Trains, Trannies, and Scary Nigerians : With Love, Toyko Part 2 *

For part 1 click here !

                                     "have I found home"?  Photo Credit Rudy Randa

 

Check in to the hotel.

Its nice.

I am glad I stayed here. Complimentary extensive breakfast Buffet every morning, and a top notch wine bar / restaurant on the first floor.  The room is spacious and well appointed. The toilet comes with a remote control and seems to be smarter than me. Hotel S and Residences in Rappongi Hills, if you ever want a gander.

But They aren’t serving food anymore.

Ugh.

I get into my room and just lay in bed. Fully clothed. Coat and Shoes still on.

Its after midnight on a Saturday in Tokyo and I am absolutely beat. I don’t really know what is out there, but its fucking Tokyo on a Saturday night- its not difficult to sense the possibilities. Accompanying the awful travel day and bizarre encounter where I was two more sips of sake from getting roofied and turned out in the Japanese sex trade was the fact that I had been struggling internally recently and I just felt kind of low.

Not generally a feeling in my color wheel, but I was feeling it, insidiously and subtly.

These moments, the moments where you just want to deaden yourself; forget, sleep, detach, cope -these are the moments where you must get up and walk.  

Just walk.

Your spirit will take you somewhere you need to go, just put one leg in front of the other and (repeat, often).

I cannot tell you all the places these two legs of mine have taken me, but I can say with certainty that they have never let me down. I can also say, that I have probably forgotten more beautiful bizarre experiences (sigh, alcohol) than some people experience. All because I trust my feet.

I got up out of bed and stood up. ‘Meh’ to a shower. I’ve already got my coat and shoes on …..lets just GO. 

                                 "robo-toilet" (seriously, these things could rule the world)

As soon as I hit the pavement, I felt invigorated. The cold Tokyo air seemed to awaken something internally, and despite being raggedy fucking andy haggard-tired, I was revitalized.

I love to walk. It is truly the most visceral way to experience life-Whether with a destination in mind or truly aimlessly, just walk.

Tonight I would amble aimlessly.

I stopped in a Family Mart convenience store and grabbed a tall Asahi. It was delicious. ( you can be in public with an open container in Japan= awesomeness)

AS I walked toward nowhere, a strange feeling came over me. A feeling, my dear friends, I know all too well. It is difficult to explain, but:

These are the days when I set the world on fire. I engage everyone I can and my smile and my words are effortless and true. I hold court with the earth, and if I engage you, you will smile, you will laugh, and I will always walk out of your universe way too soon Leaving you with one thought : WHO IS THIS HUMAN? 

 WAIT, WAS THAT A HUMAN?

 It is the inner light burn burn burning bright.

Now, these moods can either be uplifted or deadened or enhanced or skewed or just plain fucked up with the addition of alcohol, and tonight, friends, I was

                                                       d r I n k I n G.

I did not know how the booze would fuel tonights romp, but we would soon find out.

I smoked a cigarette and drank my beer as I approached Rappongi Crossing, the main thoroughfaire for madness in this neighborhood.

A Nigerian approached me “you want pussy man?” “Coke” “I got hash”.  I ignored and

and moseyed on.

“Come to my club for girls man c'mon” another Nigerian peddling flesh.

Press On.

I seem to have come to the end of the raucous stretch of Roppongi.

I see another Family Mart and checked my beer.

Time for another.

They have some flasks of Meyers Rum, and its sight evokes warm comforting faded memories of times past : sailboats and love and friendship and sunshine.

I buy the bottle and sit on the steps of an apartment building above the Family Mart and sip the rum on this nipply Tokyo night – it Is as warm as the memories.

I pull my earbuds on and simmer. Music, pulls of rum and swigs of beer in between breaths of ice and exhales of tobacco; I sat, and just… pondered.

Where did I fit in on this Rappongi Crossing?

Did I even fit in?

 I didn’t quite know yet. I wasn’t sure.  Nothing on the main drag had engulfed me, at least, not yet. 

                                 ("TRUST YOUR FEET" Credit: Rudy - the Japanese had crazy individualistic style, but nobody rocked socks like me)

I had finished about half the flask and three cigarettes when I decided it was time to move.

Trust the feet.

 Always.

Within 2 quick blocks I encountered another Nigerian. I was annoyed and restless, it had been a long long long        l    o    n     g    d        a       y          and I didn’t know where I was going, or wanted to, but knew I wanted to be SOMEWHERE.

I stop cold and look him dead in the eye.

In a stern voice but not yelling (surprisingly, I am after all 50% Napolitano) “Answer me this question, please.”

“Do I look like I need to pay for pussy!”

Before I could discern whatever the Nigerian was sheepishly stammering out, I turned and pressed further.

My feet told me to go right and I did, and stumbled upon a beautiful neon oasis that screamed 

“BAR MILWAUKEE”!!!!!

Had I found home?

Was this it?

Increduoulously I ask the Nigerian (obviously) who was working the door if this place was true.

It was.

Unfortunately, He informed me that there was a private party that evening, and that I would not be allowed entrance.

I laughed at him.

This was my birthright, this was my bar, this was my HOME, and surely I would never be denied entry to my own kingdom.

He laughed right back at me, But let me head down the stairs.

Immediately at the top of the steps I saw an american girl crying about some nonsensical boy problem with a totally disinterested friend faux consoling her while she sipped her drink and kept one eye on the entrance, counting the seconds until her lip service duty had ended. The scene evoked memories of trashed whiny girls on the dirty steps of pale moon-lit sidewalk-less corners in Tucson Arizona.

This did not bode well for my home.

“IT’S A PRIVATE PARTY” the disinterested friend informed me, clearly more engaged with this fact, than her slobbering gelatinous friend.

“Your friend looks like she’s going to puke on your Manolos” I retorted and pressed on.

I get to the door and it is narrow. And there is a very large, somewhat obese Nigerian (obviously) blocking the way.

“Private Party” he informs me.

I glanced in. It was white people and nothingness and full but blank. And suddenly I didn’t want to go in anymore.

This was not home, it was not indeed, Im sorry, I must have been mistaken.

I turned around and heard bass from above and asked and found out and took an elevator to some floor.

The doors opened and I emerged into what could have been dentists office on the where-ever floor of some what-ever building.

Except it was smoky. And dark.

And there was Drum. And Bass.

This was where I belonged…..For now.

I drank and danced and talked and caroused and laughed and intermittently smoked cigarettes and intermittently made no sense until I got bored.

Next place.

I walked and walked in. Below this time, under, down the stairs went.

There were more Nigerians in door positions and more smiles and more drinks. It was dank and small and dusty, and played American pop music, that this all Japanese crowd seemed to know all the words to, much better than I. 

I watched the room go “gangnam style” in the 3^rd Asian country in as many weeks.

I got random hugs and danced in this dank basement, a foot taller than all the rest, but feet shorter when it came to kindness and hospitality.

Time to leave.

Reggae?

I smell it.

I love it.

It’s a part of my soul .

That is what I want. Roots Reggae Music.

I got what I want and I was again up on  some floor in some building, in a smoke filled little cave, but this time, with Roots music.

How did I get here?

I don’t know.

Did I go outside? AM I in the same building?

Have I never left?

Am I dreaming?

These trivial matters did not concern me- they were playing tracks of my youth- Deep roots cuts with a thumping sound system to boot.

I lost myself in my world and in my dance.

Sometimes, these are my most happiest moments: Alone in a sea of people and music, but seemingly nothingness around me just moving moving moving, My eyes not seeing anything but what was in my mind.

And where my mind goes, it doesn’t matter, it is introspective and creative and honest and beautiful and true.

I lose myself in this and it feels good.

Gone are the day’s hardships, gone was fatigue, gone was heartache.

I  (quickly) open my physical eyes and glance around:

I am the only white person here. Thank GOD.

I lose myself again.

Again, I open my eyes and look harder. I am not only the only white person here, I seem to be the only non-nigerian here. In Tokyo, Japan.......or at least, that's where I remembered being last, but with these infinite buildings and these infinite elevators with these infinite rooms with no windows I could be anywhere in outer-space.

But I really never care about HOW I get anywhere, just that i am there, so pay this no mind, because it doesnt matter how you got there. Just

There you are.

And this is where i am now.

So, I converse and engage and wiggle and make friends but there were still some unhappy smiles pointed my way.

I know, I know, dear new friends,   my soul is hot and on fire; I’d explain it, but it is a long sad beautiful story and I will not tonight. I know my energy is palpable. I know it is felt and what it does. But there is no aggression in it in this place, not right now, not with the soothing sounds of Junior Murvin and Lee Scratch Perry,  working their magic like some perfect soul salve, No. So please understand, that this soul on fire means no harm, but that it will burn you if you attempt to touch it.

I lose myself again only to be pulled somewhere and it was to get my coat and leave and it wasn’t my own feet but a someone actually pulling me Towards the door.

It is curvy Nubian princess and I must have been dancing with her, but wasn’t quite fully aware.

I find myself leaving and going to another place, but when we get there, I didn’t want to go in. I was spent and it was 5 am and I didn’t want to be tugged around and pay for a girl I had no interest in.

So at the door of the next place, with this Nubian queen, I just turned, and  with a click of my heals I was gone. No explanation needed. Just bolt.

I laughed as I skipped up the crossing. The streets were still teaming with people, the energy was still riding big bursting waves high.

I am not walking amongst the crowd but twisting, twirling, wiggling and skipping.

Another Nigerian stops me to sell me pussy.

I was drunk now, and had had it.

Cant a guy just walk and smile and be happy without being hard sold beat up Thai or Eastern European women?

If I wanted to drive a yugo, I would-And right now, I don’t want to drive anything. I just want to walk, alone, and be happy.

“DON’T Even talk to me brother”

“Fuckyou man, I don’t need to talk to you”.  (he was talking to me)

I turn around and approach him, inches from his face.

“Where is your soul brother? Look at you with your Fisher Price gold all over and chop shop designer sunglasses , you aren’t sending money back to Africa son, I don’t have it twisted. Grow up and get somewhere: MORALLY BANKRUPT MOTHERFUCKER”.

I don’t think this gentleman had ever had a drunken westerner in his face with such choice words and although I probably looked like his typical patron,

                                           I am anything but typical.

                                             At least, at this time in this place in space.

He began to look nervous as a crowd of Japanese formed around us. Another Nigerian pimp sidles next to the us. I google translate “Morally Bankrupt” on my phone from English to Japanese and hold it up for the Japanese crowd to see.

They all cover their mouths and guffaw.

I want no part of this anymore, because I have said my piece and wanted peace not confrontation, so I shadow dance some improvised martial art moves to ensure everyone watching that I was indeed insane but quite capable and then skip away, my cackle echoing into the early morning.

I come across the Mcdonalds that had first tempted me when I was starving and fresh off the train from Narita.

This time I went in.

Only to bellow

“I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY YOUR POISON”

and then run out.

…..and then go back in

........and get a hash brown.

I awoke in my hotel a few hours later the same way I had entered it, fully clothed, shoes on, only this time I had passed out backwards with my feet resting on the pillows.

I do not know what it was, but the feeling of low vibrational frequency was gone. Although I didn’t remember everything, I did remember one thing: that I was the most interesting man in the world when i wanted to be, when i created for me, and that there should never, EVER EVER EVER be a reason to think poorly of myself,  No matter what I think i  fail in, as long as i do it with a burning honest heart, and a passion and a work ethic and my soul NEVER fails to light up the world and make it beautiful for me, as long as i TRY.  This is the same for you. ALL OF YOU. We create this. It is what we manifest. No one does this for me, as no one does It for your soul. It is our creative spirit that presses on (and picks fights with Nigerian pimps).

So dear friends, snap out of that funk! It just takes a few moments to create something beautiful. You are beautiful and have the power to create any situation you desire. I needed all the things I received, I needed the random hugs, I needed the confrontation, I needed to get lost in dance and rejected from the bar of my home. I needed all these emotions, and i created them, it just starts with your feet......ALWAYS TRUST YOUR FEET.

PS. I was telling this story to some people in Palomino, Columbia about a week after I left Tokyo, and they all asked which day was this? I told them and they laughed. FULL MOON. I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN. 

Click here for the part one if you missed it


* No Transvestites, Nigerians, or bibulous western writers were hurt during the filming of this episode and I trust and know that most Transvestites, Nigerians and bibulous western writers are upstanding good people. 

Trains, Trannies, and Scary Nigerians: With love, Tokyo Part 1*

> CLICK HERE FOR PART 2

                                        Photo: "Shibuyu Crossing Madness" Credit : Rudy Randa

Shit.

Really?

 They cancelled my flight out of Hong Kong to Tokyo.

 I didn’t even venture out on my last night in HK after dinner because I didn’t want to miss my 10 am flight to Tokyo.

I wanted to soak in a full Saturday and really be fresh for the experience. Great.

We can put you on a flight at 15:00. Gets you in at 21:00. Ugh. There goes my night.

Whatever. When you travel you have to be prepared to deal with things you can't control, and you can either let it sabotage your mood and your day, or just let it go. THINK POSITIVELY.

It WAS kind of disheartening though, because I knew that after I landed, I still had about another hour or so of travel from Narita airport to where I was staying in Rappongi Hills in Tokyo.

I chill in HK airport and eat a PHENOMENAL salumi plate. Some dutch girl a few tables over stares at me off and on for about 30 minutes. The entire time while sniffing a very long cold French fry. Pretty bizarre, but nothing in comparison to what was on the horizon.

Finally I get to Tokyo and as I am walking up to the customs line A crush of Phillipinos swarmed.

Ugh.

They didn’t speak any English and they didn’t speak any Japanese. They had many small children, who seemed hell bent on mayhem.  The line was moving at a snail's pace due to this, and ended up taking an hour for what should have been a 15 minute wait. Meh.

 NOW I missed the last Skyliner train into Tokyo. I was to transfer at Shinjuku and then cab to my hotel. About a 45 min experience and the fastest way into town. I didn’t make any alternate plans so I had to figure it out, and the Japanese train system is incredibly complex, and does NOT have everything in English.

Oh- did I mention I have almost 200lbs of luggage in four pieces I am Sherpa-ing around ? I brought about 75 lbs of books with me, which were in my large backpack. I’m getting tired.

OK, so the next fastest way to get to Rappongi is to take the Narita Express to Ueno (about 50 minutes) and then transfer to the local subway, onto the Hibiya (grey ) Line. Then I was 10+ stops away from Rappongi.

This is going to take forever.

How much is a cab to the city? Around $250 ? Ugh. Im not spending that on a cab.

At least I will get to ride the bullet train. I LOVE trains. Love love love love being on them, and this would be my first Japanese bullet train experience, and it didn't disappoint, as I could barely discern the rapidly passing by scenery.

I finally get to Rappongi station, it has taken about an hour and a half and I am tired, hungry and cranky. I see a McDonald's and am tempted.
No.
DON'T EAT THE POISON. You will be elbow deep in some fantastic sushi soon.

I hail a cab and tell him the name of my hotel.

He doesn’t understand.

I show him the address.

He doesn’t understand.

Now I am getting REALLY cranky. I look for a direct number to the hotel but I cannot find it, as I booked it through Agoda, which is like an Asian Hotels.com and is fantastic for reviews, pictures, and just getting the full scope of each prospective hotel.

I find what I think is the number, but the name of my hotel, Hotel S, is causing problems on google, because google in all its brilliance, even when I “ “ the search words, is telling me I am searching for hotelS (plural).  I was going to splurge and treat myself and stay at the RITZ while I was here, but I have found in my travels, both domestic and abroad, that I just prefer staying in smaller, upper end boutique hotels than large business ones. I like that they usually have more local flavor and that there is always an array of personalities who stay there.

The cab driver is now repeating what he sees on my email in really broken English. Including irrevelent information such as the dates of my stay.

I should have booked the damn Ritz.

 My phone has 8% battery.

I find what I think is the number. I call and hand the phone to the cab driver.

Why is it that what should be short direct conversations seem to drone on forever in Japanese and Chinese? He smiles and hands my phone back. ON OUR WAY. It is now about 23:15.

We take a left off the main road and are on a dark side street. The cab driver is fervently surveying the addresses as the car slows to a crawl. These two women run out and flag down the cab. They appear to be dressed in hotel uniforms. Finally. They must have been watching for us after he had spoken to them. AMAZING.

They try and pick up one of my suitcases. These little Japanese women cant even move it. I laugh and tell them I got it.

We get in and the lobby looks suspiciously small and doesn’t seem very hotel-like.

What the hell is going on here?

 One of the workers says “your guests are awaiting you” and points to a curtain that is covering a passageway.

Huh? What is she talking about?

Just then a very statuesque attractive platinum blonde with enormous fake breasts comes through the curtain. She looks pretty damn hot.

I stare for a moment.

Oh shit.

Just when I realized What I was staring at :

“This isn’t him.”

She says in the deepest manliest voice in all of Japan.

She shuffles me behind the curtain and I realize I am at a restaurant. A fine Japanese dining establishment. Not a hotel. And it’s a private party. I survey the room:

There was the transvestite and a bunch of men.

 I am tired. I just want to shower and eat .

“Sit with us, join the parteeee” says one Japanese man in American Homosexual English.

They begin to fawn all over me. I don’t know what to do. I am tired and hungry and want a shower. I guess I can eat here.

I sit down, and have some sake.

Another westerner says with a very dramatic lisp “Oooooooo, we weren’t expecting thissssssss”.

The trannie is next to me and touches my leg.

Jesus this is getting creepy. Now you all know I love my gay people. I have gay friends. I don’t look at them any differently than I do EVERYONE. But this just felt, CREEPY. Like I was some sacrificial lamb. Whatever these dudes had planned after this dinner party, Im sure it involved the blood of goats, handcuffs, weird satanic chants and virgin tears…..lots of virgin tears.

NOT BECAUSE THEY WERE GAY. BECAUSE THEY WERE CREEPY. AND NO, THEY WEREN'T CREEPY BECAUSE THEY WERE GAY, THEY WERE CREEPY BECAUSE THEY WERE CREEPY. *just so we all understand each other here.

 Get me the hell out of here.

They are now all making lewd comments and keep telling me I need to come to this party after dinner, that I would be “a hit”.

I start to excuse myself, politely,  “I am tired, I really need to get to my hotel”.

I get up and the trannie blocks the door with the curtain.

                                                 What in the fuck?

She is bigger than me. I have never raised a hand in violence toward a woman in my life and my brain immediately starts to analyze:

Can I shove this big broad?

Is that oK? Will I be a woman beater? Is this a crime against gays?  

Then I think, maybe I should shove her in her chest and find out if she went saline or silicone........

As I am thinking this,  the room has now turned against me, and all the fawning has morphed to hisses and derision.

Even if I push the trannie, I literally have two huge roll suitcases, a briefcase and an enormous backpack. I cannot exactly dash out of this place.  Especially because the halls are so narrow- it took some time getting the bags in- and therefore will take some time in getting them out.

The big Trannie still blocks the door.

Just then the curtain behind her swooshes open.

It is the Westerner that they expected. The man who the Japanese workers had thought was me.

He is cute. Like feminine gay cute. MUCH cuter than I, thank god. He is tall and model like and Incredibly skinny.

They all turn their attention to him.

I take this moment and RUN with my bags.

There was a cab waiting for me as soon as I stepped out. I told THIS guy the name of my hotel, and of course, he knew it.

It was less than 3 blocks away, and literally one block from where the first cab driver picked me up.

This did not start out well, I think I may just check in and crash........


.................obviously I didn't.

CLICK HERE FOR PART TWO AND THE REST OF THE STORY!!!


* No Transvestites, Nigerians, or bibulous western writers were hurt during the filming of this episode and I trust and know that most Transvestites, Nigerians and bibulous western writers are upstanding good people.  

Electronic Music Is Kind of Wack, Yo

                            Photo: DJ Diaper Thong credit : Rudy Randa            



Electronic music is kind of wack.

What Rudy?

I have seen you at Bassnectar! At Pretty Lights! Gramatik! Archnemesis! Big Gigantic!

Well, Yes you have…..back in 2009 when I first saw Bassnectar with about 100 other people at 2 pm time slot at Lollapalooza, I came to embrace some of the electronic music that was out there. I had NEVER been a huge electronic music fan before that, in fact, I often lambasted ravers for listening to robots, that I assured them would turn their brains into mush. But I liked Bassnectar, and I soon came to like many others. The last two years I have been to pretty much every music festival imagineable, most dominated by electronic music. Truth is, I do like electronic music in those settings. I love to wiggle and shake with a group of friends, a big love fest no doubt. But I was never the guy to listen to it while I wrote, or while I worked out, or really any other time other than in a concert or festival setting.  That being said, when you hold electronic music up against the blues or jazz or jam bands or rock or bluegrass or classical or reggae or opera or folk, it just doesn’t compare. When you survey the scope of overall genres-In my humble opinion- the producer is talented but not quite as soulful as an instrumental musician.  I  understand that a producer must know many instruments and sounds, so know that I am not putting him down, more just uplifting a more organic musical type.

I have always been an instruments type of guy, and in the last 6 months, I have gravitated back to my roots.(i still have a great appreciation for some electronic music, but come on people, there is so much more out there)
Although my knowledge of music is quite thorough, and my catalogue of tunes is deep, I have been searching for new tunes to satisfy my musical desires.

Here are a few cuts that I have been really enjoying. So enlighten yourself and take a listen:


Lesson #1

Louis Armstrong "Jelly Roll Blues"

The Satchmo himself just killing this track with his trumpet. Listening to this takes me back, to perhaps a past life, where we all wore formal wear to the night clubs and drank gin fizzes as the sultry wailing of Louis's trumpet warmed all our souls. Can I get an AMEN???

Lesson #2

Sidney Bechet "Baby Wont You Please Come Home"

My man Sidney! One of the most accomplished clarinet and sax soloists, ever.  Hailing from New Orleans (duh) he tooted his horns all over the world, but because of an erratic temperment, never got the acclaim many of his peers did. So alive, this tune brings images of smiling laughing and dancing with my lover in a tuxedo sipping champagne cocktails in the decadent old clubs of the 1930s.

You may have heard Sidney Bechet if you saw the Woody Allen film "Midnight in Paris", as his tune "Si Tu Vois Ma Mere" is the title track. I had the opportunity to see Woody play his clarinet at the Carlyle Hotel. In an interesting juxtaposition, Woody's playing is confident and straight forward and bold, unlike his anxiety ridden film persona. Here is a short clip of me seeing him play Si Tu Vois Ma Mere (which was a dream come true for me to see him play live in the intimate setting of the Cafe Carlyle)

Lesson # 3  John Lee Hooker "No Shoes"   Oh this song is so organic, so down south, so muddy Mississippi. John Lee Hooker lamenting the blues like few others can. This song inspired me so much that I wrote and shot a film using it as a centerpiece. Hopefully in the next month or two it will be finished and you all will see its premiere right here! Until then, just enjoy the tune!

 

Lesson #4 Fats Domino "Blue Monday"  Fats Domino came out of the 9th Ward of New Orleans (N.O. is really giving me a lot of good music these days and much more than i have posted) with his brand of sock hop 50s piano rock n roll. Milkshakes and the drive in movies sort of era. Fats Domino STILL plays, and is considered by many to be the father of rock n' roll having influenced Elton John, The Beatles and many many more. Look at how much fun this dude is having- not to mention the gaggle of musicians all milling about on stage! I NEED to see him before he passes.

Lesson #5 Jerry Garcia, Merl Saunders, Bill Vitt, and John Kahn "Someday Baby"

Some of Jerry's best work came outside of the Grateful Dead with Merl Saunders, his musical soulmate. This cut is from their series of shows "live at Keystone" and is a perfect example of the silky funky grooves that Jerry and Merl seemed to feed off of. 

I am going to continue to do this from time to time (and yes, I will include electronic tracks I find groove me). Please share any music that you are particularly enjoying in the comments section as I ALWAYS love to hear new stuff!

Cinema, Bitch

       Photo :  "I dont want to watch bad film!" (this is the face i make when I think of all you watching terrible cinema) credit : Helen Sharp


-->

Film is the natural progression in story telling. It follows tribal word of mouth, theatre, 

literature and television in the evolution of the story telling medium. The art of relating a story 

is a precious gift....it is love; and presently cinema is the most powerful and widespread method 

in the ancient art of story telling. My problem is that mainstream Hollywood and by proxy the 

masses do not respect the art.....in Hollywood it is profit driven and for the masses it is a 

convoluted and bastardized form of medication that is in its essence a frivolous means of 

"entertainment". Unfortunately, in an age driven by special effects and fantasy, it is a guileless 

task to entertain the proletariat. Therefore, I despise most theatrical wide releases. Im not 

saying that simple entertainment always makes for foul cinema...but in our time, amusing the 

masses is all too often the easiest aspect of filmmaking when budgets , bottom lines, "star 

power", celebrity gossip , and distribution are given more thought than tone, mood, plot and 

script. To teach.....to impart wisdom, to positively motivate the meek, that is an intensely more 

difficult and painstaking endeavor. Cherish and respect the ancient art of storytelling....it is the 

most direct line to respecting your own intellect. Support film that compliments the art, that 

struggles to propagate social acumen...otherwise our minds and souls will starve in an 

overabundant harvest of inedible bio-engineered cinematic food for thought.

SO stop being passive! Stop being amused by expensive bells and whistles. READ a film like you 

would analyze a great work of art, read it like you would read a book. Get into the guts of the film, 

then you begin to enjoy and appreciate real cinema instead of force feeding your brain poo. You are 

what you eat, and if your brain is eating feces it will turn soft!


Here is a  clip from one of the most famous scenes of one of the world's most renowned masterpieces

: Frederico Fellini's "La Dolce Vita" - dont just watch it- READ the scene and see what you glean

from it

wharf rat

Photo : Enjoying Lolla with friends Forrest and Maya in my cool Tshirt, credit Heather Thorgaard (click on picture to enlarge and better see my cool t shirt hahah)

From the Dictionary of Americanisms:

1. Wharf rat,...(b)one who is frequently found on or near wharves, esp. a vagrant or petty criminal who haunts wharves...1836 Franklin Repository (Chambersburg, PA) 4 Oct 1/3 "I've an idea, my man, that you are one of the wharf rats; and, if so, the less lip you give me the better."

I could give you a review of all the bands I saw. I could tell you about the weather and say “LOLLA 2012 – a MONSOON evacuated the park”.  I could tell you exactly what I did, who I saw.  I could tell you the clubs/bars I went to and the restaurants that I (didn’t) eat at. But that is standard issue - why the hell would you want to hear that again?

This is my favorite memory of Lolla 2012:   (and yes, I know it is late but the lesson learned is timeless)

Bassnectar was on, spinning his special brand of omni-tempo maximalism. He is improvising his live electronic sets, has a rabid niche following, and affords insanely creative stage set ups and screen back drops. He is in a sense, the Grateful Dead of electronic music and you know I absolutely LOVE IT.

As I was saying. My soul was hot, and although I was having fun, I was dealing with some heavy stuff in my life.  I was doing my best wiggling around transmitting motions and vibrations of love up to the mothership and back to all humanity. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and look up.  A large African American gentleman, in corn rows and head to toe urban hip hop garb was staring at me. The stare, my friends, is something I am used to, and why sometimes I try and wiggle so fast you cant even see me.

“nice t shirt”

“I know I know”. I had been getting random compliments on my t shirt all day. It was the Wu Tang ‘W’ insignia, but underneath it were the words “Wharf Rat”, one of my favorite Grateful Dead tunes. Like 99% of the Lolla crowd, I expected this black man to recognize it alluding to the Wu Tang but not the Grateful Dead .

Then  he belted out loud and on key :

“OLD MAN DOWN! Way down down, down by the docks of the citay.

Blind and DIRTY. Asked me for a dime a dime for a cup of coffee.

I got no dime, but I got some time to hear your STORY.

I literally choke back emotion. 

Then I joined in and we sang together:

“MY name is August West ! And I love my Pearly Baker best, more than my WINE.

More than my WIIINE.  More than my maker though he’s no friend of Mine”

He just sang the opening stanza from the song “Wharf Rat”, and he had just blown me away.  My soul smiled ear to ear and I couldn’t really say anything further so I brought him in for a bear hug, except, I guess, he was a lot bigger than I, so maybe he did the bear hugging. Or does bear hugging mean you hug bears, because then I hugged the bear….whatever. I had been spent the last few days doubting life. Doubting its beauty. Doubting doubting doubting.

Then.....my soul was given a jolt. And I walked away wiggling and transmitting double love with an ear to ear perma-grin that nearly split my face in half and I shed a tear of happiness as i pranced away. I needed a hug. Like i said, my soul was agitated and it was a really difficult time in my life. I needed some random act of kindness, love and compassion on this day. The last place I thought I would receive it was from a very large man who appeared to be 'thuggish'.

The lesson here: your eyes will deceive you more than any of your other senses. I understand observing and processing images to come to a conclusion. But the fastest way to fail is to believe everything you see. Remember: we are all just energy, and no matter what race, religion, sex, or clothes we adorn our body in, its the energy inside that defines us. What a great lesson to be reminded of on a hot summer difficult day in chicago. 

LOVE ! 

here is a video clip of a particularly beautiful version of the song "wharf rat" - ENJOY

Dreams from Taipei

                                        

                     Photo : "Typhoon Sunset" taken from rooftop in Taipei, Rudy Randa




What we experience in dreams -- assuming that we experience it often -- belongs in the end just as much to the over-all economy of our soul as anything experienced "actually": we are richer or poorer on account of it.

-        Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

Sunshine was fast asleep.

                       Curled up on a lambskin rug with a light satin sheet barely covering her.                       

 She exuded peace, innocence, vulnerability, light and beauty.

Even though sunshine slept, and slept deeply, sunshine still shone bright bright bright- a luminous mass in the darkest of nights.

I go to sleep in the confines of the rays.

They are warm, and feel good.

I am exhausted.

I close my eyes and exhale a great breath of relief, comfort and satisfaction.

I hear them coming before I see them.

I know what they are.

                                                                      God Damn it.

                                                     I will not get any sleep tonight.

             I leap up and grab my sword.
                                                            It weighs a ton.
                                                                                      I see them.

Demons of the night.                            The dark side.                                    The vultures. 

Evil multiplied by Evil infinity personified in the form of winged beasts, with the heads of horses, arms of men, legs of steel. And black nothingness eyes.

They have come to prey on sunshine. The dark, attacking light at its most vulnerable point, attempting to push it out, the darkness attempts to reign the dreamscape land.

Not on my watch.

They abound and buzz around circling. Chanting. They are hungry.

I get into my stance.

                                                    I have no fear.

I have slain thousands like this before.

My blade slices through the first demons head like soft butter. I begin jumping around, twirling, martial arts-ing in a manner that would make Neo from The Matrix Films dizzy.

                                                               Neo was a phony.

Demons do not leave corpses. Once eviscerated, they scream a tortuous scream and fall to dust, damned back to eternal hell.

I know the body count is rising.
                                                     How many more ?

Sunshine sleeps. 
                       Still she sleeps, unawares of the peril so close.
                                            She sleeps. 
                                                               But she shines. 

It gives me energy to fight more. Fight Longer. Fight until there is nothing left.

I wake up in a seizure of deep breaths and am sweating profusely. I look over and sunshine still sleeps.   

Peacefully. 
Unaware. 
Vulnerable. 
OK.
                I sit upright.

The intensity and lucidity of the dream had me rattled. 

Am I dreaming? 
Am I awake?
What is going on?

I glance around the room and it is safe. I can go back to sleep. 
                                                                                                    Everything is OK.

I close my eyes and hear a familiar buzzing.

I sigh.



I am St Michael the Arch Angel, and I will not be getting any sleep tonight.



That one stuck with me for its sheer intensity. Are dreams real? Are they an alternate reality? Are our dreams real life and our waking moments our dream life? Does how we dream affect the rest of our waking moments, or does how our waking moments unfold affect how we dream? Which is more real?  It is a very open question, one that I do not begin to untangle in this blog post. But I will say this- Too often I have fallen asleep to music, tv, films, or cloudy headed, which I believe doesn’t always allow for the most lucid dreaming, and i have begun to eschew going to bed with such distractions, so that I can dream 'free range' and more lucidly.  This dream I recounted above is noted for its absolute vivid HD clarity, and for the utter confusion it caused me in deciphering which was the waking reality. I love dreaming (most of the time- I have experienced sleep paralysis and nightmares before, and those are not all together fun) and will continue to attempt to recount and remember dreams I have had. Enjoy all! Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanza, Happy Hanukah and Happy New Year!

GUNS and LOVE

                                       Photo: "Dread or Alive" by Rudy Randa


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First I would like to extend my heartfelt sorrow at not only the people who passed in the recent tragedy in CT, but also the people who are victims of gun violence everyday all over the world, whether in the projects of Chicago, a child of war in Darfur, or soldier in Iraq, death by a bullet is always unjust and inhumane. I intend for strength and light and Blessings to all victims and their families during this tumultuous time.

OK. Since I am not connected to Facebook anymore I didn’t have to sift through the reactionary haphazard call to arms of everyone who was horrified by the tragedy in Connecticut, but that doesn’t mean I am blissfully unaware of the diatribe that is filling your newsfeed. I can imagine it now :

“ban guns!  look at the statistics, we need more gun control laws”

then the other side

“we have the right to bear arms, you can pry my gun from my cold dead body”

Then people start in with their statistics. OH MY, statistics! So malleable, so easily deceiving these statistics that people love to shove down others throats.

Here is a statistic for you :

People who own guns are more likely to be victim of gun violence than people who do not own guns.

I have another :

The majority of forest fires take place in forests.

Meh to statistics. I go by my intuition on this one, and although I get a some sort of kick out of shooting a handgun or rifle for target practice, I have never felt aligned with any type of higher purpose or sensation with a loaded gun in my hand. It is an instrument of death, and I have never felt like it was good, or right.

WHY?

For starters because I can feel the intentions for which this instrument was born. And probing deeper, I know what I would do with it. I would kill if need be. Don’t get it twisted. I do not fear guns, nor am I entirely estranged from them. Should I feel the need to defend my family, or myself I wouldn’t hesitate to cut the head of my enemy. However, I would much prefer not to be put in the situation where I have to choose to kill or maim.

 Gandhi once said

“It is better to be violent if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of nonviolence to cover impotence”.

Lord knows I am not impotent; so don’t mistake my sentiments towards guns as weakness, for it is not. It is a knowing inside me, that these instruments do not lead to a path of happiness, of love, of true power or positive fulfillment. So then what is the answer in the wake of such recent public tragedy? Ban guns ?

If we ban guns, then they will go the way of the black market, and just like drugs and our attempt at alcohol prohibition, we will put all the guns in the hands of the police and the crooks. No. No. NO. I’m not comfortable with that idea. Think about it.

If we eventually eliminated all the  ‘crooks’ and only the police and military had guns, how would that make you feel?

                                                       I’m guessing that feeling we would collectively have is the cloak of impotence ole Gandhi was yammering about.

Guns and Ammo are a massive commanding industry, and like tobacco, fast food, prescription pills and other fellow merchants of death, they have an incredibly strong lobby presence in Washington, DC.  A triumph against such a formidable Goliath would be astounding. Lets say we the people get what we desire, and it is law that in order to purchase a hand gun or hunting rifle (lets presume we have a federal ban on assault weapons-that one should be a NO-BRAINER) you must prove through sophisticated and comprehensive verification processes that you aren’t psychotic and are not prone to criminal activity.

So then what?

Perhaps you are a mom who collects guns, living in Connecticut, and you purchase all your firearms legally and use them responsibly. However, your deranged son steals them from you and kills you and 26 innocent others, among them 20 beautiful helpless children.  Yeah, I don’t think that is fool proof either.

You, like me, have got to be appalled at the recent violence in Connecticut, just like we were when James Holmes shot up a Colorado movie theatre dressed like the joker, but are you shocked when this happens anymore?  I am not, and I haven’t been since 1999 when the Columbine massacre occurred. This is our collective fault. There are no laws that will have prevented this and there are no laws that will stop this from occurring again in the future. This is our sickness that we have developed as humans in American society.   We live in an age where the majority of 15-40 year old men, stand up and shout “oh that’s so GANGSTER” during the scene where Al Pacino murders the police captain in the Godfather trilogy. This is their reaction, and it is said with a longing idolizing pride, yet they are too fucking stupid to realize that this is where Michael Corleone signed his own death warrant. It’s a pivotal moment where his life becomes forever unfulfilled and the message is simply lost on so many of our generations.  This example may seem insignificant, but to me, it is telling in measuring the pulse of our nation and our sentiments towards violence.

We are a violent nation that was born of rebellion and bloodshed,

but that does not doom us to a cruel blood-spattered fate. There needs to be change from within.

The people will demand a change in the laws, and the slippery politicians will jump at a chance to join this sympathetic cause in an attempt to look like a champion of good will, but the savvy knew this ploy to garner votes would play out before this particular tragedy occurred – it’s just how our present political system works. Guileless talking heads and magazines will abound with details about the catastrophe. People will build careers and feed bank accounts off of this, so is their outrage genuine or self-serving?

We need to give pause and be measured in our response. A reactionary society literally invites, No, overzealously BEGS for a change, when they aren’t even sure what the right answer is.

Marcel Proust once stated :

“All our final decisions are made in a state of mind that is not going to last”

There is a term for this, appropriately called “extinct by instinct”.  Which is exactly what it means: making a fatal decision based on an emotional gut reaction. I caution everyone in getting caught up in this.

Besides reforming the laws pertaining to one industry of death (guns and ammo), the people are in the streets clamoring for better mental health care. Better mental health care? Like what? More Prozac? The last 5 mass murderers have all been prescribed psychotropic drugs. Perhaps it is these drugs that help trigger the killing sprees?  I cannot say for certain either way, but here is my intuition on most prescription pills  : they are bad bad BAD and 95% of the people prescribed them don’t need them. You do not need a pill to escape the shackles of the mind. Please believe that. Regardless some type of reform for mental health care will also come, no doubt in a haphazard and misguided form.

But lets just pretend that we the people get all the gun control and health care laws we desire passed. Does this prevent mass murderers from existing?

Laws do not erase the tyranny in the hearts of evil men. Evil does not abide by laws. Should the next mass murderer not have guns available to him, he will simply build a bomb, commit arson, use a knife, etc etc. You might feel safer with better laws passed, and while I agree that gun control reform will slightly improve the situation, it will not solve it, and malevolent mass murderers will still have their way. Innocent children will still be butchered. I lived in Chicago for over 5 years, not far from some notorious projects. The city of Chicago has a ban on guns. Can someone tell me how that is working out for them? The blood in the streets is literally up to the peoples’ knees and rising fast, and faster.

So are we doomed? Are we a society that will continue to eat its own, until there is just nothing left?

NO.

I have an answer.

A lot of you will probably laugh.

You may dismiss it as the hazy notion of a liberal out of touch hippie (I am none of these things, although I do LOVE the Grateful Dead and have a certain affinity for hippie music).

It is so simple.

It has never been tried before.

It is just

                 LOVE.

And I am not talking about romantic love.

I am not speaking about Valentine’s Day.

I do not prattle on about this emotional gooey stuff.

I’m talking about compassion and tough love, a love that begins by honoring oneself, and our own lives. A demanding love, that once is in place in the individual, will have no choice but to spread to others. It will be contagious, like a brush fire in the thirsty Sonoran desert.  I believe the term is ‘unconditional love’. Yes, Love is the answer.

Poo-Pooing Me? Easier said than done?

I don’t believe we as a society have ever tried it. Not really.

“Faith is taking the first step, even when you can’t even see the staircase” –

 Dr. Martin Luther King.

We are all capable of love. Love doesn’t need fancy expensive educational systems. Love doesn’t need free health care. Love doesn’t need a car to get around or a house to live in. Love doesn’t discriminate from 1^st world to 3^rd world, from race to sexuality, religion or age.

I can’t help but think that people who use guns as intimidation or a means to kill or maim do so because they feel no power within themselves. From loving yourself, from honoring yourself comes that feeling of empowerment that pulsates through your body, a much more authentic and positive feeling than any gun can give.

We live in a society that dismisses love as soft. A society in which women have eschewed the powerful and necessary feminine energy because we are obsessed with the dominant controlling male energy. Where compassion in a male might be viewed as weak. Where we become more and more detached from reality and humanity and live in 3d violence on the silver screen. No doubt many of you have life like torture and killing in your HOMES in the form of violent video games. And yet, when a lonely unloved troubled youth kills 20 children, we act as if we are surprised that it occurred.

So love. Love yourself and all your imperfections. Do things that make you feel enriched and warm and full inside. Give for yourself and give of yourself. Don’t be a slave to the mind and the million tricks it plays upon you. Love unconditionally. Love proudly. Love loudly. Build Strong communities that nurture and look out for one another. If the majority of citizens of the United States did this, and did this honestly and purely, I don’t think we would need gun control reform. We would have collectively and institutionally changed.

“Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice, and justice at its best is power correcting everything that stands against love”  

-The Late Ever Great, Forever missed, but NEVER forgotten Dr. Martin Luther King JR

PS. You are a coward and a cheater if you think you need an assault rifle to hunt. I don’t care if you are hunting BigFoot.  You are basically the Alex Rodriguez of hunting. Muster whatever testicular fortitude you have and hunt like a man is supposed to – with a bow and arrow, cross bow or spear. The hunt will be ever more satisfying, I guarantee it.