S PUNK. (Even though the Clash is not - or are they?? Wait, I've changed my mind - they are.) And I swear I'll never be at a loss for words (describing stunts like this) and refuse profusely to ever EVER lead some lame, boring life, as many doo, boo hoo. Strictly refuse. And then (remember!) the strong-beautiful-independent Lady Of Roadside Love picked us up! We must look like animals, and she's our whip-girl-trainer, yow! A woman picking up two strapping laddies and driving and flirting and talking and listening, wow - what a babe! What a trusting and beautiful soul. We so lucky and yes/no that luck has nothin' to do widdit and me and the SB Kid clammed up whilst her hubby was on the car-phone (tee-hee) so as not to be caught, and furthermore we proceeded on to that town (our destiny-ation) and partied with "that band" in devil-boy costumes and people just nodded and said things like, "Oh, that's those guys from that band Calico Soul," or, "Oh, I think I drove by those guys on the Autobahn ..." and the night stole our hearts and gave us more and we rerunned back to our starting city from 7 hours before, Lola once again driving with love - yeah, 600 km over and back on the same night - Respect! Yessir, all this on Thanksgiving! We be so grateful, blessed and not stressed, groovy and greatful and fuck it if you cannot see the wisdom in living and being free like a (rip-roarin') party gawd! Got me a guardian angel! Witch we do! And I gotta tell ya(all) that if this ain't Bohemian Heaven, then, um, it probably don't exist nowhere! But it do! And then, hallelujah! We slept it off and dig how we sauntered up right into the next night - on fire! Sex seemed to ooze from our every pore (or at least the thought of it). Yeah, my man had sex in the Park Inn Hotel, (he parked it IN!) but not in a swanky bedroom suite, no, no, in the hallway of said hotel! With locked doors and cold floors and doing the funky grind. Yezz! With a horny little vixen, she just sooo ready to go, not even a question and I'm sure the night-shifty security guards watching the video monitors got a kick outta THAT one! This was, of course, AFTER dancing with those cute Swedish girls who we chitty-chatted up, and BEFORE we met Kidd Chicago at "that bar" and started drinking some of Europe's finest beverages ... and this is, of course, shortly before I spat beer in a Macho Moment upon that "I'm-too-cool-for-Kidd-Chicago" cute and bitchy goddess and sequentially shortly before she BIT me! But it was only my shoulder and fair's fair (although the Kidd DID get spat in the ol' eye, notdeserving of such wet-glee, and all o'er his glasses not knowing what hit him, but hey - that's life in the big city, baby!) and man, was she cute and bitchy! To which we struck back flailingly responding with Love, and I asked "that girl" the other one the cute blonde one to kiss me right there-and-then which she did and then the SB Kidd asked the Vixen to kiss other things (sorry mom!) but ya know that that's not EVEN the story, because on the way to the NEXT club (We 3 - Kidd SB, Kidd Chicago, and me) we ran into all sorts of magical White Wolf(s)! which can only be interpereated as a symbol of powerful magik and verility and one-ness with Nature. So (remember?) after journeying on another inner-city train at 'round 4 am by now and no ticket and no worries we got to that club where I showed the boys the stage where I once jumped so high that I came crashing down and put a big rock 'n' roll HOLE IN THE STAGE, which after a split-second of American-bred guilt, I realized that the crowd just DUG! (Remove the "e" and it's "Hole in the Stag.") I believe West Side Ken was there at said konzert that night on sax. Then on to the next sexed-up bar (which was closed, er, probably because it was 6 in the mourn! there may be other reasons) and presto-change-o quick fix "Plan Be" and we wander through the streets as the sun starts to peek over the ridge, ("Where's that confounded bridge?") and I suggest this other speakeasy, where I know we can get breakfast (even though it's clear that the boys and girls are left over from last night, they are dancing and drinking and talking some SERIOUS bullshit) and we swing right in between them, dancing and drinking (yes, there are pictures of this, oh shit) and there's a drumkit on the wall among other odd non-Ikea items, this is after-all an after-hours punk breakfast nook! and Kidd SB orders the biggest/largest/barely-almost-undrinkable beers I've ever seen! Huge. And we're supposed to handle that at 6-something in the morning, and gawd bless us if we didn't rise to the challenge! And by some miracle the breakfast was FREE (perhaps due to Holy Water or maybe just a shift-change) and now I KNOW we're in Bohemian Heaven! And of the 3 of us, well, one of us started to dance and one of us started to sleep but ALL THREE of us were drinking those mondo-beers and spouting poetry (even in our sleep!) and wouldn't ya know it - Kidd SB goes out in the cold-ass weather and "borrows" himself a bike and casually pedals all around the block, heh, heh! (C'mon, he put it back ...) And I started to scream with delight, I'd almost never-ever seen anything so funny in me life, and I even woke up Kidd Chicago (you guys KNEW it was Kidd Chicago sleeping, right?!) to point out how funny that shit really was! He grunted in agreement and shot off one of those winning midwestern smiles, and then conked out again ... At some point, many hours later, we gathered up our sea legs under us and made it out into the daylight, trying to find the subway in the worst/subversive way, with exactly ump-teen bottles of red behind us, a tinge of wodka somewhere along the way, and the world's LARGEST BEERS, so finding the subway was something of a misguided adventure, spoken in complete hiroglyphics and sung to the cheer of, "FREE THE BREAKFAST!" very loudly like some sort of protest march, much to the dismay of the church-going jobbies who were appalled by such behaviour on a Sunday mourning at 9-ish am, c'est la vie, and we hit the train once again and caught another fit of that laughing gas, jeez that was fuckin' funny! Making sounds like (dandy) abominable snow-men and ended up right around quarter-to-ten am walking outta the sub station and right onto some movie they were shooting, I mean a real howdie-doody movie set in full swing! and we got out our cameras and acted all official (the real guys are always wasted, too) and directed a couple of set assistants this way and that way to get some "still shots" all the while speaking some sort of garbled english-meets-latin-which-we-didn't-learn but amazingly they laughed right along and took our directions and then we had to suddenly run off (to do important movie things - were we the sons of the directors? the producers? they all wondered) and sliding down the alley-way around the coroner (heh) I see this beautiful, delicious, inviting sign that says, "CATERING." and we look at each other and go, "Yeahhhh ..." and with wise maneuvers slip inside the tent undetected which was propping up said catering van it seemed and no-one said boo and we slip right into the "We're sons of producers," role once again without lying but with ease and slurp coffee in big plastik cups and talk about "the shoot," and just generally have a hoot (seems like we've been partying since last july 'cuz now it's 10 AM!) and we get lucky again 'cuz they give us the potato scramble, gawd bless the potato scramble, after making sure that we're "on the crew!" of course, of course, and we answer (without lying) that we're Artists, and they guy with the mo-hawk looks up from chopping vittles and says, "Coooool ..." as he scoops us the potato scrambles and we're home-free and even stole the plates (sorry, mom!) which we clinketty-cloppeddy brought with us down the alley, laughing and rambling and spilling left-over coffee ("Black beauty!") just dancing in the morning sun, and were greeted once again by another White Wolf (OK, it was just someone's beautiful pet Lab, a mangey ol' skinny thing, but he was loved and that's what counts, Count!) which seemed to be the perfect magical ending to an amazing night(s) as the Pet White Wolf of Love licked up the sauce offa our stolen plates, and we each had a fork in our hands, which I believe we told the guy was used to ward off evil spirits. Heh! Guess what - it worked!
WE ARE THE PARTY ... KEEP ROCKIN'
WELCOME TO BOHEMIAN HEAVEN!
-Todd and Friends
(P.S. Robert Redford was not injured during the making of this document.)
The Beatsteaks are for real ... They've just released a new Live DVD - solid punk stuff - check it out. They just got back from a couple of gigs in Argentina (where I hear there's some great steak - grrrrrouwwwwl). Here's a meaty-beaty-big-and-bouncey "thanks" fellows, for inviting me to the premiere at the Kino International - we had a swingin' time. Nice one, guys! Peace. -Todd
"Hey, Rube." Great song by the Beatles ... also the latest and last book from one Hunter S. Thompson, who recently passed on (was he killed?). This guy tells me that on page 245 there is a reference to a certain Mr. Calico. He asks me if it's me. I tell him no, because I never met the dear Hunter, and furthermore (having been asked this before) I point out that the guy's first name is "Tyrone." So there ya go ...
Then he goes, "Maybe you can help me find this book in French, that was published (clandestinely) during WWII by the french resistance. It might be in Italian ..." I go, "Yeah, sure." So if anyone in France or America has seen or read this book, "The Edge Of The Sword," lemme know. It's written by a certain Vladimir Pozner ... but you can call him Tyrone. -Todd Undercover
Met this wise man in a bookshop. He's about 70 or so, seen alot. He's very interesting, and has written a book about labour struggles in America. We drink Italian coffee and he tells me about all the people he's met during his lifetime. It reads like a bohemian play. He says, "The most amazing person who ever lived on this planet was this guy named Charlie Parker ..." Did you meet him? I ask. Yep, he says, and tells me a real New York story. He shook Bird's hand! Holy fuck! -Todd
Dear Hopeless Romantic,
The human heart is a wicked tool (not that it can be - it IS), a cavernous jollycoaster of hidden danger. A vessel for revenge. She says you're invisible - ARE you? Do you see? Be seen?? Her wickedness need not drag you through a personal Hell, not knowing. Know thyself, heal, and be visible. 'Tis adviseable. For Truth be (if anything) yet after-all nothing but the yearnings of this life, sprinkled with the fear and agony of our existence. Hang in there ... -Todd
Had a dreeeeeammmm, and what does it mean?
Dreamt last night that there was this big ship, dark and brooding, the size of Baltimore, sailing through the harbour, and NO SOUND whatsoever. Silent. Spooky. Told this old man in a bookstore about it this morning, who turned out to be British, and he said, "You don't need sound - you have ESP." Wow! So I'll tell of this dream, and if any of you who have my email wanna tell me what it means, so be it! The haze of this dream haunts me throughout the long day ...
Yeah, the ship so huge, and was it pro or contra? Had the feeling no-one would survive her wrath in battle. Who knows ... but she glided along in silence - never SEEN such a huge ship, and in that grey harbour it loomed even more mysterious. Suddenly a girl grabs my hand, there is still no sound, as we stand on the pier, watching the ghost ship. (Are these visions of my ship of dreams, my destiny? Don't wanna be a "show-boat.") She's a beauty, a temptress, a dark-haired mixture of Eclaire in Paris, and Laura or maybe Debbie in the Midwest. My ship has come in. (?) And she looks over the edge of the pier, and falls. I have her hand tight in mine. She doesn't look scared, but it's perilous, us. In her other hand she's got an apple. I tell her to drop the apple, and hang on with both hands. She doesn't. So my first thought is, "Well, I'll just go down with her, we'll crahs into the ocean, but we probably won't die." Then another impulse takes over, one called survival. I decide to take another route, one that succeeds in shouting down the other side. I decide to swing her back up to me on the pier. She nods. I swing her arm up towards me, and as if guided by angels, she glides with ease back on up to the pier, practically in slow motion. We just KNEW she would make it. And there is still NO SOUND. A mystical journey short vision visited me last night, a futurescape of adventures to come. I hit the street to decifer what it all means, (back in real time) and meet the old man, who gives me a clue to the puzzle. What do you (all) think?? And right now, as I type, I pick up a book called, "Ultimate Jouney" quite randomly, and am struck again by synchronicity. The introduction simply says, "No ship will ever take you away from yourself ..." -Todd
Hi ya. Anthony from the Red Hot Chili Peppers has written a new book called, "Scar Tissue." Check it out: being on the road, sex, rock 'n' roll, late night coffee houses, stealing cars, jumping off of the 5th floor into the pool, heroines. You know, the usual. Telling everyone 'cuz the last time I shook his hand, he almost remembered who I am, heh, heh. Peace. -Todd