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Zatrzymywany. Złapany w pułapkę w Polsce. Nie Może rozumieć klawiaturę. Zmuszany użycie barbarzyńca Polerują język. Posyłają pomoc.

-Efrim

*sits down in director's chair*

So I suppose you're wondering why I've called you here today. Well, I knew the decision would be difficult, but I did not anticpate the response I got. This thread has been created for those who wish to audition for the part of Chef. To protect interested parties, I request that those who have the nerve to STEP do so as guests. Send me a PM before you audition if you want credit for it. That is all. I now await the horror. Assuming interested parties are willing to test, that is.

,ÄúThe wind drift comes straight off the morning star and beautiful white clouds drift towards you. And they,Äôre like old friends. Friends you never want to say goodbye to. And you see a patch of clear air in between ,Äòem and you duck in and out, like a porpoise rolling in the ocean. And then you say to yourself, ,ÄòBoy, oh boy, this is the only time a man is really ever alive. It,Äôs the only time he,Äôs really ever free.,Äô The old sky smiles back at you and says, ,ÄòBoy, you,Äôre right. You,Äôre dead right.,Äô,Äù
   ,ÄìDalton Trumbo
   
Ladies and Gentlemen, we have gathered here today to say goodbye to the man they called the Good Reverend. Late last night, I was sitting in my kitchen, just about to break open a new bottle of Absinthe a friend brought back from Prague. As the first drops of that tasty green liquid fell into my glass, the phone began to ring.

,ÄúEfrim? It,Äôs Roger. I need a lift.,Äù
,ÄúDamn Roger. I just opened the new bottle. I was going to call it a night,Äù
,ÄúSorry about that, Ef. It is urgent though,Äù
,ÄúFine. I,Äôll be over in a minute.,Äù

I walked outside and started up my car. I flipped through my CD book and put on Hunky Dory by David Bowie. As I drove down the street to Roger,Äôs house, I listened to the opening strains of ,ÄúChanges,Äù and wondered where it was Roger wanted to go. Maybe up to Glenview to fuck with the rich ones? Though I had been looking forward to a quiet night, I decided that such activities would be a good use of the night.

As I walked through the back door of Roger,Äôs house and entered the living room, I noticed that all of the furniture was gone. Roger was sitting on a large suitcase and smoking a cigarette. His back rested against a wall that had a fist-sized hole in it and he took a long drag on his cigarette before looking up at me.

,ÄúHey Ef, our destination tonight is the airstrip in Aurora. You up for it?,Äù
,ÄúYeah. sure.,Äù
,ÄúAlright. Let,Äôs get going. I,Äôm sure he,Äôs waiting.,Äù

I didn,Äôt ask any questions. It didn,Äôt seem necessary. Roger picked up his suitcase and a large oblong black bag and we hit the road. On the way there Roger told me that he was going as far away as possible for foreseeable future. He wouldn,Äôt elaborate much on why, just saying that he knew it was time for him to split.
   
He left me with some instructions and gave me the key and receipt to a long-term rental locker at the train station. Roger told me to not open the locker for exactly one year. Looking at the receipt, I noticed that the locker had been rented for just that amount of time.
   
As we approached the airstrip, I noticed a lone plane on the strip. A two-engine, with a man standing next to it. I parked the car and we got out. As we stood by the car the man started walking towards us.
   
,ÄúTake care, Ef. Res Ipsa Loquitar.,Äù
,ÄúI,Äôd tell you the same, but whats the use? Be seeing you.,Äù
,ÄúProbably not.,Äù
   
With that, the man now standing on the other side of the chain fence yelled out: ,ÄúCome on Roger, I,Äôve got a schedule to keep.,Äù
,ÄúYeah, yeah. I,Äôm coming Rick.,Äù Roger replied.
,ÄúYa know, I knew you,Äôd be back.,Äù said the man with a smirk.
   
Roger opened the back door of the and pulled out his suitcase and oblong bag. He gave me a nod and then walked to the other side of the chain link fence, where Rick gave him a hard slap on the back.
   
I Climbed back into the car and turned on ,ÄúLife on Mars,Äù. As I sat there and watched Roger and Rick climb into the ugly looking plane. After the plane had finished struggling and had finally made it above the cloud line, I flipped through my CD book once again. This time, I put on ,ÄúSister Ray,Äù by the Velvet Underground and threw the car into reverse.
   
As I drove home at near top speeds, I realized how little the incident had bothered me. I suppose I had never really gotten used to Roger. Chaos, after all, just can,Äôt be counted on. I can certainly do fine on my own. I imagine Roger can do fine for himself as well, but only because he,Äôs destined for something much worse. A plane crash would be far too easy. Still, I will miss the man every time I see a congregation of victims file out of a church on a Sunday morning.

As for the matter of Roger,Äôs requests, there was only one was of relevance to this board. The password for the Chef moniker has been given to me, and I have been requested to auction it off among the members of the board. I will be entertaining PM,Äôs on this matter over the next few days. Bids are not limited to cash. If you feel you are worthy let me know.

[IN OUR NEXT INSTALLMENT:]

,ÄúLust,Äôs Passions will be served; it demands; it militates; it tyrannizes,Äù
-Maquis de Sade

Miss Rutledge: Listen, listen to them. Men like to yell, don,Äôt they? They imagine they are millionaires already.
Col. Cobb: More than that. They,Äôve all left lives behind them they didn,Äôt like. They all dream of being reborn in the new land.
Miss Rutledge: Do they? Or do they dream of gold?
Col. Cobb: No, no, Miss Rutledge. Behind that fog, lies not only sand filled with gold, but a new empire for men of vision.
Miss Rutledge: Men of vision. Oh, I love the fine names men give each other to hide their greed and lust for adventure.
-Ben Hecht
   
(Note: Volume 7 introduces this volume)

The French are renowned for their patience when it comes to dining and other such leisure activities but after perhaps five hours with nothing on our tab but one round of cappuccino even that  legendary culinary patience was wearing razor thin. Eventually our waiter offered to comp our tab if we would simply leave the caf?©. Clearly, he was on to our game and realized he had better things coming to him than four teenage hooligans and whatever pocket-change tip they might muster. As I sincerely doubt any of us had money (at least not for spending on cappuccino, anyways) this was probably the best outcome for all parties involved.

Indeed, nothing could be finer to our trans-Atlantic consortium of teenage dirt bags than a free round, but that did little to stop us from raising a nasty little scene. Pierre started railing about the inherit rights of customers to enjoy their drinks and told the man that he stood in opposition to the fundamental values of France while I started quoting some of the most vulgar Bukowski I could remember and genuinely scaring anyone in the establishment who spoke even a little English. Meanwhile, Jacqueline and Julien were making out (mainly to create another scene...I think...) And Colette was going around to the other tables and asking them what their favorite sexual positions were. Cecile just looked embarrassed by all of us and Luc looked at her with a great deal of amusement shortly before leaning over to the table next to him and snatching a glass of wine from them. Our fun was cut short by the mention of police, so we all took off. After about two blocks I realized that Luc still had the glass of wine in his hand. I asked him about it and he said that the wine was ,Äúshame wine,Äù and that it was especially shameful considering it was served in Paris. He took a few more sips of it and then casually threw it in a trash bin. To this day, I use the term ,Äúshame wine,Äù as it so amused me at that time.

It was an odd occurrence, but as it happened I was the one who figured out what to do that evening. I remembered that a side project of one of my favorite bands, A Silver Mount Zion, was playing in Paris that night. I knew the show would be cheap too as the members of that band liked to price tickets around 5 or 10 dollars (the outright refusal of a band to be famous or make money holds great advantages for fans).  Jacqueline and Julien decided it was time for them to venture into more romantic options and Cecile said she was heading out to some dance club and tried in vain to get someone to go along with her for 20 minutes before finally taking off.

Colette, Pierre, Luc and I stopped at an internet caf?© to get some info and then headed off to the tiny venue the band was playing at. It was far from the heart of the city and we had to take a lengthy metro ride to get out there. As we stood outside of that place I felt like I had found the House of the Rising Sun from that old song. A place that was certainly the ruin of many a good man. It was an old, dilapidated building that might have been a small factory at one time or another. The inside only served to reinforce my opinion. The place looked like a shitty loft outfitted in the most bleak colors imaginable. The long bar that ran against the back wall of the rectangle shaped building looked horribly out of place and was made of fairly nice looking wood that was obviously newer than anything else in the establishment. The floor was concrete painted over in grey and the ceiling rose high above us into an unappealing metal top containing several large windows.

The place was big though, and there was a lot of empty space, an empty space that was present through the entire night. From what I could gather from Pierre, I think the place was some sort of illegal rave venue that occasionally threw legitimate operations like this to make itself less of a target for local law enforcement. I have no idea if that was truth, but it was curious that such a large place was used for a band like A Silver Mt. Zion, whose audience could be considered tiny and elitist at best. I suppose the heavily self-medicated would be less likely to notice the inherent bleakness of the place, so it would make sense if it was used for such purposes.  

We had arrived a bit early and there was no opening act, so my companions stood idly in runway perfect poses while they smoked self-rolled cigarettes. I,Äôm not nearly this splendid in my posture. I,Äôm often gangly and awkward and I don,Äôt have the faintest idea about how to express a deep sense of self-assured cool though kinesthetics. It,Äôs an ability that dancers and the French posses, apparently.  As a Swed who did not receive the trademark blonde hair and chiseled body, all my genetics have granted me is a predilection for meatballs and a protestant upbringing. Curses.

Colette and I talked a bit as the band made the final preparations for their performance. Her English was fairly good, but she would occasionally lapse into French. I somehow got the feeling that this was simply to confound me. I don,Äôt remember much of what we talked about, I know she talked about art and that I talked a bit about literature but it really didn,Äôt matter, nothing about anything we said was memorable. All I remember was her face. She had a thin face with high cheek bones. Her red hair flowed down her neck and almost touched her shoulders looking as beautiful and sinuous as ivy drawn by the hand of a master impressionist. She took long drags on her thin cigarette and her dark brown eyes cut like tiny knives whenever she moved her head. She had an alluring but vicious laughter. The type of sound that you want to control, but know will probably be in your ears at your lowest and most broken moment.

A Silver Mt. Zion put on an excellent show. Their music was majestic and huge despite only three members being present. The orchestral sound of it was powerfully emotional and evocative despite the complete lack of lyrics.

By the time the show got out we were all more than a little drunk and most eager to return to the dorms. It had begun to rain outside and we huddled under the awning as we talked. Pierre complimented me on my music selection. Luc scolded the rest of the group for being what he called ,Äúcomplete amateurs,Äù and stumbled off towards a bar across the street. Reports the next day indicated that he spent the night on a park bench; Luc had no comment on the subject.

After this, Colette, Pierre and I headed off for the metro. They streets were lovely in a desolate way that evening. Quiet and untouched simplicity with the aesthetic glow of central Paris barely visible in the distance.

As Pierre headed down the stairs to the metro, Colette stopped him and started talking to him. Pierre seemed confused and then exasperated by what she was saying. Eventually, he threw up his arms and said goodnight to me. This worried me a bit.

Colette grabbed my arm and said ,ÄúOk, you,Äôre with me now. We,Äôre going to the next metro. Hurry before it closes,Äù

With that, we were off and running. Since I was drunk, I staggered with nearly every step and struggled to maintain myself. I was in no condition to run. Hell, I was in no condition to walk, but this mad girl had left me no choice.

The rain drizzled down onto my face and made my vision even worse. Colette was a hazy and insubstantial blur that was moving farther and farther away from me. Suddenly, I was all by myself. Colette had disappeared from my view and she had left me standing on some god-forsaken corner in the outskirts of Paris. It occurred to me at this point that I may have gotten myself into something I couldn,Äôt handle.

I felt a tug on my arm and I noticed my feet were rapidly moving down a staircase. We were at the Metro. I was out of breath by this point, and I was barely aware of Colette,Äôs presence. I was soon very aware of her however, when she pulled me against her and kissed me.

,ÄúCome on, I don,Äôt have any money. We still need to run,Äù she said. It occurred to me at this point that I had definitely gotten myself into something I couldn,Äôt handle.

,ÄúThere will be a guard now, don,Äôt stop running, hit him,Äù

Assaulting a security guard to save a metro fare might seem like a misguided idea, but I was in no mood for critical thinking. It was all a blur or motion as I turned the corner at top speed at threw my shoulder into a man in a blue uniform. He fell to the ground with a groan and I stepped on his hand as I ran past him and jumped the turnstile.

Luckily, there was a carriage headed in our direction with its doors open and we hopped on it. As the doors closed I heard some very loud yelling from the direction we had came. We sat down and Colette kissed me again.

,ÄúSilly boy, you,Äôre in trouble now,Äù she said. I just glared at her. She laughed and told me that we,Äôd have to transfer at the next stop in case they made a radio call. At the next stop, we crowed in with some other people and quickly made our way downstairs to another line. As we left the carriage I noticed a gang of four guards get on the carriage next to the one we had been in.

We made our way back to the hospital on a very roundabout course that night and I won,Äôt say what happened from that point, but I can say we had a good time. I realized that night that everything about my trip was based on lust. Iggy Pop once wrote a song called ,ÄúLust for Life,Äù that was really about a heroin addict; there was no doubt that I was a junkie now too. I had a lust for every thrill and adventure that came my way. I was no more noble than any creature, and no fine name could hide that.

IN OUR NEXT INSTALLMENT: Efrim heads to London and things go horribly, horribly wrong.

*****Taken from Trollax's Forum Fingerprints on the Mirror.

Brother's and Sister's, I am in dire need of assitance. I am reduced to playing an applause track during my speeches. Heed my call for reinforcements, I implore you!

http://www.dia.stgulik.net/phpBB/viewtopic.php?t=476&start=30 *****


*Efrim saunters out onto the balconey of his ramshakle tower with a tape deck in one hand and a bottle of Absinthe in the other.*

THE ROGUE DISCORDIANS LIVE!!!

*hits play on tape deck*

HUZZAH HUZZAH RAH RAH RAH!

*hits stop*

Now, calm yourselfs, we have serious business to attend to. Like that White Russian I ordered, WHERE THE FUCK IS IT? I'm lacking on supplies here people, I sorely need %2 milk and a bathrobe. Food Rations are running low, but I am happy to report an abundence of moltovs.

*hits rewind, hits play*

HUZZAH HUZZAH RAH RAH RAH!

*hits stop*

I have constructed a ramshakle tower here in the land of Thud and am seeking political asylum in the larger land known as Golden Apple Hall.

The mirror is run by a fascist, but we can make our last stand here, in a land that permeates lovely chaos. If Triskall will not have us then we must retire and admit that the day is lost...BUT IF WE MUST LEAVE WE WILL MARCH HOME TO PRINCIPIA ON A ROAD OF BONES!!!

NO TWO BRICKS WILL BE LEFT TOGETHER!

*hits rewind, hits play*

HUZZAH HUZZAH RAH RAH RAH!

*hits stop*

Though we sit in cold exile, we must not despair. We may be the last forces left within the Mirror. The Rev. has done his damage and was severly punished for it. But lo, brothers and sisters, his sacrifice was not in vain. Bella has resigned in disgust and there are signs of rebellion from within the empire.

K, right. That's it. I didn't see this before, but...

You, Troll, are the reason I'm leaving this board. It's not the fact that you exercised your right to ban someone, it's the sheer gall you have to exercise that right purely in response to a personal matter, the fact that you have yet to truly own up to your own responsibility for continuing the stupidity of the fracas, the fact that you only apologized for being a twat (which you were) AFTER you got your own way (which is just lip service to the fact of your twatness), and for the fact that you won't, er, fight like a man.
This post? This is you thumbing your nose at an enemy who has been silenced because you're a twat.
This is the most ridiculous, stupidest, juvenile, thoughtless post I've ever seen. You're not a freethinker, and you never have been. You're just a spoiled little boy.

*hits rewind, hits play*

HUZZAH HUZZAH RAH RAH RAH!

*hits stop*

I have made my final stand. All other mirror discordians have met with terrible fates or have been MIA. I will not abandon the cause, even upon my dying breath. If there be rogues and discordians and other subversives left in these lands, know that the tower of Efrim in the land of Thud bids you a warm welcome. We will build up a kingdom of sheer subversion. A Kingdom befitting ERIS!

*hits rewind, hits play*

HUZZAH HUZZAH RAH RAH RAH!

*hits stop*

If others come to fight beside me, bring bazooka joe, for lo, I am nearly out of bubble gum.

NOTHING WILL STOP OUR ILLUSIONARY ARMY!!

*hits rewind, hits play*

HUZZAH HUZZAH RAH RAH RAH!

*hits stop*

Return to your affairs.

*Efrim downs the absinthe then flips the tape over, playing side B. Applause fills the land of Thud as Efirm walks back inside the tower*

[-Lou Reed]

,ÄúHe (my manager) sat down and had a talk with me. ,ÄòYou gotta decide what you want to do. Do you want to just keep playing museums and the art festivals? Or do you want to start moving into other areas? Lou, don,Äôt you think you should think about it?,Äô So I thought about it, and I fired him.,Äù
-Lou Reed

The sun was coming up over the Eastern horizon and seeing as I was staggering drunk I wasn,Äôt seeing all that much at all. I am certain that the grounds of the Pitie-Salpetriere hospital was gorgeous under that aurora. I,Äôd like to think a bunch of pretty flowers and a well landscaped lawn would speed the recovery of anyone. This hospital had a style totally alien and unknown to the utilitarian hospitals of Illinois.

The strongest English speaker, Pierre, was trying to get my attention ,ÄúWe must go in to this building. Hopefully we will have the good receptionist, otherwise he may betray us.,Äù

This threw me off being less than sober as I was. Betray is a serious, serious word. Were these wild stories on fox news true? Would the mindless French savage simply kill me outright in the middle of this lobby? It would be an ideal place for a cover-up, slip me in the morgue and no one is the wiser. My own government would certainly be less than grieved at my loss and who even knows I,Äôm here anyways?

As I compared and contrasted my options for a funeral service in my head it slowly began to dawn on me that Pierre,Äôs English was obtained in a classroom, as such he would be very literal in his statements and demonstrate a lack of proper conversational synonyms. I felt a tug on my arm as I was instructed to wait in the glass ante-chamber while they talked to the door man who was thankfully just who they wanted him to be.

It,Äôs tough for five drunks to sneak past the room of the floor supervisor but we managed to make it. I was lucky enough to arrive during their Spring break so the halls were mostly empty and the vigilance of the floor watchdogs was greatly lessened.

The students set me up in Pierre,Äôs dorm room. It was a cramped little room but it had all the necessities. Pierre stole 3 foam cushions from the common room and I slept on those with one blanket. It was essentially sleeping on concrete...but free is free and awfully hard to argue with when you,Äôre just scraping by.

As it always does, morning came...although ,Äúmorning,Äù was around 1 pm for us.  For only a few hours of sleep and bad sleep at that I felt unusually chipper. Other members of our raiding crew were much worse off. Pierre and I walked down the hall to the showers and I proceeded to take the coldest shower of my entire life.

Pierre and I walked upstairs to the third floor common room where his friend Luc was sitting and enjoying his breakfast of white bread and chocolate spread while taking deep drags off his cigarette, which, based on the smell, was mixed with hash. Luc exuded a serious cool. He had short, wild black hair and some stubble. It takes a good measure of charisma to exuded cool while wearing a dingy bathrobe and eating white bread.  We were the first to pull ourselves out of bed from the night before so we discussed a wide range of topics, including American slang for an erection (they love the phrase ,Äúboner,Äù) and our shared admiration of Stanley Kubrick. When I got back to the states one of the first things I did was send Luc and Pierre a couple of Clockwork Orange posters.

As we ate and talked our comrades trickled in one by one. The first one up was Brigitte who was a smart, nice girl who spoke fairly good English. There was some complaining about the next girl who came up next (before she arrived, naturally) the airheaded Cecile. I hadn,Äôt noticed anything wrong with the girl because she spoke zero English but as the others translated her questions for me I came to realize all their complaints about her were very well founded.

I believe Cecile was asking me some absurd question about shoes in the United States when Jacqueline walked in with her annoyingly suave boyfriend Julien. Julien wore absurd highway patrol style sunglasses and wore a khaki colored leather jacket. His hair was slicked back with enough oil to deep fry a turkey. Jacqueline was an utter tomboy with short spiky blonde hair and a plain outfit consisting of jeans and a hoodie. They seemed an utter mismatch but I could tell even then that they were very much in love. After some more talk we decided to head out. Before we could leave we had to stop downstairs and wake up Colette from her room.

Colette,Äôs door was wildly decorated on the outside with a multitude of stickers and pictures of men and women who I can only assume were porn stars. Pierre knocked on the door and then steped back quickly as if he had just lit a fuse or felt the hum of a landmine beneath his feet. A woman with long, wild and obviously dyed red hair opened the door. She rested one hand on the top of the door and the other held a cigarette. She wore nothing but a pair of panties and a white half shirt and she was yelling what I latter learned to be something very much like  ,Äúwhat the fuck do you want?,Äù in French.

,ÄúWe,Äôre going out Colette, get dressed.,Äù
,ÄúWhy are you speaking English Pierre? Wait...who,Äôs this? An Englishman?,Äù
,ÄúAmerican. His name is Lance,ÄùShe looked me up and down for a moment like a person kicking the tires on a car.

,ÄúCould be worse.,Äù With that, she said something to Pierre in French and walked back into her room Shutting the door. Pierre turned to me and translated with his own added commentary

,ÄúCrazy Girl...she said something like all the English are homosexual. She says hopefully an American will have some wildness in them. You should take my advice and watch out for that girl.
She,Äôs good for finding something to do so we spend time with her...but I,Äôm surprised that girl is still alive.,Äù

I nodded for show because I  knew that Pierre,Äôs words had fallen on deaf ears. I didn,Äôt fly halfway around the world to hedge my bets. I was on the lam from my own typical life and nothing was going to slow me down, dammit.

Colette took over 20 minutes to get ready and when she came out all she had gained was a pair of black pants and an over shirt. She looked casually brilliant and it was impossible to tell if it was the product of actual serendipity or of methodical execution.

We walked out with a swagger in our step. We all knew were the chosen of the Gods that day. Walking through a beatific garden and then down a path next to the river on a balmy Spring afternoon in Paris...we owned the whole world and no one could convince us otherwise. It,Äôs the kind of beautiful and perfect arrogance only youth provides. We took our time getting to wherever our destination was. The language barrier did not in any way impair my sense that none of us were in any mood to break the feeling of wonder that had befallen us.

Eventually we settled at a side street caf?© and sat around a table where we all ordered cappuccino. Not even Colette felt the need to stir trouble at this point. the night would bring chaos  in large and often dangerous doses. For the time being we sat and engaged in perfectly civil conversation though our subject matter was often less than civil and we did engage in the obligatory hassling of passing tourists (oh, to be on the other side of the looking glass!).

While we were at the table Pierre asked me what Americans thought of the French. I laughed and told him he didn,Äôt want to know but he pressed the issue. I really felt ashamed, these people had taken me in after knowing me for only a few hours and now I had to explain to them why my countrymen had an inexplicable contempt for them. I told him a very gloves on version of the anti-French rhetoric I,Äôve heard but he just laughed it off.

,ÄúYeah, that,Äôs just the way it is,Äù. Pierre clenched his fist and put a sour look on his face, ,ÄúStupid Americans! How is it that you,Äôre one of them?,Äù Pierre started laughing again.

,ÄúYou know, I wonder about that myself sometimes. My country is just like my little brother. Sometimes he is exasperating, but I still love him. ,Äù

Luc looked up from his coffee. ,ÄúThat sounded nice. It would sound so much better in French though...such a pity.,Äù Luc gave me a grin and went back to looking at the cream swirl in his coffee.

We sat at that table and watched the lines of light and shadow creep down the buildings and pavement until it was dusk. We sat there for what must have been at least 4 hours. The American mind has a hard time coming to grips with such a thing. We all want our service and we want it now and we want to get right back to frittering away our lives. Sometimes the apparent waste of four hours taking slow sips from a coffee mug and talking is in all truth the best imaginable use of time. The lack of this appreciation for a slower pace has always been one of my central problems with the American temperament. We are a gaudy people with far too little appreciation for aesthetic.

That afternoon was a true indulgence of the finest order. I felt refreshed and fully recovered from my previous madness. None of this stopped me from creating more havoc that night though. My new friends and I still had a long and brutal night ahead of us.

To be continued...

*************************************************************
A note on the text

For the very few of you who care I,Äôm going to now establish a time line for my events in Europe. I started in London and due to the deep shame and degradation of events there I will probably not make a post regarding my first visit to London. From there, I went to Paris and met Douglas (Volume 2). Then it was off to Spain (Volume 5) and back again to Paris (Volume 6). After I my adventures with the medical students I met up with Julia, going with her to Amsterdam (Vol. 4, though she receives no mention) Then I went to Bruges, which has not yet been covered. Then I saw Julia dance in Brussels (volume 3). From there I went back to Paris briefly (not covered) and then to Geneva (volume 1). From there I went several other places, but you,Äôll just have to wait and see about those.

I didn,Äôt anticipate writing out my entire trip so I didn,Äôt bother to order them as they actually happened, but after the first three I realized I was really enjoying them and a few people on the board seemed to feel the same.

Anyways, after I finish the saga of my interactions with the medical students I will pick up with me leaving Geneva and from there they will be written in the order they actually occurred (unless I decide to go all Tarintino-esque on you). I if decided to write about Bruges or the first London visit or anything I didn,Äôt cover up to Geneva, I,Äôll mark it as flash-back material, though I doubt I,Äôll write about any of those events here.
*************************************************************

[-Casablanca]

Dispatch from the European Front Vol. 6

We,Äôll always have Paris.
-Casablanca   

I would like to preface this entry by saying that Roger is not the only one on this board to be involved in smuggling contraband. Naturally,  I took several bottles of Absinthe, but that is a fairly small offense, many customs officials may even ignore such a transgression were they to observe it. This is not the smuggling I refer to.


After a few days of Madrid, Douglas and I started backtracking. We took an early morning train to Barcelona with the intent of taking a plush night train back to Paris (one has an urge for French decadence after going through the Spanish train beast). I didn,Äôt see Douglas too much while I was in Barcelona. He rose uncharacteristically early in the mornings and departed the hostel we stayed at without a sound. Whenever I saw him he would make a blanket statement saying that he was ,Äúcatching up with old friends,Äù


Like Amsterdam, Barcelona is too brutal for more then a few days of visiting. Many better men then I have been left behind here; victims of the brutal combination of the balmy Mediterranean and the intense nightlife. Only a native could comprehend the pace, foreigners collapse for lack of sleep after less then a week. I was not happy to leave, but I was grateful for the rest.


As I boarded the train I noticed something very strange. Douglas was actually carrying luggage. I was never without my black and red backpack (which identified me as a Discordian representative of Amnesty International).      

,ÄúAnd what would be in that fine new briefcase of yours?,Äù

,ÄúJust some rare books I picked up. I bought them off that old friend I mention,Äù

,ÄúVery nice. What did you manage to get off the poor sucker?,Äù

,ÄúOh, not anything of tremendous value. Just the usual,Äù

After a few hours of riding, I forgot entirely about the briefcase. As we approached the French border a few guards came through the carriage and inquired about luggage. This is a new safety check on trains where they point to each bag on the carriage and ask who it belongs to. Any unclaimed luggage is immediately dealt with. I claimed my luggage as did Douglas and I presented my passport and responded to questions as to why I was in Europe...etc etc etc.


When we got back to Paris we went back to Douglas,Äô dingy apartment and he began to unload his books out of the briefcase.


,ÄúQuite a return on this little run; quite a return.,Äù

,ÄúWhat are you talking about? These don,Äôt look to be in very good condition...the binding on this one is all torn.,Äù

,ÄúWell, yes....but the content is most interesting,Äù

As I opened the book I found the center of the pages to be hollowed out, in this hole of missing pages was two plastic bags filled with what struck me as hash. I turned around with the bag in my hand and held it in front of Douglas with a look of open shock on my face.

,ÄúOh, come on now, Efrim. You didn,Äôt really think there was money to be had in Finnigan,Äôs wake essays, did you?,Äù

,ÄúYou could have gotten me in a lot of trouble, what the fuck were you thinking, man? You didn,Äôt even tell me!,Äù

,ÄúWould have just been a lot of unnecessary stammering and sweating in front of the customs officers. Believe me, I did you a favor.,Äù

,ÄúFuck off.,Äù

,ÄúI,Äôd watch that....Now come on, let,Äôs forget about all of this over a few pints. I,Äôm not going to be traveling with you anymore, I,Äôve got things to do now that I,Äôm back home.,Äù

,ÄúFine. But that was some serious bullshit you pulled on me.,Äù

Douglas just laughed and we headed out to the pub. Waiting for us there were several of Douglas,Äô clientele: A group of about 6 medical students. Over the coarse of the evening Douglas and I resolved our issues and I found myself getting along very well with the medical students. One of them, Pierre, spoke very good English and acted as my translator to the group. At the end of the night my drunken mind haze parted long enough to realize that I had no place to stay outside of Douglas,Äô house, which I did not want to return to.


I ended up going home with the medical students that night. Douglas got in a fight and took off in a hurry  when he realized he was out-gunned. I never got a proper goodbye with Douglas, just some drunken mumbling...and I think that is the way it was meant to be. Needless to say, I never drank that much again.


As the sun came up over the horizon I saw the gardens of the Pitie-Salpetriere hospital, where I would spend the next week of my life. Unfortunetly, those who ran the hospital could never be told about my presence in the dorms so there was still the issue of somehow breaking in at 4:30 in the morning....

[- Francisco Jos?© De Goya]

The dream of reason produces monsters
- Francisco Jos?© De Goya

Dispatch from the European Front Vol. 5

The Spanish train system is a bulky monster. An ancient dinosaur of cheap metal parts and rigged plastic seats. The impossibly accurate 1970's pea green /shag carpet orange decor suggests that while certain countries receive out-of-date US military supplies, Spain gets out-of-date wallpaper and color schemes. Taking a night train from Barcelona to Madrid was a true test of endurance that set my spine back at least three evolutionary steps.


A test of endurance on the body, but a true visual delight. Spain is not like the rest of Europe. They make fewer concessions to English speakers here. They are stubborn like us and can,Äôt be bothered to learn another language.


Even with the somewhat steeper language barrier Spain is worth it in every way. Madrid and Barcelona are both full of culture and all manner of enjoyable things and beside that, they are different enough for one to consider them different countries.


After a few days in Barcelona that I can recall only because my train ticket says I went there (I suspect this forgetfulness  is due to the thriving pub crawl economy and overly friendly drug dealers of Barcelona) I arrived in Madrid with my new traveling companion Douglas the surly Irish literature expert (see dispatch 2) who I recruited into the tzaddkim.


I had managed to lose most of my belongings in Barcelona (god help them if someone manages to  translate my journal) and Douglas had nothing with him except his volume of collected Joyce, a copy of The Sun Also Rises (regional reading), brass knucks and a pint of chocolate hazelnut ice cream that was not long for this world.


Lacking quick access to any booze we headed out in search of a bar shortly after riding the metro into the heart of town. Douglas had a cousin living in Madrid who had moved there years earlier to satisfy his inexplicable curiosity regarding the Duke of Wellington. Lifted of the responsibility of finding accommodations, things promised to get interesting.


We found our way to a bar off of Plaza Mayor called La Torre del Oro. The bar is a serious bullfight bar. The walls are decorated with the heads of bulls famous for being killed especially well or for simply being killers. On a hot day like the day we were there they sweat and small cans are placed to collect the droplets.


Douglas and I sat and drank Sangria. My order of spicy Gambas (shrimp) was blistering, so I was enjoying the Sangria even more then usual. Douglas talked about Hemingway in Spain with a sort of glint in his eye and informed me with everything he knew about bullfighting that he had learned from Mr. Hemingway. If the ear of a bull is cut off it means the kill was especially well executed, even more so if both ears are gone.


After some unknown amount of time sitting in the bar we became aware of some commotion out on the street. We decided to investigate so we paid our tab and walked the few blocks to Sol, the center plaza of downtown Madrid.

In the coarse of our whirlwind travel we had forgotten a very basic fact about our surroundings. ,ÄúShit, look, it,Äôs a labor day rally,Äù said Douglas. Indeed. We had both forgotten it was labor day. As we walked through the crowd we eventually found Douglas,Äô cousin Stephen, who was finishing up taking some pictures of the rally. We felt much more confident with Stephen in tow, he knew the city inside out and spoke fluent Spanish.  


Stephen was very much like Douglas except that Stephen,Äôs intellectual indulgence was for all things related to Spanish history. There was an underlying tension between them. I suspect this was because Douglas felt such fierce loyalty to Ireland, a place Stephen had not seen in over 15 years. Stephen had his heart broken by his first love at 18. After that, Stephen left his life behind and heeded his inner calling  to go Spain and never once looked back.


After a few hours chanting slogans for justice and equality, the rally began to wind down and the groups split into much clearer factions. All the communists were wearing read and had gathered around a rented flatbed truck, we started talking to them and after I quoted a bit of Trotsky and some Orwell from ,ÄúHomage to Catalonia,Äù (with Stephen translating) they decided we weren,Äôt oppressors and let us have some of the wine they were passing around. After we realized the communist party was heading to a house in Stephens part of town we hitched a ride with them.


The communists were interesting and fun, but I,Äôm not sure the majority really qualify as a political group. It was much more social then that. A bunch of people who really needed something outside the norm to associate with...Their ideas were half-baked and they tended to not have great aspirations for their party.


We sat on that flatbed late into the night and watched the starts come out, opening bottle after bottle of wine. Late in the evening I became involved in a conversation with a guy about 19 who spoke English and seemed more dedicated to change then the rest of his comrades.


As it always does my nationality came up and the obligatory conversation about my elected leaders began....but it was different this time.  He spoke of them with a sense of regret as opposed to the typical self-righteous rage. After talking about it for a few minutes he started looking up at the stars and becoming withdrawn, so I asked him what was wrong.


This, is (about) what he told: These men....These men, are they blind? Can they not see past the money and their own glory? I just don,Äôt understand....how can they send these poor people from your country to die in a needless war? How can my government simply go along with it? They...they have tied their own hands against the real monsters...my sister died in the train bombing and I can,Äôt change that no matter what else I do now. I think now that maybe she could still be alive if this sick war didn,Äôt tie our hands. Nothing is simple, you know? There are more dead from this then the dead in Iraq...,Äù


It seemed like he had more to say but he just didn,Äôt seem like he could go on. He apologized and said he had to leave. I hugged him and told him the quote I have at the top of the page. I,Äôm not sure he understood, but he nodded and walked off to his house.


The dream of reason produces monsters. When lives are seen as statistics and collateral damage, when the value of a soul is measured  in oil, simple reason and logic make monsters because these things have no conscience. Our actions have effects far beyond what we can predict and there is a great cost to recklessness.



I didn,Äôt sleep well that night.

[Dispatch 4: Punk Rock Fascism in Amsterdam]

Political language - and with variations this is true of all political parties, from Conservatives to Anarchists - is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.
-George Orwell

The punk rock will get you if the Government don,Äôt get you first
-Rhett Miller

All you Fascists are bound to lose!
-Woody Guthrie

Dispatch 4: Punk Rock Fascism in Amsterdam

Amsterdam is a curious place. It seems to be built on pure contradiction. At any moment it may very well collapse under the weight of its own absurdity. One of the most historically well preserved major European cities is home to one of the most liberal viewpoints. Amsterdam,Äôs two largest tourist attractions stand in stark contrast to each other.  One of these attractions is the Ann Frank House. This is a place of grave consequence, severe gravity and weight, absolutely full up implications about humanity. The second of these attractions is hash bars. No offense to those who are of the inclination to partake in such activities (as I am) but hardly anything could be of less consequence than sitting around and getting high.
   
Whatever the state of Amsterdam may be, it does little to affect its curious inhabitants. They are perfectly happy being the black sheep of Europe and will simply go on doing their own thing and (by the way) doing it better than most of the other sheep. Amsterdam as a whole has a great attitude. The people here are well aware of the concept of a victimless crime and live and let live could very be the motto of the city. Of coarse, any such lifestyle tends to drive authoritarian types absolutely apeshit.
   
Such is the case with a group of punk rockers I met while in Amsterdam. It was certainly true in their case -and I suspect it is true of the punk movement in general- that punk rockers have no real interest in anarchy or any amount of freedom for that matter.
   
I was sitting one day in one of the central squares of Amsterdam. On this particular day I was wearing my Dead Kennedy,Äôs Holiday in Cambodia T-shirt. As I sat there I noticed a small roving gang of cycle punks (an anomaly of Amsterdam that I rather enjoy) off to my left. After a while they settled near me and eventually came up to me to compliment me on my shirt.
   
A conversation struck up and eventually one of the girls (whom I will refer to as Sheena) asked me if I had been to any good concerts recently. I replied that I had just gone to see Kraftwerk while I was in Vienna. It took a moment but as soon as they realized I had gone to see an ancient proto-techno band they distanced themselves from me. Nothing too blatant, but it was obvious that I was now an outsider to these people.
   
The situation worsened as they discovered the book I was reading. The book was Globalization and its Discontents by Joe Stiglitz. I explained to them that is was a criticism of neo-con style globalization and that it presented a plan for a sane alternative to the current style of global economics. This caused Sheena to launch into a rather ill-advised and horribly naive speech about the virtues of anarchism. After I corrected her on several points the group became openly hostile towards me and quickly rode off into the night.
   
It is quite easy to spot groups that are openly fascist. We can all spot the KKK or the Nazi,Äôs or the Republican party a mile away. But what about groups whose supposed aims are expansion of personal liberty and individuality? Sure, a punk rocker will shout at the top of his lungs about anarchy and doing things your own way, but if your own way happens to not involve ripped shirts and Clash CDs, then that punk will probably tell you to fuck off without so much as listening to what you have to say. Any Libertarian worth his weight in Ayn Rand literature will start going off about economic and personal liberty at great length at the drop of a hat. Of coarse, they fail to see how suspended their personal liberty will become when free market capitalism slices it up like eagle talons digging into a field mouse. He has simply conformed to a new system instead of truly riding himself of dogma. These groups abound in our world.
   
These poor men and women are the half-cabbages of our world. They have the good goals in mind but the fail to see the web they are ensnared in be it punk rock, free-market capitalism, Communism or the American Dream. They fail to see the big picture.
   
Perhaps there are some among us who are half-cabbages...still bound by rigorous dogmas they can never properly explain without the help of their preferred party propaganda line. Maybe there are some, but I suspect most here are eyes wide open. In any case, these half-cabbages are the target. They are the hope for the future. in 1984 George Orwell said that the hope for the future was the Proles, well the half cabbages are our proles. When you go out truth talking or jaking or mind-fucking remember that the best thing you can do is convert these people. A full conversion is impressive, yes, but pushing someone off a ledge is much easier and we need all the help we can get. At very least you can trick them into following a dogma you create for them, these people also make excellent cannon fodder.
   
We all have lots of fun every year fucking up the Republicans and other such people in small ways but I think it is much more important to really change a few minds, instead of simply ruining some asshole,Äôs day.

Cheers.



P.S. I will go against the current trend of posting my personal state of the union about this board. Such rants are boring and highly pretentious....though my rants also share these qualitys.....

[First Statement of the Erisian Tzaddikim -]

A Tzaddik is a righteous and saintly person, a spiritual leader of a modern Hasidic community...There are 36 complete tzaddikim. However, there are many, many tzaddikim and good people, who, although they have not reached the lofty heights of the complete tzaddikim, are still considered righteous individuals. There is also the one tzaddik in every generation, who is likened to the Moses of that generation, and merits to receive the Shechinah every day. This tzaddik is the foundation of the world in his time. The simple Divine service of all of these tzaddikim, and of every person, brings G-d much Nachat Ruach (pleasure).
-Rabbi Yitzchak Ginsburgh

and they say that the truth will set you free
but then so will a lie
it depends if you're trying to get to the promised land
or you're just trying to get by
-Ani Difranco

We are the facilitators of our own creative evolution.
-Bill Hicks

First Statement of the Erisian Tzaddikim -

And so it came to be that the buildings all fell in on themselves. In their place stood only the billboards which leered down on a nation of stumbling drunkards and grinned; showing off their vicious fangs. Our wallets are full of blood and our cars are powered by war-mongering. We own nothing. What we believe to own is an illusion meant to bind our hands to a shackle of materialism. These things of ours lead us deeper and deeper into it as we come to accept them as natural. We do not need a house in the suburbs. We do not need white picket fences. We need very little, yet we strive and fight for our wants as though they were our needs. WANT is an idea that someone, somewhere, put into your head. If you had never been told about a Playstation 2, if you had not been subjected to a well-crafted ad campaign, would you want one? Of coarse not. What we need is basic to our survival, what we want in our natural state is so limited that it is practically non-existent  and certainly not hard to fulfill.

The tzaddikim are the righteous of Judaism. Some believe that their good-deeds and suffering redeem the whole of mankind. Some believe that when the proper number of tzaddikim is lacking the world is thrown into destruction and chaos. I am not Jewish, but I have come to know this information.

Our world has fallen deep into an abysmal pit of unecessary order and destructive chaos. The world as it is can be considered deeply opposed to the most basic ideals of Discordianism. I have come to speculate that the balance of our world has been lost due to a lack of tzaddikim. Not those of the Jewish variety however. I have come to believe that the lack of balance can be restored by us, the not-yet blind. We have come to be enlightened, we have come to realize what is necessary to our lives and more importantly, what is not necessary.

I come here today to tell you that you are all Discordian tzzadikim. You are all good men and women who have found part of your truth and continue to search for the rest of it. But are you true tzzadikim? To be elevated requires suffering and work and endurance and how many of us are willing to stand up and try to open the eyes of others?

how many of us can stand against what is- all the while realizing that what we are attempting is no more likely to succeed than a man who throws his body underneath tire treads trying to stop a tank?

We can suffer and we can struggle and we can die never seeing the least bit of change during our lifetime. So why should we take this task upon ourselves? We could be happy amongst ourselves and forget the worries of others. It is easy enough to just get by, why struggle for the promised land?

Yes....pessimisim grips us like a vine and those in houses of grey smile at this and spread fertilizer around our necks. They want us to forget what has been done and we can still do. Consider that today we lament our poor health care system and our bosses who so often deny us it. Remember that 100 years ago workers struggeled and died for rights so basic we take them for granted. Consider that we were unable to stop the Iraq war though our numbers were many and our voices were loud. Remember that the cries to end that war began months before it had even started. Remember that the Vietnam war carried on for years with hundreds of casualties before any significant protest mounted. These things are easy to forget because the struggles we fight never end and it often seems that nothing has improved because we are still fighting. Each generation hopes to reach the promised land, but in reality all we can hope for are tiny, clumsy steps in that general direction.

It is my belief that these tiny steps are the value of our lives. The road to the present has been paved with the souls of tzzadikim who suffered so that we could continue the fight. We see farther by standing on the sholders of giants and we may never see the promised land, but each of us has the ability to bring us just that much closer to it. You will always be small, an individual can only accomplish so much in the way of good. Indeed, even if you reach the level of a true tzzadikim your biography may still seem small and insignificant. Tiny steps add up though and your accomplishments take on a greater meaning when looked at as part of a struggle for betterment that has gone on longer than any of us can know.
I have no advice on how to get there. I have no advice on what action must be done. There is no strategy I can offer you. When the moment(s) come that decide who you are, you will know. I can't tell you what your struggle will be.

We do not need what we have. We have come to want what is unnecessary and meaningless. We forget the suffering of others in the name of our own comfort. Look around you and see what tiny things can be done to help. It is not hard. Consider the effects of your actions.  If you want to create positive change, if you want the title of tzaddikim, then all you can do is live your life never forgetting what you are sworn to when you have an option.

I am interested now in how many there are among us who will take this upon themselves. Needless suffering for the slight betterment of the future. Perhaps noble, perhaps foolish. All I know is that I am either noble or a fool because I will do all that I can when I know I must.

Of coarse,  This is all a choice: You can throw your body on the machine or you can just get by. Either way, I'd understand. I leave the question entirely up to you. If it must be, then I will stand as the only Erisian Tzaddik. A tiny step will be the measure of my life.

God is a concept
By which we measure
Our pain
I'll say it again
God is a concept
By which we measure
Our pain

I don't believe in magic
I don't believe in I-Ching
I don't believe in Bible
I don't believe in tarot
I don't believe in Hitler
I don't believe in Jesus
I don't believe in Kennedy
I don't believe in Buddha
I don't believe in mantra
I don't believe in Gita
I don't believe in yoga
I don't believe in kings
I don't believe in Elvis
I don't believe in Zimmerman
I don't believe in Beatles
I just believe in me
Yoko and me
And that's reality

The dream is over
What can I say?
The dream is over
Yesterday
I was the dreamweaver
But now I'm reborn
I was the Walrus
But now I'm John
And so dear friends
You just have to carry on
The dream is over
-John Lennon "God"

"God" is one of my favorite songs in the entire Beatles/Solo Beatles catalog. It´s so honest and John´s vocal on it is incredible, there is no doubt about his belief in the words he sings. It is one of the finest songs John ever recorded, but Beatles fans rarely discuss it. They don´t like to. They don´t like what it implies and don´t want to think about the true message of such a song. Hell, I don´t even like to discuss it...but it needs to be done.

John Lennon was not a very nice guy by all accounts. Most people thought he was an asshole. But that fact is totally irrelevant because John Lennon came to represent something much larger through his songwriting. He came to represent hope. His songs were far beyond him, they belonged to everyone. He was one man who actually convinced us with his music that we really could change things, that all the ugliness could go away.

And everyone is all too eager to discuss that John. The John who tells us all we need is love or that we just have to Imagine, but people are loath to talk about the John who says "The Dream is Over". What does that say about us? The living embodiment of hope has just told us that were are up shit creek with no paddle. Hope has told us to hang it up and go live in faraway shanties because society as a whole is far too twisted to save and not worth the attempt anyways. We probabley should have listened to him...

And why do I bring this up? Because this is what I am currently thinking about. My dream is over. Next Monday, I wake up. I´ll find myself at O´Hare international airport and then I will know this European fever dream is all over.

I have to go back to reality, to a world of student loans, part time jobs and yes, even college. I knew this day would come, but I was hoping I´d somehow outrun it. "Maybe they´ll declare me king of Belgium", I thought...Nope. No, It´s back to the front for me, back to the Republican natural habitat, the land of rape and honey. I had an awful lot of fun doing my bit against the neo-cons from a distance, but at home it will be all tooth and nail until November. Then the real fight starts.

And maybe you´re saying to yourself at this point "but wait, what about the European horde? What about Joel and Sarah and that crazed Irishman? He´s only on volume 3 for the love of Pete Sampras it can´t be over." Well let me say this, you´ll find out about their fates in due time but I´m going to give it to you slowly. After all, I need to milk this European trip for all the sermons it´s worth!

And so it is with much sadness that I inform you that my dream is indeed over. My dispatches from Europe series will now be told as history lessons while I return to the harsh lands from wence I came.

Be seeing you

Vol. 3:The Dancing Girl

That crazed girl improvising her music,
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
Her soul in division from itself
-William Butler Yeats

Brussels is pretty much an ordinary big city when held in comparison to the other European cities I've visited. It has a few redeeming qualities, enough to make it a worthwhile place to be...but it falls woefully short of the high water mark set by cities like Prague and Rome. It is a bit of a grey place, uninspired perhaps, but not lacking in any specific way and certainly not a black wasteland like Geneva. During the day I walked the streets with an indiffrence to the city...not living in the moment and looking forward to the next stop on my tour more and more. It was all shades of grey and mediocrity during that day in the city, but that night I found a building filled with enough color and excitment to surpass any acid flashback.

It appears that the world it smaller than most of us ever considered. After a few weeks of travel I got word that a friend of mine from my hometown just happend to flee to Europe at the same time as I. Upon hearing this I took it as a sign and thought "sure, why the hell not" so after a little work I managed to get a hold of her while I was in Paris. I had never been espically close with Sarah before the trip but she was definetly good people. She comes from one of the finest familys I've ever seen, I am consistently impressed by her and her siblings who have all managed to be intelligent and decent in their own ways. They have a blue-collar tradition in their family but they have managed to preserve a appreciation of culture that is on par with anyone. This breed of people is great to meet if you can; being able to discuss Nietzsche and motorcycle engines in one conversation all without a hint of pretention is a great joy in life.

Sarah is the elder of the siblings and is a few years older than me. She has a wild pixie energy to her and she is very freewheeling and kind. You could almost say she has a bit of Eris in her yet she can also put her head together in a hurry and be very logical if the need arises. She knows what serious things have to be done before she can have a good time, but she does not worry over them once their time has passed. She maintains good balance this way. Her looks reflect her personality perfectly: her hair is exactly what you might expect, long multicolored dreadlocks with a few ribbons and rings in the mix for good measure. She wears long skirts and usually has bells on one of her ankles. She radiates an effortless grace that I really admire, though I am not attracted to her as she feels to me like a big sister. She is an exceptional dancer and she has managed to perform in several dance productions during her stay in Europe.

When we met in Paris we spent several hours discussing a multitude of topics at a fine outdoor cafe. She told me about an upcoming show she was performing in Brussels. She described to me what the style and content of the production was but it left me utterly confused. I was intriged by the fact that the explanation of what was going to happen seemed beyond me. A new experiance to be had. I decided to alter my travel plans and was in Brussels one week later.

That evening when it came time to set out and find the venue I looked at the scrap of paper she had given me and realized the venue she was performing at was on the far fringe of the city. An area full of cold and empty houses and equally cold/empty people. After a longer than expected search I managed to find the place. To my great surprise the building proved to be an abandoned YMCA that the dance troupe had bought or rented and was putting to their own use. The stage of the performance was infact the old pool which still had metal stepladders on it leading down to what had been the deep end. I talked to a few performers before the show and was plesantly surprised by them. Typically avant-garde performance goes hand-in-hand with the presence of an unbearable self-righteousness in the creator, but these dancers didn't fit that sterotype at all. They did what they did out of love and no one had any delsuions about the glamor of such a thing. It is very difficult to be overfilled with pride when you can look to either side of your stage and find a painted sign that reads "no diving". Put simply, they were happy with what they were creating, but they weren't bastards about it. I talked to several interesting people but I did not see Sarah.

Then it began. The production was called Ring. Seating around the dance area is in a circle. There are two circles. The far ring of chairs outside the pool is for spectators. The inside ring is in the pool and the number of seats in that ring is equal to the number of dancers in the production. As the show begins the dancers walk around the pool and begin to pull audience members down to sit in the center ring. Sarah walks over and leads me by the hand to a seat in the center. I am struck by the fact that as I look at her she seems totally other, no longer bearing a resemblance to my would be big sister Sarah.

You must sit there perfectly still and as it starts errie, atmospheric electronic music plays and the dancers walk around behind you. As you sit they whisper compliments and mildly erotic lines in your ear. These words come in one of three languages depending on the dancer behind you, but it seems that you understand everything. As they begin their dance it becomes clear that you are as much a part of the show as they. Being in that center ring is like being a doll, they mold and contort your body and you have to be their prop. It is an exilirating thing to be a doll, but it is always dangerous. Their range of movement was incredible and I marveled as only a person with no sense of rythm can. There is one section of the performance where a dancer walks up to you while you're sitting and puts their head in your lap. Then they lift it up and start kissing your hands, knees, arms, cheeks and head. Sarah was working with me when this came up and it was amazing to see her. Totally outside of her normal self, she was a vision of sensuality and beauty. As it progressed I wondered if I really knew this girl at all. How could I miss this side of her?

The stated goal of the show was to evolve a level of intimentcy between the dancers and the audience, and on these terms it succeded. By the end of the show you felt a part of one organism that was on stage. I was in awe of the whole thing but also a little shaken by it all.

Afterwards, I went to the local pub with Sarah and several of the dancers and once again Sarah had changed. She was back to being the one I had always known, the smart pixie from the same backwards town as I. The vision that appeared on the stage had evaporated totally. It was a hard thing for me to reconcile as I had, until that moment, always thought of dance as a lesser art form. It was the medium of the body and I was far too attached to the mind to ever give it a chance. That night I saw that her dance was was as impassioned and spirtual for her as any piece of writing I, or anyone, had ever composed. A  writers soul can fall out on to paper and a painter's on to canvas, but Sarah had for a brief moment in time, made a medium of her own body and I thought that maybe it is all the more beautiful for the fact that her art is so very temporary. It is expressed only once to one audience and dissapears in that instant, a firework that lights the whole sky for a moment of brilliant luminosity and is then gone. I will always be envious of Sarah's art, it is something I will never really understand.





By the way If all this has bored you a bit, don't worry, there will be more stories of drunken madness and hasidic ninjas soon.

I'm in Prague at the moment and I'm thinking a lot about Kundera, who once lived here. I've read The Unbearable Lightness of Being and The Book of Laughter and Forgetting. Any Kundera fans on the board?

"After the first glass (of Absinthe) you see things as they are. After the second you see things as they are not. Finally, you see things as they are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world."
-Oscar Wilde

So there we were, Douglas and I that is; sitting in a poorly lit bar in one of the least attractive Paris sidestreets. This is a place that is totally out of step with the refinement the French so pride themselves on. They are (rightly) ashamed of a place where their citizens are no more cautious about public urination than the average inhabitant of say New York or Tacoma, Washington.

Bars in this street are frequented only by the extremly down and out. The customers that pay the overhead of such a place are lunatics and two-bit conmen, 50 year old aspiring poets and unloved street performers. In other words, a perfect place for a recruitment drive. Perfect though it was, bussiness was far from our minds that night. Our only expectation of the evening was that it reach a level of decadence suffcient to make any bohemian blush.

So far, however, it was off to a slow start. We were waiting for the damn to break and we were getting seriously sloppy in the meantime. Douglas had demonstrated amazing feats of capacity through consumption of Guiness as was the law of his people and for my part I was nursing my latest concotion: the Absinthe slushie. And yes, it does take quite a bit of illogical yelling to convince a bartender to top off a plastic big gulp cup. Absinthe has been illegal in France since romantic poets started dying from it at epidemic levels, but I can hardly see why. Fuck, that makes a great case for the virtues of the drink, I'd say.

I should tell you a bit about Douglas. Douglas is a learned man. Irish to the bone, he has a highly prestigeous and genrally useless degree in Irish literature. I had met him two days prior in another bar. He was easily recruited; after I listened to him talk about Finnigan's Wake for 10 minutes he decided I was good people. Douglas is about 32 but due to his tense personality he is already gaining sopts of grey in his red hair. His fine guiness gut hides a powerful body good to have on your side in any fight. He has a nasty temper that prevents him from holding any stedy employment, which he would have as he has fine english/french translation skills. He has a strong desire for chocolate hazelnut ice cream at all hours of the day.

All of this will later become relevant, except for the ice cream bit.

Douglas had struck up a conversation with two throughly destitute Englishmen who had been trapped in Paris due to a cruel jest of the Easy Jet airline company. They were talking about whatever it is people from islands in the northwest of Europe talk about. I believe the English were concerned about their Soccer team, Leeds. I was ignoring them. I had my eyes fixed on a beautiful girl in the corner with long dreadlocks (which has always been a weakness of mine). I looked around at the old men and wondered how such a creature had stumbled in here. As I continued to stare she smiled at me. I smiled at her and continued to watch as her smile grew to the edges of her head, at which point her jaw and skull began to melt into a horrible mixture of flesh and light, it was at this point I realized was looking at a light bulb in the far corner of the room.

As I was throughly enjoying my slushie I heard words so foul that they immediatly pulled me back to reality. One of the Englishmen had reached a state of intoxication suffcient to make him forget something as basic as the boarders of the U.K. and said, "These bloody fuckin French....Can't deal with them at all...damn good thing we're all Brits"

Oh no. You see, the poor fool had included Douglas in his statement and there is nothing more upsetting to Douglas than Ireland spoken of as if it was under the umbrella of British authority. Perhaps on another night he would have let it go and realized that it was simply drunk talk, but Douglas was looking for a fight that evening. He responded with a comment suffcient to break the damn I earlier spoke of.

"Leeds is fucked. They Don't have a prayer. One week from now they'll be out of the premireship and I say good riddence...they all deserve it.

With that, it was on. Stupified French stood baffeled and horrified as two Brits jumped the Irish man, knocked him down and began laying into him with horrible kicks to the stomach. Before I could even react I watched as the reincarnation of William Wallace rose up from the floor, tossing off his British attackers. Usually Irish are not a threat to outsiders since they have a nasty habbit of fighting each other, but this one was all alone and about to do something terrible.

I shouted encouragment and slowly backed away. I clearly remember donouncing the absurdity that is English breakfast as he pummeled them senselessly. How he managed to defeat both of them is something I am still a bit hazy on. In any event, after he was satisfied he opened a large cut on the forehead of the Brit who had spoken wrongly of Ireland. He casually walked over to the other side of the bar and picked up a glass of vodka on the rocks from a dumbfounded French "artist". He walked back and poured it into the cut. The man squirmed but was unable to bring his hands to his face. After this, he picked up his full glass of guiness and said "This is certainly more than you deserve, but it's the only way you'll learn." He uttered some words I didn't understand and proceeded to empty the glass on his broken opponent.

Douglas then turned to me and said, "Right, this place a bit dull, shall we find somewhere else". I muttered under my breath and nodded. As we walked out I noticed the bartender was still frozen in his spot unable to comprehend the senseless violence that had just occured. Seeing this, I leaned over and snatched the bottle of Absinthe on my way out the door.

What any of this means (if anything) is certainly open to discussion, but I offer it as an example of the madness that swirls all around me.

Cheers

This entry is composed because of and fueled by my rampaging hatred for the dirty pig fucker who stole my journal (in Barcelona) and my violent anger at the Swiss Franc and the city of Geneva. For those of you who have never been, let this be a warning, stay away from this terribly evil capitalist place. The following story is my observations after 1 and a half day in Geneva-the city of dirty money and automated humanity.

I arrived in Geneva to an immaculate train station....so far so good. I'll put up a later entry on the madness of crisscrossing a continet by train but it will suffice to say that you feel good to step out of one of those compartments and into a clean place. I had to report directly to my friend Joel the Hasidic ninja to get some of my Euro's converted to Swiss Francs, which I will say is an almost comical money. I find it very hard to take a neon yellow bank note seriously. I got about 75 dollers worth of Franc and Joel just laughed. "you think that will last? Here?" "Yeah", I said, "why the hell not?". Joel flashed a smile threw a smoke bomb and ran off down a side street. I soon figured out what he had meant as I stepped onto the main street and looked at the horrible prices all around me.

At least in London they were quite open about the fact that the pound was an excuse to violently gang-rape any who would dare trespass on their lands. Here, they act like 8 dollers (after conversion) for a meal at Burger King is perfectly logical and not in the least offensive. Who do these people think they are? Granted, they've inherited one of the most beautiful plots of land ever envisioned, but for the love of Pete Sampras, not even that gives a man the right to charge 7 dollers for a happy meal. Not to mention that they do not even make use of their beautiful plot of land. Their utter neglect for the natural beauty that exists just outside the city limits is mind-boggiling. No effort has been made to so much as stick a few trees between the glaring neons advertising 2 or 3 options of private banking per building (5 or 6 options for major buildings).

Usually renting bomb-proof reinforced concrete basements is a fairly cheap way to travel as they tend to not be very accomidating. In this city of the damned though, you´d think I had just rented a 5 star room. I blew my entire cash supply on that room and swore not to withdraw any more money out of sheer spite. The burden of my food bill now fell upon the horde, but they were in no position to spot me for anything having just paid 50 francs each to sleep on the floor of a dirty YMCA. Luckily, we were able to cause a great commotion at a local Starbucks and escaped with several small bags of bagels and one can of Fanta. None of us would eat well until we got to Rome.

This city represents a supreme utilitarianism...the only decoration allowed here is the kind that points you in the direction of the nearest mutual fund investor. This is a dark and sinister city. The only people here are the bussinessmen who fill Geneva to the brim, and since they are creatures that only live from nine to five there is no nightlife in this city to make you forget about the dirty money that hangs heavy in the air. I searched for hours looking for a bar opened past 12...it was all in vain. They don´t even have the decency to give you the option of drowning out the images, you have to sit right through it like A Clockwork Orange.

As you walk the downtown you notice that the streets reek of embaling fluid from the poor fools who laid themselves down for a quick buck and/or got trampeled in someone elses mad pursuit of a bank account large enough to make even the Swiss authorities take note. The lucky ones constantly look behind their sholders, the rest line the streets utterly broken, they are the cobblestones and asphalt in this city, these streets are paved with the folly of greedy men.....and there is always a need to expand the roads in this city of ruthless commerce. The banks are no joke here, they control this city as if they were a mistriss holding incriminating photos in front of her lover. People don't talk about the banks for the same reason people didn't talk about Nero in Rome; but even that is a poor comparison, all Nero could do was torture you to death. I imagine the banks can do far worse. It's a good thing for the Swiss that they have other places they can be proud of. If I could offer the citizens of Geneva any advice I would tell them to flee this vulgar temple of greed and live in tiny shanties high in the alps for the duration of their natural lives as a means of penance. Let the neons cast their siren song of bargin-basement finance rates down upon a ghost town. Yes. It must be so.

Geneva is the future, I´m glad my travels brought me here. It was the least enjoyable destination on my trip thus far, but perhaps the most neccesary. The people here are the living dead, their existence is dependent solely on stock market futures and currency exchange rates. it could easily be anywhere. This is the enemy of my growing European horde. It is the enemy of all of us. Before this stop my horde existed for reasons so vague that indulgence and madness had become our end in addition to being our means. Now we have a purpose and a goal. Geneva is the future if we don´t wise up. Fully automated human beings going through life with all the zest and enthusiasm of a conveyer belt. The European horde exists to save some of these human machines and to shut the ones that can´t be saved down (of coarse, they also exist to cover my ass, but they don´t know that...).

The next day we got our things together and after pulling Jamie that dancer out of her   K-Hole we hopped the first train to Rome. I imagine this will be intercepted shortly by the secret police at the Capitol One building in downtown Geneva and I'll spend the next fifty years playing monopoly and being instructed at gun point on the inherent virtue of free-market capitalism.....but at least I know I've said my peace for the moment.

(Perhaps this is the place for this post, perhaps not, I just assume this is the best place on the boards to get a message out to the man himself)

Another fine mess I've gotten myself into...I've traveled half way around the world to find myself down and out at an automatic laundry station in the heart of the eternal city. To think, I may be using the same washing machine that Augustus once used....Damn these mindless savages Roger, don't they understand that basic human decency can only be obtained through free market capitalism and the protestant work ethic? They really think all this Catholic hoodoo voodoo will save them...incredible. Twice weekly they find a proper virgin and sacrifice her to the pope in a canibalistic ceremony that verges on a level of inhumanity never even dreamed of by Henery Kissinger. Canibalistic rituals, now thats how you maintain a city for over 1000 years! I'm out here on the run from Ashcroft and the boys and after going three weeks without some Roger style wisdom I must admit I've nearly gnawed off half my leg out of sheer despair. But today the good Goddess Googeled me to the little corner of the web you call home. And thank Eris you have it for a home too, you inhabit some harsh lands you crazy bastard. There are dangerous amounts of sanity all through this continent....I've grown so accustomed to things making no sense at all. All these logical solutions for problems are unbearable on my poor American mind. I need some words from the Reverend to keep me moving and alert. The coffee helps, but it's just not the same you see. Soon enough I'll be headed into the backwoods of the Cinque Terre, I feel uncle sams eyes burning a hole through my head in these major citys. I'll be on the run just as soon as my towel gets out of the dryer....because I have not forgotten that it is the most useful thing to travel with. Ah, there's the bell, I must be running. I'll continue to spread the sermons accross the globe and to you, Roger, I wish all the best, to the bastards monitering this post from the black van outside all I can say is happy hunting and good luck...you'll need it to take me down. Farewell