Monday, June 26, 2017

Day 27 -- "I Have To Kick Your Ass a Little Bit"

Typically, Savage Retards and Americanino booolshitter arounder crippled dogs are no strangers to violence.  As a consequence, when someone says "I have to kick your ass a little bit" the natural reaction of the savage retard americanino boolshitter arounder crippled dog is to knock that person's teeth deep down their throat, savage-retard hockey-fight style, by the time they get to "I need to kick yo..."

Then, once on the ground, knee on wind pipe, gouge out eyes and rip off ears (they're barely attached)--the hand to hand combat equivalent of a "double tap". You are not done until the enemy is neutralized.

"Half measures avail us nothing", as the Big Book says.

This was the advice given to me on a number of occasions as a young elementary school aged child from my father, a "professional" who later was on "the cutting edge" in one of, if not the greatest terror organizations the world has ever known.  The same guiding hand who would, on sunny days, lower the blinds in my room while I was doing my homework--"never give them a clear shot, son."

Which is perhaps why I abhor violence.  Even when I shouldn't abhor it--when instead I should embrace it as a part of human biology there to provide a natural "punctuation" to run on sentences--I am instead inclined to let all kinds of things pass under the "figure of speech" clause; a central tenant of my over arching personal philosophy of "remember to keep it Irie." 

(As an aside, I've found in those fourth world shit hole Americanino places where concealed carry is permitted, people simply don't say to one another "I need to kick your ass".  Strange.)

However, this is Europe we are talking about, and not some Americanino fourth world shit hole or savage retard barren stretch of nothing in the middle of nowhere.  In Europe, Amercaninos are always in the wrong, as are Savage Retards (Canadians).  Further, it is the obligation of the old world to first explain, second correct and third scold all new world errant out-of-pot-pissing sftanza know nothing crippled dog shitter-arounders.  And really, the sooner and more humiliatingly so, the better.  And if the threat of physical violence must be invoked, because that is the only language that the Americanino know nothing crippled dog understands, then so be it.  Who the cap fit let them wear it, as it were. Irie.

And so it was while the audience was still clapping (betraying their ignorance = dumbness for enjoying one second of the music that I had ruined to the point where I was in line for a bit of an ass kicking), the explanation and correction part was forgone in the rush to scold.  Because really how can anything be explained to a "too American" Americanino savage retard boolshitter arounder out of pot pisser-- least of all anything regarding the aesthetics of improvised music--an entirely European creation in which, from inception to the present, all the major innovators (and lets face it, perfectors) have been white Europeans?   If all the rules and parameters weren't understood upon exit from my mother's hairy-scary Americanino boolshitter crippled dog womb, let alone in all the dialectic rich rehearsals leading up to this tour, then what is left to do other than scold and "kick ass" a little bit?

The promoter of the show, who clearly had the wool pulled over his eyes vis a vis the "merits" and/or "success" of our performance, which I had ruined to the point where I needed to be told I needed an "ass kicking", made a point of coming over to tell me how "great" the performance was.  (More proof feelings aren't facts, except those feelings felt after a night of adequate sleep, excellent nutrition through out the day, sensible alcohol intake atop a solid food base, seconds after a performance, while the audience is still clapping.  Those feelings are always spot on.  Important too!)

Silly me, I thought the yen to explain/correct/scold was a pan-national inclination among the Europeans.  Oddly, the urge to correct the promoter for his false feelings about the performance (due to his ignorance = dumbness?) was no where near as pressing as it is to explain/correct/scold out of pot pissers and even worse fuckers arounders with the formula.  When I brought the promoter to hear from the ultimate arbitrator of what is and isn't "good" as to why the show was a failure and why I needed an "ass kicking", the will to explain/correct/scold was not there.

"I'm sorry, I have to pack up now"

was all we got.  Quite different than "I have to kick your ass a little bit."

Then again, I am but an Americanino out of pot pissing boolshitting arounder junkie crippled dog, and not a promoter who put on an expensive, elaborate festival in the truly wonderful and lovely town of Galdakao.  Because there are at least two classes of humans, there are (and clearly should be) at least two distinct modes of expression and dialectic reserved for and carefully apportioned to said different classes of human.  After all, who puts good kibbles in good china for crippled dogs who piss out of the pot?  Save that shit for those who have done and who again could potentially do for you in the future.  This is business we're talking about.  What the fuck is your problem?

Though no footage of the event has been sent to me, the festival was heavily documented.  Perhaps the festival organizers came to their senses and destroyed the footage of me wantonly spraying piss hither and yon, ruining everything?  We can only hope.

That said, there does seems to be a minority amount of footage from the festival out there on that internet thing.  Mostly of the other musicians pissing perfectly into the pot.  (Boy oh boy, that never gets boring...just ask the Norwegians...)

However, for those of you sick fucks who like being splashed with Americanino boolshitter arounder crippled dog errant out of pot piss, I urge you to look for said few seconds of footage on your own time, and not while at work.

In Galdakao and Spain in general, there seems to be an unlimited amount of beauty, culture, history, courtesy, decency, sensible marijuana laws, spectacular ham and other pork products awaiting those who wisely by their own efforts (or in my case, by the grace of Virginia Genta and her supernatural powers of booking shows) make the journey to that most delightful part of the world. 

Hopefully I did not disgrace myself, the festival, the festival sponsors, the Jooklos, the other performers or the medium of music such that I cannot return to this delightful locale in the future, in an entirely silent capacity.  Besides, I was told I spoke Spanish like a Mexican.

Thank you I'm sorry.

Mentions of missing charger:  3

In (a very comfortable) bed 1:30 am.

Monday, June 19, 2017

Day 28 - Now I Give You Skills

Somewhere in the mist and glitter from the night before, there was a bit of a bus ticket snafu.  If we had to spend another day or two or three in the Basque country, I'm sure we would have survived, despite the savage money shit kicking we would have taken.

Fortunately, a caring Basque father came to the rescue and gave us and our luggage a delightfully comfortable ride to the airport.  Eskerrak Jainkoari!!!

The flight out was yet another dehumanizing experience brought to us care of an industry given a huge cash award for their complicity in that 9-11 thing.

After we landed, we got on a bus.  Once we got off the bus, I was given a tutorial on how to behave in cities, which is good, never having been to or lived in a city, least of all a "fourth world shit hole" like New York.

"Now I give you skills!  Look down!  Don't look stoned!"

Ha ha HAAAAAAAA!  In Rome?  AS IF!!!

ROME!  What happened?

Pick pockets!  (Virgil)  Gypsy stabbings!  (Ovid)  Luggage theft at knife point then a stabbing!  (Seneca)  Mega Filth (Cicero)

Can you see the trajectory?  Can you feel the trajectory? Can you stop the trajectory?  Can you reverse the trajectory? 

(a heart warming story goes along with the picture, if you're interested...)

In the running for one of the least Irie places in the world, Rome did have it's charms.  Civic pride sadly was not one of them.  While it may be a "skill" to look at the ground when you walk, the damage that does to one's hope for human civilization, what with all the cigarette butts, dog shit, broken glass and soiled clothes covering those quaint cobble stone streets is a given, a known, and apparently, an inevitability--a pre-ordained destiny.  A gypsy stabbing pick pocketing and luggage theft (preceded by a pepper spraying, followed by stabbing) is not a given, nor is it a known.  It's a pretty sure bet, but not a certainty.  I am a living testimony of this fact. Maybe I should have looked up more often?  But then why bother?  No camera, of which I was only reminded a mere 3 times.

And while heavy on the late-capital, fourth-world amenities, Lemon trees, undeniable Italian design, 24 hour sfogliatelle and very old Roman things--from their trains to their ruins--can be placed in the charm column.

Though I might not want to ever spend any time there ever again for any reason, the (impotent and ineffectual against the gypsy menace) cops at the train station carried their guns in white holsters.  Snazzy! 

Ethnic Chinese women sat at a pic-nic table laughing and smoking.  (guess what they did with the cigarettes once they were done smoking them?)  Multi-culti!

Lemon trees in front yards!  Palm Trees growing through sidewalks!  Plants ascending!

Fanfulla!  A pretty great venue, and furthermore, a tremendous sound-man worth of the superman tee-shirt he wore!  Not only did the sound check take 8 minutes and 42 seconds, he also bought us....Pizza!

Tremendous sound-man was also able to procure a keyboard for Virginia--something not everyone was able to do, despite promises to the contrary (and snazzy haircut).

On this night, Virginia played a "Rodeo 23", similar in appearance to the "Rodeo 49"

Again, what with my camera charger being carelessly lost by me (sftanza americanino boolshitter arounder) I had to take these pictures from the web.  As for the device which takes many pictures in rapid sequence, so as to give a moving quality to the image, owned by not me, said device I believe was kept safe in a bag.  Because I am a sftanza americanino boolshitter-arounder crippled dog, it may have been set up and put into action, but I can't say for sure.  There is no mention of a video in my notes, but yet there is a vague memory of a camera on the corner of the most excellent and capable sound-guy's table.

Perhaps someone else was pointing a cellphone?  Maybe one day it will appear on youtube?  Alas, never in the history of human "civilization" have we been so powerless over our own documentation.

And then again, maybe I ruined the entire evening of music with some errant splish of piddle...I don't remember.  However, I imagine there are a few people who do.  Please feel free to castigate me in the comments section if you were a victim of my errant piddle spray.

Music over, the evening continued to soften and blur.  People hanging out, listening to what was, for the americanino ignorant = dumb, a perplexing DJ set.  No one else found it perplexing (perhaps because they all spoke the language of the guy prattling relentlessly on the 12"), everyone was chill, no one was on steroids, no one was in a hockey fight earlier that day...a real local, clubhouse sort of vibe.

While my hope is that similar establishments exist all over Rome, I was led to believe that this was one of the last places in that fair city where people can go and get their freak on.

Will Rome (or any number of other cities actively stomping down on the creative class like roaches) be a better place once all weirdo-friendly haunts have been removed and replaced by super classy steroids and botox bars where all music is chosen (if not made) by a computer algorithm?

The night ended with an appreciation of and for the brave artistic vision of this record cover:

Pretty great, right?

In bed at 3am, on the floor of the patio, simply because there were a few cats living inside.  Not that I have anything against cats per se--it's just some of them are able of choking me to death with their hair.  I cared not one bit.  Sleeping on the floor keeps you humble (and who knows, maybe it helps the pissing out of pot thing?) Besides, it was a lovely evening with cool breezes under a canopy of stars, next to the police station.  One pillow for my hip, one for my head and see you in the morning!

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Day 29 -- Best Venue Saved For Last? -- The Obvious Advantage being Frank Zappa's Nephew Has Given Me in Music and Life Upon Which I Have Capitalized Mightily

You can't outsmart the Angel of Death, sing coo-coo sing (Death is coming in)

Up at 7, 8, 9, 10 and eventually 11am.  Breakfast? sfogliatelle, pistachio cannoli and pizza.  That's what you call a King's Life!

A visit to a record store was involved before getting on the bus.  There on the wall was a Wipers patch and a Dead Moon patch available for 4 Euro each, which I believe is like $29 CDN.  Regardless of the price, it's odd to see PNW (Pacific North West) rock (Americanino) memorabilia for sale in an Italian record store.  I don't know why that gave me moment for pause any more than a Charles Mingus or Mark Lanegan record. Probably because the patch was made in China, or Sri Lanka.  So many layers of global exploitation!  Dizzying!

But the lasting question was "Don't they know it's all Americanino boolshit?  If so, why are they peddling it to their fellow citizens?  If not, how long before David tells them?

Mercifully we made it out of Rome without being maced, robbed and shanked by gypsies.  While the Italian people may totally impotent in the face of the gypsie menace, no one is so impotent they can't drag a broom across their tiny bit of sidewalk.  Is there a plastic bag in the tree outside your door?  Not only can you take it down (it's easy!) you can also use that plastic bag to collect the cigarette butts, dog (?) faeces, and soiled garments that litter your personal part of the street, from the police department all the way to Radiation Records and back again.  A broom!  So simple!  Design geniuses of Italy--put your mighty thought-form toward making sweeping the litter and detritus from your sidewalk sexy and fun!  PLEASE.  Rome will never regain its past glory unless this first, simple step is taken!

Murderous gypsies and filth strewn streets aside, Rome did have its charm.  Like 24 hour a day sfogliatelle, just a mere 3 death-and-menace filled blocks from the venue.

Perugia has a certain civilized vibe that Rome does not.  Bar Chupito...perfect?  I couldn't find fault--not that I go through life looking for venue faults, but after a while, you do develop a preference.  The venue had posters--thoughtful, well done posters--from past and future performances proudly displayed.  They did their share of publicity:


the local news something something

another local news something something

and here's a bit of video I hope you can see

The bar was small, yet...and there's no other word to use...perfect.  The stage was downstairs from the bar--but you didn't have to schlepp your gear down the stairs, as there was a driveway leading down to the back of the stage for your loading in and out convenience.

The size of the performance space wasn't particularly large, but was just right, at least it was for our needs.

We were fed like champions, with flawless vegetarian fare.  Espresso flowed freely.  For those able to experience the feeling of comfort and belonging, Bar Chupito is your place.  Even if you are immune to such feelings, Bar Chupito is also your place, even on a Monday night!  Perugia turned out!  When was the last time you went to see a show on a Monday night, and the venue was packed with people grooving, drinking, eating and having a good time?  When was the last time you did that on any night of the week?

My notes don't indicate any severe punishment or praise regarding my accuracy vis a vis pot-pissing.  My notes and my visits to their facebook page do indicate that Bar Chupito's chosen image is that of a child pissing (accurately) into the pot

What is etched in my mind was one (of many) interaction I had with a gentleman who, if Italians could get drunk, was definitely drunk.  However Italians (especially Italian men) don't get drunk, and lord knows they never get hung over.  So this man, though he had most certainly been drinking, was not drunk.

He was comfortable enough to approach me and let me know that Frank Zappa owed him 30 Euro.

"If that's all he owes you, then you got off easy"

Not Drunk gentleman then says something to me in Italian.  David kindly translates and tells me "he just challenged you to a fight"

"no no, no fight, let me pick up the tab for Frank Zappa, let me get you that 30 Euro..."

As I reach for my wallet, Not Drunk gentleman stops me, looks me in the eyes as best he can, with as much purpose as he could muster and says

"Frank Zappa"

"yes, Frank Zappa"

"Frank Zappa saved Mel Gibson"

"he did what?"

"Frank Zappa"

"Yes, Frank Zappa...he saved who now?"

"Frank Zappa saved Mel Gibson"

"How?  When?"

"In a helicopter"

"Mel Gibson was in a Helicopter and Frank Zappa saved him?"

(this pissed him off)

"NO.  Frank Zappa was flying the helicopter and he saved Mel Gibson"

"I dunno dude...I'm not sure Frank Zappa could operate a car, let alone a helicopter...helicopters are really hard to op..."


"Mad Max?"

"Frank Zappa saved Mad Max in a helicopter.  Mel Gibson is Mad Max."

"So what you're saying is that Frank Zappa was in the movie _Mad Max_ and in that movie, Frank Zappa's Character saved Mad Max, the character played by Mel Gibson"


Because I hate to hurt peoples feelings, I tried the best I could to softly suggest the potential for untruth in what he was saying.  Meanwhile, by now, a few people were working their cell phones trying to get to the bottom of things.

As it  turned out, William Zappa was in the _Road Warrior_.  He may or may not have saved Mel Gibson in a helicopter.  It's been a while since I've seen the movie.

This did not convince Not Drunk gentleman, who grabbed his cell phone and began looking.  As the operation of a cell phone proved too difficult, he passed his phone to his lady friend instructing her to get to the bottom of things. She obliged and while scrolling about, turned to me and said "I feel sorry for you."

After this, Not Drunk gentleman delivered a monologue in Italian.  According to David he said that I was a "a skinny southern guy, just out of rehab, pretending to speak English just to get a meal."

Which isn't totally false, and, also, could have been nothing something Drunk gentleman said, but instead, something entirely fabricated by David.  Those sentiments were quite similar to the ones David had shared repeatedly over the last 29 days.

The evening ended with no final conclusion regarding why Frank Zappa owed Not Drunk Gentleman 30 Euro nor Frank Zappa's role in Mel Gibson's safety, on or off the screen.  If you have any answers, feel free to put them in the comments part of the Blog.

After the antics, (In Peruguia, they sure do serve grappa in tall glasses to the ladies) we were driven to where we were staying.  To get there we went through a warren of tiny streets and pre-Christian buildings to our place for the evening.  Those pre-Christians knew a thing or two about building comfortable dwellings even if they couldn't think 2000 years into the our beautiful car filled future.  Then again, I could have been offered a mostly clean floor and I would not have minded at all.  I mean, I didn't mind in Rome, and I didn't mind in Berlin, and I had a great night at Bar Chupito, so....

In bed at 2:30am

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Day 30 -- Camera Irony / Tomorrow Will Be The Trauma

The ironic thing about the much bemoaned lost camera charger is actually two ironic things.

First of all, at the time the charger was misplaced (americanino sftanza boolshitting around cripple), the SD card was just about full.

Why didn't I have an extra (or several extra) SD cards?  That is an excellent question.  I am not clear as to if my companions had an extra SD card in the event their videographic vision exceeded present storage capacity.  Maybe that is an ignorant = dumb americanino question.  Besides, the videography slowed considerably after Copenhagen, because (?).

The second ironic thing is that within an hour of returning to my population 5000 savage retard town in the middle of a barren nothing and anti-culture nowhere, I was able to find not one, but two generic battery chargers at The Source--your place for all your savage retard electronic needs.  One for $25CDN, which is what, like 8 Euro, and the other (a more streamline model) for$65CDN, which is somewhere around 12 Euro.

And yet, not Stockholm, nor Helsinki, nor Copenhagen, nor Berlin, nor Galdakao (did I spell that right?) nor Rome with all its dog shit or Perugia had a similar device for purchase.

Maybe my camera is a Savage Retard Americanino Brand (Olympus) and only uses Savage Retard size batteries, chargeable only by Savage Retard battery chargers, for purchase only in Savage Retard stores, all over Savageretardia, BC?  That could very well be.  No matter.  The past is over.  Not like there was anything to see in Helsinki or Copenhagen or Berlin or Galdakao or Rome with all its dog shit or Perugia.  Besides, I can find all the pictures I want on the web.

Anyhow, for those who are counting, (and really, who's counting) David mentioned the missing charger 8 times before 11am and 3 times there after--for a grand total of 36 times in the 7 days of travelling without.  While in Perugia, he did so with really good reason (I mean, everything David says is with and for good reason, but this time, especially so.)  Perugia is stunning.  Buildings standing and still in use from before that troublemaking hippy Jew carpenter started to up-end the capitalist's carts in the temple, and healing people with Cannabis and other such nonsense.

And do you know the name of the civilization that pre-dated the Romans?  If the answer is no, and you went to "college", then you are extra ignorant, extra ignorant = extra dumb, which if you are an americanino savage retard, is redundant.

(The answer is Etrurians, you americanino cripple idiot.)

Another irony only partially related to the missing camera charger is that one of the key buildings of note around where we were staying was the Perugia School for Foreigners.  Hopefully they understand there is no educating the Americanino / Savage Retard.

Along the ride, perhaps into Bologna, it was "asked" :

Why do you play music your ego what do you mean your music shitting around on the horn in your rubbish house?

Another excellent question.  An equally question is what precipitated this line of questioning, at that particular moment?

Eventually we made our way to Bologna.  I marvelled at all the cigarette butts coating this ancient city like cherry blossom pedals after a brisk spring wind.

There were two sketchy fucks walking around, in and out of the train.  One was wearing a "Rt. 66" tee shirt.  Later I was informed that they were gypsies, and after that, informed gypsies will spray you with mace, or pepper spray, rob you, and perhaps slash you a few times with their gypsy knives just to do.  The Rt. 66 shirt was the give-away.  Americanino culture, nothing but trouble...embraced by only the lowest scum of the earth.

Later into the trip, perhaps the 4th mode of transportation, David kindly let me know "Tomorrow will be the trauma, you will not have Virginia as your pilot.  Will you be OK?  And Monday, you will return to your shitty life."

On the Final bus ride, Virginia pressed the "stop requested" no avail!  Brother just kept on going.  After more button pressing and animated dialectic, the kind civil servant let us out of the bus...a bit further away from our final destination than where we had hoped.  David and Virginia kindly walked the rest of the way back to the house to get the car.  I sat at the bus stop (with no seats) with all the luggage, and no camera charger, and a bit of a disconcerting insect bite over where my heart used to be and several dozen other thoughts all simultaneously competing for primacy.

Once we arrived home, I started to put water on things that wanted them.  Beans, Squash, empty drinking bowls for animals...  It seemed like the right thing to do...for me more than the plants or animals.

Once plants and animals secured, Virginia materialized the last supper.  Other than hard work and lots of experience, I don't know how she was able to make so much flavour with those pantry items remaining after 3 weeks away and G-d's gifts in the great outdoors surrounding the Jooklo property.

After checking, rechecking, bathing, drying, packing, repacking, tying my trusty Land's End Book bag together with purple hemp twine because the zipper broke.  You can only fool me thrice with those Lands End book bags.  I should probably get me a proper Norwegian Leather book carrying briefcase thing.  Monogrammed, too.  Perhaps in Kanji.

By 2:30am we were listening to the recording from Ghent.  I think.  Loaves of shit with flecks of corn, or cobs of corn with flecks of shit?  At 2:30 am after 14 hours of travelling and 19 hours of being awake, am I in any place to say? And what if I said "shit with occasional corn!"?  And what if I said "cobs of corn with a fleck of shit!"?  And what if I said "Creamed Corn, no fibre, passed through fine sieve"?  What difference would it make to anyone?  Did it even make a "difference" when it was happening?  All the bad things I do will go up in smoke and so will I, said some "Chinese" or another.

What if I told you everything that can be said about music can only be said with music?

I stared at the pink walls of the Jooklo residence and listened to whatever the fuck it was I was listening to for another half hour in a welcome state of disbelief and confusion.

In bed, 3am.

Monday, June 5, 2017

Day 31 - Ever Walk Around YVR From 9pm until 8am?

Up at 7:30am

Driven to train.  David suggests I take a sensible, civilized, rational short-cut and carry my 38kg of luggage overland to the train platform.  Train employees forbid.  David and one employee in particular have a "discussion" about the finer points of customer service.  Luggage is carried down a flight of stairs, then up a flight of stairs.  Safety achieved.

Train to VE Mestre.  A bucolic reminder of just how great it is that the rails were destroyed in North America.  Great job auto industry!

Mestre to Marco Polo airport.  Perhaps because it was earlier in the day, not quite the displaced beggar freak show it could have been.

Marco Polo to Air Canada:  Marco Polo might not be the best example of Italian Design.  In fact, if Marco Polo were to be torn down, it might make a good place to store all the hundreds of billions of cigarette butts strewn all over Italy.  Of course that would involve a concerted effort by the people of Italy to collect said cigarette butts already on the ground, and a pledge to put all future cigarette butts into containers (so as to keep them off the streets in the first place, and to facilitate their efficient disposal going forward).  But who's got time for that?

The Air Canada part of Marco Polo Airport seemed unusually free of people yelling "Cagari" or "Catzo".  In fact, there wasn't anyone yelling at all!  Weird!  The people at the desk were courteous, did not wince when it was clear I didn't speak Italian in their home town's dialect.  The check in agent allowed me to carry on my bag, even though it was about 1/2 of a centimetre too large.

The thing about arriving at the airport 2 hrs early for a flight, the amount of running with untied shoes while carrying your belt and watch, panic, sweat, yells of "Cagari" and "Catzo" diminish markedly.  Almost to none, in my case. 

On the flight to Montreal, an African American woman wearing camoflage pants and a shirt that said "Detroit Against Everybody", chatted about fashion with a well turned out Italian fellow, for seven hours. I wish I had been sitting with them--at least then I could have heard more of what they were saying.

While on line to re-enter "Canada" (is Quebec even Canada? Is The Basque even Spain? Is Taiwan even China?) I found myself behind two women from Western Canada.  One was complaining about the poor treatment she receives from her boss at her administrative assistant job, the other was complaining about her difficulty in finding a bathroom. The conversation then turned to awe and envy over a co-worker who recently quit and was now an administrative assistant at Dreamworks making $17.00 an hour--a king's ransom by Canadian standards.

"Now that she's got her foot in the door, she'll just continue to climb up and up the ladder!"

One was deeply creased, had kyphosis and was pathologically thin.  The other was pathologically obese.  That ol' combo.  Both were wearing non-fashion in grey, black and off white.

Though I landed with enough time to get to the gate for my final flight to "Outstanding Penticton"--an Air Canada flight, like the two preceding it--this flight was a "separate flight" and my luggage, after picking it up, needed to be checked separately, and I needed to walk through some kind of a one-way anti terror safety gate and go through yet another round of irrational, arbitrary groping by a brave member of airport security.

And, naturally, the next flight was at 8:55am, a mere 11 hours away.

There was at one point before the trip began an effort to get with one of my many many Vancouver contacts and friends.  Because she was busy that night, it was known (though repressed and forgotten) that I would spend that evening getting to know Vancouver International Airport.

It was suggested that I go to the US flights side of the building for a less-uncomfortable place to sleep.  Even Canadians ("Savage Retards") despise Americaninos.

I ultimately decided to sleep on the ground in front of the RBC bank right near the Air Canada Check in, from about 2:30 am until 3am.

Did you know they test the fire alarms at Vancouver International Airport from 3am until about 3:30am?

The "next" day, I made it to "Outstanding Penticton", then eventually back home...11:30 am Western Standard Time.  Approximately 35 hours after waking up in Italy.

A quick bath, a change of clothes, and then a toddle on down to the Emergency Room to let a grown up look at this small (?) bite situation...

Sunday, June 4, 2017

Day 0 / And That Was The End of That / Nothing a Little Cefalexin Can't Handle

Europe, you left a raised, circular, slightly purulent bacterial skin infection due to a bite from a (?) where my heart used to be.  And for that I am eternally grateful--that a (?) from Europe deigned to bite me, a lowly Americanino, ignorant = dumb, shitting arounder who apparently doesn't always "pee in the pot" (where my saxophone / clarinet playing = piss), is a great honour not everyone enjoys, despite their best efforts.  For 46 years, I was one of those denied the enjoyment of this great honour.  No longer!  Now, I am an Americanino simpleton living amongst the "savage retards" of Canada, an old man with a "plaza", with a real live fancy European (?) bite from Europe!   

Check it!

Indeed, if this minor health situation is the cost of travelling for 30 days with the Jooklos, from one end of Europe to the other; availed, night after night the opportunity to do the best I could at making a music that wasn't clearly, obviously, egregiously, embarrassingly, offensively, disappointingly, I-need-an-ass-kickingly crippled, out-of-pot-piss, skifo, merda, crippled dog, booolshit, than this minor health situation is a bargain.

It will still be a bargain in the 50% event this bacterial skin infection over the area where my heart once was continues to spread and I have to go on IV antibiotics as an inpatient and/or get some necrotic tissue surgically removed or what ever else.  

A total bargain.

And I mean that as a little IV antibiotics and surgery to remove some necrotic skin tissue is no big deal--at least this time the necrotic tissue isn't on my liver or lymph nodes!

And I mean that as there is no way in heaven or on earth that I (reimostone) could have schlepped from city to city all by my little crippled lonesome, to say nothing of making the contacts and setting up the gigs that Ms. Genta so kindly, deftly, inexplicably did with me (loner weirdo) as a part of.  This is what you call a gift and a blessing.

Mos-def a "once in a life time" experience--literally--as this was the first time in my life that I had this experience of going from city from city, performing in different cities, for different people, in different spaces, with such high level musicians as Virginia and David.  "Once in a life time" as now that I've gone broad, I hope next time to go deep.

Spain and the Basque Country maybe?

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As you can see by the title, I am writing the blog from end to beginning.  My choice!  Experimenting!  Go wild!  Also, it will read sequentially for those in the future who might be interested.  Because really, what is there left conserve, and why?