I was born to be a dancer, i was born a white swan.

Feel my silky moves as I glide across the floor, see my white heat surround Diana's beautiful ebony as we make onlookers just say "oh my, there goes that man, don't they look pretty". Ya, that is me. Sometimes that feels like a million dazzling glittery miles away, sometimes it feels rude and harsh like yesterday's cocaine hangover. This was a time before I knew Critter, the joys of the wilderness , whole grain pancakes, family dinners and 8 hour sleeps. This was NYC, this was LA, this was the Concorde with Truman Capote and Bianca. This was Champagne and fondue, Swiss alps and apres ski.

Journey with me as I took a look at what I was and could never really be. A fancy dancer, a macho man, a swashing buckling bon vivant trotting across your globe. I had it all, the city, the women, lobster dinners and 4 day weekends. I traded all my tomorrows for these yesterdays but these tears are not of regret but an age I no longer hace.

woke up this morning with wild berries in my hair.

not every day will be full of the joy communicated in this tattoo. in fact, most won't. most will fall into dark well of a stacks of days gone by. piled high like faded dollar bills, the bottom promisary notes losing their value in your memory, falling victim to the inflation of growing old. falling apart with the damp mildew of time.

so when grey of of the monotony of everyday backs you into a wall, corners you like a red eyed possum, you have two choices. you look straight and back at the fanged animal of lethargy and boredom, it lips hungry, it's appetite never wavering as it looks to feast on the unsatisfied of the world. or you dream. you turn your back on the earthly monday and tuesdays of this world and drift into a world of hot summer saturday nights strung together like white and red lights down sunset blvd.

i woke up with my wild berries in my hair cos Critter came by again after way too long. he left them there to remind me my Monday was the real dream and I could wake up to him whenever i wanted.

hot tramp, i love you so.

We all grow old with our own personal mythology, the way we see the world, how we became who we are, why we do the shit we do. It's our history, it may be full of lies and fantasy but it doesn't fucking matter because it's ours. What we do know, in a way no one else can possibly imagine, are those moments where things felt amazing, the little bolts that strike us dead and hot, blow us over and raise us up. They may getting an A in math, seeing a girls boobs for the first time or doing something your parents don't know about. whatever. exhiliration. power. promise. hope. love. or just fucking feeling good. it might be something we do, or something that someone else does that opens the door to a new world of possibility.
for me, seeing david live in 1983 in Paris, the opening night of the let's dance tour, was just that. My guitar teacher had turned me on the ultimate Bowie starter, ChangesOne. and like many, my first response was to RebelRebel. Fuck Bob Dylan, The Monkees and Aerosmith. He twisted every convention I knew and with it began my own hero worship, my own myth, the Zeus of my twenty first century.
innocently i asked John, my teacher, "hey at the end there, what is a "fuel line and a handful of loose"??
he said "it's a few lines, and a handful of ludes."
i said, "and?'
and he said "oh, you will find out some day"
Amen motherfucker.
enjoy, i do every day.

hello, is it me you're looking for?

Hello my children. It has been too long. First I need to ask you, do you find me sexy? I have had my hair done and, I blush as I say, some other work as well. I don't do this for me, I do it for you, my adoring fans. Gather close and touch my burning hot soul. All night long. That's right Lionel , all mother fucking night long. Sigh. Alas, that's not me captured in that picture. That's the ever striking Lionel Richie, lead singer of the Commodores, the author of the drop dead disco track Machine Gun and a great lover of the ladies . I felt like I had to come out of the gate strong, with a riveting masculine image. BAM. I am back. And as we know, Lionel never left. And so is Critter, Dan Blocker and the whole cast of California Culture miscreants who wonder PCH in search of sunsets, tequila, Steel Dan bootlegs and non habit forming cocaine. Where did I go? That's a good fucking question. I won't bore you with all of it now, it will come out in pieces, a trail of tiny myths. But it is good to be back, that other place can be so sallow and dull, like being the chair prop in a Sartre play. And for the love of god, please watch this video. It will free every part of your big ass, and everything else is sure to follow. Lionel, be my sexy beast tonight!

then i saw a strange and handsome fellow...

when i saw critter's shadow, played long by the low sun long against the hill next to pch, i got that good, warm, cognac stomach feeling--The one you remember as a kid when you finally became conscious christmas morning. I arrived home, and momentarily disappointed not seeing him camoflaged in my brown couch, i set down my bag and began fixing a salad. I knew it was him, there was no way to confuse what i saw there.

it was just a a matter of when.

as i was cutting my celery, a treasured part of my salad, i heard someone humming deep in the canyon. the music ran between the houses, gaining momentum as it richocheted off the unsuspecting houses, relaying words of magik and quark and strangeness and it think i finally smiled since the first fog in june. it was critter telling me he was home for a while, hummign hawking and making light.

dig it

You

an eye opened, long since sleep shut

as the rain fell. It seems like the heavy orange that follows summer like sharks do a cruise ship, got stuck up in my eyes, keeping me from seeing anything other than what i thought i should see. Any average reader, listener or successful citizen of life knows what that is: sun in the morning, cream in coffee, walking people that wave and people pretending. This is really our life. However, today as I squinted through the flapping wiper blades that droned on like the shiny bright dark days of my summer, and out of the corner of my eye, i saw something move in the tree line above PCH. Brown, quick and enormously sized yet small to the eye. I would have never see this thing had it not wanted to be seen. I smiled as I saw him wink as a few tree branches fell back into place.

Critter had come home, i would see him soon.

summer flight

Tell me it is time

time

to move
far
to ride

far

i am hot

for the final summer ride
mount our white steeds

illustrated with teenaged Heavy Metal

and long

and ache our way

back east
to the sweaty palm of the lower east side
and feel the walls shake of foot stomping house
to smell cocaine and swallow cool mimosa

lets roll
one last hurrah
and then hang up our cups
and return to earth

the night
music
heat
opening a yellow cab door
spilling in and out all night like loose jelly bellies
laughing to the edge of every bar
colliding like lips to a glass
and then like a dawn that fits in your wallet

we will unfold across the eastern board
like sand falling from a shoe
and when dusk drops like a light curtain call on edges of miami
we will ride into town
there are few who can make this journey
we will break open the night with the fine edges of our wit and the keen control of our hearts

wouldn't you want to see how close we could get to the sunset and if we could sit at twilight's table
maybe drink from the night's cup as it overflows with the cool darkness that makes the heat of all of your monday stutter, trip and fall in the alleys of your pleasure
throw it around like pollacks paint, dousing anyone who dares stand near




darker still we swim at the fading edge of days last light
reaching at it with the pleasure and abandon of knowing it will never happen
bathing in the folly and futility of your own life as it passes with same speed as this paltry day
it counts as you count
breathes as you do
but when the day comes that worms eat out your eyes
it will laugh and turn its immortal attention to the next you
who

will be
trying to dodge the last day

There is an empty spot where Critter used to sit.

I haven't seen Critter in over a week. For a brief minute, there was that tinge of relief- not needing to share my home, no more crazy long hairs hanging to everything and the absence of his nocturnal prowls.

But after that first rush passes, the novelty of being alone, a new heaviness sets as my world steps further back into that small gray recess.

Miss you Critter.

love is like oxygen

It is tough to talk popular music with Critter. His melodies are a mix of those of the world's with a dash of Paul Bunyon whistling in the background. He rhymes with the wind and hums with the stream. His beats are no smaller or less sure than those from his heart and the tread of his heavy heel.

Me, i can't really say any of that, growing up in LA. But at least I got T-Rex. So i showed him what was cool.

God damn, Jesus, I fucking love you!

It is a grey Sunday in LA and Critter asked me a little bit about Sundays and what they meant to me. I told Critter that as a kid they didn't mean a whole lot other than school was the next day and some of my friends couldn't play until the afternoon because they went to church. naturally, Critter asked me why I didn't go to church and i said, "well critter, my first and only exposure to religion came in the form of a soudtrack to one of the funkiest, most amazing re-intrepretaion of Jesus Christ appropriately entitled "Jesus Christ Superstar." YOu know, when this musical becomes your starting point to religion, there is no reason turn back and go to church. Turn your head and make sure you find Jesus in the day to day boogie of your life. Which is what I have tried to do. Critter was into that and we sat back and wondered at the amazing Jesus Christ.

here comes my sun

when you are stuck inside, alone with your not so imaginary Yeti friend and the  sweaty LA fog licking at the window panes of your home, your heart and mind begin to sit and chill like two forgotten sodas and the bottom of a forgotten memorial day icebox.  days now it seems, neither Critter or I can lift up our eyes and see past the darkness outside that has somehow crept too far inside.

i see spain.  i know i will like the music.   i see hot desert nights and the welcome sting of dust sticking to the drying sweat of my brow.  as the town people wipe the sleep from their siesta eyes and hot dark falls on the spanish town, we come alive.

dig this video and join us.

row, row yourself to the port of amsterdam

and sit back against the ale stained wall, and watch the sailors and wenches fall by.

hoist your drink, set your sail and be glad you are alive.

a little get together

it was a bit slow last night, and critter and i dared to dream. when we did, over a pot of serbian mountain tea, this attached vision came to mind. and it kept coming, in wave after beautiful wave. we share this with you today so we can all walk on sunshine, if just for a little while.

A very handsome fellow...with a long moustache.

Critter and I stayed up late last night, thinking about where to start and how it might end. Full from a delicious Cranberry Casserole we sat watching a little TV and this came on. We both fell asleep knowing there was still so much right with this world.

The other side of the earthquake, and a great green sea.

Critter and I came home to rest a spell, after a few days chasing the sun up the coast and trying to track the elusive dan blocker, whose smile and soul alone could cut through this drape of pacific fog that hugged our hearts. We couldn't catch him, or the sun, but heard he wasn't far off and we could feel his spirit close , like the hum of a car waiting around the bend. It was quiet back in the house. I was downstairs, trying to find the courage to pay a few bills while Critter was sitting with some of my potted flowers upstairs on the patio. They talk up there, on my patio, whispering to each other...gossip mostly, small talk, as they try to keep their conversation out of ear shot of the big trees standing guard in my front yard. It is light fare, rumors and flower chit chat , literally about the birds and the bees. Sometimes i think Critter plays shrink to those flowers, coddling their precious pastel egos but what do I know. They clam up around me and seem to only smile when i water them. Critter isn't afraid of those trees (lightweights he says) but, since we have to pass them every day to get to the van or the ocean, no need to create any unnecessary trouble. The trees here get a little resentful of him anyway, he says, as they think he is a little snobby, having hailed from raw depth of Oregon forests. anyway, he was chatting them up and thinking about what kind of berry plate to fix for supper when we the hair on both of our necks stood straight, and when you are talking about critter, that is some serious hair to consider. the earth trembled, i shrieked, critter ran downstairs to stand near me, we both trembled and watched as dinner plates inched their way closer to death, followed by my clay coffee mugs and and an autographed picture of Joan Jett. And we trembled some more. 16 seconds I heard later.

And forgive me here for a second as most of the time I don't like to report on the mundane,recount stories you can hear anywhere, stories like earthquakes and who becomes president and which foods have more calories than others and the like. those aren't stories really, they are just mundane things, lifeless dusty rocks that anyone can pick of the road. stories you can only find if you move a few old books aside, open a notebook, or talk to that old lady down the street who scares you because sometimes she forgets to put her teeth in.

anyway, the earth finally stopped bending and I took a look around my kitchen to see everything more or less intact, except Critter. there was an even deeper sense of quiet about him that i had ever felt...he far more still than those trees out front and his eyes opened into a depth into which i was scared to go. being six feet from him almost felt too close, as if i would fall further than any height i had fallen in a dream.

"critter, you ok?"

"I am ok, but the earth just spoke. spoke in its loudest voice. to tell us we need to take care. to tell us we need to worship it and ourselves. to tell us we need to celebrate her and ourselves."

i have been hearing that kind of talk since my i went to that hippy pre-school as a kid, but never did i believe like i did coming from the a 9ft yeti in my kitchen.

"ok man, i am into it, what do we do"

" we leave now, we get out of santa monica and head for home stopping for nothing and for everything"

"home like oregon home?"

"yes, Matt, yes"

then we made some tea and he painted a picture of his home with words and not words, that looked a lot like the one I put up top this entry.

"far out, i am in, as always"

driving away, closer to home

Critter finished his story, remembering that he and his friend spent four beautiful summer days with Cornelius before their hometown hamlet sent out a search party looking for the two young Yeti. They found the youngsters napping in the white sand under the yellow sun, bellies full of the strange, new fruits of the sea and their heads full of adventure. Over time, the food gets digested but the smell of the Pacific and the idea of unmapped trails and unseen vistas never fade, floating on the crest of Critter's brow. His friend, who Critter respectfully referred to as Jim Doe (i kept telling him it was John Doe and Critter flatly said "not where i am from") went back to the comfort and safety of the heart of their forest where he would learn to harvest delicious berries and tree fruits with his family and continue studying trees, the stars, the rivers and rocks that form the seasons of a the Sasquatch. But for Critter, upon his return, could not be still...and being still is a large part of being a Bigfoot. Often when a young yeti gets out of line the reprimand is "Be a tree." Critter could hardly pretend to be a roaring let alone an oak. He had to leave and so he did.

Which sort of bring us to now except how Critter got from Oregon to my doorstep is another story. Naturally I asked him and he just looked at me and turned up the Hawkwind 8 track and looked out the window, at a sun playing little games with with an ocean at recess. I put my head back and let Critter drive.

I am you CAPTAIN!

Before I forget, you can catch a glimpse of Dan in this extraordinary clip as he helps Grand Funk Railroad get ready for Shea Stadium. It started as a summer job and became a way of life. Sit back with your first class ticket to hotness. Feel the sizzle.

sing to me, your siren song, hwy 1

Open your heart Hwy 1, and show us your golden child, your beloved knight errant, the mythical gatekeeper to every dream we haven't yet had. Take us to Dan.  

Hwy 1, be our sea, and Dan Blocker, our Captain, and the life of adventure, our white whale.

I sit staring from the passenger seat of a Chevy Van, watching the Pacific Ocean hypnotize every asphalt mile we drive, together nodding in a rhythm, lightly adorned by high pitched cries from Steve, Peter and the rest of Humble Pie. I smiled as I watched Critter smile as we both watched the rest of the world smile right by us, a sun soaked conveyor belt of summer dreams flying by us, like kids running past the teacher and through that door on the last day of school.

Summer baby, Summer. So beautiful and so right, I knew that morning when I felt the first tiny, dry timid kiss of summer move down my right ear, that it was time join Dan, the sultan of swashbuckling, our hope eternal, the man that seemed to walk right out of every poster I hung as a kid... every surf spot, that Aerosmith concert your mom didn't let you go to, that older brother you didn't have who had all access to the sweet smells behind the curtains of Cal Jam 1, 2 and all the small boogies held in the faded light hills behind Hollywood. Dan is part of  all the sunsets California ever saw, painted on the side of vans, t-shirts and etched across the minds of soul searchin' free people. He was natural born boogie. 

And yup, you know this, Critter and I want to dance.

I hadn't seen Dan in ages but it didn't take Critter long to understand him, and what he was about.   Looking out over the Pacific, his eyes hidden by the brim of Paul Bunyon baseball hat, Critter turned down the Humble Pie tape and summoned a story from when he was younger about one of his nation who left home young to never return. Critter said his name, losely translated, was Cornelius.  He moved from the dark green of the deep forest to a tiny stretch of coast that rubbed up against the great woods.  As Critter moved into his teens (which is like 85 years old in human years), he and a close friend snuck away from their Bigfoot hometown and walked west, toward the sweet warm scent of the sea and sun.  The trail was soft on their  feet like  an afternoon nap, they moved, drawn to something big bright and open.  Finally, in front of them, peering throw the edge of the canopy, golden curls from the sun pried their way through the trees toward them.  galloping, they tore free of the forest to see a blue vastness they could never guess at, and laying in the fine white sand, propped up by a grey rock, was the Bigfoot know as Cornelius.

All he said to them. in that first moment, was "welcome to sea, sit down with me and you might never come back."

And all that live long day, me and Critter were drinking black coffee, freshly ground and fully packed!

 

I am proud to call this man a friend and one swashbuckling faerie. Meet the "Rammer."

Please allow for a brief intermission from our adventure at Disneyland for, by granting it, you also open the door to a purveyor of great magic and a beacon of great light. This man to the left, who we will simply call "The Rammer" represents all that is fine and good in life. Critter and I were drifting lazily though my past which took shape in a pile of disorganized photographs, most of which Critter rightfully chucked aside into the used bin of the banal...graduations, weddings, birthdays, drunken orgies...all the standard crap we pretend we need to go through to come of age. However, not unlike the Ring in Tolkien's magical masterpiece, this photograph somehow edged its way to the top of the pile, its power, its lustre, pushing itself before all others. Gingerly, Critter picked up the picture and set it opposite to his furrowed, bushy brow.

"Who is this?" he asked. "Who is this sailor of life?"

Only the truth would suffice.

"The Rammer."

"But WHO is he??" Critter questioned again, resolute and almost angry. He wanted more than a name, what he was asking for was an answer, a working truth, a design, an equation, something you could work into working for you. Clearly something this man, the Rammer, had achieved himself. Who else could hold such a dashing pose, both relaxed but stern? The definition of "grace at ease."

I felt like Dennis Hopper in Apocolypse Now trying to describe Col. Kurtz to Martin Sheen.

How could I help scratch the surface of this enigma? What could I point to to help uncover and reveal this human grail, who shirtless and wearing tailored short shorts, brings both welcome mirth combined with rain puddle depth to who and whatever he touches.

Ok, that was too many long words to describe a state of mind whose infectious simplicity buzzes around my head like a deranged will-o-wisp.

Ok, this is who he is...

The Rammer:

*A faerie first and foremost. This is a man who looked me dead in the eye and said he'd never been happier except as a green grocer at a supermarket. That was coming from a man who was leading us into the proverbial battle of a large location shoot in San Francisco. I was surprised, scared but mostly impressed at his incredible candor. He then asked me if wanted to go get "fucked up" after the ad agency meeting was over. I love men over forty who still want to "get fucked up."

*He's a nautical man, a swashbuckling skipper of sorts. Not so much the seven seas, but a master of our heartland's lakes, rivers and causeways. There is a certain spirit attached to man drawn by water and Rammer has it. It is the modern day wanderlust.

*He is a lover. plain and simple.

*And honest to god, he loves squash and backgammon. He loves to play and that will never change.

*And most importantly, he is a kind soul and nothing can bring him down. He will walk with the unperturbed grace only children or blind men usually possess but somehow, day in and day out, Rammer found this bright eyed glee within himself and has never let it slip from his fingers.

In the immortal words Mr. Frampton, Erik, "Do you feel like I do?"

For this I salute you brother!

Escape from Disneyland...fast pass from hell.

Critter and I somehow managed to escape the fracas we created when we (why do I say "we"... Critter did it, I just watched in total wonder) launched that little Vadar guy onto the steep west facing slope of the Matterhorn. For some reason, I thought he might land softly, figuring the Matterhorn to be built out of some top secret soft urethane product Disney developed for his park in conjunction with the Defense Department. Sadly for young Darth however, the Matterhorn is one of Disney's older rides and appears to be made out of good old fashioned drywall and wood. He landed hard, sharply cracking his Kmart Vadar lid. On the bright side, a passing Matterhorn roller coaster car shouted with unexpected glee, thinking they had lucked into some Disney/Lucas co-promotion with little Vadar as a temporary addition to the classic ride.

On a brief side note, Critter and I waited the 45 minutes to take the Matterhorn. The ride itself was thrilling, Critter comparing it to much quicker version of the "High Summer Berry Log Jam" the Bigfoot nation throws up in Oregon when they ride felled redwoods down the river. But for that brief moment when the coaster skirts below that white yeti in the middle of the mountain, I saw a quiet tear well in the thickness of his tranny mascara. I didn't say a word, just let the moment hang there as we both knew we had to get out of this place.

Anyway, we bolted, leaving Futureland for the rugged promise of Frontier land. Critter, now dressed as a well to do if not somewhat eccentric Asian transvestite and I, well, I guess I am the "guy" who takes Asian transvestites to Disneyland. Critter, still feeling slightly ill at ease, asked why people kept staring at him and pulling their children away. I was about to try and explain the concept behind "transvestite" when he added "I don't understand, I look pretty and more importantly, I feel pretty. what is the problem Matt?" I didn't have the heart to sink his battleship so I shrugged it off, claiming the average American does not yet understand exotic beauty.

Pausing for a moment to watch a family of 9 devour turkey legs the size of, well, themselves. They sat quietly, all of them pencil thin except for the Mother, who brought the family back to some sort of median national weight. He mused aloud "They remind me of that group, what were they called, oh ya, the Donner Party." I took a second look at the family and shuddered, realizing that on an evolutionary level, they were a notch away from that Donner group and also that it would probably take a lot less than being trapped in a frozen mountain pass to get them to eat each other. Yikes!

A moment. Please listen. Critter pointed to that log raft that leads to Tom Sawyer island. I nodded and we made away across the circle river to the island. Around us, small kids scampered with glee. Before I could say a word, Critter tore off, running through caves, crossing the crazy suspended bridge, ducking into secret passages with me quick after his heels. We ran and chased each other around the island, laughing like hysterical cockatoos, weaving our way around this artificial wilderness. Other kids joined, following our Asian transvestite disguised Bigfoot leader as he deftly blazed a trail across the island. We laughed, we forgot we were in the depths of Anaheim, we forgot we had parents who watched too much daytime TV, the teachers who scowled with a lifetime of regret, we forgot about the layer of brown air that wrapped itself around every dawn, and we left behind the fear of the neighborhood bullies and an uncertain future. We laughed and shared a moment, a dizzying line of young faces chasing each other around a rock. Critter and I were reminded it can still be beautiful sometimes when everyone forgets what they think they should think.