In a gas station, taking a pee - there's a picture of Einstein. The caption says their toilets are smart and clean. I wonder, would Einstein approve of his face being on the front of this toilet?
I go to wash my hands. There's a condom machine, and one of the choices includes a fake vagina. It's called, "Soft Pussy." Seriously ...
Part I: Polish Schnapps, Fashion Victims, and Beer Fathers
(Great title, eh? Good gawd I gotta turn that into a song ...)
This is the real-documentation of an amazing night on a full moon, howlin', quite recently in fact, with my Balance Brother and many beer-fathers, somewhere in Europe, central, Planet Earth. World.
The goal is to cross many boundaries. Sometimes all within the same town.
One might ask, "What is a Beer Father?" Maybe I would slow down and start being normal (I doubt it) if my own dad would start being a real father, a Beer Father. "Oh, Father, please lead us, guide us, to the bar ..."
But it seems I'm on a different journey, one with no maps and no guide. Papa's son was a rollin' stone. The weekend started out harmlessly enough, with my Brother 'n' me attending a concert. One of Europe's finest rock bands were playing: the Beatles. No wait, they were called The Silverbeatsteaks, or something like that. What's in a name? It was great. Fab, in fact. We had backstage passes, not exactly All-Access but the kind where you simply go anywhere, anyway. There was the aftershow party, and then the after-aftershow party. And this other punk singer guy was there, his band (translated into english) is called the Dead Pants. Yes, I want Campino to be my Beer Father! Sink that drink, that would be XXX-cellent, dead like cement (the pants). Friends, please join me in the universal Vibe to convince him to put my groovy little band on his label. Then he WILL be my Beer Father! And all of this took place after my 9 hour train ride to the venue, whew. It was the sloooow train. Sex, molasses, and Rock 'n' Roll. We slept it off, woke up to a nice strong cup of joe, swearing that tonight (Night #2) we would TAKE IT EASY.
Made up/wrote down a sing-song chant, another song:
"I'm a-low-low-alone ...
on the train-ayn-ayn ...
I'm a loner on the train ..."
Part 2: (Night #2) Enter The Beer Fathers, and Funnyhats
Let (y)our magical mystery tour begin. My Brother 'n' me went to a party at the university, some sort of pseudo-military brotherhood/fraternity. The way they got us there was with two magic words: FREE BEER. (See above: We're gonna take it easy tonight, yeah right!)
Interlude: (pertaining to Part 2) I just wanna say that I don't plan these things, they just happen. This is is important. I want keep each story honest, organic. I don't go, "Gee, let's go out and do something zany so I can write it down and tell someone." (Usually heavymetalkids in Sweden) The mind is open, and whacky situations just present themselves. Right, Brother? Now back to our story ...
Hats off to the Hedonists, we'll call them the Funnyhats. They were Swiss. Hip swiss with jolly beards. Everyone had a Bier Vater (I still wasn't sure what that was). But after many beers, at the right price, everything became more (un)clear. We had some mad-hatter discussions, good ones. I told one guy, "I wanna swim up and take a bite outta that moon ..." (It being full, the guy too.) Turns out this Funnyhat was from Appenzell, where one of my favourite brews, Vollmond Bier, is brewed. He was amazed that I'd been there, and I dazzled him with small-town tales of me driving through that region in a Skoda, looking for gigs. He said I reminded him a bit of James HATfield from Metallica. I said, "Yeah, he's my father." Uproarious laughter from all the Funnyhats. Let's not talk about cheese, said I, but we all agree the Swiss have great beer and potato salad. In a neutral way. And they also have cool hats. But Doktor Appenzell went on to say that things are not really as they appear. Apparently appearences in Appenzell are deceiving, reportedly. There are, reputedly, entire arsenals under those peaceful looking Alps. Sometimes, he said, a quaint little snow chalet from afar, is actually a military hut loaded to the 9's, with phoney windows and fortified guards. Shades go down, ready for battle. And this I too, believe. Protect that money, baby. But I'm talking about the ARSENAL OF LOVE. Said war's a bore. Less is more. Put a feather in my hat and call me macaroni. Told him I stick with the underdog, dawg. Vollmond Bier has been independent for generations and is brewed only on the full moon - I wanna meet the local heroes. I've no time for the Majors (except maybe baseball). We left early, based on some phoney story about a shadow flight I had to catch at 6 AM. We just sit tight and let the evening guide us.
This is the Resolution of Part 2: Even when these happenings are happening, sometimes for hours, I never think, "I'm going to write about this." It hits me a few days later, usually. Then I realize that the night(s) was special, amazing, magical, worthy of being written. We may proceed to Part Three ...
Part 3: Sometimes Plan B is Plan A
So off we went to a bar in the next town, about an hour away. Low lights, just like I like it. We were supposed to meet a young fashion designer and her girlfriend. We were punctual, they never showed up. They were lost in transit, lost in translation, lost in space. Time to go to Plan B (which was actually Plan A). We didn't worry because the Magic was with us. We were comitted to the ride, the vibe, le moment Alchemystik. My Balance Brother started chatting up the bar maid, the livin' lovin' maid, and I said slyly anonymous (over the pounding din of the DJ), "Hey, if the phone rings, we're not here." She got it, these guys are "funny." Whack! Bam! Free shots of tequila arrived from behind the bar. I knew we were in for a long one. Oh, Brother. The DJ was lost in his own spaceland universe, adding to the atmosphere. But a bit too much monotonous drum 'n' bass for my taste. When he played Snoop Dogg, things perked up. Did everyone see that pic a few weeks ago for the European Music awards - Snoop was in a limo with two fine bitches (as per usual) and he was wearing lederhosen. Alpen style, outrageous! Now Miss Waitress was getting more and more friendly. Dig that tongue ring. Our tab at the bar somehow mysteriously shrank. When her girlfriend with the cute Matrix haircut came over to out table, we knew the party was about to hit full-throttle. I called her Trinity. Yes, we three sat there chat-dancin' while her galpal kept one eye on the customers, and one on us ...
"How old are you guys?" she asked. Ohhh, said I and made my eyes really big, "We're ... young."
More drinks arrived, as if by some god-send. A bottle of whiskey and some vodka just extended the journey. There was a joint that put everyone on cloud 9. Trinity said that if the singer of the Red Hot Chili Pappers walked in right now, she would fuck him right here on this table. It can be arranged, I said. I paused, then said, "But I just wanna watch." Then the joke became that I could film the whole thing. All I really wanna do is direct ... ha ha! These girls were so ready to go, I could taste it. But I was on me best behaviour, I have a girlfriend. Flirting took over like a hunger. Trinity looked at me with bedroom eyes and actually said, "I'm evil." Whoa! Evil-doers on booze. Seems that we were trying to out-do each other with absurd, outrageous tales. She was winning. Then I said that I've never ever been with a boy, but if Anthony Kiedis walked in and I fucked him, I'd be the best fuck that guy EVER had. That blew her mind! Then we all discussed the biggest lie, "Just one drink." The lie of the decade! The second (milder) lie is that a foot massage is not sexual. (Pulp Fiction, anyone?) Both the giver and the receiver know exactly what's going on. Shit, this room's gettin' sexier by the minute! Maybe if I draw this out, (real time) like a long sloooow train, the people who shouldn't read this (like my girlfriend) will drop it and move on to something else. Then the bar was closing, shutters down, and we were officially beginning the after-after-AFTER party.
One of the Evil Sisters told me a joke, post-joint, relaxed on the couch like an opium diva. "What's the difference between making love (danger!) in a canoe, and american beer?" Well, I've done both, I thought to myself. Dunno, I replied. "Nothing," she said from behind her purple haze, "Both are close to water." Not bad! The Music continued, we heard Air, Morcheeba, Jan Delay (whiney, but good) and some Calico Soul. We are the Fun meisters. Ahhh ... somehow we all got in a taxi. Someone mumbled non-sensical directions and the driver understands. Nothing short of a miracle.
Part Fore! Of Voyeurs and Breakfasts Of Evil
If any of the Evil Sisters and my Brotha had sex that night, well - I'll never tell! But one of my favourite Italian singers used to supposedly JUST WATCH and I've picked up the habit as well. I am the Observer to deeds of passion. You know, you just sit there in the chair in the corner of the room and watch people fucking! Not that this happened on this particular night. And not that it didn't. But I will tell you this: they paid for the taxi, the whiskey, the brekki - they were smart, sexy and funny, and if I didn't have a girlfriend I would be fucking them (both) right now!!! Ritually, continuously. A big universal thank you for everything innocent and wild. It was an incredible night, one I'll never forget.
Trinity was a Vegetarian Barbarian, (another song title!) and we all knew that breakfast would be grand. Like a Grand Slam at Denny's, on the other side of the world. First she asked, "Are you guys serial killers?" Not any more ... I said. So it seems there was nothing to fear. Although you never know (remember the innocent ski chalet?). There'd been a reason our guests didn't show up, it was perfect. Now the sun was up. (But we really HAD taken it easy.) It was a groovy breakfast, of hot turkish bread and scramble-eggs. We had out fill, bowed politely, headed out into the new day. Carpe diem!
Endstation: Mohammed Ali grafffiti and Sleeper Dogs
I capture moments such as these, breathe them in, write them down. I don't own them, I share them, I dare them (to visit my world). My brotha and I hit the train home, it was around noon.(!) The balance was, um, let's say ... teetering. Choo-choo. We waited for the train with two older gentlemen in suits, wondered if they'd had the same type of night as us. "Definitely," my brotha said. Then we laughed heartily, and I wondered which year that had been.
We saw incredible graffiti, Mohammed Ali, the world's greatest. Strong. Art breaks all beariers, all taboos. Or it should. We saw a dog on a chain, probably the unhappiest dog I've ever seen (outside of Mexico). He was attached to the Man In Charge, and not rejoicing about it. It was a tiny little dog, and he seemed to be saying, "Same old shit." His Master was an asshole. Something inside of me imagined a scenario where this midget dog would jump up, open his mouth the size of a crocodile, and devour his master in one bite. Gulp! Crazy-dog revolution, make it snappy. He was just waiting for the right moment. And then, woof! the Man would be gone, with the dog siting there on the platform with a chain in his mouth, and a grin on his jowls. Burp. We laughed about that one for a good ten minutes!
We're all animals. Every dawg will have his day, they say. I say, try be kind to your fellow creatures, because the tide could always turn. Nature can turn on you. In a flash, fires ravage the forest and an unlikely beast can become king.
Turn to Nature.
Turn into Nature.
Nurture and be Wild.
On the way home we ran into a girl that my Balance Brother knows from the university. Gorgeous. (the university) But when we tried to hold a normal conversation, we realized that we were completely wasted. She laughed at us, with us, around us. We must have looked like two sex-obsessed clowns on a whiskey holiday. I stuck my pinkie finger through the hole in my sweater, wiggled it, let me show you my wonder-worm! That always cracks 'em up. She laughed along with us in our slurred excitement. Yes, it had been a very solidgood full moon excursion, to the outer limits (of our minds).
A performance, a poem. Eternal.
OR: Kooky Fried Chicken!
Man, oh, man ... Dear Flea, rumour has it you lost your million dollar Malibu crib this weekend, to the fires ablaze in LA. Fuck! But what I find even more surreal and impressive is that you said, "Nothing but fried chicken, baby!" You can't take it with you, but I guess you know that. Music is king! Keep on rockin'. You're welcome at my place. Hey Norwood - is Flea sleeping on your couch, or something? Shit, man - I really don't mean to be flippant - let me know what's going on. We're all in it together ... Peace, -Todd
There's the Game, the Blame and it's all the Same ... Peace, -Todd
One time in the 90's I met Robbie Krieger, the guitar player from the legendary band The Doors.
I said to him, "You know, there's something I always wanted to ask one of you guys. (remaining surviving members) Don't you get tired of people asking you what kind of underwear Jim wore, or what tooth paste he used?"
He looked at me, paused and said, "Yeah, actually, I really do. I'm glad you asked me that. Nobody's ever asked me that before, wow ..."
"And his voice sounded just like smoke 'n' vinegar ..."
Smoke and vinegar -just like we like it
Smoke and vinegar - no bones about it
It's the sound of dissent, the sound of consent
It's the sound of a revolution ...
It's the sound of the crunch, the sound of a hunch
It's the sound of dissolving constitution ...
Smoke 'n' vinegar
Smoke 'n' vinegar
Don't let the smoke engulf your heart ...
What a day, what a day. Seize the day. Carpe diem. Let's live in the Music, let's have a party (solid in its form) in spite of all the Madness. Peace, -Todd
Oh, yeahhh ...